"Like sun above, a woman's love
Must have its destined way;
To some great gain, to others pain,
And wherefore who can say?
But be it bliss or wretchedness,
In reason man must own
That it is true, and nothing new,
She loves for love alone."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Poor Therese's hope seemed to desert her terribly after that
disappointment. Madame, who, for a few days, was polite and kind in a
spasmodic sort of fashion, fell back into her old ways, when nothing
more was heard of the appointment at the Lion d'Or. Therese used to
feel strange alternations of listlessness and indignation creeping over
her. At times it was as if a life was closing round her against which
it was hopeless to rebel,--a life which was relentless and overpowering;
at times her heart cried out passionately against her oppressors. She
accepted whatever was put upon her with a dull kind of aching, but
without a protest. She was young and healthy, so that although her
cheek lost its roundness, her strength did not absolutely give way; but
the grief she suffered was too much mixed with bitterness, and too
repressed from outward signs, not to be hurtful even physically. It
seemed to her as if all the world were against her--M. Deshoulieres,
Monsieur and Madame Roulleau; even Fabien, in his far-away home, had
renounced her. Yet she never ceased to love him. Only hope was shaken,
because faith had never been strong in poor Therese. Her childhood had
been loveless; the child had little teaching,--teaching, that is, which
should make her strive after high things, or shape her little life after
a holier pattern than those she saw around her. She believed her aunt
Ferdinande to have been a good woman, but it was a goodness so weak and
despairing that the girl despised it. It seemed to her as if this world
she lived in was one where might, however unjust, carried the day.
Where trust should have been there was a void in her heart, from which
sprang no comfort, only bitterness and rebellion.
This year the winter at Charville set in with strange fits and starts.
The owners of thermometers took a proud delight in electrifying their
neighbours by reports of sudden rises and falls in their favourite
study. There came sharp frosts, even snow. The river flowed like an
inky stream between white banks; icicles froze round the stone fountain;
there was what old Nannon called a _jolie gelee_--a certain keen, bitter
beauty in the harmonies of white and grey, in the snow-laden boughs, in
the great sweep of plain and sky. The women clattered home from market,
instead of staying to gossip by the way. Little Dutch-like children,
with shrieks of ecstasy, made slides down the steep streets, to the
peril of the limbs of passers-by; old people crouched round the stoves,
to get what warmth they could in their miserable houses. Instead of
this weather lasting, however, there followed abrupt thaws, soft damp
days, quite unlike the time of year. The Charville people hardly knew
what to make of it. "The cold is unpleasant, but when one has made up
one's mind, it may as well come," grumbled old Andre, the wood-cutter.
That is the way with some of us. We are half angry when the evil we
have prognosticated is mercifully averted.
On one of these mild afternoons Madame Roulleau took her two children to
pay a visit of ceremony; Octavie arrayed in a silk frock, which had been
sent to Therese with her other possessions--not many--from Ardron, and
which she had cut up for Octavie in those first days when she hoped to
please. Little Roulleau was in his office; Nannon came to the door to
find out whether mademoiselle wanted her, and at the same moment arrived
Monsieur Deshoulieres.
"_Bonjour_, Nannon," he said, cheerfully. "So mademoiselle is in the
house?"
"She may have gone out with Madame Roulleau," replied Nannon with
unblushing promptitude. "As monsieur sees, I have just come."
"No, I saw madame and her children in the distance. Have the goodness
to ask mademoiselle to give me the pleasure of five minutes'
conversation in the _salon_."
"What eyes he has!" muttered Nannon to herself, going unwillingly up the
stairs on her errand. "And yet they are as blue as the very
cornflowers. What does he come here frightening that poor child for, I
should be glad to know! A man so hard as he has no right to have eyes
like that.--If mademoiselle pleases I will say I cannot find her."
"Monsieur Deshoulieres!" said Therese, crumpling together the work on
her lap with a quick, agitated movement, when Nannon made her
announcement.
"Shall you see him? Beware, then, mademoiselle. I know these men. Do
not yield a thing, or the convent will be thrust down your throat."
"I do not think I care," the girl said, rising wearily, "nothing can be
worse than this life."
"Am I to come with you, then, or shall I go on with the work? _Dame_!
do they give you such holes to mend!"
"I had better go alone," answered Therese, pausing to think over what in
a French household is always a breach of etiquette. "There is no one to
care," she said to herself bitterly, as she went down.
When M. Deshoulieres saw her enter, he started. Her face was pale,
thin; there was a heaviness in her movements which his experienced eye
noted at once.
"You have been ill, mademoiselle?" he said anxiously. He had come
without any very definite purpose; it was, he told himself, to see how
she looked, whether she was well and happy. The sight of her sent the
blood rushing to his heart, he hardly knew what he was saying. Strong
man as he was, he stood there trembling. "You have been ill?" he
repeated.
Therese shook her head.
"Then something has happened?"
"What should it be, monsieur?" she said, with a half sob which would not
be repressed. "I live on from day to day."
"My poor child, is life so hard?"
She looked at him in wonder. What did he mean--he, who was one of her
persecutors--by standing there, saying kind words, and looking down upon
her with compassionate eyes? She thought the words would be like Madame
Roulleau's, lasting only for a day, and resented them in her heart. He,
meanwhile, was thinking of what she had said once, that pathetic little
sentence which had sounded in his ears ever since,--"Every place must be
a little sad, since I belong to no one." Poor desolate Therese! She
was shutting up her heart, misjudging even at this moment the man who
was yearning to pour out upon her the best gift this world has to
offer--a great, unselfish love. She answered his question coldly.
"It will all come to an end one day. Do you want to speak to Monsieur
or Madame Roulleau, monsieur?"
He was a little chilled and disappointed. He did not stay to remember
that the feelings which had been growing stronger with him week by week,
day by day, must be unknown to her. It was unreasonable, perhaps, to
expect another answer, and yet he fancied it should have been different.
"I do not want them," he said gently. "I came to speak to you, to know
whether you were still contented with these people. You do not look so.
Is there any thing I can do?"
"You have heard nothing more from the Lion d'Or?" she asked, evading an
answer.
"No," said the doctor, more abruptly. He disliked the subject of this
trust, which brought him letters, papers to sign, difficulties, and
endless arrangements. Only a week before he had paid another flying
visit to Ardron, about a matter which required his personal
superintendence, and he made a second attempt upon the imperturbable
cure. "Still no news?" inquired the cure, with that slight lifting of
the eyebrows which M. Deshoulieres found so irritating. "Absolutely no
promise of news?" And then he was told of that impotent visit to the
Lion d'Or. "And you found no one? Decidedly, monsieur, as you say,
there must be imposition somewhere." That was all the doctor could
extract, and it was not at all pleasant. "No," he replied to Therese,
"I wish I could have gone myself; but, after all, it would only have
been one fool more. Roulleau says there will be a dozen such
absurdities. It is always the case in these affaire. You should have
known nothing about it. How came they to be so indiscreet as to cause
you the disappointment?"
"It was the children's doing," she said; and then, with a sudden
impulse, which astonished herself, she stretched out her hands
imploringly. "Promise me, promise me," she said, "always to tell me
when there is a little hope like that."
Her eyes were filled with tears, even those few kindly words were
breaking down the barriers of pride. He took her hands; he was greatly
moved by the child-like appeal. "I promise," he said quietly.
"It is horrible to think that things are being concealed from one."
"You may trust me. But, my child, why are you hungering so terribly
after a change? Cannot we make you happy here?"
Something in his voice made her heart stand still with fright. She
tried to draw away her hands, but he held them fast, so fast that he
almost hurt her. In fact, he did not know what he was doing. He kept
his voice under control, but the room swam round. He was only conscious
that she was close to him.
"Let me go, monsieur," she said, in a low, hurried voice; and then he
recovered himself with an effort.
"Hear me first," he said, releasing her hands; but standing between her
and the door, and holding her still more, as she felt, by a certain
determination in his voice. "I did not come here meaning to say this;
but when I see you looking so changed, so sad, I cannot keep it back. I
think I could make you happy. It should be my life's joy. I am old--
much older than you, a plain, rough man; but--child, child, do you know
how I love you--!"
The last words broke from him with a passionate ring. She put her hands
before her eyes. "No, no, no!" she cried.
There was a moment's silence. Then he began to speak again, patting a
great force upon himself as he did so. "Forgive me. I know you cannot
understand--cannot feel as I do. I do not ask for it. I only ask you
to let me give you the home you want. You say you belong to no one. It
is at least something to have a home," he said in abrupt sentences, with
his voice unconsciously tremulous.
Still silence, yet her heart beat so quickly that she fancied its great
throbs filled the room. What was this that had come to her? What
sudden awakening had changed their positions? And what was it that was
offered?--a home--rest--deliverance from bondage, it seemed. She had no
love to give; but if he did not demand it? He was not hard, she knew
that now, and did him justice. Would it not be easy to put her hand
into his, and go away where at least she would find kind shelter? One
must be in a position like hers before judging poor, desolate Therese
for the strength of the temptation. Fabien, who had been gone so long--
Fabien, who had renounced her with the rest--Fabien and weary waiting--
unkind words, hard toil, solitude, dreariness, on the one side; on the
other, love, tenderness, protection. She hesitated, her heart cried out
for these good things, she half put out her hand, and glanced at him
with shy, frightened eyes. His own grew more hopeful, more eager, as he
noticed the little action.
"Will you trust me? Will you come?" he said in a deep, tender voice.
He fancied he could read her maidenly reluctance, her fears; he knew
nothing of that other who formed the real barrier between them; he did
not even understand what motives half impelled her towards him. He had
her hands in his again before she quite knew what he was about. It all
seemed to her like a dream. "Can you give me a little love?" he said,
smiling. The word awoke her.
"No, no," she cried, wrenching her hands away suddenly. "Oh, what are
you saying! Never, never!"
He drew back, terribly hurt. His love deserved a better answer than
this, and he knew it. He had spoken from the depth of his heart, and
thus he had a right to expect a less indignant rejection. But the next
moment pity overcame his anger. She had flung herself into a chair and
buried her face on the table, in an attitude so despairing that he
forgot himself. He walked quickly to the window and back, then Therese
heard his voice, changed, but with a tone in it which thrilled through
her.
"At least let me be your friend. Tell me how I have troubled you."
She was hardly conscious of speaking. Perhaps some quickened perception
awoke in him in the pain of that moment, and her lips must have framed
the name, for he repeated the word "Fabien," under his breath; and then
there came a silence, which seemed to her endless.
She looked up at last. He had dropped into a chair opposite to her; his
face was very pale and stern. He breathed quickly. Almost
involuntarily she said, "Do not be angry with me!"
"Why did I not know this before?" he asked abruptly.
"I thought you might have understood--I could not explain--the others
knew," she said, in a broken voice.
"Then your marriage is arranged?"
"Nothing is arranged," she cried out quickly. "My uncle would not hear
of it. He wanted Fabien to marry a lady who was noble, and had a large
_dot_, and--there were other reasons--but this was one cause why they
quarrelled. And it was after he had gone that he wrote those cruel
words," she said, her voice faltering.
Max rose up again, and came close to her. "My poor child," he said,
"how you must have suffered!" Then, as she was going to speak, he
stopped her. "Listen. I do not pretend to tell you that this has not
been a heavy shock. If I had but known--but I did not know, I have been
ignorant, blundering, blind. You are the first woman I ever loved,
and--but I do not blame you. Therese, remember that always, there is no
one to blame but myself. We will forget all this, and have no more such
mistakes, only I must always be your friend. I claim it as a right."
There was a world of simple manliness, of tenderness, in his voice.
Therese, who had expected reproaches and bitter words, was deeply moved
by it. How had she misjudged this man! She had been prejudiced, blind,
to the true nobility, which lay hid behind a somewhat blunt exterior;
until this moment she had recognised nothing of it. She thought how
strong he was, how able to protect, to teach her; her poor little weary
heart longed for such a helper, even in the midst of its clinging to
Fabien. Fabien himself seemed to lose something when she compared the
two. For very weariness the conflict might perhaps have ended in Max
Deshoulieres' favour, if he had chosen that it should do so.
"It is such a long waiting, and those were such hard words," she said,
falteringly.
"Foolish words," he said, with a little sad smile. "People cannot
renounce so readily, even if they wish it. If you love him, do not
doubt him, my child. There are plenty of reasons which may have caused
his silence; he has been impetuous and foolish, no doubt, but with such
an uncle there are excuses for a young man. Before long we shall hear
of him, believe me."
He tried to speak cheerfully. Every word cost him a stab; but for her
sake the brave chivalrous heart took this added burden upon itself.
Perhaps he guessed something of what she was feeling, and pitied the
weakness and inexperience which found it hard to endure. With a pang he
put on one side the bright visions which he had been cherishing; all
that he could do now was to be her friend and helper, and that he would
do faithfully. He saw her brighten under his words; she looked up
gladly.
"Fabien will not long stay away, when he knows I am alone," she said,
with a renewal of hope. "You are sure no more can be done?"
"I will tell Roulleau to redouble his exertions. You may be sure M.
Saint-Martin will not expatriate himself without from time to time
making inquiries. Unless, indeed, he is a second Diogenes."
"He was not like Diogenes, at all," said Therese, simply. "Oh,
monsieur, you have made me so much happier!"
When she had spoken, the cruelty of her words struck her. He was
thinking of her, caring for her, and she was taken up only by her own
trouble. The contrast was something new to her: as it made itself felt,
she reddened painfully, and the tears rushed into her eyes. "Forgive
me," she said, tremblingly, "I--I--"
"Are we not to be friends?" he said, with a kind, steadfast look. "And
for what are friends good, unless it be to help one another?"
"But--" she stopped.
"But what? Do you think what I have said should prevent me from helping
you? Child, child, we learn many things as life goes on. What I told
you is true--I have never loved before, I hoped I never should love; I
believed I should go through the world, and do the work God put before
me alone; I desired nothing more. It came upon me unawares. I do not
think that there can have been a time when I did not love you, but I did
not know it. And now it has become a part of myself, something which
can never be any more separated from me. Hush! do not be frightened. I
promise you that you may hear all I have to say without disloyalty to--
him. It can never leave me: it has brought me a sorrow, a great sorrow;
but even at this moment--Therese, Therese, do you think I could part
with it? Do you think that I do not even now thank God for this gift?
There is a sweetness in it which no suffering can overpower."
Yes, there was a sweetness--all the sweetness of true love. Love, which
was generous, and could give without a hope of return; love, which in
its friendship, in its self-sacrifice, in its faithfulness, should be
like an angel in this man's heart.
Therese looked at him with awe. Something in his words stirred her
nature to its depths, showed her a height of which she had never
dreamed. She had claimed happiness as a right, he accepted sorrow as a
blessing. She had found only bitterness where he already spoke of
sweetness. She cried out against her lot, he had faith that all should
be for good. She had read of these things, she had in some degree
thought of them in her devotions; but never before had she seen a life
thus influenced, and it came upon her like a revelation.
"And therefore," continued Max, still standing before her, and speaking
in the same slow sentences, "you will understand that, though I may not
often see you, it must be my greatest happiness to serve you, to be your
friend and his. Do not deny me this. Do not fear me."
"I do not fear you," Therese answered, quickly. She wanted to say more,
to thank him, but the words would not come. Involuntarily she put out
her hand, he caught it, pressed it to his lips, held it there a moment,
and was gone. She heard him clattering down the staircase, the little
timepiece striking four, Nannon singing country songs to herself in a
cracked wiry voice, doors opening and shutting, old familiar sounds with
that touch of unreality which sometimes seizes them. The very patch of
grey sky opposite to her, against which leafless trees waved solemnly
backwards and forwards, looked like a strange, unnatural picture. She
was too bewildered to collect her thoughts. Something seemed to have
come to her, it may have been fresh hope, a new spring, which made her
eye sparkle, and her colour rise. Had that echo found a stronger voice
which whispered that there was something to be striven for higher than
mere happiness? Perhaps. Such voices gather strength if we do not
stifle them with our wilfulness.