When the sun was well up the women who had been at mass gathered down
by the little river which runs through the old city, to wash their
clothes. They knelt on the broad stones by the edge of the water,
chattering and singing, tossing the soap from one to another.
There was a sudden silence. "Here she is again," they whispered, as a
slight, delicate woman crossed the bridge with steady steps.
"She is blind and deaf," said old Barbe. "I met her an hour ago and
asked her whom she sought. She did not see nor hear me, but walked
straight on."
Oliver Bauzy was lounging near, as usual, watching his wife work.
"She is English. What does she know of your Breton talk? I speak
English and French--I!" he bragged, and walking up to Mrs. Waldeaux,
he flourished his ragged hat, smiling. "Is madame ill? She has walked
far," he said kindly.
The English words seemed to waken her. "It is always the town,"
looking around bewildered. "The people--houses. I think I am not
well. If I could find the woods----"
Bauzy had but a hazy idea of her meaning, but he nodded gravely. "She
is a tourist. She wants to go out of Vannes--to see the chateaux, the
dolmens. I'm her man. I'll drive her to Larmor Baden," he said to his
wife. "I have to go there to-day, and I may as well make a franc or
two. Keep her until I bring the voiture."
But Frances stood motionless until the old wagon rattled up to the
water's edge.
"She has a dear old face," Bauzy's wife whispered.
"She is blind and deaf, I tell you," old Barbe grumbled, peering up at
her. "Make her pay, Oliver, before you go."
Bauzy nodded, and when Frances was seated held out his hand.
"Twenty francs," he said.
She opened her bag and gave them to him.
"She must be folle!" he said uneasily. "I feel like a thief. Away
with you, Babette!" as a pretty baby ran up to him. "You want to ride?
That is impossible. Unless, indeed, madame desires it?" lifting the
child to place her on the seat. Babette laughed and held out her hands.
But Mrs. Waldeaux shrank back, shuddering. "Take her away," she
whispered. "She must not touch me!"
The mother seized the child, and the women all talked vehemently at
once. Oliver climbed into the voiture and drove off in silence. When
he looked around presently he saw that the woman's face was bloodless,
and a cold sweat stood on it. He considered a while. "You want food,"
he said, and brought out some hard bread and a jug of Normandy cider.
Frances shook her head. She only spoke once during the morning, and
then told him something about a woman "whom no child could touch. No
man or woman could touch her as long as she lived. Not even her son."
As Bauzy could make nothing of this, he could only nod and laugh
civilly. But presently he, too, grew silent, glancing at her
uncomfortably from time to time.
They drove through great red fields of sarasson, hedged by long banks
of earth, which were masses of golden gorse and bronzed and crimson
ferns. The sun shone, the clover-scented air was full of the joyous
buzzing of bees and chirp of birds.
"It is a gay, blessed day!" Bauzy said, "thanks to the good God!" He
waited anxiously for her reply, but she stared into the sunshine and
said nothing.
Larmor Baden is a lonely little cluster of gray stone huts on the shore
of the Morbihan sea. Some of Bauzy's friends lounged smiling up to
welcome him, waving their wide black hats with velvet streamers, and
bowing low to the lady. Oliver alighted with decision. One thing he
knew: He would not drive back with her. Something was amiss. He
would wash his hands of her.
"Here, madame, is Vincent Selo, paysageur," he said rapidly in French.
"He has a good boat. He will take you where you desire. Sail with her
to Gavr' Inis," he said to Selo, "and bring her back at her pleasure.
Somebody can drive her back to Vannes, and don't overcharge her, you
robbers!"
"Gavr' Inis?" Frances repeated.
"It is an island in the sea yonder, madame. A quiet place of trees.
When there was not a man in the world, evil spirits built there an
altar for the worship of the devil. No men could have built it. There
are huge stones carried there from the mountains far inland, that no
engine could lift. It is a great mystery."
"It is the one place in the world, people say," interrupted Selo,
lowering his voice, "where God never has been. A dreadful place,
madame!"
Frances laughed. "That is the place for me," she said to Selo. "Take
me there."
The old man looked at her with shrewd, friendly eyes, and then beckoned
Bauzy aside.
"Who is she? She has the bearing of a great lady, but her face hurts
me. What harm has come to her?"
"How do I know?" said Bauzy. "Go for your boat. The sea is rising."
Late in the afternoon M. Selo landed his strange passenger upon the
pebbly beach of the accursed island. He led her up on the rocks,
talking, and pointing across the sea.
"Beyond is the Atlantic, and on yonder headland are the great menhirs
of Carnac--thirty thousand of them, brought there before Christ was
born. But the Evil One loves this island best of all places. It has
in it the mystery of the world. Come," he said, in an awed voice. "It
is here."
He crossed to the hill, stooped, and entered a dark cave about forty
feet long, which was wholly lined with huge flat rocks carved with
countless writhing serpents. As Frances passed they seemed to stir and
breathe beside her, at her feet, overhead. The cave opened into a
sacrificial chamber. The reptiles grew gigantic here, and crowded
closer. Through some rift a beam of melancholy light crept in; a smell
of death hung in the thick, unclean air.
Selo pointed to a stone altar. "It was there they killed their
victims," he whispered, and began to pray anxiously, half-aloud. When
he had finished, he hurried back, beckoning to her to come out.
"Go," she said. "I will stay here."
"Then I will wait outside. This is no place for Christian souls. But
we must return soon, madame. My little girl will be watching now for
me."
When he was gone she stood by the altar. This island of Gavr' Inis was
one of the places to which she and George had long ago planned to come.
She remembered the very day on which they had read the legend that on
this altar men before the Flood had sacrificed to the god of Murder.
"I am the murderer now, and George knows it," she said quietly. But
she was cold and faint, and presently began to tremble weakly.
She went out of the cave and stood on the beach. "I want to go home,
George," she said aloud. "I want to be Frances Waldeaux again. I'm
sure I didn't know it was in me to do that thing."
There was no answer. She was alone in the great space of sky and sea.
The world was so big and empty, and she alone and degraded in it!
"I never shall see George again. He will think of me only as the woman
who killed his wife," she thought.
She went on blindly toward the water, and stood there a long time.
Then, in the strait of her agony, there came to Frances Waldeaux, for
the first time in her life, a perception that there was help for her in
the world, outside of her own strength. Her poor tortured wits
discerned One, more real than her crime, or George, or the woman that
she had killed. It was an old, hackneyed story, that He knew every man
and woman in the world, that He could help them. She had heard it
often.
Was there any thing in it? Could He help her?
Slowly, the nervous twitching of her body quieted, her dulled eyes
cleared as if a new power of sight were coming to them.
After a long time she heard steps, and Selo calling. She rose.
The murder was known. They were coming to arrest her.
What did it matter? She had found help.
Selo came up excitedly.
"It is another boat, English folk also, that comes to arrive."
She turned and waited.
And then, coming up the hill, she saw George, and with him--Lisa!
Lisa, smiling as she talked.
They ran to meet her with cries of amazement. She staggered back on
the rock.
"You are not dead? Lisa----"
"Dead? Poor lady!" catching her in her arms. "Some water, George! It
is her head. She has been too much alone."
When Frances opened her eyes she was lying on the grass, her children
kneeling beside her. She caught Lisa's arm in both hands and felt it:
then she sat up.
"I must tell you what I did--before you speak to me."
"Not now," said Lisa. "You are not well. I am going to be your nurse.
The baby has made me a very good nurse," and she stooped again over
Frances, with kind, smiling eyes.
Selo came to wile George up to the mysterious cave, but Lisa
impatiently hurried them to the beach. "Caves and serpent worshippers
truly!" she cried. "Why, she has not seen Jacques!" and when, in the
boat, George, who was greatly alarmed, tried to rouse his mother from
her silent stupor, Lisa said gayly, "She will be herself again as soon
as she sees HIM."
When they reached Larmor Baden, she despatched George in search of
Colette and the child, and she went into the church. It was late, and
the village women sat on the steps gossipping in the slanting sunlight.
There is nothing in their lives but work and the church; and when, each
day, they have finished with one they go to the other.
Frances followed her. The sombre little church was vacant. She
touched Lisa on the shoulder.
"There is something I must tell you," she said. "You would not let me
touch the child, if you knew it."
She stooped and spoke a few sentences in a vehement whisper, and then
leaned back, exhausted, against the wall.
Lisa drew back. Her lips were white with sudden fright, but she
scanned Mrs. Waldeaux's face keenly.
"You were in Vannes last night? You tried---- My God, I remember!
The tisane tasted queerly, and I threw it out." She walked away for a
moment, and then turning, said, "You called my mother a vile woman
once. But SHE would not have done that thing!
"No," said Frances, not raising her head. "No."
Lisa stood looking at her as she crouched against the wall. The fierce
scorn slowly died out of her eyes. She was a coarse, but a
good-natured, woman. An awful presence, too, walked with her always
now, step by step, and in that dread shadow she saw the things of life
more justly than we do. She took Frances by the hand at last. "You
were not quite yourself, I think," she said quietly. "I have pushed
you too hard. George has told me so much about you! If we could be
together for a while, perhaps we should love each other a little. But
there is no time now----" She turned hastily, and threw herself down
before a crucifix.
After a long time she went out to the vestibule, where she found
Frances, and said, with an effort to be cheerful and matter-of-fact,
"Come, now, let us talk like reasonable people. A thing is coming to
me which comes to every-body. I'm not one to whine. But it's the
child--I don't think any baby ever was as much to a woman as Jacques is
to me. I suppose God does not think I am fit to bring him up. Sit
down and let me tell you all about it."
They sat on the steps, talking in a low tone. Frances cried, but
Lisa's eyes were quite dry and bright. She rose at last.
"You see, there will be no woman to care for him, if you do not. There
he is with Colette." She ran down, took the baby from the bonne, and
laid him in Frances's arms.
Mrs. Waldeaux looked down at him. "George's son," she whispered,
"George's boy!"
"He is very like George and you," Lisa answered. "He is a Waldeaux."
"Yes, I see."
She held him close to her breast as they drove back to Vannes. George
whistled and sang on the box. He was very light of heart to have her
with him again.
He looked impatiently at an ancient village through which they passed,
with its towers, and peasants in strange garbs, like the pictures in
some crusading tale.
"Now that we have mother, Lisa," he said, "we'll go straight back home.
I am tired of mediaeval times. I must get to work for this youngster."
Lisa did not speak for a moment. "I should like to stay in Vannes a
little longer," she said. "I did not tell you, but--my mother is
buried there. That was why I came; I should like to be with her."
"Why, of course, dear. As long as you like," he said affectionately.
"I will not detain you long. Perhaps only a week or two," she said.
He nodded, and began to whistle cheerfully again. Frances looked at
Lisa, and her eyes filled with tears. It was a pitiful tragedy!
But the poor girl was quite right not to worry George until the last
moment. She was blocking his way--ruining his life, and God was taking
her away so that she could no longer harm him.
And yet--poor Lisa!
They drove on. The sun warmed the crimson fields, and the birds
chirped, and this was George's child creeping close to her breast. It
stirred there a keen pang of joy.
Surely He had forgiven her.
A month later a group of passengers in deep mourning stood apart on the
deck of the Paris as she left the dock at Liverpool. It was George
Waldeaux, his mother, and little Jacques with his nurse. Mrs. Waldeaux
was looking at Clara and her girls, who were watching her from the
dock. They had come to Vannes when Lisa died, and had taken care of
her and the baby until now. Frances had cried at leaving them, but
George stood with his back to them moodily, looking down into the black
water.
"It seems but a few days since we sailed from New York on the Kaiser
Wilhelm," he said, "and yet I have lived out all my life in that time."
"All? Is there nothing left, George?" his mother said gently.
"Oh, of course, you are always a good companion, and there is the
child----" He paused. The fierce passions, the storms of delight and
pain of his life with Lisa rushed back on him. "I will work for
others, and wear out the days as I can," he said. "But life is over
for me. The story is told. There are only blank pages now to the end."
He turned his dim eyes toward the French coast. She knew that they saw
the little bare grave on the hill in Vannes. "I wish I could have seen
something green growing on it before I left her there alone!" he
muttered.
"Her mother's grave was covered with roses----" Frances answered
quickly. "They will creep over to her. She is not alone, George. I
am glad she was laid by her mother. She loved her dearly."
"Yes. Better than any thing on earth," he responded gloomily.
A few moments later the ship swung heavily around.
"We are going!" Mrs. Waldeaux cried, waving her hand. "Won't you look
at Clara and Lucy, George? They have been so good to us. If Lucy had
been my own child, she could not have been kinder to me."
Mr. Waldeaux turned and raised his crepe-bound hat, looking at Lucy in
her soft gray gown vaguely, as he might at a white gull dropped on the
shore.
"I suppose I never shall see her again," said his mother. "Clara tells
me she is besieged by lovers. She is going to marry a German prince,
probably."
"That would be a pity," George said, with a startled glance back at the
girl.
"Good-by, my dear!" Mrs. Waldeaux leaned over the bulwark. "She is
beautiful as an angel! Good-by, Lucy! God bless you!" she sobbed,
kissing her hand.
Mr. Waldeaux looked steadily at Lucy. "How clean she is!" he said.
When the shore was gone he walked down the deck, conscious of a sudden
change in himself. He was wakening out of an ugly dream. The sight of
the healthy little girl, with her dewy freshness and blue eyes, full of
affection and common sense, cheered and heartened him. He did not know
what was doing it, but he threw up his head and walked vigorously. The
sun shone and the cold wind swept him out into a dim future to begin a
new life.