Dusk, the dreary November dusk, had fallen as Louise hurried homeward
across the damp fields and deserted country roads. She had refused Mrs.
Yule's urgent offer to accompany her or to send some one with her. She
wanted to be alone--alone to look her happiness in the face, alone with
her new heaven-sent ecstasy of gratitude. After the nightmare-days of
hopelessness and despair, behold! life was to be renewed, retrieved,
redeemed. Like a grey cloak of misery her anguish fell away from her;
she stepped forth blissful and entranced into the pathway of her
reflowering youth.
And with the certainty of this deliverance came the faith and hope in
all other joys. Claude would return to her; Belgium would be liberated
and redeemed. Mireille would find her speech again! Yes, Mireille would
find her sweet, soft smile and her sweet shrill laughter. Might it not
be Louise's own gloom that had plunged the sensitive soul of her child
into darkness? Surely now that the storm-cloud was to be lifted from
her, also the over-shadowed child-spirit would flutter back again into
the golden springlight of its day. Surely all joys were possible in this
most beautiful and joyous world. And Louise went with quick, light
steps through the gloaming, half-expecting to see Mireille, already
healed, come dancing towards her, gay and garrulous, calling her as she
used to do by her pet name, "Loulou!"
Or it might be Chérie who would run to meet her, waving her hand to tell
her that the miracle had come to pass!
Chérie! The name, the thought of Chérie struck at Louise's heart like a
sudden blow. Her quick footsteps halted. As if a gust of the November
wind had blown out the light of her happiness, she stood suddenly still
in the middle of the road and felt that around her there was darkness
again.
Chérie!... What was it that the doctor had said to her as he came with
her to the gate of the Vicarage, as he held her hand in his firm, strong
grasp, promising to save her from the deep waters of despair? What were
the words she had then neither understood nor answered, borne away as
she was on the wave of her own tumultuous joy? They suddenly came back
to her now; they suddenly reached her hearing and comprehension. He had
said, looking her full in the face with a meaning gaze, "What about your
sister?"
"What about your sister?" Your sister. Of course he had meant Chérie.
What about her? What about her? Again Louise felt that dull thud in her
heart as if some one had struck it, for she knew, she knew what he
meant--she knew what there was about Chérie.
There was the same abomination, the same impending horror and disgrace.
Had not Chérie herself come and told her, in bewilderment and
simplicity, of the strange questionings, the obscure warnings Mrs.
Whitaker and the doctor had subjected her to? Ah, Louise knew but too
well what it all meant; Louise knew but too well what there was about
Chérie that even to strangers was manifest and unmistakable. Yes, Louise
had dreaded it, had felt it, had known it--though Chérie herself had
not. But until now her own torment of body and soul had hidden all else
from her gaze, had made all that was not her own misery as unreal and
unimportant as a dream. Vaguely, in the background of her thoughts, she
had known that there was still another disaster to face, another fiery
ordeal to encounter, but swept along in the vortex of her own doom she
had flung those thoughts aside; in her own life-and-death struggle she
had not stopped to ask, What of that other soul driving to shipwreck
beside her, broken and submerged by the self-same storm?
But now it must be faced. She must tell the unwitting Chérie what the
future held for her. She must stun her with the revelation of her shame.
For Louise understood--however incredible it might seem to others--that
Chérie was wholly unaware of what had befallen her on that night when
terror, inebriety, and violence had plunged her into unconsciousness.
Not a glimmer of the truth had dawned on her simplicity, not a breath of
knowledge had touched her inexperience. Sullied and yet immaculate,
violated and yet undefiled--of her could it indeed be said that she had
conceived without sin.
Louise went on in the falling darkness with lagging footsteps. Deep down
in her heart her happiness hid its face for the sorrow and shame she
must bring to another.
Then she remembered--with what deep thankfulness!--that though she must
inflict this hideous hurt on Chérie, yet she could also speak to her of
help, she could promise her release and the hope of ultimate peace and
oblivion.
She hurried forward through the darkening lanes, and soon joy awoke
again and sang within her. Yes! There they stood at the open gate, the
two beloved waiting figures--the taller, Chérie, with her arm round the
slender form of Mireille. Louise ran towards them with buoyant step.
"Louise!" cried Chérie. "Where have you been? How quickly you walk! How
bright and happy you look! Why, I could see your smile shining from far
off in the darkness!"
Louise kissed the soft, cold cheeks of both; she took Chérie's warm
hand and the chilly little hand of Mireille and went with them towards
the house. How cheerful were the lighted windows seen through the trees!
How sheltered and peaceful was this refuge! How gracious and generous
were the strangers who had housed and nourished them!
How kind and good and beautiful was life!
* * * * *
"Tell me the truth, Louise," said Chérie that evening, when, having seen
little Mireille safely asleep, Louise returned to the cheerful
sitting-room, where the dancing firelight gleamed on the pink walls and
cosy drawn curtains. "Tell me the truth. You have heard
something--something from Claude ... something----" Chérie flushed to
the lovely low line of the growth of her auburn curls--"from Florian!
You have, you have! I can read it in your face. You have had news of
some kind."
Yes--Louise had had news.
"Good news----"
Yes. Good news. She sat down on a low armchair near the fire and
beckoned with her finger. "Chérie!"
The girl came quickly to her side and sat down on the rug at her feet.
The fire danced and flickered on her red-gold hair and milkwhite oval
face.
"Chérie." ... Louise's voice was low, her eyes cast down. She felt like
a torturer, she felt as if she were murdering a flower, tearing asunder
the closed petals of this girlish soul and filling its cup with poison.
Chérie was looking up into her face with a radiant, expectant smile.
How should she tell her? How should she tell her?...
Louise bent forward and covered the shining, questioning eyes with her
hand. "Tomorrow, Chérie! Tomorrow."