CHAPTER XI. “IN THE MIDST OF LIFE”
The Alcalde had stopped on the step with an exclamation at something inthe darkness outside, and he backed, bowing, into the room again to makeway for some one. A lady, slim, gowned and veiled in black and followedby a negress, swept past him. The lady lifted her veil and stood beforeus.
“Antoinette!” exclaimed the Vicomtesse, going to her.
The girl did not answer at once. Her suffering seemed to have broughtupon her a certain acceptance of misfortune as inevitable. Her face,framed in the black veil, was never more beautiful than on that night.
“What is the Alcalde doing here?” she said.
The officer himself answered the question.
“I am leaving, Mademoiselle,” said he. He reached out his hands towardher, appealingly. “Do you not remember me, Mademoiselle? You brought thegood sister to see my wife.”
“I remember you,” said Antoinette.
“Do not stay here, Mademoiselle!” he cried. “There is--there is yellowfever.”
“So that is it,” said Antoinette, unheeding him and looking at hercousin. “She has yellow fever, then?”
“I beg you to come away, Mademoiselle!” the man entreated.
“Please go,” she said to him. He looked at her, and went out silently,closing the doors after him. “Why was he here?” she asked again.
“He came to get Mr. Temple, my dear,” said the Vicomtesse. The girl’slips framed his name, but did not speak it.
“Where is he?” she asked slowly.
The Vicomtesse pointed towards the bedroom.
“In there,” she answered, “with his mother.”
“He came to her?” Antoinette asked quite simply.
The Vicomtesse glanced at me, and drew the veil gently from the girl’sshoulders. She led her, unresisting, to a chair. I looked at them. Thedifference in their ages was not so great. Both had suffered cruelly;one had seen the world, the other had not, and yet the contrast lay nothere. Both had followed the gospel of helpfulness to others, but oneas a religieuse, innocent of the sin around her, though poignant of thesorrow it caused. The other, knowing evil with an insight that went farbeyond intuition, fought with that, too.
“I will tell you, Antoinette,” began the Vicomtesse; “it was as yousaid. Mr. Ritchie and I found him at Lamarque’s. He had not taken yourmoney; he did not even know that Auguste had gone to see you. He didnot even know,” she said, bending over the girl, “that he was on yourfather’s plantation. When we told him that, he would have left it atonce.”
“Yes,” she said.
“He did not know that his mother was still in New Orleans. And when wetold him how ill she was he would have come to her then. It was as muchas we could do to persuade him to wait until we had seen Monsieurde Carondelet. Mr. Ritchie and I came directly to town and saw hisExcellency.”
It was characteristic of the Vicomtesse that she told this almost witha man’s brevity, that she omitted the stress and trouble and pain of itall. These things were done; the tact and skill and character of her whohad accomplished them were not spoken of. The girl listened immovable,her lips parted and her eyes far away. Suddenly, with an awakening, sheturned to Hélène.
“You did this!” she cried.
“Mr. Ritchie and I together,” said the Vicomtesse.
Her next exclamation was an odd one, showing how the mind works at sucha time.
“But his Excellency was having his siesta!” said Antoinette.
Again Hélène glanced at me, but I cannot be sure that she smiled.
“We thought the matter of sufficient importance to awake hisExcellency,” said Hélène.
“And his Excellency?” asked Antoinette. In that moment all three of usseemed to have forgotten the tragedy behind the wall.
“His Excellency thought so, too, when we had explained it sufficiently,” Hélène answered.
The girl seemed suddenly to throw off the weight of her grief. Sheseized the hand of the Vicomtesse in both of her own.
“The Baron pardoned him?” she cried. “Tell me what his Excellency said.Why are you keeping it from me?”
“Hush, my dear,” said the Vicomtesse. “Yes, he pardoned him. Mr. Templewas to have come to the city to-night with an officer. Mr. Ritchie and Icame to this house together, and we found--”
“Yes, yes,” said Antoinette.
“Mr. Ritchie wrote to Mr. Temple that his Excellency was to send for himto-night, but André told him of the fever, and he came here in the faceof danger to see her before she died. He galloped past the sentry at thegate, and the Alcalde followed him from there.”
“And came here to arrest him?” cried Antoinette. Before the Vicomtessecould prevent her she sprang from her chair, ran to the door, and waspeering out into the darkness. “Is the Alcalde waiting?”
“No, no,” said the Vicomtesse, gently bringing her back. “I wrote to hisExcellency and we have his permission for Mr. Temple to remain here.”
Suddenly Antoinette stopped in the middle of the floor, facing thecandle, her hands clasped, her eyes wide with fear. We started, Hélèneand I, as we looked at her.
“What is it, my dear?” said the Vicomtesse, laying a hand on her arm.
“He will take it,” she said, “he will take the fever.”
A strange thing happened. Many, many times have I thought of it since,and I did not know its meaning then. I had looked to see the Vicomtessecomfort her. But Hélène took a step towards me, my eyes met hers, andin them reflected was the terror I had seen in Antoinette’s. At thatinstant I, too, forgot the girl, and we turned to see that she had sunkdown, weeping, in the chair. Then we both went to her, I through someinstinct I did not fathom.
Hélène’s hand, resting on Antoinette’s shoulder, trembled there. Itmay well have been my own weakness which made me think her body swayed,which made me reach out as if to catch her. However marvellous herstrength and fortitude, these could not last forever. And--Heaven helpme--my own were fast failing. Once the room had seemed to me all indarkness. Then I saw the Vicomtesse leaning tenderly over her cousin andwhispering in her ear, and Antoinette rising, clinging to her.
“I will go,” she faltered, “I will go. He must not know I have beenhere. You--you will not tell him?”
“No, I shall not tell him,” answered the Vicomtesse.
“And--you will send word to me, Hélène?”
“Yes, dear.”
Antoinette kissed her, and began to adjust her veil mechanically. Ilooked on, bewildered by the workings of the feminine mind. Why was shegoing? The Vicomtesse gave me no hint. But suddenly the girl’s arms fellto her sides, and she stood staring, not so much as a cry escaping her.The bedroom doors had been opened, and between them was the tall figureof Nicholas Temple. So they met again after many years, and she who hadparted them had brought them together once more. He came a step intothe room, as though her eyes had drawn him so far. Even then he did notspeak her name.
“Go,” he said. “Go, you must not stay here. Go!”
She bowed her head.
“I was going,” she answered. “I--I am going.”
“But you must go at once,” he cried excitedly. “Do you know what is inthere?” and he pointed towards the bedroom.
“Yes, yes, I know,” she said, “I know.”
“Then go,” he cried. “As it is you have risked too much.”
She lifted up her head and looked at him. There was a new-born note inher voice, a tremulous note of joy in the midst of sorrow. It was of herhe was thinking!
“And you?” she said. “You have come and remained.”
“She is my mother,” he answered. “God knows it was the least I couldhave done.”
Twice she had changed before our eyes, and now we beheld a new and yetmore startling transformation. When she spoke there was no reproach inher voice, but triumph. Antoinette undid her veil.
“Yes, she is your mother,” she answered; “but for many years she hasbeen my friend. I wi
ll go to her. She cannot forbid me now. Hélène hasbeen with her,” she said, turning to where the Vicomtesse stood watchingher intently. “Hélène has been with her. And shall I, who have longed tosee her these many years, leave her now?”
“But you were going!” he cried, beside himself with apprehension at thisnew turning. “You told me that you were going.”
Truly, man is born without perception.
“Yes, I told you that,” she replied almost defiantly.
“And why were you going?” he demanded. Then I had a sudden desire toshake him.
Antoinette was mute.
“You yourself must find the answer to that question, Mr. Temple,” saidthe Vicomtesse, quietly.
He turned and stared at Hélène, and she seemed to smile. Then as hiseyes went back, irresistibly, to the other, a light that was wonderfulto see dawned and grew in them. I shall never forget him as he stood,handsome and fearless, a gentleman still, despite his years of wanderingand adventure, and in this supreme moment unselfish. The wilful,masterful boy had become a man at last.
He started forward, stopped, trembling with a shock of remembrance, andgave back again.
“You cannot come,” he said; “I cannot let you take this risk. Tell hershe cannot come, Madame,” he said to Hélène. “For the love of God sendher home again.”
But there were forces which even Hélène could not stem. He had turned togo back, he had seized the door, but Antoinette was before him. Customdoes not weigh at such a time. Had she not read his avowal? She had hishand in hers, heedless of us who watched. At first he sought to freehimself, but she clung to it with all the strength of her love,--yet shedid not look up at him.
“I will come with you,” she said in a low voice, “I will come with you,Nick.”
How quaintly she spoke his name, and gently, and timidly--ay, and witha supreme courage. True to him through all those numb years of waiting,this was a little thing--that they should face death together. A littlething, and yet the greatest joy that God can bestow upon a good woman.He looked down at her with a great tenderness, he spoke her name, and Iknew that he had taken her at last into his arms.
“Come,” he said.
They went in together, and the doors closed behind them.
Antoinette’s maid was on the step, and the Vicomtesse and I were aloneonce more in the little parlor. I remember well the sense of unrealityI had, and how it troubled me. I remember how what I had seen and heardwas turning, turning in my mind. Nick had come back to Antoinette. Theywere together in that room, and Mrs. Temple was dying--dying. No, itcould not be so. Again, I was in the garden at Les Îles on a night thatwas all perfume, and I saw the flowers all ghostly white under the moon.And then, suddenly, I was watching the green candle sputter, and out ofthe stillness came a cry--the sereno calling the hour of the night. Howmy head throbbed! It was keeping time to some rhythm, I knew not what.Yes, it was the song my father used to sing:--
“I’ve faught on land? I’ve faught at sea, At hame I’ve faught my aunty, O!”
But New Orleans was hot, burning hot, and this could not be cold I felt.Ah, I had it, the water was cold going to Vincennes, so cold!
A voice called me. No matter where I had gone, I think I would have comeback at the sound of it. I listened intently, that I might lose no wordof what it said. I knew the voice. Had it not called to me many times inmy life before? But now there was fear in it, and fear gave it a vibrantsweetness, fear gave it a quality that made it mine--mine.
“You are shivering.”
That was all it said, and it called from across the sea. And the seawas cold,--cold and green under the gray light. If she who called to mewould only come with the warmth of her love! The sea faded, the lightfell, and I was in the eternal cold of space between the whirlingworlds. If she could but find me! Was not that her hand in mine? Did Inot feel her near me, touching me? I wondered that I should hear myselfas I answered her.
“I am not ill,” I said. “Speak to me again.”
She was pressing my hand now, I saw her bending over me, I felt her hairas it brushed my face. She spoke again. There was a tremor in her voice,and to that alone I listened. The words were decisive, of command,and with them some sense as of a haven near came to me. Another voiceanswered in a strange tongue, saying seemingly:--
“Oui, Madame--malé couri--bon djé--malé couri!”
I heard the doors close, and the sound of footsteps running and dyingalong the banquette, and after that my shoulders were raised andsomething wrapped about them. Then stillness again, the stillness thatcomes between waking and sleeping, between pain and calm. And at timeswhen I felt her hand fall into mine or press against my brow, the painseemed more endurable. After that I recall being lifted, being bornealong. I opened my eyes once and saw, above a tile-crowned wall, themoon all yellow and distorted in the sky. Then a gate clicked, dungeonblackness, half-light again, ascent, oblivion.
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