The Crossing

by Winston Churchill

  CHAPTER XII. VISIONS, AND AN AWAKENING

  I have still sharp memories of the tortures of that illness, though itbefell so long ago. At times, when my mind was gone from me, I cried outI know not what of jargon, of sentiment, of the horrors I had beheld inmy life. I lived again the pleasant scenes, warped and burlesqued almostbeyond cognizance, and the tragedies were magnified a hundred fold. Thusit would be: on the low, white ceiling five cracks came together, andthat was a device. And the device would take on color, red-bronze likethe sumach in the autumn and streaks of vermilion, and two glowing coalsthat were eyes, and above them eagles’ feathers, and the cracks becamebramble bushes. I was behind the log, and at times I started and knewthat it was a hideous dream, and again Polly Ann was clutching me andpraying me to hold back, and I broke from her and splashed over theslippery limestone bed of the creek to fight single-handed. Through allthe fearful struggle I heard her calling me piteously to come back toher. When the brute got me under water I could not hear her, but hervoice came back suddenly (as when a door opens) and it was like the windsinging in the poplars. Was it Polly Ann’s voice?

  Again, I sat with Nick under the trees on the lawn at Temple Bow, andthe world was dark with the coming storm. I knew and he knew that thestorm was brewing that I might be thrust out into it. And then in theblackness, when the air was filled with all the fair things of the earthtorn asunder, a beautiful woman came through the noise and the fury, andwe ran to her and clung to her skirts, thinking we had found safety. Butshe thrust us forth into the blackness with a smile, as though she wereflinging papers out of the window. She, too, grew out of the design inthe cracks of the ceiling, and a greater fear seized me at sight of herfeatures than when the red face came out of the brambles.

  My constant torment was thirst. I was in the prairie, and it wasscorched and brown to the horizon. I searched and prayed pitifully forwater,--for only a sip of the brown water with the specks in it thatwas in the swamp. There were no swamps. I was on the bed in the cabinlooking at the shifts and hunting shirts on the pegs, and Polly Annwould bring a gourdful of clear water from the spring as far as thedoor. Nay, once I got it to my lips, and it was gone. Sometimes a youngman in a hunting shirt, square-shouldered, clear-eyed, his face tannedand his fair hair bleached by the sun, would bring the water. He was thehero of my boyhood, and part of him indeed was in me. And I would havefollowed him again to Vincennes despite the tortures of the damned. Butwhen I spoke his name he grew stouter before me, and his eyes lost theirlustre and his hair turned gray; and his hand shook as he held out thegourd and spilled its contents ere I could reach them.

  Sometimes another brought the water, and at sight of her I would trembleand grow faint, and I had not the strength to reach for it. She wouldlook at me with eyes that laughed despite the resolution of the mouth.Then the eyes would grow pitiful at my helplessness, and she wouldmurmur my name. There was some reason which I never fathomed why shecould not give me the water, and her own suffering seemed greater thanmine because of it. So great did it seem that I forgot my own and soughtto comfort her. Then she would go away, very slowly, and I would hearher calling to me in the wind, from the stars to which I looked up fromthe prairie. It was she, I thought, who ordered the world. Who, whenwomen were lost and men cried out in distress, came to them calmly,ministered to them deftly.

  Once--perhaps a score of times, I cannot tell--was limned on theceiling, where the cracks were, her miniature, and I knew what wascoming and shuddered and cried aloud because I could not stop it. Isaw the narrow street of a strange city deep down between highhouses,--houses with gratings on the lowest windows, with studded,evil-looking doors, with upper stories that toppled over to shut out thelight of the sky, with slated roofs that slanted and twisted this wayand that and dormers peeping from them. Down in the street, instead ofthe King’s white soldiers, was a foul, unkempt rabble, creeping outof its damp places, jesting, cursing, singing. And in the midst of therabble a lady sat in a cart high above it unmoved. She was the lady ofthe miniature. A window in one of the jutting houses was flung open,a little man leaned out excitedly, and I knew him too. He was JeanBaptiste Lenoir, and he cried out in a shrill voice:--

  “You must take off her ruff, citizens. You must take off her ruff!”

  There came a blessed day when my thirst was gone, when I looked up atthe cracks in the ceiling and wondered why they did not change intohorrors. I watched them a long, long time, and it seemed incrediblethat they should still remain cracks. Beyond that I would not go, intospeculation I dared not venture. They remained cracks, and I went tosleep thanking God. When I awoke a breeze came in cool, fitful gusts,and on it the scent of camellias. I thought of turning my head, and Iremember wondering for a long time over the expediency of this move.What would happen if I did! Perhaps the visions would come back, perhapsmy head would come off. Finally I decided to risk it, and the firstthing that I beheld was a palm-leaf fan, moving slowly. That fact gaveme food for thought, and contented me for a while. Then I hit uponthe idea that there must be something behind the fan. I was distinctlypleased by this astuteness, and I spent more time in speculation.Whatever it was, it had a tantalizing elusiveness, keeping the fanbetween it and me. This was not fair.

  I had an inspiration. If I feigned to be asleep, perhaps the thingbehind the fan would come out. I shut my eyes. The breeze continuedsteadily. Surely no human being could fan as long as that without beingtired! I opened my eyes twice, but the thing was inscrutable. ThenI heard a sound that I knew to be a footstep upon boards. A voicewhispered:--

  “The delirium has left him.”

  Another voice, a man’s voice, answered:--

  “Thank God! Let me fan him. You are tired.”

  “I am not tired,” answered the first voice.

  “I do not see how you have stood it,” said the man’s voice. “You willkill yourself, Madame la Vicomtesse. The danger is past now.”

  “I hope so, Mr. Temple,” said the first voice. “Please go away. You maycome back in half an hour.”

  I heard the footsteps retreating. Then I said: “I am not asleep.”

  The fan stopped for a brief instant and then went on vibratinginexorably. I was entranced at the thought of what I had done. I hadspoken, though indeed it seemed to have had no effect. Could it bethat I hadn’t spoken? I began to be frightened at this, when graduallysomething crept into my mind and drove the fear out. I did not graspwhat this was at first, it was like the first staining of wine on theeastern sky to one who sees a sunrise. And then the thought grew evenas the light grows, tinged by prismatic colors, until at length amemory struck into my soul like a shaft of light. I spoke her name,unblushingly, aloud.

  “Hélène!”

  The fan stopped. There was a silence that seemed an eternity as the palmleaf trembled in her hand, there was an answer that strove tenderly tocommand.

  “Hush, you must not talk,” she said.

  Never, I believe, came such supreme happiness with obedience. I felt herhand upon my brow, and the fan moved again. I fell asleep once more fromsheer weariness of joy. She was there, beside me. She had been there,beside me, through it all, and it was her touch which had brought meback to life.

  I dreamed of her. When I awoke again her image was in my mind, and Ilet it rest there in contemplation. But presently I thought of the fan,turned my head, and it was not there. A great fear seized me. I lookedout of the open door where the morning sun threw the checkered shadowsof the honeysuckle on the floor of the gallery, and over the railing tothe tree-tops in the court-yard. The place struck a chord in my memory.Then my eyes wandered back into the room. There was a polished dresser,a crucifix and a prie-dieu in the corner, a fauteuil, and another chairat my bed. The floor was rubbed to an immaculate cleanliness, stainedyellow, and on it lay clean woven mats. The room was empty!

  I cried out, a yellow and red turban shot across the window, and Ibeheld in the door the spare countenance of the faithful Lindy.

  “Marse Dave,” she cried, �
�is you feelin’ well, honey?”

  “Where am I, Lindy?” I asked.

  Lindy, like many of her race, knew well how to assume airs ofimportance. Lindy had me down, and she knew it.

  “Marse Dave,” she said, “doan yo’ know better’n dat? Yo’ know yo’ ain’tter talk. Lawsy, I reckon I wouldn’t be wuth pizen if she was to hear Ilet yo’ talk.”

  Lindy implied that there was tyranny somewhere.

  “She?” I asked, “who’s she?”

  “Now yo’ hush, Marse Dave,” said Lindy, in a shrill whisper, “I ain’ter-gwine ter git mixed up in no disputation. Ef she was ter hearme er-disputin’ wid yo’, Marse Dave, I reckon I’d done git such ertongue-lashin’--” Lindy looked at me suspiciously. “Yo’-er allus waspowe’rful cute, Marse Dave.”

  Lindy set her lips with a mighty resolve to be silent. I heard some onecoming along the gallery, and then I saw Nick’s tall figure looming upbehind her.

  “Davy,” he cried.

  Lindy braced herself up doggedly.

  “Yo’ ain’t er-gwine to git in thar nohow, Marse Nick,” she said.

  “Nonsense, Lindy,” he answered, “I’ve been in there as much as youhave.” And he took hold of her thin arm and pulled her back.

  “Marse Nick!” she cried, terror-stricken, “she’ll done fin’ out datyou’ve been er-talkin’.”

  “Pish!” said Nick with a fine air, “who’s afraid of her?”

  Lindy’s face took on an expression of intense amusement.

  “Yo’ is, for one, Marse Nick,” she answered, with the familiarity of anold servant. “I done seed yo’ skedaddle when she comed.”

  “Tut,” said Nick, grandly, “I run from no woman. Eh, Davy?” He pushedpast the protesting Lindy into the room and took my hand.

  “Egad, you have been near the devil’s precipice, my son. A three-bottleman would have gone over.” In his eyes was all the strange affectionhe had had for me ever since we had been boys at Temple Bow together.“Davy, I reckon life wouldn’t have been worth much if you’d gone.”

  I did not answer. I could only stare at him, mutely grateful for such anaffection. In all his wild life he had been true to me, and he had clungto me stanchly in this, my greatest peril. Thankful that he was here,I searched his handsome person with my eyes. He was dressed, as usual,with care and fashion, in linen breeches and a light gray coat and afilmy ruffle at his neck. But I thought there had come a change into hisface. The reckless quality seemed to have gone out of it, yet the spiritand daring remained, and with these all the sweetness that was once inhis smile. There were lines under his eyes that spoke of vigils.

  “You have been sitting up with me,” I said.

  “Of course,” he answered, patting my shoulder. “Of course I have. Whatdid you think I would be doing?”

  “What was the matter with me?” I asked.

  “Nothing much,” he said lightly, “a touch of the sun, and a great dealof overwork in behalf of your friends. Now keep still, or I will begetting peppered.”

  I was silent for a while, turning over this answer in my mind. Then Isaid:--

  “I had yellow fever.”

  He started.

  “It is no use to lie to you,” he replied; “you’re too shrewd.”

  I was silent again for a while.

  “Nick,” I said, “you had no right to stay here. You have--otherresponsibilities now.”

  He laughed. It was the old buoyant, boyish laugh of sheer happiness, andI felt the better for hearing it.

  “If you begin to preach, parson, I’ll go; I vow I’ll have no moresermonizing. Davy,” he cried, “isn’t she just the dearest, sweetest,most beautiful person in the world?”

  I smiled.

  “Where is she?” I asked, temporizing. Nick was not a subtle person, andI was ready to follow him at great length in the praise of Antoinette.“I hope she is not here.”

  “We made her go to Les Îles,” said he.

  “And you risked your life and stayed here without her?” I said.

  “As for risking life, that kind of criticism doesn’t come well fromyou. And as for Antoinette,” he added with a smile, “I expect to seesomething of her later on.”

  “Well,” I answered with a sigh of supreme content, “you have been a foolall your life, and I hope that she will make you sensible.”

  “You never could make me so,” said Nick, “and besides, I don’t thinkyou’ve been so damned sensible yourself.”

  We were silent again for a space.

  “Davy,” he asked, “do you remember what I said when you had thatminiature here?”

  “You said a great many things, I believe.”

  “I told you to consider carefully the masterful features of that lady,and to thank God you hadn’t married her. I vow I never thought she’dturn up. Upon my oath I never thought I should be such a blind slaveas I have been for the last fortnight. Faith, Monsieur de St. Gré is astrong man, but he was no more than a puppet in his own house when hecame back here for a day. That lady could govern a province,--no, akingdom. But I warrant you there would be no climbing of balconies inher dominions. I have never been so generalled in my life.”

  I had no answer for these comments.

  “The deuce of it is the way she does it,” he continued, plainly bent onrelieving himself. “There’s no noise, no fuss; but you must obey, youdon’t know why. And yet you may flay me if I don’t love her.”

  “Love her!” I repeated.

  “She saved your life,” said Nick; “I don’t believe any other woman couldhave done it. She hadn’t any thought of her own. She has been here, inthis room, almost constantly night and day, and she never let you go.The little French doctor gave you up--not she. She held on. Cursed if Isee why she did it.”

  “Nor I,” I answered.

  “Well,” he said apologetically, “of course I would have done it, butyou weren’t anything to her. Yes, egad, you were something to besaved,--that was all that was necessary. She had you brought backhere--we are in Monsieur de St. Gré’s house, by the way--in a litter,and she took command as though she had nursed yellow fever cases all herlife. No flurry. I said that you were in love with her once, Davy, whenI saw you looking at the portrait. I take it back. Of course a man couldbe very fond of her,” he said, “but a king ought to have married her. Asfor that poor Vicomte she’s tied up to, I reckon I know the reason whyhe didn’t come to America. An ordinary man would have no chance at all.God bless her!” he cried, with a sudden burst of feeling, “I woulddie for her myself. She got me out of a barrel of trouble with hisExcellency. She cared for my mother, a lonely outcast, and braved deathherself to go to her when she was dying of the fever. God bless her!”

  Lindy was standing in the doorway.

  “Lan’ sakes, Marse Nick, yo’ gotter go,” she said.

  He rose and pressed my fingers. “I’ll go,” he said, and left me. Lindyseated herself in the chair. She held in her hand a bowl of beef broth.From this she fed me in silence, and when she left she commanded me tosleep informing me that she would be on the gallery within call.

  But I did not sleep at once. Nick’s words had brought back a fact whichmy returning consciousness had hitherto ignored. The birds sang in thecourt-yard, and when the breeze stirred it was ever laden with a newscent. I had been snatched from the jaws of death, my life was beforeme, but the happiness which had thrilled me was gone, and in my weaknessthe weight of the sadness which had come upon me was almost unbearable.If I had had the strength, I would have risen then and there from mybed, I would have fled from the city at the first opportunity. As itwas, I lay in a torture of thought, living over again every part of mylife which she had touched. I remembered the first long, yearning look Ihad given the miniature at Madame Bouvet’s. I had not loved her then.My feeling rather had been a mysterious sympathy with and admiration forthis brilliant lady whose sphere was so far removed from mine. This wassufficiently strange. Again, in the years of my struggle for livelihoodwhich followed, I
dreamed of her; I pictured her often in the midst ofthe darkness of the Revolution. Then I had the miniature again, whichhad travelled to her, as it were, and come back to me. Even then it wasnot love I felt, but an unnamed sentiment for one whom I clothed withgifts and attributes I admired: constancy, an ability to suffer andto hide, decision, wit, refuge for the weak, scorn for the false. So Inamed them at random and cherished them, knowing that these things werenot what other men longed for in women. Nay, there was another qualitywhich I believed was there--which I knew was there--a supreme tendernessthat was hidden like a treasure too sacred to be seen.

  I did not seek to explain the mystery which had brought her across thesea into that little garden of Mrs. Temple’s and into my heart. Thereshe was now enthroned, deified; that she would always be there Iaccepted. That I would never say or do anything not in consonance withher standards I knew. That I would suffer much I was sure, but the leesof that suffering I should hoard because they came from her.

  What might have been I tried to put away. There was the moment, Ithought, when our souls had met in the little parlor in the Rue Bourbon.I should never know. This I knew--that we had labored together to bringhappiness into other lives.

  Then came another thought to appall me. Unmindful of her own safety,she had nursed me back to life through all the horrors of the fever. Thedoctor had despaired, and I knew that by the very force that was in hershe had saved me. She was here now, in this house, and presently shewould be coming back to my bedside. Painfully I turned my face to thewall in a torment of humiliation--I had called her by her name. I wouldsee her again, but I knew not whence the strength for that ordeal was tocome.