XX
THE STONE BENCH AT THE ROND POINT
Mlle. Coira O'Hara sat alone upon the stone bench at the hither end ofthe rond point. With a leisurely hand she put fine stitches into amysterious garment of white, with lace on it, and over her not tooarduous toil she sang, a demi voix, a little German song all about thetender passions.
Ste. Marie halted his dragging steps a little way off, but the girlheard him and turned to look. After that she rose hurriedly and stood asif poised for flight, but Ste. Marie took his hat in his hands and cameforward.
"If you go away, Mademoiselle," said he, "if you let me drive you fromyour place, I shall limp across to that pool and fall in and drownmyself, or I shall try to climb the wall yonder and Michel will have toshoot me."
He came forward another step.
"If it is impossible," he said, "that you and I should stay heretogether for a few little moments and talk about what a beautiful day itis--if that is impossible, why then I must apologize for intruding uponyou and go on my way, inexorably pursued by the would-be murderer whonow stands six paces to the rear. Is it impossible, Mademoiselle?" saidSte. Marie.
The girl's face was flushed with that deep and splendid understain. Shelooked down upon the white garment in her hand and away across the broadrond point, and in the end she looked up very gravely into the face ofthe man who stood leaning upon his stick before her.
"I don't know," she said, in her deep voice, "what my father would wish.I did not know that you were coming into the garden this morning, or--"
"Or else," said Ste. Marie, with a little touch of bitterness in histone--"or else you would not have been here. You would have remained inthe house."
He made a bow.
"To-morrow, Mademoiselle," said he, "and for the remainder of the daysthat I may be at La Lierre, I shall stay in my room. You need have nofear of me."
All the man's life he had been spoiled. The girl's bearing hurt himabsurdly, and a little of the hurt may have betrayed itself in his faceas he turned away, for she came toward him with a swift movement,saying:
"No, no! Wait!--I have hurt you," she said, with a sort of wonderingdistress. "You have let me hurt you.... And yet surely you must see,...you must realize on what terms.... Do you forget that you are not amongyour friends... outside?... This is so very different!"
"I had forgotten," said he. "Incredible as it sounds, I had for a momentforgotten. Will you grant me your pardon for that? And yet," hepersisted, after a moment's pause--"yet, Mademoiselle, consider alittle! It is likely that--circumstances have so fallen that it seems Ishall be here within your walls for a time, perhaps a long time. I amable to walk a little now. Day by day I shall be stronger, better ableto get about. Is there not some way--are there hot some terms underwhich we could meet without embarrassment? Must we forever glare at eachother and pass by warily, just because we--well, hold different viewsabout--something?"
It was not a premeditated speech at all. It had never until this momentoccurred to him to suggest any such arrangement with any member of thehousehold at La Lierre. At another time he would doubtless haveconsidered it undignified, if not downright unwise, to hold intercourseof any friendly sort with this band of contemptible adventurers. Thesudden impulse may have been born of his long week of almost intolerableloneliness, or it may have come of the warm exhilaration of this firstbreath of sweet, outdoor air, or perhaps it needed neither of thesethings, for the girl was very beautiful--enchantment breathed from her,and, though he knew what she was, in what despicable plot she wasengaged, he was too much Ste. Marie to be quite indifferent to her.Though he looked upon her sorrowfully and with pain and vicarious shame,he could not have denied the spell she wielded. After all, he was Ste.Marie.
Once more the girl looked up very gravely under her brows, and her eyesmet the man's eyes. "I don't know," she said. "Truly, I don't know. Ithink I should have to ask my father about it.--I wish," she said, "thatwe might do that. I should like it. I should like to be able to talk tosome one--about the things I like--and care for. I used to talk with myfather about things; but not lately. There is no one now." Her eyessearched him. "Would it be possible, I wonder," said she. "Could we twoput everything else aside--forget altogether who we are and why we arehere. Is that possible?"
"We could only try, Mademoiselle," said Ste. Marie. "If we found it afailure we could give it up." He broke into a little laugh. "Andbesides," he said, "I can't help thinking that two people ought to bewith me all the time I am in the garden here--for safety's sake. I mightcatch the old Michel napping one day, you know, throttle him, take hisrifle away, and escape. If there were two, I couldn't do it."
For an instant she met his laugh with an answering smile, and the smilecame upon her sombre beauty like a moment of golden light upon darkness.But afterward she was grave again and thoughtful. "Is it not ratherfoolish," she asked, "to warn us--to warn me of possibilities like that?You might quite easily do what you have said. You are putting us on ourguard against you."
"I meant to, Mademoiselle," said Ste. Marie. "I meant to. Consider myreasons. Consider what I was pleading for!" And he gave a little laughwhen the color began again to rise in the girl's cheeks.
She turned away from him, shaking her head, and he thought that he hadsaid too much and that she was offended, but after a moment the girllooked up, and when she met his eyes she laughed outright.
"I cannot forever be scowling and snarling at you," said she. "It isquite too absurd. Will you sit down for a little while? I don't knowwhether or not my father would approve, but we have met here byaccident, and there can be no harm, surely, in our exchanging a fewcivil words. If you try to bring up forbidden topics I can simply goaway; and, besides, Michel stands ready to murder you if it shouldbecome necessary. I think his failure of a week ago is very heavy on hisconscience."
Ste. Marie sat down in one corner of the long stone bench, and he wasvery glad to do it, for his leg was beginning to cause him somediscomfort. It felt hot and as if there were a very tight band round itabove the knee. The relief must have been apparent in his face, forMlle. O'Hara looked at him in silence for a moment, and she gave alittle, troubled, anxious frown. Men can be quite indifferent tosuffering in each other if the suffering is not extreme, and women canbe, too, but men are quite miserable in the presence of a woman who isin pain, and women, before a suffering man, while they are notmiserable, are always full of a desire to do something that will help.And that might be a small, additional proof--if any more proof werenecessary--that they are much the more practical of the two sexes.
The girl's sharp glance seemed to assure her that Ste. Marie wascomfortable, now that he was sitting down, for the frown went from herbrows, and she began to arrange the mysterious white garment in her lapin preparation to go on with her work.
Ste. Marie watched her for a while in a contented silence. The leavesoverhead stirred under a puff of air, and a single yellow beam ofsunlight came down and shivered upon the girl's dark head and playedabout the bundle of white over which her hands were busy. She movedaside to avoid it, but it followed her, and when she moved back itfollowed again and danced in her lap as if it were a live thing with amalicious sense of humor. It might have been Tinker Bell out of _PeterPan_, only it did not jingle. Mlle. O'Hara uttered an exclamation ofannoyance, and Ste. Marie laughed at her, but in a moment the leavesoverhead were still again, and the sunbeam, with a sense of humor, wasgone to torment some one else.
Still neither of the two spoke, and Ste. Marie continued to watch thegirl bent above her sewing. He Was thinking of what she had said to himwhen he asked her if she read Spanish--that her mother had been Spanish.That would account, then, for her dark eyes. It would account for thedarkness of her skin, too, but not for its extraordinary clearness anddelicacy, for Spanish women are apt to have dull skins of an opaquetexture. This was, he said to himself, an Irish skin with a darkerstain, and he was quite sure that he had never before seen anything atall like it.
Apart from colo
ring, she was all Irish, of the type which has becomefamous the world over, and which in the opinion of men who have seenwomen in all countries, and have studied them, is the most beautifultype that exists in our time.
Ste. Marie was dark himself, and in the ordinary nature of things heshould have preferred a fair type in women. In theory, for that matter,he did prefer it, but it was impossible for him to sit near Coira O'Haraand watch her bent head and busy, hovering hands, and remain unstirredby her splendid beauty. He found himself wondering why one kind ofloveliness more than another should exert a potent and mysterious spellby virtue of mere proximity, and when the woman who bore it was entirelypassive. If this girl had been looking at him the matter would have beeneasy to understand, for an eye-glance is often downright hypnotic; butshe was looking at the work in her hands, and, so far as could bejudged, she had altogether forgotten his presence; yet the mysteriousspell, the potent enchantment, breathed from her like a vapor, and hecould not be insensible to it. It was like sorcery.
The girl looked up so suddenly that Ste. Marie jumped. She said:
"You are not a very talkative person. Are you always as silent as this?"
"No," said he, "I am not. I offer my humblest apologies. It seems as ifI were not properly grateful for being allowed to sit here with you,but, to tell the truth, I was buried in thought."
They had begun to talk in French, but midway of Ste. Marie's speech thegirl glanced toward the old Michel, who stood a short distance away, andso he changed to English.
"In that case," she said, regarding her work with her head on one sidelike a bird--"in that case you might at least tell me what your thoughtswere. They might be interesting."
Ste. Marie gave a little embarrassed laugh.
"I'm sorry," said he, "but I'm afraid they were too personal. I'm afraidif I told you you'd get up and go away and be frigidly polite to me whennext we passed each other in the garden here. But there's no harm," hesaid, "in telling you one thing that occurred to me. It occurred to methat, as far as a young girl can be said to resemble an elderly woman,you bear a most remarkable resemblance to a very dear old friend of minewho lives near Dublin--Lady Margaret Craith. She's a widow, and almostall of her family are dead, I believe--I didn't know any of them--andshe lives there in a huge old house with a park, quite alone with herarmy of servants. I go to see her whenever I'm in Ireland, because sheis one of the sweetest souls I have ever known."
He became aware suddenly that Mlle. O'Hara's head was bent very low overher sewing and that her face, or as much of it as he could see, wascrimson.
"Oh, I--I beg your pardon!" cried Ste. Marie. "I've done somethingdreadful. I don't know what it is, but I'm very, very sorry. Pleaseforgive me if you can!"
"It is nothing," she said, in a low voice, and after a moment she lookedup for the swiftest possible glance and down again. "That is my--aunt,"she said. "Only--please let us talk about something else! Of course youcouldn't possibly have known."
"No," said Ste. Marie, gravely. "No, of course. You are very good toforgive me."
He was silent a little while, for what the girl had told him surprisedhim very much indeed, and touched him, too. He remembered again theremark of his friend when O'Hara had passed them on the boulevard:
"There goes some of the best blood that ever came out of Ireland. Seewhat it has fallen to!"
"It is a curious fact," said he, "that you and I are very closecompatriots in the matter of blood--if 'compatriots' is the word. Youare Irish and Spanish. My mother was Irish and my people were Bearnais,which is about as much Spanish as French; and, indeed, there was a greatdeal of blood from across the mountains in them, for they often marriedSpanish wives."
He pulled the _Bayard_ out of his pocket.
"The Ste. Marie in here married a Spanish lady, didn't he?"
The girl looked up to him once more.
"Yes," she said. "Yes, I remember. He was a brave man, Monsieur. He hada great soul. And he died nobly."
"Well, as for that," he said, flushing a little, "the Ste. Maries haveall died rather well."
He gave a short laugh.
"Though I must admit," said he, "that the last of them came preciousnear falling below the family standard a week ago. I should think thatprobably none of my respected forefathers was killed in climbing over agarden-wall. Autres temps, autres moeurs."
He burst out laughing again at what seemed to him rather comic, butMlle. O'Hara did not smile. She looked very gravely into his eyes, andthere seemed to be something like sorrow in her look. Ste. Mariewondered at it, but after a moment it occurred to him that he was verynear forbidden ground, and that doubtless the girl was trying to givehim a silent warning of it. He began to turn over the leaves of the bookin his hand.
"You have marked a great many pages here," said he.
And she said: "It is my best of all books. I read in it very often. I amso thankful for it that there are no words to say how thankful I am--howglad I am that I have such a world as that to--take refuge in sometimeswhen this world is a little too unbearable. It does for me now what thefairy stories did when I was little. And to think that it's true, true!To think that once there truly were men like that--sans peur et sansreproche! It makes life worth while to think that those men lived evenif it was long ago."
Ste. Marie bent his head over the little book, for he could not look atMlle. O'Hara just then. It seemed to him well-nigh the most patheticspeech that he had ever heard. His heart bled for her. Out of what meanshadows had the girl to turn her weary eyes upward to this sunlight ofancient heroism!
"And yet, Mademoiselle," said he, gently, "I think there are such menalive to-day, if only one will look for them. Remember, they were notcommon even in Bayard's time. Oh yes, I think there are preux chevaliersnowadays, only perhaps they don't go about things in quite the samefashion. Other times, other manners," he said again.
"Do you know any such men?" she demanded, facing him with shadowy eyes.
And he said: "Yes, I know men who are in all ways as honorable and ashigh-hearted as Bayard was. In his place they would have acted as hedid, but nowadays one has to practise heroism much lessconspicuously--in the little things that few people see and that no oneapplauds or writes books about. It is much harder to do brave littleacts than brave big ones."
"Yes." she agreed, slowly. "Oh yes, of course."
But there was no spirit in her tone, rather a sort of apathy. Once morethe leaves overhead swayed in the breeze, opened a tiny rift, and thelittle trembling ray of sunshine shot down to her where she sat. Shestretched out one hand cup-wise, and the sunbeam, after a circlinggyration, darted into it and lay there like a small golden bird panting,as it were, from fright.
"If I were a painter," said Ste. Marie, "I should be in torture andanguish of soul until I had painted you sitting there on a stone benchand holding a sunbeam in your hand. I don't know what I should call thepicture, but I think it would be something figurative--symbolic. Can youthink of a name?"
Coira O'Hara looked up at him with a slight smile, but her eyes weregloomy and full of dark shadows. "It might be called any one of a greatnumber of things, I should think," said she."Happiness--belief--illusion. See! The sunbeam is gone."
* * * * *
Jason: A Romance Page 20
