*CHAPTER 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.
"Mlle. Coira O'Hara sat alone upon the stone bench."]
Ste. Marie halted his dragging steps a little way off, but the girlheard him and turned to look. After that she rose hurriedly and stoodas if poised for flight, but Ste. Marie took his hat in his hands andcame forward.
"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 dayit is--if that is impossible, why then I must apologise for intrudingupon you and go on my way, inexorably pursued by the would-be murdererwho now stands six paces to the rear.
"Is it impossible, mademoiselle?" said Ste. 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 broad_rond point_, and, in the end, she looked up very gravely into the faceof the 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 spoilt. The girl's bearinghurt him absurdly, and a little of the hurt may have betrayed itself inhis face as he turned away, for she came towards him with a swiftmovement, saying--
"No! no! Wait!
"I have hurt you," she said with a sort of wondering distress. "Youhave let me hurt you.... And yet surely you must see ... you mustrealise on what terms ... Do you forget that you are not among yourfriends ... outside? ... This is so very different!"
"I had forgotten," said he. "Incredible as it sounds, I had for amoment forgotten. Will you grant me your pardon for that?
"And yet," he persisted after a moment's pause, "yet, mademoiselle,consider a little! It is likely that--circumstances have so fallen thatit seems I shall be here within your walls for a time, perhaps a longtime. I am able to walk a little now. Day by day I shall be stronger,better able to get about. Is there not some way--are there not someterms under which we could meet without embarrassment? Must we for everglare at each other and pass by warily, just because we--well, holddifferent views about--something?" It was not a premeditated speech atall. It had never until this moment occurred to him to suggest any sucharrangement with any member of the household at La Lierre. At anothertime he would doubtless have considered it undignified if not downrightunwise to hold intercourse of any friendly sort with this band ofcontemptible adventurers. The sudden impulse may have been born of hislong week of almost intolerable loneliness, or it may have come of thewarm exhilaration of this first breath of sweet outdoor air, or perhapsit needed neither of these things, for the girl was verybeautiful--enchantment breathed from her, and though he knew what shewas, in what despicable plot she was engaged, he was too much Ste. Marieto be quite indifferent to her. Though he looked upon her sorrowfullyand with pain and vicarious shame, he could not have denied the spellshe 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. I think I should have toask my father about it.
"I wish," she said, "that we might do that. I should like it. I shouldlike to be able to talk to some one--about the things I like--and carefor. I used to talk with my father about things. But not lately. Thereis no one now." Her eyes searched him.
"Would it be possible, I wonder," said she. "Could we two put everythingelse aside--forget altogether who we are and why we are here. Is thatpossible?"
"We could only try, mademoiselle," said Ste. Marie. "If we found it afailure we could give it up." He broke into a little laugh.
"And besides," he said, "I can't help thinking that two people ought tobe with me all the time I am in the garden here--for safety's sake. Imight catch the old Michel napping one day, you know, throttle him, takehis rifle away and escape. If there were two I couldn't do that."
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 afterwards she was grave again and thoughtful.
"Is it not rather foolish," she asked, "to warn us--to warn me ofpossibilities like that? You might quite easily do what you have said.You are putting us on our guard 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 colour 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 for ever 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 few civilwords. If you try to bring up forbidden topics I can simply goaway--and besides Michel stands ready to murder you if it should becomenecessary. 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 roundit above 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 is inpain, and women, before a suffering man, while they are not miserableare always full of a desire to do something that will help. And thatmight be a small additional proof (if any more proof were necessary)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 awhile 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 humour. 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 humour 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 colouring 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 CoiraO'Hara, and watch her bent head and busy hovering hands and remainunstirred by her splendid beauty. He found himself wondering why onekind of loveliness more than another should exert a potent andmysterious spell by virtue of mere proximity, and when the woman whobore it was entirely passive. If this girl had been looking at him thematter would have been easy to understand, for an eye-glance is oftendownright hypnotic, but she was looking at the work in her hands and, sofar as could be judged, she had altogether forgotten his presence; yetthe mysterious spell, the potent enchantment, breathed from her like avapour, and he could 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 asthis?"
"No," said he, "I am not. I offer my humblest apologies. It seems asif I were not being properly grateful for being allowed to sit here withyou, but to tell the truth I was buried in thought." They had begun totalk in French, but, midway of Ste. Marie's speech, the girl glancedtowards the old Michel, who stood a short distance away, and so hechanged 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 embarrassedlaugh.
"I'm sorry," said he, "but I'm afraid they were too personal. I'mafraid if I told you, you'd get up and go away, and be frigidly politeto me when next we passed each other in the garden here.
"But there's no harm," he said, "in telling you one thing that occurredto me. It occurred to me that, as far as a young girl can be said toresemble an elderly woman, you bear a most remarkable resemblance to avery dear old friend of mine who lives near Dublin--Lady MargaretCraith. She's a widow and almost all of her family are dead, I believe(I didn't know any of them), and she lives there in a huge old housewith a park, quite alone, with her army of servants. I go to see herwhenever I'm in Ireland, because she is one of the sweetest souls I haveever 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 aboutsomething else! Of course you couldn'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 toldhim surprised him very much indeed, and touched him too. He rememberedagain the remark of his friend when O'Hara had passed them on theboulevard--
"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. Hehad a 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 thebook in 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 am so thankfulfor it that there are no words to say how thankful I am--how glad I amthat I have such a world as that to--take refuge in sometimes when thisworld is a little too unbearable. It does for me now what the fairystories did when I was little. And to think that it's true, true! Tothink 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 wellnigh 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 _preuxchevaliers_ nowadays--only perhaps they don't go about things in quitethe same fashion.
"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 honourable and as high-heartedas Bayard was. In his place they would have acted as he did, butnowadays one has to practise heroism much less conspicuously--in thelittle things that few people see and that no one applauds or writesbooks about. It is much harder to do brave little acts than brave bigones."
"Yes," she agreed slowly. "Oh yes, of course." But there was no spiritin her tone, rather a sort of apathy. Once more the leaves overheadswayed in the breeze, opened a tiny rift, and the little trembling raysof sunshine shot down to her where she sat. She stretched out one handcupwise, and the sunbeam, after a circling gyration, darted into it andlay there like a small golden bird panting, as it were, from flight.
"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. Canyou think 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 great number of things, I shouldthink," said she. "Happiness--belief--illusion.
"See! The sunbeam is gone."
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