CHAPTER X

“ON YOUR KNEES!”

They laid Helia down at the foot of Phil’s picture, on the great ancestral throne on which the duke had hoped to seat himself beside Miss Rowrer. The iron candelabrum, hanging from the arch, lighted the hall. But Morgana’s stained window, more than all the rest, blazed with sanguinary flashes. This time it was not the sunset, as the duke had described it to Miss Rowrer, when he showed her the engraving in Paris; it was the light of torches and of the giant bonfire shining through it from without. The heroic statues, Thilda, Rhodaïs the Slave, and Bertha the Horsewoman, seemed to live again beneath the glow. The flashes of light from the window seemed to make them palpitate. One would have said that joy swelled their marble breasts when Helia, whose bodice had been undone, and whose wounds were bandaged, opened her eyes and breathed freely as she asked: “Where am I?”

“Oh, what a fright you’ve given us!” said Suzanne; “but now you’re saved. Do you suffer?”

Helia was not suffering. To die was nothing,—but to fall, struck from behind by such a man!

“If you had been there, Phil,” Helia said, speaking low, “you would have protected me, would you not? Oh, with you I should fear nothing. Give me your hand and stay with me!”

Phil, with downcast eyes full of tears, took her hand.

“Look me in the face; why do you lower your eyes, Phil?” she said, so that he alone could hear her. She added, with an indescribable regret in her voice: “Have I ever reproached you? Look me in the face, as in the old days! I wish you to be happy. I do not wish you to be sad!”

From the city came a confused murmur, like the noise of the sea; and then there were long moments of silence. The nobles had not dared to enter the hall. The people’s deep anxiety was making itself felt. Suzanne, meanwhile, was arranging the cushions under Helia’s head. The duke had gone a little away.

“Yes,” he was saying to himself, “Miss Rowrer will understand the sacrifice I am making for her. I fail in my word, it is true, but she will be grateful to me for not having made Helia her rival. As to the people, Miss Rowrer’s millions will make them forget my perjury.”

Ethel, with Caracal at her elbow, gave to a servant the basin of water and bloody cloths. Impassive as the marble ancestresses, she turned her clear eyes on Phil and the duke.

“Phil,” Helia continued, as she pressed his hand, “you promised me once—do you remember?—when you loved me, in the old days? I understand, many things have passed since; and you are no longer the same man. Come here, Phil, nearer, nearer! I want to tell a secret in your ear. I have loved only you, Phil; every day I have waited for you, and you never came! I was mad, I know; it was impossible! But when one is young one is ignorant—and I believed you! Now you love another. Phil, I forgive you; but leave your hand in mine.”

Phil was silent and red with shame. Ah, indeed, he remembered! Helia felt his heart beating in the hand which pressed her own. An intense emotion overpowered him. He had the fearful calm which goes before a storm. Neither the duke nor Phil spoke, motionless, by the side of Helia, who was resting tranquilly, while they made a room ready for her.

“You can get up and go to it by yourself,” said Suzanne. “You’re safe. You haven’t lost much blood—Socrate’s blow missed!”

“What!” murmured Ethel. “Our heroic Helia is going to die in the presence of these two men who loved her, without one of them asking her pardon for their false oaths?”

“They accuse me of being cynical, but I should be more loyal than that,” said Caracal, with his gaze fixed on Ethel.

“Look at your work, M. Caracal,” Ethel replied, in a low tone of contempt. “Those two men are your pupils. The duke, who will not see that the fortune of nations is courage and respect for promises—and Phil, whom I thought more noble,—look at him, blushing with shame, lowering his eyes,—these are the men according to your heart! They are the men who consider woman a plaything, and abandon her when she ceases to please! I forgive you your Richard the Lion-hearted, your blackmailing, and your infamies, but look at the result of your bad example and ignoble theories! When you threw Helia at Socrate that you might study passion cheaply, without knowing it you put the dagger in the assassin’s hand. Helia struck down from behind,—it is your work! The duke, forgetful of duty and aiming at Helia for his mistress, it is your work! Phil, with his false promises, is worthy of you! Two men spoiled, one assassin, and a dying woman—look at your work, M. Caracal!”

The “subtle observer,” a poor human rag blown down by a breath, collapsed into a chair.

The great window still threw its burning glow upon the throne. The marble ancestors, dimly lighted, seemed to lift their heads to curse the feeble duke. They formed a circle round the hall and the throne where Helia was resting—Helia, brave as Rhodaïs, intrepid as Thilda, invulnerable as Bertha—Helia, the Morgana announced and foretold. The duke was pale and grave. He looked at Helia, and then turned his head toward Ethel.

All at once Ethel saw Helia rise upon her elbow, with one hand convulsively grasping that of Phil, and the other signing to listen. Through the half-open door floated a far-away melody, so weak, so far away—Phil felt its thrill in his heart.

Le roi fait battre le tambour Pour appeler ses dames, Et la première qu’il a vue Lui a ravi son âme.

The king had the drum beat To call out his ladies— And the first one he sees Steals away his soul.

It seemed to come with the sea-breeze from beyond the murmurs of the land. It was the music of the yacht playing the air chosen by Ethel, that air which Helia hummed when she was alone. Ethel had foreseen the hour when Helia would be entering the throne-room. The music from the yacht was to greet her triumph. Now it seemed to be soothing her agony.

“Listen, Phil, listen!” said Helia; “do you remember?”

Phil remembered all and saw all once more—his first love, the little Saint John, the Louvre paradise, all his promises! His youth blossomed in his heart.

In his breast rose a flame which burned away every selfish thought. Yes, he had promised! Helia had lived in that only hope; he had let her fall from the height of her dream! He had shut off the future from her. He had dug a pit with his selfishness, and pushed Helia into it when she ceased to please! He had turned his back on her despair!

It seemed to him that a giant hand was bending him low before Helia and a voice was saying: “Down on your knees!”

Quickly, quickly and low, as one might confess a crime, Phil spoke:

“Yes, I was wrong—yes, I promised. I ask pardon, Helia! How I shall thank God if he will let you live, that I may blot out my fault!”

“Oh, Phil!” murmured Helia.

“I love you still,” said Phil; “and you shall be my wife. You will see how happy we shall be—Helia, forgive me!”

“Let me kiss your lips!” said Helia.

Ethel had drawn near, followed by Caracal. There was a strange light in her eyes.

“See,” she said to Caracal. “Glory to those who are struck down by the light like St. Paul. There is joy in heaven for the repenting sinner!”

“Will you ever pardon me?” stammered Caracal.

“Perhaps; tears wash away many things,” added Ethel, remembering how Phil had already pardoned Caracal because he had seen him weeping.

“That is a man worth loving, a rare thing,” Ethel thought as she looked at Phil. Helia now was sitting up; the wound no longer bled.

“How happy I am!” said Helia.

She wept with joy. Phil was at her knees as in the old days. “Listen,” she said, “it is our tune of the old times, Phil! I seem still to be there!”

Phil kissed her hands to hide his tears.

“Phil,” said Helia, with a timid look at Ethel, and in a tone so low that it could come only from the heart, “tell me, Phil, am I really fit to be your wife?”

The door opened slowly, a bright light burst into the hall. It was the voivodes coming for information. If a misfortune had happened to one of the maidens, perhaps to their duchess, when they were on the spot, sword in hand to form a sheltering arch above her—what a shame it would be for them! If the duchess was dying, they would pray for her on their knees. They approached in silence. The duke had drawn near Ethel.

“I love you!” he said, speaking low. “See what I have done for you! I swore—but I thought it was you. There is still time. My people await their duchess. Shall it be you, Miss Rowrer?”

The duke held out his hand in an attitude of deepest respect.

Miss Rowrer stopped him short with a gesture. She had judged the two men. This ruler who would not keep his oath, sworn in the name of his ancestors—he should never be husband of hers. To her titles were nothing, character was all. Calm as Justice, with her eyes fixed straight on the duke, she pointed with her hand to Phil, kneeling beside Helia, and said:

“That is a Man!”