Part 18

After this time she did not leave her bed. She was very weak, and she seemed to have lost all ambition and all desire to move or even to speak. Her days she spent in silent moodiness, her nights in tossing feverishly about the bed. She seemed to take no notice of the little attentions so tenderly showered upon her by every one; except that she was pleased to see the little spring flowers, tender pink bells and anemones, that David and Courtoise spent hours in gathering at the edge of the forest on the St. Nazaire road. Upon these she smiled, and for many days kept a bouquet of them at her side, carrying them often to her lips. But after a little while she grew impatient of these simple flowers, and began to plead for violets, which no one in the world could find in Brittany before May. Courtoise brooded for two days over his inability to supply her want, and every one condoled her. Indeed, her own condition was not more pathetic than that of the Castle household in their eagerness for her welfare and her happiness, and for the welfare of that other precious soul that was in her keeping. Madame prayed night and morning for the heir of Le Crépuscule. Laure sewed for him, talked of him, dreamed of him, and bitterly envied Lenore. And now there was no whisper in the Castle that was not understood to pertain to “the little lord.”

At last there came an April twilight when the glow of the sunset was growing dim beneath the lowering veil of night. Lenore had passed an unusually quiet day, and was now lying in her bed, quite still and tranquil. That afternoon David had been admitted to her presence, and had amused her with tales from the fairy-lore of Brittany, which she dearly loved. Now he was gone, and Madame Eleanore sat in her room beside the bed. The two had been silent for some time when Lenore’s eyes opened, and she said softly,—

“Madame, hast ever thought that there might be a daughter of Le Crépuscule? That is what I believe.”

“God forbid!” exclaimed Eleanore, involuntarily. Then, as Lenore turned a white, half-resentful face toward her, madame went on hurriedly: “There must be no more daughters of this house, Lenore. ’Tis what I could scarcely bear,—to see another maiden grow up in this endless twilight—” Her voice trailed off into silence, and then, for a long time, the women were still together, thinking.

A tear or two stole from Lenore’s eyes and meandered down her cheek to the folds of her white gown; but her weeping was noiseless. The evening darkened. A sweet, rich breath of spring blew softly in from off the sea. Finally, one by one, the jewels of night began to gleam out from the sky. Each woman, unknown to the other, was offering up a prayer. And it was in the midst of this quiet scene that Lenore started suddenly up, knowing that her agony had begun.

No one in Le Crépuscule slept that night. Laure was called to help her mother; and the three women were alone in the bedroom of dead Gerault. The demoiselles, all dressed, had assembled in the spinning-room, and clustered there in the torchlight, whispering nervously together, and listening with strained ears for any sounds coming from Madame Lenore’s bedchamber. In the hall below were a company of servants, women and men, and a half-dozen henchmen, who quaffed occasional flagons of beer, but spoke not a word through the hours. David and Alixe sat in a corner playing at chess together; and a wondrous game it was, for neither knew when the other was in check, nor paid attention to a queen in jeopardy. Lastly, Courtoise was there, pacing up and down the hall, his hands clenched behind him, and the beads of sweat rolling off his face. And how many miles he walked that night, he never knew.

The hours passed solemnly away, and there was no sign from the holy room above. Time dragged by, slowly and yet more slowly, till the hours became as years; and it seemed that ages had gone when finally the dawn came creeping from beyond the distant hills, and a pale light glimmered across the moving waters. By the time the torches were flaring high in their mingling with the daybreak, there came, from above, the sound of a door softly opening and then closing again. In the hall below, no one breathed. Courtoise paused beside a table, and trembled and shook with cold. Alixe, very pale and white, moved slowly toward the stairs. There was a faint sound of rustling garments across the stones of the upper hall, and then, descending step by step in the wavering light, came Laure, great-eyed and deathly white, after the night’s terrible toil. She came alone, carrying nothing in her arms; and on the fifth step from the floor she stopped still, and looked down upon the motionless company. Once she tried to speak, and her throat failed her.

“Mademoiselle—in the name of God!” pleaded Courtoise, hoarsely.

Laure trembled a little. “Good friends,” she said, “Madame Lenore is safely delivered; and there is—a new daughter in Le Crépuscule.”

_CHAPTER FOURTEEN_ ELEANORE

When Laure, her message given, started back upstairs again, Alixe was at her side. At Lenore’s door they both stopped, till madame opened it. Laure entered the room at once, but Eleanore shook her head at the maiden, and bade her seek her rest. Then Alixe, disappointed, but too weary for speech, followed the chattering demoiselles down the corridor where were all their rooms, and, saying not a word to one of them, shut herself into her own chamber. Once there, she disrobed with speed, but when she had crept into her bed and pulled the coverings up above her, she found that sleep was an impossibility. There was a dull weight at her heart, which for the moment she could not analyze. It was as if some great misfortune had befallen her. Yet Lenore lived—was remarkably well. And the child—ah, the child! It was the first, almost, that Alixe had thought of the child. A girl, another girl, in Le Crépuscule! a thing of inaction, of resignation, of quiescence; the sport of Fate; the jest of the age! Alas, alas! A girl! To grow up alone, here in this wilderness, companionless, without hope of escape! Thus, dully, inarticulately, every one in Le Crépuscule was meditating with Alixe, till at last, one by one, they fell asleep, each in his late bed.

The morning was far spent, and an April sun streamed brightly across her coverlet, when Alixe finally awoke. Her sleep had done her good, and there was no trace of melancholy in her air as she rose and made herself ready for the day. She was healthfully hungry, but there was another interest, greater than hunger, that had caused her so speedily to dress. Hurrying out and down the hall, she stopped at the door to Lenore’s room, and tapped there softly.

Laure opened it at once, and smiled a good-morning to her. “Come thou in,” she whispered. “Lenore would have thee see the child.”

Alixe entered softly, and halted near the bed, transfixed by the sight of Lenore. Never, even in the early days of her bridal, had Gerault’s lady been so beautiful. The mysterious spell of her holy estate was on her, was clearly visible in her brilliant eyes, in the rosy flush of her cheeks, in the coiling, burning gold of her wondrous hair, in the smiling, gentle languor of her manner. There was something newly born in her, some still ecstasy, that had come to her together with the tiny bundle at her side.

“Come thou, Alixe, and look at her,” she said, in a weak voice, smiling happily, and casting tender love-looks at the little thing.

Alixe went over, and, with Laure’s aid, unwrapped enough of the small creature for her to see its tiny, red face and feeble, fluttering hands. As she gently touched one of the cheeks, the wide, blue, baby eyes stared up at her, unwinking in their new wonder at the world; while Lenore watched them, eagerly, hungrily. Neither she nor Alixe noticed that Laure had moved off to a distance, and was staring dully out of a window. When Alixe had stood for some moments over the baby, wondering in her heart what to say to Lenore, the mother looked up at her with those newly unfathomable eyes, and said softly,—

“Put her into my arms, Alixe.”

Alixe did so, laying the infant carefully across the mother’s breast. Lenore’s arms closed around it, and her eyes fell shut while a smile of unutterable peace lighted up her gentle face.

Alixe knew that it was time for her to go, and, moved as she had never been moved before in her young life, she started toward the door, glancing as she went at Laure, who followed her.

“How beautiful she is!” whispered Alixe, as they stood together on the threshold.

Laure nodded, but there was no sign of joy in her face. “Alas for them both!” she said quietly. “There have been enough daughters in Le Crépuscule.”

To this Alixe could find no reply, and so, with a slight nod, she left the room and went down to the morning meal. Madame Eleanore was not there. After the strain of the past night, she had gone to her room a little after sunrise, leaving Laure to care for the young mother. At breakfast, then, Courtoise and Alixe sat nearest the head of the table, but they did not talk together. In fact, no one said very much during the course of the meal. Instead of the joyful gayety that might have been expected, now that their dead lord’s lady was safely through her trial, a dull gloom seemed to overhang everything, to weigh every one down: Courtoise ate in silence, heavy-browed and brooding, his head bent far over; David, in no humor for wit, scarcely spoke; even Alixe, whose heart had been somewhat lightened by the sight of Lenore and her happiness, presently succumbed to the atmosphere, and began to reflect that the last hope of the Castle was gone, that the line of Crépuscule had died forever. And neither she nor any one else paused to think that, if the little Twilight baby asleep upstairs had understood the true nature of her welcome into the world, she might readily have been persuaded to escape again, as rapidly as possible, into her blue ether, where pain and unwelcome were things unknown.

When Alixe had eaten, she returned to the sick-room and, madame being still asleep, insisted upon taking Laure’s place till the weary girl had eaten and slept. Lenore had already taken some nourishment, and the baby had been fed; and, while the noon sunshine poured a flood of gold over the world, the mother and child drowsed happily together in their bed.

Alixe, having set the room as much to rights as was possible, seated herself by one of the open windows, and straightway began to dream. Her thoughts were of her own life, of the new life that she should now soon enter upon, and of what would befall her when she should really reach the vast world that lay behind the barrier of eastern hills,—that world that Laure had found, but could not stay in; that world from which Lenore had come, and whither Gerault had betaken himself to die. Alixe mused for a long time, and, in her untaught way, philosophized over the sad stories of those in the Castle, and the prospect of a real history that there might be for her when she should leave Le Crépuscule; and it was in the midst of this reverie that the door from Laure’s room opened softly, and madame came in.

Near the threshold she paused, looking intently at the sleeping mother and child, so that she did not at first perceive Alixe, who sat motionless, transfixed by the change which, since yesterday, had come upon madame. If there were gloom throughout the Castle, because of a disappointment in the sex of Lenore’s child, that gloom was epitomized in the face of Madame Eleanore. She was paler and older than Alixe had ever seen her before. The white in her hair was more marked than the dark. Every line in her face had deepened. Her eyes, tearless as they were, seemed somehow faded, and her manner bespoke an unutterable weariness. She looked haggard and old and worn. And yet, as she gazed at the unconscious picture of youth and tender love, the joy of the world, and the life of her race asleep there before her, her face softened, and her mouth lost a little of its hardness.

After some moments of this gazing, seeing that still she had not moved, Alixe went to her.

“Laure was weary, madame, and so I took her place while Lenore and the baby slept,” she said.

Eleanore nodded, and Alixe wondered uneasily if she should leave the room. After a second or two, however, madame shook away her preoccupation and turned to the girl.

“Alixe,” she said, “none hath as yet been despatched for Monseigneur de St. Nazaire; and I will not have Anselm baptize the child. Go thou and tell Courtoise to ride and fetch the Bishop as soon as may be, to perform one last ceremony for this house. Give him my good greeting. Tell him Lenore is well—and the babe—a girl. Mon Dieu! a girl!—Haste thee, Alixe. And thou needst not return. I will sit here while Lenore sleeps.”

Alixe bowed, but still stood hesitating, near the door, till madame looked up at her impatiently.

“When I have given Courtoise his message, let me bring thee food and wine, madame. Thou’lt be ill, an thou eat not.”

“Nay. Begone, Alixe! Bring nothing to me. Why should I eat? Why should I eat, when after me there will be none of mine to eat in Crépuscule?” And it was with a kind of groan that madame moved slowly across to the bedside. When Alixe left the room she was still standing there, gazing down upon Lenore, who, if awake, could hardly have borne the look with which madame regarded her.

An hour later, Courtoise was on his way to St. Nazaire; but he did not return with Monseigneur till evensong of the next day. Arrived at the Castle, the Bishop was given chance for food and rest after his ride, before he was summoned to Lenore’s room, where madame received him. From Courtoise, on their way, St. Nazaire had learned of the disappointment of the Castle; so that he was prepared for what he found. He read Eleanore’s mind from her face, and was not surprised at it, but from his own manner no one could have told that he felt anything but the utmost delight with the whole affair. He was full of congratulations and felicitations of every kind; he was witty, he was gay, he was more talkative than any one had ever seen him before; and he took the baby and handled it, cried to it, cooed to it, with the air of an experienced old beldame. Lenore, still radiant with her happiness of motherhood, brightened yet more under the cheer of his presence; and in her unexpected joy the Bishop found some consolation for the cloud of misery that shrouded madame. Indeed, he watched Lenore with unaffected delight, seeing with amazement the miracle that had been worked in her, and knowing her now for the first time as what she had been before her marriage, when there was, in her nature, none of the melancholy, the morbidness, the pain of loneliness, that had for so long clouded her life.

Lenore was not strong enough to endure even his cheerful presence very long; and when Laure presently stole in, he seized the opportunity that he had been waiting for, and, on some light excuse, drew madame with him out of the room.

The moment that they were alone together, his gay manner dropped from him like a cloak, and he looked upon the woman before him with piercing eyes.

“Eleanore,” he said severely, “it were well an thou came with me for a little time before God. There is written on thy face the tale of that old-time inward rebellion that hath been so long asleep that I had hoped it dead.”

Madame looked at him with something of defiance, displeasure very plainly to be read in her brilliant eyes. “My lord,” she said coldly, “thou’rt wearied with thy ride. It were well an thou soughtest rest.”

“I have already rested. Where wouldst thou rather be,—in thine own room, or in the chapel?”

“Charles!” madame spoke with angry impetuosity. “Think you I am to be treated as a child?”

“There are times when all of us are children, Eleanore,—times when we need the Father-hand, the Father-guidance. I would not be harsh with thee were there another way; nevertheless, thou must do my bidding.”

She led him in silence to her own room, and they entered it together, St. Nazaire closing the door behind him. Madame seated herself at once in a broad chair near a window, and the Bishop paced up and down before her. The room was warm, for the night air was soft, and a half-dead fire gleamed upon the stone hearth. A torch upon the wall had been lighted, and two candles burned on the table near by. By this light St. Nazaire could watch Eleanore’s face as he walked. It was some moments before he spoke, and when he began, his voice had changed again, and was as gentle as a woman’s,—

“This birth of a girl child hath been a grievous disappointment to thee, dear friend?”

Eleanore replied only by a look; but what words could have expressed half so much?

“Art thou angry with me, Eleanore! Am I to blame for it? Is there fault in any one for what is come? Sex is no matter of choice with the world. Were it so, methinks thou hadst not now been grieving.”

“Thou sayest truly, it is no matter of choice with the world. But hast not ever taught that there is One who may choose always as He will? There is a fault, and it is the fault of God! God of God, Charles, have I not had enough to bear? Could I not, now that the end cannot be far away, have known a little content in mine old age? What hath there been for me, these thirty years, save sorrow? With the death of Gerault, I believed that the world held no further woe for me; but in the following months hope, which I had thought forever gone, came on me again, combat its coming as I would. Yet the thought that an heir might be born to Crépuscule, the thought that the line might yet be carried on to something better than this eternal sadness, came to be so strong with me that I gave way, fool that I was, to joy. And now, by the merciless wrath of God, Fate makes sport of me again. God alone would have been so pitiless. And am I, a mortal, to forgive the Almighty for all the woes that He recklessly putteth on me?”

In this speech Eleanore’s low voice had risen above its usual pitch, and rang out in tones of deep-seated, passionate anger. St. Nazaire paused in his walk to look at her as she spoke; and never had he felt himself in a more difficult position. Sincere as was his belief, there were, indeed, things in the divine order that his creed could not explain away. He dreaded to take the only orthodox stand,—resignation and continued praise of the Lord, for in Eleanore’s present state of mind this would be worse than mockery; and yet in this he was obliged at length to take his refuge.

“Eleanore, when Laure, the infant, was first put into thy arms, wast thou grieved that she was not a man child?”

“I had Gerault—”

“Hast thou not loved Laure and cared for her throughout thy life because she was thy child, flesh of thy flesh, blood of thy blood, conceived of great love, and born of suffering?”

“Yea, verily.”

“And, despite her months of grievous wandering from thy sight, still hath she not given thee all the joy that Gerault gave?”

“More, methinks; in that she hath ever been more mine own.”

“Then, Eleanore,” and there was joy in the man’s tone, “take this child of thy son to thy heart and love her. Let her young innocence bring thee peace. Hold her close to thy life, and give and receive comfort through thy love. Seek not woe because she is not what she cannot be. Assume not a knowledge greater than that of God. Trouble not thyself about the future; but, rather, take what is given thee, and know that it is good. Shall not a young voice cause these walls to echo again to the sound of laughter? Will not a child bring light into thy life? Why shouldst thou grieve because, in the years after thy death, Le Crépuscule may fall into other hands than those of thy race? Thinkest thou thou wilt be here to see it? For shame, Eleanore! Forget thy bitterness, and find the joy that Gerault’s widow already knows!”

Though she would not have acknowledged it, Eleanore was influenced by the Bishop’s words; and the change in her was already visible in her face. Judging wisely, then, St. Nazaire let his plea rest where it was, and blessing her, said good-night and left her to sleep or to pray—he could not tell which. And in truth Eleanore slept; but in her sleep, love and pity entered into her heart. She woke in the early dawn, and, hardly thinking what she did, stole into Lenore’s room, creeping softly to the bed where the sleeping mother and infant lay. At sight of them a wave of feeling overswept her. She knew again the crowning joy of woman’s life: she felt again the glory of youth; and when she returned to her solitude, it was to weep away the greater part of her bitterness, and to take into her inmost heart the helpless baby of Gerault.

On the following morning, in the presence of an imposing company, the Lord Bishop officiating, the little girl was baptized. Laure and Courtoise were the godparents; Laure feeling that, in being trusted with this holy office, she stood once more honorably in the eyes of the world. According to her mother’s wish, the babe was christened Lenore, and Alixe guessed wrong when she thought the little one called after another of that name. When the ceremony was over, and the baptismal feast lay ready spread, madame took the child into her arms to carry it back to the mother; and St. Nazaire, seeing the kiss that she pressed upon the tiny cheek, realized that the cause was won.

Madame Eleanore’s lead was quickly followed by every one in the Castle; and the disappointment at the baby’s sex wore away so rapidly that in a month probably no one would have admitted that there had ever been any chagrin at all. Perhaps no royal heir had ever known more abject homage than was paid to that wee, bright-eyed, grave-faced, helpless creature, who was perfectly contented only when she lay in her mother’s arms.

Lenore regained her strength slowly. Her long winter of idleness and grieving had ill-fitted her to bear the strain of what she had endured; and it was many weeks before she tried to leave her room. Thus, bit by bit, the whole life of the Castle came to gravitate around her chamber. It was like a court of which the young mother was queen, and where at certain hours of the day, all the women-folk of Crépuscule were wont to congregate. It was on an afternoon in the middle of May, when summer first hovered over the land, that Lenore was dressed for the first time. She sat in a semi-reclining position by the window, whence she could look off upon the sea, the baby at her side, and Alixe the only other person in the room. For nearly an hour Lenore had been silent, one hand gently caressing the baby’s little cheek, her big eyes wandering along the far horizon line. Alixe was bent over a parchment manuscript, which Anselm had taught her how to read, and she scarcely raised her eyes from it to look at anything in the room. Her passage had become complicated, and, at the same time, interesting, when Lenore’s voice suddenly broke in upon her,—

“Alixe, ’tis long time now since I saw Courtoise. Thinkest thou he is near and would come and talk to me?”

Alixe let her poetry go, and jumped hastily up. “I will seek him. An he be about the Castle, he will surely come.”

Lenore smiled with pleasure. “Thank thee, maiden. Let him come now, at once.”

Alixe, hugging Courtoise’s secret to her heart, hurriedly left the room, and ran downstairs, straight upon Courtoise, who stood in the hall below. He was booted and spurred, and his horse waited for him in the doorway. Making a hasty apology to Alixe, he was going on, when she cried to him: “Courtoise, stay! Madame Lenore seeks thy presence. She would have thee go to her and talk with her for an hour this afternoon. Shall I tell her thou’rt ridden hawking?”