Part 19

“Holy Mary! Say that—say that I come instantly. She hath asked for me? Hurry, Alixe! Say that I come at once!”

Courtoise retreated to his room, trembling like a girl. He had forgotten his horse, which Alixe considerately caused to be taken back to the stable, and while he removed his spurs and fussily rearranged his dress and hair, he tried in vain to recover his equanimity. Then, when he could no longer torture himself with delay, he hurried away to the door of her room and there paused again, remembering how many times since her illness he had stood there, both by night and by day, listening, not always vainly, for the sound of her voice, or for the little wailing cry of the hungry babe. And now—now he was to enter that sacred room, holier to him than any consecrated church of God. Now he was to look at her, to touch her hand, to feast his eyes upon her exquisite face. He drew a long breath and was about to tap on the door, when it suddenly opened, and Alixe, finding herself face to face with him, gave a little exclamation,—

“Holy saints! I was just coming to seek thee again. Hadst forgotten that madame waits for thee? There—go in!”

Courtoise never noticed the mischief of Alixe’s tone, but went straight into the room, and saw Lenore sitting by the window with the baby on her lap. She turned toward him, smiling, and holding out her hand. He went over, looking at her thirstily, but not so that she could read what was in his heart. Then he realized vaguely that Alixe had left the room, and that he was alone with Lenore.

“’Tis very long, Courtoise, very long, since we have seen each other. Why hast thou not come ere now?”

“Madame! Had I but thought thou’dst have had me! Thrice every day during thy illness came I to thy door to ask after thee and the babe; and since then—often—I have stood and listened, to hear if thou wast speaking here within. But I did not know—”

“Enough, Courtoise! I thank thee. Thou’rt very good. Thou knowest thou’rt all that I have left of Gerault, and I would fain have thee oftener near me. Wilt take the babe? Little one! She feels the strength of a man’s arms but seldom. Sit there yonder with her. So!”

She put the tiny bundle into his strong arms, and laughed to see the half-terrified air with which the young fellow bore it over to the settle which she indicated. But when he had sat down, he laid the baby on his knees, and then, retaining careful hold of it, turned his whole look upon Lenore.

She smiled at him, supremely unconscious of the electric thrills that were making the man’s whole body quiver and tremble with emotion. Indeed, it would have been difficult enough to read his feeling in his matter-of-fact manner. For a long time they sat there, talking upon many subjects, but most of all about Gerault, whose name had scarcely crossed Lenore’s lips since the time of his death. To Courtoise it was an acute pain to hear her refer to the various incidents of her courtship in Rennes; but back of her words there was no suggestion of either grief or bitterness. She recalled her first acquaintance with Gerault fully, incident by incident, and caused Courtoise to take an unwilling part in the reminiscences. He hoped continually to get her away from the subject, to matters now nearer both of them; but time sped on, and, as the sun began to near the sea, the baby woke from sleep with a little cry that Courtoise recognized with a pang. His hour was over; and he had gained little hope from it. Yet, as he returned the baby to its mother’s arms, there was a smile for him in Lenore’s calm eyes, and he retreated with a beating heart as Madame Eleanore and Laure came together into the room, to spend their usual evening hour with the mother and child.

This hour of the day, the twilight time, the time of yearning for things long gone, had of late weeks been drawing these three women of the Twilight Castle very close together. Laure, Lenore, and Eleanore, these three, with Alixe ofttimes a shadow in the background, were accustomed to sit together, watching the sunset die over the great waters, and waiting for the appearance of the evening star upon the fading glow. And in this time of silent companionship each felt within her a new growth, a new, half-sorrowful love for the life in this lonely habitation. The spell of solitude was weaving about them a slow, strong bond, which in after years none of the three felt any wish to break. Many dream-shadows, the ghosts of forgotten lives, rose up for each out of the darkening waste of the sea; and with these spirits of memory or imagination, each one was making a life as real and as strong as the lives of those that dwelt out in the great world, for which, at one time or another, all of them had so deeply yearned. Each felt, in her heart, that her active life was over; and, as time passed, and thoughts began adequately to take the place of realities, none of them cared to keep alive the sharp stings of bitterness or of unavailing regret. They knew themselves dead to the great, outer life that each, in her way, had known. Nor did they mourn themselves. What fire of life remained with them had been transformed into secret dreams and ambitions for the future of that little creature swathed so carefully from the world, now lying peacefully asleep upon the mother-breast of Gerault’s widow.

_CHAPTER FIFTEEN_ THE RISING TIDE

Summer was on the world again, and with its coming, melancholy was banished for a season from Le Crépuscule. With the first northward flight of storks, a new air, a breath of hidden life and gayety, crept into the Castle household, and, in the early days of June, broke forth in a riot of pleasures,—caroles, garland-weaving parties, and hunting. As in former times, Laure was now the moving spirit in every sport, and, to the general amazement, madame, who in her younger days had been celebrated at the chase, herself headed one of the rabbit-hunts,—in that day a favorite pastime with women.

The country around Le Crépuscule was as beautiful in summer as it was desolate in winter; for the moorlands were one gay tangle of many-colored wild-flowers. The cultivated land around the peasants’ homes was thick with various crops, and the cool, green depths of the forest hid beauties surpassing all those of the open country. The stables of Le Crépuscule were well supplied with horses, for the family, both women and men, had always been persistent riders. In these June days the women-folk, Madame and Laure and the demoiselles, rode early and late, deserting wheel, loom, and tambour frame to revel in a much-needed rest and change of occupation. Only Lenore refused to take part in the sports, finding pleasure enough at home with the child, who was growing to be a fine lusty infant, with a smile as ready as if she had been born in Rennes. And the mother and child were happy enough to sit all day in the flower-strewn meadow, between the north wall and the dry moat, playing together with bright posies, watching the movements of the birds in the open falconry, and sometimes taking part in quieter revels with the others. Ere June was gone, the demoiselles were scarcely to be recognized for the pale, heavy-eyed, pallid things that had been wont to assemble in the great hall after supper on winter evenings to listen to the stories told round the fire. Now their laughter was ever ready, their feet light for the dance, their cheeks brown, and their eyes bright with the continual riot in sunlight and sea-winds. Winter lay behind, like the shadow of an ugly dream, and now, of a sudden, God’s world, and with it Le Crépuscule, became beautiful for man.

In the first week of July, however, the period of gayety was checked by the loss of four members of the household. Two of the demoiselles of noble family, whom madame had taken to train as gentlewomen of rank, Berthe de Montfort and Isabelle de Joinville, had now been in Le Crépuscule the customary time for the acquirement of etiquette and the arts of needlework, and escorts arrived from their homes to convoy them away. After their departure, the squires Louis of Florence and Robert Meloc resigned their places and rode out into the world, to seek a life of action.

There were now left in Le Crépuscule the demoiselles whom Lenore had brought with her from Rennes a year ago, and two others who had come to madame many years ago, and who must perforce stay on, having no other home than this, living as they did upon madame’s bounty. And there were also two young squires, who had sworn fealty to madame, but hoped some day to ride to Rennes and win their spurs in the lists of their Lord Duke. For the present they were content to remain out on the lonely coast, where Courtoise taught them the articles of knighthood, and where twenty stout henchmen could look up to them as superiors. These, with David le petit, Anselm the steward, Alixe, Courtoise, and a young peasant woman, who had come to foster the infant of Madame Lenore, comprised the attendants of the three ladies of Crépuscule. It was a well-knit little company, and one so accustomed to the quiet life, that none of them save only one desired better things.

Of the mood of Alixe during these summer months, much might be said. Throughout the spring she had been in a state of hot desire for what was not in Le Crépuscule. She was filled with unrest; but her plans were too vague, too indefinite, for immediate action. Strong as was the will that would have carried her through any difficulty that lay not in the condition of her heart, she was still, after nearly six months of dreaming and debating, in Le Crépuscule. Still she labored through the long, dull mornings; and still, through the afternoons, she drifted about through moving seas of doubt and yearning. She longed for the world, but she could not give up Le Crépuscule, and those whom it held. Here was her problem,—which way to turn. She felt that another such winter as she had just passed would drive her senses from her; but she knew that anywhere outside Le Crépuscule the visions of three faces, the fair, sad faces of her ladies, would haunt her by day and by night till she should return to them at last. She carried her struggle always with her, and at length it drove her to seek an old-time solitude. She began to spend her afternoons in a cave in the great cliff north of that on which the Castle stood. This cave had been formed by the action of the water, and it stretched in cavernous darkness far into the wall of rock,—much farther than Alixe had ever dared to go. Near the entrance, four or five feet above the tide-washed floor, was a little ledge where she was accustomed to sit till the rising water drove her to the upper shore. Tides, in Brittany, are proverbially high; and at full tide the top of the cave’s opening was scarcely visible above the water; so it behooved Alixe to restrain herself from sleep while she lay therein, meditating on her other life.

On the 19th of July the tide was at low ebb at half-past two in the afternoon; and at three o’clock Alixe entered the cave, and climbed, dry-shod, up to her ledge of rock. Here, as she knew, she was safe for two hours, if she chose to stay so long.

The interior of this cave was by no means an uninteresting place, though Alixe had never yet explored it beyond the space of twenty feet, where it was bright with the daylight that poured in through its jagged entrance. After that it wound a darker way into the cliff, and the far recesses were lost in utter blackness. A spoken word directed toward the inner passage-way would reverberate along that mysterious interior till one could not but be a little awed at the vast extent of the lost passage. The visible floor of the cavern was a thing of interest and beauty, for at low tide it was like a little park, where pools of clear sea-water alternated with groves of filmy plants, small ridges of pebbles and rocks, and patches of delicately ribbed sand, where every species of shell-fish dwelt. At times Alixe spent hours in studying sea-life in these places; and certainly, on hot summer afternoons, no pleasanter occupation could have been found. Probably others than Alixe would have taken to it, were it not for the fact that the cave was the scene of one of the weirdest legends of the coast, and was held in avoidance as much by Castle folk as by the peasantry. Alixe, however, had long been held to possess some uncanny power over the people of the supernatural world, for she would venture fearlessly into the most unholy spots, emerging unharmed and undisturbed; nor could any one ever learn from her whether or not she had actually held intercourse with the creatures whom they devoutly believed in, and so devoutly dreaded.

To-day, certainly, there was no suggestion of the uncanny about her as she lay upon her ledge of rock, looking off upon the sparkling waters that danced up to the very edge of her retreat. With one hand she shaded her eyes from the golden glare, and her head was pillowed on her other arm. Her usually smooth brow was puckered into a frown for which the sun was not responsible; nor yet was Alixe’s mind upon any subject that might be supposed to anger or distress her. For the moment she had dropped her inward debate, and was lazily watching the sea. The warmth of the afternoon had made her drowsy, and now the shadowy coolness of the cave soothed her till her vivid mental images had become a little blurred, and the sparkle of the water and its crispy rustle, as it advanced and retreated over the sand outside, was luring her mind into the faery wastes of dreamland. She wondered a little whether she were awake or asleep; but, in point of fact, her eyes were not actually shut, when a slender figure came round a corner of the entrance, and slipped lightly into the cave.

Alixe started, and sat up straight, while a high tenor voice cried out: “Ho, Mistress Alixe, ’tis thou, then? Is’t I that discover thee in thy retreat, or thou that hast invaded mine?”

“Ohé, David, thou’st startled me! Meseemeth I all but slept.”

“’Tis a day for sleep, but this is not the place. Is there room there on the ledge? Wilt let me up? ’Tis wet enough, below here.”

“Yea; thy feet slop i’ the sand, and thou’st frightened two crabs. Canst climb hither?”

He laughed merrily, and scrambled up beside her, his light body seeming but a feather in weight. She made room beside her, and he sat down there, cocking one parti-colored knee upon the other, and beginning lightly: “Thus bravely, then, thou comest into the cave of the water goblin. Art thou, perchance, courted here by some sly water sprite?”

The maiden, responding to his mood, laughed also. “Not unless thou’lt play the sprite, Master David. Say—wilt court me?”

“Nay, sister. Thou and I, and all i’ the Castle up above, know each other in a way that admits no love-foolery. Heigho!” The little man’s tone had changed to one of whimsical earnestness. Alixe made no immediate reply to his speech, and so, to entertain himself, he took from his open bag two pebbles, and began to toss them lightly into the air, one after the other.

For a few seconds Alixe watched him absently. Then she said: “Those pebbles, David, are like thee and me. Watch now which will be the first to fall from thy hand. Thou’rt the mottled; I the gray.”

“And I, damsel,” said he, as he began to handle them a little less carelessly, “I, who sit here forever, for my amusement tossing into the air two light souls, catching them when they come back to me, and flinging them again away—who am I, I ask?”

“Thou, David?” Alixe’s face took on a little, bitter smile. “Why, thou art that inexorable thing that men call God. Wilt never drop thy stones from their wearisome sphere, Almighty One?”

“They will not fall. They return to me evermore,” he answered; and, after another toss or two, he let them both remain in his hand while he looked at them for a moment. After that he put them back into his bag again, with a curious smile. “That, then, is our end,” he remarked, at last.

“_Is_ it our end? David, David! Shall I not leave Le Crépuscule, to fare forth into the world? I dream, and dream, and vow unto myself that I shall surely go; and then—I still remain.”

“Ay. There are things that keep thee here—and me too. There is the baby, now, and its angel-faced mother. And then madame—how is one to leave her, when she is a little more alive than formerly? I, too, Alixe, have dreamed dreams. The fever of my boyhood, with its wanderings, its life, its continual change, comes upon me strong sometimes. Here, in this place, my wit lies buried, my soul grows gray within me, my eyes have forgot the look of the world’s bright colors. And yet I stay on—I stay on forever.”

“How if we two went out together, David, thou and I? Think you the world might hold a place for us? I would be a good comrade, I promise thee. I would march stoutly at thy side, nor complain when weariness overcame me. We should not have always to beg for food, for I have a little bag—”

“See, Alixe, look! There below, on the sand, by that sharp-pointed stone,—there is a gray-white crab. He must be hurt. See how he fumbles and struggles, without avail, to reach the little pool ten inches from him. Watch him; he makes no progress. Now that were thou and I, thrown upon the world. Oh, this place is full of omens! I have found them here before. ’Tis the witchery of the cave.”

Alixe failed to smile. This last augury, though it confirmed the one that she herself had made, did not please her. She sat silent on the ledge, her feet hanging, her elbows on her knees, her head on her hand, watching intently all the little dramas taking place below her among the sea-creatures. Nor was David in a mood to make conversation. So the two of them sat silent for a long time—how long a time neither of them knew. The water was growing more brightly golden under the beams of the fast-descending sun, and Alixe noted the fact, but held her peace. It was David who, after a little while, suddenly exclaimed,—

“Diable, Alixe! See how the tide hath risen! We shall be wet enough getting out and back to the upper cliff. Come quickly!” As he spoke, he slid from the ledge, landing in water that was up to his ankles. “Quickly, Alixe! I will steady thee. Come, thou’lt but be the wetter if thou stayest.”

Alixe sat motionless upon the ledge above, and looked calmly down upon the dwarf.

“Reflect, David, how easy it were not to wet my ankles thus. How easy ’twould be just to sit here—until the stone should drop for the last time into the hand of God.”

David stood looking up at her, wide-eyed. The idea was slow to pierce his brain. “Why, yes,” said he, “’twere easy enow, easy enow. Yet when I go, ’t must be from mine own room, and by a clean dagger-stroke. I care not to choke myself to death in a goblin’s cave. Come, Alixe, the water riseth.”

“Go thou on, David. I can come down when I will; for I have traversed the way often.”

“Come down!”

“Nay, David.”

“Come down.”

“Nay.”

The water was deeper by four inches than it had been when he first reached the bottom of the cave. The dwarf looked up at the girl, who sat smiling at him, and his face reddened slightly. Then, without more ado, he climbed back upon the ledge, and sat down beside Alixe, hanging his dripping feet toward the water, which now covered the tallest of the stones on the floor of the cave.

“David, thou must go. Climb down, and save thyself quickly. Thy slender body cannot much longer breast the tide.”

David crossed his knees and clasped his hands around them. “If thou stayest, I also will remain.”

“I beg of thee, go, ere it is too late!”

“Not without thee.”

“In the name of God I ask it.”

“We two were together in God’s hand.”

“Then so be it, David. Sit thou here beside me. We will wait together.”

The little man did not reply to her this time, and Alixe felt no more need for speech. They sat there, occupied with their own thoughts, both watching, under the spell of a peculiar fascination, how the green water was mounting, mounting toward them. The cave was filled with blinding light from the setting sun. The roar of the ocean, a voice mighty and ineffable, filled all their consciousness. White-crested breakers rolled in and broke below them, and their faces were wet with chill salt spray. The water in the cave was waist-deep.

Alixe was growing cold. A deadly intoxication stole upon her senses, and she bent far over the ledge to look into the swirling, foamy green below her.

“By the Almighty God, His creation is wondrous! This is a scene worthy of the end!” cried David, suddenly, in a hoarse, emotional tone.

Alixe started violently. The sound of a human voice, breaking in upon the universal murmur of the infinite waters, sent a sudden stab to her heart. In a quick flash, she beheld Lenore’s baby holding out its feeble hands to her. Near it stood Laure, the penitent; and, on the other hand, madame, with her great, grave, sorrowful eyes fixed full upon herself, Alixe.

“David!” cried the girl, suddenly, wildly, above the roar of the tide: “David! We must escape!—Quickly! Quickly! Quickly!”

As she spoke, she left the ledge, to find herself swaying almost shoulder deep in the fierce, swelling water. “Come!” she cried, her face livid with her new-born terror.

For an instant, David looked down upon her with something resembling a smile. Then he followed her, and would have been carried off his feet in the water, had not Alixe steadied him with one hand, while, with the other, she clung to the rock above her head. The sudden chill woke David’s senses, and he said sharply: “We must hurry, Alixe! There is no time to lose.”

Then the two of them began their work of getting out of the cave. David, with his small, lithe body clad in tight-fitting hosen and jerkin, started to swim lightly through the water, diving headforemost into the beating breakers, and rounding toward the shore with rather a sense of pleasurable skill than anything else. But with Alixe, the case was different. Her long skirts were soaked with water, and clung disastrously about her feet. The idea of her swimming was vain; and she grimly gave thanks for her height. But she found that the matter of walking had its dangers too. The bottom of the cave and the outer stretch that lay between her and safety was very uneven. She stumbled over rocks and sank into sudden hollows, continually hampered by her clinging skirts. Presently she fell, and a great breaker came tumbling over her. In it she lost her self-control, and was presently rolling helpless in the tide, gasping in sea-water with every terrified breath, and unable to get her limbs free from their binding, clinging robe. Alixe was very near death in earnest, now, and she knew it. Presently, where a sweeping wave left her head for a moment above water, she sent one hoarse, guttural shriek toward David, who had regained the land; and he turned, horrified, to look at her. She heard his cry of amazement and distress, and then she was rolled upon her face, and knew nothing more till she found herself lying on the sand, with David bending over her, whiter than death, and trembling like a woman.

She was dizzy and weak and sick, and her lungs ached furiously; yet with it all, she saw David’s distress, and managed to keep herself conscious by staring at him fixedly.

“Up, Alixe! Up!” he muttered. “Thou _must_ get up to the Castle. I cannot carry thee there, and here thou’lt perish. Up, I say! Here, hold to my belt. See, the water is upon us again.”