Part 20

With an effort that seemed to her to be superhuman, Alixe struggled to her feet. He held her dripping skirts away from her, so that she could walk as little hampered as possible; and though she staggered and reeled at every step, they still made progress, and were halfway up the cliff before she collapsed again, utterly exhausted. Happily, at that moment, David spied the figure of Laure at the top of the cliff, and he cried to her with all the strength that was left him to come down. In a moment she was beside them, staring in silent astonishment at their plight.

“The demoiselle Alixe had a fancy for bathing. She hath bathed,” observed David.

Alixe did not speak. But suddenly her eyes met Laure’s, and she burst into hysterical laughter. Laure, being a woman, realized that she was strained to the point of collapse. So she bade David go on before them and take all precautions to recover from his bath; and then, as soon as Alixe signified her ability to go on again, Laure put one of her strong, young arms about the dripping body, and, sustaining more than half her weight, succeeded in getting her to the Castle. Alixe demurred faintly about going in, for she dreaded questions. But it was that hour of the day when the open rooms of the Castle were deserted, when all the world was asleep or at play, and, as the two crossed the courtyard and went through the lower hall, they met no one but a pair of henchmen who were too respectful of Laure to voice their curiosity. As the young women went through the upper hall, on their way to Alixe’s room, there came, from behind Lenore’s closed door, the gurgling crow of the baby. At this sound Alixe shuddered, and through her heart shot a pang of horrified remorse at the crime she had so nearly committed.

A few moments later the exhausted girl lay in her bed, wrapped round with blankets, her dripping garments stripped away, and her body glowing again with the warmth of vigorous friction, while her wet hair was fastened high on her head, away from her face. When Laure had removed, as far as possible, every evidence of the escapade, she bent for a moment over the pillow of her foster-sister, and then stole quietly away. Alixe made no sign at her departure. She lay back in the bed, her eyes closed, her face set like marble, her mind wandering vaguely over the events of the afternoon. Gradually her world grew full of misty, creeping shadows, and she was on the borderland of sleep, when some one again bent over her, and the fragrant breath of hot wine came to her nostrils. With an effort she shook her eyes open, to find Laure’s kindly face above her, and Laure’s hand holding out to her a silver cup.

“Drink, Alixe. ’Twill give thee strength.”

Obediently, Alixe drank; and the posset sent a new glow of warmth through her body.

“Now, if thou canst, thou must sleep.”

Alixe sent a thoughtful glance into her companion’s eyes, and there was something in her look that caused Laure to take both of the trembling hands in her own, and to wait for Alixe to speak.

“Nay, Laure, nay; I cannot sleep till I have told thee. Some one I must tell,—some one that will understand. Let me confess to thee.”

Laure seated herself on the edge of the bed, Alixe still retaining her hands. And Laure’s sad eyes looked down upon the drawn face of her foster-sister, while she spoke. “Alixe,” she said softly, “methinks I know thy confession. Thou hast tried to leave Le Crépuscule. Is it not so?”

Alixe’s eyes suddenly filled with tears. “It is so. I tried—to leave Le Crépuscule.” The last she only whispered, faintly.

“But it drew thee back again? The Castle would not loose its hold on thee? Even so was it with me. Methought I hated it, Alixe, with its loneliness and its shadows and its vast silences. Yet however far away I was, I found it always before my eyes, or hidden in my thoughts. Through my hours of highest happiness I yearned for it; and it drew me back to it at last.”

“It is true! It is true! I know thou speakest truth.”

“And thou wilt not try again to go away, my sister?”

“Not again; oh, not again! I could see you all, you and madame and Madame Lenore, and your eyes called me back. It is my home, is’t not? I have a place here, have I not? Ah, Laure, thou’st been so good to me! Shall we not, thou and I, go back again into our childhood, and dream of naught better than dwelling here forever in this place? Both of us have sinned. And now we are come home into the shadow of the Castle of Twilight, for forgiveness’ sake.”

_CHAPTER SIXTEEN_ THE MIDDLE OF THE VALLEY

Alixe had faith enough in David to believe that he would keep silent about the affair of that afternoon, and her confidence was not misplaced. No one save Laure knew of the caprice and the projected sin that had led them into their dangerous plight. And to the dwarf’s credit be it said that he never attached any blame to Alixe for their adventure. Indeed, thereafter, his manner toward her was marked by unusual consideration, a little veiled interest and sympathy, sprung from a knowledge that their habits of mind had led them both in the same ways of thought and desire. During the remainder of the summer, however, neither of them ventured again into the Goblin’s Cave; and, from Alixe’s mind at least, every thought, every desire, to leave the Castle, had been washed away. Her dreams of another life were dead. And, as the golden days slipped by, the thought that Le Crépuscule must be her home forever, came to have no bitterness in it; for she had learned in a strange way how Le Crépuscule was rooted into her heart, and how impossible it would be that she should leave it till the great Inevitable should bid her say farewell.

Indeed, the Castle had set its seal upon every one of its inmates. The little household had acquired the peculiar characteristics that generally grow up in a secluded community. Every dweller in the Twilight Land was unconsciously possessed of the same quiet manner, the same air of tranquil repose, the same habit of abstracted thought. And these things had stolen upon them so unawares that none was conscious of it in any other, and least of all in herself. It was a singularly beautiful atmosphere in which to bring up a little being fresh to the world. In this place a new soul might have dwelt forever untainted by any mark of worldliness, of passion, or of sin; for these things were foreign to the whole place. No one in the Castle but had, at some time, been through the depths of human experience, been swayed by the most powerful emotions, and known the passion that is inherent in every mortal. But from these things the Twilight folk had been purified by long stretches of vain longing, vain struggles in the midst of solitude, and that continued repression that alone can eradicate mortal tendencies toward sin. And now the women of this Castle had reached, in their progress, the neutral vale of tranquillity that lies between the gorgeous meadows of delight and the grim crags of grief and disappointment.

There was no one in the Castle that did not at times reflect upon these things; but of them all, Eleanore saw most clearly whence they had all come, and where they now were. Whither they might be going—ah, that! that, who should say? But she could see and understand the quiet happiness that Lenore had reached through her child; and the increasing contentment, that was more than resignation, in Laure. And if she was ignorant of the route by which Courtoise, Alixe, and David had come into the kingdom of tranquillity, at least she knew that all had reached it, and was glad that it was so. To St. Nazaire, who was now her only connection with the outer world, she talked of all these things, and found in him not quite the spirit of her Castle, but yet a great understanding of human and spiritual matters.

Summer wove out its web over the Castle by the sea, and at length its golden heat began to give way before the attacks of chilly nights and shortening days. The earth grew rich and red with autumn. Chestnut fires began to blaze upon peasants’ hearths, and the early morning air had in it that little sting that brings the blood to the cheek and fire to the eye. It was still too early for flights of storks toward the Nile, and the year, hovering on the edge of dissolution, was at the zenith of its glory. It was the time when the smoke from the forest fires lingers pungently over the land for days on end, like incense proffered to the beauty of Mother Earth. It was the time when the sun rises and sets in a veil of mist that transcends the splendor of its golden gleams, till, before the incomparable richness and purity of its glory, the human spectator can only stand back, aghast and trembling with awe. In fine, it was that time when, Nature having reached the full measure of her maturity, she was turning to look back upon her youth, in retrospect of all the loveliness that had been hers, before she should start toward the darker, colder, grayer regions that lay about her coming grave.

It was late in the afternoon of such an autumn day that the three women of Le Crépuscule, Laure, Lenore, and Eleanore, each lightly wrapped about to protect her from the slight chill in the air, went out of the Castle to the terrace bordering the cliff, for their evening walk. In the hearts of all three lay that little wistful sadness that was part of the time of year, and in their surrounding solitude they involuntarily drew close each to the other. Yet their faces were not wholly sad. None of them wept at the thought of the long winter that was again upon them. Hand in hand, by the murmurous sea, they walked, looking off upon the broad plain of moving waters, each unconsciously seeking to read there the destiny of her remaining years.

The hour was a holy one, and there came no sound from the living world to pierce its stillness. Nature knelt before the great marriage of the sun and sea. The altar of the west was hung with golden and purple tapestries; and the ministers of the sky poured out a libation of crimson-flowing wine before the Lord of Heaven. And when the sacrifice was made, all could behold how the great sun slipped gently from his car into the embrace of the sea, and the two of them were presently hidden underneath the golden locks and shimmering veil of the beautiful bride; and thereafter Twilight, the swift-footed handmaid, aided by all the ocean nymphs, quickly pulled the broad curtains of gray and crimson across the portals of the bridal room.

The sweet dusk deepened, but it was not yet time for the rising of the moon. There was still a flush of red in the west, and still the breasts of the gulls that veered over the waters flashed white and luminous in the gathering gray. The silence was absolute, save for the silken swish of the tide rising gently along the shore. The spell of twilight, the great soul-twilight of the middle ages, hung heavy on the battlements of the Castle on the cliff. On the terrace the three women paused in their slow walk. Lenore, her white face uplifted, and a look in her face as if the gates of Heaven had opened a little before her eyes, said dreamily,—

“How sweet it is,—and how beautiful,—our home!”

The silence of the others throbbed assent to her whispered words.

The gulls were sinking slowly toward their nests. The drawbridge over the moat was just lifting for the night. A lapwing or two floated round the high turrets of the Castle; and from the doorway there, Alixe was coming forth, bearing Lenore’s baby in her arms. The stillness grew more intense, and over the edge of the eastern trees slipped the round, pink harvest moon. Then, one by one, a few great stars came sparkling out into the sky.

“See,” murmured Eleanore, very softly, “the east is clear around the rising moon.”

And Laure replied to her: “Yes, very clear. How beautiful will be the morrow’s dawn!”

THE END

MISS POTTER’S FIRST SUCCESS

_Uncanonized_

BY MARGARET HORTON POTTER

_Author of “The Castle of Twilight”_

A story of English monastic life in the thirteenth century during the momentous reign of King John. The leading character, Anthony Fitz-Hubert, is a brilliant young courtier, son of the Archbishop of Canterbury, who turns monk to insure the safety of his father’s soul. The interpretation of King John’s character and acts differs widely from the traditional view, but it is one which investigation is now beginning to present with confidence.

One of the most powerful historical romances that has ever appeared over the name of an American writer.—PHILADELPHIA INQUIRER.

In such romances we shall always delight, turning to them from much that is dull and inane in what passes for the realistic reflex of our present-day life.—HARPER’S MAGAZINE.

It is a noteworthy book of its very attractive kind.—THE INDEPENDENT.

SIXTH EDITION

WITH FRONTISPIECE. 12mo. $1.50

A. C. McCLURG & CO., _Publishers_

UNIFORM WITH “THE THRALL OF LEIF THE LUCKY”

_The Ward of King Canute_

A ROMANCE OF THE DANISH CONQUEST

BY OTTILIE A. LILJENCRANTZ

This book is for those who are weary of conventional romances and are searching for a story that does not give them the dusty and worn-out historic trappings with which they are over familiar. The story of Randalin, the beautiful Danish maiden who served King Canute disguised as a page, is spontaneous and unhackneyed, and has a mediæval atmosphere of the most inspiring kind. The reader forgets his practical twentieth-century point of view, and loses himself in the glamour of these brave old days of the Danish conquest.

It is a romance of enthralling interest.... Written in plain, unadorned Anglo-Saxon, it is as pure and wholesome as the lovely maiden whose face smiles between the lines. It is one of the few novels that can be read a second time with increased enjoyment. Than this, what more can be said?—CHICAGO TRIBUNE.

Readers of “The Thrall of Leif the Lucky” can understand without description the pleasure in store for them in Miss Liljencrantz’s latest tale. The volume is a remarkable example of bookmaking, the colored illustrations showing to what heights the art of book illustration may attain.—BOSTON TRANSCRIPT.

A stalwart and beautiful tale—a fine, big thing, full of men’s strength and courage and a girl’s devotion, the atmosphere of great days and primitive human passions.—PHILADELPHIA LEDGER.

THIRD EDITION

WITH SIX FULL-PAGE PICTURES IN COLOR AND OTHER DECORATIONS BY THE KINNEYS. $1.50

A. C. McCLURG & CO., PUBLISHERS

A BOOK OF GREAT BEAUTY

_The Thrall of Leif the Lucky_

A STORY OF VIKING DAYS

BY OTTILIE A. LILJENCRANTZ

A remarkable book because it not only tells an unusual and fascinating story, with a novel and seldom used—and therefore interesting—historical background, but it was everywhere declared “the most beautiful book of fiction of 1902.” The striking appearance of the volume is due to the appropriate character of the type, initials, end-papers, etc., and to the wonderful pictures in color. It is the story of Alwin, the son of an English earl, and how he served the great Leif Ericsson on his famous voyage to the New World, and how he finally won his freedom and the beautiful Helga by his own high courage.

Nearer to absolute novelty than any book published this spring.—NEW YORK WORLD.

The most beautifully illustrated and artistically ornamented romance published this year.—NEW YORK JOURNAL.

A tale which moves among stalwart men, and in the palaces of leaders.—NEW YORK MAIL AND EXPRESS.

One of the best constructed historical romances that has appeared in America in some years.—BROOKLYN EAGLE.

The atmosphere of the old days of fighting and adventure glows in the book.—SPRINGFIELD REPUBLICAN.

SIXTH EDITION

WITH SIX FULL-PAGE PICTURES IN COLOR, AND OTHER DECORATIONS BY THE KINNEYS. $1.50

A. C. McCLURG & CO., PUBLISHERS

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

1. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling. 2. Archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings retained as printed. 3. Footnotes were re-indexed using numbers. 4. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Castle of Twilight, by Margaret Horton Potter