CHAPTER XV
Dusk, the dreary November dusk, had fallen as Louise hurried homeward across the damp fields and deserted country roads. She had refused Mrs. Yule's urgent offer to accompany her or to send some one with her. She wanted to be alone—alone to look her happiness in the face, alone with her new heaven-sent ecstasy of gratitude. After the nightmare-days of hopelessness and despair, behold! life was to be renewed, retrieved, redeemed. Like a grey cloak of misery her anguish fell away from her; she stepped forth blissful and entranced into the pathway of her reflowering youth.
And with the certainty of this deliverance came the faith and hope in all other joys. Claude would return to her; Belgium would be liberated and redeemed. Mireille would find her speech again! Yes, Mireille would find her sweet, soft smile and her sweet shrill laughter. Might it not be Louise's own gloom that had plunged the sensitive soul of her child into darkness? Surely now that the storm-cloud was to be lifted from her, also the over-shadowed child-spirit would flutter back again into the golden springlight of its day. Surely all joys were possible in this most beautiful and joyous world. And Louise went with quick, light steps through the gloaming, half-expecting to see Mireille, already healed, come dancing towards her, gay and garrulous, calling her as she used to do by her pet name, "Loulou!"
Or it might be Chérie who would run to meet her, waving her hand to tell her that the miracle had come to pass!
Chérie! The name, the thought of Chérie struck at Louise's heart like a sudden blow. Her quick footsteps halted. As if a gust of the November wind had blown out the light of her happiness, she stood suddenly still in the middle of the road and felt that around her there was darkness again.
Chérie!… What was it that the doctor had said to her as he came with her to the gate of the Vicarage, as he held her hand in his firm, strong grasp, promising to save her from the deep waters of despair? What were the words she had then neither understood nor answered, borne away as she was on the wave of her own tumultuous joy? They suddenly came back to her now; they suddenly reached her hearing and comprehension. He had said, looking her full in the face with a meaning gaze, "What about your sister?"
"What about your sister?" Your sister. Of course he had meant Chérie. What about her? What about her? Again Louise felt that dull thud in her heart as if some one had struck it, for she knew, she knew what he meant—she knew what there was about Chérie.
There was the same abomination, the same impending horror and disgrace. Had not Chérie herself come and told her, in bewilderment and simplicity, of the strange questionings, the obscure warnings Mrs. Whitaker and the doctor had subjected her to? Ah, Louise knew but too well what it all meant; Louise knew but too well what there was about Chérie that even to strangers was manifest and unmistakable. Yes, Louise had dreaded it, had felt it, had known it—though Chérie herself had not. But until now her own torment of body and soul had hidden all else from her gaze, had made all that was not her own misery as unreal and unimportant as a dream. Vaguely, in the background of her thoughts, she had known that there was still another disaster to face, another fiery ordeal to encounter, but swept along in the vortex of her own doom she had flung those thoughts aside; in her own life-and-death struggle she had not stopped to ask, What of that other soul driving to shipwreck beside her, broken and submerged by the self-same storm?
But now it must be faced. She must tell the unwitting Chérie what the future held for her. She must stun her with the revelation of her shame.
For Louise understood—however incredible it might seem to others—that Chérie was wholly unaware of what had befallen her on that night when terror, inebriety, and violence had plunged her into unconsciousness. Not a glimmer of the truth had dawned on her simplicity, not a breath of knowledge had touched her inexperience. Sullied and yet immaculate, violated and yet undefiled—of her could it indeed be said that she had conceived without sin.
Louise went on in the falling darkness with lagging footsteps. Deep down in her heart her happiness hid its face for the sorrow and shame she must bring to another.
Then she remembered—with what deep thankfulness!—that though she must inflict this hideous hurt on Chérie, yet she could also speak to her of help, she could promise her release and the hope of ultimate peace and oblivion.
She hurried forward through the darkening lanes, and soon joy awoke again and sang within her. Yes! There they stood at the open gate, the two beloved waiting figures—the taller, Chérie, with her arm round the slender form of Mireille. Louise ran towards them with buoyant step.
"Louise!" cried Chérie. "Where have you been? How quickly you walk! How bright and happy you look! Why, I could see your smile shining from far off in the darkness!"
Louise kissed the soft, cold cheeks of both; she took Chérie's warm hand and the chilly little hand of Mireille and went with them towards the house. How cheerful were the lighted windows seen through the trees! How sheltered and peaceful was this refuge! How gracious and generous were the strangers who had housed and nourished them!
How kind and good and beautiful was life!
"Tell me the truth, Louise," said Chérie that evening, when, having seen little Mireille safely asleep, Louise returned to the cheerful sitting-room, where the dancing firelight gleamed on the pink walls and cosy drawn curtains. "Tell me the truth. You have heard something—something from Claude … something–" Chérie flushed to the lovely low line of the growth of her auburn curls—"from Florian! You have, you have! I can read it in your face. You have had news of some kind."
Yes—Louise had had news.
"Good news–"
Yes. Good news. She sat down on a low armchair near the fire and beckoned with her finger. "Chérie!"
The girl came quickly to her side and sat down on the rug at her feet. The fire danced and flickered on her red-gold hair and milkwhite oval face.
"Chérie." … Louise's voice was low, her eyes cast down. She felt like a torturer, she felt as if she were murdering a flower, tearing asunder the closed petals of this girlish soul and filling its cup with poison.
Chérie was looking up into her face with a radiant, expectant smile.
How should she tell her? How should she tell her?…
Louise bent forward and covered the shining, questioning eyes with her hand. "Tomorrow, Chérie! Tomorrow."
CHAPTER XVI
On the morrow Chérie awoke early. She could not say what had startled her out of a deep restful slumber, but suddenly she was wide awake, every nerve tense in a kind of strained expectancy, waiting she knew not for what. Something had occurred, something had awakened her; and she was waiting for it to repeat itself; waiting to hear or feel it again. But whatever it was, sound or sensation, it was not repeated.
Chérie rose quickly, slid her feet into her slippers, and went across the room to the window. She leaned out with her bare elbows on the window-sill and looked at the garden—at the glistening lawn, at the stripped trees, dark and clear-cut against the early sky. It was a rose-grey dawn, as softly luminous as if it were the month of February instead of November. There seemed to be a promise of spring in the pale radiance of the morning.
She knew she could not sleep any more; so she dressed quietly and quickly, wrapped a scarf round her slim shoulders, and went down into the garden.
George Whitaker also had awakened early. These were his last few days at home before leaving for the front, and his spirit was full of feverish restlessness. His sister Eva was expected back from Hastings that morning and they would spend two or three happy days together before he left for the wonderful, and awful adventure of war. He had obeyed his mother's desire, and had not seen or spoken to their Belgian guests for many days. Indeed, it was easy—too easy, thought George with a sigh—to avoid them, for they seemed day by day to grow more shy of strangers and of friends. George only caught fleeting glimpses of them as they passed their windows; sometimes he saw a gleam of auburn hair where Chérie sat with bent head near the schoolroom balcony, reading or at work.
This morning, as he stood vigorously plying his brushes on his bright hair and gazing absent-mindedly at the garden, he caught sight of Chérie, with a scarf round her shoulders and a book in her hand, walking down the gravel pathway towards the summer-house. He flung down his brushes, finished dressing very quickly, and ran downstairs. After all, he was leaving in forty-eight hours or so—leaving to go who knows where, to return who knows when. He might never have such another chance of seeing her and saying good-bye. True, it was rather soon to say good-bye. He would probably be meeting her every moment during the next two days. Eva was coming back, and would be sure to want her little foreign friend always beside her. Eva had a way of slipping her arm through Chérie's and drawing her along, saying: "Allons, Chérie!" which was very pleasant in George's recollection. He also would have liked to slip his arm through the slim white arm of the girl and say, "Allons, Chérie!" He could imagine the flush, or the frown, or the fleeting marvel of her smile....
In a few moments he was downstairs, out of the house, and running towards the summer-house. But she was not there.
He found her walking slowly beside the little artificial lake in the shrubbery, reading her book.
"Good-morning," he said in tones exaggerately casual, as she looked up in surprise.
"Good-morning, Monsieur George," she said, and the softness of the "g's" in her French accent was sweet to his ear.
"What are you doing, up so early?"
"Et vous?" she retorted, with her brief vivid smile.
"I … I … have come to say good-bye," he said.
"Good-bye? Why, I thought you were not going away until the day after tomorrow."
"Right-o," said George. "No more I am. But you know what a time I take over things; the mater always calls me a slow-coach. I—I like beginning to pack up and say good-bye days and weeks before it is time to go." Again he watched the little half-moon smile that turned up the corners of her mouth and dimpled her rounded cheek.
"Well then—good-bye," she said, looking up at him for an instant and realizing that she would be sorry when he had left.
"Good-bye." He took her book from her and held out his hand. She placed her own soft small hand in his, and he found not another word to say. So he said "Good-bye" again, and she repeated it softly.
"But now you must go away," she said. "You cannot keep on saying good-bye and staying here."
"Of course not," said George. "I'll go in a minute." Then he cleared his throat. "I wonder if you will be here when I come back. I suppose you would hate to live in England altogether, wouldn't you?"
"I don't know. I have never thought of it," said Chérie.
"Well—but do you like England? Or don't you?"
"S'il vous plaît Londres?" quoted Chérie, glancing up at him and laughing. Surely, thought George, no other eyelashes in the world gave such a starry look to two such sea-blue eyes.
"In some ways I do not like England," she remarked, thoughtfully. "I do not like—I mean I do not understand the English women. They seem so—how shall I say?—so hard … so arid...." She plucked a little branch from a bush of winter-berries and toyed with it absently as she walked beside him. "They all seem afraid of appearing too friendly or too kind."
"Perhaps so," said George.
"When we first came here your sister warned me about it. She said, 'You must never show an English woman that you like her; it is not customary, and would be misunderstood.'"
"That's so. We don't approve of gush," said George.
"If you call nice things by horrid names they become horrid things," said Chérie sternly and sententiously. "Natural impulses of friendliness are not 'gush.' When I first meet strangers I always feel that I like them; and I go on liking them until I find out that they are not nice."
"You go the wrong way round," said George. "In England we always dislike people until we know they are all right. Besides, if you were to start by being sweet and amiable to strangers, they would probably think you wanted to borrow money from them, or ask them favours."
"How mean-minded!" exclaimed Chérie.
George laughed. "You should see the mater," he said, "how villainously rude she is to people she meets for the first time. That is what makes her such a social success."
Chérie looked bewildered. George was silent a moment; then he spoke again.
"And what do you think about the English men? Do you dislike them too?"
"I don't really know them," said Chérie; "but they—they look very nice," and she turned her blue eyes full upon him, taking a quick survey of his handsome figure and fair, frank face.
George felt himself blush, and hated himself for it.
"You—you would never think of marrying an Englishman, would you?"
Chérie shook her head, and the long lashes drooped over the sea-blue stars. "I am affianced to be married," she said with her pretty foreign accent, "to a soldier of Belgium."
"Oh, I see," said George rather huskily and hurriedly. "Of course. Quite so."
They walked along in silence for a little while. Then he opened her book, which he still held in his hand. "What were you reading? Poetry?"
He glanced at the fly-leaf, on which were written the words "Florian Audet, à Chérie," and he quickly turned the page. "Poetry" … he said again, "by Victor Hugo." Then he added, "Why, this sounds as if it were written for you: 'Elle était pâle et pourtant rose....' That is just what you are."
Chérie did not answer. What was this strange flutter at her heart again? It frightened her. Could it be angina pectoris, or some other strange and terrible disease? Not that it hurt her; but it thrilled her from head to foot.
"You are quite pâle et pourtant rose at this very moment," repeated George, looking at her. Then he added rather bitterly as he handed her back the book, "I suppose you are thinking of the day when you will marry your soldier-lover."
"Perhaps I shall not live to marry anybody," said Chérie in a low voice.
"What an idea!" exclaimed George.
"And as for him," she continued, "he will probably be killed long before that."
"Oh no," said George, "I'm sure he won't. And I'm sure you will.... And I'm sure you're both going to be awfully happy. As for me," he added quickly, "I am going to have no end of a good time. I believe I am to be sent to the Dardanelles. Doesn't the word sound jolly! 'The Dardanelles!' It has a ring and a lilt to it...." He laughed and pushed his hair back from his clear young forehead.
"Good luck to you," said Chérie, looking up at him with a sudden feeling of kindness and regret.
They had turned back, and were now passing the summer-house in full view of the windows of the house. On the schoolroom balcony they saw Louise. She beckoned, and Chérie hurried forward and stood under the balcony, looking up at her.
"Oh, Chérie! I wondered where you were," said Louise, bending over the ledge. "I was anxious. Come up, dear! I want to speak to you."
"Oh yes!" exclaimed Chérie eagerly, remembering Louise's promise of the night before. Then she turned to George. "I must go. So now we must really say good-bye." She laughed. "Or shall we say au revoir?"
"Let us say au revoir," said George, looking her full in the face.
"Au revoir, Monsieur George! Au revoir!"
Then she went indoors.
Two days later George Whitaker went away.
They sent him to the Dardanelles.
And in this world there was never an au revoir for Monsieur George.
CHAPTER XVII
Louise stood in the doorway waiting for Chérie, and watched her coming up the stairs rather slowly with fluttering breath. She drew her into the room and shut the door.
Mireille sat quietly in her usual armchair by the window, with her small face lifted to the sky.
"Chérie," said Louise, drawing the girl down beside her on the wide old divan on which the little Whitakers had sprawled to learn their lessons in years gone by. "I have something to say to you."
"I knew you had," exclaimed Chérie, flushing. "I knew it yesterday when I saw you. It is good news!"
Louise hesitated. "Yes … for me," she said falteringly, "it is good news. For you, my dear little sister, for you … unless you realize what has befallen us—it may be very terrible news."
Chérie looked at her with startled eyes. "What do you mean?" she asked under her breath.
Louise put her hand to her neck as if something were choking her. Her throat was dry; she could find neither words nor voice in which to give to the waiting girl her message of two-fold shame.
"Chérie … my darling … I must speak to you about that night … your birthday-night–"
Chérie started back. "No!" she cried. "You said when we came here that we were to forget it—that it was a dream! Why—why should you speak of it again?"
"Chérie," said Louise in a low voice, "perhaps for you." … She faltered, "for you it may have been a dream. But not for me."
The girl sat straight upright, tense and alert. "What do you mean, Louise?"
"I mean that for me that night has borne its evil fruit. Chérie! I thought of killing myself. But yesterday … I spoke to Dr. Reynolds. He has promised to save me."
"To save you!" gasped Chérie. "Louise! Louise! Are you so ill?"
"My darling, my own dear child, I am worse than ill. But there is help for me; I shall be saved—saved from dishonour and despair." She lowered her voice. "Chérie!"—her voice fell so low that it could hardly be heard by the trembling girl beside her—"can you not understand? The shame I am called upon to face—the doom that awaits me—is maternity."
Maternity! Slowly, as if an unseen force uplifted her, Chérie had risen to her feet. Maternity!… The veil of the mystery was rent, the wonder was revealed! Maternity! That was the key to all her own strange and marvellous sensations, to the throb and the thrill within her! Maternity.
She stood motionless, amazed. A shaft of sunlight from the open window beat upon her, turning her hair to gold and her wide eyes to pools of wondering light. Such wonder and such light were about her that Louise gazed in awed silence at the ethereal figure, standing with pale hands extended and virginal face upturned.
She seemed to be listening.... To what voice? What annunciation did she harken to with those rapt eyes?
Louise called her by her name. But Chérie did not answer. Her lips were mute, her eyes were distant and unseeing. She heard no other voice but a child-voice asking from her the gift of life.
And to that voice her trembling spirit answered.
CHAPTER XVIII
Dr. Reynolds kept his promise to Louise.
In a private nursing-home in London the deed of mercy and of ruthlessness was accomplished. The pitiable spark of life was quenched.
Out of the depths of darkness and despair Louise, after wavering for many days on the threshold of death, came slowly back to life once more.
During the many weeks she was in the nursing-home she saw neither Chérie nor Mireille; but Mrs. Yule came nearly every day and brought good news of them both, saying how happy she and her husband were to have them at the Vicarage.
For Mr. Yule himself had gone to the Whitakers' house, an hour after Louise had left it with Dr. Reynolds, and had taken the two forlorn young creatures away. Their stricken youth found shelter in his house, where Mireille's affliction and Chérie's tragic condition were alike sacred to his generous heart.
The little blind girl, Lilian, adored them both. She used to sit between them—often resting her face against Mireille's arm, or holding the child's hand in hers—listening to Chérie's tales of their childhood in Belgium. She was never tired of hearing about Chérie's school-days at Mademoiselle Thibaut's pensionnat; of her trips to Brussels and Antwerp, and the horrors of the dungeons of Château Steen; of her bicycle-lessons on the sands of Westende under the instruction of the monkey-man; and above all of her visits to Braine l'Alleude and the battle-field of Waterloo, where she had actually drunk coffee in Wellington's sitting-room, and rested in his very own armchair....
Lilian, with her closed eyes and intent face—always turned slightly upward as if yearning towards the light—listened eagerly, exclaiming every now and then with a little excited laugh, "I see … I see...." And those words and the sweet expression of the small ecstatic face made Chérie's voice falter and the tears suffuse her eyes.
One day a letter came. It was from Claude. He had almost completely recovered from his wound and was leaving the hospital in Dunkirk to go to the front again. He sent all his love and all God's blessings to Louise and to his little Mireille and to Chérie. They would meet again in the happier days soon to come. Had they news of Florian? The last he had heard of him was a card from the trenches at Loos....
And that same day—a snowy day in December—Louise at length returned from her ordeal and stood, a pale and ghostly figure, at the Vicarage door. To her also it opened wide, and her faltering footsteps were led with love and tenderness to the firelight of the hospitable hearth.
There in the vicar's leather armchair, with the vicar's favourite collie curled at her feet, sat Mireille; her soft hair parted in the middle and tied with a blue ribbon by Mrs. Yule; a gold bangle, given her by Lilian, on her slim wrist. With a cry of joy and gratitude Louise knelt before her, kissing the soft chill hands, the silent mouth, the eyes that did not recognize her.
"Mireille, Mireille! Can you not say a word to me? Not a word? Say, 'Welcome, mother!' Say it, darling! Say, 'Maman, bonjour.'"
But the child's lips remained closed; the singing fountain of her voice was sealed.
The door opened, and Chérie entered the room—a Chérie altered and strange in her new and tragic dignity.
Louise involuntarily drew back, gazing in amazement at the significant change of form and feature; then with a sob of passionate pity she went to her and folded her in her arms.
Chérie, with a smile and a sigh, bowed her head upon Louise's breast.