The Long Night

Chapter 13

A MYSTERY SOLVED.

Whether Basterga, seeing that Claude was less pliant than he had looked

to find him, shunned occasion of collision with him, or the Paduan being

in better spirits was less prone to fall foul of his companions, certain

it is that life for a time after the outbreak at supper ran more quietly

in the house in the Corraterie. Claude's gloomy face--he had not

forgiven--bade beware of him; and little save on the subject of Louis'

disfigured cheek--of which the most pointed questions could extract no

explanation--passed among them at table. But outward peace was preserved

and a show of ease. Grio's brutal nature broke out once or twice when he

had had wine; but discouraged by Basterga, he subsided quickly. And

Louis, starting at a voice and trembling at a knock, with the fear of

the Syndic always upon him, showed a nervousness which more than once

drew the Italian's eye to him. But on the whole a calm prevailed; a

stranger entering at noon or during the evening meal might have deemed

the party ill-assorted and silent, but lacking neither in amity nor

ease.

Meantime, under cover of this calm, destined to be short-lived and

holding in suspense the makings of a storm of no mean violence, two

persons were drawing nearer to one another. A confidence, even a

confidence not perfect, is a tie above most. Nor does love play at any

time a higher part than when it repeats "I do not understand--I trust".

By the common light of day, which showed Anne moving to and fro about

her household tasks, at once the minister and the providence of the

home, the dark suspicion that had for a moment--a moment only!--mastered

Claude's judgment, lost shape and reality. It was impossible to see her

bending over the hearth, or arranging her mother's simple meal, it was

impossible to witness her patience, her industry, her deftness, to

behold her, ever gentle yet supporting with a man's fortitude the trials

of her position, trials of the bitterness of which she had given him

proof--it was impossible, in a word, to watch her in her daily life,

without perceiving the wickedness as well as the folly of the thought

which had possessed him.

True, the more he saw of her the graver seemed the mystery; and the more

deeply he wondered. But he no longer dreaded the answer to the riddle;

nor did he fear to meet at some turn or corner a Meg** head that should

freeze his soul. Wickedness there might be, cruelty there might be, and

shame; but the blood ran too briskly in his veins and he had looked too

often into the girl's candid eyes--reading something there which had not

been there formerly--to fear to find either at her door.

He had taken to coming to the living-room a little before nightfall;

there he would seat himself beside the hearth while she prepared the

evening meal. The glow of the wood-fire, reflected in rows of burnished

pewters, or given back by the night-backed casements, the savour of the

coming meal, the bubbling of the black pot between which and the table

her nimble feet carried her a dozen times in as many minutes, the

pleasant, homely room with its touches of refinement and its winter

comfort, these were excuses enough had he not brought the book which lay

unheeded on his knee.

But in truth he offered her no excuse. With scarce a word an

understanding had grown up between them that not a million words could

have made more clear. Each played the appropriated part. He looked and

she bore the look, and if she blushed the fire was warrant, and if he

stared it was the blind man's hour between day and night, and why should

he not sit idle as well as another? Soon there was not a turn of her

head or a line of her figure that he did not know; not a trick of her

walk, not a pose of her hand as she waited for a pot to boil that he

could not see in the dark; not a gleam from her hair as she stooped to

the blaze, nor a turn of her wrist as she shielded her face that was not

as familiar to him as if he had known her from childhood.

In these hours she let the mask fall. The apathy, which had been the

least natural as it had been the most common garb of her young face, and

which had grown to be the cover and veil of her feelings, dropped from

her. Seated in the shadow, while she moved, now in the glow of the

burning embers, now obscured, he read her mind without disguise--save in

one dark nook--watched unrebuked the eye fall and the lip tremble, or in

rarer moments saw the shy smile dimple the corner of her cheek. Not

seldom she stood before him sad: sad without disguise, her bowed head

and drooping shoulders the proof of gloomy thoughts, that strayed, he

fancied, far from her work or her companion. And sometimes a tear fell

and she wiped it away, making no attempt to hide it; and sometimes she

would shiver and sigh as if in pain or fear.

At these times he longed for Basterga's throat; and the blood of old

Enguerrande de Beauvais, his ancestor, dust these four hundred years at

"Damietta of the South," raced in him, and he choked with rage and

grief, and for the time could scarcely see. Yet with this pulse of wrath

were mingled delicious thrills. The tear which she did not hide from

him was his gage of love. The brooding eye, the infrequent smile, the

start, the reverie were for him only, and for no other. They were the

gift to him of her secret life, her inmost heart.

It was an odd love-making, and bizarre. To Grio, even to men more

delicate and more finely wrought, it might have seemed no love-making at

all. But the wood-smoke that perfumed the air, sweetened it, the

firelight wrapped it about, the pots and pans and simple things of life,

amid which it passed, hallowed it. His eyes attending her hither and

thither without reserve, without concealment, unabashed, laid his heart

at her feet, not once, but a hundred times in the evening; and as often,

her endurance of the look, more rarely her sudden blush or smile,

accepted the offering.

And scarce a word said: for though they had the room to themselves, they

knew that they were never alone or unheeded. Basterga, indeed, sat above

stairs and only descended to his meals; and Grio also was above when he

was not at the tavern. But Louis sulked in his closet beside them,

divided from them only by a door, whence he might emerge at any minute.

As a fact he would have emerged many times, but for two things. The

first was his marked face, which he was chary of showing; the second,

the notion which he had got that the balance of things in the house was

changing, and the reign of petty bullying, in which he had so much

delighted, approaching its end. With Basterga exposed to arrest, and the

girl's help become of value to the authorities, it needed little acumen

to discern this. He still feared Basterga; nay, he lived in such terror,

lest the part he had played should come to the scholar's ears, that he

prayed for his arrest night and morning, and whenever during the day an

especial fit of dread seized him. But he feared Anne also, for she might

betray him to Basterga; and of young Mercier's quality--that he was no

Tissot to be brow-beaten, or thrust aside--he had had proof on the night

of the fracas at supper. Essentially a coward, Louis' aim was to be on

the stronger side; and once persuaded that this was the side on which

they stood, he let them be.

On several consecutive evenings the two passed an hour or more in this

silent communion. On the last the door of Louis' room stood open, the

young man had not come in, and for the first time they were really

alone. But the fact did not at once loosen Claude's tongue; and if the

girl noticed it, or expected aught to come of it, more than had come of

their companionship on other evenings, she hid her feelings with a

woman's ease. He remarked, however, that she was more thoughtful and

downcast than usual, and several times he saw her break off in the

middle of a task and listen nervously as for something she expected.

Presently:--

"Are you listening for Louis?" he asked.

She turned on him, her eyes less kind than usual. "No," she said, almost

defiantly. "Was I listening?"

"I thought so," he said.

She turned away again, and went on with her work. But by-and-by as she

stooped over the fire a tear fell and pattered audibly in the wood-ash

on the hearth; and another. With an impatient gesture she wiped away a

third. He saw all--she made no attempt to hide them--and he bit his lip

and drove his finger-ends into his palms in the effort to be silent.

Presently he had his reward.

"I am sorry," she said in a low tone. "I was listening, and I knew I

was. I do not know why I deceived you."

"Why will you not tell me all?" he cried.

"I cannot!" she answered, her breast heaving passionately. "I cannot!"

For the first time in his knowledge of her, she broke down completely,

and sinking on a bench with her back to the table she sobbed bitterly,

her face in her hands. For some minutes she rocked herself to and fro in

a paroxysm of trouble.

He had risen and stood watching her awkwardly, longing to comfort her,

but ignorant how to go about it, and feeling acutely his helplessness

and his _gaucherie_. Sad she had always been, and at her best

despondent, with gleams of cheerfulness as fitful as brief. But this

evening her abandonment to her grief convinced him that something more

than ordinary was amiss, that some danger more serious than ordinary

threatened. He felt no surprise therefore when, a little later, she

arrested her sobbing, raised her head, and with suspended breath and

tear-stained face listened with that scared intentness which had

impressed him before.

She feared! He could not be mistaken. Fear looked out of her strained

eyes, fear hung breathless on her parted lips. He was sure of it. And

"Is it Basterga?" he cried. "Is it of him that you are afraid? If you

are----"

"Hush!" she cried, raising her hand in warning. "Hush!" And then, "You

did not--hear anything?" she asked. For an instant her eyes met his.

"No." He met her look, puzzled; and, obeying her gesture, he listened

afresh. "No, I heard nothing. But----"

He heard nothing even now, nothing; but whatever it was sharpened her

hearing to an abnormal pitch, it was clear that she did. She was on her

feet; with a startled cry she was round the table and half-way across

the room, while he stared, the word suspended on his lips. A second, and

her hand was on the latch of the staircase door. Then as she opened it,

he sprang forward to accompany her, to help her, to protect her if

necessary. "Let me come!" he said. "Let me help you. Whatever it is, I

can do something."

She turned on him fiercely. "Go back!" she said. All the confidence,

the gentleness, the docility of the last three days were gone; and in

their place suspicion glared at him from eyes grown spiteful as a cat's.

"Go back!" she repeated. "I do not want you! I do not want any one, or

any help! Or any protection! Go, do you hear, and let me be!"

As she ceased to speak, a sound from above stairs--a sound which this

time, the door being open, did reach his ears, froze the words on his

lips. It was the sound of a voice, yet no common voice, Heaven be

thanked! A moment she continued to confront him, her face one mute,

despairing denial! Then she slammed the door in his teeth, and he heard

her panting breath and fleeing footsteps speed up the stairs and along

the passage, and--more faintly now--he heard her ascend the upper

flight. Then--silence.

Silence! But he had heard enough. He paused a moment irresolute,

uncertain, his hand raised to the latch. Then the hand fell to his side,

he turned, and went softly--very softly back to the hearth. The

firelight playing on his face showed it much moved; moved and softened

almost to the semblance of a woman's. For there were tears in his

eyes--eyes singularly bright; and his features worked, as if he had some

ado to repress a sob. In truth he had. In a breath, in the time it takes

to utter a single sound, he had hit on the secret, he had come to the

bottom of the mystery, he had learnt that which Basterga, favoured by

the position of his room on the upper floor, had learned two months

before, that which Grio might have learned, had he been anything but the

dull gross toper he was! He had learned, or in a moment of intuition

guessed--all. The power of Basterga, that power over the girl which had

so much puzzled and perplexed him, was his also now, to use or misuse,

hold or resign.

Yet his first feeling was not one of joy; nor for that matter his

second. The impression went deeper, went to the heart of the man. An

infinite tenderness, a tenderness which swelled his breast to bursting,

a yearning that, man as he was, stopped little short of tears, these

were his, these it was thrilled his soul to the point of pain. The room

in which he stood, homely as it showed, plain as it was, seemed

glorified, the hearth transfigured. He could have knelt and kissed the

floor which the girl had trodden, coming and going, serving and making

ready--under that burden; the burden that dignified and hallowed the

bearer. What had it not cost her--that burden? What had it not meant to

her, what suspense by day, what terror of nights, what haggard

awakenings--such as that of which he had been the ignorant witness--what

watches above, what slights and insults below! Was it a marvel that the

cheeks had lost their colour, the eyes their light, the whole face its

life and meaning? Nay, the wonder was that she had borne the weight so

long, always expecting, always dreading, stabbed in the tenderest

affection; with for confidant an enemy and for stay an ignorant! Viewed

through the medium of the man's love, which can so easily idealise where

it rests, the love of the daughter for the mother, that must have

touched and softened the hardest--or so, but for the case of Basterga,

one would have judged--seemed so holy, so beautiful, so pure a thing

that the young man felt that, having known it, he must be the better for

it all his life.

And then his mind turned to another point in the story, and he recalled

what had passed above stairs on that day when he had entered a stranger,

and gone up. With what a smiling face of love had she leant over her

mother's bed. With what cheerfulness had she lied of that which passed

below, what a countenance had she put on all--no house more prosperous,

no life more gay--how bravely had she carried it! The peace and neatness

and comfort of the room with its windows looking over the Rhone valley,

and its spinning-wheel and linen chest and blooming bow-pot, all came

back to him; so that he understood many things which had passed before

him then, and then had roused but a passing and a trifling wonder.

Her anxiety lest he should take lodging there and add one more to the

chances of espial, one more to the witnesses of her misery; her secret

nods and looks, and that gently checked outburst of excitement on Madame

Royaume's part, which even at the time had seemed odd--all were plain

now. Ay, plain; but suffused with a light so beautiful, set in an

atmosphere so pure and high, that no view of God's earth, even from the

eyrie of those lofty windows, and though dawn or sunset flung its

fairest glamour over the scene, could so fill the heart of man with

gratitude and admiration!

Up and down in the days gone by, his thoughts followed her through the

house. Now he saw her ascend and enter, and finding all well, mask--but

at what a cost--her aching heart under smiles and cheerful looks and

soft laughter. He heard the voice that was so seldom heard downstairs

murmur loving words, and little jests, and dear foolish trifles; heard

it for the hundredth time reiterate the false assurances that affection

hallowed. He was witness to the patient tendance, the pious offices, the

tireless service of hand and eye, that went on in that room under the

tiles; witness to the long communion hand in hand, with the world shut

out; to the anxious scrutiny, to the daily departure. A sad departure,

though daily and more than daily taken; for she who descended carried a

weight of fear and anxiety. As she came down the weary stairs, stage by

stage, he saw the brightness die from eye and lip, and pale fear or dull

despair seize on its place. He saw--and his heart was full--the slender

figure, the pallid face enter the room in which he stood--it might be at

the dawning when the cold shadow of the night still lay on all, from the

dead ashes on the hearth to the fallen pot and displaced bench; or it

might be at mid-day, to meet sneers and taunts and ignoble looks; and

his heart was full. His face burned, his eyes filled, he could have

kissed the floor she had walked over, the wooden spoon her hand had

touched, the trencher-edge--done any foolish thing to prove his love.

Love? It was a deeper thing than love, a holier, purer thing--that which

he felt. Such a feeling as the rough spearsmen of the Orl****** had for

Joan the maid; or the great Florentine for the girl whom he saw for the

first time at the banquet in the house of the Portinari; or as that man,

who carried to his grave the Queen's glove, yet had never touched it

with his bare hand.

Alas, that such feelings cannot last, nor such moments endure; that in

the footsteps of the priest, be he never so holy, treads ever the

grinning acolyte with his mind on sweet things. They pass, these

feelings, and too quickly. But once to have had them, once to have lived

such moments, once to have known a woman and loved her in such wise

leaves no man as he was before; leaves him at the least with a memory of

a higher life.

That the acolyte in Claude's case took the form of Louis Gentilis made

him no more welcome. Claude was still dreaming on his feet, still

viewing in a kind of happy amaze the simple things about him, things

that for him wore

The light that never was on land or sea,

and that this world puts on but once for each of us, when Gentilis

opened the door and entered, bringing with him a rush of rain, and a

gust of night air. He breathed quickly as if he had been running, yet

having closed the door, he paused before he advanced into the room; and

he seemed surprised, and at a nonplus. After a moment, "Supper is not

ready?" he said.

"It is not time," Claude answered curtly. The vision of an angel does

not necessarily purify at all points, and he had small stomach for

Master Louis at any time.

The youth winced under the tone, but stood his ground.

"Where is Anne?" he asked, something sullenly.

"Upstairs. Why do you ask?"

"Messer Basterga is not coming to supper. Nor Grio. They bade me tell

her. And that they would be late."

"Very well, I will tell her."

But it was evident that that was not all Louis had in his mind. He

remained fidgeting by the door, his cap in his hand; and his face, had

Claude marked it--but he had already turned a contemptuous shoulder on

him--was a picture of doubt and indecision. At length, "I've a message

for you," he muttered nervously. "From Messer Blondel the Syndic. He

wants to see you--now."

Claude turned, and if he had not looked at the other before, he made up

for it now. "Oh!" he said at last, after a stare that bespoke both

surprise and suspicion. "He does, does he? And who made you his

messenger?"

"He met me in the street--just now."

"He knows you, then?"

"He knows I live here," Louis muttered.

"He pays us a vast amount of attention," Claude replied with polite

irony. "Nevertheless"--he turned again to the fire--"I cannot pleasure

him," he continued curtly, "this time."

"But he wants to see you," Gentilis persisted desperately. It was plain

that he was on pins and needles. "At his house. Cannot you believe me?"

in a querulous tone. "It is all fair and above board. I swear it is."

"Is it?"

"It is--I swear it is. He sent me. Do you doubt me?" he added with

undisguised eagerness.

Claude was about to say, with no politeness at all, that he did, and to

repeat his refusal in stronger terms, when his ear caught the same sound

which had revealed so much to him a few minutes earlier at the foot of

the stairs. It came more faintly this time, deadened by the closed door

of the staircase, but to his enlightened senses it proclaimed so clearly

what it was--the echo of a cracked, shrill voice, of a laugh insane,

uncanny, elfish--that he trembled lest Louis should hear it also and

gain the clue. That was a thing to be avoided at all costs; and even as

this occurred to him he saw the way to avoid it. Basterga and Grio were

absent: if this fool could be removed, even for an hour or two, Anne

would have the house to herself, and by midnight the crisis might be

overpast.

"I will come with you," he said.

Louis uttered a sigh of relief. He had expected--and he had very nearly

received--another answer. "Good," he said. "But he does not want me."

"Both or neither," Claude replied coolly. "For all I know 'tis an

ambush."

"No, no!"

"In which event I shall see that you share it. Or it may be a scheme to

draw me from here, and then if harm be done while I am away----"

"Harm? What harm?" Louis muttered.

"Any harm! If harm be done, I say, I shall then have you at hand to pay

me for it. So--both or neither!"

For a moment Louis' hang-dog face--none the handsomer for the mark of

the Syndic's cane--spelt refusal. Then he changed his mind. He nodded

sulkily. "Very well," he said. "But it is raining, and I have no great

wish to--Hush! What is that?" He raised his hand in the attitude of one

listening and his eyes sought his companion's. "What is that? Did you

not hear something--like a scream upstairs?"

"I hear something like a fool downstairs!" Claude retorted gruffly.

"But it was--I certainly heard something!" Louis persisted, raising his

hand again. "It sounded----"

"If we are to go, let us go!" Claude cried with temper. "Come, if you

want me to go! It is not my expedition," he continued, moving noisily

hither and thither in search of his staff and cloak. "It is your affair,

and--where is my cap?"

"I should think it is in your room," Louis answered meekly. "It was only

that I thought it might be Anne. That there might be----"

"Two fools in the house instead of one!" Claude broke in, emerging

noisily, and slamming the door of his closet behind him. "There, come,

and we may hope to be back to supper some time to-night! Do you hear?"

And jealously shepherding the other out of the house, he withdrew the

key when both had passed the threshold. Locking the door on the outside,

he thrust the key under it. "There!" he said, smiling at his cleverness,

"now, who enters--knocks!"