The Crossing [198]
ran now between us. Unmarked, the day faded, a new light was spread over the waters, the mist was spangled with silver points, the Spanish moss took on the whiteness of lace against the black forest swamp, and on the yellow face of the moon the star-shaped leaves of a gum were printed.
At length I paused. She neither spoke, nor moved-- save for the rising and falling of her shoulders. The hardest thing I had to say I saved for the last, and I was near lacking the courage to continue.
``There is Mademoiselle Antoinette--'' I began, and stopped,--she turned on me so quickly and laid a hand on mine.
``Nick loves her!'' she cried.
``You know it!'' I exclaimed, wondering.
``Ah, David,'' she answered brokenly, ``I foresaw it from the first. I, too, love the girl. No human being has ever given me such care and such affection. She-- she is all that I have left. Must I give her up? Have I not paid the price of my sins?''
I did not answer, knowing that she saw the full cruelty of the predicament. What happiness remained to her now of a battered life stood squarely in the way of her son's happiness. That was the issue, and no advice or aid of mine could change it. There was another silence that seemed to me an eternity as I watched, a helpless witness, the struggle going on within her. At last she got to her feet, her face turned to the shadow.
``I will go, David,'' she said. Her voice was low and she spoke with a steadiness that alarmed me. ``I will go.''
Torn with pity, I thought again, but I could see no alternative. And then, suddenly, she was clinging to me, her courage gone, her breast shaken with sobs. ``Where shall I go?'' she cried. ``God help me! Are there no remote places where He will not seek me out? I have tried them all, David.'' And quite as suddenly she disengaged herself, and looked at me strangely. ``You are well revenged for Temple Bow,'' she said.
``Hush,'' I answered, and held her, fearing I knew not what, ``you have not lacked courage. It is not so bad as you believe. I will devise a plan and help you. Have you money?
``Yes,'' she answered, with a remnant of her former pride; ``and I have an annuity paid now to Mr. Clark.''
``Then listen to what I say,'' I answered. ``To-night I will take you to New Orleans and hide you safely. And I swear to you, whether it be right or wrong, that I will use every endeavor to change Nick's feelings towards you. Come,'' I continued, leading her gently into the path, ``let us go while there is yet time.''
``Stop,'' she said, and I halted fearfully. ``David Ritchie, you are a good man. I can make no amends to you,''--she did not finish.
Feeling for the path in the blackness of the wood, I led her by the hand, and she followed me as trustfully as a child. At last, after an age of groping, the heavy scents of shrubs and flowers stole to us on the night air, and we came out at the hedge into what seemed a blaze of light that flooded the rows of color. Here we paused, breathless, and looked. The bench under the great tree was vacant, and the garden was empty.
It was she who led the way through the hedge, who halted in the garden path at the sound of voices. She turned, but there was no time to flee, for the tall figure of a man came through the opposite hedge, followed by a lady. One was Nicholas Temple, the other, Mademoiselle de St. Gre. Mrs. Temple's face alone was in the shadow, and as I felt her hand trembling on my arm I summoned all my resources. It was Nick who spoke first.
``It is Davy!'' he cried. ``Oh, the sly rascal! And this is the promenade of which he left us word, the solitary meditation! Speak up, man; you are forgiven for deserting us.
He turned, laughing, to Mademoiselle. But she stood with her lips parted and her hands dropped, staring at my companion. Then she took two steps forward and stopped with a cry.
``Mrs. Clive!''
The woman beside me turned, and with a supreme courage raised her head and faced the girl.
``Yes, Antoinette, it is I,'' she answered.
And then
At length I paused. She neither spoke, nor moved-- save for the rising and falling of her shoulders. The hardest thing I had to say I saved for the last, and I was near lacking the courage to continue.
``There is Mademoiselle Antoinette--'' I began, and stopped,--she turned on me so quickly and laid a hand on mine.
``Nick loves her!'' she cried.
``You know it!'' I exclaimed, wondering.
``Ah, David,'' she answered brokenly, ``I foresaw it from the first. I, too, love the girl. No human being has ever given me such care and such affection. She-- she is all that I have left. Must I give her up? Have I not paid the price of my sins?''
I did not answer, knowing that she saw the full cruelty of the predicament. What happiness remained to her now of a battered life stood squarely in the way of her son's happiness. That was the issue, and no advice or aid of mine could change it. There was another silence that seemed to me an eternity as I watched, a helpless witness, the struggle going on within her. At last she got to her feet, her face turned to the shadow.
``I will go, David,'' she said. Her voice was low and she spoke with a steadiness that alarmed me. ``I will go.''
Torn with pity, I thought again, but I could see no alternative. And then, suddenly, she was clinging to me, her courage gone, her breast shaken with sobs. ``Where shall I go?'' she cried. ``God help me! Are there no remote places where He will not seek me out? I have tried them all, David.'' And quite as suddenly she disengaged herself, and looked at me strangely. ``You are well revenged for Temple Bow,'' she said.
``Hush,'' I answered, and held her, fearing I knew not what, ``you have not lacked courage. It is not so bad as you believe. I will devise a plan and help you. Have you money?
``Yes,'' she answered, with a remnant of her former pride; ``and I have an annuity paid now to Mr. Clark.''
``Then listen to what I say,'' I answered. ``To-night I will take you to New Orleans and hide you safely. And I swear to you, whether it be right or wrong, that I will use every endeavor to change Nick's feelings towards you. Come,'' I continued, leading her gently into the path, ``let us go while there is yet time.''
``Stop,'' she said, and I halted fearfully. ``David Ritchie, you are a good man. I can make no amends to you,''--she did not finish.
Feeling for the path in the blackness of the wood, I led her by the hand, and she followed me as trustfully as a child. At last, after an age of groping, the heavy scents of shrubs and flowers stole to us on the night air, and we came out at the hedge into what seemed a blaze of light that flooded the rows of color. Here we paused, breathless, and looked. The bench under the great tree was vacant, and the garden was empty.
It was she who led the way through the hedge, who halted in the garden path at the sound of voices. She turned, but there was no time to flee, for the tall figure of a man came through the opposite hedge, followed by a lady. One was Nicholas Temple, the other, Mademoiselle de St. Gre. Mrs. Temple's face alone was in the shadow, and as I felt her hand trembling on my arm I summoned all my resources. It was Nick who spoke first.
``It is Davy!'' he cried. ``Oh, the sly rascal! And this is the promenade of which he left us word, the solitary meditation! Speak up, man; you are forgiven for deserting us.
He turned, laughing, to Mademoiselle. But she stood with her lips parted and her hands dropped, staring at my companion. Then she took two steps forward and stopped with a cry.
``Mrs. Clive!''
The woman beside me turned, and with a supreme courage raised her head and faced the girl.
``Yes, Antoinette, it is I,'' she answered.
And then