The Crossing [257]
She lifted up her head and looked at him. There was a new-born note in her voice, a tremulous note of joy in the midst of sorrow. It was of her he was thinking!
``And you?'' she said. ``You have come and remained.''
``She is my mother,'' he answered. ``God knows it was the least I could have done.''
Twice she had changed before our eyes, and now we beheld a new and yet more startling transformation. When she spoke there was no reproach in her voice, but triumph. Antoinette undid her veil.
``Yes, she is your mother,'' she answered; ``but for many years she has been my friend. I will go to her. She cannot forbid me now. Helene has been with her,'' she said, turning to where the Vicomtesse stood watching her intently. ``Helene has been with her. And shall I, who have longed to see her these many years, leave her now?''
``But you were going!'' he cried, beside himself with apprehension at this new turning. ``You told me that you were going.''
Truly, man is born without perception.
``Yes, I told you that,'' she replied almost defiantly.
``And why were you going?'' he demanded. Then I had a sudden desire to shake him.
Antoinette was mute.
``You yourself must find the answer to that question, Mr. Temple,'' said the Vicomtesse, quietly.
He turned and stared at Helene, and she seemed to smile. Then as his eyes went back, irresistibly, to the other, a light that was wonderful to see dawned and grew in them. I shall never forget him as he stood, handsome and fearless, a gentleman still, despite his years of wandering and adventure, and in this supreme moment unselfish. The wilful, masterful boy had become a man at last.
He started forward, stopped, trembling with a shock of remembrance, and gave back again.
``You cannot come,'' he said; ``I cannot let you take this risk. Tell her she cannot come, Madame,'' he said to Helene. ``For the love of God send her home again.''
But there were forces which even Helene could not stem. He had turned to go back, he had seized the door, but Antoinette was before him. Custom does not weigh at such a time. Had she not read his avowal? She had his hand in hers, heedless of us who watched. At first he sought to free himself, but she clung to it with all the strength of her love,--yet she did not look up at him.
``I will come with you,'' she said in a low voice, ``I will come with you, Nick.''
How quaintly she spoke his name, and gently, and timidly --ay, and with a supreme courage. True to him through all those numb years of waiting, this was a little thing-- that they should face death together. A little thing, and yet the greatest joy that God can bestow upon a good woman. He looked down at her with a great tenderness, he spoke her name, and I knew that he had taken her at last into his arms.
``Come,'' he said.
They went in together, and the doors closed behind them.
* * * * * * *
Antoinette's maid was on the step, and the Vicomtesse and I were alone once more in the little parlor. I remember well the sense of unreality I had, and how it troubled me. I remember how what I had seen and heard was turning, turning in my mind. Nick had come back to Antoinette. They were together in that room, and Mrs. Temple was dying--dying. No, it could not be so. Again, I was in the garden at Les Iles on a night that was all perfume, and I saw the flowers all ghostly white under the moon. And then, suddenly, I was watching the green candle sputter, and out of the stillness came a cry--the sereno calling the hour of the night. How my head throbbed! It was keeping time to some rhythm, I knew not what. Yes, it was the song my father used to sing:--
``I've faught on land? I've faught at sea, At hume I've faught my aunty, O!''
But New Orleans was hot, burning hot, and this could not be cold I felt. Ah, I had it, the water was cold going to Vincennes, so cold!
A voice called me. No matter where I had gone, I think I would have come back at the sound of it. I listened intently, that I