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Lorraine: A romance, a novel by Robert W. Chambers |
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Chapter 23. Lorraine Sleeps |
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_ CHAPTER XXIII. LORRAINE SLEEPS The next day the rain fell in torrents; long, yellow streams of water gushed from pipe and culvert, turning the roads to lakes of amber and the trodden lawns to sargasso seas. Not a shot had been fired since twilight of the day before, although on the distant hills Uhlans were seen racing about, gathering in groups, or sitting on their horses in solitary observation of the Chateau. Out on the meadows, between the park wall and the fringe of nearer forest, the Bavarian dead lay, dotting the green pelouse with blots of pale blue; the wounded had been removed to the cover of the woods. Around the Chateau the sallow-faced fantassins slopped through the mire, the artillery trains lay glistening under their waterproof coverings, the long, slim cannon in the breeches dripped with rain. Bright blotches of rust, like brilliant fungi, grew and spread from muzzle to vent. These were rubbed away at times by stiff-limbed soldiers, swathed to the eyes in blue overcoats. The line of battle stretched from the Chateau Morteyn, parallel with the river and the park wall, to the Chateau de Nesville; and along this line the officers were riding all day, muffled to the chin in their great-coats, crimson caps soaked, rain-drops gathering in brilliant beads under the polished visors. That they expected a shelling was evident, for the engineers were at work excavating pits and burrows, and the infantry were filling sacks with earth, while in the Chateau itself preparations were in progress for the fighting of fire. The white flag with the red-cross centre hung limp and drenched over the stables and barns. In the corn-field beyond, long trenches were being dug for the dead. Already two such trenches had been filled and covered over with dirt; and at the head of each soldier's grave a bayonet or sabre was driven into the ground for a head-stone. Early that morning, while the rain drove into the ground in one sheeted downpour, they buried Sir Thorald and little Alixe, side by side, on the summit of a mound overlooking the river Lisse. Jack drove the tumbril; four soldiers of the line followed. It was soon over; the mellow bugle sounded a brief "lights out," the linesmen presented arms. Then Jack mounted the cart and drove back, his head on his breast, the rain driving coldly in his face. Some officers came later with a rough wooden cross and a few field flowers. They hammered the cross deep into the mud between Sir Thorald and little Alixe. Later still Jack returned with a spade and worked for an hour, shaping the twin mounds. Before he finished he saw Lorraine climbing the hill. Two wreaths of yellow gorse hung from one arm, interlaced like thorn crowns; and when she came up, Jack, leaning silently on his spade, saw that her fair hands were cut and bleeding from plaiting the thorn-covered blossoms. They spoke briefly, almost coldly. Lorraine hung the two wreaths over the head-piece of the cross and, kneeling, signed herself. When she rose Jack replaced his cap, but said nothing. They stood side by side, looking out across the woods, where, behind a curtain of mist and rain, the single turret of the Chateau de Nesville was hidden. She seemed restless and preoccupied, and he, answering aloud her unasked question, said, "I am going to search the forest to-day. I cannot bear to leave you, but it must be done, for your sake and for the sake of France." She answered: "Yes, it must be done. I shall go with you." "You cannot," he said; "there is danger in the forest." "You are going?" "Yes." They said nothing more for a moment or two. He was thinking of Alixe and her love for Sir Thorald. Who would have thought it could have turned out so? He looked down at the river Lisse, where, under the trees of the bank, they had all sat that day--a day that already seemed legendary, so far, so far in the mist-hung landscape of the past. He seemed to hear Molly Hesketh's voice, soft, ironical, upbraiding Sir Thorald; he seemed to see them all there in the sunshine--Dorothy, Rickerl, Cecil, Betty Castlemaine--he even saw himself strolling up to them, gun under arm, while Sir Thorald waved his wine-cup and bantered him. He looked at the river. The green row-boat lay on the bank, keel up, shattered by a shell; the trees were covered with yellow, seared foliage that dropped continually into the water; the river itself was a canal of mud. And, as he looked, a dead man, face under water, sped past, caught on something, drifted, spun giddily in an eddy, washed to and fro, then floated on under the trees. "You will catch cold here in the rain," he said, abruptly. "You also, Jack." They walked a few steps towards the house, then stopped and looked at each other. "You are drenched," he said; "you must go to your room and lie down." "I will--if you wish," she answered. He drew her rain-cloak around her, buttoned the cape and high collar, and settled the hood on her head. She looked up under her pointed hood. "Do you care so much for me?" she asked, listlessly. "Will you give me the right--always--forever?" "Do you mean that--that you love me?" "I have always loved you." Still she looked up at him from the shadow of her hood. "I love you, Lorraine." One arm was around her now, and with the other hand he held both of hers. She spoke, her eyes on his. "I loved you once. I did not know it then. It was the first night there on the terrace--when they were dancing. I loved you again--after our quarrel, when you found me by the river. Again I loved you, when we were alone in the Chateau and you came to see me in the library." He drew her to him, but she resisted. "Now it is different," she said. "I do not love you--like that. I do not know what I feel; I do not care for that--for that love. I need something warmer, stronger, more kindly--something I never have had. My childhood is gone, Jack, and yet I am tortured with the craving for it; I want to be little again--I want to play with children--with young girls; I want to be tired with pleasure and go to bed with a mother bending over me. It is that--it is that that I need, Jack--a mother to hold me as you do. Oh, if you knew--if you knew! Beside my bed I feel about in the dark, half asleep, reaching out for the mother I never knew--the mother I need. I picture her; she is like my father, only she is always with me. I lie back and close my eyes and try to think that she is there in the dark--close--close. Her cheeks and hands are warm; I can never see her eyes, but I know they are like mine. I know, too, that she has always been with me--from the years that I have forgotten--always with me, watching me that I come to no harm--anxious for me, worrying because my head is hot or my hands cold. In my half-sleep I tell her things--little intimate things that she must know. We talk of everything--of papa, of the house, of my pony, of the woods and the Lisse. With her I have spoken of you often, Jack. And now all is said; I am glad you let me tell you, Jack. I can never love you like--like that, but I need you, and you will be near me, always, won't you? I need your love. Be gentle, be firm in little things. Let me come to you and fret. You are all I have." The intense grief in her face, the wide, childish eyes, the cold little hands tightening in his, all these touched the manhood in him, and he answered manfully, putting away from himself all that was weak or selfish, all that touched on love of man for woman: "Let me be all you ask," he said. "My love is of that kind, also." "My darling Jack," she murmured, putting both arms around his neck. He kissed her peacefully. "Come," he said. "Your shoes are soaking. I am going to take charge of you now." When they entered the house he took her straight to her room, drew up an arm-chair, lighted the fire, filled a foot-bath with hot water, and, calmly opening the wardrobe, pulled out a warm bath-robe. Then, without the slightest hesitation, he knelt and unbuttoned her shoes. "Now," he said, "I'll be back in five minutes. Let me find you sitting here, with your feet in that hot water." Before she could answer, he went out. A thrill of comfort passed through her; she drew the wet stockings over her feet, shivered, slipped out of skirt and waist, put on the warm, soft bath-robe, and, sinking back in the chair, placed both little white feet in the foot-bath. "I am ready, Jack," she called, softly. He came in with a tray of tea and toast and a bit of cold chicken. She followed his movement with tired, shy eyes, wondering at his knowledge of little things. They ate their luncheon together by the fire. Twice he gravely refilled the foot-bath with hotter water, and she settled back in her soft, warm chair, sighing contentment. After a while he lighted a cigarette and read to her--fairy tales from Perrault--legends that all children know--all children who have known mothers. Lorraine did not know them. At first she frowned a little, watching him dubiously, but little by little the music of the words and the fragrance of the sweet, vague tales crept into her heart, and she listened breathless to the stories, older than Egypt--stories that will outlast the last pyramid. Once he laid down his book and told her of the Prince of Argolis and AEthra; of the sandals and sword, of Medea, and of the wreathed wine-cup. He told her, too, of the Isantee, and the legends of the gray gull, of Harpan and Chaske, and the white lodge of hope. She listened like a tired child, her wrist curved under her chin, the bath-robe close to her throat. While she listened she moved her feet gently in the hot water, nestling back with the thrill of the warmth that mounted to her cheeks. Then they were silent, their eyes on each other. Down-stairs some rain-soaked officer was playing on the piano old songs of Lorraine and Alsace. He tried to sing, too, but his voice broke, whether from emotion or hoarseness they could not tell. A moment or two later a dripping infantry band marched out to the conservatory and began to play. The dismal trombone vibrated like a fog-horn, the wet drums buzzed and clattered, the trumpets wailed with the rising wind in the chimneys. They played for an hour, then stopped abruptly in the middle of "Partons pour la Syrie," and Jack and Lorraine heard them trampling away--slop, slop--across the gravel drive. The fire in the room made the air heavy, and he raised one window a little way, but the wet wind was rank with the odour of disinfectants and ether from the stable hospital, and he closed the window after a moment. "I spent all the morning with the wounded," said Lorraine, from the depths of her chair. The child-like light in her eyes had gone; nothing but woman's sorrow remained in their gray-blue depths. Jack rose, picked up a big soft towel, and, deliberately lifting one of her feet from the water, rubbed it until it turned rosy. Then he rubbed the other, wrapped the bath-robe tightly about her, lifted her in his arms, threw back the bed-covers, and laid her there snug and warm. "Sleep," he said. She held up both arms with a divine smile. "Stay with me until I sleep," she murmured drowsily. Her eyes closed; one hand sought his. After a while she fell asleep. _ |
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