May went out into the hall to meet him. Her legs felt stiff and cold. Ernest started to greet her when she appeared, but something in her manner, something in her face, revealed in the dim hall lamplight, made him stop, dead and pale.
“Ernest,” she said in a low and terrible voice that broke in the speaking, “Florabelle was here. She told us about Philippe, being called by that bishop who is visiting Windsor.” She paused, and her effort to regain her breath ended in a groan. She approached him a step, and he stood there, not moving, only staring at her as at an executioner. “Ernest!” Her voice was a cry, dreadful to hear. “What have you done to our child? She has gone, out of this house, hours ago, after hearing what Florabelle said! What have you done to our child, Ernest Barbour?”
“Trudie? Gone?” he whispered painfully. He took his hat off. His hair gleamed almost white in the lamplight.
“Gone.” She seized him by his damp coat. “Where is she?”
He put his arm about her convulsively. “Trudie!” he muttered, looking over her head. “My God! My God!”
She had begun to sob aloud, in a sort of agony. She pushed his arm aside, and fell back from him. “Don’t call on God!” she screamed. “Don’t dare call on God—you! You—you’ll bring a curse down on us, calling on God! You—you monster!”
He stood there and looked at her. His face was in partial darkness, but his eyes had turned to fire. He wet his lips. He flung out his hands. Then, wheeling on his heel, and without another word, he opened the outer door and went out into the drizzling darkness of the night, to look for his daughter.
CHAPTER LXXIV
It had become brownish yellow and smoky, the wet and drifting air, and slow steady rain was falling. Gertrude, wrapped in an old gray cape, voluminous and shabby, the hood pulled over her head, let herself out the back door. She ran through the garden, her boots sinking into the oozing yellow mud; she brushed by the bare hedges, and showers of water splashed over her. Her foot sank deeply into the mud near the birdbath, and she had to stop a moment to release it from the sucking mire. She leaned her hand against the cold wet marble of the bath, and pulled her foot loose. Only then did she become conscious that she was panting, and that every breath hurt her chest. She leaned against the bowl, her head bent and drooping, as though she were faint; her sick eyes followed the jagged black crack in the marble, stared blindly at the white limestone deposit at the bottom. “O God,” she said aloud, without passion or vehemence.
She skirted around the garden, followed its slope, opened the fretted iron gate, red and wet with rust, and emerged onto the semi-private road that ran below the Sessions grounds. The house had sunk behind the rise; there was no longer any danger of detection. The slight gray-cloaked figure was more like a wraith than flesh and blood as it skimmed swiftly down the road toward one of the main streets. A scabrous-looking cab with a disconsolate horse stood at the corner, its driver sullenly squatting on his seat, the rain beating down upon him and running from his drooping mustaches. He came to life with a sort of incredulous animation when Gertrude ran up to the cab and began to tug at the door. She got in; he picked up the reins, and the vehicle began to move. “Where to, Miss?” he shouted down at her.
“Ten, Quaker Terrace,” she replied, leaning forward. Even through the streaming glass he could see her eyes, enormous and dilated. The cab jogged through the deserted streets, passed wide soggy lawns covered with soaking red and brown leaves, the houses at a distance looking exposed and dreary. Hardly a soul was out, and only an occasional umbrella shone with a wet and livid light as it bobbed down the walk. Here and there a cab splashed by, the horses running with water.
Gertrude sat upon the seat without moving, her hands clenched on her knee. She stared before her, not even blinking. Her mouth was a sharp line of pale violet in a face of clay. The interior of the cab reeked with the odors of rotting old leather, dust, and feed and dampness. She never forgot that sharp and acrid stench; it filled the emptiness in her skull where thoughts ought to have been. But there were no thoughts at all, only the humming emptiness and the smells of the cab. Once or twice she did glance through the window, watched the streets slide moistly by. Once or twice she drew a sharp breath, and held it. But still she could feel nothing. She closed her eyes and fell into a sort of swimming dream.
The cab jarred to a stop. They were standing before Florabelle’s house. Gertrude pulled her cloak about her, stepped out of the cab, and paid the driver. She ran up the slimy walk to the house, tugged at the knocker. It echoed with a hollow sound through the dripping quiet. A maid answered, admitted her.
“Is Master Philippe home?” asked Gertrude in a low and breathless voice. She dropped the hood on her shoulders, and water ran from it.
“Why, yes, Miss Gertrude,” replied the maid, surprised and puzzled. “But he’s ill, in his room. He doesn’t want to be disturbed. Shall I tell him you are here?”
Gertrude was silent for a moment. Then she shook her head. “No. I’ll go upstairs, myself. Don’t disturb him. I—I’ll just look in and see how he is. His mother is visiting my mother, and she said he was not feeling well, and that is why I came. If he’s asleep, I won’t bother him.”
She turned, gathered up her rain-soaked skirts, and ran up the stairs to the second floor. When she neared the top, a violent shudder ran over her flesh, and she felt mortally cold. Softly, without a sound, she went down the dark hallway to Philippe’s room. The door was shut, and there was silence behind it.
She put her hand on the door handle and stood there in the darkness, holding it, gazing at the door. A long time passed; she distinctly heard the musical chiming of the French clock downstairs in one of the deserted drawing rooms; she heard the rattle of coal as a maid replenished a fire. She heard a faint altercation from the direction of the nursery on the third floor. But from behind the door of Philippe’s room she did not hear a sound.
Almost without will, she turned the handle slowly. She could hear the wild and frightful beating of her heart, the throb of it in her throat. The door opened without sound.
The room, where Gertrude had often played with Philippe when they had been children, was full of the dim afternoon. The windows were pale rectangles in the gloom, and she could see the bare arm of the elm outside, like a jagged black bone. All the room was in shadow except for a little table near the white bed; the table was covered by a lace cloth, and on it stood a silver crucifix; before that crucifix burned a single low candle in a red cup. The light rose and fell striking a chair-arm here, the gilt of a picture there, the glitter of an andiron before the small muttering fire.
But Gertrude saw these things only as accents on agony. For kneeling before the little altar was Philippe.
He knelt, perfectly motionless, his long young body stiff and immobile, his head bent. Gertrude closed the door soundlessly behind her. She ran to the youth, knelt beside him, held his head in her arms, pressed it to her small breast. She knelt there, holding him so, her lips against his forehead, her eyes dry and staring. And the two young creatures clung to each other as if death threatened them.
Finally Philippe moved; Gertrude drew him closer. “Never mind, darling, never mind,” she whispered. But he lifted his head, and they looked at each other. Philippe’s face seemed to take on age; it had wizened, and was the color of the sky outside. His mouth was bitten, and there were red flecks at the corners. But all his anguish stood in his eyes as he regarded his cousin.
“Trudie. Trudie, dearest.” He spoke painfully, in a voice thick and hoarse from exhaustion and suffering.
“Yes, Philippe. I know. I know.”
“I’ve prayed, Trudie. I’ve prayed so hard. For God to forgive me. But I don’t get any answer. Father Dominick—he said it was a sin against Mother Church, that our marriage wouldn’t be a marriage in the eyes of the Church, that I would be excommunicated. Thrown out, down to hell. Never allowed to enter the Church again. Lost. Sinning against God, against the Holy Ghost. A mortal sin. And dragging
you down with me, Trudie. Down, and down. Ruining you, when I love you so!”
She knelt beside him, her head leaning, now, against his shoulder, holding his hand, so cold and lifeless, against her young breast as if to warm it. And she looked steadily before her at the crucifix and the shining candlelight. She was young and inexperienced, but she knew, profoundly and without words, that before the mysterious power of the gods human speech was only a voice in a wind, and reason itself was a shattered lamp. Humanity was impotent against that power; its fighting arms threshed air, its eyes could not see. But there the power remained, and the blood became water before it. Love, triumphant over life, triumphant even over death, was a torch blown out.
But what am I? she thought. What am I, compared to this torture he is enduring? As long as I am here, as long as I am in the way, he’ll never get over it. If we marry, he’ll never be happy, never in all the world. We could have been, if that priest had not sent for him; if he had not brought it all back to him. He might even have forgotten, after awhile. Men do forget their gods, in time. But he’ll never forget, now.
She put her lips gently to his cold and sunken cheek.
“You are so tired, darling. Do lie down on your bed. And I’ll stay right with you. I’ll hold your hand. And we won’t talk. Not yet, for a little. We’ll just be together.”
Obediently, he struggled to his feet. He leaned upon her, his legs sagging, as they moved toward the bed. He fell upon it heavily. She removed his boots, and drew a blanket over him, lifted his head to a pillow. The room became darker and darker; the candle fluttered in a draft. But Gertrude sat beside her cousin, holding his hand, and smiling down at him. And slowly his hand became warmer; the eyes that stared so fixedly, so terribly, at her, became dim and soft, began to blink. Finally, they closed; he sighed; turned his head toward her as a child turns to its mother. He slept. His tormented face was at peace.
She bent over him, kissed his forehead, his lips. She kissed his hand, before laying it down. Then she stood up. He moved a little, and his lips opened. She stooped, hoping to hear her name from him. But he only whispered: “God. Jesus. Mary. Forgive me.”
The room became darker and darker. Gertrude pulled her hood over her head. The sleeping youth sighed, sighed again, sank deeper into sleep. The candle, as if triumphant, became brighter and stronger, and the crucifix became alive.
Gertrude turned to the altar, and stood looking down at it for a period that seemed endless to her. Then, bending down, she blew out the candle. Philippe stopped sighing, and a profound silence settled like water over the room.
She went out and closed the door behind her.
CHAPTER LXXV
Paul Barbour was just preparing to leave the lonely lighted vastness of the bank when the door of his office opened and Gertrude entered. He was astounded; he regarded her unbelievingly, not able to say a word. She stood there before him, smiling, in the shabby gray cloak and hood that ran rivulets of water. Under the shadow of the hood her face was ghastly.
“You seem surprised to see me, Paul. I suppose you wonder how I got in? Well, I did have quite a time with the watchman at the door, but I finally convinced him I had to see you.”
“Trudie!” He had found his voice. “What the devil are you doing here? Is something wrong at home?”
“No.” She pushed back the hood; he saw that her hair was disordered under it. He saw all the fine delicate bones under her flesh, as though she had become suddenly emaciated.
“Sit down, Trudie.” He was a little grave. “You are not looking very well, my dear. And out in this weather, too. Is it something I can do? I can’t help but see that you are very much upset. Will you let me help you?”
She sat down. The smile was hung on her lips as though carved forcibly. He thought her expression a little wild and strange. Pity did not come easily to him, either by nature or deliberate self-training, but he felt a distinct pity for the girl. He stood near her, leaning against his desk, but he did not touch her. She looked up at him, breathing quickly, the wildness increasing on her face. And he regarded her steadily in return, concerned and almost gentle.
She began to speak; her voice was very light and breathless, as if she were trying to inject a little humor into it. Paul had little subtlety of imagination, but as he listened to her voice, he watched her face, and he thought with a thrill like pain that the combination was heartbreaking.
“Paul, you like me, don’t you? You wanted to marry me once, didn’t you? Perhaps you do, still. It would please Papa very much. Papa likes you, and thinks you quite remarkable. Paul—will you marry me? Now?”
He was electrified. He stood up abruptly, his blue eyes blazing in the glaring gaslight.
“Marry you, Trudie? Do you know what you are saying? Marry you! My God, I’ve wanted to marry you since I knew there was such a thing as marriage!” His voice broke, incredulously. “But I can’t believe it! It seems impossible!” But still he did not touch her, though his tense hands twitched, made futile gestures.
“You may kiss me,” she said faintly. And closed her eyes as she lifted her ravaged young face. But he did not kiss her. After a long minute, she opened her eyes and stared at him blankly from sunken sockets. He was gazing at her intensely; his large strong features were working with emotion and understanding.
“Please tell me, Trudie dear,” he said gently. He bent over her, took her icy hand and held it in his big warm palms.
She began to smile again, but above her smile the tears flooded out in anguish. She began to speak, with great difficulty. “Paul, perhaps you knew, but Philippe and I were going to be married. You see, I can’t lie to you. But now he—he would rather not marry me. I—I think we both discovered at the same time that it would be a mistake. A really awful mistake. I—”
“Why would it have been a mistake, Trudie?” he asked softly. And held her trembling hand more tightly.
She moved her head a little as though tortured. “Well, you see, Paul, it was his religion. About cousins not marrying. He decided he wanted me, anyway, and we talked it over, years ago. It was all settled. And then that—that priest came. He used to be Father Dominick—you remember? He visited your home when we were all children, and before Uncle Martin died in the war. And it all came back to Philippe, that in his Church it was a sin for cousins to marry—”
The high color in Paul’s cheeks had receded. He looked at Gertrude penetratingly, and his expression was both grim and grave.
“And so,” he said, “he decided not to marry you?”
“No! It wasn’t that, Paul! But I decided not to marry him. I couldn’t make him so unhappy. I thought it best that I go away, make the decision myself, and then he would have some peace again, and forget—”
He dropped her hand abruptly, turned and walked to a window. He stood there, with his back to her. The light of the room fell out into the darkness and showed the long rods of the steely rain in a circle of bleak illumination. He was horribly shocked. Ernest had not told him this part of their mutual secret. He had merely hinted at some strategy he had in mind that would separate Gertrude and Philippe, and had advised Paul on his behavior and attitude toward the girl until the separation could be arranged. But this is monstrous I thought the young man, shaken as he had never been shaken before. He saw it all clearly, and was really appalled. It did not seem possible to him that any man could be like this, and for the first time he experienced a violent revulsion against his uncle. My God! his outraged thoughts ran on, how could he hurt his own child so? It’s inhuman—it’s beastlike!
He had a sudden impulse, out of his pity and indignation, to turn to Gertrude, to reveal the whole thing to her, to urge her not to give up Philippe, but to fight for him, against his Church, against himself, against all the mysterious and ominous things that assailed his mind. For the first time in his life he experienced the hot and blinding glow of altruism, of true tenderness and mercy and love. For the first time self was obliterated in that glow, like a shadow.
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He actually turned to her, actually opened his mouth to speak. And then his mouth closed. The glow vanished; he was thinking rapidly and clearly once more. Would it be best for Trudie, even if she succeeded? Would it be good for her to marry a man who for one moment could hesitate between her and “superstition”? Didn’t that prove him to be a weakling and a fool? Paul, who had never had any faith whatsoever, looked at this manifestation of it with incredulity. It seemed like grotesque folly to him, something out of the Middle Ages, something that smacked of dungeons and martyrs and stakes and sorcerers and incantations. A glimmer from a fantastic age when men saw demons and angels, and went on murderous Crusades. He could not orient it with the nineteenth century, with machinery and banks, industry and democratic government, Darwin and railroads, electricity and telegraphs, scientific facts and bonds and explosives and steamships. Horror flashed into his thoughts. He recoiled mentally from a power that seemed unholy and disgusting—a power emanating from the hidden places in men like a dead effluvium, a psychic disease that could destroy and warp and devour its host. Horrible! he thought, more and more appalled. Philippe’s not stupid; I’ve got to admit that. If this Thing can attack people like Philippe, people with education and intelligence, what can’t it do to simple folk and children? No wonder Uncle Ernest says that religion must be abolished before men can be free! Paul felt a little giddy; his cold and factual mind was attacked on all sides by a sensation of distorted fantasy, of terrible supernatural things in ambush.
Gertrude was sitting where he had left her. Her head had fallen forward on her chest; her whole attitude spoke of exhaustion, defenselessness. Out of his amazement and repugnance, he said aloud: “But it sounds so impossible, Trudie! Are you certain you quite understood Philippe?”
“Yes.” She lifted her head and looked at him steadily, hopelessly.
He was silent again; he chewed the corner of his lip and scowled at the floor. He no longer blamed his uncle; Uncle Ernest was quite right. That fantastic boy was certainly no husband for Gertrude. Trust Uncle Ernest always to be right, even in this! And now nothing stood between him and Gertrude. He could marry her, restore her to health, a normal life and normal love.
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