The Crossing

by Winston Churchill

  CHAPTER XIV. RETRIBUTION

  During the next two days I had more evidence of Monsieur de St. Gré’sability, and, thanks to his conduct of my campaign, not the leastsuspicion of my mission to New Orleans got abroad. Certain gentlemenwere asked to dine, we called on others, and met still others casuallyin their haunts of business or pleasure. I was troubled because ofthe inconvenience and discomfort to which my host put himself, for NewOrleans in the dog-days may be likened in climate to the under side ofthe lid of a steam kettle. But at length, on the second evening, afterwe had supped on jambalaya and rice cakes and other dainties, and thelast guest had gone, my host turned to me.

  “The rest of the burrow is the same, Mr. Ritchie, until it comes to thelight again.”

  “And the fox has crawled out of the other end,” I said.

  “Precisely,” he answered, laughing; “in short, if you were to remain inNew Orleans until New Year’s, you would not learn a whit more. To-morrowmorning I have a little business of my own to transact, and we shallget to Les Îles in time for dinner. No, don’t thank me,” he protested;“there’s a certain rough honesty and earnestness ingrained in youwhich I like. And besides,” he added, smiling, “you are poor indeed atthanking, Mr. Ritchie. You could never do it gracefully. But if ever Iwere in trouble, I believe that I might safely call on you.”

  The next day was a rare one, for a wind from somewhere had blown themoisture away a little, the shadows were clearer cut, and by noonMonsieur de St. Gré and I were walking our horses in the shady roadbehind the levee. We were followed at a respectful distance by André,Monsieur’s mulatto body-servant, and as we rode my companion gave mestories of the owners of the different plantations we passed, and spokeof many events of interest in the history of the colony. Presently heceased to talk, and rode in silence for many minutes. And then he turnedupon me suddenly.

  “Mr. Ritchie,” he said, “you have seen my son. It may be that in himI am paying the price of my sins. I have done everything to set himstraight, but in vain. Monsieur, every son of the St. Grés has awakenedsooner or later to a sense of what becomes him. But Auguste is a fool,”he cried bitterly,--a statement which I could not deny; “were it not formy daughter, Antoinette, I should be a miserable man indeed.”

  Inasmuch as he was not a person of confidences, I felt the moreflattered that he should speak so plainly to me, and I had a greatsympathy for this strong man who could not help himself.

  “You have observed Antoinette, Mr. Ritchie,” he continued; “she is astrange mixture of wilfulness and caprice and self-sacrifice, and shehas at times a bit of that wit which has made our house for generationsthe intimates--I may say--of sovereigns.”

  This peculiar pride of race would have amused me in another man. I foundmyself listening to Monsieur de St. Gré with gravity, and I did not dareto reply that I had had evidence of Mademoiselle’s aptness of retort.

  “She has been my companion since she was a child, Monsieur. She hasdisobeyed me, flaunted me, nursed me in illness, championed me behind myback. I have a little book which I have kept of her sayings and doings,which may interest you, Monsieur. I will show it you.”

  This indeed was a new side of Monsieur de St. Gré, and I reflectedrather ruefully upon the unvarnished truth of what Mr. Wharton had toldme,--ay, and what Colonel Clark had emphasized long before. It was myfate never to be treated as a young man. It struck me that Monsieur deSt. Gré had never even considered me in the light of a possible suitorfor his daughter’s hand.

  “I should be delighted to see them, Monsieur,” I answered.

  “Would you?” he exclaimed, his face lighting up as he glanced at me.“Alas, Madame de St. Gré and I have promised to go to our neighbors’,Monsieur and Madame Bertrand’s, for to-night. But, to-morrow, if youhave leisure, we shall look at it together. And not a word of this to mydaughter, Monsieur,” he added apprehensively; “she would never forgiveme. She dislikes my talking of her, but at times I cannot help it. Itwas only last year that she was very angry with me, and would not speakto me for days, because I boasted of her having watched at the bedsideof a poor gentleman who came here and got the fever. You will not tellher?”

  “Indeed I shall not, Monsieur,” I answered.

  “It is strange,” he said abruptly, “it is strange that this gentlemanand his wife should likewise have had letters to us from MonsieurGratiot. They came from St. Louis, and they were on their way to Paris.”

  “To Paris?” I cried; “what was their name?”

  He looked at me in surprise.

  “Clive,” he said.

  “Clive!” I cried, leaning towards him in my saddle. “Clive! And whatbecame of them?”

  This time he gave me one of his searching looks, and it was not unmixedwith astonishment.

  “Why do you ask, Monsieur?” he demanded. “Did you know them?”

  I must have shown that I was strangely agitated. For the moment I couldnot answer.

  “Monsieur Gratiot himself spoke of them to me,” I said, after a little;“he said they were an interesting couple.”

  “Pardieu!” exclaimed Monsieur de St. Gré, “he put it mildly.” He gave meanother look. “There was something about them, Monsieur, which I couldnot fathom. Why were they drifting? They were people of quality who hadseen the world, who were by no means paupers, who had no cause to travelsave a certain restlessness. And while they were awaiting the sailingof the packet for France they came to our house--the old one in theRue Bourbon that was burned. I would not speak ill of the dead, but Mr.Clive I did not like. He fell sick of the fever in my house, and it wasthere that Antoinette and Madame de St. Gré took turns with his wife inwatching at his bedside. I could do nothing with Antoinette, Monsieur,and she would not listen to my entreaties, my prayers, my commands. Weburied the poor fellow in the alien ground, for he did not die in theChurch, and after that my daughter clung to Mrs. Clive. She would notlet her go, and the packet sailed without her. I have never seen suchaffection. I may say,” he added quickly, “that Madame de St. Gré and Ishare in it, for Mrs. Clive is a lovable woman and a strong character.And into the great sorrow that lies behind her life, we have neverprobed.”

  “And she is with you now, Monsieur?” I asked.

  “She lives with us, Monsieur,” he answered simply, “and I hope foralways. No,” he said quickly, “it is not charity,--she has something ofher own. We love her, and she is the best of companions for my daughter.For the rest, Monsieur, she seems benumbed, with no desire to go back orto go farther.”

  An entrance drive to the plantation of Les Îles, unknown to Nick and me,led off from the main road like a green tunnel arched out of the forest.My feelings as we entered this may be imagined, for I was suddenlyconfronted with the situation which I had dreaded since my meeting withNick at Jonesboro. I could scarcely allow myself even the faint hopethat Mrs. Clive might not prove to be Mrs. Temple after all. Whilst Iwas in this agony of doubt and indecision, the drive suddenly came outon a shaded lawn dotted with flowering bushes. There was the house withits gallery, its curved dormer roof and its belvedere; and a white,girlish figure flitted down the steps. It was Mademoiselle Antoinette,and no sooner had her father dismounted than she threw herself into hisarms. Forgetful of my presence, he stood murmuring in her ear like alover; and as I watched them my trouble slipped from my mind, and gaveplace to a vaguer regret that I had been a wanderer throughout my life.Presently she turned up to him a face on which was written somethingwhich he could not understand. His own stronger features reflected avague disquiet.

  “What is it, ma chérie?”

  What was it indeed? Something was in her eyes which bore a message andpresentiment to me. She dropped them, fastening in the lapel of hiscoat a flaunting red flower set against a shining leaf, and there was agentle, joyous subterfuge in her answer.

  “Thou pardoned Auguste, as I commanded?” she said. They were speaking inthe familiar French.

  “Ha, diable! is it that which disquiets thee?” said her father.
“We willnot speak of Auguste. Dost thou know Monsieur Ritchie, ‘Toinette?”

  She disengaged herself and dropped me a courtesy, her eyes seekingthe ground. But she said not a word. At that instant Madame de St. Gréherself appeared on the gallery, followed by Nick, who came down thesteps with a careless self-confidence to greet the master. Indeed, astranger might have thought that Mr. Temple was the host, and I sawAntoinette watching him furtively with a gleam of amusement in her eyes.

  “I am delighted to see you at last, Monsieur,” said my cousin. “I amNicholas Temple, and I have been your guest for three days.”

  Had Monsieur de St. Gré been other than the soul of hospitality, itwould have been impossible not to welcome such a guest. Our host had,in common with his daughter, a sense of humor. There was a quizzicalexpression on his fine face as he replied, with the barest glance atMademoiselle Antoinette:--

  “I trust you have been--well entertained, Mr. Temple. My daughter hasbeen accustomed only to the society of her brother and cousins.”

  “Faith, I should not have supposed it,” said Nick, instantly, a remarkwhich caused the color to flush deeply into Mademoiselle’s face. Ilooked to see Monsieur de St. Gré angry. He tried, indeed, to be grave,but smiled irresistibly as he mounted the steps to greet his wife, whostood demurely awaiting his caress. And in this interval Mademoiselleshot at Nick a swift and withering look as she passed him. He returned agrimace.

  “Messieurs,” said Monsieur de St. Gré, turning to us, “dinner will soonbe ready--if you will be so good as to pardon me until then.”

  Nick followed Mademoiselle with his eyes until she had disappearedbeyond the hall. She did not so much as turn. Then he took me by the armand led me to a bench under a magnolia a little distance away, where heseated himself, and looked up at me despairingly.

  “Behold,” said he, “what was once your friend and cousin, yourcounsellor, sage, and guardian. Behold the clay which conducted youhither, with the heart neatly but painfully extracted. Look upon awoman’s work, Davy, and shun the sex. I tell you it is better to goblindfold through life, to have--pardon me--your own blunt features,than to be reduced to such a pitiable state. Was ever such a refinementof cruelty practised before? Never! Was there ever such beauty, sucharchness, such coquetry,--such damned elusiveness? Never! If there is acargo going up the river, let me be salted and lie at the bottom of it.I’ll warrant you I’ll not come to life.”

  “You appear to have suffered somewhat,” I said, forgetting for themoment in my laughter the thing that weighed upon my mind.

  “Suffered!” he cried; “I have been tossed high in the azure that I mightsink the farther into the depths. I have been put in a grave, the earthstamped down, resurrected, and flung into the dust-heap. I have beentaken up to the gate of heaven and dropped a hundred and fifty yearsthrough darkness. Since I have seen you I have been the round of all thebright places and all the bottomless pits in the firmament.”

  “It seems to have made you literary,” I remarked judicially.

  “I burn up twenty times a day,” he continued, with a wave of the hand toexpress the completeness of the process; “there is nothing left. I seeher, I speak to her, and I burn up.”

  “Have you had many tête-à-têtes?” I asked.

  “Not one,” he retorted fiercely; “do you think there is any sense in thedamnable French custom? I am an honorable man, and, besides, I am notequipped for an elopement. No priest in Louisiana would marry us. I seeher at dinner, at supper. Sometimes we sew on the gallery,” he went on,“but I give you my oath that I have not had one word with her alone.”

  “An oath is not necessary,” I said. “But you seem to have made someprogress nevertheless.”

  “Do you call that progress?” he demanded.

  “It is surely not retrogression.”

  “God knows what it is,” said Nick, helplessly, “but it’s got to stop. Ihave sent her an ultimatum.”

  “A what?”

  “A summons. Her father and mother are going to the Bertrands’ to-night,and I have written her a note to meet me in the garden. And you,” hecried, rising and slapping me between the shoulders, “you are to keepwatch, like the dear, careful, canny, sly rascal you are.”

  “And--and has she accepted?” I inquired.

  “That’s the deuce of it,” said he; “she has not. But I think she’llcome.”

  I stood for a moment regarding him.

  “And you really love Mademoiselle Antoinette?” I asked.

  “Have I not exhausted the language?” he answered. “If what I have beenthrough is not love, then may the Lord shield me from the real disease.”

  “It may have been merely a light case of--tropical enthusiasm, letus say. I have seen others, a little milder because the air was moretemperate.”

  “Tropical--balderdash,” he exploded. “If you are not the mostexasperating, unfeeling man alive--”

  “I merely wanted to know if you wished to marry Mademoiselle de St.Gré,” I interrupted.

  He gave me a look of infinite tolerance.

  “Have I not made it plain that I cannot live without her?” he said; “ifnot, I will go over it all again.”

  “That will not be necessary,” I said hastily.

  “The trouble may be,” he continued, “that they have already made one oftheir matrimonial contracts with a Granpré, a Beauséjour, a Bernard.”

  “Monsieur de St. Gré is a very sensible man,” I answered. “He loves hisdaughter, and I doubt if he would force her to marry against her will.Tell me, Nick,” I asked, laying my hand upon his shoulder, “do you lovethis girl so much that you would let nothing come between you and her?”

  “I tell you, I do; and again I tell you, I do,” he replied. He pausedsuddenly glancing at my face, and added, “Why do you ask, Davy?”

  I stood irresolute, now that the time had come not daring to give voiceto my suspicions. He had not spoken to me of his mother save that once,and I had no means of knowing whether his feeling for the girl might notsoften his anger against her. I have never lacked the courage to cometo the point, but there was still the chance that I might be mistaken inthis after all. Would it not be best to wait until I had ascertained insome way the identity of Mrs. Clive? And while I stood debating, Nickregarding me with a puzzled expression, Monsieur de St. Gré appeared onthe gallery.

  “Come, gentlemen,” he cried; “dinner awaits us.”

  The dining room at Les Îles was at the corner of the house, and itswindows looked out on the gallery, which was shaded at that place bydense foliage. The room, like others in the house, seemed to reflect thedecorous character of its owner. Two St. Grés, indifferently painted,but rigorous and respectable, relieved the whiteness of the wall. Theywere the Commissary-general and his wife. The lattices were closed onone side, and in the deep amber light the family silver shone but dimly.The dignity of our host, the evident ceremony of the meal,--which wasattended by three servants,--would have awed into a modified silence atleast a less irrepressible person than Nicholas Temple. But Nick was oneto carry by storm a position which another might wait to reconnoitre.The first sensation of our host was no doubt astonishment, but he wassoon laughing over a vivid account of our adventures on the keel boat.Nick’s imitation of Xavier, and his description of Benjy’s terrors afterthe storm, were so perfect that I laughed quite as heartily; andMadame de St. Gré wiped her eyes and repeated continually, “Queldrôle monsieur! it is thus he has entertained us since thou departed,Philippe.”

  As for Mademoiselle, I began to think that Nick was not far wrong in hisdiagnosis. Training may have had something to do with it. She would notlaugh, not she, but once or twice she raised her napkin to her face andcoughed slightly. For the rest, she sat demurely, with her eyes onher plate, a model of propriety. Nick’s sufferings became morecomprehensible.

  To give the devil his due, Nick had an innate tact which told him whento stop, and perhaps at this time Mademoiselle’s superciliousness madehim subside the more quickly.
After Monsieur de St. Gré had explained tome the horrors of the indigo pest and the futility of sugar raising, heturned to his daughter.

  “‘Toinette, where is Madame Clive?” he asked.

  The girl looked up, startled into life and interest at once.

  “Oh, papa,” she cried in French, “we are so worried about her, mamma andI. It was the day you went away, the day these gentlemen came, that wethought she would take an airing. And suddenly she became worse.”

  Monsieur de St. Gré turned with concern to his wife.

  “I do not know what it is, Philippe,” said that lady; “it seems to bemental. The loss of her husband weighs upon her, poor lady. But this isworse than ever, and she will lie for hours with her face turned to thewall, and not even Antoinette can arouse her.”

  “I have always been able to comfort her before,” said Antoinette, with acatch in her voice.

  I took little account of what was said after that, my only notion beingto think the problem out for myself, and alone. As I was going to myroom Nick stopped me.

  “Come into the garden, Davy,” he said.

  “When I have had my siesta,” I answered.

  “When you have had your siesta!” he cried; “since when did you begin toindulge in siestas?”

  “To-day,” I replied, and left him staring after me.

  I reached my room, bolted the door, and lay down on my back to think.Little was needed to convince me now that Mrs. Clive was Mrs. Temple,and thus the lady’s relapse when she heard that her son was in the housewas accounted for. Instead of forming a plan, my thoughts drifted fromthat into pity for her, and my memory ran back many years to the textof good Mr. Mason’s sermon, “I have refined thee, but not with silver,I have chosen thee in the furnace of affliction.” What must Sarah Templehave suffered since those days! I remembered her in her prime, in herbeauty, in her selfishness, in her cruelty to those whom she might havehelped, and I wondered the more at the change which must have come overthe woman that she had won the affections of this family, that she hadgained the untiring devotion of Mademoiselle Antoinette. Her wit mightnot account for it, for that had been cruel. And something of the agonyof the woman’s soul as she lay in torment, facing the wall, thinkingof her son under the same roof, of a life misspent and irrevocable, Ipictured.

  A stillness crept into the afternoon like the stillness of night. Thewide house was darkened and silent, and without a sunlight washed withgold filtered through the leaves. There was a drowsy hum of bees, and inthe distance the occasional languishing note of a bird singing what musthave been a cradle-song. My mind wandered, and shirked the task that wasset to it.

  Could anything be gained by meddling? I had begun to convince myselfthat nothing could, when suddenly I came face to face with theconsequences of a possible marriage between Nick and MademoiselleAntoinette. In that event the disclosure of his mother’s identity wouldbe inevitable. Not only his happiness was involved, but Mademoiselle’s,her father’s and her mother’s, and lastly that of this poor hunted womanherself, who thought at last to have found a refuge.

  An hour passed, and it became more and more evident to me that I mustsee and talk with Mrs. Temple. But how was I to communicate with her? Atlast I took out my portfolio and wrote these words on a sheet:--

  “If Mrs. Clive will consent to a meeting with Mr. David Ritchie, hewill deem it a favor. Mr. Ritchie assures Mrs. Clive that he makes thisrequest in all friendliness.”

  I lighted a candle, folded the note and sealed it, addressed it to Mrs.Clive, and opening the latticed door I stepped out. Walking along thegallery until I came to the rear part of the house which faced towardsthe out-buildings, I spied three figures prone on the grass under apecan tree that shaded the kitchen roof. One of these figures was Benjy,and he was taking his siesta. I descended quietly from the gallery, andmaking my way to him, touched him on the shoulder. He awoke and staredat me with white eyes.

  “Marse Dave!” he cried.

  “Hush,” I answered, “and follow me.”

  He came after me, wondering, a little way into the grove, where Istopped.

  “Benjy,” I said, “do you know any of the servants here?”

  “Lawsy, Marse Dave, I reckon I knows ‘em,--some of ‘em,” he answeredwith a grin.

  “You talk to them?”

  “Shucks, no, Marse Dave,” he replied with a fine scorn, “I ain’t no handat dat ar nigger French. But I knows some on ‘em, and right well too.”

  “How?” I demanded curiously.

  Benjy looked down sheepishly at his feet. He was standing pigeon-toed.

  “I done c’ressed some on ‘em, Marse Dave,” he said at length, and therewas a note of triumph in his voice.

  “You did what?” I asked.

  “I done kissed one of dem yaller gals, Marse Dave. Yass’r, I done kissedM’lisse.”

  “Do you think Mélisse would do something for you if you asked her?” Iinquired.

  Benjy seemed hurt.

  “Marse Dave--” he began reproachfully.

  “Very well, then,” I interrupted, taking the letter from my pocket,“there is a lady who is ill here, Mrs. Clive--”

  I paused, for a new look had come into Benjy’s eyes. He began thatpeculiar, sympathetic laugh of the negro, which catches and doubles onitself, and I imagined that a new admiration for me dawned on his face.

  “Yass’r, yass, Marse Dave, I reckon M’lisse ‘ll git it to her ‘thout anyone tekin’ notice.”

  I bit my lips.

  “If Mrs. Clive receives this within an hour, Mélisse shall have onepiastre, and you another. There is an answer.”

  Benjy took the note, and departed nimbly to find Mélisse, while I pacedup and down in my uneasiness as to the outcome of the experiment. Aquarter of an hour passed, half an hour, and then I saw Benjy comingthrough the trees. He stood before me, chuckling, and drew from hispocket a folded piece of paper. I gave him the two piastres, warned himif his master or any one inquired for me that I was taking a walk, andbade him begone. Then I opened the note.

  “I will meet you at the bayou at seven this evening. Take the path thatleads through the garden.”

  I read it with a catch of the breath, with a certainty that thehappiness of many people depended upon what I should say at thatmeeting. And to think of this and to compose myself a little, I made myway to the garden in search of the path, that I might know it when thetime came. Entering a gap in the hedge, I caught sight of the shadedseat under the tree which had been the scene of our first meeting withAntoinette, and I hurried past it as I crossed the garden. There weretwo openings in the opposite hedge, the one through which Nick and I hadcome, and another. I took the second, and with little difficultyfound the path of which the note had spoken. It led through a dense,semi-tropical forest in the direction of the swamp beyond, the way beingwell beaten, but here and there jealously crowded by an undergrowthof brambles and the prickly Spanish bayonet. I know not how far I hadwalked, my head bent in thought, before I felt the ground teeteringunder my feet, and there was the bayou. It was a narrow lane of murky,impenetrable water, shaded now by the forest wall. Imaged on itsamber surface were the twisted boughs of the cypresses of the swampbeyond,--boughs funereally draped, as though to proclaim a warning ofunknown perils in the dark places. On that side where I stood ancientoaks thrust their gnarled roots into the water, and these knees werebridged by treacherous platforms of moss. As I sought for a saferesting-place a dull splash startled me, the pink-and-white water liliesdanced on the ripples, and a long, black snout pushed its way to thecentre of the bayou and floated there motionless.

  I sat down on a wide knee that seemed to be fashioned for the purpose,and reflected. It may have been about half-past five, and I made up mymind that, rather than return and risk explanations, I would wait whereI was until Mrs. Temple appeared. I had much to think of, and for therest the weird beauty of the place, with its changing colors as thesun fell, held me in fascination. When the blue vapor stole through thecypress
swamp, my trained ear caught the faintest of warning sounds.Mrs. Temple was coming.

  I could not repress the exclamation that rose to my lips when she stoodbefore me.

  “I have changed somewhat,” she began quite calmly; “I have changed sinceyou were at Temple Bow.”

  I stood staring at her, at a loss to know whether by these words shesought to gain an advantage. I knew not whether to pity or to be angry,such a strange blending she seemed of former pride and arrogance andlater suffering. There were the features of the beauty still, theeyes defiant, the lips scornful. Sorrow had set its brand upon thisprotesting face in deep, violet marks under the eyes, in lines which nohuman power could erase: sorrow had flecked with white the gold of thehair, had proclaimed her a woman with a history. For she had a new andremarkable beauty which puzzled and astonished me,--a beauty in whichmaternity had no place. The figure, gowned with an innate taste inblack, still kept the rounded lines of the young woman, while about theshoulders and across the open throat a lace mantilla was thrown. Shestood facing me, undaunted, and I knew that she had come to fight forwhat was left her. I knew further that she was no mean antagonist.

  “Will you kindly tell me to what circumstance I owe the honor ofthis--summons, Mr. Ritchie?” she asked. “You are a travelled person forone so young. I might almost say,” she added with an indifferent laugh,“that there is some method and purpose in your travels.”

  “Indeed, you do me wrong, Madame,” I replied; “I am here by the merestchance.”

  Again she laughed lightly, and stepping past me took her seat on theoak from which I had risen. I marvelled that this woman, with allher self-possession, could be the same as she who had held her room,cowering, these four days past. Admiration for her courage mingled withmy other feelings, and for the life of me I knew not where to begin. Myexperience with women of the world was, after all, distinctly limited.Mrs. Temple knew, apparently by intuition, the advantage she had gained,and she smiled.

  “The Ritchies were always skilled in dealing with sinners,” she began;“the first earl had the habit of hunting them like foxes, so it is said.I take it for granted that, before my sentence is pronounced, I shallhave the pleasure of hearing my wrong-doings in detail. I could not askyou to forego that satisfaction.”

  “You seem to know the characteristics of my family, Mrs. Temple,” Ianswered. “There is one trait of the Ritchies concerning which I askyour honest opinion.”

  “And what is that?” she said carelessly.

  “I have always understood that they have spoken the truth. Is it notso?”

  She glanced at me curiously.

  “I never knew your father to lie,” she answered; “but after all he hadfew chances. He so seldom spoke.”

  “Your intercourse with me at Temple Bow was quite as limited,” I said.

  “Ah,” she interrupted quickly, “you bear me that grudge. It is anothertrait of the Ritchies.”

  “I bear you no grudge, Madame,” I replied. “I asked you a questionconcerning the veracity of my family, and I beg that you will believewhat I say.”

  “And what is this momentous statement?” she asked.

  I had hard work to keep my temper, but I knew that I must not lose it.

  “I declare to you on my honor that my business in New Orleans in no wayconcerns you, and that I had not the slightest notion of finding youhere. Will you believe that?”

  “And what then?” she asked.

  “I also declare to you that, since meeting your son, my chief anxietyhas been lest he should run across you.”

  “You are very considerate of others,” she said. “Let us admit for thesake of argument that you come here by accident.”

  It was the opening I had sought for, but despaired of getting.

  “Then put yourself for a moment in my place, Madame, and give me creditfor a little kindliness of feeling, and a sincere affection for yourson.”

  There was a new expression on her face, and the light of a supremeeffort in her eyes.

  “I give you credit at least for a logical mind,” she answered. “Inspite of myself you have put me at the bar and seem to be conducting mytrial.”

  “I do not see why there should be any rancor between us,” I answered.“It is true that I hated you at Temple Bow. When my father was killedand I was left a homeless orphan you had no pity for me, though yourhusband was my mother’s brother. But you did me a good turn after all,for you drove me out into a world where I learned to rely upon myself.Furthermore, it was not in your nature to treat me well.”

  “Not in my nature?” she repeated.

  “You were seeking happiness, as every one must in their own way. Thathappiness lay, apparently, with Mr. Riddle.”

  “Ah,” she cried, with a catch of her breath, “I thought you would bejudging me.”

  “I am stating facts. Your son was a sufficient embarrassment in thismatter, and I should have been an additional one. I blame you not,Mrs. Temple, for anything you have done to me, but I blame you forembittering Nick’s life.”

  “And he?” she said. It seemed to me that I detected a faltering in hervoice.

  “I will hide nothing from you. He blames you, with what justice I leaveyou to decide.”

  She did not answer this, but turned her head away towards the bayou. Norcould I determine what was in her mind.

  “And now I ask you whether I have acted as your friend in begging you tomeet me.”

  She turned to me swiftly at that.

  “I am at a loss to see how there can be friendship between us, Mr.Ritchie,” she said.

  “Very good then, Madame; I am sorry,” I answered. “I have done all thatis in my power, and now events will have to take their course.”

  I had not gone two steps into the wood before I heard her voice callingmy name. She had risen, and leaned with her hand against the oak.

  “Does Nick--know that you are here?” she cried.

  “No,” I answered shortly. Then I realized suddenly what I had failed tograsp before,--she feared that I would pity her.

  “David!”

  I started violently at the sound of my name, at the new note in hervoice, at the change in the woman as I turned. And then before Irealized what she had done she had come to me swiftly and laid her handupon my arm.

  “David, does he hate me?”

  All the hope remaining in her life was in that question, was in her faceas she searched mine with a terrible scrutiny. And never had I knownsuch an ordeal. It seemed as if I could not answer, and as I stoodstaring back at her a smile was forced to her lips.

  “I will pay you one tribute, my friend,” she said; “you are honest.”

  But even as she spoke I saw her sway, and though I could not be sure itwere not a dizziness in me, I caught her. I shall always marvel at thecourage there was in her, for she straightened and drew away from mea little proudly, albeit gently, and sat down on the knee of the oak,looking across the bayou towards the mist of the swamp. There was theinfinite calmness of resignation in her next speech.

  “Tell me about him,” she said.

  She was changed indeed. Were it not so I should have heard of her ownsufferings, of her poor, hunted life from place to place, of countlessnights made sleepless by the past. Pride indeed was left, but the firehad burned away the last vestige of selfishness.

  I sat down beside her, knowing full well that I should be judged bywhat I said. She listened, motionless, though something of what thatnarrative cost her I knew by the current of sympathy that ran nowbetween us. Unmarked, the day faded, a new light was spread over thewaters, the mist was spangled with silver points, the Spanish moss tookon the whiteness of lace against the black forest swamp, and on theyellow 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 risingand falling of her shoulders. The hardest thing I had to say I saved forthe last, and I was near lacking the courage to continue.

  “There is Mademoiselle A
ntoinette--” I began, and stopped,--she turnedon 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 suchaffection. She--she is all that I have left. Must I give her up? Have Inot paid the price of my sins?”

  I did not answer, knowing that she saw the full cruelty of thepredicament. What happiness remained to her now of a battered life stoodsquarely in the way of her son’s happiness. That was the issue, and noadvice or aid of mine could change it. There was another silence thatseemed to me an eternity as I watched, a helpless witness, the strugglegoing on within her. At last she got to her feet, her face turned to theshadow.

  “I will go, David,” she said. Her voice was low and she spoke with asteadiness that alarmed me. “I will go.”

  Torn with pity, I thought again, but I could see no alternative. Andthen, suddenly, she was clinging to me, her courage gone, her breastshaken with sobs. “Where shall I go?” she cried. “God help me! Are thereno 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 mestrangely. “You are well revenged for Temple Bow,” she said.

  “Hush,” I answered, and held her, fearing I knew not what, “you have notlacked courage. It is not so bad as you believe. I will devise a planand help you. Have you money?”

  “Yes,” she answered, with a remnant of her former pride; “and I have anannuity paid now to Mr. Clark.”

  “Then listen to what I say,” I answered. “To-night I will take you toNew Orleans and hide you safely. And I swear to you, whether it beright or wrong, that I will use every endeavor to change Nick’s feelingstowards you. Come,” I continued, leading her gently into the path, “letus go while there is yet time.”

  “Stop,” she said, and I halted fearfully. “David Ritchie, you are a goodman. 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 thehand, and she followed me as trustfully as a child. At last, after anage of groping, the heavy scents of shrubs and flowers stole to us onthe night air, and we came out at the hedge into what seemed a blaze oflight that flooded the rows of color. Here we paused, breathless, andlooked. The bench under the great tree was vacant, and the garden wasempty.

  It was she who led the way through the hedge, who halted in the gardenpath 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, followedby a lady. One was Nicholas Temple, the other, Mademoiselle de St.Gré. Mrs. Temple’s face alone was in the shadow, and as I felt her handtrembling on my arm I summoned all my resources. It was Nick who spokefirst.

  “It is Davy!” he cried. “Oh, the sly rascal! And this is the promenadeof which he left us word, the solitary meditation! Speak up, man; youare forgiven for deserting us.”

  He turned, laughing, to Mademoiselle. But she stood with her lips partedand her hands dropped, staring at my companion. Then she took two stepsforward and stopped with a cry.

  “Mrs. Clive!”

  The woman beside me turned, and with a supreme courage raised her headand faced the girl.

  “Yes, Antoinette, it is I,” she answered.

  And then my eyes sought Nick, for Mrs. Temple had faced her son with amovement that was a challenge, yet with a look that questioned, yearned,appealed. He, too, stared, the laughter fading from his eyes, firstastonishment, and then anger, growing in them, slowly, surely. I shallnever forget him as he stood there (for what seemed an age) recallingone by one the wrongs this woman had done him. She herself had taughthim to brook no restraint, to follow impetuously his loves and hates,and endurance in these things was moulded in every line of his finelycut features. And when he spoke it was not to her, but to the girl athis side.

  “Do you know who this is?” he said. “Tell me, do you know this woman?”

  Mademoiselle de St. Gré did not answer him. She drew near, gently, toMrs. Temple, whose head was bowed, whose agony I could only guess.

  “Mrs. Clive,” she said softly, though her voice was shaken by aprescience, “won’t you tell me what has happened? Won’t you speak tome--Antoinette?”

  The poor lady lifted up her arms, as though to embrace the girl, droppedthem despairingly, and turned away.

  “Antoinette,” she murmured, “Antoinette!”

  For Nick had seized Antoinette by the hand, restraining her.

  “You do not know what you are doing?” he cried angrily. “Listen!”

  I had stood bereft of speech, watching the scene breathlessly. And now Iwould have spoken had not Mademoiselle astonished me by taking the lead.I have thought since that I might have pieced together this much of hercharacter. Her glance at Nick surprised him momentarily into silence.

  “I know that she is my dearest friend,” she said, “that she came to usin misfortune, and that we love her and trust her. I do not know why sheis here with Mr. Ritchie, but I am sure it is for some good reason.” Shelaid a hand on Mrs. Temple’s shoulder. “Mrs. Clive, won’t you speak tome?”

  “My God, Antoinette, listen!” cried Nick; “Mrs. Clive is not her name. Iknow her, David knows her. She is an--adventuress!”

  Mrs. Temple gave a cry, and the girl shot at him a frightened,bewildered glance, in which a new-born love struggled with an olderaffection.

  “An adventuress!” she repeated, her hand dropping, “oh, I do not believeit. I cannot believe it.”

  “You shall believe it,” said Nick, fiercely. “Her name is not Clive. AskDavid what her name is.”

  Antoinette’s lips moved, but she shirked the question. And Nick seizedme roughly.

  “Tell her,” he said, “tell her! My God, how can I do it? Tell her,David.”

  For the life of me I could not frame the speech at once, my pity anda new-found and surprising respect for her making it doubly hard topronounce her sentence. Suddenly she raised her head, not proudly, butwith a dignity seemingly conferred by years of sorrow and of suffering.Her tones were even, bereft of every vestige of hope.

  “Antoinette, I have deceived you, though as God is my witness, I thoughtno harm could come of it. I deluded myself into believing that I hadfound friends and a refuge at last. I am Mrs. Temple.”

  “Mrs. Temple!” The girl repeated the name sorrowfully, but perplexedly,not grasping its full significance.

  “She is my mother,” said Nick, with a bitterness I had not thought inhim, “she is my mother, or I would curse her. For she has ruined my lifeand brought shame on a good name.”

  He paused, his breath catching for very anger. Mrs. Temple hid her facein her hands, while the girl shrank back in terror. I grasped him by thearm.

  “Have you no compassion?” I cried. But Mrs. Temple interrupted me.

  “He has the right,” she faltered; “it is my just punishment.”

  He tore himself away, and took a step to her.

  “Where is Riddle?” he cried. “As God lives, I will kill him withoutmercy!”

  His mother lifted her head again.

  “God has judged him,” she said quietly; “he is beyond your vengeance--heis dead.” A sob shook her, but she conquered it with a marvellouscourage. “Harry Riddle loved me, he was kind to me, and he was a betterman than John Temple.”

  Nick recoiled. The fierceness of his anger seemed to go, leaving a moredangerous humor.

  “Then I have been blessed with parents,” he said.

  At that she swayed, but when I would have caught her she motioned meaway and turned to Antoinette. Twice Mrs. Temple tried to speak.

  “I--I was going away to-night,” she said at length, “and you would neverhave seen or heard of me more. My nephew David--Mr. Ritchie--whom Itreated cruelly as a boy, had pity on me. He is a good man, and he wasto have taken me away--I do not attempt to defend
myself, my dear, butI pray that you, who have so much charity, will some day think a littlekindly of one who has sinned deeply, of one who will love and bless youand yours to her dying day.”

  She faltered, and Nick would have spoken had not Antoinette herselfstayed him with a gesture.

  “I wish--my son to know the little there is on my side. It is not much.Yet God may not spare him the sorrow that brings pity. I--I loved HarryRiddle as a girl. My father was ruined, and I was forced into marriagewith John Temple for his possessions. He was selfish, overbearing,cruel--unfaithful. During the years I lived with him he never once spokekindly to me. I, too, grew wicked and selfish and heedless. My head wasturned by admiration. Mr. Temple escaped to England in a man-of-war; heleft me without a line of warning, of farewell. I--I have wanderedover the earth, haunted by remorse, and I knew no moment of peace, ofhappiness, until you brought me here and sheltered and loved me. Andeven here I have had many sleepless hours. A hundred times I havesummoned my courage to tell you,--I could not. I am justly punished,Antoinette.” She moved a little, timidly, towards the girl, who stoodmotionless, dazed by what she heard. She held out a hand, appealingly,and dropped it. “Good-by, my dear; God will bless you for your kindnessto an unfortunate outcast.”

  She glanced with a kind of terror in her eyes from the girl to Nick, andwhat she meant to say concerning their love I know not, for the flood,held back so long, burst upon her. She wept as I have never seen a womanweep. And then, before Nick or I knew what had happened, Antoinette hadtaken her swiftly in her arms and was murmuring in her ear:--

  “You shall not go. You shall not. You will live with me always.”

  Presently the sobs ceased, and Mrs. Temple raised her face, slowly,wonderingly, as if she had not heard aright. And she tried gently topush the girl away.

  “No, Antoinette,” she said, “I have done you harm enough.”

  But the girl clung to her strongly, passionately. “I do not care whatyou have done,” she cried, “you are good now. I know that you are goodnow. I will not cast you out. I will not.”

  I stood looking at them, bewildered and astonished by Mademoiselle’sloyalty. She seemed to have forgotten Nick, as had I, and then as Iturned to him he came towards them. Almost roughly he took Antoinette bythe arm.

  “You do not know what you are saying,” he cried. “Come away, Antoinette,you do not know what she has done--you cannot realize what she is.”

  Antoinette shrank away from him, still clinging to Mrs. Temple. Therewas a fearless directness in her look which might have warned him.

  “She is your mother,” she said quietly.

  “My mother!” he repeated; “yes, I will tell you what a mother she hasbeen to me--”

  “Nick!”

  It passes my power to write down the pity of that appeal, thehopelessness of it, the yearning in it. Freeing herself from the girl,Mrs. Temple took one step towards him, her arms held up. I had notthought that his hatred of her was deep enough to resist it. It wasAntoinette whose intuition divined this ere he had turned away.

  “You have chosen between me and her,” he said; and before we could getthe poor lady to the seat under the oak, he had left the garden. In myperturbation I glanced at Antoinette, but there was no other sign in herface save of tenderness for Mrs. Temple.

  Mrs. Temple had mercifully fainted. As I crossed the lawn I saw twofigures in the deep shadow beside the gallery, and I heard Nick’s voicegiving orders to Benjy to pack and saddle. When I reached the gardenagain the girl had loosed Mrs. Temple’s gown, and was bending over her,murmuring in her ear.

  Many hours later, when the moon was waning towards the horizon, fearfulof surprise by the coming day, I was riding slowly under the trees onthe road to New Orleans. Beside me, veiled in black, her head bowed, wasMrs. Temple, and no word had escaped her since she had withdrawn herselfgently from the arms of Antoinette on the gallery at Les Îles. Nick hadgone long before. The hardest task had been to convince the girl thatMrs. Temple might not stay. After that Antoinette had busied herself,with a silent fortitude I had not thought was in her, making ready forthe lady’s departure. I shall never forget her as she stood, a slenderfigure of sorrow, looking down at us, the tears glistening on hercheeks. And I could not resist the impulse to mount the steps once more.

  “You were right, Antoinette,” I whispered; “whatever happens, you willremember that I am your friend. And I will bring him back to you if Ican.”

  She pressed my hand, and turned and went slowly into the house.