The Long Night

by Stanley John Weyman

  CHAPTER XIII.

  A MYSTERY SOLVED.

  Whether Basterga, seeing that Claude was less pliant than he had lookedto find him, shunned occasion of collision with him, or the Paduan beingin better spirits was less prone to fall foul of his companions, certainit is that life for a time after the outbreak at supper ran more quietlyin the house in the Corraterie. Claude's gloomy face--he had notforgiven--bade beware of him; and little save on the subject of Louis'disfigured cheek--of which the most pointed questions could extract noexplanation--passed among them at table. But outward peace was preservedand a show of ease. Grio's brutal nature broke out once or twice when hehad had wine; but discouraged by Basterga, he subsided quickly. AndLouis, starting at a voice and trembling at a knock, with the fear ofthe Syndic always upon him, showed a nervousness which more than oncedrew the Italian's eye to him. But on the whole a calm prevailed; astranger entering at noon or during the evening meal might have deemedthe party ill-assorted and silent, but lacking neither in amity norease.

  Meantime, under cover of this calm, destined to be short-lived andholding in suspense the makings of a storm of no mean violence, twopersons were drawing nearer to one another. A confidence, even aconfidence not perfect, is a tie above most. Nor does love play at anytime a higher part than when it repeats "I do not understand--I trust".By the common light of day, which showed Anne moving to and fro abouther household tasks, at once the minister and the providence of thehome, the dark suspicion that had for a moment--a moment only!--masteredClaude's judgment, lost shape and reality. It was impossible to see herbending over the hearth, or arranging her mother's simple meal, it wasimpossible to witness her patience, her industry, her deftness, tobehold her, ever gentle yet supporting with a man's fortitude the trialsof her position, trials of the bitterness of which she had given himproof--it was impossible, in a word, to watch her in her daily life,without perceiving the wickedness as well as the folly of the thoughtwhich had possessed him.

  True, the more he saw of her the graver seemed the mystery; and the moredeeply he wondered. But he no longer dreaded the answer to the riddle;nor did he fear to meet at some turn or corner a Megaera head that shouldfreeze his soul. Wickedness there might be, cruelty there might be, andshame; but the blood ran too briskly in his veins and he had looked toooften into the girl's candid eyes--reading something there which had notbeen there formerly--to fear to find either at her door.

  He had taken to coming to the living-room a little before nightfall;there he would seat himself beside the hearth while she prepared theevening meal. The glow of the wood-fire, reflected in rows of burnishedpewters, or given back by the night-backed casements, the savour of thecoming meal, the bubbling of the black pot between which and the tableher nimble feet carried her a dozen times in as many minutes, thepleasant, homely room with its touches of refinement and its wintercomfort, these were excuses enough had he not brought the book which layunheeded on his knee.

  But in truth he offered her no excuse. With scarce a word anunderstanding had grown up between them that not a million words couldhave made more clear. Each played the appropriated part. He looked andshe bore the look, and if she blushed the fire was warrant, and if hestared it was the blind man's hour between day and night, and why shouldhe not sit idle as well as another? Soon there was not a turn of herhead or a line of her figure that he did not know; not a trick of herwalk, not a pose of her hand as she waited for a pot to boil that hecould not see in the dark; not a gleam from her hair as she stooped tothe blaze, nor a turn of her wrist as she shielded her face that was notas familiar to him as if he had known her from childhood.

  In these hours she let the mask fall. The apathy, which had been theleast natural as it had been the most common garb of her young face, andwhich had grown to be the cover and veil of her feelings, dropped fromher. Seated in the shadow, while she moved, now in the glow of theburning embers, now obscured, he read her mind without disguise--save inone dark nook--watched unrebuked the eye fall and the lip tremble, or inrarer moments saw the shy smile dimple the corner of her cheek. Notseldom she stood before him sad: sad without disguise, her bowed headand drooping shoulders the proof of gloomy thoughts, that strayed, hefancied, far from her work or her companion. And sometimes a tear felland she wiped it away, making no attempt to hide it; and sometimes shewould shiver and sigh as if in pain or fear.

  At these times he longed for Basterga's throat; and the blood of oldEnguerrande de Beauvais, his ancestor, dust these four hundred years at"Damietta of the South," raced in him, and he choked with rage andgrief, and for the time could scarcely see. Yet with this pulse of wrathwere mingled delicious thrills. The tear which she did not hide fromhim was his gage of love. The brooding eye, the infrequent smile, thestart, the reverie were for him only, and for no other. They were thegift to him of her secret life, her inmost heart.

  It was an odd love-making, and bizarre. To Grio, even to men moredelicate and more finely wrought, it might have seemed no love-making atall. But the wood-smoke that perfumed the air, sweetened it, thefirelight wrapped it about, the pots and pans and simple things of life,amid which it passed, hallowed it. His eyes attending her hither andthither without reserve, without concealment, unabashed, laid his heartat her feet, not once, but a hundred times in the evening; and as often,her endurance of the look, more rarely her sudden blush or smile,accepted the offering.

  And scarce a word said: for though they had the room to themselves, theyknew that they were never alone or unheeded. Basterga, indeed, sat abovestairs and only descended to his meals; and Grio also was above when hewas not at the tavern. But Louis sulked in his closet beside them,divided from them only by a door, whence he might emerge at any minute.As a fact he would have emerged many times, but for two things. Thefirst was his marked face, which he was chary of showing; the second,the notion which he had got that the balance of things in the house waschanging, and the reign of petty bullying, in which he had so muchdelighted, approaching its end. With Basterga exposed to arrest, and thegirl's help become of value to the authorities, it needed little acumento discern this. He still feared Basterga; nay, he lived in such terror,lest the part he had played should come to the scholar's ears, that heprayed for his arrest night and morning, and whenever during the day anespecial fit of dread seized him. But he feared Anne also, for she mightbetray him to Basterga; and of young Mercier's quality--that he was noTissot to be brow-beaten, or thrust aside--he had had proof on the nightof the fracas at supper. Essentially a coward, Louis' aim was to be onthe stronger side; and once persuaded that this was the side on whichthey stood, he let them be.

  On several consecutive evenings the two passed an hour or more in thissilent communion. On the last the door of Louis' room stood open, theyoung man had not come in, and for the first time they were reallyalone. But the fact did not at once loosen Claude's tongue; and if thegirl noticed it, or expected aught to come of it, more than had come oftheir companionship on other evenings, she hid her feelings with awoman's ease. He remarked, however, that she was more thoughtful anddowncast than usual, and several times he saw her break off in themiddle of a task and listen nervously as for something she expected.Presently:--

  "Are you listening for Louis?" he asked.

  She turned on him, her eyes less kind than usual. "No," she said, almostdefiantly. "Was I listening?"

  "I thought so," he said.

  She turned away again, and went on with her work. But by-and-by as shestooped over the fire a tear fell and pattered audibly in the wood-ashon the hearth; and another. With an impatient gesture she wiped away athird. He saw all--she made no attempt to hide them--and he bit his lipand drove his finger-ends into his palms in the effort to be silent.Presently he had his reward.

  "I am sorry," she said in a low tone. "I was listening, and I knew Iwas. I do not know why I deceived you."

  "Why will you not tell me all?" he cried.

  "I cannot!" she answered, her breast heaving passionately. "I cannot!"For the first time in his
knowledge of her, she broke down completely,and sinking on a bench with her back to the table she sobbed bitterly,her face in her hands. For some minutes she rocked herself to and fro ina paroxysm of trouble.

  He had risen and stood watching her awkwardly, longing to comfort her,but ignorant how to go about it, and feeling acutely his helplessnessand his _gaucherie_. Sad she had always been, and at her bestdespondent, with gleams of cheerfulness as fitful as brief. But thisevening her abandonment to her grief convinced him that something morethan ordinary was amiss, that some danger more serious than ordinarythreatened. He felt no surprise therefore when, a little later, shearrested her sobbing, raised her head, and with suspended breath andtear-stained face listened with that scared intentness which hadimpressed him before.

  She feared! He could not be mistaken. Fear looked out of her strainedeyes, fear hung breathless on her parted lips. He was sure of it. And"Is it Basterga?" he cried. "Is it of him that you are afraid? If youare----"

  "Hush!" she cried, raising her hand in warning. "Hush!" And then, "Youdid not--hear anything?" she asked. For an instant her eyes met his.

  "No." He met her look, puzzled; and, obeying her gesture, he listenedafresh. "No, I heard nothing. But----"

  He heard nothing even now, nothing; but whatever it was sharpened herhearing to an abnormal pitch, it was clear that she did. She was on herfeet; with a startled cry she was round the table and half-way acrossthe room, while he stared, the word suspended on his lips. A second, andher hand was on the latch of the staircase door. Then as she opened it,he sprang forward to accompany her, to help her, to protect her ifnecessary. "Let me come!" he said. "Let me help you. Whatever it is, Ican do something."

  She turned on him fiercely. "Go back!" she said. All the confidence,the gentleness, the docility of the last three days were gone; and intheir place suspicion glared at him from eyes grown spiteful as a cat's."Go back!" she repeated. "I do not want you! I do not want any one, orany help! Or any protection! Go, do you hear, and let me be!"

  As she ceased to speak, a sound from above stairs--a sound which thistime, the door being open, did reach his ears, froze the words on hislips. It was the sound of a voice, yet no common voice, Heaven bethanked! A moment she continued to confront him, her face one mute,despairing denial! Then she slammed the door in his teeth, and he heardher panting breath and fleeing footsteps speed up the stairs and alongthe passage, and--more faintly now--he heard her ascend the upperflight. Then--silence.

  Silence! But he had heard enough. He paused a moment irresolute,uncertain, his hand raised to the latch. Then the hand fell to his side,he turned, and went softly--very softly back to the hearth. Thefirelight playing on his face showed it much moved; moved and softenedalmost to the semblance of a woman's. For there were tears in hiseyes--eyes singularly bright; and his features worked, as if he had someado to repress a sob. In truth he had. In a breath, in the time it takesto utter a single sound, he had hit on the secret, he had come to thebottom of the mystery, he had learnt that which Basterga, favoured bythe position of his room on the upper floor, had learned two monthsbefore, that which Grio might have learned, had he been anything but thedull gross toper he was! He had learned, or in a moment of intuitionguessed--all. The power of Basterga, that power over the girl which hadso much puzzled and perplexed him, was his also now, to use or misuse,hold or resign.

  Yet his first feeling was not one of joy; nor for that matter hissecond. The impression went deeper, went to the heart of the man. Aninfinite tenderness, a tenderness which swelled his breast to bursting,a yearning that, man as he was, stopped little short of tears, thesewere his, these it was thrilled his soul to the point of pain. The roomin which he stood, homely as it showed, plain as it was, seemedglorified, the hearth transfigured. He could have knelt and kissed thefloor which the girl had trodden, coming and going, serving and makingready--under that burden; the burden that dignified and hallowed thebearer. What had it not cost her--that burden? What had it not meant toher, what suspense by day, what terror of nights, what haggardawakenings--such as that of which he had been the ignorant witness--whatwatches above, what slights and insults below! Was it a marvel that thecheeks had lost their colour, the eyes their light, the whole face itslife and meaning? Nay, the wonder was that she had borne the weight solong, always expecting, always dreading, stabbed in the tenderestaffection; with for confidant an enemy and for stay an ignorant! Viewedthrough the medium of the man's love, which can so easily idealise whereit rests, the love of the daughter for the mother, that must havetouched and softened the hardest--or so, but for the case of Basterga,one would have judged--seemed so holy, so beautiful, so pure a thingthat the young man felt that, having known it, he must be the better forit all his life.

  And then his mind turned to another point in the story, and he recalledwhat had passed above stairs on that day when he had entered a stranger,and gone up. With what a smiling face of love had she leant over hermother's bed. With what cheerfulness had she lied of that which passedbelow, what a countenance had she put on all--no house more prosperous,no life more gay--how bravely had she carried it! The peace and neatnessand comfort of the room with its windows looking over the Rhone valley,and its spinning-wheel and linen chest and blooming bow-pot, all cameback to him; so that he understood many things which had passed beforehim then, and then had roused but a passing and a trifling wonder.

  Her anxiety lest he should take lodging there and add one more to thechances of espial, one more to the witnesses of her misery; her secretnods and looks, and that gently checked outburst of excitement on MadameRoyaume's part, which even at the time had seemed odd--all were plainnow. Ay, plain; but suffused with a light so beautiful, set in anatmosphere so pure and high, that no view of God's earth, even from theeyrie of those lofty windows, and though dawn or sunset flung itsfairest glamour over the scene, could so fill the heart of man withgratitude and admiration!

  Up and down in the days gone by, his thoughts followed her through thehouse. Now he saw her ascend and enter, and finding all well, mask--butat what a cost--her aching heart under smiles and cheerful looks andsoft laughter. He heard the voice that was so seldom heard downstairsmurmur loving words, and little jests, and dear foolish trifles; heardit for the hundredth time reiterate the false assurances that affectionhallowed. He was witness to the patient tendance, the pious offices, thetireless service of hand and eye, that went on in that room under thetiles; witness to the long communion hand in hand, with the world shutout; to the anxious scrutiny, to the daily departure. A sad departure,though daily and more than daily taken; for she who descended carried aweight of fear and anxiety. As she came down the weary stairs, stage bystage, he saw the brightness die from eye and lip, and pale fear or dulldespair seize on its place. He saw--and his heart was full--the slenderfigure, the pallid face enter the room in which he stood--it might be atthe dawning when the cold shadow of the night still lay on all, from thedead ashes on the hearth to the fallen pot and displaced bench; or itmight be at mid-day, to meet sneers and taunts and ignoble looks; andhis heart was full. His face burned, his eyes filled, he could havekissed the floor she had walked over, the wooden spoon her hand hadtouched, the trencher-edge--done any foolish thing to prove his love.

  Love? It was a deeper thing than love, a holier, purer thing--that whichhe felt. Such a feeling as the rough spearsmen of the Orleannais had forJoan the maid; or the great Florentine for the girl whom he saw for thefirst time at the banquet in the house of the Portinari; or as that man,who carried to his grave the Queen's glove, yet had never touched itwith his bare hand.

  Alas, that such feelings cannot last, nor such moments endure; that inthe footsteps of the priest, be he never so holy, treads ever thegrinning acolyte with his mind on sweet things. They pass, thesefeelings, and too quickly. But once to have had them, once to have livedsuch moments, once to have known a woman and loved her in such wiseleaves no man as he was before; leaves him at the least with a memory ofa higher life.

  That the aco
lyte in Claude's case took the form of Louis Gentilis madehim no more welcome. Claude was still dreaming on his feet, stillviewing in a kind of happy amaze the simple things about him, thingsthat for him wore

  The light that never was on land or sea,

  and that this world puts on but once for each of us, when Gentilisopened the door and entered, bringing with him a rush of rain, and agust of night air. He breathed quickly as if he had been running, yethaving closed the door, he paused before he advanced into the room; andhe seemed surprised, and at a nonplus. After a moment, "Supper is notready?" he said.

  "It is not time," Claude answered curtly. The vision of an angel doesnot necessarily purify at all points, and he had small stomach forMaster Louis at any time.

  The youth winced under the tone, but stood his ground.

  "Where is Anne?" he asked, something sullenly.

  "Upstairs. Why do you ask?"

  "Messer Basterga is not coming to supper. Nor Grio. They bade me tellher. And that they would be late."

  "Very well, I will tell her."

  But it was evident that that was not all Louis had in his mind. Heremained fidgeting by the door, his cap in his hand; and his face, hadClaude marked it--but he had already turned a contemptuous shoulder onhim--was a picture of doubt and indecision. At length, "I've a messagefor you," he muttered nervously. "From Messer Blondel the Syndic. Hewants to see you--now."

  Claude turned, and if he had not looked at the other before, he made upfor it now. "Oh!" he said at last, after a stare that bespoke bothsurprise and suspicion. "He does, does he? And who made you hismessenger?"

  "He met me in the street--just now."

  "He knows you, then?"

  "He knows I live here," Louis muttered.

  "He pays us a vast amount of attention," Claude replied with politeirony. "Nevertheless"--he turned again to the fire--"I cannot pleasurehim," he continued curtly, "this time."

  "But he wants to see you," Gentilis persisted desperately. It was plainthat he was on pins and needles. "At his house. Cannot you believe me?"in a querulous tone. "It is all fair and above board. I swear it is."

  "Is it?"

  "It is--I swear it is. He sent me. Do you doubt me?" he added withundisguised eagerness.

  Claude was about to say, with no politeness at all, that he did, and torepeat his refusal in stronger terms, when his ear caught the same soundwhich had revealed so much to him a few minutes earlier at the foot ofthe stairs. It came more faintly this time, deadened by the closed doorof the staircase, but to his enlightened senses it proclaimed so clearlywhat it was--the echo of a cracked, shrill voice, of a laugh insane,uncanny, elfish--that he trembled lest Louis should hear it also andgain the clue. That was a thing to be avoided at all costs; and even asthis occurred to him he saw the way to avoid it. Basterga and Grio wereabsent: if this fool could be removed, even for an hour or two, Annewould have the house to herself, and by midnight the crisis might beoverpast.

  "I will come with you," he said.

  Louis uttered a sigh of relief. He had expected--and he had very nearlyreceived--another answer. "Good," he said. "But he does not want me."

  "Both or neither," Claude replied coolly. "For all I know 'tis anambush."

  "No, no!"

  "In which event I shall see that you share it. Or it may be a scheme todraw me from here, and then if harm be done while I am away----"

  "Harm? What harm?" Louis muttered.

  "Any harm! If harm be done, I say, I shall then have you at hand to payme for it. So--both or neither!"

  For a moment Louis' hang-dog face--none the handsomer for the mark ofthe Syndic's cane--spelt refusal. Then he changed his mind. He noddedsulkily. "Very well," he said. "But it is raining, and I have no greatwish to--Hush! What is that?" He raised his hand in the attitude of onelistening and his eyes sought his companion's. "What is that? Did younot hear something--like a scream upstairs?"

  "I hear something like a fool downstairs!" Claude retorted gruffly.

  "But it was--I certainly heard something!" Louis persisted, raising hishand again. "It sounded----"

  "If we are to go, let us go!" Claude cried with temper. "Come, if youwant me to go! It is not my expedition," he continued, moving noisilyhither and thither in search of his staff and cloak. "It is your affair,and--where is my cap?"

  "I should think it is in your room," Louis answered meekly. "It was onlythat I thought it might be Anne. That there might be----"

  "Two fools in the house instead of one!" Claude broke in, emergingnoisily, and slamming the door of his closet behind him. "There, come,and we may hope to be back to supper some time to-night! Do you hear?"And jealously shepherding the other out of the house, he withdrew thekey when both had passed the threshold. Locking the door on the outside,he thrust the key under it. "There!" he said, smiling at his cleverness,"now, who enters--knocks!"