She Buildeth Her House
TWENTY-FOURTH CHAPTER
HAVING TO DO ESPECIALLY WITH THE MORNING OF THE ASCENSION, WHEN THEMONSTER, _PELEE_, GIVES BIRTH TO DEATH
The old servant met them at the door with uplifted finger. FatherFontanel was sleeping. They did not wish to disturb him but sat down towait in the anteroom, which seemed to breathe of little tragedies ofSaint Pierre. On one side of the room was the door that was neverlocked; on the other, the entrance to the sleeping-room of the priest.Thus he kept his ear to the city's pulse. Peter Stock drowsed in thesuffocating air. Charter's mind slowly revolved and fitted to the greatconcept.... The woman was drawn to him, and there had been no need ofwords.... Each moment she was more wonderful and radiant. There had notbeen a glance, a word, a movement, a moment, a breath, an aspiration, alift of brow or shoulder or thought, that had not more dearly charmedhis conception of her triune beauty.
The day had left in his brain a crowd of unassimilated actions, and intothis formless company came the thrilling mystery of his last moment withher--a shining cord of happiness for the labyrinth of the late days....There had been so much _beyond words_ between them--an overtone ofsinging. He had seen in her eyes all the eager treasure of brimmingwomanhood, rising to burst the bonds of repression for the first time.Dawn was a far voyage, but he settled himself to wait with the will of aweathered voyager whose heart feels the hungry arms upon the waitingshore.
The volcano lost its monstrous rhythm again, and was ripping forthirregular crashes. Father Fontanel awoke and the _Rue Victor Hugo_became alive with voices, aroused by the rattling in the throat of themountain. Charter went into the room where the priest lay.
"Come, Father," he said, "We have waited long for you. I want you to goout to the ship for the rest of the night. You must breathe true air foran hour. Do this for me."
"Ah, my son!" the old man murmured, drawing Charter's head down to hisbreast. "My mind was clouded, and I could not see you clearly in thetravail of yesterday."
"Many of your people are in Fort de France, Father," the young manadded. "They will be glad to see you. Then you may come back here--evento-morrow, if you are stronger. Besides, the stalwart friend who hasdone so much for your people, wants you one night on his ship."
"Yes, my son.... I was waiting for you. I shall be glad to breathe thedawn at sea."
Peter Stock pressed Charter's hand as they led Father Fontanel forth.The mountain was quieter again. The bells of Saint Pierre rang the hourof two.... The three reached the Sugar Landing where the _Saragossa's_launch lay.
"Hello, Ernst," Stock called to his man. "I've kept you waiting long,but top-speed to the ship--deep water and ocean air!"
The launch sped across the smoky harbor, riding down little isles offlotsam, dead birds from the sky and nameless mysteries from the roiledbed of the harbor. The wind was hot in their faces, like a stoke-holdblast. Often they heard a hissing in the water, like the sound of a wetfinger touching hot iron. A burning cinder fell upon Charter's hand, amessenger from Pelee. He could not feel fire that night.... He wasliving over that last moment with her--gazing into her eyes as one whoseeks to penetrate the mystery of creation, as if it were any clearer ina woman's eyes than in a Nile night, a Venetian song, or in the flow ofgasolene to the spark, which filled the contemplation of Ernst.... Heremembered the swift intaking of her breath at the last, and knew thatshe was close to tears.
The launch was swinging around to the _Saragossa's_ ladder. FatherFontanel had not spoken. Wherever the ship-lights fell, the sheeting ofash could be seen--upon mast and railing and plates. They helped thegood man up the ladder, and Stock ordered Laird, his first officer, tosteam out of the blizzard, a dozen miles if necessary. The anchor chainbegan to grind at once, and three minutes later, the _Saragossa's_screws were kicking the ugly harbor tide. Charter watched, strangelydisconcerted, until only the dull red of Pelee pierced the thick veilbehind. A star, and another, pricked the blue vault ahead, and the airblew in fragrant as wine from the rolling Caribbean, but each moment wasan arraignment now.... He wanted none of the clean sea; and the merefact that he would not rouse her before daylight, even if he were at the_Palms_, did not lessen the savage pressure of the time.... FatherFontanel would not sleep, but moved among his people on deck. Thenatives refused to stay below, now that the defiled harbor was behind.There was a humming of old French lullabies to the little ones. Cool airhad brought back the songs of peace and summer to the lowly hearts. Itwas an hour before dawn, and the _Saragossa_ was already putting backtoward the roadstead, when Father Fontanel called Charter suddenly.
"Make haste and go to the woman, my son," he said strangely.
Charter could not answer. The priest had spoken little more than this,since they led him from the parish-house. The _Saragossa_ crept into theedge of the smoke. The gray ghost of morning was stealing into thehateful haze. They found anchorage. The launch was in readiness below.It was not yet six. Ernst was off duty, and another sailor,--one whoseroom was prepared in the dim pavilion--waited at the tiller. Charterwaved at the pale mute face of the priest, leaning overside, and the fogrushed in between.
The launch gained the inner harbor, and the white ships at anchor werevague as phantoms in the vapor--French steamers, Italian barques, andthe smaller West Indian craft--all with their work to do and their wayto win. Charter heard one officer shout to another a whimsicalinquiry--if Saint Pierre were in her usual place or had switched siteswith hell. The day was clearing rapidly, however, and before the launchreached shore, the haze so lifted that Pelee could be seen, floating apennant of black out to sea. In the city, a large frame warehouse wasablaze. The tinder-dry structure was being destroyed with almostexplosive speed.
A blistering heat rushed down from the expiring building to the edge ofthe land. Crowds watched the destruction. Many of the people were inholiday attire. This was the Day of Ascension, and Saint Pierre wouldshortly pray and praise at the cathedral; and at _Notre Dame desLourdes_, where Father Fontanel would be missed quite the same as ifthey had taken the figure of Saint Anne from the altar.... Even now thecathedral bells were calling, and there was low laughter from a group ofCreole maidens. Was it not good to live, since the sun was trying toshine again and the mountain did not answer the ringing of the bells? Itwas true that Pelee poured forth a black streamer with lightning in itsfolds; true that the people trod upon the hot, gray dust of thevolcano's waste; that the heat was such as no man had ever felt before,and many sat in misery upon the ground; true, indeed, that voices ofhysteria came from the hovels, and the weaker were dying too swiftly forthe priests to attend them all--but the gala-spirit was not dead. Thebells were calling, the mountain was still, bright dresses wereabroad--for the torrid children of France must laugh.
A carriage was not procurable, so Charter fell in with the procession onthe way to the cathedral. Many of the natives nodded to him; and mayhave wondered at the color in his skin, the fire in his eyes, and theglad ring of his voice. Standing for a moment before the church, hehurled over the little gathering the germ of flight; told them of thefood and shelter in Fort de France, begged them laughingly to take theirwomen and children out of this killing air.... It was nearlyeight--eight on the morning of Ascension Day.... She would be ready. Hehoped to find a carriage at the hotel.... At nine they would be in thelaunch again, speeding out toward the _Saragossa_.
Twenty times a minute she recurred to him as he walked. There was nowaning nor wearing--save a wearing brighter, perhaps--of the images shehad put in his mind. Palaces, gardens, treasure-houses--with the turn ofevery thought, new riches of possibility identified with her, wererevealed. Thoughts of her, winged in and out his mind like bright birdsthat had a cote within--until he was lifted to heights of gladness whichseemed to shatter the dome of human limitations--and leave him crown andshoulders emerged into illimitable ether.
The road up the _Morne_ stretched blinding white before him. The sun wasbraver. Panting and spent not a little, he strode upward through thevicious pressure of heat, holding his helme
t free from his head, thatair might circulate under the rim. Upon the crest of the _Morne_, heperceived the gables of the old plantation-house, above the palms andmangoes, strangely yellowed in the ashen haze.
Pelee roared. Sullen and dreadful out of the silence voiced the Monsterroused to his labor afresh. Charter darted a glance back at thedarkening North, and began to run.... The crisis was not past; theholiday darkened. The ship would fill with refugees now, and the road toFort de France turn black with flight. These were his thoughts as heran.
The lights of the day burned out one by one. The crust of the earthstretched to a cracking tension. The air was beetling with strangeconcussions. In the clutch of realization, Charter turned one shininglook toward the woman hurrying forward on the veranda of the _Palms_....Detonations accumulated into the crash of a thousand navies.
She halted, her eyes fascinated, lost in the North. He caught her uplike a child. Across the lawn, through the roaring black, he bore her,brushing her fingers and her fallen hair from his eyes. He reached thecurbing of the old well with his burden, crawled over and caught therusty chain. Incandescent tongues lapped the cistern's raised coping.There was a scream as from the souls of Night and Storm and Chaostriumphant--a mighty planetary madness--shocking magnitudes from thevery core of sound! Air was sucked from the vault, from their ears andlungs by the shrieking vacuums, burned through the cushion of atmosphereby the league-long lanes of electric fire.... Running streams of reddust filtered down.
It was eight on the morning of Ascension Day. _La Montagne Pelee_ wasgiving birth to death.