CHAPTER XXVII.
It was dark. The May days are short in the north lands of the Scheldt.
She had her little winter cloak of frieze and her wooden shoes and herlittle white cap with the sunny curls rippling out of it in their prettyrebellion. She had her little lantern too; and her bundle, and she hadput a few fresh eggs in her basket, with some sweet herbs and thepalm-sheaf that Father Francis had blessed last Easter; for who couldtell, she thought, how ill he might not be, or how poor?
She hardly gave a look to the hut as she ran by its garden gate; all herheart was on in front, in the vague far-off country where he lay sickunto death.
She ran fast through the familiar lanes into the city. She was not verysure where Paris was, but she had the name clear and firm, and she knewthat people were always coming and going thence and thither, so that shehad no fear she should not find it.
She went straight to the big, busy, bewildering place in the Leopoldquarter where the iron horses fumed every day and night along the ironways. She had never been there before, but she knew it was by that greathighway that the traffic to Paris was carried on, and she knew that itwould carry people also as well.
There were bells clanging, lights flashing, and crowds pushing andshouting, as she ran up--a little gray figure, with the lantern-sparkglimmering like any tiny glow-worm astray in a gas-lit city.
"To Paris?" she asked, entreatingly, going where she saw others going, toa little grated wicket in a wall.
"Twenty-seven francs--quick!" they demanded of her. Bebee gave a greatcry, and stood still, trembling and trying not to sob aloud. She hadnever thought of money; she had forgotten that youth and strength andlove and willing feet and piteous prayers,--all went for nothing as thisworld is made.
A hope flashed on her and a glad thought. She loosed the silver buckles,and held them out.
"Would you take these? They are worth much more."
There was a derisive laughter; some one bade her with an oath begone;rough shoulders jostled her away. She stretched her arms out piteously.
"Take me--oh, pray take me! I will go with the sheep, with thecattle--only, only take me!"
But in the rush and roar none heeded her; some thief snatched the silverbuckles from her hand, and made off with them and was lost in the throng;a great iron beast rushed by her, snorting flame and bellowing smoke;there was a roll like thunder, and all was dark; the night express hadpassed on its way to Paris.
Bebee stood still, crushed for a moment with the noise and the crueltyand the sense of absolute desolation; she scarcely noticed that thebuckles had been stolen; she had only one thought--to get to Paris.
"Can I never go without money?" she asked at the wicket; the man thereglanced a moment, with a touch of pity, at the little wistful face.
"The least is twenty francs--surely you must know that?" he said, andshut his grating with a clang.
Bebee turned away and went out of the great cruel, tumultuous place; herheart ached and her brain was giddy, but the sturdy courage of her naturerose to need.
"There is no way at all to go without money to Paris, I suppose?" sheasked of an old woman whom she knew a little, who sold nuts and littlepictures of saints and wooden playthings under the trees, in the avenuehard by.
The old woman shook her head.
"Eh?--no, dear. There is nothing to be done anywhere in the world withoutmoney. Look, I cannot get a litre of nuts to sell unless I paybeforehand."
"Would it be far to walk?"
"Far! Holy Jesus! It is right away in the heart of France--over twohundred miles, they say; straight out through the forest. Not but what myson did walk it once;--and he a shoemaker, who knows what walking costs;and he is well-to-do there now--not that he ever writes. When they wantnothing people never write."
"And he walked into Paris?"
"Yes, ten years ago. He had nothing but a few sous and an ash stick, andhe had a fancy to try his luck there. And after all our feet were givenus to travel with. If you go there and you see him, tell him to send mesomething--I am tired of selling nuts."
Bebee said nothing, but went on her road; since there was no other waybut to walk, she would take that way; the distance and the hardship didnot appall two little feet that were used to traverse so many miles ofsun-baked summer dust and of frozen winter mud unblenchingly year afteryear.
The time it would take made her heart sink indeed. He was ill. God knewwhat might happen. But neither the length of leagues nor the fatigue ofbody daunted her. She only saw his eyes dim with pain and his lips burnedwith fever.
She would walk twenty miles a day, and then, perhaps, she might get liftshere and there on hay wagons or in pedlers' carts; people had always usedto be kind to her. Anyhow she counted she might reach Paris well infifteen days.
She sat under a shrine in a by street a moment, and counted the copperpieces she had on her; they were few, and the poor pretty buckles thatshe might have sold to get money were stolen.
She had some twenty sous and a dozen eggs; she thought she might live onthat; she had wanted to take the eggs to him, but after all, to keep lifein her until she could reach Paris was the one great thing.
"What a blessing it is to have been born poor; and to have livedhardly--one wants so little!" she thought to herself.
Then she put up the sous in the linen bosom of her gown, and trimmed herlittle lantern and knelt down in the quiet darkness and prayed a moment,with the hot agonized tears rolling down her face, and then rose andstepped out bravely in the cool of the night, on the great southwest roadtowards Paris.
The thought never once crossed her to turn back, and go again into theshelter of her own little hut among the flowers. He was sick there,dying, for anything she knew; that was the only thing she remembered.
It was a clear, starlit night, and everywhere the fragrance of the springwas borne in from the wide green plains, and the streams where the rusheswere blowing.
She walked ten miles easily, the beautiful gray shadow all about her. Shehad never been so far from home in all her life, except to that oneKermesse at Mechlin. But she was not afraid.
With the movement, and the air, and the sense that she was going to him,which made her happy even in her misery, something of the old, sweet,lost fancies came to her.
She smiled at the stars through her tears, and as the poplars swayed andmurmured in the wind, they looked to her like the wings and the swordsof a host of angels.
Her way lay out through the forest, and in that sweet green woodland shewas not afraid--no more afraid than the fawns were.
At Boitsfort she shrank a little, indeed. Here there were the open-airrestaurants, and the cafe gardens all alight for the pleasure-seekersfrom the city; here there were music and laughter, and horses with brassbells, and bright colors on high in the wooden balconies, and below amongthe blossoming hawthorn hedges. She had to go through it all, andshe shuddered a little as she ran, thinking of that one priceless,deathless forest day when he had kissed her first.
But the pleasure-people were all busied with their mirth and mischief,and took no notice of the little gray figure in the starry night. Shewent on along the grassy roads, under the high arching trees, with thehoot of the owls and the cry of the rabbits on the stillness.
At Groenendael, in the heart of the forest midnight was striking as sheentered the village. Every one was asleep. The lights were all out Theold ruined priory frowned dark under the clouds.
She shivered a little again, and began to feel chill and tired, yet didnot dare to knock at any one of the closed house doors--she had no money.
So she walked on her first ten unknown miles, meeting a few people only,and being altogether unmolested--a small gray figure, trotting in twolittle wooden shoes.
They thought her a peasant going to a fair or a lace mill, and no one didher more harm than to wish her good night in rough Flemish.
When the dawn began to whiten above the plains of the east, she saw anempty cow-shed filled with hay; she was a
little tired, and lay down andrested an hour or two, as a young lamb might have lain on the driedclover, for she knew that she must keep her strength and husband herpower, or never reach across the dreary length of the foreign land toParis.
But by full sunrise she was on her way again, bathing her face in a brookand buying a sou's worth of bread and flet-milk at the first cottage thatshe passed in bright, leaf-bowered Hoey-laert.
The forest was still all around her, with its exquisite life of bough andblossom, and murmur of insect and of bird. She told her beads, praying asshe went, and was almost happy.
God would not let him die. Oh, no, not till she had kissed him once more,and could die with him.
The hares ran across the path, and the blue butterflies flew above-head.There was purple gloom of pine wood, and sparkling verdure of aspen andelm. There were distant church carillons ringing, and straight goldenshafts of sunshine streaming.
She was quite sure God would not let him die.
She hoped that he might be very poor. At times he had talked as if hewere, and then she might be of so much use. She knew how to deal withfever and suffering. She had sat up many a night with the children of thevillage. The gray sisters had taught her many of their ways of battlingwith disease; and she could make fresh cool drinks, and she could brewbeautiful remedies from simple herbs. There was so much that she mightdo; her fancy played with it almost happily. And then, only to touch hishand, only to hear his voice; her heart rose at the thought, as a lark toits morning song.
At Rixensart, buried in its greenery, as she went through it in morninglight, some peasants greeted her cheerily, and called to her to rest in ahouse porch, and gave her honey and bread. She could not eat much; hertongue was parched and her throat was dry, but the kindness was preciousto her, and she went on her road the stronger for it.
"It is a long way to walk to Paris," said the woman, with some curiouswonder. Bebee smiled, though her eyes grew wet.
"She has the look of the little Gesu," said the Rixensart people; andthey watched her away with a vague timid pity.
So she went on through Ottignies and La Roche to Villers, and left thegreat woods and the city chimes behind her, and came through the greenabbey valleys through Tilly and Ligny, and Fleurus, and so into the coaland iron fields that lie round Charleroi.
Here her heart grew sick, and her courage sank under the noise and thehaste, before the blackness and the hideousness. She had never seenanything like it. She thought it was hell, with the naked, swearing,fighting people, and the red fires leaping night and day. Nevertheless,if hell it were, since it lay betwixt her and him, she found force tobrave and cross it.
The miners and glass-blowers and nail-makers, rough and fierce and hard,frightened her. The women did not look like women, and the children ranand yelled at her, and set their dogs upon her. The soil was thick withdust like soot, and the trees were seared and brown. There was no peacein the place, and no loveliness. Eighty thousand folks toiled together inthe hopeless Tophet, and swarmed, and struggled, and labored, andmultiplied, in joyless and endless wrestling against hunger and death.
She got through it somehow, hiding often from the ferocious youngsters,and going sleepless rather than lie in those dens of filth; but sheseemed so many, many years older when Charleroi lay at last behindher,--so many, many years older than when she had sat and spun in thegarden at home.
When she was once in the valley of the Sambre she was more herself again,only she felt weaker than she had ever done, because she only dared tospend one of her sous each day, and one sou got so little food.
In the woods and fields about Alne she began to breathe again, like abird loosed to the air after being shut in a wooden trap. Green corn,green boughs, green turf, mellow chimes of church bells, humming ofgolden bees, cradle songs of women spinning, homely odors of little herbgardens and of orchard trees under cottage walls,--these had been aroundher all her life; she only breathed freely among them.
She often felt tired, and her wooden shoes were wearing so thin that thehot dust of the road at noonday burnt her feet through them. Sometimes,too, she felt a curious brief faintness, such as she had never known, forthe lack of food and the long fatigue began to tell even on her hardylittle body.
But she went on bravely, rarely doing less than her twenty miles a day,and sometimes more, walking often in the night to save time, and lyingdown in cow-sheds or under haystacks in the noontide.
For the most part people were kind to her; they saw she was so very youngand so poor.
Women would give her leave to bathe herself in their bedchambers,and children would ask her to wait on the village bench under thechestnut-tree, while they brought her their pet lamb or their tumblerpigeons to look at, but, for the most part--unless she was very, verytired--she would not wait. It took her so long, and who could tell how itfared with him in Paris?
Into the little churches, scattered over the wide countries betweenCharleroi and Erquelinnes, she would turn aside, indeed; but, then,that was only to say a prayer for him; that was not loss to him, butgain.
So she walked on until she reached the frontier of France. She began toget a little giddy; she began to see the blue sky and the green levelalways swirling round her as if some one were spinning them to frightenher, but still she would not be afraid; she went on, and on, and on, tillshe set her last step on the soil of Flanders.
Here a new, strange, terrible, incomprehensible obstacle opposed her: shehad no papers; they thrust her back and spoke to her as if she were acriminal. She could not understand what they could mean. She had neverheard of these laws and rules. She vaguely comprehended that she must notenter France, and stunned and heartbroken she dropped down under a tree,and for the first time sobbed as if her very life would weep itself away.
She could see nothing, understand nothing. There were the same road, thesame hedges, the same fields, the same white cottages, and peasants inblue shirts and dun-hued oxen in the wagons. She saw no mark, nodifference, ere they told her where she stood was Belgium, and where theystood was France, and that she must not pass from one into the other.
The men took no notice of her. They went back into their guard-house,and smoked and drank. A cat sunned herself under a scarlet bean. Thewhite clouds sailed on before a southerly sky. She might die here--hethere--and nothing seemed to care.
After a while an old hawker came up; he was travelling with wooden clocksfrom the Black Forest. He stopped and looked at her, and asked her whatshe ailed.
She knelt down at his feet in the dust.
"Oh, help me!" she cried to him. "Oh, pray, help me! I have walked allthe way from Brussels--that is my country--and now they will not let mepass that house where the soldiers are. They say I have no papers. Whatpapers should I have? I do not know. When one has done no harm, and doesnot owe a sou anywhere, and has walked all the way--Is it money that theywant? I have none; and they stole my silver clasps in Brussels; and ifI do not get to Paris I must die--die without seeing him again--everagain, dear God!"
She dropped her head upon the dust and crouched and sobbed there, hercourage broken by this new barrier that she had never dreamed would comebetween herself and Paris.
The old hawker looked at her thoughtfully. He had seen much of men andwomen, and knew truth from counterfeit, and he was moved by the child'sagony.
He stooped and whispered in her ear,--
"Get up quick, and I will pass you. It is against the law, and I may goto prison for it. Never mind; one must risk something in this world, orelse be a cur. My daughter has stayed behind in Marbais sweethearting;her name is on my passport, and her age and face will do for yours. Getup and follow me close, and I will get you through. Poor little soul!Whatever your woe is it is real enough, and you are such a young andpretty thing. Get up, the guards are in their house, they have not seen;follow me, and you must not speak a word; they must take you for aGerman, dumb as wood."
She got up and obeyed him, not comprehending, but only vaguely seeingthat
he was friendly to her, and would pass her over into France.
The old man made a little comedy at the barrier, and scolded her asthough she were his daughter for losing her way as she came to meet him,and then crying like a baby.
The guards looked at her carelessly, joked the hawker on her pretty face,looked the papers over, and let her through, believing her the child ofthe clock-maker of the Hartz. Some lies are blessed as truth.
"I have done wrong in the law, but not before God, I think, little one,"said the pedler. "Nay, do not thank me, or go on like that; we are insight of the customs men still, and if they suspected, it would be thefour walls of a cell only that you and I should see to-night. And nowtell me your story, poor maiden: why are you on foot through a strangecountry?"
But Bebee would not tell him her story: she was confused and dazed still.She did not know rightly what had happened to her; but she could not talkof herself, nor of why she travelled thus to Paris.
The old hawker got cross at her silence, and called her an unthankfuljade, and wished that he had left her to her fate, and parted companywith her at two cross-roads, saying his path did not lie with hers; andthen when he had done that, was sorry, and being a tenderhearted soul,hobbled back, and would fain press a five-franc piece on her; and Bebee,refusing it all the while, kissed his old brown hands and blessed him,and broke away from him, and so went on again solitary towards St.Quentin.
The country was very flat and poor, and yet the plains had a likeness inthem to her own wide Brabant downs, where the tall green wheat wasblowing and the barges dropping down the sluggish streams.
She was very footsore; very weary; very hungry so often; but she was inFrance--in his country; and her spirit rose with the sense of thatnearness to him.
After all, God was so good to her; there were fine bright days andnights; a few showers had fallen, but merely passing ones; the air was socool and so balmy that it served her almost as food; and she seldom foundpeople so unkind that they refused for her single little sou to give hera crust of bread and let her lie in an outhouse.
After all, God was very good; and by the sixteenth or seventeenth day shewould be in the city of Paris.
She was a little light-headed at times from insufficient nourishment:especially after waking from strange dreams in unfamiliar places;sometimes the soil felt tremulous under her, and the sky spun round; butshe struggled against the feeling, and kept a brave heart, and tried tobe afraid of nothing.
Sometimes at night she thought she saw old Annemie. "But what if I do?"she said to herself; "Annemie never will hurt me."
And now, as she grew nearer her goal, her natural buoyancy of spiritreturned as it had never done to her since the evening that he had kissedand left her. As her body grew lighter and more exhausted, her fancy grewkeener and more dominant. All things of the earth and air spoke to her asshe went along as they had used to do. All that she had learned from thebooks in the long cold months came to her clear and wonderful. She wasnot so very ignorant now--ignorant, indeed, beside him--but still knowingsomething that would make her able to read to him if he liked it, and tounderstand if he talked of grave things.
She had no fixed thought of what she would be to him when she reachedhim.
She fancied she would wait on him, and tend him, and make him well, andbe caressed by him, and get all gracious pretty things of leaf andblossom about him, and kneel at his feet, and be quite happy if he onlytouched her now and then with his lips;--her thoughts went no furtherthan that;--her love for him was of that intensity and absorption inwhich nothing But itself is remembered.
When a creature loves much, even when it is as little and as simple asoul as Bebee, the world and all its people and all its laws and ways areas naught. They cease to exist; they are as though they had never been.
Whoever recollects an outside world may play with passion, or may idlewith sentiment, but does not love.
She did not hear what the villagers said to her. She did not see thestreets of the towns as she passed them. She kept herself clean always,and broke fast now and then by sheer instinct of habit, nothing more. Shehad no perception what she did, except of walking--walking--walkingalways, and seeing the white road go by like pale ribbons unrolled.
She got a dreamy, intense, sleepless light in her blue eyes thatfrightened some of those she passed. They thought she had beenfever-stricken, and was not in her senses.
So she went across the dreary lowlands, wearing out her little sabots,but not wearing out her patience and her courage.
She was very dusty and jaded. Her woollen skirt was stained with weatherand torn with briers. But she had managed always to wash her cap white inbrook water, and she had managed always to keep her pretty bright curlssoft and silken--for he had liked them so much, and he would soon drawthem through his hand again. So she told herself a thousand times to giveher strength when the mist would come over her sight, and the earth wouldseem to tremble as she went. On the fifteenth day from the night when shehad left her hut by the swans' water, Bebee saw Paris.
Shining away in the sun; white and gold; among woods and gardens she sawParis.
She was so tired--oh, so tired--but she could not rest now. There werebells ringing always in her ears, and a heavy pain always in her head.But what of that?--she was so near to him.
"Are you ill, you little thing?" a woman asked her who was gatheringearly cherries in the outskirts of the great city.
Bebee looked at her and smiled: "I do not know--I am happy."
And she went onward.
It was evening. The sun had set. She had not eaten for twenty-four hours.But she could not pause for anything now. She crossed the gleaming river,and she heard the cathedral chimes. Paris in all its glory was about her,but she took no more note of it than a pigeon that flies through itintent on reaching home.
No one looked at or stopped her; a little dusty peasant with a bundle ona stick over her shoulder.
The click-clack of her wooden shoes on the hot pavements made none lookup; little rustics came up every day like this to make their fortunes inParis. Some grew into golden painted silken flowers, the convolvuli oftheir brief summer days; and some drifted into the Seine water, rusted,wind-tossed, fallen leaves, that were wanted of no man. Anyhow it wasso common to see them, pretty but homely things, with their noisy shoesand their little all in a bundle, that no one even looked once at Bebee.
She was not bewildered. As she had gone through her own city, onlythinking of the roses in her basket and of old Annemie in her garret, soshe went through Paris, only thinking of him for whose sake she had comethither.
Now that she was really in his home she was happy,--happy though her headached with that dull odd pain, and all the sunny glare went round andround like a great gilded humming-top, such as the babies clapped theirhands at, at the Kermesse.
She was happy: she felt sure now that God would not let him die till shegot to him. She was quite glad that he had left her all that long,terrible winter, for she had learned so much and was so much more fittedto be with him.
Weary as she was, and strange as the pain in her head made her feel, shewas happy, very happy; a warm flush came on her little pale cheeks as shethought how soon he would kiss them, her whole body thrilled with the oldsweet nameless joy that she had sickened for in vain so long.
Though she saw nothing else that was around her, she saw some littleknots of moss-roses that a girl was selling on the quay, as she used tosell them in front of the Maison du Roi. She had only two sous left, butshe stopped and bought two little rosebuds to take to him. He had used tocare for them so much in the summer in Brabant.
The girl who sold them told her the way to the street he lived in; it wasnot very far of the quay. She seemed to float on air, to have wings likethe swallows, to hear beautiful musk all around. She felt for her beads,and said aves of praise. God was so good.
It was quite night when she reached the street, and sought the number ofhis house. She spoke his name softly, and tremblin
g very much with joy,not with any fear, but it seemed to her too sacred a thing ever to utteraloud.
An old man looked out of a den by the door, and told her to go straightup the stairs to the third floor, and then turn to the right. The oldman chuckled as he glanced after her, and listened to the wooden shoespattering wearily up the broad stone steps.
Bebee climbed them--ten, twenty, thirty, forty. "He must be very poor!"she thought, "to live so high"; and yet the place was wide and handsome,and had a look of riches. Her heart beat so fast, she felt suffocated;her limbs shook, her eyes had a red blood-like mist floating before them;but she thanked God each step she climbed; a moment, and she wouldlook upon the only face she loved.
"He will be glad; oh, I am sure he will be glad!" she said to herself, asa fear that had never before come near her touched her for a moment--ifhe should not care?
But even then, what did it matter? Since he was ill she should be thereto watch him night and day; and when he was well again, if he should wishher to go away--one could always die.
"But he will be glad--oh, I know he will be glad!" she said to therosebuds that she carried to him. "And if God will only let me save hislife, what else do I want more?"
His name was written on a door before her. The handle of a bell hungdown; she pulled it timidly. The door unclosed; she saw no one, and wentthrough. There were low lights burning. There were heavy scents that werestrange to her. There was a fantastic gloom from old armor, and oldweapons, and old pictures in the dull rich chambers. The sound of herwooden shoes was lost in the softness and thickness of the carpets.
It was not the home of a poor man. A great terror froze her heart,--ifshe were not wanted here?
She went quickly through three rooms, seeing no one and at the end ofthe third there were folding doors.
"It is I--Bebee." she said softly, as she pushed them gently apart; andshe held out the two moss-rosebuds.
Then the words died on her lips, and a great horror froze her, still andsilent, there.
She saw the dusky room as in a dream. She saw him stretched on the bed,leaning on his elbow, laughing, and playing cards upon the lace coverlet.She saw women with loose shining hair and bare limbs, and rubies anddiamonds glimmering red and white. She saw men lying about upon thecouch, throwing dice and drinking and laughing one with another.
Beyond all she saw against the pillows of his bed a beautiful brownwicked looking thing like some velvet snake, who leaned over him ashe threw down the painted cards upon the lace, and who had cast about histhroat her curved bare arm with the great coils of dead gold alla-glitter on it.
And above it all there were odors of wines and flowers, clouds of smoke,shouts of laughter, music of shrill gay voices.
She stood like a frozen creature and saw--the rosebuds' in her hand. Thenwith a great piercing cry she let the little roses fall, and turned andfled. At the sound he looked up and saw her, and shook his beautifulbrown harlot off him with an oath.
But Bebee flew down through the empty chambers and the long stairway as ahare flies from the hounds; her tired feet never paused, her aching limbsnever slackened; she ran on, and on, and on, into the lighted streets,into the fresh night air; on, and on, and on, straight to the river.
From its brink some man's strength caught and held her. She struggledwith it.
"Let me die! let me die!" she shrieked to him, and strained from him toget at the cool gray silent water that waited for her there.
Then she lost all consciousness, and saw the stars no more.
When she came back to any sense of life, the stars were shining still,and the face of Jeannot was bending over her, wet with tears.
He had followed her to Paris when they had missed her first, and had comestraight by train to the city, making sure it was thither she had come,and there had sought her many days, watching for her by the house ofFlamen.
She shuddered away from him as he held her, and looked at him with blank,tearless eyes.
"Do not touch me--take me home."
That was all she ever said to him. She never asked him or told himanything. She never noticed that it was strange that he should have beenhere upon the river-bank. He let her be, and took her silently in thecool night back by the iron ways to Brabant.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
She sat quite still and upright in the wagon with the dark lands rushingby her. She never spoke at all. She had a look that frightened him uponher face. When he tried to touch her hand, she shivered away from him.
The charcoal-burner, hardy and strong among forest-reared men, coweredlike a child in a corner, and covered his eyes and wept.
So the night wore away.
She had no perception of anything that happened to her until she was ledthrough her own little garden in the early day, and her starling cried toher, "Bonjour, Bonjour!" Even then she only looked about her in abewildered way, and never spoke.
Were the sixteen days a dream?
She did not know.
The women whom Jeannot summoned, his mother and sisters, and Mere Krebs,and one or two others, weeping for what had been the hardness of theirhearts against her, undressed her, and laid her down on her little bed,and opened the shutters to the radiance of the sun.
She let them do as they liked, only she seemed neither to hear nor speak,and she never spoke.
All that Jeannot could tell was that he had found her in Paris, and hadsaved her from the river.
The women were sorrowful, and reproached themselves. Perhaps she had donewrong, but they had been harsh, and she was so young.
The two little sabots with the holes worn through the soles touched them;and they blamed themselves for having shut their hearts and their doorsagainst her as they saw the fixed blue eyes, without any light in them,and the pretty mouth closed close against either sob or smile.
After all she was Bebee--the little bright blithe thing that had dancedwith their children, and sung to their singing, and brought them alwaysthe first roses of the year. If she had been led astray, they should havebeen gentler with her.
So they told themselves and each other.
What had she seen in that terrible Paris to change her like this?--theycould not tell She never spoke.
The cock crowed gayly to the sun. The lamb bleated in the meadow. Thebees boomed among the pear-tree blossoms. The gray lavender blew in theopen house door. The green leaves threw shifting shadows on the floor.
All things were just the same as they had been the year before, when shehad woke to the joy of being a girl of sixteen.
But Bebee now lay quite still and silent on her little bed; as quiet asthe waxen Gesu that they laid in the manger at the Nativity.
"If she would only speak!" the women and the children wailed, weepingsorely.
But she never spoke; nor did she seem to know any one of them. Not eventhe starling as he flew on her pillow and called her.
"Give her rest," they all said; and one by one moved away, being poorfolk and hard working, and unable to lose a whole day.
Mere Krebs stayed with her, and Jeannot sat in the porch where her littlespinning-wheel stood, and rocked himself to and fro; in vain agony,powerless.
He had done all he could, and it was of no avail.
Then people who had loved her, hearing, came up the green lanes from thecity--the cobbler and the tinman, and the old woman who sold saints'pictures by the Broodhuis. The Varnhart children hung about the gardenwicket, frightened and sobbing. Old Jehan beat his knees with his hands,and said only over and over again, "Another dead--another dead!--the redmill and I see them all dead!"
The long golden day drifted away, and the swans swayed to and fro, andthe willows grew silver in the sunshine.
Bebee, only, lay quite still and never spoke. The starling sat above herhead; his wings drooped, and he was silent too.
Towards sunset Bebee raised herself and called aloud: they ran to her.
"Get me a rosebud--one with the moss round it," she said to them.
They w
ent out into the garden, and brought her one wet with dew.
She kissed it, and laid it in one of her little wooden shoes that stoodupon the bed.
"Send them to him," she said wearily; "tell him I walked all the way."
Then her head drooped; then momentary consciousness died out: the olddull lifeless look crept over her face again like the shadow of death.
The starling spread his broad black wings above her head. She lay quitestill once more. The women left the rosebud in the wooden shoe, notknowing what she meant.
Night fell. Mere Krebs watched beside her. Jeannot went down to the oldchurch to beseech heaven with all his simple, ignorant, tortured soul.The villagers hovered about, talking in low sad voices, and wondering,and dropping one by one into their homes. They were sorry, very sorry;but what could they do?
It was quite night. The lights were put out in the lane. Jeannot, withFather Francis, prayed before the shrine of the Seven Sorrows. Mere Krebsslumbered in her rush-bottomed chair; she was old and worked hard. Thestarling was awake.
Bebee rose in her bed, and looked around, as she had done when she hadasked for the moss-rosebud.
A sense of unutterable universal pain ached over all her body.
She did not see her little home, its four white walls, its latticeshining in the moon, its wooden bowls and plates, its oaken shelf andpresses, its plain familiar things that once had been so dear,--she didnot see them; she only saw the brown woman with her arm about his throat.
She sat up in her bed and slipped her feet on to the floor; the prettylittle rosy feet that he had used to want to clothe in silken stockings.
Poor little feet! she felt a curious compassion for them; they had servedher so well, and they were so tired.
She sat up a moment with that curious dull agony, aching everywhere inbody and in brain. She kissed the rosebud once more and laid it gentlydown in the wooden shoe. She did not see anything that was around her.She felt a great dulness that closed in on her, a great weight that waslike iron on her head.
She thought she was in the strange, noisy, cruel city, with' the riverclose to her, and all her dead dreams drifting down it like murderedchildren, whilst that woman kissed him.
She slipped her feet on to the floor, and rose and stood upright. Therewas a door open to the moonlight--the door where she had sat spinning andsinging in a thousand happy days; the lavender blew; the tall, unbuddedgreen lilies swayed in the wind; she looked at them, and knew none ofthem.
The night air drifted through her linen dress, and played on her barearms, and lifted the curls of her hair; the same air that had playedwith her so many times out of mind when she had been a little totteringthing that measured its height by the red rosebush. But it brought her nosense of where she was.
All she saw was the woman who kissed him.
There was the water beyond; the kindly calm water, all green with themoss and the nests of the ouzels and the boughs of the hazels andwillows, where the swans were asleep in the reeds, and the broad liliesspread wide and cool.
But she did not see any memory in it. She thought it was the cruel grayriver in the strange white city: and she cried to it; and went outinto the old familiar ways, and knew none of them; and ran feebly yetfleetly through the bushes and flowers, looking up once at the stars witha helpless broken blind look, like a thing that is dying.
"He does not want me!" she said to them; "he does not want me!--otherwomen kiss him there!"
Then with a low fluttering sound like a bird's when its wings are shot,and yet it tries to rise, she hovered a moment over the water, andstretched her arms out to it.
"He does not want me!" she murmured; "he does not want me--and I am sotired. Dear God!"
Then she crept down, as a weary child creeps to its mother, and threwherself forward, and let the green dark waters take her where theyhad found her amidst the lilies, a little laughing yearling thing.
There she soon lay, quite quiet, with her face turned to the stars, andthe starling poised above to watch her as she slept.
She had been only Bebee: the ways of God and man had been too hard forher.
When the messengers of Flamen came that day, they took him back a deadmoss-rose and a pair of little wooden shoes worn through with walking.
"One creature loved me once," he says to women who wonder why the woodenshoes are there.
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