CHAPTER XIV.
AN AWAKENING.
“WAS it a new step you were teaching him?” asked du Chesne. “But, no, it cannot be—not Pierre, who disapproves of worldly amusements.”
“That melancholy death’s head of a Pierre, he professes to despise women; he is never content with me; he has dared to sermonize me and I punished him,” Diane roused herself to explain defiantly, instinctively resenting the youth’s questioning gaze.
“But, Pierre—I cannot understand—Pierre is a saint—he will scarcely raise his eyes to look at any human being—his lips utter only prayers.”
“And they are indeed detestable, these saints,” she returned petulantly.
“Surely you would respect the virtues of those holy ones. We may not be very perfect, we others, but they accumulate perfections for us. Who can say how much we owe them?”
Du Chesne was staunch to his teaching and traditions. His voice had a caressing sound when he spoke to women. A smile now parted his lips as he threw himself on the grass beside her.
“Pierre is like other men,” Diane exclaimed with laconic positiveness.
The audacity of the reply startled the young man. He watched her with eager, wistful scrutiny. Du Chesne was not an intellectual man, but his perceptions were swift and keen. Could it be possible that Diane loved Pierre, and that this affection had rendered her insensible to the attractions of the numerous lovers who had already sighed at her feet? It was a startling supposition, overturning some of his fixed ideas, but it would certainly account for many of the caprices which had puzzled him. He was loyal to the core, with a jealous and fervid allegiance both to his brother and to the girl who had held the place of a sister. Pierre was bound by solemn vows to an ascetic life—could he be willing to decline to what he would choose to consider a lower plane? Diane’s affection was certainly a prize worth obtaining. No doubt it would all come right in some way. The glamor proceeding from the indefinite brightness of youth, certain bewitching and yet intangible possibilities which had enthralled his own imagination, disposed him to accept the most hopeful view of the situation. And, after all, the hypothesis might not be built on sufficient foundation.
“And Crisasi, too,” he continued, speaking without reflection, awkwardly and anxiously. There were curious lines of perplexity on his brow.
“Oh! the Chevalier is really too absurd; at his best he is only doleful—never amusing. And you know it is the plain duty of a man to show himself amusing.” Diane strove to speak lightly, notwithstanding the rising tremor in her throat. Why should there be any restraint in the frank, pleasant comradeship which had united them since childhood? Du Chesne plainly comprehended none. He was so kind, so cordial, so honestly satisfied with his own good intentions, that it was difficult to hold him at a distance. He held an inveterate objection to inconsistencies of every description, and tried to reconcile two apparently conflicting tendencies in the girl, to whom he was sincerely attached. A vague resolve that had been floating through his mind suddenly assumed definite proportions.
“Crisasi is a brave and gallant gentleman; none in the colony is more respected. If amusement is a necessity, choose such fops as d’Ordieux, and leave alone the men you have power to pain. Spare the Chevalier, Diane, he is a disappointed and heart-broken man.”
“You are as bad as Pierre! That is not like you, du Chesne.” Mademoiselle de Monesthrol was suddenly aroused. The blood in a rich carmine flood mantled over her delicate face; her eyes dilated, deepened, darkened, until their soft blue changed to black. What was this man’s frankly expressed disapproval to her that she should thrill and tremble at his words. A terrible dread, latent in her heart, now ran through her throbbing veins, her entire being quickened by that thrill of feeling which is at once sweetness and keenest pain. A sentiment which she disowned, which she had fought desperately and persistently, inch by inch, had conquered; yet to hide the wound, to hold up her head, smiling, and, if need be, die hiding it, was the first natural instinct. She did not speak, for her heart was fluttering to her lips and she could not utter a word. Yet to the tender-hearted, wilful creature there was an excitement in the consciousness of peril. Detection might be worse than death; still to dare discovery, to push danger to the very verge of exposure, furnished a thrilling agitation which offered relief from pain. Raising her head, as though courting rather than avoiding scrutiny, she met du Chesne’s searching gaze with cool nonchalance.
“Sainte Dame! and what is that to me?” with a gesture of haughty repudiation. “Were I answerable for the disappointments of every gentleman of New France my lot would be indeed a sad one.”
The clear tones of gentle disdain irritated the young Canadian. He could scarcely restrain a movement of impetuous anger; and yet, with the characteristic trust of his nature, he tried to believe the best.
“Diane, you know not of what you speak. It is your inexperience that causes you to appear cruel. Why, I remember you cried yourself sick when your bird died, and again when Bibelot’s paw was hurt—and then the devotion with which you have attended little Léon shows you are no heartless woman. It may be your time has not yet come. When it comes, as it surely will, you will then comprehend the meaning of true love—the happiness, the suffering, the trust and faith.” He spoke eagerly, his glowing boyish heart shining in his eyes. Diane could not mistake the evidence of that fire out of which love is born; her doubt and pride were suddenly swept away. She had no power to confront this precious and bewildering possibility. All existence was suddenly raised to brilliancy and interest, as with a sparkling draught of sunlit elixir.
In a little closet off from Mademoiselle de Monesthrol’s chamber stood a miniature altar. A fair ivory image of Our Lady of Sorrows gleamed white amidst the environment of gorgeous color; a richly chased silver lamp burned dimly before it, and a jar of spotless lilies was set beside the prie-dieu with its velvet hassock and Book of Hours. In a fervor of devotion the girl sank down before the altar.
“Holy Virgin, bless me! Make me worthy of the great happiness thou hast given me.”