Chapter Eleven.
“Like sun above, a woman’s love
Must have its destined way;
To some great gain, to others pain,
And wherefore who can say?
But be it bliss or wretchedness,
In reason man must own
That it is true, and nothing new,
She loves for love alone.”
Poor Thérèse’s hope seemed to desert her terribly after that disappointment. Madame, who, for a few days, was polite and kind in a spasmodic sort of fashion, fell back into her old ways, when nothing more was heard of the appointment at the Lion d’Or. Thérèse used to feel strange alternations of listlessness and indignation creeping over her. At times it was as if a life was closing round her against which it was hopeless to rebel,—a life which was relentless and overpowering; at times her heart cried out passionately against her oppressors. She accepted whatever was put upon her with a dull kind of aching, but without a protest. She was young and healthy, so that although her cheek lost its roundness, her strength did not absolutely give way; but the grief she suffered was too much mixed with bitterness, and too repressed from outward signs, not to be hurtful even physically. It seemed to her as if all the world were against her—M. Deshoulières, Monsieur and Madame Roulleau; even Fabien, in his far-away home, had renounced her. Yet she never ceased to love him. Only hope was shaken, because faith had never been strong in poor Thérèse. Her childhood had been loveless; the child had little teaching,—teaching, that is, which should make her strive after high things, or shape her little life after a holier pattern than those she saw around her. She believed her aunt Ferdinande to have been a good woman, but it was a goodness so weak and despairing that the girl despised it. It seemed to her as if this world she lived in was one where might, however unjust, carried the day. Where trust should have been there was a void in her heart, from which sprang no comfort, only bitterness and rebellion.
This year the winter at Charville set in with strange fits and starts. The owners of thermometers took a proud delight in electrifying their neighbours by reports of sudden rises and falls in their favourite study. There came sharp frosts, even snow. The river flowed like an inky stream between white banks; icicles froze round the stone fountain; there was what old Nannon called a jolie gelée—a certain keen, bitter beauty in the harmonies of white and grey, in the snow-laden boughs, in the great sweep of plain and sky. The women clattered home from market, instead of staying to gossip by the way. Little Dutch-like children, with shrieks of ecstasy, made slides down the steep streets, to the peril of the limbs of passers-by; old people crouched round the stoves, to get what warmth they could in their miserable houses. Instead of this weather lasting, however, there followed abrupt thaws, soft damp days, quite unlike the time of year. The Charville people hardly knew what to make of it. “The cold is unpleasant, but when one has made up one’s mind, it may as well come,” grumbled old André, the wood-cutter. That is the way with some of us. We are half angry when the evil we have prognosticated is mercifully averted.
On one of these mild afternoons Madame Roulleau took her two children to pay a visit of ceremony; Octavie arrayed in a silk frock, which had been sent to Thérèse with her other possessions—not many—from Ardron, and which she had cut up for Octavie in those first days when she hoped to please. Little Roulleau was in his office; Nannon came to the door to find out whether mademoiselle wanted her, and at the same moment arrived Monsieur Deshoulières.
“Bonjour, Nannon,” he said, cheerfully. “So mademoiselle is in the house?”
“She may have gone out with Madame Roulleau,” replied Nannon with unblushing promptitude. “As monsieur sees, I have just come.”
“No, I saw madame and her children in the distance. Have the goodness to ask mademoiselle to give me the pleasure of five minutes’ conversation in the salon.”
“What eyes he has!” muttered Nannon to herself, going unwillingly up the stairs on her errand. “And yet they are as blue as the very cornflowers. What does he come here frightening that poor child for, I should be glad to know! A man so hard as he has no right to have eyes like that.—If mademoiselle pleases I will say I cannot find her.”
“Monsieur Deshoulières!” said Thérèse, crumpling together the work on her lap with a quick, agitated movement, when Nannon made her announcement.
“Shall you see him? Beware, then, mademoiselle. I know these men. Do not yield a thing, or the convent will be thrust down your throat.”
“I do not think I care,” the girl said, rising wearily, “nothing can be worse than this life.”
“Am I to come with you, then, or shall I go on with the work? Dame! do they give you such holes to mend!”
“I had better go alone,” answered Thérèse, pausing to think over what in a French household is always a breach of etiquette. “There is no one to care,” she said to herself bitterly, as she went down.
When M. Deshoulières saw her enter, he started. Her face was pale, thin; there was a heaviness in her movements which his experienced eye noted at once.
“You have been ill, mademoiselle?” he said anxiously. He had come without any very definite purpose; it was, he told himself, to see how she looked, whether she was well and happy. The sight of her sent the blood rushing to his heart, he hardly knew what he was saying. Strong man as he was, he stood there trembling. “You have been ill?” he repeated.
Thérèse shook her head.
“Then something has happened?”
“What should it be, monsieur?” she said, with a half sob which would not be repressed. “I live on from day to day.”
“My poor child, is life so hard?”
She looked at him in wonder. What did he mean—he, who was one of her persecutors—by standing there, saying kind words, and looking down upon her with compassionate eyes? She thought the words would be like Madame Roulleau’s, lasting only for a day, and resented them in her heart. He, meanwhile, was thinking of what she had said once, that pathetic little sentence which had sounded in his ears ever since,—“Every place must be a little sad, since I belong to no one.” Poor desolate Thérèse! She was shutting up her heart, misjudging even at this moment the man who was yearning to pour out upon her the best gift this world has to offer—a great, unselfish love. She answered his question coldly.
“It will all come to an end one day. Do you want to speak to Monsieur or Madame Roulleau, monsieur?”
He was a little chilled and disappointed. He did not stay to remember that the feelings which had been growing stronger with him week by week, day by day, must be unknown to her. It was unreasonable, perhaps, to expect another answer, and yet he fancied it should have been different.
“I do not want them,” he said gently. “I came to speak to you, to know whether you were still contented with these people. You do not look so. Is there any thing I can do?”
“You have heard nothing more from the Lion d’Or?” she asked, evading an answer.
“No,” said the doctor, more abruptly. He disliked the subject of this trust, which brought him letters, papers to sign, difficulties, and endless arrangements. Only a week before he had paid another flying visit to Ardron, about a matter which required his personal superintendence, and he made a second attempt upon the imperturbable curé. “Still no news?” inquired the curé, with that slight lifting of the eyebrows which M. Deshoulières found so irritating. “Absolutely no promise of news?” And then he was told of that impotent visit to the Lion d’Or. “And you found no one? Decidedly, monsieur, as you say, there must be imposition somewhere.” That was all the doctor could extract, and it was not at all pleasant. “No,” he replied to Thérèse, “I wish I could have gone myself; but, after all, it would only have been one fool more. Roulleau says there will be a dozen such absurdities. It is always the case in these affaire. You should have known nothing about it. How came they to be so indiscreet as to cause you the disappointment?”
“It was the children’s doing,” she said; and then, with a sudden impulse, which astonished herself, she stretched out her hands imploringly. “Promise me, promise me,” she said, “always to tell me when there is a little hope like that.”
Her eyes were filled with tears, even those few kindly words were breaking down the barriers of pride. He took her hands; he was greatly moved by the child-like appeal. “I promise,” he said quietly.
“It is horrible to think that things are being concealed from one.”
“You may trust me. But, my child, why are you hungering so terribly after a change? Cannot we make you happy here?”
Something in his voice made her heart stand still with fright. She tried to draw away her hands, but he held them fast, so fast that he almost hurt her. In fact, he did not know what he was doing. He kept his voice under control, but the room swam round. He was only conscious that she was close to him.
“Let me go, monsieur,” she said, in a low, hurried voice; and then he recovered himself with an effort.
“Hear me first,” he said, releasing her hands; but standing between her and the door, and holding her still more, as she felt, by a certain determination in his voice. “I did not come here meaning to say this; but when I see you looking so changed, so sad, I cannot keep it back. I think I could make you happy. It should be my life’s joy. I am old—much older than you, a plain, rough man; but—child, child, do you know how I love you—!”
The last words broke from him with a passionate ring. She put her hands before her eyes. “No, no, no!” she cried.
There was a moment’s silence. Then he began to speak again, patting a great force upon himself as he did so. “Forgive me. I know you cannot understand—cannot feel as I do. I do not ask for it. I only ask you to let me give you the home you want. You say you belong to no one. It is at least something to have a home,” he said in abrupt sentences, with his voice unconsciously tremulous.
Still silence, yet her heart beat so quickly that she fancied its great throbs filled the room. What was this that had come to her? What sudden awakening had changed their positions? And what was it that was offered?—a home—rest—deliverance from bondage, it seemed. She had no love to give; but if he did not demand it? He was not hard, she knew that now, and did him justice. Would it not be easy to put her hand into his, and go away where at least she would find kind shelter? One must be in a position like hers before judging poor, desolate Thérèse for the strength of the temptation. Fabien, who had been gone so long—Fabien, who had renounced her with the rest—Fabien and weary waiting—unkind words, hard toil, solitude, dreariness, on the one side; on the other, love, tenderness, protection. She hesitated, her heart cried out for these good things, she half put out her hand, and glanced at him with shy, frightened eyes. His own grew more hopeful, more eager, as he noticed the little action.
“Will you trust me? Will you come?” he said in a deep, tender voice. He fancied he could read her maidenly reluctance, her fears; he knew nothing of that other who formed the real barrier between them; he did not even understand what motives half impelled her towards him. He had her hands in his again before she quite knew what he was about. It all seemed to her like a dream. “Can you give me a little love?” he said, smiling. The word awoke her.
“No, no,” she cried, wrenching her hands away suddenly. “Oh, what are you saying! Never, never!”
He drew back, terribly hurt. His love deserved a better answer than this, and he knew it. He had spoken from the depth of his heart, and thus he had a right to expect a less indignant rejection. But the next moment pity overcame his anger. She had flung herself into a chair and buried her face on the table, in an attitude so despairing that he forgot himself. He walked quickly to the window and back, then Thérèse heard his voice, changed, but with a tone in it which thrilled through her.
“At least let me be your friend. Tell me how I have troubled you.”
She was hardly conscious of speaking. Perhaps some quickened perception awoke in him in the pain of that moment, and her lips must have framed the name, for he repeated the word “Fabien,” under his breath; and then there came a silence, which seemed to her endless.
She looked up at last. He had dropped into a chair opposite to her; his face was very pale and stern. He breathed quickly. Almost involuntarily she said, “Do not be angry with me!”
“Why did I not know this before?” he asked abruptly.
“I thought you might have understood—I could not explain—the others knew,” she said, in a broken voice.
“Then your marriage is arranged?”
“Nothing is arranged,” she cried out quickly. “My uncle would not hear of it. He wanted Fabien to marry a lady who was noble, and had a large dot, and—there were other reasons—but this was one cause why they quarrelled. And it was after he had gone that he wrote those cruel words,” she said, her voice faltering.
Max rose up again, and came close to her. “My poor child,” he said, “how you must have suffered!” Then, as she was going to speak, he stopped her. “Listen. I do not pretend to tell you that this has not been a heavy shock. If I had but known—but I did not know, I have been ignorant, blundering, blind. You are the first woman I ever loved, and—but I do not blame you. Thérèse, remember that always, there is no one to blame but myself. We will forget all this, and have no more such mistakes, only I must always be your friend. I claim it as a right.”
There was a world of simple manliness, of tenderness, in his voice. Thérèse, who had expected reproaches and bitter words, was deeply moved by it. How had she misjudged this man! She had been prejudiced, blind, to the true nobility, which lay hid behind a somewhat blunt exterior; until this moment she had recognised nothing of it. She thought how strong he was, how able to protect, to teach her; her poor little weary heart longed for such a helper, even in the midst of its clinging to Fabien. Fabien himself seemed to lose something when she compared the two. For very weariness the conflict might perhaps have ended in Max Deshoulières’ favour, if he had chosen that it should do so.
“It is such a long waiting, and those were such hard words,” she said, falteringly.
“Foolish words,” he said, with a little sad smile. “People cannot renounce so readily, even if they wish it. If you love him, do not doubt him, my child. There are plenty of reasons which may have caused his silence; he has been impetuous and foolish, no doubt, but with such an uncle there are excuses for a young man. Before long we shall hear of him, believe me.”
He tried to speak cheerfully. Every word cost him a stab; but for her sake the brave chivalrous heart took this added burden upon itself. Perhaps he guessed something of what she was feeling, and pitied the weakness and inexperience which found it hard to endure. With a pang he put on one side the bright visions which he had been cherishing; all that he could do now was to be her friend and helper, and that he would do faithfully. He saw her brighten under his words; she looked up gladly.
“Fabien will not long stay away, when he knows I am alone,” she said, with a renewal of hope. “You are sure no more can be done?”
“I will tell Roulleau to redouble his exertions. You may be sure M. Saint-Martin will not expatriate himself without from time to time making inquiries. Unless, indeed, he is a second Diogenes.”
“He was not like Diogenes, at all,” said Thérèse, simply. “Oh, monsieur, you have made me so much happier!”
When she had spoken, the cruelty of her words struck her. He was thinking of her, caring for her, and she was taken up only by her own trouble. The contrast was something new to her: as it made itself felt, she reddened painfully, and the tears rushed into her eyes. “Forgive me,” she said, tremblingly, “I—I—”
“Are we not to be friends?” he said, with a kind, steadfast look. “And for what are friends good, unless it be to help one another?”
“But—” she stopped.
“But what? Do you think what I have said should prevent me from helping you? Child, child, we learn many things as life goes on. What I told you is true—I have never loved before, I hoped I never should love; I believed I should go through the world, and do the work God put before me alone; I desired nothing more. It came upon me unawares. I do not think that there can have been a time when I did not love you, but I did not know it. And now it has become a part of myself, something which can never be any more separated from me. Hush! do not be frightened. I promise you that you may hear all I have to say without disloyalty to—him. It can never leave me: it has brought me a sorrow, a great sorrow; but even at this moment—Thérèse, Thérèse, do you think I could part with it? Do you think that I do not even now thank God for this gift? There is a sweetness in it which no suffering can overpower.”
Yes, there was a sweetness—all the sweetness of true love. Love, which was generous, and could give without a hope of return; love, which in its friendship, in its self-sacrifice, in its faithfulness, should be like an angel in this man’s heart.
Thérèse looked at him with awe. Something in his words stirred her nature to its depths, showed her a height of which she had never dreamed. She had claimed happiness as a right, he accepted sorrow as a blessing. She had found only bitterness where he already spoke of sweetness. She cried out against her lot, he had faith that all should be for good. She had read of these things, she had in some degree thought of them in her devotions; but never before had she seen a life thus influenced, and it came upon her like a revelation.
“And therefore,” continued Max, still standing before her, and speaking in the same slow sentences, “you will understand that, though I may not often see you, it must be my greatest happiness to serve you, to be your friend and his. Do not deny me this. Do not fear me.”
“I do not fear you,” Thérèse answered, quickly. She wanted to say more, to thank him, but the words would not come. Involuntarily she put out her hand, he caught it, pressed it to his lips, held it there a moment, and was gone. She heard him clattering down the staircase, the little timepiece striking four, Nannon singing country songs to herself in a cracked wiry voice, doors opening and shutting, old familiar sounds with that touch of unreality which sometimes seizes them. The very patch of grey sky opposite to her, against which leafless trees waved solemnly backwards and forwards, looked like a strange, unnatural picture. She was too bewildered to collect her thoughts. Something seemed to have come to her, it may have been fresh hope, a new spring, which made her eye sparkle, and her colour rise. Had that echo found a stronger voice which whispered that there was something to be striven for higher than mere happiness? Perhaps. Such voices gather strength if we do not stifle them with our wilfulness.