“Blessed Mother of Sorrow, help me to bear through this hour—help me to endure the burden for half a day—let my strength hold out till night,” prayed Diane de Monesthrol.
CHAPTER XXIV.
A PILGRIMAGE TO MOUNT ROYAL.
THE long anxious days that followed the departure of the troops, with little occupation save that of watching and waiting, with endless dreadful suggestions of what might be happening, were a severe ordeal to the whole settlement. It seemed as though a trifle might turn the balance—might mean ruin, total destruction of all hopes and plans, or, on the other hand, afford the blessed sweetness of relief.
With Diane the flame of suffering burned so fiercely that it permitted no rest. She could allow herself to look neither backward nor forward. Suddenly swept out of the joy of her youth into circumstances so desperate—waiting, dumb and steadfast, before the necessity which could not be resisted—there were moments of wild rebellion of spirit, paroxysms of impatience with life and its complications, a longing to escape this restless wretchedness, which was almost unbearable, alternating with brief, ecstatic moments of complete self-renunciation. What was the strength of her womanhood good for, the French girl asked herself, if not to teach her to tread with calm fortitude those dark paths which seem to be the only way to heaven; if not to afford solace to those dependent upon her ministries, to lead her to endure, with high heart and constancy, the buffets of fortune.
Three days had passed, and yet to Ville Marie, waiting in anxiety, no news had come. M. de Valrenne had promised to send a messenger directly he could secure any tidings of the enemy’s movements, and many regarded this prolonged silence as ominous of disaster.
The night of the third day was oppressively warm; the landscape lay wrapped in a soft incense-breathing obscurity. The feverish excitement tingling in Diane de Monesthrol’s veins drove away all thought of sleep. Suspense imparted an unnatural keenness to all her faculties, imagination was stimulated to the highest point, fears and fancies thronged her excited brain. Her pulses leapt with a prescient thrill of some blow about to fall. She was convinced that a supreme crisis had arrived, the endurance of which would tax her strength to the utmost. It seemed as though, in the midst of her gay and fearless career, she had been caught in the gigantic iron hand of a ruthless Fate that could not fail to crush her.
Suddenly her whole being seemed to contract and shiver, with a nameless agony of apprehension. She could no longer endure the house, which seemed to stifle her; perhaps the cool night air might relieve this overpowering horror. Breathless, trembling, she rushed out into the garden. Over Mount Royal the moon was shining in a cloudless sky, its sheen lighting up the tin roof of Notre Dame until it shone like silver, illuminating the dark foliage of the quaint garden, and driving its lances of pearly light through the close-woven branches. Beneath the shade a sort of mystic twilight prevailed; the dim trees rose in soft undulations half veiled in the faint and dreamy light. In the silent hush of nature the dew fell like a benediction; all the breathings of night were suggestive of peace and balm.
Diane moved amidst the familiar scene with a dazed and bewildered consciousness that made all her surroundings appear like the dim reality of a dream. This ethereal twilight, with its pale, ineffable clearness, seemed to be the hour of tender reveries, of delicate visions. She heard, without heeding, a hundred crackling sounds—echoes, movements, the rustling of leaves, the occasional twittering of some bird disturbed in its nest. A depression deep and dark, the inevitable reaction succeeding a long strain of agitation, took possession of her. The feverish energy which had until now sustained her gave out, and with the physical exhaustion came the mental. All the pain and trouble of the last few days became focused into a haunting fear. It was one of those times when it seems possible for a human being to stand outside of material things; when the veil which hides the everlasting verities is raised before eyes all pained and strained with gazing. The windows of Jeanne Le Ber’s room, overlooking the garden, stood wide open to the summer breeze. An overwhelming impulse moved Diane. No longer able to stifle the cry of her anguish, she sank on her knees, stretching out imploring, passionate hands. Was it the moonlight, or the play of her own fancy, or did a slight, wasted form appear at the window, dreamily indistinct in the prevailing obscurity? Had the urgency of human need torn the saint from her prayers and her vigils? The girl’s voice, clear and penetrating, echoed through the stillness.