She put the tiny bundle into his strong arms, and laughed to see the half-terrified air with which the young fellow bore it over to the settle which she indicated. But when he had sat down, he laid the baby on his knees, and then, retaining careful hold of it, turned his whole look upon Lenore.
She smiled at him, supremely unconscious of the electric thrills that were making the man’s whole body quiver and tremble with emotion. Indeed, it would have been difficult enough to read his feeling in his matter-of-fact manner. For a long time they sat there, talking upon many subjects, but most of all about Gerault, whose name had scarcely crossed Lenore’s lips since the time of his death. To Courtoise it was an acute pain to hear her refer to the various incidents of her courtship in Rennes; but back of her words there was no suggestion of either grief or bitterness. She recalled her first acquaintance with Gerault fully, incident by incident, and caused Courtoise to take an unwilling part in the reminiscences. He hoped continually to get her away from the subject, to matters now nearer both of them; but time sped on, and, as the sun began to near the sea, the baby woke from sleep with a little cry that Courtoise recognized with a pang. His hour was over; and he had gained little hope from it. Yet, as he returned the baby to its mother’s arms, there was a smile for him in Lenore’s calm eyes, and he retreated with a beating heart as Madame Eleanore and Laure came together into the room, to spend their usual evening hour with the mother and child.
This hour of the day, the twilight time, the time of yearning for things long gone, had of late weeks been drawing these three women of the Twilight Castle very close together. Laure, Lenore, and Eleanore, these three, with Alixe ofttimes a shadow in the background, were accustomed to sit together, watching the sunset die over the great waters, and waiting for the appearance of the evening star upon the fading glow. And in this time of silent companionship each felt within her a new growth, a new, half-sorrowful love for the life in this lonely habitation. The spell of solitude was weaving about them a slow, strong bond, which in after years none of the three felt any wish to break. Many dream-shadows, the ghosts of forgotten lives, rose up for each out of the darkening waste of the sea; and with these spirits of memory or imagination, each one was making a life as real and as strong as the lives of those that dwelt out in the great world, for which, at one time or another, all of them had so deeply yearned. Each felt, in her heart, that her active life was over; and, as time passed, and thoughts began adequately to take the place of realities, none of them cared to keep alive the sharp stings of bitterness or of unavailing regret. They knew themselves dead to the great, outer life that each, in her way, had known. Nor did they mourn themselves. What fire of life remained with them had been transformed into secret dreams and ambitions for the future of that little creature swathed so carefully from the world, now lying peacefully asleep upon the mother-breast of Gerault’s widow.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE RISING TIDE
Summer was on the world again, and with its coming, melancholy was banished for a season from Le Crépuscule. With the first northward flight of storks, a new air, a breath of hidden life and gayety, crept into the Castle household, and, in the early days of June, broke forth in a riot of pleasures,—caroles, garland-weaving parties, and hunting. As in former times, Laure was now the moving spirit in every sport, and, to the general amazement, madame, who in her younger days had been celebrated at the chase, herself headed one of the rabbit-hunts,—in that day a favorite pastime with women.
The country around Le Crépuscule was as beautiful in summer as it was desolate in winter; for the moorlands were one gay tangle of many-colored wild-flowers. The cultivated land around the peasants’ homes was thick with various crops, and the cool, green depths of the forest hid beauties surpassing all those of the open country. The stables of Le Crépuscule were well supplied with horses, for the family, both women and men, had always been persistent riders. In these June days the women-folk, Madame and Laure and the demoiselles, rode early and late, deserting wheel, loom, and tambour frame to revel in a much-needed rest and change of occupation. Only Lenore refused to take part in the sports, finding pleasure enough at home with the child, who was growing to be a fine lusty infant, with a smile as ready as if she had been born in Rennes. And the mother and child were happy enough to sit all day in the flower-strewn meadow, between the north wall and the dry moat, playing together with bright posies, watching the movements of the birds in the open falconry, and sometimes taking part in quieter revels with the others. Ere June was gone, the demoiselles were scarcely to be recognized for the pale, heavy-eyed, pallid things that had been wont to assemble in the great hall after supper on winter evenings to listen to the stories told round the fire. Now their laughter was ever ready, their feet light for the dance, their cheeks brown, and their eyes bright with the continual riot in sunlight and sea-winds. Winter lay behind, like the shadow of an ugly dream, and now, of a sudden, God’s world, and with it Le Crépuscule, became beautiful for man.
In the first week of July, however, the period of gayety was checked by the loss of four members of the household. Two of the demoiselles of noble family, whom madame had taken to train as gentlewomen of rank, Berthe de Montfort and Isabelle de Joinville, had now been in Le Crépuscule the customary time for the acquirement of etiquette and the arts of needlework, and escorts arrived from their homes to convoy them away. After their departure, the squires Louis of Florence and Robert Meloc resigned their places and rode out into the world, to seek a life of action.