The Castle of Twilight

by Margaret Horton Potter

With the last words he drew, from a fat pouch at his side, a handful of bright bits of quartz-crystal, and, tossing them high in the air, let them fall over him and down upon the table in a glittering shower. There was a quick scramble for them; and then, with an uncanny laugh, David pirouetted down the table, backward, guiding himself miraculously among the articles that loaded the board, flinging about him, at every other step, more of his “jewels,” and now and then singing more extemporaneous verses concerning his mysterious country. All the table paused in its eating and drinking to watch him, for, when he chose, he was a remarkably clever and magnetic actor. To-day he was making an unusual effort, and presently even Lenore leaned forward a little to catch his words; and, in a swift glance, he perceived that some color had come into her cheeks, and a faint light into her eyes.

It made a pleasant interlude in the feasting; and when at length the little man, with a hop and a spring, left the table, and came round to the place where he was accustomed to sit, he was followed by a burst of enthusiastic applause.

The gayety that he had excited by his rhymes and his pebble shower did not die away for some time. By now, however, the eating was at an end, and a lighter tone of conversation spread through the room, as the footboys brought in two extra casks of beer and some dozens of bottles of red wine. This was the wished-for stage of the day’s entertainment, and if there was any one present that should be unminded for what was to come, this was the signal for departure. Madame Lenore was the only one in the room to go; but she rose the moment that the table had been cleared of food, and, with a slight bow to madame and monseigneur, slipped quietly to the stairs and passed up to her room with a relief in her heart that the day was over.

The last white fold of Lenore’s drapery had scarcely disappeared round the bend in the stairway, when there came a knocking upon the outer door of the great hall, which was presently thrust open, before one of the henchmen could reach it, to let in a beggar from the bitter cold outside. It was the last day of the week of hospitality, and perhaps this wanderer was the more readily admitted for that fact. It was a woman, ragged, unkempt, and purple with cold. Madame Eleanore just glanced at her, and then signed to those at the lower end of the table to give her place with them, and bring her food. But the new-comer seemed not to notice the invitations of those near by. She stood still, gazing intently toward Madame Eleanore, till presently one of the henchmen, somewhat affected with liquor, sprang from his place with the intention of pulling her to a seat. In this act he got a view of her face with the light from a torch falling full across it. Instantly he started back with a loud exclamation,—

“Mademoiselle!”

Then all at once the woman, holding out both her arms toward madame’s chair, swayed forward to her knees with a low wailing cry that brought the whole company to their feet. There was one moment of terrible silence, and then a woman’s scream rang through the room, as Madame Eleanore staggered to her feet and started forward to the side of the wanderer.

“Laure! Laure! O God! my Laure!”

As the two women—madame now on her knees beside her daughter—intertwined their arms, and the older woman felt again the living flesh of her flesh, the throng at the table moved slowly together and drew closer and closer to these central figures. Nearest of all stood Alixe and Courtoise, white-faced, tremulous, but with great joy written in their eyes. They had recognized Laure simultaneously an instant before madame, but they had restrained themselves from rushing upon her, leaving the first place to the mother.

Eleanore was fondling Laure in her arms, murmuring over her inarticulate things, while tears streamed from her eyes, and her strained throat palpitated with sobs. What Laure did or felt, none knew. She lay back, half-fainting, in the warm clasp; but presently she struggled a little away, and sat straight. Pushing the tangled hair out of her eyes,—those black, brilliant eyes that were still undimmed,—and seeing the universal gaze upon her, she shrank within herself, and whispered to her mother: “In the name of God, madame, I prithee let me be alone with thee!”

Then Eleanore bethought herself, and rose, lifting Laure also to her feet. For a moment she looked about her, and then with a mere lifting of her hand dispersed the crowd. They melted away like snow in rain, till only three were left there in the great hall: Courtoise, Alixe, and lastly monseigneur, who during the whole scene had stood apart from the throng, the law of excommunication heavy upon him. Forbid a mother, starved by nearly a year of denial of her child, to satisfy herself now that that child was at last returned to her? Not he, the man of flesh and blood and human passions!