The Castle of Twilight

by Margaret Horton Potter

“Yea! Laure shall stay with us now! There shall be no doubting of it. Laure is my child; and I shall keep her with me, an all Christendom forbid!”

The last sentence flew out in answer to madame’s secret fears; and she did not realize how much meaning it might hold for other ears. Her speech was followed by an intense silence. Laure did not dare ask aloud the questions that reason answered for her; and Lenore and Alixe both felt that it was not their place to speak. In the end, then, Eleanore herself had to break the strain, which she did by saying, with a brisk air,—

“Come, come, Laure! Rise, and go into thine own room here. I have laid out one of the old-time gowns, with shoes, chemise, bliault, and under-tunic complete, and also a wimple and head-veil. Make thyself ready for the day, while we go down to break our fast. When thou’rt dressed I will have food brought thee here; and after thou’st eaten, monseigneur will come up to thee. Hasten, for ’tis rarely cold!”

Laure jumped from the bed eager to see her childhood’s room again; eager for her meal; most of all eager, in spite of her apprehensiveness, to know what St. Nazaire had to say to her. As she paused to gather her mantle close about her, and to push the hair out of her eyes, her gaze chanced to meet that of Lenore. There was between them no spoken word; but in that instant was born a sudden affection which, while they lived together, saw not the end of its growth.

As Eleanore and the two young women left madame’s room on their way downstairs, Laure entered alone into the room of her youth and her innocence. It was exactly as it had been on the day she last saw it. The small, curtained bed was ready for occupancy. The chairs, the table, the round steel mirror, the carved wooden chest for clothes, lastly, the small priedieu, were just where they had always stood. The wooden shutters were open, and the half-transparent glass was all aflame with the reflection of sunlight on the sea; for the cold, clear morning was advancing. Across a narrow settle, beside one of the windows, lay the clothes that the mother had selected,—the girlhood clothes that she had worn in those years of her other life. Like one that dimly dreams, Laure took these garments up, one by one, and examined them, handling them with the same ruminative tenderness of touch that she might have used for some one that had been very dear to her, but had died long since,—so long that the bitterness of death had gone from memory.

When she had looked at them for a long time, Laure began slowly to don her clothes. She performed her toilet with all the precision of her maidenhood, coiling her hair with a care that suggested vanity, and adjusting her filet and veil with the same touch that they had known so many times before. Her outer tunic was of green saie; and even though her whole form had grown deplorably thin, she found it a little snug in bust and hip. Finally, when she was quite dressed, she sat down at one of the windows to wait for some one to bring food to her. To her surprise, it was Lenore who carried up the tray of bread and milk; and she found herself a little relieved that no former member of the Castle was to see her yet in the familiar dress of long ago. When she took the tray from the frail white hands of her sister-in-law, she murmured gratefully: “I thank thee that thou hast deigned to wait on me, madame.”

Lenore’s big blue eyes opened wide, as she smiled and answered: “Prithee, say not ‘madame.’ Rather, if thou canst, I would have thee call me ‘sister,’ for such I should wish to be to thee.”

“My sister!” Laure’s voice was choked as she raised both arms and threw them about the slender body of the other girl with such abandon that Lenore was obliged to put her off a little. Finally, however, Laure sat down to the table on which she had placed her simple breakfast, and as she carried the first bite to her lips, Lenore moved softly toward the door. Before going out, however, she turned and said quietly: “Thou’lt not be long alone. The Bishop is coming to thee at once.”

Laure’s spoon fell suddenly into her bowl, and she looked quickly round; but, to her chagrin, Lenore had already slipped away.

Left to herself, Laure could not eat. Hungry as she was, her anxiety and her suspense were greater than her appetite. Why was it that Lenore had so suddenly escaped from her? Why was it that she had seen no members of the Castle company save three women since her home-coming? Why was she forced thus to eat alone? Above all, why should the Bishop come to her here, instead of receiving her, as had been his custom, in the chapel? Laure remembered the last serious talk she had had with St. Nazaire, and shuddered. In her own mind she realized perfectly the spiritual enormity of her sin; and, however persistently she might refuse to confess it to herself, she knew also what the penalty of that sin must be. It was many minutes before she could force herself to recommence her meal; and she had taken little when there was a tap on the door. She had not time to do more than rise when the door opened, and her mother, followed by St. Nazaire, entered the room.