“Say as you think, and speak it from your souls.” —SHAKESPEARE.
NEXT morning Elene was sitting in the salon, alone. She had not yet seen M. Berbier or Gaspard, but she heard their voices in the room above, M. Berbier’s chamber, and in long and earnest converse. She had taken the morning soup, her early meal, by herself; and was now busy in the manufacture of a new petticoat for Babette, of somewhat gayer color and finer material than usual, though still with due regard to the strict sumptuary laws of the time. She had got M. Fontanes’ servant to buy the stuff for her, out of a little pocket money Berbier had insisted on giving her.
While the needle in her skillful fingers flew in and out of the futaine, her brain was equally busy. Yet perhaps not so profitably, for more and more, as she worked and thought, her heart was sinking within her. She was a brave girl, and right bravely had she borne herself hitherto through the perils and sorrows of her young life. True, she had helps and comforts; she had often “drunk of the brook in the way,” and had therefore “lifted up her head.” She had been helped by the friendship of Sceur Adele, by the strong faith of Isabeau, by the protecting kindness of Berbier, above all by the companionship of Gaspard, which hitherto she had enjoyed with the frank simplicity of a child, She enjoyed it the more, because she knew herself a giver as well as a receiver, and thus she did not fail of the “greater blessing.” Having learned much that Gaspard did not know, she was able to teach him much; while he, on his part, inspirited, cheered, and refreshed her. She recognized in him, amidst all his ignorance, an inborn strength which not only matched, but would eventually outmatch her own. After all, it is the strong who best appreciate the strong. None but themselves know how those whom the world thinks made to be leaned upon (and very ready the world usually is to do it) rejoice when they find a stronger yet upon whom they, in their turn, can rest their heavy burdens, and perhaps, sometimes, their heavier hearts.
Very heavy, notwithstanding the helps she had enjoyed, was the heart of Elene that morning. It is often thus. Brave souls who have borne a stab without flinching have shed tears at a pin-prick. Did not Elijah the Prophet, who had dared King Ahab in his wrath without a trace of fear, when he reached the comparative safety of the desert, break forth into the despairing cry, “And now, O Lord, take away my life, for it is better for me to die than to live”?
Some such cry was trembling just then upon the lips of Elene. A trouble comparatively slight was the occasion of this sudden collapse. Hitherto her thoughts had been mainly given to others. Her little brother, her stepmother, Isabeau, Gaspard, Dr Berbier, and of late M. Brousson, had occupied them, and kept them from dwelling on Elene de Fressinieres. But now, at last, they turned inward. So slight a thing as the loss of her humble handmaid—who yet represented to her the only companionship of her own sex she would have in the unknown, perilous journeyings before her—drove into her heart, like a sharp dagger, the poignant sense of her isolation. Mother, father, brother were all dead, and the young step-mother, in her estimation, was worse than dead. Not one familiar face of friend, or servant even, would be ever seen by her again. What then was there left for her? Why should she go to England at all? For Gaspard, it was different. He hoped to see the faces of his parents; he had them to go to. But she had no one. And then, the journey! She was afraid of it, though she knew not why. She had dared worse perils already, and had not been overmuch afraid. But this voyage somehow seemed different. She would miss poor Babette; the loss of her was the last drop in her cup of desolation. Then she thought of Isabeau. “Oh, if I could but have her to go with me!” she said to herself. But she recognized the utter impossibility of it, almost with a despairing smile, and a few slow tears, born of the self-pitying mood so rare with her, fell upon the garment she was making for Babette.
Suddenly Gaspard stood before her, tall, straight and manly, with a flush on his cheek and a light in his eye. In her pre-occupation she had not heard the opening of the door. After the usual greetings he said, “What a bright day it is! See how the sun shines. It might be May, instead of November. Wilt come forth with me a little, and breathe the fresh air? Since coming to Montpellier you have not been out of doors.”
Elene demurred. She wanted to finish her work. But Gaspard urged the point. “I have something to say to you,” he said, with a kind of inner tremble in his voice. “It concerns our journey.”
Then she rose, folded her work away, and went to fetch her cloak and hood.
“Where shall we go?” Gaspard asked when she returned, expecting from her looks that she would answer indifferently, “Where you please.”
But she said at once, in a low, decided voice, “To the Esplanade.”
“Will it not hurt you to go there?”
“Why should it? I want to stand upon the spot from which our martyr went to God.”
To the esplanade accordingly they went. It was just then a lonely spot: the shadow of death brooded over it. As they passed under the splendid arch erected a few years before to the glory of Louis the Magnificent, Gaspard turned to Elene with a strange smile. “Not this, but the scaffold that stood yonder was the true monument of glory,” he said.
They walked on, but presently stopped again. Gaspard pointed to the white mountains in the distance, with their robes of dazzling snow. “I will lift up mine eyes to the hills, from whence cometh my help,” he said. Then, looking down, “Elene, It stood here, where we are standing now. All, you are weeping.”
“Not for him. No; even had I known him as thou didst, I would not weep. For his toils and sufferings are over now, and his Lord’s ‘Well done!’ has welcomed him Home. No; I was weeping for myself; I was thinking of my own, who have gone before. Perhaps they too have welcomed him there. All my very own are there now, Gaspard—my mother, whose death first taught me what sorrow meant; my father, the guide of my youth; my baby brother, whom I tried to save, but only sent him the sooner to his God. For my stepmother, I can only wish that she too was with them, and I have faith to think she will be one day. But of all of us, whom God had bound together, there is only one left now, to weep and pray.”
“Two—two to weep and two to pray.” Gaspard’s hand had moved to hers, and was holding it now.
“Oh, but, Gaspard, ‘tis different with thee! Should God prosper us to come to England, thou hast father, mother, brother, awaiting thee there—”
“So hast thou! For my father, my mother, and my brother will be thine also,” broke in Gaspard impetuously.
“I know they will be kind to me—as thou art. And the land of freedom will be a good land, where we can dwell in peace. But I cannot forget that in this land of France I leave—what thou leavest not—two hallowed graves at home, and one—a little one—in that convent garden. My heart clings to these.”
“Love the dead as thou wilt, dear Elene, but spare a little love for the living too,” said Gaspard’s trembling, earnest voice.
“I do. I would not be of those who refuse God’s good gift of water because in their cup there is no more wine.”
Gaspard’s heart was throbbing fast—so fast he thought she must hear it. “If wine means love, Elene, my soul is full of it. Oh, don’t you understand? I am only longing to pour out every drop into thy cup—or at thy feet.”
She looked at him in amazement, that changed into a sort of terror. This was not the kind, brotherly Gaspard she knew. “Thou art not like thyself this morning,” she said. “Nor thy words.”
“Because they are myself. Till now I was not myself; I was but a boy, a child. I was like this earth at our feet, upon which the sun shines and makes it hot, or the clouds brood, and make it cold; but it knows neither cloud nor sun, nor can say, ‘Now I am warm, now I am cold.’ Elene, my heart has been brimful of love to thee, I think from the day we met, after that thrice-blessed Assembly. And every day the love has been growing more and more, because the heart has been growing larger to hold it. Only, like the earth, it did not know, till another told it the secret that was its own.”
“Stop, Gaspard—oh, stop! Thy words are not good. They are hurting me.”
“Hurting thee, Elene? I would not hurt thee for the world. But I must needs tell thee how it is with me, and ask thee—”
“No, Gaspard, ask me nothing.” She withdrew the hand he had been holding.
“Only one word, Elene. Thou saidst just now ‘There remains but one.’ I ask thee to say instead, ‘There remain but two, who are one.’”
“This is no fitting time for such words, Gaspard. Think of it!”
“I have thought. M. Portal made me think, or rather, he made me know what I had been wanting all the time. M. Berbier too—he wishes it. Dear Elene, all will be well if thou wilt say but one word—one little word—to me. Say I may bring thee to my father and my mother—as my wife.”
Gaspard had blundered horribly. The shy, sensitive heart, all on fire with its first passion—of which the strength only equaled the shrinking timidity—had sprung at one bound to the opposite extreme, and dared far too greatly.
Elene started, and trembled violently. She had expected a different word, “My betrothed.” Even that would have sounded very formidable—but this. After an agitated silence, she faltered, “Come away, Gaspard. You should not speak here—not here!”
“Yes, here,” urged Gaspard. “For we stand on sacred ground, and I think this to be a sacred thing, and God’s will for us. I too would have said to M. Portal, ‘Not now,’ for it seemed to me like taking joy for myself when all were mourning. But he said we should do God’s will, whether in joy or sorrow, and he thought this was His will, and also that it would have been the will of him who has gone from us to Him. Elene, I pray thee, give me thy word here, on this spot. ‘Twill seem as if we had his leave. His blessing we have already, thou and I together.”
“Gaspard, thou art too strong for me.”
“Then I have prevailed! Thank God!” His voice rang with triumph. She did not speak; perhaps she could not. Again he took her hand in his. “Let me keep it, that means ‘yes.’ Take it away, that means ‘no,’” he said.
It is not recorded that she drew it away.