CHAPTER XXXVI—REunion

JEAN leaned idly against the ancient wall which bounded the stone-paved court at Beirnfels and looked down towards the valley below.

Spring was in the air—late comer to this eastern corner of Europe—but, at last, even here the fragrance of fresh growing things was permeating the atmosphere, strips of vivid blue rent the grey skies, and splashes of golden sunshine lay dappled over the shining roofs of the village that nestled in the valley.

But no responsive light had lit itself in Jean’s wistful eyes. She was out of tune with the season. Spring and hope go hand in hand, the one symbolical of the other, and the promise of spring-time, the blossom of hope, was dead within her heart—withered almost before it had had time to bud.

The months since she had quitted England had sufficed to blunt the keen edge of her pain, but always she was conscious of a dull, unending ache—a corroding sense of the uselessness and emptiness of life.

Yet she had learned to be thankful for even this much respite from the piercing agony of the first few weeks which she had spent at Beirnfels. Whatever the coming years might bring her of relief from pain, or even of some modicum of joy, those weeks when she had suffered the torments of the damned would remain stamped indelibly upon her memory.

During the last days at Charnwood she had been keyed up to a high pitch of endurance by the very magnitude of the renunciation she had made. It seems as though, when the soul strains upwards to the accomplishment of some deed that is almost beyond the power of weak human nature to achieve, there is vouchsafed, for the time being, a merciful oblivion to the immensity of pain involved. A transport of spiritual fervour lifts the martyr beyond any ordinary recognition of the physical fire that burns and chars his flesh, and some such ecstasy of sacrifice had supported Jean through the act of abnegation by which she had surrendered her love, and with it her life’s happiness, at the foot of the stern altar of Duty.

Afterwards had followed the preparations and bustle of departure, the necessary arrangements to be made and telegraphed to Beirnfels, and finally the long journey across Europe and the hundred and one small details that required settlement before she and Claire were fully installed at Beirnfels and the wheels of the household machinery running smoothly.

But when all this was accomplished, when the need to arrange and plan and make decisions had gone by and her mind was free to concern itself again with her own affairs, then Jean realised the full price of her renunciation.

And she paid it. In days that were an endless procession of anguished hours; in sleepless nights that were a mental and physical torment of unbearable longing such as she had never dreamed of; in tears and in dumb, helpless silences, she paid it. And at last, out of those racked and tortured weeks she emerged into a numbed, listless capacity to pick up once more the torn and mutilated threads of life.

Looking backward, she marvelled at the wonderful patience with which Claire had borne with her, at the selfless way in which she had devoted all her energies to ministering to one who was suffering from heart-sickness—that most wearying of all complaints to the sufferer’s friends because so difficult of comprehension by those not similarly afflicted.

Nick’s “pale golden narcissus!” To Jean, who had clung to her, helped inexpressibly by her tranquil, steadfast, unswerving faith and loving-kindness, it seemed as though the staunch and sturdy oak were a more appropriate metaphor in which to express the soul of Claire.

She heard her now, coming with light steps across the court. She rarely left Jean brooding long alone these days, exercising all her tact and ingenuity to devise some means by which she might distract her thoughts when she could see they had slipped back into the past.

Jean turned to greet her with a faint smile.

“Well, my good angel? Come to rout me out? I suppose”—teasingly—“you want me to ride down to the village and bring back two lemons urgently demanded by the cook?”

Claire laughed a little. Many had been the transparent little devices she had employed to beguile Jean into the saddle, knowing well that once she was on the back of her favourite mare the errand which was the ostensible purpose of the occasion would quite probably be entirely forgotten. But Jean would return from a long ride over the beloved hills and valleys that had been familiar to her from childhood with a faint colour in her pale cheeks, and with the shadow in her eyes a little lightened. There is no cure for sickness of the soul like the big, open spaces of the earth and God’s clean winds and sunlight.

“No,” said Claire, “it’s not lemons this time.”

“Then what is it?” demanded Jean. “You didn’t come out here just to look at the view. There’s an air of importance about you.”

It was true. Claire wore a little fluttering aspect of excitement. The colour came and went swiftly in her cheeks, and her eyes had a bright, almost dazzled look, while a small anxious frown kept appearing between her pretty brows. She regarded Jean uncertainly.

“Well—yes, it is something,” she acknowledged. “I had a letter from Lady Anne this morning.”

Both girls had their premiers d茅jeuners served to them in their rooms, so that each one’s morning mail was an unknown quantity to the other until they met downstairs.

“From Lady Anne?” Jean looked interested. “What does she say?”

“She says—she writes———” Here Claire floundered and came to a stop as though uncertain how to proceed, the little puzzled frown deepening between her brows. “Oh, Jean, she had a special reason for writing—some news——”

Jean’s arm, hanging slackly at her side, jerked suddenly. Something in Claire’s half-frightened, deprecating air sent a thrill of foreboding through her. Her heart turned to ice within her.

“News?” she said in a harsh, strangled voice. “Tell me quick—what is it?... Blaise? He’s not—dead?” Her face, drained of every drop of colour, her suddenly pinched nostrils and eyes stricken with quick fear drew a swift cry from Claire.

“No—no!” she exclaimed in hasty reassurance. “It’s good news! Good—-not bad!”

Jean’s taut muscles relaxed and she leaned against the wall as though seeking support.

“You frightened me,” she said dully. “Good news? Then it can’t be for me. What is it, Claire? Is Nick”—forcing a smile—“coming out here to see you?”

Claire nodded.

“Yes, Nick—and Blaise with him.”

Jean stared at her.

“Blaise—coming here? Oh, but he must not—he mustn’t come!”—in sudden panic. “I couldn’t go through it all again! I couldn’t!”

Claire slipped an arm round her.

“You won’t have to,” she answered. “Because, Jean-Jean! Blaise has the right to come now. He’s free!”

“Free? Free?” repeated Jean. “What do you mean! How can he be free?”

“Nesta is dead,” said Claire simply.

“Dead?” Jean began to laugh a trifle hysterically.

“Oh, yes, she’s been ‘dead’ before. But——”

“She is really dead this time,” said Claire. “That is why Lady Anne has written—to tell us.”

“I can’t believe it!” muttered Jean. “I can’t believe it.”

“You must believe it,” insisted Claire quietly. “It is all quite true. She was buried last week in the little churchyard at Coombe Eavie, and Lady Anne writes that Nick and Blaise will be here almost as soon as her letter. They’re on their way now—now, Jean! Do you understand?” Her eyes filling with tears, Claire watched the gradual realisation of the amazing truth dawn in Jean’s face. That face so tragically worn, so fined and spiritualised by suffering, glowed with a new light; a glory of unimaginable hope lit itself in the tired golden eyes, and on the half-parted lips there seemed to quiver those kisses which still waited to be claimed.

Jean passed her hand across her eyes like one who has seen some bright light of surpassing radiance.

“Tell me, Claire,” she said at last, tremulously. “Tell me...” She broke off, unable to manage her voice.

“I’ll read you what Lady Anne says,” replied Claire quickly. “After writing that Nesta is dead and Nick and Blaise are coming here, she goes on: ‘Poor Nesta! One cannot help feeling sorry for her—killed so suddenly and so tragically. And yet such a death seems quite in the picture with her lawless, wayward nature! She was shot, Claire, shot in the Boundary Woods by a Frenchman who had apparently followed her to England for the express purpose. It appears he met her at Ch芒teau Varigny, in the days when she was posing as Madame de Varigny’s niece, and fell violently in love with her. Of course Nesta could not marry him, and equally of course the Frenchman—he was the Vicomte de Chassaigne—did not know that she had a husband already. So, naturally, he hoped eventually to win her, and Nesta, (who, as you know, would flirt with the butcher’s boy if there were no one else handy) encouraged him and allowed him to make love to her to his heart’s content. Then, after her return to Staple, he learned of her marriage, and, furious at having been so utterly deceived, he followed. He must have watched her very carefully for some days, as he apparently knew her favourite walks, and waylaid her one afternoon in the woods. What passed between them we shall never know, for Chassaigne killed her and then immediately turned the revolver on himself. Blaise and Nick heard the shots and rushed down to the Boundary Woods where the shots had sounded—you’ll know where I mean, the woods that lie along the border between Willow Ferry and Staple. There they found them. Nesta was dead, and de Chassaigne dying. He had just strength enough to confide in Blaise all that I have written. I am writing to you, because I think it might come as too great a shock to Jean as you say she is still so far from strong. You must tell her——”

Jean interrupted the reading with a shout of laughter.

“Oh, Claire! Claire! You blessed infant! I suppose all those preliminary remarks of yours about ‘a letter from Lady Anne’ and the ‘news’ it contained were by way of preparing me for the shock—‘breaking the news’ in fact?”

“Yes,” admitted Claire, flushing a little.

Jean rocked with laughter—gay, spontaneous laughter such as Claire had not heard issue from her lips since the day when Madame de Varigny had come to Staple.

“And you just about succeeded in frightening me to death!” continued Jean. “Oh, Claire, Claire, you adorable little goose, didn’t you know that good news never kills?”

“I didn’t feel at all sure,” returned Claire, laughing a little, too, in spite of herself. “You’ve looked lately as though it wouldn’t take very much of anything—good or bad—to kill you.”

“Well, it would now,” Jean assured her solemnly. “Not all the powers of darkness would prevail against me, I verily believe.” She paused, frowning a little. “How beastly it is though, to feel outrageously happy because someone is dead! It’s indecent. Poor little Nesta! Oh, Claire! Is it hateful of me to feel like this? Do say it isn’t, because—because I can’t help it!”

“Of course it isn’t,” protested Claire. “It’s only natural.”

“I suppose it is. And I really am sorry for Nesta—though I’m so happy myself that it sort of swamps it. Oh, Claire darling”—the shadow passing and sheer gladness of soul bubbling up again into her voice—“I’m bound to kiss someone—at once. It’ll have to be you! And look! Those two may be here any moment—Lady Anne said so. I’m going to make myself beautiful—if I can. I wish I hadn’t grown so thin! The most ravishing frock in the world would look a failure draped on a clothes-horse. Still, I’ll do what I can to conceal from Blaise the hideous ravages of time. And I’m not going to wear black—I won’t welcome him back in sackcloth and ashes! I won’t! I won’t! I’ve got the darlingest frock upstairs—a filmy grey thing like moonlight. I’m going to wear that. I know—I know”—-softly—“that Glyn would understand.”

And if he knew anything at all about it—and one would like to think he did—it is quite certain Peterson would have approved his daughter’s decision. For to his incurably romantic spirit, the idea of a woman going to meet the lover of whom a malign fate had so nearly robbed her altogether, clad in the sable habiliments with which she had paid filial tribute to her father’s death, would have appeared of all things the most incongruous and irreconcilable.

So that when at last a prehistoric vehicle, chartered from the inn of the Green Dragon in the village below, toiled slowly up the hill to Peirnfels and Blaise and Nick climbed down from its musty interior, a slender, moon-grey figure, which might have been observed standing within the shadow of a tall stone pillar and following with straining eyes the snail-like progress of the old-fashioned carriage up the steep white road, flitted swiftly hack into the shelter of the house. Claire, dimpling and smiling at the great gateway of the castle, alone received the travellers.

“Go along that corridor,” she said to Blaise, when they had exchanged greetings. “To the end door of all. That’s the sun-parlour. You’ll find Jean there. She thought it appropriate”—smiling at him.

Then, as Blaise strode down the corridor indicated, she turned to Nick and asked him with an adorable coquetry why he, too, had come to Beirnfels?

“I’ve heard it is the House of Dreams-Come-True,” replied Nick promptly. “It seemed a likely place in which to find you, most beautiful.”

Claire beamed at him.

“Oh, am I that—really, Nick?”

“Of course you are. The most beautiful in all the world. Claire”—tucking his arm into hers—“tell me, how is the ‘soul-rebuilding’ process getting on? That’s why I came, really, you know, to find out if you had completely finished redecorating your interior?—I can vouch for the outer woman myself”—with an adoring glance at the fluffy ash-blonde hair and pure little Greuze profile.

Claire rubbed her cheek against his sleeve. To a woman who has been for four months limited almost exclusively to the society of one other woman—even though that other woman be her chosen friend—the rough ‘feel’ of a man’s coat-sleeve (more particularly if he should happen to be the man) and the faint fragrance of tobacco which pervades it form an almost delirious combination.

Claire hauled down her flag precipitately.

“I’m ready to go back to England any time now, Nick,” she murmured.

“Are you? Darling! How soon can you be ready? In a week? To-morrow? Next day?”

“Quite soon. And meanwhile, mightn’t you—you and Blaise—stay for a bit at the Green Dragon?”

“We might,” replied Nick solemnly, quite omitting to mention that something of the sort had been precisely their intention when leaving England.

Meanwhile Blaise had made his way to the door at the end of the corridor. Outside it he paused, overwhelmed by the sudden realisation that beyond that wooden harrier lay holy ground—Paradise! And the Angel with the Flaming Sword stood at the gate no longer....

She was waiting for him over by the window, straight and slim and tall in her moon-grey, her hands hanging in front of her tight-clasped like those of a child. But her eyes were woman’s eyes.

With a little inarticulate cry she ran to him—to the place that was hers, now and for all time, against his heart—and his arms, that had been so long empty, held her as though he would never let her go.

“Beloved of my heart!” he murmured. “Oh, my sweet—my sweet!”

They spoke but little. Only those foolish, tender words that seem so meaningless to those who are not lovers, but which are pearls strung on a thread of gold to those who love—a rosary of memory which will be theirs to keep and tell again when the beloved voice that uttered them shall sound no more.