The Pines of Lory/Chapter 15



HE rustle of a sudden movement–and an exclamation half suppressed–came from within the chamber. Then the tapestry was pushed aside.

The Princess, at sight of the figure that emerged, took a backward step, her smile of welcome supplanted by a look of wonder. Another woman stood before her, also pausing in surprise, a hand still holding the tapestry. This woman was young and slight of figure, erect, dark-haired, and sunburned. In a single glance the quick eye of the Princess took in a number of details. She noticed that the stranger wore a jacket so faded that no trace of its original color remained; that the skirt, equally faded, was also stained and patched. But to the critical Parisian it was obvious that these garments, although threadbare, frayed, and weather-beaten, fitted extremely well.

Now, while the Princess was the more surprised of the two, the girl in the faded garments experienced a greater bewilderment. For this visitor bore a startling resemblance to the miniature,–the wife whose grave was among the pines. And Elinor stared, as if half awake, at the round face, the drooping eyes, and the very familiar features of this sudden guest. Even the arrangement of the hair was unchanged, and the infantile mouth appeared exactly as depicted in the little portrait that hung beside her. Had this portrait come to life and stood near its own chair, the effect would have been the same.

But the lady from Paris was the first to find her voice. In French, with somewhat frigid politeness, she said:

“Pardon me, Mademoiselle; I expected to find another person here.”

Also in French the girl replied:

“Madame is the daughter, perhaps, of the gentleman who lived here?”

The Princess, with her head, made a slight affirmative movement. And she frowned more from anxiety than resentment as she asked: “You say lived here. Does he not live here now?”

And she read in the face before her, from its sympathy and sadness, the answer she dreaded.

Elinor, before replying, came nearer to the table. “Do you speak English?”

The Princess nodded, and seated herself in the chair of the miniature, and with clasped hands and a pale face, whispered:

“He is–dead?”

Elinor took the opposite chair. “May I tell you about it in English? I can do it more easily and better than in French.”

“Certainly, certainly. And tell me all–everything.”

Bravely the Princess listened. The tears flowed as she heard the story, pressing her handkerchief to her eyes, and even trying to smile at times in grateful sympathy for the narrator’s efforts at consolation.

“Tell me how he looked the day you found him. Did he seem to have been–ill–to have suffered?”

“We thought him asleep. There was no trace of suffering. The color of his face surprised us.”

When the story of his burial was finished, the Princess rose from her seat, came around and stood by Elinor, and took her hand. “I owe you so much. You were very good and considerate. I am grateful, very grateful. He was unfortunate in his life. It is a consolation to know his death was happy, and that he was reverently buried.”

Then Elinor, after hesitating, decided to ask a question.

“If it is no secret, and if you care to do it, would you mind telling me why he came across the water, out here in the forest, and lived in such a way?”

“Assuredly! And even if it were a secret I should tell you. In the first place, he was the Duc de Fontrévault, a very good name in France, as perhaps you know. He fell in love–oh, so fiercely in love!–with a lady who was to marry–well, who was betrothed to a king. It sounds like a fairy tale, n’est-ce pas?”

“It does, indeed!”

The Princess was now sitting on the arm of Elinor’s chair, looking down into her face, in a motherly, or elder sisterly, sort of way.

“Well, you would know all about the king if I told you. He died only the other day, so you will soon guess him. C’était un vaurien, un imbécile. My father not only loved this–”

She stopped, abruptly, leaning forward with one hand upon the table. “Mais, Mon Dieu! there is my portrait! My old miniature of twenty years ago! How came it there?” And she pointed to the opposite chair.

“We found it hanging there when we came, and have never disturbed it.”

“You found it hanging there, on the back of that chair?”

“Yes.”

“My own chair–where I used to sit! So, then, I was always before him!”

Elinor nodded. In the eyes of the Princess came fresh tears. She undertook to say more, but failed; and getting up, she walked around the table and dropped into Pats’s chair, gurgling something in French about the petit père. Then she broke down completely, buried her face in her hands, and made no effort to control her grief.

When she recovered composure, her self-reproaches were bitter for allowing so many years to go by without a visit to this devoted parent. Smiling as she dried her eyes,–the eyes with the drooping corners, old friends to Elinor,–she said: “You, also, had me for a guest all this time.”

“No, for a hostess. It is your house.”

“And where do you sit?”

“Here, where I am.”

“Then I have been your vis-à-vis?”

“Yes.”

The Princess smiled. “Well, my face must be terribly familiar to you. Perhaps you recognized me at first?”

“Yes; I supposed you must be his daughter. But we believed the portrait to be your mother.”

“How amusing! But poor mamma! there is no portrait of her here. She came away in too much of a hurry to stop for trifles.”

She studied the miniature in silence, then, leaning back in her chair:

“Mais, voyons! I was telling something.”

“About your father–why he came here.”

“Ah, yes! Well, for a man to marry, or try to marry–or to dream of marrying–a princess formally betrothed to a king was quelque chose d’inouïe. But he was badly brought up, this little father of mine: always having his own way,–un enfant gâté,–you know, a child made worse–a child damaged–hurt–what am I trying to say?”

“A spoiled child.”

“Of course! But the King also was a spoiled child, which is to be expected in a king. However, that did not smooth things for my little father, as the King was beside himself with rage–furious, wild!”

“He was jealous?”

The Princess laughed–more of a triumphant chuckle than a laugh. “And well he had reason!”

“Then the lady preferred your father to the King?”

“Mon Dieu! She had eyes.” Then, with a slight motion of a hand: “And she had sense.”

Elinor smiled. “But a king is a great catch.”

The little lady shrugged her shoulders. “That made nothing to her. She was as good as the King. She was a grande princess. Not an every-day princess, like me.”

“Are you a princess?” Elinor asked in surprise.

“Yes, an ordinary princess–the common, every-day kind. But she was a princesse royale. And so he did this.” With a comprehensive gesture of both her hands she indicated the tapestries, paintings, busts, furniture, and the entire contents of the house.

“You mean he brought his own possessions off here, across the water?”

“Precisely.”

“And did he bring the Princess with him?”

“What a question! It is evident, Mademoiselle, that you were not acquainted with my father, the Duc de Fontrévault.”

“Then this princess was your mother?”

“Yes.”

“And that is her grave out there, beneath the pines, next to his?”

The Princess nodded, and blinked, but smiled: “Poor mamma! She only lived a few years after that; I was nine when she died.”

“Were you born here?”

“In there.” And she glanced toward Elinor’s chamber.

“You must have had a lonely childhood.”

“No. In those days we had a servant–and a cow.”

“But why should your father and mother escape to this wilderness? Surely a woman may marry whom she pleases in these days.”

“Certainly. But an agent was sent to arrest my father–on a legal pretext–and in the quarrel this agent–also a gentleman of high rank–was killed. So that was murder. Just what his Majesty wished, perhaps. And my father, in haste, packed a few things on a ship and disappeared.”

“A few things!”

“The King never knew where he went. Nor did any one else. But enough of myself and family. Tell me of your coming here. And of your friend. Is she still here?”

“My friend was a man.”

“Ah!”

The Princess raised her eyebrows, involuntarily. “Pardon me if I am indiscreet, but you are not married?”

“No.”

Now this Parisian, with other Europeans, had heard startling tales about American girls; of their independence and of their amazing freedom. She leaned forward, a lively curiosity in her face. To her shame be it said that she was always entertained by a sprightly scandal, and seldom shocked.

“How interesting! And this gentleman, was he young?”

But the American girl did not reply at once. She had divined her companion’s thoughts and was distressed, and provoked. This feeling of resentment, however, she repressed as she could not, in justice, blame the Princess–nor anybody else–for being reasonably surprised. So, she began at the beginning and told the tale: of the stupid error by which she was left with a man she hardly knew on this point of land; of their desperate effort to escape in September, by taking to a raft and floating down the river; how they failed to land and were carried out to sea, nearly perishing from exposure. She described their reaching shore at last, several miles to the east. And when she spoke of the early snow, in October, of the violent storms and the long winter, the Princess nodded.

“Yes, I remember those winters well. But we were happy, my father and I.”

“And so were we,” said Elinor.

“Then this stranger turned out well? A gentleman, a man of honor?”

“Yes, oh, yes! And more than that. He gave his life for mine.”

From the look which came into Elinor’s face, and from a quiver in the voice, the sympathetic visitor knew there was a deeper feeling than had been expressed. She said, gently:

“You are tired now. Tell me the rest of the story later.”

“No, no. I will tell you now. One morning, about a month ago, the first pleasant day after a week of rain, we started off along the bank of the river to see if the flood had carried away our raft–the new one. Just out there, in the woods, not far from here, I stepped to the edge of the bank and looked down at the water. The river was higher than we had ever seen it,–fuller, swifter, with logs and bushes in it. Even big trees came along, all rushing to the sea at an awful speed.”

“Yes, I know that river in spring. The water is yellow, and with a frightful current,–fascinating to watch, but it terrifies.”

Elinor nodded. “Fascinating to watch, yes. But Pats told me–”

“Pats?”

“My friend. His name was Patrick.”

“And Pats is the little name–the familiar–for Patrick?”

“Sometimes.”

“Ah, I never knew that! But pardon me. Please go on.”

“He told me to come back–that the bank was undermined by the river and might give way. He said: ‘Whoever enters that river to-day leaves hope behind.’ At the very instant I started back the earth under me gave way, and–and, well, I went down to the river and under the water–an awful distance. I thought I should never come up again. But I did come up at last, gasping, half dead, several yards from the shore. The current was carrying me down the river, but I saw Pats on the bank above, watching me. His face was pale and he was hurrying along to keep near. Oh, how I envied him, up there, alive and safe!”

“Poor child! I can well believe it!”

“He cried out, ‘Try and swim toward the shore! Try hard!’ And I tried, but was carried along so fast that I seemed to make no headway. Then I saw him run on ahead, pull off his shoes and outer clothes, slide down the bank and shoot out into the water toward me.”

“Bravo!” exclaimed the listener. “Bravo! That was splendid!” And in her enthusiasm she rose, and sat down again.

Elinor sank back in her chair. But the Princess was leaning forward with wide open eyes and parted lips.

“Then what happened?”

“He reached me, caught me with one hand by my dress between the shoulders, and told me again to swim hard for the shore. It seemed hopeless, at first, for the current was frightful–oh, frightful! It washed us under and tried to carry us out again. But Pats pushed hard, and after an awful struggle–it seemed a lifetime–we we reached the shore.”

“Ah, good!”

But in the speaker’s face there came no enthusiasm. She closed her eyes, leaning back in her chair as if from physical weakness. The Princess got up, and once more came and stood by the girl’s chair, and gently patted a shoulder.

“Tell me the rest later. There is no haste.”

“I shall feel better for telling it now. I started to climb up the bank. It was steep, all stones and gravel, and a few little bushes. The stones gave way and kept letting me down–slipping backward. He was still in the water. I heard him tell me to go slow and not hurry. He was very calm, and his voice came up from beneath me, for–” and here she laughed, a little hysterical laugh–more of a sob than a laugh, as if from over-taxed nerves–“for I seemed to be sitting on his head.”

The Princess also laughed, responsively.

“I shall never know just how it happened, but in one of my struggles the whole bank seemed to slide from under me into the river. I clung to a bush and called to him, and tried to look down, but–he was gone.”

A silence followed. The Princess rested her cheek against Elinor’s hair, and murmured words of comfort. “How long ago did this happen?”

“A month ago.”

More from sympathy than from conviction the Princess said:

“He may return. Stranger things have happened. Perhaps he was carried out to sea–and rescued.”

Elinor shook her head. “He was buried beneath the rocks and gravel. If he had risen to the surface, I should have seen him, for the day was clear. No, I know where he is. I see him, all night long, in my sleep, lying at the bottom of the river, his face looking up.”

“My child,” said the Princess, “listen. With your sorrow you have precious memories. From what you have not told me of your Pats, I know him well. He loved you. That is clear. You loved him. That is also clear. Alone with him in this cottage through an endless winter, and perfectly happy! Voyons, you confessed all when you said ‘we were happy!’ He was the man of a woman’s heart! With no hesitation, he gave his life for yours: to save you or die with you. Tell me, what can Heaven offer that is better than a love like that?”

She closed her eyes and drew a long breath. “Ah, these Americans! These extraordinary husbands! I have done nothing but hear of them!”

“He was not my husband.”

“But he was to be?”

“Oh, yes!”

The Princess rose, walked around the table and stood beside the chair that held her portrait.

“My child, I respect your grief. My heart bleeds for you, but you are to be envied.” With uplifted eyebrows, and her head slightly to one side, she went on: “My husband, the Prince de Champvalliers is good. We adore one another. As a husband he is satisfactory,–better than most. But if, by chance, I should fall into a river, with death in its current, and he were safe and dry upon the bank–”

Sadly she smiled, and with a shrug of the shoulders turned about and moved away.

Erect, and with a jaunty step, she walked about the room, renewing acquaintance with old friends of her youth: with the little tapestried fables on the chairs and sofa; with certain portraits and smaller articles. But it was evident that the story she had heard still occupied her mind, for presently she came back to the table and stood in front of Elinor. With a slight movement of the head, as if to emphasize her words, she said, impressively, yet with the suggestion of a smile in her half-closed eyes:

“Were I in your place, my child, I should grieve and weep. Yes, I should grieve and weep; but I should enjoy my sorrow. You are still young. You take too much for granted. You are too young to realize the number of women in the world who would gladly exchange their living husbands for such a memory.” She raised her eyebrows, closed her eyes, and murmured, with a long, luxurious sigh: “The heroism! the splendid sacrifice! I tell you, Mademoiselle, no woman lives in vain who inspires in an earthly lover a devotion such as that!”