The Pines of Lory/Chapter 17



HEN the Princess realized the somewhat famished condition of her new acquaintance she ordered a tempting lunch from the yacht, and had it served in the cottage: fresh meat, with fruit, vegetables, and cream and butter–new dishes among the Pines of Lory! Of this repast the Archbishop partook with spirit.

“Truly an invigorating air. What an appetite it gives!” And he devoured the viands with a priestly relish, but always with arch-episcopal dignity. The person, however, for whom the meal was served leaned back wearily in her chair, barely tasting the different dishes.

“You will starve, my child,” said the Princess, gently. “Really, you must eat something to keep alive.”

The effort was made, but with little success. And in Elinor’s face her friend divined an over-mastering grief.

The two women, after lunch, strolled out among the pines, toward the bench by the river. It became evident to the Princess, from the manner in which her companion leaned upon her arm, that days of fasting–and of sorrow–had diminished her strength. Upon the rustic bench Elinor sank with a sigh of relief. But into her face came a smile of gratitude as her eyes met those of the little lady who stood before her, and who was looking down with tender sympathy.

To Elinor’s description of how she and Pats found the old gentleman reclining upon this same bench, the Princess gave the closest attention. Every detail was made clear by the narrator, who took the same position at the end of the seat, crossing her knees and leaning a cheek upon one hand, as if asleep. Then the Princess, after asking many questions, took the vacant place beside her and they sat in silence, looking across the river, to the woods beyond. To both women came mournful thoughts, yet with pleasant memories. And soothing to the spirit of each was the murmur of the woods. To Elinor this plaint of the pines was always a consoling friend: a sad but soothing lullaby which now had become a part of her existence. It recalled a year of priceless memories. But these memories of late had become an unbearable pain,–yet a pain to which she clung.

For the Princess, also, there were memories, stirred by these voices overhead, but softened by time. Hers was not the anguish of a recent sorrow.

From these day-dreams, however, she was brusquely awakened. With no word of warning, the girl at her side had sprung to her feet and faced about. Into her face had come a look of unspeakable joy. Her lips were parted in excitement, and a sudden color was in her cheeks.

This transformation from deepest grief to an overpowering ecstasy alarmed her companion. And in Elinor’s eyes there was a feverish eagerness, intense, almost delirious, as she exclaimed:

“You heard it?”

“What?”

“That sound! The notes of a quail!”

The Princess shook her head.

“Oh, yes, you heard it! Don’t say you did not hear it!”

Then, when the Princess, still looking up in vague alarm, gently shook her head a second time, Elinor reached forth a hand imploringly, as it were, and whispered:

“You must have heard it. The whistle of a quail, back there in the woods?”

To the little woman upon the bench these words had no significance, but her sympathy was aroused. That sensitive nerves and an aching heart should succumb, at last, to despair and loneliness and fasting she could readily understand, and she answered, kindly:

“I heard no bird, dear child, but it may be there. Perhaps your hearing is better than mine.”

At this reply all the joy went out of Elinor’s face, leaving a look so spiritless and despairing that her friend, who could only guess at her companion’s thoughts, added:

“Or it may be nothing. You merely dreamed it, perhaps.”

Elinor straightened up. She drew a long breath, and murmured, in a low voice from which all hope had fled:

“Of course! I dreamed it,” and sank wearily into her place upon the bench.

Furtively, but with pity in her face, the Princess regarded the drooping head and closed eyes; then she stood up and placed a hand affectionately upon Elinor’s shoulder.

“I understand your feelings. Rest here until the boat goes.”

Indicating, with a wave of her hand, the big trees towering high above, she added:

“Your last moments with these old friends shall be respected. I am going to the two graves over there, and will return before it is time to start.”

She walked away, into the grove.

Again, among the shadows of these pines, came memories of her childhood, with the feeling of being alone in a vast cathedral. And the fragrance, how she loved it! And she loved this obscurity, always impressive and always solemn, yet filling her soul with a dreamy joy.

In her passage between the columns of this shadowy temple she stopped and turned about for a parting glance at her friend. In the same position, her head upon her hand, Elinor still sat motionless, a picture of patient suffering. For a moment the Princess watched her in silence, then slowly turned about and started once again upon her way. Only a step, however, had she taken when the color fled from her cheeks and she halted with a gasp of terror. Gladly would she have concealed herself behind the nearest tree, but she dared not move.

In the gloom of the forest, scarcely a dozen yards away, a figure was moving silently across her path in the direction of the cottage. Such a figure she had seen in pictures, but never in the flesh. The North American savage she always dreaded as a child; and once, at a French fair, she had seen a wild man. This creature recalled them both. He was brown of color, with disorderly hair and stubby beard, and no covering to his body except strips of cloth, faded and in rags, suspended from one shoulder, held at the waist by a cord, and dangling in tatters about his legs. Bending slightly forward as he walked–or rather glided–among the pines, he was peering eagerly in the direction of the house. Had his gaze been less intent, he would have seen this other figure, the woman watching him in silent terror. Furtively she glanced about the grove to see if other creatures were stealing from tree to tree. But she failed to discover them.

Now the Princess, while fashionable and frivolous, and reprehensible in many ways, was not devoid of courage. And her conscience told her to give warning to her friends. This heroic decision was swiftly made. In making it, however, her cheeks grew paler.

But she was spared the sacrifice. As she drew in her breath for the perilous attempt, she saw the man himself stand still and straighten up. Then, before she could utter the warning,–before her own little mouth was ready,–the shadowy silence of the wood was broken, not by the dreaded warwhoop, but by an imitation, startlingly perfect, of the notes of a quail.

That this was a signal to his followers she had no doubt. But suddenly, while these clear notes were yet in the air, the stillness of the pines was again disturbed by a cry–a cry of joy, intense and uncontrolled–from behind her, toward the river. She turned about. In astonishment she saw the grief-stricken maiden–a moment ago too weak to walk alone–already lifted from the rustic bench as by a heavenly hand, now flying in this direction over the brown carpet of the pines, swift and light of foot, with wings, it seemed. The savage, too, had heard the cry and already he was running toward the approaching figure. And he passed so near the Princess that he would have seen her had he wished.

They met, the wild man and the girl. And the mystified spectator–mystified for a moment only–saw the maiden fling herself upon this denizen of the wood and twine her arms about his neck. And he, with a passionate eagerness, embraced her, then held her at arms’ length, that again he might draw her to him, kissing her hair, mouth, forehead.

From the rapturous confusion of exclamations, of questions interrupted and unanswered, the Princess understood. For a moment she looked on in wonder, fascinated by this astounding miracle. But she soon recovered. With a lump in her throat she began backing away, to escape unobserved. Elinor, through her tears, happened to see the movement and came forward, leading the savage by the hand. With a new light in her eyes, and her voice all a-quiver, she exclaimed:

“This is my Pats!”

The Princess courtesied.

“And, Pats, this is the Princess–the Princess de Champvalliers: our girl of the miniature.”

Pats nodded–for he recognized the eyes with the drooping corners–and he smiled and bowed. And the Princess, as she looked into his face and forgot the wild hair and scrubby beard, the stains, the rags, and the nakedness, met a pair of unusually cheerful, honest eyes, and impulsively held out her hand.