Frances Waldeaux Part 19

"It is the one place in the world, people say," interrupted Selo, lowering his voice, "where G.o.d never has been. A dreadful place, madame!"

Frances laughed. "That is the place for me," she said to Selo. "Take me there."

The old man looked at her with shrewd, friendly eyes, and then beckoned Bauzy aside.

"Who is she? She has the bearing of a great lady, but her face hurts me. What harm has come to her?"

"How do I know?" said Bauzy. "Go for your boat. The sea is rising."

Late in the afternoon M. Selo landed his strange pa.s.senger upon the pebbly beach of the accursed island. He led her up on the rocks, talking, and pointing across the sea.

"Beyond is the Atlantic, and on yonder headland are the great menhirs of Carnac--thirty thousand of them, brought there before Christ was born. But the Evil One loves this island best of all places. It has in it the mystery of the world. Come," he said, in an awed voice. "It is here."

He crossed to the hill, stooped, and entered a dark cave about forty feet long, which was wholly lined with huge flat rocks carved with countless writhing serpents. As Frances pa.s.sed they seemed to stir and breathe beside her, at her feet, overhead. The cave opened into a sacrificial chamber. The reptiles grew gigantic here, and crowded closer. Through some rift a beam of melancholy light crept in; a smell of death hung in the thick, unclean air.

Selo pointed to a stone altar. "It was there they killed their victims," he whispered, and began to pray anxiously, half-aloud. When he had finished, he hurried back, beckoning to her to come out.

"Go," she said. "I will stay here."

"Then I will wait outside. This is no place for Christian souls. But we must return soon, madame. My little girl will be watching now for me."

When he was gone she stood by the altar. This island of Gavr' Inis was one of the places to which she and George had long ago planned to come.

She remembered the very day on which they had read the legend that on this altar men before the Flood had sacrificed to the G.o.d of Murder.

"I am the murderer now, and George knows it," she said quietly. But she was cold and faint, and presently began to tremble weakly.

She went out of the cave and stood on the beach. "I want to go home, George," she said aloud. "I want to be Frances Waldeaux again. I'm sure I didn't know it was in me to do that thing."

There was no answer. She was alone in the great s.p.a.ce of sky and sea.

The world was so big and empty, and she alone and degraded in it!

"I never shall see George again. He will think of me only as the woman who killed his wife," she thought.

She went on blindly toward the water, and stood there a long time.

Then, in the strait of her agony, there came to Frances Waldeaux, for the first time in her life, a perception that there was help for her in the world, outside of her own strength. Her poor tortured wits discerned One, more real than her crime, or George, or the woman that she had killed. It was an old, hackneyed story, that He knew every man and woman in the world, that He could help them. She had heard it often.

Was there any thing in it? Could He help her?

Slowly, the nervous twitching of her body quieted, her dulled eyes cleared as if a new power of sight were coming to them.

After a long time she heard steps, and Selo calling. She rose.

The murder was known. They were coming to arrest her.

What did it matter? She had found help.

Selo came up excitedly.

"It is another boat, English folk also, that comes to arrive."

She turned and waited.

And then, coming up the hill, she saw George, and with him--Lisa!

Lisa, smiling as she talked.

They ran to meet her with cries of amazement. She staggered back on the rock.

"You are not dead? Lisa----"

"Dead? Poor lady!" catching her in her arms. "Some water, George! It is her head. She has been too much alone."

When Frances opened her eyes she was lying on the gra.s.s, her children kneeling beside her. She caught Lisa's arm in both hands and felt it: then she sat up.

"I must tell you what I did--before you speak to me."

"Not now," said Lisa. "You are not well. I am going to be your nurse.

The baby has made me a very good nurse," and she stooped again over Frances, with kind, smiling eyes.

Selo came to wile George up to the mysterious cave, but Lisa impatiently hurried them to the beach. "Caves and serpent worshippers truly!" she cried. "Why, she has not seen Jacques!" and when, in the boat, George, who was greatly alarmed, tried to rouse his mother from her silent stupor, Lisa said gayly, "She will be herself again as soon as she sees HIM."

When they reached Larmor Baden, she despatched George in search of Colette and the child, and she went into the church. It was late, and the village women sat on the steps gossipping in the slanting sunlight.

There is nothing in their lives but work and the church; and when, each day, they have finished with one they go to the other.

Frances followed her. The sombre little church was vacant. She touched Lisa on the shoulder.

"There is something I must tell you," she said. "You would not let me touch the child, if you knew it."

She stooped and spoke a few sentences in a vehement whisper, and then leaned back, exhausted, against the wall.

Lisa drew back. Her lips were white with sudden fright, but she scanned Mrs. Waldeaux's face keenly.

"You were in Vannes last night? You tried---- My G.o.d, I remember!

The tisane tasted queerly, and I threw it out." She walked away for a moment, and then turning, said, "You called my mother a vile woman once. But SHE would not have done that thing!

"No," said Frances, not raising her head. "No."

Lisa stood looking at her as she crouched against the wall. The fierce scorn slowly died out of her eyes. She was a coa.r.s.e, but a good-natured, woman. An awful presence, too, walked with her always now, step by step, and in that dread shadow she saw the things of life more justly than we do. She took Frances by the hand at last. "You were not quite yourself, I think," she said quietly. "I have pushed you too hard. George has told me so much about you! If we could be together for a while, perhaps we should love each other a little. But there is no time now----" She turned hastily, and threw herself down before a crucifix.

After a long time she went out to the vestibule, where she found Frances, and said, with an effort to be cheerful and matter-of-fact, "Come, now, let us talk like reasonable people. A thing is coming to me which comes to every-body. I'm not one to whine. But it's the child--I don't think any baby ever was as much to a woman as Jacques is to me. I suppose G.o.d does not think I am fit to bring him up. Sit down and let me tell you all about it."

They sat on the steps, talking in a low tone. Frances cried, but Lisa's eyes were quite dry and bright. She rose at last.

"You see, there will be no woman to care for him, if you do not. There he is with Colette." She ran down, took the baby from the bonne, and laid him in Frances's arms.

Mrs. Waldeaux looked down at him. "George's son," she whispered, "George's boy!"