The Outrage Part 19

He wanders about the roads near the house, or goes into the garden, the sad rainy garden, flicking the wet gra.s.ses and flowerless plants with his riding-stick. He often glances up at the window where I sit as if he would like to speak to us; but if I nod and smile at him he looks at me for an instant and then turns away. I have an idea that his mother objects to his talking with us much. He wanted Louise or me to read French with him, but after the first day his mother had a long talk with him and he did not come to our sitting-room again.

Perhaps they are tired of having us in the house. I am not surprised. We are doleful creatures, and we all have something the matter with us. I myself sometimes imagine I am going into consumption; I feel so strange and faint, I feel so sick when I eat, and I have the most terrible pains in my chest. Also I am anaemic, I know. But still I don't cough. So perhaps I am all right.

When we went into the drawing-room today the kindly old doctor felt Mireille's pulse and spoke to her, but all the time he was looking at me, and so was Mrs. Whitaker. He asked me several questions and when I told him what I felt, he coughed and said, "Hm.... Yes. Quite so." At last he glanced at Mrs. Whitaker, who at once got up and left the room with Mireille.

The doctor then beckoned to me and took my hand.

"My poor girl," he said, "have you anything to tell me?"

I was frightened. "What do you mean? Am I going to die? Am I very ill?"

He shook his head. "No. Why should you die? People don't die--" he commenced, and stopped.

"What about Mireille?" I asked, feeling terrified, I knew not why.

"Now we are speaking of you," he said, quite sternly.

Again he stopped as if expecting me to say something. I was bewildered.

Perhaps the old man was a little strange in his head.

He coughed once more and his face flushed. Then he said: "I am an old man, my dear. I am a father--" He stopped again. "And I know all the sadness and wickednesses of the world. You may confide in me."

I said: "Thank you very much. I am sure I can."

There was another long silence. He seemed to be waiting. Then he got up and his face was a little hard. "Well," he said, "perhaps you prefer speaking to Mrs. Whitaker."

"Oh no!" I exclaimed. "Why--not at all."

Again he waited. Then he took his hat and gloves. "Well--as you like,"

he said abruptly. "I cannot compel you to speak. You must go your own way. I suppose you have your reasons." And he left the room.

I stood petrified with wonder. What did he mean about my going my own way? Why did he seem displeased with me? As I opened the door to go back to my room, I heard him in the hall speaking to Mrs. Whitaker.

"No," he was saying. "I feel sure I am not mistaken. But she would not approach the subject at all."

What a queer nightmare world we are living in!

_Later._--I am expected to say something, I know not what. Everybody looks at me with an air of expectation--that is to say, Mrs. Whitaker does. But strangest thing of all, I sometimes think that Loulou does too. There are long silences between us, and when I raise my eyes I find her looking at me with a sort of breathless eagerness, an expression of anxiety and suspense of which I cannot grasp the meaning.

_Late at night._--Mrs. Whitaker was very strange this evening. She came into my bedroom without warning, and found me on my knees. I was weeping and saying my prayers. She suddenly came towards me with an impulsive gesture of kindness and took me in her arms.

"Poor little girl!" she said, and she kissed me. She added, as if she were echoing the sentiments of the kind old doctor, "Cherie, I am a mother--" Then she stopped. "And I am not such a sour, hard person as I look." The tears stood in her eyes so I took her hand and kissed it. She sat down on a low chair and drew me to a footstool beside her. "Tell me," she said. "Tell me everything. I shall understand."

So I told her. I told her how unhappy I was about Louise and Mireille, I told her about Claude in the hospital. She said, "I know all that. Go on." Then I told her about Florian, how brave and handsome he was, and that we were betrothed. Then I wept bitterly and told her I thought that he was dead.

She raised my face with her hand and looked into my eyes. "Is it he?"

she said.

I did not understand. She repeated her question. "Is it he? Did he--"

she hesitated as if looking for a word--"did he wrong you?"

"Why? How wrong me?" I asked.

She gazed deeply into my eyes and I gazed back as steadfastly at her, wondering what she meant.

"Did he betray you?"

"Betray me? Never!" I cried. "He could never betray. He is true and faithful as a saint."

I was hurt that she should have asked such a question. Florian, who has never looked at or thought of any woman but me! Betray me!

"Well," she said rising to her feet suddenly--her expression of rather cold dignity again reminded me of the doctor. "If it had been the outrage of an enemy I know you would have told me. However, let it be as you wish. I will say only this: where I could have pitied disgrace, I cannot condone deceit."

And she left me.

Am I dreaming, or are people in this country incomprehensible and demented?

CHAPTER XIII

Louise looked her doom in the face with steady eyes. No more hope, no more doubt was possible. This was November. The third month had pa.s.sed.

What she had dreaded more than death had come to pa.s.s. From the first hour the fear of it had haunted her. Now she knew. She knew that the outrage to which she had been subjected would endure; she knew that her shame would live.

In the middle of the night after tossing sleeplessly for hours, the full realization of this struck her heart like a blow. She sat up with clenched teeth in the darkness, her hands pressed to her temples.

After a while she slid from her bed and stood motionless in the middle of the room. Around her the world was asleep. She was alone with her despair and her horror.

How should she elude her fate? How should she flee from herself and the horror within her?

She turned on the light and went with quick steps to the mirror. There she stood with bare feet in her long white nightdress, staring at herself. Yes. She nodded and nodded like a demented creature at the reflection she saw before her. She recognized the aspect of it; the dragged features, the restless eyes, the face that seemed already too small for her body, the hunted anxious look. That was maternity. To violence nature had conceded what had been withheld from love. What she and Claude had longed for, had prayed for--another child--behold, now it was vouchsafed to her.

With teeth clenched she gazed at her white-draped reflection, she gazed at the hated fragile frame in which the eternal mystery of life was being accomplished. With the groan of a tortured animal she hid her face in her hands. What should she do? Oh G.o.d! what should she do?

Then began for Louise the heartbreaking pursuit of liberation, the nightmare, the obsession of deliverance.

All was vain. Nature pursued its inexorable course.