Part 16 (1/2)

”Oh, dear no, George! I am quite well quite.” She walked beside him with an airy step, laughing gayly now and then, but George's frown deepened.

”I don't understand these seizures at all,” he said. ”You seem to be in sound physical condition.”

”Oh, all women have queer turns, George.”

”Did you consult D'Abri, as I told you to do, in Paris?”

”Yes, yes! Now let us talk no more about it. I have had these--symptoms since I was a child.”

”You never told me of them before we were married,” he muttered.

Lisa scowled darkly at him, but she glanced at the baby and her mouth closed. Little Jacques should never hear her rage nor swear.

From an overhanging gable at the street corner looked down a roughly hewn stone Madonna. The arms of the Holy Child were outstretched to bless. Lisa paused before it, crossing herself. A strange joy filled her heart.

”I too am a mother! I too!” she said. She hurried after George and clung to his arm as they went home.

”Was there any letter?” she asked.

”Only one from Munich--Miss Vance. I haven't opened it.”

”I thought your mother would write. She must have heard about the boy!”

George's face grew dark. ”No, she'll not write. Nor come.”

”You wish for her every day, George?” She looked at him wistfully.

”Yes, I do. She and I were comrades to a queer degree. I long for something hearty and homelike again. See here, Lisa. I'm going home before my boy begins to talk. I mean he shall grow up under wholesome American influences--not foreign.”

”Not foreign,” she repeated gravely. She was silent a while. ”I have thought much of it all lately,” she said at last. ”It will be wholesome for Jacques on your farm. Horses--dogs---- Your mother will love him. She can't help it. She--I acted like a beast to that woman, George. I'll say that. She hit me hard. But she has good traits.

She is not unlike my own mother.”

George said nothing. G.o.d forbid that he should tell her, even by a look, that she and her mother were of a caste different from his own.

But he was bored to the soul by the difference; he was tired of her ignorances, which she showed every minute, of her ghastly, unclean knowledges--which she never showed.

They came into the courtyard of the Chateau de la Motte, the ancient castle of the Breton dukes, which is now an inn. The red sunset flamed up behind the sad little town and its gray old houses and spires ma.s.sed on the hill, and the black river creeping by. George's eyes kindled at the sombre picture.

”In this very court,” he said, ”Constance stood when she summoned the States of Brittany to save her boy Arthur from King John.”

”Oh, yes, you have read of it to me in your Shakespeare. It is one of his unpleasant stories. Come, Bebe. It grows damp.”

As she climbed the stone stairway with the child, Colette lingered to gossip with the portier. ”Poor lady! You will adore her! She is one of us. But she makes of that bete Anglais and the ugly child, saints and G.o.ds!”

When George presently came up to their bare little room, Lisa was singing softly, as she rocked Jacques to sleep.

”Can't you sing the boy something a bit more cheerful?” he said. ”You used to know some jolly catches from the music halls.”

”Catches for HIM?” with a frightened look at the child's shut eyes.

”The 'Adeste Fideles' is moral, but it is not a merry air. You sing it morning, noon, and night,” he grumbled.