Part 19 (2/2)
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 wors.h.i.+ppers 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!”
<script>