Part 8 (1/2)
Jeanne kissed his cheek before he returned to the lower room, and when the supper was removed she sat drying herself by the fire.
The eager piety of her early girlhood, which was almost fantastic in its expression, had yet worked out a n.o.bly spiritual face. She was a beautiful saint.
For several years Jeanne le Ber had refused the ordinary clothing of women. Her visible garment was made of a soft fine blanket of white wool, with long sleeves falling nearly to her feet. It was girded to her waist by a cord from which hung her rosary. Her neck stood slim and white above the top of this robe, without ornament except the peaked monk's hood which hung behind it.
This creature like a flame of living white fire stood up and turned her back to the ruddier logs, and clasped her hands across the top of her head. Her eyes wasted scintillations on rafters while she waited for heavenly peace to calm the strong excitement driving her.
The door of Jeanne's chamber stood open as the soldier had left it. At the opposite side of the room a similar door opened, and La Salle came out. He moved a step, toward the hearth, but stopped, and the pallor of a swoon filled his face.
”Sieur de la Salle,” said Jeanne in a whisper. She let her arms slip down by her sides. The eccentric robe with its background of firelight cast her up tall and white before his eyes.
In the explorer's most successful moments he had never appeared so majestic. Though his dress was tarnished by the wilderness, he had it carefully arranged; for he liked to feel it fitting him with an exactness which would not annoy his thoughts.
No formal greeting preluded the crash of this encounter between La Salle and Jeanne le Ber. What had lain repressed by prayer and penance, or had been trodden down league by league in the wilds, leaped out with strength made mighty by such repression.
Voices in loud and merry conversation below and occasional laughter came up the open stairway and made accompaniment to this half-hushed duet.
”Jeanne,” stammered La Salle.
”Sieur de la Salle, I was just going to my room.”
She moved away from him to the side of the hearth, as he advanced and sat down upon the bench. Unconscious that she stood while he was sitting, as if overcome by sudden blindness he reached toward her with a groping gesture.
”Take hold of my hand, Sainte Jeanne.”
”And if I take hold of your hand, Sieur de la Salle,” murmured the girl, bending toward him though she held her arms at her sides, ”what profit will it be to either of us?”
”I beg that you will take hold of my hand.”
Her hand, quivering to each finger tip, moved out and met and was clasped in his. La Salle's head dropped on his breast.
Jeanne turned away her face. Voices and laughter jangled in the room below. In this silent room pulse answered pulse, and with slow encounter eyes answered the adoration of eyes. In terror of herself Jeanne uttered the whispered cry,--
”I am afraid!”
She veiled herself with the long sleeve of her robe.
”And of what should you be afraid when we are thus near together?” said La Salle. ”The thing to be afraid of is losing this. Such gladness has been long coming; for I was a man when you were born, Sainte Jeanne.”
”Let go my hand, Sieur de la Salle.”
”Do you want me to let it go, Sainte Jeanne?”
”No, Sieur de la Salle.”
Dropping her sleeve Jeanne faced heaven through the rafters. Tears stormed down her face, and her white throat swelled with strong repressed sobs. Like some angel caught in a snare, she whispered her up-directed wail,--
”All my enormity must now be confessed! Whenever Sieur de la Salle has been a.s.sailed my soul rose up in arms for him. Oh, my poor father! So dear has Sieur de la Salle been to me that I hated the hatred of my father. What shall I do to tear out this awful love? I have fought it through midnights and solitary days of ceaseless prayer. Oh, Sieur de la Salle, why art thou such a man? Pray to G.o.d and invoke the saints for me, and help me to go free from this love!”