Part 25 (1/2)
”Home! Do you remember what that home was when we left it?” cried Louise, her eyes blazing at the recollection.
”No,” said Cherie, ”I do not remember.”
”Home! Home without Claude--without Florian! with half our friends killed or lost ...” cried Louise, and the easy tears of weakness flowed down her thin cheeks. ”Home--with Mireille a silent ghost, and you--and you--” Her dark pa.s.sionate eyes lit for an instant on the figure of her sister-in-law, and horror and shame seemed to grip at her throat. ”Let us never speak of it again.”
And she flung the paper into the fire.
But the memory of it she could not fling away. The possibility of returning to Belgium, which before had seemed so remote, the idea of seeing their home again which they had deemed lost to them for ever, now filled her mind and Cherie's to the exclusion of every other thought.
That harsh call to return rang in their hearts by day and by night, awakening home-sickness and desire.
At night Louise would dream a thousand times of that return, a thousand times putting the idea from her with indignation and with fear. Every night she would imagine herself arriving at Bomal, hurrying through the village streets to the gate of her house, entering it, going up the stairs, opening the door to Claude's study....
Little by little home-sickness wound itself like a serpent about her heart, crus.h.i.+ng her in its strong spirals, poisoning with its virulent fang every hour of her day. Little by little the nostalgic yearning, the unutterable longing to hear her own language, to be among her own people--though tortured, though oppressed, though crushed by the invader's heel--grew in her heart until she felt that she could bear it no longer. The sense of exile became intolerable; the sound of English voices, the sight of English faces, hurt and oppressed her; the thought of the wild English waters separating her from her woeful land seemed to freeze and drown her heart.
A week after she had told Cherie never to speak about it any more she thought of nothing else, she dreamed of nothing else, but to return to her home, her wrecked and devastated home, there to await Claude in hope, in patience, and in prayer.
She would feel nearer to him when once the icy, tumbling waves of the Channel separated them no more. She would be ready for him when the day of deliverance came, the day of Belgium's freedom and redemption--surely, surely now it could not be far off! Claude would find her there, in her place, waiting for him. She would see him from afar off, she would be at the door to meet him as she always was when he had gone away even for a few days or hours. His little Mireille, alas!
was stricken, but might she not before then recover? His sister--ah! His sister!... Louise wrung her hands and wept.
Late one night she went to Cherie's room. She opened the door very gently so as not to wake her if she were asleep. But Cherie was sitting near the fire bending over some needlework and singing softly to herself. She jumped up, blus.h.i.+ng deeply, as Louise entered, and she attempted to hide her work in her lap. It was an infant's white cape she was embroidering, and as Louise saw it her own pale cheeks flushed too.
”Cherie,” she faltered, ”I have been thinking ... what if we went home?”
”Yes,” said Cherie quietly, with the chastened calmness of those whose mission it is to wait.
”Let us go, let us go,” said Louise. ”We will make our house ready and beautiful for those who will return.”
”Yes,” said Cherie, again.
”They will return and find us there ... waiting for them ... even though the storm has pa.s.sed over us....” Her voice broke in a sob. ”Mireille will recover, I know it, I feel it! And you--oh, Cherie!”--she dropped on her knees before the trembling girl--”you, you will be brave,” she cried pa.s.sionately, ”before it is too late ... Cherie, Cherie, I implore you....”
Cherie was silent. It was as if she did not hear. It was as if she did not understand.
In vain Louise spoke of the shame of the past, of the woe and misery of the future. To all her wild words, to her caresses and entreaties, Cherie gave no reply. Her lips seemed mute, her eyes seemed distant and unseeing as those of the mindless, wandering Mireille.
At last she rose, and stood facing Louise, her face grave, inexorable, unflinching.
”Louise, say no more. No human reasoning, no human law, no human sanction or prohibition can influence me. No one may judge between a woman and the depths of her own body and soul; in so grave a matter each must decide according to her own conscience. What to the one is shame, hatred, and horror, to the other is joy, wonder, and love. To me, Louise, this suffering--tragic and terrible though it be--is joy, wonder, and love. I do not explain it, I do not justify it; I do not think I even understand it. But this I feel, that I would sooner tear out my living heart than voluntarily destroy the life which is within me, and which I feel is part of my very soul.”
Louise was silent. She felt herself face to face with the great primeval instinct of maternity; and words failed her. Then the thought of their return to Belgium clutched at her heart again.
”But if we go home! Think, think of the shame of it! What will they say, those who have known us? Think--what will they say?”
Cherie sighed. ”I cannot help what they say.”
”And when Claude returns, Cherie! When Claude returns....”