“’Tis very long, Courtoise, very long, since we have seen each other. Why hast thou not come ere now?”
“Madame! Had I but thought thou’dst have had me! Thrice every day during thy illness came I to thy door to ask after thee and the babe; and since then—often—I have stood and listened, to hear if thou wast speaking here within. But I did not know—”
“Enough, Courtoise! I thank thee. Thou’rt very good. Thou knowest thou’rt all that I have left of Gerault, and I would fain have thee oftener near me. Wilt take the babe? Little one! She feels the strength of a man’s arms but seldom. Sit there yonder with her. So!”
She put the tiny bundle into his strong arms, and laughed to see the half-terrified air with which the young fellow bore it over to the settle which she indicated. But when he had sat down, he laid the baby on his knees, and then, retaining careful hold of it, turned his whole look upon Lenore.
She smiled at him, supremely unconscious of the electric thrills that were making the man’s whole body quiver and tremble with emotion. Indeed, it would have been difficult enough to read his feeling in his matter-of-fact manner. For a long time they sat there, talking upon many subjects, but most of all about Gerault, whose name had scarcely crossed Lenore’s lips since the time of his death. To Courtoise it was an acute pain to hear her refer to the various incidents of her courtship in Rennes; but back of her words there was no suggestion of either grief or bitterness. She recalled her first acquaintance with Gerault fully, incident by incident, and caused Courtoise to take an unwilling part in the reminiscences. He hoped continually to get her away from the subject, to matters now nearer both of them; but time sped on, and, as the sun began to near the sea, the baby woke from sleep with a little cry that Courtoise recognized with a pang. His hour was over; and he had gained little hope from it. Yet, as he returned the baby to its mother’s arms, there was a smile for him in Lenore’s calm eyes, and he retreated with a beating heart as Madame Eleanore and Laure came together into the room, to spend their usual evening hour with the mother and child.
This hour of the day, the twilight time, the time of yearning for things long gone, had of late weeks been drawing these three women of the Twilight Castle very close together. Laure, Lenore, and Eleanore, these three, with Alixe ofttimes a shadow in the background, were accustomed to sit together, watching the sunset die over the great waters, and waiting for the appearance of the evening star upon the fading glow. And in this time of silent companionship each felt within her a new growth, a new, half-sorrowful love for the life in this lonely habitation. The spell of solitude was weaving about them a slow, strong bond, which in after years none of the three felt any wish to break. Many dream-shadows, the ghosts of forgotten lives, rose up for each out of the darkening waste of the sea; and with these spirits of memory or imagination, each one was making a life as real and as strong as the lives of those that dwelt out in the great world, for which, at one time or another, all of them had so deeply yearned. Each felt, in her heart, that her active life was over; and, as time passed, and thoughts began adequately to take the place of realities, none of them cared to keep alive the sharp stings of bitterness or of unavailing regret. They knew themselves dead to the great, outer life that each, in her way, had known. Nor did they mourn themselves. What fire of life remained with them had been transformed into secret dreams and ambitions for the future of that little creature swathed so carefully from the world, now lying peacefully asleep upon the mother-breast of Gerault’s widow.