CHAPTER XXIMoonglade, a pale and forthright splendor, deepingThe mountain shadows on the river-flow,Across the sullen flood’s resistless creeping—Across the years, the wreckage and the weeping,You stand, so let them go!Moonglade, O Moonglade, that my heart doth fill,Causeway to Avalon unchanging still,I know, that pass by thee,The “bowery hollows, crowned with summer sea!”
Moonglade, a pale and forthright splendor, deepingThe mountain shadows on the river-flow,Across the sullen flood’s resistless creeping—Across the years, the wreckage and the weeping,You stand, so let them go!Moonglade, O Moonglade, that my heart doth fill,Causeway to Avalon unchanging still,I know, that pass by thee,The “bowery hollows, crowned with summer sea!”
Moonglade, a pale and forthright splendor, deepingThe mountain shadows on the river-flow,Across the sullen flood’s resistless creeping—Across the years, the wreckage and the weeping,You stand, so let them go!Moonglade, O Moonglade, that my heart doth fill,Causeway to Avalon unchanging still,I know, that pass by thee,The “bowery hollows, crowned with summer sea!”
A year later the “Gamin” and Piotr were returning from a delightful prawn-fishing expedition in the deep rock pools that offer at low tide, especially on granite shores such as those of Plenhöel, miraculous chances for that kind of sport.Haveneauxon shoulder, they stepped briskly along the cliff path, she looking like a little girl in her short striped petticoat andtricotmade and wornà la manière des marins, her redbéretand rope-soledéspadrilles; he enormously tall and strong for his age, browned by salt water and salt breezes to a very becoming brownness. Behind them Garrassime—who seemed to have stopped getting old during the past twelve months—and Madame Hortense, always placid and comely, carried between them a great square basket fragrant of brine and seaweed, that was quite full of big, friskybouquins.
“We’ve got a lot!” Piotr remarked, gleefully. “And all of them as long as my hand, aren’t they, little darling Malou?”
“Oh, every bit,” laughed Marguerite. “I’m not going to argue, Piotr.”
“But you don’t seem convinced!”
“Not convinced! You do me an injustice, young man!” remonstrated Marguerite.
“We can eat them for the second breakfast, can’t we?”
“Not can;must!” she corrected, gravely. “They’re good only when fresh off the farm, you know,Moussaillon.”
“I like it when you call meMoussaillon, little darling Malou,” the boy said, proudly. “Don’t you think I am a wonderful sailor already? And as to swimming and fishing!” He smacked his rosy lips ecstatically, glancing up at her for confirmation of these tall words.
“A wonderful sailor—a swimmer of extraordinary power—and as to a fisherman!” she mimicked, her lovely face crinkling into a grimace that well suited her name of “Gamin.”
“You’re laughing at me! But I handle theavironsalmost as well asBoustifaille. You know I do.”
“Boustifaille” was Piotr’scanotboy, a wide-awake lad of fourteen, who was to ship next May on a “Banker,” and Marguerite smiled at the boastfulness of Master Piotr; although, to do him justice, the child was a born seaman, fearless as a porpoise, and inclined to be utterly reckless of any danger.
For these particular traits she knew herself to be responsible. She had been and was his constant companion and instructor in the arts of natation, rowing, sailing, and fishing, and never tired of encouraging him to display further prowess. The life of Piotr at Plenhöel was ideal, between “Antinoüs,” who had come to love the boy almost as if he were his own, and Marguerite, his best and most devoted comrade. In return, nothing could be more touching than Piotr’s fealty to his lady. There were times, it is true—during his less and less frequent fits of rage—when even she could not manage him. But usually for a mere touch of her hand, a slightlysterner glance from her blue eyes, he really tried to calm himself—with more or less success, it is true, but still with extraordinary determination for one so young.
The chief difficulty with him was to conquer his ever-present jealousy. Perhaps Laurence had only partly assumed the rôle of a jealous woman. Probably she was really inclined that way, and had needed only a trifling exaggeration to serve her purpose, for her son was, unfortunately for him and for others, abnormally provided with that sad faculty for making every being dear to one entirely miserable. Let Marguerite display the least bit of enthusiasm, or flattering appreciation, toward anyone, a puppy-dog even, and Piotr would be at once convulsed with fury. He did not sulk; he stormed whole-souledly; he threw himself on the ground and he rolled over and over, shrieking aloud, beating his head on the floor, tearing his hair, actually foaming at the mouth; and so painful were these outbreaks that they were considered at Plenhöel as visitations to be avoided by every possible means.
“If he were mine,” the village doctor, a retired surgeon-major of the navy, often said, “I’d make him acquainted with a rope’s end, and that without delay. Is it possible to see a youngster get himself into such states and remain neutral? Only mademoiselle is capable of it, but she’s an angel of God. Besides, she’d crawl through a knothole to please him.”
Perchance the doctor was right, perhaps he was wrong, in his particular choice of a remedy, but, be it as it may, Marguerite would not hear of drastic measures; in which opinion her father bore her out, for, as he sagely remarked, with such an organization it was impossible to know what brute force might produce.
In spite of these two wretched blemishes, Piotr was the most fascinating boy one could imagine, and Plenhöel paid him homage as to a beloved Dauphin. Ireland, Monsieur Quentin, François, Madame Hortense, thecoachmen, gardeners, stablemen,chefs, footmen, grooms, the aged housekeeper, the maids, not to mention the farmers, villagers, and salt-workers, were his willing subjects. As to the crews of the yacht and sailing-boats, they raised him to the throne of a little sea-god, pure and simple.
Warm-hearted, hot-headed, plucky as they make ’em, and generous to a fault, this was Piotr. Also he had the religion of remembrance—a rare gift—and not a day passed without his speaking of his father. He was handsome, too, to a surprising, an alarming degree; with features too classically perfect for a lad of his years, and magnetic eyes, changeful in shape and hue with every new expression.
“Quand il aura vingt ans il faudra enfermer les poulettes, par exemple!” the doctor was quoted as declaring on repeated occasions, and this seemed like prophetic talk.
Basil wrote almost regularly to Régis, “from China or India, Mars or the Moon,” as the Marquis was wont to vaguely explain, and Marguerite helped Piotr pencil a couple of lines to accompany every one of her father’s replies to each of those erratic missives.
My dear, dear Papa. When are you coming back? I am very big now. I love you.Piotr.
My dear, dear Papa. When are you coming back? I am very big now. I love you.
Piotr.
he had written the evening before the prawn-fishing, but, as he impatiently declared, “I never get a letter from him, little darling Malou!”
Marguerite cruelly felt this persistent neglect of Piotr. She invented messages with untiring assiduity, but as a matter of fact, “Mes remerciements émus à ma cousine Marguerite,” was the only allusion ever made by Basil to Piotr’s existence.
The de Salvières were in Russia, looking after both their own estates and Basil’s; Pavlo was now a first-lieutenantof great promise; the peasants of Tverna, trotting easily in firm but light harness, exploded no longer. As Tatiana once had told Preston Wynne, “Tout est pour le mieux dans çe meilleur des mondes.”
It was then that a cloud no bigger than a man’s hand began to float imperceptibly upward toward the coast of Brittany from the blunt apex of South Africa, where Basil had been sojourning for a while, as a letter bore witness:
I am heartily tired of wandering [he wrote confidentially to Régis]. Weary of visiting place after place which holds no interest for me, and yet I cannot make up my mind to settle down again, either in France or in Russia. There seems nothing for me to do in either—or, for the matter of that, anywhere else in the world, alas! Duties I have none left—or if I have, disgust obstructs my view, and I do not see them. As soon as Piotr is old enough to be put in a military academy I will know better what to do. I had a nice surprise some time ago! Imagine that among the effects and personal possessions left in the Paris house by the lady who bore my name, and which I had caused to be packed and stowed away under the supervision of Stepàn-Stepànovitch, my agent, he found a writing-map I had once given her—a very splendid affair of Tula-work and turquoises. Well, overstepping my orders, he made an exhaustive examination of this object, read with a looking-glass from the reversed writing printed and on the blotting-paper inside, more convincing proofs yet of her guilty conduct with the young English captain I had the misfortune to despatch from this world—God knows his life was too dear a price to pay for her love—and also traces of equally enlightening letters written to that poor chap who gave me satisfaction in a way—Heaven is my witness—I will mourn for a long time to come. I would much rather that Stepàn had let bad enough alone. It is hard as it is to try and forget a little of all this—if not to forgive it. But now to come to the real point of my letter: Do you think I could venture to come and spend a few days near you? Not at Plenhöel, for I cannot—no, I cannot see Piotr just yet—but in the neighborhood, so as to be enabled to seeyouand discuss matters with you. I am thinking of startingfor Canada, or perhaps Mexico, afterward; I don’t know which, nor do I much care! One thing is certain: I will not go to the States, and be looked upon from the moment of landing as a conspirator, a fugitive from justice, a mendicant in gilded guise, or a wretched fortune-hunter. I don’t blame the people over there for seeing an intriguer and a scoundrel under every coronet that submits itself to their criticism—perhaps they should not receive them either enthusiastically or cringingly; not, at all events, before they have made a few inquiries as to their wearer’s particular brand of indignity—for, when one comes to think of the needy and abject individuals who are continually “crossing the Pond,” as the English say, to offer to the highest female bidder imitation names, bogus titles, or genuine ones so tarnished as to have become unrecognizable, how can one feel surprise at the variegated denunciations which transatlantic invaders of our shores indulge in? Forgive this vacuous and interminable missive. I am alone, sad, bad-tempered, and altogether uninhabitable. Indeed, it would have been far simpler for me to tell you at the outset, like a man, that I am yearning for a home—anybody’s, since my own is destroyed, and sign myself,Your affectionateBasil.
I am heartily tired of wandering [he wrote confidentially to Régis]. Weary of visiting place after place which holds no interest for me, and yet I cannot make up my mind to settle down again, either in France or in Russia. There seems nothing for me to do in either—or, for the matter of that, anywhere else in the world, alas! Duties I have none left—or if I have, disgust obstructs my view, and I do not see them. As soon as Piotr is old enough to be put in a military academy I will know better what to do. I had a nice surprise some time ago! Imagine that among the effects and personal possessions left in the Paris house by the lady who bore my name, and which I had caused to be packed and stowed away under the supervision of Stepàn-Stepànovitch, my agent, he found a writing-map I had once given her—a very splendid affair of Tula-work and turquoises. Well, overstepping my orders, he made an exhaustive examination of this object, read with a looking-glass from the reversed writing printed and on the blotting-paper inside, more convincing proofs yet of her guilty conduct with the young English captain I had the misfortune to despatch from this world—God knows his life was too dear a price to pay for her love—and also traces of equally enlightening letters written to that poor chap who gave me satisfaction in a way—Heaven is my witness—I will mourn for a long time to come. I would much rather that Stepàn had let bad enough alone. It is hard as it is to try and forget a little of all this—if not to forgive it. But now to come to the real point of my letter: Do you think I could venture to come and spend a few days near you? Not at Plenhöel, for I cannot—no, I cannot see Piotr just yet—but in the neighborhood, so as to be enabled to seeyouand discuss matters with you. I am thinking of startingfor Canada, or perhaps Mexico, afterward; I don’t know which, nor do I much care! One thing is certain: I will not go to the States, and be looked upon from the moment of landing as a conspirator, a fugitive from justice, a mendicant in gilded guise, or a wretched fortune-hunter. I don’t blame the people over there for seeing an intriguer and a scoundrel under every coronet that submits itself to their criticism—perhaps they should not receive them either enthusiastically or cringingly; not, at all events, before they have made a few inquiries as to their wearer’s particular brand of indignity—for, when one comes to think of the needy and abject individuals who are continually “crossing the Pond,” as the English say, to offer to the highest female bidder imitation names, bogus titles, or genuine ones so tarnished as to have become unrecognizable, how can one feel surprise at the variegated denunciations which transatlantic invaders of our shores indulge in? Forgive this vacuous and interminable missive. I am alone, sad, bad-tempered, and altogether uninhabitable. Indeed, it would have been far simpler for me to tell you at the outset, like a man, that I am yearning for a home—anybody’s, since my own is destroyed, and sign myself,
Your affectionateBasil.
Régis had not hesitated an instant. To his practical sense—he had a good deal of that, and very well developed—it appeared only too clearly that, unless something rather drastic was done, Basil would gradually let himself drift into positive melancholia, and his warm heart revolted at the thought; so without losing a minute, he had written and cabled to his cousin to come at once; ridiculed his distaste for seeing Piotr, whom he described as a most delicious boy and a true Palitzin; accused Basil squarely and fairly of giving way too much to his morbid feelings; and had, indeed, made such good use of an eloquence he rarely lacked when both his brain and his heart were in accord, that a cable from Gibraltar had finally announced to him the arrival of Basil in a few days.
“We will cure him,mon Chevalier,” “Antinoüs” said tohis daughter when announcing the news to her. “These fancies of his are simply absurd—there’s no other word for it.”
Marguerite looked her father suddenly straight in the eyes. She was sitting on the window-sill of his study, while he stood, a cigarette between his teeth, both hands stuck deep in his jacket pockets, looking out at the glancing fountain with its quaint presentations of kneeling monks and curious, unnatural stone birds—a masterpiece from the same chisel as had carved the unique doorway of the Castle chapel.
“Papa,” said the “Gamin,” gravely, “you don’t believe it, I know, but I am no longer a little girl. Don’t you think you could tell me why Basil has ceased to care for Piotr? There is some reason for it, some very serious reason, for he is the last man on earth one could accuse of caprice—a feminine defect, besides! Why can’t you tell me what makes him feel as he does?”
Régis did not answer at once. He had long been in the habit of treating Marguerite as a very precious companion and counselor; moreover, she was right in saying that she was no longer a little girl, for in her country and in her world girls not yet married at eighteen, even, are supposed to be determined to remain old maids. Still, it was utterly impossible to so much as hint at the truth, and he decided to seek an acceptable alternative.
“What makes you so sure that Basil has really ceased to care for his son?” he asked, throwing away his cigarette end to light a fresh one.
“What he himself told me,” she replied, unhesitatingly. “Also, his impossible attitude toward Piotr. Now, Papa, you and I realize that he is not doing this idly—pour se donner des airs.”
“No, certainly not!” admitted Régis, still looking at the marvelous procession of hooded and unhooded monks mirrored in the limpid water of the fountain. “Butyou must not forget that Basil had a terrible shock, that—”
Marguerite here firmly interrupted him. “If you are going to tergiversate, my dear Papa,” she said, quietly, “we may as well drop the subject once and for all. I’d a great deal sooner you’d tell me to mind my own business, or, in other words, that I am poaching on land where I have no right to intrude. At least it would show me a straight road out.”
“Mon Chevalier,” Régis retorted, “you and I have managed to be far more than father and daughter to each other, as this closest of relationships is generally understood. We have been friends and equals right through. You are—I don’t want to throw bouquets at you—but you really are the most perfect gentleman I have ever had the fortune to encounter, and in all questions of honor there is no one I would rather consult than you. But you are at the same time my beloved little daughter and a pearl of extreme purity; therefore I do tell you, in all amity, not to ask me that question again. As far as I know, moreover, Basil’s only reason for the coldness he displays toward Piotr—and that undeniably exists—is that the child reminds him of Laurence, and of the sorrows Laurence brought into his life. He is one of those persons who, owing to a singularly uncompromising nature, are apt to burn fiercely what they once adored, andvice versa. I am convinced, however, that, were the proper influence exerted, he could be won over to saner and fairer sentiments. Hadn’t you better try to do that yourself?”
Marguerite flushed, but her eyes did not waver from her father’s.
“You are the only person who can,” he emphasized.
“Frankly, Papa, if you don’t mind my saying it, I have no more influence on Basil than Garrassime has.”
“And to think that she sincerely believes that!” Régis mused, gazing at the “Gamin” in her dark-gray riding-habit,slim and young, and good to look at beyond compare. “My own little girl!” he thought, tenderly. “How I wish she could be happy. And to think that that fool of a Basil considers himself too smirched and dishonored now to ever ask her to be his wife!” Aloud he said, simply: “You are entirely mistaken,Chevalier. You have lived a life for more protected and sheltered than most modern girls, even when they have been strictly brought up. What you know of men is represented by myself, Jean de Salvières, and some other relatives of the same stamp. We all and sundry are not a bad sort, and have the breeding to show our best side to our women. Tatiana and the other few feminine personalities you come in contact with, including that excellent creature Hortense, arehors concours; delightful as far as perfection can go, and the only bad un you ever met was that misguided being, Laurence.”
“Oh, Papa, remember!” Marguerite pleaded, much distressed.
“I remember, my dear, never fear! Nor am I especially harsh in mentioning the fact that Laurence was a very evil woman. God knows she was. Basil made a frightful mistake when he married her, and has lived to regret it. He is sore now; embittered;refoulé sur lui même; restive to any interference coming from his people, from me, from his best and most intimate friends. But you are different! I am not speaking from undue pride in you, or because you can always lead me by one thread of your silken hair, so don’t shake your head. You have to a supreme degree thecavatanecessary to wield power of the only kind that will work with him—and bear in mind that the warmest corner of his heart has always been yours.”
Marguerite rose. “I don’t believe that!” she said, with utter frankness. “At least I never saw any sign of such a thing, Papa.”
“That again is due to your inexperience. Basil isnaturally cold, distant, and self-contained—wooden, if you like—and a bit introspective. He is also, funny as it may seem to you, a shy man. Believe me,Chevalier, I am anxious to see the ice wall that surrounds him—how poetically I do speak!—broken through. He has suffered quite enough already. You, I am absolutely certain, can humanize him again. Now will you, or will you not, do your little best? Answer me!”
Marguerite had an unbounded confidence in her father. She saw that he was very much in earnest—a rare thing with him, who to all intents and purposes generally toyed with life’s difficulties; and her surrender was quick.
“You really, genuinely, think that I can do something to help?” she asked. “You really believe that Basil is in danger?”
“I answer yes on both counts, unhesitatingly,” Régis declared. “Basil is in a bad way, which is a thousand pities, for he is the finest man I know; also I stick by what I said—you alone, my little witch, can make him hear reason. I have spoken!”
Later on, whenle Chevalier“Gamin” was alone in her own apartments that overlooked the ocean on two sides, she sat for a long while by a window staring at the waves. She was firmly convinced that the secret she had so well kept with regard to her personal feelings was still her only own; Basil could and would never be anything else to her but a dear and devoted friend. He—she felt certain, too—had given all the love he had in his power to give to Laurence. Her ingratitude, her hardness of heart, her lack of sympathy with any and every plan of his, had caused him a pain and a disappointment from which he would never recover. She was forced to conclude that on this point he showed himself singularly unforgiving, not to say unjust, since he carried his rancor to the limit of the impossible by his disaffection toward his son and hers. Excuses! She found them for him in what herfather had told her an hour before, and it was a relief in a way. Basil was not himself; he was alone; the shock had been too severe even for his iron organization. Well then, why not do what she was asked? Why not try, at least? Perhaps she would succeed.... Who could tell? And if she could bring father and son together again, what unspeakable joy that would be!
With a little sigh of anticipation, half dread and half hope, she got out of her chair and, opening the window, stepped upon the balcony. The evening was all gray and silver, streaked with rose where the sun had just disappeared. The mews were hurrying home to their rock-nests in the cliff, skimming over the surface of the spangled sea, winging their way athwart the salt-marshes on the right, where the tent-like heaps of salt gleamed whitely, and the shallow waters—cross-barred by thin banks of clay—were now squares of pink crystal, leaded into a broad prostrate window of afterglow. A little sail of surprising whiteness and daintiness punctuated the offing with its swallow-winged silhouette, and on the horizon a clear-cut band of incredible apple-green lay along the sky. It seemed as if it would have been soft to the touch—a length of pure velvet, the color of Hope.
“Oh, Basil!” Marguerite gently called. “You will listen, won’t you?” Her white arms outstretched to the immensity opening before her, she suddenly gave a little laugh of triumph. “He will!” she thought. “I know he will now! I mean to try so well!”
Strong in her resolution, Marguerite went about her hundred and one duties during the following week with a quaint little conquering air that made Régis’s eyes follow her amusedly, and a little wistfully, too. Could he ever resign himself to give her up, even partly, even to Basil? He had reflected over the matter in the deeps of his heart, and well did he know that this queer littleChevalierof his would go bravely through life alone, unwed,yearning assuredly for a home and children of her own, but cheerful always, and uncomplaining. So much beauty and love wasted on him, “Antinoüs”—an aging “Antinoüs” in spite of his youthful looks—since this very morning he had found one silver thread among the gold above his temple. What an everlasting and beastly pity that would be! Basil was only a very little his junior; but since she liked him so—and that he never doubted for an instant. Well, parents had to make sacrifices, sometimes much more bitter than this—if it ever came to pass—and Heaven knew it would be bitter enough. Still, he knew that the “Gamin” would always be his, and that she would suffer no permanent separation from him, which was an immense consolation.
Thus devised Régis, riding home from a horse-fair in the dim neighborhood—dim in two ways, for in Brittany distances over waste places are great, and, moreover, night was falling rapidly.
Indeed, the moon was already shining hazily when he dismounted. Marguerite was, as always, standing on the broad shallowperronwaiting for him, and he waved his hand to her with a positively lover-like gesture as he gave his horse to the groom. But whose was the tall, dark silhouette towering behind her?
With a view-halloo of astounding fervor Régis sprang up the steps, and in another instant he was pounding Basil most heartily on the back.
“Welcome! and welcome! and a thousand welcomes! old fellow!” he cried, beaming with pleasure. “That’s right. When did you come?”
“Half an hour ago, and Marguerite has spent every second of it assuring me that I have not aged. What do you think of your daughter’s veracity now?”
“The highest possible thinks!” Régis cried, whirling his cousin around. “Let’s look at you here under the luster! Why, you’re more bronzed and more soldierly,that’s all I can discover. A fine figure of a man, as Quentin once said when I showed him the famous statue of Roland I had just brought home from Paris.”
They laughed, all three, quite immoderately at this exuberant joke, and walked into the dining-room arm in arm, the “Gamin” in the middle, as befitted her smaller size. The evening that followed was an enchanting one. Where was Basil’s melancholy? The two others had not even leisure to ask themselves that; and as to him, he had so much to tell about his peregrinations half around the globe and back again, so much to listen to as told by them, that in the excitement of recital he forgot his woes for the first time in months and months.
Midnight had long chimed solemnly from the Castle clock when they at last left the library where they had spent theveillée, and marched side by side down the immense second-floor gallery upon which all the bedrooms opened. Basil and Régis took Marguerite to her door, and were about to say good-night, when she suddenly swerved to the right and, noiselessly opening another, beckoned them to follow, one finger on her lips commanding silence. Régis understood, and fell back to let Basil pass, while he, thinking of some joke to be perpetrated upon him, obeyed, on tiptoe, assuming a portentous mien.
Immediately behind Marguerite he entered a room of truly enormous dimensions, high-ceiled, and hung with gay cretonne, upon which, as far as he could see, fairy-like birds disported themselves around dream-flowers. The furniture was all of white lacquer, and the thick carpet underfoot of similar snowiness, with here and there an ice-bear skin flung across its stainless surface. A tall screen of carven wood was curved before the cretonne-curtained windows, and to this recess Marguerite led the way, still on the points of her slippers. The rosy globe hanging from the ceiling did not give very much light,but quite sufficient to bring Basil suddenly to a stop, for there, on a narrow brass bed, the silken coverings thrown back from his sturdy little form, lay, fast asleep, the handsomest boy it was possible to see. The shapely, strong limbs, the tanned, slightly flushed cheeks, the soft curling hair and thickly fringed eyelids, made a picture vigorous and beautiful, to which Marguerite, her fingers on Basil’s sleeve, pointed proudly.
“Behold your son!” she murmured, laughingly; and Basil suddenly shivered from head to foot.
“Your son!” she repeated, in a fragrant whisper, leaning closer to him. “Your son, and your second self. Look!”
Above the bed hung a portrait of Basil when yet a lad, and given to Régis’s mother at the time. The diffused glow from the night-lamp somehow seemed to concentrate upon the lifelike painting before which it was hung, and it would have taken a purposely obtuse eye not to be struck by the amazing resemblance between it and the little sleeper beneath. In her innocent endeavor to reconquer Basil’s love for Piotr, Marguerite could not have designed a more Machiavelian plan. “Aux innocents les mains pleines,” says the old proverb, and who can call it untrue?
Without a word Basil was staring, first at the picture, then at the living, breathing miniature thereof on the pillow; and Marguerite, watching him with all the intentness of her blue eyes, saw the rigid features slowly relax, soften, hesitate as it were in their expression of dawning ecstasy.
“What is it?” she breathed faintly, more to herself than to him.
Big drops of sweat were trickling down Basil’s ashen face, and she leaned toward him, her heart literally in her mouth. What had she done? she asked herself in terror. And then a stranger thing yet happened; for Piotr,as if touched by some magnetic ray, opened wide his eyes, and with a cry of delight, one agile boyish bound, launched himself like an arrow into his father’s arms.
“Papa!”
Marguerite fell back, appalled. Would Basil repulse that appeal? But no! his arms closed upon the quivering boy, and Marguerite, turning, ran to the door and fell upon Régis’s shoulder.
“He loves him still! He loves him still!” she gasped, laughing and crying at the same time.
And in a little while they were all in the room together, Basil with Piotr on his knee, Régis and Marguerite and Garrassime—in his long linenkaftán—one tear after another coursing down the middle of his nose in a fashion most comical had it not been so pathetic, everybody speaking at once of the most variegated things, so that nobody could understand a word that was said.
Later—was it an hour, a minute, a year?—none there could have told—Piotr was induced to return to his slumbers, and Garrassime to his side of the screen, for what little was left of the night. Dame Luna was sliding down the ultramarine slope of the sky at a rapid rate. On the edge of the shingle left bare by the tide sea-larks were beginning to move restlessly in the clusters of glass thistles and sand-poppies where they adventure their sleep, and from the mysterious east transparent scarfs of faintest nacre heralded the coming of the dawn. The air was so pure, so fresh, so exquisitely briny, that as they passed the open bay of the gallery they could not resist the temptation of breathing it in. They were silent, now, all three, quite silent, and stood facing the sea in a sort of reverence for its beauty that found no expression in words.
Marguerite—a slender white shadow silvered by that unearthly light so few have the fortune to catch—leaned over the balustrade, her heart beating with gentle triumph.
“Moonglade!” murmured Régis, indicating the graceful silhouette outlined so tenderly against the still, moonlit water. “You were right!”
Basil turned and looked at his friend and kinsman. “Will you give her to me?” he said, very low.
Régis raised both shoulders and eyes to Heaven in a gesture of complex, almost amusing resignation.
“Go and ask her!” he said in the same tone, and went inside to wait for them.