CHAPTER LXIV
Wherein the Angel of the Annunciation enters into a Garret
Asthe chill grey of an April dawn crept across her silent garret, sweeping the frayed shadow of the night aside to join other lurking shadows in gloomy corners, Betty, in white night-robe, was awakened and sat up in bed, all in a strange wonder and alarm.
With unuttered timorous questionings, with delicious fears, out of the void she heard the first whisper of the annunciation of her motherhood. As the sea-voice carols ghostly refrains of mystic adventures within the music-haunted chambers of a sea-shell, so, to the hollows of her subtle ears, came exquisite murmurings that to her ecstatic fancy held the quick rhythmic breathings that are the sleep of a little child; and, of a sudden, her white body glowed and her dear breasts swelled at the dream-touch of infant-fingers—leaped to the greedy caress of infant lips. Her comely limbs shivered, fearful with a thousand fears; her whole being flushed hot—she was dumb with bewildering muteness before the majesty of the mystery of a new life.
Her eyes filled with tears.
Across the murk of the stress of life that is the dust-storm up-blown from the sordid details of living—across the dreary fog that is compact of the accumulations of vain strivings and failings and galling insolences—across the black clouds of the humiliations and the indignities that are flung along the path of womanhood under cover of the fulsome hypocrisies, there leaped, with rainbow brilliancy, the bright sign that gladness is the law, the night but the shadow of the light, that there is laughter in the firmament and gaiety and delight, and on the earth a splendid wayfaring.
She smiled through her tears.
She arose from her bed, and stood amazed. She saw visions.
The bare garret of her motherlessness swung away from beneath her exquisite feet, vanished in frantic vertigo from her ken. She put out dazed hands. And lo! as her wounded feet, climbing upwards always, topped the hill of her pilgrimage—the clouds lifted—she stepped into the garden of her kingdom. She heard a call, and she answered the call—stood at last at the threshold of the innermost sanctuary of the most holy place in the magnificent palacealong life’s journey—the room where the children play. There, where were little arms held out to her, little hands that clung to her skirts, she sank to her knees—her ears deliriously a-riot with the patter of small feet, the prattle of child’s gossip, the laughter of the little gladsome ones. Her eyes were large with the vision of the coming years—bruises and small troubles and still smaller wounds she saw brought to her knees with childlike confidence in the certainty of balm.
She sobbed, and sank upon the bed.
Ay, thou winsome one; yet even here may be wrought scars also in thy heart. Ah, thou most happy thou, to have a heart that may be thus scarred!
When womanhood, idled with such fearful ecstasies, quickened with the mystery of a new life, alarmed with chill dreads, yet pulsing to the rhythm of an added glory, realizes her lover as greater than lover—it is at this time of all times that he should be at her side. But Noll was taken up with trivial things; so trivial that he thought them serious—so far had he lost the focus of noble vision.
The garret was possessed with the gloomy announcement of a drizzling new day when Noll opened the door and entered.
Betty, crouching on her bed, held out her arms to him:
“Noll,” she began, tears in her eyes——
Noll went to her, caressed her, and sat himself down on the side of the bed.
He yawned.
He was very tired.
“Betty,” said he, heedless of the eagerness in her voice, deaf to the strange thrill in her being, his eyes on his own amusements, his thoughts on his own fatigue; “Betty, I am dog-weary—I have to be off again at six—I must snatch a couple of hours sleep.” He flung into an armchair, dressed as he was. “You might give me a rouse at six——”
He yawned again and was silent.
“Noll,” she said shyly—“I have felt so strange—whilst—whilst you were away—during the night. And just as the dawn was breaking I——”
Noll moved uneasily in his chair:
“Ah, yes, Betty, dear heart,” said he drowsily, a suspicion of compunction stirring within his gadding conscience that this girl had been too much alone of late. He misunderstood her delicacy. His conceit jumped to the uneasy conclusion that she was blaming him. “You see, the whole of the last few days our fellows have been toiling day and night at our car for the procession at the Bal des Quatz Arts; but it—is—finished. To-day has come at last—to-day we hold—the—orgy—of youth—to-night is the Bal des Quatz Arts.... After to-night, sweetheart, I shall be able to get home earlier.... I am afraid—I haven’t—done—my duty by you—of late....” He roused for a moment. “By George, our studio is going to win the laurels at the students’ ballthis evening—we have been at it all night, putting the last touches to our great plaster statue of the Goddess of War—a huge copy of Gérôme’s Bellona—looks terrific—one of our fellows has done a splendid frieze for the gilt chariot that is to bear her majesty—we finished her toilette—at daybreak. And now I feel like a lady’s-maid to a woman of fashion, waiting up all night to—take off the garments—of—victory.”
He yawned. His eyes closed:
“But—oh—ah—I must stop cackling indifferent prose.... The massier of our studio wants us all back at six.... We have to get Bellona to the Moulin Rouge for this evening’s show, and she has a heavy tread—as becomes the goddess of War. We are going to—drag her—across Paris with—ropes—up to Montmartre.... It will be—a rollicking—march.... Our lot at Gérôme’s studio—always begin early—and—stay—late.” He yawned heavily “Hi-yo-ho!... Yes—it will be a—rollicking——”
He relapsed into a drowse.
He started up for a moment:
“Half a hundred French students make—an—ex’lent—flea—in th’ ear—of—Paris.... An—ex’lent—flea——”
Silence took possession of the room.
“Noll——”
Noll roused:
“Oh, yes—let me see—where were we?”
He laughed embarrassedly:
“Oh, yes—we’re to march her across Paris to the tune of the Marseillaise.... We’ve been practising the Marseillaise all night, Gaston Latour’s hunting-horn going full blare. We’ve been raising the ghosts—I can—promise you.... It’s a strange—thing—how few patriots know the words of—their own—national anthem! However—tra-la-la, sung loud enough—goes a long way—to—express a patriot’s parochial emotion. An-extra—ordinary—long—way——”
He mumbled into a drowse.
Betty made a last effort to tell him, before he should relapse into sleep:
“Such a strange thing has happened—to me—Noll,” she said.
“Y-e-s?” drawled he, missing the shy hint.
There was a long silence.
His heavy breathing told that he slept.
For two weary hours, Betty sat up in bed lest sleep should overcome her, and Noll miss his rouse. And brooding there, her chin on her knees, her sorry vigil dragged through the laggard minutes.
As the clocks struck six across the city’s roofs, she crept out of bed and roused Noll; and he, after much rousing, got up, vague-eyed and wit-wandering, embraced her, and, searching for his hat, put it on and lurched out of the room in a drowsy daze.
Betty reeled from the cruelty—stumbled—and was overwhelmed with sickness.