Through the Wall | Page 4

candles, with her fine hands and her hair and her wistful dark eyes. A
strange and pathetic figure she was, sitting there alone in the somber
church. Quite alone now, for it was closing time, Mother Bonneton had
shuffled off rheumatically after a cutting word--she knew better than to

ask what had happened--and the old sacristan, lantern in hand and
Caesar before him, was making his round of the galleries, securing
doors and windows.
With a shiver of apprehension Alice turned away from the whispering
shadows and went to the Virgin's shrine, where she knelt and tried to
pray. The candles sputtered before her, and she shut her eyes tight,
which made colored patterns come and go behind the lids, fascinating
geometrical figures that changed and faded and grew stronger. And
suddenly, inside a widening green circle, she saw a face, the face of a
young man with laughing gray eyes, and her heart beat with joy. She
loved him, she loved him!--that was her secret and the cause of her
unhappiness, for she must hide her love, especially from him; she must
give him some cold word, some evasive reason, not the real one, when
he should come presently for his answer. Ah, that was the great fact, he
was coming for his answer--he, her hero man, her impetuous American
with the name she liked so much, Lloyd Kittredge--how often she had
murmured that name in her lonely hours!--he would be here shortly for
his answer.
And alas! she must say "No" to him, she must give him pain; she could
not hope to make him understand--how could anyone understand?--and
then, perhaps, he would misjudge her, perhaps he would leave her in
anger and not come back any more. Not come back any more! The
thought cut with a sharp pang, and in her distress she moved her lips
silently in the familiar prayer printed before her:
O Marie, souvenez vous du moment supreme où Jesus votre divin Fils,
expirant sur la croix, nous confia à votre maternelle solicitude.
Her thoughts wandered from the page and flew back to her lover; Why
was he so impatient? Why was he not willing to let their friendship go
on as it had been all these months? Why must he ask this inconceivable
question and insist on having an answer? His wife! Her cheeks flamed
at the word and her heart throbbed wildly. His wife! How wonderful
that he should have chosen her, so poor and obscure, for such an honor,
the highest he could pay a woman! Whatever happened she would at
least have this beautiful memory to comfort her loneliness and sorrow.

A descending step on the tower stairs broke in upon her meditations,
and she rose quickly from her knees. The sacristan had finished his
rounds and was coming to close the outer doors. It was time for her to
go. And, with a glance at her hair in a little glass and a touch to her hat,
she went out into the garden back of Notre-Dame, where she knew her
lover would be waiting. There he was, strolling along the graveled walk
near the fountain, switching his cane impatiently. He had not seen her
yet, and she stood still, looking at him fondly, dreading what was to
come, yet longing to hear the sound of his voice. How handsome he
was! What a nice gray suit, and--then Kittredge turned.
"Ah, at last!" he exclaimed, springing toward her with a mirthful,
boyish smile. His face was ruddy and clean shaven, the twinkling eyes
and humorous lines about the mouth suggesting some joke or drollery
always ready on his lips. Yet his was a frank, manly face, easily likable.
He was a man of twenty-seven, slender of build, but carrying himself
well. In dress he had the quiet good taste that some men are born with,
besides a willingness to take pains about shirts, boots, and cravats--in
short, he looked like a well-groomed Englishman. Unlike the average
Englishman, however, he spoke almost perfect French, owing to the
fact that his American father had married into one of the old Creole
families of New Orleans.
"How is your royal American constitution?" She smiled, repeating in
excellent English one of the nonsensical phrases he was fond of using.
She tried to say it gayly, but he was not deceived, and answered
seriously in French:
"Hold on. There's something wrong. We've been sad, eh?"
"Why--er--" she began, "I--er----"
"Been worrying, I know. Too much church. Too much of that old she
dragon. Come over here and tell me about it." He led her to a bench
shaded by a friendly sycamore tree. "Now, then."
She faced him with troubled eyes, searching vainly for words and
finding nothing. The crisis had come, and she did not