CHAPTER XV. THE LONG VACATION.

theconvictionwouldgraspmethatFatewasmypermanentfoe,nevertobeconciliated.Ididnot,inmyheart,arraignthemercyorjusticeofGodforthisIconcludedittobeapartofhisgreatplanthatsomemustdeeplysufferwhiletheylive,andIthrilledinthecertaintythatofthisnumber,Iwasone. Itwassomereliefwhenanauntofthecrétin,akindoldwoman,cameoneday,andtookawaymystrange,deformedcompanion.ThehaplesscreaturehadbeenattimesaheavychargeIcouldnottakeheroutbeyondthegarden,andIcouldnotleaveheraminutealone:forherpoormind,likeherbody,waswarped:itspropensitywastoevil.Avaguebenttomischief,anaimlessmalevolence,madeconstantvigilanceindispensable.Assheveryrarelyspoke,andwouldsitforhourstogethermopingandmowing,anddistortingherfeatureswithindescribablegrimaces,itwasmorelikebeingprisonedwithsomestrangetamelessanimal,thanassociatingwithahumanbeing.Thentherewerepersonalattentionstoberenderedwhichrequiredthenerveofahospitalnursemyresolutionwassotried,itsometimesfelldead-sick.Thesedutiesshouldnothavefallenonmeaservant,nowabsent,hadrenderedthemhitherto,andinthehurryofholidaydeparture,nosubstitutetofillthisofficehadbeenprovided.ThistaxandtrialwerebynomeanstheleastIhaveknowninlife.Still,menialanddistastefulastheywere,mymentalpainwasfarmorewastingandwearing.Attendanceonthecrétindeprivedmeoftenofthepowerandinclinationtoswallowameal,andsentmefainttothefreshair,andthewellorfountaininthecourtbutthisdutyneverwrungmyheart,orbrimmedmyeyes,orscaldedmycheekwithtearshotasmoltenmetal. Thecrétinbeinggone,Iwasfreetowalkout.AtfirstIlackedcouragetoventureveryfarfromtheRueFossette,butbydegreesIsoughtthecitygates,andpassedthem,andthenwentwanderingawayfaralongchaussées,throughfields,beyondcemeteries,CatholicandProtestant,beyondfarmsteads,tolanesandlittlewoods,andIknownotwhere.Agoadthrustmeon,afeverforbademetorestawantofcompanionshipmaintainedinmysoulthecravingsofamostdeadlyfamine.Ioftenwalkedallday,throughtheburningnoonandthearidafternoon,andtheduskevening,andcamebackwithmoonrise. Whilewanderinginsolitude,Iwouldsometimespicturethepresentprobablepositionofothers,myacquaintance.TherewasMadameBeckatacheerfulwatering-placewithherchildren,hermother,andawholetroopoffriendswhohadsoughtthesamesceneofrelaxation.ZélieSt.PierrewasatParis,withherrelativestheotherteacherswereattheirhomes.TherewasGinevraFanshawe,whomcertainofherconnectionshadcarriedonapleasanttoursouthward.Ginevraseemedtomethehappiest.ShewasontherouteofbeautifulscenerytheseSeptembersunsshoneforheronfertileplains,whereharvestandvintagematuredundertheirmellowbeam.Thesegoldandcrystalmoonsroseonhervisionoverbluehorizonswavedinmountedlines. ButallthiswasnothingItoofeltthoseautumnsunsandsawthoseharvestmoons,andIalmostwishedtobecoveredinwithearthandturf,deepoutoftheirinfluenceforIcouldnotliveintheirlight,normakethemcomrades,noryieldthemaffection.ButGinevrahadakindofspiritwithher,empoweredtogiveconstantstrengthandcomfort,togladdendaylightandembalmdarknessthebestofthegoodgeniithatguardhumanitycurtainedherwithhiswings,andcanopiedherheadwithhisbendingform.ByTrueLovewasGinevrafollowed:nevercouldshebealone.Wassheinsensibletothispresence?Itseemedtomeimpossible:Icouldnotrealizesuchdeadness.Iimaginedhergratefulinsecret,lovingnowwithreservebutpurposingonedaytoshowhowmuchsheloved:Ipicturedherfaithfulherohalfconsciousofhercoyfondness,andcomfortedbythatconsciousness:Iconceivedanelectricchordofsympathybetweenthem,afinechainofmutualunderstanding,sustainingunionthroughaseparationofahundredleagues—carrying,acrossmoundandhollow,communicationbyprayerandwish.Ginevragraduallybecamewithmeasortofheroine.Oneday,perceivingthisgrowingillusion,Isaid,“Ireallybelievemynervesaregettingoverstretched:mymindhassufferedsomewhattoomuchamaladyisgrowinguponit—whatshallIdo?HowshallIkeepwell?” Indeedtherewasnowaytokeepwellunderthecircumstances.Atlastadayandnightofpeculiarlyagonizingdepressionweresucceededbyphysicalillness,Itookperforcetomybed.AboutthistimetheIndiansummerclosedandtheequinoctialstormsbeganandforninedarkandwetdays,ofwhichthehoursrushedonallturbulent,deaf,dishevelled—bewilderedwithsoundinghurricane—Ilayinastrangefeverofthenervesandblood.Sleepwentquiteaway.Iusedtoriseinthenight,lookroundforher,beseechherearnestlytoreturn.Arattleofthewindow,acryoftheblastonlyreplied—Sleepnevercame! Ierr.Shecameonce,butinanger.Impatientofmyimportunityshebroughtwithheranavengingdream.BytheclockofSt.JeanBaptiste,thatdreamremainedscarcefifteenminutes—abriefspace,butsufficingtowringmywholeframewithunknownanguishto