The Secret of Sarek Part 22

Fold your hands this way And to sweet Mary pray.'"

The last verse was followed by a silence that lasted for a few minutes.

All's Well appeared to be listening with increasing attention, as though something, which he knew of, was about to take place.

Thereupon, just where he stood, there was a slight noise of stones carefully moved. All's Well wagged his tail frantically and barked, so to speak, in a whisper, like an animal that understands the danger of breaking the silence. And suddenly, about his head, one of the stones was drawn inward, leaving a fairly large aperture.

All's Well leapt into the hole at a bound, stretched himself out and, helping himself with his hind-legs, twisting and crawling, disappeared inside.

"Ah, there's Master All's Well!" said the young voice. "How are we, Master All's Well? And why didn't we come and pay our master a visit yesterday? Serious business, was it? A walk with Honorine? Oh, if you could talk, my dear old chap, what stories you would have to tell! And, first of all, look here . . ."

Veronique, thrilled with excitement, had knelt down against the wall.

Was it her son's voice that she heard? Was she to believe that he was back and in hiding? She tried in vain to see. The wall was thick; and there was a bend in the opening. But how clearly each syllable uttered, how plainly each intonation reached her ears!

"Look here," repeated the boy, "why doesn't Honorine come to set me free? Why don't you bring her here? You managed to find me all right.

And grandfather must be worried about me . . . . But _what_ an adventure! . . . So you're still of the same mind, eh, old chap? All's well, isn't it? All's as well as well can be!"

Veronique could not understand. Her son--for there was no doubt that it was Francois--her son was speaking as if he knew nothing of what had happened. Had he forgotten? Had his memory lost every trace of the deeds done during his fit of madness?

"Yes, a fit of madness," thought Veronique, obstinately. "He was mad.

Honorine was quite right: he was undoubtedly mad. And his reason has returned. Oh, Francois, Francois! . . ."

She listened, with all her tense being and all her trembling soul, to the words that might bring her so much gladness or such an added load of despair. Either the darkness would close in upon her more thickly and heavily than ever, or daylight was to pierce that endless night in which she had been struggling for fifteen years.

"Why, yes," continued the boy, "I agree with you, All's Well. But all the same, I should be jolly glad if you could bring me some real proof of it. On the one hand, there's no news of grandfather or Honorine, though I've given you lots of messages for them; on the other hand, there's no news of Stephane. And that's what alarms me. Where is he?

Where have they locked him up? Won't he be starving by now? Come, All's Well, tell me: where did you take the biscuits yesterday? . . . But, look here, what's the matter with you? You seem to have something on your mind. What are you looking at over there? Do you want to go away?

No? Then what is it?"

The boy stopped. Then, after a moment, in a much lower voice:

"Did you come with some one?" he asked. "Is there anybody behind the wall?"

The dog gave a dull bark. Then there was a long pause, during which Francois also must have been listening.

Veronique's emotion was so great that it seemed to her that Francois must hear the beating of her heart.

He whispered:

"Is that you, Honorine?"

There was a fresh pause; and he continued:

"Yes, I'm sure it's you . . . . I can hear you breathing . . . . Why don't you answer?"

Veronique was carried away by a sudden impulse. Certain gleams of light had flashed upon her mind since she had understood that Stephane was a prisoner, no doubt like Francois, therefore a victim of the enemy; and all sorts of vague suppositions flitted through her brain. Besides, how could she resist the appeal of that voice? Her son was asking her a question . . . her son!

"Francois . . . Francois!" she stammered.

"Ah," he said, "there's an answer! I knew it! Is it you, Honorine?"

"No, Francois," she said.

"Then who is it?"

"A friend of Honorine's."

"I don't know you, do I?"

"No . . . but I am your friend."

He hesitated. Was he on his guard?

"Why didn't Honorine come with you?"

Veronique was not prepared for this question, but she at once realized that, if the involuntary suppositions that were forcing themselves upon her were correct, the boy must not yet be told the truth.

She therefore said:

"Honorine came back from her journey, but has gone away again."

"Gone to look for me?"

"That's it, that's it," she said, quickly. "She thought that you had been carried away from Sarek and your tutor with you."

"But grandfather?"

"He's gone too: so have all the inhabitants of the island."

"Ah! The old story of the coffins and the crosses, I suppose?"

"Just so. They thought that your disappearance meant the beginning of the disasters; and their fear made them take to flight."

"But you, madame?"

"I have known Honorine for a long time. I came from Paris with her to take a holiday at Sarek. I have no reason to go away. All these superst.i.tions have no terrors for me."

The child was silent. The improbability and inadequacy of the replies must have been apparent to him: and his suspicions increased in consequence. He confessed as much, frankly:

"Listen, madame, there's something I must tell you. It's ten days since I was imprisoned in this cell. During the first part of that time, I saw and heard n.o.body. But, since the day before yesterday, every morning a little wicket opens in the middle of my door and a woman's hand comes through and gives a fresh supply of water. A woman's hand . . . so . . .

you see?"

"So you want to know if that woman is myself?"

"Yes, I am obliged to ask you."

"Would you recognize that woman's hand?"

"Yes, it is lean and bony, with a yellow arm."

"Here's mine," said Veronique. "It can pa.s.s where All's Well did."