# The Old Countess (Sedgwick)/Chapter 28

THE storm had burst over the whole country-side. The forest groaned and bowed under the tempest. The thunder rolled and the lightning flashed in a spectral sky. Jill walked in the midst of it, her head erect, her eyes fixed before her on the seething road, and as she found herself thus exposed to the desperate elements she was quieted and strengthened. She seemed to be driving her ambulance again along a road in the firing-line, hearing the crash of artillery and seeing the flame of bursting shells, and as she had used to say to herself then, while the bullets spattered about her on the road, so she now heard herself saying, 'Steady, old girl; steady.'
Everything was over for her. Everything had come to an end. That was like death. And death came to everyone, sooner or later. Facing death had been one of the easiest things to learn in the war. Everybody learned it. It was easier than putting on wet boots in the morning or drinking tea made with condensed milk. One might flinch and sicken inwardly; but one held up one's head and managed to smile. That was what she must do now.
How the rain boiled up about her feet from the disintegrated road! The stones were loosened by the cataracts of water that poured down its cracks and ​gullies and the rosy-white of the lightning dazzled her eyes as it glared incessantly from the sky. It had always been a rather glorious thing to be out in a great storm; a purifying thing. These torrents, this tempest, laved away the taint and sickness of the reptile-house from which she had come. Wretched old woman. Horrible. Piteous.—No;—don't think of her.
This might seem worse than dying, but that was because it was so full of pictures. Death always seemed just emptiness, and that was because you had to leave everything when you died. Whereas, in this, everything was leaving you. In death you lay down and forgot; in this, you stood up and remembered. It was because of the memories that Madame de Lamouderie had flung her arms up in that horrible way and clutched at her head behind. She did not know how to stand still. But if one were not careful, one might be like that oneself. One might break down and rave and scream. No; no. No pictures. No pictures of Dick's head on her breast at night—taking refuge. No pictures of Marthe Ludérac walking with him in the garden; so still.
The cemetery wall was before her now and the chestnut branches dashed themselves against it above Madame Ludérac's grave. The bristling tin tubs glittered against the black as the lightning struck across them. Jill glanced, and turned her eyes away. Round the corner the woodland road ran down into the grande route. It would be better when she was out ​upon the grande route, all the river, all the sky before her. Suddenly, below her, coming round the wall, she saw Marthe Ludérac.
If Marthe had been exhausted that morning, what was she now? She was bowed against the blast; half obliterated by the rain. A kid tottered, bleating, after her, and as she came into view she stopped and turned to it with a gesture of dogged tenderness, picked it up, toiled on with it for a little way, then set it down again. Its weight was beyond her strength.
Jill, motionless, watched her staggering up the stony road, and as she approached, a stillness, a whiteness, like that of the antechamber of death, fell upon her.
They were near each other, they were only a few yards apart, when Marthe lifted her face and saw Jill standing in the road above her. She stopped still, and, through the tempest, they looked at each other. Then Jill opened her arms and she came into them. She laid her arms on Jill's shoulders and bent her head upon her breast. The rain was like a heavy shroud enfolding them.
'Marthe, Marthe,' Jill whispered. 'Nothing is changed between us.'
Nothing was changed. She knew that now. Marthe's face, holy and beautiful, had banished for ever the dreadful darkness. It was as if they had passed through death together and reached a place where no word need be said; no question asked. And as they stood thus embraced, an experience transcend​ing any she had ever known came to Jill. Her love for Marthe Ludérac flamed up and enfolded them both, and enfolded Dick, and all her being was filled with rapture. She was filled with life from head to foot; and life was love, only love; and this bliss came to her because she loved Marthe Ludérac and because Marthe was holy; though it seemed only a shattered, helpless woman she held, beaten beyond all will or feeling.
'Don't cry, darling,' she heard herself say; from far away, and after how long a time she did not know. For Marthe was sobbing on her breast. Under the chestnuts, Jill saw that they might find a little shelter. The form she held was wet through and through; Marthe's hair streamed rivers of rain into her bosom. She drew her beneath the boughs, and they leaned against the cemetery wall. The kid lay down, creeping closely to their feet.
'Jill,' whispered Marthe, 'let me tell you this. I have been faithful to you. I could not deny that I loved him. But not one word, not one look of tenderness has he had from me.'
'Oh, poor Dick!' half sighed, half smiled Jill. Paradise was a childlike place. One could smile in paradise.
But, hearing these words from her friend, Marthe Ludérac lifted her ravaged face and gazed at her.
'You must have made him very miserable, Marthe,' said Jill, gently regarding her. 'I'm afraid I couldn't have kept that up with a man I loved.'
'But, Jill—you do not understand.' Marthe's ​sunken eyes dwelt on her. 'I have seen him when you did not know. It was not only when you sent him to me on the island. I have seen him at the Manoir;—at night, once; alone. And this morning, after you and I were in the woods—he came. And we were together in the garden; we walked there together, for a long time.'
'Yes, I know. I wanted you to see him. You remember what I said this morning, Marthe; even this morning, when I did not understand as I do now. I knew that you and he must see each other. I knew that everything must come quite clear between you, when you saw each other.'
'Quite clear?' A look of incomprehension drew Marthe's brows to a knot of suffering.
'Marthe, my darling, you and Dick belong to each other. That's what's clear now—to all of us. You and he are never going to part,' said Jill.
All this time Marthe had rested upon Jill's shoulders while they leaned against the wall; now she drew her arms away. 'What do you mean?' she asked.
'What I say, Marthe. I am going to set Dick free,' said Jill.
As she heard the words, Marthe's face took on a look of terror. 'You believe that I am going to take your husband from you?'
'But, Marthe—you have taken him from me,' Jill said, oddly grimacing so that her tears should not flow down. 'Or, rather—for you've done nothing—he's taken himself from me and given himself to you.'
​'No,' said Marthe after a moment, intently thinking. 'No. It is not so. He will always love you. You will always be his loved wife.'
'Marthe, I understand.' Jill still grimaced. 'No good going into that. He loves me. But it's you he wants.'
'Such wants pass.'
'Not Dick's for you. When he's with you he's in heaven. That's what it comes to. You'll never make him forget his want of heaven.'
'No! It is not heaven! With you it is heaven;—not with me! It is wrong with me!' cried Marthe Ludérac, looking fiercely about her, up at the cemetery wall, out at the forest, as though she sought some escape from the anguish of her thought. 'He is wrong—always wrong—when he is with me! Let him go! Let him forget me! Let it be like a bad dream to you both! It is a bad dream. It is a spell that has fallen upon him, and upon me.'
'No! No! No, Marthe,' said Jill in a trembling voice, but with a depth of conviction against which the other's passion spent itself in vain. 'It only seems like that;—because I am there between you;—and because you are human, and want each other, in every way. If I were not there, if you belonged to him—it would all be beautiful. And it shall be. Do you think I can keep Dick now, after what I've seen? Dick and I have loved each other; we love each other still; but it's nothing, nothing, to what he feels for you. Some people love when they're young and afterwards they ​are kind to each other. It's a habit; and the kindness keeps them together. But with you and Dick age will make no difference. I see it all. When you are an old, old woman, you would only have to hold out your hand to him, and he would follow you. He is yours for ever and ever. If you were dead and he never saw you again, it would make no difference. As long as he could remember you—he would still be yours.'
Marthe Ludérac closed her eyes. She leaned against the wall and her head drooped. 'I cannot talk,' she muttered. 'What you say is a romance—It is not true. But I cannot talk any longer. I am too tired—'
'No, we won't talk now,' Jill murmured, sustaining and enfolding her. 'Listen, my darling Marthe. You can't go back to the Manoir. You are to come with me, to Buissac. I'll help you. I'll carry the kid. You shall be quietly with me at the Ecu d'Or. You shall not see Dick until you feel you care to. I'll see him. I'll explain everything to him. I will take care of you.'
Helpless within her arms, Marthe's head hung against her breast. She seemed almost fainting; but Jill heard the word she muttered: 'Impossible. Impossible.'
'It's not impossible. It's the only way. You shan't go back to that horrible old woman. She'll kill you. I'm not going to argue with you. I'm not going to torment you. You are only coming with me, your friend, to be taken care of. Do you see? Marthe—my darling—don't set yourself against what must be.'
​For Marthe was pushing her away, raising her head again, turning from her. 'Never; never; never,' she said, with a dulled yet passionate utterance. She stood pressing her hand against Jill's breast, keeping her at arm's length, and she fixed her sunken eyes upon the upland road as if measuring her strength against its steepness and the distance to her home. 'Never,' she repeated yet again, and with returning force apparent in her voice and mien. 'What you ask of me would kill me. I am better now. I am rested. I can go alone. Later;—to-morrow, perhaps, I will see you. And I will see him. I have promised him that we shall meet once more. Good-bye.'
'But, Marthe.' Jill clung to her arm. 'She's mad. I've just seen her, and she's mad. I'm afraid for you.'
Marthe had passed out into the road, and Jill, carrying the kid, still held her by the arm, nearly weeping.
'That is a folly, dear Jill,' said Marthe. She took the kid into her arms. 'She is very quiet with me, that poor old woman; docile, obedient. And Joseph is there, who understands, and would protect me. I shall not see her again to-day. See, my kid is rested, too; it can go beside me quite well now, for the little way. I took it and its mother to the meadow early this morning and only remembered when the storm came that they were still there. When I found them, the mother had been killed by a fallen tree; the tree beside the cabin had been struck. The kid was lying close beside her; only think how pitiful. I shall buy it from Julie now. I will not part from it. Yes, my little one; one more ​effort and you shall have hot milk and a warm corner by the fire where you can sleep. And Joseph will do as much for me! Now; do you see, Jill, how calm and reasonable I am? There is nothing to fear for me. And you, too, will be reasonable, will you not? And to-morrow we will see each other. Yes; we will meet once more;—if indeed you feel that is best, when to-morrow comes.'
Jill could not find one word to say. Marthe had escaped from her. She was strong again, with a strange, resourceful strength; with an almost maternal authority and austerity, that counted every moment, calculated every word and glance, while she stooped to pat her kid and turned her eyes on Jill, appraising her submission.
'Good-bye, then,' said Jill. She submitted. She saw herself helpless, as always, before Marthe Ludérac. But she had begun to cry and the tears at last were streaming down her face.
Marthe Ludérac stood there in the storm and looked at her intently for a moment. 'My loved Jill,' she said.
She took Jill's hand in hers and held it against her cheek.
'My loved Jill,' she repeated, gazing into Jill's eyes with a deep, radiant look. 'We shall never forget each other,' she said.
Then, turning away, she walked rapidly up the road towards the Manoir, supernaturally sustained, it seemed to Jill, who watched her until a turning hid her from sight.