CHAPTER XI
THE GARMENTS OF ANOTHER
Left alone, Josephine St. Auban at last attempted to pull herselftogether. With the instinct of a newly caged animal, she made alittle tour of the room. First she noted the depth of the windows,their height above the ground. No escape there, that wassure--unless one, cat-like, could climb down this light ladder upwhich the ivy ran between the cornice and the ground. No, it was aprison.
In the room itself were good yet simple furnishings. The wallpaper was of a small and ancient figuring. In places it hung torn.The furniture was old mahogany, apparently made in an earliergeneration. An engraving or so hung askew upon the wall, a brokenbust stood on a bracket. The tall tester bed, decorated with apatchwork silken covering, showed signs of comfort, but was neithermodern nor over neat. The room was not furnished in poverty, butits spirit, its atmosphere, its feeling, lacked something, a womancould have told what.
She pushed back the heavy dresser, but the wall was without openingbehind it. She looked for the key to the door, and was glad tofind the lock in order. For the first time now she laid off herbonnet, unfastened her wrap. With a hand which trembled she madesome sort of attempt at toilet, staring into the mirror at a facescarcely recognized as her own. The corners of its mouth weredrooping plaintively. A faint blue lay beneath the eyes.
She faced the fact that she must pass the night alone. If it is atnight that the shadows fall upon the soul, then most of all doeswoman, weak and timorous animal, long for some safe and accustomedrefuge place, for a home; and most of all does she shrink fromunfamiliar surroundings. Yet she slept, wearied to exhaustion.The night was cool, the air fresh from the mountains coming inthrough the opened window, and bringing with it calm.
Dawn came. A chirping cedar bird, busy in the near-by shrubbery,wakened her with a care-free note. She started up and gazed outwith that sudden wonder and terror which at times seize upon uswhen we awake in strange environment. Youth and vitality resumedsway. She was alive, then. The night had passed, then. She wasas she had been, herself, her own, still. The surge of young bloodcame back in her veins. The morning was there, the hills werethere, the world was there. Hope began once more with the throb ofher perfect pulse. She stretched a round white arm and looked downit to her hand. She held up her fingers against the light, and theblood in them, the soul in them, showed pink and clean between.Slowly she pushed down the patchwork silk. There lay her splendidlimbs and body. Yes, it was she, it was herself, her own. Yes,she would live, she would succeed, she would win! All of which, ofcourse, meant to her but one thing--escape.
A knock came at the door, really for the third time, although forthe first time heard. Old Sally entered, bearing her tray, withcoffee.
"Now you lay right still whah you is, Ma'am," she began. "You-allwants a li'l bit o' coffee. Then I'll bring you up some realbreakfus'--how you like yuah aigs? Ma'am, you suttinly is lookin'fine dis mawnin'. I'll fetch you yuah tub o' watah right soon now."
In spite of herself Josephine found herself unable to resistinterest in these proceedings. After all, her prison was not to bewithout its comforts. She hoped the eggs would be more than two.
The old serving woman slowly moved about here and there in theapartment, intent upon duties of her own. While thus engaged,Josephine, standing femininely engaged before her glass, chanced tocatch sight of her in the mirror. She had swiftly slipped over andopened the door of a wardrobe. Over her arm now was some femininegarment.
"What have you there?" demanded Josephine, turning as swiftly.
"Jus' some things I'se gwine take away to make room for you, tha'ssall, Ma'am."
Josephine approached and took up in her own hands these evidencesof an earlier occupancy of the room. They were garments of a daygone by. The silks were faded, dingy, worn in the creases fromsheer disuse. Apparently they had hung untouched for some time.
They were garments of a day gone by.]
"Whose were these, Sally?" demanded Josephine.
"I dunno, Ma'am. I'se been mos'ly in the kitchen, Ma'am."
Josephine regarded her closely. No sign of emotion showed on thatbrown mask. The gray brows above the small eyes did not flicker."I suppose these may have belonged to Mr. Dunwody's mother," saidJosephine carelessly.
"Yassam!"
"His sister?"
"Yassam!"
"Or his wife, perhaps?"
"Yassam, ef they really wuz one."
"Was there ever?" demanded Josephine sharply.
"Might a-been none, er might a-been a dozen, fur's I know. Usfolks don' study much 'bout whut white folks does."
"You must have known if there was any such person about--you'vebeen here for years. Don't talk nonsense!"
Temptation showed on Sally's face. The next instant the film cameagain over the small brown eyes, the mask shut down again, as theancient negro racial secretiveness resumed sway. Josephine did notask for what she knew would be a lie.
"Where is my own maid, Jeanne?" she demanded. "I am anxious abouther."
"I dunno, Ma'am."
"Is she safe--has she been cared for?"
"I reckon she's all right."
"Can you bring her to me?"
"I'll try, Ma'am."
But breakfast passed and no Jeanne appeared. From the great housecame no sounds of human occupancy. Better struggle, conflict, thanthis ominous waiting, this silence, here in this place of infamy,this home of horror, this house of some other woman. It was with asense of relief that at length she heard a human voice.
Outside, beneath the window, quavering sounds rose. The words wereFrench, Canadian French, scarce distinguishable to an ear trainedonly in the Old World. It was an old man singing, the air perhapsthat of some old chanson of his own country, sung by villagers longbefore:
"Souvenirs du jeune age Sont gravis dans mon coeur, Quand je pense au village, Revenant du bonheur--"
The old voice halted, at length resuming, idly: "_Quand jepense--quand je pense_." Then after humming the air for a littletime it broke out as though in the chorus, bold and strong:
"Rendes-moi ma patrie, ou laisses-moi mourir!"
The words came to her with a sudden thrill. What did they not meanto the alien, to the prisoner, to the outcast, anywhere in all theworld! "Give me back my country, or let me die!"
She stepped to the window and looked down. An old man, brown, bentand wrinkled, was digging about the shrubbery, perhaps preparingsome of the plants for their winter sleep. He was clad in leatherand linsey, and seemed ancient as the hills. He resumed his song.Josephine leaned out from the casement and softly joined in therefrain:
"Rendez-moi ma patrie, ou laissez-moi mourir!"
An old man, brown, bent and wrinkled]
The old man dropped his spade. "_Mon Dieu_!" he exclaimed, andlooked all about, around, then at last up.
"Ah! _Bon jour_, Mademoiselle!" he said, smiling and taking off hisold fur cap. "You spik also my language, Mademoiselle?"
"_Mais oui_, Monsieur," rejoined Josephine; and addressed himfurther in a few sentences on trivial topics. Then, suddenlyresolved, she stepped out of her own room, passed softly down thestair, out through the wide central hall, and so, havingencountered no one, joined the ancient man on the lawn. It chancedhe had been at labor directly in front of one of the barred lowerwindows. He now left his spade and stepped apart, essaying now alittle broken English.
"You seeng my song al_so_, Mademoiselle? You like the old songfrom Canadian village, aye? I seeng heem many tam, me."
"Who are you?" demanded Josephine.
"Me, I am Eleazar, the ol' trap' man. Summers, I work here forMonsieur Dunwodee. Verr' reech man, Monsieur Dunwodee. He say,'Eleazar, you live here, all right.' When winter come I go back inthe heel, trap ze fur-r, Madame, ze cat, ze h'ottaire, ze meenk,sometime ze coon, also ze skonk. Pret' soon I'll go h'out for trapnow, Mademoiselle."
"How long have you been here, Eleazar?" she a
sked.
"Many year, Mademoiselle. In these co'ntree perhaps twent'--thirt'year, I'll don' know."
"Were you here when the lady lived here?" she demanded of himdirectly.
He frowned at this suddenly. "I'll not know what you mean,Mademoiselle."
"I mean the other lady, the wife of Mr. Dunwody."
"My faith! Monsieur Dunwody he'll live h'alone here, h'all tam."
She affected not to understand him. "How long since she was here,Eleazar?" she demanded.
"What for you'll talk like those to me? I'll not know nossing,Mademoiselle. I'll not even know who is Mademoiselle, or whyshe'll been here, me. I'll not know for say, whether 'Madame,'whether 'Mademoiselle.' _Mais_ 'Mademoiselle'--_que je pense_."
She looked about her hastily. "I'm here against my wish, Eleazar.I want to get away from here as soon as I can."
He drew away in sudden fright. "I'll not know nossing at all, me,"he reiterated.
"Eleazar, you like money perhaps?"
"Of course, yes. _Tout le monde il aime l'argent_."
"Then listen, Eleazar. Some day we will walk, perhaps. How far isit to Cape Girardeau, where the French people live?"
"My son Hector he'll live there wance, on Cap' Girardeau. He'llmake the tub, make the cask, make the bar_rel_. Cap' Girardeau,oh, perhaps two--t'ree day. Me, I walk heem once, maybe so feeftymile, maybe so seexty mile, in wan day, two-t'ree a little moretam, me. I was more younger then. But now my son he'll live onSt. Genevieve, French place there, perhaps thirtee mile. Cap'Girardeau, seventy-five mile. You'll want for go there?" he addedcunningly.
"Sometime," she remarked calmly. Eleazar was shrewd in his ownway. He strolled off to find his spade.
Before she could resume the conversation Josephine heard behind herin the hall a step, which already she recognized. Dunwody greetedher at the door, frowning as he saw her sudden shrinking back atsight of him.
"Good morning," he said. "You have, I hope, slept well. Have youand Eleazar here planned any way to escape as yet?" He smiled ather grimly. Eleazar had shuffled away.
"Not yet."
"You had not come along so far as details then;" smilingly.
"You intruded too soon."
"At least you are frank, then! You will never get away from hereexcepting on one condition."
She made no answer, but looked about her slowly. Her eyes restedupon a little inclosed place where some gray stones stood uprightin the grass; the family burial place, not unusual in suchproximity to the abode of the living, in that part of the countryat the time.
"One might escape by going there!" she pointed.
"They are my own, who sleep there," he said simply but grimly. "Iwish it might be your choice; but not now; not yet. We've a lot ofliving to do yet, both of us."
She caught no note of relenting in his voice. He looked large andstrong, standing there at the entrance to his own home. At lengthhe turned to her, sweeping out his arm once more in a gestureincluding the prospect which lay before them.
"If you could only find it in your heart," he exclaimed, "how muchI could do for you, how much you could do for me. Look at allthis. It's a home, but it's just a desert--a desert--the way it isnow."
"Has it always been so?"
"As long as I can remember."
"So you desire to make all life a desert for me! It is very nobleof you!"
Absorbed, he seemed not to hear her. "Suppose you had met me theway people usually meet--and you some time had allowed me to comeand address you--could you have done that, do you reckon?" Heturned to her, an intent frown on his face, unsmiling.
"That's a question which here at least is absurd," she replied.
"You spoke once of that other country, abroad,--" he broke off,shaking his head. "Who are you? I don't feel sure that I evenknow your name as yet."
"I am, as you have been told, Josephine, Countess St. Auban. I amFrench, Hungarian, American, what you like, but nothing to you. Icame to this country in the interest of Louis Kossuth. For thatreason I have been misunderstood. They think me more dangerousthan I am, but it seems I am honored by the suspicions of Austriaand America as well. I was a revolutionist yonder. I am alreadycalled an abolitionist here. Very well. The name makes littledifference. The work itself--"
"Is that how you happened to be there on the boat?"
"I suppose so. I was a prisoner there. I was less than a chattel.I was a piece of property, to be staked, to be won or lost atcards, to be kidnapped, hand-cuffed, handled like a slave, itseems. And you've the hardihood to stand here and ask me who I am!"
"I've only that sort of hardihood, Madam, which makes me ridestraight. If I had observed the laws, I wouldn't have you herenow, this morning."
"You'll not have me long. If I despise you as a man withoutchivalry, I still more do so because you've neither ambition norany sense of morals."
"You go on to improve me. I thank you, Mademoiselle--Eleazar wasright. I heard him. I like you as 'Mademoiselle.'"
"What difference?" she flared out. "We are opposed at all anglesof the human compass. There is no common meeting ground betweenus. Let me go."
He looked at her full in the face, his own features softened,relenting for a time, as though her appeal had touched either hismental or his moral nature. Then slowly, as he saw the excellenceof her, standing there, his face dropped back into its iron mold."You are a wonderful woman," he said, "wonderful. You set me onfire--and it's only eight o'clock in the morning. I could crushyou--I could tear you to pieces. I never saw your like, nor evershall. Let you go? Yes! When I'm willing to let my blood andsoul go. Not till then. If I were out in that graveyard, with mybones apart, and your foot crossed my grave, I'd get up and come,and live again with you--live--again. I say, I could live again,do you hear me?"
She broke out into a torrent of hot speech. He did not seem tohear her. "The wrong of it," said he, "is that we should fightapart and not together. Do as you like for to-day. Be happy asyou can. Let's live in the present, as we were, at least forto-day. But to-night--"
He turned swiftly, and left her, so that she found left unsaidcertain questions as well as certain accusations she had stored forthis first meeting.