CHAPTER XII
THE NIGHT
That night, Josephine St. Auban did not sleep. For hours shetossed about, listening. Infrequently, sounds came to her ears.Through the window came now and again faint notes of night-faringbirds, south bound on their autumnal migration. Once in a while adistant step resounded in the great building, or again there camethe distant voices of the negroes singing in their quarters beyond.The house had ceased its daily activities. The servants had leftit. Who occupied it now? Was she alone? Was there one other?
In apprehension which comes to the senses in the dark watches ofthe night--impressions, conclusions, based upon no actual orrecognized action of the physical senses--Josephine rose, passed tothe window and looked out. The moonlight lay upon the lawn like abroad silver blanket. Faint stars were twinkling in the clear skyoverhead. The night brooded her planets, hovering the world, sothat life might be.
The dark outlines of the shrubbery below showed black and strong.Upon the side of a near-by clump of leafless lilacs shone a faintlight, as though from one of the barred windows below. The housewas not quite asleep. She stilled her breath as she might, stilledher heart as she might, lest its beating should be heard. What wasabout to happen? Where could she fly, and how?
Escape by the central stairway would be out of the question,because by that way only could danger approach. She leaned out ofthe window. Catching at the coarse ivy vine which climbed up theold wall of the house, she saw that it ascended past her window tothe very cornice where the white pillars joined the roof. Thepillars themselves, vast and smooth, would have been useless evencould she have reached them. Below, a slender lattice or ladderhad been erected to the height of one story, to give the ivy itssupport. A strong and active person might by mere possibilityreach this frail support if the ivy itself proved strong enough tohold under the strain. She clutched at it desperately. It seemedto her that although the smaller tendrils loosened, the greaterarms held firm.
She stepped back into the room, listened, straining all her soul ina demand for certitude. As yet she had only dreaded to hear asound, had not indeed done so. Now at last there came afootfall--was it true? It seemed not heavy enough for a man'sstep, but a man on secret errand might tread light. She flungherself upon the bed, her hands clasped, her lips moving insupplication.
But now it came again, that was it--it was a footfall. Itapproached along the hall, paused at the barricaded door. It wasthere outside, stopping. She heard a breath drawn. The knob wastried, silently at first, then with greater force. "Who is there?"she quavered. "Who is there?" she repeated. No answer came.
"Jeanne!" she cried aloud. "Oh, Jeanne! Jeanne! Sally!"
There was once a sound of a distant door opening. No voice came.Outside her own door now was silence.
She could endure no more. Though it were into flames, she mustescape from this place, where came one to claim a property, not awoman; where a woman faced use, not wooing. God! And there was noweapon, to assure God's vengeance now, here, at once.
Half-clad as she was, she ran to the window, and unhesitatingly letherself out over the sill, clutching at the ivy as she did so. Shefeared not at all what now was before her. It is doubtful whetherthose who spring from a burning building dread the fall--they dreadonly that which is behind them.
As she now half-slid from the window, she grasped wildly at thescreen of ivy, and as fate would have it caught one of its greaterbranches. It held fast, and she swung free from the sill, whichnow she could never again regain. She clung desperately, blindly,swung out; then felt the roots of the ivy above her rip free, oneafter another, far up, almost to the cornice. Its whole thinladder broke free from the wall. She was flung into space. Almostat that instant, her foot touched the light lattice of the lowerstory. The ivy had crawled up the wall face and followed thecornice up and over somewhere, over the edge of the eaves, findingsome sort of holding ground. It served to support her weight atleast until she felt the ladder underfoot. At this in turn sheclutched as she dropped lower, but frail and rotten as it was, itsupported her but slightly. The next instant she felt, herselffalling.
She grasped wildly at the screen of ivy.]
She dropped out and down, struck heavily, and had but consciousnessenough left to half-rise. Before her eyes shone scores of littlepointed lights. Then her senses passed away, and all went sweetly,smoothly and soothingly black about her....After ages, there camefaint sounds of running feet. There was a sort of struggle of somesort, it seemed, in her first returning consciousness. Her firstdistinct feeling was one of wonder that Dunwody himself should bethe first to bend over her, and that on his face there should seemsurprise, regret, grief. How could he feign such things? Shepushed at his face, panting, silent.
Jeanne now was there--Jeanne, tearful, excited, wringing her hands,offering aid; but in spite of Jeanne, Dunwody raised Josephine inhis arms. As he did so he felt her wince. Her arm droppedloosely. "Good God! It is broken!" he cried. "Oh, why did you dothis? Why did you? You poor girl, you poor girl! And it was allmy fault--my fault!" Then suddenly, "Sally!--Eleazar!" he cried.
They came running now from all sides. Between them they carriedJosephine back to her room and placed her once more upon her couch.
"Saddle up, Eleazar," commanded Dunwody. "Get adoctor--Jamieson--from St. Genevieve as fast as you can. Thelady's arm is broken."
"Pardon, Monsieur," he began, "but it is far for St. Genevieve.Me, I have set h'arm before now. Suppose I set heem now, then gofor the doc'?"
"Could you do that?" demanded Dunwody.
"Somehow, yes, me," answered Eleazar. Dunwody nodded. Withoutfurther speech the old man rolled up his sleeves and addressedhimself to his task. Not without skill, he approached the brokenends of the ulna, which was fractured above the wrist. Having donethis without much difficulty he called out for splints, and whensome pieces of thin wood were brought him he had them shaped to hisneeds, adjusted about them his bandage and made all fast. Hispatient made no sound of suffering. She only panted, like afrightened bird held in the hand, although the sobbing of Jeannefilled the room. The forehead of Dunwody was beaded. He saidnothing, not even when they had finished all they now could do tomake her comfortable.
"_Au revoir_, Mademoiselle," said Eleazar, at length. "I go nowfor those doc'."
A moment later the room was cleared, none but Dunwody remaining.At last, then, they were alone together.
"Go away! Bring me Jeanne!" she cried at him. His lips onlytightened.
"May I not have Jeanne?" she wailed again.
"Yes, you shall have Jeanne--you shall have anything you want," heanswered at length, quietly. "Only get well. Forgive me all thisif you can."
Josephine's lips trembled. "May I go?" she demanded of him.
There was a strange gentleness in his voice. "You're hurt. Itwould be impossible for you to go now. Don't be afraid. Don't!Don't!"
She looked at him keenly, in spite of her suffering. There seemedsome change about him. At length, heavily, his head sunk, he leftthe room.
Jeanne herself, sobbing, tearful, withal overjoyed, rejoined hermistress. The two embraced as was best possible. As her sensescleared, a sort of relief came over Josephine. Now, she began toreason, for the time she was shielded by this infirmity; comfortedalso by the presence of one as weak and helpless as herself.
"It's an ill wind, Jeanne, which blows no one good," she smiledbravely. "See, now we are together again."
"Madame!" gulped Jeanne. "Madame!"
"Fie, fie, Jeanne! In time we shall be away from here."
"Madame, I like it not--this house. Something here is wrong. Wemust fly!"
"But, Jeanne, I am helpless. We must wait, now."
All that night and till morning of the next day they waited, alone,Dunwody not appearing, though continually old Sally brought upproofs of his solicitousness. At last there came the sound ofhoofs on the gravel road, and there alighted at
the door,dust-covered and weary, old Eleazar and Jamieson, the doctor of St.Genevieve. These were met by the master of Tallwoods himself.
"Listen now, Jamieson," said Dunwody, "You're here by my call. Youunderstand me, and understand the rules of your own profession.Ask no questions here. Your patient has broken an arm--there hasbeen an accident. That's all you need to know, I think. Your jobis to get her well, as soon as you can. You're a doctor, not alawyer; that's all."
He led the way to the door of Josephine's room, and the doctor,stained with travel as he was, entered. He was an old man, grayand lean, consumed in his time by fevers and chills, in thetreatment of which he was perhaps more skilful than in surgery. Heapproached the couch not unkindly and stood in preliminaryprofessional scrutiny of his patient. The face turned toward him,framed in its dark roll of hair, caused him to start with surprise.Even thus flushed in the fever of pain, it seemed to him no faceever was more beautiful. Who was she? How came she here? Inspite of Dunwody's command many questions sprang to his own mind,almost to his lips. Yet now he only gently took up the bandagedarm.
"Pardon, my dear," he said quietly. "I must unwrap these bandages,to see how well Eleazar has done his work--you know, these doctorsare jealous of each other! So now, easy, easy!"
He unrolled the rude bandages which, if not professionally applied,at least had held their own. He examined the splints, hummed tohimself meantime.
"Fine!" he exclaimed. "Excellent! Now indeed I shall be jealous.The old man has done a job as good as I could have done myself!There was no need of my coming at all. But I'm glad I came, mydear."
"But you aren't going away. Doctor--you will not go back!"
He pursed a lip as he gazed down over his steel bowed glasses. "Iought to get back, my dear, because I have other patients, don'tyou see, and it's a long ride. Why can't you let me go? You'reyoung and healthy as a wild deer. You're a perfectly splendidgirl. Why, you'll be out of this in a couple of weeks. How didyou happen to fall that way?"
Why can't you let me go?]
She nodded toward the window. "I fell out--there--I wasfrightened."
"Yes, yes, of course--sleep walking, eh?"
Jamieson took snuff very vigorously. "Don't do it again. Butpshaw! If I were as young and strong as you are, I'd have my armbroken twice a week, just for fun."
"Doctor, you're going!" she exclaimed. "But you must do somethingfor me--you must be my friend."
"Certainly, my dear, why not? But how can I help you? Dunwody'spledged me to professional secrecy, you know." He grinned, "Notthat even Warv' Dunwody can run me very much."
He looked down at her, frowning, but at that moment turned to thedoor as he heard Dunwody's step.
"How do you find the patient, Doctor?" asked Dunwody. Jamiesonmoved a hand in cheerful gesture to his patient.
"Good-by, my dear. Just get well, now. I'm coming back, and thenwe'll have a talk. Be good, now, and don't walk in your sleep anymore." He took Dunwody by the shoulder and led him out.
"I don't like this, Dunwody," he said, when they were out ofearshot of the room. "What's going on here? I'm your doctor, as weboth know; but I'm your friend, too. And we both know that I'm agentleman, and you ought to be. That's a lady there. She's introuble--she's scared e'en a'most to death. Why? Now listen. Idon't help in that sort of work, my boy. What's up here? I'vehelped you before, and I've held your secrets; but I don't go intothe business of making any more secrets, d'ye see?"
"There aren't going to be any more, Jamieson," rejoined Dunwodyslowly. "I've got to keep hers. You needn't keep mine if youdon't feel like it. Get her well, that's all. This is no placefor her. As for me, as you know very well, there isn't any placeanywhere for me."
The old doctor sighed. "Brace up to it, my son. But play the gamefair. If it comes to a case of being kind to yourself or kind to awoman, why, take a gamble, and try being kind to the woman. Theyneed it. I'm coming back: but now I must be getting on. First,I'm going to get something to eat. Where's the whisky?"
Dunwody for the time left him, and began moodily to pace apart, upand down the gallery. Here presently he was approached by Jeanne,the maid.
"Madame will speak to you!" announced that person loftily, andturned away scornfully before he had time to reply. Eager,surprised, he hastened up the stair and once more was at herbedside. "Yes?" he said. "Did you wish me for anything?"
Josephine pushed herself back against the head board of the bed,half supported by pillows. With her free hand she attempted to putback a fallen lock of dark hair. It was not care for her personalappearance which animated her, however, although her costume,arranged by her maid, now was that of the sick chamber. "Jeanne,"she said, "go to the armoire, yonder. Bring me what you findthere. Wait," she added to Dunwody. "I've something to show you,something to ask you, yes."
Jeanne turned, over her arm now the old and worn garments whichSally earlier had attempted to remove.
"What are these?" exclaimed Josephine of the man who stood by.
He made no reply, but took the faded silks in his own hands,looking at them curiously, as though he himself saw somethingunexpected, inexplicable.
"What are they, sir? Whose were they? You told me once you werealone here."
"I am," he answered. "Look. These are years old, years, yearsold."
"What are they? Whose were they?" she reiterated.
"They are grave clothes," he said simply, and looked her in theface. "Do you wish to know more?"
"Is she--was she--is she out there?" He knew she meant to ask, inthe graveyard of the family.
"Why do you wish to know?" he inquired quietly. "Is it because youare a woman?"
"I am here because I am a woman. Well, then."
He looked at her, still silently, for a time. "She is dead," hesaid slowly. "Can't you let her lie dead?"
"No. Is she out there? Tell me."
"No."
"Is she dead? Who was she?"
"I have told you, I am alone here. I have told you, I've beenalone, all my life, until you came. Isn't that enough?"
"Yes, you've said that; but that was not the truth."
"It depends upon what you mean by the truth."
"The man who could do what you have done with me would not stop atanything. How could I believe a word you said?" Then, on theinstant, much as she had cause to hate him, she half regretted herspeech. She saw a swift flush spring to his cheek under the thinflorid skin. He moved his lips, but did not speak. It was quite awhile before he made reply.
"That isn't just," he said quietly. "I wouldn't lie to you, noteven to get you. If that's the way you feel about me, I reckonthere couldn't, after all, be much between us. I've got all thesins and faults of the world, but not just that one. I don't lie."
"Then tell me."
"No. You've not earned it. What would be the use, if you didn'tbelieve what I said?"
He held up the faded things before his eyes, turning them overcalmly, looking at them directly, unshrinkingly. She could notread what was in his mind. Either he had courage or longaccustomedness, she thought.
"I asked Sally," she half smiled.
"Yes?"
"And I'll ask her again. I don't want--I can't have, a--a roomwhich belongs to another woman, which has belonged to another.I've not, all my life, been used to--that sort of place, myself,you see."
"You are entitled to first place. Madam, wherever you are. Idon't know what you have been." He pointed to her own garments,which lay across a chair. "You don't know what she has been;" heindicated these that he held in his hand. "Very well. What coulda mere liar, a coward, do to arrange an understanding between twowomen so mysterious? You sprang from the earth, from the sea,somewhere, I do not know how. You are the first woman for me. Isit not enough?"
"I told Sally, it might have been a sister, your mother--"
"Dead long ago. Out there." He nodded to the window.
"W
hich?" she demanded.
He turned to her full now, and put out a hand, touching thecoverlid timidly almost. "You are ill," he said. "Your eyesshine. I know. It's the fever. It isn't any time now for you totalk. Besides, until you believe me, I can not talk with you anymore. I've been a little rough, maybe, I don't know; but as Godmade this world, those trees, that sun yonder, I never said a wordto you yet that wasn't true. I've never wanted of you what wasn'tright, in my own creed. Sometimes we have to frame up a creed allfor ourselves, don't you know that? The world isn't always run onthe same lines everywhere. It's different, in places."
"Will you tell me all about it--about her, sometime?"
"If you are going away, why should you ask that? If you are goingto be nothing to me, in all the world, what right have you to askthat of me? You would not have the right I've had in speaking toyou as I have. That was right. It was the right of love. I loveyou! I don't care if all the world knows it. Let that girl therehear if she likes. I've said, we belong together, and it seemstruth to me, the very truth; yes, and the very right itself. Butsome way, we hurt each other, don't we? Look at you, there,suffering. My fault. And I'd rather it had cost me a limb than tosee you hurt that way. It cuts my heart. I can't rest over it.And you hurt me, too, I reckon, about as bad as anything can.Maybe you hurt me more than you know. But as to our rights toanything back of the curtain that's before us, before your life andmine, why, I can't begin until something else has begun. It's notright, unless that other is right, that I've told you. We belongtogether in the one big way, first. That's the premise. That'sthe one great thing. What difference about the rest, future orpast?"
"You've not been much among women," she said.
"Very little."
"You don't understand them."
"I don't reckon anybody does."
"Jeanne told me that she heard, last night, a child crying, here inthis house."
"Could it not have been a negro child?" He smiled at her, even ashe stood under inquisition.
She noticed that his face now seemed pale. The bones of the cheeksstood out more now. He showed more gravity. Freed of his redfighting flush, the, flame of passion gone out of his eyes, heseemed more dignified, more of a man than had hitherto beenapparent to her.
"_Non_! _Non_!" cried out Jeanne, who had benefited unnoticed toan extent undreamed hitherto in her experience in matter delicatebetween man and maid. Her mistress raised a hand. She herself hadalmost forgotten that Jeanne was in the room. "_Non_! _Non_!"reiterated that young person. "Eet was no neegaire child, _pas detout, jamais de la vie_! I know those neegaire voice. It was avoice white, Madame, Monsieur! Apparently it wept. Perhaps it hadhunger."
A sort of grim uncovering of his teeth was Dunwody's smile. Hemade no comment. His face was whiter than before.
"Whose child was it?" demanded Josephine, motioning to the garmentshe still held in his hands. "Hers?" He shook his head slowly.
"No."
"Yours?"
"No."
"Oh, well, I suppose it was some servant's--though the overseer,Jeanne says, lives across the fields, there. And there would notbe any negroes living here in the house, in any case?"
"No."
"Was it--was it--yours?"
"I have no child. There will never be any for me in theworld--except--under--" But now the flush came back into his face.Confused, he turned, and gently laid down the faded silks across achair back, pulling it even with the one where lay Josephine'sricher and more modern robes. He looked at the two grimly, sadly,shook his head and walked out of the room.
"Madame!" exclaimed Jeanne, "it was divine! But, _quelle mystere_!"