out of the little gate. Of course I had to walk slowly. She is very
malicious--poor thing," she added quickly.
They were close to a little arbor now, and not so far from the
castle. Caroline could see figures here and there strolling on the
upper terraces and sitting on the piazzas. The tinkle of a mandolin
cut the soft air and the new-mown grass smelled sweet.
"I think this castle is lovely, though, don't you, Joan of Arc?" she
burst out.
"It is an abominable castle," said the girl, in a muffled voice.
"Abominable!"
"Well, then," said Caroline, practically, "if you feel that way,
you'd _better_ escape."
The girl stared at her.
"Tell me," she said, earnestly, "have you ever been in this place
before? Where do you live?"
Caroline shrugged her shoulders impishly.
"I am Mary Queen of Scots," she replied, obstinately, "and I live in
Scotland. Of course, I've been here before. Who are all those other
people in the castle?"
The girl drew a long, worried breath. "I believe I should go mad if
I stayed here much longer," she said, to herself. She drew Caroline
down beside her behind the arbor.
"Listen to me, Mary Queen of Scots," she murmured, very low, with
anxious glances all about her.
"I don't know who you are nor where you come from, but I believe you
will help me--I believe you're sorry for me. You know how badly Joan
of Arc's friends felt when she was in prison? I'm sure you do. Well
I have a--a dear friend who would die for me, if it would help me.
He has no idea where I am. He thinks I don't want to see him. He
thinks--he must think--I'm no longer his--his--his friend. If I
could only get to him, I should be safe."
"Why don't you write to him?" Caroline suggested.
The girl laughed bitterly.
"If _you_ had prisoners in _your_ fortress, and they wrote letters
to their friends to come and get them out, would _you_ mail the
letters?" she demanded.
"I s'pose not," said Caroline gravely. Joan of Arc gulped.
"My letters never went," she said. "Now listen: I must go up to my
room and get some money--I can't do anything without money. Will you
wait here till I come back and not let anyone see you if you can
help it? And if they do, will you say that you slipped in at the
gate with a party that came in an automobile? One was here lately.
Ask if you mayn't stay and see the flowers. And then I will meet
you."
She looked hard in Caroline's eyes. "You're only playing," she said,
suddenly. "You aren't--you aren't--What is your real name, dear?"
Caroline scowled.
"You better hurry up," she said, "or that gardener'll catch us.
You're just like Marie Antoinette," she added irritably. "You think
nobody can be anything but only yourself!"
Without a word the girl turned and left her, half running. Caroline
heard her sobs.
At the same moment she caught the crunch of footsteps on the stone
path that led to the arbor and crouched low behind it. Two men,
talking idly, entered the spot of shade and sank down on the rustic
bench.
"Look here, Ferris," said one voice, "is she really dippy--that
one?"
"What do you mean?" This was a deeper voice, attached evidently to
blue serge legs, for the speaker leaned to Caroline's eye level to
scratch a match on one of them.
"Oh, I mean what I say." A gray striped coat sleeve poked through
the lattice work, as the first speaker leaned hard on it. "If she
is, then I am, that's all. It looks queer to me."
The blue legs crossed themselves tightly under the seat.
"Look here yourself, Riggs," said the second voice. "If you're
curious in this matter, I advise you to ask the doctor. He's boss
here, not I--thank God! I obey orders and draw my forty per, as per
contract. The same to you, only it's hardly forty, I suppose."
"No, it's not," grunted Graycoat. "Not by a good sight. I see myself
asking the old man. I only asked your private opinion, Ferris,--you
needn't get sore about it."
"My young friend," said Bluelegs, slowly, "there's only one thing
you can ask me in this place that I won't tell you, and that's my
private opinion!"
There was a little pause. Caroline, reveling in conspiracy, lay
quiet, wondering who these people were and what they were talking
about.
"You are perfectly welcome to anything I know about Miss Aitken,"
Bluelegs continued, puffing at a fresh cigarette and throwing the
old one through the lattice at Caroline's feet.
"Her brother was a pronounced epileptic--died in a fit. I have seen
the doctor's certificate. She was greatly worried over his death,
and the manner of it, and showed signs of incipient melancholia."
"As how?" interrupted Graycoat.
"Don't know," said Bluelegs briefly. "Uncle said so. Wouldn't speak
to anybody; cried all day; off her feed--that sort of thing. Very
obstinate."
"Um," Graycoat muttered thoughtfully, "so am I. But I'd hate to be
shut up on that account."
"So her uncle," proceeded Bluelegs, "wishing to save her, if
possible, from her brother's fate, decided to--er--take steps in
that direction and--and here she is."
"So I see," said Graycoat. "Was the brother's epilepsy hereditary?"
"I believe not," Bluelegs returned. "I believe the young gentlemen
inherited a little too much a little too soon for his best good, and
hit up a rather fast pace; his constitution wasn't the best."
"Did she know about all this?"
"I believe she did. Thought she might have saved him if she'd known
sooner, her uncle said."
"Ah," said Graycoat. "Why didn't this kind uncle put his nephew with
the doctor?"
"He wasn't his trustee," Bluelegs answered, quietly.
"Dear me," said Graycoat gently, "how fortunate for the nephew!"
"That's as you look at it," responded Bluelegs.
Caroline dozed in the warm shade; in dreams she chased the French
Queen around the iridescent fountain.
"Uncle any business--besides trusteeship?" asked Graycoat.
"You can search me," said Bluelegs.
"Niece about twenty-one, I take it?" asked Graycoat.
"Search me again," said Bluelegs.
"Should you think," Graycoat demanded, after a pause, "that this
incipient melancholia was likely to last long--speaking, of course,
professionally?"
"Really, Dr. Riggs, I don't know." Bluelegs replied. "I am not at
all in touch with the case. The doctor has entire charge of it. He
mentioned to me last week that he was sorry to see both in her and
young Dahl evidences of clearly formed delusions--"
"Young Dahl!" cried Graycoat, "why, the boy is an admitted
paranoiac!"
"Really?" said Bluelegs, "you know I don't do much but cocaine and
morphia, these days. Did you know the doctor was going to print my
pamphlet?"
"He can afford it, I judge," growled Graycoat. "He gets a hundred a
week from Miss Aitken."
Bluelegs got up and sent a second cigarette after the first.
"Riggs," he said gravely, "if you're aiming to succeed as a magazine
writer, you're beginning well; if it's your ambition to succeed in
this business, and succeed right here, you're beginning badly. You
were keen enough to get this place. If you talk much this way, you
won't keep it long--you can take it from me. Let's come in to
lunch."
Their tread on the arbor floor roused the sleeping conspirator; she
sat up, rubbing her eyes half afraid that the clipped terraces, the
floating, flag, the inhabited castle, were only parts of her dream.
But even as she peered around the arbor, Joan of Arc rushed toward
her. She wore a black shade hat and carried a fluffy black parasol
under her arm.
"Be careful!" she panted. "We can't go yet--I was stopped. I had to
talk. You say yes to whatever I say, will you? Then you can escape
with me--" she smiled sweetly at Caroline--"a real escape, as they
do in story books! Won't that be fine?" Her hand was at her heart
again; a red circle burned in either cheek.
Caroline nodded eagerly.
"That will be grand!" she said. She had forgotten till that moment
that she wanted to escape.
"Ah, Miss Aitken! Late for lunch again!"
Caroline started guiltily, for it was the voice of Bluelegs.
Joan threw her arm over Caroline's shoulder carelessly.
"Yes, Dr. Ferris, I'm afraid I am," she said. "I was delayed by this
little visitor."
He looked suspiciously at them. "Who is she?" he asked.
"I don't know." Joan led Caroline along quickly. "She _says_ she is
Mary Queen of Scots."
He stared blankly.
"I found her conversing with Marie Antoinette," she went on easily,
"and she seems to have slipped in with an automobile party--was
there one? Children are so secretive, you know. She is trying to get
out, but she says all the gates are locked."
"Oh, yes, that was the Dahls--they came to see Frederick," he
explained.
"I see. You were left with the chauffeur, Mademoiselle, and it's
easy to imagine the rest," he added with a smile. He had a very
attractive smile, and Caroline slipped her hand into his offered one
readily.
"You are fond of children?" said Joan, abruptly.
"Very," he answered simply. "Why not! And they are fond of me, as
you see. My dear young lady, did you think we are all brutes because
we must obey orders?"
She set her teeth and walked swiftly forward.
"I know you think us cruel," he went on frankly, "because we can not
do for you the one thing that you want; but, except for that, have
you anything to complain of?"
She smiled scornfully.
"'Except for that'?" she echoed, "no, Dr. Ferris, nothing in the
world--but 'that'!"
"And you must remember," he continued, in his pleasant, soothing
voice, "that it may not be for long, after all. If you continue to
improve as you have--" She flung away impatiently. "Oh, yes, you
have improved, you know; you eat better, you sleep better, your
nerves are quieter. We get good reports of you. Many are ill longer
than you. Do you like the new masseuse?"
She did not answer.
"Now, this little lady must have some lunch with us, and then, no
doubt, we shall see that careless chauffeur again," he said easily.
"Would you like to stay?" he asked Caroline.
"Yes, I would."
"Mary was always fickle, you know," he laughed, glancing at her
clinging hand.
And, indeed, Caroline found him far more winning than the sulky,
silent Joan, and leaned confidingly against him as they climbed the
stone steps and passed through the rich, dark-paneled hall, hung
with bright pictures, filled with bowls of flowers. Several men,
uniformed like the gardener, stood about the steps and terraces;
two stood by the door of a large, airy dining-room filled with
hurrying waiters. About a long silver-laden table some twenty men
and women, cool in lawn and lace and white flannel, were seated,
eating and talking gaily. At the head was a large, tall man in a
snowy vest; evidently the host, by his smiling, interested attention
to everybody's wants. At his right was a vacant chair, and toward
this Joan of Arc directed her steps. She had caught Caroline's hand
in hers, and, as Bluelegs bent and whispered in the tall man's ear,
she added:
"I think, doctor, if the little girl stays by me she will feel less
shy, perhaps."
"Certainly, certainly--by all means. A good thought, Miss Aitken, a
good thought," he answered in a rich, kind voice. He shook hands
with Caroline warmly.
"So you find our grounds attractive?" he asked politely.
She nodded, a little shyly. All this company, so freshly dressed, so
ceremoniously served, so utterly unconscious of her presence,
embarrassed her a little. For not one of the ladies and
gentlemen--there were no children--paid the slightest attention to
her arrival, even when a place was made for her by Joan and a mug of
milk procured. They talked, or, as she noticed now, sat, many of
them, listless and silent, playing with their rings and bracelets,
answering only with monosyllables the questions of the large,
cordial doctor.
"Where is Marie Antoinette?" she whispered to her friend, who seemed
nearer, suddenly, than these cold table-mates.
"She does not eat with us," said Joan, helping her to chicken and
green peas, and beginning her own meal.
The doctor turned to them, having recommended some asparagus to the
stolid lady at his left.
"I am glad to see your appetite so good, Miss Aitken," he observed,
lowering his voice a little, "at this rate we shall have no excuse
for keeping you much longer."
"You have had none for six months," she replied curtly.
"I am sorry you feel so bitterly," he said, "but you know I can not
agree with you there. You will think more kindly of me some day, I
hope, when time has freed your mind of its prejudice."
"When will that be?" she asked, meeting his eyes full for a moment.
"I wrote only this morning to your uncle, stating your gradual but
steady improvement, and assuring him that in my opinion--subject, of
course, to circumstances--it would be a matter of a few months more
only," he said. "Does not that make your feelings a little--only a
little more tender--"
"What did you say?" a shrill voice interrupted, "say that again,
please."
Caroline had beguiled the woman next her, a frail, anemic little
creature with pathetic eyes, into a halting conversation.
"I said," she repeated, buttering her roll thickly and
appreciatively with fresh, clover-scented butter, "I said that no
weather was too hot for me. I love it."
("Now, really, I _am_ pleased," the big doctor murmured to the girl
beside him. "Mrs. Du Long hasn't seemed so interested for days. In
fact, she's been quite silent; I was alarmed about her. It's the
child's influence.")
"--Uncle Joe said," Caroline went on, the roll at her mouth, "and he
said I was a regular little snake."
She heard a guttural, growling sound beside her, lifted her eyes
innocently, and for one flashing, doubtful second beheld the
swollen, distorted face, the bulging eyes, the back-drawn snarling
lips beside her. She did not see the plunging fork above her head,
so quickly did Joan's arm intervene between her and it; she did not
hear its impact against the big doctor's plate nor the gurgling
voice of what had been the sad-eyed little woman beside her, for her
head was buried in Joan's stifling skirt.
"Kill the snake! Kill the snake!" some one--or something--yelled,
and then a grip of iron caught her arm and the voice of Bluelegs
said sternly:
"Look straight ahead of you--don't turn your head! Don't turn, Miss
Aitken--you can do nothing--they have her safe. The guards are
here."
The room, indeed, seemed full of gardeners; a bell rang noisily near
by.
"But the others--the others!" Joan gasped.
"They are all right--it won't trouble them," he answered quietly;
and as Caroline and the girl looked fearfully where they were
bidden, they saw the men and women eating placidly, talking with
each other or sitting listless, staring idly at four liveried men
who fought furiously with one small, snarling creature. Like the
cruel witnesses in dreams, they sat, and the waiters served them
swiftly and handed the dishes between their shoulders, as deaf as
they. And suddenly they became terrible to Caroline, and the castle
menacing, a thing to flee from.
"Step out this way," said Bluelegs, when the sounds of struggle had
died away, "and take the child through the grounds, will you,
please? Try to occupy her thoughts, and your own, too, if you can.
This is one of the unfortunate things that rarely happen, but when
they do--Yes, indeed, Mr. Ogden, it was certainly fine asparagus--I
am glad you enjoyed it. No, she was only a little indisposed--she'll
soon be well again. The heat of the sun, undoubtedly. Don't be
alarmed, Miss Arliss, she will have every attention."
The gardeners had vanished from the steps where they went down, and
none were seen in the grounds. Joan of Arc clutched Caroline's
waist.
"Now--now!" she said, between her teeth; "now is the time not to
faint! I never fainted--never. Come and show me that hole in the
fence. There is no one about. But don't run."
They hurried across the sunlit, smiling terrace.
"What was the matter?" Caroline queried fearfully, "was she--was
she--"
"Yes," said Joan brusquely. "Yes. Don't think about it. Don't run
and don't think. Only find the hole."
They stood beside it. No one was near them; no one called to them.
Silently Caroline slid under the sharp prongs. Joan of Arc put her
hands under her skirt a moment and a white ruffled petticoat slipped
around her feet. She adjusted it over her dress and pulled herself
with difficulty through. As she stood erect in the soiled, stained
petticoat, Caroline saw her knees, tremble under it, and she
drooped against the fence, white-cheeked.
"Don't faint," she said severely to Caroline.
With shaking hands she tied the petticoat under her dress again and
they crouched through the underbrush to the outer walk. Caroline
reached for her wheel and the two peered fearfully up and down the
empty road.
"I can't--I can't," the girl moaned, "my dress is so black--they can
see it from the hill. Oh, what shall I do? I thought I could, and I
can't!"
The measured trot of a pair of horses sounded on the road. An empty
station wagon came rapidly toward them; groom and driver regarded
them curiously.
The girl straightened herself and raised her hand with a pretty,
imperious gesture.
"One moment, please," she said, "but are you going to the village?"
"Yes, Miss," said the driver, "to the station. Was there anything--"
She opened a bag at her side and took out carelessly a small gold
piece.
"My little friend here," she said, in an even, low voice, "was
showing me this beautiful building and grounds and I utterly
neglected to note the time. I fear I have lost my train, if we try
to walk back. If you could take us--"
"Certainly, Miss," said the driver. "William, put the young lady's
wheel on top. Was it the express you wanted, Miss? I'm to meet
it--the 2.08. Party from Boston."
They climbed in, the bicycle settled noisily into the trunk-rack on
top, and the big chestnuts pounded down the hill.
Joan stared straight before her. Presently she drew a pair of black
gloves from her little bag and put them on. Her lips moved steadily,
and Caroline knew from her closed eyes that she was praying.
They drew into the neat station as the train Snorted itself in. The
girl handed the gold piece to the driver.
"Divide it, please," she said calmly. "I am much obliged."
She walked to the drawing-room car, and signaled the black porter.
"I shall be safe to-night," she said softly, to the child by her
side, "and I won't tell you my name, because it will not be mine
much longer. But what is yours? Tell me quick!"
"All _aboard_! Next stop One Hund' Twent'-_fifth_ Street!" some one
called, hoarsely.
Caroline looked dazed. She tried to speak sensibly, but her tongue
played tricks with her, and the tension of her feelings was too much
for her. As the girl paused a second on the platform, and the train
shuddered for its start, Caroline called above the escaping steam:
"I'm Mary Queen of Scots--I am! I am!"
The white face of Joan of Arc broke into a wavering smile.
"You dear little idiot," she called, chokingly, "I'll find you out
yet! You'll see! Good-by--God bless your Majesty."
And while she might, Caroline ran beside the window, waving her hand
at that tearful, happy face.
VIII
A WATCH IN THE NIGHT
The village clock boomed out the first strokes of eleven. Solemn and
mellow, the waves of sound flowed over the sleeping streets; the
aftertones vibrated plaintively. Caroline stirred restlessly,
tossing off the sheet and muttering in her dreams. The tears had
dried on her hot cheeks; her brows were still knitted.
"Four! Five! Six!" the big bell tolled.
Caroline sat up in bed and dropped her bare, pink legs over the
edge. Her eyes were open now, but set in a fixed, unseeing stare.
"Seven! Eight!"
She fumbled with her toes for her leather barefoot sandals and
slipped her feet under the ankle straps.
"Nine! Ten!" moaned the bell.
She moved forward, vaguely, in the broad path of moonlight that
poured through the wide-open window, and ran her hands like a blind
girl over the warm sill, lifting her knee to its level.
"Eleven!"
Before the murmuring aftertones had lost themselves in the night,
Caroline was out of the window. She stole lightly along the tin
roof, warm yet with the first intense heat of June, dropped easily
to the level of the kitchen-ell, and, slipping down onto the massive
trunk of the old wistaria, fitted accustomed feet into its curled
niches and clambered down among the warm, fragrant clusters. Steeped
in the full moon, it sent out its cloying perfume like a visible
cloud; her white nightgown glistened ghostlike through the leaves.
She paused a moment in the shadow of the vine, and a great tawny
cat, his orange markings distinct in the moonlight, stole to her,
brushing against her bare ankles caressingly. As he curled and
uncurled his soft tail about her little feet, a sudden impulse
caught her, and she started swiftly through the wide backyard,
bending to a broken gap in the privet hedge, cutting diagonally
across the neighboring grounds, and emerging into a pleasant
country road on the outskirts of the little village, with sleeping
houses sprinkled along its length, well back, mostly, from its edge,
showing here and there a light.
She struck into the soft, dusty road at a quick, swinging pace, the
fruit of much walking, and the big yellow cat pattered at her side.
The night was almost windless; sweet, nameless odors poured up from
the heated summer soil; the shadows of the grasses were outlined
like Japanese pictures on the white roadway. Except for the child
and the cat, no living being moved, as far as the eye could see;
only the burdocks and mulleins swayed almost imperceptibly with
breezes so delicate that the leaf tips of the trees could not feel
them.
A great white moth, blundering against a heavy thistle head, tumbled
against Caroline's elbow and fluttered clumsily into her face. She
started, blinked, drew a long breath, and woke with a frightened
gasp. Before her stretched the pale, curving road; above her the
spangled sky throbbed and glittered; the earth, drenched in
moonlight, beautiful as all lovely creatures caught sleeping,
breathed softly into her face and with every breath put courage into
her heart.
She looked down and saw the yellow cat, stopping, with one lifted
paw, his green, lamplike eyes fixed unwaveringly on hers.
"Why, it's you, Red Rufus!" she whispered, "when did we come here? I
don't remember--"
A bat whirred by: the cat pricked his ears.
"I don't believe we're here at all, Red Rufus," she whispered again.
"We're just dreaming--at least, I am. I s'pose you're only in my
dream. If I was really here, I'd be frightened to death, prob'ly,
but if it's just a dream, I think it's lovely. Let's go on. I never
had a dream like this--it seems so real, doesn't it, Rufus?"
They went on aimlessly up the road. Quaint little night sounds began
now to make themselves heard: now and then a drowsy twitter from the
sleeping nests, now and then a distant owl hoot. A sudden gust of
honeysuckle, so strong that it was like a friendly, fragrant body
flung against her, halted her for a moment, and while she paused,
sniffing ecstatically, the low murmur of voices caught her ear.
The honeysuckle ran riot over an old stone wall, followed an arching
gateway at the foot of a winding path that led to a lighted house on
a knoll above, and flung screening tendrils over an entwined pair
that paused just inside the gate. The girl's white, loose sleeves
fell back from her round arms as she flung them up about her tall
lover's neck; his dark head bent low over hers, their lips met, and
they hung entranced in the bowery archway.
For a moment Caroline watched them with frank curiosity. Then
something woke and stirred in her, faint and vague, but alive now,
and she turned away her eyes, blushing hot in the cool moonlight.
The soft tones of their good-night died into broken whispers; parted
from his white lady, he started on for a few, irresolute steps, then
flung about suddenly and walked back toward the house, after a low,
happy protest. The cooing of some drowsy pigeons in the stable on
the other side of the road carried on the lovers' language long
after they were out of earshot, and confused itself with them in
Caroline's mind.