THE NEW MASTER
Alone in her state-room all these hours, Josephine St. Auban had
abundant time to reflect upon the singular nature of her situation.
At first, and very naturally, she was disposed to seek the
protection of the boat's officers, but a second thought convinced
her of the unwisdom of that course. As to this stranger, this
stalwart man of the West, she had appealed to him and he had made
no sign. She had no friend, no counselor. A feeling of
inefficiency, of smallness and helplessness, swept over her. For
the first time in her life she found herself hard and fast in the
grasp of events over which she had absolutely no control. She was
prisoner to her own good fame. She dared not declare herself. She
dared not cry out for help. None would believe her story. She
herself did not fully understand all the circumstances connected
with her unlawful banishment from the capital of the proudest and
freest republic of the world.
[Illustration: Josephine St. Auban had abundant time to reflect]
It was while still in this frame of mind that, on the day
following, there came to her a messenger bearing the card of
Warville Dunwody. She gazed at it for some moments undecided,
debating. She tried to reason. Had she trusted rather to woman's
vaticination, matters had been better for her. What she actually
did was to summon Jeanne to complete some hurried toilet
preparations. Then she set out to meet the sender of the card.
There was no occupant of the saloon excepting one, who rose as she
entered, hesitating. On the instant a sudden change swept over
Dunwody's face. Was it at first assuredness it had borne? "I am
glad that you have thus honored me," he said simply.
"It is much pleasanter to move about as one may," she answered.
"But where is our friend, Captain Carlisle, this morning? Is he
ill, or simply unmindful of one so unimportant as myself? I have
not heard from him."
"He left the boat last night," answered Dunwody gravely, his eyes
fixed on her face.
"Left the boat--he is gone? Why, he sent me no word, and I
thought--at least, he said--"
"He has, Madam, like Cataline, evaded, broken forth, absconded.
But as to leaving word for you, he was not quite so heartless as
all that. I have a message for you."
With a word craving permission she opened the message. It was
brief.
"MY DEAR COUNTESS:"
"You will be glad to know that so far as your late
jailer is concerned, your captivity is at an end. I am
leaving the boat at the next stop, and since that falls in
the night-time, I will not disturb you. Senator
Dunwody has kindly consented to act as your guardian in
my stead, and from your message to him, I judge that
in any case you would prefer his care to mine."
"My dear Countess, they are not merely idle words
when I say to you that you have won my respect and
admiration. Be on your guard, and allow me to
advise you in the interest of yourself and others to
remain--silent."
"YOUR OBLIGED AND DUTIFUL SERV'T--"
No reasons were urged, no apologies offered. Obviously, the
signature was in such circumstances better omitted.
The effect of this note, strange to say, was to fill its recipient not
with satisfaction, not even with surprise, but with sudden horror.
She felt abandoned, forsaken, not pausing to reflect that now she had
only what she had demanded of her late companion,--guardian, she now
hastily called him, and not jailer. Unconsciously she half-arose,
would have left the room. Her soul was filled with an instinctive,
unformulated dread.
As to Dunwody himself, ruthless and arrogant as was his nature, he
bore no trace of imperiousness now. The silent lips and high color
of the face before him he did not interpret to mean terror, but
contempt. In the fortunes of chance he had won her. In the game
of war she was his prisoner. Yet no ancient warrior of old, rude,
armored, beweaponed, unrelenting, ever stood more abashed before
some high-headed woman captive. He had won--what? Nothing, as he
knew very well, beyond the opportunity to fight further for her,
and under a far harder handicap, a handicap which he had foolishly
imposed on himself. This woman, seen face to face, yes, she was
beautiful, desirable, covetable. But she was not the sort of woman
he had supposed her. It was Carlisle, after all, who had won in
the game!
For two moments he debated many things in his mind. Did not women
of old sometimes relent? He asked himself over and over again the
same questions, pleaded to himself the same arguments. After all,
he reasoned, this was only a woman. Eventually she must yield to
one sort of treatment or the other. He had not reflected that,
though the ages in some ways have stood still, in others they have
gone forward. In bodily presence woman has not much changed, this
age with that. The canons of art remain the same, the ideals of art
are the same. These and those lines, gracious, compelling,--this
and that color, enchanting, alluring, so much white flesh, thus much
crown of tresses--they have for ages served to rob men of reason.
They have not changed. What this man could not realize was that
there may be changes not of color and of curve.
Not so long as all this they gazed at each other, measured, took
ground, gaging each the adversary opposite.
"Do not go!" he almost commanded. She was half way to the door.
"Why not, sir?" She wheeled on him fiercely.
"Because,--at least, you would not be so cruel--"
"I thank you, but I am leaving the boat at the first opportunity.
It is impossible for us to continue an acquaintance formed thus
irregularly."
"On the contrary, my dear!" The ring in his voice terrified her,
but his terms angered her yet more.
"I do not in the least understand you, sir! I am accustomed to do
quite as I like. And you may address me as the Countess St. Auban."
"Why should we talk of this?" he retorted. "Why talk to me of
countesses? To me you are something better as you stand,--the most
beautiful girl, the most splendid human being, I ever saw in all my
life. If you are doing quite as you like, why should you ask me to
come to your aid? And why will you not now accept my aid when it
is offered? The relations under which you have been traveling with
this other gentleman were not quite clear to me, but such as they
were--"
"Do you lack courage, sir, to say that he has quit-claimed me to
you? Am I still a prisoner? Are you to be my new jailer? By what
right, then?"
Dunwody had not gathered all the story of this woman and her
earlier guardian; more than she herself could guess what had been
Carlisle's motive or plan in leaving her to her own devices. That
she was the victim simply of a daring kidnapping could, not have
occurred to him. What then did she mean by talking of prisoners?
"After all, you were not that amanuensis which you yourself claimed
to be?"
"I was not. Of course I was not. I am the Countess St. Auban. It
is not necessary for me to serve any man, in my capacity."
"Why, then, did you say you were?"
"Because I thought I was still to be in that gentleman's charge. I
did not know he was about to desert me. I preferred his company to
worse."
"He has only given you your own wish--I hope it is still your wish.
I hope it is not 'worse.'"
"I beg you to forget that little note from me. I was only
frightened at the thought of a long journey which I did not know
then might end so soon. I only fancied I was in need of help."
"Tell me one thing," he began irrelevantly. "You are countess, as
you say. Who is your husband, and where is he?"
"You have no right to ask. I must leave you now. Ah! If indeed I
had a protector here--some man of that country where men fight--"
"I have said that you shall not leave."
"But this passes belief. It is insult, it is simple outrage! I am
alone--I come to you asking protection in the name of a man's
chivalry,--an American's. This is what I receive! You declare
yourself to be my new jailer. What is being done with me? I never
saw Captain Carlisle until three days ago. And you have met me
once, before this moment! And you are a Southerner; and, they tell
me--"
"That once was enough."
"Your pardon, sir! Which way does the conversation tend?"
"To one end only," he resumed sullenly, desperately. "You shall
not leave. If you did, I should only follow you."
"How excellent, to be taken by one brigand, handed over to another
brigand, and threatened with perpetual attendance of the latter!
Oh, excellent indeed! Admirable country!"
"You despise the offer of one who would be a respectful servitor."
She mocked at him. "How strange a thing is man! That is the first
argument he makes to a woman, the first promise he makes. Yet at
once he forgets the argument and forgets the promise. What you
desire is to be not my servant, but my master, I should say. You
fancy you are my master? Well, then, the situation seems to me not
without its amusing features. I am a prisoner, I am set free. I
am sought to be again put in durance, under duress, by a man who
claims to be my humble servitor--who also claims to be a gentleman!
It is most noble of you! I do not, however, comprehend."
The dull flush on his face showed at least no weakening on his own
part. "Come now!" he exclaimed impatiently, "let us arrive at the
issue."
"And what honorable enterprise is it which you propose?"
"To make it short, Madam, I propose to take you home with me. Now
you have heard it." He spoke in a desperate, icy calm.
[Illustration: I propose to take you home with me.]
"You flatter me! But how, if I may ask, do you intend to
accomplish all that?"
"I have not thought so far along. In peace, if you please: it
would be much better."
"But, my God!" she exclaimed, pausing in her walk up and down.
"You speak as though you meant these things! Could it be there,
out there--beyond the great river--yes, my other jailer told me
that we were not to stop this side! I suppose you are my new
keeper, then, and not my friend? Duty again, and not chivalry! Is
that what you mean?"
"I hardly know what I mean," he answered miserably. "I like all
this no better than yourself. But let us begin with what is
certain. Each hour, each day I may be able to hold you here is
that much gained. I can't let you go."
"Most excellent! You begin well. But I shall not submit to such
insults longer. Such treatment is new to me. It shall not go
unrevenged. Nor shall it continue now."
"It is too late!" he broke in. "I know how much I have taken leave
of my own self-respect, but there are times when one takes leave of
everything--cares for nothing that lies between him and one
purpose. It would do no good for you to claim the protection of
others--even if I had to fight all the boat's officers, I might
win. But in that case you could only lose. You would have to
explain who you are, why you are here. You would not be believed."
"What I wish to know is only one thing," she rejoined. "Not
offering terms, I want to know what is the alternative you have
proposed. Let us see if we can not reason calmly over this
matter." She also was suddenly cold and pale. The hand of a swift
terror was upon her now.
"You ask me to reason, and I answer I have no reason left. You ask
me what I propose, ask what we should do, and I answer I do not
know. But also I know that if you left me, I should never see you
again."
"But what difference, then? You are, I presume, only my new
constable."
"There could be no social chance for me--I've ruined that. You
would exact defeat of me as surely as you met me, there."
"Social chance?--Social--! Well, the _bon Dieu_! And here you
exact defeat for yourself. But what defeat? Come, your speech
sounds more personal than professional. What can you possibly
think yourself to be, but my new jailer?"
"I'm not so sure. Look, each turn of the wheels takes us farther
away from the places where society goes on in its own grooves. Out
here we manage the world in our own ways."
Unconsciously the eyes of both of them turned down the river, along
which the boat now steadily continued its course. He went on
somberly.
"Out there," he said, pointing toward the west, "out beyond the big
river, there's a place where the wilderness sweeps. Out there the
law is that of the old times. It is far away."
"How dare you speak in such way to me?" she half whispered, low and
tense. "And you claim manhood!"
"No," he said, sighing. "I--claim nothing. I deny nothing. I
assert nothing--except that I'm going to be not your Jailer, but
your keeper. Yes, I'm going to hold you, keep you! You shall not
get away. Why," he added, pacing apart for a moment. "I have no
shame left. I've planned very little. I thought I might even ask
you to be a guest at my own plantation. My place is out on the
edge of the world, thirty miles back from the river. An amanuensis
is as reasonable there as on this boat, in the company of a
frontier army man."
"That, then, is your robber castle, I suppose."
"I rule there, Madam," he said simply.
"Over thrall and guest?"
"Over all who come there, Madam."
"I've heard of the time," she went on icily, "when this country was
younger, how the _seigneurs_ who held right under the old French
kings claimed the law of the high, low and middle justice. Life,
death, honor, all lay in their hands--in the hands of individuals.
But I thought those times past. I thought that this river was
different from the St. Lawrence. I thought that this was a
republic, and inhabited by men. I thought the South had
gentlemen--"
"You taunt me, my dear lady, my dear girl. But be not so sure that
times have changed. Out beyond, there, where we are going, I could
put you a mile back from the river, and you would find yourself in
a wilderness the most pathless in the world to-day, worse than the
St. Lawrence ever knew at any time, more lawless, more beyond the
reach of any law. These lands out here are wild; yes, and they
breed wild men. They have been the home of others besides myself,
lawless, restless under any restraint. If you come to wildernesses,
and if you come to the law of the individual, I say we're only just
approaching that sort of thing right now, and here."
She looked at him, some inarticulate sort of sound in her throat,
fully frightened now, seeing how mistaken she had been. He went on:
"Out there in the big valleys beyond the river, you would indeed
disappear. No man could guess what had become of you. You would
never be found again. And without any doubt or question, Madam, if
you force me to it, you shall have your answer in that way. I'm
not a boy to be fooled with, to be denied. I rule out there, over
free and thrall. There's where you're going. Your other jailer
told you the truth!"
She looked at him slowly and fully now, the color fading from her
face. Her soul had touched the steel in his own soul. She knew
that, once aroused, this man would hesitate at nothing. Crowded
beyond his limit, there was no measure he would not employ. Other
means must be employed with such a nature as his. She temporized.
"Listen. You are a man of family and traditions,--my late guardian
told me. You have been chosen to a position of trust, you are one
of the lawmakers of your own state. Do you ever stop to reflect
what you are doing, how you are abandoning yourself, your own
traditions, your own duties, when you speak as you have been
speaking to me? I had committed no crime. I am held by no process
of law. You take risks."
"I know. I have thrown it all away in the balance. If these
things were known, I would be ruined." He spoke dully and evenly,
indifferently.
"I lack many things, Madam," he resumed at length. "I do not lack
honesty even with myself, and I do not lie even to a woman. That's
the trouble. I have not lied to you. Come now, let us understand.
I suppose it's because I've been alone so much. Civilization does
not trouble us much back there. These are my people--they love
me--I hold them in my hand so long as I live up to their standards.
Maybe I've thrown them away, right now,--my people."
"You are not living up to your standards."
"No, but I can not make you understand me. I can not make you
understand that the great thing of life isn't the foolish ambition
of a man to get into a state legislature, to make laws, to see them
enforced. It isn't the original purpose of man to get on in
politics or business, or social regard. Man is made to love some
woman. Woman is made to be loved by some man. That's life. It's
all of it. I know there's nothing else."
"I have heard my share of such talk, perhaps, in this or that
corner of the world," she answered, with scorn. "Excellent, for
you to force it upon a woman who is helpless!"
"Talk doesn't help, but deeds will. You're going along with me. I
would swear you belonged to me, if need be. As, by the Almighty
God! I intend you some day shall. All the officers of the law are
sworn to help a man claim what is his own, this side or that of the
slave line. All the stars in the sky are sworn to help a man who
feels what I feel. Don't tempt me, don't try to drive me--it will
never do. I'll be harder to handle than the man who lost you to me
last evening in a game of cards,--and who went away last night and
left you--to me."
As she gazed at him she saw his hands clenched, his mouth
twitching. "You would do that, even--" she began. "I have never
known men grew thus unscrupulous. A game--a game at cards! And
I--was lost--I!--I! And also won? What can you mean? Am I then
indeed a slave, a chattel? Ah, indeed, now am I lost! My God, and
I have no country, no kin, no God, to avenge me!"
A sort of sob caught in his throat. "I was wrong!" he cried
suddenly. "I always say the wrong word, do the wrong thing, take
the wrong way. But--don't you remember about Martin Luther? He
said he couldn't help himself. 'Here stand I, I can not otherwise,
God help me!' That's just the way with me--you blame me, but I
tell you I can not otherwise. And I've told the truth. I've made
wreck of everything right now. You ask me to make plans; and I
tell you I can not. I would take you off the boat by force rather
than see you go away from me. This thing is not yet worked out to
the end. I'm not yet done. That's all I know. You'll have to go
along with me."
A sudden revulsion swept over him. He trembled as he stood, and
reached out a hand.
"Give me a chance!" he broke out, sobered now. "It was a new
thing, this feeling. Come, you sent for me--you asked me--that
other man placed me in his stead as your guardian. He didn't know
I would act in this way, that's true. I own I've been brutal. I
know I've forgotten everything, but it came over me all at once,
something new. Why, look at us two together--what could stop us?
Always I've lacked something: I did not know what. Now I know.
Give me my chance. Let me try again!"
In this strange, strained position, she caught, in spite of
herself, some sort of genuine note underneath the frankness of his
ungovernable passion. For once, she was in a situation where she
could neither fathom motives nor arrange remedies. She stood in
sheer terror, half fascinated in spite of all.
They both were silent for a while, but at length she resumed, not
so ungently: "Then let there be this contract between us, sir.
Neither of us shall make any further scene. We'll temporize, since
we can do no better. I gave parole once. I'll not give it again,
but I'll go a little farther on westward, until I decide what to
do."
Impulsively he held out his hand to her, his mouth twitching with
emotion, some sort of strange impulse shining in his eyes,
"Be my enemy, even," he said, "only, do not leave me. I'll not let
you go."