THE NIGHT
That night, Josephine St. Auban did not sleep. For hours she
tossed about, listening. Infrequently, sounds came to her ears.
Through the window came now and again faint notes of night-faring
birds, south bound on their autumnal migration. Once in a while a
distant step resounded in the great building, or again there came
the distant voices of the negroes singing in their quarters beyond.
The house had ceased its daily activities. The servants had left
it. Who occupied it now? Was she alone? Was there one other?
In apprehension which comes to the senses in the dark watches of
the night--impressions, conclusions, based upon no actual or
recognized action of the physical senses--Josephine rose, passed to
the window and looked out. The moonlight lay upon the lawn like a
broad silver blanket. Faint stars were twinkling in the clear sky
overhead. The night brooded her planets, hovering the world, so
that 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 faint
light, as though from one of the barred windows below. The house
was not quite asleep. She stilled her breath as she might, stilled
her heart as she might, lest its beating should be heard. What was
about 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 of
the window. Catching at the coarse ivy vine which climbed up the
old wall of the house, she saw that it ascended past her window to
the very cornice where the white pillars joined the roof. The
pillars themselves, vast and smooth, would have been useless even
could she have reached them. Below, a slender lattice or ladder
had been erected to the height of one story, to give the ivy its
support. A strong and active person might by mere possibility
reach this frail support if the ivy itself proved strong enough to
hold under the strain. She clutched at it desperately. It seemed
to her that although the smaller tendrils loosened, the greater
arms held firm.
She stepped back into the room, listened, straining all her soul in
a demand for certitude. As yet she had only dreaded to hear a
sound, had not indeed done so. Now at last there came a
footfall--was it true? It seemed not heavy enough for a man's
step, but a man on secret errand might tread light. She flung
herself upon the bed, her hands clasped, her lips moving in
supplication.
But now it came again, that was it--it was a footfall. It
approached along the hall, paused at the barricaded door. It was
there outside, stopping. She heard a breath drawn. The knob was
tried, 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 must
escape from this place, where came one to claim a property, not a
woman; where a woman faced use, not wooing. God! And there was no
weapon, to assure God's vengeance now, here, at once.
Half-clad as she was, she ran to the window, and unhesitatingly let
herself out over the sill, clutching at the ivy as she did so. She
feared not at all what now was before her. It is doubtful whether
those who spring from a burning building dread the fall--they dread
only that which is behind them.
As she now half-slid from the window, she grasped wildly at the
screen of ivy, and as fate would have it caught one of its greater
branches. It held fast, and she swung free from the sill, which
now she could never again regain. She clung desperately, blindly,
swung out; then felt the roots of the ivy above her rip free, one
after another, far up, almost to the cornice. Its whole thin
ladder broke free from the wall. She was flung into space. Almost
at that instant, her foot touched the light lattice of the lower
story. The ivy had crawled up the wall face and followed the
cornice up and over somewhere, over the edge of the eaves, finding
some sort of holding ground. It served to support her weight at
least until she felt the ladder underfoot. At this in turn she
clutched as she dropped lower, but frail and rotten as it was, it
supported her but slightly. The next instant she felt, herself
falling.
[Illustration: She grasped wildly at the screen of ivy.]
She dropped out and down, struck heavily, and had but consciousness
enough left to half-rise. Before her eyes shone scores of little
pointed lights. Then her senses passed away, and all went sweetly,
smoothly and soothingly black about her....After ages, there came
faint sounds of running feet. There was a sort of struggle of some
sort, it seemed, in her first returning consciousness. Her first
distinct feeling was one of wonder that Dunwody himself should be
the first to bend over her, and that on his face there should seem
surprise, regret, grief. How could he feign such things? She
pushed 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 in
his arms. As he did so he felt her wince. Her arm dropped
loosely. "Good God! It is broken!" he cried. "Oh, why did you do
this? Why did you? You poor girl, you poor girl! And it was all
my fault--my fault!" Then suddenly, "Sally!--Eleazar!" he cried.
They came running now from all sides. Between them they carried
Josephine back to her room and placed her once more upon her couch.
"Saddle up, Eleazar," commanded Dunwody. "Get a
doctor--Jamieson--from St. Genevieve as fast as you can. The
lady'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 go
for the doc'?"
"Could you do that?" demanded Dunwody.
"Somehow, yes, me," answered Eleazar. Dunwody nodded. Without
further speech the old man rolled up his sleeves and addressed
himself to his task. Not without skill, he approached the broken
ends of the ulna, which was fractured above the wrist. Having done
this without much difficulty he called out for splints, and when
some pieces of thin wood were brought him he had them shaped to his
needs, adjusted about them his bandage and made all fast. His
patient made no sound of suffering. She only panted, like a
frightened bird held in the hand, although the sobbing of Jeanne
filled the room. The forehead of Dunwody was beaded. He said
nothing, not even when they had finished all they now could do to
make her comfortable.
"_Au revoir_, Mademoiselle," said Eleazar, at length. "I go now
for 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 only
tightened.
"May I not have Jeanne?" she wailed again.
"Yes, you shall have Jeanne--you shall have anything you want," he
answered at length, quietly. "Only get well. Forgive me all this
if you can."
Josephine's lips trembled. "May I go?" she demanded of him.
There was a strange gentleness in his voice. "You're hurt. It
would 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 seemed
some change about him. At length, heavily, his head sunk, he left
the room.
Jeanne herself, sobbing, tearful, withal overjoyed, rejoined her
mistress. The two embraced as was best possible. As her senses
cleared, a sort of relief came over Josephine. Now, she began to
reason, for the time she was shielded by this infirmity; comforted
also by the presence of one as weak and helpless as herself.
"It's an ill wind, Jeanne, which blows no one good," she smiled
bravely. "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. We
must 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 up
proofs of his solicitousness. At last there came the sound of
hoofs 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. You
understand me, and understand the rules of your own profession.
Ask no questions here. Your patient has broken an arm--there has
been an accident. That's all you need to know, I think. Your job
is to get her well, as soon as you can. You're a doctor, not a
lawyer; 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, gray
and lean, consumed in his time by fevers and chills, in the
treatment of which he was perhaps more skilful than in surgery. He
approached the couch not unkindly and stood in preliminary
professional 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 face
ever was more beautiful. Who was she? How came she here? In
spite of Dunwody's command many questions sprang to his own mind,
almost to his lips. Yet now he only gently took up the bandaged
arm.
"Pardon, my dear," he said quietly. "I must unwrap these bandages,
to see how well Eleazar has done his work--you know, these doctors
are 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 to
himself 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, my
dear."
"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. "I
ought to get back, my dear, because I have other patients, don't
you see, and it's a long ride. Why can't you let me go? You're
young and healthy as a wild deer. You're a perfectly splendid
girl. Why, you'll be out of this in a couple of weeks. How did
you happen to fall that way?"
[Illustration: Why can't you let me go?]
She nodded toward the window. "I fell out--there--I was
frightened."
"Yes, yes, of course--sleep walking, eh?"
Jamieson took snuff very vigorously. "Don't do it again. But
pshaw! If I were as young and strong as you are, I'd have my arm
broken twice a week, just for fun."
"Doctor, you're going!" she exclaimed. "But you must do something
for me--you must be my friend."
"Certainly, my dear, why not? But how can I help you? Dunwody's
pledged me to professional secrecy, you know." He grinned, "Not
that even Warv' Dunwody can run me very much."
He looked down at her, frowning, but at that moment turned to the
door as he heard Dunwody's step.
"How do you find the patient, Doctor?" asked Dunwody. Jamieson
moved a hand in cheerful gesture to his patient.
"Good-by, my dear. Just get well, now. I'm coming back, and then
we'll have a talk. Be good, now, and don't walk in your sleep any
more." He took Dunwody by the shoulder and led him out.
"I don't like this, Dunwody," he said, when they were out of
earshot of the room. "What's going on here? I'm your doctor, as we
both know; but I'm your friend, too. And we both know that I'm a
gentleman, and you ought to be. That's a lady there. She's in
trouble--she's scared e'en a'most to death. Why? Now listen. I
don't help in that sort of work, my boy. What's up here? I've
helped you before, and I've held your secrets; but I don't go into
the business of making any more secrets, d'ye see?"
"There aren't going to be any more, Jamieson," rejoined Dunwody
slowly. "I've got to keep hers. You needn't keep mine if you
don't feel like it. Get her well, that's all. This is no place
for her. As for me, as you know very well, there isn't any place
anywhere for me."
The old doctor sighed. "Brace up to it, my son. But play the game
fair. If it comes to a case of being kind to yourself or kind to a
woman, why, take a gamble, and try being kind to the woman. They
need 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, up
and down the gallery. Here presently he was approached by Jeanne,
the maid.
"Madame will speak to you!" announced that person loftily, and
turned away scornfully before he had time to reply. Eager,
surprised, he hastened up the stair and once more was at her
bedside. "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 put
back a fallen lock of dark hair. It was not care for her personal
appearance 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 find
there. 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 which
Sally 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 something
unexpected, inexplicable.
"What are they, sir? Whose were they? You told me once you were
alone here."
"I am," he answered. "Look. These are years old, years, years
old."
"What are they? Whose were they?" she reiterated.
"They are grave clothes," he said simply, and looked her in the
face. "Do you wish to know more?"
"Is she--was she--is she out there?" He knew she meant to ask, in
the graveyard of the family.
"Why do you wish to know?" he inquired quietly. "Is it because you
are a woman?"
"I am here because I am a woman. Well, then."
He looked at her, still silently, for a time. "She is dead," he
said 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 been
alone, 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 at
anything. How could I believe a word you said?" Then, on the
instant, much as she had cause to hate him, she half regretted her
speech. She saw a swift flush spring to his cheek under the thin
florid skin. He moved his lips, but did not speak. It was quite a
while before he made reply.
"That isn't just," he said quietly. "I wouldn't lie to you, not
even to get you. If that's the way you feel about me, I reckon
there couldn't, after all, be much between us. I've got all the
sins 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't
believe what I said?"
He held up the faded things before his eyes, turning them over
calmly, looking at them directly, unshrinkingly. She could not
read what was in his mind. Either he had courage or long
accustomedness, 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 room
which 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. I
don'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;" he
indicated these that he held in his hand. "Very well. What could
a mere liar, a coward, do to arrange an understanding between two
women so mysterious? You sprang from the earth, from the sea,
somewhere, I do not know how. You are the first woman for me. Is
it not enough?"
"I told Sally, it might have been a sister, your mother--"
"Dead long ago. Out there." He nodded to the window.
"Which?" she demanded.
He turned to her full now, and put out a hand, touching the
coverlid timidly almost. "You are ill," he said. "Your eyes
shine. I know. It's the fever. It isn't any time now for you to
talk. Besides, until you believe me, I can not talk with you any
more. I've been a little rough, maybe, I don't know; but as God
made this world, those trees, that sun yonder, I never said a word
to you yet that wasn't true. I've never wanted of you what wasn't
right, in my own creed. Sometimes we have to frame up a creed all
for ourselves, don't you know that? The world isn't always run on
the 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 going
to be nothing to me, in all the world, what right have you to ask
that of me? You would not have the right I've had in speaking to
you as I have. That was right. It was the right of love. I love
you! I don't care if all the world knows it. Let that girl there
hear if she likes. I've said, we belong together, and it seems
truth to me, the very truth; yes, and the very right itself. But
some 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 to
see 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 to
anything back of the curtain that's before us, before your life and
mine, why, I can't begin until something else has begun. It's not
right, unless that other is right, that I've told you. We belong
together in the one big way, first. That's the premise. That's
the one great thing. What difference about the rest, future or
past?"
"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 in
this house."
"Could it not have been a negro child?" He smiled at her, even as
he stood under inquisition.
She noticed that his face now seemed pale. The bones of the cheeks
stood out more now. He showed more gravity. Freed of his red
fighting flush, the, flame of passion gone out of his eyes, he
seemed more dignified, more of a man than had hitherto been
apparent to her.
"_Non_! _Non_!" cried out Jeanne, who had benefited unnoticed to
an extent undreamed hitherto in her experience in matter delicate
between man and maid. Her mistress raised a hand. She herself had
almost forgotten that Jeanne was in the room. "_Non_! _Non_!"
reiterated that young person. "Eet was no neegaire child, _pas de
tout, jamais de la vie_! I know those neegaire voice. It was a
voice white, Madame, Monsieur! Apparently it wept. Perhaps it had
hunger."
A sort of grim uncovering of his teeth was Dunwody's smile. He
made no comment. His face was whiter than before.
"Whose child was it?" demanded Josephine, motioning to the garments
he 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 not
be 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 the
world--except--under--" But now the flush came back into his face.
Confused, he turned, and gently laid down the faded silks across a
chair back, pulling it even with the one where lay Josephine's
richer 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_!"