THE ENEMY
Leaning against the pillar of the gallery, Dunwody watched them
all, old friends, late foes, depart. Josephine St. Auban stood not
far away. He turned to her, and her gaze fell upon his face, now
haggard and gaunt. He had ridden sixty miles since the previous
sun, half the distance wounded as he was; had been without sleep
for thirty-six hours, without food for almost as long, and now was
suffering with an aggravated wound.
"You are ill," she said to him impulsively. "You're badly hurt."
"Aren't you glad to see me suffer?" he asked grimly.
"I am not glad to see any one suffer."
"Well, never mind about me. But now, you, yourself. Didn't I tell
you to go to your room and rest?"
She was pale, the corners of her mouth were drawn, her eyes were
duller. Neither had she slept. She also suffered, even now. Yet
her courage matched his own. She smiled.
"It makes me crawl, all the way through, to see a woman hurt that
way. Why did you try to climb out of that window? You weren't
walking in your sleep."
"I was trying to get away from you. I thought you were coming. I
thought I heard you--at the door." She looked him full in the face,
searching it for sign of guilt, of confusion. "Was it not enough?"
she added.
The frown on his face only deepened. "That was not true," said he.
"I never came to your door. It was Sally you heard. I'll
confess--I sent her, to get away those--those clothes you saw. I
didn't want--you to see them."
"I believe you!" she said, low, as if she spoke to herself. "Yes,
I understand now."
"Why don't you say I'm lying to you?"
"Because you are not lying. Because you tell me the truth, and I
know it. I was mistaken."
"How do you know? Why forgive me? I don't want you to forgive me.
You don't understand the madness--"
"What hope could there be in a particular madness such as that?"
He could see her eyes turned on him steadily. He turned away,
sighing.
"I am degraded for ever."
"Tell me," she flashed out upon him suddenly; "what did you think
then of _me_, there on the boat? How did you dare--"
"I don't think I had any conclusion--I only wanted you. I just
couldn't think of your going away, that was all. I'd never seen a
woman like you, I'll never hope to see another your equal in all my
life. And you sent for me, told me to come, said you needed help.
I didn't know what you were. But I didn't care what you were,
either. I don't care now. Your past might be what you liked, you
might be what you are not, and it would make no difference to me.
I wanted you. I'll never in all my life cease to want you. Who
you are or what you are is nothing to me."
[Illustration: "I'll never in all my life cease to want you."]
"But what is the right thing to do now?" he resumed, after a time.
"Parole? Hostage? I don't need to tell you I'm the prisoner now.
My future, my character, are absolutely in your hands. The fact
that I have insulted a woman can be proved. It is with you, what
revenge you will take. As a lawyer, I point out to you that the
courts are open. You easily can obtain redress there against
Warville Dunwody. And your relatives or friends will of course
hold me accountable."
"Then you fear me?"
"No. What comes, comes. I am afraid of no one in the world but my
own self. I fear only the dread of facing life--of looking about
me here, in my own home, and not seeing, not hearing you.
"But you haven't told me what you wish," he added; raising his eyes
at last; "nor what you intend to do. Tell me, when will your
lawyers call on me?"
"Never at all," she answered at last.
"What do you mean?" he demanded. "To set me quit so easily? Oh,
no."
"Never fear. You shall pay me ransom, and heavily."
"Ransom? Parole? Hostages? How do you mean?"
"What ransom you pay me must be out of yourself, out of your own
character. I shall exact it a hundredfold, in shame, in regret, of
you. Do you hold any of that ready to pay your debtor?"
He shook his head. "No, I'll never regret. But you don't know me,
do you? My fortune is adequate."
"So is mine," she rejoined. "I could perhaps buy some of your
property, if it were for sale. But I want more than money of you."
"Who are you?" demanded he suddenly, reverting to the old puzzle
regarding her.
A sadness came upon her averted face. "Only a bit of flotsam on
the human wave. How small we all are, any of us! And there's so
much to be done!"
Half stumbling, he shifted his position, leaning his weight against
the tall pillar of the gallery. He could see her plainly. In the
light from the hall half her features were now thrown into
Rembrandt lighting. The roll of dark hair framed her face,
highbred, aristocratic, yet wholly human and sweet. Gravity sat on
all her features; a woman for thought, said they. A woman for
dreams; so declared the fineness of brow and temple and cheek and
chin, the hand--which, lifted now for an instant, lingered at her
throat. But a woman for love! so said every throb of the pulse of
the man regarding her. And now, most of all, pity of her just
because she was woman was the thought first in his soul. Already
he was beginning to pay, and as she had said!
"You don't answer me," said he, at length, gently. "I can imagine
your ambitions; but I don't learn enough of _you_."
"No," said she, with a deep breath. "As you said, we part, each
with secrets untold. To you, I am of no consequence. Very well.
I was born, no matter where, but free and equal to yourself, I
fancy. I came here in the pursuit of life and liberty, and of the
days of my remaining unhappiness. I suppose this must be your
answer."
"You speak, at least, as though you had studied life--and history."
"I have lived. And I have seen some history made--for a cause.
Sir, a great cause. Men will fight for that again, here, on this
soil, not under man-made laws, but under a higher and greater law.
You love my body. You do not love my mind. I love them, both.
Yes, I am student of the law. Humanity! Is it not larger than we?
Is this narrow, selfish life of yours all you can see--of life--of
this law?"
"Yes," said Dunwody, grinning painfully. "I reckon maybe it was
one of those 'higher law' abolitionists that shot me!"
"Shot? What do you mean?" Forgetting philosophy, she turned
swiftly. Yet even as she spoke she now for the first time caught
sight of the dark rimmed rent in his trousers leg, noted the uneasy
fashion in which he held his weight.
"No one told me you were hurt--I thought you only tired, or perhaps
bruised by some accident--when you fell, in there."
"No; shot," he replied. "Shot right in here, through the edge of
the bone. When I tripped and fell, there in the hall, I broke the
bone short off--it was only nicked at first."
"And you have been standing here, talking to me, with _that_?" She
stepped to him swiftly and placed a hand under his arm. "You must
go in. Come. Can you walk?"
Through his nerves, racked as they were, there swept a flood of
joy, more sweet than that of any drug. He could see the blown hair
about her ears, see the round of her neck, the curve of her body as
she bent to aid him, putting her free arm under his, forgetful of
everything in her woman's wish to allay suffering, to brood, to
protect, to increase life. They passed through the door toward the
foot of the stairs. Here she turned to him.
"The pain is very great?" she inquired.
"The pain at thinking of your going away is very great," he
answered. One hand on the newel post, he bent down, his head on
his arm for an instant. "Oh, you're making me _pay_!" he groaned.
But the next moment he turned on her defiantly. "I'll not learn!
If this was the only way for me to meet you, then I'll not regret a
single thing I've done. I'll not! I'll not! I'll not pay! It
all comes back to me, just what I said before. What couldn't we
do, _together_?--I need you--I need you!"
"You must go to your room. You've been standing for an hour."
"But I've been with you. I can't hope for another hour like this.
You'll be leaving me. But I'd live the hour over again--in hell
with you!"
"I told you, when we all gave parole, that I would exact my price
of you, in regret, in remorse."
"You shall not have it in regret, I'll not regret. But I'm paying!
See, I'm telling you you may go, that you must go--away from me."