For a few minutes after Mr. Kempwood left, I moved around looking at the
Napoleon relics, which, of course, are fascinating. Some people think
that Stephen Jumel bought these from Royalty itself, but others think
that they came to Madam Jumel and were by way of wiping out an
indebtedness. . . . Madam Jumel lived in Paris between 1819 and 1826,
and during those years the cousin of the Empress Josephine, who was
Madame la Comtesse de la Pagerie, made her home with the Jumels, and
moved with them from house to house as they did--seeming one of the
family--part of the establishment. I think she was not well off and had
to accept much from the Jumels for which she could make no return. So,
when Madam Jumel came back to America the Comtesse settled in
snuff-boxes, vases, shoe-buckles, lockets, and dear knows what all. And
I think Madam Jumel probably made a good bargain, for she was the sort
who could do that. It is said that the things that she brought to the
United States were valued at twenty-five thousand dollars, which
strengthens the fact that she must have got them without money output,
for at that time Stephen Jumel was in pecuniary straits and probably a
sum of that size would have been difficult for him to spare for such
purpose.
I loved looking at them and thinking of how the Empress Josephine might
have had this or that small box upon her dressing-table. And it always
gives me a curious feeling. I think old things are much more interesting
because of the people who have touched them, and I have often thought
that if you could touch one of these things and close your eyes you
might drift off into a dream that would take you into another time, but
I suppose that is silly.
After I had moved around for perhaps seven or eight minutes I heard a
small boy call to another. “Come out here!” he screamed in a high
soprano. “There’s a man biffed on the bean, and _mebbe_ he’s dead!”
And how people moved! I didn’t immediately. I couldn’t, for I remembered
my giving Mr. Kempwood the bracelet, and I _knew_ what had happened. I
felt sick, and swallowed hard, although I hadn’t any more spit than
usual. But that is the way that fright made me feel. . . . It was the
worst I had ever felt. . . . Somehow I hurried toward the door with the
crowd, and I then did the second cowardly thing which hurt one of my
friends who cares for the Mansion, I slipped off my bracelet and handed
it to him.
“Until I come back----” I whispered, after a gasp. He nodded and put it
in his pocket. I suppose he thought I was afraid of sneak thieves in the
mob which had collected. Then I pushed through the door. . . . All the
excitement was back of the Mansion where--Mr. Kempwood lay on the
ground--absolutely white and with his eyes closed, and people were
bending over him. I began to sob, although I didn’t cry any tears at
all.
“Let me through,” I said, as I tried to get past the circle which had
formed. “I know him. . . . I love him. . . . He has been good to me, and
he is my friend!” And then, somehow I had reached him and was on my
knees beside him, holding one of his cold, stiff hands between both of
mine.
“Is he dead?” I whispered to one of the policemen.
“Stunned,” he answered. For a moment I held his hand tightly pressed
against my heart, and then I began to sob harder than ever. . . . I
think the relief that comes with good news often makes you more upset
than the bad and hurts more. I don’t know why this is, but it is
so. . . . After a few moments a policeman asked me where he lived, and I
told him.
Someone offered a motor, and they began to lift Mr. Kempwood. Another
officer had detained some people and was questioning them. “Weren’t you
here?” he asked of a heavy old Italian woman who had been sitting on a
bench, but she only shook her head, blinked and muttered: “Non parlo la
Inglesa, parlo Italiano solamente!” And someone said she had been
sleeping, but the officer looked doubtful.
“Nevertheless,” he said, “we will take you along,” and I, in that
moment, saw that she did understand, for in her eyes was a sudden glint
of terror. It faded soon, and she replaced it with a vacant look, but--I
had caught the other. I think she had _seen_.
“She knows,” I began to say, when suddenly everything was forgotten,
for, from the Jumel Mansion came a cry which began loudly and faded to a
horrible silence, and the cry was for help. . . . Of course, the
officers ran, and somehow--the old Italian woman slipped away. I had
seen her the moment before, but when I turned back to look after Mr.
Kempwood, I found only the old blind man coming up the side steps to the
garden, shuffling, shambling up, with his cane feeling the way. He and I
and a doctor were alone.
“The old Italian woman has gone,” I said, “and I think she knew----”
“Don’t think so,” said the doctor as he moved Mr. Kempwood’s head and
felt the back of it. . . . “Couldn’t speak English; she was frightened.
When the men come back we can get someone to help us lift him in a
motor. He’s going to come around all right, but that was a blow. . . .
Right over the back of the head. You say he lives near here?” I nodded,
and then someone came back and helped us lift Mr. Kempwood in a motor.
“What happened in there?” I asked unsteadily, as we moved toward the
gate and down the steps.
“One of the guards knocked senseless,” he answered. “Over the back of
the head--like this. Busy day for excitement around here--there you are.
He _is_ a weight. . . . The guard isn’t hurt badly and nothing broken,
but the glass over the little case that held the bracelet is cracked.”
I nodded, feeling more sick and faint than ever, and then we turned
toward home. The doctor held up Mr. Kempwood, who was beginning to
groan, and I held his cane and said my prayers hard. . . . For I felt
that it was all my fault. And that is a terrible feeling. . . .
Somehow, I got through the next hour. I will never know how. . . . They
settled Mr. Kempwood, told me he wasn’t going to die and would truly be
all right, and I left. Of course, I went back to the Jumel Mansion. I
had to.
Here I found the sort of let down that you always find after excitement.
Everyone was limp and sat down whenever possible. One of the women told
me about it.
“I was in the back room,” she said. “Mr. Kelsey had just come in and
shown me your bracelet. He whispered to me: ‘Think I’ll put it up in the
cupboard, then if she comes back for it when I’m not here, you can give
it to her----’ I nodded, thinking that a safe place. . . . That high
cupboard, you know.”
I did. It had always fascinated me. It seemed big enough for a spy to
hide in, and I wondered whether one ever had hidden there. . . .
“He put it there,” she went on, “and then went back to the front room. I
went to the window and looked out at the crowd which had collected about
your friend Mr. Kempwood, and then I heard Mr. Kelsey’s cry. . . . I
suppose I was slow about reaching him; you know how your knees act and
how fright sometimes slows actions, for before I reached him I heard the
blow which I found afterward had been directed at the bracelet case, and
when I reached him he was not alone. . . . The old blind man who is
around here so much was with him. . . . He was standing in the doorway,
saying, ‘Someone is hurt. . . . Someone is hurt. Will no one come to
help?’ and there were tears on his cheeks. . . . It, added to all the
rest, was almost the last straw.”
“I saw him in the garden before I left,” I said, “and he was all right
then.”
“You couldn’t have,” she contradicted; “he was here the entire time.
Someone took him off and started him toward Amsterdam Avenue, and that
was ten minutes after the whole affair had quieted down.”
“But,” I said, and with some heat, “I _did_ see him. I _really_ did.”
“How could you,” she asked, “if he was here?”
I shook my head and gave it up. She was unconvinced, I could see.
Probably thinking that the excitement had made me incapable of realizing
what I had really seen or when I had seen it. But I had seen him in the
garden. I knew that!
“Well,” I said, “that isn’t vital. You said Mr. Kelsey isn’t badly
hurt?”
Again she assured me that he wasn’t, and I was greatly relieved. Then
she gave me the bracelet. I snapped it on, and left. As I went out, I
paused before the portrait, for it did seem as if what Madam Jumel saw
from that had an effect on events; made them--rather--horrible ones.
I couldn’t speak, for there were people in the hall, but I bared my arm
and thought very hard: “I have it back. If anyone must be hurt I must be
the person, for it is mine, and hereafter I will keep the
responsibility.” And after that--I turned toward home.
I stopped at Mr. Kempwood’s going up, and I found that he was conscious
and wanted to see me. I was very glad to see him. . . . I couldn’t speak
at all, but simply clung to his hand. However, he seemed to understand,
so it was all right.
“Sit down, Miss Natalie Randolph Page,” he ordered, and a servant slid a
chair near his bed, and I did. Then the man left, and we were alone.
“You know it was my fault,” I said, “because I gave you that bracelet.”
And then I had to stop speaking. That made me dreadfully ashamed. I had
to look down, too, because I didn’t want him to see that my eyes were
full of tears. . . . Once I never cried! . . . But the whole affair was
making me jumpy and unlike my old self. And Mr. Kempwood’s being hurt
had almost made me sick.
“Look here, Nat,” he said, turning over very carefully so that he faced
me, “we’re friends, aren’t we?”
I nodded, just as hard as I could, for emphasis. For various reasons, I
decided I would not speak just then. I was afraid my voice would behave
as Willy Jepson’s used to when he was fourteen. He himself never knew
whether it was going to sound like Hamlet, in the soliloquy, or Miss
Hooker when she saw a fuzzy caterpillar; and those ranges differ widely.
“Well, if we’re friends,” went on Mr. Kempwood, “whatever bothers you
must bother me. I want it to.”
I shook my head. “Oh _no_!” I said.
He nodded, then stopped (I think it hurt), and said, “Oh _yes_!” just
the way I said “Oh no!” I laughed a little, and then I wiped my eyes.
“When I thought you were dead----!” I said.
“Go on,” he ordered. “What happened? Did you mind it, or wonder whether
you had enough of your allowance left for a nice wreath? Honestly,
confess your thought!” All over again, I choked up. “My dear,” he said
suddenly (I think he saw how I felt), “I’m not going to leave life. I
love it too much. . . . Especially since we’ve been friends. Why, I’d
hang on to it now, with both hands, and I’d like to see anyone make me
let it go! Nat, I’m going to stick around, and by the time you’re twenty
we’ll be the best friends going. . . . I’ve planned my campaign; you’re
helpless.”
I smiled at him and explained how much he had helped me in New York, and
how different he had made it all seem. Of course, I told him that my
aunt, uncle, and cousins were kind to me (for they _are_), but I said
once in a while I was a little lonely, and when I thought of New York
without him I almost fainted. And I explained about how I had felt when
I thought he was dead. Especially about the swallowing so much when
there was nothing to swallow and no occasion for doing it. And I added
that lots of times in the dentist’s chair when I needed to swallow,
_dreadfully_, I couldn’t, and that it was strange how emotions affected
you. He listened attentively and agreed with me about the last.
Then he asked if I had been carrying his cane around all day, and I
looked and found I had! I was surprised! I must have taken it to the
Jumel Mansion, back, and even up to aunt’s. I clung to it without
thinking, because I was so upset, I suppose.
“You don’t need it,” he said, with a flicker of hurt going across his
face.
“No,” I answered. And I did wish I were tactful, but I never know quite
what to say beside the truth, which makes me clumsy.
“And you care an awful lot about men who go in for athletics, don’t
you?” he asked. “They seem _men_ to you?”
I think he imagined that our friendship couldn’t be as deep because I
liked outdoor things and his lameness kept him from enjoying them.
But--it was deeper; for while I knew all he missed, I also saw all he
gained--from pain, or whatever it is, that makes some people, who aren’t
strong in all ways, nicer.
“I like you best this way,” I said, and very awkwardly, I’m afraid, but
Mr. Kempwood always seems to understand. “I’m sorry you have to carry
it,” I went on, “but I think it has made you nicer and kinder. If I were
ever very unhappy, or needed help, I would come to you.” And then I
stood up, for I thought it was time to go.
“You can leave my cane by the bedside,” he said. “I find I don’t dislike
it--quite so much as I thought. . . .” Then his voice changed and became
everyday, and he said: “Good-bye, child. You’re not going to be
nervous?”
I promised him I wouldn’t and waved at him from the doorway.
I went up to our floor feeling much better. Everyone was out, and I
decided to dress because Evelyn was to have guests, and she had said
that Amy and I might appear for a little while, if we liked. On my
bureau I found a note. It was scrawled hurriedly as before and had the
same initials under it, and it said: “Don’t wear the duplicate of my
bracelet to-day. I will see that something unpleasant happens if you
do!--E. J.”