TWO WOMEN
Evelyn, hearing footsteps across the floor of the attic room above her
own bedchamber, arose and set wide the door; then went back to her
chair by the window that looked out upon green grass and party-colored
trees and long reaches of the shining river. “Come here, if you
please,” she called to Audrey, as the latter slowly descended the
stair from the room where, half asleep, half awake, she had lain since
morning.
Audrey entered the pleasant chamber, furnished with what luxury the age
afforded, and stood before the sometime princess of her dreams. “Will
you not sit down?” asked Evelyn, in a low voice, and pointed to a chair.
“I had rather stand,” answered Audrey. “Why did you call me? I was on
my way”--
The other’s clear eyes dwelt upon her. “Whither were you going?”
“Out of your house,” said Audrey simply, “and out of your life.”
Evelyn folded her hands in her silken lap, and looked out upon river
and sky and ceaseless drift of colored leaves. “You can never go out of
my life,” she said. “Why the power to vex and ruin was given you I do
not know, but you have used it. Why did you run away from Fair View?”
“That I might never see Mr. Haward again,” answered Audrey. She held
her head up, but she felt the stab. It had not occurred to her that
hers was the power to vex and ruin; apparently that belonged elsewhere.
Evelyn turned from the window, and the two women, the princess and the
herdgirl, regarded each other. “Oh, my God!” cried Evelyn. “I did not
know that you loved him so!”
But Audrey shook her head, and spoke with calmness: “Once I loved and
knew it not, and once I loved and knew it. It was all in a dream, and
now I have waked up.” She passed her hand across her brow and eyes, and
pushed back her heavy hair. It was a gesture that was common to her.
To Evelyn it brought a sudden stinging memory of the ballroom at the
Palace; of how this girl had looked in her splendid dress, with the
roses in her hair; of Haward’s words at the coach door. She had not
seen him since that night. “I am going a long way,” continued Audrey.
“It will be as though I died. I never meant to harm you.”
The other gazed at her with wide, dry eyes, and with an unwonted color
in her cheeks. “She is beautiful,” thought Audrey; then wondered how
long she must stay in this room and this house. Without the window the
trees beckoned, the light was fair upon the river; in the south hung a
cloud, silver-hued, and shaped like two mighty wings. Audrey, with her
eyes upon the cloud, thought, “If the wings were mine, I would reach
the mountains to-night.”
“Do you remember last May Day?” asked Evelyn, in a voice scarcely above
a whisper. “He and I, sitting side by side, watched your running, and
I praised you to him. Then we went away, and while we gathered flowers
on the road to Williamsburgh he asked me to be his wife. I said no, for
he loved me not as I wished to be loved. Afterward, in Williamsburgh,
he spoke again.... I said, ‘When you come to Westover;’ and he kissed
my hand, and vowed that the next week should find him here.” She turned
once more to the window, and, with her chin in her hand, looked out
upon the beauty of the autumn. “Day by day, and day by day,” she said,
in the same hushed voice, “I sat at this window and watched for him to
come. The weeks went by, and he came not. I began to hear talk of you.
Oh, I deny not that it was bitter!”
“Oh me! oh me!” cried Audrey. “I was so happy, and I thought no harm.”
“He came at last,” continued Evelyn. “For a month he stayed here,
paying me court. I was too proud to speak of what I had heard. After a
while I thought it must have been an idle rumor.” Her voice changed,
and with a sudden gesture of passion and despair she lifted her arms
above her head, then clasped and wrung her hands. “Oh, for a month
he forgot you! In all the years to come I shall have that comfort:
for one little month, in the company of the woman whom, because she
was of his own rank, because she had wealth, because others found her
fair and honored her with heart as well as lip, he wished to make his
wife,--for that short month he forgot you! The days were sweet to me,
sweet, sweet! Oh, I dreamed my dreams!... And then we were called to
Williamsburgh to greet the new Governor, and he went with us, and
again I heard your name coupled with his.... There was between us no
betrothal. I had delayed to say yes to his asking, for I wished to make
sure,--to make sure that he loved me. No man can say he broke troth
with me. For that my pride gives thanks!”
“What must I do?” said Audrey to herself. “Pain is hard to bear.”
“That night at the ball,” continued Evelyn, “when, coming down the
stair, I saw you standing beside him ... and after that, the music,
and the lights, and you dancing with him, in your dark beauty, with
the flowers in your hair ... and after that, you and I in my coach and
his face at the window!... Oh, I can tell you what he said! He said:
‘Good-by, sweetheart.... The violets are for you; but the great white
blossoms, and the boughs of rosy mist, and all the trees that wave in
the wind are for Audrey.’”
“For me!” cried Audrey,--“for me an hour in Bruton church next morning!”
A silence followed her words. Evelyn, sitting in the great chair,
rested her cheek upon her hand and gazed steadfastly at her guest of a
day. The sunshine had stolen from the room, but dwelt upon and caressed
the world without the window. Faint, tinkling notes of a harpsichord
floated up from the parlor below, followed by young Madam Byrd’s voice
singing to the perturbed Colonel:--
“‘O Love! they wrong thee much,
That say thy sweet is bitter,
When thy rich fruit is such
As nothing can be sweeter.
Fair house of joy and bliss’”--
The song came to an end, but after a pause the harpsichord sounded
again, and the singer’s voice rang out:--
“‘Under the greenwood tree,
Who loves to lie with me’”--
Audrey gave an involuntary cry; then, with her lip between her teeth,
strove for courage, failed, and with another strangled cry sank upon
her knees before a chair and buried her face in its cushions.
When a little time had passed, Evelyn arose and went to her. “Fate has
played with us both,” she said, in a voice that strove for calmness.
“If there was great bitterness in my heart toward you then, I hope
it is not so now; if, on that night, I spoke harshly, unkindly,
ungenerously, I--I am sorry. I thought what others thought. I--I cared
not to touch you.... But now I am told that ’t was not you that did
unworthily. Mr. Haward has written to me; days ago I had this letter.”
It was in her hand, and she held it out to the kneeling girl. “Yes,
yes, you must read; it concerns you.” Her voice, low and broken, was
yet imperious. Audrey raised her head, took and read the letter.
There were but a few unsteady lines, written from Marot’s ordinary
at Williamsburgh. The writer was too weak as yet for many words; few
words were best, perhaps. His was all the blame for the occurrence
at the Palace, for all besides. That which, upon his recovery, he
must strive to teach his acquaintance at large he prayed Evelyn to
believe at once and forever. She whom, against her will and in the
madness of his fever, he had taken to the Governor’s house was most
innocent,--guiltless of all save a childlike affection for the writer,
a misplaced confidence, born of old days, and now shattered by his
own hand. Before that night she had never guessed his passion, never
known the use that had been made of her name. This upon the honor of
a gentleman. For the rest, as soon as his strength was regained, he
purposed traveling to Westover. There, if Mistress Evelyn Byrd would
receive him for an hour, he might in some measure explain, excuse. For
much, he knew, there was no excuse,--only pardon to be asked.
The letter ended abruptly, as though the writer’s strength were
exhausted. Audrey read it through, then with indifference gave it back
to Evelyn. “It is true,--what he says?” whispered the latter, crumpling
the paper in her hand.
Audrey gazed up at her with wide, tearless eyes. “Yes, it is true.
There was no need for you to use those words to me in the coach, that
night,--though even then I did not understand. There is no reason why
you should fear to touch me.”
Her head sank upon her arm. In the parlor below the singing came to
an end, but the harpsichord, lightly fingered, gave forth a haunting
melody. It was suited to the afternoon: to the golden light, the
drifting leaves, the murmurs of wind and wave, without the window: to
the shadows, the stillness, and the sorrow within the room. Evelyn,
turning slowly toward the kneeling figure, of a sudden saw it through a
mist of tears. Her clasped hands parted; she bent and touched the bowed
head. Audrey looked up, and her dark eyes made appeal. Evelyn stooped
lower yet; her tears fell upon Audrey’s brow; a moment, and the two,
cast by life in the selfsame tragedy, were in each other’s arms.
“You know that I came from the mountains,” whispered Audrey. “I
am going back. You must tell no one; in a little while I shall be
forgotten.”
“To the mountains!” cried Evelyn. “No one lives there. You would die of
cold and hunger. No, no! We are alike unhappy: you shall stay with me
here at Westover.”
[Illustration: HER DARK EYES MADE APPEAL]
She rose from her knees, and Audrey rose with her. They no longer
clasped each other,--that impulse was past,--but their eyes met in
sorrowful amity. Audrey shook her head. “That may not be,” she said
simply. “I must go away that we may not both be unhappy.” She lifted
her face to the cloud in the south, “I almost died last night. When you
drown, there is at first fear and struggling, but at last it is like
dreaming, and there is a lightness.... When that came I thought, ‘It is
the air of the mountains,--I am drawing near them.’ ... Will you let me
go now? I will slip from the house through the fields into the woods,
and none will know”--
But Evelyn caught her by the wrist. “You are beside yourself! I would
rouse the plantation; in an hour you would be found. Stay with me!”
A knock at the door, and the Colonel’s secretary, a pale and grave
young man, bowing on the threshold. He was just come from the attic
room, where he had failed to find the young woman who had been lodged
there that morning. The Colonel, supposing that by now she was
recovered from her swoon and her fright of the night before, and having
certain questions to put to her, desired her to descend to the parlor.
Hearing voices in Mistress Evelyn’s room--
“Very well, Mr. Drew,” said the lady. “You need not wait. I will myself
seek my father with--with our guest.”
In the parlor Madam Byrd was yet at the harpsichord, but ceased to
touch the keys when her step-daughter, followed by Darden’s Audrey,
entered the room. The master of Westover, seated beside his young wife,
looked quickly up, arched his brows and turned somewhat red, as his
daughter, with her gliding step, crossed the room to greet him. Audrey,
obeying a motion of her companion’s hand, waited beside a window,
in the shadow of its heavy curtains. “Evelyn,” quoth the Colonel,
rising from his chair and taking his daughter’s hand, “this is scarce
befitting”--
Evelyn stayed his further speech by an appealing gesture. “Let me speak
with you, sir. No, no, madam, do not go! There is naught the world
might not hear.”
Audrey waited in the shadow by the window, and her mind was busy, for
she had her plans to lay. Sometimes Evelyn’s low voice, sometimes the
Colonel’s deeper tones, pierced her understanding; when this was so she
moved restlessly, wishing that it were night and she away. Presently
she began to observe the room, which was richly furnished. There were
garlands upon the ceiling; a table near her was set with many curious
ornaments; upon a tall cabinet stood a bowl of yellow flowers; the lady
at the harpsichord wore a dress to match the flowers, while Evelyn’s
dress was white; beyond them was a pier glass finer than the one at
Fair View.
This glass reflected the doorway, and thus she was the first to see the
man from whom she had fled. “Mr. Marmaduke Haward, massa!” announced
the servant who had ushered him through the hall.
Haward, hat in hand, entered the room. The three beside the harpsichord
arose; the one at the window slipped deeper into the shadow of the
curtains, and so escaped the visitor’s observation. The latter bowed to
the master of Westover, who ceremoniously returned the salute, and to
the two ladies, who curtsied to him, but opened not their lips.
“This, sir,” said Colonel Byrd, holding himself very erect, “is an
unexpected honor.”
“Rather, sir, an unwished-for intrusion,” answered the other. “I beg
you to believe that I will trouble you for no longer time than matters
require.”
The Colonel bit his lip. “There was a time when Mr. Haward was most
welcome to my house. If ’t is no longer thus”--
Haward made a gesture of assent. “I know that the time is past. I am
sorry that ’t is so. I had thought, sir, to find you alone. Am I to
speak before these ladies?”
The Colonel hesitated, but Evelyn, leaving Madam Byrd beside the
harpsichord, came to her father’s side. That gentleman glanced at her
keenly. There was no agitation to mar the pensive loveliness of her
face; her eyes were steadfast, the lips faintly smiling. “If what you
have to say concerns my daughter,” said the Colonel, “she will listen
to you here and now.”
For a few moments dead silence; then Haward spoke, slowly, weighing
his words: “I am on my way, Colonel Byrd, to the country beyond the
falls. I have entered upon a search, and I know not when it will be
ended or when I shall return. Westover lay in my path, and there was
that which needed to be said to you, sir, and to your daughter. When it
has been said I will take my leave.” He paused; then, with a quickened
breath, again took up his task: “Some months ago, sir, I sought and
obtained your permission to make my suit to your daughter for her hand.
The lady, worthy of a better mate, hath done well in saying no to my
importunity. I accept her decision, withdraw my suit, wish her all
happiness.” He bowed again formally; then stood with lowered eyes, his
hand griping the edge of the table.
“I am aware that my daughter has declined to entertain your proposals,”
said the Colonel coldly, “and I approve her determination. Is this all,
sir?”
“It should, perhaps, be all,” answered Haward. “And yet”--He turned to
Evelyn, snow-white, calm, with that faint smile upon her face. “May I
speak to you?” he said, in a scarcely audible voice.
She looked at him, with parting lips.
“Here and now,” the Colonel answered for her. “Be brief, sir.”
The master of Fair View found it hard to speak, “Evelyn”--he began,
and paused, biting his lip. It was very quiet in the familiar parlor,
quiet and dim, and drawing toward eventide. The lady at the harpsichord
chanced to let fall her hand upon the keys. They gave forth a deep and
melancholy sound that vibrated through the room. The chord was like
an odor in its subtle power to bring crowding memories. To Haward,
and perhaps to Evelyn, scenes long shifted, long faded, took on fresh
colors, glowed anew, replaced the canvas of the present. For years the
two had been friends; later months had seen him her avowed suitor. In
this very room he had bent over her at the harpsichord when the song
was finished; had sat beside her in the deep window seat while the
stars brightened, before the candles were brought in.
Now, for a moment, he stood with his hand over his eyes; then, letting
it fall, he spoke with firmness. “Evelyn,” he said, “if I have wronged
you, forgive me. Our friendship that has been I lay at your feet:
forget it and forget me. You are noble, generous, high of mind: I
pray you to let no remembrance of me trouble your life. May it be
happy,--may all good attend you.... Evelyn, good-by!”
He kneeled and lifted to his lips the hem of her dress. As he rose,
and bowing low would have taken formal leave of the two beside her,
she put out her hand, staying him by the gesture and the look upon her
colorless face. “You spoke of a search,” she said. “What search?”
Haward raised his eyes to hers that were quiet, almost smiling, though
darkly shadowed by past pain. “I will tell you, Evelyn. Why should not
I tell you this, also?... Four days ago, upon my return to Fair View, I
sought and found the woman that I love,--the woman that, by all that is
best within me, I love worthily! She shrank from me; she listened not;
she shut eye and ear, and fled. And I,--confident fool!--I thought,
‘To-morrow I will make her heed,’ and so let her go. When the morrow
came she was gone indeed.” He halted, made an involuntary gesture of
distress, then went on, rapidly and with agitation: “There was a boat
missing; she was seen to pass Jamestown, rowing steadily up the river.
But for this I should have thought--I should have feared--God knows
what I should not have feared! As it is I have searchers out, both on
this side and on the southern shore. An Indian and myself have come up
river in his canoe. We have not found her yet. If it be so that she has
passed unseen through the settled country, I will seek her toward the
mountains.”
“And when you have found her, what then, sir?” cried the Colonel,
tapping his snuffbox.
“Then, sir,” answered Haward with hauteur, “she will become my wife.”
He turned again to Evelyn, but when he spoke it was less to her than
to himself. “It grows late,” he said. “Night is coming on, and at the
fall of the leaf the nights are cold. One sleeping in the forest would
suffer ... if she sleeps. I have not slept since she was missed. I must
begone”--
“It grows late indeed,” replied Evelyn, with lifted face and a voice
low, clear, and sweet as a silver bell,--“so late that there is a rose
flush in the sky beyond the river. Look! you may see it through yonder
window.”
She touched his hand and made him look to the far window. “Who is it
that stands in the shadow, hiding her face in her hands?” he asked at
last, beneath his breath.
“’Tis Audrey,” answered Evelyn, in the same clear, sweet, and
passionless tones. She took her hand from his and addressed herself to
her father. “Dear sir,” she said, “to my mind no quarrel exists between
us and this gentleman. There is no reason”--she drew herself up--“no
reason why we should not extend to Mr. Marmaduke Haward the hospitality
of Westover.” She smiled and leaned against her father’s arm. “And now
let us three,--you and Maria, whom I protest you keep too long at the
harpsichord, and I, who love this hour of the evening,--let us go walk
in the garden and see what flowers the frost has spared.”