SANCTUARY
“Child,” demanded Haward, “why did you frighten me so?” He took her
hands from her face, and drew her from the shadow of the curtain into
the evening glow. Her hands lay passive in his; her eyes held the
despair of a runner spent and fallen, with the goal just in sight.
“Would have had me go again to the mountains for you, little maid?”
Haward’s voice trembled with the delight of his ended quest.
“Call me not by that name,” Audrey said. “One that is dead used it.”
“I will call you love,” he answered,--“my love, my dear love, my true
love!”
“Nor that either,” she said, and caught her breath. “I know not why you
should speak to me so.”
“What must I call you then?” he asked, with the smile still upon his
lips.
“A stranger and a dreamer,” she answered. “Go your ways, and I will go
mine.”
There was silence in the room, broken by Haward. “For us two one path,”
he said; “why, Audrey, Audrey, Audrey!” Suddenly he caught her in his
arms. “My love!” he whispered--“my love Audrey! my wife Audrey!” His
kisses rained upon her face. She lay quiet until the storm had passed;
then freed herself, looked at him, and shook her head.
“You killed him,” she said, “that one whom I--worshiped. It was not
well done of you.... There was a dream I had last summer. I told it
to--to the one you killed. Now part of the dream has come true.... You
never were! Oh, death had been easy pain, for it had left memory, hope!
But you never were! you never were!”
“I am!” cried Haward ardently. “I am your lover! I am he who says to
you, Forget the past, forget and forgive, and come with me out of
your dreaming. Come, Audrey, come, come, from the dim woods into the
sunshine,--into the sunshine of the garden! The night you went away I
was there, Audrey, under the stars. The paths were deep in leaves, the
flowers dead and blackening; but the trees will be green again, and the
flowers bloom! When we are wed we will walk there, bringing the spring
with us”--
“When we are wed!” she answered. “That will never be.”
“It will be this week,” he said, smiling. “Dear dryad, who have no
friends to make a pother, no dowry to lug with you, no gay wedding
raiment to provide; who have only to curtsy farewell to the trees and
put your hand in mine”--
She drew away her hands that he had caught in his, and pressed them
above her heart; then looked restlessly from window to door. “Will you
let me pass, sir?” she asked at last. “I am tired. I have to think what
I am to do, where I am to go.”
“Where you are to go!” he exclaimed. “Why, back to the glebe house, and
I will follow, and the minister shall marry us. Child, child! where
else should you go? What else should you do?”
“God knows!” cried the girl, with sudden and extraordinary passion.
“But not that! Oh, he is gone,--that other who would have understood!”
Haward let fall his outstretched hand, drew back a pace or two, and
stood with knitted brows. The room was very quiet; only Audrey breathed
hurriedly, and through the open window came the sudden, lonely cry of
some river bird. The note was repeated ere Haward spoke again.
“I will try to understand,” he said slowly. “Audrey, is it Evelyn that
comes between us?”
Audrey passed her hand over her eyes and brow and pushed back her heavy
hair. “Oh, I have wronged her!” she cried. “I have taken her portion.
If once she was cruel to me, yet to-day she kissed me, her tears fell
upon my face. That which I have robbed her of I want not.... Oh, my
heart, my heart!”
“‘T is I, not you, who have wronged this lady,” said Haward, after a
pause. “I have, I hope, her forgiveness. Is this the fault that keeps
you from me?”
Audrey answered not, but leaned against the window and looked at the
cloud in the south that was now an amethyst island. Haward went closer
to her. “Is it,” he said, “is it because in my mind I sinned against
you, Audrey, because I brought upon you insult and calumny? Child,
child! I am of the world. That I did all this is true, but now I would
not purchase endless bliss with your least harm, and your name is more
to me than my own. Forgive me, Audrey, forgive the past.” He bowed his
head as he stood before her.
Audrey gazed at him with wide, dry eyes whose lids burned. A hot color
had risen to her cheek; at her heart was a heavier aching, a fuller
knowledge of loss. “There is no past,” she said. “It was a dream and a
lie. There is only to-day ... _and you are a stranger_.”
The purple cloud across the river began to darken; there came again the
lonely cry of the bird; in the house quarter the slaves were singing
as they went about their work. Suddenly Audrey laughed. It was sad
laughter, as mocking and elfin and mirthless a sound as was ever heard
in autumn twilight. “A stranger!” she repeated. “I know you by your
name, and that is all. You are Mr. Marmaduke Haward of Fair View, while
I--I am Darden’s Audrey!”
She curtsied to him, so changed, so defiant, so darkly beautiful, that
he caught his breath to behold her. “You are all the world to me!” he
cried. “Audrey, Audrey! Look at me, listen to me!”
He would have approached her, would have seized her hand, but she
waved him back. “Oh, the world! We must think of that! What would they
say, the Governor and the Council, and the people who go to balls,
and all the great folk you write to in England,--what would they say
if you married me? Mr. Marmaduke Haward of Fair View, the richest man
in Virginia! Mr. Marmaduke Haward, the man of taste, the scholar, the
fine gentleman, proud of his name, jealous of his honor! And Darden’s
Audrey, who hath gone barefoot on errands to most houses in Fair View
parish! Darden’s Audrey, whom the preacher pointed out to the people
in Bruton church! They would call you mad; they would give you cap
and bells; they would say, ‘Does he think that he can make her one of
us?--her that we turned and looked long upon in Bruton church, when the
preacher called her by a right name’”--
“Child, for God’s sake!” cried Haward.
“There is the lady, too,--the lady who left us here together! We must
not forget to think of her,--of her whose picture you showed me at
Fair View, who was to be your wife, who took me by the hand that night
at the Palace. There is reproach in her eyes. Ah, do you not think
the look might grow, might come to haunt us? And yourself! Oh, sooner
or later regret and weariness would come to dwell at Fair View! The
lady who walks in the garden here is a fine lady and a fit mate for a
fine gentleman, and I am a beggar maid and no man’s mate, unless it be
Hugon’s. Hugon, who has sworn to have me in the house he has built!
Hugon, who would surely kill you”--
Haward caught her by the wrists, bruising them in his grasp. “Audrey,
Audrey! Let these fancies be! If we love each other”--
“If!” she echoed, and pulled her hands away. Her voice was strange,
her eyes were bright and strained, her face was burning. “But if not,
what then? And how should I love you who are a stranger to me? Oh,
a generous stranger who, where he thinks he has done a wrong, would
repair the damage.” Her voice broke; she flung back her head and
pressed her hands against her throat. “You have done me no wrong,” she
said. “If you had, I would forgive you, would say good-by to you, would
go my way.... as I am going now. Let me pass, sir!”
Haward barred her way. “A stranger!” he said, beneath his breath. “Is
there then no tie between shadow and substance, dream and reality?”
“None!” answered Audrey, with defiance. “Why did you come to the
mountains, eleven years ago? What business was it of yours whether I
lived or died? Oh, God was not kind to send you there!”
“You loved me once!” he cried. “Audrey, Audrey, have I slain your love?”
“It was never yours!” she answered passionately, “It was that
other’s,--that other whom I imagined, who never lived outside my dream!
Oh, let me pass, let me begone! You are cruel to keep me. I--I am so
tired.”
White to the lips, Haward moved backward a step or two, but yet stood
between her and the door. Moments passed before he spoke; then, “Will
you become my wife?” he asked, in a studiously quiet voice. “Marry me,
Audrey, loving me not. Love may come in time, but give me now the right
to be your protector, the power to clear your name.”
She looked at him with a strange smile, a fine gesture of scorn. “Marry
you, loving you not! That will I never do. Protector! That is a word I
have grown to dislike. My name! It is a slight thing. What matter if
folk look askance when it is only Darden’s Audrey? And there are those
whom an ill fame does not frighten. The schoolmaster will still give me
books to read, and tell me what they mean. He will not care, nor the
drunken minister, nor Hugon.... I am going back to them, to Mistress
Deborah and the glebe house. She will beat me, and the minister will
curse, but they will take me in.... I will work very hard, and never
look to Fair View. I see now that I could never reach the mountains.”
She began to move toward the door. He kept with her, step for step, his
eyes upon her face. “You will come no more to the glebe house,” she
said. “If you do, though the mountains be far the river is near.”
He put his hand upon the latch of the door. “You will rest here
to-night?” he asked gently, as of a child. “I will speak to Colonel
Byrd; to-morrow he will send some one with you down the river. It will
be managed for you, and as you wish. You will rest to-night? You go
from me now to your room, Audrey?”
“Yes,” she answered, and thought she spoke the truth.
“I love you,--love you greatly,” he continued. “I will
conquer,--conquer and atone! But now, poor tired one, I let you go.
Sleep, Audrey, sleep and dream again.” He held open the door for her,
and stood aside with bent head.
She passed him; then turned, and after a moment of silence spoke to him
with a strange and sorrowful stateliness. “You think, sir,” she said,
“that I have something to forgive?”
“Much,” he answered,--“very much, Audrey.”
“And you wish my forgiveness?”
“Ay, Audrey, your forgiveness and your love.”
“The first is mine to give,” she said. “If you wish it, take it. I
forgive you, sir. Good-by.”
“Good-night,” he answered. “Audrey, good-night.”
“Good-by,” she repeated, and slowly mounting the broad staircase passed
from his sight.
It was dark in the upper hall, but there was a great glimmer of sky, an
opal space to mark a window that gave upon the sloping lawn and pallid
river. The pale light seemed to beckon. Audrey went not on to her attic
room, but to the window, and in doing so passed a small half-open door.
As she went by she glanced through the aperture, and saw that there was
a narrow stairway, built for the servants’ use, winding down to a door
in the western face of the house.
Once at the open window, she leaned forth and looked to the east and
the west. The hush of the evening had fallen; the light was faint;
above the last rose flush a great star palely shone. All was quiet,
deserted; nothing stirring on the leaf-carpeted slope; no sound save
the distant singing of the slaves. The river lay bare from shore to
shore, save where the Westover landing stretched raggedly into the
flood. To its piles small boats were tied, but there seemed to be no
boatmen; wharf and river appeared as barren of movement and life as did
the long expanse of dusky lawn.
“I will not sleep in this house to-night,” said Audrey to herself. “If
I can reach those boats unseen, I will go alone down the river. That
will be well. I am not wanted here.”
When she arrived at the foot of the narrow stair, she slipped through
the door into a world all dusk and quiet, where was none to observe
her, none to stay her. Crouching by the wall she crept to the front of
the house, stole around the stone steps where, that morning, she had
sat in the sunshine, and came to the parlor windows. Close beneath one
was a block of stone. After a moment’s hesitation she stood upon this,
and, pressing her face against the window pane, looked her last upon
the room she had so lately left. A low fire upon the hearth, darkly
illumined it: he sat by the table, with his arms outstretched and his
head bowed upon them. Audrey dropped from the stone into the ever
growing shadows, crossed the lawn, slipped below the bank, and took
her way along the river edge to the long landing. When she was half
way down its length, she saw that there was a canoe which she had not
observed and that it held one man, who sat with his back to the shore.
With a quick breath of dismay she stood still, then setting her lips
went on; for the more she thought of having to see those two again,
Evelyn and the master of Fair View, the stronger grew her determination
to commence her backward journey alone and at once.
She had almost reached the end of the wharf when the man in the boat
stood up and faced her. It was Hugon. The dusk was not so great but
that the two, the hunter and his quarry, could see each other plainly.
The latter turned with the sob of a stricken deer, but the impulse
to flight lasted not. Where might she go? Run blindly, north or east
or west, through the fields of Westover? That would shortly lead to
cowering in some wood or swamp while the feet of the searchers came
momently nearer. Return to the house, stand at bay once more? With all
her strength of soul she put this course from her.
The quick strife in her mind ended in her moving slowly, as though
drawn by an invisible hand, to the edge of the wharf, above Hugon and
his canoe. She did not wonder to see him there. Every word that Haward
had spoken in the Westover parlor was burned upon her brain, and he had
said that he had come up river with an Indian. This was the Indian, and
to hunt her down those two had joined forces.
“Ma’m’selle Audrey,” whispered the trader, staring as at a spirit.
“Yes, Jean Hugon,” she answered, and looked down the glimmering reaches
of the James, then at the slender canoe and the deep and dark water
that flowed between the piles. In the slight craft, with that strong
man the river for ally, she were safe as in a tower of brass.
“I am going home, Jean,” she said. “Will you row me down the river
to-night, and tell me as we go your stories of the woods and your
father’s glories in France? If you speak of other things I will drown
myself, for I am tired of hearing them. In the morning we will stop at
some landing for food, and then go on again. Let us hasten”--
The trader moistened his lips. “And him,” he demanded hoarsely,--“that
Englishman, that Marmaduke Haward of Fair View, who came to me and
said, ‘Half-breed, seeing that an Indian and a bloodhound have gifts in
common, we will take up the quest together. Find her, though it be to
lose her to me that same hour! And look that in our travels you try no
foul play, for this time I go armed,’--what of him?”
Audrey waved her hand toward the house she had left. “He is there. Let
us make haste.” As she spoke she descended the steps, and, evading his
eager hand, stepped into the canoe. He looked at her doubtfully, half
afraid, so strange was it to see her sitting there, so like a spirit
from the land beyond the sun, a _revenant_ out of one of old Pierre’s
wild tales, had she come upon him. With quickened breath he loosed
the canoe from its mooring and took up the paddle. A moment, and they
were quit of the Westover landing and embarked upon a strange journey,
during which hour after hour Hugon made wild love, and hour after hour
Audrey opened not her lips. As the canoe went swiftly down the flood,
lights sprung up in the house it was leaving behind. A man, rising from
his chair with a heavy sigh, walked to the parlor window and looked
out upon lawn and sky and river, but, so dark had it grown, saw not
the canoe; thought only how deserted, how desolate and lonely, was the
scene.
* * * * *
In Williamsburgh as at Westover the autumn was dying, the winter was
coming, but neither farewell nor greeting perturbed the cheerful town.
To and fro through Palace and Nicholson and Duke of Gloucester streets
were blown the gay leaves; of early mornings white frosts lay upon
the earth like fairy snows, but midday and afternoon were warm and
bright. Mistress Stagg’s garden lay to the south, and in sheltered
corners bloomed marigolds and asters, while a vine, red-leafed and
purple-berried, made a splendid mantle for the playhouse wall.
Within the theatre a rehearsal of “Tamerlane” was in progress. Turk and
Tartar spoke their minds, and Arpasia’s death cry clave the air. The
victorious Emperor passed final sentence upon Bajazet; then, chancing
to glance toward the wide door, suddenly abdicated his throne, and
in the character of Mr. Charles Stagg blew a kiss to his wife, who,
applauding softly, stood in the opening that was framed by the red vine.
“Have you done, my dear?” she cried. “Then pray come with me a moment!”
The two crossed the garden, and entered the grape arbor where in
September Mistress Stagg had entertained her old friend, my Lady
Squander’s sometime waiting-maid. Now the vines were bare of leaves,
and the sunshine streaming through lay in a flood upon the earth. Mary
Stagg’s chair was set in that golden warmth, and upon the ground beside
it had fallen some bright sewing. The silken stuff touched a coarser
cloth, and that was the skirt of Darden’s Audrey, who sat upon the
ground asleep, with her arm across the chair, and her head upon her arm.
“How came she here?” demanded Mr. Stagg at last, when he had given a
tragedy start, folded his arms, and bent his brows.
“She ran away,” answered Mistress Stagg, in a low voice, drawing her
spouse to a little distance from the sleeping figure. “She ran away
from the glebe house and went up the river, wanting--the Lord knows
why!--to reach the mountains. Something happened to bring her to her
senses, and she turned back, and falling in with that trader, Jean
Hugon, he brought her to Jamestown in his canoe. She walked from there
to the glebe house,--that was yesterday. The minister was away, and
Deborah, being in one of her passions, would not let her in. She’s that
hard, is Deborah, when she’s angry, harder than the nether millstone!
The girl lay in the woods last night. I vow I’ll never speak again
to Deborah, not though there were twenty Baths behind us!” Mistress
Stagg’s voice began to tremble. “I was sitting sewing in that chair,
now listening to your voices in the theatre, and now harking back in my
mind to old days when we weren’t prosperous like we are now.... And at
last I got to thinking of the babe, Charles, and how, if she had lived
and grown up, I might ha’ sat there sewing a pretty gown for my own
child, and how happy I would have made her. I tried to see her standing
beside me, laughing, pretty as a rose, waiting for me to take the last
stitch. It got so real that I raised my head to tell my dead child how
I was going to knot her ribbons, ... and there was this girl looking at
me!”
“What, Millamant! a tear, my soul?” cried the theatric Mr. Stagg.
Millamant wiped away the tear. “I’ll tell you what she said. She just
said: ‘You were kind to me when I was here before, but if you tell me
to go away I’ll go. You need not say it loudly.’ And then she almost
fell, and I put out my arm and caught her; and presently she was on her
knees there beside me, with her head in my lap.... And then we talked
together for a while. It was mostly me--she didn’t say much--but,
Charles, the girl’s done no wrong, no more than our child that’s dead
and in Christ’s bosom. She was so tired and worn. I got some milk and
gave it to her, and directly she went to sleep like a baby, with her
head on my knee.”
The two went closer, and looked down upon the slender form and still,
dark face. The sleeper’s rest was deep. A tress of hair, fallen from
its fastening, swept her cheek; Mistress Stagg, stooping, put it in
place behind the small ear, then straightened herself and pressed her
Mirabell’s arm.
“Well, my love,” quoth that gentleman, clearing his throat. “‘Great
minds, like Heaven, are pleased in doing good.’ My Millamant, declare
your thoughts!”
Mistress Stagg twisted her apron hem between thumb and finger. “She’s
more than eighteen, Charles, and anyhow, if I understand it rightly,
she was never really bound to Darden. The law has no hold on her, for
neither vestry nor Orphan Court had anything to do with placing her
with Darden and Deborah. She’s free to stay.”
“Free to stay?” queried Charles, and took a prodigious pinch of snuff.
“To stay with us?”
“Why not?” asked his wife, and stole a persuasive hand into that of
her helpmate. “Oh, Charles, my heart went out to her! I made her so
beautiful once, and I could do it again and all the time. Don’t you
think her prettier than was Jane Day? And she’s graceful, and that
quick to learn! You’re such a teacher, Charles, and I know she’d do her
best.... Perhaps, after all, there would be no need to send away to
Bristol for one to take Jane’s place.”
“H’m!” said the great man thoughtfully, and bit a curl of Tamerlane’s
vast periwig. “’Tis true I esteem her no dullard,” he at last
vouchsafed; “true also that she hath beauty. In fine, solely to give
thee pleasure, my Millamant, I will give the girl a trial no later than
this very afternoon.”
Audrey stirred in her sleep, spoke Haward’s name, and sank again to
rest. Mr. Stagg took a second pinch of snuff. “There’s the scandal,
my love. His Excellency the Governor’s ball, Mr. Eliot’s sermon, Mr.
Marmaduke Haward’s illness and subsequent duels with Mr. Everard and
Mr. Travis, are in no danger of being forgotten. If this girl ever
comes to the speaking of an epilogue, there’ll be in Williamsburgh a
nine days’ wonder indeed!”
“The wonder would not hurt,” said Mistress Stagg simply.
“Far from it, my dear,” agreed Mr. Stagg, and closing his snuffbox,
went with a thoughtful brow back to the playhouse and the Tartar camp.