FROWENFELD KEEPS HIS APPOINTMENT
Doctor Keene, his ill-humor slept off, lay in bed in a quiescent state
of great mental enjoyment. At times he would smile and close his eyes,
open them again and murmur to himself, and turn his head languidly and
smile again. And when the rain and wind, all tangled together, came
against the window with a whirl and a slap, his smile broadened almost
to laughter.
"He's in it," he murmured, "he's just reaching there. I would give fifty
dollars to see him when he first gets into the house and sees where
he is."
As this wish was finding expression on the lips of the little sick man,
Joseph Frowenfeld was making room on a narrow doorstep for the outward
opening of a pair of small batten doors, upon which he had knocked with
the vigorous haste of a man in the rain. As they parted, he hurriedly
helped them open, darted within, heedless of the odd black shape which
shuffled out of his way, wheeled and clapped them shut again, swung down
the bar and then turned, and with the good-natured face that properly
goes with a ducking, looked to see where he was.
One object--around which everything else instantly became nothing--set
his gaze. On the high bed, whose hangings of blue we have already
described, silently regarding the intruder with a pair of eyes that sent
an icy thrill through him and fastened him where he stood, lay Palmyre
Philosophe. Her dress was a long, snowy morning-gown, wound loosely
about at the waist with a cord and tassel of scarlet silk; a
bright-colored woollen shawl covered her from the waist down, and a
necklace of red coral heightened to its utmost her untamable beauty.
An instantaneous indignation against Doctor Keene set the face of the
speechless apothecary on fire, and this, being as instantaneously
comprehended by the philosophe, was the best of introductions. Yet her
gaze did not change.
The Congo negress broke the spell with a bristling protest, all in
African b's and k's, but hushed and drew off at a single word of command
from her mistress.
In Frowenfeld's mind an angry determination was taking shape, to be
neither trifled with nor contemned. And this again the quadroon
discerned, before he was himself aware of it.
"Doctor Keene"--he began, but stopped, so uncomfortable were her eyes.
She did not stir or reply.
Then he bethought him with a start, and took off his dripping hat.
At this a perceptible sparkle of imperious approval shot along her
glance; it gave the apothecary speech.
"The doctor is sick, and he asked me to dress your wound."
She made the slightest discernible motion of the head, remained for a
moment silent, and then, still with the same eye, motioned her hand
toward a chair near a comfortable fire.
He sat down. It would be well to dry himself. He drew near the hearth
and let his gaze fall into the fire. When he presently lifted his eyes
and looked full upon the woman with a steady, candid glance, she was
regarding him with apparent coldness, but with secret diligence and
scrutiny, and a yet more inward and secret surprise and admiration. Hard
rubbing was bringing out the grain of the apothecary. But she presently
suppressed the feeling. She hated men.
But Frowenfeld, even while his eyes met hers, could not resent her
hostility. This monument of the shame of two races--this poisonous
blossom of crime growing out of crime--this final, unanswerable white
man's accuser--this would-be murderess--what ranks and companies would
have to stand up in the Great Day with her and answer as accessory
before the fact! He looked again into the fire.
The patient spoke:
"_Eh bi'n, Miché_?" Her look was severe, but less aggressive. The
shuffle of the old negress's feet was heard and she appeared bearing
warm and cold water and fresh bandages; after depositing them
she tarried.
"Your fever is gone," said Frowenfeld, standing by the bed. He had laid
his fingers on her wrist. She brushed them off and once more turned full
upon him the cold hostility of her passionate eyes.
The apothecary, instead of blushing, turned pale.
"You--" he was going to say, "You insult me;" but his lips came tightly
together. Two big cords appeared between his brows, and his blue eyes
spoke for him. Then, as the returning blood rushed even to his forehead,
he said, speaking his words one by one;
"Please understand that you must trust me."
She may not have understood his English, but she comprehended,
nevertheless. She looked up fixedly for a moment, then passively closed
her eyes. Then she turned, and Frowenfeld put out one strong arm, helped
her to a sitting posture on the side of the bed and drew the shawl
about her.
"Zizi," she said, and the negress, who had stood perfectly still since
depositing the water and bandages, came forward and proceeded to bare
the philosophe's superb shoulder. As Frowenfeld again put forward his
hand, she lifted her own as if to prevent him, but he kindly and firmly
put it away and addressed himself with silent diligence to his task; and
by the time he had finished, his womanly touch, his commanding
gentleness, his easy despatch, had inspired Palmyre not only with a
sense of safety, comfort, and repose, but with a pleased wonder.
This woman had stood all her life with dagger drawn, on the defensive
against what certainly was to her an unmerciful world. With possibly
one exception, the man now before her was the only one she had ever
encountered whose speech and gesture were clearly keyed to that profound
respect which is woman's first, foundation claim on man. And yet, by
inexorable decree, she belonged to what we used to call "the happiest
people under the sun." We ought to stop saying that.
So far as Palmyre knew, the entire masculine wing of the mighty and
exalted race, three-fourths of whose blood bequeathed her none of its
prerogatives, regarded her as legitimate prey. The man before her did
not. There lay the fundamental difference that, in her sight, as soon as
she discovered it, glorified him. Before this assurance the cold
fierceness of her eyes gave way, and a friendlier light from them
rewarded the apothecary's final touch. He called for more pillows, made
a nest of them, and, as she let herself softly into it, directed his
next consideration toward his hat and the door.
It was many an hour after he had backed out into the trivial remains of
the rain-storm before he could replace with more tranquillizing images
the vision of the philosophe reclining among her pillows, in the act of
making that uneasy movement of her fingers upon the collar button of her
robe, which women make when they are uncertain about the perfection of
their dishabille, and giving her inaudible adieu with the majesty of
an empress.