Kitabı oku: «The Bondwoman», sayfa 11
She looked so roguishly coaxing, so sure she had stumbled on some fragment of an adventure, and so alluringly confident that Delaven must tell her the rest, that there is no telling how much he might have enlightened her if Miss Loring had not entered the room at that moment through a door nearest the window where they stood.
Her face was serene and self possessed as ever. She smiled and addressed some careless remark to them as she passed through, but Delaven had an uncomfortable feeling that she had overheard that question, and Evilena was too frightened to repeat it.
CHAPTER XVI
The warm summer moon wheeled up that evening through the dusk, odorous with the wild luxuriance of wood and swamp growths. A carriage rolled along the highway between stretches of rice lands and avenues of pines.
In the west red and yellow showed where the path of the sun had been and against it was outlined the gables of an imposing structure, dark against the sky.
“We are again close to the Salkahatchie,” said Mrs. McVeigh, pointing where the trees marked its course, “and across there–see that roof, Marquise?–that is Loringwood. If the folks had got across from Charleston we would stop there long enough to rest and have a bit of supper. But the road winds so that the distance is longer than it looks, and we are too near home to stop on such an uncertainty. Gertrude’s note from Charleston telling of their safe arrival could say nothing definite of their home coming.”
“That, no doubt, depends on the invalid relative,” suggested her guest; “the place looks very beautiful in this dim light; the cedars along the road there are magnificent.”
“I have heard they are nearly two hundred years old. Years ago it was the great show place of the country, but two generations of very extravagant sportsmen did much to diminish its wealth–generous, reckless and charming men–but they planted mortgages side by side with their rice fields. Those encumbrances have, I fancy, prevented Gertrude from being as fond of the place as most girls would be of so fine an ancestral home.”
“Possibly she lacks the gamester blood of her forefathers and can have no patience with their lack of the commercial instinct.”
“I really do believe that is just it,” said Mrs. McVeigh. “I never had thought of it in that way myself, but Gertrude certainly is not at all like the Lorings; she is entirely of her mother’s people, and they are credited with possessing a great deal of the commercial instinct. I can’t fancy a Masterson gambling away a penny. They are much more sensible; they invest.”
The cedar avenues had been left a mile behind, and they had entered again the pine woods where even the moon’s full radiance could only scatter slender lances of light. The Marquise leaned back with half-shut slumberous eyes, and confessed she was pleased that it would be later, instead of this evening, that she would have the pleasure of meeting the master and mistress of Loringwood–the drive through the great stretches of pine had acted as a soporific; no society for the night so welcome as King Morpheus.
The third woman in the carriage silently adjusted a cushion back of Madame’s head. “Thank you, Louise,” she said, yawning a little. “You see how effectually I have been mastered by the much remarked languor of the South. It is delightfully restful. I cannot imagine any one ever being in a hurry in this land.”
Mrs. McVeigh smiled and pointed across the field, where some men were just then running after a couple of dogs who barked vociferously in short, quick yelps, bespeaking a hot trail before them.
“There is a living contradiction of your idea,” she said; “the Southerners are intensity personified when the game is worth it; the game may be a fox chase or a flirtation, a love affair or a duel, and our men require no urging for any of those pursuits.”
They were quite close to the men now, and the Marquise declared they were a perfect addition to the scene of moonlit savannas backed by the masses of wood now near, now far, across the levels. Two of them had reached the road when the carriage wheels attracted attention from the dogs, and they halted, curious, questioning.
“Why, it’s our Pluto!” exclaimed Mrs. McVeigh; “stop the carriage. Pluto, what in the world are you doing here?”
Pluto came forward smiling, pleased.
“Welcome home, Mrs. McVeigh. I’se jest over Loringwood on errend with yo’ all letters to Miss Lena an’ Miss Sajane. Letters was stopped long time on the road someway; yo’ all get here soon most as they did. Judge Clarkson–he aimen’ to go meet yo’ at Savannah–start in the mawning at daybreak. He reckoned yo’ all jest wait there till some one go fo’ escort.”
“Evilena is at Loringwood, you say? Then Miss Loring and her uncle have got over from Charleston?”
“Yes, indeedy!–long time back, more’n a week now since they come. Why, how come you not hear?–they done sent yo’ word; I know Miss Lena wrote you, ’cause she said so. Yes’m, the folks is back, an’ Miss Sajane an’ Judge over there this minute; reckon they’ll feel mighty sorry yo’ all passed the gate.”
“Oh, but the letter never reached me. I had no idea they were home, and it is too far to go back I suppose? How far are we from the house now?”
“Only ’bout a mile straight ’cross fields like we come after that ’possum, but it’s a good three miles by the road.”
“Well, you present my compliments and explain the situation to Miss Loring and the Judge. We will drive on to the Terrace. Say I hope to see them all soon as they can come. Evilena can come with you in the morning. Tell Miss Gertrude I shall drive over soon as I am rested a little–and Mr. Loring, is he better?”
“Heap better–so Miss Gertrude and the doctor say. He walks roun’ some. Miss Gertrude she mightily taken with Dr. Delaven’s cure–she says he jest saved Mahs Loring’s life over there in France.”
“Dr. Delaven!” uttered the voice of the Marquise, in soft surprise–“our Dr. Delaven?” and as she spoke her hand stole out and touched that of the handsome serving woman she called Louise; “is he also a traveller seeking adventure in your South?”
“Did I not tell you?” asked Mrs. McVeigh. “I meant to. Gertrude’s note mentioned that her uncle was under the care of our friend, the young medical student, so you will hear the very latest of your beloved Paris.”
“Charming! It is to be hoped he will visit us soon. This little woman”–and she nodded towards Louise–“must be treated for homesickness; you observe her depression since we left the cities? Dr. Delaven will be an admirable cure for that.”
“Your Louise will perhaps cure herself when she sees a home again,” remarked Mrs. McVeigh; “it is life in a carriage she has perhaps grown tired of.”
“Madame is pleased to tease me as people tease children for being afraid in the dark,” explained Louise. “I am not afraid, but the silence does give one a chill. I shall be glad to reach the door of your house.”
“And we must hasten. Remember all the messages, Pluto; bring your Miss Lena tomorrow and any of the others who will come.”
“I remember, sure. Glad I was first to see yo’ all back–good night.”
The other colored men in the background had lost all interest in the ’possum hunt, and were intent listeners to the conversation. Old Nelse, who had kept up to the rest with much difficulty, now pushed himself forward for a nearer look into the carriage. Mrs. McVeigh did not notice him. But he startled the Marquise as he thrust his white bushy head and aged face over the wheel just as they were starting, and the woman Louise drew back with a gasp of actual fear.
“What a stare he gave us!” she said, as they rolled away from the group by the roadside. “That old man had eyes like augers, and he seemed to look through me–may I ask if he, also, is of your plantation, Madame?”
“Indeed, he is not,” was Mrs. McVeigh’s reassuring answer. “But he did not really mean to be impertinent; just some childish old ‘uncle’ who is allowed special privileges, I suppose. No; you won’t see any one like that at the Terrace. I can’t think who it could be unless it is Nelse, an old free man of Loring’s; and Nelse used to have better manners than that, but he is very old–nearly ninety, they say. I don’t imagine he knows his own age exactly–few of the older ones do.”
Pluto caught the old man by the shoulder and fairly lifted him out of the road as the carriage started.
“What the matter with yo’, anyway, a pitchen’ yo’self ’gainst the wheel that-a-way?” he demanded. “Yo’ ain’t boun’ and sot to get run over, are yo’?”
Some of the other men laughed, but Nelse gripped Pluto’s hand as though in need of the support.
“Fo’ God!–thought I seen a ghost, that minute,” he gasped, as the other men started after the dogs again; “the ghost of a woman what ain’t dead yet–the ghost o’ Retta.”
“Yo’ plum crazy, ole man,” said Pluto, disdainfully. “How the ghost o’ that Marg’ret get in my mistress carriage, I like to know?–’special as the woman’s as live as any of us. Yo’ gone ’stracted with all the talken’ ’bout that Marg’ret’s story. Now, I ain’t seen a mite of likeness to her in that carriage at all, I ain’t.”
“That ’cause yo’ ain’t nevah see Retta as she used to be. I tell yo’ if her chile Rhoda alive at all I go bail she the very likeness o’ that woman. My king! but she done scairt me.”
“Don’t yo’ go talk such notions to any other person,” suggested Pluto. “Yo’ get yo’self in trouble when yo’ go tellen’ how Mrs. McVeigh’s company look like a nigger, yo’ mind! Why, that lady the highest kind o’ quality–most a queen where she comes from. How yo’ reckon Mrs. McVeigh like to hear such talk?”
“Might’nt a’ been the highest quality one I meant,” protested Nelse, strong in the impression he had received; “it wa’ the othah one, then–the one in a black dress.”
All three occupants of the carriage had worn dark clothes, in the night all had looked black. Nelse had only observed one closely; but Pluto saw a chance of frightening the old man out of a subject of gossip so derogatory to the dignity of the Terrace folks, and he did not hesitate to use it.
“What other one yo’ talken’ ’bout?” he demanded, stopping short, “my Mistress McVeigh?”
“Naw!–think me a bawn fool–you? I mean the otha one–the number three lady.”
“This here moonlight sure ’nough make you see double, ole man,” said Pluto, with a chuckle. “Yo’ better paddle yo’self back to your own cabin again ’stead o’ hunten’ ghost women ’round Lorin’wood, ’cause there wan’t only two ladies in that carriage–two live ladies,” he added, meaningly, “an’ one o’ them was my mistress.”
“Fo’ Gawd’s sake!”
The old man appeared absolutely paralyzed by the statement. His eyes fairly bulged from their sockets. He opened his lips again, but no sound came; a grin of horror was the only describable expression on his face. All the superstition in his blood responded to Pluto’s suggestion, and when he finally spoke it was in a ghostly whisper.
“I–I done been a looken’ for it,” he gasped, “take me home–yo’! It’s a sure ’nough sign! Last night ole whippo’will flopped ovah my head. Three nights runnen’ a hoot owl hooted ’fore my cabin. An’ now the ghost of a woman what ain’t dead yet, sot there an’ stare at me! I ain’t entered fo’ no mo’ races in this heah worl’, boy; I done covah the track fo’ las’ time; I gwine pass undah the line at the jedge stan’, I tell yo’. I got my las’ warnen’–I gwine home!”
CHAPTER XVII
Pluto half carried the old man back to Loringwood, while the other darkies continued their ’possum hunt. Nelse said very little after his avowal of the “sign” and its relation to his lease of life. He had a nervous chill by the time they reached the house and Pluto almost repented of his fiction. Finally he compromised with his conscience by promising himself to own the truth if the frightened old fellow became worse.
But nothing more alarming resulted than his decision to return at once to his own cabin, and the further statement that he desired some one be despatched at once for “that gal Cynthy,” which was done according to his orders.
The women folk–old Chloe at their head–decided Uncle Nelse must be in some dangerous condition when he sent the command for Cynthia, whom he had divorced fifty years before. The rumors reached Dr. Delaven, who made a visit to Nelse in the cabin where he was installed temporarily, waiting for the boatmen who were delegated to row him home, he himself declining to assist in navigation or any other thing requiring physical exertion.
He was convinced his days were numbered, his earthly labors over, and he showed abject terror when Margeret entered with a glass of bitters Mrs. Nesbitt had prepared with the idea that the old man had caught a chill in his endeavor to follow the dogs on the oppossum hunt.
“I told you all how it would be when I heard of him going,” she asserted, with all a prophet’s satisfaction in a prophecy verified. “Pluto had to just about tote him home–following the dogs at his age, the idea!”
But for all her disgust at his frivolity she sent the bitters, and Delaven could not comprehend his shrinking from the cup-bearer.
“Come–come, now! You’re not at all sick, my man; what in the wide world are you shamming for? Is it for the dram? Sure, you could have that without all this commotion.”
“I done had a vision, Mahs Doctor,” he said, with impressive solemnity. “My time gwine come, I tell you.” He said no more until Margeret left the room, when he pointed after her with nervous intensity. “It’s that there woman I seen–the ghost o’ that woman what ain’t dead–the ghost o’ her when she was young an’ han’some–that’s what I seen in the McVeigh carriage this night, plain as I see yo’ face this minute. But no such live woman wa’ in that carriage, sah. Pluto, he couldn’t see but two, an’ I saw three plain as I could see one. Sure as yo’ bawn it’s a death sign, Mahs Doctor; my time done come.”
“Tut, tut!–such palaver. That would be the queerest way, entirely, to read the sign. Now, I should say it was Margeret the warning was for; why should the likeness of her come to hint of your death?”
Nelse did not reply at once. He was deep in thought–a nervous, fidgety season of thought–from which he finally emerged with a theory evidently not of comfort to himself.
“I done been talken’ too much,” he whispered. “I talk on an’ on today; I clar fo’got yo’ a plum stranger to we all. I tell all sorts o’ family things what maybe Mahs Duke not want tole. I talked ’bout that gal Retta most, so he done sent a ghost what look like Retta fo’ a sign. Till day I die I gwine keep my mouth shut ’bout Mahs Duke’s folks, I tell yo’, an’ I gwine straight home out o’ way o’ temptations.”
So oppressed was he with the idea of Mahs Duke’s displeasure that he determined to do penance if need be, and commenced by refusing a coin Delaven offered him.
“No, sah; I don’ dar take it,” he said, solemnly, “an’ I glad to give yo’ back that othar dollar to please Mahs Duke, only I done turned it into a houn’ dog what Ben sold me, and Chloe–she Ben’s mammy–she got it from him, a’ready, an’ paid it out fo’ a pair candlesticks she been grudgen’ ole M’ria a long time back, so I don’ see how I evah gwine get it. But I ain’t taken’ no mo’ chances, an’ I ain’t a risken’ no mo’ ghost signs. Jest as much obliged to yo’ all,” and he sighed regretfully, as Delaven repocketed the coin; “but I know when I got enough o’ ghosts.”
Pluto had grace enough to be a trifle uneasy at the intense despondency caused by his fiction in what he considered a good cause. The garrulity of old Nelse was verging on childishness. Pluto was convinced that despite the old man’s wonderful memory of details in the past, he was entirely irresponsible as to his accounts of the present, and he did not intend that the McVeigh family or any of their visitors should be the subject of his unreliable gossip. Pride of family was by no means restricted to the whites. Revolutionary as Pluto’s sentiments were regarding slavery, his self esteem was enhanced by the fact that since he was a bondman it was, at any rate, to a first-class family–regular quality folks, whose honor he would defend under any circumstances, whether bond or free.
His clumsily veiled queries about the probable result of Uncle Nelse’s attack aroused the suspicions of Delaven that the party of hunters had found themselves hampered by the presence of their aged visitor, who was desirous of testing the ability of his new purchase, the hound dog, and that they had resorted to some ghost trick to get rid of him.
He could not surmise how the shade of Margeret had been made do duty for the occasion, her subdued, serious manner giving the denial to any practical joke escapades.
But the news Pluto brought of Mrs. McVeigh’s homecoming dwarfed all such episodes as a scared nigger who refused to go into details as to the scare, and in his own words was “boun’ an’ sot” to keep his mouth shut in future about anything in the past which he ever had known and seen, or anything in his brief earthly future which he might know or see. He even begged Delaven to forget immediately the numerous bits of history he, Nelse, had repeated of the Loring family, and Delaven comforted him by declaring that all he could remember that minute was the horse race and he would put that out of his mind at once if necessary.
Nelse was not sure it was necessary to forget that, because it didn’t in any way reflect discredit on the family, and he didn’t in reason see why his Mahs Duke should object to that story unless it was on account of the high-flier lady from Philadelphia what Mahs Duke won away from Mr. Jackson without any sort of trouble at all, and if Mahs Duke was hovering around in the library when Miss Evilena and Mahs Doctor listened to that story, Mahs Duke ought to know in his heart, if he had any sort of memory at all, that he, Nelse, had not told half what he might have told about that Northern filly and Mahs Duke. And taking it all in all Nelse didn’t see any reason why Delaven need put that out of his remembrance–especially as it was mighty good running for two-year-olds.
Evilena had peeped in for a moment to say good-bye to their dusky Homer. But the call was very brief. All her thoughts were filled with the folks at the Terrace, and dawn in the morning had been decided on for the ten-mile row home, so anxious was she to greet her mother, and so lively was her interest in the wonderful foreigner whom Dr. Delaven had described as “Beauty’s self.”
That lady had in the meantime arrived at the Terrace, partaken of a substantial supper, and retired to her own apartments, leaving behind her an impression on the colored folks of the household that the foreign guest was no one less than some latter day queen of Sheba. Never before had their eyes beheld a mistress who owned white servants, and the maid servant herself, so fine she wore silk stockings and a delaine dress, had her meals in her own room and was so grand she wouldn’t even talk like folks, but only spoke in French, except when she wanted something special, at which time she would condescend to talk “United States” to the extent of a word or two. All this superiority in the maid–whom they were instructed to call “Miss”–reflected added glory on the mistress, who, at the supper table, had been heard say she preferred laying aside a title while in America, and to be known simply as Madame Caron; and laughingly confessed to Mrs. McVeigh that the American Republic was in a fair way to win her from the French Empire, all of which was told at once in the kitchen, where they were more convinced than ever that royalty had descended upon them. This fact did not tend to increase their usefulness in any capacity; they were so overcome by the grandeur and the importance of each duty assigned to them that the wheels of domestic machinery at the Terrace that evening were fairly clogged by the eagerness and the trepidation of the workers. They figuratively–and sometimes literally–fell over each other to anticipate any call which might assure them entrance to the wonderful presence, and were almost frightened dumb when they got there.
Mrs. McVeigh apologized for them and amused her guest with the reason:
“They have actually never seen a white servant in their lives, and are eaten up with curiosity over the very superior maid of yours, her intelligence places her so high above their ideas of servitors.”
“Yes, she is intelligent,” agreed the Marquise, “and much more than her intelligence, I value her adaptability. As my housekeeper she was simply perfect, but when my maid grew ill and I was about to travel, behold! the dignity of the housekeeper was laid aside, and with a bewitching maid’s cap and apron, and smile, she applied for the vacant position and got it, of course.”
“It was stupid of me not to offer you a maid,” said Mrs. McVeigh, regretfully; “I did not understand. But I could not, of course, have given you any one so perfect as your Louise; she is a treasure.”
“I shall probably have to get along with some one less perfect in the future,” said the other, ruefully. “She was to have had my yacht refurnished and some repairs made while I was here, and now that I am safely located, may send her back to attend to it. She is worth any two men I could employ for such supervision, in fact, I trust many such things to her.”
“Pray let her remain long enough to gain a pleasant impression of plantation life,” suggested Mrs. McVeigh, as they rose from the table. “I fancied she was depressed by the monotony of the swamp lands, or else made nervous by the group of black men around the carriage there at Loringwood; they did look formidable, perhaps, to a stranger at night, but are really the most kindly creatures.”
Judithe de Caron had walked to the windows opening on the veranda and was looking out across the lawn, light almost as day under the high moon, a really lovely view, though both houses and grounds were on a more modest scale than those of Loringwood. They lacked the grandeur suggested by the century-old cedars she had observed along the Loring drive. The Terrace was much more modern and, possibly, so much more comfortable. It had in a superlative degree the delightful atmosphere of home, and although the stranger had been within its gates so short a time, she was conscious of the wonder if in all her varied experience she had ever been in so real a home before.
“How still it all is,” remarked Mrs. McVeigh, joining her. “Tomorrow, when my little girl gets back, it will be less so; come out on the veranda and I can show you a glimpse of the river; you see, our place is built on a natural terrace sloping to the Salkahatchie. It gives us a very good view.”
“Charming! I can see that even in the night time.”
“Three miles down the river is the Clarkson place; they are most pleasant friends, and Miss Loring’s place, The Pines, joins the Terrace grounds, so we are not so isolated as might appear at first; and fortunately for us our plantation is a favorite gathering place for all of them.”
“I can quite believe that. I have been here two–three hours, perhaps, and I know already why your friends would be only too happy to come. You make them a home from the moment they enter your door.”
“You could not say anything more pleasing to my vanity, Marquise,” said her hostess, laughingly, and then checked herself at sight of an upraised finger. “Oh, I forgot–I do persist in the Marquise.”
“Come, let us compromise,” suggested her guest, “if Madame Caron sounds too new and strange in your ears, I have another name, Judithe; it may be more easily remembered.”
“In Europe and England,” she continued, “where there are so many royal paupers, titles do not always mean what they are supposed to. I have seen a Russian prince who was a hostler, an English lord who was an attendant in a gambling house, and an Italian count porter on a railway. Over here, where titles are rare, they make one conspicuous; I perceived that in New Orleans. I have no desire to be especially conspicuous. I only want to enjoy myself.”
“You can’t help people noticing you a great deal, with or without a title,” and Mrs. McVeigh smiled at her understandingly. “You cannot hope to escape being distinguished, but you shall be whatever you like at the Terrace.”
They walked arm in arm the length of the veranda, chatting lightly of Parisian days and people until ten o’clock sounded from the tall clock in the library. Mrs. McVeigh counted the strokes and exclaimed at the lateness.
“I certainly am a poor enough hostess to weary you the first evening with chatter instead of sending you to rest, after such a drive,” she said, in self accusation. “But you are such a temptation–Judithe.”
They both laughed at her slight hesitation over the first attempt at the name.
“Never mind; you will get used to it in time,” promised the Marquise, “I am glad you call me ‘Judithe.’”
Then they said good night; she acknowledged she did feel sleepy–a little–though she had forgotten it until the clock struck.
Mrs. McVeigh left her at the door and went on down the hall to her own apartment–a little regretful lest Judithe should be over wearied by the journey and the evening’s gossip.
But she really looked a very alert, wide-awake young lady as she divested herself of the dark green travelling dress and slipped into the luxurious lounging robe Mademoiselle Louise held ready.
Her brows were bent in a frown of perplexity very different from the gay smile with which she had parted from her hostess. She glanced at her attendant and read there anxiety, even distress.
“Courage, Louise,” she said, cheerily; “all is not lost that’s in danger. Horrors! What a long face! Look at yourself in the mirror. I have not seen such a mournful countenance since the taking of New Orleans.”
“And it was not your mirror showed a mournful countenance that day, Marquise,” returned the other. “I am glad some one can laugh; but for me, I feel more like crying, and that’s the truth. Heavens! How long that time seemed until you came.”
“I know,” and the glance of her mistress was very kind. “I could feel that you were walking the floor and waiting, but it was not possible to get away sooner. Get the other brush, child; there are wrinkles in my head as well as my hair this evening; you must help me to smooth them.”
But the maid was not to be comforted by even that suggestion, though she brushed the wavy, dusky mane with loving hands–one could not but read tenderness in every touch she gave the shining tresses. But her sighs were frequent for all that.
“Me of help?” she said, hopelessly. “I tell you true, Marquise, I am no use to anybody, I’m that nervous. I was afraid of this journey all the time. I told you so before you left Mobile; you only laughed at my superstitious fears, and now, even before we reach the place, you see what happened.”
“I see,” asserted the Marquise, smiling at her, teasingly, “but then the reasons you gave were ridiculous, Louise; you had dreams, and a coffin in a teacup. Come, come; it is not so bad as you fear, despite the prophetic tea grounds; there is always a way out if you look for paths; so we will look.”
“It is all well for you, Marquise, to scoff at the omens; you are too learned to believe in them; but it is in our blood, perhaps, and it’s no use us fighting against presentiments, for they’re stronger than we are. I had no heart to get ready for the journey–not a bit. We are cut off from the world, and even suppose you could accomplish anything here, it will be more difficult than in the cities, and the danger so much greater.”
“Then the excitement will provide an attraction, child, and the late weeks have really been very dull.”
The hair dressing ceased because the maid could not manipulate the brush and express sufficient surprise at the same time.
“Heavens, Madame! What then would you call lively if this has been dull? I’m patriotic enough–or revengeful enough, perhaps–for any human sort of work; but you fairly frighten me sometimes the way you dash into things, and laughing at it all the time as if it was only a joke to you, just as you are doing this minute. You are harder than iron in some things and yet you look so delicately lovely–so like a beautiful flower–that every one loves you, and–”
“Every one? Oh, Louise, child, do you fancy, then, that you are the whole world?”
The maid lifted the hand of the mistress and touched it to her cheek.
“I don’t only love you, I worship you,” she murmured. “You took me when I was nothing, you trusted me, you taught me, you made a new woman of me. I wouldn’t ever mind slavery if I was your slave.”
“There, there, Louise;” and she laid her hand gently on the head of the girl who had sunk on the floor beside her. “We are all slaves, more or less, to something in this world. Our hearts arrange that without appeal to the law-makers.”
“All but yours,” said the maid, looking up at her fondly and half questioningly, “I don’t believe your heart is allowed to arrange anything for you. Your head does it all; that is why I say you are hard as iron in some things. I don’t honestly believe your heart is even in this cause you take such risks for. You think it over, decide it is wrong, and deliberately outstrip every one else in your endeavor to right it. That is all because you are very learned and very superior to the emotions of most people;” and she touched the hand of the Marquise caressingly. “That is how I have thought it all out; for I see that the motives others are moved by never touch you; the others–even the high officials–do not understand you, or only one did.”
Her listener had drifted from attention to the soft caressing tones of the one time Parisian figurante, whose devotion was so apparent and whose nature required a certain amount of demonstration. The Marquise had, from the first, comprehended her wonderfully well, and knew that back of those feminine, almost childish cravings for expression, there lived an affectionate nature too long debarred from worthy objects, and now absolutely adoring the one she deemed her benefactress; all the more adoring because of the courage and daring, that to her had a fascinating touch of masculinity about it; no woman less masterful, nor less beautiful, could have held the pretty Kora so completely. The dramatic side of her nature was appealed to by the luxurious surroundings of the Marquise, and the delightful uncertainty, as each day’s curtain of dawn was lifted, whether she was to see comedy or tragedy enacted before the night fell. She had been audience to both, many times, since the Marquise had been her mistress.
