Kitabı oku: «The Bondwoman», sayfa 12
Just now the mistress was in some perplexed quandary of her own, and gave little heed to the flattering opinions of the maid, and only aroused to the last remark at which she turned with questioning eyes, not entirely approving:
“Whom do you mean?” she asked, with a trifle of constraint, and the maid sighed as she selected a ribbon to bind the braid she had finished.
“No one you would remember, Marquise,” she said, shaking her head; “the trouble is you remember none of them, though you make it impossible that they should forget you. Many of those fine gallants of Orleans I was jealous of and glad to see go; but this one, truly now, he seemed to me well worth keeping.”
“Had he a name?” asked the Marquise, removing some rings, and yawning slightly.
“He had,” said the girl, who was unfolding a night robe and shaking the wrinkles from the very Parisian confection of lawn and lace and tiny pink ribbons accenting neck and wrist. When she walked one perceived a slight halt in her step–a reminder of the injury through which her career in Paris had been brought to an end. “He had, my Marquise. I mean the Federal officer, Monroe–Captain Jack, the men called him. Of all the Orleans gentlemen he was the only one I thought fit for a mate for you–the only one I was sorry to see you send away.”
“Send? What an imaginative romancer you are! He went where his duty called him, no doubt. I do not remember that I was responsible. And your choice of him shows you are at least not worldly in your selections, for he was a reckless sort of ranger, I believe, with his sword and his assurance as chief belongings.”
“You forget, Marquise, his courage.”
“Oh, that!” and Judithe made a little gesture of dismissal; “it is nothing in a man, all men should have courage. But, to change the subject, which of the two men have most interest for us tonight, Captain Jack or Dr. Delaven? The latter, I fancy. While you have been chattering I have been making plans.”
The maid ceased her movements about the room in the preparations for the night, and, drawing a low stool closer, listened with all attention.
“Since you are afraid here and too much oppressed by your presentiments to be useful”–she accompanied this derogatory statement with an amused smile–“I conclude it best for you to return to the sea-board at once–before Dr. Delaven and the rest pay their duty visit here.
“I had hoped the change in your appearance would place you beyond danger of recognition, and so it would with any one who had not known you personally. Madame McVeigh has been vaguely impressed with your resemblance to Monsieur Dumaresque’s picture. But the impression of Dr. Delaven would probably be less vague–his remembrance of you not having been entirely the memory of a canvas.”
“That is quite true,” agreed the other, with a regretful sigh. “I have spoken with him many times. He came with–with his friend Trouvelot to see me when I was injured. It was he who told me the physicians were propping me up with falsehoods, and taking my money for curing a lameness they knew was incurable. Yes, he was my good friend in that. He would surely remember me,” and she looked troubled.
“So I supposed; and with rumors abroad of an unknown in the heart of the South, who is a secret agent for the Federals, it is as well not to meet any one who could suggest that the name you use is an assumed one, it might interfere with your usefulness even more than your dismal presentiments,” and she arched her brows quizzically at the maid, who sighed forlornly over the complications suggested. “So, you must leave at once.”
“Leave, alone–without you?” and the girl’s agitation was very apparent. “Madame, I beg you to find some reason for going with me, or for following at once. I could send a dispatch from Savannah, you could make some excuse! You, oh, Marquise! if I leave you here alone I would be in despair; I would fear I should never, never see you again!”
“Nonsense, child! There is absolutely no ground for your fears. If you should meet trouble in any way you have only to send me word and I will be with you. But your imaginary terrors you must yourself subdue. Come, now, be reasonable. You must go back–it is decided. Take note of all landmarks as we did in coming; if messengers are needed it is much better that you inform yourself of all approaches here. Wait for the yacht at Savannah. Buy anything needed for its refurnishing, and see that a certain amount of repairing is done there while you wait further orders. I shall probably have it brought to Beaufort, later, which would be most convenient if I should desire to give my good friends here a little salt water excursion. So, you perceive, it is all very natural, and it is all decided.”
“Heavens, Marquise, how fast you move! I had only got so far I was afraid to remain, and afraid to excite wonder by leaving; and while I lament, you arrange a campaign.”
“Exactly; so you see how easily it is all to be done, and how little use your fears.”
“I am so much more contented that I will see everything as you wish,” promised the girl, brightly. “Savannah, after all, is not very far, and Beaufort is nearer still. But after all, you must own, my presentiments were not all wrong, Marquise. It really was unlucky–this journey.”
“We have heretofore had only good fortune; why should we complain because of a few obstacles now?” asked her mistress. “To become a diplomat one needs to be first a philosopher, and prepared at all times for the worst.”
“I could be more of a philosopher myself over these complications,” agreed the girl, smiling, “if I were a foreigner of rank seeking amusement and adventure. But the troubles of all this country have come so close home to the people of my race that we fear even to think what the worst might be.”
The Marquise held up an admonishing finger and glanced towards the door.
“Of course no one hears, but it is best never to allow yourself the habit of referring to family or personal affairs. Even though we speak a language not generally understood in this country, do not–even to me–speak of your race. I know all, understand it all, without words; and, for the people we have met, they do not doubt you are a San Domingo Creole. You must be careful lest they think differently.”
“You are right; what a fool I am! My tongue ever runs ahead of my wit. Marquise, sometimes I laugh when I remember how capable I thought myself on leaving Paris, what great things I was to do–I!” and she shrugged her plump shoulders in self derision. “Why, I should have been discovered a dozen times had I depended on my own wit. I am a good enough orderly, but only under a capable general,” and she made a smiling courtesy to the Marquise.
“Chatterbox! If I am the general of your distinguished selection, I shall issue an order at once for your immediate retirement.”
“Oh, Marquise!”
“To bed,” concluded her mistress, gayly, “go; I shall not need you. I have work to do.”
The girl first unlaced the dark boots and substituted a pair of soft pink slippers, and touched her cheek to the slender foot.
“I shall envy the maid who does even that for you when I am gone,” she said, softly. “Now, good rest to you, my general, and pleasant dreams.”
“Thanks; but my dreams are never formidable nor important,” was the teasing reply as the maid vanished. The careless smile gave way to a quick sigh of relief as the door closed. She arose and walked back and forth across the room with nervous, rapid steps, her hands clasped back of her head and the wide sleeves of the robe slipped back, showing the perfect arms. She seemed a trifle taller than when in Paris that first springtime, and the open robe revealed a figure statuesque, perfect as a sculptor’s ideal, yet without the statue’s coldness; for the uncovered throat and bosom held delicious dimples where the robe fell apart and was swept aside by her restless movements.
But her own appearance was evidently far from her thoughts at that moment. Several of Mrs. McVeigh’s very affectionate words and glances had recurred to her and brought her a momentary restlessness. It was utterly absurd that it should be so, especially when she had encouraged the fondness, and meant to continue doing so. But she had not counted on being susceptible to the same feeling for Kenneth McVeigh’s mother–yet she had come very near it, and felt it necessary to lay down the limits as to just how far she would allow such a fondness to lead her.
And the fact that she was in the home of her one-time lover gave rise to other complex fancies. How would they meet if chance should send him there during her stay? He had had time for many more such boyish fancies since those days, and back of them all was the home sweetheart she heard spoken of so often–Gertrude Loring.
How very, very long ago it seemed since the meetings at Fontainbleau; what an impulsive fool she had been, and how childish it all seemed now!
But Judithe de Caron told herself she was not the sort of person to allow memories of bygone sentiment to interfere for long with practical affairs. She drew up a chair to the little stand by the window and plunged into the work she had spoken of, and for an hour her pen moved rapidly over the paper until page after page was laid aside.
But after the last bit of memoranda was completed she leaned back, looking out into the blue mists of the night–across his lands luxuriant in all the beauty of summer time and moonlight, the fields over which he had ridden, the trees under which he had walked, with, perhaps, an occasional angry thought of her–never dreaming that she, also, would walk there some day.
“But to think that I am actually here–here above all!” she murmured softly. “Maman, once I said I would be Judithe indeed to that man if he was ever delivered into my hands. Yet, when he came I ran away from him–ran away because I was afraid of him! But now–”
Her beautiful eyes half closed in a smile not mirthful, and the sentence was left unfinished.
CHAPTER XVIII
What embraces, ejaculations and caresses, when Evilena, accompanied by Pluto and the delighted Raquel, arrived at the Terrace next morning! Judithe, who saw from the veranda the rapturous meeting of mother and daughter, sighed, a quick, impatient catching of the breath, and turned to enter the library through the open French windows. Reconsidering her intention, she halted, and waited at the head of the broad steps where Kenneth’s sister saw her for the first time and came to her with a pleased, half shy greeting, and where Kenneth’s mother slipped one arm around each as they entered the house, and between the two she felt welcomed into the very heart of the McVeigh family feminine.
“Oh, and mama!”–thus exclaimed Evilena as she was comfortably ensconced in the same chair with that lady–“there is so much news to tell you I don’t know where to begin. But Gertrude sends love–please don’t go, Madame Caron–I am only going to talk about the neighbors. And they are all coming over very soon, and the best of all is, Gertrude has at last coaxed Uncle Matthew (a roguish grimace at the title) to give up Loringwood entirely and come to the Pines. And Dr. Delaven–he’s delightful, mama, when he isn’t teasing folks–he strongly advises them to make the change soon; and, oh, won’t you ask them all over for a few weeks until the Pines is ready? And did you hear about two of their field hands running off? Well, they did. Scip and Aleck; isn’t it too bad? and Mr. Loring doesn’t know it yet, no one dares tell him; and Masterson’s Cynthia had a boy run off, too, and went to the Yankees, they suppose. And old Nelse he got scared sick at a ghost last night while they were ’possum hunting. And, oh, mama, have you heard from Ken?–not a word has come here, and he never even saw Gertrude over there. He must be powerful busy if he could not stop long enough to hunt friends up and say ‘howdy.’”
“Lena, Lena, child!” and the mother sank back in her chair, laughing. “Have they enforced some silent system of existence on you since I have been down at Mobile? I declare, you fairly make my head swim with your torrent of news and questions. Judithe, does not this young lady fulfill the foreign idea of the American girl–a combination of the exclamation and interrogation point?”
Evilena stopped further criticism by kisses.
“I will be good as goodness rather than have Madame Caron make up her mind I am silly the very first day,” she promised, “but, oh, mama, it is so good to have you to talk to, and so delightful of Madame to come with you”–this with a swift, admiring side glance at their visitor–“and, altogether, I’m just in love with the world today.”
Later she informed them that Judge Clarkson would probably drive over that evening, as he was going to Columbia or Savannah–she had forgotten which–and had to go home first. He would have come with her but for a business talk he wanted to have, if Mr. Loring was able, this morning.
“Gertrude coaxed him to stop over and settle something about selling Loringwood. She’s just grieving over the wreck and ruin there, and Mr. Loring never will be able to manage it again. They’ve been offered a lot of money for it by some Orleans people, and Gertrude wants it settled. Aunt Sajane is going to stay until they all come to the Pines.”
“If Judge Clarkson should be going to Savannah you could send your maid in his charge, since she is determined to leave us,” suggested Mrs. McVeigh.
“She would, no doubt, be delighted to go under such escort,” said Judithe, “but her arrangements are made to start early in the morning; it is not likely your friend would be leaving so soon. Then, mademoiselle has said she is not sure but that it is to some other place he goes.”
“Columbia?–yes; and more than likely it is Columbia,” assented Mrs. McVeigh. “He is there a great deal during these troublous times.”
A slight sigh accompanied the words, and Judithe noticed, as she had done often before, the lack of complaint or bewailings of the disasters so appalling to the South, for even the victories were so dearly bought. There was an intense eagerness for news from the front, and when it was read, the tears were silent ones. The women smiled bravely and were sure of victory in the end. Their faith in their men was adorable.
Evilena undertook to show the Marquise around the Terrace, eagerly anxious to become better acquainted with the stranger whose beauty had won her quite as quickly as it had won her brother. Looking at her, and listening to the soft tones with the delicious accent of France, she wondered if Ken had ever really dared to fall in love with this star from a foreign sky, or if Dr. Delaven had only been teasing her. Of course one could not help the loving; but brave as she believed Ken to be, she wondered if he had ever dared even whisper of it to Judithe, Marquise de Caron; for she refused to think of her as simply Madame Caron even though she did have to say it. The courtesy shown to her own democratic country by the disclaiming of titles was altogether thrown away on Evilena, and she comforted herself by whispering softly the given name Zhu-dette–Zhudette, delighted to find that the French could make of the stately name a musical one as well.
Raquel came breathlessly to them on the lawn with the information that “Mistress McVeigh ast them to please come in de house right off case that maid lady, Miss Weesa, she done slip on stairs an’ hurt her foot powerful.”
“Thanks, yes; I will come at once,” said Miss Weesa’s mistress in so clear and even a tone that Evilena, who was startled at the news, was oppressed by a sudden fear that all the warmth in the nature of her fascinating Marquise was centered in the luminous golden brown eyes.
As Judithe followed the servant into the house there came a swift remembrance of those lamentable presentiments. Was there, after all, something in the blood akin to the prescience through which birds and wild things scent the coming storms?–some atavism outgrown by the people of intellectual advancement, but yet a power to the children of the near sun?
Miss Louisa’s foot certainly was hurt; it had been twisted by a fall on the stairs, and the ankle refused to bear the weight; the attempt to step on it caused her such agony that she had called for help, and the entire household had responded.
It was Pluto who reached her first, lifting her in his arms and carrying her to a bed. She had almost fainted from pain or fright, and when she opened her eyes again it was to meet those of her mistress in one wild appeal. Pluto had not moved after placing her on the bed, though the other darkies had retired into the hall, and Judithe’s first impression of the scene was the huge black eyes fairly devouring the girl’s face with his curious gaze. He stepped back as Mrs. McVeigh entered with camphor and bandages, but he saw that pleading, frightened glance.
“Never mind, Louise, it will all be well,” said her mistress, soothingly; “this has happened before,” she added, turning to Mrs. McVeigh. “It needs stout bandages and perfect rest; in a week it will be forgotten.”
“A week!”–moaned the girl with pale lips, “but tomorrow–I must go tomorrow!”
“Patience, patience! You shall so soon as you are able, Louise, and the less you fret the sooner that may be.”
Judithe herself knelt by the bed and removed tenderly the coquettish shoe of soft kid, and, to the horror of the assembled maids at the door, deliberately cut off the silk stocking, over which their wonder had been aroused when the short skirts of Louise had made visible those superfine articles. The pieces of stocking, needless to say, were captured as souvenirs and for many a day shown to the scoffers of neighboring plantations, who doubted the wild tales of luxury ascribed to the foreign magnate whose servants were even dressed like sure enough ladies.
“We must bandage it to keep down the swelling,” said Judithe, working deftly as she spoke; “it happened once in New Orleans–this, and though painful, is not really serious, but she is so eager to commence the refurnishing of the yacht that she laments even a day’s delay.”
Louise did not speak again–only showed by a look her comprehension of the statement, and bore patiently the binding of the ankle.
It was three days before she could move about the room with help of a cane, and during those days of feverish anxiety her mistress had an opportunity to observe the very pointed and musical interest Pluto showed in the invalid whose language he could not speak. He was seldom out of hearing or her call and was plainly disturbed when word came from Loringwood that the folks would all be over in a few days. He even ventured to ask Evilena if Mr. Loring’s eyesight hadn’t failed some since his long sickness, and was well satisfied, apparently, by an affirmative reply. He even went so far as to give Louise a slight warning, which she repeated to her mistress one day after the Judge and Delaven had called, and Louise had promptly gone to bed and to sleep, professing herself too well now for a doctor’s attention.
“Pluto is either trying to lay a trap for me to see if I do know English, or else he is better informed than we guess–which it is, I cannot say, Marquise,” she confided, nervously. “When he heard his mistress say I was to start Thursday, he watched his chance and whispered: ‘Go Wednesday–don’t wait till visitors come, go Wednesday.’”
“Visitors?–then he means the Lorings, they are to be here Thursday,” and Judithe closed the book she had been reading, and looked thoughtfully out of the window. Louise was moving about the room with the aid of a cane, glancing at her mistress now and then and waiting to hear her opinion.
“I believe I would take his advice, Louise,” she said at last. “I have not noticed the man much beyond the fact that he has been wonderfully attentive to your wants. What do you think of him–or of his motives?”
“I believe they are good,” said the girl, promptly. “He is dissatisfied; I can see that–one of the insurrection sort who are always restless. He’s entirely bound up in the issue of the war, as regards his own people. He suspects me and because he suspects me tries to warn me–to be my friend. When I am gone you may need some one here, and of all I see he is the one to be most trusted, though, perhaps, Dr. Delaven–”
“Is out of the question,” and Judithe’s decision was emphatic. “These people are his friends.”
“They are yours, too, Marquise,” said the girl, smiling a little; but no smile answered her, a slight shade of annoyance–a tiny frown–bent the dark brows.
“Yes, I remember that sometimes, but I possess an antidote,” she replied, lightly. “You know–or perhaps you do not know–that it is counted a virtue in a Gypsy to deceive a Georgio–well, I am fancying myself a Gypsy. In the Mohammedan it is a virtue to deceive the Christian, and I am a Mohammedan for the moment. In the Christian it was counted for centuries a mark of special grace if he despoil the Jew, until generations of oppression showed the wanderer the real God held sacred by his foes–money, my child, which he proceeded to garner that he might purchase the privileges of other races. So, with my Jewish name as a foundation, I have created an imaginary Jewish ancestor whose wrongs I take up against the people of a Christian land; I add all this debt to the debt Africa owes this enlightened nation, and I shall help to pay it.”
The eyes of Louise widened at this fantastical reason. She was often puzzled to determine whether the Marquise was entirely serious, or only amusing herself with wild fancies when she touched on pondrous questions with gay mockery.
Just now she laughed as she read dismay in the maid’s face.
“Oh, it is quite true, Louise, it is a Christian land–and more, it is the most Christian portion of a Christian land, because the South is entirely orthodox; only in the North will you find a majority of skeptics, atheists, and agnostics. Though they may be scarcely conscious of it themselves, it is because of their independent heterodox tendencies that they are marching today by thousands to war against a slavery not their own–the most righteous motive for a war in the world’s history; but it cannot be denied that they are making war against an eminently Christian institution.” And she smiled across at Louise, whose philosophy did not extend to the intricacies of such questions.
“I don’t understand even half the reasons back of the war,” she confessed, “but the thing I do understand is that the black man is likely to have a chance for freedom if the North wins, and that’s the one question to me. Miss Evilena said yesterday it was all a turmoil got up by Yankee politicians who will fill their pockets by it.”
“Oh, that was after Judge Clarkson’s call; she only quoted him in that, and he is right in a way,” she added; “there is a great deal of political jugglery there without a vestige of patriotism in it, but they do not in the least represent the great heart of the people of the North; they are essentially humanitarians. So you see I weigh all this, with my head, not my heart,” she added, quizzically, “and having done so–having chosen my part–I can’t turn back in the face of the enemy, even when met by smiles, though I confess they are hard weapons to face. It is a battle where the end to be gained justifies the methods used.”
“Ma belle, Marquise,” murmured the girl, in the untranslatable caress of voice and eyes. “Sometimes I grow afraid, and you scatter the fear by your own fearlessness. Sometimes I grow weak, and you strengthen me with reasons, reasons, reasons!”
“That is because the heart is not allowed to hamper the head.”
“Oh, you tease me. You speak to me like a guardian angel of my people; your voice is like a trumpet, it stirs echoes in my heart, and the next minute you laugh as though it were all a play, and I were a child to be amused.”
“‘And each man in his time plays many parts,’” quoted Judithe, thoughtfully, then with a mocking glance she added: “But not so many as women do.”
“There–that is what I mean. One moment you are all seriousness and the next–”
“But, my child, it is criminal to be serious all the time; it kills the real life and leads to melancholia. You would grow morbid through your fears if I did not laugh at them sometimes, and it would never–never do for me to approve them.”
She touched the girl’s hand softly with her own and looked at her with a certain affectionate chiding.
“You are going away from me, Louise, and you must not go in dread or despondency. It may not be for long, perhaps, but even if it should be, you must remember that I love you–I trust you. I pity you for the childhood and youth whose fate was no choice of yours. Never forget my trust in you; when we are apart it may comfort you to remember it.”
The girl looked at her with wide black eyes, into which the tears crept.
“Marquise,” she whispered, “you talk as if you might be sending me away for always. Oh, Marquise–”
Judithe raised her hand warningly.
“Be a soldier, child,” she said, softly, “each time we separate for even a day–you and I–we do not know that we will ever meet again. These are war times, you know.”
“I know–but I never dreaded a separation so much; I wish you were not to remain. Perhaps that Pluto’s words made me more nervous–it is so hard to tell how much he guesses, and those people–the Lorings–”
“I think I shall be able to manage the Lorings,” said her mistress, with a reassuring smile, “even the redoubtable Matthew–the tyrannical terror of the county; so cheer up, Louise. Even the longest parting need only be a lifetime, and I should find you at the end of it.”
“And find me still your slave,” said the girl, looking at her affectionately. “That’s a sort of comfort to think, Marquise; I’m glad you said it. I’ll think of it until me meet again.”
She repeated it Wednesday morning when she entered the boat for the first stage of her journey to Savannah, and the Marquise nodded her comprehension, murmured kindly words of adieu, and watched the little vessel until a bend in the river hid it from view, when she walked slowly back to the house. Since her arrival in America this was the first time she had been separated from the devoted girl for more than a day, and she realized the great loss it would be to her, though she knew it to be an absolutely necessary one.
As for Louise, she watched to the last the slight elevation of the Terrace grounds rising like an island of green from the level lands by the river. When it finally disappeared–barred out by the nearer green of drooping branches, she wept silently, and with a heavy heart went downward to Pocotaligo, oppressed by the seemingly groundless fear that some unknown evil threatened herself or the Marquise–the dread lest they never meet again.
