CHAPTER XXV
TWO WOMEN
Evelyn, hearing footsteps across the floor of the attic room above her ownbedchamber, arose and set wide the door; then went back to her chair bythe window that looked out upon green grass and party-colored trees andlong reaches of the shining river. "Come here, if you please," she calledto 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 ageafforded, and stood before the sometime princess of her dreams. "Will younot 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 myway"--
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 andsky and ceaseless drift of colored leaves. "You can never go out of mylife," she said. "Why the power to vex and ruin was given you I do notknow, 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 herhead up, but she felt the stab. It had not occurred to her that hers wasthe power to vex and ruin; apparently that belonged elsewhere.
Evelyn turned from the window, and the two women, the princess and theherdgirl, regarded each other. "Oh, my God!" cried Evelyn. "I did not knowthat you loved him so!"
But Audrey shook her head, and spoke with calmness: "Once I loved and knewit not, and once I loved and knew it. It was all in a dream, and now Ihave waked up." She passed her hand across her brow and eyes, and pushedback her heavy hair. It was a gesture that was common to her. To Evelyn itbrought a sudden stinging memory of the ballroom at the Palace; of howthis girl had looked in her splendid dress, with the roses in her hair; ofHaward'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. Inever meant to harm you."
The other gazed at her with wide, dry eyes, and with an unwonted color inher cheeks. "She is beautiful," thought Audrey; then wondered how long shemust stay in this room and this house. Without the window the treesbeckoned, 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 uponthe cloud, thought, "If the wings were mine, I would reach the mountainsto-night."
"Do you remember last May Day?" asked Evelyn, in a voice scarcely above awhisper. "He and I, sitting side by side, watched your running, and Ipraised you to him. Then we went away, and while we gathered flowers onthe road to Williamsburgh he asked me to be his wife. I said no, for heloved me not as I wished to be loved. Afterward, in Williamsburgh, hespoke again.... I said, 'When you come to Westover;' and he kissed myhand, and vowed that the next week should find him here." She turned oncemore to the window, and, with her chin in her hand, looked out upon thebeauty of the autumn. "Day by day, and day by day," she said, in the samehushed voice, "I sat at this window and watched for him to come. The weekswent by, and he came not. I began to hear talk of you. Oh, I deny not thatit 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, payingme court. I was too proud to speak of what I had heard. After a while Ithought it must have been an idle rumor." Her voice changed, and with asudden 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 allthe years to come I shall have that comfort: for one little month, in thecompany of the woman whom, because she was of his own rank, because shehad wealth, because others found her fair and honored her with heart aswell as lip, he wished to make his wife,--for that short month he forgotyou! 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 hewent with us, and again I heard your name coupled with his.... There wasbetween us no betrothal. I had delayed to say yes to his asking, for Iwished to make sure,--to make sure that he loved me. No man can say hebroke 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 thelights, and you dancing with him, in your dark beauty, with the flowers inyour hair ... and after that, you and I in my coach and his face at thewindow!... Oh, I can tell you what he said! He said: 'Good-by,sweetheart.... The violets are for you; but the great white blossoms, andthe boughs of rosy mist, and all the trees that wave in the wind are forAudrey.'"
"For me!" cried Audrey,--"for me an hour in Bruton church next morning!"
A silence followed her words. Evelyn, sitting in the great chair, restedher cheek upon her hand and gazed steadfastly at her guest of a day. Thesunshine had stolen from the room, but dwelt upon and caressed the worldwithout the window. Faint, tinkling notes of a harpsichord floated up fromthe parlor below, followed by young Madam Byrd's voice singing to theperturbed 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 herknees before a chair and buried her face in its cushions.
When a little time had passed, Evelyn arose and went to her. "Fate hasplayed with us both," she said, in a voice that strove for calmness. "Ifthere was great bitterness in my heart toward you then, I hope it is notso now; if, on that night, I spoke harshly, unkindly, ungenerously, I--Iam 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 haswritten to me; days ago I had this letter." It was in her hand, and sheheld it out to the kneeling girl. "Yes, yes, you must read; it concernsyou." Her voice, low and broken, was yet imperious. Audrey raised herhead, took and read the letter. There were but a few unsteady lines,written from Marot's ordinary at Williamsburgh. The writer was too weak asyet for many words; few words were best, perhaps. His was all the blamefor the occurrence at the Palace, for all besides. That which, upon hisrecovery, he must strive to teach his acquaintance at large he prayedEvelyn to believe at once and forever. She whom, against her will and inthe madness of his fever, he had taken to the Governor's house was mostinnocent,--guiltless of all save a childlike affection for the writer, amisplaced confidence, born of old days, and now shattered by his own hand.Before that night she had never guessed his passion, never known the usethat had been made of her name. This upon the honor of a gentleman. Forthe rest, as soon as his strength was regained, he purposed traveling toWestover. There, if Mistress Evelyn Byrd would receive him for an hour,he might in some measure explain, excuse. For much, he knew, there was noexcuse,--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. "Itis true,--what he says?" whispered the latter, crumpling the paper in herhand.
Audrey gazed up at her with wide, tearless eyes. "Yes, it is true. Therewas no need for you to use those words to me in the coach, thatnight,--though even then I did not understand. There is no reason why youshould fear to touch me."
Her head sank upon her arm. In the parlor below the singing came to anend, 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, thestil
lness, and the sorrow within the room. Evelyn, turning slowly towardthe kneeling figure, of a sudden saw it through a mist of tears. Herclasped hands parted; she bent and touched the bowed head. Audrey lookedup, and her dark eyes made appeal. Evelyn stooped lower yet; her tearsfell upon Audrey's brow; a moment, and the two, cast by life in theselfsame tragedy, were in each other's arms.
"You know that I came from the mountains," whispered Audrey. "I am goingback. 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 ofcold and hunger. No, no! We are alike unhappy: you shall stay with me hereat Westover."
HER DARK EYES MADE APPEAL]
She rose from her knees, and Audrey rose with her. They no longer claspedeach other,--that impulse was past,--but their eyes met in sorrowfulamity. Audrey shook her head. "That may not be," she said simply. "I mustgo away that we may not both be unhappy." She lifted her face to the cloudin the south, "I almost died last night. When you drown, there is at firstfear and struggling, but at last it is like dreaming, and there is alightness.... When that came I thought, 'It is the air of themountains,--I am drawing near them.' ... Will you let me go now? I willslip from the house through the fields into the woods, and none willknow"--
But Evelyn caught her by the wrist. "You are beside yourself! I wouldrouse 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 youngman, bowing on the threshold. He was just come from the attic room, wherehe had failed to find the young woman who had been lodged there thatmorning. The Colonel, supposing that by now she was recovered from herswoon and her fright of the night before, and having certain questions toput to her, desired her to descend to the parlor. Hearing voices inMistress Evelyn's room--
"Very well, Mr. Drew," said the lady. "You need not wait. I will myselfseek my father with--with our guest."
In the parlor Madam Byrd was yet at the harpsichord, but ceased to touchthe keys when her step-daughter, followed by Darden's Audrey, entered theroom. The master of Westover, seated beside his young wife, looked quicklyup, arched his brows and turned somewhat red, as his daughter, with hergliding step, crossed the room to greet him. Audrey, obeying a motion ofher companion's hand, waited beside a window, in the shadow of its heavycurtains. "Evelyn," quoth the Colonel, rising from his chair and takinghis daughter's hand, "this is scarce befitting"--
Evelyn stayed his further speech by an appealing gesture. "Let me speakwith you, sir. No, no, madam, do not go! There is naught the world mightnot hear."
Audrey waited in the shadow by the window, and her mind was busy, for shehad her plans to lay. Sometimes Evelyn's low voice, sometimes theColonel's deeper tones, pierced her understanding; when this was so shemoved restlessly, wishing that it were night and she away. Presently shebegan to observe the room, which was richly furnished. There were garlandsupon 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 theharpsichord wore a dress to match the flowers, while Evelyn's dress waswhite; 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 theman from whom she had fled. "Mr. Marmaduke Haward, massa!" announced theservant who had ushered him through the hall.
Haward, hat in hand, entered the room. The three beside the harpsichordarose; the one at the window slipped deeper into the shadow of thecurtains, and so escaped the visitor's observation. The latter bowed tothe master of Westover, who ceremoniously returned the salute, and to thetwo ladies, who curtsied to him, but opened not their lips.
"This, sir," said Colonel Byrd, holding himself very erect, "is anunexpected honor."
"Rather, sir, an unwished-for intrusion," answered the other. "I beg youto believe that I will trouble you for no longer time than mattersrequire."
The Colonel bit his lip. "There was a time when Mr. Haward was mostwelcome to my house. If 't is no longer thus"--
Haward made a gesture of assent. "I know that the time is past. I am sorrythat 't is so. I had thought, sir, to find you alone. Am I to speak beforethese ladies?"
The Colonel hesitated, but Evelyn, leaving Madam Byrd beside theharpsichord, came to her father's side. That gentleman glanced at herkeenly. There was no agitation to mar the pensive loveliness of her face;her eyes were steadfast, the lips faintly smiling. "If what you have tosay concerns my daughter," said the Colonel, "she will listen to you hereand now."
For a few moments dead silence; then Haward spoke, slowly, weighing hiswords: "I am on my way, Colonel Byrd, to the country beyond the falls. Ihave entered upon a search, and I know not when it will be ended or when Ishall return. Westover lay in my path, and there was that which needed tobe said to you, sir, and to your daughter. When it has been said I willtake my leave." He paused; then, with a quickened breath, again took uphis task: "Some months ago, sir, I sought and obtained your permission tomake my suit to your daughter for her hand. The lady, worthy of a bettermate, hath done well in saying no to my importunity. I accept herdecision, withdraw my suit, wish her all happiness." He bowed againformally; then stood with lowered eyes, his hand griping the edge of thetable.
"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 toEvelyn, snow-white, calm, with that faint smile upon her face. "May Ispeak 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, andpaused, biting his lip. It was very quiet in the familiar parlor, quietand dim, and drawing toward eventide. The lady at the harpsichord chancedto let fall her hand upon the keys. They gave forth a deep and melancholysound that vibrated through the room. The chord was like an odor in itssubtle 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 bentover her at the harpsichord when the song was finished; had sat beside herin the deep window seat while the stars brightened, before the candleswere brought in.
Now, for a moment, he stood with his hand over his eyes; then, letting itfall, 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 andforget me. You are noble, generous, high of mind: I pray you to let noremembrance of me trouble your life. May it be happy,--may all good attendyou.... Evelyn, good-by!"
He kneeled and lifted to his lips the hem of her dress. As he rose, andbowing low would have taken formal leave of the two beside her, she putout her hand, staying him by the gesture and the look upon her colorlessface. "You spoke of a search," she said. "What search?"
Haward raised his eyes to hers that were quiet, almost smiling, thoughdarkly shadowed by past pain. "I will tell you, Evelyn. Why should not Itell you this, also?... Four days ago, upon my return to Fair View, Isought and found the woman that I love,--the woman that, by all that isbest within me, I love worthily! She shrank from me; she listened not; sheshut eye and ear, and fled. And I,--confident fool!--I thought, 'To-morrowI will make her heed,' and so let her go. When the morrow came she wasgone indeed." He halted, made an involuntary gesture of distress, thenwent on, rapidly and with agitation: "There was a boat missing; she wasseen to pass Jamestown, rowing steadily up the river. But for this Ishould have thought--I should have feared--God knows what I should nothave feared! As it is I have searchers out, both on this side and on thesouthern shore. An Indian and myself have come up river in his canoe. Wehave not found her yet. If it be so that she has passed unseen through thesettled country, I wil
l seek her toward the mountains."
"And when you have found her, what then, sir?" cried the Colonel, tappinghis 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 tohimself. "It grows late," he said. "Night is coming on, and at the fall ofthe 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 inthe 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 thatstands 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 passionlesstones. 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 thisgentleman. There is no reason"--she drew herself up--"no reason why weshould not extend to Mr. Marmaduke Haward the hospitality of Westover."She smiled and leaned against her father's arm. "And now let usthree,--you and Maria, whom I protest you keep too long at theharpsichord, and I, who love this hour of the evening,--let us go walk inthe garden and see what flowers the frost has spared."