CHAPTER XXIX
AMOR VINCIT
By now it was early spring in Virginia, and a time of balm andpleasantness. The season had not entered into its complete heritage of gayhues, sweet odors, song, and wealth of bliss. Its birthday robe was yeta-weaving, its coronal of blossoms yet folded buds, its choristers notready with their fullest paeans. But everywhere was earnest of futureriches. In the forest the bloodroot was in flower, and the bluebird andthe redbird flashed from the maple that was touched with fire to the beechjust lifted from a pale green fountain. In Mistress Stagg's gardendaffodils bloomed, and dim blue hyacinths made sweet places in the grass.The sun lay warm upon upturned earth, blackbirds rose in squadrons anddarkened the yet leafless trees, and every wind brought rumors of theheyday toward which the earth was spinning. The days were long and sweet;at night a moon came up, and between it and the earth played soft andvernal airs. Then a pale light flooded the garden, the shells borderingits paths gleamed like threaded pearls, and the house showed whiter than amarble sepulchre. Mild incense, cool winds, were there, but quiet camefitfully between the bursts of noise from the lit theatre.
On such a night as this Audrey, clothed in red silk, with a band of falsejewels about her shadowy hair, slipped through the stage door into thegarden, and moved across it to the small white house and rest. Her partin the play was done; for all their storming she would not stay. Silenceand herself alone, and the mirror in her room; then, sitting before theglass, to see in it darkly the woman whom she had left dead upon theboards yonder,--no, not yonder, but in a far country, and a fair and greatcity. Love! love! and death for love! and her own face in the mirrorgazing at her with eyes of that long-dead Greek. It was the exaltation andthe dream, mournful, yet not without its luxury, that ended her every day.When the candle burned low, when the face looked but dimly from the glass,then would she rise and quench the flame, and lay herself down to sleep,with the moonlight upon her crossed hands and quiet brow.
* * * * *
She passed through the grape arbor, and opened the door at which Hawardhad knocked that September night of the Governor's ball. She was inMistress Stagg's long room; at that hour it should have been lit only by adying fire and a solitary candle. Now the fire was low enough, but theroom seemed aflare with myrtle tapers. Audrey, coming from the dimnesswithout, shaded her eyes with her hand. The heavy door shut to behind her;unseeing still she moved toward the fire, but in a moment let fall herhand and began to wonder at the unwonted lights. Mistress Stagg was yet inthe playhouse; who then had lit these candles? She turned, and saw Hawardstanding with folded arms between her and the door.
The silence was long. He was Marmaduke Haward with all his powersgathered, calm, determined, so desperate to have done with this thing, toat once and forever gain his own and master fate, that his stillness wasthat of deepest waters, his cool equanimity that of the gamester who knowshow will fall the loaded dice. Dressed with his accustomed care, verypale, composed and quiet, he faced her whose spirit yet lingered in a farcity, who in the dreamy exaltation of this midnight hour was ever halfAudrey of the garden, half that other woman in a dress of red silk, withjewels in her hair, who, love's martyr, had exulted, given all, and died.
"How did you come here?" she breathed at last. "You said that you wouldcome never again."
"After to-night, never again," he answered. "But now, Audrey, this onceagain, this once again!"
Gazing past him she made a movement toward the door. He shook his head."This is my hour, Audrey. You may not leave the room, nor will MistressStagg enter it. I will not touch you, I will come no nearer to you. Standthere in silence, if you choose, or cover the sight of me from your eyes,while for my own ease, my own unhappiness, I say farewell."
"Farewell!" she echoed. "Long ago, at Westover, that was said between youand me.... Why do you come like a ghost to keep me and peace apart?"
He did not answer, and she locked her hands across her brow that burnedbeneath the heavy circlet of mock gems. "Is it kind?" she demanded, with asob in her voice. "Is it kind to trouble me so, to keep me here"--
"Was I ever kind?" he asked. "Since the night when I followed you, achild, and caught you from the ground when you fell between the corn rows,what kindness, Audrey?"
"None!" she answered, with sudden passion. "Nor kindness then! Why wentyou not some other way?"
"Shall I tell you why I was there that night,--why I left my companionsand came riding back to the cabin in the valley?"
She uncovered her eyes, "I thought--I thought then--that you were sent"--
He looked at her with strange compassion. "My own will sent me.... When,that sunny afternoon, we spurred from the valley toward the highermountains, we left behind us a forest flower, a young girl of simplesweetness, with long dark hair,--like yours, Audrey.... It was to pluckthat flower that I deserted the expedition, that I went back to the valleybetween the hills."
Her eyes dilated, and her hands very slowly rose to press her temples, tomake a shadow from which she might face the cup of trembling he waspouring for her.
"_Molly!_" she said, beneath her breath.
He nodded. "Well, Death had gathered the flower.... Accident threw acrossmy path a tinier blossom, a helpless child. Save you then, care for youthen, I must, or I had been not man, but monster. Did I care for youtenderly, Audrey? Did I make you love me with all your childish heart? DidI become to you father and mother and sister and fairy prince? Then whatwere you to me in those old days? A child fanciful and charming, too finein all her moods not to breed wonder, to give the feeling that Nature hadplaced in that mountain cabin a changeling of her own. A child that onemust regard with fondness and some pity,--what is called a dear child.Moreover, a child whose life I had saved, and to whom it pleased me toplay Providence. I was young, not hard of heart, sedulous to fold back tothe uttermost the roseleaves of every delicate and poetic emotion,magnificently generous also, and set to play my life _au grand seigneur_.To myself assume a responsibility which with all ease might have beentransferred to an Orphan Court, to put my stamp upon your life to come, towatch you kneel and drink of my fountain of generosity, to open my handand with an indulgent smile shower down upon you the coin of pleasure andadvantage,--why, what a tribute was this to my own sovereignty, whatsubtle flattery of self-love, what delicate taste of power! Well, I kissedyou good-by, and unclasped your hands from my neck, chided you, laughed atyou, fondled you, promised all manner of pretty things and engaged younever to forget me--and sailed away upon the Golden Rose to meet mycrowded years with their wine and roses, upas shadows and apples of Sodom.How long before I forgot you, Audrey? A year and a day, perhaps. I protestthat I cannot remember exactly."
He slightly changed his position, but came no nearer to her. It wasgrowing quiet in the street beyond the curtained windows. One window wasbare, but it gave only upon an unused nook of the garden where were merelythe moonlight and some tall leafless bushes.
"I came back to Virginia," he said, "and I looked for and found you in theheart of a flowering wood.... All that you imagined me to be, Audrey, thatwas I not. Knight-errant, paladin, king among men,--what irony, child, inthat strange dream and infatuation of thine! I was--I am--of my time andof myself, and he whom that day you thought me had not then nor afterwardsform or being. I wish you to be perfect in this lesson, Audrey. Are youso?"
"Yes," she sighed. Her hands had fallen; she was looking at him withslowly parting lips, and a strange expression in her eyes.
He went on quietly as before, every feature controlled to impassivity andhis arms lightly folded: "That is well. Between the day when I found youagain and a night in the Palace yonder lies a summer,--a summer! To me allthe summers that ever I had or will have,--ten thousand summers! Now tellme how I did in this wonderful summer."
"Ignobly," she answered.
He bowed his head gravely. "Ay, Audrey, it is a good word." With a quicksigh he left his place, and walking to the uncurtained window stood therelookin
g out upon the strip of moonlight and the screen of bushes; but whenhe turned again to the room his face and bearing were as impressive asbefore in their fine, still gravity, their repose of determination. "Andthat evening by the river when you fled from me to Hugon"--
"I had awaked," she said, in a low voice. "You were to me a stranger, andI feared you."
"And at Westover?"
"A stranger."
"Here in Williamsburgh, when by dint of much striving I saw you, when Iwrote to you, when at last you sent me that letter, that piteous and cruelletter, Audrey?"
For one moment her dark eyes met his, then fell to her clasped hands. "Astranger," she said.
"The letter was many weeks ago. I have been alone with my thoughts at FairView. And to-night, Audrey?"
"A stranger," she would have answered, but her voice broke. There wereshadows under her eyes; her lifted face had in it a strained, intentexpectancy as though she saw or heard one coming.
"A stranger," he acquiesced. "A foreigner in your world of dreams andshadows. No prince, Audrey, or great white knight and hero. Only agentleman of these latter days, compact like his fellows of strength andweakness; now very wise and now the mere finger-post of folly; set totravel his own path; able to hear above him in the rarer air the trumpetcall, but choosing to loiter on the lower slopes. In addition a man wholoves at last, loves greatly, with a passion that shall ennoble. Astranger and your lover, Audrey, come to say farewell."
Her voice came like an echo, plaintive and clear and from far away:"Farewell."
"How steadily do I stand here to say farewell!" he said. "Yet I am eatenof my passion. A fire burns me, a voice within me ever cries aloud. I amwhirled in a resistless wind.... Ah, my love, the garden at Fair View! Thefolded rose that will never bloom, the dial where linger the heavy hours,the heavy, heavy, heavy hours!"
"The garden," she whispered. "I smell the box.... The path was all insunshine. So quiet, so hushed.... I went a little farther, and I heardyour voice where you sat and read--and read of Eloisa.... _Oh, Evelyn,Evelyn!_"
"The last time--the last farewell!" he said. "When the Golden Rose is farat sea, when the winds blow, when the stars drift below the verge, whenthe sea speaks, then may I forget you, may the vision of you pass! Now atFair View it passes not; it dwells. Night and day I behold you, the womanthat I love, the woman that I love in vain!"
"The Golden Rose!" she answered. "The sea.... Alas!"
Her voice had risen into a cry. The walls of the room were gone, the airpressed upon her heavily, the lights wavered, the waters were passing overher as they had passed that night of the witch's hut. How far away thebank upon which he stood! He spoke to her, and his voice came faintly asfrom that distant shore or from the deck of a swiftly passing ship. "Andso it is good-by, sweetheart; for why should I stay in Virginia? Ah, ifyou loved me, Audrey! But since it is not so--Good-by, good-by. This timeI'll not forget you, but I will not come again. Good-by!"
Her lips moved, but there came no words. A light had dawned upon her face,her hand was lifted as though to stay a sound of music. Suddenly sheturned toward him, swayed, and would have fallen but that his arm caughtand upheld her. Her head was thrown back; the soft masses of her wonderfulhair brushed his cheek and shoulder; her eyes looked past him, and asmile, pure and exquisite past expression, just redeemed her face fromsadness. "Good-morrow, Love!" she said clearly and sweetly.
At the sound of her own words came to her the full realization andunderstanding of herself. With a cry she freed herself from his supportingarm, stepped backward and looked at him. The color surged over her faceand throat, her eyelids drooped; while her name was yet upon his lips sheanswered with a broken cry of ecstasy and abandonment. A moment and shewas in his arms and their lips had met.
How quiet it was in the long room, where the myrtle candles gave out theirfaint perfume and the low fire leaped upon the hearth! Thus for a time;then, growing faint with her happiness, she put up protesting hands. Hemade her sit in the great chair, and knelt before her, all youth and fire,handsome, ardent, transfigured by his passion into such a lover as a queenmight desire.
"Hail, Sultana!" he said, smiling, his eyes upon her diadem. "Now you areArpasia again, and I am Moneses, and ready, ah, most ready, to die foryou."
She also smiled. "Remember that I am to quickly follow you."
"When shall we marry?" he demanded. "The garden cries out for you, mylove, and I wish to hear your footstep in my house. It hath been a drearyhouse, filled with shadows, haunted by keen longings and vain regrets. Nowthe windows shall be flung wide and the sunshine shall pour in. Oh, yourvoice singing through the rooms, your foot upon the stairs!" He took herhands and put them to his lips. "I love as men loved of old," he said. "Iam far from myself and my times. When will you become my wife?"
She answered him simply, like the child that at times she seemed: "Whenyou will. But I must be Arpasia again to-morrow night. The Governor hathordered the play repeated, and Margery Linn could not learn my part intime."
He laughed, fingering the red silk of her hanging sleeve, feasting hiseyes upon her dark beauty, so heightened and deepened in the year that hadpassed. "Then play to them--and to me who shall watch you well--to-morrownight. But after that to them never again! only to me, Audrey, to me whenwe walk in the garden at home, when we sit in the book-room and thecandles are lighted. That day in May when first you came into my garden,when first I showed you my house, when first I rowed you home with thesunshine on the water and the roses in your hair! Love, love! do youremember?"
"Remember?" she answered, in a thrilling voice. "When I am dead I shallyet remember! And I will come when you want me. After to-morrow night Iwill come.... Oh, cannot you hear the river? And the walls of the box willbe freshly green, and the fruit-trees all in bloom! The white leaves driftdown upon the bench beneath the cherry-tree.... I will sit in the grass atyour feet. Oh, I love you, have loved you long!"
They had risen and now with her head upon his breast and his arm abouther, they stood in the heart of the soft radiance of many candles. Hisface was bowed upon the dark wonder of her hair; when at last he liftedhis eyes, they chanced to fall upon the one uncurtained window. Audrey,feeling his slight, quickly controlled start, turned within his arm andalso saw the face of Jean Hugon, pressed against the glass, staring inupon them.
Before Haward could reach the window the face was gone. A strip ofmoonlight, some leafless bashes, beyond, the blank wall of thetheatre,--that was all. Raising the sash, Haward leaned forth until hecould see the garden at large. Moonlight still and cold, winding paths,and shadows of tree and shrub and vine, but no sign of living creature. Heclosed the window and drew the curtain across, then turned again toAudrey. "A phantom of the night," he said, and laughed.
She was standing in the centre of the room, with her red dress gleamingin the candlelight. Her brow beneath its mock crown had no lines of care,and her wonderful eyes smiled upon him. "I have no fear of it," sheanswered. "That is strange, is it not, when I have feared it for so long?I have no other fear to-night than that I shall outlive your love for me."
"I will love you until the stars fall," he said.
"They are falling to-night. When you are without the door look up, and youmay see one pass swiftly down the sky. Once I watched them from the darkriver"--
"I will love you until the sun grows old," he said. "Through life anddeath, through heaven or hell, past the beating of my heart, while lastsmy soul!... Audrey, Audrey!"
"If it is so," she answered, "then all is well. Now kiss me good-night,for I hear Mistress Stagg's voice. You will come again to-morrow? Andto-morrow night,--oh, to-morrow night I shall see only you, think of onlyyou while I play! Good-night, good-night."
They kissed and parted, and Haward, a happy man, went with raised facethrough the stillness and the moonlight to his lodging at Marot'sordinary. No phantoms of the night disturbed him. He had found thephilosopher's stone, had drunk of the divine elixir. Life was at last athing much to be desired
, and the Giver of life was good, and the _summumbonum_ was deathless love.
CHAPTER XXX
THE LAST ACT
Before eight of the clock, Mr. Stagg, peering from behind the curtain,noted with satisfaction that the house was filling rapidly; upon thestroke of the hour it was crowded to the door, without which might beheard angry voices contending that there must be yet places for thebuying. The musicians began to play and more candles were lighted. Therewere laughter, talk, greetings from one part of the house to another, asmuch movement to and fro as could be accomplished in so crowded a space.The manners of the London playhouses were aped not unsuccessfully. Tocompare small things with great, it might have been Drury Lane upon a galanight. If the building was rude, yet it had no rival in the colonies, andif the audience was not so gay of hue, impertinent of tongue, or paramountin fashion as its London counterpart, yet it was composed of the rulersand makers of a land destined to greatness.
In the centre box sat his Excellency, William Gooch, Lieutenant-Governorof Virginia, resplendent in velvet and gold lace, and beside him ColonelAlexander Spotswood, arrived in town from Germanna that day, with hisheart much set upon the passage, by the Assembly, of an act which wouldadvantage his iron works. Colonel Byrd of Westover, Colonel Esmond ofCastlewood, Colonel Carter, Colonel Page, and Colonel Ludwell werelikewise of the Governor's party, while seated or standing in the pit, ormingling with the ladies who made gay the boxes, were other gentlemen ofconsequence,--Councilors, Burgesses, owners of vast tracts of land, ofships and many slaves. Of their number some were traveled men, and somehad fought in England's wars, and some had studied in her universities.Many were of gentle blood, sprung from worthy and venerable houses in thatgreen island which with fondness they still called home, and many had madefor themselves name and fortune, hewing their way to honor through aprimeval forest of adversities. Lesser personages were not lacking, butcrowded the gallery and invaded the pit. Old fighters of Indians werepresent, and masters of ships trading from the Spanish islands or from theports of home. Rude lumbermen from Norfolk or the borders of the DismalSwamp stared about them, while here and there showed the sad-colored coatof a minister, or the broad face of some Walloon from Spotswood'ssettlement on the Rapidan, or the keener countenances of Frenchmen fromMonacan-Town. The armorer from the Magazine elbowed a great proprietorfrom the Eastern shore, while a famous guide and hunter, long and lean andbrown, described to a magnate of Yorktown a buffalo capture in the farwest, twenty leagues beyond the falls. Masters and scholars from Williamand Mary were there, with rangers, traders, sailors ashore, smallplanters, merchants, loquacious keepers of ordinaries, and with men, nowfree and with a stake in the land, who had come there as indenturedservants, or as convicts, runaways, and fugitives from justice. In theupper gallery, where no payment was exacted, many servants with asprinkling of favorite mulatto or mustee slaves; in the boxes the lustreand sweep of damask and brocade, light laughter, silvery voices, theflutter of fans; everywhere the vividness and animation of a strangelycompounded society, where the shadows were deep and the lights were high.
Nor did the conversation of so motley an assemblage lack a certainpictorial quality, a somewhat fantastic opulence of reference andallusion. Of what might its members speak while they waited for thedrawing aside of the piece of baize which hung between them and anOriental camp? There was the staple of their wealth, a broad-leafed plant,the smoke of whose far-spread burning might have wrapped its native fieldsin a perpetual haze as of Indian summer; and there was the warfare,bequeathed from generation to generation, against the standing armies ofthe forest, that subtle foe that slept not, retreated not, whose vanguard,ever falling, ever showed unbroken ranks beyond. Trapper and trader andranger might tell of trails through the wilderness vast and hostile, ofcanoes upon unknown waters, of beasts of prey, creatures screaming in thenight-time through the ebony woods. Of Indian villages, also, and of redmen who, in the fastnesses that were left them, took and tortured and slewafter strange fashions. The white man, strong as the wind, drove the redman before his face like an autumn leaf, but he beckoned to the black man,and the black man came at his call. He came in numbers from a far country,and the manner of his coming was in chains. What he had to sell wasvaluable, but the purchase price came not into his hands. Of him alsomention was made to-night. The master of the tall ship that had broughthim into the James or the York, the dealer to whom he was consigned, theofficer of the Crown who had cried him for sale, the planter who hadbought him, the divine who preached that he was of a race accursed,--allwere there, and all had interest in this merchandise. Others in the throngtalked of ships both great and small, and the quaintness of their names,the golden flowers and golden women, the swift birds and beasts, thenamesakes of Fortune or of Providence, came pleasantly upon the ear. Thestill-vexed Bermoothes, Barbadoes, and all the Indies were spoken of;ports to the north and ports to the south, pirate craft and sunkentreasure, a flight, a fight, a chase at sea. The men from Norfolk talkedof the great Dismal and its trees of juniper and cypress, the traders oftrading, the masters from William and Mary of the humanities. The greatermen, authoritative and easy, owners of flesh and blood and much land,holders of many offices and leaders of the people, paid their respects tohorse-racing and cock-fighting, cards and dice; to building, planting, thegenteelest mode of living, and to public affairs both in Virginia and athome in England. Old friends, with oaths of hearty affection, and fromopposite quarters of the house, addressed each other as Tom, or Ned, orDick, while old enemies, finding themselves side by side, exchangedextremely civil speeches, and so put a keener edge upon their mutualdisgust. In the boxes where glowed the women there was comfit talk, vastlypretty speeches, asseverations, denials, windy sighs, the politest oaths,whispering, talk of the play, and, last but not least, of Mr. Haward ofFair View, and Darden's Audrey.
Haward, entering the pit, made his way quietly to where a servant washolding for him a place. The fellow pulled his forelock in response tohis master's nod, then shouldered his way through the press to theladder-like stairs that led to the upper gallery. Haward, standing at hisease, looked about him, recognizing this or that acquaintance with hisslow, fine smile and an inclination of his head. He was much observed, andpresently a lady leaned from her box, smiled, waved her fan, and slightlybeckoned to him. It was young Madam Byrd, and Evelyn sat beside her.
Five minutes later, as Haward entered the box of the ladies of Westover,music sounded, the curtain was drawn back, and the play began. Upon theruder sort in the audience silence fell at once: they that followed thesea, and they that followed the woods, and all the simple folk ceasedtheir noise and gesticulation, and gazed spellbound at the pomp beforethem of rude scenery and indifferent actors. But the great ones of theearth talked on, attending to their own business in the face of Tamerlaneand his victorious force. It was the fashion to do so, and in the playto-night the first act counted nothing, for Darden's Audrey had naught todo with it. In the second act, when she entered as Arpasia, the entirehouse would fall quiet, staring and holding its breath.
Haward bent over Madam Byrd's hand; then, as that lady turned from him togreet Mr. Lee, addressed himself with grave courtesy to Evelyn, clothed inpale blue, and more lovely even than her wont. For months they had notmet. She had written him one letter,--had written the night of the dayupon which she had encountered Audrey in the Palace walk,--and he hadanswered it with a broken line of passionate thanks for unmeritedkindness. Now as he bent over her she caught his wrist lightly with herhand, and her touch burned him through the lace of his ruffles. With herother hand she spread her fan; Mr. Lee's shoulder knot also screened themwhile Mr. Grymes had engaged its owner's attention, and pretty Madam Byrdwas in animated conversation with the occupants of a neighboring box. "Isit well?" asked Evelyn, very low.
Haward's answer was as low, and bravely spoken with his eyes meeting herclear gaze, and her touch upon his wrist. "For me, Evelyn, it is verywell," he said. "For her--may I live to make it well for her, forever anda
day well for her! She is to be my wife."
"I am glad," said Evelyn,--"very glad."
"You are a noble lady," he answered. "Once, long ago, I styled myself yourfriend, your equal. Now I know better my place and yours, and as from aprincess I take your alms. For your letter--that letter, Evelyn, whichtold me what you thought, which showed me what to do--I humbly thank you."
She let fall her hand from her silken lap, and watched with unseeing eyesthe mimicry of life upon the stage before them, where Selima knelt toTamerlane, and Moneses mourned for Arpasia. Presently she said again, "Iam glad;" and then, when they had kept silence for a while, "You will liveat Fair View?"
"Ay," he replied. "I will make it well for her here in Virginia."
"You must let me help you," she said. "So old a friend as I may claim thatas a right. To-morrow I may visit her, may I not? Now we must look at theplayers. When she enters there is no need to cry for silence. It comes ofitself, and stays; we watch her with straining eyes. Who is that man in acloak, staring at us from the pit? See, with the great peruke and thescar!"
Haward, bending, looked over the rail, then drew back with a smile. "Ahalf-breed trader," he said, "by name Jean Hugon. Something of acharacter."
"He looked strangely at us," said Evelyn, "with how haggard a face! Myscarf, Mr. Lee? Thank you. Madam, have you the right of the matter fromKitty Page?"
The conversation became general, and soon, the act approaching its end,and other gentlemen pressing into the box which held so beautiful a woman,so great a catch, and so assured a belle as Mistress Evelyn Byrd, Hawardarose and took his leave. To others of the brilliant company assembled inthe playhouse he paid his respects, speaking deferentially to theGovernor, gayly to his fellow Councilors and planters, and bowing low tomany ladies. All this was in the interval between the acts. At the secondparting of the curtain he resumed his former station in the pit. Withintention he had chosen a section of it where were few of his own class.From the midst of the ruder sort he could watch her more freely, couldexult at his ease in her beauty both of face and mind.
The curtains parted, and the fiddlers strove for warlike music. Tamerlane,surrounded by the Tartar host, received his prisoners, and the defiantrant of Bajazet shook the rafters. All the sound and fury of the stagecould not drown the noise of the audience. Idle talk and laughter, loudcomment upon the players, went on,--went on until there entered Darden'sAudrey, dressed in red silk, with a jeweled circlet like a line of flameabout her dark flowing hair. The noise sank, voices of men and women diedaway; for a moment the rustle of silk, the flutter of fans, continued,then this also ceased.
She stood before the Sultan, wide-eyed, with a smile of scorn upon herlips; then spoke in a voice, low, grave, monotonous, charged like apassing bell with warning and with solemn woe. The house seemed to growmore still; the playgoers, box and pit and gallery, leaned slightlyforward: whether she spoke or moved or stood in silence, Darden's Audrey,that had been a thing of naught, now held every eye, was regnant for anhour in this epitome of the world. The scene went on, and now it was toMoneses that she spoke. All the bliss and anguish of unhappy love soundedin her voice, dwelt in her eye and most exquisite smile, hung upon herevery gesture. The curtains closed; from the throng that had watched hercame a sound like a sigh, after which, slowly, tongues were loosened. Aninterval of impatient waiting, then the music again and the partingcurtains, and Darden's Audrey,--the girl who could so paint very love,very sorrow, very death; the girl who had come strangely and by a deviouspath from the height and loneliness of the mountains to the level of thisstage and the watching throng.
At the close of the fourth act of the play, Haward left his station in thepit, and quietly made his way to the regions behind the curtain, where inthe very circumscribed space that served as greenroom to the Williamsburghtheatre he found Tamerlane, Bajazet, and their satellites, together with anumber of gentlemen invaders from the front of the house. Mistress Staggwas there, and Selima, perched upon a table, was laughing with theaforesaid gentlemen, but no Arpasia. Haward drew the elder woman aside. "Iwish to see her," he said, in a low voice, kindly but imperious. "A momentonly, good woman."
With her finger at her lips Mistress Stagg glanced about her. "She hidesfrom them always, she's that strange a child: though indeed, sir, as sweeta young lady as a prince might wed! This way, sir,--it's dark; make nonoise."
She led him through a dim passageway, and softly opened a door. "There,sir, for just five minutes! I'll call her in time."
The door gave upon the garden, and Audrey sat upon the step in themoonshine and the stillness. Her hand propped her chin, and her eyes wereraised to the few silver stars. That mock crown which she wore sparkledpalely, and the light lay in the folds of her silken dress. At the openingof the door she did not turn, thinking that Mistress Stagg stood behindher. "How bright the moon shines!" she said. "A mockingbird should besinging, singing! Is it time for Arpasia?"
As she rose from the step Haward caught her in his arms. "It is I, mylove! Ah, heart's desire! I worship you who gleam in the moonlight, withyour crown like an aureole"--
Audrey rested against him, clasping her hands upon his shoulder. "Therewere nights like this," she said dreamily. "If I were a little childagain, you could lift me in your arms and carry me home, I am tired ... Iwould that I needed not to go back to the glare and noise. The moon shinesso bright! I have been thinking"--
He bent his head and kissed her twice. "Poor Arpasia! Poor tired child!Soon we shall go home, Audrey,--we two, my love, we two!"
"I have been thinking, sitting here in the moonlight," she went on, herhands clasped upon his shoulder, and her cheek resting on them. "I was soignorant. I never dreamed that I could wrong her ... and when I awoke itwas too late. And now I love you,--not the dream, but you. I know not whatis right or wrong; I know only that I love. I think sheunderstands--forgives. I love you so!" Her hands parted, and she stoodfrom him with her face raised to the balm of the night. "I love you so,"she repeated, and the low cadence of her laugh broke the silver stillnessof the garden. "The moon up there, she knows it. And the stars,--not onehas fallen to-night! Smell the flowers. Wait, I will pluck you hyacinths."
They grew by the doorstep, and she broke the slender stalks and gave theminto his hand. But when he had kissed them he would give them back, wouldfasten them himself in the folds of silk, that rose and fell with herquickened breathing. He fastened them with a brooch which he took from theMechlin at his throat. It was the golden horseshoe, the token that he hadjourneyed to the Endless Mountains.
"Now I must go," said Audrey. "They are calling for Arpasia. Follow me notat once. Good-night, good-night! Ah, I love you so! Remember always that Ilove you so!"
She was gone. In a few minutes he also reentered the playhouse, and wentto his former place where, with none of his kind about him, he might watchher undisturbed. As he made his way with some difficulty through thethrong, he was aware that he brushed against a man in a great peruke, who,despite the heat of the house, was wrapped in an old roquelaure tawdrilylaced; also that the man was keeping stealthy pace with him, and that whenhe at last reached his station the cloaked figure fell into placeimmediately behind him.
Haward shrugged his shoulders, but would not turn his head, and therebygrant recognition to Jean Hugon, the trader. Did he so, the half-breedmight break into speech, provoke a quarrel, make God knew what assertion,what disturbance. To-morrow steps should be taken--Ah, the curtain!
The silence deepened, and men and women leaned forward holding theirbreath. Darden's Audrey, robed and crowned as Arpasia, sat alone in theSultan's tent, staring before her with wide dark eyes, then slowly risingbegan to speak. A sound, a sigh as of wonder, ran from the one to theother of the throng that watched her. Why did she look thus, withcontracted brows, toward one quarter of the house? What inarticulate wordswas she uttering? What gesture, quickly controlled, did she make ofghastly fear and warning? And now the familiar words came halting from herlips:--
"'
Sure 'tis a horror, more than darkness brings, That sits upon the night!'"
With the closing words of her speech the audience burst into a great stormof applause. 'Gad! how she acts! But what now? Why, what is this?
It was quite in nature and the mode for an actress to pause in the middleof a scene to curtsy thanks for generous applause, to smile and throw amocking kiss to pit and boxes, but Darden's Audrey had hitherto notfollowed the fashion. Also it was not uncustomary for some spoiledfavorite of a player to trip down, between her scenes, the step or twofrom the stage to the pit, and mingle with the gallants there, laugh,jest, accept languishing glances, audacious comparisons, and such weightytrifles as gilt snuffboxes and rings of price. But this player had notheretofore honored the custom; moreover, at present she was needed uponthe stage. Bajazet must thunder and she defy; without her the play couldnot move, and indeed the actors were now staring with the audience. Whatwas it? Why had she crossed the stage, and, slowly, smilingly, beautifuland stately in her gleaming robes, descended those few steps which led tothe pit? What had she to do there, throwing smiling glances to right andleft, lightly waving the folk, gentle and simple, from her path, pressingsteadily onward to some unguessed-at goal. As though held by a spell theywatched her, one and all,--Haward, Evelyn, the Governor, the man in thecloak, every soul in that motley assemblage. The wonder had not time todull, for the moments were few between her final leave-taking of thoseboards which she had trodden supreme and the crashing and terrible chordwhich was to close the entertainment of this night.
Her face was raised to the boxes, and it seemed as though her dark eyessought one there. Then, suddenly, she swerved. There were men between herand Haward. She raised her hand, and they fell back, making for her apath. Haward, bewildered, started forward, but her cry was not to him. Itwas to the figure just behind him,--the cloaked figure whose hand graspedthe hunting-knife which from the stage, as she had looked to where stoodher lover, she had seen or divined. "Jean! Jean Hugon!" she cried.
Involuntarily the trader pushed toward her, past the man whom he meant tostab to the heart. The action, dragging his cloak aside, showed thehalf-raised arm and the gleaming steel. For many minutes the knife hadbeen ready. The play was nearly over, and she must see this man who hadstolen her heart, this Haward of Fair View, die. Else Jean Hugon'svengeance were not complete. For his own safety the maddened half-breedhad ceased to care. No warning cried from the stage could have done aughtbut precipitate the deed, but now for the moment, amazed and doubtful, heturned his back upon his prey.
In that moment the Audrey of the woods, a creature lithe and agile andstrong of wrist as of will, had thrown herself upon him, clutching thehand that held the knife. He strove to dash her from him, but in vain; thehouse was in an uproar; and now Haward's hands were at his throat,Haward's voice was crying to that fair devil, that Audrey for whom he hadbuilt his house, who was balking him of revenge, whose body was betweenhim and his enemy! Suddenly he was all savage; as upon a night in FairView house he had cast off the trammels of his white blood, so now. Anaccess of furious strength came to him; he shook himself free; the knifegleamed in the air, descended.... He drew it from the bosom into which hehad plunged it, and as Haward caught her in his arms, who would else havesunk to the floor, the half-breed burst through the horror-strickenthrong, brandishing the red blade and loudly speaking in the tongue of theMonacans. Like a whirlwind he was gone from the house, and for a time nonethought to follow him.
"JEAN! JEAN HUGON!"]
They bore her into the small white house, and up the stair to her ownroom, and laid her upon the bed. Dr. Contesse came and went away, and cameagain. There was a crowd in Palace Street before the theatre. A manmounting the doorstep so that he might be heard of all, said clearly, "Shemay live until dawn,--no longer." Later, one came out of the house andasked that there might be quiet. The crowd melted away, but throughout themild night, filled with the soft airs and thousand odors of the spring,people stayed about the place, standing silent in the street or sitting onthe garden benches.
In the room upstairs lay Darden's Audrey, with crossed hands and head putslightly back. She lay still, upon the edge of death, nor seemed to carethat it was so. Her eyes were closed, and at intervals one sitting at thebed head laid touch upon her pulse, or held before her lips a slightringlet of her hair. Mary Stagg sat by the window and wept, but Haward,kneeling, hid his face in the covering of the bed. The form upon it wasnot more still than he; Mistress Stagg, also, stifled her sobs, for itseemed not a place for loud grief.
In the room below, amidst the tinsel frippery of small wares, waitedothers whose lives had touched the life that was ebbing away. Now and thenone spoke in a hushed voice, a window was raised, a servant bringing infresh candles trod too heavily; then the quiet closed in again. Late inthe night came through the open windows a distant clamor, and presently aman ran down Palace Street, and as he ran called aloud some tidings.MacLean, standing near the door, went softly out. When he returned,Colonel Byrd, sitting at the table, lifted inquiring brows. "They tookhim in the reeds near the Capitol landing," said the Highlander grimly."He's in the gaol now, but whether the people will leave him there"--
The night wore on, grew old, passed into the cold melancholy of its latesthour. Darden's Audrey sighed and stirred, and a little strength coming toher parting spirit, she opened her eyes and loosed her hands. Thephysician held to her lips the cordial, and she drank a very little.Haward lifted his head, and as Contesse passed him to set down the cup,caught him by the sleeve. The other looked pityingly at the man into whoseface had come a flush of hope. "'T is but the last flickering of theflame," he said. "Soon even the spark will vanish."
Audrey began to speak. At first her words were wild and wandering, but,the mist lifting somewhat, she presently knew Mistress Stagg, and liked tohave her take the doctor's place beside her. At Haward she lookeddoubtfully, with wide eyes, as scarce understanding. When he called hername she faintly shook her head, then turned it slightly from him andveiled her eyes. It came to him with a terrible pang that the memory oftheir latest meetings was wiped from her brain, and that she was afraid ofhis broken words and the tears upon her hand.
When she spoke again it was to ask for the minister. He was below, andMistress Stagg went weeping down the stairs to summon him. He came, butwould not touch the girl; only stood, with his hat in his hand, and lookeddown upon her with bleared eyes and a heavy countenance.
"I am to die, am I not?" she asked, with her gaze upon him.
"That is as God wills, Audrey," he answered.
"I am not afraid to die."
"You have no need," he said, and going out of the room and down thestairs, made Stagg pour for him a glass of aqua vitae.
Audrey closed her eyes, and when she opened them again there seemed to bemany persons in the room. One was bending over her whom at first shethought was Molly, but soon she saw more clearly, and smiled at the paleand sorrowful face. The lady bent lower yet, and kissed her on theforehead. "Audrey," she said, and Audrey looking up at her answered,"Evelyn."
When the dawn came glimmering in the windows, when the mist was cold andthe birds were faintly heard, they raised her upon her pillows, and wipedthe death dew from her forehead. "Audrey, Audrey, Audrey!" cried Haward,and caught at her hands.
She looked at him with a faint and doubtful smile, remembering nothing ofthat hour in the room below, of those minutes in the moonlit garden."Gather the rosebuds while ye may," she said; and then, "The house islarge. Good giant, eat me not!"
The man upon his knees beside her uttered a cry, and began to speak toher, thickly, rapidly, words of agony, entreaty, and love. To-morrow andfor all life habit would resume its sway, and lost love, remorse, and vainregrets put on a mask that was cold and fine and able to deceive. To-nightthere spoke the awakened heart. With her hands cold in his, with hisagonized gaze upon the face from which the light was slowly passing, hepoured forth his passion and his anguish, and she listened not. Theymoistene
d her lips, and one opened wide the window that gave upon theeast. "It was all a dream," she said; and again, "All a dream." A littlelater, while the sky flushed slowly and the light of the candles grewpale, she began suddenly, and in a stronger voice, to speak as Arpasia:--
"'If it be happiness, alas! to die, To lie forgotten in the silent grave'"--
"Forgotten!" cried Haward. "Audrey, Audrey, Audrey! Go not from me! Oh,love, love, stay awhile!"
"The mountains," said Audrey clearly. "The sun upon them and the liftingmist."
"The mountains!" he cried. "Ay, we will go to them, Audrey, we will gotogether! Why, you are stronger, sweetheart! There is strength in yourvoice and your hands, and a light in your eyes. Oh, if you will live,Audrey, I will make you happy! You shall take me to the mountains--we willgo together, you and I! Audrey, Audrey"--
But Audrey was gone already.
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