CHAPTER XXIII
FROWENFELD KEEPS HIS APPOINTMENT
Doctor Keene, his ill-humor slept off, lay in bed in a quiescent stateof great mental enjoyment. At times he would smile and close his eyes,open them again and murmur to himself, and turn his head languidly andsmile again. And when the rain and wind, all tangled together, cameagainst the window with a whirl and a slap, his smile broadened almostto laughter.
"He's in it," he murmured, "he's just reaching there. I would give fiftydollars to see him when he first gets into the house and sees wherehe is."
As this wish was finding expression on the lips of the little sick man,Joseph Frowenfeld was making room on a narrow doorstep for the outwardopening of a pair of small batten doors, upon which he had knocked withthe vigorous haste of a man in the rain. As they parted, he hurriedlyhelped them open, darted within, heedless of the odd black shape whichshuffled out of his way, wheeled and clapped them shut again, swung downthe bar and then turned, and with the good-natured face that properlygoes with a ducking, looked to see where he was.
One object--around which everything else instantly became nothing--sethis gaze. On the high bed, whose hangings of blue we have alreadydescribed, silently regarding the intruder with a pair of eyes that sentan icy thrill through him and fastened him where he stood, lay PalmyrePhilosophe. Her dress was a long, snowy morning-gown, wound looselyabout at the waist with a cord and tassel of scarlet silk; abright-colored woollen shawl covered her from the waist down, and anecklace of red coral heightened to its utmost her untamable beauty.
An instantaneous indignation against Doctor Keene set the face of thespeechless apothecary on fire, and this, being as instantaneouslycomprehended by the philosophe, was the best of introductions. Yet hergaze did not change.
The Congo negress broke the spell with a bristling protest, all inAfrican b's and k's, but hushed and drew off at a single word of commandfrom her mistress.
In Frowenfeld's mind an angry determination was taking shape, to beneither trifled with nor contemned. And this again the quadroondiscerned, before he was himself aware of it.
"Doctor Keene"--he began, but stopped, so uncomfortable were her eyes.
She did not stir or reply.
Then he bethought him with a start, and took off his dripping hat.
At this a perceptible sparkle of imperious approval shot along herglance; it gave the apothecary speech.
"The doctor is sick, and he asked me to dress your wound."
She made the slightest discernible motion of the head, remained for amoment silent, and then, still with the same eye, motioned her handtoward a chair near a comfortable fire.
He sat down. It would be well to dry himself. He drew near the hearthand let his gaze fall into the fire. When he presently lifted his eyesand looked full upon the woman with a steady, candid glance, she wasregarding him with apparent coldness, but with secret diligence andscrutiny, and a yet more inward and secret surprise and admiration. Hardrubbing was bringing out the grain of the apothecary. But she presentlysuppressed the feeling. She hated men.
But Frowenfeld, even while his eyes met hers, could not resent herhostility. This monument of the shame of two races--this poisonousblossom of crime growing out of crime--this final, unanswerable whiteman's accuser--this would-be murderess--what ranks and companies wouldhave to stand up in the Great Day with her and answer as accessorybefore the fact! He looked again into the fire.
The patient spoke:
"_Eh bi'n, Miche_?" Her look was severe, but less aggressive. Theshuffle of the old negress's feet was heard and she appeared bearingwarm and cold water and fresh bandages; after depositing themshe tarried.
"Your fever is gone," said Frowenfeld, standing by the bed. He had laidhis fingers on her wrist. She brushed them off and once more turned fullupon him the cold hostility of her passionate eyes.
The apothecary, instead of blushing, turned pale.
"You--" he was going to say, "You insult me;" but his lips came tightlytogether. Two big cords appeared between his brows, and his blue eyesspoke for him. Then, as the returning blood rushed even to his forehead,he said, speaking his words one by one;
"Please understand that you must trust me."
She may not have understood his English, but she comprehended,nevertheless. She looked up fixedly for a moment, then passively closedher eyes. Then she turned, and Frowenfeld put out one strong arm, helpedher to a sitting posture on the side of the bed and drew the shawlabout her.
"Zizi," she said, and the negress, who had stood perfectly still sincedepositing the water and bandages, came forward and proceeded to barethe philosophe's superb shoulder. As Frowenfeld again put forward hishand, she lifted her own as if to prevent him, but he kindly and firmlyput it away and addressed himself with silent diligence to his task; andby the time he had finished, his womanly touch, his commandinggentleness, his easy despatch, had inspired Palmyre not only with asense of safety, comfort, and repose, but with a pleased wonder.
This woman had stood all her life with dagger drawn, on the defensiveagainst what certainly was to her an unmerciful world. With possiblyone exception, the man now before her was the only one she had everencountered whose speech and gesture were clearly keyed to that profoundrespect which is woman's first, foundation claim on man. And yet, byinexorable decree, she belonged to what we used to call "the happiestpeople under the sun." We ought to stop saying that.
So far as Palmyre knew, the entire masculine wing of the mighty andexalted race, three-fourths of whose blood bequeathed her none of itsprerogatives, regarded her as legitimate prey. The man before her didnot. There lay the fundamental difference that, in her sight, as soon asshe discovered it, glorified him. Before this assurance the coldfierceness of her eyes gave way, and a friendlier light from themrewarded the apothecary's final touch. He called for more pillows, madea nest of them, and, as she let herself softly into it, directed hisnext consideration toward his hat and the door.
It was many an hour after he had backed out into the trivial remains ofthe rain-storm before he could replace with more tranquillizing imagesthe vision of the philosophe reclining among her pillows, in the act ofmaking that uneasy movement of her fingers upon the collar button of herrobe, which women make when they are uncertain about the perfection oftheir dishabille, and giving her inaudible adieu with the majesty ofan empress.