Audrey
CHAPTER XVII
WITHIN THE PLAYHOUSE
Haward, sitting at the table in Marot's best room, wrote an answer to
Audrey's letter, and tore it up; wrote another, and gave it to Juba, to be
given to the messenger waiting below; recalled the negro before he could
reach the door, destroyed the second note, and wrote a third. The first
had been wise and kind, telling her that he was much engaged, lightly and
skillfully waving aside her request—the only one she made—that she might
see him that day. The second had been less wise. The last told her that he
would come at five o'clock to the summer-house in Mistress Stagg's garden.
When he was alone in the room, he sat for some time very still, with his
eyes closed and his head thrown back against the tall woodwork of his
chair. His face was stern in repose: a handsome, even a fine face, with a
look of power and reflection, but to-day somewhat worn and haggard of
aspect. When presently he roused himself and took up the letter that lay
before him, the paper shook in his hand. "Wine, Juba," he said to the
slave, who now reëntered the room. "And close the window; it is growing
cold."
There were but three lines between the "Mr. Haward" and "Audrey;" the
writing was stiff and clerkly, the words very simple,—a child's asking of
a favor. He guessed rightly that it was the first letter of her own that
she had ever written. Suddenly a wave of passionate tenderness took him;
he bowed his head and kissed the paper; for the moment many-threaded life
and his own complex nature alike straightened to a beautiful simplicity.
He was the lover, merely; life was but the light and shadow through which
moved the woman whom he loved. He came back to himself, and tried to think
it out, but could not. Finally, with a weary impatience, he declined to
think at all. He was to dine at the Governor's. Evelyn would be there.
Only momentarily, in those days of early summer, had he wavered in his
determination to make this lady his wife. Pride was at the root of his
being,—pride and a deep self-will; though because they were so sunken,
and because poisonous roots can flower most deceivingly, he neither called
himself nor was called of others a proud and willful man. He wished Evelyn
for his wife; nay, more, though on May Day he had shown her that he loved
her not, though in June he had offered her a love that was only admiring
affection, yet in the past month at Westover he had come almost to believe
that he loved her truly. That she was worthy of true love he knew very
well. With all his strength of will, he had elected to forget the summer
that lay behind him at Fair View, and to live in the summer that was with
him at Westover. His success had been gratifying; in the flush of it, he
persuaded himself that a chamber of the heart had been locked forever, and
the key thrown away. And lo now! a touch, the sudden sight of a name, and
the door had flown wide; nay, the very walls were rived away! It was not a
glance over the shoulder; it was full presence in the room so lately
sealed.
He knew that Evelyn loved him. It was understood of all their acquaintance
that he was her suitor; months ago he had formally craved her father's
permission to pay his addresses. There were times in those weeks at
Westover when she had come nigh to yielding, to believing that he loved
her; he was certain that with time he would have his way.... But the room,
the closed room, in which now he sat!
He buried his face in his hands, and was suddenly back in spirit in his
garden at Fair View. The cherries were ripe; the birds were singing: great
butterflies went by. The sunshine beat on the dial, on the walks, and the
smell of the roses was strong as wine. His senses swam with the warmth and
fragrance; the garden enlarged itself, and blazed in beauty. Never was
sunshine so golden as that; never were roses so large, never odors so
potent-sweet. A spirit walked in the garden paths: its name was Audrey....
No, it was speaking, speaking words of passion and of woe.... Its name was
Eloïsa!
When he rose from his chair, he staggered slightly, and put his hand to
his head. Recovering himself in a moment, he called for his hat and cane,
and, leaving the ordinary, turned his face toward the Palace. A garrulous
fellow Councilor, also bidden to his Excellency's dinner party, overtook
him, and, falling into step, began to speak first of the pirates' trial,
and then of the weather. A hot and feverish summer. 'Twas said that a good
third of the servants arriving in the country since spring had died of
their seasoning. The slaver lying in the York had thrown thirty blacks
overboard in the ran from Barbadoes,—some strange sickness or other.
Adsbud! He would not buy from the lot the master landed; had they been
white, they had showed like spectres! September was the worst month of
the year. He did not find Mr. Haward in looks now. Best consult Dr.
Contesse, though indeed he himself had a preventive of fever which never
failed. First he bled; then to so much of Peruvian bark—
Mr. Haward declared that he was very well, and turned the conversation
piratewards again.
The dinner at the Palace was somewhat hurried, the gentlemen rising with
the ladies, despite the enticements of Burgundy and champagne. It was the
afternoon set apart for the Indian dance. The bonfire in the field behind
the magazine had been kindled; the Nottoways and Meherrins were waiting,
still as statues, for the gathering of their audience. Before the dance
the great white father was to speak to them; the peace pipe, also, was to
be smoked. The town, gay of mood and snatching at enjoyment, emptied its
people into the sunny field. Only they who could not go stayed at home.
Those light-hearted folk, ministers to a play-loving age, who dwelt in the
house by the bowling green or in the shadow of the theatre itself, must
go, at all rates. Marcia and Lucia, Syphax, Sempronius, and the African
prince made off together, while the sons of Cato, who chanced to be twin
brothers, followed with a slower step. Their indentures would expire next
month, and they had thoughts, the one of becoming an overseer, the other
of moving up country and joining a company of rangers: hence their
somewhat haughty bearing toward their fellow players, who—except old
Syphax, who acted for the love of it—had not even a bowing acquaintance
with freedom.
Mr. and Mrs. Stagg saw their minions depart, and then themselves left the
little white house in Palace Street. Mistress Deborah was with them, but
not Audrey. "She can't abide the sight of an Indian," said the minister's
wife indifferently. "Besides, Darden will be here from the church
presently, and he may want her to write for him. She and Peggy can mind
the house."
The Capitol clock was telling five when Haward entered the garden by the
Nicholson Street gate. There had arisen a zephyr of the evening, to loosen
the yellow locust leaves and send them down upon the path, to lay cool
fingers upon his forehead that burned, and to whisper low at his ear.
House and garden and silent street seemed asleep in the late sunshine,
safe folded from the storm of sound that raged in the field on the border
of the town. Distance muffled the Indian drums, and changed the scream of
the pipes into a far-off wailing. Savage cries, bursts of applause and
laughter,—all came softly, blent like the hum of the bees, mellow like
the sunlight. There was no one in the summer-house. Haward walked on to
the grape arbor, and found there a black girl, who pointed to an open
door, pertaining not to the small white house, but to that portion of the
theatre which abutted upon the garden. Haward, passing a window of Mr.
Stagg's domicile, was aware of Darden sitting within, much engaged with a
great book and a tankard of sack. He made no pause for the vision, and
another moment found him within the playhouse.
The sunlight entered in at the door and at one high window, but yet the
place was dim. The gallery and the rude boxes were all in shadow; the
sunbeams from the door struck into the pit, while those from the high
window let fall a shaft of misty light upon the stage itself, set for a
hall in Utica, with five cane chairs, an ancient settle, and a Spanish
table. On the settle, in the pale gold of the falling light, sat Audrey,
her hands clasped over her knees, her head thrown back, and her eyes fixed
upon the shadowy, chill, and soundless space before her. Upon Haward's
speaking her name she sighed, and, loosing her hands, turned toward him.
He came and leaned upon the back of the settle. "You sent for me, Audrey,"
he said, and laid his hand lightly upon her hair.
She shrank from his touch. "The minister made me write the letter," she
said, in a low voice. "I did not wish to trouble you, sir."
Upon her wrist were dark marks. "Did Darden do that?" demanded Haward, as
he took his seat beside her.
Audrey looked at the bruise indifferently; then with her other hand
covered it from sight. "I have a favor to ask of Mr. Haward," she said. "I
hope that after his many kindnesses he will not refuse to do me this
greatest one. If he should grant my request, the gratitude which I must
needs already feel toward him will be increased tenfold." The words came
precisely, in an even voice.
Haward smiled. "Child, you have conned your lesson well. Leave the words
of the book, and tell me in your own language what his reverence wants."
Audrey told him, but it seemed to her that he was not listening. When she
had come to an end of the minister's grievances, she sat, with downcast
eyes, waiting for him to speak, wishing that he would not look at her so
steadily. She meant never to show him her heart,—never, never; but
beneath his gaze it was hard to keep her cheek from burning, her lip from
quivering.
At last he spoke: "Would it please you, Audrey, if I should save this man
from his just deserts?"
Audrey raised her eyes. "He and Mistress Deborah are all my friends," she
said. "The glebe house is my home."
Deep sadness spoke in voice and eye. The shaft of light, moving, had left
her in the outer shadow: she sat there with a listless grace; with a
dignity, too, that was not without pathos. There had been a forlorn child;
there had been an unfriended girl; there was now a woman, for Life to
fondle or to wreak its rage upon. The change was subtle; one more a lover
or less a lover than Haward might not have noted it. "I will petition the
Commissary to-night," he said, "the Governor to-morrow. Is your having in
friends so slight as you say, little maid?"
Oh, he could reach to the quick! She was sure that he had not meant to
accuse her of ingratitude, and pitifully sure that she must have seemed
guilty of it. "No, no!" she cried. "I have had a friend"—Her voice broke,
and she started to her feet, her face to the door, all her being
quiveringly eager to be gone. She had asked that which she was bidden to
ask, had gained that which she was bidden to gain; for the rest, it was
far better that she should go. Better far for him to think her dull and
thankless as a stone than see—than see—
When Haward caught her by the hand, she trembled and drew a sobbing
breath. "'I have had a friend,' Audrey?" he asked. "Why not 'I have a
friend'?"
"Why not?" thought Audrey. "Of course he would think, why not? Well,
then"—
"I have a friend," she said aloud. "Have you not been to me the kindest
friend, the most generous"—She faltered, but presently went on, a strange
courage coming to her. She had turned slightly toward him, though she
looked not at him, but upward to where the light streamed through the high
window. It fell now upon her face. "It is a great thing to save life," she
said. "To save a soul alive, how much greater! To have kept one soul in
the knowledge that there is goodness, mercy, tenderness, God; to have
given it bread to eat where it sat among the stones, water to drink where
all the streams were dry,—oh, a king might be proud of that! And that is
what you have done for me.... When you sailed away, so many years ago, and
left me with the minister and his wife, they were not always kind. But I
knew that you thought them so, and I always said to myself, 'If he knew,
he would be sorry for me.' At last I said, 'He is sorry for me; there is
the sea, and he cannot come, but he knows, and is sorry.' It was
make-believe,—for you thought that I was happy, did you not?—but it
helped me very much. I was only a child, you know, and I was so very
lonely. I could not think of mother and Molly, for when I did I saw them
as—as I had seen them last. The dark scared me, until I found that I
could pretend that you were holding my hand, as you used to do when night
came in the valley. After a while I had only to put out my hand, and yours
was there waiting for it. I hope that you can understand—I want you to
know how large is my debt.... As I grew, so did the debt. When I was a
girl it was larger than when I was a child. Do you know with whom I have
lived all these years? There is the minister, who comes reeling home from
the crossroads ordinary, who swears over the dice, who teaches cunning
that he calls wisdom, laughs at man and scarce believes in God. His hand
is heavy; this is his mark." She held up her bruised wrist to the light,
then let the hand drop. When she spoke of the minister, she made a gesture
toward the shadows growing ever thicker and darker in the body of the
house. It was as though she saw him there, and was pointing him out.
"There is the minister's wife," she said, and the motion of her hand again
accused the shadows. "Oh, their roof has sheltered me; I have eaten of
their bread. But truth is truth. There is the schoolmaster with the
branded hands. He taught me, you know. There is"—she was looking with
wide eyes into the deepest of the shadows—"there is Hugon!" Her voice
died away. Haward did not move or speak, and for a minute there was
silence in the dusky playhouse. Audrey broke it with a laugh, soft, light,
and clear, that came oddly upon the mood of the hour. Presently she was
speaking again: "Do you think it strange that I should laugh? I laughed to
think I have escaped them all. Do you know that they call me a dreamer?
Once, deep in the woods, I met the witch who lives at the head of the
creek. She told me that I was a dream child, and that all my life was a
dream, and I must pray never to awake; but I do not think she knew, for
all that she is a witch. They none of them know,—none, none! If I had not
dreamed, as they call it,—if I had watched, and listened, and laid to
heart, and become like them,—oh, then I should have died of your look
when at last you came! But I 'dreamed;' and in that long dream you, though
you were overseas, you showed me, little by little, that the spirit is not
bond, but free,—that it can walk the waves, and climb to the sunset and
the stars. And I found that the woods were fair, that the earth was fair
and kind as when I was a little child. And I grew to love and long for
goodness. And, day by day, I have had a life and a world where flowers
bloomed, and the streams ran fresh, and there was bread indeed to eat. And
it was you that showed me the road, that opened for me the gates!"
She ceased to speak, and, turning fully toward him, took his hand and put
it to her lips. "May you be very happy!" she said. "I thank you, sir, that
when you came at last you did not break my dream. The dream fell short!"
The smile upon her face was very sweet, very pure and noble. She would
have gone without another word, but Haward caught her by the sleeve. "Stay
awhile!" he cried. "I too am a dreamer, though not like you, you maid of
Dian, dark saint, cold vestal, with your eyes forever on the still, white
flame! Audrey, Audrey, Audrey! Do you know what a pretty name you have,
child, or how dark are your eyes, or how fine this hair that a queen might
envy? Westover has been dull, child."
Audrey shook her head and smiled, and thought that he was laughing at her.
A vision of Evelyn, as Evelyn had looked that morning, passed before her.
She did not believe that he had found Westover dull.
"I am coming to Fair View, dark Audrey," he went on. "In its garden there
are roses yet blooming for thy hair; there are sweet verses calling to be
read; there are cool, sequestered walks to be trodden, with thy hand in
mine,—thy hand in mine, little maid. Life is but once; we shall never
pass this way again. Drink the cup, wear the roses, live the verses! Of
what sing all the sweetest verses, dark-eyed witch, forest Audrey?"
"Of love," said Audrey simply. She had freed her hand from his clasp, and
her face was troubled. She did not understand; never had she seen him like
this, with shining eyes and hot, unsteady touch.
"There is the ball at the Palace to-morrow night," he went on. "I must be
there, for a fair lady and I are to dance together." He smiled. "Poor
Audrey, who hath never been to a ball; who only dances with the elves,
beneath the moon, around a beechen tree! The next day I will go to Fair
View, and you will be at the glebe house, and we will take up the summer
where we left it, that weary month ago."
"No, no," said Audrey hurriedly, and shook her head. A vague and formless
trouble had laid its cold touch upon her heart; it was as though she saw a
cloud coming up, but it was no larger than a man's hand, and she knew not
what it should portend, nor that it would grow into a storm. He was
strange to-day,—that she felt; but then all her day since the coming of
Evelyn had been sad and strange.
The shaft of sunshine was gone from the stage, and all the house was in
shadow. Audrey descended the two or three steps leading into the pit, and
Haward followed her. Side by side they left the playhouse, and found
themselves in the garden, and also in the presence of five or six ladies
and gentlemen, seated upon the grass beneath a mulberry-tree, or engaged
in rifling the grape arbor of its purple fruit.
The garden was a public one, and this gay little party, having tired of
the Indian spectacle, had repaired hither to treat of its own affairs.
Moreover, it had been there, scattered upon the grass in view of the
playhouse door, for the better part of an hour. Concerned with its own wit
and laughter, it had caught no sound of low voices issuing from the
theatre; and for the two who talked within, all outward noise had ranked
as coming from the distant, crowded fields.
A young girl, her silken apron raised to catch the clusters which a
gentleman, mounted upon a chair, threw down, gave a little scream and let
fall her purple hoard. "'Gad!" cried the gentleman. One and another
exclaimed, and a withered beauty seated beneath the mulberry-tree laughed
shrilly.
A moment, an effort, a sharp recall of wandering thoughts, and Haward had
the situation in hand. An easy greeting to the gentlemen, debonair
compliments for the ladies, a question or two as to the entertainment they
had left, then a negligent bringing forward of Audrey. "A little brown
ward and ancient playmate of mine,—shot up in the night to be as tall as
a woman. Make thy curtsy, child, and go tell the minister what I have said
on the subject he wots of."
Audrey curtsied and went away, having never raised her eyes to note the
stare of curiosity, the suppressed smile, the glance from eye to eye,
which had trod upon her introduction to the company. Haward, remaining
with his friends and acquaintances, gathered grapes for the blooming girl
and the withered beauty, and for a little, smiling woman who was known for
as arrant a scandalmonger as could be found in Virginia.