CHAPTER XVII
WITHIN THE PLAYHOUSE
Haward, sitting at the table in Marot's best room, wrote an answer toAudrey's letter, and tore it up; wrote another, and gave it to Juba, to begiven to the messenger waiting below; recalled the negro before he couldreach the door, destroyed the second note, and wrote a third. The firsthad been wise and kind, telling her that he was much engaged, lightly andskillfully waving aside her request--the only one she made--that she mightsee him that day. The second had been less wise. The last told her that hewould 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 hiseyes closed and his head thrown back against the tall woodwork of hischair. His face was stern in repose: a handsome, even a fine face, with alook of power and reflection, but to-day somewhat worn and haggard ofaspect. When presently he roused himself and took up the letter that laybefore him, the paper shook in his hand. "Wine, Juba," he said to theslave, who now reentered the room. "And close the window; it is growingcold."
There were but three lines between the "Mr. Haward" and "Audrey;" thewriting was stiff and clerkly, the words very simple,--a child's asking ofa favor. He guessed rightly that it was the first letter of her own thatshe had ever written. Suddenly a wave of passionate tenderness took him;he bowed his head and kissed the paper; for the moment many-threaded lifeand his own complex nature alike straightened to a beautiful simplicity.He was the lover, merely; life was but the light and shadow through whichmoved the woman whom he loved. He came back to himself, and tried to thinkit out, but could not. Finally, with a weary impatience, he declined tothink 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 hisdetermination to make this lady his wife. Pride was at the root of hisbeing,--pride and a deep self-will; though because they were so sunken,and because poisonous roots can flower most deceivingly, he neither calledhimself nor was called of others a proud and willful man. He wished Evelynfor his wife; nay, more, though on May Day he had shown her that he lovedher not, though in June he had offered her a love that was only admiringaffection, yet in the past month at Westover he had come almost to believethat he loved her truly. That she was worthy of true love he knew verywell. With all his strength of will, he had elected to forget the summerthat lay behind him at Fair View, and to live in the summer that was withhim at Westover. His success had been gratifying; in the flush of it, hepersuaded himself that a chamber of the heart had been locked forever, andthe key thrown away. And lo now! a touch, the sudden sight of a name, andthe door had flown wide; nay, the very walls were rived away! It was not aglance over the shoulder; it was full presence in the room so latelysealed.
He knew that Evelyn loved him. It was understood of all their acquaintancethat he was her suitor; months ago he had formally craved her father'spermission to pay his addresses. There were times in those weeks atWestover when she had come nigh to yielding, to believing that he lovedher; 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 hisgarden at Fair View. The cherries were ripe; the birds were singing: greatbutterflies went by. The sunshine beat on the dial, on the walks, and thesmell of the roses was strong as wine. His senses swam with the warmth andfragrance; the garden enlarged itself, and blazed in beauty. Never wassunshine so golden as that; never were roses so large, never odors sopotent-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 wasEloisa!
When he rose from his chair, he staggered slightly, and put his hand tohis head. Recovering himself in a moment, he called for his hat and cane,and, leaving the ordinary, turned his face toward the Palace. A garrulousfellow Councilor, also bidden to his Excellency's dinner party, overtookhim, 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 goodthird of the servants arriving in the country since spring had died oftheir seasoning. The slaver lying in the York had thrown thirty blacksoverboard in the ran from Barbadoes,--some strange sickness or other.Adsbud! He would not buy from the lot the master landed; had they beenwhite, they had showed like spectres! September was the worst month ofthe year. He did not find Mr. Haward in looks now. Best consult Dr.Contesse, though indeed he himself had a preventive of fever which neverfailed. First he bled; then to so much of Peruvian bark--
Mr. Haward declared that he was very well, and turned the conversationpiratewards again.
The dinner at the Palace was somewhat hurried, the gentlemen rising withthe ladies, despite the enticements of Burgundy and champagne. It was theafternoon set apart for the Indian dance. The bonfire in the field behindthe magazine had been kindled; the Nottoways and Meherrins were waiting,still as statues, for the gathering of their audience. Before the dancethe great white father was to speak to them; the peace pipe, also, was tobe smoked. The town, gay of mood and snatching at enjoyment, emptied itspeople 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 thehouse by the bowling green or in the shadow of the theatre itself, mustgo, at all rates. Marcia and Lucia, Syphax, Sempronius, and the Africanprince made off together, while the sons of Cato, who chanced to be twinbrothers, followed with a slower step. Their indentures would expire nextmonth, and they had thoughts, the one of becoming an overseer, the otherof moving up country and joining a company of rangers: hence theirsomewhat haughty bearing toward their fellow players, who--except oldSyphax, who acted for the love of it--had not even a bowing acquaintancewith freedom.
Mr. and Mrs. Stagg saw their minions depart, and then themselves left thelittle white house in Palace Street. Mistress Deborah was with them, butnot Audrey. "She can't abide the sight of an Indian," said the minister'swife indifferently. "Besides, Darden will be here from the churchpresently, and he may want her to write for him. She and Peggy can mindthe house."
The Capitol clock was telling five when Haward entered the garden by theNicholson Street gate. There had arisen a zephyr of the evening, to loosenthe yellow locust leaves and send them down upon the path, to lay coolfingers 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 borderof the town. Distance muffled the Indian drums, and changed the scream ofthe pipes into a far-off wailing. Savage cries, bursts of applause andlaughter,--all came softly, blent like the hum of the bees, mellow likethe sunlight. There was no one in the summer-house. Haward walked on tothe grape arbor, and found there a black girl, who pointed to an opendoor, pertaining not to the small white house, but to that portion of thetheatre which abutted upon the garden. Haward, passing a window of Mr.Stagg's domicile, was aware of Darden sitting within, much engaged with agreat book and a tankard of sack. He made no pause for the vision, andanother moment found him within the playhouse.
The sunlight entered in at the door and at one high window, but yet theplace was dim. The gallery and the rude boxes were all in shadow; thesunbeams from the door struck into the pit, while those from the highwindow let fall a shaft of misty light upon the stage itself, set for ahall in Utica, with five cane chairs, an ancient settle, and a Spanishtable. 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 fixedupon the shadowy, chill, and soundless space before her. Upon Haward'sspeaking 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," shesaid, in a low voice. "I did not wish to trouble you, sir."
Upon her wrist were dark marks. "Did D
arden do that?" demanded Haward, ashe took his seat beside her.
Audrey looked at the bruise indifferently; then with her other handcovered it from sight. "I have a favor to ask of Mr. Haward," she said. "Ihope that after his many kindnesses he will not refuse to do me thisgreatest one. If he should grant my request, the gratitude which I mustneeds already feel toward him will be increased tenfold." The words cameprecisely, in an even voice.
Haward smiled. "Child, you have conned your lesson well. Leave the wordsof 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 shehad come to an end of the minister's grievances, she sat, with downcasteyes, waiting for him to speak, wishing that he would not look at her sosteadily. She meant never to show him her heart,--never, never; butbeneath his gaze it was hard to keep her cheek from burning, her lip fromquivering.
At last he spoke: "Would it please you, Audrey, if I should save this manfrom his just deserts?"
Audrey raised her eyes. "He and Mistress Deborah are all my friends," shesaid. "The glebe house is my home."
Deep sadness spoke in voice and eye. The shaft of light, moving, had lefther in the outer shadow: she sat there with a listless grace; with adignity, 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 tofondle or to wreak its rage upon. The change was subtle; one more a loveror less a lover than Haward might not have noted it. "I will petition theCommissary to-night," he said, "the Governor to-morrow. Is your having infriends so slight as you say, little maid?"
Oh, he could reach to the quick! She was sure that he had not meant toaccuse her of ingratitude, and pitifully sure that she must have seemedguilty 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 beingquiveringly eager to be gone. She had asked that which she was bidden toask, had gained that which she was bidden to gain; for the rest, it wasfar better that she should go. Better far for him to think her dull andthankless as a stone than see--than see--
When Haward caught her by the hand, she trembled and drew a sobbingbreath. "'I have had a friend,' Audrey?" he asked. "Why not 'I have afriend'?"
"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 kindestfriend, the most generous"--She faltered, but presently went on, a strangecourage coming to her. She had turned slightly toward him, though shelooked not at him, but upward to where the light streamed through the highwindow. It fell now upon her face. "It is a great thing to save life," shesaid. "To save a soul alive, how much greater! To have kept one soul inthe knowledge that there is goodness, mercy, tenderness, God; to havegiven it bread to eat where it sat among the stones, water to drink whereall the streams were dry,--oh, a king might be proud of that! And that iswhat you have done for me.... When you sailed away, so many years ago, andleft me with the minister and his wife, they were not always kind. But Iknew 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 isthe sea, and he cannot come, but he knows, and is sorry.' It wasmake-believe,--for you thought that I was happy, did you not?--but ithelped me very much. I was only a child, you know, and I was so verylonely. I could not think of mother and Molly, for when I did I saw themas--as I had seen them last. The dark scared me, until I found that Icould pretend that you were holding my hand, as you used to do when nightcame in the valley. After a while I had only to put out my hand, and yourswas there waiting for it. I hope that you can understand--I want you toknow how large is my debt.... As I grew, so did the debt. When I was agirl it was larger than when I was a child. Do you know with whom I havelived all these years? There is the minister, who comes reeling home fromthe crossroads ordinary, who swears over the dice, who teaches cunningthat he calls wisdom, laughs at man and scarce believes in God. His handis 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 gesturetoward the shadows growing ever thicker and darker in the body of thehouse. 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 againaccused the shadows. "Oh, their roof has sheltered me; I have eaten oftheir bread. But truth is truth. There is the schoolmaster with thebranded hands. He taught me, you know. There is"--she was looking withwide eyes into the deepest of the shadows--"there is Hugon!" Her voicedied away. Haward did not move or speak, and for a minute there wassilence 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 wasspeaking again: "Do you think it strange that I should laugh? I laughed tothink 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 thecreek. She told me that I was a dream child, and that all my life was adream, and I must pray never to awake; but I do not think she knew, forall that she is a witch. They none of them know,--none, none! If I had notdreamed, as they call it,--if I had watched, and listened, and laid toheart, and become like them,--oh, then I should have died of your lookwhen at last you came! But I 'dreamed;' and in that long dream you, thoughyou were overseas, you showed me, little by little, that the spirit is notbond, but free,--that it can walk the waves, and climb to the sunset andthe stars. And I found that the woods were fair, that the earth was fairand kind as when I was a little child. And I grew to love and long forgoodness. And, day by day, I have had a life and a world where flowersbloomed, and the streams ran fresh, and there was bread indeed to eat. Andit 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 putit to her lips. "May you be very happy!" she said. "I thank you, sir, thatwhen 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 wouldhave gone without another word, but Haward caught her by the sleeve. "Stayawhile!" he cried. "I too am a dreamer, though not like you, you maid ofDian, dark saint, cold vestal, with your eyes forever on the still, whiteflame! 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 mightenvy? 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 thereare roses yet blooming for thy hair; there are sweet verses calling to beread; there are cool, sequestered walks to be trodden, with thy hand inmine,--thy hand in mine, little maid. Life is but once; we shall neverpass this way again. Drink the cup, wear the roses, live the verses! Ofwhat sing all the sweetest verses, dark-eyed witch, forest Audrey?"
"Of love," said Audrey simply. She had freed her hand from his clasp, andher face was troubled. She did not understand; never had she seen him likethis, with shining eyes and hot, unsteady touch.
"There is the ball at the Palace to-morrow night," he went on. "I must bethere, for a fair lady and I are to dance together." He smiled. "PoorAudrey, 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 FairView, and you will be at the glebe house, and we will take up the summerwhere we left it, that weary month ago."
"No, no," said Audrey hurriedly, and shook her head. A vague and formlesstrouble had laid its cold touch upon her heart; it was as though she saw acloud coming up, but it was no larger than a man's hand, and she knew notwhat it should portend, nor that it would grow into a storm. He wasstrange to-day,--that she felt; but then all her day since the coming ofEvelyn had been sad and strange.
The shaft of sunshine was gone from the stage
, and all the house was inshadow. Audrey descended the two or three steps leading into the pit, andHaward followed her. Side by side they left the playhouse, and foundthemselves in the garden, and also in the presence of five or six ladiesand gentlemen, seated upon the grass beneath a mulberry-tree, or engagedin rifling the grape arbor of its purple fruit.
The garden was a public one, and this gay little party, having tired ofthe Indian spectacle, had repaired hither to treat of its own affairs.Moreover, it had been there, scattered upon the grass in view of theplayhouse door, for the better part of an hour. Concerned with its own witand laughter, it had caught no sound of low voices issuing from thetheatre; and for the two who talked within, all outward noise had rankedas coming from the distant, crowded fields.
A young girl, her silken apron raised to catch the clusters which agentleman, mounted upon a chair, threw down, gave a little scream and letfall her purple hoard. "'Gad!" cried the gentleman. One and anotherexclaimed, and a withered beauty seated beneath the mulberry-tree laughedshrilly.
A moment, an effort, a sharp recall of wandering thoughts, and Haward hadthe situation in hand. An easy greeting to the gentlemen, debonaircompliments for the ladies, a question or two as to the entertainment theyhad left, then a negligent bringing forward of Audrey. "A little brownward and ancient playmate of mine,--shot up in the night to be as tall asa woman. Make thy curtsy, child, and go tell the minister what I have saidon the subject he wots of."
Audrey curtsied and went away, having never raised her eyes to note thestare of curiosity, the suppressed smile, the glance from eye to eye,which had trod upon her introduction to the company. Haward, remainingwith his friends and acquaintances, gathered grapes for the blooming girland the withered beauty, and for a little, smiling woman who was known foras arrant a scandalmonger as could be found in Virginia.
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