The Foxes of Harrow

by Frank Yerby

  So—after a fashion—life went on at Harrow. Aurore ran the big house with effortless grace. The slaves soon found that her firmness was tempered by a native kindness of heart that went much further in attending to their smallest wants than Odalie’s sense of the obligations of a gentlewoman had ever done. Universally the Negroes of Harrow had admired and respected their former mistress; the new one they loved.

  But already tongues had begun to wag in New Orleans, that city in which a certain fine preoccupation with the morals of others had always been a pleasant substitute for too close attention to one’s own. In truth, however, it was among Aurore’s closest friends that concern was most acute.

  “I don’t like it,” Andre said bluntly to his wife. “I know too well how she feels toward him.”

  Amelia smiled.

  “A fact,” she said gently, “to which I am indebted for a very sweet and charming husband.”

  “Melia!”

  “Don’t let it trouble you, Andre. I’ve long since become reconciled to the idea that I was your second choice. Love has very little pride.”

  “But it isn’t true!” Andre spluttered; “I didn’t even know you then!”

  “And you objected very strenuously to even meeting me,” Amelia teased. “You had no use for ‘lean, American females.”

  “You’ve been talking to Stephen. I should shoot him.”

  “A very dangerous business, my husband. Besides, I’m far from lean and that was long ago.”

  Andre bent and kissed the soft cheek.

  “You’re an angel,” he said. “Completely an angel.”

  “No, I’m not. But about this business, I agree with you. Perhaps I should talk to Aurore . . .”

  Andre frowned.

  “No,” he said, “I think not. I doubt that it would do any good. Aurore can be terribly stubborn in her own quiet way.”

  They sighed and a silence fell between them.

  Up at Harrow, Aurore lay awake listening to Stephen’s footsteps in the great hall. Back and forth they went, back and forth in a slow measured tread. But at one place they stopped. Aurore knew that this was before the portrait, glowing with unearthly loveliness upon the wall. How many nights had she heard those footsteps now—walking through the darkness and well into the dawn. The lines from Shakespeare kept echoing through her head:

  “Sleep no more! Macbeth hath murdered sleep!”

  The good God knows Stephen had murdered sleep both for himself and her. And in this lay clearly the road to madness. But now, suddenly, frighteningly, there was silence. With fingers so shaken that they could hardly tie a knot, Aurore drew on her robe. Then putting her tiny feet into her slippers, she stole out into the hall. There was no sound but the pounding of her heart like a muffled drum beneath her ribs. But she went forward until she reached the picture. Before it, curled up in a big chair, Stephen slept. Exhaustion had finally done its work.

  Aurore leaned close, where the candles glowed softly in the silver candlesticks. There was so much of torment there in the still face that she could feel the pain lying very cold and deep next to her heart, like the blade of a sharp knife. She leaned closer, studying his face. The mouth, so stern and commanding when he was awake, in sleep was pitiful and lost like the lips of a child. Even the mockery was gone and in its stead were only bewilderment and deep abiding hurt.

  She had an impulse to smother his face against her breasts and rock to and fro, crooning to him softly. She straightened up abruptly, sure that the drumroil of her heart would awaken him. But still he slept. Again she leaned forward.

  “Do not grieve, my Stephen,” she whispered. “Never in the world was she worth so much pain. Not she nor any woman. Merciful saints, how ill he looks!”

  Stephen half turned in his sleep so that his face was raised a little. Aurore’s face moved closer until her lips were almost touching his.

  “You kissed me once,” she murmured. “In laughter and diablerie—I give you back your kiss, my Stephen. But God knows I mean no mockery.” Her lips touched his as lightly as a breath; but involuntarily they lingered and moved caressingly over his~ Then without opening his eyes, Stephen’s lean arms, hard as corded steelwire, stole upward around her, drawing her downward to him. She struggled briefly, and the pale blue eyes flew wide.

  “Aurore!”

  “Oh, my God,” she wept. “Oh, my God!”

  He held her firmly in his arms, his eyes studying her face.

  “Ye kissed me,” he said. “Why?”

  “Please, Stephen,” she whispered. “Let me go—please, Stephen, please!”

  “Not until ye explain this.”

  “There’s no explanation—none that I can give. Forget it happened. Forgive me—and let me go—away from here—miles away from here.”

  “No,” he said gravely. “No. I must understand this thing.”

  She lay very quietly in his arms. Then she buried her face against his chest so that her voice was muffled and thick with tears.

  “I love you,” she said. “Always I’ve loved you—since the day you stood in the Place D’Armes when de Lafayette came. You stood there and stared and stared at Odalie until my heart broke quite in two. I thought you so beautiful, Stephen—like a young god. And since then it has grown worse. Whatever you did—your carelessness, your mockery, your quadroon wench, your loving Odalie—I forgave you, Stephen. I could forgive you anything. I lived only for the precious minutes when I should see you, and between them only in the hope of seeing you again. And now that I am become a shameless thing not fit to associate with decent people will you please let me go?”

  Stephen lay very still, but his arms did not move.

  “There is nothing left in me of love, Aurore,” he said gently, “but ‘tis certain I cannot live alone for long. That I know. Already I am unsure between the real and the dreamed. Perhaps in time I can learn again to feel as a man ought.”

  He stopped, gazing upward at the picture.

  “We shall be married at once,” he said. “God knows that never before was a man so honored. Ye must know how grateful I am—how simply and humbly grateful.”

  Aurore lifted her face to his and on her face the tears were cold and wet.

  Late in the morning of the following day, the great yellow coach from Harrow rode up the long driveway that curved away from the wrought-iron gates of La Place des Rivières. The usual crowd of Negro children scampered laughingly around it, almost beneath the wheels. Ti Demon met them at the foot of the stairs, his popeyes rolling in his wizened black face.

  “Monsieur Stephen and Mam’zelle Aurore,” he bawled. Then bowing, he opened the door of the coach.

  Stephen stepped down. He was flawlessly attired in the very latest fashion: no longer was his neck encased only in a dark stock; instead a huge cravat of silk crowded the space above his brocaded maroon waistcoat with its roll collar and the high, sharply pointed white collar of the shirt itself. In the great knob of the cravat, the big pearl stickpin gleamed softly. The new coffee-colored clawhammer coat contrasted sharply with the faun-colored trousers, which, unlike those of the decade before, clung to every inch of Stephen’s well-turned legs, and were anchored beneath the instep of his shoes with a strap. On his head the tall beaver sat at a jaunty angle, but his face was lined and grave.

  He extended his hand into the coach and helped Aurore down. Her face was pale with nervousness above the dress of changeable silk with the tight sleeves. Her chestnut curls bobbed as she stepped down from the coach, but on the back of her neck she wore a huge knot of her own soft hair as an indication of her modernity—a fashion which was not to become general until almost a year later.

  Amelia came down the stairs to meet them, her face alight with pleasure and both hands outstretched.

  “At last!” she laughed. “I was beginning to believe that you two would never again honor La Place.”

  “The honor is ours,” Stephen said, “that still ye receive us. But truthfully, my dear Amelia, we come to seek
your aid.”

  “So? You plan a party perhaps? I’ll be only too glad . . .”

  “No,” Stephen said bluntly. “A wedding.”

  Amelia’s coral lips formed a soft O, but she said nothing, standing there staring at them while her eyebrows climbed toward her ash blonde hair.

  Aurore went up to her and put her arms around her neck.

  “Please forgive us,” she said. “I know how terrible it sounds . . .”

  Amelia smiled down at her friend.

  “I’m glad,” she said. “It’s unconventional and will make a scandal, but it’s the right thing—especially since you’ve lived up at Harrow all these months . . .”

  “Amelia!” Aurore’s voice was stricken. “Surely you don’t think that I—that we—”

  “Of course not,” Amelia said. “I know you too well, both of you. But there are others who don’t. It was of them that I was thinking. Come into the house. I’ve already sent Ti Demon for Andre.”

  The two women locked arms and started up the stairs. Stephen strode along beside them, looking from one to the other.

  “I’m glad of one thing,” he remarked. “At least ye don’t think me a monster, Amelia.”

  “You’re too stupid to be a scoundrel, Stephen,” Amelia mocked.

  “Stupid?” Stephen echoed blankly. “This from ye I didn’t expect!”

  “That you could have looked into Aurore’s face all these years and not discovered how she worshipped you called for a stupendous amount of stupidity, Stephen. Even Andre knew, and God knows he’s not overly bright.”

  “Thus do American women speak of their husbands!” Stephen laughed. “Perhaps I’ve done well to escape them.”

  “Perhaps you have,” Amelia smiled. “And then, perhaps you might have been agreeably surprised.”

  “As Andre was. I envy ye both your happiness.”

  “Soon you will have no cause to. It’s made up of many things, Stephen—deep and abiding love, and mutual trust and respect. There is tenderness in it, too, and a certain sharing of sorrows—but it’s wonderful, Stephen, and life is no good without it.”

  “Aye,” Stephen said grimly. “That I know.”

  “And sometimes you must laugh—without mockery—and at yourself . . .”

  “Ye’re lecturing me?” Stephen growled in mock anger.

  “Yes. You need it. Aurore doesn’t. She’s an angel. But laughter is important. I shall never forget my poor Andre’s face the morning after you took him to that filthy quadroon ball—he was so abject. He thought I was going to leave him—as if I could live two minutes without him, the fat rogue! He looked so pitiful that I couldn’t keep from laughing and there the matter ended.”

  Stephen threw back his head and laughed aloud. But Aurore’s face was white and still. Amelia squeezed her arm.

  “Forgive me, Aurore,” she whispered. “I do talk too much, don’t I?”

  “It’s nothing,” Aurore said. “Only I want to forget that he ever belonged to anyone else. ‘Tis hard, but I’ll manage.”

  When Andre came in from the fields and was told the news, he fairly danced with glee.

  “So,” he chortled. “At last, my old one, you begin to develop intelligence. I was on the point of giving you up as hopeless. When is it to be?”

  “Tomorrow—with your aid.”

  “So soon? Well ‘tis best at that. We’ll have to rush, however. Who will officiate?”

  “Father DuGois,” Stephen said. “If he will.”

  “Then we’d best ride into New Orleans and make the arrangements. Aurore can stay here tonight with Amelia. But I must have the honor of buying you your last bachelor dinner. Give me half an hour in which to dress. Now I must go and tell Ti Demon to saddle fresh horses for us.”

  They rode first to the rectory of the cathedral and sought out the old priest. Stephen had feared that Father DuGois would object, but the aged man’s wisdom was in his heart, not drawn from dogma. He agreed calmly.

  Stephen’s face was still as they left the Saint Louis Cathedral, but at last his eyes were clear and untroubled.

  “And now,” Andre said, “about that dinner . . . ?”

  “Anywhere you say,” Stephen told him; “but I fear that I have scant appetite.”

  The next evening, the yellow coach drew up before the cathedral, and Andre and Amelia and Stephen and Aurore got out. To their vast astonishment, the stalls were filled with spectators.

  “How on earth?” Aurore gasped.

  “Negro grapevine,” Andre said grimly. “I shall have Ti Demon whipped!”

  “Or perhaps Georges,” Stephen added. “At any rate, ‘tis not to be helped now. Come, my dear.”

  Father DuGois made the ceremony mercifully brief. Still, in his quiet way, he managed to get so much of beauty into it that at last Aurore’s nervousness vanished and her face was transfixed with happiness. When she lifted her mouth to her husband, there in the light of the candles, in an atmosphere filled with the perfume of flowers, even those who had come to mock were stilled.

  The four of them left the church together, and the spectators filed out after them into the street.

  “We shall go to the town house,” Stephen said. “I had Pouilly finish it, but it was never occupied. The wedding supper, unfortunately, will have to be supplied by caterers. Afterwards, we will decide upon a honeymoon . . .”

  “ ‘Tis overlate for that,” Aurore declared. “Just being with you will be enough. Afterwards we can go back to Harrow and take up what there is left of our lives.”

  The wedding supper was a good one, with much wine. Afterwards, Stephen urged the Le Blancs to remain overnight. The house was large enough, he declared, for two loving couples not to interfere with one another. But Andre declined with thanks.

  “No house is large enough for more than two upon a wedding night,” he laughed. So, immensely pleased and well filled with wine, he and Amelia started homeward in a hired carriage.

  After they had gone, it was very still at Bonheure, as Odalie had christened the new house which she did not live to enter. Stephen looked at his bride and hesitated. So much of love was there upon her face and shining out of her clear hazel eyes that he was awed and humbled. She followed him with her glance each time he moved, until the silence grew heavy between them. At last Stephen walked toward her. ‘Tis better that it begins, he thought, our life together. Perhaps this will dispel the other.

  But as he bent toward her, a sound rose through the windows, a noise of many voices roaring:

  “Monsieur Fox left his wife

  And took upon himself a nigger

  Cut her with a carving knife,

  But now he’s seeking something bigger—”

  Stephen stood there frozen, holding Aurore in his arms. Then, his almost white brows bristling, he crossed to the window. Aurore followed. Down below the house the street was filled with a merry, jostling mob. In their midst they bore a coffin, open, in which an effigy lay. Half a glance told them that this was supposed to represent Odalie. Beside the coffin dangled two effigies, clad in bridal costumes: these were himself and Aurore.

  “Stephen,” Aurore wept, “Oh Stephen!”

  “So he made mock of his wife,

  Laughing even as he kissed her

  And when she took her leave of life—

  At once he married with her sister!”

  Stephen’s hand went into his pocket and came out with the derringer.

  “No, Stephen, no!” Aurore said. “That’s not the way.”

  He turned and stared at her. Then, slowly, he pocketed the pistol.

  “Aye,” he growled. “I know how to still the beasts! Feed them!”

  He left the room and quickly came back with two heavy leather bags.

  “This was to pay for our honeymoon,” he said. “But there is more where it came from.”

  Quietly, Stephen opened the window. Then dipping both hands into the leather bags, he scattered silver dollars out over the streets. Instantly t
he mob stopped singing and began to fight over the silver. When each man had gathered a few, they looked up with rare good humor.

  “Good for you, Monsieur Fox,” they shouted. “That’s a sport! For so much money you can marry my sister!” Then one by one they left the street until it was empty and still.

  In the corner, Aurore wept miserably.

  Stephen crossed to her and took her again in his arms. “I’m sorry, my dearest,” he said. “But this ye must expect when ye marry a blackguard.”

  “But I didn’t,” she whispered, her lips trembling into something very like a smile, “I married a prince. And if he doesn’t kiss me soon, I shall die!”

  Stephen bent and kissed her gently. Her lips were salt with the taste of tears.

  She drew back, looking at him.

  “No, no!” she whispered huskily. “Not like that! I’m no longer your sister remember!”

  Stephen’s fair brows flew upward.

  “And how shall I kiss ye, my dearest?”

  “Like this,” she murmured. “Like this . . .”