by Frank Yerby
At Harrow, on the next day after the duel which Stephen had ended before it began, Etienne Fox was feverishly packing his valise. This was no easy task, for he was oversupplied with clothing, and to make the right choice was difficult. He must be richly dressed, but not too much so, for extravagant display would be fatal to his plan. As he pondered, he heard a muffled cough from the doorway. Turning, he saw his father’s lean frame draped against the doorframe.
“So, lad, ye’re planning to leave us?”
Etienne frowned angrily.
“Why aren’t you in the fields, Father?” he demanded. “You always go at this hour.”
Stephen shrugged.
“Perhaps I’m clairvoyant,” he said; “but somehow I knew ye had mischief afoot. Well, out with it, lad. Where are you going?”
Etienne smiled, a slow, mocking smile.
“To the river—to follow in the footsteps of my esteemed father,” he said. “I already have a place engaged on a packet. The captain is willing to have me permanently aboard—for a cut of my winnings.”
“Ye’re a fool,” Stephen said without heat. “ ‘Tis no life for the likes of ye.”
“You can’t stop me, Father!”
“Aye—that I know. But a packet gambler must be a successful one. Are ye sure ye can manage it, ‘Tienne?”
“I play as well as you do!”
“Ye should, for I taught ye all I know. But that remains to be seen. Suppose I make ye a sporting proposition?”
Etienne’s black brows met over his nose.
“What sort of proposition, Father?”
“Oh—just a friendly game of poker.”
“And the stakes?”
“One half of the land now—against your giving up this tomfool idea.”
Etienne gazed at Stephen and the matching sets of eyes held and locked.
“Done!” he said. “I was never one to turn down a game.”
Stephen smiled.
“Come into the study, lad,” he said softly.
Inside the study, Stephen busied himself clearing a small table. When he had finished, he set out a cut-glass decanter of brandy, his own white clay pipe and a box of cigars.
“Cut for the deal, ‘Tienne?”
“Yes.”
Stephen ruffled the cards and set them upon the table. Etienne passed his hand over them, then abruptly he cut the deck half way to the bottom. He held up the bottom card. It was the king of diamonds. Stephen smiled. Then his hand moved. The deck was cut to within three cards of the bottom. Without changing his expression he exhibited the card. It was the ace of spades.
“All right,” Etienne growled. “You deal.”
“Draw or Stud?”
“Draw!” Etienne declared.
The play went on throughout the entire night, first one winning, then the other. As the first grey streaks of morning stole into the window, Stephen looked at his disheveled red-eyed son.
“Now to make an end,” he said. “We’re even, aren’t we?”
Etienne put down the smouldering stub of his cigar.
“Yes,” he said. He had the oddest feeling that Stephen had been toying with him all night, that even when he won it had been by his father’s contrivance.
“Ye’re agreed to stand by this hand?”
“Yes.” Etienne’s voice was muffled.
“My deal,” Stephen said blandly. His hands, moving, made a whitish blur.
Etienne picked up the cards and looked at them. Then he took up one from the deck, discarding another. Stephen did the same. Again Etienne drew and discarded. But after the third draw, Stephen rested. Etienne looked at his father. This would have to do. He had three of a kind: the queens of diamonds, hearts, and clubs. The other two cards he held were unimpressive: a deuce of hearts and a trey of spades. Still, such a hand was hard to beat. He spread it fanwise upon the table.
Stephen glanced down, and the white brow over his left eye crawled upward toward the scar. His smile was full of bland mockery.
Slowly he revealed his hand. He held the ace, king, queen, jack, and ten of spades.
“A Royal Flush!” Etienne said. “Such a hand wouldn’t happen once in ten million years! You cheated, Father!”
Stephen continued to smile.
“Perhaps,” he said. “And perhaps this is the ten millionth year. But if I cheated ye and ye didn’t detect it, how on earth could ye ever match such sure-thing players as Canada Bill, or George Devol? ‘Tis thinking I am that ye should choose another profession. But ye lost, and I expect ye to abide by your wager like a gentleman.”
“I won’t!” Etienne stormed. “I won’t!”
Stephen opened his mouth to say something, but old Jean-Jacques was standing in the doorway.
“A lady to see the young maître,” he said, then leaning close to Etienne, his black face beaming: “It’s Mamzelle Ceclie!” he whispered loudly.
Etienne glared at him.
“Tell her I won’t see her!” he said. “Tell her to go away!”
“Don’t be a fool, lad,” Stephen said. “At least ye could hear her out.”
Etienne stood up.
“All right,” he said. “Show her in, Jean-Jacques.”
Ceclie came into the big hall and stood looking small and lost in the vast expanse. Etienne hesitated a moment, then walked firmly toward her. He saw the black hair clubbed under her little hat, and the trim green riding suit clinging to the slim young body. When he was close she turned a face devoid of any color up to him and put out one hand.
“I’ve come to say goodbye, ‘Tienne,” she said clearly.
“So?” he grunted.
“We’re going back to Texas. Father’s selling the place—at a terrific loss. You know why, ‘Tienne?”
“No, why?”
“Because I disgraced him so. He swears he’s going to put me in a convent in Texas.”
Etienne looked at her wordlessly. She came up very close to him and her brown eyes were tear bright.
“You—you’re glad I’m going, ‘Tienne?”
“It seems to me,” Etienne said drily, “you should ask Paul.”
Ceclie took a step backward.
“I should have expected that,” she whispered; “but I didn’t somehow. I guess it’s because I love you so that I forget everyone else exists.”
“You love me!” Etienne mocked, “so much that you become Paul Dumaine’s mistress! So much that you pose for obscene portraits
“My picture was beautiful!” Ceclie declared. “I wanted to give it to you . . . so that you’d hurt inside just a little the way you made me hurt! But it wasn’t any good, was it, ‘Tienne? I ended up by ruining everything for everybody.”
She stopped and looked up at him.
“Maybe one day you’ll understand,” she said. “Maybe you’ll know how it feels to be dying inside your body by slow inches. When you get like that, when you can’t even breathe, and your middle’s so empty you can feel the echoes, and your eyes are blinded, and your ears stand up like a burro’s listening, listening Oh, for God sake, ‘Tienne, kiss me so I can go!”
Etienne stood looking at her, then he caught her up in his arms. He tightened his grip about her waist until she moaned a little, but her mouth clung to his, hot and sweet, the lips parted. Her fingers were moving among the soft curls on the back of his neck, working gently. Then, fingers were digging into his flesh, feline and fierce, and her mouth was caressing his, hot, demanding. He tightened his grip once more, pressing her backwards until her lips broke against her teeth.
Then he released her, and she hung against his arms, her face very white and her mouth poppy-red and swollen.
“Never let me go, ‘Tienne,” she whispered. “Never!”
Etienne drew her gently to him.
“Say it wasn’t true about you and Paul,” he said harshly. “Say it, Ceclie! Even if you lie!”
She smiled at him, her eyes soft with tenderness.
“All right,” she whispered, “I’l
l say it, but what good is it? Now you’ll never know. If you love me, it won’t matter. I’m yours, I’ve always been yours, since the day I was born. But if you doubt me, let me go quickly while I can still bear it.”
Etienne looked at her.
“We’ll be married today,” he said. “Then we’ll both leave this accursed place. We’ll go somewhere new—like Kansas. But by heavens, Ceclie, if ever in your sleep you call me ‘Paul’ I’ll strangle you!”
He turned and looked back toward the study where Stephen sat, drawing in long puffs of fragrant blue pipe smoke.
“I’d better tell father,” he said. “Come, Ceclie.” He put his arm about her waist and the two of them walked through the open door into the study.
“Father. . .” Etienne began.
Stephen put the little clay pipe down slowly.
“So,” he said, “ye’ve made it up, have ye? Are you both sure ye aren’t making a mistake?”
Ceclie’s face flamed scarlet.
“I . . . I know what you think of me,” she said. “But is this one thing going to be held against me forever?”
Stephen smiled.
“By me—no,” he said. “There was much that was wrong on both sides. The point that worries me is—can either of ye grow big enough to forget? ‘Twill be a hellish marriage if both of ye are forever digging up the past to throw it in the other’s face. For there will be quarrels, ye know. No man ever lived with a wife year in year out without a sharp word or two passing between them.”
“There is no past, Father,” Etienne growled. “It died five minutes ago. I’ll never resurrect it.”
Ceclie said nothing, but her great brown eyes turned upward to her lover’s face and rested there, glowing.
“Good,” Stephen said, rising. “Now we’d all better ride out to Rosemont and see Phillippe.”
At once all the color disappeared from Ceclie’s face.
“No!” she said. “He’ll never consent!”
“ ‘Never’ is a big word, little Ceclie,” Stephen said. “ ‘Tienne, go and tell your mother. Ask her to join me as soon as I am dressed for riding.”
When Stephen came down the stairs, he found Aurore already waiting. She was dressed in her riding habit and held a crop loosely in her hand.
“I’m going with you, Stephen,” she said clearly; “I could always handle Phillippe better than anyone else. There have been too many challenges already.”
“Then ye approve?” Stephen asked. “About that I had some doubt.”
“No, Stephen,” Aurore said slowly, “I don’t approve. A marriage should be based upon perfect trust. And neither Etienne nor Ceclie has demonstrated enough stability to suit me. But who am I to say? I married a man who didn’t even love me and whose reputation was anything but savory . . . and it worked. A new start in a different part of the country where no one has heard the whispers . . . Besides how long would my disapproval deter them . . . or yours, Stephen?”
“Not five minutes,” Stephen grinned. “The lad is of my blood. Well, if Phillippe will hold his fire until we get a chance to talk to him we might persuade him. Anyhow, ‘tis worth a try.”
They found Phillippe having a frugal breakfast alone in the great dining hall of Rosemont. When the butler announced them, he came out, his face frozen. Grimly he saluted Aurore. Then he turned to Stephen.
“So, Fox,” he said icily, “you find it necessary to bring your wife when you have difficult business.”
Stephen’s white brows flew together.
“Softly, Phillippe,” he began, but Aurore was raising her hand. “I came of my own free will, Phillippe,” she said, “because I know what bad-tempered wretches both of you are. Now, you listen to me. These wild, headstrong children of ours have decided to get married. So we came to ask your consent. It seems to me to be the best thing. Nothing else will so effectively silence wagging tongues!”
Phillippe turned to Etienne.
“So, lad,” he growled, “you want this girl of mine in spite of all she’s done?”
“If she’ll have me,” Etienne said, “in spite of all I’ve done.”
Phillippe looked from one to the other of them. He smiled mockingly.
“Birds of a feather,” he said. “The good God in his wrath could have devised no more fitting punishment than to force you two to spend a lifetime together. You have my blessing. In fact, I’ll come along to see the knot well tied.”
“Oh, Father!” Ceclie said breathlessly. Phillippe glared at her.
“Don’t thank me!” he said; “I’m heartily glad to be rid of you!”
Etienne’s face darkened.
“You’re a beast!” he said.
“So? That I don’t doubt. And so must your father be also, for the two of us to have had such children. Come in, all of you, I shan’t detain you long.”
It took all of Stephen’s powers of persuasion to talk old Father DuGois into performing the ceremony, but at last it was done, and on the next afternoon at five o’clock, when the great parade of boats moved majestically away from the quays, Etienne and Ceclie were aboard one of them, bound upriver for Kansas. Etienne’s pockets were well-lined with money with which to purchase his new lands and, in addition, he had a blank draft, signed by Stephen against the latter’s Philadelphia banking account.
In another of the packets, Paul Dumaine was sailing away from New Orleans forever.
XXVIII
BY EARLY November of 1854, the cane crop was all in. The weather continued warm and Spring-like, and the crushers in the sugar house were rolling and thumping. The Negroes went about their work with grins upon their faces, for the time for the harvest and celebration was almost at hand. Julie rode everywhere over the great plantation with her father, and met every post in vain expectation of a letter from Etienne.
On the morning of the last day of the harvest, she was already mounted on the fat Shetland awaiting her father when he came down the steps. Stephen smiled at the round, eager face.
“Don’t ye ever sleep?” he asked with mock gruffness. “I wouldn’t have gone without ye.”
“You’re so slow, Father!” Julie complained. “You’re getting almost as lazy as that fat old Monsieur Le Blanc.”
“Heaven forbid!” Stephen grinned as he swung into the saddle.
“Well—where’ll we go first this morning?”
“To the low fields—down by the river. We can see the road from there and—”
“And the postrider comes that way. Don’t worry, Julie, that scoundrel of a brother of yours will write us soon. Well, the low fields it is. See if ye can get some speed out of that fat beast. We’re late as it is.”
“It’s all your fault, Papa,” Julie pouted. “You just wouldn’t get up!”
“One grows old, daughter o’ mine. Ye must have patience.” They set out at a swinging trot down the alley of oaks toward the levee. But, before they had gone half way, a hired carriage turned in from the bayou road and came toward them. Julie’s face shone with joy.
“Maybe it’s ‘Tienne,” she breathed. “Perhaps he’s decided to come back!”
“That I doubt,” Stephen said. “But we’ll soon see who it is.”
As they came abreast of the carriage, the driver pulled it up, and Stephen’s palamino danced alongside of the door. Stephen lifted his hat courteously.
Then Julie’s face fell. The man who was leaning out of the small half window bore not the slightest resemblance to Etienne. He was very lean of face with a big, thin-lipped mouth that looked as though it was made for smiling. His voice, When he spoke, was very deep.
“Is this the plantation of Mister Stephen Fox?” he asked.
“Aye,” Stephen said, “and I am Stephen Fox. Whom do I have the honor of addressing?”
The wide mouth widened still further into a smile and the dark grey eyes had a sparkle in them.
“Southern courtesy,” he said. “I’d almost forgotten how it was.” He half turned to someone hidden in the shadow insid
e the carriage. “You see, Tom,” he chuckled; “I told you.”
“Yes, Dad.” The boy’s voice came out clear and strong.
“My name is Thomas Meredith,” the man said, looking at Stephen. “And this is my son and namesake. Tom, say hello to the gentleman and the young lady.”
The boy’s head appeared through the window. His face was that of his father, but softened by youth. Seventeen or so, Stephen decided.
“Good morning, Mister Fox,” he said, and his voice had a Yankee crispness to it that was totally absent from the speech of his father. He turned his enormous light grey eyes upon Julie, and his long, very dark lashes blinked rapidly. A heavy lock of dark brown hair escaped his hat and curled damply over his high, white forehead. The wide, extremely mobile mouth spread and trembled a bit at the corners. A mite too sensitive for a lad, Stephen thought.
Julie’s cheeks reddened under the steady gaze, but she couldn’t help smiling.
“My name is Julie,” she said clearly.
“An enchanting name,” the older man said, “for a lovely lady.”
Stephen put his tall hat back upon his head.
“Ye’re very welcome,” he said. “Come up to the house.”
“But you were about to leave . . . you had some business perhaps . . .” Thomas Meredith said.
“A routine inspection. It can wait. We don’t have guests often, and ‘tis always a pleasure, especially for Julie. She’s a sociable soul—like her mother.”
“ ‘Twill be very pleasant meeting Madame Fox. It’s been a long time since I’ve talked to a Southern lady. We’re from Boston, you know.”
“The lad, yes. But ye—I’d have guessed Georgia or Alabama from your accent.”
“Correct! I was born on a plantation near Tuscaloosa. But it’s been more than twenty years since I set foot on Southern soil.”
