Pride's Folly

by Fiona Harrowe

  “All right,’’ I conceded wearily. “Anything but the house on Charles Street.’’

  Papa wanted to speak to Roger, but he was not that easy to find. Apparently he had taken fright, for he avoided the house and the mill, and no one had seen him at his usual haunts, the Men’s Club or the restaurants and saloons he visited regularly. Papa said his friends thought he had gone to Roanoke, where he had real estate interests. Meanwhile, we could no nothing but wait until Roger decided to return.

  One afternoon Papa suggested we pay a duty call on the Bainbridges. I agreed to this, as I had to all his wishes the past few days, hoping I could still change his mind about Page.

  Our visit was a short, strained one, during which we both evaded all questions concerning Roger with vague, meaningless answers. I’m sure Aunt Jane was puzzled, but good manners forbade a direct probe. When she kissed me good-bye, she said I looked a bit under the weather. “Such a good idea, your papa taking you to White Sulphur.’’

  We were seated in the hansom, waiting for the cabbie to mount his box and get under way, when a shabbily dressed man, reeking of whiskey, his chin stubbled with a day-old beard, approached us.

  “Pardon, ma’am.” He doffed a greasy, battered hat. “But ain’t you Mrs. Prescott? Yes, well . . .’’He paused, shooting a look at Papa, twirling the hat in nail-bitten fingers. “I heard you been lookin’ for yore husband.”

  “You’ve seen Mr. Prescott?”

  “Aye. And fer a small fee,” he said, his Adam’s apple bobbing, “I kin lead you to him.”

  Papa said, “How much?”

  The man hesitated, his bleary-eyed glance taking in Papa’s fashionable Havelock coat. “A dollar,” he said.

  “All right,” Papa agreed. “You can ride with the cabbie.”

  The shabbily dressed stranger guided the hansom through the city to a low neighborhood of mean streets, broken-cobbled and littered with refuse. White and colored children shrieked at play in the gutters while a clutch of older boys gathered about a small bonfire, roasting potatoes, their faces rosy with the reflected glow. Hawkers sold penny paper twists of sugar, coffee, or salt from one-wheeled barrows festooned with an odd assortment of tinkers’ goods. Men standing idly in doorways stared at us with set, hostile faces.

  Papa said, “This is no place for you, Sabrina. I’ll take you back to the hotel.”

  “No, Papa. By the time you return, Roger might have gone. I’ll be all right with you.”

  We drew up in front of a tavern over which a faded sign proclaimed, THE LIGHT.

  The bleary-eyed man clambered down from the box and stuck his face in the open front of the hansom. “We’re here, sir.”

  Papa turned to me. “I’d rather have you come with me than sit out here alone.” Then to our guide he said, “Come inside. If Mr. Prescott’s there, you can have your dollar.

  The Light was crowded with men, some standing up at the brass-railed bar, boots scuffing the yellow sawdust beneath them, others seated on wooden benches at trestle tables. Two or three women sat with the men, ladies with bright-red lips and shadowed eyes. The murky air resounded to the din of voices and female laughter. From some obscure, smoke-filled corner came the thump and tinkle of a piano grossly out of tune.

  “He’s there,” our guide said.

  Roger was at the bar, his back to us, talking to a short, sour-faced individual. From what I could see of Roger he looked unkempt, his coat wrinkled and his hair badly in need of cutting.

  Papa gave the bleary-eyed man his dollar.

  Suddenly the sour-faced individual drew away from Roger and shouted, “You killed her! You bloody murderer!”

  “No, listen, Stokes,” Roger replied in a placating voice.

  Stokes. The name struck a chord. Yes, yes! Florrie Stokes, the woman who had been dragged out of the James River! Was the sour-faced man related to her? Husband? Brother?

  “I ain’t goin’ to listen!” the little man shouted. “I’m goin’ to throttle you the way you deserve.”

  “Like hell you are!” Roger drew back his fist and sent it flying.

  The blow glanced harmlessly off Stokes’s shoulder, but it enraged the little man. He began to dance up and down in a fury. “Murderer! Murderer!”

  A hush descended as men craned their necks to watch the two at the bar. Papa tried to get through, elbowing his way forward, and for a moment I lost sight of Roger. Then several heads shifted and I saw the flash of a knife. Stokes held it in his fist, and before anyone could clutch his arm the knife descended, lodging in Roger’s chest.

  He died there a few minutes later, on the sawdust floor clotted with spittle and stale beer, while a ring of curious faces stared down at him.

  Papa and I were sitting in the parlor of the Prescott house on Charles Street. The police, who had locked up Stokes, had taken our depositions a day earlier. That morning, we had buried Roger in the cemetery, next to the old man, after a series of eulogies that would be hard to equal for sheer hypocrisy. The last of those who had come to proffer condolences had left, and Papa and I were alone.

  “Now I won’t have to go to San Francisco,” I said, breaking a long silence.

  “What do you mean?” Papa said. “You don’t plan on staying here? I thought you hated the house and didn’t want to live in the new one.”

  “That’s right. But I’m going to marry Page. I’m a rich widow now. If you don’t want to give Wildoak to Page or sell it to me, then I shall buy him another farm. There are plenty for sale.”

  He looked at me speculatively. “I wonder where you get such cheek.”

  “From you, Papa. I’m more my father’s daughter than you realize.”

  A slow smile spread across his face. “Perhaps you are. Stubborn too.”

  “I still should like your blessing, Papa.”

  He sighed. Then reaching for his pipe, he lit it. He puffed away, his brow creased. “You put me in an awkward position, Sabrina. Being against this marriage has given me an aura of petulance, a trait I don’t admire.” He pointed the pipe stem at me. “You’re sure you love him, sure you want to spend the rest of your life with Page Morse?”

  “Yes, Papa.” And to dispel the doubt I saw lingering in his eyes, I added, “You yourself said he has settled down.”

  “Hmmph.” He brought out a little gold-cased knife and reamed the dead ashes from his pipe. “I said ‘seemed.’ ”

  “But Papa . . .”

  “I suppose I’m splitting hairs.” He refilled his pipe while I watched, deciding against further argument.

  “All right,” he said suddenly. “All right. You have my blessing—reluctantly, to be sure, but my blessing.”

  “Oh, Papa!” I got up from the sofa and ran to kiss him.

  “You needn’t get maudlin, Sabrina,” he said gruffly, but there was a hint of moistness in his eyes.

  It remained only for me to convince Page, but I didn’t tell Papa that.

  Five days after the funeral, I rode out to Wildoak, arriving at noon in order to catch Page at his midday meal. He was just finishing a solitary dinner when his servant led me into the dining room.

  “Why, Mrs. Prescott, what a surprise!” he exclaimed, a jeering tone to his voice, as he got to his feet. “And so soon after the interment. I’m sorry I’ve been tardy in offering condolences, but I heard only yesterday that you were bereaved.”

  “It happened quite suddenly,” I said.

  “A barroom brawl, according to the papers. Not a very dignified way of quitting this world.”

  “No.” A pause. “Aren’t you going to ask me to sit down?”

  “Of course. Pardon my manners. Please . . .” He pulled out a chair with a mock bow. “Have you eaten? Coffee, tea?”

  “Nothing, thank you.”

  “Well, then,” he said, seating himself, shoving his plate aside, “to what do I owe the honor of this visit?”

  I don’t know exactly what I had expected before setting out for Wildoak, but it wasn’t this chill, ta
unting reception. Yet the last time we had met we’d parted with his bitter anger ringing in my ears. Could I expect him to hold out his arms for me now?

  “I see you have recovered from your wound,” I said.

  “Yes, lucky for me your erstwhile husband had such poor aim and the bullet only grazed my skull.” He drained his coffee cup. “Strange, as I lay comatose I fancied I saw your face in the parlor door.”

  I was on the point of saying, “You did,” but the cynical twist to his lips held me back.

  “It’s a pity your reconciliation didn’t last very long, Mrs. Prescott,” he commented after another short, strained silence.

  “We never did get reconciled,” I said.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. And now that you are free, you are looking for another husband, I suppose. Can it be that I have become an attractive candidate?”

  I got up, fighting a burning sensation in my throat. I couldn’t. I couldn’t tell him the truth, that I still loved him, that I had done what I had to do because I didn’t want him sacrificing Wildoak for me. It would sound melodramatic, staged, and I had too much pride to beg. I couldn’t even speak, for fear my voice would break. I gathered my gloves and started for the door. As I came out in the hall, I had a sudden attack of giddiness. Everything began to whirl while my heart beat in sickening thumps.

  I must have staggered, for Page, behind me, asked, “What is it?”

  “Nothing,” I said feebly, trying to gesture him away.

  But he took hold of my arm and peered into my face. “You’re so pale. Come sit down—some brandy.”

  He helped me into the parlor and to a chair. I sank down, unable to protest. I hadn’t eaten very much that morning, and the stays of my corset, laced especially tight to hide my thickening waist, were cutting me in two.

  Page knelt beside me with the glass. I drank only a little, fearful that if I took more I might become light-headed and either start to sob or foolishly pour out my heart.

  “What is it?” Page repeated in the old tender way. “What’s making you ill? Not grief.”

  “Perhaps it is,” I said.

  “No,” he said, holding me back as I started to struggle up from the chair. “No, it’s something else.” He looked at me long, searching my eyes until I felt a blush creeping up from my neck.

  “Are you in the family way?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I answered, in command now. “It’s a pity Roger will not be here to see it.”

  “Roger be hanged!” he said. “It’s mine. You forgot you told me that you and Roger never reconciled. It’s mine, isn’t it?”

  “Page . . .”

  And then I was in his arms, flooding his shirtfront with tears, the damn broken, everything spilling out in an incoherent torrent of words.

  We were married at White Sulphur Springs, Mama looking fragile and a little bewildered in a blue-and-white striped wool gown and Father stern but courteous. It was a simple ceremony, quiet, without guests. Afterwards, Page and I drove off to spend the night at Callaghan, where a friend of Page’s had a hunting lodge.

  We were all alone there—no servants, no near neighbors—a retreat well away from traveled roads. It was perfect; the piney wood fragrance of crisp, cold air reddening our cheeks on our afternoon rambles through the woods, the evenings cozy as we ate sitting on the floor close to the crackling fire. We made love on the hearth rug, Page impatient, his hands trembling as he undressed me, fumbling with buttons and hooks as if he were a novice. I remember laughing at him, the way he held my face in his hands, looking down at me, and the laughter dying into a sigh as he brought his lips to mine. Naked, bared in body and soul, discovering the places that thrilled to touch and taste, quivering, trembling, abandoned, reckless, rising, rising on a tide of passion, we reaffirmed again the love that had bound us from that first moment so many years before.

  We came back to Wildoak on the first of March, on a fresh, blue-skied, windy day, the kind that gives the lie to winter and presages spring. Page carried me over the threshold and set me down in the hall.

  I looked around at the gracefully winding staircase, the polished brass doorknobs, the scattered floral rugs, the portrait of a little girl in a frilly green bonnet that hung over a small marble-topped table, and the hat rack whose mirror reflected my face, eyes still shining with a honeymoon glow.

  “So, at last I’ve come home to Wildoak,” I said, removing my hat with a happy sigh.

  “You’re wrong, Sabrina,” Page said, taking me into his arms. “You’ve come home to me.”

  “But silly,” I laughed up at him, “I’ve always been there with you, haven’t I?”

  He held me close, his lips brushing my hair. “Always,” he whispered, “always.”