by Gwen Bristow
Mark came in and stood a moment by the bed. Dolores looked up at him with black eyes very steady in her tired face.
“We are happy that you have borne so beautiful a son, Dolores,” he said.
“Are you?” Dolores asked without moving.
“Why yes, to be sure we are. I have named him Roger, for a great clergyman.”
“All right,” said Dolores.
Mark wet his lips. He put his hands into the pockets of his coat. He rarely wore a wig, but he had one on now as though in honor of the occasion, and he wrinkled his forehead as if it was making his head uncomfortable.
“Caleb will come over shortly to see you,” said Mark.
Dolores turned her face halfway into the pillow and began to cry quietly, without any sobs.
“Please go away,” she murmured. “You old vinegar bottle.”
Mark took one hand out of his pocket and began twisting a button of his coat. Judith stroked Dolores’ hair gently.
“We’d better go, father,” she whispered.
Mark took her arm and they went out. In the hall he said, “I guess I’ll be getting back.”
“Won’t you have dinner here? It’s nearly ready.”
“No, I’ll be going. You—” he hesitated. “You’ve been very kind to her.”
“No I haven’t,” said Judith. “I’ve been horrid. I’ve done the best I could and I’ve still been horrid.”
“I calculate,” said Mark, “we don’t understand folks like her very good.” He sighed and went out.
The baby was six days old when Caleb came to Ardeith.
Caleb wanted violently to see his child, but an equally violent dread of seeing Dolores held him back. The Sunday after the baby was born he let his father go alone to church while he rode his horse along the bluff road. He had had no idea he would feel like this until he got Judith’s note, but since that day the fact of Roger Sheramy’s existence had been the one detail of the world that had occupied his attention.
He watched a wraithish fog blow across the river and hated Dolores. She had lied to him, cheated him, tricked him into marrying her because she wanted what he could give her. Caleb was careful and straight-thinking. He simply had not thought of questioning Dolores’ romantic yarns and now that they were brought home to him he had a disgusting sense of having been used, which hurt his pride as much as his heart. He had been made a fool of, and everybody was talking about it with a pitying amusement. Caleb had never before in his healthy life had the sensation of being either pitied or laughed at and he found it intolerable. He felt a blazing desire to do something that would hurt her as much as she had hurt him, and to do it publicly, so those who had seen his humiliation would see his revenge and would have to understand that Caleb Sheramy was not the sort to yield supinely to such scheming. He pulled abruptly on the bridle and turned the horse toward Ardeith.
He did not want an argument with Philip and Judith, and was glad they would be at church this time of day. Josh, who was lounging on the steps, got up with a stare of round-eyed curiosity as Caleb approached. Evidently his affairs had been gossiped about in the quarters; this irritated Caleb afresh.
“Where is Mrs. Sheramy?” he asked curtly.
“She in her room, Massa Caleb.”
“Tell the nurse to bring the baby out here.”
“Yassah.” Josh was still staring at him.
“Get on in the house and do what I told you.”
He spoke so sharply that Josh jumped as though dodging a stick aimed at his shoulders. Caleb stood where he was on the gallery as Josh slunk indoors. A moment later a Negro girl appeared with die baby in her arms.
She stopped just over the threshold and curtseyed as though afraid to come nearer. Caleb went up to her.
“Let me have him.”
She hesitated, then held out the baby, a tiny reddish bundle in a blanket. Caleb took him awkwardly, surprised to find that the baby was so light and so incredibly little. Roger was asleep, but as he was changed from his nurse’s arms to his father’s he wriggled and gave a little cry. Caleb turned around and started for the steps.
“Massa Caleb! Where you goin’?” the girl cried. She ran after him.
“Stay where you are,” said Caleb over his shoulder.
She was running down the walk with Josh shambling after her. Caleb went with long strides toward his horse and sprang to the saddle. The nurse rushed up panting.
“Massa Caleb, please sir don’t take away de baby!” Her voice was shrill with fright.
“Hush your black mouth,” said Caleb. “And let go of the stirrup.”
“But Massa Caleb, I darsn’t let you have him! I’s Massa Philip’s nigger—he ain’t told me to give de baby to you!”
“Be quiet,” ordered Caleb. “And you,” he added to Josh, “do you want to get this whip on your back? Get away from here.” He jerked the stirrup from the nurse and started the horse. She was sobbing. In Caleb’s arm Roger woke and began to cry. Caleb did not look behind him.
Philip and Judith came to Silverwood that afternoon, but Caleb was unyielding.
“I think if you could see her,” Philip said at last, “you’d be more merciful.”
Caleb did not answer.
“Do you know,” said Judith vehemently, “you’ve nearly killed her? When you took the baby she got out of bed and tried to go after you, and Angelique found her lying in the hall. She was too weak to walk, and she had fainted.”
“Will you both please get out and let me be?” Caleb cried. “He’s my child and she’s not going to bring him up to be like her. Now will you go?”
Judith picked up her gloves, but Philip interposed.
“Just a minute, Caleb. May I ask what you intend doing about Dolores? After all, she is your wife.”
Caleb fingered a splint of the cane cradle in which the baby was lying. “Yes. I wanted to talk to you about that. You’ve been very kind to keep her so long.”
“I suppose your taking the child in this fashion means you don’t intend to live with her again?” Philip asked.
“Don’t think I’m going to leave her on your hands, Philip. I married her and I’ll do my duty by her. My plan was to get her a house, in Dalroy or in New Orleans if she’d rather live there, and make her a quarterly allowance. She can have the house as soon as she’s well enough to leave Ardeith.”
Philip shrugged. “All right,” he said shortly.
“Caleb,” said Judith, “you’re a self-righteous prig.”
She and Philip went out together.
Caleb hovered over the baby with ferocious tenderness. He had never loved many persons, but those few he had loved very dearly, and now it seemed to him that all the fondness he had ever felt had been channeled into a passionate devotion for his child. He felt such possessive adoration that he wished he could forget Dolores’ part in giving the baby life. But he could not forget Dolores, and involuntarily he remembered the lovable girl he had brought to Silverwood instead of the little alleycat she had turned to in their last days. This made him indignant, hardening his resolve to prove that he had conquered her power over him.
By the end of the second week he scarcely remembered the house as it had been before Roger came. As he watched the nurse get the baby ready for bed on his fourteenth night at Silverwood Caleb smiled with happy devotion. This was the moment he had learned to look forward to all day. He took Roger in his arms and cuddled him to sleep, “jes’ sweet as any lady would,” the nurse said as she put her own black baby into its cradle in the corner. Caleb tucked Roger under the covers, whispered good night and tiptoed across the hall to his own room.
The house was very quiet, so quiet that he fancied he could hear his father snoring faintly in the room next door. Suddenly Caleb sat up, realizing that he had been asleep and something had pierced his consciousness. It was the sound of a baby
yelling from across the hall. He shrugged and started to lie down again; it was evidently the black baby, for Roger could not cry as loud as that yet. As he lay down he heard a voice from the nursery. His heart began to pound. It had been a guarded voice, but louder perhaps than the speaker had realized, and by the time Caleb had coherently formed the thought that there couldn’t be two women on earth who talked like that he was out of bed and running barefoot across the hall. He flung open the nursery door.
Against the starlight beyond the window he could see only a silhouette which he might not have recognized if he had known her less well. She had the baby in her left arm and a gun in her right hand. The gun was pointed at the nurse, who was flattened in terror against the wall, and the black child, roused by the excitement, was crying with all his might. Roger was whimpering.
“Put that child down!” Caleb exclaimed furiously, and made a dive toward the window. Dolores wheeled to turn her gun on him, holding the baby frantically to her breast. There was a shot. The figures in the darkness swam an instant before him as he felt a crash of pain in his side.
Though he was not quite unconscious his tongue refused to form any words, and he had a vague impression that Dolores was scrambling out of the window with Roger in her arms and the nurse was too paralyzed with terror to stop her. As he tried to get up and found that he could not, there were more voices raised in the house and another figure rushed into the nursery. His father’s voice said, “Get out of here, you shameless woman!” and as he saw Mark Sheramy tear the baby out of Dolores’ arms a wave of pain and nausea swept over him, and Caleb fainted.
After four days of walking up and down the Ardeith hall, half frantic lest Caleb die of his wound and vowing that Dolores should never set foot in her home again, Judith relented suddenly with a flood of remorseful tears and begged Philip to go down to the guardhouse and bring her back. Philip had wanted to do this before, for the guardhouse was a filthy hole. But he knew how fond Judith was of her brother in spite of their differences, and with Caleb’s life in danger he would not force her to accept as a guest the woman who might have killed him.
Dolores did not have the grace to thank either of them. Her only request was for a bath. She stayed at Ardeith like a quiet little ghost, and spent most of her time playing with David and Christopher. Caleb recovered, and he and Philip took expensive and extralegal steps to prevent Dolores’ going to trial; Judith was not sure whether Caleb did that from feeling for Dolores or because he wished as little added scandal as possible. She hardly knew Caleb any more, and could only shake her head when Philip exclaimed one day that he must be made of those New England rocks they talked about. Caleb said again he was ready to build a house for Dolores whenever she was ready, but he had instituted proceedings for complete custody of his child and until that was decided Judith could not suggest that Dolores leave.
Six months later the king’s court in His Majesty’s beloved colony of West Florida presented a decision written on seven sheets of paper, to the effect that the woman Dolores Sheramy, having attempted murder on the person of her lawful husband Caleb Sheramy, after having induced him to marry her by means of representations false and deceitful, was hereby declared outcast from the king’s grace; and moreover, her criminal attempt on the life of her husband demonstrating her unfitness to be a guardian of the young, her rights over the offspring born to herself and the said Caleb Sheramy were declared void and the person of Roger Sheramy was consigned to his father that the said Roger Sheramy might be trained in the true religion of the Church of England and the proper conduct of a subject of the king.
Judith was waiting on the gallery when Philip came in from the court. He dismounted and walked slowly up the steps.
“What happened?” she demanded.
He took out a copy of the paper and handed it to her. “It’s what we feared.”
Judith leaned back against the gallery rail. “Do I have to tell her, Philip?”
“I think you’d better. What’s she going to do now?”
“I don’t know. This will be dreadful for her. She’s kept persuading herself they were going to decide differently.”
Philip struck the post of the railing with his riding-whip. “After all, honey, if it’s any consolation to you, she brought this on her own head when she nearly killed Caleb. And you’ve done all you could.”
Dolores came out on the gallery. She stopped and looked with ardent questioning at the paper in Judith’s hand.
“What did they do?” she asked after a moment.
Judith handed her the folded paper. Dolores opened it and turned over the pages. She gave it back.
“You know I was never read English!” she exclaimed.
“Oh, I forgot.” Judith steadied herself and put the sheets in order. “It says, ‘Know all men by these presents: In the name of his Majesty George the Third, by grace of God King … .’ Oh Philip, you read it, please!”
Dolores had put her hands behind her against the side-panel of the door and stood leaning against it. She did not turn around. Philip read the words as fast as he could, stumbling sometimes over the long sentences and the flourishes of the clerkly script. “… Done at the town of Dalroy in the country of Louisiana this third day of July Anno Domini 1779.”
Dolores had not moved. Both Philip and Judith had expected some sort of outcry, sobs or perhaps a torrent of profanity. But Dolores for a moment did not do anything at all. She stood where she was, as though he were still reading, then she held out her hand, saying in a low voice, “You will give that to me?”
“Yes. Here it is.” He added impulsively, “Lord, Dolores, I’m sorry!”
She said, “Thank you,” and went inside. They heard her go into her room and shut the door.
“Shall I go to her, Philip?” Judith asked.
“I wouldn’t. We’d better have supper and let her be.”
“Very well. If you want to wash up I’ll send some hot water.”
She went in, numb with pity. Maybe Dolores deserved what she was getting, but Judith was mutinously sure that nobody could ever make her want to be responsible for so much anguish. As she passed Dolores’ door she heard her sobbing, deep dry sobs that tore out of her body with a retching noise like nausea.
Dolores did not come out of her room that night, and Judith would not let the servants disturb her with their well-meant offers of food and coffee. Philip suggested, after they had gone to their room, that Dolores was probably drunk. “She’s been taking whiskey and brandy out of the closet now and then, when the suspense got too much for her to stand,” he said.
“I don’t care,” Judith returned. If Philip had said Dolores was taking opium she would not have stopped her tonight. When Philip came to bed she put her arms around him tight, wondering what she had ever done to deserve so much peace and good fortune. It seemed to her that the Lord had dropped all these things into her lap, a fine house and a retinue of slaves, beautiful children and a husband who adored her, and before she went to sleep Judith offered a little prayer that God would make her good enough to deserve them, and that he would forgive Caleb, who really didn’t understand what he was doing.
Philip rode out to the indigo early the next morning, but when he came in at noon Judith was waiting for him anxiously.
“She hasn’t come out of her room yet, Philip. Don’t you think I ought to go in?”
“Just crack the door open and see if she’s awake. It’s possible she couldn’t sleep all night and dropped off this morning. But if she’s just staying in there crying some sympathy might be good for her.”
“I thought so too.” Judith went down the hall to the door of Dolores’ room. “Dolores?” she called softly.
There was no answer. Judith lifted the latch carefully so as to make no sound, noticing that the bolt had not been shot into place. She cried out in alarm.
“Philip! Philip, come here!”
“She’s gone, Philip! And she’s taken everything.”
Philip came into the room behind her. The bed had not been turned down, but the quilt was rumpled and the pillow was wadded into a shapeless mass as if it had been hugged and pounded and hugged again. The whole place was disordered as though from a hurried departure. A stocking and some pieces of lace and ribbon were on the floor. Drawers were pulled out and emptied, and the candle on the table had burned down into the candlestick before the wick had sputtered out. Philip glanced at the window. The shutters were wide open. The house was low, and to drop a box out and climb after it would have been simple for anyone as young and agile as Dolores. Judith caught his arm.
“Do you suppose she’s gone to Silverwood?”
“I don’t know. Wait a minute.” He went out. Judith noticed an overturned bottle lying on the floor in a pool of liquor. In a few minutes Philip came back.
“My guns are all where they belong. But I told Josh to take a horse and go to Silverwood, to ask if they’d seen anything of her.” He gave an ironic smile. “I don’t think that’s where she is, though.”
“Why not?”
“She took all the money that was in the drawer of that desk in the gun-room.”
“Oh my soul. Was it very much?”
“Four or five pounds. Enough to get her back to New Orleans.”
“She took that silver pomade-jar too,” Judith exclaimed indignantly. “I daresay she’s gone off with everything worth selling she could carry.”
“Poor girl,” said Philip, “poor girl.”
“I don’t understand her at all,” Judith said hotly. “This is what you get for trying to be kind. If she’d asked you for passage to New Orleans you’d have given it to her—she might have known that.”
“Don’t you suppose,” suggested Philip, “she found it easier to steal than to ask for any more charity?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Judith. “I don’t know. I wonder what’s going to become of her now.”
