The Purchase Price - Emerson Hough (the unexpected everything TXT) 📗

his crest; "I hate myself as much as you hate me, but it's your fault—your fault that you are as you are—that you set me mad. Let's try to forget it for to-night, at least. You're tired, worn out. I'm almost tired myself, with all this war between us."

She was silent as they slowly advanced, silent as a prisoner facing prison doors; but he still went on, arguing.

"Think of what you could do here, how happy we could be here. Think of what we could do, together. There isn't anything I wouldn't try to do. Why, I could do anything; and I'd bring everything I got, everything, back to you,—and set it down at your feet and say, 'I brought you this.' What would I care for it, alone? What does it mean to me? What glory or success do I want? Without you, what does all this world, all my life, all I can do, mean to me after this? I knew long ago I couldn't be happy, but I didn't know why, I know now what I wanted, all along. I can do something in the world, I can succeed, I can be somebody now—and now I want to, want to! Oh, I've lacked so much, I've longed so much. Some way the world didn't seem made right. I wondered, I puzzled, I didn't know, I couldn't understand—I thought all the world was made to be unhappy—but it isn't, it's made for happiness, for joy, for exultation. Why, I can see it plainly enough now—all straight out, ahead of me,—all straight ahead of us two!"

"How like a man you are!" she said slowly. "You seek your own success, although your path lies over a woman's disgrace and ruin."

"Haven't you ever thought of the other side of this at all? Can't a woman ever think of mercy to a man? Can't she ever blame herself just for being Eve, for being the incarnate temptation that she is to any real man? Can't she see what she is to him? You talk about ruin—I tell you it's ruin here, sure as we are born, for one or both of us. I reckon maybe it's for both."

"Yes, it is for both."

"No. I'll not admit it!" he blazed out. "If I've been strong enough to pull you down, I'm strong enough to carry you up again. Only, don't force the worst part of me to the front all the time."

"A gentle wooer, indeed! And yet you blame me that I can not see a man's side in a case like this."

"But in God's name, why should a man see any but a man's side of it? Things don't go by reason, after all. The world goes, I reckon, because there is a man's side to it. Anyhow, I am as I am. Whatever you do here, whatever you are, don't try to wheedle me, nor ask me to see your side, when there is only one side to this. If any man ever lifted hand or eye to you, I'd kill him. I'll not give up one jot of the right I've got in you, little as it is—I've taken the right to hold you here and talk to you. But when you say you'll not listen to me, then you do run against my side of it, my man's side of it; and I tell you once more, I'm the owner of this place. I live here. It's mine. I rule here, over free and thrall."

With rude strength and pride he swept an arm widely around him, covering half the circle of the valley. "It's mine!" he said slowly. "Fit for a king, isn't it? Yes, fit for a queen. It is almost fit for you."

His hat was in his hand. The breeze of the evening, drawing down the valley, now somewhat chilled, lifted the loose hair on his forehead. He stood, big, bulky and strong, like some war lord of older days. The argument on his lips was that of the day of skins and stone.

She who stood at his side, this prisoner of his prowess, taken by his ruthless disregard of wish or rights of others, stood even with his shoulder, tall, deep-bosomed, comely, as fair and fit and womanly a woman as man's need has asked in any age of the world. In the evening light the tears which had wet her eyes were less visible. She might indeed have been fit queen for a spot like this, mate for a man like this.

And now the chill of autumn lay in the twilight. Night was coming—the time when all creatures, save ravening night feeders, feel apprehension, crave shelter, search out a haven for repose. This woman was alone and weary, much in need of some place to rest her head. Every fiber in her heart craved shelter, comfort, security, protection.

Dunwody turned, offered her a hand, and led her to the wide double doors.

CHAPTER X FREE AND THRALL

"Sally, come here," called Dunwody to one of the row of grinning negro servants who were loosely lined up in the hall, as much in curiosity as deference, to give their master his only welcome home. "Take this lady up to the room in the east part. See that she has everything she wants. She is not to be disturbed there until morning, do you hear, Sally? When you come down I want to see you again. You others there, make your duty to this lady. Call her Miss Josephine. When she wants anything, you jump and get it. Go on, now."

They scattered grinning, all but the bent and grizzled old woman Sally, who now came forward. She looked with blank brown eyes at the new-comer, herself inscrutable as the Sphinx. If she commented mentally on the droop of the young woman's mouth and eyes, at least she said nothing. It was not her place to ask what white folk did, or why. She took up the traveling-bags and led the way up the narrow stairway which made out of the central hall.

"Sally," said Josephine, turning, when they reached the stairway, "where's my own maid—the other—Jeanne?"

"I dunno, Ma'am," said Sally. "I reckon she's all right, though. Dis heah's yuah room, Ma'am, if you please." She shuffled ahead, into a tall and wide room, which overlooked the lawn and the approaching road.

Once alone, Josephine flung herself face downward upon the bed and burst into a storm of tears, her fine courage for once outworn. She wept until utterly spent. Sally, after leaving the room, had returned unnoticed, and when at last Josephine turned about she saw the old woman standing there. A hard hand gently edged under her heaving shoulder. "Thah now, honey, doan' cry! God A'mighty, girl, doan' cry dat-a-way. What is wrong, tell me." Sympathy even of this sort was balm to a woman wholly unnerved. Josephine found her head on the old negro woman's shoulder.

[Illustration: Her fine courage for once outworn.]

"Now you jus' lay right quiet, Ma'am," went on Sally. "I'se gwine to git you a little something warm to drink and something to eat right soon, and den I'se gwine put you-all to bed nice and clean, and in de mawnin' you'll feel like you was anotheh lady, you suttinly will, Ma'am."

"Who are you?" demanded Josephine, turning to look into the old and wrinkled face.

"I'se jus' Sally."

"I suppose you are keeper of the prison," commented Josephine bitterly.

"Dis ain't no prisum, Ma'am, I'se bin heah a long time 'mong dese triflin' niggahs. Dis ain't no prisum—but God knows, Ma'am, we needs a lady heah to run things. Is you come foh dat?"

"No, no," said Josephine. "I'm just—I'm just—I'm going away as soon as I can."

"Sho, now! Huc'cum you heah, Ma'am?"

"It was a mistake."

"I didn't know white folks evah done nothin' they didn't want to do," commented Sally. "But doan' you mind. Ef you wants me, jes' call for Sally."

"Tell me, Sally, isn't there any Mrs. Dunwody here?" demanded
Josephine suddenly.

The face of the old woman remained inscrutable, and Josephine could see no sign except that a sort of film crossed her eyes, as though veiling some inmost thought.

"Ef dey was, I doan' reckon you-all would have come heah, would you? Now you lay down and git comf'table. Doan' you worry none, Ma'am. You gwine be fine, by mawnin'. You suttinly is a right handsome lady, Ma'am!"

The old woman shuffled from the room, to join her master at the foot of the stairs.

"Where is she, Sally?" demanded Dunwody, "and how is she?"

"She's right tired, suh," said Sally non-committally. And then, "Mighty fine lookin' lady, suh. An' she is a lady! Huc'cum her here, Marse Warv'l? Whut you-all—"

"What did she say to you?"

"Nothin' 'cept she's gwine git away right soon. White folkes' business ain't none o' my business."

"Well, never you mind about all that, Sally. Now listen. It's your business to keep her there, in that room. When she wants anything, get it. But don't you talk to her, you understand. I reckon you do understand, don't you?"

"I reckon I does, suh."

"Well, all right then. If she goes to walk, keep her in sight. She doesn't send out letters to any one, and doesn't talk to strangers, do you understand?"

"I reckon I does, suh."

Old Sally stood looking at him for a time with her small brown eyes half-covered under her gray brows. At last, with something of the liberty of the old servant she said, "Marster, is you married to that dere lady? Ef you isn't, is you gwine marry her?"

"If I told you you'd know too much, Sally. It's enough for you to know that you're responsible for her. If she turns up missing any time, you'll be missing yourself not long after."

"I reckon I will," said Sally chuckling; and then shuffled off about her own duties.

CHAPTER XI THE GARMENTS OF ANOTHER

Left alone, Josephine St. Auban at last attempted to pull herself together. With the instinct of a newly caged animal, she made a little tour of the room. First she noted the depth of the windows, their height above the ground. No escape there, that was sure—unless one, cat-like, could climb down this light ladder up which the ivy ran between the cornice and the ground. No, it was a prison.

In the room itself were good yet simple furnishings. The wall paper was of a small and ancient figuring. In places it hung torn. The furniture was old mahogany, apparently made in an earlier generation. An engraving or so hung askew upon the wall, a broken bust stood on a bracket. The tall tester bed, decorated with a patchwork silken covering, showed signs of comfort, but was neither modern nor over neat. The room was not furnished in poverty, but its spirit, its atmosphere, its feeling, lacked something, a woman could have told what.

She pushed back the heavy dresser, but the wall was without opening behind it. She looked for the key to the door, and was glad to find the lock in order. For the first time now she laid off her bonnet, unfastened her wrap. With a hand which trembled she made some sort of attempt at toilet, staring into the mirror at a face scarcely recognized as her own. The corners of its mouth were drooping plaintively. A faint blue lay beneath the eyes.

She faced the fact that she must pass the night alone. If it is at night that the shadows fall upon the soul, then most of all does woman, weak and timorous animal, long for some safe and accustomed refuge place, for a home; and most of all does she shrink from unfamiliar surroundings. Yet she slept, wearied to exhaustion. The night was cool, the air fresh from the mountains coming in through the opened window, and bringing with it calm.

Dawn came. A chirping cedar bird, busy in the near-by shrubbery, wakened her with a care-free note. She started up and