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

They sat narrowly eying each other, although there was in this close duel small advantage for either except in the run of the cards themselves.

"It is perhaps needless for us to waste time, since I can not divide my stakes," smiled the younger gentleman.

Again with a half growl, Dunwody threw down his cards, face upward. His teeth were clenched, all his muscles set, all his attitude strained, tense.

"You have won, my dear Senator! I failed to improve my four cards, which, it is true, were of one color, but which I regret to say still remain of the one color and of no better company!"

"It is even!" exclaimed Dunwody. "Come!"

The cards went around once more, and once more the officer asked for a single card. Once again he lost.

Dunwody drew back with a deep sigh. "Look!" he said, "of my three cards, two were what I wanted—aces, aces, man!—four of them! By every token, I have won. It's fate!"

The face of his opponent was a study. His eyebrows went up in pleasant expostulation at the other's eagerness. "So, then," said he, "I suppose I must pay my stake, much to my regret. Ah! how fortune has run against me to-day. And so, here it is,—I write her name for you once more—this time her real name, so far as any in America know it—thus,—Josephine, Countess St. Auban, of France, of Hungary, of America, abolitionist, visionary, firebrand. There, then,—though I think you will find the matter of taking possession somewhat difficult to compass—so far as I am concerned, she is, with all my heart, yours to have and to hold, if you can! My duty to her is over. Yours begins, I hope!"

Dunwody found no speech. He was pale, and breathing fast.

Gravity increased in the other's demeanor. His face now looked drawn, weary. "I beg, my dear sir," he said, "nay, I entreat and command you, to make all gentle and kind use of this which the gods have given you. I confess nothing whatever, except that I am hungry and tired to extinction. I congratulate the winner, and consider myself fortunate to be allowed to go in peace to my own place—penniless, it is true, but at least with a conscience quite clear." The frown on his face, the troubled gaze of his eyes, belied his last words. "It's no part of my conscience to coerce a woman," he added defiantly. "I can't do it—not any longer."

"It is well to be a cheerful loser," returned Dunwody, at last. "I couldn't blame any man for being coerced by—her! I admit that I am. But after this, what will be your plans?"

"I purpose leaving the boat at the first suitable stop, not farther down than Louisville, at least. Perhaps Cincinnati would be yet better. By the fortunes of war you will, therefore, stand in my stead. I've changed my mind, suddenly. I told the young lady that we would continue on together, even beyond Cairo. But now—well, to the victor, as Mr. Marcy has said, belong the spoils. Only, there are some titles which may not be negotiated. A quitclaim is by no means a warranty. You'll discover that." He smiled grimly.

The other made no answer. He only stood to his full height and stretched out his great arms. He seemed a figure come down unchanged from some savage day.

CHAPTER VI THE NEW MASTER

Alone in her state-room all these hours, Josephine St. Auban had abundant time to reflect upon the singular nature of her situation. At first, and very naturally, she was disposed to seek the protection of the boat's officers, but a second thought convinced her of the unwisdom of that course. As to this stranger, this stalwart man of the West, she had appealed to him and he had made no sign. She had no friend, no counselor. A feeling of inefficiency, of smallness and helplessness, swept over her. For the first time in her life she found herself hard and fast in the grasp of events over which she had absolutely no control. She was prisoner to her own good fame. She dared not declare herself. She dared not cry out for help. None would believe her story. She herself did not fully understand all the circumstances connected with her unlawful banishment from the capital of the proudest and freest republic of the world.

[Illustration: Josephine St. Auban had abundant time to reflect]

It was while still in this frame of mind that, on the day following, there came to her a messenger bearing the card of Warville Dunwody. She gazed at it for some moments undecided, debating. She tried to reason. Had she trusted rather to woman's vaticination, matters had been better for her. What she actually did was to summon Jeanne to complete some hurried toilet preparations. Then she set out to meet the sender of the card.

There was no occupant of the saloon excepting one, who rose as she entered, hesitating. On the instant a sudden change swept over Dunwody's face. Was it at first assuredness it had borne? "I am glad that you have thus honored me," he said simply.

"It is much pleasanter to move about as one may," she answered. "But where is our friend, Captain Carlisle, this morning? Is he ill, or simply unmindful of one so unimportant as myself? I have not heard from him."

"He left the boat last night," answered Dunwody gravely, his eyes fixed on her face.

"Left the boat—he is gone? Why, he sent me no word, and I thought—at least, he said—"

"He has, Madam, like Cataline, evaded, broken forth, absconded. But as to leaving word for you, he was not quite so heartless as all that. I have a message for you."

With a word craving permission she opened the message. It was brief.

  "MY DEAR COUNTESS:"
  "You will be glad to know that so far as your late
  jailer is concerned, your captivity is at an end. I am
  leaving the boat at the next stop, and since that falls in
  the night-time, I will not disturb you. Senator
  Dunwody has kindly consented to act as your guardian in
  my stead, and from your message to him, I judge that
  in any case you would prefer his care to mine."

  "My dear Countess, they are not merely idle words
  when I say to you that you have won my respect and
  admiration. Be on your guard, and allow me to
  advise you in the interest of yourself and others to
  remain—silent."
    "YOUR OBLIGED AND DUTIFUL SERV'T—"

No reasons were urged, no apologies offered. Obviously, the signature was in such circumstances better omitted.

The effect of this note, strange to say, was to fill its recipient not with satisfaction, not even with surprise, but with sudden horror. She felt abandoned, forsaken, not pausing to reflect that now she had only what she had demanded of her late companion,—guardian, she now hastily called him, and not jailer. Unconsciously she half-arose, would have left the room. Her soul was filled with an instinctive, unformulated dread.

As to Dunwody himself, ruthless and arrogant as was his nature, he bore no trace of imperiousness now. The silent lips and high color of the face before him he did not interpret to mean terror, but contempt. In the fortunes of chance he had won her. In the game of war she was his prisoner. Yet no ancient warrior of old, rude, armored, beweaponed, unrelenting, ever stood more abashed before some high-headed woman captive. He had won—what? Nothing, as he knew very well, beyond the opportunity to fight further for her, and under a far harder handicap, a handicap which he had foolishly imposed on himself. This woman, seen face to face, yes, she was beautiful, desirable, covetable. But she was not the sort of woman he had supposed her. It was Carlisle, after all, who had won in the game!

For two moments he debated many things in his mind. Did not women of old sometimes relent? He asked himself over and over again the same questions, pleaded to himself the same arguments. After all, he reasoned, this was only a woman. Eventually she must yield to one sort of treatment or the other. He had not reflected that, though the ages in some ways have stood still, in others they have gone forward. In bodily presence woman has not much changed, this age with that. The canons of art remain the same, the ideals of art are the same. These and those lines, gracious, compelling,—this and that color, enchanting, alluring, so much white flesh, thus much crown of tresses—they have for ages served to rob men of reason. They have not changed. What this man could not realize was that there may be changes not of color and of curve.

Not so long as all this they gazed at each other, measured, took ground, gaging each the adversary opposite.

"Do not go!" he almost commanded. She was half way to the door.

"Why not, sir?" She wheeled on him fiercely.

"Because,—at least, you would not be so cruel—"

"I thank you, but I am leaving the boat at the first opportunity. It is impossible for us to continue an acquaintance formed thus irregularly."

"On the contrary, my dear!" The ring in his voice terrified her, but his terms angered her yet more.

"I do not in the least understand you, sir! I am accustomed to do quite as I like. And you may address me as the Countess St. Auban."

"Why should we talk of this?" he retorted. "Why talk to me of countesses? To me you are something better as you stand,—the most beautiful girl, the most splendid human being, I ever saw in all my life. If you are doing quite as you like, why should you ask me to come to your aid? And why will you not now accept my aid when it is offered? The relations under which you have been traveling with this other gentleman were not quite clear to me, but such as they were—"

"Do you lack courage, sir, to say that he has quit-claimed me to you? Am I still a prisoner? Are you to be my new jailer? By what right, then?"

Dunwody had not gathered all the story of this woman and her earlier guardian; more than she herself could guess what had been Carlisle's motive or plan in leaving her to her own devices. That she was the victim simply of a daring kidnapping could, not have occurred to him. What then did she mean by talking of prisoners?

"After all, you were not that amanuensis which you yourself claimed to be?"

"I was not. Of course I was not. I am the Countess St. Auban. It is not necessary for me to serve any man, in my capacity."

"Why, then, did you say you were?"

"Because I thought I was still to be in that gentleman's charge. I did not know he was about to desert me. I preferred his company to worse."

"He has only given you your own wish—I hope it is still your wish.
I hope it is not 'worse.'"

"I beg you to forget that little note from me. I was only frightened at the thought of a long journey which I did not know then might end so soon. I only fancied I was in need of help."

"Tell me one thing," he began irrelevantly. "You are countess, as you say. Who is your husband, and where is he?"

"You have no right to ask. I must leave you now. Ah! If indeed I had a protector here—some man of that country where men fight—"

"I have said that you shall not leave."

"But this passes belief. It is insult, it is simple outrage! I am alone—I come to you asking protection in the name of a man's chivalry,—an American's. This is what I receive! You declare yourself to be my new jailer. What is being done with me? I never saw Captain Carlisle until three days ago.