Books: The Law of the Land
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Emerson Hough >> The Law of the Land
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He turned as he heard a footstep and a soft voice at his elbow. The
passerby accosted him smiling, and he recognized Jules, the duck-
footed.
"Ah, Monsieur," said the latter, "I see you have also discover' the
shrine. Is it not beautiful, Monsieur--this worship of a pure
_jeune fille?"_
The words brought Eddring back to his own proper senses. Forgetting
all else, he sprang through the big gate, past the servant, and
hastened up the walk. "Miss Lady! Miss Lady!" he cried.
CHAPTER V
DISCOVERY
"Miss Lady!" cried Eddring, yet again; and even as the hurrying
figure before him reached the gallery steps, she heard the entreaty
of his voice and turned. As she did so she tore from her face the
concealing mask and stood before him, Miss Lady indeed--tall,
straight, young and beautiful. Eddring moved forward impetuously,
feeling all the thrill of her presence; all the lambency of woman,
planet-like, far-off, mysterious. Eagerly he looked, and
questioningly, doubtingly, and then there came a quick content to his
heart. In spite of all, in spite of what might have been, this was
Miss Lady herself and none other! Sweet as of old, and ah, fit indeed
for worship! Ah, here, he cried out to himself, was that friend of
his soul, lost now for a time, but found, now found again!
But even as he pressed forward, holding out his hands, his emotion
shining in his eyes, there came a change upon Miss Lady's face.
"Ah, Mr. Eddring, it is you?" she said, and her voice had the upward
inflection, as though she carelessly addressed an inferior. "I
remember you very well, but I hardly thought to see you. Indeed, I
should hardly have expected to see any one in just this way."
All that Eddring could do was to falter and cry out, "Yes, I have
come! I have found you!"
"Indeed? But we do not receive callers. Our plan of life has been
arranged otherwise. You might be observed even now. It would cause
talk."
"Talk!" cried Eddring, now suddenly breaking into flame. "Why, let
them talk! It is time there was talk--time you talked to some of your
old friends--you, Miss Lady, who had so many friends."
"Friends!" said the girl, bitterly. "Friends!"
"Yes, friends!" cried Eddring. "Surely you know that Blount and I
have moved heaven and earth trying to find you. Why you should go,
why you should leave every one in ignorance and take up with mummery
like _this_--it is something no sane person can tell. You have not
done right, Miss Lady. You have not done right!"
The girl raised her head, a flame of anger upon her own cheek at this
presumption. Yet she reserved her speech, and by gesture led Eddring
to a spot concealed by the ivy-covered lattice. Her cheeks burned all
the more hotly as Eddring went on.
"What mockery!" he cried.
"Yes, what mockery!" repeated Miss Lady. "What mockery that you
should say these things to me! What had I up there? What was I? I was
a servant, a dependent. Besides all that, things came up which would
have driven any decent girl away. I could do nothing else but go. Oh,
you don't know all. You can't be just, for you don't know."
"But your mother?"
"You mean Mrs. Ellison? She was not my mother, Mr. Eddring. I thought
you knew that. That is one reason why I am here."
"She was not your mother? Then that was true?"
"She never was. She disappeared out of my life, and I know little
about her now, excepting that she was the only mother I ever knew.
There has been deception of some sort. There were so many sad and
troublesome things that I could no longer endure my life as it was. I
went away. I came here, I found a home."
"But Colonel Blount?"
"Sir, he was my friend. I can only say that in justice it was better
for me to go. He is a noble man. If ever I pained him I am sorry. But
as to friends--" she dangled the little domino on her finger, "this
has been my only friend. It has kept me from seeing even myself.
Without it I should have died." There were no tears in her eyes as
she spoke. Eddring felt that he had now to do with a woman grown,
sad, not light and unstable. There crowded to his tongue a thousand
things.
"_That!_" said he. "You, Louise Loisson--you have indeed been
masquerading. Tell me, how did you get that name?"
"It was an accident purely," said Miss Lady. "I found it in a book,
years ago. It was unusual, and I took it for that reason. I wanted to
get as far away from any possibility of detection by my friends as I
possibly could. See," she smiled bitterly, "I am Louise Loisson now,
the common dancer! I make my living in that way. But for that, and
for the kindness of Madame Delchasse here, I might have starved. I am
no longer any one you ever knew. Behind this mask sometimes I
forget."
Eddring looked at her with strange earnestness. "You don't know how
true is every word you speak," said he. "There is absolute fatality
under all this. On my honor, I believe you _are_ Louise Loisson,
born over again! But look how fate brings you and me together: I did
not know where Miss Lady Ellison had gone; I did not know who Louise
Loisson might be; by chance, by the merest chance, I wished to learn--
for other reasons only. Now, see! Why, it is fate, Miss Lady! I have
found you both. Miss Lady, my dear girl, see! I have found everything
else in the world at the same time." The pent-up yearning of his soul
was in his voice, his eyes. The girl caught swift warning.
"I shall go in," said she; but he stopped her. She tore loose the
hand which he would have taken. "Go!" said she, "and never must you
come through that gate again. You were unasked, and never will be
asked. You, to talk of friends! Why, you were the very last of any I
ever knew whom I should have cared to see again."
"What--what is that?" He stumbled under this sudden blow.
"Oh, I have enough of men," said the girl, bitterly, "enough of
humanity. But I will tell you this much, a friend of mine must first
of all be an honest man. You talk to me of masquerading; take off:
your own mask, and let me set my foot upon it, as I have set foot
upon all my past! Sincerity, truth--I wonder if there is such a
thing left in all of God's world. I did not ask you here, I do not
welcome you here. Good-by. You must go."
He stood dumb, simply gazing at her, not understanding; and his
absolute horror she took to be his mere confusion. Yet her eyes were
more sad than angry as she went on.
"You've prospered, Mr. Eddring, I know," said she. "What a difference
for you and me! A girl must walk so carefully, but a man may do as he
pleases. You talk about fate, and that sort of thing, but no man with
a life like yours can come into my life, mere dancer though I be.
Before you go I want to say to you that I know the story of your
discharge from the railroad. I know how you profited by your
knowledge of the company's affairs--know other things not public
regarding you. Since I do know these things, for you to dare to come
to me in this way seems to me the worst of effrontery."
Still Eddring stood uncomprehending, stunned. "I--I do that?" he
whispered, half to himself. "Did you think--could you believe--"
"I could believe nothing else."
"Who told you these things?" blazed he at length, as at last his
heart once more sent the blood back through his veins.
"If you wish to know, I will tell you. It was Henry Decherd. I
imagine he could furnish proof enough." She spoke defiantly, if
perhaps wearily.
"Henry Decherd!" exclaimed Eddring. "Henry Decherd! Miss Lady, is it
possible that you can stand alive under the sun of heaven and say
these things to me? Is he here? Tell me, what right--"
But now the anger of Miss Lady herself was blazing, and all the
cruelty of her sex was in her tone as she answered. "I need not tell
you," said she, "but I will. Mr. Decherd is the only friend of my
former life who cared enough for me to follow and find me. And so he
has the right--"
"For what? Tell me, is there any truth in this newspaper paragraph--
'There is talk about the marriage of the mysterious Louise Loisson'?
Don't tell me that he--that Decherd--" He gazed steadily into her
eyes, but saw there that which made him forget all his purposes,
forced him to remember nothing in the world but his sudden personal
misery. And so for an instant he stood and suffered--until the sheer
bigness of his soul began to reassert itself. All his love for her
came back, and he forgot even his deadly hurt in the great wave of
pity and tenderness which swept over him.
"Miss Lady," said he simply, after a time, "for myself it doesn't
make so much difference, after all, I am one of the unlucky. But for
you, as you say, it is at least your due that you should have honest
men for your friends, and an honest man for your husband. I wanted
you to trust me. I loved you. I wanted you to believe in me. I wanted
you to _marry_ me, Miss Lady--I _will_ say it--and I wanted to tell
you that long ago, before you left us. That is over now. You are
unjust and cruel beyond all toleration--beyond all belief. You could
by no possibility ever love me. But listen. You shall never marry
Henry Decherd."
CHAPTER VI
THE DANCER
Ah, but it was a sweet and wonderful thing to see La Belle Louise
dance; a strange and wonderful thing. She was so light, so strong, so
full of grace, so like a bird in all her motions. She swam through
the air as though her feet scarce touched the floor, her loose silken
skirts resembling wings. Now on one side of the lighted stage, now
back again, nodding, beckoning, courtesying to something which she
saw--this spectacle must have moved any one of us to applause, as it
did these thousands who came to witness it. The stage has no
traditions of any dance like this of La Belle Louise. It is now
danced no more, this dance which a maid or a lily or a tall white
stork might understand, each after its own fashion.
Scores of times had La Belle Louise given this dance, each time with
but trifling variations, each time to thunders of applause, with an
art so free of effort that it was above all art. But what had now,
for the first time, come to La Belle Louise? Did her bosom labor in
the physical exertion of these measured steps? Was the quality of
lightness and freedom lacking? Was the self-absorption, the
abandonment, the impersonal, bird-like quality less to-night than
before? And was the subtile, cruelly just sense of the public right
in its hesitation, in its half-applause? Had there been actual change
in the dancing of La Belle Louise?
The dancer looked from side to side, as though in search of some face
or figure; as though in fear, in distress. Was she actually panting
when she left the stage--she, La Belle Louise, the ethereal, the
spirituelle, the very imponderable dream of the dance itself? This
might have been; for presently she cast herself into the arms of
Madame Delchasse in a state bordering upon actual panic.
"Auntie!" she cried, "I can not dance! I am done with it! I shall
never dance again. I can not! I can not!" She trembled as though in
actual fear or suffering as she spoke.
"Now, now, my cherished!" said the old French lady, gathering her to
her ample bosom, "what is it that has come to you? You have illness?
Come, we'll go at 'ome."
The dancer was slow in laying aside her silken skirts and putting on
her street attire. Madame waited some time before thrusting her head
through the half-open door, "See! my dearie," she cried, "I have the
surprise for you. Monsieur shall ride home with you. He has ordered
for to-night the second carriage, which I shall myself take--since
you are so soon to ride with monsieur all the time, is it not?"
The head of madame disappeared. The girl, when at last ready to
depart, sat with her gaze fixed on the door; yet she started when
presently there came a knock. Henry Decherd entered.
"Louise!" he cried, "Louise!" and would have caught her in his arms.
She repulsed him and stood back, pale and trembling.
"Oh, I say," protested Decherd, "one would think I had no right."
"You have no right to touch me," she replied. "You shall not. Go on
away with auntie in the other carriage. I will follow you home."
"Come, now," said Decherd, approaching; "this sort of thing won't do.
I don't understand what you mean."
"No, you don't understand a girl," she said.
"At least I understand how a girl ought to treat the man she is to
marry."
"Marry!" said Miss Lady, whispering to herself. "Marry!" There was
silence between them for a time, but she turned to him at length.
"I shall never dance again," said she. "Neither to-morrow, nor at any
other time, shall I set foot upon the stage again."
"You will not need to do so, when once we are married," said he. "I
shall be willing--but tell me, what's the matter to-night? You are
only tired. You will wake up again."
"Wake up!" cried she, "that is the very word. I feel as though I had
suddenly awakened, this very night." She pressed her hands to her
reddening cheeks. "Can't you see?" she cried. "To-night for the first
time I felt them! I felt their eyes. I _felt_ them, out there in
front, as though there were many; as though there were more than one.
I felt that they were women-that they were _men!_"
"Well, they have been there all the time," said Decherd. "It's odd
you should just realize that."
"I never did before," said she. "It kills me. Why, can't you see? I
have been selling myself--my body, my face, my eyes, _myself,_ a
little at a time, a little to each of them. I've been selling myself.
They paid to see _me._ Now I can dance no more. Yes, you are right, I
am awake at last; and I tell you I am some one else. I have been in a
dream, it seems to me, for years. But now I can see."
"Well, let the dancing go," said Decherd, rising and coming toward
her. "Never mind about that."
"Let everything go!" cried Miss Lady, fiercely. "Let everything go!
Marry you? Why, sir, if indeed you understood a girl, you would not
want me to come to you feeling as I do now. Can't you see that a girl
must _depend_ on the man she loves? I have tried to feel sure. I
have tried to see you clearly. Now, to-night, it is just as it was
that time years ago when you spoke to me; something comes between us.
I can not see you clearly. I can not understand. And so long as that
is true, I can never, never marry you. I can not talk about it. Go! I
do not want to see you!"
A sudden alarm seized upon Henry Decherd. "Listen," he said; "listen
to me. I can not have you talk this way. Why, you know this sort of
thing is absolutely wrong."
"Everything's wrong!" cried Miss Lady, burying her face in her hands
as she sank on a couch. "Everything is wrong! I am ashamed, I can not
tell you why. I don't know why, but I have changed, all at once. I'm
not myself any more. I'm some one else. I don't know _who_ I am!
I never knew. Oh, shall I never know--shall I never understand why I
am not myself!"
Decherd caught her hands. "We shall not wait," said he, "we'll be
married to-morrow." His voice trembled in a real emotion, although on
his face there sat an uneasiness not easily read. "Dearest, forget
all this," he repeated. "Go home and sleep, and to-morrow--"
Her eyes flashed in the swift, imperious anger wherewith upon the
instant sex may dominate sex, leaving no argument or answer. Yet in
the next breath the girl turned away, her anger faded into anxiety.
She wavered, softened in her attitude.
"Oh, he told me, he told me!" murmured she to herself. "I can not--I
can not!" She seemed unconscious of Decherd's presence. But soon she
forgot her own soliloquy. Once more she looked Decherd squarely in
the face.
"I can not marry you," she said. "I _will_ not!"
"I'll not allow you to make a fool of yourself, or of me," said
Decherd. "What do you mean--who is 'he'?"
He had his answer on the moment, not from her lips, but by one of
those strange freaks of fate which often set us wondering in our
commonplace lives.
There came a tap at the door, and a call boy offered a card. "It's
against orders, I know, ma'am," he began, "but then--"
Decherd, full of suspicion, sprang at the messenger and caught the
card before Miss Lady saw it. His swift glance gave him small
comfort.
"Eddring!" he cried. "By God! John Eddring! So--"
"Yes," she flashed again at him. "You are rude; and there is your
answer; and here is mine to you, and him." She turned to the call
boy.
"Tell the gentleman that Miss Loisson can not be seen," said she.
A ghastly look had come upon Henry Decherd's face at these words. His
features were livid in his rage. "So Eddring is here, is he!" said
he, "and he has been talking to you! By God, I'd kill him if I
thought--"
"Carry my wrap, sir!" said Miss Lady, rising like a queen. "You may
do so much for the last time. At the gate I shall bid you good-by.
Open the door!"
CHAPTER VII
THE SUMMONS
As though in a dream, Miss Lady followed Decherd to the entrance,
near which stood a carriage in the narrow little street. She scarcely
looked at his face, and did not note his hurried words to the driver.
Silent and distraught, she took no note of their direction as the
wheels rattled over the rude flags of the medieval passageway. The
carriage turned corner after corner in its jolting progress, and
finally trundled smoothly for a time, but Miss Lady, hoping only that
this journey might soon end, scarce noticed where it had ended. She
saw only that it was not at the gate of Madame Delchasse's house,
and, startled at this, expostulated with Decherd, who reasoned,
argued, pleaded.
Meantime, at the gate of the old house on the Esplanade, Madame
Delchasse waited uneasily alone. Perhaps half an hour had passed, and
madame could scarce contain herself longer, when finally she heard
the rattle of wheels and saw descending at the curb a stranger, who
hurriedly approached her carriage window.
"Pardon, Madame," said he, as he removed his hat, "this carriage is,
perhaps, for the house of Madame Delchasse?"
"It is, Monsieur," said madame, frigidly. "I am Madame Delchasse."
"Pardon me, Madame," said the new-comer, "my name is Eddring, John
Eddring. I would not presume to come at such an hour were it not that
I have a message, a very urgent one, for Miss Loisson. She refused to
see me at the theater, and I came here; she _must_ have this message.
It is not for myself that--"
Madame drew back into her carriage. "Monsieur," said she, "I say to
you, bah! and again, bah!"
"You mistake," said Eddring, hurriedly. "It is only the message which
I would have delivered. It is only on her account." Something in his
voice caught the attention of madame, and she hesitated. "It is
strange mademoiselle do not arrive," she said. "Monsieur Decherd
should have brought her 'ome before this."
"Decherd!" cried Eddring.
"_Mais oui._ He is her _fiance._ What is it that it is to you,
Monsieur?"
"Listen, listen, Madame!" cried Eddring, "We must find them. This
message is one of life and death. Come, your carriage--" and before
madame could expostulate the two were seated together in madame's
carriage, and it was whirling back on the return journey to the
Odeon.
Eddring fell on the doorkeeper. "Miss Loisson! Where is she? When did
she leave?" he demanded; and madame added much voluble French.
"Mademoiselle left with a young gentleman a half-hour ago," said the
doorkeeper. "I heard him say, 'Drive to the levee.' Perhaps they
would see the high water, yes?"
"That's likely!" cried Eddring, springing back into the carriage,
"but we will go there, too." Hence their carriage also whirled around
corner after corner, and presently trundled along the smoother way of
the levee. Passing between the interminably long rows of cotton-bales
they met a carriage coming away as they approached, and Eddring, upon
the mere chance of it, accosted the driver.
"Did you bring two persons, a young lady and a young man, here a
moment ago?" said he.
"Not here," said the driver, pulling up. "But I took them lower down
on the levee. They went on board the _Opelousas Queen._ You'll
have to hurry if you want to catch, them. She's done whistled, an'
'll be backin' out mighty quick."
Eddring hardly waited for the end of his speech. "We must find them,"
said he to madame at his side, who now was becoming thoroughly
frightened. "There is something wrong in this. I must get this
message to Miss Loisson, and I must find out what all this means."
A few moments later their own carriage brought up with a jerk, and
Eddring, dragging madame by the arm, hurried across the stage plank
almost as it was on the point of being raised.
"What do you mean?" growled the clerk to the hurried arrivals, as the
_Queen_ slowly turned out into the stream.
"Did a couple come aboard just now, a few minutes ahead of us?" cried
Eddring, taking him by the shoulder in his excitement.
"Why, yes. But they didn't come in such a hurry as you do. Where are
you going?"
"Wait," said Eddring. "What was the girl like? Tall, dark hair, wore
a cloak, perhaps? And the man--was he rather thin, dark--had oddish
eyes?"
"Why, yes; I reckon that's who they were," grumbled the clerk.
Eddring paid no attention to him. "Madame," said he, "they must be on
the boat.
"Now look; here is my message, Madame," he resumed, as he led her
apart to avoid the clerk. "You will see why I have brought you here,
and why I had to find Miss Loisson and this Mr. Decherd." He handed
to her two pieces of paper--messages from Colonel Calvin Blount
addressed to him at New Orleans. The first one read: "We are
organized; come quick. More levee-cutting."
"That is three days old," said Eddring. "Here is one sent yesterday.
It must have gone out by boat to some railway station, for the roads
are washed out for miles in all the upper Delta. 'Shot bad in levee
fight. Come quick. We have caught Delphine, ring-leader. More proof
implicating Decherd. Louise Loisson our Miss Lady. Find her; bring
her. Watch Decherd. Come quick.--Calvin Blount.'
"Madame," said Eddring, "Miss Louise Loisson was once Miss Lady
Ellison, at the Big House plantation of Calvin Blount, in the
northern part of Mississippi. Her friends have been looking for her
for years, but in some way have missed her. I will say to you that
she is a young woman lawfully entitled to property in her own name.
This Henry Decherd is unfit company for her, if not dangerous
company. As to this marriage, it must not be. Madame, take this
message to Miss Loisson; if you can, induce her to go to her old and
true friend, Colonel Blount,--if it be not too late now for that. I
am sure you will be thankful all your life; and so will she. Find
her; I will find Decherd. We must get up to Blount's place then.
He's hurt. He may be killed."
Madame stood troubled, fumbling the papers in her hand. She scarce
had time to speak ere there came from the ladies' cabin a sudden rush
of footsteps, and in an instant Miss Lady and she were in each
other's arms.
CHAPTER VIII
THE STOLEN STEAMBOAT
"My shild! My soul!" cried madame. "What is it? Where have you been?
What is this!" She patted Miss Lady with one plump hand, even as she
wept; and all Miss Lady could do in turn was to put her face on the
older woman's shoulder and sob in sheer relief.
"Why you don' come at 'ome?" cried madame, severely. "We have wait'
so long. See, this boat, she don' stop. Why do you come to the boat,
when you say you come at 'ome to me? Ah, Mademoiselle, you have never
deceive' me before."
"I have not deceived you," said Miss Lady. "I did not know that we
were coming to the river-front in the carriage--I thought we were
going home. When we got here he pleaded, he begged--it was just to
ride across to Algiers, and come back, he said. He said it was the
last time, the last hour that we would ever spend together. He
threatened--what could I do, Madame? You would not have me make a
scene; it was dark out there, I thought it safer to come aboard the
boat--where there were lights--and other ladies. I went back to the
ladies' cabin. O Madame, Madame--"
Madame Delehasse threw her arms about the girl and they passed down
the long cabin of the boat. Eddring turned to the clerk, grieved and
wondering.
"Can you put these ladies ashore at Algiers across the river?" asked
he. "There has been a mistake. They don't want to go up river."
"They'll have to go, now," said the clerk. "We'll put them out at the
ferry, up above a few miles. Best we can do. Algiers! Do you think we
are running a street-car?"
"Very well," said Eddring. "Get two state-rooms, then. We'll go on up
the river. You can put us ashore sometime after daylight. We wanted
to catch a train up country, but if we can't do that to-night, we'll
try it from some stopping-place up river."
There had come to Eddring the lightning-like conviction that he was
now suddenly flung into the chief crisis of his life. He looked hard
at the widening gap of black water between him and the shore, and at
the hurrying floods into which the boat was now beginning steadily to
plow; but the night and the floods gave him no answer. He knew that
he had taken upon himself responsibility for two women, one of whom
he believed to have been practically a victim of abduction--this
woman whom he had loved for years, had lost, and lost again, but who
was now here, under his care, dependent on his own courage, his own
resolution and decision. It was but for a moment that Eddring
hesitated. The heart of the great boat throbbed on beneath him, but
even with her strong pulse there rose his own resolve. He left the
forward deck and passed back to seek out the clerk.
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