The shadows of tree-top, thatch, and wall were lengthening as I walked along the Rue Bourbon.Heedless of what the morrow might bring forth, the street was given over to festivity.Merry groups were gathered on the corners, songs and laughter mingled in the court-yards, billiard balls clicked in the cabarets.A fat, jolly little Frenchman, surrounded by tripping children, sat in his doorway on the edge of the banquette, fiddling with all his might, pausing only to wipe the beads of perspiration from his face.
``Madame Clive, mais oui, Monsieur, l' petite maison en face.'' Smiling benignly at the children, he began to fiddle once more.
The little house opposite! Mrs.Temple, mistress of Temple Bow, had come to this! It was a strange little home indeed, Spanish, one-story, its dormers hidden by a honeycombed screen of terra-cotta tiles.This screen was set on the extreme edge of the roof which overhung the banquette and shaded the yellow adobe wall of the house.Low, unpretentious, the latticed shutters of its two windows giving it but a scant air of privacy,--indeed, they were scarred by the raps of careless passers-by on the sidewalk.The two little battened doors, one step up, were closed.I rapped, waited, and rapped again.The musician across the street stopped his fiddling, glanced at me, smiled knowingly at the children; and they paused in their dance to stare.Then one of the doors was pushed open a scant four inches, a scarlet madras handkerchief appeared in the crack above a yellow face.There was a long moment of silence, during which I felt the scrutiny of a pair of sharp, black eyes.
``What yo' want, Marse?''
The woman's voice astonished me, for she spoke the dialect of the American tide-water.
``I should like to see Mrs.Clive,'' I answered.
The door closed a shade.
``Mistis sick, she ain't see nobody,'' said the woman.
She closed the door a little more, and I felt tempted to put my foot in the crack.
``Tell her that Mr.David Ritchie is here,'' I said.
There was an instant's silence, then an exclamation.
``Lan' sakes, is you Marse Dave?'' She opened the door--furtively, I thought--just wide enough for me to pass through.I found myself in a low-ceiled, darkened room, opposite a trim negress who stood with her arms akimbo and stared at me.
``Marse Dave, you doan rec'lect me.I'se Lindy, I'se Breed's daughter.I rec'lect you when you was at Temple Bow.Marse Dave, how you'se done growed! Yassir, when I heerd from Miss Sally I done comed here to tek cyar ob her.''
``How is your mistress?'' I asked.
``She po'ly, Marse Dave,'' said Lindy, and paused for adequate words.I took note of this darky who, faithful to a family, had come hither to share her mistress's exile and obscurity.Lindy was spare, energetic, forceful--and, I imagined, a discreet guardian indeed for the unfortunate.``She po'ly, Marse Dave, an' she ain' nebber leabe dis year house.Marse Dave,'' said Lindy earnestly, lowering her voice and taking a step closer to me, ``I done reckon de Mistis gwine ter die ob lonesomeness.
She des sit dar an' brood, an' brood--an' she use' ter de bes' company, to de quality.No, sirree, Marse Dave, she ain' nebber sesso, but she tink 'bout de young Marsa night an' day.Marse Dave?''
``Yes?'' I said.
``Marse Dave, she have a lil pink frock dat Marsa Nick had when he was a bebby.I done cotch Mistis lookin' at it, an' she hid it when she see me an' blush like 'twas a sin.Marse Dave?''
``Yes?'' I said again.
``Where am de young Marsa?''
``I don't know, Lindy,'' I answered.
Lindy sighed.
``She done talk 'bout you, Marse Dave, an' how good you is--''
``And Mrs.Temple sees no one,'' I asked.
``Dar's one lady come hyar ebery week, er French lady, but she speak English jes' like the Mistis.Dat's my fault,'' said Lindy, showing a line of white teeth.
``Your fault,'' I exclaimed.
``Yassir.When I comed here from Caroliny de Mistis done tole me not ter let er soul in hyah.One day erbout three mont's ergo, dis yer lady come en she des wheedled me ter let her in.She was de quality, Marse Dave, and I was des' afeard not ter.I declar' I hatter.Hush,''
said Lindy, putting her fingers to her lips, ''dar's de Mistis!''
The door into the back room opened, and Mrs.Temple stood on the threshold, staring with uncertain eyes into the semi-darkness.
``Lindy,'' she said, ``what have you done?''
``Miss Sally--'' Lindy began, and looked at me.But I could not speak for looking at the lady in the doorway.
``Who is it?'' she said again, and her hand sought the door-post tremblingly.``Who is it?''
Then I went to her.At my first step she gave a little cry and swayed, and had I not taken her in my arms Ibelieve she would have fallen.
``David!'' she said, ``David, is it you? I--I cannot see very well.Why did you not speak?'' She looked at Lindy and smiled.``It is because I am an old woman, Lindy,'' and she lifted her hand to her forehead.``See, my hair is white--I shock you, David.''
Leaning on my shoulder, she led me through a little bedroom in the rear into a tiny garden court beyond, a court teeming with lavish colors and redolent with the scent of flowers.A white shell walk divided the garden and ended at the door of a low outbuilding, from the chimney of which blue smoke curled upward in the evening air.Mrs.Temple drew me almost fiercely towards a bench against the adobe wall.
``Where is he?'' she said.``Where is he, David?''
The suddenness of the question staggered me; I hesitated.
``I do not know,'' I answered.
I could not look into her face and say it.The years of torment and suffering were written there in characters not to be mistaken.Sarah Temple, the beauty, was dead indeed.The hope which threatened to light again the dead fires in the woman's eyes frightened me.
``Ah,'' she said sharply, ``you are deceiving me.It is not like you, David.You are deceiving me.Tell me, tell me, for the love of God, who has brought me to bear chastisement.'' And she gripped my arm with a strength I had not thought in her.
``Listen,'' I said, trying to calm myself as well as her.