The Foxes of Harrow

by Frank Yerby

  “But you do have many visitors here, don’t you?” Amelia asked.

  “Quite a few. Young Cloutier is the most frequent. I think he’d like to relieve me of my wife,” Stephen said wickedly, “so I watch him most closely!”

  “Must you say things like that?” Odalie snapped. “You’ll have Amelia thinking . . .”

  “That ye’re the loveliest creature on earth and no man can resist ye? Why not, my dear? ‘Tis true.”

  “Stephen, you’re positively the worst . . .”

  “You wouldn’t love him if he were a saint,” Amelia observed gently. “I think I should be horribly bored if Andre weren’t such a devil!”

  “You see?” Andre said with a laugh. “The truth will out.”

  “So it will,” Stephen smiled. “Marriage reveals so many things. By the way, Andre, I married my Achille off to that African wildcat—at last.”

  “I saw him when we drove up,” Andre said. “Is that why he looks so morose?”

  “Yes,” Stephen laughed. “She gives him not a moment’s peace. She’s either being terrifically affectionate or throwing him out on his ear—all in the space of an afternoon! Poor fellow! At least he’s never bored.”

  “And you, my dear,” Odalie murmured softly. “Are you bored?”

  “Of course not,” Stephen declared stoutly. “How could I be?”

  “I was merely wondering, darling. But come, Amelia, let’s go up to my rooms and leave the men in peace. I want to talk more freely than we can here.”

  The two women rose. Andre and Stephen got up with them. After they had gone, Stephen turned to the sideboard.

  “Whiskey?” he asked.

  “No, port,” Andre said. “Well, Stephen, how does it feel to have succeeded in all your aims? Your head must be in the clouds.”

  “I don’t know, Andre,” Stephen said soberly. “It takes a bit of getting used to—this marriage business.”

  Andre raised the glass of ruby-colored liquid. “Your health, my good friend—and your happiness.” Stephen studied him over the small amber-colored whiskey. Then, smilingly, he raised his glass.

  “To the coming heir of the Le Blancs,” he said. “May he be all that ye’ve hoped for.”

  “Thank you, Stephen,” Andre said. “A son—it must be a son, Stephen. That’s something to think about. It makes me feel old somehow—and curiously humble. What can I say to him? What can I teach him? Still—a son. ‘Tis a wonderful thing, Stephen.”

  “Aye,” Stephen said, and his voice had such a huskiness to it that Andre turned and stared openly into his face. Stephen paid no attention to his friend’s look. Instead he gazed out of the big window over the rolling fields that stretched away mile after mile out of sight. Strange how empty they seemed—how empty and desolate and futile. Conscious of the deepening silence between them, Stephen turned at last to Andre.

  “Aye,” he said again very softly, “ ‘tis a wonderful thing, Andre, a very wonderful thing.”

  It was no good to stay after that. So as soon as courtesy permitted Amelia and Andre said their goodbyes and took their leave of Harrow. Riding away in the landau, Andre looked at his bride. Amelia’s lovely face was troubled. The miles rolled backwards under the hoofs of the horses, but neither of them spoke. Finally, as they were turning into La Place des Rivières, Amelia turned impulsively to Andre.

  “Kiss me,” she whispered.

  Andre bent and kissed her very gently, touching her lips lightly, lingering a long moment, then drawing his face away slowly. She nestled her head against his shoulder.

  “Andre . . .” she said.

  “Yes, my angel?”

  “I feel so sorry for them—both of them.”

  “Aye,” Andre said slowly. It was an expression which he had never before used.

  After Andre and Amelia had left Harrow, Stephen went up the stairs to his rooms. He set his dress in order, and picked up his hat and gloves. As he gave one last look into the mirror, Odalie turned the gleaming brass knob and stood there in the doorway.

  “You’re not going out again?” she asked.

  “And why not, my dear?”

  “No reason—only it’s so lonely here.”

  “I didn’t think ye particularly enjoyed my company,” Stephen said.

  Odalie shrugged.

  “You wouldn’t believe the truth if I told you,” she said. “But might I ask where you’re going?”

  “Ye might,” Stephen said tartly. “Although it seems scarcely becoming of a wife to question her husband’s doings. I go to the city—to be exact to the corner of Orleans and Bourbon Streets—to the gambling house of one John Davis, of whom ye’ve no doubt heard.”

  “Must you go, Stephen?”

  “Don’t worry. I shan’t lose, if that’s what’s troubling ye.”

  “No—it’s not that. It’s just that I see so little of you, and we’ve been married only a little more than two months.”

  “And that bothers ye?”

  “Yes.” She lifted her face up to his, moving very close to him so that he could smell the perfume in her hair. When she spoke again her voice had just the trace of a quiver in it.

  “I want to have a baby,” she said.

  Stephen’s eyes were very pale in his lean, scarred face. He put down his hat and his gloves slowly, and took her by the shoulders, gently with both hands.

  “But ye hate my touching ye,” he said. “In my arms ye tremble like a wild thing—frightened almost to death.”

  “I know—and of that I’m horribly ashamed, Stephen my husband. Perhaps I shall change . . . I . . . I don’t know. Only I want you to have your son, Stephen, with his hair like sunflame and the hot, sweet arrogance in him. Is that so strange, my husband, since however I am—however wild and frightened and shy—I love you with all my heart?”

  “Holy Mother of God!” Stephen whispered.

  “It’s all right,” Odalie said softly. “Go away to your gaming.” But Stephen’s arms were around her, holding her against his heart. She could hear it hammering there, like a muffled drum.

  “No,” he said. “No—I shan’t go.”

  Then effortlessly he swept her up into his arms and walked with her through the doorway. But afterwards it was the same: with all the rigidity and trembling and cold hurt-frightened tears. Stephen got up without a word and began to dress himself rapidly.

  “Stephen!” The word was half a sob.

  “Yes,” he snarled. “Yes, I’m going!” Then he strode from the room and his boots sounded clearly on the stairs going down. . . .

  Day after day as the Summer came on the heat mounted. The sun rose over the fields of Harrow, white in a steel-white sky from which even the blue had been blasted by the never-ceasing heat. The swamps began to dry up from the lack of water, and sandbars showed through the waters of the Mississippi. In the high-ceilinged rooms of Harrow the heat was lessened, but even there it hung like a tangible weight, pressing down upon their heads. Looking out of her window, Odalie could see the dwarfed stalks of cane standing up bare and brown in the naked fields.

  Stephen was down there, moving through the fields as though the heat did not exist. She could see the gleam of his bright hair even from where she sat. He was working like mad, driving himself and the slaves to exhaustion in his efforts to save the crop. There was a line of Negroes moving in from the river, with staves bent across their shoulders, from which were suspended oaken buckets filled to the brim with river water. This, Odalie had never seen done before on any of the great plantations. By this means, desperate and heartbreakingly slow, Stephen was keeping some of the cane alive until it should rain again.

  He was never at home anymore. For weeks Odalie had not seen him eat more than a crust of bread. The freckles on his fair face increased but he did not tan. Instead, his face grew daily leaner and harder and his eyes receded into the sockets ringed with bluish shadows. He spoke seldom and then in monosyllables, with the corner of one lip curling a little and one eyebrow clim
bing upward toward the scar which shone with demonic clarity upon his forehead.

  At night, after a day of work which left even the big Achille spent and panting, he would bathe and dress himself and ride away toward New Orleans. Toward Odalie he was grave and exquisitely polite. But he did not come near her again. Sometimes she could feel his eyes upon her, blazing like the eyes of a hawk; but when she turned, he would merely nod and continue upon his way.

  Watching him now, Odalie could feel the pain lying upon her heart like a weight of lead. Such a man as this she had and now between them was this thing intangible but none the less real, against which she seemed powerless to fight. All she could do now was to kneel at her casement and look out at him and pray to the Virgin to send the rain before the crop was ruined.

  She rose suddenly from her seat. Then, suddenly, the weakness and the nausea which she had noticed several times before of a morning was upon her: this time far stronger than before. She took a tentative step forward, then she was hanging there, swaying on her feet, the blackness pressing in upon her eyes.

  “Zerline!” she got out, but the yellow maid servant she had brought from Bellefont was far away, out of hearing. She could feel herself loosening at the knees, the floor coming up to meet her slowly. Then she screamed out: “Zerline!”

  But it was not her maid who came flying through the door to catch her in her arms and ease her gently to the floor; it was Caleen. Odalie was afraid of Caleen. The old woman had a look about her of such bland and competent evil that the thought of being touched by her was a chilling one, but now Odalie clung to her gratefully.

  “Easy, mistress,” Caleen said. “I take you where you kin lie down, me.”

  Then with one spidery black arm about her mistress’s waist she led her to the big bed.

  “Wait,” she said, “I bring you something, yes.”

  “Thank you,” Odalie whispered. Then: “Oh, Caleen, I’m so sick!”

  “It does that, yes. Great lady not like field woman. The master is ver’ glad, him, I bet.”

  “I—I haven’t told him. I wasn’t sure.”

  “Well, you sure now. You can tell him now, yes!”

  “Please, Caleen, the medicine—whatever it was you were getting. I’m going to be sick!”

  Caleen scurried from the room. Odalie sank back upon her bed, pressing both hands over her eyes. She kept quite still, not daring to move, lest the precarious equilibrium she was maintaining with the thick tide of nausea be upset. Then there were footsteps sounding clearly on the stairs, pausing a moment outside her open door, approaching her bedside.

  “Caleen?” she whispered hoarsely.

  “No,” Stephen’s voice came down to her. “ ‘Tis not. Caleen. What ails ye, my dear?”

  “I’m sick, Stephen. I—I can’t retain my food. I—think— Oh, I don’t know what it is . . .”

  “Shall I call a doctor for ye? All this heat and the air is very bad. They say Dr. Terrebonne is an excellent physician.”

  “No, no—Caleen is taking care of me. Besides, I feel much better now—since you came. Stay and talk to me a while, won’t you, Stephen? I—I’ve been so lonely.’

  There was the scraping of a chair as he drew it up beside her bed. Odalie kept her hands pressed tightly over her eyes. Then Caleen came through the doorway, bearing a steaming tea that smelled strongly of mint leaves and lemon.

  “Men,” she said with mock severity, “always make trouble, yes. You go way from here, maître! Already you done enough, you!”

  “I’ve done enough?” Stephen growled. “What the deuce do ye mean, ye old witch?”

  “Her,” Caleen pointed, balancing the tray on one hand. “all your fault, yes!”

  Stephen turned to Odalie.

  “What on earth is she talking about?” he demanded.

  But the waves of color were chasing one another across Odalie’s face.

  “Don’t you know, Stephen?” she asked gently.

  “Don’t I know what . . . Odalie! You don’t mean.”

  “Yes, my husband, I do mean. And I am so happy that almost I could die of it.”

  The chair went over backwards with a crash, and Stephen was on his knees beside the bed, gathering her into his arms. Then Odalie nestled her head against his shoulder and loosed her tears.

  “Why do ye cry?” he asked. “ ‘Tis a thing for joy and laughter, not for tears!”

  “Because I’m happier than I can bear. Because you take me in your arms and do not turn away as though you hated me. And because there will be a son for Harrow.”

  “A son for Harrow,” Stephen repeated after her. Strange how right the phrasing was: not his son, nor hers, but Harrow’s— a son to be shaped by the house into the finely tempered image of a gentleman, who would grow with it until at last he became master of it, until his son came, too, to manhood. And so it would go, for endless generations, until the house should become weathered and old and the family ghosts should whisper about the halls. Harrow. This was it. Completion. Fulfillment.

  He looked out the window to where the sun was smashing the earth with hammer blows, wave upon wave of heat. Odalie stirred in his arms.

  “What is it, Stephen?” she whispered. “You seem troubled. You are sorry about this?”

  “No. Only ‘tis thinking I am that if this heat does not abate soon, ‘twill be a poor heritage that the lad will come into.”

  “As bad as that, Stephen?”

  “Yes. But don’t trouble yourself, my darling. I shall win now even if I have to ring in a cold deck. Caleen! Don’t stand there like a dolt! Bring your mistress her tea.”

  “Yas, maître,” the old woman grinned. “I bring it, me.”

  “Ye’re not to leave her side,” Stephen said sternly. “Not for an instant! She is not to walk in the sun, nor exert herself in any way. Anything she wants, ye will get for her and promptly. Leave nothing to the hands of these flighty yellow wenches. I’m holding ye responsible, mind ye!”

  He turned again to his wife.

  “ ‘Tis becoming to ye,” he smiled. “Never have I seen ye with finer color.” He bent and kissed her gently. The kiss was light and tender, and Odalie realized suddenly with a vast relief that there would be no more passion in his caresses—not for a long time now. And almost at the same time she was conscious of a feeling of shame at her relief. It must be a boy, she decided: she must not fail him in that, too.

  Stephen kissed her again. Then he stood up.

  “I must ride into town,” he said, “to arrange a loan. The crop is a failure—even if it rains now, it is still a failure. I’ll see Warren—it shouldn’t take very much to tide us over. The notes on the house can ride. My credit is excellent hereabouts. Take care of yourself, my darling. Ye must be very, very careful. Follow Caleen’s suggestions. She’s a wise one for all that she’s an old devil!”

  Again he bent and kissed her, then he turned and strode through the doorway.

  “You hear what the maître say,” Caleen said bossily. “I don’t want no sass, me! You do like I tells you, yes! And we bring maître fine boy—beeg boy with red hair. But you hafta do like I say!”

  Odalie smiled indulgently.

  “Yes, Caleen,” she said, “I’ll be good.”

  Riding toward the river road, Stephen met old Josh, coming back from the river with a string of fish. They were tiny, hardly worth the trouble; but with the heat and low water they were the best that Josh could do.

  “Howdy, Massa Stevie!” he called out as the big palamino approached him. “I bring you some little fishes. Not much good, but deys all I could kotch. Hit so blame dry, you knows.”

  “Take them up to the house and give them to Caleeñ,” Stephen told him. “Ye’re much improved, Josh; ye don’t shake anymore. Still afraid of fire?”

  “Yassuh, I’se powerful scairt of hit yet. But I’se gittin less scairt all de time. I’se gitting strong now.”

  “So I see,” Stephen said gravely. “So strong, in fact, that I think I’
ll put you to work in the fields.”

  “Oh, Massa Stevie, you wouldn’t do dat to poor Josh! I’se a old man! Dat heat out dere would kill me sho!”

  “Don’t worry, Josh,” Stephen laughed. “Ye’re far more valuable as a fisherman. Have you seen Achille?”

  “Him down by de levee making dem Creyole Nigras tote water. Ain’t gonna do no good now, Massa Stevie, hit too late to save de crop.”

  “I’m afraid ye’re right, Josh,” Stephen said. “Well, hurry along with those fish.”

  As Stephen stopped Prince Michael at the foot of the levee, the big black came scrambling down to meet him, his face glistening with sweat.

  “You go way for long, master?” he asked.

  “No,” Stephen said; “I’ll return by nightfall. How goes it, Achille?”

  “Them Negres lazy, master. But I make them work, me.”

  “Ye report everything to Mister Wilson, of course?”

  “Him sick. Caleen say him goin’ to die.”

  “What! And none of ye said a word! Even Madame Wilson did not so much as send me a note.”

  “She half crazy, her, with all them children, master. Maybe her fergit.”

  “I’ll ride by there,” Stephen said. “But how goes it with your family, Achille?”

  “That wild gal she make me crazy, yes! Her enciente now. No beeg belly yet, but soon. All time she fight me like wildcat. Then afterwards she kiss me like fire. She something, her!”

  Stephen turned away from the road to the big house of his overseer. Wilson never had been much good, he reflected. Achille had done most of the work. Still, it was necessary to have some white man over the Negroes lest they become unruly; ‘twould be a pity if Wilson were to die. He was a good man, in his odd, timid way.

  Stephen swung down from Prince Michael and strode up to the gallery. It was, he noticed, in a sad state of repair. He lifted his crop to knock upon the door, but then, at that moment, his ears were struck by a chorus of wailing. Stephen pushed the door open softly and went in, holding his hat in his hand. Seeing him, Madame Wilson threw herself into his arms, sobbing violently, while three or four small Wilsons clutched his knees and howled.