by Talbot Mundy
Only one paper — Wahl’s — the New Orleans Star gave her any comfort. As she read that she almost forgave Wahl for having dared to burst into her room. That paper told the whole truth. It showed up Jacqueline — described her as a monster of iniquity — pictured her as a vampire, with two love-affairs at seventeen, and a laugh on her lips and lying eyes when the bodies of lover and aged bridegroom lay dead at her feet.
But, oh, the black, aching shame of it! The Miro name dragged into the mud! The Miro pride humbled for the mob to laugh about! They spoke of the inquest, and of the facts that were expected to be brought out, of the witnesses who would be examined — herself, Consuelo, Jacqueline, the servants. She the proudest woman in Louisiana, was to be pilloried in public and browbeaten by a shoddy coroner — confronted with Consuelo’s lies no doubt — and all because of Jacqueline!
Well, Consuelo and her tongue notwithstanding, at least she would show that girl what she had brought down on the house that had befriended her. She hunted for her keys. There was a pass-key on the ring, that opened all doors in the house except those behind which Don Andres had kept his private papers. Then she rang her bell.
“Let me know when Consuelo goes to the kitchen. Don’t say a word to her.”
Spite ran its full course. Donna Isabella tiptoed along the corridor, and entered Consuelo’s room, closing the door quietly. She laid the copy of the New Orleans Star on the pillow close to Jacqueline’s face, and stood watching, thin-lipped, saying nothing. But Jacqueline did not stir.
“Read it!” she said suddenly, and Jacqueline looked up at last, but showed no surprise, no interest.
“Read it, you wicked girl, and see what you’ve brought down on others!”
She pointed to the newspaper and left the room, not exactly anxious to be caught in there by Consuelo. Jacqueline sat up and held the paper to the dim light coming through the blind; and the first thing she saw was her own portrait! Then Desmio’s and Jack Calhoun’s enclosed in circles in the middle of the page. Then, slowly, big black type took shape, and she could not tear her eyes away from it.
Each line she read was like a stab at the heart which she had thought could feel no longer. Was this what the world would now believe of her? It likened her to Herodias — and she knew that story. It called her a seventeen year-old Jezebel. It as good as said she had killed Desmio, and that she laughed to see him lying dead. It said her eyes mocked the reporter, and that she threw crockery in the face of the aged Donna Isabella, in the presence of scores of people, because Donna Isabella sent her to her room. It said she had locked herself into her room and would be seen by nobody, but hurled foul invective through the door when any one tried to gain admission. It said she would be haled before the coroner — whoever he might be — and made to give explanation; that the courtroom was expected to be crowded
“Who is the coroner?” she asked quite quietly, as Consuelo entered with the beef tea. It was the quietness of absolute despair, and Consuelo recognized it.
“Mother of God! Who gave you that, child? Where did you get the newspaper?”
Consuelo snatched it away from her and tore it up savagely. She had already seen a copy in the kitchen.
“Donna Isabella brought it in. What is a coroner, Consuelo?”
“That woman’s worse than a murderess! Here, honey, be good now and take some beef-tea!”
“Consuelo, I want to know what a coroner is.”
“Never you mind, honey.”
“I must know. You must tell me. I’m to be hauled before a coroner tomorrow afternoon. What is a coroner?”
“Take your beef-tea, honey!”
“Not until you tell me what a coroner is.”
“He’s a sort of judge, dear. He’ll ask questions, and you’ll have to answer him.”
“I won’t! I won’t answer people who believe those things of me!”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to, honey. It won’t be so bad. I’ll be there, and I’ll sit beside you while you just say yes or no to what he asks you. Then we’ll—”
“I won’t go, Consuelo.”
“But they’ll make you, Conchita. They’ll come and fetch you, and me too, honey. You must make up your mind to—”
“It’s made up! I shall not be here when they come for me, Consuelo. I won’t answer people who believe those things of me!”
“Honey dear, don’t talk nonsense.”
“I’m telling you the truth.”
“Conchita, what do you mean?”
“I’m going away.”
“Where, honey?”
“I don’t know. I’m just going. I shall not be here when they come for me.”
There was no mistaking the note now. It was calm, without emphasis, without trace of hysteria. But she would go, or she would die. It was Consuelo who felt hysterical.
“But, Conchita, you’ve no money, and nowhere to go, and none to look after you — and the Holy Virgin knows you can’t look after yourself.”
“I’m going.”
“When?”
“Now. Tonight.”
“Honey dear, don’t be absurd! D’you think I’d let you go? Be good now, and take your beef-tea, it’s getting cold. You couldn’t walk — they’d find you in an hour! — and who’s to carry your things? You can’t go without anything!”
“I’m going, Consuelo.”
“Take your beef-tea, honey. Would you leave me to face it all alone?”
“You may come with me if you wish,” Jacqueline answered, in the same quiet voice.
Consuelo set the cup and saucer down and cried; but it was no use. Jacqueline was unemotional, but firmer than a rock; no longer terrified, long past the stage where fear could touch her. There was a courage in the blue eyes now, and the hint of a faraway vision, as if she saw one little ray of hope beyond the edge of things. It unnerved Consuelo, and then made her stare until she crossed herself and shuddered. She knew it was no use urging; she must give in, or there would be another death, or madness on her hands.
“Sister Michaela told me to trust my intuition. That’s why I’m going, Consuelo. I’m going to turn my back on everything.”
“Honey dear, wait until morning. We can’t walk. We must take clothes with us. I’ve money in the savings bank, and we can draw that out. Give me until morning, and I’ll pack meanwhile and see if I can’t get a car, and some things to eat in a basket, and—”
“We must be gone before daybreak, Consuelo.”
“Honey, you’re too impatient! They don’t open banks that early, and —
“You needn’t come unless you want to. I’d just as soon go now.”
“Will you go to sleep, honey, if I leave you and pack your things?”
“If you promise, Consuelo.”
“Yes, I promise, dearie. We’ll go before daylight, even if we have to walk.”
Jacqueline let her head fall on the pillow and was asleep within five minutes, relaxed, and breathing steadily. So hope can change all in a moment. There was something certain — one step visible ahead; and the past was gone; and youth resumed its sway. Consuelo watched her for a while; then, sure she was sleeping, locked her in and hurried by the back way into the garden — down through the gate in the wall at the end, and across three fields in the dark to a row of cottages where the colored hands lived.
“Zeke! Zeke!”
“Here I is, Miss Consuelo.”
Only the glow of his pipe and the whites of his eyes were visible. He was sitting on a log under the shadow of a tree between two cottages, and his manner was much more deferential than it had been recently; he even got to his feet and set his thumb over the bowl of the pipe. Consuelo paused to get her breath, and took in the situation with a general eye.
“What are you doing here? Why aren’t you indoors?”
“There’s ha’nts in there, miss.”
“Are you a good Catholic, Zeke?”
“Ah is, but Ah’s scared mos’ nearly daid.”
“That’s becaus
e you took the bribe from Mr. Jack Calhoun—”
“Miss Consuelo, you ain’t gwine tell ag’in me ‘bout that ‘fore de coroner?”
“If we weren’t here, we wouldn’t have to go before the coroner.”
“Where’s we gwine?”
“You may drive Miss Jacqueline.”
“Where’s she gwine?”
“Never you mind. She’ll tell you. If you’re outside the garden gate with one of the cars an hour before daylight, the coroner can whistle, can’t he?”
Zeke shook his head, beginning slowly and increasing the speed until the whites of his eyes made a horizontal streak in the darkness.
“Why not?”
“Dey’s done locked de garage, an’ took mah key.”
For a second, Consuelo was nonplussed, but she had laid bare Zeke’s obsessing terror, and pursued her advantage blindly.
“Can’t you get another car? Not for Miss Jacqueline’s sake? Not to do a good deed for Don Andres now he’s dead? Remember, the coroner—”
“Where’s Ah gwine git him, honey?”
“Horses then?”
“Yo’ means plantation horses? Dey’s some. Dey’s mos’ dat ole dey’s ‘bout daid. Bes’ ones was all ‘spatched fer de ‘mergency. Dey’s haulin’ dirt for de levee t’ree days now.” .
“Well, if there are two left, you can take them without being seen, can’t you?”
“Ah s’pose.”
“Take one of the old four-wheel buggies from the barn, harness the two best horses, and be at the garden gate an hour before daylight, Zeke. If you’re there, and hold your tongue, I’ll hold mine. You understand me?”
“Dat buggy hain’t had no grease put in him sence—”
“Grease it yourself, then, you lazy nigger! I can’t waste time talking to you. Either you do or you don’t; which is it? I shall tell the coroner—”
“Miss Consuelo, Ah’s yo’ bes’ frien’! Ah’s gwine grease dat buggy good. Ah’s gwine drive you-all anywhere! Ah sho’ly is.”
“If you’re late—”
“Ah’s gwine be dere, miss!”
But Zeke’s promise was nothing much to build on; there were too many possibilities of greater fears that might occur to him, or that he might take some one into his confidence, or be seen taking the horses, and Consuelo returned to the house with her heart in her throat.
She found Jacqueline awake again and already dressed, moving up and down the room restlessly, packing Consuelo’s clothes into a straw valise — to save time, as she explained it — with no more idea what to pack, and what to leave behind, than she had of where she was going.
“There, Conchita — wasn’t that thoughtful of you!”
Consuelo swallowed her chagrin and left her occupied while she crept up to Jacqueline’s room and crowded bare necessities into a dressing-bag, including all the jewelry — wry-faced as she reflected that the trinkets and the few good stones were only too likely to change owners presently.
That task accomplished, she began to wish she had ordered Zeke to be ready sooner. She used up an hour undoing Jacqueline’s handiwork, and another fifteen minutes foraging in the larder for provisions to take with them; but then there was nothing left to do but sit and wait — hour after interminable hour of inaction, with Jacqueline demanding to know why. Once she went out to find Zeke, but failed in her search, and that only increased anxiety. If Zeke had decided to run away on his own account, as was quite likely, they were done for!
“Where shall we go?” she asked at last, hoping to give Jacqueline something to occupy her mind. She had made up her own mind on that point long ago.
“Oh, anywhere.”
“We’ll go first to the city, honey, where I can find something to do. I’ll try the employment agencies, and then perhaps I can get something in another state and take you along. But we mustn’t take the train from our station. We must drive thirty miles to the junction, and buy tickets in the wrong direction, so’s to put them off the scent.”
“Have you any money, Consuelo?”
“Enough for the fares, honey.”
More than an hour before Zeke was due they were waiting for him in the shadow of the garden wall, startled by every sound and racked with anxiety. But a buggy that had not been greased came squeaking through the dark at last, and they climbed in, Zeke saying nothing.
“Drive along the levee to the junction, Zeke.”
“Dat ole levee’s per’lous near bu’stin’!”
“Did you hear me tell you!”
“Sho — Ah ain’t deef — Giddap!”
And so they left behind the haven of Jacqueline’s girlhood and girlhood with it. Desmio’s mansion and the wall surrounding it passed away behind them into darkness like a dream, and were out of sight when morning came. But Jacqueline never looked back for a last glimpse; some sort of future had been born in travail and heavy labor; the past was dead, and she had no more use for it, nor it for her — nor much use for the future, though it had begun to glimmer dimly, like the morning, when the creaking wheels moved.
There was a light mist like a bridal-veil along the bottoms in the shelter of the levee, and she thanked heaven for it, since, though the wheels squeaked a mournful warning to all the countryside, they were hardly visible at twenty paces. And they passed very few people, even after daybreak. Those who saw them were mostly Negroes, and all hurrying one way in answer to the whistles that announced danger at a point along the levee — the awful summons to every able-bodied man to turn out and help pile dirt. None of those straggling, sparse laborers was likely to turn back and report having seen them.
Later, they began to pass fugitives driving cows and hurrying toward them in carts loaded high with household goods. Those shouted warnings that terrified Zeke nearly out of his senses. The levee looked like breaking at a point about a mile ahead.
“She ain’t agwine las’ anuvver hour! You-all bes’ turn dem horses aroun’!”
Zeke elected to follow that advice, but the wheels were in soft ruts nearly hub-deep and though the horses plunged under the whip they only nearly broke the pole, and one of the wheels cracked ominously.
“Oh, Oh, what’ll we do? Oh, honey dear, you’ll drown!”
More fugitives came pouring down on them, blocking the road, and Zeke jumped on to a passing cart, yelling to them to follow suit. Consuelo wrung her hands in impotent despair, and then bethought of her image of the Blessed Virgin, which she had packed in the straw suit-case with underwear tucked carefully around it. She crossed herself, unpacked it, held it up:
“Now!” she cried. “Now! I’ve prayed to you often enough! Preserve us now!”
It was Jacqueline whose courage rose to the occasion. Fear seemed to hold no further terrors, or if it did, she faced the horror that she did not know in front, in preference to the terror she had turned her back on. She climbed up to the driver’s seat and took the reins that Zeke had draped over the dashboard.
“Conchita! Conchita! You’re crazy! Come down here!”
But the buggy went forward with a lurch and Consuelo sat down on the rear seat suddenly. They plunged into the mist, that by a freak of wind had gathered suddenly and rolled toward them. Out of the mist and silence ahead a man’s voice cried out — a mile, or a hundred yards away, there was no telling, but as clear as the summons of Judgment Day:
“Christ! She’s going, boys! Jump!”
Something thundered like wind in a sail, and the horses reared and broke the pole at last. There came a roar like a waterfall. The levee on their left hand broke apart like lumps of chocolate on the edge of a cake. The world shook. Three converging floods of dark-brown water, darker than the mist and yet a part of it, swept down on them exactly as the scenes change in a dream. The panorama swung. Dream-horses, kicking madly in the tangled harness, came over backward into the buggy on a dark-brown wave.
“Conchita!”
“Consuelo!”
Two screams, drowned in the deafening roar of water, and the
n a sense of being swept along forever, whirling, whirling, tossed up and down again, half-conscious, in a skirt that wrapped itself around helpless legs, with logs and dead things, and the timber of broken houses plunging to right and left — a momentary glimpse of sky — then mouth, eyes, all under water again — up once more, to gasp and cling to something that gave way — again the deluge.
Jacqueline was glad! She was drowning — dying! She felt young again! Her heart sang, the while her lungs ached and her ears tortured her, and every nerve and instinct in her fought for life! She struggled without knowing it — clung to branches without knowing that she clung — welcomed death, and fought it as a young life fights forever — until a barn-roof swinging in mid-stream, nearly knocked the last life out of her, and she held on, not knowing that she held. A great branch, backed up by an eddy, hove itself from beneath her. Roof and branch turned inward in opposing circles, and the movement tossed her, unconscious at last, on the roof as it whirled away downstream.
CHAPTER 15.
“Conchita!”
To Wahl’s surprise, and hardly veiled contempt, Sherry Mansfield declined to be shown around New Orleans — refused to take lunch — did not wish to be introduced to local celebrities — consented to visit the Star office, but turned down Wahl’s handsome offer to send him as his own substitute to cover the Miro wedding, news of which had just come in over the wire — and asked nothing but to be led to the best garage in town, where he might hire a car in which, as he called it, to head up-country.
“I told you what the floods’ll be,” said Wahl.
“My dad said floods. I’ll cover ’em!”
“You’ll learn to take his orders and put your own interpretation on them some day,” Wahl assured him.
“Wait till you’ve met dad.”