Norton, Andre - Novel 23 Read online

  There was no question where she was bound. The music drew her around the comer of the house, straight to that hidden opening in the hedge where Damaris' tracks had earlier led her. Saranna fought a passage through, into the moonlit secret garden beyond. This time, however, she crossed the bridge, went around the tiny house with the flower-shaped windows, pushed by a tall thicket, until she paused at the edge of a large, open space.

  Before her was the bulk of a building far larger than the tiny one at the ridge side. Though in style, this one also followed that same general pattern of sharply peaked roof, upturned eaves, and oddly shaped windows. Now it formed a background, of which Saranna was but vaguely aware, for the scene on a terrace which stretched from the rounded moon gate of the house into the full rays of the moon.

  Against the wall of the house, on low stools, sat three figures, who were shadowed from light. Their faces Saranna could not see except as whitish blurs. But it was they who made that music which had drawn her. The instruments which they played were also so deep in the shadows she could not see them clearly.

  While out on the terrace in the full light—

  She heard her own gasp even through the wailing chords of that playing.

  For, drawn up in ordered rows, facing the three musicians were—foxes!

  Large and small, even differing a little in color. For some were plainly darker in shade than their neighbors. And two were an amazing silver-white. Yet all sat in nearly the same position, as if they were listening—or waiting—

  She thought the last only when there was movement within the circle of the moon door. Someone came out of the house, advanced into the open where the moon's radiance caught her plainly.

  It was a woman wearing a long robe, the sleeves of which covered her hands, being of such a length they swept to the pavement of the terrace. She came dancing, weaving a graceful pattern with the fluttering of her overlong sleeves. Her hair was dressed high in stiff formality, and in those rolls, gemmed pins caught the moon, reflected that light with small glitters like the sparkles on frost-rimmed snow.

  But—

  Her head had turned a little as she wove her airy design with the fluttering sleeves before the foxes. Her face—

  A fox! A fox's countenance on a woman's shoulders, beneath that high piled hair!

  Saranna's hand flew to her mouth, in somewhat the same gesture Damaris used, to suppress a cry. Her first astonishment did not give way to any fear. She felt nothing now but wonderment. There was an unreality about the whole scene which brought not terror but interest. As if this was something to be cherished, that Saranna was in a way privileged to be a witness here and now.

  She never knew how long she stood there watching the intricate steps of the dancer, bewitched by the eerie music, the sight of that motionless, fascinated pack of foxes watching with her as their fur-visaged mistress swayed gracefully in the full light of the moon.

  Then the dance halted; the woman's arms swept out in a gestured of command. From the furred throats before her came a loud yapping chorus. At once, the foxes scattered, melting away from the terrace. The music had also stopped, but the Fox Lady did not return to her house.

  No, her muzzle pointed in Saranna's direction. The girl knew without any doubt, that her presence had been detected; yet again, the knowledge brought her no fear. Instead, as one of those sleeve-muffled hands raised to beckon, she went forward to answer the unvoiced summons, moving across the terrace toward the dancer.

  Before she quite reached the other's side, a light flickered to life within the moon door itself, and then a second, sending yellow fingers out to dispute the paler radiance of the moon. As the dancer half-turned from Saranna to that doorway, she beckoned a second time.

  With an odd confidence that this was right, the girl followed the other into the house where five lanterns on legs sat around a room, giving vivid life to its furnishings.

  A woman with the seamed and wrinkled face of age, yet who moved with some of the spring of youth, had just put light to the fifth and last of the lanterns. She wore a short black satin jacket, embroidered with red, over black trousers. Her hair was drawn so smoothly back from her face, that it lay against her skull as if painted in black strokes of ink. The bulk of it was knotted at the nape of her neck with two gold pins through the knot.

  But the dancer wore a loose robe of a brilliant rust which was also the red of an autumn leaf or a fox's coat. It was tied by a sash high under her arms in a fashion such as Saranna had seen pictured on a lacquer screen among Tiensin's treasures—a screen many centuries old.

  The gemmed pins in her high piled hair were her only ornaments and her fox face was very obvious, the upper lip lifted a little to show the gleaming of teeth. Yet Saranna felt none of the astonishment which had first gripped her at the sight of the dancer.

  In one corner was just such a bed as Damaris had in her chamber, giving the impression of being an alcove of the room, rather than a piece of furniture. Two lanterns stood at either end, affording more light at that point. Screens and the drapery of brocaded curtains of a yellow-red shade afforded privacy, and there was a low railing about it which opened in the center of the side nearest them.

  A pile of what might be quilts was folded lengthwise in place at the back along the wall. And on a brocaded padding a very short-legged table sat on the surface of the bed. With graceful ease, the Fox Lady drew her long skirted robe about her and seated herself on one side of that table. Again, she gestured to Saranna to join her at the opposite side of that board.

  In the air hung a spicy scent whose like Saranna thought she remembered from her visit to Damaris' room. But she was far more interested in the fox woman herself than in her surroundings. As if, when the dancer were present, nothing else mattered.

  As Saranna, suddenly conscious of her disheveled hair (she must have lost her nightcap among the bushes), her snagged shawl, and her heavy muslin nightgown, all appearing in painful contrast to the elegance of her strange hostess, settled herself on the edge of the huge bed, she felt very insignificant, very much an intruder. The Fox Lady's sleeves fluttered back away from her hands which she clapped together.

  Her flesh was like carved ivory, there was no hint of a fox's paws here, rather fingers, long and slim. And, covering the nails on each hand, sheaths of gemmed and filagreed gold protruding far beyond any natural length.

  At her signal, the older woman pattered forward, carrying a tray on which rested two covered cups of jade, but a jade so different in color that Saranna only knew it to be that precious stone from Damaris' tutoring. For this was cream-white, a flowered branch carved in high relief on the side of each. The Fox Lady gracefully slipped the top from her cup, held it to her muzzle. At the inclination of her elaborately coiffed head, Saranna followed her example.

  This was tea before her, but with the addition of some herb, the girl believed. At least, she had never sniffed such an aroma rising from any tea she had had poured from a New England pot.

  For the first time the Fox Lady spoke, though her jaw did not move to shape the word.

  "Mei—"

  Her slim, nail-sheathed hand moved forward so that she nearly, but not quite, touched one straying lock of Saranna's long hair which had escaped down the girl's shoulder.

  Damaris had said that word meant "sister." Was it because her rust-red locks did resemble a fox's coat that this dancer thought to call her so?

  "Mei —" the other repeated and then, which seemed very strange indeed, she added a word in Saranna's own language:

  "Drink!"

  Saranna found that the contents of the jade cup were not too hot to drink after all. The taste was odd but she liked it. There was something so refreshing in the liquid that she swallowed eagerly again and again, until the cup was indeed empty.

  The eyes of the fox mask regarded her steadily. Yet Saranna sensed that this person, whoever or whatever she might be, meant her no ill. There was a drift of scented smoke rising from a brazier beyond the dr
aped curtain of the roomlike bed. That smoke appeared now to be growing thicker—like a fog or mist—like the mist which had folded in upon the sloop which had brought her upriver.

  Through the mist came sharp glints. From the gemmed pins in the dancer's hair? Or were those eyes—the eyes of foxes gathering within this room, padding through the moon door out of the night to join their mistress? Saranna blinked and blinked again, striving to fight a new languorous apathy which gripped her.

  Fox eyes—gems—moonlight—a dancer with the form of a woman, but a sharp pointed, red-furred muzzle for a face— Fox face—fox eyes—

  "Miss Saranna!"

  Far away a voice calling. Then nearer, nearer—more urgent.

  Saranna stirred. They must be hunting her. Would they come into the hidden garden—through the moon gate— and—?

  She opened her eyes. Her lids seemed so heavy; she did not want to look around her, to take up the burden of knowing again. To drift in the scented beauty of the dancer's room— To—

  But—this was her own bed! Her own bed, with Millie leaning over to shake her shoulder a little timidly. She was in her own bed. She had only been dreaming! But so real a dream—so very real a dream!

  Only, of course, it could only be a dream. There could not possibly exist any exquisite figure with a woman's body, a fox’s face! But never before in her life had Saranna dreamed in such vivid detail. She could, at this moment, still somehow feel the smooth jade cup within her hand, list the number of lanterns, describe the hangings, the folded covers of that bed, the sweep of the dancer's long sleeves as she turned and twirled until those ribbons of soft material had whirled out— "Miss Saranna—it do be breakfast time—nearly—" Millie was staring at her.

  "Oh." The warnings of Mrs. Parton's demand for promptness came to mind. Saranna got out of bed.

  For a moment, she felt a little dizzy and queer. She put her hand up. No, her hair was not straying free. It was decorously tethered beneath her nightcap. Of course, she had not gone running out through the night.

  "I'll hurry, Millie. Put out the sprigged cotton, please." There was a can of hot water waiting by the washbasin. With her face cloth, she rinsed the last remnants of the dream from her. And it was not until she hooked the bodice of what she knew was a hideous and out-of-date dress (drab black with very small and faded sprigs of off-color white) that she saw what lay on the dressing table.

  A loop of silken cord of the same rust-yellow as the dancer's robe coiled around what must be a pendant of jade, the same milk-white jade of the tea cup. Only this piece of that imperial stone was wrought in the form of a fox head, and the eyes were small yellowish gems which held a glow, as if, in their depths, there was indeed a spark of actual, knowing life.

  Saranna glanced around. Millie was bustling about, splashing the water from the basin into the slop bucket. She put out her hand quickly, her fingers closing about the pendant before, she hoped, the maid had noticed it.

  Surely Damaris had not shown her the like of this. Saranna would have remembered such a piece. Unless there were some of Captain Whaley's collection which his granddaughter had not thought, or remembered, to display. There had been some jewelry—kept in a locked case. But this -pendant had not lain there. Then where—?

  Not out of her dream? It could not have come out of her dream! Not possibly!

  But that it was precious, a piece of great value, Saranna was sure. And until she could question Damaris, no one must see it. There was only one really safe hiding place—her own person.

  She swiftly slipped the cord over her head, pushed the pendant well down under the prim collar of her chemisette, assuring herself by a searching survey in the mirror that it was entirely hidden. Against her skin it felt cool, very smooth, and she was strongly conscious of it as she hurried toward the door that she might not be late to breakfast.

  8

  T'UNG JEN-COMPANIONSHIP

  "Miss Stowell—“

  Startled, Saranna paused in her descent of the wide staircase. The outer door was a little open; Mr. Fowke stood just within. He smiled up at her.

  Why had she ever thought his strong face unhandsome? When he smiled in that fashion she was surprised at her own past blindness.

  "I'm late—" she said in what she knew must seem an idiotic way. But again she was flustered by having his full attention turned on her.

  "And Mrs. Parton cannot be kept waiting," he added, as if he were repeating some oft-heard admonition. "Yes, Mrs. Parton is ruled by the clock's inexorable tick, isn't she? I wonder if ever in her life she has longed to break the bonds of time, just wander freely outside minutes, hours, and perhaps days."

  Saranna found the courage to smile in return. "I really don't know her well enough to venture an opinion," she replied, her uneasiness subsiding a little.

  Suddenly he looked almost stern, forbidding, his glance at her so intent Saranna wondered for a moment if the jade pendant could be seen. She raised her hand hurriedly to press against the hidden gem. Why was he watching her with that strange measuring look, as if she presented some problem, and one which he found at least a little distasteful.

  "You will doubtless be given plenty of chance to learn and understand Mrs. Parton's quirks in the future." His tone was now remote and Saranna was at a loss. It was almost as if she had offended him in some fashion. Yet when she recalled her words they were certainly harmless enough. She could not in any way see why such a commonplace observation had brought about this change in his manner.

  "Gerrad! You are already here—"

  The door to the breakfast room had opened to let Honora, again in riding dress, bustle out.

  "But why did John not announce you? I vow these house hands grow lazier every day. Saranna—" Her attention, for a moment, rested on the girl. "My," her nose wrinkled as she surveyed her, "we simply must do something about your clothes! Such a figure as you do cut this morning! And you do want to appear your best these days, don't you?" That ice-tinkle of laughter sounded, the eyes above the chilly smiling mouth were hard as polished stones. "I must have Mrs. Parton look out for some things to be altered. But," the gem-hard eyes swung from Saranna's discreetly capped head to the hem of the girl's limp skirt and back again, "you certainly must be prepared to make some alterations. We are not of a size at all."

  Saranna did not reply. She could feel the warmth come into her cheeks at this contemptuous appraisal. That Honora would reveal such pettiness in her own nature so clearly before Gerrad Fowke must mean that she was indeed betrothed to him, whether or no any such announcement had been made public. The girl longed to raise her eyes to his face, to judge by his expression how Honora's behavior moved him. But that she would not allow herself to do.

  "Yes," Honora was continuing with her usual overbearing stream of words, "you must have a new dress or two. With your prospects it is only right. Gerrad," in an instant she turned back to her waiting escort, "I have had a wonderful idea concerning the garden. It came to me in the night and I wrote it down lest I would forget it. Oh, do let us get on to Queen's Pleasure so I can show you just what I have been thinking of—"

  "Miss Stowell." Though Honora's hand was now on his arm, he still lingered, making a bow in Saranna's direction. Only his face was still tight and closed in the forbidding way.

  Saranna inclined her head in return, feeling forlorn now instead of angry as she had a moment earlier. She would probably never know what had made Mr. Fowke act suddenly so different toward her. It was with a sense of oppression and loss that she watched the door close behind the two, then walked slowly into the breakfast room.

  Damaris stood at a window, her hand pulling aside the edge of the lace undercurtain so she could see the curve of the drive beyond.

  "There she goes," the younger girl reported. "Well, she won't be back soon, we can depend on that. You should have heard her this morning, you really should have, Saranna!"

  Coming back to the table, Damaris revealed the old scowl which caused a most unpleasant
twist of eyebrow, lift of lip on her young face. ''She's going back to Baltimore tomorrow to do some shopping for her wedding things. Though she can't be married yet, not until her father comes back. However, she and the Poker have been having their heads together —they were whispering when I came in this morning. She needn't think she can keep any secret—I’ll learn sooner or later!" Damaris appeared a little more cheerful, and began spreading a biscuit with an overload of strawberry preserves.

  Saranna, without much appetite, assembled some of the half-cold food and picked at it. The depression which had closed on her in the hallway seemed now a dark cloud. She felt that she must learn one thing—had Damaris left that jade pendant in her room? If that were true, Saranna must make certain the precious thing was returned at once to the safekeeping where it had once lain. She had no intention of allowing the child to make any trouble for herself, as well as perhaps Saranna, by her impulsive gift. The porcelain cat could be easily returned. Perhaps Honora or Mrs. Parton, if they discovered that piece in her room, would not realize its full value. But a piece of jewelry was a far different matter, and Saranna had no doubt that Honora would be well aware of the worth of any treasure which was an adornment for the person.

  "You are awfully late." Damaris had crunched her way through her biscuit and was not watching Saranna. "Did you oversleep?"

  "Yes."

  Damaris smiled. "That was the fault of the cat light. You tried it, didn't you? I told you that you can watch it and sleep well."

  "But I had better not do so again," Saranna commented.

  "Not if you want a hot breakfast," Damaris agreed frankly. "And here's Rose to clear away. Take some fruit— we can go outside. It's a very nice day, warm so you won't need a shawl."

  Saranna did reach for another biscuit, chose an orange. She was eager herself to get away from the house, where there might be listening ears, and have Damaris to herself.