Nobody's Child

If Baird had needed confirmation of his fears, he had it in Mrs. Dickenson's face. She was clinging to her daughter, her face chalk-white and her eyes terror-stricken. The truth might escape from her at any moment; she looked on the verge of hysteria.

But Judith had noticed more quickly than Baird, and she spoke to the colonel in the same clear way in which she had spoken from the beginning. "Take her up-stairs, Ridley. She's frightened at all this galloping about, and no wonder." Then dropping Edward's arm she went straight on to the front door, her voice raised somewhat more, like an officer giving his orders, and at the same time conveying a warning:

"Come on in, all of you, and get ready for supper. I dare say Mr. Baird is hungry – I am – and we can't get Garvin's horse back by staring after it… Aunt Carlotta Morrison, come help me get every one together. Come!"

It was all for him, Baird knew it – all this bravery. He was the stranger among them; the one person from whom the painful thing, whatever it was, must be kept. They could not gather together in grief or sympathy or council – he was there. And it devolved upon him to play his part; to see nothing; understand nothing; and escape as soon as he could.

Baird would have given much to be able to get his horse and disappear. But that was not possible. He was experiencing the painful embarrassment of a guest whose absence was earnestly, even tragically desired, but whose departure would cause more pain than his presence – so long as he could successfully maintain an air of unconsciousness.

He must stay, but it occurred to Baird that he could give them a few moments in which to remove their masks, in which to consult together. "I'll go wash up," he said to Edward.

Edward stood with hand on the stair-rail, erect but deadly pale. He answered steadily and courteously, "Very well, Baird – it's what I must do in a moment. If you need anything, ring. I suppose some of the servants are about."

"Thanks," Baird said, and escaped.

He washed his hands and smoothed his hair mechanically. He was generally cool when excited, but he muttered to himself, "What in hell can it be? It's serious, whatever it is." His brain had already traversed several possibilities. Had Garvin suddenly gone mad? Or committed murder?.. Or had his own brain gone back on him, registered an entirely erroneous set of impressions?.. Of course it hadn't. Those people were both terrified and ashamed.

But he must go on with it. He had answered to the spur of Judith's voice. He was a poor sort if he couldn't play his part also… Baird judged that he had given them time enough in which to consult, and not too much time in which to suspect him. He must go down.

Baird never forgot that supper. They were gathered in the dining-room when he came down, composed, courteous, charming. It was a depleted company, five of the men were absent, and Mrs. Dickenson and her daughter, but the colonel was there, and Edward, and again Baird sat by Judith. The younger people were silent; there was a hushed strained air about them, but their elders covered their silence. The beautiful old mahogany table, bared now of linen, had been made smaller to hide vacancies, bringing them together: Edward, with the sharp lines of suffering growing and deepening about his mouth, but with quick attention for everybody; Mrs. Morrison, with her stately white head even more erect than usual; the colonel, with recovered aplomb.

The colonel told stories that Baird guessed the family knew well; Mrs. Morrison reproved every one present and was really amusing, and Judith smiled brilliantly and tossed the conversational ball back and forth. She did not let it rest for a moment. A change had come over her; there was a vivid spot in either cheek and her eyes were shining – nerves strained to breaking point, Baird guessed, and, when he saw how her hands shook, he himself began to talk – of South America, of Wyoming. He dragged forgotten experiences out of obscure corners of his brain and presented them.

He talked as he had never talked before, not even when he talked "money out of a man." He was talking against time, the first moment when he could relieve that proudly secretive company of his undesired presence; talked with the full consciousness that Priscilla Copeley was looking wanly at food she could not touch; that Edward's ear, inclined as if listening to him, was bent to catch every sound from without; that Judith's restless hand was beating a tattoo on the edge of the table while she also listened and waited. Baird did not enjoy what he was doing, but he liked always to play up to a demand. Judith needed what little help he could give her.

It was over at last. Baird knew just when Judith judged that appearances had been sufficiently maintained, and the moment had arrived when the party could break up. He said good night then, but, first, he asked Priscilla Copeley, "You'll not forget our ride to-morrow?"

He wondered what her answer would be, but even in this slip of a girl the family spirit was alive. "No, indeed," she returned through colorless lips. "At four o'clock, Mr. Baird," and she succeeded in smiling.

Judith went with him to the stairs, and Baird thanked her "for one of the pleasantest and most interesting evenings I have ever spent," as he phrased it.

"And I am grateful to you," she said quietly. "You were wonderful at supper." For the moment there was all of Edward's melancholy in her anxious eyes.

So she had guessed. Baird hoped the others had not; he felt almost certain they had not. He took her hand and kissed it – there was nothing he could say.

The color deepened in Judith's face. "Sleep well – " she said softly, and turned away.

Baird had no intention of sleeping. He changed into his riding clothes and lay down fully dressed. He also was waiting and listening; he would sleep as little as any one else in that house; he had never felt less like sleeping.

There were steps and voices for a time; some of the family were taking leave. Then, gradually, the house settled into watchful quiet; now and then carefully silenced movements on the stairs, and the steady ticking of the clock in the hall. Baird had already thought of every possibility, so he was without conjectures, but sometime before daylight those who had ridden away would return. He was waiting for that.

They came during the stillest hour, just after the clock struck three. Baird heard a stir at the stables and went to the window. He could not see the stables, the kitchen wing of the house shut them off, but he could hear cautious voices and the movement of horses. Would they come in by the front or by the veranda?

They rounded the kitchen, a compact group which was in full view for a moment or two, then drew in so close to the house that the veranda roof hid them. They passed along, moving slowly, to the other wing of the house, evidently to what had been the old plantation office. Then sounds ceased.

Baird drew a short breath. He had not been able to see very clearly, but the group kept together in a fashion he knew well; they were carrying some inert burden.

And he had to stay where he was till morning!

XI

KEPT IN THE DARK

The dawn ushered a brilliant spring day, a sky without a cloud, a light warm breeze from the south, the song of birds awakened early by the promise of nature.

Baird lay unconscious of it all, for a little before the pinky gray of morning lighted his room he had fallen asleep. Dawn had crept over him before he knew, and he lay stirless until the knock on his door aroused him into habit.

"Come in!" he called, still held by sleep.

It was the negress he had seen the night before, bearing a tray.

Baird sat up and stared at her. He was fully dressed and lying without covering, and after a rolling comprehensive glance, she stood with eyes lowered.

"What is it?" Baird asked, only half awake as yet.

"Miss Judith done send you a cup of coffee, suh, an' she says fo' you to res' till dinner if you feels like it. I tol' her I thought you was movin' – I didn't go fo' to wake you."

Baird was still dazed, for at the mention of Judith's name the events of the dark hours had rushed over him. It was difficult to connect them with this brilliant sunshine, or this collected ebony statue with the weeping, cringing creature of the night before.

Baird sprang up; he was fully awake now. "What time is it?" he asked.

"Hit's mos' ten, suh."

"Lord! Why didn't some one wake me before! I don't deserve any breakfast. The family – I hope nobody waited for me?"

"Miss Judith an' Mis' Morrison, they ain't had breakfus yet."

Baird pulled off his coat. "Tell them I'll be down right away – it won't take me ten minutes to shave… Just bring me some hot water, will you?"

The woman served him in silence. Baird would have liked to get some hint of the state of things before he went down, but the family reserve seemed to reside in the black woman also. He saw now that, though powerfully and superbly built, she was not young; she was probably an old family servant. In the hasty minutes he required for dressing, Baird tried to adjust himself to the perfectly normal atmosphere. What had happened while he slept he could not guess. He could tell better when he went down.

Judith and Mrs. Morrison were in the drawing-room, and welcomed him exactly as he had been welcomed when he first entered Westmore. Both bore the marks of anxiety and lack of sleep. In the bright light Mrs. Morrison looked blanched and old, and Judith was also colorless and with heavy shadows under her eyes, but both were gracefully vivacious; their manner was as usual.

"It was a perfect shame to wake you!" Judith declared, when Baird apologized. "We were so certain we heard you moving."

"Don't you worry, Mr. Baird," Mrs. Morrison said. "I only just came down myself, and it was I told Hetty you were up – my old ears deceived me… Let us go in, Judith – I'm ready fo' your beaten-biscuits."

It seemed that they were to breakfast alone, and with no account given of the absent ones, though Judith did say, "Sunday breakfast is an elastic meal at Westmore. We come down early or late, alone or in relays, as we feel inclined, and, somehow, we manage to be fed."

"I never have been certain which a man likes best – to eat or to sleep," Mrs. Morrison remarked briskly. "The fascinatin'ly natural creatures seem to like both so well – and to drink best of all."

Baird laughed. "That depends on who is ministering to us at the moment. Just now, I should much prefer to eat."

It was all so perfectly normal and natural, with the sunshine slanting across the floor and the windows open to the breeze, that Baird might almost have persuaded himself that he had dreamed – except for the consciousness that he had slept in his clothes and for the telltale pallor and lines of anxiety in Judith's face. And he was certain that he had been waked purposely; he was not wanted at the noonday meal. They intended that he should depart from Westmore in ignorance.

He was soon given a chance to declare his intentions. "I am going to ride to church this morning," Judith said. "Do you care to go, Mr. Baird?"

"Drive to church, you mean, Judith – I'm going with you," Mrs. Morrison intervened.