# In the Shadow/Chapter 3
### CHAPTER III
#### NIGHT AND MORNING

FENWICK TOWERS was plunged in the deep sleep of the still summer night. Virginia was roused by a growing physical distress from the rest of those thin moments when the night pales before the false dawn.
Her mind awoke refreshed, to hark back on the trail of recent events. Very carefully, step by step, she reviewed the details of the accident, bringing each picture before her eyes by virtue of her too vivid imagination, vigorously active when all else was at a pause. She examined her actions, her emotions, as one would dissect a daisy, willfully slowing the mental process at such points as demanded closer scrutiny. All at the time had been so confused; now at this breathless hour of the night, with mind refreshed and body inert, and not even the ticking of a clock to distract a fancy, it became so startlingly vivid. She saw Giles and herself pressed against the weir, she saw the haggard look of his eyes and heard the brave words, "My fault, … awfully sorry …" She felt his wet kiss on her lips and the warm glow which had defied the chill of the river swept through her veins. This was sweet, and she dwelt upon it, letting her fancy run into devious bypaths. A week before on the tennis court she had felt the awakening of her love, and now it seemed to rise and gather strength and beauty ​and then … into the sun-laden atmosphere of all these charming thoughts there rushed a great disturbing apparition; a sable génie summoned by a thoughtless act, and she shrank with a sigh from the presence of the African as he had first rushed into her life; his great somber image looming against the sky, his bestial features scowling with the effort of his struggle with the river as an animal would snarl and gnash at the bars of his cage; his ebony visage close beside her face, the sooty, kinky hair brushing her cheek. She saw the great hands and heard the ripping of the stake as he tore it from its place, and saw again the flash of the white teeth and the twitch of the flat nostrils as he drew taut the massive muscles to take the terrific strain. The sheer force, the appalling physical might of the action thrilled her, set her heart pounding, sent the blood through her veins, quickened her breathing, and then, as her mind reviewed the picture, the muscles of her own arm contracted in sympathy and with the action she cried out from a sharp stab of pain.
Her disquiet was not entirely psychic; her shoulder was extremely tender to the touch, and the slightest movement of the arm painful. Wishing to examine the cause of her distress she slipped out of bed and stepped into the corridor where there was a hall lamp burning before a mirror. In front of this Virginia drew back the sleeve of her nightgown and was not long in discovering the source of her suffering.
Just below the shoulder, against the creamy white of her arm, were four blue-black impressions; on the under surface there was another, where the powerful thumb had crushed into the flesh; the prints were ​slightly raised and so tender that the slightest touch was agonizing.
The sight recalled vividly the power with which the huge negro had torn her from the grip of the flood and thrust her across the beam. She knew that Giles's strength was far beyond the average, yet this Haytian had done with ease what Giles, even in the desperation of the moment had never thought to attempt; the reflection of this thrilled the girl and for the instant swept away the horror inspired by the imprints upon her arm. She held back the filmy sleeve and looked long at the disfigurements; fascinated, magnetized, spellbound, staring with flushed cheeks, luminous eyes almost yellow as the pupils contracted against the glare of the lamp, and then, suddenly, the reaction came; the revulsion, the horror at thus wearing the mark of this negro. Shivering, she crept back to bed where for a long time she lay struggling with the all but irresistible impulse to steal back into the hall and stare at those frightful marks. At last she fell asleep.
Daylight dispelled the black aura of the night. Virginia descended to find that Giles, according to his character, had given a modest account of his part in the accident, cloaking all references to the foolish caprice which had caused it and making no mention of his own plucky efforts, but dwelling at great length upon the cool courage shown by the girl. Of course, Dessalines was the hero of the adventure and received the warmest praise, but Virginia had an uncomfortable feeling that Manning's praise was less unstinted than that of the others.
As Virginia entered the breakfast room Sir Henry was reading a note which had just arrived from Dessa​lines; a graceful, well-worded message in which the Haytian expressed the hope that Miss Moultrie and his friend Giles had suffered no ill effects from the accident; he expressed also a sincere gratitude to the wise Providence which had directed his steps toward the scene of the accident, and ended by regretting that an engagement, demanding his presence in town that afternoon, alone prevented his calling in person.
"A very gentlemanly note," commented Sir Henry. "You say that he is quite black, Giles?"
"Quite. But I fancy he's no end of a swell in his own country; he is a Count Dessalines; Dessalines, you know, was the liberator of Hayti, the George Washington, the Bolivar, and Aristide is, I think, a descendant. He has plenty of money; in fact, he told me once that he was very rich. Free-handed chap—no idea whatever of economy—lives like a prince; had ripping apartments at Oxford, and he has a French man servant. …"
"A white man?" asked Manning sharply.
"To be sure. A little spadger of a Frenchman … looks like a crow, but as bright as they make 'em; seems to spend most of his time in admiring Aristide. What?"
"Br'r'r'gh!" Manning arose quickly and walked to the window. Virginia was the only one who caught a glimpse of his face, and although what she saw there was not pleasant it found echo in herself. The idea of a white man, no matter of how low a caste, ministering to the needs, the bodily needs, of a negro was forcefully repellent. As a type, a magnificent animal, a laborer sweating beneath a burden which would crush most men, or covered with the muck of the field and laboring perhaps half naked beneath the lash of an overseer, the great Hay​tian would have been magnificent, inspiring as a creature of wondrous physical might; he would be a feast for the eye of the artist, the sculptor, the athlete, the anatomist—but sleek, well fed, in fine linen, well groomed, and that through the efforts of a white man, lolling back upon rich upholstery—in such a setting he became obnoxious, odious, repellent. Though he had saved her life and Giles's a hundred times he could be like nothing but a great black spider in a silken web thrown from the calyx of a lily. The thought of it made her a trifle ill.
"Odd," thought Virginia, "that the others do not see it so." For the second it made her feel a shade differently toward Sir Henry and Giles. Her unpleasant fancies were cut short by the entrance of Lady Maltby. Giles sprang to greet her.
"Hullo, mumsey!" He drew out her chair, arranged her footstool, dropped the shade a trifle to screen the sunlight from her eyes. One would have judged Giles's mother to be an elder sister; she was but eighteen years his senior, and looked half of that, if in a gay mood when one did not observe the thoughtfulness of her clear, blue eyes, and the tiny lines forming at the corners of mouth and eyes. Her greatest charm was perfect femininity; with her, instinct supplanted reason; personal liking endowed its fortunate object with all virtues and antipathy found not a single one. She was finely made, well contained, pretty as a débutante, warm hearted, and a fierce hater for perhaps five minutes. Giles resembled her in height, fullness of limb, complexion, and they had the same sapphire eyes. He was however far less subtle.
​"Thanks, boysie." Her eyes shone upon him affectionately. She turned to Virginia.
"How do you feel, dear? … I went in to look at you twice during the night but you were sleeping like a baby. Do you feel quite yourself?"
"Quite, thanks," answered Virginia.
Lady Maltby turned to Manning. "What are we to do with this young lady, Manning? When she was last here she got herself run away with while riding one of Giles's hunters; this time they would both have been drowned had it not been for that magnificent young Frenchman or African or Haytian— What determines the nationality of a West Indian?" she added helplessly.
"In the present case it is a negro to whom we are under obligation," replied Manning; "a Haytian negro." His tone was of its usual cool evenness, nevertheless Giles flushed, Sir Henry looked vexed, and Virginia was disturbed.
The Maltbys knew nothing of Manning's color prejudices beyond a vague idea that the people of his State had always resented the freedom of their slaves, and indifferently classed the negro with the lower animals. They would not have accredited Manning with these views, however, believing that as a man of the world he must necessarily be above local prejudices.
"But should he be regarded as a negro," replied Lady Maltby, "any more than you an Englishman or I a German because we are both Anglo-Saxon?"
"It is not a question of nationality, Lady Maltby," said Manning. "It is simply a matter of race. Would you consider that three generations of unmixed Chinamen born in England could produce an Englishman?"
​"At any rate," replied Lady Maltby, it makes little difference what he is, Manning; I am sure that we are all profoundly grateful to him nevertheless. You will certainly call upon him, will you not?"
"I intended to do so," replied Manning, "but we have just received a note from him saying that he has gone up to London."
"I am sorry; I should have liked the opportunity of thanking him myself."
"You will see him at the cricket match on Saturday, mumsey," said Giles. "Jack Carter and I have made him promise to help us out; his batting's the only thing that can pull us through without disgrace. The C. C. C.'s are regular wonders this year. They've Langdon and D'Arcy and Penrhyn and Roberts—cracks all. There will be five thousand people to see that match— What?"
In the absorbing interest of the coming match, Dessalines was for the moment forgotten and the hour passed pleasantly. Later in the forenoon Virginia and Giles rode together.
As they cantered through the park Virginia noticed that Giles was deeply preoccupied; he was a good talker, in a broken staccato way, but this morning he seemed nervous and ill at ease.
"How do you feel after your ducking?" asked Virginia.
"Tiptop."
"Why are you so quiet? Frightened at the thought of the match?"
"In a regular blue funk," he answered absently.
"You don't act as if you were. I'm afraid you're not feeling very fit after your drowning."
​"Fit as a fiddle!" said Giles with labored heartiness. "Barring my fright at the thought of the game. You see, here's this chap D'Arcy—proper demon—one can hardly see the ball, and as for Roberts—oh, I say!— What?"
"Giles," said Virginia severely, "really, I'm ashamed of you; I never would have believed that you could be afraid of anything—and you are getting into a perfect panic!"
"That's the beastly part of it," replied Giles composedly. "It's the suspense; never used to bother me when I was playing right along on the 'varsity; used to like it, rather. It's just that bounder D'Arcy; I've seen him in all of the papers and heard every one singing his praises and all the rest of it."
"No," said Virginia, "it's not that. It's because all of the people whom you've known from childhood are going down to watch you; if it was a strange audience you would not care tuppence; but you will forget about it when you get on the field with the bat in your hands."
Giles stared moodily at his horse's ears. The sun was high and warm; the road wound under the lee of a hill which shut off the breeze; below them ran the river, the bank fringed with its willow copses.
"Let's walk down to the river," said Giles abruptly. "It's too hot to ride, don't you think?"
Virginia glanced at him quickly, then her long lashes swept down to screen the hazel eyes, while her breath came fast. Although she had felt subtly that there were other reasons than the coming match to account for Giles's nervousness, the consciousness had not been formed in her mind.
​Giles slipped from his horse, then turned to swing her to the ground. Virginia was shocked at the pallor of his face. He led the horses to a tree near the roadside. Virginia stood and waited and switched nervously at the daisies with her riding crop.
They walked in silence down the flower-strewn slope, passed through the fringe of willows, and reached the grassy bank of the stream.
"Do you feel as if you would rather not see it again so soon, Virginia—this old river?" There was an odd tremor; a quality in his voice quite new to her and one that set her heart to beating wildly.
"No, Giles, if it did nearly drown us, I love the river—because—because—" Her low voice faltered. There was a moment of silence, while both looked down into the cold black water as it swirled and eddied on its course. Each was thinking, not of the icy plunge, nor the narrow escape of death, but of something else; something which had happened when all hope seemed drowned in the icy water round about; something which had seemed so much greater and stronger and more enduring than the lives upon which their holds were slipping.
A wave of tenderness swept over Virginia, dimming her eyes, clearing her heart of all shyness. She raised her eyes quickly; they met Giles's—just for an instant—and then she was in his arms, clasped on his broad chest with a force which stifled her breath, while her flower face was crushed to his.