UNDER THE SPELL.
The autumn days ran out and in the depth of the southern woods, here and
there, the black gums and sweet gums began to flame. And with them came
the day when the bandages were removed from the eyes of the gentle woman
at the hall. The family gathered about the little figure in the
sitting-room. Edward Morgan with them, and Col. Montjoy lowered the
bandage. The room had been darkened and all light except what came
through one open shutter had been excluded. There was a moment of
painful silence; Mary tightly clasping her mother's hands. The invalid
turned her face to the right and left, and then to the window.
"Light," she said gently. "I see."
"Thank God!" The words burst from the old man's lips and his arms went
around mother and daughter at once. For quicker than he the girl had
glided in between them and was clasping the beloved form. Edward said a
few words of congratulation and passed outside. The scene was sacred.
Then came days of practice. The eyes so long darkened must be accustomed
to the light and not strained. Upon that weak vision, little by little,
came back the world, the trees and flowers, the faces of husband and
daughter and friends. It was a joyful season at the hall.
A little sadder, a little sterner than usual, but with his fine face
flushed in sympathetic feeling, the old general came to add his
congratulations. Now nothing remained but to prepare for Paris, and all
was bustle.
A few more nights and then--departure!
Mary was at the piano, playing the simple music of the south and singing
the songs which were a part of the air she had breathed all her
life--the folk songs of the blacks.
Col. Montjoy had the Duchess on his lap to hear "the little boy in his
watch crack hickory nuts" and the monotonous cracking of the nuts
mingling with the melody of the musician had put both asleep.
Mary and Edward went to the veranda, and to them across the field came
the measured tread of feet, the call of the fiddler, and now and then
strains of music, such as the negro prefers.
Edward proposed an excursion to witness the dance, and the girl assented
gladly. She was herself a born dancer; one whose feet were set to rhythm
in infancy.
They reached the long house, a spacious one-room edifice, with low
rafters but a broad expanse of floor, and stood at the door. Couple
after couple passed by in the grand promenade, the variety and
incongruities of colors amusing Edward greatly. Every girl in passing
called repeatedly to "missy," the name by which Mary was known on the
plantation, and their dusky escorts bowed awkwardly and smiled.
Suddenly the lines separated and a couple began to dance. Edward, who
had seen the dancers of most nations, was delighted with the abandon of
these. The man pursued the girl through the ranks, she eluding him with
ease, as he was purposely obstructed by every one. His object was to
keep as near her as possible for the final scene. At last she reappeared
in the open space and hesitating a moment, her dusky face wreathed in
smiles, darted through the doorway. There was a shout as her escort
followed. If he could catch her before she reentered at the opposite
door she paid the penalty. Before Edward realized the situation the girl
was behind him. He stepped the wrong way, there was a collision, and ere
she could recover, her pursuer had her in his arms. There was a moment's
struggle; his distinct smack proved his success, and if it had not, the
resounding slap from the broad hand of his captive would have betrayed
matters.
On went the dance. Mary stood patting time to the music of the violin in
the hands of old Morris, the presiding genius of the festival, who bent
and genuflected to suit the requirements of his task. As the revel grew
wilder, as it always does under the stimulus of a spectator's presence,
she motioned to Edward, and entering, stood by the player.
"In all your skill," she said, "you cannot equal this." For reply the
young man, taking advantage of a pause in the rout, reached over and
took the well-worn instrument from the hands of the old man. There was a
buzz of interest. Catching the spirit of the scene he drew the bow and
gave them the wild dance music of the Hungarians. They responded
enthusiastically and the player did not fail.
Then, when the tumult had reached its climax, there was a crash, and
with bow in air Edward, flushed and excited, stood gazing upon the
crowd. Then forty voices shouted:
"Missy! Missy!" On the impulse of the moment they cheered and clapped
their hands.
All eyes were turned to Mary. She looked into the face of the player;
his eyes challenged hers and she responded, instinctively the dusky
figures shrank to the wall and alone, undaunted, the slender girl stood
in the middle of the deserted floor. Edward played the gypsy dance,
increasing the time until it was a passionate melody, and Mary began.
Her lithe form swayed and bent and glided in perfect response to the
player, the little feet twinkling almost unseen upon the sandy boards.
Such grace, such allurements, he had never before dreamed of. And
finally, breathless, she stood one moment, her hand uplifted, the
triumphant interpreter of his melody. With mischievous smile, she sprang
from the door, her face turned backward for one instant.
Releasing the instrument, Edward followed in perfect forgetfulness of
self and situation. But when, puzzled, he appeared alone at the opposite
door, he heard her laugh in the distance--and memory overwhelmed him
with her tide.
He was pale and startled and the company was laughing. He cast a handful
of money among them and in the confusion that followed made his escape.
Mary was waiting demurely in the path.
"It was perfect," he said, breaking the awkward silence.
"Any one could dance to that music," was her reply.
Silently they began their return. An old woman sat in her cabin door, a
fire of chunks making a red spot in the gloom behind.
"We go to-morrow, Aunt Sylla. Is it for good or ill?" The woman was old
and wrinkled. She was the focus of all local superstition; one of the
ante-bellum voodoos. If her pewter spoons had been gold, her few beads
diamonds, she might have left the doors unbarred without danger.
Mary had paused and asked the question to draw out the odd character for
her friend.
"In the woods the clocks of heaven strike 11! Jeffers, who was never
born, speaks out," was the strange reply.
"In the woods," said Mary, thoughtfully, "the dew drips tinkling from
the leaves; Jeffers, the redbird, was never born, but hatched. What does
he say, Aunt Sylla?" The woman was trying to light her pipe. Absence of
tobacco was the main cause of her failure. Edward crushed a cigar and
handed it to her. When she had lighted it she lifted the blazing chunk
and her faded eyes looked steadily upon the young man.
"He says the gentleman will come some day and bring much tobacco." The
girl laughed, but the darkness hid her blushes.
"In the meantime," said Edward cheerfully, placing a silver coin in her
hand, "you can tell your friend Jeffers that you are supplied."
The negro's prophecy is usually based on shrewd guesses. Sylla grasped
the coin with the eagerness of a child receiving a new doll. She pointed
her finger at him and looked to the girl. Mary laughed.
"Keep still a moment, Mr. Morgan," she said, "I must rob you."
She took a strand or two of his hair between her little fingers and
plucked them out. Edward would not have flinched had there been fifty.
"Now something you have worn--what can it be? Oh, a button." She took
his penknife and cut from his coat sleeve one of its buttons. "There,
Aunt Sylla, if you are not successful with them I shall never forgive
you." The old woman took the hair and the button and relapsed into
silent smoking.
"I am a little curious to know what she is going to do with those
things," said Edward. Mary looked at him shyly.
"She is going to protect you," she said. "She will mix a little ground
glass and a drop of chicken blood with them, and sew all in a tiny bag.
No negro alive or dead would touch you then for the universe, and should
you touch one of them with that charm it would give them catalepsy. You
will get it to-morrow."
"She is arming me with a terrible power at small cost," he replied,
dryly.
"Old Sylla is a prophetess," said the girl, "as well as a voodoo, and
there is with us a tradition that death in the family will follow her
every visit to the house. It is strange, but within our memory it has
proved true. My infant brother, my only sister, mamma's brother, papa's
sister, an invalid northern cousin spending the winter here--all their
deaths were preceded by the appearance of old Sylla."
"And is her success in prophecy as marked?"
"Yes, so far as I know." She hesitated a moment. "Her prediction as to
myself has not had time to mature."
"And what was the prediction?"
"That some day a stranger would carry me into a strange land," she said,
smiling; "and--break my heart."
They had reached the gate; except where the one light burned in the
sitting-room all was darkness and silence. Edward said gently, as he
stood holding open the gate:
"I am a stranger and shortly I will take you into a strange land, but
may God forget me if I break your heart." She did not reply, but with
face averted passed in. The household was asleep. She carried the lamp
to his door and opened it. He took it and then her hand. For a moment
they looked into each other's eyes; then, gravely lifting the little
hand, he kissed it.
"May God forget me," he said again, "if I break your heart." He held the
door open until she had passed down the stairs, her flushed face never
lifted again to his.
And then with the shutting of the door came darkness. But in the gloom a
white figure came from the front doorway, stood listening at the stairs
and then as noiseless as a sunbeam glided down into the hall below.