While the meal, which Cicely had announced as supper, was going on in
the dining-room, Meadows was occupying herself in her accustomed evening
effort to bring her mistress's abiding-place for the night, wherever it
might happen to be, into as close a resemblance to an English bedroom as
was, under the circumstances, possible. The resemblance had not been
striking, so far, with all her toil, there having been something
fundamentally un-English both in the cabins of the _Ville de Havre_ and
in the glittering salons which served as bedrooms in the Hotel of the
Universe in New York. The Savannah boat had been no better, nor the
shelf with a roof over it of the little _Altamaha_; on the steamer of
the Inland Route her struggle had been with an apartment seven feet
long; here at Romney it was with one which had six times that amount of
perspective.
A fire, freshly lighted, flared on the hearth, the spicy odor of its
light wood still filling the air. And there was air enough to fill, for
not one of the doors nor of the row of white windows which opened to the
floor fitted tightly in its casing; there were wide cracks everywhere,
and Meadows furthermore discovered, to her horror, that the windows had
sashes which came only part of the way down, the lower half being closed
by wooden shutters only. She barred these apertures as well as she could
(some of the bars were gone), and then tried to draw the curtains; but
these muslin protections, when they reached the strong current of air
which came through the central crack of the shutters, were blown out
towards the middle of the room like so many long white ghosts. Meadows
surveyed them with a sigh; with a sigh she arranged the contents of Miss
Bruce's dressing-bag on the outlandish bare toilet-table; she placed the
slippers by the fire and drew forward the easiest chair. But when all
was done the room still remained uncomfortably large, and uncomfortably
empty. Outside, the wind whistled, the near sea gave out a booming
sound; within, the flame of the candle flared now here, now there, in
the counter-draughts that swept the room.
"It certainly is the farawayest place!" murmured the English girl.
There came a sound at the door; not a knock, but a rub across the
panels. This too was alarming. Meadows kept the door well bolted, and
called fearfully, "Who's there?"
"It's ony me--Powlyne," answered a shrill voice. "I's come wid de wines;
Miss S'breeny, she sont me."
The tones were unmistakably feminine; Meadows drew back the bolt and
peeped out. A negro girl of twelve stood there, bearing a tray which
held a decanter and wineglass; her wool was braided in little tails,
which stood out like short quills; her one garment was a calico dress,
whose abbreviated skirt left her bare legs visible from the knees
down-ward.
"Do you want to come in?" said Meadows. "I can take it." And she
stretched out her hand for the tray.
"Miss S'breeny she done tole me to put 'em myse'f on de little table
close ter der bed," answered Powlyne, craning her neck to look into the
room.
Meadows opened the door a little wider, and Powlyne performed her
office. Seeing that she was very small and slight, the English girl
recovered courage.
"I suppose you live here?" she suggested.
"Yass, 'm."
"And when there isn't any one else 'andy, they send you?"
"Dey sonds me when dey wanster, I's Miss S'breeny's maid," answered
Powlyne, digging her bare heel into the matting.
"Her maid?--for gracious sake! What can _you_ do?"
"Tuckenoffener shoes. _En_ stockin's."
"Tuckenoffener?"
"Haul'em off. Yass,'m."
"Well, if I hever!" murmured Meadows, surveying this strange coadjutor,
from the erect tails of wool to the bare black toes.
There was a loud groan in the hall outside. Meadows started.
"Unc' Abram, I spec, totin' up de wood," said Powlyne.
"Is he ill?"
"Ill!" said the child, contemptuously. "He's dat dair sassy ter-night!"
"Is he coming in here? Oh, don't go away!" pleaded Meadows. She had a
vision of another incursion of black men in bathing costumes.
But Uncle Abram was alone, and he was very polite; he bowed even before
he put the wood down, and several times afterwards. "Dey's cookin'
suppah for yer, miss," he announced, hospitably. "Dey'll be fried
chickens en fixin's; en hot biscuits; en jell; en coffee."
"I should rather have tea, if it is equally convenient," said Meadows,
after a moment's hesitation.
"Dere, now, doan yer _like_ coffee?" inquired Uncle Abram, looking at
her admiringly. For it was such an extraordinary dislike that only very
distinguished people could afford to have it. "Fer my part," he went on,
gazing meditatively at the fire which he had just replenished, "I 'ain't
nebber had 'nuff in all my borned days--no, not et one time. Pints
wouldn't do me. Ner yet korts. I 'ain't nebber had a gallion."
Voices were now heard in the hall. Cicely entered, followed by Eve
Bruce.
"All the darkies on the island will be coming to look at her to-morrow,"
said Cicely, after Meadows had gone to her supper; "they'll be immensely
stirred up about her. She's still afraid--did you see?--she kept as far
away as she could from poor old Uncle Abram as she went down the hall.
The field hands will be too much for her; some of the little nigs have
no clothes at all."
"She won't see them; she goes to-morrow."
"That's as you please; if I were you, I would keep her. They will bring
a mattress in here for her presently; perhaps she has never slept on the
floor?"
"I dare say not. But she can for once."
Cicely went to one of the windows; she opened the upper half of the
shutter and looked out. "How the wind blows! Jupiter Light shines right
into your room."
"Yes, I can see it from here," said Eve. "It's a good companion--always
awake." She was speaking conventionally; she had spoken conventionally
through the long supper, and the effort had tired her: she was not in
the least accustomed to concealing her thoughts.
"Always awake. Are _you_ always awake?" said Cicely, returning to the
fire.
"I? What an idea!"
"I don't know; you look like it."
"I must look very tired, then?"
"You do."
"Fortunately you do not," answered Eve, coldly. For there was something
singularly fresh about Cicely; though she had no color, she always
looked fair and perfectly rested, as though she had just risen from a
refreshing sleep. "I suppose you have never felt tired, really tired, in
all your life?" Eve went on.
"N--no; I don't know that I have ever felt _tired_, exactly," Cicely
answered, emphasizing slightly the word "tired."
"_You_ have always had so many servants to do everything for you," Eve
responded, explaining herself a little.
"We haven't many now; only four. And they help in the fields whenever
they can--all except Dilsey, who stays with Jack."
Again the name. Eve felt that she must overcome her dread of it. "Jack
is very like his father," she said, loudly and decidedly.
"Yes," answered Cicely. Then, after a pause, "Your brother was much
older than I."
"Oh, Jack was _young_!"
"I don't mean that he was really old, he hadn't gray hair. But he was
thirty-one when we were married, and I was sixteen."
"I suppose no one forced you to marry him?" said the sister, the flash
returning to her eyes.
"Oh, yes."
"Nonsense!"
"I mean he did--Jack himself did. I thought that perhaps you would feel
so."
"Feel how?"
"Why, that we made him--that we tried, or that I tried. And so I have
brought some of his letters to show you." She took a package from her
pocket and laid it on the mantelpiece. "You needn't return them; you can
burn them after reading."
"Oh, probably," answered Eve, incoherently. She felt choked with her
anger and grief.
There was a murmuring sound in the hall, and Miss Sabrina, pushing the
door open with her foot, entered apologetically, carrying a jar of
dark-blue porcelain, ornamented with vague white dragons swallowing
their tails. The jar was large; it extended from her knees to her chin,
which rested upon its edge with a singular effect. "My dear," she said,
"I've brought you some po-purry; your room hasn't been slept in for some
time, though I _hope_ it isn't musty."
The jar had no handles; she had difficulty in placing it upon the high
chest of drawers. Eve went to her assistance. And then Miss Sabrina
perceived that their guest was crying. Eve changed the jar's position
two or three times. Miss Sabrina said, each time, "Yes, yes; it is much
better so." And, furtively, she pressed Eve's hand.
Jack Bruce's wife, meanwhile--forgotten Jack--stood by the hearth,
gazing at the fire. She was a little creature, slight and erect, with a
small head, small ears, small hands and feet. Yet somehow she did not
strike one as short; one thought of her as having the full height of her
kind, and even as being tall for so small a person. This effect was due,
no doubt, to her slender litheness; she was light and cool as the wind
at dawn, untrammelled by too much womanhood. Her features were delicate;
the oval of her face was perfect, her complexion a clear white without
color. Her lustreless black hair, very fine and soft, was closely
braided, the plaits arranged at the back of the head as flatly as
possible, like a tightly fitting cap. Her great dark eyes with long
curling lashes were very beautiful. They had often an absent-minded
look. Under them were bluish rings. Slight and smooth as she was--the
flesh of her whole body was extraordinarily smooth, as though it had
been rubbed with pumice-stone--she yet seemed in one way strong and
unyielding. She was quiet in her looks, in her actions, in her tones.
Eve had now choked down her tears.
"I sent Powlyne with some cherry-bounce," said Miss Sabrina, giving
Eve's hand, secretly, a last pressure, as they came back to the hearth.
"Your maid will find it--such a nice, worthy person as she seems to be,
too; so generally desirable all round. If she is really to leave you
to-morrow, you must have some one else. Let me see--"
"I don't want any one, thanks," Eve answered. Two spots of color rose in
her cheeks. "That is, I don't want any one unless I can have Jack?" She
turned to Cicely, who still stood gazing at the fire. "May Jack sleep
here?"
"With Dilsey?" said Cicely, lifting her eyes with a surprised glance.
"Yes, with Dilsey. The room is large."
"I am sure I don't care; yes, if you like. He cries at night sometimes."
"I hope he will," responded Eve, and her tone was almost fierce. "Then I
can comfort him."
"Dilsey does that better than any one else; he is devoted to her; when
he cries, I never interfere," said Cicely, laughing.