"It is a sweet idea," said Miss Sabrina, in her chanting voice. "It is
sweet of Miss Bruce to wish to have him, and sweet of you, Cicely, to
let him go. We can arrange a little nursery at the other end of this
room to-morrow; there's a chamber beyond, where no one sleeps, and the
door could be opened through, if you like. I am sure it will be very
nice all round."
Eve turned and kissed her. Cicely pushed back a burning log with her
foot, and laughed again, this time merrily. "It seems so funny, your
having the baby in here at night, just like a mother, when you haven't
been married at all. Now I have been married twice. To be sure, I never
meant to be!"
"My precious child!" Miss Sabrina remonstrated.
"No, auntie, I never did. It came about," Cicely answered, her eyes
growing absent again and returning to the fire.
Meadows now came in with deferential step, and presently she was
followed by her own couch, which Uncle Abram spread out, in the shape of
a mattress, on the floor. The English girl looked on, amazed. But this
was a house of amazements; it was like a Drury Lane pantomime.
Later, when the girl was asleep, Eve rose, and, taking the package of
letters, which she had put under her pillow, she felt for a candle and
matches, thrust her feet into her slippers, and, with her dressing-gown
over her arm, stole to the second door; it opened probably into the
unoccupied chamber of which Miss Sabrina had spoken. The door was not
locked; she passed through, closing it behind her. Lighting her candle,
she looked about her. The room was empty, the floor bare. She put her
candle on the floor, and, kneeling down beside it, opened the letters.
There were but four; apparently Cicely had thought that four would be
enough to confirm what she had said. They were enough. More passionate,
more determined letters man never wrote to woman; they did not plead so
much as insist; they compelled by sheer force of persistent
unconquerable love, which accepts anything, bears anything, to gain even
tolerance.
And this was Jack, her brother Jack, who had thus prostrated himself at
the feet of that indifferent little creature, that cold, small, dark
girl who already bore another name! She was angry with him. Then the
anger faded away into infinite pity. "Oh, Jack, dear old Jack, to have
loved her so, she caring nothing for you! And I am to burn your poor
letters that you thought so much about--your poor, poor letters."
Sinking down upon the floor, she placed the open pages upon her knees,
laying her cheek upon them as though they had been something human.
"Some one cares for you," she murmured.
There was now a wild gale outside. One of the shutters was open, and
she could see Jupiter Light; she sat there, with her cheek on the
letters, looking at it.
Suddenly everything seemed changed, she no longer wept; she felt
sluggish, cold. "Don't I care any more?" she thought, surprised. She
rose and went back to her bed, glad to creep into its warmth, and
leaving the letters on a chair by her bedside. Then, duly, she put them
under her pillow again.