IV.

On Christmas Day, Eve was out with little Jack and Dilsey. Dilsey was a

negro woman of sixty, small and thin, with a wise, experienced face; she

increased her dignity as much as she could by a high stiff white turban,

but the rest of her attire was poor and old, though she was not

bare-legged like Powlyne; she wore stockings and shoes. Little Jack's

wagon was a rude cart with solid wooden wheels; but the hoops of its

hood had been twined with holly by the negroes, so that the child's face

was enshrined in a bower of green.

"We will go to the sea," said Eve. "Unless it is too far for you and the

wagon?"

"No, 'm; push 'em easy 'nuff."

The narrow road, passing between unbroken thickets of glittering

evergreen bushes, breast-high, went straight towards the east, like an

unroofed tunnel; in twenty minutes it brought them to the shore. The

beach, broad, firm, and silver white, stretched towards the north and

the south, dotted here and there with drift-wood; a breeze from the

water touched their cheeks coolly; the ocean was calm, little

foam-crested wavelets coming gurgling up to curl over and flatten

themselves out on the wet sand. "Do you see it, Jack?" said Eve,

kneeling down by the wagon. "It's the sea, the great big sea."

But Jack preferred to blow his whistle, and that done, he proceeded to

examine it carefully, putting his little fat forefinger into all the

holes. Eve sat down on the sand beside him; if he scorned the sea, for

the moment she did too.

"I's des sauntered ober, Dilsey; dey 'ain't no hurry 'bout comin' back,"

said a voice. "En I 'low'd miss might be tired, so I fotched a cheer."

It was old Temp'rance, the cook.

"Did you bring that chair all the way for me?" asked Eve, surprised.

"Yass, 'm. It's sut'ny pleasant here; it sut'ny is."

"I am much obliged; but I shall be going back soon."

The two old women looked at each other. "Dat dere ole wrack down der

beach is moughty cu'us--ef yer like ter walk dat way en see 'em?"

suggested Dilsey, after a pause.

"Too far," said Eve.

Both of the old women declared that it was very near. The wind

freshened; Eve, who had little Jack in her arms, feared lest he might

take cold, thinly clad as he was--far too thinly for her Northern

ideas--with only one fold of linen and his little white frock over his

breast. She drew the skirt of her dress over his bare knees. Then after

a while she rose and put him in his wagon. "We will go back," she said.

Again the two old women looked at each other. But they were afraid of

the Northern lady; the munificent presents which she had given them that

morning did not bring them any nearer to her. Old Temp'rance, therefore,

shouldered her chair again, Dilsey turned the wagon, and they entered

the bush-bordered tunnel on their way home, walking as slowly as they

could. In only one place was there an opening through the serried green;

here a track turned off to the right. When Eve had passed its entrance

the first time, there was nothing to be seen but another perspective of

white sand and glittering foliage; but on their return her eyes,

happening to glance that way, perceived a group of figures at the end.

"Who are those people?--what are they doing?" she said, pausing.

"Oh, nutt'n," answered Temp'rance. "Des loungjun roun'."

As Eve still stood looking, Uncle Abram emerged from the bushes. "Shall

I kyar your palasol fer yer, miss?" he asked, officiously. "'Pears like

yer mus' be tired; been so fur."

Eve now comprehended that the three were trying to keep something from

her. "What has happened?" she said. "Tell me immediately."

"Dey' ain' nutt'n happen," answered Uncle Abram, desperately; "dey's too

brash, dem two! Miss S'breeny she 'low'd dat yer moutn't like ter see

her go a moanin', miss; en so she tole us not ter let yer come dishyer

way ef we could he'p it. But dem two--dey's boun' ter do some fool ting.

It's a cohesion of malice 'mong women--'tis dat!"

"Does that road lead to the cemetery, too?" said Eve. "I went by another

way. Take baby home, Dilsey"--she stooped and kissed him; "I will join

Miss Abercrombie." She walked rapidly down the side track; the three

blacks stood watching her, old Temp'rance with the chair poised on her

turban.

The little burying-ground was surrounded by an old brick wall; its high

gate-posts were square, each surmounted by a clumsy funeral urn. The

rusty iron gate was open, and a procession was passing in. First came

Miss Sabrina in her bonnet, an ancient structure of large size, trimmed

with a black ribbon; the gentle lady, when out-of-doors, was generally

seen in what she called her "flat;" the presence of the bonnet,

therefore, marked a solemn occasion. She likewise wore a long scarf,

which was pinned, with two pins, low down on her sloping shoulders, its

broché ends falling over her gown in front; her hands were encased in

black kid gloves much too large for her, the kid wrists open and

flapping. Behind her came Powlyne, Pomp, and Plato, carrying wreaths of

holly. Eve drew near noiselessly, and paused outside. Miss Sabrina first

knelt down, bowing her head upon her hands for a moment; then, rising,

she took the wreaths one by one, and arranged them upon the graves, the

three blacks following her. When she had taken the last, she signed to

them to withdraw; they went out quietly, each turning at the gate to

make a reverential bow, partly to her, partly to the circle of the dead.

Eve now entered the enclosure, and Miss Sabrina saw her.

"Oh, my dear! I didn't intend that _you_ should come," she said,

distressed.

"And why not? I have been here before; and my brother is here."

"Yes; but to-day--to-day is different."

Eve looked at the graves; she perceived that three of them were decked

with small Confederate flags.

"Our dear cousins," said Miss Sabrina; "they died for their country, and

on Memorial Day, Christmas Day, and Easter I like to pay them such small

honor as I can. I am in the habit of singing a hymn before I go; don't

stay, my dear, if it jars upon you."

"It doesn't," said Eve. She had seated herself on the grass beside her

brother's grave, with her arm laid over it.

Miss Sabrina turned her back and put on her glasses. Then, resuming her

original position, she took a small prayer-book from her pocket, opened

it, and, after an apologetic cough, began:

"Rise, my soul, and stretch thy wings,

Thy better portion trace."

Eve, sitting there, looked at her. Miss Sabrina was tall and slender;

she had once been pretty, but now her cheeks were wan, her eyes faded,

her soft brown hair was very thin. She had but a thread of a voice.

"There is everlasting peace,

Rest, enduring rest, in heaven,"

she sang in her faint, sweet tones; and when she came to the words,

"There will sorrows ever cease," she raised her poor dim eyes towards

the sky with such a beautiful expression of hope in them that the

younger woman began to realize that there might be acute griefs even

when people were so mild and acquiescent, so dimly hued and submissive,

as was this meek Southern gentlewoman.

The hymn finished, Miss Sabrina put her prayer-book in her pocket, and

came forward. "My mother," she said, touching one of the tombs. "My

grandfather and grandmother. My brother Marmaduke, Cicely's father.

Cicely's mother; she was a Northerner, and we have sometimes thought

Cicely rather Northern."

"Oh, no!"

"Well, her grandmother was from Guadeloupe. So perhaps that balances

it."

The older tombs were built of brick, each one covered with a heavy

marble slab, upon which were inscribed, in stately old-fashioned

language, and with old-fashioned arrangement of lines and capitals, the

names, the virtues, and the talents of the one who lay beneath. The

later graves were simple grassy mounds.

"My brother Augustus; my great-uncle William Drayton; my aunt Pamela,"

Miss Sabrina continued, indicating each tomb as she named its occupant,

much as though she were introducing them. "My own place is already

selected; it is here," she went on, tapping a spot with her slender

foot. "It seems to me a good place; don't you think so? And I keep an

envelope, with directions for everything, on top of my collars, where

any one can find it; for I do so dislike an ill-arranged funeral. For

instance, I particularly desire that there should be fresh water and

glasses on the hall-table, where every one can get them without asking;

_so_ much better than hidden in some back room, with every one

whispering and hunting about after them. I trust you don't mind my

saying," she concluded, looking at Eve kindly, "that I hope you may be

here."

They left the cemetery together.

"I suppose it was a shock to you that your niece should marry a Union

officer?" Eve said, as they took the shorter path towards the house.

"Ye-es, I cannot deny it; and to my father also. But we liked John for

himself very much; and Cicely felt--"

But John's sister did not care to hear what Cicely felt! "And was it on

this island that he expected to make his fortune--in cotton?"

"No; these are rice lands, and they are worthless now that the dikes are

down."

"And the slaves gone."

"Yes. But we never had many slaves; we were never rich. Now we are very

poor, my dear; I don't know that any one has mentioned it to you."

"And yet you keep on all these infirm old negroes--those who would be

unable to get employment anywhere else."

"Oh, we should never turn away our old servants," replied Miss Sabrina,

with confidence.

That evening, at the judge's suggestion, Cicely took her guitar. "What

do you want me to sing, grandpa?"

"'Sweet Afton.'"

So Cicely sang it. Then the judge himself sang, to Cicely's

accompaniment, "They may rail at this life." He had made a modest bowl

of punch: it was Christmas night, and every one should be merry. So he

sang, in his gallant old voice:

"'They may rail at this life; from the hour I began it

I've found it a life full of kindness and bliss;

And until they can show me some happier planet,

More social, more gay, I'll content me with this.'"

He was contented with it--this life "full of kindness and bliss," on his

lonely sea-island, with its broken dikes and desolated fields, in his

half-ruined old house, with its wooden walls vibrating, with more than

one pane of glass gone, more than one floor whose planks were loosened

so that they must walk carefully. At any rate, he trolled out his song

as though he were: it was Christmas night, and every one should be

merry.

There was one person who really was merry, and that was Master Jack, who

sat on the lap of his Northern aunt, laughing and crowing, and demanding

recognition of his important presence from each in turn, by the despotic

power of his eye. In truth, it was this little child who held together

the somewhat strangely assorted group, Miss Sabrina in an ancient white

lace cape, with flowers in her hair; the old judge in a dress-coat and

ruffled shirt, Cicely in a gay little gown of light-blue tint (taken

probably, so Eve thought, from her second trousseau), and Eve herself in

her heavy black crape; she alone had made no concessions to Christmas;

her mourning attire was unlightened by any color, or even by white.

"'Macgregor's Gathering,'" called the judge.

Cicely sang it. After finishing the song, she began the lament a second

time, changing the words:

"We're niggerless, niggerless, niggerless, Gregorlach!

Niggerless, niggerless, nig-ig-ig-gerless!"

she sang. "For we're not 'landless' at all; we've got miles and miles of

land. It's niggers that are lacking."

The judge laughed, patting her little dark head as she sat on a stool

beside him. "Let us go out to the quarters, grandpa; they will be

dancing by now. And Jack must go too."

The judge lifted his great-grandson to his shoulder. Eve had already

noticed that Cicely never took the child from her with her own hands;

she let some one else do it. When the door was opened, distant sounds of

the thrumming of banjoes could be heard. Seeing a possible intention on

Eve's face, Cicely remarked, in her impersonal way, "Are you coming?

They won't enjoy it, they are afraid of you."

"I don't see why they should be," said Eve, when she and Miss Sabrina

were left alone.

"You are a stranger, my dear; it is only that. And they are all so fond

of Cicely that it wouldn't be Christmas to them if she did not pay them

a visit; they worship her."

"And after she has sung that song!"

"That song?"

"'Niggerless,'" quoted Eve, indignantly.

"Well, we are niggerless, or nearly so," said Miss Sabrina, mystified.

"It's the word, the term."

"Oh, you mean nigger? It is very natural to us to say so. I suppose you

prefer negroes? If you like, I will try to call them so hereafter.

Negroes; yes, negroes." She pronounced it "nig-roes." "I don't know

whether I have told you," she went on, "how much Cicely dislikes

dreams?"

"Well she may!" was the thought of Jack Bruce's sister. What she said,

with a short laugh, was, "You had better tell her to be careful about

eating hot breads."

"Would you have her eat _cold_ bread?" said Miss Sabina, in surprise. "I

didn't mean that her nights were disturbed; I only meant that she

dislikes the _telling_ of dreams--a habit so common at breakfast, you

know. I thought I would just mention it."

Eve gave another abrupt laugh. "Do you fear I am going to tell her mine?

She would not find them all of sugar."

"I did not mean yours especially. She has such a curious way of shutting

her teeth when people begin--such pretty little white teeth as they are,

too, dear child! And she doesn't like reading aloud either."

"That must be a deprivation to you," said Eve, her tone more kindly.

"It is. I have always been extremely fond of it. Are you familiar with

Milton? His 'Comus'?"

"'Sabrina fair, listen where thou art sitting?" quoted Eve, smiling.

"Yes.

"'Sabrina fair, listen where thou art sitting,

Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave,

In twisted braids of lilies knitting--'"

said the Southern lady in her murmurous voice. "You don't know what a

pleasure it has always been to me that I am named Sabrina. The English

originated 'Comus;' I like the English, they are so cultivated."

"Do you see many of them here?"

"Not many. I am sorry to say my father does not like them; he thinks

them affected."

"That is the last thing I should call them."

"Well, those who come here really do say 'serpents' and 'crocodiles.'"

"Do you mean as an oath?" said Eve, thinking vaguely of "Donner und

blitzen."

"As an oath? I have never heard it used in that way," answered Miss

Sabrina, astonished. "I mean that they call the snakes serpents, and the

alligators crocodiles; my father thinks that so very affected."

Thus the wan-cheeked mistress of Romney endeavored to entertain their

guest.

That night Eve was sitting by her fire. The mattress of Meadows was no

longer on the floor; the English girl had started on her return journey

the day before, escorted to the pier by all the blacks of the island,

respectful and wondering. The presence of little Jack asleep in his crib

behind a screen, with Dilsey on her pallet beside him, made the large

wind-swept chamber less lonely; still its occupant felt overwhelmed with

gloom. There was a light tap at the door, and Cicely entered; she had

taken off her gay blue frock, and wore a white dressing-gown. "I thought

I'd see if you were up." She went across and looked at Jack for a

moment; then she came back to the fire. "You haven't touched your hair,

nor unbuttoned a button; are you always like that?"

"Like what?"

"Trim and taut, like a person going out on horse-back. I should love to

see you with your hair down; I should love to see you run and shriek!"

"I fear you are not likely to see either."

Cicely brought her little teeth together with a click. "I've got to get

something over in the north wing; will you come? The wind blows so, it's

splendid!"

"I will go if you wish," said Eve.

They went down the corridor and turned into another, both of them

lighted by the streaks of moonlight which came through the half-closed

or broken shutters; the moon was nearly at its full, and very brilliant;

a high wind was careering by outside--it cried at the corner of the

house like a banshee. At the end of the second hall Cicely led the way

through a labyrinth of small dark chambers, now up a step, now down a

step, hither and thither; finally opening a door, she ushered Eve into a

long, high room, lighted on both sides by a double row of windows, one

above the other. Here there were no shutters, and the moonlight poured

in, making the empty space, with its white walls and white floor, as

light as day. "It's the old ballroom," said Cicely. "Wait here; I will

be back in a moment." She was off like a flash, disappearing through a

far door.

Eve waited, perforce. If she had felt sure that she could find her way

back to her room, she would have gone; but she did not feel sure. As to

leaving Cicely alone in that remote and disused part of the house, at

that late hour of the night, she cared nothing for that; Eve was hard

with people she did not like; she did not realize herself how hard she

was. She went to one of the windows and looked out.

These lower windows opened on a long veranda. The veranda was only a

foot above the ground; any one, Eve reflected, could cross its uneven

surface and look in; she almost expected to see some one cross, and peer

in at her, his face opposite hers on the other side of the pane. The

moonlight shone on the swaying evergreens; within sight were the waters

of the Sound. Presently she became conscious of a current of wind

blowing through the room, and turned to see what caused it. There had

been no sound of an opening door, or any other sound, but a figure was

approaching, coming down the moonlit space rapidly with a waving motion.

It was covered with something transparent that glittered and shone; its

outlines were vague. It came nearer and nearer, without a sound. Then a

mass of silvery gauze was thrown back, revealing Cicely attired in an

old-fashioned ball dress made of lace interwoven with silver threads and

decked with little silvery stars; there was a silver belt high up under

her arms, and a wreath of the silvery stars shone in her hair. She stood

a moment; then snatching up the gauze which had fallen at her feet, she

held one end of it, and let the other blow out on the strong cold wind

which now filled the room. With this cloudy streamer in her hand, she

began lightly and noiselessly to dance, moving over the moonlit floor,

now with the gauze blowing out in front of her, now waving behind her as

she flew along. Suddenly she let it drop, and, coming to Eve, put her

arms round her waist and forced her forward. Eve resisted. But Cicely's

hands were strong, her hold tenacious; she drew her sister-in-law down

the room in a wild gallopade. In the midst of it, giving a little jump,

she seized Eve's comb. Eve's hair, already loosened, fell down on her

shoulders. Cicely clapped her hands, and began to take little dancing

steps to the tune of "Niggerless, niggerless, nig-ig-ig-gerless!"

chanted in a silvery voice. When she came to "less," she held out her

gleaming skirt, and dipped down in a wild little courtesy.

Eve picked up her comb and turned back towards the door.

Cicely danced on ahead, humming her song; they passed through the

labyrinth of dark little rooms, the glimmering dress acting as guide

through the dimness. Cicely went as far as the second hall; here she

stopped.

"It's the wind, you know," she said, in her usual voice; "when it blows

like this, I always have to do something; sometimes I call out and

shout. But I don't care for it, really; I don't care for anything!" Her

face, as she spoke, looked set and melancholy. She opened a door and

disappeared.

The next day there was nothing in her expression to indicate that there

had been another dance at Romney the night before, besides the one at

the negro quarters.

Eve was puzzled. She had thought her so unimaginative and quiet; "a

passionless, practical little creature, cool and unimpulsive, whose

miniature beauty led poor Jack astray, and made him believe that she had

a soul!" This had been her estimate. She was alone with the baby; she

took him to the window and looked at him earnestly. The little man

smiled back at her, playing with the crape of her dress. No, there was

nothing of Cicely here; the blue eyes, golden hair, and frank smile--all

were his father over again.

"We'll make that Mr. Morrison come back, baby; and then you and I will

go away together," she whispered, stroking his curls.

"Meh Kiss'm," said Jack. It was as near as he could come to "Merry

Christmas."

"Before another Christmas I'll get you away from her _forever_!"

murmured the aunt, passionately.