"You don't mean regular monthly nurses, of course?"
"Why not?--if they can afford to pay for them. They might club together
to supply them."
"Oh, I don't think that would be at all appropriate, really. And Eve
does not mean it, I assure you," said Miss Sabrina, coming to the
rescue; "her views are perfectly reasonable, dear Mrs. Singleton; you
would be surprised."
"You would indeed!" Eve thought.
But they talked no more of the nig-roes.
"How is Miss Hillsborough?" Miss Sabrina asked.
"Right well, I am glad to say. My dear Aunt Peggy, Miss Bruce; and what
she is to me I can hardly tell you! You know I am something of a
talker"--here Mrs. Singleton laughed softly. "And we are so much alone
here now, that, were it not for Aunt Peggy, I should fairly have to talk
to the chickens!" (One at least would be ready, Eve thought.) "Don't you
know that there are ever so many little things each day that we want to
_say_ to somebody?" Mrs. Singleton went on. "Thinking them is not
enough. And these dear people, like Aunt Peggy, who sit still and
listen;--it isn't what they answer that's of consequence; in fact they
seldom say much; it's just the chance they give us of putting our own
thought into words and seeing how it looks. It _does_ make such a
difference."
"You are fortunate," Eve answered. "And then you have your little boy,
too; Cicely has told me about him--Rupert; she says he is a dear little
fellow."
"Dear heart!" exclaimed Miss Sabrina, distressed. "Cicely is
sometimes--yes--"
But Mrs. Singleton laughed merrily. "I will show him to you presently,"
she said.
"Mr. Singleton is so extraordinarily agreeable!" said Miss Sabrina, with
unwonted animation.
"Oh yes, he is wonderful; and he is a statesman too, a second Patrick
Henry. But then as regards the little things of each _day_, you know, we
don't go to our husbands with _those_."
"What do you do, then?--I mean with the husbands," Eve asked.
"I think we admire them," answered Mrs. Singleton, simply.
Lucasta, the negro girl, now appeared with a tray. "Pray take some
Madeira," said their hostess, filling the tiny glasses. "And plum-cake."
Eve declined. But Miss Sabrina accepted both refreshments, and Mrs.
Singleton bore her company. The wine was unspeakably bad, it would have
been difficult to say what had entered into its composition; but Madeira
had formed part of the old-time hospitality of the house, and something
that was sold under that name (at a small country store on the mainland
opposite) was still kept in the cut-glass decanter, to be served upon
occasion.
Presently a very tall, very portly, and very handsome old man (he well
merited three verys) came in, leaning on a cane. "Miss Bruce--little
Rupert; our dear little boy," said Mrs. Singleton, introducing him. She
had intended to laugh, but she forgot it; she gazed at him admiringly.
The master of the house put aside his cane, and looked about for a
chair. As he stood there, helpless for an instant, he seemed gigantic.
Eve laughed.
Miss Sabrina murmured, "Pleasantry, dear Mr. Singleton;--our foolish
pleasantry."
After the old gentleman had found his chair and seated himself, and had
drawn a breath or two, he gave a broad slow smile. "Nanny, are you in
the habit of introducing me to your young lady friends as your dear
little Rupert?--your little Rupe?"
"Rupe? Never!" answered Mrs. Singleton, indignantly.
"Only our foolish pleasantry," sighed Miss Sabrina, apologetically.
"It was Cicely," Eve explained.
"If it was Cicely, it was perfect," the lame colossus answered,
gallantly. "Cicely is heavenly. Upon my word, she is the most engaging
young person I have ever seen in my life."
He then ate some plum-cake, and paid Eve compliments even more handsome
than these.
After a while he imparted the news; he had been down to the landing to
meet the afternoon steamer, which brought tidings from the outside
world. "Melton is dead," he said. "You know whom I mean? Melton, the
great stockbroker; one of the richest men living, I suppose."
"Oh! where is his soul _now_?" said Mrs. Singleton. Her emotion was
real, her sweet face grew pallid.
"Why, I have never heard that he was a bad man, especially," remarked
Eve, surprised.
"He was sure to be--making all that money; it could not be otherwise.
Oh, what is his agony at this very moment!"
But Rupert did not sympathize with this mournfulness; when three ladies
were present, conversation should be light, poetical. "Miss Bruce," he
said, turning towards Eve--he was so broad that that in itself made a
landscape--"have you ever noticed the appropriateness of 'County Guy' to
this neighborhood of ours?"
"No," Eve answered. But the words brought her father to her mind with a
rush: how often, when she was a child, had he beguiled a dull walk with
a chant, half song, half declamation:
"Oh, County Guy, the hour is nigh,
The sun has left the lea."
She looked at her host, but she did not hear him; a mist gathered in her
eyes.
"'Oh, County Guy, the hour is nigh,'"
began the colossus, placing his plum-cake on his knee provisionally.
"'The sun has left the lea;
The orange flower perfumes the bower,
The breeze is on the sea.
The lark his lay who trilled all day
Sits hushed his partner nigh.
Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour;
But where is County Guy?'
"The orange flower perfumes the bower; here we have the orange flower
and the lea, the bower and the sea; and it's very rarely that you find
all four together. 'The lark his lay who trilled all day'--what music it
is! There's no one like Scott."
His lameness prevented him from accompanying his guests on their walk
back to the boat; he stood in the doorway leaning on his cane and waving
a courtly farewell, while the chicken, with slowly considering steps,
crossed the veranda and entered the drawing-room again.
"Miss Sabrina, please tell me what you know of Ferdinand Morrison," Eve
began, as soon as a turn in the road hid the old house from their view.
Miss Sabrina had expected to talk about the Singletons. "Oh, Mr.
Morrison? we did not see him ourselves, you know."
"But you must have heard."
"Certainly, we heard. The Singletons are delightful people, are they
not? So cultivated! Their house has always been one of the most
agreeable on the Sound."
"I dare say. But about Ferdinand Morrison?" Eve went on. For it was not
often that she had so good an opportunity; at Romney, if there was no
one else present, there were always the servants, who came in and out
like members of the family. "Cicely met him first in Savannah, didn't
she?"
"Yes," answered Miss Sabrina (but giving up the Singletons with regret);
"she went to pay a visit to our cousin Emmeline; and there she met him.
From the very beginning he appeared to be much in love with her, Cousin
Emmeline wrote. And Cicely too--so we heard--appeared to care for him
from the first day. At least Cousin Emmeline received that impression;
Cicely, of course, did not take her into her confidence."
"Why of course?"
"At that early stage? But don't you think that those first sweet
uncertainties are always private? Mr. Morrison used to come every day,
and take her out for a drive; I have been in Savannah myself, and I have
often thought that probably they went to Bonaventure--_so_ delightful!
At last, one evening, Cicely told Cousin Emmeline that she was engaged.
And the next day she wrote to us. She did not come home; they were
married there at Emmeline's."
"And none of you went to the wedding?"
"There were only father and I to go; we have not always been able to do
as we wished," replied Miss Sabrina, gently.
"Mr. Morrison had money, I suppose?"
"I think not; we have never been told so."
"Didn't you ask?"
"That was for Cicely, wasn't it? I dare say she knows. We could only
hope, father and I, that she would be happy; but I fear that she has not
been, ah no." And Miss Sabrina sighed.
"But we must not give it up so, she is still so young. Why don't you
write to Mr. Morrison yourself, and tell him, command him, to come
back?" suggested Eve, boldly.
"But--but I don't know where he is," answered Miss Sabrina, bewildered
by this sudden attack.
"You said South America."
"But I couldn't write, 'Ferdinand Morrison, Esquire, South America.'"
"Some one must know. His relatives."
"Yes, there is his brother, and a most devoted brother, we are told,"
responded Miss Sabrina, speaking more fluently now that she had launched
upon family affection. "Yes, indeed--from all we have heard of Paul
Tennant, we are inclined to think him a most excellent young man. He may
not have Ferdinand's beauty (we are told that Ferdinand is remarkably
handsome); and it is probable, too, that he has not Ferdinand's
cultivation, for he is a business man, and has always lived at the
North.--I beg your pardon, my dear, I am sure," said the Southern lady,
interrupting herself in confusion.
"It doesn't matter; the North won't die of it. If you know where this
brother is--But why has he a different name?"
"The mother, Mrs. Tennant, who was a widow with this one boy, Paul,
married one of the Maryland Morrisons--I reckon you know the family.
Ferdinand is the child of this second marriage. His father and mother
are dead; his only near relative is this half-brother, Paul."
"Write to Paul, then, and find out where Ferdinand is."
"This is a plot, isn't it?" answered Miss Sabrina, smiling. "But I like
it; it's so sweet of you to plan for our poor Cicely's happiness."
"You needn't thank me! Then you will write?"
"But I don't know where Mr. Tennant is either.--I dare say Cicely
knows."
"But if you ask her, she will suspect something. And if I ask her, it
will be worse still! Doesn't anybody in the world know where this Paul
Tennant is?" said Eve, irritably.
"I think we heard that it was some place where it is very cold--I
remember that. It might have been Canada," suggested Sabrina,
reflectively.
"Canada and South America--what a family!" said Eve, in despair.
The wind had risen, the homeward voyage was rough. They reached Romney
to find little Jack ill; before morning he was struggling with an attack
of croup.