Early spring at Romney. The yellow jessamine was nearly gone, the other
flowers were coming out; Atamasco lilies shone whitely everywhere; the
long line of the islands and the opposite mainland were white with
blossoms, the salt-marshes were freshly green; shoals, which had
wallowed under water since Christmas, lifted their heads; the great
river came back within its banks again.
Three weeks had passed since their return to the island. They had made
the journey without the judge, who had remained in South Carolina to
give his aid to the widow of his old friend, Roland Pettigru, who had
become involved in a lawsuit. The three weeks had been slow and
anxious--anxious, that is, to Eve. Cicely had returned to her muteness.
Once, at the beginning, when Eve had pressed her with questions, she
said, as general answer, "In any case, Ferdie will not come here." After
that, when again--once or twice--Eve had asked, "Have you heard anything
more?" Cicely had returned no reply whatever; she had let her passive
glance rest upon Eve and then glide to something else, as though she had
not spoken. Eve was proud, she too remained silent. She knew that she
had done nothing to win Cicely's confidence; women understand women, and
Cicely had perceived from the first, of course, that Jack's sister did
not like her.
But since that midnight revelation at Cousin Sarah Cray's, Eve no longer
disliked Cicely; on the contrary, she was attracted towards her by a
sort of unwilling surprise. Often, when they were with the others, she
would look at her twenty times in a half-hour, endeavoring to fathom
something of the real nature of this little girl (to Eve, Cicely always
seemed a school-girl), who had borne a tragedy in silence, covering it
with her jests, covering it also with her coldness. But was Cicely
really cold to all the world but Ferdie? She was not so, at least, as
regarded her child; no one who had seen her on her knees that night
beside the crib could doubt her love for him. Yet she let Eve have him
for hours at a time, she let her have him at night, without even Dilsey
to look after him; she never interfered, constantly as Eve claimed him
and kept him. In spite of her confidence in her own perceptions, in
spite of her confidence, too, in her own will, which she believed could
force a solution in almost every case, Eve Bruce was obliged to
acknowledge to herself that she was puzzled.
Now and then she would be harassed by the question as to whether she
ought not to tell Miss Sabrina what she knew, whether she ought not to
tell the judge. But Cicely had spared them, and Cicely had asked her to
be equally merciful. At night, when lying awake, the horror of the poor
baby's broken arm would sometimes come to her so vividly that she would
light the candle in haste to see if he were safe. If Ferdie should come
here, after all! Cicely had said that he would not; but who could trust
Cicely,--loving the man as she did? To Eve, after all that had happened,
Cicely's love seemed a mania as insane as the homicidal deliriums of
the husband.
As to these deliriums, she tried to picture what they must be: the baby
hurled from his little crib--that made her shudder with rage; she should
not be afraid of the madman, then; she should attack him in return!
Sometimes it was Cicely whom she saw, Cicely, shrinking under blows; it
must have been something heavy and sharp, a billet of wood, perhaps,
that had caused the scars across her white breast. She remembered that
once, when inwardly exasperated by Cicely's fresh fairness, she had
accused her of never having known what it was to be really tired in all
her life. Cicely had answered, rather hesitatingly, "I don't know that I
have ever been _tired_, exactly." She had not been tired--no. She had
only been half killed.
The poor little girl's muteness, her occasional outbursts of wild sport,
her jests and laughter, her abstractions, and the coldness sometimes
seen in her beautiful eyes, were these the results of suffering? She
questioned Miss Sabrina a little.
"She has always been the same, except that since her second marriage she
is much more quiet," replied the unconscious aunt. "Until then she was
like quicksilver, she used to run through the thickets so swiftly that
no one could follow her, and she used to play ball by the hour with--"
Here the speaker paused, disconcerted.
"With Jack," Eve added, her face contracting with the old pain.
Miss Sabrina had at last perceived this pain, and the discovery had
stopped her affectionate allusions. But she did not forget--Eve often
found her carefully made wreaths laid upon Jack's grave. As for Eve
herself, she never brought a flower; she walked to and fro beside the
mound, and the sojourn generally ended in angry thoughts. Why should
other people keep their loved ones, and she be bereft? What had she
done, what had Jack done, that was so wrong? God was not good, because
He was not kind; people did not ask Him to create them, but when once He
had done it for His own pleasure, and there they were, helpless, in His
world, why should He torture them so? To make them better? Why didn't He
make them better in the beginning, when He was creating them? Or else
not make them at all!
One afternoon during the fourth week after their return to Romney, she
was on her way back with Miss Sabrina from Singleton Island; the two had
been dining there, the Southern three-o'clock dinner, and now at sunset
the row-boat was bringing them home. To Eve the visit had been like a
day's truce, a short period, when one merely waits; the afternoon was
beautiful, the Sound like a mirror; the home-island, when they left it,
had been peacefully lovely, the baby from his wagon kissing his hand to
them, and Dilsey squatting on the bank by his side, a broad grin of
contentment on her dusky face. Cicely had declined the invitation,
sending a jocular message to "little Rupert," which inspired him with
laughter all day.
The dinner had been excellent as regards the succulence of its South
Carolina dishes. The damask tablecloth was thin from age, the
dinner-service a mixture of old Canton blue and the commonest, thickest
white plates; coarse dull goblets stood beside cut-glass wine-glasses;
the knives were in the last stage of decrepitude, and there was no
silver at all, not even a salt-spoon; it had been replaced by cheaply
plated spoons and forks, from which the plate was already half gone.
Blanche, the old negro woman, waited, assisted by the long-legged
Lucasta, and by little Boliver, who was attired for the occasion in a
pair of trousers which extended from his knees to his shoulders, over
which they were tightly strapped by means of strings. Boliver's part was
to bring the hot dishes from the outside kitchen, which was in a cabin
at some distance--a task which he performed with dignity, varied,
however, by an occasional somerset on the veranda, when he thought no
one was looking. Rupert was genial, very gallant to the ladies; he
carried his gallantry so far that he even drank their health several
times, the only wine being the mainland Madeira. Mrs. Singleton was
hospitable and affectionate, remaining unconscious (in manner) as to the
many deficiencies. And Eve looked on admiringly, as though it had been a
beautiful, half-pathetic little play; for to her it was all
pictorial--these ruined old houses on their blooming desolate islands,
with the ancient hospitality still animating them in spite of all that
had passed. The short voyage over, the row-boat stopped at Romney
landing. There was no one waiting for them; Abram assisted Miss Sabrina,
and then Eve, to step from one of the boat's seats to the dock. Eve
lingered for a moment, looking at the sunset; then she too turned
towards the house. The path winding under the trees was already dusky,
Miss Sabrina was a dozen yards in advance; as she approached a bend, Eve
saw some one come round it and meet her. It was a figure too tall to be
the judge; it was a young man; it was a person she had not seen; she
made these successive discoveries as she drew nearer. She decided that
it was a neighbor from one of the southern islands, who had taken
advantage of the lovely afternoon for a sail.
When she came up she found Miss Sabrina half laughing, half crying; she
had given the stranger both her hands. "Oh, Eve, it is Ferdinand. And I
did not know him!"
"How could you expect to know me, when you have never seen me in your
life?" asked the young man, laughing.
"But we have your picture. I ought to have known--"
"My dear aunt, never accuse yourself; your dearest friends will always
do that for you. I dare say my picture doesn't half do me justice."
He spoke jestingly; but there was still twilight enough to show Eve that
what he had said was simply the truth. The photograph was handsome, but
the real face was handsomer, the features beautiful, the eyes blue and
piercing.
"This is Cicely's sister Eve," said Miss Sabrina. "She has come out--so
kindly--from England to pay us a visit."
Ferdinand put out his hand with a bright smile. He had a smile which
would have been a fitting one for a typical figure of youthful Hope.
Eve could not refuse, conspicuously, to give him her hand in return. It
all seemed to her a dream--his sudden appearance in the dusky path, and
his striking beauty. She did not speak. But her muteness passed
unnoticed, because for once in her life Miss Sabrina was voluble, her
words tumbled over one another. "Such a surprise! _So_ nice! _so_
delightful! How little we thought this morning, when we rose as usual,
and everything was the same--how little we thought that it would be such
a sweet, such a happy day!"
Ferdinand laughed again, throwing back his handsome head a little--a
movement that was habitual with him. He gave Miss Sabrina his arm, drew
her hand through it and held it in his own, as they moved onward towards
the house. On the veranda, Cicely was waiting for them, her cheeks
flushed with pink. Eve expected a defiant look, a glance that would dare
her to express either her surprise or her fear; instead of that,
Cicely's eyes, meeting hers, were full of trust and sweetness, as if she
believed that Eve would sympathize with her joy, as if she had entirely
forgotten that there was any reason why Eve should not share it. Miss
Sabrina sympathized, if Eve did not; she kissed Cicely with a motherly
tenderness, and then, as she raised her wet eyes again towards
Ferdinand, she looked so extraordinarily pleased that the young man bent
and kissed her faded cheek. "There, auntie," he said, "now we've made
acquaintance; you must take me in as a genuine nephew. And improve me."
"Oh, improve," murmured Miss Sabrina, gazing at him near-sightedly. She
put on her glasses (without turning her back) in order to see him more
clearly. It marked a great emotion on her part--the not turning her
back.
Eve went to her room; she thought that Cicely would follow her. But no
one came until Powlyne knocked to say that tea was ready. At first Eve
thought that she would not go to the dining-room, that she would send
an excuse. The next moment she felt driven not only to go, but to
hasten; to be always present in order to see everything and hear
everything; this would be her office; she must watch for the incipient
stages of what she dreaded. Cicely had said that it happened rarely.
Would to God that the man would be touched by poor Miss Sabrina's loving
welcome, and by little Cicely's deep joy, and refrain. But perhaps these
very things would excite the longing that led to the madness!
When she reached the dining-room and saw the bright faces at the table,
Miss Sabrina looking younger than she had looked for years, and wearing
the white lace cape, Cicely, too, freshly dressed, and Ferdinand, they
seemed to her like phantasmagoria. Or was it that these were the
realities, and the phantasms the frightful visions which had haunted her
nightly during all these waiting weeks?
As Ferdie talked (already Miss Sabrina had begun to call him Ferdie), it
was impossible not to listen; there was a frankness in what he said, and
in his sunny smile, which was irresistibly winning. And the contrast
between these and his height and strength--this too was attractive. They
sat long at the table; Eve felt that she was the foreign element, not
he; that she was the stranger within their gates. She had made no change
in her dress; suddenly it occurred to her that Ferdie must hate her for
her mourning garb, which of course would bring Jack Bruce to his mind.
As she thought of this, she looked at him. His eyes happened to meet
hers at the moment, and he gave her a charming smile. No, there was no
hate there. In the drawing-room, later, he told them comical stories of
South America; he took Cicely's guitar and sang South American songs;
the three women sat looking at him, Cicely in her mute bliss, Miss
Sabrina with her admiration and her interest, Eve with her perplexity.
His hand, touching the strings, was well-shaped, powerful; was that the
hand which had struck a woman? A little child? As the evening wore on,
she almost began to believe that Cicely had invented the whole of her
damning tale; that the baby's arm had never been broken, and that her
own hurts had been received in some other way. She looked at Cicely. But
there was something very straightforward in her pure little face.
At ten o'clock she rose. Cicely made no motion, she was evidently not
coming with her.
"Can I speak to you for a moment, Cicely?"
"Oh, yes," answered Cicely, with alacrity. "What is it?" She followed
Eve into the hall.
Eve closed the door; then she drew her into the dining-room, which was
still lighted. "You said he would not come here."
"Oh!" with a long breath; "he never would do it for me before, though I
asked him, and asked him. And yet he has done it now! Think of that!"
Eve put her hands on Cicely's shoulders as if to keep her, to call her
back to realities. "Have you forgotten all you said that night at Mrs.
Cray's?"
Cicely gave a joyful laugh. "Yes." Then, more defiantly, "Yes, I have
forgotten the whole!" But her tone changed back swiftly to its happy
confidence again: "Nothing will happen, Eve; you needn't be afraid."
"Has he told you so?"
"Oh, we never _speak_ of it," answered Cicely, looking at her with
large, surprised eyes. "Did you think we _spoke_ of it--of such a thing
as that? A husband and wife--people who love each other? But you needn't
be troubled; it's over forever." She disappeared.
Eve waited a moment; then she went to her room. Before she reached her
door Cicely overtook her; she had run swiftly after her down the long
corridor. She put her arms round Eve from behind, and whispered, with
her lips against Eve's throat, "I ran after you to say that I hope that
_you_ will have, some day, as much happiness as mine." Then she was
gone, as swiftly as she had come.
To wish her a love like her own, this seemed almost a curse, a
malediction. But, fortunately, there was no danger that she, Eve Bruce,
should ever fall a victim to such miseries; to love any man so
submissively was weakness, but to love as Cicely loved, that was
degradation!
Her image gazed back at her from the mirror, fair in its tints, but
strangely, almost fiercely, proud; at that moment she was revolting,
dumbly, against the injustice of all the ages, past, present, and to
come, towards women.