XXXI.

When Eve reached the camp, after her parting with Paul, Cicely was

waiting for her on the beach, alone; apparently she had sent every one

away. "Well?" she said, as the canoe grated on the sand.

"I told him," Eve answered.

"Everything?"

"Everything."

"And he did not--?"

"No, he did not."

For an instant Cicely's face expressed keen sympathy. Then her

expression changed. "You did it, you know. You'll have to pay for it!"

"Will you help me to get away?" Eve asked.--"I cannot see him again."

"And do you imagine that by any chance he wishes to see _you_?" demanded

Cicely, sarcastically.

"But he will have to come back here--he must; let me go away before he

comes. We were leaving to-morrow in any case; help me off now," Eve

pleaded.

Cicely surveyed her with pitiless eyes; the once strong Eve now looked

at her imploringly, her face despairing, her voice broken. Having had

her satisfaction, the vindictive little creature turned, and, going back

to the lodge, began to issue orders with imperative haste, as though she

had but one wish in the world, namely, to help Eve; Mrs. Mile found

herself working as she had never worked before; the Irishmen tumbled

over each other; Porley and the cook constantly gallopaded--no other

word could describe their gait. The judge worked fiercely; he helped in

launching the canoes until the blood rushed to his head; he ran after

the Irishmen; he carried Jack, he scolded Porley. And then, during one

of these journeys, his strength failed so suddenly that he was obliged

to sit down; as there was no bench near, he sat down on the ground.

Soon afterwards Mrs. Mile came by.

"Dear me! Do let me assist you," she said sweetly.

"I am merely looking at the lake; it is charming this morning," replied

the judge, waving his hand.

"I could assist you _so_ well," said the nurse, coming nearer, "knowing,

as I do, the exact position of _all_ the muscles."

"Muscles, madam? It's more than I do! May I ask you to pass on?"

One of the Irishmen next appeared, carrying Jack's pillows and toys.

"Can you tell me where Mr. Hollis is?" demanded the judge, still seated.

"Mr. Hollis, surr? Yes, surr. Think he's gone fishing, surr."

"D--n him! He takes a nice time for it--when we're sweating here,"

muttered the judge, angrily.

But poor Hollis was fishing only in a figurative sense, and in bitter

waters. He had sent for Paul--yes; but he could not stay to witness his

return with Eve; (he had not the slightest doubt but that Eve would

return with him). He shook hands with Paul upon his arrival, and made a

number of jokes, as usual. But soon after the younger man's canoe had

started eastward in search of Eve, a second canoe, with Hollis paddling,

stole quietly away, going in the opposite direction. Its occupant

reached Port aux Pins, in due time. He remained there but a few hours.

A month later a letter came to Paul from a small town near the base of

the Rocky Mountains. "You see, when I got back to Port aux Pins, it sort

of came over me that I'd go west. People are more lively out here, and

not so crowded. I've got hold of a capital thing in raisins, in southern

California. If that fails, there is stock-raising, and plenty of other

things; and the same old auctioneer line. I've left a trifle in the

savings-bank for Jacky. Perhaps you'll take charge of it for him? You'll

hear from me again soon.--C. HOLLIS."

But Paul never heard from him; from that moment all trace of him was

lost. Ferdie, if he had known Hollis, would have had a vision of him

making his way year by year farther westward, always attired in the

black coat and tall hat (which marked his dignity as a lawyer), whether

voyaging in a prairie schooner, chopping wood at a camp, hunting elk, or

searching for ore. But Paul had no such visions, he did not see human

lives as _tableaux-vivants_. He was sincerely sorry that Hollis had

vamosed in that way. But he understood it too.

The trifle turned out to be eight hundred dollars. It was regularly

entered to little Jack's account, and there was a pass-book with his

full name, "John Frederick Bruce." "Bruce,--that did it," thought Paul;

"he could give it to the _child_. Poor old Kit! it must have been all he

had."

Cicely's generalship was excellent; in less than half an hour the three

canoes were ready, and the judge, Porley and Jack, Eve, Cicely herself,

with three of the men to row, took their places; the boats glided out

from the shore, turning towards the west. Mrs. Mile bowed gravely to the

judge, with an air of compunction; she knew what an impression she had

made upon that poor old man; she was afraid that she had not done right!

Mrs. Mile was left in charge of the camp to await the arrival of Paul

Tennant.

The canoes were out all night. At dawn the little party found refuge on

one of the North Shore steamers, and began the long voyage down the

chain of lakes, stopping again at the beautiful city of Cleveland,

thence by railway to New York, and from there southward by sea. On the

ninth morning of their journey their ocean steamer turned her bows

towards the distant land, a faint line on the right; by noon, she was

making her way along a winding channel, which was indicated here and

there in the water by buoys painted white, which looked like ducks; the

Atlantic was very calm, its hue was emerald green; it was so clear that

one could see the great jelly-fish floating down below. The judge, with

his hands clasped on his cane's head, stood looking eagerly at

everything. His joy was deep, he felt himself an exile returning home.

And oh! how beautiful home was! To him, this Southern coast was fair as

Paradise; he welcomed the dark hue of the Southern trees, he welcomed

the neglected fields, he even welcomed the broken-down old houses here

and there. For at least they were not staring, they were not noisy; to

the judge, the smart new houses of Port aux Pins--those with Mansard

roofs--had seemed to shout and yell. Three negro fishermen, passing in a

row-boat with a torn sail, were eminently worthy creatures; they were

not the impudent, well-dressed mulattoes of the North, who elbowed him

off the pavements, who read newspapers on steamers with the air of men

of the world. When the winding channel--winding through water--came to

an end at the mouth of an inlet, the white sand-hills on each hand were

more beautiful to his eyes than the peaks of the Alps, or the soft

outline of Italian mountains. "God bless my country!" was the old man's

fervent thought. But his "country" was limited; it was the territory

which lies between the St. Mary's River and the Savannah.

At the little port within the inlet they disembarked, and took the small

steamer of the Inside Route, which was to carry them through the sounds

to Romney. Night had come on, dark and quiet; clouds covered the sky;

the air was warm, for it was still summer here. The dusky shores, dimly

visible on either hand, gave a sense of protection after the vastness of

the ocean; the odors of flowers reached them, and seemed sweet after its

blank, cold purity. Cicely, with Porley and Jack, was on the deck near

the stern; the judge was now with them, now at the prow, now up-stairs,

now down-stairs; he could not be still. Eve sat by herself on the

forward deck, gazing through the darkness at the water; she could not

see it save here and there in broken gleams, where the lights from the

lower cabin shone across it; she heard the rushing sound made by the

great paddle-wheels as they revolved unseen behind her, and the fancy

came to her that she should like to be lashed to the outer rim of one of

them, and be carried up and down through the cool water. Towards ten

o'clock a beam shone out ahead. "See it?" said the judge, excitedly,

coming to show it to her. "Jupiter Light!"

And Eve remembered that less than a year before she had landed here for

the first time, a woman imperious, sufficient to herself; a woman who

was sure that she could direct her own course; in addition, a woman who

supposed herself to be unhappy. How like child's play did this all seem

now--her certainties, and her pride, and her supposed sorrow! "If I

could die, wouldn't that be the best thing for me, as well as for Paul?

A way out of it all? The first shock over, I should be but a memory to

him; I should not be a miserable haunting presence, wretched myself, and

making him wretched too. I wonder--I wonder--is it wrong to try to die?"

The stern Puritan blood of her father in her answered, "One must not

give up until one has exhausted every atom of one's strength in the

contest."

"But if it is all exhausted? If--" Here another feeling came sweeping

over her. "No, I cannot die while he is in the world; in spite of my

misery, I want to be here if he is here. Perhaps no knowledge of

anything that happens here penetrates to the next world; if that is the

case, I don't want to be there, no matter how beautiful it may be. I

want to stay where I can hear of Paul."

After they had left the boat, and Pomp and Plato were hoisting the

trunks into one of the wagons, Cicely came up.

"Eve, you must stay with me more, now that we are here; you mustn't be

always off by yourself."

"I thought you preferred it."

"Yes, through the journey. But not now. It's a great deal worse for me

now than it is for you; you have left Paul behind, but I am going to see

Ferdie in a moment or two. I shall see him everywhere--in the road, at

the door, in our own room; he will stand and look at me."

"Well, you will like that."

"No, for it will be only a mockery; I shall not be able to put my arms

round him; he won't kiss me."

"Cecilia," called the judge, his voice ringing out happily, "everything

is ready now, and Cesh is restive."

Cicely gave one of her sudden little laughs. "Poor grandpa! he is so

frantic with joy that he even says 'Cesh,'--though he loathes

abbreviations!"

Secession, the mule, started on his leisurely walk towards Romney.

In the same lighted doorway where Eve had been received upon her first

arrival, now appeared again the tall figure of Miss Sabrina. The poor

lady was crying.

"Oh, my darling Cicely, what sorrow!" she said, embracing her niece

fondly.

As they entered the hall: "Oh, my darling Cicely, what a home-coming

for you! And to think--" More tears.

As they came into the lighted parlor: "Oh, my darling Cicely--What! no

mourning?" This last in genuine surprise.

Cicely closed the door. She stood in the centre of the room. "This is

not a charnel-house, Sabrina. No one is to speak to me of graves. As to

mourning, I shall not wear an inch of it; you may wear as many yards as

you like--you always loved it; did you begin to mourn for Ferdie before

he was dead?"

"Oh, pa, she said such terrible things to me--our own Cicely. I don't

know how to take it!" moaned poor Miss Sabrina to her father when they

were left alone.

"Well, you are pretty black, Sabrina," suggested the judge, doubtfully.

"Those tossels now--"

"I got them because they were cheap. I _hope_ they look like mourning?"

"You needn't be afraid; they're hearse-like!"

"Are they, really?" said Miss Sabrina, with gratification. "The choice

at the mainland store is so small." But presently the tears came again.

"Oh, pa, everything is so sad now. Do you remember when I used to ride

my little pony by your side, and you were on your big black horse? How

kind you have always been to me, pa; and I have been such a

disappointment to you!"

"No, no, Breeny; no, little girl," said the judge.

They kissed each other, the old man and his gray-haired child. Their

minds went back to brighter days; they understood each other's sorrow.

At two o'clock Eve had not yet gone to bed. There was a tap at her door.

She spoke. "Cicely?"

"Yes."

She drew back the bolt, and Cicely entered, carrying a small lamp. "You

haven't gone to bed? So much the better; you are to come with me."

"Where?"

"To all the places where we went that night."

"I cannot."

"There is no question of 'cannot;' I wish you to go, and you must, if I

say so."

Eve looked at her with forlorn eyes. But Cicely was inflexible. She

opened the door; Eve followed her.

"First, I want to see that Jacky is all right," Cicely said. She led the

way to her own room. Jack was asleep, his dimpled arms thrown out on the

pillow. Cicely bent over him for a moment. Then she looked at Eve. "You

won't ever be troubled by this sort of thing, will you? _You'll_ never

have a child!" She laughed, and, taking the lamp, turned towards the

door. "This was Ferdie's dressing-room; don't you see him over there by

the window?" Eve shrank. "Now he has gone. But we shall hear him

following us along the corridor presently, and across the ballroom.

Then, in the thicket, he will come and look at us;--do you remember his

eyes, and the corners of his mouth,--how they were drawn down?" And the

corners of her own mouth took the same grimace.

"I cannot go with you," said Eve, stopping.

"You will do what I wish you to," answered Cicely;--"one generally does

when one has injured a person as you have injured me. For I loved

Ferdie, you know; I really had the folly to love him." (She said this

insolently.) Turning to Eve, with the same insolent smile, "At last you

know what love is, don't you?" she added. "Has it brought you much

happiness?"

Eve made no answer, she followed humbly; together they went through the

labyrinth of small rooms at the end of the corridor and entered the

ballroom.

Its empty space was dark, a glimmering gray alone marking the

unshuttered windows. The circle of light from their lamp made the

blackness still blacker.

"Do you remember when I put on that ball-dress of my grandmother's, and

came jumping along here?" said Cicely. "How strange it is!--I think I

was _intended_ to be happy."

After a moment she went on: "Now we must begin to listen; he will come

in behind us, we shall hear his step. _You_ ought to hear it all your

life!" she added.

They reached the window at last; it had seemed to Eve an endless

transit. Cicely drew back the bolt, threw up the sash, and, with the aid

of a chair, stepped out.

"Wait here," she said, when Eve had joined her outside; "then, when I

have reached the thicket, draw the window down, just as he did; I want

to hear the sound."

She went quickly towards the thicket, carrying her lamp. Eve was left

alone on the veranda.

After a few minutes Eve tried to draw down the sash. It resisted, and

she was obliged to use all her strength. A shiver came over her as she

lifted her arms to try a second time, she almost expected to see a hand

come stealing over her shoulder (or under it), and perform the task for

her; and the hand would be--Ferdie's. She hurried after Cicely.

Cicely came out from the thicket. "Now take the lamp and walk down the

road a little way; I wish to see the gleam moving over the

bushes,--don't you remember?"

Eve obeyed. It seemed to her as if she should never be free from this

island and its terror; as if she should spend the rest of her life here

following Cicely, living over again their dreadful flight.

When she came back, Cicely said, "Now for the north point;" she led the

way along the road; their footsteps made crunching sounds in the sand.

Cicely said, "I was in hopes that the moon would come out from behind

those clouds. Oh, I'm so glad! there it is! Now it will light up the

very spot where you shot him. I will leave the lamp here on the sand;

that will give the yellow gleam that we saw behind us. Now go into the

woods. Then, in a few moments, you must come out and look about, just as

you did then, and you must put out your hand and make a motion of

shooting."

"I will not," said Eve, outraged. "I shall leave you and go back."

Cicely saw that she had come to the end of her power. She put her arms

round Eve's neck, and held her closely. "To please me, Eve; I shall

never be content without it; I want to see how it all was, how you

looked. Just this once, Eve; never again, but just this once."

"I thought you had forgiven me, Cicely?"

"I have, I have." She kissed Eve again. "_Do_ content me."

Eve went slowly towards the trees. As she disappeared within the

shadow, Cicely instantly concealed herself on the other side of the

road. There was a silence.

The moon, emerging still further from the clouds, now silvered the

forest, the path, and the sound with its clear light; there was no boat

drawn up at the point's end; the beach sloped smoothly to the water,

unbroken by any dark outline, and the water stretched smoothly towards

Singleton Island, with only the track of the moon across it.

Eve stood in the shadow under the trees. The spell of the place was upon

her; like a somnambulist, she felt herself forced by some inward

compelling power to go through the whole scene. The thought of Cicely

had passed from her mind; there was but one person there now--Ferdie; in

another moment she should see him; she listened; then she went forward

to the edge of the wood and looked down the road.

Something came rushing from the other side, and with quick force bore

her to the ground. Not Ferdie, but Cicely, like a tigress, was upon her,

her hands at her throat. In a strange suffocated voice, she cried, "Do

you like it? Do you like it? Do you _like_ to be dead?"

And Eve did not struggle; she lay motionless in Cicely's

grasp--motionless under the weight of her body keeping her down. The

thing did not seem to her at all incredible; suddenly it seemed like a

remedy for all her troubles--if Cicely's grasp should tighten. Passively

she closed her eyes.

But Cicely's grasp did not tighten; the fury that had risen within her

had taken all her strength, and now she lay back white and still. Eve,

like a person in a dream, went down to the beach and dipped her

handkerchief in the water; slowly she came back, and bathed Cicely's

forehead and wrists. But still Cicely did not stir. Eve put her hand on

her heart. It was beating faintly. She stooped, and lifted Cicely in her

arms, holding her as one holds a child, with one arm round her shoulders

and the other under her knees, Cicely's head lying against her breast.

Then she began her long walk back.