The stars were fading, there was a band of clear light in the east over
the sea, when Eve reached the veranda of Romney again; with pauses for
rest, she had carried her sister all the way. Cicely was small and
light, her weight was scarcely more than that of a child; still, owing
to the distance, the effort had been great, and Eve's strength was
exhausted. She put her burden gently down on the floor of the veranda,
and stood leaning against one of the wooden pillars, with her arms
hanging by her sides to rest them; they were numb and stiff, almost
paralyzed; she began to be afraid lest she should not be able to raise
them again; she went to the window to try. The effort of lifting the
sash drew a groan of anguish from her. But Cicely did not hear it; she
remained unconscious. The dawn grew brighter, soon the sun would appear.
It was not probable that at this early hour any one would pass this
uninhabited end of the house; still, negroes were inconsequent; Pomp and
Plato might be seized with a fancy to come; if she could only get Cicely
back to her room unseen, there need be no knowledge of their midnight
expedition. She knelt down beside her, and chafed her hands and temples;
she spoke her name with insistence: "Cicely! Cicely!"--she put the whole
force of her will into the effort of reaching the dormant consciousness,
wherever it was, and compelling it to waken. "Cicely!" She looked
intently at Cicely's closed eyes.
Cicely stirred, her dark-fringed lids opened; her vague glance caught
the gleam of the sound. "Where are we?" she asked.
"We came out for a walk," Eve answered. "Do you think you could climb
in--I mean by the window? I am afraid I cannot lift you."
"Of course I can. Why shouldn't I?"
She did it as lightly and easily as ever; she was in perfect possession
of all her faculties. Eve followed her. Then she drew down the sash with
the same effort.
"What is the matter with your arms?" Cicely asked. "You move them as
though they were rusty."
"I think they _are_ rusty."
They went through the ballroom, now looking very prosaic, flooded with
the light of the rising sun. "We're always tramping through this old
room," said Cicely.
When she reached the door of her own chamber, she abruptly drew Eve in.
"Well--are you going to leave me forever?"
"Not unless you send me away."
"Is it on baby's account that you stay?"
"Not more now than at any time."
"You don't mind what I did, then?"
"You didn't do anything."
"That's brave of you, Eve, when you hate lies so. You are trying to make
me believe that nothing happened out there in the road--that I was just
as usual. But I remember perfectly--I sprang at you; if I had been a
man--my hands stronger--you wouldn't be here now!"
"Fortunately you are not a man, nor anything like one," Eve answered, in
the tone of a person who makes a joke. She turned towards the door.
"Wait, I want to tell you," said Cicely, going after her, and turning
her round with her hands on her shoulders. "This is it, Eve; it comes
over me with a rush sometimes, when I look at you--that here you are
alive, and _Ferdie_ dead! He was a great deal more splendid than you
are, he was so handsome and so young! And yet there he is, down in the
ground; and _you_ walking about here! Nothing seems too bad for you
then; my feeling is, 'Let her die too! And see how she likes it.'"
"I should like it well enough, if somebody else did it," Eve answered.
"Death wouldn't be a punishment, Cicely; it would be a release."