Part 15

Her courage vanished. "Another time," she said hurriedly, and, turning, she left the room.

But as she went up the stairs she knew that there would be no other time. "Never! never! I shall never tell him. What do I care for truthfulness, or courage, compared with one word of his spoken in that tone!"

XXIII.

MISS SABRINA'S first letters had been so full of grief that they had been vague; to her there had been but the one fact: Ferdie was dead.

She had become much attached to him. There was nothing strange in this; both as boy and as man, Ferdinand Morrison had been deeply loved by many. The poor woman knew his fault (she thought it his only one), for the judge had written an account of all that had happened, and the reasons for Cicely's flight. Nevertheless she loved this prodigal as the prodigal is often so dearly loved by the woman whose heart is pierced the most deeply by his excesses--his mother. And Miss Sabrina, as regarded her devotion, might indeed have been Ferdie's mother; something in him roused the dormant maternal feeling--the maternal passion--which existed in her heart unknown to herself. She did not comprehend what it was that was disturbing her so much, and yet at the same time making her so happy--she did not comprehend that it was stifled nature asserting itself at this late day; the circumstances of her life had made her a gentle, conciliatory old maid; she was not in the least aware that as a mother she could have been a tigress in the defence of her sons. For she was a woman who would have rejoiced in her sons; daughters would never have been important to her.

She thought that she was perfectly reasonable about Ferdie. No, Cicely must not come back to him for the present; baby too--darling little boy!--he must be kept away; and oh! how terrible that flight through the woods, and the escape in the boat; she thought of it every night with tremors. Yet, in spite of all, she loved the man who had caused these griefs. His illness made him dependent upon her, and his voice calling her name in peremptory tones, like those of a spoiled child--this was the sweetest sound her ears had ever heard. He would reform, all her hopes and plans were based upon that; she went about with prayer on her lips from morning till night--prayer for him.

When his last breath had been drawn, it seemed to her as if the daily life of the world must have stopped too, outside of the darkened chamber; as if people could not go on eating and drinking, and the sun go on shining, with Ferdie dead. She was able to keep her place at the head of the household until after the funeral; then she became the prey of an illness which, though quiet and unobtrusive, like everything else connected with her, was yet sufficiently persistent to confine her to her bed. Nanny Singleton, who had come to Romney every day, rowed by Boliver, now came again, this time to stay; she took possession of the melancholy house, re-established order after her inexact fashion, and then devoted herself to nursing her friend.

Two of Nanny Singleton's letters.

Letter number one:

"ROMNEY, _Friday evening._

"DEAR JUDGE,--I feel that we have been very remiss in not sending to you sooner the details of this heart-breaking event. But we have been so afflicted ourselves with the unexpectedness of it all, with the funeral, and with dear Sabrina's illness, that we have been somewhat negligent. We feel, Rupert and I, that we have lost not only one who was personally dear to us, but also the most fascinating, the most brilliant, the most thoroughly engaging young man whom it has ever been our good-fortune to meet. Such a death is a public calamity, and you, his nearest and dearest, must admit us (as well as many, many others) to that circle of mourning friends who esteemed him highly, admired him inexpressibly, and loved him sincerely for the unusually charming qualities he possessed.

"Our dearest Sabrina told us all the particulars the morning after his death, for of course we came directly to her as soon as we heard what had happened. He had been making, as you probably know, a visit in Savannah; Dr. Knox had accompanied him, or perhaps it was that he joined him there; at any rate, it was Dr. Knox who brought him home. It seems that he had overestimated his strength--so natural in a young man!--and he arrived much exhausted; so much so, indeed, that the doctor thought it better that dear Sabrina should not see him that evening. And the next day she only saw him once, and from across the room; he was alarmingly pale, and did not open his eyes; Dr. Knox said that he must not try to speak. It was the next morning at dawn that the doctor came to her door and told Powlyne to waken her. (But she was not asleep.) 'He is going, if you wish to come;' this was all he said. Dear Sabrina, greatly agitated, threw on her wrapper over her night-dress, and hastened to the bedside of the dear boy. He lay in a stupor, he did not know her; and in less than half an hour his breath ceased. She prayed for him during the interval, she knelt down and prayed aloud; it was a wonder that she had the strength to do it when a soul so dear to her was passing. When it had taken flight, she closed his eyes, and made all orderly about him. And she kissed him for Cicely, she told me.

"The funeral she arranged herself in every detail. Receiving no replies to her despatches to you, she was obliged to use her own judgment; she had confessed to me in the beginning that she much wished to have him buried here at Romney, in the little circle of her loved ones, and not hearing from you to the contrary, she decided to do this; he lies beside your brother Marmaduke. Our friends came from all the islands near and far; there must have been sixty persons in all, many bringing flowers. Dr. Knox stayed with us until after the funeral--that is, until day before yesterday; then he took his leave of us, and went to Charleston by the evening boat. He seems a most excellent young man. And if he strikes us as a little cold, no doubt it is simply that, being a Northerner, and not a man of much cultivation, he could not appreciate fully Ferdie's very remarkable qualities. Dear old Dr. Daniels, who has been in Virginia for several weeks, has now returned; he comes over every day to see Sabrina. He tells me that her malady is intermittent fever--a mild form; the only point is to keep her strength up, and this we endeavor to do with chickens. I will remain here as long as I can be of the slightest service, and you may rest assured that everything possible is being done.

"I trust darling Cicely is not burdened by the many letters we have written to her--my own four, and Rupert's three, as well as those of her other friends on the islands about here. All wished to write, and we did not know how to say no.

"With love to Miss Bruce, I am, dear judge, your attached and sorrowing friend, NANNY SINGLETON."

Letter number two:

"ROMNEY, _Saturday Morning._

"MY DEAR MR. TENNANT,--My husband has just received your letter, and as he is much crippled by his rheumatism this morning, he desires me to answer it immediately, so that there may be no delay.

"We both supposed that Dr. Knox had written to you. Probably while he was here there were so many things to take up his time that he could not; and I happen to know that as soon as he reached Charleston, day before yesterday, he was met by this unexpected proposition to join a private yacht for a cruise of several months; one of the conditions was that he was to go on board immediately (they sailed the same evening), and I dare say he had time for nothing but his own preparations, and that you will hear from him later. My husband says, however, that he can give you all the details of the case, which was a simple one. Your brother overestimated his strength, he should not have attempted that journey to Savannah; it was too soon, for his wound had not healed, and the fatigue brought on a dangerous relapse, from which he could not rally. He died from the effects of that cruel shot, Mr. Tennant; his valuable life has fallen a sacrifice (in my husband's opinion) to the present miserable condition of our poor State, where the blacks, our servants, who are like little children and need to be led as such,--where these poor ignorant creatures are put over us, their former masters; are rewarded with office; are intrusted with dangerous weapons--a liberty which in this case has proved fatal to one of the higher race. It seems to my husband as if the death of Ferdinand Morrison should be held up as a marked warning to the entire North; this very superior, talented, and engaging young man has fallen by the bullet of a negro, and my husband says that in his opinion the tale should be told everywhere, on the steps of court-houses and in churches, and the question should be solemnly asked, Shall such things continue? --shall the servant rule his lord?

"We are much alarmed by the few words in Judge Abercrombie's letter (received this morning) concerning our darling Cicely, and we beg you to send us a line daily. Or perhaps Miss Bruce would do it, knowing our anxiety? I pray that the dear child, whom we all so fondly love, may be better very soon; but I will be anxious until I hear.

"As I sent a long letter to the judge last evening, I will not add more to this. Our sympathy, dear Mr. Tennant, with your irreparable loss is heartfelt; you do not need our assurances of that, I know.

"Mr. Singleton desires me to present his respects. And I beg to remain your obedient servant, N. SINGLETON."

XXIV.

Midsummer at Port aux Pins. The day was very hot; there was no feeling of dampness, such as belongs sometimes to the lower-lake towns in the dog-days, up here the air remained dry and clear and pure; but the splendid sunshine had almost the temperature of flame; it seemed as if the miles of forest must take fire, as from a burning-glass.

Eve stood at the open window of Paul's little parlor. A figure passed in the road outside, but she did not notice it. Reappearing, it opened the gate and came in. "Many happy returns--of cooler weather! We ought to pity the Eyetalians; what must their sufferings be on such a day as this!"

Eve gazed at the speaker unseeingly. Then recognition arrived;--"Oh, Mr. Hollis."

Hollis came into the house; he joined her in the parlor. "My best respects. Can't help thinking of the miserable Eyetalians." Eve made no reply. "Just heard a piece of news," Hollis went on. "Paul has sold his Clay County iron. He would have made five times as much by holding on. But he has been so jammed lately by unexpected demands made upon him that he had no other course; all his brother's South American speculations have come to grief, and the creditors have come down on _him_ like a thousand of brick!"

"Will he have to pay much?" asked Eve, her lassitude gone.

"More than he's got," answered Hollis, putting his hands still more deeply into his trousers pockets, his long, lean, fish-like figure projecting itself forward into space from the sixth rib. "I don't get this from Paul, you may depend; _he_ don't blab. But the law sharks who came up here to get hold of whatever they could (for you see Paul has always been a partner in his brother's enterprises, so that gives 'em a chance), these scamps talked to me some. So I know. But even the sale of his Clay County iron won't clear Paul--he will have to guarantee other debts; it will take him years to clear it all off, unless he has something better than his present salary to do it with."

"You ought to have told me. I have money."

"I guess he wouldn't take it. He's had pretty hard lines all round; he wanted terribly bad to go straight to Ferdie, as soon as he heard he was shot. But Mrs. Morrison--she had come here, you know; and he had all Ferdie's expenses to think of too, so that kept him grinding along. But he wanted awfully to go; he thought the world and all of Ferdie."

"I know he did," said Eve. And now her face was like a tragic mask--deadly white, with a frown, the eyes under her straight brows looking at him fixedly.

"Oh, eheu!" thought Hollis distressfully, disgustedly. "You screw yourself up to tell her all these things about him, because you think it will please her; and _this_ is the way she takes 'em!"

He looked at her again; she gave no sign. Feeling painfully insignificant and helpless, he turned and left the room.

A few minutes later Paul came in. "You have sold your Clay County iron!" said Eve.

"I have always intended to sell it."

"Not at a sacrifice."

"One does as one can--a business transaction."

"How much money have you sent to your brother all these years?"

"I don't know that it is--I don't know what interest you can have in it," Paul answered.

"You mean that it is not my business. Oh, don't be so hard! Say three words just for once."

"Why, I'll say as many as you like, Eve. Ferdie was one of the most brilliant fellows in the world; if he had lived, all his investments would have turned out finely, he was sure of a fortune some time."

"And, in the meanwhile, you supported him; you have always done it."

"You are mistaken. I advanced him money now and then when he happened to be short, but it was always for the time being only; he would have paid me back if he had lived."

The door opened, and the judge came in. "I'm glad you're here," said Paul; "now we can decide, we three, upon what is best to be done. The doctor says that while this heat is very bad for Cicely, travel would be still worse; she cannot go anywhere by train, and hardly by steamer--though that is better; there would be no use, then, in trying to take her south."

"It's ten times hotter here to-day than I ever saw it at Romney," interposed the judge. "It's a tophet--this town of yours!"

"I was thinking also of Miss Abercrombie's illness," Paul went on. "Though her fever is light, her room is still a sick-room, and that would depress Cicely, I feel sure. But, meanwhile, the poor girl is hourly growing weaker, and so this is what I have thought of: we will go into camp in the pines near Jupiter Light. Don't you remember how much good camp-life did her before?"

Six days later they were living in the pine woods at Jupiter. This time lodges had been built; the nurse accompanied Cicely; they were a party of eight, without counting the cook and the Indians.

At first Cicely remained in much the same state, she recognized no one but Jack.

Jack continued to be his mother's most constant adorer; he climbed often into her lap, and, putting his arms round her neck, "loved" her with his cheek against hers, and with all his little heart; he came trotting up many times a day, to stroke her face with his dimpled hand. Cicely looked at him, but did not answer. After ten days in the beneficent forest, however, her strength began to revive, and their immediate fears were calmed. One evening she asked for her grandfather, and when he came hastily in and bent over her couch, she smiled and kissed him. He sat down beside her, holding her hand; after a while she fell into a sleep. The old man went softly out, he went to the camp-fire, and made it blaze, throwing on fresh pine-cones recklessly.

"Sixty-five in the shade," remarked Hollis.

"This Northern air is always abominable. Will you make me a taste of something spicy? I feel the need of it. Miss Bruce,--Eve--Cicely knows me!"

Eve looked at his brightened face, at the blazing fire, the rough table with the tumblers, the flask, and the lemons. Hollis had gone to the kitchen to get hot water.

"She knows me," repeated the judge, triumphantly. "She sent for me herself."

Paul now appeared, and the good news was again told. Paul had just come from Port aux Pins. After establishing them at Jupiter, he had been obliged to return to town immediately, and he had remained there closely occupied for more than a week. He sat down, refusing Hollis's proffered glass. The nurse came out, and walked to and fro before Cicely's lodge, breathing the aromatic air; this meant that Cicely still slept. Eve had seated herself a little apart from the fire; her figure was in the shadow. Her mind was filled with but one thought: "Cicely better? Then must I tell her?" By-and-by the conversation of the others came to her.

"Hanging is too good for them," said the judge.

"But wasn't it supposed to be a chance shot?" remarked Hollis. "Not intentional, exactly?"

"That makes no difference. You may call it absolute chance, if you like; but the negro who dares to lift a pistol against a white man should not be left alive five minutes afterwards," declared the old planter, implacably.

"You'd ought to have lived in the days of religious wars," drawled Hollis. "I don't know anything else carnivorous enough to suit you."

"You must be a Quaker, sir! Tennant feels as I do, he'd shoot at sight."

"Oh no, he wouldn't," said Hollis. "He ain't a Southerner."

"Tennant can speak for himself," said the judge, confidently.

"I'd shoot the man who shot my brother," answered Paul. "I'd go down there to-morrow--I should have gone long ago--if I thought there was the least chance of finding him." A dark flush rose in his face. "I'm afraid--even if it was an unintentional shot--that I should want to _kill_ that man just the same; I should be a regular savage!"

"Would you never forgive him?" asked Eve's voice from the shadow.

"Blood for blood!" responded Paul, hotly. "No, not unless I killed him; then I might."

Eve rose.

Paul got up. "Oh, are you going?" But she did not hear him; she had gone to her lodge. He sat down again. She did not reappear that night.

The next morning she went off for a solitary walk. By chance her steps took the direction of a small promontory that jutted sharply into the lake, its perpendicular face rising to a height of forty feet from the deep water below; she had been here several times before, and knew the place well; it was about a mile from the camp. As she sat there, Paul's figure appeared through the trees. He came straight to her. "I have been looking for you, I tried to find you last night." He paused a moment. "Eve, don't you see what I've come for? Right in the midst of all this grief and trouble I've found out something. It's just this, Eve: I love you."

She tried to rise, but he put his hand on her shoulder to keep her where she was. "Oh, but I do, you needn't doubt it," he went on, with an amused smile--amused at himself; "in some way or other the thing has come about, I may say, in spite of me. I never thought it would. But here 'tis--with a vengeance! I think of you constantly, I can't help thinking of you; I recognize, at last, that the thing is unchangeable, that it's for life; have you I must." The words were despotic, but the tone was entreating; and the eyes, looking down upon her, were caressing--imploring. "Yes, I'm as helpless as any one," Paul went on, smiling as he said it; "I can't sleep, even. Come, take me; I'm not such a bad fellow, after all--I really think I'm not. And as regards my feeling for you, you need not be troubled; it's strong enough!"

She quailed under his ardor.

"I haven't spoken before because there has been so much to do," Paul continued; "there has been Cicely, and then I've been harassed about business; I've been in a box, and trying to get out. Besides, I wasn't perfectly sure that my time had come." He laughed. "I'm sure now." He took her in his arms. "Don't let us make any delays, Eve; we're not so young, either of us. Not that you need be afraid that you're to be the less happy on that account; I'll see to that!"

She broke from him.

But again he came to her, he took her hands, and, kneeling, laid his forehead upon them. "I will be as humble as you like; only--be good to me. I long for it, I must have it."

A sob rose in her throat. He sprang up. "Don't do that! Why, I want to make you absolutely happy, if I can. We shall have troubles enough, and perhaps we shall have sorrows, but at least we shall be together; you must never leave me, and I will do all I can to be less rough. But on your side there's one thing, Eve: you _must_ love me." These last words were murmured in her ear.

She drew herself away from him. The expression of her face was almost like death.

"You look as though you were afraid of me! I thought you loved me, Eve?"

"I do."

"Pretend you are a man, then, long enough to say 'yes' without any more circumlocution. We will be married at Port aux Pins. Then we can take care of Cicely together."

"I shall never marry."

"Yes, you will."

"I do not wish to leave Cicely."

"She wouldn't care about that. She isn't even fond of you."

"Oh, what shall I say to you?" cried Eve, her hands dropping by her sides. "Listen: it will be absolutely impossible for you to change my determination. But I am so horribly unhappy that I do believe I cannot stand anything more--any more contests with you. Leave me to myself; say nothing to me. But don't drive me away; at least let me stay near you."

"In my arms, Eve."

"Let me stay near you; see you; hear you talk; but that is all."

"And how long do you suppose that could last? It's a regular woman's idea: nonsense."

"Paul, be merciful!"

"Merciful? Oh, yes!" He took her again in his arms.

"I swear to you that I cannot marry you," she said, trembling as his cheek touched hers. "Since I've known you I haven't wanted to die, I've wanted to live--live a long life. But now I _do_ want to die; there is a barrier between us, I cannot lift it."

He released her. "There could be but one.--I believe that you are truthful; is the barrier another man?"

Another man? She hesitated a moment. "Yes."

He looked at her. "I don't believe you! You are lying for some purpose of your own. See here, Eve, I don't want to be played with in this way; you love me, and I worship you; by this time next week you are to be my wife."

"I must go away from you, then? You won't help me? Where can I go!" She left him; she walked slowly towards the lake, her head bowed.

He followed her. He had paid no attention to what she was saying; "feminine complications"--this was all he thought. He was very masterful with women.

As he came up she turned her head and looked at him. And, by a sort of inspiration, he divined that the look was a farewell. He caught her, and none too soon, for, as he touched her, he felt the impulse, the first forward movement of the spring which would have taken her over the edge, down to the deep water below.

Carrying her in his arms, close against his breast, he hastened away from the edge; he went inland for a long distance. Then he stopped, releasing her. He was extremely pale.

"I believe you now," he said. "All shall be as you like--just as you like; I will do anything you wish me to do." He seemed to be still afraid, he watched her anxiously.

She came and put her hands on his shoulders; she lifted her head and kissed his cheek. It was like the kiss one gives in the chamber of death.

He did not move, he was holding himself in strict control. But he felt the misery of her greeting so acutely that moisture rose in his eyes.

She saw it. "Don't be troubled about me," she said. "I didn't want to die--really, I didn't want to at all. It was only because just at that moment I could not bear it to have you keep asking me when it was impossible,--I felt that I must go away; and apart from you, and Cicely and baby, there seemed no place in the world for me! But now--now I _want_ to live. Perhaps we shall both live long lives."