Part 19

The wind was stronger now, and it began to make a noise too, as it crossed the lake.

"Jacky, Jacky, you _must_ answer me."

"Ess."

A crashing peal of thunder broke over their heads; when it had ceased, she could hear the poor little lad crying. His boat must have drifted, for his voice came from a new direction.

"I am coming directly to you, Jacky," she called, altering her course rapidly.

The thunder began again, and filled her ears. When it ceased, all was still.

"Jacky! Jacky!"

No answer.

And now there came another cry: "Eve, where are you? Wait for me." It was Cicely.

"This way," called Eve.

She never dreamed that Cicely was alone; she supposed that the Irishman had taken heart of grace and ventured back. But presently a canoe touched hers, and there in the night she saw Cicely all alone, like a phantom. "Baby?" demanded Cicely, holding the edge of Eve's boat.

"I heard him only a moment ago," answered Eve, as excited as herself. "Jacky! Jacky!"

No reply.

Then Cicely's voice sounded forth clearly: "It's mamma, Jack. Speak to mamma."

"Mam-ma!" came the answer. A distant sound, but full of joy.

Eve put her paddle in the water again. "Wait," said Cicely. And she stepped from her canoe into Eve's, performing the difficult feat without hesitation or tremor. The other canoe was abandoned, and Eve was off with a strong stroke.

"Call," she said.

Cicely called, and Jack answered.

"Call again."

"His poor little throat will be so tired!" said Cicely, her own voice trembling.

"We _must_," said Eve.

"Jack-y!"

"Ess."

On they went, never reaching him, though he answered four times; for, in spite of the intensity of Eve's exertion, the sound constantly changed its direction. Cicely called to her child, she sang to him; she even laughed. "How slow you are!" she said to Eve. "Don't stop."

"I stopped to listen."

But presently they were both listening in vain. Jack's voice had ceased.

The wind now blew not in gusts, but steadily. Eve still rowed with all her strength, in reality at random, though; with each new flash of lightning she took a new direction, so that her course resembled the spokes of a wheel.

"He has of course fallen asleep," said Cicely. "He is always so good about going to bed."

Their canoe now rose and fell perceptibly; the tranquillity of the lake was broken, it was no longer gray glass, nor a black floor; first there was a swell; then little waves showed themselves; by-and-by these waves had crests. Eve, kneeling on the bottom, exerted all her intelligence to keep the boat in the right position.

"These canoes never tip over when left alone; it's only when people try to guide them," said Cicely, confidently. "Now Jack's just like no one; he's so very light, you know."

Words were becoming difficult, their canoe rose on the crest of one wave, then plunged down into the hollow behind it; then rose on the next. A light flared out on their left; it was low down, seeming below their own level.

"They have kindled--a fire--on the beach," called Eve. She was obliged to call now, though Cicely was so near.

"Yes. Porley," Cicely answered.

They were not so far out as they had thought; the light of the fire showed that. Perhaps they had been going round in a circle.

Eve was now letting the boat drift; Jack's canoe was drifting, the same currents and wind might take theirs in the same direction; it was not very long since they had heard his last cry, he could not be far away. The lightning had begun to come in great sheets of white light; these were blinding, but if one could bear to look, they lit up the surface of the water for an instant with extraordinary distinctness. Cicely, from her babyhood so impressionable to lightning, let its glare sweep over her unmoved; but her beautiful eyes were near-sighted, she could not see far. Eve, on the contrary, had strong eyesight, and after what seemed a long time (it was five minutes), she distinguished a dark, low outline very near at hand; she sent the boat in that direction with all her might.

"It's Jack!" she called to Cicely.

Cicely, holding on to the sides of the canoe, kept her head turned, peering forward with her unseeing eyes into the alternating darkness and dazzling glare. The flashes were so near sometimes that it seemed as if they would sweep across them, touch them, and shrivel them up.

Now they approached the other boat; they came up to it on the crest of a wave. Cicely took hold of its edge, and the two boats went down into the hollow behind together.

"Sit--in the centre--as much--as you can," Eve shouted. Then, being the taller, she rose, and in the next flash looked within. There lay Jack in the bottom, probably unconscious, a still little figure with a white face.

"He's there," she called, triumphantly. And then they went up on the next wave together, and down again.

"Slip--your hand--along--to the end," Eve called.

Cicely obeyed.

The second canoe, which all her strength had scarcely been able to hold alongside, now accompanied them more easily, towed by its stern. If it could have followed them instead of accompanying them, that would have been easier still; but Cicely's seat was at the bow, and Eve did not dare to risk a change of places; with the boat in tow, she paddled towards the shore as well as she could, guided by the fire, which was large and bright, poor Porley, owing to whose carelessness in the second place the accident had occurred (Eve's in the first place), expending in the collecting of dry fuel all the energy of her repentance and her grief. They were not very far out, but progress was difficult; Eve was not an expert; she did not know how to allow for the opposition, the dead weight, of the second canoe attached to the bow of her own; every now and then, owing to her lack of skill, the wind would strike it, and drive it from her so strongly that it seemed as if the connecting link, Cicely's little arm, would be drawn from its socket. The red glow of the fire looked human and home-like to these wanderers,--should they ever reach it? The waves grew more formidable as they approached the beach,--they were like breakers; Eve did her best, yet their progress seemed snail-like. At length, when they were so far in that she could distinguish the figures of Porley and the Irishman outlined against the fire, there came a breaker which struck the second canoe full on its side, filling it with water. Cicely gave a wild shriek of rage as it was forced from her grasp. At the same instant the aunt, leaving the paddle behind her, sprang into the sinking craft, and, seizing the child, went down with him into the dark lake.

She came up again, grasping the side of the boat; with one arm she lifted the boy, and gave him to his mother, an enormous effort, as his little body was rigid and heavy--like death.

And then they got ashore, they hardly knew how, though it took a long time, Eve clinging to the stern and Cicely paddling, her child at her feet; the Irishman came to their assistance as soon as he could, the wind drove them towards the beach; Porley helped when it came to the landing. In reality they were blown ashore.

Jack was restored. As Eve ceased her rubbing--she had worked over him for twenty minutes--and gave him alive and warm again to his mother's arms, Cicely kissed her cheek. "Bend down your head, Eve; I want to tell you that I forgive you everything. There is nothing the matter with me now; I understand and know--all; yet I forgive you,--because you have saved my child."

XXIX.

Priscilla Mile, close-reefed as to her skirts, and walking solidly, reached the shipwrecked party soon after nine o'clock; as she came by the beach, the brilliant light of Porley's fire guided her, as it had guided Cicely and Eve out on the dark lake. Priscilla asked no questions, her keen eyes took in immediately Eve's wet clothes and Jack's no clothes, the child being wrapped merely in a shawl. She said to the Irishman, who was wet also: "Patrick Carty, you go back to the camp, you run just as fast as you can split; tell them what's happened, and let them send for us as soon as they can. 'Taint going to rain much, I guess."

The man hesitated.

"Well, what are you about?" asked Mrs. Mile, walking up to him threateningly, her beetle shawl-pins shining in the fire-light.

The Irishman, who had been in a confused state ever since Cicely had forced his canoe into the water again after he had hauled it up on the beach, and had beaten his hands off fiercely with the oar when he had tried to stop her progress--a little creature like that turning suddenly so strong--answered, hurriedly, "It's goin' I am; ye can see it yersilf!" and was off like a shot. "_Wan_ attack from a fimmale will do!" was his thought.

The nurse then effected a change of dress; with the aid of part of her own clothing and part of Cicely's and Porley's, she got Eve and Jack into dry garments of some sort, Jack being wrapped in a flannel petticoat. The wind had grown much more violent, but the strange atmospheric conditions had passed away; the lightning had ceased. It was now an ordinary gale, the waves dashed over the beach, and the wind drove by with a shriek; but it was not cold. The four women sheltered themselves as well as they could, Cicely holding Jack closely; she would not let any one else touch him.

A little after two o'clock the crouched group heard a sound, and Hollis appeared in the circle of light shed by the flaring wind-swept fire. He bore a load of provisions and garments in baskets, in a sack suspended from his neck, in bags dangling from his arms, as well as in his hands and pockets; he had even brought a tea-kettle; it was a wonder how he had come so far with such a load, the wind bending him double. Priscilla Mile made tea as methodically as though the open beach, with the roaring water and the shrieking gale, had been a quiet room. Hollis watched them eat with an eagerness so intense that unconsciously his face made masticating movements in sympathy. When they had finished, a start passed over him, as if he were awakening, and, making a trumpet of his hands, he shouted to Cicely: "Must go now; 'f I don't, the old _judge_'ll be trying to get here. Back--with _boat_--soon as _ca-a-an_."

"I'll take your _coat_, if you don't mind," said Mrs. Mile, shrieking at him in her turn; "then Miss _Bruce_ can have this _shawl_." And she tapped her chest violently to show him her meaning. Hollis denuded himself, and started.

With the first light of dawn he was back. They reached the camp about ten o'clock the next morning.

At three in the afternoon Cicely woke from a sleep of four hours. Her first movement was to feel for Jack.

Jack was sitting beside her, playing composedly with four spools and a little wooden horse on rollers.

"We'd better dress him now, hadn't we?" suggested Mrs. Mile, coming forward. She spoke in her agreeing voice; Mrs. Mile's voice agreed beforehand that her patients should agree with her.

"I will dress him," said Cicely, rising.

"I wouldn't, now, if I were you, Mrs. Morrison; you're not strong enough."

"Where is my dress?" asked Cicely, looking about her.

"You don't want anything, surely, but your pretty blue wrapper?" said Mrs. Mile, taking it from its nail.

"Bring me my thick dress and my walking-shoes, please."

They were brought.

Eve came in while Cicely was dressing.

"Eve, who is this person?" Cicely demanded, indicating the nurse with a sideward wave of her head.

"Oh, I'm just a lady's maid--they thought you'd better have one; Porley, in that way, you know, isn't good for much," answered Mrs. Mile, readily.

"Whatever you are, I shall not need your services longer," said Cicely. "Do you think you could go to-night?"

"Certainly, ma'am; by the evening boat."

"There is no evening boat. I must have been ill a long while,--you talk in such a wheedling manner. I am well now, at any rate, and you can return to Port aux Pins whenever you like; no doubt you have been much missed there."

Mrs. Mile, giving Eve a significant look, went out.

The storm was over, but the air had turned much colder; the windows of the lodge were closed. Eve seated herself by the east window.

"I have been ill, then?" asked Cicely.

"Yes."

"I have been out of my mind?"

"Yes," Eve answered again, in a listless voice.

"I'm not so any longer,--you understand that?"

"I understand," Eve responded.

Her cheeks were white, the lines of her face and figure had fallen; she looked lifeless.

Cicely stopped her work of dressing Jack, and gazed at her sister-in-law for a moment or two; then she came and stood before her. "Perhaps you didn't understand what I said on the beach? I told you that I remembered everything, knew everything. And that I forgave you because you had saved baby; you jumped into the lake and saved him." She paused a moment; "I forgive you--yes; but never let us speak of it again--never on this earth;--do you hear?" And, putting her hands on Eve's shoulders, she pressed the palms down violently, as emphasis.

Then going back to Jack, she resumed the dressing. "It's the strangest thing in the world about a child. When it comes, you think you don't care about it--little red thing!--that you love your husband a million times more, as of course in many ways you do. But a new feeling comes too, a feeling that's like no other; it takes possession of you whether you want it to or not; it's stronger than anything else--than life or death. You would let yourself be cut to pieces, burned alive, for your _child_. Something came burning right through me when I knew that Jacky was in danger.--Never mind, Jacky, play away; mamma's not frightened now, and Jacky's her own brave boy.--It made everything clear, and I came to myself instantly. I shall never lose my senses again; though I might want to, I'm so miserable."

"And I, who think you fortunate!" said Eve.

Cicely turned her head and looked at her with parted lips.

"Ferdie loved you--"

"Oh, he cared for others too," said Cicely, bringing her little teeth together. "I know more than you think;--than Paul thinks." She went on hurriedly with her task.

A quiver had passed over Eve at the name. "You loved him, and he was your husband. But Paul can never take _me_ for his wife; you forgive, but he couldn't."

"You love Paul, then; is that it?" said Cicely, turning round again. "Now I remember--that day when I saw you in the woods. Why, Eve, he _did_ forgive you, he had you in his arms."

"He did not know. He does not know now."

"You haven't told him?"

"I couldn't."

Cicely paused, consideringly. "No, you could not," she said, with conviction. "And he can never marry you." She sat down on the side of the bed and folded her hands.

"Not when he knows," Eve answered.

"And were you going to deceive him, not let him know?"

"That is what I tried to do," said Eve, sombrely. "You were the only person who knew (you knew because I had told you), and you were out of your mind; his love came to me,--I took it."

"Especially as you loved him!"

"Yes, I loved him."

"I'm glad you do," said Cicely; "now you won't be so lofty. _Now_ you understand, perhaps, how I felt about Ferdie, and why I didn't mind, no matter what he did?"

"Yes, now I understand."

"Go on; what made you change your mind? Was it because I had got back my senses, and you were afraid I should tell?" She spoke with a jeer in her voice.

"No; it changed of itself when I saw baby out in that boat alone--my brother's poor little child. I said then,'O, let me save him, and I'll give up everything!'"

"And supposing that nothing had happened to Jack, and that I had not got back my senses, how could you even then have married Paul, Eve Bruce?--let let him take as his wife a woman who did what you did?"

"What I did was not wrong," said Eve, rising, a spot of red in each cheek. She looked down upon little Cicely. "It was not wrong," she repeated, firmly.

"'Blood for blood'?" quoted Cicely, with another jeer.

"Yes, that is what Paul said," Eve answered. And she sank down again, her face in her hands.

"You say you have given him up;--are you going to tell him the reason why you do it?" pursued Cicely, with curiosity.

"How can I?"

"Well, it would keep him from pursuing you,--if he does pursue."

"I don't want him to stop!"

"Oh! you're not in earnest, then; you are going to marry him, after all? See here, Eve, I'll be good; I'll never tell him, I'll promise."

"No," said Eve, letting her hands fall; "I gave him up when I said, 'If I can only save baby!'" Her face had grown white again, her voice dull.

"What are you afraid of? Hell? At least you would have had Paul here. _I_ should care more for that than for anything else."

"We're alike!" said Eve.

"If we are, do it, then; I should. It's a muddle, but that is the best way out of it."

"You don't understand," Eve replied. "What I'm afraid of is Paul himself."

"When he finds out?"

"Yes."

"I told you I wouldn't tell."

"Oh, any time; after death--in the next world."

"You believe in the next world, then?"

"Yes."

"Well, I should take all the happiness I could get in this," remarked Cicely.

"I care for it more than you do--more than you do?" said Eve, passionately.

Cicely gave a laugh of pure incredulity.

"But I _cannot_ face it--his finding out," Eve concluded.

Cicely gazed at her. "How handsome you are to-day! What are men, after all? Poor things compared to _us_. What wouldn't we do for them when we love them?--what _don't_ we do? And what do they ever do for us in comparison? Paul--he ought to be at your feet for such a love as you have given him; instead of that, we both know that he _would_ mind; that he couldn't rise above it, couldn't forget. See here"--she ran to Eve, and put her arms round her, excitedly--"supposing that he is better than we think,--supposing that I should go to him and tell him the whole, and that he should come here and say: 'What difference does that make, Eve? We will be married to-morrow.'" And she looked up at Eve, her dark little face flushed for the moment with unselfish hopefulness.

"No," answered Eve, slowly, "he couldn't, he loved Ferdie so!" She raised her right hand and looked at it. "He would see me holding it--taking aim--"

Cicely drew away, she struck Eve's hand down with all her force. Then she ran sobbing to the bed, where Jack, half dressed, had fallen asleep again, and threw herself down beside him. "Oh, Ferdie! Ferdie!" she sobbed, in a passion of grief.

Eve did not move.

After a while Cicely dried her eyes and rose; she woke Jack, and finished dressing him in silence; kneeling down, she began to put on his shoes.

The child rolled his little wooden horse over her shoulder. Then he called: "Old Eve! old Eve! Pum here, an' det down; I want to roll de hortie on _you_, too."

Eve obeyed; she took up the other little shoe.

"Oh, well," said Cicely, her voice still choked with sobs, "we can't help it, Eve--as long as we've got him between us; he's a tie. We shall have to make the best of each other, I suppose."

"May I go with you to Romney?" Eve asked, in a low tone.

"How can you want to go _there_?" demanded Cicely, her eyes beginning to flash again.

"I know.--But I don't want to leave Jack and you. If you would take me--"

They said but a few words more. Yet it was all arranged; they would go to Romney; Paul was to know nothing of it.

XXX.

Cicely thought of everything, she ordered everything; she and Eve had changed places. It was decided that they should take a North Shore steamer; this would carry them eastward to the Sault by a route far away from Port aux Pins. Mrs. Mile was to be sent back to that flourishing town on the day of their own departure, but preceding it in time by several hours; she would carry no tidings because she would know none. Hollis was to be taken into their confidence in a measure--he was to be informed that this change of plan was a necessity, and that Paul must not hear of it.

"He will do what we tell him to do," Cicely remarked.

"Oh, yes," said Eve, assentingly.

The first North Shore steamer would not pass before the morning of the third day. For twenty-four hours Eve remained inert, she did nothing. The judge, troubled, but inexpressibly excited at the prospect of never seeing Port aux Pins again; of getting away from these cold woods, and in a few days from these horrible great lakes; of soon breathing once more the air of his dear, warm, low-lying country, with its old plantations, its old towns, its old houses and old friends, hurried about wildly, trotting hither and thither on many errands, but without accomplishing much. On the second day Eve's mood changed, and a feverish activity took possession of her also; she was up and out at dawn, she did everything she could think of, she worked incessantly. By noon there was nothing more left to do, and there still remained the whole half of the day, and the night.

"I think I'll go out on the lake," she said to Cicely.

"Yes, row hard; tire yourself," Cicely answered.

She spoke coldly, though the advice she offered was good. She was trying hard to be kind to Eve during these difficult last hours when Paul was still so near; but though she did her best, she often failed. "You'd better not come back until nearly dark," she added; "we've got to be together through the long journey, you know."

"Very well," Eve replied.

It was a brilliant afternoon, the air was clear; already the woods had an autumn look. Eve paddled eastward for some time; then she came back and went out to Jupiter Light. Beaching her canoe, she strolled to and fro for a while; then she sat down. The water came up and laved the reef with a soft, regular sound, the Light loomed above her; presently a man came out of the door and locked it behind him.

"Good-afternoon, mum," he said, pausing on his way to his boat. "From the camp down below, ain't yer?"

"Yes."

"Well, I'm going the other way _myself_. Want to be light-keeper for an hour or two?" This jocularly.

It was the man who had come down with a lantern and preceded her and Paul up the stairs to the little room at the top.

"There's some one else above, isn't there?" she asked.

"No, mum; all three of us off ter-day. But me and John Rail'll be back afore dark; you won't tell on us, I guess?" He gave a toothless smile and pushed off, nodding slightly in farewell as the distance between them increased. He went eastward round the point; his boat was soon out of sight.

Eve sat gazing at the Light; she recalled the exact tones of Paul's voice as he said, "_Don't_ you want to go up?" Then they had climbed up, and down again; and how sweet and strange and exciting it was! Then he had rowed the canoe home; how delightful it had been to sit there and feel the boat dart forward under his strong strokes in the darkness!--for night had come on while they lingered on the reef. Then she remembered her anger when he said, as he was helping her out, "I saw how much you wanted to go!" It seemed so strange that she should ever have been angry with him; she could never be so again, no matter what he might do. She tried to think of the things he might do; for instance, he might marry (she had almost said "marry again"). "I ought to wish that he might find some one--" But she could go no further, that was the end of that line of thought; she could not wish anything of the kind. She pressed her hands together in bitter, hot rebellion. But even her rebellion was without hope. She had been sitting with her feet crossed before her; she drew up her knees, put her arms upon them, and her head on her arms. She sat thus a long time.

A voice said, "Eve!"

With a start she raised her head. Paul stood there beside her.

"You did not expect to see me. But I had word. Hollis got one of the men off secretly as soon as he could; he was ashamed to see me treated so."