Jupiter Lights Part 5

"That song?"

"'n.i.g.g.e.rless,'" quoted Eve, indignantly.

"Well, we are n.i.g.g.e.rless, or nearly so," said Miss Sabrina, mystified.

"It's the word, the term."

"Oh, you mean n.i.g.g.e.r? It is very natural to us to say so. I suppose you prefer negroes? If you like, I will try to call them so hereafter.

Negroes; yes, negroes." She p.r.o.nounced it "nig-roes." "I don't know whether I have told you," she went on, "how much Cicely dislikes dreams?"

"Well she may!" was the thought of Jack Bruce's sister. What she said, with a short laugh, was, "You had better tell her to be careful about eating hot breads."

"Would you have her eat _cold_ bread?" said Miss Sabina, in surprise. "I didn't mean that her nights were disturbed; I only meant that she dislikes the _telling_ of dreams--a habit so common at breakfast, you know. I thought I would just mention it."

Eve gave another abrupt laugh. "Do you fear I am going to tell her mine?

She would not find them all of sugar."

"I did not mean yours especially. She has such a curious way of shutting her teeth when people begin--such pretty little white teeth as they are, too, dear child! And she doesn't like reading aloud either."

"That must be a deprivation to you," said Eve, her tone more kindly.

"It is. I have always been extremely fond of it. Are you familiar with Milton? His 'Comus'?"

"'Sabrina fair, listen where thou art sitting?" quoted Eve, smiling.

"Yes.

"'Sabrina fair, listen where thou art sitting, Under the gla.s.sy, cool, translucent wave, In twisted braids of lilies knitting--'"

said the Southern lady in her murmurous voice. "You don't know what a pleasure it has always been to me that I am named Sabrina. The English originated 'Comus;' I like the English, they are so cultivated."

"Do you see many of them here?"

"Not many. I am sorry to say my father does not like them; he thinks them affected."

"That is the last thing I should call them."

"Well, those who come here really do say 'serpents' and 'crocodiles.'"

"Do you mean as an oath?" said Eve, thinking vaguely of "Donner und blitzen."

"As an oath? I have never heard it used in that way," answered Miss Sabrina, astonished. "I mean that they call the snakes serpents, and the alligators crocodiles; my father thinks that so very affected."

Thus the wan-cheeked mistress of Romney endeavored to entertain their guest.

That night Eve was sitting by her fire. The mattress of Meadows was no longer on the floor; the English girl had started on her return journey the day before, escorted to the pier by all the blacks of the island, respectful and wondering. The presence of little Jack asleep in his crib behind a screen, with Dilsey on her pallet beside him, made the large wind-swept chamber less lonely; still its occupant felt overwhelmed with gloom. There was a light tap at the door, and Cicely entered; she had taken off her gay blue frock, and wore a white dressing-gown. "I thought I'd see if you were up." She went across and looked at Jack for a moment; then she came back to the fire. "You haven't touched your hair, nor unb.u.t.toned a b.u.t.ton; are you always like that?"

"Like what?"

"Trim and taut, like a person going out on horse-back. I should love to see you with your hair down; I should love to see you run and shriek!"

"I fear you are not likely to see either."

Cicely brought her little teeth together with a click. "I've got to get something over in the north wing; will you come? The wind blows so, it's splendid!"

"I will go if you wish," said Eve.

They went down the corridor and turned into another, both of them lighted by the streaks of moonlight which came through the half-closed or broken shutters; the moon was nearly at its full, and very brilliant; a high wind was careering by outside--it cried at the corner of the house like a banshee. At the end of the second hall Cicely led the way through a labyrinth of small dark chambers, now up a step, now down a step, hither and thither; finally opening a door, she ushered Eve into a long, high room, lighted on both sides by a double row of windows, one above the other. Here there were no shutters, and the moonlight poured in, making the empty s.p.a.ce, with its white walls and white floor, as light as day. "It's the old ballroom," said Cicely. "Wait here; I will be back in a moment." She was off like a flash, disappearing through a far door.

Eve waited, perforce. If she had felt sure that she could find her way back to her room, she would have gone; but she did not feel sure. As to leaving Cicely alone in that remote and disused part of the house, at that late hour of the night, she cared nothing for that; Eve was hard with people she did not like; she did not realize herself how hard she was. She went to one of the windows and looked out.

These lower windows opened on a long veranda. The veranda was only a foot above the ground; any one, Eve reflected, could cross its uneven surface and look in; she almost expected to see some one cross, and peer in at her, his face opposite hers on the other side of the pane. The moonlight shone on the swaying evergreens; within sight were the waters of the Sound. Presently she became conscious of a current of wind blowing through the room, and turned to see what caused it. There had been no sound of an opening door, or any other sound, but a figure was approaching, coming down the moonlit s.p.a.ce rapidly with a waving motion.

It was covered with something transparent that glittered and shone; its outlines were vague. It came nearer and nearer, without a sound. Then a ma.s.s of silvery gauze was thrown back, revealing Cicely attired in an old-fas.h.i.+oned ball dress made of lace interwoven with silver threads and decked with little silvery stars; there was a silver belt high up under her arms, and a wreath of the silvery stars shone in her hair. She stood a moment; then s.n.a.t.c.hing up the gauze which had fallen at her feet, she held one end of it, and let the other blow out on the strong cold wind which now filled the room. With this cloudy streamer in her hand, she began lightly and noiselessly to dance, moving over the moonlit floor, now with the gauze blowing out in front of her, now waving behind her as she flew along. Suddenly she let it drop, and, coming to Eve, put her arms round her waist and forced her forward. Eve resisted. But Cicely's hands were strong, her hold tenacious; she drew her sister-in-law down the room in a wild gallopade. In the midst of it, giving a little jump, she seized Eve's comb. Eve's hair, already loosened, fell down on her shoulders. Cicely clapped her hands, and began to take little dancing steps to the tune of "n.i.g.g.e.rless, n.i.g.g.e.rless, nig-ig-ig-gerless!"

chanted in a silvery voice. When she came to "less," she held out her gleaming skirt, and dipped down in a wild little courtesy.

Eve picked up her comb and turned back towards the door.

Cicely danced on ahead, humming her song; they pa.s.sed through the labyrinth of dark little rooms, the glimmering dress acting as guide through the dimness. Cicely went as far as the second hall; here she stopped.

"It's the wind, you know," she said, in her usual voice; "when it blows like this, I always have to do something; sometimes I call out and shout. But I don't care for it, really; I don't care for anything!" Her face, as she spoke, looked set and melancholy. She opened a door and disappeared.

The next day there was nothing in her expression to indicate that there had been another dance at Romney the night before, besides the one at the negro quarters.

Eve was puzzled. She had thought her so unimaginative and quiet; "a pa.s.sionless, practical little creature, cool and unimpulsive, whose miniature beauty led poor Jack astray, and made him believe that she had a soul!" This had been her estimate. She was alone with the baby; she took him to the window and looked at him earnestly. The little man smiled back at her, playing with the c.r.a.pe of her dress. No, there was nothing of Cicely here; the blue eyes, golden hair, and frank smile--all were his father over again.

"We'll make that Mr. Morrison come back, baby; and then you and I will go away together," she whispered, stroking his curls.

"Meh Kiss'm," said Jack. It was as near as he could come to "Merry Christmas."

"Before another Christmas I'll get you away from her _forever_!"

murmured the aunt, pa.s.sionately.

V.

"Out rowing? If you are doing it to entertain me--" said Eve.

"I should never think of that; there's only one thing here that entertains you, and that's baby," Cicely answered. She spoke without insistence; her eyes had their absent-minded expression.

"Cicely, give him to me," Eve began. She must put her wish into words some time. "If I could only make you feel how much I long for it! I will devote my life to him; and it will be a pleasure to me, a charity, because I am so alone in the world. You are not alone; you have other ties. Listen, Cicely, I will make any arrangement you like; you shall always have the first authority, but let me have him to live with me; let me take him away when I go. I will even acknowledge everything you have said: my brother _was_ much older than you were; it's natural that those months with him should seem to you now but an episode--something that happened at the beginning of your life, but which need not go on to its close."

"I _was_ young," said Cicely, musingly.

"Young to marry--yes."