Jupiter Lights Part 52

"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 hea.r.s.e-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 s.p.a.ce 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 pa.s.sed 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. Pa.s.sively 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.