Jupiter Lights

“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.”

“No,” said Eve; “he wanted to give me a pleasure.” Nothing could have been more dreary than her tone, more desperate than her eyes, as she looked at him.

“Oh, why did you come here?” she went on.

“I didn’t believe it, Eve; I thought it was all gammon.”

“No; it’s true.”

“That you were going to leave me? – Going off without letting me know?”

“Yes.”

“Who has been talking to you? Cicely – now that she is herself again? She’s a murderous little creature.”

“I talked to her, I asked her to take me with her.”

“What is the matter with you?” said Paul. He bent and took her hands, and drew her to her feet. “Now I can look at you. – Tell me what you mean.”

“Baby came near being drowned. And it was my fault. That brought me to my senses.”

“It took you out of them!”

“I saw then that I had been thinking only of myself, my own happiness.”

“Oh, it would have been some happiness, would it?” said Paul, with a touch of sarcasm. He took her in his arms.

“Have you the least doubt about my love for you?” Eve asked.

He looked deep into her eyes, so near his own. “No, I haven’t.” And he rested his lips on hers.

She did not resist, she returned his kiss. Then she left him. “It’s like death to me, but I must. I shall never marry you.” She went towards her canoe.

Paul gave a laugh. “That’s a nice way to talk when I’ve been slaving over the house, and got all sorts of suffocating things you’ll like.” He came and took her hands off the boat’s edge. “Why, Eve,” he said, with sudden passion, “a week from to-day we shall be living there together.”

“Never together.”

“Why?”

“I can’t tell you, because it’s against myself. – I haven’t the strength to tell you.”

“Because it will make me think less of you? Not so much so as your trying to slip away from me unawares.”

“You think it wouldn’t. But it would.”

“Try me!”

She released herself from the grasp of his hands. “Oh, if the cases had been reversed, how little I should have minded! No matter what you had done, you would have been the same to me – God knows you would! In life, in death, before anything and everything, I should have adored you always, you would always have come first.”

“So it is with me,” said Paul.

“No, it is not. And it’s for that reason I am leaving you.”

Paul made no more use of words. What she had said had left no impression upon him – no impression of importance. He had never been so much in love with her as at this moment.

“Don’t you see how I am suffering? – I cannot bear it. Oh, leave me! let me go! Another minute and I shall not have the strength. – Don’t kiss me again. Listen! I shot Ferdie, your brother. I – I!”

Paul’s arms dropped. “Ferdie? Poor Ferdie?” The tears rushed to his eyes. “Why, some negroes did it.”

“There were no negroes. It was I.”

He stood there as if petrified.

With desperate courage, she launched her canoe. “You see now that I had to go. You could not marry a woman who – Not even if she did it to save – “ She waited an instant, looking at him. He did not speak. She pushed off, lingering a moment longer. “Forgive me for trying to deceive you those few days,” she said. Then, with quick strokes, she sent the boat westward. After a while, she changed her position, and, taking the other paddle, she began to row, so that she could look back the longer. His figure remained motionless for many minutes; then he sat down on the edge of his canoe. Thus she left him, alone under Jupiter Light.

XXXI

WHEN Eve reached the camp, after her parting with Paul, Cicely was waiting for her on the beach, alone; apparently she had sent every one away. “Well?” she said, as the canoe grated on the sand.

“I told him,” Eve answered.

“Everything?”

“Everything.”

“And he did not – ?”

“No, he did not.”

For an instant Cicely’s face expressed keen sympathy. Then her expression changed. “You did it, you know. You’ll have to pay for it!”

“Will you help me to get away?” Eve asked. – “I cannot see him again.”

“And do you imagine that by any chance he wishes to see you?” demanded Cicely, sarcastically.

“But he will have to come back here – he must; let me go away before he comes. We were leaving to-morrow in any case; help me off now,” Eve pleaded.

Cicely surveyed her with pitiless eyes; the once strong Eve now looked at her imploringly, her face despairing, her voice broken. Having had her satisfaction, the vindictive little creature turned, and, going back to the lodge, began to issue orders with imperative haste, as though she had but one wish in the world, namely, to help Eve; Mrs. Mile found herself working as she had never worked before; the Irishmen tumbled over each other; Porley and the cook constantly gallopaded – no other word could describe their gait. The judge worked fiercely; he helped in launching the canoes until the blood rushed to his head; he ran after the Irishmen; he carried Jack, he scolded Porley. And then, during one of these journeys, his strength failed so suddenly that he was obliged to sit down; as there was no bench near, he sat down on the ground.

Soon afterwards Mrs. Mile came by.

“Dear me! Do let me assist you,” she said sweetly.

“I am merely looking at the lake; it is charming this morning,” replied the judge, waving his hand.

“I could assist you so well,” said the nurse, coming nearer, “knowing, as I do, the exact position of all the muscles.”

“Muscles, madam? It’s more than I do! May I ask you to pass on?”

One of the Irishmen next appeared, carrying Jack’s pillows and toys.

“Can you tell me where Mr. Hollis is?” demanded the judge, still seated.

“Mr. Hollis, surr? Yes, surr. Think he’s gone fishing, surr.”

“D – n him! He takes a nice time for it – when we’re sweating here,” muttered the judge, angrily.

But poor Hollis was fishing only in a figurative sense, and in bitter waters. He had sent for Paul – yes; but he could not stay to witness his return with Eve; (he had not the slightest doubt but that Eve would return with him). He shook hands with Paul upon his arrival, and made a number of jokes, as usual. But soon after the younger man’s canoe had started eastward in search of Eve, a second canoe, with Hollis paddling, stole quietly away, going in the opposite direction. Its occupant reached Port aux Pins, in due time. He remained there but a few hours.

A month later a letter came to Paul from a small town near the base of the Rocky Mountains. “You see, when I got back to Port aux Pins, it sort of came over me that I’d go west. People are more lively out here, and not so crowded. I’ve got hold of a capital thing in raisins, in southern California. If that fails, there is stock-raising, and plenty of other things; and the same old auctioneer line. I’ve left a trifle in the savings-bank for Jacky. Perhaps you’ll take charge of it for him? You’ll hear from me again soon. – C. HOLLIS.”

But Paul never heard from him; from that moment all trace of him was lost. Ferdie, if he had known Hollis, would have had a vision of him making his way year by year farther westward, always attired in the black coat and tall hat (which marked his dignity as a lawyer), whether voyaging in a prairie schooner, chopping wood at a camp, hunting elk, or searching for ore. But Paul had no such visions, he did not see human lives as tableaux-vivants. He was sincerely sorry that Hollis had vamosed in that way. But he understood it too.

The trifle turned out to be eight hundred dollars. It was regularly entered to little Jack’s account, and there was a pass-book with his full name, “John Frederick Bruce.” “Bruce, – that did it,” thought Paul; “he could give it to the child. Poor old Kit! it must have been all he had.”

Cicely’s generalship was excellent; in less than half an hour the three canoes were ready, and the judge, Porley and Jack, Eve, Cicely herself, with three of the men to row, took their places; the boats glided out from the shore, turning towards the west. Mrs. Mile bowed gravely to the judge, with an air of compunction; she knew what an impression she had made upon that poor old man; she was afraid that she had not done right! Mrs. Mile was left in charge of the camp to await the arrival of Paul Tennant.

The canoes were out all night. At dawn the little party found refuge on one of the North Shore steamers, and began the long voyage down the chain of lakes, stopping again at the beautiful city of Cleveland, thence by railway to New York, and from there southward by sea. On the ninth morning of their journey their ocean steamer turned her bows towards the distant land, a faint line on the right; by noon, she was making her way along a winding channel, which was indicated here and there in the water by buoys painted white, which looked like ducks; the Atlantic was very calm, its hue was emerald green; it was so clear that one could see the great jelly-fish floating down below. The judge, with his hands clasped on his cane’s head, stood looking eagerly at everything. His joy was deep, he felt himself an exile returning home. And oh! how beautiful home was! To him, this Southern coast was fair as Paradise; he welcomed the dark hue of the Southern trees, he welcomed the neglected fields, he even welcomed the broken-down old houses here and there. For at least they were not staring, they were not noisy; to the judge, the smart new houses of Port aux Pins – those with Mansard roofs – had seemed to shout and yell. Three negro fishermen, passing in a row-boat with a torn sail, were eminently worthy creatures; they were not the impudent, well-dressed mulattoes of the North, who elbowed him off the pavements, who read newspapers on steamers with the air of men of the world. When the winding channel – winding through water – came to an end at the mouth of an inlet, the white sand-hills on each hand were more beautiful to his eyes than the peaks of the Alps, or the soft outline of Italian mountains. “God bless my country!” was the old man’s fervent thought. But his “country” was limited; it was the territory which lies between the St. Mary’s River and the Savannah.

At the little port within the inlet they disembarked, and took the small steamer of the Inside Route, which was to carry them through the sounds to Romney. Night had come on, dark and quiet; clouds covered the sky; the air was warm, for it was still summer here. The dusky shores, dimly visible on either hand, gave a sense of protection after the vastness of the ocean; the odors of flowers reached them, and seemed sweet after its blank, cold purity. Cicely, with Porley and Jack, was on the deck near the stern; the judge was now with them, now at the prow, now up-stairs, now down-stairs; he could not be still. Eve sat by herself on the forward deck, gazing through the darkness at the water; she could not see it save here and there in broken gleams, where the lights from the lower cabin shone across it; she heard the rushing sound made by the great paddle-wheels as they revolved unseen behind her, and the fancy came to her that she should like to be lashed to the outer rim of one of them, and be carried up and down through the cool water. Towards ten o’clock a beam shone out ahead. “See it?” said the judge, excitedly, coming to show it to her. “Jupiter Light!”

And Eve remembered that less than a year before she had landed here for the first time, a woman imperious, sufficient to herself; a woman who was sure that she could direct her own course; in addition, a woman who supposed herself to be unhappy. How like child’s play did this all seem now – her certainties, and her pride, and her supposed sorrow! “If I could die, wouldn’t that be the best thing for me, as well as for Paul? A way out of it all? The first shock over, I should be but a memory to him; I should not be a miserable haunting presence, wretched myself, and making him wretched too. I wonder – I wonder – is it wrong to try to die?”

The stern Puritan blood of her father in her answered, “One must not give up until one has exhausted every atom of one’s strength in the contest.”

“But if it is all exhausted? If – ” Here another feeling came sweeping over her. “No, I cannot die while he is in the world; in spite of my misery, I want to be here if he is here. Perhaps no knowledge of anything that happens here penetrates to the next world; if that is the case, I don’t want to be there, no matter how beautiful it may be. I want to stay where I can hear of Paul.”

After they had left the boat, and Pomp and Plato were hoisting the trunks into one of the wagons, Cicely came up.

“Eve, you must stay with me more, now that we are here; you mustn’t be always off by yourself.”

“I thought you preferred it.”

“Yes, through the journey. But not now. It’s a great deal worse for me now than it is for you; you have left Paul behind, but I am going to see Ferdie in a moment or two. I shall see him everywhere – in the road, at the door, in our own room; he will stand and look at me.”

“Well, you will like that.”

“No, for it will be only a mockery; I shall not be able to put my arms round him; he won’t kiss me.”

“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?”