Jupiter Lights. Woolson Constance Fenimore
to them, and be with them to cheer their time of trial. But now, separated from us, from our care and oversight, what can they do? If the people who have been so rash in freeing them had only thought of even that one thing! But I suppose they did not think of it, and naturally, because the abolitionist societies, we are told, were composed principally of old maids.”
Eve laughed. “Why can’t they have nurses, as other people do?”
“You don’t mean regular monthly nurses, of course?”
“Why not? – if they can afford to pay for them. They might club together to supply them.”
“Oh, I don’t think that would be at all appropriate, really. And Eve does not mean it, I assure you,” said Miss Sabrina, coming to the rescue; “her views are perfectly reasonable, dear Mrs. Singleton; you would be surprised.”
“You would indeed!” Eve thought.
But they talked no more of the nig-roes.
“How is Miss Hillsborough?” Miss Sabrina asked.
“Right well, I am glad to say. My dear Aunt Peggy, Miss Bruce; and what she is to me I can hardly tell you! You know I am something of a talker” – here Mrs. Singleton laughed softly. “And we are so much alone here now, that, were it not for Aunt Peggy, I should fairly have to talk to the chickens!” (One at least would be ready, Eve thought.) “Don’t you know that there are ever so many little things each day that we want to say to somebody?” Mrs. Singleton went on. “Thinking them is not enough. And these dear people, like Aunt Peggy, who sit still and listen; – it isn’t what they answer that’s of consequence; in fact they seldom say much; it’s just the chance they give us of putting our own thought into words and seeing how it looks. It does make such a difference.”
“You are fortunate,” Eve answered. “And then you have your little boy, too; Cicely has told me about him – Rupert; she says he is a dear little fellow.”
“Dear heart!” exclaimed Miss Sabrina, distressed. “Cicely is sometimes – yes – ”
But Mrs. Singleton laughed merrily. “I will show him to you presently,” she said.
“Mr. Singleton is so extraordinarily agreeable!” said Miss Sabrina, with unwonted animation.
“Oh yes, he is wonderful; and he is a statesman too, a second Patrick Henry. But then as regards the little things of each day, you know, we don’t go to our husbands with those.”
“What do you do, then? – I mean with the husbands,” Eve asked.
“I think we admire them,” answered Mrs. Singleton, simply.
Lucasta, the negro girl, now appeared with a tray. “Pray take some Madeira,” said their hostess, filling the tiny glasses. “And plum-cake.”
Eve declined. But Miss Sabrina accepted both refreshments, and Mrs. Singleton bore her company. The wine was unspeakably bad, it would have been difficult to say what had entered into its composition; but Madeira had formed part of the old-time hospitality of the house, and something that was sold under that name (at a small country store on the mainland opposite) was still kept in the cut-glass decanter, to be served upon occasion.
Presently a very tall, very portly, and very handsome old man (he well merited three verys) came in, leaning on a cane. “Miss Bruce – little Rupert; our dear little boy,” said Mrs. Singleton, introducing him. She had intended to laugh, but she forgot it; she gazed at him admiringly.
The master of the house put aside his cane, and looked about for a chair. As he stood there, helpless for an instant, he seemed gigantic.
Eve laughed.
Miss Sabrina murmured, “Pleasantry, dear Mr. Singleton; – our foolish pleasantry.”
After the old gentleman had found his chair and seated himself, and had drawn a breath or two, he gave a broad slow smile. “Nanny, are you in the habit of introducing me to your young lady friends as your dear little Rupert? – your little Rupe?”
“Rupe? Never!” answered Mrs. Singleton, indignantly.
“Only our foolish pleasantry,” sighed Miss Sabrina, apologetically.
“It was Cicely,” Eve explained.
“If it was Cicely, it was perfect,” the lame colossus answered, gallantly. “Cicely is heavenly. Upon my word, she is the most engaging young person I have ever seen in my life.”
He then ate some plum-cake, and paid Eve compliments even more handsome than these.
After a while he imparted the news; he had been down to the landing to meet the afternoon steamer, which brought tidings from the outside world. “Melton is dead,” he said. “You know whom I mean? Melton, the great stockbroker; one of the richest men living, I suppose.”
“Oh! where is his soul now?” said Mrs. Singleton. Her emotion was real, her sweet face grew pallid.
“Why, I have never heard that he was a bad man, especially,” remarked Eve, surprised.
“He was sure to be – making all that money; it could not be otherwise. Oh, what is his agony at this very moment!”
But Rupert did not sympathize with this mournfulness; when three ladies were present, conversation should be light, poetical. “Miss Bruce,” he said, turning towards Eve – he was so broad that that in itself made a landscape – “have you ever noticed the appropriateness of ‘County Guy’ to this neighborhood of ours?”
“No,” Eve answered. But the words brought her father to her mind with a rush: how often, when she was a child, had he beguiled a dull walk with a chant, half song, half declamation:
“Oh, County Guy, the hour is nigh,
The sun has left the lea.”
She looked at her host, but she did not hear him; a mist gathered in her eyes.
“‘Oh, County Guy, the hour is nigh,’”
began the colossus, placing his plum-cake on his knee provisionally.
“‘The sun has left the lea;
The orange flower perfumes the bower,
The breeze is on the sea.
The lark his lay who trilled all day
Sits hushed his partner nigh.
Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour;
But where is County Guy? ’
“The orange flower perfumes the bower; here we have the orange flower and the lea, the bower and the sea; and it’s very rarely that you find all four together. ‘The lark his lay who trilled all day’ – what music it is! There’s no one like Scott.”
His lameness prevented him from accompanying his guests on their walk back to the boat; he stood in the doorway leaning on his cane and waving a courtly farewell, while the chicken, with slowly considering steps, crossed the veranda and entered the drawing-room again.
“Miss Sabrina, please tell me what you know of Ferdinand Morrison,” Eve began, as soon as a turn in the road hid the old house from their view.
Miss Sabrina had expected to talk about the Singletons. “Oh, Mr. Morrison? we did not see him ourselves, you know.”
“But you must have heard.”
“Certainly, we heard. The Singletons are delightful people, are they not? So cultivated! Their house has always been one of the most agreeable on the Sound.”
“I dare say. But about Ferdinand Morrison?” Eve went on. For it was not often that she had so good an opportunity; at Romney, if there was no one else present, there were always the servants, who came in and out like members of the family. “Cicely met him first in Savannah, didn’t she?”
“Yes,” answered Miss Sabrina (but giving up the Singletons with regret); “she went to pay a visit to our