CHAPTER XXXVIII.
UNDER THE SPELL.
The autumn days ran out and in the depth of the southern woods, here andthere, the black gums and sweet gums began to flame. And with them camethe day when the bandages were removed from the eyes of the gentle womanat the hall. The family gathered about the little figure in thesitting-room. Edward Morgan with them, and Col. Montjoy lowered thebandage. The room had been darkened and all light except what camethrough one open shutter had been excluded. There was a moment ofpainful silence; Mary tightly clasping her mother's hands. The invalidturned her face to the right and left, and then to the window.
"Light," she said gently. "I see."
"Thank God!" The words burst from the old man's lips and his arms wentaround mother and daughter at once. For quicker than he the girl hadglided in between them and was clasping the beloved form. Edward said afew words of congratulation and passed outside. The scene was sacred.
Then came days of practice. The eyes so long darkened must be accustomedto the light and not strained. Upon that weak vision, little by little,came back the world, the trees and flowers, the faces of husband anddaughter and friends. It was a joyful season at the hall.
A little sadder, a little sterner than usual, but with his fine faceflushed in sympathetic feeling, the old general came to add hiscongratulations. Now nothing remained but to prepare for Paris, and allwas bustle.
A few more nights and then--departure!
Mary was at the piano, playing the simple music of the south and singingthe songs which were a part of the air she had breathed all herlife--the folk songs of the blacks.
Col. Montjoy had the Duchess on his lap to hear "the little boy in hiswatch crack hickory nuts" and the monotonous cracking of the nutsmingling with the melody of the musician had put both asleep.
Mary and Edward went to the veranda, and to them across the field camethe measured tread of feet, the call of the fiddler, and now and thenstrains of music, such as the negro prefers.
Edward proposed an excursion to witness the dance, and the girl assentedgladly. She was herself a born dancer; one whose feet were set to rhythmin infancy.
They reached the long house, a spacious one-room edifice, with lowrafters but a broad expanse of floor, and stood at the door. Coupleafter couple passed by in the grand promenade, the variety andincongruities of colors amusing Edward greatly. Every girl in passingcalled repeatedly to "missy," the name by which Mary was known on theplantation, and their dusky escorts bowed awkwardly and smiled.
Suddenly the lines separated and a couple began to dance. Edward, whohad seen the dancers of most nations, was delighted with the abandon ofthese. The man pursued the girl through the ranks, she eluding him withease, as he was purposely obstructed by every one. His object was tokeep as near her as possible for the final scene. At last she reappearedin the open space and hesitating a moment, her dusky face wreathed insmiles, darted through the doorway. There was a shout as her escortfollowed. If he could catch her before she reentered at the oppositedoor she paid the penalty. Before Edward realized the situation the girlwas behind him. He stepped the wrong way, there was a collision, and ereshe could recover, her pursuer had her in his arms. There was a moment'sstruggle; his distinct smack proved his success, and if it had not, theresounding slap from the broad hand of his captive would have betrayedmatters.
On went the dance. Mary stood patting time to the music of the violin inthe hands of old Morris, the presiding genius of the festival, who bentand genuflected to suit the requirements of his task. As the revel grewwilder, as it always does under the stimulus of a spectator's presence,she motioned to Edward, and entering, stood by the player.
"In all your skill," she said, "you cannot equal this." For reply theyoung man, taking advantage of a pause in the rout, reached over andtook the well-worn instrument from the hands of the old man. There was abuzz of interest. Catching the spirit of the scene he drew the bow andgave them the wild dance music of the Hungarians. They respondedenthusiastically and the player did not fail.
Then, when the tumult had reached its climax, there was a crash, andwith bow in air Edward, flushed and excited, stood gazing upon thecrowd. Then forty voices shouted:
"Missy! Missy!" On the impulse of the moment they cheered and clappedtheir hands.
All eyes were turned to Mary. She looked into the face of the player;his eyes challenged hers and she responded, instinctively the duskyfigures shrank to the wall and alone, undaunted, the slender girl stoodin the middle of the deserted floor. Edward played the gypsy dance,increasing the time until it was a passionate melody, and Mary began.Her lithe form swayed and bent and glided in perfect response to theplayer, the little feet twinkling almost unseen upon the sandy boards.Such grace, such allurements, he had never before dreamed of. Andfinally, breathless, she stood one moment, her hand uplifted, thetriumphant interpreter of his melody. With mischievous smile, she sprangfrom the door, her face turned backward for one instant.
Releasing the instrument, Edward followed in perfect forgetfulness ofself and situation. But when, puzzled, he appeared alone at the oppositedoor, he heard her laugh in the distance--and memory overwhelmed himwith her tide.
He was pale and startled and the company was laughing. He cast a handfulof money among them and in the confusion that followed made his escape.Mary was waiting demurely in the path.
"It was perfect," he said, breaking the awkward silence.
"Any one could dance to that music," was her reply.
Silently they began their return. An old woman sat in her cabin door, afire of chunks making a red spot in the gloom behind.
"We go to-morrow, Aunt Sylla. Is it for good or ill?" The woman was oldand wrinkled. She was the focus of all local superstition; one of theante-bellum voodoos. If her pewter spoons had been gold, her few beadsdiamonds, she might have left the doors unbarred without danger.
Mary had paused and asked the question to draw out the odd character forher friend.
"In the woods the clocks of heaven strike 11! Jeffers, who was neverborn, speaks out," was the strange reply.
"In the woods," said Mary, thoughtfully, "the dew drips tinkling fromthe leaves; Jeffers, the redbird, was never born, but hatched. What doeshe say, Aunt Sylla?" The woman was trying to light her pipe. Absence oftobacco was the main cause of her failure. Edward crushed a cigar andhanded it to her. When she had lighted it she lifted the blazing chunkand her faded eyes looked steadily upon the young man.
"He says the gentleman will come some day and bring much tobacco." Thegirl laughed, but the darkness hid her blushes.
"In the meantime," said Edward cheerfully, placing a silver coin in herhand, "you can tell your friend Jeffers that you are supplied."
The negro's prophecy is usually based on shrewd guesses. Sylla graspedthe coin with the eagerness of a child receiving a new doll. She pointedher finger at him and looked to the girl. Mary laughed.
"Keep still a moment, Mr. Morgan," she said, "I must rob you."
She took a strand or two of his hair between her little fingers andplucked them out. Edward would not have flinched had there been fifty."Now something you have worn--what can it be? Oh, a button." She tookhis penknife and cut from his coat sleeve one of its buttons. "There,Aunt Sylla, if you are not successful with them I shall never forgiveyou." The old woman took the hair and the button and relapsed intosilent smoking.
"I am a little curious to know what she is going to do with thosethings," said Edward. Mary looked at him shyly.
"She is going to protect you," she said. "She will mix a little groundglass and a drop of chicken blood with them, and sew all in a tiny bag.No negro alive or dead would touch you then for the universe, and shouldyou touch one of them with that charm it would give them catalepsy. Youwill get it to-morrow."
"She is arming me with a terrible power at small cost," he replied,dryly.
"Old Sylla is a prophetess," said the girl, "as well as a voodoo, andthere is with us a tradition that death in the fa
mily will follow herevery visit to the house. It is strange, but within our memory it hasproved true. My infant brother, my only sister, mamma's brother, papa'ssister, an invalid northern cousin spending the winter here--all theirdeaths were preceded by the appearance of old Sylla."
"And is her success in prophecy as marked?"
"Yes, so far as I know." She hesitated a moment. "Her prediction as tomyself has not had time to mature."
"And what was the prediction?"
"That some day a stranger would carry me into a strange land," she said,smiling; "and--break my heart."
They had reached the gate; except where the one light burned in thesitting-room all was darkness and silence. Edward said gently, as hestood holding open the gate:
"I am a stranger and shortly I will take you into a strange land, butmay God forget me if I break your heart." She did not reply, but withface averted passed in. The household was asleep. She carried the lampto his door and opened it. He took it and then her hand. For a momentthey looked into each other's eyes; then, gravely lifting the littlehand, he kissed it.
"May God forget me," he said again, "if I break your heart." He held thedoor open until she had passed down the stairs, her flushed face neverlifted again to his.
And then with the shutting of the door came darkness. But in the gloom awhite figure came from the front doorway, stood listening at the stairsand then as noiseless as a sunbeam glided down into the hall below.
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