"Get to blazes out of this! Help me in, ducky; oh, damn it, be quick! Get me some brandy, quick, quick! not all brandy, a little milk in it!"
The moon is high in the heavens, and the sea is running into the creek with a silver sheen on its back; the blinds are drawn up in the four windows of the bedroom, and the northern night is like unto day disguised in a domino of silver-gray crape.
He is sleeping. She is standing motionless at the window. The red of her dressing-gown and the moonlight make her face look more ghostlike, as she leans her head wearily against the window-frame. She is gazing sea-ward; a steamer has just passed, and the beacon in the lighthouse on Jomfru-land gleams like a great bright eye. In how many dreary vigils has it not greeted her and seemed to say: "Courage! I too am watching; you are not alone!"
At the end of the wood two tents are pitched, and she can see two figures outlined against the white palings,—the Romany girl and the youth with the gold ear-rings. He is holding her in his arms. The dog-chains rattle now and then; something brown and stealthy creeps about the duck-house; the white mists in the marshy bit of meadow lying next the creek dance like spirits, and beckon to her with shadowy arms, and a faint yellow streak appears in the east. How many more nights must she stand alone, and watch the morning herald a new day of bondage?
She moves noiselessly away, and goes into the dressing-room, and walks over to the mirror. She shakes her dusky elf-locks round her face, and catching up a yellow scarf lying on a chair winds it round her head, and then peers at herself in the glass. A deft twist turns down the white frills of her nightgown; she has a gold chain round her neck, and she laughs a childish, noiseless laugh at her own image. "How strangely my eyes gleam, and what a gypsy I look! No one would know, no one would dream of it. I would soon get brown!" and she looks wistfully out toward the camp again. "In an hour they will go. A heap of fern to lie on, scant fare, and weary feet; but the freedom, ah, the freedom! The woods with their wealth of shy, wild things, and the mountains that make one yearn to soar up over their heights to the worlds above! Free to follow the beck of one's spirit, a-ah to dream of it!" and the red light glows in her eyes again. They have an inward look; what visions do they see? The small thin face is transformed, the lips are softer, one quick emotion chases the other across it, the eyes glisten and darken deeply, and the copper threads shine in her swart hair. What is she going to do, what resolve is she making?
A muttered groan, a stir in the bed rouses her, and throwing aside the scarf she glides swiftly to his side. She stands and looks down. What a magnificent head it is, and how repellent! The tossed black locks with their silver streaks lie scattered on the pillow. The ear suggests vigorous animalism, the nose is powerful, the broad forehead shines whitely, and the long lashes curl upward as those of a child. The sensual-lipped mouth with its cruel lines shows more cruel as the head is thrown back. She looks at it steadily; no line escapes her,—looks from it to the hands, nerveless, white; the long, thin thumbs have a hateful expression, and the backs are short with an ugly joining to the wrists. He stirs, and a lewd word escapes his lips. She shudders! Again her eyes wander out with an appealing look (to whom do they appeal,—to part of herself, to some God of convention?) toward the camp. They are stirring; she can see the Finn dog run to and fro. She steps away; irresolution is expressed in her face; her head is thrust forward, her fingers spread out unconsciously. She glances across the floor; some shelves are to be nailed up, one of them is leant against the wardrobe door. As she hesitates, she notices that the shadow of it and the half-closed door throws a long cross almost to her feet. She folds her hands involuntarily: a whimper from the bed, a frightened call,—
"Come to me! Where are you? Don't leave me a second! oh, God! don't leave me! What's that there? Give me a drop of brandy! quick, oh quick! Kneel down, dearie, close, close to me; lay your little old cheek against mine, and say a little prayer,—no psalm business, just one out of your own little head [sob] to suit a poor devil like me!"
The sun is saying good-morning to the moon; she is wan from watching. The birds are awake, but the man still sleeps; and the little red-gowned figure crouched at the bed-side, her left hand, with its heavy gold band, clasped lightly in his, is sleeping too. A half-dried tear is held in the dark hollow under the closed eyes; the nose looks pinched in the morning light, and a gray-green shadow stains mouth and chin, but a smile plays round the dry lips.