“It’s one with Abel the son of Adam, if it comes to that, and so am I,” Norah bitingly interjected, while her eyes flashed fire, and she rocked the cradle more swiftly than was good for the child’s sleep.
Jean Jacques flared up. “There were sons and daughters of the family of Adam that had names, but there were plenty others you whistled to as you would to a four-footer, and they’d come. The Barbilles had names—always names of their own back to Adam. The child is a Barbille—Don’t rock the cradle so fast,” he suddenly added with an irritable gesture, breaking off from his argument. “Don’t you know better than that when a child’s asleep? Do you want it to wake up and cry?”
She flushed to the roots of her hair, for he had said something for which she had no reply. She had undoubtedly disturbed the child. It stirred in its sleep, then opened its eyes, and at once began to cry.
“There,” said Jean Jacques, “what did I tell you? Any one that had ever had children would know better than that.”
Norah paid no attention to his mocking words, to the undoubted-truth of his complaint. Stooping over, she gently lifted the child up. With hungry tenderness she laid it against her breast and pressed its cheek to her own, murmuring and crooning to it.
“Acushla! Acushla! Ah, the pretty bird—mother’s sweet—mother’s angel!” she said softly.
She rocked backwards and forwards. Her eyes, though looking at Jean Jacques as she crooned and coaxed and made lullaby, apparently did not see him. She was as concentrated as though it were a matter of life and death. She was like some ancient nurse of a sovereign-child, plainly dressed, while the dainty white clothes of the babe in her arms—ah, hadn’t she raided the hoard she had begun when first married, in the hope of a child of her own, to provide this orphan with clothes good enough for a royal princess!
The flow of the long, white dress of the waif on the dark blue of Norah’s gown, which so matched the deep sapphire of her eyes, caught Jean Jacques’ glance, allured his mind. It was the symbol of youth and innocence and home. Suddenly he had a vision of the day when his own Zoe had been given to the cradle for the first time, and he had done exactly what Norah had done—rocked too fast and too hard, and waked his little one; and Carmen had taken her up in her long white draperies, and had rocked to and fro, just like this, singing a lullaby. That lullaby he had himself sung often afterwards; and now, with his grandchild in Norah’s arms there before him—with this other Zoe—the refrain of it kept lilting in his brain. In the pause ensuing, when Norah stooped to put the pacified child again in its nest, he also stooped over the cradle and began to hum the words of the lullaby:
“Sing, little bird, of the whispering leaves,
Sing a song of the harvest sheaves;
Sing a song to my Fanchonette,
Sing a song to my Fanchonette!
Over her eyes, over her eyes, over her eyes of violet,
See the web that the weaver weaves,
The web of sleep that the weaver weaves—
Weaves, weaves, weaves!
Over those eyes of violet,
Over those eyes of my Fanchonette,
Weaves, weaves, weaves—
See the web that the weaver weaves!”
For quite two minutes Jean Jacques and Norah Doyle stooped over the cradle, looking at Zoe’s rosy, healthy, pretty face, as though unconscious of each other, and only conscious of the child. When Jean Jacques had finished the long first verse of the chanson, and would have begun another, Norah made a protesting gesture.