Chapter XXIII

MISS SABRINA'S first letters had been so full of grief that they had been vague; to her there had been but the one fact: Ferdie was dead.

She had become much attached to him. There was nothing strange in this; both as boy and as man, Ferdinand Morrison had been deeply loved by many. The poor woman knew his fault (she thought it his only one), for the judge had written an account of all that had happened, and the reasons for Cicely's flight. Nevertheless she loved this prodigal as the prodigal is often so dearly loved by the woman whose heart is pierced the most deeply by his excesses--his mother. And Miss Sabrina, as regarded her devotion, might indeed have been Ferdie's mother; something in him roused the dormant maternal feeling--the maternal passion--which existed in her heart unknown to herself. She did not comprehend what it was that was disturbing her so much, and yet at the same time making her so happy--she did not comprehend that it was stifled nature asserting itself at this late day; the circumstances of her life had made her a gentle, conciliatory old maid; she was not in the least aware that as a mother she could have been a tigress in the defence of her sons. For she was a woman who would have rejoiced in her sons; daughters would never have been important to her.

She thought that she was perfectly reasonable about Ferdie. No, Cicely must not come back to him for the present; baby too--darling little boy!--he must be kept away; and oh! how terrible that flight through the woods, and the escape in the boat; she thought of it every night with tremors. Yet, in spite of all, she loved the man who had caused these griefs. His illness made him dependent upon her, and his voice calling her name in peremptory tones, like those of a spoiled child--this was the sweetest sound her ears had ever heard. He would reform, all her hopes and plans were based upon that; she went about with prayer on her lips from morning till night--prayer for him.

When his last breath had been drawn, it seemed to her as if the daily life of the world must have stopped too, outside of the darkened chamber; as if people could not go on eating and drinking, and the sun go on shining, with Ferdie dead. She was able to keep her place at the head of the household until after the funeral; then she became the prey of an illness which, though quiet and unobtrusive, like everything else connected with her, was yet sufficiently persistent to confine her to her bed. Nanny Singleton, who had come to Romney every day, rowed by Boliver, now came again, this time to stay; she took possession of the melancholy house, re-established order after her inexact fashion, and then devoted herself to nursing her friend.

Two of Nanny Singleton's letters.

Letter number one:

"ROMNEY, _Friday evening._

"DEAR JUDGE,--I feel that we have been very remiss in
not sending to you sooner the details of this heart-breaking
event. But we have been so afflicted ourselves with the unexpectedness
of it all, with the funeral, and with dear Sabrina's
illness, that we have been somewhat negligent. We feel,
Rupert and I, that we have lost not only one who was personally
dear to us, but also the most fascinating, the most brilliant,
the most thoroughly engaging young man whom it has
ever been our good-fortune to meet. Such a death is a public
calamity, and you, his nearest and dearest, must admit us
(as well as many, many others) to that circle of mourning
friends who esteemed him highly, admired him inexpressibly,
and loved him sincerely for the unusually charming qualities
he possessed.

"Our dearest Sabrina told us all the particulars the morning
after his death, for of course we came directly to her as
soon as we heard what had happened. He had been making,
as you probably know, a visit in Savannah; Dr. Knox had
accompanied him, or perhaps it was that he joined him there;
at any rate, it was Dr. Knox who brought him home. It
seems that he had overestimated his strength--so natural in
a young man!--and he arrived much exhausted; so much so,
indeed, that the doctor thought it better that dear Sabrina
should not see him that evening. And the next day she only
saw him once, and from across the room; he was alarmingly
pale, and did not open his eyes; Dr. Knox said that he must
not try to speak. It was the next morning at dawn that the
doctor came to her door and told Powlyne to waken her.
(But she was not asleep.) 'He is going, if you wish to come;'
this was all he said. Dear Sabrina, greatly agitated, threw
on her wrapper over her night-dress, and hastened to the bedside
of the dear boy. He lay in a stupor, he did not know
her; and in less than half an hour his breath ceased. She
prayed for him during the interval, she knelt down and prayed
aloud; it was a wonder that she had the strength to do it
when a soul so dear to her was passing. When it had taken
flight, she closed his eyes, and made all orderly about him.
And she kissed him for Cicely, she told me.

"The funeral she arranged herself in every detail. Receiving
no replies to her despatches to you, she was obliged
to use her own judgment; she had confessed to me in the beginning
that she much wished to have him buried here at
Romney, in the little circle of her loved ones, and not hearing
from you to the contrary, she decided to do this; he lies beside
your brother Marmaduke. Our friends came from all
the islands near and far; there must have been sixty persons
in all, many bringing flowers. Dr. Knox stayed with us until
after the funeral--that is, until day before yesterday; then
he took his leave of us, and went to Charleston by the evening
boat. He seems a most excellent young man. And if he
strikes us as a little cold, no doubt it is simply that, being a
Northerner, and not a man of much cultivation, he could not
appreciate fully Ferdie's very remarkable qualities. Dear old
Dr. Daniels, who has been in Virginia for several weeks, has
now returned; he comes over every day to see Sabrina. He
tells me that her malady is intermittent fever--a mild form;
the only point is to keep her strength up, and this we endeavor
to do with chickens. I will remain here as long as I
can be of the slightest service, and you may rest assured that
everything possible is being done.

"I trust darling Cicely is not burdened by the many letters
we have written to her--my own four, and Rupert's three,
as well as those of her other friends on the islands about here.
All wished to write, and we did not know how to say no.

"With love to Miss Bruce, I am, dear judge, your attached
and sorrowing friend, NANNY SINGLETON."

Letter number two:

"ROMNEY, _Saturday Morning._

"MY DEAR MR. TENNANT,--My husband has just received
your letter, and as he is much crippled by his rheumatism this
morning, he desires me to answer it immediately, so that there
may be no delay.

"We both supposed that Dr. Knox had written to you.
Probably while he was here there were so many things to
take up his time that he could not; and I happen to know
that as soon as he reached Charleston, day before yesterday,
he was met by this unexpected proposition to join a private
yacht for a cruise of several months; one of the conditions
was that he was to go on board immediately (they sailed the
same evening), and I dare say he had time for nothing but
his own preparations, and that you will hear from him later.
My husband says, however, that he can give you all the details
of the case, which was a simple one. Your brother overestimated
his strength, he should not have attempted that
journey to Savannah; it was too soon, for his wound had
not healed, and the fatigue brought on a dangerous relapse,
from which he could not rally. He died from the effects of
that cruel shot, Mr. Tennant; his valuable life has fallen a
sacrifice (in my husband's opinion) to the present miserable
condition of our poor State, where the blacks, our servants,
who are like little children and need to be led as such,--where
these poor ignorant creatures are put over us, their former
masters; are rewarded with office; are intrusted with dangerous
weapons--a liberty which in this case has proved fatal
to one of the higher race. It seems to my husband as if the
death of Ferdinand Morrison should be held up as a marked
warning to the entire North; this very superior, talented, and
engaging young man has fallen by the bullet of a negro, and
my husband says that in his opinion the tale should be told
everywhere, on the steps of court-houses and in churches, and
the question should be solemnly asked, Shall such things continue?
--shall
the servant rule his lord?

"We are much alarmed by the few words in Judge Abercrombie's
letter (received this morning) concerning our darling
Cicely, and we beg you to send us a line daily. Or perhaps
Miss Bruce would do it, knowing our anxiety? I pray that
the dear child, whom we all so fondly love, may be better very
soon; but I will be anxious until I hear.

"As I sent a long letter to the judge last evening, I will
not add more to this. Our sympathy, dear Mr. Tennant,
with your irreparable loss is heartfelt; you do not need our
assurances of that, I know.

"Mr. Singleton desires me to present his respects. And I
beg to remain your obedient servant, N. SINGLETON."