They began to deck the great hall-kitchen for Christmas, but the snow still lay thick over hill and valley, and the gipsies' caravans remained by the broken wall where the drifts had overtaken them. Though all the chairs were mended, Annabel still came daily to the farm, sat on the box they used to cover the sewing machine, and wove mats. As she wove them, Aunt Rachel knitted, and from time to time fragments of talk passed between the two women. It was always the white-haired lady who spoke first, and Annabel made all sorts of salutes and obeisances with her eyes before replying.
"I have not seen your husband," Aunt Rachel said to Annabel one day. (The children at the other end of the apartment had converted a chest into an altar, and were solemnising the nuptials of the resurrected Flora and Jack, the raffish sailor-doll.)
Annabel made roving play with her eyes. "He is up at the caravans, lady dear," she replied. "Is there anything Annabel can bid him do?"
"Nothing, thank you," said Aunt Rachel.
For a minute the gipsy watched Aunt Rachel, and then she got up from the sewing machine box and crossed the floor. She leaned so close towards her that she had to put up a hand to steady the babe at her back.
"Lady dear," she murmured with irresistible softness, "your husband died, didn't he?"
On Aunt Rachel's finger was a ring, but it was not a wedding ring. It was a hoop of pearls.
"I have never had a husband," she said.
The gipsy glanced at the ring. "Then that is--?"
"That is a betrothal ring," Aunt Rachel replied.
"Ah!..." said Annabel.
Then, after a minute, she drew still closer. Her eyes were fixed on Aunt Rachel's, and the insinuating voice was very low.
"Ah!... And did it die too, lady dear?"
Again came that quick, half-affrighted look into Aunt Rachel's face. Her eyes avoided those of the gipsy, sought them, and avoided them again.
"Did what die?" she asked slowly and guardedly....
The child at the gipsy's back did not need suck; nevertheless, Annabel's fingers worked at her bosom, and she moved the sling. As the child settled, Annabel gave Aunt Rachel a long look.
"Why do you rock?" she asked slowly.
Aunt Rachel was trembling. She did not reply. In a voice soft as sliding water the gipsy continued:
"Lady dear, we are a strange folk to you, and even among us there are those who shuffle the pack of cards and read the palm when silver has been put upon it, knowing nothing... But some of us see--some of us see."
It was more than a minute before Aunt Rachel spoke.
"You are a woman, and you have your babe at your breast now.... Every woman sees the thing you speak of."
But the gipsy shook her head. "You speak of seeing with the heart. I speak of eyes--these eyes."
Again came a long pause. Aunt Rachel had given a little start, but had become quiet again. When at last she spoke it was in a voice scarcely audible.
"That cannot be. I know what you mean, but it cannot be.... He died on the eve of his wedding. For my bridal clothes they made me black garments instead. It is long ago, and now I wear neither black nor white, but--" her hands made a gesture. Aunt Rachel always dressed as if to suit a sorrow that Time had deprived of bitterness, in such a tender and fleecy grey as one sees in the mists that lie like lawn over hedgerow and copse early of a midsummer's morning. "Therefore," she resumed, "your heart may see, but your eyes cannot see that which never was."
But there came a sudden note of masterfulness into the gipsy's voice.
"With my eyes--these eyes," she repeated, pointing to them.
Aunt Rachel kept her own eyes obstinately on her knitting needles. "None except I have seen it. It is not to be seen," she said.
The gipsy sat suddenly erect.
"It is not so. Keep still in your chair," she ordered, "and I will tell you when--"
It was a curious thing that followed. As if all the will went out of her, Aunt Rachel sat very still; and presently her hands fluttered and dropped. The gipsy sat with her own hands folded over the mat on her knees. Several minutes passed; then, slowly, once more that sweetest of smiles stole over Aunt Rachel's cheeks. Once more her head dropped. Her hands moved. Noiselessly on the rockers that the gipsy had padded with felt the chair began to rock. Annabel lifted one hand.
"Dovo se li" she said. "It is there."
Aunt Rachel did not appear to hear her. With that ineffable smile still on her face, she rocked....
Then, after some minutes, there crossed her face such a look as visits the face of one who, waking from sleep, strains his faculties to recapture some blissful and vanishing vision....
"Jal--it is gone," said the gipsy woman.
Aunt Rachel opened her eyes again. She repeated dully after Annabel:
"It is gone."
"Ghosts," the gipsy whispered presently, "are of the dead. Therefore it must have lived."
But again Aunt Rachel shook her head. "It never lived."
"You were young, and beautiful?..."
Still the shake of the head. "He died on the eve of his wedding. They took my white garments away and gave me black ones. How then could it have lived?"
"Without the kiss, no.... But sometimes a woman will lie through her life, and at the graveside still will lie.... Tell me the truth."
But they were the same words that Aunt Rachel repeated: "He died on the eve of his wedding; they took away my wedding garments...." From her lips a lie could hardly issue. The gipsy's face became grave....
She broke another long silence.
"I believe," she said at last. "It is a new kind--but no more wonderful than the other. The other I have seen, now I have seen this also. Tell me, does it come to any other chair?"
"It was his chair; he died in it," said Aunt Rachel.
"And you--shall you die in it?"
"As God wills."
"Has ... other life ... visited it long?"
"Many years; but it is always small; it never grows."
"To their mothers babes never grow. They remain ever babes.... None other has ever seen it?"
"Except yourself, none. I sit here; presently it creeps into my arms; it is small and warm; I rock, and then... it goes."
"Would it come to another chair?"
"I cannot tell. I think not. It was his chair."
Annabel mused. At the other end of the room Flora was now bestowed on Jack, the disreputable sailor. The gipsy's eyes rested on the bridal party....
"Yet another might see it--"
"None has."
"No; but yet.... The door does not always shut behind us suddenly. Perhaps one who has toddled but a step or two over the threshold might, by looking back, catch a glimpse.... What is the name of the smallest one?"
"Angela."
"That means 'angel'... Look, the doll who died yesterday is now being married.... It may be that Life has not yet sealed the little one's eyes. Will you let Annabel ask her if she sees what it is you hold in your arms?"
Again the voice was soft and wheedling....
"No, Annabel," said Aunt Rachel faintly.
"Will you rock again?"
Aunt Rachel made no reply.
"Rock..." urged the cajoling voice.
But Aunt Rachel only turned the betrothal ring on her finger. Over at the altar Jack was leering at his new-made bride, past decency; and little Angela held the wooden horse's head, which had parted from its body.
"Rock, and comfort yourself--" tempted the voice.
Then slowly Aunt Rachel rose from her chair.
"No, Annabel," she said gently. "You should not have spoken. When the snow melts you will go, and come no more; why then did you speak? It was mine. It was not meant to be seen by another. I no longer want it. Please go."
The swarthy woman turned her almond eyes on her once more.
"You cannot live without it," she said as she also rose....
And as Jack and his bride left the church on the reheaded horse, Aunt Rachel walked with hanging head from the apartment.
