Like the black trees outside writhing amongst their spectral moss, like the fever-breeding swamps whose tainted air even now seeped through the windows, like Maum Chloe's conjuh, this slave girl's causeless hostility added to her desolation. She reasoned with herself, quoted Aaron's brisk sensible maxims, yet she could not shake off a sense of foreboding, formless fears which rendered sleepless and miserable her first night on the Waccamaw.

CHAPTER TEN

THEODOSIA continued to have new experiences in the next few weeks at Clifton—most of them unpleasant. The family were kind, but there were so many of them, even after the uncles, aunts, and cousins, who had come only to view the bride, had packed up and left for their respective plantations.

There was no privacy anywhere, even in her bedroom. Maria Nisbett assumed that Theo would be grateful for her company at any time, and Charlotte followed her around wideeyed and admiring in the throes of an adolescent infatuation for the beautiful new sister-in-law.

The children swarmed all over the house like monkeys, chattering, screaming, and quarreling, eternally eluding their fat mauma, who waddled after first one and then the other, scolding and blandishing by turns, but powerless to control them.

Joseph, his father, and two brothers escaped from the turmoil during the day. They rode far and wide upon Waccamaw Neck inspecting the plantations, but Theo was not invited to accompany them. She was expected to amuse herself with proper feminine occupations—whatever they might be: apparently nothing except needlework and gossip. She was bored, and her nerves were frazzled by the constant pressure of people and noise.

A new noise had been added to the clamor on the morning after her arrival. Mrs. Alston had been duly delivered of twins a few minutes after the first cock-crow, and the incessant wailing of sickly babies now pervaded the house.

No one but Theo seemed astonished at this exact fulfillment of Maum Chloe's prophecies. Nor was anyone surprised three days later when the tiniest of the baby girls gave a brief feeble cry and was suddenly stilled forever. Maum Chloe had foreseen that too. Her conjuh had told her.

The little body was tucked into its oak coffin and buried that day. For an hour or two the men went around with solemn faces, and from the 'street' of negro cabins rose an outlandish keening for the dead, but even the mother did not mourn long. There had been so many babies, and she was too tired and spent to feel much. Besides, her arms were not empty, there was still a baby left to fill them: little Mary Motte, her own namesake.