Part 4

“Do you know, I saw such a forbidding looking nigger staring in through the breakfast-room window?” said Lucy. “I’ve never noticed him as one of the servants or hands, and he looked anything but devoted! He was coal black and big, and he pressed his hideous face close up against the glass door and scowled at me and muttered something; when I got up, and went to find out what he wanted, he was gone.”

“A tramp,” I suggested.

“Possibly. I hope I shan’t see him again!” said Lucy, rising. “Here come the horses and the buggy; you,” to me, “will have the house to yourself for the whole afternoon.”

“So much the better,” I answered; “I intend to make a sketch of Taffy, and there will be no one to distract his attention.”

Taffy was a handsome fox-terrier, remarkable for a very short tail and great independence of character.

I watched the cavalcade turn down the avenue, Cousin Carolina and Miss Boone driving, followed by two mounted couples, and then set to work to persuade Taffy to sit for his portrait. By and by the fierce glare of the setting sun compelled me to retreat with my block, paint-box, and model into the north verandah. This overlooked from a respectful distance the servants’ quarters--and, possibly for this reason, was but little frequented. It proved delightfully shady and almost empty, save for a few roomy old cane chairs, but now that I had obtained a satisfactory light my sitter began to fail me; he became restless, fidgety and disobedient, turning his head, pricking up his ears; finally he trotted off bodily. His attitude implied grave suspicion of something, or somebody--and his air was so uneasy that he almost gave the impression of there being an intruder in our vicinity--visible only to him!

This of course was a ridiculous idea, but as nothing would induce Taffy to “sit,” I relinquished the hope of finishing my sketch, and fetching a book from the drawing-room, settled myself comfortably in one of the cane chairs and prepared to pass an hour of undisturbed enjoyment. The story of “Uncle Tom” proved to be absorbing; I had almost lost consciousness of my surroundings, when I was startled by a very peculiar sound quite close to me, a strange inarticulate gurgling noise, as if someone was being choked. I looked about; there was not a soul in the verandah, and I came to the conclusion that Taffy had swallowed a fly, which had gone the wrong way. I called to him; he was not fly-catching, but seemed to be staring intently at a certain closed door, and entirely unconscious of my presence.

I resumed my book, only to be again disturbed by this peculiar choking noise, and Taffy, with all his hair bristling on his back, now sought refuge under my chair, uttering low growls. At the same moment I noticed, coming directly from the servants’ lines, a gigantic negro, whom I never remembered to have seen before. His head was bare, his face lowering and sullen; he wore a ragged blue and white striped jacket, trousers turned up to his knees, and a pair of clumsy boots. As he advanced, with a deliberate, purposeful air, I became conscious of a sensation of fear, which increased with every stride.

The evening was still and warm, not a breath of air was stirring, the very leaves were motionless. Taffy was dumb, and the only sound to be heard was these doggedly approaching footsteps.

A door in the verandah was suddenly flung open and, to my amazement, there came forth a middle-aged lady, who was a complete stranger; she wore a flowing white dressing-gown, with wide sleeves; her reddish hair, of which she had a quantity, hung loosely to her waist, her figure was tall and slight, her sallow face--this I only saw in profile--looked hard as flint; the expression of her sharply-cut features was fiercely determined, and aggressive. She hurried across the verandah with light, pattering footsteps, and reached the railings that enclosed it, almost at the same moment as the huge black. I gathered that she addressed him angrily--her face expressed violent fury--but I could not distinguish a single word. I sat there motionless, an amazed and nervous spectator. Presently Taffy crawled out from under my chair, and with one piercing howl fled from the scene like a creature possessed.

I observed that the negro listened to his mistress with downcast eyes, and an air of stolid indifference, also that, as he waited, he held one hand against his back; grasped in that hand--invisible to the woman--was a shining blade about two feet long, which I recognised as the knife used for cane-cutting, and called a “machite.”

As the two figures stood, one on the verandah, the other immediately beneath, I became aware that an enormous crowd had assembled outside the quarters, hundreds of coloured people--and a sudden hoarse hum arose, resembling the buzzing of angry bees. Finally the lady raised her clenched fist with a fierce, threatening gesture, and turned away.

As she did so, the negro gave a deep guttural laugh, reached out his arm, caught her violently by the hair, and dragged her head backwards over the edge of the railing. I saw her long thin throat, fully exposed, and it was with a shock of unexampled horror that I beheld the descent of a gleaming blade. With one swift stroke the wretched woman’s head was severed from her body, and I heard the previous gurgling and choking sound, as it fell with a heavy thud upon the lawn, while the trunk collapsed in a hideous heap upon the boards of the verandah--which were instantly deluged with blood. The dreadful tide was flowing towards me, but I was unable to stir hand or foot--I felt as if I were paralysed.

As the murderer, stooping, lifted the head by its hair, I had a view of the blanched and ghastly face, and the wide-open eyes fixed in wild astonishment. He held it up towards the lines, and in response there rose strange, fierce, and prolonged yells of jubilation--such, I imagine, as are uttered by savages, when exulting over some fallen enemy. Then with his horrible trophy in one hand and a dripping knife in the other, the negro turned, and looked straight at _me_. Instantly everything became blurred, black darkness descended, and I remember no more!

When I came to myself, the clear imperative voice of Cousin Carolina was saying:

“My dear Marion, do you know that it is very imprudent to sleep out of doors at sundown--even in our exquisite climate?”

“Sleep!” I repeated, with an involuntary shudder; “I’ve not been sleeping,” and with a painful effort I rose and tottered into a lighted sitting-room.

“What has happened to you, Marion?” cried my sister; “you look simply awful. Are you ill?--or have you seen a ghost?”

“Yes,” I answered, looking round at six expectant faces, “I have seen _two_ in the verandah!”

I noticed that Miss Boone gave me a quick, sharp look, but the rest of the company wore indulgent smiles, and Cousin Carolina said:

“No such thing as ghosts, my dear--it’s only ignorant people like the negroes that believe in them _now_. You have Scotch blood in your veins, your mother was a Highlander, and no doubt you are a bit superstitious, and you have such imagination, dearest child, and are so highly strung. You have just dozed off and had a nightmare.”

“Tell me, what do you _think_ you saw?” enquired Philip, who had brought me a glass of wine.

I sipped this before I answered:

“A horrible sight, a lady in a white gown--I believe the owner of the estate--was beheaded in the verandah by a huge negro, and all the slaves--hundreds of them--shouted, and yelled for joy.”

Mrs. Gossett, who was young and giddy, began to giggle, and then apologised, adding:

“It sounds so screamingly funny--a public execution in the Rochelle verandah!”

“It was just a bad nightmare, the combined result of crab salad at lunch, and ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin,’” declared Cousin Carolina, “and nothing else. I believe there is a place--somewhere near Lexington--that _has_ a story, but it is certainly not Rochelle, and sensible folk don’t believe in such tales.”

“No,” I answered, now fortified by company and port wine. “But you will admit that seeing is believing. I’ve heard that my mother had second sight, and I’m afraid she has bequeathed it to _me_.”

“My dear, you are a little upset,” said Cousin Carolina; “don’t think of your dream, and you will soon forget it. I daresay it was very vivid. I implore you not to repeat it to any of the servants, or we shall have the place in an uproar. Now just go and lie down, and get a rest before supper-time; Lucy will look after you. Another time, we won’t leave you to keep house all alone.”

Cousin Carolina was a despotic lady in her way, and would never suffer my nightmare in the back north verandah to be discussed. I still stuck to my opinion, but was as one to six--for even my own sister had deserted me and preached about imagination, and crab salad. It seemed impossible that a mere nightmare could ever be so vivid in its horror, and its realism. For several days I felt ill and nervous, and it was only my pride, Cousin Carolina’s forcible character, and Mrs. Gossett’s wild giggle, that restrained me from removing myself to an hotel at Lexington.

I never sat alone, and preferred a crowd to solitude. I even thrust my company on Phil and Lucy, now an engaged couple. Taffy and I were fast friends; we two had shared a unique experience--an experience apart. I was sensible of this bond in his manner, and I read it in the expression of his wistful and expressive eye.

A suspicion, nay, a conviction, took root in my mind. Miss Boone knew more about Rochelle than she pretended. More than once, I found her gazing at me, with an air of peculiar interest, and, more than once, curiosity had urged her to angle (very cautiously) for some particulars of the tragedy I thought I had seen; but I declined to indulge her. She was an unbeliever--and I held my tongue.

In the month of January, Lucy once more faced the Atlantic, accompanied by Miss Boone, Philip, and myself. She was obliged to arrange about her trousseau, and money affairs. We travelled by a big liner, and had on the whole a capital trip. Miss Boone found several friends among the passengers, and one afternoon as we sat in the library in the idle hour which follows tea, an old lady, her son and daughter joined our small circle. We discussed a variety of topics and impressions, and at last came to Kentucky State, Lexington, and Rochelle.

“Rochelle,” repeated the lady’s daughter. “Is not that the haunted house, Momma?”

“Yes, the Taylors’ place,” she answered briskly; “there is a dreadful story about it, but I fancy it is more or less forgotten by this time. For years and years it could not be let--the house, I mean; the land of course is most valuable.”

“What is the story?” I enquired, and I glanced with some significance at Lucy and Philip.

“I remember hearing of it from my mother,” continued the old lady, “and it’s gospel truth. The Taylors were wealthy, and had a great estate, and hundreds of slaves, and were well thought of by all, till the time of Mrs. Herman Taylor, a widow, who inherited it from her husband. She was very strange--some said crazy--and lived alone; hoarded her money, flogged her slaves, and worked them to death. There were stories of terrible scenes at Rochelle--that lovely old place, so dignified and admired, had become a sort of negroes’ hell! People could only talk--they did not dare to interfere. Marcella Taylor was a rich woman, and a vindictive enemy, and had overseers as cruel and hard as herself, and she got more out of her slaves in the way of return than any mistress or master in the State. When it was moonlight, it was said, she worked them all night, and her crops were extraordinary.”

At last the situation became intolerable; beyond the endurance of flesh and blood. A field hand who had been cruelly flogged took the law into his own hands, and one evening, in the sight of the entire community, executed Mrs. Taylor in her own verandah! He had been summoned to receive a punishment, and the story is, that he suddenly drew a long knife, which he had concealed, dragged her backwards by the hair, and beheaded her on the spot. He took the head with him, escaped to the woods, and was never seen or heard of again.

“It was also said that every anniversary the scene was re-enacted in the same verandah--but fortunately was only visible to some. The Villiers, who succeeded to the estates, hated the place, and got rid of it, and so for two generations the house has had a bad name, but now it is apparently recovering its character. I suppose the supernatural has a time-limit?”

She glanced at me interrogatively, but Miss Boone threw me an imploring look and I suffered silence to pass for assent. In this extraordinary and unexpected fashion my experience was confirmed, my truthfulness vindicated, there was an end to gibes about dreams, and crab salad. Subsequently Miss Boone confessed to me that the tale of the north verandah was not new to her, but that she had not wished to frighten Cousin Carolina. As if anything could frighten Cousin Carolina! She has nerves of cast-iron.

As for Lucy, she assured me with a rather unsteady laugh that when, as Mrs. Philip Dormer, she returned to Rochelle, nothing that could be offered would ever induce her to spend an afternoon there _alone_.

IV

IMITATION PEARLS

It was entirely owing to the death and defalcations of a trustee that my sister Linda and I--heiresses in a small way--awoke one morning to find ourselves penniless! We were orphans, and since our schooldays had made our home with a widowed aunt in the depth of the country, on the borders of an ancient village, within a parish whose extent was under a hundred acres. Aunt Sophy’s house, which enjoyed the flattering name of “Heart’s Delight,” was a little old manor, with shallow oak stairs, low ceilings and heavy beams, standing in the midst of rich meadows and stately trees, and immediately surrounded by a delicious garden, with mulberry trees, and a stew-pond.

Here we three lived in complete harmony. Aunt Sophy was fifty-four, my sister Linda, temporary housekeeper and manager, was twenty-four--she was engaged to Arthur Fortescue, a naval officer on the China station--whilst I was but twenty, rather pretty, incorrigibly cheerful, and entirely fancy free.

Mr. Benford, our guardian, who had been father’s best man--and was presumed to be our best friend--was a bland, somewhat portly, elderly gentleman, who, when we made rare visits to London, took us to the theatre, and to dine at smart restaurants, and even lent us his beautiful blue Panhard! He occupied luxurious bachelor quarters in the West End, and was generally supposed to be enviably rich. Recently he died rather suddenly--indeed, suicide had been suspected--and when his affairs came to be examined, three tragic facts were disclosed. For years, he had been involved in serious difficulties; his debts were enormous, and our twelve thousand pounds had long been dispersed in wild speculations--though he had paid us the interest punctually twice a year--and now both our guardian and our income had ceased to exist.

At first we felt stunned; and for many days Aunt Sophy remained sternly incredulous. Ultimately the truth was brought home to her by friends. Letters and visits of sympathy, offers of advice and help were not lacking. Linda, who was really the head of the house, promptly decided that one or both of us must turn out and work for our living, for Aunt Sophy’s means were limited (barely two hundred a year, besides “Heart’s Delight” and its contents).

The first and most essential move was to cut down expenses; the victoria and dogcart, the sleek horse, and sleeker cows, were sold, maids and gardener dismissed, and the establishment reduced to a mere general and boy. The old pony remained to take aunt out in the governess-car, but the meadows were let, and the family silver disposed of, as well as two much-prized Chippendale chairs.

Arthur Fortescue’s uncle, a wealthy admiral on the retired list (who invariably spoke of himself as a “sea-dog”), would not consent to Linda taking any situation--indeed, he was furious at the mere suggestion--but offered no alternative. However, a girl so capable and contriving was in the right place at home; she proposed a daring scheme--to make the garden _pay_, and also to undertake delicate needlework for one of the great outfitting shops in London.

Summer wore into autumn, yet still I, so to speak, “remained on hand.” I gardened, and sewed industriously, and did housework, hoping every day that Aunt Sophy’s anxious wish might be fulfilled, and that “something nice would turn up for Letty.” A post as companion to an amiable and wealthy old lady; or as governess to two dear little girls under ten, was what my friends desired. I spoke French fluently, and was a good pianist, but as so much more is expected in these days (Latin, German, Euclid, Mathematics, Gymnastics, Sketching), the value of my services was placed at the low figure of forty pounds per annum and washing; and yet in spite of this moderate assessment, no eager employer had claimed me!

The truth was, we were out of the beaten track--and Early Victorian in our ideas. Aunt Sophy had a horror of “seeing me in an advertisement,” as she expressed it. “It was always so much pleasanter and safer to try and hear of a nice opening through one’s friends.”

And to do them justice, our friends were active--especially Miss Pinfold--an old maid who lived at the other end of the village; Mrs. Clarke, our rector’s wife, was also zealous on my behalf. Miss Pinfold wrote many letters, also scores of postcards, and almost every acquaintance had been victimised and pestered, irrespective of age or sex. More than once she said to Aunt Sophy:

“If Letty could only go to _India_! I’ll lay my life a girl with her remarkable looks will marry some wonderful catch.”

But Aunt Sophy was not in favour of this dazzling idea and looked coldly on the scheme. India was too far away, and was said to be the happy hunting-ground of fast women--as well as abounding with snakes!

For my own part, I had always (privately) cherished a burning desire to see the East, and though I did not believe in the wonderful, or any, “catch,” I was profoundly interested in Miss Pinfold’s tales of the days of her grandfather, who had been a famous Indian warrior, and had fought the Sikhs, and also in the more modern activities of her two married nieces.

In the end, it was Mrs. Clarke who brought us the great news! She arrived one evening at tea-time, eager and important, letter in hand, and breathlessly announced that she had found “the very thing for Letty at last!” Her husband’s cousin, who received Indian children, and had “an Indian connection,” knew of a lady, the wife of an official in good position, who required a governess to take charge of two dear little girls, aged seven and eight; they were in the hills almost all the year in a perfect climate; the salary offered was forty pounds and a second-class passage out, and, if suitable, an engagement for two years. The governess must be a gentlewoman, young, healthy, energetic, and Church of England. She would be required to teach French, English, and music, and expected to arrive not later than the end of February. It was now November.

“It seems made for Letty!” said Mrs. Clarke--her voice quivering with triumph as she handed the epistle to my aunt; “you should write _at once_!”

But Aunt Sophy and Linda were politely dubious.

“Dear Mrs. Clarke, who _is_ this Mrs. Hooper?” enquired my sister. “Letty could not write and engage herself to a lady we know nothing about; of course, there must be mutual references; and forty pounds for India is _so_ little!”

“Well, she gets her board and washing free,” put in Miss Pinfold, who happened to be present, “and has the forty pounds in her pocket, and, as I’ve said before, Letty will never come home Letty Harlowe--she’ll make a great match!” and she rubbed her knees with an air of complacent finality.

“Not likely,” objected Linda; “and Letty is not going to India on the chance of finding a husband. Arthur says those days were over sixty years ago. Of course, I know Letty has always devoured books on India, and longs to see it; but she is not to jump at Mrs. Hooper’s offer--though it is so good of Mrs. Clarke to bring it and, I know she,” looking at her, “would be the first to advise caution.”

Ultimately Mrs. Hooper proved to be my fate. Her references were unexceptional. Colonel Hooper was in the Indian Army, and held an important post on “the Survey.” She wrote Aunt Sophy a letter that was almost gushing, and promised to take every care of the dear girl and treat her, in short, as the daughter of the house! I may mention that my references had been forwarded, and included a warm recommendation from a lady of title.

The next weeks simply flew! My outfit was put in hand, an escort was found for me in Mrs. Russell, a distant relative, whose husband commanded a regiment in Bengal, and our passages were booked in the _Malwa_, which sailed on February 5th. Linda had insisted that I should travel first-class, and share Mrs. Russell’s cabin. She had known our mother, and was sure to be kind to me. The extra passage money and my outfit made a deep hole in our finances, and Linda sold almost the whole of our jewellery in order to meet these expenses. All my ornaments now consisted of a pair of gold bangles, a watch, and a string of Parisian pearls, fastened by an old diamond clasp that had belonged to my grandmother.

I will draw a veil over those last weeks at home, my tearful farewells to the neighbours, Aunt Sophy, and the dogs. Linda and I spent our last day together in London, and the next morning she escorted me down to Tilbury in order to see me off. The _Malwa_ seemed to be a full ship; there were numbers of passengers bound for Gibraltar and Egypt. In the saloon a wire was awaiting me; it was from Mrs. Russell, and said, “My boy dangerously ill, appendicitis, departure postponed, sorry.” Undoubtedly I was condemned to travel alone, and must just make the best of the situation. Linda was most dreadfully concerned. She actually broke down, and wept.

“I felt so confident, and happy at your having _one_ friend in India,” she sobbed. “Oh, it’s really heart-breaking!”

After I had comforted her a little, we descended together in order to inspect my cabin and arrange my belongings. We found Mrs. Russell’s place already occupied--evidently by a lady who used a prodigious amount of scent. She had secured the bottom berth, the best looking-glass, and her odds and ends were scattered about in a most disorderly fashion.

Afterwards, when Linda and I walked about together, she said:

“How I hate your going alone, Letty; you are so young--yes, and so pretty. How I wish there was some nice, motherly woman I could pin you on to!” and she looked around the crowd with a face of blank despair. “Do be careful who you speak to, and who you get to know; keep to yourself as much as possible, and above all avoid men.”

Never had I seen Linda so depressed, so nervous or so tearful--not even when Arthur went to China--and I must confess that I, too, wept bitterly as I signalled to a figure that waved from the dock.

Going down the Channel the weather was moderate. I found my allotted place at dinner, and kept it, too. There were about twelve at our table. On my left was a florid young officer, with prominent brown eyes and turned-up moustache, who talked to me persistently; but after that evening I spent two miserable days in my berth. My cabin companion proved to be a stout, showy lady, with auburn hair, expressive dark eyes, and an exquisite complexion. She seemed to fill the whole cabin, and to be under the impression that she was its sole occupant.