DOROTHY HARCOURT’S SECRET
It was a wild, windy, blustering night in March when the train ran into
Logwood.
Will Harcourt was the only passenger who got off at that little way
station, and he had no luggage but his carpetbag, which he carried in
his hand.
It was but eight o’clock, yet it was quite dark, and the station was
deserted by all except the ticket clerk and the night porter. There was
not a vehicle of any kind on the spot, nor, indeed, if there had been
would Harcourt have availed himself of the convenience.
Without even entering the station he stepped from the platform down to
the country road, and set off on a brisk walk to Lone Lodge plantation.
After his harassing journey in the cars, on a zigzag, cross-country
route, during which he had had to change trains several times, and twice
to wait hours for the connection, he felt it as a sort of relief to
walk, to stretch his limbs along a direct road, on this dark, wintry,
but bracing night. The wind was in his back, too, and rather helped than
impeded his progress.
An hour’s rapid walk, up and down hill, through woods, and across
streams rudely bridged by logs, brought him in sight of Lone Lodge.
Lights glanced between red curtains of the lower windows, showing that
the family had not yet retired.
But it was not to the house of his forefathers that he was going. Before
he reached the acacia avenue, leading up to the front of it, he turned
to the left and followed a little path down the wooded hill that brought
him to the edge of the narrow, singing stream that ran half around the
hut.
He crossed it, and looked at the humble cot which had been his mother’s
shelter ever since the loss of their home and fortune.
There was a dim light shining through the little window of the kitchen,
but none through that of his mother’s room. It struck him as strange and
ill-omened, and now, as he came nearer, he saw that there was something
the matter with the roof of the house, he could not see what.
Full of misgiving, he went and rapped at the door.
A frightened voice answered him:
“Now, who dar? Wot yo’ want dis time ob night? I got gun! ’Deed is I! I
shoot! ’deed will I!”
“It is I, Martha! Open the door and let me in! How is mother?” called
Harcourt impatiently.
Open flew the door, disclosing Martha’s tall figure and astonished face.
Before she could speak, Harcourt repeated his question:
“How—how is my mother?”
“She—she’s well—dat is, toler’ble well. The Lord a-messy upon me, young
marse! Who’d ’a’ ’spected to see you yere to-night? Come in, honey. Come
in an’ warm yo’se’f,” said the woman, standing aside to let him pass.
“Thank heaven, she is well! Has she retired?” inquired the young man as
he entered the kitchen and threw himself into the only chair, which
Martha had hastily set by the little fire of pine knots.
“Yes, sah, de ole madam is ’tire.”
“Is she asleep, do you think?”
“Oh, yes, young marse—soun’.”
“Then I can go in and look at her without disturbing her,” said the
young man, rising to pass into the other room.
“No, yo’ can’t, young marse! No, yo’ can’t, indeed, sah! Set down an’
rest yo’se’f!” exclaimed the woman.
Harcourt dropped into his seat. A new fear seized him.
“What do you mean?” he demanded. “You say that she is well, you say that
she is sound asleep! Do you mean—do you mean——”
“I mean yight wot I say, nuffin besides. De ole madam is asleep in her
comfortable bed, but it ain’t in dis mis’ble log house; it’s in de big
house wot used to was her berry own,” Martha explained, in breathless
haste.
Harcourt threw himself back on his chair with a sigh of relief, and then
said:
“I don’t understand you. You mean to say that your mistress is staying
at Lone Lodge?”
“Dat’s wot I mean to say, young marse.”
“But still I don’t understand, how she should be there.”
“I know yo’ don’t, young marse; but now ef yer let me get yer some water
to wash dat dere brack ingyne smut often yo’ face, an’ make yo’se’f
comfor’able w’ile I hangs on a kittle an’ get yo’ some supper, den I’ll
tell yo’ all about it,” said Martha. And she got up and filled two large
pitchers, one with hot water from a pot that stood on the hearth, and
one with cold water from a pail on the shelf, and took both into the
adjoining room, which had once been her mistress’.
Harcourt not unwillingly followed her, deferring his interest until
after he had finished his simple toilet.
“I’s got a heap to tell yo’, young marse, an’ dat’s de trufe; but I kin
tell it to yo’ w’ile yo’ eatin’ yo’ supper,” said Martha, as she laid
some clean, coarse towels on the rough washtable.
“Now I’s gwine to hurry up dat supper,” she added, as she left the room.
I don’t know how it is, but the negroes of Maryland and Virginia, no
matter how poor they may be in all other respects, always, or nearly
always, contrive to have “something good to eat in the house.”
When Harcourt had thoroughly washed and combed himself, and changed all
his clothes from the resources of his carpetbag, he went into the
kitchen, to find a substantial supper laid on the neat table, and a pot
of fragrant tea steaming on the hearth.
“I ’pared it all yere, young marse, ’caze I didn’t want to ’sturb yo’
w’ile yo’ was washin’ an’ dressin’, nor likewise to keep yo’ waitin’
arter yo’ got t’rough. Now it’s all yeddy fo’ yo’.”
Harcourt sat down to tea, home-made bread, sweet butter, new-laid eggs
and fried rashers of bacon. And if he did not do honor to Martha’s
cooking it was because his appetite was not yet good, and not because
the supper was plain, as the poor woman insisted that it was, with many
apologies.
“See, ef I’d knowed yo’ was comin’, young marster, I’d had some hot
yoles an’ fried chicken, an’ cakes an’ ’serves; but yo’ tak’ me so
unawares,” she said, as she removed the dishes and cleared the table.
“Indeed. I have had all I want, Martha, except the news you promised to
tell me, and I am ready for that now.”
“All yight, young marster. Yo’ draw yo’ cha’ up to de fire, an’ soon’s
ebber I fole up dis tablecloff I come an’ sit down on dat little cricket
an’ tell yo’ all about it. I’s got heaps to tell yo’, an’ dat’s de
trufe,” said Martha, completing her last act in setting the place in
order.
Then she drew a small bench—called in her parlance a cricket, probably
because of its being an humble little chimney-corner seat, and began her
story.
“Yo’ know dat time w’en ole mist’ess went sudden to de city?”
“Yes,” sighed Harcourt.
“Well, she nebber tell me wot took her off so sudden. Said she’d tell me
w’en she got back. But, Lor’!”
“What?”
“W’y, ’fo’ she were ready to come back, my po’ ole man—po’ Moses—tak’
sick; he did, my po’ ole man did; an’ w’en he t’ought he was goin’ to
die he got a letter writ to ole mist’ess to come home, ’caze he had
somefin mighty pa’tickler to ’fess to her ’fo’ he went. Yo’ heerd all
’bout my po’ ole man goin’ to glory, o’ coorse, young marster?”
“No,” Harcourt replied, with a twinge of compunction, for he had
forgotten even to inquire after faithful old Moses, although he might
have missed him from the cabin. “I am very sorry to hear of your loss,
Martha; very sorry indeed.”
“An’ yo’ nebber year ’bout it ’fo’, young marse?”
“Never.”
“Now, see dat, now. W’ere yo’ been all dis time, not to year ’bout it,
young marse? But dere, I know yo’ been off to collidge, ’way f’om
eberybody, ’cept ’twas books an’ sich. An’ nobody to yite to yo’, ’cept
’twas ole mist’ess, an’ she not capable of yitin’ eber since my po’ ole
man die. So ’ow could she tell yo’?”
“Stop!” exclaimed Harcourt, again alarmed and mystified. “Just now you
said that your mistress was well. Now you say that she was incapable of
writing to me. How is this?”
“Young marse, she is as well—de ole madam is—as any ageable ole lady ob
her time ob life can be in body healf; but she can’t settle down her
min’ on to yitin’; no, she can’t—de ole madam can’t. But she’s well—well
an’ likewise happy; happier now ’an’ she hab been since de ole marse
fell in battle—de ole madam is. Yes, sah!”
“Happier! Thank heaven! But how and why should she be happier, or happy
at all—the poor mother?” inquired Harcourt, more and more bewildered.
“Now, young marse, if yo’ will hab patience, an’ let me tell yo’ a
straight story, I’ll tell it, an’ no lie; but doane yo’ jump or ’xclaim,
or yo’ll be sure to put me out.”
“Very well; very well, Martha. Pray go on.”
“Well, den, de ole madam, w’en she were wrote for by Miss Marg’et up to
de big house, she come yight down, she did—de ole mist’ess did—by de
night train, so she ’ribed at Logwood in de dark, lonesome hours arter
midnight, an’ got yere jus’ ’fo’ day, de ole madam did, mos’ we’ out.”
“Poor, dear mother! At her age, too!”
“Yes, at her age, too. It’s de trufe. Well, as my po’ ole man was asleep
jus’ den, an’ we didn’t wan’ to wake him, fo’ fear it would shorten ob
his days—hours, I mean—I ’suaded ob de ole madam to go to bed, an’ I gib
her a cup o’ tea, wid furty drops ob lodomy in it—yes, sah, did—an’ I
knowed wot I was a-doin’ ob, fo’ she was dat we’ out, an’ same time dat
’cited, I knowed ef she didn’t go to sleep yight off, somefin would
happen to her.”
“Martha!” Harcourt exclaimed, “it was a hazardous thing to do, without
the doctor’s orders.”
“Dere want no doctor in yeach, an’ de case was immigrent. ’Sides w’ich,
I knowed wot to do my ownse’f, an’ I did it. De ole madam didn’t train
me in nussin’ not fo’ nuffin—de ole madam didn’t, ’deed didn’t she. An’
I gib her de sleepin’ stuff on de sly, unbeknowed to herse’f, I did. An’
de ole mist’ess she took it, an’ went to sleep, an’ slep’ like a angel,
she did, de ole mist’ess did, tell two o’clock in de arternoon. My po’
ole man he woke up fus’, my po’ ole man did, and he ’quired ’bout de ole
mist’ess, an’ w’en he yeared as she were in de house he were satisfied,
my po’ ole man were; an’ he waited patient till she wake up, an’ had her
breakfas’, my po’ ole man did. Young marse, if ebber Marfar Mungumbry go
to de dark worl’, it’ll be all along ob pious lyin’,” suddenly exclaimed
the woman, interrupting her story.
“How so?” inquired Harcourt.
“’Caze I had to lie yight an’ lef’ dat day.”
“But why?”
“To keep dem two po’ souls quiet. W’en de ole mist’ess wake up, she say,
she do, she say:
“‘Is Moses ’wake yet?’
“An’ I answer an’ say, I do:
“‘No, ole mist’ess, my po’ ole man is soun’ ’sleep.’
“An’ dat were lie de fus’. An’ den I say:
“‘I yeckon by de time yo’ get dress an’ get yo’ breakfas’, my po’ ole
man will youse up.’
“Den I jus’ slip ’way one minute to see how my po’ ole man was gettin’
on. An’ dere he was moanin’ to hisse’f, an’ gettin’ berry impatient at
long las’, an’ sayin’, as soon as ebber he see me:
“‘Is she ’wake yet? Oh, is she ’wake yet?’
“An’ I say:
“‘No; she soun’ ’sleep.’
“’Caze yo’ see, young marster, I wanted de ole mist’ess to get a
comfor’able breakfas’ fo’ gwine frough any tryin’ time, long ob my po’
ole man. An’ dat was lie de frurd. An’ so I kep’ on gwine f’om one to
tudder, lyin’ fas’ as a horse could trot, ’til ole mist’ess was dress’
an’ had her breakfas’ good.”
“Well? And then?” demanded Harcourt.
“Den I tole her as my po’ ole man was woke up, an’ she went in to see
him. An’ w’en she see how low he were she look mighty ’stress, an’ she
say—de ole madam say:
“‘Moses,’ she say, ‘I’m berry sorry to see yo’ sick.’
“An’ she set down by his bed an’ put her han’ on his fo’head. An’ he
say—my po’ ole man say:
“‘Mist’ess, I ain’t wurvy fo’ yo’ to care ’bout me.’
“Den he say to me, he say:
“‘Marffy, chile, yo’ go ’way. I got somefin to say to de madam w’ich I
mus’ say to herse’f alone.’
“So, young marse, I went out ob de room, an’ lef’ de ole mist’ess
settin’ by my ole man, wid her deliky han’ on his fo’head. An’ I went,
an’ ’gan fo’ to make up de ole madam’s bed, an’ put her yoom to yights.
An’ all de time I was a-doin’ ob it I yeard de mummerin’ ob deir woices
in de yudder yoom, but couldn’ year wot dey was a-sayin’. An’ sometimes
I yeerd a moan, but didn’t dare fo’ to ’trude ’fo’ I was called. An’
arter I had done de ole madam’s yoom I went an’ wash up all de breakfas’
t’ings an’ clean up de kitchen. ’Deed, by dat time, I frought it weer
time fo’ dem to call me in, ’specially as I didn’t year no mo’ talkin’.
W’en I were done cleanin’ up I went close to de do’ an’ listened, but
couldn’ year nuffin, but ebery little while a moan, like some one in
deep ’stress. Well, young marse, I waited ebber so long, an’ as nuffin
could be yeard but dat moanin’, moanin’, I got ’larmed, an’ I jus’
peeped in’ an’ den I went in——”
Here suddenly the poor woman broke into a storm of sobs and tears,
throwing her apron over her head, and rocking herself to and fro.
Harcourt did not attempt to comfort her. He did not know how. He could
only say:
“I am very sorry for you, Martha—very sorry.”
“’Tain’t no use, young marster,” she said, as soon as she had recovered
her voice amid subsiding sobs and tears. “’Tain’t a bit ob use! Me
cryin’ nor yo’ bein’ sorry; not a bit ob use in dis worl’. ’Twon’t
change nuffin as is past an’ gone. Dere, I’s done now,” she added,
wiping her eyes with her checked apron. “An’ now I’ll tell yo’ wot I
foun’ w’en I went in dat yoom.”
“Don’t hurry or distress yourself, Martha,” said Harcourt kindly.
“I mought’s well tell, an’ be done wiv it. Well, young marse, w’en I
went inter dat yoom I foun’ ole mist’ess kneel in’ down on he flo’ by de
side ob de bed, wiv her head bowed down on de quilt, an’—an’—an’ my po’
ole man—dead!”
Another wild burst of sobs and tears interrupted the narrative.
Harcourt could only repeat the words that rose sincerely from his heart:
“I am very, very sorry for you, poor, dear Martha.”
“Dere, I didn’t fink as I was gwine to ’ave so bad as dis. I didn’, fo’
a fac’. It ain’t no use, I know, but I can’t help ob it, young marse. I
can’t, indeed,” she said.
“I know it, poor soul. Don’t try to tell me any more to-night,” said
Harcourt.
“Oh, but I mus’. Young marse, it were de ole madam wat was moanin’. My
po’ ole man—bress his heart!—were pas’ all dat. He were layin’ dere,
peaceable as a sleepin’ baby. I heaved a prayer up to de Lord, an’ den I
jus’ kiss my po’ ole man, I did, an’ den I took hol’ ob de mist’ess’
han’, I did, an’ she a-moanin’ low, an’ lif’ her up an’ sipport her wiv
bofe arms, an’ lead her out inter her own yoom, an’ set her down in her
own cha’, an’ she a-moanin’ an’ a-moanin’. I couldn’ speak, young marse;
not den I couldn’.”
“I can well believe it,” said Harcourt.
“No, I couldn’t say nuffin. I could on’y keep on heavin’ prayers out’n
my heart up to de Lord. But de ole madam, she speak fus’. I doane
b’liebe she knowed as my po’ ole man was gone, ’caze she said, my ole
mist’ess, she said, wiv her eyes up:
“‘Oh, de disg’ace, Marfar! Oh, de disg’ace as has fall on me in my ole
age. I’s bore sorrow an’ poverty an’ bereabement wivout murmurin’, but
dis is wuss dan all de res’. Oh, de disg’ace! disg’ace!’”
Harcourt turned very pale. What was this that his mother had heard from
her dying servant? Was it—could it be that the old man had become
acquainted with the secret of the Isle of Storms? And how could this
have happened except through the treachery of Hanson?
“What,” he faltered, “what was this secret Moses told my mother that
caused her such anguish?”
“She nebber tole me, young marse, an’ I had too much ’spec’ fo’ her to
ax questions.”
Harcourt wrung his hands together as they lay on his knees, and set his
teeth to keep down, if possible, all utterance of the agony that
tortured his heart. The next words of the woman reassured him:
“No, she nebber give no word, de ole mist’ess didn’t, ob what de trubble
yeally was. But she kept on sayin’:
“‘Oh, de disg’ace! de disg’ace! Wot will my son say if he year ob it?
Wot will my high-speeryitted, hono’ble Will say to dis dishonor as has
fall on us? Wot will he say? Oh, I hope he will nebber, nebber year ob
it!’”
“So,” thought Harcourt, with a sigh of relief, “it is not the secret of
the Crest House suicide that has been told my mother. But what can it
be? What disgrace, in heaven’s name, could have come to us?”
“So she kep’ on moanin’ an’ moanin’, ’til at las’ she seem to take
frought, an’ she say, my ole mist’ess say:
“‘Po’ ole Moses, he meant well; he did it all fo’ me! Go to him, Marfar,
an’ tell him dat I freely fo’gibs him, for I do.’
“Dat was de way, young marse, as I knowed she didn’t know as my po’ ole
man were gone. Yo’ see, arter hearin’ the wuss she mus’ a drop yight
down by de bed w’ere I foun’ her, an’ kivered up her head, an’ never
moved ’til I come an’ helped her up an’ took her out, an’ so she nebber
knowed w’en my po’ ole angel breaved his las’. He mus’ ’a’ ’parted berry
peaceful.”
Martha stopped, wiped away a few quiet tears, and resumed:
“I ’suaded my ole mist’ess to lay down, an’ den I made her a cup o’ tea
an’ gib her, an’ at las’ I went to my po’ ole man to set long ob him an’
hab my cry out, ’caze I was fillin’ up an’ chokin’ all de time de ole
madam was talkin’ an’ moanin’, an’ I didn’t wan’ to let out ’fo’ her.
Dat arternoon I did my las’ dooty to my po’ ole man. Dere wa’n’t nobody
to do nuffin dat day but me. An’ ef dere’d bin frousan’s, I wouldn’ ’a’
let anybody tech my po’ ole angel but me—no, sah, I wouldn’—not ’til de
man wid de coffin came, I wouldn’.”
“And you were alone there with your mistress, without any help?”
“Yes, sah, ’til Mr. Silence Wyn’op come. Some ob dem w’ite folks used to
come ebery day. Dey was moughty good to me w’ile my po’ ole man was
sick, yit’ letters fo’ me an’ sent good tings to eat fo’ him. Yes, dey
did. Dat ebenin’ Mr. Silence he come, an’ w’en he fin’ how it all was
yere, he tuk all de ’sponsibility on hisse’f, young Mr. Silence did, an’
had eberyting ’tended to, he did—young Mr. Silence did—an’ my po’ ole
angel had as ’spectable a funeral as I could wish—yes, he had. An’ he’s
gone to glory, ’caze he were a good angel, an’ nebber frought ’bout
hisse’f—no, sah, he didn’t. An’ he’s gone to glory, an’ I won’t be long
’hind him—dat’s wot comfo’ts me mos’ ob all.”
“And your mistress?” inquired Harcourt.
“Oh, w’en I tell her my po ’ole man were gone she were berry sorry—berry
sorry fo’ him an’ berry sorry fo’ me, an’ moughty good she was to me;
but she nebber lef’ her bed, de ole madam didn’. Eben fo’ de fun’al she
seem perfec’ly ’x’austed, an’ she did nuffin but moan an’ groan, an’
mutter ’bout disg’ace.”
“Yet you told me in the beginning of your talk about her that she was
happier now than she had been since the death of my father.”
“Yes, young marster. I ’xplain ’bout dat p’esently. But dat time w’en
she lay in bed, moanin’ an’ groanin’ was las’ November, an’ dis is
March. Dat time she did nuffin but griebe ober wot she called disg’ace
an’ shame, ’til I frought she would ’a’ died, or loss her min’, I did.”
“And she never dropped a hint of the nature of the secret she had heard
from Moses?”
“Nebber, young marse, f’om dat day to dis.”
“Was it——” slowly began Harcourt, as his mind doubtfully and painfully
reverted to the Crest House tragedy—“was it anything of recent
occurrence?”
“Currants? No, young marse, ’twan’t nuffin ’bout no currants, do’ I did
take all I wanted fo’ de ole madam’s jelly, out’n our ole garden up to
de big house, it was wid de w’ite people’s leabe; no, sah, ’twan’t de
currants.”
“You mistake me; I mean to ask if this secret, told by Moses to his
mistress, was about anything that happened lately—within the last six
months, for instance?”
“Lor’, no, young marse! but years an’ years ago, f’om de time de ole
house an’ furnitur’ was sold ober ole mist’ess’s head to dese p’esents.”
“What could it have been, this disgrace to the family, unknown to my
mother until it was revealed by Moses? Have you no idea at all of its
nature, Martha?”
“Well, young marse, I has had my ’spicions, an’ I’s had ’em f’om de
fus’, an’ dey’s growed stronger since my po’ ole man went to glory.”
“What were your suspicions?”
“Well, young marse, dough I nebber breaved dem to no libin’ soul, I do
yeckon as I ought fo’ to tell yo’, seein’ as yo’ is de head ob de family
like, arter de ole madam.”
“Yes, it is certainly your duty to let me know the truth about this
alleged disgrace,” said Harcourt solemnly.
“Now, young marse,” exclaimed Martha, firing up, “I wan’ yo’ to
understan’ one fing, fus’ off, as I nebber said it were no disg’ace, an’
nebber ’liebed it to be no disg’ace, an’ no sin, an’ no shame, an’ no
yong done to nobody in dis worl’. Dat’s wot I nebber b’liebes it not to
be.”
“Then why should it have distressed my mother and hurt poor, dear old
Moses’ conscience?”
“W’y, Lor’, Marster Will! Yo’ been to collidge, an’ doane know how some
people’s conshence—an’ good people’s conshence—ain’t got yight good
sense. Some people’s conshence won’t let ’em go to a dancin’ party, an’
some odder people’s conshence won’t let ’em eat meat o’ Fyday! An’ so it
go. Now, my po’ ole man’s conshence had a sort o’ saf’enin’ ob de
brain—it was dat tender. He would nebber hab done wot he did, dough it
were not yong, ’cept as he ’sidered ob it, on’y fo’ de ole madam’s sake.
Ah! he would ’a’ gibben his soul as well as his body fo’ de ole
mist’ess’s sake, wot he nebber would ’a’ done to save me f’om
starvin’—dough I ’peat, it was no yong, ’cept as his saf’ conshence
’sidered it. He nebber did no yong in al de days ob his life. He were
too good fo’ dis worl’, my po’ ole man were, bress his heart,” said
Martha, again wiping away the intrusive tears.
“Yes, Moses was a good man, one of the very best I ever knew in all my
life, but still that which he did, whatever it was, was not only wrong
in his eyes, but in those of his mistress, else she could not have been
so distressed,” said Harcourt.
“Oh, yes, she could, young marse. It was her pwide, an’ her pwide had no
mo’ sense in it dan my ole man’s conshence. Her pwide had saf’enin’ ob
de brain wus’n his conshence!”
“Well, but what was it? What did Moses do?” rather impatiently demanded
Harcourt.
“I gwine tell yo’, young marse, yight now. Yo’ know w’en we-dem all lib
up in de big house in de good ole time ’fo’ de wah?”
“I should think so.”
“Yo’ was a b’y den, but still yo’ muss’ ’member how Moses were
dinin’-yoom sarvint, an’ how he had charge ob all de silber in de
house.”
“Oh, yes.”
“Berry well, den. An’ yo’ ’members de time w’en de sale were?”
“I was in college then, and knew nothing of it until I came home, to
find my mother turned out of house and home, and having her only shelter
in this poor hut.”
“So yo’ was, young marse, an’ so yo’ did. Well, jus’ ’fo’ de crash come,
an’ w’en we fus’ knowed it was comin’, wot yo’ fink my po’ ole man did?”
“I don’t know. What did he do?”
“In de dead o’ night he tuk all ob de silberware—de big tea tray an’
teapot an’ coffee pot, an’ de urn an’ de sugar bowl, an’ de punch bowl,
an’ tankards, an’ goblets, an’ spoons an’ forks, an’ sugar tongs, an’
ebery singly fing, an’ totes ’em up de hill inter de big woods, far f’om
any yoad or paff, an’ buries ob ’em in a deep hole he had dug, an’
covers ob ’em up, an’ covers de top ob de place wid dried leabes an’
sticks an’ fings, to ’ceal de new turned up yeth. Dere! dat’s wot my ole
man did, an’ he did it fo’ de ole mist’ess, not fo’ hisse’f.”
“Then you must have known of this act as well as suspected it.”
“Look yere, young marse, I knowed ’bout dat buried silber all de time,
not as my ole man eber tol’ me, fo’ he didn’t; but I foun’ out—nebber
min’ how, at present, but I foun’ out. But, Lor’, sah, I nebber, nebber
frought as dat was wot de po’ ole man had on his conshence. I didn’t
’sider dat to ’mount to anyfing. No, sah. It’s on’y lately as I knowed
it was nuffin ’tall but de buried silber.”
“At the sale was no inquiry made for the silver?”
“Oh, yes, marse. One ob de men did ’quire fo’ it, an’ sent fo’ my ole
man to gib ’count ob it, an’ dat stranger f’om de Norf he say to my ole
man:
“‘Is yo’ de butler?’
“An’ my ole man answer back:
“‘No, sah, my name ain’t Butler, nor likewise nuffin else but Moses
Mungumbry, sah.’
“Den dat w’ite man f’om de Norf he laugh out loud, an’ say:
“‘Well, yo’ de man-servant ob de house, anyway. Now, w’ere’s de silber?’
“Den my ole man tell a pious frode, he did, fo’ ole mist’ess’s sake, an’
say, he say:
“‘De silber, sah? De silber hab gone de way ob all flesh, an’ been sol’
off little by little, long ago—long ’fo’ de morgidge gib a lean on to de
lan’. Yes, sah, it went to pay debts, an’ to buy sugar an’ tea an’
sperrets fo’ de ole madam.’”
“Where was your mistress when this conversation took place?”
“Her had come to dis cabin airley in de mornin’, ’fo’ dem furriners f’om
de Norf come, her had. She didn’t wan’ to see ’em.”
“Oh, yes—of course. I might have known she was not there. She might have
been questioned, and she would surely have contradicted Moses, and
insisted on the silver being produced.”
“Oh, yes; so she would. Dem w’ite men f’om de Norf knowed dat, too,
’caze dey ax w’ere she war; an’ my ole man sweared his soul to Satan as
she had gone to Washington city on a visit to de Presiden’. An’ den dey
tackled me, an’ cross question ob me like a murder trial. But dey didn’
get nuffin out’n me—no, sah! I were a better han’ at pi’us frodes dan my
ole man, an’ I sweared my soul to partition as all de silber had been
sol’ fo’ ’visions in de wah, an’ I didn’ fink no harm o’ tellin’ pi’us
frodes to dem heethun fo’ my ole mist’ess’s sake. My conshence has got
good sense, it has. Well, dey s’arched up, an’ dey s’arched down, but,
Lor’, dey couldn’ fin’ nuffin. An’ wa’n’t I glad! An’ me an’ my ole man
look at one anodder, an’ he look werry onhappy. His conshence wa’n’t
sensible.”
Harcourt said nothing to try to enlighten Martha’s mind on this subject.
He knew it would be of no earthly use.
After a pause Martha resumed:
“Well, sah, w’en eberyt’ing got settled down, an’ de Wyn’ops bought de
ole house an’ lan’, an’ mos’ ob de furnitur’, an’ we was tryin’ to make
ole mist’ess comfo’table in de cabin——”
“Why didn’t you get somebody to write to me?” Harcourt interrupted.
“Ole mist’ess wouldn’ year to it. She say, ole mist’ess say, yo’ wasn’
to know nuffin ’tall ’bout de sale, fear yo’d come yunnin’ yere ’fo’ yo’
tarm was out. She yighted letters to yo’ ebery week, didn’t she? I
knowed she sent letters to de pos’ office at Logwood ebery free four
days by my ole man.”
“Yes, she wrote to me, but she never told me of the change; nor did I
hear of it until I came home that summer vacation. But go on.”
“I was gwine to say, young marse, ef it hadn’t been fo’ dat hidden
silber, ole mist’ess would ’a’ suffered want. Yes, sah, she would! My
po’ ole man were ’ployed cart drivin’ fo’ de Wyn’ops, but dough dey paid
well, de work wa’n’t stiddy, an’ it wa’n’t ’nough to keep ole mist’ess
in comforts. So de silber was took out’n its hole, little by little, in
de dead ob night, an’ sol’ to buy ’visions.”
“How did Moses manage to dispose of it without detection?”
“Oh, easy. My ole man had been sent two or free times wid a pass f’om
ole mist’ess, to sell a silber goblet or tankard, or sumfin, to a
silbersmiff wot she knowed in Wichmon’, an’ de silbersmiff knowed my ole
man was her faifful, trus’ful sarvan’, an’ he was used to dealin’ long
ob him, an’ so po’ ole Moses had no trubble. He nebber telled me; but,
Lor’! I could see frough it all. He used to take a night, an’ go an’ get
a silber teapot or sumfin out’n de hole in de woods, an’ den he’d take a
day an’ yide to Wichmon’ in de steam keers, an’ sell de fing, woteber it
mought be, to dat silbersmiff wot knowed him, an’ knowed ole mist’ess;
and I don’t b’liebe dat silbersmiff nebber fought dat ole mist’ess
nebber sent dat silber to be sol’, like she had sent de odder. An’ so we
kep’ de ole madam in comfo’t, wid de bes’ ob tea an’ coffee an’ w’ite
sugar an’ pote wine an’ F’ench b’andy, an’ eberyt’ing she wan’ to eat
an’ d’ink.”
“Then that is the secret which Moses on his deathbed told my mother?”
“Yes, young marster, dat must ’a’ been it, ’caze dere wan’ nuffin else
fo’ to tell. ’Sides w’ich, I knowed it prayed on to his po’ ole min’,
’caze he use to talk in his sleep ’bout it. Dat ’firmed me in my
’spicions. An’, young marse, de ole madam ain’t been herse’f—not jes’
her own se’f, ebber since.”
“Poor mother! Poor lady! But you said she was happy now. How comes that?
And how comes it, also, that she is at Lone Lodge on a visit?”
“She ain’t dere on a wisit, young marse. She is dere at home, perminicy,
an’ dat wot it is make her so happy.”
“What! What is this you tell me? That my mother, my proud, high-spirited
mother, stoops to be dependent on the Wynthrops for a home? And is even
happy in such dependence?” exclaimed Harcourt, in humiliated and
indignant amazement.
“Now, youg marse, sah, doane yo’ go off at sich a tanger! Let me
’xplain. De ole madam kep’ on griebin’ an’ griebin’ ’bout dat disg’ace,
as she call it, till she got yight down weak an’ low——”
“Poor lady! poor lady!” murmured Harcourt in a low tone.
“An’ so it went on ’til one night dere comed up de awfulles’ win’ storm
as ebber yo’ saw in all de days ob yo’ life! An’ yo’d fink de hills yere
would ’a’ ’tected us, but dey didn’ much, ’caze dat win’ swurl in at de
low en’ ob de walley an’ up to de high en’, fo’ all de worl’ like de
draft ob one of dem stobes dey Wyn’ops got up at de big house. We didn’t
go to bed dat night, an’ well we didn’, de ole madam an’ me, fo’ in de
middle ob de night de win’ come whurlin’ up de walley an’ twissed de
ruff yight off de top ob de cabin an’ whurled it up to de odder en’ ob
de walley, an’ hev it down. An’ we was unruffed in de middle ob de
night.”
Harcourt shuddered.
“What did my poor mother do?” he inquired.
“Nuffin. She couldn’ do nuffin. I made her a narrow bed out ob bolsters
an’ pillows on de flo’, an’ put her on it, an’ kivered her up, an’ den
tuk de big kitchen table an’ stood it up ober her, an’ hung quilts an’
blankets ober dat to keep off de win’ an’ de rain, wot soon poured down
like No’s flood. Oh, young marse, dat was de wus’ night I ebber see in
all my life.”
“And your poor mistress?”
“Oh, young marse, next mornin’ de sto’m was ober, an’ de sun shinin’ an’
smilin’, good-natured as a angel, on to our wracked an’ ruinated home.
An’ ’deed anybody not intrusted mought even ’a’ laughed—de place did
look dat queer, wid eberyt’ing all yight, ’cept ’twas de ruff off, an’
de yooms all open to de sky, an’ po’ ole mist’ess tucked up unnerneaf ob
de table.”
“I should think it was no laughing matter,” said Harcourt, in grave
rebuke.
“No mo’ it wa’n’t, young marse—’deed wa’n’t it! De po’ ole mist’ess was
berry ill—in a high feber—doane be scared, young marse! Yo’ know, I
telled yo’ she were well an’ happy now.”
“Go on,” was all that Harcourt found it possible to say.
“I didn’t know wot to do. I was ’fraid to leabe ole mist’ess, an’ ’fraid
not to run fo’ ’sistance. Anyway, dem Wyn’ops up to de big house was
lookin’ out wid a spyglass at de damage done by dat darnado, an’ dey see
de ruff offen our cabin, an’ dey sent young Mr. Silence down yere to see
arter us. Oh, young marse, dem Norfen furriners is good people, fo’ w’en
dey see de trouble we was in, an’ de ole mist’ess in a high feber, an’
’tirely out’n her head, they sent a kivered wagon down yere an’ had her
lif’ into it, bed an’ all, an’ dey carry her up to de big house, an’
tell me to come along, too, till de ruff was put on de cabin again. An’
dat was de way de ole mist’ess come to be up at de big house as was once
her own home—not, as I b’liebe she would ebber hab gone inter dat house
ef she hadn’t been out’n her head.”
“No, I am sure she would not,” sighed poor Harcourt.
“But I mus’ say it was a bressed fing as she did go, young marse. It
saved her life. An’ w’ere does yo’ tink dey put de ole madam?”
“In the back building, or in the garret?”
“No, sah! Dey put her in bed in her own bressed ole yoom—de parlor
bedyoom, w’at opens offen de drawin’-yoom on one side an’ de back piazza
on de t’oder! Yes, sah, dey put her dere, an’ it were jus’ as she lef’
it free years ago. Same flowered chintz bed curt’ins, an’ same windy
curt’ins. Yes, an’ same rag carpet as I helped to make myself! Same
corner cupboard, an’ same armchair wid same patchwork cushions on it.
Yes, sah, it were. An’ dey put de ole madam in it, jus’ de same as if
she had nebber lef’ it. Yes, sah, I did ax Miss Mar’get, wot is a werry
nice young w’ite gal, how it war, an’ she tell me her mudder like dat
yoom so w’en she fus’ see it she wouldn’ hab nuffin change’ into it, but
kep’ it for comp’ny jus’ so. An’ dey put ole mist’ess inter it. Now wot
does yo’ tink ob dat fo’ de Wyn’ops?”
“It was very, very kind; still, I don’t like it.”
“W’y? Yo’ ought ter like it, young marse. Yo’ oughtn’ ter let pwide come
in yere. An’ dey sent fo’ Dr. Wall to ’tend her, and arterward Dr.
Lat’rop, f’om Logwood. An’ dere war me s’eepin’ on a little mattrass on
de flo’ ’fo’ de fire, like I used to do w’enebber de ole madam was
poorly, an’ wanted ob me. Oh, it war like de good ole times, it war! An’
de ole madam got perfec’ly well an’ happy—well, dat is ’cept fo’ one
’lusion she has on to her min’.”
“Delusion?” inquired Harcourt uneasily.
“Yes, sah. Dat’s wot de Wyn’ops call it—’lusion. An’ it’s dat ’lusion
wot makes her so happy.”
“What is it?” demanded Harcourt anxiously.
“Oh, young marse! I can’t help larfing an’ cryin’ bofe w’en I fink ob
it. Dat feber ob hers it wipe out all de sorrows an’ sufferin’s as my
ole mist’ess eber had in her life. It wipe out de bloody wah, an’ de
deaf ob de ole marse, an ’de young ge’man an’ young ladies, an’ de sale
ob de house an’ lan’, an’ de po’ libin’ in de log cabin, an’ eberyt’ing.
W’en ole mist’ess come out ob dat feber, an’ wake up in her ole yoom,
she t’ought how she had nebber lef’ it. She t’ought de ole marse an’ de
young chillun was all libin’, an’—an’ she t’ought dat all de Wyn’ops in
de house war her own comp’ny.”
“Insane! Oh, my poor mother!” groaned Harcourt.
“Doane take it dat way, young marse! De ole madam is sensible as a judge
in eberyt’ing else but dat ’lusion, an’ dat ’lusion do make her so happy
yo’ oughtn’ ter begrudge it to her. An’ de Wyn’ops, dey do humor her
into it, an’ dey tell me ebery day not fo’ de worl’ to counterdick her.”
“But that she should be living in dependence on these people!”
“’Tain’t quite dat, neider, young marse. Dere’s money comes ter her
ebery once in a w’ile—f’om some ’un or odder who owed ole marse a debt.
It come frough some laayer, in de care ob Miss Mar’get, an’ she do lay
it out fo’ de ole madam. I know she pay de two doctah’s bills an’ bought
fings wid it.”
“Oh, yes,” said Harcourt. “I believe I did hear from mother that there
was an old debt owed her which was to be paid by installments. But if
mother stays there I must pay her board. If the people won’t take pay
she must come away.”
“No, she mus’n’, ’deed, young marster. It would kill her. ’Sides w’ich,
I doane b’liebe dese sens’ble Norvun people would ’ject to yo’ payin’
bo’d fo’ her. Dey ain’t got none ob dat nasty se’fish pwide wot won’t
take no ’sideration on ter nobody e’se’s pwoper pwide. No, sah! Now,
young marse, p’ease tell me wot o’clock it is. It mus’ be gettin’
moughty late.”
“I have no watch, Martha, but I should judge it to be about ten
o’clock.”
“See dat now! I mus’ go back ter ole mist’ess. I s’eeps in her yoom
ebery night, to take care ob her. I does fo’ her all day, too, dough I
keeps on dis ole cabin to keep my fings in; an’ young marse, I kin mak’
yo’ mons’ous comfo’ble in de oder yoom, w’ere ole mist’ess used to
s’eep, ef yo’ doane min’ s’eepin’ yere ter-night. De ruff doane let in
no water, eben if de rain come, dough it is men’ed moughty rough.”
“I shall sleep here, if you please, so long as I stay in the
neighborhood.”
“All yight, young marse. I’ll do de bes’ I kin fo’ yo’.”
Martha went into the other room, made the bed, laid out towels, and
filled the pitcher with fresh water.
Then she returned, and said:
“Now, young marse, yo’ll be comfo’ble fo’ de night, an’ airly ter-morrer
mornin’, fo’ ole mist’ess wake up. I’ll yun down yere an’ git yo’
breakfas’ yeddy. Good-night, young marse.”
“Good-night. But how will you get into the house without disturbing the
family?”
“Oh, I got de key ob de ole mist’ess’s yoom, wot open on de piazza. I
allers comes in an’ out ob dat do’, an’ not de one wot opens on to de
parlor. Good-night, sah.”
When Martha had left the cabin Harcourt started up and followed her.
“Wot de matter, young marse?” she inquired, turning back when she heard
him.
“Do not tell your mistress that I have returned. Wait until I go to the
house.”
“Course I won’t, young marse. It would mak’ her too res’less ’til she
seed yo’,” answered Martha, and she turned again and hurried up the
hill.
Harcourt stood looking around him on the night scene, and meditating on
all that he had heard.
The March wind was still blowing, driving ragged black clouds across the
expanse of sky above, and swaying the pine trees on the top of the hills
around.
Was he glad or sorry that his mother was an honored guest at Lone Lodge,
humored in the delusion that repossessed her of all her lost treasures
of husband and children, home and wealth, and made her completely happy?
He found it impossible to answer that question until he should have seen
and talked with Dorothy Harcourt.
But of one other circumstance he was deeply glad and grateful—that Roma
was free! Come what might to himself now, Roma was free!
He wondered whether Martha or any of the people at Lone Lodge or at
Logwood knew anything about the motive of his mother’s sudden journey to
Washington city, when she went to attend his hasty marriage, or whether
any of them knew anything about the ceremony that had been performed at
the little church at the dawn of day, or even anything about his
engagement to Roma Fronde. He had been anxious to ascertain, but could
not, even indirectly, ask the question; for if Martha knew nothing about
the circumstances such inquiry would start speculation, if it did not
give information.
He thought, on the whole, that no one in the neighborhood knew anything
about the matter. His mother was proud and reserved, and would not be
likely, under her circumstances, to speak of family affairs to any one
there, and so she had gone to Washington city without telling any one
why she went there.
On her return she might have told Martha, had not the exigent and
exciting events that met her in the cabin delayed the communication
until she was prostrated by the severe fever that burned all memory of
recent events out of her brain.
True, the letters that he had received with partial news of his mother
were all directed to Snowden, which would seem to prove that the writer,
Margaret Wynthrop, had reason to suppose that he was at the Isle of
Storms, where he was believed to have gone to spend his honeymoon with
Roma Fronde. Yet no mention of Roma Fronde—no allusion to his supposed
marriage, occurred in any of the letters. Possibly, Margaret Wynthrop
had directed his letters there as to the place of the last address she
knew of when he was clerk of the Crest House. Yes, that must have been
the reason. And she knew nothing of his marriage; and his mother, in her
happy delusion, had forgotten it, with everything else that had happened
in the last few years. Still, he could not feel quite certain of his
theories until he should have seen his mother and met the Wynthrops.
At least one thing seemed assured—that he would be asked no questions
about his lost Roma, and that would relieve him from much dreaded
embarrassment. He would have no bitter, grievous explanations to make,
or invent, for the absence of his supposed bride; no deception,
justifiable or otherwise, to practice upon his aged mother, no new sin,
the necessary outcome of the old sin, to burden his conscience. His aged
mother was happy in a paradise of illusions. Before long she would leave
that for a heaven of realities. When that time should come, and she
should be safe beyond the possibility of knowing or sharing his shame
and agony, he would give himself up to justice for his share in the
tragedy at the Crest House, and he would tell Roma of the dire need, the
infernal scourge of fire, that had driven him to wrong her as he had
done. She would forgive him, and he would meet his fate in State prison
or on the scaffold, whichever it might be, with more patience and
fortitude than he possessed now in bearing the weight of memory and
remorse.
It would be a dark ending of all his bright aspirations for the honor of
this world, but then he had done with this world—and there was another—a
world free from temptation and sin, full of love and faith; there he
should meet again all whom he had loved and lost, and best of all—Roma!
And nothing would be between them.
While he walked slowly up and down the little, narrow space between the
cabin and the stream, meditating on the troubled past and threatening
future, the wind had gradually cleared the sky overhead and had sunk
into rest. The pine trees stood still, the stars shone out, all was
quiet.
“The storm clouds are breaking—a little, a little—even for me,” he said.
“But it will never be clear in this world.”
He turned and went into the cabin.
He found the room once occupied by his mother very comfortably arranged
for his accommodation. A good fire was blazing in the chimney, and on
the hearth before it was a pitcher of chocolate kept warm for him.
He drank its contents gratefully and went to rest.