|IT is the discomfort of the thing which comes back upon me, I believe,
most forcibly. Of course it was horrible, too, emphatically horrible,
but the prolonged, sustained, baffling discomfort of my position is what
has left the mark. The growing suspicion, the uncanny circumstances, my
long knowledge of that presence: it is all extraordinary, not least, the
part I somehow managed to play.
I was housekeeper at the time for little Mrs. Brane. How I had come to
be her housekeeper might have served to forewarn me, if I had had the
clue. None but an inexperienced, desperate girl would have taken the
position after the fashion in which I was urged to take it. I remember
the raw, colorless day, and how it made me shiver to face its bitter
grayness as I came out of the dismal New York boardinghouse to begin my
dreary, mortifying search for work. I remember the hollowness of purse
and stomach; and the dullness of head. I even remember wondering that
hair like mine, so conspiculously golden-red, could possibly keep its
flame under such conditions. And halfway down the block, how very well I
remember the decent-looking, black-clad woman who touched my arm, looked
me hard in the face, and said, “A message for you, madam.”
She got away so quickly that I had n't opened the blank envelope before
she was round the corner and out of sight.
The envelope contained a slip of white paper on which was neatly printed
in pen and ink: “Excellent position vacant at The Pines, Pine Cone, N.C.
Mrs. Theodore Brane wants housekeeper. Apply at once.”
This was not signed at all. I thought: “Some one is thinking kindly of
me, after all. Some oldtime friend of my father's, perhaps, has sent
a servant to me with this message.” I returned to my third-story back
hall-bedroom and wrote at once, offering my services and sending my
references to Mrs. Brane. Two days later, during which my other
efforts to find a position entirely failed, there came a letter on good
note-paper in a light, sloping hand.
The Pines
My dear Miss Gale:
I shall be delighted to try you as housekeeper. I think you will find
the place satisfactory. It is a small household, and your duties will
be light, though I am very much out of health and must necessarily leave
every detail of management to you. I want you to take your meals with
me. I shall be glad of your companionship. The salary is forty dollars a
month.
Sincerely yours
Edna Worthington Brane
And to my delight she enclosed the first month's salary in advance. I
wonder if many such checks are blistered with tears. Mine was, when
I cashed it at the bank at the corner, where my landlady, suddenly
gracious, made me known.
Three days later, I was on my way to “The Pines.”
The country, more and more flat and sandy, with stunted pines and negro
huts, with shabby patches of corn and potatoes, was sad under a low,
moist sky, but my heart was high with a sense of adventure at all times
strong in me, and I read promise between the lines of Mrs. Brane's kind
little note.
I slept well in my berth that night and the next afternoon came safely
to Pine Cone. My only experience had been the rather annoying, covert
attention of a man on the train. He was a pleasant-enough looking
fellow and, though he tried to conceal his scrutiny, it was disagreeably
incessant. I was glad to leave him on the train, and I saw his face
peering out of the window at me and caught a curious expression when I
climbed into the cart that had been sent to meet me from “The Pines.” It
was a look of intense excitement, and, it seemed to me, almost of
alarm. Also, his fingers drew a note-book from his pocket and he fell
to writing in it as the train went out. I could not help the ridiculous
fancy that he was taking notes on me.
I had never been in the South before, and the country impressed me
as being the most desolate I had ever seen. Our road took us straight
across the level fields towards a low, cloudlike bank of pines. We
passed through a small town blighted by poverty and dark with negro
faces which had none of the gayety I associated with their race. These
men and women greeted us, to be sure, but in rather a gloomy fashion,
not without grace and even a certain stateliness. The few whites looked
poorer than the blacks or were less able to conceal their poverty.
My driver was a grizzled negro, friendly, but, I soon found, very deaf.
He was eager to talk, but so often misinterpreted my shouted questions
that I gave it up. I learned, at least, that we had an eight-mile
drive before us; that there was a swamp beyond the pine woods; that
the climate was horribly unhealthy in summer so that most of the gentry
deserted, but that Mrs. Brane always stayed, though she sent her little
boy away.
“Lit'l Massa Robbie, he's jes' got back. Sho'ly we-all's glad to see him
too. Jes' makes world of diffunce to hev a child about.”
I, too, was glad of the child's presence. A merry little lad is good
company, and can easily be won by a housekeeper with the pantry keys in
her hand.
“Mrs. Brane is an invalid?” was one of my questions, I remember, to
which I had the curious answer, “Oh, no, missy, not to say timid, not
timorous. It's jes' her way, don' mean nothin'. She's a right peart
little lady. No, missy, don' get notions into yo' haid. We ain't none of
us timid; no, indeed.”
And he gave his head a valiant roll and clipped his fat gray horse with
a great show of valor. Evidently he had mistaken my word “invalid,” for
“timid,” but the speech was queer, and gave me food for thought.
We had come to an end of our talk by the time we reached the low ridge
of pines, and we plodded through the heavy sand into the gloom, out of
it, and down into the sudden dampness of the swamp, in silence. This was
strange country; a smothered sort of stream under high, steep banks
went coiling about under twisted, sprawling trees, all draped with
deadlooking gray moss. Everything was gray: sky, road, trees, earth,
water. The air was gray and heavy. I tried not to breathe it, and was
glad when we came out and up again to our open sandy stretches. There
was a further rise and more trees; a gate, an ill-weeded drive, and in a
few minutes we stopped before a big square white house. It had six
long columns from roof to ground, intersected at the second story by a
balcony floor. The windows were large, the ceilings evidently very
high. In fact, it was the typical Southern house, of which I had seen
pictures, stately and not unbeautiful, though this house looked in need
of care.
I felt very nervous as I stepped across the porch and pulled the bell.
My hands were cold, and my throat dry. But, no sooner was the door
opened, than I found myself all but embraced by a tiny, pale, dark woman
in black, who came running out into the high, cold hall, took me by both
hands, and spoke in the sweetest voice I had ever heard.
“Oh, Miss Gale, indeed I'm glad to see you. Come in now and have tea
with me. My little boy and I have been waiting for you, all impatience
since three o'clock. George must just have humored the old horse.
They're both so old that they spoil each other, out of fellow-feeling, I
reckon.”
She went before me through a double doorway, trailing her scarf behind
her, and I came into a pleasant, old-fashioned room, crowded with fussy
little ornaments and large furniture.
It was thickly carpeted, and darkly papered, but was lit to warmth by
a bright open fire of coals. The glow was caught high up by a hanging
chandelier with long crystal pendants, and under this stood a little
boy. My heart tightened at sight of him, he looked so small and
delicate.
“Here is our new friend, Robbie,” said Mrs. Brane. “Come and shake
hands.”
I took the clammy little hand and kissed the sallow little face. The
child looked up. Such a glare of speechless, sudden terror I have never
seen in the eyes of any child. I hope I shall never see it again. I
stepped back, half afraid, and hurt, for I love children, and children
love me, and this little, sickly thing I longed to take close to my
heart.
“Why, Robbie!” said Mrs. Brane, “Robbie, dear! He's very timid, Miss
Gale, you'll have to excuse him.”
She had not seen the look, only the shrinking gesture. He was much worse
than “timid.” But I was really too overwhelmed to speak. I turned away,
tears in my silly eyes, and took off my hat and coat in silence, tucking
in a stray end of hair. The child had got into his mother's lap, and
was clinging to her, while she laughed and coaxed him. Under her
encouragements he ventured to look up, then threw himself back,
stiffened and shrieked, pointing at me, “It's her hair! It's her hair!
See her hair!”
For a few moments his mother was fairly unnerved, then she began
to laugh again, looked apologetically at me, and, rocking the poor,
frightened baby in her arms, “Oh, Miss Gale,” she said sweetly, “we're
not used to such splendor in our old house. Come, Robbie dear, all women
are not as little and black and dreary as your poor mamma. I'll let him
creep off into a corner, Miss Gale, while we have tea, then he'll get
used to your prettiness and that wonderful hair from a distance.”
As I came up, the child fled from me and crouched in a far corner of the
room, from which his little white face glimmered fearfully.
Mrs. Brane poured tea, and chattered incessantly. It was evident that
she had suffered greatly from loneliness. Her eyes showed that she had
lived too long in memories. I felt a warm desire to cheer and to protect
her. She was so small and helpless-looking.
“Since my husband died,” she said, “I really have n't had the courage to
go away. It's difficult to pull up roots, and, then, there are the old
servants who depend so absolutely upon me. If I moved away it would
simply be to explode their whole existence. And I can't quite afford to
pension them.” Here she paused and added absently, “At least, not yet.”
I wondered if she had expectations of wealth. Her phrase suggested it.
“By the by,” she went on, “you must meet Delia, and Jane and Annie. They
are your business from now on. Delia's the cook, while Annie and Jane
do all the other work. I'll tell you about them so you'll be able to
understand their crotchets. They're really old dears, and as loyal as
loyalty itself. Sometimes,”--she laughed a hollow little laugh that
sounded as if it had faded from long disuse,--“I wonder how on earth I
could get rid of them.”
She gave me a humorous account of the three old women who did the
indoors work at “The Pines.” She had hardly finished when Jane came in.
This was the fat, little one; wrinkled, with gray curls; a pursed-up
face, little, bright, anxious eyes. Again I was struck by the furtive,
frightened air every one at “The Pines” wore, except George, the colored
coachman, with his bravado.
Jane was introduced to me, and gave me rather a gloomy greeting.
Nevertheless, I thought that she, too, after her own fashion, was glad
to see me.
“You don't keep colored servants for indoors, do you, Mrs. Brane?” I
asked, when Jane had taken away the tea-things and we were on our way
upstairs.
“Oh, mercy, no! Of all wretched, superstitious, timid creatures, negro
women are the most miserable. I would n't have one in the house with me
over a single night. This is your room, Miss Gale. It is in the old part
of the house, what we call the northern wing. Opposite you, along the
passageway, is Robbie's nursery, which my husband used in the old days
as a sort of study. This end of the house has the deep windows. You
won't see those window sills anywhere else at 'The Pines.' My husband
discovered the reason. There's a double wall at this end of the house.
I think the old northern wall was burnt or torn down, or out of repair,
and a former owner just clapped on another wall over it; or, perhaps,
he thought it would make this end of the house warmer and more
weatherproof. It's the quarter our storms come from. Whatever the
reason, it makes these end rooms very pretty, I think. There's nothing
like a deep window, is there? I hope you will like your room.”
I was sure that I should. It was really very fresh and pretty, seemed
to have been done over recently, for the paper, the matting, the coat
of white paint on the woodwork, the muslin curtains, were all spick and
span. After Mrs. Brane had left me, I went to the window and looked
out. I had a charming view of the old garden, still gay with late fall
flowers, and with roses which bloomed here, probably all winter long.
A splendid magnolia tree all but brushed the window with its branches.
Just below stood a pretty arbor covered with rose-vines and honeysuckle.
I drew in a deep breath of the soft, fragrant air. I was very happy,
that night, very grateful for the “state of life to which Heaven had
called me.”