I ARRIVE AT FOUR-POOLS PLANTATION
As I rolled southward in the train--"jerked" would be a fitter word; the
roadbeds of western Virginia are anything but level--I strove to recall
my old time impressions of Four-Pools Plantation. It was one of the big
plantations in that part of the state, and had always been noted for its
hospitality. My vague recollection of the place was a kaleidoscopic
vision of music and dancing and laughter, set in the moonlit background
of the Shenandoah Valley. I knew, however, that in the eighteen years
since my boyhood visit everything had changed.
News had come of my aunt's death, and of Nan's runaway marriage against
her father's wishes, and of how she too had died without ever returning
home. Poor unhappy Nannie! I was but a boy of twelve when I had seen
her last, but she had impressed even my unimpressionable age with a
sense of her charm. I had heard that Jeff, the elder of the two boys,
had gone completely to the bad, and having broken with his father, had
drifted off to no one knew where. This to me was the saddest news of
all; Jeff had been the object of my first case of hero worship.
I knew that Colonel Gaylord, now an old man, was living alone with
Radnor, who I understood had grown into a fine young fellow, all that
his brother had promised. My only remembrance of the Colonel was of a
tall dark man who wore riding boots and carried a heavy trainer's whip,
and of whom I was very much afraid. My only remembrance of Rad was of a
pretty little chap of four, eternally in mischief. It was with a mingled
feeling of eagerness and regret that I looked forward to the
visit--eagerness to see again the scenes which were so pleasantly
associated with my boyhood, and regret that I must renew my memories
under such sadly changed conditions.
As I stepped from the train, a tall broad-shouldered young man of
twenty-three or thereabouts, came forward to meet me. I should have
recognized him for Radnor anywhere, so striking was his resemblance to
the brother I had known. He wore a loose flannel shirt and a
broad-brimmed felt hat cocked on one side, and he looked so exactly the
typical Southern man of the stage that I almost laughed as I greeted
him. His welcome was frank and cordial and I liked him from the first.
He asked after my health with an amused twinkle in his eyes. Nervous
prostration evidently struck him as humorously as it did Terry. Lest I
resent his apparent lack of sympathy however, he added, with a hearty
whack on my shoulder, that I had come to the right place to get cured.
A drive over sweet smelling country roads behind blooded horses was a
new experience to me, fresh from city streets and the rumble of elevated
trains. I leaned back with a sigh of content, feeling already as if I
had got my boyhood back again.
Radnor enlivened the three miles with stories of the houses we passed
and the people who lived in them, and to my law-abiding Northern ears,
the recital indubitably smacked of the South. This old gentleman--so Rad
called him--had kept an illicit still in his cellar for fifteen years,
and it had not been discovered until after his death (of delirium
tremens). The young lady who lived in that house--one of the belles of
the county--had eloped with the best man on the night before the wedding
and the rightful groom had shot himself. The one who lived here had
eloped with her father's overseer, and had rowed across the river in the
only available boat, leaving her outraged parent on the opposite bank.
I finally burst out laughing.
"Does everyone in the South run away to get married? Don't you ever have
any legitimate weddings with cake and rice and old shoes?" As I spoke I
remembered Nannie and wondered if I had touched on a delicate subject.
But Radnor returned my laugh.
"We do have a good many elopements," he acknowledged. "Maybe there are
more cruel parents in the South." Then he suddenly sobered. "I suppose
you remember Nan?" he inquired with an air of hesitation.
"A little," I assented.
"Poor girl!" he said. "I'm afraid she had a pretty tough time. You'd
best not mention her to the old gentleman--or Jeff either."
"Does the Colonel still feel hard toward them?"
Radnor frowned slightly.
"He doesn't forgive," he returned.
"What was the trouble with Jeff?" I ventured. "I have never heard any
particulars."
"He and my father didn't agree. I don't remember very much about it
myself; I was only thirteen when it happened. But I know there was the
devil of a row."
"Do you know where he is?" I asked.
Radnor shook his head.
"I sent him some money once or twice, but my father found it out and
shut down on my bank account. I've lost track of him lately--he isn't in
need of money though. The last I heard he was running a gambling place
in Seattle."
"It's a great pity!" I sighed. "He was a fine chap when I knew him."
Radnor echoed my sigh but he did not choose to follow up the subject,
and we passed the rest of the way in silence until we turned into the
lane that led to Four-Pools. After the manner of many Southern places
the house was situated well toward the middle of the large plantation,
and entirely out of sight from the road. The private lane which led to
it was bordered by a hawthorn hedge, and wound for half a mile or so
between pastures and flowering peach orchards. I delightedly breathed in
the fresh spring odors, wondering meanwhile how it was that I had let
that happy Virginia summer of my boyhood slip so entirely from my mind.
As we rounded a clump of willow trees we came in sight of the house, set
on a little rise of ground and approached by a rolling sweep of lawn. It
was a good example of colonial--white with green blinds, the broad brick
floored veranda, which extended the length of the front, supported by
lofty Doric columns. On the south side a huge curved portico bulged out
to meet the driveway. Stretching away behind the house was a sleepy
box-bordered garden, and behind this, screened by a row of evergreens,
were clustered the barns and out-buildings. Some little distance to the
left, in a slight hollow and half hidden by an overgrowth of laurels,
stood a row of one-story weather-beaten buildings--the old negro cabins,
left over from the slave days.
"It's just as I remember it!" I exclaimed delightedly as I noted one
familiar object after another. "Nothing has changed."
"Nothing does change in the South," said Radnor, "except the people, and
I suppose they change everywhere."
"And those are the deserted negro cabins?" I added, my eye resting on
the cluster of gray roofs showing above the shrubbery.
"Just at present they are not so deserted as we should like," he
returned with a suggestive undertone in his voice. "You visit the
plantation at an interesting time. The Gaylord ha'nt has reappeared."
"The Gaylord ha'nt!" I exclaimed in astonishment. "What on earth is
that?"
Radnor laughed.
"One of our godless ancestors once beat a slave to death and his ghost
comes back, off and on, to haunt the negro cabins. We hadn't heard
anything of him for a good many years and had almost forgotten the
story, when last week he reappeared. Devil fires have been seen dancing
in the laurels at night, and mysterious moanings have been heard around
the cabins. If you have ever had anything to do with negroes, you can
know the state our servants are in."
"Well!" said I, "that promises entertainment. I shall look forward to
meeting the ha'nt."
We had reached the house by this time, and as we drew up before the
portico the Colonel stood on the top step waiting to welcome me. He was
looking much as I remembered him except that his hair had turned from
black to white, and his former imperious bearing had become a trifle
querulous. I jumped out and grasped his outstretched hand.
"I'm glad to see you, my boy! I'm glad to see you," he said cordially.
My heart warmed toward the old man's "my boy." It had been a good many
years since anyone had called me that.
"You've grown since I saw you last," he chuckled, as he led the way into
the house through the group of negro servants who had gathered to see me
arrive.
My first fleeting glimpse through the open doors told me that it was
indeed true, as Radnor had said, nothing had changed. The furniture was
the same old-fashioned, solidly simple furniture that the house had
contained since it was built. I was amused to see the Colonel's gloves
and whip thrown carelessly on a chair in the hall. The whip was the one
token by which I remembered him.
"So you've been working too hard, have you, Arnold?" the old man
inquired, looking me over with twinkling eyes. "We'll give you something
to do that will make you forget you've ever seen work before! There are
half a dozen colts in the pasture just spoiling to be broken in; you may
try your hand at that, sir. And now I reckon supper's about ready," he
added. "Nancy doesn't allow any loitering when it's a question of beat
biscuits. Take him up to his room, Rad--and you Mose," he called to one
of the negroes hanging about the portico, "come and carry up Marse
Arnold's things."
At this one of them shambled forward and began picking up my traps which
had been dumped in a pile on the steps. His appearance struck me with
such an instant feeling of repugnance, that even after I was used to the
fellow, I never quite overcame that first involuntary shudder. He was
not a full-blooded negro but an octoroon. His color was a muddy yellow,
his features were sharp instead of flat, and his hair hung across his
forehead almost straight. But these facts alone did not account for his
queerness; the most uncanny thing about him was the color of his eyes.
They had a yellow glint and narrowed in the light. The creature was
bare-footed and wore a faded suit of linsey-woolsey; I wondered at that,
for the other servants who had crowded out to see me, were dressed in
very decent livery.
Radnor noticed my surprise, and remarked as he led the way up the
winding staircase, "Mose isn't much of a beauty, for a fact."
I made no reply as the man was close behind, and the feeling that his
eyes were boring into the middle of my back was far from pleasant. But
after he had deposited his load on the floor of my room, and, with a
sidewise glance which seemed to take in everything without looking
directly at anything, had shambled off again, I turned to Rad.
"What's the matter with him?" I demanded.
Radnor threw back his head and laughed.
"You look as if you'd seen the ha'nt! There's nothing to be afraid of.
He doesn't bite. The poor fellow's half witted--at least in some
respects; in others he's doubly witted."
"Who is he?" I persisted. "Where did he come from?"
"Oh, he's lived here all his life--raised on the place. We're as fond of
Mose as if he were a member of the family. He's my father's body servant
and he follows him around like a dog. We don't keep him dressed for the
part because shoes and stockings make him unhappy."
"But his eyes," I said. "What the deuce is the matter with his eyes?"
Radnor shrugged his shoulders.
"Born that way. His eyes _are_ a little queer, but if you've ever
noticed it, niggers' eyes are often yellow. The people on the place call
him 'Cat-Eye Mose.' You needn't be afraid of him," he added with another
laugh, "he's harmless."