When I was quite alone, and sure no one was watching me, I took out his
card and examined it. "Roger Avery Hamilton" was his name. Judge of my
surprise, when I found the address he had written under his name was in
the very city to which I was going--Richmond!
I arrived about eight-thirty that evening. Dr. Manning was at the train
to meet me. He greeted me rather formally, I thought, for a man who had
been so pronounced in his attentions in Jamaica.
As he was helping me into his carriage, Mr. Hamilton passed us, with
other men.
"You forgot your dog," he said to me, smiling, and handed me a basket,
in which, apparently, he had put my Verley. I had indeed forgotten my
poor little dog! I thanked Mr. Hamilton, and he lifted his hat, and
bade us good night.
Dr. Manning turned around sharply and looked after him. They had
exchanged nods.
"How did you get acquainted with that chap?" he asked me. I was now in
the carriage, and was settling Verley in his basket at my feet.
"Why, he spoke to me on the train," I said.
"Spoke to you on the train!" repeated the doctor, sharply. "Are you
accustomed to make acquaintances in that way?"
My face burned with mortification, but I managed to stammer:
"No, I never spoke to any one before without an introduction."
He had climbed in now and was about to take up the reins when Verley,
at our feet, let out a long, wailing cry.
"I'll have to throw that beast out, you know," he said unpleasantly.
"Oh, no! Please, please don't throw my little dog out!" I begged as he
stooped down. "It's a beautiful little dog, a real thoroughbred. It's
worth a lot of money."
My distress apparently moved him, for he sat up and patted me on the
arm and said:
"It's all right, then. It's all right."
The doctor again began to question me about Mr. Hamilton, and I
explained how he became interested in my dog; but I did not tell him
about my dining with him.
"You ought to be more careful to whom you speak," he said. "For
instance, this man in particular happens to be one of the fastest men
in Richmond. He has a notorious reputation."
I felt very miserable when I heard that, especially when I recalled how
I had talked intimately about myself to this man; and then suddenly I
found myself disbelieving the doctor. I felt sure that he had slandered
Mr. Hamilton, and my dislike for him deepened. I wished that I had not
come to Richmond.
Dr. Manning's house was large and imposing. It stood at a corner on a
very fine street. A black girl opened the door.
"You will meet Mrs. Manning in the morning," said the doctor to me, and
then, turning to the girl: "'Mandy, this is Miss Ascough. She is coming
to live with us here. Take her up to her room." To me he said, "_Good_
night." With a perfunctory bow, he was turning away, when he seemed to
recall something, and said: "By the way, 'Mandy, tell Toby to put the
dog he'll find in the buggy in the stable."
I started to plead for Verley, but the doctor had disappeared into his
office. A lump rose in my throat as I thought of my little dog, and
again I wished that I had not come to this place. The doctor seemed a
different man to the one I had known in the West Indies, and although I
had resented his flattery of me there, the curt, authoritative tone he
had used to me here hurt me as much.
Curiously enough, though I had not thought about the matter
previously, nor had he told me, I was not surprised to find that he was
married.
My room was on the top floor. It was a very large and pretty chamber,
quite the best room I had ever had, for even the hotel room, which had
seemed to me splendid, was bare and plain in comparison.
'Mandy was a round-faced, smiling, strong-looking girl of about
eighteen. Her hair was screwed up into funny little braids that stuck
up for all the world like rat-tails on her head. She had shiny black
eyes, and big white teeth. She called me "chile," and said:
"I hopes you sleep well, honey chile."
She said her room was just across the hall, and if I wanted anything in
the night, I was to call her.
My own room was very large, and it was mostly in shadow. Now, all my
life I've had the most unreasonable and childish fear of "being in the
dark alone." I seldom went to bed without looking under it, behind
bureaus, doors, etc., and I experienced a slight sense of fear as
'Mandy was about to depart.
"Isn't there any one on this floor but us?" I asked.
"No; no one else sleeps up here, chile," said 'Mandy; "but Dr. Manning
he hab he labriterry there, and some time he work all night."
The laboratory was apparently adjoining my room, and there was a door
leading into it. I went over and tried it after 'Mandy went. It was
locked.
I took my hair down, brushed and plaited it, and then I undressed and
said my prayers (I still said them in those days), and got into bed. I
was tired after the long journey, and I fell asleep at once.
I am a light sleeper, and the slightest stir or movement awakens me.
That night I awoke suddenly, and the first thing I saw was a light
that came into the room from the partly opened door of the doctor's
laboratory, and standing in my room, by the doorway, was a man. I
recognized him, though he was only a silhouette against the light.
The shock of the awakening, and the horrible realization that he was
already crossing the room, held me for a moment spellbound. Then my
powers returned to me, and just as I had fled from that negro in
Jamaica, so now I ran from this white man.
My bed was close to the door that opened into the hall. That was
pitch-dark, but I ran blindly across it, found 'Mandy's door, and by
some merciful providence my hand grasped the knob. I called to her:
"'Mandy!"
She started up in bed, and I rushed to her.
"Wha' 's matter, chile?" she cried.