FIRES OF YESTERDAY
I wasn't frightened, of course. There isn't anything terrifying in
finding a little old leather-covered book on a prie-dieu by one's
bedside. But it was some minutes before I could induce myself to
take up that yellowed old diary and examine it.
It begins the year of Freeman's return from college, "a Finish'd
Young Gentleman." He has refused to go abroad, considering that "our
Young Gentlemen have enough Fripperies & Fopperies at Home without
bringing worse Ones from Abroad." Brother Richard has been abroad
more than once, and Freeman does not "find him Improv'd save in
Outer Elegancies."
The only person that "much Travelling hath not Spoil'd," he finds,
is Mistress Emily Hope of Hope Plantation. "Shee was a Sweet Child,"
he remembers; and now that the dew of their youth is upon them both,
he finds her "of a Graceful and Delicate Shape, with the Most
Beautiful Countenance in the World, a Sweet & Modest Demeanour, a
Sprightly Wit, an Accomplish'd Mind, & a Heart Fix'd upon Virtue."
The estates are near each other, the families intimate friends.
Emily seems to like the boy. At any rate, she doesn't repel him. And
then returns Richard--the gay, the handsome, the irresistible
Richard--who adds to the stalwart comeliness of a colonial gentleman
the style, the grace, the cultivated manners of the Old World.
Almost fiercely Freeman notes the effect he produces, and how "Women
do catch an Admiration for him as't were a Pox."
Then he begins to set down, grimly, "The Sums my Father hath paid
for My Brother's Debts." A little later, he adds: "You Might Pour
the Atlantic Ocean full of Gold through his Pocketts & Overnight
would He empty Them." Richard, also, "Makes Choice of rake-hell
Companions," to his father's growing unease and indignation, his
mother's distress. But "Good God! how is all Forgiven the Beautiful,
the Gift'd!"
"Jezebel herself, that carries her Head so High, wears her Heart
upon her Sleeve, een like a simple Milkmaid! 'Tis a Rare Spectacle.
Sure there's a Fatality about this Man!"
* * * * *
"This Day dress'd I in my new Blue Cloathes, the which become me not
Ill & riding over to Hope Plant'n did ask for Emily's Hand. Alas,
'Tis even as my Fears foretold! Shee loves me Not. 'Tis Richard
alone hath her Heart.
"I do Fear Shee will sup Sorrow & drink Tears that setts her
Affection upon the Unstable. Shee's too Mild, too Tender, hath not a
Firm enough Hand to restrain him. He should een have ta'en Madame
Jezebel. Hath a Grand Passion for him. Will not lightly wear the
Willow."
* * * * *
"This Day did Richard my Brother Wed Emily Hope," he records, after
a six-months' silence. "All say 'tis a most Noble Mating. My Mother
in a Gown from London Town, & our Finest Gems, enow to make a
Dutchess envious of a Carolina Lady. My Father in high Spiritts.
"I danc'd with the Bridesmaids, but Salut'd not the Bride, the Which
noted Madame Jezebel. Was Handsomer than ever I did See her, many
thinking her Handsomer than the Bride. Had a great Following, the
which the Hussy treat'd with Disdain.
"'Have you Kiss'd the Bride, Sir?' says shee, a-mocking of me after
her Wont. 'What a Fine Thing is a Love-Match, Master Freeman!'
"'Have you Wish'd the Bridegroom Joy?' says I. The woman anger'd me.
"'May Heaven send him all the Happiness he Deserves!' cries shee.
'Sure, you'll echo that yourself, Master Freeman!' 'Tis a jibing
Wench. Would to God Richard had Wedded her!"
Then came dry notes of a visit to Kinsfolk in Virginia. Freeman
seems to have been away from home for some time. When he returns, it
is to chronicle in brief his brother's downward course. "They have
sold Hope Plantation and Most of the Slaves. 'Tis an evil Chance."
"I shall be Twenty-one next month, though I feel a Thousand. We
shall have a Ball, after the Custom of our House. 'Tis to be a Grand
Affair. I do think my Parents are somewhat Tender of Conscience to
meward. Though my Father Loves me not as he Loves my Brother, yet he
begins to Lean upon me more & More Heavily. My poor Mother is a
Little Envious of these Dry Virtues of mine, seeing her Darling is
like to come to Shipwreck for Lack of them. Yet had he Fortune &
Beauty & Emily!"
The next entry records the loss of the Hynds jewels. "'Tis a great
Mystery!" One is sorely puzzled here. There is no getting at what
Freeman really thinks. Coldly, tritely, he sets down the bald, bare
facts of the tragedies that wrecked the Hyndses.
With a strange lack of emotion he chronicles Richard's death, and
adds: "At the Pleasure of God his Birth fell upon a Wednesday, at
Sun-rising, the which was by some Accounted Favourable. His Death
came upon a Friday, at Noone, it Raining heavily."
Then comes his father's sudden death; and this curious item:
"Despite his Anguish & Affliction of Spiritt upon that Date, he did
tell me Part, after the Custom of our House, the morning of my
Twenty-first Birthday. Alas, when he was Stricken, upon the News of
Richard's Demise, he had no Chance to tell me All, nor was there
among his Papers the Keye nor any Clue to It. When J. call'd us, he
was Beyond Speech & shee Hystericall with Affright. Thus the Whole
Secret perishes, since Without the Keye & his Instructions 'twould
be Impossible to Proceed."
* * * * *
"This evening came Capt. B., the worst of the Plundering Crew that
pluck'd Richard. 'Sirrah,' says he, impudently, 'thy Brother owe'd
me three thousand pounds.' And he pulls me out a great fistfull of
Billets.
"'Sirrah,' says I, 'my Brother owes his Wife and Orphan'd Infant
three thousand times more than that. There be Debts of Nature which
precede so-called Debts of Honour. Each billet in thy hand, thou
swindling runnigate, calls for a bullet. Begone, lest _I_ owe thee
a horse-whipping.'
"'Anan!' says he, 'and one of you a Thief! _That_ for Honour, in the
mouth of a Hynds!' And snapp'd me his fingers under my Nose.
"We arrang'd a Meeting, though 'T was Foolish to Risk myself, with
the Roof tottering over my Mother's Head. My fellow Pompey, Mr. G.
Dalzell, Mr. F. Mayne, & Dr. Baltassar Bobo with me. Two of his
scoundrelly Associates with him. His ball graz'd my arm above the
Elbow & Burnt the Linen of my Shirt. Mine Finish'd him. 'T was too
great an Honour & more than he Deserv'd, to die by the Hand of a
Gentleman."
A little later: "This morn disappear'd my Cozen Jessamine.
"Nothing discover'd of her Whereabouts," he records from time to
time.
"This morn saw I Emily & Richard's little Son. 'T is a Fine child,
much Resembling my Brother. Emily turn'd her Face away, drawing down
of her Widow's Weeds, & turn'd also the Babe's face aside. I felt
Embitter'd."
By this time he has taken over the whole Hynds estate as heir. He
mentions his sisters' marriages, notes that they have received their
dowers, and so dismisses them.
His mother has been dead some time when he marries. One wonders what
the bride was like, whom he commends for "Housekeeping Virtues, so
that the Servants instantly Obey, there is no Pilfering & Loitering,
& the House moves like Clockwork."
He must have been like clockwork, himself. There seems less and less
human emotion in him. The birth of his only child gets this:
"This day was born Sophronisba Harriott Hynds, nam'd for her
Estimable Mother. I am told 'Tis a fine healthy Child."
Casually thereafter he mentions "my Daughter." Twice her mother
"Requested me to Chastise her for Unchristian Temper," which
chastisement he seems to have administered with thoroughness and a
rattan, in his office. On the second occasion, "I whip'd her
Severely & did at the same Time admonish her to Ask Pardon of God.
Whereupon she Yell'd Aloud & did Seize the Calf of my Leg & Bite me,
Causing me Great Physical Pain and Mental Anguish. How sharper than
a Serpent's Tooth is an Ungrateful Child!"
(Oh, Ungrateful Child, I do not find it in my heart to blame you
overmuch. Somehow I can't feel sorry that you bit him, Sophronisba!)
"This day died my Wife, an Estimable Helpmeet. I shall sadly Lack
her Management of the House." In spite of which, he buys more land.
Life seems to run smoothly enough. "The Lord hath bless'd me with
Abundance. They that Spoke evil of me are Astonied & made Asham'd.
The Lord hath done it."
Then comes this last entry:
"Two nights since died Scipio, son of old Shooba's last Wife, the
which did send for me, Urgently entreating of my Presence. 'T was
ever a Simple-minded Creature & found a faithful Servant, wherefore
I did go to him.
"He was greatly in Dread of Dying, for that he was in mortal Terrour
of old Shooba, fearing to Meet that Evil Being outside of the Flesh.
Had been with Shooba when the wretched Creature passed away, a
harden'd Heathen among Convert'd & Profess'd Christians. Said he was
a Snake Soul.
"The man was craz'd with Fear, dreading Shooba to be even then in
the Room. And indeed the Tale he whisper'd me was enough to Craze a
Christian Man, & hath all but crack'd mine own Witts. If 't were not
for the Paper he slip't into my Palm, I should sett it down for a
Phantazy, one of old Shooba's evil Spells. Most merciful God, how
came he by that Paper if the Tale be untrue?
"Greatly am I upsett by this Improbable & Frightful Thing. Sure this
requires Prayer & Fasting, lest I be Delud'd."
Between the pages following this last entry was a piece of yellowed
paper, the paper that had been lost from the Author's coat pocket,
in the locked closet of his room.
After a while I managed to work the slit of a drawer open, and to
this hiding-place I returned Freeman's diary, and with it the
faintly scented bit of paper that The Author mourned.
* * * * *
The failure of her matrimonial plans for me did not occasion Miss
Alicia Gaines overmuch grief. She seemed to have dismissed the whole
matter from her mind. Restored to her old time gaiety, she sang like
a thrush as she worked. She bubbled over with the sheer joy of
living, until the very sight of her gladdened one. And she simply
couldn't make her feet behave! She danced with the broom one
morning, to the great amusement of our scholarly old Englishman.
"I'm supposed to be somewhat of an old stick myself: why not try me,
instead of the broom?" he suggested slyly. Instantly she took him at
his word, and danced him up and down the hall until he was
breathless.
"This," panted the scholar, "is a fair sample of what the Irish do
to the English."
"We do lead you a pretty dance, don't we, dear John Bull?" dimpled
Alicia.
"You do, you engaging baggage!" he admitted. "But," he added, in a
tone of satisfaction, "we manage to keep step, my dear! Oh, yes, we
manage to keep step!" And he trotted off, chuckling.
"There are times," said The Author to me, darkly, "when the
terrifying tirelessness of youth gives me a vertigo. Come away, Miss
Smith. Leave that kitten to chase her own shadow up the wall."
"Cross-patch, draw the latch,
Sit by the fire and spin--yarns!"
chanted Alicia.
"Go away, you pink-and-white delusion!" said The Author, severely.
"You have made Scholarship and Wisdom put on cap and bells and
prance like a morris-dancer. Isn't that mischief enough for one
day?"
Alicia has a round, snow-white chin, and when she tilts it the curve
of her throat is distracting.
"On second thoughts," said The Author, critically, "I discover that
I do not wholly disapprove of you. Come outside. I wish to talk
about the venerable, and yet common design that tops every outside
window and door of this house.--What do you call that design, may I
ask?"
"Why, everybody knows the Greek fret!" said Alicia, staring at it.
"It's as old as the hills."
"Exactly," agreed The Author. "The Greek fret is as old as the hill.
And, with the single exception of the swastika, it is the design
most universally known to man. You may find it on a bit of ancient
Greek pottery, or on a crumbling wall in Yucatan. Many people refer
to it as the Greek key."
Something began to glimmer in my mind--the vaguest, most tenuous
shadow of an idea; a tantalizing, hide-and-seek phantom of a
thought.
"_Turne Hellens Keye
Three Tennes and Three_,"
he quoted the doggerel verse.
We looked at him mutely.
"It is a tiresome truism," he went on, reflectively, "that what lies
close to the eye often escapes observation. For instance, these
windows have been staring at me daily, each with its nice little
eyebrow of design, and I overlooked the design until my subconscious
mind suggested to me that here, in all probability, lies Hellen's
Keye."
I remembered the entry in Freeman's diary, concerning the loss of a
"Keye," which hadn't been found among his father's papers, and of a
secret which had died with the older man.
"I think I told you," said The Author, "that this house was built by
master masons, shortly after the Grand Lodge was established in
London. Thirty-three is rather a significant number. Yet, how to
apply it," he paused, frowning.
"Without disturbing a Watcher in the Dark?" Alicia made light of
The Authors itch for mystery. "Aren't you rather forgetting the
Watcher in the Dark? Teller of tales, isn't it moon-stuff you're
trying to spin?"
"Who talks of a Watcher in the Dark?" asked a pleasant voice.
Accompanied by Mr. Johnson, Mr. Nicholas Jelnik had strolled up
unperceived.
"The Author," Alicia explained, mischievously, "is trying to make
sense out of nonsense."
"That," said Mr. Jelnik, smiling, "is not an uncommon occupation."
"It's all about a bit of doggerel we found on a scrap of paper in
the attic," I told him. And I quoted it, adding: "There was a column
of dots under it. The Author laments that he lost it, before he had
chance to unravel it."
"I lost it, walking in my sleep," said The Author, disagreeably.
"And now he's trying to make us believe that the design in the
brick-work above our windows, just because it's the Greek fret, is
Hellen's Keye," Alicia said, jestingly.
"Well, you know, if a thing means _anything_, it's got to mean
_something_," put in Mr. Johnson.
"Ain't it the truth, though?" hissed The Author, with fury.
Mr. Johnson was saved from stammering explanations by the irruption
of Beautiful Dog, who at sound of his voice had wriggled, and
cringed, and fawned his way out of the shrubbery, cocking a wary eye
to see that none of the Black family was around. Beautiful Dog
rolled his eyes at his god, swung his tail, waggled his ears, made
uncouth movements with his splay feet, and grinned from ear to ear.
He was so utterly absurd that he claimed everybody's amused
attention.
"Why, old chap! You're rather glad to see your friends, aren't you?"
the secretary said in his pleasant voice.
Beautiful Dog yelped with rapture, darted back into the shrubbery,
and a moment later emerged and laid at his adored one's feet all his
treasure, a chewed slipper. He tried to say that precious as this
gift undoubtedly was, he gave it willingly, joyfully. But scenting
other white people too near, he backed off, and fled.
The Author's eyes followed him.
"I wonder if I'd have been equal to that, myself, if I'd been born a
nigger dog with an ingrained distrust of the white man?" he
questioned. "Gad! it comes near being the real thing, Johnson!"
The secretary looked at the slipper lying at his feet: "I wonder
where he found that, now?"
I was wondering the same thing, and so was Alicia.
"Let's show Beautiful Dog the Chinese politeness of being decent
enough not to accept his gift when he's decent enough to offer it,"
she suggested.
"Yes, throw it into the shrubbery and let him find it. That may
raise white people somewhat in his estimation," I added, hastily.
Instantly Mr. Jelnik picked it up and tossed it among the bushes.
His action seemed the merest polite compliance with my request, and
he barely glanced at the object he cast away. Yet it was really
worth a second glance. Chewed, frayed, and torn, it had once been of
finest red Morocco leather; and it was such a flat and heelless
slipper as no native Hyndsville foot had ever worn. It was The
Jinnee's slipper.