TWO WARNINGS.
All through breakfast she sat like a woman whose every perception
is sharpened by fear. The very ordinariness of that meal, served
faultlessly by Salome and another colored woman, only seemed to make
her more curiously fearful. The lie about Bermuda, the breathless hurry
up the path, the sudden relaxing of the vigilance in Egerton’s eyes as
they came out on open ground, were all parts of a puzzle she could not
fit together. She sat ready for anything as she ate mechanically; but
even she was not prepared for what was coming next.
From her seat at the table she had heard the voices of the sailors as
they brought up the endless boxes, heard the thump with which each one
was deposited in some back veranda--for solid as the house looked,
inside it resembled a whispering gallery. A colored woman came in and
told Egerton the things had come. Should the men go?
He rose hastily, and said something from the veranda to the waiting
sailors before he turned to the maid.
“Give them breakfast,” he said shortly, “and then we’ll be off!”
We! Even Beryl looked at him, though so far nothing in this strange
place had seemed to rouse her from a dull apathy.
“Yes,” Egerton said quietly, “I’m going, too. I shall leave you two
ladies in Salome’s charge. I may be gone a month or six weeks. I have
some business. But you will be quite comfortable here; it is certainly
quiet;” and he laughed in that harsh cackle that was so out of
character with his polished voice and manner. The sound of it grated on
Andria’s nerves.
“But what,” she began, “I mean, is there no one in the
neighborhood--are we alone on this island? What shall I do if Miss
Corselas is ill?” She was so confounded she could scarcely speak.
“Salome can look after her. She has all sorts of medicines,” he
returned. “Neighbors? No, you have none. You need fear no interruptions
in either your work or play.”
“But I thought there were any amount of people in Bermuda!” Beryl had
lifted her head and was staring at him with those strange, tawny eyes.
“Bermuda is a big place,” he said, with a slow smile. “You won’t see
many people, and I shall come back as soon as I can----” He turned
suddenly to Andria, who sat pale and motionless, certain that his
coming back would be a long time in arriving. “My leaving you is
unavoidable,” he said, as if he knew her thoughts, “and also for the
best. You will learn to know each other better without a third person.
You may go about as you like, but I may as well tell you that most of
the country behind the house is impenetrable scrub, but quite safe if
you care to try it.” And it seemed as if his harsh laugh broke out
against his will, so quickly did he check it.
“The only things I warn you not to do,” he went on, “are to go out
at night, and to go up and down to the shore by that short cut we
used this morning. You might easily hurt yourselves there; slip on
the rocks, trip on the vines; a hundred things. And Salome will show
you a better road when you wish to bathe or sit by the sea. But above
everything”--and he lifted his hand impressively, and Andria stared as
if she were fascinated where she sat--“do not stay out after sundown,
and never, never stir one step outside after dark.”
There was something in his voice that carried warning and conviction.
“If you take my advice,” he continued, a shade less earnestly, “you
will not even walk on the upper verandas after nightfall. The lower one
you must never think of but by daylight. The air is health itself in
the day, but at night it gives fever. You understand?”
“Quite,” said Andria, whiter than a sheet of paper. “Quite.”
“Then I will bid you good-by. It will be no time before you see me
again. The days slip by here, you will find.”
He opened the door for them to leave the room, and shook hands with
studied courtesy as they passed.
The governess never looked at him; she was quivering with rage.
Beryl was so like him that she might easily be his daughter, and he
was leaving her here with a woman of whom he knew less than nothing,
whom he had chosen because she had absolutely no qualifications. And
leaving her, too, in a place he owned was fever-haunted. If it had been
in Andria’s power she would have knocked him down, and taken Beryl at a
run to the boat. But, even if she did this, it would avail her nothing.
Beryl was tired out, and one of the colored women showed her to her
room.
Andria remained in the dining-room, absorbed in her reflections.
Suddenly she heard the sound of voices on the veranda without. She went
to the window, and, screened by the jalousy, saw Egerton and Salome.
“So you haven’t seen anything of him lately?” Egerton was saying.
“No,” answered Salome; “not a hoof of him been round here since summer.
Dey won’t be no more accidents dis time. He’s gone, and--dey’s gone,
too.”
“Well! that’s good news,” he said slowly; and why did she think there
was disappointment in his voice?
“But don’t let those two ladies go out after dark, all the same!
There’s fever; remember that!”
“Might as well kill ’em as scare ’em to death,” said the woman
shrewdly. “But I’ll lock up every night same as always. Dat nigh shook
me into my grave, dat last trouble.”
“See, then, that there’s no more,” he said sternly. “You’re responsible
for them till I come back. And I’ll have no talking to them, mind
that. You can’t afford to know anything about accidents, and I suppose
neither of the others know anything to tell.”
“Not one of ’em.” Her voice shook as if at some horrible memory. “You
think I tell what I find, and bury? Nobody knows nothing ’bout dis
nigger----”
“But me,” said Egerton slowly. “And what is done here you are
responsible for, and you know it.”
She had good reason to. She broke out into a flood of protestations
that he cut short; and while the listener stood trying to make sense of
them she heard the man’s soft, quick footfall leaving the veranda.
She had no mind to speak to him now. She knew there would be no
satisfaction from him; nothing but smooth lies. Before she could move
she heard Salome speaking to herself where Egerton had left her.
“‘Take care o’ dem ladies,’ he says,” she broke out in a kind of wail.
“‘You’s ’sponsible.’ But who’s going to take care of me, an’ Chloe, an’
Amelia Jane? Nothin’ but our own black skins. Praise de Lawd dis day
dat I ain’t white!”
She shuffled off, and Andria went up-stairs, pale and half-distraught.
What sixth sense made her sure that all this show of warning, of
caution, only covered something that was meant to happen.
“You’re responsible,” he had said to Salome, and a horrible conviction
was cold at Andria’s heart. If anything dreadful overtook her and
Beryl, Egerton would have washed his hands of it. He had warned them
and their keeper!
Sick with apprehension, Andria almost ran against Amelia Jane, waiting,
stout and attentive, on the landing.
“You looks terrible tuckered out, missus,” she said respectfully. “Best
lie down and rest.”
Andria nodded; and then spoke on a sudden impulse.
“Is this place Bermuda?” she said.
“Law’s sake, missus, certain it is! Didn’t you know dat?” the colored
woman said emphatically.
“No,” said Andria slowly, walking past her.