A chance meeting in the hall of a Swiss hotel, in the vicinity of the
visitors’ book, a polite “After you,” and a similarity of surnames
led to our acquaintance with two charming Americans. The acquaintance
ripened into friendship, and ultimately my sister Lucy and self
discovered that Mrs. Washington-Dormer and her son Philip were
connected with our family, and that we, the Dormers of Ashley Gardens,
Victoria, London, S.W., were cousins (several times removed) of our
namesakes of Rochelle, near Lexington, Kentucky, U.S.A.
Mrs. Dormer was a widow with a good figure, snow-white hair, and a
bright, intelligent face. She had also a cheerful manner, and an air
of suppressed energy. Having confessed to the national passion for old
places, old curiosities and old pedigrees, she set to work to examine
our family tree, from which it appeared that a certain relative had
emigrated in the year 1810, settled, married and founded a dynasty in
that State, so worthily celebrated for its thoroughbred horses and blue
grass.
In company of “Cousin” Carolina and “Cousin” Philip, we travelled
through Northern Italy and the Tyrol with mutual enjoyment, and before
we separated in Paris had entered into a solemn league and covenant to
visit our Kentucky cousins in the early “fall.” I was rather astonished
at the alacrity with which Lucy accepted this invitation--knowing that
she was a hopelessly bad sailor and how she hated the sea! It, however,
dawned on me that she liked Cousin Philip, and the least observant
could see that he worshipped her.
Behold us therefore arrived and happily established at Rochelle, a
stately old “colonial” house which, with its pillared verandahs on all
four sides, presented a dignified appearance in the midst of spreading
turf lawns (the beautiful blue grass), avenues of walnut trees, and
clumps of oak and hickory.
In former days, Rochelle had been surrounded by an immense estate,
worked by slaves who raised and gathered vast crops of hemp, tobacco,
and corn; but now the shrunken acreage was chiefly devoted to the
breeding and rearing of horses; for these Cousin Philip enjoyed a
reputation that extended from New York to New Orleans. My sister
Lucy was in her element, being a fearless rider and a capital whip;
Cousin Carolina, too, was an admirable horsewoman, despite her fifty
years. The days were spent in driving-racing trotters, galloping
young thoroughbreds, visiting distant runs, and inspecting rival
stables. These joys were not for _me_! I am naturally timid, a
shameless coward where horses are concerned, distrustful of distant
cows, and all strange dogs. I believe mine is what is termed “the
artistic temperament” (I paint and write poetry), yet I have a certain
queer courage of my own. For instance, I am not afraid to discharge
a servant, to venture alone into a dark room, and have no belief
in ghosts. When my sister, cousins, and their friends scoured the
neighbourhood, I remained contentedly at Rochelle, sketching the best
“bits” of scenery, the little black “piccaninnys,” and the interior
of the house itself. Mr. and Mrs. Gossett, Cousin Carolina’s niece
and nephew, were a gay young couple also of the party, which included
Cousin Carolina’s old schoolfellow, Miss Virginia Boone, a lineal
descendant of the founder of the State. She was an interesting woman,
and had a fund of stories relating to Kentucky and the Civil War, which
rent the State in two. One day Lucy asked her to tell us something
about Rochelle itself; it was so mellowed and solid, and in its way
delightful, with an atmosphere of age and peace. Surely it had a
history?
“Well, you see,” said Miss Boone, clearing her throat, “Carolina has
not lived here long--it’s not _her_ family place. It belonged to the
Taylors a great while back, and it was standing empty for quite a
spell. The grass is said to be the best in the world for young horses,
and Philip was crazy to come here, so he routed his mother out at last;
Rochelle was a dead bargain too, and though Carolina was loath to move,
now she likes it.” Then, as if to herself, she added, “She comes from
a distance--or maybe she’d never have come at all!”
This was a dark saying, and I hastened to beg for some enlightenment.
Miss Boone seemed to hesitate before she answered rather vaguely,
“Well, of course, all great plantations are the same.”
“The same?” I echoed.
“Yes, where numbers of slaves have been employed. See,” pointing to a
row of lines or negro quarters to the north of the house. “I expect in
Taylor’s time there were hundreds there. The estates were some of the
largest in Kentucky.”
“Cousin Carolina still has black servants,” I remarked.
“Oh yes--Uncle Pete, Mammy, and Jane were born in the family, the
children of children, of slaves, yet devoted to the Dormers.”
“Do you know, I saw such a forbidding looking nigger staring in through
the breakfast-room window?” said Lucy. “I’ve never noticed him as one
of the servants or hands, and he looked anything but devoted! He was
coal black and big, and he pressed his hideous face close up against
the glass door and scowled at me and muttered something; when I got up,
and went to find out what he wanted, he was gone.”
“A tramp,” I suggested.
“Possibly. I hope I shan’t see him again!” said Lucy, rising. “Here
come the horses and the buggy; you,” to me, “will have the house to
yourself for the whole afternoon.”
“So much the better,” I answered; “I intend to make a sketch of Taffy,
and there will be no one to distract his attention.”
Taffy was a handsome fox-terrier, remarkable for a very short tail and
great independence of character.
I watched the cavalcade turn down the avenue, Cousin Carolina and Miss
Boone driving, followed by two mounted couples, and then set to work
to persuade Taffy to sit for his portrait. By and by the fierce glare
of the setting sun compelled me to retreat with my block, paint-box,
and model into the north verandah. This overlooked from a respectful
distance the servants’ quarters--and, possibly for this reason, was
but little frequented. It proved delightfully shady and almost empty,
save for a few roomy old cane chairs, but now that I had obtained a
satisfactory light my sitter began to fail me; he became restless,
fidgety and disobedient, turning his head, pricking up his ears;
finally he trotted off bodily. His attitude implied grave suspicion of
something, or somebody--and his air was so uneasy that he almost gave
the impression of there being an intruder in our vicinity--visible only
to him!
This of course was a ridiculous idea, but as nothing would induce
Taffy to “sit,” I relinquished the hope of finishing my sketch, and
fetching a book from the drawing-room, settled myself comfortably in
one of the cane chairs and prepared to pass an hour of undisturbed
enjoyment. The story of “Uncle Tom” proved to be absorbing; I had
almost lost consciousness of my surroundings, when I was startled by a
very peculiar sound quite close to me, a strange inarticulate gurgling
noise, as if someone was being choked. I looked about; there was not
a soul in the verandah, and I came to the conclusion that Taffy had
swallowed a fly, which had gone the wrong way. I called to him; he was
not fly-catching, but seemed to be staring intently at a certain closed
door, and entirely unconscious of my presence.
I resumed my book, only to be again disturbed by this peculiar choking
noise, and Taffy, with all his hair bristling on his back, now sought
refuge under my chair, uttering low growls. At the same moment I
noticed, coming directly from the servants’ lines, a gigantic negro,
whom I never remembered to have seen before. His head was bare, his
face lowering and sullen; he wore a ragged blue and white striped
jacket, trousers turned up to his knees, and a pair of clumsy boots. As
he advanced, with a deliberate, purposeful air, I became conscious of a
sensation of fear, which increased with every stride.
The evening was still and warm, not a breath of air was stirring, the
very leaves were motionless. Taffy was dumb, and the only sound to be
heard was these doggedly approaching footsteps.
A door in the verandah was suddenly flung open and, to my amazement,
there came forth a middle-aged lady, who was a complete stranger; she
wore a flowing white dressing-gown, with wide sleeves; her reddish
hair, of which she had a quantity, hung loosely to her waist, her
figure was tall and slight, her sallow face--this I only saw in
profile--looked hard as flint; the expression of her sharply-cut
features was fiercely determined, and aggressive. She hurried across
the verandah with light, pattering footsteps, and reached the
railings that enclosed it, almost at the same moment as the huge
black. I gathered that she addressed him angrily--her face expressed
violent fury--but I could not distinguish a single word. I sat there
motionless, an amazed and nervous spectator. Presently Taffy crawled
out from under my chair, and with one piercing howl fled from the scene
like a creature possessed.
I observed that the negro listened to his mistress with downcast eyes,
and an air of stolid indifference, also that, as he waited, he held
one hand against his back; grasped in that hand--invisible to the
woman--was a shining blade about two feet long, which I recognised as
the knife used for cane-cutting, and called a “machite.”
As the two figures stood, one on the verandah, the other immediately
beneath, I became aware that an enormous crowd had assembled outside
the quarters, hundreds of coloured people--and a sudden hoarse hum
arose, resembling the buzzing of angry bees. Finally the lady raised
her clenched fist with a fierce, threatening gesture, and turned away.
As she did so, the negro gave a deep guttural laugh, reached out his
arm, caught her violently by the hair, and dragged her head backwards
over the edge of the railing. I saw her long thin throat, fully
exposed, and it was with a shock of unexampled horror that I beheld
the descent of a gleaming blade. With one swift stroke the wretched
woman’s head was severed from her body, and I heard the previous
gurgling and choking sound, as it fell with a heavy thud upon the lawn,
while the trunk collapsed in a hideous heap upon the boards of the
verandah--which were instantly deluged with blood. The dreadful tide
was flowing towards me, but I was unable to stir hand or foot--I felt
as if I were paralysed.
As the murderer, stooping, lifted the head by its hair, I had a view
of the blanched and ghastly face, and the wide-open eyes fixed in
wild astonishment. He held it up towards the lines, and in response
there rose strange, fierce, and prolonged yells of jubilation--such,
I imagine, as are uttered by savages, when exulting over some fallen
enemy. Then with his horrible trophy in one hand and a dripping knife
in the other, the negro turned, and looked straight at _me_. Instantly
everything became blurred, black darkness descended, and I remember no
more!
When I came to myself, the clear imperative voice of Cousin Carolina
was saying:
“My dear Marion, do you know that it is very imprudent to sleep out of
doors at sundown--even in our exquisite climate?”
“Sleep!” I repeated, with an involuntary shudder; “I’ve not been
sleeping,” and with a painful effort I rose and tottered into a lighted
sitting-room.
“What has happened to you, Marion?” cried my sister; “you look simply
awful. Are you ill?--or have you seen a ghost?”
“Yes,” I answered, looking round at six expectant faces, “I have seen
_two_ in the verandah!”
I noticed that Miss Boone gave me a quick, sharp look, but the rest of
the company wore indulgent smiles, and Cousin Carolina said:
“No such thing as ghosts, my dear--it’s only ignorant people like
the negroes that believe in them _now_. You have Scotch blood in
your veins, your mother was a Highlander, and no doubt you are a bit
superstitious, and you have such imagination, dearest child, and are so
highly strung. You have just dozed off and had a nightmare.”
“Tell me, what do you _think_ you saw?” enquired Philip, who had
brought me a glass of wine.