“A horrible sight, a lady in a white gown--I believe the owner of the
estate--was beheaded in the verandah by a huge negro, and all the
slaves--hundreds of them--shouted, and yelled for joy.”
Mrs. Gossett, who was young and giddy, began to giggle, and then
apologised, adding:
“It sounds so screamingly funny--a public execution in the Rochelle
verandah!”
“It was just a bad nightmare, the combined result of crab salad at
lunch, and ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin,’” declared Cousin Carolina, “and nothing
else. I believe there is a place--somewhere near Lexington--that _has_
a story, but it is certainly not Rochelle, and sensible folk don’t
believe in such tales.”
“No,” I answered, now fortified by company and port wine. “But you will
admit that seeing is believing. I’ve heard that my mother had second
sight, and I’m afraid she has bequeathed it to _me_.”
“My dear, you are a little upset,” said Cousin Carolina; “don’t think
of your dream, and you will soon forget it. I daresay it was very
vivid. I implore you not to repeat it to any of the servants, or we
shall have the place in an uproar. Now just go and lie down, and get
a rest before supper-time; Lucy will look after you. Another time, we
won’t leave you to keep house all alone.”
Cousin Carolina was a despotic lady in her way, and would never suffer
my nightmare in the back north verandah to be discussed. I still stuck
to my opinion, but was as one to six--for even my own sister had
deserted me and preached about imagination, and crab salad. It seemed
impossible that a mere nightmare could ever be so vivid in its horror,
and its realism. For several days I felt ill and nervous, and it was
only my pride, Cousin Carolina’s forcible character, and Mrs. Gossett’s
wild giggle, that restrained me from removing myself to an hotel at
Lexington.
I never sat alone, and preferred a crowd to solitude. I even thrust
my company on Phil and Lucy, now an engaged couple. Taffy and I were
fast friends; we two had shared a unique experience--an experience
apart. I was sensible of this bond in his manner, and I read it in the
expression of his wistful and expressive eye.
A suspicion, nay, a conviction, took root in my mind. Miss Boone knew
more about Rochelle than she pretended. More than once, I found her
gazing at me, with an air of peculiar interest, and, more than once,
curiosity had urged her to angle (very cautiously) for some particulars
of the tragedy I thought I had seen; but I declined to indulge her. She
was an unbeliever--and I held my tongue.
In the month of January, Lucy once more faced the Atlantic, accompanied
by Miss Boone, Philip, and myself. She was obliged to arrange about her
trousseau, and money affairs. We travelled by a big liner, and had on
the whole a capital trip. Miss Boone found several friends among the
passengers, and one afternoon as we sat in the library in the idle hour
which follows tea, an old lady, her son and daughter joined our small
circle. We discussed a variety of topics and impressions, and at last
came to Kentucky State, Lexington, and Rochelle.
“Rochelle,” repeated the lady’s daughter. “Is not that the haunted
house, Momma?”
“Yes, the Taylors’ place,” she answered briskly; “there is a dreadful
story about it, but I fancy it is more or less forgotten by this time.
For years and years it could not be let--the house, I mean; the land of
course is most valuable.”
“What is the story?” I enquired, and I glanced with some significance
at Lucy and Philip.
“I remember hearing of it from my mother,” continued the old lady, “and
it’s gospel truth. The Taylors were wealthy, and had a great estate,
and hundreds of slaves, and were well thought of by all, till the time
of Mrs. Herman Taylor, a widow, who inherited it from her husband.
She was very strange--some said crazy--and lived alone; hoarded her
money, flogged her slaves, and worked them to death. There were stories
of terrible scenes at Rochelle--that lovely old place, so dignified
and admired, had become a sort of negroes’ hell! People could only
talk--they did not dare to interfere. Marcella Taylor was a rich woman,
and a vindictive enemy, and had overseers as cruel and hard as herself,
and she got more out of her slaves in the way of return than any
mistress or master in the State. When it was moonlight, it was said,
she worked them all night, and her crops were extraordinary.”
At last the situation became intolerable; beyond the endurance of flesh
and blood. A field hand who had been cruelly flogged took the law into
his own hands, and one evening, in the sight of the entire community,
executed Mrs. Taylor in her own verandah! He had been summoned to
receive a punishment, and the story is, that he suddenly drew a long
knife, which he had concealed, dragged her backwards by the hair, and
beheaded her on the spot. He took the head with him, escaped to the
woods, and was never seen or heard of again.
“It was also said that every anniversary the scene was re-enacted
in the same verandah--but fortunately was only visible to some. The
Villiers, who succeeded to the estates, hated the place, and got rid of
it, and so for two generations the house has had a bad name, but now it
is apparently recovering its character. I suppose the supernatural has
a time-limit?”
She glanced at me interrogatively, but Miss Boone threw me an imploring
look and I suffered silence to pass for assent. In this extraordinary
and unexpected fashion my experience was confirmed, my truthfulness
vindicated, there was an end to gibes about dreams, and crab salad.
Subsequently Miss Boone confessed to me that the tale of the north
verandah was not new to her, but that she had not wished to frighten
Cousin Carolina. As if anything could frighten Cousin Carolina! She has
nerves of cast-iron.
As for Lucy, she assured me with a rather unsteady laugh that when, as
Mrs. Philip Dormer, she returned to Rochelle, nothing that could be
offered would ever induce her to spend an afternoon there _alone_.