Pluto half carried the old man back to Loringwood, while the other
darkies continued their 'possum hunt. Nelse said very little after his
avowal of the "sign" and its relation to his lease of life. He had a
nervous chill by the time they reached the house and Pluto almost
repented of his fiction. Finally he compromised with his conscience by
promising himself to own the truth if the frightened old fellow became
worse.
But nothing more alarming resulted than his decision to return at once
to his own cabin, and the further statement that he desired some one
be despatched at once for "that gal Cynthy," which was done according
to his orders.
The women folk--old Chloe at their head--decided Uncle Nelse must be
in some dangerous condition when he sent the command for Cynthia, whom
he had divorced fifty years before. The rumors reached Dr. Delaven,
who made a visit to Nelse in the cabin where he was installed
temporarily, waiting for the boatmen who were delegated to row him
home, he himself declining to assist in navigation or any other thing
requiring physical exertion.
He was convinced his days were numbered, his earthly labors over, and
he showed abject terror when Margeret entered with a glass of bitters
Mrs. Nesbitt had prepared with the idea that the old man had caught a
chill in his endeavor to follow the dogs on the oppossum hunt.
"I told you all how it would be when I heard of him going," she
asserted, with all a prophet's satisfaction in a prophecy verified.
"Pluto had to just about tote him home--following the dogs at his age,
the idea!"
But for all her disgust at his frivolity she sent the bitters, and
Delaven could not comprehend his shrinking from the cup-bearer.
"Come--come, now! You're not at all sick, my man; what in the wide
world are you shamming for? Is it for the dram? Sure, you could have
that without all this commotion."
"I done had a vision, Mahs Doctor," he said, with impressive
solemnity. "My time gwine come, I tell you." He said no more until
Margeret left the room, when he pointed after her with nervous
intensity. "It's that there woman I seen--the ghost o' that woman what
ain't dead--the ghost o' her when she was young an' han'some--that's
what I seen in the McVeigh carriage this night, plain as I see yo'
face this minute. But no such _live_ woman wa' in that carriage, sah.
Pluto, he couldn't see but two, an' _I_ saw three plain as I could see
one. Sure as yo' bawn it's a death sign, Mahs Doctor; my time done
come."
"Tut, tut!--such palaver. That would be the queerest way, entirely, to
read the sign. Now, I should say it was Margeret the warning was for;
why should the likeness of her come to hint of your death?"
Nelse did not reply at once. He was deep in thought--a nervous,
fidgety season of thought--from which he finally emerged with a theory
evidently not of comfort to himself.
"I done been talken' too much," he whispered. "I talk on an' on
today; I clar fo'got yo' a plum stranger to we all. I tell all
sorts o' family things what maybe Mahs Duke not want tole. I
talked 'bout that gal Retta most, so he done sent a ghost what
look like Retta fo' a sign. Till day I die I gwine keep my mouth
shut 'bout Mahs Duke's folks, I tell yo', an' I gwine straight home
out o' way o' temptations."
So oppressed was he with the idea of Mahs Duke's displeasure that he
determined to do penance if need be, and commenced by refusing a coin
Delaven offered him.
"No, sah; I don' dar take it," he said, solemnly, "an' I glad to give
yo' back that othar dollar to please Mahs Duke, only I done turned it
into a houn' dog what Ben sold me, and Chloe--she Ben's mammy--she got
it from him, a'ready, an' paid it out fo' a pair candlesticks she been
grudgen' ole M'ria a long time back, so I don' see how I evah gwine
get it. But I ain't taken' no mo' chances, an' I ain't a risken' no
mo' ghost signs. Jest as much obliged to yo' all," and he sighed
regretfully, as Delaven repocketed the coin; "but I know when I got
enough o' ghosts."
Pluto had grace enough to be a trifle uneasy at the intense
despondency caused by his fiction in what he considered a good cause.
The garrulity of old Nelse was verging on childishness. Pluto was
convinced that despite the old man's wonderful memory of details in
the past, he was entirely irresponsible as to his accounts of the
present, and he did not intend that the McVeigh family or any of their
visitors should be the subject of his unreliable gossip. Pride of
family was by no means restricted to the whites. Revolutionary as
Pluto's sentiments were regarding slavery, his self esteem was
enhanced by the fact that since he was a bondman it was, at any rate,
to a first-class family--regular quality folks, whose honor he would
defend under any circumstances, whether bond or free.
His clumsily veiled queries about the probable result of Uncle Nelse's
attack aroused the suspicions of Delaven that the party of hunters had
found themselves hampered by the presence of their aged visitor, who
was desirous of testing the ability of his new purchase, the hound
dog, and that they had resorted to some ghost trick to get rid of
him.
He could not surmise how the shade of Margeret had been made do duty
for the occasion, her subdued, serious manner giving the denial to any
practical joke escapades.
But the news Pluto brought of Mrs. McVeigh's homecoming dwarfed all
such episodes as a scared nigger who refused to go into details as to
the scare, and in his own words was "boun' an' sot" to keep his mouth
shut in future about anything in the past which he ever had known and
seen, or anything in his brief earthly future which he might know or
see. He even begged Delaven to forget immediately the numerous bits of
history he, Nelse, had repeated of the Loring family, and Delaven
comforted him by declaring that all he could remember that minute was
the horse race and he would put that out of his mind at once if
necessary.
Nelse was not sure it was necessary to forget _that_, because it
didn't in any way reflect discredit on the family, and he didn't in
reason see why his Mahs Duke should object to that story unless it was
on account of the high-flier lady from Philadelphia what Mahs Duke won
away from Mr. Jackson without any sort of trouble at all, and if Mahs
Duke was hovering around in the library when Miss Evilena and Mahs
Doctor listened to that story, Mahs Duke ought to know in his heart,
if he had any sort of memory at all, that he, Nelse, had not told half
what he might have told about that Northern filly and Mahs Duke. And
taking it all in all Nelse didn't see any reason why Delaven need put
that out of his remembrance--especially as it was mighty good running
for two-year-olds.
Evilena had peeped in for a moment to say good-bye to their dusky
Homer. But the call was very brief. All her thoughts were filled with
the folks at the Terrace, and dawn in the morning had been decided on
for the ten-mile row home, so anxious was she to greet her mother, and
so lively was her interest in the wonderful foreigner whom Dr. Delaven
had described as "Beauty's self."
That lady had in the meantime arrived at the Terrace, partaken of a
substantial supper, and retired to her own apartments, leaving
behind her an impression on the colored folks of the household that
the foreign guest was no one less than some latter day queen of
Sheba. Never before had their eyes beheld a mistress who owned white
servants, and the maid servant herself, so fine she wore silk
stockings and a delaine dress, had her meals in her own room and was
so grand she wouldn't even talk like folks, but only spoke in
French, except when she wanted something special, at which time she
would condescend to talk "United States" to the extent of a word or
two. All this superiority in the maid--whom they were instructed to
call "Miss"--reflected added glory on the mistress, who, at the supper
table, had been heard say she preferred laying aside a title while
in America, and to be known simply as Madame Caron; and laughingly
confessed to Mrs. McVeigh that the American Republic was in a fair
way to win her from the French Empire, all of which was told at once
in the kitchen, where they were more convinced than ever that
royalty had descended upon them. This fact did not tend to increase
their usefulness in any capacity; they were so overcome by the
grandeur and the importance of each duty assigned to them that the
wheels of domestic machinery at the Terrace that evening were fairly
clogged by the eagerness and the trepidation of the workers. They
figuratively--and sometimes literally--fell over each other to
anticipate any call which might assure them entrance to the
wonderful presence, and were almost frightened dumb when they got
there.
Mrs. McVeigh apologized for them and amused her guest with the
reason:
"They have actually never seen a white servant in their lives, and are
eaten up with curiosity over the very superior maid of yours, her
intelligence places her so high above their ideas of servitors."
"Yes, she is intelligent," agreed the Marquise, "and much more than
her intelligence, I value her adaptability. As my housekeeper she was
simply perfect, but when my maid grew ill and I was about to travel,
behold! the dignity of the housekeeper was laid aside, and with a
bewitching maid's cap and apron, and smile, she applied for the vacant
position and got it, of course."
"It was stupid of me not to offer you a maid," said Mrs. McVeigh,
regretfully; "I did not understand. But I could not, of course, have
given you any one so perfect as your Louise; she is a treasure."
"I shall probably have to get along with some one less perfect in the
future," said the other, ruefully. "She was to have had my yacht
refurnished and some repairs made while I was here, and now that I am
safely located, may send her back to attend to it. She is worth any
two men I could employ for such supervision, in fact, I trust many
such things to her."
"Pray let her remain long enough to gain a pleasant impression of
plantation life," suggested Mrs. McVeigh, as they rose from the table.
"I fancied she was depressed by the monotony of the swamp lands, or
else made nervous by the group of black men around the carriage there
at Loringwood; they did look formidable, perhaps, to a stranger at
night, but are really the most kindly creatures."
Judithe de Caron had walked to the windows opening on the veranda and
was looking out across the lawn, light almost as day under the high
moon, a really lovely view, though both houses and grounds were on a
more modest scale than those of Loringwood. They lacked the grandeur
suggested by the century-old cedars she had observed along the Loring
drive. The Terrace was much more modern and, possibly, so much more
comfortable. It had in a superlative degree the delightful atmosphere
of home, and although the stranger had been within its gates so short
a time, she was conscious of the wonder if in all her varied
experience she had ever been in so real a home before.
"How still it all is," remarked Mrs. McVeigh, joining her. "Tomorrow,
when my little girl gets back, it will be less so; come out on the
veranda and I can show you a glimpse of the river; you see, our place
is built on a natural terrace sloping to the Salkahatchie. It gives us
a very good view."
"Charming! I can see that even in the night time."
"Three miles down the river is the Clarkson place; they are most
pleasant friends, and Miss Loring's place, The Pines, joins the
Terrace grounds, so we are not so isolated as might appear at first;
and fortunately for us our plantation is a favorite gathering place
for all of them."
"I can quite believe that. I have been here two--three hours, perhaps,
and I know already why your friends would be only too happy to come.
You make them a home from the moment they enter your door."
"You could not say anything more pleasing to my vanity, Marquise,"
said her hostess, laughingly, and then checked herself at sight of an
upraised finger. "Oh, I forgot--I do persist in the Marquise."
"Come, let us compromise," suggested her guest, "if Madame Caron
sounds too new and strange in your ears, I have another name, Judithe;
it may be more easily remembered."
"In Europe and England," she continued, "where there are so many royal
paupers, titles do not always mean what they are supposed to. I have
seen a Russian prince who was a hostler, an English lord who was an
attendant in a gambling house, and an Italian count porter on a
railway. Over here, where titles are rare, they make one conspicuous;
I perceived that in New Orleans. I have no desire to be especially
conspicuous. I only want to enjoy myself."
"You can't help people noticing you a great deal, with or without a
title," and Mrs. McVeigh smiled at her understandingly. "You cannot
hope to escape being distinguished, but you shall be whatever you like
at the Terrace."
They walked arm in arm the length of the veranda, chatting lightly of
Parisian days and people until ten o'clock sounded from the tall clock
in the library. Mrs. McVeigh counted the strokes and exclaimed at the
lateness.
"I certainly am a poor enough hostess to weary you the first evening
with chatter instead of sending you to rest, after such a drive," she
said, in self accusation. "But you are such a temptation--Judithe."
They both laughed at her slight hesitation over the first attempt at
the name.
"Never mind; you will get used to it in time," promised the Marquise,
"I am glad you call me 'Judithe.'"
Then they said good night; she acknowledged she did feel sleepy--a
little--though she had forgotten it until the clock struck.
Mrs. McVeigh left her at the door and went on down the hall to her own
apartment--a little regretful lest Judithe should be over wearied by
the journey and the evening's gossip.
But she really looked a very alert, wide-awake young lady as she
divested herself of the dark green travelling dress and slipped into
the luxurious lounging robe Mademoiselle Louise held ready.
Her brows were bent in a frown of perplexity very different from the
gay smile with which she had parted from her hostess. She glanced at
her attendant and read there anxiety, even distress.
"Courage, Louise," she said, cheerily; "all is not lost that's in
danger. Horrors! What a long face! Look at yourself in the mirror. I
have not seen such a mournful countenance since the taking of New
Orleans."
"And it was not your mirror showed a mournful countenance that day,
Marquise," returned the other. "I am glad some one can laugh; but for
me, I feel more like crying, and that's the truth. Heavens! How long
that time seemed until you came."
"I know," and the glance of her mistress was very kind. "I could feel
that you were walking the floor and waiting, but it was not possible
to get away sooner. Get the other brush, child; there are wrinkles in
my head as well as my hair this evening; you must help me to smooth
them."
But the maid was not to be comforted by even that suggestion, though
she brushed the wavy, dusky mane with loving hands--one could not but
read tenderness in every touch she gave the shining tresses. But her
sighs were frequent for all that.
"Me of help?" she said, hopelessly. "I tell you true, Marquise, I am
no use to anybody, I'm that nervous. I was afraid of this journey all
the time. I told you so before you left Mobile; you only laughed at my
superstitious fears, and now, even before we reach the place, you see
what happened."
"I see," asserted the Marquise, smiling at her, teasingly, "but then
the reasons you gave were ridiculous, Louise; you had dreams, and a
coffin in a teacup. Come, come; it is not so bad as you fear, despite
the prophetic tea grounds; there is always a way out if you look for
paths; so we will look."
"It is all well for you, Marquise, to scoff at the omens; you are too
learned to believe in them; but it is in our blood, perhaps, and it's
no use us fighting against presentiments, for they're stronger than we
are. I had no heart to get ready for the journey--not a bit. We are
cut off from the world, and even suppose you could accomplish anything
here, it will be more difficult than in the cities, and the danger so
much greater."
"Then the excitement will provide an attraction, child, and the late
weeks have really been very dull."
The hair dressing ceased because the maid could not manipulate the
brush and express sufficient surprise at the same time.
"Heavens, Madame! What then would you call lively if this has been
dull? I'm patriotic enough--or revengeful enough, perhaps--for any
human sort of work; but you fairly frighten me sometimes the way you
dash into things, and laughing at it all the time as if it was only a
joke to you, just as you are doing this minute. You are harder than
iron in some things and yet you look so delicately lovely--so like a
beautiful flower--that every one loves you, and--"
"Every one? Oh, Louise, child, do you fancy, then, that you are the
whole world?"
The maid lifted the hand of the mistress and touched it to her cheek.
"I don't only love you, I worship you," she murmured. "You took me
when I was nothing, you trusted me, you taught me, you made a new
woman of me. I wouldn't ever mind slavery if I was your slave."
"There, there, Louise;" and she laid her hand gently on the head of
the girl who had sunk on the floor beside her. "We are all slaves,
more or less, to something in this world. Our hearts arrange that
without appeal to the law-makers."
"All but yours," said the maid, looking up at her fondly and half
questioningly, "I don't believe your heart is allowed to arrange
anything for you. Your head does it all; that is why I say you are
hard as iron in some things. I don't honestly believe your heart is
even in this cause you take such risks for. You think it over, decide
it is wrong, and deliberately outstrip every one else in your endeavor
to right it. That is all because you are very learned and very
superior to the emotions of most people;" and she touched the hand of
the Marquise caressingly. "That is how I have thought it all out; for
I see that the motives others are moved by never touch you; the
others--even the high officials--do not understand you, or only one
did."
Her listener had drifted from attention to the soft caressing tones of
the one time Parisian figurante, whose devotion was so apparent and
whose nature required a certain amount of demonstration. The Marquise
had, from the first, comprehended her wonderfully well, and knew that
back of those feminine, almost childish cravings for expression, there
lived an affectionate nature too long debarred from worthy objects,
and now absolutely adoring the one she deemed her benefactress; all
the more adoring because of the courage and daring, that to her had a
fascinating touch of masculinity about it; no woman less masterful,
nor less beautiful, could have held the pretty Kora so completely. The
dramatic side of her nature was appealed to by the luxurious
surroundings of the Marquise, and the delightful uncertainty, as each
day's curtain of dawn was lifted, whether she was to see comedy or
tragedy enacted before the night fell. She had been audience to both,
many times, since the Marquise had been her mistress.
Just now the mistress was in some perplexed quandary of her own, and
gave little heed to the flattering opinions of the maid, and only
aroused to the last remark at which she turned with questioning eyes,
not entirely approving:
"Whom do you mean?" she asked, with a trifle of constraint, and the
maid sighed as she selected a ribbon to bind the braid she had
finished.
"No one you would remember, Marquise," she said, shaking her head;
"the trouble is you remember none of them, though you make it
impossible that they should forget you. Many of those fine gallants of
Orleans I was jealous of and glad to see go; but this one, truly now,
he seemed to me well worth keeping."
"Had he a name?" asked the Marquise, removing some rings, and yawning
slightly.
"He had," said the girl, who was unfolding a night robe and shaking
the wrinkles from the very Parisian confection of lawn and lace and
tiny pink ribbons accenting neck and wrist. When she walked one
perceived a slight halt in her step--a reminder of the injury through
which her career in Paris had been brought to an end. "He had, my
Marquise. I mean the Federal officer, Monroe--Captain Jack, the men
called him. Of all the Orleans gentlemen he was the only one I thought
fit for a mate for you--the only one I was sorry to see you send
away."
"Send? What an imaginative romancer you are! He went where his duty
called him, no doubt. I do not remember that I was responsible. And
your choice of him shows you are at least not worldly in your
selections, for he was a reckless sort of ranger, I believe, with his
sword and his assurance as chief belongings."
"You forget, Marquise, his courage."
"Oh, that!" and Judithe made a little gesture of dismissal; "it is
nothing in a man, all men should have courage. But, to change the
subject, which of the two men have most interest for us tonight,
Captain Jack or Dr. Delaven? The latter, I fancy. While you have been
chattering I have been making plans."
The maid ceased her movements about the room in the preparations for
the night, and, drawing a low stool closer, listened with all
attention.
"Since you are afraid here and too much oppressed by your presentiments
to be useful"--she accompanied this derogatory statement with an amused
smile--"I conclude it best for you to return to the sea-board at
once--before Dr. Delaven and the rest pay their duty visit here.
"I had hoped the change in your appearance would place you beyond
danger of recognition, and so it would with any one who had not known
you personally. Madame McVeigh has been vaguely impressed with your
resemblance to Monsieur Dumaresque's picture. But the impression of
Dr. Delaven would probably be less vague--his remembrance of you not
having been entirely the memory of a canvas."
"That is quite true," agreed the other, with a regretful sigh. "I have
spoken with him many times. He came with--with his friend Trouvelot to
see me when I was injured. It was he who told me the physicians were
propping me up with falsehoods, and taking my money for curing a
lameness they knew was incurable. Yes, he was my good friend in that.
He would surely remember me," and she looked troubled.
"So I supposed; and with rumors abroad of an unknown in the heart of
the South, who is a secret agent for the Federals, it is as well not
to meet any one who could suggest that the name you use is an assumed
one, it might interfere with your usefulness even more than your
dismal presentiments," and she arched her brows quizzically at the
maid, who sighed forlornly over the complications suggested. "So, you
must leave at once."
"Leave, alone--without you?" and the girl's agitation was very
apparent. "Madame, I beg you to find some reason for going with me, or
for following at once. I could send a dispatch from Savannah, you
could make some excuse! You, oh, Marquise! if I leave you here alone I
would be in despair; I would fear I should never, never see you
again!"
"Nonsense, child! There is absolutely no ground for your fears. If you
should meet trouble in any way you have only to send me word and I
will be with you. But your imaginary terrors you must yourself subdue.
Come, now, be reasonable. You must go back--it is decided. Take note
of all landmarks as we did in coming; if messengers are needed it is
much better that you inform yourself of all approaches here. Wait for
the yacht at Savannah. Buy anything needed for its refurnishing, and
see that a certain amount of repairing is done there while you wait
further orders. I shall probably have it brought to Beaufort, later,
which would be most convenient if I should desire to give my good
friends here a little salt water excursion. So, you perceive, it is
all very natural, and it is all decided."
"Heavens, Marquise, how fast you move! I had only got so far I was
afraid to remain, and afraid to excite wonder by leaving; and while I
lament, you arrange a campaign."
"Exactly; so you see how easily it is all to be done, and how little
use your fears."
"I am so much more contented that I will see everything as you
wish," promised the girl, brightly. "Savannah, after all, is not
very far, and Beaufort is nearer still. But after all, you must own,
my presentiments were not all wrong, Marquise. It really was
unlucky--this journey."
"We have heretofore had only good fortune; why should we complain
because of a few obstacles now?" asked her mistress. "To become a
diplomat one needs to be first a philosopher, and prepared at all
times for the worst."
"I could be more of a philosopher myself over these complications,"
agreed the girl, smiling, "if I were a foreigner of rank seeking
amusement and adventure. But the troubles of all this country have
come so close home to the people of my race that we fear even to think
what the worst might be."
The Marquise held up an admonishing finger and glanced towards the
door.
"Of course no one hears, but it is best never to allow yourself the
habit of referring to family or personal affairs. Even though we speak
a language not generally understood in this country, do not--even to
me--speak of your race. I know all, understand it all, without words;
and, for the people we have met, they do not doubt you are a San
Domingo Creole. You must be careful lest they think differently."
"You are right; what a fool I am! My tongue ever runs ahead of my wit.
Marquise, sometimes I laugh when I remember how capable I thought
myself on leaving Paris, what great things I was to do--I!" and she
shrugged her plump shoulders in self derision. "Why, I should have
been discovered a dozen times had I depended on my own wit. I am a
good enough orderly, but only under a capable general," and she made a
smiling courtesy to the Marquise.
"Chatterbox! If I am the general of your distinguished selection, I
shall issue an order at once for your immediate retirement."
"Oh, Marquise!"
"To bed," concluded her mistress, gayly, "go; I shall not need you. I
have work to do."
The girl first unlaced the dark boots and substituted a pair of soft
pink slippers, and touched her cheek to the slender foot.
"I shall envy the maid who does even that for you when I am gone," she
said, softly. "Now, good rest to you, my general, and pleasant
dreams."
"Thanks; but my dreams are never formidable nor important," was the
teasing reply as the maid vanished. The careless smile gave way to a
quick sigh of relief as the door closed. She arose and walked back and
forth across the room with nervous, rapid steps, her hands clasped
back of her head and the wide sleeves of the robe slipped back,
showing the perfect arms. She seemed a trifle taller than when in
Paris that first springtime, and the open robe revealed a figure
statuesque, perfect as a sculptor's ideal, yet without the statue's
coldness; for the uncovered throat and bosom held delicious dimples
where the robe fell apart and was swept aside by her restless
movements.
But her own appearance was evidently far from her thoughts at that
moment. Several of Mrs. McVeigh's very affectionate words and glances
had recurred to her and brought her a momentary restlessness. It was
utterly absurd that it should be so, especially when she had
encouraged the fondness, and meant to continue doing so. But she had
not counted on being susceptible to the same feeling for Kenneth
McVeigh's mother--yet she had come very near it, and felt it necessary
to lay down the limits as to just how far she would allow such a
fondness to lead her.
And the fact that she was in the home of her one-time lover gave rise
to other complex fancies. How would they meet if chance should send
him there during her stay? He had had time for many more such boyish
fancies since those days, and back of them all was the home sweetheart
she heard spoken of so often--Gertrude Loring.
How very, very long ago it seemed since the meetings at Fontainbleau;
what an impulsive fool she had been, and how childish it all seemed
now!
But Judithe de Caron told herself she was not the sort of person to
allow memories of bygone sentiment to interfere for long with
practical affairs. She drew up a chair to the little stand by the
window and plunged into the work she had spoken of, and for an hour
her pen moved rapidly over the paper until page after page was laid
aside.
But after the last bit of memoranda was completed she leaned back,
looking out into the blue mists of the night--across his lands
luxuriant in all the beauty of summer time and moonlight, the fields
over which he had ridden, the trees under which he had walked, with,
perhaps, an occasional angry thought of her--never dreaming that she,
also, would walk there some day.
"But to think that I _am_ actually here--here above all!" she murmured
softly. "Maman, once I said I would be Judithe indeed to that man if
he was ever delivered into my hands. Yet, when he came I ran away from
him--ran away because I was afraid of him! But now--"
Her beautiful eyes half closed in a smile not mirthful, and the
sentence was left unfinished.