Close around the little village of Deer Cove, three mountain steeps looked down in everlasting peace; two upland valleys descended to the village, and held on their fertile slopes many small farms and hamlets. The houses of men employed in the saw-mill, which had created the village, lay within a nearer circle.
Of all this district the post-office at Deer Cove was the centre. The mill belonged to the Durgan Blounts, whose summer residence lay at some distance on the one road which threaded the descending ravine to the county town of Hilyard. All substance and knowledge which came to Deer Cove was hauled up this long, winding road from the unseen town, and halted at the post-office, which was also the general store and tavern. Thither the mill-hands, and an ever-changing group of poor whites, repaired for all refreshment of body and mind.
The rush of the stream, the whirr of the mill, the sigh of the wind-swept woods, the never-silenttinkling from the herds that roam the forests—these sounds mingled always with the constant talk that went on in the post-office. Here news of the outer world met with scant attention; but things concerning the region were discussed, weighed, and measured by the standard of the place. The wealth of a housekeeper was gauged by the goods he received direct from Hilyard and further markets, and his social importance by the number of his letters. A steady correspondence proved stability of connection and character; a telegram conferred distinction.
In the post-office young Blount, or even the magnificent old General himself, would not scruple to lounge for an hour at mail time, exchanging greetings with all who came thither. Durgan came of stiffer stuff; he could not unbend. He was also conscious that, as he never received letters, and as his lost lands were here little known, it was only the reflected importance of his cousins that kept him from being reckoned a "no account" person, and suffering the natural rudeness meted out to such unfortunates. He preferred to rely upon Adam to bring him his paper and such news as the village afforded. Adam went to the post every evening for Miss Smith.
There came a week of rain. The road toHilyard was washed away by the first storm. The mail accumulated there, and when at last it could be brought to Deer, it was still raining. Durgan's cutting was flooded. Unable to work, he had paid a visit to his cousins, and returned one evening, through a thick cloud which clothed Deer like a cerement, to find Adam in the hut by the mine, seated before a hot fire.
In the light of the dancing flame, the big black man, all his clothes and hair dripping and glistening, was indeed a strange picture. He was wholly intent upon a row of papers and letters, which from time to time he moved carefully and turned before the blaze.
"It's all right, suh. I only clean done forgot to put the ladies' lettahs in de rubber bag they give me. It's a debble of a rain to-night, suh; it soak through all I hab, and there's a powerful lot of lettahs to-night, suh; a whole week o' lettahs, Marse Neil, so there is."
Durgan looked down at a goodly assortment of mail matter—newspapers, missionary records, magazines, business letters from well-known stores. In the warmest place was a row of private letters. Adam's big hands hovered over these with awesome care.
"They's the lettahs the ladies is most perjinkabout, allus." Adam spoke proud of his own powers of distinction. "I'se not worked for 'em so long, suh, widout bein' able to know their 'ticlarities."
"I'm proud of you, Adam." Durgan went out into the mist again and sat on a ledge of rock.
It was still daylight, but the thick mantle of cloud was gray in its depths, toning the light to dusk. Within the circle which the mist left visible, the jeweled verdure showed all its detail as through a conclave lens.
It was the hour at which Adam's wife usually came to set Durgan's hut in order. Through the ghostly folds of cloud she now appeared like a beautiful animal, cowering yet nimble, swift and silent, frightened at the loss of all things beyond the short limit of sight, the very pressing nearness of the unknown around the known. Framed in the magnified detail of branch and bole and dewy leaves, Durgan saw her arrive and pause with involuntary stealth in the fire-glow from the door of the hut.
Eve did not see Durgan. As a dog, and especially a female dog, can worship a master, so Eve worshipped Durgan. When she fawned upon him all her attitudes were winsome, her bright eyes soft, and a gentle play of humor was in her features. Despite his studied indifference andcontempt, he had never before seen an evil look upon her face, but now with malicious shrewdness she was observing her unconscious husband.
Suddenly Adam, without turning, uttered a short yell of terror.
Durgan sprang and entered with the woman.
Adam rose from his stooping position—his jaw dropped, his teeth chattering. "As I'm alive, suh, the lettahs they come open of themselves, sittin' right here before the fire; an' they was so soppin' I jest took the inside out to get it dry. As I'm alive, Marse Neil, suh; the debble's in this thing. 'Tain't nowise any person but the debble as would send ladies—very nice ladies, too—lettahs like this, with no writin' on 'em; that's the debble all right, suh, sure enough."
Durgan's gaze had fixed itself involuntarily on the sheets the man had dropped. The envelopes which had purported to hold letters of private friendship had, in truth, held blank paper.
Assured that such was the fact, however strange, Durgan sought some words which might quiet the terrified Adam and efface the circumstance from Eve's frivolous mind. He could trust Adam, when quiet enough, to obey a command of secrecy; the negress must be beguiled.
But she was too quick for him. She was nowwatching his eyes, reading there part of his interpretation, and with half-animal instinct, perceiving that he desired to hush the matter, thought to make common cause with him.
"You's a sure enough convic' now, Adam, chil'; an' I'd like to know who's to be s'portin' o' me when you's workin' out your time in chains. Is you so ignorant, chil', as not to know that it's a heap an' a lot wus to read these letters than the sort as has writin' all ovah?"
The negro's terrified attitude showed some relief. "I didn't know as there was a sort o' lettah that had no writin' on, honey. Is you sure o' that, honey? I thought these lettahs must be a sure enough work o' the debble."
"Sure as I'm a born nigger, there is lettahs o' that sort; an' it's hangin', or somethin' wus, to open 'em. Oh, Adam, it's a powerful hangin' crime; an' if you's cotched in this business, what'll come to me?"
The woman paused to wipe an eye, then——
"I tell you, Adam, your on'y chance o' takin' care o' me any more is nebber so much as to speak o' these lettahs down to Deer or any other place. Because no gen'leman or lady or decen' nigger would ever so much as say that there was this sort o' lettah—'tain't perlite, 'cause it's on'y the greatfolks, an' the rich, an' the eddicated, as gets 'em. Isn't that gospel truth, Marse Neil, suh?"
Durgan was listening, intent on laying a trap for the wife. He gave no sign.
But Adam, honest soul, too unsuspicious to wait for Durgan's corroboration, spoke with steadily returning confidence. "Sure as I'm stan'in' here, Marse Neil, suh, these lettahs opened themselves—like that yaller flower that comes open of itself in the evenin', suh; an' takin' of them out, I only had the contention, suh, o' dryin' the insides of 'em; for I can't read the sort o' lettah that's written all ovah—only the big print in the Testament; an' the min'ster that learned me, he'll tell you the same."
Eve's voice rose in the soft climax of triumph. "An' that's jest the reason, Adam, chil', that readin' o' these lettahs is hangin', an' workin' in chains, an' States prison, an' whippin'—all that jest 'cause niggers like you an' me can't read the other kind." Eve was getting beyond her depth.
"You've learned me somethin' this very hour, honey," said Adam kindly, "for I didn't know before sure enough there was this sort o' lettah; but you degogerate now, honey, for if it's hangin', it can't be work in chains, an' if they can't prove I can read other sort o' lettah, it's mighty powerfulsure they can't prove I can read these. The debble himself can't prove that."
Durgan had sealing-wax with which he fastened his samples of mica for the post. He put the blank pages back in the envelopes and fastened them with his own seal. Telling Adam to explain only that the flaps had come open in wet, he dismissed him. He sat watching the negress sternly, and she grew less confident.
"Us pore slave niggers don't know nothin', Marse Neil, suh."
"How old are you?" He spoke as beginning a judicial inquiry.
"Us pore slave niggers don't know how old we is. I's gettin' an old woman—I's powerful old. I wus crawlin' out an' aroun' 'fore the 'mancipation. Ole Marse Durgan, he jest naturally licked me hisself one day when I crawled 'fore his hoss in the quarters. That's what my mammy told me. We's all Durgans—Adam's folks an' mine."
"You are no Durgan nigger. I know you. We bought you and your mother out of bad hands." Durgan spoke roughly, but in himself he said: "Alas, who was responsible for this creature, sly and soulless? Not herself or those of her race!"
"Have you seen letters with no writing on them before?"
"Why should a pore nigger know anythin' 'bout such lettahs? If you'll tell me how God A'mighty made the first nigger, I'll tell you as well why these ladies gets lettahs stuffed like that, an' no sooner—an' that's gospel truth, Marse Neil, suh. I's got nothin' to do with white folks' lettahs."
He was sure now that she knew no more than what she had just seen, and had drawn no inference.
She gave way to tears, realizing that he did not approve of the address with which she had managed Adam.
"Marse Neil, Adam's a powerful low down nigger, Adam is. He's a no account darkie, is Adam. You know yourself, suh, how he laid on to me t'other night."
"If he had let you go off with a thieving yellow coon like that other nigger, you might say Adam was unkind—kindest thing he could do to beat you!"
She was so pretty she could not believe any man would really side with her husband against her. "Oh, yes, Marse Neil, suh; I don't go for to say as a darkie shouldn't beat his wife—any decen' Durgan nigger would, suh; but the thing that's low down, an' dreffle mean, an' no account 'bout Adam is that he don't know when to stop. Lickin'—that's all right, suh; but when a nigger goes on so long, an' me yellin' on him all the time—oh, Adam, he's a low down feller an' dreffle mean."
"You did more yelling than he did beating. He was crying all the time. I don't believe he hurt you—but go on."
Her tears were unfeigned: she cared only to regain Durgan's good-will.
"Go on with what, suh?"
"With what you were telling me."
There had certainly been no sequence discernible.
"Well, marsa, a poor girl's like me don't go for to tell lies for nothin'. Nex' time Adam holds a stick over me, I's got the States prison to hold over him. An' you's mistaken, marsa, honey, in sayin' as he didn't maul me black an' blue, for he did, suh—not that it wasn't right an' just this time, as you say so, marsa; but for nex' time I mus' have a way for to 'scuse myself to him. So you won't go for to tell him it isn't hangin', will you, marsa, honey, suh?"
The softness and assumed penitence of the low wail with which she ended made Durgan laugh aloud. "Look here. Look me straight in the face!"
She could do that very well, raising her soft,doe-like eyes to his, then fringing them with her lashes as an accomplished beauty might. Durgan was so angry with her on Adam's account, that he forgot that his first object was to secure her silence.
"You've got a good husband and a good home. If you ar'n't good to Adam after this, I'll despise you. Do you understand?"
"Don't speak to me so sharp, marsa." There was already a little edge of malice in the velvet of her voice.
"Now, about these letters—if I catch you ever speaking of them again, I'll tell Adam you've lied to him, and why. I'll tell him all about you, and he'll never trust you again. Do you understand?"
"An' if I don't tell nothin' you ain't disposed on, Marse Neil, honey?"
"Then I'll be kind to you, and let Adam think you're better than you are."
But the negress, turning to her work in the hut, no longer moved about him with liquid eyes and joyful steps, as a happy spaniel does. Beneath her calmer demeanor he saw the shade of sullenness, and still heard the edge of malice in her voice.
"I have been a fool," thought he. "She would have managed better in my place." Then he dismissed her from his thoughts.
The letters Durgan resealed had each borne a different handwriting; they had not all come from New York. The sheets could hardly have been covered with invisible ink, having been subjected to both water and fire with no result. These, apparently, were the letters which came to the sisters with marked regularity.
"These ladies are hiding," said Durgan to himself. "This is a device of their New York lawyers to save them from remark." He was unable to associate trickery with the sisters.
In considering Bertha's strong repudiation of future marriage, he began to suppose that she might be already unhappily married and hiding from some villain who held her in legal control. But, in that case, why was she more at ease when riding than at home, and why did she betray fear of some danger close at hand?
With nightfall the rain-cloud sank down, and the moon, floating above in an empty sky, showed clear on the mountain-tops. The rock wall above and below Durgan's camp glistened with silver facets, and the wet forest all about shimmered with reflected light.
But, beautiful as was the shining island of Deer in its close converse with the queen of night, it was not so strange a sight as the upper moon-lit levels of the vast cloud which was floating a hundred feet below.
Durgan went up the trail, passed the vine-hung house, and climbed the highest eminence.
The cloud was composed of perpendicular layers of mist, the upper crests of which rolled in ridge over ridge before the wind—a strong surge of deepest foam. So white was each wave that only in its deep recess was there a touch of shadow. The whiteness was dazzling; the silence absolute.
The adjacent mountain-tops were black islands in mid-ocean.
The silence seemed a terrible thing to the cheated sense of sight. The cloud breakers curled upon the sides of Deer, broke in fragments like windblown froth, curled back, and broke again, as if lashing the rocks and forest trees. Up the deep channel of the valley the waves rolled on with a steady rhythm and fall of surf that should havefilled the mountain spaces with its thunder. Across the shining flood, against the black shoulders of opposite shores, the same surf tossed and fell. Yet there was no echo far or near, or murmur; only the hush of a phantom world.
Durgan stood long on a portion of the mountain-top which was covered with short, scrubby oak in young leaf, fascinated by the mighty movement and intense silence.
A rustle came near him amongst the covert. He looked down and stroked the head of one of Bertha's great dogs. He saw the mistress coming: she was cloaked and hooded. It was the hood, perhaps, that hindered her observing him till she was very near.
She uttered a cry of undisguised terror, throwing out her arm, as if to ward off an expected blow.
This movement of defense, so instinctive, told Durgan more than any tale of woe the lips could frame. He was confounded by such evidence of some scene or scenes of past cruelty.
"Now, in the name of Heaven," he cried, "what do you fear? You know that the dogs would allow no mortal to injure you or yours. Is it some murderous spectre of whom you stand in dread?"
She regained a quiet pose, but seemed dazed by the unexpected fright.
"A murderous spectre! What do you mean? Why do you use that phrase, Mr. Durgan?"
"The words are pure nonsense. I used them to show you how baseless your fear appears. But I speak now in earnest to say that you ought not to come out at night alone if you are thus alarmed."
"But I am perfectly safe with the dogs."
"Just so. Then why were you afraid?"
"I—I—in that shawl mistook you for——" She came to a final pause.
He remembered now that, to shield himself from the drenched verdure, he had wrapped a camp blanket around him.
"Yes, I certainly cut a queer figure—like an old wife; but, pardon my insistence, it is not good for any woman to be so terror-stricken as you were just now. That you are safe from danger with the dogs I truly think; but fear itself is injurious. If you are not safe from unruly fears, why roam where you invite them? It is always possible to meet a stranger."
"Oh, I am not afraid of travelers."
"Any shadow may assume a fantastic form."
"But I am really not afraid of odd appearances."
"Then why were you afraid of my blanket?"
But her caution returned. With inconsequence and a touch of reproach she said: "You would rather have the mountain all to yourself, I believe."
"I should be twice desolate. But that has nothing to do with my request that you should keep where you not only are, but feel, safe."
"But if my fears are the result of my own imagination, why should any place be better?"
"You are fencing with me now. If you could tell me what it is you fear——"
She walked by his side as if thinking what she might answer him. "You used a phrase when you just spoke—what put it into your mind?—which perhaps expressed what I fear as literally as words can."
"What do you mean by endorsing such foolish words?"
"Your regard—your friendship, for us, is a very great comfort to us both—the best boon that Providence, if there be a Providence, could have sent us. Yet you have forced me to say what forfeits your regard."
"That would be impossible. Our regard for one another is based solidly upon that touch of good principle which makes the whole world neighbors."
"Ah! I am glad you say that. It is so comfortable to know your benevolence does not depend on our worth. Long ago, and I would have resented such an intimation from anyone; now it gives me the same sort of comfort that a good fire does or, say, a good pudding."
She was regaining her spirits; but there was still a tense ring in her voice which meant intense sincerity.
"Your regard for me has the same basis," said he; and added soon: "I am greatly in earnest in what I say; you ought not to put yourself in the path of fears you cannot master."
"I thank you for the advice. What exactly was it that happened to our letters to-night?"
He ascertained that Adam had given his meagre message discreetly. He could now have comforted her easily with half the truth, but he told all briefly—in whose hands was the keeping of the curious fact of the blank letters, and why he judged it comparatively safe.
Bertha pushed the hood from her head, as if she felt suffocated. She sat down upon a fragment of rock on the verge of the hill, and they both gazed at the silent rolling of the cloud beneath.
"Tricks are folly, and deserve detection," she said at length. "Silence is the only noble form ofconcealment. Yet our friend, who is a lawyer, told us that if we came here obviously as friendless as we are, rumor would have been cruel. It would have worried our reputation as a dog worries a rat. Every face we met would have been full of suspicion, and—surely it is right to shun morbid conditions?"
Durgan stood uneasy. "People often drop almost all correspondence through indolence," he suggested.
"My sister permitted the trick, I think, simply for my sake. She was distressed by your seals and hearing that the letters had come open. I shall be able to tell her it did not happen at the post-office."
"I should have thought your sister would have trusted her fate in God's hands with perfect resignation."
"Yes, I think she does. She has great faith in God."
After another pause, he said: "You were so good as to ask me the other day for advice; will you take an old man's advice now and go home to bed? All things appear more reasonable by daylight, and the more you tire yourself, the more you are likely to see the circumstances of life in distorted shape."
She answered with an anger that leaped beyondher more tardy self-control. "You know no more than my dogs do what I can and cannot do, what it is drives me here to-night, or what it is that I fear."
"I beg your pardon."
Penitent in a moment, she said: "You are truly kind, Mr. Durgan. I am so glad that we have a neighbor, and that he should be what you are."
"I wish, since you are in misery, that he could have been one in whom you could confide, who could perhaps help."
She stood wrapping her cloak closer about her. "Let me be petulant when I want to be petulant, mysterious when I must, tragic when I must, gay when I can. Let my moods pass you as the winds pass. If you can do this and preserve a secret, you will do more than any other human being could or would." She waited a moment, and added: "I have trusted you from the first to do this; I do not know why."
The mountains now burst into midsummer. Bloom, color, and fragrance reigned; also heat and drought. The cups of the tulip tree, the tassels of the chestnut, lit the leafy canopy. The covert of azaleas blazed on the open slopes in all shades of red and yellow. In every crevice by the trickling streams rhododendrons lined the glades with garlands of purple and white.
The hidden house of the sisters was embowered in climbing roses and the passion flower. It was surrounded by gorgeous parterres, and the tendrils of the porch vines hung still, or only fluttered at sundown. There was no vapor at dawn or eve in gorge or on mountain-top. A dry blue haze like wood smoke dulled light and shade in the myriad hills. They looked like a vast perspectiveless painting by some prentice Titan, who had ground his one color from the pale petals of the wild hydrangea. Some clouds there were—raggedtowers, tinted in the light browns and pinks of seashells. They tottered round the far horizon in fantastic trains, but came no nearer. The very azure of the sky was faded by the heat of the sun.
All moss and low wild flowers had long withered; the earth under the forest was hot and dry. The whole region basked, and from all the valleys a louder and more ceaseless tinkling rose from the herds of pigs and oxen who roamed for meagre provender.
One afternoon Durgan and his laborers heard a cry. It was the voice of Adam. They heard him crash through the brushwood above them.
"Fire!" yelled Adam, and crashed back toward the summit house.
Durgan outran his men, and was relieved to find the evil not beyond hope of redress. Smoke was issuing from one corner of the roof of the dwelling-house; no flame as yet, but the roof was of shingle, like tinder in the sun.
The ladies, with admirable skill and courage, had already organized their forces—Adam pumping, Bertha and Eve stationed on the path from the well, Miss Smith, the most agile, taking the bucket at the door and running up the stair. Thither Durgan followed, leaving his men to Bertha's command. The fire was smouldering between theceiling of the kitchen and a pile of papers and books which lay on the floor far under the sloping roof of the low attic. Miss Smith had been wise enough to move nothing. The solid parcels of periodicals kept out the air, and she was dashing the water on the roof and floor.
With the added help smoke soon ceased. It remained to investigate the cause of the fire, which was not obvious, to make sure that the rest of the house was safe, and undo as far as possible the injury of the water, which, spreading itself on the attic floor, had poured into the bedrooms below.
While the negroes were carrying out the parcels of printed matter, wet and charred, Durgan moved about in all the recesses of the house, examining the walls, lifting wet furniture on to the sunny veranda roof, and otherwise helping to modify the unaccustomed disorder.
While thus engaged, he realized how strongly had grown upon him a fancy that these lonely women might be harboring some insane person, whose escape and violence they might justly dread. He must now smile at himself for thinking that any source of terror lurked here in visible shape. As he followed Miss Smith from one simple room to another, creeping under the very eaves of the roof and feeling the temperature of every wall andshelf, he certainly assured himself that neither the skeleton nor its closet was of material sort.
He was struck with the orderly and cheerful arrangement of the house, with the self-control, speed, and good sense the sisters had displayed; but most of all was he surprised that the excitement and effort had unnerved them so little. When the hour for relaxation came, they appeared neither talkative nor moody; they neither shed tears nor were unusually cheerful. In his married life he had had some experience of women's nerves. This calm, practical way of taking a narrow escape from great loss roused his admiration.
Many bundles of papers were too much damaged to be worth keeping. Durgan had a use for these in a stove his laborers used, and, after Miss Smith had looked them over, they were carted down to the mine. Durgan sorted them, storing some old magazines and more solid papers for future use.
He soon found the covers of an old book, tied together over a collection of parchment envelopes. These in turn contained newspaper clippings still legible. Each envelope had its contents marked outside; they were the reports of a number of criminal trials, extending over a number of years, cut from American, English, and other European papers.Durgan was at once convinced that neither of the sisters could have been interested in the collection, and, assuming it to be the work of some dead relative, he reflected for the first time how rarely they spoke of family ties. It was true that Bertha would sometimes say: "My dear father would have enjoyed this view—would have liked this flower," or "Dear papa would have said this or that." He remembered how her voice would soften over these sacred memories, and remembered, too, how they always came to her among the beauties of nature, never in domestic surroundings. Such a father would scarcely have been so much interested in annals of crime.
Sitting by the lamp in his hut, Durgan went over the envelopes. The first was dated ten years before; it contained the notorious Claxton trial, reported by theNew York Tribune. The next was the case of the Wadham pearls, from the LondonTimes. Durgan was not familiar with the case, and became interested in the story of the girl, very young and beautiful, who, being above temptation of poverty and above reproach, had been sentenced, on convincing evidence, for theft and perjury. The common interest in these cases obviously was that in both the accused was a gentlewoman, and the evidence overwhelming, althochiefly circumstantial. The cases that came after did not follow this thread of connection. They were stories of such crimes as may almost be considered accidental, in which respectable people fall a prey to unexpected temptation or sudden mania. The last selection was from theGalignani Messenger. It was the case of a parish priest, apparently adilettanteand esthetic personage of highly religious temperament, who was condemned for having killed his sister with sudden brutality, and who gave the apparently insane excuse that, seeing her in the dusk, he had thought her a spirit, and been so terrified that he knew not what he did. The date of this last story was only about three years after the first.
Next day, when Bertha passed by on her horse, Durgan told her what he had found.
"Oh, I am sure we don't want them," said she. "Burn them with the rest."
She was wearing a deep sun-bonnet; he could hardly see her face in its shade.
Durgan had very naturally tried to fit the circumstances of any of these stories of crime to a domestic tragedy which might have resulted in the hiding of these sisters and in Bertha's fears; but none of them seemed to meet the case, nor did any story he could devise.
Since the opening of the letters, and Bertha's words in the moonlight, he had wondered more than once whether she believed in some ghostly enemy. Durgan had been rudely jostled against such fantasies in his domestic experience. His wife was nominally a spiritualist, and altho he was inclined, from knowledge of her character, to suppose her faith more a matter of convenience than of conviction, he had reason to think that the man who had long dominated her life under the guise of a spiritual instructor was, or had been, entirely convinced of his own power to communicate with the spirit world. This man had believed himself to see apparitions and hear voices. Durgan did not believe such experiences to be spiritual, but gave more weight to the question of such a belief in Bertha than if he had not already rubbed against the dupe of such a monomania.
The subject was not a pleasant one, yet, in connection with this painful theme, Durgan resolved to speak to Bertha in the hope of inducing confidence and perhaps driving away her fears.
For a few days after the fire at the summit house some of the mountain folk from far and near took occasion to ride up to the scene of the excitement, "to visit with" the ladies, and hear that the bruit of the matter had greatly magnified it. They were an idle, peaceful people; a little thing diverted them.
The road by the mine was thus unusually gay; yet Durgan kept a more or less jealous watch, and at last caught sight of the yellow negro who a month before had visited Eve. He was dressed like a valet, in an odd mixture of clothes from the wardrobes of a gentleman and a groom. His features were small and regular; his long side-whiskers had an air of fashion which did not conceal the symptoms of some chronic disease.
"Ho!" cried Durgan; "where are you going?"
The darkie stopped with a submissive air, almost cringing as one accustomed to danger.
"What is your name?"
"'Dolphus, sir—'Dolphus Courthope."
"Courthope?"
"Yes, sir—from New Orleans. Mr. Courthope was very rich and had a great many slaves." He spoke correctly, with a Northern accent.
"Younever saw slavery," said Durgan in scorn. "You have no right to that name."
"No, sir; my father and mother gave me that name. They belonged to Mr. Courthope."
"You were here before."
"Yes, sir; I came last month, but I went back to Hilyard. I came looking for"—there was just a perceptible pause—"the Miss Smiths; but I thought I'd come to the wrong place."
Durgan felt at a loss. On Adam's account he could have ordered the man off, but he had no right to inquire into his errand to the Smiths.
"I'm a respectable boy, sir. I'm not going to do any harm. I've got business." The darkie made this answer to Durgan's look of suspicion, and spoke with apparent knowledge of the world and confidence in the importance of his errand.
"See that you don't get into mischief!" With this curt dismissal Durgan stepped back into his own place.
In some minutes, when he heard the watchdogbarking above, he went up the short foot-trail, expecting to reach the house with the negro, but nearing it, saw no one without.
From the open windows he heard Bertha's voice raised in excitement. "I will not leave you alone with him, Hermie, you need not ask it. He can have nothing to say that I should not hear."
As Durgan drew nearer he heard Bertha again, this time with a sob of distress in her voice. "I don't care what he says or does; I will brave anything rather."
"Birdie, darling, you are very, very foolish!" Miss Smith's voice was raised above her natural tone, but was much calmer.
Durgan's step was on the wooden verandah.
Doors and windows were all open to the summer heat. The sisters were standing in the low sitting-room. The negro, hat in hand, stood in a properly respectful attitude near the door. As before, his manner suggested that he was a servant and had no aspiration beyond his sphere.
"I saw that fellow come up the road," said Durgan. "I do not know, of course, what his errand is here; but I thought I ought to tell you that Adam told me that he had got no regular job, and that he had found him idling around a month ago with no apparent reason."
"Yes, sir; I was trying to discover from Adam's wife who it was that lived up here; but she told me so many fixings out of her head about these ladies that I come to the conclusion they wasn't the ladies I was looking for. Miss Smith knows me, sir; and I've been very ill lately—the doctor tells me I'm not long to live."
"Oh, you folks always think you're dying if you've got a cold. You're begging, I see."
"Yes, sir; I was asking this lady to help me. I'm dying of consumption, sir."
The man's manner was quiet enough. Durgan saw that both the sisters were intensely excited. The elder had her emotion perfectly under control; the younger looked almost fierce in the strain of some distress. What surprised him was that his protection was equally unwelcome to both. He could see, spite of their thanks, that, in trouble as they were, their first desire now was that he should be gone.
"I do not trust this man," Durgan said. "I would rather stay within call till you dismiss him."
"I'm all right, sir," said the darkie, again respectfully.
"He won't do us any harm," cried Bertha eagerly.
"I know who he is," said Miss Smith; "I know him to be unfortunate, Mr. Durgan."
Yet Durgan saw dismay written on Bertha's face as surely as if they had been attacked by open violence.
"Birdie, go out with Mr. Durgan and wait. You cannot be afraid to leave me while he is near."
"I will not! I will not!" cried the younger, with more vehemence than seemed necessary. So excited was she that she stamped her foot as she spoke.
The tension was relieved by what seemed propriety on the stranger's part.
"I'll go away, then," he said. "I don't want to make the young lady cry. I sha'n't make you any trouble, ladies." He backed out to where Durgan stood on the verandah.
"Wait, I'll give you something," said Miss Smith. "You ought to have good food." She went to her desk, and came out giving him a folded bank-note.
"Thank you, ma'am. Good-day." He went on a few steps and looked back, as if expecting Durgan to conduct him off the premises.
"I'd be much obliged, sir, if you'd show me the short way—I'm weak, sir."
Durgan indicated the trail, and followed tomake sure that the negro did not return through the bushes.
As they went, Durgan saw him unfold the bank-note and take from inside a slip of written paper.
The mulatto went steadily down the mountain, without so much as looking at the kitchen door, whence Eve was regarding him with eager interest.
Adam had been in the meadow at the time of this incident. When going down to the post-office on his regular evening errand, he stopped to ask Durgan if the "yaller boy" had any genuine errand. And on the way up he stopped again, with trouble in his eyes, to give the information that 'Dolphus was spending the night there, and had suggested staying in this salubrious spot for his health.
Durgan discovered that Adam and his own negro laborers regarded the sickly and tawdry New Yorker as a peculiarly handsome specimen of their race—quite the gentleman, and irresistibly attractive to any negress—and that they agreed in denouncing his looks and manners solely on account of the possibly vagrant affections of their own women.
Durgan believed the stranger's errand to be purely mercenary, and feared that he was levying some sort of blackmail on Miss Smith. He feared, too, that Eve was abetting.
Next morning Bertha rode down to the village. Later, Durgan heard that she had visited 'Dolphus, taken pains to get him a more comfortable lodging, and left him a basket of sundry nourishing foods. More than this, she had sat and talked with him in a friendly way for quite an hour. When she passed up the hill again, Durgan observed that she appeared calm and contented. She stopped to give him an invitation.
"My sister requires your attendance at supper o'clock this evening—no excuse accepted."
"Whythisevening?" he asked.
"For two reasons. First, we are very grateful for your kindness yesterday, and sister wanted to 'make up.' Secondly, she was making your favorite chicken salad. Perhaps you think that is all one reason, but the second part makes your acceptance imperative, as the salad will be already made."
At sundown Durgan surrendered himself to the attractions of the gracious sisters and the delicacies of their table.
When Adam and his wife had been dismissed, and the three were sitting on the darkling verandah, watching the vermilion west, Miss Smith reminded them that she had the bread to "set" for next day. Bertha and Durgan were playing cards. She went through the dining-room to the kitchen at the back of the house. She was not gone long, barely half an hour; the sky had scarcely faded and the lamp but just been lit, when she came back calm and gentle as ever.
Durgan was not calm. He felt his hand tremble as he brought from the shelf a book which Bertha had asked for.
Ten minutes before a contention had arisen between himself and Bertha as to the time of the moon's rising. To satisfy himself he had walked on the soft grass as far as the gable of the house nearest his footpath. Watching a moment in the shadow, he had heard a movement in the wood. As the first moon-rays lit the gloom he saw the figure of a woman standing on the low bough of an old oak and reaching a long arm toward an upper branch. All the oaks here were stunted and easy to climb. That this was Adam's wife he did notdoubt, till, when she had lightly jumped down, he discerned that she was returning attended by the dogs.
Durgan went back hastily lest Bertha should follow him. He reported only the rising of the moon. A moment's thought convinced him that he had been invited that evening for the purpose of keeping Bertha from the knowledge of her sister's excursion. No one but Miss Smith could have taken the dogs. He guessed that she had fulfilled some promise to the boy, 'Dolphus—some promise given him on the slip of paper in the bank-note, of putting money where he might seek it. Amazing as the method resorted to was, Durgan felt no doubt that Miss Smith's action was wise and right in her own eyes, but he was convinced that she was putting herself in danger.
He lingered a little while, not knowing what to do. Then he spoke of 'Dolphus, taking occasion to explain the extreme distrust he felt concerning the man and the degraded nature which so many of this class had exhibited.
Both sisters seemed interested, but not greatly.
"Of course, we never thought whether we liked or disliked him," cried Bertha. "That is not the way one thinks of men like that. We knew him tohave been unfortunate; and he is certainly very ill."
Miss Smith said, with a kind smile lighting up her face: "I think, Mr. Durgan, you don't mean that even a 'thieving yellow nigger' hasn't an immortal soul. Even if we can't get real religion into his mind, we can show him kindness which must help him to believe in the mercy of God—not" (she added in humble haste) "that I have ever been kind to him, but I guess Birdie tried to be this morning."
Durgan was never far from the thought that the slave-owning race was responsible for the very existence of a people who had been nourished and multiplied in their homes for the sake of gain.
"Not only for the soul he has, but for the diseased body of him, for all that he suffers and for all the injury he does—he and all his class——" Durgan stopped. Both women were looking at him inquiringly. "Before God I take my share of the blame and shame of it. But it is one thing to be guilty, and another to know how to make reparation. Take an illustration from the brood of snakes in the cliff here. In some slight way you are responsible even for their existence, for you ought to have had the parents killed. But you cannot benefit this brood by kindness; you would wrongthe world by protecting them. Believe me, I have been reared among these people; I know the good and bad of them; a rattlesnake is less dangerous than a man like this 'Dolphus. While I would defend such fellows as Adam with my life, if need be, I believe that I should do the best thing for the world in killing such creatures as 'Dolphus and Adam's wife. While such as I ought to bear the punishment of their sins and our own in the next world, the best reparation we could make in this world would be to slaughter them."
Bertha had listened, fascinated by his most unusual earnestness of manner. But at the last words she rose hastily and went out with averted face. The tardy moon was now high. They saw her pacing the walk between the tall sides of the garden beds.
Miss Smith watched her a moment with eyes of loving solicitude, then said, "I'm sure you think you're speaking right down truth, Mr. Durgan, but, you see,I'ma Christian, and I b'lieve the Lord Jesus died for 'Dolphus and Eve, and not for rattlers. That makes all the difference."
"And yet it is a fact that, among the men and women for whom He died, there are fires of evil which can only burn themselves out."
"All things are possible with God," said she.
He made no reply. He was always impressed by the spiritual strength of this delicate woman. After a moment's pause it occurred to him to ask simply—
"What is your sister frightened of—I mean at different times? She seems to suffer from fears."
Slowly she raised her faded blue eyes to him with a look of deep sorrow and puzzled inquiry. "I don't know. She won't talk to me about it—Bertha won't."
"But surely——"
"Yes, I ought to know all she thinks, and be able to help her. Perhaps I know there may be something I won't admit to myself. But, Mr. Durgan, I'm real glad if she talks to you, for it's bad for her to be so lonesome. She had a great shock once, Bertha had. If you can make her talk to you, it'll do her good, Mr. Durgan."
Durgan obediently went out, and walked a few minutes with Bertha in the further shadow of the garden.
"Why did you say it?" she asked. "How could you talk of it being good to kill anyone?"
"My child!" he exclaimed, and then, more calmly, "you know well what I meant. We all know perfectly that there is a leprosy of soul aswell as of body, for which on this side death we see no cure, of which even God must see that the world would be well rid. We cannot act on our belief; we leave it in His hands."
"Don't say it! Don't even hint at such a thing again!" In a moment she exclaimed, in a voice of tears, "What does God care? Ah me! when I look back and see my childhood—such high hope, such trustful prayer! Who gave that heart of hope but the God of whom you speak? Who taught the little soul the courage to trust and pray? And the hope is dead, the courage crushed, the prayers—may my worst enemy be saved from such answer, if answer there is, to prayer!"
She leaned her head against a tree, sobbing bitterly.
He supposed that 'Dolphus, bringing memories of a previous time, had unnerved her.
"You had a happy childhood." He spoke soothingly, hardly with interrogation.
She looked up fiercely. "You call God a father! It was my father who taught me to pray. He—ah! you cannot think how beautiful he was, how loving, how fond of all beautiful things! He taught me to pray for him. He said that he could not pray for himself—that he had no faith. I knelt by his knee every day, and prayed, as hetaught me, for him and for sister and for myself, but most of all for him. Then Hermie became religious—dear, gentle, self-denying sister—and I cannot doubt that she spent half her time in prayer for him because he wasn't converted."
"And he died?" asked Durgan.
"Yes; he died." It seemed to him that she shuddered.
"Had you ever anything to do with people who believe that the dead can return to speak to us, or appear to us?"
She raised her head and looked at him with interest.
"I once knew a man," continued Durgan, "who believed in such things, who saw such visions."
"Do you mean the man called Charlton Beardsley?"
Durgan was much surprised by hearing the name of his wife's protégé from such a source. "I should not have supposed that you had ever even heard his name. When he came to this country you must have been at school."
"I had just left school. Tell me what he was like. Was he bad or good?"
"I thought him simple, and much mistaken."
"Was he a wicked man?"
"I did not think him so then; I have not seen him since."
"He lives with Mrs. Durgan now, and is a great invalid. Surely you must know if he is a wicked man?"
"Was it the Blounts who told you about him?"
"Yes—Mr. Blount mentioned it before you came"—he thought her words came with hesitation—"but I have wanted to ask you. He was called a mesmerist, too—do you believe that one man's will could possess another person, and make that person do—well, any wicked thing?"
"There was some talk about what was called 'mesmerism' among Beardsley's followers. He had nothing to do with it, I think. I do not believe in one man controlling another to the extent you speak of. If it can happen, it is so rare as not to be worth thought."
She sat silently thinking.
And he was egotistic enough to suppose that the unkindness of mentioning his wife might now occur to her! But when she spoke again he saw that she was only absorbed in her own thoughts.
"I suppose you are right." She sighed.
He said, "I am surprised to find your former life and mine have ever touched so nearly as that we should have taken interest in the same man. Hewas not a public medium—only known to a very few people. I spoke of his seeing ghosts only because I wanted an opportunity to ask you if you were frightened of ghosts."
"Oh, no; I am not. I have been better taught than that. Why should you ask?"
"I see I should be ashamed of asking such a question."
"Ah! I understand. I talk so wildly at times, I have been so foolishly, childishly talkative, that you think me capable of any folly. You cannot despise me as I despise myself; but—oh, Mr. Durgan—at times I am very unhappy. If I were not terribly afraid to die, my greatest fear would sometimes be that I should live another day. It is not melodrama; it is not hysterics; it is the plain, sober truth; but I am sorry that I have let you know it."
Then, saying good-night, she added, "I have the best sister in the world. I want to live bravely and be happy for her sake; and you can best help me by forgetting what I have said and done. I had the best father in the world: by the memory of your lost daughter, help me to be worthy of him."
When Durgan had said good-night to the sisters, he made the warm moonlight night an excuse for wandering. He sat down a little way off, able to watch the lights in the house, and also the stunted oak into whose keeping he had seen Miss Smith confide something. He felt pretty sure that, as soon as the house was shut up for the night, the dogs as usual within, 'Dolphus would appear to take money from the tree.
The house was closed; the curtained windows ceased to glow; but no one climbed the tree.
The oaks were on rocky, windy ground, the old trees gnarled and conspicuous above the denser growth of low shrub. The thought of spying on any of Miss Smith's plans was revolting; his only wish was to see that the negro did not approach the house. He felt at last compelled to descend to this tree, to be sure that no one lurked near it. He had marked it by a peculiar fork in its upper part,but he lost sight of this fork on entering the thin wood, and moved about carefully for some time before he found it, and then no one was to be seen. He stood nonplused, wondering how long he ought to guard the house.
The white light fell on the small leaves and the gray moss and lichen which covered the oak branches. It cast sharp interlacing shadows beneath. The under thicket was of those small, aromatic azaleas which can put forth their modest pink and white blossoms in sterile places. To these bushes has been given a rare, sweet scent, to console them for lack of splendor. Durgan's senses were lulled by this scent, by the soft air and glamor of light. He stood a long while, not unwillingly, intent upon every sight and sound. No hint of any human presence came near him.
It seemed to him at length that he heard steps a long way down the hill on the cart-road. He thought he heard voices.
Now he felt sure the negro was coming, and he was exceedingly angry to believe that Eve was with him. Who else could be there? He shuddered to think that this false, soulless creature knew every door and window in the house, every soft place in the hearts of her mistresses, perhaps every fear they entertained. With her to help, and with someprior knowledge of the sisters' secret as the basis of his operations, what tortures might not this villain inflict, what robbery might he not commit, without fear of accusation? Durgan felt angry with Eve; the other only roused his contempt. With real rage, a passion strong in his Southern nature, he slipped silently out, ready to confront the two.
But now again there was silence. He could hear nothing. At every turn the lone beauty of the place met him like a benediction. He waited. There was nothing—no one.
Then—ah, what was that sound? what could it be—like a gasp or sigh, far away or near? One soft but terrible sob. That was all; but Durgan felt his spirit quail. His rage was gone; he did not notice its absence.
The moments in which he listened seemed long, but almost instantly he found himself wondering if he had really heard anything at all. He went as quickly and quietly as he could, by the trail and the mine, to the road below, and saw 'Dolphus some way beneath, walking slowly, not up but down the road. The casual aspect of his figure, the slight consumptive cough, effaced the weird sensation of a minute before.
"Hi!" cried Durgan.
Bertha's terriers in the barn barked cheerfully in answer to his well-known voice. The mountain echoed a moment.
'Dolphus stood, hat in hand. A fit of coughing seized him. Durgan went down the road.
"What are you doing here?"
"Trapping for coon, sir."
"Not coon."
"Yes, sir; I was prospecting for a likely place to set a trap. The gentleman I've been servant to wrote and said he'd pay me for coon skins."
"You lie."
"Yes, sir."
He stood still submissively. The full light of the moon fell on him between the shadows of the high and drooping trees. The dust of the road absorbed and partly returned the pearly light. The sylvan beauty of this sheltered bank was all around. What a sorry and absurd figure the mulatto made! His silky hair, parted in the middle and much oiled, received also the glint of the moon. His long side-whiskers hung to his shoulders; his false jewelry flashed. This man, whose shirt-fronts and manners were already the envy of darkydom in Deer Cove, looked indeed so pitiful an object in these rich surroundings, that Durgan felt that he had overrated his power for mischief.
"I said you lied. What do you mean by saying 'yes'?"
"I would not contradict you, sir. Reckon I lied. I'm a dying man, sir; you could knock me down with a straw, sir."
"What are you doing here?"
"I came to do a service for Miss Smith. She's a holy one, sir. When I found I wasn't long to live, I thought I oughter serve her if I could."
"Serve her? You are trying some sort of trick to get money."
"Miss Smith'll see that I'm comfortable as long as I live, sir. That's all I want."
"You're trying some game to enrich yourself, and you've got Adam's wife helping you."
'Dolphus laughed out; it was a weak, hysterical giggle. "Beg pardon, sir, but the woman ain't in it. Beg pardon, I can't help laughing, sir. Reckon good, religious ladies would be a sight better off without that thieving yaller girl waiting on them."
He laughed weakly till he coughed again.
Durgan, revolted beyond measure, swore within himself that Eve should never pollute the house of the sisters by entering it again.
"Get home. Get out of my sight. If you come out here again I'll have the General turn you out of the district."
He spoke as to a dog, but the dog did not turn and run. He leaned against a tree out of sheer weakness, but faced his enemy steadily.
"No, sir; you can't frighten me, 'cause I'm a dying man, anyway. Miss Smith, she'll speak to the General, and to the Almighty too, for me. I'll die easier 'cause I know she will." His voice had grown thin, and now vibrated with excitement. "I've just got one thing more to say, sir. You'll see I'm not frightened of you when I say it. If you knew the sort o' wife you've got, sir, and what she's been hiding, you'd look after her better than you do; and if you value your salvation, you'll stand by the pious little lady on the hill; you'll be happier when you come to die."
"Look here, my good fellow; you're very ill, I see; you're delirious. Go home and get to bed."
"Yes, sir, I'll go. But study on what I've said, sir; for it's gospel truth, as I'm a dying man."
"Can you manage to go alone? Shall I wake Adam to help you home?"
'Dolphus laughed again. "No, don't wake Adam, sir. I'll go safer alone."
Durgan, now convinced that hectic fever had produced delirium, went as far as Adam's cabin to consult him. To his surprise, he found it empty.