CHAPTER XVIII.

THE RECLUSE.

“Oh! might I here In solitude live hidden—in some glade Obscure, where highest woods, impenetrable To star or sunlight, spread their umbrage broad And dark as evening. Cover me, ye pines, Ye cedars; with innumerable boughs Hide me where they may never find me more.”—_Milton._

We left Estelle and her attendant on the lonely beach below the Headland, with the night coming on.

They looked about themselves.

At their feet lay the baggage, with no one near to take it away. Above their heads arose the steep cedar-grown bank, with no visible path up its ascent.

Westward rolled the infinite sea, now fast darkening under the evening sky.

Eastward stretched the impenetrable forest, falling into deeper gloom under the lowering shadows of night.

From the sombre and solitary scene they turned to look into each other’s faces.

“Blessed saints, my lady! what a savage coast! does any living thing inhabit it, do you think?” asked Susan, with a shudder.

“Why, certainly, you know it, my girl.”

“Beg your pardon, dear lady, but indeed, no, I don’t know it. I’m afraid the captain has put us ashore at the wrong place; and I, for my part, feel as if we were cast upon some desert island.”

“But did you not see the house from the ship?”

“Yes, my lady; but now I think of it, that makes the matter more frightful; for it must have been a bewitched house, and we must be on enchanted ground, else what’s become of it? I don’t see so much as a chimney of it!”

“Because we are below the line of vision, being too close under the bank. The house is up on the headland, back among the trees.”

“Then how shall I break a path for you, dear lady? for you can never get through these briars!”

“There is a path broken, and well worn, of course. And there is an aged couple of servants somewhere near here, who, Miss Brande informed me, had the keys, and would show us up to the house, and open it for us. The path to their cabin starts from this landing, she said. Let us look for it, Susan.”

“Holy saints, my lady, the sky is growing so dark that I could not see a conflagration!” said the girl, peering closely to the ground; “and the grass is so thickly strewn with fallen leaves, that——”

“Sarvint, Mist’ess!” uttered a gentle, growling sort of voice from the bushes near her.

“Ah-h-h!!” yelled the maid. “Sweet Providence, what is that? We shall be murdered by this savage,” and frantic with terror, she ran toward her mistress.

Estelle laid her hand soothingly upon the girl’s shoulder, and turned to see what the cause of the alarm might be.

It was the gentle-hearted old negro, Neptune, who now emerged from the bushes, and came into full view. And if the terrible sea-god himself had risen from the waters, sceptre in hand, he could not have stricken greater terror to the heart of the simple English maiden! And, in truth, the mistress also gazed upon the apparition in some doubt, as well she might, for the good old man was rather an awful looking object.

His form was tall, gaunt, and bent beneath the weight of an hundred winters. His face was black, hard, shining and seamed with wrinkles as a dried prune, and framed around with snow-white hair and beard in spectral contrast to its blackness. A suit of duck, seeming almost as old and weatherworn as himself, and a tattered blanket, pinned with a thorn around his neck, and hanging in ragged folds about his figure; a black tarpaulin hat, with a red handkerchief passed over the crown and round under his chin; and shoes of undressed leather, completed his strange and picturesque attire.

In his hand he carried a rugged, unhewn club, upon which he leaned in walking.

On approaching the strangers, he pulled the hat and handkerchief from his head, and holding them, came on, bowing and bowing, as in deprecation of their displeasure for the fright he had unconsciously given.

The maid shrank away, but the mistress went forward to meet him.

“Sarvint, Mist’ess,” once more said the old man, bowing very humbly, and then standing hat in hand before the lady.

“Good-evening. You are Miss Brande’s servant?”

“Yes, Mist’ess.”

“She has let me her house. She referred me to you for the keys. We have just arrived to take possession. Will you, therefore, be so good as to get the keys, and show us the way thither?” said the lady.

Now, this event was so unexpected that it took some time to make its way into the slow and unprepared brain of the old negro. He found nothing to say or do, but only stood bowing and bowing. Lady Montressor repeated her directions.

But the old man, “still far wide,” only answered by another deep obeisance, and the pointless words:

“Yes, Mist’ess—’deed it are.”

Lady Montressor glanced hopelessly around toward Susan, who stood peeping over her mistress’s shoulder, and whose fears had disappeared before the gentle, deprecating manners of the black.

“Why, what an old jelly brain!” she exclaimed impatiently, coming forward and confronting the old man.

“Yes, honey, jes’ so,” replied the latter, bowing to her, and in no degree disturbed by the rudeness of her words.

“Chut! can’t you understand, you antique idiot, that my mistress has rented the house from Miss Brande, and that she wants to get into it?” asked Susan, angrily.

“’Cisely so, honey. When’s Miss Barbara spected home?” asked the old creature, mildly.

Susan lost the last remnant of her patience.

“Look here, ancient simpleton, we are tired of standing here! Where are the keys?” she peremptorily demanded.

The curtness of her tone brought the old man at last to a point.

“There ain’t but one key—de front door key; I carries it about with me. ’Cisely so, Mist’ess, here it are,” he said, producing a huge, old-fashioned iron key, that might have sufficed for a prison lock.

“Well, now, go on before us, and open the door,” commanded Susan.

“Yes, Mist’ess; zactly so, chile,” was the meek reply, as the old man, advancing his stick, groped along and struck into the narrow hidden path, leading up the ascent of the headland.

“But, stop! will the baggage be safe here?” inquired Susan.

“’Cisely so, honey. Dere’s nothin’ to ’sturb it,” said Uncle Neptune.

“Dear lady, please take hold of my arm; the path is very steep, and slippery with the fallen leaves,” said the maid.

It was now quite dark.

Lady Montressor availed herself of the proffered assistance, and in a few minutes they reached the top of the headland, and stood upon a level with the ancient trees and the old house, half hidden among them, and dimly perceived through the darkness. Uncle Neptune going before, went up the steps and unlocked the door.

“Take care, my lady, for the love of mercy! there is not a plank fast on these ricketty stairs,” said Susan, anxiously guiding her delicate lady’s steps up into the dilapidated portico.

Old Neptune was within side the door, hammering at something that he held in his hand, and with which he presently struck a light, by means of which they saw the whole length of the old-fashioned hall; and beside the front door a tiny cupboard, from which the old man had produced a tinder-box and a candle.

“Dis way, Mist’ess. ’Cisely so! Dis is the bes’ parlor,” he said, opening the door on the right, and admitting them into a large, scantily-furnished room.

The single tallow-candle made the darkness here so terribly “visible,” that the old man, after standing it upon the solitary table, and dragging forward two rush-bottom chairs for the strangers, hurried out to the little cupboard, and brought three or four more candles, which he lighted, and set in a row on the mantle-piece.

With this extra illumination, Susan looked critically around upon “the best parlor.” The vast dreary room had one great merit—immaculate cleanliness. The bare walls were white, the bare floor was pure. One oak table stood between the two front windows, and upon it sat the model of a frigate, under full sail—the work of Willful Brande; at equal distances around the room were ranged a half-dozen rush-bottom chairs; the wide fire-place was filled with fresh cedar boughs; on the mantle-piece were several rare sea shells, an empty ostrich egg, a whale’s tooth, a fragment of the old “Constitution,” sprays of coral, lumps of amber, and other articles collected by Captain Brande during his numerous voyages. That was all.

Though this was the tenth of October, the night was very chilly, and the large room really cold.

“Would you like a fire, Mist’ess?” asked Uncle Neptune.

“Yes! certainly, yes! What are you thinking of? Ugh! I believe we had as well gone to Lapland,” exclaimed Susan.

The old man took the mass of evergreens from the chimney, carried them out, and soon returned with an armfull of brush, with which he proceeded to light a fire. As the cheerful blaze crackled and ran up the chimney, diffusing light and warmth throughout the room, Susan rubbed her hands, congratulated her mistress, and set a chair near the fire for her accommodation.

“Now then, old father! you _are_ a nice old man, on a longer acquaintance—how shall we get our baggage to the house?” inquired the girl.

“Hem-m—Jes so, chile. Me and my ole ’oman and Sam kin fetch it.”

“Sam?”

“’Cisely so, honey—Island Sam, as is on a wisit to us.”

“Some acquaintance of yours, I suppose. Very well, my good old father! go and attend to it, and you shall be well paid for your trouble.”

“Zactly so, honey,” replied the poor old fellow, bowing himself out.

When the door closed behind him, Susan took off her bonnet and shawl, put them on a chair and approached her mistress, who during these few minutes, had been sitting before the fire, in a mood of deep abstraction.

“Come, Madam, permit me to relieve you of these,” she said, gently and respectfully, as she untied the ribbons and removed her lady’s bonnet, and unbuttoned and took off her mantle.

Lady Montressor suffered her to proceed, and then drew a deep inspiration.

“Don’t sigh, dear lady!” said Susan, mistaking the cause of her mistress’s pensiveness—“the old barn is, after all, not so bad. Means will make it very comfortable, and even now it is perfectly clean.”

“Sit down, and cease to trouble yourself, child. The house does very well,” said Lady Montressor.

Susan obeyed, and was very still for about fifteen minutes, at the end of which the footsteps of the men bearing the baggage were heard approaching.

She hurried out to meet them. The trunks were brought in, and placed for the present in the hall, and the men went back to bring the hampers.

But the old woman who had accompanied them, came into the parlor to offer her services to the lady. Going up to her, she stood and courtesied, with the customary—

“Sarvint, Mist’ess.”

Lady Montressor lifted her languid eyes to look at this new-comer.

She was a little, old, dried up, jet-black negro, looking as though she had grown hard and strong with age. She was dressed in a bright plaid linsey petticoat, with a blue cotton short gown, and a check handkerchief tied over her head.

“Sarvint, Mist’ess,” she repeated; “kin I be of any service?”

“Who are you, my good woman?” asked Lady Montressor, gently.

“My name’s Aunt Amphy, honey, ’deed it is, child—Aunt Amphy. I’s be known to all the country roun’, for a ’spectable, ’sponsible, age-able ole ’oman, as knows how to ’duct herself proper’—and as any lady may put conference in. ’Deed is _I_, honey.”

“I do not doubt it,” said Lady Montressor, contemplating this original with a good deal of curiosity—“you said your name was——”

“Aunt Amphy, child: ’deed it is! least ways that’s what they do call me, aldough de name give me by my sponsors in Babtism wer Amphitryte, arter the Queen of the Ocean.”

“Yes. Well, can I do any thing for you, Amphy?”

“Lor bless you, no, child! no, honey! not a single thing! I’s independent, thanks be to my ’Vine Marster. I come to see if I could be of any sarvice to you, child, in showing you the house and furniter—seeing how you’ve rented of it jes as it stands—and if I could make de beds, or get supper ready for you, or any thing.”

“I thank you: you are very kind. I accept your services, and will reward them; there is my maid; you can consult and assist her. Susan, come hither, my girl.”

Susan came forward.

“Here is this good woman, Amphy, who will show you through the house and render you any assistance you may need.”

“Yes, child—’deed will _I_,” put in the woman.

“Very well, come along then, and show me where the kitchen is, first of all,” said Susan.

“Yes, honey—keep close arter me. And don’t you be ’fraid now, if de house is haunted,” said Amphy.

There was not far to go. Amphy simply crossed the hall, and opening the opposite door on the left hand side, ushered her companion into the room used as a kitchen;—such a poor place! so clean, yet so bare of furniture; a wide fire-place with iron fire-dogs, and surmounted by a mantle-piece upon which stood a row of brass candlesticks, a corner cupboard—the upper part with glass doors—containing common white delf ware, a wooden table and four wooden chairs, were all the visible articles of furniture.

“Dar honey! What do you say to _dat_ for a ’spectable kitchen?” exclaimed the old woman in triumph.

“Where are the cooking utensils?” asked Susan, eluding the other’s question.

“The _which_, honey?”

“The tea-kettle, and saucepan, and toasting-fork, and so on.”

“Oh, yes, child, surely! Dey’s in de bottom o’ de cupboard.”

“Now, then, if you will show me where to get some wood and water, I will have the fire made and the kettle on by the time the hampers arrive.”

“I’ll go get de wood and water, child—you jes go and wait to unpack de hampers.”

“Very well; thank you; go.”

The fire was soon kindled; the hampers were brought in and unpacked; and Susan’s dexterous and willing fingers quickly prepared a light repast of black tea, toast, and two poached eggs, which she neatly arranged upon a waiter and carried in and set before her mistress.

“Now _do_, sweet lady, try to eat something,” she said, affectionately—“these eggs look like snowballs; this toast is browned to a turn, and this tea—better never came from Canton—try now while I go and see what prospect there is for comfortable sleeping.”

And leaving the sad-browed lady, she called Amphy from the hall, and directed her to show the way to the best chamber.

The old woman merely opened the door connecting the parlor in which they stood with the back room, and said:

“Dar! Dat Miss Barbara’s own sleepin’ room, and it’s de bes’ in de house.”

It was as bare and as clean as the other apartments. An open fire-place, filled with fragrant pine boughs, and flanked on either side by a linen and clothes press; a four-posted bedstead with a comfortable bed, well made up and covered with a white counterpane; a tall, three-legged toilet table laid with a coarse white cloth, and furnished with a small looking-glass; a pine washstand, with a plain delf-ware basin and ewer, and two wicker chairs, completed the appointments for comfort.

“This is all very clean and neat to say the least and _most_ of it,” remarked Susan, looking around. “But—has the room, and especially the bed, been aired lately?”

“De Lor, child! It bin aired _all de time_! De trouble _we_ has is jes to keep de air _out’n_ dis ole house,” said Amphy.

“I believe you! But it is necessary to make up a fire and take the bed to pieces to change the sheets, for they may be damp.”

“Damp! he-he-he! De Lors, honey! _ole_ as de house is, dere ain’t not the least bit o’ damp, or must, or moulder, anywhere about it. It are so high up here, dat eberytime it rain, ebery singley bit’n de water run right off’n it! an’ it so dry we kin hardly git a bit o’ wegables to grow here. Damp! Lors, honey!”

“Well, I’m glad to hear it is not so; but at all events it is cold. So you take that pine out of the fire-place and kindle a fire, while I take the clothes off the bed. Where is the linen closet?”

“Dis a-one,” replied Amphy, pointing out the right hand press, and then lifting the mass of pine boughs to carry them from the room.

In a short time the chamber was made comfortable. And Susan closed it up, and, accompanied by Amphy, left the room.

“Now, child, dere’s anoder bed-room correspondin’ to dis, as open out’n de kitchen on de other side o’ de hall, you know, as used to be the Captin’s room, Heaven rest his soul! and which I reckon would suit you. It’s clean as a penny, too, only full of sailor’s truck.”

“Thank you, Mother Amphy, I shall do very well,” said Susan, as they entered the parlor.

Susan went immediately to the side of Lady Montressor, whom she found with her elbow resting on the edge of the table, her head bowed upon her hand, and her face in the deep shadow of her drooping ringlets. She was sunk in profound thought, and the little refection stood almost untouched beside her.

Susan heaved a deep sigh.

“This is the way! always the way! I may prepare her the nicest little repast in the world, and she scarcely ever eats; I may make up the softest bed, and she hardly ever sleeps! and I—I wear out my life tending and watching her, to no purpose! I don’t know what she lives on, I am sure, unless it is on grief and obstinacy, and she is dreadfully obstinate! If ever again I tack my fortunes on to those of a runaway lady—may I——but the Lord bless her! and the Lord forsake me if ever I forsake her,” thought Susan, as she silently removed the service, and beckoned Amphy to follow her from the room.

“Come into the kitchen and take a cup of tea with me, Mother Amphy. My heart is heavy, and I want somebody to talk to,” said Susan, when she had closed the parlor door behind her.

“Thankee, honey, wid all de pleasure in life, since you’s so ’bliging. I should ’joy a rale good cup o’ tea; and I warrant de Madam keeps de werry best,” said the old woman, as she followed Susan into the kitchen.

When they had drawn out the table, arranged it, and seated themselves, Amphy said—

“De lors! ain’t she purty dough?”

“Who?”

“De child in dere—de Madam I mean—_wonderful_ purty!—but what’s de matter wid her, honey? she seems to be in a heap o’ trouble! Is de child a widder?”

“Hem-m! Yes, she’s a widow (—_bewitched_—there’s another consequence of following a runaway lady! I shall have to lose my soul with lying, or, what is as bad, distorting the truth,)” thought Susan.

“A widder! _poor_ thing! she take it wonderful hard! How long she bin a widder, honey?”

“Some months.”

“Dis _is_ wonderful good tea! Some mont’s! and she ain’t begin to git over it yet? And I spose dat what she come down to this lonesome place for?”

“Yes.”

“De Lors! Well ’tis ’stonishin’ how dey do take on at fust—dese young widders! but lors! it don’t las long, ’specially when dey’s young and handsome as _she_—and she’s _wonderful_ handsome! It ’minds me of a purty young widder as I know’d of; her husband done die of de fever. Lors! Lors! Lors! how she did take on at fust, to be sure! Nobody couldn’t hold her! nobody darsent come nigh her! Byme-by, she take and buy a lonesome country place, ’way off in a woody park, by itself.

“And she go dere to ’tire from de worl’; ’fuse to see any company; ’fuse to see her own dear friends; spent de live long day in walkin’ up and down de locust avenue, a thinkin’ on her husband in his grave. Byme-by, toward de fall, dere came back from furrin parts, a young Capt’in Lovel, who was a sort o’ quaintance o’ hern; and he sends and begs de privilege o’ jes shootin’ game in her woods, an’ he won’t come nigh de house, nor ’sturb anybody. And she guv him leave; ’cause she was too sorrowful to care ’bout it, one way or t’other. So he kept roamin’ through de woods, wid gun and dog, day arter day. At last he happen to meet she in her solemncolly walks. First ’twas only a bow one side, and a sigh t’other, as they passed each other Next ’twas a bow one side, and a melanchollum _smile_ t’other. Next it was—‘Good-mornin, madam,’ and ‘How do you do, sir?’

“Arter a bit it growed—‘A fine day, madam’—‘What sport have you had, sir?’ ‘Good, though excessive fatiguin’, madam,’ &c. ‘Wont you walk in an’ res’ sir?’ And so de handsome Capt’in gradu’ly got to visitin’ de house; till byme-by, de May followin’ bless patience if dey wa’n’t married! True for you, honey! I aint a tellin’ of you a bit o’ lie! ’Stead o’goin down in de church _yard_ with her dead husband she went into de church altar wid a live one; and ’stead o’ ’mitten’ suicide she went an’ mitted matrimony! Dem’s um! Ah, dat young Capti’n was a deep one! _He_ know’d pretty little widders! and so do I; I knows dere ways! Dey gits over it! And so will de child in dere. You mind! if some handsome young capt’in don’t come before long to hunt _her_ up—why she get tired o’ stayin and go into the world agin to hunt some young Capt’in up. Dat’s all! Dar! don’t you be oneasy.”

“Your theory don’t apply to my mistress, though, Mother Amphy. _She_ is not an ordinary woman, nor are her sorrows common ones,” said Susan, carried past the bounds of prudence by her indignation at the idea of her own illustrious and most unhappy lady being compared to any other “widder.”

“De Lors! child has she seen any heavier trouble dan de loss of husband?”

“She lost husband, mother, father, and many relatives and friends at one fell blow. She is mourning now for them all.”

“De ’Vine Marster in Heaben, honey! what dat you tell me!” exclaimed the old woman, rolling up her eyes in horror.

“I am telling you the truth.”

“Was it a shipwreck?” asked Amphy, her thoughts recurring to the Mercury.

“Worse than that, it was an earthquake.”

“A YETHQUAKE—MY! Where did it happen of, honey?”

“In a land beyond the seas. Now you must know that I hate to talk about these things, Amphy. So drink your tea, that is a good soul, and let me drink mine.”

“Yes, honey, yes; ’tis wonderful good tea indeed, ’specially with white sugar in it. I’se wery sorry for de chile—wery!”

“After all,” thought Susan, “I might as well have given her this reason for my lady’s deep mourning, and sorrow-stricken countenance, as to have her always wondering about it, and perhaps talking of it.”

She then changed the conversation, and inquired about the neighbors, which she discovered to be a “minus quantity” in that district; and then about the traditional ghost, that haunts every old half-ruined, country mansion, and which ought, of course, to be on duty at the Headland House, and which she found, in this instance, to be “a lady all in white, who wandered about the house and grounds at night, weeping and wringing her hands.”

“The Lord forbid that I should believe in ghosts; but still I’d rather not have heard the story; for if I happen to go through the upper rooms, in the dark, or look out of any of the windows, it will scarcely be in human nature not to take a patch of moonlight, or the silvery bark of a white maple or beech tree, for the ghost of the white-robed lady,” said Susan.

“Ah, child! if _dat’s_ de worst you see.”

“But who was she when she was alive?”

“Ah, honey, she lib many and many a year ago! Her name Miss Blanche Brande. She was crossed in love, you see, child, and she’s jes pined away and died, and has been walking here eber since.”

“A very weak-minded ghost! I don’t think I shall be afraid of Miss Blanche,” said Susan.

“Wait till midnight, honey! only jes wait till midnight.”

As it was now very late, the old woman arose to take leave.

“Der’s wood enough in for yer mornin’ fire, honey, and please de Lor’ I’ll step up here yerly in de mornin’, and fetch yer anoder pail of fresh water to put de kettle on.”

“Thank you, yes; if you and your old man can engage to bring the water and cut the wood, and assist me in the little house-work when your services are needed, my mistress is liberal, and will pay you well.”

“I wasn’t thinkin’ nothin’ ’bout no pay, honey. Howsever, jes as you please ’bout dat. I’ll be round yerly in de mornin’,” said Amphy, preparing to depart, by tying her check handkerchief closely under her chin, and taking up her thick walking-stick.

“Good-night, child. I’d a heap liefer it be _you_ nor _me_ stayin’ in dis lonesome ole house all night. Marster bress you, honey.”

And with this benediction, the namesake of the ocean goddess departed.

Susan was not more than ordinarily superstitious—that is to say—in broad daylight, or in a room full of company, she did not believe in “ghosts;” but at ten o’clock of a dark night, alone in a room of an old dilapidated country house, reputed to be haunted, she felt at least uncomfortable.

She quickly set the kitchen in order, and went into the parlor to rejoin her mistress.

She found Lady Montressor in the very same attitude in which she had two hours before left her—with her elbow resting upon the table, her head bowed upon her hand, and her dark ringlets overshadowing her face. It seemed that in two hours she had not once moved. The fire had burned so nearly out, that nothing remained but a few embers.

“Dear lady, it is after ten o’clock—will you retire?”

“Yes,” with a deep sigh answered Lady Montressor.

“Your chamber is well-aired and warmed—shall I show you into it now?”

“Yes,” with another weary sigh, replied the lady, rising.

Susan opened the communicating door, and ushered her mistress into the bed-room.

There was a cheerful fire burning on the broad fire-place and diffusing a ruddy glow throughout the large room.

“I hope you find every thing here as comfortable as circumstances will admit of, my lady.”

“Yes”—in the same exhausted manner answered the mourner—then, in her thoughtfulness of her devoted servant, she added—“I thank you, Susan?”

The maid hurried away into the hall, and returned with the large traveling-basket in which she had packed her mistress’s night-dress and toilet articles. These she quickly produced and laid out. Then she assisted her lady to undress, and when she was quite ready for bed, prepared as usual to leave her alone for her evening devotions, which were the very last acts of Lady Montressor, before lying down to her nightly rest.

“Do you think you will sleep well to-night, my lady?” inquired Susan, affectionately.

“As well as usual, my girl,” answered Lady Montressor, evasively.

“Good-night, then, my lady; may the angels guard you.”

“Good-night——but stay; are your sleeping accommodations comfortable?”

“Yes, I thank your ladyship; I have the room directly opposite to yours, across the hall; if you should be wakeful, or need any thing in the night, dear lady, please knock me up—I shall be sure to hear you.”

“Thank you, my child, I will, if there should be any need. Now go to your rest. Good-night.”

“Good-night, dear Madam—and may the Lord be with you,” said Susan, as she retired and closed the door behind her.