CHAPTER III

THE RED WING

Face to face with the true mountains, Standing silently and still, Drawing strength from fancy’s dauntings, From the air about the hill, And from nature’s open mercies, And most debonair good will. E. B. BROWNING.

When Em. recovered her consciousness it was broad daylight, and the old hall and the woods around it were full of the jubilant sounds of awakening life.

John and his two boys had slipped out to wash and dress themselves in the back premises, leaving the hall to the sole possession of the women and girls.

Em. instantly recollected her frightful vision of the night; but, true to her resolution of silence on the subject of the haunted house, she refrained from speaking of it, while she inwardly thanked Heaven that she had passed her very last night in the ghostly hall.

She arose with alacrity, rolled up her pallet, and put it out of the way, dressed herself and began to assist her mother in clearing up the hall for breakfast. It was a lively scene, like the general getting up in the morning from the cabin of a steamboat.

“Why, my girl, you overdid yourself yesterday, you did! You look as pale as a ghost this morning! Just go and sit down in that arm-chair, and don’t attempt to do a hand’s turn to-day,” said Susan Palmer on seeing her daughter’s pallid countenance and languid air.

But Em. declared that she was able to work, and begged to be allowed to do her share.

The hall was quickly set in order. John and the boys brought in wood and water; old Monica kindled the fire; Mrs. Whitlock filled the kettle; Susan Palmer set the table; and Em. cut the bread and meat.

As “many hands make labor light,” the breakfast was soon prepared, and, with the keen appetite bestowed by the pure mountain air, it was soon consumed.

As they were about to rise from the table a shadow crossed the front door and the odd little figure of the old gatekeeper entered the hall, and in such a plight that his appearance was greeted with a general exclamation from the company present; but before any one could ask a question the old man walked up to the new overseer and said meekly:

“If yer please, Marster John, Mr. Comical, as he passed out de gate yes’day, tole me to come up here dis mornin’ and help yer to get righted, and show you t’rough de Red Wing, case you couldn’t find your own way.”

“Thank you, ’Si; your help will be very acceptable. But, man alive, what’s happened to you?” inquired John, gazing with surprise and pity on the battered veteran who stood there with his clothes torn to ribbons, his eye black, his nose swelled, and his scalp bleeding from where a lock of hair had been pulled out by the roots.

“He looks as if he had been blowed up by a steam-boiler!” said Tom.

“Or run over by a locomotive,” added Ned.

“He looks to me more as if he had had an interview with a wild cat,” suggested Em., half in pity, half in humor.

“But what on earth _is_ the matter with you, man?” repeated John.

“Well, ver see, marster, Sereny has been performin’ on me,” quietly replied ’Sias.

“_What?_” demanded John.

“Sereny has been performin’ on me, sar. Dancin’ of a war-dance over me, marster; it is Sereny’s little way she has, Marster John. Only, dis time ’pears like she has scalp’ me worse ’an I ebber was scalp’ since I was a boy, and dat was a hundred and fifty years ago, marster, more or less, more or less, sar.”

“But who the mischief is Sereny?”

“My young wife, marster; dat young yaller gal yer might see at de gate-house any time passing,” meekly replied old ’Sias.

“But what on earth did she abuse you for?” demanded John.

“Marster, yer know dat dollar yer see Mr. Comical gib me?”

“Yes.”

“Well, marster, dat Sereny hab got a nose like a rat-terrier for smellin’ out things. Jes’ ’cause Mr. Comical come on a visit to de place, and I went up to pay my dispects to him; Sereny suspicioned him gibbin’ me money, an’ soon’s ever he was gone she up an’ ’cuse me ob it to my face, an’ tell me to ’liber dat money up to my lawful wife. I didn’t want to gib all dat money, ’cause I knowed she’d heabe it all away on finery, an’ sich trash, first chance she got, so I wouldn’t ’fess as I had any. An’ den she tried to sarch me, an’ I ’sisted her, an’ den she began to perform on me an’ dance a war-dance round me, an’ tomahawk an’ scalp me, an’ bein’ so much youngern stronger’n I am, she got the better o’ me an’ took all my money——”

“And left you in this condition?”

“Yes, sar; which it’s a little way Sereny’s had ebber since I married of her.”

“But what in the world tempted an old man like you to take a young wife?”

“Yes, sar; dat’s jis’ where it is. In de old ages of my pilgrimage I did take a young gal for a wife, according to King David and Abishey, to keep me warm in my old days—which warm she _do_ keep me, sar, as yer may see for yerself, my head is all of an inf’amation now wid de warmin’ up she gib me yes’day. An’ I offen do wonder to myself, thinking of my own thoughts inside of myself, how was dat de way young Abishey kept ole King David warm—wid de broomstick an’ de hoe handle, let alone sometimes de shovel and de tongs also,” said the old man in reflective tone.

“Well, I never heard that preached on, as ever I can remember; but now you put it to me, I should not wonder if it was so; for ‘sich is life,’ you see,” gravely replied John. And then, after a few moments of quiet thought, he added:

“But, ’Si, this catamount of yours shall not be let to clapper-claw your body off your soul! I’ll see to it ’Sias! I’ll see to it!”

“Now, Marse John, don’t yer do no sich a thing. Don’t yer go interferin’ ’tween man an’ wife, ’tain’t no good! I don’t want no white man to interfere ’tween me an’ Sereny, an’ any colored ge’man try to do it—well dere! Sereny’d settle _him_! Now, Marse John, I is ready for any sarvice as yer would like to have me to do, an’ _able_ for it, too! Dese here woun’s and bruzes is all on the outside, an’ looks worse dan dey feels. To be sure de head is de worse, for it do feel mighty hot: but den it is also mighty hard. I was born wid a hard head, marster, so dey used to tell me, an’ it’s been gettin’ harder an’ harder ebery year all my life, for a hund’ed and fifty year, more or less, marster; till now it’s done got dat hard as it can stan’ even Sereny’s broomstick and hoe handle. So now I is ready for yer, marster,” cheerfully concluded this war-worn veteran.

John Palmer had taken out his paper of instructions and was reading them.

“Here we are,” he exclaimed, folding up and replacing the document in his pocket. “Here is our first duty, in the first line, to open and air the house from garret to cellar, to build small wood fires in every chimney, to burn out the cobwebs and dry the dampness; afterwards to take time and thoroughly clean the house. Well! the opening and airing and fire-kindling will be enough to begin with to-day. It will take us until noon, and then we must move into our own quarters in the Red Wing. Now, then, suppose we begin with the rooms on this floor? What do you say, Susan?”

“Certainly, John—unlock the doors! We are every one of us _aching_ to see the closed parlors,” answered the woman.

John gave the big bunch of keys to old ’Sias, saying:

“As you know the locks better than I do, you must unlock the doors for us.”

The old man selected a key, fitted it, and opened a door on the right hand and admitted the whole party to a long, dark, sombre drawing-room, whose close air and musty smell immediately drove the women and children back into the hall, leaving only John and old ’Sias to enter together.

“We’ll soon alter this, ’Si,” said Palmer as he went to one of the front windows, threw up the sash, and with some effort withdrew the rusty bolts and opened the heavy shutters.

Old ’Sias had meanwhile pushed back the sliding doors across the middle of the room and was now performing the same service at the back windows.

And soon floods of light and currents of air poured into the long-disused apartment.

“This must have been the ball-room, from its size,” said John, staring down the long saloon that reached the whole length from front to back of the house.

“Well, sar, it were mostly used for company and parties.”

“You can come in now, Susan; the air is good enough.”

The whole troop poured into the room and began to walk about and stare with wide open eyes.

The waxed oaken floor had no carpet, or a carpet of thick dust only. The dark, oak-paneled walls were decorated with a few fine pictures, one of which immediately attracted the attention of Em. It hung in a very rich and very dusty gilt frame, between the two front windows, and it reached from the floor to the ceiling.

It was the full length, life size portrait of a lady in the costume of the time of Queen Elizabeth—a bright blue satin dress, richly embroidered with silver thread and lavishly trimmed with lace and decked with gems. It was made with the long, tight waist, full, short, puffed sleeves, and high, standing ruff of the period.

The hair was dressed in large masses of ringlets on each temple, and surmounted by a close cap of bright blue velvet, embroidered with silver, edged with a row of large pearls, and brought down to a peak on the top of the forehead, and widened out in loops over each mass of curls upon the temples. A mantle of ermine drooped from the graceful shoulders, leaving bare the beautiful neck, framed in with its high standing ruff, and adorned with a necklace of many rows of pearls. Long ear-drops and broad bracelets of pearls completed the set. The background of the picture was the cushioned steps and canopied chair of a throne, and gleaming and glowing with crimson velvet and gold.

It was a very gorgeous and brilliant picture, full of light and color. But it was not the rich dress, splendid jewels or royal surroundings of the court lady that held the eyes of the spellbound girl—it was the lovely face! the same in its delicate outlines, fair, spirituelle beauty, clear blue eyes and sunny hair—the very same with that of the white-veiled picture she had seen in the palace on the island.

But how different the costume and surroundings! One, adorned with the most superb robes and splendid jewels in the magnificent court of Elizabeth.

The other, arrayed from veiled head to hidden feet in spotless white, with nothing but clouds for a background, might have been a spirit or a woman of any time or country.

Yet the faces were the same.

“Uncle ’Sias,” whispered Em., “can you tell me whose portrait this is?”

“Yes, honey, dat’s one ob de aunt-sistresses ob de ole family,” answered the gatekeeper.

“The _what_? The aunt-sis—Oh! do you mean ancestress?” inquired the puzzled girl.

“Yes, honey, aunt-sistress. She were a great lady in her time, but it was a long, long time ago, more ’an a hund’ed and fifty years ago, I reckon.”

“Oh, yes! the costume of the lady shows the picture must be three hundred years old, and must have been brought from England in the earliest settlement of this country.”

“Very likely, honey! Anyway, she were a great lady. Lady—less see now—what’s dat dey did call dat pictur’? Lady Em-Emmer-Emmerlint!”

“‘Emolyn!’” exclaimed our girl, turning and looking full upon the speaker.

“Yes, honey! dat was it! Emmerlint! _Lady_ Emmerlint, dey called her! And now I looks at dat pictur’ right good, oh, my gracious me alibe, honey!” cried the old man, staring at the picture and then staring at Em.

“Why, what’s the matter _now_?”

“De likeness, honey! De mos’ ’strorna’ry likeness!”

“Oh!” exclaimed Em. suddenly, “I remember that you said that the portrait that you saw in the island palace was like me, too.”

“So I did, honey. Bofe is like you and like each oder, dough I nebber would o’ noticed it if you hadn’t been by. Well, it is de mos’ ’strorna’ry fing as ebber I seed since I was a boy, and dat was a hund’ed and fifty years ago, more or less, honey.”

At this moment John Palmer called old ’Sias to attend him through the other rooms.

The whole party then left the long drawing-room, crossed the hall and went into the south wing, which was made up on this floor of family parlor, library, sitting-room, dining-room, and conservatory—all except the latter having paneled oak walls and polished oak floors, and being furnished with the heavy, highly ornate tables, chairs, escritoires, screens, and sofas of a past century.

Having thrown open all the windows in this wing the party proceeded up the great staircase, followed by old ’Sias, who, on the landing, passed the others and unlocked the chamber doors and opened the windows. Here were long suites of bed-rooms and dressing-rooms, all with the darkly polished oak floors and the oak-paneled walls, and heavy, black walnut, four-post bedsteads, with lofty canopies; and broad walnut presses with innumerable drawers and cupboards; deep, high-backed, softly-cushioned, easy chairs; high, semi-circular, curtained toilet tables, curious, old-fashioned china ewers and basins, and many other things, interesting from their oddity or antiquity. But everything was covered with dust, veiled with cobwebs, and redolent of must and mice.

Indeed, often, on opening a door, the intruder would be startled by the rapid scuttling away of rats or mice, and sometimes, near a chimney, by the flitting out of a bat.

“_They_ are the ghosts that haunt the house, I reckon, ’Sias,” said John Palmer in a low voice to the old guide.

’Sias shook his solemn old head and said nothing.

Em. overheard the remark and shuddered. She remembered the radiant apparition of the first night and the horrible spectre of the last, and to her the whole of these vast, dark, dreary rooms wore a ghostly aspect.

They visited the attic and the back buildings.

And then, while the women and girls returned to the hall to prepare dinner, John, old ’Sias, and the boys brought light wood and kindled little fires in all the chimneys to dry the rooms and destroy the must.

“And, now,” said Palmer, “we’ll get a bite of dinner and then go into our new home.”

“Yes, marster,” replied old ’Sias; “which I hope, sar, you’ll find to yer satisfaction.”