The Haunted Homestead. Emma Dorothy Eliza Nevitte Southworth

very heart in my bosom seemed frozen with horror, and I felt myself, as it were, turning to stone, when a loud knocking at my chamber door aroused me. It was my little maid, whose coming, I, in my deep and fearful abstractions, had not heard. I hurriedly replaced the carpet and the rug, and went and opened the door.

      "Yer sleeped soun' dis mornin', Miss Agnes, ma'am," said little Jet, smiling as she entered. "I feared I scared you out'n your dream," she added, noticing, I suppose, my horror-stricken face.

      "You certainly startled me, Jet," I said, evasively. And while she lighted the fire, I returned to bed to try to compose my nerves.

      Between the horror I felt at the idea of sleeping another night alone in an accursed room, where, it seemed, a crime had been committed, and my intense desire to elucidate the mystery, I was at a loss how to act. Only one thing I decided upon—to keep my own counsel for the present.

      "De fire is burnin' fus-rate now, Miss Agnes, so you can get up an' dress, if you likes, as break'as' is mos' ready," said my little attendant. And taking her hint, I arose and hastened my toilet, in order to be punctual at the morning meal of my hostess.

      As I descended the stairs, I heard Mrs. Legare speaking to her daughter in the parlor, where a fire was kindled every morning while there were visitors in the house. She was saying:

      "I tell you, Mathilde, it is all a delusion. Those who have never heard the story, never see, or hear, or fancy anything unusual. You know now Agnes has not been disturbed, and it is because she has heard nothing. Whereas, if you had told her this history, she would have imagined, Heaven knows what! all sorts of horrors! that is the reason I wished her to hear nothing of it. She has slept undisturbed in that room. Let that be known. Others will then not object to do so, and the report will die out."

      She spoke in a quick, low tone, and, seeing me coming, instantly changed the subject. But my sense of hearing, always acute, was quickened by intense interest, and I had heard more than she could have wished me to know. She turned to me with a smile, and said:

      "I hope that you have rested well, my dear Agnes."

      I said, "As well as usual," and receiving Mathilde's morning kiss, took her arm, and accompanied them into the breakfast-room.

      It was some hours after breakfast, that day, when I went up into my chamber to write letters. While thus engaged, I heard Mathilde coming up, singing, and enter a chamber corresponding to mine, but separated from it by the front hall.

      "Are you there, Agnes?" she asked.

      "Yes, dear. Shall I come to you?"

      "Si vous plait, mademoiselle," she answered, gayly.

      I went into the room, where I found Mathilde directing Jet in her work of preparing the chamber for guests.

      "I shall have to put your brother and his friend here together to sleep, my dear Agnes, as we are so full. But, by the way, who is his friend?"

      "That is just what I cannot tell you. John, in his wild, careless way, simply said that he had a friend with him, as a reason why he could not at once accept your father's invitation, and Mr. Legare as carelessly and frankly wrote back for him to bring his 'friend' along with him."

      "Eh bien! cette l'ami inconnu must be content to lodge with John; we can do no better."

      "Since your house is not so large as your heart, chere Mathilde."

      Little Jet was engaged in removing the firescreen, preparatory to lighting the fire to air the room. As she set this board down before my eyes, I could scarcely repress the cry that arose to my lips. It was an old, faded family portrait that had been put to this use. That was not much; but—it was the portrait of the dark woman of my dream.

      The same midnight eyes and hair, the same proud, stern, sad brow!

      "Whose likeness is that, Mathilde?" I asked, when I had in some degree recovered my composure.

      "Oh! I don't know; it is a portrait of some member of the family of the former proprietors, I suppose! We found it here with other rubbish, considered, I suppose, of too little value to remove after the Van Der Vaughans left; I washed its face and set it up for a firescreen. 'To such vile uses,' etc. By the way, look at it! It is a very remarkable countenance! Such expression might have been that of Semiramis when ordering the execution of Ninus."

      "No! I do not think so, there is no wickedness in this face! There is strength, sternness, perhaps cruelty (if necessary)," I replied, still studying the portrait. "Who could it have been?"

      "I know not indeed! some old, old member of the Vaughan family."

      "Nay, I do not think the portrait is of such ancient date! To be sure it is dilapidated; but that seems to be more from abuse than from time. And observe! the costume is modern."

      "So it is!"

      "I had not thought of that before! Well now since you said so, I begin to surmise that this may be the portrait of Madeleine Van Der Vaughan."

      "And who was she?" I inquired, with as much indifference as I could assume.

      "Oh! the last lineal descendant of the elder branch of the family and the last heiress of this old estate; she married her first cousin, Wolfgang Van Der Vaughan."

      "And what was her history and her fate?" I inquired, striving to restrain the betrayal of the intense interest I felt.

      "Oh, her history was as painful as her fate was tragic."

      "And—well?"

      "Hush! there is some one coming! I will tell you another time!"

      It was Mrs. Legare who entered, and smiling a sort of salutation to me, and opening a letter she held in her hand, said:

      "My dear Mathilde, we are to have more company. Your cousin Rachel Noales is coming; she will be here this afternoon!"

      "Oh! I should be so glad if we only had room for her!" exclaimed Mathilde, impulsively, and then she blushed deeply in having spoken thus freely of their crowded state in the presence of a guest.

      "My dear Mathilde," said I, "as mine is a double-bedded chamber, I should be very happy to have Miss Rachel for a roommate; that is, if it would be agreeable to herself."

      "Thank you, Agnes, dear. Agreeable! why it would be the very thing. Rachel Noales is the greatest coward that ever ran! and would no more sleep in a strange room, by herself, than she would in a churchyard! If you had not kindly offered, some of us girls would have to take her in, although we are all sleeping double now!"

      "But are you sure, my dear Agnes, that you will not be incommoded," kindly inquired Mrs. Legare.

      "Incommoded? Not in the least! The arrangement suits me to a nicety!" I replied.

      And so, in truth, it did; for let me confess that while I could not prevail upon myself to shorten my visit, and leave the house with its great mystery unsolved, the prospect of sleeping alone in that chamber cursed with crime appalled me, but, in company with a companion of my own age, it would be a very different affair.

      "That horrid portrait! take it into the attic, Jet," said Mrs. Legare, as her eyes fell upon the ci devant firescreen.

      The little maid took up the picture and carried it off as commanded.

      Then there was a visit of inspection and preparation paid to my room. Fresh sheets and more blankets were put upon the second bed, fresh napkins laid, and then mother and daughter and little maid departed.

      Through the remainder of that day I had no further opportunity of learning from Mathilde the history of the dark lady.

      Late that afternoon Uncle Judah was dispatched with the mules to Frost Height to meet the stage-coach, and bring Rachel Noales to the house. And about seven o'clock he returned, escorting the new visitor, for whom we were waiting tea.

      As Miss Noales was to be my roommate, I examined her with much more interest than I had bestowed upon any other among my fellow-visitors. Rachel Noales was an orphan, and was still