Transferred Identity.

Cromwell Argus, Volume XXVII, Issue 1359, 7 May 1895, Page 2

Transferred Identity.

By EDITH SESSIONS TUPPER.

Continued. "Hero are some beautiful flowers 1 picked for you, mamma,” said the little girl, still with that air of timidity. She appeared to desire to placate her mother. I expected to see Portia take the flowers, fasten them in her bodice and kiss the child for her sweet attention. Judge

then of my dismay, when snatching the verbenas from her hand with an angry gesture she cried; “How dare you, you little imp? How often have 1 told you not to pick the flowers? And these scarlet verbenas, too, which I am saving to wear to Mrs. Redmond’s ball tomorrow night. Yon deserve a good beating,” and she suddenly boxed the child’s ear. “Portia,” I cried involuntarily. She turned and saw me. Yes, there was no longer any doubt of it—the woman was mad. Her face was like that of a fiend, but it suddenly changed, and an almost humble look took the place of her expression of fury. The poor, grieved little child was sobbing quietly. I held out my arms to her. With a baby’s instinct she came to me and crept close to my heart. She did not cry out as most children would under the circumstances, but moaned sadly, almost under her breath, “Oh, mamma, mamma!” “How could, you, Portia?” I asked. “Well, she is such a torment. Come, now, Daphne, stop crying. You know I am sorry I boxed your ears. I always am.” “I always am!” So then this treatment of her lovely little daughter was not unusual. Decidedly my friend was mad. I held the grieving little creature in my arms until her sobs had ceased, and then, still clinging to my hand as to some protecting power, she went into breakfast with me. There was a pile of letters at Portia’s plate. She glanced over them hurriedly and paused at one. “Here is a letter from Colonel Marchmont,” she said. “How I shall know when he is coming.” As she read, her face became transfigured, The hard, stern lines softened; a flush crept to her cheek. She looked more like the old Portia than at any previous time. “He is coming,” she cried, “'coming tomorrow. Thank God! I haven’t lived since he went. I have simply existed. Prudence, you will see him—my husband, my love, my god,” Her passionate tones amazed and delighted me. “She has at least kept her love for her husband pure and fresh,” I said to myself. “That is a good sign. But if she loves him so intensely, why is she so irritable to his child?” “He will be in time for the ball,” she rattled on, “and you, Prudence, must go with us. It’s a ball at the next plantation, Wo have so little gayety in this forsaken country that we appreciate every opportunity for pleasure.” “Oh, you will excuse me,” I said. “I would cut a sorry figure at a ball. Let me stay at home with Daphne.” The little one’s hand stole into my lap. I pressed the tiny fingers warmly. “As you please,” cried Portia. “What’s this?” A shadow crossed her face. She bit her lip and stared desperately at the letter she still held in her hand. “What shall I do?” I heard her mutter. “What shall I do?” Then without one word of apology Mrs. Marchmont abruptly rose from the table and left the room. CHAPTER IV. THE CLOSED GATE. When Portia rejoined me, two hours later, her eyes were heavy and swollen from weeping. “Pardon me, my friend,” she said sadly, “for leaving you so unceremoniously, but I had received a terrible blow. 1 felt I must get away by myself. Come, Prudence,” she concluded, “come, let us walk. I cannot remain quiet.” Puzzled by her looks and manner, 1 complied with her request. We left the house and entered one of the broad, densely shaded and winding paths. For some time we walked in silence. When I stole occasional glances at my companion, I could see she was far from composed. The anxiety lurking in her eyes, the hard, despairing lines about the lips, betokened the inward conflict. At last I spoke: “I am really grieved, Portia, to see you suffering so. Is there anything I can do for you?” “No, nothing,” she broke out wildly. “No, there is nothing you can do, or, for that matter, that any one can do. I tell you, Prudence,” and stopping short at a turn in the.path she seized my arm in a convulsive grasp, “God himself could not help me. I am in awful danger.” “Danger!” 1 cried. “Hush!” she exclaimed, looking ap-

preheusively about. “Hush! Yes, in danger.” “My dear, my dear,” I said soothingly, patting her arm as I might a child’s, “your nerves are in a bad state. You need rest. Why, Portia, what danger can there be to you in your own home and with your husband’s protecting love to guard 3 r ou? Why, tl ose are the idlest fancies. Dismiss them at once.” “My husband!” she cried ii agonized tones. “Ah! it is through him that danger threatens me. But whs.t am 1 saying? Oh, Prudence! Sometimes I fear I am going mad,” and she bowed her head upon my shoulder and wept. My distrust, my dislike, failed instantly. This cold, harsh woman .1 had been condemning was my Portia after all—racked by disease perhaps, • mazed by fancied terrors. Poor, suffering girl! 1 put my arms about her and comforted her as best 1 could. When she had growr calmer, we walked on, and reaching a n Stic arbor sat down, Portia still sighed mournfully and wiped the straggling tears from her cheeks. “A charming visit yon will have,” she said, with a forced attempt at gayety. “I am ashamed of my weakness, but when these fx-ightful fits of depression seize me I cannot possibly control myself.” “Are you subject to thes» mq >ods, Portia?” “Oh, yes,” she sighed. “For two years I have either been torn with feverish panics or plunged into the dept is of foreboding. But today—today” “There, there, never mind. E on’t think of it,” I murmured; “think of (something pleasant. Look at the glorioii s sky, the sunlight, the trees, the flowei s. Think of some happy event of your lil e. Think, Portia, of those dear, peaceful days of long ago—our schooldays—when life had not a care” I stopped abruptly. Portia’s face had once again assumed that inexplicable expression—a look of mingled cunning and alarm; the same awful glance I had seen through the window the night before I received now. But I floundered on. “Do you remember, dear girl, what Sister Agatha said to you the morning of our graduation? I can see her now, as she laid her band upon 3’our shoulder” “Oh, 3 T es!” interrupted Portia. “Dear Sister Agatha, she was always so lovely and gentle, and her precepts so sound and wise.” I stared at her in amazement. “Why, Portia, 3 r ou must be dreaming. Sister Agath \ was anything but gentle. She was the tex-ror of the school. No one was so fe tred and dreaded next to Mother Patri ;ia.” “Why, of course,” k ughed Portia—that same sin ster, mocking laugh of last night—“how . tupid of me! I must have been thinking >f some other sister.” “Doubtless mu were thinking of Sister Madeline.” “Yes—Sister Madeline. It was she.” “Sister Agath i said, if I recall it aright, ‘Portia, yon hai e every prospect of happiness. Wealth, youth, beauty, are yours. See to it, my chi Id, that the avenue along which the beacc ns of this life are placed leads to the heavenly city.’ Portia, I have never forgotten that scene. The nun, with her white, ascetic face glowing with spiritual fervor, one hand lifted as in benediction; you in the flush of beauty and expectancy listening to the farewell of that good woman. What a picture it would have made!” “I cannot remember it very well,” Portia said, w th a curious air of impatience as if the subject bored her, “at all events I am convinced that I am not in spirit very near the pearly gates. I really think I am in the neighborhood of the bottomless pit. But come, Prudence, how much longer are 3 r ou going to dawdle here?” and springing up she hastily walked on, leaving me to follow in a more perplexed state of mind than ever. I had hoped to touch Portia with the remembrance of that convent goodhy, but had only succeeded in annoying her. She appeared vexed when I spoke of our school days, and now that I gave the subject some reflection I recollected that the night before when I had once or twice referred to our convent life she had quickly changed the conversation. She had not asked once after any of our former associates and appeared absolutely to have no interest in the old life. We pursued our way slowly and silently. The drip of the fountains, the rustle of the leaves and the shrill, sweet notes of the mocking birds broke the stillness. Occasionally Portia would bend over a bed of flowers, examine them intently, pick one or two, then aimlessly wander on. We came at last to a little slope which descended abruptly toward Dead Man’s swamp. Here the tangles of thicket and vine grew closer and denser. Birds rose in frightened flight at our coming. Once I saw a snake wriggle quickly across our path. “This is a gloomy part of the grounds," I returned. “It is near the swamp, is it not?” “Yes,” said Portia, almost sullenly. “Yes, I hate it. I never walk hero. 1 don’t know wli3* I have come today. Is it an omen, 1 wonder?” “An omen of what?” I asked lightly. “You surely do not expect to be voodooed.” Again 1 paused abruptly at sight cl my friend’s face. “Voodooed!” she cried angrily. “What do you mean? What do 3'ou know of voodooism?” “Only what I have read and heard,” I retorted. “Oh!” she returned, as if relieved. “1 didn’t know but some of the servants had been chattering their abominable stuff to you. 1 don't allow it to he talked if I know it.” “Well, is there nothing in it, Portia?” I asked carelessly. “My driver was tell ing me that it was a common rumor in these parts that unholy rites are prac ticed in that swamp, and as we came by it last night I heard” “What did you hear?” she demanded, with distended eyes and quivering nostrils, “I heard an awful cry—a fearful

scream. Do you know I. could only think of one tiling.” “And that?” “Murder!” I scarcely breathed Portia turned so pale .1 was alarmed. “Oh, my dear girl, forgive me foi speaking of these things when you are already so unstrung. But why did w« come to this desolate spot? The very surroundings suggest all sorts of ghastly topics. Let us return,” But Portia went on down the slope as if impelled by some unseen power. Straight toward the swamp she went. “Come hack, dear,” I urged; “come.”

A sudden quick turn in the path brought us up against a high wall completely overrun with creepers and other vines. “See!” whispered Portia. “See, beyond that wall lies the swamp. Yes, it is a gamesome place. I hate it! I fear it!” My eyes running along the wall caught the outlines of a door or gate half hidden under the luxuriant growth of tangled and running vines. “Why, Portia!” I cried, “hero is a gate. Let us open it and have a peep into this land of terror.” As I pushed the vines away a cold hand —the hand of a corpse—was laid on mine. I turned in terror to see Portia’s maddened eyes burning like hot coals in her livid face, “Come away,” she hissed in my ear; “come. Don’t dare to try to open it. Como, come.” CHAPTER V. PORTIA’S HUSBAND. It is useless to attempt to analyze the emotions which possessed me during our return to the house. I was now confident that I was in the company of a madwoman and was deliberating upon ways and means for a speedy departure northward. And sret,5 r et, when Portia’s excitement had subsided, when we were back once more amid the flowers and fountains, she looked perfectly self contained and sane. Her eyes had lost their unearthly glitter, and when she again touched my hand her flesh was warm. Alono in my room I pondered upon the events of the day; Portia’s fury when Daphne brought her the flowers and her evident dislike of her child; her alarm at something contained in her husband’s letter; her intimation that danger threatened her through her husband, whom she so evidently idolized, and her rage when I attempted to open the closed gate in that dreary out of the way corner of the grounds. What did it all mean? “Shall I stay or go?” I asked myself, “Shall I see this mystery to the end, or shall I fly from it? If trouble is hanging over Portia, ought I not to stand by and give her all the aid in m> r power?” Then there was Colonel Marchmont. I owned to a woman’s curiosity concerning him, I was anxious to see the man whom Portia loved and as palpably feared danger through him, she had said. Again she had acknowledged that often she felt she were going mad. Possibly that was it; possibly she was alarmed lest her husband should put her in a madhouse. All these vagrant thoughts drifted through my mind, vexing, tormenting and questioning me, until wornout I fell asleep. My dreams were confused and ever circled round that closed gate, covered with low hanging vines curling and twisting like green serpents over its hinges and locks. Sometimes strange lights burned over its top and again darkness veiled it, though I felt it was there, and once 1 dreamed I stood before it and heard three awful and measured knocks, and on crying out “Who is there?” received answer, “Portia.” I wakened, wearied and languid from my feverish sleep. When I descended to breakfast, I found Portia laughing and romping gayly with Daphne. This unexpected sight filled me with delight. The mother and daughter pelted each other with flowers, ran races and danced together. Suddenly Portia cried out pettishly that she was wearied of such nonsense and relapsed into a gloomy mood, during which I caught her e3 r es more than once fixed on me with an expression of distrust. “Why do you regard me so intently, Portia?” I suddenly asked her, “I was wondering, a-ou little gray mouse, what you would do if you should hear unkind things said of me—} r es, more than unkind—dreadful, wicked, cruel deeds charged against me.” “Absurd!” I said laughingly, “What would you say, for example, if some one were to come in that door and tell yon that I had betrayed faith and honor; that I wafs a thief” “Nonsense!” “That I was a murderer” •‘Oh, hush, hush, Portia!” I cried, going over to her and taking her by the shoulders,, “Why do you suggest such hateful thoughts? Put them away and come out upon the piazza.” “Yes,” she said, with that strange air of proud humility I had noticed before, “yes, I will come.” As we passed into the hall a servant approached ns with the tidings that a carriage had just turned into the long avenue leading to the mansion. “It is papa,” shouted Daphne, dancing like a firefly.

jroriia said nothing, but I felt her body sway as if about to fall. I caught her in my arms. She was trembling, pale and cold, “Compose yourself, dear,” I urged. “Why, Portia, I don't believe you are anxious to see him after all.” “Oh, yes,” she murmured faintly. “Yes, I thirst for a sight of his face. My love —my love Prudence,” suddenly clinging to me, “remember that always —whatever comes —remember, I loved him as few women love.” The carriage dashed up to the steps, tmd a tall, well built, athletic man sprang to the ground. As he came up the steps I saw a broad, low brow, with heavy masses of dark hair, threaded with silver, eyes dark and full of sorrow, a soldierly mustache, a strong chin and straight nose. Daphne flung herself into his arms. He pressed the child with a tender, caressing grace to his heart and kissed her little face again and again. “Papa’s own baby,” I heard him murmur. During this meeting Portia stood back, white, trembling, and with eyes fixed upon the ground. When Colonel Marchmont put the child down, she moved forward and mechanically held out her hand. She seemed like a person in a trance. I saw Colonel Marchmont start, then taking the outstretched hand he barely touched it with his lips, saying, “I hope you are well, Portia.” “Very well. And you?” “Never better.” “Let me introduce an old school friend, Prudence Mason, of whom you have heard me speak. Prudence, my husband.” Colonel Marchmont shook hands in hospitable fashion and greeted me with a friendly little speech. I was vaguely conscious that my unexpected presence appeared to be a relief to him. He soon went in to breakfast. Daphne ran after him. The child had lost all her

timidity and seemed to me to look defiantly at Portia. Her mother, on the other hand, wore the air of humility and melancholy I had before observed. Never had I witnessed so cold a greeting between husband and wife. While Colonel Marchmont treated Portia with courtesy, he unmistakably held her at arm’s length. Nor was I surprised when an hour later, coming from my room, I saw him enter a suite of rooms in quite the opposite location from those of Portia. I at once realized one source of my friend’s grief. Loving her husband with the fiery intensity of a warm, southern nature, she yet was an unloved wife. Still Colonel Marchmont was a man of kindness, amiability and affection. He showed it in his treatment of his child—yes, of his servants and even his dogs, but toward his wife he was as icy and flinty as marble. “Danger through him,” she had said. My heart ached for my friend. Yes, the danger of being cast off, deserted, put away—that was the evil which threatened this tempest tossed soul. Ah, poor Portia! I saw my duty clearly now—to stay with her, comfort and solace her all in my power, and if it were possible bring this husband and wife, drifting so dangerously apart, together once more. CHAPTER VI. IN THE ARBOR. The evening of Colonel Marchmont’s return was given over to the ball of which mention has already been made. Portia was a picture in her white satin gown, the laces of which were caught here and there with clusters of scarlet verbenas. When she was dressed and stood intently regarding herself in the mirror, she sighed heavily. “Why do you sigh, Portia?” I asked as I pinned the last knot of flowers in the folds of her gown. “Those red blossoms,” she answered dreamily. “I have a curious fancy about them, Prudence, Do you know that they look like drops of blood?” Then catching my reproving expression she laughed gayly, caught up her scarlet fan and hastened to join her husband in the drawing room. I watched Colonel Marchmont curiously to see what effect his wife’s beauty had upon him, but he regarded her as coldly as ever. I began to be furious with this calm, self contained man, who showed so plainly his utter indifference to the beautiful woman ho possessed. He had taken her white cloak from her and thrown it over his arm as he stood waiting while she buttoned her gloves. Suddenly he spoke: “Did I write you that I met Maurice in Atlanta?” he asked. I was standing near Portia, indeed had just stretched out my hands to assist her with the troublesome glove. I saw her shiver as if a cold wind had struck across her white shoulders. “Yes,” she said in a low voice. “And that he is coming here next week to stay a few days with us?” Colonel Marchmont continued. “Yes,” she breathed rather than spoke. Her husband looked intently at her through narrowing eyelids. “Well, I must say that you do not show much interest in the cousin who was like a brother to you and whom you have not seen since you were boy and girl together. Now, Maurice could not end his catechism about you. How

you look, dress, talk and act were questions he was continually asking. I told him his legal training had evidently become second nature, for he kept me on the witness stand constantly. You must know, Miss Mason, that Maurice Raymond is ray wife’s only living relative. He was born and brought up on her father’s plantation, and the two were like brother and sister.” t ‘Oh, yesl” I said, “I used often, Portia, dear you speak of your brother rice.” rtia tur a white, hunted face tol me. v lips moved as if she a\ Amt to leak, but no so‘and issued them. “Let me see,” said her husband as he carelessly threw her cloak over her shoulders, “it must he 15 years since you saw him. How much you will have to talk over!” The greenish light of excitement had died from Portia’s face, and as she took her husband’s arm she looked so wan, haggard and old I was temped to beg her to stop at home. Really she appeared too ill to go. But the carriage was at the steps. Colonel Marchmont handed her in, followed, shut the door, and they were driven rapidly away. For a long time I sat upon tho piazza thinking over the little scene I had witnessed. From the terror and dismay which had so suddenly crept in Portia’s face when her cousin’s name was mentioned I did not doubt that the news of his coining had been tlie unwelcome announcement in her husband’s letter which had occasioned so much alarm. And why? What possible danger could this x’elative bring her? On the contrary, why did she not welcome his advent as a relief to the monotony of her life? It was not possible she was in love with this cousin? No, no. If ever a woman loved her husband, it was Portia Marchmont. My musings were interrupted by little Daphne, who had been allowed to sit up and watch her mother’s toilet for the ball. She ran towa* i me, screaming in pretended fright, from her nurse Sophie, who wished to put her to bed, I took her in my arms and kissed her. “Good night, darling.” “Don’t want to go to bed,” she announced in shrill, childish treble; “wants to sit up with you.” “Laws now, Miss Daphne, come on,” urged Sophie. “No, no,” cried the child; “no, won’t go to bed till Auntie Prudence takes me for a walk.” “A walk now at 9 o’clock!” I said, “This is no time to take a walk.” “Yes,” cried Daphne, dancing and clapping her hands, “yes, you and Sophie and me—down to the arbor and back. Then I’ll be good and go to bed.” I could not resist the child’s pleading and told Sophie we would go for a short turn in the garden. “Only as far as the arbor and back,” I admitted. “Yes, yes,” laughed the delighted child. We threw on our light wraps and set out. Tho moon was full and sent down a flood of light, turning every leaf and twig and branch into shimmering silver. The fountains were splashing softly, and the birds faintly twittered in their nests. It was a scene of enchantment —a veritable midsummer night’s dream. “No wonder the child hated to go to bed,” I said to Sophie as tho little one went dancing down the walk before us. “Laws, yes, miss,” responded Sophie, “dat pore chile did tease powahful hahd.” We came to the arbor, and entering it sat down for a moment. I can see it all now as I write. The arbor overhung with dangling, perfume laden honeysuckles; the little girl capering about, her black eyes flashing in the moonlight; Sophie’s ebon face, white apron and snowy cap, and even the little wooden doll which Daphne had lugged along, stating that Dolly must walk too. Suddenly out of the moonlight came a face—a face which peered in through the honeysuckles at us with sinister eyes. Long white straggling hair fell around it, and the toothless gums mouthed in a bloodcurdling and evil grin. I saw it first, then Sophie, then the child. A scream broke tho stillness of the night. It was Sophie who threw her apron over her head and shrieked in terror. Daphne did not scream, but buried her head in my lap. “Who are you?” I demanded. There was no answer. The hideous face disappeared. There was a rustle in

Suddenly out of the moonlight came a face. the shrubbery and a sound of hastily withdrawing steps. The intruder had gone. I snatched Daphne up in my arms, and followed hy the moaning, gasping Sophie hurried to the house. There was speedily a group of frightened servants about us, to whom, with much spluttering and many groans, Sophie related the occurrence. I went to the nursery with Daphne and did not leave her until she was sound asleep. Then, with my nerves still considerably shaken, I went down to the piazza. Tom, the old white headed butler, was standing near the dining room window, and upon seeing me came forward.

“Sorry yon got such a scab, miss,” ho said, “an de little lady too. Dat’s too bad. Butdat fool Sophie—wot she want to tell all de niggahs fob? Be all ohah de plantation befo’ midnight, an ehery niggah on de place ’ll he mob seabed dan eber.” “Scared of what, Tom?” I asked. “Waal,” said lie, scratching his woolly head, “I shouldn’t ought fer to say anythin, for nuffiu riles missus mob, but I’ll depend upon you savin nuffin, miss” “Go on,” I said hastily. “Waal, miss,” his voice sunk to a whiS' per, “wat you saw iu de arboh was f Voodoo from Dead Man’s swamp.” I shivered involuntarily. “Nonsense! I cried. “Yes, miss, ’deed it was. An deyr i sayin now down in do kitchen dat it was aftah little missy's heart.” “Tom, I’m ashamed of you,” I said as I went in the hall, took my candle and prepared to go up stairs. Tom followed and said mysteriously, “Please, miss, don’t let missus know nuffln ’bout wat happened tonight.” - “I’ll think about it, Tom,” I answered as I slowly went up the etaii’S. CHAPTER VII. OLD JEZEBEL, It was a serious question with me whether I should speak of the startling experience of the evening. At first I decided to hold xny peace. The excitexnent would soon pass, and Portia and her husband would he none the wiser. But I reflected that thej r might catch a whisper from the tattling negroes and demand the stox-y of the occurrence. Thexx they would blame me for xxot having told them. I decided that it would be better to tell the father and mother at the first opportunity. Breakfast next morning was late. I I’ose at an early hour, but chose to wait and eat with Portia and the colonel. After they had come down and I had received a glowing description of the x’evels of the night before, as quietly and briefly as possible I told of the fright we had received in the arbor. “The most awful face I ever saw,” I was saying whexx Portia’s glass fell fronx her hand and shivered oxx the table. I thought she was going to faint and sprang to her assistance. “No, xxo,” she said weakly, “it is nothing—never mind—only tho alarm one would naturally feel.” “She does love her child, after all,” I said exultaxxtly to myself. As for the colonel —ho swore roundly. “That devilish old hag!” he cried, bringing his shapely brown fist down on the table, “I’ll have her chaixxed ixp. She shan’t go round xny plantation frightening peoxxle out of their senses.” “Oh, you know who it was then?” I eagerly cried. “Yes, from your descx’iption it could have been no other than old Jezebel, a nigger at least 100 years old. She belonged to my father. She has never had her freedom, but cax-rieson as if she had. She won’t stay on tho plantation—has built herself a wx-etched little hut off in the swamp and lives thei’e, doing God

knows what —muttering incantations, weaving spells, gathering herbs and brewing witches’ broth, I reckon. The niggers are as afraid of her as they are of the evil one. They won’t even pronounce her name if they can avoid it, and as for venturing in the swamp, why, Miss Prudence, all the overseers in Georgia couldn’t drive any of my people there. And yet I have heard in many quarters of darkies who go there at dead of night for unholy orgies. The popular tradition is that it is a meeting place for voodoos. I believe I’ll break up that nest. I’ll tell you what I will do. When Maurice comes, some night I’ll take Jake and one or two stout niggers, and we’ll go over there and see what’s going on. As for old Jezebel, I’ll burn her alive if she touches a hair of Daphne’s head.” During the colonel’s long speech Portia’s eyes blazed with defiance and anger. Once or twice she seemed on the point of speaking, but bit her lips as if to restrain the impetuous speech that trembled behind them. But when her husband spoke of visiting the swamp with her cousin the absolute terror which froze her features was awful to see. She half staggered to her feet. “No, Jermyn, no!” she cried wildly. “Do not go in the swamp! Keep away from it, I beg, I implore you! Don’t go near them. They will tear out your heart.” “Tear out my heart!” cried the colonel contemptuously. “I’d like to see one of that crew tear any part of my anatomy. Silly girl, your terror of the voodoos is something I cannot comprehend. Did you ever hear anything so ridiculous, Miss Prudence? But it is always so, I can’t mention the swamp or repeat the rumors of what is supposed to go on there but my wife straightway falls to groaning and shivering. Portia, you used to have more sense.” Though Colonel Marchmont did not speak unkindly, his impatience with his frightened wife was scarcely veiled. He rose, put on his hat and stalked moodily out of the house. Later, when Daphne ran about the grounds, she was closely followed by Jake, one of the brawny overseers, and an enormous bloodhound. With Sophie they formed quite an imposing guard of honor. Portia shut herself up in her rooms,

| and I did not see her again until evening. Colonel Marchmont spent the day going about the plantation examining the quarters and consulting with his I overseers. It was just at sunset that, coming ! along one of the winding garden paths, I saw the colonel through a row of shrubbery on my right. He was walking slowly, his head bent in reflection, his hands behind him. Unconsciously he was talking aloud. I caught a snatch or two of his conversation with himself as he came on. “How I hate her!” he was saying. “How I loathe her! Suffer! Good God, did ever a man suffer so?” Then suddenly he raised his arms and cried out in tones of bitter anguish: “Oh, Portia! Oh, my wife—my wife!” CHAPTER YIII. THE AUDACIOUS DANCE. I drew back, startled and amazed. After his despairing outburst Colonel Marchmont resumed his walk, head bent and hands clasped behind him. I watched him pass out of sight at a turn of the shrubbery. I “Well,” I said aloud to myself, “that j certainly is about the most astonishing feature yet of this remarkable business. In one instant the colonel declares with an emphasis which leaves little doubt of his earnestness that he hates and loathes Portia, and in the next cries out to her in accents imploring enough to melt a heart of stone. My private opinion is that the entire Marchmont family is voodooed.” At dinner that evening I particularly remarked Portia’s beauty, Never had she been so radiant. Her eyes glittered as if she had been drinking champagne, and her cheeks glowed like roses. I could not keep my eyes fx-om her fascinating face and grew more and more incensed at the cold, silent man who regarded her so indifferently. After we had gone into the dx-awing room I bethought me of a book in which I was greatly interested, and excusing myself went into the library to find it. Returning a few minutes later, I was the forced witness of a most painful scene. The door between the rooms was open, and as I approached I saw Portia steal up behind her husband with a look of longing on her face. The colonel was intent upon his newspaper and did not perceive her until she put both white arms about his throat and tenderly laid her cheek upon his head. He sprang from his chair as if a serpent had stung him. Turning, ho confronted her with an awful face, white, sterxx, contemptuous. “How dare you?” he said in a low voice, vibx-ant with hatred. “Olx, Jermyn, forgive me! Love me after all. lam your wife,” begged Portia. “Yes, I have not forgotten that intolerahlefact,” replied Colonel Marchmont, with studied coldness. Then he hurx-ied from the room. Portia came flying toward me like a whirlwind. Her eyes blazed. With one clinched hand she struck at her heart. “Prudence,” she cried, “he will kill me. But first” She broke off and burst into demoniacal laughter. Then, calming a hit, she continued: “No, I will not tell you, you soft little mouse, what I will do. Jei*myn Marchmont shall know one day what he has accomplished tonight.” “Portia, what is it?” I asked. “What is this xxiystery which surrounds you” Instantly I saw that look of cunning spring to her face. “Mystery!” she x-epeatedalmost gayly. “Absurd! There is no mystery. My husband has simply wearied of me. Nothing very mysterious about that, is there?” and seizing me around the waist she waltzed me up and down the hail. As soon as I could disengage myself from her embrace I stepped back. But Portia went on dancing. She looked a veritable Moexxad as she whirled and waved her white arms and tossed back her disheveled hair. She was the most graceful cx’eature imaginable, but at the same time there was something both grotesque and frightful about the wild dance in which she indulged. Her face grew wicked, her postures audacious. All I could think of was La Carmagnole or the mad tarantella of one writhing in a death agony. “For heaven’s sake, Portia, stop!” I cried at last. She only laughed mockingly and whirled faster than ever. The door at the upper end of the hall opened suddenly, and her husband appeared. The look of disgust that crossed his face sobered her. She stopped in confusion and began xxervously twistixxg up her hair and arranging her draperies. “Really, Portia,” Colonel Marchmont said disdainfully, “I cannot admire your method of entertaining Miss Prudence. Your dance is more suitable to the orgies of Dead Man’s swamp than to a gentleman’s house.” It was a brutal speech, and it told. Portia stared gloomily after her husband as he went out upon tlxc piazza, and then, turning to me, said in an xxudextone: “Yon heard what ho said? Well, since he sends me to the swamp, I’ll go. I have work there, Prudence.” “What do you mean?” I cried as she fled up the stairs. But she made no answer. Only her taunting laughter floated down. I lieard her slam the door of her room and knew that in all probability we should not see her again that evening, as it was the custom to take her nightly leave in some such unceremonious fashion. Nor did Colonel Marchmont return. I read an hour or so, then went to my room. I heard his heavy tread later as he went to his apartments, then silence settled down over the great house. I did not feel like sleeping. Soma strange influexxce oppressed me. At times I was conscious of a px’emonition of impending trouble. Something was sux-ely about to happen. What was it? It was nearly midnight when I distinctly heard a distant door open and shut. While I stood intently listening I heard soft footsteps gliding along the corridor, and an object brushed against my door. Although I had not disrobed, I had put out the lights in my room, for