Transferred Identity.

Cromwell Argus, Volume XXVII, Issue 1361, 21 May 1895, Page 2

Transferred Identity.

BY EDITH SESSIONS TUPPER.

Concluded. We obeyed instructions and left the eick chamber. At the head of the stairs Colonel Marchmont paused and said: “You can act now, Maurice. Only there must be no scene, no outcry. Get her out of the house and don’t let me see her, for I would not be responsible for what I might do.” Then he hurried into his room and shut and locked the door behind him. What' followed seems too awful to tell. I have a dim remembrance of seeing Jake and George come up the stairs; of Maurice’s unlocking the door of the room in which the woman was imprisoned; of seeing them bring her out, her hair disheveled, her dress torn, her hands chained and a white bandage over her mouth to prevent her screaming. The men half dragged, half carried her down the stairs. I supposed they were taking her to jail, and ran to the window to see them depart. But there was no carriage waiting. The servants stood about in little groups whispering in terror. All drew back when the men appeared with their prisoner. What were they about to do? Jake waved the negroes out of his way, and with George’s assistance carried the half insensible creature down the path leading toward the swamp. “What is it?” I cried, turning wildly to Maurice, “What are they going to do with her? Why are they going that way?” “They are taking her where she belongs—to the swamp.” ho said indifferently. “To the swampl To the swamp!” I stammered, “But why? Of course she is a very wicked woman and a criminal. But why do you not send her to jail? It would be more merciful, and, besides, what right have you to put her there? Will it not make more trouble? And then, too, will she not escape?” “She will not escape,” said Maurice confidently. “Shall I tell you her fate? You talk of mercy. Has she shown any? She is banished to that foul hut in which

she has imprisoned Portia for two long years. There she will stay, watched day and night, until we know whether my cousin "Will recover. If Portia live, she will simply be confined there for the rest of her life. If she die”— He broke off. His silence was ominous. ‘•But I do not yet see why you do not put her in prison. Let the law deal with her,” I cried excitedly, ■ “Let the law deal with her? Why, Prudence, that creature has no standing in the eyes of the law.” The horrible truth was breaking on me. “Why—why”“Shall I tell you why? Simply this: The woman who has been masquerading here as mistress is a chattel—a piece of property—a slave.” CHAPTER XVII. SIDOXIE, “A slave!” I echoed, “a slave! But the likeness to Portia?” “Ah, yes,” said Maurice sadly, “that likeness to Portia broke my aunt’s heart. I wish you could have known Portia’s mother, Prudence. A sweeter, daintier, better woman never lived, but her lovely life was clouded by the shadow of a sin. She died early, wasting away after she discovered that cruel secret. But you must rest now, little Bunker Hill. I will tell you the story later.” “I cannot sleep,” I cried. “Let us go for a walk in the garden, and you shall unravel this mystery for me. After that I will think about rest,” He saw that I was determined to hear the story at once, and so after we had been served with coffee we went out into the fresh morning air and strolled up and down while he smoked in silence. He was not quite ready to tell the strange tale. But I was patient. It was just sunrise when we entered the rustic arbor where I had sat with Daphne on that eventful night. Here and there the birds were rousing, shaking out their wings and voices. The dev/ yet sparkled on the grass. The fountains near by were splashing softly. The air was delightfully fresh and invigorating after the hours passed in the sickroom. “Does it seem possible that only a few hours ago we were searching that ghastly place yonder?” suddenly asked Maurice. “No,” I replied earnestly. “I seem to have lived a lifetime since midnight. But tell me, how did you discover the truth? And Sidouie—tell me about her. Oh, begin, begin! My curiosity is de- , vouring me.” Mr. Raymond smiled. “Whoever would fancy to look at you —strong, plain, stanch little body—that you would admit so feminine a weakness? And yet you are thoroughly womanly.” “Never mind whether I am womanly or weak. I didn’t come out here to be analyzed, but to hear about Portia the | real and Portia the pretender. Come,

i make haste, for I must soon return to : Bee how our sufferer is faring.” ; “Sit down here then,” returned Mau- ! rice, “and I will tell you all I can. I There are several links in the story ! which Portia alone can supply. To be- ; gin with, I suspected mischief from the ; moment I first saw the woman who was i posing as my consin. Physically she is | very like Portia, or as the latter might : be if in robust health. But I have a keen scent for crime. I reckon my proj fession has made me acute in that rej epect. Our hostess was nervous, flighty, : passionate and suspicious. Portia Vane was none of these. Of course I made all necessary allowances for poor health ! until, by judicious inquiries, I discovered

! We went out into the fresh morning air. that up to the time Marchmont went to I England his wife was a superb specimen I of physical strength and endurance, j Then this woman’s remarkable loss of : memory set me thinking. The search I for the tattoo mark on her arm con- : firmed all my suspicions. When I reci ognized the mark I had put on Sidonie, | the slave girl, I knew directly there hud : been foul play. What I feared was that j my cousin had been murdered, i “But lam .getting far ahead of my story. Let me go back to my boyhood. As you already know, I was born and brought up on the Vane plantation. My mother died when I was very young, and my aunt became my second mother. My earliest recollections circle round my sweet little cousin Portia and her playmate, Sidonie, the daughter of a beautiful, accomplished creole, whom my uncle bought in New Orleans as a present for my aunt. I recall now a scene I witnessed when a child, which I did not of course then understand, but which nevertheless impressed me deeply. These little girls were romping across the lawn one day, rolling and tumbling about like two graceful kittens. My aunt and uncle were sitting on the piazza, and I was on the steps repairing a kite. Suddenly my aunt called the children to her. They came flying up the steps, black curls waving, eyes flashing, cheeks glowing—an exquisite picture of happy, healthful childhood. My aunt caused them to stand at her knee and looked steadily for some time in their faces. She was very pale when she dismissed them, and as they ran shouting back to their games she rose, tottered to 1 the hall door and fell senseless across the threshold. She was never well after that and drifted slowly out of life.” Mr. Raymond was silent a moment, i and a shadow settled across his face, j Presently he went on: “The children grew into lovely young | girls. Portia was finely educated as you ■ know, and in addition to her convent j facilities had governesses and masters ■ at home. Nothing would do but that | Sidonie, ‘my Sid,’ she used to call her, j must have these advantages too,” | “Yes,” I said, interrupting him, “I j remember, she used to speak of a pretty : slave girl to whom she was greatly at- [ tached, but I had forgotten the name.” i “So Sidonie was taught music and i language and dancing and painting. | She came to be almost as accomplished I as her mistress. Portia sang divinely, | but Sidonie had no voice. You underj stand now why the latter would not \ sing for us. But one thing she could never acquire, and that was Portia’s l lovely and amiable disposition. From i her creole mother Sidonie had inherited j vanity, love of dress and a fiery temper, i She was so petted and favored by Portia that she came to look upon herself as a lady and to take on the airs of one. The | Marchmont plantation j oined my uncle’s, I and it was easy to see that Jermyn and i Portia were boy and girl lovers. But Sidonie’s face always grew dark when I she saw them together. I used to taunt j her with being jealous of Portia, never dreaming how closely I hit her. I left home several years before Portia was , married and cannot speak definitely of the events of the time. However, Portia j used to write me often and tell me many j details of her daily life. Just before the ! wedding there was a great hue and cry. Sidonie had run away. She was hunted high and low, a big reward offered for her capture and search made everywhere, all to no purpose. There is a j gap here of several years which I cannot | fill. She was seen in various cities, but I always escaped apprehension. What her life was during this period one can only surmise. “Now, about this old nigger, Jezebel, and her cohort of followers. I can remember when I was a more lad thinking the old luig, soothsayer and fortune ! teller was a century old. I don’t beI lieve any one knows just how old she is. j Sidonie, for some reason, was always crazy to be with her, and while she looked down on all the other niggers would slip away and spend hours in Jezebel’s hut. The old devil flattered her vanity and prophesied a roseate future for the girl. ‘You won’t always be a slave, honey,’ she would tell her, and inch by inch she turned her foolish head. “Even in those days Jezebel was popularly supposed to be in league with satan. She was said to have the evil eye and to be able to work charms and cast spells. The darkies applied to her for potions and doses to cure all manner of ailments. Jermyn tells me that for the last two years she has not slept on this plantation, but has lived in that wretched hut in the swamp.

“I heard whispers and rumors among the negroes here of these midnight orgies and determined to witness one for myself. I went out night before last, and having easily found the path came plump up against the wall and the closed gate. While I was ruminating what plan to pursue, I heard footsteps and saw a woman approaching. I quickly concealed myself in the thicket, and when I saw our hostess let herself through this gate I resolved to follow her. I easily scaled the wall and took the path she was pursuing and presently found myself where we were last night. This imposter mingled with those naked niggers, and while she did not dance herself encouraged them in their debauch. After they were stupefied from their frenzy, sho and old Jezebel entered the hut. “I hastened to the window and peered in. I heard a faint moan and saw something move on that filthy pallet. Then the old woman brewed some diabolical mess and forced poor Portia to drink it while this Sidonie stood by looking on with a triumphant smile. “I saw it all in an instant—how by her wit and cunning she had caused the transfer of identity while Jermyn was in England. Tho slave had become the mistress, and tho poor mistress was a captive in tho hands of Sidonie’s fellow conspirator. I don’t know how I kept from rushing in then and denouncing her, but I feared if I did Sidonie might escape. And I was determined she should not elude me. “I took Jake partially into my confidence. I told him to guard the gate and not to permit any one to pass through it save you and me, and if Mrs. Marchmout attempted to open it to summon the colonel or mo at once, that foul play was being done, and I would be responsible for any consequences. Jake is a singularly reliable man, and having been told just enough did his duty. “I know Sidonie could not leave the house without my ■ knowledge. I was confident she would try and waited for that attempt which you know was made. “When sho fainted, I carried her into her room, locked that pair of handcuffs on her soft, pretty wrists and secured the door behind me. The rest you know. When Portia recovers, she will tell us more which will doubtless supply all the missing details, A terrible story, is it not? No stranger, though, than many a wild tale of the south —the land of romance and revenge. But how weary you are! Come, I insist you shall go in and rest. Don’t worry about Portia. She will live. Those fiends did not succeed in killing her, and the good God will restore her to her husband and child.” As we rose to return to the house Jake, the overseer, came running up the path from the swamp. He was greatly excited. “Sir, Mr. Raymond,” he cited, waving his hat as he came on, “what do you think has happened now?” “For God’s sake, don’t tell me you have let that creature escape!” shouted Maurice angrily. “No, no, sir. She’s fast in the hut and George on guard, but the old woman, sir, is stone dead.” “Dead!” we cried. “Yes, lying there on her throne dead. An awful sight, sir. Do you know I’m thinking thosuako she was playing with may have bitten her. Anyway she has gone to the devil, where she belonged.” CHAPTER XVIII, A DISAPPEARANCE. The sudden death of old Jezebel broke up the voodoo performances in the swamp. All the planters in the neighborhood bestirred themselves and gave strict orders to their slaves to keep away from the accursed place. If these practices were continued, it was secretly and in some other locality. No longer w r ere our ears disturbed by unearthly cries; no longer wore strange lights seen at dead of night. A pall of silence settled down upon the swamp, and the wind that muttered among tho pines told another - story—a tale of cruel wrong and terrible justice, of a sullen prisouer doorned to perpetual solitude within the gloomy environments of this uncanny swamp. This was the punishment meted out to Sidonie, to suffer as sho had caused her gentle, amiable mistress to suffer; to see no face save that of her dusky jailer; to hear no voice save his thick accents as he hado her cat and drink. Not a dissenting word was raised against tin s retribution. Colonel Marchmont, humane and kindly master, had endeared himself to Iris slaves, but their love for Portia amounted to a reverence. Had Sidonie fallen into their hands she would have fared far less gently. During her short reign her arrogance and natural crrrelty had engendered a feeling of intense hatred among the slaves, and when they learned the true state of affairs they had no mercy for her. “’Deed she oughter be tohn limb from limb,” declared one. “Ef 1 wuz mars, I’d flay her alive,” was the general opinion delivered on the matter. As the days went by, and Portia hovered between life and death, many were the angry looks cast toward the swamp and many the maledictions called down on Sidonie’s head by her fellow slaves. The gate to tho swamp stood open now, but no one save the big negro appointed to watch Sidonie went in and out. I sometimes strolled in that direction and looked down into the melancholy vista of somber shade and desolate bog, wondering how the criminal—that beautiful, intense, tropical creature, stripped of her stolen finery, clad in the coarsest raiment, fettered like an animal—was existing. What anguish, what despair must be hers! No hope, no ray of light! At such times I pitied her. I remembered her beauty, her gayety, her grace. I recalled her words of tragic prophecy, “Remember, Prudence, whatever comes, that I loved him as few women love.” Poor, wretched, misguided Sidonie! Her sin had been that sho loved too well. Then, when I returned to the sickroom and looked at my friend, when I heard