by Otto Penzler
“Is the master in?” I asked.
The woman did not answer, though she continued to stare at me. For a moment I thought that perhaps she was deaf. I spoke loudly, and very distinctly, repeating: “Is your master in? May I see your master?”
A faint shadow fell across the floor of the hall behind the servant, and in an instant, a second woman appeared. “What is it?” she asked sharply, in a deep, velvety voice. The woman was so astonishingly attractive that for a moment I could not speak for admiration. She was almost as tall as I was, and very shapely. Her hair was black and drawn back loosely from her face. Her complexion was swarthy, almost olive, with a high color in cheeks and lips. In her ears were golden rings. Her eyes, which were black, shone from dark surrounding shadows. She wore a purple dress that fell almost to the floor. Her face as she looked at me was imperious; behind her dark eyes were smoldering fires.
She waved the servant aside and turned to me, repeating her question: “What is it, please?”
With my eyes on her face, I said: “I am John Stuard. I paint. Yesterday, driving past your place here, I was so attracted by the house that I felt I must come and ask your permission to use it as a subject for a landscape.”
“Will you come in?” she asked, less sharply.
She stepped to one side. I muttered my thanks and went past her into the hall. Behind me I could feel the woman’s alert eyes boring into me. I turned, and she gestured for me to precede her into the drawing room leading off the hall. I went ahead. In the drawing room we sat down.
“You are from New Orleans?” she asked. She leaned a little forward, her somber eyes taking in my face. She was sitting in shadow, and I directly in the light from the half-opened window.
“No,” I replied. “I live in Chicago. I am only visiting in New Orleans.” She looked at me a moment before replying. “Perhaps it can be arranged for you to paint the house. It will not take long? How many days, please?”
“A week, perhaps ten days. It is quite difficult.”
She appeared suddenly annoyed. She was just about to say something when some distant sound caught her ear, and she jerked her head up, looking intently into a corner of the ceiling, as if listening. I heard nothing. Presently she turned again. “I thought it might be for only a day or two,” she said, biting her lower lip.
I began to explain when I heard the old servant shuffle toward the door that led out to the veranda. The woman before me looked up quickly. Then she called out in a low persuasive voice: “Go back to the kitchen, Matilda.”
Looking through the open drawing room doors, I saw the servant stop in her tracks, turn automatically, and shuffle past the door down the hall, walking listlessly, stiffly.
“Is the woman ill?” I asked solicitously.
“Non, non,” she said quickly. Then she said abruptly: “You do not know my name; I am Rosamunda Marsina.”
Belatedly, I said: “I am glad to know you. You live here alone?”
There was a pause before she answered me. “The servant,” she said, smiling lightly. She looked a little troubled. I felt that I should not have asked.
To cover my embarrassment, I said: “You have a nice plantation.”
She shook her head quickly. “It is not mine. It belongs to Miss Abby, my aunt Abby. She is a Haitian.”
“Oh, I see,” I said, smiling; “She lives in Haiti?”
“No, she does not live in Haiti. She did live there. She came from there some years ago.”
I nodded, but I did not quite understand. Looking about me, I could see that everything was scrupulously clean and well taken care of, and this was certainly a large house for a single servant to keep so well. I had seen from a glance at Miss Marsina’s hands that she had no share in the labors of the household.
Miss Marsina bent forward again. “Tell me, say, I give you permission to paint the house—you would stay—in the city?”
My eyes dropped confusedly before hers, and at her question my face fell, for my disappointment was evident to her. I had hoped she would ask me to live in the house for the time that I painted it. Once more I started an explanation to Rosamunda Marsina, suggesting that I might find some place in the neighborhood where I could get a room for the time, but throughout my explanation, I openly, shamelessly hinted at an invitation from her to stay here.
My speech seemed to have its effect. “Perhaps I could give you a room for that time,” she said reluctantly.
I accepted her invitation at once. She fidgeted a little nervously, and asked: “When do you wish to begin painting?”
“I should like to start sketching tomorrow. The painting I shall have to do mostly late in the afternoon. I want to get the half-light in which I first saw the house—”
She interrupted me abruptly. “There will be some conditions to staying here—a request I must make of you, perhaps two.” I nodded. “I am not a very sociable creature,” she went on. “I do not like many people about. I must ask you not to bring any friends out with you, even for short visits. And I would rather, too, that you didn’t mention your work out here unless necessary—it might reach the ears of Aunt Abby; perhaps she would not like it.”
I saw nothing strange in her request, nothing strange in this mysteriously beautiful woman. “I shouldn’t think of bringing anyone, Miss Marsina,” I said. “I feel I am presuming as it is.”
She stopped me with a quick, abrupt “Non,” and a slightly upraised hand. Then she smiled. “I shall expect you tomorrow then.”
Both of us got up and walked to the door. I said, “Good-by,” almost automatically. Then I started walking down the path, away from the house, feeling Rosamunda Marsina’s eyes on me. Suddenly I heard running footsteps, light footsteps, and turned to meet Miss Marsina.
“One thing more, Mr. Stuard,” she said hurriedly, talking in a low voice as if afraid of being overheard. “Tomorrow—is it necessary for you to bring your car? Cars disturb me.” She looked pathetically at me.
“I shall not bring the car,” I said.
She nodded, quickly, shortly, and ran back into the house without pausing. Looking back from the road, I saw her standing at the open window of the drawing room, watching me.
I found Rosamunda Marsina waiting for me next morning. She seemed a little agitated; I wondered whether anything had gone wrong.
“Shall I bring in the equipment and my easel?” I asked.
“Matilda can bring it to your room,” she said. “Come with me. I am going to put you on the ground floor.”
She turned and led the way into the house and down the hall. Opening a door not far beyond the drawing room she stretched out her arm and indicated the charming old chamber which I was to occupy, a room with great heavy mahogany bureau and four-poster, with a desk, and windows opening directly on the garden at the side of the house.
“It’s lovely,” I murmured.
She looked at me with her dark eyes, not as sharp today as they had been the day before. They were limpid and soft, tender, I thought. Then abruptly I caught a flash of something I was not meant to see; it was present only for a moment, and her eyes veiled it again—unmistakable fear!
She could not have known that I had seen, for she said: “You must not venture off the grounds, and not behind the house. And you will not go to any of the other floors?”
I said: “No, certainly not.”
Matilda shuffled into the room, and without a word or a glance at us, put the equipment down near the bed. She departed with the same dragging footsteps.
“A curious woman,” I said.
Rosamunda Marsina laughed a little uncertainly. “Yes; she is very old. She came here with my aunt.”
“Oh,” I said. “Your aunt is here, then?”
She looked at me, shot a quick startled glance at me. “Didn’t I tell you?” she asked. “I thought I told you yesterday—yes, she is here. That is why I have made so many requests of you; it is because I don’t want her to know you are here.” Her voice betrayed her agitation,
though her face remained immobile.
“She can hardly help seeing me some time, I’m afraid.”
“Non, non—not if you do as I say.” Once again fear crept into her eyes. She spoke quickly in a low voice. “She is a near-invalid. She has a club foot, and never leaves the back rooms of the second floor because it is so difficult for her to move.” Rosamunda Marsina’s hand was trembling. I took it in my own.
“If she would object to my being here, perhaps I had better go to one of your neighbors,” I volunteered.
She closed her eyes for a moment; then flashed them open and looked at me calmly, saying impetuously: “I want you to stay. My aunt must not matter—even though she does. You must stay now; I want you to stay. She is not really my aunt, I don’t think. She brought me from Haiti when I was just a little girl. I cannot remember anything. She is much darker than I am; she is not a Creole.”
Again I had an uncomfortable feeling that something was wrong in the house, and for a moment I had the impression that Rosamunda Marsina was begging me to stay. “Thank you,” I said; “I’ll stay.”
She smiled at me with her lovely dark lips and left the room, closing the door softly behind her.
That night the first strange thing happened. Rosamunda Marsina’s suggestive attitude, the vague fear that haunted her eyes, the sudden inexplicable agitation of her voice—these things had prepared me. Perhaps if I had gone to sleep at once, I would have known nothing. As I lay there, half asleep, I heard a distinct sound of someone walking on the floor above me, in some room farther back than my own. I thought of Miss Marsina’s aunt Abby at once, but recollected that the woman was a cripple and a near-invalid, and would not be likely to be up and about, especially not at this hour. Yet the footsteps were slow and dragging, and were accompanied by the sound of a cane tapping slowly at regular intervals against the floor. I sat up in bed to listen. Listening, I could tell that it was only one foot that dragged. Abruptly, the footsteps stopped. Miss Abby had gotten out of her bed somehow, and had walked perhaps to the wall of the room from the bed. I heard guttural sounds suddenly, and then the dragging footsteps retreating. The woman talking to herself, I thought.
Then, above the dragging footsteps, I heard a disturbing shuffling which seemed to come from somewhere below, followed by sounds as of doors closing somewhere. In a moment, all was quiet again; but only for a moment—for suddenly there came a thin, reed-like wail of terror, followed at once by a shrill scream. I sat up abruptly. A window went up with a bang, and a harsh, guttural voice sounded from above. The voice from above had a magic effect, for silence, broken only by the sudden shuffling of feet, fell immediately.
I had got out of bed, and made my way to the door leading into the hall. I had seen on my first visit that the house lacked artificial light, and had brought an electric candle along. This I took up as I went toward the door. I had it in my hand as I opened the door. The first thing its light found was the white face of Rosamunda Marsina.
“Someone called . . . I thought,” I stammered.
She was agitated; even the comparatively dim illumination from the electric candle revealed her emotion. “Non, non—there was nothing,” she said quickly. “You are mistaken, Mr. Stuard.” Then, noticing the amazement which must have shown on my face, she added, uncertainly: “Perhaps the servants called out—but it is nothing; nothing is wrong.”
As she said this, she gestured with her hands. She was wearing a long black gown with wide sleeves. As she raised her hands, the sleeves fell back along her arms. I think I must have started at what I saw there—at any rate, Rosamunda Marsina dropped her arms at once, shot a sharp glance at me through half-closed eyes, and walked swiftly away, saying, “Good night, Mr. Stuard.” For on the white of her arms, I saw the distinct impressions of two large hands—hands which must have grasped her most cruelly, and only a short while before. Then, so suddenly as to leave me gasping, it came to me that Rosamunda Marsina had been waiting for me in the hall, waiting to see what I would do—and, I felt sure, sending me back into my room against her will!
I slept comparatively little that night.
In the morning I wanted to say something to my hostess, but I had hardly come from my room before she herself spoke. She came to me at the breakfast table, and said: “You must have had a powerful dream last night, Mr. Stuard. There was nothing wrong as you thought—nor did the servants call out!”
At once I understood that she was not talking for me. Her face was white and strained, her voice unnaturally loud. As quickly, I answered in an equal raised voice. “I’m sorry. I should have warned you that I am often troubled by bad dreams.”
Miss Marsina lost her tensity at once. She shot me a grateful glance, and left the room immediately. But I sat in silence, waiting for a sound I felt must come. I had not long to wait—a few moments passed—then, from upstairs, came the soft sound of a door closing. Someone had been listening, waiting to hear what Rosamunda Marsina would say to me, what I would answer!
From that moment I knew that I would get no more painting done until I knew what mystery surrounded the house and Miss Marsina.
I sketched my landscape that morning, and my hostess stood watching me. I liked her lovely dark face peering over my shoulder as I worked, but both of us were a little uneasy, and I could not do my best work. There was about her an air of restraint which interposed itself mysteriously the moment she tried to enjoy herself. She seemed a little frightened, too, and more than once I caught her eyes straying furtively to the second-floor windows.
The second night in the house was a hot, sultry night; a storm was brooding low on the horizon when I went to bed, but it must have passed over, for when I woke up somewhere between one and two in the morning, the moon was shining. I could not rest, and got out of bed. For a few moments I stood at the window, drinking in the sweet smell of the magnolias. Then, acting on a sudden impulse, I bent and crawled through the open window. I dropped to the ground silently and began to walk toward the rear of the house unconsciously, forgetting my promise to Miss Marsina. I remembered it suddenly, and stopped. Then I heard a slight sound above me. I stepped quickly into the shadow of a bush, just at the corner of the house, where I could see both the side and rear of the house.
Then I looked up. There at the window of the corner room I saw a bloodless face pressed against the glass; it was a dark, ugly face, and the moonlight struck it full.
It was withdrawn as I looked, but not before I had got an impression of malefic power. Could it have been the face of Aunt Abby? According to what Rosamunda Marsina had said, that would be her room. And what was she looking at? Over the bushes behind the house, beyond the trees—it would be something in the fields. I turned. Should I risk trying to see, risk her spotting me as I went along the lane?
Keeping to the shadows, I moved along under the low-hanging trees, looking toward the fields. Then suddenly I saw what Miss Abby must have seen. There were men in the fields, a number of them. I pressed myself against the trunk of a giant sycamore and watched them. They were Negroes, and they were working in the fields. Moreover, they were probably under orders, Miss Abby’s orders. I understood abruptly that her watching them was to see that they did their work. But Negroes that worked at night!
Back in my room once more, I was still more thoroughly mystified. Did they work every night? It was true that I had seen no workers anywhere on the plantation during the day just passed, but then, I had not left the front of the house, and from there little of the plantation could be seen. I thought that next day surely I would mention this to Rosamunda Marsina, and the incidents of the night before, too.
Then I thought of something else. All the while that I had stood watching the Negroes, no word had passed among them. That was surely the height of the unusual.
But on the second day, I found that I had to go into New Orleans for some painting materials I had not supposed I would need, and for some clothes, also, and thus lost the opportunity to speak to Rosamunda Marsina
before evening.
In the city, I went immediately to Sherman Jordan’s apartment. Despite the fact that I had promised Rosamunda Marsina that I would say as little about my stay with her as possible, I told my friend of my whereabouts.
“I knew pretty well you were out there,” he said. His voice was not particularly cordial. I said nothing. “I daresay you are completely entranced by the beautiful Creole who lives there?”
“How did you know?” I asked.
He shrugged his shoulders, giving me a queer look. “There are stories about,” he said.
“About Miss Marsina?” I felt suddenly angry.
“Not especially. Just stories about that place. Nothing definite. If you haven’t noticed anything, perhaps it’s just idle gossip.” But Jordan’s attitude showed that he did not believe the stories about the house in the magnolias to be just “idle gossip.”
And I had noticed something, but instantly I resolved to say nothing to Jordan. “What stories?” I asked.
He did not appear to have heard my question. “They’re from Haiti, aren’t they?”
I nodded. “Yes. The old woman is a Haitian. The girl is not.” Was he getting at something?
“Haiti—a strange, fascinating place.” He stood looking out of the window. He turned suddenly. “I’d like to beg you to drop that work out there, John, but I know it wouldn’t be of much use asking that, now you’ve started. There’s something not right about that place, because strange stories don’t grow out of thin air.”
“If there’s anything wrong out there, I’m going to find out.”
He shrugged his shoulders. His smile was not convincing. “Of course,” he said. Then: “You know, there’s an old proverb in Creole patois—‘Quand to mange avec diab’ tenin to cuillere longue.’ ”
