There is something inexpressibly dreary and solemn in passing through the silent rooms of a large house, especially one whence many generations have passed to the grave. Involuntarily you find yourself thinking of them, and wondering how they looked in life, and how the rooms looked in their possession, and whether or not they would recognise their former habitations if restored once more to earth and them. Then all we have heard or fancied of spiritual existences occur to us. There is the echo of a stealthy tread behind us. There is a shadow flitting past through the gloom. There is a sound, but it does not seem of mortality. A supernatural thrill pervades your frame, and you feel the presence of mysterious beings. It may be foolish and childish, but it is one of the unaccountable things instinctive to the human nature.
Thus I felt while threading the long galleries which led to the southern turret. The apartment there was stately rather than splendid, and in other days before the northern and eastern wing had been added to the building it had formed the family drawing room, and was now from its retired situation the favorite resort of my master; when he became weary of noise and bustle and turmoil as he sometimes did. It was adorned with a long succession of family portraits ranged against the walls in due order of age and ancestral dignity. To these portraits Mrs Bry had informed me a strange legend was attached. It was said that Sir Clifford De Vincent, a nobleman of power and influence in the old world, having incurred the wrath of his sovereign, fled for safety to the shores of the Old Dominion, and became the founder of my Master’s paternal estate. When the When the house had been completed according to his directions, he ordered his portrait and that of his wife to be hung in the drawing room, and denounced a severe malediction against the person who should ever presume to remove them, and against any possessor of the mansion who being of his name and blood should neglect to follow his example. And well had his wishes been obeyed. Generation had succeeded generation, and a long line of De Vincents occupied the family residence, yet each one inheritor had contributed to the adornments of the drawing-room a faithful transcript of his person and lineaments, side by side with that of his Lady. The ceremonial of hanging up these portraits was usually made the occasion of a great festivity, in which hundreds of the neighboring gentry participated. But my master had seen fit to dissent from this custom, and his portrait unaccompanied by that of a Lady had been added to the number, though without the usual demonstration of mirth and rejoicing.
Memories of the dead give at any time a haunting air to a silent room. How much more this becomes the case when standing face to face with their pictured resemblances and looking into the stony eyes motionless and void of expression as those of an exhumed corpse. But even as I gazed the golden light of sunset penetrating through the open windows in an oblique direction set each rigid feature in a glow. Movements like those of life came over the line of stolid faces as the shadows of a linden played there. The stern old sire with sword and armorial bearings seems moodily to relax his haughty brow aspect. The countenance of another, a veteran in the old-time wars, assumes a gracious expression it never wore in life; and another appears to open and shut his lips continually though they emit no sound. Over the pale pure features of a bride descends a halo of glory; the long shining locks of a young mother waver and float over the child she holds; and the frozen cheek of an ancient dame seems beguiled into smiles and dimples.
Involuntarily I gazed as the fire of the sun died out, even untill the floor became dusky, and the shadows of the linden falling broader and deeper wrapped all in gloom. Hitherto I had not contemplated my Master’s picture; for my thoughts had been with the dead, but now I looked for it, where it hung solitary, and thought how soon it would have a companion like the others, and what a new aspect would thereby be given to the apartment. But was it prophecy, or presentiment, or why was it that this idea was attended to my mind with something painful? That it seemed the first scene in some fearful tragedy; the foreboding of some great calamity; a curse of destiny that no circumstances could avert or soften. And why was it that as I mused the portrait of my master changed seemed to change from its usually kind and placid expression to one of wrath and gloom, that the calm brow should become wrinkled with passion, the lips turgid with malevolence—yet thus it was.
Though filled with superstitious awe I was in no haste to leave the room; for there surrounded by mysterious associations I seemed suddenly to have grown old, to have entered a new world of thoughts, and feelings and sentiments. I was not a slave with these pictured memorials of the past. They could not enforce drudgery, or condemn me on account of my color to a life of servitude. As their companion I could think and speculate. In their presence my mind seemed to run riotous and exult in its freedom as a rational being, and one destined for something higher and better than this world can afford.
I closed the windows, for the night air had become sharp and piercing, and the linden creaked and swayed its branches to the fitful gusts. Then, there was a sharp voice at the door. It said “child what are you doing?[”] I turned round and answered “Looking at the pictures.”
Mrs Bry alarmed at my prolonged absence had actually dragged her unweildly person thither to acertain the cause.
“Looking at the pictures” she repeated “as if such an ignorant thing as you are would know any thing about them.”
Ignorance, forsooth. Can ignorance quench the immortal mind or prevent its feeling at times the indications of its heavenly origin. Can it destroy that deep abiding appreciation of the beautiful that seems inherent to the human soul? Can it seal up the fountains of truth and all intuitive perception of life, death and eternity? I think not. Those to whom man learns little nature teaches little, nature like a wise and prudent mother teaches much.
CHAPTER 2
The Bride And The Bridal Company
When he speaks fair, believe him not; for there are severe abominations in his heart.
PROV. OF SOLOMON
The clouds are not apt to conform themselves to the wishes of man, yet once or twice in a life-time the rain falls exactly when we wish it would, and it ceases raining precisely at the right time. It was so at our place in Lindendale. The weather had been rainy for many days. Mrs Bry looked over her gold spectacles and through the windows where the rain-drops pattered incessantly and assured me that she had never known such a season since that very unfortunate year which witnessed the loss of her husband’s India ship, and his consequent failure in business; a circumstance that broke his heart and reduced her to the extremity of accepting the situation of housekeeper. She hoped, however, that the weather would improve before the arrival of the bridal party, but had no expectation that it would. It was so apt to rain just when a clear sky was most wanted, and would be best appreciated. The servants were of the same opinion. Of course it would rain; it always did when they desired fair weather—their holidays had been spoiled by rain no one could tell how often. But it left off raining at last and Lindendale revived beneath the cheering influences of wind and sunshine. For the greater honor of the distinguished event, and the brilliant guests expected to grace the occasion with their presence the broken trillis-work of a bower was repaired, though a vine to adorn it was out of the question, the leaves were gathered from the garden-alleys where the wind had carried and left them, and the broken stalks of faded flowers removed from their beds as untimely and out of place. The clear cold sunshine glancing down the long avenue of elms saw nothing but moving shadows of the leafless branches, and heard nothing but the roaring wind as it passed among the trees.
What strange ways the wind has, and how particularly anxious it seemed to enter the drawing-room in the southern wing, rattling the shutters, and shrieking like a maniac, and then breathing out a low gurgling laugh like the voice of childhood.
But whether it laughed or shrieked the wind had something expressively ominous in its tone, and not only to me; for all observed it, and Mrs Bry said that it filled her with awe and dread, because it had just such a voice on the day during wh
ich her poor husband was shipwrecked. Then the linden lost its huge branches and swayed and creaked distractedly, and we all knew that was said to forbode calamity to the family. “It should not be so” said Mrs Bry, impressively. “It should not be so to[-]night when the morrow is to bring a mistress to Lindendale. Ah me: I fear—” but she left the sentence unfinished and the wind blew and the linden creaked.
The servants all knew the history of that tree. It had not been concealed from them that a wild and weird influence was supposed to belong to it. Planted by Sir Clifford, it had grown and flourished exceedingly under his management. But the stern old man was a hard master to his slaves and few in our days could be so cruel, while the linden was chosen as the scene where the tortures and punishments were inflicted. Many a time had its roots been manured with human blood. Slaves had been tied to its trunk to be whipped or sometimes gibbeted on its branches. the master belonging their agonies from the drawing room windows and doubtless enjoying the sigh On such occasions he would drink wine or coolly discuss politics with an acquaintance, pausing prob
On such occasions, Sir Clifford sitting at the windows of his drawing room, within the full sight and hearing of their agonies would drink wine, or coolly discuss the politics of the day with some acquaintance, pausing perhaps in the midst of a sentence to give directions to the executioner, or order some mitigation of the torture only to prolong it.
But his direst act of cruelty, and the one of a nature to fill the soul with the deepest horror was perpetrated on the person of an old woman, who had been nurse to his son and heir, and was treated with unusual consideration by the family in consequence. Whether Sir Clifford thought that severity to her would teach the others a lesson of obedience, or whether he had conceived an especial delight to the dislike against the poor old creature it is impossible to determine; not so the fact of her unnatural and unmerited punishment. She had it seems a little dog, white and shaggy, with great speaking eyes, full of intelligence, and bearing a strong resemblance to those of a child. But this dog, so singularly beautiful and innocent in his helplessness, was bound to Rose, as she was called, by yet other ties. He had been the pet and favorite of her youngest daughter, and that daughter now languished out a life of bondage, in the toiling in the rice swamps of Alabama. On the day of her departure she had given the dog to her mother with a special request that the latter would never cease to care for it, though of that injunction there was little need. As the memorial of her lost one her heart clave to it with the utmost tenacity of tenderness. It fed from her hand, slept in her bosom, and was her companion wherever she went. In her eyes it was more much more than a little dumb animal. It had such winning ways, and knew so well to make its wants understood that it became to her what a grandchild is to many aged females. The heart must have something to love, something to which its affections may cling, something to cherish and protect. It may perchance be a tree or flower, perchance a child or domestic animal, with poor old Rose it was her little dog. Then, too, he was her treasure, and sole possession, and the only earthly thing that regarded her with fondness, or to whose comfort her existence was essential.
But this poor little animal was great enough to incur the wrath of Sir Clifford, and Sir Clifford in all his state and haughtiness could demean himself sufficiently to notice the trespass of a little dog. He at once commanded Rose to drown it under pain of his displeasure. Had he commanded any thing else, however unpleasant the duty she would doubtless have obeyed, but that she could not do. As soon would a mother drown a favorite child. She wept, she entreated, she implored, kneeling at his feet, that he would remit the sentence, but in vain. Sir Clifford made it a boast that he never retracted, that his commands and decisions like the laws of the Medes and Persians were unalterable and so he bade her rise and do his bidding at once, or that in case of refusal he should enforce her obedience by a punishment of which she had no conception idea. Calmly and resolutely the old woman arose with something of the martyr spirit burning in her eye. To his inquiries she answered plainly that she should not and could not obey his orders, that—
“By heavens you shall” he cried interrupting her. “You shall see him die a thousand deaths, and vainly beg the priveledge of killing him to end his tortures”: and he knocked loudly against the window sash, which was his manner of summoning the servants. They soon came.
“Now take this old witch, and her whelp and gibbet them alive on the Linden” he said his features distorted and his whole frame seeming to dilate with intensity of passion. The obsequious slaves rudely seized the unresisting victims. An iron hoop being fastened around the body of Rose she was drawn to the tree, and with great labor elevated and secured to one of the largest limbs. And then with a refinement of cruelty the innocent and helpless little animal, with a broad iron belt around its delicate body was suspended within her sight, but beyond her reach.
And thus suspended between heaven and earth in a posture the [sic] most unimaginably painful both hung through the long long days and the longer nights. Not a particle of food, not a drop of water was allowed to either, but the master walking each morning would fix his cold cruel eyes with appalling indifference on her agonised countenance, and calmly inquire whether or not she was ready to be the minister of his vengeance on the dog. For three consecutive days she retained strength to answer that she was not. Then her rigid features assumed a collapsed and corpse-like hue and appearance, her eyes seemed starting from their sockets, and her protruding tongue refused to articulate a sound. Yet even in this state she would faintly wave her hand towards the dog and seemed in commiseration of his sufferings to forget her own.
It was enough, they said, to have melted a heart of stone to hear her talk to that affectionate and equally tortured favorite so long as she retained the power of speech, as if she sought by such demonstrations of tenderness to soothe her own misery and mitigate his sufferings. How she seemed to consider him a being who could know; and think and reason, and as such assured him of her undying love and regard, entreated him to be patient, and to bear with fortitude whatever the wickidness of man imposed, and strove to solace him with the certainty that a few more hours would finish all their woes, and safely confide them to the place where the weary rest.
And when her voice failed she would turn her eyes with looks of unutterable tenderness on her equally failing companion, and who shall say that he did not perceive and appreciate the glance. The Lady of Sir Clifford besought him with tears and prayers to forgive the old woman in consideration of her great age, her faithful services, and her undying affection for the little animal. Her entreaties were seconded by those of their son, who was nearly frantic at such barbarous treatment of his kind old nurse, but the hard-hearted man was obdurate to all. She then desired that they might be put to death at once, as she declared that the sight of their agonies and the noise of their groans would haunt her to her dying day, but this he refused on the plea that he never changed his plans.
After they had hung in this manner five days, and till their sinews were shrunk, their nerves paralysed, their vital energies exhausted, their flesh wasted and decayed, and their senses gone, a dreadful storm arose at night. The rain poured down in torrents, the lightning flashed and the thunder rolled. And the concussion of the elements seemed partly to revive their exhausted natures. The water that moistened their lips and cooled their fevered brains restored their voices and renewed their strength. Through the din and uproar of the tempest could be heard all night the wail of a woman the howling of a dog, and the creaking of the linden branches to which the gibbet hung. It was horrible: Oh how horrible: and slumber entirely fled the household of Sir Clifford. His Lady heretofore one of the gayest of women was never seen to smile afterwards. The next morning when the storm had past away, and Nature resumed her usual serenity he went forth again to interrogate his victim. But the helpless object of his wrath had already ceased to breathe and the delicate limbs were rigid in the cold embrace of death. He surveyed it a moment contemptuously
and then turned to Rose. She was yet alive, but wan and ghastly and hedeous in countenance, and either to sport with her sufferings or for some other unknown purpose he proposed to have her taken down. But the At the sound of his voice she opened her blood-shotten lack-lustre eyes, —and her voice as she spoke had a deep sepulchral tone. “No” she said “it shall not be. I will hang here till I die as a curse to this house, and I will come here after I am dead to prove its bane. In sunshine and shadow, by day and by night I will brood over this tree, and weigh down its branches, and when death, or sickness, or misfortune is to befall the family ye may listen for ye will assuredly hear the creaking of its limbs” and with one deep prolonged wail her spirit departed.
Such was the legend of the Linden as we had heard it told in the dim duskiness of the twilight summer twilight or by the roaring fires of wintry nights. Hence an unusual degree of interest was attached to the tree and the creaking of its branches filled our bosoms with supernatural dread.
But as the rain had ceased so did the wind though not a moment sooner as later on account of our wishes
But the wind ceased to blow and the linden branches no longer creaked, yet the air was sharp chilly and bracing just enough so perhaps to give freshness to the cheek and an edge to appetite. All day long we had been looking for the bridal party. Time and again and perhaps a dozen times had some of the younger ones climbed the trees and fences and a neighboring hill in order to descry the cavalcade at a distance and telegraph its approach. Times without number had Mrs Bry taken the circuit of the drawing rooms, dining rooms and parlors to make certain that all was right. Over and over again had she summoned the servants and made the same inquiry probably for the hundredth time and received as often the same answer—that the fires were all lighted in the various apartments—that the feast is was ready for the table, and everything in in a due state of preparation, even to the children’s hands and faces.
The Bondwoman's Narrative Page 9
