University of Virginia Library

18. XVIII.
REDRUTH SURRENDERS HIS ACCOUNTS.

AS Sir Rohan announced his journey and the
length of his stay to Redruth, after giving
direction for certain repairs and decorations, he
added, “When I return, Miss Miriam comes with
me. I shall bring my old house a mistress.”

Hardly could he repress his smile at the man's
amazement.

“Dear soul!” he said. “Then we 're to have
a Lady, after all. I knew she never came for
naught!” And for the first time, he dared approach
his master on the subject of his conduct in
the cellar the day she went away, admitting his
faults and contrition. But he found that it had
already passed from Sir Rohan's mind.

“We 'll forget that, Redruth,” said he. “I
may have spoken too harshly; it was of no consequence.”

On entering the housekeeper's room, Mr. Redruth
found the table spread for tea, and his wife
knitting by the fire with her two maids, to whom
magisterially he imparted the news.

“Lady Belvidere!” exclaimed Mrs. Redruth.
“Pretty creatur! Well, I knew it all along.”

“You knew it?”

“What, but that, driv him to his fever?”

“Drove, my dear.”

“Well, drove or driv, it 's all one.”

“To think of her coming into this nest of
ghosts!” said one of the maids. “The poor,
orphanless child.”

“But she 's laid them all, Nelly. They have n't
walked since she came,” replied the other.

“Indeed, she 's not, Nan. They 've left master,
maybe, — but I see 'em, when I went in with
the tray, the other night, round that brisk man,
the solicitor, What's-his-name, that comes from
abroad. And the head-piece was standing right
behind him, with her hands down, meek as — as
anything,” concluded Nelly, for want of a better
simile.

“Well for sure, Nell, you 're a downright simpleton!
That was the statute of Venus,” said
Nan jeeringly.

“Venice! I guess it is n't that we see every
evening, all white and blue, swairthing over the
flags out there, that puts me all in a fuz! Nor
the Walker! It 's not that we hear, whenever the
dark falls, come tramp, tramp, tramp, along the
hall, with a low whistle of a laugh anent the
very door, and then tramp, tramp, off again,
and the swish and trail of her long dress following,
till back she come with liker a sob, and
sweeps the floor all night till cock-crowing, as if
the clouds had got into the house and rained
steady. It 's so lonely like near the place.”

“Master must 'a done somethin' awful once,
or some of his kin,” whispered Nan, shiveringly.

“Humph! Miss Miriam may say what she
choose. No such thing as bugs round here! It
comes just as near as a fourpence to a groat, if
it an't one. That 's all.”

“Now, Nell, maybe we was fools, and frightened
at master's ways, and took silly things for spirits.
There 's the gypsies, — who knows? Maybe it was
bats, or moonshine, or clothes on the line —”

“There 's no line there, and there warn't a
moon, the gypsies had n't come, and we know
bats when we see 'em. Besides, May-bees don't

fly this time o' year, I 've heard say. If we was
fools, then I know who was the biggest one, that
summer night when they ran in cold as stone, eyes
all starting out and black round about, and mouthing,
and looking stupid and brutelike! A body
was white as a curd then. I would n't crow before
—”

“Hist now, girls!” said Mrs. Redruth, for it
was getting dark. “I never see none I could n't
explain away myself, nor I don't believe you have.
Did you, Redruth?”

“Well,” answered Redruth, evasively, “a good
many years ago, fifteen — sixteen — eighteen, years
ago, one dark night, I saw a light on the lawn,
where the white camellia-bush is, — and there 's
nothing whiter than that when the buds are blown;
they are like stars in a sky —”

“But the lights?” queried Nell.

“O, it was only one; but dancing round
high and low, now here, now there, dancing like
mad. I should have said, if it had been anywhere
else, they were thieves with a lantern;
but it could n't be that, you know. One would n't
need a lantern to pick the blossoms, though
they did look a little soiled next day, and the

earth was a little loose round the tree; but that
might have been the rain, — it rained before
light.”

“Pshaw, Redruth, it was fireflies! There,
we 'll quit the matter, and say no more about
it!” Whereupon, Mrs. Redruth, snatching her
ball from the kitten, proceeded to make tea,
and the maids to speculate about the master
and his bride.

But after a few moments Redruth rose and
left the gossiping conclave. He felt ill, he said
to himself, ill and numb, and must take something
to send a shiver over him. The old steward's
remedies always lay in the cellar, and
thither, with a long glass, he betook himself.

Mr. Redruth's family from father to son had,
for many generations, held much such a position
as he did; and living a somewhat idle and
luxurious life, had transmitted to the last weak
offshoot of their race, not, indeed, titles and escutcheons,
but a certain inheritance not liable
to be lessened by superintendence of his master's
wines. And if great dynasties run rankly,
at last, to insanity, and my lord plumes himself
upon his father's gout, — if all hereditary traits

imply some honorable distinction, — I do not know
why Mr. Redruth might not boast that no ancestor
of his had ever died but with palsy. Yet
so thoroughly had this family identified themselves
with their employers, that it is doubtful
if the fact existed among them even as a tradition;
they did not tell their children of their
own grandfathers, but of their masters'; and
though Redruth had often feared this catastrophe
for himself, he did not once remember it upon
this afternoon. He had, furthermore, an engagement
in the neighboring town, in about an hour.
Mr. Arundel, who would be there then, had sent
for him to swear to the truth of some statement
he had made. He did not know what, exactly,
but it had troubled and perplexed him greatly
during the day, though Sir Rohan's intelligence
had excited him in an opposite direction. Moreover,
Mr. Redruth was to bring an amaryllis from
the town for Miss Miriam, who wanted it in the
conservatory, where he had promised her it should
be that night; and Mrs. Redruth had ordered a
new bonnet — lavender and straw — which he
was to obtain; and he believed he would consult
a physician, while there, on the subject of this
faintness.

As Mr. Redruth locked the cellar door and
hung the key in its place, the conservatory attracted
him, as, once before, it had attracted Miriam;
and quite forgetting the long glass still in
his hand, he entered it, and seated himself carefully
in the chair of Madeira wood. It was just
after sunset; the honeysuckles, scarlet and yellow
with berries, were still brilliant as the vivid
light could make them, where they climbed the
house-wall opposite, and the open roof admitted
the cool evening breeze. He did not feel much
better here, and resolved to wait a short time
before meeting his engagements, while he looked
about on the enchantments evoked by his master's
fancy, and breathed the exhalations stealing
insidiously round him. The light retreated along
the wall, ceased sparkling in the glasses of the
aerides; the orchids — so full of life in form
that he wondered to see them silent — lost one
by one their gay hues; the darkness gathered
down the alleys and stole upward, leaving nothing
in distinctness but the always vague figures
of the fountain; heavy perfumes of the nocturnal
flowers began to roll through the dusk, and a
nightingale to chant his melancholy songs on a

spray without. The breeze fell, a young moon
lay low in the sky, and on the floor of the still
air strange new scents evolved themselves and
danced gently along. The charm of the hour
was perfect.

The myrtle, collecting the dew on its dense
masses, faintly impregnated and shook it from
white stars glittering in the shade; the heliotropes
drooped purpler, darker, richer, with their most
exquisite of atmospheres; the ophrys, hanging on
the cheek of a nectarine like a bee, married that
sweetness with its own; and the odorous jasmine
trailed in golden threads over the tempting purple
of a ripened redolent fig. The epidendrum, too,
woke into life with the night, and tossed him its
fragrance, and, still lingering along the year, rose
and lily and violet and passion-flower all turned
and blew their gales toward him.

But to these a monarch waved his sceptre.
Just above Mr. Redruth's head hung one of the
gilded galleries, and over it in riotous profusion
the luxuriant vines of a night-blooming cereus
suspended its bursting buds. Already its dark
brown sheathing parted; already the great star
within rivalled Hesper in yellow brightness; already

the long snowy petals, sailing calmly back, enhanced
its glory, and the multitudinous silky stamens
tumbled out in a cataract on the wind of an
untold sweetness; opening wider every moment
and burdening the whole air with his imperial
presence, while by slower culmination others followed
in his train. Mr. Redruth watched it for a
while in silence; the nightingale still sung, the
moon cast a soft lustre through the panes upon
the spreading wonder, the floating lilies, the great
agave beside him. Flowering once in a hundred
years, as the superstition ran, why did the anniversary
of this agave come upon this night?
Why, sitting there like an old necromancer bound
in his own chains, did it draw the little breaths in
among its strong leaves, and emit them sickly
sweet? — why did a strange stir and intelligence
rustle all its sides? — why but that the spell was
loosened, and it flowered to-night. With the
blossom dies the stem. Swift as when the sun
falls into the west the clouds flout their joyous
folds, the arrow of fulfilment struck its heart, and
it answered with the weird grand blossom, again
flinging magic over the world. But cereus and
agave were watched with equal silence by Mr.
Redruth; the solicited events of centuries transpired
unnoticed beside him. He felt ill, he
thought, and stupid; how could he reach town in
this plight? And what would Mr. Arundel do
then? And there was the bonnet and the amaryllis;
could he but gain an apothecary, he might
be better. The time when he had told Miriam the
story of Fanchon crept over his memory; he half
smiled at her false prophecy, but he remembered
also, though faintly, that he had drank one day
with Arundel in the cellar. What had he said to
him? What had that conversation been? Let it
be as it might, he could not recall it, — but what
did Marc Arundel want with his oath to-night?

O Mr. Redruth! the lotus floated in its tank
within your reach, the nepenthe lifted its brimming
pitcher to your lips, the mandragora grew
not far away — eat them, and forget!

Things wavered oddly in a kind of haze before
Mr. Redruth's eyes; he trembled excessively.
There was Miss Miriam's amaryllis to be got. He
must make an effort; and he essayed to rise. It
was Atlas with the world on his shoulder; efforts
were vain, — he did not stir a line. If he could
only stand, he thought, he might walk. The place

grew dark, and warm as it was, his teeth chattered,
he fell back in the chair, still grasping the
glass in his hanging hand. The moon shot a fiery
tip upon the flowery pendulums in the dome, then
withdrew from aloe and cactus, and left all the
tropical wealth in a starlit gloom; but Mr. Redruth
did not observe it, since it had been dark
some time with him. His mind became confused;
a doubt crossed it if his stewardship had been
faithful, a stinging certainty of evil goaded it.
Could that man harm his master? The veriest
trifles buzzed round him; he was afraid to disappoint
Mr. Arundel, he was sorry to disappoint Miss
Miriam.

Strange scenes from his youth long forgotten,
now rose before him: the proud hour when he
first signed his name as Sir Rohan's steward;
his marriage-day; the night his son was born.
His wife, not as now with cap and spectacles, but
young, blue-eyed, and smiling, seemed to sit by
his side and hold his hand, while dim shadows of
childhood and age held their revels before him.
Past and present bore themselves unusually.
Tasting the wild honey that, a truant boy, he had
sucked from the bugloss horns, he drowned in it

the flavor of his flask. The cheek he had kissed
forty years ago still blushed in his remembrance,
but the words spoken yesterday, it might be,
sounded faint and far; and feeblest, yet most
persistent idea of all, was himself tearing his master's
house in ruins about his head.

Another hour chimed. He had become torpid,
the odd sensation was extending to his mind, he
felt too weak to catch at life slipping by.

What strange things were moving now? What
face with its malignant mirth flashed on him?
He had thought Mr. Arundel would be displeased.
And that sad reproachful one, was it his Master?
And were these, proud of duty never neglected,
the stern old stewards dead and gone? But who
was this, awful and white, that ruffled his hair
and would have made his flesh crawl, fleshless itself,
touching him with so chill a finger, smiling
from those cloudy eyes, assuring him silently that
he had done well? In the noiseless tramp of what
host was he marching? What was this darkness
around, this light, this freedom, opening to him?
And what were all the phantoms hurrying by,
with him in their midst, and sweeping out, out
from the place? The flowers might have cowered

beneath a presence weightier than they, while the
poisonous growths hailed their lord with bold censers
and blistering dew, then have risen shaking a
sweeter air from their cups, because they were
alone again. The nightingale ceased singing in
the thorns; the epiphytes fluttered forward to stare
at the sleeper; the pallid gleams from some window
now and then filled the conservatory with a
ghastly light, and shone upon the old man trembling
no more, but stiff and white as marble in his
chair.

There was no physician who could help his case.
Marc Arundel must come for the oath, since all
engagements were broken. Mr. Redruth would
not go into town that night.

Meanwhile, as Death throned himself here, Life
was crowned in the house beyond, and the moments
rounded in joy.

Miriam had been riding again with Sir Rohan,
and returned, laden with wild fruits like Pomona,
was making the night merry with her masquerading.
Dancing down the vistas of the rooms,
her riding-skirt gathered over her arm, laughing,
talking, silent, she still transmuted his long hours

by the simple fact of her companionship. And he,
as gay, unconsciously inspired the very gladness
that created his own. At length as midnight
drew near, she had flown from his grasp, and
pausing half-way up, dropped him a good-night
song, and flown on again.

Sir Rohan moved and went out to close the green-house,
delaying within to inhale the cool delicious
fragrance. The oranges hung their lamps, dwarfed
and golden through the soft gloom, near at hand;
stately callas rose waxen-white and spotless, half-guessed,
on the other side; and loose southern
vines played with his hair and distilled the air
around him. The clear sweet singing of a distant
nocturne poured a brief melody through the quiet.
He fancied he could see the rare scents, passionate,
tender, and exhaustless, rolling in globes like
smoke from the dropping tubes and shivering
sprays.

But after a time the enjoyment became mingled
with another feeling, he recognized something foreign
in the place; and though he could not detect
it, he would have said that the other end of the conservatory
was filled with a misty brightness. He
looked about him with a singular thought, for it

appeared, at the moment, that everything he wrote
or wrought, be it in pigments or in flowers, spelled
but one word — the Ghost.

While thus thinking, Miriam's step broke the
stillness, and she entered, with a lamp, from the
chiller air, trailing her gown behind her, the
plume of her riding-cap — a branch of the scarlet
berries still clinging to it — mingling with her
hair, and her face reflecting the brilliance of the
scene.

“Mr. Redruth told me I should find my amaryllis
here to-night,” she said, bringing the frosty,
out-door smell with her. “I had nearly forgotten.
Where do you think he has put it? Among
the lilies?” and seeking it, she walked slowly forward.

“Do you see the cereus?” she asked, at a distance,
in a blaze of exultation. “It is a midnight
sun, a whole constellation rather. And O, Sir Rohan!
the century is capped, the agave is blown!”

Turning slowly with the uplifted lamp, her eye
fell, the sparkle faded, her face grew pale again
and borrowed the quiet beneath it.

“But what is this?” she cried through sudden
tears.

Coming for her amaryllis, she had found the
Lily of Annunciation. For the light fell upon Redruth
silent as a stone, the white hair waving round
his brow scarcely less gray, by contrast stiller;
the hand hanging over the chair, still grasping the
stem of his glass, while the bowl lay shattered on
the floor; the face open-eyed, shrunken, and upturned
with the mute, patient appeal of the dead;
the alabaster vase still there, the flame within
burned out; and the whole cold figure bathed in
the richest odors of the world's bright belt, the
breath of tangled jungle, brake, and forest, and
wrapped in all the gorgeous beauty of the tropics.