University of Virginia Library

42. CHAPTER XLII.
AN AUTHENTIC GHOST STORY.

For some remarkable reason, ghostly legends were uncommonly
rife, about this time, among the servants on Legree's
place.

It was whisperingly asserted that footsteps, in the dead of
night, had been heard descending the garret stairs, and patrolling
the house. In vain the doors of the upper entry had been
locked; the ghost either carried a duplicate key in its pocket,
or availed itself of a ghost's immemorial privilege of coming
through the keyhole, and promenaded as before, with a freedom
that was alarming.

Authorities were somewhat divided, as to the outward form
of the spirit, owing to a custom quite prevalent among negroes,
— and, for aught we know, among whites, too, — of invariably
shutting the eyes, and covering up heads under blankets, petticoats,
or whatever else might come in use for a shelter, on these
occasions. Of course, as everybody knows, when the bodily
eyes are thus out of the lists, the spiritual eyes are uncommonly
vivacious and perspicuous; and, therefore, there were abundance
of full-length portraits of the ghost, abundantly sworn
and testified to, which, as is often the case with portraits,
agreed with each other in no particular, except the common
family peculiarity of the ghost tribe, — the wearing of a white
sheet. The poor souls were not versed in ancient history,

and did not know that Shakspeare had authenticated this
costume, by telling how
And, therefore, their all hitting upon this is a striking fact
in pneumatology, which we recommend to the attention of
spiritual media generally.

Be it as it may, we have private reasons for knowing that
a tall figure in a white sheet did walk, at the most approved
ghostly hours, around the Legree premises, — pass out the
doors, glide about the house, — disappear at intervals, and,
reäppearing, pass up the silent stair-way, into that fatal
garret; and that, in the morning, the entry doors were all
found shut and locked as firm as ever.

Legree could not help overhearing this whispering; and it
was all the more exciting to him, from the pains that were
taken to conceal it from him. He drank more brandy than
usual; held up his head briskly, and swore louder than ever
in the day-time; but he had bad dreams, and the visions of his
head on his bed were anything but agreeable. The night
after Tom's body had been carried away, he rode to the next
town for a carouse, and had a high one. Got home late and
tired; locked his door, took out the key, and went to bed.

After all, let a man take what pains he may to hush it
down, a human soul is an awful ghostly, unquiet possession,
for a bad man to have. Who knows the metes and bounds
of it? Who knows all its awful perhapses, — those shudderings
and tremblings, which it can no more live down than it
can outlive its own eternity! What a fool is he who locks
his door to keep out spirits, who has in his own bosom a spirit
he dares not meet alone, — whose voice, smothered far down,

and piled over with mountains of earthliness, is yet like the
forewarning trumpet of doom!

But Legree locked his door and set a chair against it;
he set a night-lamp at the head of his bed; and he put his
pistols there. He examined the catches and fastenings of the
windows, and then swore he “did n't care for the devil and all
his angels,” and went to sleep.

Well, he slept, for he was tired, — slept soundly. But,
finally, there came over his sleep a shadow, a horror, an
apprehension of something dreadful hanging over him. It
was his mother's shroud, he thought; but Cassy had it, holding
it up, and showing it to him. He heard a confused
noise of screams and groanings; and, with it all, he knew
he was asleep, and he struggled to wake himself. He was
half awake. He was sure something was coming into his
room. He knew the door was opening, but he could not
stir hand or foot. At last he turned, with a start; the door
was open, and he saw a hand putting out his light.

It was a cloudy, misty moonlight, and there he saw it! —
something white, gliding in! He heard the still rustle of its
ghostly garments. It stood still by his bed; — a cold hand
touched his; a voice said, three times, in a low, fearful whisper,
“Come! come! come!” And, while he lay sweating
with terror, he knew not when or how, the thing was gone.
He sprang out of bed, and pulled at the door. It was shut
and locked, and the man fell down in a swoon.

After this, Legree became a harder drinker than ever
before. He no longer drank cautiously, prudently, but
imprudently and recklessly.

There were reports around the country, soon after, that he
was sick and dying. Excess had brought on that frightful
disease that seems to throw the lurid shadows of a coming

retribution back into the present life. None could bear the
horrors of that sick room, when he raved and screamed, and
spoke of sights which almost stopped the blood of those who
heard him; and, at his dying bed, stood a stern, white, inexorable
figure, saying, “Come! come! come!”

By a singular coincidence, on the very night that this
vision appeared to Legree, the house-door was found open in
the morning, and some of the negroes had seen two white
figures gliding down the avenue towards the high-road.

It was near sunrise when Cassy and Emmeline paused, for
a moment, in a little knot of trees near the town.

Cassy was dressed after the manner of the Creole Spanish
ladies, — wholly in black. A small black bonnet on her head,
covered by a veil thick with embroidery, concealed her face.
It had been agreed that, in their escape, she was to personate
the character of a Creole lady, and Emmeline that of her
servant.

Brought up, from early life, in connection with the highest
society, the language, movements and air of Cassy, were all
in agreement with this idea; and she had still enough remaining
with her, of a once splendid wardrobe, and sets of jewels,
to enable her to personate the thing to advantage.

She stopped in the outskirts of the town, where she had
noticed trunks for sale, and purchased a handsome one. This
she requested the man to send along with her. And, accordingly,
thus escorted by a boy wheeling her trunk, and Emmeline
behind her, carrying her carpet-bag and sundry bundles,
she made her appearance at the small tavern, like a lady of
consideration.

The first person that struck her, after her arrival, was
George Shelby, who was staying there, awaiting the next
boat.

Cassy had remarked the young man from her loop-hole in
the garret, and seen him bear away the body of Tom, and
observed, with secret exultation, his rencontre with Legree.
Subsequently, she had gathered, from the conversations she
had overheard among the negroes, as she glided about in her
ghostly disguise, after nightfall, who he was, and in what
relation he stood to Tom. She, therefore, felt an immediate
accession of confidence, when she found that he was, like
herself, awaiting the next boat.

Cassy's air and manner, address, and evident command of
money, prevented any rising disposition to suspicion in the
hotel. People never inquire too closely into those who are
fair on the main point, of paying well, — a thing which Cassy
had foreseen when she provided herself with money.

In the edge of the evening, a boat was heard coming along,
and George Shelby handed Cassy aboard, with the politeness
which comes naturally to every Kentuckian, and exerted himself
to provide her with a good state-room.

Cassy kept her room and bed, on pretext of illness, during
the whole time they were on Red river; and was waited on,
with obsequious devotion, by her attendant.

When they arrived at the Mississippi river, George, having
learned that the course of the strange lady was upward, like
his own, proposed to take a state-room for her on the same
boat with himself, — good-naturedly compassionating her feeble
health, and desirous to do what he could to assist her.

Behold, therefore, the whole party safely transferred to the
good steamer Cincinnati, and sweeping up the river under a
powerful head of steam.

Cassy's health was much better. She sat upon the guards,
came to the table, and was remarked upon in the boat as a
lady that must have been very handsome.

From the moment that George got the first glimpse of her
face, he was troubled with one of those fleeting and indefinite
likenesses, which almost everybody can remember, and has
been, at times, perplexed with. He could not keep himself
from looking at her, and watching her perpetually. At table,
or sitting at her state-room door, still she would encounter
the young man's eyes fixed on her, and politely withdrawn,
when she showed, by her countenance, that she was sensible
of the observation.

Cassy became uneasy. She began to think that he suspected
something; and finally resolved to throw herself
entirely on his generosity, and intrusted him with her whole
history.

George was heartily disposed to sympathize with any one
who had escaped from Legree's plantation, — a place that he
could not remember or speak of with patience, — and, with
the courageous disregard of consequences which is characteristic
of his age and state, he assured her that he would do
all in his power to protect and bring them through.

The next state-room to Cassy's was occupied by a French
lady, named De Thoux, who was accompanied by a fine little
daughter, a child of some twelve summers.

This lady, having gathered, from George's conversation,
that he was from Kentucky, seemed evidently disposed to
cultivate his acquaintance; in which design she was seconded
by the graces of her little girl, who was about as pretty a
plaything as ever diverted the weariness of a fortnight's trip
on a steamboat.

George's chair was often placed at her state-room door; and
Cassy, as she sat upon the guards, could hear their conversation.

Madame de Thoux was very minute in her inquiries as to

Kentucky, where she said she had resided in a former period
of her life. George discovered, to his surprise, that her former
residence must have been in his own vicinity; and her
inquiries showed a knowledge of people and things in his
vicinity, that was perfectly surprising to him.

“Do you know,” said Madame de Thoux to him, one day,
“of any man, in your neighborhood, of the name of Harris?”

“There is an old fellow, of that name, lives not far from
my father's place,” said George. “We never have had much
intercourse with him, though.”

“He is a large slave-owner, I believe,” said Madame de
Thoux, with a manner which seemed to betray more interest
than she was exactly willing to show.

“He is,” said George, looking rather surprised at her
manner.

“Did you ever know of his having — perhaps, you may
have heard of his having a mulatto boy, named George?”

“O, certainly, — George Harris, — I know him well; he
married a servant of my mother's, but has escaped, now, to
Canada.”

“He has?” said Madame de Thoux, quickly. “Thank
God!”

George looked a surprised inquiry, but said nothing.

Madame de Thoux leaned her head on her hand, and burst
into tears.

“He is my brother,” she said.

“Madame!” said George, with a strong accent of surprise.

“Yes,” said Madame de Thoux, lifting her head, proudly,
and wiping her tears; “Mr. Shelby, George Harris is my
brother!”

“I am perfectly astonished,” said George, pushing back
his chair a pace or two, and looking at Madame de Thoux.

“I was sold to the South when he was a boy,” said she.
“I was bought by a good and generous man. He took me
with him to the West Indies, set me free, and married me.
It is but lately that he died; and I was coming up to Kentucky,
to see if I could find and redeem my brother.”

“I have heard him speak of a sister Emily, that was sold
South,” said George.

“Yes, indeed! I am the one,” said Madame de Thoux; —
“tell me what sort of a —”

“A very fine young man,” said George, “notwithstanding
the curse of slavery that lay on him. He sustained a
first rate character, both for intelligence and principle. I
know, you see,” he said; “because he married in our
family.”

“What sort of a girl?” said Madame de Thoux, eagerly.

“A treasure,” said George; “a beautiful, intelligent, amiable
girl. Very pious. My mother had brought her up, and
trained her as carefully, almost, as a daughter. She could
read and write, embroider and sew, beautifully; and was a
beautiful singer.”

“Was she born in your house?” said Madame de Thoux.

“No. Father bought her once, in one of his trips to New
Orleans, and brought her up as a present to mother. She
was about eight or nine years old, then. Father would never
tell mother what he gave for her; but, the other day, in looking
over his old papers, we came across the bill of sale. He
paid an extravagant sum for her, to be sure. I suppose, on
account of her extraordinary beauty.”

George sat with his back to Cassy, and did not see the

absorbed expression of her countenance, as he was giving
these details.

At this point in the story, she touched his arm, and, with a
face perfectly white with interest, said, “Do you know the
names of the people he bought her of?”

“A man of the name of Simmons, I think, was the principal
in the transaction. At least, I think that was the name
on the bill of sale.”

“O, my God!” said Cassy, and fell insensible on the floor
of the cabin.

George was wide awake now, and so was Madame de
Thoux. Though neither of them could conjecture what was
the cause of Cassy's fainting, still they made all the tumult
which is proper in such cases; — George upsetting a wash-pitcher,
and breaking two tumblers, in the warmth of his
humanity; and various ladies in the cabin, hearing that
somebody had fainted, crowded the state-room door, and kept
out all the air they possibly could, so that, on the whole, everything
was done that could be expected.

Poor Cassy! when she recovered, turned her face to the
wall, and wept and sobbed like a child, — perhaps, mother,
you can tell what she was thinking of! Perhaps you cannot,
— but she felt as sure, in that hour, that God had had mercy
on her, and that she should see her daughter, — as she did,
months afterwards, — when — but we anticipate.