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When Mrs. Rhee left Bonniemeer, just previous to Vaughn's marriage, she
had gone no farther than Carrick, and still kept up a sort of left-handed connection
with her old home through the negress, Chloe, who, in the fine summer days,
would frequently creep over the two miles of road, staff in hand, peering sidelong
at every creature she met, and muttering to herself, until all the children,
and some of their elders, were quite sure that she was a witch. Through the
old nurse, Mrs. Rhee constantly sent messages of regard and remembrance to
Francia, with numerous humble petitions that she would come and visit her, if
only for a few moments. Francia's kind heart would not allow her to neglect
these petitions, and the consequence was that she often called upon the whilom
housekeeper, until one day, her father passing Mrs. Rhee's cottage, and seeing
his daughter's pony at the door, entered the little parlor, where he found the
young lady seated in Mrs. Rhee's lap, while a refection of cake and currant
wine upon the table showed how she had been amusing herself.

In a few decided words Vaughn informed his daughter that he was ready to
escort her home, and, when she had gone out, he added to Mrs. Rhee:

“And I do not wish Francia to be upon these terms with you. It is not in
woman's nature that you should keep our secret inviolable under such circumstances.”

“I do not know that I shall always keep it,” returned Mrs. Rhee, defiantly.
“You have pleased yourself in marrying, why should I not please myself also?”

“Because you dare not brave my anger,” said Vaughn, quietly.

Mrs. Rhee looked at his white face and steady eyes, and turned away her
head.

Vaughn strode to the door, but returned and held out his hand.

“Let us be friends, Anita, for the sake of the dead, and of the past—a past
which no future can undo; but remember that I am master.”

The woman took his hand, and kissed it passionately.

“You are master,” said she, and when he was gone gave way to a tropic
storm of sobs and tears.

So Francia was informed that she was to go no more to see Mrs. Rhee, without
especial leave; and soon lost all inclination to do so, in gathering anxieties
and apprehensions caused by her lover's irregularities, reported to her by certain
officious correspondents in the city; while his own letters grew every week
briefer and more unsatisfactory.

Old Chloe's walks to Carrick remained undisturbed, as were indeed all her
other movements; for Vaughn had advised his new housekeeper that the old
nurse was a privileged person, not to be controlled or reproved by less
authority than his own or Mrs. Vaughn's.

It was to Neria, then, that Mrs. Barlow came one day, and, after some preamble,
inquired if Mrs. Vaughn knew that Chloe was in the occasional habit of
leaving the house privately, in the middle of the night, and absenting herself for
several hours. Where she went, or what she did during these periods, Mrs.
Barlow could not pretend to say, nor had even inquired. If it were one of the
maids she would not be long in finding out, continued the worthy woman, but
Chloe was different, Mr. Vaughn had said she wasn't under any authority but
his own, and perhaps he wouldn't even like to have her watched. She had
hardly liked to speak, but concluded Mrs. Vaughn had better know.

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Neria quietly assured her that she had done quite right in speaking, and
promising to attend to the matter, dismissed the housekeeper, (a worthy, but
commonplace woman, whose pride of office had been somewhat wounded by
Mr. Vaughn's injunction), far better satisfied with her position and her mistress
than she had been inclined to find herself.

“She's got a kind of a tact about her, Miss Vaughn has, that sets everything
straight that she touches with so much as her finger-end,” was the decision
that evening confided by Mrs. Barlow to James, the English groom, whom
Vaughn had long since promoted to the position of body-servant, and who had
gradually assumed various other duties which, in an English establishment,
would have belonged to the office of steward or major-domo.

“You're right, there, Mrs. Barlow,” replied James, on the present occasion,
“and the Squire's done a better thing this time than he did before, I can promise
you.”

“You knew the first Miss Vaughn, then?” asked the housekeeper, curiously.

“Yes, I knew her,” replied close-mouthed James, picking up his cap and
eaving the room.

It was on the ensuing night that Neria, unable to sleep, sat at her window,
dreamily enjoying the beauty of the moonlight view, and listening to the distant
beat of the rising tide upon the beach. The low sound of a closing door startled
her from her reverie, for the hour was past midnight, and the orderly household
had long since retired to rest. Suddenly the housekeeper's story returned to her
mind, and she at once concluded that the untimely wanderer must be old Chloe.
A sudden impulse to solve for herself the mystery of the nurse's nocturnal
wanderings, took possession of her mind, and hastily wrapping herself in a dark
cloak, with the hood drawn over her head, and protecting her feet from the
heavy dew, she glided down the stairs and out at the garden-door, which, as
she had correctly judged, was the one she had heard so cautiously closed.
Outside, she paused a moment to look about her. Far down the garden path a
distorted and crouching figure crept along between the roses, and reaching the
end, passed through the little gate leading to the grove, beyond which lay the
pine wood and the lake. Swift and silent as a shadow, Neria followed, bearing
with her the perfume of the roses and the lilies, that opened wide their chalices
to cast incense upon her path, for all Nature loved Neria, as Neria loved
Nature.

Through the garden and through the dim oak wood they passed, until at its
farther edge Neria paused, and, holding herself in the shadow, watched attentively
the motions of the old negress, who, advancing to the foot of an oak tree,
standing by itself in a little glade, busied herself in removing from its hollow
interior an accumulation of brush and leaves. These she laid on one side, and
then, thrusting her arm far into the cavity, groped for a few moments, and finally
brought out an immense toad. Him she set upon the ground in the moonlight,
and, prostrating herself before him, appeared to offer some prayer or supplication,
to which the singular deity ungraciously replied by sparkling eyes and swelling
throat. Rising to her feet, the negress described, with the sharp-pointed stick
in her hand, a circle some three feet in diameter upon the sward, and, baring
her head and feet, paced three times around it, chanting in a dim unearthly
voice some barbarous rune, ending with a wild wail to which the screech-owl in
the neighboring wood shrieked response. The circle complete, the negress
placed the toad carefully in its centre, and describing another circle precisely

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similar, took her own position in its midst in an attitude as nearly resembling
that of the toad as her form was capable of assuming. She now addressed to
him some words, still in the unknown tongue of the chant; and after waiting a
few moments, and finding that he remained motionless, took from her pocket a
little vial and poured upon his head a few drops of liquid, which apparently put
the poor creature into a state of frantic pain, causing him to writhe, leap, and contort
himself into every possible shape. Without losing one of these motions,
the negress applied herself to imitating them as exactly as possible, and the
wondering spectator in the wood knew not whether to find the sight more grotesque
or horrible, as the swollen reptile and the negress, deformed almost below
humanity, vied with each other in such gruesome gambols as might fit the
familiars of witch and warlock sporting in the moonlight upon some haunted
heath.

Exhausted at last, the toad turned upon his back and lay apparently lifeless.
Still Chloe imitated him, and lay like an ugly corpse upon the sparkling sward.
Presently, however, she cautiously arose, and taking the toad in her hands,
bathed his head with the abundant dew, and warmed him in her bosom. When
he began to show signs of returning life she moistened her finger in his mouth,
and signed herself upon the brow and breast, muttered another unintelligible
charm, and finally replaced him in the tree, securely covering him with the
débris under which she had found him.

Her next movement was to carefully pluck the grass from the spot where the
toad had lain in his final exhaustion, and also that upon which her own head
had rested at the same moment. This she carefully wrapped in the leaf of a plant
which she had plucked as she came through the wood, and then turned her
steps toward home, passing close beside Neria, whose slender figure was hidden
by the trunk of a giant oak. As silently and as stealthily as they had come,
the two shadowy figures returned toward the house, and the negress reaching it
first, entered, and closed the door.

Neria, who was close behind, heard the heavy bolts shot into their places,
and remained for a moment in doubt as to her own course, not wishing to let
the negress know that she had been watched, and yet seeing no other way of
effecting her own entrance. After a moment of hesitation, she glided along the
terrace to the window of the little room used as Vaughn's private study. This
room communicated with her own apartments by a winding stair, and Vaughn
had of late converted it into a sleeping-room, averring that his late and uncertain
hours of retiring made it more convenient. The maidenly instincts which
Neria's brief and peculiar married life had not overcome, made her hesitate
and tremble in tapping at this window, and when at last she did, it was so
lightly that Vaughn, lying awake to indulge the bitter thoughts which in the
daylight he was better able to withstand, hardly knew whether the sound
were other than the pattering of the vine leaves against the glass. It was repeated,
and drawing aside the curtain, he looked out. Neria, shrinking away
from the window, stood motionless, draped in her dark cloak, her pale face dimly
showing beneath the hood, the moonlight sparkling in the dew-drops that
gemmed her drooping head.

Vaughn threw open the window.

“Neria!” said he, in a hushed voice. “Is this really you?”

“Yes, Sieur. Do you not know me?”

“You came so spirit-like it might have been your wraith. But where are
you going—what is amiss?”

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“Nothing, Sieur, but I want to come in.”

“To come in! What, the queen of Bonniemeer and of its master, wandering
forlorn through the night and begging shelter for her royal head!” exclaimed
Vaughn, gay in the sudden revulsion from his first terror. “Will you come in
at this window, or must I open the hall-door for your majesty?”

“Can I come in at the window?” asked Neria, dubiously.

“Surely. Give me your two hands, put your foot on the ledge in the stonework,
and—so!”

He drew her in at the window with the word, and as she lay a moment in
his arms, pressed his lips to hers.

She smiled, but struggled to her feet. He immediately released her, and
asked, gravely,

“Why are you out so late, and so thinly dressed, dear child? See, your
hair, your cloak, are drenched with dew. Your hands are cold and damp—you
are as pale in the moonlight as a true ghost. Explain.”

Neria sank into an arm-chair, for she was indeed almost exhausted, and told
her story as briefly as she might. Her husband listened attentively.

“The poor old creature must be deranged in mind,” said he. “She is very
old, for she was already past middle life when I first saw her.”

“She came here to take care of Francia and me, did she not?” asked Neria,
a little surprised at his hesitation.

“No, dear, she was here before. I have always taken care of her on account
of past services, and we must still protect her, although it may become necessary
to restrain these wanderings. Can you imagine any object in the strange proceedings
you saw to-night?”

“None,” said Neria, hesitating. “None that I can mention with any show
of reason, and yet I felt—O, Sieur, I felt like one who sees his scaffold built
before his eyes. I cannot tell why. I know it is fanciful, perhaps unjust, and
yet I feel sure that all these spells and charms were in some way directed
against me.”

She fell into a fit of aguish shivering as she spoke, and raised her face to
Vaughn like a little child who seeks protection. He stooped and took her in
his arms, gathering her to his broad breast with an impulse of yearning tenderness
not to be withstood.

“My poor little dove, my timid nestling!” murmured he, “who would harm
you? What creature so monstrous as to wish you ill? Do you not know that
my life stands between you and hurt? My darling, my darling, may I never tell
you how much I love you?”

Neria nestled into his arms and laid her head upon his breast, with a sigh of
content. Vaughn's heart gave a great throb. Had the happiness for which he no
longer hoped, come to him now of its own sweet will? Did Neria love him at
last, wife-like? He tried to deny the hope, he tried to doubt, he tried to reason,
and in the end, with a terrible shock, the great love that he had bound down
within his heart burst its bonds, and rising in its might, took possession of the
man who had striven to deny its God-given life. He pressed her to his heart,
he covered her lips, her eyes, her brow, her hair with kisses; he murmured in
her ear every caressing name, every passionate endearment which he had been
wont in half-bitter, half-plaintive mockery to lavish upon her picture, her glove,
her airy image. But with an unmistakable movement of repugnance, Neria repulsed
him, and extricating herself from his embrace, hurried to the door of the
staircase leading to her own apartments.

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Vaughn followed, and, seizing her by the hand, demanded passionately,

“Why do you leave me thus? Why do you refuse my caresses? Do you,
then, absolutely loathe me?”

“No; O, no!” said Neria, faintly. “But do not touch me, do not kiss me
again! O let me go, I am faint.”

She snatched away her hand, and groped for the handle of the door, swayed
heavily forward, and fell swooning upon the stairs.

With a sharp revulsion of feeling, Vaughn raised her again in his arms, bore
her reverently up the stairs, and laid her upon a couch near the open window.

A flaçon of cologne-water stood upon the dressing-table. He applied it to
her temples and poured some drops into her mouth. In a few moments she
revived, opened her eyes, turned them upon Vaughn, shrank away and closed
them again. He took her hand. It was withdrawn.

“I have broken our pact,” said he, with stern sadness; “but it was because
I deceived myself. I fancied for a moment that you returned my love, might return
my caresses. Even now I will have no doubt remaining between us.
Speak plainly and as frankly as you would pray to God. Do you love me; do
you think you will ever love me other than as a child loves its father, a sister
her brother? Will my caresses ever be other than repugnant to your feelings?”

Neria sat upright, her white face, gleaming eyes, and cloudy hair, giving her
the look of the angel of tears and sorrow. She raised her hands in unconscious
deprecation of her own words as she said,

“O, Sieur, how can I bear to tell it you, but I fear I never can; I fear that
if we are to be happy at all, if even I am to live at all, you must never again
forget what you have promised. Sieur, I pray God that I may die soon, and
leave you free to love and marry soon one who will love you as I cannot. O, I
pray that I may die and leave you free.”

The plaintive tone in her voice deepened to a heart-break, and as she finished
speaking, she fell into a passion of tears and sobs, shaking her slender form to
its centre. It was the first time in all her life that Vaughn had seen her weep,
and he was more terrified than he had been when she swooned.

“May God be merciful to us both!” cried he, bowing his face upon his
hands, while through his heart thrilled the fierce pang of which a man's tears
are born.

Presently he took Neria's hand. It lay cold and lifeless in his own.

“My wife,” said he, solemnly, “for you are still my wife, to cherish and to
guard, if not to love, all this shall be set right for you, if not for me. You will
forgive what I have made you suffer, and not blame my broken faith too harshly;
for, O, child, a man is not as a God, and my strength was taxed heavily, heavily.
Forgive me, Neria, and show that you forgive, by never in your inmost heart
again wishing me the terrible punishment of your death.”

He waited for no reply, but was gone; and presently stepping from the window
where Neria had entered, he sought the wood, and wandered there until the
night was done, the summer night of moon, and stars, and richest balm of
dewy flowers, and dreamy chirrup of half-awakened birds, and wooing whispers
of the warm west wind, and solemn diapason of the distant sea; and yet, the
night than which no night was ever blacker, or fiercer, or more blankly starless
in the life of Frederic Vaughn.

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