  Dolores sat beside Aunt Polly, in the door of the cabin. The setting sun shone on her yellow curls, changing her into a veritable “Goldilocks,” peeped into her blue eyes, until she was obliged to shut them. It shone on Aunt Polly’s black face, causing it to glisten like black satin, and on her clean calico dress and white apron; for this was Sunday evening, and she was resting from her labors. Across the fields, its light was reflected from the roof and chimneys of “The House,” as Aunt Polly called it; for there she had lived as a slave before the war, and to her it was the only house of importance in the neighborhood. Dolores watched the sun climb from the roof and chimneys to the gilded points of the lightning-rods, turning them to flashing spear points. Then it was gone; and she breathed a sigh. Aunt Polly heard it. “What’s the mattah, honey girl?” “I’m lonesome, Aunt Polly; won’t you tell me ’bout the little ghost girl up at the house?” “Now, sugah, I have to be away from home all day to-morrow, and you’ll be here alone; that story will make you feel skeery.” “I won’t be afraid. Besides, I’ll go to school, maybe.” “Bless yo heart now, will you? Well, I’ll tell you then, ’cause yo goin’ to be so good. Well, honey, when I was a young girl, I lived up at The House; that was befo’ the wah. I was one of the house servants, sort of waitin’ maid, and table maid, too. Well, one stormy night, I was in the dinin’-room, settin’ the dinnah table. The rain and sleet was bangin’ aginst the windows, and it was growin’ mighty dark. I thought I’d go out and shut the shuttahs; I thought I’d run out the front doah, and close the pahlor shuttahs too. The lamp wasn’t lit in the hall yet, and as I went through, it seemed to me I saw somethin’ white curled up on the lower stair. I opened the front doah so that I could see bettah what it was, and then I turned and went to it, and there, cuddled all up in a heap, was a strange little girl. She had a little peaked white face and great blue eyes, and her hair was about the coloh of you-all’s. She had on a little white dress, and had somethin’ in her hands—looked like a man’s cap, and it was all torn and bloody; and there was blood on her dress. “‘My land, honey, whar you come from?’ I says, and she huddled down closer than ever, and began to cry just like her heart was most broke. I stooped down to pick her up in my ahms”—Aunt Polly’s voice sank to a whisper—“and—she—wasn’t—there. I rubbed my eyes and looked agin, then I run to the doah and looked out; but they wasn’t nobody about. Then I got so skeered I banged the doah shut and run whoopin’ and screamin’ to the kitchen. Aunt Susan, the cook, grab me by the ahm. ‘Shut yo haid, girl, and tell me wha’s de mattah,’ she said. So I done told her all about it, and she just dropped all in a heap and she say: ‘O my Lawd, O my deah Lawd, the judgment am a comin’ agin! Tell me, gal, was dat baby laughin’ or cryin’?’ and I say, ‘Cryin’;’ and she say, ‘Ooh, my poo’ mistess;’ and I said, ‘Oh, Aunt Susan, what is it?’ She say: ‘Gal, you done see a ghost. Dat’s no baptized baby; dat’s a poo’ child dat was muhdard yeahs and yeahs ago by some wicked limb of dis fambly, fo’ to get its money. Whenever dat child comes here a weepin’ and a moanin’, dat’s de sign of a death; if it comes a laughin’, den it brings good luck to we-alls.’ “Well, I was that skeered to think I’d done seen a ghost, that I shuck all over, and couldn’t wait on the table. Well, honey, I kep’ a waitin’ for a death or somefin as bad; and ’bout a week later, my mastah’s oldest boy was out huntin’, and the gun went off too soon, and blowed the top of his haid plum off. They brought his torn and bloody cap home. I’d—seen—it—before. “Aftah that, I was always watchin’ for that ghost-child, but I nevah seen her no more. But she came after that, fo’ my old mastah died; and there was othah troubles. Finally, aftah the wah, my old mistress moved to the city with young Mistah Tom, and left the house in the care of the overseeah of the plantation. Once a yeah Mistah Tom comes down and stays a week or so, lookin’ aftah things. He used to bring a lot of company with him, but since ole Miss died, he’s sobered down; don’t seem to cah fo’ company no more. “And now, sugah, you come go to baid, so you can get up early, and go to school.” “Aunt Polly, tell me first, do please tell me, where did you get me?” Aunt Polly looked at her doubtfully. “I dunno as you need to know. But yo ma was a lady, and yo pa a gentleman. You come of a good stock. Sometime I’ll tell you, but not now; so you go to sleep.” The next morning Aunt Polly was up and away early. She left a dainty breakfast spread out for Dolores, and a little tin pail packed with a lunch for her school dinner. Dolores wakened later and lay debating the question of school. It is needless to say that Aunt Polly, with her lax government and her fondness for the child, was spoiling her completely. Dolores was a law unto herself, and came and went as she pleased. She was looked down upon by the girls at school, because she lived with Aunt Polly. She did not tell this to her, for she knew she would resent it bitterly. So she avoided them as much as possible, and many hours when Aunt Polly supposed that she was at school, she was wandering in the woods and fields. She thought of her half promise given the night before in exchange for the ghost story, and resolved that she would go. “My mother was a lady, and my father a gentleman; then why need I care for those white trash? Aunt Polly is better than they are. I reckon I’d better go. And I’ll go past the house, and peek in at the hall where Aunt Polly saw the ghost.” So she hurriedly put away her breakfast dishes, tidied up her room, locked the door, hid the key, and started on her way to school. She crossed the field and came to the old house by a path through a grove of old trees. This side of the house was never used; the shutters were closed; and the trees grew so close to the house that their great branches scraped against the walls, causing a creaking, groaning noise when the wind blew, that had frightened the timid colored people away from the neighborhood. Dolores put down her pail and books. She sat down a moment to rest in the shade, for the sun was hot. That resting-spell was the undoing of her good resolutions; for, glancing above her, she discovered a squirrel watching her, who began to chatter, as soon as he knew that she had seen him. “Oh, you pretty dear, come down and I’ll feed you,” she said; and then she thought, “I wonder if he has a nest up there; I’m going to find out.” And soon she was among the lower branches of the tree, steadily working her way to the top. The squirrel turned with a jerk and a squeak, and disappeared through an open window that the branches had concealed from below. Dolores, following, found that one shutter was gone, and that the wind, during some storm, had forced in the sash, while a limb had grown in through the window. She pushed her way in past the limb, in spite of the squirrel’s remonstrance, and found herself in a large attic, which extended over the entire unused wing of the house. The squirrel scampered up the side of the window-casing, and sat scolding her from above. The attic was filled with a rich treasure-trove for Dolores. There were old spinning-wheels, broken chairs, an empty cradle, a great old four-posted bed, and a number of trunks and boxes to rummage in. That was as far as she could see in the gloom, but no doubt beyond her range of vision were more delights. What a lovely place in which to play! The cradle for her dolls, an old clock to take to pieces, and dozens of old garments to dress up in. Several wonderfully queer old bonnets hung against the wall. She put on one (after shaking off the layer of dust with which it was coated), and glanced in a broken mirror to see the effect. Her merry laugh echoed through the attic as she beheld her face framed by the bonnet. And then she heard a sharp exclamation from the room beneath her, the scurrying of feet, and the slamming of a door. “Oh you pretty dear.” “Oh you pretty dear.” Crouching down behind the cradle, she waited developments; but no one came; so in a little while she grew bold again. “I think I won’t go to school after all. I reckon it’s too late, anyway; I’ll stay here to-day. But first, I must go back and get my dinner-pail and books. I can study up here just as well as at school.” And soon Dolores, watched by the protesting squirrel, had slid down the tree, secured her books and dinner-pail in her apron, and was back again. And then began her delightful, if naughty, day. She wound up the clock, polished up the broken mirror, pulled the lighter articles of furniture here and there, tried the spinning-wheel, and finally settled down to the delightful task of exploring the boxes and chests. In the meantime, down below, in the kitchen of the old house, an excited group of colored people were talking. Aunt Polly was the centre of the group, and was relating, for the benefit of a new comer, her experience. “I tell you, I done heerd that ghost-child agin. No, I didn’t see it, but I heerd it. I went ovah to the noth wing to put away that ar seed, as Mistah Jones told me to do, and while I was in that dark, lonesome bedroom above the pahlor, I heerd a child laugh, just as cleah and sweet as a bird; it sounded just right beside me. Oh, I was so skeered, I run and banged the doah after me. You don’t ketch this child goin’ in that pawt of the house no moah.” “Aunt Polly,” asked one breathless listener, “wasn’t that the room whar the murdah was committed?” “Yas, em; yes indeedy; the poor child was strangled in its sleep.” Just then the voice of Mr. Jones was heard. “Here, hurry up in there; got too much to do to stand here gabbling. You know Mister Tom comes to-night; he wants this place to be shining.” Each one hurried off to her work. Aunt Polly, with a toss of her head and a sniff, proceeded leisurely to hang out the white curtains and bed-linen she was doing up against the arrival of her beloved Mistah Tom. Dolores ate her dinner when she became hungry, gave some of it to the squirrel, and played on until the shadows in the attic indicated that evening was coming. Then she scrambled down and ran for home. She had time to brush the dust from her clothes, wash her face and hands, and lie down on the bed and fall asleep before Aunt Polly returned. By the time supper was ready and Dolores awakened, Aunt Polly had forgotten to ask about the school, in her eagerness to tell the important news that Mistah Tom was coming, and that she had heard the little ghost-girl’s laugh. And in a little while Dolores again had forgotten everything in the dreamless sleep which comes to tired children whether they are good or bad. She awoke in the morning to find Aunt Polly already gone. Not long after, the little truant followed and, climbing her sylvan stairway, was soon in the delightful attic. She had explored all but one chest, that was pushed under the eaves. The other chests had yielded up a rich treasure, but she was curious to know what they all contained before she enjoyed the contents. So the little box was pushed close to the window, for it was growing dark in the attic. Dolores could hear the rumble of thunder, and the rain was beginning to patter on the shingles; she was not the least afraid of a storm, and proceeded leisurely with her task. The little chest was locked, but the key hung obligingly tied to one of the handles by a string. She unlocked it, and raised the lid. Who can say what loving, breaking heart looked last into that little box? For, carefully folded away, with dead roses in each dainty garment, was a little girl’s wardrobe, complete,—the finest linen undergarments, trimmed with delicate laces, little white silk clocked stockings, little heelless slippers of blue and red kid, all faded and spotted with age and mould; the loveliest little lace-trimmed dresses with short waists, puffed sleeves, and long skirts. Dolores hesitated a moment before examining them. On top of them was placed a note in a woman’s hand. She laid it aside and did not read it, until she had finished the examination. She opened it at last, and read, “This is the wardrobe of my dear little dead daughter Dolores.” She closed the lid down gently, sprang up, and went to the window. “I must go home; I don’t like this old attic. I’ve been a wicked girl to come here. But how did that little dead girl come to have my name?” She started to climb through the window, and saw that it was raining very hard; a steady downpour that promised to last all day. She returned to the chest, laid the note carefully aside, and again lifted out and unfolded each garment. How beautiful they were! Time had given them the delicate, mellow tint of old ivory. Dolores dearly enjoyed pretty clothes, and had possessed but few in her short life. She was charmed by their dainty quaintness. “They look like they’d just fit me—I’m going to try on a suit—the lady would not care—I’ll be very careful of them.” So on went the pretty underclothing, the white silk stockings, and little heelless slippers. Then over her head she slipped a little white dress, hemstitched and hand embroidered. Her hair, which Aunt Polly kept tightly braided, was loosened in soft waves around her face and neck. The broken mirror revealed a little maid of the beginning of the nineteenth century; such a charming little maid, that Dolores was delighted with the vision. “My, but she’s sweet; Little Dolores, do you like coming back to life?” And then her busy brain recalled the story of the little ghost-girl. “I have a great mind to go downstairs. If any one sees me, I can run back.” She looked questioningly at the little figure in the glass. “Dolores, shall I go? You tell me, for I am you to-day.” The little shadow nodded. “Very well, then, I will.” She went to a door she had noticed, tried it, found it unlocked, and ventured out. A flight of stairs led down into a narrow corridor, flanked on each side by closed doors, and this led into the main hall. She stole shyly out into this, and proceeded toward the great stairway; but to reach it, she had to pass an open door. Some one was moving leisurely about in the room. She peeped in, and saw a young colored man unpacking his master’s clothes. He had carefully arranged the toilet articles on the dressing-case, and was trying one of the silver-backed brushes on his curly locks, with an unlit cigar between his teeth, evidently extracted from a full box on the dressing-case. Dolores swung the door slowly open, and the man, seeing its reflection in the mirror, turned and confronted her, in her quaint dress, standing in the soft gloom of the hall. She was pointing a threatening finger at the stolen cigar, frowning and biting her lips to keep from laughing, as she saw the horrified look on his face. Evidently, he had heard of the little ghost; the cigar fell from his lips, and his knees knocked together: he was too frightened to speak. When Dolores could control her face no longer she turned, and ran back to the attic. The colored man fled to the kitchen, declaring that he had seen the ghost; and that if Mass Tom didn’t go back to the city, he would, for he wasn’t goin’ to stay in no old house full of ghosts. Aunt Polly met her Mr. Tom, on his return from hunting, at the door, and told him the marvellous tale. “Wait till I change my clothes, Aunt Polly, and then come to the little library, if there’s a fire there, for I am chilly; I’ll hear all about it then;” and he hurried upstairs. In the meantime, naughty Dolores had tired of the attic, and, having enjoyed her first adventure, had sallied forth to meet others. Not encountering any one, she ventured down the wide stairs, peeped into numerous rooms, and opening a door into a very cosy one, small and snug, with a fire burning on the hearth, she drew a big cushioned chair in front of it, sat down to watch it, and fell asleep. About an hour later, Aunt Polly was met in the hall by Mister Tom, who looked very much surprised. “Come into the library, quick, Auntie; I’ve found the little ghost,” he whispered. Aunt Polly followed, her knees trembling beneath her. Seeing the little figure in the chair, she started for the door, but thought better of it, and ventured nearer. Getting a good look at the ghost, she saw it was Dolores, and sank limply down by her on her knees. “Well, well, well, I declare for it, it’s the hand of the Lord,” she whispered. “Who is she, Aunt Polly, and where’d she come from?” “She belongs to this fambly, Mistah Tom, and I’ll tell you by and by whar she come from; but whar she got them clothes, or how she got in here, is more than I can tell you.” Just then Dolores stirred in her sleep, opened her eyes, and seeing them watching her, jumped to her feet. “Is this Mr. Tom? I am the little ghost-girl, and I bring you good fortune;” and she looked up into his face and laughed. Aunt Polly grunted, “You need a good lambastin’ fo’ skeerin’ me so,” she said wrathfully. Not long after, Dolores and Aunt Polly went to live with Mr. Tom. A wrong was righted, and the little ghost-girl walked no more. |
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