The warm summer moon wheeled up that evening through the dusk, odorous with the wild luxuriance of wood and swamp growths. A carriage rolled along the highway between stretches of rice lands and avenues of pines.

In the west red and yellow showed where the path of the sun had been and against it was outlined the gables of an imposing structure, dark against the sky.

“We are again close to the Salkahatchie,” said Mrs. McVeigh, pointing where the trees marked its course, “and across there––see that roof, Marquise?––that is Loringwood. If the folks had got across from Charleston we would stop there long enough to rest and have a bit of supper. But the road winds so that the distance is longer than it looks, and we are too near home to stop on such an uncertainty. Gertrude’s note from Charleston telling of their safe arrival could say nothing definite of their home coming.”

“That, no doubt, depends on the invalid relative,” suggested her guest; “the place looks very beautiful in this dim light; the cedars along the road there are magnificent.”

“I have heard they are nearly two hundred years old. Years ago it was the great show place of the country, but two generations of very extravagant sportsmen did much to diminish its wealth––generous, reckless and charming men––but they planted mortgages side by side with their rice fields. Those encumbrances have, I fancy, prevented Gertrude from being as fond of the place as most girls would be of so fine an ancestral home.”

“Possibly she lacks the gamester blood of her forefathers and can have no patience with their lack of the commercial instinct.”

“I really do believe that is just it,” said Mrs. McVeigh. “I never had thought of it in that way myself, but Gertrude certainly is not at all like the Lorings; she is entirely of her mother’s people, and they are credited with possessing a great deal of the commercial instinct. I can’t fancy a Masterson gambling away a penny. They are much more sensible; they invest.”

The cedar avenues had been left a mile behind, and they had entered again the pine woods where even the moon’s full radiance could only scatter slender lances of light. The 177 Marquise leaned back with half-shut slumberous eyes, and confessed she was pleased that it would be later, instead of this evening, that she would have the pleasure of meeting the master and mistress of Loringwood––the drive through the great stretches of pine had acted as a soporific; no society for the night so welcome as King Morpheus.

The third woman in the carriage silently adjusted a cushion back of Madame’s head. “Thank you, Louise,” she said, yawning a little. “You see how effectually I have been mastered by the much remarked languor of the South. It is delightfully restful. I cannot imagine any one ever being in a hurry in this land.”

Mrs. McVeigh smiled and pointed across the field, where some men were just then running after a couple of dogs who barked vociferously in short, quick yelps, bespeaking a hot trail before them.

“There is a living contradiction of your idea,” she said; “the Southerners are intensity personified when the game is worth it; the game may be a fox chase or a flirtation, a love affair or a duel, and our men require no urging for any of those pursuits.”

They were quite close to the men now, and the Marquise declared they were a perfect addition to the scene of moonlit savannas backed by the masses of wood now near, now far, across the levels. Two of them had reached the road when the carriage wheels attracted attention from the dogs, and they halted, curious, questioning.

“Why, it’s our Pluto!” exclaimed Mrs. McVeigh; “stop the carriage. Pluto, what in the world are you doing here?”

Pluto came forward smiling, pleased.

“Welcome home, Mrs. McVeigh. I’se jest over Loringwood on errend with yo’ all letters to Miss Lena an’ Miss Sajane. Letters was stopped long time on the road someway; 178 yo’ all get here soon most as they did. Judge Clarkson––he aimen’ to go meet yo’ at Savannah––start in the mawning at daybreak. He reckoned yo’ all jest wait there till some one go fo’ escort.”

“Evilena is at Loringwood, you say? Then Miss Loring and her uncle have got over from Charleston?”

“Yes, indeedy!––long time back, more’n a week now since they come. Why, how come you not hear?––they done sent yo’ word; I know Miss Lena wrote you, ’cause she said so. Yes’m, the folks is back, an’ Miss Sajane an’ Judge over there this minute; reckon they’ll feel mighty sorry yo’ all passed the gate.”

“Oh, but the letter never reached me. I had no idea they were home, and it is too far to go back I suppose? How far are we from the house now?”

“Only ’bout a mile straight ’cross fields like we come after that ’possum, but it’s a good three miles by the road.”

“Well, you present my compliments and explain the situation to Miss Loring and the Judge. We will drive on to the Terrace. Say I hope to see them all soon as they can come. Evilena can come with you in the morning. Tell Miss Gertrude I shall drive over soon as I am rested a little––and Mr. Loring, is he better?”

“Heap better––so Miss Gertrude and the doctor say. He walks roun’ some. Miss Gertrude she mightily taken with Dr. Delaven’s cure––she says he jest saved Mahs Loring’s life over there in France.”

“Dr. Delaven!” uttered the voice of the Marquise, in soft surprise––“our Dr. Delaven?” and as she spoke her hand stole out and touched that of the handsome serving woman she called Louise; “is he also a traveller seeking adventure in your South?”

“Did I not tell you?” asked Mrs. McVeigh. “I meant to. Gertrude’s note mentioned that her uncle was under the care of our friend, the young medical student, so you will hear the very latest of your beloved Paris.”

“Charming! It is to be hoped he will visit us soon. This little woman”––and she nodded towards Louise––“must be treated for homesickness; you observe her depression since we left the cities? Dr. Delaven will be an admirable cure for that.”

“Your Louise will perhaps cure herself when she sees a home again,” remarked Mrs. McVeigh; “it is life in a carriage she has perhaps grown tired of.”

“Madame is pleased to tease me as people tease children for being afraid in the dark,” explained Louise. “I am not afraid, but the silence does give one a chill. I shall be glad to reach the door of your house.”

“And we must hasten. Remember all the messages, Pluto; bring your Miss Lena tomorrow and any of the others who will come.”

“I remember, sure. Glad I was first to see yo’ all back––good night.”

The other colored men in the background had lost all interest in the ’possum hunt, and were intent listeners to the conversation. Old Nelse, who had kept up to the rest with much difficulty, now pushed himself forward for a nearer look into the carriage. Mrs. McVeigh did not notice him. But he startled the Marquise as he thrust his white bushy head and aged face over the wheel just as they were starting, and the woman Louise drew back with a gasp of actual fear.

“What a stare he gave us!” she said, as they rolled away from the group by the roadside. “That old man had eyes 180 like augers, and he seemed to look through me––may I ask if he, also, is of your plantation, Madame?”

“Indeed, he is not,” was Mrs. McVeigh’s reassuring answer. “But he did not really mean to be impertinent; just some childish old ‘uncle’ who is allowed special privileges, I suppose. No; you won’t see any one like that at the Terrace. I can’t think who it could be unless it is Nelse, an old free man of Loring’s; and Nelse used to have better manners than that, but he is very old––nearly ninety, they say. I don’t imagine he knows his own age exactly––few of the older ones do.”

Pluto caught the old man by the shoulder and fairly lifted him out of the road as the carriage started.

“What the matter with yo’, anyway, a pitchen’ yo’self ’gainst the wheel that-a-way?” he demanded. “Yo’ ain’t boun’ and sot to get run over, are yo’?”

Some of the other men laughed, but Nelse gripped Pluto’s hand as though in need of the support.

“Fo’ God!––thought I seen a ghost, that minute,” he gasped, as the other men started after the dogs again; “the ghost of a woman what ain’t dead yet––the ghost o’ Retta.”

“Yo’ plum crazy, ole man,” said Pluto, disdainfully. “How the ghost o’ that Marg’ret get in my mistress carriage, I like to know?––’special as the woman’s as live as any of us. Yo’ gone ’stracted with all the talken’ ’bout that Marg’ret’s story. Now, I ain’t seen a mite of likeness to her in that carriage at all, I ain’t.”

“That ’cause yo’ ain’t nevah see Retta as she used to be. I tell yo’ if her chile Rhoda alive at all I go bail she the very likeness o’ that woman. My king! but she done scairt me.”

“Don’t yo’ go talk such notions to any other person,” suggested Pluto. “Yo’ get yo’self in trouble when yo’ go tellen’ 181 how Mrs. McVeigh’s company look like a nigger, yo’ mind! Why, that lady the highest kind o’ quality––most a queen where she comes from. How yo’ reckon Mrs. McVeigh like to hear such talk?”

“Might’nt a’ been the highest quality one I meant,” protested Nelse, strong in the impression he had received; “it wa’ the othah one, then––the one in a black dress.”

All three occupants of the carriage had worn dark clothes, in the night all had looked black. Nelse had only observed one closely; but Pluto saw a chance of frightening the old man out of a subject of gossip so derogatory to the dignity of the Terrace folks, and he did not hesitate to use it.

“What other one yo’ talken’ ’bout?” he demanded, stopping short, “my Mistress McVeigh?”

“Naw!––think me a bawn fool––you? I mean the otha one––the number three lady.”

“This here moonlight sure ’nough make you see double, ole man,” said Pluto, with a chuckle. “Yo’ better paddle yo’self back to your own cabin again ’stead o’ hunten’ ghost women ’round Lorin’wood, ’cause there wan’t only two ladies in that carriage––two live ladies,” he added, meaningly, “an’ one o’ them was my mistress.”

“Fo’ Gawd’s sake!”

The old man appeared absolutely paralyzed by the statement. His eyes fairly bulged from their sockets. He opened his lips again, but no sound came; a grin of horror was the only describable expression on his face. All the superstition in his blood responded to Pluto’s suggestion, and when he finally spoke it was in a ghostly whisper.

“I––I done been a looken’ for it,” he gasped, “take me home––yo’! It’s a sure ’nough sign! Last night ole whippo’will flopped ovah my head. Three nights runnen’ a hoot owl hooted ’fore my cabin. An’ now the ghost of a 182 woman what ain’t dead yet, sot there an’ stare at me! I ain’t entered fo’ no mo’ races in this heah worl’, boy; I done covah the track fo’ las’ time; I gwine pass undah the line at the jedge stan’, I tell yo’. I got my las’ warnen’––I gwine home!”