by Lee Smith
But you must forgive me, my dear sister. As ever, my heart runs away with my pen. Let me go back a bit. I trust you can read this report and have already pardoned my uneven penmanship. The carriage jounces from rut to rut as I attempt to write, yet I do have a measure of privacy here, as Mister Black, ever solicitous of my own welfare and the delicate condition of my charge, rides outside upon the seat beside his servant Henry (who at first sight appears to be Negro yet upon closer inspection proves to be some sort of aboriginal Indian, with filed teeth and a grossly distended lower lip). This Henry is remarkable in many other ways as well, including his apparent level of education. He is extremely well spoken and converses with Mister Black upon virtually equal terms. I hear their voices now though I cannot make out the import of their conversation. I shall miss my guess if they are not discussing the strange and disturbing scene which occurred this morning upon our arrival at Agate Hill Plantation.
But first a word as to the place itself. Here I found an old home of great distinction and dilapidation in the loveliest of settings, upon a high prospect of sweeping vistas and incomparable charm, yet surrounded by an air of loneliness and—how shall I put it? Defeat. Failure. Loss. Decay. And beyond that: wrongdoing, malfeasance. For something is wrong there, Mariah, dreadfully wrong. I know that you consider me fanciful and often chide me for having my “head in the clouds” and my “nose in a novel,” yet do not doubt me on this, dear sister.
First, no one awaited us. Nor appeared to expect our arrival, though eventually Mrs. Hall came out to stand silently upon the piazza, babe in arms, as we progressed up the long lane during which time she neither waved nor smiled nor openly acknowledged us in any way. It was all very disconcerting, and I became increasingly nervous as we approached. Weeds grew high along the road and about the outbuildings, many of these now fallen to ruin. Disheveled is too kind a word to describe Mrs. Hall’s appearance, Mariah, with her steely black stare, that messy hair, and blouse untucked.
Yet she walked forward with no embarrassment. “Simon,” she said clearly, to my surprise.
“Selena.” Mister Black went over to her and bowed in as gentlemanly a fashion as if he were at court and she were a lady. “I bring you greetings and condolences as well as congratulations upon the birth of your child.”
I have noticed, Mariah, that Mister Black speaks the English language as if he has just learned it, in a most formal and stilted manner.
Mrs. Hall bent her head in reply then straightened back up, perhaps unconsciously, carrying herself now with greater dignity, as if she had just remembered who she was. She loosened the child’s wrapping and thrust him forward toward Mister Black. “This is Solomon Junius Hall,” she said, “my own little Junius.”
“That is a very large name for such a small child,” Mister Black said.
“Yes, actually he is too small, as you see. I fear for his health.”
“I am sorry to hear that. But I am pleased to make his acquaintance nevertheless, and to see you again, as there are now some matters which we must discuss together.”
Mrs. Hall glanced up at him sharply as if to assess the situation. Her face changed before my very eyes; a certain (how shall I put it?) appraising friendliness appeared. For the first time, she smiled. She put her hand upon Mister Black’s arm. “Ah, is that so?” she asked.
I could not hear his reply, but he moved closer to her, appearing to have forgotten me altogether. Since I had not yet been introduced, I was forced to remain in the sweltering carriage in an awkward state of misgiving while the two of them stood at a distance talking together earnestly.
Thus was the state of affairs when from the corner of my eye I chanced to glimpse a sight so astonishing, so alarming, that I was struck dumb and could not say a single word of warning. Up the aforementioned lane at great speed appeared a giant, a huge straw-thatched farmer type of giant, taking long strides as if in a fairy tale, carrying a child in his arms and making a loud noise all the while, moaning and babbling, though his meaning remained obscure. At length he came close enough for me to see that his burden was not a child at all, but a girl, a young lady, albeit a pretty poor specimen at the time, being filthy dirty and most inappropriately dressed.
Simon Black had turned at the sound of this person’s approach; now he made his way back toward him with slow deliberate steps, hand held up in greeting, as if such an apparition were the most ordinary thing in the world. “Hello, Spencer,” he said. “I am Simon Black, your father’s old friend, perhaps you remember me.”
Then with no warning Mister Black suddenly crossed to the carriage and yanked the door open. I almost tumbled into the road, for I’d been leaning out the window, literally hanging on every word. Mister Black put out a hand to catch me, then helped me down the steps, a gentleman as always.
The giant stood holding the girl aloft in the sunshine. Beneath the tangled honey-colored hair, her eyes were as blue and as blank as the July sky above us. They gazed at me with no interest whatsoever; they chilled me to the bone.
With that exaggerated formality I alluded to earlier, Mister Black said, “Good morning, Molly Petree, allow me to introduce Miss Agnes Rutherford, a teacher at the Gatewood Academy which you will be attending immediately, as ordered by Judge Draper, for you are now a ward of the Court. I have the papers right here. It is all arranged.”
Not a trace of understanding or even awareness flickered in those eyes. Nevertheless I was determined to try, of course. I had just opened my mouth to greet her when (as if all that had transpired were not enough) out of the woods ran a yellow-haired, red-faced man (I shall not say “gentleman”) naked from the waist up. He ran right past us toward the house without a word; when he had passed, I saw that his entire bare back was covered in dripping blood. It was a horrid sight. At his approach, Mrs. Hall showed no sympathy for his evident plight but began to scream at him in the vilest language imaginable, dropping all pretense of ladylike behavior. She followed him toward the house screaming. Her poor baby began to wail. The gentle giant now set the girl down upon her feet before us with great care and tenderness. This accomplished, he stood up to his full height, took a huge breath and bellowed at the top of his lungs, taking out after the yellow-haired man who continued running past the big house then headed off into the woods. We watched until the green wall of trees had closed behind the two of them and even their cries could be heard no more. I felt as though they were strange animals that had disappeared into the forest.
I turned back to Molly Petree who opened her mouth as if to speak but did not, instead crumpling down onto the lane where she simply sat, head bowed, until Mister Black himself picked her up and carried her inside the house, myself and Henry following. He placed her upon a settee in the wide hallway where she half-lay, half-sat while he engaged in an intense whispered conference with Mrs. Hall who had now reappeared sans baby at the far end of the hall. Once my eyes had adjusted to the dimness, I gazed about in astonishment. The interior of the house was so unkept as to appear ransacked. I did not attempt to speak to Molly Petree during this time, yet remained near her.
At length Simon Black and Mrs. Hall approached us, apparently united. Some sort of bargain appeared to have been struck. Mister Black spoke directly to Molly, telling her once again that she would be returning to Gate-wood Academy with me, that everyone feels she is a brilliant girl who will benefit from further schooling and enjoy the company of other girls.
“No.” This was the first word Molly said.
“Now Molly,” said Mrs. Hall.
“No, no no.” Now Molly fully comprehended; now she was crying. She said she would not leave Agate Hill, that she would never leave Agate Hill, that she could not leave her “ghosts,” whatever that means. She made scarcely more sense than the blubbering giant had done. At this point, Mrs. Hall stepped forward suddenly, jerked the poor girl to her feet, and shook her until her eyes rolled back in her head and I feared she would fall apart. But just as Mister Black stepped forward to interven
e, Mrs. Hall gave it up and enveloped her in a close embrace. “Go, Molly,” she said, sobbing hoarsely. “Go, go.”
In return Molly herself hugged Mrs. Hall tightly, crying all the while. “You want me to go?” she asked in a whisper, the first coherent words I had heard her speak. “You want me to leave, Selena?”
Mrs. Hall inclined her head and shut her eyes. “Go, honey,” she said fiercely. “Go now.”
Molly held her tight, then nodded.
I watched this exchange in astonishment. It was impossible for me to judge the true nature of the intense relationship between the two of them (as, indeed, it was impossible for me to judge the true nature of anything at Agate Hill). I can only report these events to you, Mariah—not interpret!
But clearly it was decided. I went upstairs with Molly and helped her pack up such few things as she has brought with her, but I must tell you, Mariah, she will have to be completely outfitted and clothed once we have got her at the Academy. Never have I seen such filth and disarray as in that house so stately on the outside, so chaotic within. I shall spare you the most disturbing details. At length two more children appeared like apparitions in the gloom of the second story. They refused to speak to me, indeed appearing wary of strangers altogether. I imagine there have not been too many visitors at Agate Hill of late. I wondered: Could these be the “ghosts” Molly spoke of? They are solemn and pale enough. But she would not say. She would not speak at all now. She had almost no clothing and no personal effects. Her pitiful belongings fit into an old haversack we found in the closet. I left her to clean herself up as best she could with washbowl and cloth while I carried the haversack downstairs to Henry who took it out to the carriage, past Mister Black who paced back and forth on the piazza waiting.
“Where is Molly?” he whirled to address me.
“Why, she is bathing off,” I said, “in preparation for our journey.”
His face went dark as a thundercloud. “Go back to her at once,” he said. “Don’t let her out of your sight again, Agnes.” It was the first time he had called me by my given name.
Off I went, but to my horror, I could not find her. I ran all through the tumbled bedrooms upstairs, looking, I ran into a dark parlor and a dusty dining room downstairs, I went out the back and into the kitchen, I grabbed one of the children, the boy, who was surly and said he knew nothing. I then reported to Mister Black on the front piazza, who said simply, “Find her.” He joined in the search.
“Mrs. Hall!” I knocked on what I believed to be the nursery door, off the downstairs hall.
“Come on in,” she said, yet when I did so, I found her nursing the baby, and quickly averted my eyes as I blurted out my business. Mrs. Hall was not at all embarrassed.
“Molly does this often,” she said simply. “She has got a way of disappearing. I reckon she’ll be on back, bye and bye.”
This was not good enough for Mister Black, in a towering rage by this time, though not at me. “Of course it is not your fault, Agnes,” he said kindly, though I felt it was my fault and was suffering bitterly for it. He dispatched Henry to search the barns, and went through the cabins out back himself. I confess that I sat down upon the doorsill in the front hall and engaged in a good cry, Mariah. It was all so strange; but at least neither the giant nor the yellow-haired man with the bleeding back ever reappeared. Henry came back with no good news to report, and Mister Black the same. He paced back and forth on the piazza, hat in hand. I sat in dejection upon the sill. The sun climbed higher in the sky.
“All right, then. I’m ready.” Suddenly a little voice was heard from the top of the stairs.
“Mister Black!” I called.
He sprang to the door, shading his eyes with his hat. Together we watched Molly Petree descend the stairs as if she were making her entrance to a fancy dress ball. She was like a different girl, head held high, back straight. She did not smile. She will be a handful, Mariah.
Mister Black took her arm and escorted her straight to the carriage, handing me up after her. The carriage rocked as he and Henry mounted, then shuddered as the horses pulled away. As the urns by the gate gave no shade, I judged it to be noon, merely noon, though I felt we had been there for an eternity, so much had transpired.
Now that we were under way, I felt sorry for Molly, remembering how she had cried at the thought of this departure. “You can always come back,” I said. “You can come back for visits.” I attempted to reassure her, but she shook her head, no. I think she has a great deal of natural composure and determination, Mariah. You shall see. She sat staring straight ahead, never once looking back at the home of her childhood though I myself could not resist doing so. Immense and indecipherable, it stood upon its hill, no person in sight, in its surround of mystery and decay. I confess, my heart rose precipitously in proportion to our distance from it.
Now what can I do to encourage this girl, leaving all she has known? I wondered. What would Mariah do? I asked myself. Then it came to me. On impulse, I leaned forward and began: “I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help. My help cometh from the Lord, which made heaven and earth,” etcetera.
For the first time, I had a genuine response from Molly Petree. Her eye gladdened, her expression lifted. “The Lord shall preserve thy going out, and thy coming in, from this time forth, and even forevermore,” she quoted.
I was much encouraged. “Do you like that Psalm?” I asked her.
“Not so much,” she said surprisingly. “On the whole, I prefer a poem, like ‘Annabelle Lee’ or ‘The Lady of Shallott.’ “
So, more is here than meets the eye, Mariah.
Then she yawned, a huge wide child’s yawn.
“Why don’t you see if you can sleep?” I asked her. “You must be exhausted,” for I too was exhausted, suddenly and profoundly, and both of us then slept until afternoon when we woke up at an inn where we could use the necessary. Mister Black ordered up a fine big meal of roast chicken and a peach pie which we ate outside on a wooden table under an apple tree, the cook and her sister serving us. We were all ravenous, Molly Petree included. Mister Black has a way of making things happen, I notice. His is an elaborately polite form of coercion and commandeering, yet his manner is such that no one could term it so. Everyone loves to do his bidding, it seems. Even I am not immune to his charm, yet find it impossible to divine the import of the only request he has made of me. This occurred at the end of our dinner, as we prepared for the next leg of our journey.
Mister Black pulled me aside. “Agnes,” he said, “perhaps it will not be necessary for you to tell your sister and her husband all that you have seen here today.”
“Why, what do you mean?” I asked. “I always tell her everything” (which is true, Mariah), and in fact I still do not know what he meant. I am puzzling over it as we clip along, now through the purple twilight. Already Agate Hill seems to exist in the past, as if in another country.
Molly Petree sleeps quietly on the carriage seat across from me now, and it is possible to tell that she is even pretty, though small, with a long straight nose and a somewhat wide mouth. I believe she will clean up nicely. Mister Black has said that we will drive all night, as we did coming. Neither he nor Henry ever sleeps, I suppose. This seems in keeping with Mister Black’s other somewhat mythical qualities. He appears larger than life in every respect. I find him both terrifying and reassuring, in equal proportion. I am anxious to hear what you have to say of him, Mariah, and of Molly Petree.
It is almost full dark now. Fireflies arise from the woods all along the road. Henry is lighting the lamps.
Sincerely Yours,
Agnes
The Gatewood Academy
Hopewell, Virginia
Founded 1848
THE SITUATION OF THIS SCHOOL combines the advantages of town and country and, in its healthfulness and purity of moral atmosphere, is thought to be peculiarly eligible.
The primary object of our course of instruction is to qualify young ladies
for the discharge of the duties of subsequent life. We seek to cultivate in every pupil a sense of her responsibility for time and for eternity. Our instruction in every branch is thorough and rigorous. “Not how much, but how well” is our motto.
The Gatewood Academy offers guidance, instruction, and nourishment for the mind, the body, and most particularly, the soul of each young lady entrusted to our care.
Boarding students shall number 15–20; the number of day students shall be the same.
Each boarding pupil is required to furnish raincoat and rubbers, her own towels and table napkins, 1 pair sheets, 1 bolster case or 2 pillow cases, a counterpane, and a drinking vessel.
Pupils are recommended to bring: a large dictionary, atlas, slate, dictionaries of Latin or French, and sheet music.
Tuition and board, $250 per annum, exclusive of lights, washing, and pew rent, $20 additional fee. Use of instrument for practice, $20. Tuition payable one half in advance, cash. Firm, no exceptions.