The Red Lady

|IT is the discomfort of the thing which comes back upon me, I believe, most forcibly. Of course it was horrible, too, emphatically horrible, but the prolonged, sustained, baffling discomfort of my position is what has left the mark. The growing suspicion, the uncanny circumstances, my long knowledge of that presence: it is all extraordinary, not least, the part I somehow managed to play.

I was housekeeper at the time for little Mrs. Brane. How I had come to be her housekeeper might have served to forewarn me, if I had had the clue. None but an inexperienced, desperate girl would have taken the position after the fashion in which I was urged to take it. I remember the raw, colorless day, and how it made me shiver to face its bitter grayness as I came out of the dismal New York boardinghouse to begin my dreary, mortifying search for work. I remember the hollowness of purse and stomach; and the dullness of head. I even remember wondering that hair like mine, so conspiculously golden-red, could possibly keep its flame under such conditions. And halfway down the block, how very well I remember the decent-looking, black-clad woman who touched my arm, looked me hard in the face, and said, “A message for you, madam.”

She got away so quickly that I had n't opened the blank envelope before she was round the corner and out of sight.

The envelope contained a slip of white paper on which was neatly printed in pen and ink: “Excellent position vacant at The Pines, Pine Cone, N.C. Mrs. Theodore Brane wants housekeeper. Apply at once.”

This was not signed at all. I thought: “Some one is thinking kindly of me, after all. Some oldtime friend of my father's, perhaps, has sent a servant to me with this message.” I returned to my third-story back hall-bedroom and wrote at once, offering my services and sending my references to Mrs. Brane. Two days later, during which my other efforts to find a position entirely failed, there came a letter on good note-paper in a light, sloping hand.

The Pines

My dear Miss Gale:

I shall be delighted to try you as housekeeper. I think you will find the place satisfactory. It is a small household, and your duties will be light, though I am very much out of health and must necessarily leave every detail of management to you. I want you to take your meals with me. I shall be glad of your companionship. The salary is forty dollars a month.

Sincerely yours

Edna Worthington Brane

And to my delight she enclosed the first month's salary in advance. I wonder if many such checks are blistered with tears. Mine was, when I cashed it at the bank at the corner, where my landlady, suddenly gracious, made me known.

Three days later, I was on my way to “The Pines.”

The country, more and more flat and sandy, with stunted pines and negro huts, with shabby patches of corn and potatoes, was sad under a low, moist sky, but my heart was high with a sense of adventure at all times strong in me, and I read promise between the lines of Mrs. Brane's kind little note.

I slept well in my berth that night and the next afternoon came safely to Pine Cone. My only experience had been the rather annoying, covert attention of a man on the train. He was a pleasant-enough looking fellow and, though he tried to conceal his scrutiny, it was disagreeably incessant. I was glad to leave him on the train, and I saw his face peering out of the window at me and caught a curious expression when I climbed into the cart that had been sent to meet me from “The Pines.” It was a look of intense excitement, and, it seemed to me, almost of alarm. Also, his fingers drew a note-book from his pocket and he fell to writing in it as the train went out. I could not help the ridiculous fancy that he was taking notes on me.