Page:The Whisper on the Stair by Lyon Mearson (1924).djvu/251

 “Elizabeth,” she called into the kitchen.

That old woman appeared at the door, her eyes tired, her figure sagging. “Has that old he-devil gone?” she asked. “I thought he’d never go. He⸺” She caught the expression on her mistress’ face then.

“Why, Jessica, honey⸺” she exclaimed, going to her and stroking her hand, “what’s the matter? What is it?” She saw fright in her mistress’ face, fright, fear, mingled with determination, sudden, unchangeable resolve. “Why, Jessica⸺”

“I’m all right, Elizabeth. Tell Germinal to harness up the horse and get the trap ready. We’re going to Norfolk—and back to New York to-night?”

Elizabeth shook her head. “Germinal’s gone,” she said.

Jessica stared her astonishment. “Gone!” she said. “When, and where—why?”

“A few minutes ago—that crippled old fathead was in here, so I couldn’t tell you. If a nigger can get pale, that’s the way Germinal looked, the black old fool. He came running into the kitchen, nearly dead with fright—you could actually see him pale under that brown skin of his. He could scarcely talk—his tongue didn’t seem to be able to work, somehow—frozen to the roof of his mouth. Finally, all I was able to get from him was that he had seen something, a ghost, I guess—he kept talking about how the grave gives up its dead⸺”

“The grave!” interjected Jessica.

“Yes. He said graveyards were yawning—his hair was actually standing on end. I do declare to goodness, I never saw a man so scared as that man Germinal. Said he wouldn’t stay in this place another minute—he said it was full of ‘hants’ and that he just