When I arrived at The Hermitage, the Willcoxes welcomed me as cordially as if I had been an invited guest rather than someone who had arrived unannounced. Clarke Willcox and his wife, Lillian, were warmly hospitable and seemed to enjoy showing me around the house. The flooring of beautiful twenty-foot lengths of heart pine and dowel trim, expertly done by slaves, decorates the front parlor. Upstairs over the front porch is an unusual round-hinged window with curved spokes and a central eye.
“She probably looked out that window many a time, for that was Alice’s bedroom,” said Clarke Willcox, gesturing toward the room on my right as I stood with my back to the round window. The room was white, as was the spread on the spool bed. Over a door hung a needlework sampler upon which had been worked, in large letters, the name “Alice.” It was a room that might have been typical of any young girl before the Civil War, what with its dainty, ruffled curtains, its innocence, its simplicity.
We sat down on the porch and continued to talk about the house. The front steps and walk are of sturdy English ballast brick, used to prevent light sailboats from capsizing in mid-ocean. When not needed, these bricks were often thrown into harbors and rivers, and many of them, when retrieved, paved the streets of Charleston and Savannah. It appeared that Mr. Willcox was not going to bring up the subject of Alice, which I had been prepared to ask questions about—questions that, in the light of my hosts’ obvious intelligence and culture, now seemed somewhat rude.
“Everyone who comes here probably asks you to tell them the story about Alice,” I finally said, leading into the subject in a manner that I felt did not indicate either belief or unbelief.
“You’re right,” my host replied, “and with so many questions about the story, I suppose that I have thought about her almost daily during the years we have lived in the house. No description of The Hermitage would really be complete without the tragedy of Alice Flagg. I gather you wish to hear it?” I nodded, and Mr. Willcox began his story.
“Alice was the sixteen-year-old sister of Dr. Allard Belin Flagg, who built The Hermitage. Since there was a considerable age difference between Allard and his younger sister, and since their father was dead, Allard always dominated his sister. He was more like a parent than a brother, and at times a tyrannical and disapproving parent at that.
“On her last vacation at home from finishing school in Charleston, Alice wore her new engagement ring on a ribbon around her neck beneath her blouse, unable to brave Allard’s rage if he saw it. She did everything possible to conceal even her happiness, for she was aware of his contempt for a man who was in the turpentine industry, a mere merchant, rather than a member of the professional or planter class.
“She returned to school after Christmas, and that spring was one of joy and secret planning for the future with her fiancé. The high point of the social season each year was the Spring Ball, at which the debutantes were presented. Alice made her debut in the most beautiful white gown imaginable. Those who saw her commented on how lovely she looked and on the becoming color in her cheeks as she danced one dance after another with her fiancé. Her mother was not able to attend for she had fled from the Low Country, with its dreaded malaria season, to the mountains. Fortunately, young Allard was not present either, too busy visiting patients and operating the farm.
“The day following the ball, Alice was suddenly stricken with the fever prevalent in the area. School authorities sent for Dr. Flagg. After equipping the family carriage with medications and articles for Alice’s comfort, he set out with a servant over the miserable roads to Charleston. It was a four-day one-way trip from Murrell’s Inlet, and there were five rivers to ford.
“When they arrived back at The Hermitage, Dr. Flagg was able to give his young sister a more thorough examination, and, in doing so, he found the engagement ring. Allard snatched it from her neck with such force that the ribbon broke. Then he strode outdoors and threw the ring into the creek. Alice was broken-hearted, and when visitors would come to her sickroom, she would beg them to find her ring. Her distress was apparent to all, and finally a young cousin went to Georgetown and bought a ring. When he pressed it into her hand, weak and near death as she was, she knew the difference. She threw it on the floor and begged him to find her ring.
“One week after her arrival at home, Alice breathed her last. There was not sufficient time for her mother even to get back from the mountains before the casket was closed, and Alice was buried temporarily in the yard of The Hermitage. When her mother returned, the girl’s body was moved to the family plot at All Saints Waccamaw Church, on the river opposite Pawley’s Island. Beneath the beautiful trees in the old cemetery and amid the imposing stones raised in memory of the other Flaggs may be seen a flat, white-marble slab. Upon it is engraved the single word ALICE.
“It is an epitaph telling in its simplicity. It would be given only to one who was unknown save for her first name—or so loved that only the first name was needed. I have walked through that cemetery many a time and seen a vase of flowers on her grave, a tribute to her left by some unknown donor. People are very romantic, aren’t they?” Mr. Willcox commented.
“Do you think that Alice really does come back?” I asked him.
“People
