LOVE WITHOUT SELF-LOVE
Stand up! Look below!
It is my life at thy feet I throw,
To step with into light and joy!
Not a power of life but I’ll employ—
BROWNING.
“Gryphynshold! Take me to Gryphynshold! that is the most remote of all
the manors left me by my father. Take me there, for I wish to go as far
as possible from all the people I ever knew before!” said Gloria, in
reply to David Lindsay’s suggestion that he should convey her to some
one of her houses as to a place of refuge.
They were still sitting together, where we left them, in the private
parlor of the hotel, on the afternoon of the day of their marriage.
They were now conversing in a quiet and friendly manner on the subject
of their approaching departure, for they had resolved to leave
Washington the same evening.
Gloria was much more composed now than she had ever been since the hour
of her marriage; for David Lindsay had assured her that he should never
presume on the position she had given him, even to enter her presence
uninvited.
She had, from their childhood up, always loved and trusted him, and now
that he had given her this promise, she implicitly believed him, and
dismissed all her disquieting doubts.
David Lindsay, meanwhile, magnanimously repressed all exhibition of the
bitter mortification and sorrow he experienced. He knew his little
playmate too well to blame her. He knew her better than any one else in
the world— better than she knew herself. The poor little hunted and
helpless fawn had flown to him for refuge, and he would succor her in
the way she pleased, not in the way he had wished.
She had chosen her place of refuge, and he would take her there.
“Gryphynshold,” he slowly repeated, when she had named the selected
point of destination. “What a savage and gloomy name, dear! Where is
that?”
“The name is not more gloomy and savage than the place, I fear. It is
situated in the extreme southwestern part of Virginia, on or near the
point of juncture with North Carolina and Tennessee. It is said to be
the most ancient building in all that region of country; it was erected
in a gorge of the Iron Mountains by an eccentric and misanthropical
Welshman named Dyvyd-ap-Gryphyn, said by some annalists to have been an
outlaw in his own country and a refugee in this. However that might have
been, or whether he had any legal right to the land or not, there, in
the most terrific yawning abyss of the mountain range, he built a rude
stronghold of heavy rock and ponderous timber, and called it
Gryphynshold; and there he lived, supporting himself by hunting and
fishing, like any other savage denizen of the wilderness, and there at
length he married an Indian girl of the Cherokee tribe. From that
marriage sprang the race of Gryphyns—a proud, surly, ferocious race of
men, the bane of each other, and the terror of their neighborhood.”
“It is to be devoutly hoped that they were not a very numerous tribe,”
said David Lindsay.
“No. I have heard Aunt Agrippina say that there was never more than one
child born of any marriage, and that was always a son. Strange, wasn’t
it, from generation to generation, only one son to succeed his father?”
“Very strange; yet it precluded all possibility of law-suits among the
heirs. But how came this ill-omened property into your father’s hands,
my dear little lady?” inquired David Lindsay, in a playful tone, assumed
to hide the heartache that was torturing him.
“Oh, it was a dreadful, dreadful story. I do not know the details of it.
But Mr. Dyvyd Gryphyn, the last descendant of the Welsh outlaw who
founded the family, seems to have been a demon in human form, more
haughty, surly, cruel and furious than any of his evil predecessors, yet
withal as demoniacally beautiful and fascinating as Lucifer, Son of the
Morning. After the death of his father, who was killed in a tavern
broil, and of his mother, who dropped dead of heart disease on hearing
the news—for all these handsome and ferocious demons seemed to have been
fondly loved by their unfortunate wives—Dyvyd Gryphyn left Gryphynshold
on a tour of Europe. After an absence of three years he returned home,
bringing with him a young woman, said to have been fairer than the
fairest lily, more blooming than the rosiest rose. He loved her with the
surly, jealous, cruel love of his nature and the nature of his fathers,
which seems to be not so much love as a devouring and consuming fire,
the curse and ruin of all upon whom it chanced to fall. And she loved
him with that fatality of devotion which was the doom of all the women
ever chosen by the ill men of the race. She was content to bury herself
with him in that savage solitude, remote from all human kind; yet he did
not seclude himself, but rode forth to distant towns and villages, and
remained away for days and weeks together. Sometimes he would bring a
party of men home with him, and they would hunt or fish all day, and
carouse all night. But he never let any of them see his hidden beauty,
who lived as isolated in her dreary prison as any enchanted princess in
a fairy castle, until one night, in the midst of a midnight orgie, when
his reckless companions were all mad with drink, and he himself was
maddest of all, he sent and summoned her to the feast. The poor thing
was not a Queen Vashti, so she obeyed the drunken mandate, and came
down. I do not know what happened there—what she was forced to see and
bear and hear—but that she was grieved, shocked and terrified beyond all
endurance is certain, for as soon as she could break away and escape
from the fiendish crew, she fled to the top of the house and hid
herself, in a state of delirious terror.”
Gloria paused and shuddered.
“What became of the poor young woman?” inquired David Lindsay.
“I do not know. No one knows what finally became of her. The party of
revellers broke up the next morning and Dyvyd Gryphyn rode with them to
the next town and remained absent for a day, during which the poor
little soul at home grew quieter.”
Again Gloria paused, and David Lindsay inquired:
“And was there a reconciliation between this ill-sorted pair?”
“I do not know. I never even heard whether he saw her again on the
morning after the orgie, or whether he took leave of her before setting
out on his journey with the revellers. She grew very quiet in his
absence.”
Once more Gloria sank into silence. Once more the young man prompted her
to continue, saying:
“Well, and when this demon of Gryphynshold came back?”
“Oh, David Lindsay, what next happened is so horrible—so horrible that I
shrink from speaking of it,” she said, with a shudder.
“Then do not, lady dear,” he answered, gently.
“Oh, but I must! It is on my mind and it must out! I have heard that he
came back in the middle of a January night—a bitter cold, freezing
night. His face, they say, was as black as a thunder cloud, and his eyes
flashed like lightning. Without deigning a word to one of the servants,
who came to attend him, he strode at once to the chamber of his poor
young victim and ordered her to get up and dress herself, for she should
leave his house that night!”
“What an unheard-of monster!” exclaimed David Lindsay.
“Oh, what a wretched maniac! for no man in his senses would have acted
with such causeless cruelty. In vain the poor creature pleaded to know
what she had done to offend him. He only cursed her and threatened to
throw her from the window unless she dressed and departed at once. In
vain she wept and begged to stay till morning. He told her, with many
fierce curses, that by this delay she only trifled with his temper and
her own life. Oh! oh, David Lindsay, he thrust that delicate creature
forth in the freezing air of that bitter January night to perish on the
mountains!” exclaimed Gloria, who had forgotten all her own troubles in
recalling this horrible story.
“And did she so perish?” mournfully inquired the young man.
“I do not know. Some weeks from that night a party of hunters found the
dead body of a woman on the mountain; but the birds of prey had found it
first and it was unrecognizable! Oh, it is all too, too hideous! It was
supposed to be the body of Dyvyd Gryphyn’s victim, and, as she was never
heard of afterwards, it probably was hers.”
“And what became of the madman? You were right in calling him a maniac,
Gloria, for such he certainly must have been. You said that he was the
last owner of Gryphynshold, therefore he must be dead. How did he die?”
“Ah, like nearly all his fierce race! A violent death! On the very day
after he had thrust his poor little white slave out into the winter
night, he himself fell in a duel with one of the reckless companions of
his demoniac orgies of that terrible night when he commanded the hidden
beauty to come into their abhorrent presence.”
“Killed in a duel at last,” muttered David Lindsay to himself.
“Yes, and with him perished the last of the evil race of the Gryphyns of
Gryphynshold.”
“How came your father to purchase such an ill-omened piece of property?”
“It was advertised to be sold for taxes. Then an heir turned up in a
Welsh baronet, who spelled his name in the more modern and civilized
manner of G-r-i-f-f-i-n, but who was of the same original Welsh stock,
the next of kin, and the heir-at-law, though a very, very, very distant
cousin. This gentleman did not want this mountain property, and so, as
soon as his claim to it was established, he threw the estate into the
market, and my father bought it.”
“What could have induced Count de la Vera to buy such a place?”
“He was looking around for opportunities to invest his money in Virginia
lands, being determined to become a citizen of the United States. He
thought the Iron Mountain must be rich in the ore that gave it its name,
and rich in other ores as well; and that this would be a source of great
wealth to his wife and children in the future, if not immediately to
himself; for remember that my mother was living at the time of the
purchase.”
“After what you have told me, dear, I question whether that would be a
desirable residence for any one, least of all for you,” said David
Lindsay, gravely.
“Oh, yes, it would. I particularly wish to go there. Ah, I know not why,
but the very savageness of the place attracts me!” exclaimed Gloria.
“Who is in charge of the house? Shall we find it habitable? Will there
be accommodations for you?”
“Oh, yes, I suppose so,” said Gloria, answering the last question first;
“the place should be kept up; my father purchased it just as it was,
with slaves, stock, carriage and horses, implements, furniture, and
everything. He even retained the hired white overseer and the
housekeeper who had been in the service of the last owner. I know that
Uncle Marcel used to receive their accounts and pay their wages twice
every year.”
“So you have decided to go to Gryphynshold?”
“I have determined to go there,” said Gloria, firmly.
“Then I must get a map and trace out our course as well as I can, and
afterwards inquire about stages.”
“I can tell you that; for once during our summer holiday trips, Marcel
and I, being in this city, planned to go and take a look at my mountain
stronghold, as he called it. So we left Washington by the six P. M.
stage-coach for Winchester; thence to Staunton, and thence to the
Greenbriar White Sulphur Springs; but there we found the place so
attractive that we went no farther. So I know that we must commence our
journey by the stage that leaves here at six o’clock in the evening.
What time is it now? Let me see,” she said, as she consulted her
diamond-studded little gold watch. “It is half-past one. Now, please
ring and order a carriage. I must go out and buy a trunk, a work-box, a
writing-desk, a dressing-case, clothes, needles and thread, stationery,
combs and brushes, and all such necessaries of a girl’s life, before
going into that remote mountain wilderness. And at the same time we can
stop at the stage office and take our places.”
The young man answered by ringing the bell, and when the waiter appeared
he gave the requisite order.
Gloria went in her chamber to put on her sack and hat.
The carriage was soon announced, and in five minutes afterwards the
young pair were rolling along the avenue, Gloria looking out from the
window to watch for the signs of the shops she wished to visit.
Presently she stopped the carriage before the door of the only general
dealer and outfitter in ladies’ ready-made garments that the city then
afforded.
David Lindsay left her there and went to book their places in the
Winchester stage-coach.
It took Gloria three full hours to drive from place to place and collect
all she wanted. She found them all without leaving the avenue, however.
She had the trunk put on behind the carriage and the goods all piled
within it, to save time by taking them to the hotel herself. Finally she
reached her rooms at about five o’clock and spent half an hour in
diligent packing.
David Lindsay then came to take her down to dinner, which they had
scarcely finished before the stage-coach called to claim them.
In those slow days stage-coaches did not start exactly on time, as
railway trains are supposed to do now. I have known a stage-coach to
wait twenty minutes while John C. Calhoun and Henry Clay leisurely
finished their breakfast before taking their seats to leave Washington
at the end of a session of Congress.
Our young pair did not keep the coach waiting. They soon had their
luggage brought down and bestowed in the boot, and soon after found
themselves comfortably seated, the only passengers except two returning
country dealers who had been East to purchase goods for the spring
trade. This class indeed formed the bulk of travelers at this season of
the year.
It was dark when the coach started on its long and wearisome journey.
There was neither moon nor stars out, for the sky was quite overclouded,
so that there was no temptation for the passengers to gaze abroad as the
stage-coach rattled over the newly macadamized avenue on through
Washington, Georgetown, Tennalleytown to Rockville, where it changed
horses, and where one of the travelers left them and another one took
his place.
When the coach started again, Gloria curled herself up in her corner and
tried to go to sleep, for she was in no way interested in the
conversation concerning the dullness of the trade and the unpunctuality
of debtors which the country merchants had forced upon her companion.
Rocked, or fatigued, by the rolling of the cumbersome old coach, Gloria
was soon fast asleep, and she slept through the whole night, undisturbed
except by the stoppage at the post-houses to change horses.
At sunrise they reached Leesburg, where they stopped to breakfast and to
change coaches, taking the Winchester coach.
They rode all day through the most beautiful passes of the lesser Blue
Ridge and reached Winchester in the Valley in time for an early tea.
Here again they were to change coaches and take the Staunton stage.
David Lindsay would have prevailed on Gloria to stop and rest till
morning, but she was determined to pursue her journey.
They had but an hour here before the starting of the Staunton coach, and
Gloria made the most of her time to refresh herself by a wash and
prepare comfortably for her second night’s ride.
After an excellent tea, for which their wintry day’s journey had given
them a keen appetite, the young travelers took their seats in the
Staunton coach and recommenced their journey.
And this second night, poor, disappointed David Lindsay slept as soundly
in his seat as did the willful beauty, Gloria, in hers.
Not even the stoppage of the coach to change horses, amid the flashing
lights of the roadside post-houses, or the getting off of old passengers
and climbing in of new ones succeeded in arousing them, for if disturbed
they would draw a long breath, slightly change position, and drop asleep
again.
They never opened their eyes until the stage-coach stopped at Woodstock,
when the tumultuous getting out of their fellow-passengers at once fully
awakened them.
Then they saw that the sun was at least an hour high, and that the
horses were being taken from the coach before a spacious hotel in the
principal street of a country town.
“What place is this?” drowsily inquired David Lindsay.
“Woodstock, sir, where we change horses and get breakfast,” answered the
guard.
David handed his sleepy companion from the inside of the heavy old
vehicle, and led her into a pleasant parlor, where their
fellow-travelers were already gathered around a large, open fireplace,
in which a glorious hickory wood fire was blazing. The party there made
room for the young lady.
But she did not stay with them long. A neat colored girl came up to her
and respectfully whispered the question as to whether she would not like
to go to her room before breakfast.
Decidedly Gloria would like to do that very thing. So she arose and
followed the girl, who lifted and carried the young lady’s traveling-bag
to a spacious chamber over the parlor, with white dimity window-curtains
and bed-spread, and a fine fire blazing up the open chimney-place.
The girl supplied the young traveler with warm and cold water, fresh
towels, and every other requisite for the toilet—informing her,
meantime, that she had half an hour before breakfast.
Gloria was glad. She sent for her trunk to be brought up, and had a
thoroughly refreshing toilet, with a full change of dress.
Then, as fresh as if she had risen from a comfortable bed, instead of
coming out of a lumbering stage-coach, she went down and joined her
fellow-travelers at a delicious breakfast of coffee, hot rolls,
buckwheat cakes, venison, quails, ham and every dainty of the season.
After the breakfast, half their fellow-passengers entered with them into
the Staunton coach. (The other half had diverged in various directions.)
Their way now lay down the great valley of Virginia, with the Blue Ridge
mountains on the east and the Alleghanies on the west—a paradise of
beauty in the summer, and a fine country even when covered with snow, as
it was now, in mid-winter.
By nightfall they reached Staunton.
Gloria was much fatigued, and again David Lindsay implored her to rest
for one night.
But Gloria, willful as ever, was bent upon going on until she should
reach the end of her journey. That extreme bourne, the “Hold” in the
Iron Mountains, on the confines of three States, possessed a weird
attraction like the lodestone, and drew her on and on.
“It is like a place in a dream—a place in a nightmare—but it fascinates
me all the same,” she answered to the expostulations of David Lindsay.
After a substantial supper, finished with strong coffee, the travelers
who were to go farther took seats in the changed coach, and began the
third night’s journey towards Lexington.
Again, as before, the two young people slept throughout the ride, only,
being still more fatigued, they slept more soundly than ever, and only
awakened when, at sunrise, the coach drew up at the hotel in the main
street of the little town of Lexington, and their fellow passengers
began to climb over them in getting out.
Here they stopped for an hour. A refreshing wash, a substantial
breakfast, and a brisk walk up and down the village street, restored the
strength and spirit of the wearied young pair, so that they re-entered
the lumbering old coach without any remaining oppression from fatigue,
and well prepared to enjoy the day’s ride through the varied scenery of
hill and dale, woods, waters, fields, farms, towns and hamlets that
diversified the valley that lay between the two great ranges of
mountains.
Towards evening the valley narrowed and the mountains rose until the
road seemed to be approaching a gorge.
While there was yet light enough, David Lindsay drew a pocket map from
his breast and began to examine it.
“If our journey takes us through that yawning chasm, I think we had
better stop for the night at the first tavern we come to,” suggested the
young man, thinking more of the safety of his companion than of his own.
“No! where the coach can go, we can go, night or day,” persisted Gloria.
It was dusk when they reached the gap they had seen so far before them.
There was a great stone building on a river that broke through the
mountains at this point. The water reflected the high precipices and the
buildings with their gleaming lights. The place was a combination of
tavern, post-house, mill and ferry.
Here they stopped to change horses and get supper, after which the
coach, with its passengers, freight and horses, was ferried across the
river to the other side, and then it took the road beneath the shelter
of the snow-clad mountains, and kept it, plodding along slowly for the
rest of the night.
But we must not dwell too long on this picturesque journey.