GRYPHYNSHOLD
But there no more shall human voice
Be heard to rage—lament—rejoice—
The last sad note that swelled the gale
Was woman’s wildest funeral wail.
BYRON.
From this point, however, they had left the lovely landscape of the
valley and entered as by a natural gate into the wild mountain scenery,
that, as they went on, grew wilder, more dreary and desolate.
They were two more days and nights on the road, stopping at irregular
intervals to change horses at wayside post-houses, located just where it
was possible to put them, or to breakfast, dine and sup at roadside
taverns or little village hotels, until at the close of the fifth day
from starting on their wearisome journey, they reached a ferry on the
banks of a narrow, deep and rapid river, on the opposite side of which
arose a lofty range of dark, cedar-covered mountains.
Here their stage journey ended.
They left the coach, had their baggage taken, and entered the
ferry-house.
The coach, after changing horses, went on its way.
Gloria and David Lindsay found themselves in a homely parlor, with bare
walls and bare floor, a few flag-bottomed chairs and a pine table. The
only ornaments were a defaced looking-glass between the windows and a
framed picture of old-fashioned sampler-work representing a willow-tree
over a tombstone, hung over the mantelpiece.
It was, however, heated by a roaring fire of great cedar logs, for cedar
was the most plentiful wood in that mountain region, and it was lighted
by two tall tallow-dips in iron candlesticks.
David Lindsay drew forward a chair and placed it before the fire for his
weary companion, and then went out to find the landlord, ferryman, or
some other responsible party.
After an absence of a few moments he came back, and said:
“Now, dear, I have two plans to propose to you. Choose between them. Mr.
Cummings, the landlord here, has no conveyance except a heavy wagon
drawn by mules, which he says is the safest sort for these mountain
roads, and in which he is willing to send us on to Gryphynshold either
to-night or to-morrow morning. The accommodations here are very rude and
plain, as you see. You may judge what the upper rooms are by this, which
I suppose is the best. Now it is for you to decide whether to go on
to-night or to stay here and rest till morning and take the daylight for
your journey to Gryphynshold.”
“Oh, let us go on at once! Where the mules can take the wagon, surely we
can go,” promptly replied Gloria.
David Lindsay went out and gave the order. His exit was followed by the
entrance of a colored girl, who respectfully invited the young lady to
go up into a bedroom where she could lay off her wraps and refresh
herself while the supper and the wagon were getting ready.
Gloria willingly followed her, and took the benefit of all her offered
services.
Then, feeling much better, she slipped a piece of money in the poor
girl’s hand and went down stairs, where an excellent supper awaited
them.
Whatever the mental troubles of the young pair might be, the long
journey over the snow-clad and frozen roads, and through the pure,
exhilarating air of mid-winter had given them fine, healthy appetites,
and they both did full justice to the coffee, corn-bread and venison
steaks that were set before them.
Immediately after supper they entered the heavy wagon, into which their
luggage had already been placed, and settled themselves to continue
their journey to Gryphynshold.
“Mind, Tubal,” called the landlord to his negro driver, “you take the
lower road! It is the longest, but it is the safest.”
“Yes, sar,” responded the darkey.
“And when you get to the Devil’s Backbreaker be sure to jump off and
lead the mules all the way up, or there’ll be an accident. Do you mind?”
“Yes, sar.”
“And when you come to Sinking Creek, be certain to look out for the
water-post, to see if it is low enough to ford.”
“Yes, sar.”
“And when you get up to Peril Ledge get off and lead the beasts again;
and mind you be very careful! I don’t want another broken neck broughten
back here for a crowner’s quest.”
“No, sar.”
“Now, then, start, and mind what I tell you.”
“Yes, sar,” said Tubal, and as he slowly set his mules in motion, he
muttered to himself: “’Tain’t de dangers ob goin’ dere to old
Grippinwolf—omphe! no! I don’t mind goin’ dere, but as to stayin’ dere
all night to res’ de mules—no, sar!—not Tubal!”
“What are you talking about, old man?” inquired David Lindsay.
But by this time they had reached the edge of the river, and Tubal’s
whole attention was engaged in driving his mules on to the great flat
ferry-boat, upon which stood four men with very long poles to push it
over.
Nothing more was said until after they had reached the other side and
Tubal had driven the wagon off the boat on to a road running between the
front of the precipice and the river.
“What is the matter with old Gryphynshold that you would not stay all
night in the place?” again questioned David Lindsay, whose interest in
the ancient house had been deeply excited by the story of the last
owner.
“What de matter long ob Grippinwolf, you ax? Now, look here, young
marster, I dunno who yer is, nor what yer arter comin’ up here to
Grippinwolf, whar no decent Christian hasn’t been visitin’ in de memory
ob man! But you jes’ take a fool’s advice an’ turn right square roun’
an’ go right straight back whar yer come from. Don’t keep on to
Grippinwolf,” said the old man, solemnly.
“Why shouldn’t we go on? What is the matter with Gryphynshold, I ask you
again?” inquired David.
“Debbil’s de matter wid it, young marster, jes’ de debbil! Not as I’d
mind dat so much, if it war on’y de debbil, ’cause we read so much about
him in de catechism dat he feels like a ole acquaintance ob ourn—natural
like—on’y we don’t want to fall in his hands. No, I don’t mind him so
much; but dere’s heap wuss dan de debbil as ails old Grippinwolf.”
“What is it, then?” inquired David, interested, in spite of his better
reason.
The old negro paused, as if to give full effect to his words, and then
solemnly replied:
“Dead people!”
“Dead people!” echoed David Lindsay, in amazement.
“Ooome!” groaned the old man.
“How can the dead trouble the place?” inquired the young man.
“Ooome!” groaned the negro.
“What do they do? They lie quietly in their graves, do they not?”
“Ooome! Hush, honey! I wish dey did!”
“What do they do, then?”
Again the negro paused to give full effect to his words, as he
mysteriously replied:
“Dey walks!”
“Walks!”
“Yes, honey, de dead people walks in Grippinwolf—walks so continual dat
dey won’t let anybody else lib dere.”
“Why, Mrs. Brent, the housekeeper, lives there!” exclaimed Gloria,
putting in her voice for the first time.
“What say, honey?” inquired the negro.
“I say the housekeeper, Mrs. Brent, lives there.”
“Who? Her?” exclaimed Tubal, in such a tone of scornful denial that
Gloria hastened to add:
“She does live there, does she not?”
“Ole mistress lib in Grippinwolf? Ooome! Yer better jes’ ax her to lib
dere, dat’s all!”
“Then the housekeeper does not live in the house, if I understand you
aright?” said Gloria, in unpleasant surprise.
“Hi, what I tell you, honey? Nobody can’t lib dere ’mong de dead
people!”
“What nonsense you talk, old man. Some one must live there to take care
of the house.”
“Well, den, dey don’t, young mist’ess, an’ I tell yer so good! De ghosts
has ’jected everybody out ob dat house, and dey has had it all to
deirselves dis twenty years or more.”
“Then my guardian has been completely deceived! He has been paying a
salary to a housekeeper who has abandoned her duties. And if the house
is deserted, as he says, what shall we do, David Lindsay?” inquired
Gloria, in a tone of indignant distress and perplexity.
“Turn right roun’ an’ go straight back whar yer come from! You do dat
while times is good. Dat’s de ’wice what I gibbed yer fust, an’ dat’s de
’wice what I gib yer last,” said Tubal, answering for his passenger.
“Is there no one on the place to receive us, then?” inquired David
Lindsay.
“Oh, dere’s de oberseer, in his own house, ’bout quarter ob a mile dis
side ob Grippinwolf Hall; but Lor’, de people ’bout here don’t call de
place Grippinwolf no more—dey calls it Ghost Hall.”
“Where does the housekeeper live?” inquired David Lindsay.
“Oh, she—she libs at de gate lodge. She moved dere when she was dejected
by de ghosts.”
“Now, Gloria, we have not ridden more than two miles from the ferry.
What would you like to do? Turn back, as the old man advises, and stop
at the ferry for the up coach and take our places for the North, and for
some other home of yours more convenient and attractive, or go on to
this?” earnestly inquired David Lindsay.
“Oh, go on to Gryphynshold, by all means. Since I have heard the
supernatural tales told by this old man, which well supplement the
horrible stories told me by Aunt Agrippina, I am more than ever
determined to go on to Gryphynshold. The overseer can certainly give you
a bed in his cottage for to-night, while I shall stay at the gate lodge
with the housekeeper——”
“And as for me,” put in the old negro, “soon’s ebber I gets to dat same
gate-house, which won’t be ’fore midnight, I gwine to lop you all right
down dere an’ turn right round and dribe my mules straight home ag’in.
All de money in dis univarse wouldn’t hire ole Uncle Tubal to take up
his lodgings ’long ob de dead people! Leastways, not till I’s dead
myself!”
“You can do as you please,” said David; “but tell us what gave rise to
these ridiculous stories?”
“What rised ’em? Why, de ghosts rised ’em! De ghost ob dat ole Satan’s
demon son, Dyvyd Grippinwolf, who murdered de booful young ooman as he
stole away from her friends an’ fotch to his own Debbil’s den up yonder.
His unquiet ghost rages up and down all night, rushin’ t’rough de halls
and up de stairs, a slammin’ and a bangin’ ob de doors like a ravin’ mad
bull. And no bolts or bars ebber strong enough to keep him out. Dat’s de
one what tarrifies people clean out’n deir senses, young marster, I tell
yer good.”
“Is old Dyvyd Gryphyn’s ghost the only hobgoblin that haunts the hold?”
inquired David Lindsay, with a smile.
“Lor’, no! Why, dere’s crowds of ’em sometimes. All de wicked, wiolent,
furious old Gryphyns as ebber libbed dere—which none ob ’em ebber died
in deir beds, yer know—all ob dem died wiolent deaths—holds high
jubilee-la! dere ebbery night ’long ob all de debbils out’n de pit!
Hush, honey! Dat ole house up dere is de werry mouf ob de black pit ob
Satan! An’ ef anybody was to ’xamine, I reckon dey’d find de deep, dry
well in de cellar was nuffin less dan a way down into dat same black pit
ob Satan; and all debbils do come up an’ down it to hold high
jubilee-la! along with all de wicked, furious ole ghosts ob de
Gryphyns!”
“Has any one ever seen any of these dreadful orgies?” inquired David
Lindsay, with an incredulous laugh.
“You may laugh, young marster,” said the old negro, in an offended tone;
“but ef yer persists in goin’ an’ stayin’ at dat ole debbil’s den,
you’ll laugh on t’other side ob your mouf, I tell yer good.”
“Has any one seen any of these horrible spectres?” reiterated David
Lindsay.
“Hi! What I tell yer? Didn’t Mr. Oberseer Cummings and Mrs. Housekeeper
Brent bofe see an’ hear dem? An’ didn’t de ghost deject dem out’n de
house? An’ I, my own self, wid my own eyes, a comin’ from de mill one
night, passed in sight ob dat ole ghostly house. De night was dark as
pitch! Dere was nyder moor nor stars, an’ I couldn’t hab seed nuffin
only for my eyes gettin’ use to de dark, yer know. An’ I did look up to
de ole ghost house, standin’ way up dere on de mountain, straight an’
black, against de dark sky, an’ I couldn’t see no windows fust, but all
of a sudden I saw all de windows in de front ob de black looking house!”
With this culmination of horror, old Tubal made an awful pause.
But as no one made the expected exclamation of astonishment the old man
inquired:
“Now, how does yer fink I saw all de windows in dat dark, deserted house
on dat dark night?”
“Heaven knows!” said David Lindsay.
“Want me to tell you?”
“Yes.”
“By de light ob de ghosts’ eyes!”
“WHAT!”
“By de light ob de ghosts’ eyes, sure as I’m a libbin’ sinner! Dere was
a ghost at every window, an’ at some windows dere was two or free, bofe
men an’ women ghosts. An’ every one ob deir eyes was a shining like an
inward fire an’ lightin’ up all de windows!”
Again the narrator made an awful pause.
Gloria was evidently impressed by his story. Not so David Lindsay, who
quietly asked: “Had you taken anything to drink that evening, old man?”
“Who? Me? Don’t ’sult me, young marster; I’m a Son of Tempunce, an’ a
brudder in de Bethelum Methody Meetin’,” said the old man, in dignified
resentment.
“I beg your pardon, I really do,” replied David Lindsay, with frank
courtesy.
“I did gib yer de bes’ wice in my power, not to go nigh dat debbil’s
den! But course you’ll do as yer likes. No offence, young marster.”
“Why, you see this lady is fully determined to go on there,” David
Lindsay explained.
“Yes, I am,” added Gloria. “All that I hear of that old house only
serves to confirm my resolution to go on and see it. We can find
accommodations with the overseer or the housekeeper for this one night,
David Lindsay, and then to-morrow we will have the old stronghold of
ghosts, goblins and devils thrown wide open to the light of heaven, and
see if we cannot exorcise them. We will make a thorough investigation,
David Lindsay, for I have quite resolved to take up my abode, for the
present at least, in that goblin-haunted house, and I feel that, in
doing so, I am right.”