perished, crumbled into dust, and this lovely image not suffered the
inevitable decay? Who was she, that she could stand here untouched
amid this ruin--defying time? Was it the semblance of the mistress of
this once rich abode? Had she loved with more ardor than reason? Was
she waiting for some one to enter this doomed edifice that we might
tell her story and fulfill her destiny?" I asked myself all these
questions over again, as I stood spell-bound, gazing at this beautiful
vision. She was symmetry itself; her hair was golden-hued, and flowed
in sunny profusion down over her beauteous neck and shoulders; the
painter's art had not exaggerated her natural grace and dignity--she
was beauty unadorned. The dress was of white satin, with the puffed
sleeves and short waist of the last century. A broad pink sash,
fastened in front at the waist, reached down to a pair of tiny feet,
clothed in rich embroidered slippers. I felt as if I was in the
presence of a living human being, and that she might at any moment
chide me for breaking the silence of this desolate place--for
disturbing its quiet.
With that feeling of superstition which runneth in the blood of man, I
shuddered, grew weak and faint; great drops of cold perspiration
started out from my forehead, and I turned to see if some supernatural
mechanism had not closed the door and entombed me with the lovely
phantom. It was still open; its rust-eaten hinges had long since
ceased to act. I was free to go, but, with the infatuation of
curiosity, I could not move; I stood in my tracks and ventured to look
again.
A sound of rustling drapery startled me. Great heavens! this image,
which seemed a moment before but a part of the solid wall, had moved
and stood in the centre of the room. Slowly she raised her right arm,
and with extended finger pointed to the old and faded escritoire.
Mechanically my eyes took the direction toward which she pointed. I
saw the doors of the cabinet tumble from their fastenings and fall to
the floor with a startling crash, while her attitude commanded me,
imperatively, to examine the recesses of this sepulchre of a long
buried secret. I did so. In it was nothing except a small time-stained
memorandum-book, the edges fastened by a silver clasp. I took it up.
It contained the following strange story of the Haunted Island. Here
it is:
"MARRIED.--On the 27th of May, 1794, at Rock Creek church,
in the territory of Columbia, by the Rev. Mr. Rolf, John
Othard to Marie Othard."
"John Othard and myself were cousins; we had been brought up beneath
the same roof, and been schoolmates and constant companions from
childhood. He was my boyish lover and protector. He had grown to
manhood, I was a few years younger, and we had vowed eternal constancy
to each other. When, however, too late, our parents discovered our
fondness for each other, and knew that we were betrothed, they
interposed objections; and after exhausting all mild means, they
threatened us with their displeasure, said they would disown and
disinherit us; that if we persevered, we must be outcast and
wanderers--go out from under the paternal roof forever; that the union
would be unlawful and wicked. The tie of blood, they said, was too
close, and could be fruitful only of misery and ruin--an unhappy,
sinful match. We had been walking, John and I, and talking as usual
over our doleful fate and prospects, and what seemed to us the absurd
notions of our parents. He had been trying to persuade me to disregard
what he termed the obstinacy of the old folks, and said impatiently:
"'Come, Marie, when will you consent to be mine? We are old enough to
judge of our own affairs. If our families are determined on driving us
out with scorn, let us be equally so to convince them how very
harmlessly it will fall. I can support you; they may keep their money,
and bestow their curses.'
"'No, not yet, John; let this cloud which now hangs over us pass away
first; it may, ere long, be dispelled. They may relent, and then, how
very happy we shall be to know that we did not court the anger of our
relatives. Let us not act hastily.'
"'Ah! my dear Marie, women do not understand these matters quite as
well as men. I really think you share their idle superstitions. Do you
not?'
"'You may call them superstitions if you will, but my sense of
propriety tells me that we should wait. We could not be happy with
their malediction pending over us.'
"'That is prattle. Notwithstanding these fears, we may be as
prosperous and happy as though we had come from the opposite sides of
the earth, and if you consent, they will be compelled to acknowledge
it.
"'Our marriage, when solemnized by the proper authorities, will be as
far above their idle prejudices as the heavens are above us all.'
"'Still, John, we must wait.'
"'Yes, and wait. Who ever taught us, until it was too late, that we
were growing up in sin--if it is sin?
"'Why did they permit the seed of our childish friendship to ripen
into the full flower of love, and then blast it with the frost of
parental authority?'
"'Dear John, do not lose your temper. I think you are right in that,
but let us be brave, and not set aside, too lightly, our duty to those
whose only solicitude can be that we do no wrong.'
"'I was a little impatient, to be sure. I will respect your wish,
Marie. I will wait, but it must not be here.
"'I will go out into the busy world for a year or two, and then return
to claim you. If I do not come back to you rich, I will at least have
enough to give us a good start in the world.'
"'John,' I said, placing my hand in his, 'I shall miss you very much,
and be very lonely. Be careful, John, that you do not bring with you a
wife, to give us a practical demonstration that your love was a mere
fancy.'
"'Not I, dearest; I will remain as true to you, through every
vicissitude, as I now think you to be true.
"'But you, who knows but I may live to find that you have obviated
the trouble by marrying a man who is not your cousin, just to make the
theory of certain persons good?'
"'Trust me; I am worthy of your love; and now, good bye. God bless and
care for you.'
"'May He bless and protect you, Marie.'
"'He went off that same day. For the first few months his letters to
me were frequent, and always filled with sentiments of love and
constancy. Then the intervals became longer, and longer, then ceased
altogether. 'He is in a large city, I thought, and in the whirl of
excitement, he has already forgotten me; some other, perhaps, has
taken my place; his heart has another idol. No, I reasoned with
myself; that cannot be, he has become very poor and has married for
money, thinking I would never relent.'
"'Months passed rapidly away, faded into years, and yet no tidings
came. This silence and uncertainty were wearing tear channels down my
cheeks. I waited on; and though pained and sickened, like a true
woman I never allowed my tongue to disclose the anguish I suffered.
The wolf was gnawing at my heart; if the lines I felt growing more
marked on my features did not tell the story, it was my secret, and I
kept it.'
"'One morning, after an absence of three years, John suddenly made his
appearance--without a note of warning. He seemed somewhat older, and
his face had lost that impetuous look of boyhood. But he was handsome
ever, and just the same loving fellow.'
"'I am so rejoiced to be at home again. I have been thinking of you
constantly, Marie.'
"'Why, then, have you been absent so long, and why for two years have
you not written to me--not even a line?'
"'I have been fighting in a great, crowded city for a competency. The
battle was fierce and long; sometimes I was lost in the busy, swaying
multitude; but I have gained it, and I am here to know if you will go
and share it with me."
"'Yes, I am ready and willing to go, though I am sure we shall be
driven out and away from the family fold; be branded as wantons,
outcasts, by all we love most dear.'
"'Leave your fears outside the church door, my darling, for we can
defy them so far as money is the question. I have enough. We will
build ourselves a home in some retired spot, and be so happy that they
will seek us, and be ashamed of their conduct when they see how they
have erred.'
"I could not resist such persuasion from the only man I had ever
loved. I consented at once, and the next day we were married. In
accord with my own desire, we bought this embowered island, and built
this spacious home. It had everything in and about it that taste could
fancy and wealth purchase. It was quite a heaven for me. We were so
happy, and he never left me. We sat beneath the grand old trees and
talked of our future prospects, read our favorite books, and I loved
those best which we had read together. It seemed too much happiness to
last long; sometimes I felt as if the shadow of sorrow was threatening
our home. Yet all was serene, and I dismissed my fears. It had not yet
come; but it was coming though, as slowly yet as surely as the distant
muttering of thunder portends the approaching storm. An indefinable
dread of something impending clung to me. I could not rid myself of
it. My husband now commenced absenting himself from home. He had
business in this city, and then in that one; his journeys became more
frequent and of longer duration. After one of these visits he returned
wearied and not at all like himself; care was on his brow, and his
manner betokened some great grief. I said:
"'John, dear, it is two weeks since you left me, and you promised to
return the same day. What is the matter? are you in trouble? You must
be, for your face has that pinched look which nothing but extreme
anxiety can produce. Confide in me.'
"'Nothing very serious, my dear child,' he replied, 'it will soon be
over; only a temporary embarrassment; some unlucky speculations.' Then
he gave me a kiss, smiled as he used to do, and said I was a baby.
"'Ah, John, your words buoy me up and make me feel almost happy
again.'
"'Let us speak of it no more, and when I have my business all in shape
again, I will never leave you, but remain here, where, if you cannot
see me every moment, you can hear me.'
"'Oh, that will be such joy for me. But do you know, John, that while
I have waited, and waited, to hear the splash of the oars as you
crossed from the shore, I have conjured up all sorts of things?
Sometimes I have thought that perhaps--'
"'Perhaps what?'
"'That the chains of Cupid had been woven around you during your first
absence, and that you might have returned to her who--'
"'Just what a foolish woman always supposes. Why I have been as true
to you as the waters of the glorious river, which sweeps past our
island home, have been constant in their tendency toward the sea.'
"'I believe it, and now you will pardon me, will you, not?'
"'Of course I do,' he continued; 'and, had I been as faithful to
myself as I have been loyal to you, I would not now be suffering the
woe you have so plainly seen on my face.'
"'Tell me, dear, for I can guide you out of it--I know I can.'
"'No, not now,' he answered; then he kissed me and walked away.
"Something terrible was coming--I knew it. The curses which had been
heaped upon us for disobedience were about to bear fruit. Now,
strange, rough-looking men came to see my husband--persons whom I had
not seen before. They seemed familiar with him; it was evident,
however, that their presence was distasteful to him; he tried to keep
them at a distance, he shrank from them. I said I did not like these
acquaintances; he replied that they were commercial friends, and must
be treated with respect. They had long and mysterious conversations
together. They would go to the other shore and return, bringing other
companions equally ill-looking.
"One dark night the dip of oars was heard, and as the boat was run
upon the pebbly shore, four men stepped briskly out, and laboriously
lifted and carried a large, heavy, oblong box, and placed it in the
cellar. John said it was merchandise, and must be stored; it was
unsalable now, and it was best to keep it until there was a market
for it.
"'But, John, why can it not be stored in the city, where it would be
at hand when the demand arises for it, and why do these
uncouth-looking men bring it at the dead of night? It would have been
easier, and certainly more pleasant, to have brought it in the
daylight.'
"'My dear little sweetheart,' he turned and said abruptly, 'women know
nothing of business matters, and you would not understand me if I
explained it all.'
"'You are deceiving me; for it does not require a business education
to enable one to guess that there might be something wrong about a
midnight transaction such as this.'
"He deigned no explanation, but answered half kindly, half
sarcastically, 'Good night; ask no more of your puzzling questions.
Take this kiss; you are a little nervous and disturbed in temper, you
need rest--go to bed.'
"He dismissed me with another kiss, as he had often done before. It
was the first to have a tinge of bitterness to it. I was far from
satisfied. What could this occupation be, that required him to remain
away so long and gather about him such associates? He had been gone a
whole month. Oh, what a weary, unhappy, dreary month that was for
me!--I thought it would never end. Why could not the fates let loose
their wrath all at once? Why was not all revealed? I wept myself
asleep, and was frightened into wakefulness by some horrid dream. I
took up the newspaper and tried to read it; the letters all ran
together. It was the Alexandria _Times and Advertiser_, of May, 1798.
Instinctively my eyes caught the following notice:
"_Counterfeit Dollars._ The public are requested to be on
their guard with respect to a number of counterfeit dollars
of the United States, now passing in this city. They are
made of block-tin and pewter, and, if not quite new, may be
detected on sight. They are well cast, and, therefore, the
impression is exact; but the milling around the edge is
nothing like the true dollar, thereby may be easily known.
They are about four penny-weights too light."
"The paper fell from my hands. Why I could not tell, and yet the
reading of that paragraph seemed connected with my life. Had that box
merchandise in it? Had my husband become one of a gang of base money
coiners? He could not have fallen so low; he was too good and too
honest. That mysterious box was always present, turn which way I
would. I felt impelled to go to the cellar and examine it. There could
be no harm in merely looking; it would ease my troubled brain. I took
the lantern and stealthily groped my way down into the damp earthy
atmosphere. It was silent as death there; the dim light revealed
nothing but the box. I held the lantern up over it, and the uncertain
flickering of its rays fell upon the lid. There was no denying the
ownership, it was marked in large bold letters, 'John Othard.' Now, I
must know what it contained; I could wait no longer; a sort of
determined malice took possession of me to connect it with the
newspaper, and with my husband--fiendish thought. I did not desire to
prove him other than the pure and noble man I had loved; but I was not
myself--I would do it just to still my excited suspicions. Putting the
lamp down over the name, as if that could blot it out, I went up the
creaking steps, and hastened back with the axe firmly clenched in
both hands, as if I feared a rescue. Placing the light on the earth
floor, I hesitated whether to strike or not--the blow was to reveal
joy or eternal misery to me. To leave the fatal box to itself, and go
to my chamber, was to be racked with horrible doubts. I seized again
the axe, and with repeated blows splintered the cover; then, with
bleeding hands I ripped it off and hurled it from me. Yes, there,
wrapped in rolls, shining with damnable brilliancy, was my husband's
secret. I was first stunned then frantic; cursed myself and him;
wished I had been unable to read; that I had been blind, dead, rather
than find him whom I had enshrined in my heart of hearts as a god, so
unworthy. He would go to a felon's cell--perhaps to an ignominious
death--and me, where could I go? I left the dreadful thing uncovered;
as I backed away from it toward the stairway, those glittering
witnesses grinned at me. I walked the floor all night--I could not
rest. The angel of sleep had fled, frightened at the discord in my
frame, and the angel of death was spreading his baneful wings over me.
"Dawn surprised with its unwelcome light, and found me a shivering,
crouching wretch. That incestuous love with which we had defied the
fates, had now borne its full fruit.
"About mid-day John came home. Despair had cooled me. I handed him the
paper and pointed to the notice. I watched his eager face while he
read it. He flushed and paled, and raising his eyes to meet mine,
asked if I knew all.
"'Yes, I do know all. The box contains base coin. I have seen them.
They are there, and will consign you to a prison and me to my grave;
that is, if there lives one single, pitying human being, who will take
the trouble to heap the sod over a friendless, homeless wretch, as I
now am.'
"'Calm yourself, darling; they cannot connect me with it. I will bury
it. But few persons know of it, and they dare not tell.'
"He went to the cellar. I could hear him working away and talking
excitedly to himself. I approached the steps and listened. He had
ceased for a moment, I could hear his heavy breathing. I stepped down
a few steps; he turned toward me, coat off; his face grimed with
perspiration and dirt, he glared upon me. 'Aha, you come too late; I
have concealed it, I am not the owner of it; you cannot prove _me_
guilty.' His mind was wandering; he imagined the officers were come to
take him. I moved toward him; a pistol shot, a heavy fall, and he had
escaped--so far as human penalty was concerned. Here I was, alone, on
this accursed island; even the servants had fled in terror, and left
me with the dead body of my husband. His blood ran from the wound, and
formed in little pools, which the thirsty black earth drank, and left
no stain. Now was I strong with frenzy; the method of madness was on
me; I seized the tools, which the suicide had left, and commenced to
dig what must now be a grave--wider, and deeper, and longer I dug it;
then settled the body into it; and covering it up, heaped and rounded
it. I did not mind the work; it was excitement and kept me from dying.
I went out into the open air--it was not yet light--the peaceful
heavens gave no sign of wrath, and the bright twinkling stars looked
down upon this scene of crime, and madness, and suicide, as serenely
as they had before the island was changed from a domestic paradise to
a pandemonium. I hear him calling, as if from the river; it is a
stifled cry for assistance. I must go to him. I can save him, and
I--"
The newspaper of that period contained the following:
"The body of a female was found floating in the river at the
Great Falls of the Potomac--Unknown."
* * * * *
THE FAIRIES OF WARM SPRING MOUNTAIN.
A LEGEND OF BERKELEY SPRINGS.
To one who has not lived in a mountain country the abounding beauty
of those sequestered regions is unknown. The mountains, blue, dim, and
mysterious, with range backing range, and pillaring the heavens, lift
their mist-enveloped peaks far above this breathing, thinking world.
There the wild deer roams in solitude and security, and there the
daring of man has never penetrated. Grim old sentinels, clothed with
verdure to their very summits, frown down upon coeval valleys which
they protect, and through which they send their bower-born springs
with gurgling music to the smiling plains, and onward, broadening into
majestic rivers. The valleys, as if conscious of and grateful for the
protection, run up to meet and embrace their gigantic guardians, with
offerings of wild flowers and many-hued foliage. Afar off a human
habitation clings to the side of the steep mount, surrounded by fields
of emerald hue; a homestead, hewn from the primeval forest.
Leafless trees, blasted and riven by the angry elements, stretch their
scathed limbs for mercy, while their earthless roots writhe like
knotted reptiles and twist into hideous shapes. Roads, toiling lazily
over steeps, gray, rugged, and rutty, lead away to unknown regions. A
bald spot--rock--whose face has borne the violence of the storm for
ages, yet defiantly stands there, inviting the fury of its ancient
enemy. The clouds, broken into fantastic forms, cast gossamer shadows,
which go floating phantom-like, away, as unreal as spirits and as
tranquil as the promised land. Jutting crags, piled up in grotesque
confusion, capped by monstrous rocky platforms, overhang the leafy
depths. The rail track, like a glistening serpent, winds its way along
the narrow shore, and over bridges light and fanciful, mere webs, spun
by human spiders, spanning streams which foam their anger through
narrow passes. Beneath, in a distant valley, the river, like a shining
thread, flows on through tangled thickets, past populous towns and
lowly huts.
But these mountain solitudes were not always so lonely. Ages gone by,
when the world first began, they were peopled by a race of fairies.
These little creatures lived and reveled in these grand old forests,
and made them joyous with their merry shouts and sports. They knew no
care, and nightly gathered beneath the spreading branches, sporting
until the gray of morning drove them to their hiding places. They
wantoned in the cool streams and swung in the pendant flowering vines,
while the moon sent her silvery light down through the trembling
leaves to light them on their way. The daylight was hateful to them,
and all day long they passed the time in secret bowers and mossy
recesses, away from the light, and only left them when the starry
heavens bade them forth again to their nightly revels.
Thus, these happy little people lived, and far and near through all
the woods, yielded willing allegiance to a queen, majestic, lovely,
and beloved by her tribes. Her sway was mild, for mutual kindness was
the bond between them. But for a long time her sorrowing followers had
noticed that her sweet face wore a troubled look; that she had not as
usual joined in their pleasures, nor even approved of them. They felt
that some dreadful secret filled her heart and clouded her brow, yet
what it was none dared to ask, and she herself remained silent. They
would willingly have died to free her from this sorrow, but they knew
not what to do. They surrounded her and said:
"Beloved sovereign, may we not share thy grief?"
"It may be, soon," she replied.
"Have we caused you pain? Have we not been dutiful?"
"My sorrow, dear people, is not of your creation; you have ever been
loving, faithful subjects."
"What, then, can we do to show our devotion to you?"
"Our season of enjoyment, my subjects, is almost gone, and soon we
must hide ourselves to escape the cold. When the spring returns again
you shall learn it all; until then seek to know no more."
The winter was dead and passed away, and the genial breath of spring
wafted silently over his grave, evoking glowing treasures from the
ruin he had left. The earth, alive again, put forth its most beautiful
creations, and tempted once more the fairies of the mountains to
appear. The queen, true to her promise, sent swift messengers to her
remotest people; she summoned them all to her presence. They came in
troops, and filled the mountain tops and sides, and reached down into
the valleys. She welcomed them as they approached her. In majesty she
was seated upon a summer throne. It was formed of the finest woods of
the forest, and quaintly fashioned by the little work-people. It was
cushioned with the most delicate mosses, and wild vines had been
trained up and over and around it, blending charmingly with the rustic
woodwork. Above her tiny head spread a canopy of delicate twigs,
twisted into fantastic shapes by skillful hands, and roofed with the
glittering wings of the rarest insects, overlapped with such exactness
that not even a drop of dew could penetrate. It was right royal, and
she was worthy of it. Near the queen's pavilion were ranged the
principal leaders of the various tribes, together with her most
favored advisers.
Her eyes, sad and mournful, wandered over this vast assemblage of
devoted friends.
"My people," she commenced, "as I promised, I have called you from
your sylvan abodes to impart what I have too long concealed. It has
been known to myself alone that the period for our allotted stay upon
earth has almost expired. In a short time we must go, forever, from
these scenes of pleasure--from these woody retreats where we have
known so many joys. Our places will soon be taken by the sons of men.
It is our fate that when they come we must disappear. Through all our
lives we have done nothing but waste our time in pursuit of mere
pleasure, hastening the time of our banishment and doing good to no
one. Like the bees, fluttering from flower to flower, we will have
sipped the sweets of life and left no mark that we ever existed. It is
my wish ere we go, that we do something by which we may be remembered.
"Let us bestow upon mankind a gift so great that it shall last them
forever, and which they may enjoy and bless us for to the end of time.
Such a gift is within our reach, but we have never sought it for
ourselves."
With one voice they said--
"What shall it be? The will of our queen is our pleasure."