THE SCAFFOLD.
Oh! judge none lost, but wait and see,
With hopeful pity, not disdain;
The depth of the abyss may be
The measure of the height of pain.--HOUSEHOLD WORDS.
When Valentine's little family circle received information of the
verdict that laid low their last hopes, Phaedra met the misfortune with
that sad resignation which we often see in those whom either time or
sorrow has aged, and which we are apt to think owes its calmness as much
to the exhausted energies of the sufferer as to any higher cause. Fannie
heard the issue of the trial with wild grief, and a day and night of
illness intervened before she could go and see the condemned.
The conviction of Valentine was immediately followed by the arraignment
of Governor. The trial of the latter was even shorter than that of the
former had been. He was ably defended by the counsel employed by his
master; but nothing could have saved him. And the jury, without leaving
their seats, brought in their verdict of "Guilty." His sentence followed
immediately. It was, however, pitiable to observe that the poor wretch
did not understand one-half of what had been done or said during the
whole course of his trial. And when he was conducted back to the prison,
and locked in with Valentine, he said to the latter:
"Well, Walley, ole marse up dere on de bench put a black nightcap on his
head, an' said somethin' 'r other 'bout hangin'; but I reckon he only
did it to scare me, 'cause I saw by his face how his heart was a
softening all de time."
After his condemnation to death, Valentine's friends were more devoted
to him than ever. Day and night, one or more of the brethren of the
church was with him. And one sister, especially, who was known by the
name of "Sister Dely," divided her attentions between him and his little
family, who equally, or more, needed comfort. Again the papers were
filled with descriptions of this "extraordinary boy," as Valentine was
called. Interviews held with him by clergymen were reported at length.
His likeness was taken in prison, and wood-cutted in a pamphlet report
of his trial. In a word, the unhappy young man became for a while a
local notoriety. And this was ascribable, not to the nature of the
catastrophe, which, unfortunately, was but too common in that section of
country, but to the individuality and character of the condemned.
And another circumstance connected with this tragedy was so strange that
I must not omit to record it. A rumor got out that old Portiphar had
betrayed Valentine into the hands of the law, and that a number of
negroes in secret meeting had sworn the death of the traitor whenever
and wherever either one of them could take him. This matter was
carefully investigated by those most interested; but though they could
obtain no sort of satisfactory information, yet their suspicions,
instead of being dissipated, were so strongly confirmed, that it was
deemed advisable for the officers who had arrested Valentine to come out
under oath with the declaration that Portiphar had not by the remotest
hint put them upon the track, but that the discovery of the fugitive
under the disguise of female apparel had been entirely accidental.
This declaration, duly sworn to and attested, was embodied in a short
address to be read to the negroes, printed on handbills, and posted and
distributed all over the city and surrounding country. And for some
little time this was supposed to be quite sufficient to allay excitement
and insure security. But in a day or two it became evident, in some way,
that the negroes did not believe the sworn statement of the police
officers. And as it was thought best to get rid of unsafe property,
Portiphar, who had lurked in concealment for some weeks, was sold by his
master to a New Orleans trader, and the neighborhood breathed freely
again.
The petition to the Executive for the pardon of Valentine, got up under
the auspices of Oswald Waring's widow, failed of success, as every one
had predicted that it must. And when this last little glimmering light
of earthly hope went down, Valentine sedulously addressed himself to
preparation for eternity.
It was piteous to observe Governor at this time. Any one, to have seen
him, must have perceived at once that he was no subject for capital
punishment. But no one, except his master and Valentine, was the least
interested in him. Alas! poor wretch, he was not even interested in
himself! When the refusal of the Executive to pardon Valentine had been
received, it was affecting to see the efforts of Governor to console
what he supposed to be the disappointment of his fellow-prisoner.
"Don't you mind, Walley! Dey's only doin' dis to scare we! Sho! dey's no
more gwine to hang we, nor dey's gwine to heave so much money in de
fire! Sho! we's too walable. I heern de gemmen all say what fine,
walable men we was--'specially me! Sho! dere's muscle for you!" said
Governor, drawing himself up, jerking forward both arms with a strong
impetus, and then clapping his hands upon his nether limbs.
"Sho! You think dey's gwine to let all dat here go to loss? Ef it were
only whippin' now, dey might do it! but making all dis here muscle dead?
Sho! what de use o' dead nigger? What good dat do? Sho!"
And, with this strong expletive of contempt, Governor sat down. Strange
and sad as was the fact, this poor, stupid creature was thoroughly
persuaded that his own and Valentine's life were perfectly safe. He knew
that, living, he himself was worth at least twelve or fifteen hundred
dollars, for he had more than once heard himself so appraised; and that,
dead, he was worth just so much less than nothing as the cost of his
burial would be. And from these facts he drew the inference that he was
far too valuable to be executed. And he persisted in looking upon the
whole train of events, comprising his arrest, imprisonment, trial and
condemnation, with all the pageantry of court-room, judges, lawyers,
juries and officers, only as a solemn show, got up to frighten him and
his fellow prisoner. Nothing could disabuse him of this illusion; for,
if once any idea got fixed in his poor, thick head, it was just
impossible to dislodge it. In vain Valentine endeavored to enlighten him
as to his true position; Governor would reply, with a compassionate
look:
"Oh, sho! you's scared, Walley! you's scared! Tell me! I knows better!
Dey's not such fools as to hang we! ca'se what would be de use, you
know! Sho!"
The Methodist preacher exhorted and prayed with Governor, to as little
purpose. He could not be made to believe in the fact of his
fast-approaching death.
"Oh, sho, Walley! I doesn't say nuffin' 't all afore dem, 'cause you see
'taint right to give de back answer to de ministers; but dey's league
'long o' de oders, Walley! Dey's league 'long o' de oders. Can't scare
dis chile wid no sich! Tell you, Walley, dead nigger ain't no use, but
dead expense! So what de use o' hanging of him? Sho!"
This interjection usually finished the argument.
The day of execution approached. Valentine divided his time between
preparation for death, interviews with his family and friends, and the
composition of an address that he wished to deliver upon the scaffold.
This address embodied a great portion of Valentine's life--experiences,
as they are already known to the reader. When it was finished in
manuscript, it was submitted to the perusal of the attendant clergymen.
Some among them warmly approved the address, and declared it to be the
most eloquent appeal they had ever met. Others reserved their opinion
for the time, and afterward asserted that it was the most powerful
sermon that they had ever seen or heard.
The day before the execution came. And now I must inform you that it is
to "Sister Dely" I am indebted for the report of the scenes that
occurred in her presence in the condemned cell that day. Dely had
obtained leave from her mistress, Mrs. Hewitt, to go to the prison, to
take leave of her Valentine.
It was about ten o'clock, on Thursday, the 23d of December, when she
reached the city. All the town was preparing for Christmas. When she
entered the condemned cell, she found no one there except the two
prisoners. There were two cot bedsteads at opposite sides of the cell,
and one small iron stove against the wall, between the beds, and
directly opposite the door by which she entered.
On her right hand, as she came in, sat Governor upon his cot, watching,
with lazy interest, the employment of his fellow-prisoner, which, in
sooth, was strange enough for one of his position.
Valentine was standing at the little table, and engaged in ironing out a
cravat, while on the cot near him lay spread out a shirt just ironed, a
satin vest, newly pressed, and a full suit of black broadcloth, well
brushed.
And Dely knew at a glance that the poor fellow, true to his habits of
neatness to the last, was preparing to present a proper appearance upon
the scaffold.
"Was there no one to do that for you, Valentine?" said Dely, after her
first greeting.
"No, child, there was not. Mother and poor Fannie are in too much
trouble to think of such a thing."
"I would have done it for you, Valentine."
"No matter, child; it is done now," said the young man, laying the
folded cravat upon the cot, and then turning around and sitting down by
the side of Dely.
"I wish, Delia, that you would try to open the eyes of Governor to the
realities of his position. Poor fellow! he is fully persuaded that
to-morrow, instead of being executed, we shall be set at liberty."
Delia turned her eyes in wonder toward Governor, who sat upon the side
of his cot, smiling and shaking his head in the most incredulous manner.
Delia shrank from the task that Valentine would have imposed upon her,
and only said:
"We will pray for him, Brother Valentine. Governor, won't you kneel down
with us, and pray for yourself?"
Governor said that, as praying could not do anybody any harm, he
reckoned he would, to please Dely, though he did not see the use of it.
They all knelt, and this humble handmaid of the Lord, who was peculiarly
gifted in prayer, offered up a fervent petition in behalf of the
prisoners, and especially for Governor.
They had just risen from their knees, when the door of the cell was
opened, and the jailer entered, accompanied by another official, who
nodded to the inmates, and then, beckoning to Valentine, requested him
to step forward.
Valentine obeyed, and the man, drawing a measuring-line from his pocket,
told him to stand up straight. Valentine drew himself up with as much
composure as ever he had shown when, in his earlier days, he was getting
himself fitted for a Sunday suit of clothes. The operator proceeded to
measure his subject across the shoulders. And when this was done, he
stopped, drew a paper and pencil from his pocket, and, leaning on
Valentine's late ironing table, put down some figures. Then he took the
line again, and carefully measured him from the crown of his head to the
heels of his shoes, and made a second note.
Then telling Valentine that he was done with him, he beckoned to
Governor, who had been looking on with open-mouthed amazement, and who
now came forward, and braced himself up with the utmost alacrity and
cheerfulness. Indeed, he was smiling from ear to ear, as he exclaimed,
triumphantly:
"Tell you all so! We ain't had no winter clothes guv us yet, and dey's
done sent de tailor to fit us!"
The operator with the line, on hearing this, dropped his measure, and,
with emotions divided between astonishment and compassion, gazed at the
poor wretch, who remained smiling in delight. No one else spoke, and,
after a moment, the official picked up his line and resumed his work.
"Wen'll de clothes be ready for me?" inquired Governor, with great
interest.
"I am not taking your size for clothes," answered the operator, gravely.
"No! What den?" inquired Governor, in astonishment, but without the
least suspicion of the truth.
"Don't you know?"
"No! I doesn't! What is it?"
"Well, you know, at least, that you are to die to-morrow. And I am
measuring you for your coffin."
Governor made no reply, neither did the smile pass at once from his
face. He no longer refused to believe in his approaching fate, but the
idea was very slow in penetrating his brain.
The carpenter, having now completed his errand, left the cell in company
with the turnkey. Governor went and resumed his seat upon the side of
his cot, and remained perfectly silent, only not as cheerful as he had
been, and occasionally putting up his hand and rubbing his head, and
seeming to ponder. At last he said, dubiously, however:
"Brother Walley, honey, I'se beginnin' to be 'fraid, arter all, dat dey
tends for to hang us, sure 'nough! Dey wouldn't carry de nonsense dis
far 'out dey did, would dey? 'Sides which, dey wouldn't go to de 'xpense
o' coffins, would dey?"
"No, Governor," said Valentine, going over and sitting down beside him,
and taking his hand and continuing: "Governor, by this hour to-morrow
you and I will be over all our earthly troubles."
Slowly, slowly the truth was making its way to Governor's consciousness.
His face clouded over, but he seemed to grow more stupid every instant.
To all Valentine's speeches he answered never one word, not seeming to
hear or to understand them.
Dely could not bear this. Bursting into tears, she went and dropped upon
her knees before Governor, and took his two hands in hers, and wept over
them, and begged and prayed him, for his soul's sake, to listen to her
words. Governor was only a recent acquaintance; he was not, as Valentine
was, an old friend; yet it almost broke her gentle heart to see him
thus--so stolid, so unconscious, so insensible.
They were interrupted again, this time by a clergyman and one other
gentleman, a member of the church.
Dely was now obliged to return home. She took an affectionate leave of
Valentine and of Governor, telling them that she should pray for them
constantly, and that she should be on her knees, praying for them, in
their last hour of trial.
The minister found Valentine well prepared to meet his doom. But when he
turned his attention to the other condemned man, he found, to his
dismay, that he could not make the slightest impression upon Governor.
The unhappy creature no longer doubted what his doom would be; but, as I
said before, the truth very slowly entered his mind; and, alas! as it
entered it seemed to press him down, and down, into deeper and more
hopeless apathy, until at last he sat there silent, senseless, crushed.
They could not pray with him; they could only pray for him.
The next day, Christmas Eve, dawned brightly for almost all the
world--darkly enough for the condemned.
An early hour of the morning had been appointed for the farewell
interview between the prisoners and their families. Such partings are
always distressing beyond conception, and I shrink from the pain of
saying much about them.
Governor had but few friends, his fellow-slaves, who came over very
early in the morning to take leave of him, and who, finding him so
apathetic, went away comforted, with the belief "that Governor did not
seem to mind it."
His miserable wife came alone, to drop weeping at his feet, and implore
his dying forgiveness for the part she had had in bringing him to this
awful pass.
Governor, partially aroused from his torpor, awoke sufficiently to put
his arm around her shoulders, and say:
"Don't cry, chile; I doesn't bear you no malice. You couldn't help it,
chile, no more 'an I could; things was too much for us bofe. Don't cry;
I loves you same as ever."
This gentleness almost broke the penitent woman's heart, and she went
away weeping bitterly, wringing her hands and wishing most sincerely it
were possible for her, the most guilty one, to die in her husband's
stead. After this visit Governor sank into a still deeper stupor of
despair, from which nothing had power to arouse him.
Directly after this followed the last interview between Valentine and
his little family.
Phaedra and Fannie came in, accompanied by old Elisha, who carried little
Coralie in his arms. I cannot describe the anguish of this parting.
Phaedra perhaps bore it best of all, with a strange hopeless fortitude
that reminded one of Governor's stolidity, only saying that though life
was sorrowful even at its happiest, it was, thank Heaven! short at its
longest; and that she should not be many days behind her son.
But Fannie was wild with sorrow, and utterly inconsolable. When the
moment of final separation arrived, she fainted, and was borne from the
cell, as one dead, in the arms of the old preacher. Phaedra followed,
leading little Coralie.
The execution was to be a public one. And the authorities published a
card in the daily papers, formally inviting the masters of the city and
the surrounding country to give their slaves a holiday upon this day, to
enable the latter to attend the execution of Valentine and Governor. And
as the morning advanced toward noon so numerous was the multitude of
negroes that gathered in from all parts of the country, and so great was
the excitement that prevailed among them, that the powers saw the
mistake they had made by issuing this general invitation, and felt great
alarm as to the result.
The marshal called upon the militia and the city guards to turn out and
muster around the scaffold to insure the safe custody of the prisoners
and the execution of the sentence.
The scaffold was erected upon a gentle elevation, on the west suburb of
the city. A crowd of many thousands, each moment augmented, was gathered
upon the ground. But the two companies of militia made a way through
this forest of human beings, and formed around the foot of the scaffold.
It was about eleven o'clock that the prisoners were placed in a close
van, in company with the marshal and a clergyman, and escorted by a
detachment of the city guards, were driven to the place of execution.
The presence of the guards was needed to force a passage through the
compact and highly-excited crowd. The prison van was kept carefully
closed, and the condemned with their attendants remained invisible until
the procession had passed safely through that stormy sea of human beings
and gained the security of the hollow square formed by the bayonets of
the militia around the scaffold.
The van drew up at the foot of the steps leading to the platform. The
police officer that stood behind the vehicle jumped down and opened the
door, and handed out the prisoners, who were followed closely by the
marshal and the clergyman.
The marshal immediately took charge of Governor, to lead him up the
stairs.
The clergyman drew Valentine's arm within his own, to follow.
And the police officer was joined by the deputy marshal, who brought up
the rear.
And so the sad procession ascended those fatal stairs--Governor in a
deep stupor, or looking as if he did not understand what all this
pageant meant; Valentine with grave composure, as if he felt the awful
solemnity of the moment, and was prepared to meet it. The scaffold was
very high, and was reached by a flight of more than twenty steps.
When the prisoners and their escort gained the platform they stood in
full view of every individual of that vast concourse of people. Their
appearance was hailed by acclamation from the multitude below, and
huzzas of encouragement or defiance, shouts of derision and cries of
sympathy were mingled in one indistinguishable _melee_ of noise.
The prisoners were not prematurely clad in the habiliments of the grave,
as is usual upon such occasions, but were attired in ordinary citizen's
dress.
Governor wore his best Sunday suit of "pepper and salt" casinet, and
looked a huge, shapeless figure of a negro, in which the sooty skin
could scarcely be distinguished from the sooty clothes.
Valentine looked very well, though pale and worn. He wore a suit of
black broadcloth, with a white cravat and gloves, and his natural
ringlets were arranged with that habitual regard to order and neatness
which was with him a second nature.
Valentine held in his hands the manuscript address that he wished to
make to the assembly. He had been promised by the authorities an
opportunity of delivering this address, before the parting prayers
should be said. He stood now with his copy in his hand, only waiting for
the noise to subside before his commencing. Governor stood by his side,
in stolid insensibility.
But Valentine had been deceived to the last moment. He was not to be
permitted to deliver his address; the authorities feared too much its
exciting effect upon the tumultuous assembly below. The marshal had
received his instructions, and had given private orders to his deputy
and assistants.
Valentine was still letting his eyes rove over the "multitudinous sea"
of heads, waiting for a calm in which he might be heard, when his eye
fell upon Major Hewitt, who had been absent all day at the capital, and
had but just returned from his last fruitless attempt to move the
Executive in behalf of the condemned, and who, without leaving his
saddle, had ridden up at once to the scene of execution. He could not
penetrate the crowd, but remained on horseback on its outskirts. At the
same moment the figure of Major Hewitt caught the eye of Governor, and
roused him from the torpor of despair into which he had fallen--roused
him to an agony of entreaty, and, stretching out his arms to his master,
he cried, with a loud voice that thrilled to the hearts of all present:
"Oh, marster! I allus looked up to you as if you were my father and my
God! Save me now! save me from under the gallows! Oh, marster----"
Major Hewitt turned precipitately and galloped away from the scene.
The condemned were not aware that they stood upon the fatal trapdoor.
They did not notice, either, that, at a signal from the marshal, the
attending clergyman stepped aside and the deputy and assistants gathered
in a little group behind. Governor still had his arms extended in wild
entreaty after his flying master, and Valentine was still waiting for
silence, when suddenly, in the twinkling of an eye, their arms were
bound, the cords slipped over their heads, the caps drawn over their
eyes, the spring of the bolt touched, and, without one instant's
warning, or one word of prayer or benediction, they fell, and swung
beneath sky and earth.
"In the name of Heaven! why have you done this thing?" asked the
terribly-shocked minister, who was altogether unprepared for the
suddenness of the execution.
"In another five minutes an attempt would have been made at rescue,"
answered that official.
* * * * *
This tragedy spoiled the Christmas festivities of many more than were
immediately connected with the sufferers. If the reader cares to follow
the sad fortunes of the survivors, I have only to tell them that Phaedra
outlived her son but one short month; and Mrs. Waring kindly took Fannie
and her child away from the scene and associations of their calamity, to
her own quiet and beautiful country home in East Feliciana. Major Hewitt
is a "sadder," and, let us hope, "a wiser man," since he no longer
closes his ears to the complaints of his suffering people.
One word more. The tragic story in which I have endeavored to interest
you is, in all its essential features, strictly true. Not that I mean to
say that in all the scenes word followed word precisely in the order
here set down, though generally the language used has been faithful to
the letter, and always to the spirit of the facts. Valentine and
Governor lived, suffered, sinned, and finally together died, for the
causes and in the manner related. My means of minute information were
very good. The tragedy occurred but a few years ago, in a neighborhood
with which I am familiar. It excited at the time great local interest,
but never probably got beyond "mere mention" in any but the local
papers. In relating it I have delivered "a round, unvarnished tale," and
have not colored the truth with any adventitious hue of fancy. The
subject was too sacred, in its dark sorrow, for such trifling. Only, for
the sake of some survivors, a change of names and a slight change of
localities has been deemed proper.
THE SPECTRE REVELS.
TALE OF ALL HALLOW EVE.
Black spirits and white,
Blue spirits and gray,
Mingle, mingle, mingle,
Ye that mingle may.--SHAKESPEARE.
O'er all these hung a shadow and a fear!
A sense of mystery the spirit daunted,
That said as plain as whisper in the ear,
The place is haunted!--THOMAS HOOD.
"Did I ever see a ghost, friends? Um-m--Well! ghost is not the modern
name for such an apparition. It is called 'imagination,' 'optical
illusion,' fancy, fever, or something else--never 'ghost,' which makes
no difference in the nature of the thing, however. 'A rose by any other
name would smell as sweet.' Yes! I have--I have gone through more than
seeing them--I have known them!"
"Ghosts?"
"No, I repeat to you the term is obsolete--optical illusions. Though to
be sure the ghostly experience that has left the deepest impression upon
my mind--and that this anniversary especially recalls, was no optical
illusion."
"What! was it a real ghost story, though? and did it happen to you?"
"You shall hear."
It was the thirty-first of October, All Hallow's Eve, a ghostly season,
as every one properly posted in ghostly lore knows very well. A dreary
storm of rain and wind was beating against the windows; but the fire on
the old sitting-room hearth was burning warmly, the candles were not yet
lighted, our father, the pastor, had not returned from a sick call, and
with a delightful show of expectation we all gathered around the fire to
hear Aunt Madeleine's ghost story.
It is now more years than I care to remember, she began, since we moved
from the old forest of St. Mary's, up to the town of W.
Our family then consisted of our grandmother, Mrs. Hawkins, my sister
Alice (your mother, dears), and two old family servants, Hector and his
wife Cassandra.
That removal was the first great memorable epoch in my own and my
sister's lives. We had never seen anything approaching nearer to a town
than the little hamlet of St. Inigoes, and though W. was just exactly
the drowsiest old city that ever slept through centuries and slept
itself to death, yet to us, coming from the forest farm, it seemed a
very miracle of life, enterprise and excitement.
We reached our home in Church street just about the last of October.
At first the change was delightful to us. We were never weary of
exploring the streets and reading the signs, and--as we gained
confidence and ventured into the shops--of examining the marvelous
treasures of silks and satins and laces and jewelry and china, and "all
that's bought and sold in city marts."
I recall the first six months of our residence in W., while the novelty
still lasted and all was beautiful illusion, and think that no mere
worldly event can ever give me such true pleasure again.
Ally and I told each other over and over again that "the city was the
true Arcadia!" that there all poetry, romance and adventure was to be
found, and that it was like scenes in the "Arabian Nights."
We were never weary of exploring new quarters--even the narrow, squalid
lanes and alleys with their dilapidated houses and ragged denizens, had
a grotesque attraction for us--and often we would stand gazing at some
wretched tenement, with falling timbers and stuffed windows, and
speculate about the life of the people within.
And besides the wonders of treasures and pleasures--there was the daily
recurring astonishment at the convenience of the place.
We could scarcely get used to the idea that when we wanted a skein of
silk or a paper of needles, it was only necessary to go across the
street, or around the corner to get them, instead of putting the mare to
the gig and riding seven miles to the nearest store; or that when we
went out to tea, we had only to walk a square or so, instead of driving
from three to ten miles; or that we might stay out until bedtime,
instead of ordering the horses to start for home at sunset.
And then the comfort of being able to walk out dry shod over the clean
pavement, in all weathers, instead of in the winter being obliged to
ride in a carriage, plunging axletree deep through lanes of mud and
water, or worse still, being weather-bound by the state of the roads.
In fact, so charmed were we all with this walking with impunity at
unaccustomed times and seasons, that the old carryall gathered dust in
the coach house, and Jenny, the mare, accumulated fat in the stable.
But if the autumn in the city seemed so delightful to us rustics, what
shall I say of the winter, when the lecture rooms and concert halls were
thrown open, and when evening parties were given? There seemed to us no
end of enchantments.
I should have told you that when we first went to town we had but one
acquaintance there. It was with the family of our Uncle and Aunt
Rackaway. They had a large family of growing sons and daughters, of
which our dear Cousin Will (your own respected father, girls), was the
eldest, the handsomest, the wildest, and the best beloved. Will Rackaway
soon initiated us into all the innocent amusements of the season--took
us to evening meetings, lectures, concerts, exhibitions of every sort,
except the theatre, which our grandmother could not be persuaded to
regard as an innocent amusement.
We were a social family, and soon collected around us a very agreeable
neighborhood circle, some one or two of whom would drop in upon us every
evening when we were at home, or else invite us out. Ally and I extended
our acquaintance among young people whose parents occasionally gave
dancing parties, at which we were always present, and which, therefore,
our good grandmother felt bound to sometimes reciprocate. You are not to
suppose that our days passed in a round of fashionable dissipation.
Nonsense! nothing of the sort. We were rather a staid, domestic
family--but upon the whole what a contrast this to the long, monotonous
evenings in the farm house!
Well, so passed that winter, so full of future consequences--that winter
in which Ally's gentle spirit first won the heart of her wild Cousin
Will. All pleasures pall! Before the season was over, the streets, the
shops, the shows--all the wonders and glories of the city had lost their
attraction with their novelty.
When the spring came, we had grown just a little weary of city life.
With April, a spring fever for sowing, and planting, and pruning, and
training came upon us. But, alas! there was nowhere to sow or plant--our
back yard was flagged, and our front one paved. And there was nothing to
prune or train--four forlorn trees, trimmed by city authorities into the
shape of upright mops, standing upon the hard pavement before our door,
were the only apologies for vegetation near us, and they looked as
exiled and homesick as ourselves. Mrs. Hawkins also missed her chickens
and turkeys, and we all felt the loss of the cows.
"Ah, if we could only get a house away to ourselves, a house in the
suburbs, with ground around it, where we could be private, and have
shade trees and a garden, and cows and poultry, and all that, within
easy walk to the city, how happy I should be," said grandmother,
sighing.
"Ah, yes! if we only could! then we should enjoy the pleasures of both
city and country life," said I.
"'Oh, that would be joyful, joyful, joyful, joyful!'" exclaimed Ally,
quoting the chorus of a popular hymn.
"Ah! well, we must keep our eyes open, and see what we can find," said
our grandmother.
The street upon which we lived was narrow and closely built up. It led
down half a mile to a long bridge that crossed the river. Consequently
this street was the great thoroughfare of country people coming into
town, to market, or to shop, or upon any other errand.
Among those who came every day was one old man, who was quite an
eccentric character, and who is still remembered by the aged inhabitants
of W----. Dr. H---- always wore a cocked hat, a powdered wig, a black
velvet coat, double waistcoat, ruffled shirt, knee breeches, long hose
and silver buckles, and carried a gold-headed cane, keeping up in his
age the style and costume of his youth.
He came in town every morning in a gig driven by a servant as old and as
quaint as himself.
He returned every evening.
The doctor was a never-failing object of interest to us. The little
information we could get respecting him only whetted our curiosity to a
keener edge. We learned from Cousin Will that he had no family and no
society; that he lived alone in a secluded country house, called the
Willow Cottage, with no companion except the aged servant seen always
with him; that he had a traditional reputation of having possessed great
skill in his profession, and that he now followed a limited practice
among his old contemporaries in the city.
So much of authentic facts.
Besides these it was rumored that, years before, he had married a lovely
young girl, who had been persuaded or forced to sacrifice her youth and
beauty and a prior attachment, to his wealth and age and infirmities;
whose short life had been embittered by his jealousies, and whose sudden
death, under suspicious circumstances, had not left him free from
imputations of the gravest character.
This was all we could learn of the doctor; and you may depend that our
interest in him was deepened and darkened. We watched him with closer
attention. His hard, sharp features, his deep-set eyes, whitened hair,
and thin, bent figure, took on a sinister appearance, or we fancied so.
However that might be, we felt more shocked than grieved when one
morning the news came that the doctor was found at daybreak dead in his
bed, with dark marks upon his neck as from the pressure of a thumb and
finger!
The news spread like wildfire. The long-closed doors of the Willow
Cottage flew open to the public, and its darkened chambers to the
sunlight. Crowds flocked thither; the old servant was examined and
discharged, no suspicion attaching to him; the coroner's inquest met,
and, after a session of twelve hours, rendered its sapient verdict:
"Found dead," which, of course, greatly enlightened the public mind. The
old servant obtained a home in the almshouse, and the Willow Cottage
passed to the next of kin.
These events occurred in the month of May. About the middle of June the
weather became so hot, the streets so dusty, that the city grew
intolerable to us. During winter the town of W---- had afforded a
pleasant contrast to the country; during summer it was quite the
opposite. In the height of our discontent one morning Will Rackaway came
in.
"The Willow Cottage is for rent! Here is a chance for you!"
"The Willow Cottage for rent! Oh, that is delightful," said Ally and I
in a breath.
"Who has the renting of it?" inquired grandmother.
"Well, the agent is out of town; but I got the key from his clerk, and
if you'll order Jenny put to the carryall, I'll drive you out there to
look at it. I think it will be let cheap, for the associations of the
place are so gloomy that none but a strong-minded woman like Aunt----"
"A Christian woman, you mean, Will."
"Well, yes, a Christian woman, like Aunt, would venture to live in it."
Mrs. Hawkins had in the meantime put her hand to the bell, summoned
Hector, and given him an order to get the carryall ready for a drive. We
were soon in the carriage, and half an hour's drive took us down the
street, across the long bridge to the other side of the river, and to
the Willow Cottage.
There is, as I have noticed always, a remarkable fitness in the names
given to country houses. This was certainly the case with the present
one. There was not a willow near the place.
A few yards from the end of the bridge, and to the right hand of the
highway, a disused, grass-grown road led through a close thicket of
evergreens, some quarter of a mile on to an open level area, of about a
hundred acres of exhausted land, grown up in broom sedge and completely
surrounded by the pine forest.
In the midst of this area stood a red stone cottage, consisting of a
central building of two stories, flanked each side by wings of one story
in height. The central building was finished by a gable roof front, with
a large single fan-shaped window just above the front portico.
The cottage stood in the midst of a garden of about one acre, shaded
with many trees and surrounded by a substantial stone wall, parallel to
which, on the inside, was a hedge of evergreens, and on the outside
another hedge of climbing and intertwining wild rose, eglantine and
blackberry vines.
An iron gate, very rusty and dilapidated, admitted us to the grass-grown
walk that led between two rows of black-oak trees to the front portico
of the central building.
We entered a small front hall, behind which was a large, square parlor,
in the rear of which was a long dining-room. The wings on the right and
left consisted each of a bedchamber, entered from the front hall. There
was but one room above stairs, a large chamber immediately over the
parlor in the central building, and lighted by the fan-light in the
front gable.
The kitchen, laundry and servants' rooms were in another building in the
rear of the cottage; they were not joined together, but stood, as it
were, back to back, presenting to each other a dead wall without door or
window, and about two feet apart, thus forming a blind alley.
I have been thus particular in describing the house, that you may better
understand the story that follows.
"The builder who designed this was certainly demented," said one of the
party, pointing to the blind alley, with its waste of wall.
Will laughed.
"I have noticed, Madeleine, that quite as much of character is shown in
the construction of houses as in the cut of physiognomies."
"But, upon the whole, I like it," said the other.
And so said every one.
There was a stable, a coachhouse, a henhouse, a smokehouse, and, in
fact, every possible accommodation for the household. The fruit trees
and vines were teeming with fruit, which also lay ripening or decaying
in great quantities upon the ground. The rose bushes had spread the
grass with a warmer hue and sweeter covering.
We filled our old carryall with fruit and our hands with flowers and
prepared to return home. Ally was in ecstacies. So was Cousin Will. So
was our grandmother, as much as a self-possessed and dignified matron of
the old school could be said to be. As for myself, I could not sleep
that night for thinking of our removal to the fine old place. We had
unanimously resolved to take it.
Alas! we had reckoned without our landlord. Upon inquiry of the agent
next day we learned that the place was already let to a man who intended
to make it a house of summer resort, for which its convenient distance
from the city, its cool and shady and secluded site, and its extensive
grounds, numerous shade trees and fine fruit, and many other good
points, peculiarly adapted it.
We were very much disappointed, but our regret was somewhat modified
when we ascertained that it was let at a preposterous rate of rent, that
a prudent woman like our grandmother never would have undertaken to pay.
So we resigned ourselves to the inevitable.
However, in a week or two we were so fortunate as to rent a small, neat
house on the opposite side of the road from the Willow Cottage, and
nearer to the bridge. We immediately moved into our new home; and
grandmother sent Hector down into the country to bring up her poultry,
and drive up her cows--a business that he took but three days to
accomplish.
We were thus settled in our suburban residence, with which, by the way,
we were not quite content. It was too small, too exposed to the rays of
the sun, the dust of the road and the eyes of the passengers; it was too
new also, and the shrubs and flowers had not had time to grow, and
then--we had been disappointed of Willow Cottage.
In addition to these drawbacks, and even worse than these, was the fact
that we were annoyed all day long and every day by the troops of
visitors, on foot and on horseback, in sulkies and buggies, all bound
for the Willow Cottage.
And, worst of all, we were disturbed all night by the noisy passage of
these revelers returning home.
On Sundays and Sunday nights this was insufferable. It seemed as if ten
times as many revelers went out in the day and came back ten times as
much intoxicated and as noisy in the night! Our poor old Cassandra vowed
that when we changed the farm for the city house it was bad enough, but
when we changed the city house for the suburban cottage, "we jest did
it--jumped right out'n de fryin' pan inter de fire!"
However, a terrible event soon occurred at the Willow Cottage that
crowded everything else out of our heads.
It was the night of the Fourth of July. All day long crowd after crowd
had passed our house on their way out there. From early in the morning
until late at night the road was kept clouded with the dust, that
settled upon everything in and around our house. We were glad when, late
at night, the revelry seemed to cease, and we were permitted to be at
peace.
We retired, and, exhausted by the exciting annoyances of the day, I fell
asleep. I know not how long I had slept, when I was suddenly aroused by
the noise of many persons hurrying past the house in apparently a state
of great excitement. In another moment I perceived that all the family
had been aroused as well as myself. They hurried into my room, which was
the front chamber of the second floor, and thus from a secure point
commanded the street. We all crowded to the two windows, left the
candles unlighted that we might not be seen, and remained as mute as
mice that we might not be heard.
The stars were very bright, and we could distinctly see the hurrying
crowd in the road below. Some were running in the direction of the
Willow Cottage, while others were hastening thence. These opposite
parties, meeting, would exchange a few vehement words and gestures, and
then speed upon their several ways.
At last a man, running against another immediately under the window,
inquired:
"For Heaven's sake, what is the matter at the Willow Cottage?"
"Don't stop me, for the Lord's sake! O'Donnegan, the landlord, has
killed young Keats, the only son of Colonel Keats! I am running to fetch
his father!"
"Heavens and earth! another murder within that accursed house! That is
the third!" exclaimed the questioner, in a voice of horror.
The men separated in opposite directions, the one running toward the
town, the other toward the scene of the outrage. The same questions and
the same answers were quietly heard between other meeting parties, who
separated, running in opposite ways, as the first had done. The dreadful
news was thus confirmed.
We drew back our heads and looked each other in the face in
consternation. We knew none of the parties concerned, yet we could not
compose ourselves to sleep that night.
The next day was a terrible one to the friends of the murdered and the
murderer.
Once more--the third time--a coroner's inquest sat upon a dead body at
the Willow Cottage. But this time their verdict, made up after a careful
investigation and patient deliberation, was of a more fatal character.
It was that "The deceased came to his death by blows upon the head from
a bludgeon in the hands of Patrick O'Donnegan."
O'Donnegan, who was under arrest, awaiting the verdict, was then fully
committed to stand his trial at the approaching session of the criminal
court.
The establishment at the Willow Cottage was broken up, the furniture
sold, the house closed, and the premises once more advertised for rent.
But now with the bad odor hanging around the place, no one wished to
take it, and the house remained idle upon the proprietor's hands.
Meantime the trial of O'Donnegan approached. He was arraigned, convicted
and sentenced, in a shorter space of time than I ever heard of in the
trial of any criminal. Many people thought that the prosecution was
conducted in a vindictive spirit, and that the friends of the deceased
exerted every faculty, sparing neither influence nor expense in the
pursuit of a conviction. They retained the best counsel in the country
to assist the State's attorney, while on the other hand the poor wretch
of a prisoner had no defense except that appointed for him by the court.
However that might be, in the short space of one month from the time of
committing the homicide, he was sentenced to die, and in six weeks from
his conviction he expiated his crime upon the scaffold.
It was about the middle of September, of that eventful year, when a
rumor arose--as all rumors arise, mysteriously--that the Willow Cottage
was haunted; that ghostly lights flitted through its chambers; that
ghostly revelers held midnight orgies in its deserted halls; and that
the murderer and the murdered still played their game at ninepins, or
waged their last war along its lonely corridors.
While these reports were rife in the neighborhood, our Grandmother
Hawkins turned a deaf ear, or threw in a good-humored, sarcastic word to
the marvel-mongers--upon one occasion launching at them and us the
time-honored proverb:
"You will never see anything worse than yourselves, my dears."
"I believe you, mistress, honey! for long as I lib on dis yeth, and
feared as I is o' ghoses, I nebber see nothin' worse nor myse'f
yet--dough, the Lord betune me an' harm, I sartinly saw de debbil
once--I did," observed old Cassy, sapiently.
"If no one else takes the Willow Cottage beforehand, just wait until my
term is up here, and then if Mr. Buzzard will let it to a small, quiet
family on anything like reasonable terms, you'll see how we meet
spectres," said our grandmother.
"Too late, Aunt Rachel! The Willow Cottage is let," exclaimed Will
Rackaway, who had a few minutes previously joined our party.
"Let, is it? Ah! well, I hope it is not to another rum-seller!"
"No, indeed! to another guess tenant! to Colonel Manly, of the ----
regiment, who is now ordered to join General Armistead, in Florida, and
who takes the cottage as a pleasant country home for his wife and
children during his absence."
"Hum-m me! then we shall have neighbors. I am very well reconciled,"
said Mrs. Hawkins.
A few weeks after this conversation the new tenants were settled in the
Willow Cottage, and the colonel embarked for Florida.
Grandmother Hawkins was rather slow and ceremonious in all her dealings
with society. Therefore she "took her time" in calling upon Mrs. Manly.
Consequently, upon the very morning that she set out to pay that lady a
visit she met a train of furniture drays proceeding from the premises,
and heard to her great astonishment that the family were moving away.
"And they have been only here a week!" exclaimed the old lady, by
unmitigated astonishment thrown for a moment off her guard.
Significant looks and mysterious gestures were the only comments made by
the servants upon the subject.
And Mrs. Hawkins, thinking it improper to push inquiries in that
quarter, sent in her respects and good wishes to Mrs. Manly, and then,
without having alighted from her carryall, gave the order to turn the
horse's head homeward.
You may judge the surprise with which we heard the news of this
flitting; but as our grandmother had asked no questions, she could give
us no information.
Others, however, were not so discreet. Inquiries were made and
answered, and soon the news flew all over the country that Mrs. Manly,
upon account of the mysterious noises that nightly disturbed her rest,
found it impossible to live in the house.
The cottage remained idle for some weeks, and then was taken by another
family, who stayed ten days, then vanished--whispering the same cause
for their abandonment of the premises.
The excitement of the neighborhood increased. There was nothing talked
of but the haunted house. Large parties visited the spot during
daylight, who, after the most curious investigation, found nothing
unusual about the looks of the place. But no tenant could be induced to
take it, and it remained idle for several weeks, at the end of which
time a family from down the country moved up, and reading of this fine
place to let, and not knowing its "haunted" reputation, engaged it at
once. The name of the newcomers was Ferguson. The neighborhood waited
the event in deep interest.
Upon the day after their settlement at the cottage, as we were just
about to sit down to our very early breakfast, there was a knock at the
door, followed by the entrance of a good-looking, motherly, colored
woman, who announced herself as "Aunt Hannah, ole Marse Josh Ferguson's
'oman," and stood waiting.
"Well, Hannah, you look tired--sit down on that stool and let us know
how we can do you good," said Mrs. Hawkins.
"Thanky, mist'ess--no time to sit, honey; 'deed I hasn't--I come to see
if you would 'form me where I could buy a little drap o' cream, for ole
marse coffee. Our cows; hasn't riv' from below yet."
"You cannot buy cream at all in this neighborhood, but I will supply
your master, with great pleasure, until his cows come home."
"Thanky, mist'ess! thanky, honey! I 'cepts of it wid all de comfort in
life! An' if so be you-dem wants any plums, or pears, or squinches, for
'serves, we'd s'ply you in like manner."
After this Aunt Hannah came every morning for her pitcher of cream. One
morning I overheard her talking with Cassy in the kitchen.
"How you dew likes your new place?" inquired Cassy.
"Hush, honey!" exclaimed the other, with an air of deep mystery.
"Lord! 'deed, now?" whispered Cassy.
"Trufe I'm telling you!" replied Hannah.
"Do any one sturve you o' nights?"
"Hush, honey!"
"Who?"
"Dead people."
"The Lord betune us and harm!"
"Hush, honey! Don't let on! We's gwine 'way; but de family don't want it
should be known as dey leave for sich a cause."
"I unnerstans! The saints betune us an' sin!"
A few days after this conversation Mr. Ferguson's family left the Willow
Cottage; and the excitement of the neighborhood upon the subject of the
haunted homestead received a tremendous impetus. As it had been once
visited from motives of incredulous curiosity, it was now avoided in the
spirit of superstitious dread. It was believed to be unlucky to the
visitor. All the worst rumors about the former proprietors were revived
and credited. It was said that a curse rested upon the house where
marriage faith and friendship's trust and hospitality's laws had each in
succession been basely betrayed--upon the house of three reputed
murders!
Only Mrs. Hawkins stoutly stood up for the defense of the Willow
Cottage.
"Three murders! nonsense! three stage plays! The doctor's young wife
fretted herself into illness, and died of heart disease, poor thing. She
was not, therefore, murdered. The old doctor himself lived to a good age
and died in a fit. Was he murdered? I guess the coroner's jury knew! The
unhappy young man Keats lost his life in a sinful revel--a warning to
all youth. What guilt, then, rests upon the comfortable home and
beautiful garden? Did they suggest wine-bibbing and brawling? Pshaw! I
am ashamed of people's want of logic. Only wait until my term is up
here, and then see if I do not move into the house, and stay in it,
too!"
This decision of Mrs. Hawkins produced different effects upon each of
her family. I for my own part had a natural turn for melodramatic
heroism--admired Joan of Arc, Margaret of Norway, Philippa of Hainault,
and all the lion-hearted, eagle-eyed, battle-ax heroines--and wished for
the opportunity of imitating them. I had an aspiring, courageous spirit,
but weak nerves; and so I stoutly seconded the move to move, though my
heart quailed at the idea of our living alone in the haunted house.
Ally's trust in her grandmother was so perfect that she resigned herself
in confidence to her decision.
The old negroes were possessed with the direst fore-bodings, but feeling
that it would be vain to remonstrate, only shook their heads and
muttered something to the effect that "old mist'ess'" confidence in
herself would be sure to have a check some day.
Mrs. Hawkins was as good as her word. She began in her steady, energetic
way to tie up parcels and pack boxes of such things as were not in daily
use, in anticipation of moving. There was no competition for the
possession of the deserted mansion. Mrs. Hawkins engaged it at a very
moderate rate of rent.
And upon the 31st of October--the ghostly anniversary of Hallow E'en--a
day ever to be remembered, we began our removal to the haunted house.
It was a dark, overcast day.
Mrs. Hawkins, who seldom stopped for weather, was anxious to get all her
effects safely housed before the rain, or at least before night. So,
very early in the morning, accompanied by Alice and attended by old
Hector, she drove over to Willow Cottage to have fires lighted in the
damp house, and to receive and dispose of the furniture as it should
arrive.
Myself and Will Rackaway, who came to help me and old Cassy, remained in
charge of the house to dispatch the furniture. It was a hard day's work,
I assure you. And as the twilight hours passed the sky grew darker, and
the air damper and colder. A gloomier and more depressing day could
scarcely be imagined.
It was nearly night when at length we dispatched the last cartload of
effects, locked up the house, and got into the old carryall that had
returned for us. Old Cassy sat with me on the back seat, and old Hector,
who drove for us, sat beside Will Rackaway, in front. The rain was now
falling in a fine, slow drizzle. Perhaps it was the dark and heavy
atmosphere, fatigue, and the approach of night, that so oppressed my
spirits, but I well remember the feeling of gloom and terror with which
I crossed the highway and entered upon the grass-grown and shadowy road,
through the thicket that led to Willow Cottage. It was a very dark and
silent scene--no sight but the trees, that, like lower and heavier
clouds, met and hung over our heads; no sound but the stealthy, muffled
turn of the wheels over the wet and fallen leaves.
"The road to the haunted house is a very ghostly one! I think, for my
part, Mark Tapley would have found this a fine place to get jolly in,"
said Will, twisting his head around to look at me.
But he had quickly to recall his attention, for his first words had so
upset the equanimity of our driver that he had allowed his horse to run
full tilt into the trees. Will seized the reins from the shaking hands
of old Hector and soon righted the carryall.
At last we emerged from the thicket, and saw dimly the great open area
girdled with its pine forest, of which I have already spoken.
Only like a denser group of shadow was the old Willow Cottage, in the
midst of its ancient trees, in the center of that open space.
We followed the road through the broom sedge across the field until we
drew up at the rusty iron gate of the cottage.
There we alighted, and, leaving old Hector to drive the carryall around
to the stable door, we entered and went up the long grass-grown walk
between the black oaks, until we reached the house.
The doors and window blinds were all closed, and the faint light within
gleamed fitfully through the chinks where the framework was warped.
The front door was not locked, and we entered at once into the hall that
ran parallel with the front of the house, and formed, in fact, a sort of
anteroom to the large parlor that lay behind it. From this hall, besides
the central door before us that led into the parlor, there was a door on
the right hand and one on the left, leading into the side bedchambers in
the wings; and by the side of the right-hand door, nearer the front
wall, was the staircase leading up to the large chamber in the gable
end, that was lighted and ventilated by that fan-shaped window seen in
the front of the house over the portico.
We passed through the hall, and through the large, empty parlor behind
it, and entered the long dining-room in the rear.
There we found Mrs. Hawkins and Alice awaiting us among the piled-up
furniture.
"You look tired and out of spirits, Madeleine. You must have worked
harder than we did."
"How have you got on?" I inquired.
"Why, we have arranged the bedchambers and the kitchen--that is all. We
have left the dining-room and parlor and hall to be put to rights
to-morrow. But Hector has got the supper ready, and set the table in the
kitchen; let us go in there; it is warmer. Come, girls--come, Will."
As I before mentioned, the kitchen, pantry, laundry and servants' rooms
were in a building behind the dwelling-house, not joined to it, but
standing back to back with it at a distance of three feet. So we had to
go out of doors to enter the kitchen.
I remember even now the sense of comfort I experienced on entering that
cozy room. It was a stone room, with a great fireplace, in which blazed
a fine fire, a wide, high dresser, upon which shone, tier upon tier,
rows of bright metal and clean crockeryware; in the middle of the floor
was an inviting table, upon which smoked an abundant supper.
"Ah!" said Will, with an appreciating glance at the board; "thus
fortified, we can meet the enemy!"
"Can you spend the night with us, Will?" inquired Mrs. Hawkins.
"Oh, no! must return; mother doesn't know I'm out!" replied the youth.
Accordingly, after supper Will prepared to take his leave of us.
"Before you go, Will, I wish you to take Hector and the lantern and go
over every foot of the grounds, and all along the walks, to see that
everything is safe here," said our grandmother.
"Of course, of course, noble lady! Order the seneschal and the luminary,
and I will reconnoitre the state of the fortifications!" said Will, as
he buttoned up his coat.
By the time he had drawn on his gloves Hector appeared at the door with
the lantern, and they sallied forth. I looked through an end window, and
found strange amusement in watching the progress of that lantern up one
shadowy walk and down another, and along the hedged wall, until at last
it approached the house. Will entered, speaking gayly.
"Well, Lady Hawkins, I have reconnoitred the defenses, and found them in
an excellent condition! The wall is strong, the hedge on the inside is
high, and that upon the outerside sharp. The enemy could not attempt to
scale without such damage to cuticle from the one, and bone from the
others, as no enemy endowed with 'the better part of valor' would risk.
All is quiet within the garrison; and if you will send the warden to
lock the gate after me, I think the castle will be impregnable for the
night."
Hector once more received orders to attend the young master, who now
bade us good-night and left the house.
Meanwhile, Cassy had washed up the supper service and restored the
kitchen to order. So that when old Hector returned from his errand,
bearing the key of the gate, nothing remained for us to do but examine
and close the house, offer up our evening worship, and go to bed, which,
as it was very late and we were very tired, we prepared to do at once.
After every room was visited, and every door and window firmly secured,
we went to the dining-room for family prayer, and then let Cassy and
Hector out, and gave them the key to lock the door on the outside, so
that they might be able to let themselves in in the morning to light
the fires without disturbing us. After having thus dismissed them,
closed the door, and heard it locked, we turned to seek our rest.
"I do not consider these lower bedrooms quite dry and safe just at
present, girls; so I have had two beds made up in the room overhead,
which is large and well ventilated. Alice can sleep with me in the large
bed, and you, Madeleine, can occupy the other," said our grandmother, as
she led the way upstairs.
I did not quite like the arrangement, but could not resist Mrs. Hawkins.
The upper room, notwithstanding the fact of its being in the roof, was
amply high and large enough for a healthful, double-bedded chamber. Our
beds stood parallel, but sufficiently far apart, with their heads
against the north, or back wall, and their feet toward the front gable,
lighted by the fan-shaped window aforesaid. As it was very damp and
chill, and we were very much exhausted, we did not linger long over our
final preparations, but went speedily to bed.
Our grandmother and Alice seemed scarcely to have settled themselves
under their blankets and given me a drowsy good-night when they slid off
into the land of dreams.
I could not sleep! I seldom can the first night in a strange house, and
this was--such a house! I felt quite alone--as much alone as if the
heavy sleepers in the next bed were a thousand miles away, for farther
still in spirit were they. I thought of the isolated situation of the
house we were in; of the crimes, real or reputed, that had stained its
hearthstone; of the superstitious terror attaching to the haunted place;
of the hard facts that three several families, not reputed less wise or
brave than their neighbors, had been driven from the spot by
supernatural disturbance as yet unexplained; of the coincidence that
this dreary night was the ghostly Hallow E'en; then of the superstition
that spirits, when they wish to appear to only one in a room, have the
power of casting all others into a profound sleep, from which the
haunted one cannot awake them; and of isolating their victim from all
the natural world--even from the very bedfellow by their side. The room
was very dark and still--solid blackness and dead silence. It oppressed
me like a nightmare. At last, when my senses grew accustomed to the
scenes by straining my eyes, I could dimly perceive beyond the foot of
the bed the segment of a circle formed by the fan-light window, that now
only seemed a thinner darkness; and, by straining my ears, I could
faintly hear the stealthy fall of the drizzling rain. It was almost
worse than the first total silence and darkness; for it kept my nerves
on a strange _qui vive_ of attention. Presently this was over, too. The
muffled sound of the drizzling ceased. Yet darker clouds must have
lowered over the earth, for the faint outline of the fan-light window
was no longer visible. All was once more black darkness and intense
silence, and again I felt oppressed almost to suffocation. Welcome now
would have been the faint fall of the fine rain or the dim outline of
the window. I strained my senses in vain; no sight or sound responded. I
felt the silence and the darkness settling like the clods of the ground
upon my breast.
Hoo-oo-o!--went something.
Hark! what was that? I thought, starting.
Hoo-oo-o----!
Oh! the wailing voice of some low, wandering wind, I concluded.
Whirirr-rr-r-r----!
Yes! the wind is rising, but how like a lost spirit it wails.
Urr-rr-rr-r-r-r----!
My Lord! it's not the wind! What is it? Great Heavens!
Urr-rr-rr-rr-r-r-r-r!
I started up in a sitting posture, and, bathed in a cold perspiration,
remained listening, my hair bristling with terror.