THE GHOST OF THE ISLAND
SUMMER had passed; autumn too, with its crisp, frosty nights and
sunshiny days, and its forest foliage glowing with a glory of crimson
and gold, the dress put on by all the trees save the solemn pines and
firs, which still kept to the sombre hues of their evergreen.
Yes, winter had come; not as it comes here, with an occasional short
spell of frost and fall of snow alternating with south-west winds and
rain, but stern, white, and still, with unbreaking frost, and trees
ghost-clad, and grand, polished, gleaming snow-roads, over which the
Finnish sledge-carts glided smoothly, the bells on the horses tinkling
bravely.
The whole wide lake was one sheet of glass, out of which, in solemn,
solitary grandeur, rose the island, bare now of green,—a great giant
with a hoary head, and with his mantle lined and furred here and there
with pure white snow.
In the cottage of Grubert Reuss there was once more the happiness of
reunion, for the father had returned to his home. But the family were
poorer than ever before, for the man's right arm was disabled by his
injury, and was unfit for a woodcutter's work; and Tonie, whom Philip
Bexal had taken on instead, had neither strength nor experience as yet
to do a full day's work, and therefore only earned half-pay.
Still Grubert was not idle. Though his right arm had not power to wield
the axe, his hand had not lost its cunning, and now that he could not
employ himself in felling timber in the forest, he set to work to make
use of his time at home. Many were the ingenious toys, the pretty
carved boxes and useful vessels, which he made out of wood. Some he
polished, others he painted, and when he had completed a goodly number,
he carried or sent them to Klingengolf, where a dealer was willing to
take all he could make.
Tonie and Blonda, too, were fully occupied, and were never idle a
moment. The former was out in the woods all day, helping to fell timber
and cart it down to the river bank some miles away, while the latter,
when not busy with sweeping, cooking, washing, or mending, sat down
to her loom and wove yard after yard of coarse linen towelling, which
Grubert took to sell in the town when he had goods of his own of which
to dispose.
Almost the only recreation that the children had was to bind on their
skates, and hand in hand to fly off and explore the lake. Like swallows
they skimmed the surface, fearless and sure of their footing. Now and
again a solitary wolf, or even a pair of wolves, might be seen skulking
across the ice, but the animals seemed to pay no heed to the little
skaters, and they in their turn did not trouble their heads about them.
One or two wolves were not dangerous, and the young folks never went so
far from home as to run the risk of encountering these creatures in any
numbers.
The good pastor was working away among his people as hard as ever. With
the autumn came illness to the village, and the old man's strength had
been sorely tried by the demands made upon it; and even now, when the
condition of Carfoos was healthy once more, he had hardly recovered his
usual vigour.
As for the Valdens, they had indeed moved away; but they had not gone
far; and though just at first they kept quiet, and nothing was heard of
them, now again there had begun to be circulated rumours that spoke of
quantities of wood mysteriously stolen, snares robbed that had been set
for hares and birds. Birch trees were being despoiled of, their bark,
and even frozen venison, frozen pigs and game and poultry, had been
stolen out of the sheds where the villagers stored their marketable
provisions to be in readiness for taking to town to sell.
As for Freskel, he still haunted the home of the pastor, though not as
much as he had done before his father and brothers left Carfoos. But
there was a great change in the lad, which the pastor could not but
see, and which, he felt assured, dated back to that night when Freskel
had been of such signal service to the children at the woodcutter's
cottage, and in saving from the covetous hands of Dorlat and Hervitz,
Rolf Bresser's bag of money.
Pastor Oshart knew not what to make now of the boy's strange moods,
for Freskel went about as one in a dream, sometimes seeming quite
unreasonably elated, and at others downcast and shrinking guiltily, as
though conscious of doing wrong. To all questions the youth returned
evasive replies, and even his love for the pastor could not induce him
to make a confidant of his old friend. Some strange spell seemed to be
about Freskel, some bad influence was slowly but surely undermining his
happiness and dragging him down.
And now, at this time, once more it was reported that the Isle of
Ghosts was haunted, and the glimmer of a ghostly light and the flitting
of a shadowy form had been seen at night from the shores of the lake.
Connecting these reports with Freskel Valden's frequent and unaccounted
for absences, the good pastor came to the conclusion that the poor,
half-witted lad had become possessed by a mad passion for the
ill-gotten gold which tradition said still lay hidden in some corner
of the island, and that the ghost which haunted that lonely pile of
rock was none other than Freskel himself. Pastor Oshart, however,
said nothing to any one about his suspicions, for he hoped gradually
to bring some better influence to bear upon the poor youth's heart
and life,—some strong motive which would overcome the greed of riches
which he inherited from his father and shared with his wicked brothers,
Dorlat and Hervitz.
The good old man did not for one moment believe that any treasure
existed at all on the island, save in the imagination of a few
foolish or idle people. But he dreaded—and rightly—the strength of an
absorbing, covetous passion on such a mind as that of poor Freskel,
which was only too apt to lend itself to delusions of all sorts.
"Father," said Blonda to Grubert one afternoon as she sat down to her
loom, "Father, hadst thou any special need for some of this linen last
night or this morning?"
"No, my child; why?" asked Grubert.
"Because I see that quite a long piece of it is gone," replied the
girl. "When I put away my work last evening, at supper-time, I had two
rolls of linen, and had begun a third, and now I see that one of them
is not here."
"Strange!" remarked Grubert. "Has Tonie taken it for any purpose?"
"Hast thou taken a roll of my towelling, Tonie?" asked Blonda, for her
brother came in just at that moment.
"I? No, little sister; what should I want with it?" replied the boy, in
great surprise.
"It is quite impossible that it should have been stolen," said Grubert,
"for no one comes here but our dear pastor and poor Freskel Valden."
"Was Freskel here this morning?" asked Tonie.
"Yes," answered his father. "He came just after breakfast, when thou
wert one out into the forest and Blonda to the goat shed."
"What could he want at so early an hour, I wonder!" said Tonie. "Why,
he must have risen at about three o'clock in the morning to come all
the way from where the Valdens live now. What could have been his
purpose?"
"Who can tell?" said Grubert. "Thou knowest how strange he is, with his
whims and his fancies. He sat down here in the kitchen by the fire, and
warmed himself, and presently I left him, for I had promised to see
Pastor Oshart as early as I could. When we all returned to dinner, as
thou knowest, Blonda, Freskel was no longer here."
"It is strange! Passing strange!" said Blonda.
But as there was no accounting for her loss, the subject was dropped,
and nothing more was said about it.
That evening our two little Finns strapped on their skates, and set out
for an hour's exercise and recreation on the lake. It was a glorious
night; there was no wind, the moon rode high and clear in a cloudless
sky, and the stars, like ten thousand luminous eyes, peered down upon
the little skaters, as with long, easy sweeps they glided, hand in
hand, across the beautiful sheet of ice that reflected the moonlight
like a mirror.
As the children neared the island they slackened their pace.
"I wonder," said Tonie, "if there is any truth in the old tradition
about this place! Think, Blonda, what it would be if thou and I could
but light upon the treasure hidden so long! How rich we should be, and
how happy! And—"
"Hush, hush, Tonie; speak not so," cried Blonda. "If gold lies buried
in that island, there let it lie for me! After all, it was all
ill-gotten booty, if the story of the robber band be true, and such
treasure will bring a curse, and not a blessing. No, Tonie, father
is right when he tells us not to suffer our minds to dwell on such
matters, lest the longing after filthy lucre come between us and God.
For thou knowest what our Lord saith in His word:
"'For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.'"
Tonie did not reply, but suddenly digging the heel of his skate into
the ice, he stopped short, and his sister, rather startled, did the
same. Then he whispered eagerly, as he pointed towards the island,
which was now close to them, "Hush, Blonda; didst thou see that?"
Blonda followed the direction in which her brother's finger was
pointing.
"I see nothing," she said softly. "What should I see?"
"Didst thou not see that light? It flashed an instant and was gone. Up
there it was, just between those two peaks. There, there it is again!
Oh, Blonda, can it be the ghost after all?"
"Nonsense, Tonie!" replied the little girl stoutly. "Thou knowest that
there are no ghosts; has not our father told us so again and again?"
"Then what sayest thou—and what would our father say—to that?" muttered
Tonie under his breath, as from behind a huge rock there came in sight
a strange, shapeless white as the snow around.
For a moment it stood motionless; then, with a doleful, unearthly cry,
it vanished as suddenly as though the rock had opened and swallowed it
up.
For some minutes the children waited to see if the ghost re-appeared,
but their waiting was in vain, and presently they turned homeward, too
full of their adventure to care to prolong their skating expedition.
They were, however, scarcely half-way back to the shore, when they met
two men muffled up in sheep-skin coats, and wearing huge felt boots,
which prevented their slipping on the ice.
"Dorlat and Hervitz Valden," said Tonie, when they had passed.
"Yes; I wonder what brings them out here!" answered Blonda. "Thinkest
thou, Tonie, that they are going to brave the ghost of the island—or
the thing that pretends to be a ghost—and to make a search for the
treasure?"
"How can I tell, Blonda? But one thing I know, little sister, whether
a ghost be a dangerous neighbour or no, Dorlat and Hervitz Valden are
dangerous enough, as we know by experience. I glanced over my shoulder
but now, and saw those evil brothers standing and looking after us.
Come, let us get home!"
Once more taking hands, the children glided swiftly away, and when they
next looked back, Dorlat and Hervitz were nowhere to be seen, and the
whole wide expanse of frozen water lay bathed in moonlight, save only
where the Isle of Ghosts cast a black shadow, its tall, jagged peaks
seeming to form upon the clear ice the long fingers of a giant hand,
feeling about for something to clutch and to destroy.
[Illustration]