not long in noticing that the father, too, had a strange affection,
something wrong about the nerves it seemed. Whenever he was going to
reach for anything, his hand, with a jerky twitch, described a sort of
fluttering zig-zag, before he was able to grasp what he was after. Soon,
the motion disturbed me so much, I kept my head turned in order not to
see it. But not before I had also observed that the young girl kept her
glove on her left hand while she ate.
Dinner ended, I went out as usual for a turn in the grounds belonging to
the establishment. A sort of park, I might say, stretching clear to the
little station of Auvergne, Chatel-Guyon, nestling in a gorge at the
foot of the high mountain, from which flowed the sparkling, bubbling
springs, hot from the furnace of an ancient volcano. Beyond us there,
the domes, small extinct craters--of which Chatel-Guyon is the starting
point--raised their serrated heads above the long chain; while beyond
the domes came two distinct regions, one of them, needle-like peaks, the
other of bold, precipitous mountains.
It was very warm that evening, and I contented myself with pacing to and
fro under the rustling trees, gazing at the mountains and listening to
the strains of the band, pouring from the Casino, situated on a knoll
that overlooked the grounds.
Presently, I perceived the father and daughter coming toward me with
slow steps. I bowed to them in that pleasant Continental fashion with
which one always salutes his hotel companions. The gentleman halted at
once.
“Pardon me, sir,” said he, “but may I ask if you can direct us to a
short walk, easy and pretty, if possible?”
“Certainly,” I answered, and offered to lead them myself to the valley
through which the swift river flows--a deep, narrow cleft between two
great declivities, rocky and wooded.
They accepted, and as we walked, we naturally discussed the virtue of
the mineral waters. They had, as I had surmised, come there on his
daughter’s account.
“She has a strange malady,” said he, “the seat of which her physicians
cannot determine. She suffers from the most inexplicable nervous
symptoms. Sometimes they declare her ill of a heart disease; sometimes
of a liver complaint; again of a spinal trouble. At present they
attribute it to the stomach--that great motor and regulator of the
body--this Protean disease of a thousand forms, a thousand modes of
attack. It is why we are here. I, myself, think it is her nerves. In any
case it is sad.”
This reminded me of his own jerking hand.
“It may be hereditary,” said I, “your own nerves are a little disturbed,
are they not?”
“Mine?” he answered, tranquilly. “Not at all, I have always possessed
the calmest nerves.” Then, suddenly, as if bethinking himself:
“For this,” touching his hand, “is not nerves, but the result of a
shock, a terrible shock that I suffered once. Fancy it, sir, this child
of mine has been buried alive!”
I could find nothing to say, I was dumb with surprise.
“Yes,” he continued, “buried alive; but hear the story, it is not long.
For some time past Juliette had seemed affected with a disordered action
of the heart. We were finally certain that the trouble was organic and
feared the worst. One day it came, she was brought in lifeless--dead.
She had fallen dead while walking in the garden. Physicians came in
haste, but nothing could be done. She was gone. For two days and nights
I watched beside her myself, and with my own hands placed her in her
coffin, which I followed to the cemetery and saw placed in the family
vault. This was in the country, in the province of Lorraine.
“It had been my wish, too, that she should be buried in her jewels,
bracelets, necklace and rings, all presents that I had given her, and in
her first ball dress. You can imagine, sir, the state of my heart in
returning home. She was all that I had left, my wife had been dead for
many years. I returned, in truth, half mad, shut myself alone in my room
and fell into my chair dazed, unable to move, merely a miserable,
breathing wreck.
“Soon my old valet, Prosper, who had helped me place Juliette in her
coffin and lay her away for her last sleep, came in noiselessly to see
if he could not induce me to eat. I shook my head, answering nothing. He
persisted:
“‘Monsieur is wrong; this will make him ill. Will monsieur allow me,
then, to put him to bed?’
“‘No, no,’ I answered. ‘Let me alone.’
“He yielded and withdrew.
“How many hours passed I do not know. What a night! What a night! It was
very cold; my fire of logs had long since burned out in the great
fireplace; and the wind, a wintry blast, charged with an icy frost,
howled and screamed about the house and strained at my windows with a
curiously sinister sound.
“Long hours, I say, rolled by. I sat still where I had fallen,
prostrated, overwhelmed; my eyes wide open, but my body strengthless,
dead; my soul drowned in despair. Suddenly the great bell gave a loud
peal.
“I gave such a leap that my chair cracked under me. The slow, solemn
sound rang through the empty house. I looked at the clock.
“It was two in the morning. Who could be coming at such an hour?
“Twice again the bell pulled sharply. The servants would never answer,
perhaps never hear it. I took up a candle and made my way to the door. I
was about to demand:
“‘Who is there?’ but, ashamed of the weakness, nerved myself and drew
back the bolts. My heart throbbed, my pulse beat, I threw back the panel
brusquely and there, in the darkness, saw a shape like a phantom,
dressed in white.
“I recoiled, speechless with anguish, stammering:
“‘Who--who are you?’
“A voice answered:
“‘It is I, father.’
“It was my child, Juliette.
“Truly, I thought myself mad. I shuddered, shrinking backward before the
specter as it advanced, gesticulating with my hand to ward off the
apparition. It is that gesture which has never left me.
“Again the phantom spoke:
“‘Father, father! See, I am not dead. Someone came to rob me of my
jewels--they cut off my finger--the--the flowing blood revived me.’
“And I saw then that she was covered with blood. I fell to my knees
panting, sobbing, laughing, all in one. As soon as I regained my senses,
but still so bewildered I scarcely comprehended the happiness that had
come to me, I took her in my arms, carried her to her room, and rang
frantically for Prosper to rekindle the fire, bring a warm drink for
her, and go for the doctor.
“He came running, entered, gazed a moment at my daughter in the
chair--gave a gasp of fright and horror and fell back--dead.
“It was he who had opened the vault, who had wounded and robbed my
child, and then abandoned her; for he could not efface all trace of his
deed; and he had not even taken the trouble to return the coffin to its
niche; sure, besides, of not being suspected by me, who trusted him so
fully. We are truly very unfortunate people, monsieur.”
He was silent.
Meanwhile the night had come on, enveloping in the gloom the still and
solitary little valley; a sort of mysterious dread seemed to fall upon
me in presence of these strange beings--this corpse come to life, and
this father with his painful gestures.
“Let us return,” said I, “the night has grown chill.”
And still in silence, we retraced our steps back to the hotel, and I
shortly afterward returned to the city. I lost all further knowledge of
the two peculiar visitors to my favorite summer resort.
SANDY’S GHOST.
“‘Commerdations fer the night, stranger? Waal, yes; I reckon we can fix
a place fer you. Hev a cheer an’ set you down.”
“Thank you. Don’t you find this rather a lonely place--no neighbors, no
nothing, that I can see? How came you to settle here, so far removed
from other habitations?”
“Waal, perhaps it’s best not ter ask too many questions ter once.”
“Beg your pardon. No offense was intended, I assure you. Simply idle
curiosity.”
“Don’t say ’nuther word, stranger, but come in an’ we’ll hev a snack fer
supper. Polly, bring on the victu’ls. Yer jes’ in time.”
Polly at once obeyed. She was a typical Western girl--tall, lithe,
graceful and limpid-eyed. She was clear-skinned and high-spirited, too,
and in this case ignorant through no fault of her own. John Barr’s eyes
scanned her intently, and a flush came to her cheeks. For the first time
in her life she was unpleasantly conscious of her bare feet. It may have
been this that made her stumble and spill some of the contents of an
earthen bowl over the guest’s knees as she placed it on the table.
Her eyes flashed and a tear of anger twinkled on the lashes. She
stopped, half meaning to apologize, but an oath from her father caused
her to set the bowl down heavily and to hurry from the cabin. A moment
later Barr saw a flutter of pink calico from behind a pile of rocks. Old
Kit Robinson saw it, too.
“Don’t wonder at yer sayin’ ’tain’t right. She’s a sma’t gal, and a good
looker, too, as should hev been sent away frum here ter school ter be
eddicated. But she won’t leave her no ’count dad. I orter be shot fer
cussin’ her. But I ain’t what I use ter be. Settin’ here an’ keepin’
guard makes me narvous.”
Barr’s eyes asked the question his lips refused to speak. Supper eaten,
the men went outside and sat with their chairs tilted back against the
cabin. Something in the younger man’s frank face had softened old Kit
into a reminiscent mood and made him strangely inclined to gratify an
idle curiosity.
The soft evening winds sighed through the branches of the tall spruce
pines, and the declining rays of the setting sun caused the shadow of
the rude home to stretch out longer across the greensward. From its
shelter where he sat John Barr looked out on the grand ranges of the
Rockies and wondered where in their vastness he would find the man he
sought--the finding of whom had brought him out into this wild and
almost forsaken mining camp.
“Stranger, I’ve took a likin’ ter you. Ye’ve a sumthin’ about you thet
reminds me of sum one I know, an’ you look like an honest chap. Say, do
you b’lieve in ghosts?”
He put the question very suddenly, and a look of disappointment crossed
his face when Barr told him that he did not believe in spooks.
“Waal, I’ve seen ’em!”
A thought connecting the pink calico with something in the past came to
Barr’s mind.
“Can’t you tell me about it?” he asked.
“I’d like ter if you’ll sw’ar, on yer derringer, never ter blab. Will
you sw’ar?”
The solitary guest started to smile, but the smile faded at the thought
of unshed tears in Polly’s eyes. It might make it easier for her if he
humored the old man.
“I’ll swear,” he said. And he did.
“Do you see yan old spruce at the turn of the trail an’ the cliff jes’
above? Waal, thet’s the spot I’m watchin’ an’ guardin’ till the owner
cums ter claim it. I’m quick ter burn powder an’ a pretty sure shot. I
know a man when I sees him, an’ I ain’t easy fooled. Waal, ter begin
with, I had a pardner once, an’ he wuz a man, sure ’nough. He wuz frum
the State of New York. I never axed him as ter how so fine a gent cum
ter be diggin’ an’ shov’lin’ in the Rockies, though ter myself I said
thar wuz sum good reason. He had light hair, an’ we called him Sandy,
fer short, an’ he wuz jes’ erbout as gritty as sand. We wuz as unlike as
any two fellers you ever saw. He wuz quietlike an’ steady, an’ I wuz
sorter wild an’ reckless an’ liked mounting dew mos’ too well. Waal,
when we had a little dust scraped together, we would divvy, an’ I tuk my
share way down ter the station on the other side of the cliffs an’ sent
it off ter the bank in Helena. But I allers left sum hid whar the gal
would find it. Old Sandy hed a bank of his own thet no one knew erbout,
’cepting hisself, an’ ev’ry time we divided he’d carry part of it ter
his hidin’ place, an’ then give the rest ter me ter send ter his boy,
thet he said wuz bein’ eddicated in sum college way up in Boston. He
seemed ter think a heap of thet boy. Arter awhile my old woman give out,
an’ soon we laid her away on the hillside. It wuz hard, stranger.”
Old Kit’s voice failed him for a moment, but he quickly regained his
composure and continued:
“But when old Sandy, my good old pard, give up I didn’t keer fer
nothin’. We buried him in style. All the boys frum round the diggin’s
wuz thar, an’ many an eye wuz wet. We didn’t hev nary a preacher, but
the gal she prayed at the grave. Fer the life of me I don’t know where
she larnt it. Reckon the old woman must hev told her. Next mornin’ the
gal showed me a letter thet Sandy give her jes’ afore he died. It wuz
ter his boy, an’ she wuz ter give it ter him if he ever cum out this
way, an’ she’s got it yet.
“Thet same evenin’ after supper, feelin’ kinder glumish an’ like thar
wuz sumthin’ in my throat I couldn’t swaller, I tuk a stroll up the
gulch. I went on out ter the top of the edge of the big rock an’ got ter
studyin’ whar I’d find another pard like Sandy. All ter once I felt a
hand touch my shoulder kinder light once or twice. I jumped up, half
expectin’ it wuz Sandy, but it wuz only the gal. Waal, I wuz all tuk
back at fust, an’ then I got mad.
“‘What air you doin’ up here?’ I axed, kinder rough. She hed tears in
her eyes as she looked at me, an’ said:
“‘Pap, don’t git mad. I wuz lonesum. I seed you cumin’ up this way, an’
I follered you, ’cause I wanted ter tell you thet Sandy said ter give
his boy his pile when he cums.’
“‘Waal,’ says I, ‘you might hev waited till I cum back ter the house.’
An’ then I sent her back.
“Arter she wuz gone I sot ter studyin’ whar in the world Sandy’s pile
wuz. I tried ter think whar could he hev hid it. But it warn’t no use.
All ter once I noticed it wuz plum dark, an’ as these mountings ain’t a
he’lthy place fer a man ter roam in arter nightfall, especially if he
ain’t got his shootin’ irons on, I cut a pretty swift gait fer the
shack.
“Jes’ as I cum round the bend thar at the pine I happened ter look up
terward the clift, an’ thar sot Sandy. Yes, sir. It wuz him sure as yer
born. My feet felt heavy as lead, an’ I couldn’t move frum the spot. I
tried ter holler, but it warn’t no go. Finally I gave a sudden jerk an’
made a step terward him, an’ as I did so he disappeared. Then I made
tracks fer home. But I kept mum, ’cause I knowed the boys would say thet
mounting dew wuz lickin’ up my brains, an’ I would be seein’ snakes an’
sich things afore long.
“The next night sumhow er ’nuther I thought ter go an’ see if he wuz
thar ag’in, an’ sure ’nough, thar he sot, lookin’ kinder sad an’ making
marks on the rocks with his fingers. I hed my hand on my gun this time,
so I got a little closter than afore. But, by hookey, he got away from
me ag’in, nor did he cum back.
“I could hardly wait fer the next night ter cum round. At the same time
I wuz on hand good an’ early, jes’ as it begun ter git dark, an’ the
trees looked like long spooks a-stretchin’ out their arms. I looked
terward the clift, an’ thar he sot a-markin’ an’ a-scratchin’ on the
rock with his fingers an’ still looking sad. Now, this bein’ the third
time, I kinder got bold, an’ I went a little closter, an’ says:
“‘Sandy, wha-what’s the ma-mat-matter with you? Didn’t the boys do the
plantin’ right fer you?’
“Then as luck would hev it I thought of sumthin’ else right quick, an’ I
said:
“‘Or is it the dust you hev hid whar yer sittin’?’
“Waal, he looked up then, an’ the happiest smile cum ter his face, an’
all ter once he disappeared ag’in. An’ since then I hev sot here an’
guarded the place till the right one cums along ter claim it.
“Let’s see. What did you say yer name wuz?”
“Pardon me. I thought I had told you. My name is John Willett Barr.”
“Polly, oh, Polly! Cum hyar, gal. What wuz Sandy’s full name? I plum
fergot.”
“What you want ter know fer?” she asked. “I ain’t a-goin’ ter tell you
now. Thet’s my own secret.”
“Cum, cum, gal. Tell me ter once, or it won’t be he’lthy fer you.”
“Waal, then,” she answered stubbornly, “it’s John Willett Barr.”
At her reply the younger man’s face grew deathly pale, and he started up
from his chair, but Kit thrust him back into his seat, saying:
“Bring me the letter, Polly.”
“What are you goin’ ter do with it, pa?” she inquired, cautiously.
“I promised old Sandy on my oath ter keep it till the right one cums
erlong ter claim it, an’ I mean ter keep my word. The right one is here,
gal. Thar he sits. So trot thet letter out, an’ don’t parley long with
me if you knows when yer well off.”
Polly stared at the younger man in utter bewilderment for a moment.
Then, turning slowly, she stepped quietly into the cabin after the
precious document; an unusual gleam of joy lighted up her face and a
suppressed excitement shone in her eyes. Under her breath she said:
“Sumhow er ruther I felt he wuz the right one.”
Too truly, John Barr realized in that painful moment that he whom he
sought was now dead to him; that the father from whom he had been parted
so many years was sleeping that long, dreamless sleep in the clay mound
on the hillside, which marked his last resting place. As he turned to
look at the face of old, honest Kit, who had been his father’s friend
during those long years of forced exile, a happy smile lit up the old
miner’s rugged features as he pointed with his finger to the rock cliff
near the old spruce vine, and said, in an exultant, trembling voice:
“Thar he be, stranger--jes’ as I hev seen him many a night--yer dad--my
pard--pore old Sandy!”
With an eager voice John Barr sprang forward, and the mountains echoed
and re-echoed the plaintive cry of “Father! Father!” But his
outstretched arms clasped only emptiness and the darkening shadows of
the rapidly approaching night.
THE GHOSTS OF RED CREEK.
BY S. T.
To the northward of Mississippi City and its neighbor, Handsboro, there
extends a tract of pine forest for miles with but few habitations
scattered through it. Black and Red Creeks, with their numerous
branches, drain this region into the Pascagoula River to the eastward.
With the swamps of Pascagoula as a refuge, and the luxuriant and
unfrequented bottoms of Red and Black Creeks to browse upon, there are
few choicer spots for deer. Knowing this fact, a small party of
gentlemen on the day before a crisp, cold Christmas, started from
Handsboro in a large four-wheeled wagon for a thirty-mile drive into
this wilderness of pine and a week’s sport after the deer. The guide was
Jim Caruthers, a true woodsman, and the driver and general factotum, a
jolly negro named Jack Lyons, than whom no one could make a better
hoe-cake and cook a venison steak. His laugh could be heard a quarter of
a mile, and his good nature was as expansive as the range of the
laughter.
The usual experiences of a hunting camp were heartily enjoyed during
the first days of this life out of doors; but its cream did not rise
until about the fifth night, when, from familiar intercourse, Jack Lyons
became loquacious, and after the day’s twenty or twenty-five-mile walk,
would spin yarns in front of the camp fire, which brought forgetfulness
of fatigue.
The night before New Year’s was intensely cold. The cold north wind of
the afternoon had subsided at sunset, and only a gust now and again
touched the musical leaves of the pines, making them vibrant with that
mournful score of nature’s operas which even maestros have failed to
catch.
In front of two new and white tents two sportsmen reclined at length
within reach of the warmth of the fire, while opposite them rested at
ease the guide and the worthy Jack Lyons.
Wearied with the day’s chase four stanch hounds--Ringwood, Rose, Jet and
Boxer--were dreaming of future quarry.
The firelight brought out in bright relief the trunks of the tall pines
like cathedral columns, and sparkling through the leafy dome overhead
the scintillating stars glistened with a diamond brightness. A silence
which added its influence to the scene rested about the borders of the
creek below, and gave more effect to the story of the veteran teamster
than perhaps it otherwise would have had.
“If de deer run down de creek,” said old Jack, smacking his lips over a
carefully prepared brewing of the real Campbellton punch, “wese boun’ to
see fun to-morrer, for dey’ll take us down thar by de old Gibbet’s
place. In daylight dere’s no place like it, but after nightfall, you bet
you wouldn’t catch dis nigger thar.”
Old Jack was naturally asked why he didn’t care about visiting the
Gibbet’s place at night. Asking to be excused until he filled his pipe,
the silence was unbroken until his return. He piled on more pine knots
and commenced:
“You kno’, gemmen, dat when de gunboats was in de sound we folks had to
travel way back hyar on dese roads outun de range of deir big guns. I
was ’gaged by Mr. Harrison in hauling salt from de factory at
Mississippi City, on de beach ober to Mobile, an’ I had been making a
trip ebery week or so. Dis back country road was neber thought ob by de
Federals, an’ we had good times long de way, no shells and no shootin’.
“De nite, gemmen, I’se speakin’ of was a Friday, dat yous all knows is
unlucky. Well, you see, I hitched up Betsie an’ Rose in de lead, an’ ole
Fox an’ Blossom at de pole, an’ takes in de biggest load of salt dat
team eber carried. I starts out an’ crosses de Biloxi Riber at Han’sboro
jes’ as de moon was goin’ down. Yes, boss, dese roads weren’t no better
den now, an’ de rain had made ’em mighty rough when yer come to de
holes.
“I sat in de seat whistlin’ ‘De Cows is in de Pea Patch,’ and a-thinkin’
of Sarah Jamison, what was afterwards my wife, when I felt de off fore
wheel go ‘kersush’ in a hole up to de hub. I’d made seventeen miles out
ob Han’sboro. I did some cussin’, an’ den went to de fence, about twenty
yards off, an’ took out a rail to prize up de wheel. Den I saw I was at
Mister Gibbet’s place. I sez to myself, I’ll go up to de house an’ get
old Mr. Gibbet to give me a turn. I had done gone by dar two weeks afore
an’ seed de old man.
“Now, gemmen, yer listen to me, for what I’se tellin’ yer is as sure as
Jinny’ll blow de horn on de las’ day. I walked up to de house an’ dar I
saw a bright light inside. It showed out froo de windows, an’ I saw
shadders of Miss Gibbet and Mrs. Gibbet on de window curtain--shore,
honeys, shore. De front do’ was shet, an’ I steps up on ter de gallery
an’ knocks wid de butt end of my whip. I didn’t knock loud, needer. God
bless us all, gemmen, de lights went out like dat, an’ I hears set up a
laugh, ha-ha-ha-ha. How dat set my knees a-shakin’. I opens de do’, an’
dere was no sign of anybody. I struck a match an’ all de furniture was
moved out, an’ de old red curtain dat I fought I seed was in rags. De
whole family was gone, for shore. I didn’t kno’ ’zactly what to think
’bout dem strange voices, but I started back to de wagon, when it
lightened, an’ bress God, dar in de front yard was six graves jes’ made.
Somefin’ wrong here, sed I; an’ I builds a fire by de wagon an’ digs de
wheel out. Jes’ den old Squire Pasture kem along de road from Mobile,
an’ he tells me de news. Ole man Gibbet cut de froats of his wife and
fore chillerns an’ shoot hisself in de head outun jealousy of his wife.
Dey was all buried in de front yard, an’ de house was deserted ten days
befo’.
“Gemmen, when I hear dat, dem mules make de quickest time to Mobile eber
seed; an’ youse can tell me dar’s no ghosts, but yo’ don’ catch me roun’
dat log house of Gibbet’s ’ceptin’ sun’s an hour high.”
Jack looked suspiciously over his shoulder into the darkness and crawled
into his blanket, muttering:
“It scares dis nigger eben now to tell ’bout dat night.”
Sleep soon fell upon the camp, but the impression of old Jack’s story
survived the night, and the next day he still asserted its truth.
THE SPECTRE BRIDE.
The winter nights up at Sault Ste. Marie are as white and luminous as
the Milky Way. The silence that rests upon the solitude appears to be
white also. Nature has included sound in her arrestment. Save the still
white frost, all things are obliterated. The stars are there, but they
seem to belong to heaven and not to earth. They are at an immeasurable
height, and so black is the night that the opaque ether rolls between
them and the observer in great liquid billows.
In such a place it is difficult to believe that the world is peopled to
any great extent. One fancies that Cain has just killed Abel, and that
there is need for the greatest economy in the matter of human life.