University of Virginia Library

ELSIE'S GHOST STORY.

1. I.

We were sitting by the open window, cousin Elise and I,
for though it was late in November the evening was unusually
mild: we were sitting by the window that overlooks one of
the crookedest streets of the city, not looking much to the
crowds that passed below, nor ladies in plumes and furs, nor
gentlemen with slender canes and nicely trimmed whiskers, nor
ragged urchins crying the evening papers, nor splendid equipages,
nor any of the other various sights that sometimes interest
careless observers, but watching the bright clouds that over
the distant water wrapt the sun in a golden fleece for his nightly
repose. The long reach of woods that is beneath was hidden
by dense masses of blue smoke, in which the red basement of
the sky seemed to bury itself. A portion of the great forest
of masts that borders a part of the city was visible from our
window, and now and then a black scow moved slowly over
the waves, and a white sail gleamed for a moment, and was
gone.

Autumn, especially an autumn twilight, is always to me a
melancholy time; even with the ripe nuts dropping at my feet,
or with my lap full of bright orchard fruits, I am more lonely
then than when winter whistles through his numb fingers and the
drowsy snow blows in great drifts across the flowers. When
the transition is once made, when the fire is once brightly glowing,
and the circle, wide or narrow, drawn about it, and the song
of the cricket well attuned, the undefinable heaviness that lay
on my heart all the fall, is gone, blown away with the mists.
I had a playmate whose happiness was dearer to me than my

own. My lost one, my sister—how often from the little sunshine
that has been my portion, I have turned aside to think of
thee, on whose life the blight of sin had scarcely fallen, ere
from the rippled length of thy dark tresses we took the flowers—trusting
thy feet to the dark.

And when swart November comes round, and the winds
moan along the hills, and pluck from the withering woods the
last leaves, something of the old sorrow comes back. A
shadowy host, born of the fading glories, stands between me
and the light, and as I gaze, sweeps in a pale procession toward
the tomb.

Looking up from the reverie in which I had fallen, I saw that
cousin Elsie was wrapt under the wing of a darker sorrow than
mine.

I said, laying my hand lightly and half-playfull on her's. But
as I did so, the tears, which only a strong effort had kept back,
dropt hot and fast. I left her for a moment, and affected to
busy myself at the fire, for, though the window was open, the
grate was well heaped, more for the sake of its genial glow,
than because any warmth was needed; and when I returned
and seated myself at her side, the tears were gone, and a smile
that seemed even sadder than tears, hovered on her lips.

I said something about the chilliness, as I lowered the sash,
and pointed to the first star that stood blushing in a rift of
faded cloud. My observations required no answer, for I talked
rather for than to her. Seeing this, she seated herself on a low
stool at my feet, and laying her head on my knees, said in a
manner she intended to be gay—“You need not affect unconsciousness,
for you are wondering what I am thinking about,
even though you do talk of the stars.”

I acknowledged the truth, and she added,—“Will it amuse
you to hear my thoughts?”

I replied that it would; and she gave me a reminiscence
of our life at Clovernook, where my heart always wanders
from the city, when I am in no cheerful mood.

2. II.

“You think me a dull companion sometimes,” she said,
“and I know that I am so; at this season, especially, I am
gloomy, for it was at such a time that some of the flowers of
hope died which will never blossom in all my future life. Las
year I sat on the doorsteps before our home, watching the sunset,
as bright as this to-night. Adeline was with me—for we
were always together—dear sister! she is happier, I hope, than
I shall ever be. We sat in open air, partly that we knew its
genial mildness must soon be gone before the chill blasts, and
partly that it seemed more lonely in the house, for we had been
to the funeral of Louisa Hastings that day—you did not know
her—one of the sweetest and most amiable tempered girls I
ever knew. I would not mention her now, but for what I am
going to tell you. She was young and beautiful, rich, and a
universal favorite, but consumption was hereditary in her
family, and she had scarcely attained the maturity of womanhood
when the fatal symptoms manifested themselves. Morning
and evening, all the past summer, we had seen the slowly-drawn
carriage in which she took the fresh air, and though she
knew that her journeying must presently terminate in the dark,
a smile of patient serenity was ever on her face. As we sat
together on the steps that night, the red sunset clouds away before
us, with now and then a star trembling through, we saw
before us the new and smoothly shaped mound, about which
the yellow leaves were drifting for the first time. Between our
home and the great city there is a thickly wooded hill of over
a mile in length, which has the reputation of being haunted;
and in truth it is no wonder, for a more gloomy looking place,
even in daylight, it would be difficult to imagine. In its whole
length there is no house, save a ruinous old cabin, where the

sheep that stray about the hills, seemingly without owner,
lodge at night, and in which a murder was once committed,
since which it has had no human inhabitant. The road, winding
partly around and over this hill, is so narrow that the
branches of the trees growing on either side meet overhead and
interlace; so that even at noonday a kind of twilight prevails,
and at night the gloom is dense, unless the moon be full. Just
at the summit, and dividing the woods from the villas that begin
to dot the landscape, a stone wall incloses a small lot of
ground, known as the Hastings Burial Place, and there the
grave of Louisa had been made. One sad event links itself
with another always, and we talked of Charley Hall; of the
many times we had sat there, gay and happy, because of his
presence; and of the last night of our parting, then a year
agone. Away across the wild mountains he was going from
us to remain a year: a little year, as he said himself—a long
year, as it seemed to me. Need I explain why?

“The long absence was nearly over on that evening, and
though his letters to me had not been of the character his previous
conduct had led me to expect, I could not help looking
forward anxiously, hopefully, to the time of his return. Of that
time we talked, as we partly reclined against the steps, our feet
resting in the cushion of grass, over which crept the wild ivy,
which also fastened itself in the crevices of the blue stones, of
which the steps were roughly made, and clambered among the
rose-bushes that grew under the windows.

“At last, after speaking much of fears, and hopes that kindled
fears, we grew gradually still, and as the shadows fell
thicker and darker, a childish timidity came over me—the
creaking of the boughs against the wall, or a sudden shadow
thrown across the moonlight, startled me—I felt a premonition
of evil. I could hear the treading of the cattle among the green
ridges of sweet scented hay, and across the orchard hill saw
the sheep and lambs lie quietly among the yellow sheaves of
oats that had been scattered for their evening meal; but rural
pictures and sounds failed of soothing; and when far away I
heard the beating of hoofs, I listened eagerly and half tremblingly,
fixing my eyes on the gray line of dust that stretched

to the south. “I should be glad,” I remember saying, “if that
horseman, if horseman he be, were well by,” and of asking
Adeline if she felt no apprehension. “Not the least,” she replied;
and her manner, for she burst into outright laughter, for
a moment reassured me; and especially when she added, “Do
you not hear the rattling of wheels? I suspect it is Johnny
Gates, coming from market, and fearful lest his wife's supper
be cold.” I was not well at ease, however, and as the strokes
fell heavier and heavier, could not help repeating the wish I
had made at first. Presently, dividing the shadows of the next
hill, the gay but seemingly tired animal appeared. He was
not the sober pony of Johnny Gates, nor did he draw the little
market cart, so familiar to us both; for neither the shining little
buggy, nor the briskly trotting horse, with slender ears
pricked forward, and flanks speckled with foam, had either of
us ever seen before; and the full round moon was quite above
the eastern tree-tops, large and bright, so that we saw quite
distinctly.

“More slowly the driver ascended the hill, looking eagerly
toward the house, directly opposite which he drew up the reins,
and I could hear the impatient champing of the bit and pawing on
the ground, as he alighted, and approaching, inquired if we were
sisters of Mrs. Dingley, who, he said, was sick, and desired me
to come to her. She was many years older than I, and though
I loved her, it was not as I loved Adeline, who had come up
the pleasant paths of childhood, into the shadowy borders of
womanhood, and the thick sorrows of maturer life, by my side,
She had married unfortunately, as you perhaps know, and, in
the suburbs of the city, lived in a humble, even a comfortless
way. The news of her illness pained but did not surprise me;
and remarking that I knew an evil star was in my house of life
that night, I set about the little preparations necessary for my
departure. In less than an hour I was on my way, and Adeline,
the tears in her eyes, was alone.

“In the bustle of preparation, and the sorrow of departure, I
had scarcely remarked the man who drove the carriage, but as
the lights of home, and those most near to us, faded out,
I began to observe him more particularly than I had done before.

He seemed a short thick person, with a round heavy
head set close on his shoulders, with a complexion so dark as
to throw some doubt upon his origin, though I saw him but imperfectly,
as he was enveloped in a rough shaggy coat, the
skin of some animal apparently, the collar of which was drawn
up, concealing, in part, his head, on which he wore neither cap
nor hat, but instead a comforter of woolen, the ends of which hung
loose, forming a tassel. The right hand was bandaged with a
white cloth, but nevertheless he dexterously managed the fiery
animal he drove with the left hand. We had proceeded a mile
or two in silence, when thinking, perhaps, his voice would destory
the vague terror suggested by his person, I addressed
to him some remark; but his reply was brief, and in a grum
and forbidding tone, so that I understood not a word.

“As we drew near the grave-yard in the edge of the lonesome
wood, I noticed that the gate, which was of iron, and
usually locked, stood a little open, and whether this circumstance
quickened my imagination I do not know, but I either
heard, or thought I heard, a noise within. My companion
seemed to hear it too, for drawing up the reins, he leaned in
that direction, and listened closely, though he spoke not. Suddenly
the horse, which had been with difficulty restrained, elevated
his head, and lowering his back as though to pass under
an arch, sped swiftly down the slope and under the tangled
boughs of the haunted hill. `Don't be scared at nothing, old
boy,' said my taciturn friend, addressing the refractory horse,
and bringing him to a sudden stand, with a jerk so violent that
it at first threw him back on his haunches, he leaped out, and
throwing the reins on the ground, as if purposely to add to the
fear in my heart, which he must have been aware of, he succeeded
in quieting the animal by half fond, half rough caresses,
bestowed on his glossy neck and head.

“I felt myself trembling, and dared not speak, lest my fear
should betray itself. The broad field of moonlight lay on the
summit of the hill behind us, and not yet quite out of view,
and a little faint and checkered light struggled through the
boughs. My strange conductor, after repeatedly listening and
looking back, as though in expectation of something, began

fumbling in his pocket, perhaps for a deadly weapon, I thought,
and I breathed freely when he only took thence a watch with a
heavy chain attached, both of which, by their glittering, seemed
gold, and turning it toward the moonlight, endeavored to discover
the time of night. It must have been about eleven
o'clock, as I judged by the moon. Every thing he did, the
hour, the place, were suspicious, else my state of mind rendered
them so. We did not remain thus motionless, perhaps, over
ten minutes, but it was long enough for me to conjure a thousand
shapes of evil. My sister's illness might have been a
pretence under which to lure me to death. Once or twice I
was near screaming for help, but the consciousness that none
was within reach, and the knowledge that I should but hasten
my doom if there were really danger, kept me still, and when
we again set forward, very slowly, I tried to divert my thoughts
from their hideous channel, and had in part succeeded, when a
new, but not less terrible fear thrilled the very marrow in
my bones.

“We were nearly midway of the lonesome road: on one
side was a ridge of high stony hills, and on the other a deep
ravine, along which a noisy stream tumbled and dashed toward
the river, which swallowed it. The mist hung white above it,
and crept lazily up the ascent beyond, and from beneath its
folds the whippoorwill was repeating its mournful song. In the
bottom of the carriage lay a small coil of rope, which the
slightest motion of my feet disturbed, giving me most unpleasant
sensations. Once, as I endeavored to shuffle it aside, the
man chuckled, and saying ropes were used sometimes for other
purposes than hanging, placed it on the seat between us. As
he did so, I noticed that he looked back earnestly, and that the
gaze was often repeated. I did not dare to look, though I now
distinctly heard the rumbling of some light vehicle behind us.
Nearer and nearer it came, and thinking, perhaps, it might be
Johnny Gates on his way to market—though I had once mistaken
a similar sound that night—and that an honest friend
might be very near, I turned and saw a small uncovered wagon
drawn by one horse, at a distance of but fifty yards. Within
it two men were seated, and right between them, upright, and

stiff and stark, seemingly, was what appeared a woman clothed
in white. Fears would not permit a continuance of my gaze,
nor would it allow me to look steadily in the opposite direction,
and so as we descended beneath the dark arching of trees,
I often looked back. They did not approach more nearly, and
the light was faint, but my first impression would take no other
shape.

“It seemed to me the long hill would never have an end,
and with that mysterious carriage creeping slowly and softly
behind us, the moments were centuries. At last, however,
I saw the road emerging into the light, and heard the stage
coach rattling over the bridge beyond. Presently I saw the
tossing manes of the four gay horses and the glimmer of
the lamps. My weak fears were gone, and from my bent
and trembling position I drew myself up and looked boldly
around. The ghostly equipage was no where to be seen.

3. III.

“It was near midnight when we drew up in the broad
area of light that fell from the window of my sister's sick
chamber. The moon was high, and so bright that the stars
seemed fewer and paler than was their wont. The air had
become chilling, and the streets were almost entirely deserted,
which heightened my desolate feeling; for my friends, as I
have said, lived in the suburbs of the city, and I saw through
a row of naked trees that stood a little to the west, the
white gleam of high monuments, and low and thickly set tombstones.
Glad as I was to be separated from my strange
conductor, a dismal home-sick feeling came to trouble me
anew.

“It is a sad thing to go into a strange house where there is
sickness. We need to be strong and hopeful ourselves, in order
to bear with us any of the joy and light of consolation. This
residence of my sister was of wood, small and unpainted, and
on an obscure street, without pavement or lamps, with on the
one side an old graveyard, from which a part of the dead had
been removed and on the other a lunatic asylum, from which

proceeded such frightful noises as tended in no wise to quiet my
feelings.

“My quick, loud rap, was presently answered by my
brother-in-law, whose highly decent and respectable appearance
contrasted strangely with the poor and scanty air of things about
him. He was one of those peculiarly organized persons who,
capable of turning his hand to almost anything, was only
goaded by the closest necessity to any sort of exertion. Of
the most amiable disposition imaginable, and affectionate to his
wife and children—proud of them indeed—he was nevertheless
so invulnerably indolent, that the common comforts of life
were often wanting to them and to himself. He was a little,
stiff, and exceedingly pompous man, both in manners and conversation,
and his `expectations' were a theme on which he
dwelt delightedly from one year's end to another. `Amandah,'
he was accustomed to say, when he saw his patient and
worn wife bending over the miserable remnant of some garment—`don't
work any more, my dear; I will get new clothes
for the children.' But his promises were the basis of small
hopes, and poor Amanda generally darned on as long as the
tallow candle gave her any light. She is one of the best and
most painstaking women in the world, and in spite of all her
many crosses and disappointments, loving and even hopeful
still. God knows whether she will ever have the little cottage
invested with vines and shrubbery which is her ambition; but
at this period everything about her was hopeless.

“The room we entered was small, with low ceiling, curtainless
windows, and naked floor. The furniture consisted of a
few common chairs, a square pine table, a cupboard in which
there was nothing to eat, and a stove in which there was no
fire. My brother-in-law kissed my forehead, said he was delighted
to see sister Elsah, that the prospect looked a little
sombre just now—glancing about the room—but that in a day
or two things would assume their usually cheerful aspect; and
as this was being said he conducted me up a narrow flight of
stairs, and into the sick chamber. My sister I found quite ill,
but not dangerously so, and the room was as barren of comfortable
appliances as the one I first entered. I soon contrived

to arrange things as well as I could, and when the bed and pillow
had been carefully spread, and the hands and face of the
invalid freely bathed in cold water, she felt refreshed, and after
a little toast and some cheerful conversation, fell asleep. The
husband, wearied with the watching of previous nights, shortly
followed her example, and I was left to wile the remainder of
the night away as best I could. Hearing the tossing and turnings
of the children in the next room, I looked in to see what
disturbed their slumber. Their beds were hard matrasses, laid
flat on the floor, and the clothing, even for that early season,
was quite too scanty, eked out as it was with old shawls and
petticoats.

“There were the two black-eyed little girls, each with arms
folded lovingly about the other, but with a half scowl on her
face; near by lay their brother, an active and intelligent boy
of ten years, his hands locked tightly together above his heavy
black hair, and his lips compressed as though conscious of endurance.
Piled on the floor at the head of his bed were the two
or three dozen books that composed his library. They had
been collected from various sources, and were carefully preserved,
as appeared from the paper covers in which the most
elegantly bound were enveloped. Some of them he had received
as prizes at school, a few I had given him, and the
remainder were fruits of his labor; for sometimes on Saturdays
and other holidays, he did errands for Mr. Mackelvane, a rich
merchant and neighbor, who employed his father as clerk,
when he would condescend to be employed. A shrewd boy
and a good was my nephew Ralph. Depending over the little
library, by way of ornamenting his part of the room, I suppose,
were two or three graceful plumes of the peacock. I took the
shawl from my shoulders, and spread it over his bed as a coverlid,
wrapping it warmly about his neck. He did not wake,
but his countenance assumed a softened expression, and I was
more than repaid for my own deprivation.

“The fire was growing dim, and the light low, and hoping
to divert my thoughts from their troubled channel I took up
the evening paper, and by chance ran over the list of arrivals,
and among them was that of Mr. and Mrs. Charles H—. I

cannot describe to you the terrible sensation which came over
me. I knew not till then what hope I had been leaning on—
suddenly it was broken away, and I felt too weak and wretched
and helpless to stand alone. The past was a mockery and
delusion, the present a horrible chaos, and the future all a
blank. How was I, faltering and fainting with a bleeding
heart, to be a minister of strength and consolation, to speak
what I felt not, and feel what I spoke not. I was irritated by
every sound: no matter whether it were of the wind moaning
through the trees along the grave-yard, or of some belated step
on the ground below—it seemed like digging the tomb of peace.
The candle burned dim, and flickered and went out; I knew not
where to find another, and so, with no other light than that of
the dying embers, and the white sheet of moonlight that fell
across the darkness, I sat there, in solitude, with a darker sorrow
on my spirit than I had ever known before. Beyond the
desolate common, with low and mean houses scattered here
and there, burned the lamps, rose the luxurious dwellings
and shone the towers of the great and wealthy city: no light
anywhere in the world burned for me, none of those elegant
homes had any word or warmth for me—I was suddenly become
an alien from humanity. He, who had made all things
beautiful, all situations endurable, was once more near me;
the chime of the same bells smote upon our ears, but how different
the echoes it awakened. Fate links strange contrasts—
the bridal train sweeps by the slow, pale procession of death,
and the lights of the birth-chamber grow dim in an atmosphere
of woe! It seemed that the long night would never end; but
what, in the great universe of things, are our little joys or
sorrows, that the wings of time should be stayed or quickened
for them! At length the hours wore by, and the sounds of footsteps
on the pavement, first at intervals only, began to be
heard, and gradually deepened and thickened—the world was
astir, and morning was come to every one but me.

“Some little light came into my heart as the children climbed
about me, in an ecstacy of gladness. Ralph was more shy
than the little girls, and felt a hesitancy about scrutinizing my
bonnet and shawl with as much freedom as they, nor could he

exhibit his little collection of books with the complacency they
felt in showing me their patchwork and dolls. He, however,
at last, half in shame and half in pride, displayed before me
not only his books, but another treasure scarcely less prized.
The most choice volumes he took from their paper envelopes
that I might see how free from any soiling they were, and be
gratified with the brightness of the bindings. I praised him for
their careful preservation, as well as for the knowledge he had
derived from them.

“While he and I were thus engaged, the little girls had constantly
interrupted us with, `Oh, come aunty, oh come down,
Ralph has got something prettier to show you.' `Never mind,'
said Ralph at last, `Aunt Elsie has seen a thousand, and prettier
ones than mine, I expect,' though he was evidently as anxious
as they, judging from the alacrity with which he ran down
stairs before me, when I said, `What is it Ralph—a dog?'
He laughed at my mistake, adding, “It is n't nothing much.”

“In one corner of the hard beaten door-yard grew a small
cherry-tree, and from its topmast bough, trailing earthward
and shining and sparkling in the light of the lately risen sun,
were the plumes of a beautiful peacock. Very proud he
looked, and as if unwilling to descend to the common earth.
`That is all,' said Ralph, pointing to the bird, but no doubt expecting
on my part a delightful surprise. I did feel pleasure,
and expressed perhaps more than I felt. `Who gave him to
you?' I asked. `No one,' he replied, `I bought him with money
Mr. Mackelvane gave me for doing errands;' and more
sorrowfully, after a moment he said, `I might have spent the
money more usefully, mother says, but I wanted something
pretty, and we had nothing that was pretty.'

“My praises of the beauty of the bright-plumed bird soon
diverted his thoughts to a more agreeable channel, and in conferring
happiness, I became at least less miserable. Mr. Dingley,
who was always going to do something, making arrangements
for some wonderful speculation, instead of actually accomplishing
anything, set out on a journey of a hundred miles, a day or
two after my arrival, taking with him most of the scanty means
the house afforded, and saying as he did so, `I should not be

surprised Amadah, if I made a thousand dollars by this little
trip.'

“`I should,' said Ralph, who was wise beyond his years; and
going close to his mother, he asked, in a whisper, if father had
taken all the money. She told him his father always did what
he thought was for the best, and, quieted, if not convinced, he
left the room. Presently I descended too, and found him sitting
on the doorstep of the kitchen, his eyes full of tears, and
vainly endeavoring to twist the sleeve of his roundabout in a
way that would conceal the ragged elbow. Busying myself, I
affected not to see the exhibition of sorrow, and when his eyes
were dry, said carelessly, `I see, Ralph, you have torn the
sleeve of your coat—if you will take it off I will mend it.' He
took it off, saying as he laid it in my lap, `It is not torn, aunt
Elsie, but worn out;' and while I mended it, telling him I could
make it look just as well as when new, he informed me that
Washington Mackelvane had a fine blue coat with brass buttons,
and that he laughed at his old gray one, calling him a
poor boy.

“Mrs. Dingley continued to improve, and at the end of a week
was quite well. From the time of my coming, our meals had
been growing less and less substantial, till we were finally reduced
to almost nothing, and the last cent was expended.

“Poor Ralph, whose sufferings were twice as great because I
knew it all, staid from school, and asked Mr. Mackelvane if he
could not give him something to do, but that gentleman did n't
want anything done; he next took two of his prettiest books
to the grocer, and tried to exchange them for something to eat,
but the grocer did n't want them, saying he had no time to
read; and, discouraged and almost crying, the little fellow
came back. `What shall we do, mother?' he said, in the hope
that she might have resources he knew not of; but she could
suggest nothing better than the asking Mr. Mackelvane to lend
them some money till Mr. Dingley's return. `No,' said Ralph,
resolutely, `not as long as we can help it,' and away he ran,
without giving us any intimation of his intention. When he
returned, which was in half an hour, Washington Mackelvane
was with him, and going straight to where the peacock was

dropping his long plumes in the sun, seized him by a dexterous
movement, and bore him off in triumph, tossing Ralph
some money as he did so, as though it were of no importance
to him. Ralph came in, and placing the price of his treasure
in his mother's hand, ran up to his room, and sitting down on
the edge of his low bed, gave way to his emotion—half of vexation
at the loss of his favorite, half of joy that he was able by
any sacrifice to save his mother and sisters from a part of their
unhappiness.”

4. IV.

When Cousin Elsie had finished this story of poor Ralph,
drawing our chairs to the fire, for the air was become chilly, I
asked whether she heard anything more of her strange escort, or
the mysterious pursuit. Nothing farther, she said, than that
the person hired to convey her to the city bore the reputation
of an honest man; but as to the vision, or whatever it were,
on the lonesome hill, no more was learned by her, except
that a young man, of strict integrity, who chanced to be returning
home late from visiting a sick neighbor, encountered the
same strange vehicle with the white occupant. “And Charley
H.,” I said, “did you meet him?”

“Yes,” said cousin Elsie, “and that was the most unkindest
cut of all.”

“I could not bear to eat Ralph's bread, procured as it was,
and not really being needed any longer, I set out to walk home,
and with the little parcel in my hand, had reached the lonesome
hill, when a handsome equipage overtook and passed me,
and looking up, I recognized Mr. H. The lady sitting at his
side, who seemed beautiful and very gayly dressed, looked back
from the window several times. Oh, I could have called on
the trees to crush me!” said Elsie, “for very mortification.”

We sat long in silence, looking into the fire. Little Ralph
and his beautiful bird would not let me sleep. Many a name
illumines the page of history for a less noble heroism than his.