University of Virginia Library

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.