Nick Baba's Last Drink and Other Sketches Part 3

"Take me as near the sh.o.r.e as you dare go, and leave me there."

"Good-bye, ma.s.sa; you is lost foreber."

Jasper took up the oar and pushed as near the sh.o.r.e as the shallow water would permit; the keel of the boat grated on the sandy sh.o.r.e. I stepped over the side of the boat and waded close up under the overhanging branches, and forced my way through the dense growth which shut this mysterious place from human sight. My black friend was right; in the centre of the island stood the remains of a large stone mansion, surrounded by what had once been a well-kept lawn. The gra.s.s was growing green and rank, mingled with weeds, and both were struggling for the mastery. Broken statues of costly marble and workmans.h.i.+p were lying scattered about; great flower vases, shattered, and green with the mould and moss of years, were covered with weak and flowerless creepers.

The house is a two-story one with windows on every side, or rather openings which had been windows at some former period. The dangling remains of a heavy porch hung over the doorway, ready to fall and crush the first careless intruder, while the ma.s.sive oak doors stood wide open as if to invite the victim within. The cornice was dropping to pieces, and the woodwork had only the appearance of solidity--it needed but the pressure of a hand to crumble into dust. The walls were yet perfect, for they had been built of irregular sized stones, laid up in cement, and so had outlasted the more perishable parts of this costly structure. Inside the great doors was a wide hall of about twenty feet, and its floors of hard wood had stood the test of time remarkably. On one side of the hall was a room the whole depth of the house; the ceiling was lofty, but the plaster had long since fallen and become mere powder. It was empty; patches of mould had fastened upon the walls, and a damp decaying odor pervaded the air; insects and loathsome reptiles crept over the floor. On the opposite side of the hall were two apartments, but not enough of either remained to divine what had been their uses. In a small back room there yet was to be seen a great open fire-place capacious enough to roll in a good-sized tree; a swinging crane was bolted to the corner of the chimney, supporting hanging hooks, blackened by soot; it had doubtless been the kitchen. Having fully explored the lower part, I proceeded to the upper story. As I mounted the stairs, they groaned under the unusual weight, but were still strong enough to enable me to complete the task I had undertaken. The upper floor was divided into four large chambers. Three of them were given up to decay, and desolation peered from every corner and crevice. Bats had made their nests in and about the broken places, and hung in bunches from the ceiling; the twitter of the young swallows could be heard plainly from the chimneys. I pa.s.sed on to the fourth room; that was not vacant. Although the sash had long since dropped in pieces, and fragments of gla.s.s yet littered the floor, this chamber was occupied; not indeed by any living thing, but by the inanimate remains of a once proudly furnished mansion, and also by yet one other object, which though not living had the power of movement. In one corner stood an old fas.h.i.+oned high-post bedstead, of the finest curled maple, curiously carved and ornamented. A sort of frame held the tops of the posts together, from which still hung threads of costly curtains intertwined with cobwebs, and stained with dust and damp atmosphere. There were no chairs, no tables, but in another corner of the apartment stood an antique writing-desk, with metal handles to the drawers, and bra.s.s feet fas.h.i.+oned after the claws of the lion, older than the bedstead which occupied the other corner.

Its polish and usefulness had pa.s.sed away with the grandeur of this silent habitation. Between two of the windows was a s.p.a.ce of six feet in width, reaching from the floor to the cornice. This was all occupied by a life-size portrait of a female, which looked as fresh and fair as the day it left the hands of the artist. All else about this solemn place was weird and death-like; there she stood in her loveliness, as if just attired for some merry-making; her rosy lips seemed ready to break out into song and laughter and shout, to startle this ghostly scene.

"What could this mean?" I asked myself. "Why had all the work of man perished, crumbled into dust, and this lovely image not suffered the inevitable decay? Who was she, that she could stand here untouched amid this ruin--defying time? Was it the semblance of the mistress of this once rich abode? Had she loved with more ardor than reason? Was she waiting for some one to enter this doomed edifice that we might tell her story and fulfill her destiny?" I asked myself all these questions over again, as I stood spell-bound, gazing at this beautiful vision. She was symmetry itself; her hair was golden-hued, and flowed in sunny profusion down over her beauteous neck and shoulders; the painter's art had not exaggerated her natural grace and dignity--she was beauty unadorned. The dress was of white satin, with the puffed sleeves and short waist of the last century. A broad pink sash, fastened in front at the waist, reached down to a pair of tiny feet, clothed in rich embroidered slippers. I felt as if I was in the presence of a living human being, and that she might at any moment chide me for breaking the silence of this desolate place--for disturbing its quiet.

With that feeling of superst.i.tion which runneth in the blood of man, I shuddered, grew weak and faint; great drops of cold perspiration started out from my forehead, and I turned to see if some supernatural mechanism had not closed the door and entombed me with the lovely phantom. It was still open; its rust-eaten hinges had long since ceased to act. I was free to go, but, with the infatuation of curiosity, I could not move; I stood in my tracks and ventured to look again.

A sound of rustling drapery startled me. Great heavens! this image, which seemed a moment before but a part of the solid wall, had moved and stood in the centre of the room. Slowly she raised her right arm, and with extended finger pointed to the old and faded escritoire.

Mechanically my eyes took the direction toward which she pointed. I saw the doors of the cabinet tumble from their fastenings and fall to the floor with a startling crash, while her att.i.tude commanded me, imperatively, to examine the recesses of this sepulchre of a long buried secret. I did so. In it was nothing except a small time-stained memorandum-book, the edges fastened by a silver clasp. I took it up.

It contained the following strange story of the Haunted Island. Here it is:

"MARRIED.--On the 27th of May, 1794, at Rock Creek church, in the territory of Columbia, by the Rev. Mr. Rolf, John Othard to Marie Othard."

"John Othard and myself were cousins; we had been brought up beneath the same roof, and been schoolmates and constant companions from childhood. He was my boyish lover and protector. He had grown to manhood, I was a few years younger, and we had vowed eternal constancy to each other. When, however, too late, our parents discovered our fondness for each other, and knew that we were betrothed, they interposed objections; and after exhausting all mild means, they threatened us with their displeasure, said they would disown and disinherit us; that if we persevered, we must be outcast and wanderers--go out from under the paternal roof forever; that the union would be unlawful and wicked. The tie of blood, they said, was too close, and could be fruitful only of misery and ruin--an unhappy, sinful match. We had been walking, John and I, and talking as usual over our doleful fate and prospects, and what seemed to us the absurd notions of our parents. He had been trying to persuade me to disregard what he termed the obstinacy of the old folks, and said impatiently:

"'Come, Marie, when will you consent to be mine? We are old enough to judge of our own affairs. If our families are determined on driving us out with scorn, let us be equally so to convince them how very harmlessly it will fall. I can support you; they may keep their money, and bestow their curses.'

"'No, not yet, John; let this cloud which now hangs over us pa.s.s away first; it may, ere long, be dispelled. They may relent, and then, how very happy we shall be to know that we did not court the anger of our relatives. Let us not act hastily.'

"'Ah! my dear Marie, women do not understand these matters quite as well as men. I really think you share their idle superst.i.tions. Do you not?'

"'You may call them superst.i.tions if you will, but my sense of propriety tells me that we should wait. We could not be happy with their malediction pending over us.'

"'That is prattle. Notwithstanding these fears, we may be as prosperous and happy as though we had come from the opposite sides of the earth, and if you consent, they will be compelled to acknowledge it.

"'Our marriage, when solemnized by the proper authorities, will be as far above their idle prejudices as the heavens are above us all.'

"'Still, John, we must wait.'

"'Yes, and wait. Who ever taught us, until it was too late, that we were growing up in sin--if it is sin?

"'Why did they permit the seed of our childish friends.h.i.+p to ripen into the full flower of love, and then blast it with the frost of parental authority?'

"'Dear John, do not lose your temper. I think you are right in that, but let us be brave, and not set aside, too lightly, our duty to those whose only solicitude can be that we do no wrong.'

"'I was a little impatient, to be sure. I will respect your wish, Marie. I will wait, but it must not be here.

"'I will go out into the busy world for a year or two, and then return to claim you. If I do not come back to you rich, I will at least have enough to give us a good start in the world.'

"'John,' I said, placing my hand in his, 'I shall miss you very much, and be very lonely. Be careful, John, that you do not bring with you a wife, to give us a practical demonstration that your love was a mere fancy.'

"'Not I, dearest; I will remain as true to you, through every vicissitude, as I now think you to be true.

"'But you, who knows but I may live to find that you have obviated the trouble by marrying a man who is not your cousin, just to make the theory of certain persons good?'

"'Trust me; I am worthy of your love; and now, good bye. G.o.d bless and care for you.'

"'May He bless and protect you, Marie.'

"'He went off that same day. For the first few months his letters to me were frequent, and always filled with sentiments of love and constancy. Then the intervals became longer, and longer, then ceased altogether. 'He is in a large city, I thought, and in the whirl of excitement, he has already forgotten me; some other, perhaps, has taken my place; his heart has another idol. No, I reasoned with myself; that cannot be, he has become very poor and has married for money, thinking I would never relent.'

"'Months pa.s.sed rapidly away, faded into years, and yet no tidings came. This silence and uncertainty were wearing tear channels down my cheeks. I waited on; and though pained and sickened, like a true woman I never allowed my tongue to disclose the anguish I suffered.

The wolf was gnawing at my heart; if the lines I felt growing more marked on my features did not tell the story, it was my secret, and I kept it.'

"'One morning, after an absence of three years, John suddenly made his appearance--without a note of warning. He seemed somewhat older, and his face had lost that impetuous look of boyhood. But he was handsome ever, and just the same loving fellow.'

"'I am so rejoiced to be at home again. I have been thinking of you constantly, Marie.'

"'Why, then, have you been absent so long, and why for two years have you not written to me--not even a line?'

"'I have been fighting in a great, crowded city for a competency. The battle was fierce and long; sometimes I was lost in the busy, swaying mult.i.tude; but I have gained it, and I am here to know if you will go and share it with me."

"'Yes, I am ready and willing to go, though I am sure we shall be driven out and away from the family fold; be branded as wantons, outcasts, by all we love most dear.'

"'Leave your fears outside the church door, my darling, for we can defy them so far as money is the question. I have enough. We will build ourselves a home in some retired spot, and be so happy that they will seek us, and be ashamed of their conduct when they see how they have erred.'

"I could not resist such persuasion from the only man I had ever loved. I consented at once, and the next day we were married. In accord with my own desire, we bought this embowered island, and built this s.p.a.cious home. It had everything in and about it that taste could fancy and wealth purchase. It was quite a heaven for me. We were so happy, and he never left me. We sat beneath the grand old trees and talked of our future prospects, read our favorite books, and I loved those best which we had read together. It seemed too much happiness to last long; sometimes I felt as if the shadow of sorrow was threatening our home. Yet all was serene, and I dismissed my fears. It had not yet come; but it was coming though, as slowly yet as surely as the distant muttering of thunder portends the approaching storm. An indefinable dread of something impending clung to me. I could not rid myself of it. My husband now commenced absenting himself from home. He had business in this city, and then in that one; his journeys became more frequent and of longer duration. After one of these visits he returned wearied and not at all like himself; care was on his brow, and his manner betokened some great grief. I said:

"'John, dear, it is two weeks since you left me, and you promised to return the same day. What is the matter? are you in trouble? You must be, for your face has that pinched look which nothing but extreme anxiety can produce. Confide in me.'

"'Nothing very serious, my dear child,' he replied, 'it will soon be over; only a temporary embarra.s.sment; some unlucky speculations.' Then he gave me a kiss, smiled as he used to do, and said I was a baby.

"'Ah, John, your words buoy me up and make me feel almost happy again.'

"'Let us speak of it no more, and when I have my business all in shape again, I will never leave you, but remain here, where, if you cannot see me every moment, you can hear me.'

"'Oh, that will be such joy for me. But do you know, John, that while I have waited, and waited, to hear the splash of the oars as you crossed from the sh.o.r.e, I have conjured up all sorts of things?

Sometimes I have thought that perhaps--'

"'Perhaps what?'

"'That the chains of Cupid had been woven around you during your first absence, and that you might have returned to her who--'

"'Just what a foolish woman always supposes. Why I have been as true to you as the waters of the glorious river, which sweeps past our island home, have been constant in their tendency toward the sea.'

"'I believe it, and now you will pardon me, will you, not?'

"'Of course I do,' he continued; 'and, had I been as faithful to myself as I have been loyal to you, I would not now be suffering the woe you have so plainly seen on my face.'

"'Tell me, dear, for I can guide you out of it--I know I can.'

"'No, not now,' he answered; then he kissed me and walked away.

"Something terrible was coming--I knew it. The curses which had been heaped upon us for disobedience were about to bear fruit. Now, strange, rough-looking men came to see my husband--persons whom I had not seen before. They seemed familiar with him; it was evident, however, that their presence was distasteful to him; he tried to keep them at a distance, he shrank from them. I said I did not like these acquaintances; he replied that they were commercial friends, and must be treated with respect. They had long and mysterious conversations together. They would go to the other sh.o.r.e and return, bringing other companions equally ill-looking.