Part 5

The boatman’s final remark was that it was strange for anyone to be willing to pay a dollar to be ferried across the river, when most people walked the railroad bridge. It was trespassing on railroad property, and dangerous to do it, but it was worth the risk, many travelers thought.

Arriving safely across the roily current, Tatnall paid and thanked the boatman, and started in the direction of the little country store. In front of the store was a row of mature Ailanthus trees, which seemed like sturdy guards over the old stone structure, which had once been a tavern stand. The porch was filled with packing cases and barrels.

As Tatnall opened the door, he could see a number of habitues seated about on crates and barrels. One of them, a white bearded Civil War Veteran, rose up, leaning heavily on his cane, and bid the stranger welcome. Almost before he had a chance to engage in conversation with the regulars, he glanced behind the counter, where he beheld a young woman, who had just emerged from an inner apartment behind the store room.

In the dim half-light, the dark aquiline face and meagre figure seemed strangely familiar. She was more Oriental than Indian in type, with that curly hair and wonderful nose, those thin lips, and complexion, the deep pink tone of a wild pigeon’s breast. Where had they met before? For a moment his mind refused to correlate, then like a flash, he realized that she was the counterpart of the girl in grey who haunted the little disused cemetery so regularly. And the way she looked at him was as if they had seen one another before; on her face was a look of mild surprise.

Addressing some pleasantries to her, they were soon engaged in conversation, as if they had known each other for years. It was getting late, time to light lamps and fires at home, so the long-winded dissertations of the habitues were left off, to be continued after supper. One by one they filed out of the store; if they had any opinion of the stranger conversing with Elma Hacker, the store-keeper’s niece, it was that he was probably some traveling man, “talking up” his line of goods.

When the last one had gone, and the acquaintance had progressed far enough, Tatnall, leaning over the counter, confided bravely the purpose of his visit to the remote neighborhood. For five years he had been seeing a figure in grey, in the late afternoons, while passing by the little graveyard in the western express. No one else could see it, yet he was certain that his senses were not deceiving him. Did she know anything of this, and could she help him fathom the mystery?

The dark girl dropped her eyes and was silent for a moment. She was hesitating as to whether to disclaim all knowledge, or to be frank and divulge a story which concerned her soul.

“Yes, I do know all about it, how very funny! I, too, have had the power of seeing that figure in grey, though very few others have ever been able to, and many’s the time I’ve been called crazy when I mentioned it. ‘The girl in grey,’ as you call her, strangely enough was an ancestress of mine, or rather belonged to my father’s family, and while I have the same name, Elma Hacker, I don’t know whether I was named for her or not, as my parents died when I was a little girl.

“It used to make me feel terrible when I was a little girl and told about seeing the figure. I hated to be regarded as untruthful or ‘dullness,’ but at last my uncle, hearing of it, came to the rescue and told me not to mind what anyone said, that, from the description, he was sure I had seen the ghost. He had never had the power to see her, but his father, my grandfather had, and other members of the family.

“It was a sad and curious story. It all happened in the days of the very first white settlers in these mountains, when my ancestors kept the first stopping place for travellers, a Stone fortress-like house, in Black Wolf Gap; the ruins of the foundations are still visible, and folks call it ‘The Indian Fort.’ The Hackers were friendly with the Indians, who often came for square meals, and other favors from the genial pioneer landlord and his wife. The Elma Hacker of those days had a sweetheart who lived alone on the other side of the Gap; his name was Ammon Quicksall, and from all accounts, he was a fine, manly fellow, a great hunter and fighter.

“He would often drop in on his beloved on his way home from his hunting trips, at all hours of the day. One one occasion four Indians appeared at the tavern, intimating that they were hungry, as Indians generally were. Elma carried a pewter dish containing all the viands the house afforded to each, which they sat eating on a long bench outside the door.

“One of the Indians was a peculiar, half-witted young wretch who went by the name of Chansops. He came to the public house quite often, being suspected of having a fondness for Elma and for hard cider. She always treated him pleasantly, but kept him at a distance, and never felt fear of any kind in his presence. No doubt his feelings were of a volcanic order, and under his stoical exterior burned a consuming passion. He was munching his lunch, apparently most interested in his food, when Ammon Quicksall and his hunting dogs hove in sight.

“Their barking and yelping were a signal to Elma, who rushed out of the house to greet her lover, perhaps showing her feelings a trifle too much; though she had no reason to imagine she should restrain herself in the presence of the Indians. All the while Chansops was eyeing her with gathering rage and fury. When Elma took her lover’s arm–she must have been a very impulsive girl–and rested her head against his shoulder, it was too much for the irate Indian.

“He jumped up, firing his pewter dish into the creek which flowed near the house, and danced up and down in sheer fury. His companions tried hard to calm him, as they wanted to keep on good terms with the innkeeper’s family, but he was beyond all control. Quicksall and Elma were walking on the path which led along the creek; their backs were turned, and they little dreamed of the drama being enacted behind them. The other Indians, realizing that Chansops meant trouble, lay hold of him, but he wrenched himself free with a superhuman strength, threatening to kill anyone who laid hands on him again.

“Old Adam Hacker, Elma’s father, finally heard the commotion and came out, and asked in Dutch what the trouble was all about. One of the Indians, the oldest and most sensible, replied that it was only Chansops having a jealous fit because he saw Elma walking off with Quicksall. While these words were being said, Chansops was edging further away, and looking around furtively, saw that he had a chance to get away, and sprang after the retreating couple. Bounding like a deer, he was a few paces behind Quicksall in a twinkling of an eye. He had a heavy old flint-lock pistol with him, which he drew and fired point blank into the young lover’s back at two or three paces. With a groan, Quicksall sank down on the ground, dying before Elma could comfort him.

“Before Adam Hacker or the friendly Indians could reach the scene of the horrid tragedy, Chansops had escaped into the forests, followed by Quicksall’s hounds yelping at his heels. He was seen no more. The dogs, tired and dejected, re-appeared the next day; evidently they had been outraced by the fleet Indian runner.

“It was a blow from which the bereaved girl could not react. She was brave enough at the time, but she was never the same again. She gradually pined away, until she was about my age, she died, and was buried not in the little graveyard, but in her father’s yard. That was done because it was feared that the crazy Chansops might return and dig up her body, and carry it away to his lodge in the heart of the forest. Quicksall was buried in the pioneer cemetery, and that is the place where Elma Hacker of those days evidently frequents, trying to be near her sweetheart’s last resting place, and to reason out the tragedy of her unfulfilled existence.

“It is a very strange story, but odder still, to me, that you, a stranger, should have seen the apparition so frequently, when others do not, and been interested enough to have come here to unravel the mystery.”

“It is a strange story,” said Tatnall, after a pause. He was figuring out just what he could say, and not say too much. “The strangest part is that the figure I have been seeing is the image of yourself, bears the same name, and my name, Ammon Tatnall, has a somewhat similar sound, in fact is cousin-german to ‘Ammon Quicksall.’”

In the gloom Elma Hacker hung her pretty head still further. She was glad that there was no light as she did not want Tatnall to see the hot purple flush which she felt was suffusing her dark cheeks.

“The minute I came into the store,” Tatnall continued, “you looked familiar; it did not take me a minute to identify you as the grey lady.”

“And you,” broke in Elma, “appear just as I always supposed Ammon Quicksall looked.”

How much more intimate the talk would have become, there is no telling, but just then the door was swung open, and in came old Mrs. Becker, a neighbor woman, to buy some bread.

“You must be getting moonstruck, Elma,” she said, “to be here and not light the lamps. Why, it is as dark as Egypt in this room, and you were always so prompt to light them.”

Elma bestirred herself to find the matches, and soon the swinging lamps were lit, and the store aglow.

Again the door was thrown open, and Elma’s uncle came in. He was Adam Hacker, namesake of the old-time landlord, and proprietor of the store. Mrs. Becker got her bread and departed, and Elma introduced Tatnall to the storekeeper. Soon she explained to him the stranger’s business, to which the uncle listened sympathetically. At the conclusion he said:

“It is really curious, after all these years, to have an Adam Hacker, an Elma Hacker and an Ammon Tatnall–almost Quicksall–here together; if Chansops was here it would be as if the past had risen again.”

“Let us hope there’ll be no Chansops this time,” said Tatnall. “Let us feel that everything that was unfulfilled and went wrong in those old days is to be righted now.”

It was a bold statement, but somehow it went unchallenged.

“I believe in destiny, the destiny of wayside cemeteries, of chance and opportunity,” he resumed. “It can be the only road to true happiness after all.”

“How happy we’d all be,” said Elma demurely, “if through all this we could only lay the ghost of my poor ancestress, the grey lady.”

“Nothing that is started is ever left unfinished,” answered Tatnall. “And we of this generation become unconscious actors in the final scenes of a drama that began a couple of centuries ago. In that way the cycle of existence is carried out harmoniously, else this world could not go on if it was merely a jumble of odds and ends, and starts without finishes; as it is, everything that is good, that is worthwhile, sometimes comes to a rounded out and completed fulfillment.”

The moon, which had come out clear, was three parts full, and shed a glowing radiance over the rugged landscape. After supper Ammon and Elma strolled out along the white, moon-bathed road. Coming to a cornfield the girl pointed to a great white oak with a plume-like crest which stood on a knoll, facing the valley, the river, and the hills beyond; they climbed the high rail fence, and slipping along quietly, seated themselves beneath the giant tree. Of the many chapters of human life and destiny enacted beneath the oak’s spreading branches, none was stranger than this one. There until the flaming orb had commenced to wane in the west, they sat, perfectly content. “Oh, how I like to rest on the earth,” said she. “How I love to be here, and look at your wonderful face,” he whispered, as he stroked the perfect lines of her nose, lips, chin and throat.

VI _The Holly Tree_

It was while on a mountain climbing trip in the French Alps, when stormstayed at a small inn at Grenoble, that a chance acquaintance showed The Viscount Adare a copy of “The Travels of Thomas Ashe,” a book which had recently appeared in London and created a sensation in the tourist world. The Viscount had already perused “Travels Beyond the Alleghenies,” by the younger Michaux, but the volume by Ashe, so full of human interest, more than sharpened his old desire to travel in the United States, now that a stable peace between the young republic and the Mother Country was a matter of some years standing.

The mountains, as described by both Michaux and Ashe, seemed stupendous and inspiring, wild game and mighty forests were everywhere, and a glimpse might be caught of the vanishing redmen, without journeying as far west as the Mississippi River.

Thomas Ashe excelled in descriptions of the life along the mountain highways, though nothing could be more vivid than Michaux’s pen picture of his feast on venison cooked on the coals on the hearth at Statler’s stone tavern on the Allegheny summits, near Buckstown. This ancient hostelry is, by the way, still standing, though misnamed “The Shot Factory,” by modern chroniclers, much to the disgust of the accurate historian of Somerset County, George W. Grove.

All during his trip among the Alps of Savoy, and Dauphiny, The Viscount Adare was planning the excursion to Pennsylvania. His love of wild scenery was one compelling reason, but perhaps another was Ashe’s description of his meeting and brief romance with the beautiful Eleanor Ancketell, daughter of the innkeeper on the Broad Mountain, above Upper Strasburg, Franklin County.

It was well along in August, the twenty-first to be exact, when Ashe’s book was first shown to him, therefore it seemed impracticable to make the journey that year, but the time would soon roll around, and be an ideal outing for the ensuing summer. From the time of his return to London, until almost the date set for the departure, The Viscount Adare busied himself reading every book of American travel and adventure that he could lay his hands on, besides accumulating a vast outfit to take along, although the trip was to be on foot, and without even a guide.

Needless to say, with such an interesting objective, the year passed very rapidly, not that The Viscount had no other interests, for he had many, being a keen sportsman and scientist, as well as a lover of books, paintings and the drama.

It was on the twenty-third of August, a little over a year after his first acquaintance with the writings of Ashe, that The Viscount embarked for Philadelphia, on the fast sailing ship “Ocean Queen.” Very few Englishmen went to America for pleasure in those days as the sting of the Revolution was still a thorn in their sides. Many Britishers did go, but they were mostly of the commoner sort, immigrants, not tourists.

The Viscount Adare, even before sailing, had his itinerary pretty well mapped out. He would tarry a week in Philadelphia to get rid of his “sea legs,” then proceed by carriage to Louisbourg, then beginning to be called Harrisburg, and go from there to Carlisle, Shippensburg, and Upper Strasburg, at which last named place he would abandon his conveyance, and with pack on back, in true Alpine fashion, start overland, traversing the same general direction of Michaux and Ashe towards Pittsburg. At Pittsburg he planned to board a flat boat and descend the Ohio, thence into the Mississippi, proceeding to New Orleans, at which city he could set sail for England.

It was an ambitious trip for a solitary traveler, but as he was known by his Alpinist friends as “The Guideless Wonder,” some indication may be divined of his resourcefulness.

The journey across the Atlantic was interesting. A school of whales played about the ship, coming so close as to create the fear that they would overturn it. The Captain, a shrewd Irishman, was not to be daunted, so he ordered a number of huge barrels or casks thrown overboard, which immediately diverted the attention of the saurians, with the result that a smart breeze coming up, they were left far astern.

A boat, said to be a pirate, was sighted against the horizon, but fortunately made no attempt to come close, heading away towards the Summer Islands, where, say the older generation of mountain folks, arise all the warm south breezes that often temper wintry or early spring days in the Pennsylvania Highlands, with blue sky and fleecy clouds.

The Viscount Adare was pleased with these trifling adventures, and more so with ocean travel, as it was his first long sea voyage, though he had crossed the Channel and the Irish Sea scores of times.

He debarked in Philadelphia after a voyage lasting nearly six weeks, consequently the green foliage of England was replaced by the vivid tints of Autumn on the trees which grew in front of the rows of brick houses near the Front Street Landing Wharf. He had letters to the British Consul, who was anxious to arrange a week or two of social activity for the distinguished traveler, but The Viscount assured him that he must be on his way.

The ride in public coaches to Lancaster and Harrisburg was accomplished without incident. His fellow travelers were anxious to point out the various places of interest, the fine corn crops, livestock and farm buildings, but the Englishman was so anxious to get to the wilds that this interlude only filled him with impatience.

He was impressed not a little by the battlefields of Paoli and Brandywine, but most of all by the grove where the harmless Conestoga Indians were encamped when surprised and massacred by the brutal Paxtang Boys. The word “Indians” thrilled him, and whetted his curiosity, which was somewhat appeased on his arrival at Harrisburg by the sight of five Indians in full regalia, lying on the grass under John Harris’ Mulberry Tree, waiting to be ferried across the river.

He tarried only one night at Harrisburg, then hiring a private conveyance, started down the Cumberland Valley, where he most admired the many groves of tall hardwoods–resting at Carlisle and Shippensburg–as originally planned. At Carlisle, he was waited on at his inn by a German woman, who explained to him that she was none other than “Molly Pitcher,” or Molly Ludwig, the intrepid heroine of the Battle of Monmouth.

It was on a bright autumnal morning that, with pack on back, and staff in hand, he started for the heights of Cove Mountain, towards the west country. On the way he passed a small roadside tavern, in front of which a few years before had played a little yellow-haired boy, with a turkey bell suspended around his neck so that he could not get lost. The German drovers who lolled in front of the hostelry were fond of teasing the lad, calling him “Jimmy mit the bells on,” much to the youngster’s displeasure. His mother was a woman of some intellectual attainments, and occasionally would edify the society folk of Mercersburg by reciting the whole of Milton’s “Paradise Lost.”

In time this boy became known as James Buchanan, the only Pennsylvanian to occupy the Presidential chair.

There were many taverns along the road, considering the wildness of the country, and The Viscount thought how much history and tradition was being made about their inglenooks and home-garths. The forests of chestnuts, yellow pine and rock oak, the grand scenery of distant valleys and coves, interested him more, and the occasional meetings with the mountain people along the way, whom he enjoyed conversing with, about the local folk-lore, game and Indians. On many of the log barns and sheds were nailed bear paws, deer horns and wolf hides, and the hieroglyphics and signs, to ward off witches, were keenly interesting to his inquiring gaze.

It was amazing how the road wound in serpentine fashion among the mountains; the distance could have been much shortened, he thought.

One morning a backwoodsman with a black beard that hung almost to his feet, explained to him the “short cuts,” or paths that went down the steep slopes of the mountains, lessening the distance of the regular roads followed by the packers around the elbows of the mountain ravines.

The Viscount Adare enjoyed these “short cuts” hugely. They reminded him of his Alpining days, and they led him right through the forests, under the giant oaks and pines where he saw many unusual looking birds, such as Pileated Woodpeckers and Carolina Paraquets, while occasionally a Deer or Gray Fox crossed his path. He had reached the bottom of a ravine where a stream headed at a big spring, while taking one of these “short cuts,” when he came in sight of a clearing which contained a corn field, a pasture lot or commons, a log house, log barn, and a smaller log cabin, that looked like a smoke-house. Smoke was issuing from an opening in the roof of the tiny structure, which might have passed for a child’s play house, modelled after the larger log dwelling. As he neared the little hut, which reminded him of an Alpine _baracq_, and which stood close to the path, the door opened and two most curious looking figures emerged. In old England he had seen sweeps, but these were more grotesque and grimier than any he could recall. As he drew nearer, he perceived that while one appeared to be a man, the other was a young woman. Both were entirely unclad, save that the woman’s locks were covered by a homespun cap of the tam o’shanter pattern. Both were literally black, from head to foot.

When they saw the traveler, the woman ran back into the cabin, pulling the door shut, while the “Jim Crow” man waited in the path until joined by the surprised Viscount.

“What is all this, my good man,” he queried, “been cleaning your chimney and fallen through it into a barrel of tar?”

“Oh, no,” said the grimy mountaineer, smiling, his teeth looking very white against his swarthy visage. “My business is to make lamp black, and my friend and I have been sweeping down the walls, collecting the output this morning, and boxing it, and had just finished when you appeared in sight.”

The fellow made no attempt to apologize for his outlandish appearance, but stood there in the sunlight like an imp of darkness, chatting with the Englishman.

“I don’t want to keep your lady friend penned up in there any longer,” said The Viscount, as he started to move away.

“Oh, don’t go,” said the maker of lamp black, “I don’t know why she acts that way; stay and have dinner with us. We never let a stranger go by without furnishing him with some food.”

Ordinarily, The Viscount Adare, unconventional as he was, would have scurried away from such grimy surroundings, but there was something that appealed to him about the lamp black maker’s lady, even in her coat of ebony grime, that made him decide to tarry.

“Thanks, I will stay,” he replied, “but I’ll go to the barn so as to give your ‘friend,’ as you call her, a chance to come out.”

“Don’t you bother to do that,” said the black man. “She is acting foolish today; don’t give her the satisfaction to move a step. She never minded showing herself to anybody before.”