O
ON the summit of one of the heights of a wild country district along the Rhine, there stood many years ago an old castle. In this castle lived a beautiful maiden with her father and two elderly aunts.
Her father was a jolly old nobleman, very fond of his beer, and very fond of hearing himself talk, too. He enjoyed his own jokes better than anyone else, perhaps.
Even so, his dearest possession was his beautiful daughter, his only child. He loved her as the apple of his eye, and wished to give her all happiness.
She had little chance of being lonely, for there were always a large number of poor relatives visiting the nobleman, and indeed they made these visits so long that they sometimes stayed for years.
She often wondered, however, who might be living in the castle on the heights across the valley. She could just see the outlines of the walls and towers on clear days from the balcony outside her bedroom window.
“Father,” she said one day, “could we not ride over to that castle some time? I’m forever dreaming stories about those who live within it.”
A heavy cloud settled over her father’s countenance.
“Never let me hear you make mention of it again, my daughter!” he thundered.
And of course she said no more, but she spoke about it to one of her aunts that evening.
“Dear aunt, why was my father vexed when I mentioned that castle this morning?” she asked, pointing out of her window.
“Hush, my child,” replied her aunt. “There is a feud between the two families.”
“A feud?” questioned the maiden. “A feud? Why, we do not even know them! How can there be a feud?”
“It dates back to the time of our great-great-grandfathers,” her aunt told her, “and no loyal member of this family would ever have anything to do with a member of that family. Never mention the matter again!” Then suddenly changing the subject, “Did you finish your embroidery stint for to-day? How far have you worked? Let me see.”
The maiden blushed, arose, and brought a large sheet of unfinished tapestry to her aunt, which she unfolded before her.
Her aunt put on her spectacles to examine the work.
“Wait!” she exclaimed. “I’ll call my sister.”
The other aunt was in the doorway, however, and joined her in examining the work.
“I see a missed stitch here!” she commented.
“Ah, yes, and a loose end there!” added the other. “It is growing dark. No knowing how many flaws we would find by daylight. To-morrow you will do better, I hope.”
“I will try,” promised the niece.
And so the maiden grew. By the time she was eighteen, she could not only embroider tapestries, and play a dozen airs on her guitar and harp, but could write a short note, with not more than ten misspelled words, and could sign her own full name without missing a letter.
These accomplishments, in that day, were considered quite a finished education for a young lady.
On her eighteenth birthday the castle was in bustling excitement because there was to be an affair of utmost importance. And this affair was none other than a great family gathering to receive the intended bridegroom of the maiden.
Her father had promised her in marriage to the son of an old nobleman, a friend of his who lived in a distant province.
The parents had arranged all the details, and the young people were engaged to be married without even seeing each other. The time was appointed for the wedding, which was to take place at the home of the maiden on her eighteenth birthday.
The bridegroom had already set out on his journey and was expected to arrive at any moment.
The castle was in a tumult. The fair bride had been decked out with uncommon care. Her aunts had quarreled about every article of her dress, and while they were quarreling, she had made up her own mind about each article she would wear. The result was that she looked as lovely as a dream. The soft lustre of her eyes, the rose-petal hue of her cheeks, the quick rise and fall of her bosom, showed the excitement in her heart.
Meanwhile her aunts gave her all kinds of directions as to her behavior.
“When you first see him, my dear niece,” advised one aunt, “lower your eyes, as becomes a modest young lady.”
“Yes,” added the other aunt, “and when you courtesy, catch your skirts, so,” and she made a deep old-fashioned bow.
The old baron was no less busy with preparations than the others. Having, in fact, nothing to do but wait, he worried everybody else about every detail. He wandered from the top to the bottom of the castle, begging everybody to be diligent, and filling everybody with anxiety. He was naturally a bustling little man, and he buzzed about in every hall and chamber like a blue-bottle fly on a warm summer’s day.
In the meantime, things had been gathered together for the making of a great feast. The forests had rung with the sound of the huntsman’s horn. The kitchen was crowded with good cheer, and the castle was a model of ancient hospitality.
The long tables had been spread with the handsomest trenchers and dishes within the castle. The last finishing touches hadbeen added to the wedding gown, the bride waited trembling with anxious expectation. Everything was ready to receive the distinguished guest—but the guest did not come.
Hour after hour rolled by. The sun began to set, and the baron mounted for the eleventh time to the high tower, and strained his eyes in hope of catching sight of the count and his attendants.
Once he thought he saw them, for there were a number of men seen advancing slowly on horseback, but when they had nearly reached the foot of the mountain, they suddenly struck off in a different direction.
The last rays of the sun departed. The bats began to flit by in the twilight. The road grew dimmer and dimmer to sight, and nothing seemed to be stirring in it except, now and then, a peasant lagging homeward from his day’s labor.
While the old castle was in this nervous state, very different things were happening to the bridegroom.
The young count was riding along on horseback in a jog-trot fashion toward the bride he had never seen.
“There is no haste necessary,” he said to his attendants; “we will be there all in good time. Let us enjoy the scenery.”
At the inn where he stopped for refreshment, he met another young nobleman with whom he had been good friends several years before while both were in the army.
“And which way do you travel?” asked the count’s friend.
“We go through the East pass, and upward through the mountain road,” he replied.
“How fortunate!” exclaimed his friend. “I am going in the same direction.”
So they agreed to travel together, and soon set off, the count leaving word for his servants to follow and overtake him later.
“Now, tell what has happened in your life since we last met,” said the count’s friend as their horses stepped out abreast. “Has your heart been touched by the beauty of any maiden?”
Once He Thought He Saw Them
Once He Thought He Saw Them
Then the count told him about his coming wedding with a young lady he had never seen, but who was said to be very lovely.
In this way they entered one of the loneliest and most thickly wooded passes in the mountains.
All this happened in the days when bands of robbers lived in woods, and when ghosts were said to haunt old castles.
As the count turned to speak to his companion, suddenly from out the woods there sprang a small band of robbers who immediately attacked them.
They made a brave fight, but were nearly overcome by numbers when the count’s retinue of servants came riding up. The robbers fled at sight of them, but not until they had given the count a dreadful wound.
He was carried back to the nearest town through which he had so joyfully ridden such a short while before. A priest, who was also quite a doctor, was brought to his bedside, but everyone knew that the poor young count’s moments were few to live in this world.
He motioned his friend near, and whispered between gasping breaths, “I—beg—you—to—go—to—the—castle—of—my—betrothed—and—tell—why—I—did—not—keep—my—appointment.”
Then gathering strength, he added in a stronger voice, “Unless this is done, I shall not sleep quietly in my grave!”
He spoke so solemnly that his friend gave his promise without hesitating. This seemed to soothe him, and he closed his eyes as if in sleep, but he soon began to talk wildly, and call for his horse, saying he must hasten to the home of his bride, and thinking he was leaping into the saddle, he suddenly drew his last breath.
His friend was deeply grieved. His heart was heavy within him. He scarcely knew how to keep his promise, for he was the son of the nobleman whose castle the maiden had been forbidden to mention; and, because of the feud between the two families, he hated all the more to be the bearer of such bad news. Still hethought that he would like to see the lovely girl, and he felt that he must try to carry out the promise he had made to his dying friend. So he made arrangements for the poor count’s burial in the cathedral near the graves of his noble ancestors, and set out on his journey.
It is now high time that we should return to the castle, where everybody was hungrily awaiting the guest.
Night closed in, but still no guest arrived. The baron descended from the high tower in despair.
“It is so dark that I can see nothing now,” he said. “There is no use in watching longer.”
The banquet had been postponed from hour to hour. The cooks in the kitchen were desperate. The meats were already overdone, and every one was beginning to look as though it were a time of famine.
“We cannot delay longer,” the baron finally said. “I fear we must proceed with the feast without our guest.”
All were seated at the table and on the point of commencing, when the sound of a horn from outside the gate gave notice that a stranger was approaching.
Another long blast filled the old courts of the castle with its echoes, and was answered by the warden from the walls.
The baron hastened to receive his future son-in-law.
The drawbridge had been let down, and the stranger was before the gate.
He was a tall, gallant cavalier, mounted on a beautiful black steed. His face was pale. He had a gleaming eye, and yet wore an air of sadness.
The baron was a little embarrassed to think that he should come in so simple a way without a retinue of friends and servants. He thought that the young count did not show proper appreciation of the honor of marrying his daughter, but he comforted himself by thinking, “He has been so anxious to see his bride that he has hurried off without waiting for attendants.”
“I am sorry,” began the stranger, “to break in upon you at such an hour——”
“Oh, pray, do not worry,” interrupted the baron, “it is as nothing,” and he continued with a world of compliment and greeting. For, to tell the truth, the baron was very proud of his ability to make pretty speeches.
He kept on talking so fast that the stranger was unable to put a word in edgewise, and by the time he paused, they had reached the inner court of the castle.
The stranger was again about to speak when he was once more interrupted by a group of the baron’s relatives leading forth the blushing bride.
The stranger gazed on her for a moment as one entranced. It seemed as if his whole soul beamed forth in the gaze, and rested upon her beauty.
One of the maiden aunts whispered something in her ear. She made an effort to speak. Her moist blue eyes were timidly raised, gave a shy glance at the stranger, and were cast again to the ground.
Her words died away, but there was a sweet smile playing about her lips, and a soft dimpling of the cheek showed that she was pleased to meet so charming a person.
The late hour at which the guest had arrived left no time for talk. The stranger attempted again to tell his sad news, but the baron would not listen, and immediately led the way to the untasted banquet.
The feast was served in the great hall of the castle. Around the walls hung the portraits of the bride’s ancestors, and the horns and tusks of animals they had killed in the hunt. Armor and spears, and torn banners hung next to jaws of wolves and tusks of boars, and spears and battle axes. A large pair of antlers hung just over the head of the youthful bridegroom.
The stranger took but little notice of the company or of the entertainment. He scarcely tasted the banquet, but seemed absorbed in admiring the bride. He talked with her in a low tone that could not be overheard. The bride’s color came and went, and she listened to him with deep attention. Now and then she made some reply, but she was very quiet most of the time, and when his glance was turned she looked at him with much pleasure.
“They have fallen in love at first sight,” whispered one aunt.
“I felt that it would be so,” said the other.
The feast went on merrily, or at least noisily, for the guests were all blessed with large appetites.
The baron told his longest and best stories. If he told anything marvelous, his hearers were lost in astonishment. If he told anything funny, they laughed just loud and long enough to please him greatly.
Amidst all this frolic, the stranger seemed lost in thought. His only conversation was with the bride, and seemed to grow more and more earnest and mysterious. Clouds began to steal over her fair face, and the guests noticed that she trembled.
Their gayety was chilled by such actions. The song and laughter grew less and less frequent. There were pauses in the conversation.
Dismal stories were told by several people. The baron nearly frightened some of the ladies into hysterics with the history of the ghost horseman that carried away the fair young woman, Lenora.
The bridegroom listened to this tale with great attention. He kept his eye fixed on the baron, and, as the story drew to a close, began gradually to rise from his seat, growing taller and taller, until, to the baron’s eye, he seemed almost to tower into a giant.
The moment the tale was finished, he heaved a deep sigh, and took a solemn farewell of the company. They were all in amazement. The baron was perfectly thunderstruck.
“What! going to leave the castle at midnight? Why, everything is ready for your reception; a room is ready for you if you wish to retire.”
The stranger shook his head mournfully and said: “I must lay my head in a different place to-night.”
Then waving his farewell to the company, he stalked slowly out of the hall.
The maiden aunts seemed turned to stone. The bride hung her head, and a tear stole down her cheek.
The baron followed the stranger to the great court of the castle, where the black horse stood pawing the earth and snorting with impatience.
When they reached the portal whose deep, high archway was dimly lighted by a lantern, the stranger paused and spoke to the baron in a hollow tone of voice.
“Now that we are alone,” said he, “I will tell you my reason for leaving. I have an engagement in——”
“Why,” asked the baron, “cannot you send some one in your place?”
“I must keep this engagement myself—I must go myself——”
“Ay,” said the baron, “but not until to-morrow—to-morrow you shall take your bride there.”
“No! No!” replied the stranger with greater solemnity. “My engagement is with no bride. The grave awaits me! I must go back where I came from!”
He sprang upon his black charger, dashed over the drawbridge, and the sound of the clatter of his horse’s hoofs was lost in the whistling of the night’s blast.
The baron watched him until out of sight, then muttered, “He must have been a ghost!”
He returned to the hall in great bewilderment, and related what had just passed. Two ladies fainted; others sickened with the idea of having banqueted with a spectre.
A Tall Figure Stood Among the Shadows of the Trees
A Tall Figure Stood Among the Shadows of the Trees
The company tried to guess whose ghost it might have been. Some talked of wood-demons and others of mountain sprites, but all was dim uncertainty and mystery.
The next morning, however, put an end to guessing, for word came of the death of the young count on his way to the castle, and every one felt sure that the stranger of the night before was indeed his spectre.
You can imagine how dreadful the baron felt. He shut himself up in his rooms. His guests stayed on, for they could not think of going when he was in such trouble, and then, too, the remnants of the feast were to be eaten and drunk!
But the poor bride was most to be pitied. To have lost a promised husband before she was acquainted with him! And such a husband! Everybody wept for her.
On the night of the second day after, she retired to her room with one of her aunts who insisted upon sleeping with her.
The aunt was one of the best tellers of ghost stories in all the land, and in telling one of her longest, fell asleep in the midst of it.
The room was in a distant corner of the castle, and overlooked a small garden. The niece lay gazing at the beams of the rising moon as they shone on the trembling leaves of an aspen tree before the latticed window.
The castle clock had just tolled midnight when a soft strain of music stole up from the garden.
She rose hastily from her bed and stepped lightly to the window.
A tall figure stood among the shadows of the trees. As it raised its head, a beam of moonlight fell on its face. In a moment she knew him—her promised bridegroom!
A loud shriek at that moment burst upon her ear, and her aunt, who had been awakened by the music and had followed her to the window, fell into her arms.
When she looked again, the spectre had disappeared.
Of the two, the aunt required the more soothing. She was beside herself with terror.
As for the young lady, she did not feel frightened. There was something, even in the spectre of her lover, very charming.
The aunt declared she would never sleep in that room again. The niece for once was determined to have her own way, and declared she would not sleep in any other room. The consequence was that she had to sleep there alone.
She begged her aunt to promise not to tell about this moonlight visitor, for she said it was the only comfort she had in her great disappointment, and the good old lady promised. How long she would have kept her promise is uncertain, for she dearly loved to talk about mysterious happenings.
She did keep it to herself for a whole week; and then, suddenly, she did not need to keep it longer. For word was brought to the breakfast table that the young lady was not to be found.
Her room was empty. Her bed had not been slept in. The window was open! The bird had flown!
Nearly every one was struck speechless, when the aunt who had slept with her, suddenly regained her speech, and wringing her hands, shrieked out, “The goblin! the goblin! She’s carried away by the goblin!”
In a few words, she told of the dreadful scene in the garden; and all concluded that the spectre must have carried off his bride. Two of the servants said they had heard the clatter of horse’s hoofs down the mountain-side about midnight, and had no doubt it was the black charger of the spectre.
The poor baron was inconsolable. What sorrow to have his only child, his daughter, carried off by a goblin! How terrible to have, perhaps, goblin grandchildren! As usual, he was completely bewildered, and all the castle was in an uproar.
The men were ordered to take horses, and hunt in every road and path and by-way. The baron himself had just drawnon his jack-boots and girded on his sword, when he glanced out the window, and paused because of what he saw.
A lady was approaching the castle on horseback. Beside her, mounted on a black charger, was a cavalier.
She galloped up to the gate, sprang from the horse, and running into the castle, fell at the baron’s feet.
It was his lost daughter, and her companion—the spectre bridegroom.
The baron was astonished. He looked at his daughter, then at the spectre, and almost doubted his eyes.
The spectre was wonderfully improved in appearance. His dress was splendid, and set off his noble figure. He was no longer pale and sad. His face was flushed with the joy of youth.
The mystery was soon cleared up. The cavalier (for you must have known all along he was no goblin) told the whole story—how he had met his young friend; how they had traveled together; how the young nobleman had met his death. He said that the sight of the beautiful young lady had made him forget everything except the desire to be near her. At first, when the baron would not listen to his explanation, he thought it would do no harm to accept the situation as it was.
If the baron’s family had not had a feud with his own family, he would have explained everything after the banquet, but he feared that, under the circumstances, he might never see the young lady again. When the baron had told how the fair Lenora had been carried off by the goblin, the idea of being a goblin himself came to him. And he said that he did not feel exactly right about doing this, but his friends had told him to remember the old saying that “everything was fair in love.”
The baron pardoned the young couple on the spot. The festival at the castle was continued.
Only the aunt was disappointed. She who had told so many stories about true ghosts, was embarrassed to find the only ghost which she had actually seen should turn out to be a real liveperson, but she was so happy at having her niece back again that her embarrassment was as nothing.
But the niece was perfectly happy in having found him a real living person, and—since they lived happily ever after—here the story ends.
* * * * * *
“And another begins,” added the Story Lady, after a slight pause.
At the Story King’s nod of approval, she proceeded.