Chapter XIX: Love Without Self-Love

Stand up! Look below!
It is my life at thy feet I throw,
To step with into light and joy!
Not a power of life but I’ll employ—
BROWNING.

“Gryphynshold! Take me to Gryphynshold! that is the most remote of all the manors left me by my father. Take me there, for I wish to go as far as possible from all the people I ever knew before!” said Gloria, in reply to David Lindsay’s suggestion that he should convey her to some one of her houses as to a place of refuge.

They were still sitting together, where we left them, in the private parlor of the hotel, on the afternoon of the day of their marriage.

They were now conversing in a quiet and friendly manner on the subject of their approaching departure, for they had resolved to leave Washington the same evening.

Gloria was much more composed now than she had ever been since the hour of her marriage; for David Lindsay had assured her that he should never presume on the position she had given him, even to enter her presence uninvited.

She had, from their childhood up, always loved and trusted him, and now that he had given her this promise, she implicitly believed him, and dismissed all her disquieting doubts.

David Lindsay, meanwhile, magnanimously repressed all exhibition of the bitter mortification and sorrow he experienced. He knew his little playmate too well to blame her. He knew her better than any one else in the world— better than she knew herself. The poor little hunted and helpless fawn had flown to him for refuge, and he would succor her in the way she pleased, not in the way he had wished.

She had chosen her place of refuge, and he would take her there.

“Gryphynshold,” he slowly repeated, when she had named the selected point of destination. “What a savage and gloomy name, dear! Where is that?”

“The name is not more gloomy and savage than the place, I fear. It is situated in the extreme southwestern part of Virginia, on or near the point of juncture with North Carolina and Tennessee. It is said to be the most ancient building in all that region of country; it was erected in a gorge of the Iron Mountains by an eccentric and misanthropical Welshman named Dyvyd-ap-Gryphyn, said by some annalists to have been an outlaw in his own country and a refugee in this. However that might have been, or whether he had any legal right to the land or not, there, in the most terrific yawning abyss of the mountain range, he built a rude stronghold of heavy rock and ponderous timber, and called it Gryphynshold; and there he lived, supporting himself by hunting and fishing, like any other savage denizen of the wilderness, and there at length he married an Indian girl of the Cherokee tribe. From that marriage sprang the race of Gryphyns—a proud, surly, ferocious race of men, the bane of each other, and the terror of their neighborhood.”

“It is to be devoutly hoped that they were not a very numerous tribe,” said David Lindsay.

“No. I have heard Aunt Agrippina say that there was never more than one child born of any marriage, and that was always a son. Strange, wasn’t it, from generation to generation, only one son to succeed his father?”

“Very strange; yet it precluded all possibility of law-suits among the heirs. But how came this ill-omened property into your father’s hands, my dear little lady?” inquired David Lindsay, in a playful tone, assumed to hide the heartache that was torturing him.

“Oh, it was a dreadful, dreadful story. I do not know the details of it. But Mr. Dyvyd Gryphyn, the last descendant of the Welsh outlaw who founded the family, seems to have been a demon in human form, more haughty, surly, cruel and furious than any of his evil predecessors, yet withal as demoniacally beautiful and fascinating as Lucifer, Son of the Morning. After the death of his father, who was killed in a tavern broil, and of his mother, who dropped dead of heart disease on hearing the news—for all these handsome and ferocious demons seemed to have been fondly loved by their unfortunate wives—Dyvyd Gryphyn left Gryphynshold on a tour of Europe. After an absence of three years he returned home, bringing with him a young woman, said to have been fairer than the fairest lily, more blooming than the rosiest rose. He loved her with the surly, jealous, cruel love of his nature and the nature of his fathers, which seems to be not so much love as a devouring and consuming fire, the curse and ruin of all upon whom it chanced to fall. And she loved him with that fatality of devotion which was the doom of all the women ever chosen by the ill men of the race. She was content to bury herself with him in that savage solitude, remote from all human kind; yet he did not seclude himself, but rode forth to distant towns and villages, and remained away for days and weeks together. Sometimes he would bring a party of men home with him, and they would hunt or fish all day, and carouse all night. But he never let any of them see his hidden beauty, who lived as isolated in her dreary prison as any enchanted princess in a fairy castle, until one night, in the midst of a midnight orgie, when his reckless companions were all mad with drink, and he himself was maddest of all, he sent and summoned her to the feast. The poor thing was not a Queen Vashti, so she obeyed the drunken mandate, and came down. I do not know what happened there—what she was forced to see and bear and hear—but that she was grieved, shocked and terrified beyond all endurance is certain, for as soon as she could break away and escape from the fiendish crew, she fled to the top of the house and hid herself, in a state of delirious terror.”

Gloria paused and shuddered.

“What became of the poor young woman?” inquired David Lindsay.

“I do not know. No one knows what finally became of her. The party of revellers broke up the next morning and Dyvyd Gryphyn rode with them to the next town and remained absent for a day, during which the poor little soul at home grew quieter.”

Again Gloria paused, and David Lindsay inquired:

“And was there a reconciliation between this ill-sorted pair?”

“I do not know. I never even heard whether he saw her again on the morning after the orgie, or whether he took leave of her before setting out on his journey with the revellers. She grew very quiet in his absence.”

Once more Gloria sank into silence. Once more the young man prompted her to continue, saying:

“Well, and when this demon of Gryphynshold came back?”

“Oh, David Lindsay, what next happened is so horrible—so horrible that I shrink from speaking of it,” she said, with a shudder.

“Then do not, lady dear,” he answered, gently.

“Oh, but I must! It is on my mind and it must out! I have heard that he came back in the middle of a January night—a bitter cold, freezing night. His face, they say, was as black as a thunder cloud, and his eyes flashed like lightning. Without deigning a word to one of the servants, who came to attend him, he strode at once to the chamber of his poor young victim and ordered her to get up and dress herself, for she should leave his house that night!”

“What an unheard-of monster!” exclaimed David Lindsay.

“Oh, what a wretched maniac! for no man in his senses would have acted with such causeless cruelty. In vain the poor creature pleaded to know what she had done to offend him. He only cursed her and threatened to throw her from the window unless she dressed and departed at once. In vain she wept and begged to stay till morning. He told her, with many fierce curses, that by this delay she only trifled with his temper and her own life. Oh! oh, David Lindsay, he thrust that delicate creature forth in the freezing air of that bitter January night to perish on the mountains!” exclaimed Gloria, who had forgotten all her own troubles in recalling this horrible story.

“And did she so perish?” mournfully inquired the young man.

“I do not know. Some weeks from that night a party of hunters found the dead body of a woman on the mountain; but the birds of prey had found it first and it was unrecognizable! Oh, it is all too, too hideous! It was supposed to be the body of Dyvyd Gryphyn’s victim, and, as she was never heard of afterwards, it probably was hers.”

“And what became of the madman? You were right in calling him a maniac, Gloria, for such he certainly must have been. You said that he was the last owner of Gryphynshold, therefore he must be dead. How did he die?”

“Ah, like nearly all his fierce race! A violent death! On the very day after he had thrust his poor little white slave out into the winter night, he himself fell in a duel with one of the reckless companions of his demoniac orgies of that terrible night when he commanded the hidden beauty to come into their abhorrent presence.”

“Killed in a duel at last,” muttered David Lindsay to himself.

“Yes, and with him perished the last of the evil race of the Gryphyns of Gryphynshold.”

“How came your father to purchase such an ill-omened piece of property?”

“It was advertised to be sold for taxes. Then an heir turned up in a Welsh baronet, who spelled his name in the more modern and civilized manner of G-r-i-f-f-i-n, but who was of the same original Welsh stock, the next of kin, and the heir-at-law, though a very, very, very distant cousin. This gentleman did not want this mountain property, and so, as soon as his claim to it was established, he threw the estate into the market, and my father bought it.”

“What could have induced Count de la Vera to buy such a place?”

“He was looking around for opportunities to invest his money in Virginia lands, being determined to become a citizen of the United States. He thought the Iron Mountain must be rich in the ore that gave it its name, and rich in other ores as well; and that this would be a source of great wealth to his wife and children in the future, if not immediately to himself; for remember that my mother was living at the time of the purchase.”

“After what you have told me, dear, I question whether that would be a desirable residence for any one, least of all for you,” said David Lindsay, gravely.

“Oh, yes, it would. I particularly wish to go there. Ah, I know not why, but the very savageness of the place attracts me!” exclaimed Gloria.

“Who is in charge of the house? Shall we find it habitable? Will there be accommodations for you?”

“Oh, yes, I suppose so,” said Gloria, answering the last question first; “the place should be kept up; my father purchased it just as it was, with slaves, stock, carriage and horses, implements, furniture, and everything. He even retained the hired white overseer and the housekeeper who had been in the service of the last owner. I know that Uncle Marcel used to receive their accounts and pay their wages twice every year.”

“So you have decided to go to Gryphynshold?”

“I have determined to go there,” said Gloria, firmly.

“Then I must get a map and trace out our course as well as I can, and afterwards inquire about stages.”

“I can tell you that; for once during our summer holiday trips, Marcel and I, being in this city, planned to go and take a look at my mountain stronghold, as he called it. So we left Washington by the six P. M. stage-coach for Winchester; thence to Staunton, and thence to the Greenbriar White Sulphur Springs; but there we found the place so attractive that we went no farther. So I know that we must commence our journey by the stage that leaves here at six o’clock in the evening. What time is it now? Let me see,” she said, as she consulted her diamond-studded little gold watch. “It is half-past one. Now, please ring and order a carriage. I must go out and buy a trunk, a work-box, a writing-desk, a dressing-case, clothes, needles and thread, stationery, combs and brushes, and all such necessaries of a girl’s life, before going into that remote mountain wilderness. And at the same time we can stop at the stage office and take our places.”

The young man answered by ringing the bell, and when the waiter appeared he gave the requisite order.

Gloria went in her chamber to put on her sack and hat.

The carriage was soon announced, and in five minutes afterwards the young pair were rolling along the avenue, Gloria looking out from the window to watch for the signs of the shops she wished to visit.

Presently she stopped the carriage before the door of the only general dealer and outfitter in ladies’ ready-made garments that the city then afforded.

David Lindsay left her there and went to book their places in the Winchester stage-coach.

It took Gloria three full hours to drive from place to place and collect all she wanted. She found them all without leaving the avenue, however. She had the trunk put on behind the carriage and the goods all piled within it, to save time by taking them to the hotel herself. Finally she reached her rooms at about five o’clock and spent half an hour in diligent packing.

David Lindsay then came to take her down to dinner, which they had scarcely finished before the stage-coach called to claim them.

In those slow days stage-coaches did not start exactly on time, as railway trains are supposed to do now. I have known a stage-coach to wait twenty minutes while John C. Calhoun and Henry Clay leisurely finished their breakfast before taking their seats to leave Washington at the end of a session of Congress.

Our young pair did not keep the coach waiting. They soon had their luggage brought down and bestowed in the boot, and soon after found themselves comfortably seated, the only passengers except two returning country dealers who had been East to purchase goods for the spring trade. This class indeed formed the bulk of travelers at this season of the year.

It was dark when the coach started on its long and wearisome journey.

There was neither moon nor stars out, for the sky was quite overclouded, so that there was no temptation for the passengers to gaze abroad as the stage-coach rattled over the newly macadamized avenue on through Washington, Georgetown, Tennalleytown to Rockville, where it changed horses, and where one of the travelers left them and another one took his place.

When the coach started again, Gloria curled herself up in her corner and tried to go to sleep, for she was in no way interested in the conversation concerning the dullness of the trade and the unpunctuality of debtors which the country merchants had forced upon her companion.

Rocked, or fatigued, by the rolling of the cumbersome old coach, Gloria was soon fast asleep, and she slept through the whole night, undisturbed except by the stoppage at the post-houses to change horses.

At sunrise they reached Leesburg, where they stopped to breakfast and to change coaches, taking the Winchester coach.

They rode all day through the most beautiful passes of the lesser Blue Ridge and reached Winchester in the Valley in time for an early tea.

Here again they were to change coaches and take the Staunton stage.

David Lindsay would have prevailed on Gloria to stop and rest till morning, but she was determined to pursue her journey.

They had but an hour here before the starting of the Staunton coach, and Gloria made the most of her time to refresh herself by a wash and prepare comfortably for her second night’s ride.

After an excellent tea, for which their wintry day’s journey had given them a keen appetite, the young travelers took their seats in the Staunton coach and recommenced their journey.

And this second night, poor, disappointed David Lindsay slept as soundly in his seat as did the willful beauty, Gloria, in hers.

Not even the stoppage of the coach to change horses, amid the flashing lights of the roadside post-houses, or the getting off of old passengers and climbing in of new ones succeeded in arousing them, for if disturbed they would draw a long breath, slightly change position, and drop asleep again.

They never opened their eyes until the stage-coach stopped at Woodstock, when the tumultuous getting out of their fellow-passengers at once fully awakened them.

Then they saw that the sun was at least an hour high, and that the horses were being taken from the coach before a spacious hotel in the principal street of a country town.

“What place is this?” drowsily inquired David Lindsay.

“Woodstock, sir, where we change horses and get breakfast,” answered the guard.

David handed his sleepy companion from the inside of the heavy old vehicle, and led her into a pleasant parlor, where their fellow-travelers were already gathered around a large, open fireplace, in which a glorious hickory wood fire was blazing. The party there made room for the young lady.

But she did not stay with them long. A neat colored girl came up to her and respectfully whispered the question as to whether she would not like to go to her room before breakfast.

Decidedly Gloria would like to do that very thing. So she arose and followed the girl, who lifted and carried the young lady’s traveling-bag to a spacious chamber over the parlor, with white dimity window-curtains and bed-spread, and a fine fire blazing up the open chimney-place.

The girl supplied the young traveler with warm and cold water, fresh towels, and every other requisite for the toilet—informing her, meantime, that she had half an hour before breakfast.

Gloria was glad. She sent for her trunk to be brought up, and had a thoroughly refreshing toilet, with a full change of dress.

Then, as fresh as if she had risen from a comfortable bed, instead of coming out of a lumbering stage-coach, she went down and joined her fellow-travelers at a delicious breakfast of coffee, hot rolls, buckwheat cakes, venison, quails, ham and every dainty of the season.

After the breakfast, half their fellow-passengers entered with them into the Staunton coach. (The other half had diverged in various directions.)

Their way now lay down the great valley of Virginia, with the Blue Ridge mountains on the east and the Alleghanies on the west—a paradise of beauty in the summer, and a fine country even when covered with snow, as it was now, in mid-winter.

By nightfall they reached Staunton.

Gloria was much fatigued, and again David Lindsay implored her to rest for one night.

But Gloria, willful as ever, was bent upon going on until she should reach the end of her journey. That extreme bourne, the “Hold” in the Iron Mountains, on the confines of three States, possessed a weird attraction like the lodestone, and drew her on and on.

“It is like a place in a dream—a place in a nightmare—but it fascinates me all the same,” she answered to the expostulations of David Lindsay.

After a substantial supper, finished with strong coffee, the travelers who were to go farther took seats in the changed coach, and began the third night’s journey towards Lexington.

Again, as before, the two young people slept throughout the ride, only, being still more fatigued, they slept more soundly than ever, and only awakened when, at sunrise, the coach drew up at the hotel in the main street of the little town of Lexington, and their fellow passengers began to climb over them in getting out.

Here they stopped for an hour. A refreshing wash, a substantial breakfast, and a brisk walk up and down the village street, restored the strength and spirit of the wearied young pair, so that they re-entered the lumbering old coach without any remaining oppression from fatigue, and well prepared to enjoy the day’s ride through the varied scenery of hill and dale, woods, waters, fields, farms, towns and hamlets that diversified the valley that lay between the two great ranges of mountains.

Towards evening the valley narrowed and the mountains rose until the road seemed to be approaching a gorge.

While there was yet light enough, David Lindsay drew a pocket map from his breast and began to examine it.

“If our journey takes us through that yawning chasm, I think we had better stop for the night at the first tavern we come to,” suggested the young man, thinking more of the safety of his companion than of his own.

“No! where the coach can go, we can go, night or day,” persisted Gloria.

It was dusk when they reached the gap they had seen so far before them. There was a great stone building on a river that broke through the mountains at this point. The water reflected the high precipices and the buildings with their gleaming lights. The place was a combination of tavern, post-house, mill and ferry.

Here they stopped to change horses and get supper, after which the coach, with its passengers, freight and horses, was ferried across the river to the other side, and then it took the road beneath the shelter of the snow-clad mountains, and kept it, plodding along slowly for the rest of the night.

But we must not dwell too long on this picturesque journey.