The crowds of visitors who came down to the "Dubarry White Sulphur" every summer, after tasting the waters of the spring and exploring the beauties of the caverns, invariably drove down the banks of the Black River to where it broadened into the Black Lake, from whose dark borders arose the sombre wood that shadowed the mountain's side, and from whose obscure depths loomed up the gloomy structure now known as Black Hall, the deserted home of the haughty Berners, the haunted and accursed mansion.
Here, on the murky borders of the lake, the visitors would draw up their carriages, to sit and gaze upon the fatal edifice, and listen to the story of that awful Hallow Eve, when the fiery-hearted young wife was driven by jealousy to desperation, and her fair young rival was murdered in her chamber.
"And on every Hallow Eve," their informant would continue—"on every Hallow Eve, at midnight deep, the spirit of the murdered guest might be seen flying through the house pursued by the spirit of the vengeful wife."
Visitors never penetrated into the wood that surrounded and nearly concealed the mansion, much less ventured near that mansion itself.
The place was guarded by three old women, they were told, weird as Macbeth's witches, and who discouraged all approach to their abode.
So solitary and deserted were the house and its inmates, that every path leading through the forest towards its doors was overgrown and obliterated, except one—a little narrow bridle-path leading from the house through the woods, and out upon the Blackville road. This was kept open by the weekly rides of old Joe, who went every Saturday to the village to lay in the groceries for the use of the family; by the three old women, who, seated on their safe old horses, went in solemn procession every Sunday to church; by the young Cromartie, who came trotting on his fiery steed once a month to visit his old friends; and by old lawyer Closeby, who came ambling on his sedate cob every quarter-day to inspect the premises and pay the people.
No other passengers but these ever disturbed the stillness of the forest path; no other forms than these ever darkened the doors of Black Hall. A gloomy place to live in! gloomy enough for the three quiet old women—too gloomy for the bright young girl who was growing up to womanhood under its shadows.
And never was the place darker, drearier, or more depressing in its aspect than on a certain Hallow Eve, some fifteen years or more after the disappearance of Sybil Berners and the self-expatriation of her devoted friends.
All day long the sky had been overcast by low, dark leaden-hued clouds; the rain had fallen in dull drizzle; and when the vailed sun sunk beneath the horizon, the darkness of night was added to the darkness of clouds.
A dismal night! dismal without, and even more dismal within!