"S'cuse me, massa, dis chile don't set he foot on dat lan', kase ef he do, he neber leabe it agin."
"Then if you are afraid," said I, tauntingly, "I will go alone; you wait until I return."
"Massa," implored the frightened negro, "don't go; you neber kum back; you is lost."
"Take me as near the shore as you dare go, and leave me there."
"Good-bye, massa; you is lost foreber."
Jasper took up the oar and pushed as near the shore as the shallow water would permit; the keel of the boat grated on the sandy shore. 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 grass was growing green and rank, mingled with weeds, and both were struggling for the mastery. Broken statues of costly marble and workmanship 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 massive 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 passed on to the fourth room; that was not vacant. Although the sash had long since dropped in pieces, and fragments of glass 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 fashioned 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 brass feet fashioned after the claws of the lion, older than the bedstead which occupied the other corner. Its polish and usefulness had passed away with the grandeur of this silent habitation. Between two of the windows was a space 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 superstition 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 attitude 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: