The Mystery In Rock Hill
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”Oh, how shall I tell the story of my life —
The little things that I have done or said?”
—From the “Song of the Man-Moth,” by Edgar Allan Poe
The night was cold and dark. The wind, rising from the southwest, rattled and moaned through the pines. The snow came down in thin, fluttering flakes. A faint glow of light still glimmered from the windows of the houses on the hill, but this was only the reflection of the moonlight on the white snow which covered the roofs.
The old trees were all clothed with their white garments. All about was silence. And now the wind came whispering along the narrow streets, moaning through the shuttered windows. It was a very solemn night.
And yet the snow lay on the ground like soft, fresh-fallen roses. On the grass, it had melted away. In the grove, where the tall trees loomed against the sky, it was gone. The moon shone clear and bright, and its light fell full upon the face of the old, gray-haired man who stood in the grove before the churchyard gate.
He was leaning upon his stick. His right hand held the handle of this stuff, and he leaned upon it heavily. But he looked up into the sky, and the moonlight shone in his eyes as he gazed upward. He did not look at the moon, however; for the moonlight fell upon the church steeple, and the steeple alone was visible to him.
He looked toward the south. And there, beneath the moonlight, the grave of his dead child stood open, and the white flowers lay on the snow.
“It is not quite dark,” thought he, “and the flowers will soon be blown away.” So he leaned upon his stick and watched the white blossoms drift slowly down into the deep snow.
This was a long time ago. It was in the year 1823. The father and mother lived in Rock Hill, on the top of the hill, and the child had died on a night like this. And now, in the dead of the night, the old man stood alone before the open grave.
“Yes,” said he, “it is a sad thing to die; but I am glad that she has no more pain. She was my little girl, and she loved me better than her mother. Her mother was jealous of me — jealous of everything — even of her own child. Oh, it was hard! it was hard!”
He sighed, leaned upon his stick, and gazed at the flowers. He could not speak. The tears glistened in his eyes, and they fell upon the white snow. And presently, as he stood thus, he saw a man coming along the street. It was the first person he had seen since he came to the grove.
“It is strange,” thought he, “that I should meet him here. It is a very solemn night.”
The man stopped when he came opposite the old man. He was dressed in black and wore a broad-brimmed hat. The snow, falling in his long cloak, covered his boots. He leaned upon his stick, and gazed up at the old man’s face. The moonlight fell full upon his features and showed him to be a young man.
“Good evening,” said he, “I have been looking for you.”
And then, after a pause, he added, “May I ask your name?”
“My name is not important,” answered the old man. “I am an old man, and I am only waiting here till it grows dark enough to go home.”
“But tell me who you are,” said the young man. “You look so old, and yet I know that you must be younger than I am. And if you are really older than I am, it would interest me to know how old you are.”
“I am over eighty years old,” replied the old man, “and my life has been a sad one. My little girl died, and her grave lies open before you. The flowers lie on the snow, and they will soon be blown away.”
The young man turned about and looked toward the church steeple.
“I suppose,” he said, “that you were standing here, just as I came along when your little girl died?”
“Yes,” answered the old man, “she died in 1823. And now, as she lies there in the open grave, I can never come again to see her. But, oh, my child! it is a sad thing to die!”
He bent down and touched the snow with his hand, and then he stooped and gathered up a handful of the soft white flakes. He looked at them for a moment, and then he cast them, one by one, into the grave.
“There,” said he, “they lie in the earth, and they will melt away.”
“That is very sad,” said the young man.
“It is a sad thing to die,” answered the old man.
“And what did you do with the flowers?” asked the young man.
“I threw them in the grave,” answered the old man.
“Well, I have something to throw in the grave also,” said the young man.
“Something?” asked the old man.
“Yes, I have something to throw in the grave,” replied the young man. “But it is not a flower. It is a little book.”
“A little book!” exclaimed the old man. “What is it?”
“It is a little book which contains a history of the world,” said the young man. “It was written by the oldest man who ever lived, and it is very old. You will find it very interesting, I am sure.”
“I shall read it, certainly,” said the old man. “But, tell me, where is the grave?”
“It is on the top of the hill,” replied the young man.
“Then let us go up together,” said the old man.
“Come along,” said the young man.
They went up the street, and then down a long road. They had gone a considerable distance before the old man spoke.
“It is a strange thing,” said he, “that we should meet here like this.”
“It is a sad thing to die,” answered the young man.
“Yes,” said the old man, “it is a sad thing to die.”
They walked on again. The snow fell fast upon their heads. As they ascended the hill, it grew darker and darker. At last, they came to the churchyard, and there the old man stopped.
“I cannot go any farther,” said he. “Let me rest here awhile.”
“But you must come up with me,” said the young man. “You will catch your death of cold here.”
“I am afraid that I shall not be able to get home without help,” answered the old man.
“It is very dark,” said the young man, “and I don’t know the way. Come along.”
And so, taking the old man’s arm, he led him up the hill.
“You are a good fellow,” said the old man.
“No,” said the young man, “you are a good fellow.”
The old man looked at him, and smiled.
“I am an old man,” he said, “and I have known many troubles. But never yet did I think that I should meet a young man who would be willing to go up a hill to help me to go home.”
“It is a sad thing to die,” said the young man.
“It is a sad thing to die,” answered the old man.
“It is a sad thing to die,” said the young man.
“It is a sad thing to die,” echoed the old man.
“There, there!” said the young man, “there now! it is all over.”
“What is all over?” asked the old man.
“Well, I mean,” said the young man, “that we are dead.”
“Dead?” said the old man. “Why, no. We are only very old men.”
“We are both dead,” said the young man.
“But where is my little girl?” asked the old man.
“She is there,” said the young man. “I threw her in the grave.”
“And where is your book?” asked the old man.
“Here,” said the young man.
“It is not a flower,” said the old man.
“No,” said the young man, “it is not a flower.”
“Then what is it?” asked the old man.
“It is a little book which contains a history of the world,” said the young man.
“I shall read it, certainly,” said the old man.
“And I will throw it in the grave,” said the young man.
“Ah! ah!” cried the old man, “but you must not do that.”
“Why not?” asked the young man.
“Because it is the only copy that has ever been made,” answered the old man.
“That is very sad,” said the young man.
“Yes,” said the old man, “very sad.”
“You have thrown away the only copy,” said the young man.
“I am sorry,” said the old man.
“Very sorry,” said the young man.
“I will bring you another,” said the old man.
“Thank you,” said the young man.
The two men went up the hill together, and then they entered the churchyard.
“It is very dark here,” said the young man.
“It is very dark,” said the old man.
They walked on for a long time before the old man spoke again.
“Are you going to read your book?” he asked.
“No,” said the young man.
“Then you are afraid to read it,” said the old man.
“Yes,” said the young man.
“Then I shall read it,” said the old man.
“Good night,” said the young man.
“Good night,” said the old man.
The young man walked down the hill by himself. The old man sat down on the grave and opened his book.
“There is nothing but a few pages,” said the old man. “It is a very short history of the world.”
He read on, and the snow fell faster and faster. At last, he came to the end and laid down the book on the ground.
“I will get another copy,” said he. “But now I think that I will go home.”
So saying, he took up his book and went away.
The young man stood there in the churchyard and looked after him. He was very sad.
“Good night,” said he.
“Good night,” said the old man.
“It is a sad thing to die,” said the young man.
“Yes,” said the old man, “it is a sad thing to die.”
***
“You will catch your death of cold here,” said the young man.
“I am afraid that I shall not be able to get home without help,” answered the old man.
“It is very dark here,” said the young man, “and I don’t know the way.”
“Oh! I can see well enough,” said the old man.
“Where are you going?” asked the young man.
“To get a light,” answered the old man.
“Well, good night,” said the young man.
“Good night,” said the old man.
“It is a sad thing to die,” said the young man.
“Yes,” said the old man, “it is a sad thing to die.”
And so they both went off into the night.
The old man stopped at the edge of the forest and put the little book under his arm. Then he looked about him for a while, and then he saw the young man coming toward him.
“You have got my book,” said the old man.
“No,” said the young man, “I have not got your book.”
“You must have it,” said the old man.
“Oh! yes,” said the young man, “I have it.”
“Then you are the one who has thrown away the only copy which has ever been made,” said the old man.
“Yes,” said the young man, “that is true.”
“But you will bring me another copy,” said the old man.
“I will,” said the young man.
“Good night,” said the old man.
“Good night,” said the young man.
The End