CHAPTER VI.
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So Harold thought. Alas, Harold knew not how potent
is the rebuke of heaven to the imperious and lofty of
heart. They feel. They, although they stand upright,
like the everlasting oak, while the thunder is breaking
above and about them, they are quaking, in secrecy, at
the root, while the feeble in heart, the willow and the
sapling, are only moved outwardly by the presence of
the Almighty.
The right thought came at last, in the real destiny of
Oscar. Harold saw it, and read, with trembling joints,
like the Babylonish monarch, a preternatural warning, on
the solid wall, before him—It was the fate of himself—
the history of his brother. Every limb of his frame
shook: he arose, and attempted to fortify himself by recalling
the past—and stretching toward the future. But—
it was all in vain. There was no past—to him. It had
gone forever. There was no future—it had not arrived.
There was no present—for while he lifted his foot to
take possession of it—it had vanished! The past, with
all its woods, and mountains, and forests—the war and
the chase—the Indian—and the panther—faded away, as
he looked upon them, like a continent, in the downward
glance of an eagle, in his most perpendicular ascent.
While he clapped his wings over them—they were gone!
They were dust and smoke. And the future then—like a
world newly opening, with all its proportions, upon some
creature waking, like Eve from the trance, and deep
sleep, of her creation—was too overpowering and blinding,
for untried faculties. Cheerfulness was behind
him, like the recollection of our own fireside, when we
are cold, and wet, and weary, and among strangers—an
adventure was before him, like the panoplied spectre that
a young knight sees, in his first dreaming, amid piles of
shivered helmets, and battered cuirasses, on the eve of
his first tournament.
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But Harold slept at last; and a sweet, refreshing sleep
it was to him; the first for many nights. Nay, he slept so
long, that the sun stood, curbing his red steeds, upon the
very keystone of the zenith—that is, it was about noon,
when Harold arose.
A gentle tap at the door awoke him. He had dreamed,
but a moment before, of the rattling of carriage wheels.
He was terrified—and, when he looked at his watch,
stared, much as one of the seven sleepers probably would,
in looking at an almanack when he awoke.
He found Caroline expecting him in the parlour—
“My dear brother!” said she, the tears starting into her
beautiful eyes, as he caught her hands, and held the dear
little fingers again and again to his lips. She was pale—
very pale—and had slept little—Harold was speaking of
it when Mr. Hammond himself entered—followed by a
man, with whose carriage Harold was exceedingly struck.
He was a tail thin man—with a very dark, melancholy
eye, thick lashes, and black, strong brows—with something
severe, yet not forbidding, in his countenance, and,
on the whole, a physiognomy—particularly when he
talked, for his voice was musick, and his smile warmth—
singularly interesting.
“It is Oxford,” said Caroline, softly,—watching the
direction of Harold's eyes.
“Is it possible!” cried Harold—“Well, he is the
very man that I most wished to see, and exactly what I
expected to see.” Saying this, he immediately addressed
himself to him, but was thunderstruck at the emotion
that Oxford betrayed, the moment that he distinctly
heard his voice. His dark eyes filled—his lip trembled—
and he arose and walked to the window, in silence.
“I love that man!” said Harold, emphatically.
“You will do more,” said Mr. Hammond to him, in
reply. “You will venerate him. Every body loves him.”
“I am glad that you are come,” said Caroline, to Mr.
Hammond, “I am so glad.”
“Why, dear?” said the benevolent old man, “is your
new brother inclined to be very unruly?”
“No, but a little tardy, as you see. But—(she
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hesitated) there are many things for him to be informed of
relating to—”
Mr. Hammond patted her shoulder, as he answered—
“Yes, child, there are. I'll tell them myself—we will
take an hour's turn on horseback—perhaps call on Sir
Ralph—and,—trust the whole affair to me. We shall be
back, I dare say, in season for supper—whatever may
happen.”
The horses were now at the door, and Mr. Hammond,
who mounted and sat the saddle like a piece of machinery,
dovetailed and locked to it, could not help exclaiming
“Well done!” as Harold, laying his hand lightly on the
mane of his horse, threw himself into the seat, without
touching the stirrup; and galloped off, down the green
slope, yielding and swaying to the motion of the animal,
as if the two, horse and rider, were one body, governed
by one will; while the creature struck his iron-bound
hoofs into the flint walk, till the fire flew out as thickly,
as from a blacksmith's forge, and his glistening and beautiful
tail flourished, like a banner of white combed silk,
behind.
“I have taken you out,” said Mr. Hammond, “that
I may tell you more about your family. With whom
shall I begin? I am ready to answer your questions.”
“Tell me, I pray you, then,” said Harold, with eagerness
and solemnity, “tell me of Oscar. I have read the
letters—what kind of a boy was he?”
“From my first recollection of him,” said Mr. Hammond,
reigning his horse, and adjusting himself in the
stirrups, while he drew off a milk-white glove, and placed
his hand upon the pummel of the saddle, as if preparing
for no light matter, “he was remarkable for distinctness
of character. Whatever he did or said, was peculiar,
prompt, and strong. He was passionate and headstrong,
but generous beyond example. He had a heart of uncommon
sensibility, and a countenance, till it grew dark
with evil passion, of perfect transparency. You could
see his thought, before it was uttered. We were alarmed,
as his character began to emerge, by its magnificent
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proportions. It was shut, sealed up, and hidden for a long
while; and we even thought him a coward—”
“A what! sir—”
—“Nay, nay—I do not say that he was a coward,
but that we thought him so. But he soon undeceived
us—he bore, till he could bear no longer—and left his oppressor,
weltering in his own blood, in church—at the
communion table. I never forgave him for it—although
he was curelly wronged.”
“Not yet—sir—not even yet—?”
No!—It was unmanly—and terrible. But let us leave
this—in his very childhood, these symptoms appeared.
He was once stabbed in the side, mortally, we thought at
first, but we never knew it, till his shoes were full of
blood, and he fainted away, while he was talking to his
mother. He was scarred all over—particularly about the
temples—and every scar was the evidence of some desperate
adventure, or miraculous escape. I always predicted
that he would be a distinguished man—but I
always feared that he would not be a good one. He was
another Alcibiades—with tenfold determination of character,
and none of his effeminacy. Every feature of
his mind was strong and decided. But that, which above
all others distinguished him, was his insatiable curiosity—
and appetite for the mysterious, and forbidden.”
“But are not these things common to many, in their
boyhood—and only remembered as emphatick and peculiar,
in consequence of unexpected greatness? Do not
all children sometimes do, or utter things, that are wonderful?
If they die young, or unknown, at any age—
these incidents of promise are forgotten.”
“Harold!”—said Mr. Hammond—“You have spoken
the very words—in the very tone—that your brother
would speak, were he here. Every time that you open your
lips, I tremble—You perceive that I am blind of one
eye—and this scar (laying his hand upon his forehead)
is a severe one. I am indebted to your brother for
both.”
“You!—how?—”
“I was the man whom he, a mere boy, struck at the
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communion table. You are amazed. Yes, it was myself.
I had wronged him—and I was much older—it
changed my character; and I can truly say, that I forgive
him for the blow, and the consequences—but not
yet, do I pardon his awful violation of the place. Judge
then, if I have not cause to tremble!”
Harold was silent with admiration and respect.
“Thy brother,” continued Mr. Hammond, “was not
like other boys. At times nothing could move him—he
would sit, moping, for days and days, under that old
tree, where we turned off”—Harold remembered it—it
was very grand and beautiful—“at others, nothing could
daunt or intimidate him—or quell his activity. For
weeks, he would ramble among the mountains—in storm
and wind; in night, and darkness, and starlight. It was
enough for him, at the age of twelve, to know that there
was something, which no other boy dared to do—for him
to attempt it, at the peril of his bones—and very rarely
did he fail in the attempt. I have known him to accomplish
that, which would thrill thy blood to hear mentioned.
On one occasion, I remember, that he was in pursuit
of some animal that he saw above him—there were two
ways of reaching him—one, by descending the cliff on
this side and ascending the other—a second to leap into
a chasm, the bottom of which could not be distinctly
seen, and ascend a tottering mass of snow, which was
actually shivering in the wind. Before I could prevent
him, he dashed into the abyss—where there were many
chances to one that the loose snow would swallow him—
and before I could recover from the horrour that it caused
me, I heard the report of a musket, and the next moment
saw the animal, wounded, endeavouring to ascend
by the side of the loose, overhanging mass of snow—
Oscar followed—and the moment that his feet struck it—it
shook and crumbled. I saw his danger—and shouted
He felt it himself at the same moment, and leaped from
his perilous height down upon the very spot where I
stood, just as the mass, detached by his weight, came
thundering by us—blinding us with its whirling dust—
and jarring the mountain, under our feet, like an
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earthquake. Another moment, and he would have been buried
hundreds of feet below, in a world of snow, which might
never have melted, in the deep cavity where it fell, till
the last day. But this is only one, among a thousand of
his mad adventures. He belonged to a corps of young
men, at one time, whose practice it was to fire at cards,
held off at arm's length, by each other, and was once shot
through the wrist, in consequence of his taking a distance
that nobody else dared to take.
“All this desperate enterprise argued well for his character,
if it were profitably directed. It was a spirit
kindled by Heaven, by whom nothing is kindled in vain,
for the noblest purposes; and only wanted feeding and
tending, to become a wonder and a marvel upon earth.
“His anger was terrible, but brief, too, as the lightning.
And even now, I feel assured, after much observation
of his character, that most of his petulance and
violence was assumed. At an early period, he became
passionately addicted to reading, and read with a voracious
and indiscriminate appetite, whatever came in his
way. He was constantly terrifying all that knew him;
not that he showed much evil nature, but because he
showed some, and we supposed that the worst, in him as
in other men was hidden. But it was not so. He scorned
to conceal any thing. He always put the worst outward.
He grew, at one time, fond of the quiet and inoffensive;
and delighted in taking their part, and fighting their battles.
At the same time, he trampled down, in scorn and
insult, the tyrants of society. He never threatened—but
there were those, before whom brave men had trembled,
that trembled in their turn, when they encountered the
dark eyes of Oscar. He never spared them—and they
knew that, while he had life in him, he could not be
brought to spare them. They shook in his presence—as
if a strong shadow had fallen upon their hearts, and
chilled them like a malediction. At last he changed—
devoted himself to some secret study—toiled night and
day—lived like a hermit—suffered nobody to come near
him—and never left his room for years. And when he
came abroad, his manners were hardly of this world.
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They belonged to another age—haughty and repulsive—
mysterious and forbidding. From his very boyhood, he
had no associates—no playmates—no companions, to talk
with, or walk with. His companions were men—and his
amusements were those of a man. This again was regarded
as a bad symptom. What can he be about? said
one. Is it true that he spends his nights in study?
Doubts went abroad. He was known to be ambitious—
but then he was so obscure—that there could be no risk,
men thought, even if he were plotting treason. Alas!
they knew not, that when the poison is concocted by such
a heart—a drop of it may poison a whole state.
“Doubts were abroad, I said—and they, who ought to
have been kind, and charitable, to thy poor brother,
were the most unkind and uncharitable. But—that is
passed—Thy brother heeded it not. He cared not
what men thought of him; and went on, doing his
duty, in pride and sullenness—like some one, who
has no feeling of earth—no sense of human infirmity,
no dependence upon time; but looks to the future, and
sets his foot upon it, with the strength and collectedness
of a giant—making it like the present, by his preternatural
steadiness.
“We awoke at last from our trance, we broke in upon
the retirement of Oscar, and dragged him forth to the
light, with all his labours. They were those of a life.
Piles of manuscript—systems—studies—involving the
most profound abstraction of the spirit, were all found
within his study. He had achieved what would have
been wonderful in any body, during a whole life, with
confirmed habits of study—He, with no habit of the
sort, had achieved a miraculous labour, and amassed a
treasury of learning.
“But—after all—the one thing needful was wanting—
a vital religion. He was careless—impious—nay,
blasphemous at times. He grew fond of metaphysicks,—
I trembled for him. But he strode onward,
through all their dimness and obscurity, till there was
no barrier left to him—in heaven or earth. He stood
and interrogated the Almighty God, himself, like one
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having authority therefor. He went abroad through
space—and then, because he found no resting place,
like the bird from the ark,—then only, came he back.
He returned again to his studies; betook himself to
sublimated speculation of a more worldly nature. And
then followed the time, Harold—when thy brother was
a more dangerous man to his country—than was ever
Cæsar or Cataline to his. While we were looking
upon him, as a growing honour to the nation, he lay,
preparing and compounding the elements of a more
bloody, and tremendous revolution to his country, than
ever before shook its foundations. And, feeble as
he was—the king himself turned pale, upon his throne,
when the plans of Oscar, their extent and secrecy;
and his resources, (for he had managed to embark the
wealth and ability of an empire, in his undertaking),
were laid bare before him. Another step, had sent him
to the scaffold. But this he knew—and went fearlessly
before the privy council, and set them at defiance,
demanding his papers, and mocking and deriding them,
and their master.
“He failed—why?—not because of any fault in him;
for this I will say for Oscar—that, what any man
could do, if he thought it worth his ambition to
attempt, he would do, better—always, where it depended
upon himself.
“A fact, particularly striking in his character, and recollected
now, by all that ever saw him, though it was
overlooked then, is this. He seemed to hold an undisputed,
indisputable dominion over all that approached
him—young or old—wise or simple—phlegmatick
or passionate. It was all the same to him—he ruled
them, as with a rod of iron; and they loved and served
him, like slaves, without knowing it! and they
would fire in the contact with his spirit.—At last he
loved. Never shall I forget the time—or the woman.
His whole nature changed. Ha! you are pale—are
you ill, Harold?”
“No no—proceed—I am very well—was it Elvira?—”
“No—it was another. I knew it not for
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some time. He was deeply involved in a litigation,
which threatened to deprive him of his patrimony. To
this, I attributed his melancholy. At last, however,
I found out the truth. Oscar had begun to love.—
He told me his story—when I believe that he would not
have told it to his Maker. She was young, fascinating,
and from all that I could learn, passionately attached
to Oscar; but, like him, she had no piety—no
feeling of religion—none of obligation or accountability.
I was sorry; but I did not despair. I saw that the
waters might be troubled, in the deep places of Oscar's
soul; and I prayed that the angel of the Lord might
be there for a while. His law suit grew more threatening.
He determined to leave her free, unembarrassed,
and ignorant of his love, if he failed.”
“I met him, soon after his acquaintance with the
lady. He was extremely altered; by his high pale forehead—
his sunken eye—I should have thought that he
had just risen from a sick bed. His feelings were all
at war within him. He took my hand. A tear—the
first that I had ever seen there—stood in his eyes—his
voice trembled. Harold—old as I am—I could weep
like a child, at the recollection. With all his faults, thy
brother had the noblest nature—would that he had trodden
the appointed road!—O, he would have been a
godlike creature. But let me return—He took my
hand—his chest heaved—and a convulsive shivering
followed, as if his heart were a little rebellious, and he
would rebuke it unto death—one short, quick effort—
his voice was like that of one suffocating inwardly—
as by the rupture of all his blood vessels.—
“`Hammond!' said he, pressing my hand, (I can
feel it now, as I hope for mercy! O,—it is thy hand!—)
`Hammond!—she is unworthy.”'
“He dropped my hand, and staggered two or three
steps, before he recovered himself—but when he did,
and turned his dark, melancholy, motionless eyes upon
me—his face was like that of a corpse—`It is the
last!' said he,—dashing off a tear—it is the last!—and
it was the last—he never shed another tear for her.
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“I was inconceivably affected. I feared for his
senses. He saw it—`O, no—no, no!'—he said—`no!—
I am safe. It is all over now, my brain is seared—
it is bone—all over bone. A whole week has gone
since I suspected her. This morning—not an hour
since, my suspicions became certainty: and now—now!
Hammond we are asunder, forever and ever!—'
I fell upon his neck; I knew what he suffered, and
I felt inexpressibly proud of him. To withstand such
a shock would require great power in any; but for one,
organized like Oscar, to bear up against it, was wonderful.
He was of a nature to admit when he loved,
the death and darkness of that passion (of love) into
his vitals. But it was his salvation—a new impulse
was given to him. He was cast in his law suit, and
ruined. I offered him my home, heart, and purse. He
rejected all but my love; others offered him the same.
But he was not to be moved. `Of what avail is all
that I have learnt,' said he, `all my better experience,
if I am to be helpless and dependant at my age. No—I
would sooner be a burden to the parish, than to them
that love and respect me—nay of the two, I will steal,
rob, murder—before I will beg. No,—by mine own
hands will I live—or—by mine own hands will I die. But
come, come—we shall never get along at this rate—.”
The horses were standing stock still, and Harold,
grasping the hand of Mr. Hammond, was listening with
the most breathless attention.
Harold struck his spurs home—and his horse leaped
off, like an old hunter at the cry of hounds.—
“Have a little patience!” cried Mr. Hammond, pushing
after him.—
“Surely, I have as little as you could desire,” answered
Harold, as soon as he could get his breath—
“and yet, I could listen forever, to you, on this
theme.”
“He left us,” continued Mr. Hammond,—“entered
into foreign service, as a volunteer, and literally fought
his way up, to a considerable command. At this time too,
his talents in diplomacy became singularly conspicuous
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—he was employed in a difficult negociation abroad, by
our cabinet, which, it is said, he managed like a statesman—
and we believe this, because he continued to be
a favourite with his king even to his death—and I
have the plan of a campaign now by me, which has
been publickly, upon the floor of parliament, said
to exhibit the proof of consummate generalship, and
acquaintance with the military art. His nature changed
again. He was no longer haughty—he was only serious.
He was no longer abrupt and passionate, but calm,
dignified, and benignant. Men wondered at it—but I
did not. I knew his habits. The poorer he was,
the prouder. Why? Because if poor, he could not be
magnanimous or polite, or conciliating, or kind, without
subjecting himself to the reproach of sycophancy,
or something worse. As he became of consequence,
this reason perished. `I have tried many of those
who now follow me,' said he to me, one day, as I
met him at the zenith of his power—`but they have
been found wanting. I could avenge myself now, for
their neglect, when I was poor and unknown—but I
will not. I forgive them. I am weary at last, of being
feared and hated—I will be loved.—'
“This was the very spirit that I had waited for. His
mind, I saw, was working itself clear. I had seen it in
its commotion, whirling, foaming and thundering; but
now it grew calmer, and smoother, and more beautiful,
after every visitation of the wind—and widened and
deepened its banks, and shores, and foundations. Heaven
be praised!—the reformation had begun, and I looked
forward to the time, when I should see Oscar happy, and
making others happy—loving and beloved.”
“What became of his loved one?” said Harold.
“She married,—and died, but the other day, of a broken
heart. Oscar was her best friend, on this earth, while
he lived,—and when he departed, even her children
themselves, were as shadows to her, whom the reality of
life hath passed. He continued to see her, after her marriage:—
it was a path of danger, and I warned him of it.
But he heeded me not—strong, in the confidence of his
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own rectitude, he continued braving all its perils, and did
his duty, in purity and blessedness, without one thought,
word, or deed, I verily believe, that would have sullied
the heart of an immortal spirit.”
Harold looked at the old man, whose dark blue eyes
were lighted up—and the pupils seemed enlarging, while
he raised his trembling hands to heaven, in the earnestness
of his asseveration.
“O my brother!” articulated Harold, “would that I
resembled thee entirely!”
“What!” cried Mr. Hammond, “what do I hear!
Young man, you know not what you say. Already your
resemblance is too great. Beware of this spirit. It was
the spirit that destroyed the eldest born of your father—
and the first born of the first man. It was born in blood.
Beware of tempting the Almighty. Avoid danger, if thou
wouldst be sure of not falling. It is enough to meet it,
when it cannot be avoided or averted. It is impious to
court it. But to thy brother—Long and long after this
disappointment, I observed a remarkable expression of
mildness and patience in his deportment. It grew more
and more conspicuous, every day. He was in love again,
and she, whom he loved, was then the kindest and gentlest
of human beings. I sought the cause of this alteration.
He was too noble and frank of heart to deny it. He told
me that he had seen, by chance, an innocent and lofty
creature—where she ought not to be—annoyed by men
that could not understand her, and dared not love her.
His colour came and went, as he said this; and, for the
first time in his life, when speaking with me, his eye-lids
dropped and trembled. He affected to speak with
some levity upon the subject, but it only distressed him,
and his spirit arose, and shook herself free, all at once
from the darkness and mystery that incumbered her—he
looked me in the face—`Hammond,' said he—`I
think that woman is worthy of me; if she be, and I can
win her, I will.'
“I made some inquiries, and soon found that he was
the delight and pride of those, whose influence would
probably be decisive—but Oscar scorned to depend upon
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any other influence than his own—he forbad all interference—
and begged to be left unaided, unprayed for, to
win her or to lose her. His principles were sublime. His
very errours were sublime. He was not the man to penetrate
into any dwelling, secretly, or doubtfully. He acted
like a man of honour—he applied to men first, and satisfied
their judgments, and apprised them of his intentions,
long before he had come to any determination respecting
the lady. He was not the man, to win his way first—
into the soul of a young, innocent, and warm hearted
girl, as if such a prize were only to be stolen—and then,
when sure of it, to ask leave, in mockery, to visit it.
No!—But he knew that she could not judge of him, but
by an intimacy—and that, then it would be too late to
judge, in all probability—and that, at first, there were
those about her who could calmly and dispassionately
decide for her, while yet there was no danger to either—
not whether she should love him or not—but whether he
should be permitted to visit her, with his views and pretensions.
He applied to them first—and to her last—advising
her to believe and listen to their judgment—and
her own feeling—at the very time, that he communicated
the heaving of his heart. He soon became the subject
of publick remark. It was evident to all that something
preyed upon his vitals. He waned—and waned—till his
hue and aspect were cadaverous; and many who knew
not the iron of his constitution, saw in this, rather the
symptom of a mortal disease, in its last ravages, than
the nightly depredations of an unquiet spirit.
“Suddenly his countenance changed—his very step. I
asked the reason. For her sake, he had revealed himself,
long before the appointed time. He, in his own manner,
sought not her decided affirmative to his suit; for he
knew that their happiness must depend upon no precipitate
judgment—all he asked was—if he were to be refused,
and she already knew it—to be told so. If not refused,
her acceptance was not to be inferred therefrom, but left
to a future acquaintance.
“From that moment, he was an altered man. He became
more humble, quiet and benignant. Indeed, I am
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sure, from what I saw of this short acquaintance, that
there was nothing, nothing, within the compass of love and
duty, which Oscar would not have submitted to, while
she permitted him to love and venerate her. All eyes
were upon them. They seemed fitted for each other.
Alike in many things—in their appearance—taste and inclinations—
not unlike in temper, training, and deportment,
they were fitted for union, unison, and companionship,
of the most sublimated and enduring nature. Such
was her influence indeed—that Oscar came to be considered
as a religious man. He had always been so, at the
heart—but now, it was less carefully hidden. He had
been, to my knowledge, always grateful for kindness,
and submissive, yielding, under calamity. I never heard
him repine—and I do not believe that any human being
ever heard him utter one word of complaint, under any
trial. Yea—such was his love, and her dominion, that I
verily believe her to have been the only living creature,
whom he had known so long, to whom he never did, and
never could, speak unkindly.
“But—now comes the catastrophe. I cannot proceed—
wait a moment—let me recall the distressing prelude—”
As he said this, the old man turned aside his horse, for
a moment, and passed the back of his hand over his eyes—
and affected to be disturbed by the dust—and his voice
quavered when he renewed the tale—
“She loved him, passionately—passionately, I am
sure. It was evident to all that saw her. Her looks—
her eyes—her voice—were all full of the passionate, eloquent,
delicate, mysterious significance of love. Every
hour, she became more lovely, intelligent, and watchful;
and every hour, he became nearer and dearer to her. But—
alas poor Oscar!—they parted—merciful Heaven!—
the dust choaks and blinds me—let us turn off to the
green sward—”
Poor Hammond!—they were then upon the wild
heath!—where dust had never been seen.
“They parted forever!—with her own hand, she rent
asunder their convulsively intertangled heartstrings—the
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crimson filaments of love, that had twined and intertwined,
till every fibre, at the most delicate touch—thrilled, and
trembled, and shivered through two hearts, at the same
instant, communicating, with electrick rapidity, every
tremulous pulsation, from one to the other. Yes! with
her own hand, mistaken but heroick woman! she tore
asunder two hearts that had grown together, as she
would have plucked away a cancer, from her bosom, by
the roots.
“I saw him. I remembered his first love. But that
was not like this. Then he shed a few tears—I was told;—
here, for a time, he shed none. The edges of his eye-lid
were like burning wire—and the balls throbbed under
their tightness. Then, he felt humbled, trampled on, debased,
because he had loved one who was unworthy—
one that had fallen, in the trial of love. Now he grew
produer and prouder of her who had loved him—as her
blows fell the heavier—upon his shattered and crumbling
heart. I was with him night and day. A stranger would
have discovered nothing remarkable in his manner—an
acquaintance or common friend, nothing more than a
greater seriousness. But I—I saw his eyes grow dim,
and heard his voice falter, when he was, as others thought,
profoundly occupied in matters, that had no relation to his
suffering. There was no agitation—none outward, I
mean. But his countenance—O, Harold!—it was the
settled and deathlike tranquility of one that has no hope:
of one that is dying—and is glad of it—while other men
are asleep: of one that loves to look upon his own heart
while it is dissolving—to watch the decomposition of its
material, as he would a process of forbidden alchymy—
regarding its ashes and death, as the gentlest and most
precious of transmutation—its bleeding and tears, as the
true elixir of life—the essence of immortality.
“I strove to awaken him. He was calm, insufferably
calm. For a moment, like on who cannot at once crush
the rebellion of his heart, he would arise, and walk
strongly across his apartment, with folded arms, and compressed
lips; like one taking command of a mutinous
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army—for two or three times—and then return, with
a sort of stern composure, to his accustomed labour.
“He came to my house one day. His eyes were brighter
than usual—his mouth redder. `I shall return to the
cottage,' said he.
“I was sorry—there was a deep brilliancy under his
lashes as he spoke, that troubled me. It was the hue of
a fire, about to break out. I dissuaded him, for a day or
two, during which time, I saw him repeatedly upon his
knees. There grew upon his countenance a more awful
solemnity and fixedness—and the last night, that he was
with me, he continued writing, at intervals, till day-light,
and was seen to pace backward and forward, during the
greater part of it. He refused to appear at breakfast—
and would not be disturbed, alleging great weariness and
desire of sleep. A few hours after, he sent for me—and
said, putting a sealed letter into my hand—“There—that
contains all that I have to say to her. It is for her sake
that it is written. I care not what becomes of me. But
her happiness is too precious to me—and I have made to
it the offering of all my pride—all—all! It was my duty
to stoop, to court, to solicit her reconsideration of the affair—
not that I would persuade, but convince her. I
scorn to influence her judgment or heart, on a question
so momentous to her happiness—but I have never seen
her since the disclosure, and she may think that I was
too proud to see her or soothe her. I was not—I loved
her—I reverenced her, too much to attempt aught that
might lead her to reproach me, hereafter, if we were reconciled.
No—Hammond, were I sure that she would take
me to her bosom again, as fondly, as devotedly as ever, I
would not humble myself more than I have. This letter
contains all that I shall ever address to her. Her happiness
is at stake. If she accept it, she shall be happy. I
can make her so—and I will. If she reject it—I shall
not complain. It is her right to judge—but if she reject
it, it is my fear that she will have given the death blow
to her own heart. At present, we are both so situated,
I believe, that either would advance, if sure that the
other would accept.
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“In this letter, I have laid bare my whole life—exposed
all my follies—reasoned with her, as if I were
not concerned in her decision—as if I were her brother,
not her lover. All my aggravated guilt is there—
all my exasperated feeling. She thinks me altogether
darker of principle, and more dangerous of
temper than I am. Yet—I never deliberately wronged
a human being; and never, even without deliberation,
but I atoned for it afterward. My vengeance has
been only a pious desire of seeing my enemies humbled!—
I did not wish to set my foot upon their necks—no!—
I wanted an opportunity to be magnanimous—I
would have raised and embraced them—but for this, I
would have tracked them the world over!—merely to
forgive them—in my own way. That letter is my
last. If she forgive me—she may name her own
terms—I care not what they are. I am, with all my
faults, Hammond, upon my soul, I am worthy of her—
and I know not another woman on earth, whom I
think so well fitted to make me happy. If I did not
think so—you know me well enough to believe me, when
I say—that I not would turn my hand upside down to
change her opinion of me. Nay more—I do feel that
I was “never so worthy of the love and veneration too,
of any woman, or any man,” as I am at this moment.
If she forgive me, and bless me—though she should
require whole years of trial and proof, before she is
mine, I will be all that she requires. If she say no—
why then, no it is—and we never meet again. I shall
bear it better than she will. I shall have as much consolation
in reflecting on the past, taking it all together,
as she will. I have less sensibility, am older, have
more experience in these maladies of the heart—and
can, immediately, turn the course and tide of my spirit
into new channels.”
“The letter was sent. I was astonished at Oscar's
tranquility. He told the truth. He did not deceive
himself. It was her happiness, not his, that he sought
to insure, by this sacrifice of his master passion. Having
done his duty, as a man, as a christian, a lover—
he was at rest. Never shall I forget the deep and
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sweet composure of his manner, at the time. It was so
unlike him—that it seemed little else than a miraculous
quieting of his soul, by the hand of his Maker—pressing
upon its tides—and lulling its currents. There were no
intermittent flashes—no inquietude, and restlessness of
movement in him, after this. All was calm, collected,
and observant, as of one, who is at peace with all the
world, without, and prepared for every thing within.
The answer came the next morning. I remember
that we were sitting near the breakfast table—as it was
handed to Oscar. There was a sprightly, thoughtless
child of mine, sitting by him,—a plump little creature—
of unmanageable vivacity.”
“I declare,” said she, “I wish that you would break
the seal, at once—and not keep fumbling about it, all day—
bless me!—why, I know that writing, I am sure—it
is a Lady's—ah!—
“It is,” said Oscar, in a faint voice—but his countenance
altered not.
“And whose, man?—out with it—not the lady, I
hope—would she whistle you back?”
“Octavia—” said he, mildly (and he turned his
mournful eyes upon her, with such effect, that hers instantly
filled.)
“It is the lady—but I pray you—do not speak of her
irreverently. If you should ever know her, the recollection
of it, would make your heart ache.”
I was utterly dismayed at his calmness—and just
then, I saw his lip turn to ashy paleness—and then a
swarthy crimson pass over his forehead, like a flash.—
The next moment, I was aware of the result—he spoke
to me of some indifferent matter, in a tone of levity,
levity—but with the deep, melancholy eyes of one who is
bleeding to death—inwardly.—
Whether it was, that Octavia was really light headed
at the time—or that she was deceived by Oscar's
manner, I know not—but she pushed the arrow
home.
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“She has jilted you, I'll take my bible oath of it—
look at your eyes—look! look!—”
“Jilted me,” said Oscar—catching her manner, with
surprising felicity—You cannot believe it possible!”
“Upon my word, Sir—” was the reply—“that was
prettily said! O,—if you were only my beau—lud—
lud!—if I would not teach you another song!—”
“I mean,” said Oscar, more seriously, “I mean,
Black Eyes, that a woman of so little principle as a
jilt, could never deceive me: Do you not know that.”
“I!—I know of no such thing, I promise you—was'nt
there that—that—confound her long unintelligible
name.—
“Do you mean the German Lady,” said Oscar.—
“Pray Sir—let me interrupt you one moment,” said
Harold, here—“I have met that Lady, I am sure—your
description reminds me of her, most forcibly—but her
name, if I remember, was not Octavia.—
“You have! pray where?”
“On my passage here—.”
“An explanation followed, and Harold found that
Octavia was the sister of that wild, careless creature,
whom he had been so delighted with, on board the ship.
She had never seen Oscar, had been to India—and was
returning in a government vessel, when he met her. Mr.
Hammond then continued—
“Yes—the German Lady. You talk about principle—
was'nt she one of your principal ladies—? and
did'nt she jilt you? But I see you wont confess: So—
I'll only tell you—Do you know that I am ashamed
of you. You have trifled with another fine girl, here,
I suspect. Oscar—I am but a child, it is true—but if
you have—if you have jilted her,—O, I dont mind your
terrible looks—if you have, mind now—I will quarrel
with you, on the spot. You told me once that you meant
to marry her. Why hav'nt you married her? Why
dont you, at once? You have been of the same mind
a dozen times before—within the last dozen months
too, I vow—ha! ha! ha!—there is the Miss A, and
Miss B—C—D—and the whole alphabet beside—and
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—and you have been dying for the whole of them, within
a year—! O, it is a shame cousin—Is'nt there a good
dozen, now—come, tell the truth, and shame the—but
you'll excuse me—I dont like to be personal. Is'nt
there a round dozen?—”
“No”—said Oscar, in a voice that was irresistibly
touching—and Black Eyes grew instantly serious—nay,
the tears started again, before he had done. “No—
not quite so many. But—(taking her hand)—look at
me, Octavia—I loved this girl—I tried to make her
love me; I succeeded. I would have married her, in
time—but, much as she loved me—she has cast me off
forever—.”
“Why? Oscar?—”
“Because her principles were alarmed.”
“But—this is the—pray how many times have you
been turned off now, according to the best of your recollection?”
“I hardly know,” said Oscar, smiling, at the strange
creature, whose lips were wet with tears, while her eyes
were laughing—“but, to my best belief and understanding,
I have seen, lately four or five different women married,
each of whom I had thought of for a wife!—”
“Did you go to their weddings? You ought to keep on
good terms, coz,—for in time, it might be very convenient
to dine among them—after a few more years, you
might save your board by it, I dare say—by going the
rounds among your rivals. But can they all give dinners?—
It is dreadful to be cut out by a poorer man!”
“Not so dreadful as to be cut out by a fool.”
“Take care,” said Octavia—“you know not whom
you may offend—we dont put up with every thing. And
so they wouldnt any of them have you?”
“Not one! not one!” said Oscar, in a tone irresistibly
comick. I wondered at his self-command; and Octavia
clapped her hands with delight.
“But come, cousin,” said she—“how was it? And
what do you think of it?”
“I think” said he, “that Heaven has something particularly
choice in store for me. And she turned me off—
because—”
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“For what, pray?—your modesty?—your mild, amiable
temper. Your—O, I am dying to know for what!”
“Well, then—that you may not die in your chair—I”
(And may live to die in my shoes! why dont you say—
said Octavia, interrupting him)—“I will tell you.”
“I shant believe you, I tell you now. If you were
really turned off, you would not be so willing to own it.
No! you have abandoned her.”
“By Heaven!” cried Oscar, in a voice that went
through and through me—“it is false!”
The child was terrified—
“It is false!” he repeated gravely—but firmly and distinctly.
“She turned me off:—and that, too, for a fault
which any other woman would have forgiven. And she
never loved me more truly, I am sure, than when she
tore her heart from mine.”
That said, Oscar was another man! Never saw I such
a sudden and complete transformation. He, as by the
action of his own powerful volition alone, seemed all at
once, to have reinvested himself in all his prerogatives.
“A few moons,” said my child, “a few moons more,
dear cousin, and all will be right.”
“No—never. I have done all that I shall do. I will
not—cannot advance another step. She cannot forget
me—I have no fear of that:—nor do I believe that she
will soon, if ever, love another.”
“But she may cease to respect you, cousin, and then
her love will die a natural death, you know.”
“No—I have no fear of that. For a time, just for
the present, under the agitation and distress of her disappointment,
I believe that she may try to crush her respect
for me. But it will arise again—with tenfold violence,
when she comes to compare me with other men—
and when she reflects on my honourable and sincere deportment
toward her, during all our eventful intercourse.
These recollections will come home to her heart, in the
solitude of her chamber—at midnight. She cannot shut
them out; and she will find then, that she has been too
severe for her own happiness. Octavia—I do not pretend
to prophecy—but that woman's pillow will be wet
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with tears yet, I am sure, for having done what her heart
is now, in vain, attempting to assure, her, was her duty.
She will see other men. She will become intimate with
them—and when she least expects it, they will disappoint
her, more cruelly than I ever did. She will compare us
together, then—and she will find, perhaps, that I told her
the truth, when I said that she would meet few persons
with more good qualities and fewer bad ones, than I had—
whom she could love. Nay more—I am sure that her
respect for me, will continue to augment, until my dying
day—then, and then only, perhaps, will her judgment be
sufficiently illuminated to do my devotion justice. Then—
when she looks up for mercy—she may remember me—
when she asks to be forgiven—she may remember that I
besought her forgiveness—and in vain.
“I have determined upon making her venerate me:
and what I have once determined on, if my Maker spare
my life, and health, I already regard as accomplished.”
“But I thought that you were never baffled—never
disheartened, coz.”
“I never was. I am not now. If my principles would
let me—if I would permit myself to violate a sacred
promise, or to break up the quiet of a family—one of
the happiest families, too, on this earth—I would never
rest now, until, by some means or other, I had that
woman in my power. I should succeed at last; for desperation
and perseverance never failed. But why do I
not attempt it? Why!—Because her happiness is dearer
to me, than my own; and because I should wrong her,
my Maker, and myself. No—we are as far apart now,
as we could be, in separate graves. But enough—you
understand me. And for her sake, dear Octavia, if you
hear this affair misrepresented—or her censured—or spoken
of, as one deserted—I entreat you to say—that I love
and respect her yet—and shall to my last hour—that she
has deliberately turned me off—and that we are apart,
not by my consent—not in a quarrel—but in consequence
of her deliberate manifestation of high principle.”
This was his last conversation with us, on the subject.
A few days after, he embarked for France, and passed
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eighteen months on the continent. He came home
wounded, bearing despatches to his king. He was altered
yet more—was more melancholy—but very kind
and solemn in his manner. In short, his deportment
was princely. All hearts beat, at his approach, with
the desire of making him happier. We never mentioned
Elvira's name to him; yet he sometimes pronounced
it, in his thrilling way, but without any apparent
emotion. At length however, he heard that she
was to be married—nay, we had reason to believe that
he had heard of it abroad, and perhaps, that had its
influence in bringing him home, so unexpectedly.
I mentioned it to him—but his countenance immediately
lighted up. He was constantly occupied in searching
out the history of his successor; and all went well,
until one day, he arrived at the bottom of a transaction,
which showed that successor to be a consummate villain.
Oscar assured himself of the facts—pursued him
through all his haunts—and found him at last—alone—in
his chamber.
“Young man,” said he—“I have come to see you on
a matter of some moment. Hear me patiently, I will
not be interrupted. I have just left the grave of Matilda—
are you shocked?—I am glad of it. You are a
better man than I thought you. Her mother is at this
moment standing before the bar of Almighty God!—I
left her dying!—she is denouncing you, you Charles
Ortley—you! as the murderer and seducer of her child!
What say you—are you guilty.”
“I will not be questioned in this way sir. Who are
you?—I will call the watch—.”
“The watch!—Boy, boy—if you but raise your
voice, so that you can be heard in the next room, I'll
blow your brains out on the spot. Sit still—and hear
me out. I shall not harm you, if you dont provoke
me.”
“You are a young man of uncommon abilities, I am
told—of insinuating manners—plausible—bold—and
frank; specious and eloquent.—Damnation!—I cannot
talk with thee, thou reptile—where is that purity—that
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exquisite innocence now? with thee—she coupled with
thee, thou miserable wretch—polluted and stained, as
thou art—will she ever permit thee to approach her—ha!
ha! ha!—O, no.—”
Ortley was inconceivably terrified—the incoherent
manner of Oscar now, was that of a madman:—at first—
his collectedness was awful—and Ortley shook like a
criminal about to receive judgment.
“Shall I interfere?” said Oscar, in a low soliloquy
(all which was related to me, by Ortley himself afterward—)
“No—that would be mistaken. I may not
be believed—may not be thanked. Where are my
proofs?—I have none. I am satisfied—but how can I
satisfy others—without a breach of confidence. Shall I
abandon her? no—no—I will not stand by, with my
arms folded, and see a woman that I have loved—
bound hand and foot, and offered up, a living sacrifice,
before my eyes.—no!—now look you, Sir—You are
pretending to the hand of Elvira—Are you not?”
“By what right, do you dare to question me, in this
imperious way?” said Ortley. “I shall not answer you,
Sir.”
“By this right,” said Oscar, “taking out his pistol,—
and levelling it.—You shall answer me sir—.”
“Sir,—by your bearing, I am led to believe that you
are Oscar Salisbury. If you are—you cannot be a coward—
for I have heard one whose opinion, is not to be
disputed—bear testimony to your valour. Do you mean
to murder me?—If so—fire!—I shall not flinch—or—
if you will hand me another pistol—I will amuse you
to your heart's content. Are you an assassin or
not?”
Oscar was thunderstruck. He thrust his hand impatiently
into his pocket, in the hope of finding another
pistol—but in vain—not perceiving the possibility of
such a reception, he had come provided with only
one.
“Young man,”—said he—biting his lips, till the
blood spurted forth—“I respect you—We shall meet
again. In the mean time—there is my glove—either
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renounce the hand of Elvira—or prepare to meet me to-morrow,
at day light—.”
“To-morrow at daylight—and where you please,
Sir!” said Ortley, and with such a sneer, that Oscar
hurled his pistol at his head—it missed him—Ortley
snatched it up and pursued him as he left the room,
and snapped it at his ear—but the cold, awful aspect
of Oscar, as he turned upon him, at the same moment,
prevented him from renewing the attempt,
and being of a spirit as generous as Oscar's, he flung
the instrument through the window—and returned sullenly
to his apartment—while Oscar pursued his
way, as if powder and ball were harmless things.
Ortley did not meet him—why, we never knew, until
after his death, when we had reason to believe that
Elvira had prevented it. And the next time that they met,
was in my presence. I thought well of Ortley, I confess.
Oscar entered the room where we all were, a few
days before the time fixed upon, for Elvira's marriage,
without being announced.
I saw him, just as he arrived opposite Elvira, who
was that moment turning to a window, which had
been thrown open, and was preparing to make a sketch
of the landscape. Whether it was his tread—or his
suppressed breathing—or some mysterious sensation that
announced the presence of Oscar, I know not—for I
am sure that she did not see him—she turned deadly pale,
and sunk into the window seat.—
Oscar trembled—and half extended his hand, with
shut eyes,—when Ortley dashed between them, and
caught her, as she was falling. What a profanation, for
Oscar!
For a moment I thought—for I knew Oscar's temper—
that Ortley would never rise from his knees again—
for the red blood darkened the whole face of Oscar—
and he shivered from head to foot—as he put out his
hands, evidently with the power of sundering them, if
they had been one body. But, at this instant, Elvira
opened her eyes—coloured all over—and as if really detected
in guilt, put away her second lover with an air,
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that I never saw upon her forehead before. At that
moment I would rather have been in Oscar's, than in
Ortley's place.
“Lady Elvira,” said Oscar—calmly, haughtily—“I
have come here on a matter of grave import. I am
about to leave England, and do not mean to return.
Can I be favoured with a few moments' conversation—
not alone—I do not ask that—I would submit to the
presence of whom you will—except that of—”
He stopped—and she bowed—but merciful heaven!—
never shall I forget the paleness of her mouth—
and the settled, despairing, meek expression of her
eyes.—
“Sir,” said she—“this gentleman has a right to be
present—I cannot see you alone.”
“O, no, Elvira—I shall leave you. Nay—I insist
upon it” said Ortley—“I waive the right to be present
at such an interview—.”
“Oscar—O, he stood at the sound of these words,
and looked, like what he was, a being for great occasions—
upon his trial. His manner and voice were solemn,
deep, respectful, but nothing more, when he began;
but as he proceeded, a tone of tenderness sometimes
escaped him, that thrilled through and through
me—my tears fell before I knew it—It was the musick
of a broken heart—touched by memory—in its holiest
place. He stood, I remember, as you stood this morning,
when we were about to depart—with his hat under
his arm. His attitude was martial and enforcing—like
one familiar with dominion. “Are we alone?” said he—
“free from interruption?—for only ten minutes?”
He put his hand to his forehead—the sweat stood
there—and Elvira was like one death struck and bewildered—
the tears were gathering under her waxen
lids—till they looked to me, like the tears of a corpse. I
felt for him, but more for her.
The trial had only begun; and, although I was sure
that his manhood would carry him through it, yet I feared
much that, when it was all over, like some subtly
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organized machinery, held together by an invisible, mysterious
power—as by the pressure of outward matter—he
would fall to pieces of himself, like that, the moment that
the pressure was withdrawn. I expected to see him go
through it—yet I looked to the morrow, with equal certainty,
that he would be delirious. I knew him, and all
his springs, and self-sustaining, hidden and delicate
powers.
“You shall not be interrupted,” said I—“for just ten
minutes,”—laying my watch upon the table, and locking
the door—“whatever may be the consequences.”
“Proceed, sir,” said Elvira, in a faint voice;—but the
beautiful dignity of her nature was never so conspicuous.
He felt her calm, majestick supremacy: but he stood before
it, unreproved, unabashed. His manner, like hers,
was full of simplicity and steadiness. And I—I felt that
it was sublime.
He was no longer the lover. She saw that. He was
on some visit of duty. She trembled. While I was
looking at her, her thin drapery shivered all over—her
cheek flushed—and her half shut eyes shone dimly
through her tremulous lids, as with some faint, but inward
recollection, of a nature too tender and mysterious,
for concealment or avowal—she raised them to him—and
their very colour changed, as she did so! It was the
deep, strange dye of passion.
“I am come,” said Oscar, at last, “on a matter of momentous
concern to you—lady. To yourself, alone, I
would have preferred to make the disclosure, but it is
more proper, perhaps, that I should not. Will you permit
me to ask you—(his voice faltered)—Lady Elvira—
with the privilege of one who is not entirely forgotten—
as a friend—who is interested, deeply interested in your
happiness—and has confidence in your sincerity—and
who, if he ask a rude or abrupt question, must be charitably
supposed to have a good reason for it—in one word,
then—are you not soon to be married?”
Elvira bowed.
“I thank you,” said Oscar. “From my soul I thank
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you! This is what I expected from you. I am now satisfied.
Remember my words. Beware of your intended
husband. Be not precipitate. It is enough, I hope, for
me to say, that he is unworthy of you.”
“Sir!”—said Elvira, somewhat haughtily.
“Yes, lady—I have not forgotten you, nor myself.
You may not believe me now, but when I am gone, you
will. You have no brother, no friend, to inquire into the
mysteries of that man's character. I have been occupied,
day and night, for three months. I am satisfied, in my
own mind, that he is a—No matter—I would not unnecessarily
wound you, Elvi—lady,—I beg your pardon.”
“Where are your proofs?” said I.
“I have none to offer. But you know me. My
word ought to be taken. I have satisfied my own heart;
and all I ask is, that you take a little more time, before
you—I cannot speak it—lady, you must not marry
him—you shall not. I will strangle him with my own
hands first!—Nay—I am not to avail myself of this
advice—you shall not be thwarted, in any plan of happiness
by my presence. I shall depart, in another hour,
for the continent. May I ask when the marriage was to
have taken place?”
“I shall deal plainly, fearlessly with you, sir,” said
Elvira. “We shall be married, I believe, immediately.”
“Immediately!”—echoed he—“are you so impatient?”
Elvira coloured to the eyes;—and she arose.
“One week,” said he—“only one week—and I will
never trouble you again.”
“Impossible,” said she—“the time is fixed.”
“Well, then,” said Oscar—“then I must strike home.
I cannot help it. The fault is not mine. I would spare
you—but I cannot. I would save you—and there is only
one way. Your lover is a married man.”
“It is false!—on my life and soul, it is false—thou
evil minded man!”—answered Elvira.
“Lady—dare you tell Oscar Salisbury—dare you—
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after all that you know of him—that what he says is
false! I am sorry—I had hoped other things of the
woman that I once—but no matter—it is time to end
this conference. You will find, in these papers, the proof
that Ortley is a married man—that he is no other than
Sir Charles Larence himself—and that the woman whom
he betrayed, is now in a madhouse—and the poor innocent
girl, who last doated on him, in her grave. Yes—
with her babe at her bosom—broken hearted—and
dead.”
I looked at Elvira. Was she death-struck? She betrayed
no emotion—no distress. Her utter lifelessness
was followed by a hasty quivering of the lip, and she
raised her delicate hand to her forehead—and parted her
damp hair—as if the chills of the sepulchre were upon
it;—but still she spoke not:—she was pale, deathly pale.
A horse dashed by the window!—She turned her head,
and shrieked. The next moment the door was burst
open, and Ortley entered the room—but he encountered
the awful rebuke of Oscar, and fell back.
Oscar turned to me—“Are the ten minutes expired?”
said he. “No, sir.”
“You interrupt us,” said he, turning to Ortley—
“Will you leave the room?”
“Yes—if you will accompany me.”
“With all my heart!” was Oscar's reply;—but Elvira
threw herself between them, exclaiming—“O, no,
no, in mercy! do not go!”
“Lady,” said Oscar—“I am determined—Mr. Ortley
seems to hesitate—he has his reasons undoubtedly.
I have a duty to perform—a religious one. It is possible
that I have done a fellow creature injustice. I shall
not live long—and it would be well to make all the atonement
in my power, while I can.”
I was struck with the solemnity of his tone. There
was no passion in it, and Elvira seemed to regard it as
propitious.
“Will you walk on the terrace, gentlemen?” said I,
thinking the place far enough off for conversation, and so
near that they would not quarrel there.
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“Both took their hats. Oscar was the first to the
door—he turned a moment, and I observed the scornful
writhing of his lip, as his eye passed Ortley; and its
blackening, melancholy, effulgent beauty, when it dwelt
upon Elvira. He hesitated—something was at his heart—
he looked like one that cannot die in peace, till he has
uttered some secret.
“Lady!” said he, in a low voice—O, I never shall
forget it—it was so unearthly, so inward, so touching!—
“Lady—we never meet again. I shall haunt you no
more. We have been friends. May we not be so yet?
You have done, and I have done, what, perhaps, we may
wish undone—even in this world—farewell”—(he extended
his hand—majestically—but tenderly)—“for the
last time—farewell!”
Who could refuse him? She gave him her hand. He
held it for a moment, and looked her in the face—her
eyes filled—“Elvira! Elvira—the past is over—may the
future comfort thee!—Heaven bless thee!”
He was gone—and ere the light shone into the door
again, through which he passed—Elvira was stretched
upon the floor, utterly insensible—and lifeless.
We heard their steps, a few moments afterward, upon
the terrace. Their conversation was loud, at intervals,
and angry, and continued so long, that Elvira recovered,
and went to her room. I remained at the window, ready
to interfere, if occasion required it, and determined not
to permit the marriage, until I was satisfied respecting
Mr. Ortley: for I knew Oscar too well, to believe that
what he said, was said upon slight evidence. I was
startled by a shriek—and the next moment, a violent
scuffle, in the room over my head—the very room that
you now occupy. I ran up, and as I entered, I heard
the words villain! coward! and saw Oscar dash Ortley
against the wall, as if he were a child—the collar of Oscar
was torn open—and Ortley held a sword, broken at
the hilt, in his hand—another lay upon the floor. All this
I remembered afterward, as the first appearance of the
room:—just as I approached, Ortley broke loose from
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Oscar, caught up the broken blade—which Oscar wrenched
from him, at the moment that Elvira rushed between
them—unhappy woman!—Oscar drove it through and
through the side of Ortley—and wounded Elvira herself—
they fell together, and their blood mingled. Ortley
never spoke again—he had barely life enough to press his
hands together, and turn his lips toward Elvira, as he
saw her, with her shut eyes, sinking at his side.
“The room was immediately cleared. Oscar stood like
one, suddenly turned to stone. Elvira was taken away—
and the body of Ortley, with the blood oozing from his
side, and plashing, thickly and heavily, upon the floor,
drop after drop—was laid upon a table, before which Oscar
stood, with his hands smoking. He was motionless—
even his eyes were so—his brow was knitted—his arms
folded—and his tremendous countenance, under his luxuriant
and disordered hair, was unearthly—he stood like
some minister of the Most High—commissioned to do
such deeds. Yea—there he stood!—speechless—motionless—
as if the blood and horrour about, were matters
of little moment to him.
“I meant to commit him to custody. I motioned to him
to follow me, therefore, as I left the room. But it was
in vain—and, as he then stood, I do believe that no human
force could have moved him—but at the peril of
annihilation. I left him, therefore, doubly locking the
door—and barring every chance of communication—
leaving him, face to face, with the dead body—the floor
stained with blood, that stood upon it in puddles—the
light scarlet foam whizzing upon the dark surface—(as if
blood that was so spilt, could not stagnate,) long after it
had settled—and the white curtains bleeding, drop after
drop, from the first spurting of the wound—when Oscar
drew out the broken sword, as Ortley fell.
“As I left the room, Oscar took hold of the dead man's
hand, and placed his own palm, bloody as it was, upon
the ghastly eyes before him, as if they were alive—
Never shall I forget the expression of his face, as he did
so. It was awful indeed!—Yet he did it calmly—very
calmly.
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“All that night, he remained alone, in the pale starlight,
sitting by the side of the body, and watching the horrible
eyes—swollen, and blood shot. Not a step was
heard in the apartment—not a groan. Toward morning,
however, I was told that he had struck a light, and
was writing.
“In the morning, he was gone—how, or by what means,
we know not. We found the door fastened within, and
I ordered it to be burst open—Harold!—imagine for
yourself, my horrour—a lamp was glimmering feebly
from the mantlepiece—and we saw a naked man, sitting
upon a white sheet—it was soaked through with blood!—
and a part of it, stiffened and compressed, adhered to
his side, as if it had been thrust into the wound—the
eyes were open and staring—the lids imprinted with the
touch of bloody fingers—and the pale—pale lips—drawn
upward from the bare teeth—Oh!!—it was horrible.
My brain whirled—and it was long before I could go
near enough, to become assured that it was not Oscar
himself! But when I found what it was—the dead body
so awfully arrayed, as in mockery—then the dreadful
thought flashed itself, all at once, over my brain—my
blood froze—my bones rattled—my very heart seemed
to shrivel and wither, as I looked. I was then sure that
Oscar had gone mad under the trial—that I had subjected
him to.—I!—
“Was Oscar a shedder of blood? Then what was I?
Had I not wrecked his noble brain—forever and ever!—
O, Harold, the desolation, the convulsive blackness that
descended upon me, as I thought of it, is inconceivable.
I felt as if I were the murderer—I alone.
“We found these few lines upon the table.” Here Mr.
Hammond took out a paper, and read as follows: “I
am beyond your reach—the commission is executed. I
have set in judgment upon him. Take him—bury him—
his soul is now shivering over the green turf, where she—
the betrayed—the innocent—the beautiful—the dead—
is mouldering. This is written in blood—his blood—
his blood—his heart's blood.
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“They, the innocent, are at rest. The avenger of
blood hath been abroad—go to his presence chamber—
there you will find his victim. Give him to the surgeons—
the wolves—the worms. I care not.
“Pursue me—it is in vain. I go, commissioned by God,
to lay waste and desolate the habitations of men. I have
touched the pestilence, and it awoke—I have summoned
the strong wind, and the earthquake—and lo! they are
on the wing!
“Is she dead? My hand erred. Poor Elvira—I
could weep for thee. Thou wast very dear to me. It
was he only, that I was to bid to the carousal of the
night—the festival of the charnel house:—not she. If
she come—she comes an unbidden guest. But I will be
by her—no skulls shall mock at her—no bony hand profane
her lips—no socketless eyes—damnation!—the
king of terrours himself shall not approach her! Bid
her be tranquil. I will be there. Stay—she is here—”
“—Well. All is settled now. I am ready. She
has left me for a few hours. She does not complain—
poor, dear Elvira—how could I help weeping!—No, she
says she does not, cannot, for she fell by my hand. Was
there ever such love! such consummate love and tenderness!
“I have watched by the dead body. I was troubled, for
a season, with its ghastly and distorted lineaments. I was
even in doubt, for a moment, whether I was really the
minister of God. I asked myself if he were guilty?—
An angel—full of terrible beauty, stood by me—arise!
said he, to the dead body—arise! It obeyed. Unveil
thyself! heart and soul! Stand there naked before me!
The corpse arose, and the clothes fell from it, into dust
and ashes, as you will perceive. I read his heart—and
I have left it, that you may read it! Read it, and be
wise.
“Did you hear the thunder? Did you tremble? I did
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not—no—though my hands were smoking with the sacrifice—
no! Not even when I saw a multitude of pale,
naked men—belike that had been murdered—moving
about in the sky—constantly emerging and disappearing,
in the darkness—like shapes seen in a deep, deep cavern.
No!—Not even when I heard the voice of Elvira in the
wind, calling out to me, as she passed. No!—not when
the blue lightning hissed by me—and I saw the room
swimming in blood—and the whole air was a hot steam—
and all about me were shattered hearts, and rivetted
eyes—and dishevelled hair. Nay,—not even when a
horrible portent thundered by me—and the sky, for a
moment, turned red—and a great steed dashed over the
firmament—in smoke and flame—with a rider, naked and
shrieking—urging him onward—who was the rider?—it
was myself!—The reins were loose in his hands—and
the blood fell like rain from the flanks of his charger.
But why should I tremble?—Am I not the minister of
the Almighty?—Am I not!
“The dagger I leave upon the table. I pray you, let
it abide there. You had better not touch it. He that
touches, it shall die by it. It is written. Bye and bye,
when you least expect me, I shall return.”
Such was his letter. It confirmed all my apprehensions.
We scoured the whole country, but could hear
no tidings whatever of him. At last he returned—and
his presence was like a clap of thunder. We had not the
strength to lay hands upon him. He went and came, unmolested,
like some angel of darkness. But the country,
far and near, was agitated. By some strange fortune he
continued ignorant of Elvira's fate; and, I believe,
thought her dead, to the last hour of his life.
A thousand marvellous stories were invented, circulated
and believed. Oscar surrendered himself to justice,
in silence. He spake not—moved not—when they
ironed him—but there was an appalling calmness in his
manner, that awed his oppressor.
I went to see him in his dungeon. “Do you know,”
said he to me, after a silence of a full hour—“do you
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know that there (pointing to a dark part of his cell—)
there! is the dead body of Ortley?”
I shuddered.
“It is near bed time,” said he, in the same tone,
without lifting his eyes—“He sleeps with me to night.
To-morrow night I sleep with him—He is a cold
bed fellow. Did you ever see him after that night?—
Ortley!—Ortley!—come out into the light!—
come!—”
I trembled in every joint—had the grave opened at my
feet, I should not have been more terrified—nay, while
I looked into the darkness, I almost fancied that I could
see him—Ortley—himself, sitting as I last saw him,
upon a white sheet.—
“There!—” continued Oscar—“Is he much altered?
That is just as he appeared to me, the first night. Just
so pale—so deadly pale—Ortley! this is the last night—
there, there—that is near enough. There is something,
is'nt there, in his dark matted hair, and wild eye—
what—gone!—gone, so soon!—
* * * “No matter—He arose
last night,—it was the third time—he was sitting there,—
just where you are—ha! ha! ha!—what! are you
alarmed!—poor fool—he cannot touch you. Do you
see that wall—there, where I am pointing? He walked
directly through it—and laid himself down there—just
where you saw him when you came in. Ha!—what
are you crying about?—are you a relation of Ortley's?—
his father perhaps—well, well, I am sorry for it. He
was a murderer, he stabbed a man—who?—why Oscar
Salisbury—hear him! the bloody wretch—he is laughing
at us!—ha! ha! ha!—Do you know his laugh? That's
he.
“And so, and so-I thought that he was alone, and I went
to him. I was mistaken, there was a woman with him.
The blood was crusted upon his side—his grave clothes
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were black with it—she leant over him, and wept. The
blood flowed again—and bubbled all round the room,
was that right?—I have protested against it. I called
to the officer—I pointed them out—I spoke to him
of the impropriety of such things—threatened him—and
demanded another room. I will not be disturbed in
this way. I cannot sleep. But he is bribed—I am sure
of it. Is'nt it shameful:—every night—if it were one
night, or two, I should not mind it, but every night, to
have him let in—and then he comes, and lies down by
me—and he is so cold—indeed it is very disagreeable.
I wish that you would interfer. It would be very kind in
you. They wo'nt heed me—and a little mercy of this
sort, that I may have one night's sleep—before I die. But
he won't lie down—if he would only lie down, I could
bear it better—but there he comes, and—all naked as he
is—cold as death, too—he sits up in the bed all night
long, and looks me, all the while, in the face.—Indeed it
is hard to bear—.”
“What—ha!—Begone Sir!—this is a publick prison—
this is my apartment!—I will not be intruded upon—!
what, were you not decently buried?—There's money
for you—begone!—”
“—It was midnight, black, thick midnight, when he
first came in—I awoke and found him sitting by my
side—it was very dark—but—and I shut my eyes—but
I could see him nevertheless, through my eyelids and
fingers. Nay—dont go yet. Elvira will be here at
twelve. Did you ever see Elvira, she is very beautiful—
pale—remarkably pale—but oh, such eyes—!—
who is that sobbing!—Ortley—Elvira—appear!—
Hark!—that is she—I know her step—.”
I was overcome—I fell upon my face. He lifted me
up—appeared bewildered, and the first thing that I recollect
was, that his face was close to mine, and he was
feeling it, with an air of strange perplexity. “Begone,”
said he, at last—“begone!—(in a voice of thunder—)
I know you! You are Oscar. Begone this instant, or I
will tear thee limb from limb—Begone!—”
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“What could I do? I left him. His trial came on.
He was arraigned in spite of all my interference, and
his madness, his incurable madness was mistaken for
melancholy. He pleaded guilty, in a gentle, firm
voice. And he would have been condemned; an everlasting
reproach to our laws, and to humanity, notwithstanding
my testimony, for I was the only one that had
seen him at night, and he was rational at all other hours,
and on all other subjects but these.
“The jury found him guilty. He made no defence.
He was brought up for judgment. We were awestruck
by the dark sublimity of his countenance.
“Stop!” said he, to the judge, with an air of authority,
as he began to sentence him. “Stop! my time is
not yet come. I retract my plea. The charge is murder.
I deny it. I am not guilty. I am willing to die, I
desire to die. I care not how, nor when—the sooner
the better—for I am weary of living. But—I will not
die as a murderer. I slew him—I confess that—but
why?—at the command of the Everlasting God!—You
are terrified—you quake upon the bench—I do not wonder
at it—light your candles—bar your doors—and sit
here till midnight, if you dare. He shall stand before
you—he!—and bear testimony to my innocence. Look
at me!—see these hands—these fetters—if I but touch
them, they crumble and dissolve in vapour—there!—
where are they now!—do you doubt me now! Am I
not free now! Who hath done this?—the Almighty.
Man!—man!—I tell thee, that there are other hands
at work in the darkness. Woe to thee, and to all that
lay theirs upon me or mine!”
“What could be done? He was silent. And the court
remanded him to prison; but not to the same; their humanity
appointed to him a more light and pleasant
apartment. Yet, he grew worse—daily—hourly worse.
At last, a fire broke out in the prison, and—he saved a
woman's life, instinctively—and the torch of reason touched
by humanity, blazed up all at once, with a sudden and
beautiful lustre. I saw him—he had been reduced to a
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skeleton. The sunken eye, the bony cheek and forehead—
the blueish lip—the hoarse, unusual, inarticulate utterance,
and the difficult breathing, with the foam that collected
on his lips, which he had not the strength to wipe
off, all showed that he was near his dissolution. I
took his hand—and, fearful of distressing him, was silent.
“Hammond” said he—“I am glad that you are come. I
am going—going, all dead here! (he added, raising his feeble
hands, with a patient, slow motion, singularly expressive
of a mortal decay about the region of vitality—and
passing them over his chest)—all dead—all dead here!”
“I wondered at his composure. In time, however, the
weakest become familiar with death; and learn to contemplate
his tremendous features unmoved. And why
not? The strong—it is they, who are likely to die hard.
They know it. Their thread of life is broken—that of
the weak untwisted. But the weak are not such men as
Oscar—so impatient—soaring—heroick and terrible—
no!—and I wondered at his meekness, tranquillity, and
steadiness. What was the cause?—He had made his peace
with God! His eyes showed it;—his soul—like a forgiven
spirit—purified and weeping, was in them. He
was willing to die—willing to live—had no hope—and
believed that every breathing of his heart was numbered.
“I was inexpressibly affected. I wept and prayed
with him, midnight came. He desired to be raised in
the bed—he was suffocating—and the thick phlegm upon
his mouth was only to be wiped away by the hand of another.
He had not the strength to lift his own. I heard
a sudden, increasing, dry, convulsive rattle—and then all
was silent, and his eyes were fixed.
“Judge of my feeling—I was alone. It was midnight.
At this instant, thought I—his spirit is standing
before the judgment seat, and lo, I am the only witness.
But now, he was here—and now—where is he?
“Harold—I have been in many trying situations—
many of peril and death; but never was I so completely
overcome, so utterly dismayed and prostrate, as at that
moment; nothing could have affected me more, I am sure—
except my own arraignment, at the last day.
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“I thought that it was all over with him—and was just
leaving the room, when I fancied that I saw a slight
motion of the linen, over his chest, in the pale light. I
was not deceived. He was in a trance. He recovered—
yea—after all this, he recovered. He came abroad—
demanded another trial—and was triumphantly acquitted.
The Court was crouded beyond example. His deportment
was noble and affecting. His voice was thrilling
and solemn. There was not a dry eye about him. His
alone, was sad—calm—and deeply beautiful.
“`I thank the court,' said he. `Gentlemen of the jury,
I thank you. To my counsel too, I owe much acknowledgment,
and to the audience for their sympathy and indulgence.
But, I am not satisfied. The verdict was
wrong—the evidence wrong. I was the aggressor; not a
murderer, it is very true, but the first blow was mine.
He attempted to stab me. Such is the fact. I deserved
some punishment—perhaps a worse than that appointed
for manslaughter. I have received it—and withstood it.
My lords, I have been closeted every night—in imagination—
with the dead body—but I am getting unintelligible—
'
“The Court shed tears—”
The attention of Harold was here suddenly arrested
by a shot, which wounded Mr. Hammond's horse—and,
the next moment, three ruffians dashed through the hedge,
and planted themselves before Harold—but Mr. Hammond,
carried off by the wounded horse, which he was
unable to arrest, was instantly beyond their reach. A
blunderbuss was levelled, and discharged after him—but
Harold had the satisfaction to see that it was without any
effect—
The foremost presented a pistol—“Deliver! Sir,”
said he, and the others prepared to second his demand.
“Stop Sir!” said Harold: and put his hand very leisurely
into his bosom. One of the robbers saw the motion,
and would have brought him down with his pistol
on the spot, had not his companion, struck with the
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singular steadiness of Harold's youthful countenance, interfered
at the instant.
“Young men,” he continued, “your object is money.
I have but a trifle, and before I give up that, I will state
the case to you. It may save bloodshed. All my money
is ten guineas. Now, I will not part with one sixpence in
this way, while there is breath in my body.”
“Damn him—down with him!” answered one.
“No, no!—Tom—no, no, he's game—give him fair
play,” said another.
Harold continued, unmoved—ready to dismount, at a
moment's warning, and preparing for a mortal conflict, as
he went on—“If you rob me, you must kill me—and
I will promise you to take, at least, one of your number
along with me—do your best. In that case you will lose
one life, and commit a murder for ten guineas. Can
you afford to do this! Are you prepared to take your
chance? I am. Besides—I ought to inform you, that
if you kill me, you will as surely be hanged, all that survive,
as you are now standing there; and if you attempt
it, and do not kill me, I will never rest—never!—till I
have brought you to justice.”
As he uttered these words—he stood suddenly upon
his feet, before them! with a pistol in his hand—and his
horse was thundering along the high road.
The fellow with the pistol was so startled, that it went
off on the spot, without injury or aim.
Harold smiled. “You see,” said he, “in what an
unprofitable affair you have engaged. My horse will
alarm the whole country the way that he has gone—and my
friend, the other way. Before you could bless yourself,
you perceive, that I could have stretched one of you at
my feet—and then, I am pretty sure, that I should have
given a good account of one, if not of both the other
two, before mortal aid could interfere. But I forebore.
You are all young—all!—and I pity you. What say
you? Will you have the money?”
“Go to the devil with your money!”—said the first
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ruffian, laughing in spite of himself, and turning to go
off.
“Give him a slug, Bob—one, Bob—just to remember
you by”—said the other.
“Curse me, if I do,” said Bob—“he's no chicken. I
like him—though, blast my eyes, if I feel safe with him—
let us be off.”
“My honest fellow”—said the first, amazed at Harold's
composure, “you must be damned poor—will a
few guineas be of any service to you? By your appearance,
you seem to be a gentleman—but then, damme, gentlemen
don't play such games. Are you mad—a little—
or may be—I beg your pardon—may be, you follow the
road yourself? Give us your hand.”
“Begone!” said Harold—sternly.
“I'll tell you what it is, Mr.”—said the robber, (leisurely
knocking the powder into the pan, and looking at
the flint)—“you had better give fair words. My notion
is, that you are a play actor—or a little damaged in the
upper story—what say you?—but if I thought that you
really knew better, and meant to be saucy—curse me, if
I would'nt slash your weazen for you, before you could
say Jack Robinson.”
“Do—if you are disposed,”—was Harold's reply.
“Come along!” cried his companion—“damn the fellow—
he is some poet—come along—and leave him to
his rehearsals!”
The man stared—“By the Lord, you are right, Billy,”
said he, “I never thought of that!—So, sir—Mr. Poet—
I wish you a pleasant walk, after your horse—Good morning,
sir!”
Harold could not, for his soul, help laughing: there
was somewhat so irresistibly droll in the profound bow,
with which the fellow, after staring at him for a second
or two, took his leave.
They disappeared across the country, and Harold pursued
his way with his pistol in his hand, till, in the mere
listlessness of his mind, he happened to look into the pan—
there was no powder in it! He examined it—it was
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not loaded! Gracious Heaven! What an escape! Thus
is it with genuine courage. The stoutest heart is intimidated,
when, in its guilt, it encounters a man in the full
possession of his faculties.
He was aroused from the revery, by hearing the hoofs
of a horse, approaching at full speed. He looked about,
and had the pleasure of seeing his own, with a peasant
upon it, armed;—as he approached, he presented his
pistol to Harold—and it was some minutes before each
was satisfied that the other was not a highwayman. At
last, however, they succeeded in explaining themselves;
and Harold mounted, and continued walking on until
they heard the quick report of fire arms, at a great distance,
in the direction which Mr. Hammond had fled in,
as Harold thought, with much joy, yet some little indignation,
for he did not then know that the horse was
wounded. Harold threw away his pistol—caught that
of the farmer out of his hand, and put his horse to full
speed, telling him to follow as he could. At the very
next turn he encountered a carriage and four—but one
of the leaders was wounded, and fell just as Harold appeared:—
he heard a continual shriek, and seeing a man,
at a distance, engaged with two others, he rode to his relief.
As he approached, he was recognised—and all
hands turned upon him—he brought one man down—but
his horse fell—and had he not caught the sword that was
raised to thrust him through, while he was entangled in
the stirrups—and the ruffian was afraid to approach too
near the struggling horse—with his hand, at the expense
of being cut through sinew and bone almost—he would
have been killed upon the spot. But the sword once in
his hand, even by the blade, it was his forever!—he tore
it away, and giving the wretches no time to load their
pistols, he dealt about his blows, with such effect, that he
stretched a second at his feet, in the twinkling of an eye—
the other flung his broken rapier at Harold's head,
with a hearty curse, for a poet, and scampered over the
fields. Harold attempted to pursue him—but he was too
weak—he was wounded—and yet he had never felt the
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weapon, nor knew when or how it happened. He fainted—
and when he came to his senses, all traces of the past
were obliterated. He was in a strange room—and the
voice of a child only was heard, whispering its musick,
in a tone that thrilled into his heart, on the far side of the
room.
Harold drew the curtains, gently, and just so as to peep
through. Where was he? The room was beautifully
neat—decorated with exquisite little paintings, and full
of fragrant plants, and sweet flowers.
“Another! and another!” said some female in a
faint voice—as if in prayer. He looked out through the
curtains, in another direction, and saw Caroline, with her
hands raised—and her fine eyes, full of solemnity and
tenderness, lifted with a disconsolate, and yet touching,
expression to Heaven. Yes! there she was, in all her
innocence and loveliness! She arose, and he fell back
upon his pillow, and shut his eyes, willing to enjoy a little
longer, the luxury of his situation.
She approached—drew the curtain—and leaned over
him. He felt her gentle breath stirring his hair—her patient,
soft, delicate hand, touching, quietly and tenderly,
along his brow—so caressingly—so affectionately—that
he caught it to his lips!
Caroline almost shrieked—but she had just command
enough of herself to suppress the cry, and a sweet, terrified
murmur of mingled agitation and delight, only escaped
her. She saw his eyes—he opened them with a
smile—
“Dear, dear Caroline”—said Harold; and Caroline,
already overcome with her emotion, then lost all command
of herself, and fell upon his bosom, and sobbed
aloud.
This was the second time that Harold had been called
upon, for all that was touching and thankful in his nature—
the second time, that his hot forehead, and dry
lips had been ministered to, by that creature, so tenderly
fashioned and fitted by our Father, in mercy to our infirmities,
for our consolation in a cold world:—the second
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time, that gentle eyes and affectionate lips had been
near him, when he was alone;—so patiently waiting on
him—so affectionately soothing him;—that the very
touch of her dear hand was a relief to his aching temples—
and her tears, when they fell, like the dew from an angel's
wing upon a sore and agitated heart, were soothing
and healthful to him. O woman!—it is only at that
hour, when the cold world rolls away from us—when
the golden pageantry of life wanes and darkens—when
a desolation is about us, and they that have loved us—
love us no more—when Sorrow is at her incantations,
and Melancholy is already chisselling an epitaph for our
broken heart—O, it is only then that woman is truly
known! That is her hour of light—when all the world
is dark to us. That is her time of gentleness and tears,
when we are forgotten by all else, and the rude sound
of the world's hilarity breaks through the shut curtains
of our bed—and rings about our darkened chamber, like
unhallowed mockery. It is then, that her soft foot falls,
like the innocent tread of a naked angel; it is then
that all sound from her lips—and all motion from her
beauty, is melody, tender, mournful and weeping—O
woman! rather than not know and experience thy consummate
value, in the tender offices of the sick chamber,—
rather than never see thee, about it, like a spirit on
tiptoe, bearing health in thy delicate hand, and compassion
in thy pure eyes—I would consent to inhabit and
dwell, forever and ever, within the chambers of pestilence
and death! I would, indeed!
“And do you know me, Harold—my brother!” “Know
thee love!—O Caroline! wert thou near my ashes, they
would testify their sensibility to thy presence, I am
sure!—wert thou to pass near them, though the green
turf oppessed me, there would be a commotion beneath
it!—In my dreaming dear, my heart hath kept time to
thy voice, involuntarily, like our fingers to sweet musick!
Know thee my sister—O yes—thy timid mouth has
been near me, I am sure, during my delirium, for I feel
pleasantly about the lips and eyelids—thy bashful
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cherishing I have felt—and thy lovely arm hath embraced
me, I am sure, Caroline, while all my senses, but the
sense of thee, had departed, for I feel happy, so happy,
that I cannot express what I feel, about the region of the
heart. Know thee, Caroline! thee! whom to hold affinity
with, is to be nearer heaven—thee! my blood's
idol! thee! for whom any martyrdom were sweet!—O
Caroline, I have felt thy presence insinuating itself like
a subtle fluid, while I slept, into all the unlighted, unheathful,
and unholy chambers of my soul—like some
blessed spirit, that bears light, and air, and incense, in
her look and breathing—before whom Impurity veils her
form—and Voluptuousness prostrates herself, supplicating
to be annihilated or redeemed, as she passes by the
place of their dwelling.”
Caroline wept with delight and tenderness—and was
only recalled to herself, by a little creature, that plucked
impatiently at her frock—
“Mamma is come!” said the child, in accents, that sent
the blood, with the velocity of light, through all his arteries.—
It was Leopold!
My child! Harold faintly articulated, as he put out
his then wasted arms to embrace him—“my child!”
Leopold leaped into them—and Harold, hearing some
movement near, had just turned his eyes in the direction,
when the boy whispered softly in his ear—“You are
Mr. Salisbury now, you know—I must not call you pa—
no more—no more—I dont love it—do you?—I wish
she would let me call you pa.—”
A presence that he knew, here put forth her hand, with
a melancholy smile and sore confusion—the deep concern
of her eyes trembling, in their depth, as to arrest the
prattler—but he eluded her touch, and crept under the
bed clothes, laughing aloud—and talking as fast as he
could talk, all the while.—
Caroline was inconceivably distressed—was it that she
had any, the slightest suspicion of the fact?—It were
difficult to tell. But her agitation became extreme, when
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Leopold, peeped out, and promised to be a good boy,
only on one condition—that he might call “papa—his
pa—and why not?” said he, “he is my pa—nurse says
he is—and Miss Caroline says I am his picture—is I
his picture, ma?”
Harold was obliged to interfere—“Leopold!” said
he, in a voice, at which, the moment it was heard, the
little fellow looked up in his face a moment, with eyes
running over, to see if he were in earnest—and then
crept to his bosom—burried his little face, and sobbed
aloud.—
But nothing would do—He was not to be trusted;
and the amazing resemblance between Harold and the
boy was becoming every day more and more alarming.
Lady Elvira was like a guilty thing, and had, till the sickness
of Harold was extreme, kept the child away, and
only then took him with her, as she came herself to reside
with Caroline, because she apprehended no indiscretion
in Harold, and was known to be so passionately
fond of the boy, that if she left him behind, it would
appear more extraordinary than if she brought him.
Leopold was taken away. It was fatal to him—he
pined and wasted—and when Harold next saw him, he
was so pale, so thin, and his innocent eyes were so hidden,
under their meek waxen lids, that he shuddered, and
the tears fell upon his little mouth, while he clung to
him, as if his heart were breaking.
He was upon his mother's lap—and as Harold leaned
down to embrace him, his cheek touched her hand.
The touch was like electricity: he lifted his eyes, and
saw hers so deeply, passionately, darkly expressive of
her thought, that he blushed and trembled like a young
girl. But Leopold was deadly sick—he had some symptoms
of a disorder that they knew too little of, to be
alarmed about—the croup.
The boy was well, and in remarkable spirits, save that
he looked thin and pale, at sunset the evening before;
but he was now so altered for the worse, that they were
terrified. Harold loved the boy—doated on it. Elvira
too, she was distractedly fond of it—but, their suffering
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was not yet at an end. Leopold grew worse—his mother
could no longer support his weight, and he was put to
bed. Harold approached, softly, a moment after, that
he might be near the helpless, endearing little creature;
but was shocked at the change in his countenance. Was
it death struck!—Merciful Heaven!—can a cold be
so perilous? And now came the bitterest thought—the
physician was again sent for—“Did you give him the
powders?” said he, anxiously, as his eye fell upon the
child's face—“No—sir”—said Elvira, watching him,
while he removed the lamp, with a trembling hand, as if to
see if the death-like hue were not owing to that—“we did
not think it necessary—we were unwilling to distress him”
“What!” cried the good man, in evident terrour—while
his eyes grew dim—“You have not—Lady—(his voice
faltered—he could not proceed)—and Elvira's attention
was called off to the child, who exclaimed in a broken
voice, while his little blue lips trembled with a faint
smile—
“O, ma!—my ma!—I do love you, ma!—I can't see
you, ma!—where are you?—O, how dark it grows.”
This was too much. The appearance of the physician—
his tears—his voice—all was explained now—it flashed like
a thunderbolt upon her brain—she fell upon her knees and
wrung her hands—“O, my God! my God! I have murdered
my child!—O save him, save him!—Merciful
God!”—and swooned upon the spot.
Harold staggered to her assistance—but he had only
the strength to raise her drooping head upon his knees—
while the hoarse breathing of the child, became every
moment, more distressingly audible. But why prolong
the detail!—The babe died!—died before his eyes!—
Ye that have had children—ye that have seen the dear,
helpless, beautiful expression of their dying eyes—to
your memory I leave it!—I cannot go on—I cannot!—
His sweet, violet pupils, dewy and dim—there they are
yet!—O, my child! my child!—
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Neal, John, 1793-1876 [1822], Logan: a family history, volume 2 (H. C. Carey & I. Lea, Philadelphia) [word count] [eaf291v2].
