University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.

We have now come to a new and trying period in
the life of poor Harold. Two whole years have passed
away, since we left him, plunged amid the foam and
darkness of life's ocean, without one star to shine upon
him, as, shipwrecked and shattered in heart, he drifted
upon his tempestuous way. Two years have gone,
since we left him, leaning upon his hands, the blood of
his whole body rushing to his brain—the atmosphere
darkening about him, and within him, and his broad
eyelids shivering and shutting incessantly, over his
mournful eyes, with the excess of his passion. He
went abroad, after the shock, but it was like an enchanter;
the world was a blank to him, covering the
mysterious and hidden dominions where his spirit revelled.
He breathed upon it, and it was, as if he had
breathed upon a white canvass, and straightway the
colour and shape of beauty had arisen, in the vapour
of his breath, and passed away again, when that vapour
passed away. Many lovely and sweet things,
with music, and lustre, and fragrance about them, hovered
over the void into which he looked, and haunted
him, at a distance. But they would never permit him

to approach. If he did, they shut their bright wings,
hushed their chanting, and vanished.

The strong man had become weak, yet he was formidable,
even in his weakness. The creature of vicissitude,
for two years, he upheld himself alone, amid
the shattered relicks of all that he had leaned upon,
and all that he had loved on earth:—trembling and aching
with sensibility, his heart, for two years, had been
gradually encrusting itself in a panoply of living adamant,
of tears and blood:—from the crown of his head,
now, even to the sole of his foot, is he invulnerable!
His bosom, once the abiding place of ambition; the
heart whereon she sat forever, in travail, with portentous
dreaming, that heart was now darkened, and quiet,
the sanctuary of pure thought and melancholy recollection.
The angel of its innermost chamber is now a
slumbering child, innocent, and beautiful, as the hallowed
light of his own dear eyes. Yes, and the red
arm, the ensanguined forehead, and the lofty eye of
the young savage—the unsparing and deadly harnessing
of his spirit have all passed away. He is a man
now, and a christian. Calamity hath tamed him. His
proud heart hath been smitten, and the waters of it,
like the innermost light of a broken crystal, rushed
out and sparkled, with a mournful sound, at the touch
that shattered it.

He is now—alas! what is he? A sweet solemnity is
upon his front; his eyes are full of dark, deep, settled
concern—an awful, and abiding steadiness and self-possession
are his, now, as of one familiar with holy,
and high thought. The burning pathway of passion
and excess upon his countenance, hath been obliterated—by
whom?—by a gentle, and weeping spirit!
one, that stole upon him in his solitude, and with her
soft fingers retraced the map of his heart, blotting out
the volcano, and illuminating the lonely, and dark
place; peopling the solitude, and refreshing the desert.
A timid mouth went over his contracted brow,
and touched, just touched, his writhing lips, and lo!
they relaxed, and smiled, and straightway, were benignant
and merciful.

He is out upon the hills again, the everlasting hills!
and lo! the wilderness beneath his feet. The clouds are
in commotion, burning with crimson, and gold, and
sapphire; and the far thunder is rolling about, like innumerable
drums, through all the circumference of
heaven! Hark! the steadfast hills are quaking to the
tread of HIS angels! that subterranean echo is the loud
presence of the Deity! The clouds are drifting with
intelligence and aim! They assemble, and roll upward,
barrier over barrier, bridges and arches over flaming
voids, like a range of magnificent mountains, parting
asunder, all at once—with their rocks, and turrets, and
battlements, and precipices, and caverns, and mines,
and torrents, all disclosed!—with all their majestick population
sitting, and walking about, unconcerned—
the cabalistick writing of the divinity, glittering in
metallick veins and spots, like the stars of heaven, in
deep water; the whole concave above, blue, and boundless,
opening like a moonlit cavern.—The architecture
of heaven, and all her pillars and constellations shattered,
and lying about, like coloured crystal in disorder,
and magnificent spectres striding hither, and thither,
over the fragments; and the clouds parting, like hills,
with harnessed giants standing in the passes! such is
the aspect of heaven, at this moment!

Harold is in America!—at home! The wide Atlantick
is rolling between him, and all his family, and
kindred. He is a sceptred hermit. He hath arrived,
buckled anew his sword upon his thigh, and gone out
to battle, as the Lord's anointed, for the red men of
America. He has resworn allegiance to her greatness,
and lo! he is now standing up, above the wilderness,
under the pictured and animated dome of the temple,
that God hath built, for the free in heart; like some
high priest, about to offer his sacrifice, to the Everlasting,
and Unchangeable.—Every tie of
his heart is ruptured. His sister hath gone, blighted,
and profaned, to her grave, and blood hath been spilt
thereon—blood for tears—drop for drop! Elvira, too—
she hath knelt to him, and was scorned! He leaped into
his chariot, and flung the loose reins upon the wind,

as she, the apparition of beauty, and power, broke out,
like a vision, upon his benighted way. Did he pause? No!
The Indian girl, too, O, where was she? helpless, broken-hearted,
and dying! Over the wide world had he
wandered for her, over sea and land, over heaven and
earth, in prayer, and in pilgrimage—in vain! in vain!

Ah, what accumulated, what consummate treachery
and love must she have experienced; the pure and
proud of heart, the innocent, the lofty!

`Once more, O, our father!' cried Harold, kneeling
down, as he stood, barefooted, and bareheaded, where
he had first met her—`once more! if it be thy will—
and she yet love me, wretched and desolate as she is—
O, let me lean once more upon her bosom! once more
hear her innocent, quick breathing! once more behold
the deep languishing of her eyes, through their beautiful
fringe—and then, O, I care not how soon I am bidden
to lie down, and die.' Man, man! while thou
wast in battle and bloodshed, traversing deserts, she,
whom thou didst so love, was crying for thee!

Harold threw himself upon the rock, and slept, for
the overwatching of his heart could not be appeased by
prayer.

He dreamt. But still, he was in the wilderness—
naked feet were forever passing about him, and dim
eyes incessantly glancing under his lashes. And when
he stirred, there were voices about him—the wind was
harmonious, and pleasant to his lips. A rapt abstraction
of the spirit stole over him. He plunged into the mysterious
depths of his own heart, and put all the elements
thereof in commotion, and brought up the sunken
and dimmed pearls and precious things, that Memory
had thrown overboard, in the shipwreck of his senses.
He was astonished and confounded at their aspect;
the inexhaustible and wasted riches of his own
nature, upon which Imagination and Enchantment had
engraven the sweetest incidents of his life. He attempted
to read the characters, but straightway they turned
to weeping eyes, and parting lips, and trembling white
eyelids, coming, and going, with sweet musical cadence,
and pauses of enraptured solemnity, and tenderness —

Then brake out upon him, all at once, like a troop of
naked, and rejoicing children, all the forbidden and
delicate recollections of his love—revisiting the haunted
chambers of his imagination—and then, O, the
thrilling and delirious fever of such dreams! a sweet
face would float by him, in the blue air—wane, and
reappear, her meek eyes changing their colour, as they
passed him—her soft breath, and rapturous pulsation,
so audible!

These were his dreams! these! what wonder if he
were wasted to a skeleton? An august spirit sat enthroned
within his heart, and when her dominions were
too fiercely agitated by the rebellion of his thought, she
arose, and waved her arm, and all again was peaceful.
Out of these trials, there grew an undissembling and
obedient submission to his Maker, and Harold took
counsel of his meditations, and chose a new faith. In
that faith he trod. No obstacle could daunt him; no
force could move him; no calamity, no humiliation, no
suffering, no menace, could intimidate, or dishearten
him. Only one thing could disturb him, now. It was
the name of Loena: at that name, his heart shook in
his bosom.

`What shall I do?' said Harold, as he awoke, on that
very spot where he had first loved—a spot, that he had
now visited, as something hallowed, and religious. His
hands were locked, and the sweat stood upon his lip—
`O, woman,' he continued, `even in the solitude, the
silent place, yea, even at the home of the altar, the
purity of your hearts may be violated, polluted, by the
breathing of man!' The thought was suffocation! `That
reptile, too, O, that the daughter of Logan should so
fall! what shall I do? what can I do? The world is all
weariness to me. Ah, if I could find but one, only one
kind heart to turn to, at this moment, I might—gracious
heaven! what art thou?'

A woman was kneeling at his feet, barefooted, like
himself, bleeding, her hair falling over her face, and her
forehead bowed to the very earth!

Harold shivered, with dismay.

The apparition raised her head, and Harold covered
his face with his hands.

`What art thou?' he said, in a hollow voice; `whence?
O, Harold, Harold, wilt thou not look upon me?'

`Merciful heaven!' he cried, staggering toward
her, `where am I? what art thou? I fear to touch thee!
and yet, thy voice is the voice of one that I have loved.'

`O, bless thee! bless thee! Harold—barefooted and
alone, Harold—my master, and my lord! barefooted
and alone, have I followed thee! Thou didst spurn me,
but I have forgiven thee. Thy proud foot was upon
my neck, but I have forgotten it. Thou didst scorn me,
and yet Harold, behold me at thy feet! I have followed
thee, day after day, night after night, asking only to
see thee once more, dear, and die at thy knees! Harold,
thou wilt not spurn me again! I cannot leave thee,
dear—I cannot—make me, thou man of sorrow, make
me, thy handmaid! O, Harold, thou art very dear to
me; wilt thou not let me die at thy feet!'

What could he do? be fell upon her bosom, and wept
—whence came she? from the skies? the clouds? had
she emerged suddenly, from the blue water below, or
had the mountain given her up? Harold was bewildered—but
his prayer—the first that had ever come truly
from the deepest place of his heart, had been answered
on the spot! He had prayed for one true heart, and lo!
it was at his side. He had wished for one that loved
him. Here was that one—and O, with what truth and
sublimity of devotion, did she love him!

She had listened to his delirium and marvelled not—
to his chiding, and murmured not; to her, he was all in
all, and she, the proudest woman of England, casting
aside her rank and authority, lay prostrate, timid,
breathless, bowed down, unconditionally, upon the
bosom of the Indian boy, under the awful influence
of love!

Lady Elvira, (it was she,) had returned to America,
under the condition of her husband's will. Harold
knew not that she was there, and in his wandering he
had never heard her name pronounced, thinking of her
only as he last saw her, broken hearted, and majestick
in her mournful sweetness. And now, to find her here,

at his side, so suddenly, so unexpectedly! it was portentous.

How happened it? Let only the loving and the
loved imagine; them only that haunt the spot forever
and ever, sleeping and waking, where their young
hearts were first propitiated, had first palpitated together,
hallowing every mossy seat, every broken rock,
every stump, every fountain, every shadowy place,
great tree, and sober wood, with every hue of heaven
and earth, with the sanctifying remembrances of affection.
O, for the ruptured heart, how melancholy, yet
how sweet, to travel o'er again, the green road of its
first love, to sit again where she sat, to lean where she
leant, and listen where she first learnt to throw down
her timid eyelids—Harold the idolater, the profoundest
too, of Love, almighty Love, had been lingering
awhile, about all this precious scenery, with ten thousand
wild, thrilling, mournful emotions; treading, at
midnight, the high hill where he had first met Elvira,
even while thinking only of Loena, so strangely capricious
and unaccountable is the loyalty of the heart.
But no matter; there is a treacherous, a subduing tenderness,
in revisiting scenery so embalmed by our dear
memory; and we are happy to tread it again, even
with a stranger.

So felt Harold, so Elvira. But the surprise was
altogether his. She had seen him before, heard of
him, and ordered her presence to be scrupulously kept
a secret in America. But at last, in the distracted and
sublime veneration of her heart, the unspeakable confidence
of a haughty and loving woman, hunting her
love even in the solitary place, without fear, or doubt,
or apprehension, she had trodden in his footsteps,
overtaken him, knelt, wept, and prayed to him.

They descended, and were soon within a place of
much peril.

`What can we do?' cried Harold. `Thou art mine,
lady, my first love—no, no, forgive me, forgive me,
dear Elvira, not my first love.'

They were close together; no living soul near them,

in the very room, too, where Harold had stolen upon
her slumbers; where—oh shame on him!—

`Nay, my beloved,' he continued, as she sat by
him, and leant upon his shoulder, `nay, nay, do not
tremble; I cannot bear thy tears, they make me doubt
thy forgiveness, love. Thy pallid face, thy tremulous
lip, thy hidden eyes, oh, do not break my heart, Elvira,
look up, look up, dear, once more.'

`I cannot; ah, Harold,' murmured Elvira, in a voice
scarcely audible.

Harold pressed her beautiful hand to his lips, wrung
out the rain from her redundant tresses, and drew her,
cold and shivering as she was, to his heart, as her
home, her fire side, forever and ever.

`And can it be, Horold,' she whispered, or rather
murmured in his bosom, `that thou too, hast loved
another—that—oh, I cannot speak it.'

There was a thrilling, tender plaintiveness, something
so desolate, mournful, and beseeching in the
sweet cadence of her voice, so melancholy, so faint,
that Harold put his lips to her forehead, in silence,
and let their tears mingle on their cheeks. He could
not answer; how could he? The truth, and nought but
the truth could he tell; it would be death, he was sure,
to the broken in heart, whose dear, dear, voice he had
just heard, like one that whispers in her sleep, while
her arteries are palpitating. Should he deceive her?
He coloured, forehead, face, and eyes, at the bare
thought. `No! no!' he cried, aloud, `I will perish first,
myself, yea, see her perish first.'

He held her yet closer to his bosom, she scarcely
breathed, and he was like one suffocating, in the bitter
and terrible trial. Her heart had never doubted, never,
except for a moment, and that had been forgotten, that
Harold's love for her was his first love. And as she
thought what that first love, in such a nature must be,
so passionate, so unreserved, so delicate, yet so enduring;
it had been the keenest luxury of consolation to
her afflicted and broken spirit, in her bereavement and
desolation, to have inspired it—But—

Harold held her hands pressed convulsively to his
heart; this was the very room; that, the very window
through which he, the spoiler, came—that perhaps
the—

`Oh, Elvira,' said he, in a voice inarticulate with
emotion, the dim moonlight about them, her wet hair
parted upon her pale forehead, and her cold cheek
resting, like marble, against his mouth, `oh speak to me,
banish me, trample on me, kill me, but speak to me,
Elvira, mother of Leopold.'

At the sound of that name, she uttered a faint cry,
and attempted to break from his encircling arms; but
no, no mortal force could have plucked them asunder,
without his consent.

`Oh Elvira, my beloved, listen to me, I cannot deceive
thee. I may be pronouncing mine own death, I
may, but I love thee too tenderly, too devotedly, to
deceive thee. I have loved another—I love that other
yet. There, thou art free now, forever free, if thou
wilt not forgive me.'

His arms dropped lifelessly at his side, a brief tremour
followed, as she haughtily put forth her hand,
and turned away her eyes, but his were upon her, and
he saw her countenance fall, and the tears upon her
lip like rain; and he felt that she had forgiven him.

`Oh bless thee! bless thee, love!' he cried, straining
her again and again to his heart, as she leant over him,
and, timidly, put her soft mouth to his eyelids. The
struggle was fearful indeed. His chest heaved, and
his breath rattled, like blood falling upon a marble pavement,
as he awaited her forgiveness. His manly frame
was convulsed, the sweat fell from the ends of his
fingers, and the hot tears bubbled under his lashes.
She thought he was suffocating—he was—it was a mortal
struggle, and another minute he would have been
dying at her feet, with his heart burst. What could
she do? She was a woman—she forgot her own sorrow—drew
him to her lonely heart, pressed his cheek
to hers, and whispered, in the tenderest musick, `I do
forgive thee, I do.'

At the touch, Harold shivered from head to foot,
with delight. All the earthiness of his heart was instantly
precipitated, and the purer part went up to
heaven, sublimated, and etherealised, in prayer.

He sat down, and, with his arm around her waist,
her head upon his shoulder, and her hands in his, recapitulated
all the adventures of his boyhood. Elvira
fainted.

What troubled the lady? Was there a more glowing
distinctness of passion in his manner, when he spoke
of the Indian girl, than when he addressed himself to
her? What shook her so? Was it jealousy? Why did
her heart fail her, when she attempted to speak?

She desired to be, but trembled so that she could
not be, very minute in her questions. She would have
known something more than Harold had told, yet she
dared not ask him. What was it? Whence was that
delicate perception, which, like another sense, looked
through all his looks and words, and ached over a
more mysterious meaning. He had loved another. He
had loved her. But how had he profited of his love?
Oh Harold, where was the holiness of thy flame, when
thou didst quench it in passion? `Had he—it might
be—the rifler'—but no, no, she would not think of it.
The thought was hateful.

They were silent, and their silence was devotion.
Their hearts were too full to utter a word. The palpitation
of hers had subsided, and, by her breathing,
Harold thought that she was asleep. How delightful the
thought! What a moment for the devout and loving!
He feared to move or breathe, and when her gentle
hand, as he unwillingly released it, fell down, in its
sweet lifelessness, and she raised her head and murmured,
poor Harold was really the happiest creature
on earth.

`Where am I,' said she, `oh! Harold dear! is it
thou? I have been dream—thinking of thee, and I was
afraid to open my eyes, lest it might be a delusion.'

`And couldst thou sleep, so quietly, in my arms,
dear, if I were not now worthier than I have been?'

`I could sleep there forever, worthy or unworthy,
I had almost said, dear Harold—but no, only while
thou wast what thou art.'

They had watched so long of late, and Elvira was
so full of purity and confidence, being too, in her own
house now, of which she was the undisputed mistress
—this chamber so communicating with that, where
Harold had formerly slept, that he could escape at
any moment; and he, too, was so happy, and so weary
with his happiness, that before they knew it, they were
sleeping again, both together, in the moonlight folded
in each other's arms—it was but for a moment, with
Elvira; for the instinctive delicacy of her mind forsook
her not, even in slumber, and she gently disengaged
her arm, and was on the point of pressing her lips to
his forehead, and leaving him, while he slept, when,
just as they approached, she was struck with a ghastly
paleness in his face, and a quick convulsion of his features,
as they darkened with the agitation of his
thought; and she paused, and her eyes filled, as he
continued talking in a low, deep, passionate voice, as
to some loved one—

`Yes, yes,' said he, `believe me, I do forgive thee.
I do not even charge thee with my death, love. I
murder thee! I! I deceive thee! I talk unkindly to thee!
I! Mistaken girl! I have loved thee; I still love thee;
I shall love thee forever. I am weeping, not for myself,
death has no terrours for me; nay, I do not repine
that I am dying by thy hand, love—I weep only for
thee, for the time will come when thou wilt think of
me, of my love, and faith, and tenderness; and then,
oh, thou wilt weep such tears as I am now shedding.
No, my still beloved one, I am not angry with thee;
by these tears, these kisses, I do forgive and bless
thee—'

Here Harold awoke, and seeing a woman, meekly
leaning over him, it seemed that he took her for the
creature of whom he had been dreaming, for he continued
his incoherent murmuring, until she broke from his
grasp, at the sound of a name—it was not hers, it was
Loena's!

He outreached his arms to her, as she fled—`what,
art thou not Loena? Oh, I am sick at heart; thou art
not the murderess—stay, dearest, stay, Loena would
have killed me, but thou, thou wilt not desert me,
wilt thou, dear?'

Elvira returned, listened to his disturbed dream,
blessed him with her gentle lips, and departed.