University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.
THE KNIGHT AND THE SURGEON.

It was this sad tale, so deeply interwoven with the
history of her own family, and in which therefore might
be found the primary cause of all the sufferings which she
had endured, that Ellen Norbury for the first time heard
from the lips of Rosalind Clendennan—not as we have
told it, however, in a connected form—but with an interchange
and comparison of facts, by which the two were
enabled to arrive at the same conclusion. Rosalind knew
her own family history and the history of her mother's
cousins, the father and uncle of Ellen, up to the period of
the tragedy narrated; she knew, too, that subsequently to
this, there was a sad change in the surviving brother; and
Ellen, by giving her early recollections of her parents, with
the loss of her brother, and the sad end of all but herself,
was thus able to supply the remaining links in the chain of
fatal events. Previous to her meeting with Rosalind, Ellen
had never heard the name of Clendennan but once; and
then it had passed the lips of her father, in a state of partial
intoxication, coupled with a curse that had made her
shudder, and which had produced an impression on her
mind that had never been erased. The name of her uncle
had never been mentioned in her hearing; and from this
fact the inference was now drawn, that the subject of the
tragedy was one to which her parents rarely if ever made
an allusion. The history of Ellen's mother, up to the
period already mentioned, was also known to Rosalind;

and as Ellen knew nothing, save that her mother's maiden
name was Montague, this subject also became one of the
deepest interest to her.

By these conversations, which occurred at different
times, and when the parties were only in each other's
company, Ellen learned wherefore it was so essential that
her own name should be concealed from the father of
Rosalind and the servants of the family. Of her father
Rosalind said but little; but from that little it was to be
inferred, that he was a miserable man—a prey to remorse
and grief—at times cold, morose and misanthropic—at
times peevish and wayward—always eccentric and ascetic
—and striving to compound with his conscience, by secret
acts of charity, for a crime he could not forgive himself.
He generally kept himself closeted in his library, rarely
went abroad, received no visitors, and seemed to take little
or no interest, beyond the aforesaid deeds of charity, in
the world without. There were times too when he locked
himself against intrusion, and permitted not even his
daughter to see him for days together. He wholly abjured
his title, constituted Rosalind sole mistress of his mansion,
allowed her to do as she pleased in everything, and seldom
took the least interest in her affairs. Such was the
establishment, in a country foreign to his birth, of a once
happy Baronet, in which poor little Ellen found herself
so singularly placed, by one of those freaks of fortune for
which there is no accounting, except by the overruling
power of Providence.

From the little she gleaned from Rosalind concerning
her unhappy father, taken in connection with the eventful
history we have related, Ellen readily perceived why it
was that the sweet, lovely face of her kind protectress, at
all times wore such an expression of deep-seated melancholy;
and notwithstanding her own sorrows, she had

abundance of sympathy to spare to her gentle friend and
cousin. Cousin! How sweet that word to the ear of one
who had been so vilely abused, and so long destitute of a
single relative or friend! It came like the warm sunshine
and soft south wind to the freezing flower, and restored
life and animation to her trouble-chilled heart. And
Rosalind was one to return her sympathy with interest;
and as Ellen told her sad tale of wretchedness and suffering,
the tears of both were unconsciously mingled, and both
felt happier without knowing why.

Rosalind was one of those gentle beings that seem expressly
formed to love and be beloved. She was about
twenty years of age, of the medium size, with a form symmetrical,
airy, and graceful. Her fair features had a delicate
refinement in detail as well as outline, and the natural
expression was one of great sweetness and amiability,
which lost nothing of loveliness, but increased in interest,
by the pervading cast of melancholy. Her sunny hair
hung down in clustering ringlets, and gave in some degree
the same pleasant shade to her countenance, that her long,
fringy lashes did to her soft, blue eyes. Her voice was a
melody; and to hear her speak, and note the gently parted
lips, with the even, pearly teeth just displayed, and mark
the beaming glance of her soft, expressive eye, was to feel
at the same moment the combined fascination of music and
beauty. And to this fascination, her sad, sweet smile,
with every feature radiant, seemed to add a charm irresistible;
and the enrapt beholder could readily fancy he saw
the light of Heaven upon a mortal countenance, after passing
through the chambers of a soul made pure by holy
thoughts and aspirations.

The painful events which had occurred during the last
ten years of Rosalind's life, together with a change of
country, and the peculiar condition of her father, had prevented

her taking that position in society to which her
birth and wealth entitled her. In truth, being of a modest,
retiring disposition, she did not care to mingle with the
world; and since her arrival in America, she had striven
to live in that seclusion which she considered most consistent
with her circumstances; and in consequence, her
circle of acquaintances, at the period we introduce her into
our narrative, was rather limited. But it would have been
almost impossible for her to live wholly retired, had she
been so resolved; for common courtesy required her to
see those who called upon her, and to return the visits of
those whom she discovered to be congenial spirits.

In this way she became acquainted with a few families;
and among these, with one by the name of Stanhope. At
the time this acquaintance was formed, the Stanhopes—
consisting of father, mother, son, and daughter—were living
near neighbors, and were in easy circumstances; but
had subsequetly met with reverses, and had been obliged to
part with their elegant mansion, and take up their residence
in a small, unfashionable street. At the precise
period this change occurred, Newton Stanhope, the son referred
to, had just received his diploma as a Doctor of Medicine;
and though it had not been his intention to enter
upon practice for some years at least, yet he immediately
put out his sign, with the praiseworthy design of doing
what he could toward the maintainance of his parents and
sister. We are pleased to add, that, owing to the influence
of Rosalind and a few other friends of the family—
who, unlike the generality of so-called friends, did not desert
them in the hour of need—he had been successful beyond
his most sanguine expectations; and had found, with
a degree of pride and pleasure known only to high-spirited,
noble minds, that his income would be sufficient to maintain

himself and those he loved, in what might be termed
a respectable style.

While the Stanhopes were in affluent circumstances, Newton,
and his sister Linda, had been frequent visitors at
the mansion of Rosalind; and she had experienced a degree
of pleasure in their society which she had found in no
other; and though their misfortunes had only tended to
strengthen her attachment to them, yet she now saw,
with pain, that one at least no longer met her as formerly.
She still continued to visit the family, and to receive a
cordial welcome from all but the young physician; who,
from some cause, which she, in her simplicity of heart, had
been unable to divine, had suddenly become reserved, cold,
distant, and formal. But even this, though it pained her,
and rendered her visits to the Stanhopes less frequent than
they might otherwise have been, did not lessen her friendship
for Linda, who was about her own age; and the young
maidens became more deeply attached to each other, as
time and circumstances more clearly revealed the noble
qualities of both.

But to return to our little heroine.

Ellen had been more than six weeks in the house of the
Baronet, and was able to sit up an hour or two at a time;
but though curious to behold the person who had had such
remarkable influence upon the fortunes of her family, she
had not yet been favored with a glimpse of Sir Walter.
One day, Rosalind having gone out with her friend, Linda,
for a walk, the Knight sent a courteous word to Ellen, by
Mrs. Wyndham, that, if agreeable to her, he would pay
her a visit. At this unexpected communication, Ellen was
not a little agitated; but promptly replied, to the effect
that the proposed visit would give her pleasure. Shortly
after, Sir Walter entered the apartment of the young invalid,
walking with a cane, and seeming in a feeble state

of health. Ellen was seated in a large rocking-chair,
propped up with pillows; and as the Knight slowly approached
her, she fixed upon him a glance of curiosity,
mingled with emotions akin to awe or fear.

The personal appearance of the Baronet was not very
prepossessing. He was small in stature, and his body and
limbs had an appearance of being withered or shrunken;
and the skin, of a sallow hue, was dry and wrinkled. He
stooped considerably, and there was a painful nervousness
in all his motions—the nervousness of one continually
startled by the least discordant sound. His hair, what
little he had—for the front of his head was bald—was as
white as the driven snow, and had thus changed from a jet
black in a single night. His face, by no means large, had
now a cadaverous, ghastly look; and his once clear, keen,
gray eye, was now wandering and unsettled, with a restless,
unhappy expression. In short, the whole man was an embodiment
of the wretchedness of mental torture. Talk of
capital punishment for the murderer! of giving him the
extreme penalty of the law! It is no more in comparison
with the penalty inflicted by the law of God for the same
offence, than mortal structure is with the universe! Remorse—deep-seated,
eternal, corroding remorse—“the
worm that dieth not—the fire that is not quenched”—this
it is that punishes beyond all human invention, and gives
the doer of iniquity his just reward.

As Sir Walter approached Ellen, he fixed his eyes
searchingly upon her sweet little face; and then stopping
suddenly, he threw up both hands, and in a sharp, startled
voice, exclaimed:

“In the name of Heaven! who are you?”

“My name, sir, is Ellen,” replied the child, in a timid,
trembling voice, for she was much startled at the question,
look, and manner of the Knight.

For nearly a minute, the Baronet, with his hands raised
in an attitude of surprise and astonishment, kept his eyes
riveted upon the niece of his victim; and then turning
away, he sunk upon a seat, covered his face with his hands,
and fairly groaned aloud—occasionally uttering:

“God be merciful to me, a sinner! God be merciful to
me, a sinner! for Christ's sake! for Christ's sake!”

After a time he seemed to grow more composed; but
now and then a long-drawn sigh, or a half-stifled sob, attested
how great was the struggle with himself, and how
much he suffered.

All this while, little Ellen sat and watched him, with
feelings of pity. Yes, strange as it may seem to such as
make gold their god, the poor, despised orphan could find
pity in her heart for the rich Baronet; for though deep
may be the distress of innocent poverty, it is the enjoyment
of Paradise compared to the sufferings of guilty wealth.

At last Sir Walter withdrew his hands from his ashy
face, and, turning to Ellen, said:

“Doubtless you think, child, that my conduct is very
strange; but there is such a remarkable resemblance
between you and one I once called friend, that the sight
of you revived painful emotions. Did you ever do wrong,
my child?”

“Yes, sir—many times.”

“Yet your sweet face shows that you are innocent of
any great wrong: God keep you so! What say you is
your name?”

“Ellen, sir.”

“But you have another name?”

“Yes, sir!” returned Ellen, somewhat confused.

“Well, no matter—you need not mention it—mea nihil
refert. Ah! forgetful me! I have not asked concerning
your wounds!”

“I am getting better, sir—thank you.”

“Do you suffer much pain?”

“Only a little, sir, now.”

“But the pain of the mind does not mingle with that of
the body—eh! child?”

“I don't think I understand you, sir?”

“No! how should you? how should you? Well, I am
pleased to know you are getting better. Do you want for
any thing?”

“No, sir—thank you—I have every thing to make me
happy.”

“Heaven grant you ever have! Yet Rosalind tells me,
when she found you, senseless and bleeding in the street,
you were friendless.”

“That was true, sir, then; but it isn't true now; for
dear Rosalind tells me she is my friend.”

“Believe her, Ellen—for her pure soul was never soiled
by an untruth.”

“I do believe her, sir; and I want to live, to show her
how grateful I feel, and how much I love her.”

“Good child! good child!” returned Sir Walter, in a
state of partial abstraction, looking down upon the ground.
A pause of more than a minute ensued. “It is strange!”
he now muttered to himself; “it is very strange! such a
likeness! Alas! every body and every thing seem to conspire
to remind me of him! as if his image were not
stamped upon my heart, in colors of blood!—Well, well—
God be thanked! I have not to bear the earthly burden
much longer. This old frame must soon perish now, and
then that at least will be at rest. Oh! that I could know,
while here, what lies beyond this gloomy sphere of existence!
Does the mind, tortured here, continue in torture
there? God forbid! God in mercy forbid! O Christ,
and all holy saints, forbid! else must I suffer the conscience

fires of eternal damnation! Death! thou seemest awful;
and yet I look to thee for relief; would to Heaven it could
be the relief of annihilation! Yet no—no—for then I
should never again behold the beings I most dearly loved
on earth! Death! Ah! there is coldness in the very sound!
the very thought of it sends an icy chill over my unhappy
spirit. Yet none can escape it! In all the ages of the
past—whether surrounded by pomp or poverty—whether
happy or miserable—none have lived to see the present—
none of the present will live to behold the future; and they
of the future will go down, generation after generation,
millions upon millions, to the same cold, silent grave, and
earth will be as if they had not been! Hei mihi! Semel
omnibus calcanda est via leti!”

While thus speaking to himself, he seemed to have forgotten
that another was present; and after another short
pause, he resumed:

“In the beginning of the race of man, if we are to believe
the Bible, the first human being born upon this earth,
became jealous of the second, his own brother, and murdered
him; and God set a mark upon his forehead, and
drove him forth, a miserable exile. Ah me! what need of
branding and banishing? If he had a conscience, hell was
with him, be he where he might!”

Saying this, he clasped his temples with both hands,
started up, and, with an eager, trembling step, began to
pace the room, to and fro. At length, his eye falling upon
Ellen, he stopped suddenly; and glaring upon her, with
the look of a maniac, he exclaimed:

“Great God! do the murdered dead live in the next
generation?”

Ellen was terribly alarmed; and had she consulted
merely her own feelings, would have called for help; but
she restrained her inclination; and, trembling like an

aspen, with cold perspiration streaming from every pore,
kept her eyes riveted on the Baronet's. Presently she
perceived his wild, sharp, penetrating eye grow glazed and
stony, as if the sight were turned inward, and the mind
saw without the aid of its material surroundings. This unearthly
appearance continued for perhaps a minute, during
which sir Walter moved not a muscle; and then one gleam
of intellect after another began to light up his countenance,
till its natural expression was entirely restored.

“Ha! Ellen,” he said, “you look frightened! Have I
done any thing to alarm you?”

“I was afraid, sir, you were not well,” answered Ellen,
much embarrassed.

“Yes, I see—I had one of my spells. My health is
bad—very bad. Good health is a great blessing, my child
—a great blessing.” He again seated himself, gave way
to a moment's reflection, and then resumed: “I am told
that when these spells are on me, I sometimes speak in a
rambling manner: what did I say just now?”

“You were saying something, sir, about God driving
away the first murderer,” answered the other, with some
hesitation.

“Ah! very likely—yes, very likely. Vœ mihi!”

The unhappy Knight now entered into conversation with
Ellen, and carried it on in a manner so gentle and rational,
as to remove, in a great degree, the disagreeable, not to
say alarming, impression which his previous language and
conduct had produced. His command of language was
great—his faculty of pleasing, when he chose to exert it,
was wonderful—and long ere he had ceased entertaining
his fair little guest, the heart of Ellen had warmed toward
him to such a degree, that she felt as if she could throw
her arms about his neck, and love rather than fear him, as
a child should love a father.

The conversation was interrupted by a servant, who came
to say that Dr. Markham was below, and desired to see his
patient. This was the Surgeon who attended upon Ellen,
and the husband—although Ellen did not know it—of the
Mrs. Markham who so rudely put her aside in Chestnut
street, and the father of the little girl after whom she had
gazed so sadly, envying her more happy lot.

“Stand out of the way, you beggar!” was the exclamation
of the purse-proud female, as she swept on in her
velvet robes; and yet, within two hours from the time
those words were spoken, the lord of that same soi disant
lady, felt a degree of pride, that he, of all others, should
be selected to approach, as a paid attendant, the bedside
of that same beggar, now the honored guest of the highborn
and wealthy.

Well, this is a curious world! curious, at least, in its
multiform variety of circumstances—curious in the miserable
conceits of human beings, who fancy that they are
better than their fellows, because they have more money!
What a contemptible thing is the mere aristocracy of
wealth! men without brains assuming a superiority over
intellect—making the pocket superior to the head—the
dross of the earth superior to the fires of God-sent genius!
It is a puny farce, too despicable to excite laughter, in
which the biggest fools play the leading parts!

“Show him up!” said Sir Walter, in reply to the servant.

The meeting between the Baronet and Dr. Markham
was polite, but formal. The Doctor was a plain, blunt,
practical man, rather eccentric withal, and therefore,
figuratively speaking, the antipode of his wife. His head,
covered by dark, curly hair, was extremely large, with a
broad, high, projecting forehead, and a coarse-featured,
dull-looking face. A glance at his sober, unspeculative

gray eye, would at once convince you that he dealt in
nothing but facts—facts proved to be such by actual demonstration;
that, in short, he was a man of lines, curves,
angles and figures, with little or no imagination. He believed
in this world, because he saw it, felt it, knew it to
exist; he gave no thought to the other, because there was
no evidence to satisfy his mind of there being another. The
Bible he termed a theological romance; and as for man's
having a soul—he would believe it, he said, when he saw it,
and not before. He had dissected man carefully—had laid
bare every vein, nerve, muscle, and fibre—had examined
the brain, the heart, and lungs; and yet had seen nothing
of a soul, or even a place to put one. He had seen a dead
body dance by the force of a powerful battery, and therefore
argued that life was merely galvanism perfected. As
to who created the different worlds, the Doctor said it was
enough for him to know they were created; and if any
body knew more, they were welcome to make what use
they could of their knowledge, provided they would leave
him in peace to make what use he could of what he did
know.

As soon as the Surgeon had finished his examination of
his little patient, whom he pronounced to be doing remarkably
well, Sir Walter, who happened to be in a mood for
conversation, and who knew something of the Doctor's skeptical
opinions, thus addressed him:

“I would I knew, Doctor, whether man has an existence
after the death of the body!”

“Umph!” returned the Surgeon, drily—“there are a
great many in a like predicament.”

“But you have some opinion on the matter, Doctor!”

“So have you—or ought to have!” was the blunt rejoinder.

“I have heard that you do not believe in the immor

tality of the soul—or rather, that you do not believe man
has a soul!”

“Why should I? I never saw it. Do you believe a
dog has a soul?”

“But a dog has no mind—no reason.”

“How do you know? you were never a dog.”

“But if a dog had mind, he would give evidence of it.”

“What do you call mind?”

“Why, that power which thinks, reasons, conceives,
weighs, measures, and judges—which from cause calculates
effect, and from effect finds out cause.”

“And do you tell me a dog, a horse, or a monkey, has
not this power?”

“Certainly not in the same degree that man has.”

“What do you mean by man, sir? Do you allude to
the mental giants of civilization? or the animal dwarfs of
barbarism? The term man is generic, and comprehends
all human bipeds; and boast of his intellect as much as
you may, I will name you thousands—nay, millions—of
the genus homo, who do not exhibit the sense and sagacity
of a New Foundland dog! Sir, I once put a muzzle
on a favorite dog of mine; and what think you the animal
did first? He sneaked off and hid himself for four-and-twenty
hours. He was evidently ashamed of being, as he
reasoned, disgraced. Afterward, sir, he got the muzzle
off, but carried it about with him, in his mouth, wherever
he went, and would let no one touch it.[1] Now he had
reasoned again, that that muzzle was put on for a special
purpose, and that it was necessary he should have it with
him, but at the same time preferred carrying it to wearing
it. Now prove to me, sir, that that canine quadruped
did not think, reason, conceive, and judge, and I will give
up the point.”

“There does indeed seem to be a continuous chain, from
the lowest order of the vegetable world, up through the
animal kingdom, to the highest grade of intellect; and it
is hard to say where this begins and that leaves off—where
instinct stops and reason starts!” said the Knight, reflectively.
“Ah! true it is, as some author has observed—
`Qualis sit animus, ipse animus nescit.”'

“Yes, sir!” rejoined the Doctor; “true it is, that mind
is ignorant of what mind is; and therefore what authority
has mind for saying that mind can exist without the
body?”

“I have sometimes wished for annihilation,” sighed the
unhappy Baronet; “and yet it is an awful thing to think
our existence ends here!”

“Umph! very awful!” said the Doctor, sneeringly.
“The world has existed millions on millions of years—a
fact that can be demonstrated by the process of formation,
which is still in operation—and yet I'll wager my gray
mare against your front teeth, that it never occurred to
you to regret you were not born sooner! Annihilation
awful! Poh! you will know nothing about it. We often
lose hours in sleep that we have no recollection of; and
millions and millions of centuries, without consciousness,
would be the same to us as one lost second.”

“It is not the state itself, so much as the thought of it,
that is so awful,” said the Knight, in the way of explanation.
“But since you speak of sleep, Doctor—what do
you think of dreams?”

“What should I think of them, but as a species of diseased
fancies?”

“And yet they are often rational!”

“So is a maniac.”

“Have you then no faith in dreams?”

“Yes, I believe dreams are dreams; but if you mean as

prognosticators—why, stulti confidunt somniis—and I leave
you to judge what claim I may have to be considered a
fool.”

“Because fools confide in dreams, is no reason why a
wise man, for doing the same, should be considered a fool,”
returned the Baronet, in a tone that indicated a slight degree
of irritation; “and as I hold you to be much wiser
than a fool, Doctor, I want you to tell me what authority
you have for asserting, that a diseased imagination, or
fancy, can array before the mind's eye a healthy and perfect
picture?”

“But I never said it could, sir.”

“No! but you term dreams diseased fancies; and yet
in dreams I have frequently seen the faces and forms of
my departed friends, exactly as they appeared in life—
while, awake, I have often labored in vain to call up a true
likeness. Now may we not base the immortality of the
soul upon the fact that man has a twofold existence—one
visible, the other invisible?”

“I do not catch your drift, sir!” replied the Surgeon.

“Why, this it is,” rejoined the Knight: “I suppose you are
prepared to admit that all my senses pertain to my animal
body? Nay, more—from the fact that you deny a spiritual
body, I presume you are ready to defend the idea that they
belong to the animal body only. Well, then, how is it
that, with my eyes closed in sleep, I can see objects I do
not look upon? hear sounds that do not enter through the
material ear? smell what does not come to the olfactory
nerve? taste what reaches not my tongue? and feel what I
do not touch?”

“Why, sir, I shall answer you, by denying that you see,
hear, smell, taste, or feel, in the manner you allege. That
you at the moment think you do, I will admit; but it is
all mere fancy—a deception of the brain—which, like the

heart and the lungs, is often active when the rest of the
body is still in sleep.”

“You speak with assurance, Doctor,” returned the Baronet;
“but my interior perception tells me you are
wrong.”

“Well,” rejoined the Surgeon, looking at his watch;
“as I have not time to hold an argument with your interior
perception, I will take this occasion to say, good day, sir!”

For some time after the Surgeon had departed, Sir Walter
sat and mused. At length, turning abruptly to Ellen,
he inquired:

“My child, do you believe we live after the death of the
body?”

“I do, sir—for my mother often told me so.”

“Your mother was a good woman, my child; and she
was right; yes, she was right; I somehow feel it—I
know it!”

With this the Baronet arose, and quitted the apartment,
without saying a word.