 | CHAPTER FOURTH.
PAUL—REGINALD. Paul Ardenheim, the monk of Wissahikon |  |
4. CHAPTER FOURTH.
PAUL—REGINALD.
With his gun resting on his shoulder, and his small huntsman's cap
tossed aside from his forehead, the new-comer advanced, and in a moment
stood beside the sombre form.
His muscular form was attired in a blue hunting-shirt, gathered to his
waist by a belt, and reaching from the bared throat to the knees. He
wore boots of buckskin. There was a powder-horn at his side, and a
hunting-knife glimmered below his girdle.
His cheeks flushed by excitement, his dark blue eyes flashing with the
consciousness of youth and health, his proud lip darkened by a slight
mustache, he stood beside that sombre form, like an embodiment of animal
beauty, beside the incarnation of a Thought.
It was a strong contrast, between this face glowing with ruddy hues,
and relieved by luxuriant hair, and that bronzed visage, whose large earnest
eyes and pale forehead—thrown more distinctly into view by the
sombre attire—only suggested the idea of acute mental suffering.
They clasped hands together, and stood in silence, gazing into each
other's eyes,—Paul Ardenheim and Reginald of Lyndulfe.
“It seems to me, as though centuries had gone since last we met!” said
Paul, keeping the hand of his friend within his own, and resting upon that
glowing face his sad lustrous eyes.
“Egad, Paul, it does indeed!” cried Reginald, with a cheerful laugh—
“Deuce take the cap, I say,” and he rested his rifle against a rock, and
warm for violent exercise—sit there, Paul, and I'll sit here, and we'll talk
over old times together.”
“Old times,” echoed Paul, as he rested himself upon a rock, which
overhung the water—“We have known each other something more than
two years.”
A sad smile passed over his face.
“Two years and six months, my dear Paul—” Reginald threaded his
chesnut curls with a delicate hand sparkling with rings—“And yet we
have lived more, Paul, in that brief period, than in all the rest of our years
together. Lived, I say,—suffered, enjoyed—started up from boys into
men. Two years and six months ago, Paul, we met for the first time,
under peculiar circumstances. It was in the old farmer's house, at the
wedding of a young girl—you remember?”
Was it only the shadow of a passing cloud, or did the cool air of this
quiet dell chill his blood, fevered as it was by violent exercise?
As he uttered the words, `a young girl,' a cloud came over his face, an
icy tremor agitated his limbs.
“You saved my life, Paul. That bound me to you for ever; in life or
in death. The next morning, at daybreak, Paul, as I was about to leave
Philadelphia—having been called home to England by a letter—you
appeared suddenly before me, pronounced my name, and thus reminded
me of the pledge which I had made to you the night before. You
announced your intention of going to England. We clasped hands on it,
Paul, and went together. Do you remember our journey to Lyndulfe?
Those were delightful days we passed together, Paul, in the old castle,
among the Yorkshire hills—but, Paul—”
“Spare your reproaches, Reginald. I left you suddenly, and without
one farewell word. The hours that we spent together in Lyndulfe castle
are present with me now—I remember well, how well! our solemn pledge
of brotherhood. But one night I hurried from the castle; I did not clasp
your hand before I went; I did not tell you of the cause of my flight.”
“Flight?”
“Yes, it was a flight. I fled, Reginald—over England, over France,
Italy—over Europe, and never once escaped from my relentless pursuer.”
“Relentless pursuer?”
“It was not a physical enemy, Reginald,—it came not in bodily shape,
or I would have grappled with it, and died defying its vengeance.—It was
here—it was here—”
Paul laid his hand upon his forehead.
Reginald arose, and bending over his friend, took his hand within his
own, and gazed earnestly into his face.
“Paul,” he said, in a tone of unfeigned kindness, “it is one of your
Dark Hours!”
“My Dark Hours?”
“You have never told me the story of your life, Paul. For this I
do not upbraid you—I do not perchance deserve, and have no desire to
intrude upon, your confidence.”
“That confidence would blight you into madness.”
“On the last night of Seventy-Four, I saw you for the first time. The
moment I looked upon your face, Paul, and met the gaze of your eye—
while all around fell back from you, with an inexplicable fear—I felt that
you were my friend, my brother. I knew, as certainly as though the
voice of a spirit had whispered it, that we were linked together, by a hand
stronger than the hand of man—mightier even than Death. I saw you,
young, frank, thoughtful, but brave and true; and without asking one word
of your past life, I took you for what you were, and you became my
Brother. That you had lived all your life in these wilds, that your father
and your sister were living—this much, indeed, I knew. But all beside
was mystery. I seek not now to penetrate that mystery, but I have a
few rude words to say to you, Paul, and do not—do not, I beseech, slight
my friendship, yes, my brotherhood, with the reproach due only to a
heartless curiosity.—You have your dark hours, Paul, and it is this that
makes the blood chill in my veins, as, gazing upon your face, I see it
shadowed by a cloud, that looks to me like an unutterable despair.”
Reginald paused a moment, as if to gather strength; then, with his face
flushed and his eye brightening, he continued:
“I have seen you, Paul, gazing with rapture on the setting sun. It was
on shipboard, when the ocean, framed in the white clouds that lined the
horizon, trembled and blushed in the last flush of day. My arm was
round your neck—there was rapture in your face, a calm, deep joy, that
indicated a soul at peace with God and man. `How beautiful!' you exclaimed—`It
speaks to me of the other world!' That instant the joy
passed from your face; a cloud was on your forehead; your eyes glared
with an expression of agony, which I can never forget: and these words
passed from your lips, `My father, my father!' The accent of unutterable
anguish which accompanied these words, I have not for an instant
forgotten—”
“My father! My father!” groaned Paul, as he hid his face within his
hands. “Perjury — Sacrilege — Blasphemy! These are no trifling
crimes—”
“It was a Dark Hour, Paul; dark to me, because I could not comprehend,
and therefore could not relieve. Many a time, since that hour, have I seen
the smile pass from your face, and that strange gloom rush suddenly over
your brow, and words as strange—every accent steeped in unutterable
despair—fall from your lips. At Lyndulfe, one night, when all was mirth
and song, and a crowd gathered round you, listening in delight to your
eloquent words—when every eye was centred upon your impassioned
your eye grew vague and glassy, your brow was overspread by that fearful
gloom, and you rushed from the scene with a mad cry of anguish. Even
then, amid the clamor and dismay created by this sudden change in your
demeanor, these words were heard, echoing through the lighted hall—My
father! My father! Uttered again, with that accent of despair, too deep
for human comprehension, or human relief.”
Paul started to his feet—
“Spare me—spare me—there are incidents in every life that cannot be
too lightly touched—”
As he uttered these words, in an impetuous tone, Reginald became
suddenly pale.
“Does he speak of that dark night? Can he know Madeline?”
The thought flashed over his mind; it was his turn to shudder and grow
pale. The name of Madeline rose to his lips, her ghost to his soul. For
a moment not a word was spoken. Paul was gazing in the waters, at the
reflection of his agitated face; Reginald sat silent and shuddering.
“Paul, I do not wish to lift the veil which rests upon your heart. But
can I do any thing to relieve this misery which covers you with such gloom,
and stamps upon your brow the impress of an impenetrable despair?
Command me, Paul—I do not say command my gold, for that would be
an insult—but command my heart, my arm. They are yours. Even if
you have—but no! no! it is impossible. But I will speak it—even if
you have committed a crime—”
Reginald never forgot the look with which Paul turned to him—never,
until the hour of his death, forgot the accent in which he spoke.
“Crime, once committed, leaves its memory in the soul and on the brow.
But crime that is to be—does it not fill the soul with its horror, and stamp
itself in characters of Prophecy on the hour?”
“Paul! Paul!” cried Reginald, overwhelmed with agony, as the words
of Paul penetrated him with awe. “I would give my life to serve you.”
Paul looked upon him with a sad smile.
“Your life opens before you, Reginald, a track of light leading upward,
still upward—amid those beautiful clouds, which men call wealth and
power. Yourself a lord, your father one of the noblest names on the scroll
of British nobility, you have before you an enticing prospect. You will
carve for yourself a name on the faces of the battle dead. You will be
admired in the senate, welcomed wherever you turn, by the plaudits of the
multitude. When your father dies, you will become the Lord of Lyndulfe,
of Marionhurst, of Dernburg, of Camelford. Your title, His Grace
the Duke of Lyndulfe and Marionhurst! Is it not a glittering prospect,
Reginald?
“Then you will take to your bosom some beautiful girl, whose dower
will swell your wealth into an incredible revenue, while her beauty will
to serve me! Ha, ha! The Duke of Lyndulfe give his life to serve the
fortunes of a houseless and nameless man!”
“It is not well, Paul. It is indeed a Dark Hour, when you mock your
friend, your brother.”
“Pardon, Reginald, pardon. I only meant to say, that while your future
spreads before you all that is most desired by men,—a prospect of light
and glory—mine has in store for me nothing but a dishonored name and
a grave unblessed by tears.”
“Paul, I swear it—I would give my life to serve you!”
“Look yonder, Reginald. Beyond those woods, not one mile from this
spot, lies the home of my thought. Ere the setting of the sun, I will stand
beside the walls of that home, and see the vines waving about its roof-tree;
see the faces of father—of sister, smiling welcome from the old hall door,
or I will stand amid a pile of ruins, and fix my eyes upon two graves.”
“Father—he lives?”
“Take care, Reginald—it will bring on, once again, the Dark Hour. He
did live, on the first day of 1775, when I left this valley. Since that time
I have had no word from his pen; nor have I received any intelligence
of him or my sister. He may live—he may be dead. A little while and
all is over.”
“Confide in me. Tell me all. We are alone, Paul—the hour is very
still and solemn—I feel as though the spirit which flashes from your eyes,
had pervaded my own bosom. Awed by the stillness, the solemnity of
this hour, I swear—”
“Hold, my friend. Let us talk no longer of my life, but of yours.
Wherefore, on this day of my return to Wissahikon, do I meet you beside
these waves? Ah—you blush—there is then some fair lady in the case?”
| CHAPTER FOURTH.
PAUL—REGINALD. Paul Ardenheim, the monk of Wissahikon | |