University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.

Bacon and his companion having left O'Reily
with the horses, now commenced descending an
immense hill which formed one side of a dark and
dismal looking glen. The tall pine trees with
which the higher grounds were covered seemed to
reach half way to the clouds. A cold midnight
breeze swept through the damp and dewy foliage
of the trees and shrubbery. The birds of night
chimed mournfully and dismally in unison with
the monotonous rustling of the leaves, and the rippling
of a little brook just before them. When
they had stepped across the stream, and cast their
eyes up the face of the opposite hill, the rays of
the moon suddenly broke through a fissure of the
clouds, revealing to them rather the darkness
around than any distinct traces of the path which
they were to pursue. Bacon stood for an instant,
and gazed intently upon a little spot of partially
cleared ground half way to the summit, then gently
drawing his companion to the same place where he
stood, and pointing upwards, he said “Do you not
perceive something moving yonder? It is he!
you must now proceed alone!”

“Alone, Nathaniel? Impossible!”

“You must, Virginia; he will not admit more
than one person at a time within his cell. Fear not

there is no earthly danger; I will be within call.
Rouse your drooping courage! the worst half of
your undertaking is now accomplished.”

“By far the worst half is yet to come, Nathaniel;
you can form no conception of the awe with
which I look upon that being! You forget that I
have never seen more of him than I see now, notwithstanding
you say that he is so much attached
to me.”

“It is strange, I confess, Virginia, but it is nevertheless
true.”

“His affection, if it exists, must be the fruit of
your representations as to some imaginary proficiency
in my studies.”

“Not at all; he seems to know every one in
Jamestown, and all the circumstances connected
with their history: but come, Virginia, we are
losing precious time. Move on and fear nothing.”

Clasping her hands, and internally summoning
up all her resolution, she advanced with a sort of
desperate determination. Having arrived within
some forty yards of the spot before alluded to, the
outlines of a gigantic figure could easily be discerned
as his footfalls were distinctly heard moving
restlessly to and fro on a sort of platform or
level space, left by nature or formed by art, in the
side of the hill. His head towered far above the
stunted undergrowth, interspersed among the rugged
outlines of the scene. And as he impatiently
measured the narrow limits of this outer court to
his castle, he seemed not unlike a chafed and hungry

monarch of the forest when making the narrow
rounds of his iron bound limits. Having gone thus
far, she was sensible that it was nearly as bad to recede
as go forward, and that if she retreated now
upon the very eve of the fulfilment of all that Bacon
had promised, her past anxieties would have
been endured for nothing: she braced her nerves
therefore, and endeavoured to subdue the overpowering
terror which the distant view of this
strange and mysterious man had excited. Summoning
all her resolution for one desperate effort,
she threw herself forward and fell at the feet of
the huge mortal, who stood apparently astounded
at the abrupt appearance of his unwonted and untimely
visiter. When Virginia found courage
enough to raise her lately closed eyes, she was not
a little astonished to see him leaning against the
stone walls of his cell, no less agitated than herself.
He was apparently about sixty years of age,
his hair slightly silvered, and his features worn
and weatherbeaten, yet eminently handsome. His
person was very remarkable, being about six feet
and a half in height and perfectly proportioned.
His dress conformed in some degree to the military
fashions of the day, having however rather the
appearance of undress than full uniform. The expression
of his countenance was decidedly intellectual;
and about the lower part of his face there
were some indications of a disposition to sensuality,
but tempered and controlled in no ordinary degree
by some other fierce and controlling passion,
His eye was wild and unsettled at times, and again
assumed the mild serenity of the profound student.
Altogether, his presence was intellectual and commanding
in the highest degree.

As he stood against the wall of his cell quaking
like an aspen, an indifferent observer would have
been at a loss to determine which was the most
agitated, he or his gentle visiter. Virginia noted
with more than one furtive glance his strange and
unexpected embarrassment, still however, preserving
her humble and supplicating posture. At
length, struggling with the emotions which unmanned
him, muttering all the while broken sentences
which fell strangely upon her ear, and
among which she could distinguish repeated allusions
to herself, and to events of long passed years,
recalled as it appeared by some fancied resemblance
traced by his excited imagination in her
form and features. He approached the kneeling
maiden, and taking her hand, he raised her from
the ground, and said in a tone of kindness, “My
wayward fancies frighten thee, my child; be not
alarmed, however—there is nothing here to harm
thee. My house is poor and cheerless, but such
as it is, thou art welcome to its shelter, and to any
services which I can render to thee. Come, my
daughter, let us in from the damps of the night.”

The cell of the Recluse was formed on three
sides by stone walls without windows, as O'Reily
had described them, the fourth being furnished by
the side of the hill, and the roof an arch of ma

sonry overgrown with moss, grass and weeds.[1]
Pressing open the rude door, he entered, followed by
Virginia. Near one corner of the room stood a
common deal table, on which was placed a small
iron lamp, and near to it a three legged stool of the
rudest construction. These were the only articles
of furniture of which the apartment could boast.
The floor, which consisted of the earth, as nature had
made it, was overgrown with weeds and bushes.
“This,” said he, with a bitter smile upon his countenance,
“is my hall of audience! Here I receive
my guests, with one solitary exception; thou shalt
be another.” Having thus spoken, he took the
lamp from the table, and drawing aside some dried
bushes which were piled against the side formed
by the hill in apparent carelessness, he exhibited to
her view the mouth of a cavern, not sufficient in
height by several feet to admit his person in the
erect position. “This,” said he, as he stooped to
enter, “is not a house made with hands, and it is
built upon a rock of ages. The rains may descend,
floods may come, winds blow and beat upon it,
but it falleth not. It is proper that thou shouldst
see it, and such has long been my intention. I
have much to say to thee, and doubtless thou hast
something to communicate to me, or thou wouldst
not have made this visit. But not a whisper of
what thou mayst see or hear must ever pass thy
lips, save to those I shall authorize thee to make
partakers of thy knowledge. This is a condition
which thou must impress upon thy mind.” Stepping
in a bent position within the mouth of the
cavern, he moved forward and downward, motioning
her to follow. They descended many rude and
natural steps, which were imperfectly seen by the
light of the lamp borne by her singular guide, the
rays being often obscured by the bulk and great
height of his person in the narrow passages of the
cave, so that she was more than once compelled
to grope her way by sliding her hand along
the cold damp and dripping walls, and by slipping
her feet over the uneven ground, without raising
them in the act of stepping. Having completed
the descent, she found herself in a long natural
vestibule to the inner apartmens. Her guide had
gained rapidly upon her, so that when once more
upon level ground, some thirty feet below the outer
surface of the earth, he was almost out of sight.
She would have cried out, had she not been restrained
by a counteracting feeling, which placed her in
a grievous dilemma between horror at the dismal
place, and fear of the singular being who had
undertaken to guide her through its recesses. Commending
herself however to her Maker in mental
prayer, and trusting in his protection the more
confidently on account of the motive for her undertaking,
she hastened forward so as with great exertions
to keep within sight of the rising and sinking
light of the lamp, and the devious windings of
the cavern. The footballs of her Herculean guide
reëchoed along the damp and gloomy tunnels
with an awful and dismal effect, amidst the gravelike
stillness of the place. Occasionally flickering
shadows were reflected against the walls, when the
light turned suddenly round a projecting rock, affording
to her imagination the most startling and
frightful images. While her mind was combatting
these unreal terrors, she was surprised by the
tone of a deep hoarse voice abruptly rumbling
through the high dark arches far above her head,
with that reverberating sound peculiar to these secret
places of the earth. But her amazement was
still greater, when lifting her eyes in the direction
of the lamp she beheld the Recluse standing
upon a lofty but narrow ledge of rock, the
lamp flickering and sinking every now and then
so as to threaten total darkness. He was pointing
with his finger, and directing her to a projecting
and winding pathway by which she must ascend
to the platform upon which he stood. This once
gained, she had a complete view of the resting place
of her mysterious guide.

Immediately fronting the platform was a natural
doorway, about as high as her own head, leading
into the inner chamber. From the high and vaulted
arches hung thousands of the fantastic creations
of hoary time, and from the centre of these a cord
swung into the middle of the area, to which was
suspended a burning lamp, the rays of which were

brilliantly reflected from a thousand shining mirrors
of nature's forming. In one corner she discovered,
as they entered, several pieces of fire-arms,
and against the wall on one side hung huge swords,
long enough for two-handed weapons to ordinary
mortals, together with Indian war clubs, moccasins,
wampum, pipes, tomahawks, spears, arrows,
and other implements of savage warfare. In another
corner stood a rude bedstead, evidently constructed
by the hands of its nightly occupant, a small
table, two or three chairs, and a few culinary articles,—some
the manufacture of the savages, and
others the product of civilized ingenuity. By
far the largest part of one side of the room was
occupied by coarsely constructed shelves, bearing
many volumes of the most venerable appearance.
One of these was lying open upon the table,
a pair of horn spectacles upon the page to mark the
place where the owner had last been engaged. The
very letters in which it was printed were entire
strangers to the eyes of our heroine. Some thirty
yards distant, in the remotest part of the room, a
little furnace diffused a narrow circle of glowing
light through its otherwise gloomy precincts.
These completed the establishment, so far as the
eye could discover its arrangement.

When he had led Virginia into the inhabitable part
of this area, he placed a chair, and motioned for
her to be seated, drawing a stool near the table at
the same time for himself, and resting his head
upon the palm of his hand. “I will not affect

ignorance of thy name and person, my daughter,
nor yet of thy errand here. The first I should
most certainly have known, if I had not surmised
the last. Alas! my child, thou wilt think no
doubt that I speak in riddles when I tell thee that
those features have been engraven upon the heart
of one who has forsworn the world for many a
long and irksome year. Thou mayest well look
amazed, my poor bewildered child, but it is true!
I cannot explain it to thee now, however; some
day perhaps thou mayest know all. Oh, if thou
couldst imagine what events must take place in this
little isolated world around Jamestown, before the
mysteries of which I speak can rightfully be made
clear to thee, thou wouldst fall upon thy knees and
pray that such disastrous knowledge might never
come to thy understanding!”

As his eye rested from time to time, while he
spoke, upon the features of the beautiful girl, he
covered his face with his hands, and seemed for
an instant to give way to an agitation similar to
that which unnerved him at her first appearance on
the platform. Occasionally too, when not speaking
himself, he became profoundly abstracted for a
moment, and his eye was wild and restless, and
not a little alarming to his gentle visiter, as it ever
and anon fell upon herself, and seemed to gather in
her face the solution of some subtle doubt of his
troubled mind. But observing that his glances,
wild as they were, always became humanized and
softened as they rested upon her face, she seized

the first opportunity to complete the object of her
journey, not well knowing how it might terminate,
being herself ignorant of its especial object,
and indeed of the very nature of the threatened
danger.

“Father, I came here to seek your aid and protection
for those who are near and dear to me;
My honoured parents—my mother”—she would
have proceeded, but at the mention of her mother's
name he was seized with such a convulsive shudder
that she paused in astonishment. It seemed as if
the hand of death was already laying its cold grasp
upon his vitals. His eye gleamed wildly—his lips
trembled, and his hands shook as one stricken with
the palsy, or overwhelmed by some sudden stroke
of calamity. By a desperate effort of resolution,
he speedily resumed his attention to the discourse,
and she proceeded: “I have been advised and
urged in my resort to this step by one not unknown
to you, under the vain hope, I fear, that you were
cognizant of some threatened danger to my dear
parents and kindred, and that you would communicate
the knowledge to me rather than to him.”

“As I have already said, my daughter, I surmised
that something of this nature was the object
of thy visit, and I will now confess to thee that
this appeal places me in an embarrassing position
between some friends of former and better days
and my desire to grant thy request.” Pausing and
apparently soliloquizing, he continued: “But
have they not acted against my advice? Did I not

tell them, that we had had enough of that already?
Did I not warn them against this very result? I
cannot betray them, however; no, no, my old
comrades, I will give you another warning, and
then your blood, if it must flow, be upon your
own heads.” He was about to resume his discourse
to his visiter, but stopping suddenly and raising
his finger in the attitude of one listening in the
profoundest attention, he seized the small lamp,
rushed past the little furnace in the direction of the
cave through the hill opposite the entrance, at one
time rising and anon descending, until Virginia
(who had followed, fearing to be left alone) supposed
they must be again near the surface of the
earth. He paused once more to listen, motioning
her at the same time to be silent. He had scarcely
done so, when the distant sound of running water
struck upon her ear,—sometimes distinct, and
again as if buried in the bowels of the earth. Then
came the noise as of a stone splashin in the water.
The eye of the Recluse sparkled as he turned
with a quick and expressive glance towards his
companion. He hastily applied his ear to the rocky
side of the cavern and listened for a second, then
hurried back, taking Virginia by the hand in his
return, and leading her to her former seat. He
then busied himself for a few moments in exchanging
the short cutlass by his side for one of the huge
weapons hanging on the wall, and placed a pair of
large and richly inlaid petronels in his belt, as if
about to march on some secret and desperate expedition.

Whether these were really for such a purpose,
or were his usual preparations for repose, Virginia
was entirely at a loss to determine. Meantime
she had an opportunity to survey the features and
expression of his countenance, as he from time to
time faced towards her, intently engaged with
his occupation, and muttering all the while words
to her altogether inexplicable at the time.

His large and light blue eye had an expression
of forced resignation and calmness, drops of cold
perspiration stood upon his brow, lip, and bald
head, which was now uncovered. His features
were large and striking, but well proportioned, the
lips protuberant, the teeth large, white and regular,
and as a smile, indicative more of wretchedness than
mirth, played upon his face, the impression was
irresistible that the wrinkles which marked his features
were the impress of suffering rather than of
age. In his personal as well as mental attributes
he was eminently gifted, though there seemed to
be a settled design, as much to clothe the one in
the garb of age, as to exhibit the other, if at all, in
meekness and huminity.

“It is not consistent with my duty to all parties
in this business, my daughter, to enlighten thee as
to the nature of the danger which threatens thy
friends, or as to the means of preventing it. I owe
it to myself, first to warn those from whom it
comes, yet once more against their undertaking,
as I have already done—but thus far in vain. If
they are still deaf to my admonition and entreaes,
rest assured that I will leave no power or influence

within my control unexerted to thwart
their purposes. Thou mayest therefore direct him
who must have conducted thee hither, to see me
early on the morrow, and I will inform him as to
the result of my endeavours and the best means to
pursue in case they are unsuccessful. Rest thou
contented yet a little while; I see thou art impatient,
but I have some things to say to thee concerning
other matters than those which brought
thee hither. I see thou art studying these evidences
of years in my features as the forester examines
the rings in the fallen tree to estimate its
age, but these (pointing to the wrinkles) are records
which years alone could not have wrought. Few
of us, my daughter, can read these marks of time
and destiny, and trace through them one by one,
the disappointed hopes, the cruel mishaps, the
hair-breadth adventures, their failure, sealed perhaps
in the blood of those who had basked together
with us in the sunshine of youth and hope, without
a sinking of the heart within us, and a deep
sense of the utter worthlessness of all those gay
illusions which beam so brightly on thy own youthful
features.

“I allude to this subject now, my daughter, because
there seems to be some connexion between
it and the one upon which I have been so anxious
to commune with thee. Although we have never
met before, it is not the first time I have seen thee,
nor is this, which thou hast given me, the first information
I have received concerning thee and

thine. I have taken some pains to learn even the
minutest circumstances connected with thy past
history, present occupation and future prospects.
I see thy surprise, but it was not done in idle gossip
thou mayest be well assured. My motives will
all be made plain enough to thee some day. In the
mean time I must approach a subject which I fear
will give thee pain, but my duty is imperative, I
mean the state of thy mind and feelings.”

“Alas, father, I fear you will find them but too
deeply engrossed with the cares and pleasures of
this world.”

“Thy mistake is a natural one,” said he, (one
of those smiles of wretchedness passing over his
pale countenance, as a flash of electricity darting
along the horizon sometimes shows us the extent
and depth of the darkness beyond) “my situation
and past misfortunes would indeed seem to fit me
for a teacher of holy things, but my present business
is with thy worldly affections. Start not, my
daughter; I have the most urgent reasons which a
mortal can have for thus endeavouring to intrude
myself into thy feminine secrets; believe me, no
trifling cause could impel me thus to startle thy
maidenly delicacy, nor indeed needest thou be
startled on one account which I see agitates thee.
Thou very naturally supposest me to have some
charge to bring against thee for want of proper
spirit and maidenly reserve; I see it by thy
blushes; but there is no such thought within my
breast; thou mayest have been even more guarded

than is customary with females of thy age. My
business is with facts, and facts of such a nature
that however stubborn they may be, I fear that
thou art unconscious of them, though they relate to
thyself and one other person only. However, without
bringing thee to confessional, I think I can sufficiently
put thee upon thy guard without wounding
thy delicacy. The only question in my own
mind is, whether the time to speak has not already
passed.”

“I am at a loss to comprehend you, father.”

“I will speak more plainly then. Thou hast been
associating for some years with a youth of little
more than thine own age. He is noble and gifted
with every manly and generous attribute; well
instructed too for his time and country. To thee
I will give credit for corresponding qualities suitable
to thy own sex, and I have no doubt that thou
possessest them. Thinkest thou then that two
such persons could grow up together constantly
within the influence of each other's expanding personal
attractions, besides the nobler ones of mind
and heart, without feeling more towards each other
than two ordinary mortals of the same sex? Oh, I
see the crimson tell-tale mounting in thy cheeks;
thou hangest thy head too in tacit acknowledgement,
that I have surmised no more than the truth.”

His visiter for some time made a vain effort to
speak, and at length overcoming her confusion and
surprise, in broken sentences exclaimed, “Indeed,
indeed, father, you wrong me! indeed you wrong

us both! such a subject was never mentioned between
us to this hour! Nay more, it never entered
our,”—as she looked up and perceived his searching
glance riveted upon her countenance, her head
again sunk in embarrassment, and the words died
upon her lips.

“Cease, cease, my daughter, to punish thyself.
I will give thee credit for all thou wouldst say.
I am willing to believe that neither of you has ever
mentioned this subject, and perhaps that neither has
ever been conscious of more than a brotherly affection
towards the other. Nevertheless, the last
half hour has fully convinced me that self-examination,
some sudden prospect of separation, or some
untoward circumstance in the ordinary current of
your intercourse was only necessary to awaken
both to the perception of the truth. But my business
now is of a far more painful nature than the
mere finding of the facts. I am bound in duty to
warn thee! solemnly warn thee that this passion
must be subdued in its inception. I beg of thee
not to suppose for one moment, that my warning has
reference merely to obstacles which commonly obstruct
the current of young and mutual affection!
They are absolutely insurmountable,—far more so
than any that could arise from difference of rank,
or faith, or country! Nay, if death itself had put its
seal upon one or both, the gulf could not have
been more impassable!” His language began gradually
to grow more impassioned, his eye shot
forth a continued instead of occasional gleam of

wildness—he rose upon his feet, and as he pronounced
the barrier to be impassable, he took
down a large and ancient manuscript volume,
bound in leather, threw it open upon the table,
and to her astonishment a bloody hand was all
that was visible upon the page which seemed to
have been accidentally turned up. He pointed to
this singular sign-manual—his finger trembling
with emotion—“See there,” said he—“see what
it is to neglect a solemn warning. There is the
diary of my eventful life—the transactions of
every day for more than twenty-seven years are
there written, save one! There is the only record
of that day! Its history is written in blood!
The seal of Cain is stamped upon all the events of
the succeeding pages. Since that bloody token
was placed there, its author has been a wanderer
and an outcast. I was born among the haughty
and the proud of a proud land—there is my coat
of arms,” said he, with a horrid laugh which sent
the blood coursing back to the heart of our heroine
chilled and horrified. “These are not or should
not be uninteresting records to thee!—had that
crimson attestation never been imprinted there,
thou wouldst never have been born! but this will
suffice for the first lesson,” (and he closed the
book and replaced it upon the shelf;) “at some
more convenient season I will reveal another
page of the history of one with whom henceforth
thou wilt be more connected than thou now imaginest.
Now, my daughter, before thou takest
leave, let me entreat thee to remember and ponder
well upon what I have said to thee. Shouldst
thou ever be in any sudden strait of danger or
difficulty send to me a memento of the bloody
seal and I will come to thee, if within the compass
of mortal means; and remember likewise, should I
ever send such an emblem to thee—pause well upon
what thou art about to do. Now thou mayest
depart in peace, but say nothing of what thou hast
seen or heard farther than I have directed thee to
do.” And thus speaking he took the lamp and
conducted her out by the same opening at which
they had entered.

They stood upon the platform overlooking the
shadowy mazes of moonlit foliage down the glen;
all nature was as silent as when it first came
from the hands of its Creator. Looking towards
heaven, and placing his hand upon her flaxen
ringlets, now wafted about in the richest reflections
and deepest contrasts of light and shadow,
as a cold breeze from the valley beneath sought an
opening to the plains beyond, he said, “May
God Almighty bless and preserve thee, my daughter!”
And then led her some distance down the
hill—bade her adieu, and left her to seek her more
youthful guide, and to ponder upon some novel
and not very pleasing passages in the diary of her
own experience.

Her ideas were any thing but clear and definite.
The whole scene of her late interview was so
new—the subject so startling to her young and innate

delicacy. Taking it for granted, however,
that all the surmises of the Recluse were true with
regard to herself, that person has studied human
nature to little purpose, who supposes that she,
after all that had been so solemnly announced, admitted
the undefined obstacles mentioned to be as
insuperable as the person who suggested them
seemed to imagine. Nevertheless an injunction so
grave and authoritative had its minor effects—the
first of which were visited upon the head of our
hero, who impatiently awaited her approach at
the foot of the hill.