University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.
THE NARRATIVE OF THE HERMIT.

Upon reaching the cavern to which the
old noble led them, they seated themselves
upon a large flat stone wound with branches
of the hemlock, which had evidently served
the occupant as a couch. Whitlock had
asked Griffitt, with some hesitation, if he
could accompany them, and Red Beard bade
him do so, saying, that as he had witnessed
his meeting with his father he should also
hear the history of his life.

Griffitt now gazed around the cavern
with curiosity. He discovered it to be
a large vaulted room well protected from the
winds and rains and made comfortable by
branches of evergreens strewing the floor
and filling up the interstices between the
over-arching rocks. Furniture it did not
contain; and all that was visible besides the
rocky walls and evergreens, were a broken
earthen cup and two or three skins of the
wolf and deer which had been made up into
rough garments. There was also an old cap
of furs lying upon the floor.

The old noble having seen his guests seated,
and still clinging to the arm of Red Beard,
he sat down by him upon a log, over which
was thrown a well-worn bear's skin. After
gazing up into his son's face with deep affection,
in which painful memories were blent,
as he recognized the features of Lady Alice,
he said,

`Now, my son, let me hear the story of
thy life and the particulars of my sainted and
innocent wife's death! Then I will unfold
to thee my own, and afterwards we will talk
of the future; for I would fain redeem it to
thee! Alas, what evil have I not done thee;
for thou art now, a woodsman of these forests
when thou shouldst take thy place among
the peers of thy native land! Come, I will
listen; and when thou speakest of thy mother
leave no detail unsaid!'

`I promise you I will not, my noble and
honored father,' answered Red Beard.

`But thou hast not told me how thou wert
christened?'

`Robert—thine own name, father!'

`Noble and truthful Alice! Not even my
desertion of thee in thy sorrow and shame
caused thee to forget me. May thy pure
spirit be now bending down from the skies
to witness my deep penitence and remorse.
I should have believed thee, thee the tried
wife of my bosom, and not listened to thine
enemies. But I have been punished. I have
been punished, by years of exile and woe.'

`Father, I will now proceed to explain to
thee the events of my life, and how I came
hither at a moment so propitious,' said Red
Beard, who felt pain at seeing the old noble's
grief and contrition expressed so touchingly.

`Proceed,' answered the recluse, bending
his head and resting it upon the top of his
staff.

Robert Burnside then began to unfold
to him all the circumstances of his mother's
innocence and how she had fallen a victim to
a base conspiracy; and when he came to
speak of the confession of the wicked countess
of * * * *, he drew forth a leathern
case and taking from a large parcel of
papers one much soiled, he opened it and
read it, showing his father her signature at
the close. The old man groaned aloud; but
made no reply. Red Beard then went on
with his own history, re-counting also the
death of his grandfather, the Scotch earl, and
of his mother. At this point when he spoke
of her peace, of her calm confidence that her
innocence would one day be made manifest,
of her noble forgiveness of her husband for
his suspicions, he sobbed like a child. It
was fearful to see that old man of seventy so
overcome with emotion. Whitlock dashed
a tear from his brown cheek and rose and
paced once or twice across the cave. Griffitt
looked on with deep interest watching
the effect of the recital of his son upon his
countenance which want of society for so
many years had rendered till now stony and
without expression.

When Red Beard proceeded to relate his
efforts to recover his inheritance and his failures,
he shook with the greatness of his agitation,
muttering,

`And all this from my conduct! all because
I believed my enemies! Oh, my son,
what shame have you not been exposed to
through my sin.'

`Do not condemn yourself, my dear father.
I do not blame you, sir. Let the past
be buried with the past!'

Robert Burnside then narrated briefly his
wanderings and sufferings and adventures in
Europe, his capture by the Turks, and his
marriage with the fair Greek maiden.

`What, my son, art thou married?' cried
the nobleman with animation.

`Alas, my dear father, wedded and widowered.
My fair wife died in Scotland, at Ben-Lochel,
not long after my return home.'

`And left thee no issue!' said the recluse,
in a tone of disappointment.

`A daughter, but—'

`You need not say it. She is dead. I
read it in thy looks.'

`She is dead, father,” answered Red
Beard, with a quivering lip. `She met
with a horrible fate. While I was absent in
London making one more effort, in behalf of
my child, to gain the title and estates which
I felt, thou being dead, were rightfully mine;
while I was gone the mansion took fire and
she was consumed in the flames. Her ashes
were not found with those of others who perished
with her, and walling in the vast mound
of ruin and death as her tomb I fled forever
from a spot so drear. After various wanderings
I came to the valley of the Susquehannah,
where as a woodsman I have for eight
years dwelt. I am the captain of three parties
of foresters, who have been in camp all
winter cutting timber for rafting; and was
now on my way into the valley south of this
mountain, where I and these two dwell, when
this happy meeting, never to know a parting,
took place.'

`Thou hast ended thy narrative, my son,
with true words. Never more shall we separate,

till by my return to England I reinstate
myself in my long since despised honors and
wealth for your sake. Oh! that your fair
child had lived. But it is just. She would
have grown up bearing a dishonored name.
Now she is at peace. But as for thee,
thou art yet in the prime and strength of
manhood. Thou shalt enjoy the honors so
long withheld from thee. Dost thou dwell
in the valley, didst thou tell me?'

`Come hither, father, and I think I can
show thee my humble roof from this height;
for as I can see the Beaver rock distinctly
from my door, I must be able to point it
out to you.'

They rose and walked out of the cavern
into the entrance of which the morning sun
was pouring his rich light, for the morning
was an hour old, so long had Red Beard
been telling his tale.'

`If thou wouldst command a full view of
the valley let us step to that rock,' said the
hermit, pointing to a flat stone a few yards
in front of the mouth of the cave.

From it Red Beard obtained a wide and
noble prospect of the beautiful vale spread out
beneath the mountain, like a picture. The
sun cast its forests and brown hill-sides and
pleasant fields, with patches of snow in their
corners, half into light and shadow, revealing
every undulation of the surface and
reflecting its bright beams from every
half-hidden roof. The valley was full
seventeen miles across, and so pure was the
atmosphere that the base of the opposite hills
which bounded it was distinctly seen. Here
and there towered the humble spire of a yillage
church springing sky ward from a cluster
of roofs. Hundreds of farm-houses were
seen dotting the broad bosom of the valley,
and Griffitt fancied he could discern the sheep
and cattle in the enclosures. There was a
dark band of leafless wood to the left about
two leagues from the foot of the mountain.
Through it meandered a stream which,
catching the sun-beams as it broke in cascades
over rocks, flashed back the light to
the eye. On the verge of this romantic
streamlet, near its junction with the Susquehannah
which was seen far to the left winding
its majestic length southward, were visible
four or five roofs.

`There, is my dwelling, father,' said Red
Beard, pointing to them. `Are your eyes
keen enough to see that cluster of houses?'

`All of them, my son.'

`You see one stands alone on the north
bank of the rivulet close to the belt of wood.'

`I see it plainly.'

`In that house I have dwelt for eight years
past. The one opposite to it, about a mile
from it, is the residence of my friend and
companion here, Ringold Griffitt. Now, my
dear father, if you can bear the walk, you
must leave this lonely mountain and go
down with us into the valley. My home shall
be yours; or thine shall be mine! If you
refuse to leave thy mountain cave I shall remain
here and share it with thee and serve
thee.'

`Nay, I am in thy hand, my son. Do with
me as thy love prompts. Only delay me not
long in thy house; for I am an old man and
England is far, and I must see thee righted in
thine own, and thy mother's honor proclaimed,
alas! though late.'

`We will then break our fast,' answered
Red Beard, `and then go down into the valley.
We have here with us provisions for
all, is it not so, Master Whitlock?'

`Enough there for us four, for as many
days,' he answered, pointing to his knapsack.

`For thy sake I am glad it is so; for save
dried fruits and vegetables, I have nothing to
offer you,' said the nobleman.

`Now, my father, while Whitlock is preparing
our meal let me hear thy own history,
if thou art not too fatigued.'

`Thou shalt hear it; though it is not varied
by many events like thine,' answered the
recluse. `We will set here the while. I
will begin with my second flight from the
palace; for you know all the particulars, I
perceived by your narrative, up to that time.'

`I have heard them, father,' answered Red
Beard, `yet I would hear thine own account.

`No, there is nothing of interest. After
my return a second time to England, being
drawn thither by the queen's letter which
convinced me of my dear wife's purity, I
found that she had given birth to a son; and
some demon brought to my mind the time
which had elapsed since I beheld the Earl of
* * * * in my private apartment, I at
once was confirmed in my opinion that the
infant was not my own. The manner of the
queen herself strengthened this opinion and
in the rage and shame with which the conviction
overwhelmed my brain I fled from
London on the same horse that brought me
from the sea-board.

`For several hours I rode blindly and madly
on caring not whither I went so that each
bound of my horse's feet carried me farther
from the scene of my dishonor. I reached
the coast of the channel and finding a vessel
just about to sail for France, I embarked in
her. Too restless to remain in Paris, I travelled
southward, and finally reached Switzerland
and Italy. The sight of my species became
more and more distasteful to me, and
at length hiring a desolate ruin on a wild
lake I dwelt there six years. At length I
heard, by means of an English newspaper
that I found where some travellers had been
pic-nicking on a rock in the lake, that my
wife had made a claim in behalf of her son
to my title and estates on the plea of my death.
I at once wrote to the Lord Chancellor, in a
feigned hand, that the nobleman, naming myself,
supposed dead was alive and dwelling in
the south of Europe. At length I was seized
with a desire of change and travelled by
sea and land into the east; and after twelve
years absence once more came into Italy.—
By this time I had got to despise mankind.
The remembrance of my supposed wrongs
preyed upon my soul; and one day as I was
walking on the quay at Genoa in this mood
I saw a vessel near the shore which was receiving
freight by means of a boat plying to
and fro from the land. Learning that the
ship was bound for the Americas, I at once
was seized with a desire to fly for refuge to
the new world, to leave behind me the old
world where I had been made so miserable,
and see if in that fresh, young land of the
setting sun, I might not be born anew, as it
were. So I embarked and after a stormy
voyage reached the port of Philadelphia. I
believe it is called. But I soon found that
man wherever he goes on the round world he
carries his griefs with him as he does his
body, and that he finds every where his fellow-man
the same selfish being. I did not
remain in the city but two days before I
yearned for that solitude which I had learned
to love in Italy, and which best harmonized
with the ceaseless grief of my wounded spirit.
I had with me a few jewels, the last of
those I took with me in my first departure
from England twenty years before. By converting
one into money I obtained food as I
travelled westward through the forests. At
length I came in sight of this mountain, and
here took up my abode, at first, in a rude
cabin which I constructed of boughs, but afterwards
in this cavern. Here I have dwelt
nearly twenty years cultivating a small patch
of ground, and snaring birds and deer for my
sustenance, and here expected to die. But
your presence, my son, has made me resolve
once more to go forth into the world that I
may extend to you that justice from which
you have so long been deprived.'