University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER SECOND.
ROSE.

The moon, rising over yonder precipitous ascent of woods,
shines down upon the cottage home of Michael, the hunter.

So, perchance, a thousand years ago she shone, when these
trees encircled mansions of marble; when the banners of a
strange and forgotten people fluttered in a summer air, as
bland as the breeze which now makes music among the
leaves; when, beside these waters, grouped the Priests and
the white-robed maidens, swelling into the deep vault of
heaven, their sacrificial song!

Walter advanced from the shadows of the trees, and stood
upon a rock that towers there at this hour; his dark attire
and pale face, disclosed in the light of the rising moon.—
You see his face upraised, its pale hue giving unnatural radiance
to his clear dark eye; you perceive the traces of
tears upon that bold cheek, and yet the resolve of a strong
will speaks in that firm mouth and rounded chin.

It was a very beautiful sight that he saw, by the pale
light of the moon. Not a palace of white marble, nor yet
one of those red brick mansions which freeze the soul out of
you, with their bright pink walls and green window-shutters;

but a little structure of wood and stone, nestling between
two huge rocks. How the vines waved and the
flowers bloomed upon those gray old piles of granite! It
was but a little structure, with a single window, and a steep
roof, that sheltered from the sun and rain three little rooms;
but, for all that, it was a “home.”

A home, with trees on trees around, above it; a home,
with a still stream flowing gently by; a home, with a garden
spreading from its door down to the water's edge; a home,
with roof of boards and straw, hidden by leaves and fragrant
with honeysuckles; a home, containing a treasure more
precious than the gold of Mexico, or the diamonds of Hindoostan!

That treasure—an immortal soul—locked up within the
body of a beautiful and sinless girl!

Walter stood gazing upon it, wrapped in his thoughts,
when a footstep resounded by his side.

He turned, and beheld the form of a negro, his white eyeballs
and ivory teeth shining rfrom a face black as ink and
glossy as silk. He stood the e, six feet high in his boots,
his broad chest enveloped in a green coat, faced with gold;
his thick wool surmounted bya cap of dark fur; his limbs
encased in long boots, that shone like mirrors. Altogether,
he was as fine a specimen of the African, with his flat nose,
big lips, and protruding eyes, as you might see in any court
of justice, on the occasion of the trial of a fugitive slave. It
may also be remarked, that the muzzles of two silver-mounted
pistols protruded from the breast of his dark green
coat.

“I is here, Massa!” said the dark gentleman, with a bow
that would have done honor to a courtier of Versailles.

“Ah! is that you, Bram?”

“It am de rale nigga, Massa!”

“Is everything ready? You remember my orders? First,
the Purple Chamber, in my city mansion, was to be prepared
for my reception;—have you obeyed my commands?”

“Y-e-s, Massa!”

“At twelve o'clock to-night, the carriage is to be waiting,
in the narrow lane, beyond the Wissahikon, about half a
mile from this place.”

“It will be dar!”

“Bram, you must not express any surprise in case a young
gentleman, somewhat slender in form, and clad in a plain
dark dress, should appear at twelve to-night, and enter the

carriage! The moment he enters, you will drive with all
speed to the city, and lead this young gentleman up stairs
into the Purple Chamber.”

“Dis nigga nebbaw fails to do dat which Massa commands.
No, he does not, dat he don't!”

“The young gentleman will be known to you, not so much
by his dress, as by the white scarf which binds his eyes—”

“De grashus goodness! Blinefold, eh? Bress a poor
darkey's stars! Dat reminds me of Paris. A berry fine
place is Paris, only dem folks do talk so pertiklar queer.
And den dey aint got no common sense! Laws! dey treats
a dark brown colored gemman just like a white person,
widout de 'propriate distinction ob color!”

“You have heard my commands. Remember, the happiness—perchance,
the life—of your master depends upon the
manner in which you follow them. Do!”

Without a word the liveried negro disappeared, and was
lost to view among the trees.

We will now watch the movements of Walter with peculiar
interest.

Descending from the rock, he draws forth from among
the bushes, which dip from the bank into the waves, an Indian
canoe, hewn by the hands of old Michael from the trunk
of a massive tree.

You see him enter the canoe; he stands erect, in the light
of the moon, his pale face betraying unequivocal signs of
emotion. One movement of the slender oar, and the fragile
barge glides noiselessly over the waters, and rests beside
the opposite shore.

Walter leaps upon the bank. He stands in the garden,
which blooms along the level space. He listens! All is
still; the clear moonlight falls upon the latticed window of
the cottage, but reveals no traces of the presence of any
human thing within its walls.

He advances toward the door, his heart beating quicker,
his strong frame trembling in every nerve. Still no sound!

His hand is upon the wooden latch—for a moment he
pauses in painful suspense—he crosses the threshold of that
home.

All is silent there. Through the small window, a belt of
moonlight falls along the outer floor All beside is dark.

Through that darkened room, Walter moves with noiseless
footsteps and extended hands.

A sob, low and gushing, as if arising from the heart, disturbs

the silence. At the same moment, his hand touches a
woman's cheek, and feels her tears.

“Rose!”

All is dark; he cannot see her, yet a small hand is laid
within his own, and a face is pressed against his bosom.

“You are unhappy! You weep—”

There was no reply; none in words, yet the hand that was
pressed within his own—the young face, resting on his
bosom—spoke that universal language which Love first
learned in Paradise.

In a moment, Walter gently disengaged her arm from his
neck, hurried into the next chamber, and returned, bearing
a light in his hands.

Then it might be seen that the Rose of Wissahikon was
transcendantly beautiful!

She bloomed in one corner of the small room, her form
resting upon a huge old arm-chair, fashioned of solid oak.
Her cheek upon her hand; her eyes upraised, she shone
through the ehamber like an angel presence.

You would pardon this extravagance of speech, had you
but for a moment seen her in her virgin beauty.

True, the dress which enveloped her young form, was of
the plainest and coarsest material; true, her foot was encased
in a rude shoe, made of rough buckskin; true, her
bosom was veiled by a plain white kerchief, and yet, for
all her simple dress, her beauty shone out and lighted that
small chamber of the forest home.

That foot, seen below the coarse skirt, was so small; that
bosom, heaving beneath the white kerchief, so round and
full; those arms, bare from the shoulder, so like arms of
alabaster, rounded by the chisel of an inspired sculptor,
veined by delicate threads of azure, softened by a flush like
the first glow of a summer morn; that face, so fair in its
hue, so warm in the lips, so brilliant in the eyes, so beautifully
relieved by the rich mass of dark brown hair!

Her eyes were neither blue, nor hazel, nor black. Now
dark, now bright, now slowly lighting up with emotion;
now flashing into sudden radiance; now gleaming dimly
through the half-closed lips; now overspread with moisture,
—even as the stars look more beautiful through the tears of
an April shower; those eyes, always in every phase of expression,
sent their rays home to the heart!

The hair was brown, and yet, in one light, it was black
as the deep vault of a midnight sky; in another, purple as

the last kiss of day upon the western horizon. The word
auburn, expressing that delicious combination of colors
which imparts such divine beauty to the hair of a lovely
woman, comes nearer the truth.

Her eyes full of clear, deep light; her skin white as
marble, with the young blood speaking out in each cheek;
her hair auburn in hue and plainly gathered back from her
face—just as the painters have pictured our Mother Mary,
so bloomed this young girl in that cottage chamber.

Her hair was bound in a coil at the back of her head, and
yet the band, which clasped it, once untied, it covered her
—the neck, the bosom and the form, which would have been
voluptuous, had not the eyes been so pure—it covered her
like a veil, that beautiful flowing hair.

Walter stood on the threshold, surveying in silent admiration
this lovely girl. The same light that reveals his
form, clad in a hunting garb of dark velvet, shines upon the
young maiden with the light kerchief around her neck, the
dark skirt upon her form.

Her eyes, dim with tears, encountered his earnest gaze.

Shall we translate the thought which gave such a deep
melancholy to his face?”

“A miracle! This young and beautiful girl reared alone
in these woods from her earliest infancy! her only companion
an old man, who is now rough as any forester in his
speech, and again in the very writhings of remorse betrays
the eloquence of the forum, the refinement of courtly life!
Reared alone—a beautiful flower blooming in the desert—
the light of genius shines from the eyes, the glow of education
warms her face. That hand can fill the canvass with
flowers and forms as beautiful as those seen in a midsummer
dream—or pour forth, on paper, thoughts that indicate at
once the tenderness of woman, the power of genius! And
yet she knows the world from books alone—its cares, its
customs are to her but the dim phantoms of a day-break
dream.”

So ran his thoughts, but before him ever rose one question
that poisoned the serenity of his soul:—“Is yours the hand
to tear from the vase, in which it blooms, this flower, so pure,
so virgin? Is your's the heart to plan the shame of that
chaste being, the dishonor of that maiden soul?”

“Rose,” he said aloud, advancing to the maiden, “to-night
you will leave your home. All is arranged. To-night you
will link your fate with mine! Why do you weep? Is it

because you dread the coming of that hour, when gathering
you to my heart, I shall whisper: `Rose, you are
mine!”'

She slowly arose from the chair, and laid her hands upon
his arms.

“But a month since we met, and I am about to leave
father and home for you! Only a few short weeks ago I
beheld you, for the first time, standing at the banks of the
Wissahikon, and now, for you, Arthur—for you, I am about
to leave this dear home for ever!”

The language, which spoke from her upraised eyes, was
an hundred times more powerful than her words.

Walter, Reginald, Arthur! At all events, the young
hunter is rich in names.

“But the Home, to which I will lead you, Rose—”

“A cottage like this, in a dear, secluded valley, Arthur,
with such green woods above us, such a quiet stream rippling
by the door! Say, is't not so, Arthur? You wish a home
like this? There we will dwell together, and after your
day's toil in the woods—for you are but a poor hunter, Arthur—we
will sit together by the fireside of home, our
faces glowing in the same hallowed light!”

Arthur smiled, perchance, at the earnestness of her eyes,
the simple pathos of her voice.

“The Purple Chamber!” he murmured, and bent his eyes
upoe her glowing face.

“But my father, Arthur! he will come and visit us. Ah,
why must we meet without his knowledge—why this secresy?
This mystery?”

She buried her face upon his breast, and as he looked down
upon her glossy tresses, a dark and ominous frown gathered
upon his brow. Ah, Walter, Reginald, Arthur, what
means that frown? Does the thought of your secret meetings,
for this month past—that history which you were
about to tell old Michael, the hunter,—cross your soul?
And now, old Michael, and the father of this girl are ONE,
and you dare not breathe the knowledge of this fact to the
maid, who throbs upon your bosom, her heart pulsating
with a holy, a virgin love?”

Remember your Oath!

“But why need we leave Wissahikon?” she cried with a
radiant smile upon her face; “Why leave this place, where
the dawn is so lovely, the noon-day so serene, the twilight
so holy? Not a path, in these dear woods, but we have trod

together—I clad in the hunter's dress, which you brought
me—while you, with your rifle to your shoulder, pointed
out each beautiful view; here, a delightful glimpse of
water; there, a cool cascade dashing over grey rocks, or, far
away, the Wissahikon, shining light a golden track of light
in the setting sun! And those beautiful bowers in the forest,
Arthur, where there are vines blooming with honeysuckles,
and lilies wreathing their white cups with the leaves of the
rose, and the air breathe perfume, and the lull of the distant
stream comes on the ear like sweet music from Heaven!
O, I have passed such happy years in this dear solitude—
my father so kind, so good! Yes, kind, for all he leaves me
alone for a month, every year; good, for all that he mutters
to himself and writhes in agony in the long hours of the
nigt, and wanders out in the storm, his head and breast bared
to the blast! And we must leave it all, Arthur, to-night,
we must say to all that is beautiful here, Farewell!”

She stood in her blushing beauty before her lover, in that
plain room. The sanded floor; the white-washed walls,
adorned with the works of her pencil; the grotesquely
carved table, on which her books—her Bible among the
rest—were placed; the hearth, now wreathed with roses
and laurel; the low ceiling, supported by heavy rafters—
such were the details of the picture.

In the centre stood the tall form of the lover, his dark
dress imparting additional paleness to his face; his right
arm holding the light above his head, and before him her
eyes upraised, her heart beating warmly beneath her kerchief,
the young girl blushed like a rose, trembling on its
stem to a gentle breeze.

“Do you love me?” he said, bending upon her face the full
light of his eyes.

You should have seen her clear skin slowly ripening from
her bosom to the brow, from the shoulders to the fingers, in
all the crimson of her virgin blood! What woman ever
lived, who could hear without a quivering pulse those words
spoken by dark eyes, burning with light, at the same instant
that are spoken by a voice that trembles between a whisper
and a sigh, those words: Do you love me?

Poor Rose!

Just as you have seen a humming bird beat its rainbow
wings against the scarf, that lightly enveloped it, so her
heart beat in her bosom, imparting its fire to her cheek and
eyes!

How it was she knew not, but she seemed to grow toward
her lover's form, her head sought his shoulder as a pillow,
the band that tied her hair parted, and down it fell, that
flowing hair, down it streamed, so glossy and so beautiful in
its hues, now brown, now black, now purple, that waving
auburn hair.

And then as the lids of her eyes half closed, her lips
parted until her white teeth were seen—a line of ivory, set
in vermilion!

Arthur bent gently down, and, for the first time, suffered
his breath to mingle with hers, as their lips throbbed together
and mingle in that signet of a deathless love!

The first kiss!

“To-night, at twelve, remember!” he said—not in a
calm, even voice, you may be sure. “To-night, in your
hunter's dress, at twelve, remember!” and hurried from
the room.

When she came to the door, she beheld him standing on
the opposite shore, the summer moon pouring its rays upon
his uncovered brow. Between them rippled the stream—
around and above fluttered the sea of leaves, and from afar
came the plaintive song of the whippoor-will. He stood on
the very rock, where she first beheld him a month gone by.

He flung a kiss to her as she stood in the cottage door; a
warm picture in a rude frame.

Again that word, “Remember!” and he was gone.

Rose looked upon the vacant rock for many minutes, and
then entered her home, closing the door.

In fifteen minutes there came from the cottage door a
young hunter, clad in a dress which was at once singularly
neat and picturesque. A gray frock, that fell open, disclosing
the buff waistcoat buttoned to the chin and descending below
the waist. Breeches of the same color, tied at the knee,
where a buckskin boot revealed the shape of the leg. Upon
his dark hair, which was very glossy and luxuriant, he wore
a delicate cap, topped with a dainty white plume.

It must be confessed that there were some objections to
the general harmony of the costume. For example, the
waistcoat was drawn tightly over the bust, while it fell in
wrinkles about the waist, and the boot, small as it was, was
too large for the hunter's foot, and the sleeves tightened
about the arms until they revealed a firm, round outline.

That hunter came stepping along the garden with a kind
of stealthy grace, and started back with a somewhat beautiful

surprise, as he beheld his warm cheeks and light eyes
reflected in the calm mirror of Wissahikon.

Beautiful Rose of Wissahikon!

“The words of this strange woman, Lady Marion, bewilder
me! Ah, I have a secret—yes, there is one thing
which I have not told to Arthur! What a strange, dark
story seemed upon this lady's tongue, and yet she seemed
afraid to tell it! Yet, her parting words I remember well:
—`If you have a brother on this side of Eternity, come to
my house to-night and I will show you his image, and reveal
to you the very scene in which he is placed, at the moment
you look upon his image!' How could she guess this yearning
desire of my heart, to see that brother of whom my
father has often spoken in his moments of agony! I will
go to her home, I will dare worse perils than she described,
but to have one glance at MY Brother's form!”

Yes, she had a secret, which she kept locked within her
own bosom. Even from the lover, to whom she entrusted
her soul, she kept it, not from any impure motive, but—it
may be—that with all her purity and beauty, she was so far
a daughter of Eve, as to desire the possession of one secret,
only one. Then what a delightful surprise she meditated
for her lover, when pressing her new found brother in her
arms, she could say: Brother, this is Arthur!

Look upon her, as she enters the canoe and glides down
the stream. Gently, softly over the tide, the moon upon
her face, the boughs stretching out their arms to embrace her!

She goes to meet the Lady Marion.—In the summer time
I have seen a beautiful green snake, spotted with drops of
gold, coiling himself quietly under a rosebush, while a humming
bird, green and gold in his soft plumage, hovered
near, and near and nearer, until the snake disclosed his
fangs, and—

But why this dark presentiment?

Gently, softly over the tide the boat bore Rose along,
while the ripples broke in music on the shore.

The idea of a girl living for sixteen years in the solitude
of the Wissahikon, her only companion a rough old man,
who, with all his rudeness, teaches her those arts, which
develope genius and soften the life of a woman, even as the
last flash of a rainbow mellows the sky!

Very ridiculous, is it not, my dear lover of common
place, my dear matter of fact?

And yet it is very beautiful; yes, even if a fiction, it is
worth all your hard-featured, stony-eyed Truth!

But it is Truth. Not Truth, shining with a bloody glare
over the scenes of a battle, or growing drowsy with the
miasma of a great city's crimes, but Truth as beautiful as
the Wissahikon, and as pure.