 | CHAPTER NINTH.
HOME. Paul Ardenheim, the monk of Wissahikon |  |
9. CHAPTER NINTH.
HOME.
A branch bent over his path—he dashed it aside, and caught a gleam
of the white trunk of the sycamore.
His face like the face of a corpse, his eyes flashing with the glare of
madness from the compressed brows, his forehead damp with moisture,
he dashed onward, reaching forth his hands with an involuntary impulse,
as he saw the white bark of the well-remembered sycamore.
But ten paces intervened between him and the tree; only ten paces,
and yet every foot of the green sod seemed lengthened into a league.
Bounding forward with the last impulse of his strength, he fell prostrate
at the foot of the sycamore. He was afraid to raise his head—afraid to
look, lest he might see his father's face—afraid to listen, lest he might hear
his father's voice.
Lifting his face from his hands, he gazed down the path, hedged in by
trees, and beheld the sunlight shining warmly over a green space in which
it terminated.
From that green space arose a wall of logs, and beyond that wall, a
massive structure glowed brightly in the sun.
It was the Block-House—it was his Home.
Do not picture to yourself a Gothic mansion, with pointed windows and
roof broken into regular peaks, adorned with fantastic carvings along the
eaves, with chimneys starting into the air like minarets from the dome of
a Turkish mosque—a Gothic mansion, standing in the centre of a garden,
which, in its turn, is separated from the woods by a neat lattice fence.
No! The Block-House of the Wissahikon, which we have seen in
winter, capped with snow, was only a huge square of logs, rising darkly
in the centre of an open space, separated from the woods by a high wall,
pierced by a gateway on the west. Whether the Block-House was two
or three stories high, whether it comprised twenty or an hundred chambers
within its walls of oak and cedar, or whether it was built in imitation
of any known style of architecture, are questions that we cannot determine.
In winter time, it turned to the rays of the setting sun, a gloomy front,
broken by a lofty hall door, with a window on either side and two above.
From this hall door to the gateway was only twenty yards. And in the
winter time, this huge square of logs, standing within its wall, with its
gateway looking to the west, and its encircling trees stripped of their
leaves, rising giant and grim around it, presented an appearance full of
gloom and desolation.
But now the scene was changed.
It was surmounted by lofty trees, whose straight trunks rose for thirty
feet without a branch, and then their limbs, thick with foliage, met around
the roof.
The sun shone warmly over the gateway, over the wall, and upon the
fabric itself, but did not disclose the outline of a single rugged timber.
It looked not like a mass of dark logs, but was, in truth, a mass of leaves
and flowers. It was covered, from the roof to the sod, with vines, whose
foliage only permitted the hall door to be seen. A garment of leaves upon
the broken roof; a tapestry of leaves upon the western and southern walls;
leaves and flowers, woven together, around the posts of the gloomy door-way—thus
attired, the old Block-House looked cheerful in the rays of
the summer day.
Even the wall which encircled the space in which it stood, was covered
with vines and flowers. The gate posts of cedar were clad in green, in
crimson, in scarlet, in azure and gold.
Standing thus, amid its encircling trees, the Monastery no longer resembled
a gloomy mausoleum. It did indeed look like a monument built over
the ashes of the dead, but it was a monument clad in the leaves, the
flowers—the rainbow drapery of June.
Paul could not repress an ejaculation of joy.
“It looks so beautiful—more beautiful than in the olden time!”
Olden time! He had seen scarce twenty-one summers, and yet he talks
of the olden time! There are some minds, we must remember, which do
not measure years by the succession of winter and summer, but by their
Thoughts—by their Suffering—by their Hope and by their Despair.
The stillness which dwelt around the Monastery, was only disturbed by
the murmuring of the breeze among the foliage. The subdued light which
invested its walls, came through the canopy of woven branches, but no
glimpse of blue sky was to be seen.
Paul hurried forward. It was no time for thought. He was determined
to meet the pale face of his father—he was nerved to encounter the sad
welcome of his sister's eyes.
Leaving the sycamore, he hurried toward the gateway. The gate was
open, but wild grass and flowers started thickly between its vine-clad posts.
The doors, formed of solid oak, hung on their rusted hinges.
“It has not been closed for many a day,” thought Paul, as he hurried
through the tall grass.
He beheld the door of the Monastery—a dark mass of oaken panels, with
an iron knocker near the top—appearing in the midst of the tapestry of
vines, which fluttered over the front of the edifice.
To leave the gateway, to hurry over the space between it and the mansion—a
space overgrown with grass and briers—to place his feet upon the
flat stone in front of the door—was the work of a moment.
He nerved his arm as for a desperate effort—he seized the iron knocker
and beat the panel with repeated blows, and stood cold and shuddering, as
he listened for the echo of a footstep.
He heard the echoes of the knocker die away along the corridor, within
the mansion, and—was it a fancy?—he heard the sound of voices; voices
very faint and far away. Then a dead silence ensued.
Again—torn by emotions beyond the power of words to describe or
analyze—again he lifted the knocker, and again the gloomy echoes resounded
through the corridor. And once more that sound, which resembled
voices mingling in low whispers, followed by a dead silence.
Paul could endure this horrible suspense no longer.
“Another moment, and I am mad,” he cried, and dashed his clenched
hand against the door.
It opened before him—the wooden latch, crumbled by age, fell in fragments
at his feet—the light of day streamed in upon the corridor, while a
gust of damp chill air rushed in his face.
This corridor traversed the entire extent of the Block-House, from west
to east, dividing the rooms which stood upon the lower floor of the mansion.
Into that corridor opened the doors of various chambers—the room of
his father—of Catharine—his own cell—the room in which the Deliverer
had uttered his vow—and that apartment, which concealed in its bosom
the Urn enshrining the Deliverer's name.
There too was the fatal door traced with the figure of a Cross; the door
of the Sealed Chamber.
Paul stood on the threshold, gazing into the gloom of the corridor, listening
intently for a sound. From a nook near the door the old clock
glared in the sun, covered with cobwebs and dust. The hands stood still
on its face; one pointing to the hour of “Five,” the other to the figure
“Two.”
“Ten minutes past five!” exclaimed the Wanderer—“It struck five the
moment when I left that fatal room—and since that hour has ceased
to move!”
It seemed to him that every dumb object which he saw, was armed with
some fearful memory. The inscription on the beech—the hands of the
clock standing still, and pointing to the hour, the moment, when he dashed
his father from his path,—the silent records of the past, looked like the
work of no human hand.
“Father! Sister!” cried Paul, but he started at the sound of his own
voice.—
Advancing, he opened the first door to the right, crossed its threshold,
stumbled against some object in the darkness, and at last touched the bolt
of a shutter with his extended hands. He drew the bolt, pushed open the
shutter, as far as the vines without would admit, and by the faint light
which came through the aperture examined the details of the place.
It was a square room, neatly panelled with dark oak. Near the window
was a fire-place, and in the centre stood a large table of unpainted
pine, around which were ranged three chairs made of dark wood. Huge
rafters stretched along the ceiling, and there were two windows, one opening
to the north, the other to the west. As the light came through the
narrow aperture, the place looked naked and desolate.
Around this table, in the days bygone, the old man and his children had
gathered to their frugal meal; which was prepared upon the hearth, either
by the hands of Catharine, or the wife of some neighboring farmer. A
frugal meal, indeed, for it was composed of the produce of the garden, the
fruits of the field, with clear cold water from the well. Neither flesh nor
wine ever passed the lips of the old man or his children.
Paul could not turn his eyes away from the table; the chairs seemed
arranged for his father, himself, and Catherine, as in other days; but there
was dust upon the board, and cobwebs hung across the fireless hearth.
He could not banish the conviction, that the room had been untenanted
for many months.
“He is dead—my father,” he cried, in a tone of agony. “I return to
my home, and the old place is silent. No voice but mine awakes the
echoes. No foot but mine brushes the dust from the floor. Father—
sister—both dead—I am alone in the world—alone.”
Sinking on a chair, he rested his arms upon the table, and buried his
face in his hands.
When he raised his face into the light, every feature was resplendent
with joy.
“Thank God—my father is dead! The iron hand of Fate is lifted from
my breast!”
Uttering these words with a burst of unfeigned rapture, he sank on his
knees, near the table, and raised his glowing face toward heaven.
“The sod is on his breast, the grave-cloth on his limbs—thank God,
thank God! There is no stain upon this hand!”
It was his right hand which he lifted in the light.
Mad and incomprehensible triumph! Even amid the tears which fall
for the death of his father and his sister, he thanks God that the father is
indeed dead, that the sod is upon his breast and the grave-cloth on his
limbs.
His face, at all times remarkable for its thought, embodied in features of
bronze, and lighted by eyes of dazzling lustre, now shone in every line
with an extravagant joy.
“The Fiend who pursued me over the ocean—over Europe—never for
one moment pausing in his terrible chase—now hovering near me like a
shadow, now descending upon me like a cloud, now drinking my life-blood
drop by drop, from the fountains of my heart—this Fiend shall pursue me
no longer! God of mercy—I am free!”
Amid these wild words and incoherent figures, it was plainly to be seen,
some thought of appalling intensity was hidden.
“Free to begin my life, as I would have begun it, had I not entered the
Sealed Chamber—” he shuddered—“until my father was dead.”
His chest shook as he bowed his head and wept aloud.
“But he may live—live to blast me with the sight of his pale face and
mild blue eyes.”
He arose and advanced to the fireplace. There was a shelf above the
hearth, and on this shelf Paul discovered, with much astonishment, a box
filled with tinder, and near it flint, steel, and a package of matches; in fact,
the requisite materials for creating fire. Covered with dust and cobwebs,
they had not been used for many a day; it may be, not even since the last
night of 1774.
From the ashes of the fireless hearth, Paul drew forth a pine-knot slightly
charred at one end.
“It will serve me for a torch, while I traverse the unknown chambers
of my home,” he said; and in a few moments, with the red light of the
pine-knot flashing over his features, he stood in the corridor again, his back
to the sunlight and his face toward the shadow.
Then, as if nerving himself for a desperate deed, he passed along the
corridor, he drew near the door of his father's chamber.
How the memories of other days came crowding over his soul!
Not a board in the floor, nor a panel in the walls, but was remembered
by him, and remembered well. The very echo of his footsteps brought
back the sounds of other days.
Soon the pine-knot, burning and glaring over his head, flashed upon the
door of his father's room. The moisture started in big drops from the
forehead of the son; he felt his heart contract and dilate by turns.
“He may be there, waiting for me.” The thought chilled his blood, as
he stood in front of the door.
He listened—standing perfectly still, while the torch lighted up his face
with a gloomy ray, he listened for the sound of his father's voice, for the
first echo of his father's step.
All was still.
And yet, torn by a horrible doubt, Paul could not advance; he remained
gazing upon the panels of the door with an absent stare.
He had but to extend his hand, to touch the latch, and the door would
open before him. But he dared not do it.
“He is there—slumbering upon his bed, while the Sad Image scowls
upon his withered face and venerable hair. In his dreams he murmurs
the name of the outcast; in his dreams he writhes at the memory of the
sacrilegious blow; in his dreams he repeats the story of the broken oath,
and heaps a father's curse upon the head of the guilty son.”
Paul could gaze upon the door no longer. He advanced but a step,
which met his gaze.
“Catharine!” he whispered. There was no answer.
“My sister!” he bent his head against the panels. In that moment of
suspense, a gentle face, whose clear blue eyes revealed a guiltless soul,
rose vividly upon his memory, over the mists of the past. Still no answer
greeted him; there was no footstep tripping lightly over the floor; no
gentle hand touched the latch; no voice—full of melody, hallowed with the
tones of other days—murmured the brother's name, and bade the wanderer
welcome home.
The deep stillness was undisturbed even by the faintest sound.
“Sister!” cried a voice, whose accents were choked with agony—“It is
I—it is your brother, who, sick with wandering, maddened by remorse, now
stands trembling at the threshold of your chamber, afraid to look upon the
innocence of your face, afraid to speak your name. Catharine! Catharine!
You do not answer me. You avoid the sight of the blasphemer's face.
It is well. I have deserved this, and more.”
Again he bent his head and listened. No step, no voice, not the faintest
sound.
Paul passed on.
It was the door of the chamber which shrouded within its shadows the
name of the Deliverer. The name written by the Deliverer himself, and
by the old man deposited in the Urn.
“It was not to be opened until a year had passed. The year has gone,
—two years and more—but I dare not cross the threshold, for I am accursed
of God, disowned by the dead, abhorred by the living!”
He longed, earnestly longed to cross that threshold, and place his hand
within the Urn, and read the words which his Father had written beside
the Deliverer's name.
But his heart was too full of fearful memories, his brain was dizzy and
his sight was dim. He advanced with trembling steps, and as the pine-knot
flashed through the shadows, he beheld the Cross upon the dark
panels.
It was the door of the Sealed Chamber.
Paul saw it and rushed forward with a bound. That Cross traced on
the panels pierced his brain with an intolerable torture. For a moment
he stood before it, swaying to and fro, like a drunken man; he reached
forth his hand, and touched the key which was inserted in the lock.
He was about to enter the Sealed Chamber, and confront his Fate once
more.
“It was here that I came forth with the blight upon my soul, the mark
of Cain upon my forehead. From that hour I have never for a moment
known even the name of Peace. From that hour my soul has been given
damned.”
His hand was upon the key—he grasped the torch more firmly, and
placed his foot against the door.
“Shall I again stand face to face with Fate, and wrap myself in the
tempest of my Destiny once more! Again—again—”
His blood congealed as the memory of that incredible Revelation possessed
his soul. There was no hue of life upon his face; lip, brow and cheek
—all were colorless. His eyes no longer shone with unnatural brightness—they
were covered with a glassy film.
And then, as if the secret of that fatal Chamber had taken bodily form,
and glowed before him like a corse, invested with an unnatural light by
the touch of Satan, with the pale light of the grave glimmering from its
sunken eyes, and a low-toned voice speaking from its livid lips—Paul
groaned in agony, and muttered amid his incoherent cries—
“Spare me! Spare me! Mercy—mercy! Not with this hand—not
with this hand—”
Exhausted by the violence of his emotions,—appalled by the memory
of the Revelation—afraid to know that the old man his father was indeed
dead, but much more afraid to look upon his living face, Paul sank on his
knees, and lifted the torch above his face with his clasped hands.
“There is no pity for me on earth,—in Heaven nothing but Judgment.
My punishment is greater that I can bear!”
These words, uttered by Cain, when the burden of his remorse pressed
too heavily upon his soul, fell with touching emphasis from the lips of
Paul Ardenheim.
Many moments passed while he remained on his knees, with his face
turned to heaven.
Gathering strength at last, he rose, and turned his eyes toward the opposite
door. It led into his own room, the home of his thought, that dearly
remembered place, where the Hebrew volume had spoken its mysterious
words, and Shakspeare and Milton blessed the Dreamer's soul.
“Shall I enter?” exclaimed Paul, as the brighter memories for a
moment banished the gloom from his soul.
“Here the Prophet Shakspeare first spoke to me; here the voice of the
Prophet Milton first broke upon my solitude; it was here, within this narrow
cell, that I first beheld that World of other ages, which men call the
Bible.—I cannot enter now—I am afraid. I cannot pause for a moment,
until I know that my father lives, or that he is dead.”
He passed on toward the extremity of the corridor. Those doors on
either side, which had never been opened within his memory, were now
hung with cobwebs. Their dusky surface only spoke of silence and
desolation.
Presently the pine-knot flashed upon the last door, at the eastern end
of the passage. It was slightly open; Paul touched it, and beheld a
narrow stairway.
| CHAPTER NINTH.
HOME. Paul Ardenheim, the monk of Wissahikon | |