 | CHAPTER THIRTY-SECOND.
MADELINE AND THE OUTCAST. Paul Ardenheim, the monk of Wissahikon |  |
32. CHAPTER THIRTY-SECOND.
MADELINE AND THE OUTCAST.
Here the Manuscript abruptly ended. The name of Reginald was the last
word.
The old man, sat perfectly motionless, absorbed in thought. One hand,
grasping the Manuscript shook with a nervous tremor; the other, shading
his eyes, could not conceal the tears which rolled one by one, over his
sun-burnt face.
And while he sat before the mirror,—an image of poverty and wretchedness,
encircled by the dim splendor of that chamber—the sound of the
sleeper's breath broke gently on the stillness, mingling with his half-uttered
groans.
“Reginald!” he whispered, “And who is Reginald? Ah, a light
breaks in upon me! Soh,—good girl, it was Reginald, who put his hand
upon your shoulder as you clung to Gilbert's neck? And you think
kindly of Gilbert, too, but your `Confessions' end with the the name of
Reginald. That means a great deal; a world o' meanin' in that word—”
The outcast rose, and with unsteady footsteps approached the bed. His
lips moved without a sound, as he went, and once or twice his hand wandered
instinctively to the hilt of his knife. Presently he stood beside the
couch, his face turned from the light, gazing in silence upon the beautiful
hand and arm, which appeared among the white curtains.
“An' that hand has toyed with Reginald's chesnut curls, as his kisses
warmed her lips!”
Trembling from head to foot, the old man parted the curtains and looked
within,—his right hand all the while laid upon the hilt of his knife.
In the mysterious twilight of the curtained couch, she slept, her cheek
resting on her bent arm, her dark brown hair, rising and falling with the
pulsations of her half-uncovered breast. The fringes of her closed lids
lay darkly on her cheek; her paried lips, gave a glimpse of her teeth; a
flush like an opening rose-bud bloomed upon her face. Her form, presenting
in its every outline, a type of ripened womanhood, lay motionless
as Death beneath his gaze.
Even as the Fiend, looked in upon the sleep of sinless Eve, parting the
leaves which shielded her form, as his breath polluted her cheek, so this
wan and haggard Outcast drew aside the curtains, and glowered with
ominous eyes, upon the slumber of poor Madeline.
“Madeline!” he whispered.
She stirred in her sleep, and her robe falling lower on her shoulder, disclosed
of that fatal scar, seemed to madden the Outcast.
“Madeline!” he hissed the word in her ear, and grasped her roughly
by the wrist—“Awake! Awake!”
She started up in the bed, and unclosed her eyes.
“God pity me!” she whispered, shuddering as she drew her white
arms over her breast. “This is some frightful dream!”
Between her and the light rose the tall form of the Outcast; she but
dimly discerned his face, but his eyes, flashing with unnatural lustre, penetrated
her very blood, with an icy shudder. She did not shriek, nor groan,
but folding her arms over her breast, gazed upon that terrible Apparition
with a vacant stare.
“Madeline—” said the Outcast, and his voice was broken and faint
like the voice of an aged man, “I have a message for you from Gilbert
Morgan!”
“Gilbert Morgan? Who are you that speak to me of Gilbert Morgan?”
She looked very beautiful, as clad in her loosened robes, as white as
snow, she crouched upon the edge of the bed, and gazed wonderingly
into the Outcast's face, very beautiful, but her cheek was colorless, her
eyes wildly brilliant with terror, while her bosom rested beneath her folded
arms, without pulse or motion.
“Come, Madeline, sit by me: I will tell you of Gilbert Morgan,” said
the old man, and with no rude grasp, he took her by the hand and led her
from the couch toward the light.
She sank into a chair, never once removing her frightened gaze from
his face, while her clasped hands gathered her robes over her breast, and
her brown hair falling to her shoulders, made her cheek seem pale and
death-like.
He sat in the shadow with his hand raised to his brow, and his burning
gaze centred upon her countenance.
“Gilbert Morgan?” she said, as she endeavored to collect her wandering
senses. “What mean you? Ah! Old man, your gaze fills me with
terror! Do not harm me, do not for the sake of Heaven!”
“Harm thee?” returned the Outcast, in a faint and broken voice—“The
old man is weak; he could not harm thee if he would. Thy hand, young
girl, can crush him into dust, even a hand so small and delicate as thine.
Listen Madeline! The good woman, who lives in the cabin next door,
gave me entrance to this house, and I made bold to enter your chamber:
for I have a message — a message of life and death, from Gilbert
Morgan!”
Faint and fainter his voice became; the last words were pronounced in
a whisper. At once, Madeline's terror and her paleness passed away.
Her cheek flushed, her bosom heaving, her eye radiant with delight, she
started from her chair, and laid her hands upon his arm.—
“Then Gilbert is not dead,” she cried—“He lives! Tell me,—he
lives?”
The Outcast did not reply. So radiant and yet so pure, in her womanly
beauty, she trembled there, her hands laid upon his arms, while her eyes
lighted up with all a woman's soul, that the old man, touched to his very
heart-strings by the sight, turned his face away, and with his toil-worn
hand brushed away a tear.
“He lives. That is, Gilbert lives. He sent me to you. And he sent
this token, so that you might know me for his messenger.”
From his rags he drew forth the token, a hunting knife with a handle
of bone, and a long blade, darkened at the point by a blood-red stain.
“This a token from Gilbert to me?” Madeline's face became pale
again; she started back, and regarded the old man with a dilating eye.
He held the knife toward her, but her hand shrunk back, and the fatal
weapon fell at her feet on the rich carpet, with a sullen sound.
His voice was broken, husky, as he replied:
“Yes, a token from a Murderer to his victim. He stabbed you with
that knife, young girl. You know it! Stabbed as you called him by
name, and reached out your arms to clasp his neck.” He paused—hesitated—and
continued—“That's the only token from a poor devil like
Gilbert, to a lady so rich and beautiful as you, my girl!”
“And Gilbert lives!” murmured Madeline, with an absent glance. “Is
this no dream? They told me that he was dead—”
“Dead: worse than dead,” answered the Outcast—“A man that's dead
sleeps in his grave, and nothin' troubles him. Winter and storm, summer
and sunshine, pass on, but still he's there—safe under ground—at
rest. But as for Gilbert, he's not dead, but only buried alive. That's all.”
“Buried alive?” echoed Madeline.
“Yes, he's dead, forever dead to peace,—to quietness—to what the
good folks mean when they use these words, `a heart at rest with God
and man.' He only lives to do the devil's work; he's only awake to
crime. And then it's his curse to go about the earth, like a ghost, bound
by a frightful oath, never to permit any one to know him as Gilbert
Morgan. Do you understand, girl? He may see the graves of his father
and mother, hidden in the corner o' th' graveyard, without a stone to mark
their resting place, and he dare not shed a tear over their ashes, dare not
plant a flower there, lest somebody might know him for Gilbert Morgan.
Did you ever hear of one condemned to walk about the earth, among his
friends,—the scenes of his boyhood—invisible to every one, and at the
same time seein' and hearin' everythin', without the power to speak?
Gilbert Morgan's that man!”
“And who,” faltered Madeline, and she felt a strange sympathy mingled
with abhorence or fear, while she gazed upon the old man—“And who
has laid this doom upon him?”
“Hush! Do not speak so loud. He may hear you,” whispered the
Outcast, with a low, mocking laugh, and yet with an accent of undisguised
terror.
“He? Of whom do you speak?” asked Madeline, her blood chilled by
the unnatural laugh, and shuddering tone of the old man.
He bent forward, while the light fell upon his white hair—eyebrows
and beard—and showed the contrast between these and his sunburnt features
and brilliant eyes. He glanced from side to side with a stealthy look.
“Don't you know who I mean?” he whispered—“That Devil in human
shape, or rather that Fiend's soul in only a half-human body, who puts
his witchcraft upon you, an' takes away your power over your own will,
and fills your brain with his own Soul. Cant you guess his name? He
may be far away from you,—and you may know it—and yet there are
moments when you feel that his soul is present with you, like a cloud
from —, or when his Will stirs in your brain, and makes your hand
perform deeds that your heart abhors. Don't you know yet?” he hissed
the words between his set teeth, as the affrighted girl shrunk from his
fiery gaze—“He's sometimes called Black David, and sometimes Mr.
Rolof Sener, and again — but no! no! I dare not speak that
name!”
Madeline's face resembled the visage of a dead woman, while her eye
burned like a flame. A shriek died half uttered on her lips.
“Rolof Sener!” she whispered—“My Protector—my father!”
“Yes—yes—Black David, your Protector! Rolof Sener, your father!
Why, girl, I could tell you a story o' that Fiend, that would drive you
stark, starin' mad. Do you ever pray, girl—” his voice grew husky,
choaking—“Do you ever kneel at night, and ask God with a free heart to
bless you? Then I beg of you, sometimes pray for Gilbert Morgan, who
is sold body and soul to the Fiend in human shape, Rolof Sener!”
“Do I ever pray?” said Madeline, a burning flush visible in her death-like
cheek—“Why he has often besought my prayers. He, Rolof Sener,
has many a time sat in this very room, listening while I have read from
the Bible—read those words which make the dying heart feel strong again,
and nerve the weary soul with life from God.”
“And yet—” the low, mocking laughter of the Outcast broke on the
stillness of the chamber, with a hollow emphasis—“And yet you remember
`the Twelfth of November,' do you? The dyin' mother stabbed,
while her baby slept upon her breast? And Rolof Sener sittin' near you,
holdin' your hands as your Soul—by his will, mark ye—saw this crime,
committed by him, three hundred years ago?”
Madeline was silent; the solitary flush which had warmed her cheek
died away; she fixed her large eyes, flashing with wild lustre, upon the
half-shadowed face of the Outcast, and clasped her hands, her lips moving,
trembling—but without a sound.
“Is this man or devil?” cried the Outcast—“This Protector, who puts
his spell upon a pure girl, and while her body is like a corpse, sends her
soul whirling away into long-forgotten times, and shows her what hellish
things he did three hundred years ago!”
“A fear has crept upon me—I cannot deny it—many a time, while
gazing on his face, a fear and a shudder worse than death. And yet, to
me, he has never spoken an unkind word—his eye never rests upon me,
save with a look of love,—love such as a father might feel for a dear child.
When all the world forsook me, when the wound was bleeding on my
breast, and the unconscious body of the Orphan Girl was given to the
mercy of a cold winter night, then he was my friend, my only friend.
And yet—and yet—”
Madeline buried her forehead in her hands, as though some Thought too
terrible for utterance, had suddenly gloomed upon her soul. Her hair
glossy and brown, flowing in copious waves to her shoulders, her white
robes floating loosely around her womanly shape, she seemed—contrasted
with the Outcast, so haggard and way-worn—like a pure spirit, summoned
into life by a wizard's spell, and convulsed with grief as the realities of
the world were made known to her once more, after she had enjoyed the
untroubled calm of the grave.—The wizard, the enchanter sat near her,
glowering fixedly upon her face, with flashing but tearful eyes.—
“That's right,” he whispered—“You cannot speak too badly of Gilbert
Morgan. The knife with which he stabbed you, lies at your feet,
and doubtless the memory of his crime rankles in your heart.” He rose
and stood before her, tall and haggard, with the light upon his face, while
his form was wrapped in shadow. “Good-bye, girl, I'm goin'. And I'll
tell Gilbert that you speak of him with loathing, and at the same time keep
all your love for the fiend in human shape, or perhaps for Reginald.—
Wasn't that his name?”
The young woman started to her feet, and stood before him, pale but
beautiful, all that was pure, all that was impassioned in her soul, rushing
to her eyes.
“Tell him, tell Gilbert,” she cried, weighing every word, and looking
him full in the face, “That the name of Reginald is to me, but as a sound
uttered in the delirium of a fever. Even now, as I speak it, my heart
leaps in my bosom, and yet that name brings home to me, no memory
save that which speaks of a proud Lord, plotting the dishonor of a poor
Orphan child. But the name of Gilbert—”
“Gilbert, yes, his name—” interrupted the Outcast.
“The name of Gilbert speaks to me of Wissahikon—” her voice fell,
the tears streamed down her cheeks—“Of Home!”
She sank in the chair, and her tresses floated over the hands which
were pressed against her brow; the old man started wildly forward,
position—cold, erect, and to all appearance, immovable.
“Can I say more?” she raised her face, brilliant with tears, toward the
light—“Have I not bared my heart to you? To you, whom I have
never seen before, whom I do not know,—unless indeed—”
She gazed upon him long and anxiously, while he awaited the result
of her scrutiny in evident suspense.
“Unless—well, well, my girl—”
“Unless indeed, you are my Protoctor,—my Father—in this disguise!
O, say, have you not done this to test my affection for you? But it is
not kind,—it is not manly—to steal thus upon me at dead of night, and
force me to lay bare the secrets of my heart, by telling me that Gilbert
lives. Gilbert, alas! who has long since crumbled into dust!”
He shrunk away from her extended arms, and turned his face aside from
the light.
At this moment, as she stood with outstretched arms,—her face reflected
in the mirror, warming slowly into bloom once more—while he started
back and concealed his face from the light, an incident took place, witnessed
by neither, and yet—it may be—fraught with the most important
results.
A hand appeared among the hangings, which separated this chamber
from the next; a letter was thrown into the room; it alighted at the very
feet of Madeline, and yet she did not see it. The hand then disappeared,
and in its place a red round face peered in through the hangings,—looked
hurriedly round with large vacant eyes—and then vanished without a
sound.
Was it the face of Jacopo the Philosopher?
“Come, Father, confess it! This is a merry jest of yours to test my
affection for you, and at the same time learn the secrets of my heart, in
regard to Reginald and Gilbert. You know father, that Reginald was
only a passing cloud, while Gilbert's memory has ever been to me dear
as the summer sky, which smiles above my Wissahikon home. Could
the grave give up its dead, could Gilbert come back this hour, you know
—you must know—how willingly I would share his fate, and endeavor to
atone for the past, by loving his own faithful wife among the woods of
Wissahikon!”
There was music in her voice—blushes like daybreak upon her cheek
—light pure as the midnight stars in her large full eyes.
“But I am not Rolof Sener,” said the Outcast, in a voice thick and
broken as his chest heaved, and he turned his face aside—“I am not the
miserable Deformed—no, by —! I am taller than he,—your own eyes
might convince you of that!”
“Yes, yes, but is this hair, this beard so venerable your own?” and she
burst into a merry laugh. “Come—come—father, confess it! The man
stature. Ah, ha! Have I found you out? But it was not kind; indeed,
indeed it was a cruel jest. Now you will fulfil your promise—I shall go
to Wissahikon, shall I not?”
Laughing, blushing, her bosom once more beating into full life, she
sprang toward him with outstretched arms,—like a beloved daughter who
has foiled her father in some merry surprise—she clasped him by the
neck, and her hair flowed over his shoulders.
He unwound her arms,—thrust her gently aside—and hurried with unsteady
steps from her chamber.
She stood there like a statue of surprise, gazing—not after him—but
upon the spot where he had been, with a mingled look of mirth and
wonder, her lips smiling while her eyes gathered new light as they shone
with tears.
And all the while the letter which had been thrown into the room by
an unknown hand, lay unperceived at her feet.
| CHAPTER THIRTY-SECOND.
MADELINE AND THE OUTCAST. Paul Ardenheim, the monk of Wissahikon | |