University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.

Oh, who hath not felt, in the short experience of his
youth, the trembling, damp, chilly relaxation of some
hand that grasped his, in dissolution—and the sick,
sick yielding of the fingers, as they strove to cling, yet
a little longer, to something that had life and substance
in it? who hath not felt a like moisture and chilliness
upon his heart?—the sweat of death? and, who hath
not? no matter how short may have been his bright
and blessed, or weary and wasting pilgrimage, upon
this earth—who hath not leant over some dear one,
with her swimming dark eyes uplifted, meekly and patiently
to his—not in supplication—not in entreaty—
not even in hope—but knowing that no help was near
—that prayer was vain—that death was approaching,
and reluctant to depart, only because her beloved was
near her? who hath not, at some period of the shortest
life, felt these melancholy, mournful feelings?—who
hath not stood, and bowed, and wept with desolate fervour
over the face that he loved?—seen it collapse and
fall under the frightful touches of mortality?—remembering
how he leant over it, when it heaved with the
last effort of expiring life and affection—and remembering
also, oh, God! with heart breaking distinctness,
all the endearment and tenderness of the past * *
hallowed and innocent pressures * * * tones of gentleness
* * * * tremulous kisses— * * * * * half-shut

eyes—* * * * Father of mercies, why are we so
tortured, at such seasons? why are not our senses shut
and sealed? our memories palsied? But no—no—no!
`Thy will be done!'

And who hath not, in the weeping, vital reluctance
of his heart, fallen down as the beloved face grew dimmer
and dimmer, and waned to blankness in his gaze,
in utter prostration and despair—cursing himself, and
the light, and almost blaspheming his Maker—himself,
for his impotency, and his Maker, for his unmerciful
dispensation!

Oh, how many are there?—how many, who, could
they bear to speak of the desolation that filled them,
from the crown of their head, to the sole of their feet,
would tell you that it was, as if all sense, all movement,
and all animation had left them, while the faint
kisses grew fainter, and fainter, of the mouth whereon
they dwelt in weeping and terrour? `Father, forgive
them, they know not what they do.' Thou hast endowed
them with a sensibility that destroys itself:—a nature
that, being exhausted, forgets:—the agonizing capabilities
of love are too selfish—too impious. When the object
of our idolatry is blotted, we would blot out the
world; but the very violence and desperation of our
grief are its speediest remedies. And then, the exquisite
vitality of remembrance, who would exchange it,
with all its thrilling, quivering nerves, for torpor and insensibility?
We think of her whom we have lost. We
see the hectick upon her cheek—the preternatural
temptation of her lips—the delicate transparency of
her forehead, when the blue tinctured veins grow bluer
with the changing of her thought. She is all over
pulse, from head to foot—and the unearthly brightness
of her eyes is upon us—we think of them—dwell upon
them, until we weep, and are relieved.

Such were the feelings of Harold. He had, for it was
the same to him—he had seen his loved one—dead—
dead to him—yea, worse, for she was another's. There
was, now no hope in futurity for him! He could not
reclaim her in the skies. Nay, he would not dare to
meet her there. It was guilt here, to think of her,

would it be less there, to approach her? Yea, he was
more incurably, helplessly forlorn than if he had felt
her dying breath upon his bosom. Then, there were a
tender melancholy—ten thousand fearful remembrances,
to sooth and subdue him—to win him into tears.
Now, he dared not weep. It were a sin to weep now.
Who will condemn Harold? Let him who would not
rather see his beloved in her shroud, than in the arms
of another—let him cast the first stone.

`But one way—one way on earth, is left to me,'
said he, as he meditated aloud upon his path. `I cannot
forget her. To speak of her would be death to me.
My head is strangely disordered, at the thought of her
name. `But—' and he trod more loftily with the sublime
conception—`I will emancipate myself—my
countrymen!—be a hero—a great and good man, and,
when we meet again—(he faltered—faltered in the untrodden
solitude—and blushed)—`she shall be proud
of the Indian boy.'

With thoughts like these, he pursued his way, his
godlike nature all in commotion, toward the dwelling
that he had abandoned. With the elevation of his
thought, his language and walk held correspondence.
The solitude ministered to him. He mused liked a giant,
for he felt like one. There had always been an unstudied,
natural, masculine energy in his talk, which had
never failed to produce in the hearer, a peculiar promptitude
and vigour of reply—a quick, vehement, breathing;
but had he been heard now, as he trod onward alone,
through the wilderness, communing with his own destiny,
he would have been avoided—none would have replied,
and none would have breathed in his way. The
very thought of his soul, with every transition and
change, though rapid and brief as light, could be foreseen
upon his countenance.—The movements, within
and without, were simultaneous.

He has returned. It is evening. He is watching the
light of yonder apartment. It is dim as twilight. Is it
a sick chamber? Is it hers? His heart knocked against
his ribs, and grew suddenly still. Can it be hers? The
thought was too painful for suspense. He bounded over

the garden wall, forgetful of all precaution, in his anxiety
to obtain a view, from some one of the nearer buildings
or trees. A large mastiff set upon him immediately,
without noise or threat. Harold had no time to
soothe the terrible animal—He leaped backward, and
drew his pistol—He fired—the dog uttered a low growl,
and came limping towards him. Harold leaped upon
the wall, directly in full view of the window. A bullet
whistled by him, and a bell instantly rang an alarm.
The drums of the garrison beat. The windows were
closed, and lights were seen hurrying hither and thither,
in all directions, over the house. He heard a gate open
behind him, and voices approaching.—It was too late
to return. The guard were undoubtedly alarmed—the
whole town was in commotion, and he would not be
taken for ten thousand lives.

One desperate chance remained. He leaped from the
wall, threw aside his bow and arrows, dashed
through the summer-house, ran up stairs, and opened
the door of his own room, with the hope of escaping
pursuit for a while, there—it was empty, but he had
not time to shut it; the enraged mastiff was at his heels,
in silence, still—what should he do?—He drove his
sword through and through him, and nailed him to the
floor. It was with pain that he did it, for the poor creature
knew him at last, and actually turned about, with
the sword cutting his vitals, and licked the feet of Harold.
Harold shuddered. That dog had been his friend
more than once—more than once, in battle, and in hunting,
had saved him in imminent peril. Harold had loved
the dog, and his heart grew big as he thought of the
fatality that seemed to assail all that he loved, and all
that loved him. For a moment, all considerations of
personal safety were forgotten, and he could have said,
as a woman has since been made to say:

But he was soon aroused to a painful sense of his
situation. The noise of pursuit approached. The bay
of dogs, blood hounds, upon the track of their fellow—
voices—and iron heels. What should he do? Throw
himself before the door, and battle to the last gasp
with his pursuers, while he could stand or sit—treat
them, his own soldiers, perhaps, like mortal foes? or
should he call upon the lady Elvira to save him?—
The thought scorched his brain. What! sneak to a woman's
bed-chamber!—His sword is plucked out forcibly
from the weltering animal, and he stands upon
guard. Now, wo to them that approach! they are on the
stair-case. The dogs are held back. A door opens.—
By the light, he sees—yes, gracious heaven! it is! it is!
lady Elvira, rising from a sofa.—Has the noise just
alarmed her? She is alone. Her features are agitated—
Traces of weeping are upon her cheek. She is approaching.
What! shall he stay here, and blast her fame forever?
no—what blindness and infatuation! He closes his door—
bolts it—piles the furniture against it—throws up the
sash—vaults out upon the piazza—passes her window,
throws in the paper—she shrieks, and he is gone!—
the noise of his retreat is heard, but the dogs cannot
follow him. He is safe. Occasionally a shot rings after
him, and a spent ball strikes, now and then, among the
branches over his head. But he is safe.

He pauses. Shall he pursue his way? or shall he
climb this tree? will he not be safer here, until the heat
of the chace be over? He mounts it—a nearer one in a
higher situation, will answer all his purposes of concealment
better, and enable him to watch the movement
of his pursuers. He stretches his sabre before him—
proceeds with all the wily craftiness of his Indian nature,
until he finds a tree just without the wall, far,
far, from the sound of the dogs, and firing, which are
now heard, at intervals, along the river path.

He is now among the topmost branches, completely
sheltered from observation. He sees the house all in
commotion. The alarming search continues just below
him. Whose chamber is that? it is his own;—those
dark and awe-struck faces, in consultation, are assembled

about the poor dog. They turn him over. They observe
the wound in the floor. They huddle together,
and cast their agitated glances about. What! do they
fear that the arm which could drive a poniard through
a plank, is near them?

Another group pass, in loud and clamorous outcry,
with lights, directly under his feet. Every human being
that he sees is familiar to him, yet he dare not
speak—his life is hunted—may be taken—and yet he
must not open his lips. He is to fall, if he do fall,
self immolated. They talk of Indians—hark! an exclamation
of horrour breaks from them, all at once! What
have they found?—His bow and arrow. Their terrours
are confirmed. `The Indians!—the Indians!' they cry:
it is re-echoed wildly from the house—`the Indians!
the Indians!'—

The lady—He had heard her shriek. Might she not
have fainted? He almost leaped from the tree, at the
thought. He descended instantly, and mounted another,
from which, through the partly opened shutters,
he could see the whole interior of her room. The light
is removed—a shadow, as of one tossing her arms, is
seen upon the walls. He leans forward—further—further—the
branch yields—snaps—and he is only saved
from death by an intervening branch. A worse fate attends
him, for a moment; his remaining pistol went off
in the fall. The sound is heard, in the absence of the
younger servants, by the old butler, who comes out
with a light, and looks cautiously about. Harold is
afraid to breathe, afraid to make any exertions for his
safety, and yet, every moment may be his last, as he
hangs suspended only by a fold in his dress. The old
man at length returns, and Harold is left to reinstate
himself. Hardly has he done it, when the window
opens, and Elvira, herself, appears! His heart rises in
his throat. She leans out, and looks eagerly around,
holding somewhat in her hand—she waves her handkerchief—her
handkerchief! no, it is a letter. He is
near enough to be heard—the faintest whisper, it appeared
to him, could reach her. He whispered. How
greatly he was deceived! Such a faint tremulous sound

would not have been heard, amid the sternest solitude,
in its most awful silence. He moves—now—now!—
her eyes are toward the tree. Does she see him? It
was impossible that she should, and yet, Harold could
hardly forbear reaching out his hands to her.

“Lady”—he articulates.—The sound would have
been audible only to love—she heard it,—coloured—
withdrew—but stood gazing upon the tree. Harold
shook the branches. She trembled and clasped her
hands—stood irresolute for a moment—snatched her
lute, and touched the only air that ever had appeared
to affect him. A pause. She waited the answer—
some answer, to convince her that it was Harold:—
he repeated the closing words of each stanza—“to
thee, love,” in the faintest intelligible sound. It was
an echo.

Enough! a paper is suddenly folded, and falls fluttering
under the tree. He descends—snatches it up—
exchanges one salutation—The window is shut—and
he is satisfied—happy.

Behold him again—once more—in his cabin. He
stopped not, rested not on the way;—except once, for
a single moment, when he thought that he heard a
footstep, and saw, for a single moment, a diminutive
shadow, apparently tracking him. It was near the town
—and he attributed the appearance to the delusion of
his terrour. He has forgotten it now.

The door is secure. A fire of dry leaves is blazing
before him—and he prepares to read. The note is already
open in his hand—why is his hand upon his
pistol?—why rises he so slowly?—is he listening? Has
he been pursued? A hand is upon the door. It shakes.
“A wild beast perhaps,' says Harold;—yet he feels
an invincible repugnance to fire, until he is assured that
it is. The whole cabin shakes—the door yields—
a colossal figure stands before him. He fires. Now,
for the first time, he discovers that his pistols are unloaded.
He draws his sabre. The spectre turns, and
stalks sullenly away. Harold has no power to follow.
Why did he not cleave it down? He could not. His
blood was chilled—his arm was paralyzed. He could

as soon have slain his own father, as lift his hand, in
the presence of this tremendous shadow. What was
he to think? was the cabin, like the tree, haunted?

“Come what, come will,” cried he, at last, “I will
not be disturbed again. I will read this note, though
the Arch fiend himself stand before me.”

He read as follows.

“Madman!—That motto has betrayed thee. Thy
presumption shall be punished. Canst thou believe
that I—I—rash boy, I can hardly bring myself to write
the word—love thee! No—it is time that thou shouldst
know the truth. How bitterly it makes me repent of
my unguardedness. The picture is thine. The motto
may, with justice be applied to thee. It should be engraven
upon thy front. But why did I preserve it?
Why did I finish this which thou hast sent me? Because—and
let my words fall upon thee like a thunder
bolt—and consume thee to ashes, for thy presumption!
—Because they resembled one whom I have loved—
and lost; but not thee—oh no—it was not thee! He
was a man.

“Harold! what fiend possesses thee! I cannot find
words to rebuke thee, as I ought; I could even treat
thee kindly yet—for his sake,—for the love of him—
to whom thou bearest such an unaccountable resemblance—but—I
dare not. Therefore—let me never
see thee, or hear from thee more; go from me, far
as winds and waters can carry thee, and take my blessing
with thee, only on this condition—that thou never,
never utterest my name again:—my eternal malediction
else.”

E.

Harold was stupified with amazement. His hair
rose upon his head. In the first paroxysm of his wrath,
he tore his locks, and dashed himself upon the ground.
But these transports were brief. His terrible nature
arose in arms, at the cry of his soul. His countenance
blackened with indignation.

He knelt down. His sobs shook the bed. He became
composed—stern—stern as adamant. “By the
living God!' he cried—“I will be revenged!” He arose.
He rent and scattered the cabin—its arms—its furniture—like

a whirlwind about him—with his sabre, he
hewed down the young ash trees over the fountain—
he choaked that up with huge rocks, and, having completed
the work of desolation, turned, and struck into
the midnight forest, bare headed, and silent as death.
On a high precipice at a distance, under the star light,
a tall figure stood beckoning to him. He beckoned to
it in return, and pursued it, as it walked over the cliff,
huge and portentous.

Three nights after the alarm, as the lady Elvira was
about retiring, she saw a handful of rubbish lying
near the bed. She touched it with her foot, and, at the
same moment, spoke to Martha.

Martha came, and as she was picking it up, for it
appeared to be composed of scraps of paper, she kept
protesting, that, not a living soul had been in the room
since she swept it, except her mistress and herself, and
she was—“Bless me, what a face!—why!—as I live
—it looks like Mr. Harold himself—as he used to
look,” she exclaimed! reaching a scrap to her mistress
—“Is'nt it, madam—the very image of him—mercy
on us! how pale you look!”

Elvira was pale. Here was the picture—the book
—and her own letter, torn into ten thousand pieces!—
She trembled so that she could hardly stand. Who
did this? And where was he? She shuddered as she
threw her eyes around the room. Already had her
conscience reproached her, bitterly, for her cruelty to
young Harold. Already had she begun to relent. Had
his apparition stood before her, she could not have
been more terrified—or more fully assured, that some
tremendous evil had befallen him. And now did she
reproach herself again, for the haughty spirit that had
destroyed him. She need not have answered his love
—she need not have acknowledged her own—for she
did love him—but she might have treated him generously,
and sealed his heart and lips with kindness—
not with death.

The incident of the torn papers was at last entirely
forgotten, or only referred to, by some accidental remark

now and then; but her anxiety to learn what had
become of Harold became insupportable. About this
time Martha happened to be taken sick, and her place
was supplied by the old housekeeper, who was deaf, and
almost blind. She was a good nurse, and had prescribed
to her mistress just before she retired, a cordial,
whose exhilirating effects were instantly visible in her
lady. Her eyes sparkled, and her colour came and
went, and it was long before she was able to compose
herself sufficiently for sleep.

She dreamt. The prayer of her whole life was answered.
She held the husband of her heart to her
bosom. How she knew not—where, she knew not,
but she was satisfied. Her beloved had arisen, torn
asunder all her engagements, forgiven her, and embraced
her, in the sight of heaven and earth. The
tears streamed from her eyes. Her sobs of delight
and thankfulness were audible. She even strove to
awake—but no, no—it was no dream!—How could she
think it a dream for a single moment! She resigned
herself therefore, to the intoxication of her thought,
without reserve. She felt his warm lips upon her
cheek—his breath—his affectionate caressing—and
she was happy.

A sound awoke her. A man was standing at her
bed side—his face buried in his hands. In the first
tumult of her heart, bewildered and dreaming yet, she
reached out her arms to him—saying “my beloved!—
He moved not—answered not;—they fell lifeless upon
the covering before her. She continued gazing upon
him, however, with a fixed look—gradually becoming
more and more piteous and distracted, as a horrible
apprehension of the truth broke upon her. She put
her hands out, once, more timidly toward him,—and
articulated, faintly, a name—“husband! my own
dear husband,” His hands fell. She shrieked; and
fainted.

It was Harold!

He hesitated—he drew his dagger. He knew
not if it were not better to consummate his horrible

guilt at once, and let out her heart's blood upon the
spot. But no—no! His own then!—the point was already
in the air. He relented. Was he not sufficiently
avenged? Would he damn her, and himself, forever
and ever? Could he cleanse her of all pollution, he
would have done it, gladly, gladly, now that his fell
purpose was accomplished. There she lay, before him
—lifeless—utterly lifeless. He threw himself by her
side—kissed her pale lips—her forehead, and called
down the curses of heaven upon his own head. She
awoke--she opened her eyes. The light of death was
in them. She shuddered, and repulsed him—and her
eylids shut slowly again. He was desperate. He rang
the bell; and it was only, when he heard an approaching
footstep, that he reflected on the consequences of
his being found in the chamber. Dead or alive, it
would be more than death, to the haughty Elvira. For
this reason alone, he determined to go. He threw
open the long blinds upon the walk, stepped out, and
was gone—

Onward he goes—behold him now! bare headed—
almost naked—unarmed—and helpless. A child might
pinion him, hand and foot. The leaves rustle as he approaches,
and he gazes upon them, with a vacant eye,
as if they were whispering at him. The wild beasts
pass him, and avoid him. He neither sits nor sleeps.
A shadow is at his side, mocking and leering at him.
He turns upon it, now and then, and shakes his head
at it, reproachfully, like a heart-broken creature; but
his countenance never changes—vacancy and distraction
are only legible there. Sometimes he pauses for a moment—thrusts
his hand into his bosom—and plays with
the ivory tablet which he has so long carried there—
attempting, with his fingers, to pull apart the glued
leaves, but without any other appearance of consciousness,
than the loathing, which his countenance expresses,
when he touches his tongue the second time with
the same finger, and leaves some of his father's blood upon
it. But tis the taste only, not the reflection, that convulses
his features. He dashes the tablet from him.

Onward he goes. Another spectre, as wild and haggard

as himself, is tracking his footsteps. He treads in
a circle. He cannot pass beyond the scene of his guilt.
Is it that the Almighty holds him, and that each revolution
brings him nearer to punishment? He emerges
from the wood: he utters a wild cry, and dashes again
into the thickest of the wilderness. Break out where he
will, there is the accursed chamber, with the window
open before him, and the spectre of a man continually
stealing forth.

Somebody is before him. He recovers for a moment;
feels for his arms—they are gone. Where are they?
He knows not. Is he to fall a prey here, in his helplessness?
He would proceed. An awful voice commands
him to stop.

A diminutive old man is in his way, with bright,
sparkling eyes—a high, bald forehead, and the thinnest
gray hair in the world.

`What art thou?' said the crazed wanderer.

`Harold!'

Harold started at the sound of his own name. `What
hast thou done?' said the old man.

Harold felt like Cain, when he heard the voice of
the Almighty walking in the garden. His knees smote
together—He fell upon his face.

`Arise!' cried the voice. `Arise, unhappy!—henceforth,
thou art a wanderer. Go forth. Thou art accursed
forever, and ever—thou and thine—thy death shall be
a death of violence!'

The voice ceased. Harold felt something pass him.
He lifted up his face. The old man had gone.

Where had he seen him before?—somewhere, he
was sure that he had, and that he was a prophet of
evil, and had been from his cradle. He began to relapse.
Could it then be known? had he not gone secretly
about the work of peril? had he not laboured to
conceal his preparation? Had not all hell favoured
him? where was the servant? why did not the lady
awake? what infernal magick had bound her senses so
long, so fatally?—and yet, could it be that she did
not know me?—oh, heaven and earth!—let me not
blaspheme her—she thought me her husband—her

husband! curse him! curse him! accursed be he, and
his!'

`And yet,'—he paused—the smile of Lucifer, himself,
glittered for a moment upon his agitated, dark,
front—`and yet, what did she worse than the Roman
Lucretia—worse! what did she so bad? She should be
consecrate forever! She of Rome, yielded—but she,
who has driven me mad—oh, God! she is innocent,
alike, in thought, and deed. She of Rome, chose to be
guilty, rather than be suspected.[1] But she! she!—oh,
Elvira, forgive me! forgive me!—by my soul, had I
ten thousand lives, I would give them all, to restore
thee, for one blessed moment, to thine immaculate purity.—And
then, I would slay thee, with mine own hand
—send thee to heaven, spotless, for my revenge!'