University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.

Three weeks after this, Harold had good reason to
believe that Oscar really was in England. How his
heart swelled. Loena was weeping with joy upon his
bosom, and Elvira stood by, like a queen, in her power
and solitariness.

`Do not go,' said the latter, as Harold prepared to
go again, where he had reason to expect intelligence of
Oscar, `do not go, at least, not yet—I know not what
I say, but, thy brother and I are strangers, forever—
must continue so, unless—'

`Well,' said Harold, `unless what?'

`Unless—' she replied—`I tremble to pronounce the
word. My fate is on it. I am not superstitious, but
some calamity, I do feel assured, is about to befal us.
My brain is so racked and swayed by distracting emotions
that I have not left the firmness, that is necessary
for this trial—indeed I know not what I was going to
say.'

She pressed her hand to her heart, as she said this,
and her eyes grew strangely dim, and her parted lips
vibrated with a quick motion, as if her breath were
drawn through her heart; nay, for a moment, she looked
like some lovely thing, in the extremity of her awe
and sorrowing, suddenly chilled to marble, while the
words trembled in broken, inarticulate murmurs, like
inward musick, from her open mouth, and her motionless
hands were pressed upon her poor heart—the
haunted cavity, tenantless now, and desolate—dark
and silent, to all but the spirit of other days, and his
sweet ministering.

`I must be plain,' said she, at last, `if Oscar be indeed
alive, and if he be that Oscar, the same that I
have known, our fate is sealed. I care not then, how
soon I go to my long home,' (the tears rolled down
her cheeks, as she continued,) `nay, even now, my
brother, for oh, thou art my brother, the brother of a
broken hearted woman—I could lie down upon my
death bed, and weep myself away to my last, last sleep,
with a feeling of unutterable delight; and oh, if it were
meet for me to die, how devoutly would I kneel down
at thy feet, my brother, and pray for death, at this
moment.'

Harold caught her thin, weak hands and pressed
them to his lips, while his tears fell upon them, like
a shower of cold rain; and his Indian girl wiped them
off as they fell, with her beautiful thick hair, and kissed
her again and again, on the forehead, lips, and eyes,
sobbing herself, all the while, like a distracted creature.

The door opened.

A stranger walked into the room. It was twilight,
but he was not to be mistaken. The Indian girl shrieked,
and ran forward to meet him; and Elvira sank
down, in silence, powerless, and motionless, upon the
floor. But Harold, heedless of aught but the majestick
presence before him, leaped forward, and extended his
arms.

They embraced, and parted, and the stranger, motioning

the others to depart, was instantly left alone,
supporting the lifeless Elvira upon his knees.

Did his touch thrill so sensibly? why then, lifeless
as she was, did her flesh tremble, when he laid his
hand upon her forehead?

She opened her eyes, gazed upon him, until their
insupportable dimness made his brain reel, and his
heart sicken, and then he murmured her name.

She showed no symptom of recognition, but continued
gazing upon him for some minutes, like one
that studies the chart of a country defaced by continual
storm and irruption, earthquake and inundation—
`Surely,' said she, at last, `surely,'—putting back his
hair, and looking into his eyes, with an expression of
reviving intelligence, and then over his forehead, where
the most tremendous inroads of passion and suffering
had been; but the stranger faltered not, a little paler he
might be, but it was evident that he was waiting for
some symptom of recognition, before he told her what
he felt, that he was a dying man, and that his heart too,
was in decay.

Her colour came at last, like a flash of fire, over her
whole face, and she faintly repulsed him; but the effort
was too much for her, and her head sank upon his bosom,
and the stranger's cheek was thrilling with the
touch of her mouth, as she murmured his name, from
the deepest place of her whole heart, and gave herself
up, entirely, and forever, to the tenderness that gushed
after it.

`Oh, Oscar,' she repeated timidly, again and again,
while her half shut eyes glittered through their tears,
like some dark flowers, opening in the dewy starlight
and shadow.

Oscar arose, and Elvira leaned upon his bosom. His
tread was still undaunted; and there was a sternness, a
sort of reality in his outline, somewhat intimidating,
perhaps, to the visionary and passionate, but not so to
Elvira, not to the heroick and sublime.

Here Harold broke in upon them again, his heart
leaping from his fine eyes, and Loena clinging to him.

But Oscar appeared to shrink from him, not haughtily,
as he was wont, but doubtfully; and when he spoke
to him, it was in a voice so deep, so melancholy, that
the blood ran cold at the sound of it.

`Who art thou?' said he, `what is the meaning of
this? who art thou, young man? by what right—'

`Still so imperious!' said Elvira, `he is thy brother.'

`My brother!—how!—' (a rapid, slight convulsion
passed over his face,) `where am I?' he said, as he
gazed upon Harold, who stood awestruck and abashed
before him—`at first, I embraced thee, I know not
why. Thou art a stranger to me—and yet, thou seemest—art
thou not? some spirit that I have dreamed of
in my delirium? nightly, yea, nightly, for many a year
of sorrow and wretchedness, in the misgiving of my
heart, and desolation of my soul—hast thou, or has thy
visage, young man, haunted me. Art thou indeed my
brother? Speak! What means this yearning of my heart?
Speak to me. Whence this mystery? Have I approached
thee too haughtily?—Forgive me, thou knowest
not how much I have had to make me haughty. Oh,
speak to me—but—maybe thou art a spirit, and she,
too, and she, wretched Oscar! Why do you not speak
to me? What have I done? Shall I be as one of you? But
give the sign, and lo, I am disembodied like yourselves.
Oh speak to me. I want a brother. I have always
wanted one—tears!—nay then, ye are living creatures
—forgive me, I entreat you. What have I said to you?
Nothing unkind, I hope.' Here he fell upon his knees.
`Father,' he cried, `forgive me, I am very wretched;
thou hast visited my transgressions upon me, in mercy
—and—'

Elvira stood breathless, with all her faculties spell
bound, before him.

And Harold, too, stood still, still as death; not a muscle
moved at this adjuration, not a nerve trembled.

`Arise, brother,' said he, at last, in a firm, low, but
distinct voice, full of manhood and self possession;
`arise! Thou art my brother. I am thine. Thou art
proud, it seems. So am I, very proud. I have thrown
myself upon thy bosom—thou hast thrust me from thee

—no matter, I forgive thee, I have learned to forgive
men.'

`By heaven,' cried Oscar, leaping into his arms,
`there spoke the blood of Salisbury. Thou art my
brother! I am sure of it! I glory in thee. Thy voice,
thy look, thy emphasis, are all of my father. No other
man on earth ever spoke, or looked, or acted like him.
What is thy name?'

`Harold,' answered Loena, quickly, her countenance
flashing with vivid and intense delight.

`Harold,' said Oscar, `why that seems strange. I
once knew, or thought that I knew, a man of that
name, but where it was, or when, I have forgotten.'

Harold interrupted him, and told him where it was,
and how it terminated; and his brother's face clouded,
as he went on, till his eyes shot lightning. `Yes, yes,
I remember it now; oh, I was a madman then; it is
all here, here, burning and whirling yet. But no more
of this—I thank thee. I acknowledge thee. I have
now a brother. I am not alone now, not quite alone, in
the wide, bleak world. Let us kneel.'

He knelt; and who could resist the temptation to
kneel with him? He bowed his great forehead, and
there was in that very movement, so slow, and reverential,
a something so awfully impressive, so august,
that, without uttering a word, all felt the unction of a
truly religious spirit, a presence of devout sincerity
doing, like some high priest, his appointed and acceptable
service, in silence and mystery.

Not a word was spoken, not a single word, but the
whole four knelt together, and arose, with an unspeakably
deep religious feeling, to the expression of which,
no form, no words would have been competent.

`My brother,' said the stern, implacable man, as he
arose, with his eyes clouded, `my brother, I am happy.
I am forgiven. I feel it here. I am ready to die
now. I care not how soon I go to martyrdom.'

As he said this, he turned, with a majestick step, to
depart, but his course was impeded by Elvira; he extended
his hands, and his very fingers shivered with a
mixture of passionate delight and horrour. He was

cruelly disturbed, that was evident, and he undoubtedly
took her for a spirit, as he dashed away the tears
from his eyes, and addressed her in a broken whisper,
as if afraid that, at the sound of his voice, she might
vanish.

`Still there!' he said, `still there; oh, Elvira, just as
thou stoodest once upon the waters.'

Elvira reached out her arms to him, and Oscar, poor
fellow, in the reeling of his brain, and the wild rioting
of his heart, approached, with his arms as wide apart
as he could hold them, as if he caught at some sweet,
airy mockery, that he knew would disappear.

But he caught a living woman in his embrace—
`Alive! alive!' he said, shuddering, passing his damp
hand, first over his brow, and then over hers, as if to
assure himself that, whatever they were, spirits or substantial
things, they were alike. The thought seemed to
give him pleasure, and he smiled. `But what art thou,
dear?' he said, pressing her temples with his fingers,
and gazing on her shut eyes `do not let me wake;
cheat me forever, and I will forgive thee for all, and I
have suffered much—oh, my brain! Thou'rt very like
her, that's certain, but not so young; no, no, not so
very young and beautiful, but more majestick; say,
dear, what art thou—poor dead Elvira.'

Elvira opened her eyes again, at the sound of her
own name; and, in the delirium of her heart, caught
the hand which yet rested upon her temples, to her
lips, and kissed it eagerly. Oscar almost plucked it
away from her—`Woman,' he cried, sternly, `what
art thou? wouldst thou tempt so dreary, so desolate
a heart as mine? Nay, nay, do not weep, I meant not
unkindly, dear; and thou art so like my poor girl, that
I am sure she would forgive me for loving thee—I do
love thee, I do indeed, child—Ha! her very eyes, open
them upon me, again, love. Indeed, indeed thou art
marvellously like the only human creature, whom I
never spoke or looked unkindly to. Didst know her?
She rifled my proud heart, scorched my brain, scorched
it to cinders, plundered me of all my treasures, reason,

goodness, religion, and left me—what I am—a
maniac, a murderer! — — —
— — — Oh God, have mercy
on me! But yet, unkind Elvi—yes that was her name,
I can bear to speak it, I'm not afraid, no, I will speak
it—Elvira! there, was it not bravely done?—yes, her
name is still dear to me, very dear. Why lookest thou
away from me? Didst thou know her? I'll swear thou
didst, for thou hast caught the very motion of her
lips, the languor of her look, the—the innocent tranquillity
of her whole countenance. And oh—I cannot
spurn thee from me, thou tempter, I cannot, as I
would and have, every woman that hath breathed upon
my cheek, since Elvira touched it — —
— — — — yet, yet, do not
weep—farewell; I cannot love thee, farewell.'

He stopped a while, exhausted, and then recommenced,
in a tone of more thrilling tenderness, and
melancholy.

`No, there was only one, one, on the whole earth,
of all the countless myriads that heaven hath thrown
in my way, only one that I could love, and be beloved
by—and she, she hath forsaken me. Thou lovest me,
blue-eyed woman; I see it, I were no mortal not to see
it, but beware, thou wouldst abandon me too—thy
swimming lids—thunder and lightning!' (He shrieked
aloud, covered his face with his hands, and suffered
Elvira to fall at his feet.) `Merciful God! where am
I? what new dream is this? where am I? in the dominions
of heaven or earth? what art thou?' he added, firmly
grasping Harold, who, incapable of resistance, from
the suddenness and unexpectedness of the attack, shook
in all his joints, as if he were in the paws of a lion,
`speak! I will be obeyed. Who hath planned all this?
You would drive me mad? wreck me anew, ye cruel
creatures, soul and body, forever and ever—plunge me
again, up to the eyelids, in hot blood, hot! hot!'

Here Loena interfered and, with a manner, that
showed her to have been familiar with these moods,
laid her soft hand upon Oscar's brow, until he gradually
relaxed his iron hold of Harold.

`Be calm, my preserver,' she said, `oh be calm, be
thyself again. Remember thy vow. Unbend thy forehead.
Call up thy noble faculties. That woman—nay,
look upon me more quietly—now for the trial of thy
manhood—art thou prepared?'

`I am,' was the reply.

`That woman then,' said she, `is Elvira.'

A silence of some minutes followed, which was
broken by Oscar himself, who observed, in a calm,
dispassionate tone, as if bewildered: `I cannot understand.
There is a period of my life, that is a blank to
me. It is all—darkness and delirium; what happened
then, except at intervals, I know not. But I have a
terrible, indistinct recollection, that Elvira is no more
—that—' (he shuddered, and his very teeth rattled,)
that—I murdered her! Did I! Tell me the truth. I
can bear it, believe me. It has been a life, this of mine,
all of shadowy dreaming, fire and smoke; and, in my
memory, all substantial and beautiful things hold an
uncertain place. Give me time to think; this lady—
no, no, I will not speak of my beloved in such words.
I will believe thee, I will—there.'

As he said this, he approached the insensible Elvira,
and pressed his lip to her forehead.

`There! I acknowledge thee, dearest; by that kiss,
I wed thee, love, living or dead.'

She moved.

`Ha—living!—awake then, awake, love—give me
our ancient pledge. Then shall I know thee, indeed.'

Elvira had just life enough left, to lock her hands
together, and place them in his.

`By heaven, it is true!' he cried, the tears gushing
out of his very heart, for the first time, almost, in his
whole life. `Thou art indeed, my Elvira! mine own! I
believe thee now. No mortal can make me doubt
thee!'

Now then was Oscar happy beyond the reach of vicissitude
or calamity. He was still beloved—still! and
forgiven too! The woman of his worship was in his
arms. She whom he had so long loved; so secretly too;
had loved him as long, and as secretly. True, they might

die. They might be torn asunder again. Again, she might
banish his heart, like the dove—shutting up the only ark
upon the face of all the waters, to which it could return—
but no human being, no, nothing in heaven or earth
could alter the past—the assurance of her love was like
a fresh fountain, springing out of a barren and rocky
desert to him in his journeying. He had tasted, and
lain himself down by it, willing to die, ere his thirst
returned. O, he was happy! Had she not locked her
beautiful hands together, and renewed the pledge of
mystery and love?

Let us leave them. It were vain to dwell upon such
scenes. The full heart, filled to repletion, to bursting,
with unutterable thought, must be left to repose and
languor. Go ye to your dreaming then, ye that have
loved; go, and dream anew of your dearest one—the
touch of lips that thrill—the glance of eyes that weep
for rapture—the sound of a voice that murmurs, like
the musick of a broken harp swept by the wet wind—go,
and dream of tears, and whispers, and intertwining
arms, and half-closed eyelids, and the innocent surrendering
of your whole heart and being to that
beloved one!—Go, and believe, as you sit together
about the family hearth; as you worship together at
the well-known altar, where every thing breathes, and
sounds, and touches of the friend that you have lost—
so hallowed by ten thousand sweet and solemn recollections;
so mournful, so tender, that you learn to believe
that the dear spirit is forever about you, forever
near you; watching with you; listening to your voice—
gazing into your eyes—worshipping with you—and
then at night, too, when you are helpless and alone, to
believe that all that you have loved and lost, are tenanting
your apartment, and praying over you—go—Go to
your dreaming, ye that have wandered, and be forgiven
again! Go, and be restored again, to all that you
have lost. But beware how you awake! O, it is no
light matter to awake from such dreams—such! with
the tempter at your elbow, and the means of destruction
at hand. O, God! is it not?—to awake with the
cold tear upon your cheek, the tear that was warm

but a moment before, and flowed from your overcharged
eyes, in the fullness of your joyful dreaming!—
to awake, and outstretch your desolate arms toward
the untenanted pillow at your side—to turn
to it, with your heart heaving, and away from it again,
as if struck with sudden death—to awake, ere the palpitating
of your breast hath ceased—with all your arteries
tingling, and your temples sore and aching, with
the trance into which your dream had plunged you;
and find it all cold and dark about you—O, there is
no death so terrible!

Woman! look at me. Hast thou never dreamt of
starlight, and musick, with all the innocent revelry of
the heart? Dreamt that some dear one was weeping
upon thy lips—and awoke—alone, all, all alone, within
the four walls of a dark, solitary chamber, with perhaps
no other living thing awake, in the whole world!

Angel of dreaming, why art thou our visitor? Is it
in mercy? or comest thou, like the tempter, to make
men mad and blaspheme, in the suddenness and excess
of their disappointment? Why are they disturbed at
midnight, with parting lips and closing eyes all about
them? and then shaken, by fleshless hands, till they
awake and find, that what they have dreamt of, are
the lips and the eyes of the sepulcre! — —
— — — —

And now let us return again to our friends. Behold
them once more in tranquillity—such is the reward
of well-doing; such the operation of God's spirit upon
the stubborn and vehement. Oscar's proud nature
is bowed to the earth—he is now the very apostle of
sorrow and humiliation. His high faculties, forgetting
their imperial sway, are no longer blazing about, like
the lighted thunderbolts of heaven, upon all that oppose
him. No, but they are burning now with a quiet,
mild lustre, like balls of pearl, with a coal in the centre.
The fiery and impatient spirit of Harold too, is
curbed and subdued. He is now another, and a nobler
creature. The two brothers are christians now, as well
as men; brave, cool, and wise: and even the untamed,

untameable Loena, hath learnt to bear herself meekly,
amid the encompassing brightness of HER destiny.