Through solid curls of smoke, the bursting firesClimb in tall pyramids above the spires,Concentring all the winds; whose forces, drivenWith equal rage from every point of heaven,Whirl into conflict, round the scantling pourThe twisting flames, and through the rafters roar.Barlow.Yes, thou must die—there is but one resource,The last—the worst—if torture were not worse.Byron.
Through solid curls of smoke, the bursting firesClimb in tall pyramids above the spires,Concentring all the winds; whose forces, drivenWith equal rage from every point of heaven,Whirl into conflict, round the scantling pourThe twisting flames, and through the rafters roar.Barlow.Yes, thou must die—there is but one resource,The last—the worst—if torture were not worse.Byron.
Through solid curls of smoke, the bursting fires
Climb in tall pyramids above the spires,
Concentring all the winds; whose forces, driven
With equal rage from every point of heaven,
Whirl into conflict, round the scantling pour
The twisting flames, and through the rafters roar.
Barlow.
Yes, thou must die—there is but one resource,
The last—the worst—if torture were not worse.
Byron.
Several topics of excitement began at this time toprevail in the village of L., in addition to that connected with the haunted rock. One was the projected marriage of Lucy Ellet very shortly to Mr. Elmore, to whom she had been for some time betrothed; another, the reappearance of Messrs. Brooks and Dale in the village, where they took up their abode for a short period; and a third, the threatened incursion of some of the neighboring Indian tribes.
To guard against this last evil, the inhabitants were obliged to appear at all times armed, and prepared for repelling hostilities. A fast was likewise appointed by the governor of the colony, and public worship held daily to offer up prayer in view of the impending danger. At such times, a guard of men, with muskets ready for immediate use, was stationed without the building, to repulse any attack of the savages, and give the word of warning to those engaged within. In this way, as the situation of the village was in itself strong, owing to the hills that surrounded it, the inhabitants trusted that they were fully prepared to resist any sudden attack.
Things were in this state, when, on a certain day, the morning beams had shone on the unpretending spire of L. for five or six hours, and the people had assembled in the building beneath as usual. The lengthy prayer with which the Puritans were wont to commence their exercises had concluded, and, just as every voice was attuned to the melody of a pious psalm, a loud and unusual noise was heard.
The worshipers of that humble meeting-house paused to listen with ears erect and faces filled with boding expectation. It was the terrific yell of the approaching Indians. This was speedily followed by the appointed signal from the soldiery stationed without, and at the instant that the report of the musketry rang in the air, the congregation started from their seats in terror. Each man rushed for his arms, and crowding to the doors and windows, found the building completely surrounded by savages. The females, remaining in the interior, shrieked in the extremity of their alarm.
The scene that followed is not easily described. A fearful struggle, of course, ensued. Heaven, too, at that moment, added its terrors to the scene. A furious thunder-storm arose, and amidst the most vivid flashes of lightning, and awful reverberations, the rain began to descend in torrents. The villagers now yielded themselves completely to terror, and abandoning the conflict, prostrated themselves on their knees, and resorted to prayer. The Indians took fresh courage from this circumstance, and commenced firing the meeting-house. For a little time the rain prevented their efforts from taking effect. But at length, as the strong army of a battle will rout the less powerful, so did the fiercer element dispel the weaker.
The fire was finally triumphant, and spouted in jets of flame out at each window of the consuming building, while huge flakes of burning materials went driving on the wind, and rolling a dark canopy of smoke over the neighborhood. The lurid glow lit up the air, and showed with terrible distinctness the waving crowd that stood around. The rain, however, prevented the progress of devastation further. But the shouts of the Indians resounded far and wide, as they turned to continue their work of destruction by setting fire to the other dwellings in the village.
At this crisis, the villagers, as if animated by a sudden and simultaneous impulse, arose from their knees, and betook themselves again to the defensive. Previously, in their resistance, wild confusion, despair, and frenzied efforts had been blended in such a manner as completely to destroy any thing like unity of action. But now, in concert, and disposed according to the best military arrangements, they advanced a second time upon these invaders.
The Indians, in confidence of their approaching triumph, had uttered the whoop of success, which called their warriors from the adjoining vicinity to behold the approaching scene. In surprise, therefore, notwithstanding this addition to their forces, they found themselves resisted with a power and a skill such as they had never before witnessed. But their previous success had given new spirit to an enemy already sufficiently audacious, and continuing their war-cries with redoubled ferocity, they pursued the attack. The combat raged for about half an hour, when the Indians were utterly defeated, and betook themselves to flight.
At that moment the clouds of heaven suddenly opened, shedding the blessed light of the returning sun upon the village; and it might have been seen that the recent victory had been obtained through the means of a stranger, who had appeared and aroused the people from their panic of fear, assumed the command, arranged and ordered them in the best military manner, and thus enabled them to repel and rout the Indians, and save the village. This person was a man of dignified and majestic bearing, and with an interesting beauty and pallor of countenance.
The parting clouds had scarcely permitted the gleams of renewed sunshine to fall upon the rescued spot, and the inhabitants began to realize their safety, and look around to return thanks to the skillful and unknown commander to whom the rescue was due, ere it was discovered that he had mysteriously vanished. Awe and amazement filled the minds of the spectators, for they were utterly unable to account for the singular arrival and sudden disappearance of this remarkable person. After many unsatisfactory conjectures, the only conclusion they could arrive at was that the Lord had sent an angel to their deliverance.
It was on the evening of the day on which this attack took place, that Frank Stanley was proceeding on his second errand to the rock. As he walked on, he pondered deeply upon the discovery he had that morning made. The recent scene of excitement in the village had banished the thoughts of it throughout the day from his mind. But now his curiosity recurred to the subject with all the strength with which that feeling fixes upon a mystery but partially solved. The stranger who had so singularly appeared during the conflict with the Indians and put them to flight, seemed somehow associated in the boy’s mind with the Lady of the Rock, and he could no more join with the villagers in believing the one an angel of the Lord, than he could now in supposing the other an evil spirit.
The more perplexed the more he reflected, Stanley one moment resolved at all hazards to penetrate the singular mystery, to overcome on his present errand the internal and undefinable feelings which would restrain him from accosting the lady, and offering her any further assistance in his power, and discovering the place of her retreat. Yet to press himself on her confidence might be impertinence, and as she had in the morning disappeared without noticing his presence, it was evident that she did not mean voluntarily to make him her confident, and probably she was involved in no difficulties where he might be useful. The next instant, therefore, he resolved to suppress all desire to penetrate the secret, dismiss his disquieting and fruitless conjectures, and without attempting to invade the manner and place of the sudden disappearance of the fair but living vision, await the period when time should throw light upon the subject.
He was thus divided in his own determinations when he reached the woods at the foot of the hill where his purposed visit lay. At that moment he became startled from his reflections by the rustling of leaves. Remembering the assault from the Indians in the morning, the youth paused, and leaned forward to listen, holding his breath, and condensing every faculty in the single sense of hearing. Silence, however, seemed restored to the disturbed foliage, and reigned as completely as though it had previously been unbroken. The boy pursued his course, supposing the noise he had heard simply to have been occasioned by a sudden gust of wind. But he had not proceeded many steps when the sound was distinctly perceptible of approaching voices, speaking in the deep tones of the savages. He turned, and ere many minutes elapsed, the forms of three Indians were visible. “Dog of the pale faces!” was their exclamation, as they rushed upon him. The youth was entirely alone—cheered by no friendly eye, emboldened by no encouraging voice, and so sudden had been the event that his mind was wholly unprepared for the emergency. Yet, perceiving at once his danger, and determined to make one bold effort for his life, he burst from them ere they were aware of his purpose, and bounded off with the swiftness and alertness of a deer. There was but one breathless moment, the Indians raised the cry of alarm, and pursued hotly after him. As soon as a favorable instant presented itself, he darted through an opening and ascended the hill. A bullet grazed his clothes, and several branches from the bushes at his side, but not one harmed him.
Stanley knew too well the nature of the struggle in which he was engaged to lose one of the precious moments. Accordingly, he kept his way up the acclivity, which, though neither very high nor very steep, was yet sufficiently toilsome to one contending for life to render it painfully oppressive. There, however, he was obliged to slacken his speed to recover breath. The violence with which his heart beat showed how great had been his exertions. He must proceed again, however, for the footsteps of his pursuers were near.
He started off a second time, but his strength was exhausted, and ere he had gained the summit of the second hill, he fell prostrate upon the ground. He rose, proceeded again for a few moments at his former swift pace. By degrees this slackened—the Indians were within a few yards of him. He had a loaded pistol in his pocket—but he knew it could only destroy one of his enemies, and there would still remain two to contend with. Generously, therefore, he refrained from using it, and prepared to resign himself into their hands, and yielded himself up a prisoner with a dignity that was remarkable for his years.
Dragging him to a glen which intervened between the two hills, they bound him tightly, and then turned apparently to make some consultations respecting the manner of his fate. The prospect of death is terrible at every period of life; but in the first spring-tide of youth, with all the capacities of pleasure astir and eager for gratification, to be forcibly snatched from the untasted banquet is peculiarly trying, even when the change comes in the form of a natural death-bed. But to sit, like young Stanley, in horrid uncertainty in regard to the mode in which life was to be extinguished, was a situation to break the boldest spirit; and the unhappy captive could not restrain the tears which flowed from his eyes. We have seen that although he was a brave youth in any danger which could be met by action, yet withal, he was strongly imaginative and apt to be led away by the exaggerations of fancy—exaggerations likely to act more or less upon the soul of any one who is in suspense and passively awaiting an approaching calamity. This agony of mind continued until the feelings of the youth arose almost to a state of frenzy. He started up, and struggled so violently to become freed from his bonds, that it almost seemed that they should have burst by the force of his strength, as did the withes of Sampson. But the cords were of too firm a texture, and, after an unavailing struggle, the boy fell back exhausted.
The Indians were evidently now preparing some torture, which would put the sufferer to severe bodily anguish. As Stanley lay and looked on, overcome with his late violent exertions, the scene swam before him. At this instant he became aware of an interruption to the preparations of the savages, and had just time to recognize the mysterious stranger of the morning, to whom the preservation of his native village was due, and behold him fall upon the enemy, when he became insensible.
——
Can no rest find me, no private place secure meBut still my miseries like bloodhounds haunt me?Unfortunate young man, which way now guides thee.Guides thee from death? the country’s laid around for thee.Women Pleased.Did I but purpose to embark with theeOn a smooth surface of a Summer sea,And would forsake the skiff and make the shoreWhen the winds whistle, and the tempests roar?Prior.A hopeless darkness settles o’er my fate —I’ve seen the last look of her heavenly eyes;I’ve heard the last sound of her blessed voice —I’ve seen the fair form from my sight depart —My doom is closed.Count Basil.
Can no rest find me, no private place secure meBut still my miseries like bloodhounds haunt me?Unfortunate young man, which way now guides thee.Guides thee from death? the country’s laid around for thee.Women Pleased.Did I but purpose to embark with theeOn a smooth surface of a Summer sea,And would forsake the skiff and make the shoreWhen the winds whistle, and the tempests roar?Prior.A hopeless darkness settles o’er my fate —I’ve seen the last look of her heavenly eyes;I’ve heard the last sound of her blessed voice —I’ve seen the fair form from my sight depart —My doom is closed.Count Basil.
Can no rest find me, no private place secure me
But still my miseries like bloodhounds haunt me?
Unfortunate young man, which way now guides thee.
Guides thee from death? the country’s laid around for thee.
Women Pleased.
Did I but purpose to embark with thee
On a smooth surface of a Summer sea,
And would forsake the skiff and make the shore
When the winds whistle, and the tempests roar?
Prior.
A hopeless darkness settles o’er my fate —
I’ve seen the last look of her heavenly eyes;
I’ve heard the last sound of her blessed voice —
I’ve seen the fair form from my sight depart —
My doom is closed.
Count Basil.
When young Stanley first returned to consciousness he found himself in a place whose shaded artificiallight seemed very grateful to his eyes, aching as they were in sympathy with his throbbing brain: without arousing himself sufficiently to consider the nature of his situation, further than to know that his limbs were free, and that he was lying upon a comfortable bed, he fell into a heavy and unnatural slumber. During this lethargy, which lasted many hours, sudden starts, the perspiration which stood upon his brow, the distortions of his countenance, and the manner in which he flung about his limbs, showed that in his dreams he was again encountering the terrors from which he had escaped. This lasted for several hours, but, at length, fatigue prevailed over nervous excitation, and he relapsed into a soft untroubled repose.
After some time, he sighed, stirred and awoke. On looking round, he found himself in a place surrounded by walls of stone, with an opening on one side, blockaded by a piece of rock, and leaving a single crevice through which a faint ray of daylight fell. The floor and ceiling of earth, showed that it was under ground; yet it contained various articles of rude furniture, and the moss bed on which he lay was soft and pliable under his weight. The brands of a falling fire had been carefully raked together in one corner, and were burning with a feeble and wavering flame, which cast faint, flickering shadows upon the dark walls.
Continuing his inspection more closely, the boy saw the figure of an aged man, seated upon a stone, bending over the pages of a large Bible which lay open upon his knee. His countenance was majestic and dignified. His brow had a care-worn and anxious expression, yet withal an air of calm resignation inexpressibly sublime. His locks were almost completely white, though his dark and intelligent eye still retained much of the fire of early youth, while the hale cheek, and undaunted presence indicated patience and content in the greatest suffering that can befall humanity.
Stanley neither spoke nor moved; but remained with his eyes riveted on the attractive countenance before him with a species of holy awe. As he gazed, the old man arose, kneeled, and poured out the aspirations of a pure spirit in fervent petitions to that Power whose support he evidently needed.
While he was yet praying, a manly form entered at the opening of the cavern. The stranger wore a military cloak. He stood in the shadow until the aged man had ceased and risen, then dropped his cloak and approached the latter, and Stanley knew him for the mysterious deliverer of the village, and the person whom he had seen when he lay bound by the Indians, to fall upon them, and effect, he felt certain, the preservation he had experienced. He was a specimen of manly beauty; and the proud and lofty forehead, the deep-set brow and eyes, the expressive lip, addressed themselves to the interest of the youth.
Overcome with surprise, the boy still remained immovable, and the old man addressed the stranger. “Has she not yet arrived? the sun is high—it must be noon-day.”
“It is reason enough for her detention,” replied the other, in a half impatient voice, the tones of which were deep and clear, “that I have gone forth to meet her. All objects that I seek elude my pursuit: there is a curse upon my every pathway.”
“Give not way to repinings, my son, turn thine eyes upon the blessings that remain to thee, which far exceed the deserts of the best of men.”
“Talk not to me of blessings, my father,” replied the other. “If there crawls upon the earth a living being deserving of pity, I am that man. My food no longer nourishes me, my sleep fails to refresh me, my devotions do not comfort me—all that is necessary and cheering to me has turned to poison. Vegetating on the same spot, fancy, feeling, judgment and health gradually decaying, like a tree whose bark has been destroyed—I have been a man more sinned against than sinning.”
“He who is immured in a living grave like this,” he continued, after an instant’s pause, “may well wish for one yet more calm and sequestered. Let us go forth, and challenge the death that awaits us. Hunted by bloodhounds, our fate is doomed. Rather, then, let it come at once than hold us longer in this state of misery.”
“William,” said the old man, “would’st thou rashly cast away the boon of life that God has given thee? Canst thou be fated to death simply because the word of a vindictive king has gone forth against thee? Nay, my son, let us abide the Lord’s time, and endure here unto the end, that we may obtain a crown of rejoicing hereafter. And,” he added, while a tear dimmed his eye, “would you leave Alice and your child?”
“William,” pursued the aged man, “you forbade me but now to tell you of blessings. But, surely, thou art strangely unthankful for thine—even for the incalculable blessing thou hast in that noble-minded woman. Hath she not accompanied us hither, and cheered and sustained us with her angel presence?”
“My father, drive me not to frenzy,” exclaimed the other. “You have struck the chord which another touch would break. It is the sight of her, dearer to me than life itself—immured in this ghostly hiding-place, and day by day, growing thin and waxing pale, and smiling in the midst of misery, that is more than I can bear. And it is I who have brought this evil upon her. But for me, she might now have been blooming in increasing beauty in some brilliant destiny beyond the seas. Never were the bright prospects of opening life more cruelly dashed. And can she, frail as she is, much longer sustain the effort by which she has met this stroke of fortune? Will not the reaction, when it comes, be too terrible to be borne? Oh, God, the thought of her is agony!” and he covered his face with his hands.
A female form entered. She advanced into the cave, and throwing off a cloak and hood, Stanley recognized the mysterious Lady of the Rock. For a second, she regarded the younger of the two without speaking. “My dearest William,” said she, at length, as drawing close to him, she laid her hand in a sympathetic manner on his arm, “why do you yield thus to grief?”
As if her touch and voice were magic, the unhappy exile raised his head to meet her glance. “I grieve for you, my Alice,” he replied, after gazing on her anxiously for some moments, and throwing his armaround her passionately, “to see you bereft of all the appliances of comfort, and to behold your noble spirit display its courage in mild submission, and generous efforts to support the hearts of others. How cruel doth the decree of Fate seem that you, so pure, so gentle, so lovely, should be visited thus heavily.” Unable to endure his own thoughts, he broke abruptly away from her, and paced heavily up and down the cave.
“My dear husband,” she said, approaching him, and looking in his face; “do not think of my lot. Believe me, it would have been but too happy if it could have alleviated the bitterness of yours, or soothed one sorrow of my father’s heart. Come hither, my parent, I have news of encouragement for you both. There is reason to trust that our troubles will be but short-lived. Our friends have great confidence in the effect of a personal appeal from me to Charles II. Nay, look not thus distressed, my father: it is for your sakes that I leave those who are dearer to me than life itself. I will present myself at the throne of the king, and petition him for your pardon: and Heaven grant that if we meet again on earth, it may be in circumstances of peace and safety.”
“Alice, thou shall not leave us!” exclaimed Heath. “Death were far preferable to life in this gloomy cavern uncheered by your presence. I will go forth and yield myself up to my pursuers, if thou talkest again of thine absence.”
“Nay, William, I shall not leave you in this place. The marriage of Lucy Ellet will occur to-night, and Mr. Elmore has kindly offered you both an asylum in his house until my return, or for the remainder of your lives, should it be necessary. The remote and secluded nature of the spot will withdraw you from the intrusions of impertinent curiosity.”
At that instant, the voices of men were heard without the cavern, and a fearful suspicion dawned suddenly on the minds of all present.
“Oh, God!” exclaimed young Stanley, starting from his couch, “your pursuers are seeking you: keep a profound silence, or your voices will betray you.”
“Let them find us,” said Heath, aloud. “I am weary of eluding them, and am glad my hour is arrived.”
“William, dear William, be silent,” whispered the lady, bending toward him with a look of unspeakable terror, as a deep flush mantled the cheek that a moment back was so pale.
“Alice, I tell you it is useless——”
“Hush, love, for my sake, for your child’s sake,” urged the lady in his ear, as her countenance became agonized.
The voices without now grew so audible that words could be distinguished. The old man clasped his hands in resignation, and his half-parted lips murmured, “The Lord’s will be done!” Alice threw one arm around the neck of her husband, with a gesture of unutterable love as though she would shield him, and placed the other hand on his mouth, while she trembled in every limb.
“The entrance of their asylum is well hidden,” said one of the voices. “It will be a day’s work to discover it.”
“Let us spend the day at it then,” replied the other speaker, in a gruffer and harsher tone. “We will not give up the search until we find it.”
And they seemed approaching the mouth of the cavern. A moment of intense and breathless anxiety to the inmates elapsed. They stood still and silent as the rocks around them, suspending every, even the slightest external motion, and would have ceased to breathe, had nature permitted such an intermission of her functions. More torturing their suspense than the long, lingering seconds in which a duellist beholds his adversary’s pistol wavering over his heart or brain. Their discovery seemed inevitable. In a few minutes, however, those outside passed on, and after a short time their voices grew fainter and fainter, until they were lost in the distance.
“Seize the opportunity of escape ere their return,” said Alice, breaking the death-like stillness that had been preserved. “Quick father, William, the moments fly. Make your way toward the house of Mr. Elmore. I will linger here to baffle the inquiries of your pursuers.”
“Come, my son,” said the old man, rising with a sudden energy. “The Lord has opened another door of salvation for us. Dost thou hear!”
“Nay, I will not again fly for my wretched life,” said Heath. “I will passively await my fate.”
“William, William,” exclaimed his wife, in an agony of heartfelt urgency and sweetness, “I pray you, by whatever is dear in our past association together—by all the claims, I will not say of the continued love you but this day professed for me, but by those of an affection on my part which would endure all things for your sake—to use the proper means for your preservation. Depart without delay;” and an expression of unanswerable entreaty beamed in the eye of the suppliant.
“I will do aught that you ask, beloved one, even to the prolonging of my life of wretchedness,” rejoined her husband, as he imprinted a kiss on her brow, and drew her with him toward the door of the cave.
“Let me be your guide,” said Stanley, advancing and addressing Heath. “It will be some small return for the service you have rendered me.”
“I had almost forgotten, in my affliction, to see to you, kind youth. But you have slept long, and appear to be recovered.”
“Thanks to you, sir, I am living and well,” answered the boy. “But time grows apace. Will you accept my services?”
“Nay, I am acquainted with the whole neighborhood. You will do me a greater favor to remain with this deserted lady, and see her safe in the hands of friends.”
With a countenance of perfect calmness, the heroic wife and daughter endeavored to hasten the moment of separation.
“Farewell,” she said, casting her arms around the old man, while a smile was on her lips. “Farewell; we may be parted for years, perhaps for ever,”—and she made a violent effort to repress her distress.
“Bless me and forgive me, my parent, ere you depart.”
“Thou hast, thou hast my blessing, my suffering dove; and for my pardon, how canst thou ask it, who hast never done me an offence since God made me parent to so noble a child? May the Lord be to thee a rock of shelter, and a path of deliverance from affliction.”
The old man here turned away, and began to descend the hill.
“You must not linger longer, William,” said the lady, turning to her husband, who stood with his eyes fixed upon her face. “Farewell; our fortunes look dark, it is true, but mayhap the same bright morning will yet dawn for us. And if not, we are not still denied the glorious hope that in the darkest moments of separation clings to humanity—the anticipation of reunion in the future.”
“Farewell,” said Heath, folding her in a long embrace to his heart, while his cheek trembled, and a tear dimmed his manly eye. “My beloved wife, farewell:—my Alice, my own one, adieu.” And drawing his cap over his brow, and tightening the folds of the cloak he had resumed, he broke away, and followed his aged companion.
The lady watched the fugitives until they were out of sight, and Stanley remained by her side silent, judging it best not to disturb her feelings at the moment with any ill-timed remark.
While they stood, he had time to examine the entrance to the cavern, which had eluded his discovery so completely on his former visits to the rock. Nothing could be more concealed than its entrance. The opening, extremely small, lay in the face of the cliffs, directly behind a large gray rock, or rather upright stone, which served at once to conceal it from strangers, and as a mark to point out its situation to those who employed it as a place of retreat. The space between the stone and cliffs was very narrow, and might easily escape not only ordinary observation, but the minute search of a mind not perseveringly active. The boy did not marvel when he perceived its secret position, that it had previously been unnoticed by him: for it might have eluded the attention of those who had stood at its very opening. As he was still engaged in admiring its security, the lady turned and said to him, “Let us return within till I make the necessary preparation for my departure.”
“I leave this spot,” said she, as they entered, “endeared by many sad associations, never to return to it again.”
“You are likely to leave it in a way you do not imagine,” said a man, springing in at the opening. He was speedily followed by another, and they both stood within the cave.
“How is this?” said the latter, looking surprised and disappointed—“a woman and a boy.”
Alice turned, at first much startled: but when a moment was past, she prepared herself to receive the intruders with the perfect confidence which a woman never fails to feel in the mildness and reason of a man, however rude. Moreover, having nothing to fear for her husband and father, she found little difficulty in retaining her self-possession, supported by her inherent dignity.
One of them, who was distinguished from his companion by much superiority of mien, lifting his hat respectfully, addressed her: “It is unpleasant to question a woman, especially one of your appearance; but, madam, where are your companions?”
“I am unable to inform you,” said Alice modestly; “yet I must say that in my present situation I could have wished to be spared the pain of confessing my ignorance.”
The harsh features of the elder contracted into their sternest look, and it was evident how much he was disturbed by the cool manner of her reply. Alice gazed at his lowering features for a moment in perfect composure, as if she had naught to fear from his intentions.
“Perhaps you can give us the information we desire?” said he, turning to Stanley.
“Like this lady, I must confess my ignorance of their whereabouts, if you allude to Messrs. Lisle and Heath.”
“Pardon us, fair lady of this grotto,” replied the younger cavalier, “but we will be obliged to search its inmost recesses.”
“True, perhaps they are here, and this coolness may be assumed,” said the other: “let us proceed to make a thorough investigation.”
“I will vacate the premises for you, gentlemen,” said Alice, drawing her arm through Stanley’s, and leaving the cave. After which, at a slow pace, they proceeded together toward the village.
——
Bring flowers, fresh flowers, for the bride to wear!They were born to blush in her shining hair:She is leaving the home of her childhood’s mirth,She hath bid farewell to her father’s hearth;Her place is now by another’s side;Bring flowers for the locks of the fair young bride!Mrs. Hemans.
Bring flowers, fresh flowers, for the bride to wear!They were born to blush in her shining hair:She is leaving the home of her childhood’s mirth,She hath bid farewell to her father’s hearth;Her place is now by another’s side;Bring flowers for the locks of the fair young bride!Mrs. Hemans.
Bring flowers, fresh flowers, for the bride to wear!
They were born to blush in her shining hair:
She is leaving the home of her childhood’s mirth,
She hath bid farewell to her father’s hearth;
Her place is now by another’s side;
Bring flowers for the locks of the fair young bride!
Mrs. Hemans.
A calm and cloudless evening followed the exciting morning which had been experienced in L. The fairest moon of May shone above the ruined meeting-house, which lay in blackened rubbish upon the ground. Her soft light lit up the white dwellings and shrubbery of the village with a holy beauty, until they stood out in bold relief against the surrounding hills, which, in like manner, stood out in similar relief against a sky sparkling with myriads of stars. The herbage sent up its sweetest fragrance, and the air was balmy and delicious. In short, the earth and sky seemed wedded in harmony, and formed a fitting emblem of the marriage-tie about to be celebrated.
The laws regulating wedlock in the colonies were suited to the infant state of society, and threw but few obstacles in the way of the connection. Agreeably with this banishment of all unnecessary form, it was not usual to celebrate their nuptials in places of public worship.
This was peculiarly fortunate in the case of Lucy Ellet, whose marriage having been fixed for this evening, would have had to be deferred, had it been the expectation to celebrate it in the village meeting-house.The arrangements, however, had been made for the performance of the ceremony in the house of her uncle, and the unpleasant affair of the morning was not permitted to retard a matter of such vitality. Lucy’s nerves, too, being of that firm kind which no shock could shatter or disturb beyond the passing moment, there was no necessity for deferring the period.
The hospitalities of her uncle’s house were thrown open to the villagers—not, it is true, by great displays, such as grace nuptial feasts at the present day, but by means of that unpretending welcome and abundance of cheer, which appeals at once to the heart and appetite of the guest. The best parlor was graced with vases of the freshest spring flowers, and tasteful green branches interwoven with white roses—the whole answering to the idea of a fitting place for a marriage scene.
The gate leading to Governor H—’s house was besieged by vehicles of almost every shape and description. The company had assembled about eight o’clock, and were awaiting the entrance of the bridal train, when their attention was diverted by the appearance of Jessy Ellet, the young sister of the bride, holding by the hand of a lady, who, from the fact that she was a stranger, as well as from something striking in her aspect, elicited an unusual degree of notice. Care, more than time, had made inroads upon a face still exquisitely lovely; and the extreme simplicity of her attire served to adorn the melancholy and touching beauty of her countenance. There was something elevated in the sadness of her expression, as though her hopes lay scarce any longer upon earth, but were removed into a scene where disappointment and sorrow could never come. But withal there was occasionally a lustre in her eye, and a beaming smile upon her lip, that proved her capable of the deepest and strongest earthly attachments.
This was evinced in her manner toward the child, upon whom she frequently bestowed these momentary marks of affection. Retiring to a distant part of the room, it was evident that she sought to escape observation. Curiosity, however, had been excited, and every eye remained fixed upon her. As she seated herself, and the little Jessy clung to her, and looked up into her face, to make some childish sally, a strange resemblance became perceptible between the two. Upon the brow of each there was the same mild and placid expression; the same azure eyes, and the identical peculiar smile, changing the expression of the whole countenance.
The bustle attending the arrival of the guests had subsided, and the minister, with his features settled into a suitable degree of solemnity, stood waiting with becoming dignity the entrance of those upon whom he was lo pronounce the nuptial benediction. The door opened, and a group moved slowly forward. Lucy was in front, leaning on the arm which Henry Elmore had given her as much for her support as from motives of courtesy. She appeared attired in a manner suitable to the simplicity as well as the importance of the ceremony. A dress of simple white concealed by its folds the graceful proportions of her slender form. Under it was a vest cut in the fashion of that period, in such a manner as to give the exact outline of her shape. A few orange blossoms were carelessly entwined in the raven braids of her hair, showing more spotlessly by the contrast.
As they drew near to the expecting clergyman, Lucy’s step, which had been slightly unsteady, grew firmer. Although she exhibited the least composure of the two, yet she showed the most intentness on the solemnity before them, and raising her eyes toward the clergyman, she kept them fixed on him throughout the ceremony with sweet and earnest attention.
In a moment, the low, solemn tones of the minister were heard. As he delivered the usual opening homily, he paused frequently and long, giving to each injunction a distinct and marked emphasis. After performing the ceremony, when he came to the closing words, “what God hath joined together, let not man put asunder,” he lifted his voice as though he were addressing the guests: And when the blessing was pronounced, for a few moments not a sound was heard in the room. The minister advanced first, and congratulated the pair, followed by the guests, who also approached and made their compliments.
The enjoyments of the Puritans were of a very quiet nature. They neither jested, heard music, nor drank healths, and yet they seemed not the less to enjoy themselves. Political leanings had not then contributed their bitterness to private life: but religion being the chief topic of their thoughts, became also the principal subject of their conversation.
Throughout the evening, therefore, metaphysical and doctrinal subjects were discussed, creeds and sects compared, and their own views fortified by Bible authority among the elder gentlemen; the merits of different preachers balanced by the more advanced ladies; while the young people of both sexes, without entering into the discussion of subjects of that nature, yet tempered their remarks on more ordinary matters by many a scriptural phrase and pious expression.
A tone of cheerfulness, however, prevailed over all, except when an eye occasionally rested on the stranger lady, of whose melancholy look the faintest token of liveliness seemed a mockery. This lady was not introduced to any of the company, but remained throughout the evening in the recess she had first chosen. She kept the hand of the fair child, who seemed fascinated by her presence, and continued riveted to her side. Every kindness and attention was paid her by her hosts. Frequently Governor H. and his wife approached her and conversed; and the bride at one time during the evening remained seated with her more than an hour. Several persons made attempts to satisfy the curiosity her presence and appearance excited, by questioning those whom they had seen speaking with her. But their queries were evaded, and they obtained little or no satisfaction. For several days succeeding she continued to form a subject of much gossip and surmise. Not afterward, however, being seen in L., her existence was soon forgotten.
A table groaning with every variety of excellent cheer, and in the greatest abundance, was provided for the company. Fish, flesh and fowl, cake of all kinds, and sweetmeats in profusion, graced the board.Nothing was wanting that trouble and good housewifery could supply. This repast was partaken of at an early hour, and the company returned to their homes.
——
I, that please some, try all: both joy and terrorOf good and bad;—that make and unfold error —Now take upon me in the name of TimeTo see my wings. Impute it not a crimeTo me or my swift passage that I slideO’er sixteen years, and leave the ground untriedOf that wide gap.Winter’s Tale.
I, that please some, try all: both joy and terrorOf good and bad;—that make and unfold error —Now take upon me in the name of TimeTo see my wings. Impute it not a crimeTo me or my swift passage that I slideO’er sixteen years, and leave the ground untriedOf that wide gap.Winter’s Tale.
I, that please some, try all: both joy and terror
Of good and bad;—that make and unfold error —
Now take upon me in the name of Time
To see my wings. Impute it not a crime
To me or my swift passage that I slide
O’er sixteen years, and leave the ground untried
Of that wide gap.
Winter’s Tale.
The course of our narrative obliges us to pass over sixteen years ere we again introduce its characters to our readers. To those of them who may happen to have lived nearly twice that period, the interval will not appear long.
Lucy Ellet had removed on the day following her marriage to the house of Henry Elmore, situated about five miles distant from New Haven. It was a cheerful country residence, fitted up with much neatness. Around it, lay a perfect wilderness of flower-gardens, amid which a refined taste had caused to be erected little summer-houses, which afforded points of view over the distant bay of New Haven. Attached to these grounds was a large farm, over which Lucy soon learned to preside with much matronly grace and dignity. The house itself had been originally small; but shortly after the marriage of the owner, it had been enlarged by the addition of a wing at the back part. This was not exactly adjoining the main building, but connected with it by a corridor. With regard to the purpose for which it had been added nothing was known in the neighborhood with any certainty. Many stories had been circulated concerning its object, and a belief had at length become current that it was haunted by spirits. There were those, indeed, who stated that they had beheld through the opening of a curtain at the window a strangely emaciated face, with sunken eyes of an unnatural lustre, and a look that was not of earth.
The mystery that was attached to this portion of the building, and the tales that were circulated in relation to it—together with the former reports that had attached to Lucy Ellet and her young sister—rendered its inmates avoided and unpopular throughout the neighborhood. No distress or mollification, however, seemed to be felt at this circumstance by Henry Elmore and his wife, who showed no disposition for the society of their neighbors, and who no more exchanged visits with any other persons than Governor H. and his wife, (who still resided in L.,) visits which were mutually given and rendered as often as the distance that intervened between their homes allowed.
Jessy Ellet, now grown to womanhood, resided with her sister. She had retained the exceeding beauty of her childhood, but exhibited what appeared a wildness of character to those who were incapable of understanding the superiority of her nature. She possessed a certain elevated independence, and ardent feelings, forming a character that few could love, and still fewer could understand. With the enthusiastic feelings we have described, the love of natural objects was to her a passion capable not only of occupying, but at times of agitating her mind. Scenes upon which her sister looked with a sense of tranquil awe or emotion, and the recollection of which became speedily dissipated, continued long to haunt the memory of Jessy, in moments of solitude and the silence of the night. Although she had no selfish pride or vanity, yet there was an air of superiority in her every gesture, which, taken in connection with the other traits we have mentioned, contributed to gain her the character of the eccentric young lady. There was, however, a life and animation in her gayety, a fascination in her manners and expression, whether of language or countenance, a touchingness also in her purity of thought, which, in conversation with the very few persons with whom she associated intimately, gave her society a charm.
The parlor of Lucy Elmore’s house was a neat and comfortable apartment. All its arrangements bespoke the skill of a refined female genius—which genius was, in fact, her tasteful and fastidious sister. It was Jessy who had on this dark autumn-day caused the sofa to be wheeled out opposite the fire; she it was who had a few weeks previous directed the graceful looping of the dimity and silk curtains in the windows. The inventive mind of the same guardian divinity had likewise anticipated the more modern fashion of the centre or sofa-table, and induced her to keep a piece of furniture of that description constantly replenished with various new specimens of literature and art. The geraniums and other house-plants in the windows owed their flourishing condition to her training hand; and many other little accessories to the tout ensemble of the room, giving it an air of exceeding home-elegance and comfort—felt rather than perceived—were the results of her care.
It was the evening. Henry Elmore was in his little study, and his wife had taken a book in her hand, and retired to the mysterious wing of the house where her sister knew she always spent an hour every morning and evening, though for what purpose she had never inquired, perceiving that Lucy desired the object of these visits to be secret.
Jessy was seated alone in the parlor we have described. She had drawn near the table, and bending over a volume of poetry which lay open before her. One fair hand was engaged in playing with the ringlets of her hair, and the other lay upon the classic page. The fire had given a slight flush to her cheeks, usually perhaps a shade too pale; and, as she sat thus, it would have been difficult to imagine a more beautiful object. Sea and land might have been searched, and they would have produced nothing half so interesting or half so lovely.
A slight knock at the door interrupted her reading, and a young man of polished manners and handsome exterior presented himself. The new comer was about five-and-twenty, in a military undress, and bearing in his manner and looks a good deal of the martial profession. Notwithstanding the great change which the lapse from youth to manhood makes in his sex, it would not have been difficult for any who had known him in the former period, to trace in the countenanceof the visiter the lineaments of his boyhood. There was the same brow, surmounted by its chestnut curls—the latter, it may be, a shade darker and a fold thicker; there was the same hazel eye, with its peculiarly thoughtful expression, and a lip which had preserved the native frankness of its smile. In short, the person entering was—but, reader, we will not anticipate Jessy Ellet in calling him by name.
She seemed slightly startled on recognizing him, but rose with a blush and extended her hand. No hue of rising or setting day was ever so lovely in the eyes of the young man as that blush was in his recollection, nor ever did enthusiastic visionary or poetic dreamer discover so many fanciful forms in the clouds.
He advanced and took her offered hand with more of tenderness than courtesy in his manner, for he held it a moment ere he resigned it.
Some little time had elapsed in a few commonplace remarks, when the gentleman drew his chair close to Jessy’s side. “Miss Ellett,” said he, “I have come this evening emboldened to pour into your ear the story of a long and devoted attachment.”
“Mr. Stanley,” interrupted the lady, blushing deeply, while the small hand which lay upon the edge of the table might have been seen slightly to tremble, “I cannot allow you to place yourself at the disadvantage of uttering any thing you might regret when you become acquainted with what I must have to reply in regard to any declaration of this kind.”
“Do not, I beseech you, Miss Ellet, say aught to dash my dearest earthly hopes. I had flattered myself —”
“I know what you would say,” rejoined the young lady, again interrupting him. “You mean that you had hoped—” and she hesitated an instant, “that you were not altogether indifferent to me. But what avails it whether or no this be the case, when I have that to reveal to you which may make you instantly withdraw your proffered affection?”
“No revelation that you could make would have the power to effect a change in the feelings of one who has known you so well.”
“Nay, wait until you hear what I have to tell. Know, then, that I am not what I appear.”
“Your language is enigmatical,” said her lover, looking at her bewildered; “but if it were possible for any human being to surpass in internal graces the loveliest outside, in that way I can believe that there is truth in your words.”
“I thank you for the compliment,” said Jessy, smiling in acknowledgment. “But it is not in regard to my personal graces, either external or internal—for I have too much vanity, I assure you, to suppose that there is aught that can be said in disparagement of either—but in regard to my outward position I speak. I pass for the niece of Governor H., and the sister of Lucy Elmore. Now I am confident that I am neither.”
“What is it you say?” said her lover, looking at her in astonishment.
“Mr. Stanley,” continued she, “do you recollect the melancholy-looking lady who was present at Lucy’s wedding?”
“I do,” said he, “and can tell you more than you have probably ever known. She was the mysterious Lady of the Rock, and the noble wife of the exiled regicide. I shall never forget her touching beauty, nor the heroic fortitude with which she hastened the flight of her husband and father on the day when their hiding-place in the cave was discovered. But what were you going to say of her?”
“I felt drawn to her by yearnings of a peculiar kind, and a strange sympathy such asIhave never known before or since for any human being. At parting with me, she dropped no tear on my face, but pressing me to her heart with a lengthened and agonized caress, whispered these words in my ears, ‘my daughter, remember your mother!’ Mr. Stanley,” she continued, looking at him steadily, “do you see no singular resemblance in me to that strange lady? Methinks I can behold a marvelous likeness.”
As she spoke, a curious similarity in the beloved being before him to that unhappy lady, whose image was impressed upon his memory, struck him in the most forcible manner, thrilling him in addition to Jessy’s words with the suspicion they suggested.
“She was my mother,” continued Miss Ellet. “I know it by an instinct that cannot err. Look, too, how little coincidence of looks, no less than taste, exists between myself and my uncle’s family. Lucy, too, although affectionate and kind, resembles me in nothing. I am a mysterious and lonely being.”
“There maybe truth in what you surmise,” replied Stanley, who had been pondering deeply during her last remarks; “but call not yourself lonely, unless you positively decline the companionship of one who desires no higher pleasure in life than to share it with you.”
“You do not shrink from me, then, because I am thus shrouded in mystery?”
“Nay,” said he, venturing to take her hand, “nothing that could be either surmised or proven in regard to your parentage, could change the feelings or wishes of my heart toward you. Jessy, I sail in a few days for England, to be absent for six months, and would know my fate from you ere I depart?”
There was a pause of a few moments of that expressive kind which such an occasion only witnesses, and Stanley gathered from its stillness that he might deem his suit not rejected.
Some time longer passed, in which the lovers remained alone conversing. Their language was of that kind which none but those who have been in the same situation can properly repeat, and which, therefore, the inexperience of the historian prevents being here repeated.
At length Lucy made her appearance, not like one who had been dealing with spirits, but full of cheerful interest in those earthly beings whom she encountered. Time had passed lightly over her, and she looked as young and blooming as on the night of her marriage. The remainder of the evening passed pleasantly. Stanley mentioned his intended visit to England, and the conversation turned for a while upon the mother country. The hour for family prayers arrived. Henry Elmore read a chapter of the Old Testament in adeep, solemn voice, and all standing up, he prayed fervently.
The house being some miles distant from the town of New Haven, the guest was shown to a room above the parlor.
A cheerful fire burned in the hearth: the bed was curtained and quilted with white, and every thing invited comfort and repose. The occupant, however, was too full of his late happy interview to feel inclined to sleep, and he threw himself into a large easy chair that stood near the fire. He sat there long, in a deep reverie. After other reflections more intimately connected with his blissful emotions, his thoughts reverted to the revelation Jessy had made to him of her suspicions in regard to the Lady of the Rock. His own mind had readily received these suspicions until, in reconsidering them, they amounted almost to a certainty. What, then, had become of the lady, and what was the fate of her companion? She had announced in his hearing, in the cavern, her intention of going to England for the purpose of endeavoring to obtain their pardon. But she had never returned, nor had he heard her mentioned since the excitement caused by her appearance at Governor H.’s had subsided. There had been no rumor of the apprehension of the regicides, and it was therefore possible that they still remained hidden. Young Stanley now recalled what he had likewise overheard in the cave, about the exiles having been offered a home with Mr. Elmore. He had been absent prosecuting his studies, when the mysterious wing was attached to the dwelling, and in that way had missed hearing the reports to which it gave rise, or it is possible he might have surmised differently in regard to it, from the ordinary conclusion. At his return, the gossip had pretty much subsided into a steady avoidance of the family, so that none of the rumors had ever reached him. It was hardly possible, then, he thought, as he had seen or heard nothing of the outcasts, that they could be residing with Mr. Elmore. Jessy, too, had never named any such inmates to him: nor, this evening, when he had mentioned them in connection with the lady for whom she had expressed such interest, had she evinced a knowledge of their being. They had not, therefore, he concluded, repaired to Mr. Elmore’s; whither had they gone?
Casting aside his reflections, after a considerable length of time, Stanley rose from his seat and began to prepare for bed. Walking to a window, he beheld a light in what seemed a house or room opposite. It seemed strange to him that there should be any dwelling situated in this manner in regard to the house he was in—since it was in the country. He was about to persuade himself that it was merely the reflection of his own room, when he saw standing facing him the aged man of the cave. Convinced now that his own imagination was at work, and had conjured up the likeness of one of those who had just occupied his thoughts to so great an extent, he turned away, and hastened to court repose.
[Conclusion in our next.