“I cannot, young lady, see your face, but your hand is feverish, and your heart is throbbing. And the hour is so late, and the street crowded. Yes, my prophecy will be fulfilled.”
Alice felt that it would, as she listened to her voice, and gazed upon her face. Her features seemed altogether to have lost their happy expression. They were still sweet; but clouded, and sad. “This light,” she resumed,“is not pleasant. It is not that of mountain, vale, and stream. Ah! I heard the young chieftain’s step, so gallant, light, and free; but the cockade waved over his head. Royal was his voice, for I knew something of courts, in another clime. And your brother?—you are now in search of him. I need not inquire. Darkness and death are around all his relations. Start not. He is a rebel, and now pledges, in the presence of Charles Edward, his allegiance to the family of Stuart. Oh, why should I know names and events? Happy I was, when life for me was but to think and feel. But fair one, come on, embrace your brother once more, Come,” and she almost dragged the sinking Alice forward, to hasten her steps. They soon arrived at the Pretender’s palace, but it was guarded by a close band of Highland soldiers. They made a passage however, for them, when Alice shortly explained the purpose of their coming.
“Ay fair lady,” said one “step in, your brother is now Captain Dawson, and a brave and gallant Southern he is.”
“It is true then!” Alice exclaimed with a shriek, while she hid her face in her hands, “he is a traitor and we are all ruined.”
“A traitor!” fiercely exclaimed a kilted mountaineer, whose fiery eyes peered through his shaggy eyebrows, as he rudely grasped her with his left hand, while his right sought the deadly weapon—“Be canny, noo, my leddie, lest Tonald’s tirk may pe seeking te right side o’ te question. Tat pe te way tat Englishers speak of der lawfu Sovereign, tat day must call his gude friends traitors!”
Alice Dawson looked unmoved upon the specimen of barbarous brutality. Her eye gleamed indignantly; which the Scot observing, drily rejoined, by taking his hands from off her and saying,“Is she after wishing to frighten Tonald? Hech, hech! She canna tak te preeks off te Heelandman: and faith Tonald canna tak them off her.”
“She’s a traitoress,” exclaimed one of the Lowlanders, whose face might have been mistaken for a smoke-dried ham, for he was the only ill favoured soldier in the company.
“Hold,” thundered forth one of their leaders, who came out from the palace, and his fiery eye rebuked the rude soldiers, who had gathered round to support their comrades, in whatever they might be pleased to do, against the unprotected Alice, and her companion; “cowards, to attack and frighten a lady! It would be gallantry,” he added, turning to the Lowlander, “were you to show your back to a lady, and conceal that face of yours. She would excuse you, for in your case it would not be considered as a breach of manners. Manners! but what know you of manners? Fair lady, my sentinel informs me that you seek your brother, who is a captain in the Manchester regiment, this day enlisted, as volunteers, in the Prince’s cause. See, they make a way for you. Step in.”
The young soldier who spoke, was Hector McLean, a leader of the north, and one of the many Scottish gentlemen of rank, who, for their ready attachment to his cause, had been knighted by the Pretender. The accent of his country was slightly perceptible, andthere was something so friendly in his voice, that Alice halted, to obtain some further information concerning her brother, or some directions by which she might be guided to him; and her companion, who had been altogether silent, seemingly absorbed in her own thoughts, did not urge her on. But as her eyes fell upon the handsome form of the knight, so martial in his bearing, although but of slender proportions, she blushed deeply, and half repented that she had not forthwith entered. He doffed his bonnet, gallantly, and respectfully, as she stood before him,—announced his name, and offered her his services. “Fair lady, you appear to have been in tears. Are they shed for your brother? Think not by any eloquence, aye, even that of affection, to turn him from his purpose, and make him insensible to his duty. His sovereign has a claim prior to his sister. And could you deprive the brave Chevalier of a hope of victory?”
“He has left an aged and infirm father,” sobbed Alice, “and we are unprotected. He himself is not inured to war, for the cloisters of a college have been his only camp. Oh! gallant knight,” and she looked up, with a countenance, as innocent and artless as it was mournful, “entreat my brother to return!”
“I must deny you,” he gently replied.“The captain is an acquisition, and already has gained the confidence of the Prince. Your fair brow, may be soon encircled with honours, won by your brother, from a grateful master. When you have seen him, you shall return home, and pray for his safety, and that of the Prince.”
As he spoke, Alice felt her companion shudder. The young Prophetess knelt down, and muttered some words in a low, but wild tone. Rising up, she drew Alice closer to her, and madly exclaimed,—
“Almighty One, keep her alone, join not their fates—but ah! it cannot be! Brother and lover will ruin her, and death, death is her lot. The poison is to lurk in every sweet rose, for you. I know it. And she, the beautiful one, your companion in the vale, now too must see her dream vanish. Oh,theirheads mount the poles in the public streets. I cannot see them; thank God, yours shall be spared such scorn, but languid for many a night shall they lie on the pillow, and then, they must find rest in an early grave.”
She twined herself around Alice, kissed her cheeks, and wept.
The chieftain stood silent and astonished, not being able to comprehend the scene; but Alice trembled, and almost sunk to the ground. He placed her hand within his.“Come, and you will straightway have an interview with him. He is now closeted with the Prince, and his officers, consulting together upon some military plans.”
They entered:—the inside of the palace was fitted up with great magnificence; and the spacious hall of audience was adorned with portraits of the Stuart family, on which the lights were gleaming brightly, and but for the gilded and embossed frames, they might have been mistaken for the living sovereigns, who, by nature, were endowed with the highest talents to sway an empire, but whose imprudence and licentiousness expelled them from the throne. The beautiful Queen of Scotland shone forth with a loveliness which none but a royal old maid and prude, could have doomed to death. She, who had been the wife of three husbands, still seemed to have more love and affection in those bright features, than the Holy Virgin of England, who never had a lover. The first Charles was painted there, as he stood on the scaffold, and his eyes were raised joyfully from the block, to see, in vision, the crown of heaven, which no weapon could take from the Lord’s annointed. The light threw a beautiful longing of immortality over his features. At the further end of the hall, hanging from the ceiling to the floor, was a green silk curtain, behind which was the door leading to the Chevalier’s apartments. This was the only screenfrom the face of royalty. Sir Hector, however, led Alice through a sliding, at the right wing, and stood, for a little, opposite to a door, above which were the Prince’s arms. At that moment it opened, and Charles Edward, with young Dawson, appeared. The latter rushed into the embrace of his sister. She beheld the uniform, and her hand was upon the sash by which he was belted, still she clung fondly to him, although she could not utter a word. Sir Hector McLean gave the Pretender an explanation; who, stepping up, gently took the hand of Alice.
“Lady, bless your brother, and the cause he supports. Blame him not; you cannot call me a rebel, and he must, therefore, be loyal. Captain, comfort your sister.”
“And who shall comfort thee?” sadly asked the blind child. “Oh, never, never, can you mount the throne.”
“Who is she? She is pale for me and my woes. See, the tears are trickling down these cheeks. Perhaps blood, the blood of my friends, may flow freely in my cause. God knows that my own heart is sad, even for a tear on the face of another, for my sake. But hark, my leaders are gay in the dance!” So kindly did the Prince soothe the feelings of Alice, that when he retired, she was prepared even to give comfort to her brother, when he spoke of Katharine.She could not, however, persuade him to accompany her home, and obtain their father’s forgiveness, and Katharine’s blessing.
“I dare not. I could not leave you all alone and unprotected. How could I part from you, in the home of our past life? I must see Katharine once more, but not there. But you, oh, what dangers you have undergone this night for me, Alice! My heart breaks, awful forebodings creep over my soul, at the sight of this blind girl. I dare not see you home, and yet, to expose you—”
“Nay, captain,” kindly rejoined Sir Hector, “I should feel honoured, would your fair sister accept of my protection.”
“Thanks, my noble friend; watch over her. The clock strikes the hour of one. Sleep, Alice, and think not of our woes. We shall meet again in happier times. One more embrace, dear girl; give my love to Katharine, and my obedience to my father. I may see them before the Prince leaves Manchester. Farewell. Sir Hector—”
“Say not a word, captain. I shall guard her as I would the Chevalier. Now, fair lady,”—and he almost dragged her from the arms of her brother.
As they reached the door, she looked round for her companion—but she was gone!
When his sister left him, Captain Dawson in vainsought comfort in the room where all the officers were assembled for mirth and the dance. His spirits were sunk, and into every bright scene which hope conjured up, his aged parent and his unprotected sister entered, and stood looking upon him, and yet he could not approach them. He believed, however, that to his country he was not acting the part of a traitor, for he wished to restore to it the descendant of its ancient rulers. Sometimes, too, the quiet retirement which he had formerly enjoyed within the cloisters of the college, arose to his mind, and now, when surrounded by arms, with the glory of strife before him in all probability, the arts of peace appeared more noble and worthy of attainment. He retired to the apartment which was assigned to him; but there, grief almost reached the point of delirium, and the young soldier wept on his pillow. He heard a knock at the door, and then Sir Hector McLean entered.
“Hast thou seen her home in safety? Oh! Alice, I have broken your heart, and murdered my father; aye, and myself, and my own Katharine too! Could I stay for months at home, to watch this opportunity, and mutiny against the peace of all whom I love!”
“Your sister,” was the reply,“is safe in her father’s house, nor is her anguish so wild as when you saw her. She fondly believes (and may it prove true, Dawson,) that soon the strife shall be finally settled; and then comes the soldier’s home, after all his hardships and dangers; then come tears of joy, so different from those at parting for the present.”
Young Dawson took the hand of Sir Hector, and pressed it in gratitude. He was almost deceived for a time, it felt so like the touch of Alice, and when he mentioned this, his friend laughed, and said,—
“Perhaps I may have held her pretty hand within mine so long as to catch its virtue. Nay, let not a suspicion cloud thy brow, I would not pay one act of unmeaning gallantry, to betray; you do me wrong, Dawson. Yet, how beautiful she is!”
“Beautiful!” exclaimed Dawson, as he sprung from his couch in madness. “And must I listen to hear my sister called beautiful, by a soldier? If thy craven soul has dared to breathe one word of lawless feeling to mine Alice, tell me—and let us choose our weapons.”
As he spoke, he moved to the table on which his sword lay unsheathed, and passing his hand hastily over its edge, put himself into a posture of attack and defence. But McLean’s sword still hung by his side, and his hand was stretched forth in friendship. And yet, at the first movement, his eye had flashed, and his right foot had been violently placed in advance, for the combat.
“Dawson,” he said, in a solemn tone, “you force me to reveal to you what, perhaps, I ought to disguise at present. Could I put that hand to the hilt of my sword, against Captain Dawson, when it has been pledged in fondest love to his beautiful sister? Beautiful I must call her—keep off, and hear me out. Will you compel me to draw? I had a sister, fair as Alice Dawson, but she died in a warmer clime, amidst the breezes of Italy. Had she lived, I should have watched over her as suspiciously as you protect Alice. But I am true. Is there falsehood in my countenance? Believe me; for with you I cannot appeal to the sword to support my veracity.”
The anger and fury of young Dawson had fled. He knew that Sir Hector’s oath was that of a chieftain, and he was certain that Alice would be happy. He coloured highly, threw his sword upon the couch, and embraced him as a brother. Long did they speak of Alice and Katharine; and the two young soldiers unbosomed every thought to each other, and disclosed their respective arrangements. McLean agreed to be a message-bearer to Dawson’s house, and to Katharine Norton; for the captain dared not visit them. He left his companion to rest a little before day break.
Just about the same time Dr. Dawson awoke. The object of his dreams had been James, and his firstwaking thought was concerning him. But all was dark in the room. He only knew that his children were not near. His memory failed to tell him whether James had returned. In the morning there is something cold and blighting in fear, for all the powers of the mind are more awake to it. He started up at the earliest gleam of light, and shuddered, as he saw, for the first time, that he had slept on a sofa. In all his affectionate thoughts of his children, he did not forget self; and he cherished it, in general, with a regimen, the strongest which his profession could provide or sanction.
“Death, death!” he exclaimed, “my children make me to commit suicide, by sending me, grieved and senseless, to my couch, to my sofa. My obedient son,—many thanks to you, dear James; dear James, many thanks to you. Oh, dear and loving he is to me!”
But in the midst of this invective he paused, as his eye met the portrait of his son. He hurried on his clothes, but his palsied hands were feeble and slow. His daughter came not, as was her wont. He looked out from the window, upon the street, and how still, compared with the revelry of the last night! There was scarcely a wreck of it. The fragments of wood, black, and half consumed, strewed the streets. These had been bonfires, a few hours before, and now, a fewmiserable and poor wretches were gathering them up, to carry them to a home, where there was little comfort blazing from fuel. The doctor closed the window, and violently threw himself down on the sofa, and cursed all whom he knew. He arose, and silently proceeded to the door of his daughter’s apartment. He heard no noise. He knocked, and instantly his daughter’s voice was heard; when he knew that she was well, he stopped not to speak to her, but in anger traced his steps again to his own room. He had not closed the door behind him, when Katharine Norton came in. He was always kind to her, and taking her by the hand, led her to a seat. Her raven tresses were hanging over her cheeks, and her voice trembled. She attempted to divert his thoughts from James’s disappearance—for she dared not reveal the awful truth—and for a time she succeeded. He even jested, playfully with her, and asked her to name the day when she would become his beautiful and dear daughter-in-law. He took her hand, and begged to know by which of the pretty fingers James had protested to love her.
In a little, Alice appeared. She was pale, but occasionally her cheeks glowed, and her eyes sparkled with some emotion, to which, hitherto, she had been a stranger. She seemed more absorbed in thought than usual, and her lips moved tremulously, as if shewere speaking to herself. She thought of her brother, and the thought spread a pallor over her features. She thought of her lover, and blushed. She ran to embrace her father, but concealed her face in modesty, lest he might read, and be an interpreter of her heart’s fond love, which, she knew, was as strong, and would be as lasting, as it had been sudden. Her father repulsed her.
“Good child,” he said in mockery, “I am obliged to you for this soft, soft couch. Do you see the thick coverings which have oppressed these limbs! Oh! how warm they kept me! Give me your hand, Alice, what a good and loving child to her old father. James, too,—”
“Father,” interrupted Alice, in a quick and almost angry tone, “you may mock me, but you shall not mock my brother. Does a young soldier, far from the comforts and happiness of a domestic life, and exposed to hardships, danger, and death, need to be mocked, even by an old man? Would you mock our James, should he be brought to a gibbet?”
“Soldier!—young soldier!” exclaimed her father in mad phrenzy, “my James a soldier! Oh God! be merciful!” and he knelt, “Forgive all mine unkindness to the children of my Helen! A soldier! Alice!” and he fell down, apparently lifeless. Upon the screams of their young mistress, the servantsrushed into the room. They, by degrees, recovered the old man to sensibility, but he continued wildly to rave about James.
“Son, your sword is bright and gleaming. Yes, James, you wear it proudly. Hush, come quietly at night, when Alice has retired to rest. Enter by the pannels near to my bed. Say father, and then do your work. Strike home, to the very heart. Oh! would it not animate your courage to behold my blood upon that flaming weapon? James, you strike hard. Shew me that face once more, and, dear child, I will bless it. Wilt thou bring me the gold from my secret desk, that I may give it thee? Ah, it matters not, you know where it is. Hush, hush, slay Alice too, when you have broken her heart. Twine your hand in those beautiful curls, and kiss that sweet and gentle forehead. Listen to her, as she murmurs love to you in dreams, and strike as she utters your name. A soldier! Oh! what a soldier can do!”
He glanced wildly around him. He started up, and all signs of age were, in a moment, obliterated from his face, and had left his frame. He stamped, and loudly ordered all from the room.
“Bring Helen to me, I am an impatient bridegroom. Shall I be prevented from kissing my beautiful wife. She is mine, and who can keep her from me? Helen, you are pale!”—and he sunk down,dead! Alice could not utter a tone of lamentation. She longed to weep, that her heart might be eased of her sorrow, but she could not. How still were the lofty features of her father! In his fall, not a single white hair had been disarranged, and his golden-headed cane was firmly grasped in his hand. What a melancholy sight. A dead old man, and yet a cane to support his steps, as if he could expect that he should once more rise, and need its assistance! Alice gently disengaged it from his grasp, and put her own hand in its place, and thus, for hours, sat beside her dead father.
Katharine Norton, like a sister attempted to comfort her, but her terms of consolation frequently assumed something of her own heart’s sorrow, as she thought of James. Yet she was too high-minded and heroic to condemn, even in her grief, the step which he had taken.
Meanwhile the Pretender’s army was again marching through the streets, and in front of it, was the Manchester regiment, under the command of Colonel Townley. The Prince, on this occasion, was attended by the renowned chieftain, Cameron of Lochiel, who was his best and bravest supporter. His eagle eye glanced proudly upon all, save on his master, and his full muscular form, was the pride and boast of theclan, of which he was the head. They rode together, between the Scottish and English troops. The inhabitants of all the towns in Lancashire, through which the Pretender had passed, trembled at the sight of his brave Highlanders, and it is reported, that it was the general belief, that the bodies of infants formed their repast after a victory. The good people of Manchester, likewise, turned pale, at their fiery glance, and the easy and free manner in which they at times, when any obstruction was made to their progress, laid their hands upon the broad-sword, while they placed their dirk between their teeth, thus awfully prepared to resist and overcome. But their fiery spirits, were at that time, altogether within the control of their young leader. They had not a glance for all who crowded the streets and balconies; their eyes when he was in view, were fixed upon the Chevalier. As they were turning a street, a ball whizzed by his horse’s head, and an uproar was excited. A detachment of troops, under Lochiel, who had spurred forward instantly, as soon as the report of fire-arms was heard, dashed down a lane, from which the smoke issued, and they returned instantly, with the assassin. The soldiers raised a loud howl, as if they wished to sacrifice the wretch, by tearing him to pieces. He was brought before the Prince, whose face was a littleflushed by the incident, but who was perfectly composed.
“Death, death,” exclaimed many a voice from the streets. The ladies had left the terraces, and had come forth among the crowd to learn whether the Prince was at all hurt. He gallantly thanked them for the interest they took in his welfare, and, all covered with blushes, they again ran in. He then glanced upon the assassin, from whose pockets a dagger and two charged pistols, had also been taken.
“Poor man,” he calmly said, “you are desirous of murdering the son of your sovereign. Soldiers, take him to the civil authorities of the town, and order them to keep him in custody, until we are gone.”
He then turned to the soldiers, and addressed them. “Be merciful, as well as brave. Should I come to the throne, as the heir of my father, I would grieve to think that blood had been too profusely shed, to receive it. My enemies offer a large reward for my head. But I only wish the crown, and not the head of George Guelph, the Elector.”
The crowd, although they had been disposed to condemn the poor wretch, now applauded the mercy which forgave him, and this, perhaps, tended more to warm the affections of the mass of the people to Charles Edward, than his true descent from the house of Stuart.
The magistrates met them, and humbly offered their homage to the Chevalier. The Colonel of the Manchester troops had been long looked up to by the respectable community of the town, and when he joined the rebel troops this exerted no inconsiderable influence, even over the authorities. The principal streets were all adorned with tokens of attachment, and from every house almost, colours were flying, and handkerchiefs waving. Music from the town joined the noise of the bagpipes, and the Prince was elated by what he considered as demonstrations of loyalty to his father.
The crowd attended the Prince back to the palace, before which, during all the day, they stood, and greeted him, as he appeared at the window, and smiled at the Highland soldiers, who presented their arms.
Early in the evening, Captain Dawson, accompanied by Sir Hector McLean, was proceeding to his father’s house. He had resolved to see him, that he might obtain his blessing, as the troops were to set out on the following day. Dressed in the Prince’s uniform, they received much attention as they passed on. Dawson was well known as a young gentleman of great promise, and the reports which had, in some circles, been spread respecting him—how that he had left the University, where he was distinguishedonly for gaiety and debauchery, were not believed—for they had been proved to have no foundation. They reached the house, and were instantly admitted. But the old servant, who opened the door, was unusually taciturn and sad. Katharine Norton was sitting with Alice as they entered. Painful was the interview. The Highland chieftain in vain attempted to console Alice for the loss of her brother.
“Dear Alice,” asked young Dawson, “how is our father? does he know of my conduct?”
“Yes,” was the reply.
He became pale, and dreaded lest his father should have cursed and denounced him.
“Did he—condemn me?” and he gasped, as he spoke, “was he much irritated?”
“Yes, James, awfully agitated.”
“There, there, Sir Hector, see my folly, my madness, my infamous cruelty, to an aged parent. But Alice, was he long in such a state?”
“No,” and she turned a look of concealed meaning to Katharine.
“Thank God, thank God,” exclaimed Dawson, “then Alice, is he calm now?”
“Calm,—so calm, he must be happy.”
“Then, dear sister, lead me into his presence, and give him a kiss, to induce him to grant me a full forgiveness. Alice, you move not, is he asleep?”
“Yes, dear James, and you would but disturb him in what seems to be a very pleasant sleep. But hehasgranted you his pardon; or, if you doubt, you may come to morrow, to dinner, and then—”
“Yes, Alice; and may not Hector McLean come with me?” The last words were spoken in a playful tone, and intended to probe, what Alice thought was a secret. He rallied, and endeavoured to enjoy himself, and seemed to succeed. Katharine forgave him, and agreed to walk with him, for a few minutes, in the garden. He looked smilingly upon Alice, and by his glance attempted to hint that he knew very well that she did not regret to be left alone with Sir Hector.
The next morning arose fair and bright. The birds, even in the streets, forgot the silence of winter, and cheered the crowded abodes of men with their songs, as they fluttered about the leafless trees, in the squares of the town. The Manchester regiment of volunteers was marching through the streets, to the sound of the drum. At their head was Prince Charles, attended by Colonel Townley. There was an unusual melancholy resting on the features of the former, which was increased by listening to the Scottish song now chanted in the streets, “Bonnie Prince Charlie.” His pale hair fell carelessly over his forehead, as he frequently raised his bonnet, to allow the sun to fall uponhis face. The smoke was not yet arising from the chimneys, so early was the hour; and he thought how slow and idle the inhabitants were in their loyalty towards him. The colonel halted.
“Where, noble Prince, will you review my men?”
“In the church-yard,” was the reply, “yet that is an ominous place, and may remind them of a fate they may, by and by, share. It is well, nevertheless, to know what our end, sooner or later, must be. The churchyard, colonel.”
It was nigh at hand. The graves were not crowded, and the Chevalier forbade the troops to violate the abodes of the dead, by trampling upon them. They drew up, and went through their various exercises in military discipline. As their swords flashed in the sun, the Prince thought what a slight chance of fortune these would have with the scythe of death. They were about to retire, when a small company of mourners was seen, attending a dead relative to the grave. They moved sadly and slowly, unlike the quick pace with which the troops had entered. A closely veiled female was at the head of the coffin. The Chevalier raised his cap, and desired his men to approach, and honour these funeral rites. Young Dawson started, as he beheld the blind Prophetess, with faded flowers in her hands. He approached,—the veiled lady gave a shriek, and fell down on thecoffin. He sprang forward, drew aside the veil, and beheld his sister Alice! He raised her from the coffin, and there beheld his father’s name upon it!
She had resolved to spare him the heart-rending news until, the war being over, he should return; and thus she, herself, had undertaken to attend to the last rites due to the remains and the memory of a dead father. But here, providence had determined otherwise, and James met his father,—for the first time since his leaving home, to ask his forgiveness,—at the grave. He had formerly entreated Alice to kiss their father, so that he might be induced to pardon him, but now, what token of affection could obtain for him such a blessing! And there was the young Prophetess, with words boding still darker ruin on all the family, and on Prince Charles.
On the first of December, the Chevalier and his troops continued their march, and towards evening reached Macclesfield, with the intention of proceeding to London, and thus terminating the struggle for the crown in the capital of the kingdom. In a few days, however, having reached Derby, where a council of war was held, all the members, save the brave Prince himself, were of opinion that, since, in all probability, they would soon be surrounded by three armies, the only way of safety was to return to Scotland. Accordingly, against the urgent remonstrances and entreatiesof Charles Edward, the retreat was commenced, and pressed on by the forces of the Duke of Cumberland, on the nineteenth, they reached Carlisle. All the army spent a night there, and it was resolved that a garrison should be left, consisting of the Manchester regiment, and a few of the Lowland troops.
In the morning they attended the Prince to a short distance from the town, and on an eminence, where his movements might, a little longer, be seen,—halted to take leave of him, with tears in their eyes. The few Highland soldiers who were to form a part of the garrison left behind, approached, and knelt down, their shaggy heads uncovered, heedless of the wintry blast which raged around them, while they prayed for a blessing upon “Bonnie Prince Charlie.” They seemed disposed to follow him back into their native mountains and fastnesses, and they turned many a look of envy and regret upon their more fortunate clansmen who were to guard his person. The Chevalier dismounted, and his tall graceful form was closely, yet respectfully, surrounded, in a moment, by the faithful mountaineers. He smiled, as they gazed in wonder on his kilted dress.
“My friends,” he said, “my limbs, naked though they be, can meet the storm. Have I not, after the fatigues of battle, contended with you in wrestling and leaping, stripped and bare? And yet,” he added tohimself, as he glanced at his small white hands, now exposed to the cold, and his half covered thighs, “the ladies of Paris and Edinburgh have fluttered round and embraced me.”
“Canna she!” exclaimed a tall Highlander advancing,—“canna she shake te tirk in her ain land, for Charlie? Fare pe te use o’ keepin it be her side, and no kittlin te hainshes o’ te enemy. Nae bluid, nae bluid on its shinin blade!”
“Here, my good fellow,” answered the Prince, “give it to me; it is the weapon of a true Highlander, and Charles Edward will be proud to strike with it himself. Here,” and he took the dirk, and drawing it from his half-worn sheath, and examining some dark spots on it, appeared thoughtful.
The Highlander rejoined, “Tat pe te bluid o’ te enemy, and might she ask tat her Prince would not wipe it away?”
The Chevalier buckled it to his side, and this act endeared him to the Highland soldiery still more. But the sun was now arising on the snowy eminences where they stood. His officers reminded Charles of the long march which they had, that day, to accomplish. Still, he moved not; he was wrapped in thought. His back was turned gradually upon his troops, and he made a few steps in the direction of Carlisle, for he cursed himself inwardly for the consent which had been wrung from him, to retreat fromEngland. In the enthusiasm of the moment, which was heightened by despair, he exclaimed,—
“Why do I retreat from the throne?Thereshould have been our march; and our faces should have answered the questions of Cumberland. But ah! we fly from him!”
A simultaneous shout was raised throughout all the ranks, but, in a moment, the chief of each clan looked upon his men, and the threatening look was understood; Charles drew his sword, and turned round, almost expecting that the troops were ready to follow him, wherever he might lead; but their bonnets were over their brows, and they were silent. He understood the cause. Lochiel and the other chiefs advanced, and humbly kneeling before him, whilst they uncovered their heads, implored him to think no more of England, until a fitting time, when he should be able to contest, with equal strength, in the country of the Elector. He mastered his feelings, and with some of his usual gaiety, raising his plumed cap from his head, waved his farewell to the garrison, assuring them that he would send them speedy assistance. Sir Hector McLean retired for a moment, in company with Captain Dawson, but in the midst of their conversation, the command was given to march, and after taking the last look of their brave companions and the Prince, the Manchester regiment returned to Carlisle.
There the castle was soon invested by the royal army, under the command of the Duke of Cumberland. The garrison held out for some time, aided by the inclemency of the winter, which prevented the duke from taking the most active measures, and cheered by hopes of the aid which the Prince had promised. But, at length, when these hopes were disappointed, they were obliged to surrender, upon the hardest terms, and Colonel Townley, and his captains, were sent to confinement, in London, there to await a trial for sedition and treason. The miseries of a dungeon were rendered more awful by the news of the total defeat which the Chevalier had sustained, in the fate of the battle of Culloden. The captives had held communication with their relatives, who were busy in making every exertion to obtain their pardon. James Dawson heard frequently from Katharine Norton; and although her letters seemed to be written in tolerably good spirits, he could see the trace of many a tear. She encouraged him to hope, and stated that a mutual friend had resolved upon obtaining the king’s forgiveness, and that she trusted much to his efforts. The bearer of these letters was the young Prophetess; and the sight of the messenger, so sad and mournful, was almost sufficient to dash and cloud the joy of the message. She answered no questions, but every time placed her hands upon his brow, and gave a low and suppressed shriek. Her thin andemaciated features were never lighted up with happiness, even when she told Dawson of the hopes of Katharine. He asked her of Alice, for, lately, she had ceased to write to him, but the blind girl, waving her hands above her head, exclaimed with enthusiasm,
“She is well; yes, and intercedes for her brother,—the beautiful and happy lady!”
James understood, by her motions, that his sister had even ventured into the presence of royalty, and there presented her petitions; and he blessed her, and Katharine, more and more.
The day of trial arrived, and as soon as the commission entered the court, Dawson thought that the countenances of the judges frowned their doom, and indicated a fixed resolution, on the present occasion, to dispense with mercy. The brutal mob without, were shouting for justice to the king, and the country; and the crowd within were so unfeeling as to hiss the prisoners when they were led to the bar; but these hisses were answered by a calm look of contempt. Colonel Townley arose, and objected to a trial brought on by a usurper, and affirmed that it was unjust to be cited before a court called together by George the Elector. He defended himself, and his brave companions, but in vain; for ere he had finished his speech, the jury retired, and soon the verdictguiltywas returned. The presiding judge looked aroundthe court, but a thrill of horror was expressed, for sympathy had been excited by the gallant appearance of the rebels. As he put on the black cap, Dawson, to shew his contempt and indifference, turned his back; but presently recollecting that there were ties to bind him to life, he changed his posture, and attentively listened to the sentence of death. For a moment his firmness forsook him, as he heard the awful accompaniments of his execution. As he and his companions were being removed, the cries without were increased, and he caught a glimpse of a female form entering the court. That glimpse was enough to reveal to him his own Katharine! He had not seen her since they parted in Manchester, but oh! how sadly she was changed! She gave a wild shriek. Dawson struck down the officer who had charge of him, and the crowd retreated and made way for him, as he rushed forward, clanking his chains.
“My own Katharine!” he exclaimed, as he clasped her in his arms, “Are we not safe together?” For a moment she looked on him; but, turning to the judges, who had left their seats, she cried out—
“Stay—hear me—as you would hope to be heard in the very moment of death. Save my James!”
The judge placed his hand upon the black cap,and his features did not diminish the awful effect of such a motion. He instantly retired.
“Heed him not,” slowly muttered James, “they cannot separate us.”
“No, no,” returned Katharine, whose reason, for a time, had departed, whilst her eyes glared wildly, “they cannot. Put these chains around me. You could not break them, James. Put them round my neck, just there, where your arm is, and we are secure. Can they break them, when you could not? Now, my love, let us go home. I told you, in my letter, that the day appointed for your—your—ha! shall I name it,” and she even smiled as she spoke, “your execution, would be the day for our marriage. We are bound together. Now, dear James.”
The keepers approached, but they dared not to touch their prisoner, as his masculine form raised itself to ward them off.
“Are these our friends, James? Welcome,—welcome all! Now for the dance. Ah, you won my heart in yonder recess, where we rested.”
Her dream of madness passed away for the awful reality.
“You die, James!”
And she sunk her head on his breast, in silent despair. He twined his arms round her, to supporther trembling frame, and kissed her brow, which, although pale, quivered with intense emotion, and the large blue veins swelled on its surface.
“A few days,” he said, “and your lover is no more.”
The keepers took advantage of his posture and seized him, he was torn from Katharine, who fell on the floor. She awoke to conciousness, after a long fit of delirium, but she spoke not. She answered not the many kind questions, which some of the spectators put. She accepted not the invitations which they offered, to accompany her home. She looked wildly around. She started back as her eyes fell upon the bench, where the sentence had been pronounced, and where still lay the black cap. But the coachman, who, half-an-hour before, had set her down, at some distance, now appeared and supported her to her carriage. Her kind aunt, when she reached home, watched by her, and consoled her with the thought that the friend who had gone to sue for Dawson’s pardon, might in the end prove successful. She gently chided her for having gone to the court, without her.
The night before the fatal morning was beautiful, even in the cell, and on its grated window, a bird had for a moment alighted, like a messenger of hope. Dawson paced up and down, absorbed in gloomy reflections. He thought of Katharine, and then ofAlice. Henceforth they were to be friendless and alone. He knelt down in anguish, and prayed for them fervently, as the two innocent and beautiful sisters. He arose, and placed his hand without the bars, and then, fanned his forehead. Once he had imagined that it was glorious to die as a martyr, for his prince, before all the world; but now, the scene when real, and at hand, had gradually narrowed and narrowed, until in dying, he felt that, save two, he had no one to sympathise with his fate. His fellow prisoners spoke to him, through small apertures in their separate cells; but he was meloncholy and alone. He heard footsteps approaching, and the heavy iron door turned slowly upon its hinges. A gentleman was admitted.
“Oh! Dawson,—no hope, no hope,—art thou prepared?”
The prisoner looked anxiously upon him who spoke, but as it was twilight, he could not distinguish the features, or the person. He was dressed in black. Dawson started up, and dragged him to the window. He gazed upon Hector McLean!
“My friend!—and is it even so? Your dress is proscribed; no more that of a chieftain.”
“Speak not of me, speak of yourself. It is true I am in mourning weeds, and now no clan can raise the wail of their chieftain.”
“How is Alice?” quickly exclaimed Dawson, but he received no answer. “What! a lover, and knows not of his fair mistress; cannot speak of her, to her brother! Is she well, Sir Hector?”
“Hush, rave not;—she is in heaven! and these are weeds for my wife!”
The deep stupor and silence of grief was over Dawson’s soul.
“Brother,” said Sir Hector, “my only brother, but whom I must lose on the morrow, spend not the time thus. Prepare, prepare for death! It is different from the chance of war, and although we have left the ball for the deadly field, now let this cell be the auditory and penitentiary of heaven!”
“But tell me,” exclaimed Dawson, “tell me how Alice died. Yes, she is in heaven. A week ago, I dreamt that angel feet passed rapidly along my cell, and I knew that they were Alice’s. Where, and how did she die?”
“I must be brief; your fate and welfare demand every moment for other subjects. During the interval after our retreat to Scotland, when hostilities were ceased, I came over to England, and Alice became my wife. I took her to a quiet home, removed from the seat of war, where an aged mother cherished her new daughter. Oh, how anxious we were, and grieved, concerning you. She wrote to Katharine Norton, and enclosed letters for you. Meanwhile, the royal forces drew near the Prince, and I joined him, at the head of my clan, on the Heath of Culloden. Had that battle been gained, you would have been free; and believe me, Dawson, that many a stroke given by me, was for you. But it was lost. I fled to Alice. The news—but I cannot wring my heart by relating my woes—overpowered her. In these arms she died, my fair Alice, speaking to the last, of her brother, her husband, and our unborn babe! I came to London, was received kindly by Katharine Norton and her aunt, and have been exerting myself ever since, to obtain your pardon,—but in vain. I had rendered some important services to one of the Elector’s ministers, but his private feelings are subdued by other motives.”
“Bless you! Heaven bless you for your efforts, but more as the husband of my Alice. But—Katharine, how does she endure my approaching execution?”
“She hopes that your pardon will arrive, and she has arranged every thing for her marriage, on the morrow, when you are set at liberty. Oh! how must I break the awful truth to her! When I left her an hour ago, she was singing some of your verses. Her mind seems to have lost some of its power, for she wandered out alone this afternoon, to the Common, where, on the morrow, you must die, and gathered some of the simple daisies, to deck her hair. She protests that these will be all that her dear James shall know of Kennington Common!”
Sir Hector remained an hour with him, and took his last farewell!
The morning came, after a sleepless, restless night. Dawson attired himself in full uniform, even to the Highland bonnet. At an early hour the officers entered, and led him, along with eight of his companions, down to the court yard of the prison. All who were to suffer, greeted each other kindly, but no one had need to cheer each other, and inspire them with firmness. For themselves, they were indifferent to their doom, and were prepared to meet it with the conciousness of what they considered innocence in a good cause; but they had relatives, and this clouded their minds. Still they appeared bold and undaunted.
“Townley,” said one to the Colonel, “you were always,—forgive me for the hint,—fond of dressing your head, when it was about to pop in at the door of a ball room, to be inspected by the ladies. Now that it is to be seen more conspicuously, will you not bestow more attention? There, upon mine honour, that fine curl has left its sweep.”
After finishing breakfast, their chains were struck off, and their arms pinioned.
“Stay,” exclaimed one,“give me the freedom of my hands, to arrange my neckcloth, that should the Hanoverian Elector himself be present, I may render the man all possible honours. Help me to laugh Dawson. Captain, is my neckcloth nice? See,—but here is the groom of my bedchamber, the master of my wardrobe, he will assist me.”
The Executioner now appeared, with the halters carried behind him. He was dressed in white, and his black and hideous face, although of a cadaverous hue, was a striking contrast. Although Dawson scorned the fear of death, yet life was dear to him for Katharine, and a shudder passed over his frame, as the executioner approached him.
“Young gentleman,” said the grim official, “your neck is the first for the halter. But the first shall be last, in order that the Scriptures may be fulfilled, and your heart shall be the last in being thrown into the flames. Ha! ha!” and he laughed at the awful blasphemy. With the greatest coolness and composure he removed the scarf from Dawson’s neck, and was substituting the rope, when he observed the golden chain, to which was attached the portrait of Katharine Norton. He raised it.
“Young sir,” said he, as he attempted to smile, “shall I remove the miniature? Pretty, pretty,—the lady smiles so beautifully upon the rope!”
“Touch it not, wretch,” thundered forth Dawson,in tones which made the barbarian tremble, and interrupted him in his chuckle. “Never,” he added, “shall the resemblance of her whom I love, be exposed to a profane gaze.”
“Nay,” returned the executioner, “you have no command over it, young rebel. Your clothes are my property, as soon as I perform my kind offices to that carcase, and, of course, the miniature amongst the rest.”
“Shall it!” shouted Dawson in a rage. “Never. Officer, remove it from my neck, and place it on the floor.” His request was granted, and he ground it to atoms beneath his tread.
The prisoners were then brought out, and placed on hurdles, surrounded by a body of foot guards. There, also, was the executioner, with a naked scimitar. The “dead march” was now played by the military, and its music was sad and slow, unlike that which had roused the courage of the rebels when they assembled under the standard of the Chevalier. Gradually it swelled, until, towards the conclusion, it died quietly away, and expressed the true condition of the prisoners, “who were wearing away to the land of the leal.” Some of them gaily beat time with their feet, but others would not counterfeit mirth, although they needed not to counterfeit courage, for they all possessed it.
When they arrived at Kennington Common, they beheld a dense crowd, for the London mob had assembled, to feast on the horrid spectacle of hanging, embowelling, burning, and beheading. But as the hurdles passed them, they were quiet, and some words, as well as many looks, of commiseration greeted the prisoners. A large pile of faggots was heaped up close to the gallows, and as they left the hurdles, and entered the cart from which they were to be turned off, they were set fire to, and threw a fitful glare over the faces Of the guards around, as well as those of the prisoners. Colonel Townley turned to the magistrates, who stood on a small platform, and asked whether a clergyman had been brought to attend to them. On being answered in the negative, he exclaimed,—
“What mercy is shown to us! You are generous enemies! Morgan, my good friend, read us appropriate prayers, before we suffer for King James. Let us die, trusting in God our Saviour. It is well that I reminded you to bring your book.”
His fellow-sufferer began to read in a solemn manner, kneeling, and with his head uncovered. Not a whisper was heard among the crowd, but they stood silent, as if hushed by the true spirit of devotion, and as if the angels, whom the prisoners invoked to surround them with their fiery cars, would have beenfrightened away by the noise and commotion. They were also in the suspense of expectation, when these religious services should be ended, and the dread signal given. Then a carriage was seen rapidly approaching.
“A pardon! a pardon!” shouted the mob, as they made way, at first sight. The prisoners’ devotions were interrupted. For a moment they gazed anxiously, but, as the carriage took its station behind the dense masses of people, their hopes fell, and once more they engaged in their religious exercises, but with paler countenances, and the reader’s voice, at first, was observed to tremble. Dawson looked up. From the window of the carriage he saw Sir Hector gazing, and waving his farewell; and beside him was his own Katharine! A violent shuddering seized him, but, at that moment, Morgan was repeating the words, “Lord Jesus, receive my spirit,” and now he felt that he had, for ever, done with earthly things. The signal was given by a loud shout, raised by the prisoners, “God save King James,” and the cart was driven from beneath them!
All the other horrible accompaniments were gone through, and the executioner, on throwing the heart of Dawson into the flames, exclaimed, “Long live King George!”
The carriage was that of Katharine Norton, andthus, attended by her aunt and McLean,—who had failed in all their attempts to dissuade her from witnessing such a scene,—she gazed on her lover’s tortures to the last. She had seen him suspended, then stripped, in order that he might be embowelled; and as the executioner announced that he had performed his office, she clasped her hands together, and meekly laying her head on the bosom of her aunt, said,
“Dear James, I follow thee.”
“Not yet, my Katharine, not yet. Put your throbbing heart to mine, love.”
Throbbing heart! Alas, it throbbed no more! Katharine Norton was dead! Hector McLean took one hand, to console her, and, as the other was placed upon the window of the carriage, it was seized by the blind Prophetess, who now appeared, strangely and unexpectedly, as before.
“Dead! dead!” she exclaimed.
At that moment the shouts of the mob frightened the horses, who dashed furiously away; and the young Prophetess was left a mangled corpse! Her life was all a mystery—her power of knowing the future, and her sudden appearance!
In one of the squares at the extremity of Liverpool, some sixty years ago, there resided a young orphan, called Elizabeth Woodville. She had no relations surviving; her parents had long been dead, and an only brother, a few weeks previous, had, by youthful excesses, been brought to an untimely end. The latter event preyed upon her spirits and constitution, not only from the mere fact itself of his death, but also from the horrible circumstances connected with it. He had been conveyed home a corpse, after his nightly revel; and at the moment when Elizabeth was dreaming of her parents, in the far off happy land, she was awoke to listen to the awful tidings, and view their confirmation in the ghastly features of one who, whatever, and how many his faults and crimes were, had always loved her. She seemed now to be alone in the world, with no acquaintances save the flowerswhich her fair hands fostered every morning, and the toys of her brother, when a boy, which were all collected and arranged before her. There was the pencil, with which he and Arthur Govenloch alternately sketched her own features, in puerile art; and along with it were the silken cords which bound her to a seat, when she was refractory. That seat was still there, with the green faded cushion, and in it, for hours, she often sat, held by the illusions of memory. His fishing rod and basket kept their old places, fixed to the ceiling. Even the marbles of the boy had been preserved, and she thought of their sports in the garden, and remembered a long and successful chase, through amidst the trees and over the grass plot, into the arbour, which Arthur, followed by her brother, had after her, when she stole away their marbles. His Holy Bible, too, with the three names inscribed on the fly leaf, lay with its gilt edges; and she pictured once more to her fancy, the beautiful and happy sabbath eves, in summer, out on the flowery lawn, when their young minds drank in the holy words of peace and life. She fondly hoped that the solemn, yet sweet truths of mercy therein contained, would have been so strongly impressed upon her brother’s heart, that all the infidel thoughts which had latterly sprung up, and effected his temporal ruin, must have failed to uproot them. It hadnever been conned by them as a task book, but had always been opened by them as a holy romance of truth from heaven, pointing to Eden as the cradle, and the skies as the home, of our race; with the lovely and the wise Jesus as the hero of every scene, reflected above or below. Her whole heart was among these objects of remembrance, and her happiness was in the past. She played delightfully, and her sweet voice accompanied the harp, but only the songs and hymns which had pleased her brother, and his friend. She often thought of that friend. There was only one of the dead who engrossed all her thoughts, and that one was her brother, even to the entire exclusion of her parents; and there was only one of the living, and he was Arthur Govenloch. Since boyhood he had been in a foreign country, but he had never gone from the affections of Elizabeth Woodville.
It was May day, towards sunset, as she took her seat on the terrace. She was engaged in working a piece of embroidery,—a history of the family, and of her childhood; and the last rays fell sweetly upon the names of those she loved. An unusual buoyancy had been imparted to her spirits, and she leaned over to view the sports of children, as crowned with the first flowers of summer, they gaily and enthusiastically tripped about the door. They all departed, save onebeautiful boy, who sat down beside an old statue, on the grass plot, and by turns, for very happiness, sung, clapped his hands, and shouted. He started as he heard footsteps near, and seeing Elizabeth, ran up the outer flight of stairs, leading to the terrace. She came down to meet him, when a stranger appeared. He suddenly halted, and became deadly pale. He turned round, for a moment, to conceal his agitation, when he heard a half-suppressed shriek.
“Arthur Govenloch!”
Although many, many years had elapsed, and foreign climes had embrowned his features, Elizabeth recognized him. She had loved the boy, and when he was absent her imagination had pictured the man, and there stood the living resemblance, unchanged. On hearing his own name pronounced, he rushed forward. There was a beautiful lady in mourning. Could it be his own Elizabeth? There was the same slight figure, which he had so often clasped, as a boyish dream, and the deep light of her soft blue eyes, which he had so often braved for hours, when lying on the grass, and could he forget it?
“My own Elizabeth!” he exclaimed, “in mourning? But hast thou been faithful and true, as I have been? There, there, that boy again.—A shudder passed over me, as I first beheld him here. Art thou the wife of another? That boy,”—
“Arthur, I know him not, he is the child of a neighbour. Oh! hast thou come at last! Arthur, I am alone. My brother is—”
“Hush, dearest,nowthou art not alone. But let us enter the house, where I have been so happy, and tell me all.”
Their love had been preserved through many years. It had commenced early, and was hallowed by memory, as well as brightened by hope. Innocence had lighted it, and the daring boy, and the gentle girl, would leave their task to romp with each other, but not for romping’s sake; for when the sport was ended, then came the soft look, the soft touch, and the soft confession. Boys and girls are the quickest, the warmest, the holiest, and the most successful lovers. The God of love plays best with children; and,—mischievous urchin—when the little scholars are rambling about, or seated, teaching each other their tasks, taking hold of fingers, to point out letters, or words, figures, or sums, then he lets fly the arrow, touching their young and pure blood. Such lovers had Elizabeth Woodville and Arthur Govenloch been, and their affection was preserved, warm and strong, until the present. Both wept over the death of their old companion, and all his books were, once more, affectionately handled and looked at. They walked out together upon the terrace, andbrightly did the stars shine upon them, like the glorious and happy types of that future, concerning which they spoke. Happy were they now in each other, and long ere Arthur left her, Elizabeth’s face was beautiful with smiles. She accompanied him to the garden gate, leaning confidingly upon his arm.
“Elizabeth—I must introduce the custom of the country which I have left; and the square is so retired, and the nights, of late, have been so beautiful, that I must come and serenade you beneath your window. But arise not; only for a moment awake to listen to my lute, and then, dearest, dream of me.”
He looked upon her, and saw that she was pale. Her slight frame trembled. He pressed his hand against her heart, and it beat violently.
“Nay, Arthur, do not.”
“I will not disturb your rest. No, Elizabeth; but the night is so beautiful, that I cannot refrain from coming to the house where my own love dwells, and serenading, in company with the angels, the abode of the beautiful Orphan. You know that I won’t serenade you, when you are my dear little wife. Henry, your brother, will thank and bless me for coming.”
She became still paler, and leaned for support on the gate.
“You are not well. Walk back to the house. Come. Now, farewell dearest,” and he fondly embraced her. Her brow was cold as he kissed it, and she softly said,—
“Oh! Arthur, come not to night.”
But he thought that, although he might not serenade her, there could be no harm in passing, at the hour of midnight, and looking at the house, as it lay in the pale moonshine. For, be it observed, that lovers are not so very unreasonable as some represent; and the mere sight of the house where the adored one lives, can satisfy them.
A little before midnight, Arthur was once more in the street, on his way to the abode of his mistress. All was silent and lonely. The glare of lamps was feeble and sickly, mingling with, while yet distinguishable from, the light of the moon. The breezes blew gently, and carried perfumes, as tranquilizing as they were sweet. Few persons were abroad: and save the light dress of the unfortunate and the guilty, revealing itself occasionally, at a corner of the street, as he passed, and the song of the bachanalian, coming from cellars, and greeting him, Arthur found nothing to turn his attention from the thoughts and love which he cherished to the fair Orphan. All boyish feelings, save one, had been forgotten, and, as he trod his native town, he felt that in it he was a stranger. But the brother shared his thoughts, as well as the sister,and he wished that he had enquired of Elizabeth where his grave was, that even there he might pay an early visit, after his return, to the friend and companion of his boyhood. He reached the lane which opened into the square. It was a dark, close, and filthy way. Trees were on every side, but the leaves appeared to be beds of worms and reptiles, and a sharp breeze coming from the harbour, blew some of them against Arthur’s cheek, and they were damp and polluting to the touch.
Suddenly he heard shouts of revelry behind, and the sound of a coach starting. The whip was loudly urging on the steeds, and their hoofs clattered fast and furious. He looked back, and to his astonishment and terror, saw nothing. Still the noise came near and nearer, and at length he distinctly heard a coach dash past him. At that moment a loud shout was heard, and the whip was cracked close to his ears. The blood curdled within him. He could not be deceived. He ran on, and the nearer he came, he heard the rolling of the wheels, the pawing and breathing of the horses, the cracking of the whip, and even the oaths and tones of those who sat in it, with greater assurance. He seemed close upon it, when all at once it stopped, and then he found himself at the house of Elizabeth Woodville, and there, horrible to think, the Spectre Coach was waiting, unseen! Hemoved backwards and forwards, and fancied that he heard whispers near the place, and occasionally the stroke of a hoof, on the flinty road. A flavour of wine and tobacco was in the air around. In a little, the door of the house was half opened: a light and merry step was on the pavement, and instantly a loud holloo, in the tones of one, quite familiar to his ear, arose, and once more the coach dashed away. Arthur stood motionless, what could this awful prodigy mean? He looked at the door, and there stood Elizabeth! He rushed forward. Her eyes fell upon his form, enveloped in a cloak, and shrieking, she fell. He raised her from the earth, bleeding and senseless. He shouted for the domestics, and committed her to their care. He entered another room. In a short time, one of them returned, and announced that her mistress had recovered, and was desirous of speaking with him.
“My young lady,” she added “every night watches for that coach. It comes for her brother regularly, as usual. Oh! Sir, would you persuade her to retire before the hour? It renews her grief.”
Arthur started at these words: and truths of an awful nature flashed across his mind. But he heard Elizabeth’s voice, and he hurried into her apartment. She sat, reclining on a sofa; her countenance waspale; her eyes bright, but an expression of horror and wildness in them.
“Did you not, Arthur,” she exclaimed, as she wrung her hands, and with them covered her face, “did you not hear Henry’s voice, so free and merry. What an awful apparition of his last ghost! I have gazed for months, and hoped that I would see him, but in vain. The tale is one of horror, and one which I have realized.”
She paused, and leaving her seat, went to the window, and listened eagerly.
“It comes not yet—no—it is not the appointed time, and I may proceed with the relation. But for God’s sake, Arthur, if you hear a noise, if you hear the rolling of the coach, interrupt me not! I must answer his call. Nay, rise not. I am calm, dear Arthur. You knew my brother Henry—None could be more innocent and happy. But after you left us, he listened to wicked men, and imbibed their poisonous doctrines, and Henry Woodville, the beautiful and the good, became a dark infidel! In place of the Holy book, from which you read to us—was the accursed text book of the wretch, Paine. You knew that when he read, he placed a chair for me, and with his cheek against mine, invited me, laughingly, to examine whether he read correctly. One evening, out onthe terrace,—thus we sat down to read, and mine eyes fell upon the words before he uttered them; “There is no God, and christianity is all priests’ fables.” I warmly told him to throw away such blasphemy. He laughed, and added that it was his bible, and that he would sell the old one for a penny! From step to step he went on, and became a drunkard and a debauchee. He was so entangled with companions, that he would not abandon their society. Still he loved me, wept as I wept, and said that he was sorry for his conduct, and then laughed like a fiend. Every night his associates came, in a coach, and took him away to their foul orgies. In the outskirts of the town,—for, Arthur, I have followed, though concealed—they lighted a fire, burned the Bible, and then drove to the haunts of depravity. Henry’s handsome form became emaciated, and almost loathsome; but I embraced him more fondly than ever. His full bright eyes were sunk and bloodshot. One night, he promised to stay with me at home, and all my hopes revived. What happy hours we spent! He led me to my apartment, and kissed me. He even implored God’s blessing upon me. I saw him kneel before his Maker. I heard him plead love for his sister, aye, and forgiveness for himself. I sank to sleep, overpowered with a delirium of joy! And yet, Arthur, he deceived me. He joined his companions, and in thecoach, they repaired to a vale, and there began to make a sacrament to the devil! Prayers and praises to him were made in the midst of mirth and wine; and they literally took the cup of damnation in their hands, and quaffed it off. They invoked the enemy. The inhabitants of the suburbs were aroused from their repose by awful noises. They went to the place whence they seemed to proceed, and my brother, and two of his associates, were found dead, and horribly mangled. A black form was said to hover near them. What a corpse Henry was! And yet, I watched every minute beside it, kissed the hideous lips, until he was taken to the grave. Every night that coach comes for him as usual. It is a Phantom Coach. On a beautiful night, it has the sound of a light coach; and on a stormy one, that of a heavy coach. The first night after his funeral, it came. I started up, thinking that his associates had resolved to insult me. I rushed to the window, but saw nothing. It tarried the usual time, and then dashed away. I heard my brother’s voice distinctly! I stood for hours, unable to move,—when it was heard returning. It halted, the door opened, and a light step mounted the staircase, close by this window, and struck against Henry’s door. In mad phrenzy I followed, but saw nothing! All his associates have died; still, the Phantom Coach calls regularly upon them, and takes them to their place of rendezvous!”
She again arose, and went to the window.
The horrible tale had fallen like a nightmare upon the energies and happiness of Arthur Govenloch. He sat motionless;—when his mistress returned, and resumed the subject.
“One night—this is the anniversary of it, the first of May,—he went out early, and told me to admit him when he knocked, without delay. Long I watched. Mine eyes, or the bright moon, became pale; and, at last, I fell asleep. In the midst of happy dreams I was awoke by a loud knocking at the door. I rushed to the staircase, and, in my hurry, fell down. I could scarcely arise to open the door, but my love prevailed, and as Henry entered, he struck me! yes, struck his sister! cursed my delay, and threatened worse punishment for the next offence. This is the night when I should have been asked to watch for and admit him, and those awful words follow me! I knew that he afterwards wept over his cruelty—but these words!”
In vain did Arthur attempt to turn away her thoughts from the subject, and when he failed, he requested permission to bear her company until the morning. Often did she express a wish that she could only see the coach and her brother.
“I hear his voice, and sometimes it sounds like the tones of his boyhood, happy and free; and yet, I cannot see him!”