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Graham's Magazine Vol XXXIII No. 2 August 1848
"Oh, yes, it is true! I am well assured that it is true, monseigneur," replied the old man, shaking his head obstinately; "I do not believe that there is much truth or honor in this lady either, or she would not so easily have broken one contract, or forgotten one lover!"
"Hush, hush, Matthieu!" cried Raoul, "you forget that we were mere children at that time; such early troth plightings are foolish ceremonials at the best; beside, do you not see that you are condemning me also as well as the lady?"
"Oh, that is different – that is quite different!" replied the old steward, "gentlemen may be permitted to take some little liberties which with ladies are not allowable. But that a young demoiselle should break her contract in such wise is disgraceful."
"Well, well, we will not argue it to-night, Matthieu," said the young soldier, rising and looking out of the great oriel window over the sunshiny park; "I believe I will go and walk out for an hour or two and refresh my recollections of old times. It is a lovely afternoon as I ever beheld in France or elsewhere."
And with the word he took up his rapier which lay on a slab near the table at which he had been sitting, and hung it to his belt, and then throwing on his plumed hat carelessly, without putting on his cloak, strolled leisurely out into the glorious summer evening.
For a little while he loitered on the esplanade, gazing out toward the sea, the ridgy waves of which were sparkling like emeralds tipped with diamonds in the grand glow of the setting sun. But ere long he turned thence with a sigh, called up perhaps by some fancied similitude between that bright and boundless ocean, desolate and unadorned even by a single passing sail, and his own course of life so desert, friendless and uncompanioned.
Thence he strolled listlessly through the fine garden, inhaling the rare odors of the roses, hundreds of which bloomed on every side of him, there in low bushes, there in trim standards, and not a few climbing over tall trellices and bowery alcoves in one mass of living bloom. He saw the happy swallow darting and wheeling to and fro through the pellucid azure, in pursuit of their insect prey. He heard the rich mellow notes of the blackbirds and thrushes, thousands and thousands of which were warbling incessantly in the cool shadow of the yew and holly hedges. But his diseased and unhappy spirit took no delight in the animated sounds, or summer-teeming sights of rejoicing nature. No, the very joy and merriment, which seemed to pervade all nature, animate or inanimate around him, while he himself had no present joys to elevate, no future promises to cheer him, rendered him, if that were possible, darker and gloomier, and more mournful.
The spirits of the departed seemed to hover about him, forbidding him ever again to admit hope or joy as an inmate to his desolate heart; and, wrapt in these dark phantasies, with his brow bent, and his eyes downcast, he wandered from terrace to terrace through the garden, until he reached its farthest boundary, and then passed out into the park, through which he strolled, almost unconscious whither, until he came to the great deer-fence of the utmost glen, through a wicket of which, just as the sun was setting, he entered into the shadowy woodland.
Then a whole flood of wild and whirling thoughts rushed over his brain at once. He had strolled without a thought into the very scene of his happy rambles with the beloved, the faithless, the lost Melanie. Carried away by a rush of inexplicable feelings, he walked swiftly onward through the dim wild-wood path toward the Devil's Drinking Cup. He came in sight of it – a woman sat by its brink, who started to her feet at the sound of his approaching footsteps.
It was Melanie – alone – and if his eyes deceived him not, weeping bitterly.
She gazed at him, at the first, with an earnest, half-alarmed, half-inquiring glance, as if she did not recognize his face, and, perhaps, apprehended rudeness, if not danger, from the approach of a stranger.
Gradually, however, she seemed in part to recognize him. The look of inquiry and alarm gave place to a fixed, glaring, icy stare of unmixed dread and horror; and when he had now come to within six or eight paces of her, still without speaking, she cried, in a wild, low voice,
"Great God! great God! has he come up from the grave to reproach me! I am true, Raoul; true to the last, my beloved!"
And with a long, shivering, low shriek, she staggered, and would have fallen to the earth had he not caught her in his arms.
But she had fainted in the excess of superstitious awe, and perceived not that it was no phantom's hand, but a most stalwort arm of human mould that clasped her to the heart of the living Raoul de St. Renan.
[Conclusion in our next.THE BLOCKHOUSE
BY ALFRED B. STREETUpon yon hillock in this valley's midst,Where the low crimson sun lies sweetly nowOn corn-fields – clustered trees – and meadows wideScattered with rustic homesteads, once there stoodA blockhouse, with its loop-holes, pointed roof,Wide jutting stories, and high base of stone.A hamlet of rough log-built cabins stoodBeside it; here a band of settlers dwelt.One of the number, a gray stalwort man,Still lingers on the crumbling shores of Time.Old age has made him garrulous, and oftI've listened to his talk of other daysIn which his youth bore part. His eye would thenFlash lightning, and his trembling hand would clenchHis staff, as if it were a rifle graspedIn readiness for the foe."One summer's day,"Thus he commenced beside a crackling hearthWhilst the storm roared without, "a fresh bright noon,Us men were wending homeward from the fields,Where all the breezy morning we had toiled.I paused a moment on a grassy knollAnd glanced around. Our scythes had been at work,And here and there a meadow had been shornAnd looked like velvet; still the grain stood rich;The brilliant sunshine sparkled on the curvesOf the long drooping corn-leaves, till a veilOf light seemed quivering o'er the furrowed green.The herds were grouped within the pasture-fields,And smokes curled lazily from the cabin-roofs.'T was a glad scene, and as I looked my heartSwelled up to Heaven in fervent gratitude.Ha! from the circling woods what form steals outStrait in my line of vision, then shrinks back!'The savage! haste, men, haste! away, away!The bloody savage!' 'T was that perilous timeWhen our young country stood in arms for rightAnd freedom, and, within the forests, eachWorked with his loaded rifle at his back.We all unslung our weapons, and with heartsNerving for trial, flew toward our homes.We reached them as wild whoopings filled the air,And dusky forms came bounding from the woods.We pressed toward the blockhouse, with our wivesAnd children madly shrieking in our midst.But ere we reached it, like a torrent dashedOur tawny foes amongst us. Oh that sceneOf dread and horror! Knives and tomahawksDarted and flashed. In vain we poured our shotsFrom our long rifles; breast to breast, in vain,And eye to eye, we fought. My comrades droppedAround me, and their scalps were wrenched awayAs they lay writhing. From our midst our wivesWere torn and brained; our shrieking infants dashedUpon the bloody earth, until our stepsWere clogged with their remains. Still on we pressedWith our clubbed rifles, sweeping blow on blow;But, one by one, my bleeding comrades fell,Until my brother and myself aloneRemained of all our band. My wife had clungClose to my side throughout the horrid strife,I, warding off each blow, and struggling on.And now we three were near the blockhouse-door,Closed by a secret spring. My brother firstIts succor reached; it opened at his touch.Just then an Indian darted to my sideAnd grasped my trembling wife" – the old man pausedAnd veiled his eyes, whilst shudderings shook his frameAs the wind shakes the leaf. "I saw her, youth,Sink with one bitter shriek beneath the edgeOf his red, swooping hatchet. Turned to stoneI stood an instant, but my brother's handDragged me within the blockhouse. As the doorClosed to the spring, and quick my brother thrustThe heavy bars athwart, for I was sickWith horror, piercing whoops of baffled rageEchoed without. Recovering from my deep,O'erwhelming stupor, as I heard those soundsMy veins ran liquid flame; with iron graspI clenched my rifle. From the loops we pouredQuick shots upon the foe, who, shrinking back,To the low cabin-roofs applied the brand —Up with fierce fury flashed the greedy flames.Just then my brother thrust his head from outA loop – quick cracked a rifle, and he fellDead on the planks. With yells that froze my blood,A score of warriors at the blockhouse-doorHeaped a great pile of boughs. A streak of fireRan like a serpent through it, and then leapedBroad up the sides. Through every loop-hole pouredDeep smoke, with now and then a fiery flash.The air grew thick and hot, until I seemedTo breathe but flame. I staggered to a loop.Dancing around with flourished tomahawksI saw my horrid foes. But ha! that glimpse!Again! oh can it be my wavering sight!No, no, forms break from out the forest depths,And hurry onward; gleaming arms I see.Joy, joy, 't is coming succor! Swift they come,Swift as the wind. The swarthy warriors gazeLike startled deer. Crash, crash, now peal the shotsAmongst them, and with looks of fierce despairThey group together, aim a scattered fire,Then seek to break with tomahawk and knifeThrough the advancing circle, but in vain,They fall beneath the stalwort blows of menWho long had suffered under savage hate.Hunters and settlers of the valley rousedAt length to vengeance. With a rapid handThe blockhouse-door I opened and rushed out,Wielding my rifle. Youth, this arm is oldAnd withered now, but every blow I struckThen made the blood-drops spatter to my brow,Until I bathed in crimson. With deep joyI felt the iron sink within the brainAnd clatter on the bone, until the stockSnapped from the barrel. But the fight soon passed,And as the last red foe beneath my armDropped dead, I sunk exhausted at the feetOf my preservers. A wild, murky gloom,Filled with fierce eyes, fell round me, but kind HeavenLifted at length the blackness; on my soulThe keen glare fell no more, and I aroseWith the blue sky above me, and the earthLaughing around in all its glorious beauty.THE DEPARTURE
CHAPTER I
Oh do not look so bright and blest,For still there comes a fear,When hours like thine look happiest,That grief is then most near.There lurks a dread in all delight,A shadow near each ray,That warns us thus to fear their flight,When most we wish their stay. Moore.Far down upon the Long Island shore, where the ocean heaves in wave after wave from the "outer deep," forming coves of inimitable beauty, promontories wooded to the brink, and broken precipices against which the surf lashes continually, there stood, some thirty years ago, an old mansion-house, with irregular and pointed roofs, low stoops, gable-windows, in short, exhibiting all those architectural eccentricities which our modern artists strive for so earnestly in their studies of the picturesque. The dwelling stood upon the bend of a cove; a forest of oaks spread away some distance behind the dwelling, and feathered a point of land that formed the eastern circle down to the water's edge.
In an opposite direction, and curving in a green sweep with the shore, was a fine apple-orchard, and that end of the old house was completely embowered by plum, pear and peach trees, that sheltered minor thickets of lilac, cerenga, snow-ball and other blossoming shrubs. In their season, the ground under this double screen of foliage was crimson with patches of the dwarf rose, and the old-fashioned windows were half covered with the tall graceful trees of that snow-white species of the same queenly flower, which is only to be found in very ancient gardens, and seldom even there at the present time. In front of the old house was a flower-garden of considerable extent, lifted terrace after terrace from the water, which it circled like a crescent. The profusion of blossoms and verdure flung a sort of spring-like glory around the old building until the autumn storms came up from the ocean and swept the rich vesture from the trees, leaving the mansion-house bold, unsheltered and desolate-looking enough.
The cove upon which this old house stood looked far out upon the ocean; no other house was in sight, and it was completely sheltered not only by a forest of trees but by the banks that, high and broken, curved in at the mouth of the cove, narrowing the inlet, and forming altogether a sea and land view scarcely to be surpassed.
The mansion-house was an irregular and ancient affair enough, everyway unlike the half Grecian, half Gothic, or wholly Swiss specimens of architecture with which Long Island is now scattered. Still, there was a substantial appearance of comfort and wealth about it. Though wild and of ancient growth all its trees were in good order, and judiciously planted; well kept outhouses were sheltered by their luxurious foliage, and to these were joined all those appliances to a rich man's dwelling necessary to distinguish the old mansion as the country residence of some wealthy merchant, who could afford to inhabit it only in the pleasantest portion of the year.
It was the pleasantest portion of the year – May, bright, beautiful May, with her world of blossoms and her dew-showers in the night. The apple-orchard, the tall old pear-trees and the plum thickets were one sheet of rosy or snow-white blossoms. The old oaks rose against the sky, piled upon each other branch over branch, their rich foliage yet blushing with a dusky red as it unfolded leaf by leaf to the air. The flower-garden was azure and golden with violets, tulips, crocuses and amaranths. In short, the old building, moss-covered though its roof had become, and old-fashioned as it certainly was in all its angles, might have been mistaken for one of the most lovely nooks in Paradise, and the delusion never regretted.
I have said that it was spring-time – the air fragrance itself – the birds brimful of music, soft and sweet as if they had fed only upon the apple-blossoms that hung over them for months. Yet there was no indication that the old house was inhabited. The windows were all closed, the doors locked, and the greensward with the high box borders, covered with a shower of snowy leaves that had been shaken from the fruit-trees. Still, upon a strip of earth kept moist by the shadows from a gable, was one or two slender footprints slightly impressed, that seemed to have been very recently left. Again they appeared upon a narrow-pointed stoop that ran beneath the windows of a small room in an angle of the building, and from which there was a door slightly ajar, with the same dewy footprint broken on the threshold. Within this room there was a sound as of some one moving softly, yet with impatience, to and fro – once a white hand clasped itself on the door, and a beautiful face, flushed and agitated, glanced through the opening and disappeared. Then followed an interval of silence, save that the birds were making the woods ring with music, and an old honeysuckle that climbed over the stoop shook again with the humming-birds that dashed hither and thither among its crimson bells.
Again the door was pushed open, and now not only the face but the tall and beautifully proportioned figure of a young girl appeared on the threshold. She paused a moment, hesitated, as if afraid to brave the open air, and then stepped out upon the stoop, and bending over the railing looked eagerly toward the grove of oaks, through which a carriage-road wound up to the broad gravel-walk that led from the back of the dwelling.
Nothing met her eye but the soft green of the woods, and after gazing earnestly forth during a minute or two she turned, with an air of disappointment, and slowly passed through the door again.
The room which she entered was richly furnished, but the upright damask chairs, the small tables of dark mahogany, and two or three cushions that filled the window recesses, were lightly clouded with dust, such as accumulates even in a closed room when long unoccupied. There was also a grand piano in the apartment, with other musical instruments, all richly inlaid, but with their polish dimmed from a like cause.
The lady seemed perfectly careless of all this disarray; she flung herself on a high-backed damask sofa, and one instant buried her flushed features in the pillows – the next, she would lift her head, hold her breath and listen if among the gush of bird-songs and the hum of insects she could hear the one sound that her heart was panting for. Then she would start up, and taking a tiny watch from her bosom snatch an impatient glance at the hands and thrust it back to its tremulous resting-place again. Alas for thee, Florence Hurst! All this emotion, this tremor of soul and body, this quick leaping of the blood in thy young heart and thrilling of thy delicate nerves, in answer to a thought, what does it all betoken? Love, love such as few women ever experienced, such as no woman ever felt without keen misery, and happiness oh how supreme! Happiness that crowds a heaven of love into one exquisite moment, whose memory never departs, but like the perfume that hangs around a broken rose, lingers with existence forever and ever.
Florence loved passionately, wildly. Else why was she there in the solitude of that lone dwelling? Her father's household was in the city – no human being was in the old mansion to greet her coming, and yet Florence was there – alone and waiting!
It was beyond the time! You could see that by the hot flush upon her cheek, by the sparkle of her eyes – those eyes so full of pride, passion and tenderness, over which the quick tears came flashing as she wove her fingers together, while broken murmurs dropped from her lips.
"Does he trifle with me – has he dared – "
How suddenly her attitude of haughty grief was changed! what a burst of tender joy broke over those lovely features! How eagerly she dashed aside the proud tears and sat down quivering like a leaf, and yet striving – oh how beautiful was the strife! – to appear less impatient than she was.
Yes, it was a footstep light and rapid, coming along the gravel-walk. It was on the stoop – in the room – and before her stood a young man, elegant, nay almost superb in his type of manliness, and endowed with that indescribable air of fashion which is more pleasing than beauty, and yet as difficult to describe as the perfume of a flower or the misty descent of dews in the night.
The young girl up to this moment had been in a tumult of expectation, but now the color faded from her cheek, and the breath as it rose trembling from her bosom seemed to oppress her. It was but for a moment. Scarcely had his hand closed upon hers when her heart was free from the shadow that had fallen upon it, and a sweet joy possessed her wholly. She allowed his arm to circle her waist unresisted, and when he laid a hand caressingly on one cheek and drew the other to his bosom, that cheek was glowing like a rose in the sunshine.
For some moments they sat together in profound silence, she trembling with excess of happiness, he gazing upon her with a sort of sidelong and singular expression of the eye, that had something calculating and subtle in it, but which changed entirely when she drew back her head and lifted the snowy lids that had closed softly over her eyes the moment she felt the beating of his heart.
"And so you have come at last?" she said very softly, and drawing back with a blush, as if the fond attitude she had fallen into were something to which she had hitherto been unused. "Are you alone? I thought – "
"I know, sweet one, I know that you will hardly forgive me," said the young man, and his voice was of that low, rich tone that possesses more than the power of eloquence. "But I could not persuade the clergyman to come down hither in my company. Your father's power terrifies him!"
"And he would not come? He refuses to unite us then – and we are here – alone and thus!" cried Florence Hurst, withdrawing herself from his arm.
"Not so, sweet one, your delicacy need not be startled thus. He is coming with a friend, and will stop at the village till I send over to say that all is quiet here. He is terribly afraid that the old gentleman may suspect something and follow us."
"Alas, my proud old father!" cried Florence, for a moment giving way to the thoughts of regretful tenderness that would find entrance to her heart amid all its tumultuous feelings.
"And do you regret that you have risked his displeasure, which, loving you as he does, must be only momentary, for one who adores you, Florence?" replied the young man, in a tone of tender reproach that thrilled over her heart-strings like music.
"No, no, I do not regret, I never can! but oh, how much of heaven would be in this hour if he but approved of what we are about to do!"
"But he will approve in time, beloved, believe me he will," said the young man, clasping both her hands in his and kissing them.
"Yes, yes, when he knows you better," cried Florence, making an effort to cast off the shadow that lay upon her heart, "when he knows all your goodness, all the noble qualities that have won the heart of your Florence."
As Jameson bent his lips to the young girl's forehead they were curled by a faint sneering smile. That smile was blended with the kiss he imprinted there. It left no sting – the poison touched no one of the delicate nerves that awoke and thrilled to the fanning of his breath, and yet it would have been perceptible to an observer as the glitter of a rattle-snake.
"I am sure you love me, Florence."
"Love you!" her breath swelled and fluttered as the words left her lips. "Love! I fear – I know that all this is idolatry!"
"Else why are you here."
"Truly, most truly!"
"Risking all things, even reputation, for me, and I so unworthy."
"Reputation!" cried Florence, her pride suddenly stung with the venom that lay within those honied words. "Not reputation, Jameson; I do not risk that; I could not – it would be death!"
"And yet you are here, alone with me, beloved, in this old house."
"But I am here to become your wife – only to become your wife. I risk my father's displeasure – I know that – I am disobedient, wicked, cruel to him, but his good name – my own good name – no, no, nothing that I have done should endanger that."
The proud girl was much agitated, and the dove-like fondness that had brooded in her eyes a moment before began to kindle up to an expression that the lover became earnest to change.
"You take me up too seriously," he said, attempting to draw her toward him, but she resisted proudly. "I only spoke of possible not probable risk, and that because the clergyman would be persuaded to come down here only on a promise that the marriage should be kept a secret till some means could be found of reconciling the old gentleman, or at any rate for a week or two."
"And you gave the promise," said Florence, while her beautiful features settled into a grieved and dissatisfied expression. "You gave this promise?"
"Why, Florence, what ails you? I had no choice. You had already left home, and he would listen to no other terms."
"A week or two – our marriage kept secret so long," said Florence in a tone of dissatisfaction. "You did well to say I was risking much for you. My life had been little – but this – "
"And is this too much? Do you begin to regret, Florence?"
Nothing could have been more gentle, more replete with tenderness, ardent but full of reproach, than the tone in which these words were uttered. Florence lifted her eyes to his, tears came into them, and then she smiled brightly once more.
"Oh! let us have done with this; I am nervous, agitated, unreasonable I suppose; of course you have done right," she said, "but at first the thoughts of this concealment terrified me."
"Hark! I hear wheels. It must be the clergyman and Byrne," said Jameson, listening.
"And is a stranger coming," inquired Florence, "any one but the clergyman? I was not prepared for that!"
"But we must have a witness. He is my friend, and one that can be trusted. You need have no fear of Byrne."
"They are here!" said Florence, who had been listening with checked breath, while her face waxed very pale. "It is the step of two persons on the gravel. Let me go – let me go for an instant, this is no dress for a bride," and she glanced hurriedly at her black silk dress, relieved only by a frill of lace and a knot or two of rose-colored ribbon.
