Can no rest find me, no private place secure me
But still my miseries like bloodhounds haunt me?
Unfortunate young man, which way now guides thee.
Guides thee from death? the country’s laid around for thee.
WOMEN PLEASED.
Did I but purpose to embark with thee
On a smooth surface of a Summer sea,
And would forsake the skiff and make the shore
When the winds whistle, and the tempests roar?
PRIOR.
A hopeless darkness settles o’er my fate—
I’ve seen the last look of her heavenly eyes;
I’ve heard the last sound of her blessed voice—
I’ve seen the fair form from my sight depart—
My doom is closed.
COUNT BASIL.
When young Stanley first returned to consciousness he found himself in a
place whose shaded artificial light seemed very grateful to his eyes,
aching as they were in sympathy with his throbbing brain: without
arousing himself sufficiently to consider the nature of his situation,
further than to know that his limbs were free, and that he was lying
upon a comfortable bed, he fell into a heavy and unnatural slumber.
During this lethargy, which lasted many hours, sudden starts, the
perspiration which stood upon his brow, the distortions of his
countenance, and the manner in which he flung about his limbs, showed
that in his dreams he was again encountering the terrors from which he
had escaped. This lasted for several hours, but, at length, fatigue
prevailed over nervous excitation, and he relapsed into a soft
untroubled repose.
After some time, he sighed, stirred and awoke. On looking round, he
found himself in a place surrounded by walls of stone, with an opening
on one side, blockaded by a piece of rock, and leaving a single crevice
through which a faint ray of daylight fell. The floor and ceiling of
earth, showed that it was under ground; yet it contained various
articles of rude furniture, and the moss bed on which he lay was soft
and pliable under his weight. The brands of a falling fire had been
carefully raked together in one corner, and were burning with a feeble
and wavering flame, which cast faint, flickering shadows upon the dark
walls.
Continuing his inspection more closely, the boy saw the figure of an
aged man, seated upon a stone, bending over the pages of a large Bible
which lay open upon his knee. His countenance was majestic and
dignified. His brow had a care-worn and anxious expression, yet withal
an air of calm resignation inexpressibly sublime. His locks were almost
completely white, though his dark and intelligent eye still retained
much of the fire of early youth, while the hale cheek, and undaunted
presence indicated patience and content in the greatest suffering that
can befall humanity.
Stanley neither spoke nor moved; but remained with his eyes riveted on
the attractive countenance before him with a species of holy awe. As he
gazed, the old man arose, kneeled, and poured out the aspirations of a
pure spirit in fervent petitions to that Power whose support he
evidently needed.
While he was yet praying, a manly form entered at the opening of the
cavern. The stranger wore a military cloak. He stood in the shadow until
the aged man had ceased and risen, then dropped his cloak and approached
the latter, and Stanley knew him for the mysterious deliverer of the
village, and the person whom he had seen when he lay bound by the
Indians, to fall upon them, and effect, he felt certain, the
preservation he had experienced. He was a specimen of manly beauty; and
the proud and lofty forehead, the deep-set brow and eyes, the expressive
lip, addressed themselves to the interest of the youth.
Overcome with surprise, the boy still remained immovable, and the old
man addressed the stranger. “Has she not yet arrived? the sun is
high—it must be noon-day.”
“It is reason enough for her detention,” replied the other, in a half
impatient voice, the tones of which were deep and clear, “that I have
gone forth to meet her. All objects that I seek elude my pursuit: there
is a curse upon my every pathway.”
“Give not way to repinings, my son, turn thine eyes upon the blessings
that remain to thee, which far exceed the deserts of the best of men.”
“Talk not to me of blessings, my father,” replied the other. “If there
crawls upon the earth a living being deserving of pity, I am that man.
My food no longer nourishes me, my sleep fails to refresh me, my
devotions do not comfort me—all that is necessary and cheering to me
has turned to poison. Vegetating on the same spot, fancy, feeling,
judgment and health gradually decaying, like a tree whose bark has been
destroyed—I have been a man more sinned against than sinning.”
“He who is immured in a living grave like this,” he continued, after an
instant’s pause, “may well wish for one yet more calm and sequestered.
Let us go forth, and challenge the death that awaits us. Hunted by
bloodhounds, our fate is doomed. Rather, then, let it come at once than
hold us longer in this state of misery.”
“William,” said the old man, “would’st thou rashly cast away the boon of
life that God has given thee? Canst thou be fated to death simply
because the word of a vindictive king has gone forth against thee? Nay,
my son, let us abide the Lord’s time, and endure here unto the end, that
we may obtain a crown of rejoicing hereafter. And,” he added, while a
tear dimmed his eye, “would you leave Alice and your child?”
“William,” pursued the aged man, “you forbade me but now to tell you of
blessings. But, surely, thou art strangely unthankful for thine—even
for the incalculable blessing thou hast in that noble-minded woman. Hath
she not accompanied us hither, and cheered and sustained us with her
angel presence?”
“My father, drive me not to frenzy,” exclaimed the other. “You have
struck the chord which another touch would break. It is the sight of
her, dearer to me than life itself—immured in this ghostly
hiding-place, and day by day, growing thin and waxing pale, and smiling
in the midst of misery, that is more than I can bear. And it is I who
have brought this evil upon her. But for me, she might now have been
blooming in increasing beauty in some brilliant destiny beyond the seas.
Never were the bright prospects of opening life more cruelly dashed. And
can she, frail as she is, much longer sustain the effort by which she
has met this stroke of fortune? Will not the reaction, when it comes, be
too terrible to be borne? Oh, God, the thought of her is agony!” and he
covered his face with his hands.
A female form entered. She advanced into the cave, and throwing off a
cloak and hood, Stanley recognized the mysterious Lady of the Rock. For
a second, she regarded the younger of the two without speaking. “My
dearest William,” said she, at length, as drawing close to him, she laid
her hand in a sympathetic manner on his arm, “why do you yield thus to
grief?”
As if her touch and voice were magic, the unhappy exile raised his head
to meet her glance. “I grieve for you, my Alice,” he replied, after
gazing on her anxiously for some moments, and throwing his arm around
her passionately, “to see you bereft of all the appliances of comfort,
and to behold your noble spirit display its courage in mild submission,
and generous efforts to support the hearts of others. How cruel doth the
decree of Fate seem that you, so pure, so gentle, so lovely, should be
visited thus heavily.” Unable to endure his own thoughts, he broke
abruptly away from her, and paced heavily up and down the cave.
“My dear husband,” she said, approaching him, and looking in his face;
“do not think of my lot. Believe me, it would have been but too happy if
it could have alleviated the bitterness of yours, or soothed one sorrow
of my father’s heart. Come hither, my parent, I have news of
encouragement for you both. There is reason to trust that our troubles
will be but short-lived. Our friends have great confidence in the effect
of a personal appeal from me to Charles II. Nay, look not thus
distressed, my father: it is for your sakes that I leave those who are
dearer to me than life itself. I will present myself at the throne of
the king, and petition him for your pardon: and Heaven grant that if we
meet again on earth, it may be in circumstances of peace and safety.”
“Alice, thou shall not leave us!” exclaimed Heath. “Death were far
preferable to life in this gloomy cavern uncheered by your presence. I
will go forth and yield myself up to my pursuers, if thou talkest again
of thine absence.”
“Nay, William, I shall not leave you in this place. The marriage of Lucy
Ellet will occur to-night, and Mr. Elmore has kindly offered you both an
asylum in his house until my return, or for the remainder of your lives,
should it be necessary. The remote and secluded nature of the spot will
withdraw you from the intrusions of impertinent curiosity.”
At that instant, the voices of men were heard without the cavern, and a
fearful suspicion dawned suddenly on the minds of all present.
“Oh, God!” exclaimed young Stanley, starting from his couch, “your
pursuers are seeking you: keep a profound silence, or your voices will
betray you.”
“Let them find us,” said Heath, aloud. “I am weary of eluding them, and
am glad my hour is arrived.”
“William, dear William, be silent,” whispered the lady, bending toward
him with a look of unspeakable terror, as a deep flush mantled the cheek
that a moment back was so pale.
“Alice, I tell you it is useless——”
“Hush, love, for my sake, for your child’s sake,” urged the lady in his
ear, as her countenance became agonized.
The voices without now grew so audible that words could be
distinguished. The old man clasped his hands in resignation, and his
half-parted lips murmured, “The Lord’s will be done!” Alice threw one
arm around the neck of her husband, with a gesture of unutterable love
as though she would shield him, and placed the other hand on his mouth,
while she trembled in every limb.
“The entrance of their asylum is well hidden,” said one of the voices.
“It will be a day’s work to discover it.”
“Let us spend the day at it then,” replied the other speaker, in a
gruffer and harsher tone. “We will not give up the search until we find
it.”
And they seemed approaching the mouth of the cavern. A moment of intense
and breathless anxiety to the inmates elapsed. They stood still and
silent as the rocks around them, suspending every, even the slightest
external motion, and would have ceased to breathe, had nature permitted
such an intermission of her functions. More torturing their suspense
than the long, lingering seconds in which a duellist beholds his
adversary’s pistol wavering over his heart or brain. Their discovery
seemed inevitable. In a few minutes, however, those outside passed on,
and after a short time their voices grew fainter and fainter, until they
were lost in the distance.
“Seize the opportunity of escape ere their return,” said Alice, breaking
the death-like stillness that had been preserved. “Quick father,
William, the moments fly. Make your way toward the house of Mr. Elmore.
I will linger here to baffle the inquiries of your pursuers.”
“Come, my son,” said the old man, rising with a sudden energy. “The Lord
has opened another door of salvation for us. Dost thou hear!”
“Nay, I will not again fly for my wretched life,” said Heath. “I will
passively await my fate.”
“William, William,” exclaimed his wife, in an agony of heartfelt urgency
and sweetness, “I pray you, by whatever is dear in our past association
together—by all the claims, I will not say of the continued love you
but this day professed for me, but by those of an affection on my part
which would endure all things for your sake—to use the proper means for
your preservation. Depart without delay;” and an expression of
unanswerable entreaty beamed in the eye of the suppliant.
“I will do aught that you ask, beloved one, even to the prolonging of my
life of wretchedness,” rejoined her husband, as he imprinted a kiss on
her brow, and drew her with him toward the door of the cave.
“Let me be your guide,” said Stanley, advancing and addressing Heath.
“It will be some small return for the service you have rendered me.”
“I had almost forgotten, in my affliction, to see to you, kind youth.
But you have slept long, and appear to be recovered.”
“Thanks to you, sir, I am living and well,” answered the boy. “But time
grows apace. Will you accept my services?”
“Nay, I am acquainted with the whole neighborhood. You will do me a
greater favor to remain with this deserted lady, and see her safe in the
hands of friends.”
With a countenance of perfect calmness, the heroic wife and daughter
endeavored to hasten the moment of separation.
“Farewell,” she said, casting her arms around the old man, while a smile
was on her lips. “Farewell; we may be parted for years, perhaps for
ever,”—and she made a violent effort to repress her distress.
“Bless me and forgive me, my parent, ere you depart.”
“Thou hast, thou hast my blessing, my suffering dove; and for my pardon,
how canst thou ask it, who hast never done me an offence since God made
me parent to so noble a child? May the Lord be to thee a rock of
shelter, and a path of deliverance from affliction.”
The old man here turned away, and began to descend the hill.
“You must not linger longer, William,” said the lady, turning to her
husband, who stood with his eyes fixed upon her face. “Farewell; our
fortunes look dark, it is true, but mayhap the same bright morning will
yet dawn for us. And if not, we are not still denied the glorious hope
that in the darkest moments of separation clings to humanity—the
anticipation of reunion in the future.”
“Farewell,” said Heath, folding her in a long embrace to his heart,
while his cheek trembled, and a tear dimmed his manly eye. “My beloved
wife, farewell:—my Alice, my own one, adieu.” And drawing his cap over
his brow, and tightening the folds of the cloak he had resumed, he broke
away, and followed his aged companion.
The lady watched the fugitives until they were out of sight, and Stanley
remained by her side silent, judging it best not to disturb her feelings
at the moment with any ill-timed remark.
While they stood, he had time to examine the entrance to the cavern,
which had eluded his discovery so completely on his former visits to the
rock. Nothing could be more concealed than its entrance. The opening,
extremely small, lay in the face of the cliffs, directly behind a large
gray rock, or rather upright stone, which served at once to conceal it
from strangers, and as a mark to point out its situation to those who
employed it as a place of retreat. The space between the stone and
cliffs was very narrow, and might easily escape not only ordinary
observation, but the minute search of a mind not perseveringly active.
The boy did not marvel when he perceived its secret position, that it
had previously been unnoticed by him: for it might have eluded the
attention of those who had stood at its very opening. As he was still
engaged in admiring its security, the lady turned and said to him, “Let
us return within till I make the necessary preparation for my
departure.”
“I leave this spot,” said she, as they entered, “endeared by many sad
associations, never to return to it again.”
“You are likely to leave it in a way you do not imagine,” said a man,
springing in at the opening. He was speedily followed by another, and
they both stood within the cave.
“How is this?” said the latter, looking surprised and disappointed—“a
woman and a boy.”
Alice turned, at first much startled: but when a moment was past, she
prepared herself to receive the intruders with the perfect confidence
which a woman never fails to feel in the mildness and reason of a man,
however rude. Moreover, having nothing to fear for her husband and
father, she found little difficulty in retaining her self-possession,
supported by her inherent dignity.
One of them, who was distinguished from his companion by much
superiority of mien, lifting his hat respectfully, addressed her: “It is
unpleasant to question a woman, especially one of your appearance; but,
madam, where are your companions?”
“I am unable to inform you,” said Alice modestly; “yet I must say that
in my present situation I could have wished to be spared the pain of
confessing my ignorance.”
The harsh features of the elder contracted into their sternest look, and
it was evident how much he was disturbed by the cool manner of her
reply. Alice gazed at his lowering features for a moment in perfect
composure, as if she had naught to fear from his intentions.
“Perhaps you can give us the information we desire?” said he, turning to
Stanley.
“Like this lady, I must confess my ignorance of their whereabouts, if
you allude to Messrs. Lisle and Heath.”
“Pardon us, fair lady of this grotto,” replied the younger cavalier,
“but we will be obliged to search its inmost recesses.”
“True, perhaps they are here, and this coolness may be assumed,” said
the other: “let us proceed to make a thorough investigation.”
“I will vacate the premises for you, gentlemen,” said Alice, drawing her
arm through Stanley’s, and leaving the cave. After which, at a slow
pace, they proceeded together toward the village.