It was too much for the warmth of those lovers' hearts to part in the
cold, frozen solitude of even the little world around them. The many
makes a solitude for the few. No prison walls are harder, sterner; no
fetters more rigid, more binding; no penitentiary cell more silent,
more solitary, than the wall of hard human faces, than the fetters of
conventional forms, than the dull, hemming in, unresponsive circle of
an unsympathizing crowd for hearts that feel together, and would speak
to the ears that can comprehend.
They could not bear it; they risked all for the sake of pouring
out the thoughts of each bosom to the other; and on one bright
morning, the day before Ralph's departure over the brown heaths and
moors--Heaven knows how they found the opportunity; they hardly knew
themselves: it was the impulse of the moment--fortune favored; the
skies winked at the lovers' wish, and there they were. No eye, it
would seem, perceived their going forth; none whom they knew met them
in the lonely lane; and once in the wild commons, they were but a
speck upon the wide extent.
They heard the cry of dogs afar. They saw hounds and mounted horsemen
sweep over the distant hill. They felt little alarm; for so broad was
the expanse, that it would have required long calculations to discover
how many chances there were to one that the hunt would not come within
seeing distance of themselves. Sometimes they walked on together;
sometimes they sat side by side on the dry sandy bank. Margaret's hand
rested in Ralph's, and their eyes looked into each others'.
"You will not forget me, Margaret, among all the gay, and proud, and
high who throng your father's dwelling?"
"Can I forget myself, Ralph, and all the memories of which my
existence is made up? But will you not forget me? You are going forth
from me into a giddy world, where all is new and untried to you; where
thousands of sights, and feelings, and hopes, and passions, and
efforts, and changes, may well wipe away Margaret's image from your
heart."
"Do you believe it, Margaret? Do you think that in aught I meet with I
shall ever forget for one moment the object of my going forth? What
will be to me all that the world can give or show--what haughty
grandeur--what supple flattery--what upstart wealth--what official
insolence--what eager, hasty business--what cunning policy and low
cabal--what lordly halls and crowded courts, and glittering gems, and
eager strife, without the hope, the one bright leading hope, which,
like the mariner's star, may lead me away but to guide me surely home
again? Oh no, these things form but the waves of a sea through which
my bark must steer; but if they once break in, then I am wrecked
indeed. Would, dear Margaret, while I am gone, that you could see
every thought and feeling of my heart--behold, as in a glass, every
act in which I am engaged."
Margaret mused. "Would we could both know the future," she said, "at
least as far as our own fate is concerned; would we could see how all
this will end. They tell me there is a man lives yonder, down by those
few scattered houses on the moor, who can read horoscopes, and tell by
various means the destiny of those who will consult him freely. What
think you, Ralph," she asked, with a laugh and a blush; "shall we go
and ask him our fate? What if he were to say you would prove untrue,
and love some fair lady of the court, and forget Margaret? Are you
afraid to inquire?"
"Not in the least," he replied; "for I should give no weight to his
words, Margaret, whatever he said. The stars tell us of God's might,
and every thing throughout nature of his love and bounty; but man's
fate is a sealed book, which no stars, nor aught else in the great
creation, can aid us in reading. Had the Almighty ever designed that
the destiny even of the next coming hour should be known to us, he
would have given us clear means of learning it; for the same Being who
has taught us all that is necessary for us to know for our conduct
here below, and for our salvation hereafter, would not have left us
ignorant of any thing that could be beneficial to us to comprehend in
our after destiny. However, I have no fear, so let us go."
It may be a question whether Ralph really felt the full amount of
skepticism in regard to arts, which obtained almost universal credence
in those days, which he assumed. Reason is a fine thing; but alas for
poor human nature! reason but too often fails to convince. There would
seem to be intuitive convictions, against which argument the most
logical fails to operate. Ralph had a thousand times pondered and
discussed with himself all the points of superstition that affected
the age in which he lived. He had proved to his own satisfaction that
the calculations of the astrologer, and all the terrors of
supernatural visitants, were either impostures or dreams--to his own
satisfaction, I have said, but not to his own conviction, and the two
are very distinct. However, he did not suffer the lingering feelings
of unwilling belief, in that which his reason rejected, ever to affect
him in his conduct, and he again expressed his willingness to go.
Margaret, on the other hand, had never argued the question with
herself at all. Not that she gave full credence to all the wilder and
grosser superstitions of the day; for a mind naturally strong and
bright had guarded her against much, though not against all. She had
heard with horror and indignation of the trial, condemnation, and
execution of some unfortunate persons for witchcraft not very long
before the period of which I speak; but yet, when we remember that Sir
Thomas Brown himself, the great reformer of "vulgar errors," could not
free his mind entirely from the superstitions of his day, it was not
to be expected that a young girl of Margaret's age should be entirely
devoid of them.
She went on, then, with her lover, with more faith in the experiment
they were about to make, and of course with more eagerness also; but,
at the same time, her fears and agitation were naturally greater
likewise, and before they had taken a hundred steps she almost
regretted having made the proposal. Curiosity, however, was stronger
than apprehension--perhaps I might say, hope was stronger; for
undoubtedly one great motive of the inquiry she was about to make was
to strengthen her own heart in the coming hours of trial by the
assurances of after happiness which she fondly trusted to receive.
The scene around as they advanced, and the way that they took, were
well calculated to impress the mind with that feeling of awe which was
a good preparation for that which was to follow. The base of all
superstition is awe at the thought of some great unknown thing, and
whatever tends to impress the mind with grand and solemn fancies
naturally aids in that direction. I never saw the cause of
superstitious fears, so universal in the mind of man, clearly and
rightly reasoned but once, and that was in the work of an American
writer less generally known, at least in England, than he ought to be.
He makes one of his characters speak as follows: "Fear is not
cowardice. You may encounter unmoved the greatest danger that can
threaten you, as death in any shape, and yet be frightened at a trifle
merely because its exact magnitude is unknown to you. And this
convinces me that there is something somewhere in the universe more
terrible than death, or any ill that we know of, or whence comes this
all-pervading instinct of fear, which begins in the cradle, and
follows us to the grave? There is some undeveloped cause of fear
somewhere, some terrible evil which the imaginations of men have not
been able to find a shape for."
Any thing that strikes the mind and produces sensations of awe, even
of sublimity or grandeur, has a powerful effect in rousing up all that
is superstitious in our nature, and the scene through which the two
wandered on was well calculated to have that effect. I know nothing
more solemn and impressive than a wide, far-extended, uncultivated
moor upon a dim day, when no bright gleams of sunshine diversify the
expanse with catches of golden light, when the sky above is all gray,
and the eye rests upon nothing but long lines of brown and purple
heath, like a broad, desolate ocean spreading every where around. Such
was the scene which presented itself to the eyes of Ralph and Margaret
ere they had gone a quarter of a mile. The undulations of the ground
had by that time hidden the plowed fields and meadows around. The
Grange, the hedgerows, and tall trees were no longer seen; the church,
and the village, and her father's hall were shut out from sight, and
the only part to be discovered of the higher country to the south and
west was a dark, greenish-black line of hill covered with somber wood.
The small, scattered houses toward which they wended their way, and
which were to be seen distinctly when they stood upon the upland, were
now lost to the view; and not a trace of man's habitation or his
industrious hand greeted the eye to relieve the prospect from its air
of utter desolation. Even the path--if path it could be called--which
they followed to arrive at their object, showed none of the rich
coloring which could relieve the general somber tints of the view;
but, formed of the dark gray sand of a peaty soil, harmonized well
with, but enlivened not at all, the black and swampy ground that lay
on either side. Here and there a pool lay glistening upon the moor,
but the effect was not cheerful, for it reflected nothing but the gray
sky above; and round the edge, where the grass and heath had rotted
under the action of the water, the dark tangled roots and dull brown
moss, ragged and tufted, gave a more dreary look to the ground.
The distance was greater than Margaret had supposed; for the
cottagers, who were, in reality, intruders on another man's land, had
taken care to build at some distance from the cultivated ground, not,
indeed, in the hope of escaping observation, but in order to render it
not worth while to dispossess them. The solitary man, too, who had
established himself at no great distance from them, was not inclined
to court the proximity of the gay general world, and he had planted
his dwelling even some four or five hundred yards further in the moor
than the cottagers themselves.
Thus the walk was nearly two miles in length, and the ever-recurring
sameness of the view--its vastness--its desolation--sunk more and more
heavily upon Margaret's spirits as she and her lover walked slowly on
over the numerous slopes of ground, where the prospect was only varied
by a different arrangement of the same monotonous materials and hues;
and she literally trembled as she approached the lonely dwelling,
where, she more than half believed, her future fate might be made
known to her.
The house itself was a sad and solemn looking one; not a mere clay
hovel, like those which had been passed before, but a tall dwelling of
rough stone, with a perpendicular row of four windows, and two low and
narrow doors. It had evidently been built a long time, for moss and
lichen clung about it, and a thick stem of ivy rose at one corner, and
sent out its matted foliage of dark green over the greater part of two
sides of the building. It might have been a tower, erected in times of
trouble for watching the fens; and if a lodge in a garden of cucumbers
afforded to a Hebrew a good image of desolation, an Englishman could
conceive no habitation much more gloomy and dreary than a solitary
stone house in the midst of the marshes of Lincolnshire. In one
respect it had the advantage over the little hamlet situated near. It
was placed upon the top of the highest elevation of the low grounds,
probably for the purpose of descrying afar off any object that moved
across the fens. It was on a little mound, rising about some twenty
feet above the general level of the moor, and, consequently, the
situation was drier and more secure than could have been found any
where else in the neighborhood. But still it looked damp, and cold,
and miserable enough.
At the door which the two young people approached hung a large bell,
and laying his hand upon the pulley, Ralph drew it sharply down. It
gave forth a dull, melancholy sound, which made Margaret start. No one
appeared, however, at the door, although they waited for several
minutes in expectation. At the end of that time Ralph rang again, but
still no one appeared, and at length he lifted the latch and opened
the door. As he did so, he saw the foot of a tall stone stair-case
before him, and at the same moment a loud, deep voice called from
above, "Come up!"
When the young man turned toward Margaret, he saw that her blooming
cheek had become very pale, and that she was evidently much agitated.
"Shall we go on, dearest Margaret?" he said, taking her hand tenderly
in his.
"Oh yes, yes, let us go on now," replied Margaret, in a low voice;
"perhaps if I had known I should be so frightened I might not have
asked this, but I will not turn back now."
"There is no occasion for alarm, dear girl," rejoined Ralph; "I will
go first; but let me have your hand, Margaret;" and thus, hand in
hand, they ascended the long stair-case, while the voice from above
repeated, in a tone of command, the words "Come up!"
They passed two doors, one at the top of the first, and one at the top
of the second flight of steps; but Ralph judged that the voice sounded
from a place higher up still, and went on. The stair-case was very
dark, only illuminated by a narrow loop-hole here and there; but in
the middle of the third flight a brighter light began to shine upon
the steps, and Margaret detained her lover for a moment to recover
breath and courage, saying, "Stay a moment, Ralph. Let me stop my
heart from beating so;" then, after a short pause, she added, "Now let
us go on; I am ready."