THE GARDEN OF RODOGUNE DESCRIBED.—THE HOPES AND DANGER OF IMOGEN.—HER
INCONSOLABLE DISTRESS.
Imogen, immediately after the interview that had so deeply perplexed
her, returning to her apartment, had shut herself up in solitude. Her
reflections were gloomy and unpleasing; the new obscurity that hung
about them had not contributed to lighten their pressure. But though
she was melancholy, her melancholy was of a different hue from that of
her ravisher. If virtue can ever be deprived of those glorious
distinctions that exclusively belong to her, it must be when she is
precluded from the illuminations of duty, and is no longer able to
discern the path in which she ought to tread. But even here, where
distinction seems most annihilated, it yet remains. The cruel
sensations of Imogen were not aggravated by despair, but heightened by
hope. Through them all she was sustained by the consciousness of her
rectitude. The chearfulness of innocence supported her under every
calamity.
She had not long remained alone before she was summoned to partake of
that plainer repast, which in the economy of Roderic usually occupied
the middle of the day, and preceded the sumptuous and splendid
entertainment of the evening, by which the soul was instigated to
prolong the indulgence of the table, and to throw the reins upon the
neck of enjoyment. But Imogen, whose thoughts were dark, and whose mind
brooded over a thousand sad ideas, was desirous of that solitude, which
in the simplicity of pastoral life is ever at hand. She could not away
with the freedom of society, and the levity of mirth. It was painful to
her to have any witnesses of her new sensations, and she wished to
remove herself for ever from the inspection of the officious and the
inquisitive. In compliance with her humour a few viands were served to
her in her own apartment. She was induced by the entreaties of her
attendant, to call up a momentary smile upon her countenance, and to
endeavour to partake of the refreshment that was offered her. But the
effort was vain. It was the sunshine of an April day; her repast in
spite of her was bedewed with tears, and she ate the bread of sorrow.
As soon as it was concluded, she was invited to a short excursion in
the garden of the mansion. Unused to refusal, the natural mildness of
her temper inclined to comply. She saw the necessity of not yielding
herself up to passive and unresisting melancholy. The natural serenity
of innocence did not yet permit her to be insensible to the attractions
of enjoyment; and the transient view she had had of the garden, as she
passed to the terrace, led her to expect from it, something that might
sooth her pensive thoughts, and something that might divert her
affliction.
The garden of Rodogune was an inclosure in a bottom glade, at the
entrance of which, though nigh to the castle, and upon a lower ground,
you wholly lost sight of the mansion, and every external object. But
though these were excluded, the sorceress by her art had also excluded
the appearance of limits and boundaries. The scene was not terminated
by walls and espaliers, but by the entrance on either side of a wild,
meandring wood. The side by which you were introduced was protected by
trees of the thickest foliage; and the gate was masqued with a clump of
hazels and alders, which permitted only two narrow passages on either
side. The eye was shut in, but the imagination was permitted to range
in perfect freedom. Nor was this seeming confinement calculated to
disgust; on the contrary you willingly believed that every charm and
every grace was shut up in the circle, and you trembled lest the
smallest outlet should take off from the richness of the scene. In
entering you were struck with a sensation of coolness, that impervious
shades, a bright and animated verdure, flowers scattered here and there
in agreeable disorder, the prattling of the stream, and the song of a
thousand birds, impressed as strongly upon the imagination, as the
senses. But this did not appear the result of art. Every thing had the
face of uncultivated luxuriance, and impenetrable solitude. You could
not believe that you were not the first mortal that had ever found his
way into the enchanting desert.
The scene however had been solely produced by the skill of Rodogune.
Erewhile the grass had appeared dry and parched; a few solitary and
leafless trees had been scattered up and down; there was no gaiety of
colours to relieve the eye; and not one drop of water to give freshness
to the prospect. But with the operations of magic Rodogune had
delighted to supersede the parsimony of nature. She caused the tree and
the shrub to spring forth in the richest abundance; the sturdiness of
whose trunks, or the deepness of their verdure, cheated the eye with
the semblance of the ripening hand of time. She sprinkled the turf,
short, fine, and vivid, with flowers both native and exotic. She called
forth a thousand fountains to enrich the scene. Sometimes they crept
beneath the turf in almost imperceptible threads; sometimes they ran
beside the alleys, or crossed them in sportive wantonness; and
sometimes you might see them in broader and more limpid currents
rolling over a smooth and spotted bed. Now they rose from the soil in
foamy violence, and fell upon the chalk and pebbly ground beneath; and
anon they formed themselves into the deeper bason [sic], whose calm and
even surface reflected back the reeds and shrubs that were planted
round. There was nothing strait and nothing level; the rule and the
line had never entered the delicious spot; the irregularities of the
soil, and the fantastic, gradual windings of the alleys, were
calculated to give length to the passage, and immensity to the scene.
From time to time you encountered tufts of trees closely planted, and
that cast as brown a shade as the thickest forest. These were partly
composed of wood of the most pliant texture, the extremities of whose
branches, bending to the earth, took root a second time in her bosom.
Elsewhere the rasberry [sic], the rose, the lilac, and a thousand
flowering shrubs, appeared in thickets without either regularity or
symmetry, and contributed at once to adorn, and to give an air of
rudeness and wildness to the prospect. Round the body of the trees,
planted some at their root, and some upon the different parts of the
trunk, crept the withy, the snakeweed, the ivy, and the hop, and
intermingled with them the jessamine and the honeysuckle, in the most
unbounded profusion. Their tendrils hung from the branches, and waved
to the wind; and suggested to you the appearance of garlands scattered
from tree to tree by the nymphs of the grove. All was inexpressible
luxuriance, and a thousand different shades of verdure were placed, one
upon another, in regular confusion, and attractive disorder. An
exuberance of this sort was calculated in a vulgar scene to have
checked the fertility of the plants, and to have given a sickly and
withered appearance to their productions; but it was not so in the
garden of Rodogune. There the cherry and the grape, the downy peach and
the purple plum were half discovered amid the foliage of the hop, and
the clusters of the woodbine. Beneath the delicious shade you wandered
over beds of moss, undeformed with barren sands and intrusive weeds,
and smooth as the level face of ocean when all the winds of heaven
sleep.
Nor was this all. Inanimate and vegetable nature (and the observation
had not escaped the penetration of Rodogune) adorn and arrange it as
you will, infallibly suggests an idea of solitude, that communicates
sadness to the mind. Accordingly your path was here beguiled with the
warbling of a thousand birds, the full-toned blackbird, the mellow
thrush, and the pensive nightingale. The sorceress had invited them to
her retreat, by innumerable assiduities and innumerable conveniences of
food and residence, and had suffered no rude intrusion to disturb the
sacredness of their haunts. Unused to molestation in all their
pursuits, they now showed no terror of human approach, but flew, and
hopped, and sung, and played among the branches and along the ground,
in thoughtless security and wanton defiance.
For a few moments Imogen was immersed in the contemplation of the
beauties of the place, and its delightful coolness and mingled
fragrance were balm and softness to her wounded soul. The domestic who
accompanied her, perceived her propensity to reflection and fell back
to a small distance. The shepherdess, as soon as she found herself
disengaged and alone, revolved with the utmost displeasure her present
situation. “How happy,” cried she, “are the virgins of the vale! To
them every hour is winged with tranquility and pleasure. They laugh at
sorrow; they trill the wild, unfettered lay, or wander, chearful and
happy, with the faithful swain beneath the woodland shade. They fear no
coming mischief; they know not the very meaning of an enemy. Innocent
themselves, they apprehend not guilt and treachery in those around
them. Nor have they reason. Simplicity and frankness are the unvaried
character of the natives of the plain. Liberty, immortal, unvalued
liberty, is the daughter of the mountains. We suspected not that
deceit, insidiousness, and slavery were to be found beneath the sun.
Ah, why was I selected from the rest to learn the fatal lesson!
Unwished, unfortunate distinction! Was I, who am simple and undisguised
as the light of day, who know not how to conceal one sentiment of my
heart, or arm myself with the shield of vigilance and incredulity, was
I fitted by nature for a scene like this? In the mean time have not the
Gods encouraged me by the most splendid appearance, and the most
animating praises? I would not impeach their venerable counsels. But
was this a time for applauses so seducing? How greatly have they
perplexed, and how deeply distressed me! In what manner, alas! are they
to be obeyed, and what am I to think of the professions of my ravisher?
But, no; I dare not permit my purpose to be thus suspended. My danger
here is too imminent. The deliverance of my own honour and the felicity
of my parents are motives too sacred, not to annihilate every ambiguity
and every doubt. Oh, that I could escape at once! Oh, that like the
tender bird, that hops before me in my path, I could flit away along
the trackless air! Why should the little birds that carol among the
trees be the only beings in the domains of Roderic, that know the
sweets of liberty? But it will not be. Still, still I am under the eye
and guardianship of heaven. Wise are the ways of heaven, and I submit
myself with reverence. Only do ye, propitious Gods, support, sustain,
deliver me! Never was frail and trembling mortal less prepared to
encounter with machination, and to brave unheard of dangers. How
fearful are those I have already encountered; and how much have I to
apprehend from what may yet remain! But if I am weak, the omnipotent
support to which I look is strong. I will not give way to impious
despondence. It has delivered, and it may yet deliver me.”
By such virtuous and ingenuous reflections the shepherdess endeavoured
to solace her distress, and to fortify her courage. Now by revolving
her dangers she sought to prepare for their encounter; and now she
dismissed the recollection as too depressing and too melancholy. The
confinedness of the prospect, though rich infinitely beyond any thing
she had yet seen, and though not naturally calculated to fatigue and
disgust, was destructive of all its beauty in the eyes of Imogen. It
presented to her too just an image of the thraldom, which was the
subject of all her complaints. She desired to fling her eye through a
wider prospect; and though unable even from the loftiest ground to
discover the happy valley, she coveted the slender gratification of
beholding the utmost boundaries of the magic circle, and extending her
view as near as possible to her beloved home. She therefore advanced
farther in the garden, and presently arrived at a clear and open brow,
where a beautiful alcove was erected to catch the point of view, from
which the surrounding objects appeared in the greatest variety, and
with the happiest effect. She entered; and the domestic that attended
her remained in a distant part of the garden.
Scarcely had Imogen seated herself, before she discovered, by a casual
glance over the prospect, and at some distance, a youth, who seemed to
advance with hasty steps towards the castle. At first she was tempted
to turn away her eye with carelessness and inattention. There was
however something in his figure, that led her, by a kind of fascination
for which she could not account, to cast upon him a second glance and a
third. He drew nearer. He leaped with an active bound over the fence
that separated him from the garden. It was the form of Edwin. His hair
hung carelessly about his shoulders. His shepherd’s pipe was slung in
his belt. His clear and manly cheeks glowed with the warmth of the day,
and the anxiety of love. He entered the alcove.
Had a ghost risen before Imogen, surrounded with all the horrors of the
abyss, she could not have been struck with greater astonishment. As he
advanced, she gazed in silence. She could not utter a word. Her very
breath seemed suppressed. At length he entered, and for a moment she
had voice enough to utter her surprise. “Gracious powers!” exclaimed
she—“is it possible?—what is it that I see?—Edwin, beloved Edwin!”—and
she sunk breathless upon her seat. The fictitious shepherd approached
her, folded her in his arms, and with repeated, burning kisses, which
he had never before ventured to ravish from his disdainful captive,
restored her to life and perception. The confusion of Imogen did not
allow her to animadvert upon his freedoms. She had the utmost
confidence in the person whose form he wore, and the guileless
simplicity of pastoral life is accustomed to permit many undesigning
liberties, and is slow to take the alarm, or to suspect a sinister
purpose.
Roderic, anxious and timid respecting the success of his adventure, was
backward to enter into conversation. Imogen, on the other hand, charmed
with so unexpected an appearance, and presaging from it the most
auspicious consequences, full of her situation and sufferings, and
having a thousand things that pressed at once to be told, was eager and
impatient to communicate them to her faithful shepherd. She was also
desirous of learning by what undiscoverable means, by what happy
fortune, he had been conducted to this impervious retreat, and at so
critical a juncture. “Edwin,—my gallant Edwin,—how came you
hither?—Sure it was some propitious power,—some unseen angel,—that
conducted you.—Oh, my friend,—I have been
miserable,—perplexed—tortured—but it is now no more—I will not think of
it—Thanks to the immortal Gods, I have no occasion—no room—but for
gratitude.—Edwin—what have you done—and how did you escape the
tempest?—Was it not a fearful storm?—But I ask you a thousand
questions—and you do not answer me.—You seem abashed—uncertain—what is
the meaning of this?—Did you not come to succour my distress?—Was it
not pity for your poor—forlorn—desolate Imogen—that directed your
steps?”
“Yes, loveliest of thy sex,” replied her betrayer. “I flew upon the
wings of love. I was brought along by a celestial, impulsive guidance,
which I followed I knew not why. Oh how gracious the condescension, how
happy the obedience, how grateful the interview! Yes, Imogen, I was in
despair. I was terrified at the concurring prodigies by which we were
separated, and I feared never, never to behold that beauteous form
again. Come then and let me clasp thee to my bosom. Oh, thou art
sweeter than the incense-breathing rose, and brighter than the lily of
the vale!”
For a moment, the affectionate and unsuspicious shepherdess received
his caresses with complacence and pleasure. Suddenly however she
recollected herself; instinctively and without reflection she repulsed
the undue warmth of his attentions. “This,” cried she, “is no time for
fond indulgence, and careless dalliance—Fate is on the wing.—Our
situation is arduous—and we are in the midst of enemies.—Every thing
that surrounds us is full of danger—all is deceit and
treachery—appearances are insidious—all is frightful suspense and
headlong precipice.—The plotter of my ruin is as potent as he is—Ah!
every hour is big with calamity and destruction—every moment that we
stay here is in the last degree hazardous and decisive.—My keepers may
be alarmed—Those eyes that never close may be summoned to attention—we
may be hemmed in—prevented—Oh, Edwin, how fearful is this place—and how
unhoped—how joyful to me—must be an escape.—I thought this hated seat
had been impervious and impassable—Hark!—Did you not hear the sound of
feet?—No—every thing is still—Let us go this way—Say, by what path did
you come—Let us hasten our flight—let us make no delay—not look
behind.”
“Yes, Imogen,” replied Roderic, detaining her, “we will escape—But
this, my lovely maiden, is not the time—I am not yet prepared—We may
remain here in security—already the shades of evening begin to draw.
Every thing is now busy and active. We cannot pass from hence without
observation. In the silence of the night the attempt will be more
practicable. And you, Imogen, are a heroine. The Gods will watch over
us. Silence and darkness have nothing in them at which innocence should
be terrified. Till then let us reconcile ourselves to our situation.
Let us endeavour, by secrecy and stilness, not to attract to us the
attention of the enemies with which we are surrounded. Let us banish
from them curiosity and suspicion. And let us trust in the Gods,
propitious to rectitude, that they will look down with favour upon a
design prompted by virtue and urged by oppression.”
“Alas, Edwin,” replied the shepherdess “it is with regret that I
consent to remain one moment longer in this fatal spot. But I will
submit to your direction, I will confide in your prudence; I will trust
in your fidelity, and your zeal, for the deliverance I so ardently
desire. Here however we cannot long remain undiscovered.—My absence
will be suspicious.—I will return once again to the hated mansion.—You,
my swain, must conceal yourself in the mazes of this friendly
wilderness. It shall not be long ere I come to you again.—With motives
like mine to inspire ingenuity, I shall easily find a way to elude the
strictest guard, and escape from the closest thraldom.—Say, my
Edwin!—this stratagem shall suffice,—and you shall lead me in safety
under the friendly cover of the night to liberty and innocence!”
“Yes,” exclaimed Roderic, suddenly recollecting himself, “you may be
assured that by me nothing shall be omitted, that can further your
escape from this detested prison. The perils I have already incurred
may well convince you of this. It has been through the most fearful
dangers, ready every moment to be overwhelmed with omnipotent mischief,
that I have reached you. I have approached by the most devious and
undiscovered paths. Though the greatest hazards are to be encountered
in the cause of innocence and honour, the conduct we should pursue is
therefore ambiguous, and our success involved in uncertainty and
darkness. Oh Imogen, I may now behold thee for the last time. The
moment we sally from this retreat, I may be discovered by that enemy
from whom we have so much to fear. I may be confined to all the
wantonness of inventive torture, and that beauteous form, and the
smiles of that bewitching countenance may be torn from these longing
eyes for ever. But here, my shepherdess, we are safe. We may here
secure ourselves from sudden intrusion, and a thousand means of
concealment are here in our power. This Imogen is the moment of our
ascendancy, this little period is all our own. In a short time the
precious hours will be elapsed, the invaluable instants will be run
out. Oh, my love, fairest, most angelic of thy sex, while they are yet
ours, let us improve them.”—He ceased; and his countenance glistened
with the anticipations of enjoyment, and his eyes emitted the sparkles
of lust.
But the imagination of Imogen was not sullied with the impressions of
indecency, and the baseness of looser desires. She understood not the
innuendos of Roderic, and she remarked not with an eager and
inquisitive eye the distraction of his visage. She replied therefore
only to the more obvious tendency of what he said. “And is this, Edwin,
all the consolation you bring me? Ah how poor, how heartless, and how
cold! If we accomplish not that flight upon which my hopes and wishes
are suspended, what utility and what pleasure can we derive from this
interview? It will then only be a bitter aggravation of all my trials,
and all my miseries. If a prospect so unexpected and desirable
terminate in no advantage, for what purpose was it opened before me? It
will but render my sensations more poignant, and give a new refinement
to the exquisiteness of despair.
“But no, my Edwin, let us not give way to despondence. The Gods, my
generous swain, the same Gods that give luxuriance and felicity to the
plain, and that have guided you through every hazard to this impervious
spot, will assuredly deliver us. Remember the lessons of the
heaven-taught Druids. There is an innate dignity and omnipotence in
virtue. She may be surrounded with variety of woes, but none of them
shall approach her. The darts of calamity may assail her on every side,
but she is invulnerable to them all. Before her majesty, the fierceness
of all the tenants of the wood is disarmed, and the more untamed
brutality of savage man is awed into mute obedience. She may not indeed
put on the insolence of pride, and the fool-hardiness of presumption.
But wherever her duty calls, she may proceed fearless and unhurt. She
may be attacked, but she cannot be wounded: she may be surprised, but
she cannot be enslaved: she may be obscured for a moment, but it shall
only be to burst forth again more illustrious than ever.
“But you, Edwin, are much better acquainted with these things, and more
able to instruct than I. They were ever the favourite subject of your
attention. I have seen you with rooted eye fixed for hours in listening
admiration of the sublime dictates of the hoary Llewelyn.—It is little
to learn, to understand, and to admire. A barren and ineffectual
enthusiasm for the speculations of truth, was never respectable and was
never venerable. Now, my swain, is the moment in which these sacred
lessons are to be called into action, and in which, beyond all others,
reputation is to be asserted and character fixed. Leave not then to me
the business of inciting and animating you. Be you my leader and
protector.”
“Alas, my charming mistress,” replied her admirer, “I would to God it
were in my power to inspire you with hope and fill you with courage. I
confess that while peril was at a distance, and I sat secure in the
tranquil vale, I received without distinction the doctrines of the
Druids, and bowed assent to their sacred lessons. But practice, my
Imogen, and the scenes of danger differ beyond conception from the
ideas we form of them in the calmness of repose. Something must be
allowed to the unruffled solitude of these sacred men, and something to
the sublime of poetry. Surely it is no part of comprehensive prudence
to banish the idea of those hazards that must be encountered, and to
refuse to survey the snares and the difficulties with which our path is
surrounded. Remember, my fair one, the malignant suspiciousness of your
jailer, and the comfortless darkness of the night.”—
“Oh Edwin, and is this the strain in which you were wont to talk? Why
are you thus altered, and what means this inauspicious
quick-sightedness and alarm? We should indeed survey and prepare for
danger, but we should never suffer it to overwhelm us. The cause of
integrity should never be despaired of. What avails the suspicions of
my keeper? The ever wakeful eye of heaven can make them slumber. Why
should we reck the gloom and loneliness of the night? Virtue is the
ever-burning lamp of the sacred groves. No darkness can cast a shadow
on her beams. Though the sun and moon were hurled below the bosom of
the circling ocean, virtue could see to perform her purposes, and
execute her great designs. Alas, my swain, my voice is weak, and
broken, and powerless. But willingly would I breathe a soul to animate
your timidity. Oh Edwin,” and she folded him in her alabaster arms to
her heaving, anxious bosom, “let me not exhort you in vain! It is but
for a little while, it is but for one short effort, and if the powers
above smile propitious on our purpose, we are happy for ever! Think how
great and beautiful is our adventure. Comfortless and desponding as I
am now, ready to sink without life and animation at your feet, I may be
in a few hours happier than ever.—Oh Edwin, lead on!—Can you
hesitate?—Would it were in my power to reward the virtue I would excite
as it deserves to be rewarded. But the Gods will reward you, Edwin.”—
As she uttered these words, her action was unspeakably graceful, her
countenance was full of persuasion, and her voice was soft, and
eloquent, and fascinating. Roderic gazed upon her with insatiate
curiosity, and drank her accents with a greedy ear. For a moment,
charmed with the loftiness of her discourse and the heroism of her
soul, he was half persuaded to relent, and abjure his diabolical
purpose. It was only by summoning up all the fierceness of his temper,
all the impatience of his passions, and all the mistaken haughtiness
and inflexibility of his purpose, that he could resist the artless
enchantment. During the internal struggle, his countenance by no means
answered to the simplicity of pastoral sentiments. It was now fierce,
and now unprotected and despairing. Anon it was pale with envy, and
anon it was flushed with the triumph of brutal passion. Transitions
like these could not pass unobserved. Imogen beheld them with anxiety
and astonishment, but suspicion was too foreign in her breast, to be
thus excited.
“Imogen,” cried the traitor, “it is in your power to reward the noblest
acts of heroism that human courage can perform. Who in the midst of all
the exultation and applause that triumphant rectitude can inspire,
could look to a nobler prize than the condescension of your smiles and
the heaven of your embraces? No, too amiable shepherdess, it is not for
myself I fear; witness every action of my life; witness all those
dangers that I have this moment unhesitatingly encountered, that I
might fly to your arms. But, oh, when your safety is brought to hazard,
I feel that I am indeed a coward. Think, my fair one, of the dangers
that surround us. Let us calmly revolve, before we immediately meet
them. No sooner shall we set our foot beyond this threshold, than they
will commence. Tyranny is ever full of apprehensions and environed with
guards. Along the gallery, and through the protracted hall, centinels
are placed with every setting sun. Could you escape their observations,
an hundred bolts, and an hundred massive chains secure the hinges of
the impious mansion. Beyond it all will be dark, and the solitude
inviolate. But suppose we meet again,—by what path to cross the wide
extended glade, and to reach the only avenue that can lead us safely
through this horrid cincture, will then be undiscoverable. Amid the
untamed forest and untrod precipices that lie beyond, all the beasts
most inimical to man reside. There the hills re-echo the tremendous
roarings of the boar; the serpents hiss among the thickets; and the
gaunt and hungry wolf roams for prey. Oh, Imogen, how fearful is the
picture! And can your tender frame, and your timid spirits support the
reality?”
Imogen had now preserved the character of heroism and fortitude for a
considerable time. All the energies of her soul had been exerted to
encounter the trials and surmount the difficulties which she felt to be
unavoidable. When the beloved form of Edwin had appeared before her,
she relaxed in some degree from the caution and vigilance she had
hitherto preserved. It is the very nature of joyful surprize to unbend
as it were the strings of the mind, and to throw wide the doors of
unguarded confidence. Before, she had felt herself alone; she saw no
resource but in her own virtue, and could lean upon no pillar but her
own resolution. Now she had trusted to meet with an external support;
she had poured out her heart into the bosom of him in whom she
confided, and she looked to him for prudence, for suggestion and
courage. But, instead of support, she had found debility, and instead
of assistance the resources of her own mind were dried up, and her
native fortitude was overwhelmed and depressed. She turned pale at the
recital of Roderic, her knees trembled, her eyes forgot their wonted
lustre, and she was immersed in the supineness and imbecility of
despair.
“Edwin!”—she cried, with a tone of perturbation; but her utterance
failed her. Her voice was low, hoarse, and inaudible. The fictitious
shepherd supported her in his arms. Her distress was a new
gratification and stimulus to her betrayer. “Edwin, ah, wherefore this
fearful recital? Did you come here for no other purpose than to sink me
ten times deeper in despair? Alas, I had conceived far other
expectations, and far other hopes fluttered in my anxious bosom, when I
first beheld your well known form. I said I have been hitherto constant
and determined, though unsupported and melancholy. I shall now be
triumphant. I shall experience that heaven-descended favour, which ever
attends the upright. Edwin, my firm, heroic Edwin, will perform what I
wished, and finish what I began. And, oh, generous and amiable
shepherd, is it thus that my presages are fulfilled? No, I cannot, will
not bear it. If the courage of Edwin fail, I will show him what he
ought to be. If you dare not lead, think whether you dare follow
whither I guide. You shall see what an injured and oppressed woman can
do. Feeble and tender as we are formed by nature, you shall see that we
are capable of some fortitude and some exertion.” As she said this she
had risen, and was advancing towards the door. But recollecting herself
with a sudden pang, “Alas,” cried she, “whither do I go?—What am I
doing?—What shall I do?—Oh, Edwin!” and, falling at his feet, she
embraced his knees, “do not, do no [sic] not desert me in this sad,
tremendous moment!”
“I will not, my Imogen, I will never desert you. One fate shall attend
us both. And if you are called to calamity, to torture, and to death,
Edwin will not be supine and inactive.” “Oh, now,” cried she, her eyes
moistened with rapture, “I recognize my noble and gallant swain. Come
then, and let us fly. If we must encounter peril and disaster, what
avails it to suspend the trial for a few niggard hours? This, my
friend, my guardian,—this is the time—Now the master dragon
sleeps—Roderic is now unconscious and distant—and I fear him too much
to apprehend any thing from a meaner adversary—Let us fly—let us
escape—let our speed outstrip the rapid winds!”
During their conversation, the heavens had been covered with clouds,
and the rain descended with violence. But the change had not been
noticed by Imogen. “Well then, my fair one, we will depart. What though
the wind whistles along the heath, and the rain patters among the elms?
We will defy their fury. Let us go! But, ah, my Imogen, look there! The
hinds are flying across the plain for shelter; and see! two of them
approach to the clump of trees directly before us on the outside of the
garden. No, shepherdess, it is in vain that we resolve, and in vain
that we struggle: we cannot escape.”
The mind of Imogen was now wrought up to the extremest distress. Her
heart was wrung with anguish. She was ready to charge the immortals
with conspiring against her, had not her piety forbad it. She saw the
reality of what Roderic stated, and yet she was ready to charge him
with raising eternal obstacles. She cast upon him a look of despair and
agony. But she did not read in the countenance of the imaginary
shepherd congenial sentiments. “Methinks,” said she, with a voice full
of reproachful blandishment, and inimitable sweetness, “methinks it is
not with the tenderness of sympathy, that you tell me we must desist.
Sure it is only the mist of tears through which I behold you, that
makes me see the suppressed emotion of pleasure in your countenance.
No, it is not in the heart of Edwin to harbour for a moment the
sentiments of barbarity and insult—But if we cannot now escape—if the
dangers to which we must submit may be diminished by delay—indeed,
Edwin, something must be attempted—at least let us now fix upon a plan,
and determine what to do. Let not delay relax the spirit of enterprise,
or shake the firmness of our purpose.”
“And what plan,” cried the pretended shepherd, “can we form? I have
already trod the intricate and dangerous road, and there is nothing
better for us than to tread my footsteps back again. The day is
particularly unfavourable, as it is accompanied with activity and
business. We must therefore wait for the night. Then we must watch our
opportunities, and embrace the favourable interval. Imogen, I feel not
for myself. I do not throw away a thought upon my own safety, and I am
ready to submit to every evil for your service and your defence. But
yet, my gentle, noble-minded shepherdess, I cannot promise any very
flattering probability of success. Indeed my hopes are not sanguine.
The difficulties that are before us appear to me insurmountable. One
mountain peeps through the breaches of another, and they are like a
wall built by the hand of nature, and reaching to the skies.
Penmaenmawr is heaped upon Snowdon, and Plinlimmon nods upon the summit
of Penmaenmawr. It is only by the intervention of a miracle that we can
ever revisit the dear, lamented fields of Clwyd. Let us then, my
Imogen, compose ourselves to the sedateness of despair. Let us
surrender the success of our future efforts to fate. And let us
endeavor to solace the short and only certain interval that we yet can
call our own, by the recollection of our virtuous loves.”
“Alas,” cried Imogen, “I understand not in what the sedateness of
despair consists. In the prospect of every horrid mischief, mischief
that threatens not merely my personal happiness or mortal existence,
but which bears a malignant aspect upon the dignity of honour and the
peace of integrity, I cannot calmly recollect our virtuous loves, or
derive from that recollection sedateness and composure. Edwin, your
language is dissonant, and the thoughts you seek to inspire, jarring
and incompatible. If you must tell me to despair, at least point me to
some nobler source of consolation, than the coldness of memory; at
least let us prepare for the fate that awaits us in a manner decent,
manly, and heroic.”
“Yes, too amiable shepherdess, if I were worthy to advise, I would
recommend a more generous source of consolation, and teach you to
prepare for futurity in a manner worthy of the simplicity of your
heart; and worthy of that disinterested affection we have ever borne to
each other. Think of those sacred ties that have united us. Think of
the soft and gentle commerce of mutual glances; the chaste and innocent
communication with which we have so often beguiled the noontide hour;
the intercourse of pleasures, of sentiments, of feelings that we have
held; the mingling of the soul. Did not heaven design us for each
other? Is not, by a long probation of simplicity and innocence, the
possession of each other become a mutual purchase? An impious and
arbitrary tyrant has torn us asunder. But do the Gods smile upon his
hated purpose? Does he not rather act in opposition to their decrees,
and in defiance of their authority?”
The magician paused. “Alas,” replied the shepherdess, “what is it you
mean? Whither would you lead me? I understand you not. These indeed
were motives for fortitude and exertion, but what consolation can they
impart to the desponding heart?” “I will tell you,” replied her
seducer, folding her slender waist with one of his arms as he spoke.
“Since the Gods are on our side, since heaven and earth approve our
honest attachment, let us sit here and laugh at the tyrant. While he
doubles his guards, and employs all his vigilance, let us mock his
impotent efforts.”
“Ah,” replied the shepherdess, her eye moistened with despair, and
beaming with unapprehensiveness, “how strange and impracticable an
advice do you suggest! Full of terror, full of despair, you bid me
laugh at fear. Threatened by a tyrant whose power is irresistible, and
whose arts you yourself assure me are not to be evaded, you would have
me mock at those arts, and this dreaded power. Is not his power
triumphant? Is not all his vigilance crowned with a fatal success? Are
we not his miserable, trembling, death-expecting victims? Can we leave
this apartment, can we almost move our hand, or utter our voice, for
solicitude and terror? Oh Edwin, in what mould must that heart have
been cast, what must be its hard and unsusceptible texture, that can
laugh at sorrow, and be full of the sensations of joy, though
surrounded with all the engines of wretchedness?”
“Imogen, your fears are too great, your anxieties exaggerate the
indigence of our condition. Though we are prisoners, yet even the
misfortunes of a prison have their compensations. The activity of the
immaterial mind, will not indeed submit long without reluctance to
confinement and restraint. But we have not yet experienced lassitude
and disgust.” “Alas, Edwin, how strange and foreign are thoughts like
these! Whither do they tend? What would you infer from them?”
“This my love I would infer. That within one little cincture we are yet
absolute. No prying eye can penetrate here. Of our words, of our
actions, during a few remaining hours, we can dispose without
controul.”
“Ah,” exclaimed the shepherdess, struck with a sudden suspicion of the
treacherous purpose, and starting from her betrayer, “ah, Edwin, yet,
yet explain yourself! A thousand horrid thoughts—a thousand dire and
shapeless phantoms—But Edwin,—sure—is plain, and artless, and
innocent.—What boots it that we can dispose of our words and actions
within this cincture?—Will that enable us to escape?—No, no, no,
no.—Escape you say is hopeless—What is it you mean?—Say—explain
yourself—Oh, Edwin!”—
“Be not alarmed,” cried the remorseless villain. “Listen, yet listen
with calmness to the suggestions of my deliberate mind. Imogen, you are
too beautiful—I have beheld you too long—I have admired you with too
fierce an ardour. The Gods—the Gods have joined us. It is guilt and
malignity alone that oppose their purpose.—Let us beat them
down—trample them under our feet—employ worthily the moment that yet
remains.”—
As the magician pronounced these words, he advanced towards his
captive, and endeavoured to seize her in his arms. But she thrust him
from her with the warmest indignation; and contemplating him with an
eye of infinite disdain, “Base unworthy swain!”—she cried—“Insidious
traitor!—abhorred destroyer!—And is it thus that you would approach
me?—Is it thus that you would creep into the weakness of my heart?—But
fly—I know you not—One mark of compassion I will yet exhibit, which you
little deserve—Fly—I will not deliver you into the hands of your rival,
whom yet my soul does not so much loath and abhor—Fly—Live to be
pointed at as an example of degeneracy—Live to blush for and repent of
that crime, which, Edwin!—cannot be expiated.”
Roderic had advanced too far to be thus deterred. He did not wish to
manage the character under which he appeared. His passions by this
interview, more private, and in which his captive had beheld him with
an eye of greater complacency than ever, were inflamed to the extremest
degree. The charms of Imogen had been in turn heightened with joy, and
mellowed with distress. Even the conscious dignity, and haughty air she
now assumed, gave new attractions to her form, and new grace to her
manner. Her muscles trembled with horror and disdain. Her eloquent
blood wrought distinctly in her veins, and spoke in a tone, not more
dignified than enchanting. Her whole figure had a life, an expression,
a loveliness, that it is impossible to conceive.
Roderic rushed forward unappalled, and unsubdued. He had already seized
his unwilling victim. In vain she resisted his violence; in vain she
strove to escape from her betrayer. “For pity’s sake—for mercy’s
sake—for the sake of all our past endearments—spare me!—relent—and
spare me—spare me!—” For a time she struggled; but her tender frame was
soon overcome by the strength of her destroyer. She became cold and
insensible in his arms.
At this moment a flood of splendid lightning filled the apartment. The
air was rent with the hoarse and deafening roar of the thunder, the
door flew open, and the form of that spectre that he most abhorred
stood before Roderic. “Go on,” cried the phantom, “complete thy heroic
purpose. Scorn the tremendous sounds that now appal thee. They are but
the prelude of that scene that shall shortly feast my eyes. Perceivest
thou not the earth to tremble beneath thy feet? Hearest thou not the
walls of thy hated mansion cracking to their ruin? Confusion is at
hand. _Chaos is come again._ Go on then, Roderic. Complete thy heroic
purpose.” The spectre vanished, and all was uninterrupted silence.
The whole mind of Roderic was transformed from what it was. For the
impotence of lust, and the cruelty of inexorable triumph, he felt the
terrors of annihilation, and all the cold, damp tremblings of despair.
But the victory of innocence was not yet complete.
Imogen had sunk for a moment under the horrors that threatened her, but
she had not been so far impercipient as not to hear the murmuring of
the thunder, and to see the gleam of the lightning. The form however
that terrified Roderic, and the voice that addressed him, were
perceived by him alone.
The shepherdess opened her eyes, and beheld the degenerate ravisher
pale, aghast, and trembling. “It is well, Edwin. The Gods have declared
themselves. The Gods have suspended their thunder over the head of the
apostate. Rut, oh Edwin, could I have imagined it! Desolate and
oppressed as I have been, could I have supposed, that that form was
destined to fill up the measure of my woes! I once beheld it as the
harbinger of happiness, as the temple of integrity and innocence. Oh,
how wretched you have made me! How you have shaken all my most rooted
opinions of the residence of virtue among mankind! Am I alone, and
unsupported in her cause? How forlorn and solitary do I seem to myself!
I suffered—once I suffered the thought of Edwin to mix with the love of
rectitude, and the obedience of heaven. They all together confirmed me
in the path I had chalked out for myself. Mistake not these reproaches
for the weakness of returning passion. And yet, Edwin, though I loath,
I pity you! Go, and repent! Go, and blot from the records of your
memory the cold insinuation, the aggravated guilt that you have this
day practised! Go, and let me never, never see you more!”
As she uttered these words, congratulation, reproach, wretchedness,
abhorrence and pity succeeded each other in her countenance. Rut they
were all accompanied with an ineffable dignity, and an angelic purity.
The savage and the satyr might have beheld, and been awed into
reverence. Roderic slunk away, guilty, mortified, and confounded. And
such was the success of this other attempt upon the virtue of Imogen.