that she has had; but she is quite harmless, Robert was told to say, and
needs little or no watching, and will get a kind of fantastic happiness
for herself, if only she is allowed to ramble about at her pleasure. If
thwarted, she might be very wild and miserable."
"Have you spoken with her?" asked Septimius.
"A word or two this morning, as I was going to my school," said Rose. "She
took me by the hand, and smiled, and said we would be friends, and that I
should show her where the flowers grew; for that she had a little spot of
her own that she wanted to plant with them. And she asked me if the
_Sanguinea sanguinissima_ grew hereabout. I should not have taken her
to be ailing in her wits, only for a kind of free-spokenness and
familiarity, as if we had been acquainted a long while; or as if she had
lived in some country where there are no forms and impediments in people's
getting acquainted."
"Did you like her?" inquired Septimius.
"Yes; almost loved her at first sight," answered Rose, "and I hope may do
her some little good, poor thing, being of her own age, and the only
companion, hereabouts, whom she is likely to find. But she has been well
educated, and is a lady, that is easy to see."
"It is very strange," said Septimius, "but I fear I shall be a good deal
interrupted in my thoughts and studies, if she insists on haunting my
hill-top as much as she tells me. My meditations are perhaps of a little
too much importance to be shoved aside for the sake of gratifying a crazy
girl's fantasies."
"Ah, that is a hard thing to say!" exclaimed Rose, shocked at her lover's
cold egotism, though not giving it that title. "Let the poor thing glide
quietly along in the path, though it be yours. Perhaps, after a while, she
will help your thoughts."
"My thoughts," said Septimius, "are of a kind that can have no help from
any one; if from any, it would only be from some wise, long-studied, and
experienced scientific man, who could enlighten me as to the bases and
foundation of things, as to mystic writings, as to chemical elements, as
to the mysteries of language, as to the principles and system on which we
were created. Methinks these are not to be taught me by a girl touched in
the wits."
"I fear," replied Rose Garfield with gravity, and drawing imperceptibly
apart from him, "that no woman can help you much. You despise woman's
thought, and have no need of her affection."
Septimius said something soft and sweet, and in a measure true, in regard
to the necessity he felt for the affection and sympathy of one woman at
least--the one now by his side--to keep his life warm and to make the
empty chambers of his heart comfortable. But even while he spoke, there
was something that dragged upon his tongue; for he felt that the solitary
pursuit in which he was engaged carried him apart from the sympathy of
which he spoke, and that he was concentrating his efforts and interest
entirely upon himself, and that the more he succeeded the more remotely he
should be carried away, and that his final triumph would be the complete
seclusion of himself from all that breathed,--the converting him, from an
interested actor into a cold and disconnected spectator of all mankind's
warm and sympathetic life. So, as it turned out, this interview with Rose
was one of those in which, coming no one knows from whence, a nameless
cloud springs up between two lovers, and keeps them apart from one another
by a cold, sullen spell. Usually, however, it requires only one word,
spoken out of the heart, to break that spell, and compel the invisible,
unsympathetic medium which the enemy of love has stretched cunningly
between them, to vanish, and let them come closer together than ever; but,
in this case, it might be that the love was the illusive state, and the
estrangement the real truth, the disenchanted verity. At all events, when
the feeling passed away, in Rose's heart there was no reaction, no warmer
love, as is generally the case. As for Septimius, he had other things to
think about, and when he next met Rose Garfield, had forgotten that he had
been sensible of a little wounded feeling, on her part, at parting.
By dint of continued poring over the manuscript, Septimius now began to
comprehend that it was written in a singular mixture of Latin and ancient
English, with constantly recurring paragraphs of what he was convinced was
a mystic writing; and these recurring passages of complete
unintelligibility seemed to be necessary to the proper understanding of
any part of the document. What was discoverable was quaint, curious, but
thwarting and perplexing, because it seemed to imply some very great
purpose, only to be brought out by what was hidden.
Septimius had read, in the old college library during his pupilage, a work
on ciphers and cryptic writing, but being drawn to it only by his
curiosity respecting whatever was hidden, and not expecting ever to use
his knowledge, he had obtained only the barest idea of what was necessary
to the deciphering a secret passage. Judging by what he could pick out, he
would have thought the whole essay was upon the moral conduct; all parts
of that he could make out seeming to refer to a certain ascetic rule of
life; to denial of pleasures; these topics being repeated and insisted on
everywhere, although without any discoverable reference to religious or
moral motives; and always when the author seemed verging towards a
definite purpose, he took refuge in his cipher. Yet withal, imperfectly
(or not at all, rather) as Septimius could comprehend its purport, this
strange writing had a mystic influence, that wrought upon his imagination,
and with the late singular incidents of his life, his continual thought on
this one subject, his walk on the hill-top, lonely, or only interrupted by
the pale shadow of a girl, combined to set him outside of the living
world. Rose Garfield perceived it, knew and felt that he was gliding away
from her, and met him with a reserve which she could not overcome.
It was a pity that his early friend, Robert Hagburn, could not at present
have any influence over him, having now regularly joined the Continental
Army, and being engaged in the expedition of Arnold against Quebec.
Indeed, this war, in which the country was so earnestly and
enthusiastically engaged, had perhaps an influence on Septimius's state of
mind, for it put everybody into an exaggerated and unnatural state, united
enthusiasms of all sorts, heightened everybody either into its own heroism
or into the peculiar madness to which each person was inclined; and
Septimius walked so much the more wildly on his lonely course, because the
people were going enthusiastically on another. In times of revolution and
public disturbance all absurdities are more unrestrained; the measure of
calm sense, the habits, the orderly decency, are partially lost. More
people become insane, I should suppose; offences against public morality,
female license, are more numerous; suicides, murders, all ungovernable
outbreaks of men's thoughts, embodying themselves in wild acts, take place
more frequently, and with less horror to the lookers-on. So [with]
Septimius; there was not, as there would have been at an ordinary time,
the same calmness and truth in the public observation, scrutinizing
everything with its keen criticism, in that time of seething opinions and
overturned principles; a new time was coming, and Septimius's phase of
novelty attracted less attention so far as it was known.
So he continued to brood over the manuscript in his study, and to hide it
under lock and key in a recess of the wall, as if it were a secret of
murder; to walk, too, on his hill-top, where at sunset always came the
pale, crazy maiden, who still seemed to watch the little hillock with a
pertinacious care that was strange to Septimius. By and by came the winter
and the deep snows; and even then, unwilling to give up his habitual place
of exercise, the monotonousness of which promoted his wish to keep before
his mind one subject of thought, Septimius wore a path through the snow,
and still walked there. Here, however, he lost for a time the
companionship of the girl; for when the first snow came, she shivered, and
looked at its white heap over the hillock, and said to Septimius, "I will
look for it again in spring."
[_Septimius is at the point of despair for want of a guide in his
studies_.]
The winter swept over, and spring was just beginning to spread its green
flush over the more favored exposures of the landscape, although on the
north side of stone-walls, and the northern nooks of hills, there were
still the remnants of snow-drifts. Septimius's hill-top, which was of a
soil which quickly rid itself of moisture, now began to be a genial place
of resort to him, and he was one morning taking his walk there, meditating
upon the still insurmountable difficulties which interposed themselves
against the interpretation of the manuscript, yet feeling the new gush of
spring bring hope to him, and the energy and elasticity for new effort.
Thus pacing to and fro, he was surprised, as he turned at the extremity of
his walk, to see a figure advancing towards him; not that of the pale
maiden whom he was accustomed to see there, but a figure as widely
different as possible. [_He sees a spider dangling from his web, and
examines him minutely_.] It was that of a short, broad, somewhat
elderly man, dressed in a surtout that had a half-military air; the cocked
hat of the period, well worn, and having a fresher spot in it, whence,
perhaps, a cockade had been recently taken off; and this personage carried
a well blackened German pipe in his hand, which, as he walked, he applied
to his lips, and puffed out volumes of smoke, filling the pleasant western
breeze with the fragrance of some excellent Virginia. He came slowly
along, and Septimius, slackening his pace a little, came as slowly to meet
him, feeling somewhat indignant, to be sure, that anybody should intrude
on his sacred hill; until at last they met, as it happened, close by the
memorable little hillock, on which the grass and flower-leaves also had
begun to sprout. The stranger looked keenly at Septimius, made a careless
salute by putting his hand up, and took the pipe from his mouth.
"Mr. Septimius Felton, I suppose?" said he.
"That is my name," replied Septimius.
"I am Doctor Jabez Portsoaken," said the stranger, "late surgeon of his
Majesty's sixteenth regiment, which I quitted when his Majesty's army
quitted Boston, being desirous of trying my fortunes in your country, and
giving the people the benefit of my scientific knowledge; also to practise
some new modes of medical science, which I could not so well do in the
army."
"I think you are quite right, Doctor Jabez Portsoaken," said Septimius, a
little confused and bewildered, so unused had he become to the society of
strangers.
"And as to you, sir," said the doctor, who had a very rough, abrupt way of
speaking, "I have to thank you for a favor done me."
"Have you, sir?" said Septimius, who was quite sure that he had never seen
the doctor's uncouth figure before.
"Oh, ay, me," said the doctor, puffing coolly,--"me in the person of my
niece, a sickly, poor, nervous little thing, who is very fond of walking
on your hill-top, and whom you do not send away."
"You are the uncle of Sibyl Dacy?" said Septimius.
"Even so, her mother's brother," said the doctor, with a grotesque bow.
"So, being on a visit, the first that the siege allowed me to pay, to see
how the girl was getting on, I take the opportunity to pay my respects to
you; the more that I understand you to be a young man of some learning,
and it is not often that one meets with such in this country."
"No," said Septimius, abruptly, for indeed he had half a suspicion that
this queer Doctor Portsoaken was not altogether sincere,--that, in short,
he was making game of him. "You have been misinformed. I know nothing
whatever that is worth knowing."
"Oho!" said the doctor, with a long puff of smoke out of his pipe. "If you
are convinced of that, you are one of the wisest men I have met with,
young as you are. I must have been twice your age before I got so far; and
even now, I am sometimes fool enough to doubt the only thing I was ever
sure of knowing. But come, you make me only the more earnest to collogue
with you. If we put both our shortcomings together, they may make up an
item of positive knowledge."
"What use can one make of abortive thoughts?" said Septimius.
"Do your speculations take a scientific turn?" said Doctor Portsoaken.
"There I can meet you with as much false knowledge and empiricism as you
can bring for the life of you. Have you ever tried to study
spiders?--there is my strong point now! I have hung my whole interest in
life on a spider's web."
"I know nothing of them, sir," said Septimius, "except to crush them when I
see them running across the floor, or to brush away the festoons of their
webs when they have chanced to escape my Aunt Keziah's broom."
"Crush them! Brush away their webs!" cried the doctor, apparently in a
rage, and shaking his pipe at Septimius. "Sir, it is sacrilege! Yes, it is
worse than murder. Every thread of a spider's web is worth more than a
thread of gold; and before twenty years are passed, a housemaid will be
beaten to death with her own broomstick if she disturbs one of these
sacred animals. But, come again. Shall we talk of botany, the virtues of
herbs?"
"My Aunt Keziah should meet you there, doctor," said Septimius. "She has a
native and original acquaintance with their virtues, and can save and kill
with any of the faculty. As for myself, my studies have not turned that
way."
"They ought! they ought!" said the doctor, looking meaningly at him. "The
whole thing lies in the blossom of an herb. Now, you ought to begin with
what lies about you; on this little hillock, for instance;" and looking at
the grave beside which they were standing, he gave it a kick which went to
Septimius's heart, there seemed to be such a spite and scorn in it. "On
this hillock I see some specimens of plants which would be worth your
looking at."
Bending down towards the grave as he spoke, he seemed to give closer
attention to what he saw there; keeping in his stooping position till his
face began to get a purple aspect, for the erudite doctor was of that make
of man who has to be kept right side uppermost with care. At length he
raised himself, muttering, "Very curious! very curious!"
"Do you see anything remarkable there?" asked Septimius, with some
interest.
"Yes," said the doctor, bluntly. "No matter what! The time will come when
you may like to know it."
"Will you come with me to my residence at the foot of the hill, Doctor
Portsoaken?" asked Septimius. "I am not a learned man, and have little or
no title to converse with one, except a sincere desire to be wiser than I
am. If you can be moved on such terms to give me your companionship, I
shall be thankful."
"Sir, I am with you," said Doctor Portsoaken. "I will tell you what I know,
in the sure belief (for I will be frank with you) that it will add to the
amount of dangerous folly now in your mind, and help you on the way to
ruin. Take your choice, therefore, whether to know me further or not."
"I neither shrink nor fear,--neither hope much," said Septimius, quietly.
"Anything that you can communicate--if anything you can--I shall
fearlessly receive, and return you such thanks as it may be found to
deserve."
So saying, he led the way down the hill, by the steep path that descended
abruptly upon the rear of his bare and unadorned little dwelling; the
doctor following with much foul language (for he had a terrible habit of
swearing) at the difficulties of the way, to which his short legs were ill
adapted. Aunt Keziah met them at the door, and looked sharply at the
doctor, who returned the gaze with at least as much keenness, muttering
between his teeth, as he did so; and to say the truth, Aunt Keziah was as
worthy of being sworn at as any woman could well be, for whatever she
might have been in her younger days, she was at this time as strange a
mixture of an Indian squaw and herb doctress, with the crabbed old maid,
and a mingling of the witch-aspect running through all as could well be
imagined; and she had a handkerchief over her head, and she was of hue a
dusky yellow, and she looked very cross. As Septimius ushered the doctor
into his study, and was about to follow him, Aunt Keziah drew him back.
"Septimius, who is this you have brought here?" asked she.
"A man I have met on the hill," answered her nephew; "a Doctor Portsoaken
he calls himself, from the old country. He says he has knowledge of herbs
and other mysteries; in your own line, it may be. If you want to talk with
him, give the man his dinner, and find out what there is in him."
"And what do you want of him yourself, Septimius?" asked she.
"I? Nothing!--that is to say, I expect nothing," said Septimius. "But I am
astray, seeking everywhere, and so I reject no hint, no promise, no
faintest possibility of aid that I may find anywhere. I judge this man to
be a quack, but I judge the same of the most learned man of his
profession, or any other; and there is a roughness about this man that may
indicate a little more knowledge than if he were smoother. So, as he threw
himself in my way, I take him in."
"A grim, ugly-looking old wretch as ever I saw," muttered Aunt Keziah.
"Well, he shall have his dinner; and if he likes to talk about
yarb-dishes, I'm with him."
So Septimius followed the doctor into his study, where he found him with
the sword in his hand, which he had taken from over the mantel-piece, and
was holding it drawn, examining the hilt and blade with great minuteness;
the hilt being wrought in openwork, with certain heraldic devices,
doubtless belonging to the family of its former wearer.
"I have seen this weapon before," said the doctor.
"It may well be," said Septimius. "It was once worn by a person who served
in the army of your king."
"And you took it from him?" said the doctor.
"If I did, it was in no way that I need be ashamed of, or afraid to tell,
though I choose rather not to speak of it," answered Septimius.
"Have you, then, no desire nor interest to know the family, the personal
history, the prospects, of him who once wore this sword, and who will
never draw sword again?" inquired Doctor Portsoaken. "Poor Cyril Norton!
There was a singular story attached to that young man, sir, and a singular
mystery he carried about with him, the end of which, perhaps, is not
yet."
Septimius would have been, indeed, well enough pleased to learn the mystery
which he himself had seen that there was about the man whom he slew; but
he was afraid that some question might be thereby started about the secret
document that he had kept possession of; and he therefore would have
wished to avoid the whole subject.
"I cannot be supposed to take much interest in English family history. It
is a hundred and fifty years, at least, since my own family ceased to be
English," he answered. "I care more for the present and future than for
the past."
"It is all one," said the doctor, sitting down, taking out a pinch of
tobacco and refilling his pipe.
It is unnecessary to follow up the description of the visit of the
eccentric doctor through the day. Suffice it to say that there was a sort
of charm, or rather fascination, about the uncouth old fellow, in spite of
his strange ways; in spite of his constant puffing of tobacco; and in
spite, too, of a constant imbibing of strong liquor, which he made
inquiries for, and of which the best that could be produced was a certain
decoction, infusion, or distillation, pertaining to Aunt Keziah, and of
which the basis was rum, be it said, done up with certain bitter herbs of
the old lady's own gathering, at proper times of the moon, and which was a
well-known drink to all who were favored with Aunt Keziah's friendship;
though there was a story that it was the very drink which used to be
passed round at witch-meetings, being brewed from the Devil's own recipe.
And, in truth, judging from the taste (for I once took a sip of a draught
prepared from the same ingredients, and in the same way), I should think
this hellish origin might be the veritable one.
[_"I thought" quoth the doctor, "I could drink anything, but"_--]
But the valiant doctor sipped, and sipped again, and said with great
blasphemy that it was the real stuff, and only needed henbane to make it
perfect. Then, taking from his pocket a good-sized leathern-covered flask,
with a silver lip fastened on the muzzle, he offered it to Septimius, who
declined, and to Aunt Keziah, who preferred her own decoction, and then
drank it off himself, with a loud smack of satisfaction, declaring it to
be infernally good brandy.
Well, after this Septimius and he talked; and I know not how it was, but
there was a great deal of imagination in this queer man, whether a bodily
or spiritual influence it might be hard to say. On the other hand
Septimius had for a long while held little intercourse with men; none
whatever with men who could comprehend him; the doctor, too, seemed to
bring the discourse singularly in apposition with what his host was
continually thinking about, for he conversed on occult matters, on people
who had had the art of living long, and had only died at last by accident,
on the powers and qualities of common herbs, which he believed to be so
great, that all around our feet--growing in the wild forest, afar from
man, or following the footsteps of man wherever he fixes his residence,
across seas, from the old homesteads whence he migrated, following him
everywhere, and offering themselves sedulously and continually to his
notice, while he only plucks them away from the comparatively worthless
things which he cultivates, and flings them aside, blaspheming at them
because Providence has sown them so thickly--grow what we call weeds, only
because all the generations, from the beginning of time till now, have
failed to discover their wondrous virtues, potent for the curing of all
diseases, potent for procuring length of days.
"Everything good," said the doctor, drinking another dram of brandy, "lies
right at our feet, and all we need is to gather it up."
"That's true," quoth Keziah, taking just a little sup of her hellish
preparation; "these herbs were all gathered within a hundred yards of this
very spot, though it took a wise woman to find out their virtues."
The old woman went off about her household duties, and then it was that
Septimius submitted to the doctor the list of herbs which he had picked
out of the old document, asking him, as something apposite to the subject
of their discourse, whether he was acquainted with them, for most of them
had very queer names, some in Latin, some in English.
The bluff doctor put on his spectacles, and looked over the slip of yellow
and worn paper scrutinizingly, puffing tobacco-smoke upon it in great
volumes, as if thereby to make its hidden purport come out; he mumbled to
himself, he took another sip from his flask; and then, putting it down on
the table, appeared to meditate.
"This infernal old document," said he, at length, "is one that I have never
seen before, yet heard of, nevertheless; for it was my folly in youth (and
whether I am any wiser now is more than I take upon me to say, but it was
my folly then) to be in quest of certain kinds of secret knowledge, which
the fathers of science thought attainable. Now, in several quarters,
amongst people with whom my pursuits brought me in contact, I heard of a
certain recipe which had been lost for a generation or two, but which, if
it could be recovered, would prove to have the true life-giving potency in
it. It is said that the ancestor of a great old family in England was in
possession of this secret, being a man of science, and the friend of Friar
Bacon, who was said to have concocted it himself, partly from the precepts
of his master, partly from his own experiments, and it is thought he might
have been living to this day, if he had not unluckily been killed in the
Wars of the Roses; for you know no recipe for long life would be proof
against an old English arrow, or a leaden bullet from one of our own
firelocks."
"And what has been the history of the thing after his death?" asked
Septimius.