conspirators and ruffians to start forth, at his son’s commission,
and take his life. He examined the desk, as if he expected to
discover poison purchased for him. He trembled as he took out a
brace of pistols, and scarcely dared to ascertain whether they were
charged or not. He dusted the books in the library, and glanced
over many of the title-pages, as if he were certain to lay hold of
a treatise on the duty and necessity of parricide. He would not
allow the ladies to speak, but he harshly interrupted them. They
seemed to be like thoughts in his own mind, which were unwelcome,
and which, therefore, he had the power and the right of forbidding
and preventing.
“If he should not return,” he muttered as he paced more calmly
across the room, “my executors will not be troubled with his name
in the will, and this may ease the dog of a good bone; yes, very
prudent of the young man to stay from home, very.”
“Father!” exclaimed Alice.
“Father me not,” he returned furiously, “or mock me with the name
but a little longer. Oh--” and tears flowed down his cheeks as he
went to the door, “no dreams of gold to night, no money bags; a
halter around my son’s neck, and that son a rebel!”
“Father, weep not. All shall yet be well with James. I cannot
endure these tears, you once told me that you had not one; that
although your hopes were gone for ever, you had not a tear to give
them; that you had not mourning apparel to attend them to their
grave!”
He harshly repulsed her, and retired to his own apartment.
The hour of midnight was now chiming. The drum and music had ceased
for a few minutes, and the town clocks were distinctly heard; but
instantly, upon the stroke, the revelry in the streets commenced
afresh, and the mob became still more noisy than before. The light
of torches glared in upon them, and for a moment they hid their
faces from it, as from something unpleasant and unwelcome. Alice
started up, and proposed that she should lead her companion to
their room for the night, where she promised soon to join her.
Katharine consented, although her fears were so much excited, that
she knew sleep to be hopeless and impossible. As Alice returned,
she wrapped herself closely in a cloak, and was descending to the
door, when she listened at that of her father’s room, and hearing
no noise or motion, entered. She beheld him asleep on the sofa,
and his breathing was difficult. A table was drawn to his side,
and on it lay a portrait of his son, in the character of Hamlet;
taken when he bore a prominent part in the histrionic displays of
the University. It was in the scene when the Prince of Denmark has
become thoroughly convinced that his uncle is the murderer of the
former king, and when he glories in the idea, that by the players
he has forced conviction into the villain’s heart, and when his
mother appears to charge him with his conduct towards that uncle.
Her words were written (and the ink was not yet dry) beneath the
portrait, “Hamlet, you have your father much offended,” and old
Dawson’s shrivelled and white hand was placed pointing to them.
This proof of affection, revenge, and imbecility, all mingled
together, overcame Alice. For a moment she sunk down upon the couch
beside her father, and gently kissed him. She then removed the cane
from his grasp, and covered his venerable head. He started up in
his dreams, but his eyes were shut.
“My son! oh! will none save him. None? Take my gold--yes all of it.
It will forge chains as heavy and as long, as these dismal iron
ones, which now bind his tender limbs; aye the body which my own
Helen gave me, is shackled. Take my gold, there is the key to my
chests, ransack them, and sell me. The gold will make a chamber as
large as that horrible cell! Oh! will none save my beautiful boy?”
“I will, I will,” exclaimed his daughter, and she rushed out of
the room. She summoned her own waiting maid, to watch over the
old man, and then she herself, alone, unattended, left the house
to seek her brother through the crowd. The night was beautiful and
clear in the sky above, and its lights were brilliant, yet soft;
but the illuminations of the town, threw their glare over all
around, and completely shamed the stars. Not a breeze was felt,
but the wafting of the flames. As the lights in the windows were
now almost expiring, and pale faces were seen within, watching by
them,--to the imagination an ominous fate for the Pretender seemed
to be predicted. But bonfires were blazing in every street, and
figures were crowding around them, and rubbing their hands, and
dancing in extravagant mirth. The gleam of arms was reflected from
soldiers, mingling along with the mob. Crowds were perpetually
hurrying past, to behold and make other sights. Not a child, or a
woman was to be seen; but all were men, intoxicated and raging,
or moving on, more helpless than infants. This almost served to
frighten Alice, as she held her way through the midst of them,
coming into contact with the rude touch of daring strength, or the
feeble clutch of old age; yet none interrupted her, save to stare
upon her earnest countenance, so young, beautiful, and innocent.
Many even seemed disposed to join and escort her to the place of
her destination, wherever that might be. Some rather loud whispers
were heard, asserting that she must be a friend of the Pretender,
proceeding on the errand of blessing, and cheering him, on his
dangerous expedition. Still she moved on, apparently indifferent to
every thing which might otherwise have been annoying, when some one
gently took her by the hand. Suppressing a shriek she started back
in terror. But it was a young female who had ventured upon such
a liberty, and Alice immediately recognized the young and blind
Prophetess of the vale, who said in a quick but low tone,--
“I cannot, young lady, see your face, but your hand is feverish,
and your heart is throbbing. And the hour is so late, and the
street crowded. Yes, my prophecy will be fulfilled.”
Alice felt that it would, as she listened to her voice, and gazed
upon her face. Her features seemed altogether to have lost their
happy expression. They were still sweet; but clouded, and sad.
“This light,” she resumed, “is not pleasant. It is not that of
mountain, vale, and stream. Ah! I heard the young chieftain’s step,
so gallant, light, and free; but the cockade waved over his head.
Royal was his voice, for I knew something of courts, in another
clime. And your brother?--you are now in search of him. I need not
inquire. Darkness and death are around all his relations. Start
not. He is a rebel, and now pledges, in the presence of Charles
Edward, his allegiance to the family of Stuart. Oh, why should I
know names and events? Happy I was, when life for me was but to
think and feel. But fair one, come on, embrace your brother once
more, Come,” and she almost dragged the sinking Alice forward, to
hasten her steps. They soon arrived at the Pretender’s palace, but
it was guarded by a close band of Highland soldiers. They made a
passage however, for them, when Alice shortly explained the purpose
of their coming.
“Ay fair lady,” said one “step in, your brother is now Captain
Dawson, and a brave and gallant Southern he is.”
“It is true then!” Alice exclaimed with a shriek, while she hid her
face in her hands, “he is a traitor and we are all ruined.”
“A traitor!” fiercely exclaimed a kilted mountaineer, whose fiery
eyes peered through his shaggy eyebrows, as he rudely grasped her
with his left hand, while his right sought the deadly weapon--“Be
canny, noo, my leddie, lest Tonald’s tirk may pe seeking te right
side o’ te question. Tat pe te way tat Englishers speak of der
lawfu Sovereign, tat day must call his gude friends traitors!”
Alice Dawson looked unmoved upon the specimen of barbarous
brutality. Her eye gleamed indignantly; which the Scot observing,
drily rejoined, by taking his hands from off her and saying, “Is
she after wishing to frighten Tonald? Hech, hech! She canna tak te
preeks off te Heelandman: and faith Tonald canna tak them off her.”
“She’s a traitoress,” exclaimed one of the Lowlanders, whose face
might have been mistaken for a smoke-dried ham, for he was the only
ill favoured soldier in the company.
“Hold,” thundered forth one of their leaders, who came out from
the palace, and his fiery eye rebuked the rude soldiers, who had
gathered round to support their comrades, in whatever they might be
pleased to do, against the unprotected Alice, and her companion;
“cowards, to attack and frighten a lady! It would be gallantry,”
he added, turning to the Lowlander, “were you to show your back to
a lady, and conceal that face of yours. She would excuse you, for
in your case it would not be considered as a breach of manners.
Manners! but what know you of manners? Fair lady, my sentinel
informs me that you seek your brother, who is a captain in the
Manchester regiment, this day enlisted, as volunteers, in the
Prince’s cause. See, they make a way for you. Step in.”
The young soldier who spoke, was Hector McLean, a leader of the
north, and one of the many Scottish gentlemen of rank, who, for
their ready attachment to his cause, had been knighted by the
Pretender. The accent of his country was slightly perceptible,
and there was something so friendly in his voice, that Alice
halted, to obtain some further information concerning her brother,
or some directions by which she might be guided to him; and her
companion, who had been altogether silent, seemingly absorbed
in her own thoughts, did not urge her on. But as her eyes fell
upon the handsome form of the knight, so martial in his bearing,
although but of slender proportions, she blushed deeply, and half
repented that she had not forthwith entered. He doffed his bonnet,
gallantly, and respectfully, as she stood before him,--announced
his name, and offered her his services. “Fair lady, you appear
to have been in tears. Are they shed for your brother? Think not
by any eloquence, aye, even that of affection, to turn him from
his purpose, and make him insensible to his duty. His sovereign
has a claim prior to his sister. And could you deprive the brave
Chevalier of a hope of victory?”
“He has left an aged and infirm father,” sobbed Alice, “and we are
unprotected. He himself is not inured to war, for the cloisters of
a college have been his only camp. Oh! gallant knight,” and she
looked up, with a countenance, as innocent and artless as it was
mournful, “entreat my brother to return!”
“I must deny you,” he gently replied. “The captain is an
acquisition, and already has gained the confidence of the Prince.
Your fair brow, may be soon encircled with honours, won by your
brother, from a grateful master. When you have seen him, you shall
return home, and pray for his safety, and that of the Prince.”
As he spoke, Alice felt her companion shudder. The young Prophetess
knelt down, and muttered some words in a low, but wild tone. Rising
up, she drew Alice closer to her, and madly exclaimed,--
“Almighty One, keep her alone, join not their fates--but ah! it
cannot be! Brother and lover will ruin her, and death, death is her
lot. The poison is to lurk in every sweet rose, for you. I know it.
And she, the beautiful one, your companion in the vale, now too
must see her dream vanish. Oh, _their_ heads mount the poles in the
public streets. I cannot see them; thank God, yours shall be spared
such scorn, but languid for many a night shall they lie on the
pillow, and then, they must find rest in an early grave.”
She twined herself around Alice, kissed her cheeks, and wept.
The chieftain stood silent and astonished, not being able to
comprehend the scene; but Alice trembled, and almost sunk to
the ground. He placed her hand within his. “Come, and you will
straightway have an interview with him. He is now closeted with the
Prince, and his officers, consulting together upon some military
plans.”
They entered:--the inside of the palace was fitted up with great
magnificence; and the spacious hall of audience was adorned with
portraits of the Stuart family, on which the lights were gleaming
brightly, and but for the gilded and embossed frames, they might
have been mistaken for the living sovereigns, who, by nature, were
endowed with the highest talents to sway an empire, but whose
imprudence and licentiousness expelled them from the throne. The
beautiful Queen of Scotland shone forth with a loveliness which
none but a royal old maid and prude, could have doomed to death.
She, who had been the wife of three husbands, still seemed to
have more love and affection in those bright features, than the
Holy Virgin of England, who never had a lover. The first Charles
was painted there, as he stood on the scaffold, and his eyes were
raised joyfully from the block, to see, in vision, the crown of
heaven, which no weapon could take from the Lord’s annointed. The
light threw a beautiful longing of immortality over his features.
At the further end of the hall, hanging from the ceiling to the
floor, was a green silk curtain, behind which was the door leading
to the Chevalier’s apartments. This was the only screen from the
face of royalty. Sir Hector, however, led Alice through a sliding,
at the right wing, and stood, for a little, opposite to a door,
above which were the Prince’s arms. At that moment it opened, and
Charles Edward, with young Dawson, appeared. The latter rushed into
the embrace of his sister. She beheld the uniform, and her hand was
upon the sash by which he was belted, still she clung fondly to
him, although she could not utter a word. Sir Hector McLean gave
the Pretender an explanation; who, stepping up, gently took the
hand of Alice.
“Lady, bless your brother, and the cause he supports. Blame him
not; you cannot call me a rebel, and he must, therefore, be loyal.
Captain, comfort your sister.”
“And who shall comfort thee?” sadly asked the blind child. “Oh,
never, never, can you mount the throne.”
“Who is she? She is pale for me and my woes. See, the tears are
trickling down these cheeks. Perhaps blood, the blood of my
friends, may flow freely in my cause. God knows that my own heart
is sad, even for a tear on the face of another, for my sake.
But hark, my leaders are gay in the dance!” So kindly did the
Prince soothe the feelings of Alice, that when he retired, she
was prepared even to give comfort to her brother, when he spoke
of Katharine. She could not, however, persuade him to accompany
her home, and obtain their father’s forgiveness, and Katharine’s
blessing.
“I dare not. I could not leave you all alone and unprotected. How
could I part from you, in the home of our past life? I must see
Katharine once more, but not there. But you, oh, what dangers you
have undergone this night for me, Alice! My heart breaks, awful
forebodings creep over my soul, at the sight of this blind girl. I
dare not see you home, and yet, to expose you--”
“Nay, captain,” kindly rejoined Sir Hector, “I should feel
honoured, would your fair sister accept of my protection.”
“Thanks, my noble friend; watch over her. The clock strikes the
hour of one. Sleep, Alice, and think not of our woes. We shall meet
again in happier times. One more embrace, dear girl; give my love
to Katharine, and my obedience to my father. I may see them before
the Prince leaves Manchester. Farewell. Sir Hector--”
“Say not a word, captain. I shall guard her as I would the
Chevalier. Now, fair lady,”--and he almost dragged her from the
arms of her brother.
As they reached the door, she looked round for her companion--but
she was gone!
When his sister left him, Captain Dawson in vain sought comfort
in the room where all the officers were assembled for mirth and
the dance. His spirits were sunk, and into every bright scene
which hope conjured up, his aged parent and his unprotected
sister entered, and stood looking upon him, and yet he could not
approach them. He believed, however, that to his country he was
not acting the part of a traitor, for he wished to restore to it
the descendant of its ancient rulers. Sometimes, too, the quiet
retirement which he had formerly enjoyed within the cloisters of
the college, arose to his mind, and now, when surrounded by arms,
with the glory of strife before him in all probability, the arts of
peace appeared more noble and worthy of attainment. He retired to
the apartment which was assigned to him; but there, grief almost
reached the point of delirium, and the young soldier wept on his
pillow. He heard a knock at the door, and then Sir Hector McLean
entered.
“Hast thou seen her home in safety? Oh! Alice, I have broken
your heart, and murdered my father; aye, and myself, and my own
Katharine too! Could I stay for months at home, to watch this
opportunity, and mutiny against the peace of all whom I love!”
“Your sister,” was the reply, “is safe in her father’s house, nor
is her anguish so wild as when you saw her. She fondly believes
(and may it prove true, Dawson,) that soon the strife shall be
finally settled; and then comes the soldier’s home, after all his
hardships and dangers; then come tears of joy, so different from
those at parting for the present.”
Young Dawson took the hand of Sir Hector, and pressed it in
gratitude. He was almost deceived for a time, it felt so like the
touch of Alice, and when he mentioned this, his friend laughed, and
said,--
“Perhaps I may have held her pretty hand within mine so long as to
catch its virtue. Nay, let not a suspicion cloud thy brow, I would
not pay one act of unmeaning gallantry, to betray; you do me wrong,
Dawson. Yet, how beautiful she is!”
“Beautiful!” exclaimed Dawson, as he sprung from his couch in
madness. “And must I listen to hear my sister called beautiful,
by a soldier? If thy craven soul has dared to breathe one word
of lawless feeling to mine Alice, tell me--and let us choose our
weapons.”
As he spoke, he moved to the table on which his sword lay
unsheathed, and passing his hand hastily over its edge, put himself
into a posture of attack and defence. But McLean’s sword still hung
by his side, and his hand was stretched forth in friendship. And
yet, at the first movement, his eye had flashed, and his right foot
had been violently placed in advance, for the combat.
“Dawson,” he said, in a solemn tone, “you force me to reveal to you
what, perhaps, I ought to disguise at present. Could I put that
hand to the hilt of my sword, against Captain Dawson, when it has
been pledged in fondest love to his beautiful sister? Beautiful
I must call her--keep off, and hear me out. Will you compel me
to draw? I had a sister, fair as Alice Dawson, but she died in a
warmer clime, amidst the breezes of Italy. Had she lived, I should
have watched over her as suspiciously as you protect Alice. But I
am true. Is there falsehood in my countenance? Believe me; for with
you I cannot appeal to the sword to support my veracity.”
The anger and fury of young Dawson had fled. He knew that Sir
Hector’s oath was that of a chieftain, and he was certain that
Alice would be happy. He coloured highly, threw his sword upon the
couch, and embraced him as a brother. Long did they speak of Alice
and Katharine; and the two young soldiers unbosomed every thought
to each other, and disclosed their respective arrangements. McLean
agreed to be a message-bearer to Dawson’s house, and to Katharine
Norton; for the captain dared not visit them. He left his companion
to rest a little before day break.
Just about the same time Dr. Dawson awoke. The object of his dreams
had been James, and his first waking thought was concerning him.
But all was dark in the room. He only knew that his children were
not near. His memory failed to tell him whether James had returned.
In the morning there is something cold and blighting in fear, for
all the powers of the mind are more awake to it. He started up at
the earliest gleam of light, and shuddered, as he saw, for the
first time, that he had slept on a sofa. In all his affectionate
thoughts of his children, he did not forget self; and he cherished
it, in general, with a regimen, the strongest which his profession
could provide or sanction.
“Death, death!” he exclaimed, “my children make me to commit
suicide, by sending me, grieved and senseless, to my couch, to my
sofa. My obedient son,--many thanks to you, dear James; dear James,
many thanks to you. Oh, dear and loving he is to me!”
But in the midst of this invective he paused, as his eye met the
portrait of his son. He hurried on his clothes, but his palsied
hands were feeble and slow. His daughter came not, as was her wont.
He looked out from the window, upon the street, and how still,
compared with the revelry of the last night! There was scarcely
a wreck of it. The fragments of wood, black, and half consumed,
strewed the streets. These had been bonfires, a few hours before,
and now, a few miserable and poor wretches were gathering them up,
to carry them to a home, where there was little comfort blazing
from fuel. The doctor closed the window, and violently threw
himself down on the sofa, and cursed all whom he knew. He arose,
and silently proceeded to the door of his daughter’s apartment.
He heard no noise. He knocked, and instantly his daughter’s voice
was heard; when he knew that she was well, he stopped not to speak
to her, but in anger traced his steps again to his own room. He
had not closed the door behind him, when Katharine Norton came in.
He was always kind to her, and taking her by the hand, led her to
a seat. Her raven tresses were hanging over her cheeks, and her
voice trembled. She attempted to divert his thoughts from James’s
disappearance--for she dared not reveal the awful truth--and for a
time she succeeded. He even jested, playfully with her, and asked
her to name the day when she would become his beautiful and dear
daughter-in-law. He took her hand, and begged to know by which of
the pretty fingers James had protested to love her.
In a little, Alice appeared. She was pale, but occasionally her
cheeks glowed, and her eyes sparkled with some emotion, to which,
hitherto, she had been a stranger. She seemed more absorbed in
thought than usual, and her lips moved tremulously, as if she were
speaking to herself. She thought of her brother, and the thought
spread a pallor over her features. She thought of her lover, and
blushed. She ran to embrace her father, but concealed her face in
modesty, lest he might read, and be an interpreter of her heart’s
fond love, which, she knew, was as strong, and would be as lasting,
as it had been sudden. Her father repulsed her.
“Good child,” he said in mockery, “I am obliged to you for this
soft, soft couch. Do you see the thick coverings which have
oppressed these limbs! Oh! how warm they kept me! Give me your
hand, Alice, what a good and loving child to her old father. James,
too,--”
“Father,” interrupted Alice, in a quick and almost angry tone,
“you may mock me, but you shall not mock my brother. Does a young
soldier, far from the comforts and happiness of a domestic life,
and exposed to hardships, danger, and death, need to be mocked,
even by an old man? Would you mock our James, should he be brought
to a gibbet?”
“Soldier!--young soldier!” exclaimed her father in mad phrenzy, “my
James a soldier! Oh God! be merciful!” and he knelt, “Forgive all
mine unkindness to the children of my Helen! A soldier! Alice!” and
he fell down, apparently lifeless. Upon the screams of their young
mistress, the servants rushed into the room. They, by degrees,
recovered the old man to sensibility, but he continued wildly to
rave about James.
“Son, your sword is bright and gleaming. Yes, James, you wear it
proudly. Hush, come quietly at night, when Alice has retired to
rest. Enter by the pannels near to my bed. Say father, and then do
your work. Strike home, to the very heart. Oh! would it not animate
your courage to behold my blood upon that flaming weapon? James,
you strike hard. Shew me that face once more, and, dear child, I
will bless it. Wilt thou bring me the gold from my secret desk,
that I may give it thee? Ah, it matters not, you know where it is.
Hush, hush, slay Alice too, when you have broken her heart. Twine
your hand in those beautiful curls, and kiss that sweet and gentle
forehead. Listen to her, as she murmurs love to you in dreams, and
strike as she utters your name. A soldier! Oh! what a soldier can
do!”
He glanced wildly around him. He started up, and all signs of age
were, in a moment, obliterated from his face, and had left his
frame. He stamped, and loudly ordered all from the room.