BY A NEW CONTRIBUTOR.
"Oh! it is pleasant for the good to die—to feel
Their last wild pulses throbbing, while the seal
Of death is placed upon the tragic brow;
The soul in quiet looks within itself,
And sees the heavens faintly pictured there."
Now, would that I could wield as magic a pencil as did Benjamin West,
that mighty paint-king, how quickly would glow upon canvas one of the
most beautiful and magnificent landscapes that ever entranced the eye
of a scenery-loving traveler—a landscape upon which you might
gaze enraptured every day for years, as I have done, and yet never
tire nor grow less fond of beholding it. I would paint for your
especial gratification, a living, a breathing picture of my old
homestead, endeared by so many joy-fraught hours, and the surrounding
scenery, through which I roved until I knew its every nook and corner
as well as my dog-leaved spelling-book, by the venerable Dilworth.
But, as it is, dear reader, I must be content to offer you a rude
"pen and ink sketch," excavated from the ruins of my childhood
recollections of as exquisitely beautiful and picturesque a spot as
ever riveted the human gaze.
Imagine, for a moment, that we are standing upon a ledge of moss-grown
rocks, projecting from a red hill-side, and whose verge beetles over a
foaming river, which swirls and rages amongst the uplifting crags,
flashing with diamonds in its rush and impetuosity, and then, placid
and almost waveless, creeping on through the gnarled old forest with a
faint murmur, seeming like a huge serpent of silver asleep in the
gushing sunshine.
We are leaning against a rugged mass of the gray ledge—your head
is resting upon your right hand, and you are gazing intently down at
the circle and whirl of the romping waters. Only a few yards above, a
cool spring gushes up, quick and bright, dimpling and laughing in the
arrowy sunshine, then flashing and foaming over the dark rocks, and
twisting in and out among the bare roots of the majestic oak that
cools us with its shadows, falls in a golden shower to the mossy basin
at your feet, and leaping over the steep precipice, mingles in foam
with the seething river below. We are turned toward the west, and as
you raise your eyes to a level with the horizon, one of the most
stupendous views of the Blue Mountains that ever caused man to stop in
breathless awe, now presents itself to your astonished gaze. Mountain
towers behind mountain, and peak behind peak in wild sublimity, like
giant waves heaved along the blue sky, almost seeming as if they were
the ramparts of the world. Their sloping sides are dark with forests,
save here and there, where the axe has penetrated their recesses, and
blocked out spaces which, having been touched with the magic of the
plough, now smile with fertility. And yonder, a little to your right,
lifting his narrow pinnance above all the rest, stands time-honored
Currahee, with his red cap on—for thus we are accustomed to
designate the barren soil which crowns his lofty summit.
Now, for a moment, permit me to call your attention farther up the
river. Did you ever see a more entrancing and exquisitely beautiful
cascade, steeped as it is in the softness, and glowing with the
brightness of a cloudless spring morning? See how the wreathes of foam
come bounding along, like a pack of ravenous wolves chasing each
other, and stop suddenly in their mad career, for an instant
equipoising upon the very brink, as if they had shrunk back and feared
to take the awful leap, then, pushed on by the rush of the waters
behind, descend like a shower of diamonds, and come whirling and
dashing through the narrow gorge at our feet. And is not that deep
basin at the base of the falls glorious? What an angry aspect its
surface puts on, plunging and surging like a mass of living snow,
while the flashing sunlight is perpetually endeavoring to paint a
rainbow in the ever-mounting spray, and yet never quite succeeds. And
those massive rocks, too, piling themselves up so quaintly on either
side of the falls, just where they take the final plunge—are
they not magnificent? How verdant and mossy, and superb in their
ruggedness! Oh! if we were only upon one of those ledges—that
one that seems ready to bow itself into the foaming torrent; if we
only stood there, by that wide-spreading, gnarled old oak, twisting
its dark roots in and out amongst the deep crevices like a knot of
huge serpents, what a glorious prospect would burst upon your sight!
There are so many entrancing scenes about my birth-place, but, among
them all, none as magnificent as the one you behold from that mossy
ledge. But the bridge—did you look at the old bridge? See where
it stands festooned with shadows. That is a dear spot to me, for with
it are associated some of the most treasured recollections of my
boyhood. One end of this time-worn fabric opens into a sandy lane,
with broad, green margins on both sides next the zig-zag fences, where
I have so often gathered a bunch of flowers for my instructress, as I
passed through it on my way to the school-house; the other is
embowered by a clump of oak and beech trees, which, together with a
few hemlocks and chestnuts, out-skirt a superb grove of evergreens, in
the midst of which towers the little white cottage of Farmer Daniels.
There was always a dream-like stillness about the old bridge that
pleased me; and I have spent whole hours in peeping through the
crevices of those time-worn and trampled planks, at the dark, deep
waters creeping and dimpling beneath the massive and sodden
arches with a low gurgle, receiving a sheet of silver sheen as they
stole away into the rich sunshine; and, in gazing over the rude
balustrade where the gaudy butterflies flitted around, or rested by
the river's brink, opening and shutting their unruffled fans; or in
flinging pebbles into the placid waters, and then watching the
widening circles as they swept down with the current. But there is yet
another thing about the old bridge for which I have cherished
memories; that venerable buttonwood tree, gnarled and twisted into the
quaintest and most comical deformity, that looms up from that high
bank at the end of the lane. That bough which projects so far over the
rippling surface, making a horizontal bend, like that of a man's arm,
and then shooting up several yards at an obtuse angle, terminating in
a mass of luxuriant foliage, was my favorite seat, when fishing,
through many a long summer.
Now, look still farther down the river. Follow the grass-fringed banks
in their graceful curve around yonder dark, gray promontory, until
your eye rests upon a long ridge of snowy foam, where a stream of
considerable magnitude mingles its waters with those of the river.
Glancing a little way up this stream, a huge old mill presents itself
to view, blackened with exposure, and grown picturesque by the lapse
of years. Here and there the green moss adorns its roof, and slumbers
along the walls with a quaint richness, especially where the heavy
water-wheel, revolving in a sea of foam, keeps it shadowy and moist. A
short distance above stands the pond—a broad, beautiful expanse
of water, glittering like a sheet of untarnished silver; and, in a
shady nook, close by the dam, where the large weeping-willow sways its
long, drooping branches to and fro wearily, floats a little boat,
endeared by many a fond remembrance.
Turn once more, and mark how the river, increased in size by the
addition of the mill-stream, having swept around Castle-Hill, (so
named from its rugged front and frowning aspect,) comes resplendently
into view again, glowing like a sheet of burnished white, in strange
and singular contrast with the many and dense shadows which always
fringe its banks like heaps of black drapery. See where it takes a
sudden bend, flowing back toward the falls, and then curving
gracefully to the west, dividing against a jutting rock, and sweeping
around it and the adjacent woodland, forming an island about a mile in
circumference. That large white building, which crowns the summit of
that gentle declivity on the nearest side of the island, with a neat
porch in front, half embowered by vines and fruit trees—that is
my birth-place. There never was a spot at once so tranquil and
picturesque as that where stands my dear old homestead. Is it not a
beautiful mansion-house? How sequestered and deliciously cool? The
slope down to the river's brink is covered with a wilderness of
shrubbery; while to the right of the garden-fence spreads a
magnificent grove of white pines, once making a famous play-ground for
us children. Down yonder, in that old field waving with long grass,
beyond the grove, is a patch of splendid blackberry bushes; and near
that old ivy-bound oak on the bank, leaning so gracefully over the
placid waters, as if to greet his image reflected in its vast mirror,
is a fine place to hunt summer grapes. At the building, that little
right-hand window with a shutter, around which are trailed pea-vines
and purple morning-glories, and just above the roof of the porch,
opens into a small chamber—my sleeping-room. At night you can
behold a most magnificent prospect from that little window. It looks
directly down upon the river, which, when there is a full moon and
cloudless sky, seems like one broad belt of molten silver, weaving its
way in and out among the gnarled old trees, at intervals, sparkling
through openings in the thrifty foliage with exceeding beauty; and
again, entangled in the black shadows flung upon it by the beetling
crags above. Then all is so silent, too, save the snowy water-fall
sending up its eternal anthem to the skies, yet coming to your ears
with such a pleasant sound that you never tire in listening. Sometimes
the sky is full of golden stars, and then the scene is so
beautiful—oh! so very beautiful! Many a time have I stolen from
my bed, far away in the night, while all the rest were in deep repose,
to gaze upon the soft moonlight flashing over the meadows until they
looked like acres of green velvet, and gathering upon the dark foliage
until it almost seemed as if it were sprinkled with umber dust, or to
gaze at the deep blue cerulean, studded with innumerable burning orbs.
There is another object to which I must direct your particular
attention, since it assumes an important place in the relation of my
story. Trace the road from where it leaves the east end of the bridge
with an abrupt curve, sweeping around that magnificent grove of
evergreens, passes the old mill, and turning to the east again for a
short distance, threads its way along a grassy lane, and you arrive
before a neat, commodious frame building, prettily white-washed in
front, and hedged in by a rustic fence, with a little gate opening
next the road. This was the dwelling of our schoolmistress, the
remembrance of whom will ever be an oasis upon the deserts of
memory—for to her I owe some of the most pleasurable moments of
my boyhood existence. A more Christian-like spirit, a soul fraught
with greater or intenser sympathies, and a mind less selfish in its
manifestations, or imbued with more genial influences than hers, never
existed within the compass of human being. As a teacher, she was firm,
yet mild; as a neighbor, kind and obliging—in a word, her whole
demeanor was such that the heart unconsciously awakened to
affectionate regard. The dwelling of our schoolmistress was originally
built, at her request, by a benevolent farmer, with the understanding
between them that some future day should witness a transfer of
ownership, and contains but three apartments—a large room,
which, in the words of the old song, serves for "parlor, for kitchen,
and hall," and two small chambers, but all as neat as hands can make
them. Its white front, and massive stone chimnies, were completely
embowered by a clump of superb maples, whose heavy branches twining
their dark foliage, form a delightful arbor over the very entrance,
from the first bursting forth of the tiny buds into perfect life and
beauty, until autumn comes with its garment of mourning, and the
sere and yellow leaves slowly forsake the limbs which have been their
birth-place. A thicket of damask and white roses, lilac trees, and
clusters of pale-blue clematis, with a wealth of other flowers,
luxuriate beneath, where they receive just enough of the warm and rich
sunshine that flashed through the woven shades upon them in the
morning, and of the scented dew-drops which the wind shakes from the
leaves above at nightfall, to make them the most beautiful flower-plot
in all the neighborhood. At the back, a low shed, extending the whole
length of the house, one corner projecting further than the rest, and
covering a cool spring that gushes up, quick and bright, with a sweet
impetuosity, and goes dancing merrily across the green meadow, bright
and glorious in the sunlight, but sullen in the shade. The scenery
around, too, is magnificent. Here spreads a vast and unbroken forest,
whose mighty solitudes once echoed to the whar-whoop of the savage,
and looked upon his horrid rites beneath a midnight moon, or scowling
sky; and, in the dim distance loom the granite-based mountains, like
giant pillars to the vault of heaven, from whose tempest-beaten
summits fifty centuries have looked down, unnoted and unknown.
Our schoolmistress was a widow, the Widow White, as she was usually
designated. A woman of middle-age at the commencement of my story, she
had devoted many years to securing a decent competence for her
declining years, and for her only child such an education as would
prepare him for an honorable station in society. Early wedded to a
young clergyman of promising expectations, she was left a widow
shortly after the birth of a son, and only a few days after her
husband had assumed his duties as pastor of the little flock amidst
which she had scarcely taken her abode. Thus left alone at the very
period when most she needed a protector, she began her course with the
unfaltering energy which ever characterized her undertakings. Yielding
to conscientious scruples, she refused the assistance kindly offered
by the surrounding community, and having chosen a vocation,
assiduously applied herself to the accomplishment of her cherished
purpose. Ere long, she had heaped together an amount of money
sufficiently large to purchase the comfortable homestead I have
pointed out.
There it is that the opening scene of my story commences. The sun was
setting leisurely behind the western mountains in a mass of lurid
clouds, and drowsy twilight had already begun to blur the fine scenery
in the east, when Widow White sat down to her evening repast. A fire
of hickory reflected a ruddy glare upon the hearth, before which
reclined innocent pussy, with eyes half-closed, gazing intently at the
flames as they crept slowly around the logs, and uniting, darted
suddenly up the wide-mouthed chimney. The pine floor and splint chairs
were scoured with scrupulous exactness; a small, oblong looking-glass,
crowned with shrubs of evergreen, rested upon the high mantle-piece;
the two windows were adorned with curtains of coarse, but milk-white
linen, and, in one corner, stood a quaint bedstead of curled maple,
covered with a counterpane of old-fashioned dimity, which lay upon it
like a sheet of snow. In the centre of the room was placed a small
table, covered with a cloth of freshly ironed linen, which fairly
rivaled the ermine in whiteness, upon which sat a garniture of glossy
porcelain. A plate of venison and nut-brown sausages, surrounded by
pearly and yellow eggs, sent up its savory odors to tempt the palate,
while a pitcher of rye-coffee, on which the heavy cream was mounting
like a foam, stood at its side; and, near by, a loaf of warm
wheat-bread, a saucer of wild-honey, and another of golden
butter—these constituting the wholesome repast of which Widow
White was partaking.
"Heaven be praised for a comfortable house and bountiful meal!" she
piously ejaculated, rising from her seat with the expression of
gratitude warm from her heart. "If we always have as good, we shall
never have cause to complain."
Although no apparent attention was paid them, these words were
evidently intended for her son, a tall, premature-looking youth,
between the ages of fourteen and fifteen, who had entered the room
only a few moments before, and now stood leaning against the
mantle-piece, beating the devil's tatoo upon the wall, and, from time
to time, whistling snatches of a popular air. His strongly marked
features, though handsome, were bold and repulsive, the upper lip
curling with half a sneer—but it was merely the soul imaged in
the countenance, for, lad as he was, the spirit had quaffed many a
deep draught of sinfulness, while mildew and iciness had crept down
and sullied the purity of his heart, whose stern monitor-angel,
conscience, still vainly strove to awaken rich melody from the chords
which had once vibrated to its slightest touch.
"David," again spoke Widow White in a subdued tone of voice, raising
her eyes to the face of her son, "for the last few days I have been
thinking deeply of the past—thinking what a mighty change
fourteen short, rapid years have wrought in every thing around me. You
were a babe in the cradle then, and the grave of your father was fresh
in the lonely church-yard. The sky of my life was black with the
storms of adversity, and I was very unhappy, for it almost seemed as
if the day which had departed from it never would dawn again. But
amidst all this gloominess and desolation, one star beamed with a
constant and steady radiance, and that star was yourself. I loved you
as my life, and many, many a time, as I rocked you to repose, have I
pictured out a bright and glorious future for you, while my mind
thrilled with the pleasure of its own creations. But a blight has come
upon it all. I loved you too well—too well for either mine or
your own good. Yielding to the fondness of a mother's love, I indulged
almost your every wish, until now, turbulent and self-willed, you
spurn my best and holiest affections as a mockery, and I find, almost
too late, that I have greatly erred. I speak this in no spirit of
unkindness, David. I feel it to be my duty as a Christian—my
duty as a mother, to talk with you as I am now doing. God knows bow
fearful was the struggle within my mind before I could bring
myself to the determination I have. But I am resolved now; the scales
have fallen from my eyes, and I can plainly see both your danger and
my own. You are trembling upon the very brink of destruction, and I
would ever feel as if there were a curse upon my soul, were I to see
it all, and yet not endeavor to save you. I have come to an unshaken
determination. There must be a reformation."
"Another sermon, I suppose. It is bad enough to hear one every Sunday,
but one every day is intolerable and insufferable," insolently broke
in the lad, and he kicked the cat across the room, and began to
whistle snatches of a lively air.
The widow turned with a deep sigh to the window, while a gleam of
sharp agony shot across her face, and then seeming not to heed the
interruption, she continued:
"Yesterday I was in the village, and saw Mr. Warwick, the saddler. I
have made arrangements with him for your becoming an apprentice to the
trade, and to-morrow you are to go there. It is the best thing I can
do for you, David, and the fullness of a mother's heart alone prompted
it. If you conduct yourself properly, you may still become an
honorable man, and occupy an honorable station in society; but if you
persist in your vicious habits, God only knows where you will end."
Here she paused for a moment, and then added: "To-night I am going
away for some hours. Mrs. Williams is very sick, perhaps dying, and
has sent for me. I may not return until quite late, but, in the
morning before you go, we can talk this subject over fully."
There was such an earnestness and depth of feeling in his mother's
remarks, that David White felt but little inclined to reply the second
time, but the dark thoughts and evil feelings rankled deeply in his
heart, though no tongue gave them utterance.
Widow White gazed intently into the fire for several minutes after she
had ceased speaking, and then taking her bonnet from the bed, advanced
to the door, but stopped a moment on its threshold, and turning to her
son, said, "Should you become drowsy before I return, carefully cover
up the fire ere retiring to bed." She closed it after her, and David
was alone.
He stood still until the last echo of his mother's footsteps died away
in the distance, and then crept stealthily to the front window, where,
seeing her passing the gate into the lane, he broke out into a low
laugh, and returned again to the fire-place.
"So, I must be a saddler, must I? Ahem! Well! it takes two to play at
that, so we'll see who makes high, low, Jack, and the game this deal.
Hurst was about right when he said things would come to a compass
afore long. Guess they have, but who cares? I reckon I know which side
my bread is buttered!"
Here David White again crossed over to the window, and looked out. His
mother was far away in the lane, and just turning the last pannel of
the garden fence, where the road branched off, and led by the old
mill. Withdrawing from the window, he took a small hand-saw file, and
a rudely fashioned key from his pocket, passed over to the bed, and
lifting the foot-valance, drew out a large and strong oaken chest;
then glancing hurriedly around the room to be sure that no one was
present, he applied the key to the lock. It did not quite fit, but,
after carefully filing and applying it for some time, the bolt turned
in its socket, and the chest stood open before him. In rummaging the
till, he at length discovered the object of his search, a purse of
silver coin, the accumulated gains of months, and placed there by his
mother only a few days previous. This was not her usual depository for
money, but, in the present instance, it had been laid aside until the
absent minister of the village should return, into whose hands she was
accustomed to deliver her spare funds for safe keeping. Laying the
purse by his side, he locked the chest, and having arranged every
thing as nearly as possible as he found it, retired through an
opposite door into his chamber.
"Twenty dollars and a shilling, I think they said," muttered he to
himself. "A good round sum for one evening's work. I wonder if I
hadn't better take mother's fashion, and praise Heaven for it?"
Having entered his chamber, he sat down to count his newly-acquired
treasure, and finding the amount as large as he expected, carefully
deposited it, with the exception of a few dollars, in a leathern belt
around his person. Then assuming his shot-pouch, and flinging his
rifle to his shoulder, he stooped down, and taking a small bundle,
wrapped in a silk handkerchief, from his trunk, retired from the
house, slamming the door violently after him, and walked rapidly on,
until he reached the summit of an eminence near the old moss-grown
mill, which was the last place from which he could see the home he was
leaving, perhaps forever. Here he stopped for a few moments, leaned
his rifle and bundle against a large, long-limbed, butter-nut, and sat
down upon a decaying log at its foot, to gaze, for the last time, upon
the old mansion which had been his home from earliest remembrance.
It has been said that there are times when the stoniest hearts are
softened; when the sternest natures are made mild, and when the most
abandoned are like little children. That moment had now come for David
White. It was strange, passing strange. He had committed crime upon
crime, yet scarcely felt a moment's remorse; for years he had acted
toward his mother as if his whole soul were naught but selfishness;
but when he came to leave that mother, that old homestead, and all the
bright and beautiful objects around it, a softness breathed over his
iron-nature, and the fount of tears sent up its gushing libations. I
have often thought that such feelings must be akin to those
mysterious, indefinable, and gloomy forebodings—those dim and
indescribable fears and shrinkings within self, that sometimes come
over our spirits like a creeping, icy thrill—in the midst of a
giddy round of pleasure, or, as we stand by the grave's brink to see
our friends entombed, and yet which no earthly or human cause is able
to explain.
He was beholding everything for the last time, and he looked around
him as the dying man upon his nearest friends, when he feels the cold
hand of death pressed heavily upon his brow, and the silver
chords of his spirit's harp gathering to their utmost tension, and
snapping, one by one, like reeds before the blast. There was the home
which had sheltered him in his helplessness, glowing in a shower of
soft moonlight, and seeming more beautiful than he ever saw it before.
There the only true love this wide world of cold and bitter
heartlessness can know, beamed on his infant eyes; and there he had
spent the only happy moments in all his boyhood existence. In that
little room he had first learned to pray, and there, first forgotten
the duty. There his mother had watched over him night after night,
when he had a burning fever, and the grave had half-opened its
terrible portals for his entrance. And now he was going to abandon
that mother who had loved and cherished him so fondly—leave her
all alone, a joyless, childless widow, and for what cause? He choked
down the emotion that rose to his mind, and turned hurriedly in
another direction. Not more than twenty paces from him, a stream went
dancing and bubbling across the road like a track of liquid
silver—the stream that was fed by the cool spring at home; and
he remembered how he had gazed in transport, many years agone, at the
bright-hued insects floating in the meek, golden-colored sunshine, now
sinking their velvet feet into the moist sand upon the water's brink,
and sipping tiny draughts; or, resting upon the edges of the blue and
crimson flowers that looked up like gems from the verdant grass,
opening and shutting their unruffled fans, woven of gold and sunlight.
He turned away from the scene sick at heart, but still another object
presented itself to view, awakening old memories. A little farther on
yonder in the green meadow, through which murmured the mill-stream,
and by the drooping-willow whose long branches rippled in the current,
was a deep place, in the midst of which loomed up a dark-gray rock,
like a lone sentinel to the rapid waters, and the scene made his heart
bound again. There he had angled for trout for many a summer, and
looked down delighted into the music-breathing waters, watching the
silver and mottled fishes as they went trooping swiftly past, like
guests to a fairy wedding. The tears gushed into his eyes as old
recollections came thronging to his mind, and he faltered in his
determination. He turned, and took one step toward home, but vicious
impulses triumphed, and the rainbow that had begun to arch his heart
faded in darkness. He disappeared down the slope toward the old
bridge, and David White was ruined forever.
Meanwhile Widow White had almost reached her destination. A few steps
farther on rose a little white-washed cottage, with sloping roof, and
two large china-trees embowering it in front. As she arrived at the
small trellis-work gate, a light met her eye, faintly twinkling
through the dark foliage of an intervening bough, and reflecting a
ruddy glare upon the side-walk that lay entombed in shadow. She opened
the gate, followed the narrow foot-path leading to the front door, and
found herself in a dark entry, with a few rays of light shimmering
through the key-hole of a door immediately before her. As she put her
hand to the latch, a stifled sob broke upon her ear, and noiselessly
opening the door, she glided into the apartment. It was indeed the
chamber of death. On a little table by the fire-place, amidst a number
of glasses and vials, burned a solitary candle over a long and
lengthening wick, shedding a dim radiance throughout the room. By the
side of an old-fashioned bedstead, hung with snow-white valance, knelt
the old gray-headed minister, and his low voice, broken and
thrillingly solemn, went up in earnest prayer for a departing soul.
Upon the bed itself, propped up with pillows, lay the invalid. Three
days ago the flush of health had mantled her cheek, and brightened in
her eye, and now, how ghastly and changed she was! The sunken and
mist-covered eye; the pallid cheek; the hueless lips, and painful
breath, too truly testified that the dark angel Azrael was watching by
the couch-side. At the head of the bed sat the daughter, a little girl
apparently five years of age, with her head bent upon her knees, and
her hands clasped beneath her face, weeping bitterly. The supplicating
accents of the gray-haired minister ceased, and he arose from his
kneeling posture, his eyes streaming with tears, and clasping in both
of his the thin white hand that rested upon the snowy counterpane,
leaned gently over, and placed his lips close to the ear of the dying
woman.
"My dear Mrs. Williams," said he kindly, "we all feel that you are
rapidly sinking; do you die happy? Do you feel that there is a Jesus
in heaven, through whose mediation you will be saved?"
There was a rustling of the bed-clothes, a faint murmur, and the
sufferer languidly turned her eyes upon the speaker. A dimness was in
those sunken orbs; a clamminess upon her wan brow, and her breast
heaved wildly beneath the linen that lay in snowy waves across it. But
she did not appear to have heard the inquiry of the minister.
"The Widow White—has she not come yet? It is getting
late—quite late," feebly spoke the sufferer.
Until then Widow White had stood unnoticed in the dark shadow,
unwilling to interrupt; but, hearing this inquiry, she glided to the
bedside.
"Yes, Mrs. Williams, I have come," and she laid her hand upon the dewy
brow of her she had named, and tenderly smoothed back the long hair
that lay loosely upon it.
A gleam of satisfaction shot across the wan countenance of the
sufferer as these words fell upon her ear. A light, almost
preternatural, stole to her eyes, until they sparkled as the diamond,
and she lifted her head upon her hand, and strove to speak. But the
effort was too great for her debilitated condition—a weakness
came over her, and she sunk back exhausted to her pillow. Ere long,
however, she recovered sufficient strength to speak, and turning
toward Widow White, clasped her hand affectionately.
"I feel that my life is fast ebbing away," she began in a subdued and
thrilling voice. "A few short hours will pass by, and this body will
be a soulless mass. But I do not fear to die; for me, death has no
terror, nor the grave a victory. I am standing upon its very
brink, and look down into its blackness without an emotion save
that of pleasure. This is a vain and heartless world! I have found it
so, again and again, and the grave is the only place where I can find
rest from its temptations and persecutions, and I feel glad that the
time is almost here, when rest, both for body and soul, will be
attained. But there is one thing that troubles me. My husband slumbers
beneath the heavy sod in the village grave-yard; I am standing upon
the very brink of eternity; I have no relatives living on this side of
the Atlantic, and when I am gone, what is to become of my poor
friendless, motherless child? I know there is One above who has
promised to take care of the orphan, but still, it would give me a
pleasure to know, that when my mouldering body reposes in 'that bourne
whence no traveler returns,' that the light of a pleasant home would
shed its radiance on her girlish years. I fear to trust her to the
world. I fear its buffetings—I fear its bitterness—I fear
its selfishness!—I have keenly felt them all, and they bowed my
strength of spirit almost to the dust!—they sullied my purity of
purpose, and my love of God! Three years ago I took up my abode in
this community. Life was in its spring-time of joyousness. Pleasure
opened her thousand portals, and nature breathed in beauty. Then a
stern blight came upon it all! The gloom of death shadowed my
dwelling, and soon the cold and rigid form of my beloved partner was
carried out, and laid in the narrow bier where the 'dust returns to
dust as it was.' The feeling of desolation entered my heart; I
sorrowed in tears, and life almost became a weariness. Then you, Widow
White, came to me in my distress, like a ministering angel; advised
me, prayed with me, and led me on, until a light broke in upon my
soul, and a new life spread out its million paths to happiness. From
that moment I loved you as my own mother in heaven. And now I have a
request to make—the request of a dying woman—will you
grant it?" and she grasped the arm of the listener with a wild
eagerness, and looked into her eyes, as if she saw down into the very
soul, and read her every thought.
"Mrs. Williams," began Widow White in reply, in a tone of voice
thrillingly solemn, her eyes dimmed with tears, and her whole frame
trembling with emotion, "Mrs. Williams, you know how endeared you are
to me—that I love you as if you were my own daughter, and that
if I could comply with any thing that would give you pleasure in a
dying moment, I would most willingly do so."
"Thank God!—thank God!" exclaimed she fervently, clasping her
hands as if in prayer. "I have prayed for this, again and again, and
now it has come to pass—when the grave closes over my mouldering
remains, my child will have a home and a mother still! Widow White,
cherish her as your own. Educate her for heaven, and if we mortals,
after death, are sent as ministering angels to the living, then will I
be your guardian spirit. Our kind minister, into whose hands I have
committed them, will inform you of my little worldly concerns after I
am gone, for my strength is fast failing me, and I feel that I have
little time left for words. Mary, dear, come to my bedside. A little
nearer for I am quite weak and exhausted. I am dying, Mary. I am going
far away—away to heaven. In a short time, my body will be cold
and motionless, and then I cannot hear you, or speak to you any more.
Then you will have no mother; she will be dead. In a few days I will
be laid in the cold and dark ground, and you will never see me again
in this world. When I am dead, this lady will be your mother. She will
take care of you, and be kind to you, just as I am; and you must obey
her, and try not to be naughty. If bad feelings come into your mind,
think of your dead mother, and how she talked to you and advised you
when she was dying. If you do what is right, God will love you, and
bless you, and take care of you, and when death comes, you will go to
live with Jesus, where there is nothing but happiness; but if you are
wicked, God will hate you, and when you die, you will go down to hell,
where all the bad people dwell, and where there is nothing but misery
and anguish. Now kiss me, for I am too weak to talk to you any
longer," and the dying woman drew the child to herself, and imprinted
a lingering, burning kiss upon her forehead.
She sunk back exhausted to the pillow, and her breath came in painful
gasps from her parted lips, while her hands moved about spasmodically
on the white counterpane—the excitement of the last hour had
been too much for her weakened condition. She lay thus for several
moments, and then suddenly started from her recumbent position, and
sat upright in the bed. A glorious lustre broke through the mist that
whelmed her eyes, and a faint color sprung to her pallid cheek. She
clasped her daughter in her arms with an hysterical sob; looked wildly
into her face; pressed a burning, quivering kiss upon her forehead,
and then her lips gave forth fragments of speech, broken, but
beautiful. But this did not last long; a weakness came over her almost
preternatural strength; she loosened the embrace that circled her
child; the color fled her cheek, the brightness her eye; the
death-rattle rung out shrilly upon the air, and she fell back
motionless to the bed. They looked upon her countenance—a single
glance was sufficient—it was cold, calm, passionless—the
seal of the grave was upon it.
The gloom of death had shadowed that cottage for two days, and now it
was desolate indeed. The stealthy tread of those who came to gaze upon
the dead and prepare its burial, no longer broke the solemn hush that
brooded over the dwelling. The departed was in truth the
departed—they had borne her over the threshold of her home, and
laid her remains in the narrow house where all must one day
repose—a plain head-board alone marking the grave in which
slumbered what was once Eliza Williams. Like others, she had died
sincerely mourned by many—like others, futurity would leave no
memorial to tell that she had ever existed. Decay, and rude hands, and
careless feet, after the lapse of years, would mar her last
resting-place, as many in the grave-yard had already been marred, but the form below
could never know nor feel the injury—she slept, and would sleep,
as sleep the dead, until the trump of Gabriel awakens and clothes the
dry bones in the habiliments of another world.
And now they were alone—the mother and her adopted daughter,
making preparations for a final departure from that desolate old
homestead. The ashes lay cold upon the hearth-stone, and a gloomy
loneliness reigned throughout the whole building, flinging a pall over
the feelings of Widow White. A chill crept over her as the large gray
cat came purring to her side, and rubbed his soft coat against her
ankle; and tears sprung to her eyes when she saw the countenance of
the little child wearing such a sad and mournful expression, and she
vowed in her heart that no blight should come over her youthful
prospects, if it were in her power to prevent it.
Ere long, the necessary preparations were completed, and the two bade
a final adieu to the lonely dwelling, and passed slowly along the road
toward the mansion of Widow White.
"Parent! who with speechless feeling,
O'er thy cradled treasure bent,
Found each year new charms revealing,
Yet thy wealth of love unspent;
Hast thou seen that blossom blighted
By a drear, untimely frost?
All thy labor unrequited?
Every glorious promise lost!"
Time, at whose touch the monument of a thousand ages crumbles to dust;
at whose embrace empires totter to ruin, and at whose breath cities
rise and sink like bursting bubbles in a pool, rolled on his car of
wonderful mutations.
Ten years—ten short, rapid years had lapsed away into the
infinitude of the past, and mighty changes had marked their progress.
The wave of population, like the ocean at its flood, had gradually
advanced over the land, and many new habitations sent up their curling
smoke within sight of the old homestead of Widow White. The
mansion-house itself had changed but little, though one of the tall
maples had been cut away from the massive stone chimney at the south
end of the building, and the moss had crept over the sloping roof in
spots, giving a quaint richness of appearance to the time-honored
shingles. The huge old mill below the dam had grown a little more
picturesque with the lapse of years; but it was fast going to decay,
for its owner was long since dead, and there being some still pending
lawsuit between the heirs concerning this piece of property, no
repairs had been made, or even any attention paid to its mouldering
condition; and for several twelvemonths it had ceased to send up its
daily medley of pleasant sounds. The old wooden bridge that spanned
the river where it swept across the mouth of the valley, seemed as it
ever did, save that rude hands had leveled the magnificent clump of
trees that had embowered one end, and enveloped it, during half the
day, in a mass of dense shadows, which always slept about this old
fabric, and darkened the waters like heaps of black drapery. The
scenery around was still as magnificent and entrancing as ever,
though, immediately surrounding the dwelling of Widow White, it had
undergone a very material change. The adjacent hills that gradually
sloped down to the river's brink, were still dark with forests, though
here and there the settler's axe had penetrated their sun-hidden
recesses, and blocked out spaces, in the midst of which arose many a
comfortable farm-house. But, at the time of which I speak,
stern-browed winter had breathed over the scene, and the gnarled oak
forest stood out like an army of skeletons against the stormy sky.
But ten years had not thus glided away without leaving their stern
impress upon Widow White. She had become thinner and paler; many white
hairs had crept in amongst the auburn that once adorned her head; and
her hazel eye had assumed a milder, more subdued expression. The
sudden departure of her self-willed son, and the manner of it, had
caused her many a heart-pang; yet for months after it occurred she
entertained serious hopes of his becoming repentant and returning; and
this, for a time, had served to buoy up her depressed spirits; but
when years had gone by, and no intelligence reached her concerning
him, hope fell to the ground, and her ardent expectancy settled down
into a stern grief. Mary, the adopted daughter, stood upon the
threshold of woman-hood, in all the flush and spring-time of life and
enjoyment. Widow White seemed to love her as if she were her own
child, and watched over her with the tenderest care and solicitude. At
this period Mary was near sixteen years of age, and rather striking in
her appearance, though by no means what would be strictly termed
beautiful. Indeed, the contour of her features, as a whole, was rather
commonplace than otherwise; but a soul beamed out through her flashing
black eye, and lit up her countenance with a sweetness, a loveliness,
which was strange, and sometimes startling, from the brilliancy of its
expression. A ruddy glow, like the blush of a summer sunset, dwelt in
either cheek, and a slight contraction at both corners of the mouth
gave her face a half-mirthful look; but her forehead, full in the
upper and lateral portions, seemed almost too severely intellectual
for the other features. She possessed a wealth of luxuriant black
hair, which she had a quaint method of coiling around her head in a
single massive braid, singularly contrasting with the alabaster
whiteness of the delicate temples upon which it rested. She was very
happy at the home she occupied, which was often enlivened by the
joyous snatches of music that broke from her ruby lips as from a bird;
but she had but a faint, a dream-like remembrance of the scenes
connected with her early childhood.
It was a cold afternoon in December—cold even for that ice-clad
month. Dark, gloomy, stern-browed winter had spread his varied
desolations around. The first snow of the season had fallen during the
night previous, and lay upon the ground to the depth of several
inches, in some places, drifted into the ravines, leaving the
declivities almost entirely uncovered, and at others, overspreading
the soil with an unruffled sheet of stainless white. The winds had
awakened from their August slumbers, and blustered and shrieked
dismally through the leafless forests, then sweeping out among the
houses, sought entrance, but finding none, flung themselves
despairingly against the doors, and mocked at the clattering windows,
which every now and then threatened to burst from their casements;
anon, swept moaning around the corners, now muttering, and now
whispering at the crevices, then passing up toward the eaves, died
away in sobbings and wailings. Even the dark blue cerulean wore a
chilly aspect; and the huge masses of heavy, leaden-colored clouds
that piled themselves up so quaintly over by the lofty-peaked,
snow-capt mountains, drifted wildly before every impulse of the
ice-winged lord of the storm.
Late on this afternoon a solitary traveler on horseback might have
been seen winding slowly along the serpentine road that led over the
hill above the falls. This traveler was David White. At his heart,
were the same fierce and turbulent passions—the same dark
thoughts and bad feelings—the same willful and perverse nature
that dwelt there, when I left him, ten years ago, forsaking home and
happiness; time had only served to deepen the impressions, and crime
almost entirely to blot out the few remaining influences of a
religious education, while the vicious impulses strengthened. But, in
person, he was greatly changed. From the stripling he had become the
man. A half sneer was on his countenance as in boyhood; and the same
restless, wicked eye lighted up his features with an evil fire. It was
a face that told the wily hypocrite—the man who could assume any
character he chose—now, high-minded and honorable, and again,
crime-seeking and fiendish, just as circumstances required. The cheeks
were thin and sunken, and the deep pallor which had stolen away the
rosy tints of health, plainly showed a course of continual
dissipation. In person, he was somewhat above the standard height, and
slender in his make, though his frame exhibited great powers of
endurance, and no common share of muscular strength.
He wound slowly down the hill, stopped for a moment to gaze at the
falls, adorned with huge, long icicles, and a shore of frozen foam;
then moved on again, passed leisurely along the curving lane, and
paused once more at the old bridge, to look up and down the river;
after which he advanced a short distance into the magnificent grove of
evergreens which skirted the road, and fastening his horse securely to
one of the strongest pine saplings, bent his steps toward the home of
his childhood. By this time the last flashing gleams of sunset were
dying away in the west, and dark-hued twilight began to shroud the
east in a mist-like dimness.
David White had been a wanderer in foreign lands. More than once had
he stood amidst a field of the ghastly dead and shrieking wounded,
when the tide of a great battle raged fiercest and strongest, his
foothold bathed in the life-blood of his comrades. Such scenes ever
tend to pervert the kinder tendencies of our nature, and to render the
mind adamantine in its manifestations; nor were his less susceptible
to these influences than others. When first he entered the ranks of
the army, and joined in the death-dealing battle, he saw the daily
commission of crimes which made his soul shrink even to contemplate;
but, by degrees, he learned to look upon them merely as the amusements
of a passing hour, and finally, to lend a ready hand to their
accomplishment. Then his heart grew still colder and more feelingless.
He thirsted for excitement, lawful or unlawful. He longed for the
bloody onset to come; the deafening roar of the cannon was a music in
his ears, and the murderous combat brought a restlessness that pleased
him. But human nature is strange—passing strange. At intervals
he was mild and gentle. Standing upon the battlefield, when night had
drawn her silvery curtain over the ghastly and hideous spectacle, when
the booming shot and frightful discord—the shriek, the groan,
the shout, and ceaseless rush of angered men were passed away, he had
looked round upon the cold and bloody scene, and wept—his
sternness softened, and he became as other men. He brought water to
the wounded and dying soldier; staunched the flowing blood; pillowed
his head upon his knee, and as the body shuddered in the last fierce
agony, and the enfranchised spirit went trembling up to God, tears
fell like jewels on the pallid face of the dying, and thoughts, of
which the good might have been proud, flashed through his mind. Who,
at such moments, would recognize David White, the bold, dark,
dangerous man? But thus it is; mirthful feelings will sometimes
obtrude when the heavy clod is falling upon the coffin of a friend,
and the grave closing over him forever; thoughts of the last agony,
the bourne of death, and the curtained futurity, will sometimes come
like a pall over our minds, when the dance is at its flush, and
pleasure in its spring-time; and moments will sometimes roll round
when a softness breathes upon the hearts of hardened men.
David White was again amongst the scenes of his boyhood; but he looked
upon them merely as the passing traveler—with an idle curiosity.
Change had been more busy than he expected, yet nothing around him
served to awaken emotion. Not even when he stood upon the little
eminence, and on almost the very spot where he had stood ten years
agone, to bid a final adieu to home, and then to pass on to ruin, did
he seem to remember, save by a faint and sickly smile, half-sneering
in its expression. Yet, had he seen it when environed by other
circumstances, perhaps his heart might have been touched—but now
it was feelingless.
Arrived at the old homestead, he knocked loudly at the door—but
no one answering the call, he lifted the latch and entered the
apartment. A large hickory fire was blazing on the hearth, casting a
ruddy glare upon the floor, and radiating a pleasant heat throughout
the room. Upon a worsted hearth-rug reclined a large gray cat, which
he thought the very same he had kicked across the room on the evening
of his departure, and which started up at his approach, and took
refuge beneath the bed. Finding that no one was conscious of his
presence, he flung off his dark overcoat, and laying it on a little
pine table by the window, drew a large rocking-chair from its nook in
the corner, and seating himself by the hearth, began very
complacently to contemplate the ornaments upon the mantle-piece. But
soon growing tired of this employment, he left his seat and crossed
over to some pictures that hung against the opposite wall. At this
moment a door opened to his left, and turning, he beheld Mary entering
the apartment, her cheeks rosier than ever with recent exercise.
"Good evening to you, my pretty lass," he observed in his blandest
tones, and slightly bowing as she drew back in surprise at his sudden
appearance. "A widow was once the occupant of this dwelling—the
Widow White she was usually called; is she still living, and a
resident here? and if so, will you be so kind as to inform her of my
presence."
Mary replied briefly in the affirmative, and hastened out to call her
mother from an out-house, a new building which had lately been erected
to subserve the two-fold purpose of kitchen and dairy, where they both
had been busily engaged at the time of his arrival, while he sauntered
familiarly to his seat by the fire, and commenced drumming a tune upon
the head-board of the mantle-piece. In a few moments the widow made
her appearance, and politely requested her guest to be seated.
He flung himself carelessly into the chair he had occupied, and
slightly turning in his seat, fixed his dark eyes on her face, and
remarked, "You seem to be quite comfortably situated, Mistress White;
this pleasant fire and comfortable apartment contrast finely with the
cold and dreariness without doors."
"Yes, thanks to Providence! things have gone especially well with me
for many years, indeed, much more so perhaps than I really deserve.
Though this world often requires much care and toil from us frail
mortals, it also yields many blessings for which to be thankful."
"That is true," replied he; and then breaking off suddenly from the
topic of conversation, remarked, "But I perceive, Mistress White, that
you do not recognize your quondam friend. I hope you do not suffer
prosperity to dampen your recollection of old times."
The widow stopped her knitting for a few moments, leaned slightly
forward, and scrutinized the features of the stranger; then recovering
her former position, answered, "I have a faint, a dream-like
recollection of your countenance. It seems that I have seen it before,
yet I cannot distinctly remember where."
"Look again!" exclaimed he, divesting himself of a pair of false
whiskers, and again bending his dark eyes searchingly upon her face.
"Now do you know me?"
She gazed but an instant, a deathly pallor sprung to her cheeks, and
extending her arms as if to embrace, she tottered toward him,
exclaiming, "It is!—I cannot be mistaken!—it is my long
lost son, David White! Oh, David! David!" and she fell upon his neck,
and twined her arms around him, sobbing aloud in her ecstasy of
enjoyment.
"Tut-tut, mother—what's the use of carrying on so? To be sure I
am your son, in flesh and blood, and just the same as ever, only
changed a little for the better. But where's the use in crying? I
reckon I am not going to die, that you should take on after this
fashion."
Here he rudely shook off her embrace, and reseated himself, while a
sharp pang, such as she had not known since the years of his boyhood
and unfeeling transgressions, struck deeply into her heart as his
light mocking tones smote upon her ear, and sinking into a chair, she
gave vent to her feelings in a gush of tears.
Who, at that moment, to have looked upon the dark countenance of David
White, and to have witnessed his heartless and unmanly actions, would
have recognized the cradle-joy of his mother's early
widow-hood—the babe that smiled so sweetly upon the
beholder—the little prattler for whom she had pictured out such
a bright and glorious future. She had loved him—still loved him
with all the devotedness and dewy freshness of life's morning hours;
she had cherished and watched over him with the tenderest care and
most affectionate solicitude, and now, when the fountains of
deep-toned feeling and sympathetic emotion should have sent up their
gushing libations, and she should have been reaping the rich benefits
of her manifold attentions, the son, so fondly cherished, and so
dearly loved, turns, like the frozen serpent that the shepherd warmed
in his own bosom, to sting his benefactor.
But if we look back to this man's infancy, it will be found that much
of this harvest was unconsciously sown by the mother. Domestic
education exerts a great power in forming the manners and regulating
the conduct which is to guide the future man; and as the system of
Widow White had been injudicious, though she discovered her error at
the last, it was too late for reform—her son was ruined, and an
ingratitude engendered which would tinge the whole stream of her
future life with bitterness. The mother is almost always the arbiter
of her child's destiny; and if she misguide the bark of his life so
that it finally anchors in a gulf of base and stormy passions, can it
be wondered that his sympathies should be blunted, and the
manifestations of his mind vile and ignoble?
"There, now! I didn't mean to hurt your feelings," again spoke the
son, first breaking the silence which had existed for several minutes,
and the mother looked up half smilingly through her tears as these
gentle words came to her ear, they were so unlike the mocking tones
with which he had sought to evade her welcome. The kind manner of
their utterance went to her heart, and the best affections of her
nature gushed to meet them.
"You look worn and tired with your journey, David—would you not
be the better of some supper? something warm might refresh you," and
she took a step toward the door in execution of her kind purpose.
"No, no—my time is precious, and I have none to waste in eating.
I must be back to the Bend before nine, and there is famous little
moon left to light the way."
"So soon! Why not remain with us to-night, and then return in a more
comfortable manner in the morning? You surely have no imperative
necessity to visit the Bend on such a blustering night as this.
The north, too, is black with a gathering storm. You had better
stay."
"I can't. It is impossible. I have a very urgent necessity to return,
and quickly told, too—money; I must have money, and in no small
amount either. It is absolutely necessary that I have twenty-five
dollars, and that I have it now. I am in debt, and the debt must be
paid—paid to-night. It has been a long time since I asked you
for money, but I reckon you have enough of the mother about you to let
me have that sum."
"In debt, David! to whom?"
"To the boat for my passage. But it is getting late, and I have no
time to ask or answer questions; so, once for all, will you let me
have it or not?"
The mother was deeply imposed upon, but never, even for an instant,
did the thought flash across her mind that his statements were false,
and only used for the purpose of extortion. Obtaining the specified
amount, she placed it in his hands with a gush of tears, for her
feelings were greatly hurt at his harsh words.
He received the money, bade her farewell in blander tones than his
previous conversation, and hastened from the dwelling. When he arrived
at the spot where was fastened his horse, his mind was fired to a high
degree of excitement by the dark thoughts rankling within. His face
was pale with anger; his heavy brows worked and knit themselves over
eyes that flashed like fire, and he was muttering slowly to himself in
broken expressions, while his fingers played unconsciously about the
handle of the bowie-knife which slightly protruded from beneath his
vest. Having taken a sudden turn in the undergrowth, he unexpectedly
stood immediately before the horse, which, seeing him indistinctly,
became affirighted, and ran back with an impetuosity that almost tore
up the sapling by its roots.
"So, so," he muttered between his clenched teeth, as composedly as his
anger would permit. "Easy, Oliver, easy!" and advancing, he tenderly
patted him on the neck, while the restive animal, recognizing his
voice, greeted him with a low neigh.
Detaching the bridle from the mass of twigs that entangled it, he
carefully led the way out into the road, and brushing off the snow
which had collected upon the saddle, leaped to his seat, still
agitated with the deep passion he was in vain endeavoring to control.
"On!" burst from his lips in a hoarse whisper, which seemed like a low
shout suppressed by a strong will. "On!" and he struck the spurs
fiercely into the sides of his steed, and dashed swiftly across the
old bridge, the clattering hoofs ringing out upon the still night with
a strange distinctness.
At first, the moon looked down brightly from the starry sky, shedding
around a shower of flashing beams, which rested upon the sheeted snow
until it became dazzling in its whiteness. Soon, however, the heavy
masses of clouds in the northeast, that drove wildly before every
ice-winged impulse of the storm-king, overwhelmed and shrouded the
silver disc from sight, and gave forth the tempest they had so long
threatened. Still, now and then, as the wrathful clouds would separate
for a moment, a faint lustre would dart forth, sprinkling, as with
the purple glories of the orient morn, the torn and ragged opening,
and illuminating the landscape with a quaint beauty—half light
and half shadow—then all would become dark again. But soon, even
this ceased, and the heavens were hung with black. Still his horse
plunged on amid sheets of driving and whirling snow, never stopping
his speed for an instant.
Ere long the impetuous rider drew up before a dark, weather-beaten,
dilapidated building, at the north end of the village, and dismounted.
The old chestnut by the fence creaked dismally as the winds swept
fiercely up from the valley below, and through one of the swaying
boughs came a faintly twinkling light, which seemed forcing itself
through the folds of a window-curtain. Knocking loudly at the front
door, it was presently opened, and giving some hasty directions
concerning his horse, he hurried through a dark, narrow entry, and
guiding his way up a creaking staircase by the aid of a balustrade
which ran along either side, at length stood before a small door,
through whose key-hole issued a narrow stream of light, slightly
illuminating the thick gloom around him. Here he paused for a short
time to recuperate his exhausted energies, and to subdue the passion
that still somewhat agitated him. Then pushing open the door, he
entered the apartment.
It was a gaming-room. Six or eight small tables stood about on the
floor, at each of which, where the forgotten candles burned dimly over
the long and lengthening wicks, sat several men—some, with faces
brightly haggard, gloating over their unhallowed gains—others,
dark, sullen, silent, fierce, gazing furtively at their piles of lost
money. Here rattled the dice-box, and yonder fell the dirty
cards—all were busily engaged—all were motionless, save
their hands and eyes—all were hushed, save when they uttered
solitary words to tell their bets.
David White had almost reached the centre of this room before any one
was cognizant of his presence; then, several looked up with a nod of
recognition, and once more bent themselves, pale, watchful, though
weary, to the duties of the game. The emotion which had so recently
agitated him was passed away, and his countenance wore the same
expression which most frequently lurked over it. Crossing over to a
table at the farthest end of the apartment from the door, he addressed
a few words to its occupants; assumed a vacant chair by its side, and
joined in the play. For hours he sat grasping the cards with trembling
avidity, winning and losing, apparently unmindful of either. But this
was merely the gilded outwardness—within, rankled fierce
passions, like the lightning in the summer-evening cloud. The night
glided on; its dank air grew fresher; the fire burned low on the
hearth-stone; the raging storm was hushed to stillness, and three was
sounding from the antique clock that adorned the mantle-piece. Save
two men the room was deserted. One by one the rest had stolen away,
until these two were its only occupants. The last stake of David White
was in the pool; the cards had been dealed, and the game was about to
be played which was to determine the ownership of the large pile
of silver that lay in the middle of the table. He had lost, won, and
lost again—doubled his bets—trebled them, until all had
been swept away—money, horse, and even his Bowie-knife. Then he
had contrived to borrow—won again, and now the last stake
trembled in the scales. The game was played—once more he was
penniless. He sat still for several minutes, his eyes gazing on
vacancy, and when he arose he seemed like a strange man, his face was
so changed with the workings of evil passions.
"There! now you have it all, and I am ruined! Do you hear?" exclaimed
the frenzied man, his lips quivering with emotion as his voice became
elevated with excitement. "And who is the dastardly craven that made
me so? Who was it found me pure, and innocent, and stainless as the
babe unborn, and lured me from happiness to scenes of madness and
debauchery—of crime and wretchedness? Say! who was it did all
this? Who was it first placed the cards in my hands, and trained my
youthful mind to the cheateries of the gaming-table? And who, when I
became older, taught me to revel in human gore, and to delight in
carnage and distress, making me the heartless villain that I am? Who
was it did all this, I say? Was it not you, Wilson Hurst—was it
not you that did it?" and the frantic man struck the table a
tremendous blow with his clenched fist as this last question trembled
on his white lips, while he glared fiercely upon the listener.
His mind had now worked itself up to the highest pitch of excitement;
his countenance wore a deathly pallor; his heavy brows lowered
fearfully above eyes that flashed like fire; his nostrils were widely
distended, and, as the air breathed through it seemed to choke him;
his teeth chattered with rage, while the white foam oozed between,
gathering in a thick froth about the parted lips, and with an
exclamation that almost froze the blood to hear, he flung himself upon
his companion. But his adversary had foreseen the whole, and was fully
prepared to meet this sudden attack. Taking advantage of his cat-like
eagerness, he threw him to the floor, overpowered, and finally,
exhausted with struggling, thrust him out the street door, and shut it
in his face.
Left to himself, he gradually became calm and collected, and then
other and gentler thoughts grew busy. He stood there in the still
moonlight, the cool breezes of morning fanning his feverish brow, from
which distilled great drops of moisture in the anguish of his spirit.
"What a change! what a change!" exclaimed he wildly, smiting his
breast with his hands. He was thinking of childhood, of those hours of
innocence forever gone, and he buried his face in his hands, and
sobbed aloud. The strong man was bowed—yes! he who, undaunted,
had stood amidst the angered rush of battle; he who, fearless, had
seen his comrades falling around him like trees before the hurricane;
he who, unappalled, had heard the shrieks of the wounded and dying,
wept at the recollection of childhood. What a scene for God and the
angels to look down upon!
David White sedulously strove to renew the acquaintanceships of his
boyhood, but amongst none, either of those who remembered him, or
others to whom he was a perfect stranger, did he contrive to make a
friend. His company, however, was not avoided, for his conversation
abounded with strange and interesting adventures in various foreign
lands, often instructive; but there were too many demands for the
possessor of an able body, and too extensive a prevalence of sound
morality, for him to find a spirit any way congenial to his own in the
vicinity of his home. He therefore took up his residence at the Bend,
which was a kind of stopping-place for boats passing up and down the
river, and where congregated all grades of society. His pursuits were
now undisguisedly those of a gambler—and still further, though
unknown—those of a smuggler. His mother received frequent,
though indirect communications concerning her son's course of conduct
at the neighboring village—indeed, few days passed in which she
did not incidentally obtain such intelligence. He appeared
occasionally at the old homestead, but his stay was seldom prolonged
beyond a few hours. His conduct cost his mother many a heart-pang, but
the day when she could influence his mind had long since gone by, and
she entertained no hope of a reformation—indeed, such an
occurrence would have appeared almost a miracle in the eyes of those
acquainted with his character and mode of action. Thus months lapsed
away into the infinitude of the past; summer came round, and soon an
eventful and crime-stained night rolled into its place.
The moon waxed high in her career. Midnight was gathering slowly over
the earth; that hallowed and mysterious hour, the isthmus between two
days. But the deep-toned thunder was muttering at intervals in the
sky, and the torn clouds swept on in massy columns, dark and aspiring,
growing blacker and blacker as they rolled up the great heavens, and
portending a terrible convulsion of the elements. The night was far
advanced, and in all respects suited to the purpose of David White.
Twelve o'clock was already striking, when he issued from a private
door of the time-worn building, where had occurred the gambling scene
on the stormy night of the winter before. Since then, the two men had
made friends; fortune had changed, rechanged, and changed again; and
now, almost penniless, he had resolved on a bold stroke, by which to
replenish his purse, and furnish means whereby to indulge his
consuming and all absorbing love of gaming. After entering the street,
he glanced cautiously around, and then advancing to the iron-gray
charger that was tied with a stout bridle to the horse-shoe at the
doorpost, adjusted the accoutrements, leaped to the saddle, and rode
hurriedly along the road leading to the old homestead.
Meantime the aspect of the heavens had materially changed. The black,
opaque mass of vapors had extended its dark and jagged front a third
of the way around the horizon, piling its frowning steeps high up
toward the zenith. Here and there overhead, the sky was blotted with
isolated black clouds, which were fast increasing in size and
joining into one. The thunder, which had been occasionally muttering
on high, now rattled incessantly, and the forked lightning rushed down
in sheets of lurid flame. Ere long, the huge mass of sweeping clouds
had reached the zenith, and were rolling darkly onward toward the
opposite horizon. Directly the wild uproar died nearly altogether
away, and intense darkness shrouded the skies and earth in its folds.
The air grew heavy, and seemed to be forcibly pressed toward the
ground. This was that strange pause in the strife of the elements,
apparently as if the combatants were gathering all their strength for
the fearful contest that was to follow. But this pause was only
momentary, and soon was at an end. Then a distant, sullen, bellowing
murmur came surging up from the depths of the forest, followed by the
sorrowful moaning of the trees along the road-side. David White grew
pale, and could almost hear the beating of his own heart as he bent
forward in the saddle, and listened to the approaching rush and roar
of the lashed winds. He had not expected such a wild fierceness in the
storm, but now he had gone too far to recede; he was in the very midst
of the forest, and the danger was the same either way, so he spurred
on the plunging animal beneath him with a desperate energy. At that
instant a blinding flash shot down from a cloud almost directly
overhead, drank up the thick darkness, and wrapped the air in sheets
of lurid flame, while the tall trees stood out like a spectral throng
in its supernatural glare. Before a clock could tick, the report
followed with a roar, deafening and tremendous, rattling and echoing
along the sky like the simultaneous discharge of a thousand deeply
freighted cannon. Terrified at the unearthly glare and stunning
thunder-bolt, the horse plunged aside with a fierce impetuosity, that
would have flung the rider to the earth had he not clung to the mane
with his utmost strength; and even for minutes after "the jaws of
darkness" had devoured up the scene, and the fearful report had died
away in the distance, his eyes still ached with the intense light, and
his ears rung with the deafening bolt that had followed.
Now came the arrowy flight and form of the hurricane itself. It
crushed the tall and sturdy trees to the ground as if they had been a
forest of reeds. On it came, darker, fiercer, and more impetuous, as
if under the influence of some angry fiend enjoying a triumph. The
shrieking of the lashed winds; the crashing thunder; the noise of the
giant monarchs of the forest upheaving from their deep-set
foundations, and toppling to the ground; the rush and howling of the
tempest—all mingled in one swelling uproar, and deafened the
very heavens. Now the whole malignity and embodied power of the
hurricane was upon them. The shivering horse sprang forward into the
shelter of a huge rock that frowned upon the road like some stern
sentinel guarding the passage, and David White leaped from the saddle,
and crouched in terror against the dark mass that towered above and
afforded protection.
On it came, winding its tortuous pathway from right to left and from
left to right, crushing and twisting the Titans of the woods from
their trunks in its awful rush of destruction. The wheeling clouds and
tumultuous atmosphere were lashed through and through with the fiery
lightning, and masses of loose leaves, and branches, with all their
wealth of mangled foliage—saplings twisted up by the roots, and
bunches of shrubs tossed themselves impetuously into the air, flung
into the wildest and most rapid agitation—now rushing together
as if consolidating into masses—now scattered abroad in the
deepest confusion, while a stubborn oak, disdaining to bend, was
dashed headlong across the road, where the horse and his rider had
stood only a few moments previous, and hurling the soil to their very
feet.
Rush after rush of the trooping winds went by—each succeeding
onset wilder and more impetuous than the last, until at length the
sullen distant roar—and then the low, surging murmurs announced
that the greatest danger had overblown, and that the hurricane was
winding its tortuous pathway through the forests many miles away to
the right.
Gradually the devastations of the awful skies became mellowed down;
the wheeling clouds began to dispart, and a gush of heavy drops came
pattering from above. Moaning pitifully, the prostrate and bowed trees
and undergrowth lifted their mangled boughs from the compressed state
into which they had been forced—those which had survived the
tempest, seemingly with a painful effort, regaining their upright and
natural position.
Soon the heavy and dank air grew fresher; the wrathful clouds
separated, and the moon once more gleamed forth in resplendent beauty
and brightness. By degrees the gloom retired from the face of the
heavens, the stars looked down gloriously from their sapphire thrones,
and a silvery gush played amidst the swaying foliage, where the
rain-drops glistened on their leaflet platforms like so many diamonds.
Then the lucid milky-way, whose loveliness flushes the firmament, bent
itself across the concave above, one broad flame of pure transparent
white, as if some burning orb had fled along the sky with so swift a
flight, that, for a moment, it had left its lustre in the vault of
heaven. Gradually all was lulled into stillness, and nature became as
one great solitude.
Awe-stricken and bewildered, David White remounted his quivering
steed, and slowly wound his way along the ruin-covered road. One by
one the appearances which told a near approach to his destination came
into view; and finally he stood before the home of his childhood,
which was now to be the scene of a great and heinous crime. Carefully
hitching his horse in the dark shadows of some ancient oaks at the
head of the lane, he softly opened the gate, and glided round the
house until he stood at a little window which looked out from his
mother's chamber, and next the old stone chimney. For the night, she
was absent at a distant neighbor's, which circumstance, together with
that of her having withdrawn a large amount of funds from the
possession of the village minister, had induced the present
visit. But when he saw the shutter open, a thing wholly
unexpected, it flashed through his mind that he was watched—that
this was an allurement to ensnare him; so he shrunk back into the
dense shadows of the maples, and glanced hurriedly around him.
Satisfied with his investigation, he ventured to the window, and
peered cautiously into the chamber, but seeing nothing to excite his
fears, gently raised the sash, and leaped into the apartment. The moon
shone so brightly that he had no occasion to strike a light, but its
silver disc was fast verging toward the horizon, and warned him to
haste, else be left to return in darkness. Fumbling in his
coat-pocket, he at length produced a large bunch of keys, and stooping
down, applied one to the heavy oaken chest beneath the window-sill.
Fortunately it suited the lock; the bolt turned without difficulty,
and he lifted the massive lid, which he upheld with one hand, while he
rummaged the till with the other. At this moment a slight rustling
reached his ears from the furthest corner of the apartment from the
window.
"What the deuce is that?" exclaimed he, starling up from his kneeling
posture, and turning anxiously in the direction whence the disturbance
had proceeded, at the same time thoughtlessly relinquishing his grasp
of the lid, which fell with a heavy crash upon the arm still resting
beneath.
"Furies!" shouted he, writhing in agony, and releasing the bruised
member from its painful position.
At these words a faint scream of terror issued from the bed which
stood only a few feet distant. Mary White had been awakened by his
outcry, and starting up in alarm, beheld a man standing by the window,
which occasioned the involuntary exclamation that had just burst from
her lips. She had sat up until quite late, every moment expecting the
young lady who was to have been her companion for the night; and then
the convulsions of the tempest had kept her wakeful, and prevented her
retiring. The tedium of the hours becoming irksome, she had sauntered
into her mother's chamber, and opened the window to gaze out upon the
lulling war of the elements; but growing wearied of this employment,
and a drowsiness stealing over her, she had flung herself upon the
bed, and almost immediately sunk into a refreshing slumber, from which
the late disturbances in the apartment had just awakened her. The
first impulse that entered her mind was to gain the door and escape,
but her nature was one on which fear acts as a sudden paralysis. All
power of volition deserted her; and she stood motionless as carved
marble, with her eyes glaring, and her finger pointed toward the spot
where was the object of her terrors.
"Who's there? stand back!" burst from his lips in nervous agitation as
the shriek rung out upon the air, and turning round, he rushed to the
bedside, but started back; and there was the confusion of cowardice in
his manner as he exclaimed, "You here, Mary! what in the world brought
you into this room at such a time of night as this?"
"David White!" exclaimed she, shrinking back, when the moonlight fell
upon his features, and she recognized the intruder.
"No one else, my pretty lass," replied the vile man, becoming
emboldened by the time and situation; and with a graceful bend of his
fine form, he threw his arm around her waist, and attempted to press
his lips to her cheek; but fear gave her an almost preternatural
strength, and she thrust him forcibly from her.
"What! are you determined to fight shy?" said he, with a dark sneer,
again advancing toward her.
"Off! off!—do you dare to lay that vile hand on me again?" and
as he caught her arm, she struck him forcibly in the face with her
clenched fist, and releasing his grasp, darted toward the door with
the swiftness of the deer.
He sprung after her with arms outstretched, and his eyes on fire with
fierce rage. His hand clutched the folds of her dress as she reached
the door, and he jerked her toward himself with a violence that was
almost stunning.
"Ha!" shouted he, inebriate with passion, as her pallid face turned to
his, "is this your game? Take that, then!" and he plunged a glittering
knife deeply into her bosom.
She clasped her hands convulsively, turned her eyes heavenward, and
with a single groan, the utterance of the last mortal agony swelling
in her soul, sunk, pale and quivering, slowly to the floor. Then a
deep stillness reigned around, broken only by the gurgling sound of
the blood as it gushed from the deep wound near her heart, and
gathered in a dark, clotted pool by her side.
"'Twas quickly done!" muttered he, in stifled tones of still unsubdued
ferocity. "Let this finish it well!" and he made a random stab, which
was followed by a spasmodic movement of the body; and drawing the
blade from its fleshy sheath, he composedly wiped off the warm blood
against the bed-clothes, and thrust it back into his bosom with a low,
savage laugh.
He then crossed over to the chest, and cursing his carelessness,
abstracted the money from its careful hiding-place, and quitted the
scene of his exploit with hurried steps, passing out the front way,
and flinging the door wide open as he departed. Within an hour and a
half more he was at home. There all was silent and dreary, but he had
no observation to fear. Striking a light, he carefully washed the
blood from his hands, and disarraying himself of the cast-off clothing
which he had assumed for the occasion, thrust them into the fire, and
watched until the whole was entirely consumed. Having thus guarded
against direct evidence, he made some artful dispositions of negative
disproof, that he might be provided with full armor against all
suspicions; and then retiring to his homely bed with a feelingless
heart, and unmurmuring conscience, he slept soon and deeply.
"Alas! for earthly joy, and hope, and love,
Thus stricken down, e'en in their holiest hour!
What deep, heart-wringing anguish must they prove,
Who live to weep the blasted tree or flower.
Oh, wo! deep wo to earthly love's fond trust,
When all it once has worshiped lies in dust!"
Time glided on—days dawned and waned—weeks came and
went—soon months were numbered with the ruins of the past,
and when the old year, with sober meekness, took up his bright
inheritance of luscious fruits, a pomp and pageant filled the splendid
scene. The yellow maize and golden sheaves stood up in the fields, and
the fading meadow, like a crushed flower, gave out a dying fragrance
to the fresh, cool winds, that, sporting playfully amongst the
tree-tops, swept downward from their high communion, and stooped to
dally with its sweet decay. Then the apple-boughs were heavily laden
with crimson fruit, peeping like roses from their garniture of woven
foliage; the purple grape-clusters dotted the creeping vine, half
transparent in their tempting lusciousness; the red cherries seemed,
in the distance, like the burning brilliancy of a summer sunset
struggling through the branches and tangled leaves that intervened;
and the downy peach peered provokingly from amongst the sheltering
green, where, all the summer long, it had stolen the first blush of
saffron-vested Aurora, when seraph hands unbar the gates of morning,
and the last ray of golden light that paused at the flame-wrought
portals of expiring day to look reluctant back. Another change came
over the face of nature, and delicate-footed spring seemed to have
come again with her lap full of leaves and blossoms. The trees cast
aside their long-worn garniture of green, and flaunted proudly in
gorgeous robes of gold and crimson. The blushing rose once more sought
the thorny stem that had slept so long desolate; and the
changeful-hued touch-me-not looked up smilingly from the pallid grass,
where nestled thousands of purple violets peeping out timidly from
their shady nooks; and the waning year smiled—smiled as smiles
the dying man, when the life-blood quickens in his veins, for almost
the last time to linger on the cheek and lip, brighten in the eye, and
give a joyous swell to the heart that lies in ruins. The gorgeous
pageant went by, and the trees put on their robes of
mourning—anon, tossed their huge branches to the sky, leafless
and desolate, save where the ivy, creeping gracefully up the twisted
trunk, or the sacred mistletoe, luxuriant on the dying bough, wore a
fadeless green amidst the desolations that surrounded them. The clear,
unsullied sky assumed a deeper, peculiar blue; the night reigned with
a clearer, intenser brilliancy, and the thronging stars beamed with an
almost unnatural brightness; the cold, hurrying winds awoke from their
sluggishness, and took their way over hill and meadow with a dismal
tone, like the midnight howl that comes to the ear of the dying with
hideous tales of the noisome grave; and the fleecy mass of trooping
clouds, driving wildly before every ice-winged impulse of the wintry
storm, seemed like sheets of floating snow dotting the vast cerulean.
Still another change—the earth was clad in a robe of spotless
ermine, and the gray dawn opened her pale eye on iciness and
desolation; men hurried to and fro as nature were a plague, and they
its victims; the sparkling, tripping, garrulous brooks, whose sweet
voices had so long gone up like a spirit's on the air, now sped their
way with a faint and death-like gurgle; the laurel, pine, and cedar,
disdaining to be poor pensioners on the bounties of a gushing
sunshine, or, with a cringing obsequiousness, to yield conformity to
the golden mutations of a passing hour, expanded their foliage of
living green, unchanged amidst the bleakest ruins of winter, while the
stern-browed year, old, wrinkled, and hoary, drew nearer and nearer
his death-time. Ere long spring came. As the grim darkness flees
before the many-tinted dawn, until at last she stands blushing upon
the eastern horizon in perfect beauty, so fled the stern winter before
the radiant footsteps of this flower-goddess. At her approach the
wooing south-winds swept downward from their sky-built thrones, and
stooping to the hill-tops, laid their soft fingers on the expanding
buds, stealing a fragrance, and whispering their heaven-taught melody
amongst the gnarled old branches; then crept stealthily into the
valleys below, and drinking in their rich gush of pleasant sounds,
glided back exulting to their high communion. The merry-voiced waters,
freed from their icy fetters, and sparkling like a sheet of silver
sheen, went dancing and leaping on—on with a winged impetuosity
to their ocean home. Anon, the yellow violets shook off their winter
slumbers, and opened their smiling cups to the arrowy sunshine; then
came a wealth of painted flowers, and soon the life-breathing spring
had attained its zenith. A thousand glad voices rose and swelled amid
the forest's leaf-wrought canopy; its breezes were awake with spicy
odors, and the bird warbled as life were new, and this creation's
morn. In the orchards, the peach-trees were glorious with pink
blossoms, sprinkling the tall, waving grass with rosy flakes at every
gush of the wooing zephyr, which, laden with sweetness, swept sighing
across the meadows.
Anon, a spring sunset came on. The lurid disc of the sun wheeled
slowly down to the western horizon. Pile on pile of clouds, heaped up
in gorgeous magnificence, varying from red to purple, and from purple
to gold, gathered fantastically in the sky—now like a molten
ocean with uplifting rocks, and then like toppling steeps whose
summits reached the stars. Gradually the day went down behind the
everlasting hills, and the brilliant hues insensibly died away through
all the variations of the many-tinted rainbow, until only a faint
golden mellowness suffused the western sky, slowly fading into a deep
azure as it approached the zenith. At length twilight, twin sister to
the cold, gray dawn, shrouded the heavens in misty dimness. Universal
silence seemed to pervade the whole face of nature. The voice of the
feathered songsters was hushed in the grove, and the breeze, which all
day long had refreshed the deep woods with its joyous ministrations,
lulled into stillness, as if its kind office were now completed. Then
the brighter stars came out, one by one, and assumed their sapphire
thrones in the vaulted cerulean, and the round, bright front of the
full moon floated over the eastern mountains, whose dark umbrage
glowed with the silver glories of the thronging night—the night
whose morrow had but its dawn for David White, the condemned felon.
Ten long, weary months had come and passed away with their pomp and
mutation, finding and leaving him within a prison's walls; and
now, the lapse of a few short, rapid hours would behold a tenement in
ruins, and a soul set free. Another day-break, and he would know the
untried and unimaginable realities of a shoreless eternity, from whose
everlasting portals men have so often shrunk back appalled. Oh, what a
bewildering rush of thoughts crowded upon his mind. He stood by the
prison-window, through whose iron bars came trooping the silent
moonbeams, lighting up his countenance, ghastly and contracted with
anguish, then flashing along the darkness, rested upon the floor in
mellow radiance. At the farthermost verge of the western horizon, just
where the gray outlines of the mountains stood forth like shadows
against the deep blue of the sky, huge masses of clouds piled
themselves up into strange and fantastic forms, indistinct and dark,
from whose bright centre, ever and anon, leaped the fierce lightning,
like the tongues of a thousand adders forked in flame, and boomed the
loud thunder as the din of a far-off battle. While he gazed, old
memories thronged from the past; the fount of tears sent up its
gushing libations, and he buried his face in his hands, and strove to
pray. Oh, how sorrow, and suffering, and solitude, and the certainty
of a near death bow the strong spirit! It may have become darkened by
fierce and unruly passions; grown callous and crime-stained amidst the
roll of years, and almost destitute of a single virtuous impulse, yet,
for a time, under such circumstances, a softness will gather about the
heart; a thousand little harps, untuned before, quiver with a rich
gush of melody, and the angel in our nature spring up and assert its
influence. But no one, in whom the mind has not been crushed or
debilitated by the decay of the body, has stood upon time's furthest
brink in perfect consciousness, as David White did at that moment,
without thinking with an aching intenseness on the dread hour when
life must end; and as he leaned his head against the iron bars of the
narrow lattice, the balmy breeze laying its cool hands upon his
feverish brow, and the soft moonlight playing upon his wan features
like the kiss of a tender bride, his soul was wrought with a stern
agony, and his frame with a shudder—for dark thoughts and sad
images of death and eternity came thronging—for no Jesus was
there to light the breathless darkness of the grave—no Hope
stood by to point exultant to a sinless heaven!—for him,
futurity was a dark and impenetrable gulf, without a wanderer or a
voice.
Suddenly he started. An overpowering, yet unutterable awe crept over
him—a fearful but undefined sensation—a presentiment that
something terrible was about to happen. He strove to shake it off, but
could not—like an icy thrill it ran, slow and curdling, through
his veins. A low rustling, as of silken drapery, struck upon his ear.
He turned to know the cause, and leaned eagerly forward. A shriek,
wild and agonizing, burst from his pallid lips; his hair stood
upright, and his arms fell nerveless to his side—his blood ebbed
back upon the heart, returned with tenfold violence throughout his
system, seemed to thicken, and then stagnate; his pulses bounded,
staggered and ceased; cold moisture bathed his wan forehead, and his
whole frame appeared stiffening with the death-chill. A few feet
distant, by a window the very counterpart of the one near which he
stood, loomed forth a shape—a substance, yet it cast no
shadow—the moonlight shone through it, resting on the floor like
slightly tarnished silver. He looked on speechless and motionless; his
whole soul concentrated into an intense and aching gaze. At first, it
floated before his fixed and dilating vision, indistinct and
mist-like; but, as he gazed, it assumed the outline of a human
form—then the features of Mary White, the foster-sister whom he
had murdered. The apparition grew still plainer. The ghastly
countenance; the fallen lip; the sightless eye, dull and open with a
vacant stare; the deep, solemn, mysterious repose which ever
accompanies the aspect of death; the deep wound near the heart, from
which gushed life's crimson torrent, falling at her feet without a
sound—each—all, for one short, passing, fearful, agonizing
moment, trembled into terrible distinctness. Then she lifted an arm
reeking with blood, and pointing through the window at a new-made
gibbet and its dangling rope, smiled a faint and sickly smile, and
vanished as a dying spark. The trance passed from his spirit, and
nature recommenced her operations like the clanking of a vast
machinery. Yet his eye, as if it could not recover from its vision of
terror, remained glaring upon the spot where the spectre had been; and
it was not until several minutes had elapsed that the sharp agony
which had contracted his features died away. He sprung forward with a
wild cry, but the echo alone replied. No voice but his own awoke the
awful stillness, pulseless it reigned around him. The stars glittered
as brightly, the moon shone as gloriously, and, as he held his breath,
the faint and confused murmur of the distant water-fall, and the
caroling of the night-wind in the gnarled old forest, almost seeming
to be a part of the silence, came up through the window to his ear as
distinctly and steadily as ever—every thing belied the scene he
had just witnessed. Was it a dream? He grasped his arm until it pained
him—he was awake—there was no change—all appeared as
it had been. He attempted to shake the iron bars of the
lattice—they were firm in their sockets. He groped his way to
the other side of the room, passed his hands along the
walls—nothing but darkness was there. He stood where first he
had stood when he beheld the apparition—the unearthly visitant
was there no longer. He bent forward, and strained an aching
gaze—in vain; nothing underwent a change. Then he felt that he
had seen the dead—the murdered. His mind recoiled upon itself,
and the very marrow in his bones crept at the thought. He flung
himself upon his pallet, and for the hundredth time strove to sleep.
Black despair had eaten down into his very heart's core, and remorse,
like an old vulture, gnawed at his vitals; yet for a few brief,
agonizing moments he slept, but only as the fiends of hell might be
supposed to sleep. A dream, a series of change and torture,
bewildering and terrible, came, like a blight, over his spirit.
Now he felt the cold hand of death upon his brow, and his whole body
seemed to be encompassed in a mass of ice. His blood waxed thick
in its courses; his heart staggered, fluttered, gave one agonizing
throb, and for a moment ceased to pulsate; cold dews gathered on his
brow, and a stinging sensation pervaded his whole system; his eyelids
trembled, and the balls rolled, gave out a dying lustre, glazed, grew
fixed and sightless in their sockets—then came the last
convulsive and impotent contest with the King of Terrors—the
groan, the gasping breath, the half-uttered words upon the quivering
lip—the death-rattle, the soulless face, and the pulseless
silence. He recovered. Above him was a sky of livid flame, upon whose
high zenith dread darkness sat enthroned. Around him spread a
shoreless ocean of molten fire. No wave agitated its placid
bosom—no sound—no wind breathed over its fearful
stillness. A lone rock, cold, barren, and dismal, yet like an oasis in
a desert, lifted its gray summit from the sluggish surface. Upon this
he stood, rigid and motionless, like a marble statue on its pedestal;
and, ever and ever, around and above him, rushed to and fro shadowy
forms, upon whose countenances was engraven unutterable anguish.
Suddenly, over the vast and dreary profound, went the low, deep,
muffled tolling of a bell, bursting on the red air like the knell of
hope, peace, and mercy, lost forever to another soul. As it ceased,
the boundless sea of ebbless and unextinguishable flame, that glowed
with a lurid but intolerable light at his feet, began to uplift in one
mighty and unbroken mass. Slowly—slowly it rose
up—up—up, until the liquid fire was frothing, and the sky
and ocean seemed to blend—then flowed back, returned, and closed
hissing around him. A groan, deep, intense, and fearful, bubbled up in
a gush of blood, and echoed in the distance like fiendish laughter.
Higher and higher rose the living flames. They were about to close
over him—his head sunk upon his bosom, and a voice—the
voice of her whom he had murdered, shrieked in his ear—"The
Ocean of Remorse!"
"A change came o'er the spirit of his dream."
He stood upon the narrow verge of an awful precipice. Night, black,
rayless night, enshrouded the yawning gulf below, save that, ever and
anon, hideous and fleshless forms—skeletons wrought in lurid and
undying flame—strode to and fro within the thick panoply of
gloom; while, at intervals, howls of despair came up from its midst,
like howls from the lips of the damned in hell. With a thrill of
horror, he turned hurriedly from the scene, and cast his despairing
eyes heavenward. In the centre of a massive cloud, burning with the
brilliancy of a summer sunset, appeared a vast city, with domes and
palaces of pearl and ruby, and whose gates were gates of burnished
gold. As he gazed, they were flung open on silent hinges, and a host,
clothed in spotless white, entered their portals, welcomed with
swelling anthems and seraphic songs. Then the toppling precipice began
to reel and stagger beneath his feet—a fierce bright flame burst
from amidst the night below, more brilliant than the sun's intensest
ray. It drank up the darkness, and filled the gulf with liquid fire.
It flashed through his eye-balls like a glance of lightning. He felt
his foothold totter on the eve of its awful rush of destruction, and
turned to flee, but started aside with a wild cry. The same voice was
in his ear, and it shrieked in exulting tones—"The Murderer's
Doom!"
But where was the mother during these fearful and agonizing moments!
Had she forgotten the son that once nestled on her bosom? Had she
forsaken the child she bore, now that the dark hour of adversity had
come? Ah! no. It is not a mother's nature to forget or to forsake!
Though crime and infamy enshroud his name; though base heartlessness
and vile ingratitude shut-to the portals of his soul; though he fling
off the hoarded wealth of her affections as the oak the clinging ivy
when the storm comes, yet the mother will love—must
love—it is the thirst of her immortal nature. No, no! Widow
White had not forgotten, neither had she forsaken her son. Villain as
he was, and stained with the blood of her foster-child, her heart
warmed toward him—the mother was the mother still! Though
absent, her mind was racked with agony—stern agony. For hours
had she paced up and down her dim-lit chamber, her hands folded across
her breast, and her eyes fixed upon the floor—thought and
feeling were busy. To the casual observer her features exhibited
scarcely an evidence of internal emotion; but the arched lip,
bloodless with pressure, and the swollen veins upon her high forehead
betokened how severe was the struggle going on within. There are some
persons who can stand by the bedside of a dying relative, and, with an
almost unruffled countenance, behold him stiffened in the cold arms of
death—who can look upon the corpse for the last time, follow it
to the grave, and see it laid beneath the heavy sod with so little
apparent concern, that the beholder considers him heartless; but draw
aside the curtain which separates the inner from the outer being, and
the features of the spirit are seen to be distorted with anguish. To
this class of individuals belonged Widow White. Oh, how she felt as
she trod to and fro within that dim-lit room! Her son—her only
son, in the endearing playfulness of whose infantile smiles she had so
often exulted; upon whose boyish accents she had so frequently hung
with transport, and for whom she had pictured out such a bright and
glorious future, was a condemned felon, and the morrow would open its
great eye upon him for the last time. The lapse of another
day!—and that son, so cherished, and so fondly loved, would fill
a murderer's grave, and she would look upon his face no more. She knew
that it was appointed for all to "pass through the dark valley of the
shadow of death," but what a horrible, detestable, and ignominious
death was his! Could it be true? Was he—her son, in the prime of
manhood and enjoyment—the life-blood coursing freely and
strongly throughout his system—unshattered by disease—to
die—to be a sport for the winds—to
hang—ay—ay—to hang!—to be cut down—to be
thrust into the coffin, blackened, distorted, and hideous, the rope
still around his neck—to be laid in the ground with infamy
around his name—to rot—to be a banquet for the worms?
Horror of horrors! She would not believe it! Surely it was a
dream!
Thus that agony-fraught night lapsed away, and the morning, which,
from the birth of creation, has never failed, dawned once
more—dawned as it ever dawns, bright, glorious, and magnificent,
bearing the impress of a mighty God. That morning witnessed a
terrible—a horrible scene. Another human being took his exit
from the transitory splendors of this decaying world, and entered upon
the untried and unimaginable realities of a futurity, whose secrets
none can ever know until the silver chord is loosened, and the golden
bowl is broken. Upon what state of existence David White entered when
eternity closed its everlasting portals, and the enfranchised spirit
went up to the Eternal Judge, it is not for me to say. God is just,
and whatever was apportioned, it was good and right. Let it suffice to
know, that, be his doom what it may, it is irrevocable—sealed
forever.
From that eventful day, Widow White became thinner and paler, and the
expression of her countenance was that of a strong heart in ruins, and
with its energies prostrated. Three weeks went by, and she, too, was
gone. They carried her out from the desolate homestead, and laid her
cold remains beneath the grassy sod, where neither the war of the
elements, nor of human passions could ever disturb her more. Since
then many years have lapsed away into the dim and shadowy past, and
now, a sunken grave alone marks the last resting-place of Widow
White—the victim of a broken heart, and of her own injudicious
education of a son in his infancy and boyhood.
