Septimius quitted Rose, and resumed his walk towards the village. But now
it was near sunset, and there began to be straggling passengers along the
road, some of whom came slowly, as if they had received hurts; all seemed
wearied. Among them one form appeared which Rose soon found that she
recognized. It was Robert Hagburn, with a shattered firelock in his hand,
broken at the butt, and his left arm bound with a fragment of his shirt,
and suspended in a handkerchief; and he walked weariedly, but brightened
up at sight of Rose, as if ashamed to let her see how exhausted and
dispirited he was. Perhaps he expected a smile, at least a more earnest
reception than he met; for Rose, with the restraint of what had recently
passed drawing her back, merely went gravely a few steps to meet him, and
said, "Robert, how tired and pale you look! Are you hurt?"
"It is of no consequence," replied Robert Hagburn; "a scratch on my left
arm from an officer's sword, with whose head my gunstock made instant
acquaintance. It is no matter, Rose; you do not care for it, nor do I
either."
"How can you say so, Robert?" she replied. But without more greeting he
passed her, and went into his own house, where, flinging himself into a
chair, he remained in that despondency that men generally feel after a
fight, even if a successful one.
Septimius, the next day, lost no time in writing a letter to the direction
given him by the young officer, conveying a brief account of the latter's
death and burial, and a signification that he held in readiness to give up
certain articles of property, at any future time, to his representatives,
mentioning also the amount of money contained in the purse, and his
intention, in compliance with the verbal will of the deceased, to expend
it in alleviating the wants of prisoners. Having so done, he went up on
the hill to look at the grave, and satisfy himself that the scene there
had not been a dream; a point which he was inclined to question, in spite
of the tangible evidence of the sword and watch, which still hung over the
mantel-piece. There was the little mound, however, looking so
incontrovertibly a grave, that it seemed to him as if all the world must
see it, and wonder at the fact of its being there, and spend their wits in
conjecturing who slept within; and, indeed, it seemed to give the affair a
questionable character, this secret burial, and he wondered and wondered
why the young man had been so earnest about it. Well; there was the grave;
and, moreover, on the leafy earth, where the dying youth had lain, there
were traces of blood, which no rain had yet washed away. Septimius
wondered at the easiness with which he acquiesced in this deed; in fact,
he felt in a slight degree the effects of that taste of blood, which makes
the slaying of men, like any other abuse, sometimes become a passion.
Perhaps it was his Indian trait stirring in him again; at any rate, it is
not delightful to observe how readily man becomes a blood-shedding
animal.
Looking down from the hill-top, he saw the little dwelling of Rose
Garfield, and caught a glimpse of the girl herself, passing the windows or
the door, about her household duties, and listened to hear the singing
which usually broke out of her. But Rose, for some reason or other, did
not warble as usual this morning. She trod about silently, and somehow or
other she was translated out of the ideality in which Septimius usually
enveloped her, and looked little more than a New England girl, very pretty
indeed, but not enough so perhaps to engross a man's life and higher
purposes into her own narrow circle; so, at least, Septimius thought.
Looking a little farther,--down into the green recess where stood Robert
Hagburn's house,--he saw that young man, looking very pale, with his arm
in a sling sitting listlessly on a half-chopped log of wood which was not
likely soon to be severed by Robert's axe. Like other lovers, Septimius
had not failed to be aware that Robert Hagburn was sensible to Rose
Garfield's attractions; and now, as he looked down on them both from his
elevated position, he wondered if it would not have been better for Rose's
happiness if her thoughts and virgin fancies had settled on that frank,
cheerful, able, wholesome young man, instead of on himself, who met her on
so few points; and, in relation to whom, there was perhaps a plant that
had its root in the grave, that would entwine itself around his whole
life, overshadowing it with dark, rich foliage and fruit that he alone
could feast upon.
For the sombre imagination of Septimius, though he kept it as much as
possible away from the subject, still kept hinting and whispering, still
coming back to the point, still secretly suggesting that the event of
yesterday was to have momentous consequences upon his fate.
He had not yet looked at the paper which the young man bequeathed to him;
he had laid it away unopened; not that he felt little interest in it, but,
on the contrary, because he looked for some blaze of light which had been
reserved for him alone. The young officer had been only the bearer of it
to him, and he had come hither to die by his hand, because that was the
readiest way by which he could deliver his message. How else, in the
infinite chances of human affairs, could the document have found its way
to its destined possessor? Thus mused Septimius, pacing to and fro on the
level edge of his hill-top, apart from the world, looking down
occasionally into it, and seeing its love and interest away from him;
while Rose, it might be looking upward, saw occasionally his passing
figure, and trembled at the nearness and remoteness that existed between
them; and Robert Hagburn looked too, and wondered what manner of man it
was who, having won Rose Garfield (for his instinct told him this was so),
could keep that distance between her and him, thinking remote thoughts.
Yes; there was Septimius treading a path of his own on the hill-top; his
feet began only that morning to wear it in his walking to and fro,
sheltered from the lower world, except in occasional glimpses, by the
birches and locusts that threw up their foliage from the hill-side. But
many a year thereafter he continued to tread that path, till it was worn
deep with his footsteps and trodden down hard; and it was believed by some
of his superstitious neighbors that the grass and little shrubs shrank
away from his path, and made it wider on that account; because there was
something in the broodings that urged him to and fro along the path alien
to nature and its productions. There was another opinion, too, that an
invisible fiend, one of his relatives by blood, walked side by side with
him, and so made the pathway wider than his single footsteps could have
made it. But all this was idle, and was, indeed, only the foolish babble
that hovers like a mist about men who withdraw themselves from the throng,
and involve themselves in unintelligible pursuits and interests of their
own. For the present, the small world, which alone knew of him, considered
Septimius as a studious young man, who was fitting for the ministry, and
was likely enough to do credit to the ministerial blood that he drew from
his ancestors, in spite of the wild stream that the Indian priest had
contributed; and perhaps none the worse, as a clergyman, for having an
instinctive sense of the nature of the Devil from his traditionary claims
to partake of his blood. But what strange interest there is in tracing out
the first steps by which we enter on a career that influences our life;
and this deep-worn pathway on the hill-top, passing and repassing by a
grave, seemed to symbolize it in Septimius's case.
I suppose the morbidness of Septimius's disposition was excited by the
circumstances which had put the paper into his possession. Had he received
it by post, it might not have impressed him; he might possibly have looked
over it with ridicule, and tossed it aside. But he had taken it from a
dying man, and he felt that his fate was in it; and truly it turned out to
be so. He waited for a fit opportunity to open it and read it; he put it
off as if he cared nothing about it; perhaps it was because he cared so
much. Whenever he had a happy time with Rose (and, moody as Septimius was,
such happy moments came), he felt that then was not the time to look into
the paper,--it was not to be read in a happy mood.
Once he asked Rose to walk with him on the hilltop.
"Why, what a path you have worn here, Septimius!" said the girl. "You walk
miles and miles on this one spot, and get no farther on than when you
started. That is strange walking!"
"I don't know, Rose; I sometimes think I get a little onward. But it is
sweeter--yes, much sweeter, I find--to have you walking on this path here
than to be treading it alone."
"I am glad of that," said Rose; "for sometimes, when I look up here, and
see you through the branches, with your head bent down, and your hands
clasped behind you, treading, treading, treading, always in one way, I
wonder whether I am at all in your mind. I don't think, Septimius," added
she, looking up in his face and smiling, "that ever a girl had just such a
young man for a lover."
"No young man ever had such a girl, I am sure," said Septimius; "so sweet,
so good for him, so prolific of good influences!"
"Ah, it makes me think well of myself to bring such a smile into your face!
But, Septimius, what is this little hillock here so close to our path?
Have you heaped it up here for a seat? Shall we sit down upon it for an
instant?--for it makes me more tired to walk backward and forward on one
path than to go straight forward a much longer distance."
"Well; but we will not sit down on this hillock," said Septimius, drawing
her away from it. "Farther out this way, if you please, Rose, where we
shall have a better view over the wide plain, the valley, and the long,
tame ridge of hills on the other side, shutting it in like human life. It
is a landscape that never tires, though it has nothing striking about it;
and I am glad that there are no great hills to be thrusting themselves
into my thoughts, and crowding out better things. It might be desirable,
in some states of mind, to have a glimpse of water,--to have the lake that
once must have covered this green valley,--because water reflects the sky,
and so is like religion in life, the spiritual element."
"There is the brook running through it, though we do not see it," replied
Rose; "a torpid little brook, to be sure; but, as you say, it has heaven
in its bosom, like Walden Pond, or any wider one."
As they sat together on the hill-top, they could look down into Robert
Hagburn's enclosure, and they saw him, with his arm now relieved from the
sling, walking about, in a very erect manner, with a middle-aged man by
his side, to whom he seemed to be talking and explaining some matter. Even
at that distance Septimius could see that the rustic stoop and uncouthness
had somehow fallen away from Robert, and that he seemed developed.
"What has come to Robert Hagburn?" said he. "He looks like another man than
the lout I knew a few weeks ago."
"Nothing," said Rose Garfield, "except what comes to a good many young men
nowadays. He has enlisted, and is going to the war. It is a pity for his
mother."
"A great pity," said Septimius. "Mothers are greatly to be pitied all over
the country just now, and there are some even more to be pitied than the
mothers, though many of them do not know or suspect anything about their
cause of grief at present."
"Of whom do you speak?" asked Rose.
"I mean those many good and sweet young girls," said Septimius, "who would
have been happy wives to the thousands of young men who now, like Robert
Hagburn, are going to the war. Those young men--many of them at
least--will sicken and die in camp, or be shot down, or struck through
with bayonets on battle-fields, and turn to dust and bones; while the
girls that would have loved them, and made happy firesides for them, will
pine and wither, and tread along many sour and discontented years, and at
last go out of life without knowing what life is. So you see, Rose, every
shot that takes effect kills two at least, or kills one and worse than
kills the other."
"No woman will live single on account of poor Robert Hagburn being shot,"
said Rose, with a change of tone; "for he would never be married were he
to stay at home and plough the field."
"How can you tell that, Rose?" asked Septimius.
Rose did not tell how she came to know so much about Robert Hagburn's
matrimonial purposes; but after this little talk it appeared as if
something had risen up between them,--a sort of mist, a medium, in which
their intimacy was not increased; for the flow and interchange of
sentiment was balked, and they took only one or two turns in silence along
Septimius's trodden path. I don't know exactly what it was; but there are
cases in which it is inscrutably revealed to persons that they have made a
mistake in what is of the highest concern to them; and this truth often
comes in the shape of a vague depression of the spirit, like a vapor
settling down on a landscape; a misgiving, coming and going perhaps, a
lack of perfect certainty. Whatever it was, Rose and Septimius had no more
tender and playful words that day; and Rose soon went to look after her
grandmother, and Septimius went and shut himself up in his study, after
making an arrangement to meet Rose the next day.
Septimius shut himself up, and drew forth the document which the young
officer, with that singular smile on his dying face, had bequeathed to him
as the reward of his death. It was in a covering of folded parchment,
right through which, as aforesaid, was a bullet-hole and some stains of
blood. Septimius unrolled the parchment cover, and found inside a
manuscript, closely written in a crabbed hand; so crabbed, indeed, that
Septimius could not at first read a word of it, nor even satisfy himself
in what language it was written. There seemed to be Latin words, and some
interspersed ones in Greek characters, and here and there he could
doubtfully read an English sentence; but, on the whole, it was an
unintelligible mass, conveying somehow an idea that it was the fruit of
vast labor and erudition, emanating from a mind very full of books, and
grinding and pressing down the great accumulation of grapes that it had
gathered from so many vineyards, and squeezing out rich viscid
juices,--potent wine,--with which the reader might get drunk. Some of it,
moreover, seemed, for the further mystification of the officer, to be
written in cipher; a needless precaution, it might seem, when the writer's
natural chirography was so full of puzzle and bewilderment.
Septimius looked at this strange manuscript, and it shook in his hands as
he held it before his eyes, so great was his excitement. Probably,
doubtless, it was in a great measure owing to the way in which it came to
him, with such circumstances of tragedy and mystery; as if--so secret and
so important was it--it could not be within the knowledge of two persons
at once, and therefore it was necessary that one should die in the act of
transmitting it to the hand of another, the destined possessor, inheritor,
profiter by it. By the bloody hand, as all the great possessions in this
world have been gained and inherited, he had succeeded to the legacy, the
richest that mortal man ever could receive. He pored over the inscrutable
sentences, and wondered, when he should succeed in reading one, if it
might summon up a subject-fiend, appearing with thunder and devilish
demonstrations. And by what other strange chance had the document come
into the hand of him who alone was fit to receive it? It seemed to
Septimius, in his enthusiastic egotism, as if the whole chain of events
had been arranged purposely for this end; a difference had come between
two kindred peoples; a war had broken out; a young officer, with the
traditions of an old family represented in his line, had marched, and had
met with a peaceful student, who had been incited from high and noble
motives to take his life; then came a strange, brief intimacy, in which
his victim made the slayer his heir. All these chances, as they seemed,
all these interferences of Providence, as they doubtless were, had been
necessary in order to put this manuscript into the hands of Septimius, who
now pored over it, and could not with certainty read one word!
But this did not trouble him, except for the momentary delay. Because he
felt well assured that the strong, concentrated study that he would bring
to it would remove all difficulties, as the rays of a lens melt stones; as
the telescope pierces through densest light of stars, and resolves them
into their individual brilliancies. He could afford to spend years upon it
if it were necessary; but earnestness and application should do quickly
the work of years.
Amid these musings he was interrupted by his Aunt Keziah; though generally
observant enough of her nephew's studies, and feeling a sanctity in them,
both because of his intending to be a minister and because she had a great
reverence for learning, even if heathenish, this good old lady summoned
Septimius somewhat peremptorily to chop wood for her domestic purposes.
How strange it is,--the way in which we are summoned from all high
purposes by these little homely necessities; all symbolizing the great
fact that the earthly part of us, with its demands, takes up the greater
portion of all our available force. So Septimius, grumbling and groaning,
went to the woodshed and exercised himself for an hour as the old lady
requested; and it was only by instinct that he worked, hardly conscious
what he was doing. The whole of passing life seemed impertinent; or if,
for an instant, it seemed otherwise, then his lonely speculations and
plans seemed to become impalpable, and to have only the consistency of
vapor, which his utmost concentration succeeded no further than to make
into the likeness of absurd faces, mopping, mowing, and laughing at him.
But that sentence of mystic meaning shone out before him like a
transparency, illuminated in the darkness of his mind; he determined to
take it for his motto until he should be victorious in his quest. When he
took his candle, to retire apparently to bed, he again drew forth the
manuscript, and, sitting down by the dim light, tried vainly to read it;
but he could not as yet settle himself to concentrated and regular effort;
he kept turning the leaves of the manuscript, in the hope that some other
illuminated sentence might gleam out upon him, as the first had done, and
shed a light on the context around it; and that then another would be
discovered, with similar effect, until the whole document would thus be
illuminated with separate stars of light, converging and concentrating in
one radiance that should make the whole visible. But such was his bad
fortune, not another word of the manuscript was he able to read that whole
evening; and, moreover, while he had still an inch of candle left, Aunt
Keziah, in her nightcap,--as witch-like a figure as ever went to a wizard
meeting in the forest with Septimius's ancestor,--appeared at the door of
the room, aroused from her bed, and shaking her finger at him.
"Septimius," said she, "you keep me awake, and you will ruin your eyes, and
turn your head, if you study till midnight in this manner. You'll never
live to be a minister, if this is the way you go on."
"Well, well, Aunt Keziah," said Septimius, covering his manuscript with a
book, "I am just going to bed now."
"Good night, then," said the old woman; "and God bless your labors."
Strangely enough, a glance at the manuscript, as he hid it from the old
woman, had seemed to Septimius to reveal another sentence, of which he had
imperfectly caught the purport; and when she had gone, he in vain sought
the place, and vainly, too, endeavored to recall the meaning of what he
had read. Doubtless his fancy exaggerated the importance of the sentence,
and he felt as if it might have vanished from the book forever. In fact,
the unfortunate young man, excited and tossed to and fro by a variety of
unusual impulses, was got into a bad way, and was likely enough to go mad,
unless the balancing portion of his mind proved to be of greater volume
and effect than as yet appeared to be the case.
* * * * *
The next morning he was up, bright and early, poring over the manuscript
with the sharpened wits of the new day, peering into its night, into its
old, blurred, forgotten dream; and, indeed, he had been dreaming about it,
and was fully possessed with the idea that, in his dream, he had taken up
the inscrutable document, and read it off as glibly as he would the page
of a modern drama, in a continual rapture with the deep truth that it made
clear to his comprehension, and the lucid way in which it evolved the mode
in which man might be restored to his originally undying state. So strong
was the impression, that when he unfolded the manuscript, it was with
almost the belief that the crabbed old handwriting would be plain to him.
Such did not prove to be the case, however; so far from it, that poor
Septimius in vain turned over the yellow pages in quest of the one
sentence which he had been able, or fancied he had been able, to read
yesterday. The illumination that had brought it out was now faded, and all
was a blur, an inscrutableness, a scrawl of unintelligible characters
alike. So much did this affect him, that he had almost a mind to tear it
into a thousand fragments, and scatter it out of the window to the
west-wind, that was then blowing past the house; and if, in that summer
season, there had been a fire on the hearth, it is possible that easy
realization of a destructive impulse might have incited him to fling the
accursed scrawl into the hottest of the flames, and thus returned it to
the Devil, who, he suspected, was the original author of it. Had he done
so, what strange and gloomy passages would I have been spared the pain of
relating! How different would have been the life of Septimius,--a
thoughtful preacher of God's word, taking severe but conscientious views
of man's state and relations, a heavy-browed walker and worker on earth,
and, finally, a slumberer in an honored grave, with an epitaph bearing
testimony to his great usefulness in his generation.
But, in the mean time, here was the troublesome day passing over him, and
pestering, bewildering, and tripping him up with its mere sublunary
troubles, as the days will all of us the moment we try to do anything that
we flatter ourselves is of a little more importance than others are doing.
Aunt Keziah tormented him a great while about the rich field, just across
the road, in front of the house, which Septimius had neglected the
cultivation of, unwilling to spare the time to plough, to plant, to hoe it
himself, but hired a lazy lout of the village, when he might just as well
have employed and paid wages to the scarecrow which Aunt Keziah dressed
out in ancient habiliments, and set up in the midst of the corn. Then came
an old codger from the village, talking to Septimius about the war,--a
theme of which he was weary: telling the rumor of skirmishes that the next
day would prove to be false, of battles that were immediately to take
place, of encounters with the enemy in which our side showed the valor of
twenty-fold heroes, but had to retreat; babbling about shells and mortars,
battalions, manoeuvres, angles, fascines, and other items of military art;
for war had filled the whole brain of the people, and enveloped the whole
thought of man in a mist of gunpowder.
In this way, sitting on his doorstep, or in the very study, haunted by such
speculations, this wretched old man would waste the better part of a
summer afternoon while Septimius listened, returning abstracted
monosyllables, answering amiss, and wishing his persecutor jammed into one
of the cannons he talked about, and fired off, to end his interminable
babble in one roar; [talking] of great officers coming from France and
other countries; of overwhelming forces from England, to put an end to the
war at once; of the unlikelihood that it ever should be ended; of its
hopelessness; of its certainty of a good and speedy end.
Then came limping along the lane a disabled soldier, begging his way home
from the field, which, a little while ago, he had sought in the full vigor
of rustic health he was never to know again; with whom Septimius had to
talk, and relieve his wants as far as he could (though not from the poor
young officer's deposit of English gold), and send him on his way.
Then came the minister to talk with his former pupil, about whom he had
latterly had much meditation, not understanding what mood had taken
possession of him; for the minister was a man of insight, and from
conversations with Septimius, as searching as he knew how to make them, he
had begun to doubt whether he were sufficiently sound in faith to adopt
the clerical persuasion. Not that he supposed him to be anything like a
confirmed unbeliever: but he thought it probable that these doubts, these
strange, dark, disheartening suggestions of the Devil, that so surely
infect certain temperaments and measures of intellect, were tormenting
poor Septimius, and pulling him back from the path in which he was capable
of doing so much good. So he came this afternoon to talk seriously with
him, and to advise him, if the case were as he supposed, to get for a time
out of the track of the thought in which he had so long been engaged; to
enter into active life; and by and by, when the morbid influences should
have been overcome by a change of mental and moral religion, he might
return, fresh and healthy, to his original design.
"What can I do," asked Septimius, gloomily, "what business take up, when
the whole land lies waste and idle, except for this war?"
"There is the very business, then," said the minister. "Do you think God's
work is not to be done in the field as well as in the pulpit? You are
strong, Septimius, of a bold character, and have a mien and bearing that
gives you a natural command among men. Go to the wars, and do a valiant
part for your country, and come back to your peaceful mission when the
enemy has vanished. Or you might go as chaplain to a regiment, and use
either hand in battle,--pray for success before a battle, help win it with
sword or gun, and give thanks to God, kneeling on the bloody field, at its
close. You have already stretched one foe on your native soil."
Septimius could not but smile within himself at this warlike and bloody
counsel; and, joining it with some similar exhortations from Aunt Keziah,
he was inclined to think that women and clergymen are, in matters of war,
the most uncompromising and bloodthirsty of the community. However, he
replied, coolly, that his moral impulses and his feelings of duty did not
exactly impel him in this direction, and that he was of opinion that war
was a business in which a man could not engage with safety to his
conscience, unless his conscience actually drove him into it; and that
this made all the difference between heroic battle and murderous strife.
The good minister had nothing very effectual to answer to this, and took
his leave, with a still stronger opinion than before that there was
something amiss in his pupil's mind.
By this time, this thwarting day had gone on through its course of little
and great impediments to his pursuit,--the discouragements of trifling and
earthly business, of purely impertinent interruption, of severe and
disheartening opposition from the powerful counteraction of different
kinds of mind,--until the hour had come at which he had arranged to meet
Rose Garfield. I am afraid the poor thwarted youth did not go to his
love-tryst in any very amiable mood; but rather, perhaps, reflecting how
all things earthly and immortal, and love among the rest, whichever
category, of earth or heaven, it may belong to, set themselves against
man's progress in any pursuit that he seeks to devote himself to. It is
one struggle, the moment he undertakes such a thing, of everything else in
the world to impede him.
However, as it turned out, it was a pleasant and happy interview that he
had with Rose that afternoon. The girl herself was in a happy, tuneful
mood, and met him with such simplicity, threw such a light of sweetness
over his soul, that Septimius almost forgot all the wild cares of the day,
and walked by her side with a quiet fulness of pleasure that was new to
him. She reconciled him, in some secret way, to life as it was, to
imperfection, to decay; without any help from her intellect, but through
the influence of her character, she seemed, not to solve, but to smooth
away, problems that troubled him; merely by being, by womanhood, by
simplicity, she interpreted God's ways to him; she softened the stoniness
that was gathering about his heart. And so they had a delightful time of
talking, and laughing, and smelling to flowers; and when they were
parting, Septimius said to her,--
"Rose, you have convinced me that this is a most happy world, and that Life
has its two children, Birth and Death, and is bound to prize them equally;
and that God is very kind to his earthly children; and that all will go
well."
"And have I convinced you of all this?" replied Rose, with a pretty
laughter. "It is all true, no doubt, but I should not have known how to
argue for it. But you are very sweet, and have not frightened me to-day."
"Do I ever frighten you then, Rose?" asked Septimius, bending his black
brow upon her with a look of surprise and displeasure.
"Yes, sometimes," said Rose, facing him with courage, and smiling upon the
cloud so as to drive it away; "when you frown upon me like that, I am a
little afraid you will beat me, all in good time."
"Now," said Septimius, laughing again, "you shall have your choice, to be
beaten on the spot, or suffer another kind of punishment,--which?"
So saying, he snatched her to him, and strove to kiss her, while Rose,
laughing and struggling, cried out, "The beating! the beating!" But
Septimius relented not, though it was only Rose's cheek that he succeeded
in touching. In truth, except for that first one, at the moment of their
plighted troths, I doubt whether Septimius ever touched those soft, sweet
lips, where the smiles dwelt and the little pouts. He now returned to his
study, and questioned with himself whether he should touch that weary,
ugly, yellow, blurred, unintelligible, bewitched, mysterious,
bullet-penetrated, blood-stained manuscript again. There was an
undefinable reluctance to do so, and at the same time an enticement
(irresistible, as it proved) drawing him towards it. He yielded, and
taking it from his desk, in which the precious, fatal treasure was locked
up, he plunged into it again, and this time with a certain degree of
success. He found the line which had before gleamed out, and vanished
again, and which now started out in strong relief; even as when sometimes
we see a certain arrangement of stars in the heavens, and again lose it,
by not seeing its individual stars in the same relation as before; even
so, looking at the manuscript in a different way, Septimius saw this
fragment of a sentence, and saw, moreover, what was necessary to give it a
certain meaning. "Set the root in a grave, and wait for what shall
blossom. It will be very rich, and full of juice." This was the purport,
he now felt sure, of the sentence he had lighted upon; and he took it to
refer to the mode of producing something that was essential to the thing
to be concocted. It might have only a moral being; or, as is generally the
case, the moral and physical truth went hand in hand.
While Septimius was busying himself in this way, the summer advanced, and
with it there appeared a new character, making her way into our pages.
This was a slender and pale girl, whom Septimius was once startled to
find, when he ascended his hill-top, to take his walk to and fro upon the
accustomed path, which he had now worn deep.
What was stranger, she sat down close beside the grave, which none but he
and the minister knew to be a grave; that little hillock, which he had
levelled a little, and had planted with various flowers and shrubs; which
the summer had fostered into richness, the poor young man below having
contributed what he could, and tried to render them as beautiful as he
might, in remembrance of his own beauty. Septimius wished to conceal the
fact of its being a grave: not that he was tormented with any sense that
he had done wrong in shooting the young man, which had been done in fair
battle; but still it was not the pleasantest of thoughts, that he had laid
a beautiful human creature, so fit for the enjoyment of life, there, when
his own dark brow, his own troubled breast, might better, he could not but
acknowledge, have been covered up there. [_Perhaps there might sometimes
be something fantastically gay in the language and behavior of the
girl._]
Well; but then, on this flower and shrub-disguised grave, sat this unknown
form of a girl, with a slender, pallid, melancholy grace about her, simply
dressed in a dark attire, which she drew loosely about her. At first
glimpse, Septimius fancied that it might be Rose; but it needed only a
glance to undeceive him; her figure was of another character from the
vigorous, though slight and elastic beauty of Rose; this was a drooping
grace, and when he came near enough to see her face, he saw that those
large, dark, melancholy eyes, with which she had looked at him, had never
met his gaze before.
"Good-morrow, fair maiden," said Septimius, with such courtesy as he knew
how to use (which, to say truth, was of a rustic order, his way of life
having brought him little into female society). "There is a nice air here
on the hill-top, this sultry morning below the hill!"
As he spoke, he continued to look wonderingly at the strange maiden, half
fancying that she might be something that had grown up out of the grave;
so unexpected she was, so simply unlike anything that had before come
there.
The girl did not speak to him, but as she sat by the grave she kept weeding
out the little white blades of faded autumn grass and yellow pine-spikes,
peering into the soil as if to see what it was all made of, and everything
that was growing there; and in truth, whether by Septimius's care or no,
there seemed to be several kinds of flowers,--those little asters that
abound everywhere, and golden flowers, such as autumn supplies with
abundance. She seemed to be in quest of something, and several times
plucked a leaf and examined it carefully; then threw it down again, and
shook her head. At last she lifted up her pale face, and, fixing her eyes
quietly on Septimius, spoke: "It is not here!"
A very sweet voice it was,--plaintive, low,--and she spoke to Septimius as
if she were familiar with him, and had something to do with him. He was
greatly interested, not being able to imagine who the strange girl was, or
whence she came, or what, of all things, could be her reason for coming
and sitting down by this grave, and apparently botanizing upon it, in
quest of some particular plant.
"Are you in search of flowers?" asked Septimius. "This is but a barren spot
for them, and this is not a good season. In the meadows, and along the
margin of the watercourses, you might find the fringed gentian at this
time. In the woods there are several pretty flowers,--the side-saddle
flower, the anemone; violets are plentiful in spring, and make the whole
hill-side blue. But this hill-top, with its soil strewn over a heap of
pebble-stones, is no place for flowers."
"The soil is fit," said the maiden, "but the flower has not sprung up."
"What flower do you speak of?" asked Septimius.
"One that is not here," said the pale girl. "No matter. I will look for it
again next spring."
"Do you, then, dwell hereabout?" inquired Septimius.
"Surely," said the maiden, with a look of surprise; "where else should I
dwell? My home is on this hilltop."
It not a little startled Septimius, as may be supposed, to find his
paternal inheritance, of which he and his forefathers had been the only
owners since the world began (for they held it by an Indian deed), claimed
as a home and abiding-place by this fair, pale, strange-acting maiden, who
spoke as if she had as much right there as if she had grown up out of the
soil like one of the wild, indigenous flowers which she had been gazing at
and handling. However that might be, the maiden seemed now about to
depart, rising, giving a farewell touch or two to the little verdant
hillock, which looked much the neater for her ministrations.
"Are you going?" said Septimius, looking at her in wonder.
"For a time," said she.
"And shall I see you again?" asked he.
"Surely," said the maiden, "this is my walk, along the brow of the hill."
It again smote Septimius with a strange thrill of surprise to find the walk
which he himself had made, treading it, and smoothing it, and beating it
down with the pressure of his continual feet, from the time when the
tufted grass made the sides all uneven, until now, when it was such a
pathway as you may see through a wood, or over a field, where many feet
pass every day,--to find this track and exemplification of his own secret
thoughts and plans and emotions, this writing of his body, impelled by the
struggle and movement of his soul, claimed as her own by a strange girl
with melancholy eyes and voice, who seemed to have such a sad familiarity
with him.
"You are welcome to come here," said he, endeavoring at least to keep such
hold on his own property as was implied in making a hospitable surrender
of it to another.
"Yes," said the girl, "a person should always be welcome to his own."
A faint smile seemed to pass over her face as she said this, vanishing,
however, immediately into the melancholy of her usual expression. She went
along Septimius's path, while he stood gazing at her till she reached the
brow where it sloped towards Robert Hagburn's house; then she turned, and
seemed to wave a slight farewell towards the young man, and began to
descend. When her figure had entirely sunk behind the brow of the hill,
Septimius slowly followed along the ridge, meaning to watch from that
elevated station the course she would take; although, indeed, he would not
have been surprised if he had seen nothing, no trace of her in the whole
nearness or distance; in short, if she had been a freak, an illusion, of a
hard-working mind that had put itself ajar by deeply brooding on abstruse
matters, an illusion of eyes that he had tried too much by poring over the
inscrutable manuscript, and of intellect that was mystified and bewildered
by trying to grasp things that could not be grasped. A thing of
witchcraft, a sort of fungus-growth out of the grave, an unsubstantiality
altogether; although, certainly, she had weeded the grave with bodily
fingers, at all events. Still he had so much of the hereditary mysticism
of his race in him, that he might have held her supernatural, only that on
reaching the brow of the hill he saw her feet approach the dwelling of
Robert Hagburn's mother, who, moreover, appeared at the threshold
beckoning her to come, with a motherly, hospitable air, that denoted she
knew the strange girl, and recognized her as human.
It did not lessen Septimius's surprise, however, to think that such a
singular being was established in the neighborhood without his knowledge;
considered as a real occurrence of this world, it seemed even more
unaccountable than if it had been a thing of ghostology and witchcraft.
Continually through the day the incident kept introducing its recollection
among his thoughts and studies; continually, as he paced along his path,
this form seemed to hurry along by his side on the track that she had
claimed for her own, and he thought of her singular threat or promise,
whichever it were to be held, that he should have a companion there in
future. In the decline of the day, when he met the schoolmistress coming
home from her little seminary, he snatched the first opportunity to
mention the apparition of the morning, and ask Rose if she knew anything
of her.
"Very little," said Rose, "but she is flesh and blood, of that you may be
quite sure. She is a girl who has been shut up in Boston by the siege;
perhaps a daughter of one of the British officers, and her health being
frail, she requires better air than they have there, and so permission was
got for her, from General Washington, to come and live in the country; as
any one may see, our liberties have nothing to fear from this poor
brain-stricken girl. And Robert Hagburn, having to bring a message from
camp to the selectmen here, had it in charge to bring the girl, whom his
mother has taken to board."
"Then the poor thing is crazy?" asked Septimius.
"A little brain-touched, that is all," replied Rose, "owing to some grief
that she has had; but she is quite harmless, Robert was told to say, and
needs little or no watching, and will get a kind of fantastic happiness
for herself, if only she is allowed to ramble about at her pleasure. If
thwarted, she might be very wild and miserable."
"Have you spoken with her?" asked Septimius.
"A word or two this morning, as I was going to my school," said Rose. "She
took me by the hand, and smiled, and said we would be friends, and that I
should show her where the flowers grew; for that she had a little spot of
her own that she wanted to plant with them. And she asked me if the
_Sanguinea sanguinissima_ grew hereabout. I should not have taken her
to be ailing in her wits, only for a kind of free-spokenness and
familiarity, as if we had been acquainted a long while; or as if she had
lived in some country where there are no forms and impediments in people's
getting acquainted."
"Did you like her?" inquired Septimius.
"Yes; almost loved her at first sight," answered Rose, "and I hope may do
her some little good, poor thing, being of her own age, and the only
companion, hereabouts, whom she is likely to find. But she has been well
educated, and is a lady, that is easy to see."
"It is very strange," said Septimius, "but I fear I shall be a good deal
interrupted in my thoughts and studies, if she insists on haunting my
hill-top as much as she tells me. My meditations are perhaps of a little
too much importance to be shoved aside for the sake of gratifying a crazy
girl's fantasies."
"Ah, that is a hard thing to say!" exclaimed Rose, shocked at her lover's
cold egotism, though not giving it that title. "Let the poor thing glide
quietly along in the path, though it be yours. Perhaps, after a while, she
will help your thoughts."
"My thoughts," said Septimius, "are of a kind that can have no help from
any one; if from any, it would only be from some wise, long-studied, and
experienced scientific man, who could enlighten me as to the bases and
foundation of things, as to mystic writings, as to chemical elements, as
to the mysteries of language, as to the principles and system on which we
were created. Methinks these are not to be taught me by a girl touched in
the wits."
"I fear," replied Rose Garfield with gravity, and drawing imperceptibly
apart from him, "that no woman can help you much. You despise woman's
thought, and have no need of her affection."
Septimius said something soft and sweet, and in a measure true, in regard
to the necessity he felt for the affection and sympathy of one woman at
least--the one now by his side--to keep his life warm and to make the
empty chambers of his heart comfortable. But even while he spoke, there
was something that dragged upon his tongue; for he felt that the solitary
pursuit in which he was engaged carried him apart from the sympathy of
which he spoke, and that he was concentrating his efforts and interest
entirely upon himself, and that the more he succeeded the more remotely he
should be carried away, and that his final triumph would be the complete
seclusion of himself from all that breathed,--the converting him, from an
interested actor into a cold and disconnected spectator of all mankind's
warm and sympathetic life. So, as it turned out, this interview with Rose
was one of those in which, coming no one knows from whence, a nameless
cloud springs up between two lovers, and keeps them apart from one another
by a cold, sullen spell. Usually, however, it requires only one word,
spoken out of the heart, to break that spell, and compel the invisible,
unsympathetic medium which the enemy of love has stretched cunningly
between them, to vanish, and let them come closer together than ever; but,
in this case, it might be that the love was the illusive state, and the
estrangement the real truth, the disenchanted verity. At all events, when
the feeling passed away, in Rose's heart there was no reaction, no warmer
love, as is generally the case. As for Septimius, he had other things to
think about, and when he next met Rose Garfield, had forgotten that he had
been sensible of a little wounded feeling, on her part, at parting.
By dint of continued poring over the manuscript, Septimius now began to
comprehend that it was written in a singular mixture of Latin and ancient
English, with constantly recurring paragraphs of what he was convinced was
a mystic writing; and these recurring passages of complete
unintelligibility seemed to be necessary to the proper understanding of
any part of the document. What was discoverable was quaint, curious, but
thwarting and perplexing, because it seemed to imply some very great
purpose, only to be brought out by what was hidden.
Septimius had read, in the old college library during his pupilage, a work
on ciphers and cryptic writing, but being drawn to it only by his
curiosity respecting whatever was hidden, and not expecting ever to use
his knowledge, he had obtained only the barest idea of what was necessary
to the deciphering a secret passage. Judging by what he could pick out, he
would have thought the whole essay was upon the moral conduct; all parts
of that he could make out seeming to refer to a certain ascetic rule of
life; to denial of pleasures; these topics being repeated and insisted on
everywhere, although without any discoverable reference to religious or
moral motives; and always when the author seemed verging towards a
definite purpose, he took refuge in his cipher. Yet withal, imperfectly
(or not at all, rather) as Septimius could comprehend its purport, this
strange writing had a mystic influence, that wrought upon his imagination,
and with the late singular incidents of his life, his continual thought on
this one subject, his walk on the hill-top, lonely, or only interrupted by
the pale shadow of a girl, combined to set him outside of the living
world. Rose Garfield perceived it, knew and felt that he was gliding away
from her, and met him with a reserve which she could not overcome.
