The flower was of the richest crimson, illuminated with a golden centre of
a perfect and stately beauty. From the best descriptions that I have been
able to gain of it, it was more like a dahlia than any other flower with
which I have acquaintance; yet it does not satisfy me to believe it really
of that species, for the dahlia is not a flower of any deep
characteristics, either lively or malignant, and this flower, which
Septimius found so strangely, seems to have had one or the other. If I
have rightly understood, it had a fragrance which the dahlia lacks; and
there was something hidden in its centre, a mystery, even in its fullest
bloom, not developing itself so openly as the heartless, yet not
dishonest, dahlia. I remember in England to have seen a flower at Eaton
Hall, in Cheshire, in those magnificent gardens, which may have been like
this, but my remembrance of it is not sufficiently distinct to enable me
to describe it better than by saying that it was crimson, with a gleam of
gold in its centre, which yet was partly hidden. It had many petals of
great richness.
Septimius, bending eagerly over the plant, saw that this was not to be the
only flower that it would produce that season; on the contrary, there was
to be a great abundance of them, a luxuriant harvest; as if the crimson
offspring of this one plant would cover the whole hillock,--as if the dead
youth beneath had burst into a resurrection of many crimson flowers! And
in its veiled heart, moreover, there was a mystery like death, although it
seemed to cover something bright and golden.
Day after day the strange crimson flower bloomed more and more abundantly,
until it seemed almost to cover the little hillock, which became a mere
bed of it, apparently turning all its capacity of production to this
flower; for the other plants, Septimius thought, seemed to shrink away,
and give place to it, as if they were unworthy to compare with the
richness, glory, and worth of this their queen. The fervent summer burned
into it, the dew and the rain ministered to it; the soil was rich, for it
was a human heart contributing its juices,--a heart in its fiery youth
sodden in its own blood, so that passion, unsatisfied loves and longings,
ambition that never won its object, tender dreams and throbs, angers,
lusts, hates, all concentrated by life, came sprouting in it, and its
mysterious being, and streaks and shadows, had some meaning in each of
them.
The two girls, when they next ascended the hill, saw the strange flower,
and Rose admired it, and wondered at it, but stood at a distance, without
showing an attraction towards it, rather an undefined aversion, as if she
thought it might be a poison flower; at any rate she would not be inclined
to wear it in her bosom. Sibyl Dacy examined it closely, touched its
leaves, smelt it, looked at it with a botanist's eye, and at last remarked
to Rose, "Yes, it grows well in this new soil; methinks it looks like a
new human life."
"What is the strange flower?" asked Rose.
"The _Sanguinea sanguinissima_" said Sibyl.
It so happened about this time that poor Aunt Keziah, in spite of her
constant use of that bitter mixture of hers, was in a very bad state of
health. She looked all of an unpleasant yellow, with bloodshot eyes; she
complained terribly of her inwards. She had an ugly rheumatic hitch in her
motion from place to place, and was heard to mutter many wishes that she
had a broomstick to fly about upon, and she used to bind up her head with
a dishclout, or what looked to be such, and would sit by the kitchen fire
even in the warm days, bent over it, crouching as if she wanted to take
the whole fire into her poor cold heart or gizzard,--groaning regularly
with each breath a spiteful and resentful groan, as if she fought
womanfully with her infirmities; and she continually smoked her pipe, and
sent out the breath of her complaint visibly in that evil odor; and
sometimes she murmured a little prayer, but somehow or other the evil and
bitterness, acridity, pepperiness, of her natural disposition overcame the
acquired grace which compelled her to pray, insomuch that, after all, you
would have thought the poor old woman was cursing with all her rheumatic
might. All the time an old, broken-nosed, brown earthen jug, covered with
the lid of a black teapot, stood on the edge of the embers, steaming
forever, and sometimes bubbling a little, and giving a great puff, as if
it were sighing and groaning in sympathy with poor Aunt Keziah, and when
it sighed there came a great steam of herby fragrance, not particularly
pleasant, into the kitchen. And ever and anon,--half a dozen times it
might be,--of an afternoon, Aunt Keziah took a certain bottle from a
private receptacle of hers, and also a teacup, and likewise a little,
old-fashioned silver teaspoon, with which she measured three teaspoonfuls
of some spirituous liquor into the teacup, half filled the cup with the
hot decoction, drank it off, gave a grunt of content, and for the space of
half an hour appeared to find life tolerable.
But one day poor Aunt Keziah found herself unable, partly from rheumatism,
partly from other sickness or weakness, and partly from dolorous
ill-spirits, to keep about any longer, so she betook herself to her bed;
and betimes in the forenoon Septimius heard a tremendous knocking on the
floor of her bedchamber, which happened to be the room above his own. He
was the only person in or about the house; so with great reluctance, he
left his studies, which were upon the recipe, in respect to which he was
trying to make out the mode of concoction, which was told in such a
mysterious way that he could not well tell either the quantity of the
ingredients, the mode of trituration, nor in what way their virtue was to
be extracted and combined.
Running hastily up stairs, he found Aunt Keziah lying in bed, and groaning
with great spite and bitterness; so that, indeed, it seemed not
improvidential that such an inimical state of mind towards the human race
was accompanied with an almost inability of motion, else it would not be
safe to be within a considerable distance of her.
"Seppy, you good-for-nothing, are you going to see me lying here, dying,
without trying to do anything for me?"
"Dying, Aunt Keziah?" repeated the young man. "I hope not! What can I do
for you? Shall I go for Rose? or call a neighbor in? or the doctor?"
"No, no, you fool!" said the afflicted person. "You can do all that anybody
can for me; and that is to put my mixture on the kitchen fire till it
steams, and is just ready to bubble; then measure three teaspoonfuls--or
it may be four, as I am very bad--of spirit into a teacup, fill it half
full,--or it may be quite full, for I am very bad, as I said afore; six
teaspoonfuls of spirit into a cup of mixture, and let me have it as soon
as may be; and don't break the cup, nor spill the precious mixture, for
goodness knows when I can go into the woods to gather any more. Ah me! ah
me! it's a wicked, miserable world, and I am the most miserable creature
in it. Be quick, you good-for-nothing, and do as I say!"
Septimius hastened down; but as he went a thought came into his head, which
it occurred to him might result in great benefit to Aunt Keziah, as well
as to the great cause of science and human good, and to the promotion of
his own purpose, in the first place. A day or two ago, he had gathered
several of the beautiful flowers, and laid them in the fervid sun to dry;
and they now seemed to be in about the state in which the old woman was
accustomed to use her herbs, so far as Septimius had observed. Now if
these flowers were really, as there was so much reason for supposing, the
one ingredient that had for hundreds of years been missing out of Aunt
Keziah's nostrum,--if it was this which that strange Indian sagamore had
mingled with his drink with such beneficial effect,--why should not
Septimius now restore it, and if it would not make his beloved aunt young
again, at least assuage the violent symptoms, and perhaps prolong her
valuable life some years, for the solace and delight of her numerous
friends? Septimius, like other people of investigating and active minds,
had a great tendency to experiment, and so good an opportunity as the
present, where (perhaps he thought) there was so little to be risked at
worst, and so much to be gained, was not to be neglected; so, without more
ado, he stirred three of the crimson flowers into the earthen jug, set it
on the edge of the fire, stirred it well, and when it steamed, threw up
little scarlet bubbles, and was about to boil, he measured out the
spirits, as Aunt Keziah had bidden him and then filled the teacup.
"Ah, this will do her good; little does she think, poor old thing, what a
rare and costly medicine is about to be given her. This will set her on
her feet again."
The hue was somewhat changed, he thought, from what he had observed of Aunt
Keziah's customary decoction; instead of a turbid yellow, the crimson
petals of the flower had tinged it, and made it almost red; not a
brilliant red, however, nor the least inviting in appearance. Septimius
smelt it, and thought he could distinguish a little of the rich odor of
the flower, but was not sure. He considered whether to taste it; but the
horrible flavor of Aunt Keziah's decoction recurred strongly to his
remembrance, and he concluded that were he evidently at the point of
death, he might possibly be bold enough to taste it again; but that
nothing short of the hope of a century's existence at least would repay
another taste of that fierce and nauseous bitterness. Aunt Keziah loved
it; and as she brewed, so let her drink.
He went up stairs, careful not to spill a drop of the brimming cup, and
approached the old woman's bedside, where she lay, groaning as before, and
breaking out into a spiteful croak the moment he was within ear-shot.
"You don't care whether I live or die," said she. "You've been waiting in
hopes I shall die, and so save yourself further trouble."
"By no means, Aunt Keziah," said Septimius. "Here is the medicine, which I
have warmed, and measured out, and mingled, as well as I knew how; and I
think it will do you a great deal of good."
"Won't you taste it, Seppy, my dear?" said Aunt Keziah, mollified by the
praise of her beloved mixture. "Drink first, dear, so that my sick old
lips need not taint it. You look pale, Septimius; it will do you good."
"No, Aunt Keziah, I do not need it; and it were a pity to waste your
precious drink," said he.
"It does not look quite the right color," said Aunt Keziah, as she took the
cup in her hand. "You must have dropped some soot into it." Then, as she
raised it to her lips, "It does not smell quite right. But, woe's me! how
can I expect anybody but myself to make this precious drink as it should
be?"
She drank it off at two gulps; for she appeared to hurry it off faster than
usual, as if not tempted by the exquisiteness of its flavor to dwell upon
it so long.
"You have not made it just right, Seppy," said she in a milder tone than
before, for she seemed to feel the customary soothing influence of the
draught, "but you'll do better the next time. It had a queer taste,
methought; or is it that my mouth is getting out of taste? Hard times it
will be for poor Aunt Kezzy, if she's to lose her taste for the medicine
that, under Providence, has saved her life for so many years."
She gave back the cup to Septimius, after looking a little curiously at the
dregs.
"It looks like bloodroot, don't it?" said she. "Perhaps it's my own fault
after all. I gathered a fresh bunch of the yarbs yesterday afternoon, and
put them to steep, and it may be I was a little blind, for it was between
daylight and dark, and the moon shone on me before I had finished. I
thought how the witches used to gather their poisonous stuff at such
times, and what pleasant uses they made of it,--but those are sinful
thoughts, Seppy, sinful thoughts! so I'll say a prayer and try to go to
sleep. I feel very noddy all at once."
Septimius drew the bedclothes up about her shoulders, for she complained of
being very chilly, and, carefully putting her stick within reach, went
down to his own room, and resumed his studies, trying to make out from
those aged hieroglyphics, to which he was now so well accustomed, what was
the precise method of making the elixir of immortality. Sometimes, as men
in deep thought do, he rose from his chair, and walked to and fro the four
or five steps or so that conveyed him from end to end of his little room.
At one of these times he chanced to look in the little looking-glass that
hung between the windows, and was startled at the paleness of his face. It
was quite white, indeed. Septimius was not in the least a foppish young
man; careless he was in dress, though often his apparel took an unsought
picturesqueness that set off his slender, agile figure, perhaps from some
quality of spontaneous arrangement that he had inherited from his Indian
ancestry. Yet many women might have found a charm in that dark, thoughtful
face, with its hidden fire and energy, although Septimius never thought of
its being handsome, and seldom looked at it. Yet now he was drawn to it by
seeing how strangely white it was, and, gazing at it, he observed that
since he considered it last, a very deep furrow, or corrugation, or
fissure, it might almost be called, had indented his brow, rising from the
commencement of his nose towards the centre of the forehead. And he knew
it was his brooding thought, his fierce, hard determination, his intense
concentrativeness for so many months, that had been digging that furrow;
and it must prove indeed a potent specific of the life-water that would
smooth that away, and restore him all the youth and elasticity that he had
buried in that profound grave.
But why was he so pale? He could have supposed himself startled by some
ghastly thing that he had just seen; by a corpse in the next room, for
instance; or else by the foreboding that one would soon be there; but yet
he was conscious of no tremor in his frame, no terror in his heart; as why
should there be any? Feeling his own pulse, he found the strong, regular
beat that should be there. He was not ill, nor affrighted; not expectant
of any pain. Then why so ghastly pale? And why, moreover, Septimius, did
you listen so earnestly for any sound in Aunt Keziah's chamber? Why did
you creep on tiptoe, once, twice, three times, up to the old woman's
chamber, and put your ear to the keyhole, and listen breathlessly? Well;
it must have been that he was subconscious that he was trying a bold
experiment, and that he had taken this poor old woman to be the medium of
it, in the hope, of course, that it would turn out well; yet with other
views than her interest in the matter. What was the harm of that? Medical
men, no doubt, are always doing so, and he was a medical man for the time.
Then why was he so pale?
He sat down and fell into a reverie, which perhaps was partly suggested by
that chief furrow which he had seen, and which we have spoken of, in his
brow. He considered whether there was anything in this pursuit of his that
used up life particularly fast; so that, perhaps, unless he were
successful soon, he should be incapable of renewal; for, looking within
himself, and considering his mode of being, he had a singular fancy that
his heart was gradually drying up, and that he must continue to get some
moisture for it, or else it would soon be like a withered leaf. Supposing
his pursuit were vain, what a waste he was making of that little treasure
of golden days, which was his all! Could this be called life, which he was
leading now? How unlike that of other young men! How unlike that of Robert
Hagburn, for example! There had come news yesterday of his having
performed a gallant part in the battle of Monmouth, and being promoted to
be a captain for his brave conduct. Without thinking of long life, he
really lived in heroic actions and emotions; he got much life in a little,
and did not fear to sacrifice a lifetime of torpid breaths, if necessary,
to the ecstasy of a glorious death!
[_It appears from a written sketch by the author of this story, that he
changed his first plan of making Septimius and Rose lovers, and she was to
be represented as his half-sister, and in the copy for publication this
alteration would have been made_.--ED.]
And then Robert loved, too, loved his sister Rose, and felt, doubtless, an
immortality in that passion. Why could not Septimius love too? It was
forbidden! Well, no matter; whom could he have loved? Who, in all this
world would have been suited to his secret, brooding heart, that he could
have let her into its mysterious chambers, and walked with her from one
cavernous gloom to another, and said, "Here are my treasures. I make thee
mistress of all these; with all these goods I thee endow." And then,
revealing to her his great secret and purpose of gaining immortal life,
have said: "This shall be thine, too. Thou shalt share with me. We will
walk along the endless path together, and keep one another's hearts warm,
and so be content to live."
Ah, Septimius! but now you are getting beyond those rules of yours, which,
cold as they are, have been drawn out of a subtle philosophy, and might,
were it possible to follow them out, suffice to do all that you ask of
them; but if you break them, you do it at the peril of your earthly
immortality. Each warmer and quicker throb of the heart wears away so much
of life. The passions, the affections, are a wine not to be indulged in.
Love, above all, being in its essence an immortal thing, cannot be long
contained in an earthly body, but would wear it out with its own secret
power, softly invigorating as it seems. You must be cold, therefore,
Septimius; you must not even earnestly and passionately desire this
immortality that seems so necessary to you. Else the very wish will
prevent the possibility of its fulfilment.
By and by, to call him out of these rhapsodies, came Rose home; and finding
the kitchen hearth cold, and Aunt Keziah missing, and no dinner by the
fire, which was smouldering,--nothing but the portentous earthen jug,
which fumed, and sent out long, ill-flavored sighs, she tapped at
Septimius's door, and asked him what was the matter.
"Aunt Keziah has had an ill turn," said Septimius, "and has gone to bed."
"Poor auntie!" said Rose, with her quick sympathy. "I will this moment run
up and see if she needs anything."
"No, Rose," said Septimius, "she has doubtless gone to sleep, and will
awake as well as usual. It would displease her much were you to miss your
afternoon school; so you had better set the table with whatever there is
left of yesterday's dinner, and leave me to take care of auntie."
"Well," said Rose, "she loves you best; but if she be really ill, I shall
give up my school and nurse her."
"No doubt," said Septimius, "she will be about the house again to-morrow."
So Rose ate her frugal dinner (consisting chiefly of purslain, and some
other garden herbs, which her thrifty aunt had prepared for boiling), and
went away as usual to her school; for Aunt Keziah, as aforesaid, had never
encouraged the tender ministrations of Rose, whose orderly, womanly
character, with its well-defined orb of daily and civilized duties, had
always appeared to strike her as tame; and she once said to her, "You are
no squaw, child, and you'll never make a witch." Nor would she even so
much as let Rose put her tea to steep, or do anything whatever for herself
personally; though, certainly, she was not backward in requiring of her a
due share of labor for the general housekeeping.
Septimius was sitting in his room, as the afternoon wore away; because, for
some reason or other, or, quite as likely, for no reason at all, he did
not air himself and his thoughts, as usual, on the hill; so he was sitting
musing, thinking, looking into his mysterious manuscript, when he heard
Aunt Keziah moving in the chamber above. First she seemed to rattle a
chair; then she began a slow, regular beat with the stick which Septimius
had left by her bedside, and which startled him strangely,--so that,
indeed, his heart beat faster than the five-and-seventy throbs to which he
was restricted by the wise rules that he had digested. So he ran hastily
up stairs, and behold, Aunt Keziah was sitting up in bed, looking very
wild,--so wild that you would have thought she was going to fly up chimney
the next minute; her gray hair all dishevelled, her eyes staring, her
hands clutching forward, while she gave a sort of howl, what with pain and
agitation.
"Seppy! Seppy!" said she,--"Seppy, my darling! are you quite sure you
remember how to make that precious drink?"
"Quite well, Aunt Keziah," said Septimius, inwardly much alarmed by her
aspect, but preserving a true Indian composure of outward mien. "I wrote
it down, and could say it by heart besides. Shall I make you a fresh pot
of it? for I have thrown away the other."
"That was well, Seppy," said the poor old woman, "for there is something
wrong about it; but I want no more, for, Seppy dear, I am going fast out
of this world, where you and that precious drink were my only treasures
and comforts. I wanted to know if you remembered the recipe; it is all I
have to leave you, and the more you drink of it, Seppy, the better. Only
see to make it right!"
"Dear auntie, what can I do for you?" said Septimius, in much
consternation, but still calm. "Let me run for the doctor,--for the
neighbors? something must be done!"
The old woman contorted herself as if there were a fearful time in her
insides; and grinned, and twisted the yellow ugliness of her face, and
groaned, and howled; and yet there was a tough and fierce kind of
endurance with which she fought with her anguish, and would not yield to
it a jot, though she allowed herself the relief of shrieking savagely at
it,--much more like a defiance than a cry for mercy.
"No doctor! no woman!" said she; "if my drink could not save me, what would
a doctor's foolish pills and powders do? And a woman! If old Martha
Denton, the witch, were alive, I would be glad to see her. But other
women! Pah! Ah! Ai! Oh! Phew! Ah, Seppy, what a mercy it would be now if I
could set to and blaspheme a bit, and shake my fist at the sky! But I'm a
Christian woman, Seppy,--a Christian woman."
"Shall I send for the minister, Aunt Keziah?" asked Septimius. "He is a
good man, and a wise one."
"No minister for me, Seppy," said Aunt Keziah, howling as if somebody were
choking her. "He may be a good man, and a wise one, but he's not wise
enough to know the way to my heart, and never a man as was! Eh, Seppy, I'm
a Christian woman, but I'm not like other Christian women; and I'm glad
I'm going away from this stupid world. I've not been a bad woman, and I
deserve credit for it, for it would have suited me a great deal better to
be bad. Oh, what a delightful time a witch must have had, starting off up
chimney on her broomstick at midnight, and looking down from aloft in the
sky on the sleeping village far below, with its steeple pointing up at
her, so that she might touch the golden weathercock! You, meanwhile, in
such an ecstasy, and all below you the dull, innocent, sober humankind;
the wife sleeping by her husband, or mother by her child, squalling with
wind in its stomach; the goodman driving up his cattle and his
plough,--all so innocent, all so stupid, with their dull days just alike,
one after another. And you up in the air, sweeping away to some nook in
the forest! Ha! What's that? A wizard! Ha! ha! Known below as a deacon!
There is Goody Chickering! How quietly she sent the young people to bed
after prayers! There is an Indian; there a nigger; they all have equal
rights and privileges at a witch-meeting. Phew! the wind blows cold up
here! Why does not the Black Man have the meeting at his own kitchen
hearth? Ho! ho! Oh dear me! But I'm a Christian woman and no witch; but
those must have been gallant times!"
Doubtless it was a partial wandering of the mind that took the poor old
woman away on this old-witch flight; and it was very curious and pitiful
to witness the compunction with which she returned to herself and took
herself to task for the preference which, in her wild nature, she could
not help giving to harum-scarum wickedness over tame goodness. Now she
tried to compose herself, and talk reasonably and godly.
"Ah, Septimius, my dear child, never give way to temptation, nor consent to
be a wizard, though the Black Man persuade you ever so hard. I know he
will try. He has tempted me, but I never yielded, never gave him his will;
and never do you, my boy, though you, with your dark complexion, and your
brooding brow, and your eye veiled, only when it suddenly looks out with a
flash of fire in it, are the sort of man he seeks most, and that
afterwards serves him. But don't do it, Septimius. But if you could be an
Indian, methinks it would be better than this tame life we lead. 'T would
have been better for me, at all events. Oh, how pleasant 't would have
been to spend my life wandering in the woods, smelling the pines and the
hemlock all day, and fresh things of all kinds, and no kitchen work to
do,--not to rake up the fire, nor sweep the room, nor make the beds,--but
to sleep on fresh boughs in a wigwam, with the leaves still on the
branches that made the roof! And then to see the deer brought in by the
red hunter, and the blood streaming from the arrow-dart! Ah! and the fight
too! and the scalping! and, perhaps, a woman might creep into the battle,
and steal the wounded enemy away of her tribe and scalp him, and be
praised for it! O Seppy, how I hate the thought of the dull life women
lead! A white woman's life is so dull! Thank Heaven, I'm done with it! If
I'm ever to live again, may I be whole Indian, please my Maker!"
After this goodly outburst, Aunt Keziah lay quietly for a few moments, and
her skinny claws being clasped together, and her yellow visage grinning,
as pious an aspect as was attainable by her harsh and pain-distorted
features, Septimius perceived that she was in prayer. And so it proved by
what followed, for the old woman turned to him with a grim tenderness on
her face, and stretched out her hand to be taken in his own. He clasped
the bony talon in both his hands.
"Seppy, my dear, I feel a great peace, and I don't think there is so very
much to trouble me in the other world. It won't be all house-work, and
keeping decent, and doing like other people there. I suppose I needn't
expect to ride on a broomstick,--that would be wrong in any kind of a
world,--but there may be woods to wander in, and a pipe to smoke in the
air of heaven; trees to hear the wind in, and to smell of, and all such
natural, happy things; and by and by I shall hope to see you there, Seppy,
my darling boy! Come by and by; 't is n't worth your while to live
forever, even if you should find out what's wanting in the drink I've
taught you. I can see a little way into the next world now, and I see it
to be far better than this heavy and wretched old place. You'll die when
your time comes; won't you, Seppy, my darling?"
"Yes, dear auntie, when my time comes," said Septimius. "Very likely I
shall want to live no longer by that time."
"Likely not," said the old woman. "I'm sure I don't. It is like going to
sleep on my mother's breast to die. So good night, dear Seppy!"
"Good night, and God bless you, auntie!" said Septimius, with a gush of
tears blinding him, spite of his Indian nature.
The old woman composed herself, and lay quite still and decorous for a
short time; then, rousing herself a little, "Septimius," said she, "is
there just a little drop of my drink left? Not that I want to live any
longer, but if I could sip ever so little, I feel as if I should step into
the other world quite cheery, with it warm in my heart, and not feel shy
and bashful at going among strangers."
"Not one drop, auntie."
"Ah, well, no matter! It was not quite right, that last cup. It had a queer
taste. What could you have put into it, Seppy, darling? But no matter, no
matter! It's a precious stuff, if you make it right. Don't forget the
herbs, Septimius. Something wrong had certainly got into it."
These, except for some murmurings, some groanings and unintelligible
whisperings, were the last utterances of poor Aunt Keziah, who did not
live a great while longer, and at last passed away in a great sigh, like a
gust of wind among the trees, she having just before stretched out her
hand again and grasped that of Septimius; and he sat watching her and
gazing at her, wondering and horrified, touched, shocked by death, of
which he had so unusual a terror,--and by the death of this creature
especially, with whom he felt a sympathy that did not exist with any other
person now living. So long did he sit, holding her hand, that at last he
was conscious that it was growing cold within his own, and that the
stiffening fingers clutched him, as if they were disposed to keep their
hold, and not forego the tie that had been so peculiar.
Then rushing hastily forth, he told the nearest available neighbor, who was
Robert Hagburn's mother; and she summoned some of her gossips, and came to
the house, and took poor Aunt Keziah in charge. They talked of her with no
great respect, I fear, nor much sorrow, nor sense that the community would
suffer any great deprivation in her loss; for, in their view, she was a
dram-drinking, pipe-smoking, cross-grained old maid, and, as some thought,
a witch; and, at any rate, with too much of the Indian blood in her to be
of much use; and they hoped that now Rose Garfield would have a pleasanter
life, and Septimius study to be a minister, and all things go well, and
the place be cheerfuller. They found Aunt Keziah's bottle in the cupboard,
and tasted and smelt of it.
"Good West Indjy as ever I tasted," said Mrs. Hagburn; "and there stands
her broken pitcher, on the hearth. Ah, empty! I never could bring my mind
to taste it; but now I'm sorry I never did, for I suppose nobody in the
world can make any more of it."
Septimius, meanwhile, had betaken himself to the hill-top, which was his
place of refuge on all occasions when the house seemed too stifled to
contain him; and there he walked to and fro, with a certain kind of
calmness and indifference that he wondered at; for there is hardly
anything in this world so strange as the quiet surface that spreads over a
man's mind in his greatest emergencies: so that he deems himself perfectly
quiet, and upbraids himself with not feeling anything, when indeed he is
passion-stirred. As Septimius walked to and fro, he looked at the rich
crimson flowers, which seemed to be blooming in greater profusion and
luxuriance than ever before. He had made an experiment with these flowers,
and he was curious to know whether that experiment had been the cause of
Aunt Keziah's death. Not that he felt any remorse therefor, in any case,
or believed himself to have committed a crime, having really intended and
desired nothing but good. I suppose such things (and he must be a lucky
physician, methinks, who has no such mischief within his own experience)
never weigh with deadly weight on any man's conscience. Something must be
risked in the cause of science, and in desperate cases something must be
risked for the patient's self. Septimius, much as he loved life, would not
have hesitated to put his own life to the same risk that he had imposed on
Aunt Keziah; or, if he did hesitate, it would have been only because, if
the experiment turned out disastrously in his own person, he would not be
in a position to make another and more successful trial; whereas, by
trying it on others, the man of science still reserves himself for new
efforts, and does not put all the hopes of the world, so far as involved
in his success, on one cast of the die.
By and by he met Sibyl Dacy, who had ascended the hill, as was usual with
her, at sunset, and came towards him, gazing earnestly in his face.
"They tell me poor Aunt Keziah is no more," said she.
"She is dead," said Septimius.
"The flower is a very famous medicine," said the girl, "but everything
depends on its being applied in the proper way."
"Do you know the way, then?" asked Septimius.
"No; you should ask Doctor Portsoaken about that," said Sibyl.
Doctor Portsoaken! And so he should consult him. That eminent chemist and
scientific man had evidently heard of the recipe, and at all events would
be acquainted with the best methods of getting the virtues out of flowers
and herbs, some of which, Septimius had read enough to know, were poison
in one phase and shape of preparation, and possessed of richest virtues in
others; their poison, as one may say, serving as a dark and terrible
safeguard, which Providence has set to watch over their preciousness; even
as a dragon, or some wild and fiendish spectre, is set to watch and keep
hidden gold and heaped-up diamonds. A dragon always waits on everything
that is very good. And what would deserve the watch and ward of danger of
a dragon, or something more fatal than a dragon, if not this treasure of
which Septimius was in quest, and the discovery and possession of which
would enable him to break down one of the strongest barriers of nature? It
ought to be death, he acknowledged it, to attempt such a thing; for how
hanged would be life if he should succeed; how necessary it was that
mankind should be defended from such attempts on the general rule on the
part of all but him. How could Death be spared?--then the sire would live
forever, and the heir never come to his inheritance, and so he would at
once hate his own father, from the perception that he would never be out
of his way. Then the same class of powerful minds would always rule the
state, and there would never be a change of policy. [_Here several pages
are missing_.--ED.]
* * * * *
Through such scenes Septimius sought out the direction that Doctor
Portsoaken had given him, and came to the door of a house in the olden
part of the town. The Boston of those days had very much the aspect of
provincial towns in England, such as may still be seen there, while our
own city has undergone such wonderful changes that little likeness to what
our ancestors made it can now be found. The streets, crooked and narrow;
the houses, many gabled, projecting, with latticed windows and diamond
panes; without sidewalks; with rough pavements.
Septimius knocked loudly at the door, nor had long to wait before a
serving-maid appeared, who seemed to be of English nativity; and in reply
to his request for Doctor Portsoaken bade him come in, and led him up a
staircase with broad landing-places; then tapped at the door of a room,
and was responded to by a gruff voice saying, "Come in!" The woman held
the door open, and Septimius saw the veritable Doctor Portsoaken in an
old, faded morning-gown, and with a nightcap on his head, his German pipe
in his mouth, and a brandy-bottle, to the best of our belief, on the table
by his side.
"Come in, come in," said the gruff doctor, nodding to Septimius. "I
remember you. Come in, man, and tell me your business."
Septimius did come in, but was so struck by the aspect of Dr. Portsoaken's
apartment, and his gown, that he did not immediately tell his business. In
the first place, everything looked very dusty and dirty, so that evidently
no woman had ever been admitted into this sanctity of a place; a fact made
all the more evident by the abundance of spiders, who had spun their webs
about the walls and ceiling in the wildest apparent confusion, though
doubtless each individual spider knew the cordage which he had lengthened
out of his own miraculous bowels. But it was really strange. They had
festooned their cordage on whatever was stationary in the room, making a
sort of gray, dusky tapestry, that waved portentously in the breeze, and
flapped, heavy and dismal, each with its spider in the centre of his own
system. And what was most marvellous was a spider over the doctor's head;
a spider, I think, of some South American breed, with a circumference of
its many legs as big, unless I am misinformed, as a teacup, and with a
body in the midst as large as a dollar; giving the spectator horrible
qualms as to what would be the consequence if this spider should be
crushed, and, at the same time, suggesting the poisonous danger of
suffering such a monster to live. The monster, however, sat in the midst
of the stalwart cordage of his web, right over the doctor's head; and he
looked, with all those complicated lines, like the symbol of a conjurer or
crafty politician in the midst of the complexity of his scheme; and
Septimius wondered if he were not the type of Dr. Portsoaken himself, who,
fat and bloated as the spider, seemed to be the centre of some dark
contrivance. And could it be that poor Septimius was typified by the
fascinated fly, doomed to be entangled by the web?
"Good day to you," said the gruff doctor, taking his pipe from his mouth.
"Here I am, with my brother spiders, in the midst of my web. I told you,
you remember, the wonderful efficacy which I had discovered in spiders'
webs; and this is my laboratory, where I have hundreds of workmen
concocting my panacea for me. Is it not a lovely sight?"
"A wonderful one, at least," said Septimius. "That one above your head, the
monster, is calculated to give a very favorable idea of your theory. What
a quantity of poison there must be in him!"
"Poison, do you call it?" quoth the grim doctor. "That's entirely as it may
be used. Doubtless his bite would send a man to kingdom come; but, on the
other hand, no one need want a better life-line than that fellow's web. He
and I are firm friends, and I believe he would know my enemies by
instinct. But come, sit down, and take a glass of brandy. No? Well, I'll
drink it for you. And how is the old aunt yonder, with her infernal
nostrum, the bitterness and nauseousness of which my poor stomach has not
yet forgotten?"
