"Say it then, Robert," said Septimius, who, having got over the first
excitement of the interview, and the sort of exhilaration produced by the
healthful glow of Robert's spirit, began secretly to wish that it might
close, and to be permitted to return to his solitary thoughts again. "What
can I do for you?"
"Why, nothing," said Robert, looking rather confused, "since all is
settled. The fact is, my old friend, as perhaps you have seen, I have very
long had an eye upon your sister Rose; yes, from the time we went together
to the old school-house, where she now teaches children like what we were
then. The war took me away, and in good time, for I doubt if Rose would
ever have cared enough for me to be my wife, if I had stayed at home, a
country lout, as I was getting to be, in shirt-sleeves and bare feet. But
now, you see, I have come back, and this whole great war, to her woman's
heart, is represented in me, and makes me heroic, so to speak, and
strange, and yet her old familiar lover. So I found her heart tenderer for
me than it was; and, in short, Rose has consented to be my wife, and we
mean to be married in a week; my furlough permits little delay."
"You surprise me," said Septimius, who, immersed in his own pursuits, had
taken no notice of the growing affection between Robert and his sister.
"Do you think it well to snatch this little lull that is allowed you in
the wild striving of war to try to make a peaceful home? Shall you like to
be summoned from it soon? Shall you be as cheerful among dangers
afterwards, when one sword may cut down two happinesses?"
"There is something in what you say, and I have thought of it," said
Robert, sighing. "But I can't tell how it is; but there is something in
this uncertainty, this peril, this cloud before us, that makes it sweeter
to love and to be loved than amid all seeming quiet and serenity. Really,
I think, if there were to be no death, the beauty of life would be all
tame. So we take our chance, or our dispensation of Providence, and are
going to love, and to be married, just as confidently as if we were sure
of living forever."
"Well, old fellow," said Septimius, with more cordiality and outgush of
heart than he had felt for a long while, "there is no man whom I should be
happier to call brother. Take Rose, and all happiness along with her. She
is a good girl, and not in the least like me. May you live out your
threescore years and ten, and every one of them be happy."
Little more passed, and Robert Hagburn took his leave with a hearty shake
of Septimius's hand, too conscious of his own happiness to be quite
sensible how much the latter was self-involved, strange, anxious,
separated from healthy life and interests; and Septimius, as soon as
Robert had disappeared, locked the door behind him, and proceeded at once
to apply the silver key to the lock of the old strong box.
The lock resisted somewhat, being rusty, as might well be supposed after so
many years since it was opened; but it finally allowed the key to turn,
and Septimius, with a good deal of flutter at his heart, opened the lid.
The interior had a very different aspect from that of the exterior; for,
whereas the latter looked so old, this, having been kept from the air,
looked about as new as when shut up from light and air two centuries ago,
less or more. It was lined with ivory, beautifully carved in figures,
according to the art which the mediæval people possessed in great
perfection; and probably the box had been a lady's jewel-casket formerly,
and had glowed with rich lustre and bright colors at former openings. But
now there was nothing in it of that kind,--nothing in keeping with those
figures carved in the ivory representing some mythical subjects,--nothing
but some papers in the bottom of the box written over in an ancient hand,
which Septimius at once fancied that he recognized as that of the
manuscript and recipe which he had found on the breast of the young
soldier. He eagerly seized them, but was infinitely disappointed to find
that they did not seem to refer at all to the subjects treated by the
former, but related to pedigrees and genealogies, and were in reference to
an English family and some member of it who, two centuries before, had
crossed the sea to America, and who, in this way, had sought to preserve
his connection with his native stock, so as to be able, perhaps, to prove
it for himself or his descendants; and there was reference to documents
and records in England in confirmation of the genealogy. Septimius saw
that this paper had been drawn up by an ancestor of his own, the
unfortunate man who had been hanged for witchcraft; but so earnest had
been his expectation of something different, that he flung the old papers
down with bitter indifference.
Then again he snatched them up, and contemptuously read them,--those proofs
of descent through generations of esquires and knights, who had been
renowned in war; and there seemed, too, to be running through the family a
certain tendency to letters, for three were designated as of the colleges
of Oxford or Cambridge; and against one there was the note, "he that sold
himself to Sathan;" and another seemed to have been a follower of
Wickliffe; and they had murdered kings, and been beheaded, and banished,
and what not; so that the age-long life of this ancient family had not
been after all a happy or very prosperous one, though they had kept their
estate, in one or another descendant, since the Conquest. It was not
wholly without interest that Septimius saw that this ancient descent, this
connection with noble families, and intermarriages with names, some of
which he recognized as known in English history, all referred to his own
family, and seemed to centre in himself, the last of a poverty-stricken
line, which had dwindled down into obscurity, and into rustic labor and
humble toil, reviving in him a little; yet how little, unless he fulfilled
his strange purpose. Was it not better worth his while to take this
English position here so strangely offered him? He had apparently slain
unwittingly the only person who could have contested his rights,--the
young man who had so strangely brought him the hope of unlimited life at
the same time that he was making room for him among his forefathers. What
a change in his lot would have been here, for there seemed to be some
pretensions to a title, too, from a barony which was floating about and
occasionally moving out of abeyancy!
"Perhaps," said Septimius to himself, "I may hereafter think it worth while
to assert my claim to these possessions, to this position amid an ancient
aristocracy, and try that mode of life for one generation. Yet there is
something in my destiny incompatible, of course, with the continued
possession of an estate. I must be, of necessity, a wanderer on the face
of the earth, changing place at short intervals, disappearing suddenly and
entirely; else the foolish, short-lived multitude and mob of mortals will
be enraged with one who seems their brother, yet whose countenance will
never be furrowed with his age, nor his knees totter, nor his force be
abated; their little brevity will be rebuked by his age-long endurance,
above whom the oaken roof-tree of a thousand years would crumble, while
still he would be hale and strong. So that this house, or any other, would
be but a resting-place of a day, and then I must away into another
obscurity."
With almost a regret, he continued to look over the documents until he
reached one of the persons recorded in the line of pedigree,--a worthy,
apparently, of the reign of Elizabeth, to whom was attributed a title of
Doctor in Utriusque Juris; and against his name was a verse of Latin
written, for what purpose Septimius knew not, for, on reading it, it
appeared to have no discoverable appropriateness; but suddenly he
remembered the blotted and imperfect hieroglyphical passage in the recipe.
He thought an instant, and was convinced this was the full expression and
outwriting of that crabbed little mystery; and that here was part of that
secret writing for which the Age of Elizabeth was so famous and so
dexterous. His mind had a flash of light upon it, and from that moment he
was enabled to read not only the recipe but the rules, and all the rest of
that mysterious document, in a way which he had never thought of before;
to discern that it was not to be taken literally and simply, but had a
hidden process involved in it that made the whole thing infinitely deeper
than he had hitherto deemed it to be. His brain reeled, he seemed to have
taken a draught of some liquor that opened infinite depths before him, he
could scarcely refrain from giving a shout of triumphant exultation, the
house could not contain him, he rushed up to his hill-top, and there,
after walking swiftly to and fro, at length flung himself on the little
hillock, and burst forth, as if addressing him who slept beneath.
"O brother, O friend!" said he, "I thank thee for thy matchless beneficence
to me; for all which I rewarded thee with this little spot on my hill-top.
Thou wast very good, very kind. It would not have been well for thee, a
youth of fiery joys and passions, loving to laugh, loving the lightness
and sparkling brilliancy of life, to take this boon to thyself; for, O
brother! I see, I see, it requires a strong spirit, capable of much lonely
endurance, able to be sufficient to itself, loving not too much, dependent
on no sweet ties of affection, to be capable of the mighty trial which now
devolves on me. I thank thee, O kinsman! Yet thou, I feel, hast the better
part, who didst so soon lie down to rest, who hast done forever with this
troublesome world, which it is mine to contemplate from age to age, and to
sum up the meaning of it. Thou art disporting thyself in other spheres. I
enjoy the high, severe, fearful office of living here, and of being the
minister of Providence from one age to many successive ones."
In this manner he raved, as never before, in a strain of exalted
enthusiasm, securely treading on air, and sometimes stopping to shout
aloud, and feeling as if he should burst if he did not do so; and his
voice came back to him again from the low hills on the other side of the
broad, level valley, and out of the woods afar, mocking him; or as if it
were airy spirits, that knew how it was all to be, confirming his cry,
saying "It shall be so," "Thou hast found it at last," "Thou art
immortal." And it seemed as if Nature were inclined to celebrate his
triumph over herself; for above the woods that crowned the hill to the
northward, there were shoots and streams of radiance, a white, a red, a
many-colored lustre, blazing up high towards the zenith, dancing up,
flitting down, dancing up again; so that it seemed as if spirits were
keeping a revel there. The leaves of the trees on the hill-side, all
except the evergreens, had now mostly fallen with the autumn; so that
Septimius was seen by the few passers-by, in the decline of the afternoon,
passing to and fro along his path, wildly gesticulating; and heard to
shout so that the echoes came from all directions to answer him. After
nightfall, too, in the harvest moonlight, a shadow was still seen passing
there, waving its arms in shadowy triumph; so, the next day, there were
various goodly stories afloat and astir, coming out of successive mouths,
more wondrous at each birth; the simplest form of the story being, that
Septimius Felton had at last gone raving mad on the hill-top that he was
so fond of haunting; and those who listened to his shrieks said that he
was calling to the Devil; and some said that by certain exorcisms he had
caused the appearance of a battle in the air, charging squadrons,
cannon-flashes, champions encountering; all of which foreboded some real
battle to be fought with the enemies of the country; and as the battle of
Monmouth chanced to occur, either the very next day, or about that time,
this was supposed to be either caused or foretold by Septimius's
eccentricities; and as the battle was not very favorable to our arms, the
patriotism of Septimius suffered much in popular estimation.
But he knew nothing, thought nothing, cared nothing about his country, or
his country's battles; he was as sane as he had been for a year past, and
was wise enough, though merely by instinct, to throw off some of his
superfluous excitement by these wild gestures, with wild shouts, and
restless activity; and when he had partly accomplished this he returned to
the house, and, late as it was, kindled his fire, and began anew the
processes of chemistry, now enlightened by the late teachings. A new agent
seemed to him to mix itself up with his toil and to forward his purpose;
something helped him along; everything became facile to his manipulation,
clear to his thought. In this way he spent the night, and when at sunrise
he let in the eastern light upon his study, the thing was done.
Septimius had achieved it. That is to say, he had succeeded in amalgamating
his materials so that they acted upon one another, and in accordance; and
had produced a result that had a subsistence in itself, and a right to be;
a something potent and substantial; each ingredient contributing its part
to form a new essence, which was as real and individual as anything it was
formed from. But in order to perfect it, there was necessity that the
powers of nature should act quietly upon it through a month of sunshine;
that the moon, too, should have its part in the production; and so he must
wait patiently for this. Wait! surely he would! Had he not time for
waiting? Were he to wait till old age, it would not be too much; for all
future time would have it in charge to repay him.
So he poured the inestimable liquor into a glass vase, well secured from
the air, and placed it in the sunshine, shifting it from one sunny window
to another, in order that it might ripen; moving it gently lest he should
disturb the living spirit that he knew to be in it. And he watched it from
day to day, watched the reflections in it, watched its lustre, which
seemed to him to grow greater day by day, as if it imbibed the sunlight
into it. Never was there anything so bright as this. It changed its hue,
too, gradually, being now a rich purple, now a crimson, now a violet, now
a blue; going through all these prismatic colors without losing any of its
brilliance, and never was there such a hue as the sunlight took in falling
through it and resting on his floor. And strange and beautiful it was,
too, to look through this medium at the outer world, and see how it was
glorified and made anew, and did not look like the same world, although
there were all its familiar marks. And then, past his window, seen through
this, went the farmer and his wife, on saddle and pillion, jogging to
meeting-house or market; and the very dog, the cow coming home from
pasture, the old familiar faces of his childhood, looked differently. And
so at last, at the end of the month, it settled into a most deep and
brilliant crimson, as if it were the essence of the blood of the young man
whom he had slain; the flower being now triumphant, it had given its own
hue to the whole mass, and had grown brighter every day; so that it seemed
to have inherent light, as if it were a planet by itself, a heart of
crimson fire burning within it.
And when this had been done, and there was no more change, showing that the
digestion was perfect, then he took it and placed it where the changing
moon would fall upon it; and then again he watched it, covering it in
darkness by day, revealing it to the moon by night; and watching it here,
too, through more changes. And by and by he perceived that the deep
crimson hue was departing,--not fading; we cannot say that, because of the
prodigious lustre which still pervaded it, and was not less strong than
ever; but certainly the hue became fainter, now a rose-color, now fainter,
fainter still, till there was only left the purest whiteness of the moon
itself; a change that somewhat disappointed and grieved Septimius, though
still it seemed fit that the water of life should be of no one richness,
because it must combine all. As the absorbed young man gazed through the
lonely nights at his beloved liquor, he fancied sometimes that he could
see wonderful things in the crystal sphere of the vase; as in Doctor Dee's
magic crystal used to be seen, which now lies in the British Museum;
representations, it might be, of things in the far past, or in the further
future, scenes in which he himself was to act, persons yet unborn, the
beautiful and the wise, with whom he was to be associated, palaces and
towers, modes of hitherto unseen architecture, that old hall in England to
which he had a hereditary right, with its gables, and its smooth lawn; the
witch-meetings in which his ancestor used to take part; Aunt Keziah on her
death-bed; and, flitting through all, the shade of Sibyl Dacy, eying him
from secret nooks, or some remoteness, with her peculiar mischievous
smile, beckoning him into the sphere. All such visions would he see, and
then become aware that he had been in a dream, superinduced by too much
watching, too intent thought; so that living among so many dreams, he was
almost afraid that he should find himself waking out of yet another, and
find that the vase itself and the liquid it contained were also
dream-stuff. But no; these were real.
There was one change that surprised him, although he accepted it without
doubt, and, indeed, it did imply a wonderful efficacy, at least
singularity, in the newly converted liquid. It grew strangely cool in
temperature in the latter part of his watching it. It appeared to imbibe
its coldness from the cold, chaste moon, until it seemed to Septimius that
it was colder than ice itself; the mist gathered upon the crystal vase as
upon a tumbler of iced water in a warm room. Some say it actually gathered
thick with frost, crystallized into a thousand fantastic and beautiful
shapes, but this I do not know so well. Only it was very cold. Septimius
pondered upon it, and thought he saw that life itself was cold, individual
in its being, a high, pure essence, chastened from all heats; cold,
therefore, and therefore invigorating.
Thus much, inquiring deeply, and with painful research into the liquid
which Septimius concocted, have I been able to learn about it,--its
aspect, its properties; and now I suppose it to be quite perfect, and that
nothing remains but to put it to such use as he had so long been laboring
for. But this, somehow or other, he found in himself a strong reluctance
to do; he paused, as it were, at the point where his pathway separated
itself from that of other men, and meditated whether it were worth while
to give up everything that Providence had provided, and take instead only
this lonely gift of immortal life. Not that he ever really had any doubt
about it; no, indeed; but it was his security, his consciousness that he
held the bright sphere of all futurity in his hand, that made him dally a
little, now that he could quaff immortality as soon as he liked.
Besides, now that he looked forward from the verge of mortal destiny, the
path before him seemed so very lonely. Might he not seek some one own
friend--one single heart--before he took the final step? There was Sibyl
Dacy! Oh, what bliss, if that pale girl might set out with him on his
journey! how sweet, how sweet, to wander with her through the places else
so desolate! for he could but half see, half know things, without her to
help him. And perhaps it might be so. She must already know, or strongly
suspect, that he was engaged in some deep, mysterious research; it might
be that, with her sources of mysterious knowledge among her legendary
lore, she knew of this. Then, oh, to think of those dreams which lovers
have always had, when their new love makes the old earth seem so happy and
glorious a place, that not a thousand nor an endless succession of years
can exhaust it,--all those realized for him and her! If this could not be,
what should he do? Would he venture onward into such a wintry futurity,
symbolized, perhaps, by the coldness of the crystal goblet? He shivered at
the thought.
Now, what had passed between Septimius and Sibyl Dacy is not upon record,
only that one day they were walking together on the hill-top, or sitting
by the little hillock, and talking earnestly together. Sibyl's face was a
little flushed with some excitement, and really she looked very beautiful;
and Septimius's dark face, too, had a solemn triumph in it that made him
also beautiful; so rapt he was after all those watchings, and emaciations,
and the pure, unworldly, self-denying life that he had spent. They talked
as if there were some foregone conclusion on which they based what they
said.
"Will you not be weary in the time that we shall spend together?" asked
he.
"Oh no," said Sibyl, smiling, "I am sure that it will be very full of
enjoyment."
"Yes," said Septimius, "though now I must remould my anticipations; for I
have only dared, hitherto, to map out a solitary existence."
"And how did you do that?" asked Sibyl.
