And now the happy day had come for the celebration of Robert Hagburn's
marriage with pretty Rose Garfield, the brave with the fair; and, as
usual, the ceremony was to take place in the evening, and at the house of
the bride; and preparations were made accordingly: the wedding-cake, which
the bride's own fair hands had mingled with her tender hopes, and seasoned
it with maiden fears, so that its composition was as much ethereal as
sensual; and the neighbors and friends were invited, and came with their
best wishes and good-will. For Rose shared not at all the distrust, the
suspicion, or whatever it was, that had waited on the true branch of
Septimius's family, in one shape or another, ever since the memory of man;
and all--except, it might be, some disappointed damsels who had hoped to
win Robert Hagburn for themselves--rejoiced at the approaching union of
this fit couple, and wished them happiness.
Septimius, too, accorded his gracious consent to the union, and while he
thought within himself that such a brief union was not worth the trouble
and feeling which his sister and her lover wasted on it, still he wished
them happiness. As he compared their brevity with his long duration, he
smiled at their little fancies of loves, of which he seemed to see the
end; the flower of a brief summer, blooming beautifully enough, and
shedding its leaves, the fragrance of which would linger a little while in
his memory, and then be gone. He wondered how far in the coming centuries
he should remember this wedding of his sister Rose; perhaps he would meet,
five hundred years hence, some descendant of the marriage,--a fair girl,
bearing the traits of his sister's fresh beauty; a young man, recalling
the strength and manly comeliness of Robert Hagburn,--and could claim
acquaintance and kindred. He would be the guardian, from generation to
generation, of this race; their ever-reappearing friend at times of need;
and meeting them from age to age, would find traditions of himself growing
poetical in the lapse of time; so that he would smile at seeing his
features look so much more majestic in their fancies than in reality. So
all along their course, in the history of the family, he would trace
himself, and by his traditions he would make them acquainted with all
their ancestors, and so still be warmed by kindred blood.
And Robert Hagburn, full of the life of the moment, warm with generous
blood, came in a new uniform, looking fit to be the founder of a race who
should look back to a hero sire. He greeted Septimius as a brother. The
minister, too, came, of course, and mingled with the throng, with decorous
aspect, and greeted Septimius with more formality than he had been wont;
for Septimius had insensibly withdrawn himself from the minister's
intimacy, as he got deeper and deeper into the enthusiasm of his own
cause. Besides, the minister did not fail to see that his once devoted
scholar had contracted habits of study into the secrets of which he
himself was not admitted, and that he no longer alluded to studies for the
ministry; and he was inclined to suspect that Septimius had unfortunately
allowed infidel ideas to assail, at least, if not to overcome, that
fortress of firm faith, which he had striven to found and strengthen in
his mind,--a misfortune frequently befalling speculative and imaginative
and melancholic persons, like Septimius, whom the Devil is all the time
planning to assault, because he feels confident of having a traitor in the
garrison. The minister had heard that this was the fashion of Septimius's
family, and that even the famous divine, who, in his eyes, was the glory
of it, had had his season of wild infidelity in his youth, before grace
touched him; and had always thereafter, throughout his long and pious
life, been subject to seasons of black and sulphurous despondency, during
which he disbelieved the faith which, at other times, he preached
powerfully."
"Septimius, my young friend," said he, "are you yet ready to be a preacher
of the truth?"
"Not yet, reverend pastor," said Septimius, smiling at the thought of the
day before, that the career of a prophet would be one that he should some
time assume. "There will be time enough to preach the truth when I better
know it."
"You do not look as if you knew it so well as formerly, instead of better,"
said his reverend friend, looking into the deep furrows of his brow, and
into his wild and troubled eyes.
"Perhaps not," said Septimius. "There is time yet."
These few words passed amid the bustle and murmur of the evening, while the
guests were assembling, and all were awaiting the marriage with that
interest which the event continually brings with it, common as it is, so
that nothing but death is commoner. Everybody congratulated the modest
Rose, who looked quiet and happy; and so she stood up at the proper time,
and the minister married them with a certain fervor and individual
application, that made them feel they were married indeed. Then there
ensued a salutation of the bride, the first to kiss her being the
minister, and then some respectable old justices and farmers, each with
his friendly smile and joke. Then went round the cake and wine, and other
good cheer, and the hereditary jokes with which brides used to be assailed
in those days. I think, too, there was a dance, though how the couples in
the reel found space to foot it in the little room, I cannot imagine; at
any rate, there was a bright light out of the windows, gleaming across the
road, and such a sound of the babble of numerous voices and merriment,
that travellers passing by, on the lonely Lexington road, wished they were
of the party; and one or two of them stopped and went in, and saw the
new-made bride, drank to her health, and took a piece of the wedding-cake
home to dream upon.
[_It is to be observed that Rose had requested of her friend, Sibyl Dacy,
to act as one of her bridesmaids, of whom she had only the modest number
of two; and the strange girl declined, saying that her intermeddling would
bring ill-fortune to the marriage_.]
"Why do you talk such nonsense, Sibyl?" asked Rose. "You love me, I am
sure, and wish me well; and your smile, such as it is, will be the promise
of prosperity, and I wish for it on my wedding-day."
"I am an ill-fate, a sinister demon, Rose; a thing that has sprung out of a
grave; and you had better not entreat me to twine my poison tendrils round
your destinies. You would repent it."
"Oh, hush, hush!" said Rose, putting her hand over her friend's mouth.
"Naughty one! you can bless me, if you will, only you are wayward."
"Bless you, then, dearest Rose, and all happiness on your marriage!"
Septimius had been duly present at the marriage, and kissed his sister with
moist eyes, it is said, and a solemn smile, as he gave her into the
keeping of Robert Hagburn; and there was something in the words he then
used that afterwards dwelt on her mind, as if they had a meaning in them
that asked to be sought into, and needed reply.
"There, Rose," he had said, "I have made myself ready for my destiny. I
have no ties any more, and may set forth on my path without scruple."
"Am I not your sister still, Septimius?" said she, shedding a tear or two.
"A married woman is no sister; nothing but a married woman till she becomes
a mother; and then what shall I have to do with you?"
He spoke with a certain eagerness to prove his case, which Rose could not
understand, but which was probably to justify himself in severing, as he
was about to do, the link that connected him with his race, and making for
himself an exceptional destiny, which, if it did not entirely insulate
him, would at least create new relations with all. There he stood, poor
fellow, looking on the mirthful throng, not in exultation, as might have
been supposed, but with a strange sadness upon him. It seemed to him, at
that final moment, as if it were Death that linked together all; yes, and
so gave the warmth to all. Wedlock itself seemed a brother of Death;
wedlock, and its sweetest hopes, its holy companionship, its mysteries,
and all that warm mysterious brotherhood that is between men; passing as
they do from mystery to mystery in a little gleam of light; that wild,
sweet charm of uncertainty and temporariness,--how lovely it made them
all, how innocent, even the worst of them; how hard and prosaic was his
own situation in comparison to theirs. He felt a gushing tenderness for
them, as if he would have flung aside his endless life, and rushed among
them, saying,--
"Embrace me! I am still one of you, and will not leave you! Hold me fast!"
After this it was not particularly observed that both Septimius and Sibyl
Dacy had disappeared from the party, which, however, went on no less
merrily without them. In truth, the habits of Sibyl Dacy were so wayward,
and little squared by general rules, that nobody wondered or tried to
account for them; and as for Septimius, he was such a studious man, so
little accustomed to mingle with his fellow-citizens on any occasion, that
it was rather wondered at that he should have spent so large a part of a
sociable evening with them, than that he should now retire.
After they were gone the party received an unexpected addition, being no
other than the excellent Doctor Portsoaken, who came to the door,
announcing that he had just arrived on horseback from Boston, and that,
his object being to have an interview with Sibyl Dacy, he had been to
Robert Hagburn's house in quest of her; but, learning from the old
grandmother that she was here, he had followed.
Not finding her, he evinced no alarm, but was easily induced to sit down
among the merry company, and partake of some brandy, which, with other
liquors, Robert had provided in sufficient abundance; and that being a day
when man had not learned to fear the glass, the doctor found them all in a
state of hilarious chat. Taking out his German pipe, he joined the group
of smokers in the great chimney-corner, and entered into conversation with
them, laughing and joking, and mixing up his jests with that mysterious
suspicion which gave so strange a character to his intercourse.
"It is good fortune, Mr. Hagburn," quoth he, "that brings me here on this
auspicious day. And how has been my learned young friend Dr.
Septimius,--for so he should be called,--and how have flourished his
studies of late? The scientific world may look for great fruits from that
decoction of his."
"He'll never equal Aunt Keziah for herb-drinks," said an old woman, smoking
her pipe in the corner, "though I think likely he'll make a good doctor
enough by and by. Poor Kezzy, she took a drop too much of her mixture,
after all. I used to tell her how it would be; for Kezzy and I were pretty
good friends once, before the Indian in her came out so strongly,--the
squaw and the witch, for she had them both in her blood, poor yellow
Kezzy!"
"Yes! had she indeed?" quoth the doctor; "and I have heard an odd story,
that if the Feltons chose to go back to the old country, they'd find a
home and an estate there ready for them."
The old woman mused, and puffed at her pipe. "Ah, yes," muttered she, at
length, "I remember to have heard something about that; and how, if Felton
chose to strike into the woods, he'd find a tribe of wild Indians there
ready to take him for their sagamore, and conquer the whites; and how, if
he chose to go to England, there was a great old house all ready for him,
and a fire burning in the hall, and a dinner-table spread, and the
tall-posted bed ready, with clean sheets, in the best chamber, and a man
waiting at the gate to show him in. Only there was a spell of a bloody
footstep left on the threshold by the last that came out, so that none of
his posterity could ever cross it again. But that was all nonsense!"
"Strange old things one dreams in a chimney-corner," quoth the doctor. "Do
you remember any more of this?"
"No, no; I'm so forgetful nowadays," said old Mrs. Hagburn; "only it seems
as if I had my memories in my pipe, and they curl up in smoke. I've known
these Feltons all along, or it seems as if I had; for I'm nigh ninety
years old now, and I was two year old in the witch's time, and I have seen
a piece of the halter that old Felton was hung with."
Some of the company laughed.
"That must have been a curious sight," quoth the doctor.
"It is not well," said the minister seriously to the doctor, "to stir up
these old remembrances, making the poor old lady appear absurd. I know not
that she need to be ashamed of showing the weaknesses of the generation to
which she belonged; but I do not like to see old age put at this
disadvantage among the young."
"Nay, my good and reverend sir," returned the doctor, "I mean no such
disrespect as you seem to think. Forbid it, ye upper powers, that I should
cast any ridicule on beliefs,--superstitions, do you call them?--that are
as worthy of faith, for aught I know, as any that are preached in the
pulpit. If the old lady would tell me any secret of the old Felton's
science, I shall treasure it sacredly; for I interpret these stories about
his miraculous gifts as meaning that he had a great command over natural
science, the virtues of plants, the capacities of the human body."
"While these things were passing, or before they passed, or some time in
that eventful night, Septimius had withdrawn to his study, when there was
a low tap at the door, and, opening it, Sibyl Dacy stood before him. It
seemed as if there had been a previous arrangement between them; for
Septimius evinced no surprise, only took her hand and drew her in.
"How cold your hand is!" he exclaimed. "Nothing is so cold, except it be
the potent medicine. It makes me shiver."
"Never mind that," said Sibyl. "You look frightened at me."
"Do I?" said Septimius. "No, not that; but this is such a crisis; and
methinks it is not yourself. Your eyes glare on me strangely."
"Ah, yes; and you are not frightened at me? Well, I will try not to be
frightened at myself. Time was, however, when I should have been."
She looked round at Septimius's study, with its few old books, its
implements of science, crucibles, retorts, and electrical machines; all
these she noticed little; but on the table drawn before the fire, there
was something that attracted her attention; it was a vase that seemed of
crystal, made in that old fashion in which the Venetians made their
glasses,--a most pure kind of glass, with a long stalk, within which was a
curved elaboration of fancy-work, wreathed and twisted. This old glass was
an heirloom of the Feltons, a relic that had come down with many
traditions, bringing its frail fabric safely through all the perils of
time, that had shattered empires; and, if space sufficed, I could tell
many stories of this curious vase, which was said, in its time, to have
been the instrument both of the Devil's sacrament in the forest, and of
the Christian in the village meeting-house. But, at any rate, it had been
a part of the choice household gear of one of Septimius's ancestors, and
was engraved with his arms, artistically done.
"Is that the drink of immortality?" said Sibyl.
"Yes, Sibyl," said Septimius. "Do but touch the goblet; see how cold it
is."
She put her slender, pallid fingers on the side of the goblet, and
shuddered, just as Septimius did when he touched her hand.
"Why should it be so cold?" said she, looking at Septimius.
"Nay, I know not, unless because endless life goes round the circle and
meets death, and is just the same with it. O Sibyl, it is a fearful thing
that I have accomplished! Do you not feel it so? What if this shiver
should last us through eternity?"
"Have you pursued this object so long," said Sibyl, "to have these fears
respecting it now? In that case, methinks I could be bold enough to drink
it alone, and look down upon you, as I did so, smiling at your fear to
take the life offered you."
"I do not fear," said Septimius; "but yet I acknowledge there is a strange,
powerful abhorrence in me towards this draught, which I know not how to
account for, except as the reaction, the revulsion of feeling, consequent
upon its being too long overstrained in one direction. I cannot help it.
The meannesses, the littlenesses, the perplexities, the general
irksomeness of life, weigh upon me strangely. Thou didst refuse to drink
with me. That being the case, methinks I could break the jewelled goblet
now, untasted, and choose the grave as the wiser part."
"The beautiful goblet! What a pity to break it!" said Sibyl, with her
characteristic malign and mysterious smile. "You cannot find it in your
heart to do it."
"I could,--I can. So thou wilt not drink with me?"
"Do you know what you ask?" said Sibyl. "I am a being that sprung up, like
this flower, out of a grave; or, at least, I took root in a grave, and,
growing there, have twined about your life, until you cannot possibly
escape from me. Ah, Septimius! you know me not. You know not what is in my
heart towards you. Do you remember this broken miniature? would you wish
to see the features that were destroyed when that bullet passed? Then look
at mine!"
"Sibyl! what do you tell me? Was it you--were they your features--which
that young soldier kissed as he lay dying?"
"They were," said Sibyl. "I loved him, and gave him that miniature, and the
face they represented. I had given him all, and you slew him."
"Then you hate me," whispered, Septimius.
"Do you call it hatred?" asked Sibyl, smiling. "Have I not aided you,
thought with you, encouraged you, heard all your wild ravings when you
dared to tell no one else? kept up your hopes; suggested; helped you with
my legendary lore to useful hints; helped you, also, in other ways, which
you do not suspect? And now you ask me if I hate you. Does this look like
it?"
"No," said Septimius. "And yet, since first I knew you, there has been
something whispering me of harm, as if I sat near some mischief. There is
in me the wild, natural blood of the Indian, the instinctive, the animal
nature, which has ways of warning that civilized life polishes away and
cuts out; and so, Sibyl, never did I approach you, but there were
reluctances, drawings back, and, at the same time, a strong impulse to
come closest to you; and to that I yielded. But why, then, knowing that in
this grave lay the man you loved, laid there by my hand,--why did you aid
me in an object which you must have seen was the breath of my life?"
"Ah, my friend,--my enemy, if you will have it so,--are you yet to learn
that the wish of a man's inmost heart is oftenest that by which he is
ruined and made miserable? But listen to me, Septimius. No matter for my
earlier life; there is no reason why I should tell you the story, and
confess to you its weakness, its shame. It may be, I had more cause to
hate the tenant of that grave, than to hate you who unconsciously avenged
my cause; nevertheless, I came here in hatred, and desire of revenge,
meaning to lie in wait, and turn your dearest desire against you, to eat
into your life, and distil poison into it, I sitting on this grave, and
drawing fresh hatred from it; and at last, in the hour of your triumph, I
meant to make the triumph mine."
"Is this still so?" asked Septimius, with pale lips: "or did your fell
purpose change?"
"Septimius, I am weak,--a weak, weak girl,--only a girl, Septimius; only
eighteen yet," exclaimed Sibyl. "It is young, is it not? I might be
forgiven much. You know not how bitter my purpose was to you. But look,
Septimius,--could it be worse than this? Hush, be still! Do not stir!"
She lifted the beautiful goblet from the table, put it to her lips, and
drank a deep draught from it; then, smiling mockingly, she held it towards
him.
"See; I have made myself immortal before you. Will you drink?"
He eagerly held out his hand to receive the goblet, but Sibyl, holding it
beyond his reach a moment, deliberately let it fall upon the hearth, where
it shivered into fragments, and the bright, cold water of immortality was
all spilt, shedding its strange fragrance around.
"Sibyl, what have you done?" cried Septimius in rage and horror.
"Be quiet! See what sort of immortality I win by it,--then, if you like,
distil your drink of eternity again, and quaff it."
"It is too late, Sibyl; it was a happiness that may never come again in a
lifetime. I shall perish as a dog does. It is too late!"
"Septimius," said Sibyl, who looked strangely beautiful, as if the drink,
giving her immortal life, had likewise the potency to give immortal beauty
answering to it, "listen to me. You have not learned all the secrets that
lay in those old legends, about which we have talked so much. There were
two recipes, discovered or learned by the art of the studious old Gaspar
Felton. One was said to be that secret of immortal life which so many old
sages sought for, and which some were said to have found; though, if that
were the case, it is strange some of them have not lived till our day. Its
essence lay in a certain rare flower, which mingled properly with other
ingredients of great potency in themselves, though still lacking the
crowning virtue till the flower was supplied, produced the drink of
immortality."
"Yes, and I had the flower, which I found in a grave," said Septimius, "and
distilled the drink which you have spilt."
"You had a flower, or what you called a flower," said the girl. "But,
Septimius, there was yet another drink, in which the same potent
ingredients were used; all but the last. In this, instead of the beautiful
flower, was mingled the semblance of a flower, but really a baneful growth
out of a grave. This I sowed there, and it converted the drink into a
poison, famous in old science,--a poison which the Borgias used, and Mary
de Medicis,--and which has brought to death many a famous person, when it
was desirable to his enemies. This is the drink I helped you to distil. It
brings on death with pleasant and delightful thrills of the nerves. O
Septimius, Septimius, it is worth while to die, to be so blest, so
exhilarated as I am now."
"Good God, Sibyl, is this possible?"
"Even so, Septimius. I was helped by that old physician, Doctor Portsoaken,
who, with some private purpose of his own, taught me what to do; for he
was skilled in all the mysteries of those old physicians, and knew that
their poisons at least were efficacious, whatever their drinks of
immortality might be. But the end has not turned out as I meant. A girl's
fancy is so shifting, Septimius. I thought I loved that youth in the grave
yonder; but it was you I loved,--and I am dying. Forgive me for my evil
purposes, for I am dying."
"Why hast thou spilt the drink?" said Septimius, bending his dark brows
upon her, and frowning over her. "We might have died together."
