Part 10
“Do I!” the child exclaimed in intense emotion, indicated by her livelier tones and brightened face,--“do I, indeed, gaze upon the wide, the beautiful sky? Yes, it breathes upon my forehead! Feel it!”
They were bewildered at the strangeness of her words and movements. She took Katharine’s hand, and held it to her brow, and then resumed,--
“Now take it away. You would not deprive me of that sweet, sweet influence. Oh! they tell me how glorious the sky is. I cannot see, I cannot think of it, I cannot even dream of it. I know all the flowers of earth by their touch and fragrance. I know, fair ladies, that you are beautiful, but the sky is far, far above me. I hear its sounds, but its face is veiled from me. Will the time never come, when mine eyes shall open to a star, a bright-tinged cloud, a fair expanse of love, to canopy and bound our dream? Must the mean reptile be permitted to see them, although it prefers to crawl amidst dust and clods,--and shall not I?”
“God pities the blind, fair child,” kindly returned Dawson.
“Have you seen God?”
“No; he cannot be seen by us, now.”
“Then I am happy,” she replied. “Oh! what a curse it would have been on me, when all others could see the perfection of love, wisdom, and power,--(for the flowers of earth, the sounds of heaven, tell me that God must be that perfect being,)--I, I alone was blind. Yes, I shall see yet. The little infant, for days awakes not its eyelids to behold the mother, in whose bosom it is so fondly nursed, and the rich stream by which its pouting lips are fed; but soon they are opened to meet hers, beaming love upon every movement. I never knew that infant’s joy. Oh! how I longed, in the midst of soft whispers, to become acquainted with her who called me child. But I am nature’s child, and when this short life is ended, these eyes will be opened, and nature, my mother, shall be seen by me. These sightless orbs! Oh! I know not what it is to see, even in dreams. Dreams only hush me with sound, fragrance, and touch of love, in a dark cradle, but never remove the covering, that I might gaze upon the universe around. My little brother, far away in other lands, was my inseparable companion, until he went to the tomb. He led me to the river, and pointed my hand to the flickering light on its ripple, and then bade me look in that direction. He made me touch the sunbeam, resting and sporting alternately upon the bank, and then asked if I did not see it. He placed me beneath the moon, and bade me feel if I could not perceive its rays. He rowed me over the still, placid lake, and then he would rest on his oars, and point my finger to the stars, which, he said, were embosomed there; and oh! what secret sounds thrilled through my silent soul. But I never saw one object! He bathed his beautiful face, and flung back his soft silken hair, and bade me gaze on a brother;--and I could not!”
Overpowered with the strength of her feelings, she sat down. Still, she covered not her face with her hands, but looked earnestly up, as if it were a sin to gaze away from the sky, which she longed so much to greet. Katharine and her companion kissed the young child, while Dawson kindly asked,--
“From what land do you come? You speak our language, but your appearance and feelings betoken you a native of a more genial sun. Why do you wander here?”
“Wander! Is not life altogether a wandering? I have no friends but flowers, and our home is the wide earth. I ever find them the same, wherever I am, and, therefore, I think that I am the same; neither changed in place nor time. My brother left me alone. Oh! was it not cruel to commit the beautiful boy to the tomb? And yet, they told me that his name and age were marked in white, innocent letters upon his coffin! Oh! could the worms dare to crawl upon, or even touch with their pollution ‘Henrico Fortice, aged twelve years.’ Was it not kind to mention his name and age?”
The two ladies took her hands in theirs, and kindly pressed them. They gazed upon her large bright eyes, and almost, for the moment, doubted that no light had ever entered them, until tears had come trickling down her cheeks. They took a seat beside her, on the mossy stone. She spoke not, and her hand returned not their touch. They knew not how to console her. To their questions concerning her past life, her friends, and native country, she had given no definite answer: not because she seemed unwilling to detail all the facts, but because she seemed never to have known them herself; a creature of mere feelings, and thoughts, with no faculty for earth. Her existence had, evidently, been but a dream, beautiful, though troubled: and she had, hitherto, passed through it, like a bird, through every land, feeling the sunshine of the laughing sky, breathing the fragrance of wood and vale, at morn and eve, and echoing a part in the universal chorus, but knowing no more; careless of all things but flight and happiness. She raised the hands of the two young ladies to her lips, and turning paler and paler, at length dropped them, and shrunk back with a low and half suppressed shriek of horror.
“Disappointment, a broken heart, and death! Yes, such a lot will be yours; and so beautiful! Ask me not, but I know:--these hands, they tear from my soul the sybil leaves of awful prophecy, which fate has given me, and my voice must scatter them forth to you. Would that I knew not the dark characters!--that my mind was as blind to your future destiny as these shrouded orbs!”
“Hold!” exclaimed young Dawson, as he seized Katharine’s hand, which the blind prophetess had, once more, taken. “Hold!--speak not another word of thy frightful thoughts. Nay, touch not her hand. Katharine, could you feel disappointment should nothing be spared to us but love? Can your heart be broken when love encircles it? Death,--name it not!”
“Here, here is the cause. You ruin each other. Love and death are linked together. But, sir, be peaceable and loyal in the midst of rebellion, and happiness may yet be yours.”
A faint smile passed over Dawson’s face, which had before been clouded; and with an attempt at gaiety, he returned,--
“And am I not in the garb of peace? My cap has not the nodding plume of war, but the quiet and simple flower of the valley. What two beautiful shields I have secured for myself in danger, my own Katharine, and sister Alice.”
“Beware,” repeated the prophetess, “of war. Change not the flower for the cockade; and let none be your shields but those whom you now protect.”
No longer did she seem the soft and mournful child, who had longed so earnestly for the power of vision. She was altogether changed.
“Follow me not. Detain me not. I shall weep for you all. Farewell, until we meet again,” and she instantly withdrew, and darkness hid her steps.
* * * * *
Two months have elapsed since the above interview and conversation took place, and the scene is now laid in Manchester. No more is the soft peace inspired by evening walks, in lonely and secluded vales, to be breathed over the characters of our Legend. A rebellion, fostered by no dark intrigues, but by romantic daring, had arisen, and the youthful heir of the unfortunate house of Stuart had returned from exile, and appeared to claim his own, in the country which dethroned his ancestors for their imbecility, wickedness, and tyranny. Prince Charles Edward had been educated at the court of France; but unlike her, whom, in person, he was said so much to resemble--Mary of Scotland,--his manners were untainted with the loose and dissolute habits prevalent there. Although surrounded with pleasure, revelry, and giddy pomp, his thoughts were of England and its crown; and these tended to preserve him from the enervating influence of French dissipation. Gallantry was only the occasional amusement, and not the sole pursuit of his life. Nature had given him an exterior on which no lady could frown, or be disposed to deny her favours; but he frequently withdrew from the attractive company, where many of the proudest and fairest daughters of the land were fluttering around him, with attentions for the prince alone; and in private, sighed over the ruin of the name he bore, and of the royal family, of which he was the sole representative. But buoyed up with the false accounts which he had received from those in this country, with whom he communicated, assuring him that so numerous and devoted would be his followers, should he again appear at the head of them, to plead his cause by arms, he was induced to leave France, and towards the end of summer 1745, landed in the Hebrides; in a few days raised his standard in Invernesshire; assembled a number of followers at Fort William, and proceeded to Edinburgh, which opened to his claims. In the beginning of November he marched to Carlisle, where the ceremony of proclaiming his father king, and himself regent, was foolishly performed, and where the delay thus occasioned, seemed to paralyze the courage of his highland troops, and by carousing, to divide them into factions.
Towards the end of the same month his troops, now amounting to six thousand men, entered Lancashire, and passing by way of Preston and Wigan, took up their quarters in Manchester, where they hoped to secure provisions and ammunition, by free levies from the inhabitants, as well as to recruit their numbers by English soldiers.
The twenty-ninth day of November was bright, and a slight breeze had not only prevented the heavy fog peculiar to the season, but had likewise cleared away the smoke which lay dense and dull upon the town; when, early in the afternoon, towards the suburbs, masses of people were drawn together, expecting the arrival of the Pretender and his army. There were the mob, prepared to espouse the cause of any who should tickle their hands with a coin, or by sweet words, gain their sweet voices. But amongst them were many of noble rank, who had sympathized with the hardships of the present aspirant to the throne of his fathers; and whom his romantic expedition had fired with visions of military glory and renown, and high titles and long lists. They impatiently spurred their horses to a short distance from the crowd, to obtain a better view, and then returned disappointed. Fair ladies were leaning on the arms of their lovers, forbidding them to share in the dangers of the enterprize, and in the crime of treason, but resolving, themselves, to get a sight of the handsome Chevalier, and praise his person. A silent hush was over all; nothing was heard, save low and gentle whispers from the fair, who began to doubt whether he would really appear, when the notes of distant music were borne on their ears, and the steady tramp of troops was, soon after, distinguishable. The crowd rushed up to an eminence on the skirts of the highway, and beheld the banner floating over the rebel soldiery, and the gleam of broadswords flashing in the sun. A sergeant rode forth from the ranks, and furiously spurred his steed to the town, when loud shouts, arising from the people and the inhabitants, assuring him of the ready reception which his master should find, induced him, after waving his plumed bonnet in return, to halt, until the troops came up, which they speedily did, and, in haste, advanced. At their head, surrounded by a band of hardy mountaineers with their left hand upon the dirk, rode the prince, with no traces of fatigue on his countenance; and looking as well, after his short sojourn in the Highlands, as ever he did when he was the pride of the French court, where he was fed by its luxuries. He was in conversation with the Duke of Athol, who was beside him.
There was an interesting melancholy upon the otherwise gay expression of his countenance, which suited well with the fallen fortunes of his family. He was of slight and graceful form, and, but for the noble enthusiasm beaming in his full blue eye, and the firmness and decision compressing his thin lips, he might have been mistaken for one who was better qualified to do honour to the gaieties of a court, in the song and the dance, than the bloody field of strife. His dress served to display, to advantage, the beautiful proportions of his frame. His locks, of a light auburn hue, fell in ringlets beneath the blue bonnet, mounted with a white rose in front; and the snowy whiteness of his almost feminine neck was but partially concealed by a plaid passing loosely over his breastplate, and held fast by a blue-coloured sash. His finely-polished limbs moving in all the elastic play and nerve of youth, and in perfect ease, were attired in the Highland kilt; and so small and beautifully formed was his foot, that no lady would have refused her fair hand as a stirrup to the young Chevalier. His dress was indeed plain for one who was now to strive for the crown of Great Britain, but none could gaze upon the kingly form which it enveloped, without almost wishing that soon he might be invested with the purple robe of rule and empire.
His companion, the Duke of Athol, with whom he seemed frequently to converse as a familiar friend, was tall and muscular. Broad and commanding was his forehead, seen occasionally as he raised his bonnet, when the prince mildly gave forth his orders. Long dark whiskers added to the sternness and fierceness of his countenance, and large over-hanging eyebrows only seemed to arch in the fiery keenness of his restless glance, and concentrate it still more deadly.
“Athol,” said the prince, as he beheld the crowd becoming pale and horror-struck at the broadswords of his Highland troops, “sheath your weapons.”
“Where?” asked the fiery duke. “Where, my prince? In their cowardly carcasses, and thus let out their base and craven souls? The English say that those of our nation are cold and heartless. They should know that the mountain breezes carry on their wings, fire to the soul. Well, if we are cold, we are keen; aye, as these our good and true weapons, which they have, at times, tried, if I mistake not.”
“They belie you, and that they know full well. My Scottish troops--gaze upon them--are furious: a word will fire them, and a thousand will fail to extinguish the flame. Nay,” he added gently but firmly, “sheath your swords in their scabbards,--in their scabbards. The inhabitants are loyal.”
The last words, accompanied as they were by the sudden sinking of the swords into their scabbards, called forth a long and loud shout from the gazing multitude, though they perceived that at the sound of the bagpipe, the soldiers often placed their hands upon the hilt of their swords, as if they could, with difficulty, refrain from drawing them. The streets were all lined with spectators, the most of whom seemed to have forgotten their loyalty to the reigning sovereign. The Chevalier dismounted from his steed, and marched on foot. Many a fair dame threw pitying looks upon his form, and, struck with admiration, silently implored a blessing, and full success upon his romantic endeavours; and as the band played merrily, “the King shall have his own again,” they chorused and encored it, with fond eyes, and waving handkerchiefs. He gallantly bowed to them as he passed on; and thus sent many a beautiful creature home, to dream of him, and when she awoke, in the intervals, to wet her pillow with tears, and pray for his safety. Roses were thrown upon him, from some of the terraces; he stooped to pick them up, but they were faded, for they were summer flowers, and had been gathered under the setting sun, many months before, and he sighed as he thought of his own fortunes. But this did not prevent him from kissing his hand in return, to those who had showered them down, and they, of course, thought that they were much sweeter roses themselves; and perhaps they were. The crowd enthusiastically cheered him all the way.
“Athol, will they be as ready to give me assistance by money, as they are to proffer their cheers?” asked the prince.
“_We_ give our blood,” replied the duke. “We place our heads as your stepping stones to the throne, which is your rightful seat; and shall not Englishmen give their money? Appoint a few of the brave men under my command, as beggars, and trust me, that swords and dirks in their hands, will levy something considerable. Steel can find its way through coffers, and, without much ceremony, enter pockets. Can it not?” and the chieftain smiled darkly.
“A freebooter still, Athol, although you have left your native glen and castle. When shall I be able to make thee a courtier?”
“When I shall assist to make thee a king. Nay, noble prince, frown not upon thy humble and trusty subject. I am a little chafed. Nevertheless, is it not my duty to assist in making thee a king?”
“Thou hast, indeed, a true heart,” answered the Chevalier, “though thy manners are not exactly so faultless, and may, with much advantage, be reformed and amended. Nay, frown not in turn. Montrose, are we yet within sight of our palace?”
The marquess, thus addressed, stepped forward, and having paid his marks of reverence, replied,--
“Yes, noble prince. The hundred of our troops, who arrived yesterday in Manchester are now surrounding it, waiting for your presence.”
It was exactly as he said. In Market-street they stood around the house of one Dickenson, which was thus converted into a palace, and afterwards went by the name; though now it has fallen so low as to become an inn. It had been given out that quarters and accommodation would be required in the town for ten thousand men, but now it did not seem, after they were all drawn up, that there were more than six thousand. Amid loud and hearty acclamations, the prince and the leaders entered the palace, while some of the troops kept station and guard without, and the others dispersed themselves over the town, after they had seen that the pieces of artillery were in safe keeping.
* * * * *
The house of Dr. Dawson, who had, lately, altogether retired from the duties of his profession, stood in a quiet and remote part of the town. Alice was almost dying, through curiosity, to receive the latest intelligence. But she could only observe others running to _know_, and none coming to _tell_, her about the Pretender, and his entry into Manchester; and this, certainly, was sufficiently provoking for a young lady. James, her brother, had gone out early in the morning, and had not returned, so that she had no one to fret and teaze, but her father; and he was, alas, rather an irritable toy, for a young lady to sport with.
“Alice, you are restless and fatigued in my company. Get thee to thy looking-glass, you are never weary of being there.”
“It has a more pleasant face than you have, dear father, when you frown,” playfully returned Alice.
“There, there,--my children accuse and rebel against me! No matter, their father is old and infirm. I must bring them up, support them, only to listen to their impertinence and disobedience. Would that God had made me childless, or that he had made my children blind or dumb; or had given them a golden portion each, to support them. Oh! you look pretty in tears, Alice,--quite irresistible, upon mine honour. But do not waste them, they are so precious. Pray reserve some: it will be prudent, Alice, they will all be in good time when you get a lover!”
“Would that he were come!” peevishly exclaimed Alice, “and I should run off with him, at any hour of the night, and to any place!”
“What! without looking in at my bank notes? Eh? Oh! mistress Alice! And there’s your brother--what can he do?”
“He can leave home, and I cannot.”
“Yes, he _has_ left home,” said the old man, now beginning to be affected. “And where is he?”
“Ah! dear father, should he have joined the cause of the Pretender! Oh! how you would repent of the harsh words you have often spoken to him.”
“Dear Alice, _I do repent_ already. Come and kiss your harsh old father. Look upon the face that you confess to be less pleasing than your looking glass. Ah, Alice, you are a sly girl.”
They at length became impatient, when night came on, and still, James was absent. They had heard the public crier announce that a general illumination of the town was to take place, and Alice thought that her brother might have appeared to assist in the arrangements. And now, when lights, many and brilliant, arose in the opposite windows, and crowds were passing in the streets, she proceeded, with a heavy heart, to give directions to the servants, and then anxiously sat down at the casement of her own apartment, not to view any object--save James. Private disappointments, however small, and in themselves contemptible, are fretted by public rejoicings; and as the bells rung out a merry peal, and music walked the streets, she only felt her loneliness the more. A knocking was heard at the door, and Alice flew down herself, to open it, and admit her brother to a well spiced scolding; if not (she was in doubts) to a more violent demonstration of her feelings.
It was Katharine Norton, who had come to enjoy the company of her friend, as her maiden aunt had been so busy in asking questions at her servants, relative to the Pretender, his dress, and his general appearance, that she had entirely deserted the parlour for the kitchen, and her niece was thus left alone.
They spoke of James, although Katharine occasionally paused, and introduced some other subject, lest he might arrive in the midst of their conversation; and she too well knew, that her mischievous companion would not scruple to inform him of its nature and subject; but he came not.
“Katharine, what can we do to know where he is? He is not well, or it is not well with him. Something must have happened. Katharine, ‘_Beware of the Cockade!_’ The prophecy now rises to my mind. It must be true. I feel that it is. My brother is ardent, and romantic; and often has he expressed his sympathy with the unfortunate house of Stuart.”
Servants were sent forth to obtain some information concerning James, and the causes of his strange absence. They returned, only to tell their disappointment. No one had a tale--save the old clock, which numbered the minutes and the hours; and although the minutes seemed to move slowly, the rapid flight of the hours was surprizing. The loud shouts of the crowd broke in upon the silence; and the heavy tread of her impatient father, in the adjoining apartment, fell upon the ear of Alice, but mournfully. She led her companion into her brother’s study, and playfully threw his dressing gown over Katharine, that she might behold a diligent student: but as she met her own gaze in a mirror opposite, she knew that she was but counterfeiting mirth and happiness. She placed before her Newton’s Principia, and requested a display of philosophy and learning, to support the great principle therein developed, ‘that every particle of matter is attracted by, or gravitates to, every other particle of matter, with a force inversely proportional to the squares of their distances.’ “Oh!” she exclaimed, as she seized upon a letter or two, concealed in the pages, in which was the hand-writing and signature of her friend, “so, my brother wishes to transplant beautiful flowers into such barren fields, that when he is puzzled with problems and themes, he may be refreshed with questions, and pretty soft confessions, which he finds no difficulty in understanding? Blush, Katharine, and close the volume.”
“It is beyond my comprehension, Alice. I have no desire to be a literary lady, to nib my quill for poetry, and glancing up to the ceiling for inspiration, commence to abuse the innocence of paper; indeed, I am not certain whether my patience would extend to the act of counting my fingers, through the length and breadth of a sonnet.”