“Would’st thou see the past?”
“Yes,” eagerly returned Morden. “Oh! could I once more behold her whom an untimely fate bore from me!”
She took from the table a golden cup, encircled with flowers, and throwing a liquid drop, which she had poured out on her hand, away in the distance; instantly, amidst music, with the bass of a profound calm, there arose before his eyes a strange scene. There were the haunts of his boyhood, the bower in the garden, and even the ivy-covered seat, on which was the plumed cap his mother’s hands had made; the gentle stream, with his book and fishing-rod lying on the bank; and last of all was himself, smiling, the actor in each. A pure mist arose before him, as in the bower he was placing the cap over his shining curls; bright eyes gleamed in it, and as it vanished, there stood his only sister! She appeared to be the gentler type of himself, and sweet was her beauty, though it was the beauty of Genius and Power. The mist descended, and hovered over them, as they were singing the lays of their own happiness, and shrouded both. It once more rolled away. There was seen a mourner, near a rose-scattered grave! The mourner was known to Morden long before he raised his features from the earth:—it was himself, at the grave of his sister!
He started up from the couch, and fell at the feet of his mysterious companion, exclaiming,—
“Perpetuate the scene! Give me boyhood again; give me the lost and the beloved, and I’ll adore you,—aye, love you!”
He arose calmly, after her lips had been pressed to his.
“Drink,” was the reply. “Drink from this cup, Morden, and death shall not separate the brother from the sister. Beautiful she was a month before her sudden end, and that month shall never be enrolled in your existence. Drink,—and the past is written over with every drop of this liquid, on the tablet of your mind, and on the objects of your external senses. Could inanimate things feel its influence—and shall not the mind? Drink!” and the scene again arose, in more thrilling beauty and truth. Sweet and long was the draught, and he returned the cup, empty. Strange sensations shot through his frame, and as strange feelings passed in his mind. Emily, in a moment, was forgotten, and his arms were around his companion, when a shriek was heard, and in place of the fading form of his sister, stood the withered Weird of the Cave! Her daughter, (for such the beautiful witch was,) now coldly repulsed him, and shrunk from his embrace. As soon as he could move his eyes from the hag, he turned round to chide his companion, when he found that she had disappeared. A loud laugh was raised by the old witch, and he pursued her. Darkness fell over the scene, and once more he was near to the dying embers.
“Go home!” exclaimed the hag,—“go home, and die there along with your dead wife and child! It is long past midnight. It is, therefore, meet time that you should go to sleep with them. Home—fool!”
Her words drove Morden almost to madness. He climbed up to the entrance, and as he left the cave, he heard the laugh of the two witches. He rushed along the path. He saw not the lurid lights that flashed around him, from the dark abode which he had left. Terror, shame, and despair, were driving their victim to what he considered as a sanctuary from evil. He was heedless of his steps, and as he stumbled, it but increased his fury; when he felt himself suddenly grasped, and on looking up, recognized his servant Roger.