CHAPTER XLIX.
“Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched
With a woeful agony,
Which forced me to begin my tale,
And then it left me free.
Since then, at an uncertain hour,
That agony returns,
And till this ghastly tale is told
My heart within me burns.”
Rime of the Ancient Mariner.
The sun shone brightly the next morning, as it rose above the forest of tall pines which surrounded the little village of Accomac; and as its rays stained the long icicles on the evergreen branches of the trees, they looked like the pendant jewels of amber which hung from the ears of the fierce, untutored chieftains of the forest. The air was clear and frosty, and the broad heaven, that hung like a blue curtain above the busy world, seemed even purer and more beautiful than ever. There, calm and eternal, it spread in its unclouded glory, above waters, woods, wilds, as if unmindful of the sorrows and the cares of earth. So hovers the wide providence of the eternal God over his creation, unmoved in its sublime depths by the joys and woes which agitate the mind of man, yet shining over him still, in its clear beauty, and beckoning him upwards!
But on none did the sun shine with more brightness, or the sky smile with more bitter mockery, on that morning, than on the dark forms of Arthur Hutchinson and his young pupil, Alfred Bernard, as they sat together in the embrasure of the window which lightened the little room of the grave old preacher. A terrible revelation was that morning to be made, involving the fate of the young jesuit, and meting out a dread retribution for the crime that he had committed. Arthur Hutchinson had reserved for this day the narrative of the birth and history of Alfred Bernard. It had been a story which he long had desired to know, but to all his urgent inquiries the old preacher had given an evasive reply. But now there was no longer need for mystery. The design of that long silence had been fully accomplished, and thus the stern misanthrope began his narrative:
“It matters little, Alfred Bernard, to speak of my own origin and parentage. Suffice it to say, that though not noble, by the accepted rules of heraldry, my parents were noble in that higher sense, in which all may aspire to true nobility, a patent not granted for bloody feats in arms, nor by an erring man, but granted to true honesty and virtue from the court of heaven. I was not rich, and yet, by self-denial on the part of my parents, and by strict economy on my own part, I succeeded in entering Baliol College, Oxford, where I pursued my studies with diligence and success. This success was more essential, because I could look only to my own resources in my struggle with the world. But, more than this, I had already learned to think and care for another than myself; for I had yielded my young heart to one, who requited my affection with her own. I have long denied myself the luxury of looking back upon the bright image of that fair creature, so fair, and yet so fatal. But for your sake, and for mine own, I will draw aside the veil, which has fallen upon those early scenes, and look at them again.
“Mary Howard was just eighteen years of age, when she plighted her troth to me; and surely never has Heaven placed a purer spirit in a more lovely form. Trusting and affectionate, her warm heart must needs fasten upon something it might love; and because we had been reared together, and she was ignorant of the larger world around her, her love was fixed on me. I will not go back to those bright, joyous days of innocence and happiness. They are gone forever, Alfred Bernard, and I have lived, and now live for another object, than to indulge in the recollection of joy and love. The saddest day of my whole life, except one, and that has darkened all the rest, was when I first left her side to go to college. But still we looked onward with high hope, and many were the castles in the air, or rather the vine clad cottages, which we reared in fancy, for our future home. Hope, Alfred Bernard, though long deferred, it may sicken the heart, yet hope, however faint, is better than despair.
“Well! I went to college, and my love for Mary spurred me on in my career, and honours came easily, but were only prized because she would be proud of them. But though I was a hard student, I was not without my friends, for I had a trusting heart then. Among these, yes, chief among these, was Edward Hansford.”
Bernard started at the mention of that name. He felt that some dark mystery was about to be unravelled, which would establish his connection with the unhappy rebel. Yet he was lost in conjecture as to the character of the revelation.
“I have never in my long experience,” continued Hutchinson, smiling sadly, as he observed the effect produced, “known any man who possessed, in so high a degree, the qualities which make men beloved and honoured. Brave, generous, and chivalrous; brilliant in genius, classical in attainment, profound in intellect. His person was a fit palace for such a mind and such a heart. Yes, I can think of him now as he was, when I first knew him, before crime of the deepest dye had darkened his soul. I loved him as I never had loved a man before, as I never can love a man again. I might forgive the past, I could never trust again.