As soon as possible after learning these particulars, the sculptor,together with a sad and tremulous companion, sought Elliston at hisown house. It was a large, sombre edifice of wood, with pilastersand a balcony, and was divided from one of the principal streets bya terrace of three elevations, which was ascended by successiveflights of stone steps. Some immense old elms almost concealed thefront of the mansion. This spacious and once magnificentfamily-residence was built by a grandee of the race, early in the pastcentury; at which epoch, land being of small comparative value, thegarden and other grounds had formed quite an extensive domain.
Although a portion of the ancestral heritage had been alienated, therewas still a shadowy enclosure in the rear of the mansion, where astudent, or a dreamer, or a man of stricken heart, might lie all dayupon the grass, amid the solitude of murmuring boughs, and forget thata city had grown up around him.
Into this retirement, the sculptor and his companion were usheredby Scipio, the old black servant, whose wrinkled visage grew almostsunny with intelligence and joy, as he paid his humble greetings toone of the two visitors.
"Remain in the arbor, whispered the sculptor to the figure thatleaned upon his arm, "you will know whether, and when, to make yourappearance.""God will teach me," was the reply. "May he support me too!"Roderick was reclining on the margin of a fountain, which gushedinto the fleckered sunshine with the same clear sparkle, and thesame voice of airy quietude, as when trees of primeval growth flungtheir shadows across its bosom. How strange is the life of a fountain,born at every moment, yet of an age coeval with the rocks, and farsurpassing the venerable antiquity of a forest!
"You are come! I have expected you," said Elliston, when hebecame aware of the sculptor's presence.
His manner was very different from that of the preceding day-quiet, courteous, and, as Herkimer thought, watchful both over hisguest and himself. This unnatural restraint was almost the onlytrait that betokened anything amiss. He had just thrown a book uponthe grass, where it lay half opened, thus disclosing itself to be anatural history of the serpent-tribe, illustrated by life-like plates.
Near it lay that bulky volume, the Ductor Dubitantium of JeremyTaylor, full of cases of conscience, and in which most men,possessed of a conscience, may find something applicable to theirpurpose.
"You see," observed Elliston, pointing to the book of serpents,while a smile gleamed upon his lips, "I am ****** an effort tobecome better acquainted with my bosom-friend. But I find nothingsatisfactory in this volume. If I mistake not, he will prove to be suigeneris, and akin to no other reptile in creation.""Whence came this strange calamity?" inquired the sculptor.
"My sable friend, Scipio, has a story," replied Roderick, "of asnake that had lurked in this fountain- pure and innocent as itlooks - ever since it was known to the first settlers. Thisinsinuating personage once crept into the vitals of mygreat-grandfather, and dwelt there many years, tormenting the oldgentleman beyond mortal endurance. In short, it is a familypeculiarity. But, to tell you the truth, I have no faith in thisidea of the snake's being an heir-loom. He is my own snake, and noman's else.""But what was his origin?" demanded Herkimer.
"Oh! there is poisonous stuff in any man's heart, sufficient togenerate a brood of serpents," said Elliston, with a hollow laugh.
"You should have heard my homilies to the good townspeople.
Positively, I deem myself fortunate in having bred but a singleserpent. You, however, have none in your bosom, and therefore cannotsympathize with the rest of the world. It gnaws me! It gnaws me!"With this exclamation, Roderick lost his self-control and threwhimself upon the grass, testifying his agony by intricate writhings,in which Herkimer could not but fancy a resemblance to the motionsof a snake. Then, likewise, was heard that frightful hiss, which oftenran through the sufferer's speech, and crept between the words andsyllables, without interrupting their succession.
"This is awful indeed!" exclaimed the sculptor- "an awfulinfliction, whether it be actual or imaginary! Tell me, RoderickElliston, is there any remedy for this loathsome evil?""Yes, but an impossible one," muttered Roderick, as he laywallowing with his face in the grass. "Could I, for one instant,forget myself, the serpent might not abide within me. It is mydiseased self-contemplation that has engendered and nourished him!""Then forget yourself, my husband," said a gentle voice abovehim- "forget yourself in the idea of another!"Rosina had emerged from the arbor, and was bending over him, withthe shadow of his anguish reflected in her countenance, yet so mingledwith hope and unselfish love, that all anguish seemed but an earthlyshadow and a dream. She touched Roderick with her hand. A tremorshivered through his frame. At that moment, if report betrustworthy, the sculptor beheld a waving motion through the grass,and heard a tinkling sound, as if something had plunged into thefountain. Be the truth as it might, it is certain that RoderickElliston sat up, like a man renewed, restored to his right mind, andrescued from the fiend, which had so miserably overcome him in thebattlefield of his own breast.
"Rosina!" cried he, in broken and passionate tones, but withnothing of the wild wail that had haunted his voice so long. "Forgive!
Forgive!"
Her happy tears bedewed his face.
"The punishment has been severe," observed the sculptor. "Evenjustice might now forgive- how much more a woman's tenderness!
