Auriol by William Harrison Ainsworth _ Part 3 of 3
Author: Unknown
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Auriol by William Harrison Ainsworth . Part 2 of 3INTERMEAN

I

THE TOMB OF THE ROSICRUCIAN

On the night of the 1st of March, 1800, and at a late hour, a man, wrapped in a large horseman’s cloak, and of strange and sinister appearance, entered an old deserted house in the neighbourhood of Stepney-green. He was tall, carried himself very erect, and seemed in the full vigour of early manhood; but his features had a worn and ghastly look, as if bearing the stamp of long-indulged and frightful excesses, while his dark gleaming eyes gave him an expression almost diabolical.

This person had gained the house from a garden behind it, and now stood in a large dismantled hall, from which a broad oaken staircase, with curiously-carved banisters, led to a gallery, and hence to the upper chambers of the habitation.

Nothing could be more dreary than the aspect of the place. The richly moulded ceiling was festooned with spiders’ webs, and in some places had fallen in heaps upon the floor; the glories of the tapestry upon the walls were obliterated by damps; the squares and black and white marble, with which the hall was paved, were loosened, and quaked beneath the footsteps; the wide and empty fireplace yawned like the mouth of a cavern; the bolts of the closed windows were rusted in their sockets; and the heaps of dust before the outer door proved that long years had elapsed since any one had passed through it.

Taking a dark lantern from beneath his cloak, the individual in question gazed for a moment around him, and then, with a sardonic smile playing upon his features, directed his steps towards a room on the right, the door of which stood open.

This chamber, which was large and cased with oak, was wholly unfurnished, like the hall, and in an equally dilapidated condition. The only decoration remaining on its walls was the portrait of a venerable personage in the cap and gown of Henry the Eighth’s time, painted against a panel — a circumstance which had probably saved it from destruction and beneath it, fixed in another panel, a plate of brass, covered with mystical characters and symbols, and inscribed with the name Cyprianus de Rougemont, Fra. R.C. The same name likewise appeared upon a label beneath the portrait, with the date, 1550.

Pausing before the portrait, the young man threw the light of the lantern full upon it, and revealed features somewhat resembling his own in form, but of a severe and philosophic cast. In the eyes alone could be discerned the peculiar and terrible glimmer which distinguished his own glances. After regarding the portrait for some time fixedly, he thus addressed it: “Dost hear me, old ancestor?” he cried. “I, thy descendant, Cyprian de Rougemont, call upon thee to point out where thy gold is hidden? I know that thou wert a brother of the Rosy Cross — one of the illuminati — and didst penetrate the mysteries of nature, and enter the region of light. I know also, that thou wert buried in this house with a vast treasure; but though I have made diligent search for it, and others have searched before me, thy grave has never yet been discovered! Listen to me! Methought Satan appeared to me in a dream last night, and bade me come hither, and I should find what I sought. The conditions he proposed were, that I should either give him my own soul, or win him that of Auriol Darcy. I assented. I am here. Where is thy treasure?”

After a pause, he struck the portrait with his clenched hand, exclaiming in a loud voice:

“Dost hear me, I say, old ancestor? I call on thee to give me thy treasure. Dost hear, I say?”

And he repeated the blow with greater violence.

Disturbed by the shock, the brass plate beneath the picture started from its place, and fell to the ground.

“What is this?” cried Rougemont, gazing into the aperture left by the plate.

“Ha! — my invocation has been heard!”

And, snatching up the lantern, he discovered, at the bottom of a little recess, about two feet deep, a stone, with an iron ring in the centre of it. Uttering a joyful cry, he seized the ring, and drew the stone forward without difficulty, disclosing an open space beyond it.

“This, then,’ is the entrance to my ancestor’s tomb,” cried Rougemont; “there can be no doubt of it. The old Rosicrucian has kept his secret well; but the devil has helped me to wrest it from him. And now to procure the necessary implements, in case, as is not unlikely, I should experience further difficulty.”

With this, he hastily quitted the room, but returned almost immediately with a mallet, a lever, and a pitchfork; armed with which and the lantern, he crept through the aperture. This done, he found himself at the head of a stone staircase, which he descended, and came to the arched entrance of a vault. The door, which was of stout oak, was locked, but holding up the light towards it, he read the following inscription:

POST C.C.L. ANNOS PATEBO, 1550.

“In two hundred and fifty years I shall open!” cried Rougemont, “and the date 1550 — why, the exact time is arrived. Old Cyprian must have foreseen what would happen, and evidently intended to make me his heir. There was no occasion for the devil’s interference. And see, the key is in the lock. So!” And he turned it, and pushing against the door with some force, the rusty hinges gave way, and it fell inwards.

From the aperture left by the fallen door, a soft and silvery light, streamed forth, and, stepping forward, Rougemont found himself in a spacious vault, from the ceiling of which hung a
large globe of crystal, containing in its heart a little flame, which diffused a radiance gentle as that of the moon, around, This, then, was the ever-burning lamp of the Rosicrucians, and Rougemont gazed at if with astonishment. Two hundred and fifty years had elapsed since that wondrous flame had been lighted, and yet it burnt on brightly as ever. Hooped round the globe was a serpent with its tail in its mouth — an emblem of eternity — wrought in purest gold; while above it were a pair of silver wings, in allusion to the soul. Massive chains of the more costly metal, fashioned like twisted snakes, served as suspenders to the lamp.

But Rougemont’s astonishment at this marvel quickly gave way to other feelings, and he gazed around the vault with greedy eyes.

It was a septilateral chamber, about eight feet high built of stone, and supported by beautifully groined arches. The surface of the masonry was as smooth and fresh as if the chisel had only just left it.

In six of the corners were placed large chests, ornamented with ironwork of the most exquisite workmanship, and these Rougemont’s imagination pictured as filled with inexhaustible treasure; while in the seventh corner, near the door, was a beautiful little piece of monumental sculpture in white marble, representing two kneeling and hooded figures, holding a veil between them, which partly concealed the entrance to a small recess. On one of the chests opposite the monument just described stood a strangely formed bottle and a cup of antique workmanship, both incrusted with gems.

The walls were covered with circles, squares and diagrams, and in some places were ornamented with grotesque carvings. In the centre of the vault was a round altar of black marble, covered with a plate of gold, on which Rougemont read the following inscription:

Hoc universi compendium unius mihi sepulcrum feci.

“Here, then, old Cyprian lies,” he cried.

And, prompted by some irresistible impulse, he seized the altar by the upper rim, and overthrew it. The heavy mass of marble fell with a thundering crash, breaking asunder the flag beneath it. It might be the reverberation of the vaulted roof, but a deep groan seemed to reproach the young man for his sacrilege. Undeterred, however, by this warning, Rougemont placed the point of the lever between the interstices of the broken stone, and, exerting all his strength, speedily raised the fragments, and laid open the grave.

Within it, in the garb he wore in life, with his white beard streaming to his waist, lay the unconfined body of his ancestor, Cyprian de Rougemont. The corpse had evidently been carefully embalmed, and the features were unchanged by decay.

Upon the breast, with the hands placed over it, lay a large book, bound in black vellum, and fastened with brazen clasps. Instantly possessing himself of this mysterious looking volume, Rougemont knelt upon the nearest chest, and opened it. But he was disappointed in his expectation. All the pages he examined were filled with cabalistic characters, which he was totally unable to decipher.

At length, however, he chanced upon One page, the import of which he comprehended, and he remained for some time absorbed in its contemplation, while an almost fiendish smile played upon his features.

“Aha!” he exclaimed, closing the volume, “I see now the cause of my extraordinary dream. My ancestor’s wondrous power was of infernal origin — the result, in fact, of a compact with the Prince of Darkness. But what care I for that? Give me wealth — no matter what source it comes from! — ha! ha!”

And seizing the lever, he broke open the chest beside him. It was filled with bars of silver. The next he visited in the same way was full of gold. The third was laden with pearls and precious stones; and the rest contained treasure to an incalculable amount. Rougemont gazed at them in transports of joy.

“At length I have my wish,” he cried. “Boundless wealth, and therefore boundless power is mine. I can riot in pleasure — riot in vengeance. As to my soul, I will run the risk of its perdition; but it shall go hard if I destroy not that of Auriol. His love of play and his passion for Edith Talbot shall be the means by which I will work. But I must not neglect another agent which is offered me.

That bottle, I have learnt from yon volume, contains an infernal potion, which, without destroying life, shatters the brain, and creates maddening fancies. It will well serve my purpose; and I thank thee, Satan, for the gift.”

II

THE COMPACT

Another two months after this occurrence, and near midnight, a young man was hurrying along Pall-mall, with a look of the wildest despair, when his headlong course was suddenly arrested by a strong grasp, while a familiar voice sounded in his ear.

“It is useless to meditate self-destruction Auriol Darcy,” cried the person who had checked him. “if you find life a burden, I can make it tolerable to you.”

Turning round at the appeal, Auriol beheld a tall man, wrapped in a long black cloak, whose sinister features were well known to him.

“Leave me, Rougemont!” he cried, fiercely. “I want no society — above all, not yours. You know very well that you have ruined me, and that nothing more is to be got from me. Leave me, I say, or I may do you a mischief.”

“Tut, tut, Auriol, I am your friend!” replied Rougemont. “I purpose to relieve your distress.” “Will you give me back the money you have won from me?” cried Auriol. “Will you pay my inexorable creditors? Will you save me from a prison?”

“I will do all this, and more,” replied Rougemont. “I will make you one of the richest men in London.”

“Spare your insulting jests, sir,” cried Auriol. “I am in no mood to bear them.”

“I am not jesting,” rejoined Rougemont. “Come with me, and you shall be convinced of my sincerity.”

Auriol at length assented, and they turned into Saint James’s-square, and paused before a magnificent house. Rougemont ascended the steps. Auriol, who had accompanied him almost mechanically, gazed at him with astonishment.

“Do you live here?” he inquired.

“Ask no questions,” replied Rougemont, knocking at the door, which was instantly opened by a hall porter, while other servants in rich liveries appeared at a distance. Rougemont addressed a few words in an undertone to them, and they instantly bowed respectfully to Auriol, while the foremost of them led the way up a magnificent staircase.

All this was a mystery to the young man, but he followed his conductor without a word, and was presently ushered into a gorgeously furnished and brilliantly illuminated apartment.

The servant then left them; and as soon as he was gone Auriol exclaimed — “Is it to mock me that you have brought me hither?”

“To mock you — no,” replied Rougemont. “I have told you that I mean to make you rich. But you look greatly exhausted. A glass of wine will revive you.”

And as he spoke, he stepped towards a small cabinet, and took from it a curiously-shaped bottle and a goblet.

“Taste this wine — it has been long in our family,” he added, filling the cup.

“It is a strange, bewildering drink,” cried Auriol, setting down the empty goblet, and passing his hand before his eyes.

“You have taken it upon an empty stomach — that is all,” said Rougemont. “You will be better anon.”

“I feel as if I were going mad,” cried Auriol. “It is some damnable potion you have given me.”

“Ha! ha!” laughed Rougemont. “It reminds you of the elixir you once quaffed —
eh?”

“A truce to this raillery!” cried Auriol, angrily. “I have said I am in no mood to bear it!”

“Pshaw! I mean no offence,” rejoined the other, changing his manner. “What think you of this house?”

“That it is magnificent,” replied Auriol, gazing around. “I envy you its possession.”

“It shall be yours, if you please,” replied Rougemont.

“Mine! you are mocking me again.”

“Not in the least. You shall buy it from me, if you please.”’

“At what price?” asked Auriol, bitterly.

“At a price you can easily pay,” replied the other. “Come this way, and we will conclude the bargain.”

Proceeding towards the farther end of the room, they entered a small exquisitely furnished chamber, surrounded with sofas of the most luxurious description. In the midst was a table, on which writing materials were placed.

“It were a fruitless boon to give you this house without the means of living in it,” said Rougemont, carefully closing the door. “This pocket-book will furnish you with them.”

“Notes to an immense amount!” cried Auriol, opening the pocket-book, and glancing at its contents.

“They are yours, together with the house,” cried Rougemont, “if you will but sign a compact with me.”

“A compact!” cried Auriol, regarding him with a look of undefinable terror. “Who and what are you?”

“Some men would call me the devil!” replied Rougemont, carelessly. “But you know me too well to suppose that I merit such a designation. I offer you wealth. What more could you require?”

“But upon what terms?” demanded Auriol.

“The easiest imaginable,” replied the other. “You shall judge for yourself.”

And as he spoke, he opened a writing-desk upon the table, and took from it a parchment.

“Sit down,” he added, “and read this.”

Auriol complied, and as he scanned the writing he became transfixed with fear and astonishment, while the pocket-book dropped from his grasp.

After a while, he looked up at Rougemont, who was leaning over his shoulder, and whose features were wrinkled with a derisive smile.

“Then you are the Fiend?” he cried.

“If you will have it so — certainly,” replied the other.

“You are Satan in the form of the man I once knew,” cried Auriol. “Avaunt! I will have no dealings with you.”

“I thought you wiser than to indulge in such idle fears, Darcy,” rejoined the other. “Granting even your silly notion of me to be correct, what need you be alarmed? You are immortal.”

“True,” rejoined Auriol thoughtfully; “but yet —”

“Pshaw!” rejoined the other, “sign and have done with the matter.”

“By this compact I am bound to deliver a victim — a female victim — whenever you shall require it,” cried Auriol.

“Precisely,” replied the other; “you can have no difficulty in fulfilling that condition.”

“But if I fail in doing so, I am doomed —”

“But you will not fail,” interrupted the other, lighting a taper, and sealing the parchment. “Now sign it.”

Auriol mechanically took the pen, and gazed fixedly on the document.

“I shall bring eternal destruction on myself if I sign it,” he muttered.

“A stroke of the pen will rescue you from utter ruin,” said Rougemont, leaning over his shoulder. “Riches and happiness are yours. You will not have such another chance.”

“Tempter!” cried Auriol, hastily attaching his signature to the paper. But he instantly started back aghast at the fiendish laugh that rang in his ears.

“I repent — give it me back!” he cried, endeavouring to snatch the parchment which Rougemont thrust into his bosom.

“It is too late!” cried the latter, in a triumphant tone. “You are mine —
irredeemably mine.”

“Ha!” exclaimed Auriol, sinking back on the couch.

“I leave you in possession of your house,” pursued Rougemont; “but I shall return in a week, when I shall require my first victim.”

“Your first victim! oh, Heaven!” exclaimed Auriol.

“Ay, and my choice falls on Edith Talbot!” replied Rougemont.

“Edith Talbot!” exclaimed Auriol; “she your victim! Think you I would resign her I love better than life to you?”

“It is because she loves you that I have chosen her,” rejoined Rougemont, with a bitter laugh. “And such will ever be the case with you. Seek not to love again, for your passion will be fatal to the object of it. When the week has elapsed, I shall require Edith at your hands. Till then, farewell!”

“Stay!” cried Auriol. “I break the bargain with thee, fiend. “I will have none of it. I abjure thee.”

And he rushed wildly after Rougemont, who had already gained the larger chamber; but, ere he could reach him, the mysterious individual had passed through the outer door, and when Auriol emerged upon the gallery, he was nowhere to be seen.

Several servants immediately answered the frantic shouts of the young man, and informed him that Mr. Rougemont had quitted the house some moments ago, telling them that their master was perfectly satisfied with the arrangements he had made for him.

“And we hope nothing has occurred to alter your opinion, sir?” said the hall porter.

“You are sure Mr. Rougemont is gone?” cried Auriol.

“Oh, quite sure, sir,” cried the hall porter. “I helped him on with his cloak myself. He said he should return this day week.”

“If he comes I will not see him,” cried Auriol, sharply; “mind that. Deny me to him; and on no account whatever let him enter the house.”

“Your orders shall be strictly obeyed,” replied the porter, staring with surprise.

“Now leave me,” cried Auriol.

And as they quitted him, he added, in a tone and with a gesture of the deepest despair, “All precautions are useless. I am indeed lost!”

III

IRRESOLUTION

On returning to the cabinet, where his fatal compact with Rougemont had been signed, Auriol perceived the pocket-book lying on the floor near the table, and, taking it up, he was about to deposit it in the writing-desk, when an irresistible impulse prompted him once more to examine its contents. Unfolding the roll of notes, he counted them, and found they amounted to more than a hundred thousand pounds. The sight of so much wealth, and the thought of the pleasure and the power it would procure him, gradually dispelled his fears, and arising in a transport of delight, he exclaimed — “Yes, yes — all obstacles are now removed! When Mr. Talbot finds I am become thus wealthy, he will no longer refuse me his daughter. But I am mad,” he added, suddenly checking himself — “worse than mad, to indulge such hopes. if it be indeed the Fiend to whom I have sold myself, I have no help from perdition! if it be man, I am scarcely less terribly fettered. In either case, I will not, remain here longer; nor will I avail myself of this accursed money, which has tempted me to my undoing.”

And, hurling the pocket-book to the farther end of the room, he was about to pass through the door, when a mocking laugh arrested him. He looked round with astonishment and dread, but could see no one. After a while, he again moved forward, but a voice, which he recognised as that of Rougemont, called upon him to stay.

“It will be in vain to fly,” said the unseen speaker. “You cannot escape me.

Whether you remain here or not — whether you use the wealth I have given you, or leave it behind you — you cannot annul your bargain. With this knowledge, you are at liberty to go. But remember, on the seventh night from this I shall require Edith Talbot from you!”

“Where are you fiend?” demanded Auriol, gazing around, furiously. “Show yourself, that I may confront you.”

A mocking laugh was the only response deigned to this injunction.

“Give me back the compact,” cried Auriol, imploringly. “It was signed in ignorance. I knew not the price I was to pay for your assistance. Wealth is of no value to me without Edith.”

“Without wealth you could not obtain her,” replied the voice. “You are only, therefore, where you were. But you will think better of the bargain tomorrow.

Meanwhile, I counsel you to place the money you have so unwisely cast from you safely under lock and key, and to seek repose. You will awaken with very different thoughts in the morning.”

“How am I to account for my sudden accession of wealth?” inquired Auriol, after a pause.

“You a gambler, and ask that question!” returned the unseen stranger with a bitter laugh. “But I will make your mind easy on that score. As regards the house, you will find a regular conveyance of it within that writing-desk, while the note lying on the table, which bears your address, comes from me, and announces the payment of a hundred and twenty thousand pounds to you, as a debt of honour. You see I have provided against every difficulty. And now farewell!”

The voice was then hushed; and though Auriol addressed several other questions to the unseen speaker no answer was returned him.

After some moments of irresolution, Auriol once more took up the pocket-book, and deposited it in the writing-desk, in which he found, as he had been led to expect, a deed conveying the house to him. He then opened the note lying upon the table, and found its contents accorded with what had just been told him.

Placing it with the pocket-book, he locked the writing-desk, exclaiming, “It is useless to struggle further — I must yield to fate!”

This done, he went into the adjoining room, and, casting his eyes about, remarked the antique bottle and flagon. The latter was filled to the brim — how or with what, Auriol paused not to examine; but seizing the cup with desperation, he placed it to his lips, and emptied it at a draught. A species of intoxication, but pleasing as that produced by opium, presently succeeded. All his fears left him, and in their place the gentlest and most delicious fancies arose. Surrendering himself delightedly to their influence, he sank upon a couch, and for some time was wrapped in a dreamy elysium, imagining himself wandering with Edith Talbot in a lovely garden, redolent of sweets, and vocal with the melody of birds. Their path led through a grove, in the midst of which was a fountain; and they were hastening towards its marble brink, when all at once Edith uttered a scream, and, starting back, pointed to a large black snake lying before her, and upon which she would have trodden the next moment. Auriol sprang forward and tried to crush the reptile with his heel; but, avoiding the blow, it coiled around his leg, and plunged its venom teeth into his flesh. The anguish occasioned by the imaginary wound roused him from his slumber, and looking up, he perceived that a servant was in attendance.

Bowing obsequiously, the man inquired whether he had occasion for anything.

“Show me to my bedroom — that is all I require,“replied Auriol, scarcely able to shake off the effect of the vision.

And, getting up, he followed the man, almost mechanically, out of the room.

IV

EDITH TALBOT

It was late when Auriol arose on the following morning. At first, finding himself in a large and most luxuriantly furnished chamber, he was at a loss to conceive how he came there, and it was some time before he could fully recall the mysterious events of the previous night. As had been foretold, however, by Rougemont, his position did not cause him so much anxiety as before.

After attiring himself, he descended to the lower apartments, in one of which a sumptuous breakfast awaited him; and having partaken of it, he took a complete survey of the house, and found it larger and more magnificent even than he had supposed it. He next supplied himself from the pocket-book with a certain sum, for which he fancied he might have occasion in the course of the day, and sallied forth. His first business was to procure a splendid carriage and horse, and to order some new and rich habiliments to be made with the utmost expedition.

He then proceeded towards May Fair, and knocked at the door of a large house at the upper end of Curzon-street. His heart beat violently as he was shown into an elegant drawing-room, and his trepidation momentarily increased, until the servant reappeared and expressed his regret that he had misinformed him in stating that Miss Talbot was at home. Both she and Mr. Talbot, he said, had gone out about half an hour ago. Auriol looked. incredulous, but, without making any remark, departed. Hurrying home, he wrote a few lines to Mr. Talbot, announcing the sudden and extraordinary change in his fortune, and formally demanding the hand of Edith. He was about to despatch this letter, when a note was brought him by his servant. It was from Edith. Having ascertained his new address from his card, she wrote to assure him of her constant attachment. Transported by this proof of her affection, Auriol half devoured the note with kisses, and instantly sent off his own letter to her father — merely adding a few words to say that he would call for an answer on the morrow. But he had not to wait thus long for a reply. Ere an hour had elapsed, Mr. Talbot brought it in person.

Mr. Talbot was a man of about sixty — tall, thin, and gentlemanlike in deportment, with grey hair, and black eyebrows, which lent considerable expression to the orbs beneath them. His complexion was a bilious brown, and he possessed none of the good looks which in his daughter had so captivated Auriol, and which it is to be presumed, therefore, she inherited from her mother.

A thorough man of the world, though not an unamiable person, Mr. Talbot was entirely influenced by selfish considerations. He had hitherto looked with an unfavourable eye upon Auriol’s attentions to his daughter, from a notion that the connection would be very undesirable in a pecuniary point of view; but the magnificence of the house in Saint James’s square, which fully bore out Auriol’s account of his newly acquired wealth, wrought a complete change in his opinions, and he soon gave the young man to understand that he should be delighted to have him for a son-in-law. Finding him so favourably disposed, Auriol entreated him to let the marriage take place — within three days, if possible.

Mr. Talbot was greatly grieved that he could not comply with his young friend’s request but he was obliged to start the next morning for Nottingham and could not possibly return under three days.

“But we can be married before you go?” cried Auriol.

“Scarcely, I fear,” replied Mr. Talbot, smiling blandly. “You must control your impatience, my dear young friend. On the sixth day from this — that is; on Wednesday in next week — we are now at Friday — you shall be made happy.”

The coincidence between this appointment and the time fixed by Rougemont for the delivery of his victim, struck Auriol forcibly. His emotion however, escaped Mr.

Talbot, who soon after departed, having engaged his future son-in-law to dine with him at seven o’clock.

Auriol it need scarcely be said, was punctual to the hour, or, rather, he anticipated it. He found Edith alone in the drawing-room, and seated near the window, which was filled with choicest flowers. On seeing him, she uttered an exclamation of joy, and sprang to meet him. The young man pressed his lips fervently to the little hand extended to him.

Edith Talbot was a lovely brunette. Her features were regular, and her eyes which were perfectly splendid were dark, almond-shaped, and of almost Oriental languor. Her hair which she wore braided over her brow and gathered behind in a massive roll, was black and glossy as a raven’s wing. Her cheeks were dimpled, her lips of velvet softness and her teeth like ranges of pearls. Perfect grace accompanied all her movements, and one only wondered that feet so small as those she possessed should have the power of sustaining a form which, though lightsome, was yet rounded in its proportions.

“You have heard, dear Edith, that your father has consented to our union?” said Auriol, after gazing at her for a few moments in silent admiration.

Edith murmured an affirmative, and blushed deeply.

“He has fixed Wednesday next,” pursued Auriol; “but I wish an earlier day could have been named. I have a presentiment that if our marriage is so long delayed, it will not take place at all.”

“You are full of misgivings, Auriol,” she replied.

“I confess it,” he said; “and my apprehensions have risen to such a point that I feel disposed to urge you to a private marriage, during your father’s absence.”

“Oh, no, Auriol; much as I love you, I could never consent to such a step,” she cried. “You cannot urge me to it. I would not abuse my dear father’s trusting love. I have never deceived him, and that is the best assurance I can give you that I shall never deceive you.”

Further conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Mr. Talbot, who held out both his hands to Auriol, and professed the greatest delight to see him. And no doubt he was sincere. The dinner passed off most pleasantly, and so did the evening; for the old gentleman was in high sprits, and his hilarity was communicated to the young couple. When Auriol and Mr. Talbot went upstairs to tea, they found that Edith’s aunt, Mrs. Maitland, had arrived to take charge of her during her father’s absence. This lady had always exhibited a partiality for Auriol, and had encouraged his suit to her niece; consequently she was well satisfied with the turn affairs had taken. It was near midnight before Auriol could tear himself away; and when he rose to depart, Mr. Talbot, who had yawned frequently, but fruitlessly, to give him a hint, told him he might depend upon seeing him back on the evening of the third day, and in the meantime he committed him to the care of Mrs. Maitland and Edith.

Three days flew by rapidly and delightfully; and on the evening of the last, just as the little party were assembled in the drawing-room, after dinner, Mr.

Talbot returned from his journey. “Well, here I am!” he cried, clasping Edith to his bosom, “without having encountered any misadventure. On the contrary, I have completed my business to my entire satisfaction.”

“Oh, how delighted I am to see you dear papa!” exclaimed Edith. “Now, Auriol, you can have no more apprehensions!”

“Apprehensions of what?” cried Mr. Talbot.

“Of some accident befalling you, which might have interfered with our happiness, sir,” replied Auriol.

“Oh, lovers are full of idle fears!” cried Mr. Talbot. “They are unreasonable beings. However, here I am, as I said before, safe and sound. Tomorrow we will finish all preliminary arrangements, and the day after you shall be made happy — ha! ha!”

“Do you know, papa, Auriol intends to give a grand ball on our wedding-day, and has invited all his acquaintance to it?” remarked Edith.

“I hope you have not invited Cyprian Rougemont?” said Mr. Talbot, regarding him fixedly. “I have not, sir,” replied Auriol turning pale. “But why do you particularize him?”

“Because I have heard some things of him not much to his credit,” replied Mr.

Talbot. “What — what have you heard, sir?” demanded Auriol.

“Why, one shouldn’t believe all the ill one hears of a man; and, indeed, I cannot believe all I have heard of Cyprian Rougemont,” replied Mr. Talbot; “but I should be glad if you dropped his acquaintance altogether. And now let us change the subject.”

Mr. Talbot seated himself besides Mrs. Maitland, and began to give her some account of his journey, which appeared to have been as pleasant as it had been rapid.

Unable to shake off the gloom which had stolen over him, Auriol took his leave, promising to meet Mr. Talbot at his lawyer’s in Lincoln’s Inn, at noon on the following day. He was there at the time appointed and, to Mr. Talbot’s great delight, and the no small surprise of the lawyer, paid over a hundred thousand pounds, to be settled on his future wife.

“You are a perfect man of honour, Auriol,” said Mr. Talbot, clapping him on the shoulder, “and I hope Edith will make you an excellent wife. Indeed, I have no doubt of it.”

“Nor I, — if I ever possess her,” mentally ejaculated Auriol.

The morning passed in other preparations. In the evening the lovers met as usual, and separated with the full persuasion, on Edith’s part at least, that the next day would make them happy. Since the night of the compact, Auriol had neither seen Rougemont, nor heard from him, and he neglected no precaution to prevent his intrusion.

V

THE SEVENTH NIGHT

It was a delicious morning, in May, and the sun shone brightly on Auriol’s gorgeous equipage, as he drove to St. George’s, Hanover-square, where he was united to Edith. Thus far all seemed auspicious, and he thought he could now bid defiance to fate. With the object of his love close beside him, and linked to him by the strongest and holiest ties, it seemed impossible she could be snatched from him. Nothing occurred during the morning to give him uneasiness, and he gave orders that a carriage and four should be ready an hour before midnight, to convey him and his bride to Richmond, where they were to spend their honeymoon.

Night came, and with it began to arrive the guests who were bidden to the ball.

No expense had been spared by Auriol to give splendour to his fete. It was in all respects magnificent. The amusements of the evening commenced with a concert, which was performed by the first singers from the Italian Opera; after which, the ball was opened by Auriol and his lovely bride. As soon as the dance was over, Auriol made a sign to an attendant who instantly disappeared.

“Are you prepared to quit this gay scene with me, Edith?” he asked, with a heart swelling with rapture.

“Quite so,” she replied, gazing at him with tenderness; “I long to be alone with you.”

“Come then,” said Auriol.

Edith arose, and passing her arm under that of her husband, they quitted the ball-room, but in place of descending the principal staircase, they took a more private course. The hall, which they were obliged to cross and which they entered from a side-door, was spacious and beautifully proportioned, and adorned with numerous statues on pedestals. The ceiling was decorated with fresco paintings, and supported by two stately scagliola pillars. From between these, a broad staircase of white marble ascended to the upper room. As Auriol had foreseen, the staircase was thronged with guests ascending to the ball-room, the doors of which being open, afforded glimpses of the dancers, and gave forth strains of liveliest music. Anxious to avoid a newly arrived party in the hall, Auriol and his bride lingered for a moment near a pillar.

“Ha! who is this?” cried Edith, as a tall man, with a sinister countenance, and habited entirely in black moved from the farther side of the pillar, and planted himself in their path, with his back partly towards them.

A thrill of apprehension passed through Auriol’s frame. He looked up and beheld Rougemont, who, glancing over his shoulder fixed his malignant gaze upon him.

Retreat was now impossible.

“You thought to delude me,” said Rougemont, in a deep whisper, audible only to Auriol; “but you counted without your host. I am come to claim my victim.”

“What is the matter with you, that you tremble so, dear Auriol?” cried Edith.

“Who is this strange person?”

But her husband returned no answer. Terror had taken away his power of utterance.

“Your carriage waits for you at the door, madam — all is prepared,” said Rougemont, advancing towards her, and taking her hand.

“You are coming, Auriol?” cried Edith, who scarcely knew whether to draw back or go forward.

“Yes — yes,” cried Auriol, who fancied he saw a means of escape. “This is my friend, Mr. Rougemont — go with him.”

“Mr. Rougemont,” cried Edith. “You told my father he would not be here.”

“Your husband did not invite me, madam,” said Rougemont, with sarcastic emphasis; “but knowing I should be welcome, I came unasked. But let us avoid those persons.”

In another moment they were at the door. The carriage was there with its four horses, and a man-servant, in travelling attire, stood beside the steps.

Reassured by the sight, Auriol recovered his courage, and suffered Rougemont to throw a cloak over Edith’s shoulders. The next moment she tripped up the steps of the carriage, and was ensconced within it. Auriol was about to follow her, when he received a violent blow on the chest, which stretched him on the pavement. Before he could regain his feet, Rougemont had sprung into the carriage. The steps were instantly put up by the man-servant, who mounted the box with the utmost celerity, while the postilions, plunging spurs into their horses, dashed off with lightning speed. As the carriage turned the corner of King-street, Auriol, who had just arisen, beheld, by the light of a lamp, Rougemont’s face at the window of the carriage, charged with an expression of the most fiendish triumph.

“What is the matter?” cried Mr. Talbot, who had approached Auriol. “I came to bid you good-bye. Why do I find you here alone? Where is the carriage? — what has become of Edith ?”

“She is in the power of the Fiend, and I have sold her to him,” replied Auriol, gloomily.

“What mean you, wretch?” cried Mr. Talbot, in a voice of distraction. “I heard that Cyprian Rougemont was here. Can it be he that has gone off with her?”

“You have hit the truth,” replied Auriol. “He bought her with the money I gave you. I have sold her and myself to perdition!”

“Horror!” exclaimed the old man, falling backwards.

“Ay, breathe your last — breathe your last!” cried Auriol, wildly. “Would I could yield up my life, likewise!”

And he hurried away, utterly unconscious whither he went.

BOOK THE SECOND — CYPRIAN DE ROUGEMONT

I

THE CELL

Mr. Thorneycroft and his companions had scarcely gained a passage in the deserted house, which they had entered in the manner described in a previous chapter, when they were alarmed by the sudden and furious ringing of a bell overhead. The noise brought them instantly to a halt, and each man grasped his arms in expectation of an attack, but the peal ceasing in a few moments, and all continuing quiet, they moved on as before, and presently reached a large hall with a lofty window over the door, which, being without shutters, afforded light enough to reveal the dilapidated condition of the mansion.

From this hall four side doors opened, apparently communicating with different chambers, three of which were cautiously tried by Reeks, but they proved to be fastened. The fourth, however, yielded to his touch, and admitted them to a chamber, which seemed to have been recently occupied, for a lamp was burning within it. The walls were pannelled with dusty oak, and hung at the lower end with tapestry, representing the Assyrian monarch Ninus, and his captive Zoroaster, King of the Bactrians. The chief furniture consisted of three large high-backed and grotesquely carved arm-chairs, near one of which stood a powerful electrical machine. Squares and circles were traced upon the floor, and here and there were scattered cups and balls, and other matters apparently belonging to a conjuring apparatus.

The room might be the retreat of a man of science, or it might be the repository of a juggler. But whoever its occupant was, and whatsoever his pursuits, the good things of the world were not altogether neglected by him, as was proved by a table spread with viands, and furnished with glasses, together with a couple of taper-necked bottles.

While glancing upwards, Mr. Thorneycroft remarked that just above each chair the ceiling was pierced with a round hole, the meaning of which he could not at the time comprehend, though after circumstances sufficiently explained it to him.

“A singular room,” he observed to Reeks, on concluding his survey. “Did you expect to find anyone here?”

“I hardly know,” replied the other. “That bell may have given the alarm. But I will soon ascertain the point. Remain here till I return.”

“You are not going to leave us?” rejoined Mr. Thorneycroft, uneasily.

“Only for a moment,” said Reeks. “Keep quiet, and no harm will befall you.

Whatever you may hear without, do not stir.”

“What are we likely to hear?” asked Thorneycroft, with increasing trepidation.

“That’s impossible to say,” answered Reeks; “but I warn you not to cry out unnecessarily, as such an imprudence would endanger our safety.”

“You are quite sure you don’t mean to abandon us?” persisted Thorneycroft.

“Make yourself easy; I have no such intention,” rejoined Reeks, sternly.

“Oh! ve’ll take care of you, don’t be afeerd, old gent,” said Ginger.

“Yes, ve’ll take care on you,” added the Tinker and the Sandman.

“You may depend upon them as upon me, sir,” said Reeks. “Before we explore the subterranean apartments, I wish to see whether anyone is upstairs.”

“Wot’s that you say about subterranean apartments, Mr. Reeks?” interposed Ginger. “Ye ain’t a-goin’ below, eh?”

But without paying any attention to the inquiry, Reeks quitted the room, and closed the door carefully after him. He next crossed the hall, and cautiously ascending a staircase at the farther end of it, reached the landing-place.

Beyond it was a gallery, from which several chambers opened.

Advancing a few paces, he listened intently, and hearing a slight sound in an apartment to the right, he stepped softly towards it, and placing his eye to the keyhole, beheld a tall man, dressed in black pacing to and fro with rapid strides, while three other persons, wrapped in sable gowns, and disguised with hideous masks, stood silent and motionless at a little distance from him. In the tall man he recognised Cyprian Rougemont. Upon a table in the middle of the room was laid a large open volume, bound in black vellum. Near it stood a lamp, which served to illumine the scene.

Suddenly, Rougemont stopped, and turning over several leaves of the book, which were covered with cabalistic characters, appeared in search of some magic formula. Before he could find it, however, a startling interruption occurred. An alarum-bell, fixed against the wall, began to ring, and at the same moment the doors of a cabinet flew open, and a large ape (for such it seemed to Reeks), clothed in a woollen shirt and drawers, sprang forth, and bounding upon the table beside Rougemont, placed its mouth to his ear. The communication thus strangely made seemed highly displeasing to Rougemont, who knitted his brows, and delivered some instructions in an under tone to the monkey. The animal nodded its head in token of obedience, jumped off the table, and bounded back to the cabinet, the doors of which closed as before. Rougemont next took up the lamp, with the evident intention of quitting the room, seeing which, Reeks hastily retreated to an adjoining chamber, the door of which was fortunately open, and had scarcely gained its shelter when the four mysterious personages appeared on the gallery. Reeks heard their footsteps descending the staircase, and then, creeping cautiously after them, watched them across the hall, and pause before the chamber containing Mr. Thorneycroft and his companions. After a moment’s deliberation, Rougemont noiselessly locked the door, took out the key, and leaving two of his attendants on guard, returned with the third towards the staircase.

Without tarrying to confront them, Reeks started back, and hurried along the gallery till he came to a back staircase, which conducted him, by various descents, to the basement floor, where, after traversing one or two vaults, he entered a subterranean passage, arched overhead, and having several openings at the sides, apparently communicating with other passages. It was lighted at intervals by lamps, which emitted a feeble radiance.

By the light of one of these, Reeks discovered the door of a cell. It was of iron, and as he struck it with his hand, returned a hollow clangour. On repeating the blow, a hoarse voice from within cried, “Leave me in peace!”

“Is it Auriol Darcy who speaks?” demanded Reeks.

“It is,” replied the prisoner. “Who are you that put the question?”

“A friend,” replied Reeks.

“I have no friend here,” said Auriol.

“You are mistaken,” rejoined Reeks. “I have come with Mr. Thorneycroft to deliver you.”

“Mr. Thorneycroft has come too late. He has lost his daughter,” replied Auriol.

“What has happened to her?” demanded Reeks.

“She is in the power of the Fiend,” replied Auriol.

“I know she is detained by Cyprian Rougemont,” said Reeks. “But what has befallen her.”

“She has become like his other victims — like my victims!” cried Auriol, distractedly.

“Do not despair,” rejoined Reeks. “She may yet be saved.”

“Saved! how?” cried Auriol. “All is over.”

“So it may seem to you,” rejoined Reeks; “but you are the victim of delusion.”

“Oh! that I could think so!” exclaimed Auriol. “But no — I saw her fall into the pit. I beheld her veiled figure rise from it. I witnessed her signature to the fatal scroll. There could be no illusion in what I then beheld.”

“Despite all this, you will see her again,” said Reeks.

“Who are you who give me this promise?” asked Auriol.

“As I have already declared, a friend,” replied Reeks.

“Are you human?”

“As yourself.”

“Then you seek in vain to struggle with the powers of darkness,” said Auriol.

“I have no fear of Cyprian Rougemont,” rejoined Reeks, with a laugh.

“Your voice seems familiar to me,” said Auriol. “Tell me who you are?”

“You shall know anon,” replied Reeks. “But, hist! — we are interrupted. Someone approaches.”

II

THE ENCHANTED CHAIRS

More than ten minutes had elapsed since Reek’s departure, and Mr. Thorneycroft, who had hitherto had some difficulty in repressing his anger, now began to give vent to it in muttered threats and complaints. His impatience was shared by the Tinker, who, stepping up to Ginger, said — “Wot the devil can Mr. Reeks be about? I hope nuffin’ has happened to him.”

“Don’t mention a certain gent’s name here,“remarked Ginger; “or if you do, treat it vith proper respect.”

“Pshaw!” exclaimed the Tinker, impatiently; “I don’t like a man stayin’ avay in this manner. It looks suspicious. I wotes ve goes and sees arter him. Ve can leave the old gent to take a keviet nap by himself. Don’t disturb yourself, sir.

Ve’ll only jist giv’ a look about us, and then come back.”

“Stay where you are, rascal!” cried Thorneycroft, angrily. “I won’t be left.

Stay where you are, I command you!”

“Vell, ve’ve got a noo captain, I’m a-thinkin’,“said the Tinker, winking at the others. “Ve’ve no vish to disobleege you, sir. I’ll only jist peep out into the hall, and see if Mr. Reeks is anyvhere thereabouts. Vy, zounds!” he added, as he tried the door, “it’s locked!”

“What’s locked?” cried Thorneycroft, in dismay.

“The door, to be sure,” replied the Tinker. “Ve’re prisoners.”

“Oh Lord, you don’t say so!” cried the iron-merchant, in an agony of fright.

“What will become of us?”

A roar of laughter from the others converted his terror into fury “I see how it is,” he cried. “You have entrapped me, ruffians. It’s all a trick.

You mean to murder me. But I’ll sell my life dearly. The first one who approaches shall have his brains blown out.” And as he spoke, he levelled a pistol at the Tinker’s head.

“Holloa! wot are you arter, sir?” cried the individual, sheltering his head with his hands. “You’re a labourin’ under a mistake — a complete mistake. If it is a trap, ve’re catched in it as vall as yourself.”

“To be sure ve is,” added the Sandman. “Sit down, and vait a bit. I dessay Mr.

Reeks’ll come back, and it von’t do no good gettin’ into a passion.”

“Well, well, I must resign myself, I suppose,” groaned Thorneycroft, sinking into a chair. “It’s a terrible situation to be placed in — shut up in a haunted house.”

“I’ve been in many much vurser sitivations,” observed Ginger, “and I alvays found the best vay to get out on ‘em wos to take things quietly.”

“Besides, there’s no help for it,” said the Tinker, seating himself.

“That remains to be seen,” observed the Sandman, taking the chair opposite Thorneycroft. “If Reeks don’t come back soon, I’ll bust open the door.”

“Plenty o’ time for that,” said Ginger, sauntering towards the table on which the provisions were spread; “wot do you say to a mouthful o’ wittles?”

“I wouldn’t touch ‘em for the world,” replied the Sandman.

“Nor I,” added the Tinker; “they may be pisoned.”

“Pisoned — nonsense!” cried Ginger; “don’t you see some von has been a-takin’

his supper here? I’ll jist finish it for him.”

“Vith all my ‘art,” said the Tinker.

“Don’t touch it on any account,” cried Mr. Thorneycroft. “I agree with your companions, it may be poisoned.”

“Oh! I ain’t afeerd,” cried Ginger, helping himself to a dish before him. “As good a pigeon-pie as ever I tasted. Your health, Mr. Thorneycroft,” he added, filling a goblet from one of the bottles. “My service to you, gents. Famous tipple, by Jove!” drawing a long breath after the draught, and smacking his lips with amazing satisfaction. “Never tasted sich a glass o’ wine in all my born days,” he continued, replenishing the goblet: “I wonder wot it’s called?”

“Prussic acid,” replied Mr. Thorneycroft, gruffly.

“Proossic fiddlesticks,” cried Ginger; “more likely Tokay. I shall finish the bottle, and never be the vorse for it!”

“He’s gettin’ svipy,” said the Tinker. “I vonder vether it’s really Tokay?”

“No such thing,” cried Thorneycroft; “let him alone.”

“I must taste it,” said the Tinker, unable to resist the temptation. “Here, give us a glass, Ginger!”

“Vith pleasure,” replied Ginger, filling a goblet to the brim, and handing it to him. “You’d better be perwailed upon, Sandy.”

“Vell, I s’pose I must,” replied the Sandman, taking the goblet proffered him.

“Here’s the beak’s healths!” cried Ginger. “I gives that toast ‘cos they’re alvays so kind to us dog-fanciers.”

“Dog-fanciers — say, rather, dog-stealers; for that’s the name such vagabonds deserve to be known by,” said Mr. Thorneycroft, with some asperity.

“Vell, ve von’t quarrel about names,” replied Ginger, laughing, “but I’ll relate a circumstance to you as’ll prove that wotever your opinion of our wocation may be, the beaks upholds it.”

“There can be but one opinion as to your nefarious profession,” said Mr.

Thorneycroft, “and that is, that it’s as bad as horse-stealing and sheep-stealing, and should be punished as those offences are punished.”

“So I think, sir,” said Ginger, winking at the others; “but to my story, and don’t interrupt me, or I can’t get through vith it properly. There’s a gent livin’ not a hundred miles from Pall-Mall, as the noospapers says, as had a favourite Scotch terrier, not worth more nor half-a-crown to any one but hisself, but highly wallerable to him, ‘cos it wos a favourite. Vell, the dog is lost. A pal of mine gets hold on it, and the gent soon offers a reward for its recovery. This don’t bring it back quite so soon as he expects, ‘cos he don’t offer enough; so he goes to an agent, Mr. Simpkins, in the Edger-road, and Mr.

Simpkins says to him — says he, ‘How are you, sir? I expected you some days ago. You’ve com’d about that ere Scotch terrier. You’ve got a wallable greyhound, I understand. A man told me he’d have that afore long.’ Seein’ the gent stare, Mr. S. adds, ‘Vel, I’ll tell you wot you must give for your dog. The party von’t take less than six guineas. He knows it ain’t vorth six shillin’, but it’s a great favourite, and has given him a precious sight o’ trouble in gettin’ it.’ ‘Give him trouble!’ cries the gent, angrily — ‘and what has it given me? I hope to see the rascal hanged! I shall pay no such money.’ ‘Werry vell,’ replies Mr. Simpkins, coolly, ‘then your dog’ll be bled to death, as the nobleman’s wos, and thrown down a breathless carkis afore your door.’

“You don’t mean to say that such a horrid circumstance as that really took place?” cried Thorneycroft, who was much interested in the relation.

“Only t’other day, I assure you,” replied Ginger.

“I’d shoot the ruffian who treated a dog of mine so, if I caught him!” cried Mr.

Thorneycroft, indignantly.

“And sarve him right, too,” said Ginger. “I discourages all cruelty to hanimals.

But don’t interrupt me again. Arter a bit more chafferin’ vith Mr. Simphins, the gent offers three pound for his dog, and then goes avay; Next day he reads a report i’ the Times noospaper that a man has been taken up for dog-stealin’, and that a lot o’ dogs is shut up in the green-yard behind the police-office in Bow-street So he goes there in search o’ his favourite, and sure enough he finds it, but the inspector von’t give it up to him, ‘cos the superintendent is out o’

the vay.”

“Shameful!” cried Mr. Thorneycroft.

“Shameful, indeed, sir,” echoed Ginger, laughing. “Thinkin’ his dog safe enough in the hands o’ the police, the gent sleeps soundly that night, but ven he goes back next mornin’ he finds it has disappeared. The green-yard has been broken into overnight, and all the dogs stolen from it.”

“Under the noses of the police,” cried Thorneycroft.

“Under their werry noses,” replied Ginger. “But now comes the cream o’ the jest.

You shall hear wot the beak says to him ven the gent craves his assistance. ‘I can’t interfere in the matter,’ says he, a-bendin’ of his brows in a majestic manner. ‘Parties don’t ought to come here vith complaints of vhich I can’t take notice. This place ain’t an advertisin’ office, and I shan’t suffer it to be made von. I von’t listen to statements affectin’ the characters of absent parties.’ Statements affectin’ our characters, — do you tvig that, sir?”

“I do, indeed,” said Thorneycroft, sighing; “and I am sorry to think such a remark should have dropped from the bench.”

“You’re right to say it dropped from it, sir,” laughed Ginger.

“I told you the beaks vos our best friends; they alvays takes our parts. Ven the gent urges that it was a subject of ser’ous importance to dog-owners, the magistrit angrily interrupts him, sayin’ — ‘Then let there be a meetin’ of dog-owners to discuss their grievances. Don’t come to me. I can’t help you.’ And he vouldn’t if he could, ‘cos he’s the dog-fancier’s friend.”

“It looks like it, I must own,“replied Thorneycroft. “Such reprehensible indifference gives encouragement to people of your profession. Government itself is to blame. As all persons who keep dogs pay a tax for them, their property ought to be protected.”

“I’m quite satisfied vith the present state of the law,” said Ginger; “here’s the vorthy beak! I’ll drink his health for a second time.”

“Halloa! wot’s that?” cried the Tinker; “I thought I heerd a noise.”

“So did I,” rejoined the Sandman; “a strange sort o’ rumblin’ sound overhead.”

“There it goes again!” cried Ginger; “wot an awful din!”

“Now it’s underneath,” said Mr. Thorneycroft, turning pale, and trembling. “It sounds as if some hidden machinery were at work.”

The noise, which up to this moment had borne an indistinct resemblance to the creaking of wheels and pulleys, now increased to a violent clatter, while the house was shaken as if by the explosion of a mine beneath it.

At the same time, the occupants of the chairs received a sharp electrical shock, that agitated every limb, and caused Mr. Thorneycroft to let fall his pistol, which went off as it reached the ground. At the same time, the Sandman dropped his goblet, and the Tinker relinquished his grasp of the cutlass. Before they could recover from the shock, all three were caught by stout wooden hooks, which, detaching themselves from the back of the chairs, pinioned their arms, while their legs were restrained by fetters, which sprang from the ground and clasped round their ankles. Thus fixed, they struggled vainly to get free. The chairs seemed nailed to the ground, so that all efforts to move them proved futile

But the worst was to come. From the holes in the ceiling already alluded to, descended three heavy bell-shaped helmets, fashioned like those worn by divers at the bottom of the sea, and having round eyelet-holes of glass. It was evident, from the manner of their descent, that these helmets must drop on the heads of the sitters — a conviction that filled them with inexpressible terror.

They shouted, and swore frightfully; but their vociferations availed them nothing. Down came the helmets, and the same moment the monkey which had been seen by Reeks issued from a cupboard at the top of a cabinet, and grinned and gibbered at them.

Down came the first helmet, and covered the Tinker to the shoulders. His appearance was at once ludicrous and terrible, and his roaring within the casque sounded like the bellowing of a baited bull.

Down came the second helmet, though rather more slowly, and the Sandman was eclipsed in the same manner as the Tinker, and roared as loudly.

In both these instances the helmets had dropped without guidance, but in the case of Mr. Thorneycroft, a hand, thrust out of the hole in the ceiling, held the helmet suspended over his head, like the sword of Damocles. While the poor iron-merchant momentarily expected the same doom as his companions, his attention was attracted towards the monkey, which, clinging with one hand to the side of the cabinet, extended the other skinny arm towards him, and exclaimed —

“Will you swear to go hence if you are spared?”

“No, I will not,” replied the iron-merchant. He had scarcely spoken, when the helmet fell with a jerk, and extinguished him like the others.

Ginger alone remained. During the whole of this strange scene, he had stood with the bottle in hand, transfixed with terror and astonishment, and wholly unable to move or cry out. A climax was put to his fright, by the descent of the three chairs, with their occupants, through the floor into a vault beneath; and as the helmets were whisked up again to the ceiling, and the trap-doors closed upon the chairs, he dropped the bottle, and fell with his face upon the table. He was, however, soon roused by a pull at his hair, while a shrill voice called him by his name.

“Who is it?” groaned the dog-fancier.

“Look up!” cried the speaker, again plucking his hair.

Ginger complied, and beheld the monkey seated beside him. “Vy, it can’t be, surely,” he cried. “And yet I could almost svear it was Old Parr.”

“You’re near the mark,” replied the other, with a shrill laugh. “It is your venerable friend.”

“Vot the deuce are you doing here, and in this dress, or rayther undress?”

inquired Ginger. “Ven I see you this mornin’, you wos in the serwixe of Mr.

Loftus.”

“I’ve got a new master since then,” replied the dwarf.

“I’m sorry to hear it,” said Ginger, shaking his head. “You hav’n’t sold yourself, like Doctor Forster —”

“Faustus, my dear Ginger — not Forster,” corrected Old Parr. “No, no, I’ve made a bargain. And to be plain with you, I’ve no desire to remain long in my present master’s service.”

“I don’t like to ask the question too directly, wenerable,” said Ginger, in a deprecatory tone — “but is your master — hem! — is he — hem! — the — the —”

“The devil, you would say,” supplied Old Parr. “Between ourselves, I’m afraid there’s no denying it.”

“La! wot a horrible idea!” exclaimed Ginger with a shudder; “it makes the flesh creep on one’s bones. Then we’re in your master’s power?”

“Very like it,” replied Old Parr.

“And there ain’t no chance o’ deliverance?”

“None that occurs to me.”

“Oh Lord! oh Lord!” groaned Ginger; “I’ll repent. I’ll become a reformed character. I’ll never steal dogs no more.”

“In that case, there may be some chance for you,” said Old Parr. “I think I could help you to escape. Come with me, and I’ll try and get you out.”

“But wot is to become of the others?” demanded Ginger.

“Oh, leave them to their fate,” replied Old Parr.

“No, that’ll never do,” cried Ginger. “Ve’re all in the same boat, and must row out together the best vay ve can. I tell you wot it is, wenerable,” he added, seizing him by the throat — “your master may be the devil, but you’re mortal; and if you don’t help me to deliver my companions, I’ll squeege your windpipe for you.”

“That’s not the way to induce me to help you,” said Old Parr, twisting himself like an eel out of the other’s grip. “Now get out, if you can.”

“Don’t be angry,” cried Ginger, seeing the mistake he had committed, and trying to conciliate him; “I only meant to frighten you a bit. Can you tell me if Mr.

Auriol Darcy is here?”

“Yes, he is, and a close prisoner,” replied Old Parr.

“And the girl — Miss Ebber, wot of her?”

“I can’t say,” rejoined Old Parr. “I can only speak to the living.”

“Then she’s dead!” cried Ginger, with a look of horror.

“That’s a secret,” replied the dwarf, mysteriously; “and I’m bound by a terrible oath not to disclose it.”

“I’ll have it out of you notvithstandin’,” muttered Ginger. “I vish you would lend me a knock on the head, old feller. I can’t help thinkin’ I’ve got a terrible fit o’ the nightmare.”

“Let this waken you, then,” said Old Parr, giving him a sound buffet on the ear.

“Holloa, wenerable! not so hard!” cried Ginger.

“Ha! ha! ha!” screamed the dwarf. “You know what you’re about now.”

“Not exactly,” said Ginger. “I vish I wos fairly out o’ this cursed place!”

“You shouldn’t have ventured into the lion’s den,” said Old Parr, in a taunting tone. “But come with me, and perhaps I may be able to do something towards your liberation.”

So saying, he drew aside the tapestry, and opened a panel behind it, through which he passed, and beckoned Ginger to follow him. Taking a pistol from his pocket, the latter complied.

III

GERRARD PASTON

Before the chair, in which Mr. Thorneycroft was fixed, reached the ground terror had taken away his senses. A bottle of salts, placed to his nose, revived him after a time; but he had nearly relapsed into insensibility on seeing two strange figures, in hideous masks and sable cloaks, standing on either side of him, while at a little distance was a third, who carried a strangely fashioned lantern. He looked round for his companions in misfortune, but, though the chairs were there, they were unoccupied.

The masked attendants paid no attention to the iron-merchant’s cries and entreaties; but as soon as they thought him able to move, they touched a spring, which freed his arms and legs from their bondage, and raising him, dragged him out of the vault, and along a narrow passage, till they came to a large sepulchral-looking chamber, cased with black marble, in the midst of which, on a velvet fauteuil of the same hue as the walls, sat Cyprian Rougemont. It was, in fact, the chamber where Ebba had been subject to her terrible trial.

Bewildered with terror, the poor iron-merchant threw himself at the feet of Rougemont, who, eyeing him with a look of malignant triumph, cried, “You have come to seek your daughter. Behold her!”

And at the words, the large black curtains at the farther end of the room were suddenly withdrawn, and discovered the figure of Ebba Thorneycroft standing at the foot of the marble staircase. Her features were as pale as death; her limbs rigid and motionless; but her eyes blazed with preternatural light. On beholding her, Mr. Thorneycroft uttered a loud cry, and, springing to his feet would have rushed towards her, but he was held back by the two masked attendants, who seized each arm, and detained him by main force.

“Ebba?” he cried — “Ebba!”

But she appeared wholly insensible to his cries, and remained in the same attitude, with her eyes turned away from him.

“What ails her?” cried the agonized father. “Ebba! Ebba!”

“Call louder,” said Rougemont, with a jeering laugh.

“Do you not know me? do you not hear me?” shrieked Mr. Thorneycroft.

Still the figure remained immovable.

“I told you you should see her,” replied Rougemont, in a taunting tone; “but she is beyond your reach.”

“Not so, not so!” cried Thorneycroft. “Come to me, Ebba! — come to your father.

Oh, Heaven! she hears me not! she heeds me not! Her senses are gone.”

“She is fast bound by a spell,” said Rougemont. “Take a last look at her. You will see her no more.”

And, stretching out his hand, the curtains slowly descended, and shrouded the figure from view.

Thorneycroft groaned aloud.

“Are you not content?” cried Rougemont. “Will you depart in peace, and swear never to come here more? If so, I will liberate you and your companions.”

“So far from complying with your request, I swear never to rest till I have rescued my child from you, accursed being!” cried Thorneycroft energetically.

“You have sealed your doom, then,” replied Rougemont. “But before you are yourself immured, you shall see how Auriol Darcy is circumstanced. Bring him along.”

And, followed by the attendants, who dragged Mr. Thorneycroft after him, he plunged into an opening on the right. A few steps brought him to the entrance of the cell. Touching the heavy iron door, it instantly swung open, and disclosed Auriol chained to a stone at the farther corner of the narrow chamber.

Not a word was spoken for some minutes, but the captives regarded each other piteously. “Oh, Mr. Thorneycroft,” cried Auriol, at length, “I beseech you forgive me. I have destroyed your daughter.”

“You!” exclaimed the iron-merchant, in astonishment.

“It is true,” said Rougemont.

“I would have saved her if it had been possible!” cried Auriol. “I warned her that to love me would be fatal to her. I told her I was linked to an inexorable destiny, which would involve her in its meshes — but in vain.”

“Oh!” ejaculated Thorneycroft.

“You see you ought to blame him, not me,” said Rougemont, with a derisive laugh.

“I would have given my life, my soul, to preserve her, had it been possible!”

cried Auriol.

“Horrors crowd so thick upon me that my brain reels,” cried Thorneycroft “Merciless wretch!” he added, to Rougemont, “fiend — whatever you are, complete your work of ruin by my destruction. I have nothing left to tie me to life.”

“I would have the miserable live,” said Rougemont, with a diabolical laugh. “It is only the happy I seek to destroy. But you have to thank your own obstinacy for your present distress. Bid a lasting farewell to Auriol. You will see him no more.”

“Hold!” exclaimed Auriol. “A word before we part.”

“Ay, hold!” echoed a loud and imperious voice, from the depths of the passage.

“Ha! — who speaks?” demanded Rougemont, a shade passing over his countenance.

“I, Gerard Paston!” exclaimed Reeks, stepping forward. The crape was gone from his brow, and in its place was seen the handsome and resolute features of a man of middle life. He held a pistol in either hand.

“Is it you, Gerard Paston?” cried Auriol, regarding him; “the brother of Clara, my second victim!”

“It is,” replied the other. “Your deliverance is at hand, Auriol.”

“And you have dared to penetrate here, Gerard?” cried Rougemont, stamping the ground with rage. “Recollect, you are bound to me by the same ties as Auriol, and you shall share his fate.”

“I am not intimidated by threats,” replied Paston, with a scornful laugh. “You have employed your arts too long. Deliver up Auriol and this gentleman at once, or —” And he levelled the pistols at him.

“Fire!” cried Rougemont, drawing himself up to his towering height. “No earthly bullets can injure me.”

“Ve’ll try that!” cried Ginger, coming up at the moment behind Paston.

And he discharged a pistol, with a deliberate aim, at the breast of Rougemont.

The latter remained erect, and apparently uninjured.

“You see how ineffectual your weapons are,” said Rougemont, with a derisive laugh.

“It must be the devil!” cried Ginger running off.

“I will try mine,” said Paston.

But before he could draw the triggers, the pistols were wrested from his grasp by the two attendants, who had quitted Thorneycroft, and stolen upon him unperceived, and who next pinioned his arms.

IV

THE PIT

So bewildered was the poor iron-merchant by the strange and terrible events that had befallen him, that, though released by the two masked attendants, who left him, as before related, to seize Gerard Paston, he felt utterly incapable of exertion, and would probably have made no effort to regain his freedom, if his coat had not been vigorously plucked behind, while a low voice urged him to fly.

Glancing in the direction of the friendly speaker, he could just discern a diminutive object standing within the entrance of a side-passage, and reared up against the wall so as to be out of sight of Rougemont and his attendants. It was the monkey — or rather Old Parr — who, continuing to tug violently at his coat, at last succeeded in drawing him backwards into the passage, and then grasping his hand tightly, hurried him along it. The passage was wholly unlighted, but Mr. Thorneycroft could perceive that it was exceedingly circuitous, and winded round like a maze.

“Where are you taking me?” he inquired, attempting to stop.

“Ask no questions,” rejoined the dwarf, pulling him along. “Do you want to be captured, and shut up in a cell for the rest of your life?”

“Certainly not,” replied Thorneycroft, accelerating his movements; “I hope there’s no chance of it.”

“There’s every chance of it,” rejoined Old Parr. “If you’re taken, you’ll share Auriol’s fate.”

“Oh, Lord! I hope not,” groaned the iron-merchant. “I declare, you frighten me so much that you take away all power of movement. I shall drop in a minute.”

“Come along, I say,” screamed the dwarf. “I hear them close behind us.”

And as he spoke, shouts, and the noise of rapidly approaching footsteps, resounded along the passage.

“I can’t stir another step,” gasped the iron-merchant. “I’m completely done.

Better yield at once.”

“What, without a struggle?” cried the dwarf, tauntingly. “Think of your daughter, and let the thought of her nerve your heart. She is lost for ever, if you don’t get out of this accursed place.”

“She is lost for ever as it is,” cried the iron-merchant despairingly.

“No — she may yet be saved,” rejoined the dwarf. “Come on — come one — they are close behind us.”

And it was evident, from the increased clamour, that their pursuers were upon them.

Roused by the imminence of the danger, and by the hope of rescuing his daughter, Mr. Thorneycroft exerted all his energies, and sprang forward. A little farther on, they were stopped by a door. It was closed; and venting his disappointment in a scream, the dwarf searched for the handle, but could not find it.

“We are entrapped — we shall be caught,” he cried. “and then woe to both of us.

Fool that I was to attempt your preservation. Better I had left you to rot in a dungeon than have incurred Rougemont’s displeasure.”

The iron-merchant replied by a groan.

“It’s all over with me,” he said. “I give it up — I’ll die here!”

“No — we are saved,” cried the dwarf, as the light, now flashing strongly upon the door, revealed a small iron button within it, — “saved — saved!”

As he spoke, he pressed against the button, which moved a spring, and the door flew open. Just as they passed through it, the two masked attendants came in sight. The dwarf instantly shut the door, and finding a bolt on the side next him, shot it into the socket. Scarcely had he accomplished this, when the pursuers came up, and dashed themselves against the door; but finding it bolted, presently ceased their efforts, and apparently withdrew.

“They are gone by some other way to intercept us,” cried Old Parr. who had paused for a moment to listen; “come on, Mr. Thorneycroft.”

“I’ll try,” replied the iron-merchant, with a subdued groan, “but I’m completely spent. Oh, that I ever ventured into this place!”

“It’s too late to think of that now; besides, you came here to rescue your daughter,” rejoined Old Parr. “Take care and keep near me. I wonder where this passage leads to?”

“Don’t you know?” inquired the iron-merchant.

“Not in the least,” returned the dwarf. “This is the first time I’ve been here — and it shall be the last, if I’m allowed any choice in the matter.”

“You haven’t told me how you came here at all,” observed Thorneycroft.

“I hardly know myself,” replied the dwarf; “but I find it more difficult to get out than I did to get in. How this passage twists about. I declare we seem to be returning to the point we started from.”

“I think we are turning round ourselves,” cried Thorneycroft, in an agony of fright. “My head is going. Oh dear! oh dear!”

“Why it does seem very strange, I must say,” remarked the dwarf, coming to a halt. “I could almost fancy that the solid stone walls were moving around us.”

“They are moving,” cried Thorneycroft, stretching out his hand. “I feel ‘em.

Lord have mercy upon us, and deliver us from the power of the Evil One!”

“The place seems on fire,” cried the dwarf. “A thick smoke fills the passage.

Don’t you perceive it, Mr. Thorneycroft?”

“Don’t I! — to be sure I do,” cried the iron-merchant, coughing and sneezing.

“I feel as if I were in a room with a smoky chimney, and no window open. Oh! —
oh! — I’m choking!”

“Don’t mind it,” cried the dwarf, who seemed quite at his ease. “We shall soon be out of the smoke.”

“I can’t stand it,” cried Mr. Thorneycroft; “I shall die. Oh! poah — pish —
puff!”

“Come on, I tell you — you’ll get some fresh air in a minute,” rejoined Old Parr. “Halloa! how’s this? No outlet. We’re come to a dead stop.”

“Dead stop, indeed!” echoed the iron-merchant. “We’ve come to that long ago. But what new difficulty has arisen?”

“Merely that the road’s blocked up by a solid wall — that’s all,” replied Old Parr.

“Blocked up!” exclaimed Thorneycroft. “Then we’re entombed alive.”

“I am,” said the dwarf, with affected nonchalance. “As to you, you’ve the comfort of knowing it’ll soon be over with you. But for me, nothing can harm me.”

“Don’t be too sure of that,” cried a voice above them.

“Did you speak, Mr. Thorneycroft?” asked the dwarf.

“N-o-o — not I,” gasped the iron-merchant. “I’m suffocating — help to drag me out.”

“Get out if you can,” cried the voice that had just spoken.

“It’s Rougemont himself,” cried the dwarf, in alarm. “Then there’s no escape.”

“None whatever, rascal,” replied the unseen speaker. “I want you. I have more work for you to do.”

“I won’t leave Mr. Thorneycroft,” cried the dwarf, resolutely. “I’ve promised to preserve him, and I’ll keep my word.”

“Fool!” cried the other. “You must obey when I command.”

And as the words were uttered, a hand was thrust down from above, which, grasping the dwarf by the nape of the neck, drew him upwards.

“Lay hold of me, Mr. Thorneycroft,” screamed Old Parr. “I’m going up again —
lay hold of me — pull me down.”

Well-nigh stifled by the thickening and pungent vapour, the poor iron-merchant found compliance impossible. Before he could reach the dwarf, the little fellow was carried off. Left to himself, Mr. Thorneycroft staggered along the passage, expecting every moment to drop, until at length a current of fresh air blew in his face, and enabled him to breathe more freely. Some what revived, he went on, but with great deliberation, and it was well he did so, for he suddenly arrived at the brink of a pit about eight feet in depth, into which, if he had approached it incautiously, he must infallibly have stumbled, and in all probability have broken his neck. This pit evidently communicated with a lower range of chambers, as was shown by a brazen lamp burning under an archway. A ladder was planted at one side, and by this Mr. Thorneycroft descended, but scarcely had he set foot on the ground, than he felt himself rudely grasped by a man who stepped from under the archway. The next moment, however, he was released, while the familiar voice of the Tinker exclaimed, “Vy, bless my ‘art, if it ain’t Mister Thorneycroft.”

“Yes, it’s me, certainly, Mr. Tinker,” replied the iron-merchant. “Who’s that you’ve got with you?”

“Vy, who should it be but the Sandman,” rejoined the other, gruffly. “Ve’ve set ourselves free at last, and have made some nice diskiveries into the bargin.”

“Yes, ve’ve found it all out, added the Tinker.

“What have you discovered — what have you found out?” cried the iron-merchant, breathlessly. “Have you found my daughter? Where is she? Take me to her.”

“Not so fast, old gent, not so fast,” rejoined the Tinker. “Ye ain’t sure as ‘ow ve’ve found your darter, but ve’ve catched a peep of a nice young ‘ooman.”

“Oh! it must be her no doubt of it,” cried the iron-merchant. “Where is she?

Take me to her without a moment’s delay.”

“But ve can’t get to her, I tell ‘ee,” replied the Tinker, “Ye knows the place ‘vere she’s a-shut up, — that’s all.”

“Take me to it,” cried Mr. Thorneycroft, eagerly.

“Yell, if you must go, step this vay, then,” rejoined the Tinker, proceeding towards the archway. “Halloa, Sandy, did you shut the door arter you?”

“Not I,” replied the other; “open it.”

“Easily said,” rejoined the Tinker, “but not quevite so easily done. Vy, zounds, it’s shut of itself and bolted itself on t’other side!”

“Someone must have followed you,” groaned Thorneycroft. “We’re watched on all sides.”

“Ay, and from above, too,” cried the Sandman. “Look up there!” he added, in accents of alarm.

“What’s the matter? What new danger is at hand?” inquired the iron-merchant.

“Look up, I say,” cried the Sandman. “Don’t ye see, Tinker?”

“Ay, ay, I see,” replied the other. “The roof’s a-comin’ in upon us. Let’s get out o’ this as fast as ve can.” And he kicked and pushed against the door, but all his efforts were unavailing to burst it open.

At the same time the Sandman rushed towards the ladder, but before he could mount it all egress by that means was cut off. An immense iron cover worked in a groove was pushed by some unseen machinery over the top of the pit, and enclosed them in it.

V

NEW PERPLEXITIES

For several hours deep sleep, occasioned by some potent medicaments, had bound up the senses of Auriol. On awaking, he found himself within a cell, the walls, the floor, and the ceiling of which were of solid stone masonry. In the midst of this chamber, and supporting the ponderous roof, stood a massive granite pillar, the capital of which was grotesquely ornamented with death’s-heads and crossbones, and against this pillar leaned Auriol, with his left arm chained by heavy links of iron to a ring in the adjoining wall. Beside him stood a pitcher of water, and near him lay an antique-looking book, bound in black vellum. The dungeon in which he was confined was circular in form, with a coved roof, sustained by the pillar before mentioned, and was approached by a steep flight of steps rising from a doorway, placed some six feet below the level of the chamber, and surmounted by a pointed arch. A stream of light, descending from a narrow aperture in the roof, fell upon his wasted and haggard features. His dark brown hair hung about his face in elf-locks, his beard was untrimmed, and a fixed and stony glare like that of insanity sat in his eye. He was seated on the ground — neither bench nor stool being allowed him — with his hand supporting his chin. His gaze was fixed upon vacancy — if that can be called vacancy, which to him was filled with vivid images. His garb was not that of modern times, but consisted of a doublet and hose of rich material, wrought in the fashion of Elizabeth’s days.

After remaining for some time in this musing attitude, Auriol opened the old tome before him, and began to turn over its leaves. It was full of magical disquisitions and mysterious characters, and he found inscribed on one of its earlier pages a name which instantly riveted his attention. Having vainly sought some explanation of this name in the after contents of the book, he laid it aside, and became lost in meditation. His reverie ended, he heaved a deep sigh, and turned again to the open volume lying before him, and in doing so his eye rested for the first time on his habiliments. On beholding them he started, and held out his arm to examine the sleeve more narrowly. Satisfied that he was not deceived, he arose and examined himself from head to foot. He found himself, as has been stated, attired in the garb of a gentleman of Elizabeth’s time.

“What can this mean?” he cried. “Have I endured a long and troubled dream, during which I have fancied myself living through more than two centuries? Oh, Heaven, that it may be so! Oh, that the fearful crimes I suppose I have committed have only been enacted in a dream! Oh, that my victims are imaginary!

Oh, that Ebba should only prove a lovely phantom of the night! And yet, I could almost wish the rest were real — so that she might exist. I cannot bear to think that she is nothing more than a vision, But it must be so — I have been dreaming — and what a dream it has been! — what strange glimpses it has afforded me into futurity! Methought I lived in the reigns of many sovereigns —
beheld one of them carried to the block — saw revolutions convulse the kingdom — old dynasties shaken down, and new ones spring up. Fashions seem to me to have so changed, that I had clean forgotten the old ones; while my fellow-men scarcely appeared the same as heretofore. Can I be the same myself? Is this the dress I once wore? Let me seek for some proof.”

And thrusting his hand into his doublet, he drew forth some tablets, and hastily examined them. They bore his name, and contained some writing, and he exclaimed aloud with joy, “This is proof enough — I have been dreaming all this while.”

“The scheme works to a miracle,” muttered a personage stationed at the foot of the steps springing from the doorway, and who, though concealed from view himself, was watching the prisoner with a malignant and exulting gaze.

“And yet, why am I here?” pursued Auriol, looking around. “Ah! I see how it is,”

he added, with a shudder; “I have been mad — perhaps am mad still. That will account for the strange delusion under which I have laboured.”

“I will act upon that hint,” muttered the listener.

“Of what use is memory,” continued Auriol, musingly, “if things that are not, seem as if they were? If joys and sorrows which we have never endured are stamped upon the brain — if visions of scenes, and faces and events which we have never witnessed, never known, haunt us, as if they had once been familiar?

But I am mad — mad!”

The listener laughed to himself.

“How else, if I were not mad, could I have believed that I had swallowed the fabled elixir vitae? And yet, is it a fable? for I am puzzled still. Methinks I am old — old — old — though I feel young, and look young. All this is madness. Yet how clear and distinct it seems! I can call to mind events in Charles the Second’s time. Ha! — who told me of Charles the Second? How know I there was such a king? The reigning sovereign should be James, and yet I fancy it is George the Fourth. Oh! I am mad — clean mad!”

There was another pause, during which the listener indulged in a suppressed fit of laughter. “Would I could look forth from this dungeon,” pursued Auriol, again breaking silence, “and satisfy myself of the truth or falsehood of my doubts by a view of the external world, for I am so perplexed in mind, that if I were not distracted already, they would be enough to drive me so. What dismal, terrible fancies have possessed me, and weigh upon me still — the compact with Rougemont — ha!”

“Now it comes,” cried the listener.

“Oh, that I could shake off the conviction that this were not so — that my soul, though heavily laden, might still be saved! Oh, that I dared to hope this!”

“I must interrupt him if he pursues this strain,” said the listener.

“Whether my crimes are real or imaginary — whether I snatched the cup of immortality from my grandsire’s dying lips — whether I signed a compact with the Fiend, and delivered him a victim on each tenth year — I cannot now know; but if it is so, I deeply, deeply regret them, and would expiate my offences by a life of penance.”

At this moment Rougemont, attired in a dress similar to that of the prisoner, marched up the steps, and cried, “What ho, Auriol! — Auriol Darcy!”

“Who speaks?” demanded Auriol “Ah! is it you, Fiend?”

“What, you are still in your old fancies,” rejoined Rougemont. “I thought the draught I gave you last night would have amended you.”

“Tell me who and what I am,” cried Auriol, stupefied with astonishment; “in what age I am living; and whether I am in my right mind or not?”

“For the first, you are called Auriol Darcy,” replied Rougemont; “for the second, you are living in the reign of his most Catholic Majesty James I of England, and VIth of Scotland; and for the third, I trust you will soon recover your reason.”

“Amazement!” cried Auriol, striking his brow with his clenched hand. “Then I am mad.”

“It’s plain your reason is returning, since you are conscious of your condition,” replied Rougemont; “but calm yourself, you have been subject to raging frenzies.”

“And I have been shut up here for safety?” demanded Auriol.

“Precisely,” observed the other. “And you are —”

“Your keeper,” replied Rougemont.

“My God! what a brain mine must be!” cried Auriol. “Answer me one question — Is there such a person as Ebba Thorneycroft?”

“You have often raved about her,” replied Rougemont. “But she is a mere creature of the imagination.”

Auriol groaned, and sank against the wall.

“Since you have become so reasonable, you shall again go forth into the world,”

said Rougemont; “but the first essay must be made at night, for fear of attracting observation. I will come to you again a few hours hence. Farewell, for the present.”

And casting a sinister glance at his captive, he turned upon his heel, descended the steps, and quitted the cell.

VI

DOCTOR LAMB AGAIN

Night came, and the cell grew profoundly dark. Auriol became impatient for the appearance of his keeper, but hour after hour passed and he did not arrive. Worn out, at length, with doubt and bewildering speculations, the miserable captive was beset with the desire to put an end to his torments by suicide, and he determined to execute his fell purpose without delay. An evil chance seemed also to befriend him, for scarcely was the idea formed, than his foot encountered something on the ground, the rattling of which attracted his attention, and stooping to take it up, he grasped the bare blade of a knife.

“This will, at all events, solve my doubts,” he cried aloud. “I will sheathe this weapon in my heart, and, if I am mortal, my woes will be ended.”

As he spoke, be placed the point to his breast with the full intent to strike, but before he could inflict the slightest wound, his arm was forcibly arrested.

“Would you destroy yourself, madman?” roared a voice. “I thought your violence was abated, and that you might go forth in safety. But I find you are worse than ever.”

Auriol uttered a groan and let the knife fall to the ground. The newcomer kicked it to a distance with his foot.

“You shall be removed to another chamber,” he pursued, “where you can be more strictly watched.”

“Take me forth oh! take me forth,” cried Auriol. “It was a mere impulse of desperation, which I now repent.”

“I dare not trust you. You will commit some act of insane fury, for which I myself shall have to bear the blame. When I yielded to your entreaties on a former occasion, and took you forth, I narrowly prevented you from doing all we met a mischief.”

“I have no recollection of any such circumstance,” returned Auriol, mournfully.

“But it may be true, nevertheless. And if so, it only proves the lamentable condition to which I am reduced memory and reason gone!”

“Ay, both gone,” cried the other, with an irrepressible chuckle. “Ha!” exclaimed Auriol, starring. “I am not so mad but I recognize in you the Evil Being who tempted me. I am not so oblivious as to forget our terrible interviews.”

“What, you are in your lunes again!” cried Rougemont fiercely. “Nay, then I must call my assistants, and bin you.”

“Let me be — let me be!” implored Auriol, “and I will offend you no more.

Whatever thoughts may arise within me, I will not give utterance to them. Only take me forth.”

“I came for that purpose,” said Rougemont; “but I repeat, I dare not. You are not sufficiently master of yourself.”

“Try me,” said Auriol.

“Well,” rejoined the other, “I will see what I can do to calm you.”

So saying, he disappeared for a few moments, and then returning with a torch, placed it on the ground, and producing a phial, handed it to the captive.

“Drink!” he said.

Without a moment’s hesitation Auriol complied.

“It seems to me rather a stimulant than a soothing potion,” he remarked, after emptying the phial.

“You are in no condition to judge,” rejoined the other.

And he proceeded to unfasten Auriol’s chain.

“Now then, come with me,” he said, “and do not make any attempt at evasion, or you will rue it.”

Like one in a dream, Auriol followed his conductor down the flight of steps leading from the dungeon, and along a narrow passage. As he proceeded, he thought he heard stealthy footsteps behind him; but he never turned his head, to see whether he was really followed. In this way they reached a short steep staircase, and, mounting it, entered a vault, in which Rougemont paused, and placed the torch he had brought with him upon the floor. Its lurid glimmer partially illumined the chamber, and showed that it was built of stone. Rude benches of antique form were set about the vault, and motioning Auriol to be seated upon one of them, Rougemont sounded a silver whistle. The summons was shortly afterwards answered by the dwarf, in whose attire a new change had taken place. He was now clothed in a jerkin of grey serge, fashioned like the garments worn by the common people in Elizabeth’s reign, and wore a trencher cap on his head. Auriol watched him as he timidly advanced towards Rougemont, and had an indistinct recollection of having seen him before; but could not call to mind how or where.

“Is your master a-bed?” demanded Rougemont.

“A-bed! Good lack, sir!” exclaimed the dwarf, “little of sleep; knows Doctor Lamb. He will toil at the furnace till the stars have set.”

“Doctor Lamb !“repeated Auriol. “Surely I have heard that name before?”

“Very likely,” replied Rougemont, “for it is the name borne by your nearest kinsman.”

“How is the poor young gentleman?” asked the dwarf, glancing commiseratingly at Auriol. “My master often makes inquiries after his grandson, and grieves that the state of his mind should render it necessary to confine him.”

“His grandson! I — Doctor Lamb’s grandson!” cried Auriol.

“In sooth are you, young sir,” returned the dwarf. “Were you in your reason, you would be aware that my master’s name is the same as your own — Darcy —

Reginald Darcy. He assumes the name of Doctor Lamb to delude the multitude. He told you as much yourself, sweet sir, if your poor wits would enable you to recollect it.”

“Am I in a dream, good fellow, tell me that?” cried Auriol, lost in amazement.

“Alack, no, sir,” replied the dwarf; “to my thinking, you are wide awake. But you know, sir,” he added, touching his forehead, “you have been a little wrong here, and your memory and reason are not of the clearest.”

“Where does my grandsire dwell?” asked Auriol.

“Why here, sir,” replied the dwarf; “and for the matter of locality, the house is situated on the south end of London-bridge.”

“On the bridge — did you say on the bridge, friend?” cried Auriol.

“Ay, on the bridge — where else should it be? You would not have your grandsire live under the river?” rejoined the dwarf; “though, for ought I know, some of these vaults may go under it. They are damp enough.”

Auriol was lost in reflection, and did not observe a sign that passed between the dwarf and Rougemont.

“Will it disturb Doctor Lamb if his grandson goes up to him?” said the latter, after a brief pause.

“My master does not like to be interrupted in his operations, as you know, sir,”

replied the dwarf, “and seldom suffers anyone, except myself, to enter his laboratory; but I will make so bold as to introduce Master Auriol, if he desires it.”

“You will confer the greatest favour on me by doing so,.” cried Auriol, rising.

“Sit down — sit down!” said Rougemont, authoritatively. “You cannot go up till the doctor has been apprised. Remain here, while Flapdragon and I ascertain his wishes.” So saying, he quitted the chamber by a farther outlet with the dwarf.

During the short time that Auriol was left alone, he found it vain to attempt to settle his thoughts, or to convince himself that he was not labouring under some strange delusion. He was aroused at length by the dwarf, who returned alone.

“Your grandsire will see you,” said the mannikin.

“One word before we go,” cried Auriol, seizing his arm.

“Saints! how you frighten me!” exclaimed the dwarf. “You must keep composed, or I dare not take you to my master.”

“Pardon me,” replied Auriol; “I meant not to alarm you. Where is the person who brought me hither?”

“What, your keeper?” said the dwarf. “Oh, he is within call. He will come to you anon. Now follow me.”

And taking up the torch, he led the way out of the chamber. Mounting a spiral staircase, apparently within a turret, they came to a door, which being opened by Flapdragon, disclosed a scene that well-nigh stupefied Auriol.

It was the laboratory precisely as he had seen it above two centuries ago. The floor was strewn with alchemical implements — the table was covered with mystic parchments inscribed with cabalistic characters — the furnace stood in the corner — crucibles and cucurbites decorated the chimney-board — the sphere and brazen lamp hung from the ceiling — the skeletons grinned from behind the chimney-corner — all was there as he had seen it before! There was also Doctor Lamb, in his loose gown of sable silk, with a square black cap upon his venerable head, and his snowy beard streaming to his girdle.

The old man’s gaze was fixed upon a crucible placed upon the furnace, and he was occupied in working the bellows. He moved his head as Auriol entered the chamber, and the features became visible. It was a face never to be forgotten.

“Come in, grandson,” said the old man, kindly. “Come in, and close the door after you. The draught affects the furnace — my Athanor, as we adepts term it.

So you are better, your keeper tells me — much better.”

“Are you Indeed living?” cried Auriol, rushing wildly towards him, and attempting to take his hand.

“Off — off!” cried the old man, drawing back as if alarmed. “You disturb my operations. Keep him calm, Flapdragon, or take him hence. He may do me a mischief.”

“I have no such intention, sir,” said Auriol; “indeed I have not. I only wish to be assured that you are my aged relative.”

“To be sure he is, young sir,” interposed the dwarf. “Why should you doubt it?”

“Oh! sir,” cried Auriol, throwing himself at the old man’s feet, “pity me if I am mad; but offer me some explanation, which may tend to restore me to my senses. My reason seems gone, yet I appear capable of receiving impressions from external objects. I see you, and appear to know you. I see this chamber — these alchemical implements — that furnace — these different objects — and I appear to recognize them. Am I deceived, or is this real?”

“You are not deceived, my son,” replied the old man. “You have been in this room before, and you have seen me before. It would be useless to explain to you now how you have suffered from fever, and what visions your delirium has produced.

When you are perfectly restored, we will talk the matter over.”

And, as he said this, he began to blow the fire anew, and watched with great apparent interest the changing colours of the liquid cucurbite placed on the furnace.

Auriol looked at him earnestly, but could not catch another glance, so intently was the old man occupied. At length he ventured to break the silence.

“I should feel perfectly convinced, if I might look forth from that window,” he said.

“Convinced of what?” rejoined the old man, somewhat sharply.

“That I am what I seem,” replied Auriol.

“Look forth, then,” said the old man. “But do not disturb me by idle talk. There is the rosy colour in the projection for which I have been so long waiting.”

Auriol then walked to the window and gazed through the tinted panes. It was very dark, and objects could only be imperfectly distinguished. Still he fancied he could detect the gleam of the river beneath him, and what seemed a long line of houses on the bridge. He also fancied he discerned other buildings, with the high roofs, the gables, and the other architectural peculiarities of the structures of Elizabeth’s time. He persuaded himself, also, that he could distinguish through the gloom the venerable Gothic pile of Saint Paul’s Cathedral on the other side of the water, and, as if to satisfy him that he was right, a deep solemn bell tolled forth the hour of two. After a while he returned from the window, and said to his supposed grandsire, “I am satisfied. I have lived centuries in a few nights.”

THE END