The Legendary and Poetical Remains of John Roby Part 40

Utterly unprepared with evidence, he knew not where to apply. That he was the victim of some foul plot, so far appeared certain; but for what purpose, and at whose instigation, was inexplicable.

Ere an hour had elapsed, De Vessey found himself in one of the cells of a public dungeon, with ample leisure to form plans for proving his innocence. He determined early on the morrow to acquaint his friends, and employ a celebrated advocate to expose this villanous doctor, who no doubt had designs either on his purse or person.

In a while, the prisoner fell asleep from fatigue and exhaustion. He was awakened by a sudden glare across his eyelids. At first, imagining he was under the influence of some extravagant dream, he made little effort to arouse himself. A figure stood beside the couch; a lamp lifted above his head. A friar's cowl concealed his features; his person too was enveloped in a coa.r.s.e garment, with a huge rosary at his girdle.

"Mortal, awake and listen," said the unknown visitor, "Art weary of life, or does this present world content thee?"

"Who art thou?" said De Vessey, scarcely raising himself from the pallet.

"I am thy friend, thy deliverer an' thou wilt."

"Thanks!" said the knight, springing from his rec.u.mbent posture.

"Stay!" replied the intruder, "there be conditions ere thou pa.s.s hence.

Miserable offspring of Adam, ye still cling to your prison and your clay. Wherefore shrink from the separation, afraid to shake off your bonds, your loathsome carcase, and spring forth at once to life? Art thou prepared to fulfil one--but one condition for thy release?"

"Name it! Manifest my innocence; and if it be gold, thou shalt have thy desire. No hired advocate ere yet held such a fee!"

"Keep thy gold for baser uses; it buyeth not my benefits. But remember, thy life is not worth a week's purchase, neither is thy mistress'

forsooth, shouldest thou be witless enough to refuse. An ignominious death, a base exit for thyself,--for her, madness and a speedy grave.

One fate awaits ye both. Life and health, if thou consent are yours."

"Thou speakest riddles. It were vain trying to comprehend their import.

Name thy conditions. Aught, that honour may purchase, will I give."

The stranger threw back his cowl, displaying the features of the renowned Doctor Hermann Sichel: a gleam of lurid intelligence lighted his grim grey eyes, that might betoken either insanity or excitement.

Without reflecting for one moment on the hazard and imprudence of his conduct, De Vessey immediately rushed forward, grappled with his adversary, and threw him.

"Now will I have deadly vengeance, fiend! Take that!" said he, drawing forth a concealed poignard, and thrusting with all his might. Scorn puckered the features of the pretended monk. The weapon's point was driven back, refusing to enter, as though his enemy held a charmed existence.

"Put back thy weapon; thou wilt have need of it elsewhere, silly one."

De Vessey was confounded at this unlooked-for result. His foe seemed invulnerable, and he slunk back.

"I forgive thee, poor fool! Put it back, I say. There--there--now to work--time hastens, and there is little s.p.a.ce for parley."

"What is thy will?"

"Thy welfare, thy life; listen. Yonder unhappy wretch I have loaden with benefits, rescued from poverty, disgrace, lifted him to the pinnacle of his ambition, the highest rank in art. Base ingrate, he threatened to betray, to denounce, and I crushed the reptile. He is now what thou shalt be shortly, unless my power be put forth for thy rescue. Not all the united efforts of man can deliver thee. Beyond earthly aid, thou diest the death of a dog!"

"Why dost thou accuse me of a crime, knowing that I am innocent?"

"To drive thee, helpless, into my power. Think not to escape save on one condition."

"Name it," said De Vessey.

"Self-preservation is the great, the paramount law of our nature; the most powerful impulse implanted in our being. All, all obey this impulse; and who can control or forbid its operation? Will not the most timid, the most scrupulous, if no alternative be afforded, slay the adversary who seeks his life; and does not the law both of earth and heaven hold him guiltless? Thou art now denounced. Innocent, thy life must be sacrificed. Thou diest, or another; there is no choice."

"But shall _I_ murder the innocent."

"And suppose it be. What thinkest thou? Two persons, equally guiltless, one of them must die. Self-preservation will prompt instinctively to action. Does not the drowning man cling to his companion; nay, rescue himself at the expense of another's life?"

De Vessey felt bewildered, if not convinced. Need we wonder if he yielded. Life or death. Honour, disgrace. His mistress restored; his innocence proved. Life, with him, had scarcely been tasted. A glorious career awaited him; his lady-love smiling through the bright vista of the future; and----the tempter prevailed!

But who must be the victim? The appalling truth was not then disclosed.

De Vessey promised to obey.

"But remember, no power, not even flight, can screen thee from my vengeance shouldst break thy vow. Take warning by the painter; the poor fool but hesitated, and his doom was swift as it was sure. Take this cowl and friar's garment; I was admitted by the jailor for thy shrift.

The lamp will guide thee. Be bold, and fear not. I will remain; to-morrow they will find out their mistake, but I have other means of escape."

"And Leonora. How shall she be recovered?"

"That is a work of peril, and will need thine utmost vigilance.

Rememberest thou the skeleton?"

"In the ebony cabinet?" inquired the cavalier, with a cold shudder.

"He hath her portrait, and will not lightly be persuaded to give his prey. _Every month I am bound to furnish him a bride!_ My own life pays the forfeit of omission. Leonora is the next victim, unless thou prevail, betrothed to that grisly type of death!"

"Oh, horrible! Mine the bride of a loathsome skeleton! Of an atomy! A fiend! Monster, I will denounce thee. I care not for my own life. Of what worth if torn from hers. Wretch, give back my bride or----"

"Spare these transports. I am now thine only friend. Thou art now cut off from thy kin, shunned by mankind. To whom then wilt thou turn for help? Mine thou art, for ever!"

De Vessey gasped for utterance.

"Nevertheless," continued his tormentor, "I will direct and help thee in this matter also. But 'tis a fearful venture. Hast thou courage?"

"If to rescue her, aught that human arm can achieve shall be done."

"He holds the portrait, I tell thee, with a steady gripe. Those skeleton fingers will be hard to unloose."

"I will break them, or perish. This good----"

"Touch them not for thy life. Death, sure but lingering, awaits whomsoever they fasten upon. Take this key. It will admit thee to the apartment. To-night the deed must be accomplished, or to-morrow the maiden is beyond succour."

"And how is this charmed picture to be wrested from him?"

"An ebony wand lies at his feet; he will obey its touch. But whatsoever thou seest, be nothing daunted, nor let any silly terror scare thee from thy purpose. Now to thy task. But keep these marvels to thyself. If thou whisper, ay to the winds, our compact, thou art not safe."

Soon De Vessey, enveloped in his disguise, found egress without difficulty. Once outside the prison, he hurried on scarcely giving himself time for reflection.

The night was dark and stormy. Torches, distributed about the streets, rocked and swung to and fro in their sockets, the flames, with a strange and flickering glare, giving an unnatural distorted appearance to objects within reach; and, to some solitary individual, at this late hour hurrying alone, the grim aspect of a demon or a spectre to the disturbed imagination of the lover. His courage, at times on the point of deserting him, revived, when he remembered that another's life, dearer than his own, depended on his exertions. The streets, almost deserted, swam with continually acc.u.mulating torrents: but he felt not that terrible tempest; the turmoil, the conflict within, was louder than the roar and tumult of outward elements.

Almost ere he was aware, he found himself opposite the entrance of the painter's habitation; a shudder, like a death-chill, shot through his frame. He applied his key. A distant gleam, a dim lurid light, seemed to quiver before him. He heard the quick jar, the withdrawing bolt, that gave him admittance, as though it were a spectral voice warning him to desist.

The unknown dangers he antic.i.p.ated, rendered more terrific by their vague indefinite character, were enough to appal a stouter bosom. De Vessey would have faced and defied earthly perils, but these were almost beyond his fort.i.tude to endure. Love, however, gave excitement, if not courage, and he resolved either to succeed or perish in the attempt. The stairs were partially illumined by an uncertain glimmer from a narrow window into the street. He felt his way, and every step sent the life-blood curdling to his heart. He reached the topmost stair; laid one hand on the latch. He listened; all was still, save the hollow gusts that rumbled round the dwelling.

With a feeling somewhat akin to desperation, he entered. A lamp yet burning emitted a feeble glare, but was well-nigh spent, giving a more dismal aspect to this lonely chamber. It was apparently unoccupied. The chair, the black funeral pall left by the officers of justice over the pallet, the mysterious cabinet, the desk where the painter usually sat, all remained undisturbed. De Vessey's attention was more particularly directed towards the cabinet; there alone, according to his instructions, were the means of deliverance. A cold, clammy perspiration, a freezing s.h.i.+ver, came upon him as he approached. He laid one hand on the latch; it resisted as before. He tried force, a loud groan was heard in the chamber. Every fibre of his frame seemed to grow rigid; every limb stiffened with horror, and he drew back.