Title: Auriol
Author: William Harrison Ainsworth
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Auriol; or, The Elixir of Life
William Harrison Ainsworth




PROLOGUE--1599--DOCTOR LAMB


The Sixteenth Century drew to a close. It was the last day of the last
year, and two hours only were wanting to the birth of another year and
of another century.

The night was solemn and beautiful. Myriads of stars paved the deep
vault of heaven; the crescent moon hung like a silver lamp in the
midst of them; a stream of rosy and quivering light issuing from the
north traversed the sky, like the tail of some stupendous comet; while
from its point of effluence broke forth, ever and anon, coruscations
rivalling in splendour and variety of hue the most brilliant discharge
of fireworks.

A sharp frost prevailed; but the atmosphere was clear and dry, and
neither wind nor snow aggravated the wholesome rigour of the season.
The water lay in thick congealed masses around the conduits and wells,
and the buckets were frozen on their stands. The thoroughfares were
sheeted with ice, and dangerous to horsemen and vehicles; but the
footways were firm and pleasant to the tread.

Here and there, a fire was lighted in the streets, round which ragged
urchins and mendicants were collected, roasting fragments of meat
stuck upon iron prongs; or quaffing deep draughts of metheglin and
ale, out of leathern cups. Crowds were collected in the open places,
watching the wonders in the heavens, and drawing auguries from them,
chiefly sinister, for most of the beholders thought the signs
portended the speedy death of the queen, and the advent of a new
monarch from the north a safe and easy interpretation, considering the
advanced age and declining health of the illustrious Elizabeth,
together with the known appointment of her successor, James of
Scotland.

Notwithstanding the early habits of the times, few persons had retired
to rest, a universal wish prevailing among the citizens to see the new
year in, and welcome the century accompanying it. Lights glimmered in
most windows, revealing the holly-sprigs and laurel leaves stuck
thickly in their diamond panes; while, whenever a door was opened, a
ruddy gleam burst across the street; and a glance inside the dwelling
showed its inmates either gathered round the glowing hearth, occupied
in mirthful sports--fox-i'-th'-hole, blind-man's-buff, or shoe-the-
mare--or seated at the ample board groaning with Christmas cheer.

Music and singing were heard at every comer, and bands of comely
damsels, escorted by their sweethearts, went from house to house,
bearing huge brown bowls dressed with ribands and rosemary, and filled
with a drink called "lamb's-wool", composed of sturdy ale, sweetened
with sugar, spiced with nutmeg, and having toasts and burnt crabs
floating within it,--a draught from which seldom brought its pretty
bearers less than a groat, and occasionally a more valuable coin. Such
was the vigil of the year 1600.

On this night, and at the tenth hour, a man of striking and venerable
appearance was seen to emerge upon a small wooden balcony, projecting
from a bay-window near the top of a picturesque structure situated at
the southern extremity of London-bridge.

The old man's beard and hair were as white as snow--the former
descending almost to his girdle; so were the thick over--hanging brows
that shaded his still piercing eyes. His forehead, was high, bald, and
ploughed by innumerable wrinkles. His countenance, despite its death-
like paleness, had a noble and majestic cast, and his figure, though
worn to the bone by a life of the severest study, and bent by the
weight of years, must have been once lofty and commanding. His dress
consisted of a doublet and hose of sad-coloured cloth, over which he
wore a loose gown of black silk. His head was covered by a square
black cap, from beneath which his silver locks strayed over his
shoulders.

Known by the name of Doctor Lamb, and addicted to alchemical and
philosophical pursuits, this venerable personage was esteemed by the
vulgar as little better than a wizard. Strange tales were reported and
believed of him. Amongst others, it was said that he possessed a
familiar, because he chanced to employ a deformed, crack-brained
dwarf, who assisted him in his operations, and whom he appropriately
enough denominated Flapdragon.

Doctor Lamb's gaze was fixed intently upon the heavens, and he seemed
to be noting the position of the moon with reference to some
particular star.

After remaining in this posture for a few minutes, he was about to
retire, when a loud crash arrested him, and he turned to see whence it
proceeded.

Immediately before him stood the Southwark Gateway--a square stone
building, with a round, embattled turret at each corner, and a flat,
leaden roof, planted with a forest of poles, fifteen or sixteen feet
high, garnished with human heads. To his surprise, the doctor
perceived that two of these poles had just been overthrown by a tall
man, who was in the act of stripping them of their grisly burdens.

Having accomplished his object, the mysterious plunderer thrust his
spoil into a leathern bag with which he was provided, tied its mouth,
and was about to take his departure by means of a rope-ladder attached
to the battlements, when his retreat was suddenly cut off by the
gatekeeper, armed with a halberd, and bearing a lantern, who issued
from a door opening upon the leads.

The baffled marauder looked round, and remarking the open window at
which Doctor Lamb was stationed, hurled the sack and its contents
through it. He then tried to gain the ladder, but was intercepted by
the gatekeeper, who dealt him a severe blow on the head with his
halberd. The plunderer uttered a loud cry, and attempted to draw his
sword; but before he could do so, he received a thrust in the side
from his opponent. He then fell, and the gatekeeper would have
repeated the blow, if the doctor had not called to him to desist.

"Do not kill him, good Baldred," he cried. "The attempt may not be so
criminal as it appears. Doubtless, the mutilated remains which the
poor wretch has attempted to carry off, are those of his kindred, and
horror at their exposure must have led him to commit the offence."

"It may be, doctor," replied Baldred; "and if so I shall be sorry I
have hurt him. But I am responsible for the safe custody of these
traitorous relics, and it is as much as my own head is worth to permit
their removal."

"I know it," replied Doctor Lamb; "and you are fully justified in what
you have done. It may throw some light upon the matter, to know whose
miserable remains have been disturbed."

"They were the heads of two rank, papists," replied Baldred, "who were
decapitated on Tower Hill, on Saint Nicholas's day, three weeks ago,
for conspiring against the queen."

"But their names?" demanded the doctor. "How were they called?"

"They were father and son," replied Baldred;--"Sir Simon Darcy and
Master Reginald Darcy. Perchance they were known to your worship?"

"Too well--too well!" replied Doctor Lamb, in a voice of emotion, that
startled his hearer. "They were near kinsmen mine own. What is he like
who has made this strange attempt?"

"Of a verity, a fair youth," replied Baldred, holding down the
lantern. "Heaven grant I have not wounded him to the death! No, his
heart still beats. Ha! here are his tablets," he added, taking a small
book from his doublet; "these may give the information you seek. You
were right in your conjecture, doctor. The name herein inscribed is
the same as that borne by the others--Auriol Darcy."

"I see it all," cried Lamb. "It was a pious and praiseworthy deed.
Bring the unfortunate youth to my dwelling, Baldred, and you shall be
well rewarded. Use despatch, I pray you."

As the gatekeeper essayed to comply, the wounded man groaned deeply,
as if in great pain.

"Ring me the weapon with which you smote him," cried Doctor Lamb, in
accents of commiseration, "and I will anoint it with the powder of
sympathy. His anguish will be speedily abated."

"I know your worship can accomplish wonders," cried Baldred, throwing
the halberd into the balcony. "I will do my part as gently as I can."

And as the alchemist took up the weapon, and disappeared through the
window, the gatekeeper lifted the wounded man by the shoulders, and
conveyed him down a narrow winding staircase to a lower chamber.
Though he proceeded carefully, the sufferer was put to excruciating
pain; and when Baldred placed him on a wooden bench, and held a lamp
towards him, he perceived that his features were darkened and
distorted.

"I fear it's all over with him," murmured the gatekeeper; "I shall
have a dead body to take to Doctor Lamb. It would be a charity to
knock him on the head, rather than let him suffer thus. The doctor
passes for a cunning man, but if he can cure this poor youth without
seeing him, by the help of his sympathetic ointment, I shall begin to
believe, what some folks avouch, that he has relations with the
devil."

While Baldred was ruminating in this manner, a sudden and
extraordinary change took place in the sufferer. As if by magic, the
contraction of the muscles subsided; the features assumed a wholesome
hue, and the respiration was no longer laborious. Baldred stared as if
a miracle had been wrought.

Now that the countenance of the youth had regained its original
expression, the gatekeeper could not help being struck by its extreme
beauty. The face was a perfect oval, with regular and delicate
features. A short silken moustache covered the upper lip, which was
short and proud, and a pointed beard terminated the chin. The hair was
black, glossy, and cut short, so as to disclose a highly intellectual
expanse of brow.

The youth's figure was slight, but admirably proportioned His attire
consisted of a black satin doublet, slashed with white, hose of black
silk, and a short velvet mantle. His eyes were still closed, and it
was difficult to say what effect they might give to the face when they
lighted it up; but notwithstanding its beauty, it was impossible not
to admit that a strange, sinister, and almost demoniacal expression
pervaded the countenance.

All at once, and with as much suddenness as his cure had been
effected, the young man started, uttering a piercing cry, and placed
his hand to his side.

"Caitiff!" he cried, fixing his blazing eyes on the gatekeeper, "why
do you torture me thus? Finish me at once--Oh!"

And overcome by anguish, he sank back again.

"I have not touched you, sir," replied Baldred. "I brought you here to
succour you. You will be easier anon. Doctor Lamb must have wiped the
halberd," he added to himself.

Another sudden change. The pain fled from the sufferer's countenance,
and he became easy as before.

"What have you done to me?" he asked, with a look of gratitude; "the
torture of my wound has suddenly ceased, and I feel as if a balm had
been dropped into it, Let me remain in this state if you have any
pity--or despatch me, for my late agony was almost insupportable."

"You are cared for by one who has greater skill than any surgeon in
London," replied Baldred. "If I can manage to transport you to his
lodgings, he will speedily heal your wounds."

"Do not delay, then," replied Auriol, faintly; "for though I am free
from pain, I feel that my life is ebbing fast away.

"Press this handkerchief to your side, and lean on me." said Baldred.
"Doctor Lamb's dwelling is but a step from the gateway--in fact, the
first house on the bridge. By the way, the doctor declares he is your
kinsman."

"It is the first I ever heard of him," replied Auriol, faintly; "but
take me to him quickly, or it will be too late."

In another moment they were at the doctor's door. Baldred tapped
against it, and the summons was instantly answered by a diminutive
personage, clad in a jerkin of coarse grey serge, and having a
leathern apron tied round his waist. This was Flapdragon.

Blear-eyed, smoke-begrimed, lantern-jawed, the poor dwarf seemed as if
his whole life had been spent over the furnace. And so, in fact, it
had been. He had become little better than a pair of human bellows. In
his hand he held the halberd with which Auriol had been wounded.

"So you have been playing the leech., Flapdragon, eh?" cried Baldred.
.

"Ay, marry have I," replied the dwarf, with a wild grin, and
displaying a wolfish set of teeth, "My master ordered me to smear the
halberd with the sympathetic ointment. I obeyed him; rubbed the steel
point, first on one side, then on the other; next wiped it; and then
smeared it again."

"Whereby you put the patient to exquisite pain," replied Baldred; "but
help me to transport him to the laboratory'."

"I know not if the doctor will care to be disturbed," said Flapdragon.
"He is busily engaged on a grand operation."

"I will take the risk on myself," said Baldred. "The youth will die if
he remains here. See, he has fainted already!"

Thus urged, the dwarf laid down the halberd, and between the two,
Auriol was speedily conveyed up a wide oaken staircase to the
laboratory. Doctor Lamb was plying the bellows at the furnace, on
which a large alembic was placed, and he was so engrossed by his task,
that he scarcely noticed the entrance of the others.

"Place the youth on the ground, and rear his head against the chair,"
he cried, hastily, to the dwarf. "Bathe his brows with the decoction
in that crucible. I will attend to him anon. Come to me on the morrow,
Baldred, and I will repay thee for thy trouble. I am busy now."

"These relics, doctor," cried the gatekeeper, glancing at the bag,
which was lying on the ground, and from which a bald head extruded--"I
ought to take them back with me."

"Heed them not--they will be safe in my keeping," cried Doctor Lamb,
impatiently; "tomorrow--tomorrow."

Casting a furtive glance round the laboratory, and shrugging his
shoulders, Baldred departed; and Flapdragon having bathed the
sufferer's temples with the decoction, in obedience to his master's
injunctions, turned to inquire what he should do next.

"Be gone!" cried the doctor, so fiercely that the dwarf darted out of
the room, clapping the door after him.

Doctor Lamb then applied himself to his task with renewed ardour, and
in a few seconds became wholly insensible of the presence of a
stranger.

Revived by the stimulant, Auriol presently opened his eyes, and gazing
round the room, thought he must be dreaming, so strange and
fantastical did all appear. The floor was covered with the implements
used by the adept--bolt-heads, crucibles, cucurbites, and retorts,
scattered about without any attempt at arrangement. In one corner was
a large terrestrial sphere; near it was an astrolabe; and near that a
heap of disused glass vessels. On the other side, lay a black,
mysterious-looking book, fastened with brazen clasps. Around it, were
a ram's horn, a pair of forceps, a roll of parchment, a pestle and
mortar, and a large plate of copper, graven with the mysterious
symbols of the Isaical table. Near this was the leathern bag
containing the two decapitated heads, one of which had burst forth. On
a table, at the further end of the room, stood a large open volume,
with parchment leaves, covered with cabbalistical characters,
referring to the names of spirits. Near it were two parchment scrolls,
written in letters, respectively denominated by the Chaldaic sages,
"the Malachim", and "the Passing of the River". One of these scrolls
was kept in its place by a skull. An ancient and grotesque-looking
brass lamp, with two snake-headed burners, lighted the room. From the
ceiling depended a huge scaly sea-monster, with outspread fins, open
jaws, garnished with tremendous teeth, and great goggling eyes, Near
it hung a celestial sphere. The chimney-piece, which was curiously
carved, and projected far into the room, was laden with various
implements of Hermetic science. Above it were hung dried bats and
flitter-mice, interspersed with the skulls of birds and apes. Attached
to the chimney-piece was a horary, sculptured in stone, near which
hung a large star-fish. The fireplace was occupied by the furnace, in
which, as has been stated, was placed an alembic, communicating by
means of a long serpentine pipe with a receiver. Within the room were
two skeletons, one of which, placed behind a curtain in the deep
embrasure of the window, where its polished bones glistened in the
white moonlight, had a horrible effect. The other enjoyed more
comfortable quarters near the chimney, its fleshless feet dangling
down in the smoke arising from the furnace.

Doctor Lamb, meanwhile, steadily pursued his task, though he ever and
anon paused, to fling certain roots and drugs upon the charcoal. As he
did this, various-coloured flames broke forth--now blue, now green,
now blood-red.

Tinged by these fires, the different objects in the chamber seemed to
take other forms, and to become instinct with animation. The gourd-
shaped cucurbites were transformed into great bloated toads bursting
with venom; the long-necked bolt-heads became monstrous serpents; the
worm-like pipes turned into adders; the alembics looked like plumed
helmets; the characters on the Isaical table, and those on the
parchments, seemed traced in fire, and to be ever changing; the sea-
monster bellowed and roared, and, flapping his fins, tried to burst
from his hook; the skeletons wagged their jaws, and raised their
fleshless fingers in mockery, while blue lights burnt in their eyeless
sockets; the bellows became a prodigious bat fanning the fire with its
wings: and the old Alchemist assumed the appearance of the arch-fiend
presiding over a witches' sabbath.

Auriol's brain reeled, and he pressed his hand to his eyes, to exclude
these phantasms from his sight. But even thus they pursued him; and he
imagined he could hear the infernal riot going on around him.

Suddenly, he was roused by a loud joyful cry, and, uncovering his
eyes, he beheld Doctor Lamb pouring the contents of the matrass--a
bright, transparent liquid--into a small phial. Having carefully
secured the bottle with a glass stopper, the old man held it towards
the light, and gazed at it with rapture. "At length," he exclaimed
aloud--"at length, the great work is achieved. With the birth of the
century now expiring I first saw light, and the draught I hold in my
hand shall enable me to see the opening of centuries and centuries to
come. Composed of the lunar stones, the solar stones, and the
mercurial stones--prepared according to the instructions of the Rabbi
Ben Lucca, namely, by the separation of the pure from the impure, the
volatilisation of the fixed, and the fixing of the volatile; this
elixir shall renew my youth, like that of the eagle, and give me
length of days greater than any patriarch ever enjoyed."

While thus speaking, he held up the sparkling liquid, and gazed at it
like a Persian worshipping the sun.

"To live for ever!" he cried, after a pause--"to escape the jaws of
death just when they are opening to devour me!--to be free from all
accidents!--'tis a glorious thought! Ha! I bethink me, the rabbi said
there was one peril against which the elixir could not guard me--one
vulnerable point; by which, like the heel of Achilles, death might
reach me! What is it?--where can it lie?"

And he relapsed into deep thought.

"This uncertainty will poison all my happiness," he continued; "I
shall live in constant dread, as of an invisible enemy. But no matter!
Perpetual life!--perpetual youth!--what more need be desired?"

"What more, indeed!" cried Auriol.

"Ha!" exclaimed the doctor, suddenly recollecting the wounded man, and
concealing the phial beneath his gown.

"Your caution is vain, doctor," said Auriol. "I have heard what you
have uttered. You fancy you have discovered the elixir vitae."

"Fancy, I have discovered it!" cried Doctor Lamb. "The matter is past
all doubt. I am the possessor of the wondrous secret, which the
greatest philosophers of all ages have sought to discover--the
miraculous preservative of the body against decay."

"The man who brought me hither told me you were my kinsman," said
Auriol. "Is it so?"

"It is," replied the doctor, "and you shall now learn the connect ion
that subsists between us. Look at that ghastly relic," he added,
pointing to the head protruding from the bag, "that was once my son
Simon. His son's head is within the sack--your father's head--so that
four generations are brought together.
"
"Gracious Heaven!" exclaimed the young man, raising himself on his
elbow. "You, then, are my great-grandsire. My father supposed you had
died in his infancy. An old tale runs in the family that you were
charged with sorcery, and fled to avoid the stake."

"It is true that I fled, and took the name I bear at present," replied
the old man, "but I need scarcely say that the charge brought against
me was false. I have devoted myself to abstrusest science; have held
commune with the stars; and have wrested the most hidden secrets from
Nature--but that is all. Two crimes alone have stained my soul, but
both, I trust, have been expiated by repentance."

"Were they deeds of blood?" asked Auriol.

"One was so," replied Darcy, with a shudder. "It was a cowardly and
treacherous deed, aggravated by the basest ingratitude. Listen, and
you shall hear how it chanced. A Roman rabbi, named Ben Lucca, skilled
in Hermetic science, came to this city. His fame reached me, and I
sought him out, offering myself as his disciple. For months, I
remained with him in his laboratory working at the furnace, and poring
over mystic lore. One night, he showed me that volume, and, pointing
to a page within it, said: 'Those characters contain the secret of
confecting the elixir of life. I now explain them to you; and
afterwards we will proceed to the operation.' With this, he unfolded
the mystery; but he bade me observe, that the menstruum was defective
on one point. Wherefore, he said, 'there will still be peril from some
hidden cause.' Oh, with what greediness I drank in his words! How I
gazed at the mystic characters, as he explained their import! What
visions floated before me of perpetual youth and enjoyment. At that
moment a demon whispered in my ear,--"This secret must be thine own.
No one else must possess it."

"Ha!" exclaimed Auriol, starting.

"The evil thought was no sooner conceived than acted upon," pursued
Darcy. "Instantly drawing my poniard, I plunged it to the rabbi's
heart. But mark what followed. His blood fell upon the book, and
obliterated the characters; nor could I by any effort of memory recall
the composition of the elixir."

"When did you regain the secret?" asked Auriol, curiously.

"Tonight," replied Darcy--"within this hour. For nigh fifty years
after that fatal night I have been making fruitless experiments. A
film of blood has obscured my mental sight. I have proceeded by
calcitration, solution, putrefaction--have produced the oils which
will fix crude mercury, and convert all bodies into sol and luna; but
I have ever failed in fermenting the stone into the true elixir.
Tonight, it came into my head to wash the blood-stained page
containing the secret with a subtle liquid. I did so; and doubting the
efficacy of the experiment, left it to work, while I went forth to
breath the air at my window. My eyes were cast upwards, and I was
struck with the malignant aspect of my star. How to reconcile this
with the good fortune which has just befallen me, I know not--but so
it was. At this juncture, your rash, but pious attempt occurred.
Having discovered our relationship, and enjoined the gatekeeper to
bring you hither, I returned to my old laboratory. On glancing towards
the mystic volume, what was my surprise to see the page free from
blood!"

Auriol uttered a slight exclamation, and gazed at the book with
superstitious awe.

"The sight was so surprising, that I dropped the sack I had brought
with me," pursued Darcy. "Fearful of again losing the secret, I nerved
myself to the task, and placing fuel on the fire, dismissed my
attendant with brief injunctions relative to you. I then set to work.
How I have succeeded, you perceive. I hold in my hand the treasure I
have so long sought--so eagerly coveted. The whole world's wealth
should not purchase it from me."

Auriol gazed earnestly at his aged relative, but he said nothing.

"In a few moments I shall be as full of vigour and activity as
yourself," continued Darcy. "We shall be no longer the great-grandsire
and his descendant, but friends--companions--equals,--equals in age,
strength, activity, beauty, fortune--for youth is fortune ha! ha!
Methinks I am already young again!"

"You spoke of two crimes with which your conscience was burdened,"
remarked Auriol. "You have mentioned but one."

"The other was not so foul as that I have described," replied Darcy,
in an altered tone, "in as much as it was unintentional, and
occasioned by no base motive. My wife, your ancestress, was a most
lovely woman, and so passionately was I enamoured of her, that I tried
by every art to heighten and preserve her beauty. I fed her upon the
flesh of capons, nourished with vipers; caused her to steep her lovely
limbs in baths distilled from roses and violets; and had recourse to
the most potent cosmetics. At last I prepared a draught from poisons--
yes, poisons--the effect of which I imagined would be wondrous. She
drank it, and expired horribly disfigured. Conceive my despair at
beholding the fair image of my idolatry destroyed--defaced by my hand.
In my frenzy I should have laid violent hands upon myself, if I had
not been restrained. Love may again rule my heart--beauty may again
dazzle my eyes, but I shall never more feel the passion I entertained
for my lost Amice--never more behold charms equal to hers."

And he pressed his hand to his face.

"The mistake you then committed should serve as a warning," replied
Auriol. "What if it be poison you have now confected? Try a few drops
of it on some animal."

"No--no; it is the true elixir," replied Darcy. "Not a drop must be
wasted. You will witness its effect anon. Like the snake, I shall cast
my slough, and come forth younger than I was at twenty."

"Meantime, I beseech you to render me some assistance," groaned
Auriol, "or, while you are preparing for immortality, I shall expire
before your eyes."

"Be not afraid," replied Darcy; "you shall take no harm. I will care
for you presently; and I understand leechcraft so well, that I will
answer for your speedy and perfect recovery."

"Drink, then, to it!" cried Auriol.

"I know not what stays my hand," said the old man, raising the phial;
"but now that immortality is in my reach, I dare not grasp it."

"Give me the potion, then," cried Auriol.

"Not for worlds," rejoined Darcy, hugging the phial to his breast.
"No; I will be young again--rich--happy. I will go forth into the
world--I will bask in the smiles of beauty--I will feast, revel,
sing--life shall be one perpetual round of enjoyment. Now for the
trial--ha!" and, as he raised the potion towards his lips, a sudden
pang shot across his heart. "What is this?" he cried, staggering. "Can
death assail me when I am just about to enter upon perpetual life?
Help me, good grandson! Place the phial to my lips. Pour its contents
down my throat--quick! quick!"

"I am too weak to stir," groaned Auriol. "You have delayed it too
long."

"Oh, Heavens! we shall both perish," shrieked Darcy, vainly
endeavouring to raise his palsied arm,--"perish with the blissful
shore in view."

And he sank backwards, and would have fallen to the ground if he had
not caught at the terrestrial sphere for support.

"Help me--help me!" he screamed, fixing a glance of unutterable
anguish on his relative.

"It is worth the struggle," cried Auriol. And, by a great effort, he
raised himself, and staggered towards the old man.

"Saved--saved!" shrieked Darcy. "Pour it down my throat. An instant,
and all will be well."

"Think you I have done this for you?" cried Auriol, snatching the
potion; "no--no."

And, supporting himself against the furnace, he placed the phial to
his lips, and eagerly drained its contents.

The old man seemed paralysed by the action, but kept his eye fixed
upon the youth till he had drained the elixir to the last drop. He
then uttered a piercing cry, threw up his arm, and fell heavily
backwards.

Dead--dead!

Flashes of light passed before Auriol's eyes, and strange noises smote
his ears. For a moment he was bewildered as with wine, and laughed and
sang discordantly like a madman. Every object reeled and danced around
him. The glass vessels and jars clashed their brittle sides together,
yet remained uninjured; the furnace breathed forth flames and mephitic
vapours; the spiral worm of the alembic became red hot, and seemed
filled with molten lead; the pipe of the bolt-head ran blood; the
sphere of the earth rolled along the floor, and rebounded from the
wail as if impelled by a giant hand; the skeletons grinned and
gibbered; so did the death's-head on the table; so did the skulls
against the chimney; the monstrous sea-fish belched forth fire and
smoke; the bald decapitated head opened its eyes, and fixed them, with
a stony glare, on the young man; while the dead alchemist shook his
hand menacingly at him.

Unable to bear these accumulated horrors, Auriol became, for a short
space, insensible. On recovering, all was still. The lights within the
lamp had expired; but the bright moonlight, streaming through the
window, fell upon the rigid features of the unfortunate alchemist, and
on the cabalistic characters of the open volume beside him. Eager to
test the effect of the elixir, Auriol put his hand to his side. All
traces of the wound were gone; nor did he experience the slightest
pain in any other part of his body. On the contrary, he seemed endowed
with preternatural strength. His breast dilated with rapture, and he
longed to expand his joy in active notion. Striding over the body of
his aged relative, he threw open the window. As he did so joyous peals
burst from surrounding churches, announcing the arrival of the new
year. While listening to this clamour, Auriol gazed at the populous
and picturesque city stretched out before him, and bathed in the
moonlight.

"A hundred years hence," he thought, "and scarcely one soul of the
thousands within those houses will be living, save myself. A hundred
years after that, and their children's children will be gone to the
grave. But I shall live on--shall live through all changes--all
customs--all time. What revelations I shall then have to make, if I
should dare to disclose them!"

As he ruminated thus, the skeleton hanging near him was swayed by the
wind, and its bony fingers came in contact with his cheek. A dread
idea was suggested by the occurrence.

"There is one peril to be avoided," he thought; "ONE PERIL!--what is
it? Pshaw! I will think no more of it. It may never arise. I will be
gone. This place fevers me."

With this, he left the laboratory, and hastily descending the stairs,
at the foot of which he found Flapdragon, passed out of the house.




BOOK THE FIRST--EBBA



I. THE RUINED HOUSE IN THE VAUXHALL ROAD

One night, in the spring of 1830, two men issued from a low, obscurely
situated public-house, near Millbank, and shaped their course
apparently in the direction of Vauxhall-bridge. Avoiding the footpath
near the river, they moved stealthily along the further side of the
road, where the open ground offered them an easy means of flight, in
case such a course should he found expedient. So far as it could be
discerned by the glimpses of the moon, which occasionally shone forth
from a rack of heavy clouds, the appearance of these personages was
not much in their favour. Haggard features, stamped deeply with the
characters of crime and debauchery; fierce, restless eyes; beards of
several days' growth; wild, unkempt heads of hair, formed their chief
personal characteristics; while sordid and ragged clothes; shoes
without soles; and old hats without crowns, constituted the sum of
their apparel.

One of them was tall and gaunt, with large hands and feet; but despite
his meagreness, he evidently possessed great strength: the other was
considerably shorter, but broad-shouldered, bow-legged, long-armed,
and altogether a most formidable ruffian. This fellow had high
cheekbones, a long aquiline nose, and a coarse mouth and chin, in
which the animal greatly predominated. He had a stubby red beard, with
sandy hair, white brows and eyelashes. The countenance of the other
was dark and repulsive, and covered with blotches, the result of
habitual intemperance. His eyes had a leering and malignant look. A
handkerchief spotted with blood, and tied across his brow, contrasted
strongly with his matted black hair, and increased his natural
appearance of ferocity. The shorter ruffian carried a mallet upon his
shoulder, and his companion concealed something beneath the breast of
his coat, which afterwards proved to be a dark lantern.

Not a word passed between them; but keeping a vigilant look-out, they
trudged on with quick, shambling steps. A few sounds arose from the
banks of the river, and there was now and then a plash in the water,
or a distant cry, betokening some passing craft; but generally all was
profoundly still. The quaint, Dutch-looking structures on the opposite
bank, the line of coal-barges and lighters moored to the strand, the
great timber-yards and coal-yards, the brewhouses, gasworks, and
waterworks, could only be imperfectly discerned; but the moonlight
fell clear upon the ancient towers of Lambeth Palace, and on the
neighbouring church. The same glimmer also ran like a silver belt
across the stream, and revealed the great, stern, fortress-like pile
of the Penitentiary--perhaps the most dismal-looking structure in the
whole metropolis. The world of habitations beyond this melancholy
prison were buried in darkness. The two men, however, thought nothing
of these things, and saw nothing of them; but, on arriving within a
couple of hundred yards of the bridge, suddenly, as if by previous
concert, quitted the road, and, leaping a rail, ran across a field,
and plunged into a hollow formed by a dried pit, where they came to a
momentary halt.

"You ain't a-been a-gammonin' me in this matter, Tinker?" observed the
shorter individual. "The cove's sure to come?"

"Why, you can't expect me to answer for another as I can for myself,
Sandman," replied the other; "but if his own word's to be taken for
it, he's sartin to be there. I heerd him say, as plainly as I'm a-
speakin' to you,--'I'll be here tomorrow night at the same hour--'"

"And that wos one o'clock?" said the Sandman.

"Thereabouts," replied the other.

"And who did he say that to?" demanded the Sandman.

"To hisself, I s'pose," answered the Tinker; "for, as I told you
afore, I could see no one vith him."

"Do you think he's one of our perfession?" inquired the Sandman.

"Bless you! no--that he hain't," returned the Tinker. "He's a reg'lar
slap-up swell."

"That's no reason at all," said the Sandman. "Many a first-rate svell
practises in our line. But he can't be in his right mind to come to
such a ken as that, and go on as you mentions."

"As to that I can't say," replied the Tinker; "and it don't much
matter, as far as ve're consarned."

"Devil a bit," rejoined the Sandman, "except--you're sure it worn't a
sperrit, Tinker. I've heerd say that this crib is haanted, and though
I don't fear no livin' man, a ghost's a different sort of customer."

"Vell, you'll find our svell raal flesh and blood, you may depend upon
it," replied the Tinker. "So come along, and don't let's be
frightenin' ourselves vith ould vimen's tales."

With this they emerged from the pit, crossed the lower part of the
field, and entered a narrow thoroughfare, skirted by a few detached
houses, which brought them into the Vauxhall-bridge road.

Here they kept on the side of the street most in shadow, and crossed
over whenever they came to a lamp. By-and-by, two watchmen were seen
advancing from Belvoir-terrace, and, as the guardians of the night
drew near, the ruffians crept into an alley to let them pass. As soon
as the coast was clear, they ventured forth, and quickening their
pace, came to a row of deserted and dilapidated houses. This was their
destination.

The range of habitations in question, more than a dozen in number,
were, in all probability, what is vulgarly called "in Chancery", and
shared the fate of most property similarly circumstanced. They were in
a sad ruinous state--unroofed, without windows and floors. The bare
walls were alone left standing, and these were in a very tumbledown
condition. These neglected dwellings served as receptacles for old
iron, blocks of stone and wood, and other ponderous matters. The
aspect of the whole place was so dismal and suspicious, that it was
generally avoided by passengers after nightfall.

Skulking along the blank and dreary walls, the Tinker, who was now a
little in advance, stopped before a door, and pushing it open, entered
the dwelling. His companion followed him.

The extraordinary and incongruous assemblage of objects which met the
gaze of the Sandman, coupled with the deserted appearance of the
place, produced an effect upon his hardy but superstitious nature.

Looking round, he beheld huge mill-stones, enormous water-wheels,
boilers of steam-engines, iron vats, cylinders, cranes, iron pumps of
the strangest fashion, a gigantic pair of wooden scales, old iron
safes, old boilers, old gas-pipes, old water-pipes, cracked old bells,
old birdcages, old plates of iron, old pulleys, ropes, and rusty
chains, huddled and heaped together in the most fantastic disorder. In
the midst of the chaotic mass frowned the bearded and colossal head of
Neptune, which had once decorated the forepart of a man-of-war. Above
it, on a sort of framework, lay the prostrate statue of a nymph,
together with a bust of Fox, the nose of the latter being partly
demolished, and the eyes knocked in. Above these, three garden
divinities laid their heads amicably together. On the left stood a
tall Grecian warrior, minus the head and right hand. The whole was
surmounted by an immense ventilator, stuck on the end of an iron rod,
ascending, like a lightning-conductor, from the steam-engine pump.

Seen by the transient light of the moon, the various objects above
enumerated produced a strange effect upon the beholder's imagination.
There was a mixture of the grotesque and terrible about them. Nor was
the building itself devoid of a certain influence upon his mind. The
ragged brickwork, over-grown with weeds, took with him the semblance
of a human face, and seemed to keep a wary eye on what was going
forward below.

A means of crossing from one side of the building to the other,
without descending into the vault beneath, was afforded by a couple of
planks; though as the wall on the farther side was some feet higher
than that near at hand, and the planks were considerably bent, the
passage appeared hazardous.

Glancing round for a moment, the Tinker leaped into the cellar, and,
unmasking his lantern, showed a sort of hiding-place, between a bulk
of timber and a boiler, to which he invited his companion.

The Sandman jumped down.

"The ale I drank at the 'Two Fighting Cocks' has made me feel drowsy,
Tinker," he remarked, stretching himself on the bulk; "I'll just take
a snooze. Vake me up if I snore--or ven our sperrit appears."

The Tinker replied in the affirmative; and the other had just become
lost to consciousness, when he received a nudge in the side, and his
companion whispered--"He's here!"

"Vhere--vhere?" demanded the Sandman, in some trepidation.

"Look up, and you'll see him," replied the other.

Slightly altering his position, the Sandman caught sight of a figure
standing upon the planks above them. It was that of a young man. His
hat was off, and his features, exposed to the full radiance of the
moon, looked deathly pale, and though handsome, had a strange sinister
expression. He was tall, slight, and well-proportioned; and the
general cut of his attire, the tightly buttoned, single-breasted coat,
together with the moustache upon his lip, gave him a military air.

"He seems a-valkin' in his sleep," muttered the Sandman. "He's a-
speakin' to some von unwisible."

"Hush hush!" whispered the other. "Let's hear wot he's a-sayin'."

"Why have you brought me here?" cried the young man, in a voice so
hollow that it thrilled his auditors. "What is to be done?"

"It makes my blood run cold to hear him," whispered the Sandman. "Vot
d'ye think he sees?"

"Why do you not speak to me?" cried the young man--"why do you beckon
me forward? Well, I obey. I will follow you." And he moved slowly
across the plank.

"See, he's a-goin' through that door," cried the Tinker. "Let's foller
him."

"I don't half like it," replied the Sandman, his teeth chattering with
apprehension. "We shall see summat as'll take avay our senses."

"Tut!" cried the Tinker; "it's only a sleepy-valker. Wot are you
afeerd on?"

With this he vaulted upon the planks, and peeping cautiously out of
the open door to which they led, saw the object of his scrutiny enter
the adjoining house through a broken window.

Making a sign to the Sandman, who was close at his heels, the Tinker
crept forward on all fours, and, on reaching the window, raised
himself just sufficiently to command the interior of the dwelling.
Unfortunately for him, the moon was at this moment obscured, and he
could distinguish nothing except the dusky outline of the various
objects with which the place was filled, and which were nearly of the
same kind as those of the neighbouring habitation. He listened
intently, but not the slightest sound reached his ears.

After some time spent in this way, he began to fear the young man must
have departed, when all at once a piercing scream resounded through
the dwelling. Some heavy matter was dislodged, with a thundering
crash, and footsteps were heard approaching the window.

Hastily retreating to their former hiding-place, the Tinker and his
companion had scarcely regained it, when the young man again appeared
on the plank. His demeanour had undergone a fearful change. He
staggered rather than walked, and his countenance was even paler than
before. Having crossed the plank, he took his way along the top of the
broken wall towards the door.

"Now, then, Sandman!" cried the Tinker; "now's your time!"

The other nodded, and, grasping his mallet with a deadly and
determined purpose, sprang noiselessly upon the wall, and overtook his
intended victim just before he gained the door.

Hearing a sound behind him, the young man turned, and only just became
conscious of the presence of the Sandman, when the mallet descended
upon his head, and he fell crushed and senseless to the ground.

"The work's done!" cried the Sandman to his companion, who instantly
came up with the dark lantern; "let's take him below, and strip him."

"Agreed," replied the Tinker; "but first let's see wot he has got in
his pockets."

"Vith all my 'art," replied the Sandman, searching the clothes of the
victim. "A reader!--I hope it's well lined. We'll examine it below.
The body 'ud tell awkvard tales if any von should chance to peep in."

"Shall we strip him here?" said the Tinker. "Now the darkey shines on
'em, you see what famous togs the cull has on."

"Do you vant to have us scragged, fool?" cried the Sandman, springing
into the vault "Hoist him down here."

With this, he placed the wounded man's legs over his own shoulders,
and, aided by his comrade, was in the act of heaving down the body,
when the street-door suddenly flew open, and a stout individual,
attended by a couple of watchmen, appeared at it.

"There the villains are!" shouted the newcomer. They have been
murderin' a gentleman. Seize 'em--seize 'em!"

And, as he spoke, he discharged a pistol, the ball from which whistled
past the ears of the Tinker.

Without waiting for another salute of the same kind, which might
possibly be nearer its mark, the ruffian kicked the lantern into the
vault, and sprang after the Sandman, who had already disappeared.

Acquainted with the intricacies of the place, the Tinker guided his
companion through a hole into an adjoining vault, whence they scaled a
wail, got into the next house, and passing through an open window,
made good their retreat, while the watchmen were vainly searching for
them under every bulk and piece of iron.

"Here, watchmen!" cried the stout individual, who had acted as leader;
"never mind the villains just now, but help me to convey this poor
young gentleman to my house, where proper assistance can be rendered
him. He still breathes; but he has received a terrible blow on the
head. I hope his skull ain't broken."

"It is to be hoped it ain't, Mr. Thorneycroft," replied the foremost
watchman; "but them was two desperate characters, as ever I see, and
capable of any ahtterosity."

"What a frightful scream I heard to be sure!" cried Mr. Thorneycroft.
"I was certain sornethin' dreadful was goin' on. It was fortunate I
wasn't gone to bed; and still more fortunate you happened to be comin'
up at the time. But we mustn't stand chatterin' here. Bring the poor
young gentleman along."

Preceded by Mr. Thorneycroft, the watchmen carried the wounded man
across the road towards a small house, the door of which was held open
by a female servant, with a candle in her band. The poor woman uttered
a cry of horror as the body was brought in.

"Don't be cryin' out in that way, Peggy," cried Mr. Thorneycroft, "but
go and get me some brandy. Here, watchmen, lay the poor young
gentleman down on the sofa--there, gently, gently. And now, one of you
run to Wheeler-street, and fetch Mr. Howell, the surgeon. Less noise,
Peggy--less noise, or you'll waken Miss Ebba, and I wouldn't have her
disturbed for the world."

With this, he snatched the bottle of brandy from the maid filled a
wine-glass with the spirit, and poured it down the throat of the
wounded man. A stifling sound followed, and after struggling violently
for respiration for a few seconds, the patient opened his eyes.



II. THE DOG-FANCIER

The Rookery! Who that has passed Saint Giles's, on the way to the
city, or corning from it, but has caught a glimpse, through some
narrow opening, of its squalid habitations, and wretched and ruffianly
occupants! Who but must have been struck with amazement, that such a
huge receptacle of vice and crime should be allowed to exist in the
very heart of the metropolis, like an ulcerated spot, capable of
tainting the whole system! Of late, the progress of improvement has
caused its removal; but whether any less cogent motive would have
abated the nuisance, may be questioned. For years the evil was felt,
and complained of, but no effort was made to remedy it, or to cleanse
these worse than Augean stables. As the place is now partially, if not
altogether, swept away, and a wide and airy street passes through the
midst of its foul recesses, a slight sketch may be given of its former
appearance.

Entering a narrow street, guarded by posts and crossbars, a few steps
from the crowded thoroughfare brought you into a frightful region, the
refuge, it was easy to perceive, of half the lawless characters
infesting the metropolis. The coarsest ribaldry assailed your ears,
and noisome odours afflicted your sense of smell. As you advanced,
picking your way through kennels flowing with filth, or over
putrescent heaps of rubbish and oyster-shells, all the repulsive and
hideous features of the place were displayed before you. There was
something savagely picturesque in the aspect of the place, but its
features were too loathsome to be regarded with any other feeling than
disgust. The houses looked as sordid, and as thickly crusted with the
leprosy of vice, as their tenants. Horrible habitations they were, in
truth. Many of them were without windows, and where the frames were
left, brown paper or tin supplied the place of glass; some even wanted
doors, and no effort was made to conceal the squalor within. On the
contrary, it seemed to be intruded on observation. Miserable rooms,
almost destitute of furniture; floors and walls caked with dirt, or
decked with coarse flaring prints; shameless and abandoned-looking
women; children without shoes and stockings, and with scarcely a rag
to their backs: these were the chief objects that met the view. Of
men, few were visible--the majority being out on business, it is to be
presumed; but where a solitary straggler was seen, his sinister looks
and mean attire were in perfect keeping with the spot. So thickly
inhabited were these wretched dwellings, that every chamber, from
garret to cellar, swarmed with inmates. As to the cellars, they looked
like dismal caverns, which a wild beast would shun. Clothes-lines were
hung from house to house, festooned with every kind of garment. Out of
the main street branched several alleys and passages, all displaying
the same degree of misery, or, if possible, worse, and teeming with
occupants. Personal security, however, forbade any attempt to track
these labyrinths; but imagination, after the specimen afforded, could
easily picture them. It was impossible to move a step without insult
or annoyance. Every human being seemed brutalised and degraded; and
the women appeared utterly lost to decency, and made the street ring
with their cries, their quarrels, and their imprecations. It was a
positive relief to escape from this hotbed of crime to the world
without, and breathe a purer atmosphere.

Such being the aspect of the Rookery in the daytime, what must it have
been when crowded with its denizens at night! Yet at such an hour it
will now be necessary to enter its penetralia.

After escaping from the ruined house in the Vauxhall-road, the two
ruffians shaped their course towards Saint Giles's, running the
greater part of the way, and reaching the Broadway Just as the church
clock struck two. Darting into a narrow alley, and heedless of any
obstructions they encountered in their path, they entered a somewhat
wider cross-street, which they pursued for a short distance, and then
struck into an entry, at the bottom of which was a swing door that
admitted them into a small court, where they found a dwarfish person
wrapped in a tattered watchman's great-coat, seated on a stool with a
horn lantern in his hand and a cutty in his mouth, the glow of which
lighted up his hard, withered features. This was the deputy-porter of
the lodging-house they were about to enter. Addressing him by the name
of Old Parr, the ruffians passed on, and lifting the latch of another
door, entered a sort of kitchen, at the farther end of which blazed a
cheerful fire, with a large copper kettle boiling upon it. On one side
of the room was a deal table, round which several men of sinister
aspect and sordid attire were collected, playing at cards. A smaller
table of the same material stood near the fire, and opposite it was a
staircase leading to the upper rooms. The place was dingy and dirty in
the extreme, the floors could not have been scoured for years, and the
walls were begrimed with filth. In one corner, with his head resting
on a heap of coals and coke, lay a boy almost as black as a chimney-
sweep, fast asleep. He was the waiter. The principal light was
afforded by a candle stuck against the wall, with a tin reflector
behind it. Before the fire, with his back turned towards it, stood a
noticeable individual, clad in a velveteen jacket, with ivory buttons,
a striped waistcoat, drab knees, a faded black silk neckcloth tied in
a great bow, and a pair of ancient Wellingtons ascending half-way up
his legs, which looked disproportionately thin when compared with the
upper part of his square, robustious, and somewhat pursy frame. His
face was broad, jolly, and good-humoured, with a bottle-shaped nose,
fleshy lips, and light grey eyes, glistening with cunning and roguery.
His hair, which dangled in long flakes over his ears and neck, was of
a dunnish red, as were also his whiskers and beard. A superannuated
white castor, with a black hatband round it, was cocked knowingly on
one side of his head, and gave him a flashy and sporting look. His
particular vocation was made manifest by the number of dogs he had
about him. A beautiful black-tan spaniel, of Charles the Second's
breed, popped its short snubby nose and long silken ears out of each
coat-pocket. A pug was thrust into his breast, and he carried an
exquisite Blenheim under either arm. At his feet reposed an Isle of
Skye terrier, and a partly cropped French poodle, of snowy whiteness,
with a red worsted riband round his throat. This person, it need
scarcely be said, was a dog-fancier, or, in other words, a dealer in,
and a stealer of dogs, as well as a practiser of all the tricks
connected with that nefarious trade. His self-satisfied air made it
evident he thought himself a smart clever fellow,--and adroit and
knavish he was, no doubt,--while his droll, plausible, and rather
winning manners, helped him materially to impose upon his customers.
His real name was Taylor, but he was known among his companions by the
appellation of Ginger. On the entrance of the Sandman and the Tinker,
he nodded familiarly to them, and with a sly look inquired--"Vell, my
'arties--wot luck?"

"Oh, pretty middling'," replied the Sandman, gruffly.

And seating himself at the table, near the fire, he kicked up the lad,
who was lying fast asleep on the coals, and bade him fetch a pot of
half-and-half. The Tinker took a place beside him, and they waited in
silence the arrival of the liquor, which, when it came, was disposed
of at a couple of pulls; while Mr. Ginger, seeing they were engaged,
sauntered towards the card-table, attended by his four-footed
companions.

"And now," said the Sandman, unable to control his curiosity longer,
and taking out his pocket-book, "we'll see what fortun' has given us."

So saying, he unclasped the pocket-book, while the Tinker bent over
him in eager curiosity. But their search for money was fruitless. Not
a single bank-note was forthcoming. There were several memoranda and
slips of paper, a few cards, and an almanack for the year--that was,
all. It was a great disappointment.

"So we've had all this trouble for nuffin', and nearly got shot into
the bargain," cried the Sandman, slapping down the book on the table
with an oath. "I vish I'd never undertaken the job."

"Don't let's give it up in sich an 'urry," replied the Tinker; "summat
may be made on it yet. Let's look over them papers."

"Look 'em over yourself," rejoined the Sandman, pushing the book
towards him. "I've done wi' 'em. Here, lazy-bones, bring two glasses'
o' rum-and-water--stiff, d'ye hear?"

While the sleepy youth bestirred himself to obey these injunctions,
the Tinker read over every memorandum in the pocket-book, and then
proceeded carefully to examine the different scraps of paper with
which it was filled. Not content with one perusal, he looked them all
over again, and then began to rub his hands with great glee.

"Wot's the matter?" cried the Sandman, who had lighted a cutty, and
was quietly smoking it. "Wot's the row, eh?"

"Vy, this is it," replied the Tinker, unable to contain his
satisfaction; "there's secrets contained in this here pocket-book
as'll be worth a hundred pound and better to us. We ha'n't had our
trouble for nuffin'."

"Glad to hear it!" said the Sandman, looking hard at him. "Wot kind o'
secrets are they?"

"Vy, hangin' secrets," replied the Tinker, with mysterious emphasis.
"He seems to be a terrible chap, and to have committed murder
wholesale."

"Wholesale!" echoed the Sandman, removing the pipe from his lips.
"That sounds awful. But what a precious donkey he must be to register
his crimes i' that way."

"He didn't expect the pocket-book to fall into our hands," said the
Tinker.

"Werry likely not," replied the Sandman; "but somebody else might see
it. I repeat, he must be a fool. S'pose we wos to make a entry of
everythin' we does. Wot a nice balance there'd be agin us ven our
accounts comed to be wound up."

"Ourn is a different bus'ness altogether," replied the Tinker. "This
seems a werry mysterious sort o' person. Wot age should you take him
to be?"

"Vy, five-an' twenty at the outside," replied the Sandman.

"Five-an'-sixty 'ud be nearer the mark," replied the Tinker. "There's
dates as far back as that."

"Five-an'-sixty devils!" cried the Sandman; "there must be some
mistake i' the reckonin' there.".

"No, it's all clear an' reg'lar," rejoined the other; "and that
doesn't seem to be the end of it neither. I looked over the papers
twice, and one, dated 1780, refers to some other dokiments."

"They must relate to his granddad, then," said the Sandman; "it's
impossible they can refer to him."

"But I tell 'ee they do refer to him," said the Tinker, somewhat
angrily, at having his assertion denied; "at least, if his own word's
to be taken. Anyhow, these papers is waluable to us. If no one else
believes in 'em, it's clear he believes in 'em hisself, and will be
glad to buy 'em from us."

"That's a view o' the case worthy of an Old Bailey lawyer," replied
the Sandman. "Wot's the gemman's name?"

"The name on the card is Auriol Darcy," replied the Tinker.

"Any address?" asked the Sandman.

The Tinker shook his head.

"That's unlucky agin," said the Sandman. "Ain't there no sort o'
clue?"

"None votiver, as I can perceive," said the Tinker.

"Vy, zounds, then, ve're jist vere ve started from," cried the
Sandman. "But it don't matter. There's not much chance o' makin' a
bargin vith him. The crak o' the skull I gave him has done his
bus'ness."

"Nuffin' o' the kind," replied the Tinker. "He alvays recovers from
every kind of accident."

"Alvays recovers!" exclaimed the Sandman, in amazement. "Wot a
constitootion he must have."

"Surprisin'!" replied the Tinker; "he never suffers from injuries--at
least, not much; never grows old; and never expects to die; for he
mentions wot he intends doin' a hundred years hence."

"Oh, he's a lu-nattic!" exclaimed the Sandman, "a downright lu-nattic;
and that accounts for his wisitin' that 'ere ruined house, and a-
fancyin' he heerd some one talk to him. He's mad, depend upon it. That
is, if I ain't cured him."

"'I'm of a different opinion," said the Tinker.

"And so am I," said Mr. Ginger, who had approached unobserved, and
overheard the greater part of their discourse.

"Vy, vot can you know about it, Ginger?" said the Sandman, looking up,
evidently rather annoyed.

"I only know this," replied Ginger, "that you've got a good case, and
if you'll let me into it, I'll engage to make summat of it."

"Vell, I'm agreeable," said the Sandman.

"And so am I," added the Tinker.

"Not that I pays much regard to wot you've bin a readin' in his
papers," pursued Ginger; "the gemman's evidently half-cracked, if he
ain't cracked altogether--but he's jist the person to work upon. He
fancies hisself immortal--eh?"

"Exactly so," replied the Tinker.

"And he also fancies he's 'committed a lot o' murders?" pursued
Ginger.

"A desperate lot," replied the Tinker.

"Then he'll be glad to buy those papers at any price," said Ginger.
"Ve'll deal vith him in regard to the pocketbook, as I deals vith
regard to a dog--ask a price for its restitootion.".

"We must find him out first," said the Sandman.

"There's no difficulty in that," rejoined Ginger. "You must be
constantly on the look-out. You're sure to meet him some time or
other'."

"That's true," replied the Sandman; "and there's no fear of his
knowin' us, for the werry moment he looked round I knocked him on the
head."

"Arter all," said the Tinker, "there's no branch o' the perfession so
safe as yours, Ginger. The law is favourable to you, and the beaks is
afeerd to touch you. I think I shall turn dog-fancier myself."

"It's a good business," replied Ginger, "but it requires a hedication.
As I wos sayin', we gets a high price sometimes for restorin' a
favourite, especially ven ve've a soft-hearted lady to deal vith.
There's some vimen as fond o' dogs as o' their own childer, and ven ve
gets one o' their precious pets, ve makes 'em ransom it as the
brigands you see at the Adelphi or the Surrey sarves their prisoners,
threatenin' to send first an ear, and then a paw, or a tail, and so
on. I'll tell you wot happened t'other day. There wos a lady--a Miss
Vite--as was desperate fond of her dog. It wos a ugly warmint, but no
matter for that--the creater had gained her heart. Vell, she lost it;
and, somehow or other, I found it. She vos in great trouble, and a
friend o' mine calls to say she can have the dog agin, but she must
pay eight pound for it. She thinks this dear, and a friend o' her own
adwises her to wait, sayin' better terms will be offered; so I sends
vord by my friend that if she don't come down at once the poor
animal's throat vill be cut that werry night."

"Ha!--ha!--ha!" laughed the others.

"Vell, she sent four pound, and I put up with it," pursued Ginger;
"but about a month arterwards she loses her favourite agin, and,
strange to say, I finds it. The same game is played over again, and
she comes down with another four pound. But she takes care this time
that I sha'n't repeat the trick; for no sooner does she obtain
persession of her favourite than she embarks in the steamer for
France, in the hope of keeping her dog safe there."

"Oh! Miss Bailey, unfortinate Miss Bailey!--Fol de-riddle tol-ol-lol--
unfortinate Miss Bailey!" sang the Tinker.

"But there's dog-fanciers in France, ain't there?" asked the Sandman.

"Lor, bless 'ee, yes," replied Ginger; "there's as many fanciers i'
France as here. Vy, ve drives a smartish trade wi' them through them
foreign steamers. There's scarcely a steamer as leaves the port o'
London but takes out a cargo o' dogs. Ve sells 'em to the stewards,
stokers, and sailors--cheap--and no questins asked. They goes to
Ostend, Antverp, Rotterdam, Hamburg, and sometimes to Havre. There's a
Mounseer Coqquilu as comes over to buy dogs, and ve takes 'em to him
at a house near Billinsgit market."

"Then you're alvays sure o' a ready market somehow," observed the
Sandman.

"Sartin," replied Ginger, "cos the law's so kind to us. Vy, bless you,
a perliceman can't detain us, even if he knows ve've a stolen dog in
our persession, and ve svears it's our own; and yet he'd stop you in a
minnit if he seed you with a suspicious-lookin' bundle under your arm.
Now, jist to show you the difference atwixt the two perfessions:--I
steals a dog--walue, maybe, fifty pound, or p'raps more. Even if I'm
catched i' the fact I may get fined twenty pound, or have six months'
imprisonment; vile, if you steals an old fogle, walue three fardens,
you'll get seven years abroad, to a dead certainty."

"That seems hard on us," observed the Sandman, reflectively.

"It's the law!" exclaimed Ginger, triumphantly. "Now, ve generally
escapes by payin' the fine, 'cos our pals goes and steals more dogs to
raise the money. Ve alvays stands by each other. There's a reg'lar
horganisation among us; so ve can alvays bring vitnesses to svear vot
ve likes, and ve so puzzles the beaks, that the case gets dismissed,
and the constable says, 'Vich party shall I give the dog to, your
vorship?' Upon vich, the beak replies, a-shakin of his vise noddle,
'Give it to the person in whose persession it was found. I have
nuffin' more to do vith it.' In course the dog is delivered up to us."

"The law seems made for dog-fanciers," remarked the Tinker.

"Wot d'ye think o' this?" pursued Ginger. "I 'wos a-standin' at the
corner o' Gray's Inn-lane vith some o' my pals near a coach-stand, ven
a lady passes by vith this here dog--an' a beauty it is, a real long-
eared Charley--a follerin' of her. Vell, the moment I spies it, I
unties my apron, whips up the dog, and covers it up in a trice. Vell,
the lady sees me, an' gives me in charge to a perliceman. But that
si'nifies nuffin'. I brings six vitnesses to svear the dog vos mine,
and I actually had it since it vos a blind little puppy; and, wot's
more, I brings its mother, and that settles the pint. So in course I'm
discharged; the dog is given up to me; and the lady goes avay
lamentin'. I then plays the amiable, an' offers to sell it her for
twenty guineas, seein' as how she had taken a fancy to it; but she
von't bite. So if I don't sell it next week, I shall send it to
Mounseer Coqquilu. The only vay you can go wrong is to steal a dog wi'
a collar on, for if you do, you may get seven years' transportation
for a bit o' leather and a brass plate vorth a shillin', vile the
animal, though vorth a hundred pound, can't hurt you. There's law
again--ha, ha!"

"Dog-fancier's law!" laughed the Sandman.

"Some of the Fancy is given to cruelty," pursued Ginger, "and crops a
dog's ears, or pulls out his teeth to disguise him; but I'm too fond
o' the animal for that. I may frighten old ladies sometimes, as I told
you afore, but I never seriously hurts their pets. Nor did I ever kill
a dog for his skin, as some on 'em does."

"And you're always sure o' gettin' a dog, if you vants it, I s'pose?"
inquired the Tinker.

"Alvays," replied Ginger. "No man's dog is safe. I don't care how he's
kept, ve're sure to have him at last. Ve feels our vay with the
sarvents, and finds out from them the walley the master or missis sets
on the dog, and soon after that the animal's gone. Vith a bit o'
liver, prepared in my partic'lar vay, I can tame the fiercest dog as
ever barked, take him off his chain, an' bring him arter me at a
gallop."

"And do respectable parties ever buy dogs knowin' they're stolen?"
inquired the Tinker.

"Ay, to be sure," replied Ginger, "sometimes first-rate nobs. They put
us up to it themselves; they'll say, 'I've jist left my Lord So-and-
So's, and there I seed a couple o' the finest pointers I ever clapped
eyes on. I vant you to get me list sich another couple.' Vell, ve
understands in a minnit, an' in doo time the identicle dogs finds
their vay to our customer."

"Oh! that's how it's done?" remarked the Sandman.

"Yes, that's the vay," replied Ginger. "Sometimes a party'll vant a
couple o' dogs for the shootin' season; and then ve asks, 'Vich vay
are you a-goin'--into Surrey or Kent?' And accordin' as the answer is
given ve arranges our plans."

"Vell, yourn appears a profitable and safe employment, I must say,"
remarked the Sandman.

"Perfectly so," replied Ginger. "Nothin' can touch us till dogs is
declared by statute to be property, and stealin' 'em a misdemeanour.
And that won't occur in my time."

"Let's hope not," rejoined the other two.

"To come back to the pint from vich ve started," said the Tinker; "our
gemman's case is not so surprisin' as it at first appears. There are
some persons as believe they never will die--and I myself am of the
same opinion. There's our old deputy here--him as ve calls Old Parr
vy, he declares he lived in Queen Bess's time, recollects King Charles
bein' beheaded perfectly vell, and remembers the Great'Fire o' London,
as if it only occurred yesterday."

"Walker!" exclaimed Ginger, putting his finger to his nose.

"You may larf, but it's true," replied the Tinker. "I recollect an old
man tellin' me that he knew the deputy sixty years ago, and he looked
jist the same then as now,--neither older nor younger."

"Humph!" exclaimed Ginger. "He don't look so old now."

"That's the cur'ousest part of it," said the Tinker. "He don't like to
talk of his age unless you can get him i' the humour; but he once told
me he didn't know why he lived so long, unless it were owin' to a
potion he'd swallowed, vich his master, who was a great conjuror in
Queen Bess's days, had brew'd."

"Pshaw!" exclaimed Ginger. "I thought you too knowin' a cove, Tinker,
to be gulled by such an old-vife's story as that."

"Let's have the old fellow in and talk to him," replied the Tinker.
"Here, lazy-bones," he added, rousing the sleeping youth, "go an' tell
Old Parr ve vants his company over a glass o' rum-an'-vater."



III. THE HAND AND THE CLOAK

A furious barking from Mr. Ginger's dogs, shortly after the departure
of the drowsy youth, announced the approach of a grotesque-looking
little personage, whose shoulders barely reached to a level with the
top of the table. This was Old Parr. The dwarf's head was much too
large for his body, as is mostly the case with undersized persons, and
was covered with a forest of rusty black hair, protected by a
strangely shaped seal-skin cap. His hands and feet were equally
disproportioned to his frame, and his arms were so long that he could
touch his ankles while standing upright. His spine was crookened, and
his head appeared buried in his breast. The general character of his
face seemed to appertain to the middle period of life; but a closer
inspection enabled the beholder to detect in it marks of extreme old
age. The nose was broad and flat, like that of an orang-outang; the
resemblance to which animal was heightened by a very long upper lip,
projecting jaws, almost total absence of chin, and a retreating
forehead. The little old man's complexion was dull and swarthy, but
his eyes were keen and sparkling.

His attire was as singular as his person. Having recently served as
double to a famous demon-dwarf at the Surrey Theatre, he had become
possessed of a cast-off pair of tawny tights, an elastic shirt of the
same material and complexion, to the arms of which little green bat-
like wings were attached, while a blood-red tunic with vandyke points
was girded round his waist. In this strange apparel his diminutive
limbs were encased, while additional warmth was afforded by the great-
coat already mentioned, the tails of which swept the floor after him
like a train.

Having silenced his dogs with some difficulty, Mr. Ginger burst into a
roar of laughter, excited by the little old man's grotesque
appearance, in which he was joined by the Tinker; but the Sandman
never relaxed a muscle of his sullen countenance.

Their hilarity, however, was suddenly checked by an inquiry from the
dwarf, in a shrill, odd tone, 'whether they had sent for him only to
laugh at him?'

"Sartainly not, deputy," replied the Tinker. "Here, lazy-bones,
glasses o' rum-an'-vater, all round."

The drowsy youth bestirred himself to execute the command. The spirit
was brought; water was procured from the boiling copper; and the
Tinker handed his guest a smoking rummer, accompanied with a polite
request to make himself comfortable.

Opposite the table at which the party were seated, it has been said,
was a staircase old and crazy, and but imperfectly protected by a
broken hand-rail. Midway up it stood a door equally dilapidated, but
secured by a chain and lock, of which Old Parr, as deputy-chamberlain,
kept the key. Beyond this point, the staircase branched off on the
right, and a row of stout wooden banisters, ranged like the feet of so
many cattle, was visible from beneath. Ultimately, the staircase
reached a small gallery, if such a name can be applied to a narrow
passage, communicating with the bedrooms, the doors of which, as a
matter of needful precaution, were locked outside; and as the windows
were grated, no one could leave his chamber without the knowledge of
the landlord or his representative. No lights were allowed in the
bedrooms, nor in the passage adjoining them.

Conciliated by the Tinker's offering, Old Parr mounted the staircase,
and planting himself near the door, took off his great-coat, and sat
down upon it. His impish garb being thus more fully displayed, he
looked so unearthly and extraordinary that the dogs began to howl
fearfully, and Ginger had enough to do to quiet them.

Silence being at length restored, the Tinker, winking slyly at his
companions, opened the conversation.

"I say, deputy," he observed, "ve've bin havin' a bit o' a dispute
vich you can settle for us."

"Well, let's see," squeaked the dwarf. "What is it?"

"Vy, it's relative to your age," rejoined the Tinker. "Ven wos you
born?"

"It's so long ago, I can't recollect," returned Old Parr, rather
sulkily.

"You must ha' seen some changes in your time?" resumed the Tinker,
waiting till the little old man had made some progress with his grog.

"I rayther think I have--a few," replied Old Parr, whose tongue the
generous liquid had loosened. "I've seen this great city of London
pulled down, and built up again--if that's anything. I've seen it
grow, and grow, till it has reached its present size. You'll scarcely
believe me, when I tell you, that I recollect this Rookery of ours--
this foul vagabond neighbourhood--an open country field, with hedges
round it, and trees. And a lovely spot it was. Broad Saint Giles's, at
the time I speak of, was a little country village, consisting of a few
straggling houses standing by the roadside, and there wasn't a single
habitation between it and Convent-garden (for so the present market
was once called); while that garden, which was fenced round with
pales, like a park, extended from Saint Martin's-lane to Drury-house,
a great mansion situated on the easterly side of Drury-lane, amid a
grove of beautiful timber."

"My eyes!" cried Ginger, with a prolonged whistle; "the place must be
preciously transmogrified indeed!"

"If I were to describe the changes that have taken place in London
since I've known It, I might go on talking for a month," pursued Old
Parr. "The whole aspect of the place is altered. The Thames itself is
unlike the Thames of old. Its waters were once as clear and bright
above London-bridge as they are now at Kew or Richmond; and its banks,
from Whitefriars to Scotland-yard, were edged with gardens. And then
the thousand gay wherries and gilded barges that covered its bosom--
all are gone--all are gone!"

"Those must ha' been nice times for the jolly young vatermen vich at
Blackfriars wos used for to ply," chanted the Tinker; "but the
steamers has put their noses out o' joint."

"True," replied Old Parr; "and I, for one, am sorry for it.
Remembering, as I do, what the river used to be when enlightened by
gay craft and merry company, I can't help wishing its waters less
muddy, and those ugly coal-barges, lighters, and steamers, away.
London is a mighty city, wonderful to behold and examine,
inexhaustible in its wealth and power; but in point of beauty, it is
not to be compared with the city of Queen Bess's days. You should have
seen the Strand then--a line of noblemen's houses--and as to Lombard-
street and Gracechurch-street, with their wealthy goldsmith's shops--
but I don't like to think of 'em."

"Yell, I'm content vith Lunnun as it is," replied the Tinker,
"'specially as there ain't much chance o' the ould city bein'
rewived."

"Not much," replied the dwarf, finishing his glass, which was
replenished at a sign from the Tinker.

"I s'pose, my wenerable, you've seen the king as bequeathed his name
to these pretty creaters," said Ginger, raising his coat--pockets, so
as to exhibit the heads of the two little black-and-tan spaniels.

"What! old Rowley?" cried the dwarf--"often. I was page to his
favourite mistress, the Duchess of Cleveland, and I have seen him a
hundred times with a pack of dogs of that description at his heels."

"Old Rowley wos a king arter my own 'art," said Ginger, rising and
lighting a pipe at the fire. "He loved the femi-nine specious as well
as the ca-nine specious. Can you tell us anythin' more about him?"

"Not now," replied Old Parr. "I've seen so much, and heard so much,
that my brain is quite addled. My memory sometimes deserts me
altogether, and my past life appears like a dream. Imagine what my
feelings must be, to walk through streets, still called by the old
names, but in other respects wholly changed. Oh! if you could but have
a glimpse of Old London, you would not be able to endure the modern
city. The very atmosphere was different from that which we now
breathe, charged with the smoke of myriads of sea-coal fires; and the
old picturesque houses had a charm about them, which the present
habitations, however commodious, altogether want."

"You talk like one o' them smart chaps they calls, and werry properly,
penny-a-liars," observed Ginger. "But you make me long to ha' lived i'
those times."

"If you had lived in them, you would have belonged to Paris-garden, or
the bull-baiting and bear-baiting houses in Southwark," replied Old
Parr. "I've seen fellows just like you at each of those places.
Strange, though times and fashions change, men continue the same. I
often meet a face that I can remember in James the First's time. But
the old places are gone--clean gone!"

"Accordin' to your own showin', my wenerable friend, you must ha'
lived uppards o' two hundred and seventy year," said Ginger, assuming
a consequential manner. "Now, doorin' all that time, have you never
felt inclined to' kick the bucket?"

"Not the least," replied Old Parr. "My bodily health has been
excellent. But, as I have just said, my intellects are a little
impaired."

"Not a little, I should think," replied Ginger, hemming significantly.
"I don't know vether you're a deceivin' of us or yourself, my
wenerable; but von thing's quite clear--you can't have lived all that
time. It's not in nater."

"Very well, then--I haven't," said Old Parr.

And he finished his rum-and-water, and set down the glass, which was
instantly filled again by the drowsy youth.

"You've seen some picters o' Old Lunnum, and they've haanted you in
your dreams, till you've begun to fancy you lived in those times,"
said Ginger.

"Very likely," replied Old Parr--"very likely."

There was something, however, in his manner calculated to pique the
dog-fancier's curiosity.

"How comes it," he said, stretching out his legs, and arranging his
neckcloth,--"how comes it, if you've lived so long, that you ain't
higher up in the stirrups--better off, as folks say?"

The dwarf made no reply, but covering his face with his hands, seemed
a prey to deep emotion. After a few moments' pause, Ginger repeated
the question.

"If you won't believe what I tell you, it's useless to give an
answer," said Old Parr, somewhat gruffly.

"Oh yes, I believe you, deputy," observed the Tinker, "and so does the
Sandman."

"Well, then," replied the dwarf, "I'll tell you how it comes to pass.
Fate has been against me. I've had plenty of chances, but I never
could get on. I've been in a hundred different walks of life, but they
always led down hill. It's my destiny."

"That's hard," rejoined the Tinker--"werry hard. But how d'ye account
for livin' so long?" he added, winking as he spoke to the others.

"I've already given you an explanation," replied the dwarf.

"Ay, but it's a cur-ous story, and I vants my friends to hear it,"
said the Tinker, in a coaxing tone.

"Well then, to oblige you, I'll go through it again," rejoined the
dwarf. "You must know I was for some time servant to Doctor Lamb, an
old alchemist, who lived during the reign of good Queen Bess, and who
used to pass all his time in trying to find out the secret of changing
lead and copper into gold."

"I've known several indiwiduals as has found out that secret,
wenerable," observed Ginger. "And ve calls 'em smashers, now-a-days
not halchemists."

"Doctor Lamb's object was actually to turn base metal into gold,"
rejoined Old Parr, in a tone of slight contempt. "But his chief aim
was to produce the Elixir of Long Life. Night and day he worked at the
operation;--night and day I laboured with him, until at last we were
both brought to the verge of the grave in our search after
immortality. One night--I remember it well,--it was the last night of
the sixteenth century,--a young man, severely wounded, was brought to
my master's dwelling on London-bridge. I helped to convey him to the
laboratory, where I left him with the doctor, who was busy with his
experiments. My curiosity being aroused, I listened at the door, and
though I could not distinguish much that passed inside, I heard
sufficient to convince me that Doctor Lamb had made the grand
discovery, and succeeded in distilling the elixir. Having learnt this,
I went down stairs, wondering what would next ensue. Half an hour
elapsed, and while the bells were ringing in the new year joyfully,
the young man whom I had assisted to carry upstairs, and whom I
supposed at death's door, marched down as firmly as if nothing had
happened, passed by me, and disappeared, before I could shake off my
astonishment. I saw at once he had drunk the elixir."

"Ah!--ah!" exclaimed the Tinker, with a knowing glance at his
companions, who returned it with gestures of equal significance.

"As soon as he was gone," pursued the dwarf, "I flew to the
laboratory, and there, extended on the floor, I found the dead body of
Dr. Lamb. I debated with myself what to do--whether to pursue his
murderer, for such I accounted the young man; but, on reflection, I
thought the course useless. I next looked round to see whether the
precious elixir was gone. On the table stood a phial, from which a
strong spirituous odour exhaled; but it was empty. I then turned my
attention to a receiver, connected by a worm with an alembic on the
furnace. On examining it, I found it contained a small quantity of a
bright transparent liquid, which, poured forth into a glass, emitted
precisely the same odour as the phial. Persuaded this must be the
draught of immortality, I raised it to my lips; but apprehension lest
it might be poison stayed my hand. Reassured, however, by the thought
of the young man's miraculous recovery, I quaffed the potion. It was
as if I had swallowed fire, and at first I thought all was over with
me. I shrieked out; but there was no one to heed my cries, unless it
were my dead master, and two or three skeletons with which the walls
were garnished. And these, in truth, did seem to hear me; for the dead
corpse opened its glassy orbs, and eyed me reproachfully; the
skeletons shook their fleshless arms and gibbered; and the various
strange objects with which the chamber was filled, seemed to deride
and menace me. The terror occasioned by these fantasies, combined with
the potency of the draught, took away my senses. When I recovered, I
found all tranquil. Doctor Lamb was lying stark and stiff at my feet,
with an expression of reproach on his fixed countenance; and the
skeletons were hanging quietly in their places. Convinced that I was
proof against death, I went forth. But a curse went with me! From that
day to this, I have lived, but it has been in such poverty and
distress, that I had better far have died. Besides, I am constantly
haunted by visions of my old master. He seems to hold converse with
me--to lead me into strange places."

"Exactly the case with the t'other," whispered the Tinker to the
Sandman. "Have you ever, in the coorse o' your long life, met the
young man as drank the 'lixir?" he inquired of the dwarf.

"Never."

"Do you happen to rekilect his name?"

"No; it has quite escaped my memory," answered Old Parr.

"Should you rekilect it, if you heerd it?" asked the Tinker.

"Perhaps I might," returned the dwarf; "but I can't say."

"Wos it Auriol Darcy?" demanded the other.

"That was the name," cried Old Parr, starting up in extreme surprise.
"I heard Doctor Lamb call him so. But how, in the name of wonder, do
you come to know it?"

"Ve've got summat, at last," said the Tinker, with a self-applauding
glance at his friends.

"How do you come to know it, I say?" repeated the dwarf, in extreme
agitation.

"Never mind," rejoined the Tinker, with a cunning look; "you see I
does know some cur'ous matters as vell as you, my old file. You'll be
good evidence, in case ve vishes to prove the fact agin him."

"Prove what?--and against whom?" cried the

"One more questin, and I've done," pursued the Tinker. "Should you
know this young man again, in case you chanced to come across him?"

"No doubt of it," replied Old Parr; "his figure often flits before me
in dreams."

"Shall ve let him into it?" said the Tinker, consulting his companions
in a low tone.

"Ay--ay," replied the Sandman.

"Better vait a bit," remarked Ginger, shaking his head dubiously.
"There's no hurry."

"No; ve must decide at vonce," said the Tinker. "Jist examine them
papers," he added, handing the pocket-book to Old Parr, "and favour us
vith your opinion on 'em."

The dwarf was about to unclasp the book committed to his charge, when
a hand was suddenly thrust through the banisters of the upper part of
the staircase, which, as has been already stated, was divided from the
lower by the door. A piece of heavy black drapery next descended like
a cloud, concealing all behind it except the hand, with which the
dwarf was suddenly seized by the nape of the neck, lifted up in the
air, and, notwithstanding his shrieks and struggles, carried clean
off.

Great confusion attended his disappearance. The dogs set up a
prodigious barking, and flew to the rescue--one of the largest of them
passing over the body of the drowsy waiter, who had sought his
customary couch upon the coals, and rousing him from his slumbers;
while the Tinker, uttering a fierce imprecation, upset his chair in
his haste to catch hold of the dwarf's legs; but the latter was
already out of reach, and the next moment had vanished entirely.

"My eyes! here's a pretty go!" cried Ginger, who, with his back to the
fire, had witnessed the occurrence in open-mouthed astonishment, "Vy,
curse it! if the wenerable ain't a-taken the pocket-book with him!
It's my opinion the devil has flown avay with the old feller. His time
wos nearer at 'and than he expected."

"Devil or not, I'll have him back agin, or at all events the pocket-
book!" cried the Tinker. And, dashing up the stairs, he caught hold of
the railing above, and swinging himself up by a powerful effort,
passed through an opening, occasioned by the removal of one of the
banisters.

Groping along the gallery, which was buried in profound darkness, he
shouted to the dwarf, but received no answer to his vociferations;
neither could he discover any one, though he felt on either side of
the passage with outstretched hands. The occupants of the different
chambers, alarmed by the noise, called out to know what was going
forward; but being locked in their rooms, they could render no
assistance.

While the Tinker was thus pursuing his search in the dark, venting his
rage and disappointment in the most dreadful imprecations, the
staircase door was opened by the landlord, who had found the key in
the great-coat left behind by the dwarf. With the landlord came the
Sandman and Ginger, the latter of whom was attended by all his dogs,
still barking furiously; while the rear of the party was brought up by
the drowsy waiter, now wide awake with fright, and carrying a candle.

But though every nook and corner of the place was visited--though the
attics were searched and all the windows examined--not a trace of the
dwarf could be discovered, nor any clue to his mysterious
disappearance detected. Astonishment and alarm sat on every
countenance.

"What the devil can have become of him?" cried the landlord, with a
look of dismay.

"Ay, that's the questin!" rejoined the Tinker. "I begin to be of
Ginger's opinion, that the devil himself must have flown avay vith
him. No von else could ha' taken a fancy to him."

"I only saw a hand and a black cloak," said the Sandman.

"I thought I seed a pair o' hoofs," cried the waiter; "and I'm quite
sure I seed a pair o' great glitterin' eyes," he added, opening his
own lacklustre orbs to their widest extent.

"It's a strange affair," observed the landlord, gravely. "It's certain
that no one has entered the house wearing a cloak such as you
describe; nor could any of the lodgers, to my knowledge, get out of
their rooms. It was Old Parr's business, as you know, to lock 'em up
carefully for the night."

"Veil, all's over vith him now," said the Tinker; "and vith our
affair, too, I'm afeerd."

"Don't say die jist yet," rejoined Ginger. "The wenerable's gone, to
be sure; and the only thing he has left behind him, barrin' his top-
coat, is this here bit o' paper vich dropped out o' the pocket-book as
he wos a-takin' flight, and vich I picked from the floor. It may be o'
some use to us. But come, let's go down stairs. There's no good in
stayin' here any longer."

Concurring in which sentiment, they all descended to the lower room.



IV. THE IRON-MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER

A WEEK had elapsed since Auriol Darcy was conveyed to the iron-
merchant's dwelling, after the attack made upon him by the ruffians in
the ruined house; and though almost recovered from the serious
injuries he had received, he still remained the guest of his
preserver.

It was a bright spring morning, when a door leading to the yard in
front of the house opened, and a young girl, bright and fresh as the
morning's self, issued from it.

A lovelier creature than Ebba Thorneycroft cannot be imagined. Her
figure was perfection slight, tall, and ravishingly proportioned, with
a slender waist, little limbs, and fairy feet that would have made the
fortune of an opera-dancer. Her features were almost angelic in
expression, with an outline of the utmost delicacy and precision not
cold, classical regularity but that softer and incomparably more
lovely mould peculiar to our own clime. Ebba's countenance was a type
of Saxon beauty. Her complexion was pure white, tinged with a slight
bloom. Her eyes were of a serene summer blue, arched over by brows
some shades darker than the radiant tresses that fell on either cheek,
and were parted over a brow smoother than alabaster. Her attire was
simple, but tasteful, and by its dark colour threw into relief the
exceeding fairness of her skin.

Ebba's first care was to feed her favourite linnet, placed in a cage
over the door. Having next patted the head of a huge bulldog who came
out of his kennel to greet her, and exchanged a few words with two men
employed at a forge in the inner part of the building on the right,
she advanced farther into the yard.

This part of the premises, being strewn with ironwork of every
possible shape, presented a very singular appearance, and may merit
some description. There were heaps of rusty iron chains flung together
like fishermen's nets, old iron area-guards, iron kitchen-fenders, old
grates, safes, piles of old iron bowls, a large assortment of old iron
pans and dishes, a ditto of old ovens, kettles without number, sledge-
hammers, anvils, braziers, chimney-cowls, and smokejacks.

Stout upright posts, supporting cross-beams on the top, were placed at
intervals on either side of the yard, and these were decorated, in the
most artistic style, with rat-traps, man-traps, iron lanterns,
pulleys, padlocks, chains, trivets, triangles, iron rods, disused
street lamps, dismounted cannon and anchors. Attached to hooks in the
cross-beam nearest the house hung a row of old horseshoes, while from
the centre depended a large rusty bell. Near the dog's kennel was a
tool-box, likewise garnished with horse-shoes, and containing pincers,
files, hammers, and other implements proper to the smith. Beyond this
was an open doorway leading to the workshop, where the two men before
mentioned were busy at the forge.

Though it was still early, the road was astir with passengers, and
many wagons and carts, laden with hay, straw, and vegetables, were
passing. Ebba, however, had been solely drawn forth by the beauty of
the morning, and she stopped for a moment at the street gate, to
breathe the barmy air. As she inhaled the gentle breeze, and felt the
warm sunshine upon her cheek, her thoughts wandered away into the
green meadows in which she had strayed as a child, and she longed to
ramble amid them again. Perhaps she scarcely desired a solitary
stroll; but however this might be, she was too much engrossed by the
reverie to notice a tall man, wrapped in a long black cloak, who
regarded her with the most fixed attention, as he passed on the
opposite side of the road.

Proceeding to a short distance, this personage crossed over, and
returned slowly towards the iron-merchant's dwelling. Ebba then, for
the first time, remarked him, and was startled by his strange,
sinister appearance. His features were handsome, but so malignant and
fierce in expression, that they inspired only aversion. A sardonic
grin curled his thin lips, and his short, crisply curled hair, raven
black in hue, contrasted forcibly and disagreeably with his cadaverous
complexion. An attraction like that of the snake seemed to reside in
his dark blazing eyes, for Ebba trembled like a bird beneath their
influence, and could not remove her gaze from them. A vague
presentiment of coming ill smote her, and she dreaded lest the
mysterious being before her might be connected in some inexplicable
way with her future destiny.

On his part, the stranger was not insensible to the impression he had
produced, and suddenly halting, he kept his eyes riveted on those of
the girl, who, after remaining spell-bound, as it were, for a few
moments, precipitately retreated towards the house.

Just as she reached the door, and was about to pass through it, Auriol
came forth. He was pale, as if from recent suffering, and bore his
left arm in a sling.

"You look agitated," he said, noticing Ebba's uneasiness. "What has
happened?"

"Not much," she replied, a deep blush mantling her cheeks. "But I have
been somewhat alarmed by the person near the gate."

"Indeed!" cried Auriol, darting forward. "Where is he? I see no one."

"Not a tall man, wrapped in a long black cloak?" rejoined Ebba,
following him cautiously. "Ha!" cried Auriol. "Has he been here?"

"Then you know the person I allude to?" she rejoined.

"I know some one answering his description," he replied, with a forced
smile.

"Once beheld, the man I mean is not to be forgotten," said Ebba. "He
has a countenance such as I never saw before. If I could believe in
the 'evil eye', I should be sure he possessed it."

"'Tis he, there can be no doubt," rejoined Auriol, in a sombre tone.

"Who and what is he, then?" demanded Ebba.

"He is a messenger of ill," replied Auriol, "and I am thankful he is
gone."

"Are you quite sure of it?" she asked, glancing timorously up and down
the road. But the mysterious individual could no longer be seen.

"And so, after exciting my curiosity in this manner, you will not
satisfy it?" she said.

"I cannot," rejoined Auriol, somewhat sternly.

"Nay, then, since you are so ungracious, I shall go and prepare
breakfast," she replied. "My father must be down by this time."

"Stay!" cried Auriol, arresting her, as she was about to pass through
the door. "I wish to have a word with you."

Ebba stopped, and the bloom suddenly forsook her cheeks.

But Auriol seemed unable to proceed. Neither dared to regard the
other; and a profound silence prevailed between them for a few
moments.

"Ebba," said Auriol at length, "I am about to leave your father's
house today."

"Why so soon?" she exclaimed, looking up into his face. "You are not
entirely recovered yet."

"I dare not stay longer," he said.

"Dare not!" cried Ebba. And she again cast down her eyes; but Auriol
made no reply.

Fortunately the silence was broken by the clinking of the smith's
hammers upon the anvil. "If you must really go," said Ebba, looking
up, after a long pause, "I hope we shall see you again?"

"Most assuredly," replied Auriol. "I owe your worthy father a deep
debt of gratitude--a debt which, I fear, I shall never be able to
repay."

"My father is more than repaid in saving your life," she replied. "I
am sure he will be sorry to learn you are going so soon."

"I have been here a week," said Auriol. "If I remained longer, I might
not be able to go at all."

There was another pause, during which a stout old fellow in the
workshop quitted the anvil for a moment, and, catching a glimpse of
the young couple, muttered to his helpmate:

"I say, Ned, I'm a-thinkin' our master'll soon have a son-in-law.
There's pretty plain signs on it at yonder door."

"So there be, John," replied Ned, peeping round. "He's a good-lookin'
young feller that. I wish ve could hear their discoorse."

"No, that ain't fair," replied John, raking some small coal upon the
fire, and working away at the bellows.

"I would not for the world ask a disagreeable question," said Ebba,
again raising her eyes, "but since you are about to quit us, I must
confess I should like to know something of your history."

"Forgive me if I decline to comply with your desire," replied Auriol.
"You would not believe me, were I to relate my history. But this I may
say, that it is stranger and wilder than any you ever heard. The
prisoner, in his cell is not restrained by more terrible fetters than
those which bind me to silence."

Ebba gazed at him as if she feared his reasoning were wandering.

"You think me mad," said Auriol; "would I were so! But I shall never
lose the clear perception of my woes. Hear me, Ebba! Fate has brought
me into this house. I have seen you, and experienced your gentle
ministry; and it is impossible, so circumstanced, to be blind to your
attractions. I have only been too sensible to them--but I will not
dwell on that theme, nor run the risk of exciting a passion which must
destroy you. I will ask you to hate me--to regard me as a monster whom
you ought to shun rather than as a being for whom you should entertain
the slightest sympathy."

"You have some motive in saying this to me," cried the terrified girl.

"My motive is to warn you," said Auriol. "If you love me, you are
lost--utterly lost!"

She was so startled, that she could make no reply, but burst into
tears. Auriol took her hand, which she unresistingly yielded.

"A terrible fatality attaches to me, in which you must have no share,"
he said, in a solemn tone.

"Would you had never come to my father's house!" she exclaimed, in a
voice of anguish.

"Is it, then, too late?" cried Auriol, despairingly.

"It is--if to love you be fatal," she rejoined.

"Ha!" exclaimed Auriol, striking his forehead with his clenched hand.
"Recall your words--Ebba--recall them--but no, once uttered--it is
impossible. You are bound to me for ever. I must fulfil my destiny."

At this juncture a low growl broke from the dog, and, guided by the
sound, the youthful couple beheld, standing near the gate, the tall
dark man in the black cloak. A fiendish smile sat upon his
countenance.

"That is the man who frightened me!" cried Ebba.

"It is the person I supposed!" ejaculated Auriol. "I must speak to
him. Leave me, Ebba. I will join you presently."

And as the girl, half sinking with apprehension, withdrew, he advanced
quickly toward the intruder.

"I have sought you for some days," said the tall man, in a stern,
commanding voice. "You have not kept your appointment with me."

"I could not," replied Auriol--"an accident has befallen me."

"I know it," rejoined the other. "I am aware you were assailed by
ruffians in the ruined house over the way. But you are recovered now,
and can go forth. You ought to have communicated with me."

"It was my intention to do so," said Auriol.

"Our meeting cannot be delayed much longer," pursued the stranger. "I
will give you three more days. On the evening of the last day, at the
hour of seven, I shall look for you at the foot of the statue in Hyde
Park."

"I will be there," replied Auriol.

"That girl must be the next victim," said the stranger, with a grim
smile.

"Peace!" thundered Auriol.

"Nay, I need not remind you of the tenure by which you maintain your
power," rejoined the stranger. "But I will not trouble you further
now."

And, wrapping his cloak more closely round him, he disappeared.

"Fate has once more involved me in its net," cried Auriol, bitterly.
"But I will save Ebba, whatever it may cost me. I will see her no
more."

And instead of returning to the house, he hurried away in the opposite
direction of the stranger.



V. THE MEETING NEAR THE STATUE

The evening of the third day arrived, and Auriol entered Hyde Park by
Stanhope-gate. Glancing at his watch, and finding it wanted nearly
three quarters of an hour of the time appointed for his meeting with
the mysterious stranger, he struck across the Park, in the direction
of the Serpentine River. Apparently he was now perfectly recovered,
for his arm was without the support of the sling, and he walked with
great swiftness. But his countenance was deathly pale, and his looks
were so wild and disordered, that the few persons he encountered
shrank from him aghast.

A few minutes' rapid walking brought him to the eastern extremity of
the Serpentine, and advancing close to the edge of the embankment, he
gazed at the waters beneath his feet.

"I would plunge into them, if I could find repose," he murmured. "But
it would avail nothing. I should only add to my sufferings. No; I must
continue to endure the weight of a life burned by crime and remorse,
till I can find out the means of freeing myself from it. Once I
dreaded this unknown danger, but now I seek for it in vain."

The current of his thoughts were here interrupted by the sudden
appearance of a dark object on the surface of the water, which he at
first took to he a huge fish, with a pair of green fins springing from
its back; but after watching it more closely for a few moments, he
became convinced that it was a human being, tricked out in some
masquerade attire, while the slight struggles which it made proved
that life was not entirely extinct.

Though, the moment before, he had contemplated self-destruction, and
had only been restrained from the attempt by the certainty of failing
in his purpose, instinct prompted him to rescue the perishing creature
before him. Without hesitation, therefore, and without tarrying to
divest himself of his clothes, he dashed into the water, and striking
out, instantly reached the object of his quest, which still continued
to float, and turning it over, for the face was downwards, he
perceived it was an old man, of exceedingly small size, habited in a
pantomimic garb. He also remarked that a rope was twisted round the
neck of the unfortunate being, making it evident that some violent
attempt had been made upon his life.

Without pausing for further investigation, he took firm hold of the
leathern wings of the dwarf, and with his disengaged hand propelled
himself towards the shore, dragging the other after him. The next
instant he reached the bank, clambered up the low brickwork, and
placed his burden in safety.

The noise of the plunge had attracted attention, and several persons
now hurried to the spot. On coming up, and finding Auriol bending over
a water-sprite--for such, at first sight, the dwarf appeared--they
could not repress their astonishment. Wholly insensible to the
presence of those around him, Auriol endeavoured to recall where he
had seen the dwarf before. All at once, the recollection flashed upon
him, and he cried aloud, "Why, it is my poor murdered grandfather's
attendant, Flapdragon! But no no!--he must be dead ages ago! Yet the
resemblance is singularly striking!"

Auriol's exclamations, coupled with his wild demeanour, surprised the
bystanders, and they came to the conclusion that he must be a
travelling showman, who had attempted to drown his dwarf--the
grotesque, impish garb of the latter convincing them that he had been
exhibited at a booth. They made signs, therefore, to each other not to
let Auriol escape, and one of them, raising the dwarf's head on his
knee, produced a flask, and poured some brandy from it down his
throat, while others chafed his hands These efforts were attended with
much speedier success than might have been anticipated. After a
struggle or two for respiration the dwarf opened his eyes, and gazed
at the group around him.

"It must be Flapdragon!" exclaimed Auriol.

"Ah! who calls me?" cried the dwarf.

"I!" rejoined Auriol. "Do you not recollect me?"

"To be sure!" exclaimed the dwarf, gazing at him fixedly; "you are--"
and he stopped.

"You have been thrown into the water, Master Flapdragon?" cried a
bystander, noticing the cord round the dwarf's throat.

"I have," replied the little old man.

"By your governor--that is, by this person?" cried another, laying
hold of Auriol.

"By him--no," said the dwarf; "I have not seen that gentleman for
nearly three centuries."

"Three centuries, my little patriarch?" said the man who had given him
the brandy. "That's a long time. Think again."

"It's perfectly true, nevertheless," replied the dwarf.

"His wits have been washed away by the water," said the first speaker.
"Give him a drop more brandy."

"Not a bit of it," rejoined the dwarf; "my senses were never clearer
than at this moment. At last we have met," he continued, addressing
Auriol, "and I hope we shall not speedily part again. We hold life by
the same tie."

"How came you in the desperate condition in which I found you?"
demanded Auriol, evasively.

"I was thrown into the canal with a stone to my neck, like a dog about
to be drowned," replied the dwarf. "But, as you are aware, I'm not so
easily disposed of."

Again the bystanders exchanged significant looks.

"By whom was the attempt made?" inquired Auriol.

"I don't know the villain's name," rejoined the dwarf, "but he's a
very tall, dark man, and is generally wrapped in a long black cloak."

"Ha!" exclaimed Auriol. "When was it done?"

"Some nights ago, I should fancy," replied the dwarf, "for I've been a
terrible long time under water. I have only just managed to shake off
the stone."

At this speech there was a titter of incredulity among the bystanders.

"You may laugh, but it's true!" cried the dwarf, angrily.

"We must speak of this anon," said Auriol. "Will you convey him to the
nearest tavern?" he added, placing money in the hands of the man who
held the dwarf in his arms.

"Willingly, sir," replied the man. "I'll take him to the Life
Guardsman, near the barracks, that's the nearest public."

"I'll join him there in an hour," replied Auriol, moving away.

And as he disappeared, the man took up his little burden, and bent his
steps towards the barracks.

Utterly disregarding the dripping state of his habiliments, Auriol
proceeded quickly to the place of rendezvous. Arrived there, he looked
around, and not seeing any one, flung himself upon a bench at the foot
of the gentle eminence on which the gigantic statue of Achilles is
placed.

It was becoming rapidly dark, and heavy clouds, portending speedy
rain, increased the gloom. Auriol's thoughts were sombre as the
weather and the hour, and he fell into a deep fit of abstraction, from
which he was roused by a hand laid on his shoulder.

Recoiling at the touch, he raised his eyes, and beheld the stranger
leaning over him, and gazing at him with a look of diabolical
exultation. The cloak was thrown partly aside, so as to display the
tall, gaunt figure of its wearer; while the large collar of sable fur
with which it was decorated stood out like the wings of a demon. The
stranger's hat was off, and his high broad forehead, white as marble,
was fully revealed.

"Our meeting must be brief," he said. "Are you prepared to fulfill the
compact?"

"What do you require?" replied Auriol.

"Possession of the girl I saw three days ago," said the other; "the
iron-merchant's daughter, Ebba. She must be mine."

"Never!" cried Auriol, firmly--"never!"

"Beware how you tempt me to exert my power," said the stranger; "she
must be mine--or---"

"I defy you!" rejoined Auriol; "I will never consent."

"Fool!" cried the other, seizing him by the arm, and fixing a
withering glance upon him. "Bring her to me ere the week be out, or
dread my vengeance!"

And, enveloping himself in his cloak, he retreated behind the statue,
and was lost to view.

As he disappeared, a moaning wind arose, and heavy rain descended.
Still Auriol did not quit the bench.




INTERMEAN



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