The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  After a while, the coach stopped, the door was opened, and Mr. Thorneycroft was helped out. The iron-merchant expected his bandage would now be removed, but he was mistaken, for Reeks, taking his arm, drew him along at a quick pace. As they advanced, the iron-merchant’s conductor whispered him to be cautious, and, at the same time, made him keep close to a wall. A door was presently opened, and as soon as the party had passed through, it closed.

  The bandage was then removed from Thorneycroft’s eyes, and he found himself in a large and apparently neglected garden. Though the sky was cloudy, there was light enough to enable him to distinguish that they were near an old dilapidated mansion.

  “We are now arrived,” said Reeks to the iron-merchant, “and you will have need of all your resolution.”

  “I will deliver her, or perish in the attempt,” said Thorneycroft, taking out his pistols.

  The others drew their cutlasses.

  “Now then, follow me,” said Reeks, “and act as I direct.”

  With this he struck into an alley formed by thick hedges of privet, which brought them to the back part of the house. Passing through a door, he entered the yard, and creeping cautiously along the wall, reached a low window, which he contrived to open without noise. He then passed through it, and was followed by the others.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XII

  THE CHAMBER OF MYSTERY

  We shall now return to the night of Ebba’s seizure by the mysterious stranger. Though almost deprived of consciousness by terror, the poor girl could distinguish, from the movements of her captor, that she was borne down a flight of steps, or some steep descent, and then for a considerable distance along level ground. She was next placed in a carriage, which was driven with great swiftness, and though it was impossible to conjecture in what direction she was conveyed, it seemed to her terrified imagination as if she were hurried down a precipice, and she expected every moment to be dashed in pieces. At length the vehicle stopped, and she was lifted out of it, and carried along a winding passage; after which, the creaking of hinges announced that a door was opened. Having passed through it, she was deposited on a bench, when, fright overmastering her, her senses completely forsook her.

  On recovering, she found herself seated on a fauteuil covered with black velvet, in the midst of a gloomy chamber of vast extent, while beside her, and supporting her from falling, stood the mysterious and terrible stranger. He held a large goblet filled with some potent liquid to her lips, and compelled her to swallow a portion of it. The powerful stimulant revived her, but, at the same time, produced a strange excitement, against which she struggled with all her power. Her persecutor again held the goblet towards her, while a sardonic smile played upon his features.

  “Drink!” he cried; “it will restore you, and you have much to go through.”

  Ebba mechanically took the cup, and raised it to her lips, but noticing the stranger’s glance of exultation, dashed it to the ground.

  “You have acted foolishly,” he said sternly; “the potion would have done you good.”

  Withdrawing her eyes from his gaze, which she felt exercised an irresistible influence over her, Ebba gazed fearfully round the chamber.

  It was vast and gloomy, and seemed like the interior of a sepulchre — the walls and ceiling being formed of black marble, while the floor was paved with the same material. Not far from where she sat, on an estrade, approached by a couple of steps, stood a table covered with black velvet, on which was placed an immense lamp, fashioned like an imp supporting a caldron on his outstretched wings. In this lamp were several burners, which cast a lurid light throughout the chamber. Over it hung a cap equally fantastically fashioned. A dagger, with a richly wrought hilt, was stuck into the table; and beside it lay a strangely shaped mask, an open book, an antique inkstand, and a piece of parchment, on which some characters were inscribed. Opposite these stood a curiously carved ebony chair.

  At the lower end of the room, which was slightly elevated above the rest, hung a large black curtain; and on the step, in the front of it, were placed two vases of jet.

  “What is behind that curtain?” shudderingly demanded Ebba of her companion.

  “You will see anon,” he replied. “Meanwhile, seat yourself on that chair, and glance at the writing on the scroll.”

  Ebba did not move, but the stranger took her hand, and drew her to the seat.

  “Read what is written on that paper,” he cried imperiously.

  Ebba glanced at the document, and a shudder passed over her frame. “By this,” she cried, “I surrender myself, soul and body, to you?”

  “You do,” replied the stranger.

  “I have committed no crime that can place me within the power of the Fiend,” cried Ebba, falling upon her knees. “I call upon Heaven for protection! Avaunt!”

  As the words were uttered, the cap suddenly fell upon the lamp, and the chamber was buried in profound darkness. Mocking laughter rang in her ears, succeeded by wailing cries inexpressibly dreadful to hear.

  Ebba continued to pray fervently for her own deliverance, and for that of Auriol. In the midst of her supplications she was aroused by strains of music of the most exquisite sweetness, proceeding apparently from behind the curtain, and while listening to these sounds she was startled by a deafening crash as if a large gong had been stricken. The cover of the lamp was then slowly raised, and the burners blazed forth as before, while from the two vases in front of the curtain arose clouds of incense, filling the chamber with stupefying fragrance.

  Again the gong was stricken, and Ebba looked round towards the curtain. Above each vase towered a gigantic figure, wrapped in a long black cloak, the lower part of which was concealed by the thick vapour. Hoods, like the cowls of monks, were drawn over the heads of these grim and motionless figures; mufflers enveloped their chins, and they wore masks, from the holes of which gleamed eyes of unearthly brightness. Their hands were crossed upon their breasts. Between them squatted two other spectral forms, similarly cloaked, hooded, and masked, with their gleaming eyes fixed upon her, and their skinny fingers pointed derisively at her.

  Behind the curtain was placed a strong light, which showed a wide staircase of black marble, leading to some upper chamber, and at the same time threw the reflection of a gigantic figure upon the drapery, while a hand, the finger of which pointed towards her, was thrust from an opening between its folds.

  Forcibly averting her gaze, Ebba covered her eyes with her hands, but looking up again after a brief space, beheld an ebon door at the side revolve upon its hinges, and give entrance to three female figures, robed in black, hooded and veiled, and having their hands folded, in a melancholy manner, across their breasts. Slowly and noiselessly advancing, they halted within a few paces of her.

  “Who and what are ye?” she cried, wild with terror.

  “The victims of Auriol!” replied the figure on the right. “As we are, such will you be ere long.”

  “What crime have you committed?” demanded Ebba.

  “We have loved him,” replied the second figure.

  * * *

  The Chamber of Mystery.

  * * *

  “Is that a crime?” cried Ebba. “If so, I am equally culpable with you.”

  “You will share our doom,” replied the third figure.

  “Heaven have mercy upon me!” exclaimed the agonised girl, dropping upon her knees.

  At this moment a terrible voice from behind the curtain exclaimed, “Sign, or Auriol is lost for ever.”

  “I cannot yield my soul, even to save him,” cried Ebba distractedly.

  “Witness his chastisement, then,” cried the voice.

  And as the words were uttered, a side door was opened on the opposite side, and Auriol was dragged forth from it by two masked personages, who looked like familiars of the Inquisition.

  “Do not yield to the demands of this fiend, Ebba!” cried Auriol, gazing at her distractedly.

  “Will you save him before he is
cast, living, into the tomb?” cried the voice.

  And at the words, a heavy slab of marble rose slowly from the floor near where Ebba sat, and disclosed a dark pit beneath.

  Ebba gazed into the abyss with indescribable terror.

  “There he will be immured, unless you sign,” cried the voice; “and, as he is immortal, he will endure an eternity of torture.”

  “I cannot save him so, but I may precede him,” cried Ebba. And throwing her hands aloft, she flung herself into the pit.

  A fearful cry resounded through the chamber. It broke from Auriol, who vainly strove to burst from those who held him, and precipitate himself after Ebba.

  Soon after this, and while Auriol was gazing into the abyss, a tongue of blue flame arose from it, danced for a moment in the air, and then vanished. No sooner was it gone than a figure, shrouded in black habiliments, and hooded and muffled up like the three other female forms, slowly ascended from the vault, apparently without support, and remained motionless at its brink.

  “Ebba!” exclaimed Auriol, in a voice of despair. “Is it you?”

  The figure bowed its head, but spoke not.

  “Sign!” thundered the voice. “Your attempt at self-destruction has placed you wholly in my power. Sign!”

  At this injunction, the figure moved slowly towards the table, and to his unspeakable horror, Auriol beheld it take up the pen and write upon the parchment. He bent forward, and saw that the name inscribed thereon was Ebba Thorneycroft.

  The groan to which he gave utterance was echoed by a roar of diabolical laughter.

  The figure then moved slowly away, and ranged itself with the other veiled forms.

  “All is accomplished,” cried the voice. “Away with him!”

  On this, a terrible clangour was heard; the lights were extinguished; and Auriol was dragged through the doorway from which he had been brought forth.

  END OF THE FIRST BOOK

  * * *

  INTERMEAN

  1800

  * * *

  CHAPTER 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 thence 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 of 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.

  * * *

  The Tomb of the Rosicrucian.

  * * *

  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 it 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 encrusted 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.