by Howard Pyle
HERE FOLLOWS THE FIFTH CHAPTER
CHAPTER FIVE
The CONCLUSION of the STORY of the young LAWYER and his Four CLIENTS.
THE SNOW, WHICH had begun falling about noon, was, by the time the two travellers reached the ferry to New York, descending in such impenetrable sheets as entirely to conceal the further shore from Paulus Hook. Indeed, it required no little persuasion upon the part of our hero and the promise of a very heavy bribe to induce the negro ferryman to transport them across the river upon so forbidding a night. And so slow was their transit and so doubtful their course that the night was pretty far advanced before they reached New York.
The town lay perfectly silent, smothered in a blanket of soundless white, upon which the ceaseless clouds of snow fell noiselessly out of the inky sky above. Indeed, the drifts were become so deep that Griscombe entertained very considerable doubts as to how he should convey Miss Desmond and the now tragic contents of the portmanteau to their final destination.
Accordingly, it was with the feeling of the utmost relief that, upon quitting the ferry-boat, he was met by a negro, who told him that M. de Troinville had been already informed of their coming, and that, because of the storm, a conveyance had been waiting at the ferry-house ever since early in the evening to transport the young lady and her baggage to that gentleman’s house.
A large coach was indeed in waiting, the driver, the horses, and the vehicle alike covered thickly with a coating of white. In this conveyance our hero, with the utmost solicitude, disposed the young lady, and at the same time ordered that the portmanteau should be deposited upon the front seat. Having thereupon distributed a liberal gratuity to those who had assisted him, he himself immediately entered, and closed the door; and instantly the driver cracked his whip, and the coach whirled away, with scarcely a sound, upon the muffled and velvet-like covering of the street, directing its course through the continually falling clouds of whiteness.
Nor could Griscombe so far penetrate the obscurity of the thickly falling snow as at all to tell whither they were being conveyed. Several corners were turned and a number of streets were traversed, the lamps whereof were entirely unable to pierce the falling clouds of snow so as to declare the locality toward which the coach was being driven.
At length, however, after a rather protracted journeying, and to our hero’s considerable relief, the carriage stopped at the sidewalk before a large and imposing edifice, altogether unlighted and as black as night. No other building was immediately near; and the mansion stood altogether alone, looking down upon the street in solitary state.
Almost instantly upon the arrival of the coach a number of servants appeared upon the sidewalk, as though they had been waiting in expectation of the coming of the travellers. Some of these opened the door of the conveyance, and assisted the young lady and our hero to alight; others took charge of the portmanteau, which they proceeded immediately to carry into the house; others, again, stood about as though waiting in attendance upon the new arrivals.
All these attentions were preferred with a singular assiduity and in such entire silence that Griscombe knew not whether most to admire the imposing extent of M. de Troinville’s household or the extraordinary training of his attendants. Turning to one who appeared to be the upper servant, our hero commanded that the portmanteau be conveyed to some place of safety unopened, and carefully guarded, and that he himself be immediately conducted to M. de Troinville for a private interview concerning business of the utmost importance. In reply the man to whom he spoke delivered an order in a foreign tongue, which Griscombe was entirely unable to understand, whereupon two attendants, as in obedience to his command, conducted him and the young lady up the steps and into a wide and imposing hallway, the front door whereof was instantly shut upon them.
It was but little wonder that Griscombe and Miss Desmond should have stood gazing about them altogether at a loss to understand in what manner of place they had arrived. For, however much they might have been surprised at any eccentricity of a French gentleman living entirely alone in bachelor quarters, what they beheld was the very last thing they might have expected.
The faint yellow light of a single lamp, suspended from the lofty ceiling by a chain, diffused a dim illumination throughout the space, and by its yellow glow Griscombe discovered, with no little surprise, that the hall was altogether unfurnished. Not a fragment of carpet lay upon the floor, not a chair, not a stick of furniture, relieved the bleak and barren space of wainscot about them; but all was a perfectly empty and barren desolation.
And, what was still more remarkable, the numerous attendants that had just before surrounded them and had introduced them into the house had disappeared as if by magic; and a dead and solemn silence reigned throughout the entire edifice, broken only by a single distant voice that, in a monotonous sing-song, inexpressive intonation, continued for a time a level discourse, which at last sank abruptly into an entire silence.
There was something so ominous and threatening in all the unexpectedness of these things that Griscombe felt his spirits becoming overshadowed by an overmastering sense of impending evil. It was only when he discovered that Miss Desmond was becoming perturbed by a similar emotion of dismay, and that she was clinging to him with an exceeding tenacity, that, by an effort of will, he overmastered his accumulating fears, and, in spite of the cloud of apprehension that threatened to overshadow him, regained command of his courage once more.
“What does this mean!” exclaimed Miss Desmond in a hurried and terrified whisper. “What strange place is this to which we have been brought?”
“Have courage,” replied our hero, steadily, but in the same subdued tone. “You are in no danger. We have probably come to the wrong house, that is all. Wait but a little while, and all will be explained.” But, though our hero spoke with so much courage, his heart was exceedingly burdened with a sense of impending calamity; for he seemed to feel the network of circumstances that had been gathering about him for these few days past enwrapping both him and his ward in ever tightening meshes.
At that instant the figure of a man appeared emerging suddenly from out the gloom. He was tall and thin, and was clad in a long flowing robe of Oriental design. Desiring Griscombe and the young lady to follow him, and without waiting for any question or refusal, he turned, and immediately led the way up a broad uncarpeted stairway to the floor above.
Here a narrow thread of light outlined a door opening upon the landing, as though emitted from a considerable illumination within. This door, as they approached it, was suddenly flung open; and the next moment our hero found himself with his companion in an apartment flooded with such a dazzling brilliancy that, coming as he had from the obscurity without, he was for a time entirely blinded by the unusual radiance.
Little by little, however, his sight returned to him; and he discovered that he and the young lady were in a room of extraordinary dimensions, suffused with an oppressive warmth, heavy with perfume, and flaming with a thousand radiant and variegated colors. Surrounding him and his companion on all sides was a multitude of attendants of a foreign aspect, all clad in extraordinarily rich and sumptuous costumes of an Oriental pattern.
Immediately upon his appearance with the young lady hanging upon his arm, this crowd of attendants parted, forming, as it were, a vista through which our hero and his companion could behold the farther extremity of the saloon.
It was thus that Griscombe first beheld him who, his instinct instantly told him, was the spider who had woven all this web of mystery in which he had become so singularly entangled.
What he beheld was a little yellow man with a flat, fat face and black and brilliant eyes. He had composed himself cross-legged upon a divan of crimson silk, surrounded by luxurious cushions of embroidered patterns, and sheltered by crimson silk curtains resplendent with gold, which hung suspended from the walls behind him. His figure was almost entirely enveloped by a purple velvet robe, thickly studded with jewels and ornamented in arabesque designs
with seed pearls and gold. Upon his nether parts were a pair of crimson velvet trousers, and upon his head was a large and voluminous turban, enriched with a single diamond of excessive magnitude and brilliancy, which glowed in the centre of the folds of the head-dress like a star of inconceivable size and brightness. In his hand, brilliant with a multitude of rings, he held the mouth-piece of the long and snake-like water-pipe, the smoke from which he inhaled with every appearance of entire enjoyment and satisfaction, emitting it now and then in a thin cloud, which immediately dissolved in the heavy and perfumed air. His face was devoid of all expression, and he regarded Griscombe and the young lady with an impassivity of countenance that was in some inexplicable way infinitely ominous.
Upon one side of this figure stood he with whom Griscombe had once played jack-straws, and upon the other side the old gentleman with the white beard whom he had indulged in the game of tit-tat-toe. Both men were now clad in Oriental garb, far more appropriate to their appearance than the garments of civilization in which our hero had first beheld them. Near at hand, as though standing upon guard, were a half-dozen or more negroes clad entirely in black, and each armed with a naked scimitar, the blades whereof shone now and then like lightning in the dazzling light of the thousand waxen tapers that illuminated the expanse of the apartment.
A long carpet of extreme richness extended the length of the apartment; and upon the floor, in front of the central figure of all this remarkable and terrifying apparition of Oriental splendor, reposed the fatal portmanteau that Griscombe had conveyed with such extraordinary pains from Bordentown.
At sight of this object it seemed to our hero that all that which before had appeared so inexplicable became instantly entirely clear, and it was as though his very vitals dissolved with the fear of that which might in a moment befall the innocent ward confided to his care.
All this while he had been half supporting her, with his arm thrown protectingly around her; while she, upon her part, clung to him with all the tenacity of a growing and overwhelming terror. It was at this juncture that of a sudden he felt her form relax and her clasp upon him to weaken. As he gazed down into her face, he became instantly aware, by the excessive pallor of her countenance, her upturned eyes, and her closing eyelids, that, either because of the excessive heat of the room or because of the overpowering perfume, or because of the growing terror which had entirely penetrated her heart, or on account of all these causes combined, she had fallen into a swoon that more nearly resembled death than unconsciousness.
Looking about him, he perceived near at hand a sofa of rich brocade, covered with a multitude of soft and luxurious pillows. Upon this he laid the inanimate form so dear to him, and then, rendered bold by the desperateness of her situation, turned, and walked directly up the length of the room to where that ominous figure sat amidst its cushions.
“Sir,” he cried, “I more than suspect who you are, and what are the sinister purposes you have accomplished. I may even, indeed, guess somewhat of your present designs. I demand, however, to know for certain what now are your intentions toward this young lady and myself. Do not forget that we are in the town of New York, and that a single call from a window may bring me help at any moment.”
To this address the being to whom it was delivered made no other reply than to issue by a gesture, and without moving the mouthpiece of the pipe from his lips, a brief command to a gigantic black, who stood near at hand. As in reply, the negro advanced to the portmanteau, and with a single movement opened it and displayed the contents to his master.
Griscombe had already taught himself what to expect concerning the melancholy contents thereof; but, now that he looked down upon it in reality, he again experienced that singular and volatile expansion of his brain, and again his every nerve tingled with the shock which it received.
“THE NEGRO ADVANCED TO THE PORTMANTEAU ... AND DISPLAYED THE CONTENTS TO HIS MASTER”
This time not one, but two waxen faces — so exactly alike that they might have been cast in the same mould — reposed side by side, smiling in sphinx-like silence upon their bed of snowy lamb’s wool.
And, as before, the jewels about which the brothers had once been so anxiously concerned were scattered as in mockery in a shower of sparkling and variegated brilliancy upon the immobile lineaments within.
“It is accomplished,” said a calm and dispassionate voice; “and it is well.”
Then, directing his words to Griscombe, the speaker continued! “You have been the instrument of fate, and you have performed your part with admirable exactitude. Ask what return you desire, and it is yours.”
At these words a sudden inspiration, as it were, seized upon Griscombe. “Who you are and what you are,” he cried, “I do not know, nor do I ask aught of you but one thing: it is that I be allowed to convey the young lady yonder in safety from this terrible place.”
A moment or two of silence followed this, and then the same dispassionate voice resumed its speech. “I had intended,” said the speaker, calmly, “a different fate for her. But be it as you will: she is yours. One thing only I demand of you. It is that you deliver to me the letter of instruction that her father wrote to M. de Troinville. Give me that, and take the girl. The coach that brought you hither, still waits below. It will transport you whithersoever you may order. You have entirely served my ends, and now you are free to go.”
Upon the instant a remote clock struck the hour of twelve; and, as in echo, the chimes of Trinity Church began ringing at no great distance, heralding for Griscombe the most extraordinary Christmas Day that was, perhaps, ever experienced by any person in the United States before or since.
So concludes this part of our narrative, with this to add, — that Griscombe conveyed that precious charge, whom he had rescued from a dreadful and mysterious fate, to the City Hotel, where, declaring that she was a traveller who had been taken with a sudden illness, he confided her to the care of the worthy hostess of that excellent and well-known hostelry.
Furthermore, it may be added that the next day he with some difficulty discovered the residence of M. de Troinville, to whom he recounted such portions of his adventures as he deemed necessary, and whom he requested to take charge of Miss Desmond. As, however, he had neither credentials to show nor any proof to offer of the truth of his statements; as, moreover, the treasure with which he had been charged had entirely disappeared, — M. de Troinville either disbelieved or pretended to disbelieve the whole story. He declared that Griscombe was either a dupe or himself an impostor, and he ended by bidding him to leave the house, which command our hero obeyed, consumed with an overwhelming indignation.
HERE FOLLOWS THE CONCLUSION
CONCLUSION
THE CASUAL AND flippant reader will no doubt be entirely inclined to ridicule the possibility of events like these herein narrated occurring in such unexpected localities as New York, Bordentown, or Newark; and, if he reads the story at all, he will do so merely for the sake of amusement and of entertainment, and not for the purpose of seriously digesting its morals.
The more serious, however, will weigh well what he has read, and will not be inclined to disbelieve that which has been so soberly narrated, even though it cause him some surprise that such things should have occurred in the midst of sedate American towns.
For the benefit of the former and lighter class of readers it may be added to the above account that Griscombe undertook the guardianship of Miss Desmond without the least reluctance in the world; that little by little he gradually unfolded to her such parts of her own unhappy situation as he deemed it necessary for her to be made acquainted with; and that, after a sufficient time had elapsed, he proposed to her that she should give him the entire right to become her protector.
Having in such a little while earned eight thousand dollars in fees from four clients, our hero embarked upon his married life with all possible satisfaction and happiness; and, when in 1850 he discovered himself to be at the head of the New York bar, no one would have supp
osed that so serious and moderate a gentle-man could ever have passed through a series of such remarkable occurrences as those herein related.
THE END
Stolen Treasure (1907)
CONTENTS
WITH THE BUCCANEERS
TOM CHIST AND THE TREASURE-BOX
THE GHOST OF CAPTAIN BRAND
A TRUE HISTORY OF THE DEVIL AT NEW HOPE
The original frontispiece
WITH THE BUCCANEERS
Being an Account of Certain Adventures that Befell Henry Mostyn under Captain H. Morgan in the Year 1665-66.
I
Although this narration has more particularly to do with the taking of the Spanish Vice-Admiral in the harbor of Puerto Bello, and of the rescue therefrom of Le Sieur Simon, his wife and daughter (the adventure of which was successfully achieved by Captain Morgan, the famous buccaneer), we shall, nevertheless, premise something of the earlier history of Master Harry Mostyn, whom you may, if you please, consider as the hero of the several circumstances recounted in these pages.
In the year 1664 our hero’s father embarked from Portsmouth, in England, for the Barbadoes, where he owned a considerable sugar plantation. Thither to those parts of America he transported with himself his whole family, of whom our Master Harry was the fifth of eight children — a great lusty fellow as little fitted for the Church (for which he was designed) as could be. At the time of this story, though not above sixteen years old, Master Harry Mostyn was as big and well-grown as many a man of twenty, and of such a reckless and dare-devil spirit that no adventure was too dangerous or too mischievous for him to embark upon.