“You do not believe that? Well, I will convince you. I have had a
hard struggle all last night with myself, but am now resolved.
This life of deceit must continue no longer. Will you hear my
vindication?”
I assented. The wonderful melody of her voice and the purity of
her features were charming me once more. I half believed in her
innocence already.
“My father has told you a portion of his history. But he did not
tell you that his continued failures in his search after the secret
of metallic transmutation nearly killed him. Two years ago he was
on the verge of the grave, working every day at his mad pursuit,
and every day growing weaker and more emaciated. I saw that if his
mind was not relieved in some way he would die. The thought was
madness to me, for I loved him—I love him still, as a daughter
never loved a father before. During all these years of poverty I
had supported the house with my needle; it was hard work, but I did
it—I do it still!”
“What?” I cried, startled, “does not—”
“Patience. Hear me out. My father was dying of disappointment. I
must save him. By incredible exertions, working night and day, I
saved about thirty-five dollars in notes. These I exchanged for
gold, and one day, when my father was not looking, I cast them into
the crucible in which he was making one of his vain attempts at
transmutation. God, I am sure, will pardon the deception. I never
anticipated the misery it would lead to.
“I never beheld anything like the joy of my poor father, when,
after emptying his crucible, he found a deposit of pure gold at the
bottom. He wept, and danced, and sang, and built such castles in
the air, that my brain was dizzy to hear him. He gave me the ingot
to keep, and went to work at his alchemy with renewed vigor. The
same thing occurred. He always found the same quantity of gold in
his crucible. I alone knew the secret. He was happy, poor man,
for nearly two years, in the belief that he was amassing a fortune.
I all the while plied my needle for our daily bread. When he asked
me for the savings, the first stroke fell upon me. Then it was
that I recognized the folly of my conduct. I could give him no
money. I never had any—while he believed that I had fourteen
thousand dollars. My heart was nearly broken when I found that he
had conceived the most injurious suspicions against me. Yet I
could not blame him. I could give no account of the treasure I had
permitted him to believe was in my possession. I must suffer the
penalty of my fault, for to undeceive him would be, I felt, to kill
him. I remained silent then, and suffered.
“You know the rest. You now know why it was that I was reluctant
to give you that ingot—why it was that I degraded myself so far as
to ask it back. It was the only means I had of continuing a
deception on which I believed my father’s life depended. But that
delusion has been dispelled. I can live this life of hypocrisy no
longer. I cannot exist and hear my father, whom I love so, wither
me daily with his curses. I will undeceive him this very day.
Will you come with me, for I fear the effect on his enfeebled
frame?”
“Willingly,” I answered, taking her by the hand; “and I think that
no absolute danger need be apprehended. Now, Marion,” I added,
“let me ask forgiveness for having even for a moment wounded so
noble a heart. You are truly as great a martyr as any of those
whose sufferings the Church perpetuates in altar-pieces.”
“I knew you would do me justice when you knew all,” she sobbed,
pressing my hand; “but come. I am on fire. Let us hasten to my
father, and break this terror to him.”
When we reached the old alchemist’s room, we found him busily
engaged over a crucible which was placed on a small furnace, and in
which some indescribable mixture was boiling. He looked up as we
entered.
“No fear of me, doctor,” he said, with a ghastly smile, “no fear; I
must not allow a little physical pain to interrupt my great work,
you know. By the way, you are just in time. In a few moments the
marriage of the Red King and White Queen will be accomplished, as
George Ripley calls the great act, in his book entitled ‘The Twelve
Gates.’ Yes, doctor, in less than ten minutes you will see me make
pure, red, shining gold!” And the poor old man smiled
triumphantly, and stirred his foolish mixture with a long rod,
which he held with difficulty in his bandaged hands. It was a
grievous sight for a man of any feeling to witness.
“Father,” said Marion, in a low, broken voice, advancing a little
toward the poor old dupe, “I want your forgiveness.”
“Ah, hypocrite! for what? Are you going to give me back my gold?”
“No, father, but for the deception that I have been practicing on
you for two years—”
“I knew it! I knew it!” shouted the old man, with a radiant
countenance. “She has concealed my fourteen thousand dollars all
this time, and now comes to restore them. I will forgive her.
Where are they, Marion?”
“Father—it must come out. You never made any gold. It was I who
saved up thirty-five dollars, and I used to slip them into your
crucible when your back was turned—and I did it only because I saw
that you were dying of disappointment. It was wrong, I know—but,
father, I meant well. You’ll forgive me, won’t you?” And the poor
girl advanced a step toward the alchemist.
He grew deathly pale, and staggered as if about to fall. The next
instant, though, he recovered himself, and burst into a horrible
sardonic laugh. Then he said, in tones full of the bitterest
irony: “A conspiracy, is it? Well done, doctor! You think to
reconcile me with this wretched girl by trumping up this story that
I have been for two years a dupe of her filial piety. It’s clumsy,
doctor, and is a total failure. Try again.”
“But I assure you, Mr. Blakelock,” I said as earnestly as I could,
“I believe your daughter’s statement to be perfectly true. You
will find it to be so, as she has got the ingot in her possession
which so often deceived you into the belief that you made gold, and
you will certainly find that no transmutation has taken place in
your crucible.”
“Doctor,” said the old man, in tones of the most settled
conviction, “you are a fool. The girl has wheedled you. In less
than a minute I will turn you out a piece of gold purer than any
the earth produces. Will that convince you?”
“That will convince me,” I answered. By a gesture I imposed
silence on Marion, who was about to speak. I thought it better to
allow the old man to be his own undeceiver—and we awaited the
coming crisis.
The old man, still smiling with anticipated triumph, kept bending
eagerly over his crucible, stirring the mixture with his rod, and
muttering to himself all the time. “Now,” I heard him say, “it
changes. There—there’s the scum. And now the green and bronze
shades flit across it. Oh, the beautiful green! the precursor of
the golden-red hue that tells of the end attained! Ah! now the
golden-red is coming—slowly—slowly! It deepens, it shines, it is
dazzling! Ah, I have it!” So saying, he caught up his crucible in
a chemist’s tongs, and bore it slowly toward the table on which
stood a brass vessel.
“Now, incredulous doctor!” he cried, “come and be convinced,” and
immediately began carefully pouring the contents of the crucible
into the brass vessel. When the crucible was quite empty he turned
it up and called me again. “Come, doctor, come and be convinced.
See for yourself.”
“See first if there is any gold in your crucible,” I answered,
without moving.
He laughed, shook his head derisively, and looked into the
crucible. In a moment he grew pale as death.
“Nothing!” he cried. “Oh, a jest, a jest! There must be gold
somewhere. Marion!”
“The gold is here, father,” said Marion, drawing the ingot from her
pocket; “it is all we ever had.”
“Ah!” shrieked the poor old man, as he let the empty crucible fall,
and staggered toward the ingot which Marion held out to him. He
made three steps, and then fell on his face. Marion rushed toward
him, and tried to lift him, but could not. I put her aside gently,
and placed my hand on his heart.
“Marion,” said I, “it is perhaps better as it is. He is dead!”