Say that my beauty was but small,
Among court ladies all despised,
Why didst thou rend it from that hall
Where, scornful Earl, 'twas dearly prized?
No more thou com'st with wonted speed,
Thy once beloved bride to see;
But be she alive, or be she dead,
I fear, stern Earl, 's the same to thee.
CUMNOR HALL, by WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE.
The ladies of fashion of the present, or of any other period, must have
allowed that the young and lovely Countess of Leicester had, besides her
youth and beauty, two qualities which entitled her to a place amongst
women of rank and distinction. She displayed, as we have seen in her
interview with the pedlar, a liberal promptitude to make unnecessary
purchases, solely for the pleasure of acquiring useless and showy
trifles which ceased to please as soon as they were possessed; and she
was, besides, apt to spend a considerable space of time every day in
adorning her person, although the varied splendour of her attire could
only attract the half satirical praise of the precise Janet, or an
approving glance from the bright eyes which witnessed their own beams of
triumph reflected from the mirror.
The Countess Amy had, indeed, to plead for indulgence in those frivolous
tastes, that the education of the times had done little or nothing for a
mind naturally gay and averse to study. If she had not loved to
collect finery and to wear it, she might have woven tapestry or sewed
embroidery, till her labours spread in gay profusion all over the walls
and seats at Lidcote Hall; or she might have varied Minerva's labours
with the task of preparing a mighty pudding against the time that Sir
Hugh Robsart returned from the greenwood. But Amy had no natural genius
either for the loom, the needle, or the receipt-book. Her mother had
died in infancy; her father contradicted her in nothing; and Tressilian,
the only one that approached her who was able or desirous to attend
to the cultivation of her mind, had much hurt his interest with her by
assuming too eagerly the task of a preceptor, so that he was regarded by
the lively, indulged, and idle girl with some fear and much respect, but
with little or nothing of that softer emotion which it had been his hope
and his ambition to inspire. And thus her heart lay readily open, and
her fancy became easily captivated by the noble exterior and graceful
deportment and complacent flattery of Leicester, even before he was
known to her as the dazzling minion of wealth and power.
The frequent visits of Leicester at Cumnor, during the earlier part of
their union, had reconciled the Countess to the solitude and privacy
to which she was condemned; but when these visits became rarer and more
rare, and when the void was filled up with letters of excuse, not always
very warmly expressed, and generally extremely brief, discontent and
suspicion began to haunt those splendid apartments which love had fitted
up for beauty. Her answers to Leicester conveyed these feelings too
bluntly, and pressed more naturally than prudently that she might
be relieved from this obscure and secluded residence, by the Earl's
acknowledgment of their marriage; and in arranging her arguments with
all the skill she was mistress of, she trusted chiefly to the warmth of
the entreaties with which she urged them. Sometimes she even ventured
to mingle reproaches, of which Leicester conceived he had good reason to
complain.
“I have made her Countess,” he said to Varney; “surely she might wait
till it consisted with my pleasure that she should put on the coronet?”
The Countess Amy viewed the subject in directly an opposite light.
“What signifies,” she said, “that I have rank and honour in reality, if
I am to live an obscure prisoner, without either society or observance,
and suffering in my character, as one of dubious or disgraced
reputation? I care not for all those strings of pearl, which you fret me
by warping into my tresses, Janet. I tell you that at Lidcote Hall, if
I put but a fresh rosebud among my hair, my good father would call me
to him, that he might see it more closely; and the kind old curate would
smile, and Master Mumblazen would say something about roses gules. And
now I sit here, decked out like an image with gold and gems, and no one
to see my finery but you, Janet. There was the poor Tressilian, too--but
it avails not speaking of him.”
“It doth not indeed, madam,” said her prudent attendant; “and verily
you make me sometimes wish you would not speak of him so often, or so
rashly.”
“It signifies nothing to warn me, Janet,” said the impatient and
incorrigible Countess; “I was born free, though I am now mewed up like
some fine foreign slave, rather than the wife of an English noble.
I bore it all with pleasure while I was sure he loved me; but now my
tongue and heart shall be free, let them fetter these limbs as they
will. I tell thee, Janet, I love my husband--I will love him till
my latest breath--I cannot cease to love him, even if I would, or if
he--which, God knows, may chance--should cease to love me. But I
will say, and loudly, I would have been happier than I now am to
have remained in Lidcote Hall, even although I must have married poor
Tressilian, with his melancholy look and his head full of learning,
which I cared not for. He said, if I would read his favourite volumes,
there would come a time that I should be glad of having done so. I think
it is come now.”
“I bought you some books, madam,” said Janet, “from a lame fellow who
sold them in the Market-place--and who stared something boldly, at me, I
promise you.”
“Let me see them, Janet,” said the Countess; “but let them not be of
your own precise cast,--How is this, most righteous damsel?--'A PAIR OF
SNUFFERS FOR THE GOLDEN CANDLESTICK'--'HANDFULL OF MYRRH AND HYSSOP TO
PUT A SICK SOUL TO PURGATION'--'A DRAUGHT OF WATER FROM THE VALLEY OF
BACA'--'FOXES AND FIREBRANDS'--what gear call you this, maiden?”
“Nay, madam,” said Janet, “it was but fitting and seemly to put grace in
your ladyship's way; but an you will none of it, there are play-books,
and poet-books, I trow.”
The Countess proceeded carelessly in her examination, turning over such
rare volumes as would now make the fortune of twenty retail booksellers.
Here was a “BOKE OF COOKERY, IMPRINTED BY RICHARD LANT,” and “SKELTON'S
BOOKS”--“THE PASSTIME OF THE PEOPLE”--“THE CASTLE OF KNOWLEDGE,” etc.
But neither to this lore did the Countess's heart incline, and joyfully
did she start up from the listless task of turning over the leaves of
the pamphlets, and hastily did she scatter them through the floor, when
the hasty clatter of horses' feet, heard in the courtyard, called her to
the window, exclaiming, “It is Leicester!--it is my noble Earl!--it
is my Dudley!--every stroke of his horse's hoof sounds like a note of
lordly music!”
There was a brief bustle in the mansion, and Foster, with his downward
look and sullen manner, entered the apartment to say, “That Master
Richard Varney was arrived from my lord, having ridden all night, and
craved to speak with her ladyship instantly.”
“Varney?” said the disappointed Countess; “and to speak with me?--pshaw!
But he comes with news from Leicester, so admit him instantly.”
Varney entered her dressing apartment, where she sat arrayed in her
native loveliness, adorned with all that Janet's art and a rich and
tasteful undress could bestow. But the most beautiful part of her attire
was her profuse and luxuriant light-brown locks, which floated in such
rich abundance around a neck that resembled a swan's, and over a bosom
heaving with anxious expectation, which communicated a hurried tinge of
red to her whole countenance.
Varney entered the room in the dress in which he had waited on his
master that morning to court, the splendour of which made a strange
contrast with the disorder arising from hasty riding during a dark night
and foul ways. His brow bore an anxious and hurried expression, as one
who has that to say of which he doubts the reception, and who hath
yet posted on from the necessity of communicating his tidings. The
Countess's anxious eye at once caught the alarm, as she exclaimed, “You
bring news from my lord, Master Varney--Gracious Heaven! is he ill?”
“No, madam, thank Heaven!” said Varney. “Compose yourself, and permit me
to take breath ere I communicate my tidings.”
“No breath, sir,” replied the lady impatiently; “I know your theatrical
arts. Since your breath hath sufficed to bring you hither, it may
suffice to tell your tale--at least briefly, and in the gross.”
“Madam,” answered Varney, “we are not alone, and my lord's message was
for your ear only.”
“Leave us, Janet, and Master Foster,” said the lady; “but remain in the
next apartment, and within call.”
Foster and his daughter retired, agreeably to the Lady Leicester's
commands, into the next apartment, which was the withdrawing-room. The
door which led from the sleeping-chamber was then carefully shut and
bolted, and the father and daughter remained both in a posture of
anxious attention, the first with a stern, suspicious, anxious cast of
countenance, and Janet with folded hands, and looks which seemed divided
betwixt her desire to know the fortunes of her mistress, and her prayers
to Heaven for her safety. Anthony Foster seemed himself to have some
idea of what was passing through his daughter's mind, for he crossed
the apartment and took her anxiously by the hand, saying, “That is
right--pray, Janet, pray; we have all need of prayers, and some of us
more than others. Pray, Janet--I would pray myself, but I must listen to
what goes on within--evil has been brewing, love--evil has been brewing.
God forgive our sins, but Varney's sudden and strange arrival bodes us
no good.”
Janet had never before heard her father excite or even permit her
attention to anything which passed in their mysterious family; and now
that he did so, his voice sounded in her ear--she knew not why--like
that of a screech-owl denouncing some deed of terror and of woe. She
turned her eyes fearfully towards the door, almost as if she expected
some sounds of horror to be heard, or some sight of fear to display
itself.
All, however, was as still as death, and the voices of those who spoke
in the inner chamber were, if they spoke at all, carefully subdued to a
tone which could not be heard in the next. At once, however, they were
heard to speak fast, thick, and hastily; and presently after the voice
of the Countess was heard exclaiming, at the highest pitch to which
indignation could raise it, “Undo the door, sir, I command you!--undo
the door!--I will have no other reply!” she continued, drowning with her
vehement accents the low and muttered sounds which Varney was heard
to utter betwixt whiles. “What ho! without there!” she persisted,
accompanying her words with shrieks, “Janet, alarm the house!--Foster,
break open the door--I am detained here by a traitor! Use axe and lever,
Master Foster--I will be your warrant!”
“It shall not need, madam,” Varney was at length distinctly heard to
say. “If you please to expose my lord's important concerns and your own
to the general ear, I will not be your hindrance.”
The door was unlocked and thrown open, and Janet and her father rushed
in, anxious to learn the cause of these reiterated exclamations.
When they entered the apartment Varney stood by the door grinding his
teeth, with an expression in which rage, and shame, and fear had each
their share. The Countess stood in the midst of her apartment like a
juvenile Pythoness under the influence of the prophetic fury. The veins
in her beautiful forehead started into swoln blue lines through the
hurried impulse of her articulation--her cheek and neck glowed like
scarlet--her eyes were like those of an imprisoned eagle, flashing red
lightning on the foes which it cannot reach with its talons. Were it
possible for one of the Graces to have been animated by a Fury, the
countenance could not have united such beauty with so much hatred,
scorn, defiance, and resentment. The gesture and attitude corresponded
with the voice and looks, and altogether presented a spectacle which was
at once beautiful and fearful; so much of the sublime had the energy
of passion united with the Countess Amy's natural loveliness. Janet,
as soon as the door was open, ran to her mistress; and more slowly, yet
with more haste than he was wont, Anthony Foster went to Richard Varney.
“In the Truth's name, what ails your ladyship?” said the former.
“What, in the name of Satan, have you done to her?” said Foster to his
friend.
“Who, I?--nothing,” answered Varney, but with sunken head and sullen
voice; “nothing but communicated to her her lord's commands, which, if
the lady list not to obey, she knows better how to answer it than I may
pretend to do.”
“Now, by Heaven, Janet!” said the Countess, “the false traitor lies
in his throat! He must needs lie, for he speaks to the dishonour of my
noble lord; he must needs lie doubly, for he speaks to gain ends of his
own, equally execrable and unattainable.”
“You have misapprehended me, lady,” said Varney, with a sulky species
of submission and apology; “let this matter rest till your passion be
abated, and I will explain all.”
“Thou shalt never have an opportunity to do so,” said the
Countess.--“Look at him, Janet. He is fairly dressed, hath the outside
of a gentleman, and hither he came to persuade me it was my lord's
pleasure--nay, more, my wedded lord's commands--that I should go with
him to Kenilworth, and before the Queen and nobles, and in presence of
my own wedded lord, that I should acknowledge him--HIM there--that very
cloak-brushing, shoe-cleaning fellow--HIM there, my lord's lackey,
for my liege lord and husband; furnishing against myself, Great God!
whenever I was to vindicate my right and my rank, such weapons as would
hew my just claim from the root, and destroy my character to be regarded
as an honourable matron of the English nobility!”
“You hear her, Foster, and you, young maiden, hear this lady,” answered
Varney, taking advantage of the pause which the Countess had made in her
charge, more for lack of breath than for lack of matter--“you hear that
her heat only objects to me the course which our good lord, for the
purpose to keep certain matters secret, suggests in the very letter
which she holds in her hands.”
Foster here attempted to interfere with a face of authority, which he
thought became the charge entrusted to him, “Nay, lady, I must needs say
you are over-hasty in this. Such deceit is not utterly to be condemned
when practised for a righteous end; and thus even the patriarch Abraham
feigned Sarah to be his sister when they went down to Egypt.”
“Ay, sir,” answered the Countess; “but God rebuked that deceit even in
the father of His chosen people, by the mouth of the heathen Pharaoh.
Out upon you, that will read Scripture only to copy those things which
are held out to us as warnings, not as examples!”
“But Sarah disputed not the will of her husband, an it be your
pleasure,” said Foster, in reply, “but did as Abraham commanded, calling
herself his sister, that it might be well with her husband for her sake,
and that his soul might live because of her beauty.”
“Now, so Heaven pardon me my useless anger,” answered the Countess,
“thou art as daring a hypocrite as yonder fellow is an impudent
deceiver! Never will I believe that the noble Dudley gave countenance
to so dastardly, so dishonourable a plan. Thus I tread on his infamy, if
indeed it be, and thus destroy its remembrance for ever!”
So saying, she tore in pieces Leicester's letter, and stamped, in the
extremity of impatience, as if she would have annihilated the minute
fragments into which she had rent it.
“Bear witness,” said Varney, collecting himself, “she hath torn my
lord's letter, in order to burden me with the scheme of his devising;
and although it promises nought but danger and trouble to me, she would
lay it to my charge, as if I had any purpose of mine own in it.”
“Thou liest, thou treacherous slave!” said the Countess in spite of
Janet's attempts to keep her silent, in the sad foresight that her
vehemence might only furnish arms against herself--“thou liest,” she
continued.--“Let me go, Janet--were it the last word I have to speak,
he lies. He had his own foul ends to seek; and broader he would have
displayed them had my passion permitted me to preserve the silence which
at first encouraged him to unfold his vile projects.”
“Madam,” said Varney, overwhelmed in spite of his effrontery, “I entreat
you to believe yourself mistaken.”
“As soon will I believe light darkness,” said the enraged Countess.
“Have I drunk of oblivion? Do I not remember former passages, which,
known to Leicester, had given thee the preferment of a gallows, instead
of the honour of his intimacy. I would I were a man but for five
minutes! It were space enough to make a craven like thee confess his
villainy. But go--begone! Tell thy master that when I take the foul
course to which such scandalous deceits as thou hast recommended on
his behalf must necessarily lead me, I will give him a rival something
worthy of the name. He shall not be supplanted by an ignominious lackey,
whose best fortune is to catch a gift of his master's last suit
of clothes ere it is threadbare, and who is only fit to seduce a
suburb-wench by the bravery of new roses in his master's old pantoufles.
Go, begone, sir! I scorn thee so much that I am ashamed to have been
angry with thee.”
Varney left the room with a mute expression of rage, and was followed by
Foster, whose apprehension, naturally slow, was overpowered by the eager
and abundant discharge of indignation which, for the first time, he had
heard burst from the lips of a being who had seemed, till that moment,
too languid and too gentle to nurse an angry thought or utter an
intemperate expression. Foster, therefore, pursued Varney from place to
place, persecuting him with interrogatories, to which the other replied
not, until they were in the opposite side of the quadrangle, and in the
old library, with which the reader has already been made acquainted.
Here he turned round on his persevering follower, and thus addressed
him, in a tone tolerably equal, that brief walk having been sufficient
to give one so habituated to command his temper time to rally and
recover his presence of mind.
“Tony,” he said, with his usual sneering laugh, “it avails not to deny
it. The Woman and the Devil, who, as thine oracle Holdforth will
confirm to thee, cheated man at the beginning, have this day proved more
powerful than my discretion. Yon termagant looked so tempting, and had
the art to preserve her countenance so naturally, while I communicated
my lord's message, that, by my faith, I thought I might say some little
thing for myself. She thinks she hath my head under her girdle now, but
she is deceived. Where is Doctor Alasco?”
“In his laboratory,” answered Foster. “It is the hour he is spoken not
withal. We must wait till noon is past, or spoil his important--what
said I? important!--I would say interrupt his divine studies.”
“Ay, he studies the devil's divinity,” said Varney; “but when I want
him, one hour must suffice as well as another. Lead the way to his
pandemonium.”
So spoke Varney, and with hasty and perturbed steps followed Foster,
who conducted him through private passages, many of which were
well-nigh ruinous, to the opposite side of the quadrangle, where, in a
subterranean apartment, now occupied by the chemist Alasco, one of the
Abbots of Abingdon, who had a turn for the occult sciences, had, much
to the scandal of his convent, established a laboratory, in which,
like other fools of the period, he spent much precious time, and money
besides, in the pursuit of the grand arcanum.
Anthony Foster paused before the door, which was scrupulously secured
within, and again showed a marked hesitation to disturb the sage in
his operations. But Varney, less scrupulous, roused him by knocking
and voice, until at length, slowly and reluctantly, the inmate of the
apartment undid the door. The chemist appeared, with his eyes bleared
with the heat and vapours of the stove or alembic over which he brooded
and the interior of his cell displayed the confused assemblage of
heterogeneous substances and extraordinary implements belonging to his
profession. The old man was muttering, with spiteful impatience, “Am I
for ever to be recalled to the affairs of earth from those of heaven?”
“To the affairs of hell,” answered Varney, “for that is thy proper
element.--Foster, we need thee at our conference.”
Foster slowly entered the room. Varney, following, barred the door, and
they betook themselves to secret council.
In the meanwhile, the Countess traversed the apartment, with shame and
anger contending on her lovely cheek.
“The villain,” she said--“the cold-blooded, calculating slave!--But I
unmasked him, Janet--I made the snake uncoil all his folds before me,
and crawl abroad in his naked deformity; I suspended my resentment, at
the danger of suffocating under the effort, until he had let me see the
very bottom of a heart more foul than hell's darkest corner.--And thou,
Leicester, is it possible thou couldst bid me for a moment deny my
wedded right in thee, or thyself yield it to another?--But it is
impossible--the villain has lied in all.--Janet, I will not remain here
longer--I fear him--I fear thy father. I grieve to say it, Janet--but
I fear thy father, and, worst of all, this odious Varney, I will escape
from Cumnor.”
“Alas! madam, whither would you fly, or by what means will you escape
from these walls?”
“I know not, Janet,” said the unfortunate young lady, looking upwards!
and clasping her hands together, “I know not where I shall fly, or by
what means; but I am certain the God I have served will not abandon me
in this dreadful crisis, for I am in the hands of wicked men.”
“Do not think so, dear lady,” said Janet; “my father is stern and strict
in his temper, and severely true to his trust--but yet--”
At this moment Anthony Foster entered the apartment, bearing in his
hand a glass cup and a small flask. His manner was singular; for, while
approaching the Countess with the respect due to her rank, he had till
this time suffered to become visible, or had been unable to suppress,
the obdurate sulkiness of his natural disposition, which, as is usual
with those of his unhappy temper, was chiefly exerted towards those over
whom circumstances gave him control. But at present he showed nothing
of that sullen consciousness of authority which he was wont to conceal
under a clumsy affectation of civility and deference, as a ruffian hides
his pistols and bludgeon under his ill-fashioned gaberdine. And yet it
seemed as if his smile was more in fear than courtesy, and as if, while
he pressed the Countess to taste of the choice cordial, which should
refresh her spirits after her late alarm, he was conscious of meditating
some further injury. His hand trembled also, his voice faltered, and his
whole outward behaviour exhibited so much that was suspicious, that his
daughter Janet, after she had stood looking at him in astonishment for
some seconds, seemed at once to collect herself to execute some
hardy resolution, raised her head, assumed an attitude and gait of
determination and authority, and walking slowly betwixt her father and
her mistress, took the salver from the hand of the former, and said in
a low but marked and decided tone, “Father, I will fill for my noble
mistress, when such is her pleasure.”
“Thou, my child?” said Foster, eagerly and apprehensively; “no, my
child--it is not THOU shalt render the lady this service.”
“And why, I pray you,” said Janet, “if it be fitting that the noble lady
should partake of the cup at all?”
“Why--why?” said the seneschal, hesitating, and then bursting into
passion as the readiest mode of supplying the lack of all other
reason--“why, because it is my pleasure, minion, that you should not!
Get you gone to the evening lecture.”
“Now, as I hope to hear lecture again,” replied Janet, “I will not go
thither this night, unless I am better assured of my mistress's safety.
Give me that flask, father”--and she took it from his reluctant hand,
while he resigned it as if conscience-struck. “And now,” she said,
“father, that which shall benefit my mistress, cannot do ME prejudice.
Father, I drink to you.”
Foster, without speaking a word, rushed on his daughter and wrested the
flask from her hand; then, as if embarrassed by what he had done, and
totally unable to resolve what he should do next, he stood with it in
his hand, one foot advanced and the other drawn back, glaring on his
daughter with a countenance in which rage, fear, and convicted villainy
formed a hideous combination.
“This is strange, my father,” said Janet, keeping her eye fixed on his,
in the manner in which those who have the charge of lunatics are said to
overawe their unhappy patients; “will you neither let me serve my lady,
nor drink to her myself?”
The courage of the Countess sustained her through this dreadful scene,
of which the import was not the less obvious that it was not even hinted
at. She preserved even the rash carelessness of her temper, and though
her cheek had grown pale at the first alarm, her eye was calm and almost
scornful. “Will YOU taste this rare cordial, Master Foster? Perhaps you
will not yourself refuse to pledge us, though you permit not Janet to do
so. Drink, sir, I pray you.”
“I will not,” answered Foster.
“And for whom, then, is the precious beverage reserved, sir?” said the
Countess.
“For the devil, who brewed it!” answered Foster; and, turning on his
heel, he left the chamber.
Janet looked at her mistress with a countenance expressive in the
highest degree of shame, dismay, and sorrow.
“Do not weep for me, Janet,” said the Countess kindly.
“No, madam,” replied her attendant, in a voice broken by sobs, “it is
not for you I weep; it is for myself--it is for that unhappy man. Those
who are dishonoured before man--those who are condemned by God--have
cause to mourn; not those who are innocent! Farewell, madam!” she said
hastily assuming the mantle in which she was wont to go abroad.
“Do you leave me, Janet?” said her mistress--“desert me in such an evil
strait?”
“Desert you, madam!” exclaimed Janet; and running back to her mistress,
she imprinted a thousand kisses on her hand--“desert you I--may the Hope
of my trust desert me when I do so! No, madam; well you said the God you
serve will open you a path for deliverance. There is a way of escape. I
have prayed night and day for light, that I might see how to act betwixt
my duty to yonder unhappy man and that which I owe to you. Sternly and
fearfully that light has now dawned, and I must not shut the door which
God opens. Ask me no more. I will return in brief space.”
So speaking, she wrapped herself in her mantle, and saying to the old
woman whom she passed in the outer room that she was going to evening
prayer, she left the house.
Meanwhile her father had reached once more the laboratory, where
he found the accomplices of his intended guilt. “Has the sweet bird
sipped?” said Varney, with half a smile; while the astrologer put the
same question with his eyes, but spoke not a word.
“She has not, nor she shall not from my hands,” replied Foster; “would
you have me do murder in my daughter's presence?”
“Wert thou not told, thou sullen and yet faint-hearted slave,” answered
Varney, with bitterness, “that no MURDER as thou callest it, with that
staring look and stammering tone, is designed in the matter? Wert thou
not told that a brief illness, such as woman puts on in very wantonness,
that she may wear her night-gear at noon, and lie on a settle when
she should mind her domestic business, is all here aimed at? Here is a
learned man will swear it to thee by the key of the Castle of Wisdom.”
“I swear it,” said Alasco, “that the elixir thou hast there in the flask
will not prejudice life! I swear it by that immortal and indestructible
quintessence of gold, which pervades every substance in nature, though
its secret existence can be traced by him only to whom Trismegistus
renders the key of the Cabala.”
“An oath of force,” said Varney. “Foster, thou wert worse than a pagan
to disbelieve it. Believe me, moreover, who swear by nothing but by my
own word, that if you be not conformable, there is no hope, no, not
a glimpse of hope, that this thy leasehold may be transmuted into a
copyhold. Thus, Alasco will leave your pewter artillery untransmigrated,
and I, honest Anthony, will still have thee for my tenant.”
“I know not, gentlemen,” said Foster, “where your designs tend to; but
in one thing I am bound up,--that, fall back fall edge, I will have one
in this place that may pray for me, and that one shall be my daughter.
I have lived ill, and the world has been too weighty with me; but she is
as innocent as ever she was when on her mother's lap, and she, at least,
shall have her portion in that happy City, whose walls are of pure gold,
and the foundations garnished with all manner of precious stones.”
“Ay, Tony,” said Varney, “that were a paradise to thy heart's
content.--Debate the matter with him, Doctor Alasco; I will be with you
anon.”
So speaking, Varney arose, and taking the flask from the table, he left
the room.
“I tell thee, my son,” said Alasco to Foster, as soon as Varney had
left them, “that whatever this bold and profligate railer may say of the
mighty science, in which, by Heaven's blessing, I have advanced so
far that I would not call the wisest of living artists my better or my
teacher--I say, howsoever yonder reprobate may scoff at things too holy
to be apprehended by men merely of carnal and evil thoughts, yet believe
that the city beheld by St. John, in that bright vision of the Christian
Apocalypse, that new Jerusalem, of which all Christian men hope to
partake, sets forth typically the discovery of the GRAND SECRET, whereby
the most precious and perfect of nature's works are elicited out of
her basest and most crude productions; just as the light and gaudy
butterfly, the most beautiful child of the summer's breeze, breaks forth
from the dungeon of a sordid chrysalis.”
“Master Holdforth said nought of this exposition,” said Foster
doubtfully; “and moreover, Doctor Alasco, the Holy Writ says that the
gold and precious stones of the Holy City are in no sort for those who
work abomination, or who frame lies.”
“Well, my son,” said the Doctor, “and what is your inference from
thence?”
“That those,” said Foster, “who distil poisons, and administer them in
secrecy, can have no portion in those unspeakable riches.”
“You are to distinguish, my son,” replied the alchemist, “betwixt that
which is necessarily evil in its progress and in its end also, and that
which, being evil, is, nevertheless, capable of working forth good. If,
by the death of one person, the happy period shall be brought nearer
to us, in which all that is good shall be attained, by wishing its
presence--all that is evil escaped, by desiring its absence--in which
sickness, and pain, and sorrow shall be the obedient servants of human
wisdom, and made to fly at the slightest signal of a sage--in which that
which is now richest and rarest shall be within the compass of every one
who shall be obedient to the voice of wisdom,--when the art of healing
shall be lost and absorbed in the one universal medicine,--when sages
shall become monarchs of the earth, and death itself retreat before
their frown,--if this blessed consummation of all things can be hastened
by the slight circumstance that a frail, earthly body, which must
needs partake corruption, shall be consigned to the grave a short space
earlier than in the course of nature, what is such a sacrifice to the
advancement of the holy Millennium?”
“Millennium is the reign of the Saints,” said Foster, somewhat
doubtfully.
“Say it is the reign of the Sages, my son,” answered Alasco; “or rather
the reign of Wisdom itself.”
“I touched on the question with Master Holdforth last exercising night,”
said Foster; “but he says your doctrine is heterodox, and a damnable and
false exposition.”
“He is in the bonds of ignorance, my son,” answered Alasco, “and as yet
burning bricks in Egypt; or, at best, wandering in the dry desert of
Sinai. Thou didst ill to speak to such a man of such matters. I will,
however, give thee proof, and that shortly, which I will defy that
peevish divine to confute, though he should strive with me as the
magicians strove with Moses before King Pharaoh. I will do projection
in thy presence, my son,--in thy very presence--and thine eyes shall
witness the truth.”
“Stick to that, learned sage,” said Varney, who at this moment entered
the apartment; “if he refuse the testimony of thy tongue, yet how shall
he deny that of his own eyes?”
“Varney!” said the adept--“Varney already returned! Hast thou--” he
stopped short.
“Have I done mine errand, thou wouldst say?” replied Varney. “I have!
And thou,” he added, showing more symptoms of interest than he had
hitherto exhibited, “art thou sure thou hast poured forth neither more
nor less than the just measure?”
“Ay,” replied the alchemist, “as sure as men can be in these nice
proportions, for there is diversity of constitutions.”
“Nay, then,” said Varney, “I fear nothing. I know thou wilt not go a
step farther to the devil than thou art justly considered for--thou wert
paid to create illness, and wouldst esteem it thriftless prodigality to
do murder at the same price. Come, let us each to our chamber we shall
see the event to-morrow.”
“What didst thou do to make her swallow it?” said Foster, shuddering.
“Nothing,” answered Varney, “but looked on her with that aspect which
governs madmen, women, and children. They told me in St. Luke's Hospital
that I have the right look for overpowering a refractory patient. The
keepers made me their compliments on't; so I know how to win my bread
when my court-favour fails me.”
“And art thou not afraid,” said Foster, “lest the dose be
disproportioned?”
“If so,” replied Varney, “she will but sleep the sounder, and the fear
of that shall not break my rest. Good night, my masters.”
Anthony Foster groaned heavily, and lifted up his hands and eyes. The
alchemist intimated his purpose to continue some experiment of high
import during the greater part of the night, and the others separated to
their places of repose.