lamp was a gloomy blank, The same moment he trod upon some tough,
thick substance, which yielded beneath his foot! Thoroughly startled,
he jumped back. It lay near the foot of the clock. He stooped, picked
it up, and held in his hands the well-known haversack, from which he
had parted on board the "Empire State." How his heart beat as he
examined it! It was stained and whitened with salt water, and the
strap was broken in two. Opening it, there were his toilet articles
and all his other treasures,--even the cherished miniature,--not much
the worse for their wetting. So there could no longer be any doubt
that his uncle had come back. Where was he?
That queer fancy about the clock stuck in Balder's head! Somehow or
other it must be connected with Doctor Glyphic. The haversack, dropped
at its foot, was direct evidence. Yet, did ever wise man harbor notion
so irrational! Its manifest absurdity only excuse for thinking it.
With no declared object in view, Balder grasped the clock by its high
shoulders and shook it, but with no result. He next struck the smartly
with clenched fist: the blow sounded,--not hollow, but close and
muffled! The case either solid, or filled with something that deadened
the echo. Filled with what? who would think of putting anything in a
clock? It was big enough to be sure, to hold a man, if he could find a
way to get in!
The sequence of thoughts is often obscure, but Balder's next idea,
wild as it was, could hardly be called incoherent. A man might be
conceived to be in the clock; perhaps a man was in it; but if so, the
man could be none other than Doctor Hiero Glyphic!
This conclusion once imagined, suspense was unendurable. The logician
tried to open the front of the case, but it was riveted fast. With
impetuous fingers he then wrenched at the disc. With a sound like a
rusty screech, it came off in his hands. The lamp so flickered that
Balder feared it was going out, and even at this epoch had to look
round to reassure himself. Meanwhile, a pungent, but not unpleasant
odor saluted his nostrils: he turned back to the clock,--a clock no
longer!--and beheld the unmistakable lineaments of his worthy uncle
peeping forth with half-shut eyes from the place where the dial-plate
had been.
The nephew dropped the dial-plate, and it was shattered on the granite
floor. He was badly frightened. There was no delusion about the
face,--it was a sufficiently peculiar one; and the miniature portrait,
though doing the Doctor's beauty at least justice, was accurate enough
to identify him by. This was no unsubstantial apparition,--no brain
phantom, to waver and vanish, leaving only an uncomfortable doubt
whether it had been at all. Stolid, undeniable matter was, peering
phlegmatically between its wrinkled eyelids.
But admitting that now, at last, we have lighted upon the genuine and
authentic Doctor Glyphic, why should the sight of him so oddly affect
Balder Helwyse, whose avowed object in pulling off the dial-plate had
been to justify a suspicion that Uncle Hiero was behind it? Why,
moreover, did the young man not address his relative, congratulating
himself upon their meeting, and rallying the old gentleman on his
attempt to escape his nephew's affectionate solicitude? There had,
indeed, been a misunderstanding at their last encounter, and Balder
had so far forgotten himself as to throw Hiero into the sea; but it
was the part of good-breeding, as well as of Christianity, to forget
such errors, and heal the bruise with an extra application of balsamic
verbiage.
Why so speechless, Balder? Do you wait for your host to speak first?
Nay, never stand on ceremony. He is an eccentric recluse, unused to
the ways of society, while a man of the world like you has at his
tongue's tip a score of phrases just suited to the occasion. Speak up,
therefore, in your most genial tone, and tell the Doctor how glad you
are to find him in such wonderful preservation! Put him at his ease by
feigning that his position appears to you the most natural in the
world,--just what befits a gentleman of his years and honors! Flatter
him, if only from self-interest, for he has a deep pocket, and may be
induced to let you put a hand in it.
Not a word in response to all this eloquence, Balder? Positively your
behavior appears rather curmudgeonly than heroic! You stand gazing at
your relative with almost as much fixedness as he returns your stare
withal. There is something odd about this.
What is that pungent odor? Is the Doctor a dandy, that he should use
perfumes? And where did he get so peculiar a scent as this? It is
commonly in vogue only at that particular toilet which no man ever
performed for himself, but which never needs to be done twice,--a kind
of toilet, by the way, especially prevalent amongst the ancient
Egyptians. Since, then, Doctor Glyphic is so ardent an Egyptologist,
perhaps we have hit upon the secret of his remarkable odoriferousness.
But to shut one's self up in a box that looks so uncommonly like a
coffin,--is not that carrying the antiquarian whim a trifle too far?
This face of his,--one fancies there is a curiously dry look about it!
The unnaturally yellow skin resembles a piece of good-for-nothing
wrinkled parchment. The lips partake of the prevailing sallow tint,
and the mouth hangs a little awry. From the cloth in which the head is
so elaborately bandaged up strays forth, here and there, an arid lock
of hair. The lack of united expression in his features produces an
effect seldom observable in a living face. The eyes are lustreless,
and densely black; or possibly (the suspicion is a startling one) we
are looking into empty eye-sockets! No eyes, no expression, parchment
skin, swathed head, odor of myrrh and cassia, and, dominating all,
this ghastly immobility! Has Doctor Glyphic even now escaped, leaving
us to waste time and sentiment over some worn-out disguise of his?
Nay, if he be not here, we need not seek him further. Having forsaken
this, he can attain no other earthly hiding-place. We must pause here,
and believe either that this dry time-husk is the very last of poor
Hiero, or that a living being which once bore his name has vanished
inward from our reach, and now treads a more real earth than any that
time and space are sovereign over.
Balder (whose perceptions were unlimited by artistic requirements)
probably needed no second glance to assure him that his uncle was a
mummy of many years' standing. But no effort of mental gymnastics
could explain him the fact. Were this real, then was his steamboat
adventure a dream, the revelation of the ring a delusion, and his
water-stained haversack a phantom. He wandered clewless in a maze of
mystery. Nor was this the first paradox he had encountered since
overleaping the brick wall. He began to question whether
supernaturalism had not teen too hastily dismissed by lovers of
wisdom!
Thus do the actors in the play of life plod from one to another
scene, nor once rise to a height whence a glance might survey past and
future. Memory and prophecy are twin sisters,--nay, they are
essentially one muse, whom mankind worships on this side and slights
on that. This is well, for had she but one aspect, the world would be
either too confident or too helpless. But in reviewing a life, one is
apt to make less than due allowance for the helplessness. Thus it is
no prejudice to Balder's intellectual acumen that he failed for a
moment to penetrate the thin disguises of events, and to perceive
relations obvious to the comprehensive view of history. We will take
advantage of his bewildered pause to draw attention to some matters
heretofore neglected.
XXV.
THE HAPPINESS OF MAN.
When Manetho,--who shall no longer perplex us with his theft of a
worthier man's name,--when Manetho felt himself worsted in the brief
strenuous struggle, he tried to drag his antagonist overboard with
him. But his convulsive fingers seized only the leathern strap of the
haversack. Balder--his Berserker fury at white heat--flung the man
with such terrible strength as drove him headlong over the taffrail
like a billet of wood, the stout strap snapping like thread!
Manetho struck the water in sorry plight, breathless, bruised, half
strangled. He sank to a chilly depth, but carried his wits down with
him, and these brought him up again alive, however exhausted. Too weak
to swim, he yet had strength left to keep afloat. But for the
collision, he had drowned, after all!
The cool salt bath presently helped him to a little energy, and by the
time the steamer was under way, he could think of striking out. It was
with no small relief that he heard near voices sounding through the
black fog. Partly by dint of feeble struggles, partly shouldered on
by waves,--ready to save as to drown him,--he managed to accomplish
the short distance to the schooner. With all his might he shouted for
a rope, and amidst much yo-heave-ho-ing, cursing, and astonishment,
was at length hauled aboard, the haversack in his grasp.
The skipper and his crew were kind to him; for men still have
compassion upon one another, and give succor according to the need of
the moment,--not to the balance of good and evil in the sufferer. The
wind freshened, an impromptu, bowsprit was rigged, and the
"Resurrection" limped towards New York. Manetho's partial stupor was
relieved by hot grog and the cook's stove. He gave no further account
of himself than that he had fallen overboard at the moment of
collision; adding a request to be landed in New York, since he had
left some valuable luggage on the steamer.
The skipper gave the stranger his own bunk, the off-watch turned in,
and Manetho was left to himself. He lay for a long while thinking over
what had happened. Bewitched by the spell of night, he had spoken to
Helwyse things never before distinctly stated even to his own mind.
The subtle, perverse devil who had discoursed so freely to his unknown
hearer had scarcely been so unreserved to Manetho's private ear; and
the devilish utterances had stirred up the latter not much less than
the former.
Both men had been wrought, according to their diverse natures, to the
pitch of frenzy. But similar crazy seizures had been incident to the
Egyptian from boyhood. He had anxiously watched against them, and
contrived various means to their mitigation,--the most successful
being the music of his violin, which he seldom let beyond his reach.
Yet, again and again would the fit steal a march on him. Hence, in
part, his retired way of life, varied only by the brief journeys
demanded by the twofold craving--for gambling and for news of Thor,
who figured in his morbid imagination as the enemy of his soul!
The news never came, but all the more brooded Manetho over his hatred
and his fancied wrongs. His mind had never been entirely sound, and
years tinged it more and more deeply with insanity. His philosophy of
life--obscure indeed if tried by sane standards--emits a dusky glimmer
when read by this. He would creep through miles of subterranean
passages to achieve an end which one glance above ground would have
argued vain!
Lying on the bunk in the close cabin, lighted by a dirty lantern
pendent from the roof, the Reverend Manetho began to fear that not his
worst misfortune was the having been thrown overboard. At the moment
when madness was smouldering to a blaze within him, the lantern flash
had revealed to him the face which, for twenty years, he had seen in
visions. Often had he rehearsed this meeting, varying his imaginary
behavior to suit all conceivable moods and attitudes of his enemy, but
never thinking to provide for perversity in himself! So far from
veiling his designs with the soft-voiced cunning of his Oriental
nature, he had been a wild beast! A misgiving haunted him, moreover,
that he had babbled something in the false security of darkness, which
might give Helwyse a clew to his secret.
But here Manetho asked himself a question that might have suggested
itself before. Was it really his enemy, Thor Helwyse, whose face he
had seen? or only some likeness of him?
Thor must be threescore years old by this,--the senior by ten years of
Manetho himself; while his late antagonist had the strength and aspect
of half that age. Yet how could he be mistaken in the face which had
haunted him during more than the third part of his lifetime? He had
recognized it on the instant!
"I will ask the haversack!" said he. He sat up, and, bracing himself
against the roll of the vessel, he opened the bag and carefully
examined its contents. In an inner pocket he found an old letter of
Doctor Glyphic's to Thor; another from Thor to his son, dated three
years back; and finally a diary kept by Balder Helwyse, which gave
Manetho all the information he wanted.
He had so arranged matters that at Glyphic's death he had got the
control of the money into his own hands, and had made such diligent
use of it that enough was not now left to pay for his prosecution as a
thief and forger. In fact, had Balder delayed his return another year,
he would have found the enchanted castle in possession of the
auctioneer; and as to the fate of its inhabitants, one does not like
to speculate!
Having read the papers, Manetho replaced them, and next pulled out the
miniature of Doctor Glyphic. He studied this for a long time. It was
the portrait of a man to whom--so long as their earthly relations had
continued--the Egyptian renegade had been faithful. Perhaps there was
some secret germ of excellence in poor Hiero, unsuspected by the rest
of the world, but revealed to Manetho, from whom in turn it had drawn
the best virtues that his life had to show. Doctor Glyphic had never
been a comfortable companion; but Manetho was always patient and
honest with him. This integrity and forbearance were the more
remarkable, since the Doctor seldom acknowledged a kindness, and knew
so little of business that he might have been robbed of his fortune at
any moment with impunity.
Either from physical exhaustion or for some worthier reason, the
Egyptian cried over this miniature, as an affectionate girl might have
cried over the portrait of her dead lover. For a time he was all tears
and softness. His emotion had not the convulsiveness which, with men
of his age, is apt to accompany the exhibition of much feeling. He
wept with feminine fluency, nor did his tearfulness seem out of
character. There was a great deal of the woman in him.
Having wept his fill, he tenderly wiped his eyes, and returned the
picture to its receptacle; and first assuring himself that nothing
else was concealed in the haversack, he shut it up and resumed his
meditations.
It was the son, then, whom he had met,--and Thor was dead. Dead!--that
was a hard fact for Manetho to swallow. His enemy had escaped
him,--was dead! Through all the years of waiting, Manetho had not
anticipated this. How should Thor die before revenge had been wreaked
upon him?--But he was dead!
By degrees, however, his mind began to adjust itself to the situation.
The son, at all events, was left him. He cuddled the thought,
whispering to himself and slyly smiling. Did not the father live again
in the son? he would lose nothing, therefore,--not lose, but gain!
The seeming loss was a blessing in disguise. The son,--young,
handsome, hot of blood! Already new schemes began to take shape in the
Egyptian's brain. His dear revenge!--it should not starve, but feed on
the fat of the land,--yea, be drunk with strong wine.
He lay hugging himself, his long narrow eyes gleaming, his full lips
working together. He was revolving a devilish project,--the flintiest
criminal might have shuddered at it. But there was nothing flinty nor
unfeeling about Manetho. His emotions were alert and moist, his smile
came and went, his heart beat full; he was now the girl listening to
her lover's first passionate declaration!
He had gathered from Balder's diary that the young man was in search
of his uncle, and had been on his way to the house at the time of
their encounter. There was a chance that this unlucky episode might
frighten him away. He no doubt supposed himself guilty of manslaughter
at least; how gladly would the clergyman have reassured him! And
indeed there was no resentment in Manetho's heart because of his rough
usage at Balder's hands. His purposes lay too deep to influence
shallower moods. He presented a curious mixture of easy forgiveness
and unmitigable malice.
The only other anxiety besetting him arose from the loss of the ring.
He looked upon it as a talisman of excellent virtue, and moreover
perceived that in case Balder should pick it up, it might become the
means of identifying its owner and obstructing his plans. But these
were mere contingencies. The probability was that young Helwyse would
ultimately appear at his uncle's house, and would there be ensnared in
the seductive meshes of Manetho's web. The ring was most likely at the
bottom of the Sound. So, smiling his subtle feminine smile, the
Egyptian fell asleep, to dream of the cordial welcome he would give
his expected guest.
Towards midnight of the same day he approaches the house by way of the
winding avenue, his violin-case safe in hand. He steps out joyfully
beneath the wide-spread minuet of twinkling stars. On his way he comes
to a moss-grown bench at the foot of a mighty elm,--the bench on which
he sat with Helen during the stirring moments of their last interview.
Manetho's soul overflows to-night with flattering hopes, and he has
spare emotion for any demand. He drops on his knees beside this
decayed old bench, and kisses it twice or thrice with tender
vehemence; stretches out his arms to embrace the air, and ripples
forth a half-dozen sentences,--pleading, insinuating, passionate. He
can love her again as much as ever, now that the wrong done him is on
the eve of requital.
But his mood is no less fickle than melting. Already he is up and
away, almost dancing along the shadowed, romantic tree-aisle, his eyes
glistening black in the starlight,--no longer with a lover's luxurious
sorrow, but with the happy anticipation of an artless child, promised
a holiday and playthings. So lightsome and expansive is Manetho's
heart, the hollow hemisphere of heaven seems none too roomy for it!
Evil as well as good knows its moments of bliss,--its hours! Hell is
the heaven of devils, and they want no better. Often do the wages of
sin come laden with a seeming blessing that those of virtue lack. The
sinner looks upon Satan's face, and it is to him as the face of God!
But from the womb of this grim truth is born a noble consolation. Were
hell mere torment, and joy in heaven only, where were the good man's
merit? Only when the choice lies between two heavens--the selfish and
the unselfish--is the battle worthy the fighting! No human soul dies
from earth that attains not heaven,--that heaven which the heart
chiefly sought while in this world; and herefrom is the genesis of
virtue. Sin brings its self-inflicted penalties there as here; but
hell is still the happiness of man, heaven of God!
Reaching the house, Manetho passed through the open door, crossed the
hall with his customary noiselessness, and entered the conservatory.
Despite the darkness, he was at once aware of the motionless group
beneath the palm-trees. A stranger in the house was something so
unprecedented that he could not repress a throb of alarm. Nurse looked
up and beckoned him. Drawing near, he heard the long, deep breathing
of the sleeper. With a sudden fore-glimpse of the truth, he knelt
down, and bent over the upturned countenance.
Though the beard was close-shaven and the hair cropped short, there
could be no doubt about the face. His guest had come before him, and
was lying defenceless at his feet; but Manetho harbored no thought of
violence. He pressed his slender hands together with an impulse of
sympathy. "Poor fellow!" he whispered, "how he has suffered! How the
horror of blood-guiltiness must have tortured him! The noble Helwyse
hair,--all gone! Too dear a price to pay for the mere sacrifice of a
human life! And pain and all might have been spared him,--poor fellow!
poor fellow!" Manetho lacked but little of shedding true tears over
the evidence of his dearest foe's useless dread and anguish. Did he
wish Balder to bring undulled nerves to his own torture-chamber?
His lament over, Manetho turned to Nurse for such information
regarding the guest's arrival and behavior as she might have to
communicate. Of his own affair with Balder he made no mention. The
conversation was carried on by signs, according to a code long since
grown up between the two. When the tale was told, Nurse was despatched
to make ready Helen's room for the new-comer, and thither did the two
laboriously bear him, and laid him, still sleeping, on his mother's
bed.
XXVI.
MUSIC AND MADNESS.
Before leaving Balder to his repose, Manetho paused to regain his
breath, and to throw a glance round the room. It was a place he seldom
visited. He had seen Helen's dead body lie on that bed, and the sight
had bred in him an animosity against the chamber and everything it
contained. After Doctor Glyphic's death he had gratified this feeling
in a characteristic manner. Possessing a genius for drawing second
only to that for music, he had exercised it on the walls of the room,
originally modelled and tinted to represent a robin's egg. He mixed
his colors with the bitter distillations of his heart, and created the
beautiful but ill-omened vision which long afterwards so disquieted
Balder.--
From the chamber he now repaired to the kitchen, which was in some
respects the most attractive place in the house. The smoky ceiling;
the cavernous cupboards opening into the walls; the stanch dressers,
polished by use and mottled with many an ancient stain; the great
black range, which would have cooked a meal for a troop of
men-at-arms,--all spoke of homely comfort. Nurse had Manetho's meal
ready for him, and, having set it out on the table, she retired to her
position in the chimney-corner. The Egyptian's spare body was
ordinarily nourished with little more than goes to the support of an
Arab, and Nurse's monotonous life must have been unfavorable to large
appetite. As for Gnulemah,--although young women are said to thrive
and grow beautiful on a diet of morning dew, noonday sunshine, and
evening mist,--it seems quite likely that she ate no less than the
health and activity of a Diana might naturally require.
Manetho made a gleeful repast, and Nurse looked on from her corner,
externally as unattractive-looking a woman as one would wish to see.
Nevertheless, had she been made as some clocks are, with a plate of
glass over her inner movements, she would have monopolized the
clergyman's attention and impaired his appetite. He did not sit down
to the table, but took up one viand after another, and ate as he
walked to and fro the floor. Supper over, he crowned it with an
unheard-of excess,--for Manetho was commonly a very temperate man. He
brought from a cupboard a dusty bottle of priceless wine, which had
once enriched the cellar of a king of Spain. Drawing the cork, he
poured some of the golden liquor into a slender glass, while the
spiritual aroma flowed invisible along the air, visiting every
darksome nook, and even saluting Nurse, who had long been a stranger
to any such delicate attention.
Manetho filled two glasses, and then beckoned Nurse to come from her
corner, and drink with him. Forth she hobbled accordingly, looking
more than usually ugly by reason of her surprise and embarrassment at
the unexpected summons. Manetho, on the other hand, seemed to have
cast aside his years, and to be once more the graceful, sinuous,
courteous youth, whose long black eyes had, long ago, seen Salome's
heart. With an elegant gesture he handed her the brimming wineglass,
accompanying it with a smile which well-nigh shook it from between her
fingers. He took up his own glass, and said,--