Chapter XLVII
A friend in need is a friend in deed—The tables are turned and so is the key—The issue in deep tragedy.
Was it possible that which Melchior said was true? A little reflection told me that it was all false, and that he was himself Sir Henry de Clare. I was in his power, and what might be the result? He might detain me, but he dare not murder me. Dare not! My heart sank when I considered where I was, and how easy would it be for him to despatch me, if so inclined, without any one ever being aware of my fate. I lighted a whole candle, that I might not find myself in the dark when I rose, and exhausted in body and mind, was soon fast asleep. I must have slept many hours, for when I awoke I was in darkness—the candle had burnt out. I groped for the basket, and examined the contents with my hands, and found a tinder-box. I struck a light, and then feeling hungry and weak, refreshed myself with the eatables it contained, which were excellent, as well as the wine. I had replaced the remainder, when the key again turned in the door, and Melchior made his appearance.
"How do you feel, Japhet, to-day?"
"To-day!" replied I; "day and night are the same to me."
"That is your own fault," replied he. "Have you considered what I proposed to you yesterday?"
"Yes," replied I; "and I will agree to this. Let Sir Henry give me my liberty, come over to England, prove his relationship to Fleta, and I will give her up. What can he ask for more?"
"He will hardly consent to that," replied Melchior; "for, once in England, you will take a warrant out against him."
"No; on my honour I will not, Melchior."
"He will not trust to that."
"Then he must judge of others by himself," replied I.
"Have you no other terms to propose," replied Melchior.
"None."
"Then I will carry your message, and give you his answer to-morrow."
Melchior then brought in another basket, and took away the former, and did not make his appearance till the next day. I now had recovered my strength, and determined to take some decided measures, but how to act I knew not. I reflected all night, and the next morning (that is, according to my supposition) I attacked the basket. Whether it was that ennui or weakness occasioned it, I cannot tell, but either way, I drank too much wine, and was ready for any daring deed, when Melchior again the door.
"Sir Henry will not accept of your terms. I thought not," said Melchior, "I am sorry—very sorry."
"Melchior," replied I, starting up; "let us have no more of this duplicity. I am not quite so ignorant as you suppose. I know who Fleta is, and who you are."
"Indeed," replied Melchior; "perhaps you will explain?"
"I will. You, Melchior, are Sir Henry de Clare; you succeeded to your estates by the death of your elder brother, from a fall when hunting."
Melchior appeared astonished.
"Indeed!" replied he; "pray go on. You have made a gentleman of me."
"No; rather a scoundrel."
"As you please; now will you make a lady of Fleta?"
"Yes, I will. She is your niece." Melchior started back. "Your agent, M'Dermott, who was sent over to find out Fleta's abode, met me in the coach, and he has tracked me here, and risked my life, by telling the people that I was a tithe proctor."
"Your information is very important," replied Melchior, "You will find some difficulty to prove all you say."
"Not the least," replied I, flushed with anger and with wine, "I have proof positive. I have seen her mother, and I can identify the child by the necklace which was on her neck when you stole her."
"Necklace!" cried Melchior.
"Yes, the necklace put into my hands by your own wife when we parted."
"Damn her!" replied Melchior.
"Do not damn her; damn yourself for your villany, and its being brought to light. Have I said enough, or shall I tell you more?"
"Pray tell me more."
"No, I will not, for I must commit others, and that will not do," replied I; for I felt I had already said too much.
"You have committed yourself, at all events," replied Melchior; "and now I tell you, that until—never mind," and Melchior hastened away.
The door was again locked, and I was once more alone.
I had time to reflect upon my imprudence. The countenance of Melchior, when he left me, was that of a demon. Something told me to prepare for death; and I was not wrong. The next day Melchior came not, nor the next; my provisions were all gone. I had nothing but a little wine and water left. The idea struck me, that I was to die of starvation. Was there no means of escape? None; I had no weapon, no tool, not even a knife. I had expended all my candles. At last, it occurred to me, that, although I was in a cellar, my voice might be heard, and I resolved, as a last effort, to attempt it. I went to the door of the cellar, and shouted at the top of my lungs, "Murder—murder!" I shouted again and again as loud as I could, until I was exhausted. As it afterwards appeared, this plan did prevent my being starved to death, for such was Melchior's villanous intention. About an hour afterwards I repeated my cries of "Murder—murder!" and they were heard by the household, who stated to Melchior, that there was some one shouting murder in the vaults below. That night, and all the next day, I repeated my cries occasionally. I was now quite exhausted, I had been nearly two days without food, and my wine and water had all been drunk. I sat down with a parched mouth and heated brain, waiting till I could sufficiently recover my voice to repeat my cries, when I heard footsteps approaching. The key was again turned in the door, and a light appeared, carried by one of two men armed with large sledge hammers.
"It is then all over with me," cried I; "and I never shall find out who is my father. Come on, murderers, and do your work. Do it quickly."
The two men advanced without speaking a word; the foremost, who carried the lantern, laid it down at his feet, and raised his hammer with both hands, when the other behind him raised his weapon—and the foremost fell dead at his feet.