It was a great thought,—a thought which, carried into action, would have baptized ten thousand hearts with peace, and filled thrice ten thousand hearts with joy unspeakable. But——
"It cannot be. Martin Fulmer must keep his oath. The rest is for Providence."
He returned to the first room, or vault, and from a drawer of the table, drew forth a bundle of keys.
"I will visit those rooms," he said, "and in the meantime Ninety-One will arrive with Carl Raphael."
Light in hand, he left the room, and passed along a lofty corridor with panneled walls. As the light shone over his tall figure, bent with age, and enveloped in a dark robe lined with scarlet, you might have thought him the magician of some old time story, on his way to the cell of his most sacred vigils, had it not been for his skull-cap, huge green glasses, and enormous white cravat; these imparted something grotesque to his appearance, and effectually concealed his features, and the varying expressions of his countenance.
He placed a key in the lock of a door. It was the door of a chamber which no living being had entered for twenty-one years. Ezekiel seemed to hesitate ere he crossed the threshold. At length, turning the key in the lock,—it grated harshly,—he pushed open the door,—he crossed the threshold.
A sad and desolate place! Once elegant, luxurious; the very abode of voluptuous wealth, it was now sadder than a tomb. The atmosphere was heavy with the breath of years. The candle burned but dimly as it encountered that atmosphere, which, for twenty-one years, had not known a single ray of sunlight, a single breath of fresh air. A grand old place with lofty walls, concealed by tapestry,—three windows looking to the street (they had not been opened for twenty-one years) adorned with curtains of embroidered lace, a bureau surmounted by an oval mirror, chairs of dark mahogany, a carpet soft as down, and a couch enshrined in an alcove, with silken curtains and coverlet and pillow, yet bearing the impress of a human form. A grand old place, but there was dust everywhere; everywhere dust, the breath of years, the wear and tear of time. You could not see your face in the mirror; the cobwebs covered it like a vail. You left the print of your footsteps upon the downy carpet. The purple tapestry, was purple no longer; it was black with dust, and the moth had eaten it into rags. The once snow-white curtains of the windows, were changed to dingy gray, and the canopy of the couch, looked anything but pure and spotless, as the light fell over its folds.
Did Ezekiel Bogart hesitate and tremble as he approached that couch?
He held the light above his head,—and looked within the couch. Silken coverlet and downy pillow, covered with dust, and bearing still the impress of the form which had died there twenty-one years ago.
"Alice Van Huyden!" ejaculated Ezekiel Bogart, as though the dead one was present, listening to his every word,—"Here, twenty-one years ago, you gave birth to your son, and,—died. Yes, here you gave life to that son,—Carl Raphael Van Huyden I must call him,—who, once condemned to death,—then buried beside you in the family vault,—then for two years the tenant of a mad-house, will at four o'clock, appear and take possession of his own name, and of the estate of his father!"