Two tressels stood in the center of the floor. These were the only objects to break the monotony of the dust-covered floor and walls.
Upon these tressels, twenty-one years before, had been placed a coffin, inscribed with the name of Gulian Van Huyden, and the dates,—December 25th, 1823, and December, 25th, 1844.
Opposite these tressels, a panel had recently been removed, disclosing a cavity or recess in the wall. In the recess the iron chest had been buried twenty-one years before. It was vacant now,—the iron chest was gone.
As the light shone around this place, whose every detail was linked with the past, the breast of Ezekiel Bogart heaved with emotion, but no word passed his lips. He lingered there a long time.
Through the confined doorway, he passed into the garret nook, whose roof was formed by the slope of the heavy rafters, which now were hung with cobwebs, while a small window, with heavy frame and narrow panes, shook to the impulse of the winter wind. A mahogany desk and an old-fashioned arm-chair, stand between the door and the window.
"Here Gulian and Martin Fulmer held their last interview," soliloquized Ezekiel, as he stood alone in the dreary garret,—"there stood Gulian, there knelt Martin, as he took the oath. Fifteen minutes afterward, Gulian was a corpse, and Martin was loaded with the awful trust, which he has borne alone for twenty-one years."
He approached the window. All was dark without. Sleet and snow beat against the window-pane. The wind howled dismally over the roof; the storm was abroad over the city and the bay.
"From this window he saw Manhattan Bay, and the spire of old Trinity. Yes, from this window, he pointed out to Martin Fulmer, the windows of the Banquet-room, in the western wing of the mansion, as they shone with the glad light of the Christmas Festival. It is Christmas again,—once more the windows of the banquet-room are lighted,—yes, I can see the lights glimmering through the storm, but not for a festival. Ah me! what years have passed since those windows were lighted for a festival."
Sadly Ezekiel Bogart left the garret, and descending the narrow staircase, and passing a corridor, made the best of his way toward the lower rooms of the mansion. Impressed to his very soul, with the consciousness that he would soon behold the son of Gulian Van Huyden—Carl Raphael—he entered the first of the seven vaults, where the hanging lamp still shone upon the arm-chair, the shelved walls, and the huge table overspread with papers.
Seating himself in the arm-chair, he rang the bell. It was not long before the aged servant appeared.