"When did this malady attack her?"
"Almost immediately after a portrait, made by the celebrated painter, was finished. Of him thou hast, doubtless, heard."
"The painter!—Ay!—There be more than thou have rued his skill. Young man, thy pretty one is lost."
"Lost! Oh, say not so! I will give thee thine utmost desire—riches—wealth thou hast never possessed, if thou restore her!"
"She is beyond my skill. Hast visited him since?"
"I have seen him. She is the last victim, if such be her fate. This very morning, betimes, I saw his body in the Morgue."
"They have found him, then!" said the doctor, sharply. "Yet our bodies are but exuviæ. When cast off, this thinking, sentient principle within has another tabernacle assigned to it, until the great consummation of all things. But these are fables, idle tales, to the unlearned. Nevertheless, I pity thy cruel fate, and, if aid can be afforded, will call another to thine help. Hence! Thou shalt hear from me anon."
"And without loss of time; for every moment, methinks, our succour may come too late."
"I will forthwith seek out one whom I have heretofore taken knowledge of. Every science has its votaries,—its adepts; and this evil case hath its remedy only by those skilled in arts called, however falsely, supernatural. Even now, there be intelligences around us, which the corporeal eye seeth not, nor can see, unless purged from the dross, the fumes of mortality. Some, peradventure, by long and patient study, have arrived on the very borders, the confines that separate visible from invisible things; and become, as it were, the medium of intercourse for mortals, who are, by this means, mightily aided in matters beyond ordinary research. Put thine ear to this shell. Mark its voice, like the sound of many waters. Are not these the invisible source, the essence of its being? Has not every thing in like manner, even the most inanimate, a tongue, a language, peculiar to itself—a soul, a spirit, pervading its form, which moulds and fashions every substance according to its own nature? Now, this voice thou canst not interpret, being unskilled; knowing not the languages peculiar to every form and modification of matter. Else would this beautiful type of the ever-rolling sea discourse marvellously to thine ear. But thou hast not the key to unclose its mystic tongue; hence, like any other unknown speech, 'tis but a confused jumble of unmeaning sound. I have little more knowledge than thyself, but there be those who can interpret. Vain man—presumptuous, ignorant—scoffs at knowledge beyond his reach, and thinks his own dim, nay darkened reason, glimmering as in a dungeon, the narrow horizon that circumscribes his vision, the utmost boundary of all knowledge and existence, while, beyond, lies the infinite and unknown, utterly transcending his capacity and comprehension."
De Vessey drank up every word of this harangue; and something akin to hope rose in his bosom, as he withdrew.