One! strikes slowly with a sound like thunder from the grey old belfry of the church. Midnight—this is the hour during which the earth is thronged with spirits. They pour from the green graveyards, from the charnel-house; the murderer descends from his gibbet, and the rich man rises from his vault. The air is filled with ghosts; their incorporeal forms throng in myriads thick as the leaves of Vallombrosa.
Wolfden stands black and dense in front of the calm splendour of the moon; the stars shine on it with their myriad eyes, but they cannot lift the shadow from off it. And he who lies within—is he mingling with the airy spirits of the dead, or dreaming of the accomplishment of his hideous purpose? Is he mad? Is his potent elixir only the outcome of a confused brain? Or is he a glorious genius shaping the form of a great discovery? Is he mad? Was Hamlet?
How still the night; only the murmur of the river as it flows, broad-breasted and fair towards the infinite sea. A few barges lie on the surface of the stream, black, shapeless masses, hanging, as in the centre of a hollow globe, between the star-spread sky and its counterpart in the breast of the river. The distant cry of an owl sounds from the belfry, an answer comes from another at Wolfden, and then the bell again—one! two!
Hark! the wind is rising; the hollow-voiced bell has woke it, and it rushes with wild and querulous voice through the deserted halls. Whew! how it whistles through the great dining-room, and shakes the jagged fragment of rope to and fro as if in glee. The old Squire’s spirit is abroad to-night. Whew! how it catches the crazy shutters and shakes them to and fro until one falls with a shriek, and the wind rushes away, rejoicing in its work. Whirr! what a blast down the chimney—the laboratory—what armies of phials, what queer cabalistic apparatus. There are a few ashes in the furnace. How the fierce wind makes them flare and blaze redly like the angry eye of the Cyclops. Away down the old oak stairs, where the moon, looking through the painted windows, casts a red stain on the dust. Whew! into the bedroom of the Professor. Blow the curtains aside, and let yon thin shaft of moonlight strike on his face. How calm, how passionless. Is the spirit indeed in the body, or is his discovery a great truth? How deadly pale, with the black eyebrows, and the black hair wildly tossed about on the pillow. Look how his hand is clenched. A shade sweeps across his face. Is it the spirit returning to the body, or a cloud drifting across the face of the moon? Is he mad? Does that great brow only bind the fantastic humours of a madman’s brain? Is he mad? Who can tell? Time alone will work out the solution of that problem. Leave him to his dreams and phantasies. Away! out to sea, where the great ships ride on the white waxes. Whew! away! Whirr—whew! Look how the clouds drive across the midnight sky. Oh! this is rare sport; hark! the white surges of the Atlantic cry aloud. Whew! and the wind sweeps away into the black pavilion of clouds which hangs over the boiling gulf of the ocean.
Chapter VIII.
In the Laboratory
“Whene’er a man
Is near the pinnacle of his desire,
‘What ho!’ cries Death, and lo, he tumbles down.”
Just outside the gates of Wolfden stood a large hawthorn, whose branches, bare of leaves, were shaking wildly in the keen November blasts. It was raining heavily, and the sky was overcast with heavy clouds, while there was not a speck of blue to give any promise of clearing up.
Under the hawthorn, trying to get some shelter from the driving rain, stood Lord Dulchester and his fiancée. They had come out for a short walk, and had been caught in the full fury of the storm outside the gates of Wolfden. Jack drew Philippa under the hawthorn, but they might as well have been in the open for all the protection that delusive shelter afforded them. They were a quarter of a mile away from the Hall; the storm gave no promise of clearing away, and the nearest place in which they could take shelter was Wolfden, which Philippa resolutely declined to enter.
“I can’t go in while that horrible man is there,” she said, in reply to Jack’s persistent entreaties.
“I like him as little as you do,” retorted Dulchester, bluntly; “but I’m not going to have you get your death of cold for anything of that sort. We have no umbrella. Wolfden is the nearest shelter, and the storm won’t clear away for some time, so the best thing we can do is to go in.”
Philippa cast a disconsolate look around. It was raining vigorously, and the road was full of little puddles. She had her furs on, but her feet were wet, so at last she consented to try the hospitality of the Professor.
“‘Beggars mustn’t be choosers,’” she said, miserably. “Lead on, Macduff.”
Macduff (otherwise Lord Dulchester) pushed open the gate, and, letting Philippa pass through, shut it with a bang. The house looked dreary and gloomy in the rain, but they had little time to inspect it. They hastened up the path, and soon found themselves at the huge oaken door. Jack applied the knocker vigorously, and in a few minutes the door was opened by the Professor himself. He expressed the greatest surprise at seeing them, and inwardly determined that he would accomplish his design at once, since the elements had put his victim into his power.
“You had better come upstairs to my laboratory,” he said, shaking Dulchester by the hand, which civility that gentleman did not at all relish. “It is the only place where there is a fire.”
“I prefer to wait here,” said Philippa, coldly, looking out at the steady rain.
“Permit me to observe, Miss Harkness,” said the Professor, blandly, “that I am a bit of a doctor, and you are very likely to catch cold standing here in your wet clothes.”
“You had better go, Phil,” struck in Jack, giving himself a shake like a huge water-dog. “I’ll come too.”
The Professor acquiesced in this arrangement with at least some show of pleasure, and led the way upstairs to his laboratory.
It was an octagon-shaped room, with a triple-arched, diamond-paned window, and a furnace nearly opposite. There were a multitude of instruments, and phials, containing drugs required for chemistry, scattered about, and on a small table were writing-materials.
Opposite the door which gave entrance from the body of the house was a smaller and massive-looking door, bound with iron; it was partly open, but nothing could be seen beyond.
The Professor led his unexpected visitors into this workshop of science, and, having apologized for the disorder, put Philippa in a chair in front of the furnace. He removed a portion of the top, so that more heat could get at her, and then asked his visitors if they would take any wine. Both of them declined, so the Professor set his wits to work to get Dulchester out of the way.
Jack was rather taken with the queer apparatus about, and the quick-witted German, seeing this, began explaining various experiments to him. Philippa sat looking dreamily into the fire, and drying her wet boots, while her lover and the Professor moved about. At last Dulchester found himself close to the iron-bound door.
“What have you in here, Professor?” he asked, pushing it slightly open with his hand.
The Professor’s eyes flashed. Here was a chance he had not reckoned upon of getting rid of Dulchester.
“Go and see,” he said, with a laugh. Jack, feeling stepped in, upon which the Professor pulled the door to. It was a spring door, and shut with a click. Hearing this Philippa turned round.
“Where is Lord Dulchester?” she asked, rising from her chair in alarm.
“In there,” answered the Professor, with a harsh laugh of triumph, pointing to the door.
“Hallo, Professor, let me out,” called Jack, with a kick at the door.
The Professor paid no attention, but advanced towards Philippa.
“Let him out, Professor,” she said, with a calmness she was far from feeling, for she did not like the look in his eyes. “I think we will go now; the storm