In that one night, if existence were to be measured by keen sensation and flaming thoughts, I lived long years. My memory brought before me, with pitiless vividness, every event of childhood, every daydream of youth, every struggle of manhood. And mingling, blending with all these, was a passionate thirst for—not revenge. No, not revenge, but for a consummation that should break to pieces and grind to dust the stumbling-blocks in my path.
I have already hinted at a hideous thought, a fiendish design, which had been fermenting in my secret soul for days past. It came first, as one of those wild notions that we all know well, and which, seeming to be of too infernal a character for the normal productions of the brain, have suggested to timorous minds the startling fear of a demoniacal possession. A healthy organisation would have rejected the grim visitant; mine was just fitted for it; it grew like the gourd of the prophet, and its shadow was over me. Ha! they turn from me, these happier fellow-pilgrims of mine; they have no sympathy with me, my love meets no response, my hatred is flung back by pity and forbearance. I am cast off as an accursed thing. But let the loved and the loving look to it!
The night waned. I could endure no longer to lie, as I had done, passive and half-dressed on my bed, thinking, thinking, until thought became torture. I sprang up, and for the rest of the dark hours I moved restlessly about, candle in hand, opening drawers and trunks, searching for some papers, destroying others, reading, writing, docketing, and seeking employment perforce. Then I drew from its case the veiled portrait of my father, which I so seldom ventured to look upon, and indulged in a long, long gaze upon those pictured features of the dead.
Yes, my own self. I glanced at my own image in the mirror, and then quickly at the portrait, and absolutely started at the identity of the two faces; myself! Even the age seemed the same, or, if any difference existed, the pictured lineaments bore the more decided impress of youth, as if the artist had been a flattering limner. But the wonderful similarity struck me as more than natural, and it was long before I espied its cause, for never before had the same resemblance existed. The eyes; they had formerly been unlike, but now an alteration had taken place; the eyes that I met in the mirror were the same in expression as those that looked from the canvas, the same melancholy fire, the same wandering light, the same lurking terror. There was that in them that chilled the blood of the gazer, even mine. This impression I had previously derived from my father’s picture, but now I could meet the stare of the portrait on equal terms, giving back glance for glance. Why? A look at the glass told me; my own eyes, with their boding flame and brilliancy, told the secret. The Heirloom was written there in letters of fire.
I laid the picture by. I went to the window, threw up the sash, and allowed the chill air to blow upon my fevered brow, and watched the night die and the day begin. The morning star glittered like a silver spear-point, and the yellowing rays glided aslant the grey confusion of clouds till they rolled off like a misty sea, and then there were streaks of purple, and pink, and lilac, and crimson, and the sun rose, and it was day. I sat and watched the changes in the mottled sky. A red morning, thought I, with the customary sense of disappointment which men in our climate feel on seeing signs of bad weather. But then the strange thought that haunted me recurred, and I said aloud in a chuckling voice:
“So much the better!”
I started with astonishment at the words, and then I waited, motionless, until I heard the noises of the awakening town, the cries of early hawkers, the muttering talk of labourers going to their work, the voices of sailors on the quay. Then I closed the window, and proceeded to make my toilet. My servant had orders to call me at a particular hour, but I resolved to dispense with his assistance in dressing, for I could ill have endured his presence. Unlocking a desk, I drew out a heavy purse of gold, and placed it in an inner breast-pocket of my pea-coat; why, I scarcely knew, but with some vague idea of providing for a possible flight. Then I took from its case a revolver pistol, carefully charged it, and concealed it under my clothes, in such a position that the butt was ready to my hand. Here again I protest that I acted without any clear project. I had once, in far off countries, made a practice of going armed, but had relinquished it long ago. I now resumed the habit as if by instinct, and a thrill of satisfaction ran through me as I did so.
I took my hat and went out. On the stairs I met my valet, a discreet, well-trained man. I was a little nervous lest there should be any unusual peculiarity in my looks. My servant, who had been long with me, winced a little as he caught my eye, but instantly resumed his demure expression. Without speaking, I walked on, and reached the open door of the hotel. A woman was on her hands and knees, with pail and brush, scrubbing the steps, and she had to make way for me as I passed. She looked up, met my eye, and jumped to her feet with a half-smothered exclamation of alarm. I ground out a curse between my set teeth, and strode angrily away. As I went towards the harbour I observed that my face must indeed have something singular in its aspect, on this morning, for children shrank back as I went by, women started, and men nudged one another and followed me with curious gaze.
By a great effort, I composed my features, and moderating my quick stride to a more common pace, I sauntered to the quay, took a boat, and went on board the Calypso. Once on board my yacht, my dissimulation and coolness surprised myself. Mr. Hemmings, my sailing master, saw nothing odd in his employer’s manner, nor did the steward, the cook, or the crew. I busied myself for hours in the inspection of all the preparations, patiently listening to the dreariest details, and merely anxious to kill time. After a long interval boat after boat, crowded with my guests, arrived, and the Digbys among the first.
Lucy was pale and depressed, but I had seldom seen her so lovely. The broad straw hat and simple muslin matched well with her soft beauty;