# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 9/The Heirloom - Part 2

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THE HEIRLOOM.
IN TWO PARTS.
PART II.
During the night which preceded our pleasure trip in the Calypso, and which also preceded the public announcement on the part of Mrs. Digby of what was a secret to none, her daughter’s betrothal to me, I had no sleep, no rest. The crescent moon kept watch, but my vigilance outlasted hers; the stars shone golden and peaceful in the clear evening sky, and they burned white through the darkness, and they paled and vanished before the dawn, as day came stealing on, and I watched still.
​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; ​she looked delicately pure and fair; a snowdrop rather than any other flower, might have been her emblem. A pang shot through me as I reflected that I could never be viewed by her with any feeling but aversion, as I recalled a half-formed resolution to resign her. Then Langley came up, and I saw her eyelids quiver, and the blood mantle in her pale face. A spasm of rage actually shook my frame; but I turned gaily away, and gave orders to weigh and stand out, for the tide was making fast. The loosened sails were fluttering from boom and yard, and the last guest had arrived.
Up came the anchor, and soon the Calypso, under a cloud of canvas, stood to the north-east, and weathered the projecting point. The day was delightful. All my guests were in raptures, as the well-handled yacht performed her holiday cruise around the island, and ran past frowning cliffs and beetling crags whose picturesque grandeur called forth the enthusiasm of the young ladies of our party. There was a good band of musicians on deck, a tempting collation spread below. Cabins and deck were the scene of enjoyment and mirth; there was feasting and flirting, and a dance on the smooth planks, and all went well. My guests were happy, hungry, and merry. My own spirits were unusually high, and I gleaned golden opinions on all hands.
At last we were clear of the island, heading towards the Atlantic. The beauty of the day had in a great degree gone off; there was a thin haze over the sky, and far away to eastward lay piled up, layer upon layer, a bank of darkening clouds. The company had no eyes for these ominous signs; the wind, which now came in puffs, was still south-westerly, and we had to tack repeatedly. I was standing near the binnacle when Mr. Hemmings came up and asked me, in a respectful tone, whether he should “put her about.”
“Not yet,” said I, as my eye lighted on Harold Langley at Lucy’s side; “I want to stand along the Dorsetshire coast, and we can get back to Ryde by nine o’clock or so.”
“Beg pardon, sir,” said Hemmings; “I don’t half fancy them clouds to east’ard, there, Sir Wilfred, over our larboard quarter. The ladies”—
Just then I saw watchful Mrs. Digby interpose her portly person between her daughter and Langley; I saw Lucy’s look of disappointment. All hell was in my heart, and I swore inwardly that I would have my revenge. For what? Alas! pure envy prompted me.
“Mr. Hemmings,” said I, “you will be pleased to follow my instructions.”
The old sailor bit his lip, touched his hat, and moved off. Not half an hour elapsed before a rustling and flapping overhead, a creaking of the booms, and the hurrying tramp of the seamen, made all look up, and alarmed the more timid. The wind had changed. It had chopped round to the south-east, blew harder and harder, and as the sea got up, the schooner’s motion increased. The cloud-bank blackened. At first, all went well. We scudded gallantly, the gentlemen of the party encouraged the ladies, and declared the cruise charming and the weather delightful.
My mind was fully made up. I would do as I had planned. Lucy should have a grimmer bridegroom than the one she had loathed so much. Her bridal robe should be the white foam of ocean, and its fathomless depths her tomb. Yes, all should perish, and I, the banned, the accursed one from my cradle, should prove mightier to slay than all these to save. I hugged the notion that I shold see Langley blench and quail, and should earn the right to depise him ere he died.
I took the command of the schooner. This caused little surprise or comment. I was acknowledged a tolerable sailor, even by Hemmings, who had a gruff contempt for yachtsmen in general, and was more competent to manage a vessel than is often the case with amateur navigators. But mine was a hard task. I had to crush down my own feelings, to wear a mask of composure, to issue orders that should appear reasonable to my crew, and yet to bring about the ruin I thirsted for.
I gave orders to reduce sail, and the men sprang gladly to the reef-points and brail-lines. I kept the yacht before the wind, and old Hemmings reluctantly obeyed. And I had my reward; for presently a flash of lightning clove the swarthy clouds, and the ladies shrieked as the thunder-peal rolled past, and the wind howled fiercely through the rigging. Down came the squall in its strength. Rushing before the wind came the black bank of clouds, the driving rain, the gusts that tore up the seething sea and made the water hiss and boil like barm. The first shock laid the Calypso on her beam-ends; the waves washed her decks; all was confusion, screaming, and dismay. The schooner righted; she behaved well, but to go about was impossible, and to run before the wind was our only chance. I had a strong crew. Hemmings was a first-rate seaman, and the Calypso had good handling. Under just as much sail as gave her steerage way, we went flying to westward, chased by the dark clouds and driving scud. Still, I eluded suspicion. No notion of my design entered the mind of any one, and I was outwardly calm. Calm! I could have whooped and shouted in unison with the turmoil of the elements. What was death to me, and in such goodly companionship? I was too clever for them, then, after all! I hugged the thought to my tortured heart. Thus we flew, arrow-swift, before the gale, plunging, darting through the wild and stormy sea, and on our starboard bow lay the line of Dorsetshire cliffs, while the stony heights of Portland Island were to larboard.
A great change had come over the gay company. They were too frightened for sea-sickness, but they cowered and crouched, wet, miserable, with white faces and drenched garments. A few of the male guests were trying to quiet the fears of the terror-struck women. Langley was at Lucy’s side. We had to fetch a wide compass to clear Portland Bill, but the Calypso was a weatherly craft, and old Hemmings lauded her performance with all a seaman’s pride.
“After all,” said he, “it was but a wet jacket, and a pleasure trip spoiled.”
I laughed inwardly. And now the Portland rocks were left on the starboard beam, and ​though the gale was high, the gallant vessel rode the waves like a cork. She could buffet it out, with sea-room. Just then my eye rested on a line of breakers at the southern extremity of the island—a reef of dangerous sunken rocks, the “Grapples.” I could mark the black stones, coated with weed, showing their sharp points through the white froth of the waves. The hour had come! I went aft, and took the helm, ordering the steersman to go forward and take a pull at the weather-braces. The man hesitated: but I was a master to be obeyed, and he complied, though reluctantly. However, I was no unpractised helmsman, and for a while I steered as steadily as the sailor had done. I looked over my shoulder, then to left and right. The line of white foam tempted me, allured me. One glance at Lucy, as she cowered under the bulwarks, her hand in Langley’s, her eyes fixed on his face, so affrighted, yet so trusting—the die was cast.
Down went the helm! The brave vessel gave a leap like a frightened horse, and, swaying and swerving like a terrified thing, flew up into the wind. In a moment more she was darting, swift as a hawk, towards destruction. The cruel rocks were but a few cables’ length ahead. Hurrah! on; on. A cry of despair, a yell of execration, rose from the spectators, as the yacht neared the rocks, and I, the enemy of all, stood with flaming eyes and mocking smile, grasping the helm. The Heirloom! It glared in my eyes, it was stamped on my writhing features, lurid and menacing.
“Seize him! Down with him!” shouted Hemmings, his grey hair floating in the wind, as he rushed aft, followed by the crew. But, quick as thought, my right hand drew the hidden weapon from my bosom. Before the levelled pistol the sailors recoiled, with a cry of dismay, as if they had to deal with the archfiend in person. Steadily I stood, jamming down the spokes of the wheel, and firmly I covered them with the barrel of the revolver, while my eldritch laugh froze their very marrow. Ha! too late; too late! The Calypso gave a bound and shudder, rose upon a wave, crashed upon the hard rocks, rose again, and again struck. Rigging snapped, masts, broken like pipe-stems, went over the side; the sea leaped like a drove of white wolves upon the deck, hungry and howling for prey. And all were borne down and flung upon the dripping planks, all but myself. Clinging to the wheel, I stood fast. I laughed and hallooed, I yelled out taunts and threats; I shouted, and uttered aloud a defiance to the raging waves.
None dared approach me. But Death gaped for all, and the screams of the women were drowned by the noise of wind and waves. The boats! They had been washed away: small loss, for they could never have faced that dreadful surge. And now the Calypso was wedged between two rocks, and could move no more; but the waves lashed her, and threatened to tear her plank from plank. In my frenzy I shouted and cheered on the billows, as a huntsman his hounds. The sea washed clear over the deck. It was necessary to fasten the ladies to any woodwork or bolt that might keep them from being swept overboard. The seamen, encouraged by Hemmings, behaved well, but none dared venture where I stood, menacing and dangerous, pistol in hand.
There was a stir amidships; the bulwark had been shattered; the waves poured in like a flood, making the weakest cling desperately to their hold lest they should be sucked away by the retreating surge. I heard a faint scream, and something white went floating out on the wave as it rolled off, then sank. Lucy! I saw her pale fair face and streaming hair on the crest of the black wave. Stirred by an involuntary impulse, I sprang to save her: I—who had meant her to perish.
Another was quicker than I. His strong arm was round her, but the wave was too mighty, and both were hurried out into the boiling sea. Ha! yonder rises a human form out of the very jaws of death, clinging to the rock, but holding in a still firmer grasp something—an inert female form—Langley and Lucy again! Will not the sea devour them? He struggles hard; the sailors set up an exulting cheer; he will save her yet, and I have been cheated of the price for which I have sold my soul to the demon.
Grinding my teeth, I lifted my pistol to fire, but as I did so another huge wave washed me from my feet, and my weapon dropped upon the deck. I rose, holding to the bulwarks. The men cheered again. Harold Langley, bruised, wet, and bleeding, was standing on the stony beach beyond the reef, safe, and with Lucy at his feet.
And now our peril had been observed, and hardy men, fishers and quarrymen, came crowding down to the shore, and they set up a cry:
“The lifeboat! the lifeboat!”
I saw her. She came round the point, pulled gallantly by brave oarsmen, plunging, sinking, tossed hither and thither. My frenzy died away. I clung to the taffrail, weakly weeping, but not with fear. The lifeboat was thrice driven back to the beach, thrice she pushed boldly on. I saw Langley place Lucy in the kindly arms of an old sailor on the beach, and spring into the boat as she pushed off for the fourth effort. The lifeboat reached the Calypso. I heard the cries, the prayers, the incoherent words of gratitude to God and man for the timely rescue, and then my strained nerves gave way, and sense and memory left me.
When I recovered, I was in a darkened room, and in bed. I tried to lift my hand, but could not. My arms were bound to my sides. I cried and complained feebly, like a child in pain. Some one, a nurse, slipped out of the room. A grave, kind man in black, a physician, entered. He felt my pulse. He did not speak. I read in his eyes what had happened. The secret of the Heirloom was a secret no more.
They were married, as I have since heard,—Langley and Lucy Digby. What matter! I am dead to the world.
I write this in my calmer moments. I have times that are not calm—times of great anguish, fury, and bitter wrath. I should tear myself then, like the “possessed” of old days, but for ​the friendly bonds that restrain me. I am quiet now. I have no more to relate. My captivity is hopeless. Farewell.