University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.
THE DUNGEON TENANT.

J. O. Beauchamp.

Max Greyslaer the tenant of a dungeon? and
placed there, too, as the murderer of Walter Bradshawe?
It is but too true! The fatality is a strange
one; yet there are turns in human destiny far more
singular.

Had Greyslaer been recognised in the moment
that, covered with dust and gore, he rose breathless
from the embrace of the dying Valtmeyer, and
was seized by the party of Whig soldiery, the
charges that were that very night preferred against
him by the Tory friends of Bradshawe, in order to
conceal their share in the escape of that partisan,
had never been listened to; nor could their successful
attempt at criminating him have made the head
it did. But now, before the Whig officer can call
upon a single friend to identify his character, the
suspicion of murder has been fixed upon him, and,
by the time his name and rank becomes known, his
enemies are prepared with evidence which makes
that name a still farther proof of his guilt.

The disaffected family to whose care Bradshawe
was intrusted, have deposed to the fact of a muffled

stranger having passed into his quarters at midnight.
The head of the household avers that it was a man
of Greyslaer's height and general appearance. He
had heard his step in the entry, unlocked his door,
and looked out to see who it might be; but the
stranger, having already reached the staircase and
begun ascending, his face was averted from deponent,
who could see only the general outline of the
stranger's figure. The deponent did not call upon
the stranger to stop, nor address him in any way;
for he took it for granted that the stranger had been
challenged by the sentinel, and must therefore be
provided with a permit or pass to visit the prisoner
at that unusual hour. He had himself already retired
for the night. The deponent had subsequently
heard a tumult, as of men struggling together, in
the room above. He leaped from his bed, and, hastening
to ascend the stairs, stumbled over the sentinel,
who lay stretched at their foot, as if struck
down and stunned a moment before. As he stopped
a moment to raise the man, he heard a noise,
as of a heavy body falling, in the room above. He
hurried onward to the room, but its occupant had
already disappeared. There was blood upon the
floor; a broken chair, and other signs of desperate
conflict. A window that looked into the garden
stood open, and there was fresh blood upon the
window-still.

Other members of this deponent's family here
supplied the next link in the testimony, by stating
that they had heard the window above them thrown
open with violence, and the feet of men trampling
rapidly over the shed beneath it, as if one were in
ferocious pursuit of the other.

As for the sentinel, he seems ready to swear to
anything that will get himself out of peril. He
cannot account for the stranger making his way

into the house unnoticed by himself, save by the
suspicion that his evening draught must have been
drugged by somebody. He certainly was not sleeping
upon his post, but his perceptions were so dulled
that he was not aware of the presence of an intruder
until he felt himself suddenly struck from
behind and cast nearly senseless upon the ground.
But he too, when raised to his feet by the first witness,
had followed him to the chamber already described,
of whose appearance at the time the former
deponent had given a true description.

The testimony of the night patrol—less willingly
given—proves the condition in which Greyslaer
was found, with dress disordered and bloodstained,
as if fresh from some deadly encounter. The
marks of blood, too, have been found spotted over
the timbers of the pier, while the footprints leading
down to the water's edge; the steps dashed here and
there in the blood-besprinkled dust; the light soil
beaten down and flattened in one place, and scattered
in others, as if some heavy body had been drawn
across it—all mark the spot as the scene of some
terrible struggle, whose catastrophe the black-rolling
waves at hand might best reveal.

There was but one circumstance which suggested
another agency than that of Greyslaer in the doings
of this eventful night, and that was the attack on
Mr. Taylor's premises, which had first alarmed the
town. But this, again, took place at the opposite
side of the city, and could have had no connexion
with Bradshawe; for Mr. Taylor's people had seen
the ruffians flying off in a contrary direction from
that where Bradshawe resided.

But, then, what motive could have hurried on a
man of Greyslaer's habits and condition of life to a
deed so foul as that of murder?

His habits, his condition? Why! was not the

supposed murderer no other than the wild enthusiast,
who, in some besotted hour of passion, had betrothed
himself to the abandoned offcast of an Indian
profligate? And had not Bradshawe been compelled,
by the venomous assaults which had been
made upon his own character, to rip up that hideous
story, and publish to the world the infamy of Greyslaer's
mistress? Was it not, too, through the very
instrumentality of this unhappy person that Bradshawe's
life had, under colour of law, been previously
endangered; that the felon charge of acting
as a spy had been got up and enforced against the
much-injured royalist? a charge which, even after
sentence of death had been pronounced upon the
Tory partisan, the stanchest of the opposite faction
hesitated to acknowledge were sufficiently sustained
to warrant his execution. No, the murderer of
Bradshawe could be no other than the betrothed
lover of Alida! Such was the testimony and such
the arguments which had lost Greyslaer his personal
liberty, and which now threatened him with a
felon's fate upon the scaffold!

And where, now, is that unhappy girl, whose sorrows
have so strangely reacted upon her dearest
friend? whose blighted name carries with it a power
to blast even the life of her lover?

It is the dead hour of midnight, and she has stolen
out from the house of the relative who had given
her shelter and privacy, to visit the lonely prisoner in
his dungeon. The prisoner starts from his pallet as
the door grates on its hinges, and that pale form
now stands before him.

Let the first moments of their meeting be sacred
from all human record. It were profane to picture
the hallowed endearments of two true hearts thus
tried, thus trusting each other till the last.

“Oh, Max,” murmured Alida, when the first moments

of the meeting were over, “oh, how little did
I dream, when I wrote that you should see me no
more, that love and duty again might lead me to
you; that God's providence would place you where
no woman's doubt could prevent me from—”

“Yes, yes, it is the providence of God, Alida;
you call it rightly,” interrupted Max, with bitter
feeling. “'Twas Heaven alone which, in its justice,
has plunged me in this dreadful—Alida, Alida,
know you not that, in the eye of Heaven, I am this
moment the thing that men would make me out to
be?”

“Oh, no, no, no!” she shrieked, starting back
with features which, for a single instant convulsed
with horror, were changed to more than woman's
tenderness as again she caught the hands of Max in
both of hers, “you are not, you cannot be a—a—
no, Greyslaer, no, you cannot be a — murderer.
You fought with him, you met him singly—sinfully,
in the eye of Heaven, but not with brutal intent
of murder—you did—in single combat—'twas in a
duel that he fell.”

“Hear me, hear me, my loved one; it was—”

“No, no, I will not hear; I know 'twas so; and I
—I was the one whose guilty dream of vengeance
first quickened such intention into being, and sharpened
your sword against his life.”

“Alas! Alida, why torture yourself by recalling
the memory of that wild hallucination of your early
years? That shadowy intention of avenging your
own wrongs was but the darkly romantic dream of
an undisciplined mind, preyed upon and perverted
by disease and sorrow; and many a prayerful hour
has since atoned to Heaven for those sinful fancies.
But my conscience is loaded far more heavily, and
with a burden that none can share; a burden,” he
added, smiling with strange meaning on his lip,
“that, mayhap, it hardly wishes to shake off.”

“You slew him not at vantage; he fell not an
unresisting victim to your vengeful passions,” gasped
Alida.

“The man that I slew yesternight fell in fair and
open fight, Alida. There is no stain upon my soldier's
sword for aught that happened then.” The
words had not passed the lips of her lover ere Alida
was on her knees. “Nay,” cried Max, catching
her clasped hands in his, “blend not my name in
your prayer of thankfulness to Heaven; 'twill weigh
it down and keep it from ascending; for, surely as
thou kneelest there, I am in heart a murderer.
'Twas Bradshawe's life at which I aimed; 'twas
Bradshawe's death, his murder, that I sought,
when Valtmeyer crossed my path and fairly met the
punishment of his crimes. A mysterious Providence
made me the instrument of its justice in exacting
retribution from him; and the same Providence
now punishes in me the foul intention which
placed me there to do its bidding.”

If there was something of bitterness in the tone
in which Max spoke these words, which gave a
double character to what he said, Alida did not notice
it as passionately she cried,

“Kneel, then, Greyslaer, kneel here with me;
kneel in gratitude to the Power that preserved
thee from the perpetration of this wickedness, and
so mysteriously foiled the contrivings of thy heart;
kneel in thankfulness to the chastening hand that
hath so soon sent this painful trial to punish this
lapse from virtue—to purge thy heart from its guilty
imaginings; kneel in prayer that this cloud which
we have brought upon ourselves may in Heaven's
own time pass away; or, if not, ITS will be done!”

“I may not, I cannot kneel, Alida,” said Max, in
gloomy reply to her impetuous appeal. “No!
though I own the chastening hand which is even

now stretched out above me, my heart still refuses
to cast out the design that brought me hither. I
will not, I must not kneel in mockery to Heaven!”

“And thou—thou wouldst still—murder him!”
shrieked Alida.

“Leave me, distract me not thus,” cried her
agonized lover, leaning against the wall as if to
steady himself, and covering his face with his hands
to shut out the earnest gaze she fixed upon him.

“Speak to me, look at me, Max,” implored Alida,
in tones of wild anguish, as she sprang forward and
caught his arm. “Thou wouldst—thou wouldst!”

A cold shiver seemed to tremble through the
frame of her lover; but his voice, though low and
husky, had an almost unearthly calmness in it, as,
dropping his hands and fixing his looks full upon
her, he said,

“I would, though hell itself were gaping there to
swallow both of us! Hear me, Alida; it is the hand
of Fate—it is some iron destiny that works within
my heart—that knots together and stiffens the damned
contrivances it will not forego. Why should I
deceive you when I cannot deceive myself? Why
insult Heaven with this vain lip-worship, when no
holy thought can inhabit here?—here,” he repeated,
striking his hand upon his bosom, “here, where
one horrid craving rages to consume me—the lust
of that man's blood!”

“Oh God! this is too horrible!” gasped Alida,
as, shuddering, she sank upon the prisoner's pallet
and buried her face in her hands.

Max made no movement to raise her, but his was
the mournful gaze of the doom-stricken, as, standing
aloof, his lips moved with some half-uttered
words, which could scarcely have reached the ears
of Alida.

“Weep on,” he said, “weep on, my love—my

first, my last, my only love. Those bursting tears
do well become her, a child of sorrow from her earliest
youth. Those tears! Mine is not the hand
to stay them, mine the heart to mingle with them
in sympathetic flow; for I—I can weep no more!”

“Alida, sweet Alida,” said he, advancing at last
toward her; “Alida, my best, my loveliest—she
hears me not; she will not listen to me. Oh God!
why shudder you so, and withdraw your hand from
my touch?”

But Alida has sprung to her feet, has dashed the
tears from her eyes, and her clear voice thrills in
the ears of her lover as thus she speaks him:

“Hear me, Greyslaer: 'twas I first infused these
fell thoughts into your bosom; 'twas I, in the besotted
season of youth, and folly, and girlish fantasy
—I that taught you this impious lesson of murderous
retribution. It is my wrongs, my individual
and personal injuries, whose recent aggravation has
revived the mad intent, and stamped it with a character
of blackness such as before you never dreamed
of. Now, by the God whom I first learned to
worship in full, heart-yielded reverence, from you,
Max Greyslaer—by HIM I swear, that, if you persist
in this, I—I myself, woman as I am—will be the
first to tread the path of crime, to which you point
the way, and forestall you in perdition of your soul.
I am free to move where I list, and work my will
as best I may; your will is but that of a dungeon
prisoner, and Bradshawe's life, if it depend upon the
murderous deed of either, shall expire at my hand
before you pass these doors.”

The fire of her first youth flashed in the eyes of
Alida as she spoke, and there was a determination
seated on her brow, such as even in her haughtiest
mood of that arrogant season it had never wore.

But the next moment all this had passed away entirely,
and it was only the broken-hearted, the still-loving,
the imploring Christian woman that kneeled
at the feet of Greyslaer.

“Max—Max—dearest Max,” she said, while sobs
half suffocated her utterance, “it is Alida, your own,
your once fondly-loved Alida, that pleads to you,
that kneels here imploring you to rend this wickedness
from your breast, and ask Heaven for its pardon.
It is she who has no friend, no relative, no
resting-place in any heart on earth save that from
which you would drive her out to make room for
images so dreadful. Surely you did love me once;
surely you have pity for my sorrows; you will not,
you cannot persist in thus trebling their burden.
Ah! now you weep; it is Heaven, not I, dearest
Max, that softens your heart toward your own Alida.
Blessed be those tears, and—nay, raise me not yet
—not till you have knelt beside me.”

The cell is narrow, the walls are thick. There
is no sound of human voice, no shred of vital air
can pass through the vaulted ceiling which shuts in
those kneeling lovers! Can, then, the subtile spirit
of prayer pierce the flinty rock, mount into the liberal
air, and, spreading as it goes, fill the wide ear
of Heaven with the appeal of those two lonely human
sufferers?

The future may unfold.