 | CHAPTER ELEVENTH.
THE SUPREME LODGE. Paul Ardenheim, the monk of Wissahikon |  |
11. CHAPTER ELEVENTH.
THE SUPREME LODGE.
We now return to the moment when the Grand Master heard the Unknown
whisper—
“This passage leads us into the bosom of the hill.”
He also heard the door close behind him, and felt the form of Gilbert
press heavily upon him. All was dark, but he was conscious that the
passage which they traversed was narrow, the atmosphere dense, the
ceiling but an inch or two higher than the top of his plume.
Urged repeatedly by the unknown, to be careful of the form of Gilbert,
to grasp him firmly, and by no means loosen his hold, even for an instant,
the Grand Master counted twenty paces, when his course was
suddenly ended.
“You will enter the room on the right, and await my coming.”
The Grand Master extended his hand, and felt the panels of a door. It
opened, and, as he crossed the threshold, closed again.
It was a cell-like apartment, with ceiling, wall and floor of roughly
plastered stone. In the centre, on an old chest, a small lamp was placed.
It was evident, at first sight, that this room, resembling a grave-vault, was
sunken in the bosom of the hill, which ascended precipitously in the
rear of the old house.
Seating himself on a chest, the Grand Master gathered his robes about
him—for the air was chill and damp—and, with an ejaculation of wonder,
surveyed the cell.
He had heard of the wealth of the Order, had, indeed, been intrusted
with the control of a great portion of that wealth, but this room displayed
a sight, which exceeded the bounds of all reasonable credibility.
The floor was covered with chests of every shape and form. Some
pile, and again—massy and iron-bound—they stood apart. The unclosed
chests were stored with gold and silver coins of every mould and form,
from the uncouth Chinese money, to the round and substantial Spanish
doubloon.
On the closed lids were scattered stores of gold and silver plate; and
from the aperture of the half-opened chests, projected cloths, velvets and
laces, of the richest texture and most costly dyes. It seemed as though
every part of the world had sent its tribute to swell the countless wealth
of this narrow cell. Wherever the Grand Master turned, he saw nothing
but gold and silver coin, cloths of every pattern and hue, plate of the
most precious metals, worthy to grace the board of a crowned Despot.
“The treasury of the Supreme Lodge!” he exclaimed, and, raising a
heavy goblet—with the veil still drooping over his face—he examined
the delicate sculpturing which adorned the narrow stem and capacious
bowl.
“Will no one wake me up from this dev'lish dream?”
Gilbert unclosed his eyes, and found himself encircled by a scene,
whose unearthly solemnity resembled the vague spirit-pictures of a
dream.
A lamp hung from the dome-like ceiling of a narrow cell, and shed its
faint light before his eyes. The corners of the cell were dark; the light
only served to reveal the brown visage of the Hunter, who, clad in the
coat of green velvet, faced with gold, looked about him, in blank wonder.
Before him was a circular table, on which a book, huge in size, bound
in white parchment, was placed. Its golden clasps glimmered in the light.
Around this table, three figures attired in gowns, with cowls, resembling
the monkish robes of the Old World, were seated in arm-chairs of
unpainted oak. The figure, seated, directly opposite where the Hunter
stood, rested a small white hand upon this large volume.
It was a long while before the hunter could recover his wandering
senses; he remained standing before the table for the space of a quarter
of an hour, and in this time, not a word was spoken; the three figures
were motionless as stone.
Gilbert advanced a step, determined to touch the extended hand, and
assure himself that it was but a hand of wax or marble, not the hand of a
living man. Yet, as he advanced, the hand was slowly lifted; he fell
back into his original position, crossing his arms, while his features assumed
an expression of sullen determination.
“Gilbert Morgan—” said a voice, somewhat remarkable for the softness
and music of its intonation—“Condemned to death by a power that
you cannot see, about to be stricken by the hand which strikes from the
darkness, a chance of life is offered unto you. Will you accept it?”
It was the central figure that spoke, with his white hand resting on the
cover of the book all the while.
The reply of the Hunter was characteristic:
“I'll accept most anythin'—do most everythin'—only get me out of
this wolf-trap.”
“Not only life, but wealth and power are offered to you. The wealth,
the power of the B. H. A. C. are within your grasp. We have selected
you as the Candidate for Initiation into the Degree of Grand Master of
the Order!”
“Initiation!” echoed Gilbert. “Ain't the Grand Master elected by
the Grand Lodge? Who are you, that trap a man in this 'ere way—drag
him from scene to scene—pen him up with three unknown men, dressed
in black, in a grave-vault, like this?”
Without seeming to take notice of his words, or of the flushed cheek
and indignant glance which accompanied their utterance, the central
figure continued:
“There is no such thing as an election, or the power to elect in our
Order. The Honorable Master is designated by the Grand Master; in
his turn the Grand Master is designated by a higher authority, whose existence
is unknown to the rest of the brethren. That higher authority, is
the Supreme Lodge. Its chief is known, not as Supreme Master, but as
THE Invisible Head of the Order. You stand in his presence now.”
“Grand Master!” muttered Gilbert—“That were a prize indeed, for
one like me! Why, I kin hardly sign my name—”
“You will never need to sign your name. The signet will bear witness
of your authority. The man who becomes Grand Master, must be
known to the world, only as the dead are known. From this hour, the
name of Gilbert Morgan will only be pronounced as the name of a dead
man. Again I ask you, are you willing to pass from the edge of the
grave which yawns beneath you to the Grand Master's chair?”
Like a flood of light, pouring suddenly over a mass of dark clouds, a
multitude of thoughts and memories rushed through the hunter's brain.
He was a rude man—rude in speech, bold in deed—but his forehead indicated
a mind of great and peculiar natural power. Utterly uneducated,
there lurked in the recesses of his nature—like sparks among the ashes—
the elements of a wide and grasping ambition. His eye grew brighter
as he heard the words of the figure, who called himself the Invisible; his
clenched hand was pressed upon his forehead.
“Grand Master! You don't mean to say, that I, a rough backwoods-man
o' the Wissahikon, can become that ar'! I—I—sit on the throne,
and, with a word, manage the Lodges of Canada, the New England Provinces,
New York, Pennsilvany, and all the South? Gentlemen, it's not
kind of you, to make fun of a dyin' man—”
“I have said it, and it can be done! I swear it, by the Seven Watchers
of the Holy Temple!”
“Show me the way,” cried Gilbert—“Name the manner o' th' Initiation.”
“Listen, and in silence. I will read to you the preparatory Lesson of
the Grand Master's degree.”—The Invisible unclosed the Book: with his
white hand laid on the parchment page, inscribed with the characters of
an unknown tongue, he continued: “This is the great Book of the
Covenant, written in a tongue, known only to the Elect of the Supreme
Lodge, and intelligible to them, whatsoever their country or language.
This Book was written thousands of years ago, and bears witness of the
Covenant made by the Great Being in the Temple of Jerusalem with
the millions of mankind, in the day of Solomon. That Covenant—as you
are well aware, having been initiated in the Knightly degree—was in these
words: As long as the sun shineth by day, and the stars give light by
night, so long will I, THE Jehovah, listen to the cry of my people the
Poor, redress their wrongs, and scatter the bolts of my vengeance upon the
forehead of the oppressor.—Solomon betrayed the Covenant, and died
under the Ban of the Order, the Curse of his God. Even his countless
wealth, his superhuman intellect, could not save him from the Traitor's
doom!
“Yet I must impart to you the preparatory lesson, or the Degree of
High Priest, otherwise termed the Grand Master's degree—”
“ `The Brother that would take upon himself the great work of a High
Priest, must cut loose from his heart every tie of friendship or love. He
must have no friend; he must love only the Brotherhood over which he
desires to rule. And in order that an unworthy person may not obtain this
great office, it is decreed that the Candidate for Initiation shall pass
through a certain ordeal, the manner and form of which is left to the will
of the Invisible Head, while its certain tendency must always be, to sever
the heart, by an irrevocable blow, from all ties of friendship or love, and
devote it forever to the Brotherhood.
“Are you ready for an Ordeal of this kind, however terrible?”
“I am!”
“Are you willing that your name shall never be heard on earth again
as the name of a living man?”
“Yes—willing even for that!”
“Will you consent to enter at once upon the Ordeal, or trial, which
shall qualify you for the duties of your great office?”
“I consent! You can't name the thing that I'm afeerd to do!”
The Invisible Head closed the volume, and rested his hand again upon
its clasped lid.
He seemed gazing, from the shadow of his cowl, upon the face of the
hunter, while a dead silence fell upon the gloomy chamber. Gilbert, in
brown features still compressed by an expression of unshaken resolution.
“Madeline!”—the word came from the lips of the Invisible.
The Hunter started, but did not utter a word, though the name thrilled
like electric fire through his veins.
“At this moment, while you stand before me, she struggles in the embrace
of her—Seducer! You, the Plighted Husband, stand before the
Supreme Lodge of the B. H. A. C., and not one mile from the spot,
Madeline, your Sworn Wife, yields to her Unknown Lover.”
Gilbert did not speak, but—shaken by an agony that he fiercely
endeavored to master—raised his clenched hands to his forehead.
“Can you hear this without a murmur? Can you think of your wife
returning the kisses of a man unknown to her, and on your wedding
night, and not groan? Then have you the heart to become our Minister;
then have you the iron nerve, requisite for a Grand Master!”
“Go on—” said Gilbert, as his brown face was deformed by swollen
veins—“You see I don't flinch. I can bear even that! Mad'lin' in the
arms of—her lover. Yes, even that. If this is your trial, I'm through
it already. Go on—the end of all this?”
“Let it be spoken in few words. If you are the man we seek, if you
are willing to test your truth, your nerve, by a trial that will bind you to the
Order, and bind the Order to you, at once and forever, then take this knife—”
“Well—I see the knife—go on!”
Take the knife, seek the chamber of your plighted wife, even as she
clings to her lover—and—”
“Strike it to his heart?” shrieked Gilbert, with a wild burst of
laughter—“That is not hard to do.”
“True; that would, indeed, be an action without difficulty or danger.
Such a deed, the Invisible does not demand from you. You plunge your
steel into the Seducer's heart, and are avenged. What self-denial, what
high purpose is exhibited in this? None! A mere brutal revenge, a
cowardly murder; nothing more. But to punish, not the seducer, but the
partner in his act of shame; to strike, not the man whom you hate, but
the woman whom you love, but who has so terribly wronged you—
this demands a soul above all common thoughts, an iron nerve, a heart
unyielding as the grave—”
“Mad'lin'!” shrieked Gilbert, as the blood congealed in his veins—
“Strike Mad'lin'! Strike the girl—who only—to night—”
The words fell in broken accents; he could not go on. As though
some spell had suddenly darkened his reason, he stood before the Invisible
Head, pressing his hands to his forehead, and muttering in gasps—
“Mad'lin'! Mad'lin'!”
And in answer, was heard the musical voice of the Invisible—
“Even now this girl, whom you so madly love, returns his kisses.
fingers in her flowing hair. At this moment, her eyes hazy, her bosom
full with passion, she trembles at his touch, and whispers, `Gilbert I could
not love, but thou hast won me to be thine—thine forever!' ”
“Mad'lin'! Strike her—the girl who never harmed a livin' thing, and
wished good to all the world. Stab her for the villany of this Devil in
human shape—”
“Go, miserable man, go to her chamber, in the Farm-House, not one
mile from this hall. Look through the window; you can climb the
chesnut tree, and see all that passes in her room. Go—see her pant and
swell as her moist eyes are fixed upon her lover's face; hear her words
of passion, broken by the heavings of her naked bosom, and then refuse
the knife, then say that you will not ascend the Grand Master's throne!”
Gilbert's hands fell from his brow, and he tottered toward the table.
The knife, a long and serpentine blade, shapen like the dagger of the
Malay, flashed brightly on the surface of the sombre mahogany.
“Which way—” he said in a whisper, that was scarcely audible—
“Which way—do I pass—from this place?”
He seized the knife, his hand trembling in every nerve.
“First, you must swear an Oath, that you will appear in this hall
again before the rising of the sun—”
“Quick! Your Oath—”
“That you will permit no one to see your face, that you will speak to
no one, while absent on this errand—”
“Your Oath!” the knife, agitated by the tremor of his hand, clattered
against the table.
“Kneel!”
With the knife in his hand, he knelt, heard the Oath, and repeated
every syllable of its crowded imprecations. The lamp gave its faint
beams to the scene. On one side of the table, the Invisible, shrouded in
his shapeless dark robe, with a silent and motionless figure on either
hand; before the table, kneeling on the stone floor, the huge form of the
Woodsman, his head bowed, his hand, which grasped the knife, agitated
by an unceasing motion, while his eyes shone with a mad glare, and his
lips, compressed over his set teeth, indicated at once the firmness and the
horror of his resolve.
“Brethren, blindfold the Candidate, and lead him forth from this cell to
the house of Peter Dorfner!” said the Invisible.
With one movement the silent figures rose, and approached the kneeling
Hunter, who still clasped the knife, and gazed upon the floor, muttering
the name of the Orphan Girl.
It might be seen, even by the dim light, that one of these cowled forms
was that of a stout, perchance Herculean man, while the other was spare
and slender.
The stoutest of the twain bound a dark handkerchief tightly around the
Hunter's eyes, and, at the same moment, lifted the cowl which veiled his
features. A red round face, with hair and beard as white as snow, and
bright eyes, almost buried among laughing wrinkles, glowed in the light
with the cowl encircling it, like a dark frame around a warmly colored
picture.
It was the face of Peter Dorfner.
And, at the same instant that his laughing face, with a deadly malice
sneering from its very laughter, was revealed, the other figure raised his
cowl, and disclosed the sharp features of the Unknown, who had led Gilbert
to this cell.
“We will conduct him to the scene—Most Venerable—and after he
has passed the ordeal, bring him once more to the hall of the Supreme
Lodge!” said Peter Dorfner, in a tone of lugubrious depth, while his eyes
twinkled, and his lips grimaced in sneering laughter.
“Even so! Thou hast said it, and it shall be done!” added the
slender gentleman, in a tone as guttural, and with the same grimace and
sneer of his partner.
“Let it be done! Away! Three hours from this moment, I will
await you!” And the Invisible waved his white hand.
The Hunter disappeared in the shadows of the cell, in the charge of
the two disguised men; the sound of a door, quietly closed, was heard,
followed by the echo of foot-tramps, and all was still.
| CHAPTER ELEVENTH.
THE SUPREME LODGE. Paul Ardenheim, the monk of Wissahikon | |