University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER TENTH.
THE SECRET OF THE UPPER ROOMS.

“It leads to the upper rooms, of which my father spoke in his last
letter,” said Paul, and for an instant he stood hesitating, with his foot
upon the first step. The stillness which prevailed, sank upon his soul,
and filled him with an insurmountable awe. At the other end of the corridor,
the sunlight shone, but around him all was vague and shadowy.
The light of the blazing pine-knot revealed his colorless features, while
its smoke hung in a cloud above his dark hair.

A wild hope, mingled with a wilder fear, crossed his brain, that his
father stood waiting for him at the head of the stairway, with Catharine by
his side.

“Father!” he whispered, and bent forward, trembling in anticipation
of an answer—“Catharine!”

It seemed to him, that he heard a sound something like the faint echo
of a step, mingled with the accents of a whispering voice. Now it came
from the rooms above; he heard it plainly; and again it seemed to
murmur beneath his feet.

Was it indeed the sound of a human voice, the echo of a human step,
or only one of those peculiar murmurs, which break through the stillness
of a deserted mansion, on a calm summer day, reminding us of the low-toned
whispering voices—the half-heard footsteps—of the dead?

Paul dared not speak the fear which chilled his heart. Assured that
his father was waiting for him at the head of the stairway, that the gentle
face of his sister was there, beside the withered features of the old man,
he nerved himself for a last effort. His face became calm; not a lineament
stirred. It was very pale, but fixed as marble. His hand was firm;
he clutched the blazing pine-knot without a tremor.

“If he lives, I am once more an outcast upon the face of the earth. If
he is dead—then, there is a hope for me, a glorious hope.”

As this thought crossed his mind, he ascended the stairway—his light

flashing upward, with the smoke rolling about the flame like gloomy incense
over a demon fire, illumined the head of the stairway.

It was a narrow staircase, winding with a sudden turn, and almost perpendicular.
Pale and breathless, Paul attained the head; he stood on the
floor of a corridor, and holding the light above his head, endeavored to
pierce the shadows which darkened beyond him.

`My father is not here,” he murmured, and traversed the corridor.

It was only half the extent of the passage on the lower floor. Seven
doors appeared in its walls; three on the right, as many on the left, and
one at its western extremity.

Paul anxiously surveyed the doors on the left.

“They have not been opened for years,” he said, as he saw the dust
which had gathered in the crevices; the spider-webs which hung from
the top of each door-frame.

Then turning in his walk, he marked with an eager glance, the doors
on his left.

“An inscription—hah! It is dim with time, but the letters are perceptible,”
and he held the torch nearer to the dark panels.

A name was written there, not in the round Roman, but in the
picturesque Teutonic character:

“Anselm—”

“An—I remember. He was one of the three who, with my father,
kept the ancient faith in the woods of Wissahikon.”

The next door also bore a name—

“Joseph—”

Paul passed on, until he fronted the last door of the three, and beheld
traced in the same bold characters, obscured by age, the name—

“Immanuel.”

“Hah! There is a key in this lock. Shall I enter?”

He turned the key, which grated harshly in the lock, and the door
opened. He crossed the threshold, and by the torch-light beheld a small
apartment, which contained a table, a chair and a bench—all of unpainted
oak.

“Within this rude place, Immanuel passed his hours, meditating, in
silence and in night, the coming of the Deliverer. Bread and water
placed upon this table, formed his fare. This hard bench was his only
bed. Here he lived and died.”

The room looked bare and desolate; a strip of parchment affixed to the
wall by a nail, alone varied the sombre hue of the dark wainscot. These
words were written upon the parchment—

UNION.

Then shall the Lead become Gold, and the Sneer be changed
into a Smile.

“Was this inscription, traced upon the parchment, ever intended to
meet my eye? Ah—I remember! `Then shall the Lead become
Gold—' my father often told the Legend of the Leaden Image. Another
door! It leads into the cell of Joseph—”

There was a narrow doorway opening into the next room, but the door
had been removed from the hinges, and the threshold was free.

Paul passed into the room.

The same table, bench and chair, the same blank and desolate appearance,
and a parchment affixed to the walls by a rusted nail. Had it not
been for the inscription on the parchment, Paul would not have been able
to distinguish this cell from the other. This was the inscription—

FREEDOM.

The Heart reveals only when the Hand is boldly grasped.

“Does this also refer to the Leaden Image? What revelation lies
hidden in this cabalistic formula? `The Heart reveals only when the
Hand is boldly grasped!”'

There was another doorway leading into the next chamber, which
presented the same features as the others—the table, the bench, the chair,
and the parchment affixed to the walls. It was the cell of Anselm.
Thus read the inscription—

BROTHERHOOD.

At the FEET of the IMPRISONED thou wilt discover the D—.

“The last word is obscure—the D is plain, but the other letters I cannot
read. Doom? Is that the word? Or Danger?”

Paul sank into the chair of Anselm, and surrendered himself to the
train of thought, created by these words written on the parchment, which
were affixed to the walls of the three chambers.

“First, Union; then Freedom; and last and best, Brotherhood. First,
the assurance that the Lead shall become Gold, and the Sneer be turned
into a Smile. Then the dim enigma—the Heart reveals only when the
Hand is firmly grasped. Last of all, the mysterious sentence, with its
final word blotted by time.—At the feet of the Imprisoned, thou wilt discover
the D—. What mean these parchments, affixed to the panels
of the lonely chambers, whose very atmosphere is heavy and damp as with
the atmosphere of Death?”

Once more Paul traversed the cells, and read again the inscriptions of
each place, while his amazement deepened fast into awe.

“Was this designed as a part of my initiation into the higher mysteries
of the ancient faith? Ah, I remember—”

Standing on the threshold of Immanuel's cell, he repeated these words,
in a voice of indescribable melancholy—

“`No child shall ever call thee Father! Thy name, thy race must
end with thee, and be buried in thy grave.”'

As he uttered these words, he raised his eyes, and by the light of the
pine-knot, discovered the door which stood in the western extremity of
the passage. Where did this door lead? As Paul stood wondering whether
it led into a larger chamber than the others, or opened upon a stairway,
his eye encountered the keyhole, and at the same time he felt the key of
Immanuel's chamber press his hand.

“I will try it.” He placed the key in the lock; it turned; the door
slowly opened.

It was with a feeling of indescribable amazement that Paul started back
from the threshold, as the glare of the pine-knot dimly revealed to him the
outlines of that unknown chamber.

“A large room, with a ceiling like a dome,” he murmured, as he crossed
the threshold—“The windows are closed like the windows of the other
rooms; the atmosphere is damp and heavy. How the echoes swell around
me, like the voices of ghosts—the shadows flitting over the floor, seem
like the phantoms who watch me, as I draw near the moment of my Fate.

Presently standing in the centre of that spacious room, which occupied
at least one-half the extent of the upper floor of the Block-House, Paul
raised the light and observed the details of the place.

It was a wide and gloomy hall, with panelled walls and naked floor. There
were no chairs, no benches, no paintings on the walls, no decoration of
any kind. As Paul advanced, he beheld a circular table standing near the
western wall, and standing alone on the bare floor.

He held the light near it; there was a wooden bowl upon its surface
and near this bowl a book with the leaves spread open.

“It is the Bowl of the Sacrament, resting upon the altar of the ancient
faith, with the open Bible near it.”

He raised the pine-knot; from the gloomy wall above the altar smiled
a picture of surpassing beauty.

The design was very simple—a Globe surmounted by a Cross. The
sun was rising on the verge of the globe, and its first beams tinted the
lonely cross with rosy light.

“`The Rosy Cross!”' ejaculated Paul, in the tone of a man who repeats
the words of another. “Ah—I remember—”