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Night fell, and the cell sank into an oppressive darkness. Anthony’s impatience grew as he awaited his keeper, but the hours dragged on without any sign of his arrival. Exhausted by doubt and bewildering thoughts, Anthony’s mind turned to a grim solution—suicide. The idea gripped him with a dark intensity, and as if fate conspired with his despair, his foot struck something on the floor. The rattling sound drew his attention, and stooping, he grasped the cold, bare blade of a knife.
“This will end my doubts,” he declared to the shadows. “I will drive this blade into my heart, and if I am mortal, my sufferings will cease.”
He positioned the knife against his chest, fully intending to strike, but before he could inflict a wound, a powerful hand seized his arm.
“Would you destroy yourself, madman?” roared a voice. “I thought your violence had abated, and you could be released safely. But I see you are more deranged than ever.”
Anthony groaned, the knife slipping from his grasp. The newcomer kicked it away with a scornful sneer.
“You will be moved to another chamber,” he continued, “where you can be watched more closely.”
“Take me out—please, take me out,” pleaded Anthony. “It was a moment of desperation, which I now regret.”
“I cannot trust you. You will commit some act of madness for which I will be blamed. When I heeded your pleas before and took you out, I barely stopped you from causing harm.”
“I remember no such event,” Anthony replied mournfully. “But it may be true. If so, it only proves how far gone I am—my memory and reason are shattered!”
“Ay, both gone,” the other said with a mocking laugh.
“Ha!” Anthony exclaimed, starting. “I am not so mad that I do not recognize you as the Evil Being who tempted me. I remember our terrible meetings.”
“What, you are raving again!” Rougemont barked fiercely. “I must call my assistants to bind you.”
“Leave me—please leave me!” Anthony implored. “I will no longer resist. Whatever thoughts I have, I will keep them to myself. Just take me out.”
“I came to do that,” said Rougemont. “But I cannot trust you yet. You are still too unstable.”
“Test me,” Anthony urged.
“Very well,” Rougemont replied. “I will see what I can do to calm you.”
He disappeared briefly, returning with a torch. Setting it on the ground, he produced a phial and handed it to Anthony.
“Drink,” he commanded.
Without hesitation, Anthony complied. “It feels more like a stimulant than a sedative,” he remarked, the liquid burning his throat.
“You are in no state to judge,” Rougemont retorted, as he unfastened Anthony’s chains. “Now, come with me, and do not attempt to escape, or you will regret it.”
Like one in a fevered dream, Anthony trailed behind his captor down the flight of stone steps leading from the dungeon and along a narrow, damp passage. Shadows danced in the torchlight, and he thought he heard stealthy footsteps echoing behind him, but he dared not turn to see if he was truly being followed. They reached a short, steep staircase, and upon ascending it, entered a vault where Rougemont paused and placed the torch on the floor. Its flickering glow cast ominous shadows, revealing the stone walls and ancient, rough-hewn benches that lined the chamber. Rougemont motioned Anthony to sit, then sounded a silver whistle.
The eerie call was soon answered by a dwarf whose attire had changed again, now clad in a grey serge jerkin reminiscent of Elizabethan commoners, a trencher-cap perched on his head. Anthony watched the dwarf timidly approach Rougemont, a vague sense of recognition stirring within him, though he could not recall from where.
“Is your master abed?” demanded Rougemont.
“Abed! Good lack, sir!” exclaimed the dwarf. “Doctor Morehouse knows little of sleep. He toils at the furnace until the stars have set.”
“Doctor Morehouse!” Anthony repeated, his voice trembling. “Surely I have heard that name before.”
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“Very likely,” replied Rougemont, “for it is the name of your nearest kinsman.”
“How fares the poor young gentleman?” asked the dwarf, casting a sympathetic glance at Anthony. “My master often inquires about his grandson and grieves that the state of his mind necessitates confinement.”
“His grandson! I—Doctor Morehouse’s grandson!” cried Anthony, disbelief evident in his voice.
“In sooth, you are, young sir,” the dwarf responded. “Were you in your right mind, you would know that my master’s true name is the same as yours—Darcy—Reginald Darcy. He uses the name Doctor Morehouse to deceive the masses. He told you this himself, if your poor wits could recall it.”
“Am I dreaming, good fellow? Tell me,” Anthony pleaded, his mind a whirlwind of confusion.
“Alack, no, sir,” replied the dwarf. “To my thinking, you are wide awake. But you know, sir,” he added, tapping his forehead, “your mind has been a bit unsettled, and your memory and reason are not the clearest.”
“Where does my grandsire dwell?” asked Anthony, desperation tinging his words.
“Why, here, sir,” the dwarf replied. “The house is situated at the south end of London Bridge.”
“On the bridge—did you say on the bridge?” Anthony repeated incredulously.
“Aye, on the bridge—where else should it be? You wouldn’t have your grandsire live under the river, would you?” the dwarf retorted. “Though, for all I know, some of these vaults might extend beneath it. They are damp enough.”
Anthony sank into reflective silence, not noticing the conspiratorial glance exchanged between the dwarf and Rougemont.
“Will it disturb Doctor Morehouse if his grandson visits him?” Rougemont asked after a brief pause.
“My master does not like to be interrupted in his work, as you know, sir,” the dwarf replied, “and rarely allows anyone but me into his laboratory. But I will make so bold as to introduce Master Anthony, if he wishes it.”
“You will do me the greatest favor,” Anthony said, rising eagerly.
“Sit down—sit down!” Rougemont commanded. “You cannot go up until the doctor has been informed. Stay here while Flapdragon and I ascertain his wishes.” With that, he exited the chamber with the dwarf.
Alone in the dim vault, Anthony’s thoughts churned in turmoil. He struggled to convince himself that he was not ensnared in some bizarre delusion. The oppressive silence was finally broken by the dwarf’s return.
“Your grandsire will see you,” the dwarf announced.
“One word before we go,” Anthony said, gripping the dwarf’s arm.
“Saints! How you frighten me!” the dwarf exclaimed. “You must keep composed, or I dare not take you to my master.”
“Pardon me,” Anthony replied, releasing him. “I meant no harm. Where is the person who brought me here?”
“Your keeper?” said the dwarf. “Oh, he is within call. He will join you soon. Now, follow me.”
Taking up the torch, the dwarf led the way out of the chamber. They ascended a spiral staircase, seemingly within a turret, until they reached a door. Flapdragon opened it, revealing a scene that nearly stupefied Anthony.
It was the laboratory, just as he had seen it over two centuries ago. The floor was strewn with alchemical implements, the table covered with mystic parchments inscribed with cabalistic characters. The furnace stood in the corner, crucibles and cucurbites adorned the chimney-board, and the sphere and brazen lamp hung from the ceiling. Skeletons grinned from behind the chimney-corner—all exactly as he remembered. There, too, was Doctor Morehouse, garbed in a loose gown of sable silk, a square black cap atop his venerable head, and his snowy beard streaming to his girdle.
The old man’s gaze was fixed upon a crucible placed upon the furnace, and he was working the bellows. As Anthony entered, the old man turned his head, revealing features impossible to forget.
“Come in, grandson,” said the old man kindly. “Come in, and close the door after you. The draught affects the furnace—my Athanor, as we adepts term it. Your keeper tells me you are much better.”
“Are you indeed living?” cried Anthony, rushing wildly towards him, attempting to grasp his hand.
“Off—off!” cried the old man, drawing back in alarm. “You disturb my operations. Keep him calm, Flapdragon, or take him hence. He may do me a mischief.”
“I have no such intention, sir,” said Anthony. “I only wish to be assured that you are my aged relative.”
“To be sure he is, young sir,” interposed the dwarf. “Why should you doubt it?”
“O sir,” cried Anthony, throwing himself at the old man’s feet, “pity me if I am mad, but offer me some explanation that may restore my senses. My reason seems gone, yet I appear capable of receiving impressions from external objects. I see you, and recognize you. I see this chamber, these alchemical implements, that furnace, and all these objects. Am I deceived, or is this real?”
“You are not deceived, my son,” replied the old man. “You have been here before and seen me before. It would be useless to explain to you now how you have suffered from fever and what visions your delirium has produced. When you are fully restored, we will discuss it.”
With that, he resumed blowing the fire and watched the changing colors of the liquid in the cucurbite with great interest.
Anthony studied him earnestly, but the old man was too absorbed in his work to notice. Eventually, Anthony broke the silence.
“I would feel convinced if I might look out from that window,” he said.
“Convinced of what?” the old man asked sharply.
“That I am what I seem,” replied Anthony.
“Look forth, then,” said the old man. “But do not disturb me with idle talk. There is the rosy color in the projection for which I have waited so long.”
Anthony walked to the window and gazed through the tinted panes. The night was profoundly dark, and objects were only faintly discernible. He thought he detected the gleam of the river beneath him and a long line of houses on the bridge. He believed he saw other buildings with high roofs and gables, characteristic of Elizabethan architecture. He persuaded himself he could make out the venerable Gothic pile of Saint Paul’s Cathedral on the other side of the river, and as if to confirm it, a deep, solemn bell tolled the hour of two. After a while, he returned from the window and addressed his supposed grandsire.
“I am satisfied. I have lived centuries in a few nights.”
THE END