The Oath : or, The Buried treasure

Front matter

THE QAJUBL ; OK, THE BURIED 'TREASURE. BY THE AUTHOR OF "ADA, THE BETRAYED," &C. LONDON: PRINTED AN D PUBLISHED BY E. LLOTD, SALISBURY-SQUARE, FLEET-STREET, AND SOLD BY ALL BOOKSELLERS. Oi, T.1E BURIED TREASURE. BY THE AUTHOR OF 'ADA,' ' MIRANDA,' ' WOHAl/d LIFE,' 'THE WHITE SLAVE,' litC. ALAN HERON AND SANDON IN THE TRAVELLER'S CHAMBER. strange appearance cf vitality, and of brightenln? into life, so that when some lijrht fleecy cloud sol a moment dulled the brillhnje of silvery light, those calm still effigies of the dead seemed as if varied expressions were crossing their chiselled faces, aad that they were about to speak. CHAPsER I. A soft and solemn looking moonlight was streaming inte the east area of St. Paul's Cathedral, ou tbe night of January the 14th, 17 — . It fell in broad masses of silvery radiance on the marble flooring — It chequered with strange fanciful designs of light and shade the massive columns, aud as It sweetly stole over the faces and limbs of the marble statues, it gave them a A rapt Btillness such as cau only be felt and understood in such solemn places, reigned throughout the venerable structure — a holy beautiful calm pervaded the still air, and never Na. 1.

OR, THE had that wo k of man looked bo glorious, bo noble, so soul-elevating as on that sweet moonlight night, when aisle and chancel, crypt and dome that were silvered over by the clear beams of light streamed in from the pale moon, as it took the its pathless tra?k through the frosty *ky of in tense beautiful blue. Here and there, too, the beams were strangely, delicately altered, owing to passing through panes of coloured glass. which lent their varied hues, converting the cold marble on which they then fell for tbe time into the rarest mosaic pavement, and sometimes falling on a masB of marble drapery of some hers t statesman, or divine, to make it glow again with tbe colours of reality. vapour still lingered beneath the dome, and all was calm and serene as death. Five minutes might now have elapsed, and far and near the hour of twelve had been pro claimed from hundreds of steeples.

Tbe cathedral appeared to sleep in its majestic beauty, when suddenly the rapt repose of that sacred place was broken by a Bound so dreadful, bo truly awful, that no one thing human could be at all compared to it. Whether it came from above, below, on one side, or ou the other, from the belfrey or the vaults, the aisle or the chancel, God only knew • but proceed from what it might, come from where it might, from lips of earth or Heaven, or of the depths of perdition, it rilled for about the space that a panting heart could have numbered some four or five pulsations, the whole of the area of tha' vast edisiee, with such a blast as it were of horror, that any sleeper who had suddenly been awakened by such a sound, would have trembled ever again to close his eyes in slumber. There are sounds which we are told are enough to awaken the dead.

Chapter II. The Death Ahosg The Dead

Sir Brentwood had la-inin a trance fora week, and he awakened from it at about the same hour, namely, midn'ght. The coffin he was confined in was ot solid oak ; but the lid did not, although well screwed down, too, fit so very tightly as tbat the fall of hia house had not awakened him. Conld such a mass of timber bave fallen without noise T could beams and rafters have laid them selves bo gently and quietly across him as not to diBtarb his slumbers f besides, be never slept very sound — the slightest sound would cause him at any time to awaken ; and now how was it that sneh a concussion of material had taken place, and ke not to have heard It f Besides, wby was he not rescued f wbere were his servants ? where his retainers — his hosts of friends f all knew he had wealth, and could and would amply regard the first hand wbich plucked Mm from such a horrible death as must be his if left much longer so covered in — so wedged up — so dread' fully deprived of air, that such pangs beset bis labouring breast in tho effort to breathe, that death itself eould be no more. ' Oh, God !

God I" he murmured, 'where are they alls where are they, that they do not save me Y something soft, like saw dust. How very strange where had it come ftom 1 He was packed up with it ; how could that be 7 His arms with great difficulty he raised to his breast; some night-dress was tied round bis neck; it was not what he had ever worn before. How straight aad even, too, some boards had arranged them selves ou each Bide of him, and above him, too. They all -seemed to have some sort of lialBg to them. He passed his hand down one tide, and felt something fluted in an ornamental shape. The same was on the other Bide ; above, too, all was smooth and even. That place bo quiet, too ; not a sound — not a breath. That strange, horrible pestiferous smell — such as must come from a charnel house ; the utter darkneBS— aU con spired to direct his thoughts in one horrible channel.

His brain for a moment seemed on sire — his sightless eyes strained from their sockets — a gurgling, choking sensation came in his throat, and he gasped, in a wailing, terrific whis per — All was still — ao very still — not a sound — not the most distant murmur— no shout of hope, no e'roke of hammer or axe to tell him he was being saved. No, no, all still — still as the grave. They surely thought him dead, and so left him, on such a supposition, to die. " It is a coffin — it is a coffin !'* When once this idea took possession of his mind, it remained with the full force of a certain conviction, and no room was left for a doubt upon the subject. However frightful such a truth might be, still, that it was one, he could not doubt now for one Instant — he had been buried alive. Some trance had deprived him of con sciousness, and given him the appearance of death ; he had been placed in his coffin, his funeral was over, and there he was, a living man, left to die in the dismal vault be bad once seen and shrunk from in horror.

The sostld smell — he knew it now again. He was in a coffin— no one to hear him — no friendly hand to rescue him. No hope — no hope I Then he tried to think back, and to discover when and how he had gone to rest, but memory baffled him. AU was a dreamy chaos to his mind. He knew nothing but tbat he was heaped np on all sides — confined — held down by some gigantic power, to contend against which was madness. Dark, dark, too — so very dark— a darkness sech as he before had never known, never seen, never Imagined. He moved his hands — he waa very cold, and yet the air he breathed was like a hot blast from some sugar-house. The Bcent of carrion seemed to come with it. It was horrible — most hon ib le, snd yet there was not enough of it — oh, how his panting breast laboured for more. He kuew all now.

Like a torrent, memory rushed back to him, and he knew all up to tbe moment he had fallen into a trance. And there he was, a living tenant of the tomb— a terrible instance of a terrible mistake. People were, perchance, passing to and fro within a hundred yards of him, and yet he was choking — expiring among tbe dead; buried and forgotten! Left to rave — to pray—to swear — to shout, scieam or groan aB best su1 ted his faney, and if, at some after-time, curloiity or accident should bring hia ghostly remains to light, wby, then, the indications there might be that he had been entombed ■live, would form a good subject for the novelist. Yes, there he was, still breathing, though with pain ; his heart still beatieg, though laboriously ; his blood still flowing through his veins, though languidly.

He was dying, but very, very slowly. Ob, he had ample time to think of his past life. Who shall pity him now, for being hurried to eternity bo unprepared, with all his Bins upon hia head? He could prepare himself inhis c Hin; there, In his own family vault, with no one to diaturb him ; he had ample time ; be was un injured — no disease ran riot in his system ; ha only wanted air just then. These thoughts ware maddening ; he drew in air to his lungs with a shrieking strange noise, and then, he uttered tbat one awful scream, which had broken the wrapt repose of the cathedral, and which had appeared impossible to have come from aoy mortal lips. No Bound yet — no hope of deliverance f What should he do ? Would a shriek — a cry for help, make itself heard through the heaped-up mass of material he found was upon him f Oh, no — it could not.

He must wait — wail with patience, not for deliverance, but for death. Yes, death could only deliver him — he bad no hope from mortal man ; and he was one of those who, even in that dread extremity, scarcely dared to call on the Heaven whose ordinances he had sa often outraged — invariably scorned. Yet, the remem brance of some prayer, taught to him in childhood, came to bis mind, and, while a perspiration of icy coldness came ont upon his face and limbs, he groaned aloud, and cried— 'God deliver me I' How strange, how awful to himself, did his own voice sound t He spoke but ia a whisper, and yets with wbat a hollow echo did the words reach his ears. He strove, by opening his eyes preter naturally wide, to p erce the obscurity above and around ; but all was in vain, he could see no thing, and when the hollow, fearful reverbera tion of his own voice had passed away, he eould hear nothing.

Tbat terrible stillness again relgued around him, broken only by the dull, be.vy beat— beat — beat, of hia own nearly buretirg heart. He moved bis hands again, and they grasped OR, THE l« That very nearly killed him, for it exhausted all his energies, and the Bmall supply of air he got in that damp vault, was ill sufficient to repair them. He did live, though, even after he had made that beautiful moonlight night hUeoos by the terrific cry that had come from his lips. He was too well— too hearty — too strong to die quite so soon, or so easily. The body wonld not yet part with its immortal sp'rit ; and small as were the currents of air that came to him, loaded with deadly noxious vapours as they were, and maddened as was his brain, doath came not yet to relieve him from his sufferings, by making him really what he had been presumed to be, the dead, instead of the living tenant of that coffin.

I pray Heiven it may be some other death than this. Spare me, oh, spare me! I 6uff*>cate; noisome vatours from the dead stop the pure springs of life. A living man should not be the tenant of a tomb. Oh, Heaven help me new in my hour of need— on this day of horror I horror! I will pray— I will do good deeds. The innocent shall be righted — the oppressed shall no longer groan under oppression— tbe orphan shall have its own. I a*k bat for life to do so much — I ask. I implore, I pray but for time to do justice. Oh, God, spare me ! For one short week spare me, and then I will be content to die — for a day— oh, even an hour, that I may seek some other and less terrible death than this I Torture, oh, such agonising torture. I pant for breath agaia — again my heaving breast Beems bursting. Mero:p, mercy, mercy !

The air is thicker — I cannot breathe it — a weakness seizes on my limbs — insects seem crawling through my brain. Mercy! Ob, God, help me now — help me now.1 His voice subsided to a low, strange, hissing whisper ; his throat became dry aud parched, and at length he uttered ooe wor it and tbat was — He could not scream again : he tried, but he could not produce a sound exceeding in s rength a faint gurgling hoarse groan, which would not have been heard immediately outside the door of the vanlt. He had made the only alarm he could ; that was ineffectual, and he must now die slowly of suffooation — of starvation— of madness — or of all combined : what could save him? He thought he would try to burst the planks of the coffin asunder, and gathering np his legs, he made a vain effort to burst oat tbe end, but the slight extent to wh ch he could bend his knees, gave him no power, and the stern oak resisted him most effectually. ' Water — watar — water !' No help came to him ; Haaven was deaf to his prayers ; the age ot miracles was gone ; and the great social system, with all its inevitable laws, went on, heedless of crushing hhn ia its vast machinery.

He might pray, or he might shriek — he might whine, or he might blaspheme still there he was, without help, without hope, in that coffin, dying — slowly, but surely; dying, and no special interposition of Providence occurred to save him. Then he struck his elbows against the sides, till his arms were bathed in blood. He dashed his head to and fro, bruising and smashing his face recklessly, and still screaming to the extent of his power as he did so, while he became sopped in his own blood. He huddle,! himself then low down in the coffin, and again strove to burst out tbe end piece, but he only threw his whole body straight again, striking the top ef his head a terrible b ow- Tbe oaken panels were by far too strong to be easily severed — besides, it was a rich man's coffin, and well made. The rough boards, scarcely nailed together, of which a pauper's coffin is made, would easily have given way.

The other has its disadvantages. Now he lay for awhile quiet; he was exhausted by the violent essortB he had already made, and could scarcely move a band or foot. He was bleeding too, and yet he felt as if his general power to live was stronger than it had been, notwitstanding hia physical ex haustion under which he was labouring. His heart beat more qnickly and regularly, and the same sense of suffocation did not possess him. It is probable his loss of blood contributed to produce such results. But now he had recovered a little his ex hausted strength, and he made a great effort, once again, by violently striking the sides of his coffin, to free himself. 'Twas in vain. By one great blow be fractured one of his arms, but he made no impression upon that well-made aristocratic oaken coffin. Ob, what an awful thirst waa now consuming him !

It seemed to him as if a fire was raging in his threat, and throughout his entire system ; hlB skin became dry and parched ; and such was the fever heat which now succeeded the bitter coldness ha had before suffered from, that tbe very blood which flowed bom the woundshe bad gven himself against the sides and lid of his coffin, caked iu hot masses upon bis flesh. < Water— water I' he still whispered, till he could utter no articulate sound at all, but only a hoarse, guttural noise, such as might pro ceed from some wild animal, similarly imprisoned as he was, and as he was expiring from thirst. He lay for some minutes still and motionless. He might have been dead, but that he spoke, and for the first time for many a year he prayed and wept, and promised what good he would do were he once more permitted to see the open air, the bright sunshine, and the clear blue sky.

Now he tried to turn in his coffin, for it be. came additional agony to lie longer in the posi. tion he waa now in ; but tbe height of the nar row place wa1? insufficient, and for some moments he was wedged in by the shoulders, aad could move neither way, until, by a tremendous effort, he did turn over to his face, at the expense of tearing from the shoulder flesh and skin, leaving the bone completely bare. Then he would fain bave got back, for not only waa hia broken arm doubled up beneath him, till the Jagged ends o che fractured bones burst their way through th ' Spare me, spare me 1' he gapped. ' Oh, God, spare met This iB too horrible a death, even for such a man aB I am. Ob, Heaven, fount of mercy 1 I, who never yet prayed' — I, who never yet bowed the knee, even to Thy glorions tbrone —now plead for life — life!

Or, if I must die, BURIJED TREASURE. 7 flesh, but he found himself placed in a much worse position as to breathing than before. He tried lo shriek, bnt produced only a strange husky sound, and yet, wbat pain he suffered. In vain he sought to recover the posit on on his back he bad with euch pain and difficulty de serted. He could not move Ms broken arm, which lay smashed beneath him, and tbe other was insufficient to aid him. He plunged with his feet, he gaashed his teeth, aud bit con vulsively at the pillow which had placed in tbe coffin. Madness now seized him; one of his hands was near his mouth, and he fixed his teeth in his own wrist, drinking eagerly the blood which flowed from the wouad, and tearing out, r long, bloody fringe, the veioa, arteries, aad sinews of his arm. They clung round his mouth, and buog entangled among his teeth, like mangled worms still writhing with the agony of ■death.

The blood was hot, siiry aad fcottby, yet to him it was nectar, aa he gashed at his aim, and, with a slopping, sucking noise, drank up the seething fluid. He wallowed .his face in the sanguinary, slimy-like juice he bad produced, and his teeth crackled, ground, and crunched against the bone of his arm, as be laughed — yes, laughed as he weat on with his mad demoniac repast. could not, for some minutes, speak. His sense of hearing only seemed acute and clear ; a sent of mist appeared to have gathered over all his other faculties, and he felt compelled to waituot'l bis unknown visitor should choose to apeak again. Moments to him swelled into hours of agony, and although he who had so suddenly and unexpectedly made his way into that well-kept vault, by some mysterious means, allowed himself out little more time than to be assured that he was 'not answered, ere he spake again, the coffined man thought he must have gone and left him to despair and death, ao long, so wretchedly long did tho time appear.

But, oh, what joy was it again to hear a tap upon the coSin lid, and the voice— odd aa were its tones, and the words it uttered, say again— ' Brentwood, are you there — are you there, Brentwood ? How are you ?' Ihe struggle that the terrified man made to speak from within his coffin was dreadful, and he just managed spasmodically to say — ' Yes — yes — yes !' 'Oh. — oh — -oh!' laughed be who asked the question. ' I was afraid I was too late. Twoald have been asad thing to be too late, 'Brentwood, wouldn't it?— -ho— ho — ho! What a merry chirping e-und laughter is in euch a place as this. I never laughed in a vault before — never. Ho — ho— ho ! Ha — ha! Brentwood — taacle, how are you Y A tap sounded on tbe outside of ilia coffin, and a voice said — 'Brentwood — Brentwood! Arey.oualive yet?

How are you, Brentwood, eh Y ' God — God!' gasped Brentwood. The vi-itor knocked on the coffin with bis knuckles, aa he replied — ' You should bave said that long ago- But you are a devil, you know you are, and must not be let out. I don't think you will ever die, uncle Brentwood. Wttat a guardian >«u bave been — bo!— hoi Do you rtcollect diggia^ your spurs into me? That was before thsy shook tbeir beads, and said I was an idiot. Wouldn't you rather be an idiot, and standing in the fine fresb air of Brentwood -park, than shut up where you are, uncle?' I know yau would ; I am eiire you would. How do you feel, uncle — is It warm and nice — is it cosey, and snag, and comfortable ? I know it's stroag.'

Chapter III. The Visitor

The voice which so suddenly and strangely broke in upo : the frightful solitude of that man who lay stiii livieg in the vault, in an instant stopped his stifled groans and shrieks. Hope once more dawned In his breast— a hope that came over his heart, sick, worn ded, and suffering the most excruciating pain as he w*s, .with such a g-i*h of delight, that he could not speak, he c.uid not move. He could only feel that he might yet be delivered from bis horrible bondage by t'je being who had spoke to him there, in that place where he bad not expected to bear any human sound hut the terrific echo of his own maddened ravinga. * Oh, God — ah, Gad I' ' There yougo again, uncle. Same people can never pray till they find themselves in a coffin. Weil, well, you will have lots of time— lots of time. No one will disturb you.

I bave a notion you won't die, and if you don't, you'll hear tha old organ above, and then you can pray to it ; and mind you do not forget me when you .do, nor poor dear May— don't forget her, unole Brent* wood- I've brought your grand meerchaum pipe, and I'm going to sit on the coffin aud have a smoke.' His reason, which had for a time .fled, returned to him, like a slash of light, at the sound cf that voice; for it waB the sound of a living man ; and surely no human creature, be he whom he may, be fee what he may, could possibly exist without Some glowing spark of pity for one in such a state as he who lay there mangled, am bleedug a living tenant of the tomb. There was a silence of some moments' dura tion, after which the coffined man uttered tha He ceased to struggle— be left off the dreadful banquet on his own flesh.

The air did not fnel to him so parched and hot. There was hope now, and the glorious feeling revived allhispby sical enegies, making him again cling to life, since now, surely he would be rescued. He would fain have said something — he would lain have cried for help to that man, bo he whom he might. He wanted to procure breath to promise him some great reward for bis preservation, but his tongue cl. ve to the roof ot his mouth, and he name— 4 Heron— Heron 1' ' Ah— ab V laughed his singular visitor, 'you know me Re>w. I ara Nicholas Heron, uncle — you know n e now. F^ks touch their heads and say, ' Ah, i ok fellow 1' when they speak of me. I don't sup;oe you could get your hand eo high where you are now. But who's the fool, uncle, you or I ? Ho — ho— ho 1 It's rare sport, uncle— in a coffin, and poor, foolish Nicholas going to smoke hisjgreat, grand meerschaum in the family vault.

It's droll, very droll.' that he oould have bawled and shrieked aloud, dabbled in his own blood, and drawing breath witb agony at each respiratim, to be forced to calculate thus his small chance of being saved, and to assume a tone and manner as foreign to his feelings as anything could by possibility be conceived. 4 Nicholas — Nicholas.' 'Yes. What now Y 1 Help me — oh, help me!* ' Help yourself, uncle. A great man Uke yen to want help. Let me see. Your manor of Brentwood — your great house in London — your estate in the North Riding — your fisheries in Wales — your houses — your plate — Jewels — yonr snug place under government, with nothing to do, a thousand a year, aud two deputies to help you — your ' Still there was no other chance, and now he apoke again In a low hollow voice, which be in tended should be cheerful. ' Nicholas !

Nicholas I' ' Go on, uncle.' 'I intend giving you that meerschaum. 1 I've got It/ ' Yes, and you shall keep it. To-morrow, too, I will make you a present of my house in town, Nicholas. God bless you— what a great man you will be, good Nicholas.' * Nicholas — Nicholas.' ' Your great, gr-tnd meerschaum pipe, I was going to say. I'll have a smoke.' • Save me i — save me.' ' I'll have a smoke.' ' Speak out.' Nicholas Heron, whose mind was strange and wayward, although he was not completely idiotic, commenced striking a light, in order that he might enjoy, wbat appeared to him a great height of grandeur, namely a smoke with Sir Brentwood ef Brentwood's grand meerschaum. ' I — I am as well as I can ; and, Nicholas, you shall have a thousand pounds, all in bright gold pieces— you hear, Nicholas?' 4 Yes; it's grand and fine.' 1 And all my jewels, Nicholas.

You shall wear them all, and go to court.* Could the wretched man, from hi s coffin, have seen him, he would have given up all hope of release through his hands ; for upon his coun tenance sat a strange expression of madness, and, although he spoke deliberately enough, there was a Aashiog fire in his eye, which told of a world of passion in his breast. " Yes ; go on, uncle.* 1 You will be much admired, Nicholas. By. the-by, I will give you the jewels at ooce. Just wrench off tbe coffin lid, and I will go bone, and hand you tbe jewels at ones, good Nicholas. What friends wo shall be to be sure. One wrench, Nicholas, and than we will go home, arm-in-arm. You know you understand me, Nicholas ?" With a sudden twitch he removed the massive pall from the coffia, and then Brentwood got more air. Alas 1 it gave him but a keener sense of his terrible fate.

Nicholas tapped again upon the cosh i lid, and in a low, confidential tone of voice, that gave a ray of hope to tbe poor imprisoned wretch, wbis pered. 4 Uncle, uncle, I'm going to smoke — do you hear ? Come, now, don't be ill-tempered, as you usually are. I could not venture upon smoktng your meerschaum if you were not so snug, and boxed up as you are. I'm going to smoke. Fine tobacco you keep .' * Uncle, uncle !' 4 Yes, Nicholas.' ' You want to ba let out of here, don't you, uncle Y * If you please, my good Nicholas, in order to hand you the jewels and the bright gold, you know.' * Nicholas, Nicholas, oh, why ' ' Because the air is rather damp, and smells of dead BrentwoodB. I think it's your father must make such a stench here. He's been burled, let me see, a matter of fourteen years now.' • I'm not i' tbe vein.* ' But, Nicholas, think again.

You shall have just whatever you like, and your sister, Mary Heron, will be such a lady, Nichola*. Think again. Well, now, I think, Nicholas, If yon please, we will go home at once together, and yon can smoke the pipe as you go, and astonish everybody.'' Deep hollow groans came from within the coffin. The imprisoned man wanted to make some strong appeal for liberty and life, and knew not how to do so. He knew not what motives he could possibly present to the singularly men* tally formed being, who appeared to glory ia his agony, and to enjoy it with a wild, idiotic glee, that was horrible ; besides, his strength was waning fast. The coffin was full of blood. His wounds were stil bleeding quickly. Time now for him would soon be no more, unless he were at once released, and given effectual assistance to.