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      The Project Gutenberg eBook of New York: Its Upper Ten and Lower Million, by George Lippard..
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<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 57785 ***</div>



<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;">
<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="500" alt="" />
</div>

<hr class="full" />

<h1>NEW YORK:
ITS
UPPER TEN AND LOWER MILLION.</h1>


<h3>BY<br /> GEORGE LIPPARD.</h3>

<h5>AUTHOR OF "ADONAI," "WASHINGTON AND HIS GENERALS," "THE QUAKER CITY," "PAUL
ARDENHEIM," "BLANCHE OF BRANDYWINE," "LEGENDS OF MEXICO,"
"THE NAZARENE," ETC. ETC. ETC.</h5>


<h5>CINCINNATI:<br />
PUBLISHED BY E. MENDENHALL.</h5>

<h5>NEW YORK: A. RANNEY.</h5>

<h5>1854.</h5>



<hr class="chap" />

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 450px;">
<img src="images/frontispiece.jpg" width="450" alt="author portrait" />
</div>



<hr class="chap" />
<h3>CONTENTS.</h3>



<div class="center">
<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary="">
<tr><td align="left"><span class="smcap"><a href="#PRELIMINARY_SKETCH">Preliminary Sketch</a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left"><span class="smcap"><a href="#PROLOGUE">Prologue</a></span></td></tr>
</table></div>

<hr class="tb" />

<h3>Part First.</h3>

<h4>"FRANK VAN HUYDEN." DEC. 23 1844.&mdash;EVENING.</h4>


<div class="left">
<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary="">
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#PART_FIRST">CHAPTER I.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">"Does he Remember?"</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#CHAPTER_1_II">CHAPTER II.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Frank and her Singular Visitor.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#CHAPTER_1_III">CHAPTER III.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Childhood of the Midnight Queen.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#CHAPTER_1_IV">CHAPTER IV.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Maidenhood.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#CHAPTER_1_V">CHAPTER V.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">On the Rock.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#CHAPTER_1_VI">CHAPTER VI.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Among the Palisades.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#CHAPTER_1_VII">CHAPTER VII.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">In the Forest Nook.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#CHAPTER_1_VIII">CHAPTER VIII.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Home, Adieu!</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#CHAPTER_1_IX">CHAPTER IX.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Ernest and his Singular Adventures.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#CHAPTER_1_X">CHAPTER X.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Palace-Home.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#CHAPTER_1_XI">CHAPTER XI.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">"She'll Do!"</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#CHAPTER_1_XII">CHAPTER XII.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">A Revelation.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#CHAPTER_1_XIII">CHAPTER XIII.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Morphine.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#CHAPTER_1_XIV">CHAPTER XIV.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Sale is complete.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#CHAPTER_1_XV">CHAPTER XV.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">"Lost&mdash;Lost, Utterly!"</span></td></tr>
</table></div>

<hr class="tb" />

<h3>Part Second.</h3>

<h4>FROM NIGHTFALL UNTIL MIDNIGHT. DEC. 23, 1844.</h4>


<div class="center">
<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary="">
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#PART_SECOND">CHAPTER I.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Bloodhound and the Unknown.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#CHAPTER_2_II">CHAPTER II.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Canal street Shirt Store.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#CHAPTER_2_III">CHAPTER III.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">"Do they Roar?"</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#CHAPTER_2_IV">CHAPTER IV.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Seven Vaults.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#CHAPTER_2_V">CHAPTER V.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Legate of the Pope.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#CHAPTER_2_VI">CHAPTER VI.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">"Joanna!"</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#CHAPTER_2_VII">CHAPTER VII.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">The White Slave and his Sister.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#CHAPTER_2_VIII">CHAPTER VIII.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Eleanor Lynn.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#CHAPTER_2_IX">CHAPTER IX.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Bernard Lynn.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#CHAPTER_2_X">CHAPTER X.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">"Yes! You will meet Him."</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#CHAPTER_2_XI">CHAPTER XI.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">In the House of the Merchant Prince.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#CHAPTER_2_XII">CHAPTER XII.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">"Show Me the Way."</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#CHAPTER_2_XIII">CHAPTER XIII.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">"The Reverend Voluptuaries."</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#CHAPTER_2_XIV">CHAPTER XIV.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">"Below Five Points."</span></td></tr>
</table></div>

<hr class="tb" />

<h3>Part Third.</h3>

<h4>THROUGH THE SILENT CITY. DEC. 24, 1844.</h4>


<div class="center">
<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary="">
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#PART_THIRD">CHAPTER I.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Den of Madam Resimer.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#CHAPTER_3_II">CHAPTER II.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">"Herman, you will not desert Me?"</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#CHAPTER_3_III">CHAPTER III.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Herman, Arthur, Alice.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#CHAPTER_3_IV">CHAPTER IV.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Red Book.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#CHAPTER_3_V">CHAPTER V.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">"What shall we do with her?"</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#CHAPTER_3_VI">CHAPTER VI.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">A Brief Episode.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#CHAPTER_3_VII">CHAPTER VII.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Through the Silent City.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#CHAPTER_3_VIII">CHAPTER VIII.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">In Trinity Church.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#CHAPTER_3_IX">CHAPTER IX.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">The End of the March.</span></td></tr>
</table></div>

<hr class="tb" />

<h3>Part Fourth.</h3>

<h4>IN THE TEMPLE&mdash;FROM MIDNIGHT UNTIL DAWN. DEC. 24, 1844.</h4>


<div class="center">
<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary="">
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#PART_FOURTH">CHAPTER I.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Central Chamber.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#CHAPTER_4_II">CHAPTER II.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Blue Room.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#CHAPTER_4_III">CHAPTER III.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Golden Room.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#CHAPTER_4_IV">CHAPTER IV.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Bridal Chamber.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#CHAPTER_4_V">CHAPTER V.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Scarlet Chamber.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#CHAPTER_4_VI">CHAPTER VI.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Bank Stock at the Bar.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#CHAPTER_4_VII">CHAPTER VII.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">"Where is the Child of Gulian<br /> Van Huyden?"</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#CHAPTER_4_VIII">CHAPTER VIII.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Beverly and Joanna.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#CHAPTER_4_IX">CHAPTER IX.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Mary Berman&mdash;Carl Raphael.</span></td></tr>
</table></div>

<hr class="tb" />

<h3>Part Fifth.</h3>

<h4>THE DAWN, SUNRISE AND DAY. DEC. 24, 1844.</h4>


<div class="center">
<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary="">
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#PART_FIFTH">CHAPTER I.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">"The Other Child."</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#CHAPTER_5_II">CHAPTER II.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Randolph and his Brother.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#CHAPTER_5_III">CHAPTER III.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Husband and the Profligate.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#CHAPTER_5_IV">CHAPTER IV.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Israel and his Victim.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#CHAPTER_5_V">CHAPTER V.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Mary, Carl, Cornelius.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#CHAPTER_4_VI">CHAPTER VI.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">A Look into the Red Book.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#CHAPTER_5_VII">CHAPTER VII.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Marion Merlin.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#CHAPTER_5_VIII">CHAPTER VIII.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Niagara.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#CHAPTER_5_IX">CHAPTER IX.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">A Second Marriage.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#CHAPTER_5_X">CHAPTER X.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">A Second Murder.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#CHAPTER_5_XI">CHAPTER XI.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Marion and Herman Barnhurst.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#CHAPTER_5_XII">CHAPTER XII.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Marion and Fanny.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#CHAPTER_5_XIII">CHAPTER XIII.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">An Unutterable Crime.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#CHAPTER_5_XIV">CHAPTER XIV.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Suicide.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#CHAPTER_5_XV">CHAPTER XV.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">After the Death of Marion.</span></td></tr>
</table></div>

<hr class="tb" />

<h3>Part Sixth.</h3>

<h4>DAY, SUNSET, NIGHT. DECEMBER 24, 1844.</h4>


<div class="center">
<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary="">
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#PART_SIXTH">CHAPTER I.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Arrayed for the Bridal.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#CHAPTER_6_II">CHAPTER II.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Herman and Godiva.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#CHAPTER_6_III">CHAPTER III.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Dream Elixir.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#CHAPTER_6_IV">CHAPTER IV.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Bridal of Joanna and Beverly.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#CHAPTER_6_V">CHAPTER V.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">An Episode.</span></td></tr>
</table></div>

<hr class="tb" />

<h3>Part Seventh.</h3>

<h4>THE DAY OF TWENTY-ONE YEARS. DEC. 25, 1844.</h4>


<div class="center">
<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary="">
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#PART_SEVENTH">CHAPTER I.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">Martin Fulmer appears.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#CHAPTER_7_II">CHAPTER II.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">"The Seven" are summoned.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#CHAPTER_7_III">CHAPTER III.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">"Say, between us Three!"</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#CHAPTER_7_IV">CHAPTER IV.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Legate of His Holiness.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#CHAPTER_7_V">CHAPTER V.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Son, at Last!</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#CHAPTER_7_VI">CHAPTER VI.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">A Long Account Settled.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left" style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#CHAPTER_7_VII">CHAPTER VII.</a></td><td align="left"><span class="smcap">The Banquet Room once more.</span></td></tr>
</table></div>

<hr class="tb" />

<h3><a href="#EPILOGUE">Epilogue.</a></h3>


<div class="center">
<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary="">
<tr><td align="left"><span class="smcap">On the Ocean&mdash;By the River Shore&mdash;In the Vatican&mdash;On the Prairie.</span></td></tr>
</table></div>




<hr class="chap" />
<h4><a name="PRELIMINARY_SKETCH" id="PRELIMINARY_SKETCH">PRELIMINARY SKETCH.</a></h4>


<p><span class="smcap">Christmas Eve</span>, 1823, was a memorable night in the history of a certain
wealthy family in New York. The night was dark and stormy, but the tempest
which swept over the bay, and whitened the city's roofs with snow, was but a faint
symbol of the tempest of human passion&mdash;jealousy, covetousness, despair&mdash;then at
work, in the breasts of a group of individuals, connected with the old and distinguished
family of <span class="smcap">Van Huyden</span>.</p>

<p>On that night, <span class="smcap">Gulian Van Huyden</span>, the representative of the family, and
owner of its immense wealth&mdash;a young man in the prime of early manhood, who
had been happily married a year before&mdash;gave a great banquet to his male
friends, in his city mansion. By his side was seated his younger brother, <span class="smcap">Charles
Van Huyden</span>, whom the will of their father had confined to a limited income, while
<span class="smcap">Gulian</span>, as the elder son, had become the possessor of nearly all of the immense
wealth of the family.</p>

<p>The banquet was prolonged from about nine o'clock until near dawn, and during
its progress, Gulian and his brother had been alternately absent, for the space of
an hour, or a half hour at a time.</p>

<p>The city mansion of Gulian, situated not far from Trinity Church, flung the
blaze of its festival lights out upon the stormy night. That light was not sufficient
to light up the details of two widely different edifices, which, located within a hundred
yards of Gulian's mansion, had much to do with his fortunes, and the fortunes
of his family.</p>

<p>The nearest of these edifices, an antique, high-roofed house, which stood in a
desolate garden, was (unknown to Gulian) the home of his brother, and of that
brother's mistress&mdash;a woman whom Charles did not wish to marry, until by some
chance or other, he became the possessor of the Van Huyden estate.</p>

<p>The other edifice, a one-storied hovel, was the home of a mechanic and his
young wife. His name was <span class="smcap">John Hoffman</span>, his trade that of a stone mason, and
at the period of this narrative, he was miserably poor.</p>

<p>Now, during the night of Christmas eve (and while the banquet was in progress
in Gulian's city mansion), an unknown person, thickly cloaked, entered the hovel
of the mechanic, bearing a new-born child in his arms. An interview followed
between the unknown, John Hoffman, and his wife. The mechanic and his wife
consented to adopt the child in place of one which they had recently lost. The
stranger with the child, gave them a piece of parchment, which bore on one side,
the initials, "G. G. V. H. C." and on the other the name of "<span class="smcap">Dr. Martin Fulmer</span>,"
an eccentric physician, well known in New York. This parchment deposited
in a letter addressed to Dr. Fulmer, and sent to the post office once a quarter,
would be returned to the mechanic, accompanied by the sum of a hundred dollars.
John was especially enjoined to keep this interview and its results a secret from
the Doctor. Having deposited the child and parchment with the worthy couple,
the stranger departed, and was never again seen by the mechanic or his wife.</p>

<p>Within an hour of this singular interview the mistress of Charles Van Huyden,
returned to her home (from which she had been absent for a brief period)&mdash;flakes of
snow upon her dress and upon her disordered hair&mdash;and placed upon her bed, the
burden which she carried, a new-born infant, enveloped in a shawl. As the fallen,
but by no means altogether depraved woman, surveyed this infant, she also beheld
her own child, sleeping in a cradle not far from the bed&mdash;a daughter some three
months old, and named after its mother <span class="smcap">Frank</span>, that is, <span class="smcap">Francis Van Huyden</span>.</p>

<p>Christmas Eve passed away, and Christmas morning was near. Dr. Martin
Fulmer was suddenly summoned to Gulian's mansion. And Gulian, fresh from
the scenes of the banquet room, met the Doctor in an obscure garret of his mansion.
He first bound the Doctor by an oath, to yield implicit obedience to all his
wishes, an oath which appealed to all that was superstitious, as well as to all
that was truly religious in the Doctor's nature, and then the interview followed,
terrible and momentous in its details and its results. These results stretch over a
period of twenty-one years&mdash;from December 25, 1823, to December 25, 1844.
This interview over, Gulian left the Doctor (who, stupefied and awe-stricken by the
words which he had just heard, sank kneeling on the floor of the room in which
the interview had taken place), and silently departed from his mansion. He bent
his steps to the Battery. And then&mdash;young, handsome, the possessor of enormous
wealth&mdash;he left this life with the same composure, that he had just departed from his mansion.
In plain words, he plunged into the river, and met the death of the
<span class="smcap">suicide</span> in its ice-burdened waves, while his brother Charles (whom we forgot to
state, had accompanied him from the threshold of his home), stood affrighted and
appalled on the shore.</p>

<p>Meanwhile, Dr. Martin Fulmer (bound by his oath), descended from the garret
into a bedchamber of the Van Huyden mansion. Upon the bed was stretched a
beautiful but dying woman. It was Alice Van Huyden, the young wife of
Gulian. All night long (while the banquet progressed in another apartment) she
had wrestled in the agonies of maternity, unwatched and alone. She had given
birth to a child, but when the Dr. stood by the bed, the child had been removed
by unknown hands.</p>

<p>Convinced of his wife's infidelity&mdash;believing that his own brother Charles was
the author of his dishonor&mdash;Gulian had left his mansion, his wealth, life and all its
hopes, to meet the death of the suicide in the waves of Manhattan Bay.</p>

<p>And Dr. Martin Fulmer, but a few hours ago a poor man, now found himself,
as he stood by the bed of the dying wife, the <i>sole trustee</i> of the Van Huyden Estate.</p>

<p>His trust was to continue for twenty-one years. In case of his death, he had
power to appoint a successor. And at the end of twenty-one years, on the 25th
of December, 1844, the estate (swelled by the accumulations of twenty-one years),
was, by the will of Gulian Van Huyden, to be disposed of in this wise:</p>

<p>I. In case a son of Gulian should appear on that day (December 25th, 1844), the
estate should descend absolutely to him. Or,</p>

<p>II. In case on the day named, it should be proven to the satisfaction of the Trustee,
that such a son had been in existence, but had met his death in a truly just
cause, then the estate was to be disposed of, according to the directions embodied
in a sealed codicil (which was not to be opened until December 25,
1844). But in case such a son did not appear, and in case his death in a truly
just cause was not proven on the appointed day, then,</p>

<p>III. The estate was to be divided among the heirs of <i>seven</i> persons, descendants
of the first of the Van Huydens, who landed on Manhattan Island, in the year
1623. These seven persons, widely distributed over the United States, were
(by the directions of the Testator) to be furnished with a copy of the will. And
among these seven or their heirs&mdash;that is, those of the number who appeared
before Martin Fulmer, at the appointed place on the appointed day&mdash;the estate
would be divided.</p>

<p>Such in brief, were the essential features of the will.</p>

<p>A few days after December 25, 1823, Charles Van Huyden, having in his possession
$200,000 (given to him by Dr. Martin Fulmer, in accordance with the wishes
of Gulian) left New York for Paris, taking with him his mistress (now his wife),
their child "Francis" or "Frank," and the strange child which the woman had
brought to her home, on Christmas Eve, 1823. Whether this "strange" child, or
the child left with the poor mechanic, was the offspring of Gulian Van Huyden,
will be seen from the narrative which follows this imperfect sketch.</p>

<p>Twenty-one years pass away; it lacks but a day or two of December 25th, 1844.
Who are the seven heirs? Does a son of Gulian live? What has become of
Charles Van Huyden; of Hoffman the mechanic, and of the child left in the care
of the mechanic? What has become of Charles Van Huyden's wife and child?</p>

<p>On a night in December 1844&mdash;say the 23d of the month&mdash;we shall find in
New York, the following persons, connected with the fortunes of the Van Huyden
family:</p>

<p>The "<span class="smcap">Seven</span>" or their heirs.</p>

<p>I. <span class="smcap">Gabriel Godlike</span>, a statesman, who with an intellect rivaling some of the greatest
names in our history, such as Clay, Calhoun or Webster, is destitute of the
patriotism and virtues of these great men.</p>

<p>II. <span class="smcap">Herman Barnhurst</span>, a clergyman, who has lured from Philadelphia to New
York, the only daughter of a merchant of the former city. This clergyman and
his victim, are pursued by the Third of the Seven.</p>

<p>III. <span class="smcap">Arthur Dermoyne</span>, a mechanic.</p>

<p>IV. <span class="smcap">Israel Yorke</span>, a Banker.</p>

<p>V. <span class="smcap">Harry Royalton, of Hill Royal</span>, S. C. His claim to an undivided seventh of
the Estate, will be contested by his half brother and sister, <span class="smcap">Randolph</span> and
<span class="smcap">Esther</span>, who although white, are alleged to have African blood in their veins.</p>

<p>VI. <span class="smcap">Beverly Barron</span>, a "man of the world."</p>

<p>VII. <span class="smcap">Evelyn Somers</span>, a New York "Merchant Prince."</p>

<p>2d. We shall find in New York, at the period before named, <span class="smcap">Charles Van Huyden</span>,
transformed into <span class="smcap">Col. Tarleton</span>, and endeavoring to remove from his hands
the blood of a man whom he has slain in a duel. His daughter "<span class="smcap">Frank</span>" grown
to womanhood, and brought into contact with "<span class="smcap">Nameless</span>," who left in infancy at
the hovel of John Hoffman, has after a childhood of terrible hardships&mdash;a young
manhood darkened by madness and crime&mdash;suddenly appeared in New York,
in company with a discharged convict. This convict is none other than John Hoffman
the mechanic. And gliding through the narrative, and among its various
actors, we shall find <span class="smcap">Martin Fulmer</span>, or his successor.</p>

<p>With this preliminary sketch&mdash;necessarily brief and imperfect, for it covers a
period of twenty-one years&mdash;the following narrative is submitted to the reader.
Yet first, let us for a moment glance at the "<span class="smcap">Van Huyden Estate</span>." This estate
in 1823, was estimated at two millions of dollars. What is it in 1844?</p>

<p>The history of two millions of dollars in twenty-one years! Two millions left to
go by itself, and ripen year after year, into new power, until at last the original
sum is completely forgotten in the vast accumulation of capital. In the Old World
twenty-one years glide by, and everything is the same. At the end of twenty-one
years, two millions would still be two millions. Twenty-one years in the New
World is as much as two centuries to the Old. The vast expanse of land; the
constant influx of population; the space for growth afforded by institutions as different
from those of Europe (that is from those of the past), as day from night&mdash;all
contribute to this result. From 1823 to 1844, the New World, hardened by a
childhood of battle and martyrdom, sprang into strong manhood. Behold the
philosophy of modern wealth, manifested in the growth of the Van Huyden Estate.
Without working itself it bids others to work. Left to the age, to the growth of
the people, the increase of commerce and labor, it swells into a wealth that puts
the Arabian Nights to shame. In 1823 it comprises certain pieces of land in the
heart of New York, and in the open country beyond New York. In 1844 the city
land has repeated its value by a hundred; the country lots have become the abiding
place of the Merchant Princes of New York. Cents in 1823, become dollars
in 1844. This by the progress of the age, by the labor of the millions, and without
one effort on the part of the lands or their owner. In 1823 there is a country
seat and farm on the North River; in 1844 the farm has become the seat of
factories, mills, the dwelling place of five thousand tenants, whose labor has
swelled the original value of $150,000 into ten millions of dollars. In 1823, five
thousand acres, scattered over the wild west, are vaguely valued at $5000&mdash;in 1844
these acres, located in various parts of the west, are the sites of towns, villages,
mines, teeming with a dense population, and worth thirty millions of dollars. In
1823 a tract of barren land among the mountains of Pennsylvania, is bought for
one thousand dollars; in 1844 this tract, the location of mines of iron and coal, is
worth <span class="smcap">twenty millions</span>.</p>

<p>Thus in twenty-one years, by <i>holding on to its own</i>, the Van Huyden Estate has
swelled from <span class="smcap">two millions</span> to <span class="smcap">one hundred millions of dollars</span>. The age moves
on; it remains in its original proprietorship, swelled by the labor of millions, who
derive but a penny where they bestow upon the estate a dollar. It works not;
mankind works for it. Has this wealth no duties to mankind? Is there not something
horrible in the thought of an entire generation, for mere subsistence, spending
their lives, in order to make this man, this estate, or this corporation, the possessor
of incredible wealth?</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h4><a name="PROLOGUE" id="PROLOGUE">PROLOGUE</a></h4>


<p>The lamp has gone out in the old familiar room! It used to shine, late at night
upon the books, upon the pictures on the wall, and upon my face as I sat writing
there! Oftentimes it shone upon another face which looked over my shoulder, and
cheered me in my labor. But now the lamp has gone out&mdash;and forever. The face
which looked upon me is gone; the coffin lid shut down upon it one Summer day!
The room is dark forever. And the next room, where she used to sleep with her
children&mdash;it is dark and still! The house is desolate! There are no voices to
break its stillness! Her voice, and the voices of our children, are silent forever on
this lower earth. My heart goes back to that house and to its rooms, and to the
voices that once sounded there, and the faces which once made it glad, and with
more than the bitterness of Death I confess, <i>that Time can never return</i>. Nevermore,
nevermore, nevermore! Wealth may come; change of scene may deaden
sorrow; wrestling with the world, may divert the soul from perpetual brooding, but
the Truth is still the Truth, <i>that Time can never return</i>. And this is the end of all,
after a life spent in perpetual battle&mdash;after toiling day and night for long years&mdash;after
looking to the Future, hoping, struggling, suffering&mdash;to find at last, even
before thirty years are mine, that the lamp has gone out, and forever! That those
for whom I toiled and suffered&mdash;whose well-being was the impulse and the ultimate
of all my exertions&mdash;are no longer with me, but gone to return never&mdash;nevermore.
Upon this earth the lamp that lit my way through life, has indeed gone
out, and forever. But is it not lighted now by a higher hand than mortal, and is
it not shining now in a better world than this?</p>

<hr class="tb" />

<p>Once more I resume my pen. Since this work was commenced, Death has been
busy with my home&mdash;death hath indeed laid my home desolate. It is a selfish
thing to write for money, it is a base and a mean thing to write for fame, but it is
a good and a holy thing to write for the approval of those whom we most intensely
love. Deprived of this spring of action, it is hard, very hard to take up the pen
once more. Write, write! but the face that once looked over your shoulder, and
cheered you in your task, shall look over it no more. Write, write! and turn your
gaze to every point of the horizon of life&mdash;not one face of home meets your eye.</p>

<hr class="tb" />

<p>Take up the pen once more. Banish the fast gathering memories&mdash;choke them
down. Forget the <span class="smcap">actual</span> of your own life, in the ideal to which the pen gives
utterance. Brave old pen! Always trusted, never faithless! True through long
years of toil, be true and steadfast now; when the face that once watched your
progress is sleeping in graveyard dust. And when you write down a noble
thought, or give utterance to a holy truth, may be, that face will smile upon your
progress, even through the darkened glass which separates the present from the
Better World.</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h2><a name="PART_FIRST" id="PART_FIRST">PART FIRST.</a></h2>

<h3>"FRANK VAN HUYDEN."</h3>

<h4>DEC. 23, 1844.&mdash;EVENING.</h4>

<hr class="tb" />

<h3>CHAPTER I.</h3>

<h4>"DOES HE REMEMBER?"</h4>


<p>"Does he remember?" was the exclamation
of Frank, as concealing the history of
the Life of <span class="smcap">Nameless</span> within her bosom,
a singular expression flashed over her beautiful
face. "Does he remember?" was her
thought&mdash;"Is he conscious of the words
which have fallen from his lips? Does he
pass from this singular state of trance, only
to forget the real history of his life?"</p>

<p>The agitation which had convulsed the
face of Nameless, at the moment when
he emerged from the clairvoyant state (if
thus we may designate it) soon passed away.
His face became calm and almost radiant in
its every line. His eyes, no longer glassy,
shone with clear and healthy light; a slight
flush animated his hitherto sallow cheeks;
in a word, his countenance, in a moment,
underwent a wonderful change.</p>

<p>Frank uttered an exclamation of surprise.</p>

<p>"Ah! I begin to live!" said Nameless,
passing his hand over his forehead&mdash;"Yes,
yes," he uttered, with a sigh of mingled sorrow
and delight, "I have risen from the
grave. For two years the victim of a living
death, I now begin to live. The cloud is
gone; I see, I see the light!"</p>

<p>He rose and confronted Frank.</p>

<p>"There was another child&mdash;yes, my
mother gave birth to two children, one of
whom your father stole on the night of its
birth and reared as his own. His purpose
you may guess. But what has become of
that child? It disappeared, I know, at the
time when your father arrived from Paris&mdash;<i>disappeared</i>,
ha, ha, Frank! Did it not <i>disappear</i>
to rise into light again, on the 25th
of December, 1844, as the <i>only child</i> of
<span class="smcap">Gulian Van Huyden</span>? Your father is a
bold gamester; he plays with a fearless
hand!"</p>

<p>He paced the room, while Frank, listening
intently to his words, watched with dumb
wonder the delight which gave a new life to
his countenance.</p>

<p>"And Cornelius Berman, Frank&mdash;" he
turned abruptly.</p>

<p>"Died last year."</p>

<p>His countenance fell.</p>

<p>"And Mary&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Followed her father to the grave."</p>

<p>He fell back upon the sofa like a wounded
man. It was some moments before he recovered
the appearance of calmness.</p>

<p>"How knew you this?"</p>

<p>"A year ago, an artist reduced to poverty,
through the agency of Israel Yorke, came to
my home to paint my portrait. It was Cornelius
Berman. Yorke had employed Buggles
as his agent in the affair of the transfer
of the property of Cornelius; Buggles the
agent was dead indeed, but Yorke appeared
upon the scene, as the principal, and sold
Cornelius out of house and home. The
papers which you took from the dead body
of Buggles were only copies; the originals
were in the possession of Israel Yorke."</p>

<p>Nameless hid his face in his hands. He
did not speak again until many minutes had
elapsed.</p>

<p>"And you thought that Cornelius had put
Buggles to death?"</p>

<p>"I gathered it from a rumor which has
crept through New York for the last two
years. The haggard face and wandering eye
of the dying artist, who painted my picture,
confirmed this impression."</p>

<p>"And Cornelius came to this house?"'</p>

<p>"No; to another house, where I had been
placed by my father. He procured a person
to represent a southern gentleman, and personate
my father. That is, I was represented
as the only child of a rich southerner; and
in that capacity my picture was painted,
and&mdash;and&mdash;I afterward visited the home of
the artist, in a miserable garret, and saw his
daughter, who assisted her father, by the
humblest kind of work. She was a seamstress&mdash;she
worked for 'sixteen cents per
day.'"</p>

<p>"And she is dead," said Nameless, in a
low voice.</p>

<p>"I lost sight of Mary and her father about
a year ago, and have since received intelligence
of their death."</p>

<p>"How did you receive this intelligence?"</p>

<p>"It was in all the papers. Beverly Barron
wrote quite a touching poem upon the
Death of the Artist and his Daughter.
Beverly, you are aware, was eloquent upon
such occasions: the death of a friend was
always a godsend to him."</p>

<p>Nameless did not reply, but seemed for a
moment to surrender himself to the influence
of unalloyed despair.</p>

<p>"Look you, Frank," he said, after a long
pause, "I have seventy-one thousand dollars&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Seventy-one thousand dollars!" she ejaculated.</p>

<p>"Yes, and it is '<span class="smcap">Frank and Nameless
and Ninety-One against the World</span>.' To-morrow
is the 24th of December; the day
after will be THE DAY. We must lay our
plans; we must track Martin Fulmer to his
haunt; we must foil your father, and, in a
word, show the world that its cunning can
be baffled and its crime brought to justice,
by the combination of three persons&mdash;a
Fallen Woman, a Convict and a Murderer!
O, does it not make your heart bound to
think of the good work we can do with
seventy-one thousand dollars!"</p>

<p>She gave him her hand, quietly, but
her dark eye answered the excitement
which flashed from every line of his countenance.</p>

<p>"And will it not be a glorious thing for us,
if we can wash away our crimes&mdash;yes, Frank,
our crimes&mdash;and show the world what virtue
lurks in the breast of the abandoned and the
lost?"</p>

<p>"Then I can atone for the crime of which
I am guilty&mdash;for I am guilty of being the
child of a man who sold me into shame&mdash;you
are guilty of having stained your hands
in the blood of a wretch who cursed the
very air which he breathed&mdash;and Ninety-One,
is guilty, yes guilty of having once
been in&mdash;<i>my father's way</i>. These are terrible
crimes, Gulian&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Call me not by that name until the 25th
of December," exclaimed Nameless.</p>

<p>At this moment, Frank turned aside and
from the drawer of a cabinet, drew forth a
long and slender vial, which she held
before the eyes of Nameless.</p>

<p>"And if we fail, this will give us peace.
It is a quiet messenger, Gulian. Within
twelve hours after the contents of this vial
have passed the lips, the body will sink into
a peaceful sleep, without one sign or token
to tell the tale of suicide. Yes, Gulian, if
we fail, this vial, which I procured with difficulty,
and which I have treasured for years,
will enable us to fall asleep in each other's
arms, and&mdash;forever!"</p>

<p>"Suicide!" echoed Nameless, gazing now
upon the vial, then upon her countenance,
imbued with a look of somber enthusiasm&mdash;"You
have thought of that?"</p>

<p>"O had this vial been mine, in the hour
when, pure and hopeful, I was sold into the
arms of shame, do you think that for an
instant I would have hesitated between the
death that lays you quietly asleep in the
coffin, and that death which leaves the body
living, while it cankers and kills the soul?"</p>

<p>Nameless took the vial from her hand and
regarded it long and ardently. O what
words can picture the strange look, which
then came over his face! He uttered a deep
sigh and placed the vial in her hands again.
She silently placed it in the drawer of the
cabinet.</p>

<p>As she again confronted him, their eyes
met,&mdash;they understood each other.</p>

<p>"Frank," said Nameless in a measured
tone&mdash;"Who owns this house? What is its
true character?"</p>

<p>Seating herself beside him on the sofa she
replied:</p>

<p>"As to the <i>owner</i> of this house, you may
be sure that he is a man of property and
moral worth, a church-member and a respectable
citizen. But do not imagine for a
moment that this is a common haunt of
infamy&mdash;no, my friend, no! None but the
most select, the most aristocratic, ever cross
the threshold of this place. Remain until
twelve o'clock to-night and you will behold
some of the guests who honor my house
with their presence."</p>

<p>There was a mocking look upon her face
as she gave utterance to these words. She
beat the carpet with her slipper and grasped
the cross which rested on her bosom with a
nervous and impatient clutch.</p>

<p>"At twelve to-night!" echoed Nameless,
and looked into her face. "I will remain;"
and once more his whole being was enveloped
in the magnetic influence which flowed from
the eyes of the lost woman.</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h3><a name="CHAPTER_1_II" id="CHAPTER_1_II">CHAPTER II.</a></h3>

<h4>FRANK AND HER SINGULAR VISITOR.</h4>


<p>It will soon fall to our task to depict certain
scenes, which took place in the Empire
City on the 23d of December, between
nightfall and midnight. The greater portion
of these scenes will find their legitimate development
in "<span class="smcap">the Temple</span>," from midnight
until morning; while others will lift the
"Golden Shroud" and uncover to our gaze
threads and arteries of that great social heart
of New York, which throbs with every pang
of unutterable misery, or dilates and burns
with every pulse of voluptuous luxury.</p>

<p>Ere we commence our task, let us look in
upon a scene which took place in the house of
Frank, about nightfall and (of course) before
Nameless had sought refuge in her room.</p>

<p>Frank was sitting alone, in a quiet room
near a desk upon which pen and ink and
papers were spread. It was the room devoted
to the management of her household
affairs. She sat in an arm-chair, with her
feet on a stool and her back to the window,
while she lifted the golden cross and regarded
it with an absent gaze. The white curtains
of the windows were turned to crimson by
the reflection of the setting sun, and the
warm glow shining through the intervals of
her black hair, which fell loosely on her
shoulders, rested warmly upon her cheek.
Her whole attitude was that of revery or
dreamy thought.</p>

<p>While thus occupied, a male servant,
dressed in rich livery, entered, and addressed
his mistress in these words:</p>

<p>"Madam, <i>he</i> wishes to see you."</p>

<p>"He! Whom do you mean?" said Frank,
raising her eyes but without changing her
position.</p>

<p>"That queer stranger, who never gives his
name,&mdash;who has been here so often within
the last three weeks,&mdash;I mean the one who
wears the blue cloak with ever-so-many
capes."</p>

<p>Frank started up in her chair.</p>

<p>"Show him in," she said,&mdash;"Yet stay a
moment, Walker. Are all the arrangements
made for to-night?"</p>

<p>"Everything has been done, precisely as
Madam ordered it to be done," said the servant
obsequiously.</p>

<p>He then retired and presently the visitor
entered. The room is wrapped in twilight
and we cannot trace the details of his appearance
clearly, for he seats himself in the
shadow, opposite Frank. We can discern,
however, that his tall form, bent with age, is
clad in a blue cloak with numerous capes,
and he wears a black fur hat with ample
brim. He takes his seat quietly, and rests
his hand upon the head of his cane.</p>

<p>Not a word was spoken for several
minutes. Each seemed to be waiting for the
other to commence the conversation. Frank
at last broke the embarrassing stillness.</p>

<p>"Soh! you are here again."</p>

<p>"Yes, madam," replied the stranger in a
harsh but not unmusical voice, "according to
appointment."</p>

<p>"It is now three weeks since we first
met," said Frank. "You purchased this
house of the person from whom I leased it,
some three weeks ago. But I have a lease
upon it which has yet one year to run. You
desire, I believe, to purchase my lease, and
enter at once upon possession? Well, sir,
I am resolved not to sell."</p>

<p>Without directly replying to her question,
the man in the cloak with many capes
replied&mdash;</p>

<p>"We did not meet three weeks ago for
the first time," he said. "Our first meeting
was long before that period."</p>

<p>"What mean you?" said Frank raising
her eyes and endeavoring, although vainly,
to pierce the gloom which enshrouded the
stranger. "O, it is getting dark. I will ring
for lights."</p>

<p>"Before you ring for lights, a word,&mdash;" the
stranger's voice sank but Frank heard every
word,&mdash;"we met for the first time at a
<i>funeral</i>&mdash;"</p>

<p>"At a funeral!"</p>

<p>"At a funeral; and after the funeral I had
<i>the body</i> taken up privately and ordered a
<i>post mortem</i> examination to be made. Upon
that body, madam,&mdash;" he paused.</p>

<p>"Well, sir?" Frank's voice was tremulous.</p>

<p>"Upon that body I discovered traces of a
fatal although subtle poison."</p>

<p>Again he paused. Frank made no reply.
Even in the dim light it might be seen that
her head sank slowly on her breast. Did
the words of the stranger produce a strong
impression? We cannot see her face, for the
room is vailed in twilight.</p>

<p>"This darkness grows embarrassing," he
said, "will you ring for lights?"</p>

<p>She replied with a monosyllable, uttered
in a faint voice,&mdash;"No!" she said, then a
dead stillness once more ensued, which continued
until the stranger again spoke.</p>

<p>"In regard to the lease, madam. Do you
agree to sell, and upon the terms which I
proposed when I was here last?"</p>

<p>Again Frank replied with a monosyllable.
"Yes!" she faintly said.</p>

<p>"And the other proposition: to-night you
hold some sort of festival in this place. I
desire to know the names of all your guests;
to introduce such guests as I choose within
these walls; to have, for one night only, a
certain control over the internal economy of
this place. In case you consent to this proposition,
I will pay you for the lease double
the amount which I have already offered,
and promise, on my honor, to do nothing
within these walls to-night, which can in
the slightest degree harm or compromise
you."</p>

<p>He stated his proposition slowly and deliberately.
Frank took full time to ponder
upon every word. Simple as the proposition
looked, well she knew, that it might embrace
results of the most important nature.</p>

<p>"Must I consent?" she said, and her voice
faltered. "It is hard&mdash;"</p>

<p>"'Must' is no word in the case, madam,"
answered that stern even voice. "Use your
own will and pleasure."</p>

<p>"But the request is so strange," said
Frank, "and suppose I grant it? Who can
tell the consequences?"</p>

<p>"It is singular," said the stranger as
though thinking aloud, "to what an extent
the art of poisoning was carried in the middle
ages! The art has long been lost,&mdash;people
poison each other bunglingly now-a-days,&mdash;although
it is said, that the secret of
a certain poison, which puts its victims
quietly to sleep, leaving not the slighted
tell-tale trace or mark, has survived even to
the present day."</p>

<p>Certainly the stranger had a most remarkable
manner of thinking aloud.</p>

<p>Frank spoke in a voice scarcely audible:
"I consent to your proposition."</p>

<p>She rose, and although it was rapidly
getting quite dark, she unlocked a secret
drawer of her desk, and drew from thence
two packages.</p>

<p>"This way, sir," she spoke in a low voice,
and the stranger rose and approached her.
"Here you will find the names of all my
guests, and especially of those who will
come here to-night. You will find such
other information as may be useful to you
and aid your purposes." She placed the
package in his hand. "I will place Walker
and the other servants under your command."
She paused, and resumed after an
instant, in a firmer voice: "If I have yielded
to your request, it has not been altogether
from fear,&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Fear! Who spoke of fear?"</p>

<p>"Don't mock me. I have yielded from
fear, but not altogether from fear. I have
nursed a hope that you can aid me to
quit this thrice accursed life which I now
lead. For though your polite manner only
thinly vails insinuations the most deadly,
yet I believe you have a heart. I feel that
when you know all of my past life, <i>all</i>,
you will think, I do not say better of
me, but differently, from what you do
now. Here, take this package,&mdash;it contains
my history written by my own hand,
and only intended to be read after my
death&mdash;but you may read it now or at your
leisure."</p>

<p>The man in the cloak took the package;
his voice trembled when he spoke&mdash;</p>

<p>"Girl, you shall not regret this confidence.
I will aid you to quit this accursed life."</p>

<p>"Leave me for a few moments. I wish
to sit alone and think for a little while.
After that we will arrange matters in regard
to the festival to-night."</p>

<p>The stranger in the cloak left the room,
bearing with him the two packages, one of
which embraced the mysteries of the house
of Frank, and the other contained the story
of her life.</p>

<p>And in the darkness, Frank walked up
and down the room, pressing one clenched
hand against her heaving bosom, and the
other against her burning brow.</p>

<p>Soon afterward, Frank and the stranger in
the old-fashioned cloak, were closeted for
half an hour in earnest conversation.</p>

<p>We will not record the details of the conversation,
but its results will perchance be
seen in the future pages of our history.</p>

<p>Here, at this point of our story, let us
break the seals of the <i>second</i> package which
Frank gave to the stranger, and linger for a
little while upon the pages of her history,
written by her own hand. A strange history
in every line! It is called The History of
<span class="smcap">the Midnight Queen</span>!</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h3><a name="CHAPTER_1_III" id="CHAPTER_1_III">CHAPTER III.</a></h3>

<h4>THE CHILDHOOD OF THE MIDNIGHT QUEEN.</h4>


<p>My childhood's home! O, is there in all
the world a phrase so sweet as this, "My
childhood's home!" Others may look back
to childhood, and be stung by bitter memories,
but my childhood was the heaven of
my life. As from the hopeless present, I
gaze back upon it, I seem like a traveler,
half way up the Alps, surrounded by snow
and clouds and mist, and looking back upon
the happy valley, which, dotted with homes
and rich in vines and flowers, smiles in the
sunshine far below.</p>

<p>My childhood's home was very beautiful.
It was a two-story cottage, situated upon
an eminence, its white front and rustic porch,
half hidden by the horse-chesnut trees,
which in the early summer had snowy blossoms
among their deep green leaves. Behind
the cottage arose a broad and swelling hill,
which, fringed with gardens at its base, and
crowned on its summit by a few grand old
trees standing alone against the sky, was in
summer-time clad along its entire extent
with a garment of golden wheat. Beneath
the cottage flowed the Neprehaun, a gentle
rivulet, which wound among abrupt hills,&mdash;every
hill rich in foliage and dotted with
homes&mdash;until it lost itself in the waves of
the Hudson. Yes, the Hudson was there,
grand and beautiful and visible always from
the cottage porch; the Palisades rising from
its opposite shore into heaven, and the broad
bay of Tapaan Zee glistening in sunlight to
the north.</p>

<p>O, that scene is before me now&mdash;the cottage
with its white front, half hidden by
broad green leaves intermingled with white
blossoms,&mdash;the hill, which rose behind it,
golden with wheat,&mdash;the Neprehaun below,
winding among the hills, now in sunshine,
now in shadow,&mdash;the Hudson, with its vast
bay and the somber wall which rose into the
sky from its western shore,&mdash;it is before me
now, with the spring blossoms, the voices,
the sky, the very air of my childhood's days.</p>

<p>In this home I found myself at the age of
thirteen. I was the pupil and the charge
of the occupant of the cottage, a retired
clergyman, the Rev. Thomas Walworth, who
having grown gray in the active service of
his Master, had come there to pass his last
days in the enjoyment of competence and
peace. Even now, as on the day when I
left him forever, I can see his tall form, bent
with age and clad in black, his mild, pale
face, with hair as white as snow,&mdash;I can hear
that voice, whose very music was made up
of the goodness of a heart at peace with
God and man. When I was thirteen,
myself, the good clergyman, and an aged
woman&mdash;the housekeeper&mdash;were the only
occupants of the cottage. His only son was
away at college. And when I was thirteen,
my mother, who had placed me in the care
of the clergyman years before, came to see
me. I shall never forget that visit. I was
sitting on the cottage porch&mdash;it was a June
day&mdash;the air was rich with fragrance and blossoms&mdash;my
book was on my knee&mdash;when I
heard her step in the garden-walk. She was
tall and very beautiful, and richly clad in
black, and her dark attire shone with diamonds.
Very beautiful, I say, although
there were threads of silver in her brown
hair, and an incessant contraction of her dark
brows, which gave a look of anxiety or pain
to her face.</p>

<p>As she came up the garden-walk, pushing
aside her vail of dark lace, I knew her,
although I had not seen her for three years.
Her presence was strange to me, yet still my
heart bounded as I saw her come.</p>

<p>"Well, Frank," she said, as though it was
but yesterday since I had seen her, "I have
come to see you,"&mdash;she kissed me warmly
on the lips and cheeks.&mdash;"Your father is
dead, my child."</p>

<p>A tear stood in her dark eye, a slight
tremor moved her lip&mdash;that was all. My
father dead! I can scarcely describe the
emotions which these words caused. I had
not seen my father for years. There was
still a memory of his face present with me,
coupled with an indistinct memory of my
early childhood, passed in a city of a foreign
land, and a dim vision of a voyage upon the
ocean. And at my mother's words there
came up the laughing face and sunny hair
of my brother Gulian, who had suddenly
disappeared about the time my parents
returned from Paris, and just before I had
been placed in the charge of the good clergyman.
These mingling memories arose at
my mother's words, and although the good
clergyman stood more to me in the relation
of a father than my own father, still I wept
bitterly as I heard the words, "Your father
is dead, my child."</p>

<p>My mother, who seemed to me like one
of those grand, rich ladies of whom I had
read in story-books, seated herself beside me
on the cottage porch.</p>

<p>"You are getting quite beautiful, Frank,"
she said, and lifted my sun-bonnet and put
her hand through the curls of my hair,
which was black as jet. "You will be a
woman soon." She kissed me, and then as
she turned away, I heard her mutter these
words which struck me painfully although
then I could not understand them: "A
woman! with your mother's beauty for your
dowry and your mother's fate for your
future!"</p>

<p>The slight wrinkle between her brows
grew deeper as she said these words.</p>

<p>"You will be a woman, and must have an
education suitable to the station you will
occupy," continued my mother, drawing me
quietly to her, and surveying me earnestly.
"Now what do <i>they</i> teach you here?"</p>

<p>She laughed as I gravely related the part
which good old Alice&mdash;the housekeeper&mdash;took
in my education. Old Alice taught me
all the details of housekeeping; to sow, to
knit, the fabrication of good pies, good butter,
and good bread; the mystery of the
preparation of various kinds of preserves; in
fact, all the details of housekeeping as she
understood it. And the good old dame, with
her high cap, clear, bright little eyes, sharp
nose, and white apron strung with a bundle
of keys, always concluded her lesson with a
mysterious intimation that, saving the good
Mr. Walworth only, all the men in the
world were monsters, more dangerous than
the bears which ate up the bad children who
mocked at Elijah.</p>

<p>Laughing heartily as she heard me gravely
enter into all these details, which I concluded
with, "You see, mother, I'm quite a
housekeeper already!" she continued:</p>

<p>"And what does <i>he</i> teach you, my dear?"</p>

<p>The laughter which animated her face,
was succeeded by a look of vague curiosity
as I began my answer. But as I went on,
her face became sad and there were tears in
her eyes.</p>

<p>My father (as I had learned to call the
good clergyman) taught me to read, to write,
and to cipher. He gradually disclosed to
me (more by his conversation than through
the medium of books) the history of past
ages, the wonders of the heavens above me,
the properties of the plants and flowers that
grew in my path. And oftentimes by the
bright wood-fire in winter, or upon the
porch under the boughs, in the rich twilight
of the summer scenery&mdash;while the stars
twinkled through the leaves, or the Hudson
glistened in the light of the rising moon&mdash;he
had talked to me of <span class="smcap">God</span>. Of his love
for all of us, his providence watching the
sparrow's fall, his mercy reaching forth its
almighty arms to the lowest of earth's
stricken children. Of the other world, which
stretches beyond the shores of the present,
not dim and cloud-shadowed, but rich in the
sunlight of eternal love, and living with the
realities of a state of being in which there
shall be no more sickness nor pain, and tears
shall be wiped from every eye, and all things
be made new.</p>

<p>Of the holy mother watching over her
holy child, while the stars shone in upon his
humble bed in the manger,&mdash;of that child,
in early boyhood, sitting in the temple confounding
grave men, learned in the logic of
the world, by the simple intuitions of a heart
felled with the presence of God,&mdash;of the way
of life led by that mother's child, when
thirty years had set the seal of the divine
manhood on his brow. How after the day's
hard travel, he stopped to rest at the cottage
home of Martha and Mary,&mdash;how he took
up little children and blessed them,&mdash;how
the blind began to see, the deaf to hear, the
dead to live, at sound of his voice,&mdash;how
on the calm of evening, in a modest room,
he took his last supper with the Twelve,
John resting on his bosom, Judas scowling
in the background,&mdash;how, amid the olives of
Gethsemane, at dead of night, while his disciples
slept, he went through the unutterable
agony alone until an angel's hand wiped the
sweat of blood from his brow,&mdash;how he died
upon the felon's tree, the heavens black above
him, the earth beneath him dark with the
vast multitude,&mdash;and how, on the clear Sabbath
morn he rose again, and called the
faithful woman, who had followed him to
the sepulcher, by the name which his mother
bore, spoken in the old familiar tone&mdash;"Mary!"
How he walked the earth in
bodily form eighteen hundred years ago,
shedding the presence of God around him,
and even now he walked it still in spiritual
body, shedding still upon sin-stricken and
sorrowing hearts the presence and the love
of God the Father. Lessons such as these,
the good clergyman, my father (as I called
him) taught me, instructing me always to do
good and lead a life free from sin, not from
fear of damnation or hell, but because goodness
is <i>growth</i>, a <i>good life</i> is <i>happiness</i>. A
flower shut out from the light is <i>damned</i>: it
cannot <i>grow</i>. An <i>evil life</i> here or hereafter
is in itself <i>damnation</i>; for it is <i>want of
growth</i>, paralysis or decay of all the nobler
faculties.</p>

<p>As in my own way, and with such words
as I could command, I recounted the manner
in which the good clergyman educated me,
my mother's face grew sad and tearful. She
did not speak for some minutes; her gaze
was downcast, and through her long dark
eyelashes the tears began to steal.</p>

<p>"A dream," she muttered, "only a dream!
Did he know mankind and know but a portion
of their unfathomable baseness, he
would see the impossibility of making them
better, would feel the necessity of an actual
hell, black as the darkest that a poet ever
fancied."</p>

<p>As she was thus occupied in her own
thoughts, a step&mdash;a well-known step&mdash;resounded
on the garden-walk, and the good
clergyman advanced from the wicket-gate to
the porch. Even now I see that pale face,
with the white hair and large clear eyes!</p>

<p>He advanced and took my mother cordially
by the hand, and was much affected
when he heard of my father's death. My
mother thanked him warmly for the care
which he had taken of her child.</p>

<p>"This child will be a woman soon, and
she must be prepared to enter upon life with
all the accomplishments suitable to the position
which she will occupy," continued my
mother; "I wish her to remain with you
until she is ready to enter the great world.
But she must have proper instruction in
music and dancing. She must not be altogether
a wild country girl, when she goes
into society. But, however, my dear Mr.
Walworth, we will talk of this alone."</p>

<p>Young as I was I could perceive that there
was a mystery about my mother, her previous
life, or present position, which the
good clergyman did not feel himself called
upon to penetrate.</p>

<p>She took his arm and led him into the
cottage, and they conversed for a long time
alone, while I remained upon the porch,
buried in a sort of dreamy revery, and watching
the white clouds as they sailed along the
summer sky.</p>

<p>"I shall be absent two years," I heard my
mother's voice, as leaning on the good clergyman's
arm she again came forth upon the
porch; "see that when I return, in place of
this pretty child you will present to me a
beautiful and accomplished lady."</p>

<p>She took me in her arms and kissed me,
while Mr. Walworth exclaimed:</p>

<p>"Indeed, my dear madam, I can never
allow myself to think of Frances' leaving
this home while I am living. She has been
with me so long&mdash;is so dear to me&mdash;that the
very thought of parting with her, is like
tearing my heart-strings!"</p>

<p>He spoke with undisguised emotion; my
mother took him warmly by the hand, and
again thanked him for the care and love
which he had lavished on her child.</p>

<p>At length she said "Farewell!" and I
watched her as she went down the garden-walk
to the wicket gate, and then across the
road, until she entered a by-path which
wound among the hills of the Neprehaun
into the valley below. She was lost to my
sight in the shadows of the foliage. She
emerged to view again far down the valley,
and I saw her enter her grand carriage, and
saw her kerchief waving from the carriage
window, as it rolled away.</p>

<p>I watched, O! how earnestly I watched,
until the carriage rose to sight on the summit
of a distant hill, beyond the spire of the
village church. Then, as it disappeared and
bore my mother from my sight, I sat down
and wept bitterly.</p>

<p>Would I had never seen her face again!</p>

<p>A year passed away.</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h3><a name="CHAPTER_1_IV" id="CHAPTER_1_IV">CHAPTER IV.</a></h3>

<h4>MAIDENHOOD.</h4>


<p>It was June again. One summer evening
I took the path which led from the
garden to the summit of the hill which
rose behind the cottage. As I pursued
my way upward the sun was setting, and
at every step I obtained a broader glimpse
of the river, the dark Palisades, and the
bay white with sails. When I reached the
summit, the sun was on the verge of the
horizon, and the sky in the west all purple
and gold. Seating myself on the huge rock,
which rose on the summit, surrounded by a
circle of grand old trees, I surrendered myself
to the quiet and serenity of the evening
hour. The view was altogether beautiful.
Beneath me sloped the broad hills, clad in
wheat which already was changing from
emerald to gold. Farther down, my cottage
home half hidden among trees. Then beneath
the cottage, the homes of the village
dotting the hills, among which wound the
Neprehaun. The broad river and the wide
bay heaving gently in the fading light, and
the dark Palisades rising blackly against the
gold and purple sky. A lovelier view cannot
be imagined. And the air was full of
summer&mdash;scented with breath of vines and
blossoms and new-mown hay. As I surrendered
myself to thoughts which arose unbidden,
the first star came tremulously into
view, and the twilight began to deepen into
night. I was thinking of my life&mdash;of the
past&mdash;of the future. A strange vision of the
great world, struggled into dim shape before
the eye of my mind.</p>

<p>"A year more, and I will enter the great
world!" I ejaculated. A hand was laid
lightly on my shoulder. I started to my
feet with a shriek.</p>

<p>"What, Frank, don't you know me?" said
a half laughing voice, and I beheld beside
me a youth of some nineteen or twenty
years, whose face, shaded by dark hair, was
touched by the last flush of the declining
day. It was Ernest, the only son of the
good clergyman. I had not seen him for
three years. In that time, he had grown
from boyhood into young manhood. He sat
beside me on the rock, and we talked together
as freely as when we were but little children.
Ernest was full of life and hope; his
voice grew deep, his dark eyes large and
lustrous, as he spoke of the prospects of his
future.</p>

<p>"In one year, Frank, I will graduate and
then,&mdash;then,&mdash;the great world lies before
me!" His gaze was turned dreamily to the
west, and his fine features drawn in distinct
profile against the evening sky.</p>

<p>"And what part, Ernest, will you play in
the great world?"</p>

<p>"Father wishes me to enter into the ministry,
but,&mdash;" and he uttered a joyous, confident
laugh,&mdash;"whatever part I play, I
know that I will win!"</p>

<p>He uttered these words in the tone of
youth and hope, that has never been darkened
by a shadow, and then turning to me,&mdash;</p>

<p>"And you, Frank, what part will you play
in the great world?" he said.</p>

<p>"I know not. My career is in the hands
of my only parent, who will come next year
to take me hence. My childhood has been
wrapped in mystery; and my future, O,
who can foretell the future?"</p>

<p>He gazed at me, for the first time, with an
earnest and searching gaze. His eyes, large
and gray, and capable of the most varied
expression, became absent and dreamy.</p>

<p>"You are very beautiful!" he said, as
though thinking aloud,&mdash;"O, very beautiful!
You will marry rich,&mdash;yes,&mdash;wealth and
position will be yours at once."</p>

<p>And as the moon, rising over the brow of
the hill, poured her light upon his thoughtful
face, he took my hand and said:</p>

<p>"Frank, why is it that certain natures live
only in the future or the past&mdash;never in the
present? Look at ourselves, for instance.
Yonder among the trees, bathed in the light
of the rising moon, lies the cottage home in
which we have passed the happiest, holiest
hours of life. Of that home we are not
thinking now&mdash;we are only looking forward
to the future&mdash;and yet the time will come,
when immersed in the conflict of the world,
we will look back to that home, with the
same yearning that one, stretched upon the
couch of hopeless disease, looks forward to
his grave!"</p>

<p>His voice was low and solemn&mdash;I never
forgot his words. We sat for many minutes
in silence. At length without a word, he
took my hand, and we went down the hill
together, by the light of the rising moon.
We climbed the stile, passed under the garden
boughs, and entered the cottage, and
found the good old man seated in his library
among his books. He raised his eyes as we
came in, hand joined in hand, and a look of
undisguised pleasure stole over his face.</p>

<p>"See here, father," said Ernest laughingly,
"when I went to college, I left my little
sister in your care. I now return, and discover
that my little sister has disappeared,
and left in her place this wild girl, whom I
found wandering to-night among the hills.
Don't you think there is something like a
witch in her eyes?"</p>

<p>The old man smiled and laid his hand on
my dark hair.</p>

<p>"Would to heaven!" he said, "that she
might never leave this quiet home." And
the prayer came from his heart.</p>

<p>Ernest remained with us until fall. Those
were happy days. We read, we talked, we
walked, we lived with each other. More
like sister and sister than brother and sister,
we wandered arm-in-arm to the brow of the
hill as the rich summer evening came on,&mdash;or
crossed the river in early morning, and
climbed the winding road that led to the
brow of the Palisades,&mdash;or sat, at night,
under the trees by the river's bank, watching
the stars as they looked down into the calm
water. Sometimes at night, we sat in the
library, and I read while the old man's hand
rested gently on my head and Ernest sat by
my side. And often upon the porch, as the
summer night wore on, Ernest and myself
sang together some old familiar hymn, while
"Father" listened in quiet delight. Thus
three months passed away, and Ernest left
for college.</p>

<p>"Next year, Frank, I graduate," he cried,
his thoughtful face flushed with hope, and
his gray eyes full of joyous light&mdash;"and
then for the battle with the world!"</p>

<p>He left, and the cottage seemed blank
and desolate. The good clergyman felt his
absence most keenly.</p>

<p>"Well, well," he would mutter, "a year
is soon round and then Ernest will be with
us again!"</p>

<p>As for myself, I tried my books, my harp,
took long walks alone, busied myself in
household cares, but I could not reconcile
myself to the absence of Ernest.</p>

<p>Winter came, and one night a letter
arrived from Ernest to his father, and in
that letter one for&mdash;Frank! How eagerly I
took it from "father's" hand and hurried to
my room,&mdash;that room which I remember yet
so vividly, with its window opening on the
garden, and the picture of the Virgin Mary
on the snow-white wall. Unmindful of the
cold, I sat down alone and perused the letter,
O, how eagerly! It was a letter from a
brother to a sister, and yet beneath the calm
current of a brother's love, there flowed a
deeper and a warmer love. How joyously
he spoke of his future, and how strangely
he seemed to mingle my name with every
image of that future! I read his letter over
and over, and slept with it upon my bosom;
and I dreamed, O! such air-castle dreams, in
which a whole lifetime seemed to pass away,
while Ernest and Frank, always young,
always happy, went wandering, hand-in-hand,
under skies without a cloud. But I
awoke in fright and terror. It seemed to
me that a cold hand&mdash;like the hand of a
corpse&mdash;was laid upon my bosom, and somehow
I thought that my mother was dead
and that it was her hand. I started up in
fright and tears, and lay shuddering until
the rising sun shone gayly through the
frosted window-pane.</p>

<p>Another year had nearly passed away.</p>

<p>It was June again, and it was toward
evening that I stood upon the cottage porch
watching&mdash;not the cloudless sky and glorious
river bathed in the setting sun&mdash;but watching
earnestly for the sound of a footstep.
Ernest was expected home. He had graduated
with all the honors&mdash;he was coming
home! How I watched and waited for that
welcome step! At last the wicket-gate was
opened, and Ernest's step resounded on the
garden-walk. Concealing myself among the
vines which covered one of the pillars of the
porch, I watched him as he approached,
determining to burst upon him in a glad surprise
as soon as he reached the steps. His
head was downcast, he walked with slow
and thoughtful steps; his long black hair
fell wild and tangled on his shoulders.
The joyous hue of youth on his cheek had
been replaced by the pallor of long and
painful thought. The hopeful boy of the
last year had been changed into the moody
and ambitious man! As he came on,
although my heart swelled to bursting at
sight of him, I felt awed and troubled, and
forgot my original intention of bursting upon
him in a merry surprise. He reached the
porch&mdash;he ascended the step&mdash;and I glided
silently from behind the pillar and confronted
him. O, how his face lighted up as
he saw me! His eyes, no longer glassy and
abstracted, were radiant with a delight too
deep for words!</p>

<p>"Frank!" he said, and silently pressed
my hand.</p>

<p>"Ernest," was all I could reply, and we
stood in silence&mdash;both trembling, agitated&mdash;and
gazing into each other's eyes.</p>

<p>The good Clergyman was happy that evening,
as he sat at the supper table, with
Frank on one hand and Ernest on the other.
And old Alice peering at us through her
spectacles could not help remarking, "Well,
well, only yesterday children, and now such
a handsome <i>couple</i>!"</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h3><a name="CHAPTER_1_V" id="CHAPTER_1_V">CHAPTER V.</a></h3>

<h4>ON THE ROCK.</h4>


<p>After supper, Ernest and I went to the
rock on the summit of the hill, where we
had met the year before. The scene was
the same,&mdash;the river, the bay, the dark Palisades,
and the vast sky illumined by the
rising moon,&mdash;but somehow we seemed
changed. We sat apart from each other on
the rock, and sat for a long time in silence.
Ernest, with downcast eyes, picked in an absent
way at some flowers which grew in the
crevices of the rock. And I,&mdash;well I believe
I tied the strings of my sun-bonnet into all
sorts of knots. I felt half disposed to laugh
and half disposed to cry.</p>

<p>At last I broke the silence:&mdash;</p>

<p>"You have fulfilled your words, Ernest,"
I said, "You have graduated with all the
honors&mdash;as last year you said you would,&mdash;and
now a bright career stretches before you.
You will go forth into the great world, you
will battle, you will win!"</p>

<p>"Frank," said he, stretching forth his
hand,&mdash;"Do you see yonder river as it flows
broad and rapid, in the light of the rising
moon? You speak of a bright career before
me&mdash;now I almost wish that I was quietly
asleep beneath those waves."</p>

<p>The sadness of his tone and look went to
my heart.</p>

<p>"You surprise me, Frank. Now,"&mdash;and
I attempted a laugh&mdash;"You have not fallen
in love, since last year, have you?"</p>

<p>He looked up and surveyed me from head
to foot. I was dressed in white&mdash;my hair
fell in loose curls to my shoulders. In a year
I had passed from the girl into the woman.
I was taller, my form more roundly developed.
And as he gazed upon me, I was
conscious that he was remarking the change
which had taken place in my appearance,
and that his look was one of ardent admiration.</p>

<p>"Do <i>you</i> think that I have fallen in love
<i>since</i> last year?" he said slowly and with a
meaning look.</p>

<p>I turned away from his gaze, and exclaimed&mdash;</p>

<p>"But you are moody, Ernest. Last year
you were so hopeful&mdash;now so melancholy.
You <i>can</i>, you will succeed in life."</p>

<p>"That I can meet with what the world
calls success, I do not doubt," he replied:
"There is the career of the popular preacher,
armed with a white handkerchief and a velvet
Gospel,&mdash;of the lawyer, growing rich
with the rent paid to him by crime, and devoting
all the powers of his immortal soul
to prove that black is white and white is
black&mdash;of the merchant, who sees only these
words painted upon the face of God's universe,
'Buy cheap and sell dear,'&mdash;careers
such as these, Frank, are before me, and I
am free to choose, and doubt not but that I
could succeed in any of them. But to achieve
such success I would not spend, I do not say
the labor of years&mdash;No,&mdash;I would not spend
the thought of a single hour."</p>

<p>"But the life of a good Minister of the
Gospel, Ernest, living in some quiet country
town, dividing his time between his parishioners
and his books, and dwelling in a home
like the cottage yonder&mdash;what say you to
such a life, Ernest?"</p>

<p>He raised his eyes, and again surveyed me
earnestly&mdash;"Ambitious as I am, I would
sacrifice every thought of ambition for a life
such as you picture&mdash;but upon one condition,"&mdash;he
paused&mdash;</p>

<p>"And that condition?" I said in a low
voice.</p>

<p>"Ask your own heart," was his reply, uttered
in a tremulous voice.</p>

<p>I felt my bosom heave,&mdash;was agitated,
trembling I knew not why,&mdash;but I made no
answer.</p>

<p>There was a long and painful pause.</p>

<p>"The night is getting chill," I said at
length, for want of something better to say:
"Father is waiting for us. Let us go home."</p>

<p>I led the way down the path, and he followed
moodily, without a word. As he
helped me over the stile I saw that his face
was pale, his lips tightly compressed. And
when we came into the presence of his Father,
he replied to the old man's kind questions,
in a vacant and abstracted manner. I
bade him "good night!" at last; he answered
me, but added in a lower tone, inaudible
to the old man, "Young and rich and beautiful,
you are beyond the reach of&mdash;a <i>country
clergyman</i>."</p>

<p>The next morning while we were at breakfast,
a letter came. It was from my mother.
To-morrow she would come and take me
from the cottage!</p>

<p>The letter dropped from the old man's
hand, and Ernest rising abruptly from the
table, rushed from the room.</p>

<p>And I was to leave the home of my happiest
hours, and go forth into the great world!
The thought fell like a thunderbolt upon
every heart in the cottage.</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h3><a name="CHAPTER_1_VI" id="CHAPTER_1_VI">CHAPTER VI.</a></h3>

<h4>AMONG THE PALISADES.</h4>


<p>After an hour Ernest met me on the
porch; he was very pale.</p>

<p>"Frank," said he, kindly, "To-morrow you
will leave us forever. Would you not like
to see once more the place yonder,"&mdash;he
pointed across the river to the Palisades&mdash;"where
we spent so many happy hours last
summer?"</p>

<p>He spoke of that dear nook, high up among
the rocks, encircled by trees, and canopied
by vines, where, we had indeed spent many
a happy hour.</p>

<p>I made no reply, but put on my sun-bonnet
and took his arm, and in a little while
we were crossing the river, he rowing, while
I sat in the stern. It was a beautiful day.
We arrived at the opposite shore, at a point
where the perpendicular wall of the Palisades,
is for a mile or more, broken by a huge
and sloping hill, covered with giant forest
trees. Together we took the serpentine path,
which, winding toward all points of the
compass, led to the top of the Palisades.
The birds were singing, the broad forest
leaves and hanging vines quivered in the sun,
the air was balmy, and the day the very embodiment
of the freshness and fragrance of
June. As we wound up the road (whose
brown graveled surface contrasted with the
foliage), we saw the sunlight streaming in
upon the deep shadows of the wood, and
heard from afar the lulling music of a waterfall.
Departing from the beaten road, we
wandered among the forest trees, and talked
together as gladly and as familiarly as in other
days. There we wandered for hours, now
in sunlight, now in shadow, now resting upon
the brow of some moss-covered rock, and
now stopping beside a spring of clear cold
water, half hidden by thick green leaves.
As noon drew near, we ascended to the top
of the forest hill, and passing through a wilderness
of tangled vines, came suddenly upon
a rude farmhouse, one story high, built of
logs, whose dark surface contrasted with the
verdure of the garden and the foliage of the
overshadowing tree. It was the same as in
the year before. There was the well-pole
rising above its roof and the well-bucket
moist with clear cold water, and in the doorway
stood the farmer's dame, who had often
welcomed us to her quiet home.</p>

<p>"Bless me! how handsome my children
have grown!" she cried, "and how's the
good Domine? Come in, come in; the folks
are all away in the fields; come in and rest
you, and have some pie and milk, and"&mdash;she
paused for breath&mdash;"and some dinner."</p>

<p>The good dame would take no denial, and
we sat down to dinner with her&mdash;I can see
the scene before me now&mdash;the carefully sanded
floor, the old clock in the corner, the cupboard
glistering with the burnished pewter,
the neatly spread table, the broad hearth,
covered with green boughs, and the open
windows, with the sunbeams playing through
the encircling vines. And then the good
dame with her high cap, round, good-humored
face, and spectacles resting on the
bridge of her hooked nose. As we broke
the home-made bread with her, we were as
gay as larks.</p>

<p>"Well, I do like to see young folks enjoy
themselves," said the dame.&mdash;"You don't
know how often I've thought of you since
you were here last summer. I have said,
and I will say it, that a handsomer brother
and sister I never yet did see."</p>

<p>"But you mistake," said Ernest, "We're
not brother and sister."</p>

<p>"Only cousins," responded the dame, surveying
us attentively, "Well, I'm glad of it,
for there's no law ag'in cousins marryin', and
you'd make such a handsome couple." And
she laughed until her sides shook.</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h3><a name="CHAPTER_1_VII" id="CHAPTER_1_VII">CHAPTER VII.</a></h3>

<h4>IN THE FOREST NOOK.</h4>


<p>Leaving the farmhouse, we bent our way
to the Palisades again. We had been gay
and happy all the morning, now we became
thoughtful. We entered a narrow path, and
presently came upon the dear nook where
we had spent so many happy hours. It was
a quiet space of green-sward and velvet moss,
encircled on all sides, save one, by the trunks
of giant forest trees&mdash;the oak, the tulip poplar
and the sycamore&mdash;which arose like
rugged columns, their branches forming a
roof far overhead. Half-way between the
sward and the branches, hung a drapery of
vines, swinging in the sunlight, and showering
blossoms and fragrance on the summer
air. Light shrubbery grew between the massive
trunks of the trees, and in one part of
the glade a huge rock arose, its summit projecting
over the sward, and forming a sort of
canopy or shelter for a rustic seat fashioned
of oaken boughs. Looking upward through
the drapery of vines and the roof of boughs,
only one glimpse of blue sky was visible.
Toward the east the glade was open, and
over the tops of the forest trees (which rose
from the glen beneath), you saw the river,
the distant village and my cottage home
shining in the sun. At the foot of the oak
which formed one of the portals of the
glade, was a clear cold spring, resting in a
basin of rock, and framed in leaves and
flowers. Altogether the dear nook of the
forest was worthy of June.</p>

<p>For a moment we surveyed this quiet
scene&mdash;thought of the many happy hours
we had spent there in the previous summer&mdash;and
then turning our faces to the east, we
stood, hand link'd in hand, gazing over
forest trees and river upon our far-off cottage
home.</p>

<p>"Does it not look beautiful, as it shines
there in the sun?"&mdash;I said.</p>

<p>Ernest at first did not reply, but turned
his gaze full upon me. His face was flushed
and there was a strange fire in his eyes.</p>

<p>"To-morrow you leave that home forever,"
he exclaimed, and I trembled, I knew
not why at the sound of his voice&mdash;"I will
never see you again&mdash;I&mdash;" he dropped my
hand and turned his face away. I saw his
head fall on his breast, and saw that breast
heave with agitation; urged by an impulse I
could not control, I glided to his side, put
my hand upon his arm, and looked up into
his face.</p>

<p>"Ernest," I whispered.</p>

<p>He turned to me, for a moment regarded
me with a look of intense passion and then
caught me to his heart. His arms were
around me, my bosom heaved against his
breast, his kiss was on my lips&mdash;the first
kiss since childhood, and O, how different
from the kiss which a brother presses on a
sister's lips!</p>

<p>"Frank I love you! Many beautiful
women have I seen, but there is that in your
gaze, your voice, your very presence, which
is Heaven itself to me. I cannot live without
you! and cannot, cannot think of losing
you without madness. Frank, be mine, be
my wife! Be mine, and the home which
shines yonder in the sunlight shall be ours!
Frank, for God's sake say you love me!"</p>

<p>He sank at my feet and clasped my knees
with his trembling hands. O the joy, the
rapture of that moment! As I saw his face
upraised to mine, I felt that I loved him
with all my soul, that I could die for him.
Reaching forth my hands I drew him gently
to his feet, and fell upon his breast and
called him, "Husband!" Would I had died
there, on his bosom, even as his lips met
mine, and the words "my wife!" trembled
on my ear! Would I had at that moment
fallen dead upon his breast!</p>

<p>Even as he gathered me to his bosom the
air all at once grew dark; looking overhead,
we saw a vast cloud rolling up the heavens,
dark as midnight, yet fringed with sunlight.
On and on it rolled, the air grew darker,
darker, an ominous thunder-peal broke over
our heads, and rolled away among the
gorges of the hills. Then the clouds grew
dark as night. We could not see each other's
faces. For a moment our distant home
shone in sunlight, and then the eastern sky
was wrapt in clouds, the river hidden by
driving rain. Trembling with fright I clung
to Ernest's neck&mdash;he bore me to the beech
in the shadow of the rock&mdash;another thunder
peal and a flash of lightning that blinded me.
I buried my face in his bosom, to hide my
eyes from that awful glare. The tempest
which had arisen so suddenly&mdash;even as we
exchanged our first vows&mdash;was now upon us
and in power. The trees rocked to the blast.
The distant river was now dark and now one
mass of sheeted flame. Peal on peal the
thunder burst over our heads, and as one peal
died away in distant echoes, another more
awful seemed hurled upon us, from the very
zenith. And amid the darkness and glare
of that awful storm, I clung to Ernest's neck,
my bosom beating against his heart, and we
repeated our vows, and talked of our marriage,
and laid plans for our future.</p>

<p>"Frank, my heart is filled with an awful
foreboding," he said, and his voice was so
changed and husky, that I raised my head
from his bosom, and even in the darkness
sought to gaze upon his face. A lightning
flash came and was gone, but by that momentary
glare, I saw his countenance agitated in
every lineament.</p>

<p>"What mean you Ernest?"</p>

<p>"You will leave our home to-morrow and
never return, never! The sunshine which
was upon us, as we exchanged our vows,
was in a moment succeeded by the blackness
of the awful tempest. A bad omen, Frank,
a dark prophecy of our future. There is
only one way to turn the omen of evil, into
a prophecy of good."</p>

<p>He drew me close in his arms, and bent
his lips to my ear&mdash;"Be mine, and now! be
mine! Let the thunder-peal be our marriage
music, this forest glade our marriage
couch!"</p>

<p>I was faint, trembling, but I sprang from
his arms, and stood erect in the center of the
glade. My dark hair fell to my shoulders;
a flash of lightning lit up my form, clad in
snow-white. As wildly, as completely as I
loved him, I felt my eyes flash with indignation.</p>

<p>"Words like these to a girl who has been
reared under your father's roof!"</p>

<p>He fell at my feet, besought my forgiveness
in frantic tones, and bathed my hands
with his tears.</p>

<p>I fainted in his arms.</p>

<p>When I unclosed my eyes again, I found
myself pure and virgin in the arms of my
plighted husband. The clouds were parting,
the tempest was over, and the sun shone out
once more. Every leaf glittered with diamond
drops. The last blast of the storm
was passing over the distant river, and
through the driving clouds, I saw the sunlight
shining once more upon our cottage
home.</p>

<p>"Forgive me, Frank, forgive me," he cried,
bending passionately over me. "See! Your
bad omen has been turned into good!" I
cried joyfully&mdash;"First the sunshine, then the
storm, but now the sun shines clear again;"
and I pointed to the diamond drops glittering
in the sun.</p>

<p>"And you will be true to me, Frank?"</p>

<p>"Before heaven I promise it, in life, in
death, forever!"</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h3><a name="CHAPTER_1_VIII" id="CHAPTER_1_VIII">CHAPTER VIII.</a></h3>

<h4>HOME, ADIEU!</h4>


<p>It was toward the close of the afternoon
that we took our way from the glade through
the forest to the river shore. We crossed
the river, and passed through the village.
Together we ascended the road that led to
our home, and at the wicket-gate, found a
splendid carriage with liveried servants.</p>

<p>The good clergyman stood at the gate,
his bared forehead and white hairs bathed
in the sunshine; beside him, darkly dressed,
diamonds upon her rich attire, my mother.
Old Alice stood weeping in the background.</p>

<p>"Come, Frank, your things are packed and
we must be away," she said, abruptly, as
though we had seen each other only the day
before; "I wish to reach our home in New
York, before night. Go in the house dear,"
she kissed me, "and get your bonnet and
shawl. Quick my love!"</p>

<p>Not daring to trust myself to speak&mdash;for
my heart was full to bursting&mdash;I hurried
through the gate, and along the garden walk.</p>

<p>"How beautiful she has grown!" I heard
my mother exclaim. One look into the old
familiar library room, one moment in prayer
by the bed, in which I had slept since childhood!</p>

<p>Placing the bonnet on my curls, and dropping
my shawl around me, I hurried from
my cottage home. There were a few moments
of agony, of blessings, of partings and
tears. Old Alice pressed me in her arms,
and bid me good-by. The good old clergyman
laid his hands upon my head, and
lifting his beaming eyes to heaven, invoked
the blessing of God upon my head.</p>

<p>"I give your child to you again!" he said,
placing me in my mother's arms&mdash;"May she
be a blessing to you, as for years past she has
been the blessing and peace of my home!"</p>

<p>I looked around for Ernest; he had disappeared.</p>

<p>I entered the carriage, and sank sobbing
on the seat.</p>

<p>"But I am not taking the dear child away
from you forever," said my mother, bending
from the carriage window. "She will come
and see you often, my dear Mr. Walworth,
and you will come and see her. You have
the number of our town residence on that
card. And bring your son, and good Alice
with you, and,&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>The carriage rolled away.</p>

<p>So strange and unexpected had been the
circumstances of this departure from my
home, that I could scarce believe myself
awake.</p>

<p>I did not raise my head, until we had
descended the hill, passed the village and
gained a mile or more on our way.</p>

<p>We were ascending a long slope, which
led to the summit of a hill, from which, I
knew, I might take a last view of my childhood's
home.</p>

<p>As we reached the summit of the hill,
my mother was looking out of one window
toward the river, and I looked out of the
other, and saw, beyond the church spire and
over the hills, the white walls of my home.</p>

<p>"Frank!" whispered a low voice.</p>

<p>Ernest was by the carriage. There was
a look exchanged, a word, and he was gone.
Gone into the trees by the? roadside.</p>

<p>He left a flower in my hand. I placed it
silently in my bosom.</p>

<p>"Frank! How beautiful you have grown!"
said my mother, turning from the window,
and fixing upon me an ardent and admiring
gaze. And the next moment she was wrapt
in thought and the wrinkle grew deeper
between her brows.</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h3><a name="CHAPTER_1_IX" id="CHAPTER_1_IX">CHAPTER IX.</a></h3>

<h4>ERNEST AND HIS SINGULAR ADVENTURE.</h4>


<p>Before I resume my own history, I must
relate an instance in the life of Ernest, which
had an important bearing on his fate. (This
incident I derive from MSS. written by Ernest
himself.) Soon after my departure from
the cottage home, he came to New York
with his father, and they directed their steps
to my mother's residence; as indicated on
the card which she had left with the clergyman;
but to their great disappointment,
they discovered that my mother and myself
had just left town for Niagara Falls. Six
months afterward, Ernest received a long
letter from me, concluding with these words:
"<i>To-morrow, myself and mother take passage
for Europe, in the steamer. We will be absent
for a year or more.</i>"</p>

<p>Determined to see me at all hazards, he
hurried to town, but, too late! The steamer
had sailed; her flag fluttered in the air, far
down the bay, as standing on the battery,
Ernest followed her course, with an almost
maddened gaze. Sorrowfully he returned to
the country and informed his father of my
sudden departure for Europe.</p>

<p>"Can she have forgotten us?" said the old
man.</p>

<p>"O, father, this letter," replied Ernest,
showing the long letter which I had written,
"this will show you that she has not forgotten
us, but that her heart beats warmly as ever&mdash;that
she is the same."</p>

<p>And he read the letter to the good old
man, who frequently interrupted him, with
"God bless her! God bless my child!"</p>

<p>Soon afterward Ernest came to New York
and entered his name in the office of an
eminent lawyer. Determining to make the
law his profession, he hoped to complete his
studies before my return from Paris. He
lived in New York, and began to move in
the circles of its varied society. Among the
acquaintances which he made were certain
authors and artists who, once a month, in
company with a few select friends, gave a
social supper at a prominent hotel.</p>

<p>At one of these suppers Ernest was a
guest. The wine passed round, wit sparkled,
and the enjoyment of the festival did not
begin to flag even when midnight drew near.</p>

<p>While one of the guests was singing, a
portly gentleman (once well known as a
man of fashion, the very Brummel of the
sidewalk) began to converse with Ernest in
a low voice.</p>

<p>He described a lady&mdash;a young widow with
a large fortune&mdash;who at that time occupied
a large portion of the interest of certain
circles in New York. She was exceedingly
beautiful. She was witty, accomplished,
eloquent. She rivaled in fascination Ninon
and Aspasia. Nightly, to a select circle, she
presided over festivals whose voluptuousness
was masked in flowers. Her previous
history was unknown, but she had suddenly
entered the orbit of New York social life&mdash;of
a peculiar kind of social life&mdash;as a star of
the first magnitude. His blood heated by
wine, his imagination warmed by the description
of his fashionable friend, Ernest manifested
great curiosity to behold this singular
lady.</p>

<p>"You shall see her to-night&mdash;at once,"
whispered the fashionable gentleman. "She
gives a select party to-night. Let us glide
off from the company unobserved."</p>

<p>They passed from the company, took
their hats and cloaks&mdash;it was a clear, cold
winter night&mdash;and entered a carriage.</p>

<p>"I will introduce you by the name of
Johnson&mdash;Fred. Johnson, a rich southern
planter," said the fashionable gentleman.
"You need not call me by my real name.
Call me Lawson."</p>

<p>"But why this concealment?" asked
Ernest, as the carriage rolled on.</p>

<p>"O, well, never mind," added Lawson (as
he desired to be called), and then continued:
"We'll soon be near her mansion, or <i>palace</i>
is the more appropriate word. We will find
some of the first gentlemen and finest ladies
of New York under her roof. I tell you,
she'll set you half wild, this 'Midnight
Queen!'"</p>

<p>"Midnight Queen!" echoed Ernest.</p>

<p>"That's what we call her. A 'Midnight
Queen' indeed, as mysterious and voluptuous
as the midnight moon shining in an Italian
sky."</p>

<p>They arrived in front of a lofty mansion,
situated in one of the most aristocratic parts
of New York. Its exterior was dark and
silent as the winter midnight itself.</p>

<p>"A light hid under a bushel&mdash;outside dark
enough, but inside bright as a new dollar,"
whispered Lawson, ascending the marble
steps and ringing the bell.</p>

<p>The door was opened for the space of six
inches or more,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Who's there?" said a voice from within.</p>

<p>Lawson bent his face near to the aperture
and whispered a few words inaudible to
Ernest. The door was opened wide, and
carefully closed and bolted behind them, as
soon as they crossed the threshold. They
stood in a vast hall lighted by a hanging
lamp.</p>

<p>"Leave hats and cloaks here&mdash;and come."
Lawson took Ernest by the hand and pushed
open a door.</p>

<p>They entered a range of parlors, brilliantly
lighted by two chandeliers, as brilliantly
furnished with chairs and sofas and mirrors,
and adorned with glowing pictures and
statues of white marble. A piano stood in
a recess, and in the last parlor of the three
a supper-table was spread. These parlors
were crowded by some thirty guests, men
and women, some of whom, seated on chairs
and sofas, were occupied in low whispered
conversation, while others took wine at the
supper-table, and others again were grouped
round the piano, listening to the voice of an
exceedingly beautiful woman.</p>

<p>Ernest uttered an ejaculation. Never had
he seen a spectacle like this, never seen
before, grouped under one roof, so many
beautiful women. Beautiful women, richly
dressed, their arms and shoulders bare, or
vailed only by mist-like lace, which gave
new fascination to their charms. It did not
by any means decrease the surprise of Ernest
when he discovered that some of the ladies&mdash;those
whose necks and shoulders glowed
most white and beautiful in the light&mdash;wore
masks.</p>

<p>"What is this place?" he whispered to
Lawson, as apparently unheeded by the
guests, they passed through the parlors.</p>

<p>"Hush! not so loud," whispered his companion.
"Take a glass of wine, my boy,
and your eyesight will be clearer. This
place is a quiet little retreat in which certain
gentlemen and ladies of New York, by no
means lacking in wealth or position, endeavor
to carry the Koran into practice, and
create, even in our cold climate, a paradise
worthy of Mahomet. In a word, it is the
residence of a widowed lady, who, blest
with fortune and all the good things which
fortune brings, delights in surrounding herself
with beautiful women and intellectual
men. How do you like that wine? There
are at least a hundred gentlemen in New
York, who would give a cool five hundred
to stand where you stand now, or even
cross the threshold of this mansion. I'm
an old stager, and have brought you here in
order to enjoy the effect which a scene like
this produces on one so inexperienced as
you. But you must remember one law
which governs this place and all who
enter it&mdash;"</p>

<p>"That condition?"</p>

<p>"All that is said or done here remains a
secret forever within the compass of these
walls; and you must never recognize, in
any other place, any person whom you have
first encountered here. This is a matter of
honor, Walworth."</p>

<p>"And where is the 'Midnight Queen?'"</p>

<p>"She is not with her guests, I see&mdash;but I
will give you an answer in a moment," and
Lawson left the room.</p>

<p>Drinking glass after glass of champagne,
Ernest stood by the supper-table, a silent
spectator of that scene, whose voluptuous
enchantment gradually inflamed his imagination
and fired his blood. He seemed to
have been suddenly transported from dull
matter-of-fact, every-day life, to a scene in
some far oriental city, in the days of Haroun
Alraschid. And he surrendered himself to
the enchantment of the place, like one for
the first time enjoying the intoxication of
opium.</p>

<p>Lawson returned, and came quietly to his
side&mdash;</p>

<p>"Would you like to see the 'Midnight
Queen,'&mdash;alone&mdash;in her parlor?" he whispered.</p>

<p>"Of all things in the world. You have
roused my curiosity. I am like a man in a
delicious dream."</p>

<p>"Understand me&mdash;she is chary of her
smiles to an old stager like me&mdash;but I think,
that there is something in you that will
interest her. She awaits you in her apartments.
You are a young English lord on
your travels (better than a planter), Lord
Stanley Fitz Herbert. With that black
dress and somber face of yours you will take
her wonderfully."</p>

<p>"But can I indeed see her?"</p>

<p>"Leave the room&mdash;ascend the stairs&mdash;at
the head of the stairs a light shines from a
door which is slightly open; take a bold
heart and enter."</p>

<p>Inflamed by curiosity, by the wine which
he had drunk, and the scene around him,
Ernest did not take time for a second
thought, but left the room, ascended the
stairs, and stood before the door from whose
aperture a belt of light streamed out upon
the dark passage. There, for a moment, he
hesitated, but that was all. He opened the
door and entered. He stood spell-bound by
the scene. If the parlors below were magnificently
furnished, this apartment was
worthy of an empress. There were lofty
walls hung with silk hangings and adorned
with pictures; a couch with a silken canopy;
mirrors that glittered gently in the rich
voluptuous light; in a word, every detail of
luxury and extravagance.</p>

<p>In the center of all stood the "Midnight
Queen"&mdash;in one hand she held an open letter.
Her back was toward Ernest as he
lingered near the threshold. Her neck and
shoulders were bare, and he could remark at
a glance their snowy whiteness and voluptuous
outline, although her dark hair was
gathered in glossy masses upon the shoulders,
half hiding them from view. A dark
dress, rich in its very simplicity, left her
arms bare and did justice to the rounded
proportions of her form.</p>

<p>She turned and confronted Ernest, even as
he, the blood bounding in his veins, advanced
a single step.</p>

<p>At once they spoke:</p>

<p>"My Lord Stanley, I believe,&mdash;"</p>

<p>"The 'Midnight Queen,'&mdash;"</p>

<p>The words died on their lips. They stood
as if suddenly frozen to the floor. The
beautiful face of the "Midnight Queen" was
pale as death, and as for Ernest, the glow of
the wine had left his cheek&mdash;his face was
livid and distorted.</p>

<p>Moments passed and neither had power
to speak.</p>

<p>"O, my God, it is Frank!" the words at
last burst from the lips of Ernest, and he fell
like a dead man at her feet.</p>

<p>Yes, the "Midnight Queen" was Frances
Van Huyden, his betrothed wife&mdash;six months
ago resting on his bosom and whispering
"husband" in his ear,&mdash;and now&mdash;the wife
of another? A widow? Or one utterly
fallen from all virtue and all hope?</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h3><a name="CHAPTER_1_X" id="CHAPTER_1_X">CHAPTER X.</a></h3>

<h4>THE PALACE-HOME.</h4>


<p>Having thus given the incident from the
life of Ernest, as far as possible, in the very
words of his MSS., let me continue my history
from the hour when, in company with
my mother, I left the cottage home of the
good clergyman. After the incident just
related, nothing in my life can appear
strange.</p>

<p>I was riding in the carriage with my
mother toward New York.</p>

<p>"You are, indeed, very beautiful, Frank,"
said she, once more regarding me attentively.
"Your form is that of a mature woman, and
your carriage (I remarked it as you passed
up the garden-walk) excellent. But this
country dress will not do. We will do better
than all that when we get to town."</p>

<p>It was night when the carriage left the
avenue and rolled into Broadway. The
noise, the glare, the people hurrying by, all
frightened me. At the same time Broadway
brought back a dim memory of my
early childhood in Paris. Turning from
Broadway, the carriage at length stopped
before a lofty mansion, the windows of which
were closed from the sidewalk to the roof.</p>

<p>"This is your home," said my mother, as
she led me from the carriage up the marble
steps into the hall where, in the light of a
globular lamp, a group of servants in livery
awaited us.</p>

<p>"Jenkins,"&mdash;my mother spoke to an
elderly servant in dark livery turned up with
red&mdash;"let dinner be served in half an hour."
Then turning to another servant, not quite
so old, but wearing the same livery, she said:
"Jones, Miss Van Huyden wishes to take
a look at her house before we go to dinner.
Take the light and go before us."</p>

<p>The servant, holding a wax candle placed
in a huge silver candlestick, went before us
and showed us the house from the first to
the fourth floor. Never before had I beheld
such magnificence even in my dreams. I
could not restrain ejaculations of pleasure
and surprise at every step,&mdash;my mother
keenly regarding me, sometimes with a faint
smile and sometimes with the wrinkle growing
deeper between her brows. A range of
parlors on the lower floor were furnished
with everything that the most extravagant
fancy could desire, or exhaustless wealth
procure. Carpets that gave no echo to the
step; sofas and chairs cushioned with velvet
and (so it seemed to me) framed in gold;
mirrors extending from the ceiling to the
floor; pictures, statues, and tables with tops
either of marble or ebony; the walls lofty,
and the ceiling glowing with a painting
which represented Aurora and the Hours
winging their way through a summer sky.</p>

<p>"Whose picture, mother?" I asked, pointing
to a picture of a singularly handsome
man, with dark hair and beard, and eyes remarkable
at once for their brightness and expression.</p>

<p>"Your father, dear," answered my mother,
and again the mark between her brows became
ominously perceptible. "There is your
piano, Frank,&mdash;you'll find it something better
than the one which you had at the good
parson's."</p>

<p>The servant led the way, up the wide stairway,
thickly carpeted, to the upper rooms.
Here the magnificence of the first floor was
repeated on a grander, a more luxurious scale.
We passed through room after room, my eyes
dazzled by new signs of wealth and luxury
at every step. At last we paused on the
thick carpet of a spacious bed-chamber, whose
appointments combined the richest elegance
with the nicest taste. It was hung with
curtains of light azure. An exquisite and
touching picture of the Virgin Mary confronted
the toilette table and mirror. A bed
with coverlet white as snow, satin covered
pillows and canopy of lace, stood in one corner;
and wherever I turned there were signs
of neatness, taste and elegance. I could not
too much admire the apartment.</p>

<p>"It is your bedroom, my dear," said my
mother, silently enjoying my delight.</p>

<p>"Why," said I laughingly,&mdash;"it is grand
enough for a queen."</p>

<p>"And are you not a queen," answered my
mother, "and a very beautiful one." Turning
to the servant, who stood staring at me
with eyes big as saucers, she said&mdash;</p>

<p>"Tell Mrs. Jenkins, the housekeeper, to
come here:"&mdash;Jones left the chamber, and
presently returned with Mrs. Jenkins, a portly
lady, with a round, good-humored face.</p>

<p>"Frank, this is <i>your</i> housekeeper;"&mdash;Mrs.
Jenkins simpered and courtsied, shaking at
the same time the bundle of keys at her
waist. "Mrs. Jenkins, this is your young
mistress, Miss Van Huyden. Give me the
keys."</p>

<p>She took the keys from the housekeeper,
and placed them in my hands:</p>

<p>"My dear, this house and all that it contains
are yours, I surrender it to your charge."</p>

<p>Scarcely knowing what to do with myself
I took the keys&mdash;which were heavy enough&mdash;and
handing them back to Mrs. Jenkins,
"hoped that she would continue to superintend
the affairs of my mansion, as heretofore."
All of which pleased my mother and
made her smile.</p>

<p>"We will go to dinner without dressing,"
and my mother led the way down stairs to
the dining-room. It was a large apartment,
in the center of which stood a luxuriously
furnished table, glittering with gold plate.
Servants in livery stood like statues behind
my chair and my mother's. How different
from the plain fare and simple style of the
good clergyman's home! Nay how widely
contrasted with the rude dinner in a log
cabin to which Ernest and myself sat down
a few hours ago!</p>

<p>In vain I tried to partake of the rich dishes
set out before me; I was too much excited to
eat. Dinner over, coffee was served, and the
servants retired. Mother and I were left
alone.</p>

<p>"Frank, do you blame me," she said, looking
at me carefully&mdash;"for having you reared
so quietly, far away in the country, in order
that at the proper age, strong in health and
rich in accomplishments and beauty, you
might be prepared to enter upon the enjoyments
and duties suitable to your station?"</p>

<p>How could I blame her?</p>

<p>I spoke gratefully again and again of the
wealth and comfort which surrounded me, and
then forgetting it all&mdash;broke forth into
impassioned praise of my cottage home, of the
good clergyman, of old Alice and&mdash;Ernest.</p>

<p>Something which came over my mother's
face at the mention of Ernest's name, warned
me that it was not yet time to speak of my
engagement to him.</p>

<p>That night I bathed my limbs in a perfumed
bath, laid my head on a silken pillow,
and slept beneath a canopy of lace, as soft
and light and transparent as the summer
mist through which you can see the blue sky
and the distant mountain. And resting on
the silken pillow I dreamed&mdash;not of the
splendor with which I was surrounded, nor
of the golden prospects of my future,&mdash;but,
of my childhood's home, and the quiet scenes
of other days. In my sleep my heart turned
back to them. Once more I heard the voice
of the good old man. I heard the shrill
tones of Alice, as the sun shone on my frosted
window-pane, on a clear, cold winter morn.
Then the voice of Ernest, calling me "Wife!"
and pressing me to his bosom in the forest
nook. I awoke with his name on my lips,
and,&mdash;&mdash;</p>

<p>My mother stood by the bedside gazing upon
me attentively, a smile on her lips, but the
wrinkle darkly defined between her brows.
The sun shone brightly through the window
curtains.</p>

<p>"Get up my dear," she kissed me,&mdash;"You
have a busy day before you."</p>

<p>And it was a busy day! I was handed
over to the milliners and dressmakers, and
whirled in my carriage from one jeweler's
shop to another. It was not until the third
day that my dresses were completed&mdash;according
to my mother's taste,&mdash;and not until
the fourth, that the jewels which were to
adorn my forehead, my neck, my arms and
bosom, had been properly selected. Wardrobe
and diamonds worthy of a queen&mdash;and
was I happy? No! I began to grow homesick,
for my dear quiet home, on the hill-side
above the Neprehaun.</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h3><a name="CHAPTER_1_XI" id="CHAPTER_1_XI">CHAPTER XI.</a></h3>

<h4>"SHE'LL DO."</h4>


<p>It was on the fourth day, in the afternoon,
that my mother desired my presence in the
parlor, where she wished to present me to a
much esteemed friend, Mr. Wareham&mdash;Mr.
Wallace Wareham.</p>

<p>"An excellent man," whispered my mother
as we went down stairs together, "and
immensely rich."</p>

<p>I was richly dressed in black; my neck,
my arms and shoulders bare. My dark hair,
gathered plainly aside from my face, was
adorned by a single snow-white flower. As
I passed by the mirror in the parlor, I could
not help feeling a throb of womanly pride,
or&mdash;vanity; and my mother whispered,
"Frank, you excel yourself to-day."</p>

<p>Mr. Wareham sat on the sofa, in the front
parlor, in the mild light of the curtained
window. He was an elderly gentleman,
somewhat bald, and slightly inclined to corpulence.
He was sleekly clad in black, and
there was a gold chain across his satin vest,
and a brilliant diamond upon his ruffled
bosom. He sat in an easy, composed attitude,
resting both hands on his gold-headed cane.
At first sight he impressed me, as an elderly
gentleman, exceedingly <i>nice</i> in his personal
appearance; and that was all. But there
was something peculiar and remarkable about
his face and look, which did not appear at
first sight.</p>

<p>I was presented to him: he rose and
bowed; and took me kindly by the hand.</p>

<p>Then conversing in a calm, even tone,
which soon set me at ease, he led me to talk
of my childhood&mdash;of my home on the Neprehaun&mdash;of
the life which I had passed with
the good clergyman. I soon forgot myself in
my subject, and grew impassioned, perchance
eloquent. I felt my cheeks glow and my
eyes sparkle. But all at once I was brought
to a dead pause, by remarking the singular
expression of Mr. Wareham's face.</p>

<p>I stopped abruptly&mdash;blushed&mdash;and at a
glance surveyed him closely.</p>

<p>His forehead was high and bold, and encircled
by slight curls of black hair, streaked
with gray,&mdash;its expression eminently intellectual.
But the lower part of his face was
heavy, almost animal. There was a deep
wrinkle on either side of his mouth, and as
for the mouth itself, its upper lip was thin,
almost imperceptible, while the lower one
was large, projecting and of deep red, approaching
purple, thus presenting a singular
contrast to the corpse-like pallor of his
cheeks. His eyes, half hidden under the
bulging lids, when I began my description
of my childhood's home, all at once expanded,
and I saw their real expression and color.
They were large, the eyeballs exceedingly
white, and the pupils clear gray, and their
expression reminded you of nothing that
you had ever seen or heard of, but simply
made you <i>afraid</i>. And as the eyes expanded,
a slight smile would agitate his upper lip,
while the lower one protruded, disclosing a
set of artificial teeth, white as milk. It was
the sudden expansion of the eyes, the smile
on the upper lip and the protrusion of the
lower one, that made up the peculiar expression
of Mr. Wareham's face,&mdash;an expression
which made you feel as though you had just
awoke from a grotesque yet frightful dream.</p>

<p>"Why do you pause, daughter?" said my
mother, observing my confusion.</p>

<p>"Proceed my child," said Mr. Wareham,
devouring me from head to foot with his
great eyes, at the same time rubbing his
lower lip against the upper, as though he was
tasting something good to eat. "I enjoy
these delightful reminiscences of childhood.
I dote on such things."</p>

<p>But I could not proceed&mdash;I blushed again&mdash;and
the tears came into my eyes.</p>

<p>"You have been fatigued by the bustle of
the last three days," said my mother kindly:
"Mr. Wareham will excuse you," and she
made me a sign to leave the room.</p>

<p>Never was a sign more willingly obeyed.
I hurried from the room, and as I closed the
door, I heard Mr. Wareham say in a low
voice&mdash;</p>

<p>"She'll do. When will you tell her?"</p>

<p>That night, as I sat on the edge of my
bed, clad in my night-dress&mdash;my dark hair
half gathered in a lace cap and half falling
on my shoulders&mdash;my mother came suddenly
into the room, and placing her candle on a
table, took her seat by me on the bed. She
was, as I have told you, an exceedingly
beautiful woman, in spite of the threads of
silver in her hair and the ominous wrinkle
between her brows. But as she sat by me,
and put her arm about my neck, toying with
my hair, her look was infinitely affectionate.</p>

<p>"And what do you think of Mr. Wareham,
dear?" she asked me&mdash;and I felt that
her gaze was fixed keenly on my face.</p>

<p>I described my impressions frankly and
with what language I could command, concluding
with the words, "In short, I do not
like him. He makes me feel afraid."</p>

<p>"O, you'll soon get over that," answered
my mother. "Now he takes a great interest
in you. Let me tell you something about
him. He is a foreign gentleman, immensely
rich; worth hundreds of thousands, perhaps
a million. He has estates in this country,
in England and France. He has traveled
over half the globe; on further acquaintance
you will be charmed by his powers of observation,
his fund of anecdote, his easy flow
of conversational eloquence. And then he
has a good heart, Frank! I could keep you
up all night in repeating but a small portion
of his innumerable acts of benevolence. I
met him first in Paris, years ago, just after
he had unhappily married. And since I first
met him he has been my fast friend. He is
a good, a noble man, Frank; you <i>will</i>, you
<i>must</i> like him."</p>

<p>"But, then, his eyes, mother! and <i>that</i>
lip!" and I cast my eyes meekly to the
floor.</p>

<p>"Pshaw!" returned my mother, with a
start, "don't allow yourself to make fun of
a dear personal friend of mine." She kissed
me on the forehead,&mdash;"you <i>will</i> like him,
dear," and bade me good-night.</p>

<p>And on my silken pillow I slept and
dreamed&mdash;of home,&mdash;of the good old man,&mdash;of
Ernest and the forest nook,&mdash;but all my
dreams were haunted by a vision of two
great eyes and a huge red lip&mdash;everywhere,
everywhere they haunted me, the lip now
projecting over the clergyman's head and
the eyes looking over Ernest's shoulder. I
awoke with a start and a laugh.</p>

<p>"You are in good spirits, my child," said
my mother, who stood by the bed.</p>

<p>"I had a frightful dream but it ended
funnily. All night long I've seen nothing
but Mr. Wareham's eyes and lip, but the last
I saw of them they were flying like butterflies
a few feet above ground, eyes first and
lips next, and old Alice chasing them with
her broom."</p>

<p>"Never mind; you <i>will</i> like him," rejoined
my mother.</p>

<p>I certainly had every chance to like him.
For three days he was a constant visitor at
our house. He accompanied mother and
myself on a drive along Broadway and out
on the avenue. I enjoyed the excitement
of Broadway and the fresh air of the country,
but&mdash;Mr. Wareham was by my side, talking
pleasantly, even eloquently, and looking
all the while as if he would like to eat me.
We went to the opera, and for the first time,
the fairy world of the stage was disclosed to
me. I was enchanted,&mdash;the lights, the costumes,
the music, the circle of youth and
beauty, all wrapt me in a delicious dream,
but&mdash;close by my side was Mr. Wareham,
his eyes expanded and his lip protruding. I
thought of the Arabian Nights and was reminded
of a well-dressed Ghoul. I began
to hate the man. On the fourth day he
brought me a handsome bracelet, glittering
with diamonds, which my mother bade me
accept, and on the fifth day I hated him with
all my soul. There was an influence about
him which repelled me and made me afraid.</p>

<p>It was the sixth night in my new home,
and in my night-dress, I was seated on the
edge of my bed, the candle near, and my
mother by my side. She had entered the
room with a serious and even troubled face.
The wrinkle was marked deep between her
brows. Fixing my lace cap on my head
and smoothing my curls with a gentle pressure
of her hand, she looked at me long and
anxiously but in silence.</p>

<p>"O, mother!" I said, "when will we visit
'father,'&mdash;and good old Alice, and&mdash;Ernest?
I am so anxious to see my home again!"</p>

<p>"You must forget that home," said my
mother gravely. "You will shortly be surrounded
by new ties and new duties. Nay,
do not start and look at me with so much
wonder. I see that I must be plain with
you. Listen to me, Frank. Who owns this
house?"</p>

<p>"It is yours!"</p>

<p>"The pictures, the gold plate, the furniture
worthy of such a palace?"</p>

<p>"Yours,&mdash;all yours, mother."</p>

<p>"Who purchased the dresses and the diamonds
which you wear,&mdash;dresses and diamonds
worthy of a queen?"</p>

<p>"You did, mother&mdash;of course," I hesitated.</p>

<p>"Wrong, Frank, all wrong!" and her eyes
shone vividly, and the mark between her
brows grew blacker. "The house which
shelters you, the furniture which meets your
gaze, the dresses which clothe you, and the
diamonds which adorn your person, are the
property of&mdash;Mr. Wareham."</p>

<p>It seemed to me as if the floor had opened
at my feet.</p>

<p>"O, mother! you are jesting," I faltered.</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h3><a name="CHAPTER_1_XII" id="CHAPTER_1_XII">CHAPTER XII.</a></h3>

<h4>A REVELATION.</h4>


<p>"I am a beggar, child, and you are a beggar's
daughter. It is to Mr. Wareham that
we are indebted for all that we enjoy. For
years he has paid the expenses of your education;
and now that you have grown to
young womanhood he shelters you in a
palace, surrounds you with splendor that a
queen might envy, and not satisfied with
this,&mdash;"</p>

<p>She paused and fixed her eyes upon my
face, I know that I was frightfully pale.</p>

<p>"Offers you his hand in marriage."</p>

<p>For a moment the light, the mirrors, the
roof itself swam round me, and I sank half-fainting
in my mother's arms.</p>

<p>"O! this is but a jest, a cruel jest to
frighten me. Say, mother, it is a jest!"</p>

<p>"It is not a jest; it is sober, serious earnest;"
and she raised me sternly from her
arms. "He has offered his hand, and you
<i>will</i> marry him."</p>

<p>I flung myself on my knees at the bedside,
clasped her hands, and as my night-dress
fell back from my shoulders and bosom, I
told her, with sobs and tears, of my love for
Ernest, and my engagement with him.</p>

<p>"Pshaw! A poor clergyman's son," she
said bitterly.</p>

<p>"O, let us leave this place, mother!" I
cried, still pressing her hands to my bosom.
"You say that we are poor. Be it so. We
will find a home together in the home of my
childhood. Or if that fails us, I will work
for you. I will toil from sun to sun and all
night long,&mdash;beg,&mdash;do anything rather than
marry this man. For, mother, I cannot
help it,&mdash;but I do hate him with all my soul."</p>

<p>"Pretty talk, very pretty!" and she
loosened her hands from my grasp; "but
did you ever try poverty, my child? Did
you ever know what the word meant,&mdash;<span class="smcap">poverty</span>?
Did you ever work sixteen hours
a day, at your needle, for as many pennies,
walk the streets at dead of winter in half-naked
feet, and go for two long days and
nights without a morsel of food? Did you
ever try it, my child? That's the life which
<i>poor</i> widows and their pretty daughters live
in New York, my dear."</p>

<p>"But Ernest loves me,&mdash;he will make his
way in life,&mdash;we will be married,&mdash;you will
share our home, dear mother."</p>

<p>These words rendered her perfectly furious.
She started up and uttered a frightful
oath&mdash;it was the first time I had ever heard
an oath from a woman's lips. Her countenance
for a moment was fiendish. She
assailed me with a torrent of reproaches,
concluding thus:</p>

<p>"And this is your gratitude for the care,
the anxiety, the very agony of a mother's
anxiety, which I have endured on your
account for years! In return for all you
condemn me to&mdash;poverty! But it shall not
be. One of us must bend, and that one will
not be me. I swear, girl,"&mdash;her brows were
knit, she was lividly pale, and she raised her
right hand to heaven,&mdash;"that you <i>shall</i>
marry this man."</p>

<p>"And I swear,"&mdash;I bounded to my feet,
my bosom bare, and the blood boiling in my
veins&mdash;perchance it was the same blood
which gave my mother her fiery temper,&mdash;"I
swear that I will <i>not</i> marry him as long
as there is life in me. Do you hear me,
mother? Before I marry that miserable
wretch, whose very presence fills me with
loathing, I will fall a corpse at your feet."</p>

<p>My words, my attitude took her by surprise.
She surveyed me silently but was
too much enraged to speak.</p>

<p>"O, that my father was living!" I cried,
the fit of passion succeeded by a burst of
tears; "he would save me from this hideous
marriage."</p>

<p>My mother quietly drew a letter from her
bosom and placed it open in my hand.</p>

<p>"Your father is living. That letter is the
last one I have received from him. Read it,
my angel."</p>

<p>I took it,&mdash;it was very brief,&mdash;I read it at
a glance. It was addressed to my mother,
and bore a recent date. These were its contents:</p>

<blockquote>

<p>"<span class="smcap">Dear Frank</span>:</p>

<p>"My sentence expires in two weeks from
to-day. Send me some decent clothes, and
let me know where I will meet you. Glad
to hear that your plans as regards <i>our daughter</i>
approach a 'glorious' completion.</p>

<p>"Yours as ever,</p>

<p>"<span class="smcap">Charles</span>."</p></blockquote>

<p>It was a letter from a convict in Auburn
prison,&mdash;and that convict was my father!</p>

<p>"It is false; my father died years ago," I
cried in very agony. "This is not from my
father."</p>

<p>"It is from your father," answered my
mother; "and unless I send him the clothes
which he asks for, you will see him, in less
than three weeks, in his convict rags."</p>

<p>"O, mother! are you human? A mother
to taunt her own daughter with her father's
shame,&mdash;"</p>

<p>My temples throbbed madly and my sight
failed. All that mortal can endure and be
conscious, I had endured. I sank on the
floor, and had not my mother caught me in
her arms, I would have wounded my forehead
against the marble table.</p>

<p>All night long, half waking, half delirious,
I tossed on my silken couch mingling the
name of my convict father and of Ernest in
my broken exclamations. Once I was conscious
for a moment and looked around with
clear eyes. My mother was watching over
me. Her face was bathed in tears. She
was <i>human</i> after all. That moment past,
the delirium returned and I struggled with
horrible dreams until morning.</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h3><a name="CHAPTER_1_XIII" id="CHAPTER_1_XIII">CHAPTER XIII.</a></h3>

<h4>MORPHINE.</h4>


<p>When I awoke next morning, my mind
was clear again, and even as I unclosed my
eyes and saw the sunlight shining gayly
through the curtains, a fixed purpose took
possession of my soul. It was yet early
morning. There was no one save myself in
the chamber. Perchance worn out by
watching, my mother had retired to rest. I
quietly arose and dressed myself&mdash;not in the
splendid attire furnished by my mother, but
in the plain white dress, bonnet, and shawl
which I had brought with me from my cottage
home.</p>

<p>"It is early. No one is stirring in the
mansion. I can pass from the hall door
unobserved. Then it is only sixteen miles
to-home,&mdash;only sixteen miles, I can walk it."</p>

<p>And at the very thought of meeting
"father" and Ernest again, my heart leaped
in my bosom. Determined to escape from
the mansion at all hazards, I drew my vail
over my face, my shawl across my shoulders,
and hurried to the door. I opened it, my
foot was on the threshold, when I found
myself confronted by the portly form of
Mrs. Jenkins.</p>

<p>"Pardon me, Miss," she said, placing herself
directly before me; "your mother gave
me directions to call her as soon as you
awoke."</p>

<p>"But I wish to take a short walk and
breathe a little of the morning air," I answered,
and attempted to pass her.</p>

<p>"The morning air is not good for young
ladies," said another voice, and my mother's
face, appeared over the housekeeper's shoulder.
"After a while we shall take a ride,
my dear. For the present, you will please
retire to your room."</p>

<p>Startled at the sound of my mother's
voice, I involuntarily stepped back&mdash;the door
was closed, and I heard the key turn in the
lock.</p>

<p>I was a prisoner in my own room. There
I remained all day long; my meals were
served by the housekeeper and my maid
Caroline. My mother did not appear. How
I passed that day, a prisoner in my luxurious
chamber, cannot be described. I sat for hours,
with my head resting on my hands, and my
eyes to the floor. What plans of escape,
mingled with forebodings of the future,
crossed my brain! At length I took pen and
paper, and wrote a brief note to Ernest, informing
him of my danger, and begging him,
as he loved me, to hasten at once to town
and to the mansion. This note I folded,
sealed, and directed properly. "Caroline,"
said I to my maid, who was a pleasant-faced
young woman of about twenty, with dark
hair and eyes&mdash;"I would like this letter to
be placed in the post-office at once. Will
you take charge of it for me?"</p>

<p>"I'll give it to Jones," she responded&mdash;"he's
goin' down to the post office right
away."</p>

<p>"But Caroline," I regarded her with a
meaning look, "I do not wish any one to
know, that I sent this letter to the post-office.
Will you keep it a secret?"</p>

<p>"Not a livin' mortal shall know it&mdash;not a
livin' mortal;" and taking the letter she left
the room. After a few minutes she returned
with a smiling face, "Jones has got it and
he's gone!"</p>

<p>I could scarce repress a wild ejaculation
of joy. Ernest will receive it to-night; he
will be here to-morrow; I will be saved!</p>

<p>The day wore on and my mother did not
appear. Toward evening Caroline came into
my room, bearing a new dress upon her arm&mdash;a
dress of white satin, richly embroidered
and adorned with the costliest lace.</p>

<p>"O, Miss, ain't it beautiful!" cried Caroline,
displaying the dress before me, "and the
bonnet and vail to match it, will be here to-night,
an' your new di'monds. It's really fit
for a queen."</p>

<p>It was indeed a magnificent dress.</p>

<p>"Who is it for?" I asked.</p>

<p>"Now, come, ain't that good! 'Who is it
for?' And you lookin' so innocent as you
ask it. As if you did not know all the
while, that it's your bridal dress, and that
you are to be married airly in the mornin',
after which you will set off on your bridal
<i>tower</i>."</p>

<p>"Caroline, where did you learn this?" I
asked, my heart dying within me.</p>

<p>"Why, how can you keep such things
secret from the servants? Ain't your mother
been gettin' ready for it all day, and ain't the
servants been a-flyin' here and there, like
mad? And Mr. Wareham's been so busy
all day, and lookin' <i>so</i> pleased! Laws, Miss,
<i>how</i> can you expect to keep such things from
the servants?"</p>

<p>I heard this intelligence, conveyed in the
garrulous manner of my maid, as a condemned
prisoner might hear the reading of
his death warrant. I saw that nothing could
shake my mother in her purpose. She was
resolved to accomplish the marriage at all
hazards. In the morning I was to be married,
transferred body and soul to the possession
of a man whom I hated in my very
heart.</p>

<p>But I resolved that he should not possess
me living. He might marry me, but he
should only place the bridal ring upon the
hand of a corpse.</p>

<p>The resolution came in a moment. How
to accomplish it was next my thought.</p>

<p>Approaching Caroline in a guarded manner,
I spoke of my nervousness and loss of sleep,
and of a vial of <i>morphine</i> which my mother
kept by her for a nervous affection.</p>

<p>"Could you not obtain it for me, Caroline?
and without my mother seeing you, for she
does not like me to accustom myself to the
use of morphine. I am sadly in want of
sleep, but I am so nervous that I cannot
close my eyes. Get it for me," I put my
arms about her neck&mdash;"that's a dear good
girl."</p>

<p>"Laws, Miss, how kin one resist your purty
eyes! It is in the casket on the bureau, is
it? Just wait a moment;" she left the room
and presently returned. She held the vial
in her hand. I took it eagerly, pretended to
place it in the drawer of a cabinet which
stood near the bed, but, in reality, hid it in
my bosom.</p>

<p>"Now mother, you may force on the
marriage," I mentally ejaculated; "but your
daughter has the threads of her own destiny
in her hand."</p>

<p>How had I accustomed myself to the idea
of suicide? It came upon me not slowly,
but like a flash of lightning. It was in opposition
to all the lessons I had learned from
the good clergyman. 'But,' the voice of the
tempter, seemed whispering in my ear&mdash;'while
suicide is a crime, it becomes a virtue
when it is committed to avoid a greater
crime.' It is wrong to kill my body, but
infinitely worse to kill both body and soul in
the prostitution of an unholy marriage.</p>

<p>As evening drew on I was left alone. I
bathed myself, arranged my hair, and then
attired myself in my white night-robe. And
then, as the last glimpse of day came faintly
through the window curtains, I sank on my
knees by the bed, and prayed. O how in
one vivid picture the holy memories of the
past came upon me, in that awful moment!</p>

<p>"Ernest I will meet you in the better
world!"</p>

<p>I drank the contents of the vial and rose
to my feet. At the same instant the door
opened and my mother appeared, holding a
lighted candle in her hand. She saw me in
my white dress, was struck, perchance, by
the wildness of my gaze, and then her eye
rested upon the extended hand which held
the vial.</p>

<p>"Well, Frank, how do you like your marriage
dress," she began, but stopped, and
changed color as she saw the vial.</p>

<p>"O, mother," I cried, "with my last breath
I forgive you, and pray God that you may
be able to forgive yourself."</p>

<p>I saw her horror-stricken look and I fell
insensible at her feet.</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h3><a name="CHAPTER_1_XIV" id="CHAPTER_1_XIV">CHAPTER XIV.</a></h3>

<h4>THE SALE IS COMPLETE.</h4>


<p>When I awoke again&mdash;but I cannot proceed.
There are crimes done every day,
which the world knows by heart, and yet
shudders to see recorded, even in the most
carefully vailed phrase. But the crime of
which I was the victim, was too horrible
for belief. Wareham the criminal, my own
mother the accomplice, the victim a girl of
fifteen, who had been reared in purity and
innocence afar from the world.</p>

<p>When I awoke again&mdash;for the potion failed
to kill&mdash;I found myself in my room, and
Wareham by my side, surveying me as a
ghoul might look upon the dead body which
he has stolen from the grave. The vial
given to me by the maid did not contain a
fatal poison, but merely a powerful anodyne,
which sealed my senses for hours in sleep,
and&mdash;combined with the reaction of harrowing
excitement&mdash;left me for days in a
state of half dreamy consciousness. I
awoke * * * * My sight was dim, my senses
dulled, but I knew that I was lost! Lost!
O, how poor and tame that word, to express
the living damnation of which I was the
victim! The events of the next twenty-four
hours, I can but vaguely remember. I was
taken from the bed, arrayed in the bridal
costume, and then led down stairs into the
parlor. There was a marriage celebrated
there (as I was afterward told)&mdash;yes! it
was there that a minister of the Gospel,
book in hand, sanctified with the name of
marriage, the accursed bargain of which I
was the victim&mdash;marriage, that sacrament
which makes of home, God's holiest altar,
the truest type of Heaven&mdash;marriage was, in
my case, made the cloak of an unspeakable
crime. I can remember that I said some
words, which my mother whispered in my
ear, and that I signed my name to a letter
which she had written. It was the letter
which Ernest received, announcing my intention
to visit Niagara. As for the letter which
I had written to him, on the previous day,
it never went farther than from the hands of
Caroline to those of my mother. I was hurried
into a carriage, Wareham by my side,
and then on board of a steamboat, and have a
vague consciousness of passing up the Hudson
river. I did not clearly recover my
senses, until I found myself at Niagara Falls,
leaning on Wareham's arm, and pointed at
by the crowd of visitors at the Falls, as "the
beautiful bride of the Millionaire."</p>

<p>From the Falls, we passed up the Lakes,
and then retraced our steps; visited the Falls
again; journeyed to Montreal, and then home
by Lake Champlain and the Hudson river.
My mother did not accompany us. We
were gone three months, and as the boat
glided down the Hudson, the trees were
already touched by autumn. As the boat
drew near Tapaan bay, I concealed myself in
my stateroom&mdash;I dared not look upon my
cottage home.</p>

<p>We arrived at home toward the close of a
September day. My mother met me at the
door, calm and smiling. She gave me her
hand&mdash;but I pushed it gently away. Wareham
led me up the steps. I stood once
more in that house, from which I had gone
forth, like one walking in their sleep. And
that night, in our chamber, Wareham and
myself held a conversation, which had an
important bearing on his life and mine.</p>

<p>I was sitting alone in my chamber, dressed
in a white wrapper, and my hair flowing
unconfined upon my shoulders; my hands
were clasped and my head bent upon my
breast. I was thinking of the events of the
last three months, of all that I had endured
from the man whose very presence in the
same room, filled me with loathing. My
husband entered, followed by Jenkins, who
placed a lighted candle, a bottle of wine and
glasses on the table, and then retired.</p>

<p>"What, is my pretty girl all alone, and in
a thinking mood?" cried Wareham, seating
himself by the table and filling a glass with
wine; "and pray, my love, what is the subject
of your thoughts?"</p>

<p>And raising the glass to his lips, he surveyed
me from head to foot with that gloating
gaze which always gave a singular light
to his eyes. His face was slightly flushed
on the colorless cheeks. He had already
been drinking freely, and was now evidently
under the influence of wine.</p>

<p>"You have a fine bust, my girl," he continued,
as though he was repeating the
"points" of a horse; "a magnificent arm, a
foot that beats the Medicean Venus all hollow,
and limbs,&mdash;" he paused and sipped his
wine, protruding his nether lip which now
was scarlet red,&mdash;"such limbs! I like the
expression of your eyes&mdash;there's fire in
them, and your clear brown complexion, and
your moist red lips, and,&mdash;" he sipped his
wine again,&mdash;"altogether an elegantly built
female."</p>

<p>And he rose and approached me. I also
rose, my eyes flashing and my bosom swelling
with suppressed rage.</p>

<p>"Wareham, I warn you not to touch me,"
I said in a low voice. "For three months I
have been your prey. I will be so no longer.
Before the world you may call me wife, if
you choose&mdash;you have bought the right to
do that&mdash;but I inform you, once for all, that
henceforth we are strangers. Do you understand
me, Wareham? I had as lief be
chained to a corpse as to submit to be
touched by you."</p>

<p>He fell back startled, his face manifesting
surprise and anger, but in an instant his gaze
was upon me again, and he indulged in a
low burst of laughter.</p>

<p>"Come, I like this! It is a pleasant
change from the demure, pious girl of three
months ago to the full-blown tragedy
queen." He sank into a chair and filled
another glass of wine. "Be seated, Frank,
I want to have a little talk with my pet."</p>

<p>I resumed my seat.</p>

<p>"You give yourself airs under the impression
that you are my wife,&mdash;joint owner of
my immense fortune,&mdash;my rich widow in
perspective. Erroneous impression, Frank.
I have a wife living in England."</p>

<p>The entirely malignant look, which accompanied
these words, convinced me of their
sincerity. For a moment I felt as though
an awful weight had crushed my brain, and
by a glance at the mirror, I saw I was frightfully
pale; but recovering myself by a strong
exertion of will, I answered him in these
words:</p>

<p>"Gentlemen, who allow themselves more
than one wife at a time, are sometimes
(owing to an unfortunate prejudice of society)
invited to occupy an apartment in the
state prison."</p>

<p>"And so you think you hold a rod over
my head?"&mdash;he drank his wine&mdash;"but I
have only one wife, Frank. The gentleman,
who married you and me, was neither clergyman
nor officer of the law, but simply a
convenient friend. Our mock marriage was
not even published in the papers."</p>

<p>Every word went like an ice-bolt to my
heart. I could not speak. Then, as his eyes
glared with a mingled look of hatred and
of brutal passion, he sipped his wine as he
surveyed me, and continued:</p>

<p>"You used the word 'bought' some time
ago. You were right. 'Bought' is the
word. You are simply my <i>purchase</i>. In
Constantinople these things are easily managed;
they keep an open market of fine
girls there; but here we must find an affable
mother, and pay a huge price&mdash;sometimes
even marry the dear angels. I met your
mother in Paris some years ago, and have
been intimately acquainted with her ever
since. When she first spoke of you, you
were a child and I was weary of the world&mdash;jaded,
sick of its pleasures, by which I mean
its women. An idea struck me! What if
this pretty little child, now being educated
in innocence and pious ways, and so forth,
should, in the full blossom of her beauty and
piety&mdash;say at the ripe age of sixteen&mdash;become
the consoler of my declining years?
And so I paid the expenses of your education
(your father consenting that I should
<i>adopt</i> you, but very possibly understanding
the whole matter as well as your mother),
and you were accordingly <i>educated</i> for me.
And when I first saw you, three months ago,
it was your very innocence and pious way
of talking which gave an irresistible effect to
your beauty, and made me mad to possess
you at all hazards."</p>

<p>It is impossible to depict the bitter mocking
tone in which these words were spoken.</p>

<p>"I settled this mansion, the furniture, and
so forth upon your mother, with ten thousand
dollars. That was the price. You see
how much you have cost me, my dear."</p>

<p>"But I will leave your accursed mansion."
I felt, as I spoke, as though my
heart was dead in my bosom. "I am not
chained to you in marriage; I am, at least,
free." I started to my feet and moved a
step toward the door.</p>

<p>"But where will you go? back to your
elderly clerical friend, with every finger
leveled at you and every voice whispering
'There goes the mistress of the rich Englishman!'
Back to your village lover to palm
yourself upon him as a pure and spotless
maiden?"</p>

<p>I sank into a chair and covered my face
with my hands.</p>

<p>"Or will you begin the life of a poor
seamstress, working sixteen hours per day for
as many pennies, and at last, take to the
streets for bread?"</p>

<p>His words cut me to the quick. I saw
that there was no redemption in this world
for a woman whose innocence has been
sacrificed.</p>

<p>"But think better of it, my dear. Your
mother shall surround you with the most
select and fashionable company in New
York,&mdash;she shall give splendid parties,&mdash;you
will be the presiding genius of every festival.
As for myself, dropping the name of
husband, I will sink into an unobtrusive
visitor. When you see a little more of the
world you will not think your case such a
hard one after all."</p>

<p>My face buried in my hands, I had not
one word of reply. Lost,&mdash;lost,&mdash;utterly
lost!</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h3><a name="CHAPTER_1_XV" id="CHAPTER_1_XV">CHAPTER XV.</a></h3>

<h4>"LOST, LOST UTTERLY."</h4>


<p>My mother soon afterward gave her first
party. It was attended by many of the rich
and the fashionable of both sexes, and there
were the glare of lights, the presence of beautiful
women, and the wine-cup and the
dance. The festival was prolonged till daybreak,
and another followed soon. The
atmosphere was new to me. At first I was
amazed, then intoxicated, and then&mdash;corrupted.
Anxious to bury the memory of
my shame, to forget how lost and abandoned
I was, to drown every thought of my childhood's
home and of Ernest, who never could
be mine, soon from a silent spectator I became
a participant in the revels which, night
after night, were held beneath my mother's
roof. The persons who mingled in these
scenes, were rich husbands who came accompanied
by other men's wives; wives, who
had sacrificed themselves in marriage, for the
sake of wealth, to husbands twice their age,
and these came with the husbands of other
women,&mdash;in a word, all that came to the
mansion and shared in its orgies, were either
the victims or the criminals of society,&mdash;of a
bad social world, which on every hand contrasts
immense wealth and voluptuous indulgence
with fathomless poverty and withering
want, and which too often makes of a marriage
but the cloak for infamy and prostitution.
I shared in every revel, and lost
myself in their maddening excitement. I
was admired, flattered, and elevated at last
to the position of presiding genius of these
scenes. I became the "Midnight Queen."
But let the curtain fall.</p>

<p>One night I noticed a new visitor, a remarkably
handsome gentleman who sat near
me at the supper-table, and whose hair and
eyes and whiskers were black as jet. He
regarded me very earnestly and with a look
which I could not define.</p>

<p>"Don't think me impertinent," he said,
and then added in a lower voice, "for I am
your father, Frank. Don't call me Van
Huyden&mdash;my name is Tarleton now."</p>

<p>Fearful that I might one day encounter
Ernest, I wrote him a long letter breathing
something of the tone of my early days&mdash;for
I forgot for awhile my utterly hopeless
condition&mdash;and informing him that mother
and myself were about to sail for Europe.
I wished him to believe that I was in a
foreign land.</p>

<p>And one night, while the revel was progressing
in the rooms below, Wareham entered
my room and interested me in the
description which he gave of a young lord,
who wished to be introduced to me.</p>

<p>"Young, handsome, and pale as if from
thought. The very style of man you admire,
my pet."</p>

<p>"Let him come up," I answered, and
Wareham retired.</p>

<p>I stood before the mirror as the young lord
entered, and as I turned, I saw the face of
my betrothed husband, Ernest Walworth.</p>

<p>Upon the horror of that moment I need
not dwell.</p>

<p>He fell insensible to the floor, and was
carried from the room and the house to the
carriage by Wareham, who had led him to
the place.</p>

<p>I have never seen the face of Ernest since
that hour.</p>

<p>I received one letter from him&mdash;one
only&mdash;in which he set forth the circumstances
which induced him to visit my
house, and in which he bade me "farewell."</p>

<p>He is now in a foreign land. The bones
of his father rest in the village church-yard.
The cottage home is desolate.</p>

<p>Wareham died suddenly about a year after
our "marriage." The doctors said that his
death was caused by an overdose of Morphine
<i>administered by himself in mistake</i>. He died
in our house, and as mother and myself stood
over his coffin in the darkened room, the day
before the funeral, I noticed that she regarded
first myself and then the face of the dead
profligate with a look full of meaning.</p>

<p>"Don't you think, dear mother," I whispered,
"that the death of this good man was
very singular?"</p>

<p>She made no reply, but still her face wore
that meaning look.</p>

<p>"Would it be strange, mother, if your
daughter, improving on your lessons, had
added another feature to her accomplishments&mdash;had
from the Midnight Queen,"&mdash;I
lowered my voice&mdash;"become the Midnight
<i>Poisoner</i>?"</p>

<p>I met her gaze boldly&mdash;and she turned
her face away.</p>

<p>He died without ever a dog to mourn for
him, and his immense wealth was inherited
by a deserted and much abused wife, who
lived in a foreign land.</p>

<p>Immense wealth in him bore its natural
flower&mdash;a life of shameless indulgence, ending
in a miserable death.</p>

<p>I did not shed very bitter tears at his funeral.
Hatred is not the word to express the
feeling with which I regard his memory.</p>

<p>Soon afterward my mother was taken ill,
and wasted rapidly to death. Hers was an
awful death-bed. The candle was burning
to its socket, and mingled its rays with the
pale moonlight which shone through the
window-curtains. Her brown hair, streaked
with gray, falling to her shoulders, her form
terribly emaciated, and her eyes glaring in
her shrunken face, she started up in her bed,
clutched my hands in hers, and&mdash;begged
me to forgive her.</p>

<p>My heart was stone. I could not frame
one forgiving word.</p>

<p>As her chilled hands clutched mine, she
rapidly went over the dark story of her life,&mdash;how
from an innocent girl, she had been
hardened into the thing she was,&mdash;and again,
her eyes glaring on my face, besought my
forgiveness.</p>

<p>"I forgive you, Mother," I said slowly,
and she died.</p>

<p>My father was not present at her death,
nor did he attend her funeral.</p>

<p>And for myself&mdash;what has the Future in
store for me?</p>

<p>O, for Rest! O, for Forgiveness! O, for a
quiet Sleep beneath the graveyard sod!</p>

<p>And with that aspiration for Rest, Forgiveness,
Peace, uttered with all the yearning
of a heart sick to the core, of life and all
that life can inflict or give, ended the manuscript
of <span class="smcap">Frances Van Huyden</span>, the<span class="smcap"> Midnight
Queen</span>.</p>

<hr class="tb" />

<p>It is now our task to describe certain scenes
which took place in New York, between
Nightfall and Midnight, on this 23d of December,
1844. And at midnight we will
enter <span class="smcap">The Temple</span> where the death's head
is hidden among voluptuous flowers.</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h2><a name="PART_SECOND" id="PART_SECOND">PART SECOND.</a></h2>

<h3>"FROM NIGHTFALL UNTIL MIDNIGHT."</h3>

<h4>DEC. 23, 1844.</h4>

<hr class="tb" />

<h3>CHAPTER I.</h3>

<h4>BLOODHOUND AND THE UNKNOWN.</h4>


<p>Two persons were sitting at a table, in the
Refectory beneath Lovejoy's Hotel. One of
these drank brandy and the other drank
water. The brandy drinker was our friend
Bloodhound, and the drinker of water was
a singular personage, whose forehead was
shaded by a broad-brimmed hat, while the
lower part of his face was covered by a blue
kerchief, which was tied over his throat and
mouth.</p>

<p>Seated at a table in the center of the
place, these two conversed in low tones,
while all around was uproar and confusion.</p>

<p>"You found these persons?" said the
gentleman with the broad-brimmed hat and
blue neckerchief.</p>

<p>"I didn't do anything else," replied the
Hound&mdash;"I met you here, at Lovejoy's,
about dusk. You were a tee-total stranger
to me. You says, says you, that you'd like
to do a good turn to Harry Royalton, and at
the same time <i>fix</i> this white nigger and his
sister&mdash;you know who I mean?"</p>

<p>"Randolph and Esther&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Well, we closed our bargain. You gave
me a note to Randolph and one to his sister.
I hunted 'em out and delivered your notes,
and here I am."</p>

<p>Bloodhound smiled one of his most frightful
smiles, and consoled himself with a glass
of brandy.</p>

<p>"Where did you find these persons?"
asked Blue Kerchief.</p>

<p>"At a tip-top boardin' house up town, accordin'
to your directions. I fust saw the
boy and delivered your note, and arter he
was gone I saw the gal and did the same.
Now, old boss, do you think they'll come?"</p>

<p>"You saw the contents of those notes?"</p>

<p>"I did. I saw you write 'em and read 'em
afore you sealed 'em up. The one to Randolph
requested him to be at a sartin place
on the Five Points about twelve o'clock.
An' the one to Esther requested her to be
at the Temple about the same hour. Now
do you think they'll come?"</p>

<p>"You have seen Godlike and Royalton?"
said the unknown, speaking thickly through
the neckerchief which enveloped his mouth.</p>

<p>"Godlike will be at the Temple as the
clock strikes twelve, and Harry and me will
be at Five Points, at the identical spot&mdash;you
know&mdash;at the very same identical hour."</p>

<p>"That is sufficient. Here is the sum I
promised you," and the stranger laid two
broad gold pieces on the table: "we must
now part. Should I ever need you, we will
meet again. Good night."</p>

<p>And the stranger rose, and left the refectory,
Bloodhound turning his head over his
shoulder as he watched his retreating figure
with dumb amazement.</p>

<p>"Cool! I call it cool!" he soliloquised;
"Waiter, see here; another glass of brandy.
Yet this is good gold; has the right ring,
hey? Judas Iscariot! Somehow or 'nother,
everything I touch turns to gold. Wonder
what the chap in the blue handkercher has
agin the white nigger and his sister? Who
keers? At twelve to-night Godlike will
have the gal, and Harry and I will have the
nigger. Ju-das Iscariot!" Here let us leave
the Bloodhound for awhile, to his solemn
meditations and his glass of brandy.</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h3><a name="CHAPTER_2_II" id="CHAPTER_2_II">CHAPTER II.</a></h3>

<h4>THE CANAL STREET SHIRT STORE.</h4>


<p>"Do you call them stitches? S-a-y?
How d'ye expect a man to git a livin' if he's
robbed in that way? Do you call that a
shirt&mdash;s-a-y?"</p>

<p>"Indeed I did my best&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Did your best? I should like to know
what you take me for? D'ye think I'm a
fool? Did not I give you the stuff for five
shirts, and fust of all, I exacted a pledge of
five dollars from you, to be forfeited if you
spoilt the stuff&mdash;"</p>

<p>"And you know I was to receive two shillings
for each shirt. I'll thank you to pay
me my money, and restore my five dollars
and let me go&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Not a copper. This shirt is spoilt. And
if those you have in your arms are no better,
why they are spoilt too&mdash;"</p>

<p>"They're made as well as the one you
hold&mdash;no better."</p>

<p>"Then I can't sell 'em for old rags. Just
give 'em to me, and clear out&mdash;"</p>

<p>"At least give me back my five dollars&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Not a copper. Had you finished these
shirts in the right style, they'd a-sold for fifteen
dollars. As it is, the money is forfeited,&mdash;I
mean the five dollars which you left
with me as a pledge. I can't employ you
any more. Just give me the other four
shirts, and clear out."</p>

<p>The storekeeper and the poor girl were
separated by a counter, on which was placed
a showy case. She was dressed in a faded
calico gown, and a shawl as worn and faded,
hung about her shoulders. She wore a straw
bonnet, although it was a night in mid-winter;
and beneath her poverty-stricken dress,
her shoes were visible: old and worn into
shreds they scarcely clung to her feet. Her
entire appearance indicated extreme poverty.</p>

<p>The storekeeper, who stood beneath the
gas-light, was a well preserved and portly
man of forty years, or more, with a bald head,
a wide mouth and a snub nose. Rings glistered
on his fat fingers. His black velvet
vest was crossed by a gold chain. His spotless
shirt bosom was decorated by a flashy
breastpin. He spoke sharp and quick, and
with a proper sense of his dignity as the
Proprietor of the "<span class="smcap">only universal shirt
store</span>, No. &mdash;&mdash;, Canal St., New York."</p>

<p>Between him and the girl was a glass case,
in which were displayed shirts of the most
elegant patterns and elaborate workmanship.
Behind him were shelves, lined with boxes,
also filled with shirts, whose prices were labeled
on the outside of each box. At his
right-hand, was the shop-window,&mdash;a small
room in itself&mdash;flaring with gas, and crowded
with shirts of all imaginable shapes&mdash;shirts
with high collars, Byron collars, and
shirts without any collars at all;&mdash;shirts with
plaits large, small and infinitesimal&mdash;shirts
with ruffles, shirts with stripes and shirts
with spots;&mdash;in fact, looking into the window,
you would have imagined that Mr.
<span class="smcap">Screw Grabb</span> was a very Apostle of clean
linen, with a mission to clothe a benighted
world, with shirts; and that his Temple,
"<i>the</i> <span class="smcap">Only Universal Shirt Store</span>," was
the most important place on the face of the
globe. There, too, appeared eloquent appeals
to passers-by. These were printed on
cards, in immense capitals,&mdash;"<span class="smcap">Shirts for
the Million! The Great Shirt Emporium!
Who would be</span> <i>without a shirt,
when Screw Grab sells them for only</i> $1?
<span class="smcap">This</span> IS <i>the</i> ONLY <span class="smcap">Shirt Store</span>,"&mdash;and so
on to the end of the chapter.</p>

<p>The conversation which we have recorded,
took place in this store, soon after 'gas-light'
on the evening of Dec. 23d, 1844, between
Mr. <span class="smcap">Screw Grabb</span> and the <span class="smcap">Poor Girl</span>, who
stood before him, holding a small bundle in
her arms.</p>

<p>"You surely do not mean to retain my
money?" said the girl&mdash;and she laid one
hand against the counter, and attentively surveyed
the face of Mr. Grabb&mdash;"You find
fault with my work&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Never saw <i>wuss</i> stitchin' in my life,"
said Grabb.</p>

<p>"But that is no reason why you should
refuse to return the money which I placed
in your hands. Consider, Sir, you will distress
me very much. I really cannot afford
to lose that five dollars,&mdash;indeed&mdash;"</p>

<p>She turned toward him a face which, impressed
as it was with a look of extreme distress,
was also invested with the light of a
clear, calm, almost holy beauty. It was the
face of a girl of sixteen, whom thought and
anxiety had ripened into grave and serious
womanhood. Her brown hair was gathered
neatly under her faded straw bonnet, displaying
a forehead which bore traces of a corroding
care; there was light and life in her
large eyes, light and life without much of
hope; there was youth on her cheeks and
lips; youth fresh and virgin, and unstained
by the touch of sin.</p>

<p>"Will you give me them four shirts,&mdash;s-a-y?"
was the answer of Grabb,&mdash;"them
as you has in your bundle there?"</p>

<p>The girl for a moment seemed buried in
reflection. May be the thought of a dreary
winter night and a desolate home was busy
at her heart. When she raised her head she
fixed her eyes full upon the face of Mr.
Grabb, and said distinctly:</p>

<p>"I will <i>not</i> give you these shirts until you
return my money."</p>

<p>"What's that you say? You won't give
'em back&mdash;won't you?" and Mr. Grabb darted
around the counter, yardstick in hand.
"We'll see,&mdash;we'll see. Now just hand 'em
over!"</p>

<p>He placed himself between her and the
door, and raised the yardstick over her
head.</p>

<p>The girl retreated step by step, Mr. Grabb
advancing as she retreated, with the yardstick
in his fat hand.</p>

<p>"Give 'em up,&mdash;" he seized her arm, and
attempted to tear the bundle from her grasp.
"Give 'em up you &mdash;&mdash;" he applied an epithet
which he had heard used by a manager
of a theater to the unfortunate girls in his
employment.</p>

<p>At the word, the young woman retreated
into a corner behind the counter, her face
flushed and her eyes flashing with an almost
savage light&mdash;</p>

<p>"You cowardly villain!" she said, "to insult
me because I will not permit you to
rob me. O, you despicable coward&mdash;for
shame!"</p>

<p>The look of her eye and curl of her lip
by no means pleased the corpulent Grabb.
He grew red with rage. When he spoke
again it was in a loud voice and with an
emphatic sweep of the yardstick.</p>

<p>"If you don't give 'em up, I'll&mdash;I'll
break every bone in your body. You hussy!
You &mdash;&mdash;! What do you think of yourself&mdash;to
attempt to rob a poor man of his
property?"</p>

<p>These words attracted the attention of the
passers-by; and in a moment, the doorway
was occupied by a throng of curious spectators.
The poor girl, looking over Grabb's
shoulders, saw that she was the object of the
gaze of some dozen pairs of eyes.</p>

<p>"Gentlemen, this hussy has attempted to
rob me of my property! I gave her stuff
sufficient to make five shirts, and she's spoilt
'em so I can't sell 'em for old rags, and&mdash;and
she won't give 'em up."</p>

<p>"If they ain't good for nothing, what d'ye
want with 'em?" remarked the foremost of
the spectators.</p>

<p>But Grabb was determined to bring matters
to a crisis.</p>

<p>"Now, look here," he said, holding the
yardstick in front of the girl, and thus imprisoning
her in the corner; "if you don't
give 'em up, I'll strip the clothes from your
back."</p>

<p>The girl turned scarlet in the face; her
arms sank slowly to her side; the bundle
fell from her hands; she burst into tears.</p>

<p>"Shame! shame!" cried one of the spectators.</p>

<p>"It's the way he does business," added a
voice in the background. "He won't give
out any work unless the girl, who applies for
it, places some money in his hands as a
pledge. When the work is brought into the
store, he pretends that it's spoilt, and keeps
the money. That's the way he raises
capital!"</p>

<p>"What's that you say?" cried Grabb,
turning fiercely on the crowd, who had advanced
some one or two paces into the store.
"Who said that?"</p>

<p>A man in a coarse, brown bang-up advanced
from the crowd&mdash;</p>

<p>"I said it, and I'll stand to it! Ain't
you a purty specimen of a bald-headed
Christian, to try and cheat the poor girl out
of her hard-airned money?"</p>

<p>"I'll call the police," cried Grabb.</p>

<p>"What a pattern! what a beauty!" continued
the man in the brown bang-up;
"why rotten eggs 'ud be wasted on such a
carcass as that!"</p>

<p>"Police! Police!" screamed Grabb,&mdash;"Gentlemen,
I'd like to know if there is any
law in this land?"</p>

<p>While this altercation was in progress the
poor girl&mdash;thoroughly ashamed to find herself
the center of a public broil&mdash;covered
her face with her hands and wept as if her
heart would break.</p>

<p>"Take my arm," said a voice at her side;
"there will be a fight. Quick, my dear Miss,
you must get out of this as quick as
possible."</p>

<p>The speaker was a short and slender man,
wrapped in a Spanish mantle, and his hat
was drawn low over his forehead.</p>

<p>The girl seized his arm, and while the
crowd formed a circle around Grabb and the
brown bang-up, they contrived to pass unobserved
from the store. Presently the poor
girl was hurrying along Canal street, her
hand still clasping the arm of the stranger
in the cloak.</p>

<p>"Bad business! Bad business!" he said
in a quick, abrupt tone. "That Grabb's a
scoundrel. Here's Broadway, my dear, and
I must bid you good-night. Good-night,&mdash;good-night."</p>

<p>And he left the poor girl at the corner of
Broadway and Canal street. He was lost in
the crowd ere she was aware of his departure.
She was left alone, on the street corner, in
the midst of that torrent of life; and it was
not until some moments had elapsed that
she could fully comprehend her desolate
condition.</p>

<p>"It was the last five dollars I had in the
world! What can I do! In the name of
God, what can I do!"</p>

<p>She looked up Broadway&mdash;it extended
there, one glittering track of light.</p>

<p>"Not a friend, and not a dollar in the
world!"</p>

<p>She looked down Broadway&mdash;far into the
distance it extended, its million lights over-arched
by a dull December sky.</p>

<p>"Not a friend and not a dollar!"</p>

<p>She turned down Broadway with languid
and leaden steps. A miserably clad and
heart-broken girl, she glided among the
crowds, which lined the street, like a specter
through the mazes of a banquet.</p>

<p>Poor girl! Down Broadway, until the
Park is passed, and the huge Astor House
glares out upon the darkness from its hundred
windows. Down Broadway, until you
reach the unfinished pile of Trinity Church,
where heaps of lumber and rubbish appear
among white tombstones. Turn from Broadway
and stride this narrow street which
leads to the dark river: your home is there.</p>

<p>Back of Trinity Church, in Greenwich
street, we believe, there stands on this
December night a four storied edifice, tenanted,
only a few years ago, by a wealthy
family. Then it was the palace of a man
who counted his wealth by hundreds of
thousands. Now it is a palace of a different
sort; look at it, as from garret to cellar it
flashes with light in every window.</p>

<p>The cellar is the home of ten families.</p>

<p>The first floor is occupied as a beer
"saloon;" you can hear men getting drunk
in three or four languages, if you will only
stand by the window for a moment.</p>

<p>Twenty persons live on the second floor.</p>

<p>Fifteen make their home on the third
floor.</p>

<p>The fourth floor is tenanted by nineteen
human beings.</p>

<p>The garret is divided into four apartments;
one of these has a garret-window to itself,
and this is the home of the poor girl.</p>

<p>She ascended the marble staircase which
led from the first to the fourth floor. At
every step her ear was assailed with curses,
drunken shouts, the cries of children, and a
thousand other sounds, which, night and
day resounded through that palace of rags
and wretchedness. Feeble and heart-sick
she arrived at length in front of the garret
door, which opened into her home.</p>

<p>She listened in the darkness; all was still
within.</p>

<p>"He sleeps," she murmured, "thank
God!" and opened the door. All was dark
within, but presently, with the aid of a
match, she lighted a candle, and the details
of the place were visible. It was a nook of
the original garret, fenced off by a partition
of rough boards. The slope of the roof
formed its ceiling. The garret window
occupied nearly an entire side of the place.
There was a mattress on the floor, in one corner;
a small pine table stood beside the partition;
and the recess of the garret-window
was occupied by an old arm-chair.</p>

<p>This chair was occupied by a man whose
body, incased in a faded wrapper, reminded
you of a skeleton placed in a sitting posture.
His emaciated hands rested on the arms, and
his head rested helplessly against the back
of the chair. His hair was white as snow;
it was scattered in flakes about his forehead.
His face, furrowed in deep wrinkles, was
lividly pale; it resembled nothing save the
face of a corpse. His eyes, wide open and
fixed as if the hand of death had touched
him, were centered upon the flame of the
candle, while a meaningless smile played
about his colorless lips.</p>

<p>The girl kissed him on the lips and forehead,
but he gave no sign of recognition
save a faint laugh, which died on the air ere
it was uttered.</p>

<p>For the poor man, prematurely old and
reduced to a mere skeleton, was an idiot.</p>

<p>"Oh, my God, and I have not bread to
feed him!" No words can describe the tone
and look with which the poor girl uttered
these words.</p>

<p>She flung aside her bonnet and shawl.</p>

<p>Then it might be seen that, in spite of her
faded dress, she was a very beautiful young
woman; not only beautiful in regularity of
features, but in the whiteness of her shoulders,
the fullness of her bust, the proportions
of her tall and rounded form. Her hair,
escaping from the ribbon which bound it,
streamed freely over her shoulders, and
caught the rays of the light on every glossy
wave.</p>

<p>She leaned her forehead upon her head,
and&mdash;thought.</p>

<p>Hard she had tried to keep a home for the
poor <span class="smcap">Idiot</span>, who sat in the chair&mdash;very hard.
She had tried her pencil, and gained bread
for awhile, thus; but her drawings ceased to
command a price at the picture store, and
this means of subsistence failed her. She
had taught music, and had been a miserable
dependent upon the rich; been insulted by
their daughters, and been made the object
of the insulting offers of their sons. And
forced at length by the condition of her
<span class="smcap">Idiot Father</span>, to remain with him, in their
own home&mdash;to be constantly near him, day
and night&mdash;she had sought work at the shirt
store on Canal street, and been robbed of the
treasure which she had accumulated through
the summer; an immense treasure&mdash;<span class="smcap">Five
Dollars</span>.</p>

<p>She had not a penny; there was no bread
in the closet; there was no fire in the sheet
iron stove which stood in one corner; her
Idiot Father, her iron fate were before her&mdash;harsh
and bitter realities.</p>

<p>She was thinking.</p>

<p>Apply to those rich relations, who had
known her father in days of prosperity? No.
Better death than that.</p>

<p>She was thinking. Her forehead on her
hand, her hair streaming over her shoulders,
her bosom which had never known even the
thought of pollution, heaving and swelling
within her calico gown&mdash;she was thinking.</p>

<p>And as she thought, and <i>thought</i> her hair
began to burn, and her blood to bound rapidly
in her veins.</p>

<p>Her face is shaded by her hand, and a
portion of her hair falls over that hand;
therefore you cannot tell her thoughts by
the changes of her countenance.</p>

<p>I would not like to know her thoughts.</p>

<p>For there is a point of misery, at which
but two doors of escape open to the gaze of
a beautiful woman, who struggles with the last
extreme of poverty: one door has the <span class="smcap">grave</span>
behind it, and the other,&mdash;&mdash;</p>

<p>Yes, there are some thoughts which it is
not good to write on paper. It was in the
midst of this current of dark and bitter
thoughts, that the eye of the young woman
wandered absently to the faded shawl which
she had thrown across the table.</p>

<p>"What is this? A letter! Pinned to my
shawl&mdash;by whom?"</p>

<p>It was indeed a letter, addressed to her,
and pinned to her shawl by an unknown
hand.</p>

<p>She seized it eagerly, and opened it, and
read.</p>

<p>Her face, her neck, and the glimpse of her
bosom, opening above her dress, all became
scarlet with the same blush. Still her eyes
grew brighter as she read the letter, and
incoherent ejaculations passed from her lips.</p>

<p>The letter was written&mdash;so it said&mdash;by the
man who had taken her from the store on
Canal street. Its contents we may not guess,
save from the broken words of the agitated
girl.</p>

<p>"'<i>At twelve o'clock, at</i> "<span class="smcap">the Temple</span>,"
<i>whose street and number you will find on the
inclosed card</i>.'"</p>

<p>And a card dropped from the letter upon
the table. She seized it eagerly and clasped
it as though it was so much gold.</p>

<p>"'<span class="smcap">The Temple</span>,'" she murmured again,
and her eyes instinctively wandered to the
face of her father.</p>

<p>Then she burst into a flood of tears.</p>

<p>For three hours, while the candle burned
toward its socket, she meditated upon the
contents of that letter.</p>

<p>At last she rose, and took from a closet
near the door, a mantilla of black velvet, the
only garment which the pawnbroker had
spared. It was old and faded; it was the
only relic of better days. She resumed her
bonnet and wound the mantilla about her
shoulders and kissed her <span class="smcap">Idiot Father</span> on
the lips and brow. He had fallen into a
dull, dreamless sleep, and looked like a dead
man with his fallen lip and half-shut eyes.</p>

<p>"'<span class="smcap">The Temple</span>!'" she exclaimed and attentively
perused the card.</p>

<p>Then extinguishing the candle, she wound
a coverlet about her father's form and left
him there alone in the garret. She passed
the threshold and went down the marble
stairs. God pity her.</p>

<p>Yes, God pity her!</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h3><a name="CHAPTER_2_III" id="CHAPTER_2_III">CHAPTER III.</a></h3>

<h4>"DO THEY ROAR?"</h4>


<p>At nine o'clock, on the night of December
23d, 1844,&mdash;&mdash;</p>

<p>"Do they roar?" said Israel Yorke, passing
his hand through his gray whiskers, as
he sat at the head of a large table covered
with green baize.</p>

<p>It was in a large square room, on the
second story of his Banking House&mdash;if Israel's
place of business can be designated by that
name. The gas-light disclosed the floor
covered with matting, and the high walls,
overspread with lithographs of unknown
cities and imaginary copper-mines. There
were also three lithographs of the towns in
which Israel's principal Banks were situated.
There was Chow Bank and Muddy Run,
and there in all its glory was Terrapin Hollow.
In each of these distant towns, located
somewhere in New Jersey or Pennsylvania&mdash;or
Heaven only knows where&mdash;Israel owned
a Bank, a live Bank, chartered by a State
Legislature, and provided with a convenient
President and Cashier. Israel was a host of
stockholders in himself. He had an office in
New York for the redemption of the notes
of the three Banks; it is in the room above
this office that we now behold him.</p>

<p>"Do they roar?" he asked, and arranged
his spectacles on his turn up nose, and
grinned to himself until his little black eyes
shone again.</p>

<p>"Do they roar?" answered the voice of
Israel's man of business, who sat at the lower
end of the green baize table&mdash;"Just go to the
window and hear 'em! Hark! There it
goes again. It sounds like fourth of July."</p>

<p>Truth to say, a strange ominous murmur
came from the street&mdash;a murmur composed
of about an equal quantity of curses and
groans.</p>

<p>"There's six thousand of 'em," said the
man of business; "The street is black with
'em. And all sorts o' nasty little boys go
about with placards on which such words are
inscribed: '<i>Here's an orphan&mdash;one o' them
that was cheated by Israel Yorke and his Three
Banks.</i>' Hark! There it goes again!"</p>

<p>The man of business was a phlegmatic individual
of about forty years; a dull heavy
face adorned with green spectacles, and propped
by a huge black stock and a pair of immense
shirt collars. Mr. <span class="smcap">Fetch</span> was indeed
Israel's <span class="smcap">Man</span>; he in some measure supplied
the place of the late lamented Jedediah
Buggles, Esq., 'whose dignity of character
and strict integrity,' etc., etc., (for the rest,
see obituaries on Buggles in the daily papers).</p>

<p>"Fetch, they <i>do</i> roar," responded Israel.
"Was there notice of the failure in the afternoon
papers?"</p>

<p>"Had it put in myself. Dilated upon the
robbery which was committed on you last
night, in the cars; and spoke of your disposition
to redeem the notes of Chow Bank,
Muddy Run and Terrapin Hollow, as soon
as&mdash;<i>you could make it convenient</i>."</p>

<p>"Yes, Fetch, in about a week these notes
can be bought for ten cents on the dollar,"
calmly remarked Yorke, "they're mostly in
the hands of market people, mechanics, day-laborers,
servant-maids, and those kind of
people, who <i>can't afford to wait</i>. Well,
Fetch, what were they sellin' at to-day?"</p>

<p>"Three shillings on the dollar. You know
we only failed this mornin'," answered Fetch.</p>

<p>"Yes, yes, about a week will do it"&mdash;Israel
drew forth a gold pencil, and made a
calculation on a card,&mdash;"In about a week
they'll be down to ten cents on the dollar.
We must buy 'em in quietly at that rate;
our friends on Wall street will help us, you
know. Well, let's see how the profit will
stand&mdash;there are in circulation $300,000 of
Chow Bank notes&mdash;"</p>

<p>"And $150,000 of Muddy Run," interrupted
Fetch.</p>

<p>"And $200,000 of Terrapin Hollow," continued
Yorke,&mdash;"Now supposin' that there
are altogether $500,000&mdash;a half million of
these notes now in circulation&mdash;we can buy
'em in <i>quietly</i> you know, at ten cents on the
dollar, for some&mdash;some&mdash;yes, $50,000 will
do it. That will leave a clear profit of
$450,000. Not so bad,&mdash;eh, Fetch?"</p>

<p>"But you forget how much it cost you to
get the charters of these banks&mdash;" interrupted
Fetch. "The amount of champagne
that I myself forwarded to Trenton and to
Harrisburg, would float a small brig. Then
there was some ready money that you loaned
to Members of Legislature&mdash;put that down
Mr. Yorke."</p>

<p>"We'll say $5000 for champagne, and
$25,000 loaned to Members of Legislature
(though they don't bring anything near that
now), why we have a total of $25,000 for
<i>expenses incurred in procuring charters</i>. Deduct
that from $450,000 and you still have
$425,000. A neat sum, Fetch."</p>

<p>"Yes, but you must look to your character.
You must come out of it with flyin'
colors. After nearly all the notes have been
bought in, by ourselves or our agents, we
must announce that having recovered from
our late reverses, we are now prepared to redeem
all our notes, dollar for dollar."</p>

<p>"And Fetch, if we manage it right,
there'll be only $10,000 worth left in circulation,
at the time we make the announcement.
That will take $10,000 from our total
of $425,000, leavin' us still the sum of
$415,000. A pretty sum, Fetch."</p>

<p>"You may as well strike off that $15,000
for extra expenses,&mdash;paragraphs in some of
the newspapers,&mdash;grand juries, and other
little incidents of that kind. O, you'll come
out of it with <i>character</i>."</p>

<p>"Ghoul of the Blerze will assail me, eh?"
said Israel, fidgeting in his chair: "He'll
talk o' nothin' else than Chow Bank, Muddy
Run and Terrapin Hollow, for months to
come,&mdash;eh, Fetch?"</p>

<p>"For years, for years," responded Fetch,
"It will be nuts for Ghoul."</p>

<p>"And that cursed affair last night!" continued
Yorke, as though thinking aloud,
"Seventy-one thousand gone at one slap."</p>

<p>Fetch looked funnily at his principal from
beneath his gold spectacles: "No? It was
real then? I thought&mdash;"</p>

<p>Mr. Yorke abruptly consigned the thoughts
of Mr. Fetch to a personage who shall be
nameless, and then continued:</p>

<p>"It was <i>real</i>,&mdash;a <i>bona fide</i> robbery. Seventy-one
thousand at a slap! By-the-bye, Fetch,
has Blossom been here to-night&mdash;Blossom
the police officer?"</p>

<p>"Couldn't get in; too much of a crowd in
the street."</p>

<p>"I did not intend him to come by the
front door. He was to come up the back
way,&mdash;about this hour&mdash;he gave me some
hope this afternoon. <i>That</i> was an unfortunate
affair last night!"</p>

<p>"How they roar! Listen!" said Fetch,
bending himself into a listening attitude.</p>

<p>And again that ominous sound came from
the street without,&mdash;the combined groans
and curses of six thousand human beings.</p>

<p>"Like buffaloes!" quietly remarked Mr.
Yorke.</p>

<p>"Like demons!" added Mr. Fetch. "Hear
'em."</p>

<p>"Was there much fuss to-day, when we
suspended, Fetch?"</p>

<p>"Quantities of market people, mechanics,
widows and servant maids," said the man of
business. "I should think you'd stood a
pretty good chance of being torn to pieces,
if you'd been visible. Had this happened
south, you'd have been tarred and feathered.
Here you'd only be tore to pieces."</p>

<p>A step was heard in the back part of the
room, and in a moment <span class="smcap">Blossom</span>, in his
pictorial face and bear-skin over-coat, appeared
upon the scene.</p>

<p>"What is the matter with your head?"
asked Mr. Fetch,&mdash;"Is that a handkerchief
or a towel?" He pointed to something like
a turban, which Poke-Berry Blossom wore
under his glossy hat.</p>

<p>Blossom sunk sullenly into a chair, without
a word.</p>

<p>"What's the matter?" exclaimed Yorke,
"Have you&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Suppose you had sixteen inches taken
out of yer skull," responded Blossom in a
sullen tone, "You'd know what was the
matter. Thunder!" he added, "this is a
rum world!"</p>

<p>"Did you&mdash;" again began Yorke, brushing
his gray whiskers and fidgeting in his
chair.</p>

<p>"Yes I did. I tracked 'em to a groggery
up town airly this evenin'. I had 'em all
alone, to myself, up stairs. I caught the
young 'un examinin' the valise&mdash;I seed the
<i>dimes</i> with my own eyes. I&mdash;"</p>

<p>"You arrested them?" gasped Yorke.</p>

<p>"How could I, when I ain't a real police,
and hadn't any warrant? I did grapple
with 'em; but the young 'un got out on the
roof with the valise, and I was left to
manage the old 'un as best I could. I tried
to make him b'lieve that I had a detachment
down stairs, but he gi'n me a lick over the
top-knot that made me see Fourth of July,
I tell you. There I laid, I don't know how
long. When I got my senses, they was
gone."</p>

<p>"But you pursued them?" asked Yorke,
with a nervous start.</p>

<p>"With a hole in my head big enough to
put a market-basket in?" responded Blossom,
with a pitying smile, "what do you
think I'm made of? Do you think I'm a
Japan mermaid or an Egyptian mummy?"</p>

<p>It will be perceived that Mr. Blossom said
nothing about the <span class="smcap">house</span> which stood next
to the <span class="smcap">Yellow Mug</span>; he did not even
mention the latter place by name. Nor did
he relate how he pursued Nameless into this
house, and how after an unsuccessful pursuit,
he returned into the garret of the Mug,
where Ninety-One, (who for a moment or
two had been hiding upon the roof,) grappled
with him, and laid him senseless by a well
planted blow. Upon these topics Mr. Blossom
maintained a mysterious silence. His
reasons for this course may hereafter appear.</p>

<p>"And so you've given up the affair?" said
Yorke, sinking back into his chair.</p>

<p>Now the truth is, that Blossom, chafed by
his inquiries and mortified at his defeat, was
cogitating an important matter to himself&mdash;"Can
I make anything by givin' Israel into
the hands of the mob? I might lead 'em
up the back stairs. Lord! how they'd make
the fur fly! <i>But who'd pay me?</i>" The
italicized query troubled Blossom and made
him thoughtful.</p>

<p>"And so the seventy thousand's clean
gone," exclaimed Fetch, in a mournful tone:
"It makes one melancholy to think of it."</p>

<p>"Pardon me, Mr. Yorke, for this intrusion,"
said a bland voice, "but I have followed
Mr. Blossom to this room. I caught
sight of him a few moments ago as he left
Broadway, and tried to speak to him as he
pushed through the crowd in front of your
door, but in vain. So being exceedingly
anxious to see him, I was forced to follow
him up stairs, into your room."</p>

<p>"Colonel Tarleton!" ejaculated Yorke.</p>

<p>"The handsom' Curnel!" chorused Blossom.</p>

<p>It was indeed the handsome Colonel, who
with his white coat buttoned tightly over his
chest and around his waist, stood smiling
and bowing behind the chair of Berry
Blossom.</p>

<p>"You did not tell any one of the back
door," cried Yorke,&mdash;"If you did&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Why then, (you were about to remark I
believe,) we should have a great many more
persons in the room, than it would be
pleasant for you to see, <i>just now</i>."</p>

<p>The Colonel made one of his most elegant
bows as he made this remark. Mr.
Yorke bit his nails but made no reply.</p>

<p>"Mr. Blossom, a word with you." The
Colonel took the police officer by the arm
and led him far back into that part of the
room most remote from the table.</p>

<p>"What's up, Mister?" asked Blossom,
arranging his turban.</p>

<p>As they stood there, in the gloom which
pervaded that part of the room, the Colonel
answered him with a low and significant
whisper:</p>

<p>"Do you remember that old ruffian who
was charged last night in the cars with&mdash;"</p>

<p>"You mean old Ninety-One, as he calls
hisself," interrupted Blossom&mdash;"Well, I
guess I do."</p>

<p>"Very good," continued the Colonel.&mdash;"Now
suppose this ruffian had concealed
himself in the house of a wealthy man, with
the purpose of committing a robbery this
very night!"</p>

<p>Blossom was all ears.</p>

<p>"Well, well,&mdash;drive ahead. Suppose,&mdash;suppose,"&mdash;he
said impatiently.</p>

<p>"Not so fast. Suppose, further, that a
<i>gentleman</i> who had overheard this villain
plotting this purposed crime, was to give you
full information in regard to the affair, could
you,&mdash;could you,&mdash;when called upon to
give evidence before the court, forget the
name of this <i>gentleman</i>?"</p>

<p>"I'd know no more of him than an unborn
baby," eagerly whispered Blossom.</p>

<p>"Hold a moment. This gentleman overhears
the plot, in the room of a <i>certain house</i>,
not used as a church, precisely. The gentleman
does not wish to be known as a visitor
to <i>that house</i>,&mdash;you comprehend? But in
<i>that house</i>, he happens to hear the ruffian and
his young comrade planning this robbery.
Himself unseen, he hears their whole conversation.
He finds out that they intend to
enter the house where the robbery is to take
place, by a false key and a back stairway.
Now&mdash;"</p>

<p>"You want to know, in straight-for'ard
talk," interrupted Blossom, "whether, when
the case comes to trial, I could remember
having overheard the convict and the young
'un mesself? There's my hand on it,
Curnel. Just set me on the track, and you'll
find that I'll never say one word about you.
Beside, I was arter these two covies this
very night,&mdash;I seed 'em with my own eyes,
in the garret of the Yellow Mug."</p>

<p>"You did!" cried the Colonel, with an accent
of undisguised satisfaction. "Then
possibly you may remember that you overheard
them planning this burglary, as you listened
behind the garret door?"</p>

<p>"Of course I can," replied Blossom, "I
remember it <i>quite</i> plain. Jist tell me the
number of the house that is to be robbed,
and I'll show you fireworks."</p>

<p>The Colonel's face was agitated by a
smile of infernal delight. Leaving Blossom
for a moment, he paced the floor, with his
finger to his lip.</p>

<p>"Pop and Pill will leave town to-morrow,"
he muttered to himself, "and they'll
keep out of the way until the storm blows
over. This fellow will go to the house of
Sowers, inform him of the robbery, a search
will be made, and Ninety-One discovered in
one room, and the corpse of Evelyn in the
other. Just at that hour I'll happen to be
passing by, and in the confusion I'll try to
secure this youthful secretary of Old Sowers.
I shall want him for the twenty-fifth
of December. As for the <span class="smcap">other</span>, why,
Frank must take care of him. Shall Ninety-One
come to a hint of the murder?"&mdash;the
Colonel paused and struck his forehead.
"Head, you have never failed me, and will
not fail me now!"</p>

<p>He turned to Blossom, and in low whispers
the twain arranged all the details of the
affair. They conversed together there in the
gloom until they perfectly understood each
other, Blossom turning now and then to indulge
in a quiet laugh, and the Colonel's
dark eyes flashing with earnestness, and may
be, with the hope of gratified revenge. At
length they shook hands, and the Colonel
approached the table:</p>

<p>"Mr. Yorke, I have the honor to wish
you a very good evening," said the Colonel,
and after a polite bow, he departed.</p>

<p>"I leave him with his serenaders," he
muttered as he disappeared. "This murder
off my hands, and the private secretary in
my power, I think I will hold the trump
card on the Twenty-fifth of December!"</p>

<p>With this muttered exclamation he went
down the back stairway.</p>

<p>"Yorke, my genius!" cried Blossom, clapping
the financier on the back, "if I don't
have them $71,000 dollars before twenty-four
hours, you may call me&mdash;you may call
me,&mdash;most anything you please. By-the-bye,
did you hear that howl? Good-night,
Yorke." And he went down the back stairway.</p>

<p>The financier, coughing for breath, (for
the hand of Blossom had been somewhat
emphatic), fixed his gold specs, and brushed
his gray whiskers, and turning to Mr. Fetch,
said gayly,</p>

<p>"He looks as if he was on the right
track; don't he, Fetch?"</p>

<p>Fetch said he did; and presently he also
retired down the back stairway, promising to
see his Principal at an early hour on the
morrow. "How they do roar!" he ejaculated,
as he disappeared.</p>

<p>Yorke was alone. He shifted and twisted
uneasily in his chair. His little black eyes
shone with peculiar luster. He sat for a
long time buried in thought, and at last
gave utterance to these words:</p>

<p>"I think I'd better retire until the storm
blows over, leaving Fetch to bring in my
notes, and manage affairs. To what part of
the world shall I go? Well,&mdash;w-e-ll!&mdash;Havana,
yes, that's the word, Havana! But
first I must see the result of this Van Huyden
matter on the Twenty-fifth, and provide
myself with a <i>companion</i>&mdash;a pleasant <i>companion</i>
to cheer me in my loneliness at Havana.
Ah!" the man of money actually
breathed an amorous sigh,&mdash;"<i>twelve to-night</i>,&mdash;<span class="smcap">the
Temple</span>!&mdash;that's the word."</p>

<p>And in the street without, black with
heads, there were at least three thousand
people who would have cut the throat of Israel,
had they once laid hands upon him.</p>

<p>"<span class="smcap">The Temple</span>!" he again ejaculated, and
sinking back in his chair, he inserted his
thumbs in the arm-holes of his vest, and
resigned himself to a pleasant dream.</p>

<hr class="tb" />

<p>Leaving Israel Yorke for a little while,
we will trace the movements, and listen to
the words of a personage of far different
character.</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h3><a name="CHAPTER_2_IV" id="CHAPTER_2_IV">CHAPTER IV.</a></h3>

<h4>THE SEVEN VAULTS.</h4>


<p>About the hour of nine o'clock, on the
23d of December, a gentleman, wrapped in
the folds of a Spanish mantle, passed along
Broadway, on his way to the Astor House.
Through the glare and glitter, the uproar
and the motion of that thronged pathway, he
passed rapidly along, his entire appearance
and manner distinguishing him from the
crowd. As he came into the glare of the
brilliantly-lighted windows, his face and features,
disclosed but for an instant, beneath
his broad sombrero, made an impression
upon those who beheld them, which they
did not soon forget. That face, unnaturally
pale, was lighted by eyes that shone
with incessant luster; and its almost death-like
pallor was in strong contrast with his
moustache, his beard and hair, all of intense
blackness. His dark hair, tossed by the
winter winds, fell in wavy tresses to the collar
of his cloak. His movements were quick
and impetuous, and his stealthy gait, in
some respects, reminded you of the Indian.
Altogether, in a crowd of a thousand you
would have singled him out as a remarkable
man,&mdash;one of those whose faces confront
you at rare intervals, in the church, the
street, in the railroad-car, on ship-board, and
who at first sight elicit the involuntary ejaculation,
"That man's history I would like to
know!"</p>

<p>Arrived at the Astor House he registered
his name, <span class="smcap">Gaspar Manuel</span>, <i>Havana</i>.</p>

<p>He had just landed from the Havana
steamer.</p>

<p>As he wrote his name on the Hotel book,
he uncovered his head, and&mdash;by the gas
light which shone fully on him,&mdash;it might
be seen that his dark hair, which fell to his
shoulders, was streaked with threads of
silver. The vivid brightness of his eyes,
the death-like pallor of his face, became
more perceptible in the strong light; and
when he threw his cloak aside, you beheld a
slender frame, slightly bent in the shoulders,
clad in a dark frock coat, which, single
breasted, and with a strait collar, reached to
the knees.</p>

<p>His face seemed to indicate the traveler
who has journeyed in many lands, seen all
phases of life, thought much, suffered deeply,
and at times grown sick of all that life can
inflict or bestow; his attire indicated a member
of some religious organization, perchance
a member of that society founded
by Loyola, which has sometimes honored,
but oftener blasphemed, the name of <span class="smcap">Jesus</span>.
Directing his trunks,&mdash;there were some
three or four, huge in size, and strangely
strapped and banded&mdash;to be sent to his
room, Gaspar Manuel resumed his cloak and
sombrero, and left the hall of the hotel.</p>

<p>It was an hour before he appeared again.
As he emerged from one of the corridors
into the light of the hall, you would have
scarcely recognized the man. In place of
his Jesuit-like attire, he wore a fashionably
made black dress coat, a snow-white vest,
black pants and neatly-fitting boots. There
was a diamond in the center of his black
scarf, and a massy gold chain across his vest.
And a diamond even more dazzling than
that which shone upon his scarf, sparkled
from the little finger of his left-hand.</p>

<p>But the change in his attire only made that
face, framed in hair and beard, black as jet,
seem more lividly pale. It was a strange
faded face,&mdash;you would have given the world
to have known the meaning of that thought
which imparted its incessant fire to his eyes.</p>

<p>Winding his cloak about his slender frame,
and placing his sombrero upon his dark hair,
he left the hotel. Passing with his quick
active step along Broadway, he turned to the
East river, and soon entered a silent and deserted
neighboring house. Silent and deserted,
because it stands in the center of a
haunt of trade, which in the day-time, mad
with the fever of traffic, was at night as
silent and deserted as a desert or a tomb.</p>

<p>He paused before an ancient dwelling-house,
which, wedged in between huge warehouses,
looked strangely out of place, in that
domain of mammon. Twenty-one years before,
that dwelling-house had stood in the very
center of the fashionable quarter of the city.
Now the aristocratic mansions which once
lined the street had disappeared; and it was
left alone, amid the lofty walls and closed
windows of the warehouses which bounded
it on either hand, and gloomily confronted it
from the opposite side of the narrow street.</p>

<p>It was a double mansion&mdash;the hall door
in the center&mdash;ranges of apartments on either
side. Its brick front, varied by marble
over the windows, bore the marks of time.
And the wide marble steps, which led from
the pavement to the hall door&mdash;marble
steps once white as snow&mdash;could scarcely be
distinguished from the brown sandstone of
the pavement. In place of a bell, there was
an unsightly-looking knocker, in the center
of the massive door; and its roof, crowned
with old fashioned dormer-windows, and
heavy along the edges with cumbrous woodwork,
presented a strange contrast to the
monotonous flat roofs of the warehouses on
either side.</p>

<p>Altogether, that old-fashioned dwelling
looked as much out of place in that silent
street of trade, as a person attired in the costume
of the Revolution,&mdash;powdered wig,
ruffled shirt, wide skirted coat, breeches and
knee-buckles,&mdash;would look, surrounded by
gentlemen attired in the business-like and
practical costume of the present day. And
while the monotonous edifices on either side,
only spoke of Trade&mdash;the Rate of Exchange&mdash;the
price of Dry Goods,&mdash;the old
dwelling-house had something about it
which breathed of the associations of Home.
There had been marriages in that house, and
deaths: children had first seen the light
within its walls, and coffins, containing the
remains of the fondly loved, had emerged
from its wide hall door: dramas of every-day
life had been enacted there: and there,
perchance, had also been enacted one of
those tragedies of every-day life which differ
so widely from the tragedies of fiction,
in their horrible truth.</p>

<p>There was a story about the old dwelling
which, as you passed it in the day-time,
when it stood silent and deserted, while all
around was deafening uproar, made your heart
dilate with involuntary curiosity to know
the history of the ancient fabric, and the
history of those who had lived and died
within its walls.</p>

<p>Gaspar Manuel ascended the marble
steps, and with the knocker sounded an
alarm, which echoing sullenly through the
lofty hall, was shortly answered by the opening
of the door.</p>

<p>In the light which flashed upon the pallid
visage of Gaspar Manuel, appeared an aged
servant, clad in gray livery faced with black
velvet.</p>

<p>"Take these letters to your master, and
tell him that I am come," said Gaspar in a
prompt and decided tone, marked, although
but slightly, with a foreign accent. He
handed a package to the servant as he
spoke.</p>

<p>"But how do you know that my master is
at home?"&mdash;The servant shaded his eyes
with his withered hand, and gazed hesitatingly
into that strange countenance, so
lividly pale, with eyes unnaturally bright
and masses of waving hair, black as jet.</p>

<p>"Ezekiel Bogart lives here, does he not?"</p>

<p>"That is my master's name."</p>

<p>"Take these letters to him then at once,
and tell him I am waiting."</p>

<p>Perchance the soft and musical intonations
of the stranger's voice had its effect upon
the servant, for he replied, "Come in, sir,"
and led the way into the spacious hall,
which was dimly lighted by a hanging lamp
of an antique pattern.</p>

<p>"Step in there, sir, and presently I will
bring you an answer."</p>

<p>The aged servant opened a door on the
left side of the hall and Gaspar Manuel
entered a square apartment, which had
evidently formed a part of a larger room.
The walls were panneled with oak; a
cheerful wood fire burned in the old-fashioned
arch; an oaken table, without covering of
any sort, stood in the center; and oaken
benches were placed along the walls. Taking
the old chair,&mdash;it stood by the table,&mdash;Gaspar
Manuel, by the light of the wax candle
on the table, discovered that the room was
already occupied by some twenty or thirty
persons, who sat upon the oak benches, as
silent as though they had been carved there.
Persons of all classes, ages, and with every
variety of visage and almost every contrast
of apparel. There was the sleek dandy of
Broadway; there the narrow-faced vulture
of Wall street; there some whose decayed
attire reminded you either of poets out of
favor with the Magazines, or of police officers
out of office: one whose half Jesuit
attire brought to mind a Puseyite clergyman;
and one or two whose self-complacent visages
reminded one of a third-rate lawyer, who
had just received his first fee; in a word,
types of the varied and contrasted life which
creeps or throbs within the confines of the
large city. Among the crowd, were several
whose rotund corporations and evident disposition
to shake hands with themselves,
indicated the staid man of business, whose
capital is firm in its foundation, and duly
recognized in the solemn archives of the
Bank. A man of gray hairs, clad in rags,
sat in a corner by himself; there was a woman
with a vail over her face; a boy with
half developed form, and lip innocent of
hair: it was, altogether, a singular gathering.</p>

<p>The dead silence which prevailed was
most remarkable. Not a word was said.
Not one of those persons seemed to be
aware of the existence of the others. As
motionless as the oak benches on which they
sat, they were waiting to see Ezekiel Bogart,
and this at the unusual hour of ten at night.</p>

<p>Who was Ezekiel Bogart? This was a
question often asked, but which the denizens
of Wall street found hard to answer. He
was not a merchant, nor a banker, nor a lawyer,
nor a gentleman of leisure, although in
some respects he seemed a combination of
all.</p>

<p>He occupied the old-fashioned dwelling;
was seen at all sorts of places at all hours;
and was visited by all sorts of people at
seasons most unusual. Thus much at least
was certain. But what he was precisely,
what he exactly followed, what the sum of
his wealth, and who were his relations,&mdash;these
were questions shadowed in a great
deal more mystery than the reasons which
induce a Washington Minister of State to
sanction a worn-out claim, of which he is at
once the judge, lawyer and (under the rose)
sole proprietor.</p>

<p>The transactions of Ezekiel Bogart were
quite extensive: they involved much money
and ramified through all the arteries of the
great social world of New York. But the
exact nature of these transactions? All was
doubt,&mdash;no one could tell.</p>

<p>So much did the mystery of Mr. Bogart's
career puzzle the knowing ones of Wall
street, that one gentleman of the Green
Board went quite crazy on the subject,&mdash;after
the fourth bottle of champagne&mdash;and
offered to bet Erie Rail-road stock against
New Jersey copper stock, that no one could
prove that Bogart had ever been born.</p>

<p>"<i>Who</i> <span class="smcap">is</span> <i>Ezekiel Bogart</i>?"</p>

<p>No doubt every one of the persons here
assembled, in the oak panneled room, can
return some sort of answer to this question;
but will not their answers contradict each
other, and render Ezekiel more mythical
than ever?</p>

<p>"Sir, this way," said the aged servant,
opening the door and beckoning to Gaspar
Manuel.</p>

<p>Gaspar followed the old man, and leaving
the room, ascended the oaken staircase,
whose banisters were fashioned of solid
mahogany.</p>

<p>On the second floor he opened a door,&mdash;"In
there, sir," and crossing the threshold,
Gaspar Manuel found himself in the presence
of Ezekiel Bogart.</p>

<p>It was a square apartment, lined with
shelves from the ceiling to the floor, and
illumined by a lamp, which hanging from
the ceiling, shed but a faint and mysterious
light through the place. In the center was
a large square table, whose green baize surface
was half concealed by folded packages,
opened letters, and huge volumes, bound in
dingy buff. Without windows, and warmed
by heated air, this room was completely fire-proof&mdash;for
the contents of those shelves
were too precious to be exposed to the
slightest chance of destruction.</p>

<p>In an arm-chair, covered with red morocco,
and placed directly beneath the light, sat
Ezekiel Bogart; a man whom we may as
well examine attentively, for we shall not
soon see his like again. His form bent in
the shoulders, yet displaying marks of muscular
power, was clad in a loose wrapper of
dark cloth, with wide sleeves, lined with
red. A dark skull-cap covered the crown
of his head; and a huge green shade, evidently
worn to protect his eyes from the
light, completely concealed his eyes and
nose, and threw its shadow over his mouth
and chin. A white cravat, wound about his
throat in voluminous folds, half concealed
his chin; and his right hand&mdash;sinewy, yet
colorless as the hand of a corpse&mdash;which
was relieved by the crimson lining of the
large sleeve&mdash;was laid upon an open letter.</p>

<p>Gaspar Manuel seated himself in a chair
opposite this singular figure, and observed
him attentively without uttering a word.
And Ezekiel Bogart, whose eyes were protected
by the huge green shade, seemed for
a moment to study with some earnestness,
the pallid face of Gaspar Manuel.</p>

<p>"My name is Ezekiel Bogart," he spoke
in a voice so low as to be scarcely audible,&mdash;"and
I am the General Agent of Martin
Fulmer."</p>

<p>He paused as if awaiting a reply from
Gaspar Manuel, but Gaspar Manuel did not
utter a word.</p>

<p>"You come highly recommended by Mr.
John Grubb, who is Mr. Fulmer's agent on
the Pacific coast," continued Ezekiel. "He
especially commends you to my kindness
and attention, in the letter which I hold in
my hand. He desires me to procure you an
early interview with my principal, Dr. Martin
Fulmer. He also states that you have important
information in your possession, in
regard to certain lands in the vicinity of the
Jesuit Mission of San Luis, near the Pacific
coast,&mdash;lands purchased some years ago, from
the Mexican government, by Dr. Martin
Fulmer. Now, in the absence of the Doctor,
I will be most happy to converse with you
on the subject"&mdash;</p>

<p>"And I will be happy to converse on the
subject," exclaimed Gaspar, in his low voice
and with a slight but significant smile, "but
first I must see Dr. Martin Fulmer."</p>

<p>Ezekiel gave a slight start&mdash;</p>

<p>"But you may not be able to see Dr. Martin
Fulmer for some days," he said. "His
movements are uncertain; it is at times very
difficult to procure an interview with him."</p>

<p>"I must see him," replied Gaspar Manuel
in a decided voice, "and before the Twenty-Fifth
of December."</p>

<p>Again Ezekiel started:</p>

<p>"Soh! He knows of the Twenty-Fifth!"
he muttered. After a moment's hesitation
he said aloud: "This land which the Doctor
bought from the Mexican government,
and which he sent John Grubb to overlook,
is fertile, is it not?"</p>

<p>Gaspar Manuel answered in a low voice,
whose faintest tones were marked with a
clear and impressive emphasis:</p>

<p>"The deserted mission house of San Luis
stands in the center of a pleasant valley, encircled
by fertile hills. Its walls of intermingled
wood and stone are almost buried
from view by the ever-green foliage of the
massive trees which surround it. Once
merry with the hum of busy labor, and
echoing with the voice of prayer and praise,
it is now silent as a tomb. Its vineyards and
its orchards are gone to decay,&mdash;orchards
rich with the olive and the apple, the pomegranate
and the orange, stand neglected and
forsaken, under an atmosphere as calm, a
climate as delicious as southern Italy. And
the hills and fields, which once produced the
plantain and banana, cocoanut, indigo and
sugar-cane&mdash;which once resounded with
the voices of hundreds of Indian laborers,
who yielded to the rule of the Jesuit Fathers&mdash;are
now as sad and silent as a desert.
And yet a happier sight you cannot conceive
than the valley of the San Luis, in the lap
of which stands the deserted mission-house.
It is watered by two rivulets, which, flowing
from the gorges of distant hills, join near the
mission-house, into a broad and tranquil
river, whose shores are always bright with
the verdure of spring. The valley is surrounded,
as I have said, by a range of rolling
hills, which formerly yielded, by their inexhaustible
fertility, abundant wealth to the
Fathers. Behind these, higher and abrupt
hills arise, clad with ever-green forests. In
the far distance, rise the white summits of
the Sierra Nevada."</p>

<p>"This mission was one of the many established
between the Sierra Nevada and the
Pacific coast," interrupted Ezekiel, "by zealous
missionaries of the Papal Church. If I
mistake not, having obtained large grants of
land from the Mexican government, they
gathered the Indians into missions, reared
huge mission-houses, and employed the Indians
in the cultivation of the soil."</p>

<p>"Not only in California, on the west side
of Sierra Nevada, but also far to the east of
that range of 'Snow Mountains' abounded
these missions, ruled by the Fathers and
supported by the labor of the submissive
Indians. But now, for hundreds and hundreds
of miles, you will find the mission-houses
silent and deserted. The rule of the
Fathers passed away in 1836&mdash;in one of the
thousand revolutions of Mexico&mdash;the missions
passed into the hands of private individuals,
and in some cases the Indians were
transferred with the land."</p>

<p>"But the mission-house of San Luis?"</p>

<p>"Is claimed by powerful members of the
Society of Jesus, who residing in the city
of Mexico, have managed to keep a quiet
hold upon the various governments, which
have of late years abounded in that unhappy
republic. They claim the mission-house and
the lands, originally granted sixty years ago,
to Brothers of their order by the Government,
and they claim certain lands, not named
in the original grant."</p>

<p>He paused, but Ezekiel Bogart completed
the sentence:</p>

<p>"Lands purchased some years since, from
the Government by Dr. Martin Fulmer? Is
their claim likely to be granted?"</p>

<p>"That is a question upon which I will be
most happy to converse with Dr. Martin
Fulmer," was the bland reply of Gaspar
Manuel.</p>

<p>"These lands are fertile&mdash;that is, as fertile
as the lands immediately attached to the
mission?"</p>

<p>"Barren, barren as Zahara," replied Gaspar.
"A thousand acres in all, they are bounded
by desolate hills, desolate of foliage, and
broken into ravines and gorges, by mountain
streams. You stand upon one of the hills,
and survey the waste which constitutes Martin
Fulmer's lands, and you contrast them
with the mission lands, and feel as though
Zahara and Eden stood side by side before
you. A gloomier sight cannot be imagined."</p>

<p>"And yet," said Ezekiel, "these lands
are situated but a few leagues from the
mission-house. It is strange that the Jesuit
Brothers should desire to possess such a
miserable desert. Do you imagine their
motives?"</p>

<p>"It is about <i>their motives</i> that I desire to
speak with Dr. Martin Fulmer," and Gaspar
shaded his eyes with the white hand which
blazed with the diamond ring.</p>

<p>There was a pause, and beneath his uplifted
hand, Gaspar Manuel attentively surveyed
Ezekiel Bogart, while Ezekiel Bogart,
as earnestly surveyed Gaspar Manuel, under
the protection of the green shade which
concealed his eyes.</p>

<p>"You seem to have a great many visitors
to-night," said Gaspar, resting his arm on the
table and his forehead on his hand; "allow
me to ask, is it usual to transact business, at
such a late hour, in this country?"</p>

<p>"The business transacted by Dr. Martin
Fulmer, differs widely from the business of
Wall street," replied Ezekiel, dryly.</p>

<p>"The property of Gulian Van Huyden,
has by this time doubled itself?" asked
Gaspar, still keeping his eyes on the table.
Ezekiel started, but Gaspar continued, as
though thinking aloud&mdash;"Let me see: at the
time of his death, the estate was estimated
at two millions of dollars. Of this $1,251,000
was invested in real estate in the city of
New York; $100,000 in bank and other
kinds of stock; $50,000 in lands in the
Western country; $1,000 in a tract of one
thousand acres in Pennsylvania; and $458,000
in bank notes and gold. Then the Van
Huyden mansion and grounds were valued
at $150,000. Are my figures correct, sir?"</p>

<p>As though altogether amazed by the
minute knowledge which Gaspar Manuel,
seemed to possess, in regard to the Van
Huyden estate, Ezekiel did not reply.</p>

<p>"By this time this great estate has no
doubt doubled, perhaps trebled itself."</p>

<p>Ezekiel raised his hand to his mouth, and
preserved a statue-like silence.</p>

<p>"This room, which is no doubt vaulted
and fire-proof, contains I presume, all the
important records, title-deeds and other papers
relating to the estate."</p>

<p>Ezekiel rose from his chair, and slowly
lighted a wax candle which stood upon the
table. Gathering the dark wrapper, lined
with scarlet, about his tall form which seemed
bent with age, he took the silver candlestick
in his right hand, and swept aside a curtain
which concealed the shelves behind his chair.
A narrow doorway was disclosed.</p>

<p>"Will you step this way, for a few moments,
sir?" he said, pointing to the doorway,
as he held the light above his head, thus
throwing the shadow of the green shade
completely over his face.</p>

<p>Gaspar Manuel without a word, rose and
followed him. They entered a room or rather
vault, resembling in the general features the
one which they had left. It was racked and
shelved; the floor was brick and the shelves
groaned under the weight of carefully arranged
papers.</p>

<p>"This room or vault, without windows as
you see, and rendered secure, beyond a
doubt, from all danger of robbery or of fire,
is one of seven," said Ezekiel. "In this room
are kept all title deeds and papers, which
relate to the <span class="smcap">Thousand acres</span> in Pennsylvania."</p>

<p>"The Thousand acres in Pennsylvania!"
echoed Gaspar, "surely all these documents
and papers, do not relate to that tract, which
Van Huyden originally purchased for one
thousand dollars?"</p>

<p>"Twenty-one years ago, they could have
been purchased for a thousand dollars," answered
Ezekiel: "twenty-one years, to a
country like this, is the same as five hundred
to Europe. Those lands could not now be
purchased for twenty millions."</p>

<p>"Twenty millions!"</p>

<p>"They comprise inexhaustible mines of
coal and iron&mdash;the richest in the state," answered
Ezekiel, quietly, and drawing a curtain,
he led the way into a second vault.</p>

<p>"Here," he said, holding the light above
his head, so that its rays fell full upon the
pallid face of Gaspar, while his own was
buried in shadow; "here are kept all papers
and title-deeds, which relate to the lands in
the western country&mdash;lands purchased for
fifty thousand dollars, at a time when Ohio
was a thinly settled colony and all the region
further west a wilderness&mdash;but lands which
now are distributed through five states, and
which, dotted with villages, rich in mines
and tenanted by thousands, return an annual
rent of,&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>He paused.</p>

<p>"Of I do not care to say how many dollars.
Enough, perhaps, to buy a German
prince or two. This way, sir."</p>

<p>Passing through a narrow doorway, they
entered a third vault, arched and shelved
like the other.</p>

<p>"This place is devoted to the Van Huyden
mansion," said Ezekiel, pointing to the
well-filled shelves. "It was worth $150,000
twenty-one years ago, but now a flourishing
town has sprung up in the center of its lands;
mills and manufactories arise in its valleys;
a population of five thousand souls exists,
where twenty-one years ago there were not
two hundred souls, all told. And these five
thousand are laboring night and day, not so
much for themselves as to increase the wealth
of the Van Huyden estate."</p>

<p>"And all this is estimated at,&mdash;&mdash;," began
Gaspar.</p>

<p>"We will not say," quietly responded
Ezekiel. "Here are the title-deeds of the
town, of the mansion, of manufactory and
mill, all belong to the estate; not one of the
five thousand souls owns one inch of the
ground on which they toil, or one shingle of
the roof beneath which they sleep."</p>

<p>They entered the fourth vault.</p>

<p>"This is dedicated to the 'Real Estate in
the city of New York,'" said Ezekiel&mdash;"worth
$1,521,000, twenty-one years ago,
and now&mdash;well, well&mdash;New York twenty-one
years ago was the presumptuous rival of
Philadelphia. She is now the city of the
Continent. And this real estate is located in
the most thriving portions of the city&mdash;among
the haunts of trade near the Battery,
and in the region of splendid mansions up
town."</p>

<p>"And you would not like to name the
usual revenue?"&mdash;a smile crossed the pale
visage of Gaspar Manuel.</p>

<p>Ezekiel led the way into the fifth vault.</p>

<p>"Matters in regard to Banks and bank
stock are kept here," he said, showing the
light of the candle upon the well laden
shelves&mdash;"Rather an uncertain kind of property.
The United States' Bank made a
sad onslaught upon these shelves. But let
us go into the next room."</p>

<p>And they went into the sixth room.</p>

<p>"This is our bank," said Ezekiel; "that
is to say, the Treasury of the Van Huyden
estate, in which we keep our <i>specie basis</i>.
You perceive the huge iron safe which occupies
nearly one-half of the apartment? Dr.
Martin Fulmer carries the Key of course, and
with that Key he can perchance, at any moment,
command the destinies of the commercial
world. A golden foundation is a solid
foundation, as the world goes."</p>

<p>As though for the moment paralyzed, by
the revelation of the immense wealth of the
Van Huyden estate, Gaspar Manuel stood
motionless as a statue, resting one arm upon
the huge safe and at the same time resting
his forehead in his hand.</p>

<p>"We will now pass into the seventh apartment,"
said Ezekiel, and in a moment they
stood in the last vault of the seven. "It is
arched and shelved, you perceive, like the
others; and the shelves are burdened with
carefully-arranged papers&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Title-deeds, I presume, title-deeds and
mortgages?" interrupted Gaspar Manuel.</p>

<p>"No," answered Ezekiel, suffering the rays
of the candle to fall upon the crowded
shelves. "Those shelves contain <i>briefs</i> of the
personal history of permanent persons of this
city, of many parts of the Union, I may say,
of many parts of the globe. Sketches of the
personal history of prominent persons, and of
persons utterly obscure: records of remarkable
facts, in the history of particular families:
brief but interesting portraitures of
incidents, societies, governments and men;
the contents of those shelves, sir, is knowledge,
and knowledge that, in the grasp of a
determined man, would be a fearful Power.
For," he turned and fixed his gaze on Gaspar
Manuel; "for you stand in the Secret Police
Department of the Van Huyden estate."</p>

<p>These last words, pronounced with an emphasis
of deep significance, evidently aroused
an intense curiosity in the breast of Gaspar
Manuel.</p>

<p>"Secret Police Department!" he echoed,
his dark eyes flashing with renewed luster.</p>

<p>"Even so," dryly responded Ezekiel, "for
the Van Huyden estate is not a secret society
like the Jesuits, nor a corporation like
Trinity Church, nor a government like the
United States or Great Britain, but it is a
<i>Government based upon Money and controlled by
the Iron Will of One Man</i>. A Government
based, I repeat it, upon incredible wealth,
and absolutely in the control of one man,
who for twenty-one years, has devoted his
whole soul to the administration of the singular
and awful Power intrusted to him.
Such a Government needs a Secret Police,
ramifying through all the arteries of the
social world&mdash;and you now stand in the
office of that wide-spread and almost ubiquitous
Police."</p>

<p>"A secret society may be disturbed by
internal dissensions," said Gaspar Manuel, as
though thinking aloud; "a government may
be crippled by party jealousies, but this Government
of the Van Huyden Estate, based
upon money, is simply controlled by one
man, who knows his mind, who sees his
way clear, whose will is deepened by a conviction&mdash;perhaps
a fanaticism&mdash;as unrelenting
as death itself. Ah! the influence of
such a Government is fearful, nay horrible,
to contemplate!"</p>

<p>"It is, it is indeed," said Ezekiel, in a low
and mournful voice; "and the responsibility
of Dr. Martin Fulmer, most solemn and
terrible."</p>

<p>"But what would become of this Government,
were Dr. Martin Fulmer to die before
the 25th of December?" asked Gaspar
Manuel.</p>

<p>"But Dr. Martin Fulmer will not die
before the 25th of December," responded
Ezekiel, in a tone of singular emphasis.</p>

<p>"And this immense power will drop from
his grasp on the 10th of December," continued
Gaspar Manuel. "Who will succeed him?
Into whose hands will it fall&mdash;this incredible
power?"</p>

<p>"Your question will be answered on the
25th of December," slowly responded Ezekiel,
and motioning to Gaspar, he retraced
his steps through the six vaults or apartments,
and presently stood in the first of the
seven vaults, where we first beheld him.</p>

<p>He seated himself in the huge arm-chair,
while Gaspar Manuel, resuming his cloak and
sombrero, stood ready to depart.</p>

<p>"Now that I have given you some revelation
of the immense resources of the Van
Huyden Estate," said Ezekiel, as he attentively
surveyed that cloaked and motionless
figure; "you will, I presume, have no objection
to converse with me in regard to the
lands on the Pacific, as freely and as fully,
as though you stood face to face with Dr.
Martin Fulmer?"</p>

<p>"Pardon," said Gaspar Manuel with a low
brow, "the facts in my possession are for the
ear of Dr. Martin Fulmer, and for his ear
alone."</p>

<p>"Very well, sir," replied Ezekiel, in a tone
of impatience, "as you please. Call here to-morrow
at&mdash;" he named the hour&mdash;"and
you shall see Dr. Martin Fulmer."</p>

<p>"I will be here at the hour," and bidding
good-night! to Ezekiel, Gaspar bowed and
moved to the door. He paused for a moment
on the threshold&mdash;&mdash;</p>

<p>"Pardon me, sir, but I would like to ask
you a single question."</p>

<p>"Well, sir."</p>

<p>"I am curious to know what has induced
you, to disclose to me&mdash;almost an entire
stranger&mdash;the secrets and resources of the
Van Huyden Estate?"</p>

<p>"Sir," responded Ezekiel Bogart, in a
voice which deep and stern, was imbued
with the consciousness of Power; "you will
excuse me from giving you a direct reply.
But you would not have crossed the threshold
of any one of the seven apartments, had
I not been conscious, that it is utterly out of
your power, to <i>abuse</i> the knowledge which
you have obtained."</p>

<p>Again Gaspar Manuel bowed, and without
a word, left the room.</p>

<p>Ezekiel Bogart was alone.</p>

<p>He folded his arms and bowed his head
upon his breast. Strange and tumultuous
thoughts, stamped their deep lines upon his
massive brow. The dimly-lighted room was
silent as the grave, and the light fell faintly
upon that singular figure, buried in the folds
of the dark robe lined with scarlet, the head
covered with an unsightly skullcap, the eyes
vailed by a green shade, the chin and mouth
concealed by the cumbrous cravat. Lower
drooped the head of Ezekiel, but still the
light fell upon his bared forehead, and
showed the tumultuous thoughts that were
working there. The very soul of Ezekiel,
retired within itself and absent from all external
things, was buried in a maze of profound,
of overwhelming thought.</p>

<p>The aged servant entered with a noiseless
step, "Here is a letter, sir," he said. But
Ezekiel did not hear. "Sir, a letter from
Philadelphia, by a messenger who has just
arrived." But Ezekiel, profoundly absorbed,
was unconscious of his presence.</p>

<p>The aged servant advanced, and placed
the letter on the table, directly before his
absent-minded master. He touched Ezekiel
respectfully on the shoulder and repeated in
a louder voice&mdash;"A letter, sir, an important
letter from Philadelphia, by a messenger
who has just arrived."</p>

<p>Ezekiel started in his chair, like one
suddenly awakened from a sound slumber.
At a glance he read the superscription of
the letter: "<i>To Ezekiel Bogart, Esq.&mdash;Important</i>."</p>

<p>"The handwriting of the Agent whom I
yesterday sent to Philadelphia!" he ejaculated,
and opened the letter. These were
its contents:</p>

<blockquote>

<p><i>Philadelphia, Dec.</i> 23, 1844.</p>

<p><span class="smcap">Sir</span>:&mdash;I have just returned to the city,
from the Asylum&mdash;returned in time to dispatch
this letter by an especial messenger,
who will go to New York, in the five o'clock
train. At your request, and in accordance
with your instructions, I visited the Asylum
for the Insane, this morning, expecting to
bring away with me the Patient whom you
named. <i>He escaped some days ago</i>&mdash;so the
manager informed me. And since his escape
no intelligence has been had of his
movements. I have not time to add more, but
desire your instructions in the premises.</p>

<p>Yours truly, H. H.</p>

<p>To <span class="smcap">Ezekiel Bogart, Esq.</span></p></blockquote>

<p>No sooner had Ezekiel scanned the contents
of this epistle, than he was seized with
powerful agitation.</p>

<p>"Escaped! The child of Gulian escaped!"
he cried, and started from the chair&mdash;"to-morrow
he was to be here, in this house, in
readiness for the Day. Escaped! Why did
not the manager at once send me word?
Ah, woe, woe!" He turned to the aged
servant, and continued, "Bring the person
who brought this letter, to me, at once,
quick! Not an instant is to be lost."</p>

<p>And as the aged servant left the room,
Ezekiel sank back in his chair, like one who
is overpowered by a sudden and unexpected
calamity.</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h3><a name="CHAPTER_2_V" id="CHAPTER_2_V">CHAPTER V.</a></h3>

<h4>THE LEGATE OF THE POPE.</h4>


<p>As Gaspar Manuel left the house of Ezekiel
Bogart, he wrapped his cloak closely
about his form, and drew his sombrero low
upon his face. His head drooped upon his
breast as he hurried along, with a quick and
impetuous step. Soon he was in Broadway
again, amid its glare and uproar, but he did
not raise his head, nor turn his gaze to the
right or left. Head drooped upon his breast
and arms gathered tightly over his chest, he
threaded his way through the mazes of the
crowd, as absent from the scene around him,
as a man walking in his sleep.</p>

<p>Arrived at the Astor House, he hurried to
his room and changed his dress. Divesting
himself of his fashionable attire&mdash;black dress-coat,
scarf, white-vest&mdash;he clad himself in a
single-breasted frock-coat, buttoned to the
throat and reaching below the knees. Above
its straight collar, a glimpse of his white
cravat was perceptible. And over the dark
surface of his coat, was wound a massy gold
chain, to which was appended, a Golden Seal
and a Golden Cross. Over this costume,
which in its severe simplicity, displayed his
slender frame to great advantage, he threw
his cloak, and once more hurried from the
Hotel.</p>

<p>Pausing on the sidewalk in front of the
Astor, he engaged a hackney-coach&mdash;</p>

<p>"Do you know where, &mdash;&mdash; &mdash;&mdash;, resides?"
he asked of the driver; a huge individual,
in a white overcoat, and oil-skin hat.</p>

<p>"Sure and I does jist that," was the answer.
"It's meself that knows the residence
of his Riv'rence as well as the nose on my
face."</p>

<p>"Drive me there, at once," said Gaspar
Manuel.</p>

<p>And presently the carriage was rolling up
Broadway, bearing Gaspar Manuel to the
residence of a prominent dignitary of the
Roman Catholic Church.</p>

<p>As the little clock on the mantle struck
the hour of eleven, the Prelate was sitting in
an easy chair, in front of a bright wood fire.
It was in a spacious apartment, connected
with his library by a narrow door. Two
tall wax candles, placed upon the table by
his side, shed their light over the softly carpeted
floor, the neatly papered walls, and
over the person of the Prelate, who was seated
at his ease, in the center of the scene.</p>

<p>The Prelate was a man of some forty-five
years, with boldly marked features, and sharp
fiery eyes, indicating an incessantly active
mind. The light fell mildly on his tonsured
crown, encircled by brown hair, streaked with
gray, and his bold forehead and compressed
lip. His form broad in the shoulders, muscular
in the chest, and slightly inclined to
corpulence, was clad in a long robe of dark
purple, reaching from his throat to his feet.
There was a cross on his right breast and a
diamond ring on the little finger of his left-hand.</p>

<p>Thus alone, in his most private room&mdash;the
labors of the day accomplished and the world
shut out&mdash;the Prelate was absorbed in the
mazes of a delightful reverie.</p>

<p>He fixed his eyes upon a picture which
hung over the mantle, on the left. It was a
portrait of Cardinal Dubois, who in the days
of the Regency, trailed his Red Hat in the
mire of nameless debaucheries.</p>

<p>"Fool!" muttered the Prelate, "he had
not even sense to hide his vices, under the
thinnest vail of decency."</p>

<p>He turned his eyes to a portrait which
hung over the mantle on the right. "There
was a man!" he muttered, and a smile shot
over his face. The portrait was that of
Cardinal Richelieu who butchered the Huguenots
in France, while he was supplying
armies to aid the Protestants of Germany.
Richelieu, one of those Politicians who seem
to regard the Church simply as a machine
for the advancement of their personal ambition,&mdash;the
cross as a glittering bauble, only
designed to dazzle the eyes of the masses,&mdash;the
seamless Cloak of the Redeemer, as a
cloak intended to cover outrages the most
atrocious, which are done in the name of
God.</p>

<p>"He was a man!" repeated the Prelate.
"He moulded the men and events of his
time, and,&mdash;&mdash;" he stopped. He smiled.
"Why cannot I mould to my own purposes,
the men and events of my time, using the
Church as a convenient engine?" Some
thought like this seemed to flit over his
mind.</p>

<p>Having attentively turned his gaze from
Cardinal Dubois to Cardinal Richelieu, the
Prelate at length fixed his eyes upon a marble
bust, which stood in the center of the
mantle. And his lips moved, and his eyes
flashed, and his right hand waved slowly
to and fro, before his face, as though he saw
a glorious future, drawn in the air, by a prophetic
pencil.</p>

<p>The marble bust upon which he gazed,
was the bust of one, who from the very
lowest walk in life had risen to be Pope: and
one of the strongest, sternest Popes that ever
held the scepter of the Vatican.</p>

<p>"It can be won," ejaculated the Prelate,
"and the means lie here," he placed his
hand upon a Map which lay on the table.
It was a map of the American Continent.</p>

<p>"I came up stairs without ceremony," said
a calm even voice; "your Grace's servant informed
me, that you expected me."</p>

<p>"I am heartily glad to see you, my Lord,"
said the Prelate, turning abruptly and confronting
his visitor: "it is now two years
since I met your Lordship in Rome. It was,
you remember, just before you departed to
Mexico, as the Legate of His Holiness. How
has it been with you since I saw you last?"</p>

<p>"I have encountered many adventures,"
answered "His Lordship," the Legate, "and
none more interesting than those connected
with the Mission of San Luis and its lands&mdash;"</p>

<p>Thus saying the Legate&mdash;in obedience to
a courteous gesture from the Prelate&mdash;flung
aside his hat and cloak, and took a seat by
the table.</p>

<p>The Legate was none other than our friend
Gaspar Manuel.</p>

<p>They were in singular contrast, the Legate
and the Prelate. The muscular form and
hard <i>practical</i> face of the Prelate, was certainly,
in strong contrast with the slender
frame, and pale&mdash;almost corpse-like&mdash;face of
the Legate, with its waving hair and beard
of inky blackness. Conscious that their conversation
might one day have its issue, in
events or in disclosures of vital importance,
they for a few moments surveyed each other
in silence. When the Prelate spoke, there
was an air of deference in his manner, which
showed that he addressed one far superior to
himself in position, in rank and power.</p>

<p>We will omit the Lordships and Graces
with which these gentlemen, interlarded their
conversation. Lordships and Graces and
Eminences, are matters with which we simple
folks of the American Union, are but
poorly acquainted.</p>

<p>"You are last from Havana?" asked the
Prelate.</p>

<p>"Yes," answered the Legate: "and a
month ago I was in the city of Mexico; two
months since in California, at the mission of
San Luis."</p>

<p>"And the Fathers are likely to regain
possession of the deserted mission? You
intimated so much in the letter which you
were kind enough to write me from Havana."</p>

<p>"They are likely to regain possession,"
said the Legate.</p>

<p>"But the mission will be worth nothing
without the thousand acres of <i>barren</i> land,"
continued the Prelate: "Will the <i>barren
land</i> go with the mission?"</p>

<p>"In regard to that point I will inform you
fully before we part. For the present let me
remind you, that it was an important part of
my mission, to the New World, to ascertain
the prospects of the Church in that section
of the Continent, known as the United States.
Allow me to solicit from you, a brief exposition
of the condition and prospects of our
Church in this part of the globe."</p>

<p>The Prelate laid his hand upon the American
Continent:</p>

<p>"The north, that is the Republic of the
United States, will finally absorb and rule
over all the nations of the Continent. By
war, by peace, in one way or another the
thing is certain&mdash;"</p>

<p>He paused: the Legate made a gesture of
assent.</p>

<p>"It is our true policy, then, to absorb and
rule over the Republic of the North. To
make our Church the secret spring of its
Government; to gradually and without exciting
suspicion, mould every one of its
institutions to our own purposes; to control
the education of its people, and bend the
elective franchise to our will. Is not this
our object?"</p>

<p>Again the Legate signified assent.</p>

<p>"And this must be done, by making New
York the center of our system. New York
is in reality, the metropolis of the Continent;
from New York as from a common center,
therefore all our efforts must radiate. From
New York we will control the Republic,
shape it year by year to our purposes; as it
adds nation after nation to its Union, we will
make our grasp of its secret springs of action,
the more certain and secure; and at last the
hour will come, when this Continent apparently
one united republic, will in fact, be
the richest altar, the strongest abiding-place,
the most valuable property of the Church.
Yes, the hour will come, when the flimsy
scaffolding of Republicanism will fall, and as
it falls, our Church will stand revealed, her
foundation in the heart of the American
Republic; her shadow upon every hill and
valley of the Continent. For you know,"
and his eye flashed, "that our battle against
what is called Democracy and Progress, is
to be fought not in the Old World, where
everything is on our side, but in the New
World, where these damnable heresies do
most abound."</p>

<p>"True," interrupted the Legate, thoughtfully;
"the New World is the battle-field of
opinions. Here the fight must take place."</p>

<p>"You ask how our work is to begin?
Here in New York we will commence it.
Hundreds of thousands of foreigners of our
faith arrive in this city every year. Be it
our task to plant an eternal barrier between
these men, and those who are American
citizens by birth. To prevent them from
mingling with the American People, from
learning the traditions of American history,
which give the dogma of Democracy its
strongest hold upon the heart, to <i>isolate</i> them,
in the midst of the American nation. In a
word, the first step of our work is, to array
at the zealous <i>Foreign</i> party, an opposition to
an envenomed <i>Native American</i> party."</p>

<p>"This you have commenced already,"
said the Legate,&mdash;"it was in Mexico, that I
heard of Philadelphia last summer&mdash;of Philadelphia
on the verge of civil war with Protestants
and Catholics flooding the gutters
with their blood, while the flames of burning
churches lit up the midnight sky."</p>

<p>"The outbreak was rather premature,"
calmly continued the Prelate, "but it has
done us good. It has invested us with the
light of martyrdom, the glory of persecution.
It has drawn to us the sympathies of tens
of thousands of Protestants, who, honestly
disliking the assaults of the mere 'No-Popery'
lecturers upon our church, as honestly
entertain the amusing notion, that the Rulers
of our church, look upon 'Toleration, Liberty
of Conscience,' and so forth, with any feeling,
but profound contempt."</p>

<p>"Ah!" ejaculated the Legate, and a smile
crossed his face, "deriving strength from the
illimitable bitterness of the Native American
and Foreign political parties, we already
hold in many portions of the Union, the
ballot box in our grasp. We can dictate
terms to both political parties. Their leaders
court us. Editors who know that we rooted
Protestantism out of Spain, by the red hand
of the Inquisition,&mdash;that for our faith we
made the Netherlands rich in gibbets and
graves,&mdash;that we gave the word, which started
from its scabbard the dagger of St. Bartholomew,&mdash;grave
editors, who know all this
and more, talk of us as the friends of Liberty
and Toleration&mdash;"</p>

<p>"But there was Calvert, the founder of
Maryland, and Carroll the signer of the Declaration
of Independence, these were Catholics,
were they not, Catholics and friends of
Liberty?"</p>

<p>"They were <i>laymen</i>, not <i>rulers</i>, you will
remember," said the Prelate, significantly:
"at best they belonged to a sort of Catholics,
which, in the Old World, we have done our
best to root out of the church. But here,
however, we can use their names and their
memories, as a cloak for our purposes of ultimate
dominion. But to resume: both political
parties court us. Their leaders, who
loathe us, are forced to kneel to us. Things
we can do freely and without blame, which
damn any Protestant sect but to utter. The
very 'No-Popery' lecturers aid us: they
attack doctrinal points in our church, which
are no more assailable than the doctrinal
points of any one of their ten thousand sects:
they would be dangerous, indeed, were they
to confine their assaults to the simple fact,
that ours is not so much a church as an EMPIRE,
having for its object, the temporal
dominion of the whole human race, to be
accomplished under the vail of spiritualism.
An EMPIRE built upon the very sepulcher
of Jesus Christ,&mdash;an <span class="smcap">empire</span> which holds
Religion, the Cross, the Bible, as valuable
just so far as they aid its efforts for the temporal
subjection of the world,&mdash;an <span class="smcap">empire</span>
which, using all means and holding all means
alike lawful, for the spread of its dominion,
has chosen the American Continent as the
scene of its loftiest triumph, the theater of its
final and most glorious victories!"</p>

<p>As he spoke the Atheist Prelate started
from his chair.</p>

<p>Far different from those loving Apostles,
who through long ages, have in the Catholic
Church, repeated in their deeds, the fullness
of Love, which filled the breast of the Apostle
John,&mdash;far different from the Fenelons
and Paschals of the church,&mdash;this Prelate
was a cold-blooded and practical Atheist.
Love of women, love of wine, swayed him
not. Lust of power was his spring of action&mdash;his
soul. He may have at times, assented
to Religion, but that he believed in it as an
awful verity, as a Truth worth all the physical
power and physical enjoyment in the
universe,&mdash;the Prelate never had a thought
like this. An ambitious atheist, a Borgia
without his lust, a Richelieu with all
of Richelieu's cunning, and not half of
Richelieu's intellect, a cold-blooded, practical
schemer for his own elevation at any cost,&mdash;such
was the Prelate. Talk to him of Christ
as a consoler, as a link between crippled
humanity and a better world, as of a friend
who meets you on the dark highway of life,
and takes you from sleet and cold, into the
light of a dear, holy home,&mdash;talk to him of
the love which imbues and makes alive
every word from the lips of Christ,&mdash;ha! ha!
Your atheistical Prelate would laugh at the
thought. He was a worldling. Risen from
the very depths of poverty, he despised the
poor from whom he sprung. For years a
loud and even brawling advocate of justice
for Ireland,&mdash;an ecclesiastical stump orator;
a gatherer of the pennies earned by the hard
hand of Irish labor,&mdash;he was the man to
blaspheme her cause and vilify its honest
advocates, when her dawn of Revolution
darkened into night again. He was the
pugilist of the Pulpit, the gladiator of controversy,
always itching for a fight, never so
happy as when he set honest men to clutching
each other by the throat. Secure in his
worldly possessions, rich from the princely
revenues derived from the poor&mdash;the hard
working poor of his church,&mdash;a tyrant to the
parish priests who were so unfortunate as to
be subjected to his sway, by turns the Demagogue
of Irish freedom and the <i>Mouchard</i> of
Austrian despotism, he was a vain, bad, cunning,
but <i>practical</i> man, this Atheist Prelate
of the Roman Church.</p>

<p>"Now, what think you of our plans and
our prospects?" said the Prelate, triumphantly&mdash;"can
we not, using New York as
the center of our operations, the Ballot Box,
social dissension and sectarian warfare as the
means, can we not, mould the New World
to our views, and make it Rome, Rome, in
every inch of its soil?"</p>

<p>The Legate responded quietly:</p>

<p>"I see but one obstacle&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Only one; that is well&mdash;"</p>

<p>"And that obstacle is not so much the
memory of the American Past, which some
of these foolish Americans still consider holy&mdash;not
so much the memory of Penn the
Quaker; Calvert the Catholic, who planted
their silly dogma of Brotherly love on the
Delaware and St. Mary's, in the early dawn
of this country,&mdash;not so much the Declaration
of Independence, nor the blood-marks
which wrote its principles, on the soil from
Bunker Hill to Savannah, from Brandywine
to Yorktown,&mdash;not so much the history of
the sixty-eight years, which in the American
Republic, have shown a growth, an enterprise,
a development never witnessed on God's
earth before,&mdash;not so much all this, as the
single obstacle which I now lay on the table
before you."</p>

<p>And from the breast of his coat he drew
forth a small, thin volume, which he laid
upon the table:</p>

<p>"This!" cried the Prelate, as though a
bomb-shell had burst beneath his chair;
"This! Why this is the four Gospels according
to Matthew, Mark, Luke and John!"</p>

<p>"Precisely. And Matthew, Mark, Luke
and John, those simple fellows are the very
ones whom we have most to fear."</p>

<p>"But I have driven this book from the
Common Schools!" cried the Prelate, rather
testily.</p>

<p>"Have you driven it from the home?"
quietly asked the Legate.</p>

<p>The Prelate absently toyed with his cross,
but did not answer.</p>

<p>"Can you drive it from the home?" asked
the Legate.</p>

<p>The Prelate gazed at the portrait of Cardinal
Dubois, and then at Richelieu's, but did
not reply.</p>

<p>"Do you not see the difficulty?" continued
the Legate, "so long as Matthew, Mark,
Luke and John, sit down by the firesides of
the people, making themselves a part and
parcel of the dearest memories of every
household,&mdash;so long we may chop logic,
weave plots, traffic in casuistry, but in vain!"</p>

<p>"True, that book is capable of much mischief,"
said the Prelate; "it has caused more
revolutions than you could count in a year."</p>

<p>"In Spain, where this book is scarcely
known, in Italy, where to read it is imprisonment
and chains, we can get along well
enough, but here, in the United States, where
this book is a fireside book in every home,
the first book that the child looks into, and
the last that the dying old man listens to, as
his ear is growing deaf with death,&mdash;here
what shall we do? You know that it is a
Democratic book?"</p>

<p>"Yes."</p>

<p>"That it is so simple in its enunciations
of brotherly love, equality, and the love of
God for all mankind, so simple and yet so
strong, that it has required eighteen centuries
of scholastic casuistry and whole tons of
volumes, devoted to theological special pleading,
to darken its simple meaning?"</p>

<p>"Yes, yes."</p>

<p>"That in its portraitures of Christ, there
is something that stirs the hearts of the
humblest, and sets them on fire with the
thought, 'I too, am not a beast, but a
child of God, destined to have a home
here and an immortality hereafter?' That
its profound contempt of riches and of
mere worldly power,&mdash;its injunctions to the
rich, 'sell all thou hast and give to the poor;'
its pictures of Christ, coming from the workman's
bench, and speaking, acting, doing and
dying, so that the masses might no longer be
the sport of priest or king, but the recreated
men and women of a recreated social world;
that in all this, it has caused more revolutions,
given rise to more insurrections, leveled
more deadly blows at absolute authority,
than all other books that have been written
since the world began?"</p>

<p>"Yes&mdash;y-e-s&mdash;y-e-s," said the Prelate.
"True, true, a mischievous book. But how
would you remedy the evil?"</p>

<p>"That's the question," said the Legate,
dryly.</p>

<p>After a long pause they began to talk concerning
the mission of San Luis in California&mdash;its
fertile hills and valleys, rich in the
olive, fig, grape, orange and pomegranate,&mdash;and
of the <i>thousand acres of barren land</i>,
claimed alike by the Jesuits and Dr. Martin
Fulmer.</p>

<p>"The claim of the Fathers, to the mission-house
and lands of San Luis, is established
then?" said the Prelate.</p>

<p>"It has been acknowledged by the Mexican
Government," was the reply of the
Legate.</p>

<p>"And the claim to the thousand barren
acres?"</p>

<p>"It rests in my hands," replied the Legate:
"by a train of circumstances altogether
natural, although to some they may appear
singular, it is in my power to decide, whether
these thousand barren acres shall belong to
our Church or to Dr. Martin Fulmer."</p>

<p>"And it is not difficult to see which way
your verdict wall fall;" the Prelate's eyes
sparkled and a smile lit up his harsh features.</p>

<p>"These acres are barren, barren so far as
the fig, the orange, the vine, the pomegranate
are concerned, barren even of the
slightest portion of shrubbery or verdure, but
rich&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Rich in gold!" ejaculated the Prelate,
folding his arms and fixing his eyes musingly
upon the fire,&mdash;"gold sufficient to pave my
way from this chair to the Papal throne;"
he muttered to himself. "In Rome," he
said aloud, "I had an opportunity to examine
the records of the various missions,
established by our Church in California; and
they all contain traditions of incredible stores
of gold, hidden under the rocks and sands of
California. Does your experience confirm
those traditions?"</p>

<p>"I have traversed that land from the Sierra
Nevada to the Pacific, and from North to
South," replied the Legate, "and it is my
opinion, based on facts, that California is
destined to exercise an influence upon the
course of civilization and the fate of nations,
such as has not been felt for a thousand
years."</p>

<p>He paused, as if collecting in his mind, in
one focus, a panorama of the varied scenery,
climate, productions, of the region between
the snows of the Sierra Nevada and the
Pacific. Then, while his pale face flushed
with excitement, and his bright eyes grew
even yet more vivid in their luster, he continued:</p>

<p>"The bowels of the land are rich in gold,"
he said, in that low-toned but musical voice.
"It is woven in the seams of her rocks. It
impregnates her soil. It gleams in the sand
of her rivers. Gold, gold, gold,&mdash;such as
Banker never counted, nor the fancy of a
Poet, ever dreamed of. Deep in her caverns
the ore is shining; upon her mountain sides
it flings back the rays of the sun; her forest
trees are rooted in gold. Could you fathom
her secrets, you would behold gold enough
to set the world mad. Men would leave
their homes, and all that makes life dear,
and journey over land and sea, by hundreds
of thousands, in pilgrimage to this golden
land. The ships of the crusaders would
whiten every sea, their caravans would belt
every desert. The whole world, stirred into
avaricious lust, would gravitate to this rock
of gold."</p>

<p>Turning to the Prelate, he said abruptly:</p>

<p>"Did you ever attempt to unravel the
superstition of Gold?"</p>

<p>"The superstition of Gold?" echoed the
Prelate.</p>

<p>"Yes, superstition of gold. For that wide-spread
opinion in regard to the value of gold,
is one of the most incredible superstitions
that ever damned the soul of man. It obtains
in all ages and on every shore. In the
days of the Patriarchs, and in the days of the
Bankers,&mdash;among the sleekly-attired people
of civilized races, and among savage hordes,
naked as the beasts,&mdash;everywhere and in all
ages, this superstition has obtained, and
crushed mankind, not with an iron, but
with a golden rod. (There are exceptions,
I grant, as in the case of the North American
Indians, and other savage tribes, but it cannot
be denied, that this superstition which
fixes a certain value on gold, has overspread
the earth, in all ages, as universal as the very
air.) What religion has ruled so absolutely
and reigned so long, as this deep-implanted
golden superstition,&mdash;this Catholic religion
of the yellow ore?"</p>

<p>"But gold is valuable in itself," interrupted
the Prelate&mdash;"it is something more than
the representative of labor; in a thousand
respects it surpasses all other metals. It is
an article of merchandise, a part of commerce;
even were it not money, it would
always bring more money than any other
metal."</p>

<p>"This is often said, and is plausible. Admit
all you assert, and the question occurs,
'<i>Why should it be so?</i>' When you say that
gold is the most precious of all metals, an
article of value in <i>itself</i>, as well as the representative
of labor, you assert a fact, but you
do not <i>explain</i> that fact. Far, far from it.
But why should it be so? What <i>use</i> has it
been to man, that it should receive this high
distinction? Iron, lead, copper&mdash;all of these
are a million fold more useful than gold&mdash;No&mdash;reflect
a little while. Bend all your
thought to the subject. Track the yellow
ore through all ages, and at last, you must
come to the conclusion, that the value placed
upon gold is a superstition, as vast as it is
wicked,&mdash;a superstition which has crushed
more hearts and damned more souls, than all
the (so called) <i>Religious</i> superstitions that
smear the page of history with blood. That
such a superstition exists, would alone convince
me of the existence of an embodied
Devil, who, perpetually at war with God,
does with a direct interference, derange his
laws, and crush the hopes of his children."</p>

<p>For a moment, he shaded his eyes with
his hand, while the Prelate gazed upon him,
with something of surprise in his look.</p>

<p>"Can you estimate the evils which have
flowed from this superstition? No. The
reason falters, the imagination shudders: at
the very thought you are bewildered,&mdash;dumb.
But think of it as you will,&mdash;entangle
yourself among the sophistries which
attempt to explain, but in reality only darken
it,&mdash;view it as a political economist, a
banker, a merchant, or a worker in precious
metals,&mdash;and you only plunge the deeper
into the abyss of doubt and bewilderment.
You cannot explain this superstition, unless
you mount higher, and grasp that great law
of God, which says, forever, '<i>It is wicked for</i>
<span class="smcap">one man</span> <i>to clothe himself with luxury, at the
expense of the sweat and blood of another</i> <span class="smcap">man</span>,
<i>who is his Brother</i>.' Grasp this truth firmly;
understand it in all its bearings,&mdash;and you
discern the source of the Golden superstition;
for it had its source, in that depraved idleness
which seeks luxury at the expense of
human suffering,&mdash;which coins enjoyment for
a few men, on the immeasurable wretchedness
of entire races of mankind. The first
man who sought to rob his Brother of the
fruits of his labor, and of his place on the
earth, was doubtless the inventor of the
golden superstition; for turn and twist it as
you will, gold is only valuable because it
<i>represents</i> labor. All its value springs from
that cause. It represents labor already done,
and it represents labor that is to be done, and
therefore,&mdash;therefore only,&mdash;is it valuable.
And it is the most convenient engine by which
the idlers of the World can enslave the
laborers&mdash;therefore it has always retained its
value. Backed by the <i>delusion</i> which fixes
upon it a certain value, and makes it more
precious than the blood of hearts, or the salvation
of the entire human race, gold will
continue to be the great engine for the destruction
of that race&mdash;for its moral and
physical damnation&mdash;just as long as the few
continue to live upon the wretchedness of
the many. Once destroy this superstition,&mdash;take
away from gold its certain value&mdash;make
that value vague, uncertain, and subject to
as many changes as a bank note,&mdash;and you
will have wrested the lash from the hand of
the oppressor all over the world."</p>

<p>These words made a deep impression upon
the Prelate, an impression which he dared
not trust himself to frame in words. Suppressing
an exclamation that started to his
lips, he asked in a calm conversational tone&mdash;</p>

<p>"Will the discovery of the golden land
have this effect?"</p>

<p>It was in a saddened tone, and with a
downcast eye, that the Legate replied:</p>

<p>"Ah, that is, indeed, a fearful question.
A question that may well make one shudder.
One of two things must happen. From the
rocks and sands of the golden land, the
oppressors of the world will derive new
means of oppression, or from those rocks and
sands, will come the instrument, which is to
lift up the masses and shake the oppressors
to the dust. What shall be the result?
Shall new and more damning chains, for
human hearts, be forged upon the gold of
these sands and rocks? Or, tottering among
these rocks and sands, shall poor humanity
at last discover the instrument of her redemption?
God alone can tell."</p>

<p>The Prelate was silent. Folding his hands
he surveyed the pallid visage of the Legate,
with a look hard to define.</p>

<p>"The first wind that blows intelligence
from this land of gold, will convulse the
world. A few years hence, and these sands,
now sparkling with ore, will be white with
human skeletons. Thousands and hundreds
of thousands will rush to seek the glittering
ore, and find a grave, in the mud by the
rivers' banks; hundreds of thousands will lie
unburied in the depths of trackless deserts,
or in the darkness of trackless ravines; the
dog and the wolf will feed well upon human
hearts."</p>

<p>Suppressing the emotion aroused, by a portion
of the Legate's remarks, the Prelate
asked:</p>

<p>"And the thousand <i>barren</i> acres contain
incredible stores of gold?"</p>

<p>"Gold sufficient to affect the destiny of
one-half the globe," replied the Legate:
"gold, that employed in a good cause, would
bless and elevate millions of the oppressed,
or devoted to purposes of evil, might curse
the dearest rights of half the human race."</p>

<p>"And it is in your power to establish the
right of our Church to these lands?"</p>

<p>"It is. A word from me, and the thing
is done."</p>

<p>"Pardon me," said the Prelate, slowly,
and measuring every word,&mdash;"some portions
of your remarks excite my curiosity. You
speak of the oppressed, and of the oppressors.
Now,&mdash;now,&mdash;from any lips but yours, these
words, and the manner in which you use
them, would sound like the doctrines of the
French Socialists. What do you precisely
mean by 'oppressed,'&mdash;and who, in your
estimation, are the '<i>oppressors</i>?'"</p>

<p>The Legate rose from his seat, and fixed
his eyes upon the Prelate's face:</p>

<p>"There are many kinds of oppressors, but
the most infamous, are those who use the
Church of God, as the engine of their atrocious
crimes."</p>

<p>This remark fell like a thunderbolt.</p>

<p>The Prelate slowly rose from his chair,
his face flushed and his chest heaving.</p>

<p>"Sir!" he cried in a voice of thunder.</p>

<p>"Nay&mdash;you need not raise your voice,&mdash;much
less confront me with that frowning
brow. You know me and know the position
which I hold. You know that I am above
your reach,&mdash;that, perchance, a word from
me, uttered in the proper place, might stop
your career, even at the threshold. I know
you, and know that you belong to the party,
which, for ages, has made our church the instrument
of the most infernal wrongs&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Sir!" again ejaculated the Prelate.</p>

<p>"A party, whose noblest monument is
made of the skeletons, the racks and thumbscrews
of the Inquisition, and whose history
can only be clearly read, save by the torchlight
of St. Bartholomew&mdash;"</p>

<p>"This from you, sir,&mdash;"</p>

<p>"A party whose avowed atheism produced
the French Revolution, and whose
cloaked atheism is even now sowing the
seeds of social hell-fire, in this country and
in Europe&mdash;"</p>

<p>"I swear, sir&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Hear me, sir, for I am only here to read
you a plain lesson. You, and men like you,
may possibly convert the Church once more
into the instrument of ferocious absolutism
and the engine of colossal murder, but remember&mdash;"</p>

<p>He flung his coat around him, and stood
erect, his face even more deathly pale than
usual, his eyes shining with clear and intense
light. There was a grandeur in his attitude
and look.</p>

<p>"Remember, even in the moments of your
bloodiest triumphs, that even within the
Church of Rome, swayed by such as you,
there is another Church of Rome, composed
of men, who, when the hour strikes, will
sacrifice everything to the cause of humanity
and God."</p>

<p>These words were pronounced slowly and
deliberately, with an emphasis which drove
the color from the Prelate's cheek.</p>

<p>"Think of it, within Rome, a higher,
mightier Rome,&mdash;within the order of Jesuits,
a higher and mightier order of Jesuits&mdash;and
whenever you, and such as you, turn, you will
be met by men, who have sworn to use the
Church, as the instrument of human progress,
or to drive forward the movement over its
ruins."</p>

<p>He moved to the door, but lingered for a
moment on the threshold:</p>

<p>"It is a great way," he said, "from the
turnpike to the Vatican."</p>

<p>This he said, and disappeared. (The Prelate
had risen from the position of breaker of
stone on the public road, only to use all his
efforts to crush and damn the masses from
whom he sprung.)</p>

<p>And the Prelate was now left alone, to
pick up the thunderbolt which had fallen
at his feet.</p>

<p>Half an hour after this scene, the Legate
once more ascended the steps of the Astor
House, his cloak wound tightly about his
slender form, his face,&mdash;and perchance the
emotions written there,&mdash;cast into shadow
by his broad sombrero. He was crossing the
hall, flaring with gas-lights, when he was
aroused from his reverie by these words,&mdash;</p>

<p>"My lord,&mdash;"</p>

<p>The speaker was a man of some forty-five
years, with a hard, unmeaning face, and
vague gray eyes. His ungainly form,&mdash;for
he was round-shouldered, knock-kneed and
clumsily footed,&mdash;was clad in black, varied
only by a strip of dirty white about his bull-like
neck. As he stood obsequiously, hat in
hand, his bald crown, scantily encircled by a
few hairs of no particular color, was revealed;
and also his low, broad forehead. He looked
very much like an ecclesiastic, whom habits
of passive obedience have converted into a
human fossil.</p>

<p>"My lord,&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Pshaw, Michael, none of that nonsense
here. Have you obeyed the directions
which I gave you before I left the steamer
to-night?"</p>

<p>"I have, my&mdash;" 'lord,' he was about to
say, but he substituted 'your excellence!'&mdash;"Your
country seat, near the city, is in good
order. Everything has been prepared in anticipation
of your arrival. I have just returned
from it,&mdash;Maryvale, I think you call
it?"</p>

<p>"Maryvale," replied the Legate, "Did
you tell Felix to have my carriage ready for
me, after midnight, at the place and the
hour which I named?"</p>

<p>"Yes, my lord,"&mdash;and Michael bowed
low.</p>

<p>"No more of that nonsense, I repeat it.&mdash;This
is not the country for it. How did you
dispose of Cain?"</p>

<p>"I left Cain at the country seat."</p>

<p>"It is well," said the Legate, and having
spoken further words to Michael, in a lower
tone, he dismissed him, and went silently to
his chamber.</p>

<p>And <span class="smcap">Cain</span> of whom they spoke. We
shall see <span class="smcap">Cain</span> after a while.</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h3><a name="CHAPTER_2_VI" id="CHAPTER_2_VI">CHAPTER VI.</a></h3>

<h4>"JOANNA."</h4>


<p>At the hour of eleven o'clock, on the
night of December 23d, 1844, &mdash;&mdash;. A
gentleman of immense wealth, who occupied
his own mansion, in the upper part of New
York, came from his library, and descended
the broad staircase, which led to the first
floor of his mansion. His slight frame was
wrapped in a traveling cloak and a gay traveling
cap shaded his features. He held a
carpet-bag in his hand. Arrived on the first
floor, he entered a magnificent range of
apartments communicating with each other
by folding-doors, and lighted by an elegant
chandelier. Around him, wherever he turned,
was everything in the form of luxury,
that the eye could desire or the power of
wealth procure. Thick carpets, massive mirrors,
lofty ceiling, walls broken here and
there with a niche in which a marble statue
was placed&mdash;these and other signs of
wealth, met his gaze at every step.</p>

<p>He was a young man of fine personal appearance,
and refined tastes. Without a
profession, he employed his immense wealth
in ministering to his taste for the arts. The
only son of a man of fortune, educated to
the habit of spending money without earning
it, he had married about two years
before, an exceedingly beautiful woman, the
only daughter of a wealthy and aristocratic
family.</p>

<p>And far back in a nook of this imposing
<i>suite</i> of apartments, where the light of the
chandelier is softened by the shadows of
statue and marble pillar, sits this wife, a
woman in the prime of early womanhood.&mdash;Her
shape, at the same time tall, rounded,
and commanding, is enveloped in a loose
wrapper, which seems rather to float about
her form, than to gird it closely. Her face is
bathed in tears. As her husband approaches
she rises and confronts him with a <i>blonde</i>
countenance, fair blue eyes and golden hair.
That face, beaming with young loveliness, is
shadowed with grief.</p>

<p>"Must you go, indeed, my husband?"&mdash;and
clad in that flowing robe, she rests her
hands upon his shoulder, and looks tearfully
into his face.</p>

<p>His cloak falls and discloses his slight and
graceful form. He removes his traveling
cap, and his wife may freely gaze upon that
dark-complexioned face, whose regular features,
remind you of an Apollo cast in
bronze. His dark eyes flash with clear light
as she raises one hand, and places it upon his
forehead, and twines her fingers among the
curls of his jet-black hair.</p>

<p>Take it all in all, it is an interesting picture,
centered in that splendid room, where
everything breathes luxury and wealth&mdash;the
slender form of the young husband clad
in black, contrasted with the imposing figure
of the young wife, enveloped in drapery of
flowing white.</p>

<p>"I must go, wife. Kiss me."&mdash;She bent
back his head and gazing upon him long
and earnestly, suffered her lips to join his,&mdash;"I'll
be back before Christmas."</p>

<p>"You are sure that you must go?" she
exclaimed, toying with the curls of his dark
hair.</p>

<p>"You saw the letter which I received from
Boston. My poor brother lies at the point of
death. I must see him, Joanna,&mdash;you
know how it pains me to be absent from you,
only for a day,&mdash;but I must go. I'll be
back by Christmas morning."</p>

<p>"Will you; indeed, though, Eugene?"&mdash;she
wound her arms about his neck&mdash;"You
know how drearily the time passes without
you. O, how I shall count the hours until
you return!" And at every word she
smoothed his forehead with her hand, and
touched his mouth with those lips which
bloomed with the ripeness and purity of
perfect womanhood.</p>

<p>"I must go, Joanna,"&mdash;and convulsed at
the thought of leaving this young wife, even
for a day, the husband gathered her to his
breast, and then seizing his cloak and carpet-bag,
hurried from the room. His steps were
heard in the hall without, and presently the
sound of the closing door reached the ears
of the young wife.</p>

<p>An expression of intense sorrow passed
over her face, and she remained in the center
of the room, her hand clasped over her
noble bust, and her head bowed in an attitude
of deep melancholy.</p>

<p>"He is gone," she murmured, and passing
through the spacious apartment, she traversed
the hall, and ascended the broad stairway.</p>

<p>At the head of the stairway was a large
and roomy apartment, warmed (like every
room in the mansion) from an invisible
source, which gave a delightful temperature
to the atmosphere. There was a small
workstand in the midst of the apartment,
on which stood a lighted candle. A servant
maid was sleeping with her head upon the
table, and one hand resting upon a cradle at
her side. In that cradle, above the verge of
a silken coverlet, appeared the face of a
cherub boy, fast asleep, with a rose on his
cheek, and ringlets of auburn hair, tangled
about his forehead, white as alabaster.</p>

<p>This room the young mother entered, and
treading on tiptoe, she approached the cradle
and bent over it, until her lips touched
the forehead of the sleeping boy. And
when she rose again there was a tear upon
his cheek,&mdash;it had fallen from the blue eye
of the mother.</p>

<p>Retiring noiselessly, she sought her own
chamber, where a taper was dimly burning
before a mirror. By that faint light you
might trace the luxurious appointment of the
place,&mdash;a white bed, half shadowed in an
alcove&mdash;a vase of alabaster filled with fragrant
flowers&mdash;and curtains falling like
snow-flakes along the lofty windows. The
idea of wifely purity was associated with
every object in that chamber.</p>

<p>"I shall not want you to-night, Eliza; I
will undress myself," exclaimed Joanna to a
female servant, who stood waiting near the
mirror. "You may retire."</p>

<p>The servant retired, and the young wife
was alone. She extinguished the taper, and
all was still throughout the mansion. But she
did not retire to her bed. Advancing in the
darkness, she opened a door behind the bed,
and entered the bath-room, where she lighted
a lamp by the aid of a perfumed match
which she found, despite the gloom. The
bath-room was oval in shape, with an arched
ceiling. The walls, the ceiling and the floor
were of white marble. In the center was the
bath, resembling an immense shell, sunk into
the marble floor. This place, without ornament
or decoration of any kind, save the pure
white of the walls and floor, was pervaded
by luxurious warmth. The water which
filled the shell or hollow in the center of the
floor, emitted a faint but pungent perfume.</p>

<p>She disrobed herself and descended into
the bath, suffering her golden hair to float
freely about her shoulders.</p>

<p>After the lapse of a quarter of an hour,
this beautiful woman took the light and
passed into the bed chamber. She cast a
glance toward her bed, which had been consecrated
by her marriage, and by the birth of
her first and only child. Then advancing
toward a wardrobe of rosewood, which stood
in a recess opposite the bed, she took from
thence a dress, with which she proceeded to
encase her form. A white robe, loose and
flowing, with a hood resembling the cowl of
a nun. This robe was of the softest satin.
She enveloped her form in its folds, threw
the hood over her head, and looking in the
mirror, surveyed her beautiful face, which,
glowing with warmth, was framed in her
golden hair, and in the folds of the satin
cowl.</p>

<p>She drew slippers of delicate satin, white
as her robe, upon her naked feet.</p>

<p>Then, taking from the wardrobe a heavy
cloak, lined throughout with fur, as soft as
the satin which clad her shape, she wound
it about her from head to foot, and stood
completely buried in its voluminous folds.</p>

<p>Once more she listened: all was still
throughout that mansion, the home of aristocratic
wealth. Thus clad in the silken robe
and cowl, covered in its turn by the shapeless
black cloak, this young wife, whose
limbs were glowing with the warmth of the
bath, whose person was invested with a delicate
perfume, turned once more and gazed
upon her marriage bed, and a deep sigh
swelled her bosom. She next extinguished
the light, and passing from the chamber,
descended the marble staircase. All was
dark. She entered the suite of apartments
on the first floor, which, adorned with pillars,
communicated with each other by folding-doors.
The chandelier had been extinguished,
and the scene was wrapt in impenetrable
darkness.</p>

<p>Standing in the darkness,&mdash;her only apparel
the silken robe, and the thick, warm
cloak which covered it,&mdash;the young wife
trembled like a leaf.</p>

<p>She attempted to utter a word, but her
voice failed her.</p>

<p>"Joanna!" breathed a voice, speaking
near her.</p>

<p>"Beverly!" answered the young wife,
breathing the name in a whisper.</p>

<p>A faint sound like a step, whose echo is
muffled by thick carpets, and the hand of a
man, clasps the hand of Joanna.</p>

<p>"How long have you been here?" she
whispered.</p>

<p>"I just entered," was the answer.</p>

<p>"How?"</p>

<p>"By the front door, and the key which
you gave me."</p>

<p>"O, I tremble so,&mdash;I am afraid&mdash;"</p>

<p>An arm encircled the cloak which covered
her, and girded it tightly about her form.</p>

<p>"Has <i>he</i> gone, Joanna?"</p>

<p>"Yes, Beverly,&mdash;half an hour ago."</p>

<p>"Come, then, let us go. The carriage is
waiting at the next corner; and the street-lamp
near the front door is extinguished. All is
dark without; no one can see us."</p>

<p>"Are you sure, Beverly&mdash;I tremble so."</p>

<p>"Come, Joanna," and through the thick
darkness he led her toward the hall, supporting
her form upon his arm.</p>

<p>"O, whither are you leading me," she
whispered in a broken voice.</p>

<p>"Can you ask? Don't you remember my
note of to-day? To the <span class="smcap">Temple</span>, Joanna."</p>

<p>Their steps echo faintly from the entry.</p>

<p>Then the faint sound produced by the
careful closing of the street door is heard.</p>

<p>A pause of one or two minutes.</p>

<p>Hark! The rolling of carriage wheels.</p>

<p>All is still as death throughout the mansion
and the street on which it fronts.</p>

<p>Hours pass away, and once more the street
door is unclosed, and carefully closed again.
A step echoes faintly through the hall,&mdash;very
faintly,&mdash;and yet it can be heard distinctly,
so profound is the stillness which reigns
throughout the mansion. It ascends the
marble staircase, and is presently heard crossing
the threshold of the bed-chamber. A
pause ensues, and the taper in front of the
mirror is lighted again, and a faint ray steals
through the chamber.</p>

<p><span class="smcap">Eugene Livingstone</span> stands in front of
the mirror. He flings his cloak on a chair,
dashes his cap from his brow, and wipes the
sweat from his forehead,&mdash;although he has
just left the air of a winter night, his forehead
is bathed in moisture. His slender
frame shakes as with an ague-chill. His
eyes are unnaturally dilated; the white of
the eyeball may be plainly traced around the
pupil of each eye. His lips are pressed together,
and yet they quiver, as if with deathly
cold.</p>

<p>He does not utter a single ejaculation.</p>

<p>A letter is in his right hand, neatly folded
and scented with <i>pachouli</i>. It bears the name
"<i>Joanna</i>," as a superscription. He opens it
and reads its contents, traced in a delicate
hand&mdash;</p>

<blockquote>

<p><span class="smcap">Joanna</span>&mdash;</p>

<p><i>To-night,&mdash;at Twelve</i>.&mdash;<span class="smcap">The Temple</span>.</p>

<p><span class="smcap">Beverly</span>.</p></blockquote>

<p>Having read the brief letter, the husband
draws another from a side-pocket: "There
may be a mistake about the handwriting,"
he murmurs, "let us compare them."</p>

<p>The second letter is addressed to "<span class="smcap">Eugene
Livingstone, Esq.</span>," and its contents, which
the husband traces by the light of the taper,
are as follows:</p>

<blockquote>

<p><i>New York, Dec.</i> 23, 1844.</p>

<p><span class="smcap">Dear Eugene</span>:&mdash;Sorry to hear that you
have such sad news from Boston. Must you
go to-night? Send me word and I'll try to
go with you. Thine, ever,</p>

<p><span class="smcap">Beverly Barron</span>.</p></blockquote>

<p>Long and intently, the husband compared
these two letters. His countenance underwent
many changes. But there could be no
doubt of it&mdash;both letters were written by the
same hand.</p>

<p>"He wrote to me early this morning, and to
my wife about an hour afterward,&mdash;as soon
as he received my answer. I found the letter
to her upon the floor of this chamber,
only two hours ago."</p>

<p>He replaced both letters in his vest pocket.</p>

<p>Then taking the taper, he bent his steps
toward the room at the head of the marble
staircase. The young nurse was fast asleep
on the couch, near the cradle.</p>

<p>Eugene bent over the cradle. Resting its
rosy cheek on its bent arm, the child was
sleeping there, its auburn hair still tangled
about its forehead. He could not help pressing
his lips to that forehead, and a tear&mdash;the
only tear that he shed&mdash;fell from his
hot eye-ball, and sparkled like a pearl upon
the baby's cheek.</p>

<p>Then Eugene returned to the bedchamber,
and sat down beside the bed, still holding
the taper in his grasp. The light fell
softly over the unruffled coverlet.</p>

<p>"I remember the night when she first
crossed yonder threshold, and slept in this
bed."</p>

<p>There were traces of womanish weakness
upon his bronzed face, but he banished them
in a moment, and the expression of his eye
and lip became fixed and resolute.</p>

<p>He sat for five minutes with his elbow
on his knee, and his forehead in his hand.</p>

<p>Then rising, he opened his carpet-bag,
and took from thence a black robe, with
wide sleeves, and a cowl. It took but a moment
to assume his robe, and draw the cowl
over his dark locks. He caught a glance at
his face, thus framed in the velvet cowl, and
started as he beheld the contrast between its
ashy hues and the dark folds which concealed
it.</p>

<p>"'<span class="smcap">The Temple</span>!'" he muttered, and
pressed his hand against his forehead,&mdash;"I
believe I remember the pass word."</p>

<p>He took a pair of pistols, and a long slender
dagger, sheathed in silver, from the
carpet-bag, and regarded them for a moment.</p>

<p>"No, no," he exclaimed, "these will not
avail for a night like this."</p>

<p>Gathering his cloak about him, he extinguished
the taper, and crossed the threshold
of his bed-chamber. His steps were heard
on the stairs, and soon the faint jar of the
shut door was heard.</p>

<p>And as he left the house, the child in the
cradle awoke from its slumber and stretched
forth its little head, and in its baby voice
called the name of the young <span class="smcap">mother</span>.</p>

<p>Our story now turns to Randolph and Esther.</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h3><a name="CHAPTER_2_VII" id="CHAPTER_2_VII">CHAPTER VII.</a></h3>

<h4>THE WHITE SLAVE AND HIS SISTER.</h4>


<p>As the night set in&mdash;the night of December
23d, 1844&mdash;two persons were seated in
the recess of a lofty window, which commanded
a view of Broadway. It was the
window of a drawing-room, on the second
floor of a four storied edifice, built of brick,
with doors and window-frames of marble.&mdash;By
the dim light which prevailed, it might
be seen that the drawing-room was spacious
and elegantly furnished. Mirrors, pictures
and statues broke softly through the twilight.</p>

<p>Seated amid the silken curtains of the
window, these persons sat in silence&mdash;the
man with his arms folded, and his head
sunk upon his breast, the woman with her
hands clasped over her bosom, and her eyes
fixed upon the face of her companion. The
woman was very beautiful; one of those
who are called 'queenly' by persons who
have never seen a live queen, and who are ignorant
of the philosophical truth, that one
beautiful woman is worth all the queens in
the universe. The man was dark-haired, and
of a complexion singularly pale and colorless;
there was thought upon his forehead,
and something of an unpleasant memory,
written in his knit brows and compressed lips.</p>

<p>The silence which had prevailed for half
an hour, was broken by a whisper from the
lips of the woman&mdash;</p>

<p>"Of what are you thinking, Randolph?"</p>

<p>"Of the strange man whom we met at the
house half way between New York and
Philadelphia. His name and his personality
are wrapt in impenetrable mystery."</p>

<p>"Had it not been for him&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Ay, had it not been for him, we should
have been lost. You would have become
the prey of the&mdash;the <i>master</i>, Esther, who
owns you, and I,&mdash;I&mdash;well, no matter, I
would have been dead."</p>

<p>"After the scene in <span class="smcap">the</span> <i>house</i>, Randolph,
he came on with us, and by his directions
we took rooms at the City Hotel. From the
moment of our arrival, only a few hours ago,
we did not see him, until&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Until an hour ago. Then he came into
our room at the hotel. 'Here is a key,' said
he, 'and your home is No. &mdash;&mdash;, Broadway.
Go there at once, and await patiently the
coming of the twenty-fifth of December.&mdash;You
will find servants to wait upon you,
you will find money to supply your wants,&mdash;it
is in the drawer of the desk which you
will discover in your bedroom&mdash;and most
of all, you will there be safe from the
attempts of your persecutor.' These were
his words. We came at once, and find ourselves&mdash;the
servants excepted&mdash;the sole
tenants of this splendid mansion."</p>

<p>"But don't you remember his last words,
as we left the hotel? 'At the hour of six,'
said he, this singular unknown, 'you will be
waited on by a much treasured friend.'&mdash;Who
can it be that is to come and see us at
that hour?"</p>

<p>"Friend," Randolph echoed bitterly,
"what '<i>friend</i>' have we, save this personage,
whose very name is unknown to us? Our
father is dead. When I say that I say at once
that we are utterly alone in the world."</p>

<p>"And yet there is a career before you,
Randolph," faltered Esther.</p>

<p>"A splendid career, ha, ha, Esther, yes a
splendid career for the White Slave! You
forget, good girl, that we have negro blood
in our veins. How much wealth do you
think it would require to blot out the memory
of the past? Suppose we are successful
on the twenty-fifth of December,&mdash;suppose
the mysterious trustee of the Van Huyden
estate recognizes us as the children of one of
the Seven,&mdash;suppose that we receive a share
of this immense wealth&mdash;well, Esther, what
will it avail us? Wherever we turn, the
whisper will ring in our ears, 'They have
negro blood in their veins. Their mother
was descended from the black race. True,
they look whiter than the palest of the
Caucasian race, but&mdash;but'&mdash;(do you hear
it, Esther?) 'but they <i>have negro blood in
their veins</i>.'"</p>

<p>He started from his chair, and his sister
saw, even by the dim light which came
through the half-drawn window-curtains, that
his chest heaved, and his face was distorted
by a painful emotion.</p>

<p>She also arose.</p>

<p>"Randolph," she whispered, and laid her
hand gently on his arm, "Randolph, my
brother, I say it again, come wealth or poverty,
you have a career before you. In Europe
we may find a home,&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Europe!" he echoed, "And must we go
to Europe, in order to be permitted to live?
No, Esther, no! I am an American, yes,"&mdash;and
his voice, low and deep, echoed proudly
through the stillness of the dimly-lighted
room,&mdash;"yes, I am a Carolinian, ay, a South
Carolinian; South Carolina is my home;
while I live, I will not cease to assert my
right to a place, ay, and no dishonorable
place&mdash;on my native soil."</p>

<p>He passed his sister's arm through his
own, and led her gently over the carpet,
which, soft as down, returned no echo to
their tread. The lofty ceiling stretched
above them, in the vague twilight; and on
either hand were the walls adorned with
paintings and statues. The mirror, which
but dimly reflected their forms, flashed
gently through the gloom.</p>

<p>"And Esther, there is one reason why I
will not become an exile, which I have
never spoken to mortal ears&mdash;not even to
yours, my sister. It was communicated to
me by my father, before I left for Europe:
he placed <i>proofs</i> in my possession which do
not admit of denial. Sister, my epistle!&mdash;Here,
in the dimly-lighted room, to which
we have been guided by an unknown friend,&mdash;here,
surrounded by mystery, and with
the marks of wealth all about us,&mdash;here, as
the crisis of our fate draws near, let me
breathe the secret in your ears."</p>

<p>He paused in the center of the room. His
sister felt his arm tremble as he drew her to
his side. His voice betrayed, in its earnest
yet faltering tones, an unfathomable emotion.
And Esther clinging to his side, and looking
up into his face&mdash;which she could scarcely
discern through the gloom&mdash;felt her bosom
swell, and her breath come painfully in gasps,
as she was made, involuntarily, a sharer of
her brother's agitation.</p>

<p>"Randolph," she said, "what can be the
secret, which you have kept ever from me,
your sister?"</p>

<p>"I will not leave this country, in the first
place, because I am of its soil," he answered,
"and because, first and last, it is no common
right, which binds me to my native land.
Come, Esther, to the window, where the
light will help my words; you shall know
all&mdash;"</p>

<p>He led her to the window, and drew from
beneath his vest, a miniature, which he held
toward the fading light.</p>

<p>"Do you trace the features?" he whispered.</p>

<p>"I do. It is beautifully painted, and the
likeness resembles a thousand others, that I
have seen of the same man. But what has
this portrait in miniature to do with us?"</p>

<p>"What has it to do with us? Regard it
again, and closely, my sister. Do you not
trace a resemblance?"</p>

<p>"Resemblance to whom?" Esther echoed.
"Why it is the portrait of &mdash;&mdash; &mdash;&mdash;."</p>

<p>She repeated a name familiar to the civilized
world.</p>

<p>"It is <i>his</i> portrait. No one can deny it.
But Esther, again I ask you,&mdash;" his voice
sunk low and lower.&mdash;"Do you not trace a
resemblance?"</p>

<p>"Resemblance to whom?" she answered,
her tone indicating bewildered amazement.</p>

<p>"To the picture of <span class="smcap">our Mother</span>, which
you have seen at Hill Royal," was Randolph's
answer.</p>

<p>Utterly bewildered, Esther once more examined
the miniature; and an idea, so
strange, so wild that she deemed it but the
idle fancy of a dream, began to take shape
in her brain.</p>

<p>"I am in the dark, I know not what you
mean. True, true, the face portrayed in
miniature does, somewhat, resemble our
mother's portrait, but&mdash;"</p>

<p>"That miniature, Esther, is the portrait
of the Head of our Family. That man,&mdash;"
again he pronounced the name,&mdash;"was the
father of our mother. We are his grandchildren,
my sister."</p>

<p>Esther suffered the miniature to fall from
her hand. She sank back into a chair.</p>

<p>For a few moments, there was a death-like
pause, unbroken by a single word.</p>

<p>"The grandchildren of &mdash;&mdash; &mdash;&mdash;!" echoed
Esther, at length. "You cannot mean it,
Randolph?"</p>

<p>Randolph bent his head until his lips
well-nigh touched his sister's ear. At the
same moment he clasped her hard with a
painful pressure. The words which he then
uttered were uttered in a whisper, but every
word penetrated the soul of the listener.</p>

<p>"Esther, we are the grandchildren of
that man whose name is on the lips of the
civilized world. Our mother was <i>his</i> child.
<i>His</i> blood flows in our veins. We are of <i>his</i>
race; <i>his</i> features may be traced in your
countenance and in mine. Now let them
cut and hack and maim us: let them lash
us at the whipping-post, or sell us in the
slave mart. At every blow of the lash, we
can exclaim, 'Lash on! lash on! But
remember, you are inflicting this torture
upon no common slaves; for your whip at
every blow is stained with the blood of &mdash;&mdash; &mdash;&mdash;.
These slaves whom you lash are <span class="smcap">his</span>
grandchildren!'"</p>

<p>He paused, overcome by the violence of
his emotion. In a moment he resumed:</p>

<p>"And it is because I am <span class="smcap">his</span> grandson,
that I will not exile myself from this land,
which was <span class="smcap">his</span> birthplace as it is mine.
Yes, I cannot exile myself, for the reason
that my <span class="smcap">grandfather</span> left to my hands
the fulfillment of an awful trust&mdash;of a work
which, well fulfilled, will secure the happiness
of all the races who people the American
continent. I may become a suicide, but
an exile,&mdash;never!"</p>

<p>"But our mother, was the daughter of
Colonel Rawden. So the rumor ran, and so
you stated before the Court of Ten Millions."</p>

<p>"In that statement I simply followed the
popular rumor, for the time for the <i>entire
truth</i> had not yet come. But our mother
was not the child of Colonel Rawden. Her
mother was indeed Rawden's slave, but
not one drop of Rawden's blood flows in
our veins. Colonel Rawden was aware of
the truth; well he knew that <span class="smcap">Herodia</span>,
whom he sold to our father, was the child
of &mdash;&mdash; &mdash;&mdash;."</p>

<p>There was a pause: and it was not broken
until Esther spoke:</p>

<p>"You would not like to return to Europe,
then?"</p>

<p>"For one reason, and one only, I would
like to visit Europe."</p>

<p>"And that reason?"</p>

<p>"Know, Esther, that at Florence, in the
course of a hurried tour through Italy, I
met a gentleman named Bernard Lynn. His
native country I never ascertained; he was
near fifty years of age; gentlemanly in his
exterior, of reputed wealth, and accompanied
by an only daughter, Eleanor Lynn. At
Florence,&mdash;it matters not how,&mdash;I saved his
daughter's life&mdash;ay, more than life, her
honor. All his existence was wrapt up in
her; you may, therefore, imagine the extent
of his gratitude to the young American who
saved the life of this idolized child."</p>

<p>"Was the girl grateful, as well as the
father?"</p>

<p>"I remained but a week in their company,
and then separated, to see them no more
forever. That week was sufficient to assure
me that I loved her better than my life,&mdash;that
my passion was returned; and could I
but forget the negro blood which mingles in
my veins, I might boldly claim her as my
own. Her father had but one prominent
hatred: mild and gentlemanly on all other
subjects, he was ferocious at the sight or
mention of a negro. He regarded the African
race as a libel upon mankind; a link
between the monkey and the man; a caricature
of the human race; the work of Nature,
in one of her <i>unlucky</i> moods. Conscious
that there was negro blood in my veins, I
left him abruptly. With this consciousness
I could not press my suit for the hand of his
daughter."</p>

<p>"But you would like to see her again?"</p>

<p>"Could I meet her as an equal, yes! But
never can I look upon her face again. Don't
you see, Esther, how at every turn of life, I
am met by the fatal whisper, 'There is
<i>negro blood in your veins</i>!'"</p>

<p>"She was beautiful?"</p>

<p>"One of the fairest types of the Caucasian
race, that ever eye beheld. Tall in stature,
her form cast in a mould of enticing loveliness,
her complexion like snow, yet blushing
with roses on the lip and cheek; her hair,
brown in the sunlight, and dark in the shade;
her eyes of a shade between brown and
black, and always full of the light of all-abounding
youth and hope.&mdash;Yes, she was
beautiful, transcendently beautiful! She had
the intellect of an affectionate but proud and
ambitious woman."</p>

<p>"You saved her life?"</p>

<p>"I saved her honor."</p>

<p>"Her honor?"</p>

<p>"So beautiful, so young, so gifted, she
attracted the attention of an Italian nobleman,
who sued in vain for her hand. Foiled
in his efforts to obtain her in honorable marriage,
he determined to possess her at all
hazards. One night, as herself and her
father were returning to Florence, after a
visit to Valambrosa, the carriage was attacked
by a band of armed ruffians. The father
was stretched insensible, by a blow upon the
temple, from the hilt of a sword. When
he recovered his senses, he was alone, and
faint with the loss of blood. His daughter
had disappeared. He made out, at length,
to get back to Florence, and instituted a
search for his child. His efforts were fruitless.
Suspicion rested upon the rejected
lover, but he appeared before the father, and
to the father's satisfaction established his
innocence. At this period, when the father
had relinquished all hope, I assumed the
disguise of a traveling student, armed myself
and departed from Florence. I bent my
steps to the Apennines. A servant of the
nobleman, impelled at once by a bribe, and
by revenge for ill-treatment, had imparted
certain intelligence to me; upon this information
I shaped my course. In an obscure
nook of the Apennines, separated from the
main road by a wilderness frequented by
banditti, I found the daughter of Bernard
Lynn. She was a prisoner in a miserable
inn, which was kept by a poor knave, in the
pay of the robbers. I entered the room in
which she was imprisoned, in time to rescue
her from the nobleman, who had reached
the inn before me, and who was about to
carry his threats into force. Had I been a
moment later, her honor would have been
sacrificed. A combat ensued: Eleanor saw
me peril my life for her; and saw the villain
laid insensible at her feet. She fainted in
my arms. It matters not to tell how I bore
her back to her father, who confessed that I
had done a deed, which could never be
suitably rewarded, although he might sacrifice
his fortune and his life, in the effort to
display his gratitude."</p>

<p>"By what name did they know you?"</p>

<p>"As Randolph Royalton, the son of a
gentleman of South Carolina. From this I
am afraid the father built false impressions
of my social position and my wealth. Afraid
to tell Eleanor the truth, I left them without
one word of farewell."</p>

<p>At this moment, a door was opened, and
the light of a wax candle, held in the hand
of a servant who occupied the doorway,
flashed over the details of the drawing-room,
lighting up the scene with a sudden splendor.
The servant was a man of middle age
and of a calm, sober look. He was clad in
a suit of gray, faced with black velvet.</p>

<p>The light revealed the brother and sister
as they stood in the center of the scene;
Esther, clad in the green habit which fitted
closely to her beautiful shape, and Randolph
attired in a black coat, vest and cravat,
which presented a strong contrast to his pallid
visage.</p>

<p>The servant bowed formally upon the
threshold, and advanced, holding a salver of
silver in one hand and the candle in the
other. As soon as he had traversed the
space between Randolph and the door, he
bowed again, and extended the salver, upon
which appeared a card, inscribed with a
name&mdash;</p>

<p>"Master, a gentleman desires to see you.
He is in his carriage at the door. He gave
me this card for you."</p>

<p>Randolph exchanged glances with Esther,
as much as to say "our expected visitor,"
and then took the card, and read these
words:</p>

<blockquote>

<p>"<i>An old friend desires to see Randolph
Royalton and his sister.</i>"</p></blockquote>

<p>Randolph started as he beheld the handwriting,
and the blood rushed to his cheek:</p>

<p>"Show the gentleman up stairs," he said
quietly.</p>

<p>The servant disappeared, taking with him
the light, and the room was wrapt in
twilight once more.</p>

<p>"Have you any idea who is this visitor?"
whispered Esther.</p>

<p>"Hush! Do not speak! Surrounded by
mystery as we are, this new wonder throws
all others completely into shade. I can
scarcely believe it; and yet, it was <i>his</i> handwriting!
I cannot be mistaken."</p>

<p>In vain did Esther ask, "Whose handwriting?"
Trembling with anxiety and delight,
Randolph listened intently for the
sound of footsteps on the stairs.</p>

<p>Presently there came a sound, as of footsteps
ascending a stairway, covered with
thick carpet; and then the door opened and
the servant stood on the threshold, light in
hand:</p>

<p>"This way, sir, this way," he exclaimed,
and entered: while Randolph and Esther's
gaze was centered on the doorway; the
servant in gray rapidly lighted the wax candles,
which stood on the marble mantle, and
the spacious room was flooded with radiance.</p>

<p>"Ah, ha, my dear boy, have I caught you
at last?" cried a harsh but a cheerful voice,
and an elderly man, wrapped in a cloak,
crossed the threshold, and approached Randolph
with rapid steps.</p>

<p>"Mr. Lynn!" ejaculated Randolph, utterly
astonished.</p>

<p>"Yes, your old friend, whom you so abruptly
left at Florence, without so much as a
word of good-bye! How are you, my dear
fellow? Give me a shake of your hand.
Miss Royalton, I presume?"</p>

<p>By no means recovered from his bewilderment,
Randolph managed to present Mr.
Bernard Lynn to his sister, whom he called
"Miss Esther Royalton."</p>

<p>The visitor gave his hat and cloak to the
servant, and flung himself into an arm-chair.
He was a gentleman of some fifty years,
dark complexion, and with masses of snow-white
hair. His somewhat portly form was
attired in a blue frock coat, beneath which
the collar of a buff waistcoat and a black
stock were discernible.</p>

<p>"Come, come, Randolph, my boy, let me
chat with Miss Esther, while you attend to
your servant, who, if I may judge by his
telegraphic signs, has something to say to
you in regard to your household affairs."</p>

<p>Randolph turned and was confronted by
the servant, Mr. Hicks, who bowed low, and
said in a tone which was audible through the
room&mdash;</p>

<p>"At what hour will you have dinner
served?" and then added in a whisper, "<i>I
wish to speak with you alone</i>."</p>

<p>"At seven, as I directed you, when I first
arrived," replied Randolph, and followed the
servant from the drawing-room.</p>

<p>Mr. Hicks led the way, down the broad
staircase, to the spacious hall on the lower
floor, which was now illuminated by a large
globe lamp.</p>

<p>"Pardon me, Mr. Royalton," said Mr.
Hicks, "for troubling you about the dinner
hour. That, if you will excuse me for saying
so, was only a pretext. Your Agent, who
arrived before you, to-day, and engaged myself
and the other domestics, gave me especial
directions, to prepare dinner to-night, at
seven precisely. It was not about the hour
of dinner, therefore, that I wished to see
you, for we all know our duty, and you may
rely upon it, that all the <i>appointments</i> of this
mansion, are in good hands."</p>

<p>"Right, Mr. Hicks, right, may I ask whether
my Agent, who was here to-day, wore
an odd dress which he sometimes wears,
a,&mdash;a&mdash;"</p>

<p>"A blue surtout, with a great many capes?
Yes, sir. The fashion in the south, I presume."</p>

<p>"<i>It was then my unknown friend of the
half-way-house,</i>" thought Randolph: presently,
he said, "Why did you call me from
the drawing-room?"</p>

<p>Mr. Hicks bowed his formal bow, and
pointed to a door of dark mahogany:</p>

<p>"If you will have the kindness to enter
that room, you will know why I called you."</p>

<p>And Mr. Hicks bowed again, and retreated
slowly from the scene.</p>

<p>Placing his hand upon the door, Randolph
felt his heart beat tumultuously against his
breast.</p>

<p>"Yesterday, a hunted slave," the thought
rushed over him, "and to-day, the master of
a mansion, and with a train of servants to
obey my nod! So, my unknown friend in
the surtout, with blue capes, was here to-day,
acting the part of my 'Agent.' What
new wonder awaits me, beyond this door?"</p>

<p>He opened the door, and he trembled,
although he was anything but a coward.
The room into which he entered, was about
half as large as the drawing-room above. A
lamp standing in the center of the carpet,
shed a soft luxurious luster over the walls,
which, white as snow, were adorned with one
mirror, and three or four pictures, set in
frames of black and gold. At a glance, in
one of these frames, Randolph recognized the
portrait of his father. The windows, opening
on the street, were vailed with damask
curtains. A piano stood in one corner, a
sofa opposite, and elegant chairs of dark
wood, were disposed around the room. It
was at once a neat, singular, and somewhat
luxurious apartment.</p>

<p>And on the sofa, was seated the figure of
a woman, closely vailed. Her dark attire
was in strong contrast with the scarlet
cushions on which she rested, and the snow-white
wall behind her.</p>

<p>Randolph stopped suddenly; he was
stricken dumb, by a sensation of utter bewilderment.
The unknown did not remove
the vail from her face; she did not even
move.</p>

<p>"You wish to see me, Madam?" he said,
at length.</p>

<p>She drew the vail aside&mdash;he beheld her
face,&mdash;and the next moment she had bounded
from the sofa and was resting in his
arms.</p>

<p>"Eleanor!" he cried, as the vail removed,
he beheld her face.</p>

<p>"Randolph!" she exclaimed, as he pressed
her to his breast.</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h3><a name="CHAPTER_2_VIII" id="CHAPTER_2_VIII">CHAPTER VIII.</a></h3>

<h4>ELEANOR LYNN.</h4>


<p>In a few moments they were seated side
by side on the sofa, and while she spoke, in
a low musical voice, Randolph devoured her
with his eyes.</p>

<p>"We arrived from Europe, only the day
before yesterday. Father determined to
visit New York, on our way to Havana,
where we intend to spend the winter. And
to-day, by a strange chance at our hotel, he
encountered your Agent&mdash;the superintendent
of your southern plantation,&mdash;an eccentric
person, who wears an old-fashioned surtout,
with I know not how many capes. From
this gentleman, father learned that you had
just arrived from the south, and at once determined
to give you a surprise. We came
together, but to tell you the truth, I wanted
to see you alone, and, therefore, lingered
behind, while father went up stairs to prepare
you for my presence."</p>

<p>She smiled, and Randolph, like a man in
a delicious dream, feared to move or speak,
lest the vision which he beheld might vanish
into the air.</p>

<p>Words are but poor things, with which to
paint a beautiful woman.</p>

<p>There was youth and health in every line
of her face: her form, incased in a dark
dress, which enveloped her bust and fitted
around her neck, was moulded in the warm
loveliness of womanhood, at once mature
and virgin. Her bonnet thrown aside, her
face was disclosed in full light. A brow, denoting
by its outline, a bold, yet refined
intellect; an eye, large, lustrous, and looking
black by night; a lip that had as much of
pride as of love in its expression&mdash;such were
the prominent characteristics of her face.</p>

<p>"Why did you leave us so abruptly at
Florence?" she exclaimed,&mdash;"Ah, I know
the secret&mdash;"</p>

<p>"You know the secret?" echoed Randolph,
his heart mounting to his throat.</p>

<p>"One of your friends in Florence&mdash;a young
artist named Waters, betrayed you," she
said, and laid her gloved hand on his arm, a
sunny smile playing over her noble countenance.
"At least after your departure he
told your secrets to father."</p>

<p>Randolph started from the sofa, as though
a chasm had opened at his feet.</p>

<p>"He betrayed me&mdash;he! And yet you do
not scorn me?"</p>

<p>"Scorn you? Grave matter to create
scorn! You have a quarrel with your father,
and leave home on a run-a-way tour for
Europe. There, in Europe,&mdash;we will say
at Florence&mdash;you make friends, and run
away from them, because you are afraid they
will think less of you, when they are aware
that your father <i>may</i> disinherit you. Fie!
Randolph, 'twas a sorry thing, for you to
think so meanly of your friends!"</p>

<p>These words filled Randolph with overwhelming
agony.</p>

<p>When she first spoke, he was assured that
the <i>secret of his life</i>, was known to her. He
was aghast at the thought, but at the same
time, overjoyed to know, that the <i>taint</i> of
his blood, was not regarded by Eleanor as a
crime.</p>

<p>But her concluding words revealed the
truth. She was not aware of the fact. She
was utterly mistaken, as to his motive, for
his abrupt departure from Florence. Instead
of the real cause, she assigned one which
was comparatively frivolous.</p>

<p>"Shall I tell her all?" the thought crossed
his mind, as he gazed upon her, and he
shuddered at the idea.</p>

<p>"And so you thought that our opinion of
you, was measured by your wealth, or by
your want of wealth? For shame Randolph!
You are now the sole heir of your father,
but were it otherwise, Randolph, our friendship
for you would remain unchanged."</p>

<p>"The sole heir of my father's estate!"
Randolph muttered to himself,&mdash;"I dare not,
dare not, tell her the real truth."</p>

<p>But the fascination of that woman's loveliness
was upon him. The sound of her
voice vibrated through every fiber of his
being. When he gazed into her eyes, he
forgot the darkness of his destiny, the taint
of his blood, the gloom of his heart, and the
hopes and fears of his future. He lived in
the present moment, in the smile, the voice,
the glance of the woman who sat by him,&mdash;her
presence was world, home, heaven to
him&mdash;all else was blank nothingness.</p>

<p>"Don't you think that I'm a very strange
woman?" she said with a smile, and a look
of undefinable fascination. "Remember, from
my childhood, Randolph, I have been deprived
of the care and counsel of a mother.
Without country and without home, I have
been hurried with my father from place to
place, and seen much of the world, and may
be learned to battle with it. I am not much
of a 'woman of society,' Randolph. The
artificial life led by woman in that conventional
world, called the 'fashionable,' never
had much charm for me. My books, my
pencil, the society of a friend, the excitement
of a journey, the freedom to-speak my
thoughts without fear of the world's frown,&mdash;these,
Randolph, suit me much better
than the life of woman, as she appears in
the fashionable world. And whenever I
transgress the 'decorums' and 'proprieties,'
you will be pleased to remember that I am
but a sort of a wild woman&mdash;a very barbarian
in the midst of a civilized world."</p>

<p>Randolph did not say that she was an angel,
but he thought that she was very beautiful
for a wild woman.</p>

<p>She rose.</p>

<p>"Come, let us join father," she said,&mdash;"and
I am dying to see this sister of yours, friend
Randolph."</p>

<p>Taking her bonnet in one hand, she left
her cloak on the sofa, and led the way to the
door. At a glance Randolph surveyed her
tall and magnificent figure. As leaving him,
silent and bewildered, on the sofa, she
turned her face over her shoulder, and looked
back upon him, Randolph muttered to
himself the thought of his soul, in one
word, "negro!" So much beauty, purity
and truth before him, embodied in a woman's
form, and between that woman and
himself an eternal barrier! The blood of an
accursed race in his veins, the mark of bondage
stamped upon the inmost fiber of his
existence&mdash;it was a bitter thought. "You
are absent, Randolph," she said, and came
back to him, "shall I guess your thoughts?"
She laid her hand upon his shoulder, and
bent down until he felt her breath upon his
forehead.</p>

<p>"You are thinking of the <i>night in the Apennines</i>?"
she whispered. Randolph uttered
an incoherent cry of rapture, and reached
forth his arms, and drew her to his breast.&mdash;Their
lips met&mdash;"You have not forgotten
it?" he whispered.</p>

<p>She drew back her head as she was girdled
by his arms, in order to gaze more freely
upon his face. Blushing from the throat to
the forehead, not with shame, but with a
passion as warm and as pure as ever lighted a
woman's bosom, she answered in a whisper:</p>

<p>"Randolph, I love you!"</p>

<p>"Love me! Ah, my God, could I but
hope," he gasped.</p>

<p>She laid her hand upon his mouth.</p>

<p>"Hush, I am my father's child. We happen
to think alike on subjects of importance.
If you have not changed since the night in
the Apennines, why&mdash;why, then Randolph,
you will find that I am the same. As for
my father, he always loved you."</p>

<p>When a woman like Eleanor Lynn gives
herself away, thus freely and without reserve,
you may be sure that the passion
which she cherishes is not of an hour, a day,
or a year, but of a lifetime.</p>

<p>Randolph could not reply in coherent words.
There was a wild ejaculation, a frenzied
embrace, a kiss which joined together these
souls, burning with the fire of a first and
stainless love, but there was no reply in words.</p>

<p>And all the while, behind the form of
Eleanor, Randolph saw a phantom shape,
which stood between him and his dearest
hope. A hideous phantom, which said,
"Thou art young, and thy face is pale as the
palest of the race who are born to rule, but
the blood of the negro is in thy veins."</p>

<p>At length Randolph rose, and taking her
by the hand, led her from the room.</p>

<p>"You will see my sister, and love her,"
said Randolph, as he crossed the threshold.
A hand was laid gently on his arm, and
turning he beheld Mr. Hicks, who slipped a
letter in his hand, whispering,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Pardon me, sir. This was left half an
hour ago."</p>

<p>Randolph had no time to read a letter at
that moment, so placing it in his coat pocket,
he led Eleanor up-stairs. They entered
the drawing-room, and were received by her
father with a laugh, and the exclamation,&mdash;</p>

<p>"So, my boy, you have found this wild
girl of mine a <i>second</i> time! Confess that
we have given you one of the oddest surprises
you ever encountered!"</p>

<p>Presently Esther and Eleanor stood face to
face, and took each other by the hand.&mdash;Both
noble-looking women, of contrasted
types of loveliness, they stood before the
father and Randolph, who gazed upon them
with a look of silent admiration.</p>

<p>"So, you are Esther!" whispered the
daughter of Bernard Lynn.</p>

<p>"And you are Eleanor!" returned the sister
of Randolph.</p>

<p>"We shall love each other very much,"
said Eleanor,&mdash;"Come, let us talk a little."</p>

<p>They went hand in hand to a recess near
the window, and sat down together, leaving
Randolph and Mr. Lynn alone, near the
center of the drawing-room.</p>

<p>"Do you know, my boy, that I have a notion
to make your house our home, while we
remain in New York? I hate the noise of
a hotel, and so using a traveler's privilege,
of bluntness, I'll invite myself and Eleanor
to be your guests. I have letters to the 'first
people' of the city, but these 'first people,'
as they are called, are pretty much the same
everywhere&mdash;cut out of the same piece of
cloth, all over the world&mdash;they tire one dreadfully.
If you have no objection, my friend,
we'll stay with you for a few days at least."</p>

<p>"Of course," Randolph replied to Mr. Lynn
in the warmest and most courteous manner,
concluding with the words, "Esther and
myself will be too happy to have you for our
guests. Make our house your home while
you remain in New York, and&mdash;" he was
about to add "forever!"</p>

<p>Mr. Lynn took him warmly by the hand.</p>

<p>"And in a few days, he <i>must</i> learn that I
am not the legitimate son of my father, but
his <i>slave</i>," the thought crossed him as he
shook the hand of Eleanor's father. "This
Aladdin's palace will crumble into ashes, and
this gentleman who now respects me, will
turn away in derision from Randolph, the
slave."</p>

<p>It was a horrible thought.</p>

<p>At this moment Mr. Hicks entered, and
announced that dinner was ready. They left
the room, Randolph with Eleanor on his
arm, and Mr. Lynn with Esther, and bent
their steps toward the dining-room. On the
threshold Mr. Hicks slipped a letter in the
hand of Esther, "It was left for you, Miss,
half an hour ago," he said, and made one
of his mechanical bows. Esther took the
letter and placed it in her bosom, and
Mr. Hicks threw open the door of the dining-room.</p>

<p>Randolph could scarce repress an ejaculation
of wonder, as (for the first time) he beheld
this apartment.</p>

<p>It was a spacious room, oval in shape, and
with a lofty ceiling, which was slightly
arched. The walls were covered with pale
lilac hangings, and fine statues of white
marble stood at equal distances around the
place. In the center stood the table, loaded
with viands, and adorned with an alabaster
vase, filled with freshly-gathered flowers.&mdash;Wax
candles shed a mild light over the
scene, and the air was imbued at once with
a pleasant warmth and with the breath of
flowers. The service of plate which loaded
the table was of massive gold. Everything
breathed luxury and wealth.</p>

<p>"You planters know how to live!" whispered
Bernard Lynn: "By George, friend
Randolph, you are something of a republican,
but it is after the Roman school!"</p>

<p>In accordance with Randolph's request,
Mr. Lynn took the head of the table, with
Esther and Eleanor on either hand. Randolph
took his seat opposite the father of
Eleanor, and gazed around with a look of
vague astonishment. A servant clad in gray
livery, fringed with black velvet, stood behind
each chair, and Mr. Hicks, the imperturbable,
retired somewhat in the background,
presided in silence over the progress of the
banquet.</p>

<p>"We are not exactly dressed for dinner,"
laughed Mr. Lynn,&mdash;"but you will excuse
our breach of that most solemn code, profounder
than Blackstone or Vattel, and called
<i>Etiquette</i>."</p>

<p>Randolph gazed first at his dark hair,
which betrayed some of the traces of hazel,
and at the costume of Esther, which although
it displayed her form to the best advantage,
was not precisely suited for the dinner-table.</p>

<p>"Ah, we southrons care little for etiquette,"
he replied,&mdash;"only to-day arrived from the
south, Esther and I have had little time to
attend to the niceties of costume. By-the-bye,
friend Lynn, yourself and daughter are
in the same predicament." And then he
muttered to himself, "Still the dress is better
than the costume of a negro slave."</p>

<p>The dinner passed pleasantly, with but
little conversation, and that of a light and
chatty character. The servants, stationed behind
each chair, obeyed the wishes of the
guests before they were framed in words;
and Mr. Hicks in the background, managed
their movements by signs, somewhat after
the fashion of an orchestra leader. It was
near eight o'clock when Esther and Eleanor
retired, leaving Randolph and Mr. Lynn
alone at the table.</p>

<p>"Dismiss these folks," said Bernard Lynn,
pointing toward Mr. Hicks and the other
servants, "and let us have a chat together."
At a sign from Randolph, Mr. Hicks and
the servants left the room.</p>

<p>"Draw your chair near me,&mdash;there,&mdash;let
us look into each other's faces. By George!
friend Randolph, your wine cellar must be
worthy of a prince or a bishop! I have just
sipped your Tokay, and tasted your Champagne,&mdash;both
are superb. But as I am a
traveler, I drink brandy. So pass the bottle."</p>

<p>As Mr. Lynn, seated at his ease, filled a
capacious goblet with brandy from a bottle
labeled "1796," Randolph surveyed attentively
his face and form.</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h3><a name="CHAPTER_2_IX" id="CHAPTER_2_IX">CHAPTER IX.</a></h3>

<h4>BERNARD LYNN.</h4>


<p>Bernard Lynn was a tall and muscular
man, somewhat inclined to corpulence. His
dark complexion was contrasted with the
masses of snow-white hair, which surrounded
his forehead, and the eyebrows, also white,
which gave additional luster to his dark
eyes. His features were regular, and there
were deep furrows upon his forehead and
around his mouth. Despite the good-humored
smile which played about his lips,
and the cheerful light which flowed from his
eyes, there was at times, a haggard look
upon his face. One moment all cheerfulness
and animation, the next instant his face
would wear a faded look; the corners of his
mouth would fall; and his eye become
vacant and lusterless.</p>

<p>He emptied the goblet of brandy without
once taking it from his lips, and the effect
was directly seen in his glowing countenance
and sparkling eyes.</p>

<p>"Ah! that is good brandy," he cried,
smacking his lips, and sinking back in his
chair. "You think I am a deep drinker?"
he remarked, after a moment's pause.&mdash;"Do
not wonder at it. There are times in a man's
life when he is forced to choose between the
brandy bottle and the knife of the suicide."</p>

<p>At the word, his head sunk and his countenance
became clouded and sullen.</p>

<p>Before Randolph could reply, he raised
his head and exclaimed gayly:</p>

<p>"Do you know, my boy, that I have been
a great traveler? Three times I have
encircled the globe. I have seen most of
what is to be seen under the canopy of
heaven. I have been near freezing to death
in Greenland, and have been burned almost
to a cinder by the broiling sun of India.
To-day, in the saloons of Paris; a month
after in the midst of an Arabian desert; and
the third month, a wanderer among the ruins
of ancient Mexico and Yucatan. I have
tried all climates, lived with all sorts of
people, and seen sights that would make the
Arabian Nights seem but poor and tame by
contrast. And now, my boy, I'm tired."</p>

<p>And the wan, haggard look came over his
face, as he uttered the word "<i>tired</i>."</p>

<p>"Your daughter has not accompanied you
in these pilgrimages?"</p>

<p>"No. From childhood she was left under
careful guardianship, in the bosom of an
English family, who lived in Florence.
Poor child! I have often wondered what
she has thought of me! To-day I have
been with her in Florence, and within two
months she has received a letter from me,
from the opposite side of the globe. But as
I said before, I am <i>tired</i>. Were it not for
one thing I would like to settle down in
your country. A fine country,&mdash;a glorious
country,&mdash;only one fault, and that very
likely will eat you all up."</p>

<p>"Before I ask the nature of the fault,
pardon me for an impertinent question. Of
what country are you? You speak of the
English as a foreign people; of the Americans
in the same manner; yet you speak the
language without the slightest accent."</p>

<p>The countenance of Mr. Lynn became
clouded and sullen.</p>

<p>"I am of no country," he said harshly.
"I ceased to have a country, about the time
Eleanor was born. But another time," his
tone became milder, "I may tell you all
about it."</p>

<p>"And the fault of our country?" said
Randolph, anxious to divert the thoughts of
his friend from some painful memory, which
evidently absorbed his mind, "what is it?"</p>

<p>Mr. Lynn once more filled and slowly
drained his goblet.</p>

<p>"You are the last person to whom I may
speak of this fault,&mdash;"</p>

<p>"How so?"</p>

<p>"You are a planter. You have been
reared under peculiar influences. Your
mind from childhood has been imperceptibly
moulded into a certain form, and that
form it is impossible to change. You cannot
see, as I can; for I am a spectator, and you
are in the center of the conflagration, which
I observe from a distance. No, no, Randolph,
I can't speak of it to you. But you
planters will be wakened some day&mdash;you
will. God help you in your awakening&mdash;hem!"</p>

<p>Randolph's face became pale as death.</p>

<p>"You speak, my friend, of the question
of negro slavery. You surely don't consider
it an evil. You&mdash;you&mdash;<i>hate</i> the very
mention of the race."</p>

<p>Shading his eyes with his uplifted hand,
Bernard Lynn said, with slow and measured
distinctness:</p>

<p>"Do I hate the race? Yes, if you could
read my heart, you would find hatred to the
African race written on its every fiber. The
very name of negro fills me with loathing."
He uttered an oath, and continued in a
lower tone: "By what horrible fatality was
that accursed race ever planted upon the soil
of the New World!"</p>

<p>Randolph felt his blood boil in his veins;
his face was flashed; he breathed in gasps.</p>

<p>"And then it is not sympathy for the
negro, that makes you look with aversion
upon the institution of American slavery?"</p>

<p>"Sympathy for a libel upon the race&mdash;a
hybrid composed of the monkey and the
man? The idea is laughable. Were the
negro in Africa&mdash;his own country&mdash;I might
tolerate him. But his presence in any shape,
as a dweller among people of the white
race, is a curse to that race, more horrible
than the plagues of Egypt or the fires of
Gomorrah."</p>

<p>"It is, then, the <i>influence of negro slavery
upon the white race</i>, which concerns you?"
faltered Randolph.</p>

<p>"<i>It is the influence of negro slavery upon
the white race</i> which concerns me," echoed
Lynn, with bitter emphasis: "But you are
a planter. I cannot talk to you. To
mention the subject to one of you, is to set
you in a blaze. By George! how the devils
must laugh when they see us poor mortals,
so eager in the pursuit of our own ruin,&mdash;so
merry as we play with hot coals in the midst
of a powder magazine!"</p>

<p>"You may speak to me upon this subject,"
said Randolph, drawing a long breath,
"and speak freely."</p>

<p>"It won't do. You are all blind. There,
for instance, is the greatest man among you;
his picture hangs at your back&mdash;"</p>

<p>Randolph turned and beheld, for the first
time, a portrait which hung against the wall
behind. It was a sad, stern face, with snow-white
hair, and a look of intellect, moulded
by an iron Destiny. It was the likeness of
<span class="smcap">John C. Calhoun</span>,&mdash;Calhoun, the John
Calvin of Political Economy.</p>

<p>"I knew him when he was a young man,"
continued Lynn, "I have met and conversed
with him. Mind, I do not say that we were
<i>intimate friends</i>! A braver man, a truer
heart, a finer intellect, never lived beneath
the sun. <i>Then</i> he felt the evils of this horrible
system, and felt that the only remedy,
was the removal of the entire race to Africa.
Yes, he felt that the black man could only
exist beside the white, to the utter degradation
of the latter. <i>Now</i>, ha! ha! he has
grown into the belief, that Slavery,&mdash;in other
words, <i>the presence of the black race in the
midst of the white</i>,&mdash;is a blessing. To that
belief he surrenders everything, intellect,
heart, soul, the hope of power, and the approbation
of posterity. When Calhoun is
blind, how can you planters be expected to
see?"</p>

<p>Randolph was silent. "There is in my
veins, the blood of this accused race," he
muttered to himself.</p>

<p>"In order to look up some of the results
of this system," continued Bernard Lynn,
"let us look at some of the characteristics of
the American people. The north is a trader;
it traffics; it buys; it sells; it meets every
question with the words, '<i>Will it pay?</i>'
(As a gallant southron once said to me;
'When the north choose a patron saint, a
new name will be added to the calendar,
"<span class="smcap">Saint Picayune</span>"'). The South is frank,
generous, hospitable; there are the virtues
of ideal chivalry among the southern people.
And yet, the north prospers in every sense,
while the south,&mdash;<i>what is the future of the
South?</i> The west, noble, generous, and free
from the traits which mark a nation of mere
traffickers, <i>is just what the south would be,
were it</i> <span class="smcap">free from the Black Race</span>. Think
of that, friend Randolph! You may glean a
bit of solid truth from the disconnected remarks
of an old traveler."</p>

<p>"But you have not yet instanced a single
evil of our institution," interrupted Randolph.</p>

<p>"Are you from the south, and yet, ask me
to give you instances of the evils of slavery?
Pshaw! I tell you man, the evil of slavery
consists in the presence of the black race
in the midst of the whites. That is the sum
of the matter. You cannot elevate that race
save at the expense of the whites&mdash;not the
expense of money, mark you,&mdash;but at the
expense of the physical and mental features
of the white race. Don't I speak plain
enough? The two races cannot live together
and <i>not</i> mingle. You know it to be
impossible. And do you pretend to say, that
the mixture of black and white, can produce
anything but an accursed progeny, destitute
of the good qualities of each race, and by
their very origin, at war with both African
and Caucasian? Nay, you need not hold
your head in your hands. It is blunt truth,
but it is truth."</p>

<p>The bolt had struck home. Randolph
had buried his face in his hands,&mdash;"I am
one of these hybrids," he muttered in agony;
"at war at the same time, with the race of
my father and my mother."</p>

<p>"But, how would you remedy this evil?"
he asked, without raising his head.</p>

<p>"Remove the whole race to Africa," responded
Lynn.</p>

<p>"How can this be done?"</p>

<p>"By one effort of southern will. Instead
of attempting to defend the system, let the
southern people resolve at once, that the
<i>presence of the black race</i>, is the greatest curse
that can befall America. This resolution
made, the means will soon follow. One-fourth
the expenses of a five years' war
would transport the negroes to Africa. One-twentieth
part of the sum, which will be expended
in the next ten years (I say nothing
of the past) in the quarrel of north and south,
about this matter, would do the work and do
it well. And then, <i>free from the black race</i>,
the south would go to work and mount to her
destiny."</p>

<p>"But, what will become of the race, when
they are transported to Africa?"</p>

<p>"If they are really of the human family,
they will show it, by the civilization of
Africa. They will establish a Nationality
for the Negro, and plant the arts on seashore
and desert. Apart from the white
race, they can rise into their destiny."</p>

<p>"And if nothing is done?" interrupted
Randolph.</p>

<p>"If the south continues to defend, and the
north to quarrel about slavery,&mdash;if instead of
making one earnest effort to do something
with the evil, they break down national
good-feeling, and waste millions of money in
mutual threats,&mdash;why, in that case, it needs
no prophet to foretell the future of the south.
That future will realize one of two conditions&mdash;"</p>

<p>He paused, and after a moment, repeated
with singular emphasis, "<i>St. Domingo!&mdash;St.
Domingo!</i>"</p>

<p>"And the other condition," said Randolph.</p>

<p>"The whole race will be stript of all its
noble qualities, and swallowed up in a race,
composed of black and white, and cursing
the very earth they tread. In the south, the
white race will in time be <i>annihilated</i>. That
garden of the world, composed, I know not
of how many states,&mdash;extending from the
middle states to the gulf, and from the Atlantic
to the Mississippi,&mdash;will repeat on a
colossal scale, the horrible farce, which the
world has seen, in the case of St. Domingo."</p>

<p>Bernard Lynn again filled his goblet, and
slowly sipped the brandy, while the fire
faded from his eyes, the corners of his mouth
fell,&mdash;his face became faded and haggard
again.</p>

<p>Randolph, seated near him, his elbow on
his knee, and his forehead supported by his
hand, was buried in thought. His face was
averted from the light: the varied emotions
which convulsed it in every lineament, were
concealed from the observation of Bernard
Lynn.</p>

<p>Thus they remained for a long time, each
buried in his own peculiar thoughts.</p>

<p>"Randolph," said Bernard Lynn,&mdash;and
there was something so changed and singular
in his tone, that Randolph started&mdash;"draw
near to me. I wish to speak with you."</p>

<p>Randolph looked up, and was astonished
by the change which had passed over the
face of the traveler. His eyes flashed wildly,
his features were one moment fixed and
rigid and the next, tremulous and quivering
with strong emotion; the veins were swollen
on his broad forehead.</p>

<p>"Randolph," he said, in a low, agitated
voice, "I am a Carolinian."</p>

<p>"A Carolinian?" echoed Randolph.</p>

<p>"The name of Bernard Lynn is not my
real name. It is an assumed name, Randolph.
Assumed, do you hear me?" his eyes flashed
more wildly, and he seized Randolph's
hand, and unconsciously wrung it with an
almost frenzied clutch&mdash;"Assumed some
seventeen years ago, when I forsook my
home, my native soil, and became a miserable
wanderer on the face of the earth. Do
you know why I assumed that name,&mdash;do
you know?&mdash;"</p>

<p>He paused as if suffocated by his emotions.
After a moment he resumed in a lower,
deeper voice,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Did you ever hear the name of &mdash;&mdash; &mdash;&mdash;?"</p>

<p>"It is the name of one of the first and
oldest families of Carolina," responded Randolph.
"A name renowned in her history,
but now extinct, I believe."</p>

<p>"That is my name, my real name, which
I have forsaken forever, for the one which I
now bear," resumed Bernard Lynn. "I am
the last male representative of the family.
Seventeen years ago my name disappeared
from Carolina. I left home&mdash;my native
land&mdash;all the associations that make life
dear, and became a miserable exile. And
why?"</p>

<p>He uttered an oath, which came sharp and
hissing through his clenched teeth.</p>

<p>Profoundly interested, Randolph, as if
fascinated, gazed silently into the flashing
eyes of Bernard Lynn.</p>

<p>"I was young,&mdash;rich,&mdash;the inheritor of an
honored name," continued Bernard Lynn, in
hurried tones,&mdash;"and I was married, Randolph,
married to a woman of whom Eleanor
is the living picture,&mdash;a woman as noble in
soul, and beautiful in form as ever trod
God's earth. One year after our marriage,
when Eleanor was a babe,&mdash;nearer to me,
Randolph,&mdash;I left my plantation in the evening,
and went on a short visit to Charleston.
I came home the next day, and where I had
left my wife living and beautiful, I found
only a mangled and dishonored corpse."</p>

<p>His head fell upon his breast,&mdash;he could
not proceed.</p>

<p>"This is too horrible!" ejaculated Randolph,&mdash;"too
horrible to be real."</p>

<p>Bernard raised his head, and clutching
Randolph's hands&mdash;</p>

<p>"The sun was setting, and his beams
shone warmly through the western windows
as I entered the bedchamber. Oh! I can
see it yet,&mdash;I can see it now,&mdash;the babe
sleeping on the bed, while the mother is
stretched upon the floor, lifeless and weltering
in her blood. Murdered and dishonored&mdash;murdered
and dishonored&mdash;"</p>

<p>As though those words, "murdered and
dishonored," had choked his utterance, he
paused, and uttered a groan, and once more
his head fell on his breast.</p>

<p>At this moment, even as Randolph, absorbed
by the revelation, sits silent and pale,
gazing upon the bended head of the old
man,&mdash;at this moment look yonder, and
behold the form of a woman, who with
finger on her lip, stands motionless near the
threshold.</p>

<p>Randolph is not aware of her presence&mdash;the
old man cannot see her, for there is
agony like death in his heart, and his head
is bowed upon his breast; but there she
stands, motionless as though stricken into
stone, by the broken words which she has
heard.</p>

<p>It is Eleanor Lynn.</p>

<p>On the very threshold she was arrested by
the deep tones of her father's voice,&mdash;she
listened,&mdash;and for the first time heard the
story of her mother's death.</p>

<p>And now, stepping backward, her eye
riveted on her father's form, she seeks to
leave the room unobserved,&mdash;she reaches the
threshold, when her father's voice is heard
once more:&mdash;</p>

<p>"Ask me not for details, ask me not," he
cried in broken tones, as once more he raised
his convulsed countenance to the light
"The author of this outrage was not a man,
but a negro,&mdash;a demon in a demon's shape;
and"&mdash;he smiled, but there was no merriment
in his smile,&mdash;"and now you know
why I left home, native land, all the associations
which make life dear, seventeen years
ago. Now you know why I hate the
accursed race."</p>

<p>As he spoke, Eleanor Lynn glided from
the room.</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h3><a name="CHAPTER_2_X" id="CHAPTER_2_X">CHAPTER X.</a></h3>

<h4>"YES, YOU WILL MEET HIM."</h4>


<p>As midnight drew near, Randolph was
alone in his bedchamber,&mdash;a spacious chamber,
magnificently furnished, and illumined
by a single candle, which stood upon a rosewood
table near the lofty bed. Seated in a
chair, with his cloak thrown over his
shoulders, and an opened letter in his hand,
Randolph's eyes were glassy with profound
thought. His face was very pale; a slight
trembling of the lip, an occasional heaving
of the chest, alone made him appear less
motionless than a statue.</p>

<p>The letter which he held was the one
which Mr. Hicks had given him, some three
hours before, but he did not seem to be
occupied with its contents.</p>

<p>"It look like a bridal chamber," he
muttered, as his eye roved round the spacious
apartment, "and this white couch like a
bridal bed,"&mdash;a bitter smile crossed his face.
"Think of it&mdash;the bridal bed of Eleanor
Lynn and&mdash;the white slave!"</p>

<p>And he relapsed into his reverie; or
rather, into a train of thought, which had
occupied him for two hours at least, while
he sat silent and motionless in his chamber.</p>

<p>Oh, dark and bitter thoughts&mdash;filling every
vein with fire, and swelling every avenue of
the brain with the hot pulsations of madness!
The image of Eleanor, the story told
two hours ago by Bernard Lynn, and the
taint that corrupted the life-blood in his
veins,&mdash;all these mingled in his thoughts,
and almost drove him mad.</p>

<p>"And from this labyrinth, what way of
escape? Will Eleanor be mine, when she
learns that I am of the accursed race of the
wretch who first dishonored and then outraged
her mother? And the father,&mdash;ah!"</p>

<p>He passed his hand over his brow, as if to
banish these thoughts, and then perused the
letter which he held in his hand,&mdash;</p>

<p>"It is signed by my 'unknown friend of
the half-way house,' and desires me, for
certain reasons, to be at a particular locality,
in the Five Points, at ten minutes past
twelve. It is now,"&mdash;he took his gold
watch from his pocket,&mdash;"half past eleven.
I must be moving. A singular request, and
a mysterious letter; but I will obey."</p>

<p>On the table lay a leather belt, in which
were inserted two bowie-knives and a revolving
pistol. Randolph wound it about his
waist, and then drew a cap over his brow,
and gathered his cloak more closely to his
form.</p>

<p>He next extinguished the candle, and
stole softly from the room. As he descended
the stairway, all was still throughout the
mansion. The servants had retired, and
Eleanor, Esther, and the old man, no doubt,
were sound asleep. Randolph passed along
the hall, and opening the front door, crossed
its threshold.</p>

<p>"Now for the adventure," he ejaculated,
and hurried down Broadway. After nearly
half an hour's walk, he turned into one of
those streets which lead from the light and
uproar of Broadway, toward the region of
the Tombs.</p>

<p>Darkness was upon the narrow street, and
his footsteps alone broke the dead stillness,
as he hurried along.</p>

<p>As he reached a solitary lamp, which gave
light to a portion of the street, his ear
caught the echo of footsteps behind: and
impelled by an impulse which he could not
himself comprehend, Randolph paused, and
concealed his form in the shadow of a deep
doorway. From where he stood, by the
light of the lamp, (which was not five paces
distant,) he could command a view of any
wayfarer who might chance to pass along
the deserted street.</p>

<p>The footsteps drew nearer, and presently
two persons came in sight. They halted
beneath the lamp. Randolph could not see
their faces, but he remarked that one was
short and thick-set in form, while the other
was tall and commanding. The tall one
wore a cloak, and the other an overcoat.</p>

<p>And Randolph heard their voices&mdash;</p>

<p>"Are we near the hound? My back
hurts like the devil, and I don't wish to go
any farther than is necessary."</p>

<p>"Only a block or two, to go," replied the
other. "Judas Iscariot! Just think that
we're sure to find <i>him</i> there, Royalton, and
your back won't hurt a bit."</p>

<p>"Oh, by &mdash;&mdash;! let me but find <i>him</i>, and
stand face to face with <i>him</i>, and I'll take
care of the rest."</p>

<p>These words, accompanied by an oath,
and uttered with the emphasis of a mortal
hatred, were all that Randolph heard.</p>

<p>The twain proceeded on their way.</p>

<p>It was not until the sound of their footsteps
had died away, that Randolph emerged
from his hiding-place&mdash;</p>

<p>"Yes, you will meet <i>him</i>, and stand face
to face with <i>him</i>, and&mdash;the rest is yet to be
known."</p>

<p>He felt for his knives and pistols,&mdash;they
were safe in the belt about his waist; and
then, conscious that the crisis of his fate
was near at hand, he silently pursued his way.</p>

<p>Return for a moment to the house in
Broadway.</p>

<p>Esther is there, alone in her chamber,
standing before a mirror, with a light in her
hand. The mirror reaches from the ceiling
to the floor; and never did mirror image
forth before, a face and form so perfectly
beautiful.</p>

<p>She has changed her attire. The green
habit no longer incloses her form. A dress
or robe of spotless white, leaves her neck
and shoulders bare, rests in easy folds upon
her proud bust, and is girdled gently to her
waist by a sash of bright scarlet. The
sleeves are wide, the folds loose and flowing,
and the sleeves and the hem of the skirt are
bordered by a line of crimson. The only
ornament which she wears is not a diamond,
brooch or bracelet, not even a ring upon her
delicate hand, but a single lily, freshly gathered,
which gleams pure and white from the
blackness of her hair.</p>

<p>And what need she of ornament? A
very beautiful woman, with a noble form, a
voluptuous bust; a face pale as marble,
ripening into vivid bloom on the lip and
cheek, relieved by jet-black hair, and illumined
by eyes that, flashing from their deep
fringes, burn with wild, with maddening
light. A very beautiful woman, who, as she
surveys herself in the mirror, knows that
she is beautiful, and feels her pulse swell,
her bosom heave slowly into light, her blood
bound with the fullness of life in every vein.</p>

<p>One hand holds the light above her dark
hair&mdash;the other the letter which, three hours
and more ago, she received from Mr. Hicks.</p>

<p>"It requested me to attire myself in the
dress which I would find in my chamber, the
costume of Lucretia Borgia. And I have
obeyed. And then to enter the carriage,
which at a quarter past twelve, will await
me at the next corner, and bear me to <i>the
Temple</i>. I will obey."</p>

<p>She smiled&mdash;a smile that disclosed the
ivory of her teeth, the ripeness of her lips&mdash;lit
up her eyes with new light, and was responded
to by the swell of her proud bosom.</p>

<p>Take care Esther! You wear the dress
of Lucretia Borgia, and you are even more
madly beautiful than that accursed child of
the Demon-Pope; but have a care. You are
yet spotless and pure. But the blood is
warm in your veins, and perchance there is
ambition as well as passion in the fire which
burns in your eyes. Have a care! The future
is yet to come, Esther, and who can tell
what it will bring forth for you?</p>

<p>"I will meet Godlike there," she said,
and an inexplicable smile animated her
face.</p>

<p>She placed a small poniard in the folds
of her sash, and threw a heavy cloak, to
which was attached a hood, over her form.
She drew the hood over her face, and stood
ready to depart.</p>

<p>The light was extinguished. She glided
from the room, and down the stairs, and
passed unobserved from the silent house. At
the corner of the next street the carriage
waited with the driver on the box.</p>

<p>"Who are you?" she said in a low voice.</p>

<p>"The Temple," answered the driver, and
descended from the box, and opened the
carriage door.</p>

<p>Esther entered, the door was closed, the
carriage whirled away.</p>

<p>"What will be the result of the adventures
of this night?" she thought, and her
bosom heaved with mad agitation.</p>

<p>And as she was thus borne to the Temple,
there was a woman watching by the bedside
of an old man, in one of the chambers of
the Broadway mansion,&mdash;Eleanor watching
while her father slept.</p>

<p>Her night-dress hung in loose folds about
her noble form, as she arose and held the dim
light nearer to his gray hairs. There was
agony stamped upon his face, even as he
slept&mdash;an agony which was reflected in the
pallid face and tremulous lips of his daughter.</p>

<p>"He sleeps!" she exclaimed in a low
voice: "Little does he fancy that I know
the fearful history which this night fell from
his lips. And this night, before he retired to
rest, he clasped me to his bosom, and said&mdash;"
she blushed in neck and cheek and brow,&mdash;"that
it was the dearest wish of his heart,
that I should be united to Randolph."</p>

<p>She kissed him gently on the brow, and
crept noiselessly to her own room, and soon
was asleep, the image of Randolph prominent
in her dreams.</p>

<p>Poor Eleanor!</p>

<p>Leaving Randolph, his sister, and those
connected with their fate, our history now
turns to other characters.</p>

<p>Let us enter the house of the merchant
prince.</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h3><a name="CHAPTER_2_XI" id="CHAPTER_2_XI">CHAPTER XI.</a></h3>

<h4>IN THE HOUSE OF THE MERCHANT PRINCE.</h4>


<p>It was near eleven o'clock, on the night
of December 23d, 1844, when Evelyn Somers,
Sen., sitting in his library by the light
of the shaded candle, was startled by the
ringing of the bell.</p>

<p>"The front door-bell!" he ejaculated,
looking up from his labors, until the candle
shone full upon his thin features and low
forehead. "Can it be Evelyn? Oh! I forgot.
He returned only this evening. One
of the servants, I suppose&mdash;been out late&mdash;must
look to this in the morning."</p>

<p>He resumed his pen, and again, surrounded
by title-deeds and mortgages, bent down to
his labors.</p>

<p>So deeply was he absorbed that he did
not hear the opening of the front door, followed
by a footstep in the hall. Nor did
he hear the stealthy opening of the door of
the library; much less did he see the burly
figure which advanced on tiptoe to his table.</p>

<p>"Be calm!" said a gruff voice, and a
hand was laid on his shoulder.</p>

<p>"Hey! What? Who,&mdash;who&mdash;are&mdash;you?"
The merchant prince started in his
chair, and beheld a burly form enveloped in
a bear-skin overcoat and full-moon face,
spotted with carbuncles.</p>

<p>"Be calm!" said the owner of the face, in
a hoarse voice. "There's no occasion to
alarm yourself. These things will happen."</p>

<p>The merchant prince was thoroughly
amazed.</p>

<p>Opening his small eyes, half concealed by
heavy lids, to their fullest extent, he cried:
"What do you mean? Who are you?&mdash;I
don't know you? What&mdash;what&mdash;"</p>

<p>"I'm Blossom, I am," returned the full-moon
face, "<i>Lay low! Keep dark!</i> I'm
Blossom, one of the <i>secret police</i>. Lay low!"</p>

<p>"My God! Is Evelyn in another scrape?"
ejaculated the merchant prince; "I will pay
for no more of his misdeeds. There's no use
of talking about it. I'll not go his bail, if
he rots in the Tombs. I'll&mdash;" Mr.
Somers doggedly folded his arms, and sat
bolt upright in his chair.</p>

<p>With his contracted features, spare form
and formal white cravat, he looked the very
picture of an unrelenting father.</p>

<p>"Come, hoss, there's no use of that."</p>

<p>"Hoss! Do you apply such words to
me," indignantly echoed the merchant
prince.</p>

<p>"Be calm," soothingly remarked Blossom.
"Lay low. Keep dark. Jist answer me one
question: Has your son Evelyn a <i>soot</i> o'
rooms in the upper part o' this house?"</p>

<p>"What do you ask such a question for?"
and Mr. Somers opened his eyes again. "He
has all the rooms on the third floor, in the
body of the mansion&mdash;there are four in all."</p>

<p>"Very good. Now, is Evelyn at home?"
asked Blossom.</p>

<p>"Don't come so near. The smell of brandy
is offensive to me. Faugh!"</p>

<p>"You'll smell brimstone, if you don't
take keer!" exclaimed the indignant Blossom.
"To think o' sich ingratitude from an
old cock like you, when I've come to keep
that throat o' yourn from bein' cut by robbers."</p>

<p>"Robbers!" and this time Mr. Somers
fairly started from his seat.</p>

<p>"When I've come to purtect your <i>jugular</i>,&mdash;yes,
you needn't wink,&mdash;your <i>jugular!</i>
Oh, it was not for nothing that a Roman
consul once remarked that republics is ungrateful."</p>

<p>"Robbers? Robbers! What d'ye mean?
Speak&mdash;speak&mdash;"</p>

<p>Blossom laid his hand upon the merchant's
shoulder.</p>

<p>"If you'll promise to keep a secret, and
not make a fuss. I'll tell you all. If you go
for raisin' a hellabaloo, I'll walk out and
leave your jugular to take care of itself."</p>

<p>"I promise, I promise," ejaculated the
merchant.</p>

<p>"Then, while you are sittin' in that ere
identical chair, there's two crackmen&mdash;burglars,
you know,&mdash;hid up-stairs in your
son's room. They're a-waitin' until you
put out the lights, and go to sleep, and then,&mdash;your
cash-box and jugulars the word?&mdash;Why,
I wouldn't insure your throat for all
your fortin."</p>

<p>The merchant prince was seized with a
fit of trembling.</p>

<p>"Robbers! in my house! Astounding,
a-s-t-o-u-n-d-i-n-g! How did they get
in?"</p>

<p>"By your son's night-key, and the front
door. You see I was arter these crackmen
to-night, and found 'em in a garret of the
Yaller Mug. You never patronize the
Yaller Mug, do you?"</p>

<p>Mr. Somers nodded "No," with a spasmodic
shake of the head.</p>

<p>"Jist afore I pitched into 'em, I listened
outside of the garret door, and overheard
their plot to conceal themselves in Evelyn's
room, until you'd all gone to bed, and then
commence operations on your cash-box and
jugular. One o' 'em's a convict o' eleven
years' standin'. He's been regularly initiated
into all the honors of Auburn and Cherry
Hill."</p>

<p>"And you arrested them?"</p>

<p>"Do you see this coverlet about my head?
That's what I got for attemptin' it. They
escaped from the garret, by getting upon the
roof, and jumpin' down on a shed. If my
calculations are correct, they're up-stairs jist
now, preparin' for their campaign on your
cash-box and jugular."&mdash;</p>

<p>"Cash-box! I have no cash-box. My
cash is all in bank!"</p>

<p>"Gammon. It won't do. Behind yer
seat is yer iron safe,&mdash;one o' th' Salamanders;
you're got ten thousand in gold, in
<i>that</i>."</p>

<p>Mr. Somers changed color.</p>

<p>"They intend to blow up the lock with
powder, after they'd fixed your <i>jugular</i>."</p>

<p>Mr. Somers clasped his hands, and shook
like a leaf.</p>

<p>"What's to be done, what's to be done!"
he cried in perfect agony.</p>

<p>"There's six o' my fellows outside. I've
got a special warrant from the authorities.
Now, if you've a key to Evelyn's rooms,
we'll just go up-stairs and search 'em. You
can stand outside, while we go in. But no
noise,&mdash;no fuss you know."</p>

<p>"But they'll murder you," cried the merchant,
"they'll murder me. They'll,"&mdash;</p>

<p>Blossom drew a six-barreled revolver from
one pocket, and a slung-shot from the other.</p>

<p>"This is my <i>settler</i>," he elevated his revolver,
"and this, my <i>gentle persuader</i>," he
brandished the slung-shot.</p>

<p>"Oh!" cried Mr. Somers, "property is no
longer respected,&mdash;ah! what times we've
fallen in!"</p>

<p>"How many folks have you in the
house?"</p>

<p>"The servants sleep in the fourth story,
over Evelyn's room. The housekeeper sleeps
under Evelyn's room, and my room and the
room of my private secretary are just above
where I am sitting."</p>

<p>"Good. Now take the candle, and
come," responded Blossom, "we want you
as a witness."</p>

<p>The merchant prince made many signs of
hesitation,&mdash;winking his heavy lids, rubbing
his low forehead with both hands, and
pressing his pointed chin between his thumb
and forefinger,&mdash;but Blossom seized the
candle, and made toward the door.</p>

<p>"You are not going to leave me in the
dark?" cried Mr. Somers, bounding from his
chair.</p>

<p>"Not if you follow the light," responded
Blossom; "by-the-by, you may as well bring
the keys to Evelyn's room."</p>

<p>With a trembling hand, Mr. Somers lifted
a huge bunch of keys from the table.</p>

<p>"There, open all the rooms on the second
and fourth floors," he said, and followed
Blossom into the hall.</p>

<p>There, shoulder to shoulder, stood six
stout figures, in glazed caps and great coats
of rough, dark-colored cloth, with a mace or
a pistol protruding from every pocket. They
stood as silent as blocks of stone.</p>

<p>"Boys," whispered Blossom, "we'll go up
first. You follow and station yerselves on
the second landin', so as to be ready when I
whistle."</p>

<p>A murmur of assent was heard, and Blossom,
light in hand, led the merchant prince
toward the stairway which led upward from
the center of the hall. At the foot of the
stairway, they were confronted by a servant-maid,
who had answered the bell when
Blossom first rang: her red, round cheeks
were pale as ashes, and she clung to the
railing of the staircase for support.</p>

<p>"Och, murther!" she ejaculated, as she
beheld the red face of Blossom, and the
frightened visage of her master.</p>

<p>Blossom seized her arm with a tight grip.</p>

<p>"Look here, Biddy, do you know how to
sleep?" was the inquiry of the rubicund
gentleman.</p>

<p>"Slape?" echoed the girl, with eyes like
saucers.</p>

<p>"'Cause if you don't go back into the
kitchen, and put yourself into a sound sleep
d'rectly; yourself, your master and me, will
all be murdered in our beds. It 'ud hurt
my feelin's, Biddy, to see you with your
throat cut, and sich a nice fat throat as
it is!"</p>

<p>Biddy uttered a groan, and shrunk back
behind the stairway.</p>

<p>"Now then!" and Blossom led the way
up-stairs, followed by the lean, angular
form of the merchant prince, who turned his
head over his shoulder, like a man afraid
of ghosts.</p>

<p>They arrived at the small entry at the
head of the stairs, on the third floor; three
doors opened into the entry; one on the
right, one on the left, and the third directly
in the background, facing the head of the
stairs.</p>

<p>"Hush!" whispered Blossom, "do you
hear any noise?"</p>

<p>Advancing on tip-toe, he crouched against
the door on the right, and listened. In an
instant he came back to the head of the
stairs, where stood Mr. Somers, shaking in
every nerve.</p>

<p>"It's a snore," said Blossom, "jist go and
listen, and see if it's your son's snore."</p>

<p>It required much persuasion to induce the
merchant prince to take the step.</p>

<p>"Where are your men?"</p>

<p>Blossom pointed over the merchant's
shoulder, to the landing beneath. There, in
the gloom, stood the six figures, shoulder to
shoulder, and as motionless as stone.</p>

<p>"Now will you go?"</p>

<p>Mr. Somers advanced, and placed his
head against the door on the right. After a
brief pause, he returned to the head of the
stairs where Blossom stood. "It is not my
son's <i>snore</i>," he said, "that is, if I am any
judge of <i>snores</i>."</p>

<p>Blossom took the light and the keys, and
advanced to the door on the right, which he
gently tried to open, but found it locked.
Making a gesture of caution to the merchant
prince, he selected the key of the door from
the bunch, softly inserted it, and as softly
turned it in the lock. The door opened
with a sound. Then stepping on tip-toe,
he crossed the threshold, taking the light
with him.</p>

<p>Mr. Somers, left alone in the dark, felt
his heart march to his throat.</p>

<p>"I shall be murdered,&mdash;I know I shall,"
he muttered, when the light shone on his
frightened face again. Blossom stood in the
doorway, beckoning to him.</p>

<p>Somers advanced and crossed the threshold.</p>

<p>"Look there," whispered Blossom "now
d'ye believe me?"</p>

<p>A huge man, dressed in the jacket and
trowsers of a convict, was sleeping on the
bed, his head thrown back, his mouth wide
open, and one arm hanging over the bedside.
His chest heaved with long, deep
respirations, and his nostrils emitted a snore
of frightful depth.</p>

<p>At this confirmation of the truth of Blossom's
statement, Mr. Somers' face became as
white as his cravat.</p>

<p>"Look <i>there</i>!" whispered Blossom, pointing
to a pistol which lay upon the carpet,
almost within reach of the brawny hand
which hung over the bed-side.</p>

<p>"Good God! ejaculated Somers.</p>

<p>"Now look <i>there</i>!" Blossom pointed to
the brandy bottle on the table, and held the
light near it. "<i>Empty!</i> d'ye see?"</p>

<p>Then Blossom drew from his capacious
pocket, certain pieces of rope, each of which
was attached to the middle of a piece of
hickory, as hard as iron.</p>

<p>"Hold the light," and like a nurse attending
to a sleeping babe, the ingenious Blossom
gently attached one of the aforesaid
pieces of rope to the ankles of the sleeper, in
such a manner, that the two pieces of hickory,&mdash;one
at either end of the rope,&mdash;formed
a knot, which a giant would have found it
hard to break. As the ankles rested side by
side, this feat was not so difficult.</p>

<p>"Now for the wrists," and Blossom quietly
regarded the position of the sleeper's
hands. One was doubled on his huge chest,
the other hung over the bedside. To
straighten one arm and lift the other,&mdash;to do
this gently and without awaking the sleeper,&mdash;to
tie both wrists together as he had tied
the ankles,&mdash;this was a difficult task, but
Blossom accomplished it. Once the convict
moved. "<i>Don't give it up so easy!</i>" he muttered
and snored again.</p>

<p>Blossom surveyed him with great satisfaction.&mdash;"There's
muscle, and bone, and fists,&mdash;did
you ever see sich fists!"</p>

<p>"A perfect brute!" ejaculated Somers.</p>

<p>"Now you stay here, while I go into the
next room, and hunt for the tother one."</p>

<p>This room, it will be remembered, communicated
with an adjoining apartment by
folding-doors. Blossom took the candle and
listened; all was silent beyond the folding-doors.
He carefully opened these doors, and
light in hand, went into the next apartment.
A belt of light came through the aperture,
and fell upon the tall, spare form of the merchant
prince, who, standing in the center of
the <i>first</i> apartment gazed through the aperture
just mentioned, into the <i>second</i> room.
All the movements of Blossom were open to
his gaze.</p>

<p>He saw him approach a bed, whose ruffled
coverlet indicated that a man was sleeping
there. He saw him bend over this bed,
but the burly form of the police-officer hid
the face of the sleeper from the sight of the
merchant prince. He saw him lift the coverlet,
and stand for a moment, as if gazing
upon the sleeping man, and then saw him
start abruptly from the bed, and turn his step
toward the <i>first</i> room.</p>

<p>"What's the matter with <i>you</i>," cried the
merchant prince, "are <i>you</i> frightened?"</p>

<p>Truth to tell, the full-moon face of Blossom,
spotted with carbuncles, had somewhat
changed its color.</p>

<p>"Can't you speak? It's Evelyn who's
sleeping yonder,&mdash;isn't it? Hadn't you
better wake him quietly?"</p>

<p>"Ah my feller," and the broken voice of
Blossom, showed that he was <i>human</i> after
all&mdash;all that he had seen in his lifetime,&mdash;"Ah
my feller, he'll never wake again."</p>

<p>Somers uttered a cry, seized the light and
strode madly into the next room, and turned
the bed where the sleeper laid. The fallen
jaw, the fixed eyeballs, the hand upon the
chest, stained with the blood which flowed
from the wound near the heart&mdash;he saw it
all, and uttered a horrible cry, and fell like
a dead man upon the floor.</p>

<p>Blossom seized the light from his hand as
he fell, and turning back into the first room
blew his whistle. The room was presently
occupied by the six assistants.</p>

<p>"There's been murder done here to-night,"
he said, gruffly: "Potts, examine that pistol
near the bed. Unloaded, is it? Gentlemen,
take a look at the prisoner and then follow
me."</p>

<p>He led the way into the second room, and
they all beheld the dead body of Evelyn
Somers.</p>

<p>"Two of you carry the old man down
stairs and try and rewive him;" two of the
assistants lifted the insensible form of the
merchant prince, and bore it from the room.
"Now, gentlemen, we'll wake the prisoner."</p>

<p>He approached the sleeping convict, followed
by four of the policemen, whose faces
manifested unmingled horror. He struck
the sleeping man on the shoulder,&mdash;"Wake
up Gallus. Wake up Gallus, I say!"</p>

<p>After another blow, Ninety-One unclosed
his eyes, and looked around with a vague and
stupefied stare. It was not until he sat up in
bed, that he realized the fact, that his wrists
and ankles were pinioned. His gaze wandered
from the face of Blossom to the countenances
of the other police-officers, and last
of all, rested upon his corded hands.</p>

<p>"My luck," he said, quietly,&mdash;"curse you,
you needn't awakened a fellow in his sleep.
Why couldn't you have waited till mornin'?"</p>

<p>And he sank back on the bed again.
Blossom seized a pitcher filled with water,
which stood upon a table, and dashed the
contents in the convict's face.</p>

<p>Thoroughly awake, and thoroughly enraged,
Ninety-One started up in the bed, and
gave utterance to a volley of curses.</p>

<p>Blossom made a sign with his hand; the
four policemen seized the convict and bore
him into the second room, while Blossom
held the light over the dead man's livid face
and bloody chest.</p>

<p>"Do you see that bullet-hole?" said Blossom;
"the pistol was found a-side of your
bed, near your hand. Gallus, you'll have to
dance on nothin', I'm werry much afeard
you will. But it 'ill take a strong rope to
hang you."</p>

<p>"What!" shouted Ninety-One, "you don't
mean to say,&mdash;" he cast a horrified look at
the dead man, and then, like a flash of lightning,
the whole matter became as plain as
day to him. "Oh, Thirty-One," he groaned
between his set-teeth, "this is your dodge,&mdash;is
it? Oh, Thirty-One, this is another little
item in our long account."</p>

<p>"What do you say?" asked one of the
policemen. Ninety-One relapsed into a
dogged silence. They could not force another
word from him. Carrying him back
into the first room, they laid him on the
bed, and secured his ankles and wrists with
additional cords. Meanwhile, they could
peruse at their leisure, that face, whose deep
jaw, solid chin, and massive throat, covered
with a stiff beard, manifested at once, immense
muscular power, and an indomitable
will. The eyes of the convict, overhung by
his bushy brows, the cheeks disfigured by a
hideous scar, the square forehead, with the
protuberance in the center, appearing amid
masses of gray hair,&mdash;all these details, were
observed by the spectators, as they added
new cords to the ankles and the wrists of
Ninety-One.</p>

<p>His chest shook with a burst of laughter,
"Don't give it up so easy!" he cried, "I'll
be even with you yet, Thirty-One."</p>

<p>"S'arch all the apartments,&mdash;we must find
his comrade," exclaimed Blossom,&mdash;"a pale-faced
young devil, whom I seen with him,
last night, in the cars."</p>

<p>Ninety-One started, even as he lay pinioned
upon the bed.&mdash;"Oh, Thirty-One," he
groaned, "and you must bring the boy in it,
too, must you? Just add another figure to
our account."</p>

<p>The four rooms were thoroughly searched,
but the comrade was not found.</p>

<p>"Come, boys," said Blossom, "we'll go
down-stairs and talk this matter over. Gallus,"
directing his conversation to Ninety-One,
"we'll see you again, presently."</p>

<p>Ninety-One saw them cross the threshold,
and heard the key turn in the lock. He
was alone in the darkness, and with the
dead.</p>

<p>As Blossom, followed by the policemen,
passed down stairs, he was confronted on the
second landing by the affrighted servants,&mdash;some
of them but thinly clad,&mdash;who assailed
him with questions. Instead of answering
these multiplied queries, Blossom addressed
his conversation to a portly dame of some
forty years, who appeared in her night-dress
and with an enormous night-cap.</p>

<p>"The housekeeper, I believe, Ma'am?"</p>

<p>"Yes, sir,&mdash;Mrs. Tompkins," replied the
dame, "Oh, do tell me, what does this all
mean?"</p>

<p>"How's the old gentleman?" asked Blossom.</p>

<p>"In his room. He's reviving. Mr. Van
Huyden, his private secretary is with him.
But do tell us the truth of this affair&mdash;what&mdash;what,
does it all mean?"</p>

<p>"Madam, it means murder and blood and
an old convict. Excuse me, I must go&mdash;down-stairs."</p>

<p>While the house rang with the exclamations
of his affrighted listeners, Blossom
passed down stairs, and, with his assistants,
entered the Library.</p>

<p>"The question afore the house, gentlemen,
is as follows,"&mdash;and Blossom sank into
the chair of the merchant prince&mdash;"Shill
we keep the prisoner up-stairs all night, or
shill we take him to the Tombs?"</p>

<p>Various opinions were given by the policemen,
and the debate assumed quite an animated
form, Blossom, in all the dignity of
his bear-skin coat and carbuncled visage,
presiding as moderator.</p>

<p>"Address the cheer," he mildly exclaimed,
as the debate grew warm. "Allow me to
remark, gentlemen, that Stuffletz, there, is
very sensible. Stuff., you think as the coroner's
inquest will be held up-stairs by arly
daylight to-morrow mornin' it 'ud be better
to keep the prisoner there so as to confront
him with the body? That's your opinion,
Stuff. Well, I can't speak for you, gentlemen,
as I don't b'long to the reg'lar police,&mdash;(I'm
only an <i>extra</i>, you know!)&mdash;but it
seems to me, Stuff. is right. Therefore, let
the prisoner stay up-stairs all night; the
room is safe, and I'll watch him mesself.
Beside, you don't think he's a-goin' to
tumble himself out of a third story winder,
or vanish in a puff o' brimstone, as the devil
does in the new play at the Bowery&mdash;do
you?"</p>

<p>There was no one to gainsay the strong
position thus assumed by Poke-Berry Blossom,
Esq.</p>

<p>"And then I kin have a little private chat
with him, in regard to the $71,000,&mdash;I guess
I can," he muttered to himself.</p>

<p>"What's the occasion of this confusion?"
said a bland voice; and, clad in his elegant
white coat, with his cloak drooping from his
right shoulder, Colonel Tarleton advanced
from the doorway to the light. "Passing by
I saw Mr. Somers' door open, and hear an
uproar,&mdash;what is the matter, gentlemen?
My old friend, Mr. Somers, is not ill, I
hope?"</p>

<p>"Evelyn, his son, has been shot," bluntly
responded Blossom&mdash;"by an old convict,
who had hid himself in the third story, with
the idea o' attackin' old Somers' cash-box
and jugular."</p>

<p>Colonel Tarleton, evidently shocked, raised
his hand to his forehead and staggered to a
chair.</p>

<p>"Evelyn shot!" he gasped, after a long
pause.&mdash;"Surely you dream. The particulars,
the particulars&mdash;"</p>

<p>Blossom recapitulated the particulars of
the case, according to the best of his knowledge.</p>

<p>"It is too horrible, too horrible," cried
Tarleton, and his extreme agitation was perceptible
to the policemen. "My young
friend Evelyn murdered! Ah!&mdash;" he started
from the chair, and fell back again with his
head in his hands.</p>

<p>"But we've got the old rag'muffin," cried
Blossom, "safe and tight; third story, back
room."</p>

<p>Tarleton started from the chair and approached
Blossom,&mdash;his pale face stamped
with hatred and revenge.</p>

<p>"Mr. Blossom," he said, and snatched the
revolver from the pocket of the rubicund
gentleman. "Hah! it's loaded in six barrels!
Murdered Evelyn&mdash;in the back room you
say&mdash;I'll have the scoundrel's life!"</p>

<p>He snatched the candle from the table,
and rushed to the door. The policemen did
not recover from their surprise, until they
heard his steps on the stairs.</p>

<p>"After him, after him,&mdash;there'll be mischief,"
shouted Blossom, and he rushed
after Tarleton, followed by the six policemen.
Tarleton's shouts of vengeance resounded
through the house, and once more
drew the servants, both men and women, to
the landing-place at the head of the stairs.
That figure attracted every eye&mdash;a man
attired in a white coat, his face wild, his hair
streaming behind him, a loaded pistol in one
hand and a light in the other.</p>

<p>"Ketch his coat-tails," shouted Blossom,
and, followed by policemen and servant-maids,
he rushed up the second stairway.</p>

<p>He found Tarleton in the act of forcing
the door on the <i>right</i>, which led into the
room where Ninety-One was imprisoned.</p>

<p>"It is locked! Damnation!" shouted
Tarleton, roaring like a madman. "Will
no one give me the key?"</p>

<p>"I'll tell you what I'll give you," was the
remark of Blossom. "I'll give you <i>one</i>
under yer ear, if you don't keep quiet,&mdash;"</p>

<p>But his threat came too late. Tarleton
stepped back and then plunged madly
against the door. It yielded with a crash.
Then, with Blossom and the crowd at his
heels, he rushed into the room, brandishing
the pistol, as the light which he held fell
upon his convulsed features,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Where is the wretch?&mdash;show him to
me! Where is the murderer of poor Evelyn?"</p>

<p>Blossom involuntarily turned his eyes
toward the bed. It was empty. Ninety-One
was not there. His gaze traversed the room:
a door, looking like the doorway of a closet,
stood wide open opposite the bed. It
required but a moment to ascertain that the
door opened upon a stairway.</p>

<p>"By &mdash;&mdash;!" shouted Blossom, "he's gone!
His comrade has been concealed somewhere,
and has cut him loose."</p>

<p>"Gone!" echoed police-officers and servants.</p>

<p>"Gone!" ejaculated Tarleton, and fell
back into a chair, and his head sunk upon
his breast.</p>

<p>There he remained muttering and moaning,
while the four apartments on the third
floor were searched in every corner by
Blossom and his gang. The search was vain.</p>

<p>"He can't be got far," cried Blossom.
"Some o' you go down into the yard, and
I'll s'arch this staircase."</p>

<p>Thus speaking, he took the light and disappeared
through the open doorway of the
staircase, while the other police-officers
hastily descended the main stairway.</p>

<p>Tarleton remained at least five minutes in
the darkness, while shouts were heard in
the yard behind the mansion. Then, emerging
from the room, he descended to the
second floor, where he was confronted by the
housekeeper, who was struck with pity at
the sight of his haggard face.</p>

<p>"I am weak&mdash;I am faint; allow me to
lean upon your arm," said Tarleton, and
supported his weight upon the fat arm of
the good lady.&mdash;"Support me to the bedchamber
of my dear friend Somers,&mdash;the
father of poor murdered Evelyn."</p>

<p>"This way, sir," said the housekeeper,
kindly, "he's in there, with his private
secretary&mdash;"</p>

<p>"With his <i>private secretary</i>, did you say?"
faintly exclaimed Tarleton. "Close the door
after me, good madam, I wish to talk with
the dear old man."</p>

<p>He entered the bedchamber, leaving the
housekeeper at the door.</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h3><a name="CHAPTER_2_XII" id="CHAPTER_2_XII">CHAPTER XII.</a></h3>

<h4>"SHOW ME THE WAY."</h4>


<p>A single lamp stood on a table, near a
bed which was surmounted by a canopy of
silken curtains. The room was spacious and
elegant; chairs, carpet, the marble mantle,
elaborately carved, and the ceiling adorned
with an elaborate painting,&mdash;all served to
show that the merchant prince slept in a
"place of state." Every detail of that
richly-furnished apartment, said "Gold!" as
plainly as though a voice was speaking it all
the while.</p>

<p>His lean form, attired in every-day apparel,
was stretched upon the bed, and through the
aperture in the curtains, the lamp-light fell
upon one side of his face. He appeared to
be sleeping. His arms lay listlessly by his
side, and his head was thrown back upon the
pillow. His breathing was audible in the
most distant corner of the chamber.</p>

<p>"Gulian," said Tarleton, who seemed to
recover his usual strength and spirit, as soon
as he entered the room, "Where are you,
my dear?"</p>

<p>The slight form of the private secretary
advanced from among the curtains at the foot
of the bed. His face, almost feminine in its
expression, appeared in the light, with tears
glistening on the cheeks. It was a beautiful
face, illumined by large, clear eyes, and
framed in the wavy hair, which flowed in
rich masses to his shoulders. At sight of the
elegant Colonel, the blue eyes of the boy
shone with a look of terror. He started
back, folding his hands over the frock coat,
which enveloped his boyish shape.</p>

<p>"Ah, my God,&mdash;you here!" was his
exclamation, "when will you cease to persecute
me?"</p>

<p>The Colonel smiled, patted his elegant
whiskers, and drawing nearer to the boy,
who seemed to <i>cringe</i> away from his touch,
he said in his blandest tone,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Persecute you! Well, that is clever!&mdash;Talk
of gratitude again in this world! I
took you when you were a miserable foundling,
a wretched little baby, without father,
mother, or name. I placed you in the quiet
of a country town, where you received an
elegant education. I gave you a name,&mdash;a
fancy name, I admit&mdash;the name which you
now wear&mdash;and when I visited you, once or
twice a year, you called me by the name of
father. How I gained money to support you
these nineteen or twenty years, and to adorn
that fine intellect of yours, with a finished
education,&mdash;why, you don't know, and I
scarcely can tell, myself. But after these
years of protection and support, I appeared
at your home in the country, and asked a
simple favor at your hands. Ay, child, the
man you delighted to call father asked in
return for all that he had done for you, a
favor&mdash;only one favor&mdash;and that of the
simplest character. Where was your gratitude?
You refused me; you fled from your
home in the country, and I lost sight of you
until to-night, when I find my lost lamb, in
the employment of the rich merchant. His
private secretary, forsooth!"</p>

<p>"Hush," exclaimed Gulian, with a deprecatory
gesture, "You will wake Mr. Somers.
He has had one convulsion already, and it
may prove fatal. I have sent for a doctor,&mdash;oh,
why does he not come?"</p>

<p>"You shall not avoid me in that way, my
young friend," said Tarleton. He laid his
hand on the arm of the boy, and bent his
face so near to him that the latter felt the
Colonel's breath upon his forehead. "The
money which I bestowed upon your education,
I obtained by what the world calls <i>felony</i>.
For you&mdash;for you&mdash;" his voice sunk
to a deeper tone, and his eyes flashed with
anger; "for you I spent some years in that
delightful retreat, which is known to vulgar
ears by the word,&mdash;<span class="smcap">Penitentiary</span>!"</p>

<p>"God help me," cried the boy, affrighted
by the expression which stamped the Colonel's
face.</p>

<p>"<i>Penitentiary</i> or <i>jail</i>, call it what you will,
I spent some years there for your sake. And
do you wish to evade me now when, I tell
you that I reared you but for one object, and
that object dearer to me than life? You
ran away from my guardianship; you attempt
to conceal yourself from me; you attempt to
foil the hope for which I have suffered the
tortures of the damned these twenty years?
Come, my boy, you'll think better of it."</p>

<p>The smile of the Colonel was altogether
fiendish. The boy sank on his knees, and
raised to the Colonel's gaze that beautiful face
stamped with terror, and bathed in tears.</p>

<p>"Oh, pardon me&mdash;forgive me!" he cried,
"Do not kill me&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Kill you! Pshaw!"</p>

<p>"Let me live an obscure life, away from
your observation; let me be humble, poor and
unknown; as you value the hope of salvation,
do not&mdash;I beseech you on my knees&mdash;do
not ask me to comply with your request!"</p>

<p>"If you don't get up, I may be tempted
to strike you," was the brutal remark of the
Colonel. "Pitiful wretch! Hark ye," he
bent his head,&mdash;"the robber who this night
murdered Evelyn Somers, gained admittance
to this house by means of a night-key. He
had an <i>accomplice</i> in the house, who supplied
him with the key. That accomplice, (let us
suppose a case) was yourself&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Me!" cried the boy, in utter horror.</p>

<p>"I can <i>obtain</i> evidence of the fact," continued
the Colonel, and paused. "You had
better think twice before you enter the lists
with me and attempt to thwart my will."</p>

<p>The boy, thus kneeling, did not reply, but
buried his face in his hands, and his flowing
hair hid those hands with its luxurious
waves. He shook in every nerve with agony.
He sobbed aloud.</p>

<p>"Will you be quiet?" the Colonel seized
him roughly by the shoulder, "or shall I
throttle you?"</p>

<p>"Yes, kill me, <i>fiend</i>, kill me, oh! kill me
with one blow:" the boy raised his face, and
pronounced these words, his eyes flashing
with hatred, as he uttered the word "<i>fiend</i>."
There was something startling in the look of
mortal hatred which had so suddenly fixed
itself upon that beautiful face. Even the
Colonel was startled.</p>

<p>"Nay, nay, my child," he said in a soothing
tone, "get up, get up, that's a dear
child&mdash;I meant no harm&mdash;"</p>

<p>At this moment the conversation was interrupted
by a hollow voice.</p>

<p>"You must pay, sir. That's my way.&mdash;You
must pay or you must go."</p>

<p>The business-like nature, the every-day
character of these words, was in painful contrast
with the hollow accent which accompanied
their utterance. At the sound the
boy sprang to his feet, and the Colonel started
as though a pistol had exploded at his
ear.</p>

<p>The merchant prince had risen into a sitting
posture. His thin features, low, broad
forehead, wide mouth, with thin lips and
pointed chin, were thrown strongly into view
by the white cravat which encircled his
throat. Those features were bathed in moisture.
The small eyes, at other times half
concealed by heavy lids, were now expanded
in a singular stare,&mdash;a stare which made the
blood of the Colonel grow cold in his veins.</p>

<p>"God bless us! What's the matter with
you, good Mr. Somers?" he ejaculated.</p>

<p>But the rich man did not heed him.</p>

<p>"I wouldn't give a snap for your Reading
Railroad&mdash;bad stock&mdash;bad stock&mdash;it must
burst. It <i>will</i> burst, I say. Pay, pay, pay,
or go! That's the only way to do business.
D'ye suppose I'm an ass? The
note <i>can't</i> lie over. If you don't meet it, it
shall be protested."</p>

<p>As he uttered these incoherent words, his
expanding eyes still fixed, he inserted his
tremulous hand in his waist-coat pocket, and
took from thence a <span class="smcap">golden eagle</span>, which he
brought near his eyes, gazing at it long and
eagerly.</p>

<p>"He's delirious," ejaculated Tarleton,
"why don't you go for a doctor?"</p>

<p>"Oh, what shall I do?" cried Gulian,
rushing to the door, "why doesn't the doctor
come?&mdash;"</p>

<p>But at the door he was confronted by the
buxom housekeeper, who whispered, "Our
doctor is out of town, but one of the servants
has found another one: he's writing
down-stairs."</p>

<p>"Quick! Quick! Bring him at once;"
and Gulian, in his flight, pushed the housekeeper
out of the room.</p>

<p>Mr. Somers still remained in a sitting posture,
his eye fixed upon the golden eagle.</p>

<p>"Tell Jenks to foreclose," he muttered,
"I've nothing to do with the man's wife
and children. It isn't in the way of business.
The mortgage isn't paid, and we
must sell&mdash;sell&mdash;sell,&mdash;sell," he repeated
until his voice died away in a murmur.</p>

<p>The doctor entered the room. "Where
is our patient?" he said, as he advanced to
the bedside. He was a man somewhat advanced
in years, with bent figure and stooping
shoulders. He was clad in an old-fashioned
surtout, with nine or ten heavy capes
hanging about his shoulders; and, as if to
protect him from the cold, a bright-red kerchief
was tied about his neck and the lower
part of his face. He wore a black fur hat,
with an ample brim, which effectually shaded
his features.</p>

<p>The Colonel started at the sight of this
singular figure. "Our friend of the blue
capes, as I'm alive!" he muttered half
aloud.</p>

<p>The doctor advanced to the bedside.&mdash;"You
will excuse me for retaining my hat
and this kerchief about my neck," he said in
his mild voice, "I am suffering from a severe
cold." He then directed his attention to the
sick man, while Gulian and Tarleton watched
his movements, with evident interest.</p>

<p>The doctor did not touch the merchant;
he stood by the bedside, gazing upon him
silently.</p>

<p>"What's the matter with our friend?"
whispered Tarleton.</p>

<p>The doctor did not answer. He remained
motionless by the bedside, surveying the
quivering features and fixed eyes of the afflicted
man.</p>

<p>"This person," exclaimed the doctor,
after a long pause, "is not suffering from a
physical complaint. His mind is afflicted.
From the talk of the servants in the hall, I
learned that he has this night lost his only
son, by the hands of a murderer. The shock
has been too great for him. My young
friend," he addressed Gulian, who stood at
his back, "it were as well to send for a clergyman."</p>

<p>Gulian hurried to the door, and whispered
to the housekeeper. Returning to the bedside,
he found the doctor seated in a chair,
with a watch in his hand, in full view of the
delirious man. The Colonel, grasping the
bed-curtain, stood behind him, in an attitude
of profound thought, yet with a faint smile
upon his lips.</p>

<p>As for the merchant prince, seated bolt
upright in the bed, he clutched the golden
eagle, (which seemed to have <i>magnetized</i>
his gaze), and babbled in his delirium&mdash;</p>

<p>"<i>You</i> an heir of Trinity Church?" he
said, with a mocking smile upon his thin
lips, "<i>you</i> one of the descendants of Anreke
Jans Bogardus? Pooh! Pooh! The Church
is firm,&mdash;<i>firm</i>. She defies you. Aaron Burr
tried that game, he! he! and found it best to
quit,&mdash;to quit&mdash;to quit. What Trinity
Church has got, she will hold,&mdash;hold&mdash;hold.
She buys,&mdash;she sells&mdash;she sells&mdash;she
buys&mdash;a great business man is Trinity
Church! And with your two hundred beggarly
heirs of Anreke Jans Bogardus, you
will go to law about her title. Pooh!"</p>

<p>"He is going fast," whispered the Doctor,
"his mind is killing him. Where are his
relatives?"</p>

<p>His relatives! Sad, sad word! His wife
had been dead many years, and her relatives
were at a distance; perchance in a foreign
land. His <i>nearest</i> relative was a corpse, up-stairs,
with a pistol wound through his
heart.</p>

<p>Evelyn Somers, Sen., was one of the richest
men in New York, and yet there was not
a single relative to stand by his dying-bed.
The death-sweat on his fevered brow, the
whiteness of death on his quivering lips, the
fire of the grave in his expanding eyes,
Evelyn Somers, the merchant prince, had
neither wife nor child nor relative to stand
by him in his last hour. The poor boy who
wept by the bed-side was, perchance, his
only friend.</p>

<p>"Cornelius Berman, the artist, (who died,
I believe, some years ago,) was his only relative
in New York: his only son out of
view." This was the answer of Colonel
Tarleton, to the question of the Doctor.</p>

<p>And the dying man, still sitting bolt upright,
one hand on his knee, and the other
grasping the golden coin, still babbled in his
delirium in the hollow tone of death. He
talked of everything. He bought and sold,
received rent and distressed tenants, paid
notes and protested them, made imaginary
sums by the sale of stocks, and achieved
imaginary triumphs by the purchase of profitable
tracts of land,&mdash;it was a frightful scene.</p>

<p>The Doctor shuddered, and as he looked
at his watch, muttered a word of prayer.</p>

<p>The Colonel turned his face away, but
was forced by an involuntary impulse, to
turn again and gaze upon that livid countenance.</p>

<p>The boy Gulian&mdash;in the shadows of the
room&mdash;sunk on his knees and uttered a
prayer, broken by sobs.</p>

<p>At length the dying man seemed to recover
a portion of his consciousness. Turning
his gaze from the golden coin which he
still clutched in his fingers, he said in a voice
which, in some measure, resembled his
every-day tone,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Send for a minister, a minister, quick! I
am very weak."</p>

<p>The words had scarcely passed his lips,
when a soft voice exclaimed, "I am here,
my dear friend Somers, I trust that this is
not serious. A sad, sad affliction, you have
encountered to-night. But you must cheer
up, you must, indeed."</p>

<p>The minister had entered the room unperceived,
and now stood by the bed-side.</p>

<p>"Herman Barnhurst!" ejaculated Colonel
Tarleton.</p>

<p>The tall, slender figure of the clergyman,
dressed in deep black, was disclosed to the
gaze of the dying man, who gazed intently
at his <i>blonde</i> face, effeminate in its excessive
fairness, and then exclaimed, reaching his
hand,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Come, I am going. I want you to show
me the way!"</p>

<p>"Really, my dear friend," began Barnhurst,
passing his hand over his hair, which,
straight and brown and of silken softness,
fell smoothly behind his ears, "you must
bear up. This is not so serious as you imagine."</p>

<p>"I tell you I am going. I have often
heard you preach,&mdash;once or twice in
Trinity&mdash;I rather liked you&mdash;and now I
want you to show me the way! Do you
see there?" he extended his trembling
hand, "there's the way I'm going. It's all
dark. You're a minister of my church too;
I want you to <i>show me the way</i>?"</p>

<p>There was a terrible emphasis in the
accent,&mdash;a terrible entreaty in the look of
the dying man.</p>

<p>The Rev. Herman Barnhurst sank back
in a chair, much affected.</p>

<p>"Has he made his will?" he whispered
to the Doctor, "so much property and no
heirs: he could do so much good with it.
Had not you better send for a lawyer?"</p>

<p>The Doctor regarded, for a moment, the
fair complexion, curved nose, warm, full
lips, and rounded chin of the young minister;
and then answered, in a low voice,</p>

<p>"You are a minister. It is your duty not
altogether to preach eloquent sermons, and
show a pair of delicate hands from the summit
of a marble pulpit. It is your duty to
administer comfort by the dying-bed, where
humbug is stripped of its mark, and death is
'the only reality'. Do your duty, sir. Save
this man's soul."</p>

<p>"Yes, save my soul," cried Somers, who
heard the last words of the Doctor, "I don't
want the offices of the church; I don't want
prayers. I want comfort, comfort; <i>now</i>."
He paused, and then reaching forth his
hand, said in a low voice, half broken by a
burst of horrible laughter, "There's the way
I've got to travel. Now tell me, minister,
do you really believe that there is anything
there? When we die, we die, don't we?
Sleep and rot, rot and sleep, don't we?"</p>

<p>Herman, who was an Atheist at heart,
though he had never confessed the truth
even to himself&mdash;Herman, who was a minister
for the sake of a large salary, fine carriage,
and splendid house&mdash;Herman, who
was, in fact, an intellectual voluptuary, devoting
life and soul to the gratification of
one appetite, which had, with him, become
a monomania&mdash;Herman, now, for the first
moment in his life, was conscious of a something
<i>beyond</i> the grave; conscious that this
religion of Christ, the Master, which he used
as a trade, was something more than a trade;
was a fact, a reality, at once a hope and a
judgment.</p>

<p>And the Rev. Herman Barnhurst felt one
throe of remorse, and shuddered. Vailing
his fair face in his delicate hands, he gave
himself up to one moment of terrible reflection.</p>

<p>"He is failing fast," whispered the Doctor;
"you had better say a word of hope to
him."</p>

<p>"Yes, the camel is going through the eye
of the needle," cried Somers, with a burst
of shrill laughter. "Minister, did you ever
see a camel go through the eye of a needle?
Oh! you fellows preach such soft and velvety
sermons to us,&mdash;but you never say a
word about the camel&mdash;never a word about
the camel. You see us buy and sell,&mdash;you
see us hard landlords, careful business men,&mdash;you
see us making money day after day,
and year after year, at the cost of human
life and human blood,&mdash;and you never say a
word about the camel. Never! never! Why
we <i>keep</i> such fellows as you, for our use:
for every thousand that we make in <i>trade</i>,
we give you a good discount, in the way of
salary, and so as we go along, we keep a
<i>debit</i> and <i>credit</i> account with what you call
Providence. Now rub out my sins, will
you? I've paid you for it, I believe!"</p>

<p>"Poor friend! He is delirious!" ejaculated
Herman Barnhurst.</p>

<p>The boy Gulian, (unperceived by the
doctor,) brought a golden-clasped Bible, and
laid it on the minister's knees. Then looking
with a shudder at the livid face of the
merchant prince, he shrank back into the
shadows, first whispering to the minister&mdash;"Read
to him from this book."</p>

<p>Somers, with his glassy eye, caught a
glimpse of the book, as in its splendid binding,
it rested on the minister's knees&mdash;</p>

<p>"Pooh! pooh! you needn't read. Because
if <i>that</i> book is true, why then I've
made a bad <i>investment</i> of my life. I never
deceived myself. I always looked upon this
thing you call religion as a branch of trade&mdash;a
cloak&mdash;a trap. But now I want you to
tell me one thing, (and I've paid enough
money to have a decent answer): Do you
really believe that there is <i>anything</i> after this
life? Speak, minister! Don't we go to
sleep and rot,&mdash;and isn't that all?"</p>

<p>Herman did not answer.</p>

<p>But the voice of the boy Gulian, who was
kneeling in the shadows of the death-chamber,
broke through the stillness&mdash;</p>

<p>"There is something beyond the grave.
There is a God! There is a heaven and a
hell. There is a hope for the repentant, and
there is a judgment for the impenitent."
There was something almost supernatural
in the tones of the boy's voice, breaking so
slowly and distinctly upon the profound
stillness.</p>

<p>The spectators started at the sound; and
as for the dying man, he picked at his
clothing and at the coverlet with his long
fingers, now chilling fast with the cold of
death&mdash;and muttered incoherent sounds,
without sense or meaning of any kind.</p>

<p>"His face has a horrible look!" ejaculated
the Colonel; who was half hidden among
the curtains of the bed.</p>

<p>"He is going fast," said the Doctor, looking
at his watch. "In five minutes all will be
over,&mdash;"</p>

<p>"And you said, I believe, that he had not
made his will?"</p>

<p>It was Herman who spoke. The sensation
of remorse had been succeeded by his accustomed
tone of feeling. His face was impressed
with the profound selfishness which
impelled his words. "He had better make
his will. Without heirs, he can leave his
fortune to the church,&mdash;"</p>

<p>"For shame! for shame!" cried the Doctor.</p>

<p>"A little too greedy, my good friend," the
Colonel, at his back, remarked. "Allow me
to remark, that your conduct manifests too
much of the Levite, and too little of the
gentleman."</p>

<p>Herman bit his lip, and was silent</p>

<p>After this, there was no word spoken for a
long time.</p>

<p>The spectators watched in silence the
struggles of the dying man.</p>

<p>How he died!&mdash;I shudder but to write it;
and would not write it, were I not convinced
that <i>atheism in the church</i> is the grand cause
of one half of the crimes and evils that
afflict the world.</p>

<p>The death-bed of the <span class="smcap">atheist</span> church-member,
with the <span class="smcap">atheist</span> minister sitting
by the bed, was a horrible scene.</p>

<p>I see that picture, now:&mdash;</p>

<p>A vast room, furnished with all the incidents
of wealth, lofty ceiling, walls adorned
with pictures, and carpet that was woven in
human blood. A single lamp on the table
near the bed, breaks the gloom. The
curtains of that bed are of satin, the pillow
is of down, the coverlet is spotless as the
snow; and there a long slender frame, and a
face with the seal of sixty years of life upon
it, attract the gaze of silent spectators.</p>

<p>The doctor&mdash;his face shaded by the wide
rim of his hat, sits by the bed, watch in
hand.</p>

<p>Behind him appears the handsome face
of Colonel Tarleton&mdash;the man of the world,
whose form is shrouded in the curtains.</p>

<p>A little apart, kneels the boy, Gulian,
whose beautiful face is stamped with awe
and bathed in tears.</p>

<p>And near the head of the bed, seated on
a chair, which touches the pillow upon which
rests the head of the dying&mdash;behold the tall
form and aquiline face of the minister, who
listens to the moans of death, and subdues his
conscience into an expression of calm serenity.</p>

<p>The dying man is seized with a spasm,
which throws his limbs into horrible contortions.
He writhes, and struggles, with hands
and feet, as though wrestling with a murderer:
he utters horrible cries. At length,
raising himself in a sitting posture, he projects
his livid face into the light; he reaches
forth his arm, and grasps the minister by the
wrist,&mdash;the minister utters an involuntary
cry of pain,&mdash;for that grasp is like the pressure
of an iron vice.</p>

<p>"Not a word about the camel,&mdash;hey, minister?"</p>

<p>That was the last word of Evelyn Somers,
Sen., the merchant prince.</p>

<p>There, projecting from the bed-curtains
his livid face,&mdash;there, with features distorted
and eyes rolling, the last glance upon the
evidences of wealth, which filled the chamber,&mdash;there,
even as he clasped the minister
by the wrist, he gasped his last breath, and
was a dead man.</p>

<p>It was with an effort that Herman Barnhurst
disengaged his wrist from the gripe of
the dead man's hand. As he tore the hand
away, a golden eagle fell from it, and
sparkled in the light, as it fell. The rich
man couldn't take it with him, to the place
where he was going,&mdash;not even one piece of
gold.</p>

<p>The Rev. Herman Barnhurst rose and left
the room without once looking back.</p>

<p>The doctor, also, rose and straightened the
dead man's limbs, and closed his eyes. This
done, he drew his broad-brimmed hat over
his brow, and left the room without a
word&mdash;yes, he spoke four words, as he left
the place: "One out of seven!" he said.</p>

<p>The Colonel emerged from the curtains;
he was ashy pale, and he tottered as he
walked. This time his agitation was not a
sham. Once he looked back upon the dead
man's face, and then directed his steps to the
door.</p>

<p>"Remember, Gulian," he whispered as he
passed the kneeling boy: "to-morrow I
will see you."</p>

<p>Gulian, still on his knees in the center of
the apartment, prayed God to be merciful to
the dead,&mdash;to the dead son, whose corpse lay
in the room above, and to the dead father,
whose body was stretched before his eyes.</p>

<p>Tarleton paused for a moment on the
threshold, with his hand upon the knob of
the door&mdash;</p>

<p>"If Cornelius Berman were alive, he
would inherit this immense estate!" muttered
the Colonel. "As it is, here is a palace
with two dead bodies in it, and no heir to
inherit the wealth of the corpse which only
half an hour ago was the owner of half a
million dollars. But it is no time to
meditate. There's work for me at <span class="smcap">the Temple</span>."</p>

<p>Turning from that stately mansion, in
which father and son lay dead, we will follow
the steps of Rev. Herman Barnhurst.</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h3><a name="CHAPTER_2_XIII" id="CHAPTER_2_XIII">CHAPTER XIII.</a></h3>

<h4>THE REVEREND VOLUPTUARIES.</h4>


<p>As the <span class="smcap">Rev. Herman Barnhurst</span> passed
from the hall-door of the palace of the merchant
prince, and descended the marble steps,
his thoughts were by no means of a pleasant
character. The image of Alice, for the moment
forgotten, the thoughts of Herman were
occupied with the scene which he had just
witnessed,&mdash;the hopeless death-bed of the
merchant prince.</p>

<p>"The fool!" muttered Herman, drawing
his cloak around him, and pulling his hat
over his brows, "The miserable fool! To
die without making a will, when he has no
heirs and the church has done so much for
him. Why (in his own phrase) it has been
<i>capital</i> to him, in the way of reputation; he
has grown rich by that reputation; and now
he dies, leaving the church and her ministers,&mdash;not
a single copper, not a single copper."</p>

<p>It was too early for Herman to return to
his home,&mdash;so he thought,&mdash;therefore, he
directed his steps toward Broadway, resolving,
in spite of the late hour of the night, to
pay a visit to one of his most intimate friends.</p>

<p>But, as he left the palace of the merchant
prince, a <span class="smcap">man</span> wrapped also in a cloak, and
with a cap over his eyes, rose from the
shadows behind the marble steps, and walked
with an almost noiseless pace in the footsteps
of the young clergyman.</p>

<p>This man had seen Herman enter the
house of the merchant prince. Standing
himself in the darkness behind the steps, he
had waited patiently until Herman again
appeared. In fact, he had followed the
steps of the clergyman for at least three
hours previous to the moment when he came
to the residence of Evelyn Somers, Sr.; followed
him from street to street, from house
to house, walking fast or slow, as Herman
quickened or moderated his pace; stopping
when Herman stopped; and thus, for three
long hours, he had dogged the steps of the
clergyman with a patience and perseverance,
that must certainly have been the result of
some powerful motive.</p>

<p>And now, as the Rev. Herman Barnhurst
left the house where the merchant prince
lay dead, the <span class="smcap">man</span> in cap and cloak, quietly
resumed his march, like a veteran at the tap
of the drum.</p>

<p>At the moment when Herman reached a
dark point of the street near Broadway, the
<span class="smcap">man</span> stole noiselessly to his side and tapped
him on the shoulder.</p>

<p>Herman turned with an ejaculation,&mdash;half
fear, half wonder. The street was dark and
deserted; the lights of Broadway shone two
hundred yards ahead. Herman, at a glance,
saw that himself and the <span class="smcap">man</span> were the only
persons visible.</p>

<p>"It's a thief," he thought,&mdash;and then, said
aloud, in his sweetest voice: "What do you
want, my friend?"</p>

<p>"<i>The twenty-fifth of December is near,</i>" said
the <span class="smcap">man</span>, in a slow and significant voice: "I
have important information to communicate
to you, in relation to the <i>Van Huyden estate</i>."</p>

<p>Herman was, of course, interested in the
great estate, as one of the <span class="smcap">seven</span>; but he had
a deeper interest in it, than the reader,&mdash;at
present, can imagine. The words of the
<span class="smcap">man</span>, therefore, agitated him deeply.</p>

<p>"Who are you?" he asked.</p>

<p>"That I will tell you, when you have
taken me to a place, where we can converse
freely together."</p>

<p>Herman hesitated.</p>

<p>"Well, as you will," said the <span class="smcap">man</span>&mdash;"It
concerns you as much as it does me. You
are afraid to grant me an interview. Good
night&mdash;"</p>

<p>Thus speaking, he carelessly turned away.</p>

<p>Now Herman was afraid of the <span class="smcap">man</span>, but
there were other Men of whom he was more
afraid. So balancing one fear against another,
he came to this conclusion, that the <span class="smcap">man</span>
might communicate something, which would
save him from the <i>other Men</i>, and so he
called the stranger back.</p>

<p>"Why this concealment?" he asked.</p>

<p>"You will confess, after we have talked
together, that I have good reasons for this
concealment," was the answer of the <span class="smcap">man</span>.</p>

<p>"Come, then, with me," said Herman, "I
will not take you to my own rooms, but I
will take you to the rooms of a friend. He
is out of town and we can converse at our
ease."</p>

<p>He led the way toward the room of the
Rev. Dr. Bulgin, whom the profane sometimes
called Bulgin<i>e</i>, which, as the learned
know, is good Ethiopian for Steam Engine.
This seemed to imply that the Rev. Dr. was
a perfect Locomotive in his way.</p>

<p>"My friend Bulgin," said Herman, as they
arrived in front of a massive four story building,
on a cross street, not more than a quarter
of a mile from the head of Broadway,
"occupies the entire upper floor of this house,
as a study. There he secludes himself while
engaged in the composition of his more elaborate
works. He has a body servant and a
maid servant to wait upon him; and a parlor
down stairs, for the reception of his visitors;
but he has no communication with the other
part of the house. In fact, he never sees the
occupants of the boarding-house beneath his
study. He rents his rooms of the lady who
keeps the boarding-house,&mdash;Mrs. Smelgin,&mdash;who
supplies his meals. Thus, he has the
upper part of the house all to himself; and
as I have a key to his rooms, we can go
up there and talk at our ease."</p>

<p>"But, is not Dr. Bulgin married?" asked
the <span class="smcap">man</span>.</p>

<p>"He is. But his lady, on account of her
health (she cannot bear the noise of the city),
is forced to reside in the country with her
father."</p>

<p>"Ah!" said the man.</p>

<p>Herman opened the front door with a
night key, and led the way along a hall and
up three ranges of stairs, until he came to a
door. This door he opened with another
key, and followed by the <span class="smcap">man</span>, he entered
Dr. Bulgin's study. He then locked the
door, and they found themselves enveloped
in Egyptian darkness.</p>

<p>"This may be Dr. Bulgin's study, but it
strikes me, a little light would not do it
much harm."</p>

<p>"Wait a moment," said Barnhurst,&mdash;"I'll
light the lamp." And presently, by the aid
of matches, he lighted a lamp which stood
on a table of variegated marble. A globular
shade of an exquisite pattern tempered the
rays of the lamp, and filled the place with
a light that was eminently soft and luxurious.</p>

<p>"Be seated," said Barnhurst, but the
<i>stranger</i> remained standing, with his cloak
wound about him and his cap drawn over
his brows. He was evidently examining the
details of the study with an attentive,&mdash;may
be&mdash;an astonished gaze.</p>

<p>Dr. Bulgin's study was worthy of examination.</p>

<p>It was composed of the upper floor of Mrs.
Smelgin's boarding-house, and was, therefore,
a vast room, its depth and breadth corresponding
to the depth and breadth of the
house.</p>

<p>It was, at least, thirty yards in length and
twenty in breadth, and the ceiling was of
corresponding height. Four huge windows
faced the east, and four the west.</p>

<p>Thus, vast and roomy, the apartment was
furnished in a style which might well excite
the attentive gaze of the stranger.</p>

<p>In the center of the southern wall, stood
the bookcase, an elegant fabric of rosewood,
surmounted by richly-carved work, and
crowned with an alabaster bust of Leo the
Tenth; the voluptuous Pope who drank
his wine, while poor Martin Luther was
overturning the world.</p>

<p>The shelves of this bookcase were stored
with the choicest books of five languages;
some glittering in splendid binding, and
others looking ancient and venerable in their
faded covers. There were the most recondite
works in English, French, German,
Spanish; and there were also the most
popular works in as many languages. Theology,
metaphysics, mathematics, geometry,
poetry, the drama, history, fact, fiction,&mdash;all
were there, and of all manner of shapes,
styles and ages. It was a very Noah's
Ark of literature, into which seemed to have
been admitted <i>one</i> specimen, at least, of
every book in the universe.</p>

<p>On the right of the bookcase was a sofa
that made you sleepy just to look at it; it
was so roomy, and its red-velvet cushioning
looked so soft and tempting. This sofa was
framed in rosewood, with little rosewood
cupids wreathed around its legs.</p>

<p>And on the left of the bookcase was
another sofa of a richer style, and of a more
sleep-impelling exterior.</p>

<p>Above each sofa hung a picture, concealed
by a thick curtain.</p>

<p>Along the northern wall of the study
were disposed a sofa as magnificent as the
others, and a series of marble pedestals and
red-velvet arm-chairs. Every pedestal was
crowned by an alabaster vase or statue of
white marble. There were Eve, Apollo,
Canova's Venus, and the Three Graces,&mdash;all
exquisite originals or exquisite copies, in
snowy marble.</p>

<p>The arm-chairs were arm-chairs indeed.
Red-velvet cushions and high backs and
great broad arms; they were the idea of a
happy brain, impregnated with belief in
Sancho's "Blessed be the man that invented
sleep."</p>

<p>And this northern wall was hung with
pictures in massive frames, richly gilt; the
frames were exposed, but the pictures were
vailed.</p>

<p>In the intervals between the western
windows were pedestals crowned with vases,
and mosaic tables loaded with objects of
<i>virtu</i>: exquisite trifles of all sorts, gleaned
from the Old World.</p>

<p>And in the intervals between the eastern
windows were recesses, covered with hangings
of pale crimson. What is concealed
in those recesses, doth not yet appear. Both
eastern and western windows were curtained
with folds of intermingled white and damask,
floating luxuriantly from the ceiling to the
floor.</p>

<p>The floor was covered with an Axminster
carpet of the richest dyes.</p>

<p>Gilt mouldings ran around the ceiling,
and in the center thereof, was a cupid, encircled
by a huge wreath of roses, and reposing
on a day-break cloud.</p>

<p>The table, of variegated marble, which
stood in the center of the study, was surrounded
by three arm-chairs of the same
style as those which lined the wall. It was
circular in form, and upon it, appeared an
elegant alabaster inkstand, gold pens with
pearl handles, gilt-edged paper touched
with perfume, a few choice books, and an
exquisite "Venus in the Shell," done in alabaster.
One of these books was a modern
edition of the Golden Ass of Apuleius; and
the other was a choice translation of Rabelais.</p>

<p>Altogether, the Rev. Dr. Bulgin's room
was one of those rooms worthy of a place
in history; and which, may be, could tell
strange histories, were its chairs and tables
gifted with the power of speech.</p>

<p>"And this is the study of the Rev. Dr.
Bulgin!" ejaculated the <span class="smcap">man</span>.</p>

<p>"It is," replied Herman, flinging himself
into an arm-chair; "here he composes his
most elaborate theological works."</p>

<p>"Why is his library crowned with that
bust of Leo the Tenth, the Atheist and
Sensualist?"</p>

<p>"He is writing a work on the age of Luther,"
replied Herman.</p>

<p>"Oh!" responded the <span class="smcap">man</span>.</p>

<p>"And this!" the <span class="smcap">man</span> drew the vail and
bore one of the pictures to the light: "and
this! what does it mean?"</p>

<p>"You are inquisitive, sir," replied Herman,
somewhat confounded by the sudden
disclosure of this singular picture, "why, in
fact, Dr. Bulgin is writing a tract <i>against</i> immoral
pictures."</p>

<p>"A-h!" responded the <span class="smcap">man</span>, and picked
from the table the Golden Ass of Apuleius,
illustrated with plates, "what does this do
here? Are these plates to be understood in
a theological sense?"</p>

<p>"Dr. Bulgin is getting up a treatise upon
the subject of immoral literature. He has
that book as an example."</p>

<p>"And when he writes a treatise on the
infernal regions, he'd send there for a piece
of the brimstone as an example?"</p>

<p>"You are profane," said Herman, tartly;
"let me hope that you will proceed to business."</p>

<p>The <span class="smcap">man</span> placed his cloak on a chair, and
his cap on the table. Then seating himself
opposite the minister, he gazed steadily in
his face. Herman grew red in the face, and
felt as though he had suddenly been plunged
into an oven.</p>

<p>"Your name is,&mdash;is,"&mdash;he hesitated.</p>

<p>"Don't <i>you</i> know me?" said the <span class="smcap">man</span>.</p>

<p>"I,&mdash;I,&mdash;why,&mdash;I,&mdash;let me see."</p>

<p>Herman shaded his eyes with his hand,
and steadily perused the face of the
<span class="smcap">stranger</span>, as though, in the effort, to recognize
him.</p>

<p>He was a young man of a muscular frame,
clad in a single-breasted blue coat, which
was buttoned over a broad chest. He was
of the medium height. His forehead was
broad; his eyes clear gray; his lips wide
and firm; his nose inclining to the aquiline;
his chin round and solid. The general expression
of his features was that of straightforwardness
and energy of character. There
was the freshness and the warmth of youth
upon his face, and his forehead was stamped
with the ideality of genius. As he wore
his brown hair in short, thick curls, it
marked the outline of his head, and threw
his forehead distinctly into view.</p>

<p>"You are,&mdash;you are,&mdash;where did I see
you?" hesitated Herman.</p>

<p>"I am Arthur Dermoyne," was the reply,
in an even, but emphatic voice.</p>

<p>Then there was an embarrassing pause.</p>

<p>"Where have I met you?" said Herman,
as if in the painful effort to recollect.</p>

<p>"At the house of Mr. Burney, in the city
of Philadelphia," was the answer.</p>

<p>"Ah! now I remember!" ejaculated
Herman; "Poor, poor Mr. Burney! You
have heard of the sad accident which took
place last night, ah&mdash;ah&mdash;?"</p>

<p>Herman buried his face in his hands, and
seemed profoundly affected.</p>

<p>"I saw his mangled body at the house
half way between New York and Philadelphia,
only a few hours ago," the young
man's voice was cold and stern, "and now
I am in New York, endeavoring to find the
scoundrel who abducted his only daughter."</p>

<p>Herman looked at cupid in the ceiling
and pretended to brush a hair from his
nose&mdash;</p>

<p>"Ah, I remember, poor Mr. Burney told
me last night, that his child had been abducted.
Yes,&mdash;" Herman looked at the hair, and
held it between his eyes and the light, "he
told me about it just before the accident occurred.
Poor girl! Poor girl! Oh, by-the-bye,"
turning suddenly in his arm-chair, but
without looking into the face of Dermoyne,
"you take an interest in the Burney family.
Are you a relative?"</p>

<p>"I have visited the house of Mr. Burney,
from time to time, and have seen Alice, his
only daughter. You may think me romantic,
but to see that girl, so pure, so innocent,
so beautiful, was to love her. I will confess
that had it not been for a disparity
of fortune, and a difference in regard to religious
views, between her father and myself,
I would have been most happy to have
made her my wife."</p>

<p>The tone of the young man was somewhat
agitated; he was endeavoring to suppress
his emotions.</p>

<p>"Courage! He does not <i>know</i>," muttered
Herman to himself, and then assuming a
calm look, he continued, aloud: "And she
would have made you a noble wife. By-the-bye,
you spoke of your profession. A merchant,
I suppose?"</p>

<p>"No, sir."</p>

<p>"A lawyer?"</p>

<p>"No, sir."</p>

<p>"A medical gentleman?"</p>

<p>"No, sir."</p>

<p>"You are then&mdash;"</p>

<p>"A shoemaker."</p>

<p>"A <span class="smcap">what</span>," ejaculated Herman, jumping
from his chair.</p>

<p>"A shoemaker," repeated Arthur Dermoyne.
"I gain my bread by the work of
my hands, and by the hardest of all kinds
of work. I am not only a mechanic, but a
shoemaker."</p>

<p>Herman could not repress a burst of
laughter.</p>

<p>"Excuse me, but, ha, ha, ha! You are a
shoemaker? And you visited the house
of the wealthy Burney, and aspired to his
daughter's hand? You will excuse me,
ha, ha, ha!&mdash;but it is so very odd."</p>

<p>Dermoyne's forehead grew dark.</p>

<p>"Yes, I am a shoemaker. I earn my
bread by the work of my hands. But before
you despise me, you will hear why I
am a shoemaker. As an orphaned child,
without father or mother, there was no other
career before me, than the pauperism of the
outcast or the slavery of an apprentice. I
chose the latter. The overseers of the poor
bound me out to a trade. I grew up without
hope, education, or home. In the day-time
I worked at an occupation which is
work without exercise, and which continued
ten years, at ten hours a day, will destroy
the constitution of the strongest man. From
this hopeless apprenticeship, I passed into the
life of a journeyman, and knew what it was
to battle with the world for myself. How I
worked, starved and worked, matters not,
for we folks are born for that kind of thing.
But as I sat upon my work-bench, listening
to a book which was read by one of my own
brother workmen, I became aware that I was
not only poor, but ignorant; that my body
was not only enslaved, but also my soul.&mdash;Therefore,
I taught myself to read; to
write; and for three years I have devoted
five hours of every night to study."</p>

<p>"And are still a shoemaker?" Herman's
smooth face was full of quiet scorn and
laughter.</p>

<p>"I am still a shoemaker&mdash;a workman at
the bench&mdash;because I cannot, in <i>conscience</i>,
enter one of the professions called learned.&mdash;I
cannot separate myself from that nine-tenths
of the human family, who seem to
have been only born to work and die&mdash;die
in mind, as well as body&mdash;in order to supply
the <i>idle</i> tenth with superfluities. Oh!
sir, you, who are so learned and eloquent,
could you but read the thoughts which enter
the heart of the poor shoemaker, who, sitting
at his work-bench, in a cramped position, is
forced sometimes to reflect upon his fate!&mdash;He
beholds the lawyer, with a conscience
distinct from that given to him by God; a
conscience that makes him believe that it is
right to grow rich by the tricks and frauds
of law. He beholds the doctor, also with
the conscience of his class, sending human
beings to death by system, and filling graveyards
by the exact rule of the schools. He
beholds the minister, too often also with but
the <i>conscience</i> of a class, preaching the thoughts
of those who do not work, and failing to
give utterance to the agonies of those who
do work&mdash;who do all the labor, and suffer
all the misery in the world. And these classes
are respected; honored. They are the true
noblemen! Their respectability is shared
by the merchant, who grows rich by distributing
the products of labor. But as for the
shoemaker&mdash;nay, the workman, of whatever
trade&mdash;whose labor produces all the
physical <i>wealth of the world</i>&mdash;who works all
life long, and only rests when his head is in
the cold grave,&mdash;what of him? He is a
serf, a slave, a Pariah. On the stage no joke
is so piquant as the one which is leveled at
the 'tailor,' or the 'cobbler;' in literature,
the attempt of an unknown to elevate himself,
is matter for a brutal laugh; and even
grave men like you, when addressed by a
man who, like myself, confesses that he is a&mdash;shoemaker!
you burst into laughter, as
though the master you profess to serve, was
not himself, one day, a workman at the carpenter's
bench."</p>

<p>"These words are of the French school."
Herman gave the word "French" a withering
accent.</p>

<p>"Did the French school produce the New
Testament?"</p>

<p>Herman did not answer, but fixed his
glance upon cupid in the ceiling.</p>

<p>"But you are educated&mdash;why not devote
yourself to one of the professions?" and
Herman turned his eyes from cupid in the
ceiling, to Venus in the Shell.</p>

<p>Dermoyne's face gleamed with a calm seriousness,
a deep enthusiasm, which imparted
a new life to every lineament.</p>

<p>"Because I do not wish to separate myself
from the largest portion of humanity. No,
no,&mdash;had I the intellect of a Shakspeare, or
the religion of a St. Paul, I would not wish to
separate myself from the greater portion of
God's family&mdash;those who are born, who work,
who die. No, no! I am waiting&mdash;I am
waiting!"</p>

<p>"Waiting?" echoed Herman.</p>

<p>"Maybe the day will come, when, gifted
with wealth, I can enter the workshops of
Philadelphia, and say to the workmen,
'Come, brothers. Here is <span class="smcap">capital</span>. Let us
go to the west. Let us find a spot of God's
earth unpolluted by white or black slavery.
Let us build a community where every man
shall work with his hands, and where every
man will also have the opportunity to cultivate
his mind&mdash;to work with his brain.&mdash;There
every one will have a place to work,
and every one will receive the fruits of his
work. And there,&mdash;oh, my God!&mdash;there
will we, without priest, or monopolist, or
slaveholder, establish in the midst of a band
of brothers, the worship of that Christ who
was himself a workman, even as he is now,
the workman's God.'"</p>

<p>Arthur Dermoyne had started from his
chair; his hands were clasped; his gray eyes
were filled with tears.</p>

<p>"French ideas&mdash;French ideas," cried Herman.
"You have been reading French
books, young man!"</p>

<p>Arthur looked at the clergyman, and said
quietly:</p>

<p>"These ideas were held by the German
race who settled in Pennsylvania, in the
time of William Penn. Driven, from Germany
by the hands of Protestant priests,
they brought with them to the New World,
the '<i>French ideas</i>' of the New Testament."</p>

<p>"The Germans who settled Pennsylvania&mdash;a
stupid race," observed Herman, in calm
derision; "Look at some of their descendants."</p>

<p>"The Germans of the present day&mdash;or, to
speak more distinctly,&mdash;the Pennsylvania
Germans, descendants of the old stock, who
came over about the time of Penn, are a
<i>conquered</i> race!&mdash;"</p>

<p>"A <i>conquered</i> race?" echoed Herman.</p>

<p>"<i>Conquered</i> by the English language,"
continued Dermoyne. "As a mass, they are
not well instructed either in English or in
German, and therefore have no chance to
develop, to its fullest extent, the stamina
of their race. They know but little of the
real history of their ancestors, who first
brought to Pennsylvania the great truth, that
God is not a God of hatred, pleased with
blood, but a God of love, whose great law
is the <span class="smcap">progress</span> of all his children,&mdash;that is,
the entire family of man, both <span class="smcap">here</span> and
<span class="smcap">hereafter</span>. And the Pennsylvanian Germans
are the scoff and sneer of Yankee
swindler and southern braggart; but the day
will come, when the descendants of that
race will rise to their destiny, and even as
the farms of Pennsylvania now show their
<i>physical</i> progress, so will the entire American
continent bear witness to their <i>intellectual</i>
power. They are of the race of Luther, of
Goethe, and of Schiller,&mdash;hard to kill,&mdash;the
men who can work, and the men whose
work will make a people strong, a nation
great and noble."</p>

<p>"You are of this race?" asked Herman,
pulling his cloak gently with his delicate
hand.</p>

<p>"My father, (I am told, for he died when
I was a child,) was a wealthy farmer, whose
wealth was swallowed up by an unjust lawsuit
and a fraudulent bank. My grandfather
was a wheelwright; my great-grandfather a
cobbler; my great-great-grandfather a carpenter;
and his father, was a tiller of the
field. So you see, I am <i>nobly</i> descended,"
and a smile crossed the lips of Dermoyne.
"Not a single idler or vagabond in our
family,&mdash;all workers, like their Savior,&mdash;all
men who eat the bread of honest labor.
Ah! I forgot;" he passed his hand over his
forehead&mdash;"there was a count in our family.
This, I confess, is a blot upon us; but when
you remember that he forsook his countship
in Germany, to become a tiller of the fields
in Pennsylvania&mdash;about the year 1680&mdash;you
will look over the fault of his title."</p>

<p>Herman burst into a fit of pleasant
laughter.</p>

<p>"You have odd ideas of nobility!" he
ejaculated.</p>

<p>"Odd as the New Testament," said Dermoyne;
"and as old. By-the-bye, this count
in our family, was related to the Van Huyden
family. (You, also, are one of the
seven?&mdash;Yes, your name is among the
others.) Ah! should the 25th of December
give into my hands but a few thousand
dollars, I will try and show the world how
workmen, united for the common good, can
live and work together."</p>

<p>"A few thousands!" laughed Herman,
displaying himself at full length on the
capacious chair; "why, in case the Seven
receive the estate at all, they will divide
among them some twenty, perhaps, forty
millions of dollars!"</p>

<p>"Forty millions of dollars!" Dermoyne
was thunderstruck. He folded his arms,
and gazed upon vacancy with fixed eyes.
"My God! what might not be done with
forty millions!"&mdash;he paused and stretched
forth his hand, as though a vision of the
future dawned upon him.</p>

<p>"Did Mr. Burney&mdash;poor friend!&mdash;know
that you were a&mdash;shoemaker?" Once more
Herman shaded his eyes with his hand, and
regarded the young man with a pleasant
smile.</p>

<p>"He did not," answered Dermoyne. "I
became acquainted with him,&mdash;it matters not
how,&mdash;and visited his house, where, more
than once, I have conversed with his
daughter Alice. No, Mr. Burney did me
wrong; for while I was a shoemaker, he
persisted, (in ignorance of my character,) in
thinking me&mdash;<i>a gentleman</i>! A <i>gentleman</i>&mdash;an
idle vagabond, whose gentility is supported
by the labor of honest men.&mdash;Faugh!"</p>

<p>"Well, I must confess," Herman said with
a wave of the hand and a patronizing tone,
"that from your manner, gestures, accent, et
cetera, I have always taken you for an
educated gentleman. But your principles
are decidedly ungenteel,&mdash;allow me the
remark."</p>

<p>Herman began to feel much more at ease.
"He does not dream I have any share in
the abduction of Alice!" This thought was
comfort and repose to his mind.</p>

<p>But Arthur Dermoyne changed the tone
of this pleasant dream by a single question:
"Do <i>you</i>,&mdash;" he fixed his eyes sternly
upon the young minister: "Do <span class="smcap">you</span> know
anything of the retreat of Alice Burney?"</p>

<p>"Do I know anything of the retreat&mdash;of&mdash;Alice&mdash;Burney!"
he echoed: "What a
question to ask a man of my cloth!"</p>

<p>Dermoyne placed his hand within the
breast of his coat, and drew forth ten gold
pieces, which he held in the light, in the
palm of his hand.</p>

<p>"Every coin gained by days and nights of
work&mdash;hard work," he said. "It has taken
me three years to save that sum. When I
thought of Alice as a wife, this little hoard,
(such was my fancy,) might enable me to
furnish a good home. Do you understand
me, sir? You who receive five thousand
dollars per year for preaching the gospel of
your church, can you comprehend how
precious is this fortune of one hundred dollars,
to a poor workman, who earns his bread
by sitting in a cramped position, fourteen
hours a day, making shoes?"</p>

<p>"Well, what have I to do with this
money?"</p>

<p>"You comprehend that these ten gold
pieces are as much to me, as a ten hundred
would be to you? These gold pieces will
buy books which I earnestly desire; they
will help me to relieve a brother workman
who happens to be poorer than myself; they
will help me to go to the far west, where
there is land and home for all. Well, this
fortune, I have dedicated to one purpose:
To support me, here in New York, on bread
and water, until I can discover the hiding-place
of Alice Burney, and meet her seducer
face to face. How long do you think my
gold will furnish me with bread, while I
devote day and night to this purpose?"</p>

<p>The iron resolution of the young man's
face, made the clergyman feel afraid.</p>

<p>"You will remark," he exclaimed, stretching
himself in his chair, and contemplating
the whiteness of his nails, "that a witness
of our conversation might infer, from the
tenor of your discourse, that you have an
idea&mdash;an idea&mdash;" he hesitated, "that I have
something to do with the abduction of this
young lady. Doubtless you do not mean to
convey this impression, and therefore I will
thank you to correct the tone of your
remarks."</p>

<p>Herman was quite lordly.</p>

<p>"Then you know nothing of the retreat
of Alice Burney?"</p>

<p>"The question is an insult&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Nothing of her seducer?"</p>

<p>"I repeat it; the question is an insult,"
and Herman started up in his chair, with
flashing eyes and corrugated brow.</p>

<p>"Will you swear that you are ignorant of
her retreat, and of the name of her seducer?"
coolly continued Dermoyne.</p>

<p>"Men of my cloth do not swear," as
coolly returned Herman.</p>

<p>"Allow me to congratulate you upon
your ignorance," replied Dermoyne, "for&mdash;for;&mdash;will
you have the goodness to observe
me for a moment?"</p>

<p>While Herman watched him with a wondering
eye, the young man replaced the gold
pieces in his pocket, and rising from his
chair, surveyed the room with an attentive
gaze. His eye rested at length upon an iron
candlestick, which stood upon a shelf of the
library; it was evidently out of place in
that luxurious room; and had been left
there through the forgetfulness of the servant
who took care of the Rev. Dr. Bulgin's
study. Dermoyne took this candlestick from
the shelf, and then returned to the light.</p>

<p>"Do you see this? It is about six inches
long and one inch in diameter. Would it
not take a strong man to break that in twain
with both hands?"</p>

<p>Herman took the candlestick; examined
it attentively: "It would take a Sampson,"
he said.</p>

<p>"Now look at my hand." Dermoyne
extended a hand which, hardened by labor
in the palm, was not so large as it was
muscular and bony.</p>

<p>"What have I to do with your hand?"
exclaimed Herman, in evident disgust.</p>

<p>"Watch me," said Dermoyne; and, resting
the candlestick on his right hand, he closed
his fingers, and pressed his thumb against it.
After an instant he opened his hand again.
The iron candlestick was bent nearly double.
Dermoyne had accomplished this feat without
the appearance of exertion.</p>

<p>"Why, you are a very Hercules!" ejaculated
Herman,&mdash;"and yet, you are not above
the medium height. You do not look like
a strong man."</p>

<p>"God has invested me with almost superhuman
strength," replied Dermoyne, as he
stood erect before the minister, resting one
hand upon the table: "had it not been for
that, hard work would have killed me long
ago. I can lift with one hand, a weight,
which would task the strength of almost any
two men but to budge; I can strike a blow,
which, properly planted, would fell an ox;
I can&mdash;"</p>

<p>"You needn't dilate," interrupted Herman,
"the study of the Rev. Dr. Bulgin is not exactly
the place for gymnastic experiments&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Well, you'll see my drift directly,"
calmly continued Dermoyne&mdash;"I have never
dared to use this strength, save in the way
of work or occasional exercise. I regard it
as a kind of trust, given to me by Providence
for a good purpose."</p>

<p>"What purpose, pray?" said Herman,
opening his eyes.</p>

<p>"To punish those criminals whom the law
does not punish; to protect those victims it
does not protect," answered Dermoyne, steadily.
"Now, for instance, were I to encounter
the seducer of Alice Burney,&mdash;were I to
stand face to face with him, as I do with
you,&mdash;were I to place my thumb upon his
right temple and my fingers upon his left
temple,&mdash;thus&mdash;"</p>

<p>"You,&mdash;you,&mdash;" gasped the minister, who
suddenly felt the hand of Arthur Dermoyne
upon his forehead; the thumb pressed gently
upon the right temple and the fingers upon
his left&mdash;"you,&mdash;would,&mdash;what?"</p>

<p>"I would, quietly, without a word, crush
his skull as you might crush an egg-shell,"
slowly answered Dermoyne.</p>

<p>He took his hand away. The face of
Herman was white as a sheet. He shook in
his velvet chair. For a moment he could
not speak.</p>

<p>"I, therefore, congratulate you, that you
know nothing of the matter," calmly continued
Dermoyne, not seeming to notice the
fright of the minister; "for, with a villain
like this unknown seducer before me, I would
lose all control over myself, and (ere I was
aware of it) I would have wiped him out of
existence. This would be murder, you are
about to remark! So it would. But, is not
this seducer a murderer in a three fold sense?
First, he has murdered the chastity of this
poor girl; and second, in the attempt to get
rid of the proof of his guilt, he <i>may</i> (who
knows?) murder her body and the body of
her unborn child."</p>

<p>The room was still as the grave, as Dermoyne
concluded the last sentence.</p>

<p>Barnhurst sank back in the chair, helpless
as a child. For a moment his self-possession
deserted him. His guilt was stamped upon
his face.</p>

<p>"Here you can count three murders,"
continued Dermoyne, not seeming to notice
the dismay of the minister,&mdash;"the murder
of a woman's purity,&mdash;the murder of her
body&mdash;the murder of her babe. Now, I
don't pretend to say, that it would be <span class="smcap">right</span>
for me to kill the three fold murderer, but I
do say, that, were I to meet him, and <i>know</i>
his guilt, that my blood would boil,&mdash;my
eyes would grow dim,&mdash;my hand would be
extended, and in an instant, would hold his
mangled skull, between the thumb and fingers."</p>

<p>Herman's arms dropped helplessly by his
side. He was extended in the capacious
chair, a vivid picture of helpless fright.</p>

<p>Dermoyne, whose broad chest and bold
features, caught on one side the glow of the
light, as he stood erect by the table, gazed
upon the minister with a calm look, and
continued&mdash;</p>

<p>"So, you see, I congratulate you, that you
know nothing of the matter&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Oh, I am shocked, shocked," and Herman
made out to cover his face with his
hands, "I am shocked, at the vivid, viv-id,"
he stammered,&mdash;"vivid picture which you
have drawn of the crimes of this seducer."</p>

<p>Dermoyne sank quietly into the chair on
the opposite side of the table, and shaded
his eyes with his right hand. He also was
<i>thinking</i>.</p>

<p>For a long pause, there was profound stillness.
The lamp on the table shed its luxurious
light over the vast room, peopled as it
was, with images of wealth, ease and voluptuousness,
and upon the figures of these men,
seated opposite to each other, and each with
his eyes shaded by his hand.</p>

<p>At length, Herman recovering a portion
of his self-possession, exclaimed without
raising his hands from his face:</p>

<p>"I trust you will end this interview at
once. You have given my nerves a severe
shock. To-morrow,&mdash;to-morrow,&mdash;I will
talk to you about the Van Huyden estate,
about which, I presume, you asked this interview."</p>

<p>Dermoyne raised his hand to his forehead,&mdash;somewhat
after the manner of Herman,&mdash;and
surveyed the clergyman with a keen,
searching gaze. Gradually a smile, so faint
as to be scarcely perceptible, stole over his
features.</p>

<p>Herman felt the force of that gaze and his
smooth complexion turned from deathly
white to scarlet, and from scarlet to deathly
white again.</p>

<p>"What next?" he muttered to himself,
"does <i>he</i> know? Had I better call for assistance?"</p>

<p>Dermoyne, quietly left his seat, and advancing
until he confronted Herman, placed
a small piece of paper on the table, and held
it firmly under his thumb, so that the words
written upon it, were legible in the lamp-light.</p>

<p>"Read that," he said, and his flashing eye
was fixed on Barnhurst's face.</p>

<p>Half wondering, half stupefied, Barnhurst
bent forward and read:&mdash;</p>

<blockquote>

<p><i>Dec</i>. 24, 1844.</p>

<p><span class="smcap">Madam</span>:&mdash;Your <i>patient</i> will come to-night.</p>

<p><span class="smcap">Herman Barnhurst.</span></p></blockquote>

<p>As he read, Herman looked like a man
who has received his death-warrant. The
very effort,&mdash;and it was a mortal one,&mdash;which
he made to control himself, only gave
a stronger agitation to his quivering lineaments.</p>

<p>"Can you tell where I found this?" whispered
Dermoyne. "Near the mangled body
of the father of Alice,&mdash;at sunset, but a few
hours ago, and at the house half-way between
New York and Philadelphia,&mdash;there among
the ashes, and half consumed by fire, I discovered
this precious document. Did you
drop this paper from your pocket, my friend,
when you sought shelter in the house, after
the accident on the railroad, last night?"</p>

<p>Herman had not the power to reply. His
eyes were riveted by the half-burned fragment.</p>

<p>"What has the Rev. Herman Barnhurst,
the clergyman, to do with <span class="smcap">Madam Resimer</span>,
<i>the murderess of unborn children</i>?" continued
Dermoyne; "and the <i>patient</i>,&mdash;who is the
<i>patient</i>? Is it Alice? This letter is dated
the 24th, and to-morrow night, Alice will
cross the threshold of that hell, where <span class="smcap">the
Madam</span> rules, as the presiding Devil!"</p>

<p>A gleam of hope shot across Herman's
soul. "He does not know, that Alice is already
in the care of Madam Resimer. Courage,&mdash;courage!"</p>

<p>"Have you no answer?" Dermoyne's
eye gleamed with deadly light; still holding
the paper, he advanced a step nearer to the
clergyman.</p>

<p>"Yes, I have an answer!" exclaimed
Herman, sinking back in the chair: "that
letter is a forgery."</p>

<p>Dermoyne was astonished.</p>

<p>"You never wrote it?"</p>

<p>"Never,&mdash;never!" Herman raised his
hands to Heaven,&mdash;"it is the work of some
mortal enemy. Beside, were I guilty, is it
reasonable to suppose, that I, a clergyman,
would sign my own name to a letter addressed
to Madam Resimer?"</p>

<p>Dermoyne was puzzled; he glanced from
the letter to Barnhurst's face, and a look of
doubt clouded his features.</p>

<p>"A forgery?" he asked.</p>

<p>"An infamous forgery!" cried Barnhurst,
resuming his dignity. "Now, that you have
wrung my very soul, by an accusation so
utterly infamous, so thoroughly improbable,
let me hope that you will&mdash;" he pointed to
the door.</p>

<p>Dermoyne resumed his cap and cloak,
first, carefully replacing the letter in his vest
pocket.</p>

<p>"By to-morrow," he said, in a voice which
rang low and distinct through the apartment,
"by to-morrow, I will know the truth of
this matter; and if I discover that this is,
indeed, your letter,&mdash;if you have, indeed,
dishonored poor Alice, and consigned herself
and unborn babe, to the infernal mercies
of Madam Resimer, why then,"&mdash;he moved
toward the door, "then there will be one
man the less, on the 25th of December."</p>

<p>He opened the door, and was gone ere
his words had ceased to echo on the air.</p>

<p>His parting words rung in the very soul
of the clergymen, as his footsteps died away
on the stairs.</p>

<p>"What an abyss have I escaped!" ejaculated
Herman, "exposure, disgrace and
death!" He pressed his scented kerchief
over his forehead, and wiped away the cold
sweat which moistened it. "Fool! he little
knows that Alice is already <i>there</i>. The
Madam is a shrewd woman. Her rooms are
dark, her doors secured by double bolts; her
secrets are given to the keeping of the
grave. This miserable idiot, this cobbler,
cannot possibly gain admittance into her
mansion? No, no, this thought is idle.
And Alice, poor child, why can't I marry
her? Her father's death will leave her in
possession of a handsome fortune,&mdash;why
can't I marry her?"</p>

<p>Too well he knew the <i>only</i> answer to this
question.</p>

<p>"We are all but mortal; she may <i>die</i>!"
and an expression of remarkable complacency
came over his face. Joining his
thumbs and fingers in front of his breast, he
reflected deeply. "But if she survives?"</p>

<p>His brow became clouded, his lips compressed;
all the <i>vulture</i> of his soul was
written on his vulture-like countenance.</p>

<p>"If she survives!"</p>

<p>While the light disclosed his slender figure,
centered in the scarlet cushions of the
arm-chair, and fell upon his countenance,
revealing the purpose which was written
there, Herman still muttered between his
set teeth, the question, "<span class="smcap">If</span> she survives?"
To him, it was a question of life and death.</p>

<p>But his meditations were interrupted by a
burst of boisterous laughter.</p>

<p>"Why Barnhurst! you are grave as an
owl. What's the matter, my dear?"</p>

<p>Herman looked up with a start, and a
half-muttered ejaculation. The Rev. Dr.
Bulgin stood before him, his cloak on his
arm, and a cap in his hand.</p>

<p>"I thought you was out of town?" cried
Herman.</p>

<p>"So I was; a convention of divines,
speeches, resolutions, and so forth, you
know. But now I'm in town, and,&mdash;such
an adventure, my dear boy! I must tell
you of it."</p>

<p>Before Bulgin tells his adventure, we
must look at him. A man of thirty-five
years, with broad shoulders, heavy chest
and unwieldy limbs; a portly man, some
would call him, dressed in black, of course,
and with a white cravat about his neck,
which was short and fat. Draggled masses
of brownish hair stray, in uneven ends,
about Bulgin's face and ears; that face is
round and shiny,&mdash;its hue, a greasy florid,&mdash;its
brow, broad and low; its eyes large,
moist and oyster-like. In a word, the upper
part of Bulgin's head indicates the man of
intellect; the face, the eyes, mouth, nose
and all, tell the story of a nature thoroughly
animal,&mdash;bestial, would be a truer
word.</p>

<p>That head and face were but too true in
their indications.</p>

<p>Bulgin was, in intellect, something of a god;
in real life; in the gratification of appetite; in
habits, strengthened by the growth of years,
he was a beast. It may seem a harsh word,
but it is the only one that suits Bulgin's
case. He was a beast. Not a quiet ox,
cropping clover at his ease, nor yet a lordly
bull, madly tossing his horns in the center
of a grassy field,&mdash;of course, we mean nothing
of the kind,&mdash;but a beast on two legs,
gifted with a strong intellect and an immortal
soul, and devoting intellect and soul to
the full gratification of his beastly nature.
He was, withal, a good-humored beast. He
enjoyed a joke. His laugh was jovial; reminding
you of goblets of wine and suppers
of terrapin. His manner was off-hand,
free and easy&mdash;out of the pulpit, of course;
in the pulpit, no one so demure, so zealous
and pathetic as the Rev. Dr. Bulgin.</p>

<p>He regarded his ministerial office as a
piece of convenient clock-work, invented
some years ago, for the purpose of supplying
the masses with <i>something to believe</i>; and
men like himself, with a good salary, a fine
house, plenty to eat and drink, fair social
position, and free opportunity for the gratification
of every appetite.</p>

<p>His creed was a part of this clock-work.
It was his living. Therefore, everything
that he wrote or uttered, in regard to religion,
was true to his creed; true, eloquent,
and breathing the loftiest enthusiasm. To
doubt his creed, was to doubt his living.
Therefore, the Rev. Dr. Bulgin did not
doubt his creed, but took it as he found it,
and advocated it with all the energy of his
intellectual nature.</p>

<p>As to any possible appreciation of the
Bible, or of that Savior who, emerging from
the shop of a carpenter, came to speak
words of hope to all mankind, and, in
especial, to that portion who bear all the
slavery, and do all the work of the world,
the Rev. Dr. Bulgin never troubled himself
with thoughts like these; he was above and
beyond them; the Bible and the Savior
were, in his estimation, convenient parts of
that convenient clock-work which afforded
him the pleasant sum of five thousand dollars
per year.</p>

<p>To look at the Rev. Dr. Bulgin; to see
him stand there, with his sensual form and
swinish face, you would not think that he
was the author of one of the most spiritual
works in the world, entitled "Our Communion
with the Spirit."</p>

<p>To <i>know</i> the Rev. Dr. Bulgin,&mdash;to know
him when, his stage drapery laid aside, he
appeared the thing he was,&mdash;you could, by
no means, imagine that he was the author
of an excellent work on "Private Prayer."</p>

<p>And yet he was no hypocrite; not, at
least, in the common sense of the word.
He was an intellectual animal whose utmost
hopes were bounded by the horizon of this
world. Beyond this world there was <span class="smcap">nothing</span>.
He was an Atheist. Not an Atheist
publishing a paper advocating Atheistic principles,
but an Atheist in the pulpit, professing
to preach the Gospel of Jesus Christ.
You may shudder at the thought, but the
Reverend Doctor Bulgin was such a man.</p>

<p>And just such men, in churches of all
kinds,&mdash;Protestants and Catholics, Orthodox
and Heterodox,&mdash;have these eighteen hundred
years been preaching a clock-work
Gospel, leaving unsaid, uncared for, the true
Word of the Master&mdash;a Word which says, in
one breath, temporal and spiritual prayers&mdash;a
Word which enjoins the establishment of
the kingdom of God, <i>on earth</i>, in the physical
and intellectual welfare of the greatest
portion of mankind.</p>

<p>Too well these Atheists know that were
that Word once boldly uttered, their high
pulpits and magnificent livings would vanish
like cobwebs before the sweeper's broom.</p>

<p>How much evil have such Atheists accomplished
in the course of eighteen hundred
years?</p>

<p>It will do no harm to think upon this
subject, just a little.</p>

<p>"Herman, my boy, I must tell you of my
last adventure," said Bulgin, dropping into
the seat which Dermoyne had lately occupied;
"it will make your mouth water!"
He smacked his lips and clapped his hands;
the lips were <i>oily</i>, and the hands fat and
dumpy. "But, first, you must tell me
what's the matter with you? Anything
wrong in your church?"</p>

<p>"That doesn't trouble me," responded
Herman. "True, there is the trial of the
Bishop, and the wrangling of these Low
Church fellows, about our gowns and altars;
our views of the sacrament, and our high
notions of the priesthood. These Low
Church people are actually <i>Methodists</i>. They
would rob the church of all dignity, and
turn the priest of the altar into the ranter of
the conventicle,&mdash;"</p>

<p>"We are not troubled with bishops, nor
apostolic successions," interrupted Bulgin:
"High and Low Church don't trouble us.&mdash;Our
deacons want a minister; they <i>call</i> him
and <i>pay</i> him. Now, if our church admitted
of a bishop, I think that&mdash;" he put his
thumbs in the arm-holes of his vest, and
surveyed his heavy limbs with great complacency,
"that your humble servant would
make a&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Bishop?" cried Herman, with a laugh.</p>

<p>"Ay, and a capital bishop, too, if all be
true that these Low Church fellows say of
the Bishop of your church. I am a man
of <i>feeling</i>, eh, my boy?"</p>

<p>This was a home thrust. Notwithstanding
his intimacy with Bulgin, Herman did
not regard him as a <i>real</i> priest of <i>the</i> church,
but only as the called teacher of a congregation.
Therefore, he felt the allusion to his
bishop the more heavily.</p>

<p>"You were speaking of an adventure?"
suggested Herman, anxious to change the
subject: "What about it?"</p>

<p>Bulgin flung back his head, and burst
into a roar of laughter.</p>

<p>"I'm laughing at my adventure, not at
you, my dear Herman. Just imagine my
case. I have a patient on my hands, who is
rich, crippled with a dozen diseases, and
troubled in his mind on some <i>doctrinal</i> point.
In the morning I visit the old gentleman,
and after hearing afresh the list of his diseases,
I <i>soothe</i> him on the doctrinal point.&mdash;Soothe
him, and quote the Fathers, and fire
him up with a word or two about the Pope.
And in the afternoon&mdash;" he closed one eye,
and looked at Herman in such a manner,
that the latter could not avoid a burst of
laughter, "in the afternoon, while the old man
is asleep, I visit his wife,&mdash;young and handsome,
and such a love of a woman&mdash;and
soothe her mind on another doctrinal point.
Sometimes my lessons are prolonged until
evening, and&mdash;ha, ha!&mdash;I have my hands
full, I assure you."</p>

<p>"You called there to-night, on your way
home?" asked Herman, with a smile.</p>

<p>"Just to see if the old gentleman was
better, and,&mdash;but wait a moment," he rose
from his chair, and hurried into the shadows
of the room, turned one of the recesses, between
the western windows. There he
remained, until Herman grew impatient.</p>

<p>"What are you doing," he exclaimed,
and as he spoke, Bulgin returned toward
the light, "what is this!" and his eyes
opened with a wondering stare.</p>

<p>"I'm a cardinal; that is all. The dress
of Leo the Tenth, before he became Pope.
Don't you think I <i>look</i> the character?"</p>

<p>He was attired in a robe of scarlet velvet,
which covered his unwieldy form from the
neck to the feet, and enveloped his arms in
its voluminous sleeves. His florid face appeared
beneath the broad rim of a red hat,
and upon his broad chest hung a golden chain,
to which was appended a huge golden cross.
The costume was of the richest texture, and
gave something of a lordly appearance to the
bulky form of the reverend doctor.</p>

<p>"I'm a cardinal," said Bulgin with a
wink; "There is a nice party of us, who
meet to-night, between twelve and one, to
confer upon <i>grave</i> matters. Every one wears
a mask and costume. Will you go with me?
There is the robe of a Jesuit yonder, which
will fit you to a hair."</p>

<p>Herman's eyes flashed, and he started
from his chair.</p>

<p>"The wife of your old <i>patient</i>,"&mdash;he began.</p>

<p>"Goes as the cardinal's niece, you know!
we didn't know the costume of a cardinal's
niece, and so I told her to wear a dress-coat
and pantaloons. Will you go?"</p>

<p>Herman's face glowed with the full force
of his <span class="smcap">monomania</span>.</p>

<p>"For wine and feasting, I care not," he
cried, "but a scene where beautiful women&mdash;"
he paused, and fixed his eyes on
vacancy, while that singular monomania
shone from his humid eyes, and fired his
cheeks with a vivid glow. "Where are we to
go?" he asked.</p>

<p>"To the <span class="smcap">Temple</span>," said the Rev. Dr. Bulgin,
with his finger on his light: "You remember
the night when we were there?"</p>

<p>"Remember?" echoed the Rev. Herman
Barnhurst, with an accent of inexpressible
rapture: "Can I ever forget?" He strode
hastily toward the recess. "Where is the
Jesuit robe?"</p>

<p>But as he touched the curtain of the recess,
he was palsied by a sudden thought.</p>

<p>"Ah, this cobbler, this Dermoyne! He
will go to Madame Resimer's with my note
in his hand, and pretend to come in my
name. He will, at least, induce her to open
the doors, and then force his way into her
house. If he enters there, I am lost."</p>

<p>Turning to Bulgin, he flung his cloak
around him, and took up his cap. "No, sir, I
cannot go with you. Excuse me&mdash;I am in
a great hurry."</p>

<p>He hurried to the door, and disappeared
ere Bulgin could answer him with a word.</p>

<p>"Dermoyne has a half an hour's start of
me," muttered Herman, as he disappeared,
"I must be quick, or I am lost."</p>

<p>"That is cool!" soliloquized Bulgin:
"some difficulty about a woman, I suppose:
our young friend must be cautious: <i>exposure</i>
in these matters is fatal."</p>

<p>Without bestowing another word upon his
friend, the Rev. Dr. Bulgin, attired in the
cardinal's hat and robe, sank in the arm-chair,
and put his feet upon the table, and
flung back his head, thus presenting one of
the finest pictures of ecclesiastical ease, that
ever gratified the eyes of mortal man.</p>

<p>He suffered himself to be seduced into the
mazes of an enchanting reverie:</p>

<p>"Ah, that's my ideal of a man," he
suffered his eye to rest upon the head of
Leo the Tenth: "Without a particle of religion
to trouble him, he took care of the
spiritual destinies of the world, and at the
same time enjoyed his palace, where the
wine was of the choicest, and the women of
the youngest and most beautiful. He <i>was</i> a
gentleman. While poor Martin Luther was
giving himself a great deal of trouble about
this worthless world, Leo had a world of his
own, within the Vatican, a world of wit, of
wine and beauty. That's my ideal of an
ecclesiastic. Religion, its machinery, and its
terrors for the masses,&mdash;for ourselves," he
glanced around his splendid room, "something
like <i>this</i>, and five thousand a year."</p>

<p>And the good man shook with laughter.</p>

<p>"I must be going,"&mdash;he rose to his feet&mdash;"It's
after twelve now, and before one, I
must be at <span class="smcap">the Temple</span>."</p>

<hr class="tb" />

<p>And while Barnhurst, Bulgin and Dermoyne
go forth on their respective ways, let
us&mdash;although the <span class="smcap">Temple</span> is very near&mdash;gaze
upon a scene, by no means lighted by
festal lamps, or perfumed with voluptuous
flowers. Let us descend into the subterranean
world, sunken somewhere in the vicinity
of Five Points and the Tombs.</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h3><a name="CHAPTER_2_XIV" id="CHAPTER_2_XIV">CHAPTER XIV.</a></h3>

<h4>BELOW FIVE POINTS.</h4>


<p>It is now the hour of twelve, midnight,
on the 23d of December, 1844.</p>

<p>We are in the region of the Five Points,
near the Tombs, whose sullen walls look
still more ominous and gloomy in the wintery
starlight.</p>

<p>Enter the narrow door of the frame-house,
which seems toppling to the ground. You
hear the sound of the violin, and by the
light of tallow candles, inserted in tin sconces
which are affixed to the blackened walls,
you discover some twenty persons, black,
white and chocolate-colored, of all ages and
both sexes, dancing and drinking together.
It is an orgie&mdash;an orgie of crime, drunkenness
and rags.</p>

<p>Pass into the next room. By a single
light, placed on a table, you discover the
features of three or four gamblers,&mdash;not
gamblers of the gentlemanly stamp, who, in
luxurious chambers, prolong the game of
"poker" all night long, until the morning
breaks, or the champagne gives out,&mdash;but
gamblers of a lower stamp, ill-dressed fellows,
whose highest stake is a shilling, and
whose favorite beverage is whisky, and
whisky that is only whisky in name, while
in fact, it is poison of the vilest sort&mdash;whisky
classically called "red-eye."</p>

<p>Open a scarcely distinguishable door, at
the back of the ruffian who sits at the head
of the table. Descend a narrow stairway,
or rather ladder, which lands you in the
darkness, some twenty feet below the level
of the street. Then, in the darkness, feel
your way along the passage which turns to
the right and left, and from left to right
again, until your senses are utterly bewildered.
At length, after groping your way in the
darkness, over an uneven floor, and between
narrow walls; after groping your way you
know not how far, you descend a second
ladder, ten feet or more, and find yourself
confronted by a door. You are at least two
stories under ground, and all is dark around
you&mdash;the sound of voices strikes your ear;
but do not be afraid. Find the latch of the
door and push it open. A strange scene
confronts you.</p>

<p>The Black Senate!</p>

<p>A room or cell, some twenty feet square,
is warmed by a small coal stove, which, heated
to a red heat, stands in the center, its pipe
inserted in the low ceiling, and leading you
know not where. Around the stove, by the
light of three tallow candles placed upon a
packing-box, are grouped some twenty or
thirty persons, who listen attentively to the
words of the gentleman who is seated by
the packing-box.</p>

<p>This gentleman is almost a giant; his
chest is broad; his limbs brawny; and his
face, black as the "ace of spades," is in
strong contrast with his white teeth, white
eyeballs, white eyebrows, and white wool.
He is a negro, with flat nose, thick lips, and
mouth reaching from ear to ear. His almost
giant frame is clad in a sleek suit of blue
cloth, and he wears a cravat of spotless
whiteness.</p>

<p>His auditors are not so fortunate in the
way of dress. Of all colors, from jet black
to chocolate-brown, they are clad in all
sorts of costumes, only alike in raggedness
and squalor.</p>

<p>This is the Black Senate, which has met
for business to-night, in this den, two stories
under ground. Its deliberations, in point of
decorum, may well compare with some other
senates,&mdash;one in especial, where 'Liar!'
is occasionally called, fisticuffs exchanged,
knives and pistols drawn; and it embraces
representatives from all parts of the Union.
Whether, like another senate, it has its
dramatic characters,&mdash;its low clown, melodramatic
ruffians, genteel comedian, and
high tragedy hero, remains to be seen.</p>

<p>The very black gentleman, by the packing-box&mdash;book
in one hand and paper and pencil
before him&mdash;is the speaker of the house. It
is our old acquaintance "<span class="smcap">Royal Bill</span>,"
lately from South Carolina.</p>

<p>"The genelman frum Varginny hab de
floor," said the speaker, with true parliamentary
politeness.</p>

<p>The gentleman from Virginia was a six-foot
mulatto, dressed in a ragged coat and
trowsers of iron gray. As he rose there was
an evident sensation; white teeth were
shown, and "Go in nigga!" uttered encouragingly
by more than one of the colored
congressmen.</p>

<p>"Dis nigga rise to de point ob ordah.
Dis nigga am taught a great many tings by
philosopy. One day, in de 'baccy field, dis
nigga says to hisself, says he. 'Dat are pig
b'longs to massa, so does dis nigga. Dis
nigga kill dat pig un eat 'um&mdash;dat be
stealin'? Lordy Moses&mdash;no! It only be
puttin' one ting dat b'longs to massa into
anoder ting dat also b'longs to massa:'&mdash;dat's
philosopy&mdash;"</p>

<p>"S'pose de nigga be caught?" interrupted
a colored gentleman, lighting his pipe at the
red-hot stove.</p>

<p>"<i>Dat</i> wouldn't be philosopy," responded
the gentleman from Virginia. "It ain't philosopy
to be caught. On de contrary it am
dam foolishness."</p>

<p>A murmur of assent pervaded the place.</p>

<p>"Soh, reasonin' from de pig, dis nigga wor
taught by philosopy to tink a great deal&mdash;to
tink berry much;&mdash;and soh, one day de
nigga got a kind o' absen' minded, and
walked off, and <i>forgot to come back</i>.&mdash;Dis
nigga actooaly did."</p>

<p>"Dat <i>wor</i> philosopy!" said a voice.</p>

<p>"An' as de nigga is in bad health, he am
on his way to Canada, whar de climate am
good for nigga's pulmonaries. An' fur fear
de nigga mought hurt people's feelin', he
trabels by night; an' fur fear he mought be
axed questi'n which 'ud trubble him to
ansaw, he carries dese sartificats&mdash;"</p>

<p>He showed his certificates&mdash;a revolving
pistol and a knife. And each one of the
colored congressmen produced certificates of
a similar character from their rags.</p>

<p>"Lor', philosopy am a dam good ting!"</p>

<p>"Don't sweah, nigga!&mdash;behabe yesself!"</p>

<p>"Read us nudder won ob dem good chap'er
from de Bible, Mistaw Speakaw," cried a
dark gentleman, addressing old Royal.-"'<i>Ehud,
I hab a message from God to dee!</i>'
Yah-hah-hah!"</p>

<p>"Yah-hah-a-what!" chorused the majority
of the congress, showing their teeth
and shaking their woolly heads together.</p>

<p>"Jis tell us som'thin' more about yer ole
massa, dat you lick last night," cried a
voice.</p>

<p>"Dat am an ole story," said old Royal,
with dignity. "Suffis it to say, dat about
five o'clock last ebenin', I took massa Harry
from de house whar he'd been licked, de
night afore, and tuk him in a carriage and
put 'im aboard de cars at Princeton. I gib
him some brandy likewise. His back was
berry sore&mdash;"</p>

<p>Here one of the gentlemen broke in with
a parody of a well-known song&mdash;</p>

<p>
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">"Oh, carry me back to ole Varginny&mdash;</span><br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">My back am berry sore&mdash;"</span><br />
</p>

<p>He began, in rich Ethiopian bass.</p>

<p>"Silence nigga!" said old Royal, sternly,
yet, showing his white teeth in a broad grin.
"He am in New York at the present time,
at de Astor House, I 'spec'; an' de Bloodhoun'
am with him&mdash;"</p>

<p>"De kidnapper!"</p>

<p>"De nigger-catcher!"</p>

<p>Cries like these resounded from twenty
throats; and by the way in which knives
and pistols were produced and brandished,
it was evident that there was a cordial feeling&mdash;almost
too cordial&mdash;entertained by the
congress, toward our old friend, Bloodhound.</p>

<p>"To business," said old Royal, surveying
the motley crowd. "I hab come to visit you
to-night by d'rection ob <i>somebody dat you
don't know</i>. It am ob de last importance dat
you all get yesselves out o' dis town to
Canada as quick as de Lord 'ill let you.
Darfore I hab provided you wid dem
revolvers,"&mdash;he pointed to the pistols, "and
derfore I am here, to send you on yer ways,
for de kidnappers am about."</p>

<p>"Oh, dam de kidnappers!" was the emphatic
remark of a dark gentleman; and it
was chorused by the congress unanimously.</p>

<p>"It am berry easy to say 'dam de kidnappers,'&mdash;berry
easy to say dam&mdash;dam's a
berry short word; but s'pose de kidnapper
hab you, and tie you, and take you down
south&mdash;eh, nigga? w'at den?"</p>

<p>But before the gentlemen could reply to
this pointed question of old Royal's, a circumstance
took place which put an entire
new face upon the state of affairs.</p>

<p>The door was burst open, and two persons
tumbled into the room, heels over head.
Descending the stairs in the darkness, these
persons had missed their footing, and fell.
The door gave way before their united
weight, and they rolled into the room in a
style more forcible than graceful.</p>

<p>When these persons recovered themselves
and rose to their feet, they found themselves
encircled by some thirty uplifted knives,&mdash;every
knife grasped by the hand of a brawny
negro. And the cry which greeted them
was by no means pleasant to hear:&mdash;</p>

<p>"Death to the kidnappers!"</p>

<p>"We're fooled. It's a trap," cried one of
the persons&mdash;our old friend Bloodhound.</p>

<p>"Trap or no trap, I'll cut the heart of the
damned nigger that comes near me," cried
the other person, who was none other than
our friend Harry Royalton, of Hill Royal,
South Carolina.</p>

<p>The cloak had fallen from his shoulders,
the cap from his brow. He stood erect, his
tall form clad in black, with a gold chain on
the breast, dilating in every muscle. His
face, with its large eyes and bushy whiskers&mdash;a
face by no means unhandsome, as regards
mere <i>animal</i> beauty&mdash;was convulsed with
rage. And even as he started to his feet, he
drew a revolver from his belt, and stood at bay,
the very picture of ferocity and desperation.
While his right hand grasped the revolver,
his left hand flourished a bowie-knife.
Harry Royalton was dangerous.</p>

<p>By his side was the short, stout figure of
the Bloodhound, encased to his chin in a
rough overcoat, and, with his stiff, gray hairs
straggling from beneath his seal-skin cap
over his prominent cheek-bones. His small
gray eyes, twinkling under his bushy brows,
glanced around with a look half desperation,
half fear.</p>

<p>And around the twain crowded the negroes,
every hand grasping a knife; every
face distorted with hatred; and old Royal,
in his sleek blue dress and white cravat,
prominent in that group of black visages
and ragged forms.</p>

<p>"They've got us! Judas Iscar-i-ot! It's
a trap, my boy. We'll have to cut ourselves
loose."</p>

<p>"Back, you dogs!" shouted Harry, with
the attitude and look of command. "The
first one that lays a finger on me I'll blow
him to &mdash;&mdash;!"</p>

<p>There was a pause of a moment, ere
the conflict began. Thirty uplifted knives,
awaited only a look, a gesture, from old
Royal.</p>

<p>That gentleman, grinning until his white
teeth were visible almost from ear to ear,
said calmly&mdash;"Dis am a revivin' time, wid
showers of grace! Some nigga shut dat
door and make 'um fast."</p>

<p>His words were instantly obeyed; one of
the thirty closed the door and bolted it.</p>

<p>"Now, massa Harry," said old Royal,
grinning and showing the whites of his eyes,
"dis am a fav'oble opportunity fur savin'
your poor lost soul. How you back feel, ole
boy? Want a leetle more o' de same sort,
p'raps? S'pose you draw dat trigger? Jis
try. Lor a massa, why dere's enough niggas
here to eat you up widout pepper or salt."</p>

<p>Harry laid his finger on the trigger and
fired, at the same moment stepping suddenly
backward, with the intention of planting
himself against the wall. But he forgot the
negroes behind him. As he fired, his heels
were tripped up; his ball passed over old
Royal's head. Harry was leveled to the
floor, and in an instant old Royal's giant-like
gripe was on his throat. And by his side,
wriggling in the grasp of a huge negro, black
as ink, and strong as Hercules, our friend
Bloodhound, rubbed his face against the
floor.</p>

<p>Over and around these central figures
gathered the remainder of the band, filling
the den with their shouts&mdash;</p>

<p>"Death to the dam kidnappers!"</p>

<p>"Yah-hah! Cut their dam throats!"</p>

<p>Cries like these, interspersed with frightful
howls, filled the place.</p>

<p>The Bloodhound moaned pitifully; and
Harry, with the suffocating gripe of old
Royal on his throat, and his back yet raw
from the lashes of the previous night, could
not repress a groan of agony.</p>

<p>It was a critical moment.</p>

<p>"Do you know, massa Harry,"&mdash;and old
Royal bent his face down until Harry felt
his breath upon his cheek&mdash;"Do you know,
massa Harry, dat you are not berry far from
glory? Kingdom-come am right afore, ole
boy&mdash;and you am booked&mdash;hah! yah!&mdash;wid
a through ticket."</p>

<p>Old Royal, (who had laid down his pistol,)
took a knife from one of the negroes, and,
tightening his gripe and pressing his knee
more firmly on Harry's breast, he passed the
glittering blade before his eyes.</p>

<p>"Oh!" groaned Royalton. The groan
was wrung from him by intolerable agony.</p>

<p>"Let me up&mdash;a-h!" cried Bloodhound,
in a smothered voice, as his face was pressed
against the hard boards.</p>

<p>"Death to the dam kidnappers!"</p>

<p>Old Royalton clenched the knife with
his left hand, and placed its point against
Harry's breast.</p>

<p>"You am bound for glory, massa&mdash;" and
a negro held a candle over Harry's face, as
old Royal spoke.</p>

<p>At this critical moment, even as Harry's
life hung on a thread, a violent knocking
was heard at the door, and a voice resounded
through its panels&mdash;</p>

<p>"Old Royal, old Royal, I say! Let me in,
quick! quick!"</p>

<p>"Open the door, nigga. It's massa Harry's
brack brudder. Let um in, so he can see his
brudder bound for glory!"</p>

<p>The door was opened, and Randolph, pale
as death, came rushing to the light. Wrapped
in the cloak, which concealed his pistols
and knives, and which hung about his tall
form in heavy folds, he advanced with a
footstep at once trembling and eager.</p>

<p>His pale face was stamped with hatred;
his blue eyes shone with vengeance, as he
at a glance beheld the pitiful condition of
his brother.</p>

<p>"Soh, brother of mine, we have met
again!" he cried, in a voice which was
hoarse and deep with the thirst of vengeance.</p>

<p>"Why, he's whitaw dan his white brudder!"
cried the negro who held the light.</p>

<p>"Release him," cried Randolph&mdash;"Release
him, I say! Tie that fellow there;"
he touched Bloodhound with his foot;
"close the door. You'll see a fight worth
seeing; a fight between the master and
slave, between brother and brother. Do you
hear me, Royal? Let him get up,&mdash;"</p>

<p>"But massa 'Dolph!" hesitated old Royal.</p>

<p>"Up, I say!" and Randolph flung his cap
and cloak to the floor, and drew two bowie-knives
from his belt. "Up, I say! You
have heard my history from old Royal?" he
glanced around among the negroes.</p>

<p>"Yah-hah! an' ob de lashes dat you gib
dis dam kidnapper!" said the negro who
held the candle.</p>

<p>"Then stand by and see us settle our last
account," cried Randolph. "Let him get
up, old Royal."</p>

<p>Old Royal released his hold, and Harry
slowly arose to his feet, and stood face to
face with his brother.</p>

<p>"Good evening, brother," said Randolph.
"We have met again, and for the last time.
One of us will not leave this place alive.
Take your choice of knives, brother. I will
fight you with my left hand; I swear it by
my mother's name!"</p>

<p>Harry looked around with a confused
glance&mdash;</p>

<p>"It is easy for you to talk," he said,
brushing his hand over his forehead and eyes,
as if in effort to collect his scattered senses.
"Even if I kill you, these niggers will kill me.
They will not let me leave the door alive,
even if I master you."</p>

<p>"Old Royal, you know my history; and
you know how this man has treated me and
my sister&mdash;his own flesh and blood. Now
swear to me, that in case he is the victor in
the contest that is about to take place, you
will let him go from this place free and unharmed?"</p>

<p>"I&mdash;I&mdash;swear it massa 'Dolph; I swear it
by de Lord!"</p>

<p>"And you?" Randolph turned to the
negroes.</p>

<p>"We does jist as old Royal says," cried
the one who held the candle; and the rest
muttered their assent.</p>

<p>"Take your choice of knives, brother,"
said Randolph, as his eyes shone with
deadly light, and his face, already pale, grew
perfectly colorless: "The handles are toward
you; take your choice. Remember I am to
fight you with my left hand. You are weak,
brother, from the wounds on your back.
With my left hand I will fight and kill
you."</p>

<p>Harry Royalton took one of the knives&mdash;they
were ivory handled, silver mounted,
and their blades were long, sharp and glittering&mdash;and
at the same time surveyed his
brother from head to foot.</p>

<p>"I can kill him," he thought, and smiled;
and then said aloud, "I am ready."</p>

<p>The negroes formed a circle; old Royal
held the light, and the brothers stood in the
center, silently surveying each other, ere the
fatal contest began. Every eye remarked
the contrast between their faces. Harry's
face flushed with long-pent-up rage, and
Randolph's, pallid as a corpse, yet with an
ominous light in his eyes. Both tall and
well formed; both clad in black, which
showed to advantage, their broad chests and
muscular arms; there was, despite the color
of their eyes and hair, some trace of a family
likeness in their faces.</p>

<p>"Come, brother, begin," said Randolph, in
a low voice, which was heard distinctly
through the profound stillness. "Remember
that I am your slave, and that when I have
killed you, I, with sister Esther, also
your slave, will inherit one seventh of the
Van Huyden estate,&mdash;remember how you
have lashed and hounded us,&mdash;remember the
dying words of our father&mdash;and then defend
yourself: for I must kill you, brother.
Come!"</p>

<p>Raising the knife with his left hand, he
drew his form to its full height, and stood
on his defense.</p>

<p>You might have heard a pin drop in that
crowded cellar.</p>

<p>"You damned slave!" shouted Harry,
and at the same time, rushed forward,
clutching his knife in his right hand. His
face was inflamed with rage, his eye steady,
his hand firm, and the point of his knife
was aimed at his brother's heart.</p>

<p>The intention was deadly, but the knife
never harmed Randolph's heart. Even as
Harry rushed forward, his knees bent under
him, and he fell flat on his face, and the
knife dropped from his nerveless fingers.
Overcome by the violence of his emotions,
which whirled all the blood in his body, in
a torrent to his head, he had sunk lifeless on
the floor, even as he sprang forward to plunge
his knife into his brother's heart.</p>

<p>Randolph, who had prepared himself to
meet his brother's blow, was thunderstruck
by this unexpected incident.</p>

<p>"De Lord hab touck him," cried old
Royal; "he am dead."</p>

<p>Dead! At that word, revenge, vengeance,
the memory of his wrongs, and of his
brother's baseness, all glided from Randolph's
heart, like snow before the flame.
In vain he tried to combat this sudden
change of feeling. Dead! The word struck
him to the soul. He dropped his knife, and
sinking on one knee, he placed upon the
other the head of his lifeless brother.
Harry's eyes were closed, as if in death; his
lips hung apart, his face was colorless.</p>

<p>"De Lord hab touck him," again cried old
Royal; and his remark was welcomed by a
burst of laughter from the thirty negroes,
which broke upon the breathless stillness,
like the yell of so many devils.</p>

<p>"He is not dead: he has only fainted.
Water! water!" cried Randolph. But he
cried in vain.</p>

<p>"Dis nigga am not agoin' to gib him one
drop to cool him parched tongue," said old
Royal, showing his teeth. "What say,
niggas?"</p>

<p>"Not a drop! not a dam drop!"</p>

<p>Reaching forth his hand, Randolph seized
his cap and cloak, and then started to his
feet, with the insensible form of Harry in
his arms. Without a word, he moved to the
door.</p>

<p>"Massa 'Dolph, massa 'Dolph!" shouted
old Royal. "By de Lord, you don't take
him from dis place;" and he endeavored to
place himself between Randolph and the
door.</p>

<p>Randolph saw the determination which
was written on his face, and saw the looks
and heard the yells of the thirty negroes;
and then, without a word, felled old Royal
to the floor. One blow of his right hand,
planted on the negro's breast, struck him
down like an ox under the butcher's ax.
When old Royal, mad with rage, rose to his
feet again, Randolph had disappeared&mdash;disappeared
with his brother, whom he bore in
his arms to upper air.</p>

<p>"Let's after um," shouted the foremost of
the negroes.</p>

<p>Old Royal stepped to the door, (which
Randolph had closed after him,) but stopped
abruptly on the threshold, as if arrested by
a sudden thought.</p>

<p>"Dis nigga meet you 'gin, massa 'Dolph,"
he muttered, and then, pointing to something
which was folded up in one corner, he
said, "Dar's game fur you niggas!"</p>

<p>He pointed to the form of poor Bloodhound,
who, tied and gagged, lay helpless
and groaning on the floor.</p>

<p>It was, perhaps, the most remarkable hour
in Bloodhound's life. His hands and feet
tightly bound, a coarse handkerchief wound
over his mouth, and tied behind his neck,
he was deprived of the power of speech or
motion. But the power of vision remained.
His small gray eyes twinkled fearfully, as he
beheld the faces of the thirty negroes&mdash;faces
that were convulsed with rage, resembling
not so much the visages of men as of devils.
And he could also hear. He heard the yell
from thirty throats, a yell which was chorused
with certain words, mingling his own
name with an emphatic desire for his blood&mdash;his
life.</p>

<p>Bloodhound was an old man; his hair was
gray with the snows of sixty years, spent in
the practice of all the virtues; but Bloodhound
felt a peculiar sensation gather about
his heart, at this most remarkable moment
of his life.</p>

<p>"Bring forrad de pris'ner," said old Royal,
resuming his seat by the packing-box. "Put
'um on him feet. Take de kankercher from
him jaw."</p>

<p>He was obeyed. Bloodhound stood erect
in the center of the group, his hands and
feet tied, but his tongue free. The light,
uplifted in the hand of a brawny negro, fell
fully upon his <i>corded</i> face, with its gray
hair, bushy eyebrows, and wide mouth.
Bloodhound's hands shook,&mdash;not with cold,
for the place was suffocatingly warm,&mdash;and
Bloodhound trembled in every atom of his
short thick-set body. Glancing before him,
then to the right and left, and then backward
over each shoulder, he saw black faces
everywhere, and black hands grasping sharp
knives, confronted him at every turn.</p>

<p>"You am a berry handsum man," said old
Royal, encouragingly. "Jist look at um,
niggas. Do you know de pris'ner?"</p>

<p>The replies to this query came so fast and
thick, that we are unable to put them all
upon paper.</p>

<p>"He stole me fader!"</p>

<p>"He took me mother from Fildelfy and
sold her down south."</p>

<p>"He kidnapped my little boy."</p>

<p>"Dam kidnapper! he stole my wife!"</p>

<p>"I knows him, I does&mdash;he does work for
da man dat sells niggas in Baltimore."</p>

<p>"Don't you know how he tuk de yaller
gal away from Fildelfy, making b'lieve dat
her own fader was a-dyin', and sent for her?"</p>

<p>Such were a few of the responses to old
Royal's question. It was evident that
Bloodhound was <i>known</i>. And, although
his hair had grown gray in the practice of
all the virtues, it did not give him much
pleasure to find that he was known; for
he felt that he was in the hands of the
wicked.</p>

<p>"Don't hurt me, niggers, don't hurt me!
I wasn't after any of you, upon my word, I
wasn't. I've allays been good to the niggers,
when I could get a chance,&mdash;don't hurt
me!"</p>

<p>"Oh! we won't go fur to hurt massa, will
we niggas?" replied old Royal.</p>

<p>"O' cos not. Don't tink of sich a ting!!
Yah-hah!"</p>

<p>"You see I've got a child at home," faltered
Bloodhound, "that is to say, two or
three of 'em. You wouldn't go to hurt the
father of a family, would you?"</p>

<p>"Does you know massa, dat you mos'
make dis nigga cry," cried old Royal, with
an infernal grin. "Niggas, 'scure dis tear!
He am de fader ob a family, dis good man
am."</p>

<p>Old Royal wiped away a tear,&mdash;that is,
an imaginary tear,&mdash;and then surveyed the
faces of his colored brethren, with a look
that turned Bloodhound's heart to ice. He
felt that he was lost.</p>

<p>"Don't, don't, d-o-n-'-t!" he shrieked, in
agony of fear, "d-o-n-'-t!"</p>

<p>"Why, who's a-touchin' you? Dar am
not a single, solitary, blessed soul, layin' a
fingaw on you."</p>

<p>As old Royal spoke, he made a sign with
the thumb and forefinger of his right hand.
It was obeyed by a huge negro who stood
behind Bloodhound,&mdash;he struck the wretched
man on the back of the head, with the
stock of a revolver,&mdash;struck him with all
the force of his brawny arm,&mdash;and the
hard, dull sound of the blow, was heard
distinctly, even above the fiendish shouts of
the negroes.</p>

<p>"Oh! don't, d-o-n-'-t!" shrieked Bloodhound,
as the blood spurted over his hair
and forehead, and even into his eyes;
"don't, d-o-n-'-t!"</p>

<p>Another blow.&mdash;from behind,&mdash;brought
him to his knees. And then the thirty, or
as many as could get near him, closed round
him, shouting and yelling and striking.
Every face was distorted with rage; every
hand grasped a knife. Old Royal, who
calmly surveyed the scene, saw the backs
and faces of the negroes; saw the knives
glittering, as they rose and fell; but Bloodhound
was not to be seen. But his cries
were heard, as he madly grappled with the
knives which stabbed him,&mdash;for his bonds
had been cut by one of the band,&mdash;and
these cries, thick and husky, as though his
utterance was choked by blood, would have
moved a heart of stone. But every shriek
only seemed to give new fire to the rage of
the negroes; and gathering closer round the
miserable man, they lifted their knives,
dripping with his blood, and struck and
struck and struck again, until his cries were
stilled. As he uttered the last cry, he
sprang madly into light, for a moment,
shook his bloody hands above his head, and
then fell to rise no more.</p>

<p>You would not have liked to have seen
the miserable thing which was stretched on
the floor, in the center of that horrible circle,
a miserable, mangled, shapeless thing,
which, only a moment ago, was a living
man.</p>

<p>"Now genelmen," said old Royal, calmly,
"de business bein' done, dis meetin' stand
adjourn till furder ordaw. Niggas, I tink
you'd bettaw cut stick."</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h2><a name="PART_THIRD" id="PART_THIRD">PART THIRD.</a></h2>

<h3>"THROUGH THE SILENT CITY."</h3>

<h4>DECEMBER 24, 1844.</h4>

<hr class="tb" />

<h3>CHAPTER I.</h3>

<h4>THE DEN OF MADAM RESIMER.</h4>


<p>Yonder, in the still winter night, <span class="smcap">the temple</span>
stands, all dark and sullen without, but
bright with festal lights within. Stand here
in the dark, and you will see the guests of
the temple come,&mdash;now one by one,&mdash;now
two by two,&mdash;sometimes in parties of four,&mdash;and
all are carefully cloaked and masked.
They come noiselessly along the dark street:
they glide stealthily up the steps, and beneath
the arch of the gloomy door. A gentle
knock,&mdash;the door is slightly opened,&mdash;a password
is whispered,&mdash;and one by one, and two
by two, and sometimes in parties of four, the
guests of <span class="smcap">the temple</span> glide over its threshold,
and pass like shadows from the sight.</p>

<p>Shall we also enter? Not yet. We will
wait until the revel is at its height, and
until the masks begin to fall.</p>

<p>Meanwhile, we will follow the adventures
of <span class="smcap">Arthur Dermoyne</span>.</p>

<p>About half-past twelve o'clock, Arthur
Dermoyne stood in the street, in front of the
house of <span class="smcap">Madam Resimer</span>. Wrapped in his
cloak, and with his cap drawn over his eyes,
he stood in the shadows, and gazed fixedly
upon the mansion opposite. It stood in the
midst of a crowded street, joined with
houses on either side, and yet it stood alone.
Black and sullen with its closed shutters
and somber exterior, it seemed to bear upon
its face the stamp of the infernal crimes
which had been committed within its walls.
Lofty mansions lined the street, but their
wealthy occupants little knew the real
character of the woman (woman!&mdash;fiend
would be a better name) who tenanted the
gloomy house.</p>

<p>With great difficulty,&mdash;it matters not
how,&mdash;Arthur had discovered the haunt of
this murderess. Her name was one of those
names which creep through society like the
vague panic which foretells the pestilence;
there were few who did not know that such
a person existed, and few whose hearts did
shrink in loathing, from the very mention of
her name. But her haunt, centered in an
aristocratic quarter, was comparatively unknown;
only her customers and some of the
publishers of newspapers, with whom she
advertised, were aware that the sullen house
which stood in a fashionable street, was the
den of <span class="smcap">Madam Resimer</span>.</p>

<p>That such a creature should exist, and
grow rich in the city of New York, in the
middle of the nineteenth century, by the
pursuit of a traffic which, in its incredible
infamy, has no name in language, may well
excite the horror of every man and woman
with a human heart within their bosom.</p>

<p>We read of the female poisoner, and
shudder; but console ourselves with the
thought, "These things happened in the
dark ages, long ago, when knowledge was
buried, and the human heart was utterly
depraved."</p>

<p>We read in the daily papers the announcement
of a wretch that, for a certain price,
she will kill the unborn child,&mdash;an announcement
made in plain terms, and paid for as
an advertisement,&mdash;and we are dumb. It is
the nineteenth century: will not future ages,
raking the advertisement of this infamous
woman from some dark corner, guess the
awful secrets of the nineteenth century from
that one infernal blot?</p>

<p>We see a carriage drawn by blooded
steeds, whirling through Broadway; its only
occupant a handsomely-attired female. And
we say to ourselves, "There goes the murderess
of mother and of the unborn child&mdash;there
goes the wretch who thrives by the
slaughter of lost womanhood; who owns a
splendid carriage, a fine mansion, and a
magnificent fortune, in the very vortex of a
depraved social world&mdash;there goes the instrument
of the very vilest crime known
in the annals of Hell."</p>

<p>These words none of us dare say aloud;
we only think of them; and we shudder as
we see them written on paper,&mdash;they are so
horribly true.</p>

<p>And as we ask&mdash;Why is such a creature
<i>needed</i> in the world? Why does she find
<i>employment</i>? Why do a hundred such as
her, thrive and grow rich in the large cities?
we are forced to accept one of these two
answers:</p>

<p>1. A bad social state, based upon enormous
wealth and enormous poverty,&mdash;a social state
which gives to the few the very extravagancies
of luxury, and deprives the countless
many of the barest rights and comforts of
life,&mdash;finds its natural result in the existence
of this Madam Resimer.</p>

<p>Or,&mdash;</p>

<p>2. Human nature is thoroughly depraved.
A certain portion of the race are born to be
damned in this world, as well as in the next.
Such creatures as Madam Resimer, are but
the proper instruments of that damnation.</p>

<p>Upon my soul, good friend, who read this
book, these answers are worthy of some moments
of attentive thought.</p>

<p>Arthur Dermoyne stood in the gloom of
that winter midnight,&mdash;a midnight awful
and profound, and only deepened in its
solemnity, by the clear, cold light of the wintery
stars. A thousand thoughts flitted over
his brain, as he gazed upon the fatal house.
Was Alice already a tenant of that loathsome
den? Again and again, he rejected the
thought, but still, it came back upon him,
and crept like ice through his veins. If she
was, indeed, <i>within</i> these walls, what might
be her fate ere the morrow's dawn? Arthur
could not repress a cry of anguish. A vague
picture of a lost woman, put to death in the
dark, by the gripe of a fiend in human shape,
seemed to pass before him, like a shadow
from the other world.</p>

<p>He surveyed the house. A street-lamp,
which stood some paces from it, shed a faint
gleam over its walls, and served to show,
that from cellar to garret, it was closed like
a tomb.</p>

<p>The wealthy tenants of the houses on
either hand, had evidently retired to their
beds. Not a gleam of light shone from their
many windows.</p>

<p>The street was profoundly still; a solitary
footstep was heard in the distance; above
the roof was the midnight sky and the wintery
stars.</p>

<p>Arthur crossed the street.</p>

<p>"I remember what the policemen told
me, who showed me the way to this place.
Three cellar windows protected by sheet-iron
bars; they are before me. Beyond these
windows a cellar filled with rubbish; then
a basement room, where one of the Madam's
bullies is in waiting, day and night, ready to
do her bidding."</p>

<p>The Madam was provided with two bullies,
whom she had raked from the subterranean
regions of New York. They were men
of immense muscular strength, with the print
of their depraved nature upon their brutal
faces. One was six feet two inches in height;
he was known among his familiars by the
succinct name of "<span class="smcap">Dirk</span>." He used a dirk-knife
in his encounters. The other, short,
bony, with broad chest and low legs, was
known as "<span class="smcap">Slung-Shot</span>." His favorite weapon
was a leaden ball attached to a cord by
net-work, with a loop for his wrist. One
blow with this "Slung-Shot," rightly administered,
on the temple, would kill the strongest
man.</p>

<p>These were the Madam's watch-dogs.
They formed the police of the mansion.
One slept while the other watched, and when
any little difficulty occurred, they settled the
matter <i>without noise</i>. Whether they knew
all the secrets of the Madam's mansion, or
only regarded it as one of the many haunts
of vulgar infamy, which infest New York,
does not yet appear.</p>

<p>"Slung-Shot or Dirk, is now on the watch,
in the basement room, next the cellar. Suppose
I manage to force the bars of one of
these windows,&mdash;I enter the basement room,&mdash;am
confronted by one of the bullies. If
I escape the dirk and the slung-shot, I may
be handed over to the police, and sent to
the Penitentiary on a charge of burglary. In
the latter case, I will remain in the Tombs
while the 25th of December passes, and
thus escape all hope of participation in the
settlement of the Van Huyden estate."</p>

<p>It did not take long for Dermoyne to come
to a determination.</p>

<p>"True, after all, Barnhurst may be innocent,
and Madam Resimer may have nothing
to do with the affair. But I cannot remain
any longer in this state of harrowing suspense.
I will to work,&mdash;and at once."</p>

<p>For a moment, he surveyed the street, and
you may be sure, that his gaze was keen
and anxious. No one was in sight; all was
breathlessly still.</p>

<p>Arthur drew from beneath his cloak an
iron bar, with which he had provided himself.
It was a square bar, about two inches
in thickness, and as many feet in length.
Next, fixing his gaze on the central window
of the cellar, he ascertained that it was protected
by three upright bars, separated from
each other, by a space of six inches. These
bars, scarcely more than an inch in thickness,
were inserted into solid pieces of granite,
which formed the top and base of the window-frame.
Could he displace them from their
sockets, by means of the bar which he carried?</p>

<p>Again, he glances up and down the street.
Not a soul in sight. He cast an upward
glance, over the wall of the house,&mdash;still
closed in every shutter, and sullen as a vault.
He crouched beside the window and began
to use his iron bar. It required all the force
of his almost supernatural strength, to bend
the central bar, but presently it was accomplished.
It yielded and was forced from its
sockets. Then, resting the iron bar which
he grasped, against the wall on the left, he
forced the second bar from its socket, and in
a few minutes, in a similar manner, the third
yielded to the force of his powerful sinews.
The three fell into the cellar, and produced
a crashing sound as they came into contact
with some loose boards.</p>

<p>Arthur did not hesitate a moment. Grasping
the iron bar, and folding his cloak about
his left arm, he crept through the window
and descended into the cellar. All was thick
darkness there, but a faint ray came from
the door which opened into the basement
room. Trampling over heaps of rubbish and
loose piles of boards, Arthur made his way
toward the door, and did not pause a single
moment, but flinging his weight against its
rough boards, he forced the staple which
secured it, and burst it open with a crash.</p>

<p>Then his features were fixed, his eyes
flashed, he clutched the iron bar, and advancing
one step into the basement room,
stood ready for the worst.</p>

<p>A candle, burning fast toward its socket,
stood on a pine table, and flung its uncertain
light over a small room, with cracked ceiling
and rough walls, smeared with whitewash.
A coal fire smouldered in a narrow
grate.</p>

<p>Slung-Shot was there,&mdash;not on the watch
precisely,&mdash;but with his brawny arms resting
on the table, and his head bent on his arms.
He was fast asleep, and snoring vigorously.
An empty brandy bottle which stood near
the light, explained the cause of his sleep.
Arthur glanced at the door, which opened on
the stairway, and then&mdash;"Can I cross the
room and open the door without waking this
wretch?" was his thought.</p>

<p>Slung-Shot, although by no means tall,
was evidently a fellow of muscle, as his
broad shoulders, (inclosed in a red flannel
shirt) and his half-bared arms, served to
show. His face was buried against the table,
and Arthur could only see the back of his
head; his hair closely cut, his long ears, and
the greasy locks which draggled in front of
each ear, were disclosed in the flickering
light.</p>

<p>Arthur, after a moment of hesitation, advanced,&mdash;the
boards creaked under his tread,&mdash;still
the ruffian did not move, but snored
on, in a deep, sonorous bass. Arthur placed
his hand on the latch of the door&mdash;</p>

<p>The ruffian then moved. He raised his
sleepy head, and Arthur beheld that brutal
face, with its low forehead, broken nose and
projecting under-jaw.</p>

<p>"S-a-y," he cried, in that peculiar dialect,
which, accompanied by an elongation of the
lower-jaw, forms the <i>patois</i> of a class of ruffians
which infests the large cities, "what
de thunder you 'bout?"</p>

<p>Arthur grasped his iron bar, but stood
motionless as stone, awaiting the assault of
the ruffian.</p>

<p>"Dat you Dirk?" continued Slung-Shot,
rolling his eyes with a drunken stare; "why
de thunder don't you let a feller sleep?&mdash;"
and then came a round of oaths, uttered in
that peculiar dialect, with the lower-jaw
elongated and the head shaking briskly,
from side to side. After which Slung-Shot
sank to sleep again. He had mistaken Arthur
for his comrade.</p>

<p>Arthur lifted the latch, and in a moment
was ascending the narrow staircase, which
led to the hall on the first floor. At the
head of the stair was a door, which he
opened, and found himself on a carpeted floor,
but in utter darkness.</p>

<p>He could hear the beating of his heart, as
pausing in the thick darkness, he bent his
head and listened.</p>

<p>Not a sound was heard throughout the
mansion.</p>

<p>What should be his next step? Enter
the parlor on the first floor or ascend the
stairway?</p>

<p>"If Alice is concealed within these walls,
she must be in one of the rooms up-stairs,"
he thought, and felt his way toward the
staircase. Presently, his hand encountered
the banisters, and he began cautiously to
ascend to the second floor. Arrived at the
head of the stairs, he stopped again and listened:
not a sound was heard. Torn as he
was by suspense, the cold sweat started upon
his forehead: he folded his cloak carefully
around his left arm, and grasping the iron
bar with his right hand, he listened once
more. The house was as soundless, as
though a human voice or footstep had never
been heard within its walls.</p>

<p>At this moment Arthur was assailed by a
terrible doubt&mdash;</p>

<p>"What if it should be all a dream?&mdash;Barnhurst
may be innocent, and as for Alice,
she may be at this moment, a hundred miles
away! Nay, this house may be the residence
of a peaceful family, and have nothing
to do with Madam Resimer or her
crimes&mdash;"</p>

<p>He was shaken by the doubt. Turning in
the darkness, he began to descend the stairs&mdash;</p>

<p>"Ha! The ruffian in the cellar confirms
the story of the policeman who led me here,
and who stated that this was the house of
Madam Resimer;" this thought flashed
over him and arrested his steps. "I'll not
retreat until my suspicions are confirmed or
put to rest."</p>

<p>He turned again, and feeling his way up
the stairs, and along the hall of the second
floor, he began to ascend the second stairway.
At the top he paused and listened&mdash;all
was silent&mdash;not a whisper, nor the echo
of a sound. Then stretching forth his hand
he discovered that at a short distance beyond
the stairway, another staircase led upward
to the fourth floor. He also came to
the conclusion, that from near the top of the
stairway, even where he stood, a long and
narrow passage led into some remote part of
the mansion. For a moment he was at
fault. Should he ascend the third stairway
to the fourth floor, or should he traverse
the long and narrow passage?</p>

<p>"I will ascend to the fourth floor," he
thought, when he was arrested by a sound.</p>

<p>Low, very faint, ambiguous in its character,
it seemed to proceed from the extremity
of the passage, which branched from the
head of the second staircase. Was it a
faint cry for help&mdash;a moan of anguish&mdash;or
the echo of voices, muffled by thick cowls?</p>

<p>He had no chance to determine.</p>

<p>For at the very moment when this sound
reached his ears, it was drowned by another
sound. The bell rang through the house,
peal after peal, and died away in a dismal
echo. There was a pause; it rang again, and
this time more violently, as though an angry
or frenzied hand grasped the bell-rope.&mdash;Another
pause, and a light flashed in the
face of Dermoyne. It came from the extremity
of the passage at the head of the
stairs, and was held in the hand of a woman,
clad in a flowing wrapper, who advanced
along the passage with rapid strides.&mdash;Standing
at the head of the second stairway,
Dermoyne surveyed her as she approached,
and at a glance, as she came rapidly toward
him, beheld her portly form and florid face.</p>

<p>That face wore a look of unmistakable
chagrin.</p>

<p>"No time is to be lost&mdash;in a moment she
will be here," thought Dermoyne&mdash;"can it
be Madam Resimer?"</p>

<p>He advanced and shrouded himself in the
darkness of the third stairway. Near and
nearer grew the sound of footsteps&mdash;</p>

<p>"If she looks this way, as she descends
the stairs, I am discovered," and Dermoyne
could distinctly hear the beating of his
heart.</p>

<p>The next moment the rustling of her
dress was heard; her heavy strides resounded
as she advanced; and then emerging
from the passage, she reached the top of the
second stairway. Her dress brushed Dermoyne,
as he crouched on the first steps of
the uppermost stairs; her face was visible in
profile for a single instant.</p>

<p>"Curse this light, how it flares, and curse
that bell&mdash;will it never cease ringing? At
such a moment too,&mdash;"</p>

<p>And without once looking behind her, she
hurriedly descended the second stairs. Dermoyne
watched her tall form, with its loose
gown, flowing all about her bulky outlines,
until she turned the angle of the stairs and
disappeared.</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h3><a name="CHAPTER_3_II" id="CHAPTER_3_II">CHAPTER II.</a></h3>

<h4>"HERMAN, YOU WILL NOT DESERT ME?"</h4>


<p>"Now is my time," muttered Dermoyne to
himself, and at once he entered the passage,
which branched from the head of the stairs,
and led to the eastern wing of the mansion.
How his heart beat, how his blood bounded
in his veins, as he drew near the open door
at the extremity of the passage!</p>

<p>On the threshold he paused&mdash;his form
shrouded by the darkness, but the light from
within the room shining upon his forehead&mdash;he
paused and took a single glance at the
scene which was disclosed to his vision.</p>

<p>Never till his dying hour shall he forget
that scene.</p>

<p>A small apartment, with windows shut
and sealed like the doors of a sepulcher.&mdash;On
a small table, amid vials and surgical instruments,
stands a light, whose rays tremble
over the bed, which occupied the greater
part of the room. Above the bed, from the
darkly papered walls, smiles a picture of the
Virgin Mary, while beneath, by the folds of
the coverlet, you may trace the outlines of
a human form.</p>

<p>Beside the bed stands a slender man dressed
in black, with a heavy pair of gold spectacles
on his hooked nose. It is Corkins,
the familiar spirit of the Madam. Corkins,
whose slender frame, incased in black, reminds
you of the raven, while his face with
top-knot, gold spectacles, ferret-like eyes, and
pointed beard, reminds you of the owl.</p>

<p>"Bad!" mutters Corkins, "bad!" and
he gazes upon the occupant of the bed,
knotting his fingers together like a man who
is exceedingly perplexed.</p>

<p>The bed and its occupant? Ask us not
to picture the full horror of the sight which
Arthur saw (from his place of concealment),
as Corkins gently drew the coverlet aside.</p>

<p>"Alice!" he did not pronounce the word
with his lips, but his heart uttered it&mdash;it was
echoed in the depths of his soul.</p>

<p>He saw the pale face, and the sunny hair,
which fell in a flood upon her bared shoulders.
He saw the arms outspread, with the
fingers trembling and working as with the
impulse of a spasm. He saw the eyes which
opened with a dead stare, and fixed vaguely
upon the ceiling, had no look of life in
their leaden glance. He saw the lips, which
were colorless and almost covered with
white foam. And as the sufferer moved her
head, and flung it back upon the pillow,
he saw her throat&mdash;no longer white and
beautiful&mdash;but with swollen veins, writhing
with torture, and starting from the discolored
skin.</p>

<p>Never, never until his last hour can Arthur
forget that sight.</p>

<p>And poor Alice, writhing thus between
life and death, talked to herself in a voice
husky and faint, and said certain words that
made Arthur's blood gather in a flood about
his heart:</p>

<p>"Herman, you will not desert me!" she
said, and then while the foam was on her
lips, she babbled of her father and home&mdash;writhing
all the while in every nerve and
vein.</p>

<p>Arthur entered the room. Corkins turned
and beheld him, and uttered a cry of fright.
For at that moment Arthur's face was not a
pleasant face for any man to look upon, much
less Corkins. And the iron bar which Arthur
held in his clenched hand, taken into
connection with the look on his face, reminded
Corkins of stories which he had read&mdash;stories
which told of living men, bruised suddenly to
death by such a hand and such an iron bar.
Corkins, therefore, uttered a cry of fright, and
in his terror shook his gold spectacles from
his parrot nose.</p>

<p>"Down," said Arthur, in a low voice, "on
your knees,"&mdash;he pointed to a nook of the
room, between the foot of the bed and the
wall. "Stay there with your face to the
wall."</p>

<p>Corkins obeyed. Trembling to the corner,
he sank on his knees, and turned his face
away from the door and turned toward the
wall, there was such a persuasive eloquence
in Arthur's look.</p>

<p>Then Arthur, still clutching the iron bar,
drew near the head of the bed, and gazed
upon Alice.</p>

<p>Stretching forth her arms, and opening
and closing her little hands; flinging back
her head, her eyes fixed upon the same
point of the ceiling, no matter how she
writhed&mdash;babbling with foaming lips about
her father and her home,&mdash;it was one of the
saddest sights that ever man beheld.</p>

<p>Arthur could not stand it. He turned his
face away, and there was a choking sensation
in his throat, and a painful heaving of his
chest. His eyeballs were hot and tearless.&mdash;He
would have given his life to shed a single
tear.</p>

<p>But that moment of intolerable anguish
was interrupted by the sound of footsteps
resounding from the lower part of the mansion.
Madam Resimer was returning to the
room of Alice.</p>

<p>Arthur at once shrank into the corner
where Corkins knelt, and touched the creature
with his foot by way of warning. Then
placing himself against the wall in such a
manner that he could not be seen until the
Madam entered the room, he awaited her
return.</p>

<p>Her footsteps are on the stairs, and presently
they are heard in the passage. Arthur,
standing bolt upright against the wall, with
the trembling Corkins at his feet, heard
the rustling of her dress, as she came brushing
along, with her heavy stride. Then he
heard her voice&mdash;she was speaking to some
one who accompanied her.</p>

<p>"There are two," he muttered, and bent
his head to listen. He could distinguish her
words:</p>

<p>"What a foolish fancy!" this was the
voice of the Madam, "to think that any
one could gain admittance to my house
against my will. Why, my dear, the idea
makes me laugh."</p>

<p>"Yes, but he's such a desperate ruffian,"
answered a second voice.</p>

<p>It was the voice of Rev. Herman Barnhurst.</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h3><a name="CHAPTER_3_III" id="CHAPTER_3_III">CHAPTER III.</a></h3>

<h4>HERMAN, ARTHUR, ALICE.</h4>


<p>"Oh! my God, I thank thee," muttered
Arthur, and clutched the iron bar and
crouched closer to the wall.</p>

<p>And ere a moment passed, the Madam
entered the room, followed by Barnhurst.
She held the light, and he advanced toward
the bed.</p>

<p>"It looks rather bad," cried Barnhurst, as
he caught sight of the face of Alice.</p>

<p>"Why, where has Corkins gone?" cried
the Madam, and turning abruptly she sought
for Corkins, and uttered a shriek. At the
same instant Barnhurst raised his eyes from
the face of Alice, and fell back against the
wall, as though a bullet had pierced his
temple.</p>

<p>They had at the same instant discovered
Dermoyne, who, motionless as stone, stood
against the wall, beside the door, his arms
folded, and his head sunk on his breast.
Thus, with his head drooped on his breast,
he raised his eyes and silently surveyed them
both, and with the same glance.</p>

<p>Not a word was spoken. The Madam,
unable to support herself, sank on the foot
of the bed, and Barnhurst, staggered to his
feet again, looked around the room with a
visage stamped with guilt and terror.</p>

<p>Arthur quietly advanced a step, and closed
the door of the room. Then he locked it
and put the key in his pocket.</p>

<p>"What do you mean?" cried the Madam
the color rushing into her face.</p>

<p>"No noise," whispered Arthur, "unless
indeed,"&mdash;and he smiled in a way which she
understood,&mdash;"unless, indeed, you mean to
alarm the neighborhood, and bring the police
into the room. Would you like to have the
police examine your house?"</p>

<p>The Madam bit her red lip, but did not
answer. Arthur passed her, and approached
the Rev. Herman Barnhurst.</p>

<p>"Nay, don't be afraid; I will not hurt you,"
he whispered, as the clergyman stretched
forth his hands and retreated toward the wall.
"Come, take courage, man,&mdash;look there!"</p>

<p>He pointed to the face of Alice.</p>

<p>Herman, ashy pale, and shaking in every
limb, followed the movement of Arthur's
hand, but did not utter a word.</p>

<p>"A 'man of your cloth' to be 'suspected'&mdash;eh,
my friend?" and Arthur,
laughed. "A minister of THE Church,
to be suspected of seduction and of murder?
Is it not a lying tongue that dare charge you,
Reverend sir, with such crimes?"</p>

<p>Here, poor Alice, writhing in the bed,
spoke a faint word about father, and home.</p>

<p>Barnhurst, cringing against the wall, his
smooth complexion changed to a livid paleness,
muttered an incoherent word about
"reparation."</p>

<p>"Oh, you <i>shall</i> make reparation,&mdash;never
fear; you <i>shall</i> make reparation," whispered
Dermoyne, his eyes fairly blazing with light.
"And you visited her father's house as a
minister of God. She heard you preach in
the church, and you talked to her in her
home. What words you said, I know not;
but some forty-eight hours ago you took her
from her home; but a few hours have
passed since then. The father lies a mangled
corpse somewhere between this house and
Philadelphia; and Alice, the daughter, is
before you. Are you not proud of your
work, my reverend friend?"</p>

<p>Herman's eye glanced from the ominous
face of Dermoyne, and then to the iron bar
which he held in his clenched hand,&mdash;</p>

<p>"You will not&mdash;kill&mdash;me?" he gasped.</p>

<p>Arthur was silent. The veins upon his
forehead were swollen; his teeth were
locked; his eyes, deep sunken under his
down-drawn brows, emitted a steady and
sinister light. He was <i>thinking</i>.</p>

<p>"Kill you?" he said, in a measured voice,
which seemed torn, word by word, through
his clenched teeth, from his heart. "Oh, if
I could believe your creed&mdash;that eternal
vengeance is the only future punishment for
earthly crimes&mdash;why, I would kill you,
before you could utter another word. Do
you believe that creed? No&mdash;wretch! you
do not. You have but preached it as a part
of that machinery which manufactures your
salary. But now, wretch! as you stand by
the death-bed of your victim, with the face
of her avenger before you, now search your
heart, and answer me&mdash;Do you not begin to
feel that there is a <span class="smcap">God</span>?"</p>

<p>It was pitiful to see the poor wretch cringe
against the wall, supporting himself with his
hands, which he placed behind his back,
while his head slowly sunk, and his eyes
were riveted to the face of Dermoyne.</p>

<p>"You will not kill me," he faltered; and,
with his left hand, tugged at his white
cravat, for there was a choking sensation at
his throat.</p>

<p>As for the Madam, who stood at the back
of Dermoyne, she began to recover some
portion of her self-possession, as a hope
flashed upon her mind: "The handle of the
bell is behind Barnhurst," she muttered to
himself; "if he would only touch it, it
would resound in the basement, and call
Slung-Shot to our aid."</p>

<p>And with flashing eyes, the Madam gazed
over Dermoyne's shoulder, watching every
movement of the clergyman, and hoping
that even in his fright, he might touch the
handle of the bell. That bell communicated
with the basement room; one movement
of the handle, and Slung-Shot would
be summoned to the scene.</p>

<p>However, as Barnhurst cringed against the
wall, his hands strayed all around the
handle of the bell, but did not touch it.</p>

<p>At this crisis, however, the Madam forming
suddenly a bold resolution, strode across
the floor and placed her bulky form between
Dermoyne and the clergyman.</p>

<p>"What do <i>you</i> want <i>here</i>, any how?" she
said, tossing her head and placing her arms
a-kimbo. "You are neither the brother nor
the husband of this girl. Supposin' you
was, what have you to complain of? Haven't
I treated her like my own child? Yes, I've
been a mother to her&mdash;and <i>that is</i> a fact."</p>

<p>Dermoyne, for a moment, paused to admire
the cool impudence which stamped the
florid visage of the madam. Her chin projected,
her nose upturned, and her nether
lip protruded, she stood there in her flowing
wrapper, with a hand on each side of her
waist.</p>

<p>"Look there," he said quietly, and pointed
to the bed, where the poor girl was stretched
in her agony; her hands quivering and her
lips white with foam: "When that poor
child entered your house, she was in the
enjoyment of good health. What is she
now? Shall I go forth from this place and
bring a physician to testify as to the nature
of your <i>motherly</i> treatment?"</p>

<p>The Madam retreated from the gaze of the
young man, and felt the force of his words.</p>

<p>Too well she knew what verdict a physician
would pass upon her treatment of the
young girl.</p>

<p>"The bell-handle is behind you," she
whispered, as she passed the cringing Barnhurst.
He did not seem to heed her; but
the moment that she passed him and
resumed her former place, he fixed his
stupefied gaze once more upon the visage
of Dermoyne.</p>

<p>As for Dermoyne, for a moment he stood
buried in profound thought. The clergyman
trembled closer to the wall as he remarked
the livid paleness of Arthur's face,&mdash;the
peculiar light in Arthur's eyes.</p>

<p>Dermoyne, after a moment, advanced and
extended his hand&mdash;"Come," he said, and
sought to grasp Barnhurst's hands. But, shuddering
and half dead with fright, Herman
<i>crouched</i> away from the extended hand,&mdash;crouched
and cringed away as though he
would bury himself in the very wall.</p>

<p>"Come," again repeated Dermoyne, his
voice changed and husky. "Come!" He
grasped the hand of the clergyman and
dragged him to the bedside. "Oh, look
upon that sight!" he groaned as the tortured
girl writhed before them&mdash;"Look upon that
sight, and tell me, what fiend of hell ever,
even in thought, planned a deed like this?"</p>

<p>"Don't kill me, don't, don't!" faltered
Herman.</p>

<p>"This is a strange meeting," continued
Dermoyne, with a look that made Herman's
blood run cold; "here we are together, you
and I and Alice! I that loved her better
than life, and would have been glad to have
called her by the sacred name of wife. You,
that without loving her or caring for her,
save as the instrument of your brutal appetite,
have made her what she is,&mdash;have made her
what she is, and brought her here to die in
a dark corner, something worse than the
death of a dog. And Alice, poor Alice,
who saw you first in the pulpit, and then
listened to you and yielded to you in the
home,&mdash;her father's home,&mdash;Alice lies before
you now. Hark!"</p>

<p>The poor girl stretched forth her hands,
and with the foam still white upon her
livid lips, she said, in her wandering way&mdash;</p>

<p>"Oh! Herman, dear Herman! it was not
<i>father</i> that was hurt, was it? Oh! are you
sure, are you sure?" And then came wandering
words about father, Herman, home,
and&mdash;her lost condition. There was something
too, about returning to father and asking
his forgiveness when the <i>danger</i> was
over.</p>

<p>"And <i>you</i> desire her death." In his
agony, as he uttered these words, Arthur
clutched Herman with a gripe that forced a
groan from his lips. "You who have
brought her to <i>this</i>,&mdash;" he pointed to the
bed,&mdash;"while I desire her to live; I, that by
her death will become the sole inheritor of
her father's fortune."</p>

<p>This was a revelation that astounded Herman,
half dead as he was, with terror.</p>

<p>"The sole inheritor of her father's fortune!"
he echoed.</p>

<p>At this crisis, the Madam darted forward.
Arthur saw her hand extended toward the
handle of the bell.</p>

<p>"Oh! ring by all means," he exclaimed,
"ring, my dear Madam; summon your bullies;
we will have as much noise as possible,&mdash;perchance,
a fight! And then the
police will come and examine the little
mysteries of your mansion. Will you not
ring?"</p>

<p>The Madam's hand dropped to her side,
and she slunk back to her former position,
her florid face impressed with an expression
which was not, altogether, one of serenity
or joy.</p>

<p>"You wondered, to-night, why Mr. Burney
permitted the poor shoemaker to visit
his house. Let me enlighten you a little.
Not many years ago, an unknown mechanic
called upon the rich merchant, in his library,
and proved to the merchant's satisfaction,
that he,&mdash;the poor mechanic,&mdash;had, in his
possession, certain papers which established
the fact that the immense wealth of Mr.
Burney had been obtained by a gross fraud;
a fraud which, in a court of law, would
disclose itself in the two-fold shape of <i>perjury</i>
and <i>forgery</i>. The father of the mechanic
was the victim; Burney, the criminal; the
victim had died poor and broken-hearted;
but in the hands of the criminal, the
property so illy-gotten, had swelled into an
immense fortune. It was the son of the
victim who, having lived through a friendless
orphanage, now came to Mr. Burney
and proved that at any moment he might
involve the rich merchant in disgrace and
ruin."</p>

<p>"Impossible!" ejaculated Barnhurst.</p>

<p>"The merchant made large offers to the
mechanic to obtain his silence,&mdash;believing in
the true mercantile way, that every man has
his price, he offered a good round sum, and
doubled it the next moment,&mdash;but in vain.
The image of his broken-hearted father was
before the mechanic,&mdash;he could not banish
it,&mdash;he had but one purpose, and that was,
to bring the rich man to utter ruin. This
purpose was strong in his heart, when scorning
all the offers of the merchant, he rose
from his seat and moved toward the door.
But at the door his purpose was changed.
There he was confronted by the face of a
happy, sinless girl,&mdash;a girl with all the
beauty of a happy, sinless heart, written
upon her young face. At the sight, the
mechanic relented. Maddened by the thirst
for a full and bitter revenge, he could destroy
the father, but he had not the heart
to destroy the father of that sinless girl.
For,&mdash;do you hear me,&mdash;it was Alice,&mdash;it
was Alice,&mdash;Alice."</p>

<p>The long-restrained agony burst forth at
last. With her name upon his lips, he
paused,&mdash;he buried his face in his hands.</p>

<p>"Alice, Alice, who lies before you now!"
He raised his face again; it was distorted by
agony; it was bathed in tears.</p>

<p>The clergyman fell on his knees.</p>

<p>"Don't harm me," he faltered, "I will
make reparation."</p>

<p>"Up! up! don't kneel to me," shrieked
Dermoyne, and he dragged the miserable
culprit to his feet. "There's no manner of
kneeling or praying between heaven and
hell, that can help you, if that poor girl
dies. I spared her father for her sake, (and
to make my silence perpetual, he made a
will, in which he names me as his sole heir,
in case of his daughter's death); I spared
her father for her sake, and can you think
that I will spare you,&mdash;you who have
brought her to a shame and death like
this?"</p>

<p>He pointed to the bed, and once more the
poor girl, writhing in pain, uttered, in a low,
pleading voice, "Herman, Herman, do not,
oh! do not desert me!"</p>

<p>Dermoyne, at a rapid glance, surveyed
the culprit cringing against the wall,&mdash;the
florid Madam, who stood apart, her face
manifesting undeniable chagrin,&mdash;and then
his gaze rested upon Corkins, who, kneeling
in the corner, seemed to have been suddenly
stricken dumb. And as he took that rapid
glance, his eyes flashed, his face grew paler,
his bosom heaved, and a world of thought
rushed through his brain; and, in a moment,
he had decided upon his course.</p>

<p>He drew near to the Madam: she could
not meet the look which he fixed upon her
face.</p>

<p>"To-morrow morning, at ten o'clock, I
will return to this house," he said, in a low
voice; "I hold you responsible for the life
of this poor girl. Nay, do not speak; not
a word from your accursed lips. Remember!&mdash;he
drew a step nearer,&mdash;to-morrow
morning, at ten o'clock, and&mdash;I hold you
responsible for the life of Alice Burney."</p>

<p>The Madam quailed before his glance;
for once, her florid face grew pale. "But
how will you obtain entrance into my
house?" she thought; and a faint smile
crossed her countenance.</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h3><a name="CHAPTER_3_IV" id="CHAPTER_3_IV">CHAPTER IV.</a></h3>

<h4>THE RED BOOK.</h4>


<p>Dermoyne flung his cloak over his arm,
drew his cap over his forehead, and grasped
the iron bar with his right hand.</p>

<p>"Come with me," he said, in a low voice,
to Barnhurst. He drew the key from his
pocket, and led the way to the door. As
though fascinated by his look, Herman followed
him,&mdash;followed him trembling and
with terror stamped on every line of his
face.</p>

<p>"At ten o'clock, to-morrow morning, remember!"
said Dermoyne, turning his face
over his shoulder. He turned the key in
the lock, and stood upon the threshold.
"Come with me," he said, quietly, to Barnhurst.
"Nay, take the light and walk before
me."</p>

<p>Herman, with a quivering hand, seized a
lighted lamp and led the way from the
room, along the passage. He dared not
turn his head. He heard Dermoyne's footsteps
at his back, and shook with fright.
"Does he intend to murder me?" and then
he thought of the iron bar; of the strong
hand of Dermoyne; and of his own defenseless
head.</p>

<p>"Herman, don't, don't desert me," muttered
Alice, in her delirium, as they crossed
the threshold.</p>

<p>Dermoyne turned and saw the fixed eyes,
the sunny hair, the lips white with foam;
saw the writhing form and the hands clasped
madly over the half-bared bosom; and then
he looked no more.</p>

<p>Along the passage, Herman led the way
and down the stairs, Dermoyne following
silently at his heels. Thus they descended
to the second floor.</p>

<p>"The Madam has a room where she keeps
her papers and arranges her most important
affairs. Conduct me there."</p>

<p>And Herman, scarce knowing what he
did, led the way to the small room in the
rear of the second floor,&mdash;the small room in
which we first beheld the Madam. He entered,
followed by Dermoyne, who carefully
closed the door, and then, at a glance, surveyed
the place. It looked the same as
when we first beheld the Madam. The
shaded lamp stood on the desk, describing a
brief circle of light around it, while the rest
of the place was vailed in twilight. On the
desk was the seal and the pearl-handled pen,
and beside it, was the capacious arm-chair.</p>

<p>"Come here," said Arthur, still in that
low voice, but with the face unnaturally
pale, and the eyes flashing with steady and
ominous light; and he led the way to the
desk. Barnhurst obeyed him without a
word.</p>

<p>"To-morrow, at ten o'clock, we will return
to this mansion," said Dermoyne, fixing
his eyes upon the affrighted visage of Barnhurst.
"We will return together, and if
Alice yet lives, we will go away together;
but," he laid his right hand upon the forehead
of the wretch,&mdash;or rather placed his
thumb upon the right temple, and his
fingers on the left,&mdash;"but, if Alice is dead,
I will kill you at her bedside."</p>

<p>There was a determination in his tone,&mdash;in
his look,&mdash;nay, in the very pressure of
the hand which touched Barnhurst's forehead;
which gave a force to his brief words,
that no pen can depict.</p>

<p>Barnhurst fell on his knees, and his head
sank on his breast. He had no power to
frame a word. He appeared conscious that
he was in the hands of his fate.</p>

<p>"Get up, get up, <i>my friend</i>!" and Arthur
raised him from his knees and placed him
in a chair. (Now well we know that it
would have been more in accordance with
the rules provided for novel writers, for
Arthur to have said, "Arise! villain!" but
as he simply said, "Get up, <i>my friend</i>!"
applying a singular emphasis to the italicized
words: we feel bound to record his words
just as he spoke them).</p>

<p>"I have a few words to say to you," said
Arthur; "there's no use of your shuddering
when I speak to you, and of crying when
I touch you. You must listen to me and
listen with all your senses about you. Why,
you were courageous enough to blaspheme
God, when you used his religion as the instrument
of that poor girl's ruin: don't be
afraid of me."</p>

<p>"When you leave this place, <i>my friend</i>, I
will go with you. I will put no restraint
upon your actions; you can go where you
please, but wherever you go, I will go with
you. I will not lose sight of you, until the
life or death of Alice Burney is assured.
Yes, you can go where you please, talk with
whom you please, sleep, eat, drink where
it suits you, but everywhere <i>I will go with
you</i>. We will be together, side by side,
until the life or the death of Alice is certain,&mdash;together,
always together, like twin
souls,&mdash;do you understand, my friend?
Until we are assured of the fate of Alice,
I will be your <i>shadow</i>? Do you comprehend?"</p>

<p>Herman <i>did</i> comprehend. The full force
of Arthur's determination crowded upon him,
impressing every fiber of his soul.</p>

<p>"No,&mdash;no,&mdash;this cannot be," he faltered,&mdash;"If
you must wreak your vengeance on me,
kill me at once. But, to be thus accompanied,
I will not consent&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Kill you?" and there was a sad smile on
Dermoyne's face; "do you suppose that the
mere act of physical death can atone for the
moral and physical death of poor Alice?
You commit a wrong, that is murder in a
sense, that the basest physical murder can
never equal; and you think the sacrifice of
your life will atone for that wrong? Faugh!
If Alice dies, I will kill you,&mdash;be assured of
that&mdash;I will crush the miserable life which
now beats within your brain,&mdash;but, first, I
will make you die a thousand deaths&mdash;I will
kill you in soul as well as in body&mdash;for every
throb which you have made her suffer, you
shall render an exact, a fearful account&mdash;yes,
before I kill your miserable body, I will kill
you in reputation, in all that makes life dear,
in everything that you hold sacred, or that
those with whom you are connected by all
or any ties, hold sacred. To do this, I must
<i>know all about you</i>, and to know all about you,
I must go with you and be your shadow."</p>

<p>"Oh, this is infernal!" groaned Barnhurst,
dropping his hands helplessly on his knees,
while his head sank back against the chair,
"Have you no mercy?"</p>

<p>"A preacher appeared as a demi-god, to
the eyes of a sinless girl,&mdash;clad in the light
of religion, he appeared to her as something
more than mortal&mdash;aware of this fact, he
passed from the pulpit where she heard him
preach to her father's home, and there dishonored
her. When her dishonor was complete,
and a second life throbbed within her, so far
from thinking of hiding her shame under the
mantle of an honorable marriage, he calmly
plotted the murder of his victim and her unborn
child. And this preacher now crouches
before his executioner, and falters, 'Have
you no mercy?'"</p>

<p>"But I could not marry her," groaned
Barnhurst, "it was impossible! impossible!"</p>

<p>"Why?"</p>

<p>Barnhurst buried his face in his hands, but
did not answer.</p>

<p>"You killed her to save your <i>reputation</i>,"
whispered Arthur, "and now I have your
life and reputation in my grasp. In the
name of Alice, I will use my power. Come!
Let us be going. I am ready to attend you."</p>

<p>He took the hat and cloak of the clergyman,
from a chair, (where Barnhurst had left
them before he ascended to the chamber of
Alice) and exclaimed with a low bow&mdash;</p>

<p>"Your hat and cloak, sir. I am ready."</p>

<p>Barnhurst rose, trembling and livid,&mdash;he
placed the hat upon his sleeked hair, and
wound the cloak about his angular form.
For a moment his coward nature seemed
stirred, by the extremity of his despair, into
something like courage. His eyes (the dark
pupils of which you will remember covered
each eyeball) flashed madly from his <i>blonde</i>
visage, and he gazed from side to side, as if
in search of some deadly weapon. At that
moment he was prepared for combat and for
murder.</p>

<p>Dermoyne caught his eye: never lunatic
cowered at the sight of his keeper, as Barnhurst
before Dermoyne.</p>

<p>"It won't do. You haven't the 'pluck,'"
sneered Arthur,&mdash;"if it was a weak girl,
there's no knowing what you might do;
but as it is a man and an&mdash;<i>executioner</i>."</p>

<p>"I am ready," was all that Barnhurst
could reply.</p>

<p>"One moment, dear friend, and I'll be
with you," as he spoke, Dermoyne advanced
toward the Madam's Desk. "<i>I must have a</i>
<span class="smcap">pledge</span> <i>before I go</i>."</p>

<p>Before the preacher had time to analyze
the meaning of these words, Dermoyne, with
one blow of the iron bar, had forced the lock
of the Madam's desk. He raised the lid and
the light fell upon packages of letters, neatly
folded, and upon a large book, square in shape
and bound in red morocco.</p>

<p>"The red book!" the words were forced
from Barnhurst's lips, as he saw Arthur raise
the volume to the light and rapidly examine
its contents. <span class="smcap">The red book</span>! Well he
knew the character of that singular volume!</p>

<p>"Yes, this will do," said Arthur, as he
placed the book under his cloak. "I wanted
a pledge,&mdash;that is to say, a <i>sure hold</i> upon
the Madam and her friends. And I have
one!"</p>

<p>He took the clergyman by the arm and
they went forth together from the private
chamber,&mdash;the holy place&mdash;of the Madam.
Went forth together, and descending the
stairs, passed in the darkness along the hall.
The key was in the lock of the front door.
Arthur turned it, and in a moment, they
passed together over the threshold of that
mansion of crime, and stood in the light of
the wintery stars.</p>

<p>"Who," whispered Arthur, as side by side,
and arm in arm, they went down the dark
street, "who to see us walk so lovingly together,
would imagine the real nature of those
relations which bind us together?"</p>

<p>He felt Barnhurst shudder as he held him
to his side&mdash;</p>

<p>"The red book!" ejaculated the clergyman,
with accent hard to define, whether of
fear, or wonder, or of horror.</p>

<p>And by the light of the midnight stars,
they went down the dark street together.</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h3><a name="CHAPTER_3_V" id="CHAPTER_3_V">CHAPTER V.</a></h3>

<h4>"WHAT SHALL WE DO WITH HER?"</h4>


<p>Scarcely had the echo of the front door,
ceased to resound through the mansion, when
the Madam entered the holy place from
which Arthur and Herman had just departed.
Her step was vigorous and firm, as she
crossed the threshold; her face flashed with
mingled rage and triumph.</p>

<p>"He will return to-morrow at ten o'clock!"
she cried, and burst into a fit of laughter,
which shook her voluminous bust,&mdash;"there's
two ways of tellin' that story, my duck."
(The Madam, as in all her vivacious moments,
grew metaphorical.) "Catch a weasel
asleep! Fool who with your tin 'fip!'
I guess I haven't been about in the world
all this while, to be out-generaled by a snip
of a boy like that!"</p>

<p>Louder laughed the Madam, until her
bust shook again&mdash;and in the midst of her
calm enjoyment she saw&mdash;the desk and the
broken lock. Her laughter stopped abruptly.
She darted forward, like a tigress rushing
on her prey. She seized the lamp and
raised the lid, and saw the contents of the
desk,&mdash;packages of letters, mysterious instruments
and singular vials, all,&mdash;all,&mdash;save
the red book.</p>

<p>The Madam could not believe her eyes.
Rapidly she searched the desk, displacing its
contents and researching every nook and
corner, but her efforts were fruitless. There
were packages of letters, mysterious vials,
and instruments as mysterious, but,&mdash;the
red book was not there.</p>

<p>For the first time in her life, the Madam
experienced a sensation of fear,&mdash;unmingled
fear,&mdash;and for the first time saw ruin open
like a chasm at her very feet. She grew
pale, sank helplessly in her arm-chair, and
sat there like a statue,&mdash;rather like an image
of imperfectly finished wax-work,&mdash;her visage
blank as a sheet of paper.</p>

<p>"Gone,&mdash;gone," the words escaped from
her lips, "ruined, undone!"</p>

<p>This state of "unmasterly inactivity"
continued, however, but for a few moments.
All at once she bounded from her chair, and
a blasphemous oath escaped&mdash;more strictly
speaking&mdash;shot from her lips. She crossed
the floor, with a heavy stride, gave the bell-rope
a violent pull, and then, hurrying to the
door screamed "Corkins! Corkins!" with all
her might.</p>

<p>"Why don't they come! Fools, asses!"
and again, she attacked the bell-rope, and
again, hurried to the door,&mdash;"Corkins, Corkins,
I say! Halloo!"</p>

<p>In a few moments Corkins appeared, his
spectacles awry and his right-hand laid affectionately
upon his "goatee."</p>

<p>"The matter?"</p>

<p>"Don't stand there starin' at me like a
stuck-pig!" was the elegant reply of the
Madam,&mdash;"down into the cellar,&mdash;quick,&mdash;quick!
Tell Slung to come here. Not a
word. Go I say!"</p>

<p>She pushed Corkins out of the room.
Then pacing up and down the small apartment,
she awaited his return with an anxiety
and suspense, very much like madness, uttering
blasphemous oaths at every step she
took.</p>

<p>Footsteps were heard, and at length, Corkins,
dressed in sober black, appeared once
more, leading Slung-Shot by the hand. The
ruffian stumbled into the room, his brutal
visage, low forehead, broken nose and elongated
jaw, bearing traces of a recent debauch.
Folding his brawny arms over his red
flannel shirt, he gazed sleepily at the Madam,
politely remarking at the same time&mdash;</p>

<p>"What de thunder's de muss,&mdash;s-a-y?"</p>

<p>"Are you sober?" and the Madam gave
Slung a violent shake; "are you awake?"</p>

<p>"Old woman," responded Slung, "you
better purceed to bisness, and give us none
o' yer jaw. What de yer w-a-n-t? s-a-y!"</p>

<p>The Madam seized him by the arm.</p>

<p>"Two men have just left this house. One
wears a cap,&mdash;the other, a hat. The one
with the cap and cloak is the shortest of the
two; and the one with a cap carries under
his cloak a book, bound in red morocco,
which he has just stolen from yonder desk.
D'ye hear? I want you to track him and
get back that book at any price; even if
you have to&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Fech him up wid dis?" and the ruffian
drew a "slung-shot" from the sleeve of his
right arm.</p>

<p>"Yes, yes; anyhow, or by any means,"
continued the Madam; "only bring back the
book before morning, and a hundred dollars
are yours. D'ye hear?"</p>

<p>"A shortish chap with a cap an' cloak,"
exclaimed Slung; "there's a good many
shortish chaps with caps in this 'ere town,
old woman."</p>

<p>"I have it! I have it!" cried the Madam;
and then she conveyed her instructions to
Slung in a slow and measured voice. "Don't
you think you'd know him now?" she exclaimed,
when her instructions were complete.</p>

<p>"Could pick 'im out among a thousand."
And the ruffian closed one eye, and increased
the boundless ugliness of his face,
by an indescribable grimace.</p>

<p>"Go then,&mdash;no time's to be lost,&mdash;a hundred
dollars, you mind;" and she urged him
to the door. He clutched the slung-shot
and disappeared.</p>

<p>Corkins approached and looked the Madam
in the face.</p>

<p>"The red book gone?" he asked, every
line of his visage displaying astonishment
and terror.</p>

<p>"Gone," echoed the Madam, "to be sure
it is. Our only hope is in that ruffian.
One well-planted blow with a slung-shot,
will kill the strongest man."</p>

<p>"The red book gone!" Corkins fairly
trembled with affright. Staggering like a
drunken man, he managed to deposit himself
in a chair. He took the gold spectacles
from his nose, and wiped them, in an absent
way. "Bad," he muttered. Then passing
his hand from his "goatee" to his top-knot,
and from top-knot to "goatee," again he
muttered, "The red book gone! what will
become of us?"</p>

<p>"If it is not recovered before morning, we
are done for," cried the Madam; "that's
all. But this is no time for foolin'?
Come, sir! stir your stumps!"</p>

<p>She took the light and led the way up-stairs,
followed by Corkins, who shook in
every fiber; murmuring, at every step,
"Gone! gone! The red book gone!"</p>

<p>Entering the passage which led to the
chamber of Alice, the Madam paused at the
door of that chamber, and pointed to the
door of the closet which (you will remember)
was buried under the stairway that led
to the fourth story.</p>

<p>A faint moan was heard; it came from
the chamber of Alice. The Madam did not
heed that moan, but opening the closet door,
crossed its threshold, followed by Corkins.
The light disclosed the details of that small
and gloomy place; and glittered brightly
upon a mahogany chest or box which rested
on the floor. A mahogany box, with surface
polished like a mirror, and a shape that
told at sight of death and the grave. It
was a coffin; and the coffin of that nameless
girl who had been removed from the
bed, in the adjoining chamber, in order to
make room for Alice.</p>

<p>"What,&mdash;what&mdash;is&mdash;to&mdash;be&mdash;done&mdash;with&mdash;her?"
said Corkins, as he touched the
coffin with his foot.</p>

<p>Here, for one moment, while Corkins and
the Madam stand beside the coffin, in the
lonely closet of the accursed mansion; here,
for one moment, turn your gaze away. Look
far through the night, and let your gaze rest
upon the fireside light of yonder New England
home. It is a quiet fireside, in the city
of Hartford; and a father and a mother are
sitting there, bewailing the singular absence
of their only daughter, a beautiful girl, the
hope and the light of their home; she
strangely disappeared a week ago, and since
then, they have heard no signs nor tidings
of her fate.</p>

<p>And now they are sitting by their desolate
fireside; the father choking down his agony
in silent prayer; the mother giving free vent
to her anguish in a flood of tears. And the
eyes of father and mother turn to the
daughter's place by the fireside; it is vacant,
and forever. For while they bewail her
absence,&mdash;while they hope for her return by
morning light,&mdash;their daughter rests in the
coffin, here, at the feet of Madam Resimer.
Weep, fond mother; choke down your
agony with silent prayer, brave father: but
tears nor prayers can never bring your
daughter back again. To-night, she rests in
the coffin, at the feet of Madam Resimer;
to-morrow night&mdash;Look yonder! A learned
doctor is lecturing for the instruction of his
students, and his "subject" lies on the table
before him. That "subject," (Oh! do you
see it, father and mother of the distant New
England home,) that "subject" is your only
daughter.</p>

<p>Verily, the tragedies of actual, every-day
life, are more improbable than the maddest
creations of romance.</p>

<p>"What shall we do with <i>her</i>?" again exclaimed
Corkins, touching the coffin with his
foot.</p>

<p>The Madam was troubled. "The red
book!" she muttered, in an absent way, "the
red book!" Her mind was evidently wandering.
"It must be regained at any price."</p>

<p>"But&mdash;this&mdash;body," interrupted Corkins,
tapping the coffin with his foot.</p>

<p>"Oh! <i>this</i>!" exclaimed the Madam, and
a pleasant smile stole over her face.</p>

<p>"Oh! as to <i>this</i>! we can easily dispose of
it. I tell you, Corkins, we will&mdash;"</p>

<p>But she did not tell Corkins. For, from
the adjoining room, came a cry, so ringing
with the emphasis of mortal agony, that
even the Madam was struck with terror,
as she heard it.</p>

<p>Without a word, she led Corkins into the
chamber of Alice.</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h3><a name="CHAPTER_3_VI" id="CHAPTER_3_VI">CHAPTER VI.</a></h3>

<h4>A BRIEF EPISODE.</h4>


<p>Away from these scenes of darkness and
of crime, let us, for a moment, turn aside
and dwell, for a little while, on the fireside
ray of a quiet home. Yes, leaving Arthur
and Herman to pursue their way, let us indulge
in a quiet episode:</p>

<p>It is a neat two-storied dwelling, standing
apart from the street, somewhere in the
upper region of the Empire City. Through
the drawn window-curtains, a softened light
trembles forth upon the darkness. Gaze
through the curtains, and behold the scene
which is disclosed by the mingled light of
the open fire, and of the lamp whose beams
are softened by a clouded shade.</p>

<p>A young mother sitting beside a cradle,
with her baby on her breast, and a flaxen-haired
boy, some three years old, crouching
on the stool at her feet. A very beautiful
sight,&mdash;save in the eyes of old bachelors, for
whom this work is not written, and who are
affectionately requested to skip this chapter,&mdash;a
very beautiful sight, save in the eyes
of that class of worn-out profligates, who
never having had a mother or sister, and
having spent their lives in degrading the
holiest impulse of our nature, into a bestial
appetite, come, at last, to look upon woman
as a mere animal; come, at last, to sneer
with their colorless lips and lack-luster eyes,
at the very idea of a holy chastity, as embodied
in the form of a pure woman. Of all
the miserable devils, who crawl upon this
earth, the most miserable is that lower devil,
whose heart is foul with pollution at the
very mention of woman. Take my word for
it, (and if you look about the world, you'll
find it so,) the man who has not, somewhere
about his heart, a high, a holy ideal of
woman,&mdash;an ideal hallowing every part of
her being, as mother, sister, wife,&mdash;is a vile
sort of man, anyhow you choose to look at
him; a very vile man, rotten at the heart,
and diffusing moral death wherever he goes.
Avoid such a man;&mdash;not as you would the
devil, for the devil is a king to him,&mdash;but as
you would avoid the last extreme of depravity,
loathsome, not only for its wretchedness,
but for its utter baseness. It's a
good rule to go by,&mdash;never trust that man
who has a low idea of woman,&mdash;trust him
not with purse, with confidence, in the street
or over your threshold,&mdash;trust him not: his
influence is poison; and the atmosphere
which he carries with him, is that of hell.</p>

<p>It is a quiet room, neatly furnished; a
lamp, with a clouded shade, stands on the
table; a piano stands in one corner; the
portrait of the absent father hangs on the
wall; a wood fire burns briskly on the
hearth. A very quiet room, full of the
atmosphere of home.</p>

<p>The mother is one of those women whose
short stature, round development of form
and limb, clear complexion and abounding
joyousness of look, seem more lovable in
the eyes of a certain portion of the masculine
race, than all the stately beauties in the
world. Certainly, she was a pretty woman.
Her eyes of clear, deep blue, her lips of
cherry red, harmonized with the hue of her
face, her neck and shoulders,&mdash;a hue resembling
alabaster, slightly reddened by a glimpse
of sunshine. Her hair rich and flowing, was
neatly disposed about the round outlines
of her young face. And in color,&mdash;&mdash;ah,
here's the trouble. I see the curl of your
lip and the laugh in your eyes. And in
color, her hair was not black, nor golden,
nor brown, nor even auburn. Her hair was
red. You may laugh if it suits you, but her
red-hair became her; and this woman with
the red-hair, was one of the prettiest, one
of the most lovable women in the world.
(Why is it that a certain class of authors,
very poverty stricken in the way of ideas,
always introduce a red-haired woman in the
character of a vixen,&mdash;always expect you to
laugh at the very mention of red-hair&mdash;in
fact, invest the capital of what little wit they
have, in lamentably funny allusions to red-heads,
red-hair, and so forth? Or if they
fall in love with a sweet woman, with bright
red-hair, why do these authors, when they
make sonnets to the object of their choice,
persist in calling red-hair by the ambiguous
name of <i>auburn</i>?)</p>

<p>And thus, in her quiet home, with her
baby on her breast and her boy at her knee,
sat the beautiful woman, with red hair. Sat
there, the very picture of a good mother and a
holy wife, lulling her babe to sleep with a verse
from some old-fashioned hymn. Somehow
this mother, centered thus in her quiet home&mdash;the
blessing of motherhood around and
about her like a baptism,&mdash;seems more worthy
of reverence and love, than the entire first
circle of the opera, blazing with bright diamonds
and brighter eyes, on a gala night.</p>

<p>The boy resting one hand on his mother's
knee, and looking all the while into her face,
asks in his childish tones, "When will father
come home?"</p>

<p>"Soon, love, very soon," the mother answers,
and resumes the verse of the old
hymn.</p>

<p>Now, doesn't it strike you that the
husband of such a wife, and the father of
such children must be altogether a good
man?</p>

<p>We will see him after awhile, and judge
for ourselves.</p>

<p>Meanwhile, sit alone with your children,
and watch for his coming,&mdash;you, simple
hearted woman, that know no higher learning,
than the rich intuitions of a mother's
love. Your chastity is like a vail of light,
making holy the room in which you watch,
with your boy at your knee, and your baby
on your bosom.</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h3><a name="CHAPTER_3_VII" id="CHAPTER_3_VII">CHAPTER VII.</a></h3>

<h4>THROUGH THE SILENT CITY.</h4>


<p>It was a strange march which Arthur and
Barnhurst, arm in arm, took through the
streets of the Empire City.</p>

<p>"I am ready to attend you wherever you
go," whispered Arthur, as leaving the den
of Madam Resimer, they went down the
dark street.</p>

<p>"But, where shall I go?" was the question
that troubled Barnhurst. "Home?"
He shuddered at the thought. Any place
but home! "Can I possibly get rid of him?"
Doubtful, exceedingly doubtful; "his arm
is too strong, and he has me in his power in
every way. But that engagement which I
have, to meet a person at the hour of four
o'clock, at a peculiar place,&mdash;how shall I
dispose of it? Shall I fail to keep it, or
shall I make this man a witness of it?"</p>

<p>Barnhurst was troubled. He knew not
what to do. And so arm in arm, they
walked along in silence through a multitude
of streets,&mdash;streets dark as grave-vaults, and
laid out in old times, with a profound contempt
of right angles&mdash;streets walled in with
huge warehouses, above whose lofty roofs,
you caught but a glimpse of the midnight
stars.</p>

<p>And so passing along, they came at length
upon the Battery, and caught the keen blast
upon their cheeks, as they wandered among
the leafless trees. They heard the roar of
the waters, and saw the glorious bay,&mdash;dim
and vast,&mdash;surging sullenly under the broad
sky, dark with midnight, and yet, glittering
with countless stars. A starlight view of
Manhattan bay, from the Battery&mdash;it was a
sight worth seeing. Herman and Arthur,
standing there alone, looked forth in silence.
They could not see each other's faces, but
Arthur felt the incessant horror which agitated
Barnhurst's arm and Barnhurst heard
the groan which seemed wrung from Arthur's
very heart.</p>

<p>For a long time there was silence. Flash
on, old midnight, in your solemn drapery set
with stars,&mdash;flash on,&mdash;you sparkled thus
grandly ten thousand years ago, as you will
ten thousand years hence,&mdash;what care you
for the agony of these two men, who now
with widely different feelings, stand awed
by your sullen splendor!</p>

<p>"If you've seen enough of this, I guess
we'd better go," said Arthur, mildly, "I am
ready to follow you wherever you go."</p>

<p>Barnhurst silently moved away from the
waters, and as they went among the leafless
trees, Dermoyne looked back toward the
sounding waves&mdash;looked back yearningly as
though unwilling to leave the sight of them,
something there was so tempting in that
sight. One plunge and all is over!</p>

<p>They came upon Broadway. It was between
two and three o'clock in the morning.
I know of nothing in the world so productive
of thought, as a walk along Broadway about
three o'clock in the morning. The haunts
of traffic are closed: the great artery of the
city is silent as death: the mad current of
life which whirled along it incessantly a few
hours ago, has disappeared; or if there is
life upon its broad flag-stones, it is life of a
peculiar character, far different from the life
of the day. And there it spreads before you,
under the midnight stars, its vast extent
defined by two lines of light, which, in the
far distance melt into one vague mass of
brightness. New York is the Empire City
of the continent and Broadway is the Empire
Street of the world.</p>

<p>If you don't believe it, just walk the
length of Broadway on a sunny day, when
it is mad with life and motion,&mdash;and then
walk it, at night, and see the kind of life
which creeps over its flag-stones under the
light of the stars.</p>

<p>They took their silent march up Broadway.</p>

<p>What's this? A huge pile, surrounded
by unsightly scaffolding&mdash;a huge Gothic pile,
whose foundation is among graves, and whose
unfinished spire already seems to touch the
stars? Trinity Church&mdash;Trinity Church,
fronting Wall street, as though to watch its
worshipers, who scour Wall street, six days
in the week in search of prey, and on the
seventh, come to Trinity to say a rich man's
prayer, from a prayer-book bound in gold.</p>

<p>And this, what's this? This creature in
woman's attire, who glides along the pavement,
now accosting the passer-by in language
that sounds on woman's lips, like the
accents of Hell,&mdash;and now, throwing her vail
aside, clasps her hands and looks shudderingly
around, as though conscious, that for
her, not one heart in all the world, cared one
throb! What's this? That is a woman,
friend. A father used to hold her on his
knees, just after the evening prayer was said&mdash;a
mother used to bend over her as she
slept, and kiss her smiling face, and breathe
a mother's blessing over her sinless darling.
But, what is she now? What does she
here alone, out in the cold, dark night?
* * * * She is a tenant of one of the
houses owned by Trinity Church. She is
out in the cold, dark night,&mdash;the poor blasted
thing you see her,&mdash;seeking, out of the hire
of her pollution, to swell the revenues of
Trinity Church!</p>

<p>She came toward Arthur and Barnhurst,
even as they passed before the portals of the
unfinished church.</p>

<p>She laid her hand on Arthur's arm, and
said to him, words that need not be written.</p>

<p>Arthur looked long and steadily into her
face. It had been very beautiful once, but
now there was fever in the flaming eyes, and
death in the blue circles beneath them. She
had fallen to the lowest deep.</p>

<p>"Look there!" whispered Arthur to Barnhurst,
"she was as happy once as Alice, and
as pure,&mdash;that is, as happy and as pure as
Alice before you knew her. What is she
now?"</p>

<p>Barnhurst did not reply.</p>

<p>Arthur took a silver dollar from his pocket
and gave it to the girl. "Go home," he
said, "and God pity you!"</p>

<p>"Home!" she echoed, and took the dollar
with an incredulous look, and then uttering
a strange mad laugh, she went to spend the
dollar,&mdash;one-half of it for rum and the other
half to pay the rent which she owed to Trinity
Church.</p>

<p>(Here it occurs to us, to propose three
cheers to good old Trinity Church,&mdash;and
three more to the Patent Gospel which influences
the actions of its venerable corporation.
Hip&mdash;hip&mdash;hurrah! Hur&mdash;, but
somehow the cheering dies away, when one
thinks for a minute of the vast contrast between
the Gospel of Trinity Church and the
Gospel of the New Testament. I somehow
think we won't cheer any more.)</p>

<p>Up Broadway they resumed their march,
Herman and Arthur, arm in arm, and silent
as the grave. To see them walk so lovingly
together, you would have thought them the
best friends in the world.</p>

<p>What's yonder light, flashing from the
window of the fourth story? The light of
a gambling hell, my friend. That light
shines upon piles of gold and upon faces
haggard with the tortures of the damned.</p>

<p>And these half naked forms, crouching in
the doorway of yonder unfinished edifice,&mdash;huddling
together in their rags, and vainly
endeavoring to keep out the winter's cold.
Children,&mdash;friendless, orphaned children.
All day long they roam the streets in search
of bread, and at night they sleep together in
this luxurious style.</p>

<p>But we have arrived at the Astor and the
Park stretches before us, the wind moaning
among its leafless trees, and its lights glimmering
in a sort of mournful radiance through
the gloom. The Park, whose walks by day
and night have been the theater of more
tragedies of real life,&mdash;more harrowing agony,
hopeless misery, starving despair,&mdash;than
you could chronicle in the compass of a
thousand volumes. Could these flag-stones
speak, how many histories might they tell&mdash;histories
of those, who, mad with the last
anguish of despair, have paced these walks
at dead of night, hesitating between crime
and suicide, between the knife of the assassin
and the last plunge of the self murderer!</p>

<p>But at this moment shouts of drunken
mirth are heard, opposite the Astor. Some
twenty gay young gentlemen, attired in opera
uniform,&mdash;black dress-coat, white vest, white
kid gloves,&mdash;and fragrant at once of champagne
and cologne, have formed a circle
around the ancient pump, which stands near
the Park gate. These gay young gentlemen,
after two hours painful endurance of that
refinement of torture, known as the Italian
Opera, have been making a tour of philosophical
observation through the town; they
have carried on a brisk crusade against the
watchmen; have drank much champagne
at a "crack" hotel; have tarried awhile in
the aristocratic resort of Mr. Peter Williams,
which, as you doubtless know, gives tone
and character to the classic region of the
Five Points; and now encircling the pump,
they listen to the eloquent remarks of one
of their number, who is interrupted now and
then by rounds of enthusiastic applause.
Very much inebriated, he is seated astride
of the pump, which his vivid imagination
transforms into a blooded racer&mdash;</p>

<p>"Gentlemen," he says, blandly and with
a pardonable thickness of utterance, "if my
remarks should seem confused, attribute it
to my position; I am not accustomed to
public speaking on horseback. But, as Congress
is now in session, I deem it a duty
which I owe to my constituents, to give my
views on&mdash;on&mdash;on the great Bill for the
Protection of&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Huckleberries!" suggested a voice.</p>

<p>"Thank the gentleman from Ann-street,"
continued the speaker, in true parliamentary
style, as he swayed to and fro, on top of
the pump; "of the great Bill for the Protection
of Huckleberries! Now, gentlemen,"
he continued, suddenly forgetting his
huckleberries, "you know they beat Henry
Clay this time by their infernal cry of Texas
and Oregon; you know it!"</p>

<p>There was a frightful chorus, "We do!
we do!"</p>

<p>"You know how bad we felt when we
crossed Cayuga bridge,&mdash;Polk on top, and
Clay under,&mdash;but, gentlemen, I have a cry
for 1848 that will knock their daylights out
of 'em. They shouted Texas and Oregon,
and licked us; but in 1848 we'll give 'em
fits with <i>Clay</i> and&mdash;<span class="smcap">Japan</span>!"</p>

<p>"Clay and <span class="smcap">Japan</span>!" was the chorus of
the twenty young gentlemen.</p>

<p>"There's a platform for you, gentlemen!
Clay and Japan! We'll give 'em annexation
up to their eyes. Consider, gentlemen,
the advantages of Japan! Separated from
the continent by a trifling slip of water,
known as the Pacific ocean. Japan may be
considered in the light of a near neighbor.
And then what a delicious campaign we can
make, with Japan on our banner! Nobody I
knows anything about her, and we can lie
as we please, without the most remote danger
of being found out. Isn't there something
heart-stirring in the very word, <span class="smcap">Ja-pan</span>?
And then, gentlemen, we'll have 'em; for
Japan ain't committed to any of the leading
questions of the day, and we can make all
sorts o' pledges to everybody, and&mdash;"</p>

<p>The orator, in his excitement, swayed too
much to one side, and fell languidly from
the pump into the arms of his enthusiastic
friends; and, with three cheers for "Clay
and Japan," the party of twenty young gentlemen
went, in a staggering column, to a
neighboring <i>restaurant</i>, where&mdash;it is presumable&mdash;a
few bottles more put them, not
only into the humor of annexing Japan, but
all Asia in the bargain. Arthur and Barnhurst
had observed this scene from the steps
of the Astor.</p>

<p>"Do you know this is very absurd?" said
Barnhurst, pettishly&mdash;"this walking about
town all night?"</p>

<p>"Do you think so?" responded Dermoyne.</p>

<p>"Then why don't you go home?"</p>

<p>Home! Barnhurst shuddered at the
thought. Home! Anything, anything but
that!</p>

<p>There was something, too, in the singular
gayety of Arthur's tone, which struck him
with more terror than the most boisterous
threat. Underneath this gayety, like floods
of burning lava beneath a morning mist,
there rolled and swelled a tide of unfathomable
emotion.</p>

<p>"Let us walk on," said Barnhurst, faintly;
and they walked on, arm in arm&mdash;the false
clergyman with the very terror of death in
his heart&mdash;the poor mechanic with a face
immovably calm, but with the fire of an
irrevocable resolution in his eyes. They
walked on: up Broadway, and into the
region where sits the sullen Tombs, and
through the maze of streets, where vice and
squalor, drunkenness and crime, hold their
grotesque revel all night long. Through the
Five Points they walked, confronted at
every step by a desperate or abandoned
wretch, their ears filled with the cries of
blasphemy, starvation and mirth,&mdash;mirth,
that was very much like the joy of nethermost
hell. Into Chatham street they walked,
and up the Bowery, and once more across
into Broadway, where the delicate outlines
of Grace Church, with its fairy-like sculpture
work, were dimly visible in the night. Toward
the North River, and through narrow
alleys, where human beings were herded
together in the last extreme of misery, they
walked; and then into broad streets, whose
splendid mansions, dark without from pavement
to roof, were bright within with rich
men's revels,&mdash;revels, drunken and foul
beyond the blush of shame.</p>

<p>It was a strange, sad march, which they
took in the silent night, through the vast
Empire City.</p>

<p>And at every step Arthur gathered the
Red Book closer to his side.</p>

<p>And behind them, in all their march, even
from the moment when they left the Battery,
two figures followed closely in their wake&mdash;unseen
by Arthur or by Barnhurst,&mdash;two
figures, tracking every step of their way
with all a bloodhound's stealth and zeal.</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h3><a name="CHAPTER_3_VIII" id="CHAPTER_3_VIII">CHAPTER VIII.</a></h3>

<h4>TRINITY CHURCH.</h4>


<p>At length&mdash;it was near the hour of four&mdash;they
came to the head of Wall street once
more, and paused in front of the portals of
unfinished Trinity.</p>

<p>"Here you must leave me," cried Barnhurst,
in a tone of desperation, "I have an
appointment in this church at the hour of
four. Leave me,&mdash;at least for a little
while&mdash;"</p>

<p>But Arthur held fast the false clergyman's
arm.</p>

<p>"I will never leave you," he said. "Keep
your appointment, I will witness it. It will
be very interesting to know what business it
is, that can bring you to this unfinished
church at the hour of four in the morning."</p>

<p>Barnhurst set his teeth together in silent
rage.</p>

<p>"You cannot,&mdash;cannot,&mdash;" he began.</p>

<p>"Not a word," sternly interrupted Dermoyne.
"Go in and keep your appointment
like a man of your word."</p>

<p>Barnhurst led the way, and they passed
under heavy piles of scaffolding into the
dark church. Dark indeed, and unenlivened
by a single ray of light. All around was
silent as the grave. The profound stillness
was well calculated to strike the heart with
awe, and Arthur and Barnhurst, as they
groped their way along, did not utter a
word.</p>

<p>"Here, near the third pillar, I am to meet
him," whispered Barnhurst.</p>

<p>"Give me your left hand, then; I will
conceal myself behind the pillar, and hold
you firmly, while you converse with your
friend."</p>

<p>Herman, in the thick darkness, placed
himself against the pillar, and Dermoyne,
firmly grasping his left hand, crept behind it.</p>

<p>Thus they stood for many minutes, awaiting
the approach of Herman's friend. In
the dark and stillness those moments seemed
so many ages.</p>

<p>A bell, striking the hour of four, resounded
over the city.</p>

<p>At length a step was heard, and then a
faint cough,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Are you here?" said a voice; and Dermoyne,
from his place of concealment,
beheld a dimly-defined figure approach the
third pillar.</p>

<p>"I am," answered Barnhurst.</p>

<p>"Who are you?" said the voice of the
unknown.</p>

<p>"I am Herman Barnhurst."&mdash;His voice
was low but distinct.</p>

<p>"How shall I know that you are the
Barnhurst whom I seek?" asked the unknown.</p>

<p>There was a pause. Barnhurst seemed to
hesitate:</p>

<p>"'<i>The Night of the Tenth of November,</i>
1842,'" he said, and his voice trembled.</p>

<p>"Right; you are the man," said the
unknown. "Did you receive a letter last
evening?"</p>

<p>"I did,"&mdash;and Barnhurst's voice was very
faint.</p>

<p>"How was that letter signed, and to what
did it refer?"</p>

<p>Again Barnhurst hesitated. Arthur felt
the hand which he held grow hot and cold
by turns.</p>

<p>"It was signed by '<span class="smcap">The Three</span>,"' he
replied in a faltering voice&mdash;"and referred to
an event which <i>it assumes</i> took place on the
night of the tenth of November, 1842."</p>

<p>"'<i>Assumes</i>!'" echoed the unknown, with
a faint laugh. "You think it an <i>assumption</i>,
do you? Well, I like that. And the letter
requested you to meet one of the 'Three,'
at this place, at the hour of four this
morning; and it concluded by stating that
you would hear something of great interest
to yourself in regard to the <i>events of that
night</i>."</p>

<p>"It did," faintly responded Barnhurst. "I
am here, and&mdash;"</p>

<p>"We will have a little private conversation
together. First of all, you must know
that I am one of three persons who take a
great interest in your affairs, and desire to save
you from a great deal of trouble. We watch
over you with fraternal anxiety, and do all
we can to keep you out of harm. And on
the part of the Three, (whose names you
will know in good time, in case you prove
reasonable,) I am deputed to give you a
little good counsel."</p>

<p>"Good counsel?"</p>

<p>"Good counsel, was the word. Now, in
order to understand this good counsel, you
will understand that the Three are in
possession of all the facts connected with the
remarkable event of the <i>night of the tenth of
November</i>, 1842. Facts, certified by proof&mdash;you
comprehend?"</p>

<p>Herman gave a start, but did not reply.</p>

<p>"You will, therefore, listen to the good
counsel with patience, I doubt not. To come
to the point, then:&mdash;You know that the
immense property of Trinity Church, comprising,
at a rough guess, one eighth of the
greatest city on the American continent, has
been threatened at various periods by a series
of conspiracies, who have given <span class="smcap">the corporation</span>
much trouble, and who, more than
once, have nearly accomplished its ruin?"</p>

<p>"I do," answered Herman; "and these
conspiracies have all sprung from a band of
persons, widely dispersed through the United
States, and calling themselves the heirs of
Anreke Jans Bogardus."</p>

<p>"Right," continued the unknown. "Anreke
Jans, said to be the natural daughter of
a king of Holland, lived on this island about
two hundred years ago. At her death she
bequeathed to her children a certain farm&mdash;a
farm which at the present time forms the
very heart of New York, and constitutes a
great part of the wealth of Trinity Church,
for it is worth countless millions of dollars.
Now you are well aware that it is alleged by
the descendants of Anreke Jans, that this
farm was juggled out of the hands of one
of their ancestors by a gross fraud&mdash;a fraud
worthy of that curse which Scripture pronounces
upon the man who removes his
neighbor's land-mark&mdash;and that Trinity
Church has only one right to the ownership
of said farm, to wit: the right of the thief
and robber?"</p>

<p>"I am aware of this," responded Herman;
"and so powerful have been the proofs of
this fraud, that the Church has, on various
occasions, come near losing the very jewel
of all its immense possessions. Only one
course of action has saved it from the heirs
of Anreke Jans Bogardus&mdash;"</p>

<p>"It has, when nearly driven to the wall,
consented to compromise with the heirs for
their claim,&mdash;has simply desired in return, a
release, signed by all the heirs,&mdash;and then,
on the very eve of settlement, it has managed
to buy off one or two of the most
prominent heirs. For instance, Aaron Burr,
(who acted for the heirs, some thirty years
ago,) was lulled into silence by the generosity
of the Church. She gave him several valuable
tracts of land, which he sold to Astor&mdash;"</p>

<p>The unknown paused for a moment, and
then resumed:</p>

<p>"At the present time, these heirs are preparing
a conspiracy, more desperately energetic
than any previous effort. It is certainly
the interest of the Church to foil this conspiracy
at all hazards. And we '<span class="smcap">Three</span>'
persons, not directly connected with the corporation,
think that we can make it our
interest to assist the Church in the final
overthrow of the conspirators. To do this
effectually, we require the assistance of one
of the heirs, who will wind himself into the
plans of the conspirators, help the plot to
ripen, and help us to <i>gather it</i> when it is
ripe."</p>

<p>"'One of the heirs?'" muttered Herman.</p>

<p>"Ay, one of the heirs,&mdash;and he must be
a man of sense, shrewdness and undoubted
respectability. Now&mdash;do you hear me?&mdash;you,
Herman Barnhurst, are one of the heirs
of Anreke Jans Bogardus."</p>

<p>There was a pause of profound silence.
You might have heard a pin drop, in the
deep stillness of that vast edifice.</p>

<p>"I am one of the heirs of Anreke Jans,"
said Herman; "and what then?"</p>

<p>The voice of the unknown was deep, distinct
and imperative:</p>

<p>"You will assist us in foiling these conspirators.
You will assist us willingly,
faithfully, and without reserve. This is the
good counsel which I am deputed to give
you."</p>

<p>"And if I decline?" said Herman, drawing
a long breath.</p>

<p>"You will not decline when you remember
the event of the night of the tenth of
November, 1842."</p>

<p>Dermoyne felt the hand which he clasped
tremble in his grasp.</p>

<p>"Ah!" and Herman drew another long
breath.</p>

<p>"As the Third of the Three, I beg your
opinion of my good counsel," said the unknown.</p>

<p>"I accept," said Herman, in a husky
voice.</p>

<p>"But we must have some pledge for your
fidelity&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Have you not pledge enough," said Herman,
bitterly, "if you know the events of
that night&mdash;"</p>

<p>"True; but we require some other little
pledge in the way of collateral&mdash;as the
money lenders say"&mdash;said the unknown, who
had designated himself as "<span class="smcap">the Third</span> <i>of
the Three</i>." "In the event of a certain contingency&mdash;a
very improbable contingency,&mdash;you
will inherit one seventh of the Van
Huyden estate&mdash;"</p>

<p>Herman gave a start;&mdash;he moved forward
suddenly, but was drawn back against the
pillar by the strong grip of Dermoyne:</p>

<p>"The Van Huyden estate!" he ejaculated
in a tone of utter astonishment.</p>

<p>"I said the Van Huyden estate," continued
the Third of the Three,&mdash;"and that
should satisfy you that I know all about it.
In witness of your good faith, you will
to-morrow make over to us, by our own
proper names, and over your own proper
signature, all your right, title and interest in
the Van Huyden estate. The final settlement,
you know, takes place the day after
to-morrow. In case you act faithfully to us,
we will restore you your right on the day
when, by your assistance, we have foiled the
heirs of Anreke Jans. The good counsel
which I have for you is this:&mdash;accept this
proposition at once, if you know what is
good for your health, your reputation, your
liberty."</p>

<p>The words of the Third of the Three
were succeeded by a dead pause. It was
dark, and the changes of Herman's face
could not be seen. A sound was heard, like
a half-suppressed groan.</p>

<p>"And if I refuse?" he faltered&mdash;"if I
cast your absurd proposition to the winds?"</p>

<p>"Then the <i>revelation</i> of the event of that
night, may cast you to the devil," was the
calm reply.</p>

<p>"At least give me some hours for reflection;
let me consider your proposal."</p>

<p>"We had thought of this," answered the
unknown. "The time is short. The 25th
of December will soon be here. I am
authorized to give you until to-day at mid-day,&mdash;that
is, you have nearly eight hours
for calm reflection."</p>

<p>Herman said, after a moment's hesitation,
in a low and scarce perceptible voice,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Be it so."</p>

<p>"In case your answer is Yes, you will
signify it in this manner"&mdash;and he whispered
in the ear of his victim,&mdash;whispered a few
brief words, which Herman drank in with
all his soul. "Remember, before mid-day,
some seven and a half hours hence."</p>

<p>"You shall have my answer in the manner
specified," said Herman, in an accent of
utter bewilderment.</p>

<p>"Our interview is at an end," said the
Third of the Three. "As we must not by
any chance be seen leaving this place
together, I will pass through the graveyard,
while you go out at the main door. Good
night."</p>

<p>And leaving the miserable man, who sank
back against the pillar for support, the Third
of the Three passed from the shadows, out
into the graveyard, where white tombstones
appeared in the starlight, mingled with piles
of lumber and heaps of building stone.</p>

<p>As he came into the starlight, it might be
seen that he was a short thick-set man, clad
in a dark over-coat, whose upturned collar
hid the low part of his visage, while his hat,
drawn low over his brows, masked the upper
portion of his face. He chuckled to himself
as he picked his way among the heaps of
lumber and scattered masses of building
stone:</p>

<p>"It is a nice game, any how you choose to
look at it. The heirs of Anreke Jans can
be played against the Church; this man
Herman can be played against the heirs,
and the Three can dictate terms to both
parties, and decide the game. And when the
Three have won, why then the Third of the
Three can hold the First and Second in his
power; especially, if this man's chance of
the seventh of the Van Huyden estate is
transferred to the Third, by his own proper
name. Well, well; law, properly understood,
is the science of pulling wool over other
people's eyes: eloquent speeches in court,
and the name of a big practice, may do for
some people; but give me one of these nice
little cases, which lie sequestered from the
public view, quiet as an oyster in his bed,
and as juicy!"</p>

<p>Thus you see that the Third of the Three
was a philosopher. He paused before a
marble slab, over which he bent, tracing with
difficulty the inscription, which was in quaint
characters, much worn by time&mdash;"<span class="smcap">Van
Huyden</span>."</p>

<p>"Strange enough! Just as we were about
to search the tomb last night,<a name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> to be interrupted
and scared from our object by a
circumstance so unusual! The snug sum of
$200,000, in plate, buried in a coffin!&mdash;an
odd kind of sub-treasury! Wonder if there's
any truth in the legend?"</p>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> See Episode, page 114 of the Empire City.</p></div>

<p>As the gentleman thus soliloquized he
fixed his eyes attentively upon the slab; but
he did not see the approach of a man,
wrapped in the thick folds of a cloak, and
with a broad-brimmed hat over his brow,&mdash;a
man who came noiselessly from the shadows
and took his place at the opposite extremity
of the slab, quietly folding his arms, as he
fixed his gaze upon the Third of the Three.</p>

<p>A wild sort of picture this: The gloomy
church-yard, with its leafless trees, and tombstones
half hidden among heaps of timber
and of stone. Yonder, the church, looking
like the grotesque creation of an enchanter's
power, as hidden among uncouth scaffolding,
it rises vague and shapeless into the sky.
And here, by the tomb of the Van Huydens,
two figures,&mdash;the Third of Three, who, in a
deep revery, fixes his eyes upon the inscription&mdash;and
the cloaked figure, whose steady
gaze is centered upon the absent-minded
gentleman.</p>

<p>"Two hundred thousand buried in a
coffin,"&mdash;soliloquized "the Third,"&mdash;"I
wonder if I could not make a little search.
The place is quiet,&mdash;no watchman near&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Liar!" said a voice, in tones deep as the
sound of an organ. "Learn that the
Watcher always guards the vault of the Van
Huydens:&mdash;learn that it is sacrilege to rob
the dead."</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h3><a name="CHAPTER_3_IX" id="CHAPTER_3_IX">CHAPTER IX.</a></h3>

<h4>THE END OF THE MARCH.</h4>


<p>As Dermoyne led Barnhurst forth into the
open air, the false clergyman staggered like
a drunken man. His tall and angular form
shook like a reed; and Arthur, catching a
glimpse of his countenance, saw that it was
livid and distorted in every feature.</p>

<p>"Do with me what you will," he said in
broken accents. "The worst has come.&mdash;I
do not care! Come; at last, you shall go
home with me. Home!"</p>

<p>He turned his steps up Broadway, leaning
his weight on Arthur's arm as he staggered
along.</p>

<p>Terrible as had been the crimes of the
wretch, Arthur pitied him. For a moment,
only; for the dying cry of Alice was in his
ear.</p>

<p>"Your punishment begins," he whispered.</p>

<p>And thus, up Broadway, they resumed
their march through the city.</p>

<p>They had not gone many paces from the
church, when two forms sprang suddenly
from the shadows of the scaffolding, both
clad in dark overcoats, with caps drawn over
their faces. They were the forms of those
unknown persons who had followed Arthur
and Barnhurst from the Battery over the
city. One was lean, tall and sinewy in form;
his quick, active, stealthy step, resembled
the step of an Indian. The other was short
and thick set, with broad chest and bow-legs.</p>

<p>"Did yer see der Red Book, Dirk?"</p>

<p>"O' coss I did; as he come out o' der
church, his cloak opened, and I seed 'um
under his arm. O' coss I did, Slung."</p>

<p>We cannot give any just idea of the
peculiar <i>patois</i> of these delightful specimens
of the civilized savages.</p>

<p>"Travel's der word," said Slung.</p>

<p>"O' coss it is: an' if we ketch 'um in a
dark alley, or round a sharp corner, won't we
smash his daylights in!"</p>

<p>And the one with his hand on his knife,
concealed in the pocket of his overcoat, and
the other with the cord of the slung-shot
wound about his wrist, they resumed their
hunt in the track of Dermoyne.</p>

<p>Unconscious of the danger which strode
stealthily in his wake, Dermoyne clasped the
Red Book to his side with one arm, and with
the other supported the form of the trembling
Barnhurst.</p>

<p>"Yes, we'll go home," muttered the false
clergyman&mdash;"Home!" He pronounced the
word with a singular emphasis, like a man
half bereft of his senses. "You can work
your vengeance on me there, for the worst
has come."</p>

<p>Then, for a long time, they pursued their
way in silence, turning toward the East
River, as they drew near the head of Broadway.</p>

<p>As he drew near his destination&mdash;near the
end of his singular march,&mdash;a wild hope
agitated the heart of the wretched man, half
stupefied as he was by despair. It was his
last hope.</p>

<p>"This man has feeling," he thought, "and
I will try him."</p>

<p>They stood, at length, in the hall of a
quiet mansion, the hanging lamp above their
heads shedding its waving light into their
faces. Barnhurst had entered the door by a
night key, forgetting, in his agitation, to
close it after him. Arthur dropped his arm,
and they confronted each other, surveying
each other's faces for the first time in four
long hours.</p>

<p>It was a singular sight. Both lividly pale,
and with the fire of widely contrasted emotions,
giving new fire to their gaze, they
silently regarded each other. The tall and
angular form of the clergyman was in
contrast with the compact figure of the
mechanic: and Herman's visage, singular
eyes, aquiline nose, bland complexion, and
hair sleekly disposed behind the ears, was
altogether different from the face of the
mechanic:&mdash;bold forehead, surmounted by
masses of brown hair, short and curling&mdash;clear
gray eyes, wide mouth, with firm lips,
and round and massive chin; you might
read the vast difference between their minds
in their widely contrasted faces.</p>

<p>"Well, I am&mdash;home," said Barnhurst,
with a smile hard to define.</p>

<p>"I will sleep in your room," answered
Arthur, quietly. "To-morrow, at ten, we go
together to that house."</p>

<p>"Let us retire, then," answered Herman.
The hanging lamp lighted the stairway, and
disclosed the door at its head.</p>

<p>Herman, with the hand of Arthur on his
arm, led the way up the staircase, and
paused for a moment at the door. He bent
his head as if to listen for the echo of a
sound, but no sound was heard. Herman
gently opened the door, and entered&mdash;followed
by Arthur&mdash;a spacious chamber, dimly
lighted by a taper on the mantle.</p>

<p>"Hush!" said Herman, and pointed to a
small couch, on which a boy of some three
years was sleeping; his rosy face, ruffled by
a smile, and his hair lying in thick curls all
about his snow-white forehead.</p>

<p>"Hush!" again said Herman, and pointed
to a curtained bed. A beautiful woman was
sleeping there, with her sleeping infant cradled
on her arm. The faces of the mother
and babe, laid close together on the pillow,
looked very beautiful&mdash;almost holy&mdash;in the
soft mysterious light.</p>

<p>"My wife! my children!" gasped Herman.
As he spoke, the agitation of his face
was horrible to look upon.</p>

<p>Dermoyne felt his heart leap to his throat.
He could not convince himself that it was
not a dream. Again and again he turned
from the face of Barnhurst to the rosy boy
on the couch&mdash;to the beautiful mother and
her babe, resting there in the half-broken
shadows of the curtained bed,&mdash;and felt his
knees tremble and his heart leap to his throat.</p>

<p>And in contrast with this scene of holy
peace,&mdash;a pure mother, sleeping in the marriage
chamber with her children,&mdash;came up
before him, Alice, and her bed of torture in
the den of Madam Resimer.</p>

<p>"This,&mdash;this," gasped Barnhurst, "this is
why I couldn't marry Alice!"</p>

<p>Arthur was convulsed by opposing emotions.</p>

<p>"Devil!" he uttered with set teeth and
clenched hands,&mdash;"and with a wife and
children like these, you could still plot the
ruin of poor Alice!"</p>

<p>"Husband," said the wife, as she awoke
from her sleep&mdash;"have you come at last? I
waited for you so long!"</p>

<hr class="tb" />

<p>Leave we this scene, and retrace our steps.
The revel in <span class="smcap">the Temple</span> is at the highest.
The masks begin to fall. Hark! to the
whispers which mingle softly with the
clinking of champagne glasses. By all
means let us enter <span class="smcap">the Temple</span>.</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h2><a name="PART_FOURTH" id="PART_FOURTH">PART FOURTH.</a></h2>

<h3>IN THE TEMPLE.</h3>

<h3>FROM MIDNIGHT UNTIL DAWN.</h3>

<h4>DECEMBER 24, 1844.</h4>

<hr class="tb" />

<h3>CHAPTER I.</h3>

<h4>IN THE TEMPLE&mdash;THE CENTRAL CHAMBER.</h4>


<p>It was two o'clock on the morning of the
24th of December, 1844, when Frank led
Nameless over the threshold of a magnificent
but dimly-lighted hall.</p>

<p>Attired in black velvet, the golden cross
upon her breast, and with a white vail falling
like a snowflake over her face and raven
hair, she pressed his hand and led him forward
to the light. You cannot, by the
changes of his countenance, trace the emotions
now busy at his heart; for his face is
concealed by a mask; a cap, with a drooping
plume, shades his brow; his form is attired
in a tunic of black velvet, gathered to his
waist by a scarlet sash; a falling collar discloses
his throat; and there is a white cross
upon his breast, suspended from his neck by
a golden chain. His brown hair, no longer
wild and matted, but carefully arranged by
a woman's hand, falls in glossy masses to his
shoulders.</p>

<p>"Stand here, my knight of the white
cross, and observe some of the mysteries of
our Temple."</p>

<p>For a moment she raised her vail, and her
dark eyes emitted rays of magnetic fire, and
the pressure of her hand made the blood
bound in every vein.</p>

<p>They stood by a marble pillar, near a
table on which was placed a lamp with a
clouded shade,&mdash;a table loaded with fruits
and flowers, with goblets and with bottles
of rich old wine.</p>

<p>Nameless could not repress an ejaculation
as he surveyed the scene.</p>

<p>"I am in a dream!" he said.</p>

<p>A vast and dimly-lighted hall, broken by
a range of marble columns; pictures and
mirrors flashing and glowing along the lofty
walls; and the very air imbued with the
breath of summer, the fragrance of freshly
gathered flowers. Near every column was
placed a table, covered with fruit and
flowers, with goblets and bottles of rich old
wine; and on every table, a lamp with a
clouded shade shed around a light at once
dim, mysterious and voluptuous. And the
mirrors reflected the scene, amid whose
silent magnificence Frank and Nameless
stood alone.</p>

<p>"Not in a dream, but in the central
chamber of the Temple," she whispered.
"Here, shut out from the world by thick
walls, the guests of the Temple assemble at
dead of night, and create for themselves a
sort of fairy world, far different from the
world which you see at the church or opera,
or even on Broadway on a sunshiny day."</p>

<p>There was a touch of mockery in her tone
as she spoke.</p>

<p>"But do not these guests, as you call
them, know each other?" whispered Nameless.
"Do not those who mingle in the
orgie of the night, recognize each other
when they meet by daylight?"</p>

<p>"Every <i>aristocratic</i> gentleman knows the
<i>aristocratic</i> lady, who meets him within
these walls," replied Frank. "Beyond that
nothing is known. A mask, a convenient
costume, hides ever face and form. They
all, however, know the Queen of the Temple,"&mdash;she
placed her hand upon her breast;
"and the password, without which no one
can cross the threshold of this house, is
issued by the Queen of the Temple."</p>

<p>"Queen of the Temple?" echoed Nameless.</p>

<p>"Yes, Queen of the Temple! A Queen
who rules by midnight&mdash;and the temple of
whose power,&mdash;gay, voluptuous, flower-crowned,
as you see it,&mdash;is founded upon
pollution and death."</p>

<p>She paused; and Nameless saw her bosom
heave, and heard the sigh which escaped
from her lips.</p>

<p>"But this night past, you will bid adieu
to scenes like this forever?" whispered
Nameless. "You remember your pledge?"</p>

<p>She gently raised the vail; her countenance,
in all its impassioned loveliness, lay
open to his gaze. Her eyes flashed brightly,
vividly, although wet with tears.</p>

<p>"Yes," she responded in a whisper.
"This night past, I will bid adieu to scenes
like this forever!" and she drew him gently
to her bosom.&mdash;"Your life has been dark&mdash;mine
dark and criminal. But there is hope for
us, Gulian&mdash;hope beyond these walls, where
pollution is masked in flowers,&mdash;hope in
some far distant scene, where, unclogged by
the dark memories of the past, we will
begin life anew, and seek the blessing of
God, in a career of faith, of self-denial!"</p>

<p>"And then, Frank," said Nameless,&mdash;"should
wealth ever be ours, we will devote
it to the redemption of those who have suffered
like us, and like us fallen."</p>

<p>At this moment, a burst of music, from an
adjoining chamber, floated through the vast
and shadowy hall. And then the sound of
dancing, mingled with the music&mdash;and now
and then the music and the dance were
interrupted by the echo of joyous voices.</p>

<p>"'The guests of the Temple' are dancing
in the Banquet Chamber," said Frank.
"Masked and vailed, shut out from the
world by impenetrable walls, they are commencing
one of those orgies, which awoke
the echoes of the Vatican, in the days of
Pope Borgia."</p>

<p>A curtain was thrust aside,&mdash;a momentary
blaze of light rushed into the vast hall,&mdash;and
masked and vailed, the "guests of the
Temple" came pouring into the place.</p>

<p>"Stand here and observe them," whispered
Frank.</p>

<p>"A strange and motley throng!" returned
Nameless, in a whisper. "Are we indeed
in New York, in the nineteenth century?&mdash;or
is it in Rome, in the days of the Borgias?"</p>

<p>And for a few moments, he stood side by
side with Frank, in the shadow of the
central pillar, watching the scene in dumb
amazement. Walking, two by two&mdash;some
forty men and women in all&mdash;the guests
glided through the voluptuous light&mdash;and
shadow, no less voluptuous&mdash;of the central
chamber. It was, indeed, a strange and
motley crowd! Popes and cardinals, and
monks and nuns, mingled with knights,
caliphs and dancing girls. The effect of
their rich and varied costumes, deepened by
the soft light, was impressive, dazzling. A
pope led a dancing girl by the hand&mdash;a Christian
knight encircled the slender waist of a
houri, a stately cardinal discoursed in low
tones with a staid quakeress, whose enticing
form lost none of its charms in her severely
neat attire; and the grand Caliph Haroun
Alraschid, unawed by the precepts of the
prophet, supported a vailed abbess, on his
royal arm. Contrasts like these glided
among the pillars&mdash;now in light, now in
shadow; echoes of softly whispered conversation
filled the hall with a musical murmur;
and the mirrors along the walls reflected
the pictures&mdash;the tables, loaded with viands
and flowers&mdash;the rich variety of costume&mdash;the
pillars of white marble&mdash;the light and
shadow, which gave new witchery to the
scene.</p>

<p>There were certain of the maskers who,
in an especial manner, riveted the attention
of Nameless.</p>

<p>A man of stately presence and royal
stride, attired in a tunic of purple silk, with
an outer tunic of scarlet velvet, edged with
white ermine&mdash;hose, also of scarlet&mdash;and
shoes fastened with diamond buckles. Even
had the mask failed to hide his face, it
would have been concealed by the cluster
of snowy plumes which nodded from his
jeweled coronet.</p>

<p>"Behold Roderick Borgia!" whispered
Frank, as the masked passed along with his
stately stride.</p>

<p>"And the lady who leans upon his arm?"</p>

<p>"Lucretia Borgia!"</p>

<p>Lucretia was masked, but the mask which
hid the beauty of her face, could not conceal
the richness of her dark hair, which contrasted
so vividly with the whiteness of her
neck and shoulders. A single lily bloomed
in solitary loveliness in the blackness of her
hair; her form was encased in a white robe,
which adapting itself in easy folds to the
shape of her noble bust, is girded lightly to
her waist by a scarlet scarf. From the wide
sleeve, (edged like the skirt with scarlet),
you catch a glimpse of a magnificent hand
and arm.</p>

<p>"Worthy, my dear Lucretia, to rule hearts
by your beauty and empires by your intellect!"
said Roderick.</p>

<p>"Ah, your holiness flatters," was the whispered
reply.</p>

<p>"Her shape, indeed, is worthy of Lucretia
Borgia," said Frank, as Roderick Borgia and
his daughter passed by the central pillar, and
disappeared in the shadows.</p>

<p>"Does she inherit the morals as well as
the beauty of the woman-fiend whose name
she bears?"</p>

<p>Ere Frank could reply, another couple,
arm in arm, approached the central pillar. A
bulky cardinal in a scarlet hat and robe, holding
by the arm a slender youth attired in
modern style, in frock coat and trowsers of
blue cloth,&mdash;the trowsers displaying limbs of
unrivaled symmetry, and the frock coat buttoned
to the throat over an all too-prominent
bust. The cardinal wore a golden cross on
his brawny chest, and the brown hair of the
slender-waisted youth was gathered neatly
beneath a velvet cap, surmounted by a single
snowy plume. It was pleasant to note the
affection which existed between the grave
cardinal and his youthful friend! Not satisfied
with suffering the head of the graceful
boy to repose on his shoulder, the cardinal
encircled that slender waist with his flowing
scarlet sleeve! And thus whispering
softly&mdash;</p>

<p>"Dearest Julia!" said the cardinal, "what
think you of that <i>doctrinal</i> point?"</p>

<p>"Dearest doctor! what if my husband
knew?" softly replied the youth.</p>

<p>They passed by the central pillar, from
the light into the shadow.</p>

<p>"How name you these?" asked Nameless.</p>

<p>"Leo, the Tenth, and his nephew," was
the answer of Frank,&mdash;"but see here! A
monk and nun!"</p>

<p>The monk was tall; his hood and robe
fashioned of white cloth bordered with red;
the hood concealed his face, and the robe
fell in easy folds from his shoulders to his
sandaled feet. The nun was attired in a
hood and robe of snow-white satin; the hood
concealed her face and locks of gold; but
the robe, although loose and flowing, could
not conceal the rounded outlines of her shape.
Her naked feet were encased in delicate slippers
of white satin. And clinging with both
hands to the arm of the White Monk, the
White Nun went by.</p>

<p>"Beverly, are you sure?" Nameless heard
her whisper.</p>

<p>"Sure?" replied the White Monk, in a
tone that rose above a whisper,&mdash;"He is
false&mdash;false&mdash;you have the proofs!" And
they went from the light into the gloom.</p>

<p>"She trembles, and her voice falters," said
Frank, observing the form of the retiring
nun.</p>

<p>"Did she not say <i>Beverly</i>?" asked Nameless,
a tide of recollections rushing upon his
brain. "That name&mdash;surely I heard it,&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Look!" interrupted Frank, pressing his
arm,&mdash;"An oddly assorted couple as ever
went arm in arm."</p>

<p>And a little Turk, dressed in a scarlet
jacket and blue trowsers, with an enormous
turban on his head, approached the central
pillar, leaning on the arm,&mdash;nay, clutching
the hand of a tall lady, whose face and form
were completely concealed by an unsightly
robe of black muslin; a garment which
seemed to have been assumed, not so much
for the sake of ornament, as for disguise.
Gathering the robe across her head and face
with one hand, she glided along; her other
hand,&mdash;apparently not altogether to her
liking,&mdash;grasped by her singular companion.
As the "Lady in Black" passed by, Nameless
heard these words,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Havana! A most delightful residence,"
whispered the Turk.</p>

<p>The "Lady in Black" made no reply,&mdash;did
not even bend her head; but passed
along, her robe brushing the tunic of Nameless,
as she glided from view.</p>

<p>Why was it that through every nerve,
Nameless felt a sensation which cannot be
described, but which one cannot feel but once
in a lifetime,&mdash;and once felt, thrilling from
heart to brain, from brain to the remotest
fiber of being, can never be forgotten? A
sensation, as though the hand of one long
since dead, had touched his cheek, as though
the presence of one long since given to the
grave, had come to him and <i>overshadowed</i>
him?</p>

<p>"Who is that lady?" he whispered,&mdash;resting
one hand against the pillar, for a sudden
faintness seized him,&mdash;"That lady who
is matched with a companion so grotesque?"</p>

<p>"She may be young or old, fair or hideous,
but her name I cannot tell," responded
Frank. "As for her companion,&mdash;the diminutive
Turk who clutches her hand, and to
whose soft pleadings she does not seem to
listen with the most affectionate interest,&mdash;his
name is&mdash;&mdash;" Frank bent her mouth
close to the ear of Nameless.</p>

<p>"His name?" he interrupted.</p>

<p>"Is one which cannot but excite bitter
memories. Israel Yorke, the Financier!"</p>

<p>At that name, linked with the events of
the previous night, and with the somber
memories of other years, Nameless started,
and an ejaculation escaped his lips.</p>

<p>"Israel Yorke! and in this place?"</p>

<p>"Yes,&mdash;and why not?" responded Frank,
bitterly. "What place so fitting for the
swindler,&mdash;pardon me, <i>Financier</i>? Is it not
well that the money which by day is wrung
from the hard earnings of the poor, should
be spent at night in debauchery and pollution?"</p>

<p>"<i>From</i> the bank <i>to</i> the brothel," thought
Nameless, but he did not breathe that
thought aloud.</p>

<p>Frank silently took him by the hand, and
lifted her vail. There was a magic in the
pressure and the look. Holding the vail in
such a manner that he might gaze freely
upon her countenance, while it was hidden
from all other eyes, she looked at him long
and steadfastly.</p>

<p>"Do you regret your pledge?" she said,
measuring every word.</p>

<p>"Regret!" he echoed,&mdash;for the touch, the
look, the voluptuous atmosphere of her very
presence, made him forget the past, the prospects
of the future,&mdash;everything, but the
woman whose soul shone upon him from
her passionate eyes:&mdash;"Can you think it?
Regret! Never!"</p>

<p>"Then this is my last night in the Temple.
O, my heart, my soul is sick of scenes
like these!" She glanced around the hall,
crowded by the maskers,&mdash;"<i>To-morrow</i>,&mdash;"
bending gently to him, until he felt her
breath upon his cheek, "to-morrow,&mdash;"</p>

<p>"<i>To-morrow</i>!" echoed a strange voice;
"but, my lady, I have a word to say to you
<i>to-night</i>."</p>

<p>They turned with the same impulse, and
beheld the unbidden speaker, in the form of
a Spanish hidalgo, dressed in black velvet,
richly embroidered with gold. He held his
mask before his face, and a group of dark
plumes shaded his brow.</p>

<p>She started at the voice, and Nameless felt
her hand tremble in his own.</p>

<p>"In a moment I will join you again," she
whispered to Nameless; "now, Count, I am
at your service."</p>

<p>And leaving Nameless by the pillar, she
took the Count by the arm, and with him
disappeared in the shadows of the hall.</p>

<p>Leaning against the pillar, and folding his
arms across his breast,&mdash;over the white cross
which glittered there,&mdash;Nameless awaited
her return with evident anxiety. He was
devoured by contending emotions. The
fascination with which this beautiful woman
had enveloped him,&mdash;suspicion of the stranger
who had called her from his side,&mdash;the
strange and varied scene before him,&mdash;these
occupied him by turns; and then, even amid
the excitement and fascination of the present,
some faces of the past looked vividly in
upon his soul!</p>

<p>And while a scene is transpiring between
Frank and the Count, which will hereafter
have a strong influence upon the fate of
Nameless, let us, for an instant, stand with
him by the central pillar, and gaze upon the
mysterious ball.</p>

<p>Mild lights, rich shadows, the ceiling supported
by marble pillars, the maskers in
their contrasted costumes, and the mirrors
reflecting all. The stately Roderick and the
enticing Lucretia are conversing earnestly in
yonder recess,&mdash;the White Monk and the
White Nun stand face to face near yonder
pillar, her lip pressing the champagne glass
offered by his hand,&mdash;Leo the Tenth, paces
slowly from the middle of the hall to the
mirror and back again, the head of his beloved
nephew on his shoulder, <i>her</i> waist
encircled by his arm; and yonder, apart
from all others, stands the Lady in Black,
with her diminutive lover, even the Turk,
kneeling at her feet. Nameless observes all
these with an especial interest. As for the
rest, there is a Pope sharing an orange with
a dancing-girl, a Knight halving a bunch of
grapes with a houri, a Cardinal taking wine
with a Quakeress; and the saintly Abbess,
yonder, is teaching the grave Haroun Alraschid
how to eat a "philopoena!"</p>

<p>"Truly, my life is one of adventure!"
muttered Nameless, observing the fantastic
scene. "Last night, arrested as a thief,&mdash;a
few nights since the tenant of a mad-house,
and to-night in a scene like this! To-morrow
night <i>what</i> and <i>where</i>?"</p>

<p>To-morrow night!</p>

<p>Meanwhile, in a dark recess, whose mirror
scarce reflected a single ray, Frank, trembling
and agitated, stood face to face with the
Count. His mask was laid aside, and in the
dim light she saw his face stamped with an
unusual energy.</p>

<p>"You wish to speak to me?" she said.</p>

<p>"An hour ago I came to this house,&mdash;entered
your chamber unsummoned, and to my
utter surprise found this young man there. I
overheard the pledge which you exchanged;
and now let us have a fair understanding.
Has he promised,&mdash;has he plighted his word?
Have you accepted him?" Thus spoke the
Count, in a low voice.</p>

<p>"He has, father," replied Frank; "and I
have accepted him."</p>

<p>"When and where?" asked the Count,
or Col. Tarleton, as you please.</p>

<p>"As soon as I leave this place, and am the
tenant of a <i>home</i>," replied Frank, her voice
trembling on that word, so new to her&mdash;"<i>home</i>!"</p>

<p>"Daughter," said Tarleton, and his voice
was deep and husky, indicating powerful
emotion, "I have a few words to say to you;
you will do well to heed them. The drama
of twenty-one years draws to a close. The
termination of the fifth act will decide my
fate and yours. This <i>boy</i> is now almost the
only obstacle between myself and my brother's
unbounded wealth, and between you and
the position of a respected, if not virtuous,
woman. And this boy, mark you, shall not
leave this house save as your husband. I
swear it! Do you hear me,&mdash;"</p>

<p>His voice grew thicker, huskier,&mdash;he seized
her by the wrist.</p>

<p>"Father!" she gasped, as though her
proud spirit was cowed by the ferocious determination
of his manner.</p>

<p>"He shall not leave this house save as
your husband. You say that he is fascinated
with you, and you, at first sight, with him.
Well! He has seventy-one thousand dollars
now in his possession, (no matter how
gained), and on the 25th of December, that
is, to-morrow, if <i>living</i>, he will become the
possessor of the Van Huyden estate, a richer
man than Girard and Astor together; ay,
ten Astors and Girards on top of that. As
his wife, your position will be that of a
queen; and as for myself, I will sacrifice my
hopes as the brother of the testator, in order
to behold you the queenly wife of that testator's
son. You hear me?"</p>

<p>"I do," gasped Frank.</p>

<p>"But there must be no mistake, mark you,
no 'slip between the cup and the lip;' the
time is too near, to trust this matter to the
remotest chance of failure. He must be
your husband ere he leaves this house, or,&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Or?" faltered Frank.</p>

<p>"Or,&mdash;mark you, I do not threaten; but I
am speaking Fate,&mdash;or, he will not <i>appear</i>
on the 25th of December."</p>

<p>"He will not <i>appear</i>? What mean you?"
her voice suddenly changed; she laid her
hand upon his shoulder. "Do you mean to
say that you will <i>murder</i> him, dear father?"</p>

<p>"He will not <i>appear</i>, I said, and say it
again," he resumed in the same determined
voice; "and the inheritance of this incredible
estate will fall either to the seven, or to
myself, the brother, or,&mdash;are you listening,
daughter?&mdash;to the <i>twin brother</i> of this boy."</p>

<p>"Twin brother?" echoed Frank, utterly
amazed.</p>

<p>"Yes, twin brother. The time is short,
and we must put what we have to say in the
fewest words. You remember your lost
brother, Gulian?"</p>

<p>"I do."</p>

<p>"He was not your brother, although you
were always taught to regard him as such.
He was the twin brother of the boy who
now leans against yonder pillar. On the
night of his birth (wishing to destroy every
obstacle between myself and my brother's
estate), I stole him from his mother's arms.
But when I learned the details of my brother's
singular will, I resolved to rear him as
my own, and keep him in reserve until the
25th of December, 1844, when thoroughly
under my influence, and yet backed by undeniable
proofs of his paternity, he would
appear and claim his father's estate. It was
not until 1832, that I learned that he had a
twin brother in existence; you know what
pains I took to sweep all proof of his existence
from the memory of man; and it was
only last night that I learned that this twin
brother (now standing by yonder pillar), was
still in being. Now, Frank, is the case
clear? The one whom you were taught to
call your brother Gulian, and to regard as
lost, is neither your brother nor is he lost.
He is living, and at my will, on the 25th of
December, 1844,&mdash;to-morrow,&mdash;will appear
in place of yonder youth, unless the marriage
takes place at once."</p>

<p>Frank was utterly confounded. Well she
remembered the revelation which Nameless
made while in the clairvoyant state; that
his mother had given birth to two children,
one of whom had been secreted by the father,
the other stolen by the uncle, but that the
lost boy, whom she had been taught to
regard as her brother Gulian, was one of
these twins, was the brother of Nameless,&mdash;this
was indeed a revelation, an overwhelming
surprise. For a moment she was silent;
her brain throbbed painfully.</p>

<p>"But how am I to believe this story?"</p>

<p>"You can disbelieve it, if you like," responded
her father drily, "and risk the consequences&mdash;"</p>

<p>"But will not the marriage be as certain
to-morrow, the day after, nay a week
hence,&mdash;" she faltered.</p>

<p>"Girl! you will drive me mad,&mdash;" he
clutched her by the wrist:&mdash;"nothing is
certain that is not accomplished&mdash;"</p>

<p>She felt the blood mount to her cheek,
and her heart swell in her breast:</p>

<p>"Have you no shame?" she said and
flung his hand from her wrist&mdash;"Do you
forget what you have made me? How can
I, knowing what I am, what you have made
me, urge him to hasten this marriage? Have
you no shame? 'Come, I am lost and
fallen,' shall I speak thus to him, 'I was
sold into shame by my parents, when only
fourteen years old. But you must marry
me; to-night; at once; my father says so;
he knows best; he sold me; and wants
your fortune!' do you wish me to speak thus
to him, father dear?"</p>

<p>It was now his turn to tremble. The
proud spirit of her mother, (before he had
degraded that mother,) spoke again in the
tone, in the look of her daughter. He bit
his lip, and ground his teeth.</p>

<p>"Frank, Frank, pity me,&mdash;I am desperate,
but it is for your sake!" he cried, changing
his method of attack&mdash;"Spare me the
commission of a new crime,&mdash;spare me! I
do not threaten, I entreat."</p>

<p>Wringing her hands within his own, he
dragged her deeper into the shadows of the
recess.</p>

<p>"Behold me at your feet;" he fell upon
his knees; "the father on his knees at his
daughter's feet; the father already steeped
in crime, beseeches that daughter to save
him from the commission of a new crime;
to save him by simply pursuing her own
happiness."</p>

<p>Frank was fearfully agitated; she drew
her father to his right. "When do you
wish the marriage to take place?" she said
in a faltering tone.</p>

<p>"At once,&mdash;for your sake,&mdash;"</p>

<p>"But the clergyman,&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Dr. Bulgin is here. If you consent I
will summon him to your chamber. The
ceremony will take place there.</p>

<p>"Wait," she whispered; "I will see him.
If I drop my 'kerchief, or take the cross
from his neck all is right."</p>

<p>She glided from her father's side, and
passing along the hall, among the maskers,
soon stood by the side of Nameless once
more.</p>

<p>Tarleton watched her as she went; watched
her as she confronted Nameless; and while
her back was toward him, endeavored, even
through the distance, to mark the result of
her mission, from the changes of the countenance
of Nameless. Tarleton's form was
concealed by the hangings of the recess, but
his face, projecting from its shadow, was
touched with faint light; light that only
rendered more haggard and livid, its already
haggard and livid lineaments. How earnestly
he watched for the anticipated sign! It
was not made. He clutched the hangings
with both hands.</p>

<p>It had been a busy night with him. He
had taken Ninety-One to the rooms of young
Evelyn Somers, and placed the convict in
one room, while the dead body of his own
victim, rested in the other; thence he had
passed to the library of Somers, the father,
and held a pleasant chat with him; and
from thence to the counting-room of Israel
Yorke, where he had set Blossom on the
track of Ninety-One. And from the counting-room
of Israel Yorke, (after a deed or
two which may hereafter be explained) he had
repaired once more to the house of the merchant
prince, in time to find Ninety-One accused
of the murder of young Evelyn Somers.
He had rushed to the room of Ninety-One,
determined to avenge the murder of his
friend, and to his great astonishment, found
that Ninety-One had escaped by a secret
door. Of course, the gallant Colonel knew
nothing of that door! Then he had witnessed
the death scene of the merchant-prince,
and after threatening the boy, Gulian, he had
returned to the Temple, brooding all sorts
of schemes, big with all kinds of elaborate
deviltry; and had discovered, to his real
surprise, Nameless in his daughter's chamber!
Discovered that Frank was in love with
Nameless, and Nameless fascinated by Frank.
A busy night, gallant Colonel! Well may
you clutch the hangings with both hands,
and watch for the falling of the 'kerchief,
or the lifting of the cross!</p>

<p>"They are talking,&mdash;talking,&mdash;zounds!
Why does she not give the sign? That
sign given and all my difficulties are at an
end! The seven heirs, Martin Fulmer, the
estate, all are in my power!"</p>

<p>As these words escaped the Colonel's lips,
two figures approached: one a knight in
blue armor, (something like unto the stage
image of the Ghost of Hamlet's father,) and
the other in buff waistcoat, wide-skirted
coat, ruffles, cocked hat, and buckskin small
clothes,&mdash;supposed altogether to resemble a
gentleman of the old school. The blue
knight and the gentleman of the old school
were moderately inebriated: even to a sinuousness
of gait, and a tremulousness of the
knees.</p>

<p>"I say Colonel, <i>what&mdash;what</i> news?" hiccupped
the knight.</p>

<p>"Yes, yes," remarked the gentleman of
the old school, with a bold attempt at originality
of thought, "what <i>news</i>?"</p>

<p>"Pop!&mdash;" the Colonel looked at the
knight,&mdash;"Pills!" he surveyed the gentleman
of the old school; "I've sad news for
you. Passing by the house of old Mr.
Somers, an hour or two ago, I discovered
that his son had been murdered in his room,
you mark me, by an escaped convict, who
was found concealed on the premises. Sad
news, boys!"</p>

<p>"Extraordinary!" cried Pop and Pill in a
breath. And the two drew near the principal
and conversed at leisure with him; the
Colonel all the while watching for the sign!</p>

<p>Frank and Nameless!</p>

<p>She found him leaning against the central
pillar, his arms folded on his breast, his
large gray eyes (for the mask had fallen
from his face,) roving thoughtfully around
the hall. How changed that face! The
cheeks, no longer sallow, are flushed with
hope; the lips, no longer colorless and dropped
apart in vacant apathy, are firmly set
together; the broad forehead, still white
and massive, is stamped with thought; the
thought which, no longer dismayed by the
bitter past, looks forward, with a clear vision
to the battles of the future. The events of
the night had given new life to Nameless.</p>

<p>She caught his gaze,&mdash;and at once enchained
it. His eye derived new fire from
her look, but was chained to that look.</p>

<p>"It was <i>my father</i> who wished to speak
with me, Gulian," she said, and watched
each lineament of his countenance.</p>

<p>"Your father?" he echoed.</p>

<p>"My father, who has worked you so
much wrong,&mdash;who has worked such bitter
wrong to me,&mdash;and who this very night,
while brooding schemes for your ruin,
entered my chamber, and found you in my
arms, and heard the solemn pledge which we
exchanged."</p>

<p>"Well, Frank," he interrupted, gazing anxiously
into her face.</p>

<p>"He confesses that our,&mdash;our <i>marriage</i>,
will more than exceed his wildest hope.
That the very thought of it, makes him
feel bitter remorse for the past, and levels
every evil thought, as regards the future.
But&mdash;"</p>

<p>She paused and took his hands in hers,
and bent her face nearer to him, until her
burning gaze, riveted every power of his
soul.</p>

<p>"But he is afraid that you will hereafter
regret your pledge of marriage."</p>

<p>"Frank!"</p>

<p>"That you, as the possessor of incredible
wealth, will look back with wonder, with
contempt upon the hour, when you plighted
your faith to one like me!"</p>

<p>"One like you! Frank, Frank, do you
think thus?"</p>

<p>"That once secure in your possessions,
you will regard as worse than idle words, a
promise made to the daughter of your
enemy,&mdash;to a woman, whose life has been&mdash;spare
me&mdash;"</p>

<p>She buried her head upon his breast; he
drew her to him and felt the beating of her
heart.</p>

<p>"Oh, Frank, can you think thus meanly of
me?" he cried, completely carried away by
her wild beauty, her agitation, her tears.
"My promise once made cannot be taken
back. I know what I promise; I know the
future. I have risen from the grave of my
past life; you, too, shall rise from the grave
of your past life. We will begin life anew.
We will walk the world together! Oh,
would that this hour, this moment, I could
make my compact good, beyond all chance
of change, all danger of repeal!"</p>

<p>"Do you really wish thus, Gulian?" She
raised her face, and her soul was in her eyes.
"Is that the deepest wish of your heart?"</p>

<p>"Frank, I swear it!"</p>

<p>She took the white cross from his neck,&mdash;held
it for a moment over her head; it
glittered brightly in the light; and then she
wound the chain about her own neck, and
the white cross glittered on her proud
bosom.</p>

<p>"Take this in exchange"&mdash;she took the
golden cross from her breast, and wound its
chain about his neck; the cross glitters over
his heart&mdash;"in witness of our mutual pledge.
And Gulian,&mdash;" there was a look&mdash;an extended
hand&mdash;"Come!"</p>

<p>She led him from the light into the
shadows, and&mdash;while his every pulse
bounded as with a new life&mdash;from the hall.</p>

<p>And, as they passed from the hall, Leo
the Tenth, clad in his cardinal attire, led his
young nephew lovingly among the shadows
of the vast apartment,&mdash;now pausing to
refresh himself with sparkling Heidsick, and
now twining his arm about the nephew's
waist, trying to soothe <i>her</i> mind upon some
doctrinal point:</p>

<p>"Dearest Julia," he whispered, as they
paused for a moment in the shadow of a
pillar.</p>

<p>"Dearest Doctor," she responded&mdash;that is,
the nephew, clad in blue frock-coat and
trowsers; "you don't think that my husband
ever will&mdash;"</p>

<p>The sentence was interrupted. A grave hidalgo,
attired in black velvet, richly embroidered
with gold, confronted the Doctor,
otherwise Leo the Tenth, and whispered
earnestly in his ear.</p>

<p>"Impossible!" responded Leo the Tenth,
shaking his head. "Impossible, my dear
Tarleton!"</p>

<p>"It <i>must</i> be," answered the hidalgo, emphatically.
"A quiet room up stairs, and
no one present save myself, the bridegroom
and the bride."</p>

<p>"But my name will appear on the certificate,"
hesitated the Doctor, "and questions
may be asked as to the <i>place</i> in which this
marriage was celebrated, and <i>how</i> I came to
be there."</p>

<p>"Pshaw! You are strangely scrupulous,"
returned the hidalgo. "I tell you, Doctor,
it is a matter of the last importance, and
cannot be put off. Then you can celebrate
the marriage a <i>second</i> time, in <i>another place</i>,
and&mdash;" he whispered a few emphatic words
in the Doctor's ear.</p>

<p>Leo the Tenth was troubled, but he saw
no way of escape.</p>

<p>"Well, well, be it so, Tarleton; you are
an odd sort of fellow. Julia, dear,"&mdash;this,
aside to his nephew; "wait for me in the
Scarlet Chamber, up stairs, you know?" The
nephew whispered <i>her</i> assent. "I'll join
you presently. Now Count,"&mdash;this to Tarleton,&mdash;"lead
the way, and let us celebrate
these mysterious nuptials."</p>

<p>And the three left the Central Hall
together. Tarleton and the Doctor, on their
way to the Bridal Chamber, and the nephew
on <i>her</i> way to the Scarlet Chamber.</p>

<p>Near the central pillar stood the White
Monk, with the hands of the White Nun
resting on his shoulders, and his arms about
her waist. Her hood has fallen; her countenance,
flushed and glowing, lies open to
his gaze. A beautiful nun, with blue eyes,
swimming in fiery light, and unbound hair,
bright as gold, sweeping a cheek like a rosebud,
and resting upon neck and shoulders
white as snow. And the White Monk bends
down, and their lips meet, and she falls, half
passionately, half shuddering, on his breast.</p>

<p>"Oh, Beverly, Beverly! whither would
you lead me?" He scarce can distinguish
the words, so faint, so broken by agitation is
her voice.</p>

<p>"Your husband is false. He has trampled
upon your love. I love you, and will avenge
you. Come, Joanna!"</p>

<p>And from the light into the shadow, with
the trembling nun half resting on his arm,
half reposing on his breast, passes the White
Monk. They reach the threshold of the
hall. Pass it not, Joanna, as you love your
child! pass it not, on peril of your soul!
But no! "Come, Joanna!" and they are
gone together.</p>

<p>From the throng of maskers who glide to
and fro, select, for a moment, the lady in
black, who stands gloomily yonder, gathering
the folds of her robe about her face.
Does this scene attract, or repel her?
Within that shapeless robe, does her bosom
swell with pleasure&mdash;voluptuous pleasure? or
does it contract with terror and loathing?</p>

<p>Her Turkish friend,&mdash;the diminutive gentleman
in the red jacket, spangled all over,
blue trowsers and red morocco boots,&mdash;in
vain offers her a glass of sparkling champagne;
and just as vainly essays to draw
her forth in conversation. At last, he seems
to weary of her continued silence:</p>

<p>"If you will favor me with your company
for a few moments, I will explain the purpose
which impelled me to request an interview
at this place."</p>

<p>"Let it be at once, then," is the whispered
reply.</p>

<p>He offers his arm; she quietly but firmly
pushes it aside.</p>

<p>"I will follow you," she says in her low-toned
voice.</p>

<p>And the Turk leaves the hall, followed
by the Lady in Black.</p>

<p>"The Blue Chamber!" he ejaculates, as
he crosses the threshold.</p>

<p>Look again among the throng of guests.
The stately Roderick Borgia stands yonder,
his massive form reflected in a mirror, and
the white robed Lucretia resting on his arm.
They are masked; you cannot see the
voluptuous loveliness of her face, nor the
somber passion of his bronzed visage. But
his brow,&mdash;that vast forehead, big with
swollen veins,&mdash;is visible; and the mirror
reflects her spotless neck and shoulders, and
the single lily set among the meshes of her
raven hair. It is a fine picture; the majestic
Borgia, clad in purple, the enticing Lucretia
robed in snowy white: never before did
mirror reflect a more striking contrast. You
hear his voice&mdash;that voice whose organ-like
depth stirs the blood:</p>

<p>"A career, beautiful lady, now opens
before you, such as the proudest queen might
envy&mdash;"</p>

<p>And he attempts to take her soft, white
hand within his own. But she gently withdraws
it from his grasp. Lucretia, it seems,
is timid, or&mdash;artful.</p>

<p>"Yes, we will revive the day, when intellect
and beauty, embodied in a woman's
form, ruled the world." How his deep voice
adds force to his words. "Yes, yes; you
shall be my Queen&mdash;mine! But come; I
have that to say to you, which will have a
vital bearing upon your fate."</p>

<p>"And my brother?" whispers Lucretia.</p>

<p>"And also the fate of your brother,"
responds Roderick Borgia. "Come with
me to the Golden Room."</p>

<p>"To the Golden Room be it then!"</p>

<p>And Lucretia leans on the arm of Borgia
and goes with him from the Hall to the
Golden Room: his broad chest swelling
with the anticipation of triumph,&mdash;and her
right hand resting upon the hilt of the
poniard which is inserted in the scarf that
binds her waist.</p>

<p>Ere we follow the guests who have left
the hall, and trace their various fortunes, let
us cast a momentary glance upon those who
remain.</p>

<p>The Caliph Haroun Alraschid sits by
yonder table, sipping champagne from a
long-necked glass, which now and then is
pressed by the lips of his fair abbess. The
caliph has evidently been refreshing himself
too bountifully with the wines of the Giaour;
his mask falls aside, and beneath his turban,
instead of the grave oriental features of the
magnificent sultan, you discern the puffy face
and carbuncled nose of a Wall street broker.</p>

<p>A little beyond the caliph, a pope has
fallen to sleep on yonder sofa, the triple
crown resting neglected at his feet, and his
pontifical robes soiled with the stains of
wine. The cardinal and his Quakeress are
trying the steps of the last waltz. The
Christian knight and his houri, stand by the
table, near the pillar,&mdash;discussing the merits
of Mahomet's paradise? No! But the
remains of a cold boiled fowl. And then,
in the shadows of the pillars, and in front
of the lofty mirrors, still glided to and fro
the contrasted train of monks and nuns,
knights and houris, cardinals and Quakeresses,
popes and dancing girls. All were
masked&mdash;still masked: for there were faces
in that hall which you may have often seen
in the dress circle of the opera, or in the
dress pews of the fashionable church. Remove
those masks? Never! not as you value
the peace of a hundred families, the reputation
of some of our most exclusive fashionables,
the repose of "good society."</p>

<p>Thus the maskers glide along; the music
strikes up in an adjoining hall&mdash;the dance
begins&mdash;the orgie deepens,&mdash;and,&mdash;</p>

<p>Let the curtain fall.</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h3><a name="CHAPTER_4_II" id="CHAPTER_4_II">CHAPTER II.</a></h3>

<h4>THE BLUE ROOM.</h4>


<p>The diminutive Turk, followed by the
Lady in Black, led the way from the hall,
to a distant and secluded apartment. She
still gathered the hood of her robe closely
about her face, and not a word was spoken
as they pursued their way along the dark
passage. A door was opened, and they
entered a small although luxurious apartment,
hung with hangings of azure, veined
with golden flowers. A wax candle, placed
in its massive candlestick, on a table before
a mirror, gave light to the place. It was a
silent, cozy, and luxurious nook of the Temple,
remote from the hall, and secure from
all danger of interruption.</p>

<p>As the Turk entered he flung aside his
mask and turban, and disclosed the ferret
eyes, bald head and wiry whiskers of Israel
Yorke. Israel's bald head was fringed with
white hairs; his wiry whiskers touched with
gray; it was a strange contrast between his
practical <i>bank-note</i> face, and his oriental costume.</p>

<p>"Now," he cried, flinging himself into a
chair, "let us come to some understanding.
What in the deuce do you mean?"</p>

<p>"What do I mean?" echoed the Lady in
Black, who, seated on the sofa, held the folds
of the robe across her face.</p>

<p>"Yes, <i>what</i> do you mean?" replied Israel,
giving his Turkish jacket a petulant twitch.
"Did I not help you out of that difficulty in
Canal street, last evening, and rescue you
from the impertinence of the shop-keeper?"</p>

<p>"Yes," briefly responded the lady.</p>

<p>"Did I not, seeing your forlorn and desolate
condition, pin a note to your shawl,
signed with my own name, asking you to
meet me at this place, at twelve o'clock,
'where,' so I said, 'my worthy and unprotected
friend, now so bravely endeavoring to
get bread for an afflicted father, you will hear
of something greatly to your advantage.'
Those were my words, '<i>greatly to your advantage</i>.'"</p>

<p>"Those were the words," echoed the lady,
still preserving her motionless attitude.</p>

<p>"And in the note I inclosed the password
by which only admittance can be gained to
this mansion?"</p>

<p>"You did. I used it; entered the mansion
and met you." Her voice was scarcely audible
and very tremulous.</p>

<p>"You met me, oh, indeed you met me,"
said Israel, pulling his gray whiskers; "but
what of that? An hour and more has
passed. You have refused even a glass of
wine,&mdash;have never replied one word to all
my propositions; egad! I have not even seen
your face."</p>

<p>"And now you have brought me to this
lonely apartment to repeat your proposals?"</p>

<p>"Yes!" Israel picked up his turban and
twirled it round on the end of his finger.
"I want a plain answer, yes, or no! I am a
plain man,&mdash;a man of business. You are
poor, almost starving (pardon me if I pain
you), and you have an aged and helpless
father on your hands. You have nothing to
look forward to, but starvation, or, the streets.
You remember the scene in the shirt-store
to-night?"</p>

<p>The lady gently bowed her head, and
raised both hands to her face.</p>

<p>"I am rich, benevolent, always had a good
heart,"&mdash;another twirl of the turban,&mdash;"and
in a day or two I am about to sail for Havana.
Accompany me! Your father shall
be settled comfortably; the sea-breezes will
do you good, and,&mdash;and,&mdash;the climate is delicious."
And the fervent Turk stroked his
bald head, and smoothed his white hairs.</p>

<p>"Accompany you," said the lady, slowly;
"in what capacity? As a daughter, perchance?"</p>

<p>"Not ex-act-ly as a daugh-t-e-r," responded
Israel; "but as a <i>companion</i>."</p>

<p>There was a pause, and the robe was
gently removed from the head and face of
the Lady in Black. A beautiful countenance,
shaded by dark brown hair, was disclosed;
young and beautiful, although there was the
shadow of sorrow on the cheeks, and traces
of tears in the eyes. An expression inexpressibly
sad and touching came over that
face, as she said, in a voice which was musical
in its very tremor,&mdash;</p>

<p>"And you, sir, knew my father in better
days?"</p>

<p>"I did."</p>

<p>"You never knew any one of his race
guilty of a dishonorable act?"</p>

<p>"Never did."</p>

<p>"And now you find him aged and helpless,&mdash;find
myself, his only hope, reduced
to the last extreme of poverty, with no prospect
but (your own words), starvation, or the
streets,&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Ay." Israel, beneath his spectacles,
seemed to cast an admiring glance at his
Turkish trowsers and red morocco boots.</p>

<p>"And in this hour, you, an old friend of
the family, who have never known one of
our name guilty of an act of dishonor, come
to me, and seeing my father's affliction, and
my perfectly helpless condition, gravely propose
that I shall escape dishonor by becoming
your&mdash;<i>mistress</i>! That is your proposition,
sir."</p>

<p>She rose and placed her hand firmly on
Israel's shoulder, and looked him fixedly in
the eye. The little man was thunderstruck.
Her flashing eyes, her bosom heaving proudly
under its faded covering, the proud curl of
her lip, and the firm pressure of the hand
which rested on his shoulder, took the Financier
completely by surprise.</p>

<p>"I am scarce sixteen years old," she continued,
her eyes growing larger and brighter,
"my childhood was passed without a care.
But in the last two years I have gone
through trials that madden me now to think
upon; trials that the aged and experienced
are rarely called upon to encounter; but in
the darkest hour, I have never forgotten
these words, 'Trust in God;' never for an
instant believed that God would ever leave
me to become the prey of a man like <i>you</i>!"</p>

<p>And she pressed his shoulder, until the
little man shook again, his gold spectacles
rattling on his nose.</p>

<p>"For, do you mark me, the very trials
that have well-nigh driven me mad, have
also given me strength and courage, may be,
the strength, the courage of despair, but
still the courage, when the last hope fails, to
choose death before dishonor!"</p>

<p>"But your father," faltered Israel.</p>

<p>"My father is without bread; but once in
twenty-four hours have I tasted food, and
that a miserable morsel; but rather than accept
your proposals, and lie down with
shame, I would put the poison vial first to
my father's lips, then to my own! Yes,
Israel Yorke, there is a God, and He, in this
house, when the last hope has gone out,
when there is nothing but death before,
gives me strength to spit upon your infamous
proposals, and to die! Strength such
as you will never feel in your death-hour!"</p>

<p>"Pretty talk, pretty talk," faltered Israel;
"but what does it amount to? Talk on,
still the fact remains; you and your father
are starving, and you reject the offer of the
only one who can relieve you."</p>

<p>She raised her eyes to heaven. She folded
her hands upon her heaving breast. Her
face was unnaturally pallid; her eyes unnaturally
bright. As she stood, in an attitude
so calm and severe, she was wondrously
beautiful. Her voice was marked with singular
elation,&mdash;</p>

<p>"O, my God! there must be a hell," she
said. "There must be a place where the
injustice of this world is made straight; else
why does this man sit here, clad in ill-gotten
and superfluous wealth, while my aged
father, one of his victims, lacks at this hour
even a crust of bread?"</p>

<p>Israel's feelings can only be described by
a single word&mdash;"uncomfortable." He shifted
nervously in his chair, and twirled his turban
on the end of his finger; then rubbed
his bald head, smoothed his white hair, and
pulled his wiry whiskers.</p>

<p>"What in the devil did you come to see
me for, if such was your opinion of me?"</p>

<p>"I came to see you as a last hope;" her
countenance fell, and her tone was that of
unalloyed despair. "I thought that remorse
had been busy at your heart; that you
wished to atone for the past by a just, although
tardy, restitution. I thought&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Remorse! restitution!" laughed the Financier.
"Come, I like that!"</p>

<p>"That knowing the utterly destitute condition
of the father, you had summoned the
daughter, in order to tender to her, at least,
a portion of the wealth which you wrung
from him&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>Choked by emotion, she could not proceed,
but grew pale and paler, until a flood
of tears came to her relief.</p>

<p>"O, sir, a pittance, a pittance, to save my
father's life!" She flung herself at his feet,
and clutched his knees. Her much-worn
bonnet fell back upon her neck, and her hair
burst its fastening, and descended in wavy
masses upon her shoulders. Her face was
flushed with sudden warmth; her eyes shone
all the brighter for their tears. "A pittance
out of your immense wealth, to save the life
of your old friend, my father! His daughter
begs it at your feet."</p>

<p>Israel gazed at her deliberately through his
gold spectacles,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Oh, no, my dear," he said, and a sneer
curled his cold lip; "you are too damnably
virtuous."</p>

<p>The maiden said no more. Relaxing her
grasp, she fell at his feet, and lay there, pale
and insensible, her long hair floating on the
carpet. The agony which she had endured
in the last twenty-four hours had reached its
climax. She was stretched like a dead woman
at the feet of the Financier.</p>

<p>"Trust in God,&mdash;good motto for a picture-book;
but what good does it do you now
my dear?" thus soliloquized Israel, as he
knelt beside the insensible girl. "Don't discount
that kind of paper in my bank that I
know of. Fine arm, that, and splendid
bust!" He surveyed her maidenly, yet
rounded proportions. "If it was not for her
stubborn virtue, she would make a splendid
companion. Well, well,&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>A vile thought worked its way through
every lineament of his face.</p>

<p>"Once in my power, all her scruples would
be at an end. We are alone,"&mdash;he glanced
around the cozy apartment,&mdash;"and I think
I'll try the effect of an anodyne. Anodynes
are good for fainting spells, I believe."</p>

<p>He drew a slender vial from beneath his
Turkish jacket, and holding it between himself
and the light, examined it steadily with
one eye.</p>

<p>"It is well I thought of it! 'Twill revive
her,&mdash;make her gently delirious for a while,
and she will not come to herself completely
until to-morrow; much surer than persuasion,
and quicker! Trust in God,&mdash;a-hem!"</p>

<p>He raised her head on his knee, and un
corked the vial and held it to her lips.</p>

<p>At that moment there was a quick, rapid
knock at the door. It broke startlingly upon
the dead stillness.</p>

<p>"Why did I not lock it?" cried Israel,
his hand paralyzed, even as it held the vial
to the poor girl's lips.</p>

<p>Too late! The door opened, and one by
one, six sturdy men, in rough garments and
with faces by no means ominous of good
stalked into the room.</p>

<p>And over the shoulders of the six, appeared
six other faces, all wearing that same
discouraging expression. It may not be improper
to state that every one of the twelve
carried in his right hand a piece of wood,
that deserved the name of a stick, perchance,
a club.</p>

<p>And shuffling over the floor, they encircled
Israel. "Got him," said one who appeared
to be the spokesman of the band, "safe and
tight! Had a hunt, but fetched him at last.
I say, Israel, my Turk, (a gentle hint with a
club), get up and redeem your paper!"</p>

<p>And he held a bundle of bank notes,&mdash;Chow
Bank, Muddy Run, Terrapin Hollow,
under the nose of the paralyzed Financier.</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h3><a name="CHAPTER_4_III" id="CHAPTER_4_III">CHAPTER III.</a></h3>

<h4>THE GOLDEN ROOM.</h4>


<p>Roderick Borgia leads Lucretia across
the threshold of the Golden Room. She
utters an ejaculation of wonder mingled with
terror. For it is a magnificent, and yet a
gloomy place that Golden Room. A large
square apartment, the walls concealed by
black hangings,&mdash;hangings of velvet fringed
with gold. The floor is covered with a dark
carpet, the ceiling represents a sun radiating
among sullen clouds. The chairs, the sofa,
are covered with black velvet, and framed
in gold. Only a single mirror is there,&mdash;opposite
the sofa, reaching from the floor to
the ceiling, framed in ebony, which in its
turn is framed in a border of gold. A lamp,
whose light is softened by a clouded shade,
stands on an ebony table, between the sofa
and the mirror, and around the lamp are
clustered fruits and flowers, two long necked
glasses, and a bottle of Bohemian glass,
blue, veined with gold. A single picture,
suspended against the dark hangings, alone
relieves the sullen grandeur of the place.
It is of the size of life, and represents Lucretia
Borgia, her unbound hair waving darkly
over her white shoulders, and half bared
bosom, her eyes shooting their maddening
glance, from the shadow of the long eyelashes,
her form clad in a white garment, edged
with scarlet,&mdash;a garment which, light and
airy, floats like a misty vail about her beautiful
shape. Coming from the darkness into
this scene, the masked Lucretia, as we have
said, could not repress an ejaculation, half
astonishment, half fear&mdash;</p>


<p>"Never fear," cries Roderick gayly, as he
flung his plumed cap on the table. "It
looks gloomy enough, but then it is like the
Golden Room in the Vatican, of which history
tells. And then,"&mdash;he pointed to the
picture, "the living Lucretia need not fear a
comparison with the dead one. Remove
your mask! I am dying to look upon you."</p>

<p>Lucretia sank upon the sofa with Roderick
by her side. Roderick unmasked and revealed
the somber features of Gabriel Godlike.
Lucretia dropped her mask, and the light
shone on the face of Esther Royalton.</p>

<p>"By heavens, you are beautiful!"&mdash;his
eyes streamed with singular intense light,
from the shadow of his projecting brow.</p>

<p>And she was beautiful. A faultless shape,
neck and shoulders white as snow, a countenance
framed in jet-black hair, the red
bloom of a passionate organization on lips
and cheeks, large eyes, whose intense light
was rather deepened than subdued by the
shadow of the long eyelashes. And then
the blush which coursed over her face and
neck, as she felt Godlike's burning gaze fixed
upon her, can be compared to nothing save a
sudden flash of morning sunlight, trembling
over frozen snow. One of those women,
altogether, whose organization embodies the
very intensity of intellect and passion, and
whose way in life lies along no middle
track, but either rises to the full sunlight, or
is lost in shadows and darkness.</p>

<p>"You consent, my child?" Godlike
softened his organ-like voice,&mdash;took her hand
within his own&mdash;she did not give, nor did
she withdraw her hand,&mdash;"Randolph shall
go abroad, upon an honorable mission to a
foreign court, where he will be treated as a
man, without regard to the taint (if thus it
may be called) in his blood. He will have
fair and free scope for the development of
his genius. And you,&mdash;"</p>

<p>He paused. She lifted her eyes to his
face, and met his burning glances, with a
searching and profound look.</p>

<p>"And myself,&mdash;"</p>

<p>"And you shall go with me to Washington,
where your beauty shall command all
hearts, your intellect carve for yourself a
position, that a queen might envy."</p>

<p>She made no reply, but her eyes were
downcast, her beautiful forehead darkened
by a shade of thought. Was she measuring
the full force and meaning of his words?</p>

<p>"In,&mdash;what&mdash;capacity&mdash;did&mdash;you&mdash;say?"
she asked at length in a faint voice.</p>

<p>"As my ward,&mdash;" responded Godlike;
"you will be known as my ward, the heiress
and daughter of a wealthy West Indian, who
at his death, intrusted your person and fortune
to my care. You will have your own
mansion, your pair of servants, carriage and
so-forth,&mdash;in fact, all the externals of a person
of immense wealth. As my ward you
will enter the first circles of society. The
whole machinery of life at the Capital will
be laid bare to your gaze, and with your
hand upon the spring which sets that machinery
in motion, you can command it to
your will. You will not live, you will
reign!"</p>

<p>"Tell me something," said Esther, in a
low voice, her bosom for a moment swelling
above the scarlet border of her robe,&mdash;"Tell
me something of life at the Capital,&mdash;life in
Washington City."</p>

<p>Godlike laughed until his broad chest
shook again,&mdash;a deep sardonic laugh.</p>

<p>"Poets have prated of the influence of
woman, and most wildly! But life in
Washington City distances the wildest dream
of the poets. There woman is supreme.
Never was her influence so absolute before,
at any court,&mdash;neither at the court of Louis
the Great, nor that of George the Fourth,&mdash;as
at the plain republican court of Washington
City. The simple people, afar off from
Washington, think that it is the President, the
Heads of the Department, the Senators and
Representatives, who make the laws and
wield the destinies of the republic. They
think of great men sitting in council, by the
midnight lamp, their hearts heavy, their
eyes haggard with much watching over the
welfare of the nation. Bah! when the real
legislator is not a grave senator or solemn
minister of state, but some lovely woman,
armed only with a pair of bright eyes, and a
soft musical voice. The grave legislators of
the male gender, strut grandly in their robes
of office, before the scenes,&mdash;and that poor
dumb beast, the people, opens its big eyes,
and stares and struts; but behind the scenes,
it is woman who pulls the wires, makes
the laws, and sets the nation going." He
paused and laughed again. "Why, my child,
I have known the gravest questions, in
which the very fate of the nation was involved,
decided upon, in senate or in cabinet,
after long days and nights of council and
debate, and,&mdash;&mdash;knocked to pieces in an
instant by the soft fingers of a pretty
woman. It is red tape, <i>versus</i> bright eyes in
Washington City, and eyes always carry the
day."</p>

<p>"This is indeed a strange story you are
telling me," said Esther, her eyes still
downcast.</p>

<p>Godlike for a moment surveyed himself
in the mirror opposite, and laughed.</p>

<p>"I vow I had quite forgotten, that I was
arrayed in this singular costume,&mdash;scarlet
tunic, edged with ermine, and so-forth,&mdash;it
is something in the style of Borgia, and,"
he added to himself, surveying the somber
visage and massive forehead, surmounted by
iron gray hair,&mdash;"not so bad looking for a
man of sixty! You think it impossible?"
he continued aloud, turning to Esther, who
had raised her hand thoughtfully to her
forehead,&mdash;"why my dear child, a man who
lives in Washington for any time, sees
strange things. I have seen a husband
purchase a mission by the gift of the person
of a beautiful wife; I have seen a brother
mount to office over the ruins of his sister's
honor; I have seen a gray-haired father,
when all his claims for position proved
fruitless, place in the scale, the chastity of
an only and beautiful daughter&mdash;and win.
By &mdash;&mdash;!" he drew down his dark brows,
until his eyes were scarcely visible, "How is
it possible to look upon mankind with anything
but contempt,&mdash;contempt and scorn!"</p>

<p>"But," and Esther raised her eyes to that
bronzed face, every lineament of which now
worked with a look of indescribable scorn,&mdash;"you
have genius,&mdash;the loftiest! you tower
above the mass of men. You have influence,&mdash;an
influence rarely given to any one
man; it spans the continent; why not use
your genius and influence to make men
better?"</p>

<p>There was something in her tone, which
struck the heart of Godlike. The expression
of intense scorn was succeeded by a look of
sadness as intense. His brows rose, and his
eyes looked forth, large, clear and dreamy.
It was as though that dark countenance,
seamed by the wrinkles of long years of sin,
had been, for an instant, baptized with the
hope and freshness of youth.</p>

<p>"That was long ago; long ago; the dream of
making men better. I felt it once,&mdash;tried to
carry it into deeds. But the dream has long
since past. I awakened from it many years ago.
You see it is very pleasant to believe in the
innate goodness of human nature, but attempt
to carry it into action, and hark! do you
not hear them, the very people, to whom
yesterday you sacrificed your soul; hark!
'<i>crucify him! crucify him!</i>'"</p>

<p>He rose from the sofa, and the mirror reflected
his majestic form, clad in the attire
of Roderick Borgia, and his dark visage,
stamped with genius on the giant forehead,
and burning with the light of a giant soul in
the lurid eyes. He was strangely agitated.
His chest heaved beneath his masker's attire.
There was an absent, dreamy look in his upraised
eyes.</p>

<p>"I used to think of it, and dream over it,
in my college days,&mdash;of that history in which
'Hosanna!' is shouted to-day, and palm
branches strewn; and to-morrow,&mdash;the hall
of Pilate, the crown of thorns, the march up
Calvary, and the felon's cross! I used, I
say, to think and dream over it in my college
days. As I looked around the world
and surveyed history, and found the same
story everywhere: found that for bold imposture
and giant humbug, in every age, the
world had riches, honor, fame, while in return,
for any attempt to make it better, it
had the cry, 'crucify! crucify!' it had the
scourge, the crown of thorns, and the felon's
cross."</p>

<p>His voice swelled bold and deep through
the silent room; as he uttered the last word,
he raised his hand to his eyes, and for a
moment was buried in the depth of his
emotions. Esther, raising her eyes, regarded
with looks of mingled admiration and awe,
that forehead, upon which the veins stood
forth bold and swollen,&mdash;the handwriting of
the inward thought.</p>

<p>"The devil is a very great fool," he said,
with a burst of laughter, "to give himself so
much trouble about a world which is not
worth the damning." And then turning to
Esther, he said bitterly: "Do you ask me
why I utterly despise mankind, and why I
have lost all faith in good? In the course of
a long and somewhat tumultuous life, I have
found one thing true,&mdash;whenever from a
pure impulse, I have advocated a noble
thought, or done a good deed, I have been
hunted like a dog, and whenever from mere
egotism, I have defended a bad principle, or
achieved an infamous deed, I have been worshiped
as a demigod. Yes, it is not for
one's bad deeds that we are blamed; it is
for the good, that condemnation falls upon
us."</p>

<p>He strode to the table, and filled a glass
to the brim with blood-red Burgundy: "My
beautiful Esther, your answer! Which do
you choose? On the one hand want and
persecution, on the other, position and
power,&mdash;yes, on the one hand the life of the
hunted pariah; on the other, sway of an absolute
queen."</p>

<p>He drained the glass, without removing it
from his lips; then advancing to the sofa, he
took her hands within his own, and raised
her gently to her feet.</p>

<p>"Esther, it is time to make your choice,"
he said, bending the force of his gaze upon that
beautiful countenance: "which will you be?
Your brother's slave, hunted at every step,
and even doomed to be the pariah of the
social world,&mdash;or, will you be the ward of
Gabriel Godlike, the beautiful heiress of his
West Indian friend, the unrivaled queen of
life at the capital."</p>

<p>Esther felt his burning gaze, and said with
downcast eyes,&mdash;her voice very low and
faint&mdash;"And in return for this generous protection,
what am I to give you?"</p>

<p>"Can you ask, my child?" he said, and
pressed her hand within his own.&mdash;"You
will be my friend, my counselor, my companion."</p>

<p>"Companion?"</p>

<p>"Wearied with the toils of state, the wear
and tear of the world,&mdash;in your presence, I
will seek oblivion of the world and its cares.
With you I will grow young again, and&mdash;who
knows&mdash;but guided by you, I shall,
even at three-score, learn to hope in man?
Your heart is fresh, your intellect clear and
vivid: I shall often seek your counsel in
affairs of state, for I have learned, that in nine
cases out of ten, it is better to rely upon the
<i>intuitions</i> of woman, than upon the careful
logic of the shrewdest man. In a word,
dear child, you will be my companion,&mdash;my
divinity"&mdash;</p>

<p>"Divinity?"</p>

<p>"Yes,&mdash;divinity! Tradition says that
Lucretia Borgia was the most wondrously
beautiful woman of all her age; and if
yonder canvas does not flatter her, tradition
does not lie. Now, you are living and more
beautiful than Lucretia Borgia, without her
crimes. Yes, more lovely than Lucretia,
and,&mdash;pure as heaven's own light."</p>

<p>"Pure as heaven's own light?"</p>

<p>"You echo me,&mdash;and with a mocking
smile. Woman! your beauty maddens me!
I adore you!" His face was flushed with
passion,&mdash;his deep-set eyes flamed with a
fire that could not be mistaken,&mdash;his voice, at
other times deep as an organ, was tremulous
and broken. First pressing her clasped
hands against his broad chest,&mdash;which heaved
with emotion,&mdash;he next girdled her waist
with his sinewy arm, and despite her struggles,
drew her to his bosom. "Gaze upon
yonder portrait! those eyes are wildly beautiful,
but pale when compared with yours.
That form is cast in the mould of voluptuous
loveliness, but yours,&mdash;yours, Esther,&mdash;yours&mdash;"</p>

<p>Advancing toward the portrait, he pushed
the hangings aside,&mdash;the doorway of an adjoining
apartment was revealed.</p>

<p>"Come, Esther, by heavens you must be
mine,&mdash;and now!"</p>

<p>There was no mistaking the determination
of that husky voice, the passion of that
bloodshot eye.</p>

<p>Now pale as death, now covered from the
bosom to the brow with burning blushes, she
struggled in his embrace, but in vain. He
dragged her near and nearer to the threshold&mdash;on
the threshold (which divided the Golden
Room from the next apartment, where all was
dark as midnight) he paused, drew her struggling
form to his breast, and stifled the cry
which rose to her lips, with burning kisses.</p>

<p>With a desperate effort she glided from
his arms, and the next moment,&mdash;her hair
unloosed on her bosom bared in the struggle,&mdash;confronted
him with the poniard gleaming
over her head.</p>

<p>"Hoary villain!" she cried, dilating in
every inch of her stature, until she seemed to
rival his almost giant height,&mdash;"lay but a
finger on me and you shall pay for the outrage
with your life!"</p>

<p>Her head thrown back, her bared bosom
swelling madly in the light, her dark hair
resting in one rich, wavy mass upon her neck
and shoulders,&mdash;it was a noble picture. And
her eyes,&mdash;you should have seen the flashing
of her eyes! As for the statesman, with
one foot upon the threshold, he turned his
face over his shoulder, thus exhibiting his
massive features in profile, and gazed upon
her with a look which was something between
the sublime and the ridiculous; a
strange mixture of passion, wonder and
chagrin.</p>

<p>"Esther,&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>"No doubt you can induce husbands to
sell their wives to you;" the eyes still
flashed, and the poniard glittered overhead;
"no doubt, gray-haired fathers have sold their
daughters to your embrace; nay, even brothers,
for a place, may have given their sisters
to your lust; but know," again that bitter
word so bitterly said,&mdash;'<i>hoary villain!</i>'&mdash;"know,
hoary villain! that Esther Royalton
will not sell herself to you, even to purchase
her brother's safety, his life, much less her
own! For know, that while there is a taint
upon my blood, that there is blood in my
veins which never knew dishonor, the blood
of &mdash;&mdash; &mdash;&mdash;, whose grandchild stands
before you!"</p>

<p>As she named that name, Godlike repeated
it from pure astonishment.</p>

<p>"You a statesman! you a leader of the
American people! Faugh! (Back! Lay
not a finger upon me as you value your life!)
May God help the Republic whose leaders
play the farce of solemn statesmanship by
daylight, and at night seek their inspiration
in the orgies of the brothel!"</p>

<p>"But, Esther, you mistake me; do not
raise your voice,&mdash;&mdash;" his face flushed, his
eyes bloodshot, he advanced toward her.</p>

<p>At the same instant she caught the purpose
of his eye, and with a blush of mingled
shame and anger, for the first time became
aware that her bosom was bared to the
light.</p>

<p>She retreated,&mdash;Godlike advanced,&mdash;she,
brandishing the dagger,&mdash;he, with his hands
extended, his face mad with baffled passion.
Thus retreating, step by step before him, she
reached the table, and cast a lightning glance
toward the lamp.</p>

<p>"You shall be mine, I swear it!" He
darted forward.</p>

<p>But while her right hand held the dagger
aloft, her left sought the lamp, and even as
he rushed forward with the oath on his lips,
the room was wrapt in utter darkness.</p>

<p>He was foiled. A mocking laugh, which
resounded through the darkness, did not add
to his composure.</p>

<p>"Esther, Esther," he said, in a softer tone,
endeavoring to smother his rage, "I will not
harm you, I swear it."</p>

<p>And with his hands extended he advanced
in the thick gloom; and Esther, with the
handle of her poniard, knocked thrice upon
the ebony table.</p>

<p>"Dearest Esther,"&mdash;he advanced in the
direction from whence the knocks proceeded,
and came in contact with a form,&mdash;the form
of a voluptuous woman, with a young bosom
warm with life, and young limbs moulded
in the flowing lines of the Medicean Venus?
No. Precisely the contrary. But he came
in contact with a brawny form, which bounded
against him, pinioning his arms to his
side, at the same moment that another
brawny form clasped him from behind. In
a moment, ere he had recovered the surprise
caused by this double and unexpected embrace,
his arms were tied behind his back, a
handkerchief was tightly bound across his
mouth, and a second kerchief across his eyes,
he was lifted from his feet, and borne upon
the shoulders of two muscular men. It was
not dignified or statesmanlike, but,&mdash;historical
truth demands the record,&mdash;while in this
position, the grave statesman kicked, deliberately
and wickedly kicked. But he kicked
in vain.</p>

<p>Presently he was placed upon his feet
again, and seated in a chair whose oaken
back reached above his head, and whose
oaken arms pressed against his sides. He
could not see, but he felt that light was
shining on his face.</p>

<p>So suddenly had his capture been achieved,
so strange and complete was the transition
from the pursuit of the beautiful Esther, to
his present blindfolded and helpless condition,
that the statesman, for a few moments,
almost believed himself the victim of some
grotesque and frightful dream.</p>

<p>All was silent around him.</p>

<p>At length a voice was heard, hollow and
distinct in its every tone,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Gabriel Godlike, you are now about to be
put on trial before the Court of Ten Millions."</p>

<p>There was a long pause; and Godlike, on
the moment, remembered every detail which
Harry Royalton had poured into his ears,
concerning this Court of Ten Millions; its
power backed by ten millions of dollars,&mdash;its
jurisdiction over crimes that 'Courts of
Justice' could not reach,&mdash;its sessions held
in the deep silence of night, and its judgments
executed as soon as pronounced. Vividly
the story of Harry rose before him; the
accusation, the trial, the judgment, the lash,
and the back of the criminal covered with
stripes and blood.</p>

<p>"The Court of Ten Millions,"&mdash;the voice
was heard again,&mdash;"as you are, doubtless,
aware, is thus called, because its power is
backed by ten millions of dollars. It exists
to punish those crimes which, perchance,
from their very magnitude, go unpunished
by other courts of justice. It exists to judge
and punish two classes of crime in especial:
crimes committed for the <i>love of money</i>, by
the man who seeks to enjoy <i>labor's fruits</i>,
without sharing <i>labor's works</i>; crimes committed
by the man who uses his <i>wealth</i>, or
<i>the accident of his social position</i>, as the means
of oppressing his fellow-creature, even the
poorest and the meanest. Your mind is profound
in analysis. You are able, at a glance,
to trace nearly all the wrongs which desolate
society, and mar the purposes of God in this
world, to the classes of crimes which have
been named."</p>

<p>There was another long pause. Gabriel
had time for thought.</p>

<p>"Gabriel Godlike! Detected in a gross
outrage upon a woman whom you thought
poor and friendless,&mdash;detected in using your
wealth and your social position as the means
of achieving that woman's dishonor, you are
now about to be put on trial before the Court
of Ten Millions."</p>

<p>Another pause. Gabriel began to recover
his scattered senses. The bandage across
his mouth concealed the sardonic smile
which flitted over his lips.</p>

<p>"A sort of <i>Vixhme Gericht</i>,&mdash;something
from the dark ages,"&mdash;he ejaculated, mentally.
And yet he did not feel comfortable.
There was Harry Royalton's back; he had
seen it. "But <i>they</i> would not dare to flog a
statesman,&mdash;me! Gabriel Godlike!"</p>

<p>"Still you are at liberty to refuse a trial
before this court,"&mdash;the voice spoke again,&mdash;"but
upon one condition. In a room not far
removed from this, removed from hearing,
and yet within a moment's call, are gathered
at this moment a number of gentlemen, who
have been summoned to this house on various
pretexts; gentlemen, you will remark,
of all political parties, high in social position,
and bearing the reputation of honorable
minded and moral men. Your strongest
political friends, your bitterest political opponents
are there."</p>

<p>Gabriel began to listen with attention.</p>

<p>"Now you may refuse to be tried before
this court on one condition,&mdash;that you will
be exposed to the gaze of this party of gentlemen,
in your present state, with your
masquerade attire, and in presence of the
woman whom, but a moment since, you
threatened with a gross outrage."</p>

<p>Gabriel listened with keener interest.</p>

<p>"If you doubt that this party of gentlemen,
consisting of&mdash;(he named a number of
names familiar to Godlike's ear)&mdash;are within
call, your doubt can be solved in a moment."</p>

<p>"It is an infernal trap," and Gabriel
ground his teeth with suppressed rage.</p>

<p>"If you consent to be tried by this court,
be pleased to give a gesture of assent."</p>

<p>Gabriel revolved for a moment within
himself, and then slowly nodded his head.</p>

<p>The bandage was removed from his eyes,
and the kerchief from his mouth. He slowly
surveyed the scene in which, much against
his will, he found himself an actor.</p>

<p>It was a spacious apartment, resembling
the Golden Room, the walls were hung with
black velvet, fringed with gold, and dotted
with golden flowers; the ceiling represented
a gloomy sky, with the sun in the center,
struggling among clouds. It was the
same to which he was about to conduct
Esther when she escaped from his arms and
confronted him with the poniard.</p>

<p>But in place of the voluptuous couch
which had stood there, with silken pillows
and canopy white as snow, there was a large
table covered with black cloth, and extending
across the room from wall to wall, and
behind the table a raised platform, on which
stood an arm-chair, beneath a canopy of dark
velvet. A lighted candle in an iron candlestick,
stood on the center of the table, and
near it, a knotted rope, a book, an inkstand,
and a sheet of white paper.</p>

<p>The judge of the court was seated in the
arm-chair, under the shadow of the canopy.
His face Godlike could not see, for he wore
a hat whose ample brim concealed his features,
but his white hair descended to the
collar of his coat. He wore an old-fashioned
surtout of dark cloth, with manifold capes,
about the shoulders. His head was bent, his
hands clasped, his attitude that of profound
quiet or profound thought.</p>

<p>On his left, resting one hand on the arm
of his chair, was Esther; her white dress in
bold relief with the dark background. Her
unbound hair increased the death-like pallor
of her face, and her eyes shone with all their
fire.</p>

<p>And on the right of the judge stood a huge
negro, whose giant frame was clad in a suit
of sleek blue cloth, while his white cravat
and his wool, also of snow-like whiteness,
increased the blackness of his visage. It
was, of course, old Royal. He also rested
one hand on an arm of the judge's chair.</p>

<p>And on the right and left of Gabriel's
chair, stood a muscular man, whose features
were hidden by a crape mask.</p>

<p>The scene altogether was highly dramatic.
The Borgian attire of Godlike by no means
detracted from its dramatic effect.</p>

<p>The silence of the place,&mdash;the gloom
scarcely broken by the light of the solitary
candle,&mdash;the contrast between this scene and
the one in which he had been an actor but a
few moments previous,&mdash;all had their effect
upon the mind of the statesman.</p>

<p>"A trap! get out of it as I may. An infernal
trap!"</p>

<p>Without raising his head, or removing his
clasped hands from his breast, the judge
spoke, in an even and distinct, although hollow
voice,&mdash;</p>

<p>"You may still refuse to be tried by this
court. Consent to be exposed in your present
condition to the gentlemen whom I have
named, (and who may be brought hither in
an instant), and the trial will not proceed."</p>

<p>The blood rushed to Gabriel's face, but he
made no reply.</p>

<p>"Or, if you doubt that those gentlemen
are near, it is not too late to remove your
doubts."</p>

<p>The veins began to swell on Gabriel's
forehead.</p>

<p>"Go on," he said, in a half-smothered
tone.</p>

<p>The judge extended his hand and placed
a parchment in the hands of Esther.</p>

<p>"Read the accusation," he said, and in a
voice at first low and faint, but gradually
growing stronger and deeper, Esther read,
while a death-like stillness prevailed:</p>

<p>"Gabriel Godlike is accused of the following
offenses against man, against society,
against God:&mdash;</p>

<p>"As a man of genius, intrusted by the
Almighty with the noblest, the most exalted
powers, and bound to use those powers for
the good of his race, he has, in the course of
his whole life, prostituted those powers to
the degradation and oppression of his race.</p>

<p>"As a statesman, rivaling in intellect the
three great names of the nineteenth century,
Clay, Calhoun and Webster, he has not, like
these great men, been governed by a high
aim, an earnest-souled sincerity. His intellect
approaches theirs in powers, but as a
man, as a statesman, he has not exhibited
their virtues. Wielding a vast influence,
and bound to use that influence in securing
to the masses such laws as will invest every
man with the right to the full fruits of his
labor, and the possession of a home, he has
lent his influence, sold his intellect, mortgaged
his official position, to those who enslave
labor in workshop and factory, defraud
it in banks, and rob the laborer&mdash;the freeman&mdash;of
a piece of land which he may call
by the sacred title of home.</p>

<p>"As a lawyer, having a profound knowledge
of the technicalities of written law, and
an intuitive knowledge of that great law
of God, which proclaims that all men are
brothers, bound to each other by ties of
reciprocal love and duty, he has used his
knowledge of written law to gloss over and
sanction the grossest wrongs; he has darkened
and distorted the great laws of God to suit
any case of social tyranny, no matter how
damning, how revolting, which he has been
called upon to defend for hire.</p>

<p>"As a citizen, bound to illustrate in his
life the purity of the Christian, the integrity
of the republican, he has never known the
affections of a wife, or children, but his private
career has been one long catalogue of
the basest appetites, gratified at the expense
of every tie of truth and honor.</p>

<p>"In his long career, he has exhibited that
saddest of all spectacles:&mdash;a lawyer, with no
sense of right or wrong, higher than his fee;
a statesman, regarding himself not as the
representative of the people, but as the feed
and purchased lawyer of a class; a man of
god-like intellect, without faith in God,
without love for his race."</p>

<p>Esther concluded; her face was radiant,
but her eyes dimmed with tears.</p>

<p>"Gabriel Godlike, what say you to this
accusation?" exclaimed the judge.</p>

<p>A sardonic smile agitated the lips of the
statesman, but he made no reply in words.
At the same time, despite his attempt to
meet the accusation with a sneer, its words
rung in his very soul, and especially the
closing clause, "<i>without faith in God, without
love to his race</i>."</p>

<p>Gabriel's head sank slowly on his breast,
and his down-drawn brows hid his eyes from
the light. He was thinking of other years;
of the promise of his young manhood; of the
dark realities of his maturer years. The
judge spoke again.</p>

<p>"Gabriel Godlike, you are silent. You
have no reply. In your own soul and before
Heaven, you know that every word of the
accusation is true. You cannot deny it.
Your own soul and conscience convict you."</p>

<p>He paused; again the mocking sneer
crossed Gabriel's lips, but a crowd of emotions
were busy at his heart. The judge
proceeded, in a measured tone. Every word
fell distinctly upon the statesman's unwilling
ears:</p>

<p>"Gabriel Godlike, you may smile at the
idea of being held accountable to God and
man, for the use which you have made of
your talents in the last forty years, but there
will come an hour when History will pass
its judgment upon you; there will come an
hour when God will demand of you the intellect
which he has intrusted to your care.
That hour will come. Then, what will be
your answer to Almighty God? 'Lord,
thou didst intrust me with superior intellect,
to be used for the good of my brothers of
the human family; and after a life of sixty
years, I can truly say, I have never once
used that intellect for the elevation of mankind,
and have never once failed, when appetite
or ambition tempted, to squander it in
the basest lusts.' What a record will this
be for history; what an answer to be rendered
to Almighty God!</p>

<p>"Gabriel Godlike! Great men are placed
upon earth, as the prophets and apostles of
the poor. It is their vocation to speak the
wrongs which the poor suffer, but are unable
to tell; it is their mission to find the deepest
thought which God has implanted in the
breast of the age, and to carry that thought
into action, or die. What has been the
thought struggling in the bosom of the last
fifty years? A thought vast as the providence
of God, which, whether called by the
name of Social Progress, or Social Re-organization,
or by whatsoever name, still looks forward
to the day when social misery will be
annihilated; when the civilization will no
longer show itself only in the awful contrast
of the few, immersed in superfluous wealth,&mdash;of
the many, immersed in poverty, in crime,
in despair; a day, when in truth, the gospel
of the New Testament will no longer be the
hollow echo of the sounding-board above the
pulpit, but an every-day verity, carried with
deeds along all the ways of life, and manifested
in the physical comfort as well as the
moral elevation of all men.</p>

<p>"Something like this has been the thought
of the last fifty&mdash;yes, of the last hundred years.
It was the secret heart of our own Revolution.
It was the great truth, whose features
you may read even beneath the blood-red
waves of the French Revolution. And in
the nineteenth century this thought has
called into action legions of noble-hearted
men, who have earnestly endeavored to
carry it into action. It has had its confessors,
its saints, its martyrs.</p>

<p>"Gabriel Godlike! In the course of your
long career, what have you done to aid the
development of this thought? Alas! alas!
Look back upon your life! In all your
career, not one brave blow for man&mdash;your
brother&mdash;not one, not one! As a lawyer, the
hired vassal of any wealthy villain, or class
of villains; as a legislator, not a statesman,
but always the paid special pleader of heartless
monopoly and godless capital; as a
man, your intellect always towers among the
stars, while your moral character sinks beneath
the kennel's mud! Such has been
your life; such is the use to which you have
bent your powers. Like the sublime egotist,
Napoleon Bonaparte, you regarded the world
as a world without a God, and mankind as
the mere creatures of your pleasure and your
sport. If the poor wretch, who, driven mad
by hunger, steals a loaf of bread, is branded
as a <span class="smcap">criminal</span>, and adjudged to darkness
and chains, by what name, Gabriel Godlike,
shall we call <i>you</i>? what judgment shall <i>we</i>
pronounce upon your head?"</p>

<p>The judge arose, and with his face shaded
from the light, and his white hairs falling to
his shoulders, he extended his hand toward
the <span class="smcap">criminal</span>.</p>

<p>There was a blush of <i>shame</i> upon Gabriel's
downcast forehead; shame, mingled with
suppressed rage.</p>

<p>"Shall we adjudge you to the lash?" and
the judge looked first to Gabriel, then to the
giant negro by his side.</p>

<p>Godlike raised his head; Esther shuddered
as she beheld his look.</p>

<p>"The lash!" he echoed,&mdash;"No, by &mdash;&mdash;!
The man does not live who dares speak of
such a thing."</p>

<p>"I live, and I speak of it," responded the
judge, calmly. "You forget that you are
in my power; and, as you are well aware,
(it is a maxim upon which you have acted
all your life,) '<span class="smcap">might makes right</span>.' And
why should you shudder at the mention of
the lash? What is the torture, the disgrace
of the lash, compared with the torture and
disgrace which your deeds have inflicted
upon thousands of your fellow men?"</p>

<p>Godlike uttered a frightful oath.&mdash;"You
will drive me mad!" and he ground his
teeth in impotent rage. It was a pitiful condition
for a great statesman.</p>

<p>"No, no; the lash is too light a punishment
for a criminal of your magnitude.
Prisoner, stand up and hear the sentence of
the court!"</p>

<p>Gabriel had a powerful will, but the will
which spoke in the voice of that old man,
his judge, was more powerful than his own.
Reluctantly he arose to his feet, his broad
chest panting and heaving beneath its scarlet
attire.</p>

<p>"Unbind his arms." The masked attendants
obeyed. Gabriel's bands were free.</p>

<p>"Secure him, at the first sign of resistance or
of disobedience."</p>

<p>The judge calmly proceeded&mdash;</p>

<p>"Gabriel Godlike, hear the sentence of the
court. You will affix your own proper signature
to two documents, which will now
be presented to you. After which you are
free."</p>

<p>Gabriel could not repress an ejaculation.
The simplicity of the sentence struck him
with astonishment.</p>

<p>"Hand the prisoner the first document,
which he may read," said the judge. Pale
and trembling, Esther advanced, and, passing
the table, placed a paper in the hands of
Godlike, which he read:</p>

<blockquote>

<p>"<span class="smcap">New York</span>, Dec. 24th, 1844.</p>

<p>"The undersigned, Gabriel Godlike, hereby
acknowledges that he was this day detected
in the act of attempting a gross outrage upon
the person of Esther Royalton, whom he
had inveigled to a house of improper report,
No. &mdash;, &mdash;&mdash; street, New York: an outrage
which, investigated before a court of law,
would justly consign him to the State's
Prison.</p>

<p>"Signed in presence of:<br />
{<br />
{."</p></blockquote>

<p>No words can picture the rage which corrugated
Godlike's visage as he perused this
singular document.</p>

<p>"No, I will not sign!"&mdash;he fixed his flaming
eyes upon Esther's pallid face&mdash;"not if you
rend me into fragments."</p>

<p>"Esther," said the judge, calmly, "call
the gentlemen from the neighboring apartment.
Tell them that the purpose for which
I summoned them will be explained in this
room."</p>

<p>Esther cast a glance upon Godlike's flushed
visage, and moved to the door,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Stay! I will&mdash;I will!" Shame and
mortification choked his utterance. He advanced
to the table and signed his name to
the paper.</p>

<p>The judge drew his broad-brimmed hat
deeper over his brows, and advanced to the
table.&mdash;"I will witness your signature," he
quietly observed, and signed a name which
Godlike would have given five years of his
life to have read.</p>

<p>"The second document rests on the table
before you. The writing is concealed by a
sheet of paper. You will sign without
reading it. There is the place for your signature."
And he pushed the concealed
document across the table.</p>

<p>"This is too much,&mdash;it is infamous," said
Godlike, between his teeth. "How do I
know what I am signing? I will not do it."
He sank back doggedly in his chair; the
perspiration stood in thick beads upon his
brow.</p>

<p>"Esther," (she lingered on the threshold,
as the judge addressed her,) "tell Mr. Godlike's
friends that he will be glad to see
them."</p>

<p>Oh! bitterly, in that moment, did the
fallen statesman pay for the misdeeds of
years! As if urged from his seat by an
influence beyond his control, he rose and
advanced to the table, his brow deformed by
the big veins of helpless rage, his eyes bloodshot
with suppressed fury,&mdash;he signed his
name. His hand trembled like a leaf.</p>

<p>"Now, now&mdash;am I free?" he cried, beating
the table with his clenched hand.
"Have you done with me?" He turned his
gaze from Esther, who stood trembling on
the threshold, to the judge, who, with his
shadowed face, stood calm and composed
before him.</p>

<p>"I will witness your signature," said the
judge, and again signed that name, which
Godlike, even amid his wrath, endeavored,
and in vain, to read.</p>

<p>At the same instant he placed his hand
upon the candle, and all was darkness. In
less time than it takes to record it, Godlike
was seized, pinioned and blindfolded.</p>

<p>"You will be taken to your dressing-room,
in which you will resume your usual attire,
after which, without questioning or seeing
any one, you will quietly leave this house.
As for the gentlemen whom I summoned to
this house to look upon your disgrace, I will
manage to dismiss them, without mentioning
your name."</p>

<p>"And the papers which you have forced
me to sign?" interrupted Gabriel.</p>

<p>"Do not speak of force. There was no
force save the compulsion of your own
crimes. And I give you fair warning that
those papers which you have signed here in
darkness, you will be asked to sign yet once
again in broad daylight. Go, sir: for the
present we have done with you."</p>

<p>And as in thick darkness he was led from
the hall, trembling with rage and shame, the
voice of the judge once more broke on his
ears, but this time not addressed to him:</p>

<p>"Pity, good Lord! Pardon me, if I am
wrong!"</p>

<p>It was the voice of earnest prayer.</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h3><a name="CHAPTER_4_IV" id="CHAPTER_4_IV">CHAPTER IV.</a></h3>

<h4>THE BRIDAL CHAMBER.</h4>


<p>It was the bridal chamber. A strange
hour, and a strange bridal!</p>

<p>In the luxurious apartment, where Nameless
and Frank first met, a Holy Bible was
placed wide open upon a table, or altar, covered
with a snow-white cloth. On either
side of the book were placed wax candles,
shedding their clear light around the room,
upon the details of the place, and upon the
gorgeous curtains of the marriage-bed.</p>

<p>Frank and Nameless joined hands beside
that altar, before the opened Bible. Never
had Frank's magnetic beauty shone with
such peculiar power. She was clad in black
velvet, her dark hair gathered plainly aside
from her brow, and the white cross rose and
fell with every throb of her bosom. Nameless
wore the black tunic which, with his
dark brown hair, threw his features into
strong relief. The golden cross hung on his
breast, over his heart. He was pale, as if
with intense thought, but his large, gray
eyes met the gaze of Frank, as though his
soul was riveted there.</p>

<p>And thus they joined hands, near the
morning hour.</p>

<p>The Rev. Dr. Bulgin stood a little in the
background, his broad red face glowing in
the light. His cardinal's attire thrown aside,
he appeared in sleek black, with the eternal
white cravat about his neck. There was the
flush of champagne upon the good doctor's
florid face.</p>

<p>Behind Nameless stood Colonel Tarleton,
dressed as the hidalgo, his right hand grasping
a roll of paper, raised to his mouth, and
his eyes gazing fixedly from beneath his
down-drawn brows. It was <i>the</i> moment of
his life.</p>

<p>"Once married and the way is clear!" he
thought. "To think of it&mdash;after twenty-one
years my hand grasps the prize!"</p>

<p>"We will walk through life together,"
said Frank, pressing the hand of Nameless.</p>

<p>"And devote our wealth to the elevation
of the unfortunate and the fallen!" he responded,
as a vision of future good gave new
fire to his eye. And then he pressed his
hand to his forehead, for his temples throbbed.
A vivid memory of every event of
his past life started up suddenly before his
soul, every event invested with the familiar
faces, the well-known voices of other days.
He raised his eyes to the face of Frank, and
the singular influence which seemed to invest
her like an atmosphere, again took possession
of him. It was not the influence of
passion, nor the spell of her mere loveliness,
although her person was voluptuously
moulded, and the deep red in the center of
her rich brown cheek, told the story of a
warm and passionate nature; but it was as
though her very soul, embodied in her lustrous
eyes, encircled and possessed his own.</p>

<p>Was it love, in the common acceptation of
the word? Was it fascination? Was it the
result of sympathy between two lives, each
of which had been made the sport of a dark
and singular destiny?</p>

<p>"Had not we better go on?" said Dr. Bulgin,
mildly. "Summoned to this house to
celebrate these nuptials at this unusual hour,
I feel somewhat fatigued with the duties of
the day," and he winked at Tarleton.</p>

<p>"Proceed," said Tarleton, pressing the
right hand, with the roll of paper to his
lip.</p>

<p>The marriage service was deliberately said
in the rich, bold voice of the eloquent Dr.
Bulgin. The responses were duly made.
The ring was placed upon the finger of the
bride, and the white cross sparkled in the
light, as it rose with the swell of her proud
bosom.</p>

<p>"Husband," she whispered, as their lips
met, "I have been sacrificed to others, but I
never loved but you, and I will love you till
I die." And she spoke the truth.</p>

<p>"Wife!"&mdash;he called that sacred name in
a low and softened voice,&mdash;"let the past be
forgotten. Arisen from the graves of our
past lives, it is our part to begin life anew."
And his tone was that of truth and enthusiasm.</p>

<p>"My son!"&mdash;Tarleton started forward and
clasped Nameless by the hand,&mdash;"Gulian,
my son, let the past be forgotten,&mdash;forgiven,
and let us look only to the future! The
proudest aspiration of my life is fulfilled!"</p>

<p>Nameless returned his grasp with a cordial
pressure; but at the same instant a singular
sensation crept like a chill through his blood.
Was the presence of the dead father near at
the moment when his son joined hands with
the false brother?</p>

<p>"Here, my boy," continued Tarleton,
laughingly, as he spread forth upon the table
the roll of paper which he had held to his
lip; "sign this, and we will bid you good
night. It's a mere matter of form, you
know. Nay, Frank, you must not see it;
you women know nothing of these matters
of business." Motioning his daughter back,
he placed pen and ink before Nameless, and
then quietly arranged his dark whiskers and
smoothed his black hair; and yet his hand
trembled.</p>

<p>Nameless took the pen, and bent over the
table and read:&mdash;</p>

<blockquote>

<p><span class="smcap">December</span> 24, 1844.</p>

<p><span class="smcap">To Dr. Martin Fulmer</span>:&mdash;</p>

<p><i>This day I transfer and assign to my wife,
Frances Van Huyden, all my right, title, and
interest in the estate of my deceased father,
Gulian Van Huyden; and hereby promise, on
my word of honor, to hold this transfer sacred
at all times, and to make it binding (if requested),
by a document drawn up according to
the forms of law.</i></p></blockquote>

<p>Nameless dipped the pen in the ink, and
was about to sign, when Frank suddenly
drew the paper from beneath his hand. She
read it with a kindling cheek and flashing eye.</p>

<p>"For shame!" she cried, turning to her
father, "for shame!" and was about to rend
it in twain, when Nameless seized her wrist,
and took the paper from her hand.</p>

<p>"Nay, Frank, I will sign," he exclaimed,
and put the pen to the paper.</p>

<p>"O, father," whispered Frank, with a
glance of burning indignation, "this is too
much&mdash;" Her words were interrupted by
the sudden opening of the door.</p>

<p>"Is there no way of escape,&mdash;none?"&mdash;a
voice was heard exclaiming these words, in
tones of fright and madness,&mdash;"Is there no
way of escape from this abode of ruin and
death?"</p>

<p>The pen dropped from the hand of Nameless.
That voice congealed the blood in his
veins.</p>

<p>Turning his head over his shoulders, he
saw the speaker,&mdash;while the whole scene
swam for a moment before his eyes,&mdash;saw
that young countenance, now wild with affright,
on which was imprinted the stainless
beauty of a pure and virgin soul.</p>

<p>"The grave has given up its dead!" he
cried, and staggered toward the phantom
which rose between him and the door; the
phantom of a young and beautiful woman,
clad in the faded garments of poverty and
toil; her unbound hair streaming wildly
about her face, her eyes dilating with terror,
her clasped hands strained against her agitated
bosom.</p>

<p>"The grave has given up its dead," he
cried. "Mary!" O, how that name awoke
the memories of other days! "Mary! when
last I saw thee, thou wert beside my coffin,
while my soul communed with thine." And
again he called that sacred name.</p>

<p>It was no phantom, but a living and beautiful
woman. She saw his face,&mdash;she uttered
a cry,&mdash;she knew him.</p>

<p>"Gulian!" she cried, and spread forth
her arms. Not one thought that he had
died and been buried,&mdash;she saw him living,&mdash;she
knew him,&mdash;he was before her,&mdash;that
was all. "Husband!"</p>

<p>He rushed to her embrace, but even as his
arms were outspread to clasp her form, he
fell on his knees. His head rested against
her form, his hands clasped her knees. The
emotion of the moment had been too much
for him; he had fainted at her feet.</p>

<p>She knelt beside him, and took his head
to her bosom, and pressed her lips against
his death-like forehead, and then her loosened
hair hid his face from the light. She
wept aloud.</p>

<p>"Husband!"</p>

<p>At this moment turn your gaze to the
marriage altar. Dr. Bulgin is still there,
gazing in dumb surprise, first upon the face
of Frank, then upon her father. It is hard
to tell which looks most ghastly and death-like.
Tarleton looks like a man who has
been stricken by a thunderbolt. Frank rests
one hand upon the marriage altar, and raises
the other to her forehead. For a moment
death seems busy at her heart.</p>

<p>With a desperate effort, Tarleton rallies
his presence of mind.</p>

<p>"Good evening, or, rather, good morning,
doctor," he says, and then points to the door.
The reverend gentleman takes the hint, and
quietly fades from the room.</p>

<p>At times like this, one moment of resolve
is worth an age. Tarleton's face is colorless,
but he sees, with an ominous light in his
eyes, the way clear before him. He turns
aside for a moment, to the cabinet yonder,
and from a small drawer, takes a slender
vial, filled with a colorless liquid; then
quietly glides to his daughter's side.</p>

<p>"Frank!"&mdash;she raises her head,&mdash;their
eyes meet. He holds the vial before her face&mdash;"your
husband has fainted; this will revive
him." That singular smile discloses his
white teeth. Frank reads his meaning at a
glance. O, the unspeakable agony,&mdash;the
conflict between two widely different emotions,
which writhes over her face!</p>

<p>"No, father, no! It must not be," and
she pushes the vial from her sight.</p>

<p>His words, uttered rapidly, and in a whisper,
come through his set teeth,&mdash;"It must
be,&mdash;the game cannot be lost now; in twelve
hours, you know, this vial will do its work,
and <i>leave no sign</i>!"</p>

<p>An expression which he cannot read,
crosses her face. A moment of profound
and harrowing thought,&mdash;a glance at the
kneeling girl, who hides in her flowing hair,
the face of her unconscious husband.</p>

<p>"Be it so," Frank exclaims, "give me the
vial; I will administer it." Taking the vial
from her father's hand, she advances to the
cabinet, and for a moment bends over the
open drawer.</p>

<p>And the next instant she is kneeling beside
Nameless and the weeping girl.</p>

<p>"Mary!" whispers Frank, and the young
wife raises her face from her husband's forehead,
and they gaze in each other's face,&mdash;a
contrast which you do not often behold. The
face of Frank, dark-hued at other times, and
red with passion on the cheek and lip, but
now, lividly pale, and only expressing the
intensity of her organization in the lightning
glance of the eyes,&mdash;the face of Mary, although
touched by want and sorrow, bearing
the look of a guileless, <i>happy</i> soul in every
outline, and shining all the love of a pure
woman's nature from the large, clear eyes.
It was as though night and morning had
met together.</p>

<p>"Mary!" said Frank,&mdash;her hand trembling,
but her purpose firm,&mdash;"your husband
will die unless aid is rendered at once. Let
me revive him."</p>

<p>Before Mary can frame a word in reply,
she places the vial to the lips of Nameless,
and does not remove her hand until the last
drop is emptied. Tarleton yonder watches
the scene, with his head drooping on his
breast, and his hand raised to his chin.</p>

<p>"He will revive presently," Frank exclaims
with a smile.</p>

<p>"God bless you, generous woman,&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>But Frank does not wait to receive her
thanks.</p>

<p>Returning to her father's side,&mdash;"Come,
let us leave them, <i>now</i>," she whispers; "<i>now</i>
that your request is obeyed."</p>

<p>"But he must not die in this house."</p>

<p>"O, you will have time, ample time to remove
him before the vial has done its work,"&mdash;a
bitter smile crosses her face,&mdash;"Leave them
together for an hour at least. Let them at
least enjoy one hour of life, before his eyes
are closed in death; only one hour, father!"</p>

<p>She takes her father by the hand, and
hurries him from the room,&mdash;let us not dare
to read the emotions now contending on her
corpse-like face. From that room, which
was to have been her bridal chamber,&mdash;the
starting-point of a new and happy life!</p>

<p>"I must now see after the <i>other</i>," Tarleton
soliloquizes, as he crossed the threshold.
"<i>This one</i> removed, <i>the other</i> must be ready
for <i>to-morrow</i>."</p>

<p>And Frank and her father leave the room.</p>

<p>The chest of Nameless began to heave,&mdash;his
eyes gradually unclosed. With a vacant
glance he surveyed the apartment.</p>

<p>"It is a dream," he said.</p>

<p>But there were arms about his neck, kisses
on his lips, a warm cheek laid next to his
own. Certainly not the clasp, the kiss, or
the pressure of a dream.</p>

<p>"Not in a dream, Carl," she said, calling,
him by the name which he had borne in
other days.</p>

<p>"Carl? Who calls me Carl?"</p>

<p>"Not in a dream, Carl, but living and restored
to me."</p>

<p>Even as he lay in her arms, his head resting
on her young bosom, he raised his eyes
and beheld her face.</p>

<p>"Mary!"</p>

<p>"Thou art my husband!"</p>

<p>"Thou art my wife!"</p>

<p>That moment was a full recompense for
all they had suffered, yes, for a lifetime of
suffering and anguish. They forgot everything,&mdash;the
dark past,&mdash;the strange chance
or providence which had brought them together,&mdash;they
only felt that they were living
and in each other's arms.</p>

<p>At sight of the pure, holy face of Mary,
all consciousness of the fascination which
Frank had held over him, passed like the
memory of a dream from the soul of Nameless.</p>

<p>"O, Mary, wife, thou art living,&mdash;God is
good," he said, as she bent over him, baptizing
his lips with kisses, and his face with
tears. "Do you remember that hour, when
I lay in the coffin, while you bent over me,
and our souls talked to each other, without
the medium of words: 'you have seen him
for the last time,' they said; 'not for the
last time,&mdash;we will meet again,' was your
reply. And now we have met! Mary&mdash;wife!
let us never accuse Providence again,
for God is good!"</p>

<p>Moment of joy too deep for words.</p>

<p>Drink every drop of the cup, now held to
your lips, Carl Raphael! For even, as the
arms of your young wife are about your
neck, even as her young bosom throbs
against your cheek, and you count the beatings
of her heart, death spreads his shadow
over you. The poison is in your veins,&mdash;your
young life is about to set in this world
forever.</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h3><a name="CHAPTER_4_V" id="CHAPTER_4_V">CHAPTER V.</a></h3>

<h4>THE SCARLET CHAMBER.</h4>


<p>Having once more resumed the attire of
Leo the Tenth,&mdash;scarlet robe, cap, with
nodding plumes and cross with golden chain;
Dr. Bulgin was hurrying along a dark passage
on his way to the Scarlet Chamber, where
his nephew awaited him. The Scarlet Chamber
was at the end of the passage; as he drew
near it, the Doctor's reflections grew more
pleasant and comfortable. It may be as well
to make record, that after he had left the
Bridal Chamber, he had refreshed himself
with a fresh bottle of champagne.</p>

<p>"Odd scene that in the room of Tarleton's
daughter! Very dramatic,&mdash;wish I knew
what it all meant. However my 'nephew;'"
a rich chuckle resounded from the depths of
his chest&mdash;"'my nephew' awaits me, and
after another bottle in the Scarlet Chamber,
I must see <i>her</i> safely home. It is not such
a bad world after all."</p>

<p>Thus soliloquizing he arrived at the end
of the passage, and his head was laid against
the door of the Scarlet Chamber.</p>

<p>"Cozy place,&mdash;bottle of wine,&mdash;good company&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Hush!" whispered a voice.</p>

<p>"That you Julia? What are you doing
out here in the dark?" he wound his arms
about his nephew's waist. "Waiting for
me?"</p>

<p>"Do not,&mdash;do not," she gasped, struggling
to free herself from his arms,&mdash;"Do not
enter,&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Tush, child! you're nervous,&mdash;" and
despite the struggles, he gathered his arm
closer around her waist, pushed open the
door and entered the Scarlet Room.</p>

<p>A quiet little apartment, lighted by a
hanging lamp, whose mild beams softened
the glare of the rich scarlet hangings.
There was a sofa covered with red velvet, a
table, on which stood a bottle, with two
long necked glasses, and from an interval in
the hangings, gleamed the vision of a snow-white
couch. Altogether, a place worthy
the private devotions of Leo the Tenth, or
of any gentleman of his exquisite taste, and
eccentric piety.</p>

<p>"What's the matter child? You're pale,
and have been crying,&mdash;" exclaimed Bulgin,
as he bore her over the threshold, and
paused for a moment to gaze upon her face,
which was bare to the light, the cap having
fallen from her brow. As he spoke his
back was to the sofa.</p>

<p>"There," was the only word which she
had power to frame, and bursting into tears,
she pointed over his shoulders to the sofa.</p>

<p>Somewhat surprised, Dr. Bulgin turned on
his heel, the white plumes nodding over
his bulky face, and,&mdash;&mdash;</p>

<p>There are some scenes which must be left
to the imagination.</p>

<p>On the sofa, sat three grave gentlemen,
clad in solemn black, their severe features,
rendered even more stern and formal, by the
relief of a white cravat. Each of these
gentlemen held his hat in one hand, and in
the other a cane, surmounted by a head of
white bone.</p>

<p>As Bulgin turned, the three gentlemen
quietly rose, and said politely, with one
voice:</p>

<p>"Good morning Dr. Bulgin."</p>

<p>And then as quietly sat down again.</p>

<p>The Doctor looked as though he had been
lost in a railroad collision. He was paralyzed.
He had not even the presence of mind,
to release the grasp which gathered the
young form of his lovely nephew to his
side.</p>

<p>The exact position of affairs, at this crisis,
will be better understood, when you are informed,
that in these three gentlemen, the
Rev. Dr. Bulgin recognized Mr. Watkins, Mr.
Potts, and Mr. Burns, the leading members,
perchance Deacons of his wealthy congregation.
The one with the slight form, and
short stiff gray, hair,&mdash;Watkins. Mr. Potts,
is a small man, with a bald head, and the
slightest tendency in the world to corpulence.
Mr. Burns is tall and lean, with angular
features, and an immense nose. Altogether,
as grave and respectable men as you
will meet in a day's walk, from Wall Street,
to the head of Broadway. But what do
they in the <span class="smcap">Temple</span>, at any time, but especially
at this unusual hour?</p>

<p>That was precisely the question which
troubled Bulgin.</p>

<p>"W-e-l-l Gentle-m-e-n," he said, not
exactly knowing what else to say.</p>

<p>To which they all responded with a singular
unanimity,&mdash;"W-e-l-l D-o-c-t-o-r!"</p>

<p>"Did not I,&mdash;did not I,&mdash;tell,&mdash;tell you
not to come in here?" sobbed the nephew,&mdash;that
is Julia.</p>

<p>Mr. Watkins arose and passed his hand
through his stiff gray hair,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Allow me to compliment you upon the
becoming character of your costume!" and
sat down again.</p>

<p>Then Mr. Potts, whose bald head shone
in the light as he rose,&mdash;</p>

<p>"And allow me to congratulate you upon
the character of this house, and especially
the elegant seclusion of this chamber." And
Mr. Potts sat down.</p>

<p>Mr. Burns' lean form next ascended, and
his nose seemed to increase in size, as he
projected it in a low bow,&mdash;</p>

<p>"And allow me,&mdash;" what a deep voice!
"to congratulate you upon the society of your
companion, who becomes her male attire
exceedingly." And Mr. Burns gravely resumed
his seat.</p>

<p>"Did&mdash;I&mdash;not&mdash;tell, tell&mdash;you,&mdash;n-o-t to
come in," sobbed Julia.</p>

<p>The Doctor's face was partly hidden by
his plumes, but that portion of it which was
visible, resembled nothing so much in color,
as a boiled lobster.</p>

<p>It now occurred to the Doctor, to release
his grasp upon the waist of Julia. He left
her to herself, and she fell on her knees,
burying her face in her hands. As for the
Doctor himself, he <i>slid</i> slowly into a chair,
never once removing his gaze, from the three
gentlemen on the sofa. Thus confronting
them in his cardinal's attire, with the white
plumes nodding over his forehead, he seemed,
in the language of the chairman of a town
meeting, "to be waiting for this here meeting
to proceed to business."</p>

<p>There was a pause,&mdash;a painful and embarrassing
pause.</p>

<p>The three sat like statues, only that Mr.
Potts rubbed the end of his nose, with the
top of his cane.</p>

<p>Why could not Dr. Bulgin, after the
manner of the Genii in the Arabian Nights,
disappear through the floor, in a cloud of
mist and puff of perfume?</p>

<p>"Well,&mdash;gentlemen,&mdash;" said Bulgin at
last, for the dead silence began to drive him
mad, and made him hear all sorts of noises,
in his ears,&mdash;"what are <i>you</i> doing in <i>this
place</i>, at this <i>unusual</i> hour!"</p>

<p>This was a pointed question, to which
Mr. Burns felt called upon to reply. He
rose, and again the nose loomed largely, as
he bowed,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Precisely the question which we were
about to ask you," he said, and was seated
again.</p>

<p>Mr. Potts took his turn:</p>

<p>"For a long time we have heard rumors,"
he said rising, "rumors concerning our pastor,
of a painful nature. And although we
did not credit them, yet they troubled us.
Last night, however, we each received a
letter, from an unknown person, who informed
us, that in case we visited this house,
between midnight and daybreak, we would
discover our pastor, in company with the
wife of an aged member of our church. As
the letter inclosed the password, by which
admittance is gained to this place, we took
counsel upon the matter, and concluded to
come. And,&mdash;"</p>

<p>"And,&mdash;" interrupted Watkins, rising
solemnly, and extending the forefinger of his
right hand, toward Bulgin, "and <i>now we see</i>!"</p>

<p>"And now we <i>see</i>!" echoed Mr. Watkins,
absently shutting one eye, as he regarded
Bulgin's face.</p>

<p>"We <i>all</i> see," remarked Mr. Potts resuming
his seat, and then as if to clinch the
matter&mdash;"and with <i>our own</i> eyes!"</p>

<p>Bulgin never before fully appreciated the
meaning of the word "embarrassed." His
wits had never failed him before; would
they fail him now? He made an effort&mdash;</p>

<p>"Why, gentlemen, the truth is, I was summoned
to this house, on professional duty,&mdash;"
he began.</p>

<p>Mr. Potts groaned; they all groaned.</p>

<p>"In <i>that</i> costume?" asked Potts.</p>

<p>"And with <i>madam</i> there?" asked Watkins.</p>

<p>"Pro-fessi-o-n-a-l d-u-t-y!" thus Watkins
in a hollow voice.</p>

<p>'Professional duty' would not do; evidently
not. Foiled on this tack, the good
Doctor tried another:</p>

<p>"The truth is," he began, with remarkable
composure,&mdash;"I had been informed that
Mrs. Parkins here,&mdash;" he pointed to the
sobbing "nephew" otherwise Julia, and
drew his chair nearer to the three, gradually
softening his voice into a confidential whisper,&mdash;"Mrs.
Parkins, the young wife of my
aged friend Parkins, had been so far led
away by the insinuating manners of a young
man of fashion, as to promise to meet him
in this improper place. Desirous to save the
wife of my aged friend at all hazards, I assumed
this dress,&mdash;the one which her seducer
was to wear,&mdash;and came to this place,
and,&mdash;rescued her. Do you understand?"</p>

<p>That "do you understand," was given in
one of his most insinuating whispers; "and
thus you see I periled my reputation in
order to save,&mdash;<i>her</i>!"</p>

<p>What effect this story would have had
upon the three, had it been suffered to travel
unquestioned, it is impossible to tell. But
low and softly as the Doctor whispered, he
was overheard by his "nephew," otherwise,
Julia.</p>

<p>"Don't lie, Doctor," she said quite tartly as
she knelt on the floor. "I was not led away
by any young man of fashion, and I did <i>not</i>
come here to meet any young man of fashion.
I <i>was</i> led away by <i>you</i>, and I came here
with <i>you</i>."</p>

<p>Thus speaking, Julia rose from her knees,
and came to the Doctor's side, thus presenting
to the sight of the three gentlemen, the
figure of a very handsome woman, dressed
in blue frock coat and trowsers. She was
somewhat tall, luxuriously proportioned,
with a fine bust and faultless arms, her hair,
chestnut brown, and her complexion a delicate
mingling of "strawberries and cream."
"A dem foine woman," the exquisite of
Broadway would have called her. There
was not so much of intellect in her face, as
there was health, youth, passion. Married
to a man of her own age, and whom she
loved, she doubtless would have risen above
temptation, and always proved a faithful
wife, an affectionate mother. But sold by
her parents, in the mockery of a marriage, to
a man old enough to be her father,&mdash;perchance
her grandfather,&mdash;transferred at the
age of seventeen, like a bale of merchandise,
to the possession of one whom she could not
revere as a father, or love as a husband,&mdash;we
behold her before us, the victim of the
reverend tempter.</p>

<p>"You know, Doctor, that you led me
away, you know you did," she cried, sobbing,
"now did you not?" She bent
down her head and looked into his face.
"You can't say you didn't. No more he
can't," and she turned in mute appeal to the
three gentlemen.</p>

<p>"Evidently <i>not</i>," exclaimed Mr. Potts,
who in his younger days had been somewhat
wild, "that cock won't fight!" he continued,
using a figure of speech, derived from the
experience of said younger days.</p>

<p>As for the Doctor, he mentally wished
the beautiful Mrs. Julia Parkins in Kamschatka.</p>

<p>"Never have an affair with a <i>fool</i> again,
as long as I live!" he muttered.</p>

<p>"And while you soothed my poor old
husband, on that doctrinal point; you,&mdash;you,"
sobbed Julia, "told me how handsome I was,
and what a shame it was for me, to be jailed
up with an old man like that. Yes, you
said <i>jailed</i>. And how it was no harm for
me to love you, and that it was no harm for
you to love me. And I heard you preach, and
you came to the house, day after day, and,&mdash;"
poor Julia could not go on for sobbing.</p>

<p>The three gentlemen groaned.</p>

<p>As for Dr. Bulgin, he calmly rose from his
seat, and taking the corkscrew from the tray
on the table, proceeded quietly to draw the
cork of a bottle of champagne. This accomplished,
he filled a long necked glass to the
brim with foaming Heidsick.</p>

<p>"Jig's up, gentlemen," he said, bowing to
the three, as he tossed off the glass, and regarded
them with a smile of matchless impudence,&mdash;"Jig's
up!"</p>

<p>"What does he mean by 'jig's up?'"
asked Mr. Burns of Mr. Potts, in a very
hollow voice.</p>

<p>"He means," returned Bulgin himself,
straightening up, and rubbing his broad chest
with his fat hand, "that the jig is up.
You've found me out. There's no use of
lying about it. And now that you have
found me out,&mdash;" he paused, filled another
glass, and contemplated the three, over its
brim,&mdash;"allow me to ask, what do you intend
to do?"</p>

<p>He took a sip from the glass. The three
were thunderstruck.</p>

<p>"Cool!" exclaimed Mr. Potts, punching
the toe of his boot with his cane.</p>

<p>"You <i>can't</i> expose me," continued Bulgin,
as he took another sip: "that would create
<i>scandal</i>, you know, and hurt the church more
than it would me."</p>

<p>The rich impudence of the Doctor's look,
would "have made a cat laugh."</p>

<p>"We <i>will</i> expose you!" cried Watkins,
hollowly, with an emphatic nodding of his
nose. "The truth demands it. As long as
you are suffered to prowl about in this way,
no man's wife, sister, or daughter is safe."</p>

<p>"No man's wife, sister, or daughter is
safe!" echoed Mr. Potts.</p>

<p>"Did I ever tempt <i>your</i> wife, Burns?"
coolly asked Bulgin,&mdash;Burns winced, for his
wife was remarkably plain.</p>

<p>"Or your sister, Potts?" Potts colored to
the eyes; his sister was a miracle of plainness.</p>

<p>"Or your daughter, Watkins?" Watkins
felt the thrust, for his daughter was as plain
as Burns' wife and Potts' sister combined.</p>

<p>"Be assured I never will," continued
Bulgin&mdash;"now, what do you intend to do?
Expose me and ruin this poor creature here?"&mdash;"Don't
call me a poor creature, you brute!"
indignantly interrupted Julia. "Publish me
in the papers, dismiss me from the church, give
my name to be a by-word in the mouths of
scoffers and infidels? Gravely, gentlemen,
is that what you mean to do? Let us reflect
a little. You pay me a good salary; I preach
you good sermons. Granted. My practice
may be a little loose, but, is not my doctrine
orthodox? Where can you get a preacher
who will draw larger crowds? And is it
worth your while, merely on account of a
little weakness like this,"&mdash;he pointed to
Julia,&mdash;"to disgrace me and the church
together?"</p>

<p>The Doctor saw by their faces, that he
had made an impression. They conversed
together in low tones, and with much earnestness.
Meanwhile, Julia sobbed and Bulgin
took another glass of champagne.</p>

<p>"Will you solemnly promise,"&mdash;Burns
knocked his cane on the floor, and emphasised
each word, "to be more careful of your
conduct in the future, in case we overlook
the present offense?"</p>

<p>"Cordially, gentlemen, and upon my
honor!" cried Bulgin, rising from his seat,
"I will take Julia quietly home, and to-morrow
commence life anew. I give you
my hand upon it."</p>

<p>He advanced, and shook them by the
hand.</p>

<p>"If you keep your word, this will suit
me," said Burns, with gloomy cordiality.</p>

<p>"And me," echoed Watkins.</p>

<p>"And me," responded Potts.</p>

<p>"But it will not suit me!" cried a strange
voice, which started the whole company to
their feet. The voice came from behind the
hangings which concealed the bed. It was
a firm voice, and deep as a well.</p>

<p>"It will not suit me, I say," and from the
hangings the unknown speaker emerged with
a measured stride.</p>

<p>He was a tall man, somewhat bent in the
shoulders, and wore a long cloak, of an <i>antique</i>
fashion, which was fastened to his neck
by a golden clasp. His white hairs were
covered by an old-fashioned fur-cap; his
eyes hidden by large green glasses, and the
furred collar of his cloak, concealed the
lower part of his face. An aged man, evidently,
as might be seen by his snow-white
hair, and the wrinkles on the exposed portion
of his face, but his step was strong and
measured, and his voice firm and clear.</p>

<p>"And who are <i>you</i>?" cried Bulgin,
recovering from his surprise. His remark
was chorused by the others.</p>

<p>"A pew-holder in your church," emphatically
exclaimed the cloaked individual.
"Let that suffice you. Gentlemen,"&mdash;turning
his back on Bulgin, he lifted his cap and
exposed his forehead to the three gentlemen,&mdash;"you
know me?"</p>

<p>With one impulse, they pronounced a
name; and it was plainly to be seen that
they respected that name, and its owner.</p>

<p>"This compromise does not suit me," said
the cloaked gentleman, turning abruptly to
Bulgin. "You are a villain, sir. It is men
like you who bring the Gospel of Christ into
contempt. You are an atheist, sir. It is
men like you who fill the world with infidels.
I have borne with you long enough.
I will bear with you no longer. You shall
be exposed, sir."</p>

<p>This style of attack, as impetuous as a
charge of bayonets, evidently startled the
good Doctor.</p>

<p>"Who are <i>you</i>?" he asked, sneeringly.</p>

<p>"I am the man who wrote the letters to
these three gentlemen, yesterday," dryly
responded the cloaked gentleman.</p>

<p>"This is a conspiracy," growled Bulgin.
"Take care, sir! There is a law for conspirators
against character and reputation&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Baugh!" responded the old gentleman,
shrugging his shoulders; and then he beckoned
with his hand, toward the recess in
which stood the bed. "Come in," he said,
"it is time."</p>

<p>Two persons emerged from the recess;
one, an old man, of portly form, and mild,
good-humored face&mdash;now, alas! dark and
corrugated with suppressed wrath; the other,
a slender woman, with pale face, and large,
intellectual eyes,&mdash;and a baby, sleeping on
her bosom.</p>

<p>Bulgin uttered an oath.</p>

<p>"My wife!&mdash;her father!" was all he could
utter.</p>

<p>"I have summoned you from your home
in the country," said the cloaked gentleman,
"to meet me at this house at this unusual
hour, to show you the husband and son-in-law
in his festival attire, and in company
with his paramour.&mdash;Look at him! Isn't he
beautiful?"</p>

<p>The wife rushed forward, with an indignant
glance&mdash;</p>

<p>"Let me see the woman who has stolen
my husband's affections," she said.</p>

<p>The cloaked gentleman interposed between
her and Julia,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Softly, my good lady; this poor child
must not be disgraced;" and, turning to
Julia, he whispered: "Hide your face with
your 'kerchief, and hurry from the room.
There is a carriage at the door; it will bear
you home. Away now!"</p>

<p>"The nephew" did not need a second
invitation. Hands over her face, she glided
from the room.</p>

<p>Bulgin now found himself in this position:&mdash;behind
him, Watkins, Burns and
Potts; on his right, the cloaked gentleman;
on his left, his weeping wife, with her baby;
in front, the burly form of his father-in-law,
who, clad in the easy costume of a country
gentleman, seemed too full of wrath to trust
himself with words.</p>

<p>"Oh! husband, how could you&mdash;" began
the wife.</p>

<p>"Is that your wife, sir?" thundered the
father-in-law. "Answer me! Is that your
wife?"</p>

<p>"It is," answered Bulgin, retreating a step.
"Allow me to explain,&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Is that your child, sir?" thundered the
enraged old gentleman. "Answer me! Is
that your child?"</p>

<p>"It&mdash;is&mdash;" and Bulgin retreated another
step.</p>

<p>"Then, what in the devil do you do in a
place like this?&mdash;Hey?&mdash;Answer me!&mdash;answer
me!&mdash;"</p>

<p>The father-in-law was too much enraged
to say any more. So he proceeded to settle
the affair in his own way. He did not
threaten "divorce;"&mdash;did not even mention
"separate maintenance." Nothing of the
kind. His course was altogether different.
From beneath his capacious buff waistcoat,
he drew forth a cow-hide&mdash;a veritable cow-hide,&mdash;and
grasped it firmly.</p>

<p>"Don't strike a man of my cloth," cried
Bulgin.</p>

<p>The only answer was a blow across the
face, which left its livid mark on the nose
and cheeks. The good Doctor bawled and
ran. The father-in-law pursued, giving the
cow-hide free play over the head and shoulders
of the Doctor. And the wife, with
baby on her bosom, pursued her father,&mdash;"Don't,
father, don't!" Thus, the chase
led round the room; the howls of the Doctor,
the blows of the whip, the falling of
chairs, and trampling of feet, forming, altogether,
a striking chorus. And to add the
feather to the camel's back, the baby lifted
up its voice in the midst of the scene. Mr.
Potts, Mr. Burns, and Mr. Watkins, mounted
on the sofa, so that they might not be in the
way.</p>

<p>As for the cloaked gentleman, leaning
against the door, he laughed,&mdash;yes, perhaps
for the first time in thirty years.</p>

<p>After making the circuit of the room three
or four times, the scarlet attire of the Rev.
Dr. Bulgin hung in rags upon his back; and
the old man, red in the face, bathed in perspiration,
and out of breath, sank panting in
a chair.</p>

<p>He glanced at his daughter, who sat weeping
in a corner, and then at the Rev. Doctor,
who, with the figure of the letter X welted
across his face, was rubbing his bruises in
another corner.</p>

<p>"Now, sir, if ever I catch you at anything
of this kind, if I don't lick you, my name
ain't Jenkins!"</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h3><a name="CHAPTER_4_VI" id="CHAPTER_4_VI">CHAPTER VI.</a></h3>

<h4>BANK-STOCK AT THE BAR.</h4>


<p>The Court of Ten Millions was once more
in session. The judge was once more in his
seat; his form enveloped in the coat with
many capes, his features shadowed by the
hat with ample brim. But the beautiful
Esther was no longer on his left, nor the
giant negro on his right. The great statesman,
with the somber brow and masquerade
attire of Roderick Borgia, no longer sat in
the seat of the criminal. The scene was
altogether changed, although the candle on
the table still shed its beams around that
room, whose black hangings were fringed
with gold, and whose gloomy ceiling represented
a stormy sky, with the sun struggling
among its clouds.</p>

<p>In the seat of the criminal sat Israel
Yorke, the financier; his diminutive form,
clad in the scarlet Turkish jacket and blue
trowsers, contrasting somewhat oddly with
his business-like face, and with the general
appearance of the scene. Israel was perplexed,
for he shifted uneasily in the chair
and clasped its arms with his hands, while
his ferret-like eyes, now peering above, now
below, but never through the glasses of his
spectacles, roved incessantly from side to
side. There sat the silent judge, under the
gloomy canopy, his head bowed on his
breast. There was the black table, on which
stood the solitary candle, and over which
were scattered, an inkstand, pen and paper,
a book, and sundry other volumes, looking
very much like ledger and day-book. On
one side of the table, ranged against the
wall, were six sturdy fellows, attired in
coarse garments, with crape over their faces;
and each man held a club in his brawny
hand. And on the opposite side, also ranged
against the wall like statues, were six more
sturdy fellows, each one grasping a club with
his strong right arm. They were dumb as
stone; only their hard breathing could be
heard;&mdash;evidently men of toil, who, on occasion,
in a good cause, can strike a blow that
will be felt.</p>

<p>Israel did not like this scene. A few
moments since, kneeling beside a beautiful
girl, whose young loveliness was helpless
and in his power;&mdash;and now, a prisoner in
this nightmare sort of place, with the judge
before him, and six sturdy fellows on either
hand, waiting to do the judge's bidding!
The contrast was too violent. Israel thought
so; and&mdash;Israel felt anything but comfortable.</p>

<p>"Do they mean to murder me in this dismal
den?" he ejaculated to himself. "Really,
this way of doing business is exceedingly
unbusiness-like. What would they say in
Wall street to a scene like this?"</p>

<p>Here the voice of the judge was heard
through the dead stillness:</p>

<p>"Israel Yorke, you are about to be put on
trial for your crimes."</p>

<p>"My crimes?" ejaculated the little man,
bounding from his seat. "Crimes!&mdash;What
crimes have I committed?"</p>

<p>There, outspoke the sense of injured innocence!
To be sure&mdash;what crimes had he
committed? Had he ever stabbed a man, or
put another man's name to paper, or stolen a
loaf of bread? No,&mdash;indignantly&mdash;No!
Israel Yorke was above all that. But how
many robbers had he made, in the course of
his career, by his banking speculations? how
many forgers? how many murderers? how
many honest men had he flung into the
felon's cell? how many pure women had he
transformed into walkers of the public
streets? Ah! these are questions which
Israel Yorke had rather not answer.</p>

<p>"Yes, your crimes, committed through a
long course of years; not with the bravery
and boldness of the highway robber, but
with the cowardice and low cunning of the
sneak and swindler, who robs within the
letter of the law. Crimes committed, not
upon the wealthy and the strong, but upon
the weak, the poor, the helpless&mdash;the widow,
by her fireless hearth&mdash;the orphan, by his
father's grave. Oh, sir&mdash;we have just tried
a bold, bad man; a colossal criminal, whose
very errors wear something of the gloomy
grandeur of the thunder-cloud. To put you
on trial, after him, is like leaving the
presence of Satan, his forehead yet bearing
some traces of former splendor, to find ones-self
confronted by Mammon, that most
abased of all the damned. Yes, sir,&mdash;an
apology is due to human nature, by this
court, for stooping so low as to put <i>you</i> on
your trial. And yet, even you derive some
sort of consequence from the vast field of
your crimes,&mdash;the wide-spread and infernal
results of your life-long labors."</p>

<p>Israel crouched in his chair, as though he
expected the ceiling to fall on him. "What
d'ye mean by crimes?" he cried, grasping
the arms of the chair with both hands;&mdash;"and
what right have you to try me?"</p>

<p>The judge briefly but pointedly, and in a
clear voice, which penetrated every nook of
the chamber, explained the peculiar features
of the court. Its power, backed by ten millions
of silver dollars; its jurisdiction, over
crimes committed by those who seek the
fruits of labor, without its work, or who use
the accident of wealth and social position to
oppress or degrade man&mdash;their brother; its
stern application to criminals, who, clad in
wealth, had trampled all justice under foot
of their own terse motto, "<span class="smcap">Might makes
right</span>."</p>

<p>The explanation of the judge was brief,
but impressive. Israel began to feel conviction
steal into his soul. "Might makes right!"
Oh, how like the last nail in the coffin,
are those simple words, to a wealthy scoundrel,
who suddenly finds himself helpless in
the grasp of a mightier power!</p>

<p>"Of&mdash;what&mdash;am&mdash;I&mdash;accused!" faltered
Israel; thus recognising the jurisdiction of
the court.</p>

<p>The judge answered him:</p>

<p>"Of every crime that can be committed
by the man, who makes it his sole object in
life to coin money out of the life and blood
of the helpless and the poor;&mdash;and who
pursues this object steadily, by day and
night, for twenty years, with the untiring
scent of the bloodhound on the track of
blood. Survey your life for the last twenty
years. You have appeared in various characters:
as the trustee, as the executor, as the
speculator, the landlord, and the financier."</p>

<p>He paused. Israel found himself listening
with intense interest.</p>

<p>"As the trustee, to whom dying men, with
their last breath, intrusted the heritage of
the orphan, you have in every case, plundered
the orphan out of bread, out of education,
and cast him ignorant and helpless
upon the world. How many orphans, given
into your charge, with their heritage, now
rot in the grave, or in the felon's dungeon?
Your history is written in their blood. Do
you,&mdash;" the voice of the judge sank low,&mdash;"do
you remember one orphan, whom, when
a little child, her father gave to your care,
and whom, when grown to young womanhood,
you robbed of her heritage? Do you
remember the day on which she died, the
tenant of a brothel?"</p>

<p>Once more the judge was silent, but Israel
had no word of reply. As for the twelve
listeners, they manifested their attention by
an ominous murmur.</p>

<p>"As the landlord, it has not been your
object to provide the poor with comfortable
homes, in exchange for their hard-earned
rent-money, but to pack as many human beings
as you might, within the smallest compass
of brick and mortar,&mdash;to herd creatures
made in the image of the living God, in narrow
rooms, dark courts, and pestilential alleys,
as never beasts were herded,&mdash;and thus
you have sowed death, you have bred the
fever, the small-pox, the cholera,&mdash;but <i>you
have made money</i>."</p>

<p>Seated in the shadow of the velvet canopy,
from which his voice resounded, the judge
again was silent. Israel, dropping his eyes,
imitated the silence of the judge. The
murmur of the twelve listeners was now
accompanied by the sound of their clubs
grating against the floor.</p>

<p>"It is as a banker, however, that your appetite
for money, made out of human blood,
takes its intensest form of baseness. You
started with a Savings Fund, chartered by
a well-paid legislature, who transformed you
into a president and board of directors, and
divesting you of all responsibility, as a man,
authorized you to coin money out of the
blind confidence of the poor. Hard-working
men, servant-girls, needle-women, and
others of the poor, who gain their pittance
by labor that never knows rest, until it sleeps
in the grave, deposited that pittance in your
hands. A pittance, mark you, not so remarkable
for its amount, as for the fact, that
it might, in some future hour, become bread
to the starving, warmth to the freezing, home
to the homeless. And how did you deal
with the sacred trust? The earnings of the
poor filled the coffers of your Savings Fund,
until they counted over a hundred thousand
dollars, and then, on the eve of a dreary
winter, the Savings Fund <i>failed</i>. That was
all. <i>You</i> did not <i>fail</i>; oh, no; but the Savings
Fund Corporation (into which a pliant
legislature had transformed you),&mdash;it <i>failed</i>.
And while you pocketed the hundred thousand
dollars, you left the poor, who had
trusted you, to starve, or beg, or die, as
pleased them."</p>

<p>Israel shaded his eyes with his hands; he
seemed buried in profound thought.</p>

<p>"This was the corner-stone of your fortunes.
Then the Savings Fund swindler
grew into the banker. There were legislatures
at Albany, at Trenton and at Harrisburgh,
eager to do your bidding,&mdash;hungry to
be bought. For every dollar of real value
in your coffers, these legislatures, by their
charters, gave you the privilege to create at
least fifty paper dollars; in other words, to
demand from the toiling people of the land,
some millions of dollars' worth of their labor,
without any equivalent. Your banks grew;
there were sham presidents and boards of
directors, but you were the actual owner of
them all; your paper was scattered broadcast
over the land. It was in the hands of
farmers and mechanics, of poor men and
poor women, who had taken it in pay for
hard labor; and all at once your banks <i>failed</i>.
What became of the poor wretches who took
your paper, is not known, but as for you,
your capital of a hundred thousand now
swelled into two millions of dollars. Let the
poor howl! Had you not a press in your
pay? Why should not the press be purchased,
when legislatures are to be bought as
so much merchandise?"</p>

<p>The judge paused, and after a moment
resumed,&mdash;</p>

<p>"There was a clamor for a while, but you
laughed in your sleeve, bought houses and
lands,&mdash;dotted the city with pestilential dens,
in which you crowded the poor, like insects
in a festering carcass,&mdash;and after a time, raised
your head once more as a banker. It was
Harrisburgh, Albany or Trenton this time,&mdash;one
of the three, or all of them,&mdash;which
gave you the right to steal by law. You
were now the owner (and behind the scenes,
the wire-puller), of three banks. Last night
you thought 'the pear ripe.' Your notes
were once more scattered broadcast over the
land. 'It is a good time to fail,' you thought,
and so last night, in the railroad cars (in order
to give a color to your failure) you pretended
to be robbed of seventy-one thousand dollars."</p>

<p>"Pretended to be robbed? I tell you I
was robbed," cried Israel, half-rising from
his seat,&mdash;"robbed by an old convict and his
young accomplice."</p>

<p>"And this morning, in due course, your
three banks stopped payment. All day long
your victims lined the street, in front of your
den of plunder; and to-night found you in
this place, seeking for a time, the gratification
of one lust in place of another. And
now you are in the hands of those who,
having '<span class="smcap">the might</span>,' will do with you as
your crimes deserve. 'Might makes right,'
you know."</p>

<p>"But where is the proof of all this? Where
are my accusers?" Israel's teeth chattered
as he spoke.</p>

<p>"Do you ask for accusers? What accusers
are needed more powerful than those voices
which now,&mdash;and even your seared conscience
must hear them,&mdash;arise against you from the
silence of the grave and the darkness of the
dungeon cell?"</p>

<p>Israel tried hard to brace his nerves
against the force of words like these,&mdash;against
the tone in which they were spoke,&mdash;but
he shook from head to foot, as though he
had been seized with an ague-fit.</p>

<p>"Think for a moment of Cornelius Berman,
whom, by the grossest fraud, you stripped
of property and home, leaving himself
and his only child to sink heart-broken into
the grave. And once you called yourself
his <i>friend</i>. Think, also, of your instrument,
Buggles, whose persecution of the artist, instigated
by you, provoked a brave and honest
youth into murder, and consigned him to
the felon's death! Do you ask for accusers?"</p>

<p>"Cornelius Berman!" faltered Israel, as
if thinking aloud.</p>

<p>"Do you ask for proofs? Behold them
on the table before you. For years your course
has been tracked, your crimes counted, and
the hour of your punishment fixed. And
the hour has come! On the table before
you are proofs of all your crimes, proofs that
would weigh you down in a convict's chains
before any court of law. There are the secrets
which you thought safely locked up in
your fire-proof, or buried in the forgotten
past,&mdash;secrets connected with the history of
long years, with your transactions in Harrisburgh,
Trenton, Albany,&mdash;with all your
schemes from the very dawning of your infamous
career."</p>

<p>"Can Fetch, the villain, have betrayed
me?" and Israel sank back helplessly in
the huge arm-chair;&mdash;"or, is this man only
trying to bully me into some confession or
other?"</p>

<p>"Israel Yorke! the devotion with which
you, for long years, have pursued your object,&mdash;to
coin money out of human blood,&mdash;has
only been exceeded by the devotion of
those who have followed you at every step
of the way, and for years, singled you out as
the victim of avenging justice."</p>

<p>"But what do you intend to do with me?"
cried Yorke, now shivering from head to foot
with terror.</p>

<p>"In the first place, you will sign a paper,
stating the truth, viz: that you have ample
means to redeem every dollar of your notes,
and that you will redeem them to-day, and
henceforth at your office."</p>

<p>"But I have not the funds," Israel began,
but he was sternly interrupted by the judge:
"It is false! you have the funds. Independent
of the seventy-one thousand dollars, of
which you say you were robbed, you can, at
any moment, command a million dollars.
The proofs are on the table before you. You
<i>must</i> redeem your notes."</p>

<p>"And suppose I consent to sign such a
paper?" hesitated the Financier.</p>

<p>"Then you must sign another paper, the
contents of which you will not know until
some future time," continued the judge, very
quietly.</p>

<p>"If I do it, may I be &mdash;&mdash;!" screamed
Israel, bouncing from his seat.</p>

<p>"It is well. You may go," calmly remarked
the judge. "You are free; these
gentlemen will see you from this house, and
attend you until bank hours, when they will
have the honor of presenting you to the
holders of your notes, who will, doubtless,
gather in respectable numbers in front of
your banking house."</p>

<p>Israel was free, but the twelve gentlemen,
with clubs, gathered round him, anxious to
escort him safely on his way.</p>

<p>"Come, my dear little Turk, we are ready,"
said one of the number, with a very gruff
voice, laying a hand,&mdash;it was such a hard
hand,&mdash;on the shoulders of the Financier,
"We're a-dyin' to go with you; ain't we,
boys?"</p>

<p>"Dyin' ain't the word,&mdash;we're starvin' to
death to be alone with the gentleman in blue
trowsers," responded another.</p>

<p>Israel bit his lips in silent rage.</p>

<p>"Give me the papers," he said, in a sullen
voice, and following a sign from the finger
of the judge, he advanced to the table, and
beheld the documents, the first of which he
read.</p>

<p>It was an important document, containing
a brief statement of all Israel's financial affairs,&mdash;evidently
prepared by one who knew
all about him,&mdash;together with his solemn
promise to redeem every one of his notes,
dollar for dollar.</p>

<p>"Could Fetch have betrayed me?"&mdash;Israel
hissed the words between his set teeth,
as he took up the pen.&mdash;"If I thought so,
I'd cut his throat."</p>

<p>He signed, shook his gold spectacles, and
uttered a deep sigh.</p>

<p>"Now, the other paper," said the judge,
"its contents are concealed by another sheet,
but there is room for your signature."</p>

<p>Israel's little eyes shone wickedly as he
gazed upon the sheet of paper, which hid
the mysterious document. He chewed the
handle of his pen between his teeth,&mdash;stood
for a moment in great perplexity, and then
signed at the bottom of the sheet, the musical
name of "<span class="smcap">Israel Yorke</span>," and then
fell back in the chair wiping the sweat from
his forehead with the sleeve of his Turkish
jacket.</p>

<p>"Anything more?" he gasped.</p>

<p>"You are free," said the judge; "you
may now change your dress, and leave this
house."</p>

<p>Israel bounced from his seat.</p>

<p>"Yet, hold a single moment. One of these
gentlemen will accompany you wherever you
go; eat, drink, walk, sit, sleep with you, and
be introduced by you to all your financial
friends, as your moneyed friend from the
country,&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Why, you must be the devil incarnate,"
screamed Israel, and he beat his clenched
hand against the arm of the chair.</p>

<p>"It will be the business of your attendant
to accompany you to your banking house,
and see that you commence the redemption
of your notes at nine o'clock this morning.
He will report all your movements to me.
Were you suffered to go alone, you might, in
a fit of absence, glide out of public view,
and,&mdash;Havana is such a pleasant residence for
runaway bankers, especially in winter time."</p>

<p>Israel gave utterance to an oath. The
judge, without remarking this pardonable
ebullition of feeling, quietly addressed his
twelve,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Which of you gentlemen will put yourself
under this gentleman's orders, as his attendant
and shadow?"</p>

<p>There was a pause, and one of the twelve
advanced and laid his brawny hand upon
the table. His gaunt and muscular form
was clad in a sleek frock-coat of dark blue
cloth, buttoned over his broad chest to his
throat, where it was relieved by a black cravat
and high shirt collar. His harsh features,
closely shaven, and disfigured by a
hideous scar on his cheek,&mdash;features manifesting
traces of hardship and age,&mdash;were in
singular contrast with his hair, which, sleek,
and brown and glossy, was parted neatly in
the middle of his huge head, and descended
to either ear, in massy curls. His eyes, half
hidden by the shaggy brows, shone with an
expression only to be described by the words,
<i>ferocious fun</i>.</p>

<p>"I'll go with him, hoss," said a gruff
voice; and, turning to Israel, this singular
individual regarded him with a steady look.
Israel returned his look, and the twain gazed
upon each other with increasing interest; and
at length the individual approached Israel,
and bent down his head near to his face.</p>

<p>"It's the fellow,&mdash;it's the fellow!" cried
Israel, once more bouncing from his seat.
"He robbed me last night in the cars,&mdash;he&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Be silent," cried the judge, who had regarded
this scene attentively, with his hand
upraised to his brow.&mdash;"Gentlemen, conduct
the prisoner into the next room, and leave
me alone with this person," he pointed to the
gaunt individual who stood alone by the table.</p>

<p>The eleven disappeared through the curtains
into the Golden Room with Israel in
their charge.</p>

<p>"Now sir, who are you?" sternly inquired
the judge.</p>

<p>The individual gravely lifted his brown
hair,&mdash;for it was a wig,&mdash;and disclosed the
outline of his huge head, with the black
hair streaked with gray, cut close to the
scalp. Then turning down the high shirt-collar,
he disclosed the lower part of his
face,&mdash;the wide mouth and iron jaw, stamped
with a savage resolution.</p>

<p>"Don't you think I'm hansum?" he said,
and the eyes twinkled under the bushy
brows, and the mouth distorted in a grin.</p>

<p>"It's the same!" ejaculated the judge,&mdash;"How
did you escape from the room in
which you were confined some three hours
ago, and what do you here?"</p>

<p>"As yer so civil and pleasant spoken, I
don't mind answerin' yer questions. Arter
the poleese had tied me, and left me in the
dark upon the bed, 'it looks black,' said I to
myself, 'but don't give it up so easy!' and a
side door was opened, an' a hand cut my cords,
and a voice said 'get up and travel,&mdash;the
way is clear,' and a bundle was put into my
hand, containin' these clothes, and this head
o' hair.&mdash;I rigged myself out in the dark,
pitched my old clothes under the bed, an'
then went down the back stairway. I certainly
did travel&mdash;"</p>

<p>"And then?&mdash;"</p>

<p>"And then," responded the individual, "I
went and got shaved."</p>

<p>"How came you here?"</p>

<p>"Thinking, I was safer in a crowd, than
anywhere else, I put for down town, and I
mixed in with the folks in front of Israel
Yorke's banking-house, and as they were
hollering, why I hollered too. They wanted
to pitch into him,&mdash;so did I. Lord! didn't
they holler! And a gen'elman, seein' I was
so airnest, told me about a private party, who
were about to foller up Isr'el, to this house.
One o' their gang, he said, was sick,&mdash;he
axed me to jine 'em,&mdash;and swore me in as
one of your perleese,&mdash;and I jined 'em."</p>

<p>"What is your name?" cried the judge,
sternly.</p>

<p>"In the place where I was last, they called
me Ninety-One," answered the old convict,
arranging the high collar about his face,&mdash;"Years
ago, when I was an honest man,
afore a man in a cloak, on a dark night,
left a baby with me and my wife, I was
called,&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>He paused, and passed his brawny hand
over his eyes. The judge started up from
his seat.&mdash;</p>

<p>"Yes, yes, you were called,&mdash;" he exclaimed.</p>

<p>"John Hoffman," replied the convict.</p>

<p>The judge sank back in his chair, and
his head dropped upon his breast. It was
sometime before he spoke,&mdash;</p>

<p>"I have heard of your story before," he
said, in a tremulous voice. "And now answer
me one question," he continued in a
firmer voice.&mdash;"Did you commit the murder
for which you were arrested?"</p>

<p>"I can't expect you to believe an old cuss
like me, but I certainly did <i>not</i>," responded
Ninety-One.</p>

<p>"How came you in the room next to the
one in which the murdered man was found?"</p>

<p>"I was took there by <i>a friend</i>, who offered
to hide me from the folks who were arter
me, about Israel's valise."</p>

<p>The judge seemed buried in thought.</p>

<p>"And after the murder was discovered,
and you were arrested and pinioned, the
same <i>friend</i> appeared once more, and aided
your escape?"</p>

<p>"It was a friend," dryly responded Ninety-One,&mdash;"can't
say what he looked like, as
the room was as black as your hat, (purviden
you don't wear a white hat)."</p>

<p>"Did you commit the robbery on the
railroad cars, last night?"</p>

<p>"I'll be straight up and down with you,
boss," said Ninety-One,&mdash;"I did <i>not</i>,&mdash;and
nobody didn't. The money was found on
the track, after the smashin' up o' the cars."</p>

<p>"Do you imagine the <i>friend</i>, who hid you
away in the house of old Mr. Somers, intended
to implicate you in the murder of
his son?"</p>

<p>"That's jist one o' th' p'ints I'd like to
settle;" Ninety-One uttered a low deep laugh,
"if he did, I wouldn't give three tosses of a
bad copper for his windpipe."</p>

<p>"As the case stands now, you labor under
the double suspicion of robbery and murder.
Now mark me,&mdash;if you are innocent, I will
defend you. In the course of the day, I will
have some future talk with you. For the
present, your disguise will avoid suspicion
for a day or two. You will go with Israel
Yorke, and report all his movements to me.
My name and residence you will find on the
card near the candlestick. One question
more&mdash;there was a boy with you,&mdash;"</p>

<p>The voice of the judge again grew tremulous.</p>

<p>Ninety-One, attired in the neat frock-coat,
which displayed the brawny width of his
chest, drew himself to his full height, and
gazed upon the judge, long and earnestly,
his eyes deep-sunken behind his bushy brows.</p>

<p>"Do you think I'd a answered all your
questions, hoss, if I hadn't thought you knew
somethin' o' my life and had the will and
the power to set me right afore the world?
Well it's not for my own sake, I wish to be
set right, but for the sake of that boy. And
afore I answer your question, let me ax another:
Did you ever happen to know a man
named Doctor Martin Fulmer?"</p>

<p>Ninety-One could not see the expression
of the judge's face, (for as you are aware,
that face was concealed under the shadow
of the broad brimmed hat,) but when the
judge replied to his question, his voice was
marked by perceptible agitation:</p>

<p>"I know Dr. Fulmer. In fact,&mdash;in fact,&mdash;I
am often intrusted by him with business.
He will be in town to-morrow."</p>

<p>"He is alive then," exclaimed Ninety-One.
"Well hoss, when you meet Dr. Martin
Fulmer, jist tell him that that boy, who was
with me, had a parchment about his neck,
on which these letters was writ, 'G. G. V.
H. C.' The very same," he continued, as if
thinking aloud, "which I used to send in a
letter, to Dr. Martin Fulmer."</p>

<p>"And this boy," almost shrieked the
judge, rising, and starting one step forward,
on the platform, his corpse-like hand extended
toward Ninety-One,&mdash;"This boy with the
parchment about his neck, where,&mdash;where is
he now?"</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h3><a name="CHAPTER_4_VII" id="CHAPTER_4_VII">CHAPTER VII.</a></h3>

<h4>"WHERE IS THE CHILD OF GULIAN VAN
HUYDEN?"</h4>


<p>"In the early part of the evenin' I left
him in this very house, in company with a
gal named Frank,&mdash;"</p>

<p>The judge interrupted him,&mdash;"Bring in
the prisoner!" he shouted, and the eleven
shuffled into the room, escorting the little
gentleman in Turkish jacket and trowsers:
"Draw near sir," he beckoned to Ninety-One,
"attend this man from this house,&mdash;" he
pointed to Yorke, "and do with him as I
direct you,&mdash;thus&mdash;" he communicated his
directions to Ninety-One, in a rapid tone,
broken by emotion, and inaudible to the
eleven, "and you gentlemen,&mdash;" to the
eleven,&mdash;"already have your instructions."</p>

<p>He paused and then clutched Ninety-One
by the hand, the convict endeavoring, although
vainly, to gain a glimpse of his features,&mdash;"In
this house with Frank did you
say?" his voice was husky.</p>

<p>"In this house, with a gal named Frank,"
answered Ninety-One.</p>

<p>The judge stepped hastily from the platform,
and his steps trembling as he went,
disappeared through a side door, his hands
clasped over his breast.</p>

<p>Israel Yorke found himself alone with
Ninety-One and the eleven gentlemen with
clubs. Ninety-One addressed him in a tone
of cheerful politeness:</p>

<p>"Come, old cock, you and me's got to
travel," he said, covering Israel's right shoulder
with his huge hand.</p>

<p>Israel, biting his lips with illy suppressed
rage, could not help venting the bitterness
of his soul, in a single word,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Devil," he hissed the word between his
set teeth.</p>

<p>"Well, I am a devil Isr'el," answered
Ninety-One good humoredly, "an' you're another.
But you see there's two kind o' devils.
I'll explain it to you. Once a little sneak of
a devil came up to the head devil, (this
happened in the lower regions,) and offered
to take his arm, 'you're one devil, and I'm another,
and so we're ekle,' says the little sneak
of a devil. Now the head devil did not like
this. He says, says he, to the little sneak,
'There's two kind o' devils, young gen'leman.
There's me, for instance,&mdash;when I fell
from Heaven. I showed <i>pluck</i> anyhow, and
fell like a devil, and went about makin'
<i>stump speeches</i> in the lower regions. But
you,&mdash;you,&mdash;what was you doing meanwhile?
Sneakin' out o' Heaven with your carpet-bag
full of gold bricks, which you had stolen
from the gold pavement.' Now Isr'el the
name of the first devil was Beelzebub, and
the little sneak of a devil was called, Mammon.
Do you take?"</p>

<p>The eleven gentlemen with clubs, received
this elegant apologue, with evident pleasure,
manifesting their delight by a unanimous
burst of laughter.</p>

<p>Israel said nothing, but evidently was absorbed
in a multitude of reflections, not altogether
of the most pleasant character.</p>

<p>In a short time, once more arrayed in
his every-day attire he left the Temple, accompanied
by Ninety-One, and followed by
the eleven.</p>

<p>Hastening from the "Court of Ten Millions,"
his hands clasped tightly over his
breast, and his steps trembling as he went,
<span class="smcap">the judge</span> was determined, at all hazards,
to obtain an immediate interview with
Frank. Hurrying along a dark passage, and
then down the dark stairway,&mdash;for the
lights had been extinguished, and the
Temple was dark and silent as the tomb,&mdash;the
judge muttered frequently the words "in
this house,&mdash;in this house!" and then exclaimed,&mdash;"O,
he cannot, cannot escape me!
The hand of fate has led him hither."</p>

<p>He opened a door, and entered the magnificent
apartment, in which, in the early
part of the evening, Tarleton feasted with
his friends, while at the head of the table,
sat the corse of Evelyn Somers. Now all
was dark and silent there.</p>

<p>The judge lost no time, but retraced his
steps and hurried up-stairs. He presently
entered the Central Chamber, where a few
candles burned to their sockets, shed their
pale and uncertain light, over the pictures
and the mirrors, the tables coveted with
flowers, and the lofty ceiling supported by
marble pillars. When last we saw the
Central Chamber, it was all life and motion;
warm pulses were throbbing, bright eyes
flashing there. Then gay and varied costumes
glittered in the light, and each voluptuous
recess, echoed to the sighs of passion.
Now the scene presented that saddest of all
spectacles,&mdash;the decaying lights of a festival,
emitting their last dim gleam, upon the faded
splendors of the forsaken festal hall. Popes,
Caliphs, Cardinals, Quakeresses, Knights,
Nymphs and Houris, all were gone. The
place was silent as the grave, and much
more sad.</p>

<p>A single form walked slowly up and
down the silent hall,&mdash;a woman, whose noble
person was attired in black velvet, her
dark hair falling to her shoulders, and a
white cross clustering on her brow. Her
hands dropped listlessly by her side, and
her dark eyes dilating in their sockets, were
fixed in a vacant stare.</p>

<p>"Frank, I must speak with you at once,
and on a subject of life and death," cried the
judge, suddenly confronting her. Even as he
spoke, he was startled at the unnatural
pallor of her face. "To-night a young
man, in whose history I am fearfully interested,
entered this house, and saw you in
your chamber. He is now here," he continued
impetuously,&mdash;"I must see him."</p>

<p>"You mean the lost son of Gulian Van
Huyden?" she calmly said, pausing in her
walk, and folding her arms over her breast.</p>

<p>"He <i>was</i> here then," cried the judge, evidently
wild with agitation, "nay he is here
now."</p>

<p>"He was here half an hour ago," returned
Frank, who, pre-occupied with her own
thoughts, did not seem to notice the agitation
of the Judge,&mdash;"half an hour ago he
left the house."</p>

<p>"Left the house? Whither has he gone?"</p>

<p>"I know not."</p>

<p>"Child, child, you mock me," in his agitation
he seized her wrist,&mdash;"I must see
this boy, it is upon a matter of life and
death. For God's sake do not trifle with me."</p>

<p>"I tell you, that he left the house half
an hour ago," returned Frank, "and as I
hope to have peace in the hour of my death,
I do not know whither he has gone."</p>

<p>The solemnity of her tone impressed the
judge.</p>

<p>"But will he return?"</p>

<p>"He will never return,&mdash;never!" she answered,
and it seemed to the judge, as though
there was a hidden meaning in her words.</p>

<p>"O, do not drive me to despair. I must
see this youth, before to-morrow,&mdash;yes, to-day,&mdash;this
hour!"</p>

<p>"You will never see him in this house again."</p>

<p>"Did he leave this house alone, or was he
accompanied,&mdash;and by whom?"</p>

<p>A strange smile passed over her face as
she replied in a whisper&mdash;</p>

<p>"He was accompanied by Mary Berman,
who arisen from the grave, came here to
claim her husband."</p>

<p>The Judge uttered a wild ejaculation, and
sank half fainting in a chair,&mdash;his hat fell
from his brow, and his face was revealed.</p>

<p>That face, remarkable in every outline,
was bathed in cold moisture, and distorted
by contending emotions.</p>




<hr class="chap" />
<h3><a name="CHAPTER_4_VIII" id="CHAPTER_4_VIII">CHAPTER VIII.</a></h3>

<h4>BEVERLY AND JOANNA.</h4>


<p>In the Temple, near the hour of dawn, on
the morning of the 24th of December, 1844.</p>

<p>"Fallen!"</p>

<p>Yes, fallen! nevermore to press the kiss
of a pure mother upon the lips of her innocent
child. Fallen! never more to meet her
husband's gaze, with the look of a chaste
and faithful wife. Fallen!&mdash;from wifely
purity, from all that makes the past holy, or
the future hopeful&mdash;fallen, from all that
makes life worth the having,&mdash;fallen! and
forever!</p>

<p>"Fallen!"</p>

<p>Oh, how this word, trembling from her
lips&mdash;wrung from her heart&mdash;echoed through
the stillness of the dimly-lighted chamber.</p>

<p>She was seated on the sofa, her noble form
clad in the white silken robe&mdash;her hands
clasped&mdash;her golden hair unbound&mdash;her
neck and shoulders bare: and the same light
hanging from the ceiling, which disclosed
the details of that luxurious chamber&mdash;carpet,
chairs, sofa, mirror, and the snow-white
couch in a distant recess&mdash;fell upon her beautiful
countenance, and revealed the remorse
that was written there. There was a wild,
startled look in her blue eyes; her lips were
apart; her cheek was now, pale as death, and
then, flushed with the scarlet hues of unavailing
shame.</p>

<p>He was reclining at her feet; his arm
resting on the sofa; his face upturned&mdash;his
eyes gazing into hers. Clad in the costume
of the white monk&mdash;a loose robe of white
cloth, with wide sleeves, edged with red&mdash;Beverly
Barron toyed with his flaxen curls,
as he looked into her face, and remarked her
with a look of mingled meaning. There
was base appetite, gratified vanity, but no
remorse in his look.</p>

<p>And the light fell on his florid face, with
its sensual mouth, receding chin, wide
nostrils, and bullet-shaped forehead, encircled
by ringlets of flaxen hair&mdash;a face altogether
<i>animal</i>, with scarcely a single ray of a
higher nature, to light up or refine its grossness.</p>

<p>"Fallen!" cried Joanna; and clasped her
hands, and shuddered, as if with cold.</p>

<p>"Never mind, dear," said Beverly, and he
bent forward and kissed her hands&mdash;"I will
love you always!"</p>

<p>"Oh, my God!"&mdash;and in that ejaculation,
all the agony of her soul found utterance,&mdash;"Oh,
my God! my child!"</p>

<p>Beverly knelt at her feet, and kissed her
clenched hands, and endeavored to soothe
her with professions of undying love; but
she tore her hands from his grasp&mdash;</p>

<p>"My husband! How can I ever look into
his face again!"</p>

<p>Had you seen that noble form, swelling in
every fiber; had you seen the silken robe,
heaved upward by the agony which filled
her bosom; had you seen the look, so wild&mdash;remorseful&mdash;almost
mad&mdash;which stamped
her face,&mdash;you would have felt the emphasis
with which she uttered these terrible words,
"My husband! How can I ever look into
his face again!"</p>

<p>"Your husband," whispered Beverly, with
something of the devil in his eyes, "your
husband, even now, is on his way to Boston,
where the chosen mistress of his heart awaits
him. His brother is at the point of death,
is he? ha, ha, Joanna! 'Twas a good excuse,
but, like all excuses, rather lame&mdash;when
found out. The poor, good, dear Joanna,
sits at home, pining at her husband's absence,
while he, the faithful Eugene, consoles
himself in the arms of his Boston love!"</p>

<p>"It cannot be! it cannot be!" cried Joanna,
beating the carpet with her foot, and
pressing her clenched hands against her
heaving breast.</p>

<p>"Do you see this, darling?" and, throwing
the robe of the white monk aside, he disclosed
his "flashy" scarf, white vest and
gold chain. "Do you see this, pet?" and
from beneath his white vest he drew forth a
package of letters.&mdash;"<i>Her</i> letters to her dear
Eugene! How she loves him&mdash;how she
pities him, because he is not married to a
<i>sympathetic</i> soul,&mdash;how she counts the hours
that must elapse before he comes! It is all
written here, darling!"</p>

<p>Joanna took the package and passed it
absently from one hand to the other. "Yes,
yes, I read them yesterday! It is true, beyond
hope of doubt. He loves her!&mdash;he
loves her!"</p>

<p>"And you,"&mdash;Beverly arose and seated
himself by her side, winding his arm about
her waist. "And you, like a brave, noble
woman, whose dearest affections have been
trampled upon,"&mdash;he wound his left hand
amid the rich masses of her golden hair,&mdash;"you,
like a brave, proud heart, whose very
May of life has been blighted by a husband's
treachery,&mdash;have <i>avenged</i> yourself upon
him!"</p>

<p>He pressed his kiss upon her lips. But
the warmth of passion had passed away.
Her lips were cold. She shrunk from his
embrace. The vail had fallen from her
eyes; the delusion, composed of a mad passion
and a mad desire for revenge, had left
her, and she knew herself to be no longer
the stainless wife and holy mother&mdash;but that
thing for which on earth there is no forgiveness&mdash;an
adulteress!</p>

<p>"No, Beverly, no. It will not avail. His
fault was no excuse for my crime. For his
fault affects me only&mdash;wrongs me alone&mdash;but
mine&mdash;," there was a choking sensation in
her throat&mdash;she buried her face in her
hands&mdash;"Oh God! oh God! my child!"</p>

<p>Beverly took a bottle of champagne
which stood upon the table, drew the cork,
and filled two brimming glasses.</p>

<p>"You are nervous, my darling," he said,
"take this. Let us pledge each other&mdash;for
the past, forgetfulness&mdash;for the future, hope
and love."</p>

<p>He stood erect beneath the lamp&mdash;his tall
form, clad in the robe of the white monk,
relieved by the very gloom of the luxurious
chamber; he pressed the glass to his lips,
and over its rim surveyed the white couch,
which looked dim and shadowy in its distant
recess,&mdash;he murmured, "Eugene, your magnificent
wife is mine!"</p>

<p>And then drained the glass without moving
it from his lips.</p>

<p>She took the glass and drank; but the
same wine which an hour ago had fired her
blood, and completed the delusion of her
senses, now only added to her remorse and
shame.</p>

<p>"My father,&mdash;so proud of his name, so
proud of the honor of his son, the purity of
his daughter, how shall I ever meet his eye?
how can I ever look him in the face
again?"</p>

<p>And the image of that stern old man, with
wrinkled visage and snow-white hair, rose
vividly before her. Her father was an aristocrat
of the old school&mdash;proud, not of his
money, but of his blood. The royal blood
of Orange flowed in his veins. Loving his
only daughter better than his own soul, he
would have put her to death with his own
hand, sooner than she should incur even the
suspicion of dishonor.</p>

<p>"Pshaw, Joanna! He need never know
anything about the adventures of this night.
You have been slighted, and you have taken
your revenge;&mdash;that is all. No one need
know anything about it. You will mingle
in society as usual; these things, my darling,
are almost things of course in the fashionable
world, among the 'upper ten.' Among the
beautiful dames whom you see at the opera,
on a 'grand night,' how many do you suppose
would waste one thought of regret upon
an adventure like this?"</p>

<p>Joanna buried her burning temples in her
hands. All of her life rushed before her.
Her childhood&mdash;the days of her pure maidenhood&mdash;the
hour of her marriage, when she
gave herself to the husband who idolized
her,&mdash;the hour of her travail, when she gave
birth to her child,&mdash;all rushed upon her,
with the voices, tones, faces of other days,
commingled in one brief but vivid panorama.</p>

<p>"You see, my pet, you know but little of
the world," continued Beverly. "In the
very dawn of your beauty, ignorant of the
world, and of the value of your own loveliness,
you wedded Eugene. Life was a rose-colored
dream to you; you thought of him
only as the ideal of your existence. You
thought that he regarded you in the same
light. You did not dream that he would
ever regard you simply as the handsomest
piece of furniture about his splendid establishment,&mdash;a
splendid fixture, destined to
bear him children who would perpetuate the
name of Livingston,&mdash;while his roving affections
wandered about the world, constantly
seeking new objects of passionate regard.
You never dreamt of this, did you, darling?"</p>

<p>Joanna uttered a groan. Pressing her
hands to her throbbing temples, she felt her
bosom swell, but could not frame a word.</p>

<p>"Now, my dear, you are a woman; you
know something of the world. Like hundreds
of others of your wealth and station,
you can, under the vail of decorum, select
the object of a passionate attachment, and
indulge your will at pleasure. A bright future,
rich in love and in all that makes life
dear, is before you&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>And Beverly drew her to him, putting one
arm about her neck, while his left hand girdled
her bosom. As he kissed her, her golden
hair floated over his face and shoulders.</p>

<p>At this moment the door opened without
a sound, and a man wrapped in a cloak, with
a cap over his brow, advanced with a noiseless
step toward the sofa.</p>

<p>It was not until his shadow interposed between
them and the light, that they beheld
him. As Joanna raised her head, struggling
to free herself from the embrace of her seducer,
she beheld the intruder, who had lifted
his cap from his brow.</p>

<p>"O God, Eugene!" she shrieked, and fell
back upon the sofa, not fainting, but utterly
paralyzed, her limbs as cold as marble, her
blood turned to ice in her veins.</p>

<p>It was Eugene Livingston. Gently folding
his arms, cap in hand, he surveyed his
wife. His face was turned from the light,&mdash;its
ghastly paleness could not be seen. His
cloak hid the heavings of his breast. But
the light which fired his eyes, met the eyes
of his wife, and burned into her soul.</p>

<p>He did not speak to her.</p>

<p>Turning from her, he surveyed Beverly
Barron, who had started to his feet, and who
now stood as if suddenly frozen, with something
of the look and attitude of a man who
is condemned to watch a lighted candle, as
it burns away in the center of a barrel of
gunpowder.</p>

<p>Not a word was spoken.</p>

<p>Joanna crouching on the sofa, her chin
resting on her clasped hands,&mdash;Beverly on
the floor, his hands outspread, and his face
dumb with terror,&mdash;Eugene standing between
them, folding his cloak upon his breast, as
he silently turned his gaze, first to his wife,
and then to her seducer.</p>

<p>At length Eugene spoke,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Come, Joanna," he said, "here is your
father. He will take you home."</p>

<p>She looked up and beheld the straight, military
form, the stern visage and snow-white
hair of her father. One look only, and she
sank lifeless at his feet. She may have
meant to have knelt before him, but as she
rose from the sofa, or rather, glided from it,
she fell like a corpse at his feet. The old
general's nether lip worked convulsively, but
he did not speak.</p>

<p>"General, take her to my home, and at
once," whispered Eugene. "There must be
no scandal, no noise, and&mdash;&mdash;" he paused
as if suffocating,&mdash;"no <i>harshness</i>, mark you."</p>

<p>The general was a stalwart man, although
his hair was white as snow,&mdash;a man whose
well-knit limbs, erect bearing, and sinewy
hands, indicated physical vigor undimmed
by age, but he trembled like a withered leaf
as he raised his daughter from the floor.</p>

<p>"I will do as you direct, Eugene," he said,
in a husky voice.</p>

<p>"You will find her cloak in the next
room," said Eugene, "and the carriage is at
the door."</p>

<p>The general girded his insensible daughter
in his arms, and bore her from the room.
As he crossed the threshold, he groaned like
a dying man.</p>

<p>Eugene and Beverly were alone. Beverly
at a rapid glance surveyed the room. Eugene
stood between him and the door; he turned
to the windows, which were covered with
thick curtains. Those windows were three
stories high. There was no hope of escape
by the windows.</p>

<p>"Will you take a chair, my friend," said
Eugene.</p>

<p>Beverly sank into a chair, near the table;
as he seated himself, he felt his knees bend
beneath him, and his heart leap to his throat.</p>

<p>Eugene took a chair opposite, and shading
his eyes with his hand, surveyed the
seducer. There was silence for a few moments,
a silence during which both these
men endured the agonies of the damned.</p>

<p>"You have a daughter, I believe," said
Eugene, in a voice that was broken by a
tremor. "You may wish to send some word
to her. Here is a pencil and tablets. Let
me ask you to be brief."</p>

<p>He flung the pencil and tablets upon the
table. Beverly recoiled as though a serpent
had stung him.</p>

<p>"Eugene," he faltered, for the first time
finding words, "you&mdash;you do not mean to
murder me?"</p>

<p>And his florid face grew ashy with abject
terror.</p>

<p>Eugene did not reply, but knocked twice
upon the marble table with his clenched
hand. Scarcely had the echo of the sound
died away, when the door was once more
opened, and two persons advanced to the
table.</p>

<p>The first was a tall, muscular man, with a
phlegmatic face, light hair, and huge red
whiskers. His blue frock-coat was buttoned
to the throat, and he carried an oblong box
in his hands.</p>

<p>"Joanna's brother!" ejaculated Beverly.</p>

<p>The second person was a dapper little
gentleman, with small eyes, a hooked nose,
and an enormous black moustache. He was
dressed in black, with a gold chain on his
breast, and a diamond pin in his faultless
shirt bosom.</p>

<p>"Major Barton!" ejaculated Beverly,
bounding from his seat, for in Major Barton
he recognized an old and intimate acquaintance.</p>

<p>"Robert," said Eugene, turning to Joanna's
brother, "what have you there?"</p>

<p>"The dueling pistols," quietly responded
Robert.</p>

<p>"Have you and this gentleman's friend
arranged the <i>preliminaries</i>?"</p>

<p>"We have," interrupted the dapper Major;
"distance, ten paces,&mdash;place, Weehawk,
opposite the city,&mdash;time, right off."</p>

<p>"This without consulting me!" cried
Beverly, who at the mention of a duel, felt
a hope lighten up in his heart, for coward as
he was, he was also a capital shot.</p>

<p>"Gentlemen, I beg to say,&mdash;&mdash;" he drew
his White Monk's robe over his heart, and
assumed a grand air,&mdash;"gentlemen,&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>The dapper little major glided to his
side,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Bev., my boy, better be quiet. Eugene
waited on me an hour ago and explained all
the circumstances,&mdash;desired me to act as
your friend. As I'd rather see you have a
chance for your life in a duel, than to see
you killed in such a house as this, like a dog,
I consented. Bev., my boy, better be quiet."</p>

<p>"If you don't wish to fight, say so," and
the phlegmatic Robert stepped forward, eyeing
Beverly with a look of settled ferocity,
that was not altogether pleasant to see,&mdash;"if
you decline the duel, just say so in the presence
of your friend, Major Barton. Just
say no."</p>

<p>And Robert eyed Beverly from head to
foot, as though it would afford him much
pleasure to pitch him from the third story
window.</p>

<p>"I will fight," said Beverly, pale and red
by turns.</p>

<p>"Then I'll get your hat, and coat, and
cloak," said the obliging major,&mdash;"they're
in the next room. We must leave the house
quietly, and there's a boat waiting for us, at
the foot of the street, or the North River.
We can cross to the Jersey shore, before
morning breaks. It will be a nice little affair
all among ourselves. By-the-bye, how
about a surgeon?"</p>

<p>"Yes, a surgeon!" echoed Robert, turning
to Eugene, who, seated by the table,
rested his forehead against his hand.</p>

<p>"We will not need a surgeon," said Eugene,
raising his face, from which all color
of life had fled. "Because our fight is to the
death."</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h3><a name="CHAPTER_4_IX" id="CHAPTER_4_IX">CHAPTER IX.</a></h3>

<h4>MARY BERMAN&mdash;CARL RAPHAEL.</h4>


<p>They sat near the marriage altar, their
hands clasped, and their gaze fixed upon
each other's face. The countenance of
Nameless was radiant with a deep joy.
One hand resting upon the neck of Mary,
the other clasping her hand, his soul was in
his eyes, as he looked into her face. Her
hair, brown and wavy, streamed over the
hand, which rested on her neck. Despite
her faded attire,&mdash;the gown of coarse calico,
and the mantilla of black velvet,&mdash;Mary was
very beautiful; as beautiful as her name. All
the life which swelled her young bosom,
was manifested in the bloom of her cheeks,
the clear, joyous look of her eyes. Her
beauty was the purity of a stainless soul,
embodied in a person, rich with every tint
and outline of warm, womanly loveliness.</p>

<p>"Well might my whole being thrill, as
you passed by me to-night! Your form
was vailed, your face hid, but my soul knew
that you were near!"</p>

<p>"O, Carl, in all our lives, we will never
know a moment of joy so deep as this!"&mdash;and
there was something of a holy sadness
in Mary's gaze as she spoke,&mdash;"After years
of sorrow and trial, that might break the
stoutest hearts, we have met again, like two
persons who have risen from the grave.
The world is so dark, Carl,&mdash;so crowded
with the callous and the base,&mdash;that I fear
for our future. O, would it not be beautiful,
yes holy, to die now, in each other's arms,
at the moment when our hearts are filled
with the deepest joy they can ever know?"</p>

<p>The words of the pure girl, uttered in a
voice imbued with a melancholy enthusiasm,
cast a shadow over the face of Nameless, and
brought a sad intense light to his eyes.</p>

<p>"Yes, Mary, it is even so," he replied,&mdash;"it
is a harsh and bitter world, in which the
base and callous-hearted, prey upon those
who have souls. When I think of my own
history, and of yours, it does not seem reality,
to me, but the images of the past move
before me, like the half defined shapes of a
troubled dream."</p>

<p>And he bent his forehead,&mdash;fevered and
throbbing with thought, upon her bosom,
and listened to the beatings of that heart,
which had been true to him, in every phase
of his dark life. She pressed her lips silently
upon his brow.</p>

<p>"But the future is bright before us, Mary,"
he whispered, raising his face, once more
radiant with hope,&mdash;"the cottage by the
river shore, shall be ours again! O, don't
you remember it, Mary, as it leans against
the cliff, with the river stretching before it,
and the palisades rising far away, into the
western sky? We will live there, Mary,
and forget the world." Alas! he knew not
of the poison in his veins. "Your father,
too,&mdash;"</p>

<p>"My father!" she echoed, starting from
her chair, as the memory of that broken man
with the idiot face,&mdash;never for a moment
forgotten,&mdash;came vividly before her, "My
father! come Carl, let us go to him!"</p>

<p>She wound the mantilla about her form,
and Carl, otherwise Nameless, also rose from
his chair, when a footstep was heard, and
the door was abruptly opened.</p>

<p>"Leave this house, at once, as you value
your life," cried an agitated voice,&mdash;"You
know my father,&mdash;know that he will shrink
from no crime, when his darker nature is
aroused,&mdash;you have foiled the purpose which
was more than life to him. There is danger
for you in this house! away!"</p>

<p>"Frank!" was all that Nameless could
ejaculate, as he saw her stand before him,
lividly pale, her hair unbound, and the golden
cross rising and falling upon her heaving
bosom. There was a light in her eyes,
which he had never seen before.</p>

<p>"No words," she continued in broken and
rapid tones,&mdash;"you must away at once.
You are not safe from poison,"&mdash;a bitter,
mocking smile,&mdash;"or steel, or any treachery,
as long as you linger in this house. But
this is no time for masquerade attire,&mdash;in the
next room you will find the apparel which
you wore, when first you entered this house,
together with a cloak, which will protect
you from the cold. You have no time to
lose,&mdash;give me that bauble," and she tore the
chain from his neck and the golden cross from
his breast,&mdash;"away,&mdash;you have not a moment
to lose." She pointed to the door.</p>

<p>"Frank!" again ejaculated Nameless, and
something like remorse smote his heart, as
he gazed upon her countenance, so sadly
changed.</p>

<p>"Will you drive me mad? Go!" again
she pointed to the door.</p>

<p>Nameless disappeared.</p>

<p>"And you,&mdash;" she took the hands of
Mary within her own, and raised them to
her breast, and gazed long and earnestly into
that virgin face,&mdash;"You, O, I hate you!" she
said her eyes flashing fire, and yet the next
moment, she kissed Mary on the cheeks and
forehead, and pressed her to her bosom with
a frenzied embrace. "You are worthy of
him," she said slowly, in a low voice, again
perusing every line of that countenance,&mdash;"I
know you, although an hour ago, I did
not know that you lived;" once more her
tones were rapid and broken,&mdash;"know your
history, know who it was that lured you to
this place, and know the desolate condition
of your father. Your husband has money,
but it will not be safe for him to attempt to
use it for some days. Take this,&mdash;conceal it
in your bosom,&mdash;nay, I will take no denial.
Take it child! That money and purse are
not the wages of pollution,&mdash;they were both
mine, in the days when I was pure and
happy."</p>

<p>Scarcely knowing what to do, Mary, whom
the wild manner of Frank, struck at once
with pity and awe, took the purse, and hid
it in her bosom.</p>

<p>"I now remember you," said Mary, her
eyes filling with tears, as she gazed into the
troubled face of Frank,&mdash;"Father painted
your picture, and afterward you sought us
out in our garret, and left your purse upon
the table, with a note stating that it contained
the balance due on your portrait. O, it was
kind, it was noble,&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Do not speak of it, child," Frank said in
rapid and abrupt tones,&mdash;"Had I not been
convinced that you and your father were
dead, I would have visited you often. That
is, if I could have concealed from you what
I was, and the way of life which was mine."</p>

<p>Her lip quivered, and she hid her eyes
with her hand.</p>

<p>"But come, your husband is here," she
said, as Nameless re-appeared, his form once
more clad in the faded frock-coat, but with
a cloak drooping from his shoulders. "You
must away, and at once."</p>

<p>"Frank,"&mdash;and Nameless, trembling with
agitation, approached her, "we will meet
again in happier hours."</p>

<p>O, the strange look of her eyes, the bitter
mocking curl of her lip!</p>

<p>"We will never meet again," she answered,
in a voice that sunk into his heart. Then
burying the chain and golden cross in her
bosom, she placed a letter in his hand,&mdash;"Swear
to me that you will not read this,
until three hours at least are passed?"</p>

<p>"I promise,&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Nay, you must swear it,&mdash;"</p>

<p>"I swear, in the sight of Heaven!"</p>

<p>"Now depart, and,&mdash;" she turned her
face away from their gaze, and pointed to
the door.</p>

<p>As she turned away, Mary approached
her, and put her arms about her neck, and
her eyes brim full of tears all the while,&mdash;kissed
her on the forehead and the lips,
saying at the same time, and from the depths
of her heart, "May God in Heaven bless
you!"</p>

<p>Frank took Mary's arms from her neck,
and joined her hand in that of Nameless,
and then pushed them gently to the door,&mdash;"Go,
and at once," she whispered.</p>

<p>And they crossed the threshold, Mary
looking back over her shoulder, until she
disappeared with Nameless, in the shadows
of the passage.</p>

<p>Frank stood with one hand extended to
the door, and the other supporting her
averted face,&mdash;she heard their footsteps in
the passage, on the stairway, and in the hall
beneath. Then came the sound of the
opening and closing of the door, which led
into the street.</p>

<p>And then the agony, the despair, the
thousand emotions which racked her soul,
found utterance in the simple, and yet
awfully touching ejaculation,&mdash;"O, my
God!&mdash;" and she flung herself on her knees,
before the Marriage Altar, resting her clenched
hands upon the Holy Bible, which was concealed
by her bowed head, and unbound hair.</p>

<p>"O, my God! He is gone, and&mdash;forever!"</p>

<p>Yes, Frank, woman so beautiful and so
utterly lost, gone and forever&mdash;gone, with his
young wife by his side, and Poison in his veins.</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h2><a name="PART_FIFTH" id="PART_FIFTH">PART FIFTH.</a></h2>

<h3>THE DAWN, SUNRISE AND DAY.</h3>

<h4>DECEMBER 24, 1844.</h4>

<hr class="tb" />

<h3>CHAPTER I.</h3>

<h4>"THE OTHER CHILD."</h4>


<p>Baffled schemer!</p>

<p>In the dim hour which comes before the
break of day, Colonel Tarleton was hurrying
rapidly along the silent and deserted street.</p>

<p>Broadway, a few hours since, all light, and
life, and motion, was now lonely as a desert.
Gathering his cloak over his white coat, and
drawing his cap lower upon his brows, Tarleton
hurried along with a rapid and impetuous
step, now and then suffering the thoughts
which filled him, to find vent in broken
ejaculations.</p>

<p>"Baffled schemer!" he exclaimed aloud,
and then his thoughts arranged themselves
into words:&mdash;"Why do those words ring
in my ears? They do not apply to me; let
me but live twenty-four hours, and all the
schemes which I have worked and woven
for twenty-one long years, will find their end
in a grand, a final triumph. Baffled schemer!
No,&mdash;not yet, nor never! This boy who
was to marry Frank, will <i>fade away</i> in a few
hours, and make no sign; and now for the
other child. I must hasten to the house of
old Somers,&mdash;his 'private secretary' must be
mine before daybreak. The hour is unusual,
the son lies dead in one room,&mdash;the father in
the other; but I must enter the house at all
hazards, for,&mdash;for,&mdash;the <i>only remaining child</i>
of Gulian Van Huyden, must be in my power
before daybreak."</p>

<p>And he hurried along toward the head of
Broadway, through the silent city. Even in
the gloom, the agitation which possessed
him, was plainly discernible. The hand
which held the cloak upon his breast was
tightly clenched, and, as he passed through
the light of a lamp, you might note his
compressed lip, his colorless cheek, and eyes
burning with intense thought. His whole
life swept before him like a panorama. The
day when the wife and mother lay dead in
her palace home, while Gulian, his brother,
clutched him with a death-grip as he
plunged into the river,&mdash;the years which he
had gayly passed in Paris, and the horrible
years which he had endured in the felon's
cell,&mdash;the happy childhood, and the irrevocable
shame of his daughter, sold by her
own mother into the arms of lust and gold,&mdash;his
duel with young Somers, whom he had
first murdered, and then smuggled his corpse
into his father's home,&mdash;the scenes which he
had this night witnessed in the Temple, beginning
with his interview with Ninety-One,
and ending in the marriage of Frank and
Nameless, and the apparition of Mary Berman,&mdash;all
flitted before him like the phantoms
of a spectral panorama.</p>

<p>"And the next twenty-four hours will decide
all! Courage, brain, you have never
yet despaired,&mdash;" he struck his clenched hand
against his forehead,&mdash;"do not fail me now!"</p>

<p>Turning from Broadway, as the night
grew darker, he entered the street in which
the house of Evelyn Somers, Sr., was situated.
He was rapidly approaching that house,&mdash;cogitating
what manner of excuse he should
make to the servants for his call at such an
unusual hour,&mdash;when he was startled by the
sound of footsteps. He paused, where a
street lamp flung its light over the pavement.
Shading his eyes, he beheld two figures approaching
through the gloom. He glided
from the light, and stationed himself against
the wall, so that he could see the figures as
they passed, himself unseen. The steps
drew near and nearer, and presently from the
gloom the figures passed into the light. A
man, wrapped in a cloak, with a broad <i>sombrero</i>
drooping over his face, supported on
his arm the form of a youth, who, clad in a
closely buttoned frock-coat, trembled from
weakness, or from the winter's cold. The
face of the man was in shadow, but the light
shone fully on the face of the youth as he
passed by.</p>

<p>Tarleton, with great difficulty, suppressed
an ejaculation and an oath.</p>

<p>For in that boy who leaned tremblingly
upon the arm of the cloaked man, he recognized
the <i>Private Secretary</i> of the merchant
prince!</p>

<p>"Courage, my poor boy,"&mdash;Tarleton heard
the cloaked man utter these words, as he
passed by,&mdash;"it was a happy impulse which
led me to leave my carriage, and walk along
this street. I arrived just in time to save
you; it is but a step to my carriage, and once
in my carriage you will tell me all."</p>

<p>"O, sir, you will protect me,"&mdash;the voice
of the youth was tremulous and broken,&mdash;"you
will protect me from this man&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>And with these words they passed from
the light into the gloom again.</p>

<p>Tarleton stood for a moment, as though nailed
to the wall against which he leaned. He
could not believe the evidence of his senses.
That the boy, Gulian Van Huyden, the private
secretary had left the mansion of the
merchant prince, at this strange hour, and
was now in the care of a man whom he,
Tarleton, did not know; this fact was plain
enough, but Tarleton could not believe it.
He stood as though nailed to the wall, while
the footsteps of the retreating figures resounded
through the stillness. At length, with a
violent effort, he recovered his presence of
mind.</p>

<p>"I will follow them and reclaim <i>my child</i>!"
he ejaculated, and gathering his cloak across
the lower part of his face, hurried once more
toward Broadway.</p>

<p>But as he discovered the distance between
himself and the figures of the cloaked man
and the youth, his purpose failed him, he
knew not why,&mdash;he dared not address the
man, much less seize the boy, Gulian,&mdash;but
he still hung upon their back, watching their
every movement, himself unobserved.</p>

<p>Meanwhile, a thousand vague suspicions
and fears flitted through his mind.</p>

<p>At the head of Broadway, in the light of
a lamp, stood a carriage, with a coachman in
dark livery on the box. The horses, black
as jet, stood, beating the pavement with their
hoofs, and champing their bits impatiently.</p>

<p>The unknown paused beside this carriage,
still supporting the boy, Gulian, on his arm.</p>

<p>"Felix," he said, in a low voice, addressing
the coachman, who started up at the
sound of his voice, "drive at once, and with
all speed, to <i>the house yonder</i>,"&mdash;he pointed
to the north.</p>

<p>"Yes, my lord," was the answer of the
coachman.</p>

<p>"And you, poor boy," continued the unknown,
thus addressed as "my lord," turning
to young Gulian,&mdash;"enter, and be safe hereafter
from all fear of persecution." He
opened the carriage door, and Gulian entered,
followed by the unknown.</p>

<p>And the next moment the sound of the
wheels was heard, and the carriage passing
Union Square and rolling away toward the
north.</p>

<p>Tarleton, who had, unobserved, beheld this
scene, started from the shadows and approached
the lamp. He clenched his teeth
in helpless rage.</p>

<p>"I saw his face for an instant, ere he entered
the carriage, and as his cloak fell aside,
I noticed the golden cross on his breast; and
I neither like his cadaverous face, nor the
golden cross. Why,&mdash;" he stamped angrily
upon the pavement,&mdash;"why do I hate and
fear this man whom I have never seen before?&mdash;'my
lord!'&mdash;the cross on his breast,&mdash;perchance
a dignitary of the Catholic Church!
Ah! he will wring the secret from this weak
and superstitious boy. All, all is lost!"</p>

<p>He was roused from this fit of despair and
rage by the sound of carriage wheels. It
was a hackney coach, returning homeward,
the horses weary, and the driver lolling
sleepily on the box.</p>

<p>Tarleton darted forward and stopped the
horses.</p>

<p>"Do you want to earn five dollars for an
hour's ride?" he said, "if so, strike up
Broadway, and follow a dark carriage drawn
by two black horses," and he mounted the
box, and took his seat beside the coachman.</p>

<p>The latter gentleman waking up from his
half slumber, and very wroth at the manner
in which his horses had been stopped, and
his box invaded, forthwith consigned Tarleton
to a place which it is not needful to
name, adding significantly,&mdash;</p>

<p>"An' if yer don't git down, I'll mash yer
head,&mdash;if I don't,&mdash;" etc., etc.</p>

<p>"Pshaw! don't you know me?" cried
Tarleton, lifting his cap,&mdash;"follow the carriage
yonder, and I'll make it ten dollars for
half an hour's ride."</p>

<p>"Why, it <i>is</i> the colonel!" responded the
mollified hackman.&mdash;"My team is blowed,
colonel, but you're a brick, and here goes!
Up Broadway did you say?&mdash;let her rip!"</p>

<p>He applied the whip to his wearied horses,
and away they dashed, passing Union Square,
and entering upper Broadway.</p>

<p>"That the carriage, colonel?" asked the
driver, as they heard the sound of wheels in
front of them, "that concern as looks blacker
than a stack of black cats?"</p>

<p>"It is. Follow it. Do not let the coachman
know that we are in pursuit. Follow
it carefully, and at a proper distance."</p>

<p>And the hackney coach followed the carriage
of the unknown, until they passed from
the shadows of the houses into the open
country. Some four miles at least from the
city hall, the carriage turned from one of the
avenues, into a narrow lane, leading among
the rocks, over a hill and down toward the
North River.</p>

<p>The colonel jumped from the box.</p>

<p>"Wait for me here,&mdash;I'll not be long.
Drive a little piece up the avenue, so that
you will not be noticed, in case this carriage
should return. Wait for me, I say,&mdash;for
every hour I will give you ten dollars."</p>

<p>With these words he hurried up the hill,
in pursuit of the retreating carriage. The
ground was frosted and broken,&mdash;huge rocks
blocked up the path on either hand, and on
the hill-top stood a clump of leafless trees.
Pausing beneath these trees, the colonel endeavored
to discern the carriage through the
darkness, but in vain. But he heard the
sound of the wheels as they rolled over the
hard ground in the valley below.</p>

<p>"It cannot go far. This lane terminates
at the river, only two or three hundred yards
away. Ah! I remember,&mdash;half-way between
the hill and the river there is an old mansion
which I noticed last summer, and which
has not been occupied for years."</p>

<p>The sound of the wheels suddenly ceased.
The colonel drew the cord of his cloak
about his neck, so as to permit his arms full
play. Then from one pocket of his overcoat
he drew forth a revolver, and from the
other a bowie-knife. Grasping a weapon
firmly in each hand, he stealthily descended
the hill, and on tip-toe approached the carriage,
which had indeed halted in front of the
old mansion.</p>

<p>The mansion, a strange and incongruous
structure, built of stone, and brick, and wood,
and enlarged from the original block house,
which it had been two hundred years before,
by the additions made by five or six generations,
stood in a garden, apart from the road,
its roofs swept by the leafless branches of gigantic
forest-trees. In summer, quaint and
incongruous as were the outlines of the huge
edifice, it put on a beautiful look, for it was
embowered in foliage, and its many roofs and
walls of brick, and wood and stone, were
hidden in a garment of vines and flowers.
But now, in the blackness of this drear winter
daybreak, it was black and desolate
enough. Not a single light shed a cheerful
ray, from any of the windows.</p>

<p>Gliding behind the trunk of a sycamore,
the colonel heard the voice of the unknown
man, as he conducted the boy, Gulian, from
the carriage along the garden walk toward
the hall door.</p>

<p>"Here you will be safe from all intrusion.
I must return to the city at once, but I will
be back early in the morning. Meanwhile,
you can take a quiet sleep. You are not
afraid to sleep in the old house, are you?"</p>

<p>"Oh, no, no,&mdash;afraid of nothing but <i>his</i>
persecution," was the answer.</p>

<p>The colonel heard these words, and watched
the figures of the unknown and Gulian, as
they passed from the garden walk under the
shadow of the porch, and into the hall door.</p>

<p>And then he waited,&mdash;O how earnestly and
with what a tide of hopes, suspicions, fears!&mdash;for
the re-appearance of the unknown!</p>

<p>Five minutes passed.</p>

<p>"The boy has not had time to confess <i>the
secret</i>,"&mdash;the thought almost rose to the colonel's
lips.&mdash;"If this unknown man returns
to town, leaving Gulian here, all will yet be
well."</p>

<p>The hall-door opened again, was locked,
and the form of the unknown, in cloak and
sombrero, once more appeared upon the garden
walk.</p>

<p>"To town, Felix, as fast as you can drive.
I must be back within two hours."</p>

<p>"Yes, my lord."</p>

<p>He entered the carriage,&mdash;it turned,&mdash;and
the horses dashed up the narrow road at full
speed.</p>

<p>"Two hours!" ejaculated Tarleton, as the
sound of the wheels died away. "In two
hours, 'my lord!' you will find the nest robbed
of its bird."</p>

<p>Determined at all hazards to rescue the
person of the boy, Gulian, and bear him from
the old mansion, he opened the wicket gate,
and, passing along the garden walk, approached
the silent mansion. The wind sighed
mournfully among the leafless branches, and
not a single ray of light illumined the front
of the gloomy pile.</p>

<p>The colonel passed under the porch, and
tried the hall door; it was locked. With a
half-muttered curse, he again emerged from
the porch, and from the garden walk, once
more surveyed the mansion.</p>

<p>Could he believe his eyes? From a
narrow window, in the second story of the
western wing, a ray of light stole out upon
the gloom&mdash;stole out from an aperture in the
window curtains&mdash;and trembled like a golden
thread along the garden walk.</p>

<p>"The window is low,&mdash;the room is a part
of the olden portion of the mansion,&mdash;that
lattice work, intended for the vines, will bear
my weight; one blow at the window-sash,
and I am in the chamber!"</p>

<p>Thus reflecting, the colonel, ere he began
to mount the lattice work, looked cautiously
around and listened. All was dark; no
sound was heard, save the low moan of the
wind among the trees. Tarleton placed the
revolver in one pocket, and buried the bowie-knife
in its sheath. Then he began cautiously
to ascend the lattice work, along which, in
summer time, crept a green and flowering
vine; it creaked beneath his weight, but did
not break,&mdash;in a moment he was on a level
with the narrow window. Resting his arms
upon the deep window-sill, he placed his eye
to the aperture in the curtains, and looked
within.</p>

<p>He beheld a small room, with low ceiling,
and wainscoted walls; a door, which evidently
opened upon the corridor leading to
the body of the mansion; a couch, with a
canopy of faded tapestry; the floor of dark
wood, uncarpeted, and its once polished surface
thick with dust; a bureau of ebony,
surmounted by an oval mirror in a frame of
tarnished gilt. The light stood upon the
bureau; and, in front of the light, an alabaster
image of the crucified.</p>

<p>Before this image, with head bowed upon
his clasped hands, knelt the boy, Gulian.
The light shone upon his glossy hair, which
fell to his shoulders, and over the outlines
of his graceful shape. He was evidently
absorbed in voiceless prayer.</p>

<p>Altogether, it was a singular&mdash;yes, a beautiful
picture. But the Colonel had no time
to waste on pictures, however beautiful.</p>

<p>He placed his arm against the sash&mdash;it
yielded&mdash;and the colonel sprang through the
window into the room.</p>

<p>Gulian heard the crash, and started up,
and beheld the colonel standing near him,
his arms folded on his breast, and his face
stamped with a look of fiendish triumph.</p>

<p>"Oh, my God!" he ejaculated, and stood
as if spell-bound by terror.</p>

<p>"You see it is all in vain," said the Colonel,
showing his white teeth in a smile.
"You cannot escape from me. You must
do my will. Come, my child, we must be
moving."</p>

<p>He placed Gulian's cap upon his chesnut
curls, and pointed to the door.</p>

<p>The eyes of the poor youth were wild
with affright. He evidently stood in mortal
terror of Tarleton. His glance roved from
side to side, and he ejaculated&mdash;</p>

<p>"In his power again; just as I thought
myself forever safe from his persecution!"</p>

<p>"Answer me&mdash;where did you meet the
man who brought you to this house?"</p>

<p>As he spoke, Tarleton seized the boy by
the wrist.</p>

<p>"In the street; I had fainted on the sidewalk,"
was the answer, in a tremulous voice.</p>

<p>"And how came you in the street at such
an unusual hour?"</p>

<p>"When you left Mr. Somers' house, you
threatened to return to-morrow," answered
Gulian, clasping his hands over his breast.
"I was determined to avoid seeing you again,
at all hazards. I left the house, and wandered
forth, uncertain whither to direct my
steps. Yes&mdash;oh yes! I had one purpose
plainly in my mind,"&mdash;he smiled, and his
eyes brightened up with a strange light,&mdash;"I
resolved to bend my steps to the river."</p>

<p>"To the river?"</p>

<p>"Yes, to the river," answered the boy,
with a singular smile: "for you know that
if I was drowned, I would be safe from you
forever."</p>

<p>"And you would become a&mdash;suicide!"
said Tarleton, with a sneer; "you, so finely
brought up! Have you no fear of the hereafter?"</p>

<p>Gulian's pale face lighted with a faint
glow.&mdash;"There are some deeds which are
worse than suicide," he answered quietly, yet
with a significant glance. "It was to avoid
the commission of one of these deeds, that,
scarcely an hour ago, I left the house of Mr.
Somers and bent my steps to the river."</p>

<p>"And you fainted, and this man came
across you while you were insensible&mdash;eh?
Who is he? and what was it that led him
from his carriage, along the street where he
found you?"</p>

<p>"An impulse, or presentiment, as he told
me, which he could not resist, and which
impressed him that he might save the life
of a fellow-being. He left his carriage; he
arrived before it was too late. In a little
while I should have been frozen to death."</p>

<p>Again Tarleton seized the boy by the
wrist; and his brow grew dark, his eyes
fierce and threatening.</p>

<p>"And you confessed <i>the secret</i> to this
man?" he exclaimed. "Nay, deny it not!"
He tightened his grasp. "You did confess&mdash;did
you not?"</p>

<p>"Oh, pity!&mdash;do not harm me!" and Gulian
shrunk before Tarleton's gaze. "I did
not confess <i>the secret</i>&mdash;indeed I did not."</p>

<p>"Swear you did not!"</p>

<p>"I swear I did not!"</p>

<p>"I will not believe you, unless you will
place your hand upon this crucifix, and swear
by the Savior, that you did not reveal <i>the
secret</i>."</p>

<p>The boy placed his hand upon the alabaster
image, and said solemnly, "By the name
of the Savior, I swear that I did not reveal
<i>the secret</i> of which you speak."</p>

<p>Tarleton burst into a laugh.</p>

<p>"I breathe freer!" he cried. "You are
superstitious; and, with your hand upon an
image like that, I know you cannot lie. <i>The
secret</i> is safe, and all will yet be well. Come,
we must go."</p>

<p>"Oh, you do not want me now!" cried
Gulian, shrinking away from his grasp&mdash;"now
that you are assured of the security
of <i>the secret</i>?"</p>

<p>"Worse than ever, my boy," cried Tarleton,
with a tone of mocking gayety. "I am
positively starving to death for your company.
To-day and to-morrow you must be with me
all the time, and never for an instant quit
my sight. After that you are free!"</p>

<p>The countenance of Gulian, in which a
masculine vigor of thought was tempered by
an almost woman-like roundness of outline
and softness of expression, underwent a sudden
and peculiar change.</p>

<p>"I will not go with you," he said, slowly
and firmly, his eyes shining vividly, while
his face was unnaturally pale.</p>

<p>"You will not go with me?" and Tarleton
advanced with a scowling brow&mdash;"We'll
see, we'll see,&mdash;"</p>

<p>"I will not go with you," repeated Gulian.
"You call me superstitious. It may be superstition
which makes my blood run cold
with loathing, when you are near me; or it
may be some voiceless warning from the
dead, who, while in this life, were deeply
injured by you. But it is not superstition
which induces me to place my hand
upon this crucifix, and tell you, that you
cannot drag me from it, save at peril of your
life. Ah, you sneer! The house is deserted:&mdash;true.
The crucifix of frail alabaster:&mdash;true.
But you are fairly warned. The moment
that crucifix breaks, to you is one of peril."</p>

<p>Tarleton knew not what to make of the
expression and words of the boy. At first
there was something in the look of Gulian
which touched him, against his will; but, as
the closing words fell on his car, he burst
into a laugh. "Come, child, we'll leave the
house by the hall door," he said; and, as he
passed an arm around Gulian's waist, he
placed the other hand upon the door which
led into the passage: "Nay, you need not
cling to that bauble! Come! I'll endure
this nonsense no longer&mdash;"</p>

<p>The alabaster image was crushed in the
grasp of Gulian, as he was torn from it; and
at the same instant the colonel opened the
door.</p>

<p>Gulian, struggling in the grasp of Tarleton,
clapped his hands twice, and cried aloud:
"Cain! Cain!"</p>

<p>The next moment it seemed as though a
crushing weight had bounded, or been hurled,
against the colonel's back; he was dashed to
the floor; he found himself struggling in
the fangs of a huge dog, with short, shaggy
hair, black as jet, short ears, and formidable
jaws. As the dog uttered a low growl, his
teeth sank deep into the back of Tarleton's
neck, and Tarleton uttered a groan of intolerable
agony. Tarleton was dragged along
the floor, by the ferocious beast, which raised
him by the neck, and then dashed him to
the floor again; treating him as the tiger
treats the prey which he is about to strangle
and kill.</p>

<p>Cain was indeed a ferocious beast. He
had accompanied the unknown over half the
globe; and was obedient to his slightest sign;
defending those whom he wished defended,
and attacking those whom he wished attacked.
Before leaving the mansion, the
unknown had placed Cain before the door
of Gulian's room, and given Gulian into its
charge. "Guard him, Cain! obey him, Cain!"
And, as Tarleton opened the door, at a sign
and a word from Gulian, the dog proved
faithful to his master's bidding. In the
grasp of this formidable animal, Tarleton
now found himself writhing&mdash;his blood
spurting over the floor, as he was dragged
along.</p>

<p>As Gulian beheld this scene, and heard
the cries of Tarleton mingling with the low
growl of the dog, his heart relented. He
forgot all that Tarleton had made him
suffer.</p>

<p>"Cain! Cain!&mdash;here, Cain!&mdash;here!" he
cried; but in vain. Cain had tasted blood.
His teeth twined deep in his victim's neck;
and his jaws reddened with Tarleton's blood;
he did not hear the voice of Gulian.</p>

<p>It was a terrible moment for Tarleton.
Uttering frightful imprecations between his
howls of pain, he made a last and desperate
effort&mdash;an effort strengthened by despair and
by pain, which seemed as the pang of
death,&mdash;he turned, even as the teeth of the
dog were in his neck; he clenched the infuriated
animal by the throat. Then took place
a brief but horrible contest, in which the dog
and the man rolled over each other, the man
clutching, as with a death-grasp, the throat
of the dog, and the dog burying his teeth in
the man's shoulder.</p>

<p>Gulian could bear the sight no longer; he
sank, half fainting, against the bureau, and
hid his eyes from the light.</p>

<p>Presently, the uproar of the combat&mdash;the
growl of the dog, and the cries of Tarleton&mdash;were
succeeded by a dead stillness.</p>

<p>Gulian raised his eyes.</p>

<p>Tarleton stood in the center of the room,
his face and white coat bathed in blood&mdash;his
bowie-knife, also dripping with blood, held
aloft in his right hand. He presented a
frightful spectacle. His coat was rent over
the right shoulder, and his mangled flesh
was discernible. And that face, whose death-like
pallor was streaked with blood, bore
an expression of anguish and of madness,
which chilled Gulian's heart but to behold.</p>

<p>At his feet was stretched the huge carcass
of the dog. The gash across his throat, from
which the blood was streaming over the
floor, had been inflicted by the hand of the
colonel, in the extremest moment of his
despair. Cain had fought his last battle. As
Tarleton shook the bloody knife over his
head, the brave old dog uttered his last moan
and died.</p>

<p>"It will not do, my child&mdash;it will not do,"
and Tarleton burst into a loud and unnatural
laugh. "You must go with me! With me;
alive or dead." He rushed towards Gulian,
brandishing the knife. "Oh, you d&mdash;&mdash;d
wretch! do you know that I've a notion to
cut you into pieces, limb by limb?"</p>

<p>"Mercy! mercy!" shrieked the boy, falling
on his knees, as that face, dabbled in
blood, and writhing, as with madness, in
every feature, <i>glowered</i> over him.</p>

<p>But Tarleton did not strike. He placed
his hand upon his forehead, and made a desperate
effort to recall his shattered senses.
Suffering intolerable physical agony, he was
yet firm in the purpose which had led him
to the old mansion.</p>

<p>"If I can get this boy to the carriage, all
will yet be well!" he muttered. "I'll faint
soon from loss of blood; but not until this
boy is in my power. Brain, do not fail me
now!"</p>

<p>He dropped the bloody knife upon the
carcass of the dog; and, taking a handkerchief
from his pocket, he bound it tightly
around his throat. Then, lifting his cloak
from the floor, he wound it about him, and
writhed with pain, as it touched the wound
on his shoulder.</p>

<p>"Now will you go with me alive, or
dead?" He lifted the knife again, and advanced
to Gulian. "Take your choice. If
your choice is life,"&mdash;he could not refrain a
cry of pain&mdash;"take the light and go on before
me!"</p>

<p>Trembling in every limb, his gaze riveted
to the face of Tarleton, Gulian took the
light, and crossed the threshold of the room.
Tarleton followed him with measured step,
still clutching the knife in his right hand.</p>

<p>"On&mdash;on!" muttered Tarleton; "attempt
to escape, and I strike,&mdash;on&mdash;," and he
reeled like a drunken man, and fell insensible
at Gulian's feet.</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h3><a name="CHAPTER_5_II" id="CHAPTER_5_II">CHAPTER II.</a></h3>

<h4>RANDOLPH AND HIS BROTHER.</h4>


<p>The hour of dawn drew near, Randolph
was in his own chamber, seated by his
bed, watching the face of the sleeper, who
was slumbering there.</p>

<p>A singular look passed over Randolph's
visage, as he held the candle over the sleeper's
face,&mdash;a look hard to define or analyze,
for it seemed to indicate a struggle between
widely different emotions. There was compassion
and revenge, brotherly love and mortal
hatred in that look.</p>

<p>For the sleeper was Harry Royalton, of
Hill Royal.</p>

<p>The candle burned near and nearer to its
socket,&mdash;the morning light began to mingle
with its fading rays,&mdash;and still Harry slept
on, and still Randolph watched, his eyes
fixed on his brother's visage, and his own
face disturbed by opposing emotions.</p>

<p>It was near morning when Harry woke.</p>

<p>"Hey! halloo! what's this?" he cried,
starting up in the bed, and surveying the
spacious apartment,&mdash;strange to him,&mdash;with
a vacant stare. "Where am I?"</p>

<p>His gaze fell upon Randolph, who was
seated by the bed.</p>

<p>"You here?" and his countenance fell.&mdash;"What
in the devil does all this mean?"</p>

<p>Randolph did not reply. There was a
slight trembling of his nether lip, and his
eyes grew brighter as he fixed his gaze on
his brother's face.</p>

<p>"Where's my coat?" cried Harry, surveying
his shirt sleeves, "and my cravat,"&mdash;he
passed his hands over his muscular throat,&mdash;"and&mdash;you,&mdash;what
in the devil are <i>you</i>
doing here?"</p>

<p>Randolph, still keeping his gaze on his
brother's face, said in a low voice,&mdash;"I am
in my own house, brother."</p>

<p>"Your house?" ejaculated Harry, and
then burst into a laugh,&mdash;"come, now,&mdash;don't,&mdash;that's
too good."</p>

<p>"My own house, to which I brought you
some hours ago, after I had rescued you from
the persons in the cellar&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>"<i>Rescued</i> me?" and an incredulous smile
passed over Harry's face as he pulled at his
bushy whiskers. "Better yet,&mdash;ha! ha!&mdash;You
don't think to stuff me with any such
damned nonsense?"</p>

<p>Randolph grew paler, but his eye flashed
with deeper light.</p>

<p>"Brother, I did rescue you," he said, in
the same low voice, as he bent forward.&mdash;"As
we were about to engage in conflict, you
fell like a dead man on the floor. I took you
in my arms; I defended you from the negroes
who were clamorous for your blood;
I bore you to upper air, and I, brother, then
brought you in a carriage to my home; and
I laid you on my bed, brother; and when
you awoke from your swoon,&mdash;awoke with
the ravings of delirium on your tongue,&mdash;I
soothed you, until you fell in a sound sleep.
This is the simple truth, brother."</p>

<p>Harry grew red in the face, then pale,&mdash;bit
his lip,&mdash;pulled his whiskers, and then without
turning his head, regarded Randolph
with a sidelong glance. To tell the simple
truth, Harry did not know what to say. He
felt a swelling of the heart, a warmth in his
veins, as though the magnetic gaze of
Randolph had influenced him even against
his will.</p>

<p>"You did all this?"&mdash;there was a faint
tremor in his voice.</p>

<p>"I did, brother,"&mdash;Randolph's voice was
deep and earnest.</p>

<p>"Why,&mdash;why,&mdash;did not you kill me,
when you had me in your power?"</p>

<p>"Brother, the blood of John Augustus
Royalton flows in my veins, and it is not
like a Royalton to strike a fallen foe."</p>

<p>"And you could have put poison in my
drink," hesitated Harry, impressed against
his will by the manner of his brother.</p>

<p>"I never heard of a Royalton who became
a poisoner."</p>

<p>"A <i>Royalton</i>? and you call yourself a
Royalton?" said Harry, still regarding his
brother with a sidelong gaze.</p>

<p>Randolph bit his lip, and folded his arms
upon his chest, as if to choke down the
strong emotions which were struggling within
him. He did not reply.</p>

<p>"I suppose I am your <i>prisoner</i>?" asked
Harry, intently regarding Randolph's face.
"You can keep me secluded until the twenty-fifth
of December has passed. Is that the
dodge?"</p>

<p>"Brother, the door is open, and the way
is free, whenever you wish to leave this
house," was Randolph's calm reply.</p>

<p>"Well, if I can make you out, may I be
&mdash;&mdash;!" cried Harry, and the next moment
uttered a groan of agony, for his back was
very painful. "Why did you not take me
to my hotel?" he said, in a peevish, impatient
tone.</p>

<p>"You forget that I did not know the name
of your hotel," replied Randolph, "and beside,
what place so fitting for a sick man as
his brother's home?"</p>

<p>Harry grew red in the face, and then burst
into a laugh.&mdash;"We've been such good <i>brothers</i>
to each other!"</p>

<p>The thought which had been working at
Randolph's heart for hours, now found utterance
in words,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Brother, O, brother! why can we not
indeed be brothers?" his eyes flashed, his
voice was deep and impassioned. "Children
of one father, let us forget the past; let us
bury all bitter memories, all feelings of hatred,&mdash;let
us forget, forgive, and be as brothers
to each other. Harry Royalton, my
brother, there is my hand."</p>

<p>He rose,&mdash;his chest heaving, his eyes
dimmed by tears,&mdash;and reached forth his
hand.</p>

<p>Harry, completely overwhelmed by this
unexpected appeal, reached forth his hand,
but drew it back again.</p>

<p>"No," he cried, as his face was flushed,&mdash;"not
with a nigger." The contempt, the
scorn, the rage which convulsed his face, as
he said these words, cannot be depicted.</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h3><a name="CHAPTER_5_III" id="CHAPTER_5_III">CHAPTER III.</a></h3>

<h4>THE HUSBAND AND THE PROFLIGATE.</h4>


<p>The boat was upon the river, borne onward
over the wintery waves and through the floating
ice, by the strong arms of two sturdy
oarsmen.</p>

<p>Behind, like a huge black wall, was the
city, a faint line of light separating its roofs
from the bleak sky. Around were the
waves, loaded with piles of floating ice,
which crashed together with incessant uproar;
and through the gloom the boat drove
onward, bearing one man, perchance two
men, to certain death.</p>

<p>Eugene and Robert, muffled in their cloaks,
sat side by side on the stern; Beverly and
his friend, the major, also muffled in their
cloaks, sat side by side in the bow.</p>

<p>Eugene had drawn his cloak over his face
as if to hide even from the faint light, the
agony which was gnawing at his heart-strings.</p>

<p>"In case anything should happen," whispered
Robert, "have you any message to
send to <i>her</i>?"</p>

<p>"None," was the reply, uttered in a choking
voice.</p>

<p>"Damn her!" said Robert, between his
teeth.</p>

<p>Meanwhile, in the bow of the boat, Beverly,
shuddering within his thick cloak, not
so much from cold as from a mental cause,
said to his friend, the major,&mdash;</p>

<p>"No way to get out o' this, I suppose,
major?"</p>

<p>"None," said the major.</p>

<p>"I'd give a horse for a mouthful of good
brandy&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Here it is," and the major drew a
wicker flask from the folds of his cloak. "I
always carry a pocket-pistol; touch her light."</p>

<p>It may be that Beverly "touched her
light," but he held the flask to his mouth for
a long time, and did not return it to the major
until its contents were considerably diminished.</p>

<p>"A cursed scrape," he muttered. "If
anything happens, what'll become of my
daughter?" It seems he had a motherless
child,&mdash;"and then there's the Van Huyden
estate. If he wings me, all my hope of
that is gone,&mdash;of course it is."</p>

<p>At length the broad river was crossed, and
the oarsmen ran the boat into a sheltered
cove, some three miles above Hoboken.</p>

<p>The first glimpse of the coming morn stole
over the broad river, the distant city, and the
magnificent bay.</p>

<p>"Wait for us,&mdash;you know what I told
you?" said Robert to the oarsmen, who were
stout fellows, in rough overcoats, and tarpaulin
hats.</p>

<p>"Ay, ay sir," they responded in a breath.</p>

<p>"Major, you lead the way," said Robert,
"up the heights we'll find a quiet place."</p>

<p>The Major took Beverly by the arm, and
began to climb the steep ascent, over wildly
scattered rocks, and among leafless trees.</p>

<p>They were followed by Robert and Eugene
arm in arm.</p>

<p>After much difficult wayfaring, they
reached the summit of the heights, just in
time to catch the first ray of the rising sun,
as it shot upward, among the leaden clouds
of the eastern horizon.</p>

<p>All at once the steeples of the city caught
the glow, and the distant day blushed scarlet
and gold on every wave.</p>

<p>Among the heights,&mdash;may be some three
miles above Hoboken,&mdash;there is a quiet nook,
imbosomed, in the summer time, in foliage,
and opening to the south-east, in a view of
the Empire City, and Manhattan Bay. A
place as level as a floor, bounded on all sides
save one, by oak, and chestnut and cedar,
with great rocks piled like monuments of a
long passed age, among the massive trunks.
It is green in summer time, with a carpet-like
sward, and then the tree branches are woven
together by fragrant vines; there are flowers
about the rocks and around the roots of the
old trees,&mdash;a balmy, drowsy atmosphere of
June pervades the place. And looking to
the east, or south-east, you see the broad
river dotted with snowy sails, the great city,
with its steeples glittering in the light, and
with the calm, clear, vast Heaven arching
overhead. The Bay gleams in the distance,
white with sails, or shadowed here and there
by the steamer's cloud of smoke, and far
away Staten Island closes the horizon like a
wall. Standing by one of these huge rocks,
encircled by the trees, and steeped in the
quiet of the place, you gaze upon the distant
city, like one contemplating a far off battle-field,
in which millions are engaged, and the
fate of empires is the stake. A sadder
battle-field, sun never shone upon, than the
Empire City, in which millions are battling
every moment of the hour, and battling all
life long for fame, for wealth, for bread, for
life. Sometimes the quiet nook rings with
the laugh of happy children, who come here
to stretch themselves upon the grass, and
gather flowers among the rocks, and around
the nooks of the grand old trees.</p>

<p>Far different is the scene on this drear
winter morning. The trees are leafless;
they raise their skeleton arms against the
cold bleak sky. The rocks, no longer clad
in vines and flowers, are grim and bare, with
crowns of snow upon their summits. The
glade itself, no longer clad with velvet-like
sward, is faded and brown. The rising sun
trembles through the leafless trees, invests
the rocks with a faint glow of rosy light,
and falls along the brown surface of the
glade, investing it for a moment with a
cheerful gleam.</p>

<p>And in the light of the rising sun, in sight
of river, city, and distant bay, two men
stand ready for the work of death.</p>

<p>The ground is measured; the seconds
stand apart; before the fatal word is given,
the combatants survey each other.</p>

<p>Eugene, with bared head, stands on the
north, his slender form enveloped in a closely
buttoned frock-coat. He is lividly pale, but
the hand which grasps the pistol does not
tremble. Notwithstanding the bitter cold,
there is moisture on his forehead; the fire
which burns in his eyes, tells you that his
emotion is anything but fear. One glance
toward the city,&mdash;one thought perhaps of
other days,&mdash;and he is ready.</p>

<p>Opposite, in the south, his hat drawn over
his flaxen curls, his tall form enveloped in a
close fitting frock-coat, Beverly with an uncertain
eye and trembling hand, is nerving
himself for the fatal moment. He is afraid.
As he catches a glimpse of the face of Eugene,
his heart dies within him. All color
has forsook his usually florid face.</p>

<p>"Gentlemen, you will fire when I give the
word,&mdash;" cries Major Barton from the background
of withered shrubbery. "Are you
ready?"</p>

<p>But at this moment the voice of Beverly
is heard&mdash;"Eugene! Eugene!" he cries, and
starts forward, rapidly diminishing the ten
paces, which lie between them&mdash;"Eugene!
Eugene! my friend&mdash;can I make no apology,
no reparation&mdash;"</p>

<p>Both Robert and the Major, saw Eugene's
face, as he turned toward the seducer. The
sun, which had been obscured by a passing
cloud, shone out again, and shone full upon
the face of Eugene. The look which stamped
every line of that bronzed visage, was
never forgotten by those who beheld it.
O, the withering scorn of the lip, the concentrated
hatred of the dark eyes, the utter
loathing which impressed every lineament!</p>

<p>"<i>Friend</i>!" he echoed, as for a moment he
looked Beverly in the face&mdash;and then turning
to Barton, he said quietly: "Major take
your man away. If he is a coward as well
as a scoundrel, let us know it."</p>

<p>The look appalled Beverly; he receded
step by step, unable to take his eyes from
Eugene's face;&mdash;</p>

<p>"Be a man, curse you," whispered Barton
who had glided to his side&mdash;"D'ye hear?"
and he clutched him by the arm, with a
grasp, that made Beverly writhe with pain&mdash;"Take
your place, and fire as I give the word."</p>

<p>In a moment, Beverly was in his place,
his right hand grasping his pistol, dropped
by his side, which was presented toward
Eugene, who, ten paces off, stood in a corresponding
position.</p>

<p>Barton retired to the background, taking
his place beside Robert. "Gentlemen, I am
about to give the word!" said Barton, and
then there was a pause like death,&mdash;"One&mdash;two&mdash;three!
Fire!"</p>

<p>They wheeled and fired, Eugene with a
fixed and decided aim; Beverly with eyes
swimming in terror, and hand trembling
with fright. The smoke of the pistols
curled gracefully through the wintery air.
Beverly stumbled as he fired, and fell on
one knee; Eugene stood bolt upright for a
moment, the pistol in his extended hand,
and then fell flat upon his face.</p>

<p>Eugene's bullet sank into the cedar tree,
directly behind where Beverly's head had
been, only a moment before. Beverly was
uninjured. No doubt the false step which
he had made in wheeling had saved his life.</p>

<p>Eugene lay flat upon his face, the pistol
still clutched in his extended hand.</p>

<p>The brother of Joanna rushed forward
and raised him to his feet,&mdash;there was a red
wound between his eyes,&mdash;he was dead.</p>

<p>The husband had been killed by the seducer
of his wife.</p>

<p>Behold the justice of the Law of Duel!</p>

<p>"The damned fool," was the commentary
of the phlegmatic Robert, as with tears
gushing from his eyes, he held the body of
the dead husband, and at the same time
regarded Beverly, who pale with fright,
cringed against a tree,&mdash;"If he'd a-taken my
advice, he'd a-killed you like a dog, last
night. He'd a-pitched you from the third
story window,&mdash;he would,&mdash;and mashed
your brains out against the pavement."</p>

<p>The sun came out from behind a cloud,
and lighted the face of Eugene Livingston,
with the red wound between his fixed eyeballs.</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h3><a name="CHAPTER_5_IV" id="CHAPTER_5_IV">CHAPTER IV.</a></h3>

<h4>ISRAEL AND HIS VICTIM.</h4>


<p>Israel Yorke left the Temple, accompanied
by Ninety-One and followed by the
eleven. Israel, clad once more in his every-day
<i>practical</i> dress, with his hat drawn over
his bald head, and his diminutive form
enveloped in a loose sack of dark cloth,
looked like a dwarf beside the almost gigantic
frame of Ninety-One. Yet Ninety-One,
with creditable politeness, gave his arm to
the Financier, and urged him onward in the
darkness, toward Broadway, something in
the manner that you may have seen a very
willing boy, assist the progress of a very unwilling
dog,&mdash;the boy's hand being attached
to one end of a string, and the dog's neck
to the other. And Ninety-One cheered
Israel with various remarks of a consolatory
character, such as, "go in gold specks! let
her went my darlin'! don't give it up so
easy!&mdash;" and so-forth.</p>

<p>"It's so dark, and I'm so devilish cold,"
whined Israel, in vain endeavoring to keep
pace with the giant strides of his huge companion,&mdash;"Where
the deuce are we going
anyhow?"</p>

<p>"Come along feller sinners," said Ninety-One,
looking over his shoulders at the eleven
who followed sturdily in the rear. The
eleven did not deign to express themselves
in words, but manifested some portion of
their feelings, by bringing their clubs upon
the pavement, with something of the force
of thunder, and more of the wickedness of a
suddenly <i>slammed</i> door. "Where are we
leadin' you to? To one of yer tenants,
Isr'el,&mdash;one of yer tenants, you pertikler example
of all the christ'in vartues,&mdash;"</p>

<p>"To one of my tenants!" echoed Israel.</p>

<p>"To one of yer tenants," repeated Ninety-One,
and he crossed a curb as he spoke, and
gave Israel's arm a wrench which nearly tore
the arm from Israel's body.&mdash;"You know
you've got to pay cash for your bank notes
to-day, an' you'll need all the money you
can rake and scrape. To-day's rent day,&mdash;isn't
it? Well we're goin' on a collectin'
<i>tower</i> among yer tenants. Ain't we feller
sinners?"</p>

<p>He turned his head over his shoulder, and
again the clubs thundered their applause.</p>

<p>"I'll be deuced if I can make you out,"
said Israel arranging his 'specks,' which had
been displaced by one of the eccentric movements
of Ninety-One,&mdash;and Israel felt very
much like the man who, finding himself late
at night, very unexpectedly in the same
bed-room with a bear, desired exceedingly
to get out of the room, but thought it no
more than proper to be civil to the bear until
he did get out.</p>

<p>"Don't you own a four story house in &mdash;&mdash; street?"
asked Ninety-One.</p>

<p>"I do. Four stories,&mdash;two to four rooms
on a floor,&mdash;besides the cellar and the garret,&mdash;a
fine property,&mdash;and, to-day <i>is</i> rent
day&mdash;"</p>

<p>"You stow 'em away like maggots in a
stale cheese,&mdash;do you?" and Ninety-One
stopped, and regarded the little man admiringly,&mdash;added
in an under tone, "Moses!
How I'd like to have the picklin' of you!"</p>

<p>Thus conversing, they entered Broadway,
along which they passed for some distance,
and at last turned down a by-street, the
eleven following them closely all the while.</p>

<p>They stood in front of a huge edifice, four
stories high, formerly the residence of a
Wall street nabob, but now the abode of,&mdash;we
are afraid to say how many families.
The basement was, of course, occupied as a
manufactory of New York politics,&mdash;in simple
phrase, it was a grog-shop; and although
the hour was exceedingly late, its door was
wide open, and the sound of drunken voices
and the fragrance of bad rum, ascended together
upon the frosty air. Save the basement,
the entire front of the mansion was
dark as ink; the poor wretches who burrowed
in its many rooms, were doubtless
sleeping after the toil of the winter's day.</p>

<p>"In the fourth story you have a tenant
named &mdash;&mdash; &mdash;&mdash;?" whispered Ninety-One.</p>

<p>"Yes; a poor devil," responded Israel
Yorke.</p>

<p>"Let's go up an' see the poor devil," said
Ninety-One, and grasping Israel firmly by
the arm, he passed through the front door
and up the narrow stairway.</p>

<p>The eleven followed in silence, supporting
Israel firmly in the rear.</p>

<p>As they reached the head of the fourth
stairway, Ninety-One put forth his brawny
hand, and,&mdash;in the darkness,&mdash;felt along the
wall.</p>

<p>"Here's the door," he whispered, "in a
minnit we'll bust in upon your tenant like a
thousand o' brick."</p>

<p>Israel felt himself devoured by curiosity,
suspense, and fear.</p>

<p>As for the eleven gathering around Israel
closely in the darkness, they preserved a dead
silence, only broken for a moment by the exclamation
of one of their number,&mdash;"What
a treat it 'ud be to pitch this here cuss down
stairs!"</p>

<p>"Hush, boys! hark!" said Ninety-One,
and laid his hand upon the latch of the door.</p>

<p>Before we enter the door and gaze upon
the scene which Ninety-One disclosed to the
gaze of Israel Yorke, our history must retrace
its steps.</p>

<p>It was nightfall, and the light of the lamps
glittering among the leafless trees of the
Park, mingled with the last flush of the departed
day, and the mild, tremulous rays of
the first stars of evening. At the corner of
Broadway and Chambers street, two young
men held each other by the hand, as they
talked together. The contrast between their
faces and general appearance was most remarkable,
even for this world of contrasts.
One tall in stature, with florid cheeks, and
blue eyes glittering with life and hope, was
the very picture of health. He was dressed
at the top of the fashion. A sleekly-brushed
beaver sat jauntily upon his chesnut curls;
an overcoat of fine gray cloth fitted closely to
his vigorous frame, and by its rolling collar,
suffered his blue scarf and diamond pin to be
visible; his hands were gloved, and he carried
a delicate cane, adorned with a head of
amber; and his voice and laugh rung out so
cheerily upon the frosty air!</p>

<p>The other,&mdash;alas! for the contrast,&mdash;dressed
in a long overcoat of faded brown cloth,
resembled a living skeleton. His face was
terribly emaciated; his cheeks sunken; his
eyes hollow. His voice was low and husky.
As he spoke, his eyes lighted up like fire-coals,
and seemed to burn in his sallow and
withered face. His hair, black as jet, and
straight and long, only made his countenance
seem more pale and death-like. He was
evidently in the last stage of consumption,
and his dress, neat as it was,&mdash;the faded
brown coat, and much-worn hat carefully
brushed,&mdash;betokened poverty, and the saddest
poverty of all,&mdash;that which tries, and
vainly, to hide itself under a "decent" exterior.</p>

<p>And thus they met, at the corner of Chambers
street and Broadway, Lewis Harding,
the rich broker and man of fashion, and
John Martin, the poor artist and&mdash;dying
man. They had been playmates and school-fellows
in other years. Five years ago, they
left the academy, in a country town, to try
their fortunes in the world; both orphans,
both young, both full of life and hope, and&mdash;poor.
Harding had taken the world <i>as he
found</i> it, adopted its philosophy,&mdash;"Success
is the only test of merit,"&mdash;and became a
rich broker and a man of fashion. John
Martin had taken the world as it <i>ought to
have been</i>,&mdash;believed in the goodness of mankind,
and in the certainty of honest success
following honest labor&mdash;of hand and brain,&mdash;steadily
devoted to the elevation of man.
He became an artist, and,&mdash;we see him before
us now.</p>

<p>"Why, Jack, my dear fellow, what are
you doing out in the cold air?" said Harding,
in his kindly voice. "You ought to
be more careful of yourself,&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>"I am out in the cold air, because I cannot
breathe freely in the house," answered the
artist, with a smile on his cadaverous lips.</p>

<p>"But you have no cough,&mdash;you'll be better
in spring."</p>

<p>"True, I have no cough, but the doctor
informed me to-day that my right lung was
entirely gone, and my left hard after it; the
simple truth is, I am wasting to death; and I
hate the idea of dying in bed. I want to keep
on my feet,&mdash;I want to keep in the air,&mdash;I
want to die on my feet."</p>

<p>Harding had rapidly grown into a man of
the world, but somehow the tears started
into his eyes.</p>

<p>"But you must keep up your spirits,
Jack,&mdash;in the spring you will be&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>"In my grave, Harding; there's no use
of lying about it."</p>

<p>And his eyes flared up, and a bitter smile
moved his lips.</p>

<p>"O, how's the wife and children?" said
Harding; as though anxious to change the
conversation.</p>

<p>"They are well," said John, and a singular
look passed over his face.</p>

<p>"And your sister?"</p>

<p>"Eleanor is well,"&mdash;and the vivid brightness
of his eyes was for a moment vailed in
moisture.</p>

<p>"O, by-the-bye, I met Nelly the other
day," said Harding. "Bless my soul! what
a handsome little girl she has grown! It
was in a store where they sell embroidered
work. I was pricing a set of regalia,&mdash;thirty
dollars they said was the price,&mdash;and little
Nell had worked on it about three weeks for
five dollars. Great world, Jack!"</p>

<p>"Good night, Harding," said the artist,
quietly.</p>

<p>"But let me accompany you home,&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>"I'd rather you would not. Good night,
Harding."</p>

<p>"But God bless you, John, can't I do
anything for you?"</p>

<p>"Why, why after I am dead,"&mdash;and the
words seemed to stick in his throat,&mdash;"after
I am dead,&mdash;my wife,&mdash;my sister,&mdash;&mdash;" he
could say no more.</p>

<p>"I swear that I will protect them," said
Harding, warmly. John quietly pressed his
hand, and turned his face away. After a
moment they parted, Harding down Broadway
on his way to the theater, and John up
Broadway, on his way home. And Harding
gazed after John for a moment,&mdash;"I'm glad
he didn't want to borrow money! Nell is
quite a beauty!"</p>

<p>Walking slowly, and pausing every now
and then to breathe, John gazed in the
bright shop-windows, and into the contrasted
faces of the hurrying crowd as he passed
along.</p>

<p>"Soon this will be all over for me," he
muttered, with a husky laugh. "I'm afraid,
friend John, that you are taking your last
walk."</p>

<p>An arm was gently thrust through his
own, and a voice light and trilling as the
notes of a bird, said quietly,&mdash;</p>

<p>"I'm so glad I've caught up with you
John,"&mdash;and he leaned upon that gentle
arm, and turned to look upon the face of
the speaker. It was his sister Eleanor, a very
pretty child of some fourteen years, dressed
in a faded cloak, and with a hood on her
dark hair. Her complexion was a rich
brown, tinged with red in the cheeks; her
eyes, brows and hair, all black as midnight.
And by turns, over that face, in which the
woman began to mingle with the child, there
flitted a look of the brightest joyousness, and
an expression of the most touching melancholy.</p>

<p>"I've just been taking my work home,
John. They paid me half a dollar for what
I have done this week, (and that, you know,
John, will keep us in bread and coal to-morrow,)
and O, I am so glad you've got
eight dollars saved for the rent. I am <i>so</i>
glad! The rent is due to-morrow, and the
landlord is such a hard man."</p>

<p>"Yes, I have eight dollars," John said,
and there was an indefinable accent marking
every word. "Yes, Nelly, dear, I have eight
dollars."</p>

<p>"John, do tell me, who are those good
ladies who pass us every moment, dressed so
richly,&mdash;all in velvet, and satin, and jewels;
who are they, John?"</p>

<p>John stopped,&mdash;bent upon his cane,&mdash;looked
for a moment upon the crowd which
whirled past him,&mdash;and then into the happy,
innocent face of his sister. And then his
shrunken chest heaved with a sigh. "O
God!" he said, in a low voice.</p>

<p>"Who are they, John,&mdash;do tell me,&mdash;they
must be very, O, ever so rich."</p>

<p>"Those handsome ladies, dressed so gaudily,
Nelly, are sisters and daughters. Once
they had brothers and fathers who protected
them, and now their fathers and brothers are
dead. The world takes care of them now,
Nelly."</p>

<p>The poor girl heard his words, but did not
guess their hidden meaning. Still supporting
her brother on her arm, she continued,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Do you know, John, that your handsome
friend, Mr. Harding, met me in the
store the other day, and said he took such
an interest in me, and that if I chose I
might be dressed as rich and gayly as these
grand ladies, who pass us every moment."</p>

<p>John started as though he had trodden
upon a snake. "And only a moment ago
he promised to protect her when I am gone,"
he muttered,&mdash;"<i>Protection</i>!"</p>

<p>And thus they passed along until turning
into a by-street, they came near their home,
which was composed of a single room, up
four pairs of stairs, in a four-storied edifice.
At the street door they were met by a young
woman, plainly,&mdash;meagerly clad, but with a
finely-rounded form, and a countenance, rich,
not only in loveliness, but in all the <i>goodness</i>
of womanly affection. It was the artist's
wife.</p>

<p>"O, John, I have been so anxious about
you," she said, and took him by the arm;
and while Nelly held the other, she gently
led him through the doorway and up the
dark stairs. "Why will you go out when it
is so cold?"</p>

<p>"I want air, Annie, <i>air</i>," he returned in
his hollow voice,&mdash;"and I will die on my
feet."</p>

<p>And the wife and sister helped the dying
artist gently up the stairs; gently, slowly,
step by step, and led him at last over the
threshold, into that room which was their
home.</p>

<p>About an hour afterward, John was seated
in an arm-chair, in the center of that home,
whose poverty was concealed as much as
might be, by the careful exertions of his
wife and sister. In the arm-chair, his death-like
face looking ghastly in the candle-light,&mdash;his
wife, a woman of <i>blonde</i> countenance,
blue eyes, and chesnut-hair, on one
side; his sister, with her dark hair, and clear,
deep eyes, on the other; each holding a hand
of the husband and the brother. A boy of
four years, sat on a stool, looking up quietly
with his big eyes into his father's face; and
near, a little girl of three years, who took
her brother by the hand, and also looked in
the face of the dying artist. Very beautiful
children; plainly clad, it is true, but beautiful;
the girl with light hair and blue eyes,
reflecting the mother, while the boy, dark-haired
and black-eyed, was the image of the
father.</p>

<p>The table, spread with the remains of the
scanty meal, stood near; the grate was filled
with lighted coals; a bed with a carefully
patched coverlet stood in one corner; between
the two windows was placed an old-fashioned
bureau; and two pictures adorned
the neatly whitewashed walls.</p>

<p>Such was the picture, and such the artist's
home.</p>

<p>The stillness which had prevailed since
supper, was at length broken by the voice of
John.</p>

<p>"Annie, I'll leave you soon," he said, quietly,
and his eyes lighted up.&mdash;"O, wouldn't
it be a good thing if we could all die together!
To die, I do not fear, but to leave you
all,&mdash;and in such a world! O, my God!
such a world!"</p>

<p>Annie buried her face in her hands, and
rested her hands against the arm of the chair.
Nelly, her large eyes brimful of tears, quietly
put his hand to her lips. And the little boy,
in his childish way, asked what "to die"
meant.</p>

<p>"Bring me that picture, Nelly,"&mdash;he
pointed to a picture on the wall. She went
and brought it quietly. "Now let down the
window a little, for I feel the want of air,
and come and sit by me again."</p>

<p>He took the picture and gazed upon it
earnestly and long. It was a picture of himself,
in the prime of young manhood, the
cheeks rounded, the eyes full of hope, the
brow, shaded by glossy black hair, stamped
with genius. A picture taken only sixteen
months before.</p>

<p>"Only sixteen months ago, Nelly," he
said. "Only sixteen months ago, Annie; and
now&mdash;well, there's a crayon sketch on the
bureau, which I took of myself the other
day, as I looked in the glass. Bring it,
Nelly."</p>

<p>His sister brought the crayon sketch; and,
with a sad smile, he held it beside the other
picture. It was all too faithful. His prominent
cheek bones, hollow cheeks, colorless
lips, and sunken eyes, all were copied there;
only the deathly fire of the eyes was
lacking.</p>

<p>"A sad contrast, isn't it, Annie? When
this picture was taken, sixteen months ago,
we were all doing well. My pictures sold;
some lithographs which I executed, met
also with ready sale. I had as much as I
could do, and everything was bright before
me. I even thought of a tour to Italy!
Don't you remember our nice little cottage
out in the country, Nell? But I was taken
sick&mdash;sick;&mdash;I couldn't work any longer.
Our money was soon spent; and you, Annie,
made shirts; and you, Nelly, you embroidered;
and that kept us thus far&mdash;and&mdash;,"
he stopped, and gazed upon his wife and sister,
who were weeping silently: and then
upon his children. "And now I must go
and leave you in this world.&mdash;Oh, my God!
such a world!"</p>

<p>"Don't think of us, John," said his wife.
"If you could only live,&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Oh, you will&mdash;you will get better, as the
spring comes on," exclaimed Nelly; "and
we'll go into the country, on the first sunny
day, and gather flowers there."</p>

<p>John drew forth from his vest pocket certain
pieces of paper, which he spread forth
upon his knee. Bank notes, each marked
with the figure 2, and signed by the name
of Israel Yorke, (a prominent banker of the
<i>bogus</i> stamp,) in a bold hand. There were
four in all.</p>

<p>"This is the eight dollars, Annie, which I
saved to pay our rent," said the artist.</p>

<p>The wife and sister gazed upon the bank
notes earnestly&mdash;for those bank notes were
their last hope. Those bank notes were
"<i>rent money</i>;" and of all money on the
earth of God, none is so bitterly earned by
Poverty, nor so pitilessly torn from its grasp
by the hand of Avarice, as "<i>rent money</i>."</p>

<p>"Well,&mdash;well;"&mdash;and John paused, as if
the words choked him. "These notes are
not worth one penny. All of Israel Yorke's
banks broke to-day."</p>

<p>There was not a word spoken for five
minutes, or more. This news went like an
ice-bolt through the hearts of the wife and
sister.</p>

<p>"And to-morrow we'll be put into the
street by this same Israel Yorke, who is also
our landlord;" said John, breaking the long
pause. "Put the window a little lower,
Nelly&mdash;it feels close&mdash;I want air."</p>

<p>Nelly obeyed; and resumed her seat at
her brother's face, which now glowed on the
cheeks and shone in the eyes with an expression
which she could not define.</p>

<p>"Oh, wouldn't it be good, Annie&mdash;would
not it be glorious, Nelly&mdash;if I could gather
you all up in my arms and take you with
me, whither I am going?" he said, with a
sort of rapture, looking from his children to
his wife and sister. And then, in a gentler
tone: "Kneel down, Nelly, and say a prayer,
and ask God to forgive us all our sins&mdash;<i>all</i>,
remember,&mdash;and to smooth the way for us, so
that we may all go to Him."</p>

<p>Neither Nelly nor Annie remarked the
singular emphasis which accompanied these
words.</p>

<p>Nelly knelt in their midst, and prayed.</p>

<p>As she uttered that simple and child-like
prayer, John fixed his eyes upon her face,
and muttered, "And so he took a great <i>interest</i>
in you, and would dress you gayly,
would he?"</p>

<p>Then he said, aloud, in a kind of wild and
wandering way&mdash;"Now we've had our last
supper, and our last prayer. It will soon be
time for us to go. Call me, love, in time for
the cars."</p>

<p>He paused, and raised his hand to his
forehead,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Don't cry, Annie; my mind wanders a
little&mdash;that's all. I want rest. I'll take a
little sleep in the chair, and you and Nelly,
and the children, lay down in the bed. And
let me kiss the children, and do you all kiss
me&mdash;"</p>

<p>The young mother lifted the little boy
and girl, and they pressed their kiss upon the
lips of the dying man. Then the wife and
the sister; their tears mingling on his face,
as their lips were pressed by turns to his lips
and brow.</p>

<p>"Come, Nelly," whispered the wife, "we'll
lay down, but we will not sleep. He will
take a little rest if he thinks we are
sleeping."</p>

<p>Presently the sister and the wife, with the
children near them, were resting on the bed,
their hands silently joined. They conversed
in low tones, while the children fell gently
asleep. But gradually their conversation
died away in inarticulate whispers; and they
also slept.</p>

<p>And the artist&mdash;did he sleep? By no
means. Sitting erect in his arm-chair, his
back toward the bed, and his eyes every
instant glittering bright and brighter, he
listened intently to the low whispers of his
wife and sister. "At last they sleep!" he
cried, as the sound of their calm, regular
breathing struck his ears. "They sleep&mdash;they
sleep! They sleep&mdash;wife, sister, children;
Annie, Nelly, little John, and little
Annie,&mdash;they all sleep."</p>

<p>And he burst into tears.</p>

<p>But his death-stricken face was radiant
through his tears:&mdash;radiant with intense joy.</p>

<p>John sat silently contemplating a small
image of white marble, which he had taken
from one of the drawers of the bureau. It
represented the <span class="smcap">Master</span> on the cross.</p>

<p>"Better go to God, and trust him, than
trust to the mercy of man," he frequently
murmured.</p>

<p>After much silent thought he rose, and, from
beneath the bureau drew forth two objects
into the light&mdash;a sack and a small plaster
furnace. He placed the furnace in the center
of the floor, and half filled it with lighted
coals from the grate. Then he poured the
contents of the sack upon the burning coals;
his hands trembling, and his eyes, fiery as
they were, suddenly dimmed by moisture.</p>

<p>"Charcoal, good charcoal&mdash;such a blessing
to the poor! Nelly didn't know what
a blessing it was, when I sent her for it this
afternoon&mdash;that is, yesterday afternoon. It
takes fire&mdash;it burns&mdash;such a mild, rich blue
flame! Opium and charcoal are the poor
man's best friends. They cost so little, and
they save one from so much,"&mdash;as he knelt
on the floor, he cast his gaze over his shoulder
toward the bed&mdash;"so very much! They
will save us all from so much!"</p>

<p>Nelly murmured in her sleep, and rose in
bed, and, opening her eyes, gazed at her
brother, kneeling by the lighted furnace, with
a wild dreamy stare. Then she lay down
and slept again.</p>

<p>The charcoal burned brightly, its pale
blue flame casting a spectral glow over the
face of the kneeling man, so haggard and
death-stricken. The noxious gas began to
fill the room. John rose and went, with
unsteady steps to the window, and eagerly
inhaled the fresh air. Resting his arms upon
the sash, he felt the cold air upon his cheek,
and looked out and upward,&mdash;there was the
dark blue sky set with stars.</p>

<p>"In which of them, I wonder, will we all
meet again?" he said, in a wandering way.
Then he tottered from the window to the
bed. The air was stifling. He breathed only
in gasps.</p>

<p>By the bed again, gazing upon them all,&mdash;wife,
sister, children,&mdash;so beautiful in their
slumber.</p>

<p>And they began to move restlessly in their
sleep, and mutter half-coherent words, and&mdash;"In
the spring time, John, we'll gather
flowers," said Nelly; "You'll be better soon,
John," whispered the wife; and all was still
again.</p>

<p>Back to the window, with unsteady steps,
to inhale another mouthful of fresh air&mdash;to
take another look at the cold, cold winter
stars.</p>

<p>Brighter burns the charcoal; the pale blue
flame hovers there, in the center of the room
like an infernal halo. And there is Death
in the air.</p>

<p>Breathing in gasps, John tottered from the
window again. He took the image in one
hand, the candle in the other; and thus, on
tip-toe, he approached the bed.</p>

<p>A very beautiful sight. Little John and
little Annie sleeping side by side, a glow
upon their cheeks,&mdash;Nelly and Annie sleeping
hand joined in hand; their beautiful faces
invested with a smile that was all quietness
and peace. They did not murmur in their
sleep this time.</p>

<p>John's eyes glared strangely as he stood
gazing upon them. "And did you think,
Annie," he said softly, putting his hand upon
her head, "that I'd leave you in this world,
to work and to slave, and to rear our children
up to work and to slave, and eat the
bitter bread of poverty? And you, Nelly,
did you think I'd leave you to slave here,
until your soul was sick; and then, some
day, when work failed, and starvation looked
in at the window, to sell yourself to some
rich scoundrel for bread? No, wife&mdash;no, sister&mdash;no,
children: <i>I have gathered you up in
my arms, and we're all going together</i>!"</p>

<p>He kissed them one by one, and then tottered
back toward the lighted furnace&mdash;toward
his chair&mdash;the light which he held,
shining fully over his withered face and
flaming eyes. In one hand he still grasped
the marble image. He had gained half the
distance to his chair, when the door opened.
A man of middle age, clad in sober black,
his hair gray, and his hooked nose supporting
gold spectacles, appeared on the
threshold.</p>

<p>"Ah, Doctor, is that you?" cried John,
"I thought it was the landlord;&mdash;you've
come too late, Doctor, too late."</p>

<p>"Too late? What mean you, Mr. Martin?"
said the doctor, advancing into the
room&mdash;but starting back again, as he encountered
the poisoned air.</p>

<p>"Too late&mdash;too late!" cried John, the candle
trembling in his unsteady grasp, as he
raised his skeleton-like form to its full
height&mdash;"We're all cured,&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Cured? What mean you? How cured?"</p>

<p>"Cured of&mdash;life!" said John; and, stepping
quickly forward, he fell at the doctor's
feet.</p>

<p>The doctor seized the light as he fell, and
attempted to raise him from the floor,&mdash;but
John was dead in his arms.</p>

<hr class="tb" />

<p>Our history now returns to Israel Yorke,
whom, with Ninety-One and the eleven, we
left waiting in the dark, outside the artist's
door.</p>

<p>"Hush, boys! hush!" whispered Ninety-One,
and laid his hand upon the latch
"Enter, Isr'el, and talk to yer tenant."</p>

<p>The door opened, and Israel entered, followed
by Ninety-One and the eleven, all of
whom preserved a dead stillness.</p>

<p>A single light was burning dimly in the
artist's humble room. It cast its rays over
the humble details of the place,&mdash;over the
bed, which was covered by a white sheet.
The place was deathly still.</p>

<p>"What does all this mean?" cried Israel.
"There is no one here." Ninety-One took
the light from the table, and led Israel
silently to the bed. The eleven gathered
round in silence; you could hear their
hard breathing through the dead stillness of
the room. Ninety-One lifted the sheet,
slowly; his harsh features quivering in every
fiber.</p>

<p>"That's what it means," he said hoarsely.</p>

<p>They were there, side by side; the husband
and the wife, the sister and the
children&mdash;there, cold and dead. The light,
as it fell upon them, revealed the wasted
face of the artist, his closed eyelids, sunken
far in their sockets, his dark hair glued to his
forehead by the moisture of death; and the
face of his young wife, with her fair cheek
and sunny hair; and the sad, beautiful face
of his sister, whose dark hair lay loosely
upon her neck, while the long fringes of her
eyelashes rested darkly upon her cheek.
There was a look of anguish upon the face
of John, as though Poverty had struck its
iron seal upon him as he died; but the faces
of Annie and Nelly were calm, smiling&mdash;very
full of peace. The little children&mdash;the
dark-haired boy, and bright-haired girl&mdash;slept
quietly, their hands clasped and their
cheeks laid close together. The poor artist,
in the last wild hour of his life, had indeed
<i>gathered them up in his arms and taken them
with him</i>. They had all gone together.</p>

<p>The furnace, with the fire put out, still
remained in the center of the room.</p>

<p>Such was the scene which the light disclosed;
a scene incredible only to those who,
unfamiliar with the <span class="smcap">actual</span> of the large
city, do not know that all the boasted triumphs
of our modern civilization but miserably
compensate for the <span class="smcap">poverty</span> which it
has created, and which stalks side by side
with it, at every step of its progress, like a
skeleton beside a painted harlot;&mdash;a poverty
which gives to the phrase, "<i>I am poor!</i>" a
despair unknown even in the darkest ages
of the most barbarous past.</p>

<p>"They are asleep,&mdash;asleep, certainly,"
cried Israel, falling back, "they can't be
dead."</p>

<p>The truth is, that Israel felt exceedingly
uncomfortable.</p>

<p>"They ain't asleep,&mdash;they <i>are</i> dead,"
hoarsely replied Ninety-One, and he grasped
Israel fiercely by the wrist. "They are dead,
you dog. Look thar! That man owed you
eight dollars for rent; he know'd if he didn't
pay you this mornin' he'd be pitched into
the street, dyin' as he was, with wife and
children and sister at his heels. But he'd
saved eight dollars, Israel, an' last night he
crawled out to take a walk, an' found that
his eight dollars was so much trash&mdash;found
out that yer banks had broke, an' his eight
dollars in yer bank notes, was wuss than
nothin'. An' from yer bankin' house he
went to a drug store, an' from a friend he got
a quick an' quiet p'ison. He came home;
he put it in the coffee, slyly; they all drank
of it, an' slep'; an' then he filled the furnace
with charcoal an' lighted it, an' <i>then</i> they
slep' all the better,&mdash;an' there they air! out
o' yer clutches, dog&mdash;out o' yer fangs, hell-hound,&mdash;gone
safe to kingdom come!"</p>

<p>And he clutched Israel's wrist until the
little man groaned with pain.</p>

<p>"But how do you know he poisoned himself
and these?" faltered Israel.</p>

<p>"He left a scrap o' paper in which he told
about it an' the reason for doin' it. The
doctor who came in when it was too late,
saw the charcoal burnin', an' found the p'ison
at the bottom of the cups. An' this man,"
he pointed to one of the eleven, a sturdy
fellow with a frank, honest face, "this man
an' his wife live in the next room. He was
out last evenin', but she was in, an' she heard
poor Martin ravin' about you an' his eight
dollars, an' his wife, an' sister, an' children,
an' starvation, death, an' the cold dark street.
She heered him, I say, but didn't suspec'
there was p'ison in the case until the doctor
called her in, an' then it was too late."</p>

<p>"But how did you know of all this?
What have you to do with it?"</p>

<p>"You see the doctor went an' told the
<span class="smcap">judge</span>, who has just been tryin' you,&mdash;told
him hours ago, you mind,&mdash;an' <span class="smcap">the judge</span>
sent me here with you, in order to show you
some of yer work. How d'ye like it Isr'el?"</p>

<p>Ninety-One's features were harsh and scarred,
but now they quivered with an almost
child-like emotion. With his brawny hand
he pointed to the bodies of the dead,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Thar's eight dollars worth o' yer notes,
Isr'el," he said. "Thar's Chow Bank, Muddy
Run, an' Tarrapin Holler! Look at 'em!
Don't you think that some day God Almighty
will ax you to change them notes?"</p>

<p>And Israel shrank back appalled from the
bed. Ninety-One clutched his wrist with a
firmer grasp; the eleven gathered closely in
his rear, their ominous murmur growing
more distinct; and the light, held in the
convict's hand, shed its calm rays over the
faces of the dead family.</p>

<p>This death-scene in the artist's home, calls
up certain thoughts.</p>

<p>Poverty! Did you ever think of the full
meaning of that word? The curse of poverty
is the cowardice which it breeds, cowardice
of body and soul. Many a man who
would in full possession of his faculties,
pour out his life-blood for a friend, or even
for a stranger, will, when it becomes a contest
for a crust of bread,&mdash;for the last means
of a bare subsistence,&mdash;steal that crust from
the very lips of his starving friend, and
would, were it possible, drain the last life-drop
in the veins of another, in order to
keep life in his own wretched carcass. The
savage, starving in the snow, in the center
of his desolate prairie, knows nothing of the
poverty of the civilized savage, much less of
that poverty, which takes the man or woman
of refined education, and kills every noble
faculty of the soul, before it does its last work
on the body. Poverty in the city, is not
mere want of bread, but it is the lack of the
means to supply innumerable wants, created
by civilization,&mdash;and that lack is slow moral
and physical death. Talk of the bravery of
the hero, who, on the battle-field stands up
to be shot at, with the chance of glory, on
the one hand, and a quick death on the
other! How will his heroism compare with
that brave man, who in the large city, year
after year, and day by day, expends the very
life-strings of his soul, in battling against the
fangs of want, in keeping some roof-shelter
over his wife and children, or those who are
as dependent upon him as wife and children?
Proud lady, sitting on your sofa, in your
luxurious parlor, you regard with a quiet
sneer, that paragraph in the paper (you hold
it in your hand), which tells how a virtuous
girl, sold her person into the grasp of
wealthy lust for&mdash;bread! You sneer,&mdash;virtue,
refined education, beauty, innocence, chastity,
all gone to the devil for a&mdash;bit of bread!
Sneer on! but were you to try the experiment
of living two days without&mdash;not your
carriage and opera-box,&mdash;but without bread
or fire in the dead of winter, working meanwhile
at your needle, with half-frozen fingers
for just sixteen pennies per day, you
would, I am afraid, think differently of the
matter. Instead of two days, read two
years, and let your trial be one of perpetual
work and want, that never for a moment
cease to bite,&mdash;I am afraid, beautiful one,
were this your case, you would sometimes
find yourself thinking of a comfortable life,
and a bed of down, purchased by the sale of
your body, and the damnation of your soul.
And you, friend, now from the quiet of some
country village, railing bravely against southern
slavery, and finding no word bitter
enough to express your hatred of the slave
market, in which black men and black women
are sold&mdash;just look a moment from the
window of your quiet home, and behold
yonder huge building, blazing out upon the
night from its hundred windows. That is a
factory. Yes. Have you no pity for the
white men, (nearer to you in equality of
organization certainly than black men,) who
are chained in hopeless slavery, to the iron
wheels of yonder factory's machinery? Have
you no thought of the white woman, (lovelier
to look upon certainly than black women,
and in color, in organization, in education
resembling very much your own wife, sister,
mother,) who very often are driven by want,
from yonder factory to the grave, or to the&mdash;brothels
of New York? You mourn over
black children, sold at the slave block,&mdash;have
you no tear for white children, who in
yonder factory, are deprived of education,
converted into mere working machines (without
one tithe of the food and comfort of the
black slave), and transformed into precocious
old men and women, before they have ever
felt one free pulse of childhood?</p>

<p>Ah! this enterprise which forms the impulse
and the motto of modern civilization, will
doubtless in the future ripen into good for
all men,&mdash;for there is a God,&mdash;but the path
of its present progress, is littered with human
skulls. It weaves, it spins, it builds,
it spreads forth on all sides its iron arms,&mdash;and
it has a good capital,&mdash;the blood of human
hearts. Labor-saving machinery, (the
most awful feature of modern civilization,)
will, in the future, when no longer monopolized
by the few, do the greater portion of
the physical work of the world, and bless
the entire race of man,&mdash;but until that future
arrives, labor-saving machinery will send
more millions down to death, than any three
centuries of battle-fields, that ever cursed
the earth. Yes, modern civilization, is very
much like the locomotive, rolling along an
iron track, at sixty miles per hour, with hot
coals at its heart, and a cloud of smoke and
flame above it. Look at it, as it thunders
on! What a magnificent impersonation of
power; of brute force chained by the mind
of man! All true,&mdash;but woe, woe to the
weak or helpless, who linger on its iron
track! and woe to the weak, the crippled,
or the poor, whom the locomotive of modern
civilization finds lingering <i>in its way</i>. Why
should it care? It has no heart. Its work
is to move onward, and to cut down all,
whom poverty and misfortune have left in
its path.</p>

<p>There is one phase of poverty which hath
no parallel in its unspeakable bitterness. A
man of genius with a good heart, and something
of the all-overarching spirit of Christ
in him, looks around the world, sees the
vast sum of human misery, and feels like
this, '<i>With but a moderate portion of money,
what good might not be accomplished!</i>' and
yet that little sum is as much beyond him,&mdash;as
far beyond his grasp, as the planet Jupiter.</p>

<p>That forth from the womb of the present
chaos, a nobler era will be born, no one can
doubt, who feels the force of these four
words, '<i>there is a God</i>.' And that the present
age with its deification of the money
power, is one of the basest the world ever saw,
cannot be disproved, although it may be
bitterly denied. There is something pitiful
in the thought that a world once deemed
worthy of the tread of Satan, is now become
the crawling ground of Mammon.</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h3><a name="CHAPTER_5_V" id="CHAPTER_5_V">CHAPTER V.</a></h3>

<h4>MARY, CARL, CORNELIUS.</h4>


<p>Leaving Frank to writhe alone in her
agony, Nameless and Mary pursued their
way through the dark streets, as the morning
drew near. They arrived at length, in
front of that huge mansion, in Greenwich
street, which once the palace of ease and
opulence, was now, from the garret to the
cellar, the palace of rags, disease and poverty.
How Mary's heart thrilled as she led Nameless
through the darkness up the marble
stairs! A few hours since she went down
those stairs, with death in her heart. Now
her husband, risen from the grave was on
her arm, hope was in her heart, and&mdash;although
dark and bitter cold, and signs of
poverty and wretchedness were all around
her,&mdash;the future opened before her mental
vision, rosy and golden in its hues of promise.</p>

<p>At the head of the stairway, on the
fourth story Mary opened a door, and in the
darkness, led Nameless across the threshold.</p>

<p>"My home!" she whispered, and lighted
the candle, which hours ago, in the moment
of her deepest despair, she had extinguished.</p>

<p>As the light stole around the place, Nameless
at a glance beheld the miserable garret,
with its sloping roof walls of rough boards,
and scanty furniture, a mattress in one corner,
a sheet-iron stove, a table, and in the
recess of the huge garret window an old arm-chair.</p>

<p>"This your home!" he ejaculated and at
the same time beheld the occupant of the
arm-chair,&mdash;in that man prematurely old,
his skeleton form incased in a loose wrapper,
his emaciated hands resting on the arms,
and one side of his corpse-like face on the
back of the chair,&mdash;he after a long pause,
recognized the wreck of his master, Cornelius
Berman.</p>

<p>"O, my master!" he cried in a tone of
inexpressible emotion, and sank on his knees
before the sleeping man, and pressed his
emaciated hand reverently to his lips. "Is
it thus I find you!" and profoundly affected,
he remained kneeling there, his gaze fixed
upon that countenance, which despite its premature
wrinkles, and dead apathetic expression,
still bore upon its forehead,&mdash;half hid by
snow-white hair,&mdash;some traces of the intellect
of Cornelius Berman.</p>

<p>While Nameless knelt there in silence,
Mary glided from the room, and after some
minutes, again appeared, holding a basket on
one arm, while the other held some sticks
of wood. Leaving her husband in his reverie,
at her father's feet, she built a fire in
the sheet-iron stove, and began to prepare
the first meal which she had tasted in the
course of twenty hours. Continued excitement
had kept her up thus far, but her
brain began to grow dizzy and her hand to
tremble. At length the white cloth was
spread on the table, and the rich fragrance
of coffee stole through the atmosphere of
the dismal garret. The banquet was spread,
bread, butter, two cups of coffee,&mdash;a sorry
sort of banquet say you,&mdash;but just for once,
try the experiment of twenty-four hours,
without food, and you'll change your opinion.</p>

<p>The first faint gleam of the winter morning
began to steal through the garret window.</p>

<p>"Come, Carl,"&mdash;she glided softly to his
side, and tapped him gently on the shoulder,
"breakfast is ready. While father sleeps,
just come and see what a good housekeeper
I am."</p>

<p>He looked up and beheld her smiling,
although there were tears in her eyes.</p>

<p>He rose and took his seat beside her at
the table. Now the garret was rude and
lonely, and the banquet by no means luxurious,
and yet Nameless could not help
being profoundly agitated, as he took his
seat by the side of Mary.</p>

<p>It was the first time, in all his memory,
that he had sat down to a table, encircled
by the sanctity which clusters round the
word&mdash;<i>Home</i>.</p>

<p>His wife was by his side,&mdash;this was his&mdash;<i>Home</i>.</p>

<p>Breakfast over, he once more knelt at the
feet of the sleeping man. And Mary knelt
by his side, gazing silently into his face,
while his gaze was riveted upon her father's
countenance. Thus they were, as the morning
light grew brighter on the window-pane.
At length Mary rested her head upon his
bosom, and slept,&mdash;he girdled her form in
his cloak, and held her in his arms, while
her bosom, heaving gently with the calm
pulsation of slumber, was close against his
heart. The morning light grew brighter on
the window-pane, and touched the white
hairs of the father, and shone upon the
glowing cheek of the sleeping girl.</p>

<p>Nameless, wide awake, his eyes large and
full, and glittering with thought, gazed now
upon the face of his old master, and now
upon the countenance of his young wife.
And then his whole life rose up before him.
He was lost in a maze of absorbing thought.
His friendless childhood, the day when
Cornelius first met him, his student life, in
the studies of the artist, the pleasant home
of the artist on the river, the hour when he
had reddened his hand with blood, his trial,
sentence, the day of execution, the burial,
the life in the mad-house,&mdash;these scenes and
memories passed before him, with living
shapes and hues and voices. And after all,
Mary, his wife was in his arms! The sun
now came up, and his first ray shone rosily
over the cheeks of the sleeping girl.</p>

<p>Nameless remembered the letter which
Frank had given him, and now took it from
the side pocket of his coat. He surveyed it
attentively. It bore his name, "<span class="smcap">Gulian Van
Huyden</span>."</p>

<p>"What does it contain?" he asked himself
the question mentally, little dreaming
of the fatal burden which the letter bore.</p>

<p>The sleeping man awoke, and gazed around
the apartment with large, lack-luster eyes.
At the same time, with his emaciated hand,
he tried to clutch the sunbeam which trembled
over his shoulder. Nameless felt his
heart leap to his throat at the sight of this
pitiful wreck of genius.</p>

<p>"Do you not know me, master?" exclaimed
Nameless, pressing the hand of the
afflicted man, and fixing his gaze earnestly
upon his face.</p>

<p>Was it an idle fancy? Nameless thought
he saw something like a ray of intelligence
flit across that stricken face.</p>

<p>"It is I, Carl Raphael, your pupil, your
son!"</p>

<p>As though the sound of that voice had penetrated
even the sealed consciousness of hopeless
idiocy, the aged artist slightly inclined
his head, and there was a strange tremulousness
in his glance.</p>

<p>"Carl Raphael, your son!" repeated Nameless,
and clutched the hands of the artist.</p>

<p>Again that tremulousness in the glance of
the artist, and then,&mdash;as though a film had
fallen from his eyes,&mdash;his gaze was firm, and
bright, and clear. It was like the restoration
of a blind man to sight. His gaze traversed
the room, and at length rested on the face
of Nameless.</p>

<p>"Carl!" he cried, like one, who, awaking
from a troubled dream, finds, unexpectedly,
by his bed a familiar and beloved face&mdash;"Carl,
my son!"</p>

<p>Mary heard that voice; it roused her from
her slumber. Starting up, she pressed her
father's hands.</p>

<p>"O, Carl, Carl, he knows you! Thank
God! thank God!"</p>

<p>"Mary," said the father, gazing upon her
earnestly, like one who tries to separate the
reality of his waking hours from the images
of a past dream.</p>

<p>First upon one face, then upon the other,
he turned his gaze, meanwhile, in an absent
manner, joining the hand of Mary and the
hand of Carl.</p>

<p>"Carl! Mary!" he repeated the names in
a low voice, and laid his hands gently on
their heads.&mdash;"I thought I had lost you, my
children. Carl and Mary," he repeated their
names again,&mdash;"Carl and Mary! God bless
you, my children; and now&mdash;&mdash;" he surveyed
them with his large, bright eyes, "and
now I must sleep."</p>

<p>His head fell gently forward on his breast,
and he fell asleep to wake no more in this
world. His mind had made its last effort
in the recognition of Mary and Nameless.
For a moment it flashed brightly in its socket,
and then went out forever. He was dead.
Nay, not dead, but he was,&mdash;to use that inexpressibly
touching thought, in which the
very soul and hope of Christianity is embodied,&mdash;"<i>asleep
in Christ</i>."</p>

<p>When Mary raised his head from his
breast, his eyes were vailed in the glassy film
of death. Leaning upon the arm which
never yet failed to support the weary head
and the tired heart, gazing upon the face
which always looks its ineffable consolation,
into the face of the dying, Cornelius had
passed away as calmly as a child sinking to
sleep upon a mother's faithful breast.</p>

<p>Mary and Nameless, on their knees before
the corse, clasped those death-chilled hands,
and wept in silence.</p>

<p>And the winter sun, shining bright upon
the window-pane, fell upon their bowed
heads, and upon the tranquil face of the
dead father, around whose lips a smile was
playing, as though some word of "good
cheer" had been whispered to him, by
angel-tongues, in the moment ere he passed
away.</p>

<p>And thou art dead, brave artist, and life's
battle with thee is over,&mdash;the eyes that used
to look so manfully upon every phase of
sorrow and adversity, are all cold and lusterless
now,&mdash;the heart that generous emotions
filled and lofty conceptions warmed, sleeps
pulseless in the lifeless bosom. Thou art
dead!&mdash;dead in the dreary home of Want,
with cold winter light upon thy gray hairs.
Dead! Ah, no,&mdash;not dead, for there is a
<span class="smcap">Presence</span> in the dismal garret, invisible to
external eyes, which puts Death to shame,
and upon the gates of the grave writes, in
letters of undying light:&mdash;<i>In all the universe
of God there is no such thing as death, but
simply a transition from one life, or state of
life, to another.</i> Not dead, brave artist.
Thou hast not, in a long life, cherished affections,
gathered experience from the bitter
tree of adversity, and developed, in storm as
well as sunshine, thy clear, beautiful intellect,
merely to bury them all in the dull
grave at last. No,&mdash;thou hast borne affections,
experience, and intellect, to the genial
sunshine of the better land. The coffin-lid
of this life has been lifted from thy soul,&mdash;thou
art risen, indeed,&mdash;at last, in truth,
<span class="smcap">thou livest</span>!</p>

<p>And the <span class="smcap">Presence</span> which fills thy dark
chamber now, although often mocked by the
gross interpretations of a brutal theology,
often hid from the world by the Gehenna
smoke of conflicting creeds, is a living Presence,
always living, always loving, always
bringing the baptism of consolation to the
way-worn children of this life, even as it did
in the hour when, embodied in a human
form, face to face and eye to eye, it spoke to
man.</p>

<p>The sun is high in the wintery heavens,
and his light, streaming through the window-pane,
falls upon the mattress, whereon, covered
reverently, by the white sheet, the corse
is laid. Mary is crouching there, one hand
supporting her forehead, the other resting
upon the open book, which is placed upon
her knee. Thus all day long she watches by
the dead. At last the flush of evening is
upon the winter sky.</p>

<p>Nameless, standing by the window, tears
open the letter of Frank, and reads it by the
wintery light. The three hours have passed.</p>

<p>Why does his face change color, as he
reads? The look of grief which his countenance
wears is succeeded by one of utter
horror.</p>

<p>"The poison vial!" he ejaculates, and
places the fatal letter in Mary's hand.</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h3><a name="CHAPTER_5_VI" id="CHAPTER_5_VI">CHAPTER VI.</a></h3>

<h4>A LOOK INTO THE RED BOOK.</h4>


<p>Madam Resimer was waiting in the little
room up-stairs,&mdash;waiting and watching in
that most secret chamber of her mansion,&mdash;her
cheek resting on her hand, her eyes
fixed upon the drawer from which the Red
Book had been stolen. The day was bright
without, but in the closed apartment, the
Madam watched by the light of a candle,
which was burning fast to the socket. The
Madam had not slept. Her eyes were restless
and feverish. Her cheeks, instead of
their usual florid hues, were marked with alternate
spots of white and red. Sitting in
the arm-chair, (which her capacious form,
clad in the chintz wrapper, filled to overflowing),
the Madam beats the carpet nervously
with her foot, and then her small black eyes
assume a wicked, a vixenish look.</p>

<p>Daylight is bright upon the city and river;
ten o'clock is near,&mdash;the hour at which Dermoyne
intended to return,&mdash;and yet the Madam
has no word of the bullies whom last
night she set upon Dermoyne's track. Near
ten o'clock, and no news of Dirk, Slung-Shot,
or&mdash;the Red Book!</p>

<p>"Why <i>don't</i> they come!" exclaimed the
Madam, for the fiftieth time, and she beat
the carpet wickedly with her foot.</p>

<p>And from the shadows of the apartment,
a voice, most lugubrious in its tone, uttered
the solitary word,&mdash;"<i>Why?</i>"</p>

<p>"If they don't come, what shall we do?"
the Madam's eyes grew wickeder, and she
began to "crack" the joints of her fingers.</p>

<p>"<i>What?</i>" echoed the lugubrious voice.</p>

<p>"I'll tell you what it is, Corkins," said the
Madam, turning fiercely in her chair, "I
wish the devil had you,&mdash;I do! Sittin' there
in your chair, croakin' like a raven.&mdash;'What!
Why!'" and she mimicked him wickedly;
"when you should be doin' somethin' to
stave off the trouble that's gatherin' round
us. Now you know, that unless we get
back the Red Book, we're ruined,&mdash;you
know it?"</p>

<p>"Com-pletely ruined!" echoed Corkins,
who sat in the background, on the edge of
a chair, his elbows on his knees, and his chin
on his hands. Corkins, you will remember,
is a little, slender man, clad in black, with a
white cravat about his neck, a top-knot on
his low forehead, a "goatee" on his chin,
and gold spectacles on his nose. And as
Corkins sits on the edge of his chair, he looks
very much like a strange bird on its perch,&mdash;a
bird of evil omen, meditating all sorts of
calamities sure to happen to quite a number
of people, at some time not definitely ascertained.</p>

<p>"It's near ten o'clock," glancing at the gold
watch which lay on the table before her, "and
no word of Barnhurst, not even a hint of
Dirk or Slung! And at ten, that villain who
stole the book will come back,&mdash;that is, unless
Dirk and Slung have taken care of him!
I never was in such a fever in all my life!
Corkins, what <i>is</i> to be done? And your patient,&mdash;how
is she?"</p>

<p>"As for the patient up-stairs," Corkins began,
but the words died away on his lips.</p>

<p>The sound of a bell rang clearly, although
gloomily throughout the mansion.</p>

<p>"Go to the front door,&mdash;quick!"&mdash;in her
impatience the Madam bounded from her
chair. "See who's there. Open the door,
but don't undo the chain; and don't,&mdash;do
you hear?&mdash;don't let anybody in until you
hear from me! Quick, I say!"</p>

<p>"But it isn't the front door bell," hesitated
Corkins.</p>

<p>Again the sound of the bell was heard.</p>

<p>"It's the bell of the secret passage," ejaculated
Madam, changing color,&mdash;"the passage
which leads to a back street, and of the
existence of which, only four persons in the
world know anything. There it goes again!
who can it be?"</p>

<p>The Madam was evidently very much
perplexed. Corkins, who had risen from his
perch, stood as though rooted to the floor;
and the bell pealed loud and louder, in dismal
echoes throughout the mansion.</p>

<p>"Who can it be?" again asked the Madam,
while a thousand vague suspicions floated
through her brain.</p>

<p>"Who can it be?" echoed Corkins, shaking
like a dry leaf in the wind.</p>

<p>Here let us leave them awhile in their perplexity,
while we retrace our steps, and take
up again the adventures of Barnhurst and
Dermoyne. We left them in the dimly-lighted
bed-chamber, at the moment when
the faithful wife, awaking from her slumber,
welcomed the return of her husband in these
words,&mdash;"Husband! have you come at last?
I have waited for you so long!"</p>

<p>"Husband!" said the wife, awaking from
her sleep, and stretching forth her arms,
"have you come at last? I have waited for
you so long!"</p>

<p>"Dearest, I was detained by an unexpected
circumstance," answered Barnhurst, and first
turning to Dermoyne with an imploring gesture,
he approached the bed, and kissed his
wife and sleeping child. Then back to Dermoyne
again with a stealthy step,&mdash;"Take
your revenge!" he whispered; "advance,
and tell everything to my wife."</p>

<p>Dermoyne's face showed the contest of opposing
emotions; now clouded with a hatred as
remorseless as death, now touched with something
like pity. At a rapid glance he surveyed
the face of the trembling culprit,&mdash;the
boy sleeping on his couch,&mdash;the mother
resting on the bed, with her babe upon her
bent arm,&mdash;and then uttered in a whisper, a
single word,&mdash;"Come!"</p>

<p>He led Barnhurst over the threshold, out
upon the landing, and carefully closed the
door of the bed-chamber.</p>

<p>"Now, sir," he whispered, fixing his stern
gaze upon Barnhurst's face, which was lighted
by the rays of the lamp in the hall below,&mdash;"what
have you to propose?"</p>

<p>Barnhurst's <i>blonde</i> visage was corpse-like
in its pallor.</p>

<p>"Nothing," he said, folding his arms with
the air of a man who has lost all hope, and
made up his mind to the worst. "I am in
your power."</p>

<p>Dermoyne, with this finger to his lip, remained
for a moment buried in profound
thought. Once his eyes, glancing sidelong,
rested upon Barnhurst with a sort of ferocious
glare. When he spoke again, it was
in these words:&mdash;</p>

<p>"Enter your bed-chamber, and sleep beside
your faithful wife, and,&mdash;think of Alice.
As for myself, I will watch for the morning,
on the sofa, down stairs. Enter, I say!" he
pointed sternly to the door,&mdash;"and remember!
at morning we take up our march
again. I <i>know</i> that you will not escape from
me,&mdash;and as for your wife, if you do not
wish her to see me, you will make your appearance
at an early hour."</p>

<p>Barnhurst, without a word, glided silently
into the bed-chamber, closing the door after
him. Dermoyne, listening for a moment,
heard the voices of the husband and the
wife, mingling in conversation. Then he
went quietly down stairs, took down the hanging-lamp,
and with it in his hand, entered a
room on the lower floor.</p>

<p>It was a neatly-furnished apartment with
a sofa, a piano, and a portrait of Barnhurst
on the wall. The remains of a wood-fire
were smouldering on the hearth. Near the
piano stood an empty cradle. It was very
much like&mdash;home. It was, in a word, the
room through whose curtained windows, we
gazed in our brief episode, and saw the
pure wife with her children, awaiting the
return of the husband and father.</p>

<p>Dermoyne lit a candle, which stood on a
table, near the sofa, and then replaced the
hanging lamp. This done, he came into the
quiet parlor again,&mdash;without once pausing to
notice that the front door was ajar. Had he
but remarked this little fact, he might have
saved himself a world of trouble. He flung
his cloak upon the table, and placed his cap
and the iron bar beside it. Then seating
himself on the sofa, he drew the Red Book
from under his left arm, where for hours he
had securely carried it,&mdash;and spread it forth
upon his knees. Drawing the light nearer
to him, he began to examine the contents of
that massive volume. How his countenance
underwent all changes of expression, as page
after page was disclosed to his gaze! At
first his lip curled, and his brow grew dark,&mdash;there
was doubtless much to move contempt
and hatred in those pages,&mdash;but as he read
on, his large gray eyes, dilating in their
sockets, shone with steady light; every lineament
of his countenance, manifested profound,
absorbing interest.</p>

<p>The Red Book!</p>

<p>Of all the singular volumes, ever seen, this
certainly was one of the most singular. It
comprised perchance, one thousand manuscript
pages, written by at least a hundred
hands. There were original letters, and
copies of letters; some of them traced by
the tremulous hand of the dying. There
were histories and fragments of histories,&mdash;the
darkest record of the criminal court is
not so black, as many a history comprised
within the compass of this volume. It contained
the history, sometimes complete sometimes
in fragmentary shape, of all who had
ever sought the aid of Madam Resimer, or,&mdash;suffered
beneath her hands. And there
were letters there, and histories there, which
the Madam had evidently gathered, with a
view of extorting money from certain persons,
who had never passed into the circle
of her infernal influence. All the crimes
that can spring from unholy marriages, from
violation of the marriage vow, from the seduction
of innocent maidenhood, from the
conflict between poor chastity and rich
temptation, stood out upon those pages, in
forms of terrible life. That book was a revelation
of the civilization of a large city,&mdash;a
glittering mask with a death's head behind
it,&mdash;a living body chained to a leperous
corpse. Instead of being called the Red
Book, it should have been called the Black
Book, or the Death Book, or the Mysteries of
the Social World.</p>

<p>How the aristocracy of the money power
was set forth in those pages! That aristocracy
which the French know as the "Bourgeoise,"
which the English style the "Middle
Classes," and which the Devil knows
for his "own,"&mdash;the name of whose god the
Savior pronounced, when he uttered the
word "Mammon,"&mdash;whose loftiest aspiration
is embodied in the word "Respectable!"
How this modern aristocracy of the money
power, stood out in naked life, showy and
mean, glittering and heartless, upon the
pages of the Red Book! Stood out in colors,
painted, not by an enemy, but by its own hand,
the mark of its baseness stamped upon its
forehead, by its own peculiar seal.</p>

<p>One history was there, which, written in
different hands, in an especial manner, riveted
the interest of Arthur Dermoyne. Bending
forward, with the light of the candle upon
his brow, he read it page by page, his face
manifesting every contrast of emotion as he
read. For a title it bore a single name,
written in a delicate womanly hand,&mdash;"<span class="smcap">Marion
Merlin</span>." The greater portion
of the history was written in the same
hand.</p>

<p>Leaning upon the shoulder of Arthur
Dermoyne, let us, with him, read this sad,
dark history.</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h3><a name="CHAPTER_5_VII" id="CHAPTER_5_VII">CHAPTER VII.</a></h3>

<h4>MARION MERLIN.</h4>


<p>At the age of eighteen I was betrothed to
Walter Howard, a young man of polished
manners, elegant exterior, and connected
with one of the first families of New York.
I was beautiful, so the world said,&mdash;eighteen
and an heiress. My father was one of the
wealthiest merchants of New York, with a
princely mansion in town, and as princely a
mansion, for summer residence, in the country.
I had lost my mother, at an age so
early, that I can but dimly remember her
pallid face. At eighteen, I was my father's
only and idolized child.</p>

<p>Returning from boarding-school, where,
apart from the busy world, I had passed
four years of a life, which afterward was to
be marked by deeds so singular, yes, unnatural,
I was invested by my father, with
the keys of his city mansion, and installed
as its mistress. Still kept apart from the
world,&mdash;for my father guarded me from its
wiles and temptations, with an eye of sleepless
jealousy,&mdash;I was left to form ideas of my
future life, from the fancies of my day-dreams,
or from what knowledge I had
gleaned from books. Walter was my father's
head clerk. In that capacity he often
visited our mansion. To see him was to
love him. His form was graceful, and yet
manly; his complexion a rich bronze; his
eyes dark, penetrating and melancholy. As
for myself, a picture which, amid all my
changing fortunes, I have preserved as a
relic of happy and innocent days, shows a
girl of eighteen, with a form that may well
be called voluptuous, and a face, (shaded by
masses of raven hair,) which, with its clear
bronzed complexion, large hazel eyes, and
arching brows, tells the story of my descent
on my mother's side,&mdash;she was a West-Indian,
and there is Spanish blood in my veins. My
acquaintance with Walter, ripened into warm
and passionate love, and one day, my father
surprised me, as I hung upon my lover's
breast, and instead of chiding us, said with a
look of unmistakable affection:</p>

<p>"Right, Walter. You have won my
daughter's love. When you return from the
West Indies, you shall be married; and
once married, instead of my head clerk, you
shall be my partner."</p>

<p>My father was a venerable man, with a
kindly face and snow-white hair: as he
spoke the tears ran down his cheeks, for (as
I afterward ascertained,) my marriage with
Walter, the orphan of one of the dearest
friends of his boyhood, had been the most
treasured hope of his life for years.</p>

<p>Walter left for Havana, intrusted with
an important and secret commission from
my father. He was to be absent only a
month. Why was it, on the day of his departure,
as he strained me to his breast and
covered my face with his passionate kisses,
that a deep presentiment chilled my blood?
O had he never left my side, what a world
of agony, of despair,&mdash;yes of crime,&mdash;would
have been spared to me!</p>

<p>"Be true to me, Marion!" these were his
last words,&mdash;"in a month I will return&mdash;"</p>

<p>"True to you! can you doubt it Walter?
True until death,&mdash;" and we parted.</p>

<p>I was once more alone, in my father's
splendid mansion. One evening he came
home, but not with his usual kindly smile.
He was pale and troubled, and seemed to
avoid my gaze. Without entering the sitting-room,
he went at once to his library,
and locked himself in, having first directed
the servant to call him, in case a Mr. Issachar
Burley inquired for him. It was after eight
when Mr. Burley called, and was shown into
the parlor, while the servant went to announce
him to my father.</p>

<p>"Miss Marion, I believe!" he said, as he
beheld me by the light of the astral-lamp,&mdash;and
then a singular look passed over his face;
a look which at that time I could not define,
but which afterward was made terribly clear
to me. This Mr. Burley, who thus for the
first time entered my father's house, was by
no means prepossessing in his exterior. Over
fifty years of age, corpulent in form, bald-headed,
his florid face bore the undeniable
traces of a life, exhausted in sensual indulgences.</p>

<p>While I was taking a survey of this singular
visitor, the servant entered the parlor,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Mr. Burley will please walk up into the
library," he said.</p>

<p>"Good night, dear," said Mr. Burley with
a bow, and a gesture that had as much of
insolence as of politeness in it,&mdash;"By-by,&mdash;we'll
meet again."</p>

<p>He went up stairs, and my father and he,
were closeted together for at least two hours.
At ten o'clock I was sent for. I entered the
library, trembling, I know not why; and
found my father and Mr. Burley, seated
on opposite sides of a table overspread with
papers,&mdash;a hanging lamp, suspended over
the table, gave light to the scene. My father
was deadly pale.</p>

<p>"Sit down, Marion," he said, in a voice
so broken and changed, that I would not
have recognized it, had I not seen his face,&mdash;"Mr.
Burley has something to say to you."</p>

<p>"Mr. Burley!" I ejaculated,&mdash;"What can
he have to say to me?"</p>

<p>"Speak to her,&mdash;speak," said my father,&mdash;"speak,
for I cannot,&mdash;" and resting his hands
on the table, his head dropped on his breast.</p>

<p>"Sit down, my dear," exclaimed Burley,
in a tone of easy familiarity,&mdash;"I have a
little matter of business with your father.
There's no use of mincing words. Your father,
my dear, is a ruined man."</p>

<p>I sank into a chair, and my father's
groan confirmed Burley's words.</p>

<p>"Hopelessly involved," continued Mr.
Burley,&mdash;"Unless he can raise three hundred
thousand dollars by to-morrow noon,
he is a <i>dishonored</i> man. Do you hear me,
my dear? Dishonored!"</p>

<p>"Dishonored!" groaned my father burying
his head in his hands.</p>

<p>"And more than this," continued Burley,
"Your father, among his many mercantile
speculations, has dabbled a little,&mdash;yes more
than a little,&mdash;in the African slave-trade.
He has relations with certain gentlemen at
Havana, which once known to our government,
would consign him to the convict's
cell."</p>

<p>The words of the man filled me with indignation,
and with horror. Half fainting as
I was, I felt the blood boil in my veins.</p>

<p>"Father, rebuke the liar,"&mdash;I said as I
placed my hand on his shoulder.&mdash;"Raise
your face, and tell him that he is the coiner
of a falsehood, as atrocious as it is foolish&mdash;"</p>

<p>My father did not reply.</p>

<p>"And more than this,"&mdash;Burley went on,
as though he had not heard me,&mdash;"I have it
in my power, either to relieve your father
from his financial embarrassments, or,&mdash;" he
paused and surveyed me from head to foot,
"or to denounce him to the government
as one guilty, of something which it calls
<i>piracy</i>,&mdash;to wit, an intimate relationship with
the African slave trade."</p>

<p>Again my father groaned, but did not
raise his face.</p>

<p>The full truth burst upon me. My father
was ruined, and in this man's power. Confused,&mdash;half
maddened, I flung myself upon
my knees, and clasped Burley by the hands.</p>

<p>"O, you will not ruin my father," I shrieked.&mdash;"You
will save him."</p>

<p>Burley took my hands within his own,
and bent down, until I felt his breath upon
my cheeks&mdash;</p>

<p>"Yes, I will save him," he whispered,&mdash;"That
is, for a price,&mdash;your hand, my
dear."</p>

<p>His look could not be mistaken. At the
same moment, my father raised his face from
his hands,&mdash;it was pallid, distorted, stamped
with despair.</p>

<p>"It is the only way, Marion," he said in
a broken voice,&mdash;"Otherwise your father
must rot in a felon's cell."</p>

<p>Amid all the misfortunes of a varied and
changeful life, the agony of that moment has
never once been forgotten. I felt the blood
rush to my head&mdash;</p>

<p>"Be it so," I cried,&mdash;and fell like a dead
woman on the floor, at the feet of Mr. Issachar
Burley.</p>




<hr class="chap" />
<h3><a name="CHAPTER_5_VIII" id="CHAPTER_5_VIII">CHAPTER VIII.</a></h3>

<h4>NIAGARA.</h4>


<p>The next day we were married. In the
dusk of the evening four figures stood in the
spacious parlor of my father's mansion, by the
light of a single waxen-candle. There was
the clergyman, gazing in dumb surprise upon
the parties to this ill-assorted marriage, there
was my father, his countenance vacant almost
to imbecility,&mdash;for the blow had stricken
his intellect&mdash;there was the bridegroom, his
countenance glowing with sensual triumph;
and there the bride, pale as the bridal-dress
which enveloped her form, about to be sacrificed
on the altar of an unholy marriage.
We were married, and between the parlor
and the bridal chamber, one hope remained.
Rather than submit to the embrace of the
unworthy sensualist, I had determined to
die, even upon the threshold of the bridal
chamber. I had provided myself with a
poniard. But alas! a glass of wine, drugged
by my husband's hand, benumbed my reason,
and when morning light broke upon me
again, I found myself in his arms.</p>

<p>The history of the next three months may
be rapidly told, for they were months of
agony and shame.</p>

<p>"I have directed Walter by letter, to proceed
from Havana to the city of Mexico,"
said my father to me, the second day after
the marriage&mdash;"He will not return for six
months, and certainly until his return, shall
not hear of this,&mdash;this,&mdash;marriage."</p>

<p>My father's mind was broken, and from
that hour, he surrendered himself to Issachar's
control. Burley took charge of his
business, made our house his home,&mdash;he was
my father's master and mine. The course
which he pursued to blunt my feelings, and
deaden every faculty of my better nature, by
rousing all that was sensual within me, was
worthy of him. He gave parties at our
home, to the profligate of both sexes, selected
from a certain class of the so-called "fashionables,"
of New York. Revels, prolonged
from midnight until dawn, disturbed the
quiet of our mansion; and in the wine-cup,
and amid the excitement of those fashionable,
but unholy orgies, I soon learned to
forget the pure hopes of my maidenhood.</p>

<p>Three months passed, and no word of
Walter; my father, meanwhile, was sinking
deeper every day into hopeless imbecility.
At length, the early part of summer, my husband
gathered together a party of his fashionable
friends, and we departed on a tour to
Niagara Falls, up the lakes, and then along
the St. Lawrence, and to Montreal. At
Niagara Falls we put up at the &mdash;&mdash; Hotel,
and the orgies which had disgraced my
father's mansion, were again resumed. My
father we had left at home, in charge of a
well-tried and faithful servant. One summer
evening, tired of the scenes which took place
in our parlors, at the hotel, I put on a bonnet
and vail, and alone pursued my way, across
the bridge to Iris Island, and from Iris to
Luna Island. The night was beautiful; from
a clear sky the moon shone over the falls; and
the roar of waters, alone disturbed the silence
of the scene. Crossing the narrow bridge which
separates Iris Island from Luna Island, I took
my way through the deep shadows of the
thicket, until I emerged in the moonlight,
upon the verge of the falls. Leaning against
a small beech tree, which stands there, I
clasped my hands upon my bosom, and
wept. That scene, full of the grandeur and
purity of nature, awoke the memory of my
pure and happier days.</p>

<p>"One plunge and all is over!" the thought
flashed over me,&mdash;and I measured with a
rapid glance, the distance between myself
and the brink of the cataract. But at this
moment I discovered that I was not alone
upon Luna Island. A stranger was leaning
against a tree, which was nearer to the brink
of the falls than the one against which I
leaned. His face was in profile, the lower
part of it covered with a thick moustache and
beard; and his gaze was lifted absently to
the moonlight sky. As I dropped my vail
over my face, and gazed at him freely, myself
unperceived, I felt my limbs bend
beneath me, and the blood rush in a torrent
to my head.</p>

<p>I had only strength to frame one word&mdash;"Walter!"
and fell fainting on his breast.</p>

<p>When I recovered my consciousness, I
found myself resting in his arms, while he
covered my face with burning kisses.</p>

<p>"You here, Marion!" he cried. "This is
indeed an unexpected pleasure!"</p>

<p>He had not heard of my marriage!</p>

<p>"I am here, with some friends," I faltered.
"My father could not come with me&mdash;and&mdash;"</p>

<p>Between the kisses which he planted upon
the lips of his betrothed&mdash;(so he thought)&mdash;he
explained his unexpected appearance at
Niagara. At Havana he had received the
letter from my father, desiring him to hasten,
on important business, to the city of Mexico.
He had obeyed, and accomplished his mission
sooner than he anticipated; had left
Vera Cruz for New Orleans; taken steamboat
for Cincinnati, and from thence to Cleveland,
and across the lake to Buffalo and Niagara
Falls.</p>

<p>"And now I'm on my way home, Marion,"
he concluded. "What a pleasant surprise it
will be for father!"</p>

<p>"I am married, Walter."&mdash;The words
were on my lips, but I could not speak
them.</p>

<p>We rose, and, arm in arm, wandered over
the bridge, up the steep, and through the
winding walks of Goat Island. Leaning on
the arm of Walter, I forgot everything but
that he loved me and that he was with me.
I did not dare to think that to-morrow's
light would disclose to him the truth&mdash;that
I was married, and to another. At length,
as we approached the bridge which leads
from the Island to the shore, I said&mdash;"Leave
me Walter; we must not be seen to return
together. To-morrow you can call upon me,
when I am in presence of my&mdash;friends."</p>

<p>One passionate embrace was exchanged,
and I watched him, as he crossed the bridge
alone, until he was out of sight. Why, I
knew not, but an impulse for which I could
not account, induced me to retrace my steps
to Luna Island. In a few moments I had
crossed the bridge (connecting Iris with Luna
Island,) and stood once more on the Cataract's
brink, under the same tree where an
hour before I had discovered Walter. Oh,
the agony of that moment, as, gazing over
the falls, I called up my whole life, my
blighted prospect, and my future without
one ray of hope! Should I advance, but a
single step, and bury my shame and my sorrows
beneath the cataract? Once dead, Walter
would at least respect my memory, while
living he could only despise and abhor me.</p>

<p>While thoughts like these flashed over my
brain, my ear was saluted with the chorus
of a drinking song, hummed in an uneven
and tremulous voice; and, in a moment my
husband passed before me, with an unsteady
step. He was confused and excited by the
fumes of champagne. Approaching the
verge of the island&mdash;but a few feet from the
verge of the cataract&mdash;where the waters look
smooth and glassy, as they are about to take
the last plunge, he stood gazing, now at the
torrent, now at the moon, with a vague, half-drunken
stare.</p>

<p>That moment decided my life!</p>

<p>His attitude, the cataract so near, my own
lost and hopeless condition, all rushed upon
me. Vailing my face, I darted forward and
uttered a shriek. Startled by the unexpected
sound, he turned, lost his balance, and fell
backward into the torrent. But, as he fell,
he clutched a branch which overhung the
water. Thus, scarcely two yards from the
brink, he struggled madly for his life, his
face upturned to the moon. I advanced and
uncovered my face. He knew me, for the
shock had sobered him.</p>

<p>"Marion, save me, save me!" he cried.</p>

<p>I gazed upon him without a word, my
arms folded on my breast, and saw him
struggle, and heard the branch snap, and&mdash;heard
his death-howl, as he was swept over
the falls. Then, pale as death, and shuddering
as with mortal cold, I dragged my steps
from the Island, over the bridge&mdash;shrieking
madly for help. Soon, I heard footsteps
and voices. "Help! help!" I shrieked, as I
was surrounded by a group of faces, men and
women. "My husband! my husband! the
falls!" and sank, fainting, in their midst.</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h3><a name="CHAPTER_5_IX" id="CHAPTER_5_IX">CHAPTER IX.</a></h3>

<h4>A SECOND MARRIAGE.</h4>


<p>Morning came, and no suspicion attached
to me. A murderess&mdash;if not in deed, in
thought, certainly&mdash;I was looked upon as
the inconsolable widow. Walter left Niagara
without seeing me. How did he regard me?
I could not tell. The death of Burley broke
up our traveling party, and we returned to
New York. I returned in time to attend my
father's funeral; and found myself the
heiress, in my own right, of three hundred
thousand dollars. An heiress and a widow,
certainly life began to brighten! Burley
removed, the incubus which sat upon my
father's wealth was gone; and I was beautiful,
and free, and rich&mdash;immensely rich.</p>

<p>But where was Walter? Months passed,
and I did not see him. As he was the head
clerk of my father, I hoped to see him, in
company with legal gentlemen, engaged to
close up my father's estate. But he settled
his accounts, closed all connection with my
father's estate and business, but did not come
near me. At length, weary of suspense, and
heart-sick of the loneliness of my desolate
mansion, I wrote to him, begging an interview.</p>

<p>He called in the dusk of the evening,
when a single candle lighted up the spacious
and gloomy parlor. He was dressed in deep
mourning, and very pale.</p>

<p>"<i>Madam</i>, you wished to see me," he
began.</p>

<p>This cold and formal manner cut me to
the heart.</p>

<p>"Walter!" I cried, and flung myself upon
his breast, and passionately, but in broken
accents, told him how my father's anticipated
ruin had forced me to marry Burley.</p>

<p>Walter was melted. "Marion, I love you,
and always shall love you, but&mdash;but&mdash;"</p>

<p>He paused. In an agony of suspense I
hung upon his words.</p>

<p>"But&mdash;"</p>

<p>"But you are so rich, and I&mdash;I&mdash;am
poor!"</p>

<p>I drowned all further words with kisses,
and in a moment we were betrothed again.</p>

<p>We were married. Walter was the master
of my fortune, my person and my future.
We lived happily together, content with
each other's society, and seeking, in the endearments
of a pure marriage, to blot out the
memory of an unholy one. My husband,
truly my husband, was all that I could desire;
and by me, he became the possessor of
a princely revenue, free to gratify his taste
for all that is beautiful in the arts, in painting
and sculpture, without hinderance or control.
Devoted to me, always kind, eager to
gratify my slightest wish, Walter was all
that I could desire. We lived to ourselves,
and forgot the miserable mockery called "the
fashionable world," into which Burley had
introduced me. Thus a year passed away,
and present happiness banished the memory
of a gloomy past. After a year, Walter
began to have important engagements, on
pressing business, in Philadelphia, Boston,
Baltimore and Washington. His absence
was death to me; but, having full confidence
in him, and aware that his business must be
of vital importance, or assuredly he would not
leave me, I saw him depart, time and again,
with grief too deep for words, and always
hailed his return&mdash;the very echo of his step
with a joy as deep. On one occasion, when
he left me, for a day, on a business visit to
Philadelphia, I determined&mdash;I scarcely knew
why&mdash;to follow him, and greet him, on his
arrival in Philadelphia, with the unexpected
but welcome surprise of my presence. Clothing
myself in black&mdash;black velvet bonnet,
and black velvet mantilla, and with a dark
vail over my face&mdash;I followed him to the
ferry-boat, crossed to Jersey City, and took
my seat near him in the cars. We arrived
in Philadelphia late at night. To my surprise
he did not put up at one of the prominent
hotels, but bent his way to an obscure
and distant part of the city. I followed him
to a remote part of Kensington, and saw him
knock at the door of an isolated two-story
house. After a pause, it was opened, and he
entered. I waited from the hour of twelve
until three, but he did not re-appear. Sadly
and with heavy steps I bent my way to the
city, and took lodgings at a respectable but
third-rate tavern, representing myself as a
widow from the interior, and taking great
care to conceal my face from the gaze of the
landlord and servants. Next morning it was
my first care to procure a male dress,&mdash;it
matters not how, or with what caution and
trouble,&mdash;and, tying it up in a compact bundle,
I made my way to the open country and
entered a wood. It was the first of autumn,
and already the leaves were tinted with rainbow
dyes. In the thickest part of the wood
I disposed of my female attire, and assumed
the male dress&mdash;blue frock, buttoned to the
throat, dark pantaloons, and gaiter boots.
My dark hair I arranged beneath a glazed
cap with military buttons. Cutting a switch
I twirled it jauntily in my hand, and,
anxious to test my disguise, entered a wayside
cottage&mdash;near the Second Street Road&mdash;and
asked for a glass of water. While the
back of the tenant of the cottage&mdash;an aged
woman&mdash;was turned, I gazed in the looking-glass,
and beheld myself, to all appearance,
a young man of medium stature, with brown
complexion of exceeding richness, lips of
cherry red, arched brows, eyes of unusual
brilliancy, and black hair, arranged in a
glossy mass beneath a glazed cap. It was
the image of a handsome boy of nineteen,
with no down on the lip and no beard on the
chin. Satisfied with my disguise, and with
a half-formed idea floating through my brain,
I bent my steps to the isolated house,
which I had seen my husband enter the
night before. I knocked; the door was
opened by a young girl, plainly clad, but of
surpassing beauty&mdash;evidently not more than
sixteen years old. A sunny complexion,
blue eyes, masses of glossy brown hair, combined
with an expression which mingled
voluptuous warmth with stainless innocence.
Such was her face. As to her form, although
not so tall as mine, it mingled the graceful
outlines of the maiden with the ripeness of
the woman.</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h3><a name="CHAPTER_5_X" id="CHAPTER_5_X">CHAPTER X.</a></h3>

<h4>A SECOND MURDER.</h4>


<p>She gazed upon me with surprise. Obeying
a sudden impulse, I said&mdash;"Excuse me,
Miss, but I promised to meet <i>him</i> here. You
know," with a polite bow and smile, "you
know whom I mean?"</p>

<p>"Mr. Barton&mdash;" she hesitated.</p>

<p>"Exactly so; Mr. Barton, my intimate
friend, who has confided <i>all</i> to me, and who
desired me to meet him here at this hour."</p>

<p>"My mother is not at home," hesitated
the young girl, "and, in her absence, I do
not like to&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Receive strangers, you were about to
add? Well, Miss, I am not a stranger. As
the intimate friend of Mr. Barton, who
especially desired me to meet him here&mdash;"</p>

<p>These words seemed to resolve all her
doubts. She motioned me to enter, and we
passed into a small room, neatly furnished,
with the light which came through the curtained
windows, shining upon a picture,&mdash;the
portrait of Walter Howard, my husband.</p>

<p>"Capital likeness of Barton," I said, carelessly
tapping my switch against my boot.</p>

<p>"Yes,&mdash;yes," she replied as she took a
seat at the opposite end of the sofa,&mdash;"but
not so handsome."</p>

<p>In the course of two hours, in which with
a maddened pulse and heaving breast, I
waited for the appearance of my husband,
I learned from the young girl the following
facts:&mdash;She was a poor girl, and her mother,
with whom she lived, a widow in very moderate
circumstances. Her name was Ada Bulmer.
Mr. Lawrence Barton (this, of course,
was the assumed name of my husband,) was
a wealthy gentleman of a noble heart,&mdash;he
had saved her life in a railroad accident,
some months before. He had been unhappy,
however, in marriage; was now divorced
from a wicked and unfaithful woman; and,&mdash;here
was the climax,&mdash;"and next week we
are to be married, and mother, Lawrence, and
myself will proceed to Europe directly after
our marriage."</p>

<p>This was Ada's story, which I heard
with emotions that can scarcely be imagined.
Every word planted a hell in my heart. At
length, toward nightfall, a knock was heard,
and Ada hastened to the door. Presently I
heard my husband's step in the entry, and
then his voice,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Dearest,&mdash;&mdash;" there was the sound of a
kiss,&mdash;"I have got rid of that infamous woman,
who killed her first husband, and have
turned all my property into ready money.
On Monday we start for Europe."</p>

<p>He entered, and as he entered I glided behind
the door. Thus his back was toward
me, while his face was toward Ada, and his
arms about her waist.</p>

<p>"On Monday, dearest, we will be married,
and then&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>I was white with rage, but calm as death.
Drawing the poniard, (which I had never
parted with since I first procured it,) I advanced
and struck him, once, twice, thrice,
in the back. He never beheld me, but fell
upon Ada's breast, bathed in blood. She
uttered a shriek, but laying my hand upon
her shoulder, I said, sternly,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Not a word! this villain seduced
<i>my only sister</i>, as he would have seduced
you!"</p>

<p>I tore him from her arms, and laid him on
the sofa; he was speechless; the blood flowed
from his mouth and nostrils, but by his
glance, I saw that he knew me. Ada, white
as a shroud, tottered toward him.</p>

<p>"Seducer of my sister, have we met at
last?" I said aloud,&mdash;and then bending my
face to his, and my bosom close to his breast,
I whispered,&mdash;</p>

<p>"The <i>wicked woman</i> who killed her first
husband, gives you this,"&mdash;and in my rage
buried the poniard in his heart.</p>

<p>Ada fell fainting to the floor, and I hurried
from the house. It was a dark night, enlivened
only by the rays of the stars, but I
gained the wood, washed the blood from my
hands, and resumed my female attire. In
less than an hour, I reached the depot at
Kensington, entered the cars, and before
twelve, crossed the threshold of my own
home in New York.</p>

<p>How I passed the night,&mdash;with what emotions
of agony, remorse, jealousy,&mdash;matters
not. And for three days afterward, as I
awaited for the developments, I was many
times near raving madness. The account of
my husband's death filled the papers; and it
was supposed that he had been killed by
some unknown man, in revenge, for the seduction
of a sister. My wild demeanor was
attributed to natural grief at his untimely
end.</p>

<p>On the fourth day I had his body brought
on from Philadelphia; and on the fifth, celebrated
his funeral, following his corpse to
the family vault, draped in widow's weeds,
and blinded with tears of grief, or of&mdash;despair.
Ada Bulmer I never saw again, but believe
she died within a year of consumption or a
broken heart.</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h3><a name="CHAPTER_5_XI" id="CHAPTER_5_XI">CHAPTER XI.</a></h3>

<h4>MARION AND HERMAN BARNHURST.</h4>


<p>Alone in my mansion, secluded from the
world, I passed many months in harrowing
meditations on the past. Oftentimes I saw
the face of Walter dabbled in blood, and
both awake and in my dreams, I saw, O,
how vividly his <i>last look</i>! I was still rich,
(although Walter, as I discovered, after his
death, had recklessly squandered more than
one-half of my fortune,) but what mattered
riches to one devoured like myself by an
ever-gnawing remorse? What might I have
been had not Burley forced me into that
unholy marriage? This question was never
out of my mind for a long year, during which
I wore the weeds of widowhood, and kept almost
entirely within the limits of my mansion.</p>

<p>Toward the close of the year an incident
occurred which had an important bearing on
my fate. Near my home stood a church, in
which a young and eloquent preacher held
forth to the admiration of a fashionable congregation,
every Sabbath-day. On one occasion
I occupied a seat near the pulpit, and
was much struck by his youthful appearance,
combined with eloquence so touching
and enthusiastic. His eagle eye, shone from
his pallid face, with all the fire of an earnest,
a heartfelt sincerity. I was struck by the
entire manner of the man, and more than
once in his sermon he seemed to address me
in especial, for our eyes met, as though there
was a mutual magnetism in our gaze. When
I returned home I could not banish his face
nor his accents from my memory; I felt myself
devoured by opposing emotions; remorse
for the past, mingled with a sensation
of interest in the youthful preacher. At
length, after much thought, I sent him this
note by the hands of a servant in livery:&mdash;</p>

<blockquote>

<p><span class="smcap">Reverend Sir</span>,&mdash;</p>

<p>A lady who heard your eloquent sermon
on "<i>Conscience</i>," on Sabbath last, desires to
ask your advice in a matter touching the
peace of her soul. She resides at No. &mdash;&mdash;,
and will be glad to receive you to-morrow
evening.</p>

<p>M. H.</p></blockquote>

<p>This singular note was dispatched, and
the servant directed to inform the Rev. Herman
Barnhurst of my full name. As the
appointed hour drew nigh, I felt nervous and
restless. Will he come? Shall I unbosom
myself to him, and obtain at least a portion
of mental peace by confessing the deeds and
thoughts which rest so heavy on my soul?
At last dusk came; two candles stood lighted
on the mantle of the front parlor, and seated
on the sofa I nervously awaited the coming
of the preacher.</p>

<p>"I will confess all!" I thought, and raising
my eyes, surveyed myself in the mirror
which hung opposite. The past year, with
all its sorrow, had rather added to, than detracted
from, my personal appearance. My
form was more matured and womanly. And
the sorrow which I had endured had given a
grave earnestness to my look, which, in the
eyes of some, would have been more winning
than the glance of voluptuous languor.
Dressed in deep black, my bust covered to
the throat, and my hair gathered plainly
aside from my face, I looked the grave, serious&mdash;and,
I may add, without vanity&mdash;the
beautiful widow. The Rev. Herman Barnhurst
was announced at last,&mdash;how I trembled
as I heard his step in the hall! He
entered, and greeting him with an extended
hand, I thanked him warmly for calling in
answer to my informal note, and motioned
him to a chair. There was surprise and constraint
in his manner, but he never once took
his eyes from my face. He stammered and
even blushed as he spoke to me.</p>

<p>"You spoke, madam, of a case of conscience,"
he began.</p>

<p>"A case of conscience about which I
wished to speak to you."</p>

<p>"Surely," he said, fixing his gaze earnestly
upon me, and his words seemed to be forced
from him, even against his will,&mdash;"surely
one so beautiful and so good cannot have
anything like sin upon her soul&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>Our gaze met, and from that moment we
talked of everything but the case of conscience.
All his restraint vanished. His
eye flashed, his voice rolled deep and full;
he was eloquent, and he was at home. We
seemed to have been acquainted for years.
We talked of history, poetry, the beautiful
in nature, the wonderful in art; and we
talked without effort, as though our minds
mingled together, without even the aid of
voice and eyes. Time sped noiselessly,&mdash;it
was twelve o'clock before we thought it
nine. He rose to go.</p>

<p>"I shall do myself the pleasure to call
again," he said, and his voice faltered.</p>

<p>I extended my hand; his hand met it in
a gentle pressure. That touch decided our
fate. As though my very being and his had
rushed together and melted into one, in that
slight pressure of hand to hand, we stood
silent and confused,&mdash;one feeling in our gaze,&mdash;blushing
and pale by turns.</p>

<p>"Woman," he said, in a voice scarcely
above a whisper, "you will drive me mad,"
and sank half-fainting on his knees.</p>

<p>I bent down and drew him to my breast,
and covered his forehead with kisses. Pale,
half-fainting, he lay almost helpless in my
arms.</p>

<p>"Not mad, Herman," I whispered, "but I
will be your good angel; I will cheer you
in your mission of good. I will watch over
you as you ascend, step by step, the difficult
steep of fame; and Herman, I will love
you."</p>

<p>It was the first time that young brow had
trembled to a woman's kiss.</p>

<p>"Nay,&mdash;nay,&mdash;tempt me not," he murmured,
and unwound my arms from his
neck, and staggered to the door.</p>

<p>But as he reached the threshold, he turned,&mdash;our
gaze met,&mdash;he rushed forward with
outspread arms,&mdash;</p>

<p>"I love you!" he cried, and his face was
buried on my bosom.</p>

<hr class="tb" />

<p>From that hour the Rev. Herman Barnhurst
was the constant visitor at my house.
He lived in my presence. His sermons, formerly
lofty and somber in their enthusiasm,
became colored with a passionate warmth.
I felt a strange interest in the beautiful boy;
a feeling compounded of pure love; of passion;
of voluptuousness, the most intense
and refined.</p>

<p>"O, Marion, do you not think that if I act
aright in all other respects, that this <i>one sin</i>
will be forgiven me?" said Herman, as one
Sabbath evening, after the service was over,
we sat, side by side, in my house. It was
in a quiet room, the curtains drawn, a light
shining in front of a mirror, and a couch
dimly seen through the shadows of an alcove.</p>

<p>"One sin? what mean you, Herman?"</p>

<p>"The sin of loving you,"&mdash;and he blushed
as his earnest gaze met mine.</p>

<p>"And is it a sin to love me?" I answered
in a low voice, suffering my hand to rest
upon his forehead.</p>

<p>"Yes," he stammered,&mdash;"to love you
thus unlawfully."</p>

<p>"Why unlawfully?"</p>

<p>He buried his head on my breast, as he
replied,&mdash;"I love you as a husband, and I
am not your husband."</p>

<p>"And why&mdash;" I exclaimed, seizing him
in my arms, and gently raising his head, so
that our gaze met,&mdash;"and why can you not
be my husband? I am rich; you have genius.
My wealth,&mdash;enough for us both,&mdash;shall
be linked with your genius, and both
shall the more firmly cement our love.
Say, Herman, why can you not be my husband?"</p>

<p>He turned pale, and avoided my gaze.</p>

<p>"You are ashamed of me,&mdash;ashamed, because
I have given you the last proof which
a woman can give to the man she loves."</p>

<p>"Ashamed! O, no, no,&mdash;by all that is
sacred, no,&mdash;but Marion&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>And bending nearer to me, in faltering accents,
he whispered the secret to my ears.
He was betrothed to Fanny Lansdale, the
daughter of the wealthiest and most influential
member of his congregation. He had
been betrothed long before he met me. To
Mr. Lansdale, the father, he owed all that
he had acquired in life, both in position and
fame. That gentleman had taken him when
a friendless orphan boy, had educated him,
and after his ordination, had obtained for
him the pastoral charge of his large and
wealthy congregation. Thus, he was bound
to the father by every tie of gratitude; to
the daughter by an engagement that he
could not break, without ingratitude and
disgrace. My heart died within me at
this revelation. At once I saw that Herman
could never be lawfully mine. Between
him and myself stood Fanny Lansdale,
and every tie of gratitude, and every
emotion of self-respect and honor.</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h3><a name="CHAPTER_5_XII" id="CHAPTER_5_XII">CHAPTER XII.</a></h3>

<h4>MARION AND FANNY.</h4>


<p>Not long after this interview, I saw Fanny
Lansdale at church; made the acquaintance
of her father&mdash;a grave citizen, who regarded
me as a sincere devotee&mdash;and induced Fanny
to become a frequent visitor at my house.
She confided all to me. She loved Herman
devotedly, and looked forward to their marriage
as the most certain event in the world.
She was a very pretty child, with clear blue
eyes, luxuriant hair, and a look of bewitching
archness. I do not step aside from the
truth, when I state that I sincerely loved
her; although it is also true, that I never
suffered myself to think of her marriage
with Herman as anything but an impossible
dream. An incident took place one summer
evening, about a year after Herman's first
visit to my house, which, slight as it was, it
is just as well to relate. It is such slight
incidents which often decide the fate of a
lifetime, and strike down the barrier between
innocence and crime.</p>

<p>I was sitting on the sofa at the back window
of the parlor, and Fanny sat on the
stool at my feet. The light of the setting
sun shone over my shoulders, and lighted up
her face, as her clasped hands rested on my
knees, and her happy, guileless look, was
centered on my countenance. As I gazed
upon that innocent face, full of youth and
hope, I was reminded of my own early days;
and at the memory, a tear rolled down my
cheek.</p>

<p>"Yes, you shall marry Herman," the
thought flashed over my mind; "and I will
aid you, Fanny; yes, I will resign Herman
to you."</p>

<p>At this moment Herman entered noiselessly,
and took his place by my shoulder;
and, without a word, gazed first into my face
and then into the face of Fanny. Oh, that
look! It was never forgotten. It was fate.
For it said, as plainly as a soul, speaking
through eyes, can say&mdash;"Thou, Marion, art
my mistress, the companion of my illicit and
sensual love; but thou, Fanny, art my wife,
the pure partner of my lawful love!"</p>

<p>After that look, Herman bade us good
evening! in a tone of evident agitation, and
hurried from the room.</p>

<p>From that hour, Herman avoided me.
Weeks passed, and he was not seen at my
house. At church he never seemed to be
conscious of my presence; and, the service
over, hurried at once from the place, without
a single glance or sign of recognition.
At length, Fanny's visits became less frequent;
and, when she did come to see me,
her manner manifested a conflict of confidence
and suspicion. That this wounded
me&mdash;that the absence of Herman cut me to
the soul&mdash;may easily be imagined. I passed
my time between alternations of hope and
despair; now listening, and in vain, for the
echo of Herman's step&mdash;and now bathed in
unavailing tears. Conscious that my passion
for Herman was the last link that bound me
to purity&mdash;to life itself&mdash;I did not give up
the hope of seeing him at my feet, as in
former days, until months had elapsed. Finally,
grown desperate, and anxious to avoid
the sting of wounded love, the perpetual
presence of harrowing memories, I sought
the society of that class of fashionables, to
whom my first husband, Issachar Burley, had
introduced me. I kept open house for them.
Revels, from midnight until dawn, in which
men and women of the first class mingled,
served for a time to banish reflection, and
sap, tie by tie, every thread of hope which
held me to a purer state of life. The kennel
has its orgies, and the hovel, in which ignorance
and squalor join in their uncouth debauch;
but the orgie of the parlor, in which
beauty, intellect, fashion and refinement are
mingled, far surpasses, in unutterable vulgarity,
the lowest orgie of the kennel. Amid
the uproar of scenes like these, news reached
me that the Rev. Herman Barnhurst and
Miss Fanny Lansdale were shortly to be
united in marriage.</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h3><a name="CHAPTER_5_XIII" id="CHAPTER_5_XIII">CHAPTER XIII.</a></h3>

<h4>AN UNUTTERABLE CRIME.</h4>


<p>One evening I was sitting alone, in the
back parlor, near a table on which stood a
lighted candle and a wine-glass, (for I now
at times began to seek oblivion in wine,)
when Gerald Dudley was announced. Gerald
was one of my fashionable friends, over forty
in years, tall in stature, with a florid face,
short curling brown hair, and sandy whiskers.
He was a <i>roué</i>, and a gambler, and&mdash;save
the mark&mdash;one of the first fashionables
of New York. He entered, dressed in a
showy style; blue coat, red velvet vest,
plaid pants, brimstone-colored gloves, and a
profusion of rings and other jewelry&mdash;a style
indicative of the man. Seating himself on
the sofa, he began chatting in his easy way
about passing events of fashionable life, and
of the world at large.</p>

<p>"By-the-bye, the popular preacher, young
Barnhurst, is to be married; and to such a
love of a girl&mdash;daughter of old Lansdale, the
<i>millionaire</i>. Lucky fellow! Do you know that
I've often noticed her at church&mdash;a perfect
<i>Hebe</i>&mdash;and followed her home, once or twice,
and that I shouldn't mind marrying her myself
if I could get a chance!"</p>

<p>And he laughed a laugh which showed
his white teeth. "Bah! But that's it&mdash;I
can't get a chance."</p>

<p>Perhaps I blushed at the mention of this
marriage; but he immediately continued:&mdash;</p>

<p>"<i>On dit</i>, my pretty widow, that this girl,
Lansdale, has cut you out. Barnhurst once
was sadly taken with you; so I've heard.
How is it? All talk, I suppose?"</p>

<p>I felt myself growing pale, although the
blood was boiling in my veins. But before
I could reply, there was a ring at the front
door, followed by the sound of a hasty footstep,
and the next moment, to my utter surprise,
Fanny Lansdale rushed into the room.
Without seeming to notice the presence of
Dudley, she rushed forward, and fell on her
knees before me, her bonnet hanging on her
neck, her hair floating about her face, and
that face bathed in blushes and tears.</p>

<p>"Oh, Marion! Marion!" she gasped,&mdash;"some
slanderer has told father a story about
you and Herman,&mdash;a vile, wicked story,&mdash;which
you can refute, and which I am sure
you will! For&mdash;for&mdash;"</p>

<p>She fell fainting on my knee. The violence
of her emotions, for the time, deprived
her of all appearance of life. Her head was
on my lap; one hand sought mine, and was
joined to it in a convulsive clasp.</p>

<p>Oh, who shall say that those crimes which
make the world shudder but to hear told,
are the result of long and skillful planning,
of careful and intricate scheming? No, no;
the worst crimes&mdash;those which it would
seem might make even the heart of a devil,
contract with horror&mdash;are not the result of
long and deliberate purpose, but of the
temptation of a moment&mdash;of the fatal opportunity!</p>

<p>As her head rested on my lap, a voice
whispered in my ear:</p>

<p>"Your rival! Retire for a few moments,
in search of hartshorn, or some such restorative,
and leave the fainting one in my care."</p>

<p>I raised my head and caught the eye of
Gerald Dudley. Only a single look, and the
fiend was in my heart. I rose; the fainting
girl fell upon the floor; I hurried from the
room, and did not pause until I had reached
my own chamber, and locked the door.
Pressing my hands now on my burning temples,
now on my breast, I paced the floor,
while, perchance, fifteen minutes&mdash;they
seemed an eternity&mdash;passed away.</p>

<p>Then I went slowly down stairs, and
entered the back parlor. Gerald was there,
standing near the sofa; his face wearing an
insolent scowl of triumph. The girl was
stretched upon the sofa, still insensible, but&mdash;I
dare not write it&mdash;opposite Gerald stood
Herman Barnhurst, who had followed Fanny
to the house, and arrived&mdash;too late. His
face was bloodless.</p>

<p>"Oh, villain!" he groaned, as his maddened
gaze was fixed on Dudley; "you shall
pay for this with your blood&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Softly, Reverend Sir! softly! One word
of this, and the world shall know of your
amours with the handsome widow."</p>

<p>Herman's gaze rested on my face&mdash;</p>

<p>"You,&mdash;know&mdash;of&mdash;this?" he began, with
a look that can never be forgotten.</p>

<p>"Pardon, Herman, pardon! I was mad,"
I shrieked, flinging myself at his feet, and
clutching his knees.</p>

<p>For a moment he gazed upon me, and
then, lifting his clenched right hand, he
struck me on the forehead, and I fell insensible
on the floor. The curse, which he spoke
as I fell, rings even yet in my ears.</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h3><a name="CHAPTER_5_XIV" id="CHAPTER_5_XIV">CHAPTER XIV.</a></h3>

<h4>SUICIDE.</h4>


<p>Three days have passed since then. Such
days as I will never pass again! I have
just learned that Gerald Dudley has fled the
city. His purpose to obtain Fanny's hand in
marriage by first accomplishing her shame,
has utterly failed. Her father knows all
and is now using every engine of his wealth
to connect my name with the crime which
has damned every hope of his idolized child.
And he will succeed! I feel it; I know it;
my presentiment cannot prove false. What
shall I do?&mdash;whither turn?</p>

<p>And Herman is a raving lunatic. This too
is my work. Yes, yes, I am resolved.&mdash;I <i>am</i>
resolved. * * * *</p>

<p>To-morrow's dawn will bring disgrace and
shame to me; and, in the future, I see the
crowded court-house&mdash;the mob, eager to
drink in the story of my guilt,&mdash;and the
felon's cell. But the morrow's dawn I shall
never see!</p>

<p>I am alone in my chamber&mdash;the very
chamber in which I became Burley's, in an
unholy marriage&mdash;Walter's, in the marriage
of a stainless love&mdash;Herman's, in the mad
embrace of passion. And now, O Death!
upon that marriage couch, I am about to wed
thee!</p>

<p>The brazier stands in the center of the
bridal chamber; its contents were ignited
half an hour ago; every avenue to my
chamber is carefully closed; already the
fumes of the burning charcoal begin to smite
my temples and my heart.</p>

<p>This record, written from time to time,
and now concluded by a hand chilled by
death, I leave to my only living relative,&mdash;not
as an apology for my crimes, but as an
explanation of the causes which led me to
the brink of this awful abyss.</p>

<p>Air! air! Burley, for thee I have no
remorse. Let the branch snap!&mdash;over the
cataract with thy accursed face! Thou wert
the cause of all&mdash;thou! But, Walter, thy
last look kills my soul.&mdash;Herman, thy curse
is on me! And poor Fanny! Air! Light!
It is so dark&mdash;dark!&mdash;Oh for one breath of
prayer!</p>


<h4><span class="smcap">conclusion</span>.</h4>


<p>The preceding confession, signed by the
tremulous hand of the poor suicide, was
found in her room, with the senseless corse,
by the relative, to whom she addressed it,
and who adds these concluding pages. For
days after the event, the papers were filled
with paragraphs, in regard to the melancholy
affair. A single one extracted from a prominent
paper, will give some idea of the tone
of the public mind:</p>

<blockquote>

<p class="center"><i>Extract from a New York Paper.</i></p>


<h4>"TRAGEDY IN HIGH LIFE.</h4>


<p>"The town is full of rumors, in regard to
a mysterious event, or series of events, implicating
a member of one of the first families
of New York. These rumors are singularly
startling, and although they have
not yet assumed a definite shape, certainly call
for a judicial investigation. As far as we have
been able to sift the stories now afloat, the
plain truth, reduced to the briefest possible
shape, appears to be as follows: Some
years since, Miss Marion M&mdash;&mdash;, daughter
of old Mr. M&mdash;&mdash;, one of our first merchants,
was, while under an engagement of marriage
with Walter H&mdash;&mdash;, forced into a marriage
with Mr. Issachar B&mdash;&mdash;, a man old enough
to be her father, who, it is stated, had the
father absolutely in his power. The marriage
took place, but not long afterward,
B&mdash;&mdash;, while on a visit to Niagara, was
precipitated over the Falls, at dead of night,
in a manner not yet satisfactorily explained.
Soon afterward the young widow, then
immensely rich, encountered her former
betrothed, and the fashionable world were
soon afterward informed of their marriage.
A year passed, and Walter H&mdash;&mdash;, the husband
of the former widow, was found in a
distant part of the country, mysteriously
murdered, it was not known by whom, although
it was rumored at the time, that the
brother of a wronged sister, was on that
occasion the avenger of his sister's shame.
The beautiful Mrs. H&mdash;&mdash;, was once more a
widow. Here it might seem that her adventures,
connected so strangely with the death
of two husbands, had reached their termination.
But it seems she was soon fascinated
by the eloquence of a young man and popular
divine, Rev. H&mdash;&mdash; B&mdash;&mdash;. While
betrothed to Miss Fanny L&mdash;&mdash;, daughter
of a wealthy member of his congregation,
the eloquent preacher became a visitor at
the house of the rich widow, and finally his
affections became entangled, and he was
forced to choose between said widow and
his betrothed. He sacrificed his affection
for the former, to his solemn engagement
with the latter. The 'slighted' widow, endured
the usual pangs of 'despised love,'
coupled with something very much like
Italian jealousy, or rather jealousy after the
Italian school. The betrothed was inveigled
into a certain house, and her honor sacrificed
by a gentleman of fashion, known for thirty
years as a constant promenader, on the west
side of Broadway, Mr. Gerald D&mdash;&mdash;. The
widow (strangest freak of a slighted and
vindictive woman!) is said to have been the
planner and instigator of this crime. We
have now arrived at the sequel of the story.
Unable to obtain the hand of the Rev. H&mdash;&mdash;
B&mdash;&mdash;, and stung by remorse, for her
share in the dishonor of his betrothed, the
widow put a period to her own existence, in
what manner is not exactly known, although
conflicting rumors state the knife, or the
poison vial was the instrument of her
death. No coroner's inquest took place.
The body gave no signs of a violent death.
'Disease of the heart' was stated in the
certificate of the physician, (how <i>compliant</i>
he was to the wishes of rich survivors, we
will not say,) as the cause of her unexpected
disease. She was quietly buried in the
family vault, and her immense estate descends
to a relative, who was especially
careful, in cloaking over the fact of the suicide.
The tragedy involved in this affair,
will be complete, when we inform the
reader, that Mr. Gerald D&mdash;&mdash;, has left
the city, while his poor victim, Fanny L&mdash;&mdash;,
tenants the cell of an asylum for the insane.
Altogether, this affair is one of the wildest
exaggerations, or one of the most painful
tragedies, that ever fell to the lot of the press,
to record. Can it be believed that a young
lady, honorably reared, would put a period
to the lives of two husbands, then procure
the dishonor of a rival, who interposed
between her and a <i>third</i> 'husband?' Verily,
'fact is stranger than fiction,' and every day,
reality more improbable than the wildest
dreams of romance. The truth will not be
known until the <span class="smcap">Confession</span>, <i>said to be left
by the young widow, makes its appearance.</i>
But will it appear? we shall see."</p></blockquote>

<p>So much for the public press.</p>

<p>The reader can contrast its <i>rumors</i>, with
the <i>facts</i> of the case, as plainly set forth in
the previous confession, penned by the hand
of the unfortunate and guilty Marion Merlin.</p>

<p>A few words more will close this painful
narrative. Marion was quietly and honorably
buried. Her relatives were wealthy
and powerful. The 'physician's certificate'
enabled them to avoid the painful formality
of a coroner's inquest. She sleeps beside her
husband, Walter Howard, in Greenwood
Cemetery.</p>

<p>Soon after her decease, Mr. Lansdale sold
all his property in New York, and with his
daughter disappeared completely from public
view.</p>

<p>Herman Barnhurst remained in the Lunatic
Asylum for more than a year, when
he was released, his intellect restored, but
his health (it is stated) irretrievably broken.
After his release, he left New York, and his
name was soon forgotten, or if mentioned at
all, only as that of a person long since dead.</p>

<p>Gerald Dudley, after various adventures,
in Texas and Mexico, suffered at the hands
of Judge Lynch, near San Antonio.</p>

<p>About a year after the death of Marion
Merlin, a young man in moderate circumstances,
accompanied by his wife, (a pale,
faded, though interesting woman) and her
aged father took up his residence in C&mdash;&mdash;,
a pleasant village in south-western Pennsylvania.
They were secluded in their habits,
and held but little intercourse with the
other villagers. The husband passed by the
name of Wilton, which (for all that the
villagers knew to the contrary,) was his real
name.</p>

<p>One winter evening, as the family were
gathered about the open wood-fire, a sleigh
halted at the door, and a visitor appeared in
the person of a middle-aged man, who
came unbidden into the room, shaking the
snow from his great coat, and seating himself
in the midst of the family. Regarding for a
moment the face of the aged father, and
then the countenance of the young husband
and wife, which alike in their pallor, seemed
to bear the traces of an irrevocable calamity,
the visitor said quietly,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Herman Barnhurst, I am the relative to
whom Marion Merlin addressed her confession,
and whom she invested with the trusteeship
of her estate."</p>

<p>Had a thunderbolt fallen into the midst of
the party, it would not have created so much
consternation, as these few words from the
lips of the visitor. The young wife shrieked,
the old man started from his chair; Herman
Barnhurst, (otherwise called Mr. Wilton,)
with the blood rushing to his pale face, said
simply, "That accursed woman!"</p>

<p>"I hold her last Will and Testament in
my hand," continued the visitor: "I am her
nearest relative, and would inherit her estate,
but for this will, by which she names <i>you
and your wife Fanny, as the sole heirs of her
immense property</i>."</p>

<p>Herman took the Will from the visitor's
hands.</p>

<p>"As administrator of her estate, I am here
to surrender it into your hands. The will
was made as a small atonement for the injury
she caused you."</p>

<p>Herman quietly dropped the parchment
into the fire:</p>

<p>"Her money and her memory are alike
accursed. I will have nothing to do with
either."</p>

<p>That night the relative turned his face
eastward, to take possession of the estate of
Marion Merlin.</p>

<p><i>And beneath this, in a different hand, was
added the following singular narrative:</i></p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h3><a name="CHAPTER_5_XV" id="CHAPTER_5_XV">CHAPTER XV.</a></h3>

<h4>AFTER THE DEATH OF MARION.</h4>


<p>A pleasant place, in summer time, was
the country-mansion of the celebrated Doctor
N&mdash;&mdash;, situated upon the heights of Weehawken,
about one mile from the Hudson
River. A huge edifice of brick, separated
from the high road by a garden, it was surrounded
by tall trees, whose branches overhung
its steep roof, and relieved by the
background of the rich foliage and blossoms
of the orchard trees. A pleasant place, in
summer, was the mansion of the celebrated
Doctor, but lonely enough, and desolate
enough in winter. On this drear winter
night, it looks sad and desolate as the grave.
The sky above it is leaden, the trees around
it are leafless, the garden white with snow,
and the bitter wind howls dismally over
the waste of snow, which clothes the adjacent
fields. In the distance, the Hudson glitters
dimly, white and cold, with fields of floating
ice. It is near morning, and but a single
room in the vast country mansion is tenanted.
You can see a light trembling faintly through
the half vailed window yonder; the window
near the roof, in the southern wing.</p>

<p>It is near morning; but one person by a
solitary light, keeps his vigil in the deserted
mansion; a sleigh drawn by a single horse,
(he has been driven hard, for there is foam
upon his flanks) and moving noiselessly,
without the sound of bells stops at the garden
gate. Two persons, whose forms are
wrapped in thick overcoats, and whose faces
are concealed by fur caps, drawn low over
the brows, dismount and pass along the garden
walk, bearing a burden on their shoulders.
They ascend the steps of the porch,
and stand in front of the hall door, looking
anxiously about them, as if to assure themselves,
their movements were not observed.</p>

<p>"So far safe enough,&mdash;" exclaims one in a
hoarse voice, "the next thing is to get <i>it</i> up
stairs." And he places a key in the lock of
the door.</p>

<p>Meanwhile the light, which trembling
outward from yonder window, shines redly
over the frozen snow, shines within upon the
face of the lonely watcher. A young man
sits beside a table, reading by the light of a
clouded lamp, his cheeks resting on his
hands, and his gaze riveted upon the large
volume, spread open before him. The light
falls brightly upon the book, leaving his
features in half twilight, but still you can
trace the outlines of his face,&mdash;the enthusiasm
of his fixed eyes,&mdash;the energy of his
broad bold forehead. It is a small and comfortable
apartment; near him a wood-fire is
burning, on the open hearth; opposite him
a sofa, and a range of shelves, filled with
books, and upon the green cloth of the table
by which he is seated, you discover a sort of
semicircle of open volumes,&mdash;placed there
evidently for reference,&mdash;a mass of carelessly
strewn manuscripts, and a case of surgical
instruments.</p>

<p>Arthur Conroy, the favorite student of the
celebrated Doctor,&mdash;a student, whose organization
combines the exactness and untiring
industry of the man of science, with the rich
enthusiasm of the poet,&mdash;is the only tenant of
the mansion, during the dreary winter. He
is not seen during the day, but every night,
arriving from New York, after dark, he
builds his fire, lights his candle, and commences
his lonely vigil. Sometimes, late at
night, he is joined by the grave Doctor himself,
and they pursue their researches together.
What manner of researches? We cannot
tell; but there is a rumor, that one
apartment of the huge mansion is used, in
winter time, as a Dissecting-Room. And
the light streaming night after night, from
the window near the roof, strikes the lonely
wayfarer with a sensation, in some manner,
associated with ghosts, witches, and dealings
with the <i>devil</i> in general.</p>

<p>Arthur is ambitious; even while his mind
is wrapt in the mazes of a scientific problem,
he thinks of his widowed mother and
orphan sisters far away in the great village
near Seneca lake, and his pulse beats quicker,
as he looks forward to the day when their
ears shall be greeted by the tidings of his
world-wide fame. For he has determined to
be a surgeon, and a master in his art; he
has the will and the genius; he will accomplish
what he wills.</p>

<p>He raises his eyes from his book,&mdash;they
are glittering with the clear light of intense
thought,&mdash;and unconsciously begins to think
aloud.</p>

<p>"Do the dead return? Are the dead indeed
<i>dead</i>? You have nailed down the
coffin-lid; you have seen the coffin as it
sunk into the grave; you have heard the
rattling of the clod,&mdash;but is that all? Is the
beloved one whom you have given to the
grave, indeed <i>dead</i>, or only more truly living
in a new body, formed of refined matter,
invisible to our gross organs? Is that which
we call soul, only the result of a particular
organization of gross matter, or is it the real,
eternal substance of which all other matter
is but the servant and the expression? Do
the dead return? Do those whose faces we
have seen for the last time, ere the coffin-lid
closed upon them forever, ever come back to
us, clad in spiritual bodies, and addressing us,
not through our external organs, but by directly
<i>impressing</i> that <i>divine substance</i> in us,
which is like unto them,&mdash;that which we call
our <span class="smcap">soul</span>?"</p>

<p>It was a thought which for ages has made
the hearts of the noblest and truest of our
race, alternately combat with despair, and
swell with hope,&mdash;that thought which seeks
to unvail the mystery of Life and Death,
disclose the tie which connects perishable
matter with eternal mind, and lift the curtain
which hides from the present, the other
world.</p>

<p>Arthur felt the vast thought gather all his
soul into its embrace. But his meditations
were interrupted by the opening of the door,
and the two men,&mdash;whom we saw dismount
from the sleigh,&mdash;entered the room of the
student, bearing in their arms the burden,
which was covered by folds of coarse canvas.</p>

<p>Very ungainly men they were, with their
brawny forms wrapped in huge gray overcoats,
adorned with white buttons, and their
harsh visages half concealed by their coarse
fur caps. They came into the room without
a word.</p>

<p>"O, you have come," said Arthur, as if he
recognized persons by no means strangers to
him. "Have you the particular subject
which the doctor desired you to procure?"</p>

<p>"Jist that partikler subject," said one of
the twain,&mdash;"an' a devil of a time we've
had to git it! Fust we entered the vault at
Greenwood, with a false key, and then
opened the coffin, so as it'll never be known
that it was opened at all. Closed the vault
ag'in and got the body over the wall, and hid
it in the bottom of the sleigh. Crossed the
ferry at Brooklyn&mdash;went through the city,
and then took the ferry for Hoboken,&mdash;same
sleigh, and same subject in the bottom of it;
an' druv here with a blast in our face, sharp
as a dozen butcher knives."</p>

<p>"But if it had not a-been for the storm,
we wouldn't a-got the body," interrupted the
other.</p>

<p>"And here we <i>air</i>, and here <i>it</i> is, and
that's enough. What shall we do with it?"</p>

<p>Arthur opened a small door near the bookcase,
and a narrow stairway (leading up into
the garret) was disclosed.</p>

<p>"You know the way," he said. "When
you get up there place <i>it</i> on the table."</p>

<p>They obeyed without a word. Bearing
their burden slowly through the narrow doorway,
they disappeared, and the echo of their
heavy boots was heard on the stairway.
They were not long absent. After a few
moments they again appeared, and the one
who had acted as principal spokesman, held
out his open palm toward Arthur,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Double allowance to-night, you know,"
he said,&mdash;"Doctor generally gives us from
forty to sixty dollars a job, but this partikler
case axes for ten gold pieces,&mdash;spread eagles,
you know, wuth ten dollars apiece,&mdash;only a
hundred dollars in all. Shell out!"</p>

<p>Arthur quietly placed ten gold pieces in
the hands of the ruffian.&mdash;"The doctor left
it for you. Now go."</p>

<p>And shuffling their heavy boots, they disappeared
through the same door by which
they had entered. Looking through the
window after a few moments, he saw the sleigh
moving noiselessly down the public road.</p>

<p>"Dangerous experiment for the doctor,
especially if the <i>event</i> of this night should
happen to be discovered," ejaculated Arthur,
as he rebuilt his fire. "A peculiar case of
suicide, and he wished <i>the body</i> at all hazards.
Well! I must to work."</p>

<p>He drew on an apron of dark muslin,
which was provided with sleeves, and then
lifting the shade from the lamp, he lighted
a cigar. As the smoke of the grateful Havana
rolled through his apartment, he took
the lamp in one hand, and a case of instruments
in the other, and ascended the secret
stairway leading to the garret.</p>

<p>"I have seen her when living, arrayed in
all the pride of youth and beauty," he said,
as the lamp shone upon the vast and gloomy
garret,&mdash;"and now let me look upon the shell
which so lately held that passionate soul."</p>

<p>It was indeed a vast and gloomy garret.
It traversed the entire extent of the southern
wing. The windows at either end were
carefully darkened. The ceiling was formed
by the huge rafters and bare shingles of the
steep roof. To one of these rafters a human
skeleton was suspended, its white bones
glaring amid the darkness. In the center
was a large table, upon which was placed the
burden which the ruffians had that night
stolen from the grave. The place was
silent, lonely,&mdash;the wind howled dismally
among the chimneys,&mdash;and Arthur could
not repress a slight shudder as his footsteps
echoed from the naked floor. Arthur placed
the lamp upon the table, and began to uncover
the subject. Removing the coarse canvas
he disclosed the corpse. An ejaculation
burst from his lips,&mdash;a cry half of terror,
half of surprise.</p>

<p>The light shone upon the body of a beautiful
woman. From those faultless limbs
and that snowy bosom the grave-clothes had
been carefully stripped. A single fragment
of the shroud fluttered around the right arm.
Save this fragment the body was completely
bare, and the dark hair of the dead fell
loosely on her shoulders. The face was very
beautiful and calm, as though sealed only
for an hour in a quiet sleep,&mdash;the fringes of
the eyelashes rested darkly upon the cheeks.
Never had the light shone upon a shape of
more surpassing loveliness, upon limbs more
like ivory in their snowy whiteness, upon a
face more like a dreamless slumber, in its
calm, beautiful expression. Dead, and yet
very beautiful! A proud soul dwelt in this
casket once,&mdash;the soul has fled, and now the
casket must be surrendered to the scalpel,&mdash;must
be cut and rent, shred by shred, by the
dissector's hand.</p>

<p>"But the limbs are not rigid with death,"
soliloquized Arthur,&mdash;"Decay has not yet
commenced its work. As I live, there is a
glow upon the cheek."</p>

<p>With his scalpel he inflicted a gash near
the right temple, and at the same instant&mdash;imagining
he heard a footstep,&mdash;he turned
his face over his shoulder. It was only
imagination, and he turned again to trace the
result of the incision.</p>

<p>The dead woman was in a sitting posture, her
eyes were wide open, she was gazing calmly into
his face. Arthur fell back with a cry of horror.</p>

<p>"Nay, do not be frightened," said a low,
although tremulous voice,&mdash;"I have simply
been the victim of an attack of catalepsy."</p>

<p>And while he stood spell-bound, his eyes
riveted to her face, and his ears drinking in the
rich music of her voice, she continued,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Catalepsy, which leaves the soul keenly
conscious and in possession of all its powers,
but without the slightest control over the
body, which appears insensible and dead.
The agony of that state is beyond all power
of words! To hear the voices which speak
over your coffin, and yet be unable to frame
a word, to breathe even a sigh! I heard
them talk over my coffin,&mdash;I was conscious
as the lid closed down upon my face,&mdash;conscious
when they placed me in the vault,
and locked the door, and left me there
buried alive. And an eternity seemed to
pass from the time when they locked the
door, (I was only buried yesterday,) until
your men came to-night, to rob the grave of
its prey. I heard every word they uttered
from the moment when they tore the shroud
from my bosom, until they entered your
room, and then I heard your voice. And
when they left me here, I heard your step
upon the stair, heard your ejaculation as you
bent over me, and it seemed to me that my
soul made its last effort to arouse from this
unutterable <i>living death</i>, as you struck the
knife into my temple. You have saved
my life&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>Arthur could not utter a word; he could
not believe the scene to be real; he thought
himself the victim of a terrible although bewitching
dream.</p>

<p>"I arise from the grave, but it is to begin
life anew. The name which I bore lies
buried in the grave vault. It is with a new
name, and under new auspices, that I will
recommence life. And as for you, I know
you to be young, gifted, ambitious. I will
show my gratitude by making your fortune.
But you must swear, and now, never to reveal
the secret of this night!"</p>

<p>"I swear it," ejaculated Arthur, still pale
and trembling.</p>

<p>"What, are you still afraid of me? Come
near me,&mdash;nearer,&mdash;take my hand,&mdash;does
that,&mdash;" and a bewitching smile crossed her
face,&mdash;"does that feel like the hand of a
dead woman?"</p>

<p>With these words the history of Marion
came to a pause.</p>

<hr class="tb" />

<p>For the first time, Arthur Dermoyne raised
his eyes from the pages which recorded the
life of Marion Merlin. For an hour and
more he had bent over those pages in profound
and absorbing interest.</p>

<p>"Here, then, is the real secret of the life
of Herman Barnhurst!" he ejaculated. "He
was simply a sincere enthusiast, all his bad
nature dormant, and all his good in active
life, until this woman crossed his path. And
the wife who now slumbers by his side, is
none other than Fanny Lansdale, the victim
of the unutterable crime. Who shall
say that we are not, in a great measure,
the sport of circumstance? How different
would have been the life of Herman, had
Marion never crossed his path?"</p>

<p>Something like pity for the crimes of
Barnhurst began to steal over Dermoyne's
face, as he sat thus alone, in the solitude
of the last hour of the night; but the
thoughts of Alice, on her bed of shame and
anguish, started up like a phantom and drove
every throb of compassion from his soul.</p>

<p>"If Alice dies, there is but one way,"&mdash;he
said moodily, with a fixed light in his
eyes.&mdash;"But this Marion,&mdash;ah! Something
more of her history is written here. Let
me read,&mdash;" Once more he bent over the
Red Book. Even as his eyes were fixed
upon the page, a shadow was cast over it,
and then a dark object interposed between
him and the light; and the next moment
all was darkness. But on the instant, before
the darkness came, he looked up, and
saw before him a brawny form, a face
stamped with ferocious brutality; an upraised
hand grasping a knife, which glittered
as it rose. This he saw for an instant
only, and then all was blackness.</p>

<p>"Not wid de knife, Dirk! Let me fix him
wid dis,&mdash;and do yer see to de Red Book!"</p>

<p>There was a sound as of a weapon whizzing
through the air, and Dermoyne was
felled to the floor by a blow from the
"Slung-shot."</p>

<p>As the first gleam of morning stole into
the bed-chamber, touching, with rosy light,
the faces of the sleeping wife and her children,
Barnhurst stealthily arose, dressed himself,
and stole on tiptoe from the place. In
the dark he descended the stairway, and all
the while,&mdash;from loss of sleep, combined
with the excitement of the past night,&mdash;he
shook in every nerve. His thoughts were
black and desperate.</p>

<p>"Ruin wherever I turn! If I escape this
man, there remains the villain whom I met
last night, in Trinity Church. On one side
exposure, on the other death. What can be
done? Cut the matter short, and renouncing
all my prospects, seek safety in flight? or
remain,&mdash;dare all the chances,&mdash;exposure,&mdash;the
death of a dog,&mdash;all,&mdash;and trust to my
good fortune?"</p>

<p>He paused at the foot of the stairway, and
a hope shot through his heart,&mdash;"If I could
see <span class="smcap">Godiva</span> all might yet be well! Yes, I
must, I will see <span class="smcap">Godiva</span>."</p>

<p>Uttering the name of <span class="smcap">Godiva</span>, (new to
the reader and to our history,) he approached
the parlor door. "Now for this man!" he
said, and shuddered. He opened the door,
and looked around; the first rays of morning
were stealing through the window-curtains,
but the room was vacant. Dermoyne was
not there. The carpet was torn near the
sofa, the table overturned, and there was
blood upon the carpet and sofa. But Dermoyne
had disappeared.</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h2><a name="PART_SIXTH" id="PART_SIXTH">PART SIXTH.</a></h2>

<h3>DAY, SUNSET, NIGHT.</h3>

<h4>DECEMBER 24, 1844.</h4>

<hr class="tb" />

<h3>CHAPTER I.</h3>

<h4>ARRAYED FOR THE BRIDAL.</h4>


<p>It was toward evening, when, amid the
crowd of Broadway&mdash;that crowd of mad
and impetuous life&mdash;there glided, like a
specter through the mazes of a voluptuous
dance, a man of sober habit, pallid face, and
downcast eyes. Beautiful women, wrapped
in soft attire, passed him every moment;
brushed him with their perfumed garments;
but he heeded them not. There was the
free laugh, the buzz of voices, and the tramp
of footsteps all about him, but he did not
raise his eyes, nor bend his ear. Gliding
along in his dark habit, he was as much
alone on that thronged pathway, as though
he walked the sands of an Arabian desert. A
man of hollow cheeks, features boldly
marked, and eyes large and dark, and shining
with the fire of disease, or with the
restlessness of a soul that had turned upon
itself, and was gnawing ever and ever at its
own life-strings.</p>

<p>His habit&mdash;a long black coat, single
breasted, and with a plain white band about
the neck&mdash;indicated that he was a Catholic
Priest.</p>

<p>He was a Priest. Struck down in his early
manhood by an irreparable calamity, he had
looked all around the horizon of his life for&mdash;peace.
Repose, repose&mdash;a quiet life&mdash;an
obscure grave&mdash;became the objects of his
soul's desire, instead of the ambitions which
his young manhood had cherished.</p>

<p>As there was not peace within him, so he
searched the world for it, and in vain.</p>

<p>He sought it in a money-bound Protestant
church, behind whose pulpit-bible&mdash;like a
toad upon an altar&mdash;Mammon, holy mammon,
squats in bank-note grandeur. And
there, he found money, and much cant, and
abundance of sect,&mdash;but no peace.</p>

<p>To the Catholic church he turned. Won
by the poetry of that church&mdash;we use the
word in its awful and intense sense, for
poetry and religion are one&mdash;and, forgetful
of the infernal deeds which demoniacs, in
purple and scarlet, have done in the name
of that church, tracking their footsteps over
half the globe in blood, and lighting up the
history of ten centuries, at least, with flames
of persecution,&mdash;won by all that is good and
true in that church, (which he forgot is good
and true under whatsoever form it occurs,)&mdash;he
sought repose in its bosom.</p>

<p>Did he find it? He found good and true
men among priests and people; he found
noble and pure women, in the valleys of the
church; but, lifting his eyes to her lofty eminence,
he too often saw purpled and mitred
atheists, who, from their thrones, made sport
of human misery, and converted Christ the
Savior into the <i>Fetish</i> of a brutal superstition.</p>

<p>He had been to Rome; in Rome he saw
the seamless coat of Christ made a cloak for
every outrage that can be inflicted upon the
human race.</p>

<p>Did he find peace? Yes, when vailing
his eyes from the atrocities done in the name
of the church, turning himself away from
the scarlet-clad atheists, who too often mount
her seats of power, he retreated within himself,
opened the gospels, and from their pages
saw kindle into life and love, the face of
Him, whom priests may misinterpret or defame,
but whose name forever to suffering
humanity, is "<span class="smcap">consolation</span>."</p>

<p>As he passed thus along Broadway, buried
in his thoughts, and utterly unconscious of
the scene around him, he felt a hand press
his own. He awoke from his thoughts,
stopped and looked around him. The crowd
was hurrying by, but the person who pressed
his hand had disappeared. Was that pressure
of the hand a mere freak of the imagination?
No; for the hand of the unknown
had left within the hand of the Priest a
neatly-folded letter, upon which, in a fair
and delicate hand, was written his own
name.</p>

<p>Stepping aside from the crowd, he opened
and read the letter. It was very brief, but
its contents called a glow to the pale cheek
of the Priest.</p>

<p>He at once retraced his steps, and passed
down Broadway, with a rapid and eager
step. Hurrying through the gay crowd, he
turned, in a few moments, into a street leading
to the North River. The sun was setting,
and cast the shadow of his slender form
long and black over the pavement, as he
paused in front of a stately mansion. He
once more examined the letter, and then
surveyed the mansion.</p>

<p>"It is the same," he said, and ascended
the lofty steps and rang the bell. "Truly,
the office of a Priest is a painful one," the
thought crossed his mind; "he sees so much
misery that he has not the power to relieve.
Misery, under the rags of the hovel, and
despair under the velvet of the palace."</p>

<p>A male servant, in livery, answered the
bell, and glanced somewhat superciliously at
the faded attire of the Priest. But he inclined
his head in involuntary respect, as the
Priest said, simply&mdash;</p>

<p>"I am Father Luke,&mdash;"</p>

<p>"This way, sir. You are expected," answered
the servant; and he led Father Luke
along a lofty hall, and into a parlor, over
whose rich furniture shone dimly the light
of the setting sun. "Remain here, sir, and
I will announce your coming."</p>

<p>He left the Priest alone. Father Luke
placed his hat upon a table, and seated himself
in a chair. In a moment, resting his
cheek upon his hand, and turning his eyes
to the light, (which shone through the curtained
window,) he was buried in thought
again. His singular and remarkable face stood
forth from the back-ground of shadow like a
portrait of another age. His crown was bald,
but his forehead was encircled by dark hair,
streaked with silver. As the light shone over
that broad brow, and upon the great eyes, dilating
in their sunken sockets, he seemed not
like a practical man of the nineteenth century,
but like one of those penitents or enthusiasts,
who, in a dark age, shut up the fires of
their agony, of trampled hope or undying
remorse, within the shadows of a cloister.</p>

<p>"This way, sir,"&mdash;it was the voice of the
servant, who touched him respectfully on
the shoulder as he spoke.</p>

<p>Father Luke arose and followed him from
the room, and up a broad stairway, and along
a corridor: "At the end of this passage
you will find a door. Open it and enter.
You are expected there."</p>

<p>Passing from the corridor, lighted by the
window at its extremity, the Priest entered
a narrow passage where all was dark, and
pursued his way until his progress was terminated
by a door. He opened the door and
crossed the threshold&mdash;but, upon the very
threshold, stood spell-bound in surprise.</p>

<p>It was a large apartment, with lofty walls,
and, instead of the cheerful rays of the declining
sun, it was illuminated by a lamp
with a clouded shade, which, suspended from
the center of the ceiling, shed around a soft
and mysterious light.</p>

<p>The walls were not papered nor panneled,
but covered with hangings of a dark color.
One part of the spacious chamber was occupied
by a couch with a high canopy, and
curtains whose snowy whiteness stood out
distinctly from the dark back-ground. A
wood fire was burning under the arch of the
old-fashioned fire-place; and a mirror, in a
frame of dark walnut, reflected the couch
with its white canopy, and a table covered
with a white cloth, which stood directly
underneath the hanging lamp. Upon the
white cloth was placed a crucifix, a book, a
wreath of flowers.</p>

<p>The place was perfectly still, and the soft
rays of the lamp, investing all its details
with mingled light and shadow, gave an
atmosphere of mystery to the scene.</p>

<p>Father Luke stood on the threshold, hesitating
whether to advance or retreat, when
a low voice broke the stillness:</p>

<p>"Come in, sir. I have waited for you."</p>

<p>And for the first time Father Luke took
notice of the presence of the speaker. It was
a woman, who, attired in black, sat in a
rocking-chair, near the table, her hands
folded over her breast. Her head and face
were covered by a thick vail of white lace,
which fell to her shoulders, contrasting
strongly with her somber attire.</p>

<p>Father Luke entered and seated himself
in a vacant chair, which stood near the table.
Resting his arm on the table,&mdash;(he sat
directly beneath the lamp, in a circle of
shadow,)&mdash;and shading his eyes with his
hand, he silently surveyed the woman, over
whom the light fell in full radiance. There
was dark hair, there were bright eyes, beneath
that vail of lace; a young, a richly
moulded form, beneath that garb of sable;
but in vain he endeavored to trace the features
of the unknown.</p>

<p>"You received a letter?" said the lady,
in a low voice.</p>

<p>"As I was passing up Broadway, a few
moments since, a letter was placed in my
hand, bidding my presence at this house, on
an errand of life and death."</p>

<p>She started at the sound of that sonorous
and hollow voice, and, through her vail,
seemed to survey him earnestly.</p>

<p>"I am glad that you have come. I thank
you with all my soul. Although not a member
of your church, I have heard of you
for a long time, and heard of you as
one who, having suffered much himself, was
especially fitted to render consolation to the
heart-broken and despair-stricken. Now I
am heart-broken and despairing,"&mdash;she
paused,&mdash;"I am dying,&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Dying?" he echoed.</p>

<p>"And have sent for you, believing you to
be an honest man, not to hear confession of
my sins, for they are too dark to be told or
be forgiven. But to ask you a simple question,
which I implore you to answer, not as
a priest, but as a man;&mdash;to answer, not with
the set phrases of your vocation, but frankly
and fully, even as you wish to have peace
yourself in the hour of death."</p>

<p>"And that question,&mdash;" the priest's head
bent low upon his breast, and he surveyed
her earnestly with his eyes hidden beneath
his down-drawn brows.</p>

<p>"Do you believe in any Hereafter? Do
you believe in another world? Does the
death of the body end the story? Or, after
the death of the body, does the soul rise and
live again in a new and diviner life?"</p>

<p>"My sister," said the priest, with much
emotion, "I <i>know</i> that there is a hereafter,&mdash;I
<i>know</i> that the death of the body, is not the
end of all, but simply the first step in an
eternal pilgrimage&mdash;"</p>

<p>"This you say as a man, and not as a
priest,&mdash;this is your true thought, as you wish
to have peace, in the hour of your death?"</p>

<p>"Even so," said Father Luke.</p>

<p>"Thank you, O, bless you with all my
soul. One question more,&mdash;O, answer me
with the same frankness.&mdash;In the next world
shall we meet, and know the friends whom
we have loved in this?"</p>

<p>"We shall meet, we shall know, we shall
love them in the next world, as certainly as
we ever met, knew and loved them in this,"
was the answer of Father Luke, given with
all the force and earnestness of undeniable
sincerity. "Do you think we gather affections
to our heart, only to bury them in the
grave?"</p>

<p>The lady rose from her chair,&mdash;</p>

<p>"I thank you, once more, and with all my
soul. Your words come from your heart.
They confirm the intuitions of my own
heart. For the consolation which these
words afford, accept the gratitude of a dying
woman. And now,&mdash;" she extended her
hand, "and now farewell!"</p>

<p>The priest, who, through this entire interview,
had never ceased to regard her, with
his eyes almost hidden by his down-drawn
brows,&mdash;struggling all the while to repress
an agitation which increased every moment,
and well nigh mastered him,&mdash;the priest
also rose with these words on his lips:</p>

<p>"You dying, sister! you seem young, and
full of life, and with the prospect of long
years before you."</p>

<p>It was either the impulse of madness, or
the force of a calm conviction, which induced
her to reply:</p>

<p>"In one hour I will be dead."</p>

<p>The priest silently took her offered hand,
and at the same instant, emerged from the
circle of shadow, into the full glow of the
light. There was something like magic in
the pressure of their hands.</p>

<p>And the woman lifted her vail, disclosing
a beautiful face, which already touched with
the pallor of death, was lighted by dark
eyes, whose brightness was almost supernatural.</p>

<p>Lifting her gaze heaven-ward, she said, as
though thinking aloud,&mdash;</p>

<p>"In another world, Ernest, I will meet,
I will know, I will love you!"</p>

<p>But ere the words had passed her lips,&mdash;yes,
as the slowly lifted vail disclosed her
face,&mdash;the priest sank back, as though stricken
by a blow from an iron hand, uttering a
wild and incoherent cry,&mdash;sank back as
though the grave had yielded up its dead,
and confronted him with a form, linked with
holy and yet accursed memories.</p>

<p>"O, Frank, is it thus we meet," he cried,
and fell on his knees, and buried his face in
his hands.</p>

<p>The sound of his voice, at once lifted the
scales from her eyes,&mdash;she knew him,&mdash;the
vague consciousness of his presence, which
had agitated her for the past few moments,
became certainty. She knew that in Father
Luke, who knelt before her, she beheld
Ernest Walworth, her plighted husband.
Sad and terrible indeed, must have been the
change, which had fallen upon his countenance,
that she did not know him, when he
sat before her in the shadow!</p>

<p>Trembling in every nerve, and yet strong
with the energy of a soul, that had taken its
farewell of this life, she gave utterance to
her feelings, in a single word,&mdash;his own,&mdash;pronounced
in the soft low tones of other
days.</p>

<p>"Ernest!"</p>

<p>"O, Frank, Frank, is it thus we meet!" he
cried in wild agony, as he raised his face.
"You,&mdash;you,&mdash;the only woman that I ever
loved,&mdash;you, whose very memory has torn
my heart, since that fatal hour, when I met
you in the accursed haunt of death,&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Ernest you will sit by me as I die, you
will press your hand in forgiveness on my
forehead, my last look shall encounter
yours&mdash;"</p>

<p>She opened her dark robe, and disclosed
the snow-white dress which she wore beneath
it. That dress was a shroud. Yes, the
beautiful form, the bosom which had once
been the home of a pure and stainless love,
and which had beat with the throb of sensual
passion, were now attired in a shroud.</p>

<p>"Behold me, attired for the grave," she
said,&mdash;and the tears started to her eyes,&mdash;"This
morning, resolved to quit this life,
which for me, has been a life of unutterable
shame and despair, I prepared for my departure.
Everything is ready. Come, Ernest,
and behold the preparations for my
bridal,&mdash;" she pointed to the couch; he rose
and followed her. "I am in love with
death, and will wed him ere an hour is
gone." She drew aside the curtains, and
upon the white coverlet, Ernest beheld a
dark object,&mdash;a coffin covered with black
cloth, and glittering with a silver plate.</p>

<p>"Everything is ready, Ernest, and I am
going. Nay, do not weep, do not attempt to
touch my hand. I am but a poor polluted
thing,&mdash;a wreck, a miserable, miserable
wreck! My touch would pollute you,&mdash;I
am not worth your tears."</p>

<p>Ernest hid his face in the hangings of the
couch,&mdash;he writhed in agony.</p>

<p>"You shall not die,&mdash;you must be saved!"
he wildly exclaimed.</p>

<p>She walked across the floor, with an even
step; in a moment she was seated in the
rocking-chair, with Ernest before her, his
face hidden in his hands. Her face grew
paler every moment; her eyes brighter; and
the shroud which enveloped her bosom,
began to quiver, with the last pulsations of
her dying heart. As the vail mingled its
fleecy folds with her raven hair, she looked
very beautiful, yes, beautiful with the touch
of death.</p>

<p>And as Ernest, choked with his agony, sat
before her, hiding his face, she talked in a
calm, even tone,&mdash;</p>

<p>"O, life! life! you have been a bitter
draught to me, and now I am about to leave
you! All day I have been thinking of my
shame, of my crimes,&mdash;I have summoned up
every act of my life,&mdash;the images of the past
have walked before me in a sad funeral procession.
O, Thou, who didst forgive the
Magdalene,&mdash;Thou who hadst compassion
on the poor wretch, whose cross arose beside
thine own,&mdash;Thou who dost know all my
life, my temptations, and my crimes,&mdash;forgive!
forgive! It is a wandering child, sick
of wandering, who now,&mdash;O, Thou, all-merciful!&mdash;gathers
up the wreck of a miserable
life, and lays it, with all its sins and shame, at
Thy feet."</p>

<p>As she uttered this simple, yet awful
prayer, Ernest did not raise his face. The
agony which shook him was too deep for
words.</p>

<p>Her voice grew faint and fainter, as she
went on, in a vague and rambling way&mdash;</p>

<p>"And I was so innocent once, and did not
know what sorrow was, and felt such gladness,
at the sight of the sky, of the stars, of
the flowers,&mdash;at the very breath of spring
upon my cheek! O, I wonder if the old
home stands there yet,&mdash;and the nook in the
forest, don't you remember, Ernest? I was
so happy, so happy then! And now I am
dying&mdash;dying,&mdash;but you are near. You
forgive me, Ernest, do you not?"</p>

<p>"Forgive you!" he echoed, raising his
face, and spreading forth his clasped hands,
"God's blessing and His consolation be upon
you now and forever! And His curse,&mdash;"
a look of hatred, which stamped every lineament
of his face, revealed the intensity of
his soul,&mdash;"and His curse be upon those,
who brought you to this!"</p>

<p>As he spoke, the death damps began to
glisten on her forehead; a glassy look began
to vail the intense brightness of her eyes.</p>

<p>"Your hand, sit by me,&mdash;" she said faintly,
"I shall sleep soon."</p>

<p>He drew his chair to her side, and softly
put his hand upon her forehead,&mdash;it was
cold as marble.</p>

<p>"It is good to go thus,&mdash;with Ernest by
me,&mdash;and in token of forgiveness too, with
his hand upon my forehead&mdash;"</p>

<p>Her words were interrupted by a footstep
and a voice.</p>

<p>"Frank! Frank! where are you! I have
triumphed!&mdash;triumphed! The one child is
out of my way, and the other is in my power!"</p>

<p>It was Colonel Tarleton, who rushed to
the light, his face lividly pale, and disfigured
by wounds, his right arm carried in a sling.
He had not seen his daughter since the hour
when he left the Temple, before the break
of day. And now, faint with loss of blood,
and yet strong in the consciousness of his
triumph, he rushed into the death-room of
his child.</p>

<p>"I have had a hard time, Frank, but the
game is won! The estate is ours! The
other son of Gulian Van Huyden is in my
power,&mdash;"</p>

<p>The words died on his lips. He beheld
the dark form of the stranger, and the face
of his dying child. The young form clad in
a shroud; the countenance pale with death;
the large eyes, whose brightness was vailed
in a glassy film,&mdash;he saw this sad picture at
a glance, but could not believe the evidence
of his senses.</p>

<p>"Why, Frank, what's all this?" he cried,
as with his pale face, marked by wounds, he
stood before his daughter.</p>

<p>She slowly raised her eyes, and regarded
him with a sad smile.</p>

<p>"The poison, father,&mdash;I drank it myself;
<i>he</i> went forth from this house safe from all
harm&mdash;"</p>

<p>Her voice failed.</p>

<p>Tarleton uttered a frightful cry, and fell
like a dead man on the floor, his face against
the carpet. The reality of the scene had
burst upon him; in the hour of his triumph
he saw his schemes,&mdash;the plans woven
through the long course of twenty-one years
and darkened by hideous crimes,&mdash;leveled
in a moment to the dust.</p>

<p>Frank slowly turned her head, and fixed
her glassy eyes upon the face of Ernest,&mdash;O,
the intensity of that long and yearning
gaze!</p>

<p>"I am weary and cold," she gasped, "but
it is light yonder."</p>

<p>And that was all. Her eyes became
fixed,&mdash;she laid her head gently on her
shoulder, and fell asleep.</p>

<p>She was dead!</p>

<p>Ernest knelt beside her, and with his eyes
flashing from their sunken sockets, he clasped
his hands and uttered a prayer for the dead.</p>

<p>There were footsteps in the passage and
presently into the death-room came Mary
Berman and Nameless, their faces stamped
with the same look in which hope and terror
mingled. Nameless bore the last letter
of Frank in his hand; it had hurried him
and Mary from the corpse of the artist to the
home of Frank, and they arrived only in
time to behold her dead.</p>

<p>"She died to save my life!" said Nameless
solemnly, as he surveyed that face which
looked so beautiful in death. That there
were strong emotions tugging at his heart,&mdash;emotions
such as are not felt twice in a lifetime,&mdash;need
not be told.</p>

<p>And Mary, with tears upon her pure and
beautiful face, stole silently to the side of the
dead woman, and smoothed her dark hair,
and put her kiss upon her clammy forehead,
and closed those eyes which had looked their
last upon this world.</p>

<p>The prayer was said, and Ernest, resting
his hands upon the arm of the chair in which
the dead woman sat, hid once more his face
from the light, and surrendered himself to
the full sway of his agony.</p>

<p>A voice broke the dead stillness, and a
livid face was uplifted from the floor.</p>

<p>"It's an infernal dream, Frank. You
could not have been so foolish! The estate
is ours,&mdash;ours,&mdash;"</p>

<p>He saw at the same glance the face of
Nameless and the face of his dead child.</p>

<hr class="tb" />

<p>Here let us return for a moment to Maryvale,
the old mansion in the country, to
which, this morning before break of day, the
<span class="smcap">Unknown</span>, (in whom you doubtless recognize
Gaspar Manuel, or the Legate,) had conducted
the boy, Gulian, the private secretary
of Evelyn Somers, Sr.</p>

<p>The contest between Tarleton and the dog
Cain, in the presence of young Gulian, will
be remembered; as well as the fact, that
even as Tarleton, suffering from his wounds,
attempted to bear Gulian from the house, he
fell insensible at his victim's feet.</p>

<p>An hour afterward, when the light of day
shone on the old mansion, the Legate returned
and eagerly sought the chamber of
young Gulian. The floor was stained with
blood, the dead body of Cain was stretched at
his feet, but the boy had disappeared. The
Legate was a man, who, through the course
of long years had learned to restrain all external
signs of emotion, but when he became
conscious that young Gulian was gone,&mdash;he
knew not whither,&mdash;his agitation broke forth
in the wildest expressions of despair.</p>

<p>"But I will again rescue him from his
persecutor. Yes, before the day is over, he
will be safe under my protection."</p>

<p>And himself and his numerous agents
sought the city through all day long; and
sought in vain.</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h3><a name="CHAPTER_6_II" id="CHAPTER_6_II">CHAPTER II.</a></h3>

<h4>HERMAN AND GODIVA.</h4>


<p>Our history now returns to Madam Resimer,
whom we left in her most secret chamber,
near ten o'clock, on the 24th of December,
listening to the sound of the bell, which
resounded through her mansion.</p>

<p>It was the bell of the secret passage.</p>

<p>"Who can it be?" again ejaculated the
Madam, as she stood in the center of the
room, with the light of the candle on one
side of her florid face.</p>

<p>To which Corkins, who stood behind her,
his slender form lost in her capacious shadow,
responded in a quivering voice, "Who
<i>can</i> it be?"</p>

<p>Much troubled and very angry, and not
knowing upon whom to vent her anger, the
Madam turned upon her trembling satellite,
and addressing him by numerous titles, not
one of which but was more vigorous than
elegant or complimentary, she bade him,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Run for your life. Answer the hell of
the secret passage! Don't be foolin' away
your time, when the very devil's to pay and
no pitch hot. Cut!"</p>

<p>Corkins accordingly "<i>cut</i>," or, to speak in
a less classical phrase, he glided from the
room.</p>

<p>How anxiously the Madam waited there,
in her most secret chamber, with her finger
to her lip, and the candle-light on one side
of her face!</p>

<p>"Who can it be? Only four persons in
the world know of this secret passage. It
can't be this devil from Philadelphia? O, I
shall do somebody a mischief! I can't endure
this any longer,&mdash;"</p>

<p>Hark! There are footsteps in the corridor;
they approach the Madam's room. She
fixes her small black eyes upon the door,
with the intensity of a&mdash;cat, contemplating
a rat-hole.</p>

<p>"This way," cries the voice of Corkins,
and he enters the room, followed by two persons,
one of whom is taller than the other,
and both of whom wear caps and cloaks.</p>

<p>"Has <i>he</i> come back?" cries the taller of
the two, in a voice that trembles with anxiety
and fear,&mdash;he lifts his cap, and discloses
the face of Herman Barnhurst.</p>

<p>"No,&mdash;no,&mdash;I haven't laid eyes upon him
since last night," and she clutched Barnhurst
by the arm,&mdash;"Where did you leave him?"</p>

<p>"He went home with me," replied Barnhurst,
and stopped to gaze around that room,
dimly lighted by a single candle, as though
he was afraid that Dermoyne was concealed
in its shadows.&mdash;"I left him in the parlor
down stairs. He was determined to wait for
me until morning, and then come with me
to this house. But this morning, when I
came down stairs, he was not there."</p>

<p>"He was not there?" echoed the Madam,
breathless with impatience.</p>

<p>"He wasn't there; there was blood upon
the sofa and the carpet, and marks of a
struggle."</p>

<p>The Madam uttered a round oath and a
cry of joy.</p>

<p>"Good,&mdash;capital! My boys have done
their work. You see, Herman, I sent Dirk
and Slung after him, and they've laid him
out. It's a sure thing."</p>

<p>Herman, even in his fright, could not but
help shuddering, as he heard the cool manner
in which she spoke of Dermoyne's death. The
next instant the idea of his own safety rose
uppermost in his mind.</p>

<p>"Do you think that your fellows have
taken good care of him?" he asked.</p>

<p>"Don't doubt it,&mdash;don't doubt it," and she
rubbed her hands joyfully together. "It's a
sure thing!"</p>

<p>A raven-like voice, behind her, echoed,
"Sure thing!" It was Corkins, of course.</p>

<p>"And <i>she</i>,&mdash;how is <i>she</i>?"&mdash;Herman lowered
his voice, and pointed upward.</p>

<p>"She is well!" was the emphatic response
of the Madam,&mdash;"But how did you know
of the secret bell? Only four persons in the
world know of it, and you are not one of
them."</p>

<p>Herman pointed to the person who had
entered with him, and who now stood in the
darkness at his back,&mdash;"Godiva!" he said.</p>

<p>The Madam gave a start, echoing "Godiva,"
and Corkins, behind the Madam, as
in duty bound, re-echoed "Godiva!"</p>

<p>The person called by this name,&mdash;the name
of the beautiful lady, famed in ancient story,
for the sacrifice which she made of her modesty
in order to achieve a noble purpose,&mdash;advanced
from the shadows into the light,
saying, "This boy came to me this morning,
in a world of trouble; he confided all
his sorrows to me. It appears he is in a devil
of a scrape. I came here to get him out of it."</p>

<p>And removing cap and cloak, Godiva stood
disclosed in the candle-light. Godiva was a
woman of some twenty-five years, with a
rounded form, brown complexion, large eyes
that were hazel in the sun, and black by
night; and Godiva wore her raven hair in
rich masses on either side of her warm, tropical
face. Godiva was dressed, not in those
flowing garments which give such bewitching
mystery to the form of a lovely woman,
but, in male costume from head to foot,&mdash;a
shirt, with open collar, dark satin vest, blue
frock-coat, black pantaloons, and boots of
patent leather. Although looking short in
stature beside the tall Barnhurst, she was
tall for a woman, and her male costume,
which did full justice to her throat, her
ample bust, and rounded limbs, became her
exceedingly.</p>

<p>With her cloak on her right arm, her cap
in her right hand, she rested her left hand on
her hip, and looked in the face of the Madam
with an air of insolent condescension
that was quite refreshing.</p>

<p>"How <i>do</i> you <i>do</i>, my dear child?"&mdash;and
the Madam offered her hand. Godiva waved
her back.</p>

<p>"Don't be impertinent, woman," was the
response. "The few days that I once passed
in your house, by no means give you the
right to be familiar. I am here, simply, for
two reasons,&mdash;I wish, in the first place, to
get the boy (she pointed to Barnhurst,) out
of his 'scrape;' and, in the second place, to
recover a certain manuscript which, it seems,
I left in this house when I was here."</p>

<p>The Madam was an essentially vulgar, as
well as wicked woman, but she could not
help feeling the cutting insolence which
marked the tone of the queenly Godiva.</p>

<p>"There is no <i>sich</i> manuscript here," she
said, tartly, and her thoughts reverted to the
Red Book.</p>

<p>"Hadn't you better wait to know what
kind of manuscript it was, before making
such a flat denial?" coolly responded
Godiva. "But now let's talk of this boy!
What's the amount of his entanglements?
How's the girl?"</p>

<p>"She is well," said the Madam, emphatically.</p>

<p>"Well!" croaked Corkins from the background.</p>

<p>"And this fellow from Philadelphia&mdash;was
he really such a desperate creature?" asked
Godiva.</p>

<p>"A devil incarnate," replied the Madam.</p>

<p>"What's that?" cried Herman, with a
start, as the sound of a hell once more rang
through the mansion.</p>

<p>"It's the bell of the door in the alley.
Run, Corkins! It's Dirk and Slung. Bring
'em up,&mdash;'put', I say!"</p>

<p>Corkins "put," and the party waited for
his return in evident anxiety. It was not
long before there was the tramp of heavy
steps in the passage, and two men, roughly
clad&mdash;one, short, thick-set, and bow-legged,
the other, tall and bony&mdash;stumbled into the
room, bringing with them the perfume of
very bad liquor.</p>

<p>"Where's de ole woman?" cried Dirk;
"What in de thunder de yer have candles
a-burnin' in daylight for&mdash;s-a-y?"</p>

<p>"Ole lady, I'll finger dat pewter&mdash;I will,"
said Slung-shot. "We laid yer man out&mdash;we
did. Dat cool hundred, ef yer please."</p>

<p>And while Herman and Godiva glided into
the shadows, the two ruffians recounted the
incidents of the night, in their peculiar <i>patois</i>;
the Madam interrupting them with
questions, at every step of the narrative.</p>

<p>The story of these savages of city life,
(and we believe that only the English and
American cities produce such ruffians in a
perfect state of brute-and-devil completeness,)
reduced to the briefest compass, and
stripped of all its oaths, read thus:&mdash;They
had followed Dermoyne and Barnhurst all
night long. Entering the house of Barnhurst,
(the door had been left ajar,) they had
found Dermoyne seated on the sofa, his eyes
fixed upon a book. As one struck him with
the slung-shot, the other extinguished the
light, and a brief but terrible contest took
place in the dark. Finally, they had borne
the insensible form of Dermoyne from the
house, and flung him into the gutter of a
dark and deserted street.</p>

<p>"An' dere he'd freeze to death, ef he gets
over de dirk and de slung-shot&mdash;he would,"
added the thick-set ruffian.</p>

<p>"And where have you been ever since?"
asked the Madam, whose little eyes sparkled
with joy.</p>

<p>"Gittin' drunk," tersely remarked Dirk.</p>

<p>"The book&mdash;you have it?" she said
eagerly.</p>

<p>To which Dirk replied, in his own way,
that if he had, he hoped his eyes and liver
might be made uncomfortable for an indefinite
length of time.</p>

<p>"Fact is, it slid under de sofar in de muss,
an' I couldn't' find it in de dark."</p>

<p>The Madam burst into a transport of fury,
and in her rage administered the back of her
hand somewhat freely to the faces of Dirk
and Slung. "Out of my sight&mdash;out of my
sight! Fools! Devils! That book was all
that I sent you after!" and she fairly drove
them from the room. They were heard
shuffling in the passage, and murmuring and
cursing as they went down stairs.</p>

<p>"The miserable knaves! What trust can
you put in human natur' arter this!" and she
fretted and fumed along the room.</p>

<p>"The book is safe in my house," said
Barnhurst, advancing, his face glowing with
satisfaction. "This fellow, it appears, is safe.
I pledge my word to have that book in this
room before an hour."</p>

<p>Godiva, looking over his shoulder, muttered
in atone inaudible to the others: "And
my manuscript is in the book, and I pledge
my word to have that within an hour."</p>

<p>"If you do that, Herman, I'll sell my
soul for you!" cried the Madam, warmly.</p>

<p>"Suppose we look at the&mdash;<i>the patient</i>,"
whispered Herman.</p>

<p>"Up-stairs in the same room;" and Herman
and Godiva left her room together, and
directed their steps toward the chamber of
Alice.</p>

<p>"The book is safe; he'll keep his word&mdash;don't
you think so, Corkins?" said the
Madam, as she found herself once more alone
with her familiar spirit.</p>

<p>"Safe&mdash;perfectly," returned Corkins, when
his words were interrupted by the ring of a
bell. It was the front door bell this time.
Corkins hurried from the room, and in a few
moments returned, and placed a card in the
hands of the Madam:</p>

<p>"This person wants to see you."</p>

<p>Drawing near the candle, the Madam read
upon the card this name&mdash;"<span class="smcap">Dr. Arthur
Conroy</span>." A name, you will remember, associated
with the history of Marion Merlin.
It was Arthur Conroy, who, in the dissecting
room, saw the corpse before him start suddenly
into life.</p>

<p>"Dr. Conroy!"&mdash;it seemed a familiar name
to the Madam. "I wonder if he wants a
subject? Show him up, Corkins."</p>

<hr class="tb" />

<p>Through the bowed window-shutters and
the drawn curtains, the winter sunlight stole
into the chamber of Alice, lighting up the
bed, and touching with a few golden rays the
face of the Virgin Mary on the wall.</p>

<p>Herman and Godiva stood by the bed,
their backs toward the window, and their
faces from the light. They did not speak.
The room was breathlessly still.</p>

<p>Alice was there, resting on the bed, the
coverlet drawn up to her neck, and her cheek
pressed against the pillow, thus turning her
face to the light. One hand and arm lay
motionless on the coverlet, and her sunny
hair strayed in unbound luxuriance over the
pillow. Her eyes were closed; her lips
slightly parted; her cheek pale as the pillow
on which she slept: for she was sleeping.
A bright ray, that found entrance
through an aperture in the curtains, was
playing over her face, now on her lips, now
on her throat, and among the waves of her
silken hair. The sight was so beautiful that
Godiva, whose heart had long since ceased
to feel, was awed into silence. As for Herman,
he could not take his eyes away, but
stood there with his gaze chained to the face
of the sleeping girl; for she was sleeping&mdash;sleeping
that dear, quiet sleep, which, in this
world, never knows an awakening hour. In
the language of the woman-fiend, she indeed
"was <i>well</i>!" Dead, with the second
life which she bore, dead within her. Poor
Alice! She had only opened her wings in
the world, to fold them again and die.</p>

<p>"Herman," whispered Godiva, "look at
that! Are you not proud of your work?"</p>

<p>"Don't taunt me, Marion," he answered.
"Had I never met you&mdash;had you never
made my life but one continued dream of
sensuality&mdash;I would not stand here at this
hour, gazing upon this murdered girl."</p>

<p>"Sweet boy! And so, when I first met
you, you believed all that you preached in
the pulpit?"</p>

<p>"If I did not believe it, I certainly did not
wish to doubt it. You, and the life I've led
since first I knew you, have made me <i>dread</i>
the very mention of the existence of a God,
or of the immortality of the soul."</p>

<p>"Pretty boy! How sadly I've used you!
But don't call me Marion again;&mdash;that name
I left in the grave. Leave off preaching, and
let us see what you intend to do?"</p>

<p>"Godiva, whichever way I look is ruin.
I am rid of this Dermoyne; but there are
those persons who, conscious of <i>the event of
that night in November</i>, 1842, will expose me
to the world, unless I become their tool, in
regard to the heirs of Anreke Jans and
Trinity Church. I am sick of this life of
suspense and dread! Let us fly, Godiva; I
will change my name, and, in some distant
place, begin life anew."</p>

<p>"What, and leave your wife?"</p>

<p>"Take care, Godiva, take care! Don't
press me too hard! You know who it was
that planned the dishonor of that wife, when
she was a maiden, and betrothed to me.
Take care!"</p>

<p>"You needn't look so black at me with
those devilish eyes," said Godiva, as her face
lost that bitter sneer, which, for the last few
moments, had made her resemble a beautiful
fiend. "You mustn't be angry at my jests.
Well&mdash;let us travel! I have money enough
for both, and we can enjoy ourselves with money
anywhere. But the Van Huyden estate?"</p>

<p>"I cannot call my share my own, even if
a share should happen to fall to me. These
people who knew of <i>the event in</i> 1842, and
who are now playing conspirator between
Trinity Church and the heirs of Anreke
Jans, will demand my share as the price of
their silence. I cannot live in this state of
dread. Listen Godiva! A vessel sails this
afternoon for one of the West India Islands.
What think you of a life in the tropics, far
away from this devilish <i>practical</i> world?
Why, we can make an Eden to ourselves,
and forget that we ever lived before! I have
engaged passage for two on board this vessel.
It makes my heart bound! Groves of palm&mdash;a
cloudless sky&mdash;good wine&mdash;days all dream,
and nights!&mdash;ah, Godiva! Flight, Godiva,
flight!"</p>

<p>"Flight be it, and to-night!" cried Godiva,
winding her arm about Herman's neck.</p>

<p>They were disturbed by a sound, low and
scarcely audible&mdash;it resembled the sound of
a footstep. Herman turned his head, and
saw, between him and the doorway, the haggard
face of&mdash;Arthur Dermoyne, whose cheek
was marked with a hideous gash, but whose
eyes shone with a clear unfaltering light.</p>

<p>Herman read his death in those eyes.</p>

<hr class="tb" />

<p>Let us turn from this scene, and enter once
more the secret chamber of the Madam.</p>

<p>"Why, Doctor, I am glad to see you!"
she cried, as Doctor Arthur Conroy entered
her room; "I haven't clapped eyes upon you
for a dog's age. Why, bless me, how changed
you are!"</p>

<p>As Conroy flung his cloak upon a chair,
and advancing to the light, seated himself
opposite the Madam, it was evident that he
was indeed changed. His eyes were dull
and heavy, his cheeks bloated; the marks
of days and nights spent in sensual excess,
were upon every lineament of his once noble
face. A sad, a terrible change! Can this
man who sits before us, with his coat buttoned
to the chin, and his heavy eyes rolling
vacantly in his bloated countenance, be the
same Arthur Conroy whom we first beheld
in the lonely hour of his student vigil, his
eyes dilating with a noble ambition, his forehead
stamped with thought, with genius?</p>

<p>"I am changed," he said sullenly and with
a thick utterance; "let me have some
brandy."</p>

<p>The Madam, without a word, produced a
bottle and a glass. Conroy filled the glass
half-full, and drank it, undiluted with water,
and without removing the glass from his
lips.</p>

<p>And then his faded eyes began to flash
and his cheek to glow.</p>

<p>It was the most melancholy kind of intemperance&mdash;that
which drinks alone, and
drinks in silence, and, instead of rousing the
social feelings, or the grotesque fancies of
drunken mirth, calls up the images of the
past, and bids them feed upon the soul.</p>

<p>"Good brandy that! It warms the blood!"</p>

<p>"Why, Conroy, I have not seen you since
you brought Godiva here, and that is a year
and I don't know how many months ago."</p>

<p>"May God,"&mdash;he ended the sentence with
an awful imprecation upon the very name
of Godiva. And his face grew wild with
hatred.</p>

<p>"Why I thought she was a favorite of
yours, or you of hers," said the Madam.</p>

<p>"By &mdash;&mdash;! I wish I had buried my knife
in her heart, as she lay on the dissecting
table before me!" he cried, his voice hoarse
with emotion. "Look at me! When first I
met that woman I was studious, ambitious;
the thought of my mother and two sisters,
who depended upon my efforts, stirred me
into superhuman exertion. Well!&mdash;It is not
<i>quite</i> a <i>century</i> since I met that woman, and
look at me now&mdash;a gambler&mdash;a drunkard;
yes," he struck the table with his fist&mdash;"Arthur
Conroy is come to that! My mother
dead, of a broken heart, and my sisters, well!&mdash;my
sisters&mdash;"</p>

<p>As he tried to choke down his emotion,
his features worked as with a spasm.</p>

<p>"Well! never mind!&mdash;and the accursed
woman, whom I brought to your house, in
order to kill the fruits of her passion,&mdash;she is
the cause of all,&mdash;"</p>

<p>The light which left the greater part of
the room in shadow, fell strongly over the
florid face of the Madam, manifesting vague
astonishment; and the flushed visage of
Conroy, working with violent emotions.</p>

<p>"Yes," he said, as though thinking aloud,
while his eyes shone with the brilliancy of a
lighted coal,&mdash;"she was to make my fortune;
she was to aid me, as I ascended that difficult
path, which ambition treads in pursuit
of fame. How smooth her words! I
called her back from the dead,&mdash;she recovered
from her relative a large portion of her property,
sacrificing the rest, on condition that he
concealed the fact of her existence from the
world,&mdash;and I loved her, became the habitant
of her mansion, the companion of her
voluptuous hours. The she-devil! look to
what she has brought me!"</p>

<p>"I wonder if he wants to borrow money?"
said the Madam, in a sort of stage-whisper.</p>

<p>"No he does not," returned Conroy, with
a scowl,&mdash;"He wants to do you a service,
good lady. This morning about daybreak,
as I was returning from the Club-Room, I
came across a poor devil in the streets, who
had been shockingly abused by ruffians,&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Ah!" and the Madam sank back in her
chair.</p>

<p>"I could not let him die there, so I dragged
him to the house of a clergyman, hard
by, and laid him on the sofa. Then, assisted
by the wife of the clergyman, a good sort of
woman,&mdash;I dressed the wounds of the poor
devil, and brought him to."</p>

<p>"The name of the clergyman?" asked the
Madam, biting her lips.</p>

<p>"Barnet, or Barnhurst, or some such name."</p>

<p>"Ah!" and the Madam changed color,
"and you left this man there?"</p>

<p>"He must have had a constitution of iron,
to stand all those knocks! Do you know in
a little while he was on his feet, explaining
to the clergyman's lady, that he had come
home with her husband, the night before,
and had been dragged by unknown ruffians,
from that very house,&mdash;"</p>

<p>"The dev-i-l!" and Madam clutched the
arms of her chair, as she tried to restrain the
rage, which filled every atom of her bulky
frame.</p>

<p>"And now, he's down stairs at the door&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Down stairs at the door!" she bounded
from her chair.</p>

<p>"He has a book under his arm, bound in
red morocco," continued Dr. Conroy,&mdash;"and
he desires to see you on particular business,"
and Conroy filled another glass, half full of
brandy.</p>

<hr class="tb" />

<p>Once more to the death-room of Alice.</p>

<p>Dermoyne, who was as white as a sheet,
stood but one step from the threshold, Godiva
was by the bed, Herman near the head of
the bed: thus Godiva was between the
avenger and his victim.</p>

<p>Herman read his death in the eyes of
Dermoyne, and looked to the window, as
though he thought of raising the sashing,
and dashing himself to pieces upon the
pavement.</p>

<p>Godiva also caught the eye of Dermoyne,&mdash;she
saw, that weak as he was from his
wounds, and the loss of blood, that he was
nerved by his emotions, by his purpose, with
superhuman strength,&mdash;she saw the pistol in
his hand. And all the craft of her dark and
depraved nature, came in a moment to her
aid. She resolved to save Herman,&mdash;that is,
if her craft could save him.</p>

<p>"Hush! hush!" she whispered, "do not
awake the sleeping girl! She has had a
hard night, but now all is well. Hush!
tread lightly,&mdash;lightly!&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Then she lives!" cried Dermoyne, and
his savage eyes lit up with joy.</p>

<p>"Lives, and is doing well, don't you see
how sweet she sleeps?" said Godiva advancing
to him, on tip-toe, "Generous man!
How can I thank you for your kindness to
my cousin, poor, dear Alice?"</p>

<p>"Your cousin?" without another word,
she flung herself upon Dermoyne's breast,
wound her arms tightly about his neck, and
hung there like a tigress upon the neck of her
victim.</p>

<p>"Now's your time, Herman!" she cried,&mdash;and
Dermoyne struggled madly in her embrace,
but her arms wound closer about his
neck, and he struggled in vain. His pistol
fell to the floor.</p>

<p>Herman rushed by him, and the next instant,
Dermoyne had unwound the arms of
Godiva, and flung her violently to the floor.
He turned to the door,&mdash;it was closed and
locked,&mdash;Herman had escaped.</p>

<p>"Villain, you shall pay for this with your
life!" he cried, as with flaming eyes, he advanced
upon the prostrate Godiva.</p>

<p>"Don't be rash, my dear," she said, as
seated on the floor, she was coolly engaged
in arranging her disheveled hair, "You
can't strike me. I'm a woman."</p>

<p>"A woman?" he echoed incredulously.</p>

<p>"Yes,&mdash;and a very good looking one,&mdash;don't
you think so?" and she looked at him
in insolent composure, while her vest,&mdash;torn
open in the struggle,&mdash;displayed a
glimpse of her neck and bosom.</p>

<p>Who, in this calm shameless thing,&mdash;proud
at once of her beauty, and her shame,
would recognize the innocent Marion Merlin
of other years? With an ejaculation of contempt
and anger, Dermoyne turned away
from her, and approached the bed of Alice.</p>

<p>Alice was indeed sleeping there, her cheek
upon the pillow, her lips apart, and with a
ray of sunshine upon her closed eyelids, and
sunny hair.</p>

<p>Dermoyne felt his heart die within him at
the sight. There are emotions upon which
it is best to drop the vail, for words are too
weak to picture their awful intensity.</p>

<p>He called her name, "Alice!" and spreading
forth his arms, he fell insensible upon
the bed, his lips pressing the forehead of the
dead girl.</p>

<p>Godiva rose, closed her vest, and calmly
surveyed the scene, with her eyes shadowed
by her uplifted hand:&mdash;</p>

<p>"I believe upon my soul, he did love
her!" was her comment, and a tear shone in
her eye.</p>

<p>The key turned in the lock, and presently
a man with flushed face, and unsteady step,
appeared upon the threshold. It was Arthur
Conroy.</p>

<p>"Halloo! what's up?" he cried, with a
thick utterance.&mdash;"That you Divy?" and
staggering over the floor, he attempted to put
his arm about her neck.</p>

<p>"Beast!" she cried, and struck him in
the face. And ere he had recovered from
the surprise of the blow, she glided from the
room.</p>

<p>Seating himself on the foot of the bed, his
eyes rolling in the vacancy of intoxication,
he began to mutter words like these,&mdash;</p>

<p>"I'd a-better have cut you up, when I had
you on the dissectin' table&mdash;I had. 'Beast.'
You've served the devil for very small
wages, Arthur Conroy! Ha, ha,&mdash;its a
queer world."</p>

<p>Shall we ever see Herman and Godiva,
Conroy and Dermoyne again?</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h3><a name="CHAPTER_6_III" id="CHAPTER_6_III">CHAPTER III.</a></h3>

<h4>THE DREAM-ELIXIR.</h4>


<p>The Twenty-Fourth of December was a
happy day with Randolph Royalton. One
happy day, after a long month devoted to
agony and despair! Early morning light,
found him in an upper chamber of the mansion,
near the window, his form half concealed
among the curtains, but his pale countenance,
fully disclosed. There was thought upon his
broad white forehead, relieved by the jet-black
hair, an emotion of unspeakable tenderness,&mdash;passion,&mdash;in
his large, clear blue eyes, and all
the while upon his lips, an expression in
which hatred mingled with contempt. For
three images rose before him,&mdash;his future,
and that was hard to read, and buried him
in thought,&mdash;Eleanor, young and beautiful,
and willing to become his own, and that
filled his eyes with the light of passion,&mdash;his
Brother, whom he had left helpless and
insensible in a distant chamber, and who had
met all his offers of fraternal love with withering
scorn, and that thought curled his lip
with mingled hatred and contempt.</p>

<p>In his hand he held a letter, which had
just been delivered by Mr. Hicks, and before
him were two huge trunks, one bearing the
name of "Randolph Royalton, Heidelberg,"
and the other the name of "Esther Royalton,
Hill Royal, S. C." These trunks which
had just arrived in a mysterious manner, had
been placed in his room by the hand of a
servant.</p>

<p>On his way south, about a month before,
Randolph had left his trunk in Washington,
and hurried home, eager to see his father.
When Esther was brought to Washington,
by her brother and her purchaser, her trunk
was brought with her from Royalton. And
when Randolph and Esther escaped from
Washington, they took their trunks with
them as far as Philadelphia, where they left
them in their eagerness to escape from their
pursuers.</p>

<p>And now these trunks,&mdash;containing all
that they were worth in the world,&mdash;had
by some unknown person, been brought to
the house in Broadway, and delivered into
the servant's hands, accompanied by the note
which Randolph held.</p>

<p>"Brother!" ejaculated Randolph, thinking
of Harry Royalton, whom he had left weak
and helpless in a distant chamber,&mdash;a chamber
which Randolph had given up to him&mdash;"Brother!
I am afraid our accounts draw to
a close. I'm afraid that your nature cannot
be changed. Shall I have to fight you with
your own weapons? Last night I saved
your life,&mdash;I brought you to my own home;
I laid you on my own bed; I watched over
you, and when you woke, held out to you a
brother's hand. That hand you struck
down in scorn! So much the worse for you,
dear brother. Your condition will not allow
you to leave this house for a day or two,&mdash;at
least not until <i>to-morrow</i> is over. And
<i>to-morrow</i> past, brother, you will forfeit all
interest in the Van Huyden Estate."</p>

<p>Randolph was a generous and a noble man,
but there were desperate elements within,
which the events of the last month had
begun to develop. He now felt that his
fate would be decided and forever, by the
course of the next twenty-four hours. And
every power of his soul, all the strength, the
good,&mdash;shall we say evil?&mdash;began to rise
within him to meet the crisis. There was
energy in his look, danger in his eye.</p>

<p>"And Eleanor,&mdash;" he breathed that name
and paused, and for a moment he was enveloped
in the atmosphere of an intense but
sinless passion. "Eleanor loves me! She
will be mine!"</p>

<p>But how should his marriage with Eleanor
be accomplished, without the fatal disclosure,
that instead of being the legitimate
child of John Augustine Royalton, he was
simply&mdash;the White Slave of his own brother?</p>

<p>The thought was madness, but Randolph
met it, and rousing every power of his soul,
sought to pierce the clouds which hung
upon his future.</p>

<p>He opened the letter, which Mr. Hicks
had delivered to him, and recognized
the hand of his unknown protector,&mdash;his
friend of the Half-Way House. It was
dated "Dec. 24th," 1844, and these were its
contents:&mdash;</p>

<blockquote>

<p>"<span class="smcap">To Randolph Royalton</span>:&mdash;</p>

<p>"When first I met you and your sister at
the house near Princeton, and heard the
story of your wrongs, in you I recognized
the children of an old and dear friend, John
Augustine Royalton. I determined to protect
you. You know how my plans were
laid. Your brother, also your persecutor,
was delivered to punishment. Yourself and
sister were brought to New York, and placed
in the mansion which you now occupy.
Last night, wishing to know whether there
yet remained in your brother one throb of a
better nature&mdash;conscious that if his feelings
to you were unchanged, you would at no
moment be safe from his vengeance,&mdash;I arranged
your meeting with him and his instrument,
in the den below Five Points. From
old Royal (whom I first met in Philadelphia,
and who told me of your story before
I saw you at the half-way house,) I have
learned all that occurred last night,&mdash;the attack
made on you by your brother,&mdash;your
magnanimous conduct,&mdash;the awful, although
richly deserved death of Bloodhound, his
atrocious tool. And although I know not
what became of your brother after you bore
him from the den, I doubt not but that you
have placed him where he will be watched
over with affectionate care.</p>

<p>"Yesterday I encountered Mr. Bernard
Lynn, who seemed to take a great interest in
you. I directed him to your house,&mdash;treat
him as your guest in your own house,&mdash;for I
especially desire you to regard the house and
all it contains as yours, until the 25th of
December has passed. Until then be perfectly
at your ease. Await the developments of
the 25th of December. In the meantime,
if you want money, you will find it in the
drawer of the desk (of which I inclose the
key,) which you will find in your bed-room.
Your trunks, which you lost in Philadelphia,
I have recovered and send to you. Make no
effort to see me, until I call upon you.</p>

<p>"Your friend,</p>

<p>"<span class="smcap">Ezekiel Bogart</span>."</p></blockquote>

<p>In the letter there was much food for
thought.</p>

<p>"So far all well," thought Randolph,&mdash;"but
<i>to-morrow</i> once passed, what then?"
He unlocked his trunk, and after a careful
examination, found that its contents remained
the same as when he had left it in Washington.
It was very large, and divided into
various compartments, and contained his
wardrobe, his choicest books, and most treasured
letters, together with numerous memorials
of his student life in Heidelberg. Opening
a small and secret drawer, he drew forth
a package of letters, held together by a faded
ribbon.</p>

<p>"Ah! letters from my father!" and he
untied the package,&mdash;"What is this? I
never saw it before!"</p>

<p>It was a letter directed to him in his father's
hand, and sealed with his father's seal.
To his complete astonishment the seal was
unbroken.</p>

<p>"How came this letter here? My father's
seal and unbroken,&mdash;this is indeed strange!"</p>

<p>He regarded the letter carefully, weighed
it in his hand, but paused, in hesitation, ere
he broke the seal. For the first time, written
around the seal, in his father's hand, he beheld
these words, "<i>Not to be opened until my
death.</i>"</p>

<p>Tears started into Randolph's eyes, and
for a moment, as he knelt there, he rested
his forehead on his hand.</p>

<p>Then, with an eager hand, he broke the
seal. The contents of the letter were bared
to the light.</p>

<blockquote>

<p>"<span class="smcap">Heidelberg</span>, <i>September</i> 23, 1840.</p>

<p>"<span class="smcap">Dearest Son</span>:&mdash;</p>

<p>"You have just left me, and with the
memory of our late conversation fresh in my
mind, I now write this letter, which you
will not read until I am dead. Randolph, I
repeat the truth of that which I have just
disclosed to you,&mdash;your mother was not my
mistress, but my lawful wife. Yourself and
Esther are legitimate. By my will I make
you, with Harry, joint inheritors of my estate,
and of my share in the Van Huyden
estate.</p>

<p>"Your mother, Herodia, was not the child
of Colonel Rawdon, but the dearly beloved
daughter of &mdash;&mdash; &mdash;&mdash;, who never acknowledged
her to the world. He communicated,
however, the secret of her paternity
to Rawdon, and left her in his charge, intrusting
him with a sealed packet, which he
directed should be delivered to Herodia's
son, in case a son was ever born to her. A
packet which contained a commission, upon
whose fulfillment by that son, the happiness,
the destiny of all the races on the American
continent, might depend. Worshiping the
memory of this great man, Rawdon treated
Herodia (known as a slave) as his own child
and would not transfer her to me, until I had
made her my wife in a secret marriage.</p>

<p>"A sealed copy of my will I gave you a
few moments since; and this letter contains
an original letter of &mdash;&mdash; &mdash;&mdash;, written
to Colonel Rawdon, and recognizing Herodia
as his child.</p>

<p>"When I am dead, you will find the
packet in a secret closet behind the fourth
shelf of my library, at Hill Royal. There
you will also find a large amount of gold,
which may be useful to you in some unforeseen
hour of adversity, and which I hereby
give to you and Esther.</p>

<p>"This letter I inclose in the package of
letters which you left for my perusal.</p>

<p>"Your father,</p>

<p>"<span class="smcap">John Augustine Royalton</span>,</p>

<p>"<i>of Hill Royal</i>."</p></blockquote>

<p>Randolph read this letter with signs of
emotion not to be mistaken. Rising from
his knees, he walked slowly up and down
the room, his eyes shaded by his uplifted
hand. As he drew near the window, his
pale face was flushed, his eyes radiant with
new light.</p>

<p>"So! I am then the elder brother, the
real lord of Hill Royal! My mother was a
slave, but she was the lawful wife of my
father." His brow clouded and his lips
curved. "It seems to me this younger brother
has given us trouble enough,&mdash;let him
have a care how his shadow crosses my way
for the future."</p>

<p>He stood erect in every inch of his stature,
his eyes dilating, and his hand extended, as
though,&mdash;even like a glorious landscape,
rich in vine-clad mountains and grassy meadows,
smiling in the sun,&mdash;he beheld his future
stretch clear and bold before him.</p>

<p>"Harry, I have given you my hand for
the last time," he said, in a significant voice.</p>

<p>A piece of paper, carefully folded and
worn by time, slipped from the letter which
he held. Randolph seized it eagerly, and
opening it, beheld a few lines traced in a
handwriting which had long become historical.
It was dated many years back, and
was addressed to Colonel Rawdon.</p>

<blockquote>

<p>"<span class="smcap">My Esteemed Friend</span>:&mdash;</p>

<p>"I am glad to hear the girl, <span class="smcap">Herodia</span>,
whom, many years ago, I placed in your
care, (acquainting you with the circumstances
of her birth and paternity,) progresses toward
womanhood, rich in education, accomplishments
and personal loveliness. While
nominally your slave, you have treated her
as a daughter,&mdash;accept her father's heartfelt
gratitude. In consequence of her descent,
on her mother's side, she cannot (with safety
to herself) be formally manumitted, nor can
she be publicly recognized as the equal of
your own daughter, or the associate of ladies
of the white race. But it is my last charge
to you, that she be honorably (even although
secretly) married; and that the inclosed
sealed packet which I send to you, be given
to her eldest son, in case a son is born to her.
That packet contains matters which, carried
into action by such a son, would do much,
yes, everything, to establish the happiness
of all the races on this continent. Kiss for
me, that dear daughter of mine, whom, in
this life, I shall never behold.</p>

<p>"Yours, with respect and gratitude,</p>

<p>"&mdash;&mdash; &mdash;&mdash;."</p></blockquote>

<p>A very touching,&mdash;an altogether significant
letter.</p>

<p>Randolph pressed it to his lips in silence.
Then inclosing it within his father's letter,
he placed them both in a secret compartment
of his trunk.</p>

<p>He seated himself, and folding his arms,
gave himself up to the dominion of a crowd
of thoughts, which flooded in upon his soul,
like mingled sunshine and lightning through
the window of a darkened room.</p>

<hr class="tb" />

<p>Bending over his trunk, he was examining,
with an absent gaze, certain memorials
of his old student brothers of Heidelberg.
A small casket contained them all.</p>

<p>"This ring was given to me by poor Richmond,
the English student. He was killed
in a duel. And here is the watch of Van
Brondt,&mdash;poor fellow! he died of consumption,
even as his studies were completed, and
a youth of poverty and hardship seemed about
to be succeeded by a manhood of wealth and
fame. And this,"&mdash;he took up a small vial,
whose glass was incased in silver,&mdash;"this,
Van Eichmer, the enthusiastic chemist, gave
me. I wonder whether his dreams of fame,
from the discovery embodied in this vial,
will ever be realized? A rare liquid,&mdash;its
powers rivaling the wonders of enchantment.
He gave it to me under a solemn pledge not
to subject it to chemical analysis, until he
has time to mature his discovery, and make
it known as the result of his own genius.
He called it (somewhat after the fanciful
fashion of the old alchemists) the 'Dream-Elixir.'
I wonder if it has lost its virtues?"</p>

<p>Removing the buckskin covering which
concealed the stopple, he then carefully drew
the stopple, and applied the vial for a moment
to his nostrils. The effect was as rapid
as lightning. His face changed; his eyes
grew wild and dreamy. His whole being
was pervaded by an inexpressible rapture,&mdash;a
rapture of calmness, (if we may thus
speak) a rapture of unutterable repose. And
like cloud-forms revealed by lightning, the
most gorgeous images swept before him. He
seemed to have been suddenly caught up
into the paradise of Mahomet, among fountains,
showering upon beds of roses, and with
the white-bosomed houris gliding to and
fro.</p>

<p>In a word, the effect of the vial, applied
but for an instant to his nostrils, threw into
the shade all the wonders of opium, and
rivaled in enchantment the maddening
draught of oriental story,&mdash;<i>the Hashish</i>,&mdash;which
the Old Man of the Mountain gave to
his devotee Assassins,<a name="FNanchor_1_2" id="FNanchor_1_2"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_2" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> intoxicating them
with the odors of paradise, even as their
hands were red with their victims' blood.</p>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_1_2" id="Footnote_1_2"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_2"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> The order of the Assassins prevailed in Asia, in the
days of the Crusades, and the history of their power and
terrible influence is strangely connected with the history
of the Knights Templars. The founder of the order,
Hassan Sabah, rewarded his devotees for their deeds of
murder, by a draught (called as above, the <span class="smcap">hashish</span>,)
whose powers of enchantment consoled them for a lifetime
of hardship and danger.</p></div>

<p>Like one awaking from a trance, Randolph
slowly recovered from the effect of the Dream-Elixir,
and once more saw the winter light
shining through his window. The vial was
in his hand,&mdash;he had taken the precaution to
replace the stopple, the moment after he had
applied it to his nostrils.</p>

<p>"It has lost none of its virtues. Held to
the nostrils, or a few drops on a kerchief,
applied to the mouth, its first effect is rapture;
the second, rapture prolonged to delirium; its
third, rapture that ends in death."</p>

<p>Randolph replaced the buckskin covering
around the stopple of the vial, and then
placed the vial in his vest pocket.</p>

<p>At this moment the door opened and the
quiet Mr. Hicks entered the room, clad in his
gray livery, turned up with black. He bowed
and said,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Master, Mr. Lynn sends his compliments
and desires to see you in the parlor."</p>

<p>"Tell Mr. Lynn that I will attend him
presently," said Randolph rising from his
knees.&mdash;"How is our patient, Mr. Hicks?"</p>

<p>"I left him asleep. He is very weak,
though quite easy."</p>

<p>"Mr. Hicks, I desire that you will attend
him throughout the day, or place him in
the care of some trustworthy servant. If he
asks for any one, send for me. Admit no
one into his room,&mdash;you understand, he is a
dear friend of mine,"&mdash;he placed his finger
on his forehead,&mdash;"a little touched here, and
I do not wish his misfortune to be known,
until all the means of recovery, which I have
at my command, prove hopeless. Mr. Hicks,
you will remember."</p>

<p>"I will remember, and attend to your
commands, master," and Mr. Hicks bowed
like an automaton.</p>

<p>"Have this trunk removed to Miss Royalton's
room," said Randolph, and leaving Mr.
Hicks, he descended to the parlor.</p>

<p>Through the rich curtains of the eastern
and western windows of that magnificent
apartment, the morning light was dimly
shining. The lofty walls, the pictures, the
statues, the carpet, the mirrors, all looked
grand and luxurious in the softened light.</p>

<p>Bernard Lynn sat on the sofa, in the center
of the parlor, his arms folded and his
countenance troubled. As he raised his
gaze and greeted Randolph, in a kindly although
absent way, Randolph saw that his
bronzed visage, (above which rose masses of
snow-white hair) was traced with the lines
of anxious thought, and his dark eyes were
feverish with restlessness and care.</p>

<p>"Sit by me, Randolph," he said in a serious
voice, and he grasped Randolph's hand
and gazed earnestly in his face.&mdash;"I wish to
speak with you. I have traveled much,
Randolph, and when matters press heavily
on my mind, I am a blunt man,&mdash;I use few
words. I desire you to give all imaginable
emphasis to what I am about to say."</p>

<p>Randolph took his hand and met his gaze;
but he felt troubled and perplexed at Bernard
Lynn's words and manner.</p>

<p>"Briefly, then, Randolph,&mdash;when can you
leave the city?"</p>

<p>Without knowing how the words came to
his lips, Randolph replied,&mdash;"The day after
to-morrow."</p>

<p>"Can you go with us, by steamer, to
Charleston? I wish to visit the scene,&mdash;"
he paused as if unable to proceed,&mdash;"the
scene,&mdash;you understand me? And then,
after a week's delay, we will go to Havana
and spend the winter there. Will you go
with us?"</p>

<p>It is impossible to describe the emotions
which these words aroused. Hopes, fears, a
picture of his father's home, the consciousness
there was a taint upon his blood,&mdash;all
whirled like lightning through his brain.
But he did not stop to analyze his thoughts,
but answered again,&mdash;as though the word
was given to him,&mdash;in a single word, earnest
in tone, and with a hearty grasp,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Willingly," he said.</p>

<p>A ray of pleasure flitted over the bronzed
face of Bernard Lynn. But in an instant
he was sad and earnest again. "Randolph,
I have been thinking, and most seriously,&mdash;I
beg you to listen to the result of my
thoughts. Nay, not a word,&mdash;fewest words
are best, and a plain answer to a plain question
will decide all.&mdash;I have been thinking
of the desolate condition in which Eleanor
will be left, in case her father is suddenly
taken away. She will need a friend, a protector,
a husband."</p>

<p>He paused; Randolph, all agitation,
awaited his next word in breathless suspense.</p>

<p>"I have long known her feelings,&mdash;she
tells me that she knows yours. You are
aware of my fortune and position,&mdash;I am
aware of yours. Plainly, then, do you love
her,&mdash;do you desire her hand?"</p>

<p>For a moment Randolph could not reply.</p>

<p>"O, my dearest friend, can you ask it?"
he exclaimed, taking both hands of Mr.
Lynn in his own,&mdash;"Do I desire Eleanor's
hand? It is the only wish of my life,&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Enough, my friend, enough," replied
Bernard, as a tear stole down his cheek.
"In serious matters, I am a man of few
words,&mdash;I fear that I may be suddenly taken
away&mdash;I feel that there is no use of delay.
Shall it take place this evening in your
house?"</p>

<p>Randolph could only reply by a silent
grasp of the hand.</p>

<p>"In presence of your sister, myself and
the clergyman? And then, the day after
to-morrow we leave for Charleston&mdash;"</p>

<p>"You speak the dearest wish of my soul,"
was all that Randolph could reply.</p>

<p>Bernard Lynn arose,&mdash;"I will go out and
buy a bridal present for my child," he said,
"and your sister and myself will take charge
of all the details of the marriage. God bless
you, my boy! What a load is lifted from
my heart!"</p>

<p>How over his bronzed visage, a look cordial
and joyous as the spring sunshine played,
even while there were tears in his eyes!</p>

<p>Randolph felt his heart swell with rapture,
but instantly,&mdash;growing pale as death,&mdash;he
rose, and resolved to make a revelation,
which would blast all his hopes to ashes.</p>

<p>"I will not deceive this good old man. I
will tell him my real condition, tell him that
there is the blood of the accursed race in my
veins."</p>

<p>This was his thought, and feeling like a
criminal on the scaffold, he prepared to fulfill
it,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Ah, you and I are agreed," cried Bernard,
with his usual jovial laugh.&mdash;"but you
must ask this child what she says of the
matter," and dropping Randolph's hand, he
hurried from the room.</p>

<p>Even as the first word of the confession
was on his lip, Randolph beheld Eleanor,
who had entered unperceived, standing between
him and the light, on the very spot
which her father had just left.</p>

<p>She looked very beautiful.</p>

<p>Clad in a dark dress, which, fitting closely
to her arms and bust, and flowing in rich
folds, around her womanly proportions, from
the waist to the feet, she stood before him,
one finger raised to her lip, her eyes fixed
upon him in a gaze, full of deep and passionate
light. Her face was cast into faint
shadow, by her hair, which was disposed
about it, in brown and wavy masses. But
through the shadow her eyes shone with
deep and passionate light.</p>

<p>A very beautiful woman, now unable to
utter a word, as with heaving breast, she confronts
the man whom she knows is destined
to be her husband.</p>

<p>Why does all thought of confession fade
from Randolph's mind?</p>

<p>O, the atmosphere of the presence of a
pure, and beautiful woman, whose eyes
gleam upon you with passionate love, carries
with it an enchantment, which makes you
forget the whole universe,&mdash;everything,&mdash;save
that she is before you, that she loves
you, that your soul is chained to her eyes.</p>

<p>Randolph silently stretched forth his arms.
She came to him, and laid her arms about
his neck, her bosom upon his breast.</p>

<p>"My wife!" he whispered.</p>

<p>And she raised her face, until their lips
and their eyes, met at once, whispering&mdash;"My
husband."</p>

<hr class="tb" />

<p>Certainly, this was a happy day for Randolph
Royalton.</p>

<p>Talk of opium, <i>hashish</i>, dream-elixir!
Talk of their enchantment, and of the Mahomet's
paradise which they create! What
enchantment can rival the pressure of a pure
woman's lips, which breathe softly, "husband!"
as she lays them against your
own?</p>

<p>But at least a dozen gentlemen who have
divorce cases on hand, will curse me bitterly
for writing the last sentence. And all the
old bachelors who, having never known the
kiss of a pure wife, or any wife at all, and
having grown musty in their sins, will turn
away with an "umph!" and an oath. And
all the young libertines, who, deriving their
opinion of women, merely from the unfaithful
wives, and abandoned creatures with
whom they have herded, and having expended
even before the day of young manhood,
every healthy throb, in shameless
excess, they, too, will expand their faded
eyes, and curl their colorless lips, at the very
mention of "a pure woman," much less, a
"pure woman's kiss." The "fast," the very
"fast" boys!</p>

<p>But there are some who will not utterly
dislike the allusion to a pure woman, or a
pure woman's kiss.</p>

<p>That quiet sort of people who, having no
divorce cases on hand, know that there are
such things as pure women in the world, and
know that a good wife, carries about her an
atmosphere of goodness, that brings heaven
itself down to the home.</p>

<p>And you, old bachelor,&mdash;a word in your
ear,&mdash;if you only knew the experience of
returning from a long journey late at night,&mdash;of
stealing quietly into a home, your own
home, up the dark stairs, and into a room,
where a single light is shining near a bed,&mdash;of
seeing there, blooming on the white pillow,
the face of a pure wife, your own wife,
rosy with sleep, and with her dark hair
peeping out from her night-cap&mdash;&mdash;, why,
old bachelor, if you had only an idea of this
kind of experience, you'd curse yourself for
not getting married some forty years ago!&mdash;</p>

<hr class="tb" />

<p>The day passed quickly and happily, in
quiet preparation for the bridal ceremony.</p>

<hr class="tb" />

<p>Eleanor was seated in a rocking-chair, her
feet crossed and resting on a stool, her head
thrown back, and her dark hair resting partly
on her bared shoulders, partly on the arm of
Esther, who stood behind her. The beams
of the declining sun came softened through
the window-curtains, and lit up the scene
with mild, subdued light. It was a beautiful
picture. There stood Esther, the matured
woman, rich in every charm of voluptuous
and stately beauty; and her gaze, softened
by her long eyelashes, was tenderly fixed
upon the upturned countenance of Eleanor,&mdash;a
countenance radiant with youth, with
abounding life, with passionate love. The
habit of dark green cloth which Esther wore,
contrasted with the robe of white muslin which
enveloped Eleanor, its flowing folds girdled
lightly about her waist and its snowy whiteness,
half hidden by her unbound hair; for
that hair which was soft brown in the sunlight
and black in the shadow, fell in copious
waves over her neck, her bosom, and below
her waist. Eleanor was beautiful, Esther
was beautiful, but their loveliness was of
contrasted types; you could not precisely
define how they differed; you only saw that
they were beautiful, and that the loveliness
of one, set off and added to, the charms of
the other.</p>

<p>And as Esther was arranging the hair of
the bride, for the marriage ceremony, they
conversed in low tones:</p>

<p>"O, we shall all be so happy!" said Eleanor&mdash;"the
climate of Havana, is as soft
and bland as Italy, and it will be so delightful
to leave this dreary sky, this atmosphere
all storm and snow, for a land where summer
never knows an end, and where
every breeze is loaded with the breath of
flowers!"</p>

<p>Esther was about to reply, but Eleanor
continued,&mdash;and her words drove the life-blood
from Esther's cheek.</p>

<p>"And on our way we will stop at the old
mansion of Hill Royal, the home of Randolph's
ancestors. How I shall delight to
wander with you through those fine old
rooms, where the associations of the past
meet you at every step! Do you know,
Esther, that I am a great aristocrat,&mdash;I believe
in race, in blood,&mdash;in the perpetuation
of the same qualities, either good or
evil, from generation to generation? Look
at Randolph, at yourself, for instance,&mdash;your
look, your walk, every accent tell the story
of a proud, a noble ancestry!"</p>

<p>"Or, look at yourself," was all that Esther
could say, as she bent over the happy bride,
thus hiding her face,&mdash;grown suddenly pale,&mdash;from
the light. "Shall I tell her all?"
the thought flashed over her, as she wound
her hands through the rich meshes of Eleanor's
hair,&mdash;"shall I tell this beautiful girl,
who is as proud as she is beautiful, that in
the veins of her husband there is&mdash;negro
blood?"</p>

<p>But the very thought of such a revelation
appalled her.</p>

<p>"Better leave it to the future," she
thought, and then said aloud, "Tell me,
Eleanor, something about Italy."</p>

<p>And while Esther, with sisterly hands,
arrayed her for the bridal, the proud and
happy bride, whose every vein swelled with
abounding life and love, spoke of Italy,&mdash;of
its skies and its monuments,&mdash;of the hour
when she first met Randolph, and also of the
moment when, amid the Apennines, he
saved her life, her honor.</p>

<p>"O, sister, do you think that a love like ours
can ever know the shadow of change?"</p>

<p>Happy Eleanor!</p>

<hr class="tb" />

<p>Meanwhile Randolph, standing by the
parlor window apparently gazing upon the
current of life which whirled madly along
Broadway, in the light of the declining day,
was in reality abstracted from all external
existence, and buried in his own thoughts,&mdash;thoughts
delicious and enchanting. Was
there no phantom in the background, to cast
its fatal shadow over the rich landscape
which rose before his mental eye?</p>

<p>He was attired for the marriage ceremony,
in a severely plain costume, which well became
his thoughtful face and manly frame,&mdash;black
dress coat, vest of white Marseilles,
open collar and black neckerchief. As he
stood there, noble-featured, broad-browed,
his clear blue eyes and dark hair, contrasting
with his complexion whose extreme pallor
indicated by no means either lack of health
or vigor, who would have thought that there
was&mdash;negro blood in his veins?</p>

<p>"In an hour Eleanor will be my wife!" he
muttered, and his brow grew clouded and
thoughtful, even while his eyes were filled
with passionate light. "But there is no use
of reflecting now. I must leave that fatal
disclosure, with all its chances and consequences,
to the future. Eleanor will be my
wife, come what will."</p>

<p>His meditations were interrupted by the
entrance of Mr. Hicks, who wore his usual
imperturbable look, which seemed as much
a part of him as his livery of gray turned up
with black.</p>

<p>"How has our <i>patient</i> been since I left
him an hour ago?" asked Randolph.</p>

<p>"He is no longer delirious," answered Mr.
Hicks. "About a half an hour ago, he asked
me the time of day, in a tone, and with a
look, that showed that he had come to his
senses."</p>

<p>"You conversed with him?"</p>

<p>"No, sir. He fell into a quiet sleep, and I
left him in charge of a faithful servant.
Don't you think we had better change the
bandages on his back, after awhile? He has
been sadly abused&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>"And I came to the scene of conflict just
in time to save his life, and bear him to my
home,&mdash;I will see him at once, and then tell
you when to dress his wounds."</p>

<p>He moved toward the door.</p>

<p>"Has Mr. Lynn returned?" he said, turning
his head over his shoulder.</p>

<p>"About half an hour since, he went up
stairs to his room," returned Mr. Hicks.</p>

<p>Randolph left the parlor and hastened toward
his own chamber, determined to make
one more effort to change the hard nature,
the unrelenting hatred of his brother. As
he passed along the corridor, conscious that
the most important crisis, if not the all-important
crisis, of his life was near, his thoughts
mingling the image of Eleanor with the
proud memory of his lineage on the father's
side, were intense and all-absorbing. For
the time he forgot the taint in his blood.</p>

<p>He arrived before the door of the chamber
in which his brother lay. It was near
the foot of a broad staircase which, thickly
carpeted, and with bannisters of walnut,
darkened by time, was illumined by light
from the skylight far above. The door of
the chamber was slightly open,&mdash;Randolph
started, for he heard his brother's voice,
speaking in rapid, impetuous tones. And
the next instant, the voice of Bernard Lynn,
hoarse with anger. Randolph, with his step
upon the threshold, drew back and listened.</p>

<p>He did not pause to ask himself how Bernard
Lynn came to be a visitor in the chamber
of his brother,&mdash;he only listened to their
voices,&mdash;with all his soul, he tried to distinguish
their words.</p>

<p>It was the moment of his life. It required
a terrible exertion of will, to suppress
the cry of despair which rose to his lips.</p>

<p>"A negro!" he heard the voice of Bernard
Lynn, hoarse with rage,&mdash;"and to my
daughter! Never!"</p>

<p>And then the voice of Harry Royalton,
whose life he had spared and saved,&mdash;"I
heard of this marriage from one of the servants,
and felt it my duty to set you on your
guard. Therefore, I sent for you. I can
give you proof,&mdash;proof that will sink the
slave into the earth."</p>

<p>Once more the voice of Bernard Lynn,&mdash;"A
negro! and about to marry him to my
daughter! A negro!"</p>

<p>There was the hatred of a whole life embodied
in the way he pronounced that word,&mdash;"a
negro!"</p>

<p>Randolph laid his hand against the wall,
and his head sank on his breast. He was
completely unnerved.</p>

<p>The hopes of his life were ashes.</p>

<p>Once more, with a terrible exertion, he
rallied himself, and with the thought,&mdash;"There
remains, at least, revenge!"&mdash;he advanced
toward the threshold.</p>

<p>But there was a footstep on the stair.
Turning, Randolph beheld Eleanor, who was
slowly descending the stairs. She was clad
in her bridal dress. The light shone full
upon her; she was radiantly beautiful. She
wore a robe of snow-white satin, girdled
lightly to her waist by a string of pearls, and
over this a robe of green velvet, veined with
flowers of gold, and open in front from her
bosom to her feet. Her hair was disposed in
rich masses about her face, and from its
glossy blackness, and from the pure white of
her forehead, a circlet of diamonds shone
dazzlingly in the light. She saw Randolph,
and her eyes spoke although her lips were
silent.</p>

<p>That moment decided her fate and his own.</p>

<p>As she was halfway down the stairs, he
sprang to meet her.</p>

<p>"Randolph! how pale you are," and she
started as she saw his face.</p>

<p>"Dearest, I must speak with you a moment,"
he whispered.&mdash;"To the library."</p>

<p>He took her by the hand and led her up
the stairs, and along a corridor; she noticed
that his hand was hot and cold by turns, and
she began to tremble in sympathy with his
agitation.</p>

<p>They came to the door of the library.
The lock was turned from the outside by a
key, but when the door was closed it locked
itself. Randolph found the key in the lock;
he turned it; the door opened; he placed
the key in his pocket; they crossed the
threshold. The door closed behind them,
and was locked at once. Eleanor was ignorant
of this fact.</p>

<p>The library was a spacious apartment, with
two windows opening to the east, and a ceiling
which resembled a dome. The light
came dimly through the closed curtains, but
a wood-fire, smouldering on the broad hearth,
which now flamed up, and as suddenly died
away, served to disclose the high walls, lined
with shelves, the table in the center overspread
with books and papers, and the picture
above the mantle, framed in dark wood.
Two antique arm-chairs stood beside the table;
there was a sofa between the windows,
and in each corner of the room, a statue was
placed on a pedestal. The shelves were
crowded with huge volumes, whose gilt
bindings, though faded by time, glittered in
the uncertain light. Altogether, as the light
now flashed up and died away again, it was
an apartment reminding you of old times,&mdash;of
ghosts and specters, may be,&mdash;but of anything
save the present century.</p>

<p>"What a ghost-like place!" said Eleanor.</p>

<p>Randolph led her in silence to the sofa,
and seated himself by her side.</p>

<p>"Eleanor, I am sadly troubled. I have
just received a letter which informs me of a
sad disaster which has happened to a friend,&mdash;a
friend whom I have known from boyhood."</p>

<p>Eleanor took his hand. As the light
flashed up for an instant, she was startled at
the sight of his face.</p>

<p>"Compose yourself, Randolph," she said,
kindly.&mdash;"The news may not be so disastrous
as you think."</p>

<p>"I will tell you the story in a few words,"
and he took her hand as he continued: "A
month ago, I left my friend in Charleston.
Young, reputed to be wealthy, certainly connected
with one of the first families of South
Carolina, he was engaged in marriage to a
beautiful girl,&mdash;one of the most beautiful that
sun ever shone upon,&mdash;" he paused,&mdash;"as
beautiful, Eleanor, as yourself."</p>

<p>And he fixed his ardent gaze upon that
face which the soft shadow, broken now and
then by the uncertain light, invested with
new loveliness.</p>

<p>Eleanor made no reply in words; but her
eyes met those of her plighted husband.</p>

<p>"The day was fixed for their marriage,&mdash;they
looked forward to it with all the anticipations
of a pure and holy love. It came,&mdash;the
bride and bridegroom stood before the
altar, in presence of the wedding-guests,&mdash;the
priest began the ceremony, when a revelation
was made which caused the bride to
fall like one dead at the feet of her abashed
and despair-stricken lover."</p>

<p>"This was, indeed, strange," whispered
Eleanor, profoundly interested; "and this
revelation?"</p>

<p>Randolph drew her nearer to him; his
eyes grew deeper in their light, as in a voice,
that grew lower at every word, he continued,</p>

<p>"The bridegroom was, indeed, connected
with one of the first families in the State,
but even as the priest began the ceremony,
a voice from among the guests pronounced
these words, 'Shame! shame! a woman so
beautiful to marry a man who has negro
blood in his veins!'"</p>

<p>"And these words,&mdash;they were not true?"
eagerly asked Eleanor, resting her hand on
Randolph's arm.</p>

<p>"They were true," answered Randolph.
"It was their fatal truth which caused the
bride to fall like a corpse, and covered the
face of the bridegroom with shame and despair."</p>

<p>Eleanor's bosom heaved above the edge of
her bridal robe; her lips curled with scorn;
"And knowing this fatal truth, this lover
sought her hand in marriage? O, shame!
shame!"</p>

<p>"But hear the sequel of the story," Randolph
continued, and well it was for him, at
that instant, that no sudden glow from the
hearth lit up his livid and corrugated face,&mdash;"What,
think you, was the course of the
plighted wife, when she came to her senses?"</p>

<p>"She spurned from her side this unworthy
lover,&mdash;she crushed every thought of
love&mdash;"</p>

<p>"No, dearest, no! Even in the presence
of her father and the wedding-guests, she
took the bridegroom by the hand, and although
her face was pale as death, said, with
a firm eye and unfaltering voice, 'Behold
my husband! As heaven is above us, I
will wed none but him!'"</p>

<p>"O, base and shameless! base and shameless!"
cried Eleanor, the scorn of her tone
and of her look beyond all power of words,&mdash;"to
speak thus, and take by the hand a
man whose veins were polluted by the blood
of a thrice accursed race!"</p>

<p>Randolph raised his hand to his forehead;
what thoughts were burning there,
need not be told. Shading his eyes, he
saw Eleanor before him, beautiful and voluptuous,
in her bridal robe, her bosom
swelling into view; but with unmeasured
scorn in the curve of her proud lip, in
the lightning glance of her eyes.</p>

<p>And after that gaze, he said in a low voice,
the fatal words,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Eleanor, what would you say, were
I to inform you, that my veins are also
polluted by the blood of this thrice accursed
race?"</p>

<p>She did not utter a cry; she did not
shriek; but starting from the sofa, and resting
for support one hand against the wall,
she turned to him her horror-stricken face,
uttering a single word,&mdash;"You?"</p>

<p>"That I, descended from one of the first
families of Carolina, on my father's side, am
on the mother's side, connected with the
accursed race?"</p>

<p>"You, Randolph, <i>you</i>!"</p>

<p>"That knowing this, I fled from Florence,
when first I won your love; but to-day,
dazzled by your beauty, mad with love of
the very atmosphere in which you breathe,
I forgot the taint in my blood, I saw our
marriage hour draw nigh, with heaven itself
in my heart&mdash;"</p>

<p>"O, my God, why can I not die?"</p>

<p>"That even now your father knows the
fatal secret, and breathes curses upon me, as
he pronounces my name; resolves, that
you shall die by his hand, ere you become
my wife&mdash;"</p>

<p>She saw his face, by the sudden light,&mdash;it
was impressed by a mortal agony. And
although the room seemed to swim around,
and her knees bent under her, she rallied her
fast-fading strength, and advanced toward
him, but with tottering steps.</p>

<p>"You are either mad, or you wish to drive
me mad," she said, and laid her hand upon
his shoulder,&mdash;"there is no taint upon your
blood! The thought is idle. You, so noble
browed, with the look, the voice, the soul
of a man of genius,&mdash;you, that I love so
madly,&mdash;you, one of the accursed race?
No, Randolph, this is but a cruel jest&mdash;"</p>

<p>Her eyes looked all the brighter for the
pallor of her face, as she bent over him, and
her hair, escaping from the diamond circlet,
fell over his face and shoulders like a vail.</p>

<p>He drew her to him, and buried his face
upon her bosom,&mdash;"Eleanor! Eleanor,"
he groaned in very bitterness of spirit, as
that bosom beat against his fevered brow,
and that flowing hair shut him in its glossy
waves,&mdash;"It is no jest. I swear it. But
you will yet be mine! Will you not, Eleanor,&mdash;in
spite of everything,&mdash;spite of the
taint in my blood, spite of your father's
wrath&mdash;"</p>

<p>As with the last effort of her expiring
strength, she raised his head from her bosom,
tore herself from his arms, and stood before
him, her hair streaming back from her pallid
face, while her right hand was lifted to
heaven&mdash;</p>

<p>"It is true, then?" and her eyes wore
that look, which revealed all the pride of
her nature,&mdash;"you are then, one of that
accursed race," she paused, unable to proceed,
and stood there with both hands upon
her forehead. "If I ever wed you, may my
mother's curse&mdash;"</p>

<p>Randolph rose, the anguish which had
stamped his face, suddenly succeeded by a
look which we care not to analyze,&mdash;a look
which gave a glow to his pale cheek, a wild
gleam to his eyes. "You are faint, my love,"
he said, "this will revive you."</p>

<p>Seizing her by the waist, he placed her
kerchief upon her mouth,&mdash;a kerchief which
he had raised from the floor, and moistened
with liquid from the silver vial which he
carried in his vest pocket.</p>

<p>"Away! Your touch is pollution!" she
cried, struggling in his embrace, but the
effect of the liquid was instantaneous. Even
as she struggled her powers of resistance
failed, and the images of a delicious dream,
seemed to pass before her, in soft and rosy
light.</p>

<p>The tall wax candles were lighted in the
parlor, and upon a table covered with a
cloth of white velvet was placed a bible and
a wreath of flowers.</p>

<p>It was the hour of sunset, but the closed
curtains shut out the light of the declining
day, and the light of the wax candles disclosed
the spacious apartment, its pictures,
statues and luxurious furniture. It was the
hour of the bridal.</p>

<p>Two persons were seated near each other
on one of the sofas. The preacher who had
been summoned to celebrate the marriage,&mdash;a
grave, demure man, with a sad face and
iron-gray hair. Of course he wore black
clothes and a white cravat. Esther arrayed
in snow-white, as the bridesmaid,&mdash;white
flowers in her dark hair, and her bosom
heaving dimly beneath lace which reminded
you of a flake of new-fallen snow.</p>

<p>They were waiting for the father, the
bridegroom, and the bride.</p>

<p>"It will be a happy marriage, I doubt not,"
said the preacher, who had been gazing out
of the corners of his eyes, at the beautiful
Esther, and who felt embarrassed by the
long silence.</p>

<p>But ere Esther could reply, the door was
flung abruptly open, and Bernard Lynn
strode into the room. His hat was in his
hand; his cloak hung on his arm. His face
was flushed; his brow clouded. Not seeming
to notice the presence of Esther, he advanced
to the clergyman,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Your services will not be needed, sir,"
he said, with a polite bow, but with flashing
eyes. "This marriage will not take place."</p>

<p>Esther started to her feet, in complete
astonishment.</p>

<p>Turning to Mr. Hicks, who had followed
him into the room, Bernard Lynn continued,
as he flung his cloak over his shoulders, and
drew on his gloves,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Has the carriage come?"</p>

<p>"Yes, sir,&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Are our trunks on behind?"</p>

<p>"Yes, sir,&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Have you called my daughter, and told
her that I desired her to put on her bonnet
and cloak, and come to me at once?&mdash;"</p>

<p>"I have sent one of the maids up to her
room," said Mr. Hicks, whose countenance
manifested no small degree of astonishment,
"but your daughter is not in her room."</p>

<p>Mr. Lynn turned his flushed face and
clouded brow to Esther,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Perhaps you will tell my daughter," he
said, with an air of insolent <i>hauteur</i> as
though speaking to a servant,&mdash;"that I desire
her to put on her things and leave this
house with me, immediately&mdash;"</p>

<p>How changed his manner, from the kind
and paternal tone, in which he had addressed
her an hour before!</p>

<p>Esther keenly felt the change, and with
her woman's intuition, divined that a revelation
of the fatal truth had been made.
Disguising her emotion, she said, calmly,&mdash;</p>

<p>"You will direct one of the servants to do
your bidding. Your daughter is doubtless
in the library. I saw her going there, with
Randolph, only a few minutes since,&mdash;"</p>

<p>At the name of Randolph, all the rage
which shook the muscular frame of Bernard
Lynn, and which he had but illy suppressed,
burst forth unrestrained.</p>

<p>"What!" he shouted, "with Randolph!
The negro! The negro! The slave!"</p>

<p>"With Randolph, her plighted husband,"
calmly responded Esther.</p>

<p>"Negress!" sneered Bernard Lynn, almost
beside himself, "where is my daughter?
Will no one call her?"</p>

<p>"Eleanor is coming," said a low deep
voice, and Randolph stood before the enraged
father. He was ashy pale, but there
was a light in his eyes which can be called
by no other name than&mdash;infernal.</p>

<p>Even Esther, uttered a cry as she beheld
her brother's face.</p>

<p>"Negro!" muttered Bernard Lynn, regarding
Randolph in profound contempt.</p>

<p>"Well?" Randolph folded his arms, and
steadily returned his gaze.</p>

<p>"I have, learned the secret in time, sir, in
time," continued Bernard Lynn, "I am about
to leave this house&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Well?" again exclaimed Randolph.</p>

<p>"I have saved her from this horrible
match,&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Well?" for the third time replied Randolph,
in complete <i>nonchalance</i>, and yet with
that infernal light in his eyes.</p>

<p>A step was heard. Can this be Eleanor,
who comes across the threshold, her dress
torn, her bosom bared, her disheveled hair
floating about that face which seems to have
been touched by the hand of death?</p>

<p>Her hands clasped, her eyes downcast, she
came on, with unsteady step, and sank at
her father's feet. She did not once raise her
eyes, but clasped his knees and buried her
face on her bosom.</p>

<p>"Eleanor! Eleanor!" cried Bernard Lynn,
"what does all this mean, my child?" and
he sought to raise her from the floor, but
she resisted him, and clutched his knees.</p>

<p>"It means that the honor of your daughter
was saved once in Italy, by Randolph
Royalton,&mdash;she was grateful, and would have
manifested her gratitude by giving him her
hand in marriage, but she could not do that,
for there was<i>&mdash;negro blood</i> in his veins. So,
as she could not marry him, she showed her
gratitude in the only way left her,&mdash;by the
gift of her person without marriage."</p>

<p>As in a tone of Satanic triumph, Randolph
pronounced these words, a silence like death
fell upon the scene.</p>

<p>Bernard Lynn stood for a moment paralyzed;
but Esther came forward with flashing
eyes,&mdash;"O, you miserable coward!" she
cried, and with her clenched hand struck her
brother,&mdash;struck Randolph on the forehead.</p>

<p>And turning away from him in scorn, she
raised Eleanor in her arms.</p>

<p>Ere he could recover from the surprise
which this blow caused him, Bernard Lynn
reached forward, his hands clenched, his
dark face purple with rage.</p>

<p>"Wretch! for this you shall die,"&mdash;and
crushed by the very violence of his rage,
his agony, he sank insensible at Randolph's
feet.</p>

<p>"Our marriage ceremony is postponed for
the present,&mdash;good evening, sir!" said Randolph,
turning to the preacher, who had witnessed
this scene in speechless astonishment.
"Mr. Hicks, take care of my friend, Lynn,
here, and have him put to bed; and you,
Esther, take care of Eleanor: and as for
myself,"&mdash;he turned his back upon them all,
and left the room,&mdash;"I think I will go and
see my dear brother."</p>

<p>Up-stairs, with the tortures of the damned
in his heart,&mdash;up-stairs, with the infernal
light in his eyes,&mdash;a moment's pause at the
door of his brother's room,&mdash;and then he
flings it open and enters.</p>

<p>Harry Royalton, sitting up in bed, his
back against the pillows, was reading, by a
lamp, which stood on a small table, by the
bedside. He was reading the parchment,
addressed to his father, as one of the seven.
The light shone on his face, now changed
from its usual robust hue, to a sickly pallor,
as with his large bulging eyes, fixed upon
the parchment, he quietly smoked a cigar,
and by turns passed his hands over his bushy
whiskers and through his thick curling hair.
Weak from pain and loss of blood, he still
enjoyed his cigar. There was a pleasant
complacency about his lips. To-morrow
was the twenty-fifth of December, and to-day&mdash;he
had foiled all the plans of his slave
brother. Harry was satisfied with himself
The smoke of the Havana floated round
him and among the curtains of the bed. It
was, take it all in all, a picture.</p>

<p>It was in this moment of quiet complacency,
that Randolph appeared upon the
scene. Harry looked up,&mdash;he caught the
glare of his eyes,&mdash;and at once looked
about him for a bowie-knife or pistol. But
there were no weapons near. With a cry
for help, Harry sprang from the bed, clad as
he was, only in his shirt and drawers. He
cried for help, but only once, for ere he
could utter a second cry, there was a hand
upon his throat.</p>

<p>"I'm not a brother now,&mdash;only a slave,&mdash;it
was as a brother, last night, I spared and
saved you,&mdash;now I'm only a slave, a negro!
But as a slave and negro, I am choking you
to death!"</p>

<p>Harry might as well have battled with a
thunderbolt. Randolph, with the madman's
fire in his eyes, hears him to the floor, puts
his knee upon his breast, and tightens his
clutch upon his throat. And as a gurgling
noise sounded in the throat of the poor
wretch, Randolph bent his face nearer to
him, and (to use an all-expressive Scotch
word) <i>glowered</i> upon him with those madman's
eyes.</p>

<p>"This time there must be no mistake,
brother. The world is large enough for
many millions of people, but not large
enough for us two. You must go, Harry,&mdash;<i>master</i>!
You are going! Go and tell your
father and mine how you treated the children
of Herodia! Go!"</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h3><a name="CHAPTER_6_IV" id="CHAPTER_6_IV">CHAPTER IV.</a></h3>

<h4>THE BRIDALS OF JOANNA AND BEVERLY.</h4>


<p>It was the night of December the twenty-fifth,
1844.</p>

<p>The mansion of Eugene Livingstone was
dark as a tomb. The shutters were closed,
and crape fluttered on the door.</p>

<p>Within,&mdash;in the range of parlors, where,
last night, Eugene kissed good-bye on the
lips of his young and beautiful wife, ere he
left for Boston,&mdash;where, not an hour after,
Beverly Barron came and folded the young
wife to his breast, ere he bore her from her
home to a haunt of shame,&mdash;within a single
light is burning. One light alone, in the
vast mansion, from foundation to roof.</p>

<p>It is a wax candle, placed in the front parlor,
on a marble table, between a sofa and
mirror, which reaches from the ceiling to the
floor.</p>

<p>Joanna is sitting there alone, her golden
hair neatly arranged about her <i>blonde</i> face;
her noble form clad in a flowing robe of
snowy whiteness. She is very beautiful.
True, her face is very pale, but her lips are
red and a flush burns on each cheek. True,
beneath each eye a faint blue circle may be
traced, but the eyes themselves, blue as a
cloudless sky in June, shine with an intensity
that almost changes their hue into black
in the soft, luxurious light. Joanna is very
beautiful,&mdash;a woman of commanding form
and voluptuous bust,&mdash;the loose robe which
she wears, by its flowing folds, gives a new
charm, a more fascinating loveliness to every
detail of her figure.</p>

<p>Holding the evening paper in her right
hand, she beats the carpet somewhat impatiently
with her satin-slippered foot.</p>

<p>Her eye rests upon a paragraph in the
evening paper:&mdash;</p>

<blockquote>

<p>"<span class="smcap">Affair in High Life</span>.&mdash;There was a
rumor about town, to-day, of an affair of
honor in high life&mdash;among the 'upper ten,'&mdash;the
truth of which, at the hour of going to
press, we are not able, definitely, to ascertain.
The parties named are the elegant
and distinguished B&mdash;&mdash;y B&mdash;&mdash;n, and
E&mdash;&mdash;e L&mdash;&mdash;ng&mdash;&mdash;e, a well-known member
of the old aristocracy, in the upper region
of the city. A domestic difficulty is
assigned as the cause; and one of the parties
is stated to have been severely, if not mortally,
wounded. By to-morrow we hope to
be able to give the full particulars."</p></blockquote>

<p>Joanna read this paragraph, and her glance
dropped, and she remained for a long time
buried in deep thought.</p>

<p>"Will he come?" she said at length, as
if thinking aloud.</p>

<p>The silence of the vast mansion was around
her, but it did not seem to fill her with awe.
She remained sitting on the sofa, the evening
paper in her hand, and her face impressed
with profound thought.</p>

<p>"Hark!" she ejaculated, as a faint noise
was heard in the hall without. She started,
but did not rise from the sofa.</p>

<p>The door opened stealthily, with scarcely
a perceptible sound, and a man clad in a
rough overcoat, with great white buttons, a
cap drawn over his brow, and a red neckerchief
wound about the collar of his coat,
came silently into the room and approached
Joanna.</p>

<p>"Who are you?" she cried, as if in alarm,&mdash;"Your
business here?"</p>

<p>"Joanna, dearest Joanna," cried a familiar
voice, "and has my disguise deceived
you? It deceived the police, but I did not
think that it could deceive you!"</p>

<p>The overcoat, cap and neckerchief were
thrown aside, and in an instant Beverly Barron
was kneeling at Joanna's feet. His tall
and not ungraceful form clad in blue coat,
with bright metal buttons, white vest, black
pantaloons, and patent leather boots, he
wore a diamond pin, and a heavy gold chain.
His whole appearance was that of a gentleman
of leisure, dressed for the opera or a
select evening party. His face was flushed,
his eyes sparkling, and the flaxen curls which
hung about his brow, emitted an odor of cologne
or <i>patchouilli</i>.</p>

<p>"I had to come,&mdash;I could not stay away
from you, dearest," he said, looking up passionately
into her face. "All day long, I
have dodged from place to place, determined
to see you to-night or die."</p>

<p>She gave him her hand, and looking into
the opposite mirror, saw that she was very
pale, but still exceedingly beautiful.</p>

<p>"To risk so much for&mdash;my sake," she
said, and threaded his curls with her delicate
hand, and at the same time one of
those smiles which set the blood on fire,
animated her lips, and disclosed her white
teeth.</p>

<p>"You are beautiful as an angel, I vow,"
exclaimed Beverly, and then glancing round
the vast apartment,&mdash;"Are we all alone?"
he asked.</p>

<p>"Yes, all alone," she replied, "the servants
were discharged this morning,&mdash;all,
save my maid, and she has retired by my
orders."</p>

<p>"No danger of any one calling?"</p>

<p>"None."</p>

<p>"You are sure, dearest?"</p>

<p>"No one will call. You are safe, and we
are alone, Beverly!" again that smile, and a
sudden swell of the bosom.</p>

<p>"The body,&mdash;the body&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Is at my father, the general's,"&mdash;she replied
to the question before it passed his
lips.</p>

<p>"Then, indeed, dearest, we are alone, and
we can talk of our future,&mdash;<i>our</i> future. We
must come to a decision, Joanna, and soon."</p>

<p>And half raising himself, as she lowered
her head, he pressed his kiss on her lips.</p>

<p>"O, I do so long to talk with you, Beverly,"
she murmured.</p>

<p>"To-morrow, dearest, I will be placed in
possession of an immense fortune. You have
heard of the Van Huyden estate?"</p>

<p>She made a sign in the affirmative.</p>

<p>"I am the heir of one-seventh of that immense
estate. All the obstacles in the way
of the seven heirs (as I was informed to-day)
are removed. To-morrow the estate will be
divided; I will receive my portion without
scarcely the chance of disappointment; and
next day&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>He paused; she bent down until he felt
her breath on his face,&mdash;"Next day?" she
whispered.</p>

<p>"We will sail for Europe. A palace, in
Florence, my love, or in Venice, or some delightful
nook of Sicily, where, apart from the
world, in an atmosphere like heaven, we can
live for each other. What say you to this,
Joanna?"</p>

<p>"But you forget," she faltered, "the recent
circumstance,&mdash;&mdash;" her face became flushed,
and then deathly pale.</p>

<p>"Can you live under your father's eye
after what has happened?" he whispered.&mdash;"Think
of it,&mdash;he will loathe the sight of
you, and make your life a hell!"</p>

<p>"He will indeed,"&mdash;and she dropped her
head upon her proud bosom.</p>

<p>"And your brother,&mdash;does he not thirst
for my blood?"</p>

<p>"Ah! does he?" she cried, with a look
of alarm.</p>

<p>"And yet, Joanna, I was forced into it.
I did all I could to avoid it. I even apologized
on the ground, and offered to make
reparation."</p>

<p>"You offered to make reparation?" she
cried, "that was, indeed, noble!" and an
indescribable smile lighted her features.</p>

<p>"Joanna, dear, I have suffered so much
to-day, that I am really faint. A glass of
that old Tokay, if you please, my love."</p>

<p>She answered him with a smile, and rising
from the sofa, passed into the darkness of
the second parlor, separated from the first by
folding-doors.</p>

<p>"A magnificent woman, by Jove!" soliloquized
Beverly, as he remarked her noble
form.</p>

<p>After a few moments she appeared again,
bearing a salver of solid gold, on which was
placed a decanter and goblet, both of Bohemian
glass,&mdash;rich scarlet in color, veined with
flowers of purple, and blue, and gold.</p>

<p>Never had she seemed more beautiful than
when standing before him, she presented the
golden salver, with one of those smiles,
which gave a deeper red to her lips, a softer
brightness to her eyes.</p>

<p>He filled the capacious goblet to the brim&mdash;for
a moment regarded the wine through the
delicate fabric, with its flowers of blue, and
purple, and gold,&mdash;and then drained it at a
draught.</p>

<p>"Ah!"&mdash;he smacked his lips,&mdash;"that is
delicious!"</p>

<p>"Eugene's father imported it some twenty
years ago," said Joanna, placing the salver
on the table. "Come, Beverly, I want to
talk with you."</p>

<p>Following the bewitching gesture which
she made with her half-lifted hand, Beverly
rose, and gently wound his arm about her
waist.</p>

<p>"Come, let us walk slowly up and down
these rooms, now in light and now in darkness,
and as we walk we can talk freely to
each other."</p>

<p>And they walked, side by side, over the
carpet, through that splendid <i>suite</i> of rooms,
where gorgeous furniture, pictures, statues,
all spoke of luxury and wealth. Hand
joined in hand, his arm about her waist, her
head drooping to his shoulder, and her bosom
throbbing near and nearer to his breast,
they glided along; now coming near the
light in the front room, and now passing into
the shadows which invested the other rooms.
It was a delightful, nay, an intoxicating <i>tête-à-tête</i>.</p>

<p>"I was thinking, this evening," she said,
as they passed from the light, "of the history
of our love."</p>

<p>"Ah, dearest!"</p>

<p>"It seems an age since we first met, and
yet it's only a year."</p>

<p>"Only a year!" echoed Beverly, as they
paused in a nook where a delicious twilight
prevailed.</p>

<p>"Eugene presented you to me a year ago, as
his dearest friend,&mdash;his most tried and trusted
friend. Do you remember, Beverly?"</p>

<p>He drew her gently to him,&mdash;there was
a kiss and an embrace.</p>

<p>"You discovered his infidelity. You
brought me the letters written to him by the
person in Boston, for whom he proved unfaithful
to me. You brought them from
time to time, and it was your sympathy with
my wounded pride,&mdash;my trampled affection,&mdash;which
consoled me and kept me alive. It
was, Beverly."</p>

<p>"O, you say so, dearest," and as they
came into light again, he felt her breast
throbbing nearer to his own.</p>

<p>For a moment they paused by the table,
whereon the wax candle was burning, its
flame reflected in the lofty mirror. Her face
half-averted from the light, as her head
drooped on his shoulder, she was exceedingly
beautiful.</p>

<p>"Beverly," she whispered, and placed her
arm gently about his neck,&mdash;the touch
thrilled him to the heart,&mdash;"you knew me,
young, confiding, ignorant of the world.
You took pity on my unsuspecting ignorance,
and day by day, yes hour by hour, in
these very rooms, you led me on, to see the
full measure of my husband's guilt, and at
the same time led me to believe in you, and
love you."</p>

<p>She paused, and passed her hand gently
among his flaxen curls.</p>

<p>"Ah, love, you are as good as you are
beautiful!" he whispered.</p>

<p>"Before you spoke thus, I had no thought
save of my duty to Eugene."</p>

<p>"Eugene, who betrayed you!"</p>

<p>"Yes, to Eugene, who betrayed me, and
to my child. After you spoke, I saw life in
a new light. The world did not seem to
me, any longer, to be the scene of dull quiet
home-like duty, but of pleasure,&mdash;mad, passionate
pleasure,&mdash;may be, illicit pleasure,
purchased at any cost. And letter after letter
which you brought me, accompanied by
proof which I could not doubt, only served
to complete the work,&mdash;to wean me from
my idol,&mdash;false, false idol, Eugene,&mdash;and to
teach me that this world was not so much
made for dull every-day duty, as for those
pleasures which, scorning the laws of the
common herd, develop into active life every
throb of enjoyment of which we are capable."</p>

<p>"Yes, yes, love," interrupted Beverly,
pressing his lips to hers.</p>

<p>"And thus matters wore on, until you
brought me the last, the damning letter. He
was going to Boston to see his dying brother,&mdash;so
he pretended,&mdash;but in reality to see
the woman for whom he had proved faithless
to me. When you brought me this letter
I was mad,&mdash;mad,&mdash;O, Beverly&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>"It was enough to drive you mad!"</p>

<p>"And yesterday, impelled by some vague
idea of revenge, I consented to go with you
to a place, where, as you said, we would see
something of the world,&mdash;where, in the excitement
of a masked ball, I might forget
my husband's faithlessness, and at the same
time show that I did not care for his authority.
Some idea of this kind was in my
mind, and last night when he kissed me, and
so coolly lied to me, before his departure, O,
then Beverly, then, I was cut to the quick.
You came after he had gone, and,&mdash;and&mdash;I
went with you&mdash;"</p>

<p>"You did dearest Joanna," said Beverly,
pressing her closer to his side.</p>

<p>They passed from the light into the shadows
together.</p>

<p>"And there, you know what happened
there," she said, as they stood in the darkness.
She clung nearer and nearer to him.
"But you know, Beverly, you know, that it
was not until my senses were maddened by
wine," her voice grew low and lower,&mdash;"that
I gave my person to you."</p>

<p>In the darkness she laid her head upon his
breast, and put her arms about his neck, her
bosom all the while throbbing madly against
his chest.</p>

<p>"O, you know, that in the noble letters,
which you wrote to me from time to time&mdash;letters
breathing a pure spiritual atmosphere,&mdash;you
spoke of your love for me as something
far above all common loves, refined
and purified, and separate from all thought
of physical impurity. And yet,&mdash;and yet,&mdash;last
night when half crazed by jealousy, I
went with you to the place which you
named, you took the moment, when my
senses were completely delirious with wine,
to treat me as though I had been your wife,
as though you had been the father of my
child."</p>

<p>She sobbed aloud, and would have fallen
to the floor had he not held her in his arms.</p>

<p>"O, Joanna, you vex yourself without
cause," he said, soothingly,&mdash;"I love you,&mdash;you
know I love you&mdash;"</p>

<p>"O, but would it not be a dreadful thing,
if you had been deceived in regard to these
letters!"</p>

<p>"Deceived?"</p>

<p>"Suppose, for instance, some one had
forged them, and imposed them upon you
as veritable letters&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Forged? This is folly my love."</p>

<p>"In that case, you and I would be guilty,
O, guilty beyond power of redemption, and
Eugene would be an infamously murdered
man."</p>

<p>"Dismiss these gloomy thoughts. The
letters were true&mdash;"</p>

<p>"O, you are certain,&mdash;certain&mdash;"</p>

<p>"I swear it,&mdash;swear it by all I hold dear
on earth or hope hereafter."</p>

<p>"O, do not swear, Beverly. Who could
doubt <i>you</i>?"</p>

<p>They passed toward the light again. She
wiped the tears from her eyes&mdash;those eyes
which shone all the brighter for the tears.</p>

<p>"And the day after to-morrow," said Beverly,
as he rested his hand upon her shoulder,&mdash;"we
will leave for Italy&mdash;"</p>

<p>"You have been in Italy?" asked Joanna.</p>

<p>"O, yes dearest, and Italy is only another
name for Eden," he replied, growing warm,
even eloquent&mdash;"there far removed from a
cold, a heartless world, we will live, we
will die together!"</p>

<p>"Would it not," she said, in a low whisper,
as with her hand on his shoulders and
her bosom beating against his own, she looked
up earnestly into his face, "O, would it not
be well, could we but die at this moment,&mdash;now,
when our love is in its youngest
and purest bloom,&mdash;die here on this cold
earth, only to live again, and live with each
other in a happier world?"</p>

<p>And in her emotion, she wound her aims
convulsively about his neck and buried her
face upon his breast.</p>

<p>"Dismiss these gloomy thoughts,"&mdash;he
kissed her forehead&mdash;"there are many happy
hours before us in this world, Joanna.
Think not of death&mdash;"</p>

<p>"O, do you know, Beverly," she raised
her face,&mdash;it was radiant with loveliness&mdash;"that
I love to think of death. Death, you
know, is such a test of sincerity. Before it
falsehood falls dumb and hypocrisy drops its
mask&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Nay, nay you must dismiss these gloomy
thoughts. You know I love you&mdash;you
know&mdash;"</p>

<p>He did not complete the sentence, but they
passed into the darkness again, his arms
about her waist, her head upon his shoulder.</p>

<p>And there, in the gloom, he pressed her
to his breast, and as she clung to his neck,
whispered certain words, which died in murmurs
on her ear.</p>

<p>"No, no, Beverly," she answered, in a
voice, broken by emotion, "it cannot be.
Consider&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Cannot be? And am I not all to you?"
he said, impassionately,&mdash;"Yes, Joanna, it
must be&mdash;"</p>

<p>There was a pause, only broken by low
murmurs, and passionate kisses.</p>

<p>"Come then," she said, at last, "come,
<i>husband</i>&mdash;"</p>

<p>Without another word, she took him by
the hand, and led him from the room out
into the darkened hall. Her hand trembled
very much, as she led him through the
darkness up the broad stairway. Then a
door was opened and together they entered
the bed-chamber.</p>

<p>It is the same as it was last night. Only
instead of a taper a wax candle burns brightly
before a mirror. The curtains still fall like
snow-flakes along the lofty windows, the
alabaster vase is still filled with flowers,&mdash;they
are withered now,&mdash;and from the half-shadowed
alcove, gleams the white bed, with
curtains enfolding it in a snowy canopy.</p>

<p>Trembling, but beautiful beyond the power
of words,&mdash;beautiful in the flush of her
cheeks, the depth of her gaze, the passion
of her parted lips,&mdash;beautiful in every motion
of that bosom which heaved madly
against the folds which only half-concealed
it,&mdash;trembling, she led him toward the bed.</p>

<p>"My marriage bed," she whispered, and
laid her hand upon the closed curtains.</p>

<p>Beverly was completely carried away by
the sight of her passionate loveliness&mdash;"Once
your marriage bed with a false husband,"
he said, and laid his hand also upon
the closed curtains, "now your marriage bed
with a true husband, who will love you until
death&mdash;"</p>

<p>And he drew aside the curtains.</p>

<p>Drew aside the curtains, folding Joanna
passionately to his breast, and,&mdash;fell back
with a cry of horror. Fell back, all color
gone from his face, his features distorted, his
paralyzed hands extended above his head.</p>

<p>Joanna did not seem to share his terror
for she burst into a fit of laughter.</p>

<p>"Our marriage bed, love," she said, "why
are you so cold?" and again she laughed.</p>

<p>But Beverly could not move nor speak.
His eyes were riveted to the bed.</p>

<p>Within the snowy curtains, was stretched
a corpse, attired in the white garment of the
grave. Through the parted curtains, the
light shone fully on its livid face, while the
body was enveloped in half shadow,&mdash;shone
fully on the white forehead with its jet-black
hair, upon the closed lids, and&mdash;upon the
dark wound between the eyes. The agony
of the last spasm was still upon that face,
although the hands were folded tranquilly
on the breast. Eugene Livingstone was
sleeping upon his marriage bed,&mdash;sleeping,
undisturbed by dreams.</p>

<p>Joanna stood there, holding the curtain
with her uplifted hand, her eyes bright, her
face flushed with unnatural excitement.
Again she laughed loud and long&mdash;the
echoes of her laughter sounded strangely in
that marriage chamber.</p>

<p>"What,&mdash;what does this mean?" cried
Beverly, at last finding words&mdash;"is this a
dream&mdash;&mdash;a&mdash;&mdash;" He certainly was in a
fearful fright, for he could not proceed.</p>

<p>"Why, so cold, love?" she said, smiling,
"it is our marriage bed, you know&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Joanna, Joanna," he cried,&mdash;"are you
mad?" and in his fright, he looked anxiously
toward the door.</p>

<p>She took a package from her breast and
flung it at his feet.</p>

<p>"Go," she cried, "but first take up your
<i>forged</i> letters&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Forged letters?" he echoed.</p>

<p>"Forged letters," she answered,&mdash;her
voice was changed,&mdash;her manner changed,&mdash;there
was no longer any passion on her face,&mdash;pale
as marble, her face rigid as death, she
confronted him with a gaze that he dared
not meet. "Go!" she cried, "but take with
you your forged letters. Yes, the letters
which you forged, and which you used as
the means of my ruin. You have robbed
me of my honor, robbed me of my husband,&mdash;your
work is complete&mdash;go!"</p>

<p>Her face was white as the dress which she
wore,&mdash;she pointed to the threshold.</p>

<p>"Joanna, Joanna," faltered Beverly.</p>

<p>"Not a word, not a word, villain, villain
without remorse or shame! I am guilty,
and might excuse myself by pleading your
treachery. But I make no excuse. But for
you,&mdash;for you,&mdash;where is the excuse? You
have dishonored the wife,&mdash;made the child
fatherless,&mdash;your work is complete! Go!"</p>

<p>Beverly saw that all his schemes had been
unraveled; conscious of his guilt, and conscious
that everything was at an end between
him and Joanna, he made a desperate attempt
to rally his usual self-possession; or, perhaps,
impudence would be the better word.</p>

<p>He moved to the door, and placed his
hand upon the lock.</p>

<p>"Well, madam, as you will," he said, and
bowed. "Under the circumstances, I can
only wish you a very good evening."</p>

<p>He opened the door.</p>

<p>"Hold!" she cried in a voice that made
him start.&mdash;"Your work is complete, but so,
also, is mine&mdash;"</p>

<p>She paused; her look excited in him a
strange curiosity for the completion of the
sentence. "You will not long enjoy your
triumph. You have not an hour to live.
The wine which you drank was poisoned."</p>

<p>Beverly's heart died in him at these
words. A strange fever in his veins, a strange
throbbing at the temples, which he had
felt for an hour past, and which he had attributed
to the excitement resulting from the
events of the day, he now felt again, and
with redoubled force.</p>

<p>"No,&mdash;no,&mdash;it is not so," he faltered.&mdash;"Woman,
you are mad,&mdash;you had not the
heart to do it."</p>

<p>"Had not the heart?" again she burst into
a loud laugh,&mdash;"O, no, I was but jesting.
Look here,"&mdash;she darted to the bed, flung
the curtain aside, and disclosed the lifeless
form of her husband,&mdash;"and here!" gliding
to another part of the room, she gently drew
a cradle into light, and throwing its silken
covering aside, disclosed the face of her
sleeping child,&mdash;that cherub boy, who, as on
the night previous, slept with his rosy cheek
on his bent arm, and the ringlets of his auburn
hair tangled about his forehead, white
as alabaster. "And now look upon me!"
she dilated before him like a beautiful fiend;
"we are all before you,&mdash;the dead husband,
the dishonored wife, the fatherless child,&mdash;and
yet I had not the heart,"&mdash;she laughed
again.</p>

<p>Beverly heard no more. Uttering a blasphemous
oath, he rushed from the room.</p>

<p>And the babe, awakened by the sound of
voices, opened its clear, innocent eyes, and
reached forth its baby hands toward its
mother.</p>

<p>Urged forward by an impulse like madness,
Beverly entered the rooms on the first
floor, seized the rough overcoat and threw it
on, passing the red neckerchief around its
collar, to conceal his face. Then drawing
the cap over his eyes, he hurried from the
house.</p>

<p>"It's all nonsense," he muttered, and descended
the steps.&mdash;"I'll walk it off."</p>

<p>Walk it off! And yet the fever burned
the more fiercely, his temples throbbed more
madly, as he said the words. Leaving behind
him the closed mansion of Eugene Livingstone,
with the crape fluttering on the
door, he bent his steps toward Broadway.</p>

<p>"I'm nervous," he muttered.&mdash;"The
words of that dev'lish hysterical woman have
unsettled me. How cold it is!" He felt
cold as ice for a moment, and the next instant
his veins seemed filled with molten fire.</p>

<p>He hurried along the dark street toward
Broadway. The distant lights at the end
of the street, where it joined Broadway,
seemed to dance and whirl as he gazed upon
them; and his senses began to be bewildered.</p>

<p>"I've drank too much," he muttered.&mdash;"If
I can only reach Broadway, and get to
my hotel, all will be right."</p>

<p>But when he reached Broadway, it whirled
before him like a great sea of human faces,
carriages, houses and flame, all madly confused,
and rolling through and over each other.</p>

<p>The crowd gave way before him, as he
staggered along.</p>

<p>"He's drunk," cried one.</p>

<p>"Pitch into me that way ag'in, old feller,
and I'll hit you," cried another.</p>

<p>It was Christmas Eve, and Broadway was
alive with light and motion; the streets
thronged with vehicles, and the sidewalks
almost blocked up with men, and women,
and children; the lamps lighted, and the
shops and places of amusement illuminated,
as if to welcome some great conqueror. But
Beverly was unconscious of the external
scene. His fashionable dress, concealed by
his rough overcoat, and his face hidden by
his cap and red neckerchief, he staggered
along, with his head down and his hands
swaying from side to side. There was a
roaring as of waves or of devouring flame in
his ears. A red haze was before his eyes;
and the scenes of his whole life came up to
him at once, even as a drowning man sees
all his life, in a focus, before the last struggle,&mdash;there
were the persons he had known,
the adventures he had experienced, the
events of his boyhood, and the triumphs and
shames of his libertine manhood,&mdash;all these
came up to him, and confronted him as he
hurried along. Three faces were always before
him,&mdash;the dead face of Eugene, the
pale visage of Joanna, her eyes flaming with
vengeance, and,&mdash;the innocent countenance
of his motherless daughter.</p>

<p>And thus he hurried along.</p>

<p>"Old fellow, the stars'll be arter you,"
cried one in the crowd, through which he
staggered on.</p>

<p>"My eyes! ain't he drunk?"</p>

<p>"Don't he pay as much attention to one
side o' the pavement as the tother?"</p>

<p>"Did you ever see sich worm fence as
he lays out?"</p>

<p>There was something grotesquely horrible
in the contrast between his real condition,
and the view which the crowd took of it.</p>

<p>At length, not knowing whither he went,
he turned from the glare and noise of Broadway
into a by-street, and hurried onward,&mdash;onward,
through the gloom, until he fell.</p>

<p>In a dark corner of the street, behind the
Tombs, close to the stones of that gloomy
pile, he fell, and lay there all night long,
with no hand to aid him, no eye to pity him.</p>

<p>He was found, on Christmas morning, stiff
and cold; his head resting against the wall
of the Tombs, his body covered with new-fallen
snow. A pile of bricks lay on one
side of him, a heap of boards on the other.
This was the death-couch of the dashing
Beverly Barron!</p>

<p>How he died, no one could tell; it was
supposed that he had poisoned himself from
remorse at the death of Eugene Livingstone.</p>

<hr class="tb" />

<p>As Beverly hurried from the room, the
babe in the cradle opened its clear, innocent
eyes, and reached forth its baby hands toward
its mother.</p>

<p>She took it, and stilled it to rest upon her
bosom: and then came to the bed and sat
down upon it, near her dead husband.</p>

<p>"Eugene, Eugene!" she gently put her
hand upon his cold forehead,&mdash;"let me
talk to you,&mdash;I will not wake you,&mdash;let me
talk to you, as you sleep. I am guilty, Eugene,
you know I am,&mdash;you cannot forgive
me,&mdash;I do not ask forgiveness; but you'll
let me be near you, Eugene? You will not
spurn me from you? This is our child,
Eugene,&mdash;don't you know him?&mdash;O, look
up and speak to him. Don't,&mdash;don't be
angry with him,&mdash;his mother is a poor, fallen
fallen thing, but don't be angry with our
child!"</p>

<p>She did not weep. Her eyes, large and
full of light, were fixed upon her husband's
face. Cradling her babe upon her bosom,
she sat there all night long, talking to Eugene,
in a low, whispering voice, as though
she wished him to hear her, and yet was
afraid to awake him from a pleasant slumber.
The light went out, but still she did
not move. She was there at morning light,
her baby sleeping on her breast, and her hand
laid upon her dead husband's forehead.</p>

<p>And at early morning light, her father
came,&mdash;the gray-haired man,&mdash;his face frowning,
and his heart full of wrath against his
daughter.</p>

<p>"What do you here?" he said, sternly.
"This is no place for you. There is to be an
inquest soon. You surely do not wish to
look upon the ruin you have wrought?"</p>

<p>As though she was conscious of his presence,
but had not heard his words, she turned
her face over her shoulder,&mdash;that colorless
face, lighted by eyes that still burned with
undimmed luster,&mdash;and said,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Do you know, father. I have been talking
with Eugene, and he has forgiven me!"</p>

<p>The voice, the look melted the old man's
heart.</p>

<p>He fell upon the bed, and wept.</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h3><a name="CHAPTER_6_V" id="CHAPTER_6_V">CHAPTER V.</a></h3>

<h4>AN EPISODE.</h4>


<p>Here, my friend, let us take a breathing
spell in this, our dark history. Horrors
crowd fast and thick upon us,&mdash;horrors, not
born of romance, but of that under-current
of real life, which rolls on evermore, beneath
the glare and uproar of the Empire City.
We do not wish to write them down,&mdash;shudder
sometimes and drop the pen as we
describe them,&mdash;and ask ourselves, "Can
these things really be? Is not the world all
song and sunshine? Does that gilded mask
which we call by the name of Civilization,&mdash;the
civilization of the nineteenth century,&mdash;only
hide the features of a corpse?" And
the answer to these queries comes to us in
the columns of every daily paper; in the
record of every day's farces and crimes; in
the <i>unwritten</i> history of those masses, who,
while we write, are slowly serving their apprenticeship
of hardship and starvation, in
order that at last they may inherit a&mdash;grave.</p>

<p>Ah, it is the task of the author who writes
a book, traversing a field so vast as is attempted
in the present work, not to exaggerate,
but to soften, the perpetual tragedies of
every day. He dares not tell all the truth;
he can only vaguely hint at those enormous
evils which are the inevitable result,&mdash;not
of totally depraved human nature, for such
a thing never existed,&mdash;but of a social system,
which, false alike to God and man, does
perpetually <i>tempt</i> one portion of the human
race with immense wealth, as it <i>tempts</i> another
portion with immeasurable poverty.</p>

<p>But let us leave these dark scenes for a
little while. Let us breathe where crime
does not poison the air. It is June, and the
trees are in full leaf, and through canopies
of green leaves, the brooks are singing their
summer song. Come out with me into the
open country, where every fleeting cloud
that turns its white bosom to the sun, as it
skims along the blue, shall remind us, not of
crime and blood, but of thankfulness to God,
that summer is on the land, and that we are
alive. Come,&mdash;without object, save to drink
at some wayside spring,&mdash;without hope,
other than to lose ourselves among the summer
boughs,&mdash;let us take a stroll together.</p>

<p>Out in the country, near a dusty turnpike,
and a straight, hot railroad track,&mdash;but we'll
leave the turnpike, which is well scattered
with young gentlemen in high shirt-collars,
who drink clouds of dust, and drive hired
horses to death,&mdash;and we'll leave the railroad
where the steam engine, like a tired
devil, comes blowing and swearing, with red
coals in its mouth, and a cloud of brimstone
smoke about its head. We'll climb the rails
of yonder gray old fence, and get us straightway
into the fields; not much have we to show
you there. A narrow path winds among
tangled bushes and clumps of dwarfed cedar
trees; it shows us, here a grassy nook, hidden
in shade, and there a rough old rock,
projecting its bald head in the sun; and then
it goes winding down and down, until you
hear the singing of the brook. Where that
brook comes from, you cannot tell; yonder
it is hidden under a world of leaves; here
it sinks from view under a bridge curiously
made up of stone, and timber, and sod; a
little to your right it comes into light, dashing
over cool rocks and forming little lakes
all over beds of smooth gray sand. Follow
the path and cross the bridge; we stand in
the shade of trees, that are scattered at irregular
intervals, along the side of a hill. Here
a willow near the brook, with rank grass
about its trunks; there a poplar with a trunk
like a Grecian column, and leaves like a canopy;
and farther on, a mass of oaks, chesnuts,
and maples, grouped together, their
boughs mingling, and a thicket of bushes
and vines around their trunks. So you see,
we stand at the bottom of an amphitheater,
one side of which is forest, the other low
brushwood; beyond the brushwood, a distant
glimpse of another forest, and in the center
of the scene, the hidden brooklet singing its
June-day song.</p>

<p>You look above, and the blue sky is set in
an irregular frame of leaves,&mdash;leaves now shadowed
by a cloud, and now dancing in the sun.</p>

<p>Let us stretch ourselves upon this level bit
of sod, where all is shade and quiet, and&mdash;&mdash;</p>

<p>Think? No, sir. Do not think that there
is such a creature as a bad man, or a crime
in the world. But drink the summer air,&mdash;drink
the freshness of foliage and flowers,&mdash;lull
yourself with the song of the brook,&mdash;look
at the blue sky, and feel that there is a
God, and that he is good.</p>

<p>You may depend you will feel better after
it. If you don't, why, it is clear that your
mind is upon bank stock, or politics,&mdash;and
there's not much hope of you.</p>

<p>Thus, stretched in the shade, at the bottom
of this leafy amphitheater, you'll wrap
yourself in summer, and forget the world,
which, beyond that wall of trees, is still at
its old work,&mdash;swearing, lying, fretting, loving,
hating, and rushing on all the while at
steam-engine speed.</p>

<p>You won't care who's President, or who
robbed the treasury of half a million dollars.
You'll forget that there is a Pope who
washed his hands in the blood of brave
men and heroic women. You'll not be anxious
about the rate of stock; whether money
is tight or easy, shall not trouble you one jot.
Thus resting quietly at the bottom of your
amphitheater in the country, you'll feel that
you are in the church of God, which has
sky for roof, leaves for walls, grassy sod for
floor, and for music,&mdash;hark! Did you ever
hear organ or orchestra that could match
<i>that</i>? The hum of bees, the bubble of
brooks, the air rustling among the leaves, all
woven together, in one dreamy hymn, that
melts into your soul, and takes you up to
heaven, quick as a sunbeam flies!</p>

<p>And when the sun goes behind the trees,
and the dell is filled with broad gleams of
golden light and deep masses of shade, you
may watch the moon as she steals into sight,
right over your head, in the very center of
the glimpse of blue sky. You may hear
the low murmur which tells you that the
day's work is almost done, and that the solemn
night has come to wrap you in her stillness.</p>

<p>And ere you leave the dell, just give one
moment of thought to those you love, whose
eyes are shut by the graveyard sod,&mdash;think
of them, not as dead, but as living and beautiful
among those stars,&mdash;and then taking the
path over the brook, turn your steps to the
world again.</p>

<p>Hark! Here it comes on the steam-engine's
roar and whistle,&mdash;that bustling, hating,
fighting world, which, like the steam-engine,
rushes onward, with hot coals at its
heart, and a brimstone cloud above it.</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h2><a name="PART_SEVENTH" id="PART_SEVENTH">PART SEVENTH.</a></h2>

<h3>THE DAY OF TWENTY-ONE YEARS.</h3>

<h4>DECEMBER 25, 1844.</h4>

<hr class="tb" />

<h3>CHAPTER I.</h3>

<h4>MARTIN FULMER APPEARS.</h4>


<p>The time was very near. The cycle of
twenty-one years was in its last hour. It
was the last hour of December twenty-fourth,
1844. That hour passed, the twenty-one
years would be complete.</p>

<p>Darkness and storm were upon the Empire
City. The snow fell fast, and the wind,
howling over the river and the roofs, made
mournful music among the arches of unfinished
Trinity Church. In the gloom, amid
the falling snow, four persons stood around
the family vault of the Van Huydens. Even
had the storm and darkness failed to cover
them from observation, they would have
been defended from all prying eyes, by the
crape masks which they wore. The marble
slab bearing the name of "<span class="smcap">Van Huyden</span>,"
was thrust aside, and from the gloom of the
vault beneath, the coffin was slowly raised
into view; the coffin which was inscribed
with the name of Gulian Van Huyden, and
with the all-significant dates, December 25th,
1823, and December 25th, 1844.</p>

<hr class="tb" />

<p>Meanwhile, even as the blast howls along
the deserted street, let us enter the mansion
of Ezekiel Bogart, which, as you are aware,
stands, with its old time exterior, alone and
desolate, amid the huge structures devoted
to traffic.</p>

<p>In the first of the seven vaults,&mdash;square in
form, and lined with shelves from the ceiling
to the floor,&mdash;Ezekiel Bogart sits alone.
The hanging lamp diffuses its mild beams
around the silent place. Ezekiel is seated
in the arm-chair, by the table, his form enveloped
in the wrapper or robe of dark cloth
lined with scarlet. The dark skull-cap
covers the crown of his head; his eyes are
hidden by huge green glasses, and the large
white cravat envelopes his throat and the
lower part of his face. Leaning forward, his
elbow on the table, and his cheek upon his
hand, which, veined and sinewy, is white
as the hand of a corpse, Ezekiel Bogart is
absorbed in thought.</p>

<p>"I have not seen Gaspar Manuel since last
night;" he utters his thoughts aloud. "This,
indeed, is singular! The hour of the final
settlement is near, and something definite
must be known in regard to the lands in
California, near the mission of San Luis.
What can have prevented him from seeing
me the second time? Can he have met
with an accident?"</p>

<p>He rang the bell which lay near his hand;
presently, in answer to the sound, the aged
servant appeared; the same who admitted
Gaspar Manuel last night, and whose spare
form is clad in gray livery, faced with black.</p>

<p>"Michael, you remember the foreign gentleman,
Gaspar Manuel, who was here last
night?"</p>

<p>"That very pale man, with long hair, and
such dark eyes? Yes, sir."</p>

<p>"You are sure that he has not called here
to-day?"</p>

<p>"Sure, sir. I have not laid eyes upon
him since last night."</p>

<p>"It is strange!" continued Ezekiel Bogart,&mdash;"You
have attended to all my directions,
Michael?"</p>

<p>"The banquet-room is prepared as you
ordered it, and all your other commands
have been carefully obeyed," answered Michael.</p>

<p>"This will be a busy night for you, Michael.
From this hour until four in the morning,
yes, until daybreak, you will wait in the reception
room below, and admit into the house
the persons whose names you will find on
this card."</p>

<p>Michael advanced and took the card from
the hand of his master.</p>

<p>"These persons,&mdash;these only,&mdash;mark me,
Michael," continued Ezekiel, in a tone of
significant emphasis. "And as they arrive,
show them up-stairs, into the small apartment,
next the banquet-room. Tell each
one, as he arrives, that I will see him at four
o'clock."</p>

<p>Michael bowed, and said, "Just as you
direct, I will do."</p>

<p>"One of the persons, however, John Hoffman,
otherwise called Ninety-One, I wish to
see as soon as he arrives. Bring him to this
room at once. You remember him, a stout,
muscular man, with a scarred face?"</p>

<p>"I do. He was here with you a few hours
since."</p>

<p>"There is another of the persons named
on that card, whom you will bring to this
room at once; Gaspar Manuel, who was here
last night. Remember, Michael."</p>

<p>Michael bowed in token of assent, and was
about to leave the room, when Ezekiel called
him back,</p>

<p>"About midnight, four persons, having
charge of a box, will come to the door and
ask for me. Take charge of the box, Michael,
and dismiss them. Have the box
carried up into the banquet-room. You can
now retire, Michael. I know that you will
attend faithfully to all that I have given you
to do."</p>

<p>"You may rely upon me, sir," said the
tried servant, and retired from the room.</p>

<p>And, once more alone, Ezekiel rested his
cheek on his hand, and again surrendered
himself to thought.</p>

<p>"The child of Gulian <i>must</i> be found; Ninety-One
cannot fail. If he is not found before
four o'clock, all is lost&mdash;all is lost! Yes, if
that child does not appear, this estate,&mdash;awful
to contemplate in its enormous wealth,&mdash;will
pass from his grasp, and the labor of twenty-one
years will have been spent for nothing.
The estate will pass into the hands of the
seven, not one of whom will use his share
for anything but the gratification of his appetites
or the oppression of his kind."</p>

<p>The old man rose, the light shone over his
tall figure, bent by age, as, placing his hands
behind his back, he paced to and fro along
the floor. He was deeply troubled. An
anxiety, heavier than death, weighed down
his soul.</p>

<p>"The seven,&mdash;look at them! Dermoyne
is a poor shoemaker. This wealth will intoxicate
and corrupt him. Barnhurst, a clerical
voluptuary,&mdash;he will use his share to
gratify his monomania. Yorke, a swindler,
who grows rich upon fraud,&mdash;his share will
enable him to plunge hundreds of the wealthiest
into utter ruin, and convulse, to its
center, the whole world of commerce and of
industry. Barron,&mdash;a fashionable sensualist,&mdash;he
will surround himself with a harem.
Godlike, a Borgia,&mdash;an intellectual demon,&mdash;his
share will create a world of crimes.
Harry Royalton, a sensualist, though of a
different stamp from the others, will expend
his in the wine-cup and at the gambling-table.
There are six of the seven,&mdash;truly a
worthy company to share the largest private
estate in the world! As for the seventh, he
has gone to his account."</p>

<p>Thus meditating, Ezekiel Bogart, slowly
paced the floor. He paused suddenly, for a
thought full of consequences, the most vital,
flashed over his soul.</p>

<p>"What if Martin Fulmer should refuse
to divide the estate? Alas! alas! his oath,"&mdash;he
pressed his hand against his forehead,&mdash;"his
oath made to Gulian Van Huyden, in
his last hour, will crush the very thought of
such a refusal. The Will must be obeyed;
yes, strictly, faithfully, to the letter, in its
most minute details."</p>

<p>Once more resuming his walk, he continued,&mdash;</p>

<p>"But the child will be discovered,&mdash;the
child will be here at the appointed hour."</p>

<p>He spoke these words in a tone of profound
conviction.</p>

<p>"I trust in Providence; and Providence
will not permit this immense wealth to pass
into the hands of those who will abuse it,
and make of it the colossal engine of human
misery."</p>

<p>After a moment of silent thought, he continued,&mdash;</p>

<p>"No,&mdash;no,&mdash;this wealth cannot pass into
the hands of the seven! When Gulian, in
his last hour, intrusted it to Martin Fulmer,
bequeathing it, after the lapse of twenty-one
years, to seven persons, in different parts of
the union, he doubtless thought that chance,
to say nothing of Providence, would find
among the number at least four with good
hearts and large mental vision. He did not
think,&mdash;he did not dream, that at least five
out of the seven would prove totally unworthy
of his hopes, altogether unfit to possess
and wield such an incredible wealth.
And, believing in Providence, I cannot
think, for a moment, that He will permit
this engine of such awful power to pass into
hands that will use it to the ruin and the
degradation of the human race. The child
will appear, and God will bless that child."</p>

<p>A sound pealed clear and distinct throughout
the mansion. It was the old clock in
the hall, striking the hour. Ezekiel stood
as if spell-bound, while the sounds rolled in
sad echoes through the mansion.</p>

<p>It struck the hour of twelve. The cycle
of twenty-one years was complete.</p>

<p>The old man sank on his knees, and burying
his face in his hands, sent up his soul, in
a voiceless prayer.</p>

<p>"Come what will, this matter must be left
to the hands of Providence," he said, in a
low voice, as he rose. "If the child does
not appear at four o'clock, Martin Fulmer
has no other course, than to divide this untold
wealth among such of the seven as are
present. Before morning light his trust expires.
But,&mdash;but,&mdash;" and he pressed his
clenched hands nervously together,&mdash;"the
child <i>will</i> appear."</p>

<p>Taking up a silver candlestick, he lighted
the wax candle which it held, and went, in
silence, through the seven vaults, (described
in a previous chapter) which contained the
title-deeds, a portion of the specie, and the
secret police records of the Van Huyden
estate.</p>

<p>As he passed from silent vault to silent
vault, not a word escaped his lips.</p>

<p>He was thinking of the incredible wealth,
whose evidences were all around him,&mdash;of
the awful power which that wealth would
confer upon its possessors,&mdash;of Nameless, or
Carl Raphael, the son of Gulian Van Huyden,&mdash;of
the appointed hour, now close at
hand.</p>

<p>"What if Martin Fulmer should burn
every title-deed and record here,"&mdash;he held
the light above his head, as he surveyed the
vault,&mdash;"thus leaving the estate in the
hands of the ten thousand tenants who now
occupy its houses and lands? These parchments
once destroyed, every tenant would be
the virtual owner of the house or lot of
land which he now occupies. This would
create, in fact, ten thousand <i>proprietors</i>,&mdash;perhaps
twenty thousand,&mdash;instead of seven
heirs."</p>

<p>It was a great thought,&mdash;a thought which,
carried into action, would have baptized ten
thousand hearts with peace, and filled thrice
ten thousand hearts with joy unspeakable.
But&mdash;&mdash;</p>

<p>"It cannot be. Martin Fulmer must keep
his oath. The rest is for Providence."</p>

<p>He returned to the first room, or vault,
and from a drawer of the table, drew forth
a bundle of keys.</p>

<p>"I will visit <i>those rooms</i>," he said, "and
in the meantime Ninety-One will arrive with
Carl Raphael."</p>

<p>Light in hand, he left the room, and passed
along a lofty corridor with panneled walls.
As the light shone over his tall figure, bent
with age, and enveloped in a dark robe lined
with scarlet, you might have thought him
the magician of some old time story, on his
way to the cell of his most sacred vigils, had
it not been for his skull-cap, huge green
glasses, and enormous white cravat; these
imparted something grotesque to his appearance,
and effectually concealed his features,
and the varying expressions of his countenance.</p>

<p>He placed a key in the lock of a door. It
was the door of a chamber which no living
being had entered for twenty-one years.
Ezekiel seemed to hesitate ere he crossed
the threshold. At length, turning the key
in the lock,&mdash;it grated harshly,&mdash;he pushed
open the door,&mdash;he crossed the threshold.</p>

<p>A sad and desolate place! Once elegant,
luxurious; the very abode of voluptuous
wealth, it was now sadder than a tomb.
The atmosphere was heavy with the breath
of years. The candle burned but dimly as
it encountered that atmosphere, which, for
twenty-one years, had not known a single
ray of sunlight, a single breath of fresh air.
A grand old place with lofty walls, concealed
by tapestry,&mdash;three windows looking to the
street (they had not been opened for twenty-one
years) adorned with curtains of embroidered
lace, a bureau surmounted by an
oval mirror, chairs of dark mahogany, a
carpet soft as down, and a couch enshrined
in an alcove, with silken curtains and coverlet
and pillow, yet bearing the impress of a
human form. A grand old place, but there
was dust everywhere; everywhere dust, the
breath of years, the wear and tear of time.
You could not see your face in the mirror;
the cobwebs covered it like a vail. You
left the print of your footsteps upon the
downy carpet. The purple tapestry, was
purple no longer; it was black with dust,
and the moth had eaten it into rags. The
once snow-white curtains of the windows,
were changed to dingy gray, and the canopy
of the couch, looked anything but pure and
spotless, as the light fell over its folds.</p>

<p>Did Ezekiel Bogart hesitate and tremble
as he approached that couch?</p>

<p>He held the light above his head,&mdash;and
looked within the couch. Silken coverlet
and downy pillow, covered with dust, and
bearing still the impress of the form which
had died there twenty-one years ago.</p>

<p>"Alice Van Huyden!" ejaculated Ezekiel
Bogart, as though the dead one was present,
listening to his every word,&mdash;"Here, twenty-one
years ago, you gave birth to your son,
and,&mdash;died. Yes, here you gave life to
that son,&mdash;Carl Raphael Van Huyden I must
call him,&mdash;who, once condemned to death,&mdash;then
buried beside you in the family vault,&mdash;then
for two years the tenant of a mad-house,
will at four o'clock, appear and take possession
of his own name, and of the estate of
his father!"</p>

<p>Turning from the bed, Ezekiel approached
the bureau. The mirror was thick with
dust, and in front of it stood an alabaster
candlestick&mdash;the image of a dancing nymph,&mdash;now
alas! looking more like ebony than
alabaster. It held a half-burned waxen
candle.</p>

<p>"That candle, when lighted last, shone
over the death agonies of Alice Van Huyden."</p>

<p>Up and down that place, whose very air
breathed heart-rending memories, the old
man walked, his head sinking low and lower
on his breast at every step.</p>

<p>He paused at length before a portrait,
covered with dust. Standing on a chair,
Ezekiel with the purple tapestry, brushed
the dust away from the canvas and the
walnut frame. The portrait came out into
light, so fresh, so vivid, so life-like, that
Ezekiel stepped hastily from the chair as
though the apparition of one long dead, had
suddenly confronted him.</p>

<p>It was a portrait of a manly face, shaded
by masses of brown hair. There was all the
hope of young manhood, in the dark eyes,
on the cheeks rounded with health, and upon
the warm lips full of life and love. A
fresh countenance; one that you would
have taken at sight for the countenance of a
man of true nobility of heart and soul. It
was the portrait of Gulian Van Huyden at
twenty-one.</p>

<p>For a long time Ezekiel Bogart lingered
silently in front of the portrait.</p>

<p>At last he left the chamber, locked the
door,&mdash;first pausing to look over his shoulder
toward the bed upon which Alice Van Huyden
died,&mdash;and then slowly ascended to the
upper rooms of the old mansion.</p>

<hr class="tb" />

<p>He came into a small chamber panneled
with oak; an oaken pillar, crowned with
carved flowers, and satyr faces in every corner;
and a death's head grinning from the
center of the oaken ceiling. Once the floor,
the walls, the ceiling and the pillars, had
shone like polished steel, but now they
were black with dust.</p>

<p>Holding the light above his skull-cap,
Ezekiel silently surveyed the scene.</p>

<p>Two tressels stood in the center of the
floor. These were the only objects to
break the monotony of the dust-covered
floor and walls.</p>

<p>Upon these tressels, twenty-one years
before, had been placed a coffin, inscribed
with the name of Gulian Van Huyden, and
the dates,&mdash;December 25th, 1823, and December,
25th, 1844.</p>

<p>Opposite these tressels, a panel had recently
been removed, disclosing a cavity or
recess in the wall. In the recess the iron
chest had been buried twenty-one years before.
It was vacant now,&mdash;the iron chest was gone.</p>

<p>As the light shone around this place,
whose every detail was linked with the
past, the breast of Ezekiel Bogart heaved
with emotion, but no word passed his lips.
He lingered there a long time.</p>

<p>Through the confined doorway, he passed
into the garret nook, whose roof was formed
by the slope of the heavy rafters, which now
were hung with cobwebs, while a small window,
with heavy frame and narrow panes,
shook to the impulse of the winter wind. A
mahogany desk and an old-fashioned arm-chair,
stand between the door and the window.</p>

<p>"Here Gulian and Martin Fulmer held
their last interview," soliloquized Ezekiel, as
he stood alone in the dreary garret,&mdash;"there
stood Gulian, there knelt Martin, as he took
the oath. Fifteen minutes afterward, Gulian
was a corpse, and Martin was loaded
with the awful trust, which he has borne
alone for twenty-one years."</p>

<p>He approached the window. All was
dark without. Sleet and snow beat against
the window-pane. The wind howled dismally
over the roof; the storm was abroad
over the city and the bay.</p>

<p>"From this window he saw Manhattan
Bay, and the spire of old Trinity. Yes,
from this window, he pointed out to Martin
Fulmer, the windows of the Banquet-room,
in the western wing of the mansion, as they
shone with the glad light of the Christmas
Festival. It is Christmas again,&mdash;once more
the windows of the banquet-room are
lighted,&mdash;yes, I can see the lights glimmering
through the storm, but not for a festival.
Ah me! what years have passed since those
windows were lighted for a festival."</p>

<p>Sadly Ezekiel Bogart left the garret, and
descending the narrow staircase, and passing
a corridor, made the best of his way toward
the lower rooms of the mansion. Impressed
to his very soul, with the <i>consciousness</i> that
he would soon behold the son of Gulian Van
Huyden&mdash;Carl Raphael&mdash;he entered the first
of the seven vaults, where the hanging lamp
still shone upon the arm-chair, the shelved
walls, and the huge table overspread with
papers.</p>

<p>Seating himself in the arm-chair, he rang
the bell. It was not long before the aged
servant appeared.</p>

<p>"Has John Hoffman, otherwise called
Ninety-One, arrived?"</p>

<p>"No, Sir."</p>

<p>"This, indeed, is strange, very strange!"
ejaculated Ezekiel, much agitated, "and
Gaspar Manuel&mdash;has he been here?"</p>

<p>"No, sir," answered Michael, "the four
persons with the box have been here, and
that is all. I had the box carried into the
banquet-room."</p>

<p>At a sign from Ezekiel, the aged servant
retired.</p>

<p>"Altogether strange! The seven were
notified by letter, and by a carefully worded
advertisement in the daily papers, of the
<i>place</i> and <i>hour</i> of meeting. And not one
arrived! What if they should not appear?"</p>

<p>The sound of the old clock disturbed his
meditations. One,&mdash;two,&mdash;three! He had
passed three hours in wandering through
the old mansion. Only a single hour remained.</p>

<p>"Three hours gone!" Ezekiel started
from his chair, "no word of Ninety-One,
Gaspar Manuel, or the seven! It may be,"
and he felt a strange hope kindling in his
heart, "that the night will pass and not one
of the seven appear!"</p>

<p>The words had not passed his lips, when
a heavy footstep was heard in the corridor,
and the door was flung open. A stout muscular
form came rapidly to the light. It
was Ninety-One. His garments were covered
with snow, and there were stains of blood
upon his scarred face. From beneath his
shaggy eyebrows, knit in a settled frown,
his eyes shone with a ferocious glare.</p>

<p>"What news?" ejaculated Ezekiel.</p>

<p>Ninety-One struck his clenched hand upon
the table, and gave utterance to a blasphemous
oath.</p>

<p>"News? Hell's full of sich news! Only
to think of it! It's enough to set a man to
wishin' himself safe in jail again. 'Don't
give it up so easy!' That's what I've said
all along. An' I have <i>not</i> give it up easy,
nayther. And now what's it come to?"</p>

<p>"The Boy,&mdash;the son of Gulian Van Huyden,"
cried Ezekiel, resting his hands upon
the table.</p>

<p>Ninety-One sank into a chair and wiped
the blood from his face.</p>

<p>"You know I tracked the boy all day
until I found his quarters in the four story
buildin', whar there was a dead man?&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Yes,&mdash;yes,&mdash;and you came and told me
that you had found his home. The people
in the room adjoining the one which he
occupies, informed you that he had gone
out with the young girl, but that he would
shortly return. You came and told me, and
then went back to his room to await his
return, taking with you a letter from me&mdash;"</p>

<p>"I went back, and waited, and waited,
havin' no company but the dead man, until
dark. Then I sallied out, and went to the
house, where we all was last night. I'd a
hard time to get in, but git in I did,&mdash;and
jist too late&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Too late?&mdash;"</p>

<p>"The boy and the gal had been thar, and
they'd jist gone. One of the folks in livery
show'd me which way,&mdash;'down the street
toward the river, and only five minutes ago,'
says he. Down the street I put, and by this
time the snow was fallin' and the wind
blowin' a harrycane. Down the street I put,
and when I came near the river, I heer'd a
woman cry out, 'help! murder!' Mind, I
tell you, I lost no time, but made straight
for the pier, an' thar I find the gal, wringin'
her hands an' p'intin' to the river&mdash;"</p>

<p>"And the boy&mdash;the son of Gulian?&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Four fellers had come behind him, as he
was about turnin' into the street in which he
lived,&mdash;they had dragged him from her,&mdash;she
follered them on to the pier, cryin',
'help! murder!' and they'd tied him, and
put him into a boat and made out into the
river. As she told me this story, I looked
about me for a boat,&mdash;thar wasn't a boat to
be seen,&mdash;so I detarmined to jump in and
swim arter 'em anyhow, though the river
was full of ice and the wind a-blowin' like
Lucifer&mdash;"</p>

<p>"You leaped into the river?"</p>

<p>"No, I did not. For as the gal stood
cryin', an' moanin', an' p'intin', out into the
dark thick night, the boat came back, and
the four gallus birds jumped on the wharf&mdash;"</p>

<p>"And the child,&mdash;O, my God! the son
of Gulian?&mdash;"</p>

<p>"They'd hove him overboard!"</p>

<p>The old man uttered a heart-rending
groan, and raised his hands to heaven.</p>

<p>"Fatality!" he cried.</p>

<p>"I made at 'em at once,&mdash;and we j'ined
in, four to one, teeth an' toe nails. 'Don't
give it up so easy!' I said, but what's the
use o' talkin'? I broke a jaw for one of
'em an' <i>caved the crust in</i> for another; but I
wa'n't a match for slung-shot behind the
ear. They knocked me stoopid. An' when
I opened my eyes again, I found myself in
their hands, arrested on the charge o' havin'
murdered young Somers, an' o' robbin' Isr'el
Yorke. They tied me, took me to a room
up town, whar they war j'ined by Blossom,&mdash;they
tried to gouge money out o' me, but
as I hadn't any, it wa'n't so easy. When
they got tired o' that, I purtended to sleep,
an' overheer'd their talk. The hansum
Colonel, Tarleton, my pertikler friend, had
hired the four to waylay <i>the boy</i>, and carry
him out into the river. Blossom didn't
know anythin' about it; he swore like a fiery
furnace when they told him of it. Arter a
while, as I found they were goin' to take me
to the Tombs if they couldn't git any money
out o' me, I broke for the door, and came
away in a hurry, an' here I am."</p>

<p>"And the child of Gulian is gone! Fatality!
Fatality!" groaned Ezekiel Bogart.</p>

<p>"In the river,&mdash;tied and gagged,&mdash;in the
river," sullenly replied Ninety-One; and the
next moment he uttered a wild cry and
leaped to his feet.</p>

<p>Ezekiel Bogart had removed the skullcap,
the green glasses and the huge cravat.
In place of a countenance obscured by a
grotesque disguise, appeared a noble face, a
broad forehead, rendered venerable by masses
of snow-white hair. His beard, also white
as snow, left bare the outlines of his massive
chin and descended upon his breast. And
sunken deep beneath his white eyebrows,
his large eyes shone with the light of a great
intellect, a generous heart. It was indeed a
noble head. True, his mouth was large, and
the lips severely set, his large nose bent to
one side, his cheek-bones high and prominent,
but the calm steady light of his eyes,
the bold outlines of his forehead,&mdash;stamped
with thought, with genius,&mdash;gave character
to his entire face, and made its very deviations
from regularity of feature, all the more
impressive and commanding.</p>

<p>"It is the Doctor!" cried Ninety-One.
"Yer ha'r is white and thar's wrinkles about
yer mouth an' eyes, but I know you, Doctor
Martin Fulmer."</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h3><a name="CHAPTER_7_II" id="CHAPTER_7_II">CHAPTER II.</a></h3>

<h4>THE SEVEN ARE SUMMONED.</h4>


<p>It was, in truth, that singular man, who
in the course of our narrative, has appeared
as the Judge of the Court of Ten Millions
as the "man in the surtout, with manifold
capes," as Ezekiel Bogart, the General Agent;
and who, at length, appears in his own character,&mdash;Dr.
Martin Fulmer, the trustee of the
Van Huyden estate.</p>

<p>"Be silent, John,"&mdash;the Doctor rose and
gently waved his hand,&mdash;his bent form for
a moment became straight and erect,&mdash;his
attitude was noble and impressive. "The
child whom, twenty-one years ago, Gulian
Van Huyden intrusted to your care, has, this
night,&mdash;even as the misfortunes of long
years were about to be succeeded by peace,
security, the possession of unbounded wealth,&mdash;met
his death at the instigation of Gulian's
brother. Be silent, John, for the shadow of
almighty fate is passing over us! It was
to be, and it was! Who shall resist the decrees
of Providence? Behold! the fabric
which I have spent twenty-one years to
build, is dust and ruins at my feet!"</p>

<p>There was the dignity of despair in his
tone, his look, his every attitude.</p>

<p>He slowly moved toward the door.&mdash;"Remain
here, John, until morning. I may
want the aid of your arm. The worst has
fallen upon me," he continued, as though
speaking to himself, "and nothing now remains
but to fulfill the last conditions of my
trust, and&mdash;to die."</p>

<p>He left the room, and in the darkness, along
corridor, and up stairway, pursued his way
slowly to the banquet-room.</p>

<p>"To this estate I have offered up twenty-one
years of my life,&mdash;of my soul. For it I
have denied myself the companionship of a
wife, the joy of hearing a child call me by
the name of 'father!' I have traversed the
globe in its behalf; made myself a dweller
in all lands; have left the beautiful domain
of that science which loses itself among the
stars, to make myself a student in the science
of human misery, in the dark philosophy
of human despair. I have made myself
the very slave of this estate. Believing that
one day, its enormous wealth would be devoted
to the amelioration of social misery, I
have made myself familiar with the entire
anatomy of the social world; have dwelt in
the very heart of its most loathsome evils;
have probed to the quick the ulcer of its
moral leprosy. But at all times, and in
every phase of my career, I did hope, that
out of this son of Gulian's, cast like a waif
upon the voyage of life, and made the subject
of superhuman misfortune, <span class="smcap">Providence</span>
would at length mould a good, strong man,
with heart and intellect, to wield the Van
Huyden estate, for the social regeneration of
his race. My hope is ashes."</p>

<p>With words like these in his soul, only
half-uttered on his tongue, he opened a door
and passed into the banquet-room.</p>

<p>It was brilliantly lighted by an antique
chandelier which hung from the lofty ceiling.
It was arranged for the last scene.</p>

<p>In this banquet-room, twenty-one years
ago, there was the sound of merry voices,
mingled with the clink of wine-glasses;
there were hearts mad with joy, and faces
dressed in smiles; and there was one face
dressed in smiles, which masked a heart devoured
by the tortures of the damned.</p>

<p>Now the scene was changed. The doors,
windows, the pictures of the Van Huyden
family which lined the lofty walls, were concealed
by hangings of bright scarlet. A round
table, covered with a white cloth, and surrounded
by eight antique arm-chairs, alone
broke the monotony of that vast and brilliantly
lighted banquet-hall. The chandelier which
shone upon the hangings, and lighted up
every part of the room, shone down upon
the white cloth of the table, and upon a
single object which varied its surface,&mdash;a
small portfolio, bound in black leather.</p>

<p>In that portfolio were comprised the mysteries
of the Van Huyden estate.</p>

<p>Beneath the table, and shaded by it
from the light, dimly appeared an iron chest,
and a coffin covered with black cloth,&mdash;both
were half-concealed beneath a pall of velvet,
fringed with tarnished gold.</p>

<p>Martin Fulmer attentively surveyed this
scene, and a sudden thought seemed to strike
him. "It will not do," he said, "let the old
place, in this hour, put on all its memories."</p>

<p>He rang the bell, and four servants, attired
in gray liveries, appeared from beneath the
hangings. Martin whispered his commands
in a low voice, and they obeyed without a
word. Moving to and fro, without uproar,
in the course of a few minutes they had
completely changed the appearance of the
hall. Thus changed, the banquet-room has,
indeed, put on its old memories; it wears
the look, it breathes the air of the past.</p>

<p>The light of the chandelier, no longer
dazzling, falls in subdued radiance around
a lofty hall, whose ceiling is supported by
eight pillars of cedar, grotesquely carved
from base to capital, with the faces of monks
and nuns,&mdash;all of the round and oily stamp,&mdash;with
beasts, and birds, and fruits, and
flowers. The glaring scarlet hangings cluster
in festoons around the capitals of the pillars;
and between the pillars appear, upon the
panneled walls, portraits of the Van Huyden
family, in frames of oak, and walnut, and
gilt, for seven generations; beginning with
the grim face of <span class="smcap">the ancestor</span>, who landed
on Manhattan Island in the year 1620, and
ending with the youthful, artist-like face of
Carl Raphael, painted in 1842. (This portrait
of Nameless, Martin Fulmer procured
from the study of Cornelius Berman.) The
lofty windows on one side, were hidden by
curtains of dark purple. At one end of the
spacious hall, was a broad hearth, blazing
with a cheerful wood-fire; at the other, on a
dark platform, arose a marble image of "<span class="smcap">the
master</span>," as large as life, and thrown distinctly
into view by the dark background.</p>

<p>There are two altars covered with black
velvet, fringed with gold; one on each side
of the table. The altar on the right supports
the coffin; the one on the left, the iron chest;
and around coffin and iron chest, as for a
funeral, tall wax candles are dimly burning.</p>

<p>The dark panneled walls,&mdash;the huge pillars,
quaintly carved,&mdash;the pictures, all save
one, dim with age,&mdash;the hearth and its flame,&mdash;the
white image of the Savior,&mdash;the central
table, with its eight arm-chairs,&mdash;the
dark altars, with wax candles burning around
coffin and iron chest,&mdash;all combined to present
an effect which, deepened by the dead
stillness, is altogether impressive and ghost-like.</p>

<p>"The place looks like the old time," exclaims
Martin Fulmer, slowly surveying its
every detail,&mdash;"and,&mdash;"</p>

<p>The sound of the old clock again! How it
rings through the mansion,&mdash;rings, and swells,
and dies away! One,&mdash;two,&mdash;three,&mdash;four!</p>

<p>Martin Fulmer sinks into the arm-chair,
at the head of the table, and from beneath
his waistcoat draws forth a parchment,&mdash;the
last will and testament of Gulian Van Huyden.</p>

<p>"There is no other way,&mdash;I must begin;"
he casts his eyes toward a narrow doorway,
across which is stretched a curtain. Behind
that curtain wait the heirs of the Van Huyden
estate. The old man, erect in his chair,
at the head of the table, passes his right
hand thoughtfully over his broad forehead,
and through the masses of his hair, as white
as snow.</p>

<p>And then directing his gaze toward the
doorway, he begins to call the names of the
Seven:</p>

<p>"Evelyn Somers!"</p>

<p>No answer,&mdash;the merchant prince now
sleeps a corpse within his palace.</p>

<p>"Beverly Barron!"&mdash;the name of the
man of fashion resounds through the still hall.</p>

<p>But Beverly will never fold in his arms
again, the form of a tempted and yielding
maiden; never place his lips again to the
lips of a faithless wife, whom he has made
false to her marriage vow,&mdash;never press a
father's kiss upon the brow of his motherless
child. Beverly also has gone to his
account.</p>

<p>"Harry Royalton!" exclaimed Martin
Fulmer, and again directed his eyes toward
the door.</p>

<p>Is that his step, the man of the racecourse,
the hero of the cock-pit and faro-bank?
No. It was but a breath of air
among the window-curtains. But where, in
this hour, of all others, is Harry Royalton of
Hill Royal? It cannot be told. He does not
appear.</p>

<p>Martin Fulmer, with something of surprise
upon his face, spoke the fourth name,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Herman Barnhurst!"</p>

<p>Herman, the voluptuous, and the fair-cheeked,
and eagle-eyed,&mdash;the victim of
beautiful Marion Merlin,&mdash;the husband of
outraged Fanny Lansdale,&mdash;the seducer of
poor Alice Burney,&mdash;Herman does not answer
the summons.</p>

<p>A wild hope began to gleam in the deep
eyes of Martin Fulmer,&mdash;"Four of the seven
absent,&mdash;why not all?" And he called the
fifth name; the name of one, whom, most
of all others, he desired to be present:&mdash;</p>

<p>"Arthur Dermoyne!"</p>

<p>Loud and deep it swelled, but there was
no reply. Enthusiast and mechanic, who,
at your work-bench, have laid out plans of
social regeneration,&mdash;who, amid the clatter
of hammers, and hum of toil, have heard
the words of the four gospels, and thought
of wealth only as the means of putting those
words into deeds,&mdash;where do you linger at
this hour? Alas, Dermoyne is silent; he
does not appear.</p>

<p>The light in Martin's eyes grew brighter,
"Five of the Seven, why not all!"</p>

<p>"Gabriel Godlike!" he pronounced the
name, and paused in suspense for the answer
to the summons.</p>

<p>"Here!" cried a voice of thunder, and
through the parted curtains, the imposing
form of the statesman emerged into light.
His broad chest was clad in a blue coat with
bright metal buttons; a white cravat made
his bronzed face look yet darker; he advanced
with a heavy stride, his great forehead
looming boldly in the light, his eyes
deep sunken beneath the brows, glaring like
living coals. His cheek was flushed,&mdash;with
wine&mdash;or with the excitement of the hour?</p>

<p>Ponderous and gloomy and grand, as
when he arose to scatter thunderbolts through
the thronged senate,&mdash;attired in the same
brown coat which he wore on state occasions,&mdash;he
came to the table, assumed a seat opposite
Dr. Martin Fulmer, and said in his
deepest bass,&mdash;"I am here, and ready for
the final settlement of the Van Huyden
estate."</p>

<p>It is no shame to Dr. Fulmer to say,
that he had rather confronted the entire
Seven together, than to have to deal with
this man alone. "The estate decreed into
those hands, which know neither remorse or
fear?"&mdash;he shuddered.</p>

<p>Then he called the seventh name,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Israel Yorke!"</p>

<p>No delay this time. With a hop and a
spring,&mdash;spectacles on nose, and sharp gray
eyes glancing all about him,&mdash;the little financier
came through the curtain, and advancing
to the table, seated himself beside Godlike,
like Mammon on right of Lucifer.</p>

<p>"And I am here," he said, pulling his
whiskers, and then running his hand over
his bald head,&mdash;"Here and ready for the
final settlement of the Van Huyden estate."</p>

<p>"And is this all?" ejaculated Martin Fulmer;
and once more he called the names of
the Seven. There was no response.</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h3><a name="CHAPTER_7_III" id="CHAPTER_7_III">CHAPTER III.</a></h3>

<h4>"SAY, BETWEEN US THREE!"</h4>


<p>Martin Fulmer uttered a deep sigh, and
then gazing upon the representatives of
Satan and of Mammon he said: "Gentlemen,
you know the purpose for which you
are here?"</p>

<p>"We do," they said, and each one laid
his copy of the will on the table.</p>

<p>"The first thing in order, is the reading of
the Will," said Martin Fulmer solemnly.
And while a dead stillness pervaded, he read
the will; and afterward briefly recounted
the circumstances connected with the death
of the testator.</p>

<p>When he had finished, the silence remained
for some moments unbroken. The lights
flashed upon the smart concealed visage of
the financier,&mdash;the grand Satanic face of the
statesman,&mdash;the calm face of Martin Fulmer,
with the bold brow, and hair as white as
snow; and as a breath of wind moved the
lights, they flashed fitfully over the coffin,
and the iron chest, the cedar pillars, and the
marble image.</p>

<p>"There is no son in existence?" asked
Israel nervously.</p>

<p>"None," answered Martin in a low voice.</p>

<p>"He did not die in a cause pre-eminent
for its sanctity?" asked Gabriel in a deep
voice.</p>

<p>"It cannot be said that he did," answered
Martin, as though questioning his own conscience.</p>

<p>"The disposition of this estate, depends
then entirely upon your integrity, and especially
upon your fidelity to your <i>oath</i>?"&mdash;the
statesman, as though he knew the chord
most sensitive, in the strong honest nature of
Martin Fulmer, watched him keenly, as he
awaited his answer.</p>

<p>Martin bowed his head.</p>

<p>"Under those circumstances, it is clear to
you, is it not, that the estate falls to those
of the Seven Heirs, who are now present?"</p>

<p>"If I am faithful to my <span class="smcap">oath</span>, such will
be my disposition of the estate."</p>

<p>"Faithful to your oath?" echoed Godlike.</p>

<p>"That would be highly immoral," said
Israel Yorke.</p>

<p>It was in a slow and measured tone, and
with his venerable head, placed firmly on
his shoulders, that Martin Fulmer said,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Sir, you know me," to Godlike,&mdash;"in
the times of the Bank panic, I met you in
the vestibule of the senate, and had some
interesting conversation with you. You
know that I would sooner die than break my
word, much less my oath, and of all others,
<span class="smcap">the oath</span> which I took to Gulian Van
Huyden. But may not circumstances arise
in which the breaking of that oath may be a
lighter crime, than strict obedience to it?"</p>

<p>Godlike started&mdash;Yorke half rose from his
chair.</p>

<p>"Reflect for a moment. Circumstances
have arisen, which the testator could not
have ever dreamed of, when he loaded me
with this trust, under the seal of that awful
oath. It was doubtless his wish that his
estates, swelled by the accumulation of
twenty-one years, should descend into the
hands of his son, who having been reared in
poverty and hardship, would know how to
use this wealth for the good of mankind,&mdash;or
in the absence of his son, that it should
be <i>dispersed</i> for the good of the race, by the
hands of seven persons, selected from the
descendants of the original Van Huyden,
and scattered throughout the Union. Such
was doubtless his idea. But behold how
different the result. The son is dead. Only
two of the Seven are here. Shall I, adhering
to the letter of the law, to the oath in
its strictest sense, divide this great estate
between you two? Or, fearful of the awful
evil which you may work to the world, with
this untold wealth, shall I&mdash;in order to
avoid this evil,&mdash;refuse to divide the estate,
and take upon myself the moral penalty of
the broken oath?"</p>

<p>"That is a question which you must settle
with your own conscience," said Godlike
slowly, as he fixed his gaze upon Martin
Fulmer's face.</p>

<p>Was he aware of the one weak point in
the strong, bold mind of Dr. Martin Fulmer?
Did he know of Dr. Martin Fulmer's fear
and horror of&mdash;the unpardonable sin?</p>

<p>Martin did not reply, but leaned his head
upon his hand, and seemed buried in
thought.</p>

<p>"In order to understand my position,
reflect,&mdash;twenty-one years ago, the estate
was but two millions; behold it now!" He
unlocked the portfolio, and drew forth two
half sheets of foolscap, covered with writing
in a delicate but legible hand. "There is
a brief statement of the estate as it stands."</p>

<p>Israel eagerly grasped one half sheet;
Godlike took the other. Martin Fulmer
intensely watched their faces as they read.</p>

<p>Rapidly Godlike's eagle eye, perused that
index to the untold wealth of the Van Huyden
estate.</p>

<p>"It would purchase the Presidency of the
United States!" he muttered with a heaving
chest,&mdash;"enthroned upon that pedestal, a
man might call kings his menials, the world
his plaything."</p>

<p>"One hundred millions! Astor multiplied
by Girard!" ejaculated Israel Yorke,&mdash;"with
such a capital, one might buy Rothschild,
and keep him too!"</p>

<p>Glorious and eloquent half sheet of foolscap!
Talk of Milton, Shakspeare, Homer,&mdash;your
poetry is worth all theirs combined!
What flight of theirs, in their loftiest moods,
can match in sublimity, the simple and majestic
march of this swelling line,&mdash;</p>

<p>"<i>One hundred millions of dollars!</i>"</p>

<p>"This is a dream," said Godlike,&mdash;and
for once his voice was tremulous.</p>

<p>"Enough to set one raving!" cried Israel
Yorke.</p>

<p>"And yet, adhering to the strict letter of
my oath,&mdash;" the voice and look of Martin
Fulmer was sad,&mdash;despairing,&mdash;"I am bound
to divide this incredible wealth between you
two."</p>

<p>"Say, between us three!" cried a new
voice, and as Martin Fulmer raised his head,
and the others started in their seats, the
speaker came with a rapid stride from the
curtained doorway to the table.</p>

<p>It was Randolph Royalton, the white slave.
Folding his arms upon the breast of his
frock coat,&mdash;made of dark blue cloth,&mdash;which
was buttoned to his throat, he stood
beside the table, his face lividly pale, and
his dark hair floating wild and disheveled
about his forehead.</p>

<p>"You!&mdash;a negro!"&mdash;and Godlike's lip
curled in sardonic scorn.</p>

<p>Trembling as with an excitement continued
for long hours, Randolph turned to
Martin Fulmer, and said:</p>

<p>"I am the oldest child of John Augustine
Royal ton, and his lawful heir. And I am
here! There is the proof that my father
was married to Herodia, my mother,&mdash;" he
placed a paper in the hands of Martin Fulmer,&mdash;"I
am here in the name of my father,
to claim my portion of the Van Huyden
estate."</p>

<p>Israel was very restless,&mdash;Godlike very
gloomy and full of scorn, as Martin Fulmer
attentively perused the document.</p>

<p>"You have a copy of the Will, addressed
to your father?" asked the old man, raising
his eyes to Randolph's colorless face.</p>

<p>Randolph drew a parchment from the
breast of his coat,&mdash;"There is my father's
copy, superscribed with his name."</p>

<p>"I recognize you as the elder son of
John Augustine Royalton," said Dr. Fulmer,
very calmly,&mdash;"These proofs are all sufficient.
Be seated, sir."</p>

<p>Randolph uttered a wild cry, and pressed
his forehead with both hands.</p>

<p>It was a moment before he recovered his
composure. "You said <i>negro!</i> just now!"
he turned to Godlike, his blue eves flashing
with deadly hatred, "learn sir, that had
yonder bit of paper failed to establish my
right, that this at least establishes my descent
from &mdash;&mdash; &mdash;&mdash;!"</p>

<p>Godlike repeated that great name, in a
tone of mingled incredulity and contempt.</p>

<p>"Ay, <i>he</i> was the father of Herodia,&mdash;I
am his grandson. There is my grandfather's
handwriting," he placed the paper in the
hands of Martin Fulmer, "Read it, sir, for
the information of this statesman. Let him
know that the few drops of <i>negro blood</i> which
flow in my veins, are lost and drowned in
the blood of a man whose name is history,&mdash;of &mdash;&mdash; &mdash;&mdash;!"</p>

<p>Martin Fulmer read the paper aloud, adding,
"You perceive he speaks the truth. He
is the grandson of &mdash;&mdash; &mdash;&mdash;."</p>

<p>"Pardon me,&mdash;I was hasty," said the
statesman, extending his hand.</p>

<p>Randolph did not seem to notice the extended
hand, but dropping into a chair, said,
quietly,&mdash;"There are <i>three</i> of us <i>now</i>, I believe."</p>

<p>And he regarded the statesman with a
look which was full of triumph and scorn.</p>

<p>Martin Fulmer looked into the faces of the
three, and then bent his head in deep
thought,&mdash;deep and harrowing thought, extending
over every instant of twenty-one
years.</p>

<p>From the portfolio he drew forth two
half sheets of paper, covered with writing in
his own hand. One bore the signature of
Gabriel Godlike, the other that of Israel
Yorke.</p>

<p>"These papers, embracing an absolute renunciation
of all their claims upon the Van
Huyden estate, they signed before the Court
of Ten Millions,&mdash;signed, without knowing
their contents. Shall I produce them?"</p>

<p>He hesitated.&mdash;"But no! no! I am not
clear as to the right of any one to dispose of
his share."</p>

<p>Martin Fulmer, before the bar of his own
conscience, was fanatically just. He <i>might</i>
use these papers, but before his own conscience
he dared not.</p>

<p>"I am decided," he exclaimed, despair
impressed upon his face,&mdash;"I must fulfill my
oath. Gentlemen, I recognize you as the
three heirs of the Van Huyden estate, you
having appeared at the appointed hour."</p>

<p>The same electric throb of joy&mdash;joy intense
to madness,&mdash;ran through the bosoms
of the three, but manifested itself in different
ways. The diminutive financier bounded
from his chair; Godlike uttered an oath;
Randolph muttered between his teeth, "The
<i>negro</i> is, indeed, then, one of the three."</p>

<p>"I will presently give to each of you a
certificate, over my own hand, stating that
you appeared at the appointed hour, and
pledging myself, within a week, to apportion
this vast estate among you."</p>

<p>Without taking time to notice the expression
of their faces, he continued,&mdash;</p>

<p>"But first, we must open this,"&mdash;he
pointed to the iron chest,&mdash;"and this,"&mdash;to
the coffin, around which, as around the iron
chest, tall wax candles were dimly burning.
"Whatever these may contain, they cannot
affect nor change my decision. But they
must be opened,&mdash;so the will directs."</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h3><a name="CHAPTER_7_IV" id="CHAPTER_7_IV">CHAPTER IV.</a></h3>

<h4>THE LEGATE OF HIS HOLINESS.</h4>


<p>As he rose from his seat and advanced
toward the iron chest, the curtain of the doorway
was thrust aside, and the light shone
upon a slender form, clad in black, and upon
a pallid face, framed in masses of jet-black
hair.</p>

<p>"Gaspar Manuel! at last!" ejaculated
Martin Fulmer.</p>

<p>"Pardon me for this intrusion," said Gaspar
Manuel, in a tone of quiet dignity,&mdash;"I
would have seen you ere this, but unexpected
events prevented me. It is of the last importance
that I should converse with you
without delay."</p>

<p>The entrance of the man, whose slender
form was clad in a frock-coat of black cloth,
single-breasted, and reaching to the knees,&mdash;whose
face, unnaturally pale, was in strong
contrast with the blackness of his moustache
and beard, and of the hair, which fell in
wavy masses to his shoulders,&mdash;created a
singular and marked impression.</p>

<p>With one impulse, Godlike, Yorke and
Randolph rose to their feet. For the first
time, they remarked that the stranger wore
on his right breast a golden cross, and carried
in his left hand a casket of dark wood,&mdash;perchance
ebony.</p>

<p>"I wish to see you in regard to the lands
in California, near the mission of San Luis,"
said Gaspar Manuel, his voice, touched
with a foreign accent, yet singularly sweet
and emphatic in its intonation.&mdash;"Lands
claimed by yourself, on behalf of the Van
Huyden estate, and also by the Order of
Jesus. Many acres of these lands are rich
in everything that can bless a climate soft as
Italy, but there are one thousand barren acres
which abound in fruit like this."</p>

<p>He placed the casket upon the table, unlocked
it, and displayed its contents.</p>

<p>"Gold!" burst from every lip.</p>

<p>"Those thousand acres contain gold sufficient
to change the destinies of the world,"
said Gaspar Manuel, calmly, as he fixed his
dazzling eyes upon the face of Godlike.&mdash;"The
contest for the possession of this untold
wealth lies between the Order of Jesus
and the Van Huyden estate."</p>

<p>"Have not the Mexican Government appointed
a Commissioner to decide upon their
respective claims?" As he asked the question,
Dr. Martin Fulmer, (who, as Ezekiel
Bogart, had seen Gaspar Manuel dressed as
a man of the world) gazed in surprise upon
that costume which indicated the Jesuit.
There was suspicion as well as surprise in
his gaze.</p>

<p>"That Commissioner is one of the rulers
of the Jesuits,&mdash;an especial Legate of the
Roman Pope," continued Martin, surveying
Gaspar Manuel with a look of deepening
suspicion. "His name is&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Never mind his name," interrupted Gaspar
Manuel,&mdash;"Let it satisfy you that I am
a Jesuit, perchance one of the rulers of that
Order. And I am the <span class="smcap">Legate</span> of whom you
speak."</p>

<p>"You!" echoed Martin Fulmer, and his
ejaculation was repeated by the others.</p>

<p>"I am that Commissioner," replied Gaspar
Manuel, "and my decision has been
made. Allow me a few moments for reflection,
and I will make it known to you.
While you converse with those gentlemen,
I will warm myself at yonder fire, for the climate
is hard to bear, after the bland atmosphere
of Havana."</p>

<p>With a wave of the hand and a slight inclination
of the head, he retired from the
table and bent his steps toward the fire-place.
Seating himself in an arm-chair, he now
gazed into the flame with his flashing eyes,
and now,&mdash;over his shoulder,&mdash;surveyed the
banquet-hall. Then taking tablets and pencil
from a side-pocket, he seemed absorbed
in the mazes of a profound arithmetical calculation;
but every now and then he raised
his eyes, and with that dazzling glance, took
in every detail of the banquet-hall.</p>

<p>Meanwhile, the group around the table
had not yet recovered from the impression,
produced by his presence.</p>

<p>"A singular man,&mdash;eh?" quoth Yorke.</p>

<p>"A man of rank. I think I have seen his
face in Washington City," remarked Godlike.</p>

<p>"A dignitary of the Catholic Church,"
exclaimed Randolph.&mdash;"A man of no common
order."</p>

<p>As for Martin Fulmer, glancing by turns
at the box, filled with golden ore, and at the
form of the Legate, who was seated quietly
by the fire-place, he said, with a sigh,&mdash;"More
gold, more wealth!" and thought of
Carl Raphael, the son of Gulian Van Huyden.</p>

<p>"Let us open the iron chest," he said, and
placed the key in the lock, while Randolph,
Godlike and Yorke, gathered round, in mute
suspense.</p>

<p>But ere the key turned in the lock, a new
interruption took place. The aged servant,
Michael, entered, and placed a slip of paper,
on which a single line was written, in the
hands of Martin Fulmer. The old man read
it at a glance, and at once his face glowed, his
eyes shone with new light.</p>

<p>"The person who wrote this, Michael,&mdash;where&mdash;where
is he?" he said, in a tremulous
voice.</p>

<p>"In the reception-room," answered Michael.</p>

<p>"Show him here,&mdash;at once,&mdash;at once,&mdash;quick,
I say!" and he seized Michael by the
arm, and pointed to the door, his face displaying
every sign of irrepressible agitation.
Michael hurried from the room.</p>

<p>"Let us all thank God, for <span class="smcap">He</span> has not
failed us!" cried Martin Fulmer, spreading
forth his hands, as he walked wildly to and
fro.&mdash;"The son of Gulian Van Huyden is
not dead!"</p>

<p>A thunderbolt crushing through the ceiling,
would not have created half the consternation
caused by these words.</p>

<p>They dashed the hopes of Randolph, Godlike
and Yorke to the dust.</p>

<p>"Not dead!" they echoed, in a breath.</p>

<p>"He is not dead. He is living, and in
this house. In a moment he will be here,&mdash;here,
to claim his father's estate."</p>

<p>And in the wildness of his joy, Martin
Fulmer hurried to and fro, now wringing his
hands, now spreading them forth in thankfulness
to heaven.</p>

<p>"I knew," said the old man, standing
erect, the light shining full upon his white
hairs, "I knew that Providence would not
desert me!"</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h3><a name="CHAPTER_7_V" id="CHAPTER_7_V">CHAPTER V.</a></h3>

<h4>THE SON AT LAST.</h4>


<p>The curtain moved again, and two persons
came slowly into the room; a man
whose wounded arm was carried in a sling
and whose livid face was marked by recent
wounds,&mdash;a boy, whose graceful form was
enveloped in a closely fitting frock-coat,
while his young face was shaded by locks of
glossy hair.</p>

<p>"Martin Fulmer! behold the lost child
of Gulian Van Huyden!" cried Colonel
Tarleton, urging the boy forward.</p>

<p>At sight of Tarleton, Martin Fulmer felt
his whole being contract with loathing, but
rushing forward, he seized the boy by the
arms, and looked earnestly into his face,&mdash;a
face touching in its expression, with clear,
deep eyes, that now seemed blue, now gray,
and round outlines, and framed in locks of
flowing hair, of the richest chestnut brown.</p>

<p>"This,&mdash;this, is not Carl Raphael!" ejaculated
Martin Fulmer, turning fiercely upon
Tarleton,&mdash;</p>

<p>A smile crossed the bloodless lips of
Tarleton.</p>

<p>"Not Carl Raphael, but still the son of
Gulian. A word will explain all. On the
last night of her life, Alice Van Huyden
gave birth to two children: they were born
within a half hour of each other. One was
taken from her bed, and borne away by her
husband. The other I bore to my home,
educated as my own, and now he stands
before you, the lawful heir of his father's
estate. Look at his face, and, if you can,
say that he is not Gulian's son."</p>

<p>This revelation was listened to with the
most intense interest by Randolph, Godlike,
Yorke,&mdash;and Gaspar Manuel, attracted from
the fire-place by the sound of voices, looked
over their shoulders at the singular group,&mdash;the
boy, with Tarleton on one hand, and
Martin Fulmer on the other.</p>

<p>Long and intently Martin Fulmer perused
that youthful countenance, which, with
downcast eyes, seemed to avoid his gaze.</p>

<p>"Carl Raphael Van Huyden is lost," exclaimed
Martin Fulmer, "but the face, the
look of Gulian Van Huyden lives again in
this boy. Gentlemen, behold the son of
Gulian Van Huyden, the heir to his estate!"</p>

<p>He urged the shrinking boy toward the
light.</p>

<p>"I will not," cried the boy, raising his
head and surveying the group with flashing
eyes,&mdash;"I will not submit to be made an
accomplice in this imposture&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Child!" said Tarleton, sternly.</p>

<p>"Nay, you shall not force me to it. Hear
me one and all," and he tore open his coat
and vest, and laid bare his breast, "I am the
child of Gulian Van Huyden, but not his
son."</p>

<p>It was a woman's bosom which the open
vest bared to the light.</p>

<p>A dead stillness followed this revelation.</p>

<p>And the center of the group stood the
beautiful girl in her male attire, her bosom
heaving in the light, while her eyes flashed
through their tears.</p>

<p>"I will not submit to be made the accomplice
of this man's schemes," she pointed
to Tarleton,&mdash;"As the daughter of Gulian
Van Huyden, I cannot inherit my father's
estate."</p>

<p>At this point, Gaspar Manuel stepped forward,&mdash;"Yes
you can, my child," he said,
and drew the disguised girl to his breast, "it
is your father himself who tells you so,
daughter." And he kissed her on the forehead,
while his dark hair hid her face.</p>

<p>Then as he held her in his arms, he raised
his face, and with one hand, swept back the
dark hair from his brow,&mdash;"Martin Fulmer,
don't you remember me?" and then to
Colonel Tarleton,&mdash;"and you, brother, you
certainly don't forget me?"</p>

<p>That scene cannot be painted in words.</p>

<p>"Gulian!" was all that Tarleton or
Charles Van Huyden could say, as he shrank
back appalled and blasted before his brother's
smile.</p>

<p>As for Martin Fulmer, after one eager
and intense look, he felt his knees bend beneath
him, and his head droop on his breast,
as he uttered his soul in the words,&mdash;"It is
Gulian come back to life again."</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h3><a name="CHAPTER_7_VI" id="CHAPTER_7_VI">CHAPTER VI.</a></h3>

<h4>A LONG ACCOUNT SETTLED.</h4>


<p>Back from his brother's gaze, step by step,
shrank Tarleton or Charles Van Huyden, his
eyes still chained to that face, which the
grave seemed to have yielded up, to blast
his schemes in the very moment of their
triumph.</p>

<p>His own child dead,&mdash;the stain of Carl
Raphael's blood upon his soul,&mdash;he felt like
a man who stands amid the ruins of a falling
house, when the last prop gives way.</p>

<p>With a cry that was scarcely human, in
its awful anguish, he turned and fled. Fled
from the banquet-room, and through the
adjoining chamber, into the darkness of the
corridor. His mind, strained to its utmost
tension by the perpetual excitement of the
last twenty-four hours, gave way all at once,
like a bow that, drawn to its full power, suddenly
snaps, even as a withered reed. All
was dark around him as he rushed along the
corridor, but that darkness was made luminous
by his soul. It was peopled with faces,
that seemed to be encircled by lurid light.
The worst agony that can befall a mortal
man fell upon him. Nerves disordered,
brain unstrung, his very thoughts became
living things, and chased him through the
darkness. The face of Evelyn Somers was
before him, gazing upon him with fixed
eyeballs. And his steps were suddenly
checked, by an agonized countenance, which
was sinking in wintery waves, that seemed
to roll about his very feet. He was touched
on the shoulder,&mdash;his dead daughter ran beside
him in her shroud, linking her arm in
his, and bending forward her face, which
looked up into his own, with lips that had
no blood in them, and eyes that had no life.
And if the darkness was full of faces, the air
was full of voices; voices whispering, shouting,
yelling, all through each other, and yet,
every voice distinctly heard,&mdash;all the voices
that he had heard in his lifetime were speaking
to him now. Well might he have exclaimed
in the words of Cain,&mdash;"My punishment
is greater than I can bear."</p>

<p>If he could have only rid himself of Frank,
who ran by his side, in her shroud! But
no,&mdash;there she was,&mdash;her arm in his,&mdash;her
face bent forward looking up into his own,
with lips that had no blood, and eyes that
had no life.</p>

<p>He talked to those phantoms,&mdash;he bade
them back,&mdash;he rushed on, through the corridor,
and ascended the dark stairs with horrid
shrieks. And the face of Carl Raphael,
struggling in the waves, went before him at
every step.</p>

<p>He readied at length the narrow garret,
in which years agone, Gulian Van Huyden
bid Martin Fulmer, farewell. Here, as he
heard the storm beat against the window
panes, he for a moment recovered his shattered
senses.</p>

<p>"I'm nervous," he cried, "if I had been
drinking, I would think I had the <i>mania</i>.
Let me recover myself. Where in the deuce
am I?"</p>

<p>A heavy step was heard on the stairway,
and a form plunged into the room, bearing
Tarleton against the wall. It was no phantom,
but the form of a stalwart man.</p>

<p>"Halloo! Who are you?" cried a hoarse
voice,&mdash;it was the voice of Ninety-One, and
as he spoke, shouts came up the narrow
stairway from the passage below. "You
set here to trap me,&mdash;speak?"</p>

<p>And the hand of Ninety-One, clutched
the throat of Tarleton with an iron grip.</p>

<p>"This way,&mdash;this way," cried a voice,
and a gleam of light shooting up the stairs,
through the narrow doorway, fell upon the
livid face of Tarleton.</p>

<p>"O, we have met at last? Do you hear
them shouts? Blossom follered by the
poleese are in the house, and on my track, for
the murder of young Somers. In a second
they'll be here. Now I've got you, and
we'll settle that long account,&mdash;we will by
G&mdash;d!"</p>

<p>"You are choking me,&mdash;A-h!" gasped
Tarleton, as he was dragged toward the window.
The shouts from below grew more
distinct, and once more the light flashed up
the stairs.</p>

<p>"Carl Raphael died by drownin' and that's
very like chokin'," whispered Ninety-One,
as he bent his face near to the struggling
wretch. "I've no way of escape,&mdash;even old
Fulmer can't save me. And so we'll settle
that long account."</p>

<p>"You are choking me,&mdash;do not,&mdash;do
not&mdash;"</p>

<p>"You know all the items, so there's no
use o' dwellin' on 'em," the hoarse voice of
Ninety-One was heard above the pelting of
the storm, "but the murder of that 'ar boy
makes the docket full. Here goes&mdash;"</p>

<p>Dragging Tarleton to the window, he
struck the sash, with one hand, and then
kicked against it with all his strength. It
yielded with a crash, and the snow and sleet
rushes through the aperture in a blast.</p>

<p>"Spare me! Mercy! O do not&mdash;"</p>

<p>Ninety-One crept through the narrow
aperture, out upon the roof, and dragged
Tarleton after him. Then there were two
forms standing erect for a moment, in the
gloom, and then the blast bore away the
sound of voices, and a howl that was heard,
far and long, through the night.</p>

<p>"This way! We've caught the old fox,"
said a well known voice, and the red face
of Blossom, adorned with carbuncles, appeared
in the doorway, while the lantern
which he held, filled the garret with light.</p>

<p>"This way," he sprang through the doorway,
and followed by half a dozen men
in thick coats, and with maces in their hands,
he ran toward the window, "he's out upon
the roof."</p>

<p>He held the lantern over his head, and
looked without, while the snow and sleet
beat in his face. From the garret-window
the roof fell with a sudden slope, for the
space of two yards, and there it ended. By
the lantern light, he saw some rude traces
of footsteps in the snow, and the print of a
hand. A glance was sufficient. When he
turned to confront his comrades, his red face
was white as a sheet&mdash;</p>

<p>"By G&mdash;d the old convic' has gone an'
jumped from the roof,&mdash;four storys high&mdash;as
I'm a sinner!"</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h3><a name="CHAPTER_7_VII" id="CHAPTER_7_VII">CHAPTER VII.</a></h3>

<h4>IN THE BANQUET-ROOM ONCE MORE.</h4>


<p>Meanwhile in the banquet-room, the
Legate of the Pope, with the form of his
daughter, in her male attire, nestling on his
breast, raised his head, and surveyed the
faces of the spectators, who had not yet recovered
from their surprise. His face pale
and worn, as with years of consuming
thought, his eyes bright as with the fire of
a soul never at rest, held every gaze enchained
as he spoke,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Rise Martin Fulmer!" he extended his
hand to the kneeling man, "rise, and let me
look upon the face of&mdash;an honest man."</p>

<p>As though disturbed in the midst of a
dream, Martin Fulmer rose, his head with
his snow-white hair and protuberant brow,
presenting a strong contrast to the pallid
face, dark hair and beard of the Legate.</p>

<p>"Look upon me, Martin Fulmer, and
steadily. Do you recognize me."</p>

<p>"Gulian Van Huyden!" ejaculated the
old man.</p>

<p>The Legate surveyed Randolph, Godlike,
Yorke, who formed a group behind the
Doctor, while in the background, the lights
burned faintly around the iron chest and
coffin. Even as the Legate looked around,
Randolph turned aside, and leaning against
frame of yonder window, pushed the curtains
aside, and looked forth upon the cold, dark
night. Not so cold and dark as his own
bitter fate! Well was it for him, that his
face was turned from the light! That face,
terribly distorted, now revealed the hell
which was raging in his breast. His soul
stained with crime, his last hope blotted
out, whither should he turn? Grandson
of &mdash;&mdash; &mdash;&mdash; it had been better for you,
had you never been born!</p>

<p>After his silent survey, the Legate spoke:</p>

<p>"Another place and another hour, will
be needed, to repeat the full details of
my life, since twenty-one years ago, I left
this house,&mdash;to die," in an attitude of calm
dignity, and with a voice and look, that
held every soul, the Legate spoke these
words,&mdash;"I was rescued from the waves, by
a boat that chanced to be passing from the
shore to a ship in the bay. Upon that ship,
I again unclosed my eyes to life, and watched
through the cabin windows, the last
glimpse of the American shore, growing
faint and fainter over the waves. Thus
called back to life,&mdash;my name in my native
land, only known as the name of the Suicide,
my estates in the hands of Martin Fulmer,
left to the chances or the providence of
twenty-one years,&mdash;I resolved to live. The
ship (the captain and crew were foreigners,)
bore me to an Italian port. I sold the jewels
which were about my person when I plunged
into the river, and found myself in possession
of a competence. Then, in search of peace,
anxious to drown the past, and still every
emotion of other days, by a life of self-denial,
I went to Rome, I entered the Propaganda.
In the course of time I became a priest, and
then,&mdash;&mdash;well! twenty-one years passed in
the service of the church have left me as I
am. Your hand, brave Martin Fulmer!
Think not that your course has been unknown
to me! You have been watched,&mdash;your
every step marked,&mdash;your very thoughts
recorded,&mdash;and now it is the Legate of the
Pope, who takes you by the hand, and calls
you by a title, which it is beyond the power
of Pope or King to create,&mdash;<i>an honest man!</i>
Twenty times I have been near you in the
course of twenty-one years,&mdash;once in Paris,
when you were there on business of the
estate,&mdash;once in Mexico,&mdash;once in China,&mdash;once
on the Ocean,&mdash;once in Rome! How
my heart yearned to disclose myself to you!
But I left you go your way, and now at the
end of twenty-one years, we stand face to
face. And thou, my child,&mdash;" he gazed
tenderly into the face of the girl, whose
eyes were upraised to meet his own,&mdash;"my
beautiful! my own! Think not that the
garment of the priest, chills the heart of the
father!"</p>

<p>"Father!" she whispered, putting her
hands upon his shoulder,&mdash;"how my heart
yearned to you, when I first met you, in the
dark streets,&mdash;when friendless and homeless,
I was flying to the river, as my only friend!"</p>

<p>It was a touching picture,&mdash;the priest, who
for twenty-one years, had never permitted
his heart to throb with one pulse that would
remind him of the word "Home," and the
daughter, who, educated to serve the dark
purposes of Tarleton, had never before felt
her heart bound at the sight of her <i>Father's</i>
face.</p>

<p>Martin Fulmer's face grew sad,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Do you regret my return?" said the
Legate with a smile.</p>

<p>"I was thinking," said Martin, and his
soul was in his eyes as he spoke,&mdash;"I was
thinking of&mdash;<span class="smcap">Rome</span>!"</p>

<p>Godlike stepped forward, with a smile on
his somber visage,&mdash;"Rome!" he echoed,&mdash;"of
course, now that the dead has returned
to life, the heirs need not think of dividing
the estate. And you as priest of the Roman
Church, as one of her lords, can think of but
one disposition of your immense property
It will go to the church,&mdash;to Rome!"</p>

<p>"To Rome!" echoed Israel Yorke. Randolph,
with his face from the light, did not
seem to hear a word that was spoken. And
Martin Fulmer, with his finger on his lips,
awaited in evident suspense, the answer of
the Legate.</p>

<p>"To Rome!" echoed the Legate and disengaging
himself from the arms of his
daughter, he stood erect. His entire face
changed. His nostrils quivered, his lips
curled, there was a glow on his pale cheek,
and an intenser fire in his eyes. He passed
his hand over his forehead, and brushing
back his dark hair, stood for a moment, motionless
as a statue, his eyes fixed, as though
he saw passing before his soul, a panorama
of the future.</p>

<p>"Within that brutal Rome which plants
its power upon human skulls, there is a
higher, mightier Rome! Within that order
which uses and profanes the name of Jesus,
as the instrument of its frauds, there is a
higher, mightier Order of Jesus! I see this
mightier church,&mdash;I see this mightier Order
moving onward, through the paths of the
future, combating the false Rome, and
trampling under foot the false Order of Jesus!
Yes, in the future, I see armed for the last
battle, those friends of humanity, who have
sworn to use the Roman Church as the instrument
of Human Progress, or to drive
forward the movement over her ruins."</p>

<p>The effect of these words, coupled with
the look and the attitude of the Legate, was
electric. They were followed by a dead
stillness. The spectators gazed into each
other's faces, but no one ventured to break
the silence.</p>

<p>The silence was interrupted, however, by
a strange voice,&mdash;</p>

<p>"Lor bress you, massa, de nigga hab arribe!"
It was Old Royal, who emerged
from the curtains, with a broad grin on his
black face,&mdash;"You know dis nigga war on
de ribber in a boat, fetchin ober from Jarsey
shore, a brack gemman who didn' like to
trabel by de ferry boat&mdash;yah&mdash;whah! Well
de nigga did it,&mdash;"</p>

<p>He advanced a step,&mdash;passed his hand
through his white wool,&mdash;surveyed his giant-like
form clad in sleek broadcloth,&mdash;showed
his white teeth, and continued, with an
accent and a gesticulation that words cannot
describe&mdash;</p>

<p>"Well, as we come across,&mdash;lor-a-massy
how de storm did storm, and de snow did
snow! As we come across, dis nigga cotched
by de har ob his head, a young white gemman,
who war a-drownin'. An' dis same young
white gemman, Massa Fulmer,&mdash;" he pointed
over his shoulder, "am out dar!"</p>

<p>"What mean you, Royal?" cried Martin
Fulmer, and he shook with the conflict of
hope and suspense,&mdash;"whom did you rescue?"</p>

<p>"Dar's de white <i>pusson</i>," said Old Royal.</p>

<p>Leaning on the arm of Mary Berman,
whose face was rosy with joy, whose bonnet
had fallen on her neck, while her hair,
glittering with snow-drops, strayed over her
shoulders,&mdash;leaning on the arm of his wife,
Nameless, or Carl Raphael, came through
the doorway, and advanced toward the
group.</p>

<p>He was clad in black, which threw his
pale face, shaded by brown hair, boldly into
view. His eyes were clear and brilliant;
his lip firm. As he advanced, every eye remarked
the resemblance between him and
the Legate; and also between him, and the
disguised girl, who stood by the Legate's
side.</p>

<p>"Rescued from death by the hands of this
good friend,&mdash;" his voice was clear and bold,
"I returned home, and found the note which
you,&mdash;" he looked at Martin Fulmer, "caused
to be left there. And in obedience to the
request contained in that note, I am here."</p>

<p>At first completely thunderstruck, the
venerable man had not power to frame a
word.</p>

<p>"Fatality!" he cried at last, "but a blessed
fatality! I knew that Providence would not
desert us! Come to my heart, my child!
Carl,&mdash;" trembling with emotion, he took
Nameless by the hand, "Carl, behold your
father, who, after a lapse of twenty-one years,
has appeared among us, like one risen from
the grave! Behold your sister, born like
you, in your mother's death-agony,&mdash;separated
from you for twenty-one years,&mdash;she
now rejoins you, in presence of your father!"</p>

<p>It was now the turn of Nameless to stand
spell-bound and thunderstruck. He stood
like one in a dream, until the voices of the
Legate and the young girl broke on his ear,
voices so like his own.</p>

<p>"My son!"</p>

<p>"Brother!"</p>

<p>He was gathered to the Legate's breast,
who kissed him on the brow, and surveying
every line of his face, felt his bosom swell
with pride as he called him, "my son!"
Then his sister's arms were upon his neck,
and Nameless, as he saw her face, so touching,
in its quiet loveliness, felt his heart
swell with a rapture, never felt before, as he
found himself encircled in that atmosphere
which is most like heaven,&mdash;the atmosphere
of a sister's love.</p>

<p>"Listen to me, my son," said the Legate,
as he took Nameless by the hand, and his
eyes lit up with a new fire, while in abrupt
and broken sentences, he poured forth the
story of his life. His tone was impassioned,
his words electric. Carl Raphael listened,
while the emotions of his soul, were written
in his changing features.</p>

<p>"And now, my son," concluded the Legate,
as he put his arm about the neck of
Nameless, "twenty-one years are gone, and
I appear again. The estate, from two millions,
has swelled into one hundred millions.
You will inherit it, and you and I, and this
good man, will join together, in applying the
awful power embodied in this wealth, to the
best interests of the human race."</p>

<p>To the surprise of the Legate, Nameless
unwound his arm from his neck, and stepped
back from him. His face suddenly became
cold and rigid as stone. Rising in every
inch of his stature, he surveyed the entire
scene at a rapid glance.</p>

<p>On his right, his father and sister. Near
him the venerable old man, with Mary by
his side. Somewhat apart, stood the somber
Godlike, and the weazel-faced Yorke. In
the background, the table, with the candles
burning dimly round over chest and coffin.
Around him that hall, thick on every panel
with the memories of the past; and far in
the shadows, the white image of the master.</p>

<p>And by yonder window, his form half
concealed in the curtains, Randolph looks
out upon the black night.</p>

<p>Dilating with an emotion which was incomprehensible
to the spectators, Nameless
said.</p>

<p>"No, father, I will not touch one dollar of
this wealth. It is accursed. Look at the
passion it has evoked; look at the calamities
which it has wrought! It is accursed,&mdash;thrice
accursed. It was this wealth which
impelled your own brother to attempt to
corrupt my mother. It was this wealth
which made that brother follow me with
remorseless hatred, and to-night, for the sake
of this, he planned my death. It was this
wealth which drove you from your native
land, there to bury all feeling in a church,
which makes marriage a sacrament, and, at
the same time, prevents her priests from ever
enjoying that sacrament, from ever being
hailed by the all-holy names of 'husband!'
'father!' There you buried twenty-one
years of your life, leaving your children to
breast the storm of life alone. It was this
wealth which cast me, in childhood, into
the streets, without friend or home,&mdash;and do
you know the life I've lived? While you
were saying mass at Rome, I was committing
murder, father,&mdash;I was being sentenced to
death,&mdash;I was buried alive in your family
vault,&mdash;I was passing two years in a madman's
cell! Look at the work of your
wealth! Let these gentlemen (who, I doubt
not, have been heirs of this estate in anticipation,)
let them speak, and tell what passions,
like fiends evoked from nethermost
hell, this wealth has summoned into life!
Speak, Martin Fulmer, you, who for twenty-one
years, have denied yourself the blessing
of wife, home, children; while in sleepless
anguish you watched over this wealth,&mdash;speak!
What evil thought is there in earth
or hell which it has not called into deeds?
No,&mdash;father,&mdash;lifting this hand to heaven, I
swear by that mother, whom you left to
writhe alone upon her dying bed, that I will
not touch one dollar of the Van Huyden
estate!"</p>

<p>The Legate, that is to say, Gulian Van
Huyden, was crushed by these words; they
fell upon him like a sentence of death.</p>

<p>"My son! my son!" he gasped, "spare
me!"</p>

<p>"'Son' and 'father,' are words easily spoken,"
continued Nameless. "Have you been
a father to me? It would be very striking,
and altogether like the fifth act of a melodrama,
no doubt, for me to overlook your
twenty-one years of silence, and with love
and tears consent to be your heir. But you
have not been my father. My father,&mdash;the
father of my soul,&mdash;Cornelius Berman,
lies a corpse to-night. I forgive you, father,
but I cannot <i>forget</i>, for I am not the Savior;
I am simply a man&mdash;"</p>

<p>"Have you no mercy?" faltered the Legate,
who stood in the presence of his son
like a criminal before his judge. "Do you
not know your words are killing me?"</p>

<p>But Carl Raphael, as though all that was
dark in his own life, all that was dark in his
mother's death-hour, held possession of his
soul, would not give his father one chance of
justification.</p>

<p>"A man, father, who has known so much
suffering, that he now only desires to forget
the real world, in the ideal world created by
his own pencil; who only desires to turn
his back upon wealth and all its hatreds, and
win his bread humbly, and away from the
world, by the toil of his hand. Mary!&mdash;thou
who wast true to me, when I slept in the
coffin,&mdash;thou who wast true to me when I was
the tenant of a madman's cell,&mdash;Mary!
come, let us go."</p>

<p>While the spectators stood like statues,&mdash;all,
save Randolph, who, with his face from
the light, took no notice of the scene,&mdash;he
took Mary by the hand, and moved toward
the door.</p>

<p>With one voice, his father, his sister, Martin
Fulmer, called him back.</p>

<p>"Carl! Carl! you must not go!"</p>

<p>"My son! my son!"</p>

<p>"Brother!"</p>

<p>He lingered on the threshold, holding his
beautiful wife by the hand.</p>

<p>"Father! sister! brave Martin Fulmer!
come and see me in my poor man's home,
and I will bless you from my heart for your
presence. Come! come,&mdash;but not to tempt
me with the offer of wealth; that word
spoken, and we are strangers forever. For my
oath is sworn, by the name of my mother,
never to touch one dollar of the Van Huyden
estate, and that oath is written up yonder!"</p>

<p>With these words, Carl Raphael, son of
Gulian Van Huyden, and heir of One Hundred
Million Dollars, took Mary by the hand,
and passed from the banquet-hall, and from
the house in which, twenty-one years before,
his mother died.</p>



<hr class="chap" />
<h3><a name="EPILOGUE" id="EPILOGUE">EPILOGUE.</a></h3>

<h4>ON THE OCEAN,&mdash;BY THE RIVER SHORE,&mdash;IN
THE VATICAN,&mdash;ON THE PRAIRIE.</h4>


<p>My task is almost done. This work was
commenced in January, 1848,&mdash;it is now
June, 1852. Four years that have been of
awful moment to the great world, and that,
to many of you my readers, have brought
change, affliction&mdash;have stripped you of
those whose life was a part of your life, and
made your pathway rich only in graves.
Four years! As I am about to lay aside the
pen, and shut the pages of this book, those
four years start up before me, in living
shape; they wear familiar faces; they speak
with voices that never shall be heard on
earth again.</p>

<hr class="tb" />

<p>Before the curtain falls, let us take a glance
at the characters of our history.</p>

<p>Harry Royalton. He did not die under
his brother's hands, but returned to Hill
Royal, where he drank, and gambled, and
talked "secession," until a kindly bullet,
from the pistol of an antagonist in a duel,
relieved him of the woes of this life.</p>

<p>Randolph Royalton was never seen in
New York, after the 25th of December,
1844. It is supposed that, aided by Martin
Fulmer, he went abroad, accompanied by
his sister, the beautiful Esther.</p>

<p>In January, 1845, Bernard Lynn, completely
broken down in health and appearance,
returned, with his daughter, to Europe.
He died soon afterward in Florence. Eleanor,
it has been rumored, committed the
moral suicide of burying her life in a convent.
But let us hope, that Eleanor, as well
as Esther, will once more appear in active
life.</p>

<p>Israel Yorke still flourishes; the devil is
good to his children. Godlike, we believe,
is yet upon the stage. And the apostolic
Ishmael Ghoul, still conducts the Daily
Blaze, waxing fat and strong, in total depravity.
As for Sleevegammon, his competitor
for public favor, he still see-saws on the tight
rope, with Conservatism on one side, and
Progress on the other. Blossom, the policeman,
has retired from active life, and now
does a great deal of nothing, for three dollars
a day, in the Custom-House. Dr. Bulgin
still thrives; he lately published a book
of 345 pages, as big as his own head almost,
against "Socialism." We have not been informed
whether any monument of marble,
with an obelisk and an epitaph, has been
erected in memory of the martyred "Bloodhound."</p>

<p>Before we close our task, we will gaze
upon four scenes; one of which took place
on the ocean; another, by the shore of Hudson
river; a third, in the Vatican, at Rome;
the fourth and last, upon the boundless
prairie.</p>

<hr class="tb" />

<p>It was in January, 1845.</p>

<p>One winter night, when the wind was bitter
cold in New York, and the snow lay
white upon the hills of the northern land,
there was a brave ship resting motionless
upon the ocean, not under a wintery sky, but
under a summer sky, and in an atmosphere
soft and bland as June. On her way from
New York to the West Indies, she had been
becalmed. She lay under the starlit sky,
with her image mirrored in every detail,
upon the motionless sea. All at once another
light than the pale beams of the stars, flashed
over the smooth expanse, and a pyramid of
flame rose grandly into the sky. The ship
was on fire; in less than two hours the flame
died away, and in place of the brave ship,
there was a blackened wreck upon the
waters. All that escaped from the wreck
were six souls; the captain, three of the
crew, and two passengers. Upon a hastily
constructed raft, with but a scanty supply of
bread and water, behold them, as they float
alone upon the trackless ocean. For three
days, without a breath of air to fan the
smooth expanse, they floated under a burning
sun, in sight of the wreck, and on the
evening of the third day, they shared the
last crust of bread, and passed from lip to lip
the last can of water. It was on the evening
of the fourth day, that the captain, a brave
old seaman, driven mad by the burning sun
and intolerable thirst, leaped overboard, and
died, without a single effort on the part of
his companions to save him. His example
was followed by a sailor, an old tar, who had
followed him over half the globe. Thus,
there remained upon the raft four persons;
two passengers and two sailors.</p>

<p>It was the evening of the fifth day,&mdash;five
days under the burning sun,&mdash;two days and
nights without water!</p>

<p>The sun was setting. Like a globe of red
hot metal, he hung on the verge of the horizon,
shooting his fiery rays through a thin
purple haze.</p>

<p>The wreck had gone down, and the raft
was alone upon the motionless ocean.</p>

<p>The sailors were seated near each other,
on the side of the raft most remote from the
sun,&mdash;they were dressed in a coarse shirt
and trowsers,&mdash;and with their hands resting
on their knees, and their faces upon their
hands, they seemed to have surrendered
themselves to their fate,&mdash;that is, to despair
and death, by starvation.</p>

<p>The passengers were on the other side of
the raft; one of them was a man of slender
form, dressed in dark broadcloth; his head
was buried in his hands, and the setting sun
shone on his hair, which, sleek and brown
lay behind his ears. Beside him, in a reclining
posture, was the other passenger, a woman;
a woman who had escaped from the
burning vessel in her night-clothes, and who
now, with the cloak of the man spread beneath
her, turns her dark eyes hopelessly to the
setting sun. A few days ago, with her proud
bosom, and rounded limbs, and dark eyes
flashing from that face, whose clear, brown
complexion indicated her Spanish descent,
she was very beautiful. Look at her now.
Livid circles beneath each eye, lips parched,
cheeks hollow,&mdash;her bosom is bare,&mdash;shrunken
from its once voluptuous outline, it trembles
with a faint pulsation. Five days have
made terrible havoc of your beauty, proud
Godiva!</p>

<p>The man by her side raises his head from
his hands,&mdash;in that sallow face, lack-luster
eyes, and hollowed cheeks, can you recognize
the smooth, fair visage of Herman
Barnhurst? Alas! Herman, your prospect of
a West Indian paradise, with Godiva for the
queen of your houris, is rather dim just now.</p>

<p>And the sky was above them, the trackless
sea all around, the last rays of the red
sun in their faces; and not a sail in sight,
Scan the horizon, Herman, and in vain.</p>

<p>"O! it is horrible to die thus," exclaimed
Godiva, in a voice so faint as to be scarcely
audible.</p>

<p>But Herman made no reply.</p>

<p>And as the sailors raised their eyes,&mdash;wild
and fiery from thirst and hunger,&mdash;the sun
went down, and night came at once upon
the scene.</p>

<p>"How beautiful they are,&mdash;the stars up
yonder, Herman!"</p>

<p>Still Herman did not reply.</p>

<p>Godiva, resting one arm upon his knee, fell
into a brief slumber, which was broken by
the most incongruous dreams. At length
her dreams resolved themselves into a view
of Niagara Falls, that world of waters, singing
its awful hymn as it plunges into the
abyss. She saw the cool water, her face was
bathed in the spray, and,&mdash;she awoke devoured
by maddening thirst.</p>

<p>Herman had moved from her side; he
was on the opposite side of the raft, talking
with the sailors in low tones. And the
sailors looked over their shoulders, with their
fiery eyes, as they conversed with Herman.</p>

<p>Again she fell into a doze,&mdash;she was with
her father this time, and Eugene, her first
love, by her side. Happy days!&mdash;innocent
girlhood!</p>

<p>She awoke with a start,&mdash;Herman was
still with the sailors, conversing in low
tones.</p>

<p>And thus the short night at the tropics
wore on. It was near sunrise, and yet very
dark, when Godiva was dreaming&mdash;dreaming
of the night when, yet a pure girl, she was
joined in marriage to the brutal sensualist.
There was the familiar parlor,&mdash;the white-haired
father,&mdash;the clergyman,&mdash;her profligate
husband. And the husband bore her
again over the threshold, she struggling in
his loathed embrace. In the struggle she
awoke,&mdash;sunrise was warm and bright upon
the waters,&mdash;and a fresh breeze fanned her
burning cheek. Over her stood Herman, his
right hand upraised,&mdash;the knife which it
grasped glittering in the sun.</p>

<p>"The lot has fallen on me!" he cried.</p>

<p>"Herman!" she shrieked&mdash;and spread
forth her hands. Too late! The knife was
buried in her bosom.</p>

<p>"Woman you must
die to save our lives!"</p>

<p>Godiva never saw anything in this world,
after that blow, which was followed by a
stream of blood.</p>

<p>"Come! Let us drink!" shouted Herman
to the sailors, his eyes rolling all wild
and mad.</p>

<p>Only one of the sailors came and joined
him, in that loathsome draught. In the
sunken features of the poor wretch, you but
faintly recognize&mdash;Arthur Conroy.</p>

<p>The third sailor, rose trembling to his feet,&mdash;his
cheeks hollowed and his eyes sunken
like the others. He folded his arms, and
surveyed the three,&mdash;the body of Godiva,
with Herman and Conroy bending over her.</p>

<p>And then the third sailor, with his great
eyes flashing in their sockets, burst into a
maniac laugh, and cried,&mdash;"A sail! A
sail!"</p>

<p>The third sailor was Arthur Dermoyne.</p>

<p>Loathsome as was the draught which they
took, it assuaged their thirst, and for a time
stilled the madness in their veins. It was,
therefore, with a vision somewhat clear, that
Herman and Conroy looked up, and beheld
a white sail breaking the monotony of the
waste.</p>

<p>They turned from the body of the dead
woman with loathing. * * * The
sail grew nearer, nearer! A signal! "They
are lowering a boat," cried Herman, "we
shall be saved!"</p>

<p>"This is the very time of all others that
I wished to see," said Dermoyne, in that
husky and unnatural voice,&mdash;"your hands
are stained with the blood of your paramour,&mdash;your
heart beats with joy at the sight of
a sail,&mdash;now go!" And he pushed Herman
from the raft, and struck him on the hands,
with the hilt of the knife, as the miserable
man clutched the timbers.</p>

<p>"Mercy!" cried Herman, again clutching
the raft.</p>

<p>Again Dermoyne struck his hands with
the hilt of the knife.</p>

<p>"Go! Alice waits for you!"</p>

<p>When the boat from the ship came up,
the crew found two men stretched insensible
upon the raft, beside the body of a dead
woman. As for Herman, he had sunk from
sight.</p>

<hr class="tb" />

<p>It was June, in the year 1848&mdash;</p>

<p>The flush of the summer evening, lay
broad and warm upon the river, when an
old man came from the cottage door, and
passing through the garden gate, bent his
steps toward the oak, which, standing by the
shore, caught upon its rugged trunk and
wide-branching limbs, the golden rays of the
setting sun.</p>

<p>He stood there, with uncovered brow, the
breeze tossing his snow-white hairs, and the
evening flush warming over his venerable
face. By his side, grasping his hand, was a
boy of some three years, with a glad, happy
face, and sunny hair.</p>

<p>Before the old man and child spread the
river, warm with golden light, and white
with sails. Yonder the palisades rose up
into the evening sky; and behind them,
was the cottage, leaning against the cliff,
with boughs above its steep roof, vines about
its pointed windows, and before its door a
garden, from whose beds of flowers a cool
fountain sent up its drops of spray, into the
evening air. The cottage of Cornelius Berman,
just as it was in other days.</p>

<p>Presently the father and the mother of
the child came from the garden gate, and
approached the oak. A man of twenty-five
years, with head placed firmly on his shoulders,
and a face whose clear gray eyes, and
forehead shaded by brown hair, indicate the
artist, the man of genius,&mdash;a woman who
may be seventeen, who may be twenty, but
whose rounded form and pure <i>wifely</i> face,
link together the freshness of the maiden,
the ripe maturity of the woman.</p>

<p>Beside the young wife, walks a young
woman, whose form is not so full and rounded
in its beauty, but whose pale face, tinted
with bloom on the lips and cheek, is lighted
by eyes that gleam with a sad, spiritual
light. Altogether, a face that touches you
with its melancholy beauty, and compares
with the face of the wife, as a calm starlit
night, with a rosy summer morn.</p>

<p>It is Carl Raphael, his wife, Mary, and his
sister, now called Alice, who come to join
old Martin Fulmer on the river bank. Declining
to touch one dollar of the Van
Huyden estate, and determined to earn his
bread by the toil of his hand, Carl still had
fortune thrust upon him,&mdash;for Mary was the
only heir of the merchant prince, Evelyn
Somers.</p>

<p>"Doctor, I have a letter from father, who
is now in Rome," said Carl, as he stood by:
the old man's side,&mdash;and he placed the letter
from his father, the Legate, in Martin Fulmer's
hand.</p>

<p>Martin seized the letter, and reading it
eagerly, his eye brightening up with the light
of the olden time&mdash;</p>

<p>"Ah, Carl, he will soon return, he will at
last relieve me of the care of the Van Huyden
estate! See how hopefully he speaks
of the cause of humanity in Europe,&mdash;in
February, the people of France cast off their
chains,&mdash;now Italy is awake, and men with
the soul of Rienzi and the sword of Washington,
direct her destinies,&mdash;the Pope, soon
to be stripped of his temporal power, will be
no longer the tool of brutal tyrants, the prisoner
of atheist cardinals, but simply the
Head of a regenerated people, simply the
first Priest of a redeemed church. Glorious
news, Carl; glorious news for us, in this free
land; for say what we will, Rome is a heart
which never throbs, but that its pulsations
are felt throughout the world."</p>

<p>"How can Rome directly affect us, Doctor?"</p>

<p>"If the absolutist party in that church,&mdash;the
party who regard Christ but as their
stepping-stone to unrestrained and brutal
power,&mdash;obtain the mastery, then, Carl, the
last battle between that party and humanity,
will be fought not in Europe, but in this
New World. Is there a hill in this land, but
is trod by a soldier of Rome? But if the
party of Progress in that church,&mdash;the party
who believe in Christ, and hold the Gospels
as the inspired text-book of Democratic
truth,&mdash;obtain the ascendancy, then, instead
of having to battle with the Catholic Church,
in this New World, the friends of humanity
will find in it, their strongest ally. Good
news, Carl! The Pope, the Washington of
Italy!"</p>

<p>To which Carl,&mdash;happy in that little world
of his own, where he lived with his wife
and child, afar from the great world,&mdash;said
simply:&mdash;</p>

<p>"Martin, let us wait and see."</p>

<hr class="tb" />

<p>Some months after the conversation just
recorded, a very brief scene, but full of interest
took place in Rome.</p>

<p>Let us pass for a little while from the
Empire City to the Eternal City.</p>

<p>In one of the chambers of the Vatican,
late at night, a lamp was faintly burning,
its rays struggling among the thick shadows
which hung about the lofty walls. Through
an open window came a dim, ominous murmur,&mdash;the
voice of the arisen people of
Rome.</p>

<p>A man of some fifty years, whose black
hair was plentifully sprinkled with gray,
paced up and down the marble floor, pausing
every now and then before a door, in the
center of the chamber, to which he directed
his earnest gaze. Behind that door was the
majesty of the Roman Church, 'the representative
of God on earth'&mdash;the Pope of
Rome.</p>

<p>And the solitary watcher, dressed in the
plain garb of a simple ecclesiastic, was the
Legate who had done the bidding of the
Pontiff over half the globe,&mdash;the Legate,
Gulian Van Huyden.</p>

<p>"Will he turn his back upon the people, and
cast himself into the hands of the tyrants?
Will he, after his hand has grasped the
plow of Human Progress, falter and turn
back, and give the power of the church into
the hands of the Iscariots of the human
race? Can there be any truth in the rumor?"</p>

<p>And again he paused before the door, behind
which was the chamber which held the
sovereign Pontiff.</p>

<p>That door opened,&mdash;the Pope appeared.
Clad not in the gorgeous costume which he
wears, when high upon his throne, he is
carried by his guards, through thousands and
tens of thousands of his kneeling worshipers;
but clad in a loose robe or gown of
dark silk, which, thrown open in front, discloses
his bared neck and disordered attire.
For with his mild countenance,&mdash;a countenance
marked by irresolution,&mdash;displaying
every sign of perturbation, this "representative
of God on earth," wears very much the
air of one who is about to fly from a falling
house.</p>

<p>"There can be no truth in this rumor,
which I hear," and the Legate steps forward
almost fiercely, addressing the Pope without
one word of "majesty," or "holiness,"&mdash;"this
rumor of flight?"</p>

<p>It is in a soft and tremulous voice, (in
Italian of course,) the Pope replies,&mdash;</p>

<p>"If I stay, poison threatens me from <i>above</i>,
the <i>dagger</i> from <i>below</i>."</p>

<p>And then with a gesture, supplicating
silence and secrecy on the part of the Legate,
the Pope retires and closes the door.</p>

<p>"Significant words! Poison threatens
him from above,&mdash;from the cardinals,&mdash;the
dagger from below,&mdash;from the people. The
danger from the cardinals is not imaginary&mdash;there
was once a Pope named Ganganelli,
who suppressed the Jesuits, and in less than
three months died horribly of poison. But
the people, Pius? O, Pope without nerve,
without faith in God, without hope in man,
know you not, that were you to fulfill your
apostolate of Liberty, the very women and
children of Rome would, in your defense,
build around you a rampart of their dead
bodies?"</p>

<p>He walked to the window, up to which
from the sleepless city, came the voices of
arisen Rome:</p>

<p>"God help the Roman people!" he exclaimed;
"God confound the schemes of
the tyrants, who now plot the murder of the
Roman people! At last, after five hundred
years of wrong, the Nightmare of Priesthood
is lifted from the breast of Italy. Italy has
heard at last, the voice of God, calling upon
her sons to arise&mdash;to cast these priestly idlers
from their thrones&mdash;to assert the Democracy
of the Gospel in face of tyrants of all shapes,
whether dressed in military gear, in solemn
black, or in Borgian scarlet. Italy has
risen!"</p>

<p>And turning from the window, he paced
the floor again,&mdash;</p>

<p>"My work is done in Rome. The Pope
and the church in the hands of crowned
and mitred miscreants, who having crushed
the last spark of liberty in the Old World,
will not be long ere they open their trenches
before her last altar in the New World!
Away to the New World then; if the battle
must come, let us, let the friends of humanity,
strike the first blow!"</p>

<hr class="tb" />

<p>Away from the eternal city,&mdash;to the New
World,&mdash;to the boundless horizon and ocean-like
expanse of the prairies. The sun is
setting over one of those vast prairies, which
stretch between the Mississippi and the Rocky
Mountains. The monotony of that vast
expanse, covered with grass that rolls and
swells, like the wave of old ocean, is broken
by a gentle knoll, crowned by a single giant
oak. The setting sun flings the shadow of
that solitary tree, black and long, over the
prairie. Far, far in the west, a white peak
rises like an altar from the horizon, into the
sky&mdash;it is a peak of the Rocky Mountains.
And gazing to the east, you behold nothing
save the prairie and the sky,&mdash;yes! a herd
of buffalo are grazing yonder, and a long
caravan of wagons, drawn by mules, and
flanked by armed men who ride or go afoot,
winds like an immense serpent, far over the
plain.</p>

<p>Three hundred emigrants, mechanics, their
wives and little ones, who have left the
savage civilization of the Atlantic cities, for
a free home beyond the Rocky Mountains&mdash;such
is the band which now moves on in the
light of the fading day.</p>

<p>The leader of the band, a man in the
prime of young manhood, dressed in the
garb of a hunter, with a rifle on his shoulder,
stands beneath the solitary oak, gazing upon
the caravan as it comes on. His face bears
traces of much thought,&mdash;perchance of many
a dark hour,&mdash;but now his eyes shine clear
and strong, with the enthusiasm which
springs from deep convictions:</p>

<p>"Thus far toward freedom! Here they
come,&mdash;three hundred serfs of the Atlantic
cities, rescued from poverty, from wages-slavery,
from the war of competition, from the
grip of the landlord! Thus far toward a
soil which they can call their own; thus far
toward a free home. And thou, O! Christ,
who didst live and die, so that all men
might be brothers, bless us, and be with us,
and march by our side, in this our exodus."</p>

<p>The speaker was the Socialist,&mdash;Arthur
Dermoyne.</p>

<p>And let us all, as we survey the masses
of the human race, attempting their exodus
from thraldom of all kinds,&mdash;of the body,&mdash;of
the soul,&mdash;from the tyranny which crushes
man by the iron hand of brute force, or
slowly kills him by the lawful operation of
capital, labor-saving machinery, or monied
enterprise,&mdash;let us, too, send up our prayer,
"O! <span class="smcap">Thou</span> of Nazareth, go with the People
in this their exodus, dwell with them in
their tents, beacon with light, their hard way
to the Promised Land!"</p>


<h4>THE END.</h4>









<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 57785 ***</div>

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