CHAPTER I.
IN THE TEMPLE—THE CENTRAL CHAMBER.
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.
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.
"Stand here, my knight of the white cross, and observe some of the mysteries of our Temple."
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.
They stood by a marble pillar, near a table on which was placed a lamp with a clouded shade,—a table loaded with fruits and flowers, with goblets and with bottles of rich old wine.
Nameless could not repress an ejaculation as he surveyed the scene.
"I am in a dream!" he said.
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.
"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."
There was a touch of mockery in her tone as she spoke.
"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?"
"Every aristocratic gentleman knows the aristocratic 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,"—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."
"Queen of the Temple?" echoed Nameless.
"Yes, Queen of the Temple! A Queen who rules by midnight—and the temple of whose power,—gay, voluptuous, flower-crowned, as you see it,—is founded upon pollution and death."
She paused; and Nameless saw her bosom heave, and heard the sigh which escaped from her lips.
"But this night past, you will bid adieu to scenes like this forever?" whispered Nameless. "You remember your pledge?"
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.
"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.—"Your life has been dark—mine dark and criminal. But there is hope for us, Gulian—hope beyond these walls, where pollution is masked in flowers,—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!"
"And then, Frank," said Nameless,—"should wealth ever be ours, we will devote it to the redemption of those who have suffered like us, and like us fallen."
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—and now and then the music and the dance were interrupted by the echo of joyous voices.
"'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."
A curtain was thrust aside,—a momentary blaze of light rushed into the vast hall,—and masked and vailed, the "guests of the Temple" came pouring into the place.
"Stand here and observe them," whispered Frank.
"A strange and motley throng!" returned Nameless, in a whisper. "Are we indeed in New York, in the nineteenth century?—or is it in Rome, in the days of the Borgias?"
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—some forty men and women in all—the guests glided through the voluptuous light—and shadow, no less voluptuous—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—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—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—the tables, loaded with viands and flowers—the rich variety of costume—the pillars of white marble—the light and shadow, which gave new witchery to the scene.
There were certain of the maskers who, in an especial manner, riveted the attention of Nameless.
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—hose, also of scarlet—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.
"Behold Roderick Borgia!" whispered Frank, as the masked passed along with his stately stride.
"And the lady who leans upon his arm?"
"Lucretia Borgia!"
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.
"Worthy, my dear Lucretia, to rule hearts by your beauty and empires by your intellect!" said Roderick.
"Ah, your holiness flatters," was the whispered reply.
"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.
"Does she inherit the morals as well as the beauty of the woman-fiend whose name she bears?"
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,—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—
"Dearest Julia!" said the cardinal, "what think you of that doctrinal point?"
"Dearest doctor! what if my husband knew?" softly replied the youth.
They passed by the central pillar, from the light into the shadow.
"How name you these?" asked Nameless.
"Leo, the Tenth, and his nephew," was the answer of Frank,—"but see here! A monk and nun!"
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.
"Beverly, are you sure?" Nameless heard her whisper.
"Sure?" replied the White Monk, in a tone that rose above a whisper,—"He is false—false—you have the proofs!" And they went from the light into the gloom.
"She trembles, and her voice falters," said Frank, observing the form of the retiring nun.
"Did she not say Beverly?" asked Nameless, a tide of recollections rushing upon his brain. "That name—surely I heard it,—"
"Look!" interrupted Frank, pressing his arm,—"An oddly assorted couple as ever went arm in arm."
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,—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,—apparently not altogether to her liking,—grasped by her singular companion. As the "Lady in Black" passed by, Nameless heard these words,—
"Havana! A most delightful residence," whispered the Turk.
The "Lady in Black" made no reply,—did not even bend her head; but passed along, her robe brushing the tunic of Nameless, as she glided from view.
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,—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 overshadowed him?
"Who is that lady?" he whispered,—resting one hand against the pillar, for a sudden faintness seized him,—"That lady who is matched with a companion so grotesque?"
"She may be young or old, fair or hideous, but her name I cannot tell," responded Frank. "As for her companion,—the diminutive Turk who clutches her hand, and to whose soft pleadings she does not seem to listen with the most affectionate interest,—his name is——" Frank bent her mouth close to the ear of Nameless.
"His name?" he interrupted.
"Is one which cannot but excite bitter memories. Israel Yorke, the Financier!"
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.
"Israel Yorke! and in this place?"
"Yes,—and why not?" responded Frank, bitterly. "What place so fitting for the swindler,—pardon me, Financier? 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?"
"From the bank to the brothel," thought Nameless, but he did not breathe that thought aloud.
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.
"Do you regret your pledge?" she said, measuring every word.
"Regret!" he echoed,—for the touch, the look, the voluptuous atmosphere of her very presence, made him forget the past, the prospects of the future,—everything, but the woman whose soul shone upon him from her passionate eyes:—"Can you think it? Regret! Never!"
"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,—"To-morrow,—" bending gently to him, until he felt her breath upon his cheek, "to-morrow,—"
"To-morrow!" echoed a strange voice; "but, my lady, I have a word to say to you to-night."
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.
She started at the voice, and Nameless felt her hand tremble in his own.
"In a moment I will join you again," she whispered to Nameless; "now, Count, I am at your service."
And leaving Nameless by the pillar, she took the Count by the arm, and with him disappeared in the shadows of the hall.
Leaning against the pillar, and folding his arms across his breast,—over the white cross which glittered there,—Nameless awaited her return with evident anxiety. He was devoured by contending emotions. The fascination with which this beautiful woman had enveloped him,—suspicion of the stranger who had called her from his side,—the strange and varied scene before him,—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!
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.
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,—the White Monk and the White Nun stand face to face near yonder pillar, her lip pressing the champagne glass offered by his hand,—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, her 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!"
"Truly, my life is one of adventure!" muttered Nameless, observing the fantastic scene. "Last night, arrested as a thief,—a few nights since the tenant of a mad-house, and to-night in a scene like this! To-morrow night what and where?"
To-morrow night!
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.
"You wish to speak to me?" she said.
"An hour ago I came to this house,—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,—has he plighted his word? Have you accepted him?" Thus spoke the Count, in a low voice.
"He has, father," replied Frank; "and I have accepted him."
"When and where?" asked the Count, or Col. Tarleton, as you please.
"As soon as I leave this place, and am the tenant of a home," replied Frank, her voice trembling on that word, so new to her—"home!"
"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 boy 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,—"
His voice grew thicker, huskier,—he seized her by the wrist.
"Father!" she gasped, as though her proud spirit was cowed by the ferocious determination of his manner.
"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 living, 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?"
"I do," gasped Frank.
"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,—"
"Or?" faltered Frank.
"Or,—mark you, I do not threaten; but I am speaking Fate,—or, he will not appear on the 25th of December."
"He will not appear? What mean you?" her voice suddenly changed; she laid her hand upon his shoulder. "Do you mean to say that you will murder him, dear father?"
"He will not appear, 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,—are you listening, daughter?—to the twin brother of this boy."
"Twin brother?" echoed Frank, utterly amazed.
"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?"
"I do."
"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,—to-morrow,—will appear in place of yonder youth, unless the marriage takes place at once."
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,—this was indeed a revelation, an overwhelming surprise. For a moment she was silent; her brain throbbed painfully.
"But how am I to believe this story?"
"You can disbelieve it, if you like," responded her father drily, "and risk the consequences—"
"But will not the marriage be as certain to-morrow, the day after, nay a week hence,—" she faltered.
"Girl! you will drive me mad,—" he clutched her by the wrist:—"nothing is certain that is not accomplished—"
She felt the blood mount to her cheek, and her heart swell in her breast:
"Have you no shame?" she said and flung his hand from her wrist—"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?"
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.
"Frank, Frank, pity me,—I am desperate, but it is for your sake!" he cried, changing his method of attack—"Spare me the commission of a new crime,—spare me! I do not threaten, I entreat."
Wringing her hands within his own, he dragged her deeper into the shadows of the recess.
"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."
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.
"At once,—for your sake,—"
"But the clergyman,—"
"Dr. Bulgin is here. If you consent I will summon him to your chamber. The ceremony will take place there.
"Wait," she whispered; "I will see him. If I drop my 'kerchief, or take the cross from his neck all is right."
She glided from her father's side, and passing along the hall, among the maskers, soon stood by the side of Nameless once more.
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.
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!
"They are talking,—talking,—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!"
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,—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.
"I say Colonel, what—what news?" hiccupped the knight.
"Yes, yes," remarked the gentleman of the old school, with a bold attempt at originality of thought, "what news?"
"Pop!—" the Colonel looked at the knight,—"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!"
"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!
Frank and Nameless!
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.
She caught his gaze,—and at once enchained it. His eye derived new fire from her look, but was chained to that look.
"It was my father who wished to speak with me, Gulian," she said, and watched each lineament of his countenance.
"Your father?" he echoed.
"My father, who has worked you so much wrong,—who has worked such bitter wrong to me,—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."
"Well, Frank," he interrupted, gazing anxiously into her face.
"He confesses that our,—our marriage, 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—"
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.
"But he is afraid that you will hereafter regret your pledge of marriage."
"Frank!"
"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!"
"One like you! Frank, Frank, do you think thus?"
"That once secure in your possessions, you will regard as worse than idle words, a promise made to the daughter of your enemy,—to a woman, whose life has been—spare me—"
She buried her head upon his breast; he drew her to him and felt the beating of her heart.
"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!"
"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?"
"Frank, I swear it!"
She took the white cross from his neck,—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.
"Take this in exchange"—she took the golden cross from her breast, and wound its chain about his neck; the cross glitters over his heart—"in witness of our mutual pledge. And Gulian,—" there was a look—an extended hand—"Come!"
She led him from the light into the shadows, and—while his every pulse bounded as with a new life—from the hall.
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,—now pausing to refresh himself with sparkling Heidsick, and now twining his arm about the nephew's waist, trying to soothe her mind upon some doctrinal point:
"Dearest Julia," he whispered, as they paused for a moment in the shadow of a pillar.
"Dearest Doctor," she responded—that is, the nephew, clad in blue frock-coat and trowsers; "you don't think that my husband ever will—"
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.
"Impossible!" responded Leo the Tenth, shaking his head. "Impossible, my dear Tarleton!"
"It must be," answered the hidalgo, emphatically. "A quiet room up stairs, and no one present save myself, the bridegroom and the bride."
"But my name will appear on the certificate," hesitated the Doctor, "and questions may be asked as to the place in which this marriage was celebrated, and how I came to be there."
"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 second time, in another place, and—" he whispered a few emphatic words in the Doctor's ear.
Leo the Tenth was troubled, but he saw no way of escape.
"Well, well, be it so, Tarleton; you are an odd sort of fellow. Julia, dear,"—this, aside to his nephew; "wait for me in the Scarlet Chamber, up stairs, you know?" The nephew whispered her assent. "I'll join you presently. Now Count,"—this to Tarleton,—"lead the way, and let us celebrate these mysterious nuptials."
And the three left the Central Hall together. Tarleton and the Doctor, on their way to the Bridal Chamber, and the nephew on her way to the Scarlet Chamber.
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.
"Oh, Beverly, Beverly! whither would you lead me?" He scarce can distinguish the words, so faint, so broken by agitation is her voice.
"Your husband is false. He has trampled upon your love. I love you, and will avenge you. Come, Joanna!"
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.
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—voluptuous pleasure? or does it contract with terror and loathing?
Her Turkish friend,—the diminutive gentleman in the red jacket, spangled all over, blue trowsers and red morocco boots,—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:
"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."
"Let it be at once, then," is the whispered reply.
He offers his arm; she quietly but firmly pushes it aside.
"I will follow you," she says in her low-toned voice.
And the Turk leaves the hall, followed by the Lady in Black.
"The Blue Chamber!" he ejaculates, as he crosses the threshold.
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,—that vast forehead, big with swollen veins,—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—that voice whose organ-like depth stirs the blood:
"A career, beautiful lady, now opens before you, such as the proudest queen might envy—"
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—artful.
"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—mine! But come; I have that to say to you, which will have a vital bearing upon your fate."
"And my brother?" whispers Lucretia.
"And also the fate of your brother," responds Roderick Borgia. "Come with me to the Golden Room."
"To the Golden Room be it then!"
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,—and her right hand resting upon the hilt of the poniard which is inserted in the scarf that binds her waist.
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.
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.
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,—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—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."
Thus the maskers glide along; the music strikes up in an adjoining hall—the dance begins—the orgie deepens,—and,—
Let the curtain fall.
[CHAPTER II.]
THE BLUE ROOM.
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.
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 bank-note face, and his oriental costume.
"Now," he cried, flinging himself into a chair, "let us come to some understanding. What in the deuce do you mean?"
"What do I mean?" echoed the Lady in Black, who, seated on the sofa, held the folds of the robe across her face.
"Yes, what 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?"
"Yes," briefly responded the lady.
"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, 'greatly to your advantage.'"
"Those were the words," echoed the lady, still preserving her motionless attitude.
"And in the note I inclosed the password by which only admittance can be gained to this mansion?"
"You did. I used it; entered the mansion and met you." Her voice was scarcely audible and very tremulous.
"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,—have never replied one word to all my propositions; egad! I have not even seen your face."
"And now you have brought me to this lonely apartment to repeat your proposals?"
"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,—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?"
The lady gently bowed her head, and raised both hands to her face.
"I am rich, benevolent, always had a good heart,"—another twirl of the turban,—"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,—and,—the climate is delicious." And the fervent Turk stroked his bald head, and smoothed his white hairs.
"Accompany you," said the lady, slowly; "in what capacity? As a daughter, perchance?"
"Not ex-act-ly as a daugh-t-e-r," responded Israel; "but as a companion."
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,—
"And you, sir, knew my father in better days?"
"I did."
"You never knew any one of his race guilty of a dishonorable act?"
"Never did."
"And now you find him aged and helpless,—find myself, his only hope, reduced to the last extreme of poverty, with no prospect but (your own words), starvation, or the streets,—"
"Ay." Israel, beneath his spectacles, seemed to cast an admiring glance at his Turkish trowsers and red morocco boots.
"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—mistress! That is your proposition, sir."
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.
"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 you!"
And she pressed his shoulder, until the little man shook again, his gold spectacles rattling on his nose.
"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!"
"But your father," faltered Israel.
"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!"
"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."
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,—
"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?"
Israel's feelings can only be described by a single word—"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.
"What in the devil did you come to see me for, if such was your opinion of me?"
"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——"
"Remorse! restitution!" laughed the Financier. "Come, I like that!"
"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——"
Choked by emotion, she could not proceed, but grew pale and paler, until a flood of tears came to her relief.
"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."
Israel gazed at her deliberately through his gold spectacles,—
"Oh, no, my dear," he said, and a sneer curled his cold lip; "you are too damnably virtuous."
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.
"Trust in God,—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,——"
A vile thought worked its way through every lineament of his face.
"Once in my power, all her scruples would be at an end. We are alone,"—he glanced around the cozy apartment,—"and I think I'll try the effect of an anodyne. Anodynes are good for fainting spells, I believe."
He drew a slender vial from beneath his Turkish jacket, and holding it between himself and the light, examined it steadily with one eye.
"It is well I thought of it! 'Twill revive her,—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,—a-hem!"
He raised her head on his knee, and un corked the vial and held it to her lips.
At that moment there was a quick, rapid knock at the door. It broke startlingly upon the dead stillness.
"Why did I not lock it?" cried Israel, his hand paralyzed, even as it held the vial to the poor girl's lips.
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.
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.
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!"
And he held a bundle of bank notes,—Chow Bank, Muddy Run, Terrapin Hollow, under the nose of the paralyzed Financier.
[CHAPTER III.]
THE GOLDEN ROOM.
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,—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,—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,—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—
"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,"—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."
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.
"By heavens, you are beautiful!"—his eyes streamed with singular intense light, from the shadow of his projecting brow.
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.
"You consent, my child?" Godlike softened his organ-like voice,—took her hand within his own—she did not give, nor did she withdraw her hand,—"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,—"
He paused. She lifted her eyes to his face, and met his burning glances, with a searching and profound look.
"And myself,—"
"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."
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?
"In,—what—capacity—did—you—say?" she asked at length in a faint voice.
"As my ward,—" 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,—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!"
"Tell me something," said Esther, in a low voice, her bosom for a moment swelling above the scarlet border of her robe,—"Tell me something of life at the Capital,—life in Washington City."
Godlike laughed until his broad chest shook again,—a deep sardonic laugh.
"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,—neither at the court of Louis the Great, nor that of George the Fourth,—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,—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,——knocked to pieces in an instant by the soft fingers of a pretty woman. It is red tape, versus bright eyes in Washington City, and eyes always carry the day."
"This is indeed a strange story you are telling me," said Esther, her eyes still downcast.
Godlike for a moment surveyed himself in the mirror opposite, and laughed.
"I vow I had quite forgotten, that I was arrayed in this singular costume,—scarlet tunic, edged with ermine, and so-forth,—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,—"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,—"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—and win. By ——!" he drew down his dark brows, until his eyes were scarcely visible, "How is it possible to look upon mankind with anything but contempt,—contempt and scorn!"
"But," and Esther raised her eyes to that bronzed face, every lineament of which now worked with a look of indescribable scorn,—"you have genius,—the loftiest! you tower above the mass of men. You have influence,—an influence rarely given to any one man; it spans the continent; why not use your genius and influence to make men better?"
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.
"That was long ago; long ago; the dream of making men better. I felt it once,—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! 'crucify him! crucify him!'"
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.
"I used to think of it, and dream over it, in my college days,—of that history in which 'Hosanna!' is shouted to-day, and palm branches strewn; and to-morrow,—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."
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,—the handwriting of the inward thought.
"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,—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."
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,—yes, on the one hand the life of the hunted pariah; on the other, sway of an absolute queen."
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.
"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,—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."
Esther felt his burning gaze, and said with downcast eyes,—her voice very low and faint—"And in return for this generous protection, what am I to give you?"
"Can you ask, my child?" he said, and pressed her hand within his own.—"You will be my friend, my counselor, my companion."
"Companion?"
"Wearied with the toils of state, the wear and tear of the world,—in your presence, I will seek oblivion of the world and its cares. With you I will grow young again, and—who knows—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 intuitions of woman, than upon the careful logic of the shrewdest man. In a word, dear child, you will be my companion,—my divinity"—
"Divinity?"
"Yes,—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,—pure as heaven's own light."
"Pure as heaven's own light?"
"You echo me,—and with a mocking smile. Woman! your beauty maddens me! I adore you!" His face was flushed with passion,—his deep-set eyes flamed with a fire that could not be mistaken,—his voice, at other times deep as an organ, was tremulous and broken. First pressing her clasped hands against his broad chest,—which heaved with emotion,—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,—yours, Esther,—yours—"
Advancing toward the portrait, he pushed the hangings aside,—the doorway of an adjoining apartment was revealed.
"Come, Esther, by heavens you must be mine,—and now!"
There was no mistaking the determination of that husky voice, the passion of that bloodshot eye.
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—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.
With a desperate effort she glided from his arms, and the next moment,—her hair unloosed on her bosom bared in the struggle,—confronted him with the poniard gleaming over her head.
"Hoary villain!" she cried, dilating in every inch of her stature, until she seemed to rival his almost giant height,—"lay but a finger on me and you shall pay for the outrage with your life!"
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,—it was a noble picture. And her eyes,—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.
"Esther,——"
"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,—'hoary villain!'—"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 —— ——, whose grandchild stands before you!"
As she named that name, Godlike repeated it from pure astonishment.
"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!"
"But, Esther, you mistake me; do not raise your voice,——" his face flushed, his eyes bloodshot, he advanced toward her.
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.
She retreated,—Godlike advanced,—she, brandishing the dagger,—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.
"You shall be mine, I swear it!" He darted forward.
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.
He was foiled. A mocking laugh, which resounded through the darkness, did not add to his composure.
"Esther, Esther," he said, in a softer tone, endeavoring to smother his rage, "I will not harm you, I swear it."
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.
"Dearest Esther,"—he advanced in the direction from whence the knocks proceeded, and came in contact with a form,—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,—historical truth demands the record,—while in this position, the grave statesman kicked, deliberately and wickedly kicked. But he kicked in vain.
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.
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.
All was silent around him.
At length a voice was heard, hollow and distinct in its every tone,—
"Gabriel Godlike, you are now about to be put on trial before the Court of Ten Millions."
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,—its jurisdiction over crimes that 'Courts of Justice' could not reach,—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.
"The Court of Ten Millions,"—the voice was heard again,—"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 love of money, by the man who seeks to enjoy labor's fruits, without sharing labor's works; crimes committed by the man who uses his wealth, or the accident of his social position, 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."
There was another long pause. Gabriel had time for thought.
"Gabriel Godlike! Detected in a gross outrage upon a woman whom you thought poor and friendless,—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."
Another pause. Gabriel began to recover his scattered senses. The bandage across his mouth concealed the sardonic smile which flitted over his lips.
"A sort of Vixhme Gericht,—something from the dark ages,"—he ejaculated, mentally. And yet he did not feel comfortable. There was Harry Royalton's back; he had seen it. "But they would not dare to flog a statesman,—me! Gabriel Godlike!"
"Still you are at liberty to refuse a trial before this court,"—the voice spoke again,—"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."
Gabriel began to listen with attention.
"Now you may refuse to be tried before this court on one condition,—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."
Gabriel listened with keener interest.
"If you doubt that this party of gentlemen, consisting of—(he named a number of names familiar to Godlike's ear)—are within call, your doubt can be solved in a moment."
"It is an infernal trap," and Gabriel ground his teeth with suppressed rage.
"If you consent to be tried by this court, be pleased to give a gesture of assent."
Gabriel revolved for a moment within himself, and then slowly nodded his head.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
And on the right and left of Gabriel's chair, stood a muscular man, whose features were hidden by a crape mask.
The scene altogether was highly dramatic. The Borgian attire of Godlike by no means detracted from its dramatic effect.
The silence of the place,—the gloom scarcely broken by the light of the solitary candle,—the contrast between this scene and the one in which he had been an actor but a few moments previous,—all had their effect upon the mind of the statesman.
"A trap! get out of it as I may. An infernal trap!"
Without raising his head, or removing his clasped hands from his breast, the judge spoke, in an even and distinct, although hollow voice,—
"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."
The blood rushed to Gabriel's face, but he made no reply.
"Or, if you doubt that those gentlemen are near, it is not too late to remove your doubts."
The veins began to swell on Gabriel's forehead.
"Go on," he said, in a half-smothered tone.
The judge extended his hand and placed a parchment in the hands of Esther.
"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:
"Gabriel Godlike is accused of the following offenses against man, against society, against God:—
"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.
"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—the freeman—of a piece of land which he may call by the sacred title of home.
"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.
"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.
"In his long career, he has exhibited that saddest of all spectacles:—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."
Esther concluded; her face was radiant, but her eyes dimmed with tears.
"Gabriel Godlike, what say you to this accusation?" exclaimed the judge.
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, "without faith in God, without love to his race."
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.
"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."
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:
"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!
"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,—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.
"Something like this has been the thought of the last fifty—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.
"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—your brother—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 criminal, and adjudged to darkness and chains, by what name, Gabriel Godlike, shall we call you? what judgment shall we pronounce upon your head?"
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 criminal.
There was a blush of shame upon Gabriel's downcast forehead; shame, mingled with suppressed rage.
"Shall we adjudge you to the lash?" and the judge looked first to Gabriel, then to the giant negro by his side.
Godlike raised his head; Esther shuddered as she beheld his look.
"The lash!" he echoed,—"No, by ——! The man does not live who dares speak of such a thing."
"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,) 'might makes right.' 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?"
Godlike uttered a frightful oath.—"You will drive me mad!" and he ground his teeth in impotent rage. It was a pitiful condition for a great statesman.
"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!"
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.
"Unbind his arms." The masked attendants obeyed. Gabriel's bands were free.
"Secure him, at the first sign of resistance or of disobedience."
The judge calmly proceeded—
"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."
Gabriel could not repress an ejaculation. The simplicity of the sentence struck him with astonishment.
"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:
"New York, Dec. 24th, 1844.
"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. —, —— street, New York: an outrage which, investigated before a court of law, would justly consign him to the State's Prison.
"Signed in presence of:
{
{."
No words can picture the rage which corrugated Godlike's visage as he perused this singular document.
"No, I will not sign!"—he fixed his flaming eyes upon Esther's pallid face—"not if you rend me into fragments."
"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."
Esther cast a glance upon Godlike's flushed visage, and moved to the door,—
"Stay! I will—I will!" Shame and mortification choked his utterance. He advanced to the table and signed his name to the paper.
The judge drew his broad-brimmed hat deeper over his brows, and advanced to the table.—"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.
"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.
"This is too much,—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.
"Esther," (she lingered on the threshold, as the judge addressed her,) "tell Mr. Godlike's friends that he will be glad to see them."
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,—he signed his name. His hand trembled like a leaf.
"Now, now—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.
"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.
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.
"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."
"And the papers which you have forced me to sign?" interrupted Gabriel.
"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."
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:
"Pity, good Lord! Pardon me, if I am wrong!"
It was the voice of earnest prayer.
[CHAPTER IV.]
THE BRIDAL CHAMBER.
It was the bridal chamber. A strange hour, and a strange bridal!
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.
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.
And thus they joined hands, near the morning hour.
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.
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 the moment of his life.
"Once married and the way is clear!" he thought. "To think of it—after twenty-one years my hand grasps the prize!"
"We will walk through life together," said Frank, pressing the hand of Nameless.
"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.
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?
"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.
"Proceed," said Tarleton, pressing the right hand, with the roll of paper to his lip.
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.
"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.
"Wife!"—he called that sacred name in a low and softened voice,—"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.
"My son!"—Tarleton started forward and clasped Nameless by the hand,—"Gulian, my son, let the past be forgotten,—forgiven, and let us look only to the future! The proudest aspiration of my life is fulfilled!"
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?
"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.
Nameless took the pen, and bent over the table and read:—
December 24, 1844.
To Dr. Martin Fulmer:—
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.
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.
"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.
"Nay, Frank, I will sign," he exclaimed, and put the pen to the paper.
"O, father," whispered Frank, with a glance of burning indignation, "this is too much—" Her words were interrupted by the sudden opening of the door.
"Is there no way of escape,—none?"—a voice was heard exclaiming these words, in tones of fright and madness,—"Is there no way of escape from this abode of ruin and death?"
The pen dropped from the hand of Nameless. That voice congealed the blood in his veins.
Turning his head over his shoulders, he saw the speaker,—while the whole scene swam for a moment before his eyes,—saw that young countenance, now wild with affright, on which was imprinted the stainless beauty of a pure and virgin soul.
"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.
"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.
It was no phantom, but a living and beautiful woman. She saw his face,—she uttered a cry,—she knew him.
"Gulian!" she cried, and spread forth her arms. Not one thought that he had died and been buried,—she saw him living,—she knew him,—he was before her,—that was all. "Husband!"
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.
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.
"Husband!"
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.
With a desperate effort, Tarleton rallies his presence of mind.
"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.
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.
"Frank!"—she raises her head,—their eyes meet. He holds the vial before her face—"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,—the conflict between two widely different emotions, which writhes over her face!
"No, father, no! It must not be," and she pushes the vial from her sight.
His words, uttered rapidly, and in a whisper, come through his set teeth,—"It must be,—the game cannot be lost now; in twelve hours, you know, this vial will do its work, and leave no sign!"
An expression which he cannot read, crosses her face. A moment of profound and harrowing thought,—a glance at the kneeling girl, who hides in her flowing hair, the face of her unconscious husband.
"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.
And the next instant she is kneeling beside Nameless and the weeping girl.
"Mary!" whispers Frank, and the young wife raises her face from her husband's forehead, and they gaze in each other's face,—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,—the face of Mary, although touched by want and sorrow, bearing the look of a guileless, happy 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.
"Mary!" said Frank,—her hand trembling, but her purpose firm,—"your husband will die unless aid is rendered at once. Let me revive him."
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.
"He will revive presently," Frank exclaims with a smile.
"God bless you, generous woman,——"
But Frank does not wait to receive her thanks.
Returning to her father's side,—"Come, let us leave them, now," she whispers; "now that your request is obeyed."
"But he must not die in this house."
"O, you will have time, ample time to remove him before the vial has done its work,"—a bitter smile crosses her face,—"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!"
She takes her father by the hand, and hurries him from the room,—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,—the starting-point of a new and happy life!
"I must now see after the other," Tarleton soliloquizes, as he crossed the threshold. "This one removed, the other must be ready for to-morrow."
And Frank and her father leave the room.
The chest of Nameless began to heave,—his eyes gradually unclosed. With a vacant glance he surveyed the apartment.
"It is a dream," he said.
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.
"Not in a dream, Carl," she said, calling, him by the name which he had borne in other days.
"Carl? Who calls me Carl?"
"Not in a dream, Carl, but living and restored to me."
Even as he lay in her arms, his head resting on her young bosom, he raised his eyes and beheld her face.
"Mary!"
"Thou art my husband!"
"Thou art my wife!"
That moment was a full recompense for all they had suffered, yes, for a lifetime of suffering and anguish. They forgot everything,—the dark past,—the strange chance or providence which had brought them together,—they only felt that they were living and in each other's arms.
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.
"O, Mary, wife, thou art living,—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,—we will meet again,' was your reply. And now we have met! Mary—wife! let us never accuse Providence again, for God is good!"
Moment of joy too deep for words.
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,—your young life is about to set in this world forever.
[CHAPTER V.]
THE SCARLET CHAMBER.
Having once more resumed the attire of Leo the Tenth,—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.
"Odd scene that in the room of Tarleton's daughter! Very dramatic,—wish I knew what it all meant. However my 'nephew;'" a rich chuckle resounded from the depths of his chest—"'my nephew' awaits me, and after another bottle in the Scarlet Chamber, I must see her safely home. It is not such a bad world after all."
Thus soliloquizing he arrived at the end of the passage, and his head was laid against the door of the Scarlet Chamber.
"Cozy place,—bottle of wine,—good company—"
"Hush!" whispered a voice.
"That you Julia? What are you doing out here in the dark?" he wound his arms about his nephew's waist. "Waiting for me?"
"Do not,—do not," she gasped, struggling to free herself from his arms,—"Do not enter,—"
"Tush, child! you're nervous,—" and despite the struggles, he gathered his arm closer around her waist, pushed open the door and entered the Scarlet Room.
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.
"What's the matter child? You're pale, and have been crying,—" 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.
"There," was the only word which she had power to frame, and bursting into tears, she pointed over his shoulders to the sofa.
Somewhat surprised, Dr. Bulgin turned on his heel, the white plumes nodding over his bulky face, and,——
There are some scenes which must be left to the imagination.
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.
As Bulgin turned, the three gentlemen quietly rose, and said politely, with one voice:
"Good morning Dr. Bulgin."
And then as quietly sat down again.
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.
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,—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 Temple, at any time, but especially at this unusual hour?
That was precisely the question which troubled Bulgin.
"W-e-l-l Gentle-m-e-n," he said, not exactly knowing what else to say.
To which they all responded with a singular unanimity,—"W-e-l-l D-o-c-t-o-r!"
"Did not I,—did not I,—tell,—tell you not to come in here?" sobbed the nephew,—that is Julia.
Mr. Watkins arose and passed his hand through his stiff gray hair,—
"Allow me to compliment you upon the becoming character of your costume!" and sat down again.
Then Mr. Potts, whose bald head shone in the light as he rose,—
"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.
Mr. Burns' lean form next ascended, and his nose seemed to increase in size, as he projected it in a low bow,—
"And allow me,—" 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.
"Did—I—not—tell, tell—you,—n-o-t to come in," sobbed Julia.
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.
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 slid 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."
There was a pause,—a painful and embarrassing pause.
The three sat like statues, only that Mr. Potts rubbed the end of his nose, with the top of his cane.
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?
"Well,—gentlemen,—" said Bulgin at last, for the dead silence began to drive him mad, and made him hear all sorts of noises, in his ears,—"what are you doing in this place, at this unusual hour!"
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,—
"Precisely the question which we were about to ask you," he said, and was seated again.
Mr. Potts took his turn:
"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,—"
"And,—" interrupted Watkins, rising solemnly, and extending the forefinger of his right hand, toward Bulgin, "and now we see!"
"And now we see!" echoed Mr. Watkins, absently shutting one eye, as he regarded Bulgin's face.
"We all see," remarked Mr. Potts resuming his seat, and then as if to clinch the matter—"and with our own eyes!"
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—
"Why, gentlemen, the truth is, I was summoned to this house, on professional duty,—" he began.
Mr. Potts groaned; they all groaned.
"In that costume?" asked Potts.
"And with madam there?" asked Watkins.
"Pro-fessi-o-n-a-l d-u-t-y!" thus Watkins in a hollow voice.
'Professional duty' would not do; evidently not. Foiled on this tack, the good Doctor tried another:
"The truth is," he began, with remarkable composure,—"I had been informed that Mrs. Parkins here,—" he pointed to the sobbing "nephew" otherwise Julia, and drew his chair nearer to the three, gradually softening his voice into a confidential whisper,—"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,—the one which her seducer was to wear,—and came to this place, and,—rescued her. Do you understand?"
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,—her!"
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.
"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 not come here to meet any young man of fashion. I was led away by you, and I came here with you."
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,—perchance her grandfather,—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,—we behold her before us, the victim of the reverend tempter.
"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.
"Evidently not," 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.
As for the Doctor, he mentally wished the beautiful Mrs. Julia Parkins in Kamschatka.
"Never have an affair with a fool again, as long as I live!" he muttered.
"And while you soothed my poor old husband, on that doctrinal point; you,—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 jailed. 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,—" poor Julia could not go on for sobbing.
The three gentlemen groaned.
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.
"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,—"Jig's up!"
"What does he mean by 'jig's up?'" asked Mr. Burns of Mr. Potts, in a very hollow voice.
"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,—" he paused, filled another glass, and contemplated the three, over its brim,—"allow me to ask, what do you intend to do?"
He took a sip from the glass. The three were thunderstruck.
"Cool!" exclaimed Mr. Potts, punching the toe of his boot with his cane.
"You can't expose me," continued Bulgin, as he took another sip: "that would create scandal, you know, and hurt the church more than it would me."
The rich impudence of the Doctor's look, would "have made a cat laugh."
"We will 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."
"No man's wife, sister, or daughter is safe!" echoed Mr. Potts.
"Did I ever tempt your wife, Burns?" coolly asked Bulgin,—Burns winced, for his wife was remarkably plain.
"Or your sister, Potts?" Potts colored to the eyes; his sister was a miracle of plainness.
"Or your daughter, Watkins?" Watkins felt the thrust, for his daughter was as plain as Burns' wife and Potts' sister combined.
"Be assured I never will," continued Bulgin—"now, what do you intend to do? Expose me and ruin this poor creature here?"—"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,"—he pointed to Julia,—"to disgrace me and the church together?"
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.
"Will you solemnly promise,"—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?"
"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."
He advanced, and shook them by the hand.
"If you keep your word, this will suit me," said Burns, with gloomy cordiality.
"And me," echoed Watkins.
"And me," responded Potts.
"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.
"It will not suit me, I say," and from the hangings the unknown speaker emerged with a measured stride.
He was a tall man, somewhat bent in the shoulders, and wore a long cloak, of an antique 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.
"And who are you?" cried Bulgin, recovering from his surprise. His remark was chorused by the others.
"A pew-holder in your church," emphatically exclaimed the cloaked individual. "Let that suffice you. Gentlemen,"—turning his back on Bulgin, he lifted his cap and exposed his forehead to the three gentlemen,—"you know me?"
With one impulse, they pronounced a name; and it was plainly to be seen that they respected that name, and its owner.
"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."
This style of attack, as impetuous as a charge of bayonets, evidently startled the good Doctor.
"Who are you?" he asked, sneeringly.
"I am the man who wrote the letters to these three gentlemen, yesterday," dryly responded the cloaked gentleman.
"This is a conspiracy," growled Bulgin. "Take care, sir! There is a law for conspirators against character and reputation—"
"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."
Two persons emerged from the recess; one, an old man, of portly form, and mild, good-humored face—now, alas! dark and corrugated with suppressed wrath; the other, a slender woman, with pale face, and large, intellectual eyes,—and a baby, sleeping on her bosom.
Bulgin uttered an oath.
"My wife!—her father!" was all he could utter.
"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.—Look at him! Isn't he beautiful?"
The wife rushed forward, with an indignant glance—
"Let me see the woman who has stolen my husband's affections," she said.
The cloaked gentleman interposed between her and Julia,—
"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!"
"The nephew" did not need a second invitation. Hands over her face, she glided from the room.
Bulgin now found himself in this position:—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.
"Oh! husband, how could you—" began the wife.
"Is that your wife, sir?" thundered the father-in-law. "Answer me! Is that your wife?"
"It is," answered Bulgin, retreating a step. "Allow me to explain,—"
"Is that your child, sir?" thundered the enraged old gentleman. "Answer me! Is that your child?"
"It—is—" and Bulgin retreated another step.
"Then, what in the devil do you do in a place like this?—Hey?—Answer me!—answer me!—"
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;"—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—a veritable cow-hide,—and grasped it firmly.
"Don't strike a man of my cloth," cried Bulgin.
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,—"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.
As for the cloaked gentleman, leaning against the door, he laughed,—yes, perhaps for the first time in thirty years.
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.
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.
"Now, sir, if ever I catch you at anything of this kind, if I don't lick you, my name ain't Jenkins!"
[CHAPTER VI.]
BANK-STOCK AT THE BAR.
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.
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;—evidently men of toil, who, on occasion, in a good cause, can strike a blow that will be felt.
Israel did not like this scene. A few moments since, kneeling beside a beautiful girl, whose young loveliness was helpless and in his power;—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—Israel felt anything but comfortable.
"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?"
Here the voice of the judge was heard through the dead stillness:
"Israel Yorke, you are about to be put on trial for your crimes."
"My crimes?" ejaculated the little man, bounding from his seat. "Crimes!—What crimes have I committed?"
There, outspoke the sense of injured innocence! To be sure—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,—indignantly—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.
"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—the widow, by her fireless hearth—the orphan, by his father's grave. Oh, sir—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,—an apology is due to human nature, by this court, for stooping so low as to put you on your trial. And yet, even you derive some sort of consequence from the vast field of your crimes,—the wide-spread and infernal results of your life-long labors."
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;—"and what right have you to try me?"
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—their brother; its stern application to criminals, who, clad in wealth, had trampled all justice under foot of their own terse motto, "Might makes right."
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!
"Of—what—am—I—accused!" faltered Israel; thus recognising the jurisdiction of the court.
The judge answered him:
"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;—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."
He paused. Israel found himself listening with intense interest.
"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,—" the voice of the judge sank low,—"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?"
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.
"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,—to herd creatures made in the image of the living God, in narrow rooms, dark courts, and pestilential alleys, as never beasts were herded,—and thus you have sowed death, you have bred the fever, the small-pox, the cholera,—but you have made money."
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.
"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 failed. That was all. You did not fail; oh, no; but the Savings Fund Corporation (into which a pliant legislature had transformed you),—it failed. 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."
Israel shaded his eyes with his hands; he seemed buried in profound thought.
"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,—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 failed. 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?"
The judge paused, and after a moment resumed,—
"There was a clamor for a while, but you laughed in your sleeve, bought houses and lands,—dotted the city with pestilential dens, in which you crowded the poor, like insects in a festering carcass,—and after a time, raised your head once more as a banker. It was Harrisburgh, Albany or Trenton this time,—one of the three, or all of them,—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."
"Pretended to be robbed? I tell you I was robbed," cried Israel, half-rising from his seat,—"robbed by an old convict and his young accomplice."
"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 'the might,' will do with you as your crimes deserve. 'Might makes right,' you know."
"But where is the proof of all this? Where are my accusers?" Israel's teeth chattered as he spoke.
"Do you ask for accusers? What accusers are needed more powerful than those voices which now,—and even your seared conscience must hear them,—arise against you from the silence of the grave and the darkness of the dungeon cell?"
Israel tried hard to brace his nerves against the force of words like these,—against the tone in which they were spoke,—but he shook from head to foot, as though he had been seized with an ague-fit.
"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 friend. 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?"
"Cornelius Berman!" faltered Israel, as if thinking aloud.
"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,—secrets connected with the history of long years, with your transactions in Harrisburgh, Trenton, Albany,—with all your schemes from the very dawning of your infamous career."
"Can Fetch, the villain, have betrayed me?" and Israel sank back helplessly in the huge arm-chair;—"or, is this man only trying to bully me into some confession or other?"
"Israel Yorke! the devotion with which you, for long years, have pursued your object,—to coin money out of human blood,—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."
"But what do you intend to do with me?" cried Yorke, now shivering from head to foot with terror.
"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."
"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 must redeem your notes."
"And suppose I consent to sign such a paper?" hesitated the Financier.
"Then you must sign another paper, the contents of which you will not know until some future time," continued the judge, very quietly.
"If I do it, may I be ——!" screamed Israel, bouncing from his seat.
"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."
Israel was free, but the twelve gentlemen, with clubs, gathered round him, anxious to escort him safely on his way.
"Come, my dear little Turk, we are ready," said one of the number, with a very gruff voice, laying a hand,—it was such a hard hand,—on the shoulders of the Financier, "We're a-dyin' to go with you; ain't we, boys?"
"Dyin' ain't the word,—we're starvin' to death to be alone with the gentleman in blue trowsers," responded another.
Israel bit his lips in silent rage.
"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.
It was an important document, containing a brief statement of all Israel's financial affairs,—evidently prepared by one who knew all about him,—together with his solemn promise to redeem every one of his notes, dollar for dollar.
"Could Fetch have betrayed me?"—Israel hissed the words between his set teeth, as he took up the pen.—"If I thought so, I'd cut his throat."
He signed, shook his gold spectacles, and uttered a deep sigh.
"Now, the other paper," said the judge, "its contents are concealed by another sheet, but there is room for your signature."
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,—stood for a moment in great perplexity, and then signed at the bottom of the sheet, the musical name of "Israel Yorke," and then fell back in the chair wiping the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his Turkish jacket.
"Anything more?" he gasped.
"You are free," said the judge; "you may now change your dress, and leave this house."
Israel bounced from his seat.
"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,——"
"Why, you must be the devil incarnate," screamed Israel, and he beat his clenched hand against the arm of the chair.
"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,—Havana is such a pleasant residence for runaway bankers, especially in winter time."
Israel gave utterance to an oath. The judge, without remarking this pardonable ebullition of feeling, quietly addressed his twelve,—
"Which of you gentlemen will put yourself under this gentleman's orders, as his attendant and shadow?"
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,—features manifesting traces of hardship and age,—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, ferocious fun.
"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.
"It's the fellow,—it's the fellow!" cried Israel, once more bouncing from his seat. "He robbed me last night in the cars,—he——"
"Be silent," cried the judge, who had regarded this scene attentively, with his hand upraised to his brow.—"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.
The eleven disappeared through the curtains into the Golden Room with Israel in their charge.
"Now sir, who are you?" sternly inquired the judge.
The individual gravely lifted his brown hair,—for it was a wig,—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,—the wide mouth and iron jaw, stamped with a savage resolution.
"Don't you think I'm hansum?" he said, and the eyes twinkled under the bushy brows, and the mouth distorted in a grin.
"It's the same!" ejaculated the judge,—"How did you escape from the room in which you were confined some three hours ago, and what do you here?"
"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,—the way is clear,' and a bundle was put into my hand, containin' these clothes, and this head o' hair.—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—"
"And then?—"
"And then," responded the individual, "I went and got shaved."
"How came you here?"
"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,—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,—he axed me to jine 'em,—and swore me in as one of your perleese,—and I jined 'em."
"What is your name?" cried the judge, sternly.
"In the place where I was last, they called me Ninety-One," answered the old convict, arranging the high collar about his face,—"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,——"
He paused, and passed his brawny hand over his eyes. The judge started up from his seat.—
"Yes, yes, you were called,—" he exclaimed.
"John Hoffman," replied the convict.
The judge sank back in his chair, and his head dropped upon his breast. It was sometime before he spoke,—
"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.—"Did you commit the murder for which you were arrested?"
"I can't expect you to believe an old cuss like me, but I certainly did not," responded Ninety-One.
"How came you in the room next to the one in which the murdered man was found?"
"I was took there by a friend, who offered to hide me from the folks who were arter me, about Israel's valise."
The judge seemed buried in thought.
"And after the murder was discovered, and you were arrested and pinioned, the same friend appeared once more, and aided your escape?"
"It was a friend," dryly responded Ninety-One,—"can't say what he looked like, as the room was as black as your hat, (purviden you don't wear a white hat)."
"Did you commit the robbery on the railroad cars, last night?"
"I'll be straight up and down with you, boss," said Ninety-One,—"I did not,—and nobody didn't. The money was found on the track, after the smashin' up o' the cars."
"Do you imagine the friend, who hid you away in the house of old Mr. Somers, intended to implicate you in the murder of his son?"
"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."
"As the case stands now, you labor under the double suspicion of robbery and murder. Now mark me,—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—there was a boy with you,—"
The voice of the judge again grew tremulous.
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.
"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?"
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:
"I know Dr. Fulmer. In fact,—in fact,—I am often intrusted by him with business. He will be in town to-morrow."
"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."
"And this boy," almost shrieked the judge, rising, and starting one step forward, on the platform, his corpse-like hand extended toward Ninety-One,—"This boy with the parchment about his neck, where,—where is he now?"
[CHAPTER VII.]
"WHERE IS THE CHILD OF GULIAN VAN HUYDEN?"
"In the early part of the evenin' I left him in this very house, in company with a gal named Frank,—"
The judge interrupted him,—"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,—" he pointed to Yorke, "and do with him as I direct you,—thus—" he communicated his directions to Ninety-One, in a rapid tone, broken by emotion, and inaudible to the eleven, "and you gentlemen,—" to the eleven,—"already have your instructions."
He paused and then clutched Ninety-One by the hand, the convict endeavoring, although vainly, to gain a glimpse of his features,—"In this house with Frank did you say?" his voice was husky.
"In this house, with a gal named Frank," answered Ninety-One.
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.
Israel Yorke found himself alone with Ninety-One and the eleven gentlemen with clubs. Ninety-One addressed him in a tone of cheerful politeness:
"Come, old cock, you and me's got to travel," he said, covering Israel's right shoulder with his huge hand.
Israel, biting his lips with illy suppressed rage, could not help venting the bitterness of his soul, in a single word,—
"Devil," he hissed the word between his set teeth.
"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,—when I fell from Heaven. I showed pluck anyhow, and fell like a devil, and went about makin' stump speeches in the lower regions. But you,—you,—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?"
The eleven gentlemen with clubs, received this elegant apologue, with evident pleasure, manifesting their delight by a unanimous burst of laughter.
Israel said nothing, but evidently was absorbed in a multitude of reflections, not altogether of the most pleasant character.
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.
Hastening from the "Court of Ten Millions," his hands clasped tightly over his breast, and his steps trembling as he went, the judge was determined, at all hazards, to obtain an immediate interview with Frank. Hurrying along a dark passage, and then down the dark stairway,—for the lights had been extinguished, and the Temple was dark and silent as the tomb,—the judge muttered frequently the words "in this house,—in this house!" and then exclaimed,—"O, he cannot, cannot escape me! The hand of fate has led him hither."
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.
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,—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.
A single form walked slowly up and down the silent hall,—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.
"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,—"I must see him."
"You mean the lost son of Gulian Van Huyden?" she calmly said, pausing in her walk, and folding her arms over her breast.
"He was here then," cried the judge, evidently wild with agitation, "nay he is here now."
"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,—"half an hour ago he left the house."
"Left the house? Whither has he gone?"
"I know not."
"Child, child, you mock me," in his agitation he seized her wrist,—"I must see this boy, it is upon a matter of life and death. For God's sake do not trifle with me."
"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."
The solemnity of her tone impressed the judge.
"But will he return?"
"He will never return,—never!" she answered, and it seemed to the judge, as though there was a hidden meaning in her words.
"O, do not drive me to despair. I must see this youth, before to-morrow,—yes, to-day,—this hour!"
"You will never see him in this house again."
"Did he leave this house alone, or was he accompanied,—and by whom?"
A strange smile passed over her face as she replied in a whisper—
"He was accompanied by Mary Berman, who arisen from the grave, came here to claim her husband."
The Judge uttered a wild ejaculation, and sank half fainting in a chair,—his hat fell from his brow, and his face was revealed.
That face, remarkable in every outline, was bathed in cold moisture, and distorted by contending emotions.
[CHAPTER VIII.]
BEVERLY AND JOANNA.
In the Temple, near the hour of dawn, on the morning of the 24th of December, 1844.
"Fallen!"
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!—from wifely purity, from all that makes the past holy, or the future hopeful—fallen, from all that makes life worth the having,—fallen! and forever!
"Fallen!"
Oh, how this word, trembling from her lips—wrung from her heart—echoed through the stillness of the dimly-lighted chamber.
She was seated on the sofa, her noble form clad in the white silken robe—her hands clasped—her golden hair unbound—her neck and shoulders bare: and the same light hanging from the ceiling, which disclosed the details of that luxurious chamber—carpet, chairs, sofa, mirror, and the snow-white couch in a distant recess—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.
He was reclining at her feet; his arm resting on the sofa; his face upturned—his eyes gazing into hers. Clad in the costume of the white monk—a loose robe of white cloth, with wide sleeves, edged with red—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.
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—a face altogether animal, with scarcely a single ray of a higher nature, to light up or refine its grossness.
"Fallen!" cried Joanna; and clasped her hands, and shuddered, as if with cold.
"Never mind, dear," said Beverly, and he bent forward and kissed her hands—"I will love you always!"
"Oh, my God!"—and in that ejaculation, all the agony of her soul found utterance,—"Oh, my God! my child!"
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—
"My husband! How can I ever look into his face again!"
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—remorseful—almost mad—which stamped her face,—you would have felt the emphasis with which she uttered these terrible words, "My husband! How can I ever look into his face again!"
"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—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!"
"It cannot be! it cannot be!" cried Joanna, beating the carpet with her foot, and pressing her clenched hands against her heaving breast.
"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.—"Her letters to her dear Eugene! How she loves him—how she pities him, because he is not married to a sympathetic soul,—how she counts the hours that must elapse before he comes! It is all written here, darling!"
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!—he loves her!"
"And you,"—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,"—he wound his left hand amid the rich masses of her golden hair,—"you, like a brave, proud heart, whose very May of life has been blighted by a husband's treachery,—have avenged yourself upon him!"
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—but that thing for which on earth there is no forgiveness—an adulteress!
"No, Beverly, no. It will not avail. His fault was no excuse for my crime. For his fault affects me only—wrongs me alone—but mine—," there was a choking sensation in her throat—she buried her face in her hands—"Oh God! oh God! my child!"
Beverly took a bottle of champagne which stood upon the table, drew the cork, and filled two brimming glasses.
"You are nervous, my darling," he said, "take this. Let us pledge each other—for the past, forgetfulness—for the future, hope and love."
He stood erect beneath the lamp—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,—he murmured, "Eugene, your magnificent wife is mine!"
And then drained the glass without moving it from his lips.
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.
"My father,—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?"
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—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.
"Pshaw, Joanna! He need never know anything about the adventures of this night. You have been slighted, and you have taken your revenge;—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?"
Joanna buried her burning temples in her hands. All of her life rushed before her. Her childhood—the days of her pure maidenhood—the hour of her marriage, when she gave herself to the husband who idolized her,—the hour of her travail, when she gave birth to her child,—all rushed upon her, with the voices, tones, faces of other days, commingled in one brief but vivid panorama.
"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,—a splendid fixture, destined to bear him children who would perpetuate the name of Livingston,—while his roving affections wandered about the world, constantly seeking new objects of passionate regard. You never dreamt of this, did you, darling?"
Joanna uttered a groan. Pressing her hands to her throbbing temples, she felt her bosom swell, but could not frame a word.
"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——"
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.
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.
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.
"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.
It was Eugene Livingston. Gently folding his arms, cap in hand, he surveyed his wife. His face was turned from the light,—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.
He did not speak to her.
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.
Not a word was spoken.
Joanna crouching on the sofa, her chin resting on her clasped hands,—Beverly on the floor, his hands outspread, and his face dumb with terror,—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.
At length Eugene spoke,—
"Come, Joanna," he said, "here is your father. He will take you home."
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.
"General, take her to my home, and at once," whispered Eugene. "There must be no scandal, no noise, and——" he paused as if suffocating,—"no harshness, mark you."
The general was a stalwart man, although his hair was white as snow,—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.
"I will do as you direct, Eugene," he said, in a husky voice.
"You will find her cloak in the next room," said Eugene, "and the carriage is at the door."
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.
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.
"Will you take a chair, my friend," said Eugene.
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.
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.
"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."
He flung the pencil and tablets upon the table. Beverly recoiled as though a serpent had stung him.
"Eugene," he faltered, for the first time finding words, "you—you do not mean to murder me?"
And his florid face grew ashy with abject terror.
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.
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.
"Joanna's brother!" ejaculated Beverly.
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.
"Major Barton!" ejaculated Beverly, bounding from his seat, for in Major Barton he recognized an old and intimate acquaintance.
"Robert," said Eugene, turning to Joanna's brother, "what have you there?"
"The dueling pistols," quietly responded Robert.
"Have you and this gentleman's friend arranged the preliminaries?"
"We have," interrupted the dapper Major; "distance, ten paces,—place, Weehawk, opposite the city,—time, right off."
"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.
"Gentlemen, I beg to say,——" he drew his White Monk's robe over his heart, and assumed a grand air,—"gentlemen,——"
The dapper little major glided to his side,—
"Bev., my boy, better be quiet. Eugene waited on me an hour ago and explained all the circumstances,—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."
"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,—"if you decline the duel, just say so in the presence of your friend, Major Barton. Just say no."
And Robert eyed Beverly from head to foot, as though it would afford him much pleasure to pitch him from the third story window.
"I will fight," said Beverly, pale and red by turns.
"Then I'll get your hat, and coat, and cloak," said the obliging major,—"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?"
"Yes, a surgeon!" echoed Robert, turning to Eugene, who, seated by the table, rested his forehead against his hand.
"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."
[CHAPTER IX.]
MARY BERMAN—CARL RAPHAEL.
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,—the gown of coarse calico, and the mantilla of black velvet,—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.
"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!"
"O, Carl, in all our lives, we will never know a moment of joy so deep as this!"—and there was something of a holy sadness in Mary's gaze as she spoke,—"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,—so crowded with the callous and the base,—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?"
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.
"Yes, Mary, it is even so," he replied,—"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."
And he bent his forehead,—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.
"But the future is bright before us, Mary," he whispered, raising his face, once more radiant with hope,—"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,—"
"My father!" she echoed, starting from her chair, as the memory of that broken man with the idiot face,—never for a moment forgotten,—came vividly before her, "My father! come Carl, let us go to him!"
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.
"Leave this house, at once, as you value your life," cried an agitated voice,—"You know my father,—know that he will shrink from no crime, when his darker nature is aroused,—you have foiled the purpose which was more than life to him. There is danger for you in this house! away!"
"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.
"No words," she continued in broken and rapid tones,—"you must away at once. You are not safe from poison,"—a bitter, mocking smile,—"or steel, or any treachery, as long as you linger in this house. But this is no time for masquerade attire,—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,—give me that bauble," and she tore the chain from his neck and the golden cross from his breast,—"away,—you have not a moment to lose." She pointed to the door.
"Frank!" again ejaculated Nameless, and something like remorse smote his heart, as he gazed upon her countenance, so sadly changed.
"Will you drive me mad? Go!" again she pointed to the door.
Nameless disappeared.
"And you,—" she took the hands of Mary within her own, and raised them to her breast, and gazed long and earnestly into that virgin face,—"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,—"I know you, although an hour ago, I did not know that you lived;" once more her tones were rapid and broken,—"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,—conceal it in your bosom,—nay, I will take no denial. Take it child! That money and purse are not the wages of pollution,—they were both mine, in the days when I was pure and happy."
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.
"I now remember you," said Mary, her eyes filling with tears, as she gazed into the troubled face of Frank,—"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,—"
"Do not speak of it, child," Frank said in rapid and abrupt tones,—"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."
Her lip quivered, and she hid her eyes with her hand.
"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."
"Frank,"—and Nameless, trembling with agitation, approached her, "we will meet again in happier hours."
O, the strange look of her eyes, the bitter mocking curl of her lip!
"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,—"Swear to me that you will not read this, until three hours at least are passed?"
"I promise,—"
"Nay, you must swear it,—"
"I swear, in the sight of Heaven!"
"Now depart, and,—" she turned her face away from their gaze, and pointed to the door.
As she turned away, Mary approached her, and put her arms about her neck, and her eyes brim full of tears all the while,—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!"
Frank took Mary's arms from her neck, and joined her hand in that of Nameless, and then pushed them gently to the door,—"Go, and at once," she whispered.
And they crossed the threshold, Mary looking back over her shoulder, until she disappeared with Nameless, in the shadows of the passage.
Frank stood with one hand extended to the door, and the other supporting her averted face,—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.
And then the agony, the despair, the thousand emotions which racked her soul, found utterance in the simple, and yet awfully touching ejaculation,—"O, my God!—" 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.
"O, my God! He is gone, and—forever!"
Yes, Frank, woman so beautiful and so utterly lost, gone and forever—gone, with his young wife by his side, and Poison in his veins.