New York: Its Upper Ten and Lower Million

by George Lippard

CHAPTER I.

"THE OTHER CHILD."

Baffled schemer!

In the dim hour which comes before the break of day, Colonel Tarleton was hurrying rapidly along the silent and deserted street.

Broadway, a few hours since, all light, and life, and motion, was now lonely as a desert. Gathering his cloak over his white coat, and drawing his cap lower upon his brows, Tarleton hurried along with a rapid and impetuous step, now and then suffering the thoughts which filled him, to find vent in broken ejaculations.

"Baffled schemer!" he exclaimed aloud, and then his thoughts arranged themselves into words:—"Why do those words ring in my ears? They do not apply to me; let me but live twenty-four hours, and all the schemes which I have worked and woven for twenty-one long years, will find their end in a grand, a final triumph. Baffled schemer! No,—not yet, nor never! This boy who was to marry Frank, will fade away in a few hours, and make no sign; and now for the other child. I must hasten to the house of old Somers,—his 'private secretary' must be mine before daybreak. The hour is unusual, the son lies dead in one room,—the father in the other; but I must enter the house at all hazards, for,—for,—the only remaining child of Gulian Van Huyden, must be in my power before daybreak."

And he hurried along toward the head of Broadway, through the silent city. Even in the gloom, the agitation which possessed him, was plainly discernible. The hand which held the cloak upon his breast was tightly clenched, and, as he passed through the light of a lamp, you might note his compressed lip, his colorless cheek, and eyes burning with intense thought. His whole life swept before him like a panorama. The day when the wife and mother lay dead in her palace home, while Gulian, his brother, clutched him with a death-grip as he plunged into the river,—the years which he had gayly passed in Paris, and the horrible years which he had endured in the felon's cell,—the happy childhood, and the irrevocable shame of his daughter, sold by her own mother into the arms of lust and gold,—his duel with young Somers, whom he had first murdered, and then smuggled his corpse into his father's home,—the scenes which he had this night witnessed in the Temple, beginning with his interview with Ninety-One, and ending in the marriage of Frank and Nameless, and the apparition of Mary Berman,—all flitted before him like the phantoms of a spectral panorama.

"And the next twenty-four hours will decide all! Courage, brain, you have never yet despaired,—" he struck his clenched hand against his forehead,—"do not fail me now!"

Turning from Broadway, as the night grew darker, he entered the street in which the house of Evelyn Somers, Sr., was situated. He was rapidly approaching that house,—cogitating what manner of excuse he should make to the servants for his call at such an unusual hour,—when he was startled by the sound of footsteps. He paused, where a street lamp flung its light over the pavement. Shading his eyes, he beheld two figures approaching through the gloom. He glided from the light, and stationed himself against the wall, so that he could see the figures as they passed, himself unseen. The steps drew near and nearer, and presently from the gloom the figures passed into the light. A man, wrapped in a cloak, with a broad sombrero drooping over his face, supported on his arm the form of a youth, who, clad in a closely buttoned frock-coat, trembled from weakness, or from the winter's cold. The face of the man was in shadow, but the light shone fully on the face of the youth as he passed by.

Tarleton, with great difficulty, suppressed an ejaculation and an oath.

For in that boy who leaned tremblingly upon the arm of the cloaked man, he recognized the Private Secretary of the merchant prince!

"Courage, my poor boy,"—Tarleton heard the cloaked man utter these words, as he passed by,—"it was a happy impulse which led me to leave my carriage, and walk along this street. I arrived just in time to save you; it is but a step to my carriage, and once in my carriage you will tell me all."

"O, sir, you will protect me,"—the voice of the youth was tremulous and broken,—"you will protect me from this man——"

And with these words they passed from the light into the gloom again.

Tarleton stood for a moment, as though nailed to the wall against which he leaned. He could not believe the evidence of his senses. That the boy, Gulian Van Huyden, the private secretary had left the mansion of the merchant prince, at this strange hour, and was now in the care of a man whom he, Tarleton, did not know; this fact was plain enough, but Tarleton could not believe it. He stood as though nailed to the wall, while the footsteps of the retreating figures resounded through the stillness. At length, with a violent effort, he recovered his presence of mind.

"I will follow them and reclaim my child!" he ejaculated, and gathering his cloak across the lower part of his face, hurried once more toward Broadway.

But as he discovered the distance between himself and the figures of the cloaked man and the youth, his purpose failed him, he knew not why,—he dared not address the man, much less seize the boy, Gulian,—but he still hung upon their back, watching their every movement, himself unobserved.

Meanwhile, a thousand vague suspicions and fears flitted through his mind.

At the head of Broadway, in the light of a lamp, stood a carriage, with a coachman in dark livery on the box. The horses, black as jet, stood, beating the pavement with their hoofs, and champing their bits impatiently.

The unknown paused beside this carriage, still supporting the boy, Gulian, on his arm.

"Felix," he said, in a low voice, addressing the coachman, who started up at the sound of his voice, "drive at once, and with all speed, to the house yonder,"—he pointed to the north.

"Yes, my lord," was the answer of the coachman.

"And you, poor boy," continued the unknown, thus addressed as "my lord," turning to young Gulian,—"enter, and be safe hereafter from all fear of persecution." He opened the carriage door, and Gulian entered, followed by the unknown.

And the next moment the sound of the wheels was heard, and the carriage passing Union Square and rolling away toward the north.

Tarleton, who had, unobserved, beheld this scene, started from the shadows and approached the lamp. He clenched his teeth in helpless rage.

"I saw his face for an instant, ere he entered the carriage, and as his cloak fell aside, I noticed the golden cross on his breast; and I neither like his cadaverous face, nor the golden cross. Why,—" he stamped angrily upon the pavement,—"why do I hate and fear this man whom I have never seen before?—'my lord!'—the cross on his breast,—perchance a dignitary of the Catholic Church! Ah! he will wring the secret from this weak and superstitious boy. All, all is lost!"

He was roused from this fit of despair and rage by the sound of carriage wheels. It was a hackney coach, returning homeward, the horses weary, and the driver lolling sleepily on the box.

Tarleton darted forward and stopped the horses.

"Do you want to earn five dollars for an hour's ride?" he said, "if so, strike up Broadway, and follow a dark carriage drawn by two black horses," and he mounted the box, and took his seat beside the coachman.

The latter gentleman waking up from his half slumber, and very wroth at the manner in which his horses had been stopped, and his box invaded, forthwith consigned Tarleton to a place which it is not needful to name, adding significantly,—

"An' if yer don't git down, I'll mash yer head,—if I don't,—" etc., etc.

"Pshaw! don't you know me?" cried Tarleton, lifting his cap,—"follow the carriage yonder, and I'll make it ten dollars for half an hour's ride."

"Why, it is the colonel!" responded the mollified hackman.—"My team is blowed, colonel, but you're a brick, and here goes! Up Broadway did you say?—let her rip!"

He applied the whip to his wearied horses, and away they dashed, passing Union Square, and entering upper Broadway.

"That the carriage, colonel?" asked the driver, as they heard the sound of wheels in front of them, "that concern as looks blacker than a stack of black cats?"

"It is. Follow it. Do not let the coachman know that we are in pursuit. Follow it carefully, and at a proper distance."

And the hackney coach followed the carriage of the unknown, until they passed from the shadows of the houses into the open country. Some four miles at least from the city hall, the carriage turned from one of the avenues, into a narrow lane, leading among the rocks, over a hill and down toward the North River.

The colonel jumped from the box.

"Wait for me here,—I'll not be long. Drive a little piece up the avenue, so that you will not be noticed, in case this carriage should return. Wait for me, I say,—for every hour I will give you ten dollars."

With these words he hurried up the hill, in pursuit of the retreating carriage. The ground was frosted and broken,—huge rocks blocked up the path on either hand, and on the hill-top stood a clump of leafless trees. Pausing beneath these trees, the colonel endeavored to discern the carriage through the darkness, but in vain. But he heard the sound of the wheels as they rolled over the hard ground in the valley below.

"It cannot go far. This lane terminates at the river, only two or three hundred yards away. Ah! I remember,—half-way between the hill and the river there is an old mansion which I noticed last summer, and which has not been occupied for years."

The sound of the wheels suddenly ceased. The colonel drew the cord of his cloak about his neck, so as to permit his arms full play. Then from one pocket of his overcoat he drew forth a revolver, and from the other a bowie-knife. Grasping a weapon firmly in each hand, he stealthily descended the hill, and on tip-toe approached the carriage, which had indeed halted in front of the old mansion.

The mansion, a strange and incongruous structure, built of stone, and brick, and wood, and enlarged from the original block house, which it had been two hundred years before, by the additions made by five or six generations, stood in a garden, apart from the road, its roofs swept by the leafless branches of gigantic forest-trees. In summer, quaint and incongruous as were the outlines of the huge edifice, it put on a beautiful look, for it was embowered in foliage, and its many roofs and walls of brick, and wood and stone, were hidden in a garment of vines and flowers. But now, in the blackness of this drear winter daybreak, it was black and desolate enough. Not a single light shed a cheerful ray, from any of the windows.

Gliding behind the trunk of a sycamore, the colonel heard the voice of the unknown man, as he conducted the boy, Gulian, from the carriage along the garden walk toward the hall door.

"Here you will be safe from all intrusion. I must return to the city at once, but I will be back early in the morning. Meanwhile, you can take a quiet sleep. You are not afraid to sleep in the old house, are you?"

"Oh, no, no,—afraid of nothing but his persecution," was the answer.

The colonel heard these words, and watched the figures of the unknown and Gulian, as they passed from the garden walk under the shadow of the porch, and into the hall door.

And then he waited,—O how earnestly and with what a tide of hopes, suspicions, fears!—for the re-appearance of the unknown!

Five minutes passed.

"The boy has not had time to confess the secret,"—the thought almost rose to the colonel's lips.—"If this unknown man returns to town, leaving Gulian here, all will yet be well."

The hall-door opened again, was locked, and the form of the unknown, in cloak and sombrero, once more appeared upon the garden walk.

"To town, Felix, as fast as you can drive. I must be back within two hours."

"Yes, my lord."

He entered the carriage,—it turned,—and the horses dashed up the narrow road at full speed.

"Two hours!" ejaculated Tarleton, as the sound of the wheels died away. "In two hours, 'my lord!' you will find the nest robbed of its bird."

Determined at all hazards to rescue the person of the boy, Gulian, and bear him from the old mansion, he opened the wicket gate, and, passing along the garden walk, approached the silent mansion. The wind sighed mournfully among the leafless branches, and not a single ray of light illumined the front of the gloomy pile.

The colonel passed under the porch, and tried the hall door; it was locked. With a half-muttered curse, he again emerged from the porch, and from the garden walk, once more surveyed the mansion.

Could he believe his eyes? From a narrow window, in the second story of the western wing, a ray of light stole out upon the gloom—stole out from an aperture in the window curtains—and trembled like a golden thread along the garden walk.

"The window is low,—the room is a part of the olden portion of the mansion,—that lattice work, intended for the vines, will bear my weight; one blow at the window-sash, and I am in the chamber!"

Thus reflecting, the colonel, ere he began to mount the lattice work, looked cautiously around and listened. All was dark; no sound was heard, save the low moan of the wind among the trees. Tarleton placed the revolver in one pocket, and buried the bowie-knife in its sheath. Then he began cautiously to ascend the lattice work, along which, in summer time, crept a green and flowering vine; it creaked beneath his weight, but did not break,—in a moment he was on a level with the narrow window. Resting his arms upon the deep window-sill, he placed his eye to the aperture in the curtains, and looked within.

He beheld a small room, with low ceiling, and wainscoted walls; a door, which evidently opened upon the corridor leading to the body of the mansion; a couch, with a canopy of faded tapestry; the floor of dark wood, uncarpeted, and its once polished surface thick with dust; a bureau of ebony, surmounted by an oval mirror in a frame of tarnished gilt. The light stood upon the bureau; and, in front of the light, an alabaster image of the crucified.

Before this image, with head bowed upon his clasped hands, knelt the boy, Gulian. The light shone upon his glossy hair, which fell to his shoulders, and over the outlines of his graceful shape. He was evidently absorbed in voiceless prayer.

Altogether, it was a singular—yes, a beautiful picture. But the Colonel had no time to waste on pictures, however beautiful.

He placed his arm against the sash—it yielded—and the colonel sprang through the window into the room.

Gulian heard the crash, and started up, and beheld the colonel standing near him, his arms folded on his breast, and his face stamped with a look of fiendish triumph.

"Oh, my God!" he ejaculated, and stood as if spell-bound by terror.

"You see it is all in vain," said the Colonel, showing his white teeth in a smile. "You cannot escape from me. You must do my will. Come, my child, we must be moving."

He placed Gulian's cap upon his chesnut curls, and pointed to the door.

The eyes of the poor youth were wild with affright. He evidently stood in mortal terror of Tarleton. His glance roved from side to side, and he ejaculated—

"In his power again; just as I thought myself forever safe from his persecution!"

"Answer me—where did you meet the man who brought you to this house?"

As he spoke, Tarleton seized the boy by the wrist.

"In the street; I had fainted on the sidewalk," was the answer, in a tremulous voice.

"And how came you in the street at such an unusual hour?"

"When you left Mr. Somers' house, you threatened to return to-morrow," answered Gulian, clasping his hands over his breast. "I was determined to avoid seeing you again, at all hazards. I left the house, and wandered forth, uncertain whither to direct my steps. Yes—oh yes! I had one purpose plainly in my mind,"—he smiled, and his eyes brightened up with a strange light,—"I resolved to bend my steps to the river."

"To the river?"

"Yes, to the river," answered the boy, with a singular smile: "for you know that if I was drowned, I would be safe from you forever."

"And you would become a—suicide!" said Tarleton, with a sneer; "you, so finely brought up! Have you no fear of the hereafter?"

Gulian's pale face lighted with a faint glow.—"There are some deeds which are worse than suicide," he answered quietly, yet with a significant glance. "It was to avoid the commission of one of these deeds, that, scarcely an hour ago, I left the house of Mr. Somers and bent my steps to the river."

"And you fainted, and this man came across you while you were insensible—eh? Who is he? and what was it that led him from his carriage, along the street where he found you?"

"An impulse, or presentiment, as he told me, which he could not resist, and which impressed him that he might save the life of a fellow-being. He left his carriage; he arrived before it was too late. In a little while I should have been frozen to death."

Again Tarleton seized the boy by the wrist; and his brow grew dark, his eyes fierce and threatening.

"And you confessed the secret to this man?" he exclaimed. "Nay, deny it not!" He tightened his grasp. "You did confess—did you not?"

"Oh, pity!—do not harm me!" and Gulian shrunk before Tarleton's gaze. "I did not confess the secret—indeed I did not."

"Swear you did not!"

"I swear I did not!"

"I will not believe you, unless you will place your hand upon this crucifix, and swear by the Savior, that you did not reveal the secret."

The boy placed his hand upon the alabaster image, and said solemnly, "By the name of the Savior, I swear that I did not reveal the secret of which you speak."

Tarleton burst into a laugh.

"I breathe freer!" he cried. "You are superstitious; and, with your hand upon an image like that, I know you cannot lie. The secret is safe, and all will yet be well. Come, we must go."

"Oh, you do not want me now!" cried Gulian, shrinking away from his grasp—"now that you are assured of the security of the secret?"

"Worse than ever, my boy," cried Tarleton, with a tone of mocking gayety. "I am positively starving to death for your company. To-day and to-morrow you must be with me all the time, and never for an instant quit my sight. After that you are free!"

The countenance of Gulian, in which a masculine vigor of thought was tempered by an almost woman-like roundness of outline and softness of expression, underwent a sudden and peculiar change.

"I will not go with you," he said, slowly and firmly, his eyes shining vividly, while his face was unnaturally pale.

"You will not go with me?" and Tarleton advanced with a scowling brow—"We'll see, we'll see,—"

"I will not go with you," repeated Gulian. "You call me superstitious. It may be superstition which makes my blood run cold with loathing, when you are near me; or it may be some voiceless warning from the dead, who, while in this life, were deeply injured by you. But it is not superstition which induces me to place my hand upon this crucifix, and tell you, that you cannot drag me from it, save at peril of your life. Ah, you sneer! The house is deserted:—true. The crucifix of frail alabaster:—true. But you are fairly warned. The moment that crucifix breaks, to you is one of peril."

Tarleton knew not what to make of the expression and words of the boy. At first there was something in the look of Gulian which touched him, against his will; but, as the closing words fell on his car, he burst into a laugh. "Come, child, we'll leave the house by the hall door," he said; and, as he passed an arm around Gulian's waist, he placed the other hand upon the door which led into the passage: "Nay, you need not cling to that bauble! Come! I'll endure this nonsense no longer—"

The alabaster image was crushed in the grasp of Gulian, as he was torn from it; and at the same instant the colonel opened the door.

Gulian, struggling in the grasp of Tarleton, clapped his hands twice, and cried aloud: "Cain! Cain!"

The next moment it seemed as though a crushing weight had bounded, or been hurled, against the colonel's back; he was dashed to the floor; he found himself struggling in the fangs of a huge dog, with short, shaggy hair, black as jet, short ears, and formidable jaws. As the dog uttered a low growl, his teeth sank deep into the back of Tarleton's neck, and Tarleton uttered a groan of intolerable agony. Tarleton was dragged along the floor, by the ferocious beast, which raised him by the neck, and then dashed him to the floor again; treating him as the tiger treats the prey which he is about to strangle and kill.

Cain was indeed a ferocious beast. He had accompanied the unknown over half the globe; and was obedient to his slightest sign; defending those whom he wished defended, and attacking those whom he wished attacked. Before leaving the mansion, the unknown had placed Cain before the door of Gulian's room, and given Gulian into its charge. "Guard him, Cain! obey him, Cain!" And, as Tarleton opened the door, at a sign and a word from Gulian, the dog proved faithful to his master's bidding. In the grasp of this formidable animal, Tarleton now found himself writhing—his blood spurting over the floor, as he was dragged along.

As Gulian beheld this scene, and heard the cries of Tarleton mingling with the low growl of the dog, his heart relented. He forgot all that Tarleton had made him suffer.

"Cain! Cain!—here, Cain!—here!" he cried; but in vain. Cain had tasted blood. His teeth twined deep in his victim's neck; and his jaws reddened with Tarleton's blood; he did not hear the voice of Gulian.

It was a terrible moment for Tarleton. Uttering frightful imprecations between his howls of pain, he made a last and desperate effort—an effort strengthened by despair and by pain, which seemed as the pang of death,—he turned, even as the teeth of the dog were in his neck; he clenched the infuriated animal by the throat. Then took place a brief but horrible contest, in which the dog and the man rolled over each other, the man clutching, as with a death-grasp, the throat of the dog, and the dog burying his teeth in the man's shoulder.

Gulian could bear the sight no longer; he sank, half fainting, against the bureau, and hid his eyes from the light.

Presently, the uproar of the combat—the growl of the dog, and the cries of Tarleton—were succeeded by a dead stillness.

Gulian raised his eyes.

Tarleton stood in the center of the room, his face and white coat bathed in blood—his bowie-knife, also dripping with blood, held aloft in his right hand. He presented a frightful spectacle. His coat was rent over the right shoulder, and his mangled flesh was discernible. And that face, whose death-like pallor was streaked with blood, bore an expression of anguish and of madness, which chilled Gulian's heart but to behold.

At his feet was stretched the huge carcass of the dog. The gash across his throat, from which the blood was streaming over the floor, had been inflicted by the hand of the colonel, in the extremest moment of his despair. Cain had fought his last battle. As Tarleton shook the bloody knife over his head, the brave old dog uttered his last moan and died.

"It will not do, my child—it will not do," and Tarleton burst into a loud and unnatural laugh. "You must go with me! With me; alive or dead." He rushed towards Gulian, brandishing the knife. "Oh, you d——d wretch! do you know that I've a notion to cut you into pieces, limb by limb?"

"Mercy! mercy!" shrieked the boy, falling on his knees, as that face, dabbled in blood, and writhing, as with madness, in every feature, glowered over him.

But Tarleton did not strike. He placed his hand upon his forehead, and made a desperate effort to recall his shattered senses. Suffering intolerable physical agony, he was yet firm in the purpose which had led him to the old mansion.

"If I can get this boy to the carriage, all will yet be well!" he muttered. "I'll faint soon from loss of blood; but not until this boy is in my power. Brain, do not fail me now!"

He dropped the bloody knife upon the carcass of the dog; and, taking a handkerchief from his pocket, he bound it tightly around his throat. Then, lifting his cloak from the floor, he wound it about him, and writhed with pain, as it touched the wound on his shoulder.

"Now will you go with me alive, or dead?" He lifted the knife again, and advanced to Gulian. "Take your choice. If your choice is life,"—he could not refrain a cry of pain—"take the light and go on before me!"

Trembling in every limb, his gaze riveted to the face of Tarleton, Gulian took the light, and crossed the threshold of the room. Tarleton followed him with measured step, still clutching the knife in his right hand.

"On—on!" muttered Tarleton; "attempt to escape, and I strike,—on—," and he reeled like a drunken man, and fell insensible at Gulian's feet.

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[CHAPTER II.]

RANDOLPH AND HIS BROTHER.

The hour of dawn drew near, Randolph was in his own chamber, seated by his bed, watching the face of the sleeper, who was slumbering there.

A singular look passed over Randolph's visage, as he held the candle over the sleeper's face,—a look hard to define or analyze, for it seemed to indicate a struggle between widely different emotions. There was compassion and revenge, brotherly love and mortal hatred in that look.

For the sleeper was Harry Royalton, of Hill Royal.

The candle burned near and nearer to its socket,—the morning light began to mingle with its fading rays,—and still Harry slept on, and still Randolph watched, his eyes fixed on his brother's visage, and his own face disturbed by opposing emotions.

It was near morning when Harry woke.

"Hey! halloo! what's this?" he cried, starting up in the bed, and surveying the spacious apartment,—strange to him,—with a vacant stare. "Where am I?"

His gaze fell upon Randolph, who was seated by the bed.

"You here?" and his countenance fell.—"What in the devil does all this mean?"

Randolph did not reply. There was a slight trembling of his nether lip, and his eyes grew brighter as he fixed his gaze on his brother's face.

"Where's my coat?" cried Harry, surveying his shirt sleeves, "and my cravat,"—he passed his hands over his muscular throat,—"and—you,—what in the devil are you doing here?"

Randolph, still keeping his gaze on his brother's face, said in a low voice,—"I am in my own house, brother."

"Your house?" ejaculated Harry, and then burst into a laugh,—"come, now,—don't,—that's too good."

"My own house, to which I brought you some hours ago, after I had rescued you from the persons in the cellar——"

"Rescued me?" and an incredulous smile passed over Harry's face as he pulled at his bushy whiskers. "Better yet,—ha! ha!—You don't think to stuff me with any such damned nonsense?"

Randolph grew paler, but his eye flashed with deeper light.

"Brother, I did rescue you," he said, in the same low voice, as he bent forward.—"As we were about to engage in conflict, you fell like a dead man on the floor. I took you in my arms; I defended you from the negroes who were clamorous for your blood; I bore you to upper air, and I, brother, then brought you in a carriage to my home; and I laid you on my bed, brother; and when you awoke from your swoon,—awoke with the ravings of delirium on your tongue,—I soothed you, until you fell in a sound sleep. This is the simple truth, brother."

Harry grew red in the face, then pale,—bit his lip,—pulled his whiskers, and then without turning his head, regarded Randolph with a sidelong glance. To tell the simple truth, Harry did not know what to say. He felt a swelling of the heart, a warmth in his veins, as though the magnetic gaze of Randolph had influenced him even against his will.

"You did all this?"—there was a faint tremor in his voice.

"I did, brother,"—Randolph's voice was deep and earnest.

"Why,—why,—did not you kill me, when you had me in your power?"

"Brother, the blood of John Augustus Royalton flows in my veins, and it is not like a Royalton to strike a fallen foe."

"And you could have put poison in my drink," hesitated Harry, impressed against his will by the manner of his brother.

"I never heard of a Royalton who became a poisoner."

"A Royalton? and you call yourself a Royalton?" said Harry, still regarding his brother with a sidelong gaze.

Randolph bit his lip, and folded his arms upon his chest, as if to choke down the strong emotions which were struggling within him. He did not reply.

"I suppose I am your prisoner?" asked Harry, intently regarding Randolph's face. "You can keep me secluded until the twenty-fifth of December has passed. Is that the dodge?"

"Brother, the door is open, and the way is free, whenever you wish to leave this house," was Randolph's calm reply.

"Well, if I can make you out, may I be ——!" cried Harry, and the next moment uttered a groan of agony, for his back was very painful. "Why did you not take me to my hotel?" he said, in a peevish, impatient tone.

"You forget that I did not know the name of your hotel," replied Randolph, "and beside, what place so fitting for a sick man as his brother's home?"

Harry grew red in the face, and then burst into a laugh.—"We've been such good brothers to each other!"

The thought which had been working at Randolph's heart for hours, now found utterance in words,—

"Brother, O, brother! why can we not indeed be brothers?" his eyes flashed, his voice was deep and impassioned. "Children of one father, let us forget the past; let us bury all bitter memories, all feelings of hatred,—let us forget, forgive, and be as brothers to each other. Harry Royalton, my brother, there is my hand."

He rose,—his chest heaving, his eyes dimmed by tears,—and reached forth his hand.

Harry, completely overwhelmed by this unexpected appeal, reached forth his hand, but drew it back again.

"No," he cried, as his face was flushed,—"not with a nigger." The contempt, the scorn, the rage which convulsed his face, as he said these words, cannot be depicted.

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[CHAPTER III.]

THE HUSBAND AND THE PROFLIGATE.

The boat was upon the river, borne onward over the wintery waves and through the floating ice, by the strong arms of two sturdy oarsmen.

Behind, like a huge black wall, was the city, a faint line of light separating its roofs from the bleak sky. Around were the waves, loaded with piles of floating ice, which crashed together with incessant uproar; and through the gloom the boat drove onward, bearing one man, perchance two men, to certain death.

Eugene and Robert, muffled in their cloaks, sat side by side on the stern; Beverly and his friend, the major, also muffled in their cloaks, sat side by side in the bow.

Eugene had drawn his cloak over his face as if to hide even from the faint light, the agony which was gnawing at his heart-strings.

"In case anything should happen," whispered Robert, "have you any message to send to her?"

"None," was the reply, uttered in a choking voice.

"Damn her!" said Robert, between his teeth.

Meanwhile, in the bow of the boat, Beverly, shuddering within his thick cloak, not so much from cold as from a mental cause, said to his friend, the major,—

"No way to get out o' this, I suppose, major?"

"None," said the major.

"I'd give a horse for a mouthful of good brandy——"

"Here it is," and the major drew a wicker flask from the folds of his cloak. "I always carry a pocket-pistol; touch her light."

It may be that Beverly "touched her light," but he held the flask to his mouth for a long time, and did not return it to the major until its contents were considerably diminished.

"A cursed scrape," he muttered. "If anything happens, what'll become of my daughter?" It seems he had a motherless child,—"and then there's the Van Huyden estate. If he wings me, all my hope of that is gone,—of course it is."

At length the broad river was crossed, and the oarsmen ran the boat into a sheltered cove, some three miles above Hoboken.

The first glimpse of the coming morn stole over the broad river, the distant city, and the magnificent bay.

"Wait for us,—you know what I told you?" said Robert to the oarsmen, who were stout fellows, in rough overcoats, and tarpaulin hats.

"Ay, ay sir," they responded in a breath.

"Major, you lead the way," said Robert, "up the heights we'll find a quiet place."

The Major took Beverly by the arm, and began to climb the steep ascent, over wildly scattered rocks, and among leafless trees.

They were followed by Robert and Eugene arm in arm.

After much difficult wayfaring, they reached the summit of the heights, just in time to catch the first ray of the rising sun, as it shot upward, among the leaden clouds of the eastern horizon.

All at once the steeples of the city caught the glow, and the distant day blushed scarlet and gold on every wave.

Among the heights,—may be some three miles above Hoboken,—there is a quiet nook, imbosomed, in the summer time, in foliage, and opening to the south-east, in a view of the Empire City, and Manhattan Bay. A place as level as a floor, bounded on all sides save one, by oak, and chestnut and cedar, with great rocks piled like monuments of a long passed age, among the massive trunks. It is green in summer time, with a carpet-like sward, and then the tree branches are woven together by fragrant vines; there are flowers about the rocks and around the roots of the old trees,—a balmy, drowsy atmosphere of June pervades the place. And looking to the east, or south-east, you see the broad river dotted with snowy sails, the great city, with its steeples glittering in the light, and with the calm, clear, vast Heaven arching overhead. The Bay gleams in the distance, white with sails, or shadowed here and there by the steamer's cloud of smoke, and far away Staten Island closes the horizon like a wall. Standing by one of these huge rocks, encircled by the trees, and steeped in the quiet of the place, you gaze upon the distant city, like one contemplating a far off battle-field, in which millions are engaged, and the fate of empires is the stake. A sadder battle-field, sun never shone upon, than the Empire City, in which millions are battling every moment of the hour, and battling all life long for fame, for wealth, for bread, for life. Sometimes the quiet nook rings with the laugh of happy children, who come here to stretch themselves upon the grass, and gather flowers among the rocks, and around the nooks of the grand old trees.

Far different is the scene on this drear winter morning. The trees are leafless; they raise their skeleton arms against the cold bleak sky. The rocks, no longer clad in vines and flowers, are grim and bare, with crowns of snow upon their summits. The glade itself, no longer clad with velvet-like sward, is faded and brown. The rising sun trembles through the leafless trees, invests the rocks with a faint glow of rosy light, and falls along the brown surface of the glade, investing it for a moment with a cheerful gleam.

And in the light of the rising sun, in sight of river, city, and distant bay, two men stand ready for the work of death.

The ground is measured; the seconds stand apart; before the fatal word is given, the combatants survey each other.

Eugene, with bared head, stands on the north, his slender form enveloped in a closely buttoned frock-coat. He is lividly pale, but the hand which grasps the pistol does not tremble. Notwithstanding the bitter cold, there is moisture on his forehead; the fire which burns in his eyes, tells you that his emotion is anything but fear. One glance toward the city,—one thought perhaps of other days,—and he is ready.

Opposite, in the south, his hat drawn over his flaxen curls, his tall form enveloped in a close fitting frock-coat, Beverly with an uncertain eye and trembling hand, is nerving himself for the fatal moment. He is afraid. As he catches a glimpse of the face of Eugene, his heart dies within him. All color has forsook his usually florid face.

"Gentlemen, you will fire when I give the word,—" cries Major Barton from the background of withered shrubbery. "Are you ready?"

But at this moment the voice of Beverly is heard—"Eugene! Eugene!" he cries, and starts forward, rapidly diminishing the ten paces, which lie between them—"Eugene! Eugene! my friend—can I make no apology, no reparation—"

Both Robert and the Major, saw Eugene's face, as he turned toward the seducer. The sun, which had been obscured by a passing cloud, shone out again, and shone full upon the face of Eugene. The look which stamped every line of that bronzed visage, was never forgotten by those who beheld it. O, the withering scorn of the lip, the concentrated hatred of the dark eyes, the utter loathing which impressed every lineament!

"Friend!" he echoed, as for a moment he looked Beverly in the face—and then turning to Barton, he said quietly: "Major take your man away. If he is a coward as well as a scoundrel, let us know it."

The look appalled Beverly; he receded step by step, unable to take his eyes from Eugene's face;—

"Be a man, curse you," whispered Barton who had glided to his side—"D'ye hear?" and he clutched him by the arm, with a grasp, that made Beverly writhe with pain—"Take your place, and fire as I give the word."

In a moment, Beverly was in his place, his right hand grasping his pistol, dropped by his side, which was presented toward Eugene, who, ten paces off, stood in a corresponding position.

Barton retired to the background, taking his place beside Robert. "Gentlemen, I am about to give the word!" said Barton, and then there was a pause like death,—"One—two—three! Fire!"

They wheeled and fired, Eugene with a fixed and decided aim; Beverly with eyes swimming in terror, and hand trembling with fright. The smoke of the pistols curled gracefully through the wintery air. Beverly stumbled as he fired, and fell on one knee; Eugene stood bolt upright for a moment, the pistol in his extended hand, and then fell flat upon his face.

Eugene's bullet sank into the cedar tree, directly behind where Beverly's head had been, only a moment before. Beverly was uninjured. No doubt the false step which he had made in wheeling had saved his life.

Eugene lay flat upon his face, the pistol still clutched in his extended hand.

The brother of Joanna rushed forward and raised him to his feet,—there was a red wound between his eyes,—he was dead.

The husband had been killed by the seducer of his wife.

Behold the justice of the Law of Duel!

"The damned fool," was the commentary of the phlegmatic Robert, as with tears gushing from his eyes, he held the body of the dead husband, and at the same time regarded Beverly, who pale with fright, cringed against a tree,—"If he'd a-taken my advice, he'd a-killed you like a dog, last night. He'd a-pitched you from the third story window,—he would,—and mashed your brains out against the pavement."

The sun came out from behind a cloud, and lighted the face of Eugene Livingston, with the red wound between his fixed eyeballs.

---

[CHAPTER IV.]

ISRAEL AND HIS VICTIM.

Israel Yorke left the Temple, accompanied by Ninety-One and followed by the eleven. Israel, clad once more in his every-day practical dress, with his hat drawn over his bald head, and his diminutive form enveloped in a loose sack of dark cloth, looked like a dwarf beside the almost gigantic frame of Ninety-One. Yet Ninety-One, with creditable politeness, gave his arm to the Financier, and urged him onward in the darkness, toward Broadway, something in the manner that you may have seen a very willing boy, assist the progress of a very unwilling dog,—the boy's hand being attached to one end of a string, and the dog's neck to the other. And Ninety-One cheered Israel with various remarks of a consolatory character, such as, "go in gold specks! let her went my darlin'! don't give it up so easy!—" and so-forth.

"It's so dark, and I'm so devilish cold," whined Israel, in vain endeavoring to keep pace with the giant strides of his huge companion,—"Where the deuce are we going anyhow?"

"Come along feller sinners," said Ninety-One, looking over his shoulders at the eleven who followed sturdily in the rear. The eleven did not deign to express themselves in words, but manifested some portion of their feelings, by bringing their clubs upon the pavement, with something of the force of thunder, and more of the wickedness of a suddenly slammed door. "Where are we leadin' you to? To one of yer tenants, Isr'el,—one of yer tenants, you pertikler example of all the christ'in vartues,—"

"To one of my tenants!" echoed Israel.

"To one of yer tenants," repeated Ninety-One, and he crossed a curb as he spoke, and gave Israel's arm a wrench which nearly tore the arm from Israel's body.—"You know you've got to pay cash for your bank notes to-day, an' you'll need all the money you can rake and scrape. To-day's rent day,—isn't it? Well we're goin' on a collectin' tower among yer tenants. Ain't we feller sinners?"

He turned his head over his shoulder, and again the clubs thundered their applause.

"I'll be deuced if I can make you out," said Israel arranging his 'specks,' which had been displaced by one of the eccentric movements of Ninety-One,—and Israel felt very much like the man who, finding himself late at night, very unexpectedly in the same bed-room with a bear, desired exceedingly to get out of the room, but thought it no more than proper to be civil to the bear until he did get out.

"Don't you own a four story house in —— street?" asked Ninety-One.

"I do. Four stories,—two to four rooms on a floor,—besides the cellar and the garret,—a fine property,—and, to-day is rent day—"

"You stow 'em away like maggots in a stale cheese,—do you?" and Ninety-One stopped, and regarded the little man admiringly,—added in an under tone, "Moses! How I'd like to have the picklin' of you!"

Thus conversing, they entered Broadway, along which they passed for some distance, and at last turned down a by-street, the eleven following them closely all the while.

They stood in front of a huge edifice, four stories high, formerly the residence of a Wall street nabob, but now the abode of,—we are afraid to say how many families. The basement was, of course, occupied as a manufactory of New York politics,—in simple phrase, it was a grog-shop; and although the hour was exceedingly late, its door was wide open, and the sound of drunken voices and the fragrance of bad rum, ascended together upon the frosty air. Save the basement, the entire front of the mansion was dark as ink; the poor wretches who burrowed in its many rooms, were doubtless sleeping after the toil of the winter's day.

"In the fourth story you have a tenant named —— ——?" whispered Ninety-One.

"Yes; a poor devil," responded Israel Yorke.

"Let's go up an' see the poor devil," said Ninety-One, and grasping Israel firmly by the arm, he passed through the front door and up the narrow stairway.

The eleven followed in silence, supporting Israel firmly in the rear.

As they reached the head of the fourth stairway, Ninety-One put forth his brawny hand, and,—in the darkness,—felt along the wall.

"Here's the door," he whispered, "in a minnit we'll bust in upon your tenant like a thousand o' brick."

Israel felt himself devoured by curiosity, suspense, and fear.

As for the eleven gathering around Israel closely in the darkness, they preserved a dead silence, only broken for a moment by the exclamation of one of their number,—"What a treat it 'ud be to pitch this here cuss down stairs!"

"Hush, boys! hark!" said Ninety-One, and laid his hand upon the latch of the door.

Before we enter the door and gaze upon the scene which Ninety-One disclosed to the gaze of Israel Yorke, our history must retrace its steps.

It was nightfall, and the light of the lamps glittering among the leafless trees of the Park, mingled with the last flush of the departed day, and the mild, tremulous rays of the first stars of evening. At the corner of Broadway and Chambers street, two young men held each other by the hand, as they talked together. The contrast between their faces and general appearance was most remarkable, even for this world of contrasts. One tall in stature, with florid cheeks, and blue eyes glittering with life and hope, was the very picture of health. He was dressed at the top of the fashion. A sleekly-brushed beaver sat jauntily upon his chesnut curls; an overcoat of fine gray cloth fitted closely to his vigorous frame, and by its rolling collar, suffered his blue scarf and diamond pin to be visible; his hands were gloved, and he carried a delicate cane, adorned with a head of amber; and his voice and laugh rung out so cheerily upon the frosty air!

The other,—alas! for the contrast,—dressed in a long overcoat of faded brown cloth, resembled a living skeleton. His face was terribly emaciated; his cheeks sunken; his eyes hollow. His voice was low and husky. As he spoke, his eyes lighted up like fire-coals, and seemed to burn in his sallow and withered face. His hair, black as jet, and straight and long, only made his countenance seem more pale and death-like. He was evidently in the last stage of consumption, and his dress, neat as it was,—the faded brown coat, and much-worn hat carefully brushed,—betokened poverty, and the saddest poverty of all,—that which tries, and vainly, to hide itself under a "decent" exterior.

And thus they met, at the corner of Chambers street and Broadway, Lewis Harding, the rich broker and man of fashion, and John Martin, the poor artist and—dying man. They had been playmates and school-fellows in other years. Five years ago, they left the academy, in a country town, to try their fortunes in the world; both orphans, both young, both full of life and hope, and—poor. Harding had taken the world as he found it, adopted its philosophy,—"Success is the only test of merit,"—and became a rich broker and a man of fashion. John Martin had taken the world as it ought to have been,—believed in the goodness of mankind, and in the certainty of honest success following honest labor—of hand and brain,—steadily devoted to the elevation of man. He became an artist, and,—we see him before us now.

"Why, Jack, my dear fellow, what are you doing out in the cold air?" said Harding, in his kindly voice. "You ought to be more careful of yourself,——"

"I am out in the cold air, because I cannot breathe freely in the house," answered the artist, with a smile on his cadaverous lips.

"But you have no cough,—you'll be better in spring."

"True, I have no cough, but the doctor informed me to-day that my right lung was entirely gone, and my left hard after it; the simple truth is, I am wasting to death; and I hate the idea of dying in bed. I want to keep on my feet,—I want to keep in the air,—I want to die on my feet."

Harding had rapidly grown into a man of the world, but somehow the tears started into his eyes.

"But you must keep up your spirits, Jack,—in the spring you will be——"

"In my grave, Harding; there's no use of lying about it."

And his eyes flared up, and a bitter smile moved his lips.

"O, how's the wife and children?" said Harding; as though anxious to change the conversation.

"They are well," said John, and a singular look passed over his face.

"And your sister?"

"Eleanor is well,"—and the vivid brightness of his eyes was for a moment vailed in moisture.

"O, by-the-bye, I met Nelly the other day," said Harding. "Bless my soul! what a handsome little girl she has grown! It was in a store where they sell embroidered work. I was pricing a set of regalia,—thirty dollars they said was the price,—and little Nell had worked on it about three weeks for five dollars. Great world, Jack!"

"Good night, Harding," said the artist, quietly.

"But let me accompany you home,——"

"I'd rather you would not. Good night, Harding."

"But God bless you, John, can't I do anything for you?"

"Why, why after I am dead,"—and the words seemed to stick in his throat,—"after I am dead,—my wife,—my sister,——" he could say no more.

"I swear that I will protect them," said Harding, warmly. John quietly pressed his hand, and turned his face away. After a moment they parted, Harding down Broadway on his way to the theater, and John up Broadway, on his way home. And Harding gazed after John for a moment,—"I'm glad he didn't want to borrow money! Nell is quite a beauty!"

Walking slowly, and pausing every now and then to breathe, John gazed in the bright shop-windows, and into the contrasted faces of the hurrying crowd as he passed along.

"Soon this will be all over for me," he muttered, with a husky laugh. "I'm afraid, friend John, that you are taking your last walk."

An arm was gently thrust through his own, and a voice light and trilling as the notes of a bird, said quietly,—

"I'm so glad I've caught up with you John,"—and he leaned upon that gentle arm, and turned to look upon the face of the speaker. It was his sister Eleanor, a very pretty child of some fourteen years, dressed in a faded cloak, and with a hood on her dark hair. Her complexion was a rich brown, tinged with red in the cheeks; her eyes, brows and hair, all black as midnight. And by turns, over that face, in which the woman began to mingle with the child, there flitted a look of the brightest joyousness, and an expression of the most touching melancholy.

"I've just been taking my work home, John. They paid me half a dollar for what I have done this week, (and that, you know, John, will keep us in bread and coal to-morrow,) and O, I am so glad you've got eight dollars saved for the rent. I am so glad! The rent is due to-morrow, and the landlord is such a hard man."

"Yes, I have eight dollars," John said, and there was an indefinable accent marking every word. "Yes, Nelly, dear, I have eight dollars."

"John, do tell me, who are those good ladies who pass us every moment, dressed so richly,—all in velvet, and satin, and jewels; who are they, John?"

John stopped,—bent upon his cane,—looked for a moment upon the crowd which whirled past him,—and then into the happy, innocent face of his sister. And then his shrunken chest heaved with a sigh. "O God!" he said, in a low voice.

"Who are they, John,—do tell me,—they must be very, O, ever so rich."

"Those handsome ladies, dressed so gaudily, Nelly, are sisters and daughters. Once they had brothers and fathers who protected them, and now their fathers and brothers are dead. The world takes care of them now, Nelly."

The poor girl heard his words, but did not guess their hidden meaning. Still supporting her brother on her arm, she continued,—

"Do you know, John, that your handsome friend, Mr. Harding, met me in the store the other day, and said he took such an interest in me, and that if I chose I might be dressed as rich and gayly as these grand ladies, who pass us every moment."

John started as though he had trodden upon a snake. "And only a moment ago he promised to protect her when I am gone," he muttered,—"Protection!"

And thus they passed along until turning into a by-street, they came near their home, which was composed of a single room, up four pairs of stairs, in a four-storied edifice. At the street door they were met by a young woman, plainly,—meagerly clad, but with a finely-rounded form, and a countenance, rich, not only in loveliness, but in all the goodness of womanly affection. It was the artist's wife.

"O, John, I have been so anxious about you," she said, and took him by the arm; and while Nelly held the other, she gently led him through the doorway and up the dark stairs. "Why will you go out when it is so cold?"

"I want air, Annie, air," he returned in his hollow voice,—"and I will die on my feet."

And the wife and sister helped the dying artist gently up the stairs; gently, slowly, step by step, and led him at last over the threshold, into that room which was their home.

About an hour afterward, John was seated in an arm-chair, in the center of that home, whose poverty was concealed as much as might be, by the careful exertions of his wife and sister. In the arm-chair, his death-like face looking ghastly in the candle-light,—his wife, a woman of blonde countenance, blue eyes, and chesnut-hair, on one side; his sister, with her dark hair, and clear, deep eyes, on the other; each holding a hand of the husband and the brother. A boy of four years, sat on a stool, looking up quietly with his big eyes into his father's face; and near, a little girl of three years, who took her brother by the hand, and also looked in the face of the dying artist. Very beautiful children; plainly clad, it is true, but beautiful; the girl with light hair and blue eyes, reflecting the mother, while the boy, dark-haired and black-eyed, was the image of the father.

The table, spread with the remains of the scanty meal, stood near; the grate was filled with lighted coals; a bed with a carefully patched coverlet stood in one corner; between the two windows was placed an old-fashioned bureau; and two pictures adorned the neatly whitewashed walls.

Such was the picture, and such the artist's home.

The stillness which had prevailed since supper, was at length broken by the voice of John.

"Annie, I'll leave you soon," he said, quietly, and his eyes lighted up.—"O, wouldn't it be a good thing if we could all die together! To die, I do not fear, but to leave you all,—and in such a world! O, my God! such a world!"

Annie buried her face in her hands, and rested her hands against the arm of the chair. Nelly, her large eyes brimful of tears, quietly put his hand to her lips. And the little boy, in his childish way, asked what "to die" meant.

"Bring me that picture, Nelly,"—he pointed to a picture on the wall. She went and brought it quietly. "Now let down the window a little, for I feel the want of air, and come and sit by me again."

He took the picture and gazed upon it earnestly and long. It was a picture of himself, in the prime of young manhood, the cheeks rounded, the eyes full of hope, the brow, shaded by glossy black hair, stamped with genius. A picture taken only sixteen months before.

"Only sixteen months ago, Nelly," he said. "Only sixteen months ago, Annie; and now—well, there's a crayon sketch on the bureau, which I took of myself the other day, as I looked in the glass. Bring it, Nelly."

His sister brought the crayon sketch; and, with a sad smile, he held it beside the other picture. It was all too faithful. His prominent cheek bones, hollow cheeks, colorless lips, and sunken eyes, all were copied there; only the deathly fire of the eyes was lacking.

"A sad contrast, isn't it, Annie? When this picture was taken, sixteen months ago, we were all doing well. My pictures sold; some lithographs which I executed, met also with ready sale. I had as much as I could do, and everything was bright before me. I even thought of a tour to Italy! Don't you remember our nice little cottage out in the country, Nell? But I was taken sick—sick;—I couldn't work any longer. Our money was soon spent; and you, Annie, made shirts; and you, Nelly, you embroidered; and that kept us thus far—and—," he stopped, and gazed upon his wife and sister, who were weeping silently: and then upon his children. "And now I must go and leave you in this world.—Oh, my God! such a world!"

"Don't think of us, John," said his wife. "If you could only live,—"

"Oh, you will—you will get better, as the spring comes on," exclaimed Nelly; "and we'll go into the country, on the first sunny day, and gather flowers there."

John drew forth from his vest pocket certain pieces of paper, which he spread forth upon his knee. Bank notes, each marked with the figure 2, and signed by the name of Israel Yorke, (a prominent banker of the bogus stamp,) in a bold hand. There were four in all.

"This is the eight dollars, Annie, which I saved to pay our rent," said the artist.

The wife and sister gazed upon the bank notes earnestly—for those bank notes were their last hope. Those bank notes were "rent money;" and of all money on the earth of God, none is so bitterly earned by Poverty, nor so pitilessly torn from its grasp by the hand of Avarice, as "rent money."

"Well,—well;"—and John paused, as if the words choked him. "These notes are not worth one penny. All of Israel Yorke's banks broke to-day."

There was not a word spoken for five minutes, or more. This news went like an ice-bolt through the hearts of the wife and sister.

"And to-morrow we'll be put into the street by this same Israel Yorke, who is also our landlord;" said John, breaking the long pause. "Put the window a little lower, Nelly—it feels close—I want air."

Nelly obeyed; and resumed her seat at her brother's face, which now glowed on the cheeks and shone in the eyes with an expression which she could not define.

"Oh, wouldn't it be good, Annie—would not it be glorious, Nelly—if I could gather you all up in my arms and take you with me, whither I am going?" he said, with a sort of rapture, looking from his children to his wife and sister. And then, in a gentler tone: "Kneel down, Nelly, and say a prayer, and ask God to forgive us all our sins—all, remember,—and to smooth the way for us, so that we may all go to Him."

Neither Nelly nor Annie remarked the singular emphasis which accompanied these words.

Nelly knelt in their midst, and prayed.

As she uttered that simple and child-like prayer, John fixed his eyes upon her face, and muttered, "And so he took a great interest in you, and would dress you gayly, would he?"

Then he said, aloud, in a kind of wild and wandering way—"Now we've had our last supper, and our last prayer. It will soon be time for us to go. Call me, love, in time for the cars."

He paused, and raised his hand to his forehead,—

"Don't cry, Annie; my mind wanders a little—that's all. I want rest. I'll take a little sleep in the chair, and you and Nelly, and the children, lay down in the bed. And let me kiss the children, and do you all kiss me—"

The young mother lifted the little boy and girl, and they pressed their kiss upon the lips of the dying man. Then the wife and the sister; their tears mingling on his face, as their lips were pressed by turns to his lips and brow.

"Come, Nelly," whispered the wife, "we'll lay down, but we will not sleep. He will take a little rest if he thinks we are sleeping."

Presently the sister and the wife, with the children near them, were resting on the bed, their hands silently joined. They conversed in low tones, while the children fell gently asleep. But gradually their conversation died away in inarticulate whispers; and they also slept.

And the artist—did he sleep? By no means. Sitting erect in his arm-chair, his back toward the bed, and his eyes every instant glittering bright and brighter, he listened intently to the low whispers of his wife and sister. "At last they sleep!" he cried, as the sound of their calm, regular breathing struck his ears. "They sleep—they sleep! They sleep—wife, sister, children; Annie, Nelly, little John, and little Annie,—they all sleep."

And he burst into tears.

But his death-stricken face was radiant through his tears:—radiant with intense joy.

John sat silently contemplating a small image of white marble, which he had taken from one of the drawers of the bureau. It represented the Master on the cross.

"Better go to God, and trust him, than trust to the mercy of man," he frequently murmured.

After much silent thought he rose, and, from beneath the bureau drew forth two objects into the light—a sack and a small plaster furnace. He placed the furnace in the center of the floor, and half filled it with lighted coals from the grate. Then he poured the contents of the sack upon the burning coals; his hands trembling, and his eyes, fiery as they were, suddenly dimmed by moisture.

"Charcoal, good charcoal—such a blessing to the poor! Nelly didn't know what a blessing it was, when I sent her for it this afternoon—that is, yesterday afternoon. It takes fire—it burns—such a mild, rich blue flame! Opium and charcoal are the poor man's best friends. They cost so little, and they save one from so much,"—as he knelt on the floor, he cast his gaze over his shoulder toward the bed—"so very much! They will save us all from so much!"

Nelly murmured in her sleep, and rose in bed, and, opening her eyes, gazed at her brother, kneeling by the lighted furnace, with a wild dreamy stare. Then she lay down and slept again.

The charcoal burned brightly, its pale blue flame casting a spectral glow over the face of the kneeling man, so haggard and death-stricken. The noxious gas began to fill the room. John rose and went, with unsteady steps to the window, and eagerly inhaled the fresh air. Resting his arms upon the sash, he felt the cold air upon his cheek, and looked out and upward,—there was the dark blue sky set with stars.

"In which of them, I wonder, will we all meet again?" he said, in a wandering way. Then he tottered from the window to the bed. The air was stifling. He breathed only in gasps.

By the bed again, gazing upon them all,—wife, sister, children,—so beautiful in their slumber.

And they began to move restlessly in their sleep, and mutter half-coherent words, and—"In the spring time, John, we'll gather flowers," said Nelly; "You'll be better soon, John," whispered the wife; and all was still again.

Back to the window, with unsteady steps, to inhale another mouthful of fresh air—to take another look at the cold, cold winter stars.

Brighter burns the charcoal; the pale blue flame hovers there, in the center of the room like an infernal halo. And there is Death in the air.

Breathing in gasps, John tottered from the window again. He took the image in one hand, the candle in the other; and thus, on tip-toe, he approached the bed.

A very beautiful sight. Little John and little Annie sleeping side by side, a glow upon their cheeks,—Nelly and Annie sleeping hand joined in hand; their beautiful faces invested with a smile that was all quietness and peace. They did not murmur in their sleep this time.

John's eyes glared strangely as he stood gazing upon them. "And did you think, Annie," he said softly, putting his hand upon her head, "that I'd leave you in this world, to work and to slave, and to rear our children up to work and to slave, and eat the bitter bread of poverty? And you, Nelly, did you think I'd leave you to slave here, until your soul was sick; and then, some day, when work failed, and starvation looked in at the window, to sell yourself to some rich scoundrel for bread? No, wife—no, sister—no, children: I have gathered you up in my arms, and we're all going together!"

He kissed them one by one, and then tottered back toward the lighted furnace—toward his chair—the light which he held, shining fully over his withered face and flaming eyes. In one hand he still grasped the marble image. He had gained half the distance to his chair, when the door opened. A man of middle age, clad in sober black, his hair gray, and his hooked nose supporting gold spectacles, appeared on the threshold.

"Ah, Doctor, is that you?" cried John, "I thought it was the landlord;—you've come too late, Doctor, too late."

"Too late? What mean you, Mr. Martin?" said the doctor, advancing into the room—but starting back again, as he encountered the poisoned air.

"Too late—too late!" cried John, the candle trembling in his unsteady grasp, as he raised his skeleton-like form to its full height—"We're all cured,—"

"Cured? What mean you? How cured?"

"Cured of—life!" said John; and, stepping quickly forward, he fell at the doctor's feet.

The doctor seized the light as he fell, and attempted to raise him from the floor,—but John was dead in his arms.

---

Our history now returns to Israel Yorke, whom, with Ninety-One and the eleven, we left waiting in the dark, outside the artist's door.

"Hush, boys! hush!" whispered Ninety-One, and laid his hand upon the latch "Enter, Isr'el, and talk to yer tenant."

The door opened, and Israel entered, followed by Ninety-One and the eleven, all of whom preserved a dead stillness.

A single light was burning dimly in the artist's humble room. It cast its rays over the humble details of the place,—over the bed, which was covered by a white sheet. The place was deathly still.

"What does all this mean?" cried Israel. "There is no one here." Ninety-One took the light from the table, and led Israel silently to the bed. The eleven gathered round in silence; you could hear their hard breathing through the dead stillness of the room. Ninety-One lifted the sheet, slowly; his harsh features quivering in every fiber.

"That's what it means," he said hoarsely.

They were there, side by side; the husband and the wife, the sister and the children—there, cold and dead. The light, as it fell upon them, revealed the wasted face of the artist, his closed eyelids, sunken far in their sockets, his dark hair glued to his forehead by the moisture of death; and the face of his young wife, with her fair cheek and sunny hair; and the sad, beautiful face of his sister, whose dark hair lay loosely upon her neck, while the long fringes of her eyelashes rested darkly upon her cheek. There was a look of anguish upon the face of John, as though Poverty had struck its iron seal upon him as he died; but the faces of Annie and Nelly were calm, smiling—very full of peace. The little children—the dark-haired boy, and bright-haired girl—slept quietly, their hands clasped and their cheeks laid close together. The poor artist, in the last wild hour of his life, had indeed gathered them up in his arms and taken them with him. They had all gone together.

The furnace, with the fire put out, still remained in the center of the room.

Such was the scene which the light disclosed; a scene incredible only to those who, unfamiliar with the actual of the large city, do not know that all the boasted triumphs of our modern civilization but miserably compensate for the poverty which it has created, and which stalks side by side with it, at every step of its progress, like a skeleton beside a painted harlot;—a poverty which gives to the phrase, "I am poor!" a despair unknown even in the darkest ages of the most barbarous past.

"They are asleep,—asleep, certainly," cried Israel, falling back, "they can't be dead."

The truth is, that Israel felt exceedingly uncomfortable.

"They ain't asleep,—they are dead," hoarsely replied Ninety-One, and he grasped Israel fiercely by the wrist. "They are dead, you dog. Look thar! That man owed you eight dollars for rent; he know'd if he didn't pay you this mornin' he'd be pitched into the street, dyin' as he was, with wife and children and sister at his heels. But he'd saved eight dollars, Israel, an' last night he crawled out to take a walk, an' found that his eight dollars was so much trash—found out that yer banks had broke, an' his eight dollars in yer bank notes, was wuss than nothin'. An' from yer bankin' house he went to a drug store, an' from a friend he got a quick an' quiet p'ison. He came home; he put it in the coffee, slyly; they all drank of it, an' slep'; an' then he filled the furnace with charcoal an' lighted it, an' then they slep' all the better,—an' there they air! out o' yer clutches, dog—out o' yer fangs, hell-hound,—gone safe to kingdom come!"

And he clutched Israel's wrist until the little man groaned with pain.

"But how do you know he poisoned himself and these?" faltered Israel.

"He left a scrap o' paper in which he told about it an' the reason for doin' it. The doctor who came in when it was too late, saw the charcoal burnin', an' found the p'ison at the bottom of the cups. An' this man," he pointed to one of the eleven, a sturdy fellow with a frank, honest face, "this man an' his wife live in the next room. He was out last evenin', but she was in, an' she heard poor Martin ravin' about you an' his eight dollars, an' his wife, an' sister, an' children, an' starvation, death, an' the cold dark street. She heered him, I say, but didn't suspec' there was p'ison in the case until the doctor called her in, an' then it was too late."

"But how did you know of all this? What have you to do with it?"

"You see the doctor went an' told the judge, who has just been tryin' you,—told him hours ago, you mind,—an' the judge sent me here with you, in order to show you some of yer work. How d'ye like it Isr'el?"

Ninety-One's features were harsh and scarred, but now they quivered with an almost child-like emotion. With his brawny hand he pointed to the bodies of the dead,—

"Thar's eight dollars worth o' yer notes, Isr'el," he said. "Thar's Chow Bank, Muddy Run, an' Tarrapin Holler! Look at 'em! Don't you think that some day God Almighty will ax you to change them notes?"

And Israel shrank back appalled from the bed. Ninety-One clutched his wrist with a firmer grasp; the eleven gathered closely in his rear, their ominous murmur growing more distinct; and the light, held in the convict's hand, shed its calm rays over the faces of the dead family.

This death-scene in the artist's home, calls up certain thoughts.

Poverty! Did you ever think of the full meaning of that word? The curse of poverty is the cowardice which it breeds, cowardice of body and soul. Many a man who would in full possession of his faculties, pour out his life-blood for a friend, or even for a stranger, will, when it becomes a contest for a crust of bread,—for the last means of a bare subsistence,—steal that crust from the very lips of his starving friend, and would, were it possible, drain the last life-drop in the veins of another, in order to keep life in his own wretched carcass. The savage, starving in the snow, in the center of his desolate prairie, knows nothing of the poverty of the civilized savage, much less of that poverty, which takes the man or woman of refined education, and kills every noble faculty of the soul, before it does its last work on the body. Poverty in the city, is not mere want of bread, but it is the lack of the means to supply innumerable wants, created by civilization,—and that lack is slow moral and physical death. Talk of the bravery of the hero, who, on the battle-field stands up to be shot at, with the chance of glory, on the one hand, and a quick death on the other! How will his heroism compare with that brave man, who in the large city, year after year, and day by day, expends the very life-strings of his soul, in battling against the fangs of want, in keeping some roof-shelter over his wife and children, or those who are as dependent upon him as wife and children? Proud lady, sitting on your sofa, in your luxurious parlor, you regard with a quiet sneer, that paragraph in the paper (you hold it in your hand), which tells how a virtuous girl, sold her person into the grasp of wealthy lust for—bread! You sneer,—virtue, refined education, beauty, innocence, chastity, all gone to the devil for a—bit of bread! Sneer on! but were you to try the experiment of living two days without—not your carriage and opera-box,—but without bread or fire in the dead of winter, working meanwhile at your needle, with half-frozen fingers for just sixteen pennies per day, you would, I am afraid, think differently of the matter. Instead of two days, read two years, and let your trial be one of perpetual work and want, that never for a moment cease to bite,—I am afraid, beautiful one, were this your case, you would sometimes find yourself thinking of a comfortable life, and a bed of down, purchased by the sale of your body, and the damnation of your soul. And you, friend, now from the quiet of some country village, railing bravely against southern slavery, and finding no word bitter enough to express your hatred of the slave market, in which black men and black women are sold—just look a moment from the window of your quiet home, and behold yonder huge building, blazing out upon the night from its hundred windows. That is a factory. Yes. Have you no pity for the white men, (nearer to you in equality of organization certainly than black men,) who are chained in hopeless slavery, to the iron wheels of yonder factory's machinery? Have you no thought of the white woman, (lovelier to look upon certainly than black women, and in color, in organization, in education resembling very much your own wife, sister, mother,) who very often are driven by want, from yonder factory to the grave, or to the—brothels of New York? You mourn over black children, sold at the slave block,—have you no tear for white children, who in yonder factory, are deprived of education, converted into mere working machines (without one tithe of the food and comfort of the black slave), and transformed into precocious old men and women, before they have ever felt one free pulse of childhood?

Ah! this enterprise which forms the impulse and the motto of modern civilization, will doubtless in the future ripen into good for all men,—for there is a God,—but the path of its present progress, is littered with human skulls. It weaves, it spins, it builds, it spreads forth on all sides its iron arms,—and it has a good capital,—the blood of human hearts. Labor-saving machinery, (the most awful feature of modern civilization,) will, in the future, when no longer monopolized by the few, do the greater portion of the physical work of the world, and bless the entire race of man,—but until that future arrives, labor-saving machinery will send more millions down to death, than any three centuries of battle-fields, that ever cursed the earth. Yes, modern civilization, is very much like the locomotive, rolling along an iron track, at sixty miles per hour, with hot coals at its heart, and a cloud of smoke and flame above it. Look at it, as it thunders on! What a magnificent impersonation of power; of brute force chained by the mind of man! All true,—but woe, woe to the weak or helpless, who linger on its iron track! and woe to the weak, the crippled, or the poor, whom the locomotive of modern civilization finds lingering in its way. Why should it care? It has no heart. Its work is to move onward, and to cut down all, whom poverty and misfortune have left in its path.

There is one phase of poverty which hath no parallel in its unspeakable bitterness. A man of genius with a good heart, and something of the all-overarching spirit of Christ in him, looks around the world, sees the vast sum of human misery, and feels like this, 'With but a moderate portion of money, what good might not be accomplished!' and yet that little sum is as much beyond him,—as far beyond his grasp, as the planet Jupiter.

That forth from the womb of the present chaos, a nobler era will be born, no one can doubt, who feels the force of these four words, 'there is a God.' And that the present age with its deification of the money power, is one of the basest the world ever saw, cannot be disproved, although it may be bitterly denied. There is something pitiful in the thought that a world once deemed worthy of the tread of Satan, is now become the crawling ground of Mammon.

---

[CHAPTER V.]

MARY, CARL, CORNELIUS.

Leaving Frank to writhe alone in her agony, Nameless and Mary pursued their way through the dark streets, as the morning drew near. They arrived at length, in front of that huge mansion, in Greenwich street, which once the palace of ease and opulence, was now, from the garret to the cellar, the palace of rags, disease and poverty. How Mary's heart thrilled as she led Nameless through the darkness up the marble stairs! A few hours since she went down those stairs, with death in her heart. Now her husband, risen from the grave was on her arm, hope was in her heart, and—although dark and bitter cold, and signs of poverty and wretchedness were all around her,—the future opened before her mental vision, rosy and golden in its hues of promise.

At the head of the stairway, on the fourth story Mary opened a door, and in the darkness, led Nameless across the threshold.

"My home!" she whispered, and lighted the candle, which hours ago, in the moment of her deepest despair, she had extinguished.

As the light stole around the place, Nameless at a glance beheld the miserable garret, with its sloping roof walls of rough boards, and scanty furniture, a mattress in one corner, a sheet-iron stove, a table, and in the recess of the huge garret window an old arm-chair.

"This your home!" he ejaculated and at the same time beheld the occupant of the arm-chair,—in that man prematurely old, his skeleton form incased in a loose wrapper, his emaciated hands resting on the arms, and one side of his corpse-like face on the back of the chair,—he after a long pause, recognized the wreck of his master, Cornelius Berman.

"O, my master!" he cried in a tone of inexpressible emotion, and sank on his knees before the sleeping man, and pressed his emaciated hand reverently to his lips. "Is it thus I find you!" and profoundly affected, he remained kneeling there, his gaze fixed upon that countenance, which despite its premature wrinkles, and dead apathetic expression, still bore upon its forehead,—half hid by snow-white hair,—some traces of the intellect of Cornelius Berman.

While Nameless knelt there in silence, Mary glided from the room, and after some minutes, again appeared, holding a basket on one arm, while the other held some sticks of wood. Leaving her husband in his reverie, at her father's feet, she built a fire in the sheet-iron stove, and began to prepare the first meal which she had tasted in the course of twenty hours. Continued excitement had kept her up thus far, but her brain began to grow dizzy and her hand to tremble. At length the white cloth was spread on the table, and the rich fragrance of coffee stole through the atmosphere of the dismal garret. The banquet was spread, bread, butter, two cups of coffee,—a sorry sort of banquet say you,—but just for once, try the experiment of twenty-four hours, without food, and you'll change your opinion.

The first faint gleam of the winter morning began to steal through the garret window.

"Come, Carl,"—she glided softly to his side, and tapped him gently on the shoulder, "breakfast is ready. While father sleeps, just come and see what a good housekeeper I am."

He looked up and beheld her smiling, although there were tears in her eyes.

He rose and took his seat beside her at the table. Now the garret was rude and lonely, and the banquet by no means luxurious, and yet Nameless could not help being profoundly agitated, as he took his seat by the side of Mary.

It was the first time, in all his memory, that he had sat down to a table, encircled by the sanctity which clusters round the word—Home.

His wife was by his side,—this was his—Home.

Breakfast over, he once more knelt at the feet of the sleeping man. And Mary knelt by his side, gazing silently into his face, while his gaze was riveted upon her father's countenance. Thus they were, as the morning light grew brighter on the window-pane. At length Mary rested her head upon his bosom, and slept,—he girdled her form in his cloak, and held her in his arms, while her bosom, heaving gently with the calm pulsation of slumber, was close against his heart. The morning light grew brighter on the window-pane, and touched the white hairs of the father, and shone upon the glowing cheek of the sleeping girl.

Nameless, wide awake, his eyes large and full, and glittering with thought, gazed now upon the face of his old master, and now upon the countenance of his young wife. And then his whole life rose up before him. He was lost in a maze of absorbing thought. His friendless childhood, the day when Cornelius first met him, his student life, in the studies of the artist, the pleasant home of the artist on the river, the hour when he had reddened his hand with blood, his trial, sentence, the day of execution, the burial, the life in the mad-house,—these scenes and memories passed before him, with living shapes and hues and voices. And after all, Mary, his wife was in his arms! The sun now came up, and his first ray shone rosily over the cheeks of the sleeping girl.

Nameless remembered the letter which Frank had given him, and now took it from the side pocket of his coat. He surveyed it attentively. It bore his name, "Gulian Van Huyden."

"What does it contain?" he asked himself the question mentally, little dreaming of the fatal burden which the letter bore.

The sleeping man awoke, and gazed around the apartment with large, lack-luster eyes. At the same time, with his emaciated hand, he tried to clutch the sunbeam which trembled over his shoulder. Nameless felt his heart leap to his throat at the sight of this pitiful wreck of genius.

"Do you not know me, master?" exclaimed Nameless, pressing the hand of the afflicted man, and fixing his gaze earnestly upon his face.

Was it an idle fancy? Nameless thought he saw something like a ray of intelligence flit across that stricken face.

"It is I, Carl Raphael, your pupil, your son!"

As though the sound of that voice had penetrated even the sealed consciousness of hopeless idiocy, the aged artist slightly inclined his head, and there was a strange tremulousness in his glance.

"Carl Raphael, your son!" repeated Nameless, and clutched the hands of the artist.

Again that tremulousness in the glance of the artist, and then,—as though a film had fallen from his eyes,—his gaze was firm, and bright, and clear. It was like the restoration of a blind man to sight. His gaze traversed the room, and at length rested on the face of Nameless.

"Carl!" he cried, like one, who, awaking from a troubled dream, finds, unexpectedly, by his bed a familiar and beloved face—"Carl, my son!"

Mary heard that voice; it roused her from her slumber. Starting up, she pressed her father's hands.

"O, Carl, Carl, he knows you! Thank God! thank God!"

"Mary," said the father, gazing upon her earnestly, like one who tries to separate the reality of his waking hours from the images of a past dream.

First upon one face, then upon the other, he turned his gaze, meanwhile, in an absent manner, joining the hand of Mary and the hand of Carl.

"Carl! Mary!" he repeated the names in a low voice, and laid his hands gently on their heads.—"I thought I had lost you, my children. Carl and Mary," he repeated their names again,—"Carl and Mary! God bless you, my children; and now——" he surveyed them with his large, bright eyes, "and now I must sleep."

His head fell gently forward on his breast, and he fell asleep to wake no more in this world. His mind had made its last effort in the recognition of Mary and Nameless. For a moment it flashed brightly in its socket, and then went out forever. He was dead. Nay, not dead, but he was,—to use that inexpressibly touching thought, in which the very soul and hope of Christianity is embodied,—"asleep in Christ."

When Mary raised his head from his breast, his eyes were vailed in the glassy film of death. Leaning upon the arm which never yet failed to support the weary head and the tired heart, gazing upon the face which always looks its ineffable consolation, into the face of the dying, Cornelius had passed away as calmly as a child sinking to sleep upon a mother's faithful breast.

Mary and Nameless, on their knees before the corse, clasped those death-chilled hands, and wept in silence.

And the winter sun, shining bright upon the window-pane, fell upon their bowed heads, and upon the tranquil face of the dead father, around whose lips a smile was playing, as though some word of "good cheer" had been whispered to him, by angel-tongues, in the moment ere he passed away.

And thou art dead, brave artist, and life's battle with thee is over,—the eyes that used to look so manfully upon every phase of sorrow and adversity, are all cold and lusterless now,—the heart that generous emotions filled and lofty conceptions warmed, sleeps pulseless in the lifeless bosom. Thou art dead!—dead in the dreary home of Want, with cold winter light upon thy gray hairs. Dead! Ah, no,—not dead, for there is a Presence in the dismal garret, invisible to external eyes, which puts Death to shame, and upon the gates of the grave writes, in letters of undying light:—In all the universe of God there is no such thing as death, but simply a transition from one life, or state of life, to another. Not dead, brave artist. Thou hast not, in a long life, cherished affections, gathered experience from the bitter tree of adversity, and developed, in storm as well as sunshine, thy clear, beautiful intellect, merely to bury them all in the dull grave at last. No,—thou hast borne affections, experience, and intellect, to the genial sunshine of the better land. The coffin-lid of this life has been lifted from thy soul,—thou art risen, indeed,—at last, in truth, thou livest!

And the Presence which fills thy dark chamber now, although often mocked by the gross interpretations of a brutal theology, often hid from the world by the Gehenna smoke of conflicting creeds, is a living Presence, always living, always loving, always bringing the baptism of consolation to the way-worn children of this life, even as it did in the hour when, embodied in a human form, face to face and eye to eye, it spoke to man.

The sun is high in the wintery heavens, and his light, streaming through the window-pane, falls upon the mattress, whereon, covered reverently, by the white sheet, the corse is laid. Mary is crouching there, one hand supporting her forehead, the other resting upon the open book, which is placed upon her knee. Thus all day long she watches by the dead. At last the flush of evening is upon the winter sky.

Nameless, standing by the window, tears open the letter of Frank, and reads it by the wintery light. The three hours have passed.

Why does his face change color, as he reads? The look of grief which his countenance wears is succeeded by one of utter horror.

"The poison vial!" he ejaculates, and places the fatal letter in Mary's hand.

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[CHAPTER VI.]

A LOOK INTO THE RED BOOK.

Madam Resimer was waiting in the little room up-stairs,—waiting and watching in that most secret chamber of her mansion,—her cheek resting on her hand, her eyes fixed upon the drawer from which the Red Book had been stolen. The day was bright without, but in the closed apartment, the Madam watched by the light of a candle, which was burning fast to the socket. The Madam had not slept. Her eyes were restless and feverish. Her cheeks, instead of their usual florid hues, were marked with alternate spots of white and red. Sitting in the arm-chair, (which her capacious form, clad in the chintz wrapper, filled to overflowing), the Madam beats the carpet nervously with her foot, and then her small black eyes assume a wicked, a vixenish look.

Daylight is bright upon the city and river; ten o'clock is near,—the hour at which Dermoyne intended to return,—and yet the Madam has no word of the bullies whom last night she set upon Dermoyne's track. Near ten o'clock, and no news of Dirk, Slung-Shot, or—the Red Book!

"Why don't they come!" exclaimed the Madam, for the fiftieth time, and she beat the carpet wickedly with her foot.

And from the shadows of the apartment, a voice, most lugubrious in its tone, uttered the solitary word,—"Why?"

"If they don't come, what shall we do?" the Madam's eyes grew wickeder, and she began to "crack" the joints of her fingers.

"What?" echoed the lugubrious voice.

"I'll tell you what it is, Corkins," said the Madam, turning fiercely in her chair, "I wish the devil had you,—I do! Sittin' there in your chair, croakin' like a raven.—'What! Why!'" and she mimicked him wickedly; "when you should be doin' somethin' to stave off the trouble that's gatherin' round us. Now you know, that unless we get back the Red Book, we're ruined,—you know it?"

"Com-pletely ruined!" echoed Corkins, who sat in the background, on the edge of a chair, his elbows on his knees, and his chin on his hands. Corkins, you will remember, is a little, slender man, clad in black, with a white cravat about his neck, a top-knot on his low forehead, a "goatee" on his chin, and gold spectacles on his nose. And as Corkins sits on the edge of his chair, he looks very much like a strange bird on its perch,—a bird of evil omen, meditating all sorts of calamities sure to happen to quite a number of people, at some time not definitely ascertained.

"It's near ten o'clock," glancing at the gold watch which lay on the table before her, "and no word of Barnhurst, not even a hint of Dirk or Slung! And at ten, that villain who stole the book will come back,—that is, unless Dirk and Slung have taken care of him! I never was in such a fever in all my life! Corkins, what is to be done? And your patient,—how is she?"

"As for the patient up-stairs," Corkins began, but the words died away on his lips.

The sound of a bell rang clearly, although gloomily throughout the mansion.

"Go to the front door,—quick!"—in her impatience the Madam bounded from her chair. "See who's there. Open the door, but don't undo the chain; and don't,—do you hear?—don't let anybody in until you hear from me! Quick, I say!"

"But it isn't the front door bell," hesitated Corkins.

Again the sound of the bell was heard.

"It's the bell of the secret passage," ejaculated Madam, changing color,—"the passage which leads to a back street, and of the existence of which, only four persons in the world know anything. There it goes again! who can it be?"

The Madam was evidently very much perplexed. Corkins, who had risen from his perch, stood as though rooted to the floor; and the bell pealed loud and louder, in dismal echoes throughout the mansion.

"Who can it be?" again asked the Madam, while a thousand vague suspicions floated through her brain.

"Who can it be?" echoed Corkins, shaking like a dry leaf in the wind.

Here let us leave them awhile in their perplexity, while we retrace our steps, and take up again the adventures of Barnhurst and Dermoyne. We left them in the dimly-lighted bed-chamber, at the moment when the faithful wife, awaking from her slumber, welcomed the return of her husband in these words,—"Husband! have you come at last? I have waited for you so long!"

"Husband!" said the wife, awaking from her sleep, and stretching forth her arms, "have you come at last? I have waited for you so long!"

"Dearest, I was detained by an unexpected circumstance," answered Barnhurst, and first turning to Dermoyne with an imploring gesture, he approached the bed, and kissed his wife and sleeping child. Then back to Dermoyne again with a stealthy step,—"Take your revenge!" he whispered; "advance, and tell everything to my wife."

Dermoyne's face showed the contest of opposing emotions; now clouded with a hatred as remorseless as death, now touched with something like pity. At a rapid glance he surveyed the face of the trembling culprit,—the boy sleeping on his couch,—the mother resting on the bed, with her babe upon her bent arm,—and then uttered in a whisper, a single word,—"Come!"

He led Barnhurst over the threshold, out upon the landing, and carefully closed the door of the bed-chamber.

"Now, sir," he whispered, fixing his stern gaze upon Barnhurst's face, which was lighted by the rays of the lamp in the hall below,—"what have you to propose?"

Barnhurst's blonde visage was corpse-like in its pallor.

"Nothing," he said, folding his arms with the air of a man who has lost all hope, and made up his mind to the worst. "I am in your power."

Dermoyne, with this finger to his lip, remained for a moment buried in profound thought. Once his eyes, glancing sidelong, rested upon Barnhurst with a sort of ferocious glare. When he spoke again, it was in these words:—

"Enter your bed-chamber, and sleep beside your faithful wife, and,—think of Alice. As for myself, I will watch for the morning, on the sofa, down stairs. Enter, I say!" he pointed sternly to the door,—"and remember! at morning we take up our march again. I know that you will not escape from me,—and as for your wife, if you do not wish her to see me, you will make your appearance at an early hour."

Barnhurst, without a word, glided silently into the bed-chamber, closing the door after him. Dermoyne, listening for a moment, heard the voices of the husband and the wife, mingling in conversation. Then he went quietly down stairs, took down the hanging-lamp, and with it in his hand, entered a room on the lower floor.

It was a neatly-furnished apartment with a sofa, a piano, and a portrait of Barnhurst on the wall. The remains of a wood-fire were smouldering on the hearth. Near the piano stood an empty cradle. It was very much like—home. It was, in a word, the room through whose curtained windows, we gazed in our brief episode, and saw the pure wife with her children, awaiting the return of the husband and father.

Dermoyne lit a candle, which stood on a table, near the sofa, and then replaced the hanging lamp. This done, he came into the quiet parlor again,—without once pausing to notice that the front door was ajar. Had he but remarked this little fact, he might have saved himself a world of trouble. He flung his cloak upon the table, and placed his cap and the iron bar beside it. Then seating himself on the sofa, he drew the Red Book from under his left arm, where for hours he had securely carried it,—and spread it forth upon his knees. Drawing the light nearer to him, he began to examine the contents of that massive volume. How his countenance underwent all changes of expression, as page after page was disclosed to his gaze! At first his lip curled, and his brow grew dark,—there was doubtless much to move contempt and hatred in those pages,—but as he read on, his large gray eyes, dilating in their sockets, shone with steady light; every lineament of his countenance, manifested profound, absorbing interest.

The Red Book!

Of all the singular volumes, ever seen, this certainly was one of the most singular. It comprised perchance, one thousand manuscript pages, written by at least a hundred hands. There were original letters, and copies of letters; some of them traced by the tremulous hand of the dying. There were histories and fragments of histories,—the darkest record of the criminal court is not so black, as many a history comprised within the compass of this volume. It contained the history, sometimes complete sometimes in fragmentary shape, of all who had ever sought the aid of Madam Resimer, or,—suffered beneath her hands. And there were letters there, and histories there, which the Madam had evidently gathered, with a view of extorting money from certain persons, who had never passed into the circle of her infernal influence. All the crimes that can spring from unholy marriages, from violation of the marriage vow, from the seduction of innocent maidenhood, from the conflict between poor chastity and rich temptation, stood out upon those pages, in forms of terrible life. That book was a revelation of the civilization of a large city,—a glittering mask with a death's head behind it,—a living body chained to a leperous corpse. Instead of being called the Red Book, it should have been called the Black Book, or the Death Book, or the Mysteries of the Social World.

How the aristocracy of the money power was set forth in those pages! That aristocracy which the French know as the "Bourgeoise," which the English style the "Middle Classes," and which the Devil knows for his "own,"—the name of whose god the Savior pronounced, when he uttered the word "Mammon,"—whose loftiest aspiration is embodied in the word "Respectable!" How this modern aristocracy of the money power, stood out in naked life, showy and mean, glittering and heartless, upon the pages of the Red Book! Stood out in colors, painted, not by an enemy, but by its own hand, the mark of its baseness stamped upon its forehead, by its own peculiar seal.

One history was there, which, written in different hands, in an especial manner, riveted the interest of Arthur Dermoyne. Bending forward, with the light of the candle upon his brow, he read it page by page, his face manifesting every contrast of emotion as he read. For a title it bore a single name, written in a delicate womanly hand,—"Marion Merlin." The greater portion of the history was written in the same hand.

Leaning upon the shoulder of Arthur Dermoyne, let us, with him, read this sad, dark history.

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[CHAPTER VII.]

MARION MERLIN.

At the age of eighteen I was betrothed to Walter Howard, a young man of polished manners, elegant exterior, and connected with one of the first families of New York. I was beautiful, so the world said,—eighteen and an heiress. My father was one of the wealthiest merchants of New York, with a princely mansion in town, and as princely a mansion, for summer residence, in the country. I had lost my mother, at an age so early, that I can but dimly remember her pallid face. At eighteen, I was my father's only and idolized child.

Returning from boarding-school, where, apart from the busy world, I had passed four years of a life, which afterward was to be marked by deeds so singular, yes, unnatural, I was invested by my father, with the keys of his city mansion, and installed as its mistress. Still kept apart from the world,—for my father guarded me from its wiles and temptations, with an eye of sleepless jealousy,—I was left to form ideas of my future life, from the fancies of my day-dreams, or from what knowledge I had gleaned from books. Walter was my father's head clerk. In that capacity he often visited our mansion. To see him was to love him. His form was graceful, and yet manly; his complexion a rich bronze; his eyes dark, penetrating and melancholy. As for myself, a picture which, amid all my changing fortunes, I have preserved as a relic of happy and innocent days, shows a girl of eighteen, with a form that may well be called voluptuous, and a face, (shaded by masses of raven hair,) which, with its clear bronzed complexion, large hazel eyes, and arching brows, tells the story of my descent on my mother's side,—she was a West-Indian, and there is Spanish blood in my veins. My acquaintance with Walter, ripened into warm and passionate love, and one day, my father surprised me, as I hung upon my lover's breast, and instead of chiding us, said with a look of unmistakable affection:

"Right, Walter. You have won my daughter's love. When you return from the West Indies, you shall be married; and once married, instead of my head clerk, you shall be my partner."

My father was a venerable man, with a kindly face and snow-white hair: as he spoke the tears ran down his cheeks, for (as I afterward ascertained,) my marriage with Walter, the orphan of one of the dearest friends of his boyhood, had been the most treasured hope of his life for years.

Walter left for Havana, intrusted with an important and secret commission from my father. He was to be absent only a month. Why was it, on the day of his departure, as he strained me to his breast and covered my face with his passionate kisses, that a deep presentiment chilled my blood? O had he never left my side, what a world of agony, of despair,—yes of crime,—would have been spared to me!

"Be true to me, Marion!" these were his last words,—"in a month I will return—"

"True to you! can you doubt it Walter? True until death,—" and we parted.

I was once more alone, in my father's splendid mansion. One evening he came home, but not with his usual kindly smile. He was pale and troubled, and seemed to avoid my gaze. Without entering the sitting-room, he went at once to his library, and locked himself in, having first directed the servant to call him, in case a Mr. Issachar Burley inquired for him. It was after eight when Mr. Burley called, and was shown into the parlor, while the servant went to announce him to my father.

"Miss Marion, I believe!" he said, as he beheld me by the light of the astral-lamp,—and then a singular look passed over his face; a look which at that time I could not define, but which afterward was made terribly clear to me. This Mr. Burley, who thus for the first time entered my father's house, was by no means prepossessing in his exterior. Over fifty years of age, corpulent in form, bald-headed, his florid face bore the undeniable traces of a life, exhausted in sensual indulgences.

While I was taking a survey of this singular visitor, the servant entered the parlor,—

"Mr. Burley will please walk up into the library," he said.

"Good night, dear," said Mr. Burley with a bow, and a gesture that had as much of insolence as of politeness in it,—"By-by,—we'll meet again."

He went up stairs, and my father and he, were closeted together for at least two hours. At ten o'clock I was sent for. I entered the library, trembling, I know not why; and found my father and Mr. Burley, seated on opposite sides of a table overspread with papers,—a hanging lamp, suspended over the table, gave light to the scene. My father was deadly pale.

"Sit down, Marion," he said, in a voice so broken and changed, that I would not have recognized it, had I not seen his face,—"Mr. Burley has something to say to you."

"Mr. Burley!" I ejaculated,—"What can he have to say to me?"

"Speak to her,—speak," said my father,—"speak, for I cannot,—" and resting his hands on the table, his head dropped on his breast.

"Sit down, my dear," exclaimed Burley, in a tone of easy familiarity,—"I have a little matter of business with your father. There's no use of mincing words. Your father, my dear, is a ruined man."

I sank into a chair, and my father's groan confirmed Burley's words.

"Hopelessly involved," continued Mr. Burley,—"Unless he can raise three hundred thousand dollars by to-morrow noon, he is a dishonored man. Do you hear me, my dear? Dishonored!"

"Dishonored!" groaned my father burying his head in his hands.

"And more than this," continued Burley, "Your father, among his many mercantile speculations, has dabbled a little,—yes more than a little,—in the African slave-trade. He has relations with certain gentlemen at Havana, which once known to our government, would consign him to the convict's cell."

The words of the man filled me with indignation, and with horror. Half fainting as I was, I felt the blood boil in my veins.

"Father, rebuke the liar,"—I said as I placed my hand on his shoulder.—"Raise your face, and tell him that he is the coiner of a falsehood, as atrocious as it is foolish—"

My father did not reply.

"And more than this,"—Burley went on, as though he had not heard me,—"I have it in my power, either to relieve your father from his financial embarrassments, or,—" he paused and surveyed me from head to foot, "or to denounce him to the government as one guilty, of something which it calls piracy,—to wit, an intimate relationship with the African slave trade."

Again my father groaned, but did not raise his face.

The full truth burst upon me. My father was ruined, and in this man's power. Confused,—half maddened, I flung myself upon my knees, and clasped Burley by the hands.

"O, you will not ruin my father," I shrieked.—"You will save him."

Burley took my hands within his own, and bent down, until I felt his breath upon my cheeks—

"Yes, I will save him," he whispered,—"That is, for a price,—your hand, my dear."

His look could not be mistaken. At the same moment, my father raised his face from his hands,—it was pallid, distorted, stamped with despair.

"It is the only way, Marion," he said in a broken voice,—"Otherwise your father must rot in a felon's cell."

Amid all the misfortunes of a varied and changeful life, the agony of that moment has never once been forgotten. I felt the blood rush to my head—

"Be it so," I cried,—and fell like a dead woman on the floor, at the feet of Mr. Issachar Burley.

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[CHAPTER VIII.]

NIAGARA.

The next day we were married. In the dusk of the evening four figures stood in the spacious parlor of my father's mansion, by the light of a single waxen-candle. There was the clergyman, gazing in dumb surprise upon the parties to this ill-assorted marriage, there was my father, his countenance vacant almost to imbecility,—for the blow had stricken his intellect—there was the bridegroom, his countenance glowing with sensual triumph; and there the bride, pale as the bridal-dress which enveloped her form, about to be sacrificed on the altar of an unholy marriage. We were married, and between the parlor and the bridal chamber, one hope remained. Rather than submit to the embrace of the unworthy sensualist, I had determined to die, even upon the threshold of the bridal chamber. I had provided myself with a poniard. But alas! a glass of wine, drugged by my husband's hand, benumbed my reason, and when morning light broke upon me again, I found myself in his arms.

The history of the next three months may be rapidly told, for they were months of agony and shame.

"I have directed Walter by letter, to proceed from Havana to the city of Mexico," said my father to me, the second day after the marriage—"He will not return for six months, and certainly until his return, shall not hear of this,—this,—marriage."

My father's mind was broken, and from that hour, he surrendered himself to Issachar's control. Burley took charge of his business, made our house his home,—he was my father's master and mine. The course which he pursued to blunt my feelings, and deaden every faculty of my better nature, by rousing all that was sensual within me, was worthy of him. He gave parties at our home, to the profligate of both sexes, selected from a certain class of the so-called "fashionables," of New York. Revels, prolonged from midnight until dawn, disturbed the quiet of our mansion; and in the wine-cup, and amid the excitement of those fashionable, but unholy orgies, I soon learned to forget the pure hopes of my maidenhood.

Three months passed, and no word of Walter; my father, meanwhile, was sinking deeper every day into hopeless imbecility. At length, the early part of summer, my husband gathered together a party of his fashionable friends, and we departed on a tour to Niagara Falls, up the lakes, and then along the St. Lawrence, and to Montreal. At Niagara Falls we put up at the —— Hotel, and the orgies which had disgraced my father's mansion, were again resumed. My father we had left at home, in charge of a well-tried and faithful servant. One summer evening, tired of the scenes which took place in our parlors, at the hotel, I put on a bonnet and vail, and alone pursued my way, across the bridge to Iris Island, and from Iris to Luna Island. The night was beautiful; from a clear sky the moon shone over the falls; and the roar of waters, alone disturbed the silence of the scene. Crossing the narrow bridge which separates Iris Island from Luna Island, I took my way through the deep shadows of the thicket, until I emerged in the moonlight, upon the verge of the falls. Leaning against a small beech tree, which stands there, I clasped my hands upon my bosom, and wept. That scene, full of the grandeur and purity of nature, awoke the memory of my pure and happier days.

"One plunge and all is over!" the thought flashed over me,—and I measured with a rapid glance, the distance between myself and the brink of the cataract. But at this moment I discovered that I was not alone upon Luna Island. A stranger was leaning against a tree, which was nearer to the brink of the falls than the one against which I leaned. His face was in profile, the lower part of it covered with a thick moustache and beard; and his gaze was lifted absently to the moonlight sky. As I dropped my vail over my face, and gazed at him freely, myself unperceived, I felt my limbs bend beneath me, and the blood rush in a torrent to my head.

I had only strength to frame one word—"Walter!" and fell fainting on his breast.

When I recovered my consciousness, I found myself resting in his arms, while he covered my face with burning kisses.

"You here, Marion!" he cried. "This is indeed an unexpected pleasure!"

He had not heard of my marriage!

"I am here, with some friends," I faltered. "My father could not come with me—and—"

Between the kisses which he planted upon the lips of his betrothed—(so he thought)—he explained his unexpected appearance at Niagara. At Havana he had received the letter from my father, desiring him to hasten, on important business, to the city of Mexico. He had obeyed, and accomplished his mission sooner than he anticipated; had left Vera Cruz for New Orleans; taken steamboat for Cincinnati, and from thence to Cleveland, and across the lake to Buffalo and Niagara Falls.

"And now I'm on my way home, Marion," he concluded. "What a pleasant surprise it will be for father!"

"I am married, Walter."—The words were on my lips, but I could not speak them.

We rose, and, arm in arm, wandered over the bridge, up the steep, and through the winding walks of Goat Island. Leaning on the arm of Walter, I forgot everything but that he loved me and that he was with me. I did not dare to think that to-morrow's light would disclose to him the truth—that I was married, and to another. At length, as we approached the bridge which leads from the Island to the shore, I said—"Leave me Walter; we must not be seen to return together. To-morrow you can call upon me, when I am in presence of my—friends."

One passionate embrace was exchanged, and I watched him, as he crossed the bridge alone, until he was out of sight. Why, I knew not, but an impulse for which I could not account, induced me to retrace my steps to Luna Island. In a few moments I had crossed the bridge (connecting Iris with Luna Island,) and stood once more on the Cataract's brink, under the same tree where an hour before I had discovered Walter. Oh, the agony of that moment, as, gazing over the falls, I called up my whole life, my blighted prospect, and my future without one ray of hope! Should I advance, but a single step, and bury my shame and my sorrows beneath the cataract? Once dead, Walter would at least respect my memory, while living he could only despise and abhor me.

While thoughts like these flashed over my brain, my ear was saluted with the chorus of a drinking song, hummed in an uneven and tremulous voice; and, in a moment my husband passed before me, with an unsteady step. He was confused and excited by the fumes of champagne. Approaching the verge of the island—but a few feet from the verge of the cataract—where the waters look smooth and glassy, as they are about to take the last plunge, he stood gazing, now at the torrent, now at the moon, with a vague, half-drunken stare.

That moment decided my life!

His attitude, the cataract so near, my own lost and hopeless condition, all rushed upon me. Vailing my face, I darted forward and uttered a shriek. Startled by the unexpected sound, he turned, lost his balance, and fell backward into the torrent. But, as he fell, he clutched a branch which overhung the water. Thus, scarcely two yards from the brink, he struggled madly for his life, his face upturned to the moon. I advanced and uncovered my face. He knew me, for the shock had sobered him.

"Marion, save me, save me!" he cried.

I gazed upon him without a word, my arms folded on my breast, and saw him struggle, and heard the branch snap, and—heard his death-howl, as he was swept over the falls. Then, pale as death, and shuddering as with mortal cold, I dragged my steps from the Island, over the bridge—shrieking madly for help. Soon, I heard footsteps and voices. "Help! help!" I shrieked, as I was surrounded by a group of faces, men and women. "My husband! my husband! the falls!" and sank, fainting, in their midst.

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[CHAPTER IX.]

A SECOND MARRIAGE.

Morning came, and no suspicion attached to me. A murderess—if not in deed, in thought, certainly—I was looked upon as the inconsolable widow. Walter left Niagara without seeing me. How did he regard me? I could not tell. The death of Burley broke up our traveling party, and we returned to New York. I returned in time to attend my father's funeral; and found myself the heiress, in my own right, of three hundred thousand dollars. An heiress and a widow, certainly life began to brighten! Burley removed, the incubus which sat upon my father's wealth was gone; and I was beautiful, and free, and rich—immensely rich.

But where was Walter? Months passed, and I did not see him. As he was the head clerk of my father, I hoped to see him, in company with legal gentlemen, engaged to close up my father's estate. But he settled his accounts, closed all connection with my father's estate and business, but did not come near me. At length, weary of suspense, and heart-sick of the loneliness of my desolate mansion, I wrote to him, begging an interview.

He called in the dusk of the evening, when a single candle lighted up the spacious and gloomy parlor. He was dressed in deep mourning, and very pale.

"Madam, you wished to see me," he began.

This cold and formal manner cut me to the heart.

"Walter!" I cried, and flung myself upon his breast, and passionately, but in broken accents, told him how my father's anticipated ruin had forced me to marry Burley.

Walter was melted. "Marion, I love you, and always shall love you, but—but—"

He paused. In an agony of suspense I hung upon his words.

"But—"

"But you are so rich, and I—I—am poor!"

I drowned all further words with kisses, and in a moment we were betrothed again.

We were married. Walter was the master of my fortune, my person and my future. We lived happily together, content with each other's society, and seeking, in the endearments of a pure marriage, to blot out the memory of an unholy one. My husband, truly my husband, was all that I could desire; and by me, he became the possessor of a princely revenue, free to gratify his taste for all that is beautiful in the arts, in painting and sculpture, without hinderance or control. Devoted to me, always kind, eager to gratify my slightest wish, Walter was all that I could desire. We lived to ourselves, and forgot the miserable mockery called "the fashionable world," into which Burley had introduced me. Thus a year passed away, and present happiness banished the memory of a gloomy past. After a year, Walter began to have important engagements, on pressing business, in Philadelphia, Boston, Baltimore and Washington. His absence was death to me; but, having full confidence in him, and aware that his business must be of vital importance, or assuredly he would not leave me, I saw him depart, time and again, with grief too deep for words, and always hailed his return—the very echo of his step with a joy as deep. On one occasion, when he left me, for a day, on a business visit to Philadelphia, I determined—I scarcely knew why—to follow him, and greet him, on his arrival in Philadelphia, with the unexpected but welcome surprise of my presence. Clothing myself in black—black velvet bonnet, and black velvet mantilla, and with a dark vail over my face—I followed him to the ferry-boat, crossed to Jersey City, and took my seat near him in the cars. We arrived in Philadelphia late at night. To my surprise he did not put up at one of the prominent hotels, but bent his way to an obscure and distant part of the city. I followed him to a remote part of Kensington, and saw him knock at the door of an isolated two-story house. After a pause, it was opened, and he entered. I waited from the hour of twelve until three, but he did not re-appear. Sadly and with heavy steps I bent my way to the city, and took lodgings at a respectable but third-rate tavern, representing myself as a widow from the interior, and taking great care to conceal my face from the gaze of the landlord and servants. Next morning it was my first care to procure a male dress,—it matters not how, or with what caution and trouble,—and, tying it up in a compact bundle, I made my way to the open country and entered a wood. It was the first of autumn, and already the leaves were tinted with rainbow dyes. In the thickest part of the wood I disposed of my female attire, and assumed the male dress—blue frock, buttoned to the throat, dark pantaloons, and gaiter boots. My dark hair I arranged beneath a glazed cap with military buttons. Cutting a switch I twirled it jauntily in my hand, and, anxious to test my disguise, entered a wayside cottage—near the Second Street Road—and asked for a glass of water. While the back of the tenant of the cottage—an aged woman—was turned, I gazed in the looking-glass, and beheld myself, to all appearance, a young man of medium stature, with brown complexion of exceeding richness, lips of cherry red, arched brows, eyes of unusual brilliancy, and black hair, arranged in a glossy mass beneath a glazed cap. It was the image of a handsome boy of nineteen, with no down on the lip and no beard on the chin. Satisfied with my disguise, and with a half-formed idea floating through my brain, I bent my steps to the isolated house, which I had seen my husband enter the night before. I knocked; the door was opened by a young girl, plainly clad, but of surpassing beauty—evidently not more than sixteen years old. A sunny complexion, blue eyes, masses of glossy brown hair, combined with an expression which mingled voluptuous warmth with stainless innocence. Such was her face. As to her form, although not so tall as mine, it mingled the graceful outlines of the maiden with the ripeness of the woman.

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[CHAPTER X.]

A SECOND MURDER.

She gazed upon me with surprise. Obeying a sudden impulse, I said—"Excuse me, Miss, but I promised to meet him here. You know," with a polite bow and smile, "you know whom I mean?"

"Mr. Barton—" she hesitated.

"Exactly so; Mr. Barton, my intimate friend, who has confided all to me, and who desired me to meet him here at this hour."

"My mother is not at home," hesitated the young girl, "and, in her absence, I do not like to—"

"Receive strangers, you were about to add? Well, Miss, I am not a stranger. As the intimate friend of Mr. Barton, who especially desired me to meet him here—"

These words seemed to resolve all her doubts. She motioned me to enter, and we passed into a small room, neatly furnished, with the light which came through the curtained windows, shining upon a picture,—the portrait of Walter Howard, my husband.

"Capital likeness of Barton," I said, carelessly tapping my switch against my boot.

"Yes,—yes," she replied as she took a seat at the opposite end of the sofa,—"but not so handsome."

In the course of two hours, in which with a maddened pulse and heaving breast, I waited for the appearance of my husband, I learned from the young girl the following facts:—She was a poor girl, and her mother, with whom she lived, a widow in very moderate circumstances. Her name was Ada Bulmer. Mr. Lawrence Barton (this, of course, was the assumed name of my husband,) was a wealthy gentleman of a noble heart,—he had saved her life in a railroad accident, some months before. He had been unhappy, however, in marriage; was now divorced from a wicked and unfaithful woman; and,—here was the climax,—"and next week we are to be married, and mother, Lawrence, and myself will proceed to Europe directly after our marriage."

This was Ada's story, which I heard with emotions that can scarcely be imagined. Every word planted a hell in my heart. At length, toward nightfall, a knock was heard, and Ada hastened to the door. Presently I heard my husband's step in the entry, and then his voice,—

"Dearest,——" there was the sound of a kiss,—"I have got rid of that infamous woman, who killed her first husband, and have turned all my property into ready money. On Monday we start for Europe."

He entered, and as he entered I glided behind the door. Thus his back was toward me, while his face was toward Ada, and his arms about her waist.

"On Monday, dearest, we will be married, and then——"

I was white with rage, but calm as death. Drawing the poniard, (which I had never parted with since I first procured it,) I advanced and struck him, once, twice, thrice, in the back. He never beheld me, but fell upon Ada's breast, bathed in blood. She uttered a shriek, but laying my hand upon her shoulder, I said, sternly,—

"Not a word! this villain seduced my only sister, as he would have seduced you!"

I tore him from her arms, and laid him on the sofa; he was speechless; the blood flowed from his mouth and nostrils, but by his glance, I saw that he knew me. Ada, white as a shroud, tottered toward him.

"Seducer of my sister, have we met at last?" I said aloud,—and then bending my face to his, and my bosom close to his breast, I whispered,—

"The wicked woman who killed her first husband, gives you this,"—and in my rage buried the poniard in his heart.

Ada fell fainting to the floor, and I hurried from the house. It was a dark night, enlivened only by the rays of the stars, but I gained the wood, washed the blood from my hands, and resumed my female attire. In less than an hour, I reached the depot at Kensington, entered the cars, and before twelve, crossed the threshold of my own home in New York.

How I passed the night,—with what emotions of agony, remorse, jealousy,—matters not. And for three days afterward, as I awaited for the developments, I was many times near raving madness. The account of my husband's death filled the papers; and it was supposed that he had been killed by some unknown man, in revenge, for the seduction of a sister. My wild demeanor was attributed to natural grief at his untimely end.

On the fourth day I had his body brought on from Philadelphia; and on the fifth, celebrated his funeral, following his corpse to the family vault, draped in widow's weeds, and blinded with tears of grief, or of—despair. Ada Bulmer I never saw again, but believe she died within a year of consumption or a broken heart.

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[CHAPTER XI.]

MARION AND HERMAN BARNHURST.

Alone in my mansion, secluded from the world, I passed many months in harrowing meditations on the past. Oftentimes I saw the face of Walter dabbled in blood, and both awake and in my dreams, I saw, O, how vividly his last look! I was still rich, (although Walter, as I discovered, after his death, had recklessly squandered more than one-half of my fortune,) but what mattered riches to one devoured like myself by an ever-gnawing remorse? What might I have been had not Burley forced me into that unholy marriage? This question was never out of my mind for a long year, during which I wore the weeds of widowhood, and kept almost entirely within the limits of my mansion.

Toward the close of the year an incident occurred which had an important bearing on my fate. Near my home stood a church, in which a young and eloquent preacher held forth to the admiration of a fashionable congregation, every Sabbath-day. On one occasion I occupied a seat near the pulpit, and was much struck by his youthful appearance, combined with eloquence so touching and enthusiastic. His eagle eye, shone from his pallid face, with all the fire of an earnest, a heartfelt sincerity. I was struck by the entire manner of the man, and more than once in his sermon he seemed to address me in especial, for our eyes met, as though there was a mutual magnetism in our gaze. When I returned home I could not banish his face nor his accents from my memory; I felt myself devoured by opposing emotions; remorse for the past, mingled with a sensation of interest in the youthful preacher. At length, after much thought, I sent him this note by the hands of a servant in livery:—

Reverend Sir,—

A lady who heard your eloquent sermon on "Conscience," on Sabbath last, desires to ask your advice in a matter touching the peace of her soul. She resides at No. ——, and will be glad to receive you to-morrow evening.

M. H.

This singular note was dispatched, and the servant directed to inform the Rev. Herman Barnhurst of my full name. As the appointed hour drew nigh, I felt nervous and restless. Will he come? Shall I unbosom myself to him, and obtain at least a portion of mental peace by confessing the deeds and thoughts which rest so heavy on my soul? At last dusk came; two candles stood lighted on the mantle of the front parlor, and seated on the sofa I nervously awaited the coming of the preacher.

"I will confess all!" I thought, and raising my eyes, surveyed myself in the mirror which hung opposite. The past year, with all its sorrow, had rather added to, than detracted from, my personal appearance. My form was more matured and womanly. And the sorrow which I had endured had given a grave earnestness to my look, which, in the eyes of some, would have been more winning than the glance of voluptuous languor. Dressed in deep black, my bust covered to the throat, and my hair gathered plainly aside from my face, I looked the grave, serious—and, I may add, without vanity—the beautiful widow. The Rev. Herman Barnhurst was announced at last,—how I trembled as I heard his step in the hall! He entered, and greeting him with an extended hand, I thanked him warmly for calling in answer to my informal note, and motioned him to a chair. There was surprise and constraint in his manner, but he never once took his eyes from my face. He stammered and even blushed as he spoke to me.

"You spoke, madam, of a case of conscience," he began.

"A case of conscience about which I wished to speak to you."

"Surely," he said, fixing his gaze earnestly upon me, and his words seemed to be forced from him, even against his will,—"surely one so beautiful and so good cannot have anything like sin upon her soul——"

Our gaze met, and from that moment we talked of everything but the case of conscience. All his restraint vanished. His eye flashed, his voice rolled deep and full; he was eloquent, and he was at home. We seemed to have been acquainted for years. We talked of history, poetry, the beautiful in nature, the wonderful in art; and we talked without effort, as though our minds mingled together, without even the aid of voice and eyes. Time sped noiselessly,—it was twelve o'clock before we thought it nine. He rose to go.

"I shall do myself the pleasure to call again," he said, and his voice faltered.

I extended my hand; his hand met it in a gentle pressure. That touch decided our fate. As though my very being and his had rushed together and melted into one, in that slight pressure of hand to hand, we stood silent and confused,—one feeling in our gaze,—blushing and pale by turns.

"Woman," he said, in a voice scarcely above a whisper, "you will drive me mad," and sank half-fainting on his knees.

I bent down and drew him to my breast, and covered his forehead with kisses. Pale, half-fainting, he lay almost helpless in my arms.

"Not mad, Herman," I whispered, "but I will be your good angel; I will cheer you in your mission of good. I will watch over you as you ascend, step by step, the difficult steep of fame; and Herman, I will love you."

It was the first time that young brow had trembled to a woman's kiss.

"Nay,—nay,—tempt me not," he murmured, and unwound my arms from his neck, and staggered to the door.

But as he reached the threshold, he turned,—our gaze met,—he rushed forward with outspread arms,—

"I love you!" he cried, and his face was buried on my bosom.

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From that hour the Rev. Herman Barnhurst was the constant visitor at my house. He lived in my presence. His sermons, formerly lofty and somber in their enthusiasm, became colored with a passionate warmth. I felt a strange interest in the beautiful boy; a feeling compounded of pure love; of passion; of voluptuousness, the most intense and refined.

"O, Marion, do you not think that if I act aright in all other respects, that this one sin will be forgiven me?" said Herman, as one Sabbath evening, after the service was over, we sat, side by side, in my house. It was in a quiet room, the curtains drawn, a light shining in front of a mirror, and a couch dimly seen through the shadows of an alcove.

"One sin? what mean you, Herman?"

"The sin of loving you,"—and he blushed as his earnest gaze met mine.

"And is it a sin to love me?" I answered in a low voice, suffering my hand to rest upon his forehead.

"Yes," he stammered,—"to love you thus unlawfully."

"Why unlawfully?"

He buried his head on my breast, as he replied,—"I love you as a husband, and I am not your husband."

"And why—" I exclaimed, seizing him in my arms, and gently raising his head, so that our gaze met,—"and why can you not be my husband? I am rich; you have genius. My wealth,—enough for us both,—shall be linked with your genius, and both shall the more firmly cement our love. Say, Herman, why can you not be my husband?"

He turned pale, and avoided my gaze.

"You are ashamed of me,—ashamed, because I have given you the last proof which a woman can give to the man she loves."

"Ashamed! O, no, no,—by all that is sacred, no,—but Marion——"

And bending nearer to me, in faltering accents, he whispered the secret to my ears. He was betrothed to Fanny Lansdale, the daughter of the wealthiest and most influential member of his congregation. He had been betrothed long before he met me. To Mr. Lansdale, the father, he owed all that he had acquired in life, both in position and fame. That gentleman had taken him when a friendless orphan boy, had educated him, and after his ordination, had obtained for him the pastoral charge of his large and wealthy congregation. Thus, he was bound to the father by every tie of gratitude; to the daughter by an engagement that he could not break, without ingratitude and disgrace. My heart died within me at this revelation. At once I saw that Herman could never be lawfully mine. Between him and myself stood Fanny Lansdale, and every tie of gratitude, and every emotion of self-respect and honor.

---

[CHAPTER XII.]

MARION AND FANNY.

Not long after this interview, I saw Fanny Lansdale at church; made the acquaintance of her father—a grave citizen, who regarded me as a sincere devotee—and induced Fanny to become a frequent visitor at my house. She confided all to me. She loved Herman devotedly, and looked forward to their marriage as the most certain event in the world. She was a very pretty child, with clear blue eyes, luxuriant hair, and a look of bewitching archness. I do not step aside from the truth, when I state that I sincerely loved her; although it is also true, that I never suffered myself to think of her marriage with Herman as anything but an impossible dream. An incident took place one summer evening, about a year after Herman's first visit to my house, which, slight as it was, it is just as well to relate. It is such slight incidents which often decide the fate of a lifetime, and strike down the barrier between innocence and crime.

I was sitting on the sofa at the back window of the parlor, and Fanny sat on the stool at my feet. The light of the setting sun shone over my shoulders, and lighted up her face, as her clasped hands rested on my knees, and her happy, guileless look, was centered on my countenance. As I gazed upon that innocent face, full of youth and hope, I was reminded of my own early days; and at the memory, a tear rolled down my cheek.

"Yes, you shall marry Herman," the thought flashed over my mind; "and I will aid you, Fanny; yes, I will resign Herman to you."

At this moment Herman entered noiselessly, and took his place by my shoulder; and, without a word, gazed first into my face and then into the face of Fanny. Oh, that look! It was never forgotten. It was fate. For it said, as plainly as a soul, speaking through eyes, can say—"Thou, Marion, art my mistress, the companion of my illicit and sensual love; but thou, Fanny, art my wife, the pure partner of my lawful love!"

After that look, Herman bade us good evening! in a tone of evident agitation, and hurried from the room.

From that hour, Herman avoided me. Weeks passed, and he was not seen at my house. At church he never seemed to be conscious of my presence; and, the service over, hurried at once from the place, without a single glance or sign of recognition. At length, Fanny's visits became less frequent; and, when she did come to see me, her manner manifested a conflict of confidence and suspicion. That this wounded me—that the absence of Herman cut me to the soul—may easily be imagined. I passed my time between alternations of hope and despair; now listening, and in vain, for the echo of Herman's step—and now bathed in unavailing tears. Conscious that my passion for Herman was the last link that bound me to purity—to life itself—I did not give up the hope of seeing him at my feet, as in former days, until months had elapsed. Finally, grown desperate, and anxious to avoid the sting of wounded love, the perpetual presence of harrowing memories, I sought the society of that class of fashionables, to whom my first husband, Issachar Burley, had introduced me. I kept open house for them. Revels, from midnight until dawn, in which men and women of the first class mingled, served for a time to banish reflection, and sap, tie by tie, every thread of hope which held me to a purer state of life. The kennel has its orgies, and the hovel, in which ignorance and squalor join in their uncouth debauch; but the orgie of the parlor, in which beauty, intellect, fashion and refinement are mingled, far surpasses, in unutterable vulgarity, the lowest orgie of the kennel. Amid the uproar of scenes like these, news reached me that the Rev. Herman Barnhurst and Miss Fanny Lansdale were shortly to be united in marriage.

---

[CHAPTER XIII.]

AN UNUTTERABLE CRIME.

One evening I was sitting alone, in the back parlor, near a table on which stood a lighted candle and a wine-glass, (for I now at times began to seek oblivion in wine,) when Gerald Dudley was announced. Gerald was one of my fashionable friends, over forty in years, tall in stature, with a florid face, short curling brown hair, and sandy whiskers. He was a roué, and a gambler, and—save the mark—one of the first fashionables of New York. He entered, dressed in a showy style; blue coat, red velvet vest, plaid pants, brimstone-colored gloves, and a profusion of rings and other jewelry—a style indicative of the man. Seating himself on the sofa, he began chatting in his easy way about passing events of fashionable life, and of the world at large.

"By-the-bye, the popular preacher, young Barnhurst, is to be married; and to such a love of a girl—daughter of old Lansdale, the millionaire. Lucky fellow! Do you know that I've often noticed her at church—a perfect Hebe—and followed her home, once or twice, and that I shouldn't mind marrying her myself if I could get a chance!"

And he laughed a laugh which showed his white teeth. "Bah! But that's it—I can't get a chance."

Perhaps I blushed at the mention of this marriage; but he immediately continued:—

"On dit, my pretty widow, that this girl, Lansdale, has cut you out. Barnhurst once was sadly taken with you; so I've heard. How is it? All talk, I suppose?"

I felt myself growing pale, although the blood was boiling in my veins. But before I could reply, there was a ring at the front door, followed by the sound of a hasty footstep, and the next moment, to my utter surprise, Fanny Lansdale rushed into the room. Without seeming to notice the presence of Dudley, she rushed forward, and fell on her knees before me, her bonnet hanging on her neck, her hair floating about her face, and that face bathed in blushes and tears.

"Oh, Marion! Marion!" she gasped,—"some slanderer has told father a story about you and Herman,—a vile, wicked story,—which you can refute, and which I am sure you will! For—for—"

She fell fainting on my knee. The violence of her emotions, for the time, deprived her of all appearance of life. Her head was on my lap; one hand sought mine, and was joined to it in a convulsive clasp.

Oh, who shall say that those crimes which make the world shudder but to hear told, are the result of long and skillful planning, of careful and intricate scheming? No, no; the worst crimes—those which it would seem might make even the heart of a devil, contract with horror—are not the result of long and deliberate purpose, but of the temptation of a moment—of the fatal opportunity!

As her head rested on my lap, a voice whispered in my ear:

"Your rival! Retire for a few moments, in search of hartshorn, or some such restorative, and leave the fainting one in my care."

I raised my head and caught the eye of Gerald Dudley. Only a single look, and the fiend was in my heart. I rose; the fainting girl fell upon the floor; I hurried from the room, and did not pause until I had reached my own chamber, and locked the door. Pressing my hands now on my burning temples, now on my breast, I paced the floor, while, perchance, fifteen minutes—they seemed an eternity—passed away.

Then I went slowly down stairs, and entered the back parlor. Gerald was there, standing near the sofa; his face wearing an insolent scowl of triumph. The girl was stretched upon the sofa, still insensible, but—I dare not write it—opposite Gerald stood Herman Barnhurst, who had followed Fanny to the house, and arrived—too late. His face was bloodless.

"Oh, villain!" he groaned, as his maddened gaze was fixed on Dudley; "you shall pay for this with your blood—"

"Softly, Reverend Sir! softly! One word of this, and the world shall know of your amours with the handsome widow."

Herman's gaze rested on my face—

"You,—know—of—this?" he began, with a look that can never be forgotten.

"Pardon, Herman, pardon! I was mad," I shrieked, flinging myself at his feet, and clutching his knees.

For a moment he gazed upon me, and then, lifting his clenched right hand, he struck me on the forehead, and I fell insensible on the floor. The curse, which he spoke as I fell, rings even yet in my ears.

---

[CHAPTER XIV.]

SUICIDE.

Three days have passed since then. Such days as I will never pass again! I have just learned that Gerald Dudley has fled the city. His purpose to obtain Fanny's hand in marriage by first accomplishing her shame, has utterly failed. Her father knows all and is now using every engine of his wealth to connect my name with the crime which has damned every hope of his idolized child. And he will succeed! I feel it; I know it; my presentiment cannot prove false. What shall I do?—whither turn?

And Herman is a raving lunatic. This too is my work. Yes, yes, I am resolved.—I am resolved. * * * *

To-morrow's dawn will bring disgrace and shame to me; and, in the future, I see the crowded court-house—the mob, eager to drink in the story of my guilt,—and the felon's cell. But the morrow's dawn I shall never see!

I am alone in my chamber—the very chamber in which I became Burley's, in an unholy marriage—Walter's, in the marriage of a stainless love—Herman's, in the mad embrace of passion. And now, O Death! upon that marriage couch, I am about to wed thee!

The brazier stands in the center of the bridal chamber; its contents were ignited half an hour ago; every avenue to my chamber is carefully closed; already the fumes of the burning charcoal begin to smite my temples and my heart.

This record, written from time to time, and now concluded by a hand chilled by death, I leave to my only living relative,—not as an apology for my crimes, but as an explanation of the causes which led me to the brink of this awful abyss.

Air! air! Burley, for thee I have no remorse. Let the branch snap!—over the cataract with thy accursed face! Thou wert the cause of all—thou! But, Walter, thy last look kills my soul.—Herman, thy curse is on me! And poor Fanny! Air! Light! It is so dark—dark!—Oh for one breath of prayer!

conclusion.

The preceding confession, signed by the tremulous hand of the poor suicide, was found in her room, with the senseless corse, by the relative, to whom she addressed it, and who adds these concluding pages. For days after the event, the papers were filled with paragraphs, in regard to the melancholy affair. A single one extracted from a prominent paper, will give some idea of the tone of the public mind:

Extract from a New York Paper.

"TRAGEDY IN HIGH LIFE.

"The town is full of rumors, in regard to a mysterious event, or series of events, implicating a member of one of the first families of New York. These rumors are singularly startling, and although they have not yet assumed a definite shape, certainly call for a judicial investigation. As far as we have been able to sift the stories now afloat, the plain truth, reduced to the briefest possible shape, appears to be as follows: Some years since, Miss Marion M——, daughter of old Mr. M——, one of our first merchants, was, while under an engagement of marriage with Walter H——, forced into a marriage with Mr. Issachar B——, a man old enough to be her father, who, it is stated, had the father absolutely in his power. The marriage took place, but not long afterward, B——, while on a visit to Niagara, was precipitated over the Falls, at dead of night, in a manner not yet satisfactorily explained. Soon afterward the young widow, then immensely rich, encountered her former betrothed, and the fashionable world were soon afterward informed of their marriage. A year passed, and Walter H——, the husband of the former widow, was found in a distant part of the country, mysteriously murdered, it was not known by whom, although it was rumored at the time, that the brother of a wronged sister, was on that occasion the avenger of his sister's shame. The beautiful Mrs. H——, was once more a widow. Here it might seem that her adventures, connected so strangely with the death of two husbands, had reached their termination. But it seems she was soon fascinated by the eloquence of a young man and popular divine, Rev. H—— B——. While betrothed to Miss Fanny L——, daughter of a wealthy member of his congregation, the eloquent preacher became a visitor at the house of the rich widow, and finally his affections became entangled, and he was forced to choose between said widow and his betrothed. He sacrificed his affection for the former, to his solemn engagement with the latter. The 'slighted' widow, endured the usual pangs of 'despised love,' coupled with something very much like Italian jealousy, or rather jealousy after the Italian school. The betrothed was inveigled into a certain house, and her honor sacrificed by a gentleman of fashion, known for thirty years as a constant promenader, on the west side of Broadway, Mr. Gerald D——. The widow (strangest freak of a slighted and vindictive woman!) is said to have been the planner and instigator of this crime. We have now arrived at the sequel of the story. Unable to obtain the hand of the Rev. H—— B——, and stung by remorse, for her share in the dishonor of his betrothed, the widow put a period to her own existence, in what manner is not exactly known, although conflicting rumors state the knife, or the poison vial was the instrument of her death. No coroner's inquest took place. The body gave no signs of a violent death. 'Disease of the heart' was stated in the certificate of the physician, (how compliant he was to the wishes of rich survivors, we will not say,) as the cause of her unexpected disease. She was quietly buried in the family vault, and her immense estate descends to a relative, who was especially careful, in cloaking over the fact of the suicide. The tragedy involved in this affair, will be complete, when we inform the reader, that Mr. Gerald D——, has left the city, while his poor victim, Fanny L——, tenants the cell of an asylum for the insane. Altogether, this affair is one of the wildest exaggerations, or one of the most painful tragedies, that ever fell to the lot of the press, to record. Can it be believed that a young lady, honorably reared, would put a period to the lives of two husbands, then procure the dishonor of a rival, who interposed between her and a third 'husband?' Verily, 'fact is stranger than fiction,' and every day, reality more improbable than the wildest dreams of romance. The truth will not be known until the Confession, said to be left by the young widow, makes its appearance. But will it appear? we shall see."

So much for the public press.

The reader can contrast its rumors, with the facts of the case, as plainly set forth in the previous confession, penned by the hand of the unfortunate and guilty Marion Merlin.

A few words more will close this painful narrative. Marion was quietly and honorably buried. Her relatives were wealthy and powerful. The 'physician's certificate' enabled them to avoid the painful formality of a coroner's inquest. She sleeps beside her husband, Walter Howard, in Greenwood Cemetery.

Soon after her decease, Mr. Lansdale sold all his property in New York, and with his daughter disappeared completely from public view.

Herman Barnhurst remained in the Lunatic Asylum for more than a year, when he was released, his intellect restored, but his health (it is stated) irretrievably broken. After his release, he left New York, and his name was soon forgotten, or if mentioned at all, only as that of a person long since dead.

Gerald Dudley, after various adventures, in Texas and Mexico, suffered at the hands of Judge Lynch, near San Antonio.

About a year after the death of Marion Merlin, a young man in moderate circumstances, accompanied by his wife, (a pale, faded, though interesting woman) and her aged father took up his residence in C——, a pleasant village in south-western Pennsylvania. They were secluded in their habits, and held but little intercourse with the other villagers. The husband passed by the name of Wilton, which (for all that the villagers knew to the contrary,) was his real name.

One winter evening, as the family were gathered about the open wood-fire, a sleigh halted at the door, and a visitor appeared in the person of a middle-aged man, who came unbidden into the room, shaking the snow from his great coat, and seating himself in the midst of the family. Regarding for a moment the face of the aged father, and then the countenance of the young husband and wife, which alike in their pallor, seemed to bear the traces of an irrevocable calamity, the visitor said quietly,—

"Herman Barnhurst, I am the relative to whom Marion Merlin addressed her confession, and whom she invested with the trusteeship of her estate."

Had a thunderbolt fallen into the midst of the party, it would not have created so much consternation, as these few words from the lips of the visitor. The young wife shrieked, the old man started from his chair; Herman Barnhurst, (otherwise called Mr. Wilton,) with the blood rushing to his pale face, said simply, "That accursed woman!"

"I hold her last Will and Testament in my hand," continued the visitor: "I am her nearest relative, and would inherit her estate, but for this will, by which she names you and your wife Fanny, as the sole heirs of her immense property."

Herman took the Will from the visitor's hands.

"As administrator of her estate, I am here to surrender it into your hands. The will was made as a small atonement for the injury she caused you."

Herman quietly dropped the parchment into the fire:

"Her money and her memory are alike accursed. I will have nothing to do with either."

That night the relative turned his face eastward, to take possession of the estate of Marion Merlin.

And beneath this, in a different hand, was added the following singular narrative:

---

[CHAPTER XV.]

AFTER THE DEATH OF MARION.

A pleasant place, in summer time, was the country-mansion of the celebrated Doctor N——, situated upon the heights of Weehawken, about one mile from the Hudson River. A huge edifice of brick, separated from the high road by a garden, it was surrounded by tall trees, whose branches overhung its steep roof, and relieved by the background of the rich foliage and blossoms of the orchard trees. A pleasant place, in summer, was the mansion of the celebrated Doctor, but lonely enough, and desolate enough in winter. On this drear winter night, it looks sad and desolate as the grave. The sky above it is leaden, the trees around it are leafless, the garden white with snow, and the bitter wind howls dismally over the waste of snow, which clothes the adjacent fields. In the distance, the Hudson glitters dimly, white and cold, with fields of floating ice. It is near morning, and but a single room in the vast country mansion is tenanted. You can see a light trembling faintly through the half vailed window yonder; the window near the roof, in the southern wing.

It is near morning; but one person by a solitary light, keeps his vigil in the deserted mansion; a sleigh drawn by a single horse, (he has been driven hard, for there is foam upon his flanks) and moving noiselessly, without the sound of bells stops at the garden gate. Two persons, whose forms are wrapped in thick overcoats, and whose faces are concealed by fur caps, drawn low over the brows, dismount and pass along the garden walk, bearing a burden on their shoulders. They ascend the steps of the porch, and stand in front of the hall door, looking anxiously about them, as if to assure themselves, their movements were not observed.

"So far safe enough,—" exclaims one in a hoarse voice, "the next thing is to get it up stairs." And he places a key in the lock of the door.

Meanwhile the light, which trembling outward from yonder window, shines redly over the frozen snow, shines within upon the face of the lonely watcher. A young man sits beside a table, reading by the light of a clouded lamp, his cheeks resting on his hands, and his gaze riveted upon the large volume, spread open before him. The light falls brightly upon the book, leaving his features in half twilight, but still you can trace the outlines of his face,—the enthusiasm of his fixed eyes,—the energy of his broad bold forehead. It is a small and comfortable apartment; near him a wood-fire is burning, on the open hearth; opposite him a sofa, and a range of shelves, filled with books, and upon the green cloth of the table by which he is seated, you discover a sort of semicircle of open volumes,—placed there evidently for reference,—a mass of carelessly strewn manuscripts, and a case of surgical instruments.

Arthur Conroy, the favorite student of the celebrated Doctor,—a student, whose organization combines the exactness and untiring industry of the man of science, with the rich enthusiasm of the poet,—is the only tenant of the mansion, during the dreary winter. He is not seen during the day, but every night, arriving from New York, after dark, he builds his fire, lights his candle, and commences his lonely vigil. Sometimes, late at night, he is joined by the grave Doctor himself, and they pursue their researches together. What manner of researches? We cannot tell; but there is a rumor, that one apartment of the huge mansion is used, in winter time, as a Dissecting-Room. And the light streaming night after night, from the window near the roof, strikes the lonely wayfarer with a sensation, in some manner, associated with ghosts, witches, and dealings with the devil in general.

Arthur is ambitious; even while his mind is wrapt in the mazes of a scientific problem, he thinks of his widowed mother and orphan sisters far away in the great village near Seneca lake, and his pulse beats quicker, as he looks forward to the day when their ears shall be greeted by the tidings of his world-wide fame. For he has determined to be a surgeon, and a master in his art; he has the will and the genius; he will accomplish what he wills.

He raises his eyes from his book,—they are glittering with the clear light of intense thought,—and unconsciously begins to think aloud.

"Do the dead return? Are the dead indeed dead? You have nailed down the coffin-lid; you have seen the coffin as it sunk into the grave; you have heard the rattling of the clod,—but is that all? Is the beloved one whom you have given to the grave, indeed dead, or only more truly living in a new body, formed of refined matter, invisible to our gross organs? Is that which we call soul, only the result of a particular organization of gross matter, or is it the real, eternal substance of which all other matter is but the servant and the expression? Do the dead return? Do those whose faces we have seen for the last time, ere the coffin-lid closed upon them forever, ever come back to us, clad in spiritual bodies, and addressing us, not through our external organs, but by directly impressing that divine substance in us, which is like unto them,—that which we call our soul?"

It was a thought which for ages has made the hearts of the noblest and truest of our race, alternately combat with despair, and swell with hope,—that thought which seeks to unvail the mystery of Life and Death, disclose the tie which connects perishable matter with eternal mind, and lift the curtain which hides from the present, the other world.

Arthur felt the vast thought gather all his soul into its embrace. But his meditations were interrupted by the opening of the door, and the two men,—whom we saw dismount from the sleigh,—entered the room of the student, bearing in their arms the burden, which was covered by folds of coarse canvas.

Very ungainly men they were, with their brawny forms wrapped in huge gray overcoats, adorned with white buttons, and their harsh visages half concealed by their coarse fur caps. They came into the room without a word.

"O, you have come," said Arthur, as if he recognized persons by no means strangers to him. "Have you the particular subject which the doctor desired you to procure?"

"Jist that partikler subject," said one of the twain,—"an' a devil of a time we've had to git it! Fust we entered the vault at Greenwood, with a false key, and then opened the coffin, so as it'll never be known that it was opened at all. Closed the vault ag'in and got the body over the wall, and hid it in the bottom of the sleigh. Crossed the ferry at Brooklyn—went through the city, and then took the ferry for Hoboken,—same sleigh, and same subject in the bottom of it; an' druv here with a blast in our face, sharp as a dozen butcher knives."

"But if it had not a-been for the storm, we wouldn't a-got the body," interrupted the other.

"And here we air, and here it is, and that's enough. What shall we do with it?"

Arthur opened a small door near the bookcase, and a narrow stairway (leading up into the garret) was disclosed.

"You know the way," he said. "When you get up there place it on the table."

They obeyed without a word. Bearing their burden slowly through the narrow doorway, they disappeared, and the echo of their heavy boots was heard on the stairway. They were not long absent. After a few moments they again appeared, and the one who had acted as principal spokesman, held out his open palm toward Arthur,—

"Double allowance to-night, you know," he said,—"Doctor generally gives us from forty to sixty dollars a job, but this partikler case axes for ten gold pieces,—spread eagles, you know, wuth ten dollars apiece,—only a hundred dollars in all. Shell out!"

Arthur quietly placed ten gold pieces in the hands of the ruffian.—"The doctor left it for you. Now go."

And shuffling their heavy boots, they disappeared through the same door by which they had entered. Looking through the window after a few moments, he saw the sleigh moving noiselessly down the public road.

"Dangerous experiment for the doctor, especially if the event of this night should happen to be discovered," ejaculated Arthur, as he rebuilt his fire. "A peculiar case of suicide, and he wished the body at all hazards. Well! I must to work."

He drew on an apron of dark muslin, which was provided with sleeves, and then lifting the shade from the lamp, he lighted a cigar. As the smoke of the grateful Havana rolled through his apartment, he took the lamp in one hand, and a case of instruments in the other, and ascended the secret stairway leading to the garret.

"I have seen her when living, arrayed in all the pride of youth and beauty," he said, as the lamp shone upon the vast and gloomy garret,—"and now let me look upon the shell which so lately held that passionate soul."

It was indeed a vast and gloomy garret. It traversed the entire extent of the southern wing. The windows at either end were carefully darkened. The ceiling was formed by the huge rafters and bare shingles of the steep roof. To one of these rafters a human skeleton was suspended, its white bones glaring amid the darkness. In the center was a large table, upon which was placed the burden which the ruffians had that night stolen from the grave. The place was silent, lonely,—the wind howled dismally among the chimneys,—and Arthur could not repress a slight shudder as his footsteps echoed from the naked floor. Arthur placed the lamp upon the table, and began to uncover the subject. Removing the coarse canvas he disclosed the corpse. An ejaculation burst from his lips,—a cry half of terror, half of surprise.

The light shone upon the body of a beautiful woman. From those faultless limbs and that snowy bosom the grave-clothes had been carefully stripped. A single fragment of the shroud fluttered around the right arm. Save this fragment the body was completely bare, and the dark hair of the dead fell loosely on her shoulders. The face was very beautiful and calm, as though sealed only for an hour in a quiet sleep,—the fringes of the eyelashes rested darkly upon the cheeks. Never had the light shone upon a shape of more surpassing loveliness, upon limbs more like ivory in their snowy whiteness, upon a face more like a dreamless slumber, in its calm, beautiful expression. Dead, and yet very beautiful! A proud soul dwelt in this casket once,—the soul has fled, and now the casket must be surrendered to the scalpel,—must be cut and rent, shred by shred, by the dissector's hand.

"But the limbs are not rigid with death," soliloquized Arthur,—"Decay has not yet commenced its work. As I live, there is a glow upon the cheek."

With his scalpel he inflicted a gash near the right temple, and at the same instant—imagining he heard a footstep,—he turned his face over his shoulder. It was only imagination, and he turned again to trace the result of the incision.

The dead woman was in a sitting posture, her eyes were wide open, she was gazing calmly into his face. Arthur fell back with a cry of horror.

"Nay, do not be frightened," said a low, although tremulous voice,—"I have simply been the victim of an attack of catalepsy."

And while he stood spell-bound, his eyes riveted to her face, and his ears drinking in the rich music of her voice, she continued,—

"Catalepsy, which leaves the soul keenly conscious and in possession of all its powers, but without the slightest control over the body, which appears insensible and dead. The agony of that state is beyond all power of words! To hear the voices which speak over your coffin, and yet be unable to frame a word, to breathe even a sigh! I heard them talk over my coffin,—I was conscious as the lid closed down upon my face,—conscious when they placed me in the vault, and locked the door, and left me there buried alive. And an eternity seemed to pass from the time when they locked the door, (I was only buried yesterday,) until your men came to-night, to rob the grave of its prey. I heard every word they uttered from the moment when they tore the shroud from my bosom, until they entered your room, and then I heard your voice. And when they left me here, I heard your step upon the stair, heard your ejaculation as you bent over me, and it seemed to me that my soul made its last effort to arouse from this unutterable living death, as you struck the knife into my temple. You have saved my life——"

Arthur could not utter a word; he could not believe the scene to be real; he thought himself the victim of a terrible although bewitching dream.

"I arise from the grave, but it is to begin life anew. The name which I bore lies buried in the grave vault. It is with a new name, and under new auspices, that I will recommence life. And as for you, I know you to be young, gifted, ambitious. I will show my gratitude by making your fortune. But you must swear, and now, never to reveal the secret of this night!"

"I swear it," ejaculated Arthur, still pale and trembling.

"What, are you still afraid of me? Come near me,—nearer,—take my hand,—does that,—" and a bewitching smile crossed her face,—"does that feel like the hand of a dead woman?"

With these words the history of Marion came to a pause.

---

For the first time, Arthur Dermoyne raised his eyes from the pages which recorded the life of Marion Merlin. For an hour and more he had bent over those pages in profound and absorbing interest.

"Here, then, is the real secret of the life of Herman Barnhurst!" he ejaculated. "He was simply a sincere enthusiast, all his bad nature dormant, and all his good in active life, until this woman crossed his path. And the wife who now slumbers by his side, is none other than Fanny Lansdale, the victim of the unutterable crime. Who shall say that we are not, in a great measure, the sport of circumstance? How different would have been the life of Herman, had Marion never crossed his path?"

Something like pity for the crimes of Barnhurst began to steal over Dermoyne's face, as he sat thus alone, in the solitude of the last hour of the night; but the thoughts of Alice, on her bed of shame and anguish, started up like a phantom and drove every throb of compassion from his soul.

"If Alice dies, there is but one way,"—he said moodily, with a fixed light in his eyes.—"But this Marion,—ah! Something more of her history is written here. Let me read,—" Once more he bent over the Red Book. Even as his eyes were fixed upon the page, a shadow was cast over it, and then a dark object interposed between him and the light; and the next moment all was darkness. But on the instant, before the darkness came, he looked up, and saw before him a brawny form, a face stamped with ferocious brutality; an upraised hand grasping a knife, which glittered as it rose. This he saw for an instant only, and then all was blackness.

"Not wid de knife, Dirk! Let me fix him wid dis,—and do yer see to de Red Book!"

There was a sound as of a weapon whizzing through the air, and Dermoyne was felled to the floor by a blow from the "Slung-shot."

As the first gleam of morning stole into the bed-chamber, touching, with rosy light, the faces of the sleeping wife and her children, Barnhurst stealthily arose, dressed himself, and stole on tiptoe from the place. In the dark he descended the stairway, and all the while,—from loss of sleep, combined with the excitement of the past night,—he shook in every nerve. His thoughts were black and desperate.

"Ruin wherever I turn! If I escape this man, there remains the villain whom I met last night, in Trinity Church. On one side exposure, on the other death. What can be done? Cut the matter short, and renouncing all my prospects, seek safety in flight? or remain,—dare all the chances,—exposure,—the death of a dog,—all,—and trust to my good fortune?"

He paused at the foot of the stairway, and a hope shot through his heart,—"If I could see Godiva all might yet be well! Yes, I must, I will see Godiva."

Uttering the name of Godiva, (new to the reader and to our history,) he approached the parlor door. "Now for this man!" he said, and shuddered. He opened the door, and looked around; the first rays of morning were stealing through the window-curtains, but the room was vacant. Dermoyne was not there. The carpet was torn near the sofa, the table overturned, and there was blood upon the carpet and sofa. But Dermoyne had disappeared.

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[PART SIXTH.]