CHAPTER I.
ARRAYED FOR THE BRIDAL.
It was toward evening, when, amid the crowd of Broadway—that crowd of mad and impetuous life—there glided, like a specter through the mazes of a voluptuous dance, a man of sober habit, pallid face, and downcast eyes. Beautiful women, wrapped in soft attire, passed him every moment; brushed him with their perfumed garments; but he heeded them not. There was the free laugh, the buzz of voices, and the tramp of footsteps all about him, but he did not raise his eyes, nor bend his ear. Gliding along in his dark habit, he was as much alone on that thronged pathway, as though he walked the sands of an Arabian desert. A man of hollow cheeks, features boldly marked, and eyes large and dark, and shining with the fire of disease, or with the restlessness of a soul that had turned upon itself, and was gnawing ever and ever at its own life-strings.
His habit—a long black coat, single breasted, and with a plain white band about the neck—indicated that he was a Catholic Priest.
He was a Priest. Struck down in his early manhood by an irreparable calamity, he had looked all around the horizon of his life for—peace. Repose, repose—a quiet life—an obscure grave—became the objects of his soul's desire, instead of the ambitions which his young manhood had cherished.
As there was not peace within him, so he searched the world for it, and in vain.
He sought it in a money-bound Protestant church, behind whose pulpit-bible—like a toad upon an altar—Mammon, holy mammon, squats in bank-note grandeur. And there, he found money, and much cant, and abundance of sect,—but no peace.
To the Catholic church he turned. Won by the poetry of that church—we use the word in its awful and intense sense, for poetry and religion are one—and, forgetful of the infernal deeds which demoniacs, in purple and scarlet, have done in the name of that church, tracking their footsteps over half the globe in blood, and lighting up the history of ten centuries, at least, with flames of persecution,—won by all that is good and true in that church, (which he forgot is good and true under whatsoever form it occurs,)—he sought repose in its bosom.
Did he find it? He found good and true men among priests and people; he found noble and pure women, in the valleys of the church; but, lifting his eyes to her lofty eminence, he too often saw purpled and mitred atheists, who, from their thrones, made sport of human misery, and converted Christ the Savior into the Fetish of a brutal superstition.
He had been to Rome; in Rome he saw the seamless coat of Christ made a cloak for every outrage that can be inflicted upon the human race.
Did he find peace? Yes, when vailing his eyes from the atrocities done in the name of the church, turning himself away from the scarlet-clad atheists, who too often mount her seats of power, he retreated within himself, opened the gospels, and from their pages saw kindle into life and love, the face of Him, whom priests may misinterpret or defame, but whose name forever to suffering humanity, is "consolation."
As he passed thus along Broadway, buried in his thoughts, and utterly unconscious of the scene around him, he felt a hand press his own. He awoke from his thoughts, stopped and looked around him. The crowd was hurrying by, but the person who pressed his hand had disappeared. Was that pressure of the hand a mere freak of the imagination? No; for the hand of the unknown had left within the hand of the Priest a neatly-folded letter, upon which, in a fair and delicate hand, was written his own name.
Stepping aside from the crowd, he opened and read the letter. It was very brief, but its contents called a glow to the pale cheek of the Priest.
He at once retraced his steps, and passed down Broadway, with a rapid and eager step. Hurrying through the gay crowd, he turned, in a few moments, into a street leading to the North River. The sun was setting, and cast the shadow of his slender form long and black over the pavement, as he paused in front of a stately mansion. He once more examined the letter, and then surveyed the mansion.
"It is the same," he said, and ascended the lofty steps and rang the bell. "Truly, the office of a Priest is a painful one," the thought crossed his mind; "he sees so much misery that he has not the power to relieve. Misery, under the rags of the hovel, and despair under the velvet of the palace."
A male servant, in livery, answered the bell, and glanced somewhat superciliously at the faded attire of the Priest. But he inclined his head in involuntary respect, as the Priest said, simply—
"I am Father Luke,—"
"This way, sir. You are expected," answered the servant; and he led Father Luke along a lofty hall, and into a parlor, over whose rich furniture shone dimly the light of the setting sun. "Remain here, sir, and I will announce your coming."
He left the Priest alone. Father Luke placed his hat upon a table, and seated himself in a chair. In a moment, resting his cheek upon his hand, and turning his eyes to the light, (which shone through the curtained window,) he was buried in thought again. His singular and remarkable face stood forth from the back-ground of shadow like a portrait of another age. His crown was bald, but his forehead was encircled by dark hair, streaked with silver. As the light shone over that broad brow, and upon the great eyes, dilating in their sunken sockets, he seemed not like a practical man of the nineteenth century, but like one of those penitents or enthusiasts, who, in a dark age, shut up the fires of their agony, of trampled hope or undying remorse, within the shadows of a cloister.
"This way, sir,"—it was the voice of the servant, who touched him respectfully on the shoulder as he spoke.
Father Luke arose and followed him from the room, and up a broad stairway, and along a corridor: "At the end of this passage you will find a door. Open it and enter. You are expected there."
Passing from the corridor, lighted by the window at its extremity, the Priest entered a narrow passage where all was dark, and pursued his way until his progress was terminated by a door. He opened the door and crossed the threshold—but, upon the very threshold, stood spell-bound in surprise.
It was a large apartment, with lofty walls, and, instead of the cheerful rays of the declining sun, it was illuminated by a lamp with a clouded shade, which, suspended from the center of the ceiling, shed around a soft and mysterious light.
The walls were not papered nor panneled, but covered with hangings of a dark color. One part of the spacious chamber was occupied by a couch with a high canopy, and curtains whose snowy whiteness stood out distinctly from the dark back-ground. A wood fire was burning under the arch of the old-fashioned fire-place; and a mirror, in a frame of dark walnut, reflected the couch with its white canopy, and a table covered with a white cloth, which stood directly underneath the hanging lamp. Upon the white cloth was placed a crucifix, a book, a wreath of flowers.
The place was perfectly still, and the soft rays of the lamp, investing all its details with mingled light and shadow, gave an atmosphere of mystery to the scene.
Father Luke stood on the threshold, hesitating whether to advance or retreat, when a low voice broke the stillness:
"Come in, sir. I have waited for you."
And for the first time Father Luke took notice of the presence of the speaker. It was a woman, who, attired in black, sat in a rocking-chair, near the table, her hands folded over her breast. Her head and face were covered by a thick vail of white lace, which fell to her shoulders, contrasting strongly with her somber attire.
Father Luke entered and seated himself in a vacant chair, which stood near the table. Resting his arm on the table,—(he sat directly beneath the lamp, in a circle of shadow,)—and shading his eyes with his hand, he silently surveyed the woman, over whom the light fell in full radiance. There was dark hair, there were bright eyes, beneath that vail of lace; a young, a richly moulded form, beneath that garb of sable; but in vain he endeavored to trace the features of the unknown.
"You received a letter?" said the lady, in a low voice.
"As I was passing up Broadway, a few moments since, a letter was placed in my hand, bidding my presence at this house, on an errand of life and death."
She started at the sound of that sonorous and hollow voice, and, through her vail, seemed to survey him earnestly.
"I am glad that you have come. I thank you with all my soul. Although not a member of your church, I have heard of you for a long time, and heard of you as one who, having suffered much himself, was especially fitted to render consolation to the heart-broken and despair-stricken. Now I am heart-broken and despairing,"—she paused,—"I am dying,—"
"Dying?" he echoed.
"And have sent for you, believing you to be an honest man, not to hear confession of my sins, for they are too dark to be told or be forgiven. But to ask you a simple question, which I implore you to answer, not as a priest, but as a man;—to answer, not with the set phrases of your vocation, but frankly and fully, even as you wish to have peace yourself in the hour of death."
"And that question,—" the priest's head bent low upon his breast, and he surveyed her earnestly with his eyes hidden beneath his down-drawn brows.
"Do you believe in any Hereafter? Do you believe in another world? Does the death of the body end the story? Or, after the death of the body, does the soul rise and live again in a new and diviner life?"
"My sister," said the priest, with much emotion, "I know that there is a hereafter,—I know that the death of the body, is not the end of all, but simply the first step in an eternal pilgrimage—"
"This you say as a man, and not as a priest,—this is your true thought, as you wish to have peace, in the hour of your death?"
"Even so," said Father Luke.
"Thank you, O, bless you with all my soul. One question more,—O, answer me with the same frankness.—In the next world shall we meet, and know the friends whom we have loved in this?"
"We shall meet, we shall know, we shall love them in the next world, as certainly as we ever met, knew and loved them in this," was the answer of Father Luke, given with all the force and earnestness of undeniable sincerity. "Do you think we gather affections to our heart, only to bury them in the grave?"
The lady rose from her chair,—
"I thank you, once more, and with all my soul. Your words come from your heart. They confirm the intuitions of my own heart. For the consolation which these words afford, accept the gratitude of a dying woman. And now,—" she extended her hand, "and now farewell!"
The priest, who, through this entire interview, had never ceased to regard her, with his eyes almost hidden by his down-drawn brows,—struggling all the while to repress an agitation which increased every moment, and well nigh mastered him,—the priest also rose with these words on his lips:
"You dying, sister! you seem young, and full of life, and with the prospect of long years before you."
It was either the impulse of madness, or the force of a calm conviction, which induced her to reply:
"In one hour I will be dead."
The priest silently took her offered hand, and at the same instant, emerged from the circle of shadow, into the full glow of the light. There was something like magic in the pressure of their hands.
And the woman lifted her vail, disclosing a beautiful face, which already touched with the pallor of death, was lighted by dark eyes, whose brightness was almost supernatural.
Lifting her gaze heaven-ward, she said, as though thinking aloud,—
"In another world, Ernest, I will meet, I will know, I will love you!"
But ere the words had passed her lips,—yes, as the slowly lifted vail disclosed her face,—the priest sank back, as though stricken by a blow from an iron hand, uttering a wild and incoherent cry,—sank back as though the grave had yielded up its dead, and confronted him with a form, linked with holy and yet accursed memories.
"O, Frank, is it thus we meet," he cried, and fell on his knees, and buried his face in his hands.
The sound of his voice, at once lifted the scales from her eyes,—she knew him,—the vague consciousness of his presence, which had agitated her for the past few moments, became certainty. She knew that in Father Luke, who knelt before her, she beheld Ernest Walworth, her plighted husband. Sad and terrible indeed, must have been the change, which had fallen upon his countenance, that she did not know him, when he sat before her in the shadow!
Trembling in every nerve, and yet strong with the energy of a soul, that had taken its farewell of this life, she gave utterance to her feelings, in a single word,—his own,—pronounced in the soft low tones of other days.
"Ernest!"
"O, Frank, Frank, is it thus we meet!" he cried in wild agony, as he raised his face. "You,—you,—the only woman that I ever loved,—you, whose very memory has torn my heart, since that fatal hour, when I met you in the accursed haunt of death,—"
"Ernest you will sit by me as I die, you will press your hand in forgiveness on my forehead, my last look shall encounter yours—"
She opened her dark robe, and disclosed the snow-white dress which she wore beneath it. That dress was a shroud. Yes, the beautiful form, the bosom which had once been the home of a pure and stainless love, and which had beat with the throb of sensual passion, were now attired in a shroud.
"Behold me, attired for the grave," she said,—and the tears started to her eyes,—"This morning, resolved to quit this life, which for me, has been a life of unutterable shame and despair, I prepared for my departure. Everything is ready. Come, Ernest, and behold the preparations for my bridal,—" she pointed to the couch; he rose and followed her. "I am in love with death, and will wed him ere an hour is gone." She drew aside the curtains, and upon the white coverlet, Ernest beheld a dark object,—a coffin covered with black cloth, and glittering with a silver plate.
"Everything is ready, Ernest, and I am going. Nay, do not weep, do not attempt to touch my hand. I am but a poor polluted thing,—a wreck, a miserable, miserable wreck! My touch would pollute you,—I am not worth your tears."
Ernest hid his face in the hangings of the couch,—he writhed in agony.
"You shall not die,—you must be saved!" he wildly exclaimed.
She walked across the floor, with an even step; in a moment she was seated in the rocking-chair, with Ernest before her, his face hidden in his hands. Her face grew paler every moment; her eyes brighter; and the shroud which enveloped her bosom, began to quiver, with the last pulsations of her dying heart. As the vail mingled its fleecy folds with her raven hair, she looked very beautiful, yes, beautiful with the touch of death.
And as Ernest, choked with his agony, sat before her, hiding his face, she talked in a calm, even tone,—
"O, life! life! you have been a bitter draught to me, and now I am about to leave you! All day I have been thinking of my shame, of my crimes,—I have summoned up every act of my life,—the images of the past have walked before me in a sad funeral procession. O, Thou, who didst forgive the Magdalene,—Thou who hadst compassion on the poor wretch, whose cross arose beside thine own,—Thou who dost know all my life, my temptations, and my crimes,—forgive! forgive! It is a wandering child, sick of wandering, who now,—O, Thou, all-merciful!—gathers up the wreck of a miserable life, and lays it, with all its sins and shame, at Thy feet."
As she uttered this simple, yet awful prayer, Ernest did not raise his face. The agony which shook him was too deep for words.
Her voice grew faint and fainter, as she went on, in a vague and rambling way—
"And I was so innocent once, and did not know what sorrow was, and felt such gladness, at the sight of the sky, of the stars, of the flowers,—at the very breath of spring upon my cheek! O, I wonder if the old home stands there yet,—and the nook in the forest, don't you remember, Ernest? I was so happy, so happy then! And now I am dying—dying,—but you are near. You forgive me, Ernest, do you not?"
"Forgive you!" he echoed, raising his face, and spreading forth his clasped hands, "God's blessing and His consolation be upon you now and forever! And His curse,—" a look of hatred, which stamped every lineament of his face, revealed the intensity of his soul,—"and His curse be upon those, who brought you to this!"
As he spoke, the death damps began to glisten on her forehead; a glassy look began to vail the intense brightness of her eyes.
"Your hand, sit by me,—" she said faintly, "I shall sleep soon."
He drew his chair to her side, and softly put his hand upon her forehead,—it was cold as marble.
"It is good to go thus,—with Ernest by me,—and in token of forgiveness too, with his hand upon my forehead—"
Her words were interrupted by a footstep and a voice.
"Frank! Frank! where are you! I have triumphed!—triumphed! The one child is out of my way, and the other is in my power!"
It was Colonel Tarleton, who rushed to the light, his face lividly pale, and disfigured by wounds, his right arm carried in a sling. He had not seen his daughter since the hour when he left the Temple, before the break of day. And now, faint with loss of blood, and yet strong in the consciousness of his triumph, he rushed into the death-room of his child.
"I have had a hard time, Frank, but the game is won! The estate is ours! The other son of Gulian Van Huyden is in my power,—"
The words died on his lips. He beheld the dark form of the stranger, and the face of his dying child. The young form clad in a shroud; the countenance pale with death; the large eyes, whose brightness was vailed in a glassy film,—he saw this sad picture at a glance, but could not believe the evidence of his senses.
"Why, Frank, what's all this?" he cried, as with his pale face, marked by wounds, he stood before his daughter.
She slowly raised her eyes, and regarded him with a sad smile.
"The poison, father,—I drank it myself; he went forth from this house safe from all harm—"
Her voice failed.
Tarleton uttered a frightful cry, and fell like a dead man on the floor, his face against the carpet. The reality of the scene had burst upon him; in the hour of his triumph he saw his schemes,—the plans woven through the long course of twenty-one years and darkened by hideous crimes,—leveled in a moment to the dust.
Frank slowly turned her head, and fixed her glassy eyes upon the face of Ernest,—O, the intensity of that long and yearning gaze!
"I am weary and cold," she gasped, "but it is light yonder."
And that was all. Her eyes became fixed,—she laid her head gently on her shoulder, and fell asleep.
She was dead!
Ernest knelt beside her, and with his eyes flashing from their sunken sockets, he clasped his hands and uttered a prayer for the dead.
There were footsteps in the passage and presently into the death-room came Mary Berman and Nameless, their faces stamped with the same look in which hope and terror mingled. Nameless bore the last letter of Frank in his hand; it had hurried him and Mary from the corpse of the artist to the home of Frank, and they arrived only in time to behold her dead.
"She died to save my life!" said Nameless solemnly, as he surveyed that face which looked so beautiful in death. That there were strong emotions tugging at his heart,—emotions such as are not felt twice in a lifetime,—need not be told.
And Mary, with tears upon her pure and beautiful face, stole silently to the side of the dead woman, and smoothed her dark hair, and put her kiss upon her clammy forehead, and closed those eyes which had looked their last upon this world.
The prayer was said, and Ernest, resting his hands upon the arm of the chair in which the dead woman sat, hid once more his face from the light, and surrendered himself to the full sway of his agony.
A voice broke the dead stillness, and a livid face was uplifted from the floor.
"It's an infernal dream, Frank. You could not have been so foolish! The estate is ours,—ours,—"
He saw at the same glance the face of Nameless and the face of his dead child.
Here let us return for a moment to Maryvale, the old mansion in the country, to which, this morning before break of day, the Unknown, (in whom you doubtless recognize Gaspar Manuel, or the Legate,) had conducted the boy, Gulian, the private secretary of Evelyn Somers, Sr.
The contest between Tarleton and the dog Cain, in the presence of young Gulian, will be remembered; as well as the fact, that even as Tarleton, suffering from his wounds, attempted to bear Gulian from the house, he fell insensible at his victim's feet.
An hour afterward, when the light of day shone on the old mansion, the Legate returned and eagerly sought the chamber of young Gulian. The floor was stained with blood, the dead body of Cain was stretched at his feet, but the boy had disappeared. The Legate was a man, who, through the course of long years had learned to restrain all external signs of emotion, but when he became conscious that young Gulian was gone,—he knew not whither,—his agitation broke forth in the wildest expressions of despair.
"But I will again rescue him from his persecutor. Yes, before the day is over, he will be safe under my protection."
And himself and his numerous agents sought the city through all day long; and sought in vain.
[CHAPTER II.]
HERMAN AND GODIVA.
Our history now returns to Madam Resimer, whom we left in her most secret chamber, near ten o'clock, on the 24th of December, listening to the sound of the bell, which resounded through her mansion.
It was the bell of the secret passage.
"Who can it be?" again ejaculated the Madam, as she stood in the center of the room, with the light of the candle on one side of her florid face.
To which Corkins, who stood behind her, his slender form lost in her capacious shadow, responded in a quivering voice, "Who can it be?"
Much troubled and very angry, and not knowing upon whom to vent her anger, the Madam turned upon her trembling satellite, and addressing him by numerous titles, not one of which but was more vigorous than elegant or complimentary, she bade him,—
"Run for your life. Answer the hell of the secret passage! Don't be foolin' away your time, when the very devil's to pay and no pitch hot. Cut!"
Corkins accordingly "cut," or, to speak in a less classical phrase, he glided from the room.
How anxiously the Madam waited there, in her most secret chamber, with her finger to her lip, and the candle-light on one side of her face!
"Who can it be? Only four persons in the world know of this secret passage. It can't be this devil from Philadelphia? O, I shall do somebody a mischief! I can't endure this any longer,—"
Hark! There are footsteps in the corridor; they approach the Madam's room. She fixes her small black eyes upon the door, with the intensity of a—cat, contemplating a rat-hole.
"This way," cries the voice of Corkins, and he enters the room, followed by two persons, one of whom is taller than the other, and both of whom wear caps and cloaks.
"Has he come back?" cries the taller of the two, in a voice that trembles with anxiety and fear,—he lifts his cap, and discloses the face of Herman Barnhurst.
"No,—no,—I haven't laid eyes upon him since last night," and she clutched Barnhurst by the arm,—"Where did you leave him?"
"He went home with me," replied Barnhurst, and stopped to gaze around that room, dimly lighted by a single candle, as though he was afraid that Dermoyne was concealed in its shadows.—"I left him in the parlor down stairs. He was determined to wait for me until morning, and then come with me to this house. But this morning, when I came down stairs, he was not there."
"He was not there?" echoed the Madam, breathless with impatience.
"He wasn't there; there was blood upon the sofa and the carpet, and marks of a struggle."
The Madam uttered a round oath and a cry of joy.
"Good,—capital! My boys have done their work. You see, Herman, I sent Dirk and Slung after him, and they've laid him out. It's a sure thing."
Herman, even in his fright, could not but help shuddering, as he heard the cool manner in which she spoke of Dermoyne's death. The next instant the idea of his own safety rose uppermost in his mind.
"Do you think that your fellows have taken good care of him?" he asked.
"Don't doubt it,—don't doubt it," and she rubbed her hands joyfully together. "It's a sure thing!"
A raven-like voice, behind her, echoed, "Sure thing!" It was Corkins, of course.
"And she,—how is she?"—Herman lowered his voice, and pointed upward.
"She is well!" was the emphatic response of the Madam,—"But how did you know of the secret bell? Only four persons in the world know of it, and you are not one of them."
Herman pointed to the person who had entered with him, and who now stood in the darkness at his back,—"Godiva!" he said.
The Madam gave a start, echoing "Godiva," and Corkins, behind the Madam, as in duty bound, re-echoed "Godiva!"
The person called by this name,—the name of the beautiful lady, famed in ancient story, for the sacrifice which she made of her modesty in order to achieve a noble purpose,—advanced from the shadows into the light, saying, "This boy came to me this morning, in a world of trouble; he confided all his sorrows to me. It appears he is in a devil of a scrape. I came here to get him out of it."
And removing cap and cloak, Godiva stood disclosed in the candle-light. Godiva was a woman of some twenty-five years, with a rounded form, brown complexion, large eyes that were hazel in the sun, and black by night; and Godiva wore her raven hair in rich masses on either side of her warm, tropical face. Godiva was dressed, not in those flowing garments which give such bewitching mystery to the form of a lovely woman, but, in male costume from head to foot,—a shirt, with open collar, dark satin vest, blue frock-coat, black pantaloons, and boots of patent leather. Although looking short in stature beside the tall Barnhurst, she was tall for a woman, and her male costume, which did full justice to her throat, her ample bust, and rounded limbs, became her exceedingly.
With her cloak on her right arm, her cap in her right hand, she rested her left hand on her hip, and looked in the face of the Madam with an air of insolent condescension that was quite refreshing.
"How do you do, my dear child?"—and the Madam offered her hand. Godiva waved her back.
"Don't be impertinent, woman," was the response. "The few days that I once passed in your house, by no means give you the right to be familiar. I am here, simply, for two reasons,—I wish, in the first place, to get the boy (she pointed to Barnhurst,) out of his 'scrape;' and, in the second place, to recover a certain manuscript which, it seems, I left in this house when I was here."
The Madam was an essentially vulgar, as well as wicked woman, but she could not help feeling the cutting insolence which marked the tone of the queenly Godiva.
"There is no sich manuscript here," she said, tartly, and her thoughts reverted to the Red Book.
"Hadn't you better wait to know what kind of manuscript it was, before making such a flat denial?" coolly responded Godiva. "But now let's talk of this boy! What's the amount of his entanglements? How's the girl?"
"She is well," said the Madam, emphatically.
"Well!" croaked Corkins from the background.
"And this fellow from Philadelphia—was he really such a desperate creature?" asked Godiva.
"A devil incarnate," replied the Madam.
"What's that?" cried Herman, with a start, as the sound of a hell once more rang through the mansion.
"It's the bell of the door in the alley. Run, Corkins! It's Dirk and Slung. Bring 'em up,—'put', I say!"
Corkins "put," and the party waited for his return in evident anxiety. It was not long before there was the tramp of heavy steps in the passage, and two men, roughly clad—one, short, thick-set, and bow-legged, the other, tall and bony—stumbled into the room, bringing with them the perfume of very bad liquor.
"Where's de ole woman?" cried Dirk; "What in de thunder de yer have candles a-burnin' in daylight for—s-a-y?"
"Ole lady, I'll finger dat pewter—I will," said Slung-shot. "We laid yer man out—we did. Dat cool hundred, ef yer please."
And while Herman and Godiva glided into the shadows, the two ruffians recounted the incidents of the night, in their peculiar patois; the Madam interrupting them with questions, at every step of the narrative.
The story of these savages of city life, (and we believe that only the English and American cities produce such ruffians in a perfect state of brute-and-devil completeness,) reduced to the briefest compass, and stripped of all its oaths, read thus:—They had followed Dermoyne and Barnhurst all night long. Entering the house of Barnhurst, (the door had been left ajar,) they had found Dermoyne seated on the sofa, his eyes fixed upon a book. As one struck him with the slung-shot, the other extinguished the light, and a brief but terrible contest took place in the dark. Finally, they had borne the insensible form of Dermoyne from the house, and flung him into the gutter of a dark and deserted street.
"An' dere he'd freeze to death, ef he gets over de dirk and de slung-shot—he would," added the thick-set ruffian.
"And where have you been ever since?" asked the Madam, whose little eyes sparkled with joy.
"Gittin' drunk," tersely remarked Dirk.
"The book—you have it?" she said eagerly.
To which Dirk replied, in his own way, that if he had, he hoped his eyes and liver might be made uncomfortable for an indefinite length of time.
"Fact is, it slid under de sofar in de muss, an' I couldn't' find it in de dark."
The Madam burst into a transport of fury, and in her rage administered the back of her hand somewhat freely to the faces of Dirk and Slung. "Out of my sight—out of my sight! Fools! Devils! That book was all that I sent you after!" and she fairly drove them from the room. They were heard shuffling in the passage, and murmuring and cursing as they went down stairs.
"The miserable knaves! What trust can you put in human natur' arter this!" and she fretted and fumed along the room.
"The book is safe in my house," said Barnhurst, advancing, his face glowing with satisfaction. "This fellow, it appears, is safe. I pledge my word to have that book in this room before an hour."
Godiva, looking over his shoulder, muttered in atone inaudible to the others: "And my manuscript is in the book, and I pledge my word to have that within an hour."
"If you do that, Herman, I'll sell my soul for you!" cried the Madam, warmly.
"Suppose we look at the—the patient," whispered Herman.
"Up-stairs in the same room;" and Herman and Godiva left her room together, and directed their steps toward the chamber of Alice.
"The book is safe; he'll keep his word—don't you think so, Corkins?" said the Madam, as she found herself once more alone with her familiar spirit.
"Safe—perfectly," returned Corkins, when his words were interrupted by the ring of a bell. It was the front door bell this time. Corkins hurried from the room, and in a few moments returned, and placed a card in the hands of the Madam:
"This person wants to see you."
Drawing near the candle, the Madam read upon the card this name—"Dr. Arthur Conroy." A name, you will remember, associated with the history of Marion Merlin. It was Arthur Conroy, who, in the dissecting room, saw the corpse before him start suddenly into life.
"Dr. Conroy!"—it seemed a familiar name to the Madam. "I wonder if he wants a subject? Show him up, Corkins."
Through the bowed window-shutters and the drawn curtains, the winter sunlight stole into the chamber of Alice, lighting up the bed, and touching with a few golden rays the face of the Virgin Mary on the wall.
Herman and Godiva stood by the bed, their backs toward the window, and their faces from the light. They did not speak. The room was breathlessly still.
Alice was there, resting on the bed, the coverlet drawn up to her neck, and her cheek pressed against the pillow, thus turning her face to the light. One hand and arm lay motionless on the coverlet, and her sunny hair strayed in unbound luxuriance over the pillow. Her eyes were closed; her lips slightly parted; her cheek pale as the pillow on which she slept: for she was sleeping. A bright ray, that found entrance through an aperture in the curtains, was playing over her face, now on her lips, now on her throat, and among the waves of her silken hair. The sight was so beautiful that Godiva, whose heart had long since ceased to feel, was awed into silence. As for Herman, he could not take his eyes away, but stood there with his gaze chained to the face of the sleeping girl; for she was sleeping—sleeping that dear, quiet sleep, which, in this world, never knows an awakening hour. In the language of the woman-fiend, she indeed "was well!" Dead, with the second life which she bore, dead within her. Poor Alice! She had only opened her wings in the world, to fold them again and die.
"Herman," whispered Godiva, "look at that! Are you not proud of your work?"
"Don't taunt me, Marion," he answered. "Had I never met you—had you never made my life but one continued dream of sensuality—I would not stand here at this hour, gazing upon this murdered girl."
"Sweet boy! And so, when I first met you, you believed all that you preached in the pulpit?"
"If I did not believe it, I certainly did not wish to doubt it. You, and the life I've led since first I knew you, have made me dread the very mention of the existence of a God, or of the immortality of the soul."
"Pretty boy! How sadly I've used you! But don't call me Marion again;—that name I left in the grave. Leave off preaching, and let us see what you intend to do?"
"Godiva, whichever way I look is ruin. I am rid of this Dermoyne; but there are those persons who, conscious of the event of that night in November, 1842, will expose me to the world, unless I become their tool, in regard to the heirs of Anreke Jans and Trinity Church. I am sick of this life of suspense and dread! Let us fly, Godiva; I will change my name, and, in some distant place, begin life anew."
"What, and leave your wife?"
"Take care, Godiva, take care! Don't press me too hard! You know who it was that planned the dishonor of that wife, when she was a maiden, and betrothed to me. Take care!"
"You needn't look so black at me with those devilish eyes," said Godiva, as her face lost that bitter sneer, which, for the last few moments, had made her resemble a beautiful fiend. "You mustn't be angry at my jests. Well—let us travel! I have money enough for both, and we can enjoy ourselves with money anywhere. But the Van Huyden estate?"
"I cannot call my share my own, even if a share should happen to fall to me. These people who knew of the event in 1842, and who are now playing conspirator between Trinity Church and the heirs of Anreke Jans, will demand my share as the price of their silence. I cannot live in this state of dread. Listen Godiva! A vessel sails this afternoon for one of the West India Islands. What think you of a life in the tropics, far away from this devilish practical world? Why, we can make an Eden to ourselves, and forget that we ever lived before! I have engaged passage for two on board this vessel. It makes my heart bound! Groves of palm—a cloudless sky—good wine—days all dream, and nights!—ah, Godiva! Flight, Godiva, flight!"
"Flight be it, and to-night!" cried Godiva, winding her arm about Herman's neck.
They were disturbed by a sound, low and scarcely audible—it resembled the sound of a footstep. Herman turned his head, and saw, between him and the doorway, the haggard face of—Arthur Dermoyne, whose cheek was marked with a hideous gash, but whose eyes shone with a clear unfaltering light.
Herman read his death in those eyes.
Let us turn from this scene, and enter once more the secret chamber of the Madam.
"Why, Doctor, I am glad to see you!" she cried, as Doctor Arthur Conroy entered her room; "I haven't clapped eyes upon you for a dog's age. Why, bless me, how changed you are!"
As Conroy flung his cloak upon a chair, and advancing to the light, seated himself opposite the Madam, it was evident that he was indeed changed. His eyes were dull and heavy, his cheeks bloated; the marks of days and nights spent in sensual excess, were upon every lineament of his once noble face. A sad, a terrible change! Can this man who sits before us, with his coat buttoned to the chin, and his heavy eyes rolling vacantly in his bloated countenance, be the same Arthur Conroy whom we first beheld in the lonely hour of his student vigil, his eyes dilating with a noble ambition, his forehead stamped with thought, with genius?
"I am changed," he said sullenly and with a thick utterance; "let me have some brandy."
The Madam, without a word, produced a bottle and a glass. Conroy filled the glass half-full, and drank it, undiluted with water, and without removing the glass from his lips.
And then his faded eyes began to flash and his cheek to glow.
It was the most melancholy kind of intemperance—that which drinks alone, and drinks in silence, and, instead of rousing the social feelings, or the grotesque fancies of drunken mirth, calls up the images of the past, and bids them feed upon the soul.
"Good brandy that! It warms the blood!"
"Why, Conroy, I have not seen you since you brought Godiva here, and that is a year and I don't know how many months ago."
"May God,"—he ended the sentence with an awful imprecation upon the very name of Godiva. And his face grew wild with hatred.
"Why I thought she was a favorite of yours, or you of hers," said the Madam.
"By ——! I wish I had buried my knife in her heart, as she lay on the dissecting table before me!" he cried, his voice hoarse with emotion. "Look at me! When first I met that woman I was studious, ambitious; the thought of my mother and two sisters, who depended upon my efforts, stirred me into superhuman exertion. Well!—It is not quite a century since I met that woman, and look at me now—a gambler—a drunkard; yes," he struck the table with his fist—"Arthur Conroy is come to that! My mother dead, of a broken heart, and my sisters, well!—my sisters—"
As he tried to choke down his emotion, his features worked as with a spasm.
"Well! never mind!—and the accursed woman, whom I brought to your house, in order to kill the fruits of her passion,—she is the cause of all,—"
The light which left the greater part of the room in shadow, fell strongly over the florid face of the Madam, manifesting vague astonishment; and the flushed visage of Conroy, working with violent emotions.
"Yes," he said, as though thinking aloud, while his eyes shone with the brilliancy of a lighted coal,—"she was to make my fortune; she was to aid me, as I ascended that difficult path, which ambition treads in pursuit of fame. How smooth her words! I called her back from the dead,—she recovered from her relative a large portion of her property, sacrificing the rest, on condition that he concealed the fact of her existence from the world,—and I loved her, became the habitant of her mansion, the companion of her voluptuous hours. The she-devil! look to what she has brought me!"
"I wonder if he wants to borrow money?" said the Madam, in a sort of stage-whisper.
"No he does not," returned Conroy, with a scowl,—"He wants to do you a service, good lady. This morning about daybreak, as I was returning from the Club-Room, I came across a poor devil in the streets, who had been shockingly abused by ruffians,—"
"Ah!" and the Madam sank back in her chair.
"I could not let him die there, so I dragged him to the house of a clergyman, hard by, and laid him on the sofa. Then, assisted by the wife of the clergyman, a good sort of woman,—I dressed the wounds of the poor devil, and brought him to."
"The name of the clergyman?" asked the Madam, biting her lips.
"Barnet, or Barnhurst, or some such name."
"Ah!" and the Madam changed color, "and you left this man there?"
"He must have had a constitution of iron, to stand all those knocks! Do you know in a little while he was on his feet, explaining to the clergyman's lady, that he had come home with her husband, the night before, and had been dragged by unknown ruffians, from that very house,—"
"The dev-i-l!" and Madam clutched the arms of her chair, as she tried to restrain the rage, which filled every atom of her bulky frame.
"And now, he's down stairs at the door—"
"Down stairs at the door!" she bounded from her chair.
"He has a book under his arm, bound in red morocco," continued Dr. Conroy,—"and he desires to see you on particular business," and Conroy filled another glass, half full of brandy.
Once more to the death-room of Alice.
Dermoyne, who was as white as a sheet, stood but one step from the threshold, Godiva was by the bed, Herman near the head of the bed: thus Godiva was between the avenger and his victim.
Herman read his death in the eyes of Dermoyne, and looked to the window, as though he thought of raising the sashing, and dashing himself to pieces upon the pavement.
Godiva also caught the eye of Dermoyne,—she saw, that weak as he was from his wounds, and the loss of blood, that he was nerved by his emotions, by his purpose, with superhuman strength,—she saw the pistol in his hand. And all the craft of her dark and depraved nature, came in a moment to her aid. She resolved to save Herman,—that is, if her craft could save him.
"Hush! hush!" she whispered, "do not awake the sleeping girl! She has had a hard night, but now all is well. Hush! tread lightly,—lightly!—"
"Then she lives!" cried Dermoyne, and his savage eyes lit up with joy.
"Lives, and is doing well, don't you see how sweet she sleeps?" said Godiva advancing to him, on tip-toe, "Generous man! How can I thank you for your kindness to my cousin, poor, dear Alice?"
"Your cousin?" without another word, she flung herself upon Dermoyne's breast, wound her arms tightly about his neck, and hung there like a tigress upon the neck of her victim.
"Now's your time, Herman!" she cried,—and Dermoyne struggled madly in her embrace, but her arms wound closer about his neck, and he struggled in vain. His pistol fell to the floor.
Herman rushed by him, and the next instant, Dermoyne had unwound the arms of Godiva, and flung her violently to the floor. He turned to the door,—it was closed and locked,—Herman had escaped.
"Villain, you shall pay for this with your life!" he cried, as with flaming eyes, he advanced upon the prostrate Godiva.
"Don't be rash, my dear," she said, as seated on the floor, she was coolly engaged in arranging her disheveled hair, "You can't strike me. I'm a woman."
"A woman?" he echoed incredulously.
"Yes,—and a very good looking one,—don't you think so?" and she looked at him in insolent composure, while her vest,—torn open in the struggle,—displayed a glimpse of her neck and bosom.
Who, in this calm shameless thing,—proud at once of her beauty, and her shame, would recognize the innocent Marion Merlin of other years? With an ejaculation of contempt and anger, Dermoyne turned away from her, and approached the bed of Alice.
Alice was indeed sleeping there, her cheek upon the pillow, her lips apart, and with a ray of sunshine upon her closed eyelids, and sunny hair.
Dermoyne felt his heart die within him at the sight. There are emotions upon which it is best to drop the vail, for words are too weak to picture their awful intensity.
He called her name, "Alice!" and spreading forth his arms, he fell insensible upon the bed, his lips pressing the forehead of the dead girl.
Godiva rose, closed her vest, and calmly surveyed the scene, with her eyes shadowed by her uplifted hand:—
"I believe upon my soul, he did love her!" was her comment, and a tear shone in her eye.
The key turned in the lock, and presently a man with flushed face, and unsteady step, appeared upon the threshold. It was Arthur Conroy.
"Halloo! what's up?" he cried, with a thick utterance.—"That you Divy?" and staggering over the floor, he attempted to put his arm about her neck.
"Beast!" she cried, and struck him in the face. And ere he had recovered from the surprise of the blow, she glided from the room.
Seating himself on the foot of the bed, his eyes rolling in the vacancy of intoxication, he began to mutter words like these,—
"I'd a-better have cut you up, when I had you on the dissectin' table—I had. 'Beast.' You've served the devil for very small wages, Arthur Conroy! Ha, ha,—its a queer world."
Shall we ever see Herman and Godiva, Conroy and Dermoyne again?
[CHAPTER III.]
THE DREAM-ELIXIR.
The Twenty-Fourth of December was a happy day with Randolph Royalton. One happy day, after a long month devoted to agony and despair! Early morning light, found him in an upper chamber of the mansion, near the window, his form half concealed among the curtains, but his pale countenance, fully disclosed. There was thought upon his broad white forehead, relieved by the jet-black hair, an emotion of unspeakable tenderness,—passion,—in his large, clear blue eyes, and all the while upon his lips, an expression in which hatred mingled with contempt. For three images rose before him,—his future, and that was hard to read, and buried him in thought,—Eleanor, young and beautiful, and willing to become his own, and that filled his eyes with the light of passion,—his Brother, whom he had left helpless and insensible in a distant chamber, and who had met all his offers of fraternal love with withering scorn, and that thought curled his lip with mingled hatred and contempt.
In his hand he held a letter, which had just been delivered by Mr. Hicks, and before him were two huge trunks, one bearing the name of "Randolph Royalton, Heidelberg," and the other the name of "Esther Royalton, Hill Royal, S. C." These trunks which had just arrived in a mysterious manner, had been placed in his room by the hand of a servant.
On his way south, about a month before, Randolph had left his trunk in Washington, and hurried home, eager to see his father. When Esther was brought to Washington, by her brother and her purchaser, her trunk was brought with her from Royalton. And when Randolph and Esther escaped from Washington, they took their trunks with them as far as Philadelphia, where they left them in their eagerness to escape from their pursuers.
And now these trunks,—containing all that they were worth in the world,—had by some unknown person, been brought to the house in Broadway, and delivered into the servant's hands, accompanied by the note which Randolph held.
"Brother!" ejaculated Randolph, thinking of Harry Royalton, whom he had left weak and helpless in a distant chamber,—a chamber which Randolph had given up to him—"Brother! I am afraid our accounts draw to a close. I'm afraid that your nature cannot be changed. Shall I have to fight you with your own weapons? Last night I saved your life,—I brought you to my own home; I laid you on my own bed; I watched over you, and when you woke, held out to you a brother's hand. That hand you struck down in scorn! So much the worse for you, dear brother. Your condition will not allow you to leave this house for a day or two,—at least not until to-morrow is over. And to-morrow past, brother, you will forfeit all interest in the Van Huyden Estate."
Randolph was a generous and a noble man, but there were desperate elements within, which the events of the last month had begun to develop. He now felt that his fate would be decided and forever, by the course of the next twenty-four hours. And every power of his soul, all the strength, the good,—shall we say evil?—began to rise within him to meet the crisis. There was energy in his look, danger in his eye.
"And Eleanor,—" he breathed that name and paused, and for a moment he was enveloped in the atmosphere of an intense but sinless passion. "Eleanor loves me! She will be mine!"
But how should his marriage with Eleanor be accomplished, without the fatal disclosure, that instead of being the legitimate child of John Augustine Royalton, he was simply—the White Slave of his own brother?
The thought was madness, but Randolph met it, and rousing every power of his soul, sought to pierce the clouds which hung upon his future.
He opened the letter, which Mr. Hicks had delivered to him, and recognized the hand of his unknown protector,—his friend of the Half-Way House. It was dated "Dec. 24th," 1844, and these were its contents:—
"To Randolph Royalton:—
"When first I met you and your sister at the house near Princeton, and heard the story of your wrongs, in you I recognized the children of an old and dear friend, John Augustine Royalton. I determined to protect you. You know how my plans were laid. Your brother, also your persecutor, was delivered to punishment. Yourself and sister were brought to New York, and placed in the mansion which you now occupy. Last night, wishing to know whether there yet remained in your brother one throb of a better nature—conscious that if his feelings to you were unchanged, you would at no moment be safe from his vengeance,—I arranged your meeting with him and his instrument, in the den below Five Points. From old Royal (whom I first met in Philadelphia, and who told me of your story before I saw you at the half-way house,) I have learned all that occurred last night,—the attack made on you by your brother,—your magnanimous conduct,—the awful, although richly deserved death of Bloodhound, his atrocious tool. And although I know not what became of your brother after you bore him from the den, I doubt not but that you have placed him where he will be watched over with affectionate care.
"Yesterday I encountered Mr. Bernard Lynn, who seemed to take a great interest in you. I directed him to your house,—treat him as your guest in your own house,—for I especially desire you to regard the house and all it contains as yours, until the 25th of December has passed. Until then be perfectly at your ease. Await the developments of the 25th of December. In the meantime, if you want money, you will find it in the drawer of the desk (of which I inclose the key,) which you will find in your bed-room. Your trunks, which you lost in Philadelphia, I have recovered and send to you. Make no effort to see me, until I call upon you.
"Your friend,
"Ezekiel Bogart."
In the letter there was much food for thought.
"So far all well," thought Randolph,—"but to-morrow once passed, what then?" He unlocked his trunk, and after a careful examination, found that its contents remained the same as when he had left it in Washington. It was very large, and divided into various compartments, and contained his wardrobe, his choicest books, and most treasured letters, together with numerous memorials of his student life in Heidelberg. Opening a small and secret drawer, he drew forth a package of letters, held together by a faded ribbon.
"Ah! letters from my father!" and he untied the package,—"What is this? I never saw it before!"
It was a letter directed to him in his father's hand, and sealed with his father's seal. To his complete astonishment the seal was unbroken.
"How came this letter here? My father's seal and unbroken,—this is indeed strange!"
He regarded the letter carefully, weighed it in his hand, but paused, in hesitation, ere he broke the seal. For the first time, written around the seal, in his father's hand, he beheld these words, "Not to be opened until my death."
Tears started into Randolph's eyes, and for a moment, as he knelt there, he rested his forehead on his hand.
Then, with an eager hand, he broke the seal. The contents of the letter were bared to the light.
"Heidelberg, September 23, 1840.
"Dearest Son:—
"You have just left me, and with the memory of our late conversation fresh in my mind, I now write this letter, which you will not read until I am dead. Randolph, I repeat the truth of that which I have just disclosed to you,—your mother was not my mistress, but my lawful wife. Yourself and Esther are legitimate. By my will I make you, with Harry, joint inheritors of my estate, and of my share in the Van Huyden estate.
"Your mother, Herodia, was not the child of Colonel Rawdon, but the dearly beloved daughter of —— ——, who never acknowledged her to the world. He communicated, however, the secret of her paternity to Rawdon, and left her in his charge, intrusting him with a sealed packet, which he directed should be delivered to Herodia's son, in case a son was ever born to her. A packet which contained a commission, upon whose fulfillment by that son, the happiness, the destiny of all the races on the American continent, might depend. Worshiping the memory of this great man, Rawdon treated Herodia (known as a slave) as his own child and would not transfer her to me, until I had made her my wife in a secret marriage.
"A sealed copy of my will I gave you a few moments since; and this letter contains an original letter of —— ——, written to Colonel Rawdon, and recognizing Herodia as his child.
"When I am dead, you will find the packet in a secret closet behind the fourth shelf of my library, at Hill Royal. There you will also find a large amount of gold, which may be useful to you in some unforeseen hour of adversity, and which I hereby give to you and Esther.
"This letter I inclose in the package of letters which you left for my perusal.
"Your father,
"John Augustine Royalton,
"of Hill Royal."
Randolph read this letter with signs of emotion not to be mistaken. Rising from his knees, he walked slowly up and down the room, his eyes shaded by his uplifted hand. As he drew near the window, his pale face was flushed, his eyes radiant with new light.
"So! I am then the elder brother, the real lord of Hill Royal! My mother was a slave, but she was the lawful wife of my father." His brow clouded and his lips curved. "It seems to me this younger brother has given us trouble enough,—let him have a care how his shadow crosses my way for the future."
He stood erect in every inch of his stature, his eyes dilating, and his hand extended, as though,—even like a glorious landscape, rich in vine-clad mountains and grassy meadows, smiling in the sun,—he beheld his future stretch clear and bold before him.
"Harry, I have given you my hand for the last time," he said, in a significant voice.
A piece of paper, carefully folded and worn by time, slipped from the letter which he held. Randolph seized it eagerly, and opening it, beheld a few lines traced in a handwriting which had long become historical. It was dated many years back, and was addressed to Colonel Rawdon.
"My Esteemed Friend:—
"I am glad to hear the girl, Herodia, whom, many years ago, I placed in your care, (acquainting you with the circumstances of her birth and paternity,) progresses toward womanhood, rich in education, accomplishments and personal loveliness. While nominally your slave, you have treated her as a daughter,—accept her father's heartfelt gratitude. In consequence of her descent, on her mother's side, she cannot (with safety to herself) be formally manumitted, nor can she be publicly recognized as the equal of your own daughter, or the associate of ladies of the white race. But it is my last charge to you, that she be honorably (even although secretly) married; and that the inclosed sealed packet which I send to you, be given to her eldest son, in case a son is born to her. That packet contains matters which, carried into action by such a son, would do much, yes, everything, to establish the happiness of all the races on this continent. Kiss for me, that dear daughter of mine, whom, in this life, I shall never behold.
"Yours, with respect and gratitude,
"—— ——."
A very touching,—an altogether significant letter.
Randolph pressed it to his lips in silence. Then inclosing it within his father's letter, he placed them both in a secret compartment of his trunk.
He seated himself, and folding his arms, gave himself up to the dominion of a crowd of thoughts, which flooded in upon his soul, like mingled sunshine and lightning through the window of a darkened room.
Bending over his trunk, he was examining, with an absent gaze, certain memorials of his old student brothers of Heidelberg. A small casket contained them all.
"This ring was given to me by poor Richmond, the English student. He was killed in a duel. And here is the watch of Van Brondt,—poor fellow! he died of consumption, even as his studies were completed, and a youth of poverty and hardship seemed about to be succeeded by a manhood of wealth and fame. And this,"—he took up a small vial, whose glass was incased in silver,—"this, Van Eichmer, the enthusiastic chemist, gave me. I wonder whether his dreams of fame, from the discovery embodied in this vial, will ever be realized? A rare liquid,—its powers rivaling the wonders of enchantment. He gave it to me under a solemn pledge not to subject it to chemical analysis, until he has time to mature his discovery, and make it known as the result of his own genius. He called it (somewhat after the fanciful fashion of the old alchemists) the 'Dream-Elixir.' I wonder if it has lost its virtues?"
Removing the buckskin covering which concealed the stopple, he then carefully drew the stopple, and applied the vial for a moment to his nostrils. The effect was as rapid as lightning. His face changed; his eyes grew wild and dreamy. His whole being was pervaded by an inexpressible rapture,—a rapture of calmness, (if we may thus speak) a rapture of unutterable repose. And like cloud-forms revealed by lightning, the most gorgeous images swept before him. He seemed to have been suddenly caught up into the paradise of Mahomet, among fountains, showering upon beds of roses, and with the white-bosomed houris gliding to and fro.
In a word, the effect of the vial, applied but for an instant to his nostrils, threw into the shade all the wonders of opium, and rivaled in enchantment the maddening draught of oriental story,—the Hashish,—which the Old Man of the Mountain gave to his devotee Assassins,[1] intoxicating them with the odors of paradise, even as their hands were red with their victims' blood.
[1] The order of the Assassins prevailed in Asia, in the days of the Crusades, and the history of their power and terrible influence is strangely connected with the history of the Knights Templars. The founder of the order, Hassan Sabah, rewarded his devotees for their deeds of murder, by a draught (called as above, the hashish,) whose powers of enchantment consoled them for a lifetime of hardship and danger.
Like one awaking from a trance, Randolph slowly recovered from the effect of the Dream-Elixir, and once more saw the winter light shining through his window. The vial was in his hand,—he had taken the precaution to replace the stopple, the moment after he had applied it to his nostrils.
"It has lost none of its virtues. Held to the nostrils, or a few drops on a kerchief, applied to the mouth, its first effect is rapture; the second, rapture prolonged to delirium; its third, rapture that ends in death."
Randolph replaced the buckskin covering around the stopple of the vial, and then placed the vial in his vest pocket.
At this moment the door opened and the quiet Mr. Hicks entered the room, clad in his gray livery, turned up with black. He bowed and said,—
"Master, Mr. Lynn sends his compliments and desires to see you in the parlor."
"Tell Mr. Lynn that I will attend him presently," said Randolph rising from his knees.—"How is our patient, Mr. Hicks?"
"I left him asleep. He is very weak, though quite easy."
"Mr. Hicks, I desire that you will attend him throughout the day, or place him in the care of some trustworthy servant. If he asks for any one, send for me. Admit no one into his room,—you understand, he is a dear friend of mine,"—he placed his finger on his forehead,—"a little touched here, and I do not wish his misfortune to be known, until all the means of recovery, which I have at my command, prove hopeless. Mr. Hicks, you will remember."
"I will remember, and attend to your commands, master," and Mr. Hicks bowed like an automaton.
"Have this trunk removed to Miss Royalton's room," said Randolph, and leaving Mr. Hicks, he descended to the parlor.
Through the rich curtains of the eastern and western windows of that magnificent apartment, the morning light was dimly shining. The lofty walls, the pictures, the statues, the carpet, the mirrors, all looked grand and luxurious in the softened light.
Bernard Lynn sat on the sofa, in the center of the parlor, his arms folded and his countenance troubled. As he raised his gaze and greeted Randolph, in a kindly although absent way, Randolph saw that his bronzed visage, (above which rose masses of snow-white hair) was traced with the lines of anxious thought, and his dark eyes were feverish with restlessness and care.
"Sit by me, Randolph," he said in a serious voice, and he grasped Randolph's hand and gazed earnestly in his face.—"I wish to speak with you. I have traveled much, Randolph, and when matters press heavily on my mind, I am a blunt man,—I use few words. I desire you to give all imaginable emphasis to what I am about to say."
Randolph took his hand and met his gaze; but he felt troubled and perplexed at Bernard Lynn's words and manner.
"Briefly, then, Randolph,—when can you leave the city?"
Without knowing how the words came to his lips, Randolph replied,—"The day after to-morrow."
"Can you go with us, by steamer, to Charleston? I wish to visit the scene,—" he paused as if unable to proceed,—"the scene,—you understand me? And then, after a week's delay, we will go to Havana and spend the winter there. Will you go with us?"
It is impossible to describe the emotions which these words aroused. Hopes, fears, a picture of his father's home, the consciousness there was a taint upon his blood,—all whirled like lightning through his brain. But he did not stop to analyze his thoughts, but answered again,—as though the word was given to him,—in a single word, earnest in tone, and with a hearty grasp,—
"Willingly," he said.
A ray of pleasure flitted over the bronzed face of Bernard Lynn. But in an instant he was sad and earnest again. "Randolph, I have been thinking, and most seriously,—I beg you to listen to the result of my thoughts. Nay, not a word,—fewest words are best, and a plain answer to a plain question will decide all.—I have been thinking of the desolate condition in which Eleanor will be left, in case her father is suddenly taken away. She will need a friend, a protector, a husband."
He paused; Randolph, all agitation, awaited his next word in breathless suspense.
"I have long known her feelings,—she tells me that she knows yours. You are aware of my fortune and position,—I am aware of yours. Plainly, then, do you love her,—do you desire her hand?"
For a moment Randolph could not reply.
"O, my dearest friend, can you ask it?" he exclaimed, taking both hands of Mr. Lynn in his own,—"Do I desire Eleanor's hand? It is the only wish of my life,—"
"Enough, my friend, enough," replied Bernard, as a tear stole down his cheek. "In serious matters, I am a man of few words,—I fear that I may be suddenly taken away—I feel that there is no use of delay. Shall it take place this evening in your house?"
Randolph could only reply by a silent grasp of the hand.
"In presence of your sister, myself and the clergyman? And then, the day after to-morrow we leave for Charleston—"
"You speak the dearest wish of my soul," was all that Randolph could reply.
Bernard Lynn arose,—"I will go out and buy a bridal present for my child," he said, "and your sister and myself will take charge of all the details of the marriage. God bless you, my boy! What a load is lifted from my heart!"
How over his bronzed visage, a look cordial and joyous as the spring sunshine played, even while there were tears in his eyes!
Randolph felt his heart swell with rapture, but instantly,—growing pale as death,—he rose, and resolved to make a revelation, which would blast all his hopes to ashes.
"I will not deceive this good old man. I will tell him my real condition, tell him that there is the blood of the accursed race in my veins."
This was his thought, and feeling like a criminal on the scaffold, he prepared to fulfill it,—
"Ah, you and I are agreed," cried Bernard, with his usual jovial laugh.—"but you must ask this child what she says of the matter," and dropping Randolph's hand, he hurried from the room.
Even as the first word of the confession was on his lip, Randolph beheld Eleanor, who had entered unperceived, standing between him and the light, on the very spot which her father had just left.
She looked very beautiful.
Clad in a dark dress, which, fitting closely to her arms and bust, and flowing in rich folds, around her womanly proportions, from the waist to the feet, she stood before him, one finger raised to her lip, her eyes fixed upon him in a gaze, full of deep and passionate light. Her face was cast into faint shadow, by her hair, which was disposed about it, in brown and wavy masses. But through the shadow her eyes shone with deep and passionate light.
A very beautiful woman, now unable to utter a word, as with heaving breast, she confronts the man whom she knows is destined to be her husband.
Why does all thought of confession fade from Randolph's mind?
O, the atmosphere of the presence of a pure, and beautiful woman, whose eyes gleam upon you with passionate love, carries with it an enchantment, which makes you forget the whole universe,—everything,—save that she is before you, that she loves you, that your soul is chained to her eyes.
Randolph silently stretched forth his arms. She came to him, and laid her arms about his neck, her bosom upon his breast.
"My wife!" he whispered.
And she raised her face, until their lips and their eyes, met at once, whispering—"My husband."
Certainly, this was a happy day for Randolph Royalton.
Talk of opium, hashish, dream-elixir! Talk of their enchantment, and of the Mahomet's paradise which they create! What enchantment can rival the pressure of a pure woman's lips, which breathe softly, "husband!" as she lays them against your own?
But at least a dozen gentlemen who have divorce cases on hand, will curse me bitterly for writing the last sentence. And all the old bachelors who, having never known the kiss of a pure wife, or any wife at all, and having grown musty in their sins, will turn away with an "umph!" and an oath. And all the young libertines, who, deriving their opinion of women, merely from the unfaithful wives, and abandoned creatures with whom they have herded, and having expended even before the day of young manhood, every healthy throb, in shameless excess, they, too, will expand their faded eyes, and curl their colorless lips, at the very mention of "a pure woman," much less, a "pure woman's kiss." The "fast," the very "fast" boys!
But there are some who will not utterly dislike the allusion to a pure woman, or a pure woman's kiss.
That quiet sort of people who, having no divorce cases on hand, know that there are such things as pure women in the world, and know that a good wife, carries about her an atmosphere of goodness, that brings heaven itself down to the home.
And you, old bachelor,—a word in your ear,—if you only knew the experience of returning from a long journey late at night,—of stealing quietly into a home, your own home, up the dark stairs, and into a room, where a single light is shining near a bed,—of seeing there, blooming on the white pillow, the face of a pure wife, your own wife, rosy with sleep, and with her dark hair peeping out from her night-cap——, why, old bachelor, if you had only an idea of this kind of experience, you'd curse yourself for not getting married some forty years ago!—
The day passed quickly and happily, in quiet preparation for the bridal ceremony.
Eleanor was seated in a rocking-chair, her feet crossed and resting on a stool, her head thrown back, and her dark hair resting partly on her bared shoulders, partly on the arm of Esther, who stood behind her. The beams of the declining sun came softened through the window-curtains, and lit up the scene with mild, subdued light. It was a beautiful picture. There stood Esther, the matured woman, rich in every charm of voluptuous and stately beauty; and her gaze, softened by her long eyelashes, was tenderly fixed upon the upturned countenance of Eleanor,—a countenance radiant with youth, with abounding life, with passionate love. The habit of dark green cloth which Esther wore, contrasted with the robe of white muslin which enveloped Eleanor, its flowing folds girdled lightly about her waist and its snowy whiteness, half hidden by her unbound hair; for that hair which was soft brown in the sunlight and black in the shadow, fell in copious waves over her neck, her bosom, and below her waist. Eleanor was beautiful, Esther was beautiful, but their loveliness was of contrasted types; you could not precisely define how they differed; you only saw that they were beautiful, and that the loveliness of one, set off and added to, the charms of the other.
And as Esther was arranging the hair of the bride, for the marriage ceremony, they conversed in low tones:
"O, we shall all be so happy!" said Eleanor—"the climate of Havana, is as soft and bland as Italy, and it will be so delightful to leave this dreary sky, this atmosphere all storm and snow, for a land where summer never knows an end, and where every breeze is loaded with the breath of flowers!"
Esther was about to reply, but Eleanor continued,—and her words drove the life-blood from Esther's cheek.
"And on our way we will stop at the old mansion of Hill Royal, the home of Randolph's ancestors. How I shall delight to wander with you through those fine old rooms, where the associations of the past meet you at every step! Do you know, Esther, that I am a great aristocrat,—I believe in race, in blood,—in the perpetuation of the same qualities, either good or evil, from generation to generation? Look at Randolph, at yourself, for instance,—your look, your walk, every accent tell the story of a proud, a noble ancestry!"
"Or, look at yourself," was all that Esther could say, as she bent over the happy bride, thus hiding her face,—grown suddenly pale,—from the light. "Shall I tell her all?" the thought flashed over her, as she wound her hands through the rich meshes of Eleanor's hair,—"shall I tell this beautiful girl, who is as proud as she is beautiful, that in the veins of her husband there is—negro blood?"
But the very thought of such a revelation appalled her.
"Better leave it to the future," she thought, and then said aloud, "Tell me, Eleanor, something about Italy."
And while Esther, with sisterly hands, arrayed her for the bridal, the proud and happy bride, whose every vein swelled with abounding life and love, spoke of Italy,—of its skies and its monuments,—of the hour when she first met Randolph, and also of the moment when, amid the Apennines, he saved her life, her honor.
"O, sister, do you think that a love like ours can ever know the shadow of change?"
Happy Eleanor!
Meanwhile Randolph, standing by the parlor window apparently gazing upon the current of life which whirled madly along Broadway, in the light of the declining day, was in reality abstracted from all external existence, and buried in his own thoughts,—thoughts delicious and enchanting. Was there no phantom in the background, to cast its fatal shadow over the rich landscape which rose before his mental eye?
He was attired for the marriage ceremony, in a severely plain costume, which well became his thoughtful face and manly frame,—black dress coat, vest of white Marseilles, open collar and black neckerchief. As he stood there, noble-featured, broad-browed, his clear blue eyes and dark hair, contrasting with his complexion whose extreme pallor indicated by no means either lack of health or vigor, who would have thought that there was—negro blood in his veins?
"In an hour Eleanor will be my wife!" he muttered, and his brow grew clouded and thoughtful, even while his eyes were filled with passionate light. "But there is no use of reflecting now. I must leave that fatal disclosure, with all its chances and consequences, to the future. Eleanor will be my wife, come what will."
His meditations were interrupted by the entrance of Mr. Hicks, who wore his usual imperturbable look, which seemed as much a part of him as his livery of gray turned up with black.
"How has our patient been since I left him an hour ago?" asked Randolph.
"He is no longer delirious," answered Mr. Hicks. "About a half an hour ago, he asked me the time of day, in a tone, and with a look, that showed that he had come to his senses."
"You conversed with him?"
"No, sir. He fell into a quiet sleep, and I left him in charge of a faithful servant. Don't you think we had better change the bandages on his back, after awhile? He has been sadly abused——"
"And I came to the scene of conflict just in time to save his life, and bear him to my home,—I will see him at once, and then tell you when to dress his wounds."
He moved toward the door.
"Has Mr. Lynn returned?" he said, turning his head over his shoulder.
"About half an hour since, he went up stairs to his room," returned Mr. Hicks.
Randolph left the parlor and hastened toward his own chamber, determined to make one more effort to change the hard nature, the unrelenting hatred of his brother. As he passed along the corridor, conscious that the most important crisis, if not the all-important crisis, of his life was near, his thoughts mingling the image of Eleanor with the proud memory of his lineage on the father's side, were intense and all-absorbing. For the time he forgot the taint in his blood.
He arrived before the door of the chamber in which his brother lay. It was near the foot of a broad staircase which, thickly carpeted, and with bannisters of walnut, darkened by time, was illumined by light from the skylight far above. The door of the chamber was slightly open,—Randolph started, for he heard his brother's voice, speaking in rapid, impetuous tones. And the next instant, the voice of Bernard Lynn, hoarse with anger. Randolph, with his step upon the threshold, drew back and listened.
He did not pause to ask himself how Bernard Lynn came to be a visitor in the chamber of his brother,—he only listened to their voices,—with all his soul, he tried to distinguish their words.
It was the moment of his life. It required a terrible exertion of will, to suppress the cry of despair which rose to his lips.
"A negro!" he heard the voice of Bernard Lynn, hoarse with rage,—"and to my daughter! Never!"
And then the voice of Harry Royalton, whose life he had spared and saved,—"I heard of this marriage from one of the servants, and felt it my duty to set you on your guard. Therefore, I sent for you. I can give you proof,—proof that will sink the slave into the earth."
Once more the voice of Bernard Lynn,—"A negro! and about to marry him to my daughter! A negro!"
There was the hatred of a whole life embodied in the way he pronounced that word,—"a negro!"
Randolph laid his hand against the wall, and his head sank on his breast. He was completely unnerved.
The hopes of his life were ashes.
Once more, with a terrible exertion, he rallied himself, and with the thought,—"There remains, at least, revenge!"—he advanced toward the threshold.
But there was a footstep on the stair. Turning, Randolph beheld Eleanor, who was slowly descending the stairs. She was clad in her bridal dress. The light shone full upon her; she was radiantly beautiful. She wore a robe of snow-white satin, girdled lightly to her waist by a string of pearls, and over this a robe of green velvet, veined with flowers of gold, and open in front from her bosom to her feet. Her hair was disposed in rich masses about her face, and from its glossy blackness, and from the pure white of her forehead, a circlet of diamonds shone dazzlingly in the light. She saw Randolph, and her eyes spoke although her lips were silent.
That moment decided her fate and his own.
As she was halfway down the stairs, he sprang to meet her.
"Randolph! how pale you are," and she started as she saw his face.
"Dearest, I must speak with you a moment," he whispered.—"To the library."
He took her by the hand and led her up the stairs, and along a corridor; she noticed that his hand was hot and cold by turns, and she began to tremble in sympathy with his agitation.
They came to the door of the library. The lock was turned from the outside by a key, but when the door was closed it locked itself. Randolph found the key in the lock; he turned it; the door opened; he placed the key in his pocket; they crossed the threshold. The door closed behind them, and was locked at once. Eleanor was ignorant of this fact.
The library was a spacious apartment, with two windows opening to the east, and a ceiling which resembled a dome. The light came dimly through the closed curtains, but a wood-fire, smouldering on the broad hearth, which now flamed up, and as suddenly died away, served to disclose the high walls, lined with shelves, the table in the center overspread with books and papers, and the picture above the mantle, framed in dark wood. Two antique arm-chairs stood beside the table; there was a sofa between the windows, and in each corner of the room, a statue was placed on a pedestal. The shelves were crowded with huge volumes, whose gilt bindings, though faded by time, glittered in the uncertain light. Altogether, as the light now flashed up and died away again, it was an apartment reminding you of old times,—of ghosts and specters, may be,—but of anything save the present century.
"What a ghost-like place!" said Eleanor.
Randolph led her in silence to the sofa, and seated himself by her side.
"Eleanor, I am sadly troubled. I have just received a letter which informs me of a sad disaster which has happened to a friend,—a friend whom I have known from boyhood."
Eleanor took his hand. As the light flashed up for an instant, she was startled at the sight of his face.
"Compose yourself, Randolph," she said, kindly.—"The news may not be so disastrous as you think."
"I will tell you the story in a few words," and he took her hand as he continued: "A month ago, I left my friend in Charleston. Young, reputed to be wealthy, certainly connected with one of the first families of South Carolina, he was engaged in marriage to a beautiful girl,—one of the most beautiful that sun ever shone upon,—" he paused,—"as beautiful, Eleanor, as yourself."
And he fixed his ardent gaze upon that face which the soft shadow, broken now and then by the uncertain light, invested with new loveliness.
Eleanor made no reply in words; but her eyes met those of her plighted husband.
"The day was fixed for their marriage,—they looked forward to it with all the anticipations of a pure and holy love. It came,—the bride and bridegroom stood before the altar, in presence of the wedding-guests,—the priest began the ceremony, when a revelation was made which caused the bride to fall like one dead at the feet of her abashed and despair-stricken lover."
"This was, indeed, strange," whispered Eleanor, profoundly interested; "and this revelation?"
Randolph drew her nearer to him; his eyes grew deeper in their light, as in a voice, that grew lower at every word, he continued,
"The bridegroom was, indeed, connected with one of the first families in the State, but even as the priest began the ceremony, a voice from among the guests pronounced these words, 'Shame! shame! a woman so beautiful to marry a man who has negro blood in his veins!'"
"And these words,—they were not true?" eagerly asked Eleanor, resting her hand on Randolph's arm.
"They were true," answered Randolph. "It was their fatal truth which caused the bride to fall like a corpse, and covered the face of the bridegroom with shame and despair."
Eleanor's bosom heaved above the edge of her bridal robe; her lips curled with scorn; "And knowing this fatal truth, this lover sought her hand in marriage? O, shame! shame!"
"But hear the sequel of the story," Randolph continued, and well it was for him, at that instant, that no sudden glow from the hearth lit up his livid and corrugated face,—"What, think you, was the course of the plighted wife, when she came to her senses?"
"She spurned from her side this unworthy lover,—she crushed every thought of love—"
"No, dearest, no! Even in the presence of her father and the wedding-guests, she took the bridegroom by the hand, and although her face was pale as death, said, with a firm eye and unfaltering voice, 'Behold my husband! As heaven is above us, I will wed none but him!'"
"O, base and shameless! base and shameless!" cried Eleanor, the scorn of her tone and of her look beyond all power of words,—"to speak thus, and take by the hand a man whose veins were polluted by the blood of a thrice accursed race!"
Randolph raised his hand to his forehead; what thoughts were burning there, need not be told. Shading his eyes, he saw Eleanor before him, beautiful and voluptuous, in her bridal robe, her bosom swelling into view; but with unmeasured scorn in the curve of her proud lip, in the lightning glance of her eyes.
And after that gaze, he said in a low voice, the fatal words,—
"Eleanor, what would you say, were I to inform you, that my veins are also polluted by the blood of this thrice accursed race?"
She did not utter a cry; she did not shriek; but starting from the sofa, and resting for support one hand against the wall, she turned to him her horror-stricken face, uttering a single word,—"You?"
"That I, descended from one of the first families of Carolina, on my father's side, am on the mother's side, connected with the accursed race?"
"You, Randolph, you!"
"That knowing this, I fled from Florence, when first I won your love; but to-day, dazzled by your beauty, mad with love of the very atmosphere in which you breathe, I forgot the taint in my blood, I saw our marriage hour draw nigh, with heaven itself in my heart—"
"O, my God, why can I not die?"
"That even now your father knows the fatal secret, and breathes curses upon me, as he pronounces my name; resolves, that you shall die by his hand, ere you become my wife—"
She saw his face, by the sudden light,—it was impressed by a mortal agony. And although the room seemed to swim around, and her knees bent under her, she rallied her fast-fading strength, and advanced toward him, but with tottering steps.
"You are either mad, or you wish to drive me mad," she said, and laid her hand upon his shoulder,—"there is no taint upon your blood! The thought is idle. You, so noble browed, with the look, the voice, the soul of a man of genius,—you, that I love so madly,—you, one of the accursed race? No, Randolph, this is but a cruel jest—"
Her eyes looked all the brighter for the pallor of her face, as she bent over him, and her hair, escaping from the diamond circlet, fell over his face and shoulders like a vail.
He drew her to him, and buried his face upon her bosom,—"Eleanor! Eleanor," he groaned in very bitterness of spirit, as that bosom beat against his fevered brow, and that flowing hair shut him in its glossy waves,—"It is no jest. I swear it. But you will yet be mine! Will you not, Eleanor,—in spite of everything,—spite of the taint in my blood, spite of your father's wrath—"
As with the last effort of her expiring strength, she raised his head from her bosom, tore herself from his arms, and stood before him, her hair streaming back from her pallid face, while her right hand was lifted to heaven—
"It is true, then?" and her eyes wore that look, which revealed all the pride of her nature,—"you are then, one of that accursed race," she paused, unable to proceed, and stood there with both hands upon her forehead. "If I ever wed you, may my mother's curse—"
Randolph rose, the anguish which had stamped his face, suddenly succeeded by a look which we care not to analyze,—a look which gave a glow to his pale cheek, a wild gleam to his eyes. "You are faint, my love," he said, "this will revive you."
Seizing her by the waist, he placed her kerchief upon her mouth,—a kerchief which he had raised from the floor, and moistened with liquid from the silver vial which he carried in his vest pocket.
"Away! Your touch is pollution!" she cried, struggling in his embrace, but the effect of the liquid was instantaneous. Even as she struggled her powers of resistance failed, and the images of a delicious dream, seemed to pass before her, in soft and rosy light.
The tall wax candles were lighted in the parlor, and upon a table covered with a cloth of white velvet was placed a bible and a wreath of flowers.
It was the hour of sunset, but the closed curtains shut out the light of the declining day, and the light of the wax candles disclosed the spacious apartment, its pictures, statues and luxurious furniture. It was the hour of the bridal.
Two persons were seated near each other on one of the sofas. The preacher who had been summoned to celebrate the marriage,—a grave, demure man, with a sad face and iron-gray hair. Of course he wore black clothes and a white cravat. Esther arrayed in snow-white, as the bridesmaid,—white flowers in her dark hair, and her bosom heaving dimly beneath lace which reminded you of a flake of new-fallen snow.
They were waiting for the father, the bridegroom, and the bride.
"It will be a happy marriage, I doubt not," said the preacher, who had been gazing out of the corners of his eyes, at the beautiful Esther, and who felt embarrassed by the long silence.
But ere Esther could reply, the door was flung abruptly open, and Bernard Lynn strode into the room. His hat was in his hand; his cloak hung on his arm. His face was flushed; his brow clouded. Not seeming to notice the presence of Esther, he advanced to the clergyman,—
"Your services will not be needed, sir," he said, with a polite bow, but with flashing eyes. "This marriage will not take place."
Esther started to her feet, in complete astonishment.
Turning to Mr. Hicks, who had followed him into the room, Bernard Lynn continued, as he flung his cloak over his shoulders, and drew on his gloves,—
"Has the carriage come?"
"Yes, sir,—"
"Are our trunks on behind?"
"Yes, sir,—"
"Have you called my daughter, and told her that I desired her to put on her bonnet and cloak, and come to me at once?—"
"I have sent one of the maids up to her room," said Mr. Hicks, whose countenance manifested no small degree of astonishment, "but your daughter is not in her room."
Mr. Lynn turned his flushed face and clouded brow to Esther,—
"Perhaps you will tell my daughter," he said, with an air of insolent hauteur as though speaking to a servant,—"that I desire her to put on her things and leave this house with me, immediately—"
How changed his manner, from the kind and paternal tone, in which he had addressed her an hour before!
Esther keenly felt the change, and with her woman's intuition, divined that a revelation of the fatal truth had been made. Disguising her emotion, she said, calmly,—
"You will direct one of the servants to do your bidding. Your daughter is doubtless in the library. I saw her going there, with Randolph, only a few minutes since,—"
At the name of Randolph, all the rage which shook the muscular frame of Bernard Lynn, and which he had but illy suppressed, burst forth unrestrained.
"What!" he shouted, "with Randolph! The negro! The negro! The slave!"
"With Randolph, her plighted husband," calmly responded Esther.
"Negress!" sneered Bernard Lynn, almost beside himself, "where is my daughter? Will no one call her?"
"Eleanor is coming," said a low deep voice, and Randolph stood before the enraged father. He was ashy pale, but there was a light in his eyes which can be called by no other name than—infernal.
Even Esther, uttered a cry as she beheld her brother's face.
"Negro!" muttered Bernard Lynn, regarding Randolph in profound contempt.
"Well?" Randolph folded his arms, and steadily returned his gaze.
"I have, learned the secret in time, sir, in time," continued Bernard Lynn, "I am about to leave this house—"
"Well?" again exclaimed Randolph.
"I have saved her from this horrible match,—"
"Well?" for the third time replied Randolph, in complete nonchalance, and yet with that infernal light in his eyes.
A step was heard. Can this be Eleanor, who comes across the threshold, her dress torn, her bosom bared, her disheveled hair floating about that face which seems to have been touched by the hand of death?
Her hands clasped, her eyes downcast, she came on, with unsteady step, and sank at her father's feet. She did not once raise her eyes, but clasped his knees and buried her face on her bosom.
"Eleanor! Eleanor!" cried Bernard Lynn, "what does all this mean, my child?" and he sought to raise her from the floor, but she resisted him, and clutched his knees.
"It means that the honor of your daughter was saved once in Italy, by Randolph Royalton,—she was grateful, and would have manifested her gratitude by giving him her hand in marriage, but she could not do that, for there was—negro blood in his veins. So, as she could not marry him, she showed her gratitude in the only way left her,—by the gift of her person without marriage."
As in a tone of Satanic triumph, Randolph pronounced these words, a silence like death fell upon the scene.
Bernard Lynn stood for a moment paralyzed; but Esther came forward with flashing eyes,—"O, you miserable coward!" she cried, and with her clenched hand struck her brother,—struck Randolph on the forehead.
And turning away from him in scorn, she raised Eleanor in her arms.
Ere he could recover from the surprise which this blow caused him, Bernard Lynn reached forward, his hands clenched, his dark face purple with rage.
"Wretch! for this you shall die,"—and crushed by the very violence of his rage, his agony, he sank insensible at Randolph's feet.
"Our marriage ceremony is postponed for the present,—good evening, sir!" said Randolph, turning to the preacher, who had witnessed this scene in speechless astonishment. "Mr. Hicks, take care of my friend, Lynn, here, and have him put to bed; and you, Esther, take care of Eleanor: and as for myself,"—he turned his back upon them all, and left the room,—"I think I will go and see my dear brother."
Up-stairs, with the tortures of the damned in his heart,—up-stairs, with the infernal light in his eyes,—a moment's pause at the door of his brother's room,—and then he flings it open and enters.
Harry Royalton, sitting up in bed, his back against the pillows, was reading, by a lamp, which stood on a small table, by the bedside. He was reading the parchment, addressed to his father, as one of the seven. The light shone on his face, now changed from its usual robust hue, to a sickly pallor, as with his large bulging eyes, fixed upon the parchment, he quietly smoked a cigar, and by turns passed his hands over his bushy whiskers and through his thick curling hair. Weak from pain and loss of blood, he still enjoyed his cigar. There was a pleasant complacency about his lips. To-morrow was the twenty-fifth of December, and to-day—he had foiled all the plans of his slave brother. Harry was satisfied with himself The smoke of the Havana floated round him and among the curtains of the bed. It was, take it all in all, a picture.
It was in this moment of quiet complacency, that Randolph appeared upon the scene. Harry looked up,—he caught the glare of his eyes,—and at once looked about him for a bowie-knife or pistol. But there were no weapons near. With a cry for help, Harry sprang from the bed, clad as he was, only in his shirt and drawers. He cried for help, but only once, for ere he could utter a second cry, there was a hand upon his throat.
"I'm not a brother now,—only a slave,—it was as a brother, last night, I spared and saved you,—now I'm only a slave, a negro! But as a slave and negro, I am choking you to death!"
Harry might as well have battled with a thunderbolt. Randolph, with the madman's fire in his eyes, hears him to the floor, puts his knee upon his breast, and tightens his clutch upon his throat. And as a gurgling noise sounded in the throat of the poor wretch, Randolph bent his face nearer to him, and (to use an all-expressive Scotch word) glowered upon him with those madman's eyes.
"This time there must be no mistake, brother. The world is large enough for many millions of people, but not large enough for us two. You must go, Harry,—master! You are going! Go and tell your father and mine how you treated the children of Herodia! Go!"
[CHAPTER IV.]
THE BRIDALS OF JOANNA AND BEVERLY.
It was the night of December the twenty-fifth, 1844.
The mansion of Eugene Livingstone was dark as a tomb. The shutters were closed, and crape fluttered on the door.
Within,—in the range of parlors, where, last night, Eugene kissed good-bye on the lips of his young and beautiful wife, ere he left for Boston,—where, not an hour after, Beverly Barron came and folded the young wife to his breast, ere he bore her from her home to a haunt of shame,—within a single light is burning. One light alone, in the vast mansion, from foundation to roof.
It is a wax candle, placed in the front parlor, on a marble table, between a sofa and mirror, which reaches from the ceiling to the floor.
Joanna is sitting there alone, her golden hair neatly arranged about her blonde face; her noble form clad in a flowing robe of snowy whiteness. She is very beautiful. True, her face is very pale, but her lips are red and a flush burns on each cheek. True, beneath each eye a faint blue circle may be traced, but the eyes themselves, blue as a cloudless sky in June, shine with an intensity that almost changes their hue into black in the soft, luxurious light. Joanna is very beautiful,—a woman of commanding form and voluptuous bust,—the loose robe which she wears, by its flowing folds, gives a new charm, a more fascinating loveliness to every detail of her figure.
Holding the evening paper in her right hand, she beats the carpet somewhat impatiently with her satin-slippered foot.
Her eye rests upon a paragraph in the evening paper:—
"Affair in High Life.—There was a rumor about town, to-day, of an affair of honor in high life—among the 'upper ten,'—the truth of which, at the hour of going to press, we are not able, definitely, to ascertain. The parties named are the elegant and distinguished B——y B——n, and E——e L——ng——e, a well-known member of the old aristocracy, in the upper region of the city. A domestic difficulty is assigned as the cause; and one of the parties is stated to have been severely, if not mortally, wounded. By to-morrow we hope to be able to give the full particulars."
Joanna read this paragraph, and her glance dropped, and she remained for a long time buried in deep thought.
"Will he come?" she said at length, as if thinking aloud.
The silence of the vast mansion was around her, but it did not seem to fill her with awe. She remained sitting on the sofa, the evening paper in her hand, and her face impressed with profound thought.
"Hark!" she ejaculated, as a faint noise was heard in the hall without. She started, but did not rise from the sofa.
The door opened stealthily, with scarcely a perceptible sound, and a man clad in a rough overcoat, with great white buttons, a cap drawn over his brow, and a red neckerchief wound about the collar of his coat, came silently into the room and approached Joanna.
"Who are you?" she cried, as if in alarm,—"Your business here?"
"Joanna, dearest Joanna," cried a familiar voice, "and has my disguise deceived you? It deceived the police, but I did not think that it could deceive you!"
The overcoat, cap and neckerchief were thrown aside, and in an instant Beverly Barron was kneeling at Joanna's feet. His tall and not ungraceful form clad in blue coat, with bright metal buttons, white vest, black pantaloons, and patent leather boots, he wore a diamond pin, and a heavy gold chain. His whole appearance was that of a gentleman of leisure, dressed for the opera or a select evening party. His face was flushed, his eyes sparkling, and the flaxen curls which hung about his brow, emitted an odor of cologne or patchouilli.
"I had to come,—I could not stay away from you, dearest," he said, looking up passionately into her face. "All day long, I have dodged from place to place, determined to see you to-night or die."
She gave him her hand, and looking into the opposite mirror, saw that she was very pale, but still exceedingly beautiful.
"To risk so much for—my sake," she said, and threaded his curls with her delicate hand, and at the same time one of those smiles which set the blood on fire, animated her lips, and disclosed her white teeth.
"You are beautiful as an angel, I vow," exclaimed Beverly, and then glancing round the vast apartment,—"Are we all alone?" he asked.
"Yes, all alone," she replied, "the servants were discharged this morning,—all, save my maid, and she has retired by my orders."
"No danger of any one calling?"
"None."
"You are sure, dearest?"
"No one will call. You are safe, and we are alone, Beverly!" again that smile, and a sudden swell of the bosom.
"The body,—the body——"
"Is at my father, the general's,"—she replied to the question before it passed his lips.
"Then, indeed, dearest, we are alone, and we can talk of our future,—our future. We must come to a decision, Joanna, and soon."
And half raising himself, as she lowered her head, he pressed his kiss on her lips.
"O, I do so long to talk with you, Beverly," she murmured.
"To-morrow, dearest, I will be placed in possession of an immense fortune. You have heard of the Van Huyden estate?"
She made a sign in the affirmative.
"I am the heir of one-seventh of that immense estate. All the obstacles in the way of the seven heirs (as I was informed to-day) are removed. To-morrow the estate will be divided; I will receive my portion without scarcely the chance of disappointment; and next day——"
He paused; she bent down until he felt her breath on his face,—"Next day?" she whispered.
"We will sail for Europe. A palace, in Florence, my love, or in Venice, or some delightful nook of Sicily, where, apart from the world, in an atmosphere like heaven, we can live for each other. What say you to this, Joanna?"
"But you forget," she faltered, "the recent circumstance,——" her face became flushed, and then deathly pale.
"Can you live under your father's eye after what has happened?" he whispered.—"Think of it,—he will loathe the sight of you, and make your life a hell!"
"He will indeed,"—and she dropped her head upon her proud bosom.
"And your brother,—does he not thirst for my blood?"
"Ah! does he?" she cried, with a look of alarm.
"And yet, Joanna, I was forced into it. I did all I could to avoid it. I even apologized on the ground, and offered to make reparation."
"You offered to make reparation?" she cried, "that was, indeed, noble!" and an indescribable smile lighted her features.
"Joanna, dear, I have suffered so much to-day, that I am really faint. A glass of that old Tokay, if you please, my love."
She answered him with a smile, and rising from the sofa, passed into the darkness of the second parlor, separated from the first by folding-doors.
"A magnificent woman, by Jove!" soliloquized Beverly, as he remarked her noble form.
After a few moments she appeared again, bearing a salver of solid gold, on which was placed a decanter and goblet, both of Bohemian glass,—rich scarlet in color, veined with flowers of purple, and blue, and gold.
Never had she seemed more beautiful than when standing before him, she presented the golden salver, with one of those smiles, which gave a deeper red to her lips, a softer brightness to her eyes.
He filled the capacious goblet to the brim—for a moment regarded the wine through the delicate fabric, with its flowers of blue, and purple, and gold,—and then drained it at a draught.
"Ah!"—he smacked his lips,—"that is delicious!"
"Eugene's father imported it some twenty years ago," said Joanna, placing the salver on the table. "Come, Beverly, I want to talk with you."
Following the bewitching gesture which she made with her half-lifted hand, Beverly rose, and gently wound his arm about her waist.
"Come, let us walk slowly up and down these rooms, now in light and now in darkness, and as we walk we can talk freely to each other."
And they walked, side by side, over the carpet, through that splendid suite of rooms, where gorgeous furniture, pictures, statues, all spoke of luxury and wealth. Hand joined in hand, his arm about her waist, her head drooping to his shoulder, and her bosom throbbing near and nearer to his breast, they glided along; now coming near the light in the front room, and now passing into the shadows which invested the other rooms. It was a delightful, nay, an intoxicating tête-à-tête.
"I was thinking, this evening," she said, as they passed from the light, "of the history of our love."
"Ah, dearest!"
"It seems an age since we first met, and yet it's only a year."
"Only a year!" echoed Beverly, as they paused in a nook where a delicious twilight prevailed.
"Eugene presented you to me a year ago, as his dearest friend,—his most tried and trusted friend. Do you remember, Beverly?"
He drew her gently to him,—there was a kiss and an embrace.
"You discovered his infidelity. You brought me the letters written to him by the person in Boston, for whom he proved unfaithful to me. You brought them from time to time, and it was your sympathy with my wounded pride,—my trampled affection,—which consoled me and kept me alive. It was, Beverly."
"O, you say so, dearest," and as they came into light again, he felt her breast throbbing nearer to his own.
For a moment they paused by the table, whereon the wax candle was burning, its flame reflected in the lofty mirror. Her face half-averted from the light, as her head drooped on his shoulder, she was exceedingly beautiful.
"Beverly," she whispered, and placed her arm gently about his neck,—the touch thrilled him to the heart,—"you knew me, young, confiding, ignorant of the world. You took pity on my unsuspecting ignorance, and day by day, yes hour by hour, in these very rooms, you led me on, to see the full measure of my husband's guilt, and at the same time led me to believe in you, and love you."
She paused, and passed her hand gently among his flaxen curls.
"Ah, love, you are as good as you are beautiful!" he whispered.
"Before you spoke thus, I had no thought save of my duty to Eugene."
"Eugene, who betrayed you!"
"Yes, to Eugene, who betrayed me, and to my child. After you spoke, I saw life in a new light. The world did not seem to me, any longer, to be the scene of dull quiet home-like duty, but of pleasure,—mad, passionate pleasure,—may be, illicit pleasure, purchased at any cost. And letter after letter which you brought me, accompanied by proof which I could not doubt, only served to complete the work,—to wean me from my idol,—false, false idol, Eugene,—and to teach me that this world was not so much made for dull every-day duty, as for those pleasures which, scorning the laws of the common herd, develop into active life every throb of enjoyment of which we are capable."
"Yes, yes, love," interrupted Beverly, pressing his lips to hers.
"And thus matters wore on, until you brought me the last, the damning letter. He was going to Boston to see his dying brother,—so he pretended,—but in reality to see the woman for whom he had proved faithless to me. When you brought me this letter I was mad,—mad,—O, Beverly——"
"It was enough to drive you mad!"
"And yesterday, impelled by some vague idea of revenge, I consented to go with you to a place, where, as you said, we would see something of the world,—where, in the excitement of a masked ball, I might forget my husband's faithlessness, and at the same time show that I did not care for his authority. Some idea of this kind was in my mind, and last night when he kissed me, and so coolly lied to me, before his departure, O, then Beverly, then, I was cut to the quick. You came after he had gone, and,—and—I went with you—"
"You did dearest Joanna," said Beverly, pressing her closer to his side.
They passed from the light into the shadows together.
"And there, you know what happened there," she said, as they stood in the darkness. She clung nearer and nearer to him. "But you know, Beverly, you know, that it was not until my senses were maddened by wine," her voice grew low and lower,—"that I gave my person to you."
In the darkness she laid her head upon his breast, and put her arms about his neck, her bosom all the while throbbing madly against his chest.
"O, you know, that in the noble letters, which you wrote to me from time to time—letters breathing a pure spiritual atmosphere,—you spoke of your love for me as something far above all common loves, refined and purified, and separate from all thought of physical impurity. And yet,—and yet,—last night when half crazed by jealousy, I went with you to the place which you named, you took the moment, when my senses were completely delirious with wine, to treat me as though I had been your wife, as though you had been the father of my child."
She sobbed aloud, and would have fallen to the floor had he not held her in his arms.
"O, Joanna, you vex yourself without cause," he said, soothingly,—"I love you,—you know I love you—"
"O, but would it not be a dreadful thing, if you had been deceived in regard to these letters!"
"Deceived?"
"Suppose, for instance, some one had forged them, and imposed them upon you as veritable letters—"
"Forged? This is folly my love."
"In that case, you and I would be guilty, O, guilty beyond power of redemption, and Eugene would be an infamously murdered man."
"Dismiss these gloomy thoughts. The letters were true—"
"O, you are certain,—certain—"
"I swear it,—swear it by all I hold dear on earth or hope hereafter."
"O, do not swear, Beverly. Who could doubt you?"
They passed toward the light again. She wiped the tears from her eyes—those eyes which shone all the brighter for the tears.
"And the day after to-morrow," said Beverly, as he rested his hand upon her shoulder,—"we will leave for Italy—"
"You have been in Italy?" asked Joanna.
"O, yes dearest, and Italy is only another name for Eden," he replied, growing warm, even eloquent—"there far removed from a cold, a heartless world, we will live, we will die together!"
"Would it not," she said, in a low whisper, as with her hand on his shoulders and her bosom beating against his own, she looked up earnestly into his face, "O, would it not be well, could we but die at this moment,—now, when our love is in its youngest and purest bloom,—die here on this cold earth, only to live again, and live with each other in a happier world?"
And in her emotion, she wound her aims convulsively about his neck and buried her face upon his breast.
"Dismiss these gloomy thoughts,"—he kissed her forehead—"there are many happy hours before us in this world, Joanna. Think not of death—"
"O, do you know, Beverly," she raised her face,—it was radiant with loveliness—"that I love to think of death. Death, you know, is such a test of sincerity. Before it falsehood falls dumb and hypocrisy drops its mask—"
"Nay, nay you must dismiss these gloomy thoughts. You know I love you—you know—"
He did not complete the sentence, but they passed into the darkness again, his arms about her waist, her head upon his shoulder.
And there, in the gloom, he pressed her to his breast, and as she clung to his neck, whispered certain words, which died in murmurs on her ear.
"No, no, Beverly," she answered, in a voice, broken by emotion, "it cannot be. Consider—"
"Cannot be? And am I not all to you?" he said, impassionately,—"Yes, Joanna, it must be—"
There was a pause, only broken by low murmurs, and passionate kisses.
"Come then," she said, at last, "come, husband—"
Without another word, she took him by the hand, and led him from the room out into the darkened hall. Her hand trembled very much, as she led him through the darkness up the broad stairway. Then a door was opened and together they entered the bed-chamber.
It is the same as it was last night. Only instead of a taper a wax candle burns brightly before a mirror. The curtains still fall like snow-flakes along the lofty windows, the alabaster vase is still filled with flowers,—they are withered now,—and from the half-shadowed alcove, gleams the white bed, with curtains enfolding it in a snowy canopy.
Trembling, but beautiful beyond the power of words,—beautiful in the flush of her cheeks, the depth of her gaze, the passion of her parted lips,—beautiful in every motion of that bosom which heaved madly against the folds which only half-concealed it,—trembling, she led him toward the bed.
"My marriage bed," she whispered, and laid her hand upon the closed curtains.
Beverly was completely carried away by the sight of her passionate loveliness—"Once your marriage bed with a false husband," he said, and laid his hand also upon the closed curtains, "now your marriage bed with a true husband, who will love you until death—"
And he drew aside the curtains.
Drew aside the curtains, folding Joanna passionately to his breast, and,—fell back with a cry of horror. Fell back, all color gone from his face, his features distorted, his paralyzed hands extended above his head.
Joanna did not seem to share his terror for she burst into a fit of laughter.
"Our marriage bed, love," she said, "why are you so cold?" and again she laughed.
But Beverly could not move nor speak. His eyes were riveted to the bed.
Within the snowy curtains, was stretched a corpse, attired in the white garment of the grave. Through the parted curtains, the light shone fully on its livid face, while the body was enveloped in half shadow,—shone fully on the white forehead with its jet-black hair, upon the closed lids, and—upon the dark wound between the eyes. The agony of the last spasm was still upon that face, although the hands were folded tranquilly on the breast. Eugene Livingstone was sleeping upon his marriage bed,—sleeping, undisturbed by dreams.
Joanna stood there, holding the curtain with her uplifted hand, her eyes bright, her face flushed with unnatural excitement. Again she laughed loud and long—the echoes of her laughter sounded strangely in that marriage chamber.
"What,—what does this mean?" cried Beverly, at last finding words—"is this a dream——a——" He certainly was in a fearful fright, for he could not proceed.
"Why, so cold, love?" she said, smiling, "it is our marriage bed, you know—"
"Joanna, Joanna," he cried,—"are you mad?" and in his fright, he looked anxiously toward the door.
She took a package from her breast and flung it at his feet.
"Go," she cried, "but first take up your forged letters—"
"Forged letters?" he echoed.
"Forged letters," she answered,—her voice was changed,—her manner changed,—there was no longer any passion on her face,—pale as marble, her face rigid as death, she confronted him with a gaze that he dared not meet. "Go!" she cried, "but take with you your forged letters. Yes, the letters which you forged, and which you used as the means of my ruin. You have robbed me of my honor, robbed me of my husband,—your work is complete—go!"
Her face was white as the dress which she wore,—she pointed to the threshold.
"Joanna, Joanna," faltered Beverly.
"Not a word, not a word, villain, villain without remorse or shame! I am guilty, and might excuse myself by pleading your treachery. But I make no excuse. But for you,—for you,—where is the excuse? You have dishonored the wife,—made the child fatherless,—your work is complete! Go!"
Beverly saw that all his schemes had been unraveled; conscious of his guilt, and conscious that everything was at an end between him and Joanna, he made a desperate attempt to rally his usual self-possession; or, perhaps, impudence would be the better word.
He moved to the door, and placed his hand upon the lock.
"Well, madam, as you will," he said, and bowed. "Under the circumstances, I can only wish you a very good evening."
He opened the door.
"Hold!" she cried in a voice that made him start.—"Your work is complete, but so, also, is mine—"
She paused; her look excited in him a strange curiosity for the completion of the sentence. "You will not long enjoy your triumph. You have not an hour to live. The wine which you drank was poisoned."
Beverly's heart died in him at these words. A strange fever in his veins, a strange throbbing at the temples, which he had felt for an hour past, and which he had attributed to the excitement resulting from the events of the day, he now felt again, and with redoubled force.
"No,—no,—it is not so," he faltered.—"Woman, you are mad,—you had not the heart to do it."
"Had not the heart?" again she burst into a loud laugh,—"O, no, I was but jesting. Look here,"—she darted to the bed, flung the curtain aside, and disclosed the lifeless form of her husband,—"and here!" gliding to another part of the room, she gently drew a cradle into light, and throwing its silken covering aside, disclosed the face of her sleeping child,—that cherub boy, who, as on the night previous, slept with his rosy cheek on his bent arm, and the ringlets of his auburn hair tangled about his forehead, white as alabaster. "And now look upon me!" she dilated before him like a beautiful fiend; "we are all before you,—the dead husband, the dishonored wife, the fatherless child,—and yet I had not the heart,"—she laughed again.
Beverly heard no more. Uttering a blasphemous oath, he rushed from the room.
And the babe, awakened by the sound of voices, opened its clear, innocent eyes, and reached forth its baby hands toward its mother.
Urged forward by an impulse like madness, Beverly entered the rooms on the first floor, seized the rough overcoat and threw it on, passing the red neckerchief around its collar, to conceal his face. Then drawing the cap over his eyes, he hurried from the house.
"It's all nonsense," he muttered, and descended the steps.—"I'll walk it off."
Walk it off! And yet the fever burned the more fiercely, his temples throbbed more madly, as he said the words. Leaving behind him the closed mansion of Eugene Livingstone, with the crape fluttering on the door, he bent his steps toward Broadway.
"I'm nervous," he muttered.—"The words of that dev'lish hysterical woman have unsettled me. How cold it is!" He felt cold as ice for a moment, and the next instant his veins seemed filled with molten fire.
He hurried along the dark street toward Broadway. The distant lights at the end of the street, where it joined Broadway, seemed to dance and whirl as he gazed upon them; and his senses began to be bewildered.
"I've drank too much," he muttered.—"If I can only reach Broadway, and get to my hotel, all will be right."
But when he reached Broadway, it whirled before him like a great sea of human faces, carriages, houses and flame, all madly confused, and rolling through and over each other.
The crowd gave way before him, as he staggered along.
"He's drunk," cried one.
"Pitch into me that way ag'in, old feller, and I'll hit you," cried another.
It was Christmas Eve, and Broadway was alive with light and motion; the streets thronged with vehicles, and the sidewalks almost blocked up with men, and women, and children; the lamps lighted, and the shops and places of amusement illuminated, as if to welcome some great conqueror. But Beverly was unconscious of the external scene. His fashionable dress, concealed by his rough overcoat, and his face hidden by his cap and red neckerchief, he staggered along, with his head down and his hands swaying from side to side. There was a roaring as of waves or of devouring flame in his ears. A red haze was before his eyes; and the scenes of his whole life came up to him at once, even as a drowning man sees all his life, in a focus, before the last struggle,—there were the persons he had known, the adventures he had experienced, the events of his boyhood, and the triumphs and shames of his libertine manhood,—all these came up to him, and confronted him as he hurried along. Three faces were always before him,—the dead face of Eugene, the pale visage of Joanna, her eyes flaming with vengeance, and,—the innocent countenance of his motherless daughter.
And thus he hurried along.
"Old fellow, the stars'll be arter you," cried one in the crowd, through which he staggered on.
"My eyes! ain't he drunk?"
"Don't he pay as much attention to one side o' the pavement as the tother?"
"Did you ever see sich worm fence as he lays out?"
There was something grotesquely horrible in the contrast between his real condition, and the view which the crowd took of it.
At length, not knowing whither he went, he turned from the glare and noise of Broadway into a by-street, and hurried onward,—onward, through the gloom, until he fell.
In a dark corner of the street, behind the Tombs, close to the stones of that gloomy pile, he fell, and lay there all night long, with no hand to aid him, no eye to pity him.
He was found, on Christmas morning, stiff and cold; his head resting against the wall of the Tombs, his body covered with new-fallen snow. A pile of bricks lay on one side of him, a heap of boards on the other. This was the death-couch of the dashing Beverly Barron!
How he died, no one could tell; it was supposed that he had poisoned himself from remorse at the death of Eugene Livingstone.
As Beverly hurried from the room, the babe in the cradle opened its clear, innocent eyes, and reached forth its baby hands toward its mother.
She took it, and stilled it to rest upon her bosom: and then came to the bed and sat down upon it, near her dead husband.
"Eugene, Eugene!" she gently put her hand upon his cold forehead,—"let me talk to you,—I will not wake you,—let me talk to you, as you sleep. I am guilty, Eugene, you know I am,—you cannot forgive me,—I do not ask forgiveness; but you'll let me be near you, Eugene? You will not spurn me from you? This is our child, Eugene,—don't you know him?—O, look up and speak to him. Don't,—don't be angry with him,—his mother is a poor, fallen fallen thing, but don't be angry with our child!"
She did not weep. Her eyes, large and full of light, were fixed upon her husband's face. Cradling her babe upon her bosom, she sat there all night long, talking to Eugene, in a low, whispering voice, as though she wished him to hear her, and yet was afraid to awake him from a pleasant slumber. The light went out, but still she did not move. She was there at morning light, her baby sleeping on her breast, and her hand laid upon her dead husband's forehead.
And at early morning light, her father came,—the gray-haired man,—his face frowning, and his heart full of wrath against his daughter.
"What do you here?" he said, sternly. "This is no place for you. There is to be an inquest soon. You surely do not wish to look upon the ruin you have wrought?"
As though she was conscious of his presence, but had not heard his words, she turned her face over her shoulder,—that colorless face, lighted by eyes that still burned with undimmed luster,—and said,—
"Do you know, father. I have been talking with Eugene, and he has forgiven me!"
The voice, the look melted the old man's heart.
He fell upon the bed, and wept.
[CHAPTER V.]
AN EPISODE.
Here, my friend, let us take a breathing spell in this, our dark history. Horrors crowd fast and thick upon us,—horrors, not born of romance, but of that under-current of real life, which rolls on evermore, beneath the glare and uproar of the Empire City. We do not wish to write them down,—shudder sometimes and drop the pen as we describe them,—and ask ourselves, "Can these things really be? Is not the world all song and sunshine? Does that gilded mask which we call by the name of Civilization,—the civilization of the nineteenth century,—only hide the features of a corpse?" And the answer to these queries comes to us in the columns of every daily paper; in the record of every day's farces and crimes; in the unwritten history of those masses, who, while we write, are slowly serving their apprenticeship of hardship and starvation, in order that at last they may inherit a—grave.
Ah, it is the task of the author who writes a book, traversing a field so vast as is attempted in the present work, not to exaggerate, but to soften, the perpetual tragedies of every day. He dares not tell all the truth; he can only vaguely hint at those enormous evils which are the inevitable result,—not of totally depraved human nature, for such a thing never existed,—but of a social system, which, false alike to God and man, does perpetually tempt one portion of the human race with immense wealth, as it tempts another portion with immeasurable poverty.
But let us leave these dark scenes for a little while. Let us breathe where crime does not poison the air. It is June, and the trees are in full leaf, and through canopies of green leaves, the brooks are singing their summer song. Come out with me into the open country, where every fleeting cloud that turns its white bosom to the sun, as it skims along the blue, shall remind us, not of crime and blood, but of thankfulness to God, that summer is on the land, and that we are alive. Come,—without object, save to drink at some wayside spring,—without hope, other than to lose ourselves among the summer boughs,—let us take a stroll together.
Out in the country, near a dusty turnpike, and a straight, hot railroad track,—but we'll leave the turnpike, which is well scattered with young gentlemen in high shirt-collars, who drink clouds of dust, and drive hired horses to death,—and we'll leave the railroad where the steam engine, like a tired devil, comes blowing and swearing, with red coals in its mouth, and a cloud of brimstone smoke about its head. We'll climb the rails of yonder gray old fence, and get us straightway into the fields; not much have we to show you there. A narrow path winds among tangled bushes and clumps of dwarfed cedar trees; it shows us, here a grassy nook, hidden in shade, and there a rough old rock, projecting its bald head in the sun; and then it goes winding down and down, until you hear the singing of the brook. Where that brook comes from, you cannot tell; yonder it is hidden under a world of leaves; here it sinks from view under a bridge curiously made up of stone, and timber, and sod; a little to your right it comes into light, dashing over cool rocks and forming little lakes all over beds of smooth gray sand. Follow the path and cross the bridge; we stand in the shade of trees, that are scattered at irregular intervals, along the side of a hill. Here a willow near the brook, with rank grass about its trunks; there a poplar with a trunk like a Grecian column, and leaves like a canopy; and farther on, a mass of oaks, chesnuts, and maples, grouped together, their boughs mingling, and a thicket of bushes and vines around their trunks. So you see, we stand at the bottom of an amphitheater, one side of which is forest, the other low brushwood; beyond the brushwood, a distant glimpse of another forest, and in the center of the scene, the hidden brooklet singing its June-day song.
You look above, and the blue sky is set in an irregular frame of leaves,—leaves now shadowed by a cloud, and now dancing in the sun.
Let us stretch ourselves upon this level bit of sod, where all is shade and quiet, and——
Think? No, sir. Do not think that there is such a creature as a bad man, or a crime in the world. But drink the summer air,—drink the freshness of foliage and flowers,—lull yourself with the song of the brook,—look at the blue sky, and feel that there is a God, and that he is good.
You may depend you will feel better after it. If you don't, why, it is clear that your mind is upon bank stock, or politics,—and there's not much hope of you.
Thus, stretched in the shade, at the bottom of this leafy amphitheater, you'll wrap yourself in summer, and forget the world, which, beyond that wall of trees, is still at its old work,—swearing, lying, fretting, loving, hating, and rushing on all the while at steam-engine speed.
You won't care who's President, or who robbed the treasury of half a million dollars. You'll forget that there is a Pope who washed his hands in the blood of brave men and heroic women. You'll not be anxious about the rate of stock; whether money is tight or easy, shall not trouble you one jot. Thus resting quietly at the bottom of your amphitheater in the country, you'll feel that you are in the church of God, which has sky for roof, leaves for walls, grassy sod for floor, and for music,—hark! Did you ever hear organ or orchestra that could match that? The hum of bees, the bubble of brooks, the air rustling among the leaves, all woven together, in one dreamy hymn, that melts into your soul, and takes you up to heaven, quick as a sunbeam flies!
And when the sun goes behind the trees, and the dell is filled with broad gleams of golden light and deep masses of shade, you may watch the moon as she steals into sight, right over your head, in the very center of the glimpse of blue sky. You may hear the low murmur which tells you that the day's work is almost done, and that the solemn night has come to wrap you in her stillness.
And ere you leave the dell, just give one moment of thought to those you love, whose eyes are shut by the graveyard sod,—think of them, not as dead, but as living and beautiful among those stars,—and then taking the path over the brook, turn your steps to the world again.
Hark! Here it comes on the steam-engine's roar and whistle,—that bustling, hating, fighting world, which, like the steam-engine, rushes onward, with hot coals at its heart, and a brimstone cloud above it.