"Gone," echoed the Madam, "to be sure it is. Our only hope is in that ruffian. One well-planted blow with a slung-shot, will kill the strongest man."
"The red book gone!" Corkins fairly trembled with affright. Staggering like a drunken man, he managed to deposit himself in a chair. He took the gold spectacles from his nose, and wiped them, in an absent way. "Bad," he muttered. Then passing his hand from his "goatee" to his top-knot, and from top-knot to "goatee," again he muttered, "The red book gone! what will become of us?"
"If it is not recovered before morning, we are done for," cried the Madam; "that's all. But this is no time for foolin'? Come, sir! stir your stumps!"
She took the light and led the way up-stairs, followed by Corkins, who shook in every fiber; murmuring, at every step, "Gone! gone! The red book gone!"
Entering the passage which led to the chamber of Alice, the Madam paused at the door of that chamber, and pointed to the door of the closet which (you will remember) was buried under the stairway that led to the fourth story.
A faint moan was heard; it came from the chamber of Alice. The Madam did not heed that moan, but opening the closet door, crossed its threshold, followed by Corkins. The light disclosed the details of that small and gloomy place; and glittered brightly upon a mahogany chest or box which rested on the floor. A mahogany box, with surface polished like a mirror, and a shape that told at sight of death and the grave. It was a coffin; and the coffin of that nameless girl who had been removed from the bed, in the adjoining chamber, in order to make room for Alice.
"What,—what—is—to—be—done—with—her?" said Corkins, as he touched the coffin with his foot.
Here, for one moment, while Corkins and the Madam stand beside the coffin, in the lonely closet of the accursed mansion; here, for one moment, turn your gaze away. Look far through the night, and let your gaze rest upon the fireside light of yonder New England home. It is a quiet fireside, in the city of Hartford; and a father and a mother are sitting there, bewailing the singular absence of their only daughter, a beautiful girl, the hope and the light of their home; she strangely disappeared a week ago, and since then, they have heard no signs nor tidings of her fate.
And now they are sitting by their desolate fireside; the father choking down his agony in silent prayer; the mother giving free vent to her anguish in a flood of tears. And the eyes of father and mother turn to the daughter's place by the fireside; it is vacant, and forever. For while they bewail her absence,—while they hope for her return by morning light,—their daughter rests in the coffin, here, at the feet of Madam Resimer. Weep, fond mother; choke down your agony with silent prayer, brave father: but tears nor prayers can never bring your daughter back again. To-night, she rests in the coffin, at the feet of Madam Resimer; to-morrow night—Look yonder! A learned doctor is lecturing for the instruction of his students, and his "subject" lies on the table before him. That "subject," (Oh! do you see it, father and mother of the distant New England home,) that "subject" is your only daughter.
Verily, the tragedies of actual, every-day life, are more improbable than the maddest creations of romance.