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NEW YORK: ITS UPPER TEN AND LOWER MILLION.
BY GEORGE LIPPARD.
AUTHOR OF "ADONAI," "WASHINGTON AND HIS GENERALS," "THE QUAKER CITY,"
"PAUL ARDENHEIM," "BLANCHE OF BRANDYWINE," "LEGENDS OF MEXICO," "THE
NAZARENE," ETC. ETC. ETC.
CINCINNATI: PUBLISHED BY E. MENDENHALL.
NEW YORK: A. RANNEY.
1854.
[Illustration: Author Portrait.]
CONTENTS.
PRELIMINARY SKETCH
PROLOGUE
Part First.
"FRANK VAN HUYDEN." DEC. 23 1844.--EVENING.
CHAPTER I. "DOES HE REMEMBER?"
CHAPTER II. FRANK AND HER SINGULAR VISITOR.
CHAPTER III. THE CHILDHOOD OF THE MIDNIGHT QUEEN.
CHAPTER IV. MAIDENHOOD.
CHAPTER V. ON THE ROCK.
CHAPTER VI. AMONG THE PALISADES.
CHAPTER VII. IN THE FOREST NOOK.
CHAPTER VIII. HOME, ADIEU!
CHAPTER IX. ERNEST AND HIS SINGULAR ADVENTURES.
CHAPTER X. THE PALACE-HOME.
CHAPTER XI. "SHE'LL DO!"
CHAPTER XII. A REVELATION.
CHAPTER XIII. MORPHINE.
CHAPTER XIV. THE SALE IS COMPLETE.
CHAPTER XV. "LOST--LOST, UTTERLY!"
Part Second.
FROM NIGHTFALL UNTIL MIDNIGHT. DEC. 23, 1844.
CHAPTER I. BLOODHOUND AND THE UNKNOWN.
CHAPTER II. THE CANAL STREET SHIRT STORE.
CHAPTER III. "DO THEY ROAR?"
CHAPTER IV. THE SEVEN VAULTS.
CHAPTER V. THE LEGATE OF THE POPE.
CHAPTER VI. "JOANNA!"
CHAPTER VII. THE WHITE SLAVE AND HIS SISTER.
CHAPTER VIII. ELEANOR LYNN.
CHAPTER IX. BERNARD LYNN.
CHAPTER X. "YES! YOU WILL MEET HIM."
CHAPTER XI. IN THE HOUSE OF THE MERCHANT PRINCE.
CHAPTER XII. "SHOW ME THE WAY."
CHAPTER XIII. "THE REVEREND VOLUPTUARIES."
CHAPTER XIV. "BELOW FIVE POINTS."
Part Third.
THROUGH THE SILENT CITY. DEC. 24, 1844.
CHAPTER I. THE DEN OF MADAM RESIMER.
CHAPTER II. "HERMAN, YOU WILL NOT DESERT ME?"
CHAPTER III. HERMAN, ARTHUR, ALICE.
CHAPTER IV. THE RED BOOK.
CHAPTER V. "WHAT SHALL WE DO WITH HER?"
CHAPTER VI. A BRIEF EPISODE.
CHAPTER VII. THROUGH THE SILENT CITY.
CHAPTER VIII. IN TRINITY CHURCH.
CHAPTER IX. THE END OF THE MARCH.
Part Fourth.
IN THE TEMPLE--FROM MIDNIGHT UNTIL DAWN. DEC. 24, 1844.
CHAPTER I. THE CENTRAL CHAMBER.
CHAPTER II. THE BLUE ROOM.
CHAPTER III. THE GOLDEN ROOM.
CHAPTER IV. THE BRIDAL CHAMBER.
CHAPTER V. THE SCARLET CHAMBER.
CHAPTER VI. BANK STOCK AT THE BAR.
CHAPTER VII. "WHERE IS THE CHILD OF GULIAN VAN HUYDEN?"
CHAPTER VIII. BEVERLY AND JOANNA.
CHAPTER IX. MARY BERMAN--CARL RAPHAEL.
Part Fifth.
THE DAWN, SUNRISE AND DAY. DEC. 24, 1844.
CHAPTER I. "THE OTHER CHILD."
CHAPTER II. RANDOLPH AND HIS BROTHER.
CHAPTER III. THE HUSBAND AND THE PROFLIGATE.
CHAPTER IV. ISRAEL AND HIS VICTIM.
CHAPTER V. MARY, CARL, CORNELIUS.
CHAPTER VI. A LOOK INTO THE RED BOOK.
CHAPTER VII. MARION MERLIN.
CHAPTER VIII. NIAGARA.
CHAPTER IX. A SECOND MARRIAGE.
CHAPTER X. A SECOND MURDER.
CHAPTER XI. MARION AND HERMAN BARNHURST.
CHAPTER XII. MARION AND FANNY.
CHAPTER XIII. AN UNUTTERABLE CRIME.
CHAPTER XIV. SUICIDE.
CHAPTER XV. AFTER THE DEATH OF MARION.
Part Sixth.
DAY, SUNSET, NIGHT. DECEMBER 24, 1844.
CHAPTER I. ARRAYED FOR THE BRIDAL.
CHAPTER II. HERMAN AND GODIVA.
CHAPTER III. THE DREAM ELIXIR.
CHAPTER IV. THE BRIDAL OF JOANNA AND BEVERLY.
CHAPTER V. AN EPISODE.
Part Seventh.
THE DAY OF TWENTY-ONE YEARS. DEC. 25, 1844.
CHAPTER I. MARTIN FULMER APPEARS.
CHAPTER II. "THE SEVEN" ARE SUMMONED.
CHAPTER III. "SAY, BETWEEN US THREE!"
CHAPTER IV. THE LEGATE OF HIS HOLINESS.
CHAPTER V. THE SON, AT LAST!
CHAPTER VI. A LONG ACCOUNT SETTLED.
CHAPTER VII. THE BANQUET ROOM ONCE MORE.
Epilogue. ON THE OCEAN--BY THE RIVER SHORE--IN THE VATICAN--ON
THE PRAIRIE.
PRELIMINARY SKETCH.
CHRISTMAS EVE, 1823, was a memorable night in the history of a certain
wealthy family in New York. The night was dark and stormy, but the
tempest which swept over the bay, and whitened the city's roofs with
snow, was but a faint symbol of the tempest of human passion--jealousy,
covetousness, despair--then at work, in the breasts of a group of
individuals, connected with the old and distinguished family of VAN
HUYDEN.
On that night, GULIAN VAN HUYDEN, the representative of the family, and
owner of its immense wealth--a young man in the prime of early manhood,
who had been happily married a year before--gave a great banquet to his
male friends, in his city mansion. By his side was seated his younger
brother, CHARLES VAN HUYDEN, whom the will of their father had confined
to a limited income, while GULIAN, as the elder son, had become the
possessor of nearly all of the immense wealth of the family.
The banquet was prolonged from about nine o'clock until near dawn,
and during its progress, Gulian and his brother had been alternately
absent, for the space of an hour, or a half hour at a time.
The city mansion of Gulian, situated not far from Trinity Church, flung
the blaze of its festival lights out upon the stormy night. That light
was not sufficient to light up the details of two widely different
edifices, which, located within a hundred yards of Gulian's mansion,
had much to do with his fortunes, and the fortunes of his family.
The nearest of these edifices, an antique, high-roofed house, which
stood in a desolate garden, was (unknown to Gulian) the home of his
brother, and of that brother's mistress--a woman whom Charles did not
wish to marry, until by some chance or other, he became the possessor
of the Van Huyden estate.
The other edifice, a one-storied hovel, was the home of a mechanic and
his young wife. His name was JOHN HOFFMAN, his trade that of a stone
mason, and at the period of this narrative, he was miserably poor.
Now, during the night of Christmas eve (and while the banquet was in
progress in Gulian's city mansion), an unknown person, thickly cloaked,
entered the hovel of the mechanic, bearing a new-born child in his
arms. An interview followed between the unknown, John Hoffman, and his
wife. The mechanic and his wife consented to adopt the child in place
of one which they had recently lost. The stranger with the child,
gave them a piece of parchment, which bore on one side, the initials,
"G. G. V. H. C." and on the other the name of "DR. MARTIN FULMER," an
eccentric physician, well known in New York. This parchment deposited
in a letter addressed to Dr. Fulmer, and sent to the post office once a
quarter, would be returned to the mechanic, accompanied by the sum of
a hundred dollars. John was especially enjoined to keep this interview
and its results a secret from the Doctor. Having deposited the child
and parchment with the worthy couple, the stranger departed, and was
never again seen by the mechanic or his wife.
Within an hour of this singular interview the mistress of Charles Van
Huyden, returned to her home (from which she had been absent for a
brief period)--flakes of snow upon her dress and upon her disordered
hair--and placed upon her bed, the burden which she carried, a new-born
infant, enveloped in a shawl. As the fallen, but by no means altogether
depraved woman, surveyed this infant, she also beheld her own child,
sleeping in a cradle not far from the bed--a daughter some three months
old, and named after its mother FRANK, that is, FRANCIS VAN HUYDEN.
Christmas Eve passed away, and Christmas morning was near. Dr. Martin
Fulmer was suddenly summoned to Gulian's mansion. And Gulian, fresh
from the scenes of the banquet room, met the Doctor in an obscure
garret of his mansion. He first bound the Doctor by an oath, to yield
implicit obedience to all his wishes, an oath which appealed to all
that was superstitious, as well as to all that was truly religious in
the Doctor's nature, and then the interview followed, terrible and
momentous in its details and its results. These results stretch over
a period of twenty-one years--from December 25, 1823, to December 25,
1844. This interview over, Gulian left the Doctor (who, stupefied and
awe-stricken by the words which he had just heard, sank kneeling on
the floor of the room in which the interview had taken place), and
silently departed from his mansion. He bent his steps to the Battery.
And then--young, handsome, the possessor of enormous wealth--he left
this life with the same composure, that he had just departed from his
mansion. In plain words, he plunged into the river, and met the death
of the SUICIDE in its ice-burdened waves, while his brother Charles
(whom we forgot to state, had accompanied him from the threshold of his
home), stood affrighted and appalled on the shore.
Meanwhile, Dr. Martin Fulmer (bound by his oath), descended from the
garret into a bedchamber of the Van Huyden mansion. Upon the bed was
stretched a beautiful but dying woman. It was Alice Van Huyden, the
young wife of Gulian. All night long (while the banquet progressed
in another apartment) she had wrestled in the agonies of maternity,
unwatched and alone. She had given birth to a child, but when the Dr.
stood by the bed, the child had been removed by unknown hands.
Convinced of his wife's infidelity--believing that his own brother
Charles was the author of his dishonor--Gulian had left his mansion,
his wealth, life and all its hopes, to meet the death of the suicide in
the waves of Manhattan Bay.
And Dr. Martin Fulmer, but a few hours ago a poor man, now found
himself, as he stood by the bed of the dying wife, the _sole trustee_
of the Van Huyden Estate.
His trust was to continue for twenty-one years. In case of his death,
he had power to appoint a successor. And at the end of twenty-one
years, on the 25th of December, 1844, the estate (swelled by the
accumulations of twenty-one years), was, by the will of Gulian Van
Huyden, to be disposed of in this wise:
I. In case a son of Gulian should appear on that day (December 25th,
1844), the estate should descend absolutely to him. Or,
II. In case on the day named, it should be proven to the satisfaction
of the Trustee, that such a son had been in existence, but had met his
death in a truly just cause, then the estate was to be disposed of,
according to the directions embodied in a sealed codicil (which was not
to be opened until December 25, 1844). But in case such a son did not
appear, and in case his death in a truly just cause was not proven on
the appointed day, then,
III. The estate was to be divided among the heirs of _seven_ persons,
descendants of the first of the Van Huydens, who landed on Manhattan
Island, in the year 1623. These seven persons, widely distributed
over the United States, were (by the directions of the Testator) to
be furnished with a copy of the will. And among these seven or their
heirs--that is, those of the number who appeared before Martin Fulmer,
at the appointed place on the appointed day--the estate would be
divided.
Such in brief, were the essential features of the will.
A few days after December 25, 1823, Charles Van Huyden, having in his
possession $200,000 (given to him by Dr. Martin Fulmer, in accordance
with the wishes of Gulian) left New York for Paris, taking with him
his mistress (now his wife), their child "Francis" or "Frank," and the
strange child which the woman had brought to her home, on Christmas
Eve, 1823. Whether this "strange" child, or the child left with the
poor mechanic, was the offspring of Gulian Van Huyden, will be seen
from the narrative which follows this imperfect sketch.
Twenty-one years pass away; it lacks but a day or two of December
25th, 1844. Who are the seven heirs? Does a son of Gulian live? What
has become of Charles Van Huyden; of Hoffman the mechanic, and of the
child left in the care of the mechanic? What has become of Charles Van
Huyden's wife and child?
On a night in December 1844--say the 23d of the month--we shall find in
New York, the following persons, connected with the fortunes of the Van
Huyden family:
The "SEVEN" or their heirs.
I. GABRIEL GODLIKE, a statesman, who with an intellect rivaling some of
the greatest names in our history, such as Clay, Calhoun or Webster, is
destitute of the patriotism and virtues of these great men.
II. HERMAN BARNHURST, a clergyman, who has lured from Philadelphia to
New York, the only daughter of a merchant of the former city. This
clergyman and his victim, are pursued by the Third of the Seven.
III. ARTHUR DERMOYNE, a mechanic.
IV. ISRAEL YORKE, a Banker.
V. HARRY ROYALTON, OF HILL ROYAL, S. C. His claim to an undivided
seventh of the Estate, will be contested by his half brother and
sister, RANDOLPH and ESTHER, who although white, are alleged to have
African blood in their veins.
VI. BEVERLY BARRON, a "man of the world."
VII. EVELYN SOMERS, a New York "Merchant Prince."
2d. We shall find in New York, at the period before named, CHARLES
VAN HUYDEN, transformed into COL. TARLETON, and endeavoring to remove
from his hands the blood of a man whom he has slain in a duel. His
daughter "FRANK" grown to womanhood, and brought into contact with
"NAMELESS," who left in infancy at the hovel of John Hoffman, has after
a childhood of terrible hardships--a young manhood darkened by madness
and crime--suddenly appeared in New York, in company with a discharged
convict. This convict is none other than John Hoffman the mechanic. And
gliding through the narrative, and among its various actors, we shall
find MARTIN FULMER, or his successor.
With this preliminary sketch--necessarily brief and imperfect, for
it covers a period of twenty-one years--the following narrative is
submitted to the reader. Yet first, let us for a moment glance at the
"VAN HUYDEN ESTATE." This estate in 1823, was estimated at two millions
of dollars. What is it in 1844?
The history of two millions of dollars in twenty-one years! Two
millions left to go by itself, and ripen year after year, into new
power, until at last the original sum is completely forgotten in the
vast accumulation of capital. In the Old World twenty-one years glide
by, and everything is the same. At the end of twenty-one years, two
millions would still be two millions. Twenty-one years in the New World
is as much as two centuries to the Old. The vast expanse of land;
the constant influx of population; the space for growth afforded by
institutions as different from those of Europe (that is from those
of the past), as day from night--all contribute to this result. From
1823 to 1844, the New World, hardened by a childhood of battle and
martyrdom, sprang into strong manhood. Behold the philosophy of modern
wealth, manifested in the growth of the Van Huyden Estate. Without
working itself it bids others to work. Left to the age, to the growth
of the people, the increase of commerce and labor, it swells into a
wealth that puts the Arabian Nights to shame. In 1823 it comprises
certain pieces of land in the heart of New York, and in the open
country beyond New York. In 1844 the city land has repeated its value
by a hundred; the country lots have become the abiding place of the
Merchant Princes of New York. Cents in 1823, become dollars in 1844.
This by the progress of the age, by the labor of the millions, and
without one effort on the part of the lands or their owner. In 1823
there is a country seat and farm on the North River; in 1844 the
farm has become the seat of factories, mills, the dwelling place of
five thousand tenants, whose labor has swelled the original value of
$150,000 into ten millions of dollars. In 1823, five thousand acres,
scattered over the wild west, are vaguely valued at $5000--in 1844
these acres, located in various parts of the west, are the sites of
towns, villages, mines, teeming with a dense population, and worth
thirty millions of dollars. In 1823 a tract of barren land among the
mountains of Pennsylvania, is bought for one thousand dollars; in 1844
this tract, the location of mines of iron and coal, is worth TWENTY
MILLIONS.
Thus in twenty-one years, by _holding on to its own_, the Van Huyden
Estate has swelled from TWO MILLIONS to ONE HUNDRED MILLIONS OF
DOLLARS. The age moves on; it remains in its original proprietorship,
swelled by the labor of millions, who derive but a penny where they
bestow upon the estate a dollar. It works not; mankind works for
it. Has this wealth no duties to mankind? Is there not something
horrible in the thought of an entire generation, for mere subsistence,
spending their lives, in order to make this man, this estate, or this
corporation, the possessor of incredible wealth?
PROLOGUE
The lamp has gone out in the old familiar room! It used to shine, late
at night upon the books, upon the pictures on the wall, and upon my
face as I sat writing there! Oftentimes it shone upon another face
which looked over my shoulder, and cheered me in my labor. But now
the lamp has gone out--and forever. The face which looked upon me is
gone; the coffin lid shut down upon it one Summer day! The room is
dark forever. And the next room, where she used to sleep with her
children--it is dark and still! The house is desolate! There are
no voices to break its stillness! Her voice, and the voices of our
children, are silent forever on this lower earth. My heart goes back
to that house and to its rooms, and to the voices that once sounded
there, and the faces which once made it glad, and with more than the
bitterness of Death I confess, _that Time can never return_. Nevermore,
nevermore, nevermore! Wealth may come; change of scene may deaden
sorrow; wrestling with the world, may divert the soul from perpetual
brooding, but the Truth is still the Truth, _that Time can never
return_. And this is the end of all, after a life spent in perpetual
battle--after toiling day and night for long years--after looking to
the Future, hoping, struggling, suffering--to find at last, even before
thirty years are mine, that the lamp has gone out, and forever! That
those for whom I toiled and suffered--whose well-being was the impulse
and the ultimate of all my exertions--are no longer with me, but gone
to return never--nevermore. Upon this earth the lamp that lit my way
through life, has indeed gone out, and forever. But is it not lighted
now by a higher hand than mortal, and is it not shining now in a better
world than this?
* * * * *
Once more I resume my pen. Since this work was commenced, Death has
been busy with my home--death hath indeed laid my home desolate. It
is a selfish thing to write for money, it is a base and a mean thing
to write for fame, but it is a good and a holy thing to write for the
approval of those whom we most intensely love. Deprived of this spring
of action, it is hard, very hard to take up the pen once more. Write,
write! but the face that once looked over your shoulder, and cheered
you in your task, shall look over it no more. Write, write! and turn
your gaze to every point of the horizon of life--not one face of home
meets your eye.
* * * * *
Take up the pen once more. Banish the fast gathering memories--choke
them down. Forget the ACTUAL of your own life, in the ideal to
which the pen gives utterance. Brave old pen! Always trusted, never
faithless! True through long years of toil, be true and steadfast now;
when the face that once watched your progress is sleeping in graveyard
dust. And when you write down a noble thought, or give utterance to
a holy truth, may be, that face will smile upon your progress, even
through the darkened glass which separates the present from the Better
World.
PART FIRST.
"FRANK VAN HUYDEN."
DEC. 23, 1844.--EVENING.
CHAPTER I.
"DOES HE REMEMBER?"
"Does he remember?" was the exclamation of Frank, as concealing
the history of the Life of NAMELESS within her bosom, a singular
expression flashed over her beautiful face. "Does he remember?" was her
thought--"Is he conscious of the words which have fallen from his lips?
Does he pass from this singular state of trance, only to forget the
real history of his life?"
The agitation which had convulsed the face of Nameless, at the moment
when he emerged from the clairvoyant state (if thus we may designate
it) soon passed away. His face became calm and almost radiant in its
every line. His eyes, no longer glassy, shone with clear and healthy
light; a slight flush animated his hitherto sallow cheeks; in a word,
his countenance, in a moment, underwent a wonderful change.
Frank uttered an exclamation of surprise.
"Ah! I begin to live!" said Nameless, passing his hand over his
forehead--"Yes, yes," he uttered, with a sigh of mingled sorrow and
delight, "I have risen from the grave. For two years the victim of a
living death, I now begin to live. The cloud is gone; I see, I see the
light!"
He rose and confronted Frank.
"There was another child--yes, my mother gave birth to two children,
one of whom your father stole on the night of its birth and reared as
his own. His purpose you may guess. But what has become of that child?
It disappeared, I know, at the time when your father arrived from
Paris--_disappeared_, ha, ha, Frank! Did it not _disappear_ to rise
into light again, on the 25th of December, 1844, as the _only child_
of GULIAN VAN HUYDEN? Your father is a bold gamester; he plays with a
fearless hand!"
He paced the room, while Frank, listening intently to his words,
watched with dumb wonder the delight which gave a new life to his
countenance.
"And Cornelius Berman, Frank--" he turned abruptly.
"Died last year."
His countenance fell.
"And Mary--"
"Followed her father to the grave."
He fell back upon the sofa like a wounded man. It was some moments
before he recovered the appearance of calmness.
"How knew you this?"
"A year ago, an artist reduced to poverty, through the agency of Israel
Yorke, came to my home to paint my portrait. It was Cornelius Berman.
Yorke had employed Buggles as his agent in the affair of the transfer
of the property of Cornelius; Buggles the agent was dead indeed, but
Yorke appeared upon the scene, as the principal, and sold Cornelius
out of house and home. The papers which you took from the dead body
of Buggles were only copies; the originals were in the possession of
Israel Yorke."
Nameless hid his face in his hands. He did not speak again until many
minutes had elapsed.
"And you thought that Cornelius had put Buggles to death?"
"I gathered it from a rumor which has crept through New York for the
last two years. The haggard face and wandering eye of the dying artist,
who painted my picture, confirmed this impression."
"And Cornelius came to this house?"'
"No; to another house, where I had been placed by my father. He
procured a person to represent a southern gentleman, and personate
my father. That is, I was represented as the only child of a rich
southerner; and in that capacity my picture was painted, and--and--I
afterward visited the home of the artist, in a miserable garret, and
saw his daughter, who assisted her father, by the humblest kind of
work. She was a seamstress--she worked for 'sixteen cents per day.'"
"And she is dead," said Nameless, in a low voice.
"I lost sight of Mary and her father about a year ago, and have since
received intelligence of their death."
"How did you receive this intelligence?"
"It was in all the papers. Beverly Barron wrote quite a touching poem
upon the Death of the Artist and his Daughter. Beverly, you are aware,
was eloquent upon such occasions: the death of a friend was always a
godsend to him."
Nameless did not reply, but seemed for a moment to surrender himself to
the influence of unalloyed despair.
"Look you, Frank," he said, after a long pause, "I have seventy-one
thousand dollars--"
"Seventy-one thousand dollars!" she ejaculated.
"Yes, and it is 'FRANK AND NAMELESS AND NINETY-ONE AGAINST THE WORLD.'
To-morrow is the 24th of December; the day after will be THE DAY. We
must lay our plans; we must track Martin Fulmer to his haunt; we must
foil your father, and, in a word, show the world that its cunning can
be baffled and its crime brought to justice, by the combination of
three persons--a Fallen Woman, a Convict and a Murderer! O, does it
not make your heart bound to think of the good work we can do with
seventy-one thousand dollars!"
She gave him her hand, quietly, but her dark eye answered the
excitement which flashed from every line of his countenance.
"And will it not be a glorious thing for us, if we can wash away our
crimes--yes, Frank, our crimes--and show the world what virtue lurks in
the breast of the abandoned and the lost?"
"Then I can atone for the crime of which I am guilty--for I am guilty
of being the child of a man who sold me into shame--you are guilty of
having stained your hands in the blood of a wretch who cursed the very
air which he breathed--and Ninety-One, is guilty, yes guilty of having
once been in--_my father's way_. These are terrible crimes, Gulian--"
"Call me not by that name until the 25th of December," exclaimed
Nameless.
At this moment, Frank turned aside and from the drawer of a cabinet,
drew forth a long and slender vial, which she held before the eyes of
Nameless.
"And if we fail, this will give us peace. It is a quiet messenger,
Gulian. Within twelve hours after the contents of this vial have passed
the lips, the body will sink into a peaceful sleep, without one sign or
token to tell the tale of suicide. Yes, Gulian, if we fail, this vial,
which I procured with difficulty, and which I have treasured for years,
will enable us to fall asleep in each other's arms, and--forever!"
"Suicide!" echoed Nameless, gazing now upon the vial, then upon her
countenance, imbued with a look of somber enthusiasm--"You have thought
of that?"
"O had this vial been mine, in the hour when, pure and hopeful, I was
sold into the arms of shame, do you think that for an instant I would
have hesitated between the death that lays you quietly asleep in the
coffin, and that death which leaves the body living, while it cankers
and kills the soul?"
Nameless took the vial from her hand and regarded it long and ardently.
O what words can picture the strange look, which then came over his
face! He uttered a deep sigh and placed the vial in her hands again.
She silently placed it in the drawer of the cabinet.
As she again confronted him, their eyes met,--they understood each
other.
"Frank," said Nameless in a measured tone--"Who owns this house? What
is its true character?"
Seating herself beside him on the sofa she replied:
"As to the _owner_ of this house, you may be sure that he is a
man of property and moral worth, a church-member and a respectable
citizen. But do not imagine for a moment that this is a common haunt
of infamy--no, my friend, no! None but the most select, the most
aristocratic, ever cross the threshold of this place. Remain until
twelve o'clock to-night and you will behold some of the guests who
honor my house with their presence."
There was a mocking look upon her face as she gave utterance to these
words. She beat the carpet with her slipper and grasped the cross which
rested on her bosom with a nervous and impatient clutch.
"At twelve to-night!" echoed Nameless, and looked into her face. "I
will remain;" and once more his whole being was enveloped in the
magnetic influence which flowed from the eyes of the lost woman.