ERNEST AND HIS SINGULAR ADVENTURE.
Before I resume my own history, I must relate an instance in the
life of Ernest, which had an important bearing on his fate. (This
incident I derive from MSS. written by Ernest himself.) Soon after my
departure from the cottage home, he came to New York with his father,
and they directed their steps to my mother's residence; as indicated
on the card which she had left with the clergyman; but to their great
disappointment, they discovered that my mother and myself had just left
town for Niagara Falls. Six months afterward, Ernest received a long
letter from me, concluding with these words: "_To-morrow, myself and
mother take passage for Europe, in the steamer. We will be absent for a
year or more._"
Determined to see me at all hazards, he hurried to town, but, too
late! The steamer had sailed; her flag fluttered in the air, far down
the bay, as standing on the battery, Ernest followed her course, with
an almost maddened gaze. Sorrowfully he returned to the country and
informed his father of my sudden departure for Europe.
"Can she have forgotten us?" said the old man.
"O, father, this letter," replied Ernest, showing the long letter which
I had written, "this will show you that she has not forgotten us, but
that her heart beats warmly as ever--that she is the same."
And he read the letter to the good old man, who frequently interrupted
him, with "God bless her! God bless my child!"
Soon afterward Ernest came to New York and entered his name in
the office of an eminent lawyer. Determining to make the law his
profession, he hoped to complete his studies before my return from
Paris. He lived in New York, and began to move in the circles of its
varied society. Among the acquaintances which he made were certain
authors and artists who, once a month, in company with a few select
friends, gave a social supper at a prominent hotel.
At one of these suppers Ernest was a guest. The wine passed round, wit
sparkled, and the enjoyment of the festival did not begin to flag even
when midnight drew near.
While one of the guests was singing, a portly gentleman (once well
known as a man of fashion, the very Brummel of the sidewalk) began to
converse with Ernest in a low voice.
He described a lady--a young widow with a large fortune--who at that
time occupied a large portion of the interest of certain circles in
New York. She was exceedingly beautiful. She was witty, accomplished,
eloquent. She rivaled in fascination Ninon and Aspasia. Nightly, to
a select circle, she presided over festivals whose voluptuousness
was masked in flowers. Her previous history was unknown, but she had
suddenly entered the orbit of New York social life--of a peculiar kind
of social life--as a star of the first magnitude. His blood heated by
wine, his imagination warmed by the description of his fashionable
friend, Ernest manifested great curiosity to behold this singular lady.
"You shall see her to-night--at once," whispered the fashionable
gentleman. "She gives a select party to-night. Let us glide off from
the company unobserved."
They passed from the company, took their hats and cloaks--it was a
clear, cold winter night--and entered a carriage.
"I will introduce you by the name of Johnson--Fred. Johnson, a rich
southern planter," said the fashionable gentleman. "You need not call
me by my real name. Call me Lawson."
"But why this concealment?" asked Ernest, as the carriage rolled on.
"O, well, never mind," added Lawson (as he desired to be called), and
then continued: "We'll soon be near her mansion, or _palace_ is the
more appropriate word. We will find some of the first gentlemen and
finest ladies of New York under her roof. I tell you, she'll set you
half wild, this 'Midnight Queen!'"
"Midnight Queen!" echoed Ernest.
"That's what we call her. A 'Midnight Queen' indeed, as mysterious and
voluptuous as the midnight moon shining in an Italian sky."
They arrived in front of a lofty mansion, situated in one of the most
aristocratic parts of New York. Its exterior was dark and silent as the
winter midnight itself.
"A light hid under a bushel--outside dark enough, but inside bright as
a new dollar," whispered Lawson, ascending the marble steps and ringing
the bell.
The door was opened for the space of six inches or more,--
"Who's there?" said a voice from within.
Lawson bent his face near to the aperture and whispered a few words
inaudible to Ernest. The door was opened wide, and carefully closed and
bolted behind them, as soon as they crossed the threshold. They stood
in a vast hall lighted by a hanging lamp.
"Leave hats and cloaks here--and come." Lawson took Ernest by the hand
and pushed open a door.
They entered a range of parlors, brilliantly lighted by two
chandeliers, as brilliantly furnished with chairs and sofas and
mirrors, and adorned with glowing pictures and statues of white marble.
A piano stood in a recess, and in the last parlor of the three a
supper-table was spread. These parlors were crowded by some thirty
guests, men and women, some of whom, seated on chairs and sofas, were
occupied in low whispered conversation, while others took wine at the
supper-table, and others again were grouped round the piano, listening
to the voice of an exceedingly beautiful woman.
Ernest uttered an ejaculation. Never had he seen a spectacle like this,
never seen before, grouped under one roof, so many beautiful women.
Beautiful women, richly dressed, their arms and shoulders bare, or
vailed only by mist-like lace, which gave new fascination to their
charms. It did not by any means decrease the surprise of Ernest when
he discovered that some of the ladies--those whose necks and shoulders
glowed most white and beautiful in the light--wore masks.
"What is this place?" he whispered to Lawson, as apparently unheeded by
the guests, they passed through the parlors.
"Hush! not so loud," whispered his companion. "Take a glass of wine, my
boy, and your eyesight will be clearer. This place is a quiet little
retreat in which certain gentlemen and ladies of New York, by no
means lacking in wealth or position, endeavor to carry the Koran into
practice, and create, even in our cold climate, a paradise worthy of
Mahomet. In a word, it is the residence of a widowed lady, who, blest
with fortune and all the good things which fortune brings, delights in
surrounding herself with beautiful women and intellectual men. How do
you like that wine? There are at least a hundred gentlemen in New York,
who would give a cool five hundred to stand where you stand now, or
even cross the threshold of this mansion. I'm an old stager, and have
brought you here in order to enjoy the effect which a scene like this
produces on one so inexperienced as you. But you must remember one law
which governs this place and all who enter it--"
"That condition?"
"All that is said or done here remains a secret forever within the
compass of these walls; and you must never recognize, in any other
place, any person whom you have first encountered here. This is a
matter of honor, Walworth."
"And where is the 'Midnight Queen?'"
"She is not with her guests, I see--but I will give you an answer in a
moment," and Lawson left the room.
Drinking glass after glass of champagne, Ernest stood by the
supper-table, a silent spectator of that scene, whose voluptuous
enchantment gradually inflamed his imagination and fired his blood.
He seemed to have been suddenly transported from dull matter-of-fact,
every-day life, to a scene in some far oriental city, in the days of
Haroun Alraschid. And he surrendered himself to the enchantment of the
place, like one for the first time enjoying the intoxication of opium.
Lawson returned, and came quietly to his side--
"Would you like to see the 'Midnight Queen,'--alone--in her parlor?" he
whispered.
"Of all things in the world. You have roused my curiosity. I am like a
man in a delicious dream."
"Understand me--she is chary of her smiles to an old stager like
me--but I think, that there is something in you that will interest her.
She awaits you in her apartments. You are a young English lord on your
travels (better than a planter), Lord Stanley Fitz Herbert. With that
black dress and somber face of yours you will take her wonderfully."
"But can I indeed see her?"
"Leave the room--ascend the stairs--at the head of the stairs a light
shines from a door which is slightly open; take a bold heart and enter."
Inflamed by curiosity, by the wine which he had drunk, and the scene
around him, Ernest did not take time for a second thought, but left
the room, ascended the stairs, and stood before the door from whose
aperture a belt of light streamed out upon the dark passage. There,
for a moment, he hesitated, but that was all. He opened the door and
entered. He stood spell-bound by the scene. If the parlors below were
magnificently furnished, this apartment was worthy of an empress. There
were lofty walls hung with silk hangings and adorned with pictures; a
couch with a silken canopy; mirrors that glittered gently in the rich
voluptuous light; in a word, every detail of luxury and extravagance.
In the center of all stood the "Midnight Queen"--in one hand she held
an open letter. Her back was toward Ernest as he lingered near the
threshold. Her neck and shoulders were bare, and he could remark at a
glance their snowy whiteness and voluptuous outline, although her dark
hair was gathered in glossy masses upon the shoulders, half hiding them
from view. A dark dress, rich in its very simplicity, left her arms
bare and did justice to the rounded proportions of her form.
She turned and confronted Ernest, even as he, the blood bounding in his
veins, advanced a single step.
At once they spoke:
"My Lord Stanley, I believe,--"
"The 'Midnight Queen,'--"
The words died on their lips. They stood as if suddenly frozen to the
floor. The beautiful face of the "Midnight Queen" was pale as death,
and as for Ernest, the glow of the wine had left his cheek--his face
was livid and distorted.
Moments passed and neither had power to speak.
"O, my God, it is Frank!" the words at last burst from the lips of
Ernest, and he fell like a dead man at her feet.
Yes, the "Midnight Queen" was Frances Van Huyden, his betrothed
wife--six months ago resting on his bosom and whispering "husband" in
his ear,--and now--the wife of another? A widow? Or one utterly fallen
from all virtue and all hope?