CHAPTER XV.

"LOST, LOST UTTERLY."

My mother soon afterward gave her first party. It was attended by many

of the rich and the fashionable of both sexes, and there were the

glare of lights, the presence of beautiful women, and the wine-cup

and the dance. The festival was prolonged till daybreak, and another

followed soon. The atmosphere was new to me. At first I was amazed,

then intoxicated, and then--corrupted. Anxious to bury the memory

of my shame, to forget how lost and abandoned I was, to drown every

thought of my childhood's home and of Ernest, who never could be

mine, soon from a silent spectator I became a participant in the

revels which, night after night, were held beneath my mother's roof.

The persons who mingled in these scenes, were rich husbands who came

accompanied by other men's wives; wives, who had sacrificed themselves

in marriage, for the sake of wealth, to husbands twice their age, and

these came with the husbands of other women,--in a word, all that came

to the mansion and shared in its orgies, were either the victims or

the criminals of society,--of a bad social world, which on every hand

contrasts immense wealth and voluptuous indulgence with fathomless

poverty and withering want, and which too often makes of a marriage but

the cloak for infamy and prostitution. I shared in every revel, and

lost myself in their maddening excitement. I was admired, flattered,

and elevated at last to the position of presiding genius of these

scenes. I became the "Midnight Queen." But let the curtain fall.

One night I noticed a new visitor, a remarkably handsome gentleman who

sat near me at the supper-table, and whose hair and eyes and whiskers

were black as jet. He regarded me very earnestly and with a look which

I could not define.

"Don't think me impertinent," he said, and then added in a lower voice,

"for I am your father, Frank. Don't call me Van Huyden--my name is

Tarleton now."

Fearful that I might one day encounter Ernest, I wrote him a long

letter breathing something of the tone of my early days--for I forgot

for awhile my utterly hopeless condition--and informing him that mother

and myself were about to sail for Europe. I wished him to believe that

I was in a foreign land.

And one night, while the revel was progressing in the rooms below,

Wareham entered my room and interested me in the description which he

gave of a young lord, who wished to be introduced to me.

"Young, handsome, and pale as if from thought. The very style of man

you admire, my pet."

"Let him come up," I answered, and Wareham retired.

I stood before the mirror as the young lord entered, and as I turned, I

saw the face of my betrothed husband, Ernest Walworth.

Upon the horror of that moment I need not dwell.

He fell insensible to the floor, and was carried from the room and the

house to the carriage by Wareham, who had led him to the place.

I have never seen the face of Ernest since that hour.

I received one letter from him--one only--in which he set forth the

circumstances which induced him to visit my house, and in which he bade

me "farewell."

He is now in a foreign land. The bones of his father rest in the

village church-yard. The cottage home is desolate.

Wareham died suddenly about a year after our "marriage." The doctors

said that his death was caused by an overdose of Morphine _administered

by himself in mistake_. He died in our house, and as mother and myself

stood over his coffin in the darkened room, the day before the funeral,

I noticed that she regarded first myself and then the face of the dead

profligate with a look full of meaning.

"Don't you think, dear mother," I whispered, "that the death of this

good man was very singular?"

She made no reply, but still her face wore that meaning look.

"Would it be strange, mother, if your daughter, improving on your

lessons, had added another feature to her accomplishments--had from the

Midnight Queen,"--I lowered my voice--"become the Midnight _Poisoner_?"

I met her gaze boldly--and she turned her face away.

He died without ever a dog to mourn for him, and his immense wealth was

inherited by a deserted and much abused wife, who lived in a foreign

land.

Immense wealth in him bore its natural flower--a life of shameless

indulgence, ending in a miserable death.

I did not shed very bitter tears at his funeral. Hatred is not the word

to express the feeling with which I regard his memory.

Soon afterward my mother was taken ill, and wasted rapidly to death.

Hers was an awful death-bed. The candle was burning to its socket,

and mingled its rays with the pale moonlight which shone through the

window-curtains. Her brown hair, streaked with gray, falling to her

shoulders, her form terribly emaciated, and her eyes glaring in her

shrunken face, she started up in her bed, clutched my hands in hers,

and--begged me to forgive her.

My heart was stone. I could not frame one forgiving word.

As her chilled hands clutched mine, she rapidly went over the dark

story of her life,--how from an innocent girl, she had been hardened

into the thing she was,--and again, her eyes glaring on my face,

besought my forgiveness.

"I forgive you, Mother," I said slowly, and she died.

My father was not present at her death, nor did he attend her funeral.

And for myself--what has the Future in store for me?

O, for Rest! O, for Forgiveness! O, for a quiet Sleep beneath the

graveyard sod!

And with that aspiration for Rest, Forgiveness, Peace, uttered with all

the yearning of a heart sick to the core, of life and all that life

can inflict or give, ended the manuscript of FRANCES VAN HUYDEN, the

MIDNIGHT QUEEN.

* * * * *

It is now our task to describe certain scenes which took place in New

York, between Nightfall and Midnight, on this 23d of December, 1844.

And at midnight we will enter THE TEMPLE where the death's head is

hidden among voluptuous flowers.

PART SECOND.

"FROM NIGHTFALL UNTIL MIDNIGHT."

DEC. 23, 1844.

CHAPTER I.

BLOODHOUND AND THE UNKNOWN.

Two persons were sitting at a table, in the Refectory beneath Lovejoy's

Hotel. One of these drank brandy and the other drank water. The brandy

drinker was our friend Bloodhound, and the drinker of water was a

singular personage, whose forehead was shaded by a broad-brimmed hat,

while the lower part of his face was covered by a blue kerchief, which

was tied over his throat and mouth.

Seated at a table in the center of the place, these two conversed in

low tones, while all around was uproar and confusion.

"You found these persons?" said the gentleman with the broad-brimmed

hat and blue neckerchief.

"I didn't do anything else," replied the Hound--"I met you here, at

Lovejoy's, about dusk. You were a tee-total stranger to me. You says,

says you, that you'd like to do a good turn to Harry Royalton, and at

the same time _fix_ this white nigger and his sister--you know who I

mean?"

"Randolph and Esther--"

"Well, we closed our bargain. You gave me a note to Randolph and one to

his sister. I hunted 'em out and delivered your notes, and here I am."

Bloodhound smiled one of his most frightful smiles, and consoled

himself with a glass of brandy.

"Where did you find these persons?" asked Blue Kerchief.

"At a tip-top boardin' house up town, accordin' to your directions. I

fust saw the boy and delivered your note, and arter he was gone I saw

the gal and did the same. Now, old boss, do you think they'll come?"

"You saw the contents of those notes?"

"I did. I saw you write 'em and read 'em afore you sealed 'em up. The

one to Randolph requested him to be at a sartin place on the Five

Points about twelve o'clock. An' the one to Esther requested her to be

at the Temple about the same hour. Now do you think they'll come?"

"You have seen Godlike and Royalton?" said the unknown, speaking

thickly through the neckerchief which enveloped his mouth.

"Godlike will be at the Temple as the clock strikes twelve, and Harry

and me will be at Five Points, at the identical spot--you know--at the

very same identical hour."

"That is sufficient. Here is the sum I promised you," and the stranger

laid two broad gold pieces on the table: "we must now part. Should I

ever need you, we will meet again. Good night."

And the stranger rose, and left the refectory, Bloodhound turning his

head over his shoulder as he watched his retreating figure with dumb

amazement.

"Cool! I call it cool!" he soliloquised; "Waiter, see here; another

glass of brandy. Yet this is good gold; has the right ring, hey? Judas

Iscariot! Somehow or 'nother, everything I touch turns to gold. Wonder

what the chap in the blue handkercher has agin the white nigger and his

sister? Who keers? At twelve to-night Godlike will have the gal, and

Harry and I will have the nigger. Ju-das Iscariot!" Here let us leave

the Bloodhound for awhile, to his solemn meditations and his glass of

brandy.

CHAPTER II.

THE CANAL STREET SHIRT STORE.

"Do you call them stitches? S-a-y? How d'ye expect a man to git a

livin' if he's robbed in that way? Do you call that a shirt--s-a-y?"

"Indeed I did my best--"

"Did your best? I should like to know what you take me for? D'ye think

I'm a fool? Did not I give you the stuff for five shirts, and fust of

all, I exacted a pledge of five dollars from you, to be forfeited if

you spoilt the stuff--"

"And you know I was to receive two shillings for each shirt. I'll thank

you to pay me my money, and restore my five dollars and let me go--"

"Not a copper. This shirt is spoilt. And if those you have in your arms

are no better, why they are spoilt too--"

"They're made as well as the one you hold--no better."

"Then I can't sell 'em for old rags. Just give 'em to me, and clear

out--"

"At least give me back my five dollars--"

"Not a copper. Had you finished these shirts in the right style, they'd

a-sold for fifteen dollars. As it is, the money is forfeited,--I mean

the five dollars which you left with me as a pledge. I can't employ you

any more. Just give me the other four shirts, and clear out."

The storekeeper and the poor girl were separated by a counter, on

which was placed a showy case. She was dressed in a faded calico gown,

and a shawl as worn and faded, hung about her shoulders. She wore a

straw bonnet, although it was a night in mid-winter; and beneath her

poverty-stricken dress, her shoes were visible: old and worn into

shreds they scarcely clung to her feet. Her entire appearance indicated

extreme poverty.

The storekeeper, who stood beneath the gas-light, was a well preserved

and portly man of forty years, or more, with a bald head, a wide

mouth and a snub nose. Rings glistered on his fat fingers. His black

velvet vest was crossed by a gold chain. His spotless shirt bosom was

decorated by a flashy breastpin. He spoke sharp and quick, and with a

proper sense of his dignity as the Proprietor of the "ONLY UNIVERSAL

SHIRT STORE, No. ----, Canal St., New York."

Between him and the girl was a glass case, in which were displayed

shirts of the most elegant patterns and elaborate workmanship. Behind

him were shelves, lined with boxes, also filled with shirts, whose

prices were labeled on the outside of each box. At his right-hand,

was the shop-window,--a small room in itself--flaring with gas, and

crowded with shirts of all imaginable shapes--shirts with high collars,

Byron collars, and shirts without any collars at all;--shirts with

plaits large, small and infinitesimal--shirts with ruffles, shirts

with stripes and shirts with spots;--in fact, looking into the window,

you would have imagined that Mr. SCREW GRABB was a very Apostle of

clean linen, with a mission to clothe a benighted world, with shirts;

and that his Temple, "_the_ ONLY UNIVERSAL SHIRT STORE," was the

most important place on the face of the globe. There, too, appeared

eloquent appeals to passers-by. These were printed on cards, in immense

capitals,--"SHIRTS FOR THE MILLION! THE GREAT SHIRT EMPORIUM! WHO WOULD

BE _without a shirt, when Screw Grab sells them for only_ $1? THIS IS

_the_ ONLY SHIRT STORE,"--and so on to the end of the chapter.

The conversation which we have recorded, took place in this store, soon

after 'gas-light' on the evening of Dec. 23d, 1844, between Mr. SCREW

GRABB and the POOR GIRL, who stood before him, holding a small bundle

in her arms.

"You surely do not mean to retain my money?" said the girl--and she

laid one hand against the counter, and attentively surveyed the face of

Mr. Grabb--"You find fault with my work--"

"Never saw _wuss_ stitchin' in my life," said Grabb.

"But that is no reason why you should refuse to return the money which

I placed in your hands. Consider, Sir, you will distress me very much.

I really cannot afford to lose that five dollars,--indeed--"

She turned toward him a face which, impressed as it was with a look of

extreme distress, was also invested with the light of a clear, calm,

almost holy beauty. It was the face of a girl of sixteen, whom thought

and anxiety had ripened into grave and serious womanhood. Her brown

hair was gathered neatly under her faded straw bonnet, displaying a

forehead which bore traces of a corroding care; there was light and

life in her large eyes, light and life without much of hope; there was

youth on her cheeks and lips; youth fresh and virgin, and unstained by

the touch of sin.

"Will you give me them four shirts,--s-a-y?" was the answer of

Grabb,--"them as you has in your bundle there?"

The girl for a moment seemed buried in reflection. May be the thought

of a dreary winter night and a desolate home was busy at her heart.

When she raised her head she fixed her eyes full upon the face of Mr.

Grabb, and said distinctly:

"I will _not_ give you these shirts until you return my money."

"What's that you say? You won't give 'em back--won't you?" and Mr.

Grabb darted around the counter, yardstick in hand. "We'll see,--we'll

see. Now just hand 'em over!"

He placed himself between her and the door, and raised the yardstick

over her head.

The girl retreated step by step, Mr. Grabb advancing as she retreated,

with the yardstick in his fat hand.

"Give 'em up,--" he seized her arm, and attempted to tear the bundle

from her grasp. "Give 'em up you ----" he applied an epithet which he

had heard used by a manager of a theater to the unfortunate girls in

his employment.

At the word, the young woman retreated into a corner behind the

counter, her face flushed and her eyes flashing with an almost savage

light--

"You cowardly villain!" she said, "to insult me because I will not

permit you to rob me. O, you despicable coward--for shame!"

The look of her eye and curl of her lip by no means pleased the

corpulent Grabb. He grew red with rage. When he spoke again it was in a

loud voice and with an emphatic sweep of the yardstick.

"If you don't give 'em up, I'll--I'll break every bone in your body.

You hussy! You ----! What do you think of yourself--to attempt to rob a

poor man of his property?"

These words attracted the attention of the passers-by; and in a moment,

the doorway was occupied by a throng of curious spectators. The poor

girl, looking over Grabb's shoulders, saw that she was the object of

the gaze of some dozen pairs of eyes.

"Gentlemen, this hussy has attempted to rob me of my property! I gave

her stuff sufficient to make five shirts, and she's spoilt 'em so I

can't sell 'em for old rags, and--and she won't give 'em up."

"If they ain't good for nothing, what d'ye want with 'em?" remarked the

foremost of the spectators.

But Grabb was determined to bring matters to a crisis.

"Now, look here," he said, holding the yardstick in front of the girl,

and thus imprisoning her in the corner; "if you don't give 'em up, I'll

strip the clothes from your back."

The girl turned scarlet in the face; her arms sank slowly to her side;

the bundle fell from her hands; she burst into tears.

"Shame! shame!" cried one of the spectators.

"It's the way he does business," added a voice in the background. "He

won't give out any work unless the girl, who applies for it, places

some money in his hands as a pledge. When the work is brought into the

store, he pretends that it's spoilt, and keeps the money. That's the

way he raises capital!"

"What's that you say?" cried Grabb, turning fiercely on the crowd, who

had advanced some one or two paces into the store. "Who said that?"

A man in a coarse, brown bang-up advanced from the crowd--

"I said it, and I'll stand to it! Ain't you a purty specimen of a

bald-headed Christian, to try and cheat the poor girl out of her

hard-airned money?"

"I'll call the police," cried Grabb.

"What a pattern! what a beauty!" continued the man in the brown

bang-up; "why rotten eggs 'ud be wasted on such a carcass as that!"

"Police! Police!" screamed Grabb,--"Gentlemen, I'd like to know if

there is any law in this land?"

While this altercation was in progress the poor girl--thoroughly

ashamed to find herself the center of a public broil--covered her face

with her hands and wept as if her heart would break.

"Take my arm," said a voice at her side; "there will be a fight. Quick,

my dear Miss, you must get out of this as quick as possible."

The speaker was a short and slender man, wrapped in a Spanish mantle,

and his hat was drawn low over his forehead.

The girl seized his arm, and while the crowd formed a circle around

Grabb and the brown bang-up, they contrived to pass unobserved from the

store. Presently the poor girl was hurrying along Canal street, her

hand still clasping the arm of the stranger in the cloak.

"Bad business! Bad business!" he said in a quick, abrupt tone. "That

Grabb's a scoundrel. Here's Broadway, my dear, and I must bid you

good-night. Good-night,--good-night."

And he left the poor girl at the corner of Broadway and Canal street.

He was lost in the crowd ere she was aware of his departure. She was

left alone, on the street corner, in the midst of that torrent of life;

and it was not until some moments had elapsed that she could fully

comprehend her desolate condition.

"It was the last five dollars I had in the world! What can I do! In the

name of God, what can I do!"

She looked up Broadway--it extended there, one glittering track of

light.

"Not a friend, and not a dollar in the world!"

She looked down Broadway--far into the distance it extended, its

million lights over-arched by a dull December sky.

"Not a friend and not a dollar!"

She turned down Broadway with languid and leaden steps. A miserably

clad and heart-broken girl, she glided among the crowds, which lined

the street, like a specter through the mazes of a banquet.

Poor girl! Down Broadway, until the Park is passed, and the huge Astor

House glares out upon the darkness from its hundred windows. Down

Broadway, until you reach the unfinished pile of Trinity Church, where

heaps of lumber and rubbish appear among white tombstones. Turn from

Broadway and stride this narrow street which leads to the dark river:

your home is there.

Back of Trinity Church, in Greenwich street, we believe, there stands

on this December night a four storied edifice, tenanted, only a few

years ago, by a wealthy family. Then it was the palace of a man who

counted his wealth by hundreds of thousands. Now it is a palace of a

different sort; look at it, as from garret to cellar it flashes with

light in every window.

The cellar is the home of ten families.

The first floor is occupied as a beer "saloon;" you can hear men

getting drunk in three or four languages, if you will only stand by the

window for a moment.

Twenty persons live on the second floor.

Fifteen make their home on the third floor.

The fourth floor is tenanted by nineteen human beings.

The garret is divided into four apartments; one of these has a

garret-window to itself, and this is the home of the poor girl.

She ascended the marble staircase which led from the first to the

fourth floor. At every step her ear was assailed with curses, drunken

shouts, the cries of children, and a thousand other sounds, which,

night and day resounded through that palace of rags and wretchedness.

Feeble and heart-sick she arrived at length in front of the garret

door, which opened into her home.

She listened in the darkness; all was still within.

"He sleeps," she murmured, "thank God!" and opened the door. All was

dark within, but presently, with the aid of a match, she lighted a

candle, and the details of the place were visible. It was a nook of the

original garret, fenced off by a partition of rough boards. The slope

of the roof formed its ceiling. The garret window occupied nearly an

entire side of the place. There was a mattress on the floor, in one

corner; a small pine table stood beside the partition; and the recess

of the garret-window was occupied by an old arm-chair.

This chair was occupied by a man whose body, incased in a faded

wrapper, reminded you of a skeleton placed in a sitting posture. His

emaciated hands rested on the arms, and his head rested helplessly

against the back of the chair. His hair was white as snow; it was

scattered in flakes about his forehead. His face, furrowed in deep

wrinkles, was lividly pale; it resembled nothing save the face of a

corpse. His eyes, wide open and fixed as if the hand of death had

touched him, were centered upon the flame of the candle, while a

meaningless smile played about his colorless lips.

The girl kissed him on the lips and forehead, but he gave no sign

of recognition save a faint laugh, which died on the air ere it was

uttered.

For the poor man, prematurely old and reduced to a mere skeleton, was

an idiot.

"Oh, my God, and I have not bread to feed him!" No words can describe

the tone and look with which the poor girl uttered these words.

She flung aside her bonnet and shawl.

Then it might be seen that, in spite of her faded dress, she was a very

beautiful young woman; not only beautiful in regularity of features,

but in the whiteness of her shoulders, the fullness of her bust, the

proportions of her tall and rounded form. Her hair, escaping from the

ribbon which bound it, streamed freely over her shoulders, and caught

the rays of the light on every glossy wave.

She leaned her forehead upon her head, and--thought.

Hard she had tried to keep a home for the poor IDIOT, who sat in the

chair--very hard. She had tried her pencil, and gained bread for

awhile, thus; but her drawings ceased to command a price at the picture

store, and this means of subsistence failed her. She had taught music,

and had been a miserable dependent upon the rich; been insulted by

their daughters, and been made the object of the insulting offers of

their sons. And forced at length by the condition of her IDIOT FATHER,

to remain with him, in their own home--to be constantly near him, day

and night--she had sought work at the shirt store on Canal street,

and been robbed of the treasure which she had accumulated through the

summer; an immense treasure--FIVE DOLLARS.

She had not a penny; there was no bread in the closet; there was no

fire in the sheet iron stove which stood in one corner; her Idiot

Father, her iron fate were before her--harsh and bitter realities.

She was thinking.

Apply to those rich relations, who had known her father in days of

prosperity? No. Better death than that.

She was thinking. Her forehead on her hand, her hair streaming over

her shoulders, her bosom which had never known even the thought of

pollution, heaving and swelling within her calico gown--she was

thinking.

And as she thought, and _thought_ her hair began to burn, and her blood

to bound rapidly in her veins.

Her face is shaded by her hand, and a portion of her hair falls over

that hand; therefore you cannot tell her thoughts by the changes of her

countenance.

I would not like to know her thoughts.

For there is a point of misery, at which but two doors of escape open

to the gaze of a beautiful woman, who struggles with the last extreme

of poverty: one door has the GRAVE behind it, and the other,----

Yes, there are some thoughts which it is not good to write on paper. It

was in the midst of this current of dark and bitter thoughts, that the

eye of the young woman wandered absently to the faded shawl which she

had thrown across the table.

"What is this? A letter! Pinned to my shawl--by whom?"

It was indeed a letter, addressed to her, and pinned to her shawl by an

unknown hand.

She seized it eagerly, and opened it, and read.

Her face, her neck, and the glimpse of her bosom, opening above her

dress, all became scarlet with the same blush. Still her eyes grew

brighter as she read the letter, and incoherent ejaculations passed

from her lips.

The letter was written--so it said--by the man who had taken her from

the store on Canal street. Its contents we may not guess, save from the

broken words of the agitated girl.

"'_At twelve o'clock, at_ "THE TEMPLE," _whose street and number you

will find on the inclosed card_.'"

And a card dropped from the letter upon the table. She seized it

eagerly and clasped it as though it was so much gold.

"'THE TEMPLE,'" she murmured again, and her eyes instinctively wandered

to the face of her father.

Then she burst into a flood of tears.

For three hours, while the candle burned toward its socket, she

meditated upon the contents of that letter.

At last she rose, and took from a closet near the door, a mantilla of

black velvet, the only garment which the pawnbroker had spared. It

was old and faded; it was the only relic of better days. She resumed

her bonnet and wound the mantilla about her shoulders and kissed her

IDIOT FATHER on the lips and brow. He had fallen into a dull, dreamless

sleep, and looked like a dead man with his fallen lip and half-shut

eyes.

"'THE TEMPLE!'" she exclaimed and attentively perused the card.

Then extinguishing the candle, she wound a coverlet about her father's

form and left him there alone in the garret. She passed the threshold

and went down the marble stairs. God pity her.

Yes, God pity her!

CHAPTER III.

"DO THEY ROAR?"

At nine o'clock, on the night of December 23d, 1844,----

"Do they roar?" said Israel Yorke, passing his hand through his gray

whiskers, as he sat at the head of a large table covered with green

baize.

It was in a large square room, on the second story of his Banking

House--if Israel's place of business can be designated by that name.

The gas-light disclosed the floor covered with matting, and the high

walls, overspread with lithographs of unknown cities and imaginary

copper-mines. There were also three lithographs of the towns in which

Israel's principal Banks were situated. There was Chow Bank and Muddy

Run, and there in all its glory was Terrapin Hollow. In each of these

distant towns, located somewhere in New Jersey or Pennsylvania--or

Heaven only knows where--Israel owned a Bank, a live Bank, chartered

by a State Legislature, and provided with a convenient President and

Cashier. Israel was a host of stockholders in himself. He had an office

in New York for the redemption of the notes of the three Banks; it is

in the room above this office that we now behold him.

"Do they roar?" he asked, and arranged his spectacles on his turn up

nose, and grinned to himself until his little black eyes shone again.

"Do they roar?" answered the voice of Israel's man of business, who sat

at the lower end of the green baize table--"Just go to the window and

hear 'em! Hark! There it goes again. It sounds like fourth of July."

Truth to say, a strange ominous murmur came from the street--a murmur

composed of about an equal quantity of curses and groans.

"There's six thousand of 'em," said the man of business; "The street

is black with 'em. And all sorts o' nasty little boys go about with

placards on which such words are inscribed: '_Here's an orphan--one

o' them that was cheated by Israel Yorke and his Three Banks._' Hark!

There it goes again!"

The man of business was a phlegmatic individual of about forty years;

a dull heavy face adorned with green spectacles, and propped by a

huge black stock and a pair of immense shirt collars. Mr. FETCH was

indeed Israel's MAN; he in some measure supplied the place of the late

lamented Jedediah Buggles, Esq., 'whose dignity of character and strict

integrity,' etc., etc., (for the rest, see obituaries on Buggles in the

daily papers).

"Fetch, they _do_ roar," responded Israel. "Was there notice of the

failure in the afternoon papers?"

"Had it put in myself. Dilated upon the robbery which was committed on

you last night, in the cars; and spoke of your disposition to redeem

the notes of Chow Bank, Muddy Run and Terrapin Hollow, as soon as--_you

could make it convenient_."

"Yes, Fetch, in about a week these notes can be bought for ten cents

on the dollar," calmly remarked Yorke, "they're mostly in the hands of

market people, mechanics, day-laborers, servant-maids, and those kind

of people, who _can't afford to wait_. Well, Fetch, what were they

sellin' at to-day?"

"Three shillings on the dollar. You know we only failed this mornin',"

answered Fetch.

"Yes, yes, about a week will do it"--Israel drew forth a gold pencil,

and made a calculation on a card,--"In about a week they'll be down

to ten cents on the dollar. We must buy 'em in quietly at that rate;

our friends on Wall street will help us, you know. Well, let's see how

the profit will stand--there are in circulation $300,000 of Chow Bank

notes--"

"And $150,000 of Muddy Run," interrupted Fetch.

"And $200,000 of Terrapin Hollow," continued Yorke,--"Now supposin'

that there are altogether $500,000--a half million of these notes now

in circulation--we can buy 'em in _quietly_ you know, at ten cents on

the dollar, for some--some--yes, $50,000 will do it. That will leave a

clear profit of $450,000. Not so bad,--eh, Fetch?"

"But you forget how much it cost you to get the charters of these

banks--" interrupted Fetch. "The amount of champagne that I myself

forwarded to Trenton and to Harrisburg, would float a small brig.

Then there was some ready money that you loaned to Members of

Legislature--put that down Mr. Yorke."

"We'll say $5000 for champagne, and $25,000 loaned to Members of

Legislature (though they don't bring anything near that now), why we

have a total of $25,000 for _expenses incurred in procuring charters_.

Deduct that from $450,000 and you still have $425,000. A neat sum,

Fetch."

"Yes, but you must look to your character. You must come out of it

with flyin' colors. After nearly all the notes have been bought in, by

ourselves or our agents, we must announce that having recovered from

our late reverses, we are now prepared to redeem all our notes, dollar

for dollar."

"And Fetch, if we manage it right, there'll be only $10,000 worth

left in circulation, at the time we make the announcement. That will

take $10,000 from our total of $425,000, leavin' us still the sum of

$415,000. A pretty sum, Fetch."

"You may as well strike off that $15,000 for extra

expenses,--paragraphs in some of the newspapers,--grand juries, and

other little incidents of that kind. O, you'll come out of it with

_character_."

"Ghoul of the Blerze will assail me, eh?" said Israel, fidgeting in

his chair: "He'll talk o' nothin' else than Chow Bank, Muddy Run and

Terrapin Hollow, for months to come,--eh, Fetch?"

"For years, for years," responded Fetch, "It will be nuts for Ghoul."

"And that cursed affair last night!" continued Yorke, as though

thinking aloud, "Seventy-one thousand gone at one slap."

Fetch looked funnily at his principal from beneath his gold spectacles:

"No? It was real then? I thought--"

Mr. Yorke abruptly consigned the thoughts of Mr. Fetch to a personage

who shall be nameless, and then continued:

"It was _real_,--a _bona fide_ robbery. Seventy-one thousand at a slap!

By-the-bye, Fetch, has Blossom been here to-night--Blossom the police

officer?"

"Couldn't get in; too much of a crowd in the street."

"I did not intend him to come by the front door. He was to come up the

back way,--about this hour--he gave me some hope this afternoon. _That_

was an unfortunate affair last night!"

"How they roar! Listen!" said Fetch, bending himself into a listening

attitude.

And again that ominous sound came from the street without,--the

combined groans and curses of six thousand human beings.

"Like buffaloes!" quietly remarked Mr. Yorke.

"Like demons!" added Mr. Fetch. "Hear 'em."

"Was there much fuss to-day, when we suspended, Fetch?"

"Quantities of market people, mechanics, widows and servant maids,"

said the man of business. "I should think you'd stood a pretty good

chance of being torn to pieces, if you'd been visible. Had this

happened south, you'd have been tarred and feathered. Here you'd only

be tore to pieces."

A step was heard in the back part of the room, and in a moment BLOSSOM,

in his pictorial face and bear-skin over-coat, appeared upon the scene.

"What is the matter with your head?" asked Mr. Fetch,--"Is that a

handkerchief or a towel?" He pointed to something like a turban, which

Poke-Berry Blossom wore under his glossy hat.

Blossom sunk sullenly into a chair, without a word.

"What's the matter?" exclaimed Yorke, "Have you--"

"Suppose you had sixteen inches taken out of yer skull," responded

Blossom in a sullen tone, "You'd know what was the matter. Thunder!" he

added, "this is a rum world!"

"Did you--" again began Yorke, brushing his gray whiskers and fidgeting

in his chair.

"Yes I did. I tracked 'em to a groggery up town airly this evenin'.

I had 'em all alone, to myself, up stairs. I caught the young 'un

examinin' the valise--I seed the _dimes_ with my own eyes. I--"

"You arrested them?" gasped Yorke.

"How could I, when I ain't a real police, and hadn't any warrant? I

did grapple with 'em; but the young 'un got out on the roof with the

valise, and I was left to manage the old 'un as best I could. I tried

to make him b'lieve that I had a detachment down stairs, but he gi'n me

a lick over the top-knot that made me see Fourth of July, I tell you.

There I laid, I don't know how long. When I got my senses, they was

gone."

"But you pursued them?" asked Yorke, with a nervous start.

"With a hole in my head big enough to put a market-basket in?"

responded Blossom, with a pitying smile, "what do you think I'm made

of? Do you think I'm a Japan mermaid or an Egyptian mummy?"

It will be perceived that Mr. Blossom said nothing about the HOUSE

which stood next to the YELLOW MUG; he did not even mention the latter

place by name. Nor did he relate how he pursued Nameless into this

house, and how after an unsuccessful pursuit, he returned into the

garret of the Mug, where Ninety-One, (who for a moment or two had

been hiding upon the roof,) grappled with him, and laid him senseless

by a well planted blow. Upon these topics Mr. Blossom maintained a

mysterious silence. His reasons for this course may hereafter appear.

"And so you've given up the affair?" said Yorke, sinking back into his

chair.

Now the truth is, that Blossom, chafed by his inquiries and mortified

at his defeat, was cogitating an important matter to himself--"Can I

make anything by givin' Israel into the hands of the mob? I might lead

'em up the back stairs. Lord! how they'd make the fur fly! _But who'd

pay me?_" The italicized query troubled Blossom and made him thoughtful.

"And so the seventy thousand's clean gone," exclaimed Fetch, in a

mournful tone: "It makes one melancholy to think of it."

"Pardon me, Mr. Yorke, for this intrusion," said a bland voice, "but

I have followed Mr. Blossom to this room. I caught sight of him a

few moments ago as he left Broadway, and tried to speak to him as he

pushed through the crowd in front of your door, but in vain. So being

exceedingly anxious to see him, I was forced to follow him up stairs,

into your room."

"Colonel Tarleton!" ejaculated Yorke.

"The handsom' Curnel!" chorused Blossom.

It was indeed the handsome Colonel, who with his white coat buttoned

tightly over his chest and around his waist, stood smiling and bowing

behind the chair of Berry Blossom.

"You did not tell any one of the back door," cried Yorke,--"If you

did--"

"Why then, (you were about to remark I believe,) we should have a great

many more persons in the room, than it would be pleasant for you to

see, _just now_."

The Colonel made one of his most elegant bows as he made this remark.

Mr. Yorke bit his nails but made no reply.

"Mr. Blossom, a word with you." The Colonel took the police officer by

the arm and led him far back into that part of the room most remote

from the table.

"What's up, Mister?" asked Blossom, arranging his turban.

As they stood there, in the gloom which pervaded that part of the room,

the Colonel answered him with a low and significant whisper:

"Do you remember that old ruffian who was charged last night in the

cars with--"

"You mean old Ninety-One, as he calls hisself," interrupted

Blossom--"Well, I guess I do."

"Very good," continued the Colonel.--"Now suppose this ruffian had

concealed himself in the house of a wealthy man, with the purpose of

committing a robbery this very night!"

Blossom was all ears.

"Well, well,--drive ahead. Suppose,--suppose,"--he said impatiently.

"Not so fast. Suppose, further, that a _gentleman_ who had overheard

this villain plotting this purposed crime, was to give you full

information in regard to the affair, could you,--could you,--when

called upon to give evidence before the court, forget the name of this

_gentleman_?"

"I'd know no more of him than an unborn baby," eagerly whispered

Blossom.

"Hold a moment. This gentleman overhears the plot, in the room of a

_certain house_, not used as a church, precisely. The gentleman does

not wish to be known as a visitor to _that house_,--you comprehend?

But in _that house_, he happens to hear the ruffian and his young

comrade planning this robbery. Himself unseen, he hears their whole

conversation. He finds out that they intend to enter the house where

the robbery is to take place, by a false key and a back stairway. Now--"

"You want to know, in straight-for'ard talk," interrupted Blossom,

"whether, when the case comes to trial, I could remember having

overheard the convict and the young 'un mesself? There's my hand on

it, Curnel. Just set me on the track, and you'll find that I'll never

say one word about you. Beside, I was arter these two covies this very

night,--I seed 'em with my own eyes, in the garret of the Yellow Mug."

"You did!" cried the Colonel, with an accent of undisguised

satisfaction. "Then possibly you may remember that you overheard them

planning this burglary, as you listened behind the garret door?"

"Of course I can," replied Blossom, "I remember it _quite_ plain. Jist

tell me the number of the house that is to be robbed, and I'll show you

fireworks."

The Colonel's face was agitated by a smile of infernal delight. Leaving

Blossom for a moment, he paced the floor, with his finger to his lip.

"Pop and Pill will leave town to-morrow," he muttered to himself, "and

they'll keep out of the way until the storm blows over. This fellow

will go to the house of Sowers, inform him of the robbery, a search

will be made, and Ninety-One discovered in one room, and the corpse

of Evelyn in the other. Just at that hour I'll happen to be passing

by, and in the confusion I'll try to secure this youthful secretary of

Old Sowers. I shall want him for the twenty-fifth of December. As for

the OTHER, why, Frank must take care of him. Shall Ninety-One come to

a hint of the murder?"--the Colonel paused and struck his forehead.

"Head, you have never failed me, and will not fail me now!"

He turned to Blossom, and in low whispers the twain arranged all the

details of the affair. They conversed together there in the gloom until

they perfectly understood each other, Blossom turning now and then to

indulge in a quiet laugh, and the Colonel's dark eyes flashing with

earnestness, and may be, with the hope of gratified revenge. At length

they shook hands, and the Colonel approached the table:

"Mr. Yorke, I have the honor to wish you a very good evening," said the

Colonel, and after a polite bow, he departed.

"I leave him with his serenaders," he muttered as he disappeared. "This

murder off my hands, and the private secretary in my power, I think I

will hold the trump card on the Twenty-fifth of December!"

With this muttered exclamation he went down the back stairway.

"Yorke, my genius!" cried Blossom, clapping the financier on the back,

"if I don't have them $71,000 dollars before twenty-four hours, you

may call me--you may call me,--most anything you please. By-the-bye,

did you hear that howl? Good-night, Yorke." And he went down the back

stairway.

The financier, coughing for breath, (for the hand of Blossom had

been somewhat emphatic), fixed his gold specs, and brushed his gray

whiskers, and turning to Mr. Fetch, said gayly,

"He looks as if he was on the right track; don't he, Fetch?"

Fetch said he did; and presently he also retired down the back

stairway, promising to see his Principal at an early hour on the

morrow. "How they do roar!" he ejaculated, as he disappeared.

Yorke was alone. He shifted and twisted uneasily in his chair. His

little black eyes shone with peculiar luster. He sat for a long time

buried in thought, and at last gave utterance to these words:

"I think I'd better retire until the storm blows over, leaving Fetch to

bring in my notes, and manage affairs. To what part of the world shall

I go? Well,--w-e-ll!--Havana, yes, that's the word, Havana! But first I

must see the result of this Van Huyden matter on the Twenty-fifth, and

provide myself with a _companion_--a pleasant _companion_ to cheer me

in my loneliness at Havana. Ah!" the man of money actually breathed an

amorous sigh,--"_twelve to-night_,--THE TEMPLE!--that's the word."

And in the street without, black with heads, there were at least three

thousand people who would have cut the throat of Israel, had they once

laid hands upon him.

"THE TEMPLE!" he again ejaculated, and sinking back in his chair, he

inserted his thumbs in the arm-holes of his vest, and resigned himself

to a pleasant dream.

* * * * *

Leaving Israel Yorke for a little while, we will trace the movements,

and listen to the words of a personage of far different character.

CHAPTER IV.

THE SEVEN VAULTS.

About the hour of nine o'clock, on the 23d of December, a gentleman,

wrapped in the folds of a Spanish mantle, passed along Broadway, on

his way to the Astor House. Through the glare and glitter, the uproar

and the motion of that thronged pathway, he passed rapidly along,

his entire appearance and manner distinguishing him from the crowd.

As he came into the glare of the brilliantly-lighted windows, his

face and features, disclosed but for an instant, beneath his broad

sombrero, made an impression upon those who beheld them, which they

did not soon forget. That face, unnaturally pale, was lighted by eyes

that shone with incessant luster; and its almost death-like pallor was

in strong contrast with his moustache, his beard and hair, all of

intense blackness. His dark hair, tossed by the winter winds, fell in

wavy tresses to the collar of his cloak. His movements were quick and

impetuous, and his stealthy gait, in some respects, reminded you of the

Indian. Altogether, in a crowd of a thousand you would have singled

him out as a remarkable man,--one of those whose faces confront you

at rare intervals, in the church, the street, in the railroad-car, on

ship-board, and who at first sight elicit the involuntary ejaculation,

"That man's history I would like to know!"

Arrived at the Astor House he registered his name, GASPAR MANUEL,

_Havana_.

He had just landed from the Havana steamer.

As he wrote his name on the Hotel book, he uncovered his head, and--by

the gas light which shone fully on him,--it might be seen that his

dark hair, which fell to his shoulders, was streaked with threads of

silver. The vivid brightness of his eyes, the death-like pallor of his

face, became more perceptible in the strong light; and when he threw

his cloak aside, you beheld a slender frame, slightly bent in the

shoulders, clad in a dark frock coat, which, single breasted, and with

a strait collar, reached to the knees.

His face seemed to indicate the traveler who has journeyed in many

lands, seen all phases of life, thought much, suffered deeply, and at

times grown sick of all that life can inflict or bestow; his attire

indicated a member of some religious organization, perchance a member

of that society founded by Loyola, which has sometimes honored, but

oftener blasphemed, the name of JESUS. Directing his trunks,--there

were some three or four, huge in size, and strangely strapped and

banded--to be sent to his room, Gaspar Manuel resumed his cloak and

sombrero, and left the hall of the hotel.

It was an hour before he appeared again. As he emerged from one of

the corridors into the light of the hall, you would have scarcely

recognized the man. In place of his Jesuit-like attire, he wore a

fashionably made black dress coat, a snow-white vest, black pants and

neatly-fitting boots. There was a diamond in the center of his black

scarf, and a massy gold chain across his vest. And a diamond even more

dazzling than that which shone upon his scarf, sparkled from the little

finger of his left-hand.

But the change in his attire only made that face, framed in hair and

beard, black as jet, seem more lividly pale. It was a strange faded

face,--you would have given the world to have known the meaning of that

thought which imparted its incessant fire to his eyes.

Winding his cloak about his slender frame, and placing his sombrero

upon his dark hair, he left the hotel. Passing with his quick active

step along Broadway, he turned to the East river, and soon entered a

silent and deserted neighboring house. Silent and deserted, because it

stands in the center of a haunt of trade, which in the day-time, mad

with the fever of traffic, was at night as silent and deserted as a

desert or a tomb.

He paused before an ancient dwelling-house, which, wedged in between

huge warehouses, looked strangely out of place, in that domain of

mammon. Twenty-one years before, that dwelling-house had stood in

the very center of the fashionable quarter of the city. Now the

aristocratic mansions which once lined the street had disappeared;

and it was left alone, amid the lofty walls and closed windows of the

warehouses which bounded it on either hand, and gloomily confronted it

from the opposite side of the narrow street.

It was a double mansion--the hall door in the center--ranges of

apartments on either side. Its brick front, varied by marble over the

windows, bore the marks of time. And the wide marble steps, which

led from the pavement to the hall door--marble steps once white as

snow--could scarcely be distinguished from the brown sandstone of the

pavement. In place of a bell, there was an unsightly-looking knocker,

in the center of the massive door; and its roof, crowned with old

fashioned dormer-windows, and heavy along the edges with cumbrous

woodwork, presented a strange contrast to the monotonous flat roofs of

the warehouses on either side.

Altogether, that old-fashioned dwelling looked as much out of place in

that silent street of trade, as a person attired in the costume of the

Revolution,--powdered wig, ruffled shirt, wide skirted coat, breeches

and knee-buckles,--would look, surrounded by gentlemen attired in the

business-like and practical costume of the present day. And while the

monotonous edifices on either side, only spoke of Trade--the Rate of

Exchange--the price of Dry Goods,--the old dwelling-house had something

about it which breathed of the associations of Home. There had been

marriages in that house, and deaths: children had first seen the light

within its walls, and coffins, containing the remains of the fondly

loved, had emerged from its wide hall door: dramas of every-day life

had been enacted there: and there, perchance, had also been enacted one

of those tragedies of every-day life which differ so widely from the

tragedies of fiction, in their horrible truth.

There was a story about the old dwelling which, as you passed it in

the day-time, when it stood silent and deserted, while all around was

deafening uproar, made your heart dilate with involuntary curiosity to

know the history of the ancient fabric, and the history of those who

had lived and died within its walls.

Gaspar Manuel ascended the marble steps, and with the knocker sounded

an alarm, which echoing sullenly through the lofty hall, was shortly

answered by the opening of the door.

In the light which flashed upon the pallid visage of Gaspar Manuel,

appeared an aged servant, clad in gray livery faced with black velvet.

"Take these letters to your master, and tell him that I am come," said

Gaspar in a prompt and decided tone, marked, although but slightly,

with a foreign accent. He handed a package to the servant as he spoke.

"But how do you know that my master is at home?"--The servant shaded

his eyes with his withered hand, and gazed hesitatingly into that

strange countenance, so lividly pale, with eyes unnaturally bright and

masses of waving hair, black as jet.

"Ezekiel Bogart lives here, does he not?"

"That is my master's name."

"Take these letters to him then at once, and tell him I am waiting."

Perchance the soft and musical intonations of the stranger's voice had

its effect upon the servant, for he replied, "Come in, sir," and led

the way into the spacious hall, which was dimly lighted by a hanging

lamp of an antique pattern.

"Step in there, sir, and presently I will bring you an answer."

The aged servant opened a door on the left side of the hall and Gaspar

Manuel entered a square apartment, which had evidently formed a part of

a larger room. The walls were panneled with oak; a cheerful wood fire

burned in the old-fashioned arch; an oaken table, without covering of

any sort, stood in the center; and oaken benches were placed along the

walls. Taking the old chair,--it stood by the table,--Gaspar Manuel,

by the light of the wax candle on the table, discovered that the room

was already occupied by some twenty or thirty persons, who sat upon the

oak benches, as silent as though they had been carved there. Persons of

all classes, ages, and with every variety of visage and almost every

contrast of apparel. There was the sleek dandy of Broadway; there the

narrow-faced vulture of Wall street; there some whose decayed attire

reminded you either of poets out of favor with the Magazines, or of

police officers out of office: one whose half Jesuit attire brought

to mind a Puseyite clergyman; and one or two whose self-complacent

visages reminded one of a third-rate lawyer, who had just received his

first fee; in a word, types of the varied and contrasted life which

creeps or throbs within the confines of the large city. Among the

crowd, were several whose rotund corporations and evident disposition

to shake hands with themselves, indicated the staid man of business,

whose capital is firm in its foundation, and duly recognized in the

solemn archives of the Bank. A man of gray hairs, clad in rags, sat in

a corner by himself; there was a woman with a vail over her face; a boy

with half developed form, and lip innocent of hair: it was, altogether,

a singular gathering.

The dead silence which prevailed was most remarkable. Not a word was

said. Not one of those persons seemed to be aware of the existence of

the others. As motionless as the oak benches on which they sat, they

were waiting to see Ezekiel Bogart, and this at the unusual hour of ten

at night.

Who was Ezekiel Bogart? This was a question often asked, but which the

denizens of Wall street found hard to answer. He was not a merchant,

nor a banker, nor a lawyer, nor a gentleman of leisure, although in

some respects he seemed a combination of all.

He occupied the old-fashioned dwelling; was seen at all sorts of places

at all hours; and was visited by all sorts of people at seasons most

unusual. Thus much at least was certain. But what he was precisely,

what he exactly followed, what the sum of his wealth, and who were

his relations,--these were questions shadowed in a great deal more

mystery than the reasons which induce a Washington Minister of State to

sanction a worn-out claim, of which he is at once the judge, lawyer and

(under the rose) sole proprietor.

The transactions of Ezekiel Bogart were quite extensive: they involved

much money and ramified through all the arteries of the great social

world of New York. But the exact nature of these transactions? All was

doubt,--no one could tell.

So much did the mystery of Mr. Bogart's career puzzle the knowing ones

of Wall street, that one gentleman of the Green Board went quite crazy

on the subject,--after the fourth bottle of champagne--and offered to

bet Erie Rail-road stock against New Jersey copper stock, that no one

could prove that Bogart had ever been born.

"_Who_ IS _Ezekiel Bogart_?"

No doubt every one of the persons here assembled, in the oak panneled

room, can return some sort of answer to this question; but will not

their answers contradict each other, and render Ezekiel more mythical

than ever?

"Sir, this way," said the aged servant, opening the door and beckoning

to Gaspar Manuel.

Gaspar followed the old man, and leaving the room, ascended the oaken

staircase, whose banisters were fashioned of solid mahogany.

On the second floor he opened a door,--"In there, sir," and crossing

the threshold, Gaspar Manuel found himself in the presence of Ezekiel

Bogart.

It was a square apartment, lined with shelves from the ceiling to the

floor, and illumined by a lamp, which hanging from the ceiling, shed

but a faint and mysterious light through the place. In the center was

a large square table, whose green baize surface was half concealed by

folded packages, opened letters, and huge volumes, bound in dingy buff.

Without windows, and warmed by heated air, this room was completely

fire-proof--for the contents of those shelves were too precious to be

exposed to the slightest chance of destruction.

In an arm-chair, covered with red morocco, and placed directly beneath

the light, sat Ezekiel Bogart; a man whom we may as well examine

attentively, for we shall not soon see his like again. His form bent

in the shoulders, yet displaying marks of muscular power, was clad

in a loose wrapper of dark cloth, with wide sleeves, lined with red.

A dark skull-cap covered the crown of his head; and a huge green

shade, evidently worn to protect his eyes from the light, completely

concealed his eyes and nose, and threw its shadow over his mouth and

chin. A white cravat, wound about his throat in voluminous folds, half

concealed his chin; and his right hand--sinewy, yet colorless as the

hand of a corpse--which was relieved by the crimson lining of the large

sleeve--was laid upon an open letter.

Gaspar Manuel seated himself in a chair opposite this singular figure,

and observed him attentively without uttering a word. And Ezekiel

Bogart, whose eyes were protected by the huge green shade, seemed for a

moment to study with some earnestness, the pallid face of Gaspar Manuel.

"My name is Ezekiel Bogart," he spoke in a voice so low as to be

scarcely audible,--"and I am the General Agent of Martin Fulmer."

He paused as if awaiting a reply from Gaspar Manuel, but Gaspar Manuel

did not utter a word.

"You come highly recommended by Mr. John Grubb, who is Mr. Fulmer's

agent on the Pacific coast," continued Ezekiel. "He especially

commends you to my kindness and attention, in the letter which I

hold in my hand. He desires me to procure you an early interview

with my principal, Dr. Martin Fulmer. He also states that you have

important information in your possession, in regard to certain lands

in the vicinity of the Jesuit Mission of San Luis, near the Pacific

coast,--lands purchased some years ago, from the Mexican government, by

Dr. Martin Fulmer. Now, in the absence of the Doctor, I will be most

happy to converse with you on the subject"--

"And I will be happy to converse on the subject," exclaimed Gaspar, in

his low voice and with a slight but significant smile, "but first I

must see Dr. Martin Fulmer."

Ezekiel gave a slight start--

"But you may not be able to see Dr. Martin Fulmer for some days," he

said. "His movements are uncertain; it is at times very difficult to

procure an interview with him."

"I must see him," replied Gaspar Manuel in a decided voice, "and before

the Twenty-Fifth of December."

Again Ezekiel started:

"Soh! He knows of the Twenty-Fifth!" he muttered. After a moment's

hesitation he said aloud: "This land which the Doctor bought from

the Mexican government, and which he sent John Grubb to overlook, is

fertile, is it not?"

Gaspar Manuel answered in a low voice, whose faintest tones were marked

with a clear and impressive emphasis:

"The deserted mission house of San Luis stands in the center of a

pleasant valley, encircled by fertile hills. Its walls of intermingled

wood and stone are almost buried from view by the ever-green foliage

of the massive trees which surround it. Once merry with the hum of

busy labor, and echoing with the voice of prayer and praise, it is

now silent as a tomb. Its vineyards and its orchards are gone to

decay,--orchards rich with the olive and the apple, the pomegranate

and the orange, stand neglected and forsaken, under an atmosphere as

calm, a climate as delicious as southern Italy. And the hills and

fields, which once produced the plantain and banana, cocoanut, indigo

and sugar-cane--which once resounded with the voices of hundreds of

Indian laborers, who yielded to the rule of the Jesuit Fathers--are

now as sad and silent as a desert. And yet a happier sight you cannot

conceive than the valley of the San Luis, in the lap of which stands

the deserted mission-house. It is watered by two rivulets, which,

flowing from the gorges of distant hills, join near the mission-house,

into a broad and tranquil river, whose shores are always bright with

the verdure of spring. The valley is surrounded, as I have said, by a

range of rolling hills, which formerly yielded, by their inexhaustible

fertility, abundant wealth to the Fathers. Behind these, higher and

abrupt hills arise, clad with ever-green forests. In the far distance,

rise the white summits of the Sierra Nevada."

"This mission was one of the many established between the Sierra Nevada

and the Pacific coast," interrupted Ezekiel, "by zealous missionaries

of the Papal Church. If I mistake not, having obtained large grants

of land from the Mexican government, they gathered the Indians into

missions, reared huge mission-houses, and employed the Indians in the

cultivation of the soil."

"Not only in California, on the west side of Sierra Nevada, but also

far to the east of that range of 'Snow Mountains' abounded these

missions, ruled by the Fathers and supported by the labor of the

submissive Indians. But now, for hundreds and hundreds of miles, you

will find the mission-houses silent and deserted. The rule of the

Fathers passed away in 1836--in one of the thousand revolutions of

Mexico--the missions passed into the hands of private individuals, and

in some cases the Indians were transferred with the land."

"But the mission-house of San Luis?"

"Is claimed by powerful members of the Society of Jesus, who residing

in the city of Mexico, have managed to keep a quiet hold upon the

various governments, which have of late years abounded in that unhappy

republic. They claim the mission-house and the lands, originally

granted sixty years ago, to Brothers of their order by the Government,

and they claim certain lands, not named in the original grant."

He paused, but Ezekiel Bogart completed the sentence:

"Lands purchased some years since, from the Government by Dr. Martin

Fulmer? Is their claim likely to be granted?"

"That is a question upon which I will be most happy to converse with

Dr. Martin Fulmer," was the bland reply of Gaspar Manuel.

"These lands are fertile--that is, as fertile as the lands immediately

attached to the mission?"

"Barren, barren as Zahara," replied Gaspar. "A thousand acres in all,

they are bounded by desolate hills, desolate of foliage, and broken

into ravines and gorges, by mountain streams. You stand upon one of the

hills, and survey the waste which constitutes Martin Fulmer's lands,

and you contrast them with the mission lands, and feel as though Zahara

and Eden stood side by side before you. A gloomier sight cannot be

imagined."

"And yet," said Ezekiel, "these lands are situated but a few leagues

from the mission-house. It is strange that the Jesuit Brothers should

desire to possess such a miserable desert. Do you imagine their

motives?"

"It is about _their motives_ that I desire to speak with Dr. Martin

Fulmer," and Gaspar shaded his eyes with the white hand which blazed

with the diamond ring.

There was a pause, and beneath his uplifted hand, Gaspar Manuel

attentively surveyed Ezekiel Bogart, while Ezekiel Bogart, as earnestly

surveyed Gaspar Manuel, under the protection of the green shade which

concealed his eyes.

"You seem to have a great many visitors to-night," said Gaspar, resting

his arm on the table and his forehead on his hand; "allow me to ask, is

it usual to transact business, at such a late hour, in this country?"

"The business transacted by Dr. Martin Fulmer, differs widely from the

business of Wall street," replied Ezekiel, dryly.

"The property of Gulian Van Huyden, has by this time doubled itself?"

asked Gaspar, still keeping his eyes on the table. Ezekiel started,

but Gaspar continued, as though thinking aloud--"Let me see: at the

time of his death, the estate was estimated at two millions of dollars.

Of this $1,251,000 was invested in real estate in the city of New

York; $100,000 in bank and other kinds of stock; $50,000 in lands

in the Western country; $1,000 in a tract of one thousand acres in

Pennsylvania; and $458,000 in bank notes and gold. Then the Van Huyden

mansion and grounds were valued at $150,000. Are my figures correct,

sir?"

As though altogether amazed by the minute knowledge which Gaspar

Manuel, seemed to possess, in regard to the Van Huyden estate, Ezekiel

did not reply.

"By this time this great estate has no doubt doubled, perhaps trebled

itself."

Ezekiel raised his hand to his mouth, and preserved a statue-like

silence.

"This room, which is no doubt vaulted and fire-proof, contains I

presume, all the important records, title-deeds and other papers

relating to the estate."

Ezekiel rose from his chair, and slowly lighted a wax candle which

stood upon the table. Gathering the dark wrapper, lined with scarlet,

about his tall form which seemed bent with age, he took the silver

candlestick in his right hand, and swept aside a curtain which

concealed the shelves behind his chair. A narrow doorway was disclosed.

"Will you step this way, for a few moments, sir?" he said, pointing to

the doorway, as he held the light above his head, thus throwing the

shadow of the green shade completely over his face.

Gaspar Manuel without a word, rose and followed him. They entered a

room or rather vault, resembling in the general features the one which

they had left. It was racked and shelved; the floor was brick and the

shelves groaned under the weight of carefully arranged papers.

"This room or vault, without windows as you see, and rendered secure,

beyond a doubt, from all danger of robbery or of fire, is one of

seven," said Ezekiel. "In this room are kept all title deeds and

papers, which relate to the THOUSAND ACRES in Pennsylvania."

"The Thousand acres in Pennsylvania!" echoed Gaspar, "surely all these

documents and papers, do not relate to that tract, which Van Huyden

originally purchased for one thousand dollars?"

"Twenty-one years ago, they could have been purchased for a thousand

dollars," answered Ezekiel: "twenty-one years, to a country like this,

is the same as five hundred to Europe. Those lands could not now be

purchased for twenty millions."

"Twenty millions!"

"They comprise inexhaustible mines of coal and iron--the richest in the

state," answered Ezekiel, quietly, and drawing a curtain, he led the

way into a second vault.

"Here," he said, holding the light above his head, so that its rays

fell full upon the pallid face of Gaspar, while his own was buried in

shadow; "here are kept all papers and title-deeds, which relate to

the lands in the western country--lands purchased for fifty thousand

dollars, at a time when Ohio was a thinly settled colony and all the

region further west a wilderness--but lands which now are distributed

through five states, and which, dotted with villages, rich in mines and

tenanted by thousands, return an annual rent of,----"

He paused.

"Of I do not care to say how many dollars. Enough, perhaps, to buy a

German prince or two. This way, sir."

Passing through a narrow doorway, they entered a third vault, arched

and shelved like the other.

"This place is devoted to the Van Huyden mansion," said Ezekiel,

pointing to the well-filled shelves. "It was worth $150,000 twenty-one

years ago, but now a flourishing town has sprung up in the center of

its lands; mills and manufactories arise in its valleys; a population

of five thousand souls exists, where twenty-one years ago there were

not two hundred souls, all told. And these five thousand are laboring

night and day, not so much for themselves as to increase the wealth of

the Van Huyden estate."

"And all this is estimated at,----," began Gaspar.

"We will not say," quietly responded Ezekiel. "Here are the title-deeds

of the town, of the mansion, of manufactory and mill, all belong to the

estate; not one of the five thousand souls owns one inch of the ground

on which they toil, or one shingle of the roof beneath which they

sleep."

They entered the fourth vault.

"This is dedicated to the 'Real Estate in the city of New York,'"

said Ezekiel--"worth $1,521,000, twenty-one years ago, and now--well,

well--New York twenty-one years ago was the presumptuous rival of

Philadelphia. She is now the city of the Continent. And this real

estate is located in the most thriving portions of the city--among

the haunts of trade near the Battery, and in the region of splendid

mansions up town."

"And you would not like to name the usual revenue?"--a smile crossed

the pale visage of Gaspar Manuel.

Ezekiel led the way into the fifth vault.

"Matters in regard to Banks and bank stock are kept here," he said,

showing the light of the candle upon the well laden shelves--"Rather

an uncertain kind of property. The United States' Bank made a sad

onslaught upon these shelves. But let us go into the next room."

And they went into the sixth room.

"This is our bank," said Ezekiel; "that is to say, the Treasury of the

Van Huyden estate, in which we keep our _specie basis_. You perceive

the huge iron safe which occupies nearly one-half of the apartment?

Dr. Martin Fulmer carries the Key of course, and with that Key he can

perchance, at any moment, command the destinies of the commercial

world. A golden foundation is a solid foundation, as the world goes."

As though for the moment paralyzed, by the revelation of the immense

wealth of the Van Huyden estate, Gaspar Manuel stood motionless as a

statue, resting one arm upon the huge safe and at the same time resting

his forehead in his hand.

"We will now pass into the seventh apartment," said Ezekiel, and in a

moment they stood in the last vault of the seven. "It is arched and

shelved, you perceive, like the others; and the shelves are burdened

with carefully-arranged papers----"

"Title-deeds, I presume, title-deeds and mortgages?" interrupted Gaspar

Manuel.

"No," answered Ezekiel, suffering the rays of the candle to fall upon

the crowded shelves. "Those shelves contain _briefs_ of the personal

history of permanent persons of this city, of many parts of the Union,

I may say, of many parts of the globe. Sketches of the personal

history of prominent persons, and of persons utterly obscure: records

of remarkable facts, in the history of particular families: brief but

interesting portraitures of incidents, societies, governments and men;

the contents of those shelves, sir, is knowledge, and knowledge that,

in the grasp of a determined man, would be a fearful Power. For," he

turned and fixed his gaze on Gaspar Manuel; "for you stand in the

Secret Police Department of the Van Huyden estate."

These last words, pronounced with an emphasis of deep significance,

evidently aroused an intense curiosity in the breast of Gaspar Manuel.

"Secret Police Department!" he echoed, his dark eyes flashing with

renewed luster.

"Even so," dryly responded Ezekiel, "for the Van Huyden estate is not

a secret society like the Jesuits, nor a corporation like Trinity

Church, nor a government like the United States or Great Britain, but

it is a _Government based upon Money and controlled by the Iron Will

of One Man_. A Government based, I repeat it, upon incredible wealth,

and absolutely in the control of one man, who for twenty-one years,

has devoted his whole soul to the administration of the singular and

awful Power intrusted to him. Such a Government needs a Secret Police,

ramifying through all the arteries of the social world--and you now

stand in the office of that wide-spread and almost ubiquitous Police."

"A secret society may be disturbed by internal dissensions," said

Gaspar Manuel, as though thinking aloud; "a government may be crippled

by party jealousies, but this Government of the Van Huyden Estate,

based upon money, is simply controlled by one man, who knows his mind,

who sees his way clear, whose will is deepened by a conviction--perhaps

a fanaticism--as unrelenting as death itself. Ah! the influence of such

a Government is fearful, nay horrible, to contemplate!"

"It is, it is indeed," said Ezekiel, in a low and mournful voice; "and

the responsibility of Dr. Martin Fulmer, most solemn and terrible."

"But what would become of this Government, were Dr. Martin Fulmer to

die before the 25th of December?" asked Gaspar Manuel.

"But Dr. Martin Fulmer will not die before the 25th of December,"

responded Ezekiel, in a tone of singular emphasis.

"And this immense power will drop from his grasp on the 10th of

December," continued Gaspar Manuel. "Who will succeed him? Into whose

hands will it fall--this incredible power?"

"Your question will be answered on the 25th of December," slowly

responded Ezekiel, and motioning to Gaspar, he retraced his steps

through the six vaults or apartments, and presently stood in the first

of the seven vaults, where we first beheld him.

He seated himself in the huge arm-chair, while Gaspar Manuel, resuming

his cloak and sombrero, stood ready to depart.

"Now that I have given you some revelation of the immense resources of

the Van Huyden Estate," said Ezekiel, as he attentively surveyed that

cloaked and motionless figure; "you will, I presume, have no objection

to converse with me in regard to the lands on the Pacific, as freely

and as fully, as though you stood face to face with Dr. Martin Fulmer?"

"Pardon," said Gaspar Manuel with a low brow, "the facts in my

possession are for the ear of Dr. Martin Fulmer, and for his ear alone."

"Very well, sir," replied Ezekiel, in a tone of impatience, "as you

please. Call here to-morrow at--" he named the hour--"and you shall see

Dr. Martin Fulmer."

"I will be here at the hour," and bidding good-night! to Ezekiel,

Gaspar bowed and moved to the door. He paused for a moment on the

threshold----

"Pardon me, sir, but I would like to ask you a single question."

"Well, sir."

"I am curious to know what has induced you, to disclose to me--almost

an entire stranger--the secrets and resources of the Van Huyden Estate?"

"Sir," responded Ezekiel Bogart, in a voice which deep and stern, was

imbued with the consciousness of Power; "you will excuse me from giving

you a direct reply. But you would not have crossed the threshold of

any one of the seven apartments, had I not been conscious, that it is

utterly out of your power, to _abuse_ the knowledge which you have

obtained."

Again Gaspar Manuel bowed, and without a word, left the room.

Ezekiel Bogart was alone.

He folded his arms and bowed his head upon his breast. Strange and

tumultuous thoughts, stamped their deep lines upon his massive brow.

The dimly-lighted room was silent as the grave, and the light fell

faintly upon that singular figure, buried in the folds of the dark

robe lined with scarlet, the head covered with an unsightly skullcap,

the eyes vailed by a green shade, the chin and mouth concealed by the

cumbrous cravat. Lower drooped the head of Ezekiel, but still the light

fell upon his bared forehead, and showed the tumultuous thoughts that

were working there. The very soul of Ezekiel, retired within itself and

absent from all external things, was buried in a maze of profound, of

overwhelming thought.

The aged servant entered with a noiseless step, "Here is a letter,

sir," he said. But Ezekiel did not hear. "Sir, a letter from

Philadelphia, by a messenger who has just arrived." But Ezekiel,

profoundly absorbed, was unconscious of his presence.

The aged servant advanced, and placed the letter on the table, directly

before his absent-minded master. He touched Ezekiel respectfully on the

shoulder and repeated in a louder voice--"A letter, sir, an important

letter from Philadelphia, by a messenger who has just arrived."

Ezekiel started in his chair, like one suddenly awakened from a sound

slumber. At a glance he read the superscription of the letter: "_To

Ezekiel Bogart, Esq.--Important_."

"The handwriting of the Agent whom I yesterday sent to Philadelphia!"

he ejaculated, and opened the letter. These were its contents:

_Philadelphia, Dec._ 23, 1844.

SIR:--I have just returned to the city, from the Asylum--returned

in time to dispatch this letter by an especial messenger, who will

go to New York, in the five o'clock train. At your request, and in

accordance with your instructions, I visited the Asylum for the

Insane, this morning, expecting to bring away with me the Patient whom

you named. _He escaped some days ago_--so the manager informed me.

And since his escape no intelligence has been had of his movements.

I have not time to add more, but desire your instructions in the

premises.

Yours truly, H. H.

To EZEKIEL BOGART, ESQ.

No sooner had Ezekiel scanned the contents of this epistle, than he was

seized with powerful agitation.

"Escaped! The child of Gulian escaped!" he cried, and started from the

chair--"to-morrow he was to be here, in this house, in readiness for

the Day. Escaped! Why did not the manager at once send me word? Ah,

woe, woe!" He turned to the aged servant, and continued, "Bring the

person who brought this letter, to me, at once, quick! Not an instant

is to be lost."

And as the aged servant left the room, Ezekiel sank back in his chair,

like one who is overpowered by a sudden and unexpected calamity.

CHAPTER V.

THE LEGATE OF THE POPE.

As Gaspar Manuel left the house of Ezekiel Bogart, he wrapped his

cloak closely about his form, and drew his sombrero low upon his face.

His head drooped upon his breast as he hurried along, with a quick

and impetuous step. Soon he was in Broadway again, amid its glare and

uproar, but he did not raise his head, nor turn his gaze to the right

or left. Head drooped upon his breast and arms gathered tightly over

his chest, he threaded his way through the mazes of the crowd, as

absent from the scene around him, as a man walking in his sleep.

Arrived at the Astor House, he hurried to his room and changed his

dress. Divesting himself of his fashionable attire--black dress-coat,

scarf, white-vest--he clad himself in a single-breasted frock-coat,

buttoned to the throat and reaching below the knees. Above its straight

collar, a glimpse of his white cravat was perceptible. And over the

dark surface of his coat, was wound a massy gold chain, to which was

appended, a Golden Seal and a Golden Cross. Over this costume, which in

its severe simplicity, displayed his slender frame to great advantage,

he threw his cloak, and once more hurried from the Hotel.

Pausing on the sidewalk in front of the Astor, he engaged a

hackney-coach--

"Do you know where, ---- ----, resides?" he asked of the driver; a huge

individual, in a white overcoat, and oil-skin hat.

"Sure and I does jist that," was the answer. "It's meself that knows

the residence of his Riv'rence as well as the nose on my face."

"Drive me there, at once," said Gaspar Manuel.

And presently the carriage was rolling up Broadway, bearing Gaspar

Manuel to the residence of a prominent dignitary of the Roman Catholic

Church.

As the little clock on the mantle struck the hour of eleven, the

Prelate was sitting in an easy chair, in front of a bright wood fire.

It was in a spacious apartment, connected with his library by a narrow

door. Two tall wax candles, placed upon the table by his side, shed

their light over the softly carpeted floor, the neatly papered walls,

and over the person of the Prelate, who was seated at his ease, in the

center of the scene.

The Prelate was a man of some forty-five years, with boldly marked

features, and sharp fiery eyes, indicating an incessantly active mind.

The light fell mildly on his tonsured crown, encircled by brown hair,

streaked with gray, and his bold forehead and compressed lip. His form

broad in the shoulders, muscular in the chest, and slightly inclined to

corpulence, was clad in a long robe of dark purple, reaching from his

throat to his feet. There was a cross on his right breast and a diamond

ring on the little finger of his left-hand.

Thus alone, in his most private room--the labors of the day

accomplished and the world shut out--the Prelate was absorbed in the

mazes of a delightful reverie.

He fixed his eyes upon a picture which hung over the mantle, on the

left. It was a portrait of Cardinal Dubois, who in the days of the

Regency, trailed his Red Hat in the mire of nameless debaucheries.

"Fool!" muttered the Prelate, "he had not even sense to hide his vices,

under the thinnest vail of decency."

He turned his eyes to a portrait which hung over the mantle on the

right. "There was a man!" he muttered, and a smile shot over his face.

The portrait was that of Cardinal Richelieu who butchered the Huguenots

in France, while he was supplying armies to aid the Protestants of

Germany. Richelieu, one of those Politicians who seem to regard the

Church simply as a machine for the advancement of their personal

ambition,--the cross as a glittering bauble, only designed to dazzle

the eyes of the masses,--the seamless Cloak of the Redeemer, as a cloak

intended to cover outrages the most atrocious, which are done in the

name of God.

"He was a man!" repeated the Prelate. "He moulded the men and events

of his time, and,----" he stopped. He smiled. "Why cannot I mould to

my own purposes, the men and events of my time, using the Church as a

convenient engine?" Some thought like this seemed to flit over his mind.

Having attentively turned his gaze from Cardinal Dubois to Cardinal

Richelieu, the Prelate at length fixed his eyes upon a marble bust,

which stood in the center of the mantle. And his lips moved, and his

eyes flashed, and his right hand waved slowly to and fro, before his

face, as though he saw a glorious future, drawn in the air, by a

prophetic pencil.

The marble bust upon which he gazed, was the bust of one, who from

the very lowest walk in life had risen to be Pope: and one of the

strongest, sternest Popes that ever held the scepter of the Vatican.

"It can be won," ejaculated the Prelate, "and the means lie here," he

placed his hand upon a Map which lay on the table. It was a map of the

American Continent.

"I came up stairs without ceremony," said a calm even voice; "your

Grace's servant informed me, that you expected me."

"I am heartily glad to see you, my Lord," said the Prelate, turning

abruptly and confronting his visitor: "it is now two years since I met

your Lordship in Rome. It was, you remember, just before you departed

to Mexico, as the Legate of His Holiness. How has it been with you

since I saw you last?"

"I have encountered many adventures," answered "His Lordship," the

Legate, "and none more interesting than those connected with the

Mission of San Luis and its lands--"

Thus saying the Legate--in obedience to a courteous gesture from the

Prelate--flung aside his hat and cloak, and took a seat by the table.

The Legate was none other than our friend Gaspar Manuel.

They were in singular contrast, the Legate and the Prelate. The

muscular form and hard _practical_ face of the Prelate, was certainly,

in strong contrast with the slender frame, and pale--almost

corpse-like--face of the Legate, with its waving hair and beard of inky

blackness. Conscious that their conversation might one day have its

issue, in events or in disclosures of vital importance, they for a few

moments surveyed each other in silence. When the Prelate spoke, there

was an air of deference in his manner, which showed that he addressed

one far superior to himself in position, in rank and power.

We will omit the Lordships and Graces with which these gentlemen,

interlarded their conversation. Lordships and Graces and Eminences,

are matters with which we simple folks of the American Union, are but

poorly acquainted.

"You are last from Havana?" asked the Prelate.

"Yes," answered the Legate: "and a month ago I was in the city of

Mexico; two months since in California, at the mission of San Luis."

"And the Fathers are likely to regain possession of the deserted

mission? You intimated so much in the letter which you were kind enough

to write me from Havana."

"They are likely to regain possession," said the Legate.

"But the mission will be worth nothing without the thousand acres of

_barren_ land," continued the Prelate: "Will the _barren land_ go with

the mission?"

"In regard to that point I will inform you fully before we part. For

the present let me remind you, that it was an important part of my

mission, to the New World, to ascertain the prospects of the Church in

that section of the Continent, known as the United States. Allow me to

solicit from you, a brief exposition of the condition and prospects of

our Church in this part of the globe."

The Prelate laid his hand upon the American Continent:

"The north, that is the Republic of the United States, will finally

absorb and rule over all the nations of the Continent. By war, by

peace, in one way or another the thing is certain--"

He paused: the Legate made a gesture of assent.

"It is our true policy, then, to absorb and rule over the Republic of

the North. To make our Church the secret spring of its Government;

to gradually and without exciting suspicion, mould every one of its

institutions to our own purposes; to control the education of its

people, and bend the elective franchise to our will. Is not this our

object?"

Again the Legate signified assent.

"And this must be done, by making New York the center of our system.

New York is in reality, the metropolis of the Continent; from New

York as from a common center, therefore all our efforts must radiate.

From New York we will control the Republic, shape it year by year to

our purposes; as it adds nation after nation to its Union, we will

make our grasp of its secret springs of action, the more certain and

secure; and at last the hour will come, when this Continent apparently

one united republic, will in fact, be the richest altar, the strongest

abiding-place, the most valuable property of the Church. Yes, the hour

will come, when the flimsy scaffolding of Republicanism will fall, and

as it falls, our Church will stand revealed, her foundation in the

heart of the American Republic; her shadow upon every hill and valley

of the Continent. For you know," and his eye flashed, "that our battle

against what is called Democracy and Progress, is to be fought not in

the Old World, where everything is on our side, but in the New World,

where these damnable heresies do most abound."

"True," interrupted the Legate, thoughtfully; "the New World is the

battle-field of opinions. Here the fight must take place."

"You ask how our work is to begin? Here in New York we will commence

it. Hundreds of thousands of foreigners of our faith arrive in this

city every year. Be it our task to plant an eternal barrier between

these men, and those who are American citizens by birth. To prevent

them from mingling with the American People, from learning the

traditions of American history, which give the dogma of Democracy its

strongest hold upon the heart, to _isolate_ them, in the midst of the

American nation. In a word, the first step of our work is, to array

at the zealous _Foreign_ party, an opposition to an envenomed _Native

American_ party."

"This you have commenced already," said the Legate,--"it was in Mexico,

that I heard of Philadelphia last summer--of Philadelphia on the verge

of civil war with Protestants and Catholics flooding the gutters with

their blood, while the flames of burning churches lit up the midnight

sky."

"The outbreak was rather premature," calmly continued the Prelate, "but

it has done us good. It has invested us with the light of martyrdom,

the glory of persecution. It has drawn to us the sympathies of tens of

thousands of Protestants, who, honestly disliking the assaults of the

mere 'No-Popery' lecturers upon our church, as honestly entertain the

amusing notion, that the Rulers of our church, look upon 'Toleration,

Liberty of Conscience,' and so forth, with any feeling, but profound

contempt."

"Ah!" ejaculated the Legate, and a smile crossed his face, "deriving

strength from the illimitable bitterness of the Native American

and Foreign political parties, we already hold in many portions of

the Union, the ballot box in our grasp. We can dictate terms to

both political parties. Their leaders court us. Editors who know

that we rooted Protestantism out of Spain, by the red hand of the

Inquisition,--that for our faith we made the Netherlands rich in

gibbets and graves,--that we gave the word, which started from its

scabbard the dagger of St. Bartholomew,--grave editors, who know all

this and more, talk of us as the friends of Liberty and Toleration--"

"But there was Calvert, the founder of Maryland, and Carroll the signer

of the Declaration of Independence, these were Catholics, were they

not, Catholics and friends of Liberty?"

"They were _laymen_, not _rulers_, you will remember," said the

Prelate, significantly: "at best they belonged to a sort of Catholics,

which, in the Old World, we have done our best to root out of the

church. But here, however, we can use their names and their memories,

as a cloak for our purposes of ultimate dominion. But to resume: both

political parties court us. Their leaders, who loathe us, are forced

to kneel to us. Things we can do freely and without blame, which damn

any Protestant sect but to utter. The very 'No-Popery' lecturers aid

us: they attack doctrinal points in our church, which are no more

assailable than the doctrinal points of any one of their ten thousand

sects: they would be dangerous, indeed, were they to confine their

assaults to the simple fact, that ours is not so much a church as an

EMPIRE, having for its object, the temporal dominion of the whole human

race, to be accomplished under the vail of spiritualism. An EMPIRE

built upon the very sepulcher of Jesus Christ,--an EMPIRE which holds

Religion, the Cross, the Bible, as valuable just so far as they aid its

efforts for the temporal subjection of the world,--an EMPIRE which,

using all means and holding all means alike lawful, for the spread of

its dominion, has chosen the American Continent as the scene of its

loftiest triumph, the theater of its final and most glorious victories!"

As he spoke the Atheist Prelate started from his chair.

Far different from those loving Apostles, who through long ages, have

in the Catholic Church, repeated in their deeds, the fullness of Love,

which filled the breast of the Apostle John,--far different from the

Fenelons and Paschals of the church,--this Prelate was a cold-blooded

and practical Atheist. Love of women, love of wine, swayed him not.

Lust of power was his spring of action--his soul. He may have at times,

assented to Religion, but that he believed in it as an awful verity,

as a Truth worth all the physical power and physical enjoyment in the

universe,--the Prelate never had a thought like this. An ambitious

atheist, a Borgia without his lust, a Richelieu with all of Richelieu's

cunning, and not half of Richelieu's intellect, a cold-blooded,

practical schemer for his own elevation at any cost,--such was the

Prelate. Talk to him of Christ as a consoler, as a link between

crippled humanity and a better world, as of a friend who meets you

on the dark highway of life, and takes you from sleet and cold, into

the light of a dear, holy home,--talk to him of the love which imbues

and makes alive every word from the lips of Christ,--ha! ha! Your

atheistical Prelate would laugh at the thought. He was a worldling.

Risen from the very depths of poverty, he despised the poor from whom

he sprung. For years a loud and even brawling advocate of justice for

Ireland,--an ecclesiastical stump orator; a gatherer of the pennies

earned by the hard hand of Irish labor,--he was the man to blaspheme

her cause and vilify its honest advocates, when her dawn of Revolution

darkened into night again. He was the pugilist of the Pulpit, the

gladiator of controversy, always itching for a fight, never so happy as

when he set honest men to clutching each other by the throat. Secure

in his worldly possessions, rich from the princely revenues derived

from the poor--the hard working poor of his church,--a tyrant to the

parish priests who were so unfortunate as to be subjected to his sway,

by turns the Demagogue of Irish freedom and the _Mouchard_ of Austrian

despotism, he was a vain, bad, cunning, but _practical_ man, this

Atheist Prelate of the Roman Church.

"Now, what think you of our plans and our prospects?" said the Prelate,

triumphantly--"can we not, using New York as the center of our

operations, the Ballot Box, social dissension and sectarian warfare as

the means, can we not, mould the New World to our views, and make it

Rome, Rome, in every inch of its soil?"

The Legate responded quietly:

"I see but one obstacle--"

"Only one; that is well--"

"And that obstacle is not so much the memory of the American Past,

which some of these foolish Americans still consider holy--not so

much the memory of Penn the Quaker; Calvert the Catholic, who planted

their silly dogma of Brotherly love on the Delaware and St. Mary's,

in the early dawn of this country,--not so much the Declaration of

Independence, nor the blood-marks which wrote its principles, on the

soil from Bunker Hill to Savannah, from Brandywine to Yorktown,--not

so much the history of the sixty-eight years, which in the American

Republic, have shown a growth, an enterprise, a development never

witnessed on God's earth before,--not so much all this, as the single

obstacle which I now lay on the table before you."

And from the breast of his coat he drew forth a small, thin volume,

which he laid upon the table:

"This!" cried the Prelate, as though a bomb-shell had burst beneath his

chair; "This! Why this is the four Gospels according to Matthew, Mark,

Luke and John!"

"Precisely. And Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, those simple fellows are

the very ones whom we have most to fear."

"But I have driven this book from the Common Schools!" cried the

Prelate, rather testily.

"Have you driven it from the home?" quietly asked the Legate.

The Prelate absently toyed with his cross, but did not answer.

"Can you drive it from the home?" asked the Legate.

The Prelate gazed at the portrait of Cardinal Dubois, and then at

Richelieu's, but did not reply.

"Do you not see the difficulty?" continued the Legate, "so long

as Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, sit down by the firesides of the

people, making themselves a part and parcel of the dearest memories of

every household,--so long we may chop logic, weave plots, traffic in

casuistry, but in vain!"

"True, that book is capable of much mischief," said the Prelate; "it

has caused more revolutions than you could count in a year."

"In Spain, where this book is scarcely known, in Italy, where to read

it is imprisonment and chains, we can get along well enough, but here,

in the United States, where this book is a fireside book in every home,

the first book that the child looks into, and the last that the dying

old man listens to, as his ear is growing deaf with death,--here what

shall we do? You know that it is a Democratic book?"

"Yes."

"That it is so simple in its enunciations of brotherly love, equality,

and the love of God for all mankind, so simple and yet so strong, that

it has required eighteen centuries of scholastic casuistry and whole

tons of volumes, devoted to theological special pleading, to darken its

simple meaning?"

"Yes, yes."

"That in its portraitures of Christ, there is something that stirs

the hearts of the humblest, and sets them on fire with the thought,

'I too, am not a beast, but a child of God, destined to have a home

here and an immortality hereafter?' That its profound contempt of

riches and of mere worldly power,--its injunctions to the rich, 'sell

all thou hast and give to the poor;' its pictures of Christ, coming

from the workman's bench, and speaking, acting, doing and dying, so

that the masses might no longer be the sport of priest or king, but

the recreated men and women of a recreated social world; that in all

this, it has caused more revolutions, given rise to more insurrections,

leveled more deadly blows at absolute authority, than all other books

that have been written since the world began?"

"Yes--y-e-s--y-e-s," said the Prelate. "True, true, a mischievous book.

But how would you remedy the evil?"

"That's the question," said the Legate, dryly.

After a long pause they began to talk concerning the mission of San

Luis in California--its fertile hills and valleys, rich in the olive,

fig, grape, orange and pomegranate,--and of the _thousand acres of

barren land_, claimed alike by the Jesuits and Dr. Martin Fulmer.

"The claim of the Fathers, to the mission-house and lands of San Luis,

is established then?" said the Prelate.

"It has been acknowledged by the Mexican Government," was the reply of

the Legate.

"And the claim to the thousand barren acres?"

"It rests in my hands," replied the Legate: "by a train of

circumstances altogether natural, although to some they may appear

singular, it is in my power to decide, whether these thousand barren

acres shall belong to our Church or to Dr. Martin Fulmer."

"And it is not difficult to see which way your verdict wall fall;" the

Prelate's eyes sparkled and a smile lit up his harsh features.

"These acres are barren, barren so far as the fig, the orange, the

vine, the pomegranate are concerned, barren even of the slightest

portion of shrubbery or verdure, but rich--"

"Rich in gold!" ejaculated the Prelate, folding his arms and fixing

his eyes musingly upon the fire,--"gold sufficient to pave my way from

this chair to the Papal throne;" he muttered to himself. "In Rome," he

said aloud, "I had an opportunity to examine the records of the various

missions, established by our Church in California; and they all contain

traditions of incredible stores of gold, hidden under the rocks and

sands of California. Does your experience confirm those traditions?"

"I have traversed that land from the Sierra Nevada to the Pacific, and

from North to South," replied the Legate, "and it is my opinion, based

on facts, that California is destined to exercise an influence upon the

course of civilization and the fate of nations, such as has not been

felt for a thousand years."

He paused, as if collecting in his mind, in one focus, a panorama of

the varied scenery, climate, productions, of the region between the

snows of the Sierra Nevada and the Pacific. Then, while his pale face

flushed with excitement, and his bright eyes grew even yet more vivid

in their luster, he continued:

"The bowels of the land are rich in gold," he said, in that low-toned

but musical voice. "It is woven in the seams of her rocks. It

impregnates her soil. It gleams in the sand of her rivers. Gold, gold,

gold,--such as Banker never counted, nor the fancy of a Poet, ever

dreamed of. Deep in her caverns the ore is shining; upon her mountain

sides it flings back the rays of the sun; her forest trees are rooted

in gold. Could you fathom her secrets, you would behold gold enough

to set the world mad. Men would leave their homes, and all that makes

life dear, and journey over land and sea, by hundreds of thousands, in

pilgrimage to this golden land. The ships of the crusaders would whiten

every sea, their caravans would belt every desert. The whole world,

stirred into avaricious lust, would gravitate to this rock of gold."

Turning to the Prelate, he said abruptly:

"Did you ever attempt to unravel the superstition of Gold?"

"The superstition of Gold?" echoed the Prelate.

"Yes, superstition of gold. For that wide-spread opinion in regard to

the value of gold, is one of the most incredible superstitions that

ever damned the soul of man. It obtains in all ages and on every shore.

In the days of the Patriarchs, and in the days of the Bankers,--among

the sleekly-attired people of civilized races, and among savage hordes,

naked as the beasts,--everywhere and in all ages, this superstition has

obtained, and crushed mankind, not with an iron, but with a golden rod.

(There are exceptions, I grant, as in the case of the North American

Indians, and other savage tribes, but it cannot be denied, that this

superstition which fixes a certain value on gold, has overspread the

earth, in all ages, as universal as the very air.) What religion has

ruled so absolutely and reigned so long, as this deep-implanted golden

superstition,--this Catholic religion of the yellow ore?"

"But gold is valuable in itself," interrupted the Prelate--"it is

something more than the representative of labor; in a thousand respects

it surpasses all other metals. It is an article of merchandise, a part

of commerce; even were it not money, it would always bring more money

than any other metal."

"This is often said, and is plausible. Admit all you assert, and the

question occurs, '_Why should it be so?_' When you say that gold is

the most precious of all metals, an article of value in _itself_, as

well as the representative of labor, you assert a fact, but you do not

_explain_ that fact. Far, far from it. But why should it be so? What

_use_ has it been to man, that it should receive this high distinction?

Iron, lead, copper--all of these are a million fold more useful than

gold--No--reflect a little while. Bend all your thought to the subject.

Track the yellow ore through all ages, and at last, you must come to

the conclusion, that the value placed upon gold is a superstition, as

vast as it is wicked,--a superstition which has crushed more hearts and

damned more souls, than all the (so called) _Religious_ superstitions

that smear the page of history with blood. That such a superstition

exists, would alone convince me of the existence of an embodied Devil,

who, perpetually at war with God, does with a direct interference,

derange his laws, and crush the hopes of his children."

For a moment, he shaded his eyes with his hand, while the Prelate gazed

upon him, with something of surprise in his look.

"Can you estimate the evils which have flowed from this superstition?

No. The reason falters, the imagination shudders: at the very thought

you are bewildered,--dumb. But think of it as you will,--entangle

yourself among the sophistries which attempt to explain, but in

reality only darken it,--view it as a political economist, a banker,

a merchant, or a worker in precious metals,--and you only plunge the

deeper into the abyss of doubt and bewilderment. You cannot explain

this superstition, unless you mount higher, and grasp that great law

of God, which says, forever, '_It is wicked for_ ONE MAN _to clothe

himself with luxury, at the expense of the sweat and blood of another_

MAN, _who is his Brother_.' Grasp this truth firmly; understand

it in all its bearings,--and you discern the source of the Golden

superstition; for it had its source, in that depraved idleness which

seeks luxury at the expense of human suffering,--which coins enjoyment

for a few men, on the immeasurable wretchedness of entire races of

mankind. The first man who sought to rob his Brother of the fruits of

his labor, and of his place on the earth, was doubtless the inventor

of the golden superstition; for turn and twist it as you will, gold is

only valuable because it _represents_ labor. All its value springs from

that cause. It represents labor already done, and it represents labor

that is to be done, and therefore,--therefore only,--is it valuable.

And it is the most convenient engine by which the idlers of the World

can enslave the laborers--therefore it has always retained its value.

Backed by the _delusion_ which fixes upon it a certain value, and makes

it more precious than the blood of hearts, or the salvation of the

entire human race, gold will continue to be the great engine for the

destruction of that race--for its moral and physical damnation--just

as long as the few continue to live upon the wretchedness of the many.

Once destroy this superstition,--take away from gold its certain

value--make that value vague, uncertain, and subject to as many changes

as a bank note,--and you will have wrested the lash from the hand of

the oppressor all over the world."

These words made a deep impression upon the Prelate, an impression

which he dared not trust himself to frame in words. Suppressing an

exclamation that started to his lips, he asked in a calm conversational

tone--

"Will the discovery of the golden land have this effect?"

It was in a saddened tone, and with a downcast eye, that the Legate

replied:

"Ah, that is, indeed, a fearful question. A question that may well make

one shudder. One of two things must happen. From the rocks and sands of

the golden land, the oppressors of the world will derive new means of

oppression, or from those rocks and sands, will come the instrument,

which is to lift up the masses and shake the oppressors to the dust.

What shall be the result? Shall new and more damning chains, for human

hearts, be forged upon the gold of these sands and rocks? Or, tottering

among these rocks and sands, shall poor humanity at last discover the

instrument of her redemption? God alone can tell."

The Prelate was silent. Folding his hands he surveyed the pallid visage

of the Legate, with a look hard to define.

"The first wind that blows intelligence from this land of gold, will

convulse the world. A few years hence, and these sands, now sparkling

with ore, will be white with human skeletons. Thousands and hundreds of

thousands will rush to seek the glittering ore, and find a grave, in

the mud by the rivers' banks; hundreds of thousands will lie unburied

in the depths of trackless deserts, or in the darkness of trackless

ravines; the dog and the wolf will feed well upon human hearts."

Suppressing the emotion aroused, by a portion of the Legate's remarks,

the Prelate asked:

"And the thousand _barren_ acres contain incredible stores of gold?"

"Gold sufficient to affect the destiny of one-half the globe," replied

the Legate: "gold, that employed in a good cause, would bless and

elevate millions of the oppressed, or devoted to purposes of evil,

might curse the dearest rights of half the human race."

"And it is in your power to establish the right of our Church to these

lands?"

"It is. A word from me, and the thing is done."

"Pardon me," said the Prelate, slowly, and measuring every word,--"some

portions of your remarks excite my curiosity. You speak of the

oppressed, and of the oppressors. Now,--now,--from any lips but yours,

these words, and the manner in which you use them, would sound like

the doctrines of the French Socialists. What do you precisely mean by

'oppressed,'--and who, in your estimation, are the '_oppressors_?'"

The Legate rose from his seat, and fixed his eyes upon the Prelate's

face:

"There are many kinds of oppressors, but the most infamous, are those

who use the Church of God, as the engine of their atrocious crimes."

This remark fell like a thunderbolt.

The Prelate slowly rose from his chair, his face flushed and his chest

heaving.

"Sir!" he cried in a voice of thunder.

"Nay--you need not raise your voice,--much less confront me with that

frowning brow. You know me and know the position which I hold. You know

that I am above your reach,--that, perchance, a word from me, uttered

in the proper place, might stop your career, even at the threshold. I

know you, and know that you belong to the party, which, for ages, has

made our church the instrument of the most infernal wrongs--"

"Sir!" again ejaculated the Prelate.

"A party, whose noblest monument is made of the skeletons, the racks

and thumbscrews of the Inquisition, and whose history can only be

clearly read, save by the torchlight of St. Bartholomew--"

"This from you, sir,--"

"A party whose avowed atheism produced the French Revolution, and whose

cloaked atheism is even now sowing the seeds of social hell-fire, in

this country and in Europe--"

"I swear, sir--"

"Hear me, sir, for I am only here to read you a plain lesson. You,

and men like you, may possibly convert the Church once more into the

instrument of ferocious absolutism and the engine of colossal murder,

but remember--"

He flung his coat around him, and stood erect, his face even more

deathly pale than usual, his eyes shining with clear and intense light.

There was a grandeur in his attitude and look.

"Remember, even in the moments of your bloodiest triumphs, that even

within the Church of Rome, swayed by such as you, there is another

Church of Rome, composed of men, who, when the hour strikes, will

sacrifice everything to the cause of humanity and God."

These words were pronounced slowly and deliberately, with an emphasis

which drove the color from the Prelate's cheek.

"Think of it, within Rome, a higher, mightier Rome,--within the order

of Jesuits, a higher and mightier order of Jesuits--and whenever you,

and such as you, turn, you will be met by men, who have sworn to use

the Church, as the instrument of human progress, or to drive forward

the movement over its ruins."

He moved to the door, but lingered for a moment on the threshold:

"It is a great way," he said, "from the turnpike to the Vatican."

This he said, and disappeared. (The Prelate had risen from the position

of breaker of stone on the public road, only to use all his efforts to

crush and damn the masses from whom he sprung.)

And the Prelate was now left alone, to pick up the thunderbolt which

had fallen at his feet.

Half an hour after this scene, the Legate once more ascended the steps

of the Astor House, his cloak wound tightly about his slender form, his

face,--and perchance the emotions written there,--cast into shadow by

his broad sombrero. He was crossing the hall, flaring with gas-lights,

when he was aroused from his reverie by these words,--

"My lord,--"

The speaker was a man of some forty-five years, with a hard,

unmeaning face, and vague gray eyes. His ungainly form,--for he was

round-shouldered, knock-kneed and clumsily footed,--was clad in black,

varied only by a strip of dirty white about his bull-like neck. As he

stood obsequiously, hat in hand, his bald crown, scantily encircled by

a few hairs of no particular color, was revealed; and also his low,

broad forehead. He looked very much like an ecclesiastic, whom habits

of passive obedience have converted into a human fossil.

"My lord,--"

"Pshaw, Michael, none of that nonsense here. Have you obeyed the

directions which I gave you before I left the steamer to-night?"

"I have, my--" 'lord,' he was about to say, but he substituted 'your

excellence!'--"Your country seat, near the city, is in good order.

Everything has been prepared in anticipation of your arrival. I have

just returned from it,--Maryvale, I think you call it?"

"Maryvale," replied the Legate, "Did you tell Felix to have my carriage

ready for me, after midnight, at the place and the hour which I named?"

"Yes, my lord,"--and Michael bowed low.

"No more of that nonsense, I repeat it.--This is not the country for

it. How did you dispose of Cain?"

"I left Cain at the country seat."

"It is well," said the Legate, and having spoken further words to

Michael, in a lower tone, he dismissed him, and went silently to his

chamber.

And CAIN of whom they spoke. We shall see CAIN after a while.

CHAPTER VI.

"JOANNA."

At the hour of eleven o'clock, on the night of December 23d, 1844,

----. A gentleman of immense wealth, who occupied his own mansion,

in the upper part of New York, came from his library, and descended

the broad staircase, which led to the first floor of his mansion. His

slight frame was wrapped in a traveling cloak and a gay traveling cap

shaded his features. He held a carpet-bag in his hand. Arrived on the

first floor, he entered a magnificent range of apartments communicating

with each other by folding-doors, and lighted by an elegant chandelier.

Around him, wherever he turned, was everything in the form of luxury,

that the eye could desire or the power of wealth procure. Thick

carpets, massive mirrors, lofty ceiling, walls broken here and there

with a niche in which a marble statue was placed--these and other signs

of wealth, met his gaze at every step.

He was a young man of fine personal appearance, and refined tastes.

Without a profession, he employed his immense wealth in ministering to

his taste for the arts. The only son of a man of fortune, educated to

the habit of spending money without earning it, he had married about

two years before, an exceedingly beautiful woman, the only daughter of

a wealthy and aristocratic family.

And far back in a nook of this imposing _suite_ of apartments, where

the light of the chandelier is softened by the shadows of statue

and marble pillar, sits this wife, a woman in the prime of early

womanhood.--Her shape, at the same time tall, rounded, and commanding,

is enveloped in a loose wrapper, which seems rather to float about

her form, than to gird it closely. Her face is bathed in tears. As

her husband approaches she rises and confronts him with a _blonde_

countenance, fair blue eyes and golden hair. That face, beaming with

young loveliness, is shadowed with grief.

"Must you go, indeed, my husband?"--and clad in that flowing robe, she

rests her hands upon his shoulder, and looks tearfully into his face.

His cloak falls and discloses his slight and graceful form. He

removes his traveling cap, and his wife may freely gaze upon that

dark-complexioned face, whose regular features, remind you of an Apollo

cast in bronze. His dark eyes flash with clear light as she raises one

hand, and places it upon his forehead, and twines her fingers among the

curls of his jet-black hair.

Take it all in all, it is an interesting picture, centered in that

splendid room, where everything breathes luxury and wealth--the slender

form of the young husband clad in black, contrasted with the imposing

figure of the young wife, enveloped in drapery of flowing white.

"I must go, wife. Kiss me."--She bent back his head and gazing upon

him long and earnestly, suffered her lips to join his,--"I'll be back

before Christmas."

"You are sure that you must go?" she exclaimed, toying with the curls

of his dark hair.

"You saw the letter which I received from Boston. My poor brother lies

at the point of death. I must see him, Joanna,--you know how it pains

me to be absent from you, only for a day,--but I must go. I'll be back

by Christmas morning."

"Will you; indeed, though, Eugene?"--she wound her arms about his

neck--"You know how drearily the time passes without you. O, how I

shall count the hours until you return!" And at every word she smoothed

his forehead with her hand, and touched his mouth with those lips which

bloomed with the ripeness and purity of perfect womanhood.

"I must go, Joanna,"--and convulsed at the thought of leaving this

young wife, even for a day, the husband gathered her to his breast, and

then seizing his cloak and carpet-bag, hurried from the room. His steps

were heard in the hall without, and presently the sound of the closing

door reached the ears of the young wife.

An expression of intense sorrow passed over her face, and she remained

in the center of the room, her hand clasped over her noble bust, and

her head bowed in an attitude of deep melancholy.

"He is gone," she murmured, and passing through the spacious apartment,

she traversed the hall, and ascended the broad stairway.

At the head of the stairway was a large and roomy apartment, warmed

(like every room in the mansion) from an invisible source, which gave a

delightful temperature to the atmosphere. There was a small workstand

in the midst of the apartment, on which stood a lighted candle. A

servant maid was sleeping with her head upon the table, and one hand

resting upon a cradle at her side. In that cradle, above the verge of a

silken coverlet, appeared the face of a cherub boy, fast asleep, with

a rose on his cheek, and ringlets of auburn hair, tangled about his

forehead, white as alabaster.

This room the young mother entered, and treading on tiptoe, she

approached the cradle and bent over it, until her lips touched the

forehead of the sleeping boy. And when she rose again there was a tear

upon his cheek,--it had fallen from the blue eye of the mother.

Retiring noiselessly, she sought her own chamber, where a taper was

dimly burning before a mirror. By that faint light you might trace the

luxurious appointment of the place,--a white bed, half shadowed in an

alcove--a vase of alabaster filled with fragrant flowers--and curtains

falling like snow-flakes along the lofty windows. The idea of wifely

purity was associated with every object in that chamber.

"I shall not want you to-night, Eliza; I will undress myself,"

exclaimed Joanna to a female servant, who stood waiting near the

mirror. "You may retire."

The servant retired, and the young wife was alone. She extinguished the

taper, and all was still throughout the mansion. But she did not retire

to her bed. Advancing in the darkness, she opened a door behind the

bed, and entered the bath-room, where she lighted a lamp by the aid of

a perfumed match which she found, despite the gloom. The bath-room was

oval in shape, with an arched ceiling. The walls, the ceiling and the

floor were of white marble. In the center was the bath, resembling an

immense shell, sunk into the marble floor. This place, without ornament

or decoration of any kind, save the pure white of the walls and floor,

was pervaded by luxurious warmth. The water which filled the shell or

hollow in the center of the floor, emitted a faint but pungent perfume.

She disrobed herself and descended into the bath, suffering her golden

hair to float freely about her shoulders.

After the lapse of a quarter of an hour, this beautiful woman took the

light and passed into the bed chamber. She cast a glance toward her

bed, which had been consecrated by her marriage, and by the birth of

her first and only child. Then advancing toward a wardrobe of rosewood,

which stood in a recess opposite the bed, she took from thence a dress,

with which she proceeded to encase her form. A white robe, loose and

flowing, with a hood resembling the cowl of a nun. This robe was of

the softest satin. She enveloped her form in its folds, threw the hood

over her head, and looking in the mirror, surveyed her beautiful face,

which, glowing with warmth, was framed in her golden hair, and in the

folds of the satin cowl.

She drew slippers of delicate satin, white as her robe, upon her naked

feet.

Then, taking from the wardrobe a heavy cloak, lined throughout with

fur, as soft as the satin which clad her shape, she wound it about her

from head to foot, and stood completely buried in its voluminous folds.

Once more she listened: all was still throughout that mansion, the home

of aristocratic wealth. Thus clad in the silken robe and cowl, covered

in its turn by the shapeless black cloak, this young wife, whose limbs

were glowing with the warmth of the bath, whose person was invested

with a delicate perfume, turned once more and gazed upon her marriage

bed, and a deep sigh swelled her bosom. She next extinguished the

light, and passing from the chamber, descended the marble staircase.

All was dark. She entered the suite of apartments on the first

floor, which, adorned with pillars, communicated with each other by

folding-doors. The chandelier had been extinguished, and the scene was

wrapt in impenetrable darkness.

Standing in the darkness,--her only apparel the silken robe, and the

thick, warm cloak which covered it,--the young wife trembled like a

leaf.

She attempted to utter a word, but her voice failed her.

"Joanna!" breathed a voice, speaking near her.

"Beverly!" answered the young wife, breathing the name in a whisper.

A faint sound like a step, whose echo is muffled by thick carpets, and

the hand of a man, clasps the hand of Joanna.

"How long have you been here?" she whispered.

"I just entered," was the answer.

"How?"

"By the front door, and the key which you gave me."

"O, I tremble so,--I am afraid--"

An arm encircled the cloak which covered her, and girded it tightly

about her form.

"Has _he_ gone, Joanna?"

"Yes, Beverly,--half an hour ago."

"Come, then, let us go. The carriage is waiting at the next corner;

and the street-lamp near the front door is extinguished. All is dark

without; no one can see us."

"Are you sure, Beverly--I tremble so."

"Come, Joanna," and through the thick darkness he led her toward the

hall, supporting her form upon his arm.

"O, whither are you leading me," she whispered in a broken voice.

"Can you ask? Don't you remember my note of to-day? To the TEMPLE,

Joanna."

Their steps echo faintly from the entry.

Then the faint sound produced by the careful closing of the street door

is heard.

A pause of one or two minutes.

Hark! The rolling of carriage wheels.

All is still as death throughout the mansion and the street on which it

fronts.

Hours pass away, and once more the street door is unclosed, and

carefully closed again. A step echoes faintly through the hall,--very

faintly,--and yet it can be heard distinctly, so profound is the

stillness which reigns throughout the mansion. It ascends the marble

staircase, and is presently heard crossing the threshold of the

bed-chamber. A pause ensues, and the taper in front of the mirror is

lighted again, and a faint ray steals through the chamber.

EUGENE LIVINGSTONE stands in front of the mirror. He flings his cloak

on a chair, dashes his cap from his brow, and wipes the sweat from his

forehead,--although he has just left the air of a winter night, his

forehead is bathed in moisture. His slender frame shakes as with an

ague-chill. His eyes are unnaturally dilated; the white of the eyeball

may be plainly traced around the pupil of each eye. His lips are

pressed together, and yet they quiver, as if with deathly cold.

He does not utter a single ejaculation.

A letter is in his right hand, neatly folded and scented with

_pachouli_. It bears the name "_Joanna_," as a superscription. He opens

it and reads its contents, traced in a delicate hand--

JOANNA--

_To-night,--at Twelve_.--THE TEMPLE.

BEVERLY.

Having read the brief letter, the husband draws another from a

side-pocket: "There may be a mistake about the handwriting," he

murmurs, "let us compare them."

The second letter is addressed to "EUGENE LIVINGSTONE, ESQ.," and its

contents, which the husband traces by the light of the taper, are as

follows:

_New York, Dec._ 23, 1844.

DEAR EUGENE:--Sorry to hear that you have such sad news from Boston.

Must you go to-night? Send me word and I'll try to go with you. Thine,

ever,

BEVERLY BARRON.

Long and intently, the husband compared these two letters. His

countenance underwent many changes. But there could be no doubt of

it--both letters were written by the same hand.

"He wrote to me early this morning, and to my wife about an hour

afterward,--as soon as he received my answer. I found the letter to her

upon the floor of this chamber, only two hours ago."

He replaced both letters in his vest pocket.

Then taking the taper, he bent his steps toward the room at the head

of the marble staircase. The young nurse was fast asleep on the couch,

near the cradle.