of a more sleep-impelling exterior.
Above each sofa hung a picture, concealed by a thick curtain.
Along the northern wall of the study were disposed a sofa as
magnificent as the others, and a series of marble pedestals and
red-velvet arm-chairs. Every pedestal was crowned by an alabaster vase
or statue of white marble. There were Eve, Apollo, Canova's Venus, and
the Three Graces,--all exquisite originals or exquisite copies, in
snowy marble.
The arm-chairs were arm-chairs indeed. Red-velvet cushions and high
backs and great broad arms; they were the idea of a happy brain,
impregnated with belief in Sancho's "Blessed be the man that invented
sleep."
And this northern wall was hung with pictures in massive frames, richly
gilt; the frames were exposed, but the pictures were vailed.
In the intervals between the western windows were pedestals crowned
with vases, and mosaic tables loaded with objects of _virtu_: exquisite
trifles of all sorts, gleaned from the Old World.
And in the intervals between the eastern windows were recesses, covered
with hangings of pale crimson. What is concealed in those recesses,
doth not yet appear. Both eastern and western windows were curtained
with folds of intermingled white and damask, floating luxuriantly from
the ceiling to the floor.
The floor was covered with an Axminster carpet of the richest dyes.
Gilt mouldings ran around the ceiling, and in the center thereof, was a
cupid, encircled by a huge wreath of roses, and reposing on a day-break
cloud.
The table, of variegated marble, which stood in the center of the
study, was surrounded by three arm-chairs of the same style as those
which lined the wall. It was circular in form, and upon it, appeared an
elegant alabaster inkstand, gold pens with pearl handles, gilt-edged
paper touched with perfume, a few choice books, and an exquisite "Venus
in the Shell," done in alabaster. One of these books was a modern
edition of the Golden Ass of Apuleius; and the other was a choice
translation of Rabelais.
Altogether, the Rev. Dr. Bulgin's room was one of those rooms worthy of
a place in history; and which, may be, could tell strange histories,
were its chairs and tables gifted with the power of speech.
"And this is the study of the Rev. Dr. Bulgin!" ejaculated the MAN.
"It is," replied Herman, flinging himself into an arm-chair; "here he
composes his most elaborate theological works."
"Why is his library crowned with that bust of Leo the Tenth, the
Atheist and Sensualist?"
"He is writing a work on the age of Luther," replied Herman.
"Oh!" responded the MAN.
"And this!" the MAN drew the vail and bore one of the pictures to the
light: "and this! what does it mean?"
"You are inquisitive, sir," replied Herman, somewhat confounded by the
sudden disclosure of this singular picture, "why, in fact, Dr. Bulgin
is writing a tract _against_ immoral pictures."
"A-h!" responded the MAN, and picked from the table the Golden Ass of
Apuleius, illustrated with plates, "what does this do here? Are these
plates to be understood in a theological sense?"
"Dr. Bulgin is getting up a treatise upon the subject of immoral
literature. He has that book as an example."
"And when he writes a treatise on the infernal regions, he'd send there
for a piece of the brimstone as an example?"
"You are profane," said Herman, tartly; "let me hope that you will
proceed to business."
The MAN placed his cloak on a chair, and his cap on the table. Then
seating himself opposite the minister, he gazed steadily in his face.
Herman grew red in the face, and felt as though he had suddenly been
plunged into an oven.
"Your name is,--is,"--he hesitated.
"Don't _you_ know me?" said the MAN.
"I,--I,--why,--I,--let me see."
Herman shaded his eyes with his hand, and steadily perused the face of
the STRANGER, as though, in the effort, to recognize him.
He was a young man of a muscular frame, clad in a single-breasted blue
coat, which was buttoned over a broad chest. He was of the medium
height. His forehead was broad; his eyes clear gray; his lips wide and
firm; his nose inclining to the aquiline; his chin round and solid.
The general expression of his features was that of straightforwardness
and energy of character. There was the freshness and the warmth of
youth upon his face, and his forehead was stamped with the ideality of
genius. As he wore his brown hair in short, thick curls, it marked the
outline of his head, and threw his forehead distinctly into view.
"You are,--you are,--where did I see you?" hesitated Herman.
"I am Arthur Dermoyne," was the reply, in an even, but emphatic voice.
Then there was an embarrassing pause.
"Where have I met you?" said Herman, as if in the painful effort to
recollect.
"At the house of Mr. Burney, in the city of Philadelphia," was the
answer.
"Ah! now I remember!" ejaculated Herman; "Poor, poor Mr. Burney! You
have heard of the sad accident which took place last night, ah--ah--?"
Herman buried his face in his hands, and seemed profoundly affected.
"I saw his mangled body at the house half way between New York and
Philadelphia, only a few hours ago," the young man's voice was cold and
stern, "and now I am in New York, endeavoring to find the scoundrel who
abducted his only daughter."
Herman looked at cupid in the ceiling and pretended to brush a hair
from his nose--
"Ah, I remember, poor Mr. Burney told me last night, that his child had
been abducted. Yes,--" Herman looked at the hair, and held it between
his eyes and the light, "he told me about it just before the accident
occurred. Poor girl! Poor girl! Oh, by-the-bye," turning suddenly in
his arm-chair, but without looking into the face of Dermoyne, "you take
an interest in the Burney family. Are you a relative?"
"I have visited the house of Mr. Burney, from time to time, and have
seen Alice, his only daughter. You may think me romantic, but to see
that girl, so pure, so innocent, so beautiful, was to love her. I
will confess that had it not been for a disparity of fortune, and a
difference in regard to religious views, between her father and myself,
I would have been most happy to have made her my wife."
The tone of the young man was somewhat agitated; he was endeavoring to
suppress his emotions.
"Courage! He does not _know_," muttered Herman to himself, and then
assuming a calm look, he continued, aloud: "And she would have made you
a noble wife. By-the-bye, you spoke of your profession. A merchant, I
suppose?"
"No, sir."
"A lawyer?"
"No, sir."
"A medical gentleman?"
"No, sir."
"You are then--"
"A shoemaker."
"A WHAT," ejaculated Herman, jumping from his chair.
"A shoemaker," repeated Arthur Dermoyne. "I gain my bread by the work
of my hands, and by the hardest of all kinds of work. I am not only a
mechanic, but a shoemaker."
Herman could not repress a burst of laughter.
"Excuse me, but, ha, ha, ha! You are a shoemaker? And you visited the
house of the wealthy Burney, and aspired to his daughter's hand? You
will excuse me, ha, ha, ha!--but it is so very odd."
Dermoyne's forehead grew dark.
"Yes, I am a shoemaker. I earn my bread by the work of my hands. But
before you despise me, you will hear why I am a shoemaker. As an
orphaned child, without father or mother, there was no other career
before me, than the pauperism of the outcast or the slavery of an
apprentice. I chose the latter. The overseers of the poor bound me out
to a trade. I grew up without hope, education, or home. In the day-time
I worked at an occupation which is work without exercise, and which
continued ten years, at ten hours a day, will destroy the constitution
of the strongest man. From this hopeless apprenticeship, I passed into
the life of a journeyman, and knew what it was to battle with the world
for myself. How I worked, starved and worked, matters not, for we folks
are born for that kind of thing. But as I sat upon my work-bench,
listening to a book which was read by one of my own brother workmen, I
became aware that I was not only poor, but ignorant; that my body was
not only enslaved, but also my soul.--Therefore, I taught myself to
read; to write; and for three years I have devoted five hours of every
night to study."
"And are still a shoemaker?" Herman's smooth face was full of quiet
scorn and laughter.
"I am still a shoemaker--a workman at the bench--because I cannot,
in _conscience_, enter one of the professions called learned.--I
cannot separate myself from that nine-tenths of the human family, who
seem to have been only born to work and die--die in mind, as well as
body--in order to supply the _idle_ tenth with superfluities. Oh!
sir, you, who are so learned and eloquent, could you but read the
thoughts which enter the heart of the poor shoemaker, who, sitting at
his work-bench, in a cramped position, is forced sometimes to reflect
upon his fate!--He beholds the lawyer, with a conscience distinct from
that given to him by God; a conscience that makes him believe that
it is right to grow rich by the tricks and frauds of law. He beholds
the doctor, also with the conscience of his class, sending human
beings to death by system, and filling graveyards by the exact rule
of the schools. He beholds the minister, too often also with but the
_conscience_ of a class, preaching the thoughts of those who do not
work, and failing to give utterance to the agonies of those who do
work--who do all the labor, and suffer all the misery in the world.
And these classes are respected; honored. They are the true noblemen!
Their respectability is shared by the merchant, who grows rich by
distributing the products of labor. But as for the shoemaker--nay,
the workman, of whatever trade--whose labor produces all the physical
_wealth of the world_--who works all life long, and only rests when
his head is in the cold grave,--what of him? He is a serf, a slave, a
Pariah. On the stage no joke is so piquant as the one which is leveled
at the 'tailor,' or the 'cobbler;' in literature, the attempt of an
unknown to elevate himself, is matter for a brutal laugh; and even
grave men like you, when addressed by a man who, like myself, confesses
that he is a--shoemaker! you burst into laughter, as though the master
you profess to serve, was not himself, one day, a workman at the
carpenter's bench."
"These words are of the French school." Herman gave the word "French" a
withering accent.
"Did the French school produce the New Testament?"
Herman did not answer, but fixed his glance upon cupid in the ceiling.
"But you are educated--why not devote yourself to one of the
professions?" and Herman turned his eyes from cupid in the ceiling, to
Venus in the Shell.
Dermoyne's face gleamed with a calm seriousness, a deep enthusiasm,
which imparted a new life to every lineament.
"Because I do not wish to separate myself from the largest portion of
humanity. No, no,--had I the intellect of a Shakspeare, or the religion
of a St. Paul, I would not wish to separate myself from the greater
portion of God's family--those who are born, who work, who die. No, no!
I am waiting--I am waiting!"
"Waiting?" echoed Herman.
"Maybe the day will come, when, gifted with wealth, I can enter the
workshops of Philadelphia, and say to the workmen, 'Come, brothers.
Here is CAPITAL. Let us go to the west. Let us find a spot of God's
earth unpolluted by white or black slavery. Let us build a community
where every man shall work with his hands, and where every man will
also have the opportunity to cultivate his mind--to work with his
brain.--There every one will have a place to work, and every one will
receive the fruits of his work. And there,--oh, my God!--there will we,
without priest, or monopolist, or slaveholder, establish in the midst
of a band of brothers, the worship of that Christ who was himself a
workman, even as he is now, the workman's God.'"
Arthur Dermoyne had started from his chair; his hands were clasped; his
gray eyes were filled with tears.
"French ideas--French ideas," cried Herman. "You have been reading
French books, young man!"
Arthur looked at the clergyman, and said quietly:
"These ideas were held by the German race who settled in Pennsylvania,
in the time of William Penn. Driven, from Germany by the hands of
Protestant priests, they brought with them to the New World, the
'_French ideas_' of the New Testament."
"The Germans who settled Pennsylvania--a stupid race," observed Herman,
in calm derision; "Look at some of their descendants."
"The Germans of the present day--or, to speak more distinctly,--the
Pennsylvania Germans, descendants of the old stock, who came over about
the time of Penn, are a _conquered_ race!--"
"A _conquered_ race?" echoed Herman.
"_Conquered_ by the English language," continued Dermoyne. "As a mass,
they are not well instructed either in English or in German, and
therefore have no chance to develop, to its fullest extent, the stamina
of their race. They know but little of the real history of their
ancestors, who first brought to Pennsylvania the great truth, that God
is not a God of hatred, pleased with blood, but a God of love, whose
great law is the PROGRESS of all his children,--that is, the entire
family of man, both HERE and HEREAFTER. And the Pennsylvanian Germans
are the scoff and sneer of Yankee swindler and southern braggart; but
the day will come, when the descendants of that race will rise to
their destiny, and even as the farms of Pennsylvania now show their
_physical_ progress, so will the entire American continent bear witness
to their _intellectual_ power. They are of the race of Luther, of
Goethe, and of Schiller,--hard to kill,--the men who can work, and the
men whose work will make a people strong, a nation great and noble."
"You are of this race?" asked Herman, pulling his cloak gently with his
delicate hand.
"My father, (I am told, for he died when I was a child,) was a wealthy
farmer, whose wealth was swallowed up by an unjust lawsuit and a
fraudulent bank. My grandfather was a wheelwright; my great-grandfather
a cobbler; my great-great-grandfather a carpenter; and his father,
was a tiller of the field. So you see, I am _nobly_ descended," and a
smile crossed the lips of Dermoyne. "Not a single idler or vagabond
in our family,--all workers, like their Savior,--all men who eat the
bread of honest labor. Ah! I forgot;" he passed his hand over his
forehead--"there was a count in our family. This, I confess, is a
blot upon us; but when you remember that he forsook his countship in
Germany, to become a tiller of the fields in Pennsylvania--about the
year 1680--you will look over the fault of his title."
Herman burst into a fit of pleasant laughter.
"You have odd ideas of nobility!" he ejaculated.
"Odd as the New Testament," said Dermoyne; "and as old. By-the-bye,
this count in our family, was related to the Van Huyden family. (You,
also, are one of the seven?--Yes, your name is among the others.) Ah!
should the 25th of December give into my hands but a few thousand
dollars, I will try and show the world how workmen, united for the
common good, can live and work together."
"A few thousands!" laughed Herman, displaying himself at full length on
the capacious chair; "why, in case the Seven receive the estate at all,
they will divide among them some twenty, perhaps, forty millions of
dollars!"
"Forty millions of dollars!" Dermoyne was thunderstruck. He folded his
arms, and gazed upon vacancy with fixed eyes. "My God! what might not
be done with forty millions!"--he paused and stretched forth his hand,
as though a vision of the future dawned upon him.
"Did Mr. Burney--poor friend!--know that you were a--shoemaker?" Once
more Herman shaded his eyes with his hand, and regarded the young man
with a pleasant smile.
"He did not," answered Dermoyne. "I became acquainted with him,--it
matters not how,--and visited his house, where, more than once, I have
conversed with his daughter Alice. No, Mr. Burney did me wrong; for
while I was a shoemaker, he persisted, (in ignorance of my character,)
in thinking me--_a gentleman_! A _gentleman_--an idle vagabond, whose
gentility is supported by the labor of honest men.--Faugh!"
"Well, I must confess," Herman said with a wave of the hand and a
patronizing tone, "that from your manner, gestures, accent, et cetera,
I have always taken you for an educated gentleman. But your principles
are decidedly ungenteel,--allow me the remark."
Herman began to feel much more at ease. "He does not dream I have any
share in the abduction of Alice!" This thought was comfort and repose
to his mind.
But Arthur Dermoyne changed the tone of this pleasant dream by a single
question: "Do _you_,--" he fixed his eyes sternly upon the young
minister: "Do YOU know anything of the retreat of Alice Burney?"
"Do I know anything of the retreat--of--Alice--Burney!" he echoed:
"What a question to ask a man of my cloth!"
Dermoyne placed his hand within the breast of his coat, and drew forth
ten gold pieces, which he held in the light, in the palm of his hand.
"Every coin gained by days and nights of work--hard work," he said.
"It has taken me three years to save that sum. When I thought of Alice
as a wife, this little hoard, (such was my fancy,) might enable me to
furnish a good home. Do you understand me, sir? You who receive five
thousand dollars per year for preaching the gospel of your church, can
you comprehend how precious is this fortune of one hundred dollars, to
a poor workman, who earns his bread by sitting in a cramped position,
fourteen hours a day, making shoes?"
"Well, what have I to do with this money?"
"You comprehend that these ten gold pieces are as much to me, as a
ten hundred would be to you? These gold pieces will buy books which I
earnestly desire; they will help me to relieve a brother workman who
happens to be poorer than myself; they will help me to go to the far
west, where there is land and home for all. Well, this fortune, I have
dedicated to one purpose: To support me, here in New York, on bread and
water, until I can discover the hiding-place of Alice Burney, and meet
her seducer face to face. How long do you think my gold will furnish me
with bread, while I devote day and night to this purpose?"
The iron resolution of the young man's face, made the clergyman feel
afraid.
"You will remark," he exclaimed, stretching himself in his chair,
and contemplating the whiteness of his nails, "that a witness of our
conversation might infer, from the tenor of your discourse, that you
have an idea--an idea--" he hesitated, "that I have something to do
with the abduction of this young lady. Doubtless you do not mean to
convey this impression, and therefore I will thank you to correct the
tone of your remarks."
Herman was quite lordly.
"Then you know nothing of the retreat of Alice Burney?"
"The question is an insult--"
"Nothing of her seducer?"
"I repeat it; the question is an insult," and Herman started up in his
chair, with flashing eyes and corrugated brow.
"Will you swear that you are ignorant of her retreat, and of the name
of her seducer?" coolly continued Dermoyne.
"Men of my cloth do not swear," as coolly returned Herman.
"Allow me to congratulate you upon your ignorance," replied Dermoyne,
"for--for;--will you have the goodness to observe me for a moment?"
While Herman watched him with a wondering eye, the young man replaced
the gold pieces in his pocket, and rising from his chair, surveyed the
room with an attentive gaze. His eye rested at length upon an iron
candlestick, which stood upon a shelf of the library; it was evidently
out of place in that luxurious room; and had been left there through
the forgetfulness of the servant who took care of the Rev. Dr. Bulgin's
study. Dermoyne took this candlestick from the shelf, and then returned
to the light.
"Do you see this? It is about six inches long and one inch in diameter.
Would it not take a strong man to break that in twain with both hands?"
Herman took the candlestick; examined it attentively: "It would take a
Sampson," he said.
"Now look at my hand." Dermoyne extended a hand which, hardened by
labor in the palm, was not so large as it was muscular and bony.
"What have I to do with your hand?" exclaimed Herman, in evident
disgust.
"Watch me," said Dermoyne; and, resting the candlestick on his right
hand, he closed his fingers, and pressed his thumb against it. After an
instant he opened his hand again. The iron candlestick was bent nearly
double. Dermoyne had accomplished this feat without the appearance of
exertion.
"Why, you are a very Hercules!" ejaculated Herman,--"and yet, you are
not above the medium height. You do not look like a strong man."
"God has invested me with almost superhuman strength," replied
Dermoyne, as he stood erect before the minister, resting one hand upon
the table: "had it not been for that, hard work would have killed me
long ago. I can lift with one hand, a weight, which would task the
strength of almost any two men but to budge; I can strike a blow,
which, properly planted, would fell an ox; I can--"
"You needn't dilate," interrupted Herman, "the study of the Rev. Dr.
Bulgin is not exactly the place for gymnastic experiments--"
"Well, you'll see my drift directly," calmly continued Dermoyne--"I
have never dared to use this strength, save in the way of work or
occasional exercise. I regard it as a kind of trust, given to me by
Providence for a good purpose."
"What purpose, pray?" said Herman, opening his eyes.
"To punish those criminals whom the law does not punish; to protect
those victims it does not protect," answered Dermoyne, steadily. "Now,
for instance, were I to encounter the seducer of Alice Burney,--were
I to stand face to face with him, as I do with you,--were I to
place my thumb upon his right temple and my fingers upon his left
temple,--thus--"
"You,--you,--" gasped the minister, who suddenly felt the hand of
Arthur Dermoyne upon his forehead; the thumb pressed gently upon the
right temple and the fingers upon his left--"you,--would,--what?"
"I would, quietly, without a word, crush his skull as you might crush
an egg-shell," slowly answered Dermoyne.
He took his hand away. The face of Herman was white as a sheet. He
shook in his velvet chair. For a moment he could not speak.
"I, therefore, congratulate you, that you know nothing of the matter,"
calmly continued Dermoyne, not seeming to notice the fright of the
minister; "for, with a villain like this unknown seducer before me, I
would lose all control over myself, and (ere I was aware of it) I would
have wiped him out of existence. This would be murder, you are about
to remark! So it would. But, is not this seducer a murderer in a three
fold sense? First, he has murdered the chastity of this poor girl; and
second, in the attempt to get rid of the proof of his guilt, he _may_
(who knows?) murder her body and the body of her unborn child."
The room was still as the grave, as Dermoyne concluded the last
sentence.
Barnhurst sank back in the chair, helpless as a child. For a moment his
self-possession deserted him. His guilt was stamped upon his face.
"Here you can count three murders," continued Dermoyne, not seeming
to notice the dismay of the minister,--"the murder of a woman's
purity,--the murder of her body--the murder of her babe. Now, I don't
pretend to say, that it would be RIGHT for me to kill the three fold
murderer, but I do say, that, were I to meet him, and _know_ his guilt,
that my blood would boil,--my eyes would grow dim,--my hand would be
extended, and in an instant, would hold his mangled skull, between the
thumb and fingers."
Herman's arms dropped helplessly by his side. He was extended in the
capacious chair, a vivid picture of helpless fright.
Dermoyne, whose broad chest and bold features, caught on one side the
glow of the light, as he stood erect by the table, gazed upon the
minister with a calm look, and continued--
"So, you see, I congratulate you, that you know nothing of the matter--"
"Oh, I am shocked, shocked," and Herman made out to cover his face with
his hands, "I am shocked, at the vivid, viv-id," he stammered,--"vivid
picture which you have drawn of the crimes of this seducer."
Dermoyne sank quietly into the chair on the opposite side of the table,
and shaded his eyes with his right hand. He also was _thinking_.
For a long pause, there was profound stillness. The lamp on the table
shed its luxurious light over the vast room, peopled as it was, with
images of wealth, ease and voluptuousness, and upon the figures of
these men, seated opposite to each other, and each with his eyes shaded
by his hand.
At length, Herman recovering a portion of his self-possession,
exclaimed without raising his hands from his face:
"I trust you will end this interview at once. You have given my nerves
a severe shock. To-morrow,--to-morrow,--I will talk to you about the
Van Huyden estate, about which, I presume, you asked this interview."
Dermoyne raised his hand to his forehead,--somewhat after the manner
of Herman,--and surveyed the clergyman with a keen, searching gaze.
Gradually a smile, so faint as to be scarcely perceptible, stole over
his features.
Herman felt the force of that gaze and his smooth complexion turned
from deathly white to scarlet, and from scarlet to deathly white again.
"What next?" he muttered to himself, "does _he_ know? Had I better call
for assistance?"
Dermoyne, quietly left his seat, and advancing until he confronted
Herman, placed a small piece of paper on the table, and held it firmly
under his thumb, so that the words written upon it, were legible in the
lamp-light.
"Read that," he said, and his flashing eye was fixed on Barnhurst's
face.
Half wondering, half stupefied, Barnhurst bent forward and read:--
_Dec_. 24, 1844.
MADAM:--Your _patient_ will come to-night.
HERMAN BARNHURST.
As he read, Herman looked like a man who has received his
death-warrant. The very effort,--and it was a mortal one,--which
he made to control himself, only gave a stronger agitation to his
quivering lineaments.
"Can you tell where I found this?" whispered Dermoyne. "Near the
mangled body of the father of Alice,--at sunset, but a few hours ago,
and at the house half-way between New York and Philadelphia,--there
among the ashes, and half consumed by fire, I discovered this precious
document. Did you drop this paper from your pocket, my friend, when you
sought shelter in the house, after the accident on the railroad, last
night?"
Herman had not the power to reply. His eyes were riveted by the
half-burned fragment.
"What has the Rev. Herman Barnhurst, the clergyman, to do with MADAM
RESIMER, _the murderess of unborn children_?" continued Dermoyne; "and
the _patient_,--who is the _patient_? Is it Alice? This letter is dated
the 24th, and to-morrow night, Alice will cross the threshold of that
hell, where THE MADAM rules, as the presiding Devil!"
A gleam of hope shot across Herman's soul. "He does not know, that
Alice is already in the care of Madam Resimer. Courage,--courage!"
"Have you no answer?" Dermoyne's eye gleamed with deadly light; still
holding the paper, he advanced a step nearer to the clergyman.
"Yes, I have an answer!" exclaimed Herman, sinking back in the chair:
"that letter is a forgery."
Dermoyne was astonished.
"You never wrote it?"
"Never,--never!" Herman raised his hands to Heaven,--"it is the work of
some mortal enemy. Beside, were I guilty, is it reasonable to suppose,
that I, a clergyman, would sign my own name to a letter addressed to
Madam Resimer?"
Dermoyne was puzzled; he glanced from the letter to Barnhurst's face,
and a look of doubt clouded his features.
"A forgery?" he asked.
"An infamous forgery!" cried Barnhurst, resuming his dignity. "Now,
that you have wrung my very soul, by an accusation so utterly infamous,
so thoroughly improbable, let me hope that you will--" he pointed to
the door.
Dermoyne resumed his cap and cloak, first, carefully replacing the
letter in his vest pocket.
"By to-morrow," he said, in a voice which rang low and distinct
through the apartment, "by to-morrow, I will know the truth of this
matter; and if I discover that this is, indeed, your letter,--if you
have, indeed, dishonored poor Alice, and consigned herself and unborn
babe, to the infernal mercies of Madam Resimer, why then,"--he moved
toward the door, "then there will be one man the less, on the 25th of
December."
He opened the door, and was gone ere his words had ceased to echo on
the air.
His parting words rung in the very soul of the clergymen, as his
footsteps died away on the stairs.
"What an abyss have I escaped!" ejaculated Herman, "exposure, disgrace
and death!" He pressed his scented kerchief over his forehead, and
wiped away the cold sweat which moistened it. "Fool! he little knows
that Alice is already _there_. The Madam is a shrewd woman. Her rooms
are dark, her doors secured by double bolts; her secrets are given to
the keeping of the grave. This miserable idiot, this cobbler, cannot
possibly gain admittance into her mansion? No, no, this thought is
idle. And Alice, poor child, why can't I marry her? Her father's death
will leave her in possession of a handsome fortune,--why can't I marry
her?"
Too well he knew the _only_ answer to this question.
"We are all but mortal; she may _die_!" and an expression of remarkable
complacency came over his face. Joining his thumbs and fingers in front
of his breast, he reflected deeply. "But if she survives?"
His brow became clouded, his lips compressed; all the _vulture_ of his
soul was written on his vulture-like countenance.
"If she survives!"
While the light disclosed his slender figure, centered in the scarlet
cushions of the arm-chair, and fell upon his countenance, revealing the
purpose which was written there, Herman still muttered between his set
teeth, the question, "IF she survives?" To him, it was a question of
life and death.
But his meditations were interrupted by a burst of boisterous laughter.
"Why Barnhurst! you are grave as an owl. What's the matter, my dear?"
Herman looked up with a start, and a half-muttered ejaculation. The
Rev. Dr. Bulgin stood before him, his cloak on his arm, and a cap in
his hand.
"I thought you was out of town?" cried Herman.
"So I was; a convention of divines, speeches, resolutions, and so
forth, you know. But now I'm in town, and,--such an adventure, my dear
boy! I must tell you of it."
Before Bulgin tells his adventure, we must look at him. A man of
thirty-five years, with broad shoulders, heavy chest and unwieldy
limbs; a portly man, some would call him, dressed in black, of
course, and with a white cravat about his neck, which was short and
fat. Draggled masses of brownish hair stray, in uneven ends, about
Bulgin's face and ears; that face is round and shiny,--its hue, a
greasy florid,--its brow, broad and low; its eyes large, moist and
oyster-like. In a word, the upper part of Bulgin's head indicates the
man of intellect; the face, the eyes, mouth, nose and all, tell the
story of a nature thoroughly animal,--bestial, would be a truer word.
That head and face were but too true in their indications.
Bulgin was, in intellect, something of a god; in real life; in the
gratification of appetite; in habits, strengthened by the growth
of years, he was a beast. It may seem a harsh word, but it is the
only one that suits Bulgin's case. He was a beast. Not a quiet ox,
cropping clover at his ease, nor yet a lordly bull, madly tossing his
horns in the center of a grassy field,--of course, we mean nothing of
the kind,--but a beast on two legs, gifted with a strong intellect
and an immortal soul, and devoting intellect and soul to the full
gratification of his beastly nature. He was, withal, a good-humored
beast. He enjoyed a joke. His laugh was jovial; reminding you of
goblets of wine and suppers of terrapin. His manner was off-hand,
free and easy--out of the pulpit, of course; in the pulpit, no one so
demure, so zealous and pathetic as the Rev. Dr. Bulgin.
He regarded his ministerial office as a piece of convenient clock-work,
invented some years ago, for the purpose of supplying the masses with
_something to believe_; and men like himself, with a good salary, a
fine house, plenty to eat and drink, fair social position, and free
opportunity for the gratification of every appetite.
His creed was a part of this clock-work. It was his living. Therefore,
everything that he wrote or uttered, in regard to religion, was true
to his creed; true, eloquent, and breathing the loftiest enthusiasm.
To doubt his creed, was to doubt his living. Therefore, the Rev.
Dr. Bulgin did not doubt his creed, but took it as he found it, and
advocated it with all the energy of his intellectual nature.
As to any possible appreciation of the Bible, or of that Savior who,
emerging from the shop of a carpenter, came to speak words of hope
to all mankind, and, in especial, to that portion who bear all the
slavery, and do all the work of the world, the Rev. Dr. Bulgin never
troubled himself with thoughts like these; he was above and beyond
them; the Bible and the Savior were, in his estimation, convenient
parts of that convenient clock-work which afforded him the pleasant sum
of five thousand dollars per year.
To look at the Rev. Dr. Bulgin; to see him stand there, with his
sensual form and swinish face, you would not think that he was the
author of one of the most spiritual works in the world, entitled "Our
Communion with the Spirit."
To _know_ the Rev. Dr. Bulgin,--to know him when, his stage drapery
laid aside, he appeared the thing he was,--you could, by no means,
imagine that he was the author of an excellent work on "Private Prayer."
And yet he was no hypocrite; not, at least, in the common sense of the
word. He was an intellectual animal whose utmost hopes were bounded
by the horizon of this world. Beyond this world there was NOTHING. He
was an Atheist. Not an Atheist publishing a paper advocating Atheistic
principles, but an Atheist in the pulpit, professing to preach the
Gospel of Jesus Christ. You may shudder at the thought, but the
Reverend Doctor Bulgin was such a man.
And just such men, in churches of all kinds,--Protestants and
Catholics, Orthodox and Heterodox,--have these eighteen hundred years
been preaching a clock-work Gospel, leaving unsaid, uncared for, the
true Word of the Master--a Word which says, in one breath, temporal
and spiritual prayers--a Word which enjoins the establishment of the
kingdom of God, _on earth_, in the physical and intellectual welfare of
the greatest portion of mankind.
Too well these Atheists know that were that Word once boldly uttered,
their high pulpits and magnificent livings would vanish like cobwebs
before the sweeper's broom.
How much evil have such Atheists accomplished in the course of eighteen
hundred years?
It will do no harm to think upon this subject, just a little.
"Herman, my boy, I must tell you of my last adventure," said Bulgin,
dropping into the seat which Dermoyne had lately occupied; "it will
make your mouth water!" He smacked his lips and clapped his hands; the
lips were _oily_, and the hands fat and dumpy. "But, first, you must
tell me what's the matter with you? Anything wrong in your church?"
"That doesn't trouble me," responded Herman. "True, there is the trial
of the Bishop, and the wrangling of these Low Church fellows, about our
gowns and altars; our views of the sacrament, and our high notions of
the priesthood. These Low Church people are actually _Methodists_. They
would rob the church of all dignity, and turn the priest of the altar
into the ranter of the conventicle,--"
"We are not troubled with bishops, nor apostolic successions,"
interrupted Bulgin: "High and Low Church don't trouble us.--Our
deacons want a minister; they _call_ him and _pay_ him. Now, if our
church admitted of a bishop, I think that--" he put his thumbs in
the arm-holes of his vest, and surveyed his heavy limbs with great
complacency, "that your humble servant would make a--"
"Bishop?" cried Herman, with a laugh.
"Ay, and a capital bishop, too, if all be true that these Low Church
fellows say of the Bishop of your church. I am a man of _feeling_, eh,
my boy?"
This was a home thrust. Notwithstanding his intimacy with Bulgin,
Herman did not regard him as a _real_ priest of _the_ church, but
only as the called teacher of a congregation. Therefore, he felt the
allusion to his bishop the more heavily.
"You were speaking of an adventure?" suggested Herman, anxious to
change the subject: "What about it?"
Bulgin flung back his head, and burst into a roar of laughter.
"I'm laughing at my adventure, not at you, my dear Herman. Just imagine
my case. I have a patient on my hands, who is rich, crippled with a
dozen diseases, and troubled in his mind on some _doctrinal_ point. In
the morning I visit the old gentleman, and after hearing afresh the
list of his diseases, I _soothe_ him on the doctrinal point.--Soothe
him, and quote the Fathers, and fire him up with a word or two about
the Pope. And in the afternoon--" he closed one eye, and looked at
Herman in such a manner, that the latter could not avoid a burst of
laughter, "in the afternoon, while the old man is asleep, I visit his
wife,--young and handsome, and such a love of a woman--and soothe her
mind on another doctrinal point. Sometimes my lessons are prolonged
until evening, and--ha, ha!--I have my hands full, I assure you."
"You called there to-night, on your way home?" asked Herman, with a
smile.
"Just to see if the old gentleman was better, and,--but wait a moment,"
he rose from his chair, and hurried into the shadows of the room,
turned one of the recesses, between the western windows. There he
remained, until Herman grew impatient.
"What are you doing," he exclaimed, and as he spoke, Bulgin returned
toward the light, "what is this!" and his eyes opened with a wondering
stare.
"I'm a cardinal; that is all. The dress of Leo the Tenth, before he
became Pope. Don't you think I _look_ the character?"
He was attired in a robe of scarlet velvet, which covered his unwieldy
form from the neck to the feet, and enveloped his arms in its
voluminous sleeves. His florid face appeared beneath the broad rim of
a red hat, and upon his broad chest hung a golden chain, to which was
appended a huge golden cross. The costume was of the richest texture,
and gave something of a lordly appearance to the bulky form of the
reverend doctor.
"I'm a cardinal," said Bulgin with a wink; "There is a nice party of
us, who meet to-night, between twelve and one, to confer upon _grave_
matters. Every one wears a mask and costume. Will you go with me? There
is the robe of a Jesuit yonder, which will fit you to a hair."
Herman's eyes flashed, and he started from his chair.
"The wife of your old _patient_,"--he began.
"Goes as the cardinal's niece, you know! we didn't know the costume
of a cardinal's niece, and so I told her to wear a dress-coat and
pantaloons. Will you go?"
Herman's face glowed with the full force of his MONOMANIA.
"For wine and feasting, I care not," he cried, "but a scene where
beautiful women--" he paused, and fixed his eyes on vacancy, while that
singular monomania shone from his humid eyes, and fired his cheeks with
a vivid glow. "Where are we to go?" he asked.
"To the TEMPLE," said the Rev. Dr. Bulgin, with his finger on his
light: "You remember the night when we were there?"
"Remember?" echoed the Rev. Herman Barnhurst, with an accent of
inexpressible rapture: "Can I ever forget?" He strode hastily toward
the recess. "Where is the Jesuit robe?"
But as he touched the curtain of the recess, he was palsied by a sudden
thought.
"Ah, this cobbler, this Dermoyne! He will go to Madame Resimer's with
my note in his hand, and pretend to come in my name. He will, at least,
induce her to open the doors, and then force his way into her house. If
he enters there, I am lost."
Turning to Bulgin, he flung his cloak around him, and took up his cap.
"No, sir, I cannot go with you. Excuse me--I am in a great hurry."
He hurried to the door, and disappeared ere Bulgin could answer him
with a word.
"Dermoyne has a half an hour's start of me," muttered Herman, as he
disappeared, "I must be quick, or I am lost."
"That is cool!" soliloquized Bulgin: "some difficulty about a woman, I
suppose: our young friend must be cautious: _exposure_ in these matters
is fatal."
Without bestowing another word upon his friend, the Rev. Dr. Bulgin,
attired in the cardinal's hat and robe, sank in the arm-chair, and put
his feet upon the table, and flung back his head, thus presenting one
of the finest pictures of ecclesiastical ease, that ever gratified the
eyes of mortal man.
He suffered himself to be seduced into the mazes of an enchanting
reverie:
"Ah, that's my ideal of a man," he suffered his eye to rest upon the
head of Leo the Tenth: "Without a particle of religion to trouble him,
he took care of the spiritual destinies of the world, and at the same
time enjoyed his palace, where the wine was of the choicest, and the
women of the youngest and most beautiful. He _was_ a gentleman. While
poor Martin Luther was giving himself a great deal of trouble about
this worthless world, Leo had a world of his own, within the Vatican, a
world of wit, of wine and beauty. That's my ideal of an ecclesiastic.
Religion, its machinery, and its terrors for the masses,--for
ourselves," he glanced around his splendid room, "something like
_this_, and five thousand a year."
And the good man shook with laughter.
"I must be going,"--he rose to his feet--"It's after twelve now, and
before one, I must be at THE TEMPLE."
* * * * *
And while Barnhurst, Bulgin and Dermoyne go forth on their respective
ways, let us--although the TEMPLE is very near--gaze upon a scene, by
no means lighted by festal lamps, or perfumed with voluptuous flowers.
Let us descend into the subterranean world, sunken somewhere in the
vicinity of Five Points and the Tombs.
CHAPTER XIV.
BELOW FIVE POINTS.
It is now the hour of twelve, midnight, on the 23d of December, 1844.
We are in the region of the Five Points, near the Tombs, whose sullen
walls look still more ominous and gloomy in the wintery starlight.
Enter the narrow door of the frame-house, which seems toppling to
the ground. You hear the sound of the violin, and by the light of
tallow candles, inserted in tin sconces which are affixed to the
blackened walls, you discover some twenty persons, black, white and
chocolate-colored, of all ages and both sexes, dancing and drinking
together. It is an orgie--an orgie of crime, drunkenness and rags.
Pass into the next room. By a single light, placed on a table, you
discover the features of three or four gamblers,--not gamblers of the
gentlemanly stamp, who, in luxurious chambers, prolong the game of
"poker" all night long, until the morning breaks, or the champagne
gives out,--but gamblers of a lower stamp, ill-dressed fellows, whose
highest stake is a shilling, and whose favorite beverage is whisky, and
whisky that is only whisky in name, while in fact, it is poison of the
vilest sort--whisky classically called "red-eye."
Open a scarcely distinguishable door, at the back of the ruffian who
sits at the head of the table. Descend a narrow stairway, or rather
ladder, which lands you in the darkness, some twenty feet below the
level of the street. Then, in the darkness, feel your way along the
passage which turns to the right and left, and from left to right
again, until your senses are utterly bewildered. At length, after
groping your way in the darkness, over an uneven floor, and between
narrow walls; after groping your way you know not how far, you descend
a second ladder, ten feet or more, and find yourself confronted by a
door. You are at least two stories under ground, and all is dark around
you--the sound of voices strikes your ear; but do not be afraid. Find
the latch of the door and push it open. A strange scene confronts you.
The Black Senate!
A room or cell, some twenty feet square, is warmed by a small coal
stove, which, heated to a red heat, stands in the center, its pipe
inserted in the low ceiling, and leading you know not where. Around the
stove, by the light of three tallow candles placed upon a packing-box,
are grouped some twenty or thirty persons, who listen attentively to
the words of the gentleman who is seated by the packing-box.
This gentleman is almost a giant; his chest is broad; his limbs brawny;
and his face, black as the "ace of spades," is in strong contrast with
his white teeth, white eyeballs, white eyebrows, and white wool. He
is a negro, with flat nose, thick lips, and mouth reaching from ear to
ear. His almost giant frame is clad in a sleek suit of blue cloth, and
he wears a cravat of spotless whiteness.
His auditors are not so fortunate in the way of dress. Of all colors,
from jet black to chocolate-brown, they are clad in all sorts of
costumes, only alike in raggedness and squalor.
This is the Black Senate, which has met for business to-night, in
this den, two stories under ground. Its deliberations, in point of
decorum, may well compare with some other senates,--one in especial,
where 'Liar!' is occasionally called, fisticuffs exchanged, knives
and pistols drawn; and it embraces representatives from all parts
of the Union. Whether, like another senate, it has its dramatic
characters,--its low clown, melodramatic ruffians, genteel comedian,
and high tragedy hero, remains to be seen.
The very black gentleman, by the packing-box--book in one hand and
paper and pencil before him--is the speaker of the house. It is our old
acquaintance "ROYAL BILL," lately from South Carolina.
"The genelman frum Varginny hab de floor," said the speaker, with true
parliamentary politeness.
The gentleman from Virginia was a six-foot mulatto, dressed in a
ragged coat and trowsers of iron gray. As he rose there was an
evident sensation; white teeth were shown, and "Go in nigga!" uttered
encouragingly by more than one of the colored congressmen.
"Dis nigga rise to de point ob ordah. Dis nigga am taught a great many
tings by philosopy. One day, in de 'baccy field, dis nigga says to
hisself, says he. 'Dat are pig b'longs to massa, so does dis nigga. Dis
nigga kill dat pig un eat 'um--dat be stealin'? Lordy Moses--no! It
only be puttin' one ting dat b'longs to massa into anoder ting dat also
b'longs to massa:'--dat's philosopy--"
"S'pose de nigga be caught?" interrupted a colored gentleman, lighting
his pipe at the red-hot stove.
"_Dat_ wouldn't be philosopy," responded the gentleman from Virginia.
"It ain't philosopy to be caught. On de contrary it am dam foolishness."
A murmur of assent pervaded the place.
"Soh, reasonin' from de pig, dis nigga wor taught by philosopy to tink
a great deal--to tink berry much;--and soh, one day de nigga got a kind
o' absen' minded, and walked off, and _forgot to come back_.--Dis nigga
actooaly did."
"Dat _wor_ philosopy!" said a voice.
"An' as de nigga is in bad health, he am on his way to Canada, whar
de climate am good for nigga's pulmonaries. An' fur fear de nigga
mought hurt people's feelin', he trabels by night; an' fur fear he
mought be axed questi'n which 'ud trubble him to ansaw, he carries dese
sartificats--"
He showed his certificates--a revolving pistol and a knife. And each
one of the colored congressmen produced certificates of a similar
character from their rags.
"Lor', philosopy am a dam good ting!"
"Don't sweah, nigga!--behabe yesself!"
"Read us nudder won ob dem good chap'er from de Bible, Mistaw Speakaw,"
cried a dark gentleman, addressing old Royal.-"'_Ehud, I hab a message
from God to dee!_' Yah-hah-hah!"
"Yah-hah-a-what!" chorused the majority of the congress, showing their
teeth and shaking their woolly heads together.
"Jis tell us som'thin' more about yer ole massa, dat you lick last
night," cried a voice.
"Dat am an ole story," said old Royal, with dignity. "Suffis it to say,
dat about five o'clock last ebenin', I took massa Harry from de house
whar he'd been licked, de night afore, and tuk him in a carriage and
put 'im aboard de cars at Princeton. I gib him some brandy likewise.
His back was berry sore--"
Here one of the gentlemen broke in with a parody of a well-known song--
"Oh, carry me back to ole Varginny--
My back am berry sore--"
He began, in rich Ethiopian bass.
"Silence nigga!" said old Royal, sternly, yet, showing his white teeth
in a broad grin. "He am in New York at the present time, at de Astor
House, I 'spec'; an' de Bloodhoun' am with him--"
"De kidnapper!"
"De nigger-catcher!"
Cries like these resounded from twenty throats; and by the way in which
knives and pistols were produced and brandished, it was evident that
there was a cordial feeling--almost too cordial--entertained by the
congress, toward our old friend, Bloodhound.
"To business," said old Royal, surveying the motley crowd. "I hab come
to visit you to-night by d'rection ob _somebody dat you don't know_. It
am ob de last importance dat you all get yesselves out o' dis town to
Canada as quick as de Lord 'ill let you. Darfore I hab provided you wid
dem revolvers,"--he pointed to the pistols, "and derfore I am here, to
send you on yer ways, for de kidnappers am about."
"Oh, dam de kidnappers!" was the emphatic remark of a dark gentleman;
and it was chorused by the congress unanimously.
"It am berry easy to say 'dam de kidnappers,'--berry easy to say
dam--dam's a berry short word; but s'pose de kidnapper hab you, and tie
you, and take you down south--eh, nigga? w'at den?"
But before the gentlemen could reply to this pointed question of old
Royal's, a circumstance took place which put an entire new face upon
the state of affairs.
The door was burst open, and two persons tumbled into the room, heels
over head. Descending the stairs in the darkness, these persons had
missed their footing, and fell. The door gave way before their united
weight, and they rolled into the room in a style more forcible than
graceful.
When these persons recovered themselves and rose to their feet, they
found themselves encircled by some thirty uplifted knives,--every knife
grasped by the hand of a brawny negro. And the cry which greeted them
was by no means pleasant to hear:--
"Death to the kidnappers!"
"We're fooled. It's a trap," cried one of the persons--our old friend
Bloodhound.
"Trap or no trap, I'll cut the heart of the damned nigger that comes
near me," cried the other person, who was none other than our friend
Harry Royalton, of Hill Royal, South Carolina.
The cloak had fallen from his shoulders, the cap from his brow. He
stood erect, his tall form clad in black, with a gold chain on the
breast, dilating in every muscle. His face, with its large eyes and
bushy whiskers--a face by no means unhandsome, as regards mere _animal_
beauty--was convulsed with rage. And even as he started to his feet, he
drew a revolver from his belt, and stood at bay, the very picture of
ferocity and desperation. While his right hand grasped the revolver,
his left hand flourished a bowie-knife. Harry Royalton was dangerous.
By his side was the short, stout figure of the Bloodhound, encased
to his chin in a rough overcoat, and, with his stiff, gray hairs
straggling from beneath his seal-skin cap over his prominent
cheek-bones. His small gray eyes, twinkling under his bushy brows,
glanced around with a look half desperation, half fear.
And around the twain crowded the negroes, every hand grasping a knife;
every face distorted with hatred; and old Royal, in his sleek blue
dress and white cravat, prominent in that group of black visages and
ragged forms.
"They've got us! Judas Iscar-i-ot! It's a trap, my boy. We'll have to
cut ourselves loose."
"Back, you dogs!" shouted Harry, with the attitude and look of command.
"The first one that lays a finger on me I'll blow him to ----!"
There was a pause of a moment, ere the conflict began. Thirty uplifted
knives, awaited only a look, a gesture, from old Royal.
That gentleman, grinning until his white teeth were visible almost from
ear to ear, said calmly--"Dis am a revivin' time, wid showers of grace!
Some nigga shut dat door and make 'um fast."
His words were instantly obeyed; one of the thirty closed the door and
bolted it.
"Now, massa Harry," said old Royal, grinning and showing the whites
of his eyes, "dis am a fav'oble opportunity fur savin' your poor lost
soul. How you back feel, ole boy? Want a leetle more o' de same sort,
p'raps? S'pose you draw dat trigger? Jis try. Lor a massa, why dere's
enough niggas here to eat you up widout pepper or salt."
Harry laid his finger on the trigger and fired, at the same moment
stepping suddenly backward, with the intention of planting himself
against the wall. But he forgot the negroes behind him. As he fired,
his heels were tripped up; his ball passed over old Royal's head. Harry
was leveled to the floor, and in an instant old Royal's giant-like
gripe was on his throat. And by his side, wriggling in the grasp
of a huge negro, black as ink, and strong as Hercules, our friend
Bloodhound, rubbed his face against the floor.
Over and around these central figures gathered the remainder of the
band, filling the den with their shouts--
"Death to the dam kidnappers!"
"Yah-hah! Cut their dam throats!"
Cries like these, interspersed with frightful howls, filled the place.
The Bloodhound moaned pitifully; and Harry, with the suffocating gripe
of old Royal on his throat, and his back yet raw from the lashes of the
previous night, could not repress a groan of agony.
It was a critical moment.
"Do you know, massa Harry,"--and old Royal bent his face down until
Harry felt his breath upon his cheek--"Do you know, massa Harry, dat
you are not berry far from glory? Kingdom-come am right afore, ole
boy--and you am booked--hah! yah!--wid a through ticket."
Old Royal, (who had laid down his pistol,) took a knife from one of the
negroes, and, tightening his gripe and pressing his knee more firmly on
Harry's breast, he passed the glittering blade before his eyes.
"Oh!" groaned Royalton. The groan was wrung from him by intolerable
agony.
"Let me up--a-h!" cried Bloodhound, in a smothered voice, as his face
was pressed against the hard boards.
"Death to the dam kidnappers!"
Old Royalton clenched the knife with his left hand, and placed its
point against Harry's breast.
"You am bound for glory, massa--" and a negro held a candle over
Harry's face, as old Royal spoke.
At this critical moment, even as Harry's life hung on a thread, a
violent knocking was heard at the door, and a voice resounded through
its panels--
"Old Royal, old Royal, I say! Let me in, quick! quick!"
"Open the door, nigga. It's massa Harry's brack brudder. Let um in, so
he can see his brudder bound for glory!"
The door was opened, and Randolph, pale as death, came rushing to the
light. Wrapped in the cloak, which concealed his pistols and knives,
and which hung about his tall form in heavy folds, he advanced with a
footstep at once trembling and eager.
His pale face was stamped with hatred; his blue eyes shone with
vengeance, as he at a glance beheld the pitiful condition of his
brother.
"Soh, brother of mine, we have met again!" he cried, in a voice which
was hoarse and deep with the thirst of vengeance.
"Why, he's whitaw dan his white brudder!" cried the negro who held the
light.
"Release him," cried Randolph--"Release him, I say! Tie that fellow
there;" he touched Bloodhound with his foot; "close the door. You'll
see a fight worth seeing; a fight between the master and slave, between
brother and brother. Do you hear me, Royal? Let him get up,--"
"But massa 'Dolph!" hesitated old Royal.
"Up, I say!" and Randolph flung his cap and cloak to the floor, and
drew two bowie-knives from his belt. "Up, I say! You have heard my
history from old Royal?" he glanced around among the negroes.
"Yah-hah! an' ob de lashes dat you gib dis dam kidnapper!" said the
negro who held the candle.
"Then stand by and see us settle our last account," cried Randolph.
"Let him get up, old Royal."
Old Royal released his hold, and Harry slowly arose to his feet, and
stood face to face with his brother.
"Good evening, brother," said Randolph. "We have met again, and for the
last time. One of us will not leave this place alive. Take your choice
of knives, brother. I will fight you with my left hand; I swear it by
my mother's name!"
Harry looked around with a confused glance--
"It is easy for you to talk," he said, brushing his hand over his
forehead and eyes, as if in effort to collect his scattered senses.
"Even if I kill you, these niggers will kill me. They will not let me
leave the door alive, even if I master you."
"Old Royal, you know my history; and you know how this man has treated
me and my sister--his own flesh and blood. Now swear to me, that in
case he is the victor in the contest that is about to take place, you
will let him go from this place free and unharmed?"
"I--I--swear it massa 'Dolph; I swear it by de Lord!"
"And you?" Randolph turned to the negroes.
"We does jist as old Royal says," cried the one who held the candle;
and the rest muttered their assent.
"Take your choice of knives, brother," said Randolph, as his eyes
shone with deadly light, and his face, already pale, grew perfectly
colorless: "The handles are toward you; take your choice. Remember I am
to fight you with my left hand. You are weak, brother, from the wounds
on your back. With my left hand I will fight and kill you."
Harry Royalton took one of the knives--they were ivory handled, silver
mounted, and their blades were long, sharp and glittering--and at the
same time surveyed his brother from head to foot.
"I can kill him," he thought, and smiled; and then said aloud, "I am
ready."
The negroes formed a circle; old Royal held the light, and the brothers
stood in the center, silently surveying each other, ere the fatal
contest began. Every eye remarked the contrast between their faces.
Harry's face flushed with long-pent-up rage, and Randolph's, pallid as
a corpse, yet with an ominous light in his eyes. Both tall and well
formed; both clad in black, which showed to advantage, their broad
chests and muscular arms; there was, despite the color of their eyes
and hair, some trace of a family likeness in their faces.
"Come, brother, begin," said Randolph, in a low voice, which was
heard distinctly through the profound stillness. "Remember that
I am your slave, and that when I have killed you, I, with sister
Esther, also your slave, will inherit one seventh of the Van Huyden
estate,--remember how you have lashed and hounded us,--remember the
dying words of our father--and then defend yourself: for I must kill
you, brother. Come!"
Raising the knife with his left hand, he drew his form to its full
height, and stood on his defense.
You might have heard a pin drop in that crowded cellar.
"You damned slave!" shouted Harry, and at the same time, rushed
forward, clutching his knife in his right hand. His face was inflamed
with rage, his eye steady, his hand firm, and the point of his knife
was aimed at his brother's heart.
The intention was deadly, but the knife never harmed Randolph's heart.
Even as Harry rushed forward, his knees bent under him, and he fell
flat on his face, and the knife dropped from his nerveless fingers.
Overcome by the violence of his emotions, which whirled all the blood
in his body, in a torrent to his head, he had sunk lifeless on the
floor, even as he sprang forward to plunge his knife into his brother's
heart.
Randolph, who had prepared himself to meet his brother's blow, was
thunderstruck by this unexpected incident.
"De Lord hab touck him," cried old Royal; "he am dead."
Dead! At that word, revenge, vengeance, the memory of his wrongs, and
of his brother's baseness, all glided from Randolph's heart, like snow
before the flame. In vain he tried to combat this sudden change of
feeling. Dead! The word struck him to the soul. He dropped his knife,
and sinking on one knee, he placed upon the other the head of his
lifeless brother. Harry's eyes were closed, as if in death; his lips
hung apart, his face was colorless.
"De Lord hab touck him," again cried old Royal; and his remark was
welcomed by a burst of laughter from the thirty negroes, which broke
upon the breathless stillness, like the yell of so many devils.
"He is not dead: he has only fainted. Water! water!" cried Randolph.
But he cried in vain.
"Dis nigga am not agoin' to gib him one drop to cool him parched
tongue," said old Royal, showing his teeth. "What say, niggas?"
"Not a drop! not a dam drop!"
Reaching forth his hand, Randolph seized his cap and cloak, and then
started to his feet, with the insensible form of Harry in his arms.
Without a word, he moved to the door.
"Massa 'Dolph, massa 'Dolph!" shouted old Royal. "By de Lord, you don't
take him from dis place;" and he endeavored to place himself between
Randolph and the door.
Randolph saw the determination which was written on his face, and saw
the looks and heard the yells of the thirty negroes; and then, without
a word, felled old Royal to the floor. One blow of his right hand,
planted on the negro's breast, struck him down like an ox under the
butcher's ax. When old Royal, mad with rage, rose to his feet again,
Randolph had disappeared--disappeared with his brother, whom he bore in
his arms to upper air.
"Let's after um," shouted the foremost of the negroes.
Old Royal stepped to the door, (which Randolph had closed after him,)
but stopped abruptly on the threshold, as if arrested by a sudden
thought.
"Dis nigga meet you 'gin, massa 'Dolph," he muttered, and then,
pointing to something which was folded up in one corner, he said,
"Dar's game fur you niggas!"
He pointed to the form of poor Bloodhound, who, tied and gagged, lay
helpless and groaning on the floor.
It was, perhaps, the most remarkable hour in Bloodhound's life. His
hands and feet tightly bound, a coarse handkerchief wound over his
mouth, and tied behind his neck, he was deprived of the power of speech
or motion. But the power of vision remained. His small gray eyes
twinkled fearfully, as he beheld the faces of the thirty negroes--faces
that were convulsed with rage, resembling not so much the visages of
men as of devils. And he could also hear. He heard the yell from thirty
throats, a yell which was chorused with certain words, mingling his own
name with an emphatic desire for his blood--his life.
Bloodhound was an old man; his hair was gray with the snows of sixty
years, spent in the practice of all the virtues; but Bloodhound felt
a peculiar sensation gather about his heart, at this most remarkable
moment of his life.
"Bring forrad de pris'ner," said old Royal, resuming his seat by the
packing-box. "Put 'um on him feet. Take de kankercher from him jaw."
He was obeyed. Bloodhound stood erect in the center of the group,
his hands and feet tied, but his tongue free. The light, uplifted in
the hand of a brawny negro, fell fully upon his _corded_ face, with
its gray hair, bushy eyebrows, and wide mouth. Bloodhound's hands
shook,--not with cold, for the place was suffocatingly warm,--and
Bloodhound trembled in every atom of his short thick-set body. Glancing
before him, then to the right and left, and then backward over each
shoulder, he saw black faces everywhere, and black hands grasping sharp
knives, confronted him at every turn.
"You am a berry handsum man," said old Royal, encouragingly. "Jist look
at um, niggas. Do you know de pris'ner?"
The replies to this query came so fast and thick, that we are unable to
put them all upon paper.
"He stole me fader!"
"He took me mother from Fildelfy and sold her down south."
"He kidnapped my little boy."
"Dam kidnapper! he stole my wife!"
"I knows him, I does--he does work for da man dat sells niggas in
Baltimore."
"Don't you know how he tuk de yaller gal away from Fildelfy, making
b'lieve dat her own fader was a-dyin', and sent for her?"
Such were a few of the responses to old Royal's question. It was
evident that Bloodhound was _known_. And, although his hair had grown
gray in the practice of all the virtues, it did not give him much
pleasure to find that he was known; for he felt that he was in the
hands of the wicked.
"Don't hurt me, niggers, don't hurt me! I wasn't after any of you, upon
my word, I wasn't. I've allays been good to the niggers, when I could
get a chance,--don't hurt me!"
"Oh! we won't go fur to hurt massa, will we niggas?" replied old Royal.
"O' cos not. Don't tink of sich a ting!! Yah-hah!"
"You see I've got a child at home," faltered Bloodhound, "that is to
say, two or three of 'em. You wouldn't go to hurt the father of a
family, would you?"
"Does you know massa, dat you mos' make dis nigga cry," cried old
Royal, with an infernal grin. "Niggas, 'scure dis tear! He am de fader
ob a family, dis good man am."
Old Royal wiped away a tear,--that is, an imaginary tear,--and then
surveyed the faces of his colored brethren, with a look that turned
Bloodhound's heart to ice. He felt that he was lost.
"Don't, don't, d-o-n-'-t!" he shrieked, in agony of fear, "d-o-n-'-t!"
"Why, who's a-touchin' you? Dar am not a single, solitary, blessed
soul, layin' a fingaw on you."
As old Royal spoke, he made a sign with the thumb and forefinger
of his right hand. It was obeyed by a huge negro who stood behind
Bloodhound,--he struck the wretched man on the back of the head, with
the stock of a revolver,--struck him with all the force of his brawny
arm,--and the hard, dull sound of the blow, was heard distinctly, even
above the fiendish shouts of the negroes.
"Oh! don't, d-o-n-'-t!" shrieked Bloodhound, as the blood spurted over
his hair and forehead, and even into his eyes; "don't, d-o-n-'-t!"
Another blow.--from behind,--brought him to his knees. And then the
thirty, or as many as could get near him, closed round him, shouting
and yelling and striking. Every face was distorted with rage; every
hand grasped a knife. Old Royal, who calmly surveyed the scene, saw the
backs and faces of the negroes; saw the knives glittering, as they rose
and fell; but Bloodhound was not to be seen. But his cries were heard,
as he madly grappled with the knives which stabbed him,--for his bonds
had been cut by one of the band,--and these cries, thick and husky, as
though his utterance was choked by blood, would have moved a heart of
stone. But every shriek only seemed to give new fire to the rage of
the negroes; and gathering closer round the miserable man, they lifted
their knives, dripping with his blood, and struck and struck and struck
again, until his cries were stilled. As he uttered the last cry, he
sprang madly into light, for a moment, shook his bloody hands above his
head, and then fell to rise no more.
You would not have liked to have seen the miserable thing which was
stretched on the floor, in the center of that horrible circle, a
miserable, mangled, shapeless thing, which, only a moment ago, was a
living man.
"Now genelmen," said old Royal, calmly, "de business bein' done, dis
meetin' stand adjourn till furder ordaw. Niggas, I tink you'd bettaw
cut stick."
PART THIRD.
"THROUGH THE SILENT CITY."
DECEMBER 24, 1844.
CHAPTER I.
THE DEN OF MADAM RESIMER.
Yonder, in the still winter night, THE TEMPLE stands, all dark and
sullen without, but bright with festal lights within. Stand here in
the dark, and you will see the guests of the temple come,--now one
by one,--now two by two,--sometimes in parties of four,--and all are
carefully cloaked and masked. They come noiselessly along the dark
street: they glide stealthily up the steps, and beneath the arch of the
gloomy door. A gentle knock,--the door is slightly opened,--a password
is whispered,--and one by one, and two by two, and sometimes in parties
of four, the guests of THE TEMPLE glide over its threshold, and pass
like shadows from the sight.
Shall we also enter? Not yet. We will wait until the revel is at its
height, and until the masks begin to fall.
Meanwhile, we will follow the adventures of ARTHUR DERMOYNE.
About half-past twelve o'clock, Arthur Dermoyne stood in the street,
in front of the house of MADAM RESIMER. Wrapped in his cloak, and with
his cap drawn over his eyes, he stood in the shadows, and gazed fixedly
upon the mansion opposite. It stood in the midst of a crowded street,
joined with houses on either side, and yet it stood alone. Black and
sullen with its closed shutters and somber exterior, it seemed to bear
upon its face the stamp of the infernal crimes which had been committed
within its walls. Lofty mansions lined the street, but their wealthy
occupants little knew the real character of the woman (woman!--fiend
would be a better name) who tenanted the gloomy house.
With great difficulty,--it matters not how,--Arthur had discovered the
haunt of this murderess. Her name was one of those names which creep
through society like the vague panic which foretells the pestilence;
there were few who did not know that such a person existed, and few
whose hearts did shrink in loathing, from the very mention of her name.
But her haunt, centered in an aristocratic quarter, was comparatively
unknown; only her customers and some of the publishers of newspapers,
with whom she advertised, were aware that the sullen house which stood
in a fashionable street, was the den of MADAM RESIMER.
That such a creature should exist, and grow rich in the city of New
York, in the middle of the nineteenth century, by the pursuit of a
traffic which, in its incredible infamy, has no name in language, may
well excite the horror of every man and woman with a human heart within
their bosom.
We read of the female poisoner, and shudder; but console ourselves with
the thought, "These things happened in the dark ages, long ago, when
knowledge was buried, and the human heart was utterly depraved."
We read in the daily papers the announcement of a wretch that, for a
certain price, she will kill the unborn child,--an announcement made in
plain terms, and paid for as an advertisement,--and we are dumb. It is
the nineteenth century: will not future ages, raking the advertisement
of this infamous woman from some dark corner, guess the awful secrets
of the nineteenth century from that one infernal blot?
We see a carriage drawn by blooded steeds, whirling through
Broadway; its only occupant a handsomely-attired female. And we
say to ourselves, "There goes the murderess of mother and of the
unborn child--there goes the wretch who thrives by the slaughter
of lost womanhood; who owns a splendid carriage, a fine mansion,
and a magnificent fortune, in the very vortex of a depraved social
world--there goes the instrument of the very vilest crime known in the
annals of Hell."
These words none of us dare say aloud; we only think of them; and we
shudder as we see them written on paper,--they are so horribly true.
And as we ask--Why is such a creature _needed_ in the world? Why does
she find _employment_? Why do a hundred such as her, thrive and grow
rich in the large cities? we are forced to accept one of these two
answers:
1. A bad social state, based upon enormous wealth and enormous
poverty,--a social state which gives to the few the very extravagancies
of luxury, and deprives the countless many of the barest rights and
comforts of life,--finds its natural result in the existence of this
Madam Resimer.
Or,--
2. Human nature is thoroughly depraved. A certain portion of the race
are born to be damned in this world, as well as in the next. Such
creatures as Madam Resimer, are but the proper instruments of that
damnation.
Upon my soul, good friend, who read this book, these answers are worthy
of some moments of attentive thought.
Arthur Dermoyne stood in the gloom of that winter midnight,--a midnight
awful and profound, and only deepened in its solemnity, by the clear,
cold light of the wintery stars. A thousand thoughts flitted over his
brain, as he gazed upon the fatal house. Was Alice already a tenant
of that loathsome den? Again and again, he rejected the thought, but
still, it came back upon him, and crept like ice through his veins.
If she was, indeed, _within_ these walls, what might be her fate ere
the morrow's dawn? Arthur could not repress a cry of anguish. A vague
picture of a lost woman, put to death in the dark, by the gripe of a
fiend in human shape, seemed to pass before him, like a shadow from the
other world.
He surveyed the house. A street-lamp, which stood some paces from it,
shed a faint gleam over its walls, and served to show, that from cellar
to garret, it was closed like a tomb.
The wealthy tenants of the houses on either hand, had evidently retired
to their beds. Not a gleam of light shone from their many windows.
The street was profoundly still; a solitary footstep was heard in the
distance; above the roof was the midnight sky and the wintery stars.
Arthur crossed the street.
"I remember what the policemen told me, who showed me the way to this
place. Three cellar windows protected by sheet-iron bars; they are
before me. Beyond these windows a cellar filled with rubbish; then a
basement room, where one of the Madam's bullies is in waiting, day and
night, ready to do her bidding."
The Madam was provided with two bullies, whom she had raked from the
subterranean regions of New York. They were men of immense muscular
strength, with the print of their depraved nature upon their brutal
faces. One was six feet two inches in height; he was known among his
familiars by the succinct name of "DIRK." He used a dirk-knife in his
encounters. The other, short, bony, with broad chest and low legs, was
known as "SLUNG-SHOT." His favorite weapon was a leaden ball attached
to a cord by net-work, with a loop for his wrist. One blow with this
"Slung-Shot," rightly administered, on the temple, would kill the
strongest man.
These were the Madam's watch-dogs. They formed the police of the
mansion. One slept while the other watched, and when any little
difficulty occurred, they settled the matter _without noise_. Whether
they knew all the secrets of the Madam's mansion, or only regarded it
as one of the many haunts of vulgar infamy, which infest New York, does
not yet appear.
"Slung-Shot or Dirk, is now on the watch, in the basement room,
next the cellar. Suppose I manage to force the bars of one of these
windows,--I enter the basement room,--am confronted by one of the
bullies. If I escape the dirk and the slung-shot, I may be handed over
to the police, and sent to the Penitentiary on a charge of burglary. In
the latter case, I will remain in the Tombs while the 25th of December
passes, and thus escape all hope of participation in the settlement of
the Van Huyden estate."
It did not take long for Dermoyne to come to a determination.
"True, after all, Barnhurst may be innocent, and Madam Resimer may have
nothing to do with the affair. But I cannot remain any longer in this
state of harrowing suspense. I will to work,--and at once."
For a moment, he surveyed the street, and you may be sure, that his
gaze was keen and anxious. No one was in sight; all was breathlessly
still.
Arthur drew from beneath his cloak an iron bar, with which he had
provided himself. It was a square bar, about two inches in thickness,
and as many feet in length. Next, fixing his gaze on the central window
of the cellar, he ascertained that it was protected by three upright
bars, separated from each other, by a space of six inches. These bars,
scarcely more than an inch in thickness, were inserted into solid
pieces of granite, which formed the top and base of the window-frame.
Could he displace them from their sockets, by means of the bar which he
carried?
Again, he glances up and down the street. Not a soul in sight. He
cast an upward glance, over the wall of the house,--still closed in
every shutter, and sullen as a vault. He crouched beside the window
and began to use his iron bar. It required all the force of his almost
supernatural strength, to bend the central bar, but presently it was
accomplished. It yielded and was forced from its sockets. Then, resting
the iron bar which he grasped, against the wall on the left, he forced
the second bar from its socket, and in a few minutes, in a similar
manner, the third yielded to the force of his powerful sinews. The
three fell into the cellar, and produced a crashing sound as they came
into contact with some loose boards.
Arthur did not hesitate a moment. Grasping the iron bar, and folding
his cloak about his left arm, he crept through the window and descended
into the cellar. All was thick darkness there, but a faint ray came
from the door which opened into the basement room. Trampling over
heaps of rubbish and loose piles of boards, Arthur made his way toward
the door, and did not pause a single moment, but flinging his weight
against its rough boards, he forced the staple which secured it, and
burst it open with a crash.
Then his features were fixed, his eyes flashed, he clutched the iron
bar, and advancing one step into the basement room, stood ready for the
worst.
A candle, burning fast toward its socket, stood on a pine table, and
flung its uncertain light over a small room, with cracked ceiling and
rough walls, smeared with whitewash. A coal fire smouldered in a narrow
grate.
Slung-Shot was there,--not on the watch precisely,--but with his brawny
arms resting on the table, and his head bent on his arms. He was fast
asleep, and snoring vigorously. An empty brandy bottle which stood near
the light, explained the cause of his sleep. Arthur glanced at the
door, which opened on the stairway, and then--"Can I cross the room and
open the door without waking this wretch?" was his thought.
Slung-Shot, although by no means tall, was evidently a fellow of
muscle, as his broad shoulders, (inclosed in a red flannel shirt) and
his half-bared arms, served to show. His face was buried against the
table, and Arthur could only see the back of his head; his hair closely
cut, his long ears, and the greasy locks which draggled in front of
each ear, were disclosed in the flickering light.
Arthur, after a moment of hesitation, advanced,--the boards creaked
under his tread,--still the ruffian did not move, but snored on, in a
deep, sonorous bass. Arthur placed his hand on the latch of the door--
The ruffian then moved. He raised his sleepy head, and Arthur beheld
that brutal face, with its low forehead, broken nose and projecting
under-jaw.
"S-a-y," he cried, in that peculiar dialect, which, accompanied by an
elongation of the lower-jaw, forms the _patois_ of a class of ruffians
which infests the large cities, "what de thunder you 'bout?"
Arthur grasped his iron bar, but stood motionless as stone, awaiting
the assault of the ruffian.
"Dat you Dirk?" continued Slung-Shot, rolling his eyes with a drunken
stare; "why de thunder don't you let a feller sleep?--" and then came
a round of oaths, uttered in that peculiar dialect, with the lower-jaw
elongated and the head shaking briskly, from side to side. After which
Slung-Shot sank to sleep again. He had mistaken Arthur for his comrade.
Arthur lifted the latch, and in a moment was ascending the narrow
staircase, which led to the hall on the first floor. At the head of
the stair was a door, which he opened, and found himself on a carpeted
floor, but in utter darkness.
He could hear the beating of his heart, as pausing in the thick
darkness, he bent his head and listened.
Not a sound was heard throughout the mansion.
What should be his next step? Enter the parlor on the first floor or
ascend the stairway?
"If Alice is concealed within these walls, she must be in one of the
rooms up-stairs," he thought, and felt his way toward the staircase.
Presently, his hand encountered the banisters, and he began cautiously
to ascend to the second floor. Arrived at the head of the stairs, he
stopped again and listened: not a sound was heard. Torn as he was by
suspense, the cold sweat started upon his forehead: he folded his cloak
carefully around his left arm, and grasping the iron bar with his right
hand, he listened once more. The house was as soundless, as though a
human voice or footstep had never been heard within its walls.
At this moment Arthur was assailed by a terrible doubt--
"What if it should be all a dream?--Barnhurst may be innocent, and as
for Alice, she may be at this moment, a hundred miles away! Nay, this
house may be the residence of a peaceful family, and have nothing to do
with Madam Resimer or her crimes--"
He was shaken by the doubt. Turning in the darkness, he began to
descend the stairs--
"Ha! The ruffian in the cellar confirms the story of the policeman who
led me here, and who stated that this was the house of Madam Resimer;"
this thought flashed over him and arrested his steps. "I'll not retreat
until my suspicions are confirmed or put to rest."
He turned again, and feeling his way up the stairs, and along the hall
of the second floor, he began to ascend the second stairway. At the top
he paused and listened--all was silent--not a whisper, nor the echo of
a sound. Then stretching forth his hand he discovered that at a short
distance beyond the stairway, another staircase led upward to the
fourth floor. He also came to the conclusion, that from near the top of
the stairway, even where he stood, a long and narrow passage led into
some remote part of the mansion. For a moment he was at fault. Should
he ascend the third stairway to the fourth floor, or should he traverse
the long and narrow passage?
"I will ascend to the fourth floor," he thought, when he was arrested
by a sound.
Low, very faint, ambiguous in its character, it seemed to proceed from
the extremity of the passage, which branched from the head of the
second staircase. Was it a faint cry for help--a moan of anguish--or
the echo of voices, muffled by thick cowls?
He had no chance to determine.
For at the very moment when this sound reached his ears, it was drowned
by another sound. The bell rang through the house, peal after peal, and
died away in a dismal echo. There was a pause; it rang again, and this
time more violently, as though an angry or frenzied hand grasped the
bell-rope.--Another pause, and a light flashed in the face of Dermoyne.
It came from the extremity of the passage at the head of the stairs,
and was held in the hand of a woman, clad in a flowing wrapper, who
advanced along the passage with rapid strides.--Standing at the head of
the second stairway, Dermoyne surveyed her as she approached, and at
a glance, as she came rapidly toward him, beheld her portly form and
florid face.
That face wore a look of unmistakable chagrin.
"No time is to be lost--in a moment she will be here," thought
Dermoyne--"can it be Madam Resimer?"
He advanced and shrouded himself in the darkness of the third stairway.
Near and nearer grew the sound of footsteps--
"If she looks this way, as she descends the stairs, I am discovered,"
and Dermoyne could distinctly hear the beating of his heart.
The next moment the rustling of her dress was heard; her heavy strides
resounded as she advanced; and then emerging from the passage, she
reached the top of the second stairway. Her dress brushed Dermoyne, as
he crouched on the first steps of the uppermost stairs; her face was
visible in profile for a single instant.
"Curse this light, how it flares, and curse that bell--will it never
cease ringing? At such a moment too,--"
And without once looking behind her, she hurriedly descended the second
stairs. Dermoyne watched her tall form, with its loose gown, flowing
all about her bulky outlines, until she turned the angle of the stairs
and disappeared.
CHAPTER II.
"HERMAN, YOU WILL NOT DESERT ME?"
"Now is my time," muttered Dermoyne to himself, and at once he entered
the passage, which branched from the head of the stairs, and led to the
eastern wing of the mansion. How his heart beat, how his blood bounded
in his veins, as he drew near the open door at the extremity of the
passage!
On the threshold he paused--his form shrouded by the darkness, but the
light from within the room shining upon his forehead--he paused and
took a single glance at the scene which was disclosed to his vision.
Never till his dying hour shall he forget that scene.
A small apartment, with windows shut and sealed like the doors of a
sepulcher.--On a small table, amid vials and surgical instruments,
stands a light, whose rays tremble over the bed, which occupied the
greater part of the room. Above the bed, from the darkly papered walls,
smiles a picture of the Virgin Mary, while beneath, by the folds of the
coverlet, you may trace the outlines of a human form.
Beside the bed stands a slender man dressed in black, with a heavy
pair of gold spectacles on his hooked nose. It is Corkins, the
familiar spirit of the Madam. Corkins, whose slender frame, incased in
black, reminds you of the raven, while his face with top-knot, gold
spectacles, ferret-like eyes, and pointed beard, reminds you of the owl.
"Bad!" mutters Corkins, "bad!" and he gazes upon the occupant of the
bed, knotting his fingers together like a man who is exceedingly
perplexed.
The bed and its occupant? Ask us not to picture the full horror of the
sight which Arthur saw (from his place of concealment), as Corkins
gently drew the coverlet aside.
"Alice!" he did not pronounce the word with his lips, but his heart
uttered it--it was echoed in the depths of his soul.
He saw the pale face, and the sunny hair, which fell in a flood upon
her bared shoulders. He saw the arms outspread, with the fingers
trembling and working as with the impulse of a spasm. He saw the eyes
which opened with a dead stare, and fixed vaguely upon the ceiling, had
no look of life in their leaden glance. He saw the lips, which were
colorless and almost covered with white foam. And as the sufferer moved
her head, and flung it back upon the pillow, he saw her throat--no
longer white and beautiful--but with swollen veins, writhing with
torture, and starting from the discolored skin.
Never, never until his last hour can Arthur forget that sight.
And poor Alice, writhing thus between life and death, talked to herself
in a voice husky and faint, and said certain words that made Arthur's
blood gather in a flood about his heart:
"Herman, you will not desert me!" she said, and then while the foam was
on her lips, she babbled of her father and home--writhing all the while
in every nerve and vein.
Arthur entered the room. Corkins turned and beheld him, and uttered a
cry of fright. For at that moment Arthur's face was not a pleasant face
for any man to look upon, much less Corkins. And the iron bar which
Arthur held in his clenched hand, taken into connection with the look
on his face, reminded Corkins of stories which he had read--stories
which told of living men, bruised suddenly to death by such a hand and
such an iron bar. Corkins, therefore, uttered a cry of fright, and in
his terror shook his gold spectacles from his parrot nose.
"Down," said Arthur, in a low voice, "on your knees,"--he pointed to a
nook of the room, between the foot of the bed and the wall. "Stay there
with your face to the wall."
Corkins obeyed. Trembling to the corner, he sank on his knees, and
turned his face away from the door and turned toward the wall, there
was such a persuasive eloquence in Arthur's look.
Then Arthur, still clutching the iron bar, drew near the head of the
bed, and gazed upon Alice.
Stretching forth her arms, and opening and closing her little hands;
flinging back her head, her eyes fixed upon the same point of the
ceiling, no matter how she writhed--babbling with foaming lips about
her father and her home,--it was one of the saddest sights that ever
man beheld.
Arthur could not stand it. He turned his face away, and there was a
choking sensation in his throat, and a painful heaving of his chest.
His eyeballs were hot and tearless.--He would have given his life to
shed a single tear.
But that moment of intolerable anguish was interrupted by the sound of
footsteps resounding from the lower part of the mansion. Madam Resimer
was returning to the room of Alice.
Arthur at once shrank into the corner where Corkins knelt, and touched
the creature with his foot by way of warning. Then placing himself
against the wall in such a manner that he could not be seen until the
Madam entered the room, he awaited her return.
Her footsteps are on the stairs, and presently they are heard in the
passage. Arthur, standing bolt upright against the wall, with the
trembling Corkins at his feet, heard the rustling of her dress, as
she came brushing along, with her heavy stride. Then he heard her
voice--she was speaking to some one who accompanied her.
"There are two," he muttered, and bent his head to listen. He could
distinguish her words:
"What a foolish fancy!" this was the voice of the Madam, "to think that
any one could gain admittance to my house against my will. Why, my
dear, the idea makes me laugh."
"Yes, but he's such a desperate ruffian," answered a second voice.
It was the voice of Rev. Herman Barnhurst.
CHAPTER III.
HERMAN, ARTHUR, ALICE.
"Oh! my God, I thank thee," muttered Arthur, and clutched the iron bar
and crouched closer to the wall.
And ere a moment passed, the Madam entered the room, followed by
Barnhurst. She held the light, and he advanced toward the bed.
"It looks rather bad," cried Barnhurst, as he caught sight of the face
of Alice.
"Why, where has Corkins gone?" cried the Madam, and turning abruptly
she sought for Corkins, and uttered a shriek. At the same instant
Barnhurst raised his eyes from the face of Alice, and fell back against
the wall, as though a bullet had pierced his temple.
They had at the same instant discovered Dermoyne, who, motionless as
stone, stood against the wall, beside the door, his arms folded, and
his head sunk on his breast. Thus, with his head drooped on his breast,
he raised his eyes and silently surveyed them both, and with the same
glance.
Not a word was spoken. The Madam, unable to support herself, sank on
the foot of the bed, and Barnhurst, staggered to his feet again, looked
around the room with a visage stamped with guilt and terror.
Arthur quietly advanced a step, and closed the door of the room. Then
he locked it and put the key in his pocket.
"What do you mean?" cried the Madam the color rushing into her face.
"No noise," whispered Arthur, "unless indeed,"--and he smiled in a
way which she understood,--"unless, indeed, you mean to alarm the
neighborhood, and bring the police into the room. Would you like to
have the police examine your house?"
The Madam bit her red lip, but did not answer. Arthur passed her, and
approached the Rev. Herman Barnhurst.
"Nay, don't be afraid; I will not hurt you," he whispered, as the
clergyman stretched forth his hands and retreated toward the wall.
"Come, take courage, man,--look there!"
He pointed to the face of Alice.
Herman, ashy pale, and shaking in every limb, followed the movement of
Arthur's hand, but did not utter a word.
"A 'man of your cloth' to be 'suspected'--eh, my friend?" and Arthur,
laughed. "A minister of THE Church, to be suspected of seduction and of
murder? Is it not a lying tongue that dare charge you, Reverend sir,
with such crimes?"
Here, poor Alice, writhing in the bed, spoke a faint word about father,
and home.
Barnhurst, cringing against the wall, his smooth complexion changed to
a livid paleness, muttered an incoherent word about "reparation."
"Oh, you _shall_ make reparation,--never fear; you _shall_ make
reparation," whispered Dermoyne, his eyes fairly blazing with light.
"And you visited her father's house as a minister of God. She heard you
preach in the church, and you talked to her in her home. What words you
said, I know not; but some forty-eight hours ago you took her from her
home; but a few hours have passed since then. The father lies a mangled
corpse somewhere between this house and Philadelphia; and Alice, the
daughter, is before you. Are you not proud of your work, my reverend
friend?"
Herman's eye glanced from the ominous face of Dermoyne, and then to the
iron bar which he held in his clenched hand,--
"You will not--kill--me?" he gasped.
Arthur was silent. The veins upon his forehead were swollen; his teeth
were locked; his eyes, deep sunken under his down-drawn brows, emitted
a steady and sinister light. He was _thinking_.
"Kill you?" he said, in a measured voice, which seemed torn, word
by word, through his clenched teeth, from his heart. "Oh, if I
could believe your creed--that eternal vengeance is the only future
punishment for earthly crimes--why, I would kill you, before you could
utter another word. Do you believe that creed? No--wretch! you do not.
You have but preached it as a part of that machinery which manufactures
your salary. But now, wretch! as you stand by the death-bed of your
victim, with the face of her avenger before you, now search your heart,
and answer me--Do you not begin to feel that there is a GOD?"
It was pitiful to see the poor wretch cringe against the wall,
supporting himself with his hands, which he placed behind his back,
while his head slowly sunk, and his eyes were riveted to the face of
Dermoyne.
"You will not kill me," he faltered; and, with his left hand, tugged at
his white cravat, for there was a choking sensation at his throat.
As for the Madam, who stood at the back of Dermoyne, she began to
recover some portion of her self-possession, as a hope flashed upon her
mind: "The handle of the bell is behind Barnhurst," she muttered to
himself; "if he would only touch it, it would resound in the basement,
and call Slung-Shot to our aid."
And with flashing eyes, the Madam gazed over Dermoyne's shoulder,
watching every movement of the clergyman, and hoping that even in his
fright, he might touch the handle of the bell. That bell communicated
with the basement room; one movement of the handle, and Slung-Shot
would be summoned to the scene.
However, as Barnhurst cringed against the wall, his hands strayed all
around the handle of the bell, but did not touch it.
At this crisis, however, the Madam forming suddenly a bold resolution,
strode across the floor and placed her bulky form between Dermoyne and
the clergyman.
"What do _you_ want _here_, any how?" she said, tossing her head and
placing her arms a-kimbo. "You are neither the brother nor the husband
of this girl. Supposin' you was, what have you to complain of? Haven't
I treated her like my own child? Yes, I've been a mother to her--and
_that is_ a fact."
Dermoyne, for a moment, paused to admire the cool impudence which
stamped the florid visage of the madam. Her chin projected, her nose
upturned, and her nether lip protruded, she stood there in her flowing
wrapper, with a hand on each side of her waist.
"Look there," he said quietly, and pointed to the bed, where the poor
girl was stretched in her agony; her hands quivering and her lips
white with foam: "When that poor child entered your house, she was in
the enjoyment of good health. What is she now? Shall I go forth from
this place and bring a physician to testify as to the nature of your
_motherly_ treatment?"
The Madam retreated from the gaze of the young man, and felt the force
of his words.
Too well she knew what verdict a physician would pass upon her
treatment of the young girl.
"The bell-handle is behind you," she whispered, as she passed the
cringing Barnhurst. He did not seem to heed her; but the moment that
she passed him and resumed her former place, he fixed his stupefied
gaze once more upon the visage of Dermoyne.
As for Dermoyne, for a moment he stood buried in profound thought. The
clergyman trembled closer to the wall as he remarked the livid paleness
of Arthur's face,--the peculiar light in Arthur's eyes.
Dermoyne, after a moment, advanced and extended his hand--"Come,"
he said, and sought to grasp Barnhurst's hands. But, shuddering and
half dead with fright, Herman _crouched_ away from the extended
hand,--crouched and cringed away as though he would bury himself in the
very wall.
"Come," again repeated Dermoyne, his voice changed and husky. "Come!"
He grasped the hand of the clergyman and dragged him to the bedside.
"Oh, look upon that sight!" he groaned as the tortured girl writhed
before them--"Look upon that sight, and tell me, what fiend of hell
ever, even in thought, planned a deed like this?"
"Don't kill me, don't, don't!" faltered Herman.
"This is a strange meeting," continued Dermoyne, with a look that made
Herman's blood run cold; "here we are together, you and I and Alice!
I that loved her better than life, and would have been glad to have
called her by the sacred name of wife. You, that without loving her or
caring for her, save as the instrument of your brutal appetite, have
made her what she is,--have made her what she is, and brought her here
to die in a dark corner, something worse than the death of a dog. And
Alice, poor Alice, who saw you first in the pulpit, and then listened
to you and yielded to you in the home,--her father's home,--Alice lies
before you now. Hark!"
The poor girl stretched forth her hands, and with the foam still white
upon her livid lips, she said, in her wandering way--
"Oh! Herman, dear Herman! it was not _father_ that was hurt, was it?
Oh! are you sure, are you sure?" And then came wandering words about
father, Herman, home, and--her lost condition. There was something too,
about returning to father and asking his forgiveness when the _danger_
was over.
"And _you_ desire her death." In his agony, as he uttered these words,
Arthur clutched Herman with a gripe that forced a groan from his lips.
"You who have brought her to _this_,--" he pointed to the bed,--"while
I desire her to live; I, that by her death will become the sole
inheritor of her father's fortune."
This was a revelation that astounded Herman, half dead as he was, with
terror.
"The sole inheritor of her father's fortune!" he echoed.
At this crisis, the Madam darted forward. Arthur saw her hand extended
toward the handle of the bell.
"Oh! ring by all means," he exclaimed, "ring, my dear Madam; summon
your bullies; we will have as much noise as possible,--perchance, a
fight! And then the police will come and examine the little mysteries
of your mansion. Will you not ring?"
The Madam's hand dropped to her side, and she slunk back to her former
position, her florid face impressed with an expression which was not,
altogether, one of serenity or joy.
"You wondered, to-night, why Mr. Burney permitted the poor shoemaker
to visit his house. Let me enlighten you a little. Not many years
ago, an unknown mechanic called upon the rich merchant, in his
library, and proved to the merchant's satisfaction, that he,--the poor
mechanic,--had, in his possession, certain papers which established
the fact that the immense wealth of Mr. Burney had been obtained by a
gross fraud; a fraud which, in a court of law, would disclose itself
in the two-fold shape of _perjury_ and _forgery_. The father of the
mechanic was the victim; Burney, the criminal; the victim had died poor
and broken-hearted; but in the hands of the criminal, the property so
illy-gotten, had swelled into an immense fortune. It was the son of
the victim who, having lived through a friendless orphanage, now came
to Mr. Burney and proved that at any moment he might involve the rich
merchant in disgrace and ruin."
"Impossible!" ejaculated Barnhurst.
"The merchant made large offers to the mechanic to obtain his
silence,--believing in the true mercantile way, that every man has
his price, he offered a good round sum, and doubled it the next
moment,--but in vain. The image of his broken-hearted father was before
the mechanic,--he could not banish it,--he had but one purpose, and
that was, to bring the rich man to utter ruin. This purpose was strong
in his heart, when scorning all the offers of the merchant, he rose
from his seat and moved toward the door. But at the door his purpose
was changed. There he was confronted by the face of a happy, sinless
girl,--a girl with all the beauty of a happy, sinless heart, written
upon her young face. At the sight, the mechanic relented. Maddened by
the thirst for a full and bitter revenge, he could destroy the father,
but he had not the heart to destroy the father of that sinless girl.
For,--do you hear me,--it was Alice,--it was Alice,--Alice."
The long-restrained agony burst forth at last. With her name upon his
lips, he paused,--he buried his face in his hands.
"Alice, Alice, who lies before you now!" He raised his face again; it
was distorted by agony; it was bathed in tears.
The clergyman fell on his knees.
"Don't harm me," he faltered, "I will make reparation."
"Up! up! don't kneel to me," shrieked Dermoyne, and he dragged the
miserable culprit to his feet. "There's no manner of kneeling or
praying between heaven and hell, that can help you, if that poor
girl dies. I spared her father for her sake, (and to make my silence
perpetual, he made a will, in which he names me as his sole heir, in
case of his daughter's death); I spared her father for her sake, and
can you think that I will spare you,--you who have brought her to a
shame and death like this?"
He pointed to the bed, and once more the poor girl, writhing in pain,
uttered, in a low, pleading voice, "Herman, Herman, do not, oh! do not
desert me!"
Dermoyne, at a rapid glance, surveyed the culprit cringing against
the wall,--the florid Madam, who stood apart, her face manifesting
undeniable chagrin,--and then his gaze rested upon Corkins, who,
kneeling in the corner, seemed to have been suddenly stricken dumb. And
as he took that rapid glance, his eyes flashed, his face grew paler,
his bosom heaved, and a world of thought rushed through his brain; and,
in a moment, he had decided upon his course.
He drew near to the Madam: she could not meet the look which he fixed
upon her face.
"To-morrow morning, at ten o'clock, I will return to this house," he
said, in a low voice; "I hold you responsible for the life of this
poor girl. Nay, do not speak; not a word from your accursed lips.
Remember!--he drew a step nearer,--to-morrow morning, at ten o'clock,
and--I hold you responsible for the life of Alice Burney."
The Madam quailed before his glance; for once, her florid face grew
pale. "But how will you obtain entrance into my house?" she thought;
and a faint smile crossed her countenance.
CHAPTER IV.
THE RED BOOK.
Dermoyne flung his cloak over his arm, drew his cap over his forehead,
and grasped the iron bar with his right hand.
"Come with me," he said, in a low voice, to Barnhurst. He drew the key
from his pocket, and led the way to the door. As though fascinated by
his look, Herman followed him,--followed him trembling and with terror
stamped on every line of his face.
"At ten o'clock, to-morrow morning, remember!" said Dermoyne, turning
his face over his shoulder. He turned the key in the lock, and stood
upon the threshold. "Come with me," he said, quietly, to Barnhurst.
"Nay, take the light and walk before me."
Herman, with a quivering hand, seized a lighted lamp and led the way
from the room, along the passage. He dared not turn his head. He
heard Dermoyne's footsteps at his back, and shook with fright. "Does
he intend to murder me?" and then he thought of the iron bar; of the
strong hand of Dermoyne; and of his own defenseless head.
"Herman, don't, don't desert me," muttered Alice, in her delirium, as
they crossed the threshold.
Dermoyne turned and saw the fixed eyes, the sunny hair, the lips white
with foam; saw the writhing form and the hands clasped madly over the
half-bared bosom; and then he looked no more.
Along the passage, Herman led the way and down the stairs, Dermoyne
following silently at his heels. Thus they descended to the second
floor.
"The Madam has a room where she keeps her papers and arranges her most
important affairs. Conduct me there."
And Herman, scarce knowing what he did, led the way to the small room
in the rear of the second floor,--the small room in which we first
beheld the Madam. He entered, followed by Dermoyne, who carefully
closed the door, and then, at a glance, surveyed the place. It looked
the same as when we first beheld the Madam. The shaded lamp stood on
the desk, describing a brief circle of light around it, while the rest
of the place was vailed in twilight. On the desk was the seal and the
pearl-handled pen, and beside it, was the capacious arm-chair.
"Come here," said Arthur, still in that low voice, but with the face
unnaturally pale, and the eyes flashing with steady and ominous light;
and he led the way to the desk. Barnhurst obeyed him without a word.
"To-morrow, at ten o'clock, we will return to this mansion," said
Dermoyne, fixing his eyes upon the affrighted visage of Barnhurst. "We
will return together, and if Alice yet lives, we will go away together;
but," he laid his right hand upon the forehead of the wretch,--or
rather placed his thumb upon the right temple, and his fingers on the
left,--"but, if Alice is dead, I will kill you at her bedside."
There was a determination in his tone,--in his look,--nay, in the very
pressure of the hand which touched Barnhurst's forehead; which gave a
force to his brief words, that no pen can depict.
Barnhurst fell on his knees, and his head sank on his breast. He had no
power to frame a word. He appeared conscious that he was in the hands
of his fate.
"Get up, get up, _my friend_!" and Arthur raised him from his knees and
placed him in a chair. (Now well we know that it would have been more
in accordance with the rules provided for novel writers, for Arthur
to have said, "Arise! villain!" but as he simply said, "Get up, _my
friend_!" applying a singular emphasis to the italicized words: we feel
bound to record his words just as he spoke them).
"I have a few words to say to you," said Arthur; "there's no use of
your shuddering when I speak to you, and of crying when I touch you.
You must listen to me and listen with all your senses about you. Why,
you were courageous enough to blaspheme God, when you used his religion
as the instrument of that poor girl's ruin: don't be afraid of me."
"When you leave this place, _my friend_, I will go with you. I will
put no restraint upon your actions; you can go where you please,
but wherever you go, I will go with you. I will not lose sight of
you, until the life or death of Alice Burney is assured. Yes, you
can go where you please, talk with whom you please, sleep, eat,
drink where it suits you, but everywhere _I will go with you_. We
will be together, side by side, until the life or the death of Alice
is certain,--together, always together, like twin souls,--do you
understand, my friend? Until we are assured of the fate of Alice, I
will be your _shadow_? Do you comprehend?"
Herman _did_ comprehend. The full force of Arthur's determination
crowded upon him, impressing every fiber of his soul.
"No,--no,--this cannot be," he faltered,--"If you must wreak your
vengeance on me, kill me at once. But, to be thus accompanied, I will
not consent--"
"Kill you?" and there was a sad smile on Dermoyne's face; "do you
suppose that the mere act of physical death can atone for the moral and
physical death of poor Alice? You commit a wrong, that is murder in a
sense, that the basest physical murder can never equal; and you think
the sacrifice of your life will atone for that wrong? Faugh! If Alice
dies, I will kill you,--be assured of that--I will crush the miserable
life which now beats within your brain,--but, first, I will make you
die a thousand deaths--I will kill you in soul as well as in body--for
every throb which you have made her suffer, you shall render an exact,
a fearful account--yes, before I kill your miserable body, I will kill
you in reputation, in all that makes life dear, in everything that you
hold sacred, or that those with whom you are connected by all or any
ties, hold sacred. To do this, I must _know all about you_, and to know
all about you, I must go with you and be your shadow."
"Oh, this is infernal!" groaned Barnhurst, dropping his hands
helplessly on his knees, while his head sank back against the chair,
"Have you no mercy?"
"A preacher appeared as a demi-god, to the eyes of a sinless
girl,--clad in the light of religion, he appeared to her as something
more than mortal--aware of this fact, he passed from the pulpit where
she heard him preach to her father's home, and there dishonored her.
When her dishonor was complete, and a second life throbbed within
her, so far from thinking of hiding her shame under the mantle of an
honorable marriage, he calmly plotted the murder of his victim and her
unborn child. And this preacher now crouches before his executioner,
and falters, 'Have you no mercy?'"
"But I could not marry her," groaned Barnhurst, "it was impossible!
impossible!"
"Why?"
Barnhurst buried his face in his hands, but did not answer.
"You killed her to save your _reputation_," whispered Arthur, "and now
I have your life and reputation in my grasp. In the name of Alice, I
will use my power. Come! Let us be going. I am ready to attend you."
He took the hat and cloak of the clergyman, from a chair, (where
Barnhurst had left them before he ascended to the chamber of Alice) and
exclaimed with a low bow--
"Your hat and cloak, sir. I am ready."
Barnhurst rose, trembling and livid,--he placed the hat upon his
sleeked hair, and wound the cloak about his angular form. For a moment
his coward nature seemed stirred, by the extremity of his despair, into
something like courage. His eyes (the dark pupils of which you will
remember covered each eyeball) flashed madly from his _blonde_ visage,
and he gazed from side to side, as if in search of some deadly weapon.
At that moment he was prepared for combat and for murder.
Dermoyne caught his eye: never lunatic cowered at the sight of his
keeper, as Barnhurst before Dermoyne.
"It won't do. You haven't the 'pluck,'" sneered Arthur,--"if it was a
weak girl, there's no knowing what you might do; but as it is a man and
an--_executioner_."
"I am ready," was all that Barnhurst could reply.
"One moment, dear friend, and I'll be with you," as he spoke, Dermoyne
advanced toward the Madam's Desk. "_I must have a_ PLEDGE _before I
go_."
Before the preacher had time to analyze the meaning of these words,
Dermoyne, with one blow of the iron bar, had forced the lock of the
Madam's desk. He raised the lid and the light fell upon packages of
letters, neatly folded, and upon a large book, square in shape and
bound in red morocco.
"The red book!" the words were forced from Barnhurst's lips, as he saw
Arthur raise the volume to the light and rapidly examine its contents.
THE RED BOOK! Well he knew the character of that singular volume!
"Yes, this will do," said Arthur, as he placed the book under his
cloak. "I wanted a pledge,--that is to say, a _sure hold_ upon the
Madam and her friends. And I have one!"
He took the clergyman by the arm and they went forth together from the
private chamber,--the holy place--of the Madam. Went forth together,
and descending the stairs, passed in the darkness along the hall. The
key was in the lock of the front door. Arthur turned it, and in a
moment, they passed together over the threshold of that mansion of
crime, and stood in the light of the wintery stars.
"Who," whispered Arthur, as side by side, and arm in arm, they went
down the dark street, "who to see us walk so lovingly together, would
imagine the real nature of those relations which bind us together?"
He felt Barnhurst shudder as he held him to his side--
"The red book!" ejaculated the clergyman, with accent hard to define,
whether of fear, or wonder, or of horror.
And by the light of the midnight stars, they went down the dark street
together.
CHAPTER V.
"WHAT SHALL WE DO WITH HER?"
Scarcely had the echo of the front door, ceased to resound through
the mansion, when the Madam entered the holy place from which Arthur
and Herman had just departed. Her step was vigorous and firm, as she
crossed the threshold; her face flashed with mingled rage and triumph.
"He will return to-morrow at ten o'clock!" she cried, and burst into a
fit of laughter, which shook her voluminous bust,--"there's two ways
of tellin' that story, my duck." (The Madam, as in all her vivacious
moments, grew metaphorical.) "Catch a weasel asleep! Fool who with your
tin 'fip!' I guess I haven't been about in the world all this while, to
be out-generaled by a snip of a boy like that!"
Louder laughed the Madam, until her bust shook again--and in the midst
of her calm enjoyment she saw--the desk and the broken lock. Her
laughter stopped abruptly. She darted forward, like a tigress rushing
on her prey. She seized the lamp and raised the lid, and saw the
contents of the desk,--packages of letters, mysterious instruments and
singular vials, all,--all,--save the red book.
The Madam could not believe her eyes. Rapidly she searched the desk,
displacing its contents and researching every nook and corner, but her
efforts were fruitless. There were packages of letters, mysterious
vials, and instruments as mysterious, but,--the red book was not there.
For the first time in her life, the Madam experienced a sensation of
fear,--unmingled fear,--and for the first time saw ruin open like
a chasm at her very feet. She grew pale, sank helplessly in her
arm-chair, and sat there like a statue,--rather like an image of
imperfectly finished wax-work,--her visage blank as a sheet of paper.
"Gone,--gone," the words escaped from her lips, "ruined, undone!"
This state of "unmasterly inactivity" continued, however, but for a
few moments. All at once she bounded from her chair, and a blasphemous
oath escaped--more strictly speaking--shot from her lips. She crossed
the floor, with a heavy stride, gave the bell-rope a violent pull, and
then, hurrying to the door screamed "Corkins! Corkins!" with all her
might.
"Why don't they come! Fools, asses!" and again, she attacked the
bell-rope, and again, hurried to the door,--"Corkins, Corkins, I say!
Halloo!"
In a few moments Corkins appeared, his spectacles awry and his
right-hand laid affectionately upon his "goatee."
"The matter?"
"Don't stand there starin' at me like a stuck-pig!" was the elegant
reply of the Madam,--"down into the cellar,--quick,--quick! Tell Slung
to come here. Not a word. Go I say!"
She pushed Corkins out of the room. Then pacing up and down the small
apartment, she awaited his return with an anxiety and suspense, very
much like madness, uttering blasphemous oaths at every step she took.
Footsteps were heard, and at length, Corkins, dressed in sober black,
appeared once more, leading Slung-Shot by the hand. The ruffian
stumbled into the room, his brutal visage, low forehead, broken nose
and elongated jaw, bearing traces of a recent debauch. Folding his
brawny arms over his red flannel shirt, he gazed sleepily at the Madam,
politely remarking at the same time--
"What de thunder's de muss,--s-a-y?"
"Are you sober?" and the Madam gave Slung a violent shake; "are you
awake?"
"Old woman," responded Slung, "you better purceed to bisness, and give
us none o' yer jaw. What de yer w-a-n-t? s-a-y!"
The Madam seized him by the arm.
"Two men have just left this house. One wears a cap,--the other, a hat.
The one with the cap and cloak is the shortest of the two; and the one
with a cap carries under his cloak a book, bound in red morocco, which
he has just stolen from yonder desk. D'ye hear? I want you to track him
and get back that book at any price; even if you have to--"
"Fech him up wid dis?" and the ruffian drew a "slung-shot" from the
sleeve of his right arm.
"Yes, yes; anyhow, or by any means," continued the Madam; "only bring
back the book before morning, and a hundred dollars are yours. D'ye
hear?"
"A shortish chap with a cap an' cloak," exclaimed Slung; "there's a
good many shortish chaps with caps in this 'ere town, old woman."
"I have it! I have it!" cried the Madam; and then she conveyed her
instructions to Slung in a slow and measured voice. "Don't you think
you'd know him now?" she exclaimed, when her instructions were complete.
"Could pick 'im out among a thousand." And the ruffian closed one eye,
and increased the boundless ugliness of his face, by an indescribable
grimace.
"Go then,--no time's to be lost,--a hundred dollars, you mind;" and she
urged him to the door. He clutched the slung-shot and disappeared.
Corkins approached and looked the Madam in the face.
"The red book gone?" he asked, every line of his visage displaying
astonishment and terror.
"Gone," echoed the Madam, "to be sure it is. Our only hope is in
that ruffian. One well-planted blow with a slung-shot, will kill the
strongest man."
"The red book gone!" Corkins fairly trembled with affright. Staggering
like a drunken man, he managed to deposit himself in a chair. He took
the gold spectacles from his nose, and wiped them, in an absent way.
"Bad," he muttered. Then passing his hand from his "goatee" to his
top-knot, and from top-knot to "goatee," again he muttered, "The red
book gone! what will become of us?"
"If it is not recovered before morning, we are done for," cried the
Madam; "that's all. But this is no time for foolin'? Come, sir! stir
your stumps!"
She took the light and led the way up-stairs, followed by Corkins, who
shook in every fiber; murmuring, at every step, "Gone! gone! The red
book gone!"
Entering the passage which led to the chamber of Alice, the Madam
paused at the door of that chamber, and pointed to the door of the
closet which (you will remember) was buried under the stairway that led
to the fourth story.
A faint moan was heard; it came from the chamber of Alice. The Madam
did not heed that moan, but opening the closet door, crossed its
threshold, followed by Corkins. The light disclosed the details of that
small and gloomy place; and glittered brightly upon a mahogany chest or
box which rested on the floor. A mahogany box, with surface polished
like a mirror, and a shape that told at sight of death and the grave.
It was a coffin; and the coffin of that nameless girl who had been
removed from the bed, in the adjoining chamber, in order to make room
for Alice.
"What,--what--is--to--be--done--with--her?" said Corkins, as he touched
the coffin with his foot.