judge. Pale and trembling, Esther advanced, and, passing the table,
placed a paper in the hands of Godlike, which he read:
"NEW YORK, Dec. 24th, 1844.
"The undersigned, Gabriel Godlike, hereby acknowledges that he was
this day detected in the act of attempting a gross outrage upon
the person of Esther Royalton, whom he had inveigled to a house of
improper report, No. --, ---- street, New York: an outrage which,
investigated before a court of law, would justly consign him to the
State's Prison.
"Signed in presence of:
{
{."
No words can picture the rage which corrugated Godlike's visage as he
perused this singular document.
"No, I will not sign!"--he fixed his flaming eyes upon Esther's pallid
face--"not if you rend me into fragments."
"Esther," said the judge, calmly, "call the gentlemen from the
neighboring apartment. Tell them that the purpose for which I summoned
them will be explained in this room."
Esther cast a glance upon Godlike's flushed visage, and moved to the
door,--
"Stay! I will--I will!" Shame and mortification choked his utterance.
He advanced to the table and signed his name to the paper.
The judge drew his broad-brimmed hat deeper over his brows, and
advanced to the table.--"I will witness your signature," he quietly
observed, and signed a name which Godlike would have given five years
of his life to have read.
"The second document rests on the table before you. The writing is
concealed by a sheet of paper. You will sign without reading it. There
is the place for your signature." And he pushed the concealed document
across the table.
"This is too much,--it is infamous," said Godlike, between his teeth.
"How do I know what I am signing? I will not do it." He sank back
doggedly in his chair; the perspiration stood in thick beads upon his
brow.
"Esther," (she lingered on the threshold, as the judge addressed her,)
"tell Mr. Godlike's friends that he will be glad to see them."
Oh! bitterly, in that moment, did the fallen statesman pay for the
misdeeds of years! As if urged from his seat by an influence beyond
his control, he rose and advanced to the table, his brow deformed by
the big veins of helpless rage, his eyes bloodshot with suppressed
fury,--he signed his name. His hand trembled like a leaf.
"Now, now--am I free?" he cried, beating the table with his clenched
hand. "Have you done with me?" He turned his gaze from Esther, who
stood trembling on the threshold, to the judge, who, with his shadowed
face, stood calm and composed before him.
"I will witness your signature," said the judge, and again signed that
name, which Godlike, even amid his wrath, endeavored, and in vain, to
read.
At the same instant he placed his hand upon the candle, and all was
darkness. In less time than it takes to record it, Godlike was seized,
pinioned and blindfolded.
"You will be taken to your dressing-room, in which you will resume your
usual attire, after which, without questioning or seeing any one, you
will quietly leave this house. As for the gentlemen whom I summoned to
this house to look upon your disgrace, I will manage to dismiss them,
without mentioning your name."
"And the papers which you have forced me to sign?" interrupted Gabriel.
"Do not speak of force. There was no force save the compulsion of your
own crimes. And I give you fair warning that those papers which you
have signed here in darkness, you will be asked to sign yet once again
in broad daylight. Go, sir: for the present we have done with you."
And as in thick darkness he was led from the hall, trembling with rage
and shame, the voice of the judge once more broke on his ears, but this
time not addressed to him:
"Pity, good Lord! Pardon me, if I am wrong!"
It was the voice of earnest prayer.
CHAPTER IV.
THE BRIDAL CHAMBER.
It was the bridal chamber. A strange hour, and a strange bridal!
In the luxurious apartment, where Nameless and Frank first met, a Holy
Bible was placed wide open upon a table, or altar, covered with a
snow-white cloth. On either side of the book were placed wax candles,
shedding their clear light around the room, upon the details of the
place, and upon the gorgeous curtains of the marriage-bed.
Frank and Nameless joined hands beside that altar, before the opened
Bible. Never had Frank's magnetic beauty shone with such peculiar
power. She was clad in black velvet, her dark hair gathered plainly
aside from her brow, and the white cross rose and fell with every throb
of her bosom. Nameless wore the black tunic which, with his dark brown
hair, threw his features into strong relief. The golden cross hung on
his breast, over his heart. He was pale, as if with intense thought,
but his large, gray eyes met the gaze of Frank, as though his soul was
riveted there.
And thus they joined hands, near the morning hour.
The Rev. Dr. Bulgin stood a little in the background, his broad red
face glowing in the light. His cardinal's attire thrown aside, he
appeared in sleek black, with the eternal white cravat about his neck.
There was the flush of champagne upon the good doctor's florid face.
Behind Nameless stood Colonel Tarleton, dressed as the hidalgo, his
right hand grasping a roll of paper, raised to his mouth, and his eyes
gazing fixedly from beneath his down-drawn brows. It was _the_ moment
of his life.
"Once married and the way is clear!" he thought. "To think of it--after
twenty-one years my hand grasps the prize!"
"We will walk through life together," said Frank, pressing the hand of
Nameless.
"And devote our wealth to the elevation of the unfortunate and the
fallen!" he responded, as a vision of future good gave new fire to his
eye. And then he pressed his hand to his forehead, for his temples
throbbed. A vivid memory of every event of his past life started up
suddenly before his soul, every event invested with the familiar
faces, the well-known voices of other days. He raised his eyes to
the face of Frank, and the singular influence which seemed to invest
her like an atmosphere, again took possession of him. It was not the
influence of passion, nor the spell of her mere loveliness, although
her person was voluptuously moulded, and the deep red in the center of
her rich brown cheek, told the story of a warm and passionate nature;
but it was as though her very soul, embodied in her lustrous eyes,
encircled and possessed his own.
Was it love, in the common acceptation of the word? Was it fascination?
Was it the result of sympathy between two lives, each of which had been
made the sport of a dark and singular destiny?
"Had not we better go on?" said Dr. Bulgin, mildly. "Summoned to this
house to celebrate these nuptials at this unusual hour, I feel somewhat
fatigued with the duties of the day," and he winked at Tarleton.
"Proceed," said Tarleton, pressing the right hand, with the roll of
paper to his lip.
The marriage service was deliberately said in the rich, bold voice of
the eloquent Dr. Bulgin. The responses were duly made. The ring was
placed upon the finger of the bride, and the white cross sparkled in
the light, as it rose with the swell of her proud bosom.
"Husband," she whispered, as their lips met, "I have been sacrificed to
others, but I never loved but you, and I will love you till I die." And
she spoke the truth.
"Wife!"--he called that sacred name in a low and softened voice,--"let
the past be forgotten. Arisen from the graves of our past lives, it
is our part to begin life anew." And his tone was that of truth and
enthusiasm.
"My son!"--Tarleton started forward and clasped Nameless by the
hand,--"Gulian, my son, let the past be forgotten,--forgiven, and let
us look only to the future! The proudest aspiration of my life is
fulfilled!"
Nameless returned his grasp with a cordial pressure; but at the same
instant a singular sensation crept like a chill through his blood. Was
the presence of the dead father near at the moment when his son joined
hands with the false brother?
"Here, my boy," continued Tarleton, laughingly, as he spread forth
upon the table the roll of paper which he had held to his lip; "sign
this, and we will bid you good night. It's a mere matter of form, you
know. Nay, Frank, you must not see it; you women know nothing of these
matters of business." Motioning his daughter back, he placed pen and
ink before Nameless, and then quietly arranged his dark whiskers and
smoothed his black hair; and yet his hand trembled.
Nameless took the pen, and bent over the table and read:--
DECEMBER 24, 1844.
TO DR. MARTIN FULMER:--
_This day I transfer and assign to my wife, Frances Van Huyden, all my
right, title, and interest in the estate of my deceased father, Gulian
Van Huyden; and hereby promise, on my word of honor, to hold this
transfer sacred at all times, and to make it binding (if requested),
by a document drawn up according to the forms of law._
Nameless dipped the pen in the ink, and was about to sign, when Frank
suddenly drew the paper from beneath his hand. She read it with a
kindling cheek and flashing eye.
"For shame!" she cried, turning to her father, "for shame!" and was
about to rend it in twain, when Nameless seized her wrist, and took the
paper from her hand.
"Nay, Frank, I will sign," he exclaimed, and put the pen to the paper.
"O, father," whispered Frank, with a glance of burning indignation,
"this is too much--" Her words were interrupted by the sudden opening
of the door.
"Is there no way of escape,--none?"--a voice was heard exclaiming these
words, in tones of fright and madness,--"Is there no way of escape from
this abode of ruin and death?"
The pen dropped from the hand of Nameless. That voice congealed the
blood in his veins.
Turning his head over his shoulders, he saw the speaker,--while
the whole scene swam for a moment before his eyes,--saw that young
countenance, now wild with affright, on which was imprinted the
stainless beauty of a pure and virgin soul.
"The grave has given up its dead!" he cried, and staggered toward the
phantom which rose between him and the door; the phantom of a young and
beautiful woman, clad in the faded garments of poverty and toil; her
unbound hair streaming wildly about her face, her eyes dilating with
terror, her clasped hands strained against her agitated bosom.
"The grave has given up its dead," he cried. "Mary!" O, how that name
awoke the memories of other days! "Mary! when last I saw thee, thou
wert beside my coffin, while my soul communed with thine." And again he
called that sacred name.
It was no phantom, but a living and beautiful woman. She saw his
face,--she uttered a cry,--she knew him.
"Gulian!" she cried, and spread forth her arms. Not one thought that he
had died and been buried,--she saw him living,--she knew him,--he was
before her,--that was all. "Husband!"
He rushed to her embrace, but even as his arms were outspread to clasp
her form, he fell on his knees. His head rested against her form, his
hands clasped her knees. The emotion of the moment had been too much
for him; he had fainted at her feet.
She knelt beside him, and took his head to her bosom, and pressed her
lips against his death-like forehead, and then her loosened hair hid
his face from the light. She wept aloud.
"Husband!"
At this moment turn your gaze to the marriage altar. Dr. Bulgin is
still there, gazing in dumb surprise, first upon the face of Frank,
then upon her father. It is hard to tell which looks most ghastly
and death-like. Tarleton looks like a man who has been stricken by a
thunderbolt. Frank rests one hand upon the marriage altar, and raises
the other to her forehead. For a moment death seems busy at her heart.
With a desperate effort, Tarleton rallies his presence of mind.
"Good evening, or, rather, good morning, doctor," he says, and then
points to the door. The reverend gentleman takes the hint, and quietly
fades from the room.
At times like this, one moment of resolve is worth an age. Tarleton's
face is colorless, but he sees, with an ominous light in his eyes,
the way clear before him. He turns aside for a moment, to the cabinet
yonder, and from a small drawer, takes a slender vial, filled with a
colorless liquid; then quietly glides to his daughter's side.
"Frank!"--she raises her head,--their eyes meet. He holds the vial
before her face--"your husband has fainted; this will revive him." That
singular smile discloses his white teeth. Frank reads his meaning at
a glance. O, the unspeakable agony,--the conflict between two widely
different emotions, which writhes over her face!
"No, father, no! It must not be," and she pushes the vial from her
sight.
His words, uttered rapidly, and in a whisper, come through his set
teeth,--"It must be,--the game cannot be lost now; in twelve hours, you
know, this vial will do its work, and _leave no sign_!"
An expression which he cannot read, crosses her face. A moment of
profound and harrowing thought,--a glance at the kneeling girl, who
hides in her flowing hair, the face of her unconscious husband.
"Be it so," Frank exclaims, "give me the vial; I will administer it."
Taking the vial from her father's hand, she advances to the cabinet,
and for a moment bends over the open drawer.
And the next instant she is kneeling beside Nameless and the weeping
girl.
"Mary!" whispers Frank, and the young wife raises her face from her
husband's forehead, and they gaze in each other's face,--a contrast
which you do not often behold. The face of Frank, dark-hued at other
times, and red with passion on the cheek and lip, but now, lividly
pale, and only expressing the intensity of her organization in the
lightning glance of the eyes,--the face of Mary, although touched by
want and sorrow, bearing the look of a guileless, _happy_ soul in every
outline, and shining all the love of a pure woman's nature from the
large, clear eyes. It was as though night and morning had met together.
"Mary!" said Frank,--her hand trembling, but her purpose firm,--"your
husband will die unless aid is rendered at once. Let me revive him."
Before Mary can frame a word in reply, she places the vial to the
lips of Nameless, and does not remove her hand until the last drop is
emptied. Tarleton yonder watches the scene, with his head drooping on
his breast, and his hand raised to his chin.
"He will revive presently," Frank exclaims with a smile.
"God bless you, generous woman,----"
But Frank does not wait to receive her thanks.
Returning to her father's side,--"Come, let us leave them, _now_," she
whispers; "_now_ that your request is obeyed."
"But he must not die in this house."
"O, you will have time, ample time to remove him before the vial has
done its work,"--a bitter smile crosses her face,--"Leave them together
for an hour at least. Let them at least enjoy one hour of life, before
his eyes are closed in death; only one hour, father!"
She takes her father by the hand, and hurries him from the room,--let
us not dare to read the emotions now contending on her corpse-like
face. From that room, which was to have been her bridal chamber,--the
starting-point of a new and happy life!
"I must now see after the _other_," Tarleton soliloquizes, as he
crossed the threshold. "_This one_ removed, _the other_ must be ready
for _to-morrow_."
And Frank and her father leave the room.
The chest of Nameless began to heave,--his eyes gradually unclosed.
With a vacant glance he surveyed the apartment.
"It is a dream," he said.
But there were arms about his neck, kisses on his lips, a warm cheek
laid next to his own. Certainly not the clasp, the kiss, or the
pressure of a dream.
"Not in a dream, Carl," she said, calling, him by the name which he had
borne in other days.
"Carl? Who calls me Carl?"
"Not in a dream, Carl, but living and restored to me."
Even as he lay in her arms, his head resting on her young bosom, he
raised his eyes and beheld her face.
"Mary!"
"Thou art my husband!"
"Thou art my wife!"
That moment was a full recompense for all they had suffered, yes, for
a lifetime of suffering and anguish. They forgot everything,--the
dark past,--the strange chance or providence which had brought them
together,--they only felt that they were living and in each other's
arms.
At sight of the pure, holy face of Mary, all consciousness of the
fascination which Frank had held over him, passed like the memory of a
dream from the soul of Nameless.
"O, Mary, wife, thou art living,--God is good," he said, as she bent
over him, baptizing his lips with kisses, and his face with tears.
"Do you remember that hour, when I lay in the coffin, while you bent
over me, and our souls talked to each other, without the medium of
words: 'you have seen him for the last time,' they said; 'not for the
last time,--we will meet again,' was your reply. And now we have met!
Mary--wife! let us never accuse Providence again, for God is good!"
Moment of joy too deep for words.
Drink every drop of the cup, now held to your lips, Carl Raphael! For
even, as the arms of your young wife are about your neck, even as her
young bosom throbs against your cheek, and you count the beatings of
her heart, death spreads his shadow over you. The poison is in your
veins,--your young life is about to set in this world forever.
CHAPTER V.
THE SCARLET CHAMBER.
Having once more resumed the attire of Leo the Tenth,--scarlet robe,
cap, with nodding plumes and cross with golden chain; Dr. Bulgin was
hurrying along a dark passage on his way to the Scarlet Chamber,
where his nephew awaited him. The Scarlet Chamber was at the end of
the passage; as he drew near it, the Doctor's reflections grew more
pleasant and comfortable. It may be as well to make record, that after
he had left the Bridal Chamber, he had refreshed himself with a fresh
bottle of champagne.
"Odd scene that in the room of Tarleton's daughter! Very
dramatic,--wish I knew what it all meant. However my 'nephew;'" a rich
chuckle resounded from the depths of his chest--"'my nephew' awaits
me, and after another bottle in the Scarlet Chamber, I must see _her_
safely home. It is not such a bad world after all."
Thus soliloquizing he arrived at the end of the passage, and his head
was laid against the door of the Scarlet Chamber.
"Cozy place,--bottle of wine,--good company--"
"Hush!" whispered a voice.
"That you Julia? What are you doing out here in the dark?" he wound his
arms about his nephew's waist. "Waiting for me?"
"Do not,--do not," she gasped, struggling to free herself from his
arms,--"Do not enter,--"
"Tush, child! you're nervous,--" and despite the struggles, he gathered
his arm closer around her waist, pushed open the door and entered the
Scarlet Room.
A quiet little apartment, lighted by a hanging lamp, whose mild beams
softened the glare of the rich scarlet hangings. There was a sofa
covered with red velvet, a table, on which stood a bottle, with two
long necked glasses, and from an interval in the hangings, gleamed the
vision of a snow-white couch. Altogether, a place worthy the private
devotions of Leo the Tenth, or of any gentleman of his exquisite taste,
and eccentric piety.
"What's the matter child? You're pale, and have been crying,--"
exclaimed Bulgin, as he bore her over the threshold, and paused for
a moment to gaze upon her face, which was bare to the light, the cap
having fallen from her brow. As he spoke his back was to the sofa.
"There," was the only word which she had power to frame, and bursting
into tears, she pointed over his shoulders to the sofa.
Somewhat surprised, Dr. Bulgin turned on his heel, the white plumes
nodding over his bulky face, and,----
There are some scenes which must be left to the imagination.
On the sofa, sat three grave gentlemen, clad in solemn black, their
severe features, rendered even more stern and formal, by the relief of
a white cravat. Each of these gentlemen held his hat in one hand, and
in the other a cane, surmounted by a head of white bone.
As Bulgin turned, the three gentlemen quietly rose, and said politely,
with one voice:
"Good morning Dr. Bulgin."
And then as quietly sat down again.
The Doctor looked as though he had been lost in a railroad collision.
He was paralyzed. He had not even the presence of mind, to release the
grasp which gathered the young form of his lovely nephew to his side.
The exact position of affairs, at this crisis, will be better
understood, when you are informed, that in these three gentlemen, the
Rev. Dr. Bulgin recognized Mr. Watkins, Mr. Potts, and Mr. Burns, the
leading members, perchance Deacons of his wealthy congregation. The one
with the slight form, and short stiff gray, hair,--Watkins. Mr. Potts,
is a small man, with a bald head, and the slightest tendency in the
world to corpulence. Mr. Burns is tall and lean, with angular features,
and an immense nose. Altogether, as grave and respectable men as you
will meet in a day's walk, from Wall Street, to the head of Broadway.
But what do they in the TEMPLE, at any time, but especially at this
unusual hour?
That was precisely the question which troubled Bulgin.
"W-e-l-l Gentle-m-e-n," he said, not exactly knowing what else to say.
To which they all responded with a singular unanimity,--"W-e-l-l
D-o-c-t-o-r!"
"Did not I,--did not I,--tell,--tell you not to come in here?" sobbed
the nephew,--that is Julia.
Mr. Watkins arose and passed his hand through his stiff gray hair,--
"Allow me to compliment you upon the becoming character of your
costume!" and sat down again.
Then Mr. Potts, whose bald head shone in the light as he rose,--
"And allow me to congratulate you upon the character of this house, and
especially the elegant seclusion of this chamber." And Mr. Potts sat
down.
Mr. Burns' lean form next ascended, and his nose seemed to increase in
size, as he projected it in a low bow,--
"And allow me,--" what a deep voice! "to congratulate you upon the
society of your companion, who becomes her male attire exceedingly."
And Mr. Burns gravely resumed his seat.
"Did--I--not--tell, tell--you,--n-o-t to come in," sobbed Julia.
The Doctor's face was partly hidden by his plumes, but that portion of
it which was visible, resembled nothing so much in color, as a boiled
lobster.
It now occurred to the Doctor, to release his grasp upon the waist of
Julia. He left her to herself, and she fell on her knees, burying her
face in her hands. As for the Doctor himself, he _slid_ slowly into a
chair, never once removing his gaze, from the three gentlemen on the
sofa. Thus confronting them in his cardinal's attire, with the white
plumes nodding over his forehead, he seemed, in the language of the
chairman of a town meeting, "to be waiting for this here meeting to
proceed to business."
There was a pause,--a painful and embarrassing pause.
The three sat like statues, only that Mr. Potts rubbed the end of his
nose, with the top of his cane.
Why could not Dr. Bulgin, after the manner of the Genii in the Arabian
Nights, disappear through the floor, in a cloud of mist and puff of
perfume?
"Well,--gentlemen,--" said Bulgin at last, for the dead silence began
to drive him mad, and made him hear all sorts of noises, in his
ears,--"what are _you_ doing in _this place_, at this _unusual_ hour!"
This was a pointed question, to which Mr. Burns felt called upon to
reply. He rose, and again the nose loomed largely, as he bowed,--
"Precisely the question which we were about to ask you," he said, and
was seated again.
Mr. Potts took his turn:
"For a long time we have heard rumors," he said rising, "rumors
concerning our pastor, of a painful nature. And although we did not
credit them, yet they troubled us. Last night, however, we each
received a letter, from an unknown person, who informed us, that in
case we visited this house, between midnight and daybreak, we would
discover our pastor, in company with the wife of an aged member of our
church. As the letter inclosed the password, by which admittance is
gained to this place, we took counsel upon the matter, and concluded to
come. And,--"
"And,--" interrupted Watkins, rising solemnly, and extending the
forefinger of his right hand, toward Bulgin, "and _now we see_!"
"And now we _see_!" echoed Mr. Watkins, absently shutting one eye, as
he regarded Bulgin's face.
"We _all_ see," remarked Mr. Potts resuming his seat, and then as if to
clinch the matter--"and with _our own_ eyes!"
Bulgin never before fully appreciated the meaning of the word
"embarrassed." His wits had never failed him before; would they fail
him now? He made an effort--
"Why, gentlemen, the truth is, I was summoned to this house, on
professional duty,--" he began.
Mr. Potts groaned; they all groaned.
"In _that_ costume?" asked Potts.
"And with _madam_ there?" asked Watkins.
"Pro-fessi-o-n-a-l d-u-t-y!" thus Watkins in a hollow voice.
'Professional duty' would not do; evidently not. Foiled on this tack,
the good Doctor tried another:
"The truth is," he began, with remarkable composure,--"I had been
informed that Mrs. Parkins here,--" he pointed to the sobbing "nephew"
otherwise Julia, and drew his chair nearer to the three, gradually
softening his voice into a confidential whisper,--"Mrs. Parkins, the
young wife of my aged friend Parkins, had been so far led away by the
insinuating manners of a young man of fashion, as to promise to meet
him in this improper place. Desirous to save the wife of my aged friend
at all hazards, I assumed this dress,--the one which her seducer was to
wear,--and came to this place, and,--rescued her. Do you understand?"
That "do you understand," was given in one of his most insinuating
whispers; "and thus you see I periled my reputation in order to
save,--_her_!"
What effect this story would have had upon the three, had it been
suffered to travel unquestioned, it is impossible to tell. But low
and softly as the Doctor whispered, he was overheard by his "nephew,"
otherwise, Julia.
"Don't lie, Doctor," she said quite tartly as she knelt on the floor.
"I was not led away by any young man of fashion, and I did _not_ come
here to meet any young man of fashion. I _was_ led away by _you_, and I
came here with _you_."
Thus speaking, Julia rose from her knees, and came to the Doctor's
side, thus presenting to the sight of the three gentlemen, the figure
of a very handsome woman, dressed in blue frock coat and trowsers.
She was somewhat tall, luxuriously proportioned, with a fine bust
and faultless arms, her hair, chestnut brown, and her complexion a
delicate mingling of "strawberries and cream." "A dem foine woman,"
the exquisite of Broadway would have called her. There was not so
much of intellect in her face, as there was health, youth, passion.
Married to a man of her own age, and whom she loved, she doubtless
would have risen above temptation, and always proved a faithful wife,
an affectionate mother. But sold by her parents, in the mockery of
a marriage, to a man old enough to be her father,--perchance her
grandfather,--transferred at the age of seventeen, like a bale of
merchandise, to the possession of one whom she could not revere as a
father, or love as a husband,--we behold her before us, the victim of
the reverend tempter.
"You know, Doctor, that you led me away, you know you did," she cried,
sobbing, "now did you not?" She bent down her head and looked into his
face. "You can't say you didn't. No more he can't," and she turned in
mute appeal to the three gentlemen.
"Evidently _not_," exclaimed Mr. Potts, who in his younger days had
been somewhat wild, "that cock won't fight!" he continued, using a
figure of speech, derived from the experience of said younger days.
As for the Doctor, he mentally wished the beautiful Mrs. Julia Parkins
in Kamschatka.
"Never have an affair with a _fool_ again, as long as I live!" he
muttered.
"And while you soothed my poor old husband, on that doctrinal point;
you,--you," sobbed Julia, "told me how handsome I was, and what a shame
it was for me, to be jailed up with an old man like that. Yes, you said
_jailed_. And how it was no harm for me to love you, and that it was no
harm for you to love me. And I heard you preach, and you came to the
house, day after day, and,--" poor Julia could not go on for sobbing.
The three gentlemen groaned.
As for Dr. Bulgin, he calmly rose from his seat, and taking the
corkscrew from the tray on the table, proceeded quietly to draw the
cork of a bottle of champagne. This accomplished, he filled a long
necked glass to the brim with foaming Heidsick.
"Jig's up, gentlemen," he said, bowing to the three, as he tossed
off the glass, and regarded them with a smile of matchless
impudence,--"Jig's up!"
"What does he mean by 'jig's up?'" asked Mr. Burns of Mr. Potts, in a
very hollow voice.
"He means," returned Bulgin himself, straightening up, and rubbing his
broad chest with his fat hand, "that the jig is up. You've found me
out. There's no use of lying about it. And now that you have found me
out,--" he paused, filled another glass, and contemplated the three,
over its brim,--"allow me to ask, what do you intend to do?"
He took a sip from the glass. The three were thunderstruck.
"Cool!" exclaimed Mr. Potts, punching the toe of his boot with his cane.
"You _can't_ expose me," continued Bulgin, as he took another sip:
"that would create _scandal_, you know, and hurt the church more than
it would me."
The rich impudence of the Doctor's look, would "have made a cat laugh."
"We _will_ expose you!" cried Watkins, hollowly, with an emphatic
nodding of his nose. "The truth demands it. As long as you are suffered
to prowl about in this way, no man's wife, sister, or daughter is safe."
"No man's wife, sister, or daughter is safe!" echoed Mr. Potts.
"Did I ever tempt _your_ wife, Burns?" coolly asked Bulgin,--Burns
winced, for his wife was remarkably plain.
"Or your sister, Potts?" Potts colored to the eyes; his sister was a
miracle of plainness.
"Or your daughter, Watkins?" Watkins felt the thrust, for his daughter
was as plain as Burns' wife and Potts' sister combined.
"Be assured I never will," continued Bulgin--"now, what do you intend
to do? Expose me and ruin this poor creature here?"--"Don't call me a
poor creature, you brute!" indignantly interrupted Julia. "Publish me
in the papers, dismiss me from the church, give my name to be a by-word
in the mouths of scoffers and infidels? Gravely, gentlemen, is that
what you mean to do? Let us reflect a little. You pay me a good salary;
I preach you good sermons. Granted. My practice may be a little loose,
but, is not my doctrine orthodox? Where can you get a preacher who will
draw larger crowds? And is it worth your while, merely on account of a
little weakness like this,"--he pointed to Julia,--"to disgrace me and
the church together?"
The Doctor saw by their faces, that he had made an impression. They
conversed together in low tones, and with much earnestness. Meanwhile,
Julia sobbed and Bulgin took another glass of champagne.
"Will you solemnly promise,"--Burns knocked his cane on the floor,
and emphasised each word, "to be more careful of your conduct in the
future, in case we overlook the present offense?"
"Cordially, gentlemen, and upon my honor!" cried Bulgin, rising from
his seat, "I will take Julia quietly home, and to-morrow commence life
anew. I give you my hand upon it."
He advanced, and shook them by the hand.
"If you keep your word, this will suit me," said Burns, with gloomy
cordiality.
"And me," echoed Watkins.
"And me," responded Potts.
"But it will not suit me!" cried a strange voice, which started the
whole company to their feet. The voice came from behind the hangings
which concealed the bed. It was a firm voice, and deep as a well.
"It will not suit me, I say," and from the hangings the unknown speaker
emerged with a measured stride.
He was a tall man, somewhat bent in the shoulders, and wore a long
cloak, of an _antique_ fashion, which was fastened to his neck by a
golden clasp. His white hairs were covered by an old-fashioned fur-cap;
his eyes hidden by large green glasses, and the furred collar of his
cloak, concealed the lower part of his face. An aged man, evidently, as
might be seen by his snow-white hair, and the wrinkles on the exposed
portion of his face, but his step was strong and measured, and his
voice firm and clear.
"And who are _you_?" cried Bulgin, recovering from his surprise. His
remark was chorused by the others.
"A pew-holder in your church," emphatically exclaimed the cloaked
individual. "Let that suffice you. Gentlemen,"--turning his back
on Bulgin, he lifted his cap and exposed his forehead to the three
gentlemen,--"you know me?"
With one impulse, they pronounced a name; and it was plainly to be seen
that they respected that name, and its owner.
"This compromise does not suit me," said the cloaked gentleman, turning
abruptly to Bulgin. "You are a villain, sir. It is men like you who
bring the Gospel of Christ into contempt. You are an atheist, sir. It
is men like you who fill the world with infidels. I have borne with you
long enough. I will bear with you no longer. You shall be exposed, sir."
This style of attack, as impetuous as a charge of bayonets, evidently
startled the good Doctor.
"Who are _you_?" he asked, sneeringly.
"I am the man who wrote the letters to these three gentlemen,
yesterday," dryly responded the cloaked gentleman.
"This is a conspiracy," growled Bulgin. "Take care, sir! There is a law
for conspirators against character and reputation--"
"Baugh!" responded the old gentleman, shrugging his shoulders; and then
he beckoned with his hand, toward the recess in which stood the bed.
"Come in," he said, "it is time."
Two persons emerged from the recess; one, an old man, of portly form,
and mild, good-humored face--now, alas! dark and corrugated with
suppressed wrath; the other, a slender woman, with pale face, and
large, intellectual eyes,--and a baby, sleeping on her bosom.
Bulgin uttered an oath.
"My wife!--her father!" was all he could utter.
"I have summoned you from your home in the country," said the cloaked
gentleman, "to meet me at this house at this unusual hour, to show you
the husband and son-in-law in his festival attire, and in company with
his paramour.--Look at him! Isn't he beautiful?"
The wife rushed forward, with an indignant glance--
"Let me see the woman who has stolen my husband's affections," she said.
The cloaked gentleman interposed between her and Julia,--
"Softly, my good lady; this poor child must not be disgraced;" and,
turning to Julia, he whispered: "Hide your face with your 'kerchief,
and hurry from the room. There is a carriage at the door; it will bear
you home. Away now!"
"The nephew" did not need a second invitation. Hands over her face, she
glided from the room.
Bulgin now found himself in this position:--behind him, Watkins,
Burns and Potts; on his right, the cloaked gentleman; on his left,
his weeping wife, with her baby; in front, the burly form of his
father-in-law, who, clad in the easy costume of a country gentleman,
seemed too full of wrath to trust himself with words.
"Oh! husband, how could you--" began the wife.
"Is that your wife, sir?" thundered the father-in-law. "Answer me! Is
that your wife?"
"It is," answered Bulgin, retreating a step. "Allow me to explain,--"
"Is that your child, sir?" thundered the enraged old gentleman.
"Answer me! Is that your child?"
"It--is--" and Bulgin retreated another step.
"Then, what in the devil do you do in a place like this?--Hey?--Answer
me!--answer me!--"
The father-in-law was too much enraged to say any more. So he
proceeded to settle the affair in his own way. He did not threaten
"divorce;"--did not even mention "separate maintenance." Nothing of the
kind. His course was altogether different. From beneath his capacious
buff waistcoat, he drew forth a cow-hide--a veritable cow-hide,--and
grasped it firmly.
"Don't strike a man of my cloth," cried Bulgin.
The only answer was a blow across the face, which left its livid
mark on the nose and cheeks. The good Doctor bawled and ran. The
father-in-law pursued, giving the cow-hide free play over the head and
shoulders of the Doctor. And the wife, with baby on her bosom, pursued
her father,--"Don't, father, don't!" Thus, the chase led round the
room; the howls of the Doctor, the blows of the whip, the falling of
chairs, and trampling of feet, forming, altogether, a striking chorus.
And to add the feather to the camel's back, the baby lifted up its
voice in the midst of the scene. Mr. Potts, Mr. Burns, and Mr. Watkins,
mounted on the sofa, so that they might not be in the way.
As for the cloaked gentleman, leaning against the door, he
laughed,--yes, perhaps for the first time in thirty years.
After making the circuit of the room three or four times, the scarlet
attire of the Rev. Dr. Bulgin hung in rags upon his back; and the old
man, red in the face, bathed in perspiration, and out of breath, sank
panting in a chair.
He glanced at his daughter, who sat weeping in a corner, and then at
the Rev. Doctor, who, with the figure of the letter X welted across his
face, was rubbing his bruises in another corner.
"Now, sir, if ever I catch you at anything of this kind, if I don't
lick you, my name ain't Jenkins!"
CHAPTER VI.
BANK-STOCK AT THE BAR.
The Court of Ten Millions was once more in session. The judge was once
more in his seat; his form enveloped in the coat with many capes,
his features shadowed by the hat with ample brim. But the beautiful
Esther was no longer on his left, nor the giant negro on his right.
The great statesman, with the somber brow and masquerade attire of
Roderick Borgia, no longer sat in the seat of the criminal. The scene
was altogether changed, although the candle on the table still shed
its beams around that room, whose black hangings were fringed with
gold, and whose gloomy ceiling represented a stormy sky, with the sun
struggling among its clouds.
In the seat of the criminal sat Israel Yorke, the financier; his
diminutive form, clad in the scarlet Turkish jacket and blue trowsers,
contrasting somewhat oddly with his business-like face, and with the
general appearance of the scene. Israel was perplexed, for he shifted
uneasily in the chair and clasped its arms with his hands, while his
ferret-like eyes, now peering above, now below, but never through the
glasses of his spectacles, roved incessantly from side to side. There
sat the silent judge, under the gloomy canopy, his head bowed on his
breast. There was the black table, on which stood the solitary candle,
and over which were scattered, an inkstand, pen and paper, a book,
and sundry other volumes, looking very much like ledger and day-book.
On one side of the table, ranged against the wall, were six sturdy
fellows, attired in coarse garments, with crape over their faces; and
each man held a club in his brawny hand. And on the opposite side, also
ranged against the wall like statues, were six more sturdy fellows,
each one grasping a club with his strong right arm. They were dumb as
stone; only their hard breathing could be heard;--evidently men of
toil, who, on occasion, in a good cause, can strike a blow that will be
felt.
Israel did not like this scene. A few moments since, kneeling beside
a beautiful girl, whose young loveliness was helpless and in his
power;--and now, a prisoner in this nightmare sort of place, with the
judge before him, and six sturdy fellows on either hand, waiting to do
the judge's bidding! The contrast was too violent. Israel thought so;
and--Israel felt anything but comfortable.
"Do they mean to murder me in this dismal den?" he ejaculated
to himself. "Really, this way of doing business is exceedingly
unbusiness-like. What would they say in Wall street to a scene like
this?"
Here the voice of the judge was heard through the dead stillness:
"Israel Yorke, you are about to be put on trial for your crimes."
"My crimes?" ejaculated the little man, bounding from his seat.
"Crimes!--What crimes have I committed?"
There, outspoke the sense of injured innocence! To be sure--what crimes
had he committed? Had he ever stabbed a man, or put another man's name
to paper, or stolen a loaf of bread? No,--indignantly--No! Israel Yorke
was above all that. But how many robbers had he made, in the course of
his career, by his banking speculations? how many forgers? how many
murderers? how many honest men had he flung into the felon's cell? how
many pure women had he transformed into walkers of the public streets?
Ah! these are questions which Israel Yorke had rather not answer.
"Yes, your crimes, committed through a long course of years; not with
the bravery and boldness of the highway robber, but with the cowardice
and low cunning of the sneak and swindler, who robs within the letter
of the law. Crimes committed, not upon the wealthy and the strong,
but upon the weak, the poor, the helpless--the widow, by her fireless
hearth--the orphan, by his father's grave. Oh, sir--we have just tried
a bold, bad man; a colossal criminal, whose very errors wear something
of the gloomy grandeur of the thunder-cloud. To put you on trial, after
him, is like leaving the presence of Satan, his forehead yet bearing
some traces of former splendor, to find ones-self confronted by Mammon,
that most abased of all the damned. Yes, sir,--an apology is due to
human nature, by this court, for stooping so low as to put _you_ on
your trial. And yet, even you derive some sort of consequence from the
vast field of your crimes,--the wide-spread and infernal results of
your life-long labors."
Israel crouched in his chair, as though he expected the ceiling to fall
on him. "What d'ye mean by crimes?" he cried, grasping the arms of the
chair with both hands;--"and what right have you to try me?"
The judge briefly but pointedly, and in a clear voice, which penetrated
every nook of the chamber, explained the peculiar features of the
court. Its power, backed by ten millions of silver dollars; its
jurisdiction, over crimes committed by those who seek the fruits
of labor, without its work, or who use the accident of wealth and
social position to oppress or degrade man--their brother; its stern
application to criminals, who, clad in wealth, had trampled all justice
under foot of their own terse motto, "MIGHT MAKES RIGHT."
The explanation of the judge was brief, but impressive. Israel began
to feel conviction steal into his soul. "Might makes right!" Oh, how
like the last nail in the coffin, are those simple words, to a wealthy
scoundrel, who suddenly finds himself helpless in the grasp of a
mightier power!
"Of--what--am--I--accused!" faltered Israel; thus recognising the
jurisdiction of the court.
The judge answered him:
"Of every crime that can be committed by the man, who makes it his sole
object in life to coin money out of the life and blood of the helpless
and the poor;--and who pursues this object steadily, by day and night,
for twenty years, with the untiring scent of the bloodhound on the
track of blood. Survey your life for the last twenty years. You have
appeared in various characters: as the trustee, as the executor, as the
speculator, the landlord, and the financier."
He paused. Israel found himself listening with intense interest.
"As the trustee, to whom dying men, with their last breath, intrusted
the heritage of the orphan, you have in every case, plundered the
orphan out of bread, out of education, and cast him ignorant and
helpless upon the world. How many orphans, given into your charge, with
their heritage, now rot in the grave, or in the felon's dungeon? Your
history is written in their blood. Do you,--" the voice of the judge
sank low,--"do you remember one orphan, whom, when a little child, her
father gave to your care, and whom, when grown to young womanhood, you
robbed of her heritage? Do you remember the day on which she died, the
tenant of a brothel?"
Once more the judge was silent, but Israel had no word of reply. As for
the twelve listeners, they manifested their attention by an ominous
murmur.
"As the landlord, it has not been your object to provide the poor with
comfortable homes, in exchange for their hard-earned rent-money, but to
pack as many human beings as you might, within the smallest compass of
brick and mortar,--to herd creatures made in the image of the living
God, in narrow rooms, dark courts, and pestilential alleys, as never
beasts were herded,--and thus you have sowed death, you have bred the
fever, the small-pox, the cholera,--but _you have made money_."
Seated in the shadow of the velvet canopy, from which his voice
resounded, the judge again was silent. Israel, dropping his eyes,
imitated the silence of the judge. The murmur of the twelve listeners
was now accompanied by the sound of their clubs grating against the
floor.
"It is as a banker, however, that your appetite for money, made out of
human blood, takes its intensest form of baseness. You started with a
Savings Fund, chartered by a well-paid legislature, who transformed
you into a president and board of directors, and divesting you of all
responsibility, as a man, authorized you to coin money out of the blind
confidence of the poor. Hard-working men, servant-girls, needle-women,
and others of the poor, who gain their pittance by labor that never
knows rest, until it sleeps in the grave, deposited that pittance in
your hands. A pittance, mark you, not so remarkable for its amount, as
for the fact, that it might, in some future hour, become bread to the
starving, warmth to the freezing, home to the homeless. And how did you
deal with the sacred trust? The earnings of the poor filled the coffers
of your Savings Fund, until they counted over a hundred thousand
dollars, and then, on the eve of a dreary winter, the Savings Fund
_failed_. That was all. _You_ did not _fail_; oh, no; but the Savings
Fund Corporation (into which a pliant legislature had transformed
you),--it _failed_. And while you pocketed the hundred thousand
dollars, you left the poor, who had trusted you, to starve, or beg, or
die, as pleased them."
Israel shaded his eyes with his hands; he seemed buried in profound
thought.
"This was the corner-stone of your fortunes. Then the Savings Fund
swindler grew into the banker. There were legislatures at Albany,
at Trenton and at Harrisburgh, eager to do your bidding,--hungry to
be bought. For every dollar of real value in your coffers, these
legislatures, by their charters, gave you the privilege to create at
least fifty paper dollars; in other words, to demand from the toiling
people of the land, some millions of dollars' worth of their labor,
without any equivalent. Your banks grew; there were sham presidents and
boards of directors, but you were the actual owner of them all; your
paper was scattered broadcast over the land. It was in the hands of
farmers and mechanics, of poor men and poor women, who had taken it in
pay for hard labor; and all at once your banks _failed_. What became of
the poor wretches who took your paper, is not known, but as for you,
your capital of a hundred thousand now swelled into two millions of
dollars. Let the poor howl! Had you not a press in your pay? Why should
not the press be purchased, when legislatures are to be bought as so
much merchandise?"
The judge paused, and after a moment resumed,--
"There was a clamor for a while, but you laughed in your sleeve, bought
houses and lands,--dotted the city with pestilential dens, in which
you crowded the poor, like insects in a festering carcass,--and after
a time, raised your head once more as a banker. It was Harrisburgh,
Albany or Trenton this time,--one of the three, or all of them,--which
gave you the right to steal by law. You were now the owner (and behind
the scenes, the wire-puller), of three banks. Last night you thought
'the pear ripe.' Your notes were once more scattered broadcast over the
land. 'It is a good time to fail,' you thought, and so last night,
in the railroad cars (in order to give a color to your failure) you
pretended to be robbed of seventy-one thousand dollars."
"Pretended to be robbed? I tell you I was robbed," cried Israel,
half-rising from his seat,--"robbed by an old convict and his young
accomplice."
"And this morning, in due course, your three banks stopped payment.
All day long your victims lined the street, in front of your den of
plunder; and to-night found you in this place, seeking for a time, the
gratification of one lust in place of another. And now you are in the
hands of those who, having 'THE MIGHT,' will do with you as your crimes
deserve. 'Might makes right,' you know."
"But where is the proof of all this? Where are my accusers?" Israel's
teeth chattered as he spoke.
"Do you ask for accusers? What accusers are needed more powerful than
those voices which now,--and even your seared conscience must hear
them,--arise against you from the silence of the grave and the darkness
of the dungeon cell?"
Israel tried hard to brace his nerves against the force of words like
these,--against the tone in which they were spoke,--but he shook from
head to foot, as though he had been seized with an ague-fit.
"Think for a moment of Cornelius Berman, whom, by the grossest fraud,
you stripped of property and home, leaving himself and his only child
to sink heart-broken into the grave. And once you called yourself his
_friend_. Think, also, of your instrument, Buggles, whose persecution
of the artist, instigated by you, provoked a brave and honest youth
into murder, and consigned him to the felon's death! Do you ask for
accusers?"
"Cornelius Berman!" faltered Israel, as if thinking aloud.
"Do you ask for proofs? Behold them on the table before you. For years
your course has been tracked, your crimes counted, and the hour of
your punishment fixed. And the hour has come! On the table before you
are proofs of all your crimes, proofs that would weigh you down in a
convict's chains before any court of law. There are the secrets which
you thought safely locked up in your fire-proof, or buried in the
forgotten past,--secrets connected with the history of long years,
with your transactions in Harrisburgh, Trenton, Albany,--with all your
schemes from the very dawning of your infamous career."
"Can Fetch, the villain, have betrayed me?" and Israel sank back
helplessly in the huge arm-chair;--"or, is this man only trying to
bully me into some confession or other?"
"Israel Yorke! the devotion with which you, for long years, have
pursued your object,--to coin money out of human blood,--has only been
exceeded by the devotion of those who have followed you at every step
of the way, and for years, singled you out as the victim of avenging
justice."
"But what do you intend to do with me?" cried Yorke, now shivering from
head to foot with terror.
"In the first place, you will sign a paper, stating the truth, viz:
that you have ample means to redeem every dollar of your notes, and
that you will redeem them to-day, and henceforth at your office."
"But I have not the funds," Israel began, but he was sternly
interrupted by the judge: "It is false! you have the funds. Independent
of the seventy-one thousand dollars, of which you say you were robbed,
you can, at any moment, command a million dollars. The proofs are on
the table before you. You _must_ redeem your notes."
"And suppose I consent to sign such a paper?" hesitated the Financier.
"Then you must sign another paper, the contents of which you will not
know until some future time," continued the judge, very quietly.
"If I do it, may I be ----!" screamed Israel, bouncing from his seat.
"It is well. You may go," calmly remarked the judge. "You are free;
these gentlemen will see you from this house, and attend you until bank
hours, when they will have the honor of presenting you to the holders
of your notes, who will, doubtless, gather in respectable numbers in
front of your banking house."
Israel was free, but the twelve gentlemen, with clubs, gathered round
him, anxious to escort him safely on his way.
"Come, my dear little Turk, we are ready," said one of the number,
with a very gruff voice, laying a hand,--it was such a hard hand,--on
the shoulders of the Financier, "We're a-dyin' to go with you; ain't
we, boys?"
"Dyin' ain't the word,--we're starvin' to death to be alone with the
gentleman in blue trowsers," responded another.
Israel bit his lips in silent rage.
"Give me the papers," he said, in a sullen voice, and following a sign
from the finger of the judge, he advanced to the table, and beheld the
documents, the first of which he read.
It was an important document, containing a brief statement of all
Israel's financial affairs,--evidently prepared by one who knew all
about him,--together with his solemn promise to redeem every one of his
notes, dollar for dollar.
"Could Fetch have betrayed me?"--Israel hissed the words between his
set teeth, as he took up the pen.--"If I thought so, I'd cut his
throat."
He signed, shook his gold spectacles, and uttered a deep sigh.
"Now, the other paper," said the judge, "its contents are concealed by
another sheet, but there is room for your signature."
Israel's little eyes shone wickedly as he gazed upon the sheet of
paper, which hid the mysterious document. He chewed the handle of his
pen between his teeth,--stood for a moment in great perplexity, and
then signed at the bottom of the sheet, the musical name of "ISRAEL
YORKE," and then fell back in the chair wiping the sweat from his
forehead with the sleeve of his Turkish jacket.
"Anything more?" he gasped.
"You are free," said the judge; "you may now change your dress, and
leave this house."
Israel bounced from his seat.
"Yet, hold a single moment. One of these gentlemen will accompany
you wherever you go; eat, drink, walk, sit, sleep with you, and be
introduced by you to all your financial friends, as your moneyed friend
from the country,----"
"Why, you must be the devil incarnate," screamed Israel, and he beat
his clenched hand against the arm of the chair.
"It will be the business of your attendant to accompany you to your
banking house, and see that you commence the redemption of your notes
at nine o'clock this morning. He will report all your movements to me.
Were you suffered to go alone, you might, in a fit of absence, glide
out of public view, and,--Havana is such a pleasant residence for
runaway bankers, especially in winter time."
Israel gave utterance to an oath. The judge, without remarking this
pardonable ebullition of feeling, quietly addressed his twelve,--
"Which of you gentlemen will put yourself under this gentleman's
orders, as his attendant and shadow?"
There was a pause, and one of the twelve advanced and laid his brawny
hand upon the table. His gaunt and muscular form was clad in a sleek
frock-coat of dark blue cloth, buttoned over his broad chest to his
throat, where it was relieved by a black cravat and high shirt collar.
His harsh features, closely shaven, and disfigured by a hideous scar on
his cheek,--features manifesting traces of hardship and age,--were in
singular contrast with his hair, which, sleek, and brown and glossy,
was parted neatly in the middle of his huge head, and descended to
either ear, in massy curls. His eyes, half hidden by the shaggy brows,
shone with an expression only to be described by the words, _ferocious
fun_.
"I'll go with him, hoss," said a gruff voice; and, turning to Israel,
this singular individual regarded him with a steady look. Israel
returned his look, and the twain gazed upon each other with increasing
interest; and at length the individual approached Israel, and bent down
his head near to his face.
"It's the fellow,--it's the fellow!" cried Israel, once more bouncing
from his seat. "He robbed me last night in the cars,--he----"
"Be silent," cried the judge, who had regarded this scene attentively,
with his hand upraised to his brow.--"Gentlemen, conduct the prisoner
into the next room, and leave me alone with this person," he pointed to
the gaunt individual who stood alone by the table.
The eleven disappeared through the curtains into the Golden Room with
Israel in their charge.
"Now sir, who are you?" sternly inquired the judge.
The individual gravely lifted his brown hair,--for it was a wig,--and
disclosed the outline of his huge head, with the black hair streaked
with gray, cut close to the scalp. Then turning down the high
shirt-collar, he disclosed the lower part of his face,--the wide mouth
and iron jaw, stamped with a savage resolution.
"Don't you think I'm hansum?" he said, and the eyes twinkled under the
bushy brows, and the mouth distorted in a grin.
"It's the same!" ejaculated the judge,--"How did you escape from the
room in which you were confined some three hours ago, and what do you
here?"
"As yer so civil and pleasant spoken, I don't mind answerin' yer
questions. Arter the poleese had tied me, and left me in the dark upon
the bed, 'it looks black,' said I to myself, 'but don't give it up so
easy!' and a side door was opened, an' a hand cut my cords, and a voice
said 'get up and travel,--the way is clear,' and a bundle was put into
my hand, containin' these clothes, and this head o' hair.--I rigged
myself out in the dark, pitched my old clothes under the bed, an' then
went down the back stairway. I certainly did travel--"
"And then?--"
"And then," responded the individual, "I went and got shaved."
"How came you here?"
"Thinking, I was safer in a crowd, than anywhere else, I put for
down town, and I mixed in with the folks in front of Israel Yorke's
banking-house, and as they were hollering, why I hollered too. They
wanted to pitch into him,--so did I. Lord! didn't they holler! And a
gen'elman, seein' I was so airnest, told me about a private party, who
were about to foller up Isr'el, to this house. One o' their gang, he
said, was sick,--he axed me to jine 'em,--and swore me in as one of
your perleese,--and I jined 'em."
"What is your name?" cried the judge, sternly.
"In the place where I was last, they called me Ninety-One," answered
the old convict, arranging the high collar about his face,--"Years ago,
when I was an honest man, afore a man in a cloak, on a dark night, left
a baby with me and my wife, I was called,----"
He paused, and passed his brawny hand over his eyes. The judge started
up from his seat.--
"Yes, yes, you were called,--" he exclaimed.
"John Hoffman," replied the convict.
The judge sank back in his chair, and his head dropped upon his breast.
It was sometime before he spoke,--
"I have heard of your story before," he said, in a tremulous voice.
"And now answer me one question," he continued in a firmer voice.--"Did
you commit the murder for which you were arrested?"
"I can't expect you to believe an old cuss like me, but I certainly did
_not_," responded Ninety-One.
"How came you in the room next to the one in which the murdered man was
found?"
"I was took there by _a friend_, who offered to hide me from the folks
who were arter me, about Israel's valise."
The judge seemed buried in thought.
"And after the murder was discovered, and you were arrested and
pinioned, the same _friend_ appeared once more, and aided your escape?"
"It was a friend," dryly responded Ninety-One,--"can't say what he
looked like, as the room was as black as your hat, (purviden you don't
wear a white hat)."
"Did you commit the robbery on the railroad cars, last night?"
"I'll be straight up and down with you, boss," said Ninety-One,--"I did
_not_,--and nobody didn't. The money was found on the track, after the
smashin' up o' the cars."
"Do you imagine the _friend_, who hid you away in the house of old Mr.
Somers, intended to implicate you in the murder of his son?"
"That's jist one o' th' p'ints I'd like to settle;" Ninety-One uttered
a low deep laugh, "if he did, I wouldn't give three tosses of a bad
copper for his windpipe."
"As the case stands now, you labor under the double suspicion of
robbery and murder. Now mark me,--if you are innocent, I will defend
you. In the course of the day, I will have some future talk with you.
For the present, your disguise will avoid suspicion for a day or two.
You will go with Israel Yorke, and report all his movements to me. My
name and residence you will find on the card near the candlestick. One
question more--there was a boy with you,--"
The voice of the judge again grew tremulous.
Ninety-One, attired in the neat frock-coat, which displayed the brawny
width of his chest, drew himself to his full height, and gazed upon the
judge, long and earnestly, his eyes deep-sunken behind his bushy brows.
"Do you think I'd a answered all your questions, hoss, if I hadn't
thought you knew somethin' o' my life and had the will and the power
to set me right afore the world? Well it's not for my own sake, I wish
to be set right, but for the sake of that boy. And afore I answer your
question, let me ax another: Did you ever happen to know a man named
Doctor Martin Fulmer?"
Ninety-One could not see the expression of the judge's face, (for as
you are aware, that face was concealed under the shadow of the broad
brimmed hat,) but when the judge replied to his question, his voice was
marked by perceptible agitation:
"I know Dr. Fulmer. In fact,--in fact,--I am often intrusted by him
with business. He will be in town to-morrow."
"He is alive then," exclaimed Ninety-One. "Well hoss, when you meet
Dr. Martin Fulmer, jist tell him that that boy, who was with me, had a
parchment about his neck, on which these letters was writ, 'G. G. V. H.
C.' The very same," he continued, as if thinking aloud, "which I used
to send in a letter, to Dr. Martin Fulmer."
"And this boy," almost shrieked the judge, rising, and starting one
step forward, on the platform, his corpse-like hand extended toward
Ninety-One,--"This boy with the parchment about his neck, where,--where
is he now?"
CHAPTER VII.
"WHERE IS THE CHILD OF GULIAN VAN HUYDEN?"
"In the early part of the evenin' I left him in this very house, in
company with a gal named Frank,--"
The judge interrupted him,--"Bring in the prisoner!" he shouted, and
the eleven shuffled into the room, escorting the little gentleman
in Turkish jacket and trowsers: "Draw near sir," he beckoned to
Ninety-One, "attend this man from this house,--" he pointed to
Yorke, "and do with him as I direct you,--thus--" he communicated
his directions to Ninety-One, in a rapid tone, broken by emotion,
and inaudible to the eleven, "and you gentlemen,--" to the
eleven,--"already have your instructions."
He paused and then clutched Ninety-One by the hand, the convict
endeavoring, although vainly, to gain a glimpse of his features,--"In
this house with Frank did you say?" his voice was husky.
"In this house, with a gal named Frank," answered Ninety-One.
The judge stepped hastily from the platform, and his steps trembling as
he went, disappeared through a side door, his hands clasped over his
breast.
Israel Yorke found himself alone with Ninety-One and the eleven
gentlemen with clubs. Ninety-One addressed him in a tone of cheerful
politeness:
"Come, old cock, you and me's got to travel," he said, covering
Israel's right shoulder with his huge hand.
Israel, biting his lips with illy suppressed rage, could not help
venting the bitterness of his soul, in a single word,--
"Devil," he hissed the word between his set teeth.
"Well, I am a devil Isr'el," answered Ninety-One good humoredly, "an'
you're another. But you see there's two kind o' devils. I'll explain it
to you. Once a little sneak of a devil came up to the head devil, (this
happened in the lower regions,) and offered to take his arm, 'you're
one devil, and I'm another, and so we're ekle,' says the little sneak
of a devil. Now the head devil did not like this. He says, says he, to
the little sneak, 'There's two kind o' devils, young gen'leman. There's
me, for instance,--when I fell from Heaven. I showed _pluck_ anyhow,
and fell like a devil, and went about makin' _stump speeches_ in the
lower regions. But you,--you,--what was you doing meanwhile? Sneakin'
out o' Heaven with your carpet-bag full of gold bricks, which you had
stolen from the gold pavement.' Now Isr'el the name of the first devil
was Beelzebub, and the little sneak of a devil was called, Mammon. Do
you take?"
The eleven gentlemen with clubs, received this elegant apologue, with
evident pleasure, manifesting their delight by a unanimous burst of
laughter.
Israel said nothing, but evidently was absorbed in a multitude of
reflections, not altogether of the most pleasant character.
In a short time, once more arrayed in his every-day attire he left the
Temple, accompanied by Ninety-One, and followed by the eleven.
Hastening from the "Court of Ten Millions," his hands clasped tightly
over his breast, and his steps trembling as he went, THE JUDGE
was determined, at all hazards, to obtain an immediate interview
with Frank. Hurrying along a dark passage, and then down the dark
stairway,--for the lights had been extinguished, and the Temple was
dark and silent as the tomb,--the judge muttered frequently the words
"in this house,--in this house!" and then exclaimed,--"O, he cannot,
cannot escape me! The hand of fate has led him hither."
He opened a door, and entered the magnificent apartment, in which, in
the early part of the evening, Tarleton feasted with his friends, while
at the head of the table, sat the corse of Evelyn Somers. Now all was
dark and silent there.
The judge lost no time, but retraced his steps and hurried up-stairs.
He presently entered the Central Chamber, where a few candles burned to
their sockets, shed their pale and uncertain light, over the pictures
and the mirrors, the tables coveted with flowers, and the lofty ceiling
supported by marble pillars. When last we saw the Central Chamber,
it was all life and motion; warm pulses were throbbing, bright eyes
flashing there. Then gay and varied costumes glittered in the light,
and each voluptuous recess, echoed to the sighs of passion. Now the
scene presented that saddest of all spectacles,--the decaying lights
of a festival, emitting their last dim gleam, upon the faded splendors
of the forsaken festal hall. Popes, Caliphs, Cardinals, Quakeresses,
Knights, Nymphs and Houris, all were gone. The place was silent as the
grave, and much more sad.
A single form walked slowly up and down the silent hall,--a woman,
whose noble person was attired in black velvet, her dark hair falling
to her shoulders, and a white cross clustering on her brow. Her hands
dropped listlessly by her side, and her dark eyes dilating in their
sockets, were fixed in a vacant stare.
"Frank, I must speak with you at once, and on a subject of life and
death," cried the judge, suddenly confronting her. Even as he spoke,
he was startled at the unnatural pallor of her face. "To-night a
young man, in whose history I am fearfully interested, entered this
house, and saw you in your chamber. He is now here," he continued
impetuously,--"I must see him."
"You mean the lost son of Gulian Van Huyden?" she calmly said, pausing
in her walk, and folding her arms over her breast.
"He _was_ here then," cried the judge, evidently wild with agitation,
"nay he is here now."
"He was here half an hour ago," returned Frank, who, pre-occupied
with her own thoughts, did not seem to notice the agitation of the
Judge,--"half an hour ago he left the house."
"Left the house? Whither has he gone?"
"I know not."
"Child, child, you mock me," in his agitation he seized her wrist,--"I
must see this boy, it is upon a matter of life and death. For God's
sake do not trifle with me."
"I tell you, that he left the house half an hour ago," returned Frank,
"and as I hope to have peace in the hour of my death, I do not know
whither he has gone."
The solemnity of her tone impressed the judge.
"But will he return?"
"He will never return,--never!" she answered, and it seemed to the
judge, as though there was a hidden meaning in her words.
"O, do not drive me to despair. I must see this youth, before
to-morrow,--yes, to-day,--this hour!"
"You will never see him in this house again."
"Did he leave this house alone, or was he accompanied,--and by whom?"
A strange smile passed over her face as she replied in a whisper--
"He was accompanied by Mary Berman, who arisen from the grave, came
here to claim her husband."
The Judge uttered a wild ejaculation, and sank half fainting in a
chair,--his hat fell from his brow, and his face was revealed.
That face, remarkable in every outline, was bathed in cold moisture,
and distorted by contending emotions.
CHAPTER VIII.
BEVERLY AND JOANNA.
In the Temple, near the hour of dawn, on the morning of the 24th of
December, 1844.
"Fallen!"
Yes, fallen! nevermore to press the kiss of a pure mother upon the
lips of her innocent child. Fallen! never more to meet her husband's
gaze, with the look of a chaste and faithful wife. Fallen!--from
wifely purity, from all that makes the past holy, or the future
hopeful--fallen, from all that makes life worth the having,--fallen!
and forever!
"Fallen!"
Oh, how this word, trembling from her lips--wrung from her
heart--echoed through the stillness of the dimly-lighted chamber.
She was seated on the sofa, her noble form clad in the white silken
robe--her hands clasped--her golden hair unbound--her neck and
shoulders bare: and the same light hanging from the ceiling, which
disclosed the details of that luxurious chamber--carpet, chairs, sofa,
mirror, and the snow-white couch in a distant recess--fell upon her
beautiful countenance, and revealed the remorse that was written there.
There was a wild, startled look in her blue eyes; her lips were apart;
her cheek was now, pale as death, and then, flushed with the scarlet
hues of unavailing shame.
He was reclining at her feet; his arm resting on the sofa; his face
upturned--his eyes gazing into hers. Clad in the costume of the white
monk--a loose robe of white cloth, with wide sleeves, edged with
red--Beverly Barron toyed with his flaxen curls, as he looked into her
face, and remarked her with a look of mingled meaning. There was base
appetite, gratified vanity, but no remorse in his look.
And the light fell on his florid face, with its sensual mouth, receding
chin, wide nostrils, and bullet-shaped forehead, encircled by ringlets
of flaxen hair--a face altogether _animal_, with scarcely a single ray
of a higher nature, to light up or refine its grossness.
"Fallen!" cried Joanna; and clasped her hands, and shuddered, as if
with cold.
"Never mind, dear," said Beverly, and he bent forward and kissed her
hands--"I will love you always!"
"Oh, my God!"--and in that ejaculation, all the agony of her soul found
utterance,--"Oh, my God! my child!"
Beverly knelt at her feet, and kissed her clenched hands, and
endeavored to soothe her with professions of undying love; but she tore
her hands from his grasp--
"My husband! How can I ever look into his face again!"
Had you seen that noble form, swelling in every fiber; had you seen the
silken robe, heaved upward by the agony which filled her bosom; had
you seen the look, so wild--remorseful--almost mad--which stamped her
face,--you would have felt the emphasis with which she uttered these
terrible words, "My husband! How can I ever look into his face again!"
"Your husband," whispered Beverly, with something of the devil in his
eyes, "your husband, even now, is on his way to Boston, where the
chosen mistress of his heart awaits him. His brother is at the point
of death, is he? ha, ha, Joanna! 'Twas a good excuse, but, like all
excuses, rather lame--when found out. The poor, good, dear Joanna,
sits at home, pining at her husband's absence, while he, the faithful
Eugene, consoles himself in the arms of his Boston love!"
"It cannot be! it cannot be!" cried Joanna, beating the carpet with her
foot, and pressing her clenched hands against her heaving breast.
"Do you see this, darling?" and, throwing the robe of the white monk
aside, he disclosed his "flashy" scarf, white vest and gold chain. "Do
you see this, pet?" and from beneath his white vest he drew forth a
package of letters.--"_Her_ letters to her dear Eugene! How she loves
him--how she pities him, because he is not married to a _sympathetic_
soul,--how she counts the hours that must elapse before he comes! It
is all written here, darling!"
Joanna took the package and passed it absently from one hand to the
other. "Yes, yes, I read them yesterday! It is true, beyond hope of
doubt. He loves her!--he loves her!"
"And you,"--Beverly arose and seated himself by her side, winding
his arm about her waist. "And you, like a brave, noble woman, whose
dearest affections have been trampled upon,"--he wound his left
hand amid the rich masses of her golden hair,--"you, like a brave,
proud heart, whose very May of life has been blighted by a husband's
treachery,--have _avenged_ yourself upon him!"
He pressed his kiss upon her lips. But the warmth of passion had passed
away. Her lips were cold. She shrunk from his embrace. The vail had
fallen from her eyes; the delusion, composed of a mad passion and a mad
desire for revenge, had left her, and she knew herself to be no longer
the stainless wife and holy mother--but that thing for which on earth
there is no forgiveness--an adulteress!
"No, Beverly, no. It will not avail. His fault was no excuse for my
crime. For his fault affects me only--wrongs me alone--but mine--,"
there was a choking sensation in her throat--she buried her face in her
hands--"Oh God! oh God! my child!"
Beverly took a bottle of champagne which stood upon the table, drew the
cork, and filled two brimming glasses.
"You are nervous, my darling," he said, "take this. Let us pledge each
other--for the past, forgetfulness--for the future, hope and love."
He stood erect beneath the lamp--his tall form, clad in the robe of
the white monk, relieved by the very gloom of the luxurious chamber;
he pressed the glass to his lips, and over its rim surveyed the
white couch, which looked dim and shadowy in its distant recess,--he
murmured, "Eugene, your magnificent wife is mine!"
And then drained the glass without moving it from his lips.
She took the glass and drank; but the same wine which an hour ago had
fired her blood, and completed the delusion of her senses, now only
added to her remorse and shame.
"My father,--so proud of his name, so proud of the honor of his son,
the purity of his daughter, how shall I ever meet his eye? how can I
ever look him in the face again?"
And the image of that stern old man, with wrinkled visage and
snow-white hair, rose vividly before her. Her father was an aristocrat
of the old school--proud, not of his money, but of his blood. The royal
blood of Orange flowed in his veins. Loving his only daughter better
than his own soul, he would have put her to death with his own hand,
sooner than she should incur even the suspicion of dishonor.
"Pshaw, Joanna! He need never know anything about the adventures
of this night. You have been slighted, and you have taken your
revenge;--that is all. No one need know anything about it. You will
mingle in society as usual; these things, my darling, are almost things
of course in the fashionable world, among the 'upper ten.' Among the
beautiful dames whom you see at the opera, on a 'grand night,' how many
do you suppose would waste one thought of regret upon an adventure like
this?"
Joanna buried her burning temples in her hands. All of her life rushed
before her. Her childhood--the days of her pure maidenhood--the hour
of her marriage, when she gave herself to the husband who idolized
her,--the hour of her travail, when she gave birth to her child,--all
rushed upon her, with the voices, tones, faces of other days,
commingled in one brief but vivid panorama.
"You see, my pet, you know but little of the world," continued
Beverly. "In the very dawn of your beauty, ignorant of the world, and
of the value of your own loveliness, you wedded Eugene. Life was a
rose-colored dream to you; you thought of him only as the ideal of your
existence. You thought that he regarded you in the same light. You
did not dream that he would ever regard you simply as the handsomest
piece of furniture about his splendid establishment,--a splendid
fixture, destined to bear him children who would perpetuate the name
of Livingston,--while his roving affections wandered about the world,
constantly seeking new objects of passionate regard. You never dreamt
of this, did you, darling?"
Joanna uttered a groan. Pressing her hands to her throbbing temples,
she felt her bosom swell, but could not frame a word.
"Now, my dear, you are a woman; you know something of the world. Like
hundreds of others of your wealth and station, you can, under the vail
of decorum, select the object of a passionate attachment, and indulge
your will at pleasure. A bright future, rich in love and in all that
makes life dear, is before you----"
And Beverly drew her to him, putting one arm about her neck, while his
left hand girdled her bosom. As he kissed her, her golden hair floated
over his face and shoulders.
At this moment the door opened without a sound, and a man wrapped in a
cloak, with a cap over his brow, advanced with a noiseless step toward
the sofa.
It was not until his shadow interposed between them and the light, that
they beheld him. As Joanna raised her head, struggling to free herself
from the embrace of her seducer, she beheld the intruder, who had
lifted his cap from his brow.
"O God, Eugene!" she shrieked, and fell back upon the sofa, not
fainting, but utterly paralyzed, her limbs as cold as marble, her blood
turned to ice in her veins.
It was Eugene Livingston. Gently folding his arms, cap in hand, he
surveyed his wife. His face was turned from the light,--its ghastly
paleness could not be seen. His cloak hid the heavings of his breast.
But the light which fired his eyes, met the eyes of his wife, and
burned into her soul.
He did not speak to her.
Turning from her, he surveyed Beverly Barron, who had started to his
feet, and who now stood as if suddenly frozen, with something of the
look and attitude of a man who is condemned to watch a lighted candle,
as it burns away in the center of a barrel of gunpowder.
Not a word was spoken.
Joanna crouching on the sofa, her chin resting on her clasped
hands,--Beverly on the floor, his hands outspread, and his face dumb
with terror,--Eugene standing between them, folding his cloak upon his
breast, as he silently turned his gaze, first to his wife, and then to
her seducer.
At length Eugene spoke,--
"Come, Joanna," he said, "here is your father. He will take you home."
She looked up and beheld the straight, military form, the stern visage
and snow-white hair of her father. One look only, and she sank lifeless
at his feet. She may have meant to have knelt before him, but as she
rose from the sofa, or rather, glided from it, she fell like a corpse
at his feet. The old general's nether lip worked convulsively, but he
did not speak.
"General, take her to my home, and at once," whispered Eugene.
"There must be no scandal, no noise, and----" he paused as if
suffocating,--"no _harshness_, mark you."
The general was a stalwart man, although his hair was white as snow,--a
man whose well-knit limbs, erect bearing, and sinewy hands, indicated
physical vigor undimmed by age, but he trembled like a withered leaf as
he raised his daughter from the floor.
"I will do as you direct, Eugene," he said, in a husky voice.
"You will find her cloak in the next room," said Eugene, "and the
carriage is at the door."
The general girded his insensible daughter in his arms, and bore her
from the room. As he crossed the threshold, he groaned like a dying man.
Eugene and Beverly were alone. Beverly at a rapid glance surveyed the
room. Eugene stood between him and the door; he turned to the windows,
which were covered with thick curtains. Those windows were three
stories high. There was no hope of escape by the windows.
"Will you take a chair, my friend," said Eugene.
Beverly sank into a chair, near the table; as he seated himself, he
felt his knees bend beneath him, and his heart leap to his throat.
Eugene took a chair opposite, and shading his eyes with his hand,
surveyed the seducer. There was silence for a few moments, a silence
during which both these men endured the agonies of the damned.
"You have a daughter, I believe," said Eugene, in a voice that was
broken by a tremor. "You may wish to send some word to her. Here is a
pencil and tablets. Let me ask you to be brief."
He flung the pencil and tablets upon the table. Beverly recoiled as
though a serpent had stung him.
"Eugene," he faltered, for the first time finding words, "you--you do
not mean to murder me?"
And his florid face grew ashy with abject terror.
Eugene did not reply, but knocked twice upon the marble table with his
clenched hand. Scarcely had the echo of the sound died away, when the
door was once more opened, and two persons advanced to the table.
The first was a tall, muscular man, with a phlegmatic face, light hair,
and huge red whiskers. His blue frock-coat was buttoned to the throat,
and he carried an oblong box in his hands.
"Joanna's brother!" ejaculated Beverly.
The second person was a dapper little gentleman, with small eyes, a
hooked nose, and an enormous black moustache. He was dressed in black,
with a gold chain on his breast, and a diamond pin in his faultless
shirt bosom.
"Major Barton!" ejaculated Beverly, bounding from his seat, for in
Major Barton he recognized an old and intimate acquaintance.
"Robert," said Eugene, turning to Joanna's brother, "what have you
there?"
"The dueling pistols," quietly responded Robert.
"Have you and this gentleman's friend arranged the _preliminaries_?"
"We have," interrupted the dapper Major; "distance, ten paces,--place,
Weehawk, opposite the city,--time, right off."
"This without consulting me!" cried Beverly, who at the mention of a
duel, felt a hope lighten up in his heart, for coward as he was, he was
also a capital shot.
"Gentlemen, I beg to say,----" he drew his White Monk's robe over his
heart, and assumed a grand air,--"gentlemen,----"
The dapper little major glided to his side,--
"Bev., my boy, better be quiet. Eugene waited on me an hour ago and
explained all the circumstances,--desired me to act as your friend. As
I'd rather see you have a chance for your life in a duel, than to see
you killed in such a house as this, like a dog, I consented. Bev., my
boy, better be quiet."
"If you don't wish to fight, say so," and the phlegmatic Robert stepped
forward, eyeing Beverly with a look of settled ferocity, that was not
altogether pleasant to see,--"if you decline the duel, just say so in
the presence of your friend, Major Barton. Just say no."
And Robert eyed Beverly from head to foot, as though it would afford
him much pleasure to pitch him from the third story window.
"I will fight," said Beverly, pale and red by turns.
"Then I'll get your hat, and coat, and cloak," said the obliging
major,--"they're in the next room. We must leave the house quietly, and
there's a boat waiting for us, at the foot of the street, or the North
River. We can cross to the Jersey shore, before morning breaks. It will
be a nice little affair all among ourselves. By-the-bye, how about a
surgeon?"
"Yes, a surgeon!" echoed Robert, turning to Eugene, who, seated by the
table, rested his forehead against his hand.
"We will not need a surgeon," said Eugene, raising his face, from which
all color of life had fled. "Because our fight is to the death."
CHAPTER IX.
MARY BERMAN--CARL RAPHAEL.
They sat near the marriage altar, their hands clasped, and their gaze
fixed upon each other's face. The countenance of Nameless was radiant
with a deep joy. One hand resting upon the neck of Mary, the other
clasping her hand, his soul was in his eyes, as he looked into her
face. Her hair, brown and wavy, streamed over the hand, which rested on
her neck. Despite her faded attire,--the gown of coarse calico, and the
mantilla of black velvet,--Mary was very beautiful; as beautiful as her
name. All the life which swelled her young bosom, was manifested in the
bloom of her cheeks, the clear, joyous look of her eyes. Her beauty was
the purity of a stainless soul, embodied in a person, rich with every
tint and outline of warm, womanly loveliness.
"Well might my whole being thrill, as you passed by me to-night! Your
form was vailed, your face hid, but my soul knew that you were near!"
"O, Carl, in all our lives, we will never know a moment of joy so deep
as this!"--and there was something of a holy sadness in Mary's gaze
as she spoke,--"After years of sorrow and trial, that might break the
stoutest hearts, we have met again, like two persons who have risen
from the grave. The world is so dark, Carl,--so crowded with the
callous and the base,--that I fear for our future. O, would it not be
beautiful, yes holy, to die now, in each other's arms, at the moment
when our hearts are filled with the deepest joy they can ever know?"
The words of the pure girl, uttered in a voice imbued with a melancholy
enthusiasm, cast a shadow over the face of Nameless, and brought a sad
intense light to his eyes.
"Yes, Mary, it is even so," he replied,--"it is a harsh and bitter
world, in which the base and callous-hearted, prey upon those who have
souls. When I think of my own history, and of yours, it does not seem
reality, to me, but the images of the past move before me, like the
half defined shapes of a troubled dream."
And he bent his forehead,--fevered and throbbing with thought, upon her
bosom, and listened to the beatings of that heart, which had been true
to him, in every phase of his dark life. She pressed her lips silently
upon his brow.
"But the future is bright before us, Mary," he whispered, raising
his face, once more radiant with hope,--"the cottage by the river
shore, shall be ours again! O, don't you remember it, Mary, as it
leans against the cliff, with the river stretching before it, and the
palisades rising far away, into the western sky? We will live there,
Mary, and forget the world." Alas! he knew not of the poison in his
veins. "Your father, too,--"
"My father!" she echoed, starting from her chair, as the memory of that
broken man with the idiot face,--never for a moment forgotten,--came
vividly before her, "My father! come Carl, let us go to him!"
She wound the mantilla about her form, and Carl, otherwise Nameless,
also rose from his chair, when a footstep was heard, and the door was
abruptly opened.
"Leave this house, at once, as you value your life," cried an agitated
voice,--"You know my father,--know that he will shrink from no crime,
when his darker nature is aroused,--you have foiled the purpose which
was more than life to him. There is danger for you in this house! away!"
"Frank!" was all that Nameless could ejaculate, as he saw her stand
before him, lividly pale, her hair unbound, and the golden cross rising
and falling upon her heaving bosom. There was a light in her eyes,
which he had never seen before.
"No words," she continued in broken and rapid tones,--"you must away
at once. You are not safe from poison,"--a bitter, mocking smile,--"or
steel, or any treachery, as long as you linger in this house. But this
is no time for masquerade attire,--in the next room you will find the
apparel which you wore, when first you entered this house, together
with a cloak, which will protect you from the cold. You have no time
to lose,--give me that bauble," and she tore the chain from his neck
and the golden cross from his breast,--"away,--you have not a moment to
lose." She pointed to the door.
"Frank!" again ejaculated Nameless, and something like remorse smote
his heart, as he gazed upon her countenance, so sadly changed.
"Will you drive me mad? Go!" again she pointed to the door.
Nameless disappeared.
"And you,--" she took the hands of Mary within her own, and raised
them to her breast, and gazed long and earnestly into that virgin
face,--"You, O, I hate you!" she said her eyes flashing fire, and
yet the next moment, she kissed Mary on the cheeks and forehead, and
pressed her to her bosom with a frenzied embrace. "You are worthy of
him," she said slowly, in a low voice, again perusing every line of
that countenance,--"I know you, although an hour ago, I did not know
that you lived;" once more her tones were rapid and broken,--"know
your history, know who it was that lured you to this place, and know
the desolate condition of your father. Your husband has money, but
it will not be safe for him to attempt to use it for some days. Take
this,--conceal it in your bosom,--nay, I will take no denial. Take it
child! That money and purse are not the wages of pollution,--they were
both mine, in the days when I was pure and happy."
Scarcely knowing what to do, Mary, whom the wild manner of Frank,
struck at once with pity and awe, took the purse, and hid it in her
bosom.
"I now remember you," said Mary, her eyes filling with tears, as she
gazed into the troubled face of Frank,--"Father painted your picture,
and afterward you sought us out in our garret, and left your purse upon
the table, with a note stating that it contained the balance due on
your portrait. O, it was kind, it was noble,--"
"Do not speak of it, child," Frank said in rapid and abrupt
tones,--"Had I not been convinced that you and your father were dead, I
would have visited you often. That is, if I could have concealed from
you what I was, and the way of life which was mine."
Her lip quivered, and she hid her eyes with her hand.
"But come, your husband is here," she said, as Nameless re-appeared,
his form once more clad in the faded frock-coat, but with a cloak
drooping from his shoulders. "You must away, and at once."
"Frank,"--and Nameless, trembling with agitation, approached her, "we
will meet again in happier hours."
O, the strange look of her eyes, the bitter mocking curl of her lip!
"We will never meet again," she answered, in a voice that sunk into his
heart. Then burying the chain and golden cross in her bosom, she placed
a letter in his hand,--"Swear to me that you will not read this, until
three hours at least are passed?"
"I promise,--"
"Nay, you must swear it,--"
"I swear, in the sight of Heaven!"
"Now depart, and,--" she turned her face away from their gaze, and
pointed to the door.
As she turned away, Mary approached her, and put her arms about her
neck, and her eyes brim full of tears all the while,--kissed her on the
forehead and the lips, saying at the same time, and from the depths of
her heart, "May God in Heaven bless you!"
Frank took Mary's arms from her neck, and joined her hand in that of
Nameless, and then pushed them gently to the door,--"Go, and at once,"
she whispered.
And they crossed the threshold, Mary looking back over her shoulder,
until she disappeared with Nameless, in the shadows of the passage.
Frank stood with one hand extended to the door, and the other
supporting her averted face,--she heard their footsteps in the passage,
on the stairway, and in the hall beneath. Then came the sound of the
opening and closing of the door, which led into the street.
And then the agony, the despair, the thousand emotions which racked
her soul, found utterance in the simple, and yet awfully touching
ejaculation,--"O, my God!--" and she flung herself on her knees, before
the Marriage Altar, resting her clenched hands upon the Holy Bible,
which was concealed by her bowed head, and unbound hair.
"O, my God! He is gone, and--forever!"
Yes, Frank, woman so beautiful and so utterly lost, gone and
forever--gone, with his young wife by his side, and Poison in his
veins.
PART FIFTH.
THE DAWN, SUNRISE AND DAY.
DECEMBER 24, 1844.
CHAPTER I.
"THE OTHER CHILD."
Baffled schemer!
In the dim hour which comes before the break of day, Colonel Tarleton
was hurrying rapidly along the silent and deserted street.
Broadway, a few hours since, all light, and life, and motion, was
now lonely as a desert. Gathering his cloak over his white coat, and
drawing his cap lower upon his brows, Tarleton hurried along with a
rapid and impetuous step, now and then suffering the thoughts which
filled him, to find vent in broken ejaculations.
"Baffled schemer!" he exclaimed aloud, and then his thoughts arranged
themselves into words:--"Why do those words ring in my ears? They do
not apply to me; let me but live twenty-four hours, and all the schemes
which I have worked and woven for twenty-one long years, will find
their end in a grand, a final triumph. Baffled schemer! No,--not yet,
nor never! This boy who was to marry Frank, will _fade away_ in a few
hours, and make no sign; and now for the other child. I must hasten to
the house of old Somers,--his 'private secretary' must be mine before
daybreak. The hour is unusual, the son lies dead in one room,--the
father in the other; but I must enter the house at all hazards,
for,--for,--the _only remaining child_ of Gulian Van Huyden, must be in
my power before daybreak."
And he hurried along toward the head of Broadway, through the silent
city. Even in the gloom, the agitation which possessed him, was plainly
discernible. The hand which held the cloak upon his breast was tightly
clenched, and, as he passed through the light of a lamp, you might
note his compressed lip, his colorless cheek, and eyes burning with
intense thought. His whole life swept before him like a panorama.
The day when the wife and mother lay dead in her palace home, while
Gulian, his brother, clutched him with a death-grip as he plunged into
the river,--the years which he had gayly passed in Paris, and the
horrible years which he had endured in the felon's cell,--the happy
childhood, and the irrevocable shame of his daughter, sold by her own
mother into the arms of lust and gold,--his duel with young Somers,
whom he had first murdered, and then smuggled his corpse into his
father's home,--the scenes which he had this night witnessed in the
Temple, beginning with his interview with Ninety-One, and ending in the
marriage of Frank and Nameless, and the apparition of Mary Berman,--all
flitted before him like the phantoms of a spectral panorama.
"And the next twenty-four hours will decide all! Courage, brain, you
have never yet despaired,--" he struck his clenched hand against his
forehead,--"do not fail me now!"
Turning from Broadway, as the night grew darker, he entered the street
in which the house of Evelyn Somers, Sr., was situated. He was rapidly
approaching that house,--cogitating what manner of excuse he should
make to the servants for his call at such an unusual hour,--when he
was startled by the sound of footsteps. He paused, where a street lamp
flung its light over the pavement. Shading his eyes, he beheld two
figures approaching through the gloom. He glided from the light, and
stationed himself against the wall, so that he could see the figures
as they passed, himself unseen. The steps drew near and nearer, and
presently from the gloom the figures passed into the light. A man,
wrapped in a cloak, with a broad _sombrero_ drooping over his face,
supported on his arm the form of a youth, who, clad in a closely
buttoned frock-coat, trembled from weakness, or from the winter's cold.
The face of the man was in shadow, but the light shone fully on the
face of the youth as he passed by.
Tarleton, with great difficulty, suppressed an ejaculation and an oath.
For in that boy who leaned tremblingly upon the arm of the cloaked man,
he recognized the _Private Secretary_ of the merchant prince!
"Courage, my poor boy,"--Tarleton heard the cloaked man utter these
words, as he passed by,--"it was a happy impulse which led me to leave
my carriage, and walk along this street. I arrived just in time to save
you; it is but a step to my carriage, and once in my carriage you will
tell me all."
"O, sir, you will protect me,"--the voice of the youth was tremulous
and broken,--"you will protect me from this man----"
And with these words they passed from the light into the gloom again.
Tarleton stood for a moment, as though nailed to the wall against which
he leaned. He could not believe the evidence of his senses. That the
boy, Gulian Van Huyden, the private secretary had left the mansion of
the merchant prince, at this strange hour, and was now in the care of
a man whom he, Tarleton, did not know; this fact was plain enough, but
Tarleton could not believe it. He stood as though nailed to the wall,
while the footsteps of the retreating figures resounded through the
stillness. At length, with a violent effort, he recovered his presence
of mind.
"I will follow them and reclaim _my child_!" he ejaculated, and
gathering his cloak across the lower part of his face, hurried once
more toward Broadway.
But as he discovered the distance between himself and the figures
of the cloaked man and the youth, his purpose failed him, he knew
not why,--he dared not address the man, much less seize the boy,
Gulian,--but he still hung upon their back, watching their every
movement, himself unobserved.
Meanwhile, a thousand vague suspicions and fears flitted through his
mind.
At the head of Broadway, in the light of a lamp, stood a carriage,
with a coachman in dark livery on the box. The horses, black as jet,
stood, beating the pavement with their hoofs, and champing their bits
impatiently.
The unknown paused beside this carriage, still supporting the boy,
Gulian, on his arm.
"Felix," he said, in a low voice, addressing the coachman, who started
up at the sound of his voice, "drive at once, and with all speed, to
_the house yonder_,"--he pointed to the north.
"Yes, my lord," was the answer of the coachman.
"And you, poor boy," continued the unknown, thus addressed as "my
lord," turning to young Gulian,--"enter, and be safe hereafter from all
fear of persecution." He opened the carriage door, and Gulian entered,
followed by the unknown.
And the next moment the sound of the wheels was heard, and the carriage
passing Union Square and rolling away toward the north.
Tarleton, who had, unobserved, beheld this scene, started from the
shadows and approached the lamp. He clenched his teeth in helpless rage.
"I saw his face for an instant, ere he entered the carriage, and as
his cloak fell aside, I noticed the golden cross on his breast; and
I neither like his cadaverous face, nor the golden cross. Why,--"
he stamped angrily upon the pavement,--"why do I hate and fear this
man whom I have never seen before?--'my lord!'--the cross on his
breast,--perchance a dignitary of the Catholic Church! Ah! he will
wring the secret from this weak and superstitious boy. All, all is
lost!"
He was roused from this fit of despair and rage by the sound of
carriage wheels. It was a hackney coach, returning homeward, the horses
weary, and the driver lolling sleepily on the box.
Tarleton darted forward and stopped the horses.
"Do you want to earn five dollars for an hour's ride?" he said, "if
so, strike up Broadway, and follow a dark carriage drawn by two black
horses," and he mounted the box, and took his seat beside the coachman.
The latter gentleman waking up from his half slumber, and very wroth at
the manner in which his horses had been stopped, and his box invaded,
forthwith consigned Tarleton to a place which it is not needful to
name, adding significantly,--
"An' if yer don't git down, I'll mash yer head,--if I don't,--" etc.,
etc.
"Pshaw! don't you know me?" cried Tarleton, lifting his cap,--"follow
the carriage yonder, and I'll make it ten dollars for half an hour's
ride."
"Why, it _is_ the colonel!" responded the mollified hackman.--"My team
is blowed, colonel, but you're a brick, and here goes! Up Broadway did
you say?--let her rip!"
He applied the whip to his wearied horses, and away they dashed,
passing Union Square, and entering upper Broadway.
"That the carriage, colonel?" asked the driver, as they heard the sound
of wheels in front of them, "that concern as looks blacker than a stack
of black cats?"
"It is. Follow it. Do not let the coachman know that we are in pursuit.
Follow it carefully, and at a proper distance."
And the hackney coach followed the carriage of the unknown, until they
passed from the shadows of the houses into the open country. Some four
miles at least from the city hall, the carriage turned from one of the
avenues, into a narrow lane, leading among the rocks, over a hill and
down toward the North River.
The colonel jumped from the box.
"Wait for me here,--I'll not be long. Drive a little piece up the
avenue, so that you will not be noticed, in case this carriage should
return. Wait for me, I say,--for every hour I will give you ten
dollars."
With these words he hurried up the hill, in pursuit of the retreating
carriage. The ground was frosted and broken,--huge rocks blocked up
the path on either hand, and on the hill-top stood a clump of leafless
trees. Pausing beneath these trees, the colonel endeavored to discern
the carriage through the darkness, but in vain. But he heard the sound
of the wheels as they rolled over the hard ground in the valley below.
"It cannot go far. This lane terminates at the river, only two or three
hundred yards away. Ah! I remember,--half-way between the hill and the
river there is an old mansion which I noticed last summer, and which
has not been occupied for years."
The sound of the wheels suddenly ceased. The colonel drew the cord of
his cloak about his neck, so as to permit his arms full play. Then from
one pocket of his overcoat he drew forth a revolver, and from the other
a bowie-knife. Grasping a weapon firmly in each hand, he stealthily
descended the hill, and on tip-toe approached the carriage, which had
indeed halted in front of the old mansion.
The mansion, a strange and incongruous structure, built of stone, and
brick, and wood, and enlarged from the original block house, which it
had been two hundred years before, by the additions made by five or six
generations, stood in a garden, apart from the road, its roofs swept
by the leafless branches of gigantic forest-trees. In summer, quaint
and incongruous as were the outlines of the huge edifice, it put on a
beautiful look, for it was embowered in foliage, and its many roofs and
walls of brick, and wood and stone, were hidden in a garment of vines
and flowers. But now, in the blackness of this drear winter daybreak,
it was black and desolate enough. Not a single light shed a cheerful
ray, from any of the windows.
Gliding behind the trunk of a sycamore, the colonel heard the voice of
the unknown man, as he conducted the boy, Gulian, from the carriage
along the garden walk toward the hall door.
"Here you will be safe from all intrusion. I must return to the city at
once, but I will be back early in the morning. Meanwhile, you can take
a quiet sleep. You are not afraid to sleep in the old house, are you?"
"Oh, no, no,--afraid of nothing but _his_ persecution," was the answer.
The colonel heard these words, and watched the figures of the unknown
and Gulian, as they passed from the garden walk under the shadow of the
porch, and into the hall door.
And then he waited,--O how earnestly and with what a tide of hopes,
suspicions, fears!--for the re-appearance of the unknown!
Five minutes passed.
"The boy has not had time to confess _the secret_,"--the thought almost
rose to the colonel's lips.--"If this unknown man returns to town,
leaving Gulian here, all will yet be well."
The hall-door opened again, was locked, and the form of the unknown, in
cloak and sombrero, once more appeared upon the garden walk.
"To town, Felix, as fast as you can drive. I must be back within two
hours."
"Yes, my lord."
He entered the carriage,--it turned,--and the horses dashed up the
narrow road at full speed.
"Two hours!" ejaculated Tarleton, as the sound of the wheels died away.
"In two hours, 'my lord!' you will find the nest robbed of its bird."
Determined at all hazards to rescue the person of the boy, Gulian, and
bear him from the old mansion, he opened the wicket gate, and, passing
along the garden walk, approached the silent mansion. The wind sighed
mournfully among the leafless branches, and not a single ray of light
illumined the front of the gloomy pile.
The colonel passed under the porch, and tried the hall door; it was
locked. With a half-muttered curse, he again emerged from the porch,
and from the garden walk, once more surveyed the mansion.
Could he believe his eyes? From a narrow window, in the second story of
the western wing, a ray of light stole out upon the gloom--stole out
from an aperture in the window curtains--and trembled like a golden
thread along the garden walk.
"The window is low,--the room is a part of the olden portion of the
mansion,--that lattice work, intended for the vines, will bear my
weight; one blow at the window-sash, and I am in the chamber!"
Thus reflecting, the colonel, ere he began to mount the lattice work,
looked cautiously around and listened. All was dark; no sound was
heard, save the low moan of the wind among the trees. Tarleton placed
the revolver in one pocket, and buried the bowie-knife in its sheath.
Then he began cautiously to ascend the lattice work, along which, in
summer time, crept a green and flowering vine; it creaked beneath his
weight, but did not break,--in a moment he was on a level with the
narrow window. Resting his arms upon the deep window-sill, he placed
his eye to the aperture in the curtains, and looked within.
He beheld a small room, with low ceiling, and wainscoted walls; a door,
which evidently opened upon the corridor leading to the body of the
mansion; a couch, with a canopy of faded tapestry; the floor of dark
wood, uncarpeted, and its once polished surface thick with dust; a
bureau of ebony, surmounted by an oval mirror in a frame of tarnished
gilt. The light stood upon the bureau; and, in front of the light, an
alabaster image of the crucified.
Before this image, with head bowed upon his clasped hands, knelt the
boy, Gulian. The light shone upon his glossy hair, which fell to
his shoulders, and over the outlines of his graceful shape. He was
evidently absorbed in voiceless prayer.
Altogether, it was a singular--yes, a beautiful picture. But the
Colonel had no time to waste on pictures, however beautiful.
He placed his arm against the sash--it yielded--and the colonel sprang
through the window into the room.
Gulian heard the crash, and started up, and beheld the colonel standing
near him, his arms folded on his breast, and his face stamped with a
look of fiendish triumph.
"Oh, my God!" he ejaculated, and stood as if spell-bound by terror.
"You see it is all in vain," said the Colonel, showing his white teeth
in a smile. "You cannot escape from me. You must do my will. Come, my
child, we must be moving."
He placed Gulian's cap upon his chesnut curls, and pointed to the door.
The eyes of the poor youth were wild with affright. He evidently stood
in mortal terror of Tarleton. His glance roved from side to side, and
he ejaculated--
"In his power again; just as I thought myself forever safe from his
persecution!"
"Answer me--where did you meet the man who brought you to this house?"
As he spoke, Tarleton seized the boy by the wrist.
"In the street; I had fainted on the sidewalk," was the answer, in a
tremulous voice.
"And how came you in the street at such an unusual hour?"
"When you left Mr. Somers' house, you threatened to return to-morrow,"
answered Gulian, clasping his hands over his breast. "I was determined
to avoid seeing you again, at all hazards. I left the house, and
wandered forth, uncertain whither to direct my steps. Yes--oh yes!
I had one purpose plainly in my mind,"--he smiled, and his eyes
brightened up with a strange light,--"I resolved to bend my steps to
the river."
"To the river?"
"Yes, to the river," answered the boy, with a singular smile: "for you
know that if I was drowned, I would be safe from you forever."
"And you would become a--suicide!" said Tarleton, with a sneer; "you,
so finely brought up! Have you no fear of the hereafter?"
Gulian's pale face lighted with a faint glow.--"There are some deeds
which are worse than suicide," he answered quietly, yet with a
significant glance. "It was to avoid the commission of one of these
deeds, that, scarcely an hour ago, I left the house of Mr. Somers and
bent my steps to the river."
"And you fainted, and this man came across you while you were
insensible--eh? Who is he? and what was it that led him from his
carriage, along the street where he found you?"
"An impulse, or presentiment, as he told me, which he could not resist,
and which impressed him that he might save the life of a fellow-being.
He left his carriage; he arrived before it was too late. In a little
while I should have been frozen to death."
Again Tarleton seized the boy by the wrist; and his brow grew dark, his
eyes fierce and threatening.
"And you confessed _the secret_ to this man?" he exclaimed. "Nay, deny
it not!" He tightened his grasp. "You did confess--did you not?"
"Oh, pity!--do not harm me!" and Gulian shrunk before Tarleton's gaze.
"I did not confess _the secret_--indeed I did not."
"Swear you did not!"
"I swear I did not!"
"I will not believe you, unless you will place your hand upon this
crucifix, and swear by the Savior, that you did not reveal _the
secret_."
The boy placed his hand upon the alabaster image, and said solemnly,
"By the name of the Savior, I swear that I did not reveal _the secret_
of which you speak."
Tarleton burst into a laugh.
"I breathe freer!" he cried. "You are superstitious; and, with your
hand upon an image like that, I know you cannot lie. _The secret_ is
safe, and all will yet be well. Come, we must go."
"Oh, you do not want me now!" cried Gulian, shrinking away from his
grasp--"now that you are assured of the security of _the secret_?"
"Worse than ever, my boy," cried Tarleton, with a tone of mocking
gayety. "I am positively starving to death for your company. To-day and
to-morrow you must be with me all the time, and never for an instant
quit my sight. After that you are free!"
The countenance of Gulian, in which a masculine vigor of thought was
tempered by an almost woman-like roundness of outline and softness of
expression, underwent a sudden and peculiar change.
"I will not go with you," he said, slowly and firmly, his eyes shining
vividly, while his face was unnaturally pale.
"You will not go with me?" and Tarleton advanced with a scowling
brow--"We'll see, we'll see,--"
"I will not go with you," repeated Gulian. "You call me superstitious.
It may be superstition which makes my blood run cold with loathing,
when you are near me; or it may be some voiceless warning from the
dead, who, while in this life, were deeply injured by you. But it is
not superstition which induces me to place my hand upon this crucifix,
and tell you, that you cannot drag me from it, save at peril of your
life. Ah, you sneer! The house is deserted:--true. The crucifix of
frail alabaster:--true. But you are fairly warned. The moment that
crucifix breaks, to you is one of peril."
Tarleton knew not what to make of the expression and words of the boy.
At first there was something in the look of Gulian which touched him,
against his will; but, as the closing words fell on his car, he burst
into a laugh. "Come, child, we'll leave the house by the hall door,"
he said; and, as he passed an arm around Gulian's waist, he placed the
other hand upon the door which led into the passage: "Nay, you need
not cling to that bauble! Come! I'll endure this nonsense no longer--"
The alabaster image was crushed in the grasp of Gulian, as he was torn
from it; and at the same instant the colonel opened the door.
Gulian, struggling in the grasp of Tarleton, clapped his hands twice,
and cried aloud: "Cain! Cain!"
The next moment it seemed as though a crushing weight had bounded, or
been hurled, against the colonel's back; he was dashed to the floor;
he found himself struggling in the fangs of a huge dog, with short,
shaggy hair, black as jet, short ears, and formidable jaws. As the dog
uttered a low growl, his teeth sank deep into the back of Tarleton's
neck, and Tarleton uttered a groan of intolerable agony. Tarleton was
dragged along the floor, by the ferocious beast, which raised him by
the neck, and then dashed him to the floor again; treating him as the
tiger treats the prey which he is about to strangle and kill.
Cain was indeed a ferocious beast. He had accompanied the unknown over
half the globe; and was obedient to his slightest sign; defending those
whom he wished defended, and attacking those whom he wished attacked.
Before leaving the mansion, the unknown had placed Cain before the
door of Gulian's room, and given Gulian into its charge. "Guard him,
Cain! obey him, Cain!" And, as Tarleton opened the door, at a sign and
a word from Gulian, the dog proved faithful to his master's bidding.
In the grasp of this formidable animal, Tarleton now found himself
writhing--his blood spurting over the floor, as he was dragged along.
As Gulian beheld this scene, and heard the cries of Tarleton mingling
with the low growl of the dog, his heart relented. He forgot all that
Tarleton had made him suffer.
"Cain! Cain!--here, Cain!--here!" he cried; but in vain. Cain had
tasted blood. His teeth twined deep in his victim's neck; and his jaws
reddened with Tarleton's blood; he did not hear the voice of Gulian.
It was a terrible moment for Tarleton. Uttering frightful imprecations
between his howls of pain, he made a last and desperate effort--an
effort strengthened by despair and by pain, which seemed as the pang of
death,--he turned, even as the teeth of the dog were in his neck; he
clenched the infuriated animal by the throat. Then took place a brief
but horrible contest, in which the dog and the man rolled over each
other, the man clutching, as with a death-grasp, the throat of the dog,
and the dog burying his teeth in the man's shoulder.
Gulian could bear the sight no longer; he sank, half fainting, against
the bureau, and hid his eyes from the light.
Presently, the uproar of the combat--the growl of the dog, and the
cries of Tarleton--were succeeded by a dead stillness.
Gulian raised his eyes.
Tarleton stood in the center of the room, his face and white coat
bathed in blood--his bowie-knife, also dripping with blood, held aloft
in his right hand. He presented a frightful spectacle. His coat was
rent over the right shoulder, and his mangled flesh was discernible.
And that face, whose death-like pallor was streaked with blood, bore an
expression of anguish and of madness, which chilled Gulian's heart but
to behold.
At his feet was stretched the huge carcass of the dog. The gash across
his throat, from which the blood was streaming over the floor, had been
inflicted by the hand of the colonel, in the extremest moment of his
despair. Cain had fought his last battle. As Tarleton shook the bloody
knife over his head, the brave old dog uttered his last moan and died.
"It will not do, my child--it will not do," and Tarleton burst into
a loud and unnatural laugh. "You must go with me! With me; alive or
dead." He rushed towards Gulian, brandishing the knife. "Oh, you d----d
wretch! do you know that I've a notion to cut you into pieces, limb by
limb?"
"Mercy! mercy!" shrieked the boy, falling on his knees, as that face,
dabbled in blood, and writhing, as with madness, in every feature,
_glowered_ over him.
But Tarleton did not strike. He placed his hand upon his forehead,
and made a desperate effort to recall his shattered senses. Suffering
intolerable physical agony, he was yet firm in the purpose which had
led him to the old mansion.
"If I can get this boy to the carriage, all will yet be well!" he
muttered. "I'll faint soon from loss of blood; but not until this boy
is in my power. Brain, do not fail me now!"
He dropped the bloody knife upon the carcass of the dog; and, taking a
handkerchief from his pocket, he bound it tightly around his throat.
Then, lifting his cloak from the floor, he wound it about him, and
writhed with pain, as it touched the wound on his shoulder.
"Now will you go with me alive, or dead?" He lifted the knife again,
and advanced to Gulian. "Take your choice. If your choice is life,"--he
could not refrain a cry of pain--"take the light and go on before me!"
Trembling in every limb, his gaze riveted to the face of Tarleton,
Gulian took the light, and crossed the threshold of the room. Tarleton
followed him with measured step, still clutching the knife in his right
hand.
"On--on!" muttered Tarleton; "attempt to escape, and I strike,--on--,"
and he reeled like a drunken man, and fell insensible at Gulian's feet.
CHAPTER II.
RANDOLPH AND HIS BROTHER.
The hour of dawn drew near, Randolph was in his own chamber, seated by
his bed, watching the face of the sleeper, who was slumbering there.