over the sleeper's face,--a look hard to define or analyze, for it
seemed to indicate a struggle between widely different emotions. There
was compassion and revenge, brotherly love and mortal hatred in that
look.
For the sleeper was Harry Royalton, of Hill Royal.
The candle burned near and nearer to its socket,--the morning light
began to mingle with its fading rays,--and still Harry slept on, and
still Randolph watched, his eyes fixed on his brother's visage, and his
own face disturbed by opposing emotions.
It was near morning when Harry woke.
"Hey! halloo! what's this?" he cried, starting up in the bed, and
surveying the spacious apartment,--strange to him,--with a vacant
stare. "Where am I?"
His gaze fell upon Randolph, who was seated by the bed.
"You here?" and his countenance fell.--"What in the devil does all this
mean?"
Randolph did not reply. There was a slight trembling of his nether lip,
and his eyes grew brighter as he fixed his gaze on his brother's face.
"Where's my coat?" cried Harry, surveying his shirt sleeves,
"and my cravat,"--he passed his hands over his muscular
throat,--"and--you,--what in the devil are _you_ doing here?"
Randolph, still keeping his gaze on his brother's face, said in a low
voice,--"I am in my own house, brother."
"Your house?" ejaculated Harry, and then burst into a laugh,--"come,
now,--don't,--that's too good."
"My own house, to which I brought you some hours ago, after I had
rescued you from the persons in the cellar----"
"_Rescued_ me?" and an incredulous smile passed over Harry's face as he
pulled at his bushy whiskers. "Better yet,--ha! ha!--You don't think to
stuff me with any such damned nonsense?"
Randolph grew paler, but his eye flashed with deeper light.
"Brother, I did rescue you," he said, in the same low voice, as he bent
forward.--"As we were about to engage in conflict, you fell like a
dead man on the floor. I took you in my arms; I defended you from the
negroes who were clamorous for your blood; I bore you to upper air, and
I, brother, then brought you in a carriage to my home; and I laid you
on my bed, brother; and when you awoke from your swoon,--awoke with the
ravings of delirium on your tongue,--I soothed you, until you fell in a
sound sleep. This is the simple truth, brother."
Harry grew red in the face, then pale,--bit his lip,--pulled his
whiskers, and then without turning his head, regarded Randolph with a
sidelong glance. To tell the simple truth, Harry did not know what to
say. He felt a swelling of the heart, a warmth in his veins, as though
the magnetic gaze of Randolph had influenced him even against his will.
"You did all this?"--there was a faint tremor in his voice.
"I did, brother,"--Randolph's voice was deep and earnest.
"Why,--why,--did not you kill me, when you had me in your power?"
"Brother, the blood of John Augustus Royalton flows in my veins, and it
is not like a Royalton to strike a fallen foe."
"And you could have put poison in my drink," hesitated Harry, impressed
against his will by the manner of his brother.
"I never heard of a Royalton who became a poisoner."
"A _Royalton_? and you call yourself a Royalton?" said Harry, still
regarding his brother with a sidelong gaze.
Randolph bit his lip, and folded his arms upon his chest, as if to
choke down the strong emotions which were struggling within him. He did
not reply.
"I suppose I am your _prisoner_?" asked Harry, intently regarding
Randolph's face. "You can keep me secluded until the twenty-fifth of
December has passed. Is that the dodge?"
"Brother, the door is open, and the way is free, whenever you wish to
leave this house," was Randolph's calm reply.
"Well, if I can make you out, may I be ----!" cried Harry, and the next
moment uttered a groan of agony, for his back was very painful. "Why
did you not take me to my hotel?" he said, in a peevish, impatient tone.
"You forget that I did not know the name of your hotel," replied
Randolph, "and beside, what place so fitting for a sick man as his
brother's home?"
Harry grew red in the face, and then burst into a laugh.--"We've been
such good _brothers_ to each other!"
The thought which had been working at Randolph's heart for hours, now
found utterance in words,--
"Brother, O, brother! why can we not indeed be brothers?" his eyes
flashed, his voice was deep and impassioned. "Children of one father,
let us forget the past; let us bury all bitter memories, all feelings
of hatred,--let us forget, forgive, and be as brothers to each other.
Harry Royalton, my brother, there is my hand."
He rose,--his chest heaving, his eyes dimmed by tears,--and reached
forth his hand.
Harry, completely overwhelmed by this unexpected appeal, reached forth
his hand, but drew it back again.
"No," he cried, as his face was flushed,--"not with a nigger." The
contempt, the scorn, the rage which convulsed his face, as he said
these words, cannot be depicted.
CHAPTER III.
THE HUSBAND AND THE PROFLIGATE.
The boat was upon the river, borne onward over the wintery waves and
through the floating ice, by the strong arms of two sturdy oarsmen.
Behind, like a huge black wall, was the city, a faint line of light
separating its roofs from the bleak sky. Around were the waves, loaded
with piles of floating ice, which crashed together with incessant
uproar; and through the gloom the boat drove onward, bearing one man,
perchance two men, to certain death.
Eugene and Robert, muffled in their cloaks, sat side by side on the
stern; Beverly and his friend, the major, also muffled in their cloaks,
sat side by side in the bow.
Eugene had drawn his cloak over his face as if to hide even from the
faint light, the agony which was gnawing at his heart-strings.
"In case anything should happen," whispered Robert, "have you any
message to send to _her_?"
"None," was the reply, uttered in a choking voice.
"Damn her!" said Robert, between his teeth.
Meanwhile, in the bow of the boat, Beverly, shuddering within his
thick cloak, not so much from cold as from a mental cause, said to his
friend, the major,--
"No way to get out o' this, I suppose, major?"
"None," said the major.
"I'd give a horse for a mouthful of good brandy----"
"Here it is," and the major drew a wicker flask from the folds of his
cloak. "I always carry a pocket-pistol; touch her light."
It may be that Beverly "touched her light," but he held the flask to
his mouth for a long time, and did not return it to the major until its
contents were considerably diminished.
"A cursed scrape," he muttered. "If anything happens, what'll become of
my daughter?" It seems he had a motherless child,--"and then there's
the Van Huyden estate. If he wings me, all my hope of that is gone,--of
course it is."
At length the broad river was crossed, and the oarsmen ran the boat
into a sheltered cove, some three miles above Hoboken.
The first glimpse of the coming morn stole over the broad river, the
distant city, and the magnificent bay.
"Wait for us,--you know what I told you?" said Robert to the oarsmen,
who were stout fellows, in rough overcoats, and tarpaulin hats.
"Ay, ay sir," they responded in a breath.
"Major, you lead the way," said Robert, "up the heights we'll find a
quiet place."
The Major took Beverly by the arm, and began to climb the steep ascent,
over wildly scattered rocks, and among leafless trees.
They were followed by Robert and Eugene arm in arm.
After much difficult wayfaring, they reached the summit of the heights,
just in time to catch the first ray of the rising sun, as it shot
upward, among the leaden clouds of the eastern horizon.
All at once the steeples of the city caught the glow, and the distant
day blushed scarlet and gold on every wave.
Among the heights,--may be some three miles above Hoboken,--there is
a quiet nook, imbosomed, in the summer time, in foliage, and opening
to the south-east, in a view of the Empire City, and Manhattan Bay. A
place as level as a floor, bounded on all sides save one, by oak, and
chestnut and cedar, with great rocks piled like monuments of a long
passed age, among the massive trunks. It is green in summer time, with
a carpet-like sward, and then the tree branches are woven together by
fragrant vines; there are flowers about the rocks and around the roots
of the old trees,--a balmy, drowsy atmosphere of June pervades the
place. And looking to the east, or south-east, you see the broad river
dotted with snowy sails, the great city, with its steeples glittering
in the light, and with the calm, clear, vast Heaven arching overhead.
The Bay gleams in the distance, white with sails, or shadowed here
and there by the steamer's cloud of smoke, and far away Staten Island
closes the horizon like a wall. Standing by one of these huge rocks,
encircled by the trees, and steeped in the quiet of the place, you gaze
upon the distant city, like one contemplating a far off battle-field,
in which millions are engaged, and the fate of empires is the stake.
A sadder battle-field, sun never shone upon, than the Empire City, in
which millions are battling every moment of the hour, and battling all
life long for fame, for wealth, for bread, for life. Sometimes the
quiet nook rings with the laugh of happy children, who come here to
stretch themselves upon the grass, and gather flowers among the rocks,
and around the nooks of the grand old trees.
Far different is the scene on this drear winter morning. The trees are
leafless; they raise their skeleton arms against the cold bleak sky.
The rocks, no longer clad in vines and flowers, are grim and bare, with
crowns of snow upon their summits. The glade itself, no longer clad
with velvet-like sward, is faded and brown. The rising sun trembles
through the leafless trees, invests the rocks with a faint glow of rosy
light, and falls along the brown surface of the glade, investing it for
a moment with a cheerful gleam.
And in the light of the rising sun, in sight of river, city, and
distant bay, two men stand ready for the work of death.
The ground is measured; the seconds stand apart; before the fatal word
is given, the combatants survey each other.
Eugene, with bared head, stands on the north, his slender form
enveloped in a closely buttoned frock-coat. He is lividly pale, but
the hand which grasps the pistol does not tremble. Notwithstanding the
bitter cold, there is moisture on his forehead; the fire which burns in
his eyes, tells you that his emotion is anything but fear. One glance
toward the city,--one thought perhaps of other days,--and he is ready.
Opposite, in the south, his hat drawn over his flaxen curls, his tall
form enveloped in a close fitting frock-coat, Beverly with an uncertain
eye and trembling hand, is nerving himself for the fatal moment. He is
afraid. As he catches a glimpse of the face of Eugene, his heart dies
within him. All color has forsook his usually florid face.
"Gentlemen, you will fire when I give the word,--" cries Major Barton
from the background of withered shrubbery. "Are you ready?"
But at this moment the voice of Beverly is heard--"Eugene! Eugene!" he
cries, and starts forward, rapidly diminishing the ten paces, which lie
between them--"Eugene! Eugene! my friend--can I make no apology, no
reparation--"
Both Robert and the Major, saw Eugene's face, as he turned toward the
seducer. The sun, which had been obscured by a passing cloud, shone out
again, and shone full upon the face of Eugene. The look which stamped
every line of that bronzed visage, was never forgotten by those who
beheld it. O, the withering scorn of the lip, the concentrated hatred
of the dark eyes, the utter loathing which impressed every lineament!
"_Friend_!" he echoed, as for a moment he looked Beverly in the
face--and then turning to Barton, he said quietly: "Major take your man
away. If he is a coward as well as a scoundrel, let us know it."
The look appalled Beverly; he receded step by step, unable to take his
eyes from Eugene's face;--
"Be a man, curse you," whispered Barton who had glided to his
side--"D'ye hear?" and he clutched him by the arm, with a grasp, that
made Beverly writhe with pain--"Take your place, and fire as I give the
word."
In a moment, Beverly was in his place, his right hand grasping his
pistol, dropped by his side, which was presented toward Eugene, who,
ten paces off, stood in a corresponding position.
Barton retired to the background, taking his place beside Robert.
"Gentlemen, I am about to give the word!" said Barton, and then there
was a pause like death,--"One--two--three! Fire!"
They wheeled and fired, Eugene with a fixed and decided aim; Beverly
with eyes swimming in terror, and hand trembling with fright. The smoke
of the pistols curled gracefully through the wintery air. Beverly
stumbled as he fired, and fell on one knee; Eugene stood bolt upright
for a moment, the pistol in his extended hand, and then fell flat upon
his face.
Eugene's bullet sank into the cedar tree, directly behind where
Beverly's head had been, only a moment before. Beverly was uninjured.
No doubt the false step which he had made in wheeling had saved his
life.
Eugene lay flat upon his face, the pistol still clutched in his
extended hand.
The brother of Joanna rushed forward and raised him to his feet,--there
was a red wound between his eyes,--he was dead.
The husband had been killed by the seducer of his wife.
Behold the justice of the Law of Duel!
"The damned fool," was the commentary of the phlegmatic Robert, as with
tears gushing from his eyes, he held the body of the dead husband,
and at the same time regarded Beverly, who pale with fright, cringed
against a tree,--"If he'd a-taken my advice, he'd a-killed you like a
dog, last night. He'd a-pitched you from the third story window,--he
would,--and mashed your brains out against the pavement."
The sun came out from behind a cloud, and lighted the face of Eugene
Livingston, with the red wound between his fixed eyeballs.
CHAPTER IV.
ISRAEL AND HIS VICTIM.
Israel Yorke left the Temple, accompanied by Ninety-One and followed
by the eleven. Israel, clad once more in his every-day _practical_
dress, with his hat drawn over his bald head, and his diminutive form
enveloped in a loose sack of dark cloth, looked like a dwarf beside the
almost gigantic frame of Ninety-One. Yet Ninety-One, with creditable
politeness, gave his arm to the Financier, and urged him onward in
the darkness, toward Broadway, something in the manner that you may
have seen a very willing boy, assist the progress of a very unwilling
dog,--the boy's hand being attached to one end of a string, and the
dog's neck to the other. And Ninety-One cheered Israel with various
remarks of a consolatory character, such as, "go in gold specks! let
her went my darlin'! don't give it up so easy!--" and so-forth.
"It's so dark, and I'm so devilish cold," whined Israel, in vain
endeavoring to keep pace with the giant strides of his huge
companion,--"Where the deuce are we going anyhow?"
"Come along feller sinners," said Ninety-One, looking over his
shoulders at the eleven who followed sturdily in the rear. The eleven
did not deign to express themselves in words, but manifested some
portion of their feelings, by bringing their clubs upon the pavement,
with something of the force of thunder, and more of the wickedness of
a suddenly _slammed_ door. "Where are we leadin' you to? To one of yer
tenants, Isr'el,--one of yer tenants, you pertikler example of all the
christ'in vartues,--"
"To one of my tenants!" echoed Israel.
"To one of yer tenants," repeated Ninety-One, and he crossed a curb as
he spoke, and gave Israel's arm a wrench which nearly tore the arm from
Israel's body.--"You know you've got to pay cash for your bank notes
to-day, an' you'll need all the money you can rake and scrape. To-day's
rent day,--isn't it? Well we're goin' on a collectin' _tower_ among yer
tenants. Ain't we feller sinners?"
He turned his head over his shoulder, and again the clubs thundered
their applause.
"I'll be deuced if I can make you out," said Israel arranging his
'specks,' which had been displaced by one of the eccentric movements
of Ninety-One,--and Israel felt very much like the man who, finding
himself late at night, very unexpectedly in the same bed-room with a
bear, desired exceedingly to get out of the room, but thought it no
more than proper to be civil to the bear until he did get out.
"Don't you own a four story house in ---- street?" asked Ninety-One.
"I do. Four stories,--two to four rooms on a floor,--besides the cellar
and the garret,--a fine property,--and, to-day _is_ rent day--"
"You stow 'em away like maggots in a stale cheese,--do you?" and
Ninety-One stopped, and regarded the little man admiringly,--added in
an under tone, "Moses! How I'd like to have the picklin' of you!"
Thus conversing, they entered Broadway, along which they passed
for some distance, and at last turned down a by-street, the eleven
following them closely all the while.
They stood in front of a huge edifice, four stories high, formerly
the residence of a Wall street nabob, but now the abode of,--we are
afraid to say how many families. The basement was, of course, occupied
as a manufactory of New York politics,--in simple phrase, it was a
grog-shop; and although the hour was exceedingly late, its door was
wide open, and the sound of drunken voices and the fragrance of bad
rum, ascended together upon the frosty air. Save the basement, the
entire front of the mansion was dark as ink; the poor wretches who
burrowed in its many rooms, were doubtless sleeping after the toil of
the winter's day.
"In the fourth story you have a tenant named ---- ----?" whispered
Ninety-One.
"Yes; a poor devil," responded Israel Yorke.
"Let's go up an' see the poor devil," said Ninety-One, and grasping
Israel firmly by the arm, he passed through the front door and up the
narrow stairway.
The eleven followed in silence, supporting Israel firmly in the rear.
As they reached the head of the fourth stairway, Ninety-One put forth
his brawny hand, and,--in the darkness,--felt along the wall.
"Here's the door," he whispered, "in a minnit we'll bust in upon your
tenant like a thousand o' brick."
Israel felt himself devoured by curiosity, suspense, and fear.
As for the eleven gathering around Israel closely in the darkness, they
preserved a dead silence, only broken for a moment by the exclamation
of one of their number,--"What a treat it 'ud be to pitch this here
cuss down stairs!"
"Hush, boys! hark!" said Ninety-One, and laid his hand upon the latch
of the door.
Before we enter the door and gaze upon the scene which Ninety-One
disclosed to the gaze of Israel Yorke, our history must retrace its
steps.
It was nightfall, and the light of the lamps glittering among the
leafless trees of the Park, mingled with the last flush of the departed
day, and the mild, tremulous rays of the first stars of evening. At
the corner of Broadway and Chambers street, two young men held each
other by the hand, as they talked together. The contrast between their
faces and general appearance was most remarkable, even for this world
of contrasts. One tall in stature, with florid cheeks, and blue eyes
glittering with life and hope, was the very picture of health. He
was dressed at the top of the fashion. A sleekly-brushed beaver sat
jauntily upon his chesnut curls; an overcoat of fine gray cloth fitted
closely to his vigorous frame, and by its rolling collar, suffered his
blue scarf and diamond pin to be visible; his hands were gloved, and he
carried a delicate cane, adorned with a head of amber; and his voice
and laugh rung out so cheerily upon the frosty air!
The other,--alas! for the contrast,--dressed in a long overcoat of
faded brown cloth, resembled a living skeleton. His face was terribly
emaciated; his cheeks sunken; his eyes hollow. His voice was low and
husky. As he spoke, his eyes lighted up like fire-coals, and seemed
to burn in his sallow and withered face. His hair, black as jet,
and straight and long, only made his countenance seem more pale and
death-like. He was evidently in the last stage of consumption, and
his dress, neat as it was,--the faded brown coat, and much-worn hat
carefully brushed,--betokened poverty, and the saddest poverty of
all,--that which tries, and vainly, to hide itself under a "decent"
exterior.
And thus they met, at the corner of Chambers street and Broadway, Lewis
Harding, the rich broker and man of fashion, and John Martin, the poor
artist and--dying man. They had been playmates and school-fellows in
other years. Five years ago, they left the academy, in a country town,
to try their fortunes in the world; both orphans, both young, both full
of life and hope, and--poor. Harding had taken the world _as he found_
it, adopted its philosophy,--"Success is the only test of merit,"--and
became a rich broker and a man of fashion. John Martin had taken the
world as it _ought to have been_,--believed in the goodness of mankind,
and in the certainty of honest success following honest labor--of hand
and brain,--steadily devoted to the elevation of man. He became an
artist, and,--we see him before us now.
"Why, Jack, my dear fellow, what are you doing out in the cold air?"
said Harding, in his kindly voice. "You ought to be more careful of
yourself,----"
"I am out in the cold air, because I cannot breathe freely in the
house," answered the artist, with a smile on his cadaverous lips.
"But you have no cough,--you'll be better in spring."
"True, I have no cough, but the doctor informed me to-day that my right
lung was entirely gone, and my left hard after it; the simple truth is,
I am wasting to death; and I hate the idea of dying in bed. I want to
keep on my feet,--I want to keep in the air,--I want to die on my feet."
Harding had rapidly grown into a man of the world, but somehow the
tears started into his eyes.
"But you must keep up your spirits, Jack,--in the spring you will
be----"
"In my grave, Harding; there's no use of lying about it."
And his eyes flared up, and a bitter smile moved his lips.
"O, how's the wife and children?" said Harding; as though anxious to
change the conversation.
"They are well," said John, and a singular look passed over his face.
"And your sister?"
"Eleanor is well,"--and the vivid brightness of his eyes was for a
moment vailed in moisture.
"O, by-the-bye, I met Nelly the other day," said Harding. "Bless
my soul! what a handsome little girl she has grown! It was in a
store where they sell embroidered work. I was pricing a set of
regalia,--thirty dollars they said was the price,--and little Nell had
worked on it about three weeks for five dollars. Great world, Jack!"
"Good night, Harding," said the artist, quietly.
"But let me accompany you home,----"
"I'd rather you would not. Good night, Harding."
"But God bless you, John, can't I do anything for you?"
"Why, why after I am dead,"--and the words seemed to stick in his
throat,--"after I am dead,--my wife,--my sister,----" he could say no
more.
"I swear that I will protect them," said Harding, warmly. John quietly
pressed his hand, and turned his face away. After a moment they parted,
Harding down Broadway on his way to the theater, and John up Broadway,
on his way home. And Harding gazed after John for a moment,--"I'm glad
he didn't want to borrow money! Nell is quite a beauty!"
Walking slowly, and pausing every now and then to breathe, John gazed
in the bright shop-windows, and into the contrasted faces of the
hurrying crowd as he passed along.
"Soon this will be all over for me," he muttered, with a husky laugh.
"I'm afraid, friend John, that you are taking your last walk."
An arm was gently thrust through his own, and a voice light and
trilling as the notes of a bird, said quietly,--
"I'm so glad I've caught up with you John,"--and he leaned upon that
gentle arm, and turned to look upon the face of the speaker. It was his
sister Eleanor, a very pretty child of some fourteen years, dressed in
a faded cloak, and with a hood on her dark hair. Her complexion was a
rich brown, tinged with red in the cheeks; her eyes, brows and hair,
all black as midnight. And by turns, over that face, in which the woman
began to mingle with the child, there flitted a look of the brightest
joyousness, and an expression of the most touching melancholy.
"I've just been taking my work home, John. They paid me half a dollar
for what I have done this week, (and that, you know, John, will keep
us in bread and coal to-morrow,) and O, I am so glad you've got eight
dollars saved for the rent. I am _so_ glad! The rent is due to-morrow,
and the landlord is such a hard man."
"Yes, I have eight dollars," John said, and there was an indefinable
accent marking every word. "Yes, Nelly, dear, I have eight dollars."
"John, do tell me, who are those good ladies who pass us every moment,
dressed so richly,--all in velvet, and satin, and jewels; who are they,
John?"
John stopped,--bent upon his cane,--looked for a moment upon the crowd
which whirled past him,--and then into the happy, innocent face of his
sister. And then his shrunken chest heaved with a sigh. "O God!" he
said, in a low voice.
"Who are they, John,--do tell me,--they must be very, O, ever so rich."
"Those handsome ladies, dressed so gaudily, Nelly, are sisters and
daughters. Once they had brothers and fathers who protected them, and
now their fathers and brothers are dead. The world takes care of them
now, Nelly."
The poor girl heard his words, but did not guess their hidden meaning.
Still supporting her brother on her arm, she continued,--
"Do you know, John, that your handsome friend, Mr. Harding, met me in
the store the other day, and said he took such an interest in me, and
that if I chose I might be dressed as rich and gayly as these grand
ladies, who pass us every moment."
John started as though he had trodden upon a snake. "And only
a moment ago he promised to protect her when I am gone," he
muttered,--"_Protection_!"
And thus they passed along until turning into a by-street, they came
near their home, which was composed of a single room, up four pairs of
stairs, in a four-storied edifice. At the street door they were met
by a young woman, plainly,--meagerly clad, but with a finely-rounded
form, and a countenance, rich, not only in loveliness, but in all the
_goodness_ of womanly affection. It was the artist's wife.
"O, John, I have been so anxious about you," she said, and took him by
the arm; and while Nelly held the other, she gently led him through
the doorway and up the dark stairs. "Why will you go out when it is so
cold?"
"I want air, Annie, _air_," he returned in his hollow voice,--"and I
will die on my feet."
And the wife and sister helped the dying artist gently up the stairs;
gently, slowly, step by step, and led him at last over the threshold,
into that room which was their home.
About an hour afterward, John was seated in an arm-chair, in the center
of that home, whose poverty was concealed as much as might be, by
the careful exertions of his wife and sister. In the arm-chair, his
death-like face looking ghastly in the candle-light,--his wife, a woman
of _blonde_ countenance, blue eyes, and chesnut-hair, on one side; his
sister, with her dark hair, and clear, deep eyes, on the other; each
holding a hand of the husband and the brother. A boy of four years,
sat on a stool, looking up quietly with his big eyes into his father's
face; and near, a little girl of three years, who took her brother
by the hand, and also looked in the face of the dying artist. Very
beautiful children; plainly clad, it is true, but beautiful; the girl
with light hair and blue eyes, reflecting the mother, while the boy,
dark-haired and black-eyed, was the image of the father.
The table, spread with the remains of the scanty meal, stood near; the
grate was filled with lighted coals; a bed with a carefully patched
coverlet stood in one corner; between the two windows was placed an
old-fashioned bureau; and two pictures adorned the neatly whitewashed
walls.
Such was the picture, and such the artist's home.
The stillness which had prevailed since supper, was at length broken by
the voice of John.
"Annie, I'll leave you soon," he said, quietly, and his eyes lighted
up.--"O, wouldn't it be a good thing if we could all die together! To
die, I do not fear, but to leave you all,--and in such a world! O, my
God! such a world!"
Annie buried her face in her hands, and rested her hands against the
arm of the chair. Nelly, her large eyes brimful of tears, quietly put
his hand to her lips. And the little boy, in his childish way, asked
what "to die" meant.
"Bring me that picture, Nelly,"--he pointed to a picture on the wall.
She went and brought it quietly. "Now let down the window a little, for
I feel the want of air, and come and sit by me again."
He took the picture and gazed upon it earnestly and long. It was a
picture of himself, in the prime of young manhood, the cheeks rounded,
the eyes full of hope, the brow, shaded by glossy black hair, stamped
with genius. A picture taken only sixteen months before.
"Only sixteen months ago, Nelly," he said. "Only sixteen months ago,
Annie; and now--well, there's a crayon sketch on the bureau, which
I took of myself the other day, as I looked in the glass. Bring it,
Nelly."
His sister brought the crayon sketch; and, with a sad smile, he held it
beside the other picture. It was all too faithful. His prominent cheek
bones, hollow cheeks, colorless lips, and sunken eyes, all were copied
there; only the deathly fire of the eyes was lacking.
"A sad contrast, isn't it, Annie? When this picture was taken, sixteen
months ago, we were all doing well. My pictures sold; some lithographs
which I executed, met also with ready sale. I had as much as I could
do, and everything was bright before me. I even thought of a tour to
Italy! Don't you remember our nice little cottage out in the country,
Nell? But I was taken sick--sick;--I couldn't work any longer. Our
money was soon spent; and you, Annie, made shirts; and you, Nelly, you
embroidered; and that kept us thus far--and--," he stopped, and gazed
upon his wife and sister, who were weeping silently: and then upon his
children. "And now I must go and leave you in this world.--Oh, my God!
such a world!"
"Don't think of us, John," said his wife. "If you could only live,--"
"Oh, you will--you will get better, as the spring comes on," exclaimed
Nelly; "and we'll go into the country, on the first sunny day, and
gather flowers there."
John drew forth from his vest pocket certain pieces of paper, which he
spread forth upon his knee. Bank notes, each marked with the figure
2, and signed by the name of Israel Yorke, (a prominent banker of the
_bogus_ stamp,) in a bold hand. There were four in all.
"This is the eight dollars, Annie, which I saved to pay our rent," said
the artist.
The wife and sister gazed upon the bank notes earnestly--for those
bank notes were their last hope. Those bank notes were "_rent money_;"
and of all money on the earth of God, none is so bitterly earned by
Poverty, nor so pitilessly torn from its grasp by the hand of Avarice,
as "_rent money_."
"Well,--well;"--and John paused, as if the words choked him. "These
notes are not worth one penny. All of Israel Yorke's banks broke
to-day."
There was not a word spoken for five minutes, or more. This news went
like an ice-bolt through the hearts of the wife and sister.
"And to-morrow we'll be put into the street by this same Israel Yorke,
who is also our landlord;" said John, breaking the long pause. "Put the
window a little lower, Nelly--it feels close--I want air."
Nelly obeyed; and resumed her seat at her brother's face, which now
glowed on the cheeks and shone in the eyes with an expression which she
could not define.
"Oh, wouldn't it be good, Annie--would not it be glorious, Nelly--if
I could gather you all up in my arms and take you with me, whither I
am going?" he said, with a sort of rapture, looking from his children
to his wife and sister. And then, in a gentler tone: "Kneel down,
Nelly, and say a prayer, and ask God to forgive us all our sins--_all_,
remember,--and to smooth the way for us, so that we may all go to Him."
Neither Nelly nor Annie remarked the singular emphasis which
accompanied these words.
Nelly knelt in their midst, and prayed.
As she uttered that simple and child-like prayer, John fixed his eyes
upon her face, and muttered, "And so he took a great _interest_ in you,
and would dress you gayly, would he?"
Then he said, aloud, in a kind of wild and wandering way--"Now we've
had our last supper, and our last prayer. It will soon be time for us
to go. Call me, love, in time for the cars."
He paused, and raised his hand to his forehead,--
"Don't cry, Annie; my mind wanders a little--that's all. I want rest.
I'll take a little sleep in the chair, and you and Nelly, and the
children, lay down in the bed. And let me kiss the children, and do you
all kiss me--"
The young mother lifted the little boy and girl, and they pressed their
kiss upon the lips of the dying man. Then the wife and the sister;
their tears mingling on his face, as their lips were pressed by turns
to his lips and brow.
"Come, Nelly," whispered the wife, "we'll lay down, but we will not
sleep. He will take a little rest if he thinks we are sleeping."
Presently the sister and the wife, with the children near them, were
resting on the bed, their hands silently joined. They conversed in
low tones, while the children fell gently asleep. But gradually their
conversation died away in inarticulate whispers; and they also slept.
And the artist--did he sleep? By no means. Sitting erect in his
arm-chair, his back toward the bed, and his eyes every instant
glittering bright and brighter, he listened intently to the low
whispers of his wife and sister. "At last they sleep!" he cried, as
the sound of their calm, regular breathing struck his ears. "They
sleep--they sleep! They sleep--wife, sister, children; Annie, Nelly,
little John, and little Annie,--they all sleep."
And he burst into tears.
But his death-stricken face was radiant through his tears:--radiant
with intense joy.
John sat silently contemplating a small image of white marble, which
he had taken from one of the drawers of the bureau. It represented the
MASTER on the cross.
"Better go to God, and trust him, than trust to the mercy of man," he
frequently murmured.
After much silent thought he rose, and, from beneath the bureau drew
forth two objects into the light--a sack and a small plaster furnace.
He placed the furnace in the center of the floor, and half filled it
with lighted coals from the grate. Then he poured the contents of the
sack upon the burning coals; his hands trembling, and his eyes, fiery
as they were, suddenly dimmed by moisture.
"Charcoal, good charcoal--such a blessing to the poor! Nelly
didn't know what a blessing it was, when I sent her for it this
afternoon--that is, yesterday afternoon. It takes fire--it burns--such
a mild, rich blue flame! Opium and charcoal are the poor man's best
friends. They cost so little, and they save one from so much,"--as
he knelt on the floor, he cast his gaze over his shoulder toward the
bed--"so very much! They will save us all from so much!"
Nelly murmured in her sleep, and rose in bed, and, opening her eyes,
gazed at her brother, kneeling by the lighted furnace, with a wild
dreamy stare. Then she lay down and slept again.
The charcoal burned brightly, its pale blue flame casting a spectral
glow over the face of the kneeling man, so haggard and death-stricken.
The noxious gas began to fill the room. John rose and went, with
unsteady steps to the window, and eagerly inhaled the fresh air.
Resting his arms upon the sash, he felt the cold air upon his cheek,
and looked out and upward,--there was the dark blue sky set with stars.
"In which of them, I wonder, will we all meet again?" he said, in a
wandering way. Then he tottered from the window to the bed. The air was
stifling. He breathed only in gasps.
By the bed again, gazing upon them all,--wife, sister, children,--so
beautiful in their slumber.
And they began to move restlessly in their sleep, and mutter
half-coherent words, and--"In the spring time, John, we'll gather
flowers," said Nelly; "You'll be better soon, John," whispered the
wife; and all was still again.
Back to the window, with unsteady steps, to inhale another mouthful of
fresh air--to take another look at the cold, cold winter stars.
Brighter burns the charcoal; the pale blue flame hovers there, in the
center of the room like an infernal halo. And there is Death in the air.
Breathing in gasps, John tottered from the window again. He took the
image in one hand, the candle in the other; and thus, on tip-toe, he
approached the bed.
A very beautiful sight. Little John and little Annie sleeping side by
side, a glow upon their cheeks,--Nelly and Annie sleeping hand joined
in hand; their beautiful faces invested with a smile that was all
quietness and peace. They did not murmur in their sleep this time.
John's eyes glared strangely as he stood gazing upon them. "And did you
think, Annie," he said softly, putting his hand upon her head, "that
I'd leave you in this world, to work and to slave, and to rear our
children up to work and to slave, and eat the bitter bread of poverty?
And you, Nelly, did you think I'd leave you to slave here, until your
soul was sick; and then, some day, when work failed, and starvation
looked in at the window, to sell yourself to some rich scoundrel for
bread? No, wife--no, sister--no, children: _I have gathered you up in
my arms, and we're all going together_!"
He kissed them one by one, and then tottered back toward the lighted
furnace--toward his chair--the light which he held, shining fully
over his withered face and flaming eyes. In one hand he still grasped
the marble image. He had gained half the distance to his chair, when
the door opened. A man of middle age, clad in sober black, his hair
gray, and his hooked nose supporting gold spectacles, appeared on the
threshold.
"Ah, Doctor, is that you?" cried John, "I thought it was the
landlord;--you've come too late, Doctor, too late."
"Too late? What mean you, Mr. Martin?" said the doctor, advancing into
the room--but starting back again, as he encountered the poisoned air.
"Too late--too late!" cried John, the candle trembling in his unsteady
grasp, as he raised his skeleton-like form to its full height--"We're
all cured,--"
"Cured? What mean you? How cured?"
"Cured of--life!" said John; and, stepping quickly forward, he fell at
the doctor's feet.
The doctor seized the light as he fell, and attempted to raise him from
the floor,--but John was dead in his arms.
* * * * *
Our history now returns to Israel Yorke, whom, with Ninety-One and the
eleven, we left waiting in the dark, outside the artist's door.
"Hush, boys! hush!" whispered Ninety-One, and laid his hand upon the
latch "Enter, Isr'el, and talk to yer tenant."
The door opened, and Israel entered, followed by Ninety-One and the
eleven, all of whom preserved a dead stillness.
A single light was burning dimly in the artist's humble room. It cast
its rays over the humble details of the place,--over the bed, which was
covered by a white sheet. The place was deathly still.
"What does all this mean?" cried Israel. "There is no one here."
Ninety-One took the light from the table, and led Israel silently to
the bed. The eleven gathered round in silence; you could hear their
hard breathing through the dead stillness of the room. Ninety-One
lifted the sheet, slowly; his harsh features quivering in every fiber.
"That's what it means," he said hoarsely.
They were there, side by side; the husband and the wife, the sister and
the children--there, cold and dead. The light, as it fell upon them,
revealed the wasted face of the artist, his closed eyelids, sunken far
in their sockets, his dark hair glued to his forehead by the moisture
of death; and the face of his young wife, with her fair cheek and sunny
hair; and the sad, beautiful face of his sister, whose dark hair lay
loosely upon her neck, while the long fringes of her eyelashes rested
darkly upon her cheek. There was a look of anguish upon the face of
John, as though Poverty had struck its iron seal upon him as he died;
but the faces of Annie and Nelly were calm, smiling--very full of
peace. The little children--the dark-haired boy, and bright-haired
girl--slept quietly, their hands clasped and their cheeks laid close
together. The poor artist, in the last wild hour of his life, had
indeed _gathered them up in his arms and taken them with him_. They had
all gone together.
The furnace, with the fire put out, still remained in the center of the
room.
Such was the scene which the light disclosed; a scene incredible only
to those who, unfamiliar with the ACTUAL of the large city, do not know
that all the boasted triumphs of our modern civilization but miserably
compensate for the POVERTY which it has created, and which stalks side
by side with it, at every step of its progress, like a skeleton beside
a painted harlot;--a poverty which gives to the phrase, "_I am poor!_"
a despair unknown even in the darkest ages of the most barbarous past.
"They are asleep,--asleep, certainly," cried Israel, falling back,
"they can't be dead."
The truth is, that Israel felt exceedingly uncomfortable.
"They ain't asleep,--they _are_ dead," hoarsely replied Ninety-One,
and he grasped Israel fiercely by the wrist. "They are dead, you dog.
Look thar! That man owed you eight dollars for rent; he know'd if he
didn't pay you this mornin' he'd be pitched into the street, dyin' as
he was, with wife and children and sister at his heels. But he'd saved
eight dollars, Israel, an' last night he crawled out to take a walk,
an' found that his eight dollars was so much trash--found out that yer
banks had broke, an' his eight dollars in yer bank notes, was wuss than
nothin'. An' from yer bankin' house he went to a drug store, an' from
a friend he got a quick an' quiet p'ison. He came home; he put it in
the coffee, slyly; they all drank of it, an' slep'; an' then he filled
the furnace with charcoal an' lighted it, an' _then_ they slep' all
the better,--an' there they air! out o' yer clutches, dog--out o' yer
fangs, hell-hound,--gone safe to kingdom come!"
And he clutched Israel's wrist until the little man groaned with pain.
"But how do you know he poisoned himself and these?" faltered Israel.
"He left a scrap o' paper in which he told about it an' the reason for
doin' it. The doctor who came in when it was too late, saw the charcoal
burnin', an' found the p'ison at the bottom of the cups. An' this
man," he pointed to one of the eleven, a sturdy fellow with a frank,
honest face, "this man an' his wife live in the next room. He was out
last evenin', but she was in, an' she heard poor Martin ravin' about
you an' his eight dollars, an' his wife, an' sister, an' children, an'
starvation, death, an' the cold dark street. She heered him, I say, but
didn't suspec' there was p'ison in the case until the doctor called her
in, an' then it was too late."
"But how did you know of all this? What have you to do with it?"
"You see the doctor went an' told the JUDGE, who has just been tryin'
you,--told him hours ago, you mind,--an' THE JUDGE sent me here with
you, in order to show you some of yer work. How d'ye like it Isr'el?"
Ninety-One's features were harsh and scarred, but now they quivered
with an almost child-like emotion. With his brawny hand he pointed to
the bodies of the dead,--
"Thar's eight dollars worth o' yer notes, Isr'el," he said. "Thar's
Chow Bank, Muddy Run, an' Tarrapin Holler! Look at 'em! Don't you think
that some day God Almighty will ax you to change them notes?"
And Israel shrank back appalled from the bed. Ninety-One clutched his
wrist with a firmer grasp; the eleven gathered closely in his rear,
their ominous murmur growing more distinct; and the light, held in the
convict's hand, shed its calm rays over the faces of the dead family.
This death-scene in the artist's home, calls up certain thoughts.
Poverty! Did you ever think of the full meaning of that word? The
curse of poverty is the cowardice which it breeds, cowardice of body
and soul. Many a man who would in full possession of his faculties,
pour out his life-blood for a friend, or even for a stranger, will,
when it becomes a contest for a crust of bread,--for the last means
of a bare subsistence,--steal that crust from the very lips of his
starving friend, and would, were it possible, drain the last life-drop
in the veins of another, in order to keep life in his own wretched
carcass. The savage, starving in the snow, in the center of his
desolate prairie, knows nothing of the poverty of the civilized savage,
much less of that poverty, which takes the man or woman of refined
education, and kills every noble faculty of the soul, before it does
its last work on the body. Poverty in the city, is not mere want of
bread, but it is the lack of the means to supply innumerable wants,
created by civilization,--and that lack is slow moral and physical
death. Talk of the bravery of the hero, who, on the battle-field stands
up to be shot at, with the chance of glory, on the one hand, and a
quick death on the other! How will his heroism compare with that brave
man, who in the large city, year after year, and day by day, expends
the very life-strings of his soul, in battling against the fangs of
want, in keeping some roof-shelter over his wife and children, or those
who are as dependent upon him as wife and children? Proud lady, sitting
on your sofa, in your luxurious parlor, you regard with a quiet sneer,
that paragraph in the paper (you hold it in your hand), which tells
how a virtuous girl, sold her person into the grasp of wealthy lust
for--bread! You sneer,--virtue, refined education, beauty, innocence,
chastity, all gone to the devil for a--bit of bread! Sneer on! but
were you to try the experiment of living two days without--not your
carriage and opera-box,--but without bread or fire in the dead of
winter, working meanwhile at your needle, with half-frozen fingers for
just sixteen pennies per day, you would, I am afraid, think differently
of the matter. Instead of two days, read two years, and let your trial
be one of perpetual work and want, that never for a moment cease to
bite,--I am afraid, beautiful one, were this your case, you would
sometimes find yourself thinking of a comfortable life, and a bed of
down, purchased by the sale of your body, and the damnation of your
soul. And you, friend, now from the quiet of some country village,
railing bravely against southern slavery, and finding no word bitter
enough to express your hatred of the slave market, in which black men
and black women are sold--just look a moment from the window of your
quiet home, and behold yonder huge building, blazing out upon the
night from its hundred windows. That is a factory. Yes. Have you no
pity for the white men, (nearer to you in equality of organization
certainly than black men,) who are chained in hopeless slavery, to the
iron wheels of yonder factory's machinery? Have you no thought of the
white woman, (lovelier to look upon certainly than black women, and
in color, in organization, in education resembling very much your own
wife, sister, mother,) who very often are driven by want, from yonder
factory to the grave, or to the--brothels of New York? You mourn over
black children, sold at the slave block,--have you no tear for white
children, who in yonder factory, are deprived of education, converted
into mere working machines (without one tithe of the food and comfort
of the black slave), and transformed into precocious old men and women,
before they have ever felt one free pulse of childhood?
Ah! this enterprise which forms the impulse and the motto of modern
civilization, will doubtless in the future ripen into good for all
men,--for there is a God,--but the path of its present progress, is
littered with human skulls. It weaves, it spins, it builds, it spreads
forth on all sides its iron arms,--and it has a good capital,--the
blood of human hearts. Labor-saving machinery, (the most awful
feature of modern civilization,) will, in the future, when no longer
monopolized by the few, do the greater portion of the physical work
of the world, and bless the entire race of man,--but until that
future arrives, labor-saving machinery will send more millions down
to death, than any three centuries of battle-fields, that ever cursed
the earth. Yes, modern civilization, is very much like the locomotive,
rolling along an iron track, at sixty miles per hour, with hot coals
at its heart, and a cloud of smoke and flame above it. Look at it, as
it thunders on! What a magnificent impersonation of power; of brute
force chained by the mind of man! All true,--but woe, woe to the weak
or helpless, who linger on its iron track! and woe to the weak, the
crippled, or the poor, whom the locomotive of modern civilization finds
lingering _in its way_. Why should it care? It has no heart. Its work
is to move onward, and to cut down all, whom poverty and misfortune
have left in its path.
There is one phase of poverty which hath no parallel in its unspeakable
bitterness. A man of genius with a good heart, and something of the
all-overarching spirit of Christ in him, looks around the world, sees
the vast sum of human misery, and feels like this, '_With but a moderate
portion of money, what good might not be accomplished!_' and yet that
little sum is as much beyond him,--as far beyond his grasp, as the
planet Jupiter.
That forth from the womb of the present chaos, a nobler era will be
born, no one can doubt, who feels the force of these four words,
'_there is a God_.' And that the present age with its deification of
the money power, is one of the basest the world ever saw, cannot be
disproved, although it may be bitterly denied. There is something
pitiful in the thought that a world once deemed worthy of the tread of
Satan, is now become the crawling ground of Mammon.
CHAPTER V.
MARY, CARL, CORNELIUS.
Leaving Frank to writhe alone in her agony, Nameless and Mary pursued
their way through the dark streets, as the morning drew near. They
arrived at length, in front of that huge mansion, in Greenwich street,
which once the palace of ease and opulence, was now, from the garret to
the cellar, the palace of rags, disease and poverty. How Mary's heart
thrilled as she led Nameless through the darkness up the marble stairs!
A few hours since she went down those stairs, with death in her heart.
Now her husband, risen from the grave was on her arm, hope was in her
heart, and--although dark and bitter cold, and signs of poverty and
wretchedness were all around her,--the future opened before her mental
vision, rosy and golden in its hues of promise.
At the head of the stairway, on the fourth story Mary opened a door,
and in the darkness, led Nameless across the threshold.
"My home!" she whispered, and lighted the candle, which hours ago, in
the moment of her deepest despair, she had extinguished.
As the light stole around the place, Nameless at a glance beheld the
miserable garret, with its sloping roof walls of rough boards, and
scanty furniture, a mattress in one corner, a sheet-iron stove, a
table, and in the recess of the huge garret window an old arm-chair.
"This your home!" he ejaculated and at the same time beheld the
occupant of the arm-chair,--in that man prematurely old, his skeleton
form incased in a loose wrapper, his emaciated hands resting on
the arms, and one side of his corpse-like face on the back of the
chair,--he after a long pause, recognized the wreck of his master,
Cornelius Berman.
"O, my master!" he cried in a tone of inexpressible emotion, and
sank on his knees before the sleeping man, and pressed his emaciated
hand reverently to his lips. "Is it thus I find you!" and profoundly
affected, he remained kneeling there, his gaze fixed upon that
countenance, which despite its premature wrinkles, and dead apathetic
expression, still bore upon its forehead,--half hid by snow-white
hair,--some traces of the intellect of Cornelius Berman.
While Nameless knelt there in silence, Mary glided from the room, and
after some minutes, again appeared, holding a basket on one arm, while
the other held some sticks of wood. Leaving her husband in his reverie,
at her father's feet, she built a fire in the sheet-iron stove, and
began to prepare the first meal which she had tasted in the course
of twenty hours. Continued excitement had kept her up thus far, but
her brain began to grow dizzy and her hand to tremble. At length the
white cloth was spread on the table, and the rich fragrance of coffee
stole through the atmosphere of the dismal garret. The banquet was
spread, bread, butter, two cups of coffee,--a sorry sort of banquet
say you,--but just for once, try the experiment of twenty-four hours,
without food, and you'll change your opinion.
The first faint gleam of the winter morning began to steal through the
garret window.
"Come, Carl,"--she glided softly to his side, and tapped him gently on
the shoulder, "breakfast is ready. While father sleeps, just come and
see what a good housekeeper I am."
He looked up and beheld her smiling, although there were tears in her
eyes.
He rose and took his seat beside her at the table. Now the garret
was rude and lonely, and the banquet by no means luxurious, and yet
Nameless could not help being profoundly agitated, as he took his seat
by the side of Mary.
It was the first time, in all his memory, that he had sat down to a
table, encircled by the sanctity which clusters round the word--_Home_.
His wife was by his side,--this was his--_Home_.
Breakfast over, he once more knelt at the feet of the sleeping man.
And Mary knelt by his side, gazing silently into his face, while his
gaze was riveted upon her father's countenance. Thus they were, as the
morning light grew brighter on the window-pane. At length Mary rested
her head upon his bosom, and slept,--he girdled her form in his cloak,
and held her in his arms, while her bosom, heaving gently with the calm
pulsation of slumber, was close against his heart. The morning light
grew brighter on the window-pane, and touched the white hairs of the
father, and shone upon the glowing cheek of the sleeping girl.
Nameless, wide awake, his eyes large and full, and glittering with
thought, gazed now upon the face of his old master, and now upon
the countenance of his young wife. And then his whole life rose up
before him. He was lost in a maze of absorbing thought. His friendless
childhood, the day when Cornelius first met him, his student life,
in the studies of the artist, the pleasant home of the artist on
the river, the hour when he had reddened his hand with blood, his
trial, sentence, the day of execution, the burial, the life in the
mad-house,--these scenes and memories passed before him, with living
shapes and hues and voices. And after all, Mary, his wife was in his
arms! The sun now came up, and his first ray shone rosily over the
cheeks of the sleeping girl.
Nameless remembered the letter which Frank had given him, and now took
it from the side pocket of his coat. He surveyed it attentively. It
bore his name, "GULIAN VAN HUYDEN."
"What does it contain?" he asked himself the question mentally, little
dreaming of the fatal burden which the letter bore.
The sleeping man awoke, and gazed around the apartment with large,
lack-luster eyes. At the same time, with his emaciated hand, he tried
to clutch the sunbeam which trembled over his shoulder. Nameless felt
his heart leap to his throat at the sight of this pitiful wreck of
genius.
"Do you not know me, master?" exclaimed Nameless, pressing the hand of
the afflicted man, and fixing his gaze earnestly upon his face.
Was it an idle fancy? Nameless thought he saw something like a ray of
intelligence flit across that stricken face.
"It is I, Carl Raphael, your pupil, your son!"
As though the sound of that voice had penetrated even the sealed
consciousness of hopeless idiocy, the aged artist slightly inclined his
head, and there was a strange tremulousness in his glance.
"Carl Raphael, your son!" repeated Nameless, and clutched the hands of
the artist.
Again that tremulousness in the glance of the artist, and then,--as
though a film had fallen from his eyes,--his gaze was firm, and bright,
and clear. It was like the restoration of a blind man to sight. His
gaze traversed the room, and at length rested on the face of Nameless.
"Carl!" he cried, like one, who, awaking from a troubled dream, finds,
unexpectedly, by his bed a familiar and beloved face--"Carl, my son!"
Mary heard that voice; it roused her from her slumber. Starting up, she
pressed her father's hands.
"O, Carl, Carl, he knows you! Thank God! thank God!"
"Mary," said the father, gazing upon her earnestly, like one who tries
to separate the reality of his waking hours from the images of a past
dream.
First upon one face, then upon the other, he turned his gaze,
meanwhile, in an absent manner, joining the hand of Mary and the hand
of Carl.
"Carl! Mary!" he repeated the names in a low voice, and laid his hands
gently on their heads.--"I thought I had lost you, my children. Carl
and Mary," he repeated their names again,--"Carl and Mary! God bless
you, my children; and now----" he surveyed them with his large, bright
eyes, "and now I must sleep."
His head fell gently forward on his breast, and he fell asleep to
wake no more in this world. His mind had made its last effort in the
recognition of Mary and Nameless. For a moment it flashed brightly in
its socket, and then went out forever. He was dead. Nay, not dead, but
he was,--to use that inexpressibly touching thought, in which the very
soul and hope of Christianity is embodied,--"_asleep in Christ_."
When Mary raised his head from his breast, his eyes were vailed in the
glassy film of death. Leaning upon the arm which never yet failed to
support the weary head and the tired heart, gazing upon the face which
always looks its ineffable consolation, into the face of the dying,
Cornelius had passed away as calmly as a child sinking to sleep upon a
mother's faithful breast.
Mary and Nameless, on their knees before the corse, clasped those
death-chilled hands, and wept in silence.
And the winter sun, shining bright upon the window-pane, fell upon
their bowed heads, and upon the tranquil face of the dead father,
around whose lips a smile was playing, as though some word of "good
cheer" had been whispered to him, by angel-tongues, in the moment ere
he passed away.
And thou art dead, brave artist, and life's battle with thee is
over,--the eyes that used to look so manfully upon every phase of
sorrow and adversity, are all cold and lusterless now,--the heart that
generous emotions filled and lofty conceptions warmed, sleeps pulseless
in the lifeless bosom. Thou art dead!--dead in the dreary home of Want,
with cold winter light upon thy gray hairs. Dead! Ah, no,--not dead,
for there is a PRESENCE in the dismal garret, invisible to external
eyes, which puts Death to shame, and upon the gates of the grave
writes, in letters of undying light:--_In all the universe of God there
is no such thing as death, but simply a transition from one life, or
state of life, to another._ Not dead, brave artist. Thou hast not, in
a long life, cherished affections, gathered experience from the bitter
tree of adversity, and developed, in storm as well as sunshine, thy
clear, beautiful intellect, merely to bury them all in the dull grave
at last. No,--thou hast borne affections, experience, and intellect, to
the genial sunshine of the better land. The coffin-lid of this life has
been lifted from thy soul,--thou art risen, indeed,--at last, in truth,
THOU LIVEST!
And the PRESENCE which fills thy dark chamber now, although often
mocked by the gross interpretations of a brutal theology, often hid
from the world by the Gehenna smoke of conflicting creeds, is a living
Presence, always living, always loving, always bringing the baptism of
consolation to the way-worn children of this life, even as it did in
the hour when, embodied in a human form, face to face and eye to eye,
it spoke to man.
The sun is high in the wintery heavens, and his light, streaming
through the window-pane, falls upon the mattress, whereon, covered
reverently, by the white sheet, the corse is laid. Mary is crouching
there, one hand supporting her forehead, the other resting upon the
open book, which is placed upon her knee. Thus all day long she watches
by the dead. At last the flush of evening is upon the winter sky.
Nameless, standing by the window, tears open the letter of Frank, and
reads it by the wintery light. The three hours have passed.
Why does his face change color, as he reads? The look of grief which
his countenance wears is succeeded by one of utter horror.
"The poison vial!" he ejaculates, and places the fatal letter in Mary's
hand.
CHAPTER VI.
A LOOK INTO THE RED BOOK.
Madam Resimer was waiting in the little room up-stairs,--waiting and
watching in that most secret chamber of her mansion,--her cheek resting
on her hand, her eyes fixed upon the drawer from which the Red Book had
been stolen. The day was bright without, but in the closed apartment,
the Madam watched by the light of a candle, which was burning fast
to the socket. The Madam had not slept. Her eyes were restless and
feverish. Her cheeks, instead of their usual florid hues, were marked
with alternate spots of white and red. Sitting in the arm-chair, (which
her capacious form, clad in the chintz wrapper, filled to overflowing),
the Madam beats the carpet nervously with her foot, and then her small
black eyes assume a wicked, a vixenish look.
Daylight is bright upon the city and river; ten o'clock is near,--the
hour at which Dermoyne intended to return,--and yet the Madam has no
word of the bullies whom last night she set upon Dermoyne's track. Near
ten o'clock, and no news of Dirk, Slung-Shot, or--the Red Book!
"Why _don't_ they come!" exclaimed the Madam, for the fiftieth time,
and she beat the carpet wickedly with her foot.
And from the shadows of the apartment, a voice, most lugubrious in its
tone, uttered the solitary word,--"_Why?_"
"If they don't come, what shall we do?" the Madam's eyes grew wickeder,
and she began to "crack" the joints of her fingers.
"_What?_" echoed the lugubrious voice.
"I'll tell you what it is, Corkins," said the Madam, turning fiercely
in her chair, "I wish the devil had you,--I do! Sittin' there in your
chair, croakin' like a raven.--'What! Why!'" and she mimicked him
wickedly; "when you should be doin' somethin' to stave off the trouble
that's gatherin' round us. Now you know, that unless we get back the
Red Book, we're ruined,--you know it?"
"Com-pletely ruined!" echoed Corkins, who sat in the background, on the
edge of a chair, his elbows on his knees, and his chin on his hands.
Corkins, you will remember, is a little, slender man, clad in black,
with a white cravat about his neck, a top-knot on his low forehead, a
"goatee" on his chin, and gold spectacles on his nose. And as Corkins
sits on the edge of his chair, he looks very much like a strange bird
on its perch,--a bird of evil omen, meditating all sorts of calamities
sure to happen to quite a number of people, at some time not definitely
ascertained.
"It's near ten o'clock," glancing at the gold watch which lay on
the table before her, "and no word of Barnhurst, not even a hint of
Dirk or Slung! And at ten, that villain who stole the book will come
back,--that is, unless Dirk and Slung have taken care of him! I never
was in such a fever in all my life! Corkins, what _is_ to be done? And
your patient,--how is she?"
"As for the patient up-stairs," Corkins began, but the words died away
on his lips.
The sound of a bell rang clearly, although gloomily throughout the
mansion.
"Go to the front door,--quick!"--in her impatience the Madam bounded
from her chair. "See who's there. Open the door, but don't undo the
chain; and don't,--do you hear?--don't let anybody in until you hear
from me! Quick, I say!"
"But it isn't the front door bell," hesitated Corkins.
Again the sound of the bell was heard.
"It's the bell of the secret passage," ejaculated Madam, changing
color,--"the passage which leads to a back street, and of the existence
of which, only four persons in the world know anything. There it goes
again! who can it be?"
The Madam was evidently very much perplexed. Corkins, who had risen
from his perch, stood as though rooted to the floor; and the bell
pealed loud and louder, in dismal echoes throughout the mansion.
"Who can it be?" again asked the Madam, while a thousand vague
suspicions floated through her brain.
"Who can it be?" echoed Corkins, shaking like a dry leaf in the wind.
Here let us leave them awhile in their perplexity, while we retrace
our steps, and take up again the adventures of Barnhurst and Dermoyne.
We left them in the dimly-lighted bed-chamber, at the moment when the
faithful wife, awaking from her slumber, welcomed the return of her
husband in these words,--"Husband! have you come at last? I have waited
for you so long!"
"Husband!" said the wife, awaking from her sleep, and stretching forth
her arms, "have you come at last? I have waited for you so long!"
"Dearest, I was detained by an unexpected circumstance," answered
Barnhurst, and first turning to Dermoyne with an imploring gesture,
he approached the bed, and kissed his wife and sleeping child. Then
back to Dermoyne again with a stealthy step,--"Take your revenge!" he
whispered; "advance, and tell everything to my wife."
Dermoyne's face showed the contest of opposing emotions; now clouded
with a hatred as remorseless as death, now touched with something
like pity. At a rapid glance he surveyed the face of the trembling
culprit,--the boy sleeping on his couch,--the mother resting on the
bed, with her babe upon her bent arm,--and then uttered in a whisper, a
single word,--"Come!"
He led Barnhurst over the threshold, out upon the landing, and
carefully closed the door of the bed-chamber.
"Now, sir," he whispered, fixing his stern gaze upon Barnhurst's face,
which was lighted by the rays of the lamp in the hall below,--"what
have you to propose?"
Barnhurst's _blonde_ visage was corpse-like in its pallor.
"Nothing," he said, folding his arms with the air of a man who has lost
all hope, and made up his mind to the worst. "I am in your power."
Dermoyne, with this finger to his lip, remained for a moment buried
in profound thought. Once his eyes, glancing sidelong, rested upon
Barnhurst with a sort of ferocious glare. When he spoke again, it was
in these words:--
"Enter your bed-chamber, and sleep beside your faithful wife,
and,--think of Alice. As for myself, I will watch for the morning,
on the sofa, down stairs. Enter, I say!" he pointed sternly to the
door,--"and remember! at morning we take up our march again. I _know_
that you will not escape from me,--and as for your wife, if you do not
wish her to see me, you will make your appearance at an early hour."
Barnhurst, without a word, glided silently into the bed-chamber,
closing the door after him. Dermoyne, listening for a moment, heard the
voices of the husband and the wife, mingling in conversation. Then he
went quietly down stairs, took down the hanging-lamp, and with it in
his hand, entered a room on the lower floor.
It was a neatly-furnished apartment with a sofa, a piano, and a
portrait of Barnhurst on the wall. The remains of a wood-fire were
smouldering on the hearth. Near the piano stood an empty cradle. It
was very much like--home. It was, in a word, the room through whose
curtained windows, we gazed in our brief episode, and saw the pure wife
with her children, awaiting the return of the husband and father.
Dermoyne lit a candle, which stood on a table, near the sofa, and then
replaced the hanging lamp. This done, he came into the quiet parlor
again,--without once pausing to notice that the front door was ajar.
Had he but remarked this little fact, he might have saved himself a
world of trouble. He flung his cloak upon the table, and placed his cap
and the iron bar beside it. Then seating himself on the sofa, he drew
the Red Book from under his left arm, where for hours he had securely
carried it,--and spread it forth upon his knees. Drawing the light
nearer to him, he began to examine the contents of that massive volume.
How his countenance underwent all changes of expression, as page after
page was disclosed to his gaze! At first his lip curled, and his brow
grew dark,--there was doubtless much to move contempt and hatred in
those pages,--but as he read on, his large gray eyes, dilating in their
sockets, shone with steady light; every lineament of his countenance,
manifested profound, absorbing interest.
The Red Book!
Of all the singular volumes, ever seen, this certainly was one of the
most singular. It comprised perchance, one thousand manuscript pages,
written by at least a hundred hands. There were original letters,
and copies of letters; some of them traced by the tremulous hand of
the dying. There were histories and fragments of histories,--the
darkest record of the criminal court is not so black, as many a
history comprised within the compass of this volume. It contained
the history, sometimes complete sometimes in fragmentary shape, of
all who had ever sought the aid of Madam Resimer, or,--suffered
beneath her hands. And there were letters there, and histories there,
which the Madam had evidently gathered, with a view of extorting
money from certain persons, who had never passed into the circle of
her infernal influence. All the crimes that can spring from unholy
marriages, from violation of the marriage vow, from the seduction of
innocent maidenhood, from the conflict between poor chastity and rich
temptation, stood out upon those pages, in forms of terrible life.
That book was a revelation of the civilization of a large city,--a
glittering mask with a death's head behind it,--a living body chained
to a leperous corpse. Instead of being called the Red Book, it should
have been called the Black Book, or the Death Book, or the Mysteries of
the Social World.
How the aristocracy of the money power was set forth in those pages!
That aristocracy which the French know as the "Bourgeoise," which the
English style the "Middle Classes," and which the Devil knows for his
"own,"--the name of whose god the Savior pronounced, when he uttered
the word "Mammon,"--whose loftiest aspiration is embodied in the word
"Respectable!" How this modern aristocracy of the money power, stood
out in naked life, showy and mean, glittering and heartless, upon
the pages of the Red Book! Stood out in colors, painted, not by an
enemy, but by its own hand, the mark of its baseness stamped upon its
forehead, by its own peculiar seal.
One history was there, which, written in different hands, in an
especial manner, riveted the interest of Arthur Dermoyne. Bending
forward, with the light of the candle upon his brow, he read it page by
page, his face manifesting every contrast of emotion as he read. For
a title it bore a single name, written in a delicate womanly
hand,--"MARION MERLIN." The greater portion of the history was written
in the same hand.
Leaning upon the shoulder of Arthur Dermoyne, let us, with him, read
this sad, dark history.
CHAPTER VII.
MARION MERLIN.
At the age of eighteen I was betrothed to Walter Howard, a young man of
polished manners, elegant exterior, and connected with one of the first
families of New York. I was beautiful, so the world said,--eighteen and
an heiress. My father was one of the wealthiest merchants of New York,
with a princely mansion in town, and as princely a mansion, for summer
residence, in the country. I had lost my mother, at an age so early,
that I can but dimly remember her pallid face. At eighteen, I was my
father's only and idolized child.
Returning from boarding-school, where, apart from the busy world, I
had passed four years of a life, which afterward was to be marked by
deeds so singular, yes, unnatural, I was invested by my father, with
the keys of his city mansion, and installed as its mistress. Still kept
apart from the world,--for my father guarded me from its wiles and
temptations, with an eye of sleepless jealousy,--I was left to form
ideas of my future life, from the fancies of my day-dreams, or from
what knowledge I had gleaned from books. Walter was my father's head
clerk. In that capacity he often visited our mansion. To see him was
to love him. His form was graceful, and yet manly; his complexion a
rich bronze; his eyes dark, penetrating and melancholy. As for myself,
a picture which, amid all my changing fortunes, I have preserved as
a relic of happy and innocent days, shows a girl of eighteen, with a
form that may well be called voluptuous, and a face, (shaded by masses
of raven hair,) which, with its clear bronzed complexion, large hazel
eyes, and arching brows, tells the story of my descent on my mother's
side,--she was a West-Indian, and there is Spanish blood in my veins.
My acquaintance with Walter, ripened into warm and passionate love, and
one day, my father surprised me, as I hung upon my lover's breast, and
instead of chiding us, said with a look of unmistakable affection:
"Right, Walter. You have won my daughter's love. When you return from
the West Indies, you shall be married; and once married, instead of my
head clerk, you shall be my partner."
My father was a venerable man, with a kindly face and snow-white
hair: as he spoke the tears ran down his cheeks, for (as I afterward
ascertained,) my marriage with Walter, the orphan of one of the dearest
friends of his boyhood, had been the most treasured hope of his life
for years.
Walter left for Havana, intrusted with an important and secret
commission from my father. He was to be absent only a month. Why was
it, on the day of his departure, as he strained me to his breast and
covered my face with his passionate kisses, that a deep presentiment
chilled my blood? O had he never left my side, what a world of agony,
of despair,--yes of crime,--would have been spared to me!
"Be true to me, Marion!" these were his last words,--"in a month I will
return--"
"True to you! can you doubt it Walter? True until death,--" and we
parted.
I was once more alone, in my father's splendid mansion. One evening
he came home, but not with his usual kindly smile. He was pale
and troubled, and seemed to avoid my gaze. Without entering the
sitting-room, he went at once to his library, and locked himself in,
having first directed the servant to call him, in case a Mr. Issachar
Burley inquired for him. It was after eight when Mr. Burley called, and
was shown into the parlor, while the servant went to announce him to my
father.
"Miss Marion, I believe!" he said, as he beheld me by the light of
the astral-lamp,--and then a singular look passed over his face; a
look which at that time I could not define, but which afterward was
made terribly clear to me. This Mr. Burley, who thus for the first
time entered my father's house, was by no means prepossessing in his
exterior. Over fifty years of age, corpulent in form, bald-headed, his
florid face bore the undeniable traces of a life, exhausted in sensual
indulgences.
While I was taking a survey of this singular visitor, the servant
entered the parlor,--
"Mr. Burley will please walk up into the library," he said.
"Good night, dear," said Mr. Burley with a bow, and a gesture that
had as much of insolence as of politeness in it,--"By-by,--we'll meet
again."
He went up stairs, and my father and he, were closeted together for at
least two hours. At ten o'clock I was sent for. I entered the library,
trembling, I know not why; and found my father and Mr. Burley, seated
on opposite sides of a table overspread with papers,--a hanging lamp,
suspended over the table, gave light to the scene. My father was deadly
pale.
"Sit down, Marion," he said, in a voice so broken and changed, that I
would not have recognized it, had I not seen his face,--"Mr. Burley has
something to say to you."
"Mr. Burley!" I ejaculated,--"What can he have to say to me?"
"Speak to her,--speak," said my father,--"speak, for I cannot,--" and
resting his hands on the table, his head dropped on his breast.
"Sit down, my dear," exclaimed Burley, in a tone of easy
familiarity,--"I have a little matter of business with your father.
There's no use of mincing words. Your father, my dear, is a ruined man."
I sank into a chair, and my father's groan confirmed Burley's words.
"Hopelessly involved," continued Mr. Burley,--"Unless he can raise
three hundred thousand dollars by to-morrow noon, he is a _dishonored_
man. Do you hear me, my dear? Dishonored!"
"Dishonored!" groaned my father burying his head in his hands.
"And more than this," continued Burley, "Your father, among his many
mercantile speculations, has dabbled a little,--yes more than a
little,--in the African slave-trade. He has relations with certain
gentlemen at Havana, which once known to our government, would consign
him to the convict's cell."
The words of the man filled me with indignation, and with horror. Half
fainting as I was, I felt the blood boil in my veins.
"Father, rebuke the liar,"--I said as I placed my hand on his
shoulder.--"Raise your face, and tell him that he is the coiner of a
falsehood, as atrocious as it is foolish--"
My father did not reply.
"And more than this,"--Burley went on, as though he had not heard
me,--"I have it in my power, either to relieve your father from his
financial embarrassments, or,--" he paused and surveyed me from head to
foot, "or to denounce him to the government as one guilty, of something
which it calls _piracy_,--to wit, an intimate relationship with the
African slave trade."
Again my father groaned, but did not raise his face.
The full truth burst upon me. My father was ruined, and in this man's
power. Confused,--half maddened, I flung myself upon my knees, and
clasped Burley by the hands.
"O, you will not ruin my father," I shrieked.--"You will save him."
Burley took my hands within his own, and bent down, until I felt his
breath upon my cheeks--
"Yes, I will save him," he whispered,--"That is, for a price,--your
hand, my dear."
His look could not be mistaken. At the same moment, my father raised
his face from his hands,--it was pallid, distorted, stamped with
despair.
"It is the only way, Marion," he said in a broken voice,--"Otherwise
your father must rot in a felon's cell."
Amid all the misfortunes of a varied and changeful life, the agony of
that moment has never once been forgotten. I felt the blood rush to my
head--
"Be it so," I cried,--and fell like a dead woman on the floor, at the
feet of Mr. Issachar Burley.
CHAPTER VIII.
NIAGARA.
The next day we were married. In the dusk of the evening four figures
stood in the spacious parlor of my father's mansion, by the light of a
single waxen-candle. There was the clergyman, gazing in dumb surprise
upon the parties to this ill-assorted marriage, there was my father,
his countenance vacant almost to imbecility,--for the blow had stricken
his intellect--there was the bridegroom, his countenance glowing with
sensual triumph; and there the bride, pale as the bridal-dress which
enveloped her form, about to be sacrificed on the altar of an unholy
marriage. We were married, and between the parlor and the bridal
chamber, one hope remained. Rather than submit to the embrace of the
unworthy sensualist, I had determined to die, even upon the threshold
of the bridal chamber. I had provided myself with a poniard. But alas!
a glass of wine, drugged by my husband's hand, benumbed my reason, and
when morning light broke upon me again, I found myself in his arms.
The history of the next three months may be rapidly told, for they were
months of agony and shame.
"I have directed Walter by letter, to proceed from Havana to the
city of Mexico," said my father to me, the second day after the
marriage--"He will not return for six months, and certainly until his
return, shall not hear of this,--this,--marriage."
My father's mind was broken, and from that hour, he surrendered himself
to Issachar's control. Burley took charge of his business, made our
house his home,--he was my father's master and mine. The course which
he pursued to blunt my feelings, and deaden every faculty of my better
nature, by rousing all that was sensual within me, was worthy of him.
He gave parties at our home, to the profligate of both sexes, selected
from a certain class of the so-called "fashionables," of New York.
Revels, prolonged from midnight until dawn, disturbed the quiet of
our mansion; and in the wine-cup, and amid the excitement of those
fashionable, but unholy orgies, I soon learned to forget the pure hopes
of my maidenhood.
Three months passed, and no word of Walter; my father, meanwhile, was
sinking deeper every day into hopeless imbecility. At length, the early
part of summer, my husband gathered together a party of his fashionable
friends, and we departed on a tour to Niagara Falls, up the lakes, and
then along the St. Lawrence, and to Montreal. At Niagara Falls we put
up at the ---- Hotel, and the orgies which had disgraced my father's
mansion, were again resumed. My father we had left at home, in charge
of a well-tried and faithful servant. One summer evening, tired of the
scenes which took place in our parlors, at the hotel, I put on a bonnet
and vail, and alone pursued my way, across the bridge to Iris Island,
and from Iris to Luna Island. The night was beautiful; from a clear sky
the moon shone over the falls; and the roar of waters, alone disturbed
the silence of the scene. Crossing the narrow bridge which separates
Iris Island from Luna Island, I took my way through the deep shadows
of the thicket, until I emerged in the moonlight, upon the verge of
the falls. Leaning against a small beech tree, which stands there,
I clasped my hands upon my bosom, and wept. That scene, full of the
grandeur and purity of nature, awoke the memory of my pure and happier
days.
"One plunge and all is over!" the thought flashed over me,--and I
measured with a rapid glance, the distance between myself and the brink
of the cataract. But at this moment I discovered that I was not alone
upon Luna Island. A stranger was leaning against a tree, which was
nearer to the brink of the falls than the one against which I leaned.
His face was in profile, the lower part of it covered with a thick
moustache and beard; and his gaze was lifted absently to the moonlight
sky. As I dropped my vail over my face, and gazed at him freely, myself
unperceived, I felt my limbs bend beneath me, and the blood rush in a
torrent to my head.
I had only strength to frame one word--"Walter!" and fell fainting on
his breast.
When I recovered my consciousness, I found myself resting in his arms,
while he covered my face with burning kisses.
"You here, Marion!" he cried. "This is indeed an unexpected pleasure!"
He had not heard of my marriage!
"I am here, with some friends," I faltered. "My father could not come
with me--and--"
Between the kisses which he planted upon the lips of his betrothed--(so
he thought)--he explained his unexpected appearance at Niagara. At
Havana he had received the letter from my father, desiring him to
hasten, on important business, to the city of Mexico. He had obeyed,
and accomplished his mission sooner than he anticipated; had left Vera
Cruz for New Orleans; taken steamboat for Cincinnati, and from thence
to Cleveland, and across the lake to Buffalo and Niagara Falls.
"And now I'm on my way home, Marion," he concluded. "What a pleasant
surprise it will be for father!"
"I am married, Walter."--The words were on my lips, but I could not
speak them.
We rose, and, arm in arm, wandered over the bridge, up the steep, and
through the winding walks of Goat Island. Leaning on the arm of Walter,
I forgot everything but that he loved me and that he was with me. I
did not dare to think that to-morrow's light would disclose to him the
truth--that I was married, and to another. At length, as we approached
the bridge which leads from the Island to the shore, I said--"Leave me
Walter; we must not be seen to return together. To-morrow you can call
upon me, when I am in presence of my--friends."
One passionate embrace was exchanged, and I watched him, as he crossed
the bridge alone, until he was out of sight. Why, I knew not, but an
impulse for which I could not account, induced me to retrace my steps
to Luna Island. In a few moments I had crossed the bridge (connecting
Iris with Luna Island,) and stood once more on the Cataract's brink,
under the same tree where an hour before I had discovered Walter. Oh,
the agony of that moment, as, gazing over the falls, I called up my
whole life, my blighted prospect, and my future without one ray of
hope! Should I advance, but a single step, and bury my shame and my
sorrows beneath the cataract? Once dead, Walter would at least respect
my memory, while living he could only despise and abhor me.
While thoughts like these flashed over my brain, my ear was saluted
with the chorus of a drinking song, hummed in an uneven and tremulous
voice; and, in a moment my husband passed before me, with an unsteady
step. He was confused and excited by the fumes of champagne.
Approaching the verge of the island--but a few feet from the verge of
the cataract--where the waters look smooth and glassy, as they are
about to take the last plunge, he stood gazing, now at the torrent, now
at the moon, with a vague, half-drunken stare.
That moment decided my life!
His attitude, the cataract so near, my own lost and hopeless condition,
all rushed upon me. Vailing my face, I darted forward and uttered a
shriek. Startled by the unexpected sound, he turned, lost his balance,
and fell backward into the torrent. But, as he fell, he clutched a
branch which overhung the water. Thus, scarcely two yards from the
brink, he struggled madly for his life, his face upturned to the moon.
I advanced and uncovered my face. He knew me, for the shock had sobered
him.
"Marion, save me, save me!" he cried.
I gazed upon him without a word, my arms folded on my breast, and saw
him struggle, and heard the branch snap, and--heard his death-howl,
as he was swept over the falls. Then, pale as death, and shuddering
as with mortal cold, I dragged my steps from the Island, over the
bridge--shrieking madly for help. Soon, I heard footsteps and voices.
"Help! help!" I shrieked, as I was surrounded by a group of faces, men
and women. "My husband! my husband! the falls!" and sank, fainting, in
their midst.
CHAPTER IX.
A SECOND MARRIAGE.
Morning came, and no suspicion attached to me. A murderess--if not in
deed, in thought, certainly--I was looked upon as the inconsolable
widow. Walter left Niagara without seeing me. How did he regard me?
I could not tell. The death of Burley broke up our traveling party,
and we returned to New York. I returned in time to attend my father's
funeral; and found myself the heiress, in my own right, of three
hundred thousand dollars. An heiress and a widow, certainly life began
to brighten! Burley removed, the incubus which sat upon my father's
wealth was gone; and I was beautiful, and free, and rich--immensely
rich.
But where was Walter? Months passed, and I did not see him. As he was
the head clerk of my father, I hoped to see him, in company with legal
gentlemen, engaged to close up my father's estate. But he settled his
accounts, closed all connection with my father's estate and business,
but did not come near me. At length, weary of suspense, and heart-sick
of the loneliness of my desolate mansion, I wrote to him, begging an
interview.
He called in the dusk of the evening, when a single candle lighted up
the spacious and gloomy parlor. He was dressed in deep mourning, and
very pale.
"_Madam_, you wished to see me," he began.
This cold and formal manner cut me to the heart.
"Walter!" I cried, and flung myself upon his breast, and passionately,
but in broken accents, told him how my father's anticipated ruin had
forced me to marry Burley.
Walter was melted. "Marion, I love you, and always shall love you,
but--but--"
He paused. In an agony of suspense I hung upon his words.
"But--"
"But you are so rich, and I--I--am poor!"
I drowned all further words with kisses, and in a moment we were
betrothed again.
We were married. Walter was the master of my fortune, my person and my
future. We lived happily together, content with each other's society,
and seeking, in the endearments of a pure marriage, to blot out the
memory of an unholy one. My husband, truly my husband, was all that
I could desire; and by me, he became the possessor of a princely
revenue, free to gratify his taste for all that is beautiful in the
arts, in painting and sculpture, without hinderance or control.
Devoted to me, always kind, eager to gratify my slightest wish, Walter
was all that I could desire. We lived to ourselves, and forgot the
miserable mockery called "the fashionable world," into which Burley
had introduced me. Thus a year passed away, and present happiness
banished the memory of a gloomy past. After a year, Walter began to
have important engagements, on pressing business, in Philadelphia,
Boston, Baltimore and Washington. His absence was death to me; but,
having full confidence in him, and aware that his business must be of
vital importance, or assuredly he would not leave me, I saw him depart,
time and again, with grief too deep for words, and always hailed his
return--the very echo of his step with a joy as deep. On one occasion,
when he left me, for a day, on a business visit to Philadelphia, I
determined--I scarcely knew why--to follow him, and greet him, on his
arrival in Philadelphia, with the unexpected but welcome surprise of
my presence. Clothing myself in black--black velvet bonnet, and black
velvet mantilla, and with a dark vail over my face--I followed him to
the ferry-boat, crossed to Jersey City, and took my seat near him in
the cars. We arrived in Philadelphia late at night. To my surprise he
did not put up at one of the prominent hotels, but bent his way to an
obscure and distant part of the city. I followed him to a remote part
of Kensington, and saw him knock at the door of an isolated two-story
house. After a pause, it was opened, and he entered. I waited from
the hour of twelve until three, but he did not re-appear. Sadly and
with heavy steps I bent my way to the city, and took lodgings at a
respectable but third-rate tavern, representing myself as a widow
from the interior, and taking great care to conceal my face from the
gaze of the landlord and servants. Next morning it was my first care
to procure a male dress,--it matters not how, or with what caution
and trouble,--and, tying it up in a compact bundle, I made my way to
the open country and entered a wood. It was the first of autumn, and
already the leaves were tinted with rainbow dyes. In the thickest
part of the wood I disposed of my female attire, and assumed the
male dress--blue frock, buttoned to the throat, dark pantaloons,
and gaiter boots. My dark hair I arranged beneath a glazed cap with
military buttons. Cutting a switch I twirled it jauntily in my hand,
and, anxious to test my disguise, entered a wayside cottage--near the
Second Street Road--and asked for a glass of water. While the back of
the tenant of the cottage--an aged woman--was turned, I gazed in the
looking-glass, and beheld myself, to all appearance, a young man of
medium stature, with brown complexion of exceeding richness, lips of
cherry red, arched brows, eyes of unusual brilliancy, and black hair,
arranged in a glossy mass beneath a glazed cap. It was the image of a
handsome boy of nineteen, with no down on the lip and no beard on the
chin. Satisfied with my disguise, and with a half-formed idea floating
through my brain, I bent my steps to the isolated house, which I had
seen my husband enter the night before. I knocked; the door was opened
by a young girl, plainly clad, but of surpassing beauty--evidently not
more than sixteen years old. A sunny complexion, blue eyes, masses of
glossy brown hair, combined with an expression which mingled voluptuous
warmth with stainless innocence. Such was her face. As to her form,
although not so tall as mine, it mingled the graceful outlines of the
maiden with the ripeness of the woman.
CHAPTER X.
A SECOND MURDER.
She gazed upon me with surprise. Obeying a sudden impulse, I
said--"Excuse me, Miss, but I promised to meet _him_ here. You know,"
with a polite bow and smile, "you know whom I mean?"
"Mr. Barton--" she hesitated.
"Exactly so; Mr. Barton, my intimate friend, who has confided _all_ to
me, and who desired me to meet him here at this hour."
"My mother is not at home," hesitated the young girl, "and, in her
absence, I do not like to--"
"Receive strangers, you were about to add? Well, Miss, I am not a
stranger. As the intimate friend of Mr. Barton, who especially desired
me to meet him here--"
These words seemed to resolve all her doubts. She motioned me to enter,
and we passed into a small room, neatly furnished, with the light
which came through the curtained windows, shining upon a picture,--the
portrait of Walter Howard, my husband.
"Capital likeness of Barton," I said, carelessly tapping my switch
against my boot.
"Yes,--yes," she replied as she took a seat at the opposite end of the
sofa,--"but not so handsome."
In the course of two hours, in which with a maddened pulse and heaving
breast, I waited for the appearance of my husband, I learned from the
young girl the following facts:--She was a poor girl, and her mother,
with whom she lived, a widow in very moderate circumstances. Her name
was Ada Bulmer. Mr. Lawrence Barton (this, of course, was the assumed
name of my husband,) was a wealthy gentleman of a noble heart,--he
had saved her life in a railroad accident, some months before. He had
been unhappy, however, in marriage; was now divorced from a wicked and
unfaithful woman; and,--here was the climax,--"and next week we are to
be married, and mother, Lawrence, and myself will proceed to Europe
directly after our marriage."
This was Ada's story, which I heard with emotions that can scarcely
be imagined. Every word planted a hell in my heart. At length, toward
nightfall, a knock was heard, and Ada hastened to the door. Presently I
heard my husband's step in the entry, and then his voice,--
"Dearest,----" there was the sound of a kiss,--"I have got rid of that
infamous woman, who killed her first husband, and have turned all my
property into ready money. On Monday we start for Europe."
He entered, and as he entered I glided behind the door. Thus his back
was toward me, while his face was toward Ada, and his arms about her
waist.
"On Monday, dearest, we will be married, and then----"
I was white with rage, but calm as death. Drawing the poniard, (which I
had never parted with since I first procured it,) I advanced and struck
him, once, twice, thrice, in the back. He never beheld me, but fell
upon Ada's breast, bathed in blood. She uttered a shriek, but laying my
hand upon her shoulder, I said, sternly,--
"Not a word! this villain seduced _my only sister_, as he would have
seduced you!"
I tore him from her arms, and laid him on the sofa; he was speechless;
the blood flowed from his mouth and nostrils, but by his glance, I saw
that he knew me. Ada, white as a shroud, tottered toward him.
"Seducer of my sister, have we met at last?" I said aloud,--and then
bending my face to his, and my bosom close to his breast, I whispered,--
"The _wicked woman_ who killed her first husband, gives you this,"--and
in my rage buried the poniard in his heart.
Ada fell fainting to the floor, and I hurried from the house. It was a
dark night, enlivened only by the rays of the stars, but I gained the
wood, washed the blood from my hands, and resumed my female attire. In
less than an hour, I reached the depot at Kensington, entered the cars,
and before twelve, crossed the threshold of my own home in New York.
How I passed the night,--with what emotions of agony, remorse,
jealousy,--matters not. And for three days afterward, as I awaited for
the developments, I was many times near raving madness. The account
of my husband's death filled the papers; and it was supposed that he
had been killed by some unknown man, in revenge, for the seduction
of a sister. My wild demeanor was attributed to natural grief at his
untimely end.
On the fourth day I had his body brought on from Philadelphia; and on
the fifth, celebrated his funeral, following his corpse to the family
vault, draped in widow's weeds, and blinded with tears of grief, or
of--despair. Ada Bulmer I never saw again, but believe she died within
a year of consumption or a broken heart.
CHAPTER XI.
MARION AND HERMAN BARNHURST.
Alone in my mansion, secluded from the world, I passed many months
in harrowing meditations on the past. Oftentimes I saw the face of
Walter dabbled in blood, and both awake and in my dreams, I saw, O,
how vividly his _last look_! I was still rich, (although Walter, as
I discovered, after his death, had recklessly squandered more than
one-half of my fortune,) but what mattered riches to one devoured
like myself by an ever-gnawing remorse? What might I have been had
not Burley forced me into that unholy marriage? This question was
never out of my mind for a long year, during which I wore the weeds of
widowhood, and kept almost entirely within the limits of my mansion.
Toward the close of the year an incident occurred which had an
important bearing on my fate. Near my home stood a church, in which
a young and eloquent preacher held forth to the admiration of a
fashionable congregation, every Sabbath-day. On one occasion I occupied
a seat near the pulpit, and was much struck by his youthful appearance,
combined with eloquence so touching and enthusiastic. His eagle
eye, shone from his pallid face, with all the fire of an earnest, a
heartfelt sincerity. I was struck by the entire manner of the man, and
more than once in his sermon he seemed to address me in especial, for
our eyes met, as though there was a mutual magnetism in our gaze. When
I returned home I could not banish his face nor his accents from my
memory; I felt myself devoured by opposing emotions; remorse for the
past, mingled with a sensation of interest in the youthful preacher.
At length, after much thought, I sent him this note by the hands of a
servant in livery:--
REVEREND SIR,--
A lady who heard your eloquent sermon on "_Conscience_," on Sabbath
last, desires to ask your advice in a matter touching the peace of
her soul. She resides at No. ----, and will be glad to receive you
to-morrow evening.
M. H.
This singular note was dispatched, and the servant directed to inform
the Rev. Herman Barnhurst of my full name. As the appointed hour drew
nigh, I felt nervous and restless. Will he come? Shall I unbosom myself
to him, and obtain at least a portion of mental peace by confessing the
deeds and thoughts which rest so heavy on my soul? At last dusk came;
two candles stood lighted on the mantle of the front parlor, and seated
on the sofa I nervously awaited the coming of the preacher.
"I will confess all!" I thought, and raising my eyes, surveyed myself
in the mirror which hung opposite. The past year, with all its sorrow,
had rather added to, than detracted from, my personal appearance. My
form was more matured and womanly. And the sorrow which I had endured
had given a grave earnestness to my look, which, in the eyes of some,
would have been more winning than the glance of voluptuous languor.
Dressed in deep black, my bust covered to the throat, and my hair
gathered plainly aside from my face, I looked the grave, serious--and,
I may add, without vanity--the beautiful widow. The Rev. Herman
Barnhurst was announced at last,--how I trembled as I heard his step in
the hall! He entered, and greeting him with an extended hand, I thanked
him warmly for calling in answer to my informal note, and motioned him
to a chair. There was surprise and constraint in his manner, but he
never once took his eyes from my face. He stammered and even blushed as
he spoke to me.
"You spoke, madam, of a case of conscience," he began.
"A case of conscience about which I wished to speak to you."
"Surely," he said, fixing his gaze earnestly upon me, and his words
seemed to be forced from him, even against his will,--"surely one so
beautiful and so good cannot have anything like sin upon her soul----"
Our gaze met, and from that moment we talked of everything but the
case of conscience. All his restraint vanished. His eye flashed, his
voice rolled deep and full; he was eloquent, and he was at home. We
seemed to have been acquainted for years. We talked of history, poetry,
the beautiful in nature, the wonderful in art; and we talked without
effort, as though our minds mingled together, without even the aid of
voice and eyes. Time sped noiselessly,--it was twelve o'clock before we
thought it nine. He rose to go.
"I shall do myself the pleasure to call again," he said, and his voice
faltered.
I extended my hand; his hand met it in a gentle pressure. That touch
decided our fate. As though my very being and his had rushed together
and melted into one, in that slight pressure of hand to hand, we stood
silent and confused,--one feeling in our gaze,--blushing and pale by
turns.
"Woman," he said, in a voice scarcely above a whisper, "you will drive
me mad," and sank half-fainting on his knees.
I bent down and drew him to my breast, and covered his forehead with
kisses. Pale, half-fainting, he lay almost helpless in my arms.
"Not mad, Herman," I whispered, "but I will be your good angel; I will
cheer you in your mission of good. I will watch over you as you ascend,
step by step, the difficult steep of fame; and Herman, I will love you."
It was the first time that young brow had trembled to a woman's kiss.
"Nay,--nay,--tempt me not," he murmured, and unwound my arms from his
neck, and staggered to the door.
But as he reached the threshold, he turned,--our gaze met,--he rushed
forward with outspread arms,--
"I love you!" he cried, and his face was buried on my bosom.
* * * * *
From that hour the Rev. Herman Barnhurst was the constant visitor at my
house. He lived in my presence. His sermons, formerly lofty and somber
in their enthusiasm, became colored with a passionate warmth. I felt
a strange interest in the beautiful boy; a feeling compounded of pure
love; of passion; of voluptuousness, the most intense and refined.
"O, Marion, do you not think that if I act aright in all other
respects, that this _one sin_ will be forgiven me?" said Herman, as one
Sabbath evening, after the service was over, we sat, side by side, in
my house. It was in a quiet room, the curtains drawn, a light shining
in front of a mirror, and a couch dimly seen through the shadows of an
alcove.
"One sin? what mean you, Herman?"
"The sin of loving you,"--and he blushed as his earnest gaze met mine.
"And is it a sin to love me?" I answered in a low voice, suffering my
hand to rest upon his forehead.
"Yes," he stammered,--"to love you thus unlawfully."
"Why unlawfully?"
He buried his head on my breast, as he replied,--"I love you as a
husband, and I am not your husband."
"And why--" I exclaimed, seizing him in my arms, and gently raising his
head, so that our gaze met,--"and why can you not be my husband? I am
rich; you have genius. My wealth,--enough for us both,--shall be linked
with your genius, and both shall the more firmly cement our love. Say,
Herman, why can you not be my husband?"
He turned pale, and avoided my gaze.
"You are ashamed of me,--ashamed, because I have given you the last
proof which a woman can give to the man she loves."
"Ashamed! O, no, no,--by all that is sacred, no,--but Marion----"
And bending nearer to me, in faltering accents, he whispered the secret
to my ears. He was betrothed to Fanny Lansdale, the daughter of the
wealthiest and most influential member of his congregation. He had
been betrothed long before he met me. To Mr. Lansdale, the father, he
owed all that he had acquired in life, both in position and fame. That
gentleman had taken him when a friendless orphan boy, had educated him,
and after his ordination, had obtained for him the pastoral charge of
his large and wealthy congregation. Thus, he was bound to the father by
every tie of gratitude; to the daughter by an engagement that he could
not break, without ingratitude and disgrace. My heart died within me
at this revelation. At once I saw that Herman could never be lawfully
mine. Between him and myself stood Fanny Lansdale, and every tie of
gratitude, and every emotion of self-respect and honor.
CHAPTER XII.
MARION AND FANNY.
Not long after this interview, I saw Fanny Lansdale at church; made
the acquaintance of her father--a grave citizen, who regarded me as a
sincere devotee--and induced Fanny to become a frequent visitor at my
house. She confided all to me. She loved Herman devotedly, and looked
forward to their marriage as the most certain event in the world. She
was a very pretty child, with clear blue eyes, luxuriant hair, and a
look of bewitching archness. I do not step aside from the truth, when
I state that I sincerely loved her; although it is also true, that I
never suffered myself to think of her marriage with Herman as anything
but an impossible dream. An incident took place one summer evening,
about a year after Herman's first visit to my house, which, slight
as it was, it is just as well to relate. It is such slight incidents
which often decide the fate of a lifetime, and strike down the barrier
between innocence and crime.
I was sitting on the sofa at the back window of the parlor, and Fanny
sat on the stool at my feet. The light of the setting sun shone over my
shoulders, and lighted up her face, as her clasped hands rested on my
knees, and her happy, guileless look, was centered on my countenance.
As I gazed upon that innocent face, full of youth and hope, I was
reminded of my own early days; and at the memory, a tear rolled down my
cheek.
"Yes, you shall marry Herman," the thought flashed over my mind; "and I
will aid you, Fanny; yes, I will resign Herman to you."
At this moment Herman entered noiselessly, and took his place by my
shoulder; and, without a word, gazed first into my face and then into
the face of Fanny. Oh, that look! It was never forgotten. It was
fate. For it said, as plainly as a soul, speaking through eyes, can
say--"Thou, Marion, art my mistress, the companion of my illicit and
sensual love; but thou, Fanny, art my wife, the pure partner of my
lawful love!"
After that look, Herman bade us good evening! in a tone of evident
agitation, and hurried from the room.
From that hour, Herman avoided me. Weeks passed, and he was not seen
at my house. At church he never seemed to be conscious of my presence;
and, the service over, hurried at once from the place, without a single
glance or sign of recognition. At length, Fanny's visits became less
frequent; and, when she did come to see me, her manner manifested a
conflict of confidence and suspicion. That this wounded me--that the
absence of Herman cut me to the soul--may easily be imagined. I passed
my time between alternations of hope and despair; now listening, and
in vain, for the echo of Herman's step--and now bathed in unavailing
tears. Conscious that my passion for Herman was the last link that
bound me to purity--to life itself--I did not give up the hope of
seeing him at my feet, as in former days, until months had elapsed.
Finally, grown desperate, and anxious to avoid the sting of wounded
love, the perpetual presence of harrowing memories, I sought the
society of that class of fashionables, to whom my first husband,
Issachar Burley, had introduced me. I kept open house for them. Revels,
from midnight until dawn, in which men and women of the first class
mingled, served for a time to banish reflection, and sap, tie by tie,
every thread of hope which held me to a purer state of life. The kennel
has its orgies, and the hovel, in which ignorance and squalor join in
their uncouth debauch; but the orgie of the parlor, in which beauty,
intellect, fashion and refinement are mingled, far surpasses, in
unutterable vulgarity, the lowest orgie of the kennel. Amid the uproar
of scenes like these, news reached me that the Rev. Herman Barnhurst
and Miss Fanny Lansdale were shortly to be united in marriage.
CHAPTER XIII.
AN UNUTTERABLE CRIME.
One evening I was sitting alone, in the back parlor, near a table on
which stood a lighted candle and a wine-glass, (for I now at times
began to seek oblivion in wine,) when Gerald Dudley was announced.
Gerald was one of my fashionable friends, over forty in years, tall
in stature, with a florid face, short curling brown hair, and sandy
whiskers. He was a _roué_, and a gambler, and--save the mark--one of
the first fashionables of New York. He entered, dressed in a showy
style; blue coat, red velvet vest, plaid pants, brimstone-colored
gloves, and a profusion of rings and other jewelry--a style indicative
of the man. Seating himself on the sofa, he began chatting in his easy
way about passing events of fashionable life, and of the world at large.
"By-the-bye, the popular preacher, young Barnhurst, is to be
married; and to such a love of a girl--daughter of old Lansdale, the
_millionaire_. Lucky fellow! Do you know that I've often noticed her at
church--a perfect _Hebe_--and followed her home, once or twice, and
that I shouldn't mind marrying her myself if I could get a chance!"
And he laughed a laugh which showed his white teeth. "Bah! But that's
it--I can't get a chance."
Perhaps I blushed at the mention of this marriage; but he immediately
continued:--
"_On dit_, my pretty widow, that this girl, Lansdale, has cut you out.
Barnhurst once was sadly taken with you; so I've heard. How is it? All
talk, I suppose?"
I felt myself growing pale, although the blood was boiling in my
veins. But before I could reply, there was a ring at the front door,
followed by the sound of a hasty footstep, and the next moment, to my
utter surprise, Fanny Lansdale rushed into the room. Without seeming
to notice the presence of Dudley, she rushed forward, and fell on her
knees before me, her bonnet hanging on her neck, her hair floating
about her face, and that face bathed in blushes and tears.
"Oh, Marion! Marion!" she gasped,--"some slanderer has told father
a story about you and Herman,--a vile, wicked story,--which you can
refute, and which I am sure you will! For--for--"
She fell fainting on my knee. The violence of her emotions, for the
time, deprived her of all appearance of life. Her head was on my lap;
one hand sought mine, and was joined to it in a convulsive clasp.
Oh, who shall say that those crimes which make the world shudder but
to hear told, are the result of long and skillful planning, of careful
and intricate scheming? No, no; the worst crimes--those which it would
seem might make even the heart of a devil, contract with horror--are
not the result of long and deliberate purpose, but of the temptation of
a moment--of the fatal opportunity!
As her head rested on my lap, a voice whispered in my ear:
"Your rival! Retire for a few moments, in search of hartshorn, or some
such restorative, and leave the fainting one in my care."
I raised my head and caught the eye of Gerald Dudley. Only a single
look, and the fiend was in my heart. I rose; the fainting girl fell
upon the floor; I hurried from the room, and did not pause until I had
reached my own chamber, and locked the door. Pressing my hands now
on my burning temples, now on my breast, I paced the floor, while,
perchance, fifteen minutes--they seemed an eternity--passed away.
Then I went slowly down stairs, and entered the back parlor. Gerald
was there, standing near the sofa; his face wearing an insolent scowl
of triumph. The girl was stretched upon the sofa, still insensible,
but--I dare not write it--opposite Gerald stood Herman Barnhurst, who
had followed Fanny to the house, and arrived--too late. His face was
bloodless.
"Oh, villain!" he groaned, as his maddened gaze was fixed on Dudley;
"you shall pay for this with your blood--"
"Softly, Reverend Sir! softly! One word of this, and the world shall
know of your amours with the handsome widow."
Herman's gaze rested on my face--
"You,--know--of--this?" he began, with a look that can never be
forgotten.
"Pardon, Herman, pardon! I was mad," I shrieked, flinging myself at his
feet, and clutching his knees.
For a moment he gazed upon me, and then, lifting his clenched right
hand, he struck me on the forehead, and I fell insensible on the floor.
The curse, which he spoke as I fell, rings even yet in my ears.
CHAPTER XIV.
SUICIDE.
Three days have passed since then. Such days as I will never pass
again! I have just learned that Gerald Dudley has fled the city. His
purpose to obtain Fanny's hand in marriage by first accomplishing her
shame, has utterly failed. Her father knows all and is now using every
engine of his wealth to connect my name with the crime which has damned
every hope of his idolized child. And he will succeed! I feel it; I
know it; my presentiment cannot prove false. What shall I do?--whither
turn?
And Herman is a raving lunatic. This too is my work. Yes, yes, I am
resolved.--I _am_ resolved. * * * *
To-morrow's dawn will bring disgrace and shame to me; and, in the
future, I see the crowded court-house--the mob, eager to drink in the
story of my guilt,--and the felon's cell. But the morrow's dawn I
shall never see!
I am alone in my chamber--the very chamber in which I became Burley's,
in an unholy marriage--Walter's, in the marriage of a stainless
love--Herman's, in the mad embrace of passion. And now, O Death! upon
that marriage couch, I am about to wed thee!
The brazier stands in the center of the bridal chamber; its contents
were ignited half an hour ago; every avenue to my chamber is carefully
closed; already the fumes of the burning charcoal begin to smite my
temples and my heart.
This record, written from time to time, and now concluded by a hand
chilled by death, I leave to my only living relative,--not as an
apology for my crimes, but as an explanation of the causes which led me
to the brink of this awful abyss.
Air! air! Burley, for thee I have no remorse. Let the branch
snap!--over the cataract with thy accursed face! Thou wert the cause of
all--thou! But, Walter, thy last look kills my soul.--Herman, thy curse
is on me! And poor Fanny! Air! Light! It is so dark--dark!--Oh for one
breath of prayer!
CONCLUSION.
The preceding confession, signed by the tremulous hand of the poor
suicide, was found in her room, with the senseless corse, by the
relative, to whom she addressed it, and who adds these concluding
pages. For days after the event, the papers were filled with
paragraphs, in regard to the melancholy affair. A single one extracted
from a prominent paper, will give some idea of the tone of the public
mind:
_Extract from a New York Paper._
"TRAGEDY IN HIGH LIFE.
"The town is full of rumors, in regard to a mysterious event, or
series of events, implicating a member of one of the first families
of New York. These rumors are singularly startling, and although they
have not yet assumed a definite shape, certainly call for a judicial
investigation. As far as we have been able to sift the stories now
afloat, the plain truth, reduced to the briefest possible shape,
appears to be as follows: Some years since, Miss Marion M----,
daughter of old Mr. M----, one of our first merchants, was, while
under an engagement of marriage with Walter H----, forced into a
marriage with Mr. Issachar B----, a man old enough to be her father,
who, it is stated, had the father absolutely in his power. The
marriage took place, but not long afterward, B----, while on a visit
to Niagara, was precipitated over the Falls, at dead of night, in a
manner not yet satisfactorily explained. Soon afterward the young
widow, then immensely rich, encountered her former betrothed, and the
fashionable world were soon afterward informed of their marriage.
A year passed, and Walter H----, the husband of the former widow,
was found in a distant part of the country, mysteriously murdered,
it was not known by whom, although it was rumored at the time, that
the brother of a wronged sister, was on that occasion the avenger
of his sister's shame. The beautiful Mrs. H----, was once more a
widow. Here it might seem that her adventures, connected so strangely
with the death of two husbands, had reached their termination. But
it seems she was soon fascinated by the eloquence of a young man
and popular divine, Rev. H---- B----. While betrothed to Miss Fanny
L----, daughter of a wealthy member of his congregation, the eloquent
preacher became a visitor at the house of the rich widow, and finally
his affections became entangled, and he was forced to choose between
said widow and his betrothed. He sacrificed his affection for the
former, to his solemn engagement with the latter. The 'slighted'
widow, endured the usual pangs of 'despised love,' coupled with
something very much like Italian jealousy, or rather jealousy after
the Italian school. The betrothed was inveigled into a certain house,
and her honor sacrificed by a gentleman of fashion, known for thirty
years as a constant promenader, on the west side of Broadway, Mr.
Gerald D----. The widow (strangest freak of a slighted and vindictive
woman!) is said to have been the planner and instigator of this crime.
We have now arrived at the sequel of the story. Unable to obtain the
hand of the Rev. H---- B----, and stung by remorse, for her share in
the dishonor of his betrothed, the widow put a period to her own
existence, in what manner is not exactly known, although conflicting
rumors state the knife, or the poison vial was the instrument of her
death. No coroner's inquest took place. The body gave no signs of a
violent death. 'Disease of the heart' was stated in the certificate
of the physician, (how _compliant_ he was to the wishes of rich
survivors, we will not say,) as the cause of her unexpected disease.
She was quietly buried in the family vault, and her immense estate
descends to a relative, who was especially careful, in cloaking over
the fact of the suicide. The tragedy involved in this affair, will be
complete, when we inform the reader, that Mr. Gerald D----, has left
the city, while his poor victim, Fanny L----, tenants the cell of an
asylum for the insane. Altogether, this affair is one of the wildest
exaggerations, or one of the most painful tragedies, that ever fell to
the lot of the press, to record. Can it be believed that a young lady,
honorably reared, would put a period to the lives of two husbands,
then procure the dishonor of a rival, who interposed between her and a
_third_ 'husband?' Verily, 'fact is stranger than fiction,' and every
day, reality more improbable than the wildest dreams of romance. The
truth will not be known until the CONFESSION, _said to be left by the
young widow, makes its appearance._ But will it appear? we shall see."
So much for the public press.
The reader can contrast its _rumors_, with the _facts_ of the case, as
plainly set forth in the previous confession, penned by the hand of the
unfortunate and guilty Marion Merlin.
A few words more will close this painful narrative. Marion was quietly
and honorably buried. Her relatives were wealthy and powerful. The
'physician's certificate' enabled them to avoid the painful formality
of a coroner's inquest. She sleeps beside her husband, Walter Howard,
in Greenwood Cemetery.
Soon after her decease, Mr. Lansdale sold all his property in New York,
and with his daughter disappeared completely from public view.
Herman Barnhurst remained in the Lunatic Asylum for more than a year,
when he was released, his intellect restored, but his health (it is
stated) irretrievably broken. After his release, he left New York, and
his name was soon forgotten, or if mentioned at all, only as that of a
person long since dead.
Gerald Dudley, after various adventures, in Texas and Mexico, suffered
at the hands of Judge Lynch, near San Antonio.
About a year after the death of Marion Merlin, a young man in moderate
circumstances, accompanied by his wife, (a pale, faded, though
interesting woman) and her aged father took up his residence in C----,
a pleasant village in south-western Pennsylvania. They were secluded in
their habits, and held but little intercourse with the other villagers.
The husband passed by the name of Wilton, which (for all that the
villagers knew to the contrary,) was his real name.
One winter evening, as the family were gathered about the open
wood-fire, a sleigh halted at the door, and a visitor appeared in the
person of a middle-aged man, who came unbidden into the room, shaking
the snow from his great coat, and seating himself in the midst of the
family. Regarding for a moment the face of the aged father, and then
the countenance of the young husband and wife, which alike in their
pallor, seemed to bear the traces of an irrevocable calamity, the
visitor said quietly,--
"Herman Barnhurst, I am the relative to whom Marion Merlin addressed
her confession, and whom she invested with the trusteeship of her
estate."
Had a thunderbolt fallen into the midst of the party, it would not have
created so much consternation, as these few words from the lips of the
visitor. The young wife shrieked, the old man started from his chair;
Herman Barnhurst, (otherwise called Mr. Wilton,) with the blood rushing
to his pale face, said simply, "That accursed woman!"
"I hold her last Will and Testament in my hand," continued the visitor:
"I am her nearest relative, and would inherit her estate, but for this
will, by which she names _you and your wife Fanny, as the sole heirs of
her immense property_."
Herman took the Will from the visitor's hands.
"As administrator of her estate, I am here to surrender it into your
hands. The will was made as a small atonement for the injury she caused
you."
Herman quietly dropped the parchment into the fire:
"Her money and her memory are alike accursed. I will have nothing to do
with either."
That night the relative turned his face eastward, to take possession of
the estate of Marion Merlin.
_And beneath this, in a different hand, was added the following
singular narrative:_
CHAPTER XV.
AFTER THE DEATH OF MARION.
A pleasant place, in summer time, was the country-mansion of the
celebrated Doctor N----, situated upon the heights of Weehawken, about
one mile from the Hudson River. A huge edifice of brick, separated
from the high road by a garden, it was surrounded by tall trees, whose
branches overhung its steep roof, and relieved by the background of the
rich foliage and blossoms of the orchard trees. A pleasant place, in
summer, was the mansion of the celebrated Doctor, but lonely enough,
and desolate enough in winter. On this drear winter night, it looks sad
and desolate as the grave. The sky above it is leaden, the trees around
it are leafless, the garden white with snow, and the bitter wind howls
dismally over the waste of snow, which clothes the adjacent fields. In
the distance, the Hudson glitters dimly, white and cold, with fields
of floating ice. It is near morning, and but a single room in the vast
country mansion is tenanted. You can see a light trembling faintly
through the half vailed window yonder; the window near the roof, in the
southern wing.
It is near morning; but one person by a solitary light, keeps his vigil
in the deserted mansion; a sleigh drawn by a single horse, (he has been
driven hard, for there is foam upon his flanks) and moving noiselessly,
without the sound of bells stops at the garden gate. Two persons, whose
forms are wrapped in thick overcoats, and whose faces are concealed by
fur caps, drawn low over the brows, dismount and pass along the garden
walk, bearing a burden on their shoulders. They ascend the steps of the
porch, and stand in front of the hall door, looking anxiously about
them, as if to assure themselves, their movements were not observed.
"So far safe enough,--" exclaims one in a hoarse voice, "the next thing
is to get _it_ up stairs." And he places a key in the lock of the door.