Meanwhile the light, which trembling outward from yonder window,

shines redly over the frozen snow, shines within upon the face of

the lonely watcher. A young man sits beside a table, reading by the

light of a clouded lamp, his cheeks resting on his hands, and his

gaze riveted upon the large volume, spread open before him. The light

falls brightly upon the book, leaving his features in half twilight,

but still you can trace the outlines of his face,--the enthusiasm of

his fixed eyes,--the energy of his broad bold forehead. It is a small

and comfortable apartment; near him a wood-fire is burning, on the

open hearth; opposite him a sofa, and a range of shelves, filled with

books, and upon the green cloth of the table by which he is seated, you

discover a sort of semicircle of open volumes,--placed there evidently

for reference,--a mass of carelessly strewn manuscripts, and a case of

surgical instruments.

Arthur Conroy, the favorite student of the celebrated Doctor,--a

student, whose organization combines the exactness and untiring

industry of the man of science, with the rich enthusiasm of the

poet,--is the only tenant of the mansion, during the dreary winter. He

is not seen during the day, but every night, arriving from New York,

after dark, he builds his fire, lights his candle, and commences his

lonely vigil. Sometimes, late at night, he is joined by the grave

Doctor himself, and they pursue their researches together. What manner

of researches? We cannot tell; but there is a rumor, that one apartment

of the huge mansion is used, in winter time, as a Dissecting-Room.

And the light streaming night after night, from the window near the

roof, strikes the lonely wayfarer with a sensation, in some manner,

associated with ghosts, witches, and dealings with the _devil_ in

general.

Arthur is ambitious; even while his mind is wrapt in the mazes of a

scientific problem, he thinks of his widowed mother and orphan sisters

far away in the great village near Seneca lake, and his pulse beats

quicker, as he looks forward to the day when their ears shall be

greeted by the tidings of his world-wide fame. For he has determined to

be a surgeon, and a master in his art; he has the will and the genius;

he will accomplish what he wills.

He raises his eyes from his book,--they are glittering with the clear

light of intense thought,--and unconsciously begins to think aloud.

"Do the dead return? Are the dead indeed _dead_? You have nailed down

the coffin-lid; you have seen the coffin as it sunk into the grave; you

have heard the rattling of the clod,--but is that all? Is the beloved

one whom you have given to the grave, indeed _dead_, or only more truly

living in a new body, formed of refined matter, invisible to our gross

organs? Is that which we call soul, only the result of a particular

organization of gross matter, or is it the real, eternal substance of

which all other matter is but the servant and the expression? Do the

dead return? Do those whose faces we have seen for the last time, ere

the coffin-lid closed upon them forever, ever come back to us, clad in

spiritual bodies, and addressing us, not through our external organs,

but by directly _impressing_ that _divine substance_ in us, which is

like unto them,--that which we call our SOUL?"

It was a thought which for ages has made the hearts of the noblest

and truest of our race, alternately combat with despair, and swell

with hope,--that thought which seeks to unvail the mystery of Life and

Death, disclose the tie which connects perishable matter with eternal

mind, and lift the curtain which hides from the present, the other

world.

Arthur felt the vast thought gather all his soul into its embrace. But

his meditations were interrupted by the opening of the door, and the

two men,--whom we saw dismount from the sleigh,--entered the room of

the student, bearing in their arms the burden, which was covered by

folds of coarse canvas.

Very ungainly men they were, with their brawny forms wrapped in huge

gray overcoats, adorned with white buttons, and their harsh visages

half concealed by their coarse fur caps. They came into the room

without a word.

"O, you have come," said Arthur, as if he recognized persons by no

means strangers to him. "Have you the particular subject which the

doctor desired you to procure?"

"Jist that partikler subject," said one of the twain,--"an' a devil of

a time we've had to git it! Fust we entered the vault at Greenwood,

with a false key, and then opened the coffin, so as it'll never be

known that it was opened at all. Closed the vault ag'in and got the

body over the wall, and hid it in the bottom of the sleigh. Crossed the

ferry at Brooklyn--went through the city, and then took the ferry for

Hoboken,--same sleigh, and same subject in the bottom of it; an' druv

here with a blast in our face, sharp as a dozen butcher knives."

"But if it had not a-been for the storm, we wouldn't a-got the body,"

interrupted the other.

"And here we _air_, and here _it_ is, and that's enough. What shall we

do with it?"

Arthur opened a small door near the bookcase, and a narrow stairway

(leading up into the garret) was disclosed.

"You know the way," he said. "When you get up there place _it_ on the

table."

They obeyed without a word. Bearing their burden slowly through the

narrow doorway, they disappeared, and the echo of their heavy boots was

heard on the stairway. They were not long absent. After a few moments

they again appeared, and the one who had acted as principal spokesman,

held out his open palm toward Arthur,--

"Double allowance to-night, you know," he said,--"Doctor generally

gives us from forty to sixty dollars a job, but this partikler case

axes for ten gold pieces,--spread eagles, you know, wuth ten dollars

apiece,--only a hundred dollars in all. Shell out!"

Arthur quietly placed ten gold pieces in the hands of the

ruffian.--"The doctor left it for you. Now go."

And shuffling their heavy boots, they disappeared through the same door

by which they had entered. Looking through the window after a few

moments, he saw the sleigh moving noiselessly down the public road.

"Dangerous experiment for the doctor, especially if the _event_ of this

night should happen to be discovered," ejaculated Arthur, as he rebuilt

his fire. "A peculiar case of suicide, and he wished _the body_ at all

hazards. Well! I must to work."

He drew on an apron of dark muslin, which was provided with sleeves,

and then lifting the shade from the lamp, he lighted a cigar. As the

smoke of the grateful Havana rolled through his apartment, he took the

lamp in one hand, and a case of instruments in the other, and ascended

the secret stairway leading to the garret.

"I have seen her when living, arrayed in all the pride of youth

and beauty," he said, as the lamp shone upon the vast and gloomy

garret,--"and now let me look upon the shell which so lately held that

passionate soul."

It was indeed a vast and gloomy garret. It traversed the entire

extent of the southern wing. The windows at either end were carefully

darkened. The ceiling was formed by the huge rafters and bare shingles

of the steep roof. To one of these rafters a human skeleton was

suspended, its white bones glaring amid the darkness. In the center was

a large table, upon which was placed the burden which the ruffians had

that night stolen from the grave. The place was silent, lonely,--the

wind howled dismally among the chimneys,--and Arthur could not repress

a slight shudder as his footsteps echoed from the naked floor. Arthur

placed the lamp upon the table, and began to uncover the subject.

Removing the coarse canvas he disclosed the corpse. An ejaculation

burst from his lips,--a cry half of terror, half of surprise.

The light shone upon the body of a beautiful woman. From those

faultless limbs and that snowy bosom the grave-clothes had been

carefully stripped. A single fragment of the shroud fluttered around

the right arm. Save this fragment the body was completely bare, and

the dark hair of the dead fell loosely on her shoulders. The face was

very beautiful and calm, as though sealed only for an hour in a quiet

sleep,--the fringes of the eyelashes rested darkly upon the cheeks.

Never had the light shone upon a shape of more surpassing loveliness,

upon limbs more like ivory in their snowy whiteness, upon a face more

like a dreamless slumber, in its calm, beautiful expression. Dead, and

yet very beautiful! A proud soul dwelt in this casket once,--the soul

has fled, and now the casket must be surrendered to the scalpel,--must

be cut and rent, shred by shred, by the dissector's hand.

"But the limbs are not rigid with death," soliloquized Arthur,--"Decay

has not yet commenced its work. As I live, there is a glow upon the

cheek."

With his scalpel he inflicted a gash near the right temple, and at the

same instant--imagining he heard a footstep,--he turned his face over

his shoulder. It was only imagination, and he turned again to trace the

result of the incision.

The dead woman was in a sitting posture, her eyes were wide open, she

was gazing calmly into his face. Arthur fell back with a cry of horror.

"Nay, do not be frightened," said a low, although tremulous voice,--"I

have simply been the victim of an attack of catalepsy."

And while he stood spell-bound, his eyes riveted to her face, and his

ears drinking in the rich music of her voice, she continued,--

"Catalepsy, which leaves the soul keenly conscious and in possession

of all its powers, but without the slightest control over the body,

which appears insensible and dead. The agony of that state is beyond

all power of words! To hear the voices which speak over your coffin,

and yet be unable to frame a word, to breathe even a sigh! I heard them

talk over my coffin,--I was conscious as the lid closed down upon my

face,--conscious when they placed me in the vault, and locked the door,

and left me there buried alive. And an eternity seemed to pass from the

time when they locked the door, (I was only buried yesterday,) until

your men came to-night, to rob the grave of its prey. I heard every

word they uttered from the moment when they tore the shroud from my

bosom, until they entered your room, and then I heard your voice. And

when they left me here, I heard your step upon the stair, heard your

ejaculation as you bent over me, and it seemed to me that my soul made

its last effort to arouse from this unutterable _living death_, as you

struck the knife into my temple. You have saved my life----"

Arthur could not utter a word; he could not believe the scene to be

real; he thought himself the victim of a terrible although bewitching

dream.

"I arise from the grave, but it is to begin life anew. The name which I

bore lies buried in the grave vault. It is with a new name, and under

new auspices, that I will recommence life. And as for you, I know you

to be young, gifted, ambitious. I will show my gratitude by making your

fortune. But you must swear, and now, never to reveal the secret of

this night!"

"I swear it," ejaculated Arthur, still pale and trembling.

"What, are you still afraid of me? Come near me,--nearer,--take my

hand,--does that,--" and a bewitching smile crossed her face,--"does

that feel like the hand of a dead woman?"

With these words the history of Marion came to a pause.

* * * * *

For the first time, Arthur Dermoyne raised his eyes from the pages

which recorded the life of Marion Merlin. For an hour and more he had

bent over those pages in profound and absorbing interest.

"Here, then, is the real secret of the life of Herman Barnhurst!" he

ejaculated. "He was simply a sincere enthusiast, all his bad nature

dormant, and all his good in active life, until this woman crossed his

path. And the wife who now slumbers by his side, is none other than

Fanny Lansdale, the victim of the unutterable crime. Who shall say

that we are not, in a great measure, the sport of circumstance? How

different would have been the life of Herman, had Marion never crossed

his path?"

Something like pity for the crimes of Barnhurst began to steal over

Dermoyne's face, as he sat thus alone, in the solitude of the last

hour of the night; but the thoughts of Alice, on her bed of shame and

anguish, started up like a phantom and drove every throb of compassion

from his soul.

"If Alice dies, there is but one way,"--he said moodily, with a fixed

light in his eyes.--"But this Marion,--ah! Something more of her

history is written here. Let me read,--" Once more he bent over the

Red Book. Even as his eyes were fixed upon the page, a shadow was cast

over it, and then a dark object interposed between him and the light;

and the next moment all was darkness. But on the instant, before the

darkness came, he looked up, and saw before him a brawny form, a face

stamped with ferocious brutality; an upraised hand grasping a knife,

which glittered as it rose. This he saw for an instant only, and then

all was blackness.

"Not wid de knife, Dirk! Let me fix him wid dis,--and do yer see to de

Red Book!"

There was a sound as of a weapon whizzing through the air, and Dermoyne

was felled to the floor by a blow from the "Slung-shot."

As the first gleam of morning stole into the bed-chamber, touching,

with rosy light, the faces of the sleeping wife and her children,

Barnhurst stealthily arose, dressed himself, and stole on tiptoe

from the place. In the dark he descended the stairway, and all the

while,--from loss of sleep, combined with the excitement of the past

night,--he shook in every nerve. His thoughts were black and desperate.

"Ruin wherever I turn! If I escape this man, there remains the villain

whom I met last night, in Trinity Church. On one side exposure, on the

other death. What can be done? Cut the matter short, and renouncing

all my prospects, seek safety in flight? or remain,--dare all the

chances,--exposure,--the death of a dog,--all,--and trust to my good

fortune?"

He paused at the foot of the stairway, and a hope shot through his

heart,--"If I could see GODIVA all might yet be well! Yes, I must, I

will see GODIVA."

Uttering the name of GODIVA, (new to the reader and to our history,) he

approached the parlor door. "Now for this man!" he said, and shuddered.

He opened the door, and looked around; the first rays of morning

were stealing through the window-curtains, but the room was vacant.

Dermoyne was not there. The carpet was torn near the sofa, the table

overturned, and there was blood upon the carpet and sofa. But Dermoyne

had disappeared.

PART SIXTH.

DAY, SUNSET, NIGHT.

DECEMBER 24, 1844.

CHAPTER I.

ARRAYED FOR THE BRIDAL.

It was toward evening, when, amid the crowd of Broadway--that crowd

of mad and impetuous life--there glided, like a specter through the

mazes of a voluptuous dance, a man of sober habit, pallid face, and

downcast eyes. Beautiful women, wrapped in soft attire, passed him

every moment; brushed him with their perfumed garments; but he heeded

them not. There was the free laugh, the buzz of voices, and the tramp

of footsteps all about him, but he did not raise his eyes, nor bend

his ear. Gliding along in his dark habit, he was as much alone on that

thronged pathway, as though he walked the sands of an Arabian desert. A

man of hollow cheeks, features boldly marked, and eyes large and dark,

and shining with the fire of disease, or with the restlessness of a

soul that had turned upon itself, and was gnawing ever and ever at its

own life-strings.

His habit--a long black coat, single breasted, and with a plain white

band about the neck--indicated that he was a Catholic Priest.

He was a Priest. Struck down in his early manhood by an irreparable

calamity, he had looked all around the horizon of his life for--peace.

Repose, repose--a quiet life--an obscure grave--became the objects of

his soul's desire, instead of the ambitions which his young manhood had

cherished.

As there was not peace within him, so he searched the world for it, and

in vain.

He sought it in a money-bound Protestant church, behind whose

pulpit-bible--like a toad upon an altar--Mammon, holy mammon, squats

in bank-note grandeur. And there, he found money, and much cant, and

abundance of sect,--but no peace.

To the Catholic church he turned. Won by the poetry of that church--we

use the word in its awful and intense sense, for poetry and religion

are one--and, forgetful of the infernal deeds which demoniacs, in

purple and scarlet, have done in the name of that church, tracking

their footsteps over half the globe in blood, and lighting up the

history of ten centuries, at least, with flames of persecution,--won by

all that is good and true in that church, (which he forgot is good and

true under whatsoever form it occurs,)--he sought repose in its bosom.

Did he find it? He found good and true men among priests and people; he

found noble and pure women, in the valleys of the church; but, lifting

his eyes to her lofty eminence, he too often saw purpled and mitred

atheists, who, from their thrones, made sport of human misery, and

converted Christ the Savior into the _Fetish_ of a brutal superstition.

He had been to Rome; in Rome he saw the seamless coat of Christ made a

cloak for every outrage that can be inflicted upon the human race.

Did he find peace? Yes, when vailing his eyes from the atrocities done

in the name of the church, turning himself away from the scarlet-clad

atheists, who too often mount her seats of power, he retreated within

himself, opened the gospels, and from their pages saw kindle into life

and love, the face of Him, whom priests may misinterpret or defame, but

whose name forever to suffering humanity, is "CONSOLATION."

As he passed thus along Broadway, buried in his thoughts, and utterly

unconscious of the scene around him, he felt a hand press his own.

He awoke from his thoughts, stopped and looked around him. The crowd

was hurrying by, but the person who pressed his hand had disappeared.

Was that pressure of the hand a mere freak of the imagination? No;

for the hand of the unknown had left within the hand of the Priest a

neatly-folded letter, upon which, in a fair and delicate hand, was

written his own name.

Stepping aside from the crowd, he opened and read the letter. It was

very brief, but its contents called a glow to the pale cheek of the

Priest.

He at once retraced his steps, and passed down Broadway, with a

rapid and eager step. Hurrying through the gay crowd, he turned, in

a few moments, into a street leading to the North River. The sun was

setting, and cast the shadow of his slender form long and black over

the pavement, as he paused in front of a stately mansion. He once more

examined the letter, and then surveyed the mansion.

"It is the same," he said, and ascended the lofty steps and rang the

bell. "Truly, the office of a Priest is a painful one," the thought

crossed his mind; "he sees so much misery that he has not the power to

relieve. Misery, under the rags of the hovel, and despair under the

velvet of the palace."

A male servant, in livery, answered the bell, and glanced somewhat

superciliously at the faded attire of the Priest. But he inclined his

head in involuntary respect, as the Priest said, simply--

"I am Father Luke,--"

"This way, sir. You are expected," answered the servant; and he led

Father Luke along a lofty hall, and into a parlor, over whose rich

furniture shone dimly the light of the setting sun. "Remain here, sir,

and I will announce your coming."

He left the Priest alone. Father Luke placed his hat upon a table,

and seated himself in a chair. In a moment, resting his cheek upon

his hand, and turning his eyes to the light, (which shone through

the curtained window,) he was buried in thought again. His singular

and remarkable face stood forth from the back-ground of shadow like

a portrait of another age. His crown was bald, but his forehead was

encircled by dark hair, streaked with silver. As the light shone over

that broad brow, and upon the great eyes, dilating in their sunken

sockets, he seemed not like a practical man of the nineteenth century,

but like one of those penitents or enthusiasts, who, in a dark age,

shut up the fires of their agony, of trampled hope or undying remorse,

within the shadows of a cloister.

"This way, sir,"--it was the voice of the servant, who touched him

respectfully on the shoulder as he spoke.

Father Luke arose and followed him from the room, and up a broad

stairway, and along a corridor: "At the end of this passage you will

find a door. Open it and enter. You are expected there."

Passing from the corridor, lighted by the window at its extremity, the

Priest entered a narrow passage where all was dark, and pursued his way

until his progress was terminated by a door. He opened the door and

crossed the threshold--but, upon the very threshold, stood spell-bound

in surprise.

It was a large apartment, with lofty walls, and, instead of the

cheerful rays of the declining sun, it was illuminated by a lamp with

a clouded shade, which, suspended from the center of the ceiling, shed

around a soft and mysterious light.

The walls were not papered nor panneled, but covered with hangings

of a dark color. One part of the spacious chamber was occupied by a

couch with a high canopy, and curtains whose snowy whiteness stood out

distinctly from the dark back-ground. A wood fire was burning under the

arch of the old-fashioned fire-place; and a mirror, in a frame of dark

walnut, reflected the couch with its white canopy, and a table covered

with a white cloth, which stood directly underneath the hanging lamp.

Upon the white cloth was placed a crucifix, a book, a wreath of flowers.

The place was perfectly still, and the soft rays of the lamp, investing

all its details with mingled light and shadow, gave an atmosphere of

mystery to the scene.

Father Luke stood on the threshold, hesitating whether to advance or

retreat, when a low voice broke the stillness:

"Come in, sir. I have waited for you."

And for the first time Father Luke took notice of the presence of the

speaker. It was a woman, who, attired in black, sat in a rocking-chair,

near the table, her hands folded over her breast. Her head and

face were covered by a thick vail of white lace, which fell to her

shoulders, contrasting strongly with her somber attire.

Father Luke entered and seated himself in a vacant chair, which stood

near the table. Resting his arm on the table,--(he sat directly beneath

the lamp, in a circle of shadow,)--and shading his eyes with his hand,

he silently surveyed the woman, over whom the light fell in full

radiance. There was dark hair, there were bright eyes, beneath that

vail of lace; a young, a richly moulded form, beneath that garb of

sable; but in vain he endeavored to trace the features of the unknown.

"You received a letter?" said the lady, in a low voice.

"As I was passing up Broadway, a few moments since, a letter was placed

in my hand, bidding my presence at this house, on an errand of life and

death."

She started at the sound of that sonorous and hollow voice, and,

through her vail, seemed to survey him earnestly.

"I am glad that you have come. I thank you with all my soul. Although

not a member of your church, I have heard of you for a long time, and

heard of you as one who, having suffered much himself, was especially

fitted to render consolation to the heart-broken and despair-stricken.

Now I am heart-broken and despairing,"--she paused,--"I am dying,--"

"Dying?" he echoed.

"And have sent for you, believing you to be an honest man, not to hear

confession of my sins, for they are too dark to be told or be forgiven.

But to ask you a simple question, which I implore you to answer, not

as a priest, but as a man;--to answer, not with the set phrases of

your vocation, but frankly and fully, even as you wish to have peace

yourself in the hour of death."

"And that question,--" the priest's head bent low upon his breast, and

he surveyed her earnestly with his eyes hidden beneath his down-drawn

brows.

"Do you believe in any Hereafter? Do you believe in another world? Does

the death of the body end the story? Or, after the death of the body,

does the soul rise and live again in a new and diviner life?"

"My sister," said the priest, with much emotion, "I _know_ that there

is a hereafter,--I _know_ that the death of the body, is not the end of

all, but simply the first step in an eternal pilgrimage--"

"This you say as a man, and not as a priest,--this is your true

thought, as you wish to have peace, in the hour of your death?"

"Even so," said Father Luke.

"Thank you, O, bless you with all my soul. One question more,--O,

answer me with the same frankness.--In the next world shall we meet,

and know the friends whom we have loved in this?"

"We shall meet, we shall know, we shall love them in the next world, as

certainly as we ever met, knew and loved them in this," was the answer

of Father Luke, given with all the force and earnestness of undeniable

sincerity. "Do you think we gather affections to our heart, only to

bury them in the grave?"

The lady rose from her chair,--

"I thank you, once more, and with all my soul. Your words come from

your heart. They confirm the intuitions of my own heart. For the

consolation which these words afford, accept the gratitude of a dying

woman. And now,--" she extended her hand, "and now farewell!"

The priest, who, through this entire interview, had never ceased

to regard her, with his eyes almost hidden by his down-drawn

brows,--struggling all the while to repress an agitation which

increased every moment, and well nigh mastered him,--the priest also

rose with these words on his lips:

"You dying, sister! you seem young, and full of life, and with the

prospect of long years before you."

It was either the impulse of madness, or the force of a calm

conviction, which induced her to reply:

"In one hour I will be dead."

The priest silently took her offered hand, and at the same instant,

emerged from the circle of shadow, into the full glow of the light.

There was something like magic in the pressure of their hands.

And the woman lifted her vail, disclosing a beautiful face, which

already touched with the pallor of death, was lighted by dark eyes,

whose brightness was almost supernatural.

Lifting her gaze heaven-ward, she said, as though thinking aloud,--

"In another world, Ernest, I will meet, I will know, I will love you!"

But ere the words had passed her lips,--yes, as the slowly lifted vail

disclosed her face,--the priest sank back, as though stricken by a blow

from an iron hand, uttering a wild and incoherent cry,--sank back as

though the grave had yielded up its dead, and confronted him with a

form, linked with holy and yet accursed memories.

"O, Frank, is it thus we meet," he cried, and fell on his knees, and

buried his face in his hands.

The sound of his voice, at once lifted the scales from her eyes,--she

knew him,--the vague consciousness of his presence, which had agitated

her for the past few moments, became certainty. She knew that in Father

Luke, who knelt before her, she beheld Ernest Walworth, her plighted

husband. Sad and terrible indeed, must have been the change, which had

fallen upon his countenance, that she did not know him, when he sat

before her in the shadow!

Trembling in every nerve, and yet strong with the energy of a soul,

that had taken its farewell of this life, she gave utterance to her

feelings, in a single word,--his own,--pronounced in the soft low tones

of other days.

"Ernest!"

"O, Frank, Frank, is it thus we meet!" he cried in wild agony, as he

raised his face. "You,--you,--the only woman that I ever loved,--you,

whose very memory has torn my heart, since that fatal hour, when I met

you in the accursed haunt of death,--"

"Ernest you will sit by me as I die, you will press your hand in

forgiveness on my forehead, my last look shall encounter yours--"

She opened her dark robe, and disclosed the snow-white dress which she

wore beneath it. That dress was a shroud. Yes, the beautiful form, the

bosom which had once been the home of a pure and stainless love, and

which had beat with the throb of sensual passion, were now attired in a

shroud.

"Behold me, attired for the grave," she said,--and the tears started

to her eyes,--"This morning, resolved to quit this life, which for

me, has been a life of unutterable shame and despair, I prepared

for my departure. Everything is ready. Come, Ernest, and behold the

preparations for my bridal,--" she pointed to the couch; he rose and

followed her. "I am in love with death, and will wed him ere an hour

is gone." She drew aside the curtains, and upon the white coverlet,

Ernest beheld a dark object,--a coffin covered with black cloth, and

glittering with a silver plate.

"Everything is ready, Ernest, and I am going. Nay, do not weep, do not

attempt to touch my hand. I am but a poor polluted thing,--a wreck, a

miserable, miserable wreck! My touch would pollute you,--I am not worth

your tears."

Ernest hid his face in the hangings of the couch,--he writhed in agony.

"You shall not die,--you must be saved!" he wildly exclaimed.

She walked across the floor, with an even step; in a moment she was

seated in the rocking-chair, with Ernest before her, his face hidden

in his hands. Her face grew paler every moment; her eyes brighter; and

the shroud which enveloped her bosom, began to quiver, with the last

pulsations of her dying heart. As the vail mingled its fleecy folds

with her raven hair, she looked very beautiful, yes, beautiful with the

touch of death.

And as Ernest, choked with his agony, sat before her, hiding his face,

she talked in a calm, even tone,--

"O, life! life! you have been a bitter draught to me, and now I am

about to leave you! All day I have been thinking of my shame, of

my crimes,--I have summoned up every act of my life,--the images

of the past have walked before me in a sad funeral procession. O,

Thou, who didst forgive the Magdalene,--Thou who hadst compassion on

the poor wretch, whose cross arose beside thine own,--Thou who dost

know all my life, my temptations, and my crimes,--forgive! forgive!

It is a wandering child, sick of wandering, who now,--O, Thou,

all-merciful!--gathers up the wreck of a miserable life, and lays it,

with all its sins and shame, at Thy feet."

As she uttered this simple, yet awful prayer, Ernest did not raise his

face. The agony which shook him was too deep for words.

Her voice grew faint and fainter, as she went on, in a vague and

rambling way--

"And I was so innocent once, and did not know what sorrow was, and

felt such gladness, at the sight of the sky, of the stars, of the

flowers,--at the very breath of spring upon my cheek! O, I wonder if

the old home stands there yet,--and the nook in the forest, don't

you remember, Ernest? I was so happy, so happy then! And now I am

dying--dying,--but you are near. You forgive me, Ernest, do you not?"

"Forgive you!" he echoed, raising his face, and spreading forth his

clasped hands, "God's blessing and His consolation be upon you now

and forever! And His curse,--" a look of hatred, which stamped every

lineament of his face, revealed the intensity of his soul,--"and His

curse be upon those, who brought you to this!"

As he spoke, the death damps began to glisten on her forehead; a glassy

look began to vail the intense brightness of her eyes.

"Your hand, sit by me,--" she said faintly, "I shall sleep soon."

He drew his chair to her side, and softly put his hand upon her

forehead,--it was cold as marble.

"It is good to go thus,--with Ernest by me,--and in token of

forgiveness too, with his hand upon my forehead--"

Her words were interrupted by a footstep and a voice.

"Frank! Frank! where are you! I have triumphed!--triumphed! The one

child is out of my way, and the other is in my power!"

It was Colonel Tarleton, who rushed to the light, his face lividly

pale, and disfigured by wounds, his right arm carried in a sling. He

had not seen his daughter since the hour when he left the Temple,

before the break of day. And now, faint with loss of blood, and

yet strong in the consciousness of his triumph, he rushed into the

death-room of his child.

"I have had a hard time, Frank, but the game is won! The estate is

ours! The other son of Gulian Van Huyden is in my power,--"

The words died on his lips. He beheld the dark form of the stranger,

and the face of his dying child. The young form clad in a shroud; the

countenance pale with death; the large eyes, whose brightness was

vailed in a glassy film,--he saw this sad picture at a glance, but

could not believe the evidence of his senses.

"Why, Frank, what's all this?" he cried, as with his pale face, marked

by wounds, he stood before his daughter.

She slowly raised her eyes, and regarded him with a sad smile.

"The poison, father,--I drank it myself; _he_ went forth from this

house safe from all harm--"

Her voice failed.

Tarleton uttered a frightful cry, and fell like a dead man on the

floor, his face against the carpet. The reality of the scene had burst

upon him; in the hour of his triumph he saw his schemes,--the plans

woven through the long course of twenty-one years and darkened by

hideous crimes,--leveled in a moment to the dust.

Frank slowly turned her head, and fixed her glassy eyes upon the face

of Ernest,--O, the intensity of that long and yearning gaze!

"I am weary and cold," she gasped, "but it is light yonder."

And that was all. Her eyes became fixed,--she laid her head gently on

her shoulder, and fell asleep.

She was dead!

Ernest knelt beside her, and with his eyes flashing from their sunken

sockets, he clasped his hands and uttered a prayer for the dead.

There were footsteps in the passage and presently into the death-room

came Mary Berman and Nameless, their faces stamped with the same look

in which hope and terror mingled. Nameless bore the last letter of

Frank in his hand; it had hurried him and Mary from the corpse of the

artist to the home of Frank, and they arrived only in time to behold

her dead.

"She died to save my life!" said Nameless solemnly, as he surveyed

that face which looked so beautiful in death. That there were strong

emotions tugging at his heart,--emotions such as are not felt twice in

a lifetime,--need not be told.

And Mary, with tears upon her pure and beautiful face, stole silently

to the side of the dead woman, and smoothed her dark hair, and put her

kiss upon her clammy forehead, and closed those eyes which had looked

their last upon this world.

The prayer was said, and Ernest, resting his hands upon the arm of the

chair in which the dead woman sat, hid once more his face from the

light, and surrendered himself to the full sway of his agony.

A voice broke the dead stillness, and a livid face was uplifted from

the floor.

"It's an infernal dream, Frank. You could not have been so foolish! The

estate is ours,--ours,--"

He saw at the same glance the face of Nameless and the face of his dead

child.

* * * * *

Here let us return for a moment to Maryvale, the old mansion in the

country, to which, this morning before break of day, the UNKNOWN,

(in whom you doubtless recognize Gaspar Manuel, or the Legate,) had

conducted the boy, Gulian, the private secretary of Evelyn Somers, Sr.

The contest between Tarleton and the dog Cain, in the presence of young

Gulian, will be remembered; as well as the fact, that even as Tarleton,

suffering from his wounds, attempted to bear Gulian from the house, he

fell insensible at his victim's feet.

An hour afterward, when the light of day shone on the old mansion,

the Legate returned and eagerly sought the chamber of young Gulian.

The floor was stained with blood, the dead body of Cain was stretched

at his feet, but the boy had disappeared. The Legate was a man, who,

through the course of long years had learned to restrain all external

signs of emotion, but when he became conscious that young Gulian was

gone,--he knew not whither,--his agitation broke forth in the wildest

expressions of despair.

"But I will again rescue him from his persecutor. Yes, before the day

is over, he will be safe under my protection."

And himself and his numerous agents sought the city through all day

long; and sought in vain.

CHAPTER II.

HERMAN AND GODIVA.

Our history now returns to Madam Resimer, whom we left in her most

secret chamber, near ten o'clock, on the 24th of December, listening to

the sound of the bell, which resounded through her mansion.

It was the bell of the secret passage.

"Who can it be?" again ejaculated the Madam, as she stood in the center

of the room, with the light of the candle on one side of her florid

face.

To which Corkins, who stood behind her, his slender form lost in her

capacious shadow, responded in a quivering voice, "Who _can_ it be?"

Much troubled and very angry, and not knowing upon whom to vent her

anger, the Madam turned upon her trembling satellite, and addressing

him by numerous titles, not one of which but was more vigorous than

elegant or complimentary, she bade him,--

"Run for your life. Answer the hell of the secret passage! Don't be

foolin' away your time, when the very devil's to pay and no pitch hot.

Cut!"

Corkins accordingly "_cut_," or, to speak in a less classical phrase,

he glided from the room.

How anxiously the Madam waited there, in her most secret chamber, with

her finger to her lip, and the candle-light on one side of her face!

"Who can it be? Only four persons in the world know of this secret

passage. It can't be this devil from Philadelphia? O, I shall do

somebody a mischief! I can't endure this any longer,--"

Hark! There are footsteps in the corridor; they approach the Madam's

room. She fixes her small black eyes upon the door, with the intensity

of a--cat, contemplating a rat-hole.

"This way," cries the voice of Corkins, and he enters the room,

followed by two persons, one of whom is taller than the other, and both

of whom wear caps and cloaks.

"Has _he_ come back?" cries the taller of the two, in a voice that

trembles with anxiety and fear,--he lifts his cap, and discloses the

face of Herman Barnhurst.

"No,--no,--I haven't laid eyes upon him since last night," and she

clutched Barnhurst by the arm,--"Where did you leave him?"

"He went home with me," replied Barnhurst, and stopped to gaze around

that room, dimly lighted by a single candle, as though he was afraid

that Dermoyne was concealed in its shadows.--"I left him in the parlor

down stairs. He was determined to wait for me until morning, and then

come with me to this house. But this morning, when I came down stairs,

he was not there."

"He was not there?" echoed the Madam, breathless with impatience.

"He wasn't there; there was blood upon the sofa and the carpet, and

marks of a struggle."

The Madam uttered a round oath and a cry of joy.

"Good,--capital! My boys have done their work. You see, Herman, I sent

Dirk and Slung after him, and they've laid him out. It's a sure thing."

Herman, even in his fright, could not but help shuddering, as he heard

the cool manner in which she spoke of Dermoyne's death. The next

instant the idea of his own safety rose uppermost in his mind.

"Do you think that your fellows have taken good care of him?" he asked.

"Don't doubt it,--don't doubt it," and she rubbed her hands joyfully

together. "It's a sure thing!"

A raven-like voice, behind her, echoed, "Sure thing!" It was Corkins,

of course.

"And _she_,--how is _she_?"--Herman lowered his voice, and pointed

upward.

"She is well!" was the emphatic response of the Madam,--"But how did

you know of the secret bell? Only four persons in the world know of it,

and you are not one of them."

Herman pointed to the person who had entered with him, and who now

stood in the darkness at his back,--"Godiva!" he said.

The Madam gave a start, echoing "Godiva," and Corkins, behind the

Madam, as in duty bound, re-echoed "Godiva!"

The person called by this name,--the name of the beautiful lady, famed

in ancient story, for the sacrifice which she made of her modesty in

order to achieve a noble purpose,--advanced from the shadows into

the light, saying, "This boy came to me this morning, in a world of

trouble; he confided all his sorrows to me. It appears he is in a devil

of a scrape. I came here to get him out of it."

And removing cap and cloak, Godiva stood disclosed in the candle-light.

Godiva was a woman of some twenty-five years, with a rounded form,

brown complexion, large eyes that were hazel in the sun, and black by

night; and Godiva wore her raven hair in rich masses on either side

of her warm, tropical face. Godiva was dressed, not in those flowing

garments which give such bewitching mystery to the form of a lovely

woman, but, in male costume from head to foot,--a shirt, with open

collar, dark satin vest, blue frock-coat, black pantaloons, and boots

of patent leather. Although looking short in stature beside the tall

Barnhurst, she was tall for a woman, and her male costume, which did

full justice to her throat, her ample bust, and rounded limbs, became

her exceedingly.

With her cloak on her right arm, her cap in her right hand, she rested

her left hand on her hip, and looked in the face of the Madam with an

air of insolent condescension that was quite refreshing.

"How _do_ you _do_, my dear child?"--and the Madam offered her hand.

Godiva waved her back.

"Don't be impertinent, woman," was the response. "The few days that

I once passed in your house, by no means give you the right to be

familiar. I am here, simply, for two reasons,--I wish, in the first

place, to get the boy (she pointed to Barnhurst,) out of his 'scrape;'

and, in the second place, to recover a certain manuscript which, it

seems, I left in this house when I was here."

The Madam was an essentially vulgar, as well as wicked woman, but she

could not help feeling the cutting insolence which marked the tone of

the queenly Godiva.

"There is no _sich_ manuscript here," she said, tartly, and her

thoughts reverted to the Red Book.

"Hadn't you better wait to know what kind of manuscript it was, before

making such a flat denial?" coolly responded Godiva. "But now let's

talk of this boy! What's the amount of his entanglements? How's the

girl?"

"She is well," said the Madam, emphatically.

"Well!" croaked Corkins from the background.

"And this fellow from Philadelphia--was he really such a desperate

creature?" asked Godiva.

"A devil incarnate," replied the Madam.

"What's that?" cried Herman, with a start, as the sound of a hell once

more rang through the mansion.

"It's the bell of the door in the alley. Run, Corkins! It's Dirk and

Slung. Bring 'em up,--'put', I say!"

Corkins "put," and the party waited for his return in evident

anxiety. It was not long before there was the tramp of heavy steps in

the passage, and two men, roughly clad--one, short, thick-set, and

bow-legged, the other, tall and bony--stumbled into the room, bringing

with them the perfume of very bad liquor.

"Where's de ole woman?" cried Dirk; "What in de thunder de yer have

candles a-burnin' in daylight for--s-a-y?"

"Ole lady, I'll finger dat pewter--I will," said Slung-shot. "We laid

yer man out--we did. Dat cool hundred, ef yer please."

And while Herman and Godiva glided into the shadows, the two ruffians

recounted the incidents of the night, in their peculiar _patois_; the

Madam interrupting them with questions, at every step of the narrative.

The story of these savages of city life, (and we believe that only the

English and American cities produce such ruffians in a perfect state

of brute-and-devil completeness,) reduced to the briefest compass, and

stripped of all its oaths, read thus:--They had followed Dermoyne and

Barnhurst all night long. Entering the house of Barnhurst, (the door

had been left ajar,) they had found Dermoyne seated on the sofa, his

eyes fixed upon a book. As one struck him with the slung-shot, the

other extinguished the light, and a brief but terrible contest took

place in the dark. Finally, they had borne the insensible form of

Dermoyne from the house, and flung him into the gutter of a dark and

deserted street.

"An' dere he'd freeze to death, ef he gets over de dirk and de

slung-shot--he would," added the thick-set ruffian.

"And where have you been ever since?" asked the Madam, whose little

eyes sparkled with joy.

"Gittin' drunk," tersely remarked Dirk.

"The book--you have it?" she said eagerly.

To which Dirk replied, in his own way, that if he had, he hoped his

eyes and liver might be made uncomfortable for an indefinite length of

time.

"Fact is, it slid under de sofar in de muss, an' I couldn't' find it in

de dark."

The Madam burst into a transport of fury, and in her rage administered

the back of her hand somewhat freely to the faces of Dirk and Slung.

"Out of my sight--out of my sight! Fools! Devils! That book was all

that I sent you after!" and she fairly drove them from the room. They

were heard shuffling in the passage, and murmuring and cursing as they

went down stairs.

"The miserable knaves! What trust can you put in human natur' arter

this!" and she fretted and fumed along the room.

"The book is safe in my house," said Barnhurst, advancing, his face

glowing with satisfaction. "This fellow, it appears, is safe. I pledge

my word to have that book in this room before an hour."

Godiva, looking over his shoulder, muttered in atone inaudible to the

others: "And my manuscript is in the book, and I pledge my word to have

that within an hour."

"If you do that, Herman, I'll sell my soul for you!" cried the Madam,

warmly.

"Suppose we look at the--_the patient_," whispered Herman.

"Up-stairs in the same room;" and Herman and Godiva left her room

together, and directed their steps toward the chamber of Alice.

"The book is safe; he'll keep his word--don't you think so, Corkins?"

said the Madam, as she found herself once more alone with her familiar

spirit.

"Safe--perfectly," returned Corkins, when his words were interrupted

by the ring of a bell. It was the front door bell this time. Corkins

hurried from the room, and in a few moments returned, and placed a card

in the hands of the Madam:

"This person wants to see you."

Drawing near the candle, the Madam read upon the card this name--"DR.

ARTHUR CONROY." A name, you will remember, associated with the history

of Marion Merlin. It was Arthur Conroy, who, in the dissecting room,

saw the corpse before him start suddenly into life.

"Dr. Conroy!"--it seemed a familiar name to the Madam. "I wonder if he

wants a subject? Show him up, Corkins."

* * * * *

Through the bowed window-shutters and the drawn curtains, the winter

sunlight stole into the chamber of Alice, lighting up the bed, and

touching with a few golden rays the face of the Virgin Mary on the wall.

Herman and Godiva stood by the bed, their backs toward the window,

and their faces from the light. They did not speak. The room was

breathlessly still.

Alice was there, resting on the bed, the coverlet drawn up to her neck,

and her cheek pressed against the pillow, thus turning her face to the

light. One hand and arm lay motionless on the coverlet, and her sunny

hair strayed in unbound luxuriance over the pillow. Her eyes were

closed; her lips slightly parted; her cheek pale as the pillow on which

she slept: for she was sleeping. A bright ray, that found entrance

through an aperture in the curtains, was playing over her face, now on

her lips, now on her throat, and among the waves of her silken hair.

The sight was so beautiful that Godiva, whose heart had long since

ceased to feel, was awed into silence. As for Herman, he could not take

his eyes away, but stood there with his gaze chained to the face of the

sleeping girl; for she was sleeping--sleeping that dear, quiet sleep,

which, in this world, never knows an awakening hour. In the language of

the woman-fiend, she indeed "was _well_!" Dead, with the second life

which she bore, dead within her. Poor Alice! She had only opened her

wings in the world, to fold them again and die.

"Herman," whispered Godiva, "look at that! Are you not proud of your

work?"

"Don't taunt me, Marion," he answered. "Had I never met you--had you

never made my life but one continued dream of sensuality--I would not

stand here at this hour, gazing upon this murdered girl."

"Sweet boy! And so, when I first met you, you believed all that you

preached in the pulpit?"

"If I did not believe it, I certainly did not wish to doubt it. You,

and the life I've led since first I knew you, have made me _dread_ the

very mention of the existence of a God, or of the immortality of the

soul."

"Pretty boy! How sadly I've used you! But don't call me Marion

again;--that name I left in the grave. Leave off preaching, and let us

see what you intend to do?"

"Godiva, whichever way I look is ruin. I am rid of this Dermoyne; but

there are those persons who, conscious of _the event of that night in

November_, 1842, will expose me to the world, unless I become their

tool, in regard to the heirs of Anreke Jans and Trinity Church. I am

sick of this life of suspense and dread! Let us fly, Godiva; I will

change my name, and, in some distant place, begin life anew."

"What, and leave your wife?"

"Take care, Godiva, take care! Don't press me too hard! You know who it

was that planned the dishonor of that wife, when she was a maiden, and

betrothed to me. Take care!"

"You needn't look so black at me with those devilish eyes," said

Godiva, as her face lost that bitter sneer, which, for the last few

moments, had made her resemble a beautiful fiend. "You mustn't be angry

at my jests. Well--let us travel! I have money enough for both, and we

can enjoy ourselves with money anywhere. But the Van Huyden estate?"

"I cannot call my share my own, even if a share should happen to fall

to me. These people who knew of _the event in_ 1842, and who are now

playing conspirator between Trinity Church and the heirs of Anreke

Jans, will demand my share as the price of their silence. I cannot live

in this state of dread. Listen Godiva! A vessel sails this afternoon

for one of the West India Islands. What think you of a life in the

tropics, far away from this devilish _practical_ world? Why, we can

make an Eden to ourselves, and forget that we ever lived before! I

have engaged passage for two on board this vessel. It makes my heart

bound! Groves of palm--a cloudless sky--good wine--days all dream, and

nights!--ah, Godiva! Flight, Godiva, flight!"

"Flight be it, and to-night!" cried Godiva, winding her arm about

Herman's neck.

They were disturbed by a sound, low and scarcely audible--it resembled

the sound of a footstep. Herman turned his head, and saw, between him

and the doorway, the haggard face of--Arthur Dermoyne, whose cheek

was marked with a hideous gash, but whose eyes shone with a clear

unfaltering light.

Herman read his death in those eyes.

* * * * *

Let us turn from this scene, and enter once more the secret chamber of

the Madam.

"Why, Doctor, I am glad to see you!" she cried, as Doctor Arthur Conroy

entered her room; "I haven't clapped eyes upon you for a dog's age.

Why, bless me, how changed you are!"

As Conroy flung his cloak upon a chair, and advancing to the light,

seated himself opposite the Madam, it was evident that he was indeed

changed. His eyes were dull and heavy, his cheeks bloated; the marks

of days and nights spent in sensual excess, were upon every lineament

of his once noble face. A sad, a terrible change! Can this man who

sits before us, with his coat buttoned to the chin, and his heavy eyes

rolling vacantly in his bloated countenance, be the same Arthur Conroy

whom we first beheld in the lonely hour of his student vigil, his eyes

dilating with a noble ambition, his forehead stamped with thought, with

genius?

"I am changed," he said sullenly and with a thick utterance; "let me

have some brandy."

The Madam, without a word, produced a bottle and a glass. Conroy filled

the glass half-full, and drank it, undiluted with water, and without

removing the glass from his lips.

And then his faded eyes began to flash and his cheek to glow.

It was the most melancholy kind of intemperance--that which drinks

alone, and drinks in silence, and, instead of rousing the social

feelings, or the grotesque fancies of drunken mirth, calls up the

images of the past, and bids them feed upon the soul.

"Good brandy that! It warms the blood!"

"Why, Conroy, I have not seen you since you brought Godiva here, and

that is a year and I don't know how many months ago."

"May God,"--he ended the sentence with an awful imprecation upon the

very name of Godiva. And his face grew wild with hatred.

"Why I thought she was a favorite of yours, or you of hers," said the

Madam.

"By ----! I wish I had buried my knife in her heart, as she lay on the

dissecting table before me!" he cried, his voice hoarse with emotion.

"Look at me! When first I met that woman I was studious, ambitious; the

thought of my mother and two sisters, who depended upon my efforts,

stirred me into superhuman exertion. Well!--It is not _quite_ a

_century_ since I met that woman, and look at me now--a gambler--a

drunkard; yes," he struck the table with his fist--"Arthur Conroy

is come to that! My mother dead, of a broken heart, and my sisters,

well!--my sisters--"

As he tried to choke down his emotion, his features worked as with a

spasm.

"Well! never mind!--and the accursed woman, whom I brought to your

house, in order to kill the fruits of her passion,--she is the cause of

all,--"

The light which left the greater part of the room in shadow, fell

strongly over the florid face of the Madam, manifesting vague

astonishment; and the flushed visage of Conroy, working with violent

emotions.

"Yes," he said, as though thinking aloud, while his eyes shone with the

brilliancy of a lighted coal,--"she was to make my fortune; she was

to aid me, as I ascended that difficult path, which ambition treads

in pursuit of fame. How smooth her words! I called her back from the

dead,--she recovered from her relative a large portion of her property,

sacrificing the rest, on condition that he concealed the fact of her

existence from the world,--and I loved her, became the habitant of her

mansion, the companion of her voluptuous hours. The she-devil! look to

what she has brought me!"

"I wonder if he wants to borrow money?" said the Madam, in a sort of

stage-whisper.

"No he does not," returned Conroy, with a scowl,--"He wants to do you

a service, good lady. This morning about daybreak, as I was returning

from the Club-Room, I came across a poor devil in the streets, who had

been shockingly abused by ruffians,--"

"Ah!" and the Madam sank back in her chair.

"I could not let him die there, so I dragged him to the house of a

clergyman, hard by, and laid him on the sofa. Then, assisted by the

wife of the clergyman, a good sort of woman,--I dressed the wounds of

the poor devil, and brought him to."

"The name of the clergyman?" asked the Madam, biting her lips.

"Barnet, or Barnhurst, or some such name."

"Ah!" and the Madam changed color, "and you left this man there?"

"He must have had a constitution of iron, to stand all those knocks!

Do you know in a little while he was on his feet, explaining to the

clergyman's lady, that he had come home with her husband, the night

before, and had been dragged by unknown ruffians, from that very

house,--"

"The dev-i-l!" and Madam clutched the arms of her chair, as she tried

to restrain the rage, which filled every atom of her bulky frame.

"And now, he's down stairs at the door--"

"Down stairs at the door!" she bounded from her chair.

"He has a book under his arm, bound in red morocco," continued Dr.

Conroy,--"and he desires to see you on particular business," and Conroy

filled another glass, half full of brandy.

* * * * *

Once more to the death-room of Alice.

Dermoyne, who was as white as a sheet, stood but one step from the

threshold, Godiva was by the bed, Herman near the head of the bed: thus

Godiva was between the avenger and his victim.

Herman read his death in the eyes of Dermoyne, and looked to the

window, as though he thought of raising the sashing, and dashing

himself to pieces upon the pavement.

Godiva also caught the eye of Dermoyne,--she saw, that weak as he was

from his wounds, and the loss of blood, that he was nerved by his

emotions, by his purpose, with superhuman strength,--she saw the pistol

in his hand. And all the craft of her dark and depraved nature, came

in a moment to her aid. She resolved to save Herman,--that is, if her

craft could save him.

"Hush! hush!" she whispered, "do not awake the sleeping girl! She has

had a hard night, but now all is well. Hush! tread lightly,--lightly!--"

"Then she lives!" cried Dermoyne, and his savage eyes lit up with joy.

"Lives, and is doing well, don't you see how sweet she sleeps?" said

Godiva advancing to him, on tip-toe, "Generous man! How can I thank you

for your kindness to my cousin, poor, dear Alice?"

"Your cousin?" without another word, she flung herself upon Dermoyne's

breast, wound her arms tightly about his neck, and hung there like a

tigress upon the neck of her victim.

"Now's your time, Herman!" she cried,--and Dermoyne struggled madly in

her embrace, but her arms wound closer about his neck, and he struggled

in vain. His pistol fell to the floor.

Herman rushed by him, and the next instant, Dermoyne had unwound the

arms of Godiva, and flung her violently to the floor. He turned to the

door,--it was closed and locked,--Herman had escaped.

"Villain, you shall pay for this with your life!" he cried, as with

flaming eyes, he advanced upon the prostrate Godiva.

"Don't be rash, my dear," she said, as seated on the floor, she was

coolly engaged in arranging her disheveled hair, "You can't strike me.

I'm a woman."

"A woman?" he echoed incredulously.

"Yes,--and a very good looking one,--don't you think so?" and she

looked at him in insolent composure, while her vest,--torn open in the

struggle,--displayed a glimpse of her neck and bosom.

Who, in this calm shameless thing,--proud at once of her beauty, and

her shame, would recognize the innocent Marion Merlin of other years?

With an ejaculation of contempt and anger, Dermoyne turned away from

her, and approached the bed of Alice.

Alice was indeed sleeping there, her cheek upon the pillow, her lips

apart, and with a ray of sunshine upon her closed eyelids, and sunny

hair.

Dermoyne felt his heart die within him at the sight. There are emotions

upon which it is best to drop the vail, for words are too weak to

picture their awful intensity.

He called her name, "Alice!" and spreading forth his arms, he fell

insensible upon the bed, his lips pressing the forehead of the dead

girl.

Godiva rose, closed her vest, and calmly surveyed the scene, with her

eyes shadowed by her uplifted hand:--

"I believe upon my soul, he did love her!" was her comment, and a tear

shone in her eye.

The key turned in the lock, and presently a man with flushed face, and

unsteady step, appeared upon the threshold. It was Arthur Conroy.

"Halloo! what's up?" he cried, with a thick utterance.--"That you

Divy?" and staggering over the floor, he attempted to put his arm about

her neck.

"Beast!" she cried, and struck him in the face. And ere he had

recovered from the surprise of the blow, she glided from the room.

Seating himself on the foot of the bed, his eyes rolling in the vacancy

of intoxication, he began to mutter words like these,--

"I'd a-better have cut you up, when I had you on the dissectin'

table--I had. 'Beast.' You've served the devil for very small wages,

Arthur Conroy! Ha, ha,--its a queer world."

Shall we ever see Herman and Godiva, Conroy and Dermoyne again?

CHAPTER III.

THE DREAM-ELIXIR.

The Twenty-Fourth of December was a happy day with Randolph Royalton.

One happy day, after a long month devoted to agony and despair! Early

morning light, found him in an upper chamber of the mansion, near

the window, his form half concealed among the curtains, but his pale

countenance, fully disclosed. There was thought upon his broad white

forehead, relieved by the jet-black hair, an emotion of unspeakable

tenderness,--passion,--in his large, clear blue eyes, and all the while

upon his lips, an expression in which hatred mingled with contempt.

For three images rose before him,--his future, and that was hard to

read, and buried him in thought,--Eleanor, young and beautiful, and

willing to become his own, and that filled his eyes with the light of

passion,--his Brother, whom he had left helpless and insensible in a

distant chamber, and who had met all his offers of fraternal love with

withering scorn, and that thought curled his lip with mingled hatred

and contempt.

In his hand he held a letter, which had just been delivered by Mr.

Hicks, and before him were two huge trunks, one bearing the name of

"Randolph Royalton, Heidelberg," and the other the name of "Esther

Royalton, Hill Royal, S. C." These trunks which had just arrived in a

mysterious manner, had been placed in his room by the hand of a servant.

On his way south, about a month before, Randolph had left his trunk

in Washington, and hurried home, eager to see his father. When Esther

was brought to Washington, by her brother and her purchaser, her trunk

was brought with her from Royalton. And when Randolph and Esther

escaped from Washington, they took their trunks with them as far as

Philadelphia, where they left them in their eagerness to escape from

their pursuers.

And now these trunks,--containing all that they were worth in the

world,--had by some unknown person, been brought to the house in

Broadway, and delivered into the servant's hands, accompanied by the

note which Randolph held.

"Brother!" ejaculated Randolph, thinking of Harry Royalton, whom he

had left weak and helpless in a distant chamber,--a chamber which

Randolph had given up to him--"Brother! I am afraid our accounts draw

to a close. I'm afraid that your nature cannot be changed. Shall I have

to fight you with your own weapons? Last night I saved your life,--I

brought you to my own home; I laid you on my own bed; I watched over

you, and when you woke, held out to you a brother's hand. That hand you

struck down in scorn! So much the worse for you, dear brother. Your

condition will not allow you to leave this house for a day or two,--at

least not until _to-morrow_ is over. And _to-morrow_ past, brother, you

will forfeit all interest in the Van Huyden Estate."

Randolph was a generous and a noble man, but there were desperate

elements within, which the events of the last month had begun to

develop. He now felt that his fate would be decided and forever, by the

course of the next twenty-four hours. And every power of his soul, all

the strength, the good,--shall we say evil?--began to rise within him

to meet the crisis. There was energy in his look, danger in his eye.

"And Eleanor,--" he breathed that name and paused, and for a moment

he was enveloped in the atmosphere of an intense but sinless passion.

"Eleanor loves me! She will be mine!"

But how should his marriage with Eleanor be accomplished, without the

fatal disclosure, that instead of being the legitimate child of John

Augustine Royalton, he was simply--the White Slave of his own brother?

The thought was madness, but Randolph met it, and rousing every power

of his soul, sought to pierce the clouds which hung upon his future.

He opened the letter, which Mr. Hicks had delivered to him, and

recognized the hand of his unknown protector,--his friend of the

Half-Way House. It was dated "Dec. 24th," 1844, and these were its

contents:--

"TO RANDOLPH ROYALTON:--

"When first I met you and your sister at the house near Princeton,

and heard the story of your wrongs, in you I recognized the children

of an old and dear friend, John Augustine Royalton. I determined to

protect you. You know how my plans were laid. Your brother, also your

persecutor, was delivered to punishment. Yourself and sister were

brought to New York, and placed in the mansion which you now occupy.

Last night, wishing to know whether there yet remained in your brother

one throb of a better nature--conscious that if his feelings to you

were unchanged, you would at no moment be safe from his vengeance,--I

arranged your meeting with him and his instrument, in the den below

Five Points. From old Royal (whom I first met in Philadelphia, and

who told me of your story before I saw you at the half-way house,) I

have learned all that occurred last night,--the attack made on you by

your brother,--your magnanimous conduct,--the awful, although richly

deserved death of Bloodhound, his atrocious tool. And although I know

not what became of your brother after you bore him from the den, I

doubt not but that you have placed him where he will be watched over

with affectionate care.

"Yesterday I encountered Mr. Bernard Lynn, who seemed to take a great

interest in you. I directed him to your house,--treat him as your

guest in your own house,--for I especially desire you to regard the

house and all it contains as yours, until the 25th of December has

passed. Until then be perfectly at your ease. Await the developments

of the 25th of December. In the meantime, if you want money, you

will find it in the drawer of the desk (of which I inclose the key,)

which you will find in your bed-room. Your trunks, which you lost in

Philadelphia, I have recovered and send to you. Make no effort to see

me, until I call upon you.

"Your friend,

"EZEKIEL BOGART."

In the letter there was much food for thought.

"So far all well," thought Randolph,--"but _to-morrow_ once passed,

what then?" He unlocked his trunk, and after a careful examination,

found that its contents remained the same as when he had left it in

Washington. It was very large, and divided into various compartments,

and contained his wardrobe, his choicest books, and most treasured

letters, together with numerous memorials of his student life in

Heidelberg. Opening a small and secret drawer, he drew forth a package

of letters, held together by a faded ribbon.

"Ah! letters from my father!" and he untied the package,--"What is

this? I never saw it before!"

It was a letter directed to him in his father's hand, and sealed with

his father's seal. To his complete astonishment the seal was unbroken.

"How came this letter here? My father's seal and unbroken,--this is

indeed strange!"

He regarded the letter carefully, weighed it in his hand, but paused,

in hesitation, ere he broke the seal. For the first time, written

around the seal, in his father's hand, he beheld these words, "_Not to

be opened until my death._"

Tears started into Randolph's eyes, and for a moment, as he knelt

there, he rested his forehead on his hand.

Then, with an eager hand, he broke the seal. The contents of the letter

were bared to the light.

"HEIDELBERG, _September_ 23, 1840.

"DEAREST SON:--

"You have just left me, and with the memory of our late conversation

fresh in my mind, I now write this letter, which you will not read

until I am dead. Randolph, I repeat the truth of that which I have

just disclosed to you,--your mother was not my mistress, but my lawful

wife. Yourself and Esther are legitimate. By my will I make you, with

Harry, joint inheritors of my estate, and of my share in the Van

Huyden estate.

"Your mother, Herodia, was not the child of Colonel Rawdon, but the

dearly beloved daughter of ---- ----, who never acknowledged her to

the world. He communicated, however, the secret of her paternity to

Rawdon, and left her in his charge, intrusting him with a sealed

packet, which he directed should be delivered to Herodia's son,

in case a son was ever born to her. A packet which contained a

commission, upon whose fulfillment by that son, the happiness, the

destiny of all the races on the American continent, might depend.

Worshiping the memory of this great man, Rawdon treated Herodia (known

as a slave) as his own child and would not transfer her to me, until I

had made her my wife in a secret marriage.

"A sealed copy of my will I gave you a few moments since; and this

letter contains an original letter of ---- ----, written to Colonel

Rawdon, and recognizing Herodia as his child.

"When I am dead, you will find the packet in a secret closet behind

the fourth shelf of my library, at Hill Royal. There you will also

find a large amount of gold, which may be useful to you in some

unforeseen hour of adversity, and which I hereby give to you and

Esther.

"This letter I inclose in the package of letters which you left for my

perusal.

"Your father,

"JOHN AUGUSTINE ROYALTON,

"_of Hill Royal_."

Randolph read this letter with signs of emotion not to be mistaken.

Rising from his knees, he walked slowly up and down the room, his eyes

shaded by his uplifted hand. As he drew near the window, his pale face

was flushed, his eyes radiant with new light.

"So! I am then the elder brother, the real lord of Hill Royal! My

mother was a slave, but she was the lawful wife of my father." His brow

clouded and his lips curved. "It seems to me this younger brother has

given us trouble enough,--let him have a care how his shadow crosses my

way for the future."

He stood erect in every inch of his stature, his eyes dilating, and

his hand extended, as though,--even like a glorious landscape, rich in

vine-clad mountains and grassy meadows, smiling in the sun,--he beheld

his future stretch clear and bold before him.

"Harry, I have given you my hand for the last time," he said, in a

significant voice.

A piece of paper, carefully folded and worn by time, slipped from

the letter which he held. Randolph seized it eagerly, and opening

it, beheld a few lines traced in a handwriting which had long become

historical. It was dated many years back, and was addressed to Colonel

Rawdon.

"MY ESTEEMED FRIEND:--

"I am glad to hear the girl, HERODIA, whom, many years ago, I placed

in your care, (acquainting you with the circumstances of her birth

and paternity,) progresses toward womanhood, rich in education,

accomplishments and personal loveliness. While nominally your slave,

you have treated her as a daughter,--accept her father's heartfelt

gratitude. In consequence of her descent, on her mother's side, she

cannot (with safety to herself) be formally manumitted, nor can she

be publicly recognized as the equal of your own daughter, or the

associate of ladies of the white race. But it is my last charge to

you, that she be honorably (even although secretly) married; and that

the inclosed sealed packet which I send to you, be given to her eldest

son, in case a son is born to her. That packet contains matters which,

carried into action by such a son, would do much, yes, everything,

to establish the happiness of all the races on this continent. Kiss

for me, that dear daughter of mine, whom, in this life, I shall never

behold.

"Yours, with respect and gratitude,

"---- ----."

A very touching,--an altogether significant letter.

Randolph pressed it to his lips in silence. Then inclosing it within

his father's letter, he placed them both in a secret compartment of his

trunk.

He seated himself, and folding his arms, gave himself up to the

dominion of a crowd of thoughts, which flooded in upon his soul, like

mingled sunshine and lightning through the window of a darkened room.

* * * * *

Bending over his trunk, he was examining, with an absent gaze, certain

memorials of his old student brothers of Heidelberg. A small casket

contained them all.

"This ring was given to me by poor Richmond, the English student.

He was killed in a duel. And here is the watch of Van Brondt,--poor

fellow! he died of consumption, even as his studies were completed,

and a youth of poverty and hardship seemed about to be succeeded

by a manhood of wealth and fame. And this,"--he took up a small

vial, whose glass was incased in silver,--"this, Van Eichmer, the

enthusiastic chemist, gave me. I wonder whether his dreams of fame,

from the discovery embodied in this vial, will ever be realized? A rare

liquid,--its powers rivaling the wonders of enchantment. He gave it to

me under a solemn pledge not to subject it to chemical analysis, until

he has time to mature his discovery, and make it known as the result

of his own genius. He called it (somewhat after the fanciful fashion

of the old alchemists) the 'Dream-Elixir.' I wonder if it has lost its

virtues?"

Removing the buckskin covering which concealed the stopple, he then

carefully drew the stopple, and applied the vial for a moment to his

nostrils. The effect was as rapid as lightning. His face changed;

his eyes grew wild and dreamy. His whole being was pervaded by an

inexpressible rapture,--a rapture of calmness, (if we may thus speak)

a rapture of unutterable repose. And like cloud-forms revealed by

lightning, the most gorgeous images swept before him. He seemed to have

been suddenly caught up into the paradise of Mahomet, among fountains,

showering upon beds of roses, and with the white-bosomed houris gliding

to and fro.

In a word, the effect of the vial, applied but for an instant to

his nostrils, threw into the shade all the wonders of opium, and

rivaled in enchantment the maddening draught of oriental story,--_the

Hashish_,--which the Old Man of the Mountain gave to his devotee

Assassins,[1] intoxicating them with the odors of paradise, even as

their hands were red with their victims' blood.

[1] The order of the Assassins prevailed in Asia, in the days of the

Crusades, and the history of their power and terrible influence is

strangely connected with the history of the Knights Templars. The

founder of the order, Hassan Sabah, rewarded his devotees for their

deeds of murder, by a draught (called as above, the HASHISH,) whose

powers of enchantment consoled them for a lifetime of hardship and

danger.

Like one awaking from a trance, Randolph slowly recovered from the

effect of the Dream-Elixir, and once more saw the winter light shining

through his window. The vial was in his hand,--he had taken the

precaution to replace the stopple, the moment after he had applied it

to his nostrils.

"It has lost none of its virtues. Held to the nostrils, or a few drops

on a kerchief, applied to the mouth, its first effect is rapture; the

second, rapture prolonged to delirium; its third, rapture that ends in

death."

Randolph replaced the buckskin covering around the stopple of the vial,

and then placed the vial in his vest pocket.

At this moment the door opened and the quiet Mr. Hicks entered the

room, clad in his gray livery, turned up with black. He bowed and

said,--

"Master, Mr. Lynn sends his compliments and desires to see you in the

parlor."

"Tell Mr. Lynn that I will attend him presently," said Randolph rising

from his knees.--"How is our patient, Mr. Hicks?"

"I left him asleep. He is very weak, though quite easy."

"Mr. Hicks, I desire that you will attend him throughout the day, or

place him in the care of some trustworthy servant. If he asks for any

one, send for me. Admit no one into his room,--you understand, he is a

dear friend of mine,"--he placed his finger on his forehead,--"a little

touched here, and I do not wish his misfortune to be known, until all

the means of recovery, which I have at my command, prove hopeless. Mr.

Hicks, you will remember."

"I will remember, and attend to your commands, master," and Mr. Hicks

bowed like an automaton.

"Have this trunk removed to Miss Royalton's room," said Randolph, and

leaving Mr. Hicks, he descended to the parlor.

Through the rich curtains of the eastern and western windows of that

magnificent apartment, the morning light was dimly shining. The lofty

walls, the pictures, the statues, the carpet, the mirrors, all looked

grand and luxurious in the softened light.

Bernard Lynn sat on the sofa, in the center of the parlor, his arms

folded and his countenance troubled. As he raised his gaze and greeted

Randolph, in a kindly although absent way, Randolph saw that his

bronzed visage, (above which rose masses of snow-white hair) was traced

with the lines of anxious thought, and his dark eyes were feverish with

restlessness and care.

"Sit by me, Randolph," he said in a serious voice, and he grasped

Randolph's hand and gazed earnestly in his face.--"I wish to speak with

you. I have traveled much, Randolph, and when matters press heavily on

my mind, I am a blunt man,--I use few words. I desire you to give all

imaginable emphasis to what I am about to say."

Randolph took his hand and met his gaze; but he felt troubled and

perplexed at Bernard Lynn's words and manner.

"Briefly, then, Randolph,--when can you leave the city?"

Without knowing how the words came to his lips, Randolph replied,--"The

day after to-morrow."

"Can you go with us, by steamer, to Charleston? I wish to visit

the scene,--" he paused as if unable to proceed,--"the scene,--you

understand me? And then, after a week's delay, we will go to Havana and

spend the winter there. Will you go with us?"

It is impossible to describe the emotions which these words aroused.

Hopes, fears, a picture of his father's home, the consciousness there

was a taint upon his blood,--all whirled like lightning through his

brain. But he did not stop to analyze his thoughts, but answered

again,--as though the word was given to him,--in a single word, earnest

in tone, and with a hearty grasp,--

"Willingly," he said.

A ray of pleasure flitted over the bronzed face of Bernard Lynn. But

in an instant he was sad and earnest again. "Randolph, I have been

thinking, and most seriously,--I beg you to listen to the result of my

thoughts. Nay, not a word,--fewest words are best, and a plain answer

to a plain question will decide all.--I have been thinking of the

desolate condition in which Eleanor will be left, in case her father is

suddenly taken away. She will need a friend, a protector, a husband."

He paused; Randolph, all agitation, awaited his next word in breathless

suspense.

"I have long known her feelings,--she tells me that she knows yours.

You are aware of my fortune and position,--I am aware of yours.

Plainly, then, do you love her,--do you desire her hand?"

For a moment Randolph could not reply.

"O, my dearest friend, can you ask it?" he exclaimed, taking both hands

of Mr. Lynn in his own,--"Do I desire Eleanor's hand? It is the only

wish of my life,--"

"Enough, my friend, enough," replied Bernard, as a tear stole down his

cheek. "In serious matters, I am a man of few words,--I fear that I may

be suddenly taken away--I feel that there is no use of delay. Shall it

take place this evening in your house?"

Randolph could only reply by a silent grasp of the hand.

"In presence of your sister, myself and the clergyman? And then, the

day after to-morrow we leave for Charleston--"

"You speak the dearest wish of my soul," was all that Randolph could

reply.

Bernard Lynn arose,--"I will go out and buy a bridal present for my

child," he said, "and your sister and myself will take charge of all

the details of the marriage. God bless you, my boy! What a load is

lifted from my heart!"

How over his bronzed visage, a look cordial and joyous as the spring

sunshine played, even while there were tears in his eyes!

Randolph felt his heart swell with rapture, but instantly,--growing

pale as death,--he rose, and resolved to make a revelation, which would

blast all his hopes to ashes.

"I will not deceive this good old man. I will tell him my real

condition, tell him that there is the blood of the accursed race in my

veins."

This was his thought, and feeling like a criminal on the scaffold, he

prepared to fulfill it,--

"Ah, you and I are agreed," cried Bernard, with his usual jovial

laugh.--"but you must ask this child what she says of the matter," and

dropping Randolph's hand, he hurried from the room.

Even as the first word of the confession was on his lip, Randolph

beheld Eleanor, who had entered unperceived, standing between him and

the light, on the very spot which her father had just left.

She looked very beautiful.

Clad in a dark dress, which, fitting closely to her arms and bust, and

flowing in rich folds, around her womanly proportions, from the waist

to the feet, she stood before him, one finger raised to her lip, her

eyes fixed upon him in a gaze, full of deep and passionate light. Her

face was cast into faint shadow, by her hair, which was disposed about

it, in brown and wavy masses. But through the shadow her eyes shone

with deep and passionate light.

A very beautiful woman, now unable to utter a word, as with heaving

breast, she confronts the man whom she knows is destined to be her

husband.

Why does all thought of confession fade from Randolph's mind?

O, the atmosphere of the presence of a pure, and beautiful

woman, whose eyes gleam upon you with passionate love, carries

with it an enchantment, which makes you forget the whole

universe,--everything,--save that she is before you, that she loves

you, that your soul is chained to her eyes.

Randolph silently stretched forth his arms. She came to him, and laid

her arms about his neck, her bosom upon his breast.

"My wife!" he whispered.

And she raised her face, until their lips and their eyes, met at once,

whispering--"My husband."

* * * * *

Certainly, this was a happy day for Randolph Royalton.

Talk of opium, _hashish_, dream-elixir! Talk of their enchantment, and

of the Mahomet's paradise which they create! What enchantment can rival

the pressure of a pure woman's lips, which breathe softly, "husband!"

as she lays them against your own?

But at least a dozen gentlemen who have divorce cases on hand, will

curse me bitterly for writing the last sentence. And all the old

bachelors who, having never known the kiss of a pure wife, or any wife

at all, and having grown musty in their sins, will turn away with an

"umph!" and an oath. And all the young libertines, who, deriving their

opinion of women, merely from the unfaithful wives, and abandoned

creatures with whom they have herded, and having expended even before

the day of young manhood, every healthy throb, in shameless excess,

they, too, will expand their faded eyes, and curl their colorless lips,

at the very mention of "a pure woman," much less, a "pure woman's

kiss." The "fast," the very "fast" boys!

But there are some who will not utterly dislike the allusion to a pure

woman, or a pure woman's kiss.

That quiet sort of people who, having no divorce cases on hand, know

that there are such things as pure women in the world, and know that

a good wife, carries about her an atmosphere of goodness, that brings

heaven itself down to the home.

And you, old bachelor,--a word in your ear,--if you only knew the

experience of returning from a long journey late at night,--of stealing

quietly into a home, your own home, up the dark stairs, and into a

room, where a single light is shining near a bed,--of seeing there,

blooming on the white pillow, the face of a pure wife, your own

wife, rosy with sleep, and with her dark hair peeping out from her

night-cap----, why, old bachelor, if you had only an idea of this kind

of experience, you'd curse yourself for not getting married some forty

years ago!--

* * * * *

The day passed quickly and happily, in quiet preparation for the bridal

ceremony.

* * * * *

Eleanor was seated in a rocking-chair, her feet crossed and resting

on a stool, her head thrown back, and her dark hair resting partly

on her bared shoulders, partly on the arm of Esther, who stood

behind her. The beams of the declining sun came softened through the

window-curtains, and lit up the scene with mild, subdued light. It was

a beautiful picture. There stood Esther, the matured woman, rich in

every charm of voluptuous and stately beauty; and her gaze, softened by

her long eyelashes, was tenderly fixed upon the upturned countenance

of Eleanor,--a countenance radiant with youth, with abounding life,

with passionate love. The habit of dark green cloth which Esther wore,

contrasted with the robe of white muslin which enveloped Eleanor, its

flowing folds girdled lightly about her waist and its snowy whiteness,

half hidden by her unbound hair; for that hair which was soft brown in

the sunlight and black in the shadow, fell in copious waves over her

neck, her bosom, and below her waist. Eleanor was beautiful, Esther

was beautiful, but their loveliness was of contrasted types; you could

not precisely define how they differed; you only saw that they were

beautiful, and that the loveliness of one, set off and added to, the

charms of the other.

And as Esther was arranging the hair of the bride, for the marriage

ceremony, they conversed in low tones:

"O, we shall all be so happy!" said Eleanor--"the climate of Havana,

is as soft and bland as Italy, and it will be so delightful to leave

this dreary sky, this atmosphere all storm and snow, for a land where

summer never knows an end, and where every breeze is loaded with the

breath of flowers!"

Esther was about to reply, but Eleanor continued,--and her words drove

the life-blood from Esther's cheek.

"And on our way we will stop at the old mansion of Hill Royal, the home

of Randolph's ancestors. How I shall delight to wander with you through

those fine old rooms, where the associations of the past meet you at

every step! Do you know, Esther, that I am a great aristocrat,--I

believe in race, in blood,--in the perpetuation of the same qualities,

either good or evil, from generation to generation? Look at Randolph,

at yourself, for instance,--your look, your walk, every accent tell the

story of a proud, a noble ancestry!"

"Or, look at yourself," was all that Esther could say, as she bent over

the happy bride, thus hiding her face,--grown suddenly pale,--from the

light. "Shall I tell her all?" the thought flashed over her, as she

wound her hands through the rich meshes of Eleanor's hair,--"shall I

tell this beautiful girl, who is as proud as she is beautiful, that in

the veins of her husband there is--negro blood?"

But the very thought of such a revelation appalled her.

"Better leave it to the future," she thought, and then said aloud,

"Tell me, Eleanor, something about Italy."

And while Esther, with sisterly hands, arrayed her for the bridal, the

proud and happy bride, whose every vein swelled with abounding life and

love, spoke of Italy,--of its skies and its monuments,--of the hour

when she first met Randolph, and also of the moment when, amid the

Apennines, he saved her life, her honor.

"O, sister, do you think that a love like ours can ever know the shadow

of change?"

Happy Eleanor!

* * * * *

Meanwhile Randolph, standing by the parlor window apparently gazing

upon the current of life which whirled madly along Broadway, in the

light of the declining day, was in reality abstracted from all external

existence, and buried in his own thoughts,--thoughts delicious and

enchanting. Was there no phantom in the background, to cast its fatal

shadow over the rich landscape which rose before his mental eye?

He was attired for the marriage ceremony, in a severely plain costume,

which well became his thoughtful face and manly frame,--black dress

coat, vest of white Marseilles, open collar and black neckerchief.

As he stood there, noble-featured, broad-browed, his clear blue eyes

and dark hair, contrasting with his complexion whose extreme pallor

indicated by no means either lack of health or vigor, who would have

thought that there was--negro blood in his veins?

"In an hour Eleanor will be my wife!" he muttered, and his brow grew

clouded and thoughtful, even while his eyes were filled with passionate

light. "But there is no use of reflecting now. I must leave that fatal

disclosure, with all its chances and consequences, to the future.

Eleanor will be my wife, come what will."

His meditations were interrupted by the entrance of Mr. Hicks, who wore

his usual imperturbable look, which seemed as much a part of him as his

livery of gray turned up with black.

"How has our _patient_ been since I left him an hour ago?" asked

Randolph.

"He is no longer delirious," answered Mr. Hicks. "About a half an hour

ago, he asked me the time of day, in a tone, and with a look, that

showed that he had come to his senses."

"You conversed with him?"

"No, sir. He fell into a quiet sleep, and I left him in charge of a

faithful servant. Don't you think we had better change the bandages on

his back, after awhile? He has been sadly abused----"

"And I came to the scene of conflict just in time to save his life, and

bear him to my home,--I will see him at once, and then tell you when to

dress his wounds."

He moved toward the door.

"Has Mr. Lynn returned?" he said, turning his head over his shoulder.

"About half an hour since, he went up stairs to his room," returned Mr.

Hicks.

Randolph left the parlor and hastened toward his own chamber,

determined to make one more effort to change the hard nature, the

unrelenting hatred of his brother. As he passed along the corridor,

conscious that the most important crisis, if not the all-important

crisis, of his life was near, his thoughts mingling the image of

Eleanor with the proud memory of his lineage on the father's side, were

intense and all-absorbing. For the time he forgot the taint in his

blood.

He arrived before the door of the chamber in which his brother lay. It

was near the foot of a broad staircase which, thickly carpeted, and

with bannisters of walnut, darkened by time, was illumined by light

from the skylight far above. The door of the chamber was slightly

open,--Randolph started, for he heard his brother's voice, speaking

in rapid, impetuous tones. And the next instant, the voice of Bernard

Lynn, hoarse with anger. Randolph, with his step upon the threshold,

drew back and listened.

He did not pause to ask himself how Bernard Lynn came to be a visitor

in the chamber of his brother,--he only listened to their voices,--with

all his soul, he tried to distinguish their words.

It was the moment of his life. It required a terrible exertion of will,

to suppress the cry of despair which rose to his lips.

"A negro!" he heard the voice of Bernard Lynn, hoarse with rage,--"and

to my daughter! Never!"

And then the voice of Harry Royalton, whose life he had spared and

saved,--"I heard of this marriage from one of the servants, and felt it

my duty to set you on your guard. Therefore, I sent for you. I can give

you proof,--proof that will sink the slave into the earth."

Once more the voice of Bernard Lynn,--"A negro! and about to marry him

to my daughter! A negro!"

There was the hatred of a whole life embodied in the way he pronounced

that word,--"a negro!"

Randolph laid his hand against the wall, and his head sank on his

breast. He was completely unnerved.

The hopes of his life were ashes.

Once more, with a terrible exertion, he rallied himself, and with the

thought,--"There remains, at least, revenge!"--he advanced toward the

threshold.

But there was a footstep on the stair. Turning, Randolph beheld

Eleanor, who was slowly descending the stairs. She was clad in her

bridal dress. The light shone full upon her; she was radiantly

beautiful. She wore a robe of snow-white satin, girdled lightly to her

waist by a string of pearls, and over this a robe of green velvet,

veined with flowers of gold, and open in front from her bosom to her

feet. Her hair was disposed in rich masses about her face, and from its

glossy blackness, and from the pure white of her forehead, a circlet of

diamonds shone dazzlingly in the light. She saw Randolph, and her eyes

spoke although her lips were silent.

That moment decided her fate and his own.

As she was halfway down the stairs, he sprang to meet her.

"Randolph! how pale you are," and she started as she saw his face.

"Dearest, I must speak with you a moment," he whispered.--"To the

library."

He took her by the hand and led her up the stairs, and along a

corridor; she noticed that his hand was hot and cold by turns, and she

began to tremble in sympathy with his agitation.

They came to the door of the library. The lock was turned from the

outside by a key, but when the door was closed it locked itself.

Randolph found the key in the lock; he turned it; the door opened; he

placed the key in his pocket; they crossed the threshold. The door

closed behind them, and was locked at once. Eleanor was ignorant of

this fact.

The library was a spacious apartment, with two windows opening to

the east, and a ceiling which resembled a dome. The light came dimly

through the closed curtains, but a wood-fire, smouldering on the broad

hearth, which now flamed up, and as suddenly died away, served to

disclose the high walls, lined with shelves, the table in the center

overspread with books and papers, and the picture above the mantle,

framed in dark wood. Two antique arm-chairs stood beside the table;

there was a sofa between the windows, and in each corner of the room,

a statue was placed on a pedestal. The shelves were crowded with huge

volumes, whose gilt bindings, though faded by time, glittered in the

uncertain light. Altogether, as the light now flashed up and died away

again, it was an apartment reminding you of old times,--of ghosts and

specters, may be,--but of anything save the present century.

"What a ghost-like place!" said Eleanor.

Randolph led her in silence to the sofa, and seated himself by her side.

"Eleanor, I am sadly troubled. I have just received a letter which

informs me of a sad disaster which has happened to a friend,--a friend

whom I have known from boyhood."

Eleanor took his hand. As the light flashed up for an instant, she was

startled at the sight of his face.

"Compose yourself, Randolph," she said, kindly.--"The news may not be

so disastrous as you think."

"I will tell you the story in a few words," and he took her hand as he

continued: "A month ago, I left my friend in Charleston. Young, reputed

to be wealthy, certainly connected with one of the first families of

South Carolina, he was engaged in marriage to a beautiful girl,--one

of the most beautiful that sun ever shone upon,--" he paused,--"as

beautiful, Eleanor, as yourself."

And he fixed his ardent gaze upon that face which the soft shadow,

broken now and then by the uncertain light, invested with new

loveliness.

Eleanor made no reply in words; but her eyes met those of her plighted

husband.

"The day was fixed for their marriage,--they looked forward to it

with all the anticipations of a pure and holy love. It came,--the

bride and bridegroom stood before the altar, in presence of the

wedding-guests,--the priest began the ceremony, when a revelation was

made which caused the bride to fall like one dead at the feet of her

abashed and despair-stricken lover."

"This was, indeed, strange," whispered Eleanor, profoundly interested;

"and this revelation?"

Randolph drew her nearer to him; his eyes grew deeper in their light,

as in a voice, that grew lower at every word, he continued,

"The bridegroom was, indeed, connected with one of the first families

in the State, but even as the priest began the ceremony, a voice from

among the guests pronounced these words, 'Shame! shame! a woman so

beautiful to marry a man who has negro blood in his veins!'"

"And these words,--they were not true?" eagerly asked Eleanor, resting

her hand on Randolph's arm.

"They were true," answered Randolph. "It was their fatal truth which

caused the bride to fall like a corpse, and covered the face of the

bridegroom with shame and despair."

Eleanor's bosom heaved above the edge of her bridal robe; her lips

curled with scorn; "And knowing this fatal truth, this lover sought

her hand in marriage? O, shame! shame!"

"But hear the sequel of the story," Randolph continued, and well it was

for him, at that instant, that no sudden glow from the hearth lit up

his livid and corrugated face,--"What, think you, was the course of the

plighted wife, when she came to her senses?"

"She spurned from her side this unworthy lover,--she crushed every

thought of love--"

"No, dearest, no! Even in the presence of her father and the

wedding-guests, she took the bridegroom by the hand, and although her

face was pale as death, said, with a firm eye and unfaltering voice,

'Behold my husband! As heaven is above us, I will wed none but him!'"

"O, base and shameless! base and shameless!" cried Eleanor, the scorn

of her tone and of her look beyond all power of words,--"to speak thus,

and take by the hand a man whose veins were polluted by the blood of a

thrice accursed race!"

Randolph raised his hand to his forehead; what thoughts were burning

there, need not be told. Shading his eyes, he saw Eleanor before him,

beautiful and voluptuous, in her bridal robe, her bosom swelling into

view; but with unmeasured scorn in the curve of her proud lip, in the

lightning glance of her eyes.

And after that gaze, he said in a low voice, the fatal words,--

"Eleanor, what would you say, were I to inform you, that my veins are

also polluted by the blood of this thrice accursed race?"

She did not utter a cry; she did not shriek; but starting from the

sofa, and resting for support one hand against the wall, she turned to

him her horror-stricken face, uttering a single word,--"You?"

"That I, descended from one of the first families of Carolina, on my

father's side, am on the mother's side, connected with the accursed

race?"

"You, Randolph, _you_!"

"That knowing this, I fled from Florence, when first I won your

love; but to-day, dazzled by your beauty, mad with love of the very

atmosphere in which you breathe, I forgot the taint in my blood, I saw

our marriage hour draw nigh, with heaven itself in my heart--"

"O, my God, why can I not die?"

"That even now your father knows the fatal secret, and breathes curses

upon me, as he pronounces my name; resolves, that you shall die by his

hand, ere you become my wife--"

She saw his face, by the sudden light,--it was impressed by a mortal

agony. And although the room seemed to swim around, and her knees bent

under her, she rallied her fast-fading strength, and advanced toward

him, but with tottering steps.

"You are either mad, or you wish to drive me mad," she said, and laid

her hand upon his shoulder,--"there is no taint upon your blood! The

thought is idle. You, so noble browed, with the look, the voice, the

soul of a man of genius,--you, that I love so madly,--you, one of the

accursed race? No, Randolph, this is but a cruel jest--"

Her eyes looked all the brighter for the pallor of her face, as she

bent over him, and her hair, escaping from the diamond circlet, fell

over his face and shoulders like a vail.

He drew her to him, and buried his face upon her bosom,--"Eleanor!

Eleanor," he groaned in very bitterness of spirit, as that bosom beat

against his fevered brow, and that flowing hair shut him in its glossy

waves,--"It is no jest. I swear it. But you will yet be mine! Will you

not, Eleanor,--in spite of everything,--spite of the taint in my blood,

spite of your father's wrath--"

As with the last effort of her expiring strength, she raised his head

from her bosom, tore herself from his arms, and stood before him, her

hair streaming back from her pallid face, while her right hand was

lifted to heaven--

"It is true, then?" and her eyes wore that look, which revealed all the

pride of her nature,--"you are then, one of that accursed race," she

paused, unable to proceed, and stood there with both hands upon her

forehead. "If I ever wed you, may my mother's curse--"

Randolph rose, the anguish which had stamped his face, suddenly

succeeded by a look which we care not to analyze,--a look which gave a

glow to his pale cheek, a wild gleam to his eyes. "You are faint, my

love," he said, "this will revive you."

Seizing her by the waist, he placed her kerchief upon her mouth,--a

kerchief which he had raised from the floor, and moistened with liquid

from the silver vial which he carried in his vest pocket.

"Away! Your touch is pollution!" she cried, struggling in his embrace,

but the effect of the liquid was instantaneous. Even as she struggled

her powers of resistance failed, and the images of a delicious dream,

seemed to pass before her, in soft and rosy light.

The tall wax candles were lighted in the parlor, and upon a table

covered with a cloth of white velvet was placed a bible and a wreath of

flowers.

It was the hour of sunset, but the closed curtains shut out the light

of the declining day, and the light of the wax candles disclosed the

spacious apartment, its pictures, statues and luxurious furniture. It

was the hour of the bridal.

Two persons were seated near each other on one of the sofas. The

preacher who had been summoned to celebrate the marriage,--a grave,

demure man, with a sad face and iron-gray hair. Of course he wore

black clothes and a white cravat. Esther arrayed in snow-white, as the

bridesmaid,--white flowers in her dark hair, and her bosom heaving

dimly beneath lace which reminded you of a flake of new-fallen snow.

They were waiting for the father, the bridegroom, and the bride.

"It will be a happy marriage, I doubt not," said the preacher, who had

been gazing out of the corners of his eyes, at the beautiful Esther,

and who felt embarrassed by the long silence.

But ere Esther could reply, the door was flung abruptly open, and

Bernard Lynn strode into the room. His hat was in his hand; his cloak

hung on his arm. His face was flushed; his brow clouded. Not seeming to

notice the presence of Esther, he advanced to the clergyman,--

"Your services will not be needed, sir," he said, with a polite bow,

but with flashing eyes. "This marriage will not take place."

Esther started to her feet, in complete astonishment.

Turning to Mr. Hicks, who had followed him into the room, Bernard Lynn

continued, as he flung his cloak over his shoulders, and drew on his

gloves,--

"Has the carriage come?"

"Yes, sir,--"

"Are our trunks on behind?"

"Yes, sir,--"

"Have you called my daughter, and told her that I desired her to put on

her bonnet and cloak, and come to me at once?--"

"I have sent one of the maids up to her room," said Mr. Hicks, whose

countenance manifested no small degree of astonishment, "but your

daughter is not in her room."

Mr. Lynn turned his flushed face and clouded brow to Esther,--

"Perhaps you will tell my daughter," he said, with an air of insolent

_hauteur_ as though speaking to a servant,--"that I desire her to put

on her things and leave this house with me, immediately--"

How changed his manner, from the kind and paternal tone, in which he

had addressed her an hour before!

Esther keenly felt the change, and with her woman's intuition, divined

that a revelation of the fatal truth had been made. Disguising her

emotion, she said, calmly,--

"You will direct one of the servants to do your bidding. Your daughter

is doubtless in the library. I saw her going there, with Randolph, only

a few minutes since,--"

At the name of Randolph, all the rage which shook the muscular frame

of Bernard Lynn, and which he had but illy suppressed, burst forth

unrestrained.

"What!" he shouted, "with Randolph! The negro! The negro! The slave!"

"With Randolph, her plighted husband," calmly responded Esther.

"Negress!" sneered Bernard Lynn, almost beside himself, "where is my

daughter? Will no one call her?"

"Eleanor is coming," said a low deep voice, and Randolph stood before

the enraged father. He was ashy pale, but there was a light in his eyes

which can be called by no other name than--infernal.

Even Esther, uttered a cry as she beheld her brother's face.

"Negro!" muttered Bernard Lynn, regarding Randolph in profound

contempt.

"Well?" Randolph folded his arms, and steadily returned his gaze.

"I have, learned the secret in time, sir, in time," continued Bernard

Lynn, "I am about to leave this house--"

"Well?" again exclaimed Randolph.

"I have saved her from this horrible match,--"

"Well?" for the third time replied Randolph, in complete _nonchalance_,

and yet with that infernal light in his eyes.

A step was heard. Can this be Eleanor, who comes across the threshold,

her dress torn, her bosom bared, her disheveled hair floating about

that face which seems to have been touched by the hand of death?

Her hands clasped, her eyes downcast, she came on, with unsteady step,

and sank at her father's feet. She did not once raise her eyes, but

clasped his knees and buried her face on her bosom.

"Eleanor! Eleanor!" cried Bernard Lynn, "what does all this mean, my

child?" and he sought to raise her from the floor, but she resisted

him, and clutched his knees.

"It means that the honor of your daughter was saved once in Italy, by

Randolph Royalton,--she was grateful, and would have manifested her

gratitude by giving him her hand in marriage, but she could not do

that, for there was_--negro blood_ in his veins. So, as she could not

marry him, she showed her gratitude in the only way left her,--by the

gift of her person without marriage."

As in a tone of Satanic triumph, Randolph pronounced these words, a

silence like death fell upon the scene.

Bernard Lynn stood for a moment paralyzed; but Esther came forward with

flashing eyes,--"O, you miserable coward!" she cried, and with her

clenched hand struck her brother,--struck Randolph on the forehead.

And turning away from him in scorn, she raised Eleanor in her arms.

Ere he could recover from the surprise which this blow caused him,

Bernard Lynn reached forward, his hands clenched, his dark face purple

with rage.

"Wretch! for this you shall die,"--and crushed by the very violence of

his rage, his agony, he sank insensible at Randolph's feet.

"Our marriage ceremony is postponed for the present,--good evening,

sir!" said Randolph, turning to the preacher, who had witnessed this

scene in speechless astonishment. "Mr. Hicks, take care of my friend,

Lynn, here, and have him put to bed; and you, Esther, take care of

Eleanor: and as for myself,"--he turned his back upon them all, and

left the room,--"I think I will go and see my dear brother."

Up-stairs, with the tortures of the damned in his heart,--up-stairs,

with the infernal light in his eyes,--a moment's pause at the door of

his brother's room,--and then he flings it open and enters.

Harry Royalton, sitting up in bed, his back against the pillows, was

reading, by a lamp, which stood on a small table, by the bedside. He

was reading the parchment, addressed to his father, as one of the

seven. The light shone on his face, now changed from its usual robust

hue, to a sickly pallor, as with his large bulging eyes, fixed upon

the parchment, he quietly smoked a cigar, and by turns passed his

hands over his bushy whiskers and through his thick curling hair. Weak

from pain and loss of blood, he still enjoyed his cigar. There was a

pleasant complacency about his lips. To-morrow was the twenty-fifth of

December, and to-day--he had foiled all the plans of his slave brother.

Harry was satisfied with himself The smoke of the Havana floated round

him and among the curtains of the bed. It was, take it all in all, a

picture.

It was in this moment of quiet complacency, that Randolph appeared upon

the scene. Harry looked up,--he caught the glare of his eyes,--and at

once looked about him for a bowie-knife or pistol. But there were no

weapons near. With a cry for help, Harry sprang from the bed, clad as

he was, only in his shirt and drawers. He cried for help, but only

once, for ere he could utter a second cry, there was a hand upon his

throat.

"I'm not a brother now,--only a slave,--it was as a brother, last

night, I spared and saved you,--now I'm only a slave, a negro! But as a

slave and negro, I am choking you to death!"

Harry might as well have battled with a thunderbolt. Randolph, with the

madman's fire in his eyes, hears him to the floor, puts his knee upon

his breast, and tightens his clutch upon his throat. And as a gurgling

noise sounded in the throat of the poor wretch, Randolph bent his face

nearer to him, and (to use an all-expressive Scotch word) _glowered_

upon him with those madman's eyes.

"This time there must be no mistake, brother. The world is large enough

for many millions of people, but not large enough for us two. You must

go, Harry,--_master_! You are going! Go and tell your father and mine

how you treated the children of Herodia! Go!"

CHAPTER IV.

THE BRIDALS OF JOANNA AND BEVERLY.

It was the night of December the twenty-fifth, 1844.

The mansion of Eugene Livingstone was dark as a tomb. The shutters were

closed, and crape fluttered on the door.

Within,--in the range of parlors, where, last night, Eugene kissed

good-bye on the lips of his young and beautiful wife, ere he left for

Boston,--where, not an hour after, Beverly Barron came and folded the

young wife to his breast, ere he bore her from her home to a haunt of

shame,--within a single light is burning. One light alone, in the vast

mansion, from foundation to roof.

It is a wax candle, placed in the front parlor, on a marble table,

between a sofa and mirror, which reaches from the ceiling to the floor.

Joanna is sitting there alone, her golden hair neatly arranged about

her _blonde_ face; her noble form clad in a flowing robe of snowy

whiteness. She is very beautiful. True, her face is very pale, but her

lips are red and a flush burns on each cheek. True, beneath each eye

a faint blue circle may be traced, but the eyes themselves, blue as

a cloudless sky in June, shine with an intensity that almost changes

their hue into black in the soft, luxurious light. Joanna is very

beautiful,--a woman of commanding form and voluptuous bust,--the loose

robe which she wears, by its flowing folds, gives a new charm, a more

fascinating loveliness to every detail of her figure.

Holding the evening paper in her right hand, she beats the carpet

somewhat impatiently with her satin-slippered foot.

Her eye rests upon a paragraph in the evening paper:--

"AFFAIR IN HIGH LIFE.--There was a rumor about town, to-day, of an

affair of honor in high life--among the 'upper ten,'--the truth of

which, at the hour of going to press, we are not able, definitely,

to ascertain. The parties named are the elegant and distinguished

B----y B----n, and E----e L----ng----e, a well-known member of the old

aristocracy, in the upper region of the city. A domestic difficulty is

assigned as the cause; and one of the parties is stated to have been

severely, if not mortally, wounded. By to-morrow we hope to be able to

give the full particulars."

Joanna read this paragraph, and her glance dropped, and she remained

for a long time buried in deep thought.

"Will he come?" she said at length, as if thinking aloud.

The silence of the vast mansion was around her, but it did not seem to

fill her with awe. She remained sitting on the sofa, the evening paper

in her hand, and her face impressed with profound thought.

"Hark!" she ejaculated, as a faint noise was heard in the hall without.

She started, but did not rise from the sofa.

The door opened stealthily, with scarcely a perceptible sound, and a

man clad in a rough overcoat, with great white buttons, a cap drawn

over his brow, and a red neckerchief wound about the collar of his

coat, came silently into the room and approached Joanna.

"Who are you?" she cried, as if in alarm,--"Your business here?"

"Joanna, dearest Joanna," cried a familiar voice, "and has my disguise

deceived you? It deceived the police, but I did not think that it could

deceive you!"

The overcoat, cap and neckerchief were thrown aside, and in an instant

Beverly Barron was kneeling at Joanna's feet. His tall and not

ungraceful form clad in blue coat, with bright metal buttons, white

vest, black pantaloons, and patent leather boots, he wore a diamond

pin, and a heavy gold chain. His whole appearance was that of a

gentleman of leisure, dressed for the opera or a select evening party.

His face was flushed, his eyes sparkling, and the flaxen curls which

hung about his brow, emitted an odor of cologne or _patchouilli_.

"I had to come,--I could not stay away from you, dearest," he said,

looking up passionately into her face. "All day long, I have dodged

from place to place, determined to see you to-night or die."

She gave him her hand, and looking into the opposite mirror, saw that

she was very pale, but still exceedingly beautiful.

"To risk so much for--my sake," she said, and threaded his curls with

her delicate hand, and at the same time one of those smiles which set

the blood on fire, animated her lips, and disclosed her white teeth.

"You are beautiful as an angel, I vow," exclaimed Beverly, and then

glancing round the vast apartment,--"Are we all alone?" he asked.

"Yes, all alone," she replied, "the servants were discharged this

morning,--all, save my maid, and she has retired by my orders."

"No danger of any one calling?"

"None."

"You are sure, dearest?"

"No one will call. You are safe, and we are alone, Beverly!" again that

smile, and a sudden swell of the bosom.

"The body,--the body----"

"Is at my father, the general's,"--she replied to the question before

it passed his lips.

"Then, indeed, dearest, we are alone, and we can talk of our

future,--_our_ future. We must come to a decision, Joanna, and soon."

And half raising himself, as she lowered her head, he pressed his kiss

on her lips.

"O, I do so long to talk with you, Beverly," she murmured.

"To-morrow, dearest, I will be placed in possession of an immense

fortune. You have heard of the Van Huyden estate?"

She made a sign in the affirmative.

"I am the heir of one-seventh of that immense estate. All the obstacles

in the way of the seven heirs (as I was informed to-day) are removed.

To-morrow the estate will be divided; I will receive my portion without

scarcely the chance of disappointment; and next day----"

He paused; she bent down until he felt her breath on his face,--"Next

day?" she whispered.

"We will sail for Europe. A palace, in Florence, my love, or in Venice,

or some delightful nook of Sicily, where, apart from the world, in an

atmosphere like heaven, we can live for each other. What say you to

this, Joanna?"

"But you forget," she faltered, "the recent circumstance,----" her face

became flushed, and then deathly pale.

"Can you live under your father's eye after what has happened?" he

whispered.--"Think of it,--he will loathe the sight of you, and make

your life a hell!"

"He will indeed,"--and she dropped her head upon her proud bosom.

"And your brother,--does he not thirst for my blood?"

"Ah! does he?" she cried, with a look of alarm.

"And yet, Joanna, I was forced into it. I did all I could to avoid it.

I even apologized on the ground, and offered to make reparation."

"You offered to make reparation?" she cried, "that was, indeed, noble!"

and an indescribable smile lighted her features.

"Joanna, dear, I have suffered so much to-day, that I am really faint.

A glass of that old Tokay, if you please, my love."

She answered him with a smile, and rising from the sofa, passed

into the darkness of the second parlor, separated from the first by

folding-doors.

"A magnificent woman, by Jove!" soliloquized Beverly, as he remarked

her noble form.

After a few moments she appeared again, bearing a salver of solid

gold, on which was placed a decanter and goblet, both of Bohemian

glass,--rich scarlet in color, veined with flowers of purple, and blue,

and gold.

Never had she seemed more beautiful than when standing before him, she

presented the golden salver, with one of those smiles, which gave a

deeper red to her lips, a softer brightness to her eyes.

He filled the capacious goblet to the brim--for a moment regarded the

wine through the delicate fabric, with its flowers of blue, and purple,

and gold,--and then drained it at a draught.

"Ah!"--he smacked his lips,--"that is delicious!"

"Eugene's father imported it some twenty years ago," said Joanna,

placing the salver on the table. "Come, Beverly, I want to talk with

you."

Following the bewitching gesture which she made with her half-lifted

hand, Beverly rose, and gently wound his arm about her waist.

"Come, let us walk slowly up and down these rooms, now in light and now

in darkness, and as we walk we can talk freely to each other."

And they walked, side by side, over the carpet, through that splendid

_suite_ of rooms, where gorgeous furniture, pictures, statues, all

spoke of luxury and wealth. Hand joined in hand, his arm about her

waist, her head drooping to his shoulder, and her bosom throbbing near

and nearer to his breast, they glided along; now coming near the light

in the front room, and now passing into the shadows which invested the

other rooms. It was a delightful, nay, an intoxicating _tête-à-tête_.

"I was thinking, this evening," she said, as they passed from the

light, "of the history of our love."

"Ah, dearest!"

"It seems an age since we first met, and yet it's only a year."

"Only a year!" echoed Beverly, as they paused in a nook where a

delicious twilight prevailed.

"Eugene presented you to me a year ago, as his dearest friend,--his

most tried and trusted friend. Do you remember, Beverly?"

He drew her gently to him,--there was a kiss and an embrace.

"You discovered his infidelity. You brought me the letters written

to him by the person in Boston, for whom he proved unfaithful to me.

You brought them from time to time, and it was your sympathy with my

wounded pride,--my trampled affection,--which consoled me and kept me

alive. It was, Beverly."

"O, you say so, dearest," and as they came into light again, he felt

her breast throbbing nearer to his own.

For a moment they paused by the table, whereon the wax candle was

burning, its flame reflected in the lofty mirror. Her face half-averted

from the light, as her head drooped on his shoulder, she was

exceedingly beautiful.