"Beverly," she whispered, and placed her arm gently about his

neck,--the touch thrilled him to the heart,--"you knew me, young,

confiding, ignorant of the world. You took pity on my unsuspecting

ignorance, and day by day, yes hour by hour, in these very rooms, you

led me on, to see the full measure of my husband's guilt, and at the

same time led me to believe in you, and love you."

She paused, and passed her hand gently among his flaxen curls.

"Ah, love, you are as good as you are beautiful!" he whispered.

"Before you spoke thus, I had no thought save of my duty to Eugene."

"Eugene, who betrayed you!"

"Yes, to Eugene, who betrayed me, and to my child. After you spoke,

I saw life in a new light. The world did not seem to me, any longer,

to be the scene of dull quiet home-like duty, but of pleasure,--mad,

passionate pleasure,--may be, illicit pleasure, purchased at any cost.

And letter after letter which you brought me, accompanied by proof

which I could not doubt, only served to complete the work,--to wean

me from my idol,--false, false idol, Eugene,--and to teach me that

this world was not so much made for dull every-day duty, as for those

pleasures which, scorning the laws of the common herd, develop into

active life every throb of enjoyment of which we are capable."

"Yes, yes, love," interrupted Beverly, pressing his lips to hers.

"And thus matters wore on, until you brought me the last, the damning

letter. He was going to Boston to see his dying brother,--so he

pretended,--but in reality to see the woman for whom he had proved

faithless to me. When you brought me this letter I was mad,--mad,--O,

Beverly----"

"It was enough to drive you mad!"

"And yesterday, impelled by some vague idea of revenge, I consented to

go with you to a place, where, as you said, we would see something of

the world,--where, in the excitement of a masked ball, I might forget

my husband's faithlessness, and at the same time show that I did not

care for his authority. Some idea of this kind was in my mind, and

last night when he kissed me, and so coolly lied to me, before his

departure, O, then Beverly, then, I was cut to the quick. You came

after he had gone, and,--and--I went with you--"

"You did dearest Joanna," said Beverly, pressing her closer to his side.

They passed from the light into the shadows together.

"And there, you know what happened there," she said, as they stood

in the darkness. She clung nearer and nearer to him. "But you know,

Beverly, you know, that it was not until my senses were maddened by

wine," her voice grew low and lower,--"that I gave my person to you."

In the darkness she laid her head upon his breast, and put her arms

about his neck, her bosom all the while throbbing madly against his

chest.

"O, you know, that in the noble letters, which you wrote to me from

time to time--letters breathing a pure spiritual atmosphere,--you spoke

of your love for me as something far above all common loves, refined

and purified, and separate from all thought of physical impurity. And

yet,--and yet,--last night when half crazed by jealousy, I went with

you to the place which you named, you took the moment, when my senses

were completely delirious with wine, to treat me as though I had been

your wife, as though you had been the father of my child."

She sobbed aloud, and would have fallen to the floor had he not held

her in his arms.

"O, Joanna, you vex yourself without cause," he said, soothingly,--"I

love you,--you know I love you--"

"O, but would it not be a dreadful thing, if you had been deceived in

regard to these letters!"

"Deceived?"

"Suppose, for instance, some one had forged them, and imposed them upon

you as veritable letters--"

"Forged? This is folly my love."

"In that case, you and I would be guilty, O, guilty beyond power of

redemption, and Eugene would be an infamously murdered man."

"Dismiss these gloomy thoughts. The letters were true--"

"O, you are certain,--certain--"

"I swear it,--swear it by all I hold dear on earth or hope hereafter."

"O, do not swear, Beverly. Who could doubt _you_?"

They passed toward the light again. She wiped the tears from her

eyes--those eyes which shone all the brighter for the tears.

"And the day after to-morrow," said Beverly, as he rested his hand upon

her shoulder,--"we will leave for Italy--"

"You have been in Italy?" asked Joanna.

"O, yes dearest, and Italy is only another name for Eden," he replied,

growing warm, even eloquent--"there far removed from a cold, a

heartless world, we will live, we will die together!"

"Would it not," she said, in a low whisper, as with her hand on

his shoulders and her bosom beating against his own, she looked up

earnestly into his face, "O, would it not be well, could we but die

at this moment,--now, when our love is in its youngest and purest

bloom,--die here on this cold earth, only to live again, and live with

each other in a happier world?"

And in her emotion, she wound her aims convulsively about his neck and

buried her face upon his breast.

"Dismiss these gloomy thoughts,"--he kissed her forehead--"there are

many happy hours before us in this world, Joanna. Think not of death--"

"O, do you know, Beverly," she raised her face,--it was radiant with

loveliness--"that I love to think of death. Death, you know, is such a

test of sincerity. Before it falsehood falls dumb and hypocrisy drops

its mask--"

"Nay, nay you must dismiss these gloomy thoughts. You know I love

you--you know--"

He did not complete the sentence, but they passed into the darkness

again, his arms about her waist, her head upon his shoulder.

And there, in the gloom, he pressed her to his breast, and as she clung

to his neck, whispered certain words, which died in murmurs on her ear.

"No, no, Beverly," she answered, in a voice, broken by emotion, "it

cannot be. Consider--"

"Cannot be? And am I not all to you?" he said, impassionately,--"Yes,

Joanna, it must be--"

There was a pause, only broken by low murmurs, and passionate kisses.

"Come then," she said, at last, "come, _husband_--"

Without another word, she took him by the hand, and led him from the

room out into the darkened hall. Her hand trembled very much, as she

led him through the darkness up the broad stairway. Then a door was

opened and together they entered the bed-chamber.

It is the same as it was last night. Only instead of a taper a wax

candle burns brightly before a mirror. The curtains still fall like

snow-flakes along the lofty windows, the alabaster vase is still filled

with flowers,--they are withered now,--and from the half-shadowed

alcove, gleams the white bed, with curtains enfolding it in a snowy

canopy.

Trembling, but beautiful beyond the power of words,--beautiful in the

flush of her cheeks, the depth of her gaze, the passion of her parted

lips,--beautiful in every motion of that bosom which heaved madly

against the folds which only half-concealed it,--trembling, she led him

toward the bed.

"My marriage bed," she whispered, and laid her hand upon the closed

curtains.

Beverly was completely carried away by the sight of her passionate

loveliness--"Once your marriage bed with a false husband," he said, and

laid his hand also upon the closed curtains, "now your marriage bed

with a true husband, who will love you until death--"

And he drew aside the curtains.

Drew aside the curtains, folding Joanna passionately to his breast,

and,--fell back with a cry of horror. Fell back, all color gone from

his face, his features distorted, his paralyzed hands extended above

his head.

Joanna did not seem to share his terror for she burst into a fit of

laughter.

"Our marriage bed, love," she said, "why are you so cold?" and again

she laughed.

But Beverly could not move nor speak. His eyes were riveted to the bed.

Within the snowy curtains, was stretched a corpse, attired in the

white garment of the grave. Through the parted curtains, the light

shone fully on its livid face, while the body was enveloped in half

shadow,--shone fully on the white forehead with its jet-black hair,

upon the closed lids, and--upon the dark wound between the eyes. The

agony of the last spasm was still upon that face, although the hands

were folded tranquilly on the breast. Eugene Livingstone was sleeping

upon his marriage bed,--sleeping, undisturbed by dreams.

Joanna stood there, holding the curtain with her uplifted hand, her

eyes bright, her face flushed with unnatural excitement. Again she

laughed loud and long--the echoes of her laughter sounded strangely in

that marriage chamber.

"What,--what does this mean?" cried Beverly, at last finding words--"is

this a dream----a----" He certainly was in a fearful fright, for he

could not proceed.

"Why, so cold, love?" she said, smiling, "it is our marriage bed, you

know--"

"Joanna, Joanna," he cried,--"are you mad?" and in his fright, he

looked anxiously toward the door.

She took a package from her breast and flung it at his feet.

"Go," she cried, "but first take up your _forged_ letters--"

"Forged letters?" he echoed.

"Forged letters," she answered,--her voice was changed,--her manner

changed,--there was no longer any passion on her face,--pale as marble,

her face rigid as death, she confronted him with a gaze that he dared

not meet. "Go!" she cried, "but take with you your forged letters. Yes,

the letters which you forged, and which you used as the means of my

ruin. You have robbed me of my honor, robbed me of my husband,--your

work is complete--go!"

Her face was white as the dress which she wore,--she pointed to the

threshold.

"Joanna, Joanna," faltered Beverly.

"Not a word, not a word, villain, villain without remorse or shame! I

am guilty, and might excuse myself by pleading your treachery. But

I make no excuse. But for you,--for you,--where is the excuse? You

have dishonored the wife,--made the child fatherless,--your work is

complete! Go!"

Beverly saw that all his schemes had been unraveled; conscious of his

guilt, and conscious that everything was at an end between him and

Joanna, he made a desperate attempt to rally his usual self-possession;

or, perhaps, impudence would be the better word.

He moved to the door, and placed his hand upon the lock.

"Well, madam, as you will," he said, and bowed. "Under the

circumstances, I can only wish you a very good evening."

He opened the door.

"Hold!" she cried in a voice that made him start.--"Your work is

complete, but so, also, is mine--"

She paused; her look excited in him a strange curiosity for the

completion of the sentence. "You will not long enjoy your triumph. You

have not an hour to live. The wine which you drank was poisoned."

Beverly's heart died in him at these words. A strange fever in his

veins, a strange throbbing at the temples, which he had felt for an

hour past, and which he had attributed to the excitement resulting from

the events of the day, he now felt again, and with redoubled force.

"No,--no,--it is not so," he faltered.--"Woman, you are mad,--you had

not the heart to do it."

"Had not the heart?" again she burst into a loud laugh,--"O, no, I was

but jesting. Look here,"--she darted to the bed, flung the curtain

aside, and disclosed the lifeless form of her husband,--"and here!"

gliding to another part of the room, she gently drew a cradle into

light, and throwing its silken covering aside, disclosed the face of

her sleeping child,--that cherub boy, who, as on the night previous,

slept with his rosy cheek on his bent arm, and the ringlets of his

auburn hair tangled about his forehead, white as alabaster. "And now

look upon me!" she dilated before him like a beautiful fiend; "we are

all before you,--the dead husband, the dishonored wife, the fatherless

child,--and yet I had not the heart,"--she laughed again.

Beverly heard no more. Uttering a blasphemous oath, he rushed from the

room.

And the babe, awakened by the sound of voices, opened its clear,

innocent eyes, and reached forth its baby hands toward its mother.

Urged forward by an impulse like madness, Beverly entered the rooms on

the first floor, seized the rough overcoat and threw it on, passing the

red neckerchief around its collar, to conceal his face. Then drawing

the cap over his eyes, he hurried from the house.

"It's all nonsense," he muttered, and descended the steps.--"I'll walk

it off."

Walk it off! And yet the fever burned the more fiercely, his temples

throbbed more madly, as he said the words. Leaving behind him the

closed mansion of Eugene Livingstone, with the crape fluttering on the

door, he bent his steps toward Broadway.

"I'm nervous," he muttered.--"The words of that dev'lish hysterical

woman have unsettled me. How cold it is!" He felt cold as ice for a

moment, and the next instant his veins seemed filled with molten fire.

He hurried along the dark street toward Broadway. The distant lights at

the end of the street, where it joined Broadway, seemed to dance and

whirl as he gazed upon them; and his senses began to be bewildered.

"I've drank too much," he muttered.--"If I can only reach Broadway, and

get to my hotel, all will be right."

But when he reached Broadway, it whirled before him like a great sea

of human faces, carriages, houses and flame, all madly confused, and

rolling through and over each other.

The crowd gave way before him, as he staggered along.

"He's drunk," cried one.

"Pitch into me that way ag'in, old feller, and I'll hit you," cried

another.

It was Christmas Eve, and Broadway was alive with light and motion; the

streets thronged with vehicles, and the sidewalks almost blocked up

with men, and women, and children; the lamps lighted, and the shops and

places of amusement illuminated, as if to welcome some great conqueror.

But Beverly was unconscious of the external scene. His fashionable

dress, concealed by his rough overcoat, and his face hidden by his cap

and red neckerchief, he staggered along, with his head down and his

hands swaying from side to side. There was a roaring as of waves or of

devouring flame in his ears. A red haze was before his eyes; and the

scenes of his whole life came up to him at once, even as a drowning

man sees all his life, in a focus, before the last struggle,--there

were the persons he had known, the adventures he had experienced, the

events of his boyhood, and the triumphs and shames of his libertine

manhood,--all these came up to him, and confronted him as he hurried

along. Three faces were always before him,--the dead face of Eugene,

the pale visage of Joanna, her eyes flaming with vengeance, and,--the

innocent countenance of his motherless daughter.

And thus he hurried along.

"Old fellow, the stars'll be arter you," cried one in the crowd,

through which he staggered on.

"My eyes! ain't he drunk?"

"Don't he pay as much attention to one side o' the pavement as the

tother?"

"Did you ever see sich worm fence as he lays out?"

There was something grotesquely horrible in the contrast between his

real condition, and the view which the crowd took of it.

At length, not knowing whither he went, he turned from the glare and

noise of Broadway into a by-street, and hurried onward,--onward,

through the gloom, until he fell.

In a dark corner of the street, behind the Tombs, close to the stones

of that gloomy pile, he fell, and lay there all night long, with no

hand to aid him, no eye to pity him.

He was found, on Christmas morning, stiff and cold; his head resting

against the wall of the Tombs, his body covered with new-fallen snow. A

pile of bricks lay on one side of him, a heap of boards on the other.

This was the death-couch of the dashing Beverly Barron!

How he died, no one could tell; it was supposed that he had poisoned

himself from remorse at the death of Eugene Livingstone.

* * * * *

As Beverly hurried from the room, the babe in the cradle opened its

clear, innocent eyes, and reached forth its baby hands toward its

mother.

She took it, and stilled it to rest upon her bosom: and then came to

the bed and sat down upon it, near her dead husband.

"Eugene, Eugene!" she gently put her hand upon his cold forehead,--"let

me talk to you,--I will not wake you,--let me talk to you, as you

sleep. I am guilty, Eugene, you know I am,--you cannot forgive me,--I

do not ask forgiveness; but you'll let me be near you, Eugene? You

will not spurn me from you? This is our child, Eugene,--don't you

know him?--O, look up and speak to him. Don't,--don't be angry with

him,--his mother is a poor, fallen fallen thing, but don't be angry

with our child!"

She did not weep. Her eyes, large and full of light, were fixed upon

her husband's face. Cradling her babe upon her bosom, she sat there all

night long, talking to Eugene, in a low, whispering voice, as though

she wished him to hear her, and yet was afraid to awake him from a

pleasant slumber. The light went out, but still she did not move. She

was there at morning light, her baby sleeping on her breast, and her

hand laid upon her dead husband's forehead.

And at early morning light, her father came,--the gray-haired man,--his

face frowning, and his heart full of wrath against his daughter.

"What do you here?" he said, sternly. "This is no place for you. There

is to be an inquest soon. You surely do not wish to look upon the ruin

you have wrought?"

As though she was conscious of his presence, but had not heard his

words, she turned her face over her shoulder,--that colorless face,

lighted by eyes that still burned with undimmed luster,--and said,--

"Do you know, father. I have been talking with Eugene, and he has

forgiven me!"

The voice, the look melted the old man's heart.

He fell upon the bed, and wept.

CHAPTER V.

AN EPISODE.

Here, my friend, let us take a breathing spell in this, our dark

history. Horrors crowd fast and thick upon us,--horrors, not born of

romance, but of that under-current of real life, which rolls on

evermore, beneath the glare and uproar of the Empire City. We do not

wish to write them down,--shudder sometimes and drop the pen as we

describe them,--and ask ourselves, "Can these things really be? Is

not the world all song and sunshine? Does that gilded mask which we

call by the name of Civilization,--the civilization of the nineteenth

century,--only hide the features of a corpse?" And the answer to these

queries comes to us in the columns of every daily paper; in the record

of every day's farces and crimes; in the _unwritten_ history of those

masses, who, while we write, are slowly serving their apprenticeship

of hardship and starvation, in order that at last they may inherit

a--grave.

Ah, it is the task of the author who writes a book, traversing a field

so vast as is attempted in the present work, not to exaggerate, but to

soften, the perpetual tragedies of every day. He dares not tell all

the truth; he can only vaguely hint at those enormous evils which are

the inevitable result,--not of totally depraved human nature, for such

a thing never existed,--but of a social system, which, false alike to

God and man, does perpetually _tempt_ one portion of the human race

with immense wealth, as it _tempts_ another portion with immeasurable

poverty.

But let us leave these dark scenes for a little while. Let us breathe

where crime does not poison the air. It is June, and the trees are

in full leaf, and through canopies of green leaves, the brooks are

singing their summer song. Come out with me into the open country,

where every fleeting cloud that turns its white bosom to the sun, as it

skims along the blue, shall remind us, not of crime and blood, but of

thankfulness to God, that summer is on the land, and that we are alive.

Come,--without object, save to drink at some wayside spring,--without

hope, other than to lose ourselves among the summer boughs,--let us

take a stroll together.

Out in the country, near a dusty turnpike, and a straight, hot railroad

track,--but we'll leave the turnpike, which is well scattered with

young gentlemen in high shirt-collars, who drink clouds of dust, and

drive hired horses to death,--and we'll leave the railroad where the

steam engine, like a tired devil, comes blowing and swearing, with red

coals in its mouth, and a cloud of brimstone smoke about its head.

We'll climb the rails of yonder gray old fence, and get us straightway

into the fields; not much have we to show you there. A narrow path

winds among tangled bushes and clumps of dwarfed cedar trees; it shows

us, here a grassy nook, hidden in shade, and there a rough old rock,

projecting its bald head in the sun; and then it goes winding down and

down, until you hear the singing of the brook. Where that brook comes

from, you cannot tell; yonder it is hidden under a world of leaves;

here it sinks from view under a bridge curiously made up of stone, and

timber, and sod; a little to your right it comes into light, dashing

over cool rocks and forming little lakes all over beds of smooth gray

sand. Follow the path and cross the bridge; we stand in the shade

of trees, that are scattered at irregular intervals, along the side

of a hill. Here a willow near the brook, with rank grass about its

trunks; there a poplar with a trunk like a Grecian column, and leaves

like a canopy; and farther on, a mass of oaks, chesnuts, and maples,

grouped together, their boughs mingling, and a thicket of bushes and

vines around their trunks. So you see, we stand at the bottom of an

amphitheater, one side of which is forest, the other low brushwood;

beyond the brushwood, a distant glimpse of another forest, and in the

center of the scene, the hidden brooklet singing its June-day song.

You look above, and the blue sky is set in an irregular frame of

leaves,--leaves now shadowed by a cloud, and now dancing in the sun.

Let us stretch ourselves upon this level bit of sod, where all is shade

and quiet, and----

Think? No, sir. Do not think that there is such a creature as a bad

man, or a crime in the world. But drink the summer air,--drink the

freshness of foliage and flowers,--lull yourself with the song of the

brook,--look at the blue sky, and feel that there is a God, and that he

is good.

You may depend you will feel better after it. If you don't, why, it is

clear that your mind is upon bank stock, or politics,--and there's not

much hope of you.

Thus, stretched in the shade, at the bottom of this leafy amphitheater,

you'll wrap yourself in summer, and forget the world, which, beyond

that wall of trees, is still at its old work,--swearing, lying,

fretting, loving, hating, and rushing on all the while at steam-engine

speed.

You won't care who's President, or who robbed the treasury of half

a million dollars. You'll forget that there is a Pope who washed

his hands in the blood of brave men and heroic women. You'll not be

anxious about the rate of stock; whether money is tight or easy, shall

not trouble you one jot. Thus resting quietly at the bottom of your

amphitheater in the country, you'll feel that you are in the church of

God, which has sky for roof, leaves for walls, grassy sod for floor,

and for music,--hark! Did you ever hear organ or orchestra that could

match _that_? The hum of bees, the bubble of brooks, the air rustling

among the leaves, all woven together, in one dreamy hymn, that melts

into your soul, and takes you up to heaven, quick as a sunbeam flies!

And when the sun goes behind the trees, and the dell is filled with

broad gleams of golden light and deep masses of shade, you may watch

the moon as she steals into sight, right over your head, in the very

center of the glimpse of blue sky. You may hear the low murmur which

tells you that the day's work is almost done, and that the solemn night

has come to wrap you in her stillness.

And ere you leave the dell, just give one moment of thought to those

you love, whose eyes are shut by the graveyard sod,--think of them,

not as dead, but as living and beautiful among those stars,--and then

taking the path over the brook, turn your steps to the world again.

Hark! Here it comes on the steam-engine's roar and whistle,--that

bustling, hating, fighting world, which, like the steam-engine, rushes

onward, with hot coals at its heart, and a brimstone cloud above it.

PART SEVENTH.

THE DAY OF TWENTY-ONE YEARS.

DECEMBER 25, 1844.

CHAPTER I.

MARTIN FULMER APPEARS.

The time was very near. The cycle of twenty-one years was in its last

hour. It was the last hour of December twenty-fourth, 1844. That hour

passed, the twenty-one years would be complete.

Darkness and storm were upon the Empire City. The snow fell fast, and

the wind, howling over the river and the roofs, made mournful music

among the arches of unfinished Trinity Church. In the gloom, amid the

falling snow, four persons stood around the family vault of the Van

Huydens. Even had the storm and darkness failed to cover them from

observation, they would have been defended from all prying eyes, by the

crape masks which they wore. The marble slab bearing the name of "VAN

HUYDEN," was thrust aside, and from the gloom of the vault beneath,

the coffin was slowly raised into view; the coffin which was inscribed

with the name of Gulian Van Huyden, and with the all-significant dates,

December 25th, 1823, and December 25th, 1844.

* * * * *

Meanwhile, even as the blast howls along the deserted street, let

us enter the mansion of Ezekiel Bogart, which, as you are aware,

stands, with its old time exterior, alone and desolate, amid the huge

structures devoted to traffic.

In the first of the seven vaults,--square in form, and lined with

shelves from the ceiling to the floor,--Ezekiel Bogart sits alone. The

hanging lamp diffuses its mild beams around the silent place. Ezekiel

is seated in the arm-chair, by the table, his form enveloped in the

wrapper or robe of dark cloth lined with scarlet. The dark skull-cap

covers the crown of his head; his eyes are hidden by huge green

glasses, and the large white cravat envelopes his throat and the lower

part of his face. Leaning forward, his elbow on the table, and his

cheek upon his hand, which, veined and sinewy, is white as the hand of

a corpse, Ezekiel Bogart is absorbed in thought.

"I have not seen Gaspar Manuel since last night;" he utters his

thoughts aloud. "This, indeed, is singular! The hour of the final

settlement is near, and something definite must be known in regard to

the lands in California, near the mission of San Luis. What can have

prevented him from seeing me the second time? Can he have met with an

accident?"

He rang the bell which lay near his hand; presently, in answer to the

sound, the aged servant appeared; the same who admitted Gaspar Manuel

last night, and whose spare form is clad in gray livery, faced with

black.

"Michael, you remember the foreign gentleman, Gaspar Manuel, who was

here last night?"

"That very pale man, with long hair, and such dark eyes? Yes, sir."

"You are sure that he has not called here to-day?"

"Sure, sir. I have not laid eyes upon him since last night."

"It is strange!" continued Ezekiel Bogart,--"You have attended to all

my directions, Michael?"

"The banquet-room is prepared as you ordered it, and all your other

commands have been carefully obeyed," answered Michael.

"This will be a busy night for you, Michael. From this hour until four

in the morning, yes, until daybreak, you will wait in the reception

room below, and admit into the house the persons whose names you will

find on this card."

Michael advanced and took the card from the hand of his master.

"These persons,--these only,--mark me, Michael," continued Ezekiel,

in a tone of significant emphasis. "And as they arrive, show them

up-stairs, into the small apartment, next the banquet-room. Tell each

one, as he arrives, that I will see him at four o'clock."

Michael bowed, and said, "Just as you direct, I will do."

"One of the persons, however, John Hoffman, otherwise called

Ninety-One, I wish to see as soon as he arrives. Bring him to this room

at once. You remember him, a stout, muscular man, with a scarred face?"

"I do. He was here with you a few hours since."

"There is another of the persons named on that card, whom you will

bring to this room at once; Gaspar Manuel, who was here last night.

Remember, Michael."

Michael bowed in token of assent, and was about to leave the room, when

Ezekiel called him back,

"About midnight, four persons, having charge of a box, will come to the

door and ask for me. Take charge of the box, Michael, and dismiss them.

Have the box carried up into the banquet-room. You can now retire,

Michael. I know that you will attend faithfully to all that I have

given you to do."

"You may rely upon me, sir," said the tried servant, and retired from

the room.

And, once more alone, Ezekiel rested his cheek on his hand, and again

surrendered himself to thought.

"The child of Gulian _must_ be found; Ninety-One cannot fail. If he

is not found before four o'clock, all is lost--all is lost! Yes, if

that child does not appear, this estate,--awful to contemplate in its

enormous wealth,--will pass from his grasp, and the labor of twenty-one

years will have been spent for nothing. The estate will pass into the

hands of the seven, not one of whom will use his share for anything but

the gratification of his appetites or the oppression of his kind."

The old man rose, the light shone over his tall figure, bent by age,

as, placing his hands behind his back, he paced to and fro along the

floor. He was deeply troubled. An anxiety, heavier than death, weighed

down his soul.

"The seven,--look at them! Dermoyne is a poor shoemaker. This wealth

will intoxicate and corrupt him. Barnhurst, a clerical voluptuary,--he

will use his share to gratify his monomania. Yorke, a swindler, who

grows rich upon fraud,--his share will enable him to plunge hundreds

of the wealthiest into utter ruin, and convulse, to its center, the

whole world of commerce and of industry. Barron,--a fashionable

sensualist,--he will surround himself with a harem. Godlike, a

Borgia,--an intellectual demon,--his share will create a world of

crimes. Harry Royalton, a sensualist, though of a different stamp from

the others, will expend his in the wine-cup and at the gambling-table.

There are six of the seven,--truly a worthy company to share the

largest private estate in the world! As for the seventh, he has gone to

his account."

Thus meditating, Ezekiel Bogart, slowly paced the floor. He paused

suddenly, for a thought full of consequences, the most vital, flashed

over his soul.

"What if Martin Fulmer should refuse to divide the estate? Alas! alas!

his oath,"--he pressed his hand against his forehead,--"his oath made

to Gulian Van Huyden, in his last hour, will crush the very thought of

such a refusal. The Will must be obeyed; yes, strictly, faithfully, to

the letter, in its most minute details."

Once more resuming his walk, he continued,--

"But the child will be discovered,--the child will be here at the

appointed hour."

He spoke these words in a tone of profound conviction.

"I trust in Providence; and Providence will not permit this immense

wealth to pass into the hands of those who will abuse it, and make of

it the colossal engine of human misery."

After a moment of silent thought, he continued,--

"No,--no,--this wealth cannot pass into the hands of the seven! When

Gulian, in his last hour, intrusted it to Martin Fulmer, bequeathing

it, after the lapse of twenty-one years, to seven persons, in different

parts of the union, he doubtless thought that chance, to say nothing of

Providence, would find among the number at least four with good hearts

and large mental vision. He did not think,--he did not dream, that at

least five out of the seven would prove totally unworthy of his hopes,

altogether unfit to possess and wield such an incredible wealth. And,

believing in Providence, I cannot think, for a moment, that He will

permit this engine of such awful power to pass into hands that will use

it to the ruin and the degradation of the human race. The child will

appear, and God will bless that child."

A sound pealed clear and distinct throughout the mansion. It was

the old clock in the hall, striking the hour. Ezekiel stood as if

spell-bound, while the sounds rolled in sad echoes through the mansion.

It struck the hour of twelve. The cycle of twenty-one years was

complete.

The old man sank on his knees, and burying his face in his hands, sent

up his soul, in a voiceless prayer.

"Come what will, this matter must be left to the hands of Providence,"

he said, in a low voice, as he rose. "If the child does not appear at

four o'clock, Martin Fulmer has no other course, than to divide this

untold wealth among such of the seven as are present. Before morning

light his trust expires. But,--but,--" and he pressed his clenched

hands nervously together,--"the child _will_ appear."

Taking up a silver candlestick, he lighted the wax candle which it

held, and went, in silence, through the seven vaults, (described in a

previous chapter) which contained the title-deeds, a portion of the

specie, and the secret police records of the Van Huyden estate.

As he passed from silent vault to silent vault, not a word escaped his

lips.

He was thinking of the incredible wealth, whose evidences were all

around him,--of the awful power which that wealth would confer upon

its possessors,--of Nameless, or Carl Raphael, the son of Gulian Van

Huyden,--of the appointed hour, now close at hand.

"What if Martin Fulmer should burn every title-deed and record

here,"--he held the light above his head, as he surveyed the

vault,--"thus leaving the estate in the hands of the ten thousand

tenants who now occupy its houses and lands? These parchments once

destroyed, every tenant would be the virtual owner of the house or lot

of land which he now occupies. This would create, in fact, ten thousand

_proprietors_,--perhaps twenty thousand,--instead of seven heirs."

It was a great thought,--a thought which, carried into action, would

have baptized ten thousand hearts with peace, and filled thrice ten

thousand hearts with joy unspeakable. But----

"It cannot be. Martin Fulmer must keep his oath. The rest is for

Providence."

He returned to the first room, or vault, and from a drawer of the

table, drew forth a bundle of keys.

"I will visit _those rooms_," he said, "and in the meantime Ninety-One

will arrive with Carl Raphael."

Light in hand, he left the room, and passed along a lofty corridor with

panneled walls. As the light shone over his tall figure, bent with age,

and enveloped in a dark robe lined with scarlet, you might have thought

him the magician of some old time story, on his way to the cell of

his most sacred vigils, had it not been for his skull-cap, huge green

glasses, and enormous white cravat; these imparted something grotesque

to his appearance, and effectually concealed his features, and the

varying expressions of his countenance.

He placed a key in the lock of a door. It was the door of a chamber

which no living being had entered for twenty-one years. Ezekiel seemed

to hesitate ere he crossed the threshold. At length, turning the key in

the lock,--it grated harshly,--he pushed open the door,--he crossed the

threshold.

A sad and desolate place! Once elegant, luxurious; the very abode of

voluptuous wealth, it was now sadder than a tomb. The atmosphere was

heavy with the breath of years. The candle burned but dimly as it

encountered that atmosphere, which, for twenty-one years, had not known

a single ray of sunlight, a single breath of fresh air. A grand old

place with lofty walls, concealed by tapestry,--three windows looking

to the street (they had not been opened for twenty-one years) adorned

with curtains of embroidered lace, a bureau surmounted by an oval

mirror, chairs of dark mahogany, a carpet soft as down, and a couch

enshrined in an alcove, with silken curtains and coverlet and pillow,

yet bearing the impress of a human form. A grand old place, but there

was dust everywhere; everywhere dust, the breath of years, the wear and

tear of time. You could not see your face in the mirror; the cobwebs

covered it like a vail. You left the print of your footsteps upon the

downy carpet. The purple tapestry, was purple no longer; it was black

with dust, and the moth had eaten it into rags. The once snow-white

curtains of the windows, were changed to dingy gray, and the canopy of

the couch, looked anything but pure and spotless, as the light fell

over its folds.

Did Ezekiel Bogart hesitate and tremble as he approached that couch?

He held the light above his head,--and looked within the couch. Silken

coverlet and downy pillow, covered with dust, and bearing still the

impress of the form which had died there twenty-one years ago.

"Alice Van Huyden!" ejaculated Ezekiel Bogart, as though the dead one

was present, listening to his every word,--"Here, twenty-one years ago,

you gave birth to your son, and,--died. Yes, here you gave life to that

son,--Carl Raphael Van Huyden I must call him,--who, once condemned

to death,--then buried beside you in the family vault,--then for two

years the tenant of a mad-house, will at four o'clock, appear and take

possession of his own name, and of the estate of his father!"

Turning from the bed, Ezekiel approached the bureau. The mirror was

thick with dust, and in front of it stood an alabaster candlestick--the

image of a dancing nymph,--now alas! looking more like ebony than

alabaster. It held a half-burned waxen candle.

"That candle, when lighted last, shone over the death agonies of Alice

Van Huyden."

Up and down that place, whose very air breathed heart-rending memories,

the old man walked, his head sinking low and lower on his breast at

every step.

He paused at length before a portrait, covered with dust. Standing on

a chair, Ezekiel with the purple tapestry, brushed the dust away from

the canvas and the walnut frame. The portrait came out into light,

so fresh, so vivid, so life-like, that Ezekiel stepped hastily from

the chair as though the apparition of one long dead, had suddenly

confronted him.

It was a portrait of a manly face, shaded by masses of brown hair.

There was all the hope of young manhood, in the dark eyes, on the

cheeks rounded with health, and upon the warm lips full of life and

love. A fresh countenance; one that you would have taken at sight for

the countenance of a man of true nobility of heart and soul. It was the

portrait of Gulian Van Huyden at twenty-one.

For a long time Ezekiel Bogart lingered silently in front of the

portrait.

At last he left the chamber, locked the door,--first pausing to look

over his shoulder toward the bed upon which Alice Van Huyden died,--and

then slowly ascended to the upper rooms of the old mansion.

* * * * *

He came into a small chamber panneled with oak; an oaken pillar,

crowned with carved flowers, and satyr faces in every corner; and a

death's head grinning from the center of the oaken ceiling. Once the

floor, the walls, the ceiling and the pillars, had shone like polished

steel, but now they were black with dust.

Holding the light above his skull-cap, Ezekiel silently surveyed the

scene.

Two tressels stood in the center of the floor. These were the only

objects to break the monotony of the dust-covered floor and walls.

Upon these tressels, twenty-one years before, had been placed a coffin,

inscribed with the name of Gulian Van Huyden, and the dates,--December

25th, 1823, and December, 25th, 1844.

Opposite these tressels, a panel had recently been removed, disclosing

a cavity or recess in the wall. In the recess the iron chest had been

buried twenty-one years before. It was vacant now,--the iron chest was

gone.

As the light shone around this place, whose every detail was linked

with the past, the breast of Ezekiel Bogart heaved with emotion, but no

word passed his lips. He lingered there a long time.

Through the confined doorway, he passed into the garret nook, whose

roof was formed by the slope of the heavy rafters, which now were

hung with cobwebs, while a small window, with heavy frame and narrow

panes, shook to the impulse of the winter wind. A mahogany desk and an

old-fashioned arm-chair, stand between the door and the window.

"Here Gulian and Martin Fulmer held their last interview," soliloquized

Ezekiel, as he stood alone in the dreary garret,--"there stood Gulian,

there knelt Martin, as he took the oath. Fifteen minutes afterward,

Gulian was a corpse, and Martin was loaded with the awful trust, which

he has borne alone for twenty-one years."

He approached the window. All was dark without. Sleet and snow beat

against the window-pane. The wind howled dismally over the roof; the

storm was abroad over the city and the bay.

"From this window he saw Manhattan Bay, and the spire of old Trinity.

Yes, from this window, he pointed out to Martin Fulmer, the windows

of the Banquet-room, in the western wing of the mansion, as they

shone with the glad light of the Christmas Festival. It is Christmas

again,--once more the windows of the banquet-room are lighted,--yes,

I can see the lights glimmering through the storm, but not for a

festival. Ah me! what years have passed since those windows were

lighted for a festival."

Sadly Ezekiel Bogart left the garret, and descending the narrow

staircase, and passing a corridor, made the best of his way toward

the lower rooms of the mansion. Impressed to his very soul, with

the _consciousness_ that he would soon behold the son of Gulian Van

Huyden--Carl Raphael--he entered the first of the seven vaults, where

the hanging lamp still shone upon the arm-chair, the shelved walls, and

the huge table overspread with papers.

Seating himself in the arm-chair, he rang the bell. It was not long

before the aged servant appeared.

"Has John Hoffman, otherwise called Ninety-One, arrived?"

"No, Sir."

"This, indeed, is strange, very strange!" ejaculated Ezekiel, much

agitated, "and Gaspar Manuel--has he been here?"

"No, sir," answered Michael, "the four persons with the box have been

here, and that is all. I had the box carried into the banquet-room."

At a sign from Ezekiel, the aged servant retired.

"Altogether strange! The seven were notified by letter, and by a

carefully worded advertisement in the daily papers, of the _place_ and

_hour_ of meeting. And not one arrived! What if they should not appear?"

The sound of the old clock disturbed his meditations.

One,--two,--three! He had passed three hours in wandering through the

old mansion. Only a single hour remained.

"Three hours gone!" Ezekiel started from his chair, "no word of

Ninety-One, Gaspar Manuel, or the seven! It may be," and he felt a

strange hope kindling in his heart, "that the night will pass and not

one of the seven appear!"

The words had not passed his lips, when a heavy footstep was heard in

the corridor, and the door was flung open. A stout muscular form came

rapidly to the light. It was Ninety-One. His garments were covered

with snow, and there were stains of blood upon his scarred face. From

beneath his shaggy eyebrows, knit in a settled frown, his eyes shone

with a ferocious glare.

"What news?" ejaculated Ezekiel.

Ninety-One struck his clenched hand upon the table, and gave utterance

to a blasphemous oath.

"News? Hell's full of sich news! Only to think of it! It's enough to

set a man to wishin' himself safe in jail again. 'Don't give it up so

easy!' That's what I've said all along. An' I have _not_ give it up

easy, nayther. And now what's it come to?"

"The Boy,--the son of Gulian Van Huyden," cried Ezekiel, resting his

hands upon the table.

Ninety-One sank into a chair and wiped the blood from his face.

"You know I tracked the boy all day until I found his quarters in the

four story buildin', whar there was a dead man?--"

"Yes,--yes,--and you came and told me that you had found his home. The

people in the room adjoining the one which he occupies, informed you

that he had gone out with the young girl, but that he would shortly

return. You came and told me, and then went back to his room to await

his return, taking with you a letter from me--"

"I went back, and waited, and waited, havin' no company but the dead

man, until dark. Then I sallied out, and went to the house, where we

all was last night. I'd a hard time to get in, but git in I did,--and

jist too late--"

"Too late?--"

"The boy and the gal had been thar, and they'd jist gone. One of the

folks in livery show'd me which way,--'down the street toward the

river, and only five minutes ago,' says he. Down the street I put, and

by this time the snow was fallin' and the wind blowin' a harrycane.

Down the street I put, and when I came near the river, I heer'd a woman

cry out, 'help! murder!' Mind, I tell you, I lost no time, but made

straight for the pier, an' thar I find the gal, wringin' her hands an'

p'intin' to the river--"

"And the boy--the son of Gulian?--"

"Four fellers had come behind him, as he was about turnin' into the

street in which he lived,--they had dragged him from her,--she follered

them on to the pier, cryin', 'help! murder!' and they'd tied him,

and put him into a boat and made out into the river. As she told me

this story, I looked about me for a boat,--thar wasn't a boat to be

seen,--so I detarmined to jump in and swim arter 'em anyhow, though the

river was full of ice and the wind a-blowin' like Lucifer--"

"You leaped into the river?"

"No, I did not. For as the gal stood cryin', an' moanin', an' p'intin',

out into the dark thick night, the boat came back, and the four gallus

birds jumped on the wharf--"

"And the child,--O, my God! the son of Gulian?--"

"They'd hove him overboard!"

The old man uttered a heart-rending groan, and raised his hands to

heaven.

"Fatality!" he cried.

"I made at 'em at once,--and we j'ined in, four to one, teeth an'

toe nails. 'Don't give it up so easy!' I said, but what's the use o'

talkin'? I broke a jaw for one of 'em an' _caved the crust in_ for

another; but I wa'n't a match for slung-shot behind the ear. They

knocked me stoopid. An' when I opened my eyes again, I found myself in

their hands, arrested on the charge o' havin' murdered young Somers,

an' o' robbin' Isr'el Yorke. They tied me, took me to a room up town,

whar they war j'ined by Blossom,--they tried to gouge money out o' me,

but as I hadn't any, it wa'n't so easy. When they got tired o' that,

I purtended to sleep, an' overheer'd their talk. The hansum Colonel,

Tarleton, my pertikler friend, had hired the four to waylay _the boy_,

and carry him out into the river. Blossom didn't know anythin' about

it; he swore like a fiery furnace when they told him of it. Arter a

while, as I found they were goin' to take me to the Tombs if they

couldn't git any money out o' me, I broke for the door, and came away

in a hurry, an' here I am."

"And the child of Gulian is gone! Fatality! Fatality!" groaned Ezekiel

Bogart.

"In the river,--tied and gagged,--in the river," sullenly replied

Ninety-One; and the next moment he uttered a wild cry and leaped to his

feet.

Ezekiel Bogart had removed the skullcap, the green glasses and the huge

cravat. In place of a countenance obscured by a grotesque disguise,

appeared a noble face, a broad forehead, rendered venerable by masses

of snow-white hair. His beard, also white as snow, left bare the

outlines of his massive chin and descended upon his breast. And sunken

deep beneath his white eyebrows, his large eyes shone with the light of

a great intellect, a generous heart. It was indeed a noble head. True,

his mouth was large, and the lips severely set, his large nose bent

to one side, his cheek-bones high and prominent, but the calm steady

light of his eyes, the bold outlines of his forehead,--stamped with

thought, with genius,--gave character to his entire face, and made its

very deviations from regularity of feature, all the more impressive and

commanding.

"It is the Doctor!" cried Ninety-One. "Yer ha'r is white and thar's

wrinkles about yer mouth an' eyes, but I know you, Doctor Martin

Fulmer."

CHAPTER II.

THE SEVEN ARE SUMMONED.

It was, in truth, that singular man, who in the course of our

narrative, has appeared as the Judge of the Court of Ten Millions as

the "man in the surtout, with manifold capes," as Ezekiel Bogart, the

General Agent; and who, at length, appears in his own character,--Dr.

Martin Fulmer, the trustee of the Van Huyden estate.

"Be silent, John,"--the Doctor rose and gently waved his hand,--his

bent form for a moment became straight and erect,--his attitude

was noble and impressive. "The child whom, twenty-one years ago,

Gulian Van Huyden intrusted to your care, has, this night,--even as

the misfortunes of long years were about to be succeeded by peace,

security, the possession of unbounded wealth,--met his death at the

instigation of Gulian's brother. Be silent, John, for the shadow of

almighty fate is passing over us! It was to be, and it was! Who shall

resist the decrees of Providence? Behold! the fabric which I have spent

twenty-one years to build, is dust and ruins at my feet!"

There was the dignity of despair in his tone, his look, his every

attitude.

He slowly moved toward the door.--"Remain here, John, until morning.

I may want the aid of your arm. The worst has fallen upon me," he

continued, as though speaking to himself, "and nothing now remains but

to fulfill the last conditions of my trust, and--to die."

He left the room, and in the darkness, along corridor, and up stairway,

pursued his way slowly to the banquet-room.

"To this estate I have offered up twenty-one years of my life,--of my

soul. For it I have denied myself the companionship of a wife, the joy

of hearing a child call me by the name of 'father!' I have traversed

the globe in its behalf; made myself a dweller in all lands; have

left the beautiful domain of that science which loses itself among

the stars, to make myself a student in the science of human misery,

in the dark philosophy of human despair. I have made myself the very

slave of this estate. Believing that one day, its enormous wealth would

be devoted to the amelioration of social misery, I have made myself

familiar with the entire anatomy of the social world; have dwelt in the

very heart of its most loathsome evils; have probed to the quick the

ulcer of its moral leprosy. But at all times, and in every phase of my

career, I did hope, that out of this son of Gulian's, cast like a waif

upon the voyage of life, and made the subject of superhuman misfortune,

PROVIDENCE would at length mould a good, strong man, with heart and

intellect, to wield the Van Huyden estate, for the social regeneration

of his race. My hope is ashes."

With words like these in his soul, only half-uttered on his tongue, he

opened a door and passed into the banquet-room.

It was brilliantly lighted by an antique chandelier which hung from the

lofty ceiling. It was arranged for the last scene.

In this banquet-room, twenty-one years ago, there was the sound of

merry voices, mingled with the clink of wine-glasses; there were hearts

mad with joy, and faces dressed in smiles; and there was one face

dressed in smiles, which masked a heart devoured by the tortures of the

damned.

Now the scene was changed. The doors, windows, the pictures of the Van

Huyden family which lined the lofty walls, were concealed by hangings

of bright scarlet. A round table, covered with a white cloth, and

surrounded by eight antique arm-chairs, alone broke the monotony of

that vast and brilliantly lighted banquet-hall. The chandelier which

shone upon the hangings, and lighted up every part of the room, shone

down upon the white cloth of the table, and upon a single object which

varied its surface,--a small portfolio, bound in black leather.

In that portfolio were comprised the mysteries of the Van Huyden estate.

Beneath the table, and shaded by it from the light, dimly appeared

an iron chest, and a coffin covered with black cloth,--both were

half-concealed beneath a pall of velvet, fringed with tarnished gold.

Martin Fulmer attentively surveyed this scene, and a sudden thought

seemed to strike him. "It will not do," he said, "let the old place, in

this hour, put on all its memories."

He rang the bell, and four servants, attired in gray liveries, appeared

from beneath the hangings. Martin whispered his commands in a low

voice, and they obeyed without a word. Moving to and fro, without

uproar, in the course of a few minutes they had completely changed the

appearance of the hall. Thus changed, the banquet-room has, indeed, put

on its old memories; it wears the look, it breathes the air of the past.

The light of the chandelier, no longer dazzling, falls in subdued

radiance around a lofty hall, whose ceiling is supported by eight

pillars of cedar, grotesquely carved from base to capital, with the

faces of monks and nuns,--all of the round and oily stamp,--with

beasts, and birds, and fruits, and flowers. The glaring scarlet

hangings cluster in festoons around the capitals of the pillars; and

between the pillars appear, upon the panneled walls, portraits of the

Van Huyden family, in frames of oak, and walnut, and gilt, for seven

generations; beginning with the grim face of THE ANCESTOR, who landed

on Manhattan Island in the year 1620, and ending with the youthful,

artist-like face of Carl Raphael, painted in 1842. (This portrait of

Nameless, Martin Fulmer procured from the study of Cornelius Berman.)

The lofty windows on one side, were hidden by curtains of dark purple.

At one end of the spacious hall, was a broad hearth, blazing with a

cheerful wood-fire; at the other, on a dark platform, arose a marble

image of "THE MASTER," as large as life, and thrown distinctly into

view by the dark background.

There are two altars covered with black velvet, fringed with gold; one

on each side of the table. The altar on the right supports the coffin;

the one on the left, the iron chest; and around coffin and iron chest,

as for a funeral, tall wax candles are dimly burning.

The dark panneled walls,--the huge pillars, quaintly carved,--the

pictures, all save one, dim with age,--the hearth and its flame,--the

white image of the Savior,--the central table, with its eight

arm-chairs,--the dark altars, with wax candles burning around coffin

and iron chest,--all combined to present an effect which, deepened by

the dead stillness, is altogether impressive and ghost-like.

"The place looks like the old time," exclaims Martin Fulmer, slowly

surveying its every detail,--"and,--"

The sound of the old clock again! How it rings through the

mansion,--rings, and swells, and dies away! One,--two,--three,--four!

Martin Fulmer sinks into the arm-chair, at the head of the table, and

from beneath his waistcoat draws forth a parchment,--the last will and

testament of Gulian Van Huyden.

"There is no other way,--I must begin;" he casts his eyes toward a

narrow doorway, across which is stretched a curtain. Behind that

curtain wait the heirs of the Van Huyden estate. The old man, erect in

his chair, at the head of the table, passes his right hand thoughtfully

over his broad forehead, and through the masses of his hair, as white

as snow.

And then directing his gaze toward the doorway, he begins to call the

names of the Seven:

"Evelyn Somers!"

No answer,--the merchant prince now sleeps a corpse within his palace.

"Beverly Barron!"--the name of the man of fashion resounds through the

still hall.

But Beverly will never fold in his arms again, the form of a tempted

and yielding maiden; never place his lips again to the lips of a

faithless wife, whom he has made false to her marriage vow,--never

press a father's kiss upon the brow of his motherless child. Beverly

also has gone to his account.

"Harry Royalton!" exclaimed Martin Fulmer, and again directed his eyes

toward the door.

Is that his step, the man of the racecourse, the hero of the

cock-pit and faro-bank? No. It was but a breath of air among the

window-curtains. But where, in this hour, of all others, is Harry

Royalton of Hill Royal? It cannot be told. He does not appear.

Martin Fulmer, with something of surprise upon his face, spoke the

fourth name,--

"Herman Barnhurst!"

Herman, the voluptuous, and the fair-cheeked, and eagle-eyed,--the

victim of beautiful Marion Merlin,--the husband of outraged Fanny

Lansdale,--the seducer of poor Alice Burney,--Herman does not answer

the summons.

A wild hope began to gleam in the deep eyes of Martin Fulmer,--"Four of

the seven absent,--why not all?" And he called the fifth name; the name

of one, whom, most of all others, he desired to be present:--

"Arthur Dermoyne!"

Loud and deep it swelled, but there was no reply. Enthusiast and

mechanic, who, at your work-bench, have laid out plans of social

regeneration,--who, amid the clatter of hammers, and hum of toil, have

heard the words of the four gospels, and thought of wealth only as the

means of putting those words into deeds,--where do you linger at this

hour? Alas, Dermoyne is silent; he does not appear.

The light in Martin's eyes grew brighter, "Five of the Seven, why not

all!"

"Gabriel Godlike!" he pronounced the name, and paused in suspense for

the answer to the summons.

"Here!" cried a voice of thunder, and through the parted curtains,

the imposing form of the statesman emerged into light. His broad

chest was clad in a blue coat with bright metal buttons; a white

cravat made his bronzed face look yet darker; he advanced with a heavy

stride, his great forehead looming boldly in the light, his eyes deep

sunken beneath the brows, glaring like living coals. His cheek was

flushed,--with wine--or with the excitement of the hour?

Ponderous and gloomy and grand, as when he arose to scatter

thunderbolts through the thronged senate,--attired in the same brown

coat which he wore on state occasions,--he came to the table, assumed a

seat opposite Dr. Martin Fulmer, and said in his deepest bass,--"I am

here, and ready for the final settlement of the Van Huyden estate."

It is no shame to Dr. Fulmer to say, that he had rather confronted

the entire Seven together, than to have to deal with this man alone.

"The estate decreed into those hands, which know neither remorse or

fear?"--he shuddered.

Then he called the seventh name,--

"Israel Yorke!"

No delay this time. With a hop and a spring,--spectacles on nose, and

sharp gray eyes glancing all about him,--the little financier came

through the curtain, and advancing to the table, seated himself beside

Godlike, like Mammon on right of Lucifer.

"And I am here," he said, pulling his whiskers, and then running his

hand over his bald head,--"Here and ready for the final settlement of

the Van Huyden estate."

"And is this all?" ejaculated Martin Fulmer; and once more he called

the names of the Seven. There was no response.

CHAPTER III.

"SAY, BETWEEN US THREE!"

Martin Fulmer uttered a deep sigh, and then gazing upon the

representatives of Satan and of Mammon he said: "Gentlemen, you know

the purpose for which you are here?"

"We do," they said, and each one laid his copy of the will on the table.

"The first thing in order, is the reading of the Will," said Martin

Fulmer solemnly. And while a dead stillness pervaded, he read the will;

and afterward briefly recounted the circumstances connected with the

death of the testator.

When he had finished, the silence remained for some moments

unbroken. The lights flashed upon the smart concealed visage of the

financier,--the grand Satanic face of the statesman,--the calm face of

Martin Fulmer, with the bold brow, and hair as white as snow; and as a

breath of wind moved the lights, they flashed fitfully over the coffin,

and the iron chest, the cedar pillars, and the marble image.

"There is no son in existence?" asked Israel nervously.

"None," answered Martin in a low voice.

"He did not die in a cause pre-eminent for its sanctity?" asked Gabriel

in a deep voice.

"It cannot be said that he did," answered Martin, as though questioning

his own conscience.

"The disposition of this estate, depends then entirely upon your

integrity, and especially upon your fidelity to your _oath_?"--the

statesman, as though he knew the chord most sensitive, in the strong

honest nature of Martin Fulmer, watched him keenly, as he awaited his

answer.

Martin bowed his head.

"Under those circumstances, it is clear to you, is it not, that the

estate falls to those of the Seven Heirs, who are now present?"

"If I am faithful to my OATH, such will be my disposition of the

estate."

"Faithful to your oath?" echoed Godlike.

"That would be highly immoral," said Israel Yorke.

It was in a slow and measured tone, and with his venerable head, placed

firmly on his shoulders, that Martin Fulmer said,--

"Sir, you know me," to Godlike,--"in the times of the Bank panic, I

met you in the vestibule of the senate, and had some interesting

conversation with you. You know that I would sooner die than break

my word, much less my oath, and of all others, THE OATH which I took

to Gulian Van Huyden. But may not circumstances arise in which the

breaking of that oath may be a lighter crime, than strict obedience to

it?"

Godlike started--Yorke half rose from his chair.

"Reflect for a moment. Circumstances have arisen, which the testator

could not have ever dreamed of, when he loaded me with this trust,

under the seal of that awful oath. It was doubtless his wish that

his estates, swelled by the accumulation of twenty-one years, should

descend into the hands of his son, who having been reared in poverty

and hardship, would know how to use this wealth for the good of

mankind,--or in the absence of his son, that it should be _dispersed_

for the good of the race, by the hands of seven persons, selected from

the descendants of the original Van Huyden, and scattered throughout

the Union. Such was doubtless his idea. But behold how different the

result. The son is dead. Only two of the Seven are here. Shall I,

adhering to the letter of the law, to the oath in its strictest sense,

divide this great estate between you two? Or, fearful of the awful evil

which you may work to the world, with this untold wealth, shall I--in

order to avoid this evil,--refuse to divide the estate, and take upon

myself the moral penalty of the broken oath?"

"That is a question which you must settle with your own conscience,"

said Godlike slowly, as he fixed his gaze upon Martin Fulmer's face.

Was he aware of the one weak point in the strong, bold mind of Dr.

Martin Fulmer? Did he know of Dr. Martin Fulmer's fear and horror

of--the unpardonable sin?

Martin did not reply, but leaned his head upon his hand, and seemed

buried in thought.

"In order to understand my position, reflect,--twenty-one years ago,

the estate was but two millions; behold it now!" He unlocked the

portfolio, and drew forth two half sheets of foolscap, covered with

writing in a delicate but legible hand. "There is a brief statement of

the estate as it stands."

Israel eagerly grasped one half sheet; Godlike took the other. Martin

Fulmer intensely watched their faces as they read.

Rapidly Godlike's eagle eye, perused that index to the untold wealth of

the Van Huyden estate.

"It would purchase the Presidency of the United States!" he muttered

with a heaving chest,--"enthroned upon that pedestal, a man might call

kings his menials, the world his plaything."

"One hundred millions! Astor multiplied by Girard!" ejaculated Israel

Yorke,--"with such a capital, one might buy Rothschild, and keep him

too!"

Glorious and eloquent half sheet of foolscap! Talk of Milton,

Shakspeare, Homer,--your poetry is worth all theirs combined! What

flight of theirs, in their loftiest moods, can match in sublimity, the

simple and majestic march of this swelling line,--

"_One hundred millions of dollars!_"

"This is a dream," said Godlike,--and for once his voice was tremulous.

"Enough to set one raving!" cried Israel Yorke.

"And yet, adhering to the strict letter of my oath,--" the voice and

look of Martin Fulmer was sad,--despairing,--"I am bound to divide this

incredible wealth between you two."

"Say, between us three!" cried a new voice, and as Martin Fulmer raised

his head, and the others started in their seats, the speaker came with

a rapid stride from the curtained doorway to the table.

It was Randolph Royalton, the white slave. Folding his arms upon

the breast of his frock coat,--made of dark blue cloth,--which was

buttoned to his throat, he stood beside the table, his face lividly

pale, and his dark hair floating wild and disheveled about his forehead.

"You!--a negro!"--and Godlike's lip curled in sardonic scorn.

Trembling as with an excitement continued for long hours, Randolph

turned to Martin Fulmer, and said:

"I am the oldest child of John Augustine Royal ton, and his lawful

heir. And I am here! There is the proof that my father was married

to Herodia, my mother,--" he placed a paper in the hands of Martin

Fulmer,--"I am here in the name of my father, to claim my portion of

the Van Huyden estate."

Israel was very restless,--Godlike very gloomy and full of scorn, as

Martin Fulmer attentively perused the document.

"You have a copy of the Will, addressed to your father?" asked the old

man, raising his eyes to Randolph's colorless face.

Randolph drew a parchment from the breast of his coat,--"There is my

father's copy, superscribed with his name."

"I recognize you as the elder son of John Augustine Royalton," said Dr.

Fulmer, very calmly,--"These proofs are all sufficient. Be seated, sir."

Randolph uttered a wild cry, and pressed his forehead with both hands.

It was a moment before he recovered his composure. "You said _negro!_

just now!" he turned to Godlike, his blue eves flashing with deadly

hatred, "learn sir, that had yonder bit of paper failed to establish my

right, that this at least establishes my descent from ---- ----!"

Godlike repeated that great name, in a tone of mingled incredulity and

contempt.

"Ay, _he_ was the father of Herodia,--I am his grandson. There is my

grandfather's handwriting," he placed the paper in the hands of Martin

Fulmer, "Read it, sir, for the information of this statesman. Let him

know that the few drops of _negro blood_ which flow in my veins, are

lost and drowned in the blood of a man whose name is history,--of ----

----!"

Martin Fulmer read the paper aloud, adding, "You perceive he speaks the

truth. He is the grandson of ---- ----."

"Pardon me,--I was hasty," said the statesman, extending his hand.

Randolph did not seem to notice the extended hand, but dropping into a

chair, said, quietly,--"There are _three_ of us _now_, I believe."

And he regarded the statesman with a look which was full of triumph and

scorn.

Martin Fulmer looked into the faces of the three, and then bent his

head in deep thought,--deep and harrowing thought, extending over every

instant of twenty-one years.

From the portfolio he drew forth two half sheets of paper, covered with

writing in his own hand. One bore the signature of Gabriel Godlike, the

other that of Israel Yorke.

"These papers, embracing an absolute renunciation of all their claims

upon the Van Huyden estate, they signed before the Court of Ten

Millions,--signed, without knowing their contents. Shall I produce

them?"

He hesitated.--"But no! no! I am not clear as to the right of any one

to dispose of his share."

Martin Fulmer, before the bar of his own conscience, was fanatically

just. He _might_ use these papers, but before his own conscience he

dared not.

"I am decided," he exclaimed, despair impressed upon his face,--"I must

fulfill my oath. Gentlemen, I recognize you as the three heirs of the

Van Huyden estate, you having appeared at the appointed hour."

The same electric throb of joy--joy intense to madness,--ran through

the bosoms of the three, but manifested itself in different ways. The

diminutive financier bounded from his chair; Godlike uttered an oath;

Randolph muttered between his teeth, "The _negro_ is, indeed, then, one

of the three."

"I will presently give to each of you a certificate, over my own hand,

stating that you appeared at the appointed hour, and pledging myself,

within a week, to apportion this vast estate among you."

Without taking time to notice the expression of their faces, he

continued,--

"But first, we must open this,"--he pointed to the iron chest,--"and

this,"--to the coffin, around which, as around the iron chest, tall wax

candles were dimly burning. "Whatever these may contain, they cannot

affect nor change my decision. But they must be opened,--so the will

directs."

CHAPTER IV.

THE LEGATE OF HIS HOLINESS.

As he rose from his seat and advanced toward the iron chest, the

curtain of the doorway was thrust aside, and the light shone upon a

slender form, clad in black, and upon a pallid face, framed in masses

of jet-black hair.

"Gaspar Manuel! at last!" ejaculated Martin Fulmer.

"Pardon me for this intrusion," said Gaspar Manuel, in a tone of quiet

dignity,--"I would have seen you ere this, but unexpected events

prevented me. It is of the last importance that I should converse with

you without delay."

The entrance of the man, whose slender form was clad in a frock-coat of

black cloth, single-breasted, and reaching to the knees,--whose face,

unnaturally pale, was in strong contrast with the blackness of his

moustache and beard, and of the hair, which fell in wavy masses to his

shoulders,--created a singular and marked impression.

With one impulse, Godlike, Yorke and Randolph rose to their feet. For

the first time, they remarked that the stranger wore on his right

breast a golden cross, and carried in his left hand a casket of dark

wood,--perchance ebony.

"I wish to see you in regard to the lands in California, near

the mission of San Luis," said Gaspar Manuel, his voice, touched

with a foreign accent, yet singularly sweet and emphatic in its

intonation.--"Lands claimed by yourself, on behalf of the Van Huyden

estate, and also by the Order of Jesus. Many acres of these lands are

rich in everything that can bless a climate soft as Italy, but there

are one thousand barren acres which abound in fruit like this."

He placed the casket upon the table, unlocked it, and displayed its

contents.

"Gold!" burst from every lip.

"Those thousand acres contain gold sufficient to change the destinies

of the world," said Gaspar Manuel, calmly, as he fixed his dazzling

eyes upon the face of Godlike.--"The contest for the possession of

this untold wealth lies between the Order of Jesus and the Van Huyden

estate."

"Have not the Mexican Government appointed a Commissioner to decide

upon their respective claims?" As he asked the question, Dr. Martin

Fulmer, (who, as Ezekiel Bogart, had seen Gaspar Manuel dressed as a

man of the world) gazed in surprise upon that costume which indicated

the Jesuit. There was suspicion as well as surprise in his gaze.

"That Commissioner is one of the rulers of the Jesuits,--an especial

Legate of the Roman Pope," continued Martin, surveying Gaspar Manuel

with a look of deepening suspicion. "His name is----"

"Never mind his name," interrupted Gaspar Manuel,--"Let it satisfy you

that I am a Jesuit, perchance one of the rulers of that Order. And I am

the LEGATE of whom you speak."

"You!" echoed Martin Fulmer, and his ejaculation was repeated by the

others.

"I am that Commissioner," replied Gaspar Manuel, "and my decision has

been made. Allow me a few moments for reflection, and I will make it

known to you. While you converse with those gentlemen, I will warm

myself at yonder fire, for the climate is hard to bear, after the bland

atmosphere of Havana."

With a wave of the hand and a slight inclination of the head, he

retired from the table and bent his steps toward the fire-place.

Seating himself in an arm-chair, he now gazed into the flame with his

flashing eyes, and now,--over his shoulder,--surveyed the banquet-hall.

Then taking tablets and pencil from a side-pocket, he seemed absorbed

in the mazes of a profound arithmetical calculation; but every now and

then he raised his eyes, and with that dazzling glance, took in every

detail of the banquet-hall.

Meanwhile, the group around the table had not yet recovered from the

impression, produced by his presence.

"A singular man,--eh?" quoth Yorke.

"A man of rank. I think I have seen his face in Washington City,"

remarked Godlike.

"A dignitary of the Catholic Church," exclaimed Randolph.--"A man of no

common order."

As for Martin Fulmer, glancing by turns at the box, filled with

golden ore, and at the form of the Legate, who was seated quietly by

the fire-place, he said, with a sigh,--"More gold, more wealth!" and

thought of Carl Raphael, the son of Gulian Van Huyden.

"Let us open the iron chest," he said, and placed the key in the lock,

while Randolph, Godlike and Yorke, gathered round, in mute suspense.

But ere the key turned in the lock, a new interruption took place. The

aged servant, Michael, entered, and placed a slip of paper, on which

a single line was written, in the hands of Martin Fulmer. The old man

read it at a glance, and at once his face glowed, his eyes shone with

new light.

"The person who wrote this, Michael,--where--where is he?" he said, in

a tremulous voice.

"In the reception-room," answered Michael.

"Show him here,--at once,--at once,--quick, I say!" and he seized

Michael by the arm, and pointed to the door, his face displaying every

sign of irrepressible agitation. Michael hurried from the room.

"Let us all thank God, for HE has not failed us!" cried Martin Fulmer,

spreading forth his hands, as he walked wildly to and fro.--"The son of

Gulian Van Huyden is not dead!"

A thunderbolt crushing through the ceiling, would not have created half

the consternation caused by these words.

They dashed the hopes of Randolph, Godlike and Yorke to the dust.

"Not dead!" they echoed, in a breath.

"He is not dead. He is living, and in this house. In a moment he will

be here,--here, to claim his father's estate."

And in the wildness of his joy, Martin Fulmer hurried to and fro, now

wringing his hands, now spreading them forth in thankfulness to heaven.

"I knew," said the old man, standing erect, the light shining full upon

his white hairs, "I knew that Providence would not desert me!"

CHAPTER V.

THE SON AT LAST.

The curtain moved again, and two persons came slowly into the room; a

man whose wounded arm was carried in a sling and whose livid face was

marked by recent wounds,--a boy, whose graceful form was enveloped in a

closely fitting frock-coat, while his young face was shaded by locks of

glossy hair.

"Martin Fulmer! behold the lost child of Gulian Van Huyden!" cried

Colonel Tarleton, urging the boy forward.

At sight of Tarleton, Martin Fulmer felt his whole being contract with

loathing, but rushing forward, he seized the boy by the arms, and

looked earnestly into his face,--a face touching in its expression,

with clear, deep eyes, that now seemed blue, now gray, and round

outlines, and framed in locks of flowing hair, of the richest chestnut

brown.

"This,--this, is not Carl Raphael!" ejaculated Martin Fulmer, turning

fiercely upon Tarleton,--

A smile crossed the bloodless lips of Tarleton.

"Not Carl Raphael, but still the son of Gulian. A word will explain

all. On the last night of her life, Alice Van Huyden gave birth to two

children: they were born within a half hour of each other. One was

taken from her bed, and borne away by her husband. The other I bore to

my home, educated as my own, and now he stands before you, the lawful

heir of his father's estate. Look at his face, and, if you can, say

that he is not Gulian's son."

This revelation was listened to with the most intense interest by

Randolph, Godlike, Yorke,--and Gaspar Manuel, attracted from the

fire-place by the sound of voices, looked over their shoulders at the

singular group,--the boy, with Tarleton on one hand, and Martin Fulmer

on the other.

Long and intently Martin Fulmer perused that youthful countenance,

which, with downcast eyes, seemed to avoid his gaze.

"Carl Raphael Van Huyden is lost," exclaimed Martin Fulmer, "but the

face, the look of Gulian Van Huyden lives again in this boy. Gentlemen,

behold the son of Gulian Van Huyden, the heir to his estate!"

He urged the shrinking boy toward the light.

"I will not," cried the boy, raising his head and surveying the group

with flashing eyes,--"I will not submit to be made an accomplice in

this imposture--"

"Child!" said Tarleton, sternly.

"Nay, you shall not force me to it. Hear me one and all," and he tore

open his coat and vest, and laid bare his breast, "I am the child of

Gulian Van Huyden, but not his son."

It was a woman's bosom which the open vest bared to the light.

A dead stillness followed this revelation.

And the center of the group stood the beautiful girl in her male

attire, her bosom heaving in the light, while her eyes flashed through

their tears.

"I will not submit to be made the accomplice of this man's schemes,"

she pointed to Tarleton,--"As the daughter of Gulian Van Huyden, I

cannot inherit my father's estate."

At this point, Gaspar Manuel stepped forward,--"Yes you can, my child,"

he said, and drew the disguised girl to his breast, "it is your father

himself who tells you so, daughter." And he kissed her on the forehead,

while his dark hair hid her face.

Then as he held her in his arms, he raised his face, and with one hand,

swept back the dark hair from his brow,--"Martin Fulmer, don't you

remember me?" and then to Colonel Tarleton,--"and you, brother, you

certainly don't forget me?"

That scene cannot be painted in words.

"Gulian!" was all that Tarleton or Charles Van Huyden could say, as he

shrank back appalled and blasted before his brother's smile.

As for Martin Fulmer, after one eager and intense look, he felt his

knees bend beneath him, and his head droop on his breast, as he uttered

his soul in the words,--"It is Gulian come back to life again."

CHAPTER VI.

A LONG ACCOUNT SETTLED.

Back from his brother's gaze, step by step, shrank Tarleton or Charles

Van Huyden, his eyes still chained to that face, which the grave seemed

to have yielded up, to blast his schemes in the very moment of their

triumph.

His own child dead,--the stain of Carl Raphael's blood upon his

soul,--he felt like a man who stands amid the ruins of a falling house,

when the last prop gives way.

With a cry that was scarcely human, in its awful anguish, he turned and

fled. Fled from the banquet-room, and through the adjoining chamber,

into the darkness of the corridor. His mind, strained to its utmost

tension by the perpetual excitement of the last twenty-four hours, gave

way all at once, like a bow that, drawn to its full power, suddenly

snaps, even as a withered reed. All was dark around him as he rushed

along the corridor, but that darkness was made luminous by his soul.

It was peopled with faces, that seemed to be encircled by lurid light.

The worst agony that can befall a mortal man fell upon him. Nerves

disordered, brain unstrung, his very thoughts became living things, and

chased him through the darkness. The face of Evelyn Somers was before

him, gazing upon him with fixed eyeballs. And his steps were suddenly

checked, by an agonized countenance, which was sinking in wintery

waves, that seemed to roll about his very feet. He was touched on the

shoulder,--his dead daughter ran beside him in her shroud, linking her

arm in his, and bending forward her face, which looked up into his

own, with lips that had no blood in them, and eyes that had no life.

And if the darkness was full of faces, the air was full of voices;

voices whispering, shouting, yelling, all through each other, and yet,

every voice distinctly heard,--all the voices that he had heard in his

lifetime were speaking to him now. Well might he have exclaimed in the

words of Cain,--"My punishment is greater than I can bear."

If he could have only rid himself of Frank, who ran by his side, in her

shroud! But no,--there she was,--her arm in his,--her face bent forward

looking up into his own, with lips that had no blood, and eyes that had

no life.

He talked to those phantoms,--he bade them back,--he rushed on, through

the corridor, and ascended the dark stairs with horrid shrieks. And

the face of Carl Raphael, struggling in the waves, went before him at

every step.

He readied at length the narrow garret, in which years agone, Gulian

Van Huyden bid Martin Fulmer, farewell. Here, as he heard the storm

beat against the window panes, he for a moment recovered his shattered

senses.

"I'm nervous," he cried, "if I had been drinking, I would think I had

the _mania_. Let me recover myself. Where in the deuce am I?"

A heavy step was heard on the stairway, and a form plunged into the

room, bearing Tarleton against the wall. It was no phantom, but the

form of a stalwart man.

"Halloo! Who are you?" cried a hoarse voice,--it was the voice of

Ninety-One, and as he spoke, shouts came up the narrow stairway from

the passage below. "You set here to trap me,--speak?"

And the hand of Ninety-One, clutched the throat of Tarleton with an

iron grip.

"This way,--this way," cried a voice, and a gleam of light shooting up

the stairs, through the narrow doorway, fell upon the livid face of

Tarleton.

"O, we have met at last? Do you hear them shouts? Blossom follered by

the poleese are in the house, and on my track, for the murder of young

Somers. In a second they'll be here. Now I've got you, and we'll settle

that long account,--we will by G--d!"

"You are choking me,--A-h!" gasped Tarleton, as he was dragged toward

the window. The shouts from below grew more distinct, and once more the

light flashed up the stairs.

"Carl Raphael died by drownin' and that's very like chokin'," whispered

Ninety-One, as he bent his face near to the struggling wretch. "I've no

way of escape,--even old Fulmer can't save me. And so we'll settle that

long account."

"You are choking me,--do not,--do not--"

"You know all the items, so there's no use o' dwellin' on 'em," the

hoarse voice of Ninety-One was heard above the pelting of the storm,

"but the murder of that 'ar boy makes the docket full. Here goes--"

Dragging Tarleton to the window, he struck the sash, with one hand, and

then kicked against it with all his strength. It yielded with a crash,

and the snow and sleet rushes through the aperture in a blast.

"Spare me! Mercy! O do not--"

Ninety-One crept through the narrow aperture, out upon the roof, and

dragged Tarleton after him. Then there were two forms standing erect

for a moment, in the gloom, and then the blast bore away the sound of

voices, and a howl that was heard, far and long, through the night.

"This way! We've caught the old fox," said a well known voice, and the

red face of Blossom, adorned with carbuncles, appeared in the doorway,

while the lantern which he held, filled the garret with light.

"This way," he sprang through the doorway, and followed by half a dozen

men in thick coats, and with maces in their hands, he ran toward the

window, "he's out upon the roof."

He held the lantern over his head, and looked without, while the snow

and sleet beat in his face. From the garret-window the roof fell with

a sudden slope, for the space of two yards, and there it ended. By

the lantern light, he saw some rude traces of footsteps in the snow,

and the print of a hand. A glance was sufficient. When he turned to

confront his comrades, his red face was white as a sheet--

"By G--d the old convic' has gone an' jumped from the roof,--four

storys high--as I'm a sinner!"

CHAPTER VII.

IN THE BANQUET-ROOM ONCE MORE.

Meanwhile in the banquet-room, the Legate of the Pope, with the form

of his daughter, in her male attire, nestling on his breast, raised

his head, and surveyed the faces of the spectators, who had not yet

recovered from their surprise. His face pale and worn, as with years of

consuming thought, his eyes bright as with the fire of a soul never at

rest, held every gaze enchained as he spoke,--

"Rise Martin Fulmer!" he extended his hand to the kneeling man, "rise,

and let me look upon the face of--an honest man."

As though disturbed in the midst of a dream, Martin Fulmer rose, his

head with his snow-white hair and protuberant brow, presenting a strong

contrast to the pallid face, dark hair and beard of the Legate.

"Look upon me, Martin Fulmer, and steadily. Do you recognize me."

"Gulian Van Huyden!" ejaculated the old man.

The Legate surveyed Randolph, Godlike, Yorke, who formed a group behind

the Doctor, while in the background, the lights burned faintly around

the iron chest and coffin. Even as the Legate looked around, Randolph

turned aside, and leaning against frame of yonder window, pushed the

curtains aside, and looked forth upon the cold, dark night. Not so cold

and dark as his own bitter fate! Well was it for him, that his face was

turned from the light! That face, terribly distorted, now revealed the

hell which was raging in his breast. His soul stained with crime, his

last hope blotted out, whither should he turn? Grandson of ---- ---- it

had been better for you, had you never been born!

After his silent survey, the Legate spoke:

"Another place and another hour, will be needed, to repeat the full

details of my life, since twenty-one years ago, I left this house,--to

die," in an attitude of calm dignity, and with a voice and look, that

held every soul, the Legate spoke these words,--"I was rescued from

the waves, by a boat that chanced to be passing from the shore to a

ship in the bay. Upon that ship, I again unclosed my eyes to life, and

watched through the cabin windows, the last glimpse of the American

shore, growing faint and fainter over the waves. Thus called back

to life,--my name in my native land, only known as the name of the

Suicide, my estates in the hands of Martin Fulmer, left to the chances

or the providence of twenty-one years,--I resolved to live. The ship

(the captain and crew were foreigners,) bore me to an Italian port.

I sold the jewels which were about my person when I plunged into

the river, and found myself in possession of a competence. Then, in

search of peace, anxious to drown the past, and still every emotion of

other days, by a life of self-denial, I went to Rome, I entered the

Propaganda. In the course of time I became a priest, and then,----well!

twenty-one years passed in the service of the church have left me as I

am. Your hand, brave Martin Fulmer! Think not that your course has been

unknown to me! You have been watched,--your every step marked,--your

very thoughts recorded,--and now it is the Legate of the Pope, who

takes you by the hand, and calls you by a title, which it is beyond

the power of Pope or King to create,--_an honest man!_ Twenty times I

have been near you in the course of twenty-one years,--once in Paris,

when you were there on business of the estate,--once in Mexico,--once

in China,--once on the Ocean,--once in Rome! How my heart yearned to

disclose myself to you! But I left you go your way, and now at the end

of twenty-one years, we stand face to face. And thou, my child,--" he

gazed tenderly into the face of the girl, whose eyes were upraised to

meet his own,--"my beautiful! my own! Think not that the garment of the

priest, chills the heart of the father!"

"Father!" she whispered, putting her hands upon his shoulder,--"how my

heart yearned to you, when I first met you, in the dark streets,--when

friendless and homeless, I was flying to the river, as my only friend!"

It was a touching picture,--the priest, who for twenty-one years, had

never permitted his heart to throb with one pulse that would remind

him of the word "Home," and the daughter, who, educated to serve the

dark purposes of Tarleton, had never before felt her heart bound at the

sight of her _Father's_ face.

Martin Fulmer's face grew sad,--

"Do you regret my return?" said the Legate with a smile.

"I was thinking," said Martin, and his soul was in his eyes as he

spoke,--"I was thinking of--ROME!"

Godlike stepped forward, with a smile on his somber visage,--"Rome!" he

echoed,--"of course, now that the dead has returned to life, the heirs

need not think of dividing the estate. And you as priest of the Roman

Church, as one of her lords, can think of but one disposition of your

immense property It will go to the church,--to Rome!"

"To Rome!" echoed Israel Yorke. Randolph, with his face from the light,

did not seem to hear a word that was spoken. And Martin Fulmer, with

his finger on his lips, awaited in evident suspense, the answer of the

Legate.

"To Rome!" echoed the Legate and disengaging himself from the arms of

his daughter, he stood erect. His entire face changed. His nostrils

quivered, his lips curled, there was a glow on his pale cheek, and

an intenser fire in his eyes. He passed his hand over his forehead,

and brushing back his dark hair, stood for a moment, motionless as a

statue, his eyes fixed, as though he saw passing before his soul, a

panorama of the future.

"Within that brutal Rome which plants its power upon human skulls,

there is a higher, mightier Rome! Within that order which uses and

profanes the name of Jesus, as the instrument of its frauds, there is

a higher, mightier Order of Jesus! I see this mightier church,--I see

this mightier Order moving onward, through the paths of the future,

combating the false Rome, and trampling under foot the false Order

of Jesus! Yes, in the future, I see armed for the last battle, those

friends of humanity, who have sworn to use the Roman Church as the

instrument of Human Progress, or to drive forward the movement over her

ruins."

The effect of these words, coupled with the look and the attitude of

the Legate, was electric. They were followed by a dead stillness. The

spectators gazed into each other's faces, but no one ventured to break

the silence.

The silence was interrupted, however, by a strange voice,--

"Lor bress you, massa, de nigga hab arribe!" It was Old Royal, who

emerged from the curtains, with a broad grin on his black face,--"You

know dis nigga war on de ribber in a boat, fetchin ober from

Jarsey shore, a brack gemman who didn' like to trabel by de ferry

boat--yah--whah! Well de nigga did it,--"

He advanced a step,--passed his hand through his white wool,--surveyed

his giant-like form clad in sleek broadcloth,--showed his white teeth,

and continued, with an accent and a gesticulation that words cannot

describe--

"Well, as we come across,--lor-a-massy how de storm did storm, and de

snow did snow! As we come across, dis nigga cotched by de har ob his

head, a young white gemman, who war a-drownin'. An' dis same young

white gemman, Massa Fulmer,--" he pointed over his shoulder, "am out

dar!"

"What mean you, Royal?" cried Martin Fulmer, and he shook with the

conflict of hope and suspense,--"whom did you rescue?"

"Dar's de white _pusson_," said Old Royal.

Leaning on the arm of Mary Berman, whose face was rosy with joy,

whose bonnet had fallen on her neck, while her hair, glittering with

snow-drops, strayed over her shoulders,--leaning on the arm of his

wife, Nameless, or Carl Raphael, came through the doorway, and advanced

toward the group.

He was clad in black, which threw his pale face, shaded by brown hair,

boldly into view. His eyes were clear and brilliant; his lip firm. As

he advanced, every eye remarked the resemblance between him and the

Legate; and also between him, and the disguised girl, who stood by the

Legate's side.

"Rescued from death by the hands of this good friend,--" his voice was

clear and bold, "I returned home, and found the note which you,--" he

looked at Martin Fulmer, "caused to be left there. And in obedience to

the request contained in that note, I am here."

At first completely thunderstruck, the venerable man had not power to

frame a word.

"Fatality!" he cried at last, "but a blessed fatality! I knew that

Providence would not desert us! Come to my heart, my child! Carl,--"

trembling with emotion, he took Nameless by the hand, "Carl, behold

your father, who, after a lapse of twenty-one years, has appeared

among us, like one risen from the grave! Behold your sister, born like

you, in your mother's death-agony,--separated from you for twenty-one

years,--she now rejoins you, in presence of your father!"

It was now the turn of Nameless to stand spell-bound and thunderstruck.

He stood like one in a dream, until the voices of the Legate and the

young girl broke on his ear, voices so like his own.

"My son!"

"Brother!"

He was gathered to the Legate's breast, who kissed him on the brow,

and surveying every line of his face, felt his bosom swell with pride

as he called him, "my son!" Then his sister's arms were upon his neck,

and Nameless, as he saw her face, so touching, in its quiet loveliness,

felt his heart swell with a rapture, never felt before, as he found

himself encircled in that atmosphere which is most like heaven,--the

atmosphere of a sister's love.

"Listen to me, my son," said the Legate, as he took Nameless by

the hand, and his eyes lit up with a new fire, while in abrupt and

broken sentences, he poured forth the story of his life. His tone was

impassioned, his words electric. Carl Raphael listened, while the

emotions of his soul, were written in his changing features.

"And now, my son," concluded the Legate, as he put his arm about the

neck of Nameless, "twenty-one years are gone, and I appear again. The

estate, from two millions, has swelled into one hundred millions. You

will inherit it, and you and I, and this good man, will join together,

in applying the awful power embodied in this wealth, to the best

interests of the human race."

To the surprise of the Legate, Nameless unwound his arm from his neck,

and stepped back from him. His face suddenly became cold and rigid as

stone. Rising in every inch of his stature, he surveyed the entire

scene at a rapid glance.

On his right, his father and sister. Near him the venerable old man,

with Mary by his side. Somewhat apart, stood the somber Godlike, and

the weazel-faced Yorke. In the background, the table, with the candles

burning dimly round over chest and coffin. Around him that hall, thick

on every panel with the memories of the past; and far in the shadows,

the white image of the master.

And by yonder window, his form half concealed in the curtains, Randolph

looks out upon the black night.

Dilating with an emotion which was incomprehensible to the spectators,

Nameless said.

"No, father, I will not touch one dollar of this wealth. It is

accursed. Look at the passion it has evoked; look at the calamities

which it has wrought! It is accursed,--thrice accursed. It was this

wealth which impelled your own brother to attempt to corrupt my mother.

It was this wealth which made that brother follow me with remorseless

hatred, and to-night, for the sake of this, he planned my death. It

was this wealth which drove you from your native land, there to bury

all feeling in a church, which makes marriage a sacrament, and, at the

same time, prevents her priests from ever enjoying that sacrament,

from ever being hailed by the all-holy names of 'husband!' 'father!'

There you buried twenty-one years of your life, leaving your children

to breast the storm of life alone. It was this wealth which cast me,

in childhood, into the streets, without friend or home,--and do you

know the life I've lived? While you were saying mass at Rome, I was

committing murder, father,--I was being sentenced to death,--I was

buried alive in your family vault,--I was passing two years in a

madman's cell! Look at the work of your wealth! Let these gentlemen

(who, I doubt not, have been heirs of this estate in anticipation,) let

them speak, and tell what passions, like fiends evoked from nethermost

hell, this wealth has summoned into life! Speak, Martin Fulmer, you,

who for twenty-one years, have denied yourself the blessing of wife,

home, children; while in sleepless anguish you watched over this

wealth,--speak! What evil thought is there in earth or hell which it

has not called into deeds? No,--father,--lifting this hand to heaven, I

swear by that mother, whom you left to writhe alone upon her dying bed,

that I will not touch one dollar of the Van Huyden estate!"

The Legate, that is to say, Gulian Van Huyden, was crushed by these

words; they fell upon him like a sentence of death.

"My son! my son!" he gasped, "spare me!"

"'Son' and 'father,' are words easily spoken," continued Nameless.

"Have you been a father to me? It would be very striking, and

altogether like the fifth act of a melodrama, no doubt, for me

to overlook your twenty-one years of silence, and with love and

tears consent to be your heir. But you have not been my father. My

father,--the father of my soul,--Cornelius Berman, lies a corpse

to-night. I forgive you, father, but I cannot _forget_, for I am not

the Savior; I am simply a man--"

"Have you no mercy?" faltered the Legate, who stood in the presence of

his son like a criminal before his judge. "Do you not know your words

are killing me?"

But Carl Raphael, as though all that was dark in his own life, all that

was dark in his mother's death-hour, held possession of his soul, would

not give his father one chance of justification.

"A man, father, who has known so much suffering, that he now only

desires to forget the real world, in the ideal world created by his

own pencil; who only desires to turn his back upon wealth and all its

hatreds, and win his bread humbly, and away from the world, by the

toil of his hand. Mary!--thou who wast true to me, when I slept in the

coffin,--thou who wast true to me when I was the tenant of a madman's

cell,--Mary! come, let us go."

While the spectators stood like statues,--all, save Randolph, who, with

his face from the light, took no notice of the scene,--he took Mary by

the hand, and moved toward the door.

With one voice, his father, his sister, Martin Fulmer, called him back.

"Carl! Carl! you must not go!"

"My son! my son!"

"Brother!"

He lingered on the threshold, holding his beautiful wife by the hand.

"Father! sister! brave Martin Fulmer! come and see me in my poor man's

home, and I will bless you from my heart for your presence. Come!

come,--but not to tempt me with the offer of wealth; that word spoken,

and we are strangers forever. For my oath is sworn, by the name of my

mother, never to touch one dollar of the Van Huyden estate, and that

oath is written up yonder!"

With these words, Carl Raphael, son of Gulian Van Huyden, and heir of

One Hundred Million Dollars, took Mary by the hand, and passed from the

banquet-hall, and from the house in which, twenty-one years before, his

mother died.

EPILOGUE.

ON THE OCEAN,--BY THE RIVER SHORE,--IN THE VATICAN,--ON THE PRAIRIE.

My task is almost done. This work was commenced in January, 1848,--it

is now June, 1852. Four years that have been of awful moment to the

great world, and that, to many of you my readers, have brought change,

affliction--have stripped you of those whose life was a part of your

life, and made your pathway rich only in graves. Four years! As I am

about to lay aside the pen, and shut the pages of this book, those four

years start up before me, in living shape; they wear familiar faces;

they speak with voices that never shall be heard on earth again.

* * * * *

Before the curtain falls, let us take a glance at the characters of our

history.

Harry Royalton. He did not die under his brother's hands, but returned

to Hill Royal, where he drank, and gambled, and talked "secession,"

until a kindly bullet, from the pistol of an antagonist in a duel,

relieved him of the woes of this life.

Randolph Royalton was never seen in New York, after the 25th of

December, 1844. It is supposed that, aided by Martin Fulmer, he went

abroad, accompanied by his sister, the beautiful Esther.

In January, 1845, Bernard Lynn, completely broken down in health and

appearance, returned, with his daughter, to Europe. He died soon

afterward in Florence. Eleanor, it has been rumored, committed the

moral suicide of burying her life in a convent. But let us hope, that

Eleanor, as well as Esther, will once more appear in active life.

Israel Yorke still flourishes; the devil is good to his children.

Godlike, we believe, is yet upon the stage. And the apostolic Ishmael

Ghoul, still conducts the Daily Blaze, waxing fat and strong, in total

depravity. As for Sleevegammon, his competitor for public favor, he

still see-saws on the tight rope, with Conservatism on one side, and

Progress on the other. Blossom, the policeman, has retired from active

life, and now does a great deal of nothing, for three dollars a day, in

the Custom-House. Dr. Bulgin still thrives; he lately published a book

of 345 pages, as big as his own head almost, against "Socialism." We

have not been informed whether any monument of marble, with an obelisk

and an epitaph, has been erected in memory of the martyred "Bloodhound."

Before we close our task, we will gaze upon four scenes; one of which

took place on the ocean; another, by the shore of Hudson river; a

third, in the Vatican, at Rome; the fourth and last, upon the boundless

prairie.

* * * * *

It was in January, 1845.

One winter night, when the wind was bitter cold in New York, and the

snow lay white upon the hills of the northern land, there was a brave

ship resting motionless upon the ocean, not under a wintery sky, but

under a summer sky, and in an atmosphere soft and bland as June. On her

way from New York to the West Indies, she had been becalmed. She lay

under the starlit sky, with her image mirrored in every detail, upon

the motionless sea. All at once another light than the pale beams of

the stars, flashed over the smooth expanse, and a pyramid of flame rose

grandly into the sky. The ship was on fire; in less than two hours the

flame died away, and in place of the brave ship, there was a blackened

wreck upon the waters. All that escaped from the wreck were six souls;

the captain, three of the crew, and two passengers. Upon a hastily

constructed raft, with but a scanty supply of bread and water, behold

them, as they float alone upon the trackless ocean. For three days,

without a breath of air to fan the smooth expanse, they floated under

a burning sun, in sight of the wreck, and on the evening of the third

day, they shared the last crust of bread, and passed from lip to lip

the last can of water. It was on the evening of the fourth day, that

the captain, a brave old seaman, driven mad by the burning sun and

intolerable thirst, leaped overboard, and died, without a single effort

on the part of his companions to save him. His example was followed by

a sailor, an old tar, who had followed him over half the globe. Thus,

there remained upon the raft four persons; two passengers and two

sailors.

It was the evening of the fifth day,--five days under the burning

sun,--two days and nights without water!

The sun was setting. Like a globe of red hot metal, he hung on the

verge of the horizon, shooting his fiery rays through a thin purple

haze.

The wreck had gone down, and the raft was alone upon the motionless

ocean.

The sailors were seated near each other, on the side of the raft

most remote from the sun,--they were dressed in a coarse shirt and

trowsers,--and with their hands resting on their knees, and their faces

upon their hands, they seemed to have surrendered themselves to their

fate,--that is, to despair and death, by starvation.

The passengers were on the other side of the raft; one of them was a

man of slender form, dressed in dark broadcloth; his head was buried

in his hands, and the setting sun shone on his hair, which, sleek and

brown lay behind his ears. Beside him, in a reclining posture, was the

other passenger, a woman; a woman who had escaped from the burning

vessel in her night-clothes, and who now, with the cloak of the man

spread beneath her, turns her dark eyes hopelessly to the setting sun.

A few days ago, with her proud bosom, and rounded limbs, and dark

eyes flashing from that face, whose clear, brown complexion indicated

her Spanish descent, she was very beautiful. Look at her now. Livid

circles beneath each eye, lips parched, cheeks hollow,--her bosom is

bare,--shrunken from its once voluptuous outline, it trembles with a

faint pulsation. Five days have made terrible havoc of your beauty,

proud Godiva!

The man by her side raises his head from his hands,--in that sallow

face, lack-luster eyes, and hollowed cheeks, can you recognize the

smooth, fair visage of Herman Barnhurst? Alas! Herman, your prospect of

a West Indian paradise, with Godiva for the queen of your houris, is

rather dim just now.

And the sky was above them, the trackless sea all around, the last

rays of the red sun in their faces; and not a sail in sight, Scan the

horizon, Herman, and in vain.

"O! it is horrible to die thus," exclaimed Godiva, in a voice so faint

as to be scarcely audible.

But Herman made no reply.

And as the sailors raised their eyes,--wild and fiery from thirst and

hunger,--the sun went down, and night came at once upon the scene.

"How beautiful they are,--the stars up yonder, Herman!"

Still Herman did not reply.

Godiva, resting one arm upon his knee, fell into a brief slumber,

which was broken by the most incongruous dreams. At length her dreams

resolved themselves into a view of Niagara Falls, that world of waters,

singing its awful hymn as it plunges into the abyss. She saw the cool

water, her face was bathed in the spray, and,--she awoke devoured by

maddening thirst.

Herman had moved from her side; he was on the opposite side of the

raft, talking with the sailors in low tones. And the sailors looked

over their shoulders, with their fiery eyes, as they conversed with

Herman.

Again she fell into a doze,--she was with her father this time, and

Eugene, her first love, by her side. Happy days!--innocent girlhood!

She awoke with a start,--Herman was still with the sailors, conversing

in low tones.

And thus the short night at the tropics wore on. It was near

sunrise, and yet very dark, when Godiva was dreaming--dreaming of

the night when, yet a pure girl, she was joined in marriage to the

brutal sensualist. There was the familiar parlor,--the white-haired

father,--the clergyman,--her profligate husband. And the husband bore

her again over the threshold, she struggling in his loathed embrace.

In the struggle she awoke,--sunrise was warm and bright upon the

waters,--and a fresh breeze fanned her burning cheek. Over her stood

Herman, his right hand upraised,--the knife which it grasped glittering

in the sun.

"The lot has fallen on me!" he cried.

"Herman!" she shrieked--and spread forth her hands. Too late! The knife

was buried in her bosom.

"Woman you must die to save our lives!"

Godiva never saw anything in this world, after that blow, which was

followed by a stream of blood.

"Come! Let us drink!" shouted Herman to the sailors, his eyes rolling

all wild and mad.

Only one of the sailors came and joined him, in that loathsome

draught. In the sunken features of the poor wretch, you but faintly

recognize--Arthur Conroy.

The third sailor, rose trembling to his feet,--his cheeks hollowed and

his eyes sunken like the others. He folded his arms, and surveyed the

three,--the body of Godiva, with Herman and Conroy bending over her.

And then the third sailor, with his great eyes flashing in their

sockets, burst into a maniac laugh, and cried,--"A sail! A sail!"

The third sailor was Arthur Dermoyne.

Loathsome as was the draught which they took, it assuaged their thirst,

and for a time stilled the madness in their veins. It was, therefore,

with a vision somewhat clear, that Herman and Conroy looked up, and

beheld a white sail breaking the monotony of the waste.

They turned from the body of the dead woman with loathing. * * * The

sail grew nearer, nearer! A signal! "They are lowering a boat," cried

Herman, "we shall be saved!"

"This is the very time of all others that I wished to see," said

Dermoyne, in that husky and unnatural voice,--"your hands are stained

with the blood of your paramour,--your heart beats with joy at the

sight of a sail,--now go!" And he pushed Herman from the raft, and

struck him on the hands, with the hilt of the knife, as the miserable

man clutched the timbers.

"Mercy!" cried Herman, again clutching the raft.

Again Dermoyne struck his hands with the hilt of the knife.

"Go! Alice waits for you!"

When the boat from the ship came up, the crew found two men stretched

insensible upon the raft, beside the body of a dead woman. As for

Herman, he had sunk from sight.

* * * * *

It was June, in the year 1848--

The flush of the summer evening, lay broad and warm upon the river,

when an old man came from the cottage door, and passing through the

garden gate, bent his steps toward the oak, which, standing by the

shore, caught upon its rugged trunk and wide-branching limbs, the

golden rays of the setting sun.

He stood there, with uncovered brow, the breeze tossing his snow-white

hairs, and the evening flush warming over his venerable face. By his

side, grasping his hand, was a boy of some three years, with a glad,

happy face, and sunny hair.

Before the old man and child spread the river, warm with golden light,

and white with sails. Yonder the palisades rose up into the evening

sky; and behind them, was the cottage, leaning against the cliff, with

boughs above its steep roof, vines about its pointed windows, and

before its door a garden, from whose beds of flowers a cool fountain

sent up its drops of spray, into the evening air. The cottage of

Cornelius Berman, just as it was in other days.

Presently the father and the mother of the child came from the garden

gate, and approached the oak. A man of twenty-five years, with head

placed firmly on his shoulders, and a face whose clear gray eyes,

and forehead shaded by brown hair, indicate the artist, the man of

genius,--a woman who may be seventeen, who may be twenty, but whose

rounded form and pure _wifely_ face, link together the freshness of the

maiden, the ripe maturity of the woman.

Beside the young wife, walks a young woman, whose form is not so full

and rounded in its beauty, but whose pale face, tinted with bloom on

the lips and cheek, is lighted by eyes that gleam with a sad, spiritual

light. Altogether, a face that touches you with its melancholy beauty,

and compares with the face of the wife, as a calm starlit night, with a

rosy summer morn.

It is Carl Raphael, his wife, Mary, and his sister, now called Alice,

who come to join old Martin Fulmer on the river bank. Declining to

touch one dollar of the Van Huyden estate, and determined to earn his

bread by the toil of his hand, Carl still had fortune thrust upon

him,--for Mary was the only heir of the merchant prince, Evelyn Somers.

"Doctor, I have a letter from father, who is now in Rome," said Carl,

as he stood by: the old man's side,--and he placed the letter from his

father, the Legate, in Martin Fulmer's hand.

Martin seized the letter, and reading it eagerly, his eye brightening

up with the light of the olden time--

"Ah, Carl, he will soon return, he will at last relieve me of the care

of the Van Huyden estate! See how hopefully he speaks of the cause

of humanity in Europe,--in February, the people of France cast off

their chains,--now Italy is awake, and men with the soul of Rienzi and

the sword of Washington, direct her destinies,--the Pope, soon to be

stripped of his temporal power, will be no longer the tool of brutal

tyrants, the prisoner of atheist cardinals, but simply the Head of

a regenerated people, simply the first Priest of a redeemed church.

Glorious news, Carl; glorious news for us, in this free land; for

say what we will, Rome is a heart which never throbs, but that its

pulsations are felt throughout the world."

"How can Rome directly affect us, Doctor?"

"If the absolutist party in that church,--the party who regard Christ

but as their stepping-stone to unrestrained and brutal power,--obtain

the mastery, then, Carl, the last battle between that party and

humanity, will be fought not in Europe, but in this New World. Is there

a hill in this land, but is trod by a soldier of Rome? But if the party

of Progress in that church,--the party who believe in Christ, and hold

the Gospels as the inspired text-book of Democratic truth,--obtain the

ascendancy, then, instead of having to battle with the Catholic Church,

in this New World, the friends of humanity will find in it, their

strongest ally. Good news, Carl! The Pope, the Washington of Italy!"

To which Carl,--happy in that little world of his own, where he lived

with his wife and child, afar from the great world,--said simply:--

"Martin, let us wait and see."

* * * * *

Some months after the conversation just recorded, a very brief scene,

but full of interest took place in Rome.

Let us pass for a little while from the Empire City to the Eternal City.

In one of the chambers of the Vatican, late at night, a lamp was

faintly burning, its rays struggling among the thick shadows which

hung about the lofty walls. Through an open window came a dim, ominous

murmur,--the voice of the arisen people of Rome.

A man of some fifty years, whose black hair was plentifully sprinkled

with gray, paced up and down the marble floor, pausing every now and

then before a door, in the center of the chamber, to which he directed

his earnest gaze. Behind that door was the majesty of the Roman Church,

'the representative of God on earth'--the Pope of Rome.

And the solitary watcher, dressed in the plain garb of a simple

ecclesiastic, was the Legate who had done the bidding of the Pontiff

over half the globe,--the Legate, Gulian Van Huyden.

"Will he turn his back upon the people, and cast himself into the hands

of the tyrants? Will he, after his hand has grasped the plow of Human

Progress, falter and turn back, and give the power of the church into

the hands of the Iscariots of the human race? Can there be any truth in

the rumor?"

And again he paused before the door, behind which was the chamber which

held the sovereign Pontiff.

That door opened,--the Pope appeared. Clad not in the gorgeous costume

which he wears, when high upon his throne, he is carried by his guards,

through thousands and tens of thousands of his kneeling worshipers; but

clad in a loose robe or gown of dark silk, which, thrown open in front,

discloses his bared neck and disordered attire. For with his mild

countenance,--a countenance marked by irresolution,--displaying every

sign of perturbation, this "representative of God on earth," wears very

much the air of one who is about to fly from a falling house.

"There can be no truth in this rumor, which I hear," and the Legate

steps forward almost fiercely, addressing the Pope without one word of

"majesty," or "holiness,"--"this rumor of flight?"

It is in a soft and tremulous voice, (in Italian of course,) the Pope

replies,--

"If I stay, poison threatens me from _above_, the _dagger_ from

_below_."

And then with a gesture, supplicating silence and secrecy on the part

of the Legate, the Pope retires and closes the door.

"Significant words! Poison threatens him from above,--from the

cardinals,--the dagger from below,--from the people. The danger from

the cardinals is not imaginary--there was once a Pope named Ganganelli,

who suppressed the Jesuits, and in less than three months died horribly

of poison. But the people, Pius? O, Pope without nerve, without faith

in God, without hope in man, know you not, that were you to fulfill

your apostolate of Liberty, the very women and children of Rome would,

in your defense, build around you a rampart of their dead bodies?"

He walked to the window, up to which from the sleepless city, came the

voices of arisen Rome:

"God help the Roman people!" he exclaimed; "God confound the schemes

of the tyrants, who now plot the murder of the Roman people! At last,

after five hundred years of wrong, the Nightmare of Priesthood is

lifted from the breast of Italy. Italy has heard at last, the voice of

God, calling upon her sons to arise--to cast these priestly idlers from

their thrones--to assert the Democracy of the Gospel in face of tyrants

of all shapes, whether dressed in military gear, in solemn black, or in

Borgian scarlet. Italy has risen!"

And turning from the window, he paced the floor again,--

"My work is done in Rome. The Pope and the church in the hands of

crowned and mitred miscreants, who having crushed the last spark of

liberty in the Old World, will not be long ere they open their trenches

before her last altar in the New World! Away to the New World then; if

the battle must come, let us, let the friends of humanity, strike the

first blow!"

* * * * *

Away from the eternal city,--to the New World,--to the boundless

horizon and ocean-like expanse of the prairies. The sun is setting over

one of those vast prairies, which stretch between the Mississippi and

the Rocky Mountains. The monotony of that vast expanse, covered with

grass that rolls and swells, like the wave of old ocean, is broken by

a gentle knoll, crowned by a single giant oak. The setting sun flings

the shadow of that solitary tree, black and long, over the prairie.

Far, far in the west, a white peak rises like an altar from the

horizon, into the sky--it is a peak of the Rocky Mountains. And gazing

to the east, you behold nothing save the prairie and the sky,--yes! a

herd of buffalo are grazing yonder, and a long caravan of wagons, drawn

by mules, and flanked by armed men who ride or go afoot, winds like an

immense serpent, far over the plain.

Three hundred emigrants, mechanics, their wives and little ones, who

have left the savage civilization of the Atlantic cities, for a free

home beyond the Rocky Mountains--such is the band which now moves on in

the light of the fading day.

The leader of the band, a man in the prime of young manhood, dressed in

the garb of a hunter, with a rifle on his shoulder, stands beneath the

solitary oak, gazing upon the caravan as it comes on. His face bears

traces of much thought,--perchance of many a dark hour,--but now his

eyes shine clear and strong, with the enthusiasm which springs from

deep convictions:

"Thus far toward freedom! Here they come,--three hundred serfs of the

Atlantic cities, rescued from poverty, from wages-slavery, from the war

of competition, from the grip of the landlord! Thus far toward a soil

which they can call their own; thus far toward a free home. And thou,

O! Christ, who didst live and die, so that all men might be brothers,

bless us, and be with us, and march by our side, in this our exodus."

The speaker was the Socialist,--Arthur Dermoyne.

And let us all, as we survey the masses of the human race, attempting

their exodus from thraldom of all kinds,--of the body,--of the

soul,--from the tyranny which crushes man by the iron hand of brute

force, or slowly kills him by the lawful operation of capital,

labor-saving machinery, or monied enterprise,--let us, too, send up our

prayer, "O! THOU of Nazareth, go with the People in this their exodus,

dwell with them in their tents, beacon with light, their hard way to

the Promised Land!"

THE END.