_In which is enacted a bloody tragedy._
I began to observe with considerable uneasiness, that Mr. Romaine
stealthily regarded his wife with looks of intense hatred and malignant
ferocity; then he would transfer his gaze from her to Mr. Anderson, who
was altogether unconscious of the scrutiny. My employer was usually a
very quiet man, but I knew that his passions were very violent, and
that, when once thoroughly aroused, he was capable of perpetrating
almost any act of savage vengeance. I began to fear that he suspected
the intimacy which existed between his adulterous wife and her paramour.
By the way it may be as well to remark that I had never told either
Anderson or Mrs. Romaine of the intrigue between Mr. Romaine and the
widow, Mrs. Raymond; and it is scarcely necessary to observe that I was
equally discreet in withholding from my employer and his "ladye love"
all knowledge of the state of affairs between the other parties.
I communicated my fears to Mr. Anderson, but he laughed at them saying--
"Nonsense, my dear boy--why should Romaine suspect anything of the kind?
I and Harriet (Mrs. Romaine) have always been very discreet and careful.
Our intimacy began three or four years ago; and as it has lasted that
length of time without discovery, it is scarcely likely to be detected
_now_. You are quite sure that you have given Romaine no hint of the
affair?"
"Do you think me capable of such base treachery?" I demanded, with an
offended air.
"Forgive me," said Anderson, "I did wrong to doubt you. Believe me, your
fears are groundless; however, I thank you for the caution, and shall
hereafter exercise additional care, so as to prevent the possibility of
discovery. Here is a ticket for the opera to-night; when you return,
which will be about midnight, come to Harriet's room, and we three will
sup like two kings and a queen."
Having dressed myself with unusual care, I went to the opera. While
listening to the divine strains of a celebrated _prima donna_, my
attention was attracted by a group occupying one of the most conspicuous
boxes. This group consisted of a youth apparently about my own age, and
two showy looking females whose dresses were cut so low as to reveal
much more of their busts than decency could sanction, even among an
opera audience. There could be no doubt as to the character of these two
women. I examined their youthful cavalier with attention; and soon
recognized my _quondum_ friend and pitcher--JACK SLACK. Jack was
magnificently dressed, and his appearance was truly superb. The most
fastidious Parisian exquisite--even the great Count D'Orsay himself
might have envied him the arrangement of his hair, the tie of his
cravat, the spotlessness of his white kids. He flourished a glittering,
jeweled _lorgnette_, and the way the fellow put on "French airs" must
have been a caution to the proudest scion of aristocracy in the house.
After a little while Jack saw me; and, having taken a good long stare at
me through his opera-glass, he beckoned me to come to him, at the same
time pointing significantly at one of his "lady" companions, as if to
intimate that she was entirely at my disposal. But I shook my head, and
did not stir, for I had no desire to resume my acquaintance with that
fascinating but mysterious youth. Perhaps I entertained a presentiment
that he was destined to become, to both of us, the cause of a great
misfortune.
Jack looked angry and disappointed, at my refusal to accept of his
hospitable invitation. He directed the attention of his women towards
me, and I saw that they were attempting to titter and sneer at my
expense;--but the effort was a total failure, for there was not a
better-dressed person in the house than I was. Having honored the
envious party with a smile of scorn,--which, I flattered myself, was
perfectly successful,--I turned towards the stage, and did not indulge
in another look at Jack or his friends during the remainder of the
opera. I am convinced that from that hour, Jack Slack became my mortal
foe.
At the conclusion of the performances, I left the house and saw Jack
getting into a carriage with the two courtezans. He observed me, and
uttered a decisive shout, to which I paid no attention, but hurried
home, anxious to make one of the little party in the apartment of Mrs.
Romaine, and quite ready to partake of the delicacies which, I knew,
would be provided.
On my arrival home, I immediately repaired to Mrs. Romaine's private
room, where I found that good lady in company with Mr. Anderson. We
three sat down to supper in the highest possible spirits. Alas! how
little did we anticipate the terrible catastrophe that was so soon to
follow!
The more substantial portion of the banquet having been disposed of, the
sparkling wine-cup was circulated freely, and we became very gay and
jovial. Unrestrained by my presence, and exhilarated by the rosy
beverage of jolly Bacchus, the lovers indulged in many little acts of
tender dalliance. Always making it a point to mind my own business, I
applied myself diligently to the bottle, for the wine was excellent and
the sardines had made me thirsty. I had just lighted a cigar, and was
resigning myself to the luxurious and deliciously soothing influence of
the weed, when the door was thrown violently open, and Mr. Romaine
rushed into the room.
His appearance was frightful! his face was dreadfully pale, and his eyes
glared with the combined fires of jealousy and rage. Intense excitement
caused him to quiver in every limb. In one hand he grasped a pistol, and
in the other a bowie knife of the largest and most formidable kind.
It was but too evident that my fears had been well founded, and that Mr.
Romaine had discovered the intimacy between Anderson and his wife.
The reader will agree with me that the "injured husband" was equally
culpable on account of his intrigue with the young and handsome widow,
Mrs. Raymond.--How prone are many people to lose sight of their own
imperfections while they censure and severely punish the failings of
those who are not a whit more guilty than themselves! The swinish
glutton condemns the drunkard--the villainous seducer reproves the
frequenter of brothels--the arch hypocrite takes to task the open,
undisguised sinner--and the rich, miserly old reprobate, whose wealth
places him above the possibility of ever coming to want, who would
sooner "hang the guiltless than eat his mutton cold," and who would not
bestow a cent upon a poor devil to keep him from starving--that old
rascal, perhaps, in his capacity as a magistrate, sentences to jail an
unfortunate man whom hunger has driven into the "crime" of stealing a
loaf of bread! Bah! ladies and gentlemen, take the _beams_ out of your
own eyes before you allude to the _motes_ in the optics of your fellow
beings. That's _my_ advice, free of charge.
On seeing her husband enter in that furious and threatening manner, Mrs.
Romaine, overcome with fear and shame--for she well knew that her guilt
had been detected--fell to the floor insensible. Anderson, confused and
not knowing what to say, sat motionless as a statue;--while I awaited,
with almost trembling anxiety, the issue of this most extraordinary
state of affairs.
Romaine was the first to break the silence, and he spoke in a tone of
voice that was singularly calm considering his physical agitation.
"Well, sir," said he, addressing Anderson--"you are enjoying yourself
finely--drinking my wine, devouring my provisions, and making love to my
wife in her own bed-chamber. Anderson, for some time past I have
suspected you and Harriet of being guilty of criminal intimacy. I have
noticed your secret signs, and have read and interpreted the language of
your eyes, whenever you and she have exchanged glances in my presence.
You both took me to be a weak fool, too blind and imbecile to detect
your adulterous intercourse; but I have now come to convince you that I
am a man capable of avenging his ruined conjugal honor!"
Anderson, recovering some degree of his usual self-possession, remarked,
"Your accusation, sir, is unjust. Your wife and myself are friends, and
nothing more. She invited me to sup with her here to-night and that is
all about it. If our intentions were criminal, would we have courted the
presence of a third party?"
With these words, Anderson pointed towards me, but Romaine, without
observing me at all, continued to address the paramour of his wife.
"Anderson, you are a liar, and the falsehoods which you have uttered,
only serve to increase your guilt, and confirm me in my resolution to
sacrifice both you and that guilty woman who lies yonder. Can I
disbelieve the evidence of my own eyes? Must I go into particulars, and
say that last night, at about this hour, in the kitchen--ha! you turn
pale--you tremble--your guilt is confessed. I would have killed you last
night, Anderson, but I had not the weapons. This knife and pistol I
purchased to-day, _and I shall use them_!
"Try and revive that _harlot_, for I would speak with her ere she dies!"
Anderson mechanically obeyed. Placing the insensible form of Mrs.
Romaine upon a sofa, he sprinkled water upon her face, and she was soon
restored to a state of consciousness. For a few moments she gazed about
her wildly; and then, when her eyes settled upon her husband, and she
saw the terrible weapons with which he was armed, she covered her face
with her hands and trembled in an agony of terror, for she knew that her
life was in the greatest possible danger.
Romaine now addressed his wife in a tone of calmness which was, under
the circumstances, far more terrible than the most violent outburst of
passion:
"Harriet," said he--"I now fully comprehend your reasons for requesting
to be allowed to occupy a separate apartment. You desired an opportunity
to gratify your licentious propensities without any restraint. Woman,
why have you used me thus? Have I deserved this infamous treatment? Have
I ever used you unkindly, or spoken a harsh word to you? Do you think
that I will tamely wear the horns which you and your paramour have
planted upon my brow? Do you think that I will suffer myself to be made
an object of scorn, and allow myself to be pointed at and ridiculed by a
sneering community?"
"Forgive me," murmured the unhappy wife--"I will not offend again. I
acknowledge that I have committed a grievous sin; but Heaven only knows
how sincerely I repent of it!"
"Your repentance comes too late," said Romaine, hoarsely--"Heaven may
forgive you, but _I_ shall not! You say that you will not offend again.
Having forever destroyed my happiness, my peace of mind, and my honor,
_you will not offend again_! You shall not have the opportunity,
wretched woman. You shall no longer survive your infamy. You and the
partner of your guilt must die!"
With these words, Romaine cocked his pistol and approached his wife,
saying, in a low, savage tone that evinced the desperate purpose of his
heart--
"Take your choice, madam; do you prefer to die by _lead_ or by _steel_?"
The miserable woman threw herself upon her knees, exclaiming--
"Mercy, husband--mercy! Do not kill me, for I am not prepared to die!"
"You call me husband _now_--you, who have so long refused to receive me
as a husband. Come--I am impatient to shed your blood, and that of your
paramour. Breathe a short prayer to Heaven, for mercy and forgiveness,
and then resign your body to death and your soul to eternity!"
So saying the desperate and half-crazy man raised on high the glittering
knife. Poor Mrs. Romaine uttered a shriek, and, before she could repeat
it, the knife descended with the swiftness of lightning, and penetrated
her heart. Her blood spouted all over her white dress, and she sank down
at the murderer's feet, a lifeless corpse!
Paralyzed with horror, I could neither move nor speak. Anderson also
stood motionless, like a bird which is subjected to the fascinating gaze
of a serpent. Notwithstanding the terrible danger in which he was
placed, he seemed to be rooted to the spot and incapable of making a
single effort to save himself by either resistance or flight.
The scene was most extraordinary, thrilling and awful. The luxurious
chamber--the failing lamp--the murderer, holding in his hand the bloody
knife--the doomed Anderson, whose soul was quivering on the brink of the
dread abyss of eternity; all these combined to form a spectacle of the
most strange and appalling character.
Romaine now raised his pistol and took deliberate aim at Anderson,
saying,
"My work is but half done; it is _your_ turn now! Are you ready?"
"Do not shoot me like a dog," implored the unfortunate young man, who,
to do him justice, possessed a considerable amount of courage--"give me,
at least, _some_ chance for my life. If I have wronged you, and I
candidly confess that I have, I am ready to give you the satisfaction of
a gentleman. Give me a pistol, place me upon an equal footing with
yourself, and we will settle the matter as becomes men of honor. This
boy, here, will be a witness of the affair."
To this proposition, Romaine scornfully replied,
"I admire your assurance, sir.--After seducing the wife, you want a
chance to shoot the husband. Well, as I am an accommodating man, it
shall be as you say, for I am sick of life and care not if I am killed.
But I have no other pistol. Stay!--suppose we _toss up_ a coin, and thus
decide which of us shall have this weapon, with the privilege of using
it. Here is a quarter of a dollar; I will throw it up in the air, and
when it falls upon the floor, if the _head_ is uppermost, the pistol is
_mine_; but if the _tail_ is uppermost, the pistol shall be _yours_. I
warn you that if I win, I shall show you no mercy; and, if you win, I
shall expect none from you. Do you agree to this?"
"I do," replied Anderson, firmly, "and I thank you for your fairness."
Romaine threw up the coin, which spun around in the air and landed upon
the carpet. How strange that it should have become the province of that
insignificant coin to decide which of those two men must die!
Romaine calmly took the dim lamp from the table, and knelt down upon the
carpet in a pool of his wife's blood.
"Watch me closely, and see that I do not touch the coin," said he, as he
bent eagerly over the life-deciding quarter of a dollar.
How my heart beat at that moment, and what must have been the sensation
of poor Anderson!
"_The head is uppermost, and I have won!_" said Romaine, in a hoarse
whisper--"come and see for yourself."
"I am satisfied, your word is sufficient," said Anderson, with a
shudder, as he folded his arms across his breast and seemed to abandon
himself to profound despair.
Romaine's pale face assumed an expression of savage delight, as he
raised the pistol and pointed it at the head of his intended victim,
saying--
"Then, sir, nothing remains but for me to avail myself of the favor
which fortune has conferred upon me. Young man, in five seconds I shall
fire!"
"Hold!" cried Anderson, "I have a favor to ask, which I am sure you will
not refuse to grant me. Before I die, let me write a couple of letters,
and make a few notes of the manner in which I wish my property to be
disposed of. It is the last request of a dying man."
"It is granted," said Romaine, "there, upon that _escritoire_, are
writing materials. But make haste, for I am impatient to finish this
disagreeable business."
Anderson sat down, and began to write rapidly. I longed to rush out and
give the alarm, so that the impending tragedy might be averted; but I
feared that any movement on my part might result in the passage of a
bullet through my brain, and therefore I remained quiet, for which I am
sure, no sensible reader will blame me.
Poor Anderson! tears gushed from his eyes and streamed down his cheeks
while he was writing one of the letters, which, as I afterwards
ascertained, was addressed to a young lady to whom he was engaged to be
married. He wrote two letters, folded, sealed and directed them; these
he handed to me, saying--
"Have the kindness to deliver these letters to the persons to whom they
are addressed. Will you faithfully promise to do this?"
I promised, of course; he shook hands with me, and bade me farewell;
then, calmly turning towards Romaine, he announced his readiness to die.
Up to that moment, I had tried to persuade myself that Anderson's life
would be spared, thinking that Romaine must have had enough of blood
after slaying his wife in that barbarous manner. But I was doomed to be
terribly disappointed. Scarcely had Anderson muttered the words, "I am
ready to die," when Romaine pulled the trigger of the upraised pistol,
and the young merchant fell dead upon the floor, the bullet having
penetrated his brain.
"Now I am satisfied, for I have had my revenge," said the murderer,
coolly, as he wiped the perspiration from his pallid brow.
"Blood-thirsty villain!" exclaimed I, unable longer to restrain my
indignation--"you will swing upon the gallows for this night's work!"
"Not so," rejoined Romaine, calmly, "for I do not intend to survive this
wholesale butchery, and did not, from the first. I was determined that
Anderson should die, at all events. _He won the pistol_, for the coin
fell with the tail uppermost. Had he stooped to examine it, I would have
blown out his brains, just the same. But hark! the boarders and inmates
of the house have been aroused by the report of the pistol, and they are
hastening here. The gallows--no, no, I must avoid _that_! They shall not
take me alive. Now, may heaven have mercy upon my guilty soul!"
With these words the unhappy man seized the Bowie knife and plunged it
into his heart, thus adding the crime of suicide to the two atrocious
murders which he had just committed.
Scarcely had this crowning point of the fearful tragedy been enacted,
when a crowd of people, half-dressed and excited, rushed into the room.
Among them was the beautiful widow, Mrs. Raymond. On seeing the bleeding
corpse of Romaine stretched upon the floor, she gave utterance to a
piercing scream and fell down insensible.
In the horror and confusion that prevailed, I was unnoticed. I
determined to leave the house, never to return, for I dreaded being
brought before the public, as a witness, being a great hater of
notoriety in any shape. (The reader may smile at this last remark; but I
assure him, or her, that my frequent appearance before the public as a
writer, has been the result of necessity--not of inclination.)
Accordingly, I left the house unobserved, and took lodgings for the
remainder of the night at a hotel. But sleep visited me not, for my mind
was too deeply engrossed with the bloody scenes which I had witnessed,
to suffer the approach of "tired nature's sweet restorer." In the
morning I arose early, and investigated the condition of my finances.
The result of this examination was highly satisfactory, for I found that
I was the possessor of a considerable sum of money.
I walked about the city until noon, uncertain how to act. I felt a
strong disposition to travel, and see the world;--but I could not make
up my mind in what direction to go. After a sumptuous dinner at Sandy
Welch's "Terrapin Lunch,"--one of the most famous _restaurants_ of the
day--I indulged in a contemplative walk up Broadway. Such thoughts as
these ran through my mind:--"I cannot help contrasting my present
situation with the position I was in, three years ago. Then I was almost
penniless, and gladly breakfasted on dry bread at a street pump; now I
have three hundred dollars in my pocket, and have just dined like an
epicurean prince. Then I was clad in garments that were coarse and
cheap; now I am dressed in the finest raiment that money could procure.
Then I had no trade; now I have a profession which will be to me an
unfailing means of support. But, alas! then I was comparatively
innocent, and ignorant of the wicked ways of the world; now, although
only fifteen years of age, I am too thoroughly posted up on all the
mysteries of city follies and vices. No matter: there's nothing like
experience, after all."
Comforting myself with this philosophical reflection, I strolled on. A
newsboy came along, bawling out, at the top of his voice--"Here's the
extra _Sun_, with a full account of the two murders and suicide in
William street last night--only one cent!" Of course I purchased a copy;
and, upon perusing the account, I could not help smiling at the
ludicrous and absurd exaggerations which it contained. It was a perfect
modern tragedy of _Othello_, with Romaine as the Moor, Mrs. Romaine as
Desdemona, and Anderson as a sort of cross between Iago and Michael
Cassio. I was not alluded to in any way whatever, which caused me to
rejoice exceedingly.[D]
Suddenly remembering the two letters which had been confided to my care
by the unfortunate Anderson, I resolved to deliver them immediately. One
was directed to a Mr. Sargent, in Pine street. I soon found the place,
which was a large mercantile establishment. Over the door was the sign
"_Anderson & Sargent_." This had been poor Anderson's place of business,
and Sargent had been his partner. I entered, found Mr. Sargent in the
counting-room, and delivered to him the letter. He opened it, read it
through coolly, shrugged his shoulders, and said--
"I have already been made acquainted with the full particulars of this
melancholy affair. Anderson was a clever fellow, and I'm sorry he's
gone, although his death will certainly promote my interests. He gives
me, in this letter, every necessary instruction as to the disposition of
his property, and he also directs me to present you with the sum of two
hundred dollars, both as an acknowledgement of your services and as a
token of his friendship. I will fill out a check for the amount
immediately."
This instance of Anderson's kindness and generosity, almost at the very
moment of his death, deeply affected me; and, at the same time, I could
not help feeling disgusted with the heartlessness displayed by Sargent,
who regarded the tragical death of his partner merely as an event
calculated to advance his own interests.
Having received the check, I withdrew from the august presence of Mr.
Sargent, who was a tall, thin, hook-nosed personage, of unwholesome
aspect and abrupt manners. I drew the money at the bank, and then
hastened to deliver the other letter, which was addressed to Miss Grace
Arlington, whose residence was designated as being situated in one of
the fashionable squares up-town. I had no difficulty in finding the
house, which was of the most elegant and aristocratic appearance. My
appeal to the doorbell was responded to by a smart-looking female
domestic, who, on learning my errand, ushered me into the presence of
her mistress. Miss Grace Arlington was a very lovely and delicate young
lady, whose soft eyes beamed with tenderness and sensibility, whose
voice was as sweet as the music of an angel's harp, while her step was
as light as the tread of a fairy whose tiny feet will not crush the
leaves of a rose. When I handed her the letter, and she recognized the
well known handwriting, she bestowed upon me a winning and grateful
smile which I shall never forget. My heart misgave me as she opened the
missive, for I could well divine its contents; and I almost reproached
myself for being the messenger of such evil tidings. I watched her
closely as she read. She was naturally somewhat pale, but I saw her face
grow ghastly white before she had read two lines. When she had finished
the perusal of the fatal letter, she pressed her hand upon her breast,
murmured "Oh God!" and would have fallen to the floor if I had not
caught her in my arms.
"Curses on my stupidity!" I muttered, as I placed her insensible form
upon a sofa--"I ought to have prepared her gradually for the terrible
announcement which I knew that letter to contain!"
I rang the bell furiously, and the almost deafening summons was answered
by half-a-dozen female servants, who, on seeing the condition of their
young Mistress, set up a loud chorus of screams. The uproar brought Mr.
Arlington, the father of the young lady, to the scene. He was a
fine-looking old gentleman, a retired merchant and a _millionaire_. I
hastened to explain to him all that had occurred, and Anderson's letter,
which lay upon the floor, confirmed my statements. Mr. Arlington was
horror-struck, for he, as well as his daughter, had until that moment
been in happy ignorance of the bloody affair. The old gentleman had
first established Anderson in business, and he had always cherished for
that unfortunate young man the warmest friendship. No wonder, then, that
he was overpowered when he became aware of the tragical end of him whom
he had expected so shortly to become his son-in-law.
A celebrated physician, who resided next door, was sent for. He happened
to be at home, and arrived almost instantly. He knelt down beside the
broken-hearted girl, and, as his fingers touched her wrist, a look of
profound grief settled upon his benevolent face.
"Well, Doctor," exclaimed Mr. Arlington, breathlessly, "what is the
matter with my child? She will recover soon, will she not? It is merely
a fainting fit produced by the reception of unwelcome news."
"Alas, sir!" replied the Doctor, in a tone of deep sympathy, as he
brushed away the tears from his eyes--"I may as well tell you the
melancholy truth at once. The sudden shock caused by the unwelcome news
you speak of, has proved fatal; your daughter is dead!"
Poor old Arlington staggered to a seat, covered his face with his hands,
and moaned in the agony of his spirits. Notwithstanding all his wealth,
how I pitied him!
Seeing that I could be of no service whatever, I left the house of
mourning and walked down town in a very thoughtful mood. I had already
begun to enter upon an experience such as few youths of fifteen are ever
called upon to encounter; and I wondered what the dim, uncertain Future
had in store for me.
However, as the reader will see in the next chapter, I did not long
suffer my mind to be intruded upon by melancholy reflections.
FOOTNOTES:
[D] Many of my New York readers will remember the "William Street
Tragedy," to which I have alluded. The bloody event created the most
intense excitement at the time of its occurrence. Having witnessed the
horrible affair, I have truly related all the facts concerning it.