THE TIGER IN HIS DEN.
IT was a small room, in one of those mysterious hotels in the narrow
streets near the Battery, which appear to be usually appropriated to
foreigners, and about which dark-whiskered, sallow-faced individuals may
be seen lingering at all hours of the day, their very faded, seedy
appearance calling up images of duns, scant dinners, and a whole train
of petty evils.
The chamber was small, but not uncomfortably furnished, though the
articles had originally been of the tawdry fashion which such places
affect, and had probably not been new by several stages when first
established there.
The remains of a fire smouldered in the little grate, but the ashes were
strewn over the hearth. The torn and frayed carpet was littered with
loose cards, and the whole apartment was in hopeless confusion which
added greatly to its original discomfort.
In the centre of the room was a small table covered with empty champagne
bottles and glasses, standing in half dried puddles of wine, with a
bronze receiver overflowing with cigar ashes all huddled untidily
together, and giving repulsive evidence of a long night of dissipation.
The low bedstead had its moth-eaten, miserable attempt at a canopy swept
back and heaped carelessly on the dirty counterpane by a man in a
restless slumber, just as he had thrown himself down, ready dressed,
long after daylight peered in through the broken shutters.
His appearance was in keeping with the room; a soiled dressing-gown,
that had once been very elegant, was wrapt carelessly about him; his
black hair streamed over the pillow, and gave an almost ghastly effect
to his face, as he lay in that troubled dream, already pale and worn
from many sleepless nights.
It was a handsome face, but one from which a physiognomist would have
shrunk, had he seen it in its hard truthfulness, without a gleam of the
fascination which it was capable of expressing in guarded moments and
under more fortunate circumstances.
The sleeper was on the sunny side of mid-age, but his countenance was
one of those which carries no idea of youth with it, even in early
boyhood it was so marked by craft and recklessness that nothing of the
_abandon_ of fresh feeling ever left an imprint there.
It was nearly noon, but he had not stirred or opened his eyes; once or
twice the dilapidated chambermaid, who performed a slatternly duty in
that part of the building, opened the door and peeped in, but her
entrance had not served to arouse him, and she knew better than to
venture upon any further attempt.
Suddenly he woke from a troubled dream and looked about him.
"I dreamed they were railing me up in a coffin," he muttered; "pah, how
plainly I heard them driving in the nails!"
He turned upon his pillow with a shuddering oath, but that instant there
came a knock at the door, this time quick and impatient--it was the
first summons which had caused him that unquiet vision.
"Come in," he called out; "the door isn't locked."
The man raised himself indolently on the bed and looked towards the
door--it opened slowly and a woman entered the room.
Her face was concealed under a heavy veil, but the man seemed to
recognize her at once, for he started up and gave a muttered execration
as he caught sight of his untidy appearance in the little mirror.
Then he hurried towards his visitor, who had closed the door and stood
leaning against it.
"You have come," he exclaimed; "so kind of you--excuse the disorder
here--I did not know it was so late."
He held out his hand with a smile, but she turned away with a gesture of
abhorrence which had no effect upon him save that it deepened the smile
to an ugly sneer.
She threw back the long veil and displayed her face--the visitor was
Elizabeth Mellen.
"Pray be seated," he went on, placing a chair near the hearth; "this
room looks dreadful, but I was up late and overslept myself--had I
dreamed you would favor me with so early a visit, I should have been
prepared."
She glanced at the table, which bore evidence of the manner in which the
night had been passed, and said abruptly, pointing towards the cards
scattered on the carpet:
"Did those things keep you wakeful?"
He smiled complacently.
"Nothing ever escapes your eye, dear lady. Well, I won't deny the
fact--we were playing cards a little. I was not absolutely fortunate,"
he answered, with another disagreeable smile; "but you know the old
proverb--'Lucky in love, unlucky at cards,' so I never expect much from
the mischievous paste-boards."
Her face flushed painfully to the very waves of her hair, then grew
whiter than before; she sank to a seat from positive inability to stand.
"I have brought you no money," she said, abruptly, looking in his face
with sudden defiance.
His brows contracted in an ugly frown, though his lips still retained
its smile--he looked dangerous.
"That is bad, very," he said; "I wonder you should have come all the way
here to bring these unpleasant tidings!"
Elizabeth did not answer; she had drawn towards the hearth and was
pushing the ashes back with the point of her shoe, gazing drearily into
the dying embers.
"You received my letter?" he asked.
"Yes--don't send in that way again, or let yourself be seen. You
frightened me so that I fell from my horse."
"How sad! I should never have forgiven myself had any harm resulted from
it," he said, so gravely, that one could not tell whether he was in
earnest or mocking her. "You were not hurt--nothing unpleasant occurred!
I despaired of seeing you in the grounds after that, and so went away."
She started up in sudden passion, goaded by his attempt at sympathy
beyond the power of prudence or self-control.
"I wish I had been hurt," she exclaimed. "I could have borne being
maimed for life had I seen the brute's hoofs trampling you down as I
fell."
He seated himself opposite her and looked earnestly in her face. These
bitter words did not seem to excite his anger--he was smiling still, and
his face wore a look of admiration which appeared to excite her still
more desperately.
"You are so beautiful in one of these moods," he said; "don't restrain
yourself. What a Medea you would make!"
She looked at him with a glance which had the menace of a hunted animal
brought suddenly to bay, and ready from very despair to defend
itself--in moments like that many a desperate woman has stained her soul
with crime--but her companion betrayed no uneasiness.
"You don't like me to say complimentary things to you," he said; "it is
unkind to deprive me even of that pleasure."
"I have no time to waste," she said, controlling herself by a strong
effort, and speaking in a cold, measured tone. "I came to tell you that
you must wait--I can't give you the money to-day--if you were successful
with those cards you can afford to be patient."
"My dear friend," returned he, "you know how anxious I am--how I desire
to put the ocean between me and this accursed country."
"You will not go when you get the money," she said; "you will drink,
gamble--leave yourself without a penny."
"So harsh always in your judgments," he returned, deprecatingly.
"I have no hope of escaping you," she went on; "but I have one
consolation--you are ruining me, and that will be your own destruction!
My husband suspects me--watches me--the day he discovers a shadow of the
truth, there is an end to these extortions."
"Don't speak so angrily--my dear lady! I hardly think your husband would
refuse to listen to reason--your proud men will do a great deal to
procure silence where a lady is concerned."
"You know that he would not be silent! With his home once broken up, his
peace destroyed, he would be utterly careless of the world's
knowledge--his wrongs and his revenge would lead him to desperate
measures."
"Is it possible? What an unpleasant character! Well, well, we must take
pains that he is not enlightened--that is the way--you see how very
simple it is."
"I warn you, this is the last money I shall give you for years," she
said; "it is only from having these stocks in my hands that I am able to
do it now."
"My dear friend, you forget; your husband may give you more stocks," he
returned, with a laugh which made her shrink with abhorence.
"Mr. Forbes has promised me the money this week--that will be in time
for the steamer."
"How coldly you betray anxiety to have me gone!" he said; "it is really
cruel."
"I have no idea that you will go," she returned; "you will spend the
money--you will demand more--my husband will discover it. But at least I
shall have the satisfaction of knowing that there is no place secret
enough, no land distant enough to guard your life safely after that."
He only received her passionate words with a shrug of the shoulders and
a deprecating wave of the hand.
"But it is so sad to go into exile alone," he said; "if I could take
with me----"
"Oh! you are such a base, miserable coward!" she broke in. "Such a
pitiful, dastardly wretch! Don't frown at me--I have never been afraid
of you--I am not now! I tell you the hour of retribution will come!"
His face never changed, he made her a gracious bow and said pleasantly:
"You are inclined to do the prophetess this morning--but don't be such a
fearful Cassandra, I beg."
She rose from her chair and folded her shawl about her.
"I need stay here no longer," she said, "I have told you what I came to
say."
"Don't be so cruel as to run away so soon," he pleaded; "give my poor
room the glory of your presence a little longer. You see to what I was
driven before I could force myself to trouble you again. These are not
proper apartments for a gentleman; you will admit I had an excuse. The
whole thing is miserably humiliating."
"I shall be here on Monday," said Elizabeth, ignoring his excuses. "I
shall have the money ready for you, but I will not bring it--those
letters must be first placed in my hands."
"Ah! you are going to drive a hard bargain, I see."
"You have evaded so often, cheated me so often; I have given you
thousands of dollars--this is the last--take it--enough to make you
comfortable for years if you are careful; but the letters come into my
possession first, and that paper too."
"You really mean to have your freedom, do you?" he asked, jestingly; "to
sweep me out of your life for ever; that is hard."
"Don't think to cheat me; neither your forged writing or any pretence
will answer here. I tell you I am desperate now--you can't force me down
a step farther."
"You are a magnificent woman!" he exclaimed; "a wonderful woman! I don't
believe the country could boast another such."
She turned away.
"Now you are angry. But let it pass."
"Remember what I have said," retorted Elizabeth. "I tell you I am
desperate now! At least I shall have placed it out of your power to
injure any one but myself. I have reached that point when I will have
freedom from your persecutions or drag the ruin down on my own head
while crushing you."
She was in terrible earnest--he was a sufficient judge of character to
see that. It was in her nature to grow so utterly desperate that,
whatever her secret might prove, she would find the courage to give it
up to her husband and madly urge on the crisis of her fate in all its
blackness and horror, rather than endure the slavery and suspense in
which she had lived.
"There will be no need of all this," he said. "Place in my hands the sum
you have promised, and I will at once put it out of my own power to harm
you or yours. After all," he continued, with another sneering laugh, "I
am selling my claim much too cheaply; twenty-five thousand dollars is a
pitiful little sum, considering what I give up."
"You can get no more--you cannot frighten me! If you betrayed everything
you would ruin your hopes of a single penny. I tell you my husband would
perish rather than buy your silence. I know him--he might shoot you down
like a dog, but would never pay gold to bind your vicious tongue."
"Dear friend, I infinitely prefer transacting this little business with
you," he said, laughing again. "We shall not quarrel; for your sake I
will content myself with the twenty-five thousand dollars, but I warn
you I cannot wait after Monday."
"I tell you it will be ready on that day."
"The letters and that troublesome little document shall be placed in
your hands--I promise on----"
She interrupted him contemptuously: "There is nothing you could swear by
that would make the oath worth hearing."
The man bowed, as if she had paid him a compliment. He was so utterly
hardened that even her burning scorn could not affect him.
"Don't write to me, don't send to me," she said; "it will only be
dangerous--more so for you than for me--remember that."
"I can trust you; I have the utmost faith in your word."
She gathered her shawl about her and moved towards the door.
"Are you going already?"
"That bracelet!" she said, with a sudden thought. "You parted with it of
course--could you get it back?"
He shrugged his shoulders.
"I received your note concerning it; we will see--very doubtful I fear.
But when I am once gone--even if your husband does discover it--there
will be no trouble."
She turned her back on him. He started forward to open the door for her,
his hand touched hers on the knob, she started as if a scorpion had
stung her, but he only cast a smile in her face and allowed her to pass
out.
"A wonderful woman!" he said to himself, after she had disappeared.
"What a pity she hates me so; the only woman in the world worth having
at your feet."
He went to the table, searched among the bottles till he found one that
still contained brandy, poured the contents into a glass and drank with
feverish eagerness.
"That'll put a little life in me," he muttered. "Well, there is nothing
for it but to wait. I must keep myself very quiet. I think I'll have
some breakfast--at any rate I can afford to leave this den."
He pulled out a pocket-book with a laugh, glanced at the contents and
put it away.
"Luck enough for a parlor and bed-room in the best uptown hotel for a
week or so," he muttered; "pah! how I loathe this hole!"
North threw off his dressing-gown, bathed his face in cold water,
arranged his dress a little, and went down stairs in search of his
morning meal.
Elizabeth Mellen hurried through the narrow street in which the hotel
stood, as if trying to walk herself into calmness. Once she murmured:
"Five days more--five! If I can live through them and keep the tempest
back I may be safe. If I can! Such a dread at my heart--worse as the
time shortens--oh heavens, if discovery should come now when the haven
is so near!"