Esther felt his burning gaze, and said with downcast eyes,—her voice very low and faint—"And in return for this generous protection, what am I to give you?"
"Can you ask, my child?" he said, and pressed her hand within his own.—"You will be my friend, my counselor, my companion."
"Companion?"
"Wearied with the toils of state, the wear and tear of the world,—in your presence, I will seek oblivion of the world and its cares. With you I will grow young again, and—who knows—but guided by you, I shall, even at three-score, learn to hope in man? Your heart is fresh, your intellect clear and vivid: I shall often seek your counsel in affairs of state, for I have learned, that in nine cases out of ten, it is better to rely upon the intuitions of woman, than upon the careful logic of the shrewdest man. In a word, dear child, you will be my companion,—my divinity"—
"Divinity?"
"Yes,—divinity! Tradition says that Lucretia Borgia was the most wondrously beautiful woman of all her age; and if yonder canvas does not flatter her, tradition does not lie. Now, you are living and more beautiful than Lucretia Borgia, without her crimes. Yes, more lovely than Lucretia, and,—pure as heaven's own light."
"Pure as heaven's own light?"
"You echo me,—and with a mocking smile. Woman! your beauty maddens me! I adore you!" His face was flushed with passion,—his deep-set eyes flamed with a fire that could not be mistaken,—his voice, at other times deep as an organ, was tremulous and broken. First pressing her clasped hands against his broad chest,—which heaved with emotion,—he next girdled her waist with his sinewy arm, and despite her struggles, drew her to his bosom. "Gaze upon yonder portrait! those eyes are wildly beautiful, but pale when compared with yours. That form is cast in the mould of voluptuous loveliness, but yours,—yours, Esther,—yours—"
Advancing toward the portrait, he pushed the hangings aside,—the doorway of an adjoining apartment was revealed.
"Come, Esther, by heavens you must be mine,—and now!"
There was no mistaking the determination of that husky voice, the passion of that bloodshot eye.
Now pale as death, now covered from the bosom to the brow with burning blushes, she struggled in his embrace, but in vain. He dragged her near and nearer to the threshold—on the threshold (which divided the Golden Room from the next apartment, where all was dark as midnight) he paused, drew her struggling form to his breast, and stifled the cry which rose to her lips, with burning kisses.
With a desperate effort she glided from his arms, and the next moment,—her hair unloosed on her bosom bared in the struggle,—confronted him with the poniard gleaming over her head.
"Hoary villain!" she cried, dilating in every inch of her stature, until she seemed to rival his almost giant height,—"lay but a finger on me and you shall pay for the outrage with your life!"
Her head thrown back, her bared bosom swelling madly in the light, her dark hair resting in one rich, wavy mass upon her neck and shoulders,—it was a noble picture. And her eyes,—you should have seen the flashing of her eyes! As for the statesman, with one foot upon the threshold, he turned his face over his shoulder, thus exhibiting his massive features in profile, and gazed upon her with a look which was something between the sublime and the ridiculous; a strange mixture of passion, wonder and chagrin.
"Esther,——"
"No doubt you can induce husbands to sell their wives to you;" the eyes still flashed, and the poniard glittered overhead; "no doubt, gray-haired fathers have sold their daughters to your embrace; nay, even brothers, for a place, may have given their sisters to your lust; but know," again that bitter word so bitterly said,—'hoary villain!'—"know, hoary villain! that Esther Royalton will not sell herself to you, even to purchase her brother's safety, his life, much less her own! For know, that while there is a taint upon my blood, that there is blood in my veins which never knew dishonor, the blood of —— ——, whose grandchild stands before you!"
As she named that name, Godlike repeated it from pure astonishment.
"You a statesman! you a leader of the American people! Faugh! (Back! Lay not a finger upon me as you value your life!) May God help the Republic whose leaders play the farce of solemn statesmanship by daylight, and at night seek their inspiration in the orgies of the brothel!"
"But, Esther, you mistake me; do not raise your voice,——" his face flushed, his eyes bloodshot, he advanced toward her.
At the same instant she caught the purpose of his eye, and with a blush of mingled shame and anger, for the first time became aware that her bosom was bared to the light.
She retreated,—Godlike advanced,—she, brandishing the dagger,—he, with his hands extended, his face mad with baffled passion. Thus retreating, step by step before him, she reached the table, and cast a lightning glance toward the lamp.
"You shall be mine, I swear it!" He darted forward.
But while her right hand held the dagger aloft, her left sought the lamp, and even as he rushed forward with the oath on his lips, the room was wrapt in utter darkness.
He was foiled. A mocking laugh, which resounded through the darkness, did not add to his composure.
"Esther, Esther," he said, in a softer tone, endeavoring to smother his rage, "I will not harm you, I swear it."
And with his hands extended he advanced in the thick gloom; and Esther, with the handle of her poniard, knocked thrice upon the ebony table.
"Dearest Esther,"—he advanced in the direction from whence the knocks proceeded, and came in contact with a form,—the form of a voluptuous woman, with a young bosom warm with life, and young limbs moulded in the flowing lines of the Medicean Venus? No. Precisely the contrary. But he came in contact with a brawny form, which bounded against him, pinioning his arms to his side, at the same moment that another brawny form clasped him from behind. In a moment, ere he had recovered the surprise caused by this double and unexpected embrace, his arms were tied behind his back, a handkerchief was tightly bound across his mouth, and a second kerchief across his eyes, he was lifted from his feet, and borne upon the shoulders of two muscular men. It was not dignified or statesmanlike, but,—historical truth demands the record,—while in this position, the grave statesman kicked, deliberately and wickedly kicked. But he kicked in vain.
Presently he was placed upon his feet again, and seated in a chair whose oaken back reached above his head, and whose oaken arms pressed against his sides. He could not see, but he felt that light was shining on his face.
So suddenly had his capture been achieved, so strange and complete was the transition from the pursuit of the beautiful Esther, to his present blindfolded and helpless condition, that the statesman, for a few moments, almost believed himself the victim of some grotesque and frightful dream.
All was silent around him.
At length a voice was heard, hollow and distinct in its every tone,—
"Gabriel Godlike, you are now about to be put on trial before the Court of Ten Millions."
There was a long pause; and Godlike, on the moment, remembered every detail which Harry Royalton had poured into his ears, concerning this Court of Ten Millions; its power backed by ten millions of dollars,—its jurisdiction over crimes that 'Courts of Justice' could not reach,—its sessions held in the deep silence of night, and its judgments executed as soon as pronounced. Vividly the story of Harry rose before him; the accusation, the trial, the judgment, the lash, and the back of the criminal covered with stripes and blood.
"The Court of Ten Millions,"—the voice was heard again,—"as you are, doubtless, aware, is thus called, because its power is backed by ten millions of dollars. It exists to punish those crimes which, perchance, from their very magnitude, go unpunished by other courts of justice. It exists to judge and punish two classes of crime in especial: crimes committed for the love of money, by the man who seeks to enjoy labor's fruits, without sharing labor's works; crimes committed by the man who uses his wealth, or the accident of his social position, as the means of oppressing his fellow-creature, even the poorest and the meanest. Your mind is profound in analysis. You are able, at a glance, to trace nearly all the wrongs which desolate society, and mar the purposes of God in this world, to the classes of crimes which have been named."
There was another long pause. Gabriel had time for thought.
"Gabriel Godlike! Detected in a gross outrage upon a woman whom you thought poor and friendless,—detected in using your wealth and your social position as the means of achieving that woman's dishonor, you are now about to be put on trial before the Court of Ten Millions."
Another pause. Gabriel began to recover his scattered senses. The bandage across his mouth concealed the sardonic smile which flitted over his lips.
"A sort of Vixhme Gericht,—something from the dark ages,"—he ejaculated, mentally. And yet he did not feel comfortable. There was Harry Royalton's back; he had seen it. "But they would not dare to flog a statesman,—me! Gabriel Godlike!"
"Still you are at liberty to refuse a trial before this court,"—the voice spoke again,—"but upon one condition. In a room not far removed from this, removed from hearing, and yet within a moment's call, are gathered at this moment a number of gentlemen, who have been summoned to this house on various pretexts; gentlemen, you will remark, of all political parties, high in social position, and bearing the reputation of honorable minded and moral men. Your strongest political friends, your bitterest political opponents are there."
Gabriel began to listen with attention.
"Now you may refuse to be tried before this court on one condition,—that you will be exposed to the gaze of this party of gentlemen, in your present state, with your masquerade attire, and in presence of the woman whom, but a moment since, you threatened with a gross outrage."
Gabriel listened with keener interest.
"If you doubt that this party of gentlemen, consisting of—(he named a number of names familiar to Godlike's ear)—are within call, your doubt can be solved in a moment."
"It is an infernal trap," and Gabriel ground his teeth with suppressed rage.
"If you consent to be tried by this court, be pleased to give a gesture of assent."
Gabriel revolved for a moment within himself, and then slowly nodded his head.
The bandage was removed from his eyes, and the kerchief from his mouth. He slowly surveyed the scene in which, much against his will, he found himself an actor.
It was a spacious apartment, resembling the Golden Room, the walls were hung with black velvet, fringed with gold, and dotted with golden flowers; the ceiling represented a gloomy sky, with the sun in the center, struggling among clouds. It was the same to which he was about to conduct Esther when she escaped from his arms and confronted him with the poniard.
But in place of the voluptuous couch which had stood there, with silken pillows and canopy white as snow, there was a large table covered with black cloth, and extending across the room from wall to wall, and behind the table a raised platform, on which stood an arm-chair, beneath a canopy of dark velvet. A lighted candle in an iron candlestick, stood on the center of the table, and near it, a knotted rope, a book, an inkstand, and a sheet of white paper.
The judge of the court was seated in the arm-chair, under the shadow of the canopy. His face Godlike could not see, for he wore a hat whose ample brim concealed his features, but his white hair descended to the collar of his coat. He wore an old-fashioned surtout of dark cloth, with manifold capes, about the shoulders. His head was bent, his hands clasped, his attitude that of profound quiet or profound thought.
On his left, resting one hand on the arm of his chair, was Esther; her white dress in bold relief with the dark background. Her unbound hair increased the death-like pallor of her face, and her eyes shone with all their fire.
And on the right of the judge stood a huge negro, whose giant frame was clad in a suit of sleek blue cloth, while his white cravat and his wool, also of snow-like whiteness, increased the blackness of his visage. It was, of course, old Royal. He also rested one hand on an arm of the judge's chair.
And on the right and left of Gabriel's chair, stood a muscular man, whose features were hidden by a crape mask.
The scene altogether was highly dramatic. The Borgian attire of Godlike by no means detracted from its dramatic effect.
The silence of the place,—the gloom scarcely broken by the light of the solitary candle,—the contrast between this scene and the one in which he had been an actor but a few moments previous,—all had their effect upon the mind of the statesman.
"A trap! get out of it as I may. An infernal trap!"
Without raising his head, or removing his clasped hands from his breast, the judge spoke, in an even and distinct, although hollow voice,—
"You may still refuse to be tried by this court. Consent to be exposed in your present condition to the gentlemen whom I have named, (and who may be brought hither in an instant), and the trial will not proceed."
The blood rushed to Gabriel's face, but he made no reply.
"Or, if you doubt that those gentlemen are near, it is not too late to remove your doubts."
The veins began to swell on Gabriel's forehead.
"Go on," he said, in a half-smothered tone.
The judge extended his hand and placed a parchment in the hands of Esther.
"Read the accusation," he said, and in a voice at first low and faint, but gradually growing stronger and deeper, Esther read, while a death-like stillness prevailed:
"Gabriel Godlike is accused of the following offenses against man, against society, against God:—
"As a man of genius, intrusted by the Almighty with the noblest, the most exalted powers, and bound to use those powers for the good of his race, he has, in the course of his whole life, prostituted those powers to the degradation and oppression of his race.
"As a statesman, rivaling in intellect the three great names of the nineteenth century, Clay, Calhoun and Webster, he has not, like these great men, been governed by a high aim, an earnest-souled sincerity. His intellect approaches theirs in powers, but as a man, as a statesman, he has not exhibited their virtues. Wielding a vast influence, and bound to use that influence in securing to the masses such laws as will invest every man with the right to the full fruits of his labor, and the possession of a home, he has lent his influence, sold his intellect, mortgaged his official position, to those who enslave labor in workshop and factory, defraud it in banks, and rob the laborer—the freeman—of a piece of land which he may call by the sacred title of home.
"As a lawyer, having a profound knowledge of the technicalities of written law, and an intuitive knowledge of that great law of God, which proclaims that all men are brothers, bound to each other by ties of reciprocal love and duty, he has used his knowledge of written law to gloss over and sanction the grossest wrongs; he has darkened and distorted the great laws of God to suit any case of social tyranny, no matter how damning, how revolting, which he has been called upon to defend for hire.
"As a citizen, bound to illustrate in his life the purity of the Christian, the integrity of the republican, he has never known the affections of a wife, or children, but his private career has been one long catalogue of the basest appetites, gratified at the expense of every tie of truth and honor.
"In his long career, he has exhibited that saddest of all spectacles:—a lawyer, with no sense of right or wrong, higher than his fee; a statesman, regarding himself not as the representative of the people, but as the feed and purchased lawyer of a class; a man of god-like intellect, without faith in God, without love for his race."
Esther concluded; her face was radiant, but her eyes dimmed with tears.
"Gabriel Godlike, what say you to this accusation?" exclaimed the judge.
A sardonic smile agitated the lips of the statesman, but he made no reply in words. At the same time, despite his attempt to meet the accusation with a sneer, its words rung in his very soul, and especially the closing clause, "without faith in God, without love to his race."
Gabriel's head sank slowly on his breast, and his down-drawn brows hid his eyes from the light. He was thinking of other years; of the promise of his young manhood; of the dark realities of his maturer years. The judge spoke again.
"Gabriel Godlike, you are silent. You have no reply. In your own soul and before Heaven, you know that every word of the accusation is true. You cannot deny it. Your own soul and conscience convict you."
He paused; again the mocking sneer crossed Gabriel's lips, but a crowd of emotions were busy at his heart. The judge proceeded, in a measured tone. Every word fell distinctly upon the statesman's unwilling ears:
"Gabriel Godlike, you may smile at the idea of being held accountable to God and man, for the use which you have made of your talents in the last forty years, but there will come an hour when History will pass its judgment upon you; there will come an hour when God will demand of you the intellect which he has intrusted to your care. That hour will come. Then, what will be your answer to Almighty God? 'Lord, thou didst intrust me with superior intellect, to be used for the good of my brothers of the human family; and after a life of sixty years, I can truly say, I have never once used that intellect for the elevation of mankind, and have never once failed, when appetite or ambition tempted, to squander it in the basest lusts.' What a record will this be for history; what an answer to be rendered to Almighty God!
"Gabriel Godlike! Great men are placed upon earth, as the prophets and apostles of the poor. It is their vocation to speak the wrongs which the poor suffer, but are unable to tell; it is their mission to find the deepest thought which God has implanted in the breast of the age, and to carry that thought into action, or die. What has been the thought struggling in the bosom of the last fifty years? A thought vast as the providence of God, which, whether called by the name of Social Progress, or Social Re-organization, or by whatsoever name, still looks forward to the day when social misery will be annihilated; when the civilization will no longer show itself only in the awful contrast of the few, immersed in superfluous wealth,—of the many, immersed in poverty, in crime, in despair; a day, when in truth, the gospel of the New Testament will no longer be the hollow echo of the sounding-board above the pulpit, but an every-day verity, carried with deeds along all the ways of life, and manifested in the physical comfort as well as the moral elevation of all men.
"Something like this has been the thought of the last fifty—yes, of the last hundred years. It was the secret heart of our own Revolution. It was the great truth, whose features you may read even beneath the blood-red waves of the French Revolution. And in the nineteenth century this thought has called into action legions of noble-hearted men, who have earnestly endeavored to carry it into action. It has had its confessors, its saints, its martyrs.
"Gabriel Godlike! In the course of your long career, what have you done to aid the development of this thought? Alas! alas! Look back upon your life! In all your career, not one brave blow for man—your brother—not one, not one! As a lawyer, the hired vassal of any wealthy villain, or class of villains; as a legislator, not a statesman, but always the paid special pleader of heartless monopoly and godless capital; as a man, your intellect always towers among the stars, while your moral character sinks beneath the kennel's mud! Such has been your life; such is the use to which you have bent your powers. Like the sublime egotist, Napoleon Bonaparte, you regarded the world as a world without a God, and mankind as the mere creatures of your pleasure and your sport. If the poor wretch, who, driven mad by hunger, steals a loaf of bread, is branded as a criminal, and adjudged to darkness and chains, by what name, Gabriel Godlike, shall we call you? what judgment shall we pronounce upon your head?"
The judge arose, and with his face shaded from the light, and his white hairs falling to his shoulders, he extended his hand toward the criminal.
There was a blush of shame upon Gabriel's downcast forehead; shame, mingled with suppressed rage.
"Shall we adjudge you to the lash?" and the judge looked first to Gabriel, then to the giant negro by his side.
Godlike raised his head; Esther shuddered as she beheld his look.
"The lash!" he echoed,—"No, by ——! The man does not live who dares speak of such a thing."
"I live, and I speak of it," responded the judge, calmly. "You forget that you are in my power; and, as you are well aware, (it is a maxim upon which you have acted all your life,) 'might makes right.' And why should you shudder at the mention of the lash? What is the torture, the disgrace of the lash, compared with the torture and disgrace which your deeds have inflicted upon thousands of your fellow men?"
Godlike uttered a frightful oath.—"You will drive me mad!" and he ground his teeth in impotent rage. It was a pitiful condition for a great statesman.
"No, no; the lash is too light a punishment for a criminal of your magnitude. Prisoner, stand up and hear the sentence of the court!"
Gabriel had a powerful will, but the will which spoke in the voice of that old man, his judge, was more powerful than his own. Reluctantly he arose to his feet, his broad chest panting and heaving beneath its scarlet attire.
"Unbind his arms." The masked attendants obeyed. Gabriel's bands were free.
"Secure him, at the first sign of resistance or of disobedience."
The judge calmly proceeded—
"Gabriel Godlike, hear the sentence of the court. You will affix your own proper signature to two documents, which will now be presented to you. After which you are free."
Gabriel could not repress an ejaculation. The simplicity of the sentence struck him with astonishment.
"Hand the prisoner the first document, which he may read," said the judge. Pale and trembling, Esther advanced, and, passing the table, placed a paper in the hands of Godlike, which he read:
"New York, Dec. 24th, 1844.
"The undersigned, Gabriel Godlike, hereby acknowledges that he was this day detected in the act of attempting a gross outrage upon the person of Esther Royalton, whom he had inveigled to a house of improper report, No. —, —— street, New York: an outrage which, investigated before a court of law, would justly consign him to the State's Prison.
"Signed in presence of:
{
{."
No words can picture the rage which corrugated Godlike's visage as he perused this singular document.
"No, I will not sign!"—he fixed his flaming eyes upon Esther's pallid face—"not if you rend me into fragments."
"Esther," said the judge, calmly, "call the gentlemen from the neighboring apartment. Tell them that the purpose for which I summoned them will be explained in this room."
Esther cast a glance upon Godlike's flushed visage, and moved to the door,—
"Stay! I will—I will!" Shame and mortification choked his utterance. He advanced to the table and signed his name to the paper.
The judge drew his broad-brimmed hat deeper over his brows, and advanced to the table.—"I will witness your signature," he quietly observed, and signed a name which Godlike would have given five years of his life to have read.
"The second document rests on the table before you. The writing is concealed by a sheet of paper. You will sign without reading it. There is the place for your signature." And he pushed the concealed document across the table.
"This is too much,—it is infamous," said Godlike, between his teeth. "How do I know what I am signing? I will not do it." He sank back doggedly in his chair; the perspiration stood in thick beads upon his brow.
"Esther," (she lingered on the threshold, as the judge addressed her,) "tell Mr. Godlike's friends that he will be glad to see them."
Oh! bitterly, in that moment, did the fallen statesman pay for the misdeeds of years! As if urged from his seat by an influence beyond his control, he rose and advanced to the table, his brow deformed by the big veins of helpless rage, his eyes bloodshot with suppressed fury,—he signed his name. His hand trembled like a leaf.
"Now, now—am I free?" he cried, beating the table with his clenched hand. "Have you done with me?" He turned his gaze from Esther, who stood trembling on the threshold, to the judge, who, with his shadowed face, stood calm and composed before him.
"I will witness your signature," said the judge, and again signed that name, which Godlike, even amid his wrath, endeavored, and in vain, to read.
At the same instant he placed his hand upon the candle, and all was darkness. In less time than it takes to record it, Godlike was seized, pinioned and blindfolded.
"You will be taken to your dressing-room, in which you will resume your usual attire, after which, without questioning or seeing any one, you will quietly leave this house. As for the gentlemen whom I summoned to this house to look upon your disgrace, I will manage to dismiss them, without mentioning your name."
"And the papers which you have forced me to sign?" interrupted Gabriel.
"Do not speak of force. There was no force save the compulsion of your own crimes. And I give you fair warning that those papers which you have signed here in darkness, you will be asked to sign yet once again in broad daylight. Go, sir: for the present we have done with you."
And as in thick darkness he was led from the hall, trembling with rage and shame, the voice of the judge once more broke on his ears, but this time not addressed to him:
"Pity, good Lord! Pardon me, if I am wrong!"
It was the voice of earnest prayer.
CHAPTER IV.
THE BRIDAL CHAMBER.
It was the bridal chamber. A strange hour, and a strange bridal!
In the luxurious apartment, where Nameless and Frank first met, a Holy Bible was placed wide open upon a table, or altar, covered with a snow-white cloth. On either side of the book were placed wax candles, shedding their clear light around the room, upon the details of the place, and upon the gorgeous curtains of the marriage-bed.
Frank and Nameless joined hands beside that altar, before the opened Bible. Never had Frank's magnetic beauty shone with such peculiar power. She was clad in black velvet, her dark hair gathered plainly aside from her brow, and the white cross rose and fell with every throb of her bosom. Nameless wore the black tunic which, with his dark brown hair, threw his features into strong relief. The golden cross hung on his breast, over his heart. He was pale, as if with intense thought, but his large, gray eyes met the gaze of Frank, as though his soul was riveted there.
And thus they joined hands, near the morning hour.
The Rev. Dr. Bulgin stood a little in the background, his broad red face glowing in the light. His cardinal's attire thrown aside, he appeared in sleek black, with the eternal white cravat about his neck. There was the flush of champagne upon the good doctor's florid face.
Behind Nameless stood Colonel Tarleton, dressed as the hidalgo, his right hand grasping a roll of paper, raised to his mouth, and his eyes gazing fixedly from beneath his down-drawn brows. It was the moment of his life.
"Once married and the way is clear!" he thought. "To think of it—after twenty-one years my hand grasps the prize!"
"We will walk through life together," said Frank, pressing the hand of Nameless.
"And devote our wealth to the elevation of the unfortunate and the fallen!" he responded, as a vision of future good gave new fire to his eye. And then he pressed his hand to his forehead, for his temples throbbed. A vivid memory of every event of his past life started up suddenly before his soul, every event invested with the familiar faces, the well-known voices of other days. He raised his eyes to the face of Frank, and the singular influence which seemed to invest her like an atmosphere, again took possession of him. It was not the influence of passion, nor the spell of her mere loveliness, although her person was voluptuously moulded, and the deep red in the center of her rich brown cheek, told the story of a warm and passionate nature; but it was as though her very soul, embodied in her lustrous eyes, encircled and possessed his own.
Was it love, in the common acceptation of the word? Was it fascination? Was it the result of sympathy between two lives, each of which had been made the sport of a dark and singular destiny?
"Had not we better go on?" said Dr. Bulgin, mildly. "Summoned to this house to celebrate these nuptials at this unusual hour, I feel somewhat fatigued with the duties of the day," and he winked at Tarleton.
"Proceed," said Tarleton, pressing the right hand, with the roll of paper to his lip.
The marriage service was deliberately said in the rich, bold voice of the eloquent Dr. Bulgin. The responses were duly made. The ring was placed upon the finger of the bride, and the white cross sparkled in the light, as it rose with the swell of her proud bosom.
"Husband," she whispered, as their lips met, "I have been sacrificed to others, but I never loved but you, and I will love you till I die." And she spoke the truth.
"Wife!"—he called that sacred name in a low and softened voice,—"let the past be forgotten. Arisen from the graves of our past lives, it is our part to begin life anew." And his tone was that of truth and enthusiasm.
"My son!"—Tarleton started forward and clasped Nameless by the hand,—"Gulian, my son, let the past be forgotten,—forgiven, and let us look only to the future! The proudest aspiration of my life is fulfilled!"
Nameless returned his grasp with a cordial pressure; but at the same instant a singular sensation crept like a chill through his blood. Was the presence of the dead father near at the moment when his son joined hands with the false brother?
"Here, my boy," continued Tarleton, laughingly, as he spread forth upon the table the roll of paper which he had held to his lip; "sign this, and we will bid you good night. It's a mere matter of form, you know. Nay, Frank, you must not see it; you women know nothing of these matters of business." Motioning his daughter back, he placed pen and ink before Nameless, and then quietly arranged his dark whiskers and smoothed his black hair; and yet his hand trembled.
Nameless took the pen, and bent over the table and read:—
December 24, 1844.
To Dr. Martin Fulmer:—
This day I transfer and assign to my wife, Frances Van Huyden, all my right, title, and interest in the estate of my deceased father, Gulian Van Huyden; and hereby promise, on my word of honor, to hold this transfer sacred at all times, and to make it binding (if requested), by a document drawn up according to the forms of law.
Nameless dipped the pen in the ink, and was about to sign, when Frank suddenly drew the paper from beneath his hand. She read it with a kindling cheek and flashing eye.
"For shame!" she cried, turning to her father, "for shame!" and was about to rend it in twain, when Nameless seized her wrist, and took the paper from her hand.
"Nay, Frank, I will sign," he exclaimed, and put the pen to the paper.
"O, father," whispered Frank, with a glance of burning indignation, "this is too much—" Her words were interrupted by the sudden opening of the door.
"Is there no way of escape,—none?"—a voice was heard exclaiming these words, in tones of fright and madness,—"Is there no way of escape from this abode of ruin and death?"
The pen dropped from the hand of Nameless. That voice congealed the blood in his veins.
Turning his head over his shoulders, he saw the speaker,—while the whole scene swam for a moment before his eyes,—saw that young countenance, now wild with affright, on which was imprinted the stainless beauty of a pure and virgin soul.
"The grave has given up its dead!" he cried, and staggered toward the phantom which rose between him and the door; the phantom of a young and beautiful woman, clad in the faded garments of poverty and toil; her unbound hair streaming wildly about her face, her eyes dilating with terror, her clasped hands strained against her agitated bosom.
"The grave has given up its dead," he cried. "Mary!" O, how that name awoke the memories of other days! "Mary! when last I saw thee, thou wert beside my coffin, while my soul communed with thine." And again he called that sacred name.
It was no phantom, but a living and beautiful woman. She saw his face,—she uttered a cry,—she knew him.
"Gulian!" she cried, and spread forth her arms. Not one thought that he had died and been buried,—she saw him living,—she knew him,—he was before her,—that was all. "Husband!"
He rushed to her embrace, but even as his arms were outspread to clasp her form, he fell on his knees. His head rested against her form, his hands clasped her knees. The emotion of the moment had been too much for him; he had fainted at her feet.
She knelt beside him, and took his head to her bosom, and pressed her lips against his death-like forehead, and then her loosened hair hid his face from the light. She wept aloud.
"Husband!"
At this moment turn your gaze to the marriage altar. Dr. Bulgin is still there, gazing in dumb surprise, first upon the face of Frank, then upon her father. It is hard to tell which looks most ghastly and death-like. Tarleton looks like a man who has been stricken by a thunderbolt. Frank rests one hand upon the marriage altar, and raises the other to her forehead. For a moment death seems busy at her heart.
With a desperate effort, Tarleton rallies his presence of mind.
"Good evening, or, rather, good morning, doctor," he says, and then points to the door. The reverend gentleman takes the hint, and quietly fades from the room.
At times like this, one moment of resolve is worth an age. Tarleton's face is colorless, but he sees, with an ominous light in his eyes, the way clear before him. He turns aside for a moment, to the cabinet yonder, and from a small drawer, takes a slender vial, filled with a colorless liquid; then quietly glides to his daughter's side.
"Frank!"—she raises her head,—their eyes meet. He holds the vial before her face—"your husband has fainted; this will revive him." That singular smile discloses his white teeth. Frank reads his meaning at a glance. O, the unspeakable agony,—the conflict between two widely different emotions, which writhes over her face!
"No, father, no! It must not be," and she pushes the vial from her sight.
His words, uttered rapidly, and in a whisper, come through his set teeth,—"It must be,—the game cannot be lost now; in twelve hours, you know, this vial will do its work, and leave no sign!"
An expression which he cannot read, crosses her face. A moment of profound and harrowing thought,—a glance at the kneeling girl, who hides in her flowing hair, the face of her unconscious husband.
"Be it so," Frank exclaims, "give me the vial; I will administer it." Taking the vial from her father's hand, she advances to the cabinet, and for a moment bends over the open drawer.
And the next instant she is kneeling beside Nameless and the weeping girl.
"Mary!" whispers Frank, and the young wife raises her face from her husband's forehead, and they gaze in each other's face,—a contrast which you do not often behold. The face of Frank, dark-hued at other times, and red with passion on the cheek and lip, but now, lividly pale, and only expressing the intensity of her organization in the lightning glance of the eyes,—the face of Mary, although touched by want and sorrow, bearing the look of a guileless, happy soul in every outline, and shining all the love of a pure woman's nature from the large, clear eyes. It was as though night and morning had met together.
"Mary!" said Frank,—her hand trembling, but her purpose firm,—"your husband will die unless aid is rendered at once. Let me revive him."
Before Mary can frame a word in reply, she places the vial to the lips of Nameless, and does not remove her hand until the last drop is emptied. Tarleton yonder watches the scene, with his head drooping on his breast, and his hand raised to his chin.
"He will revive presently," Frank exclaims with a smile.
"God bless you, generous woman,——"
But Frank does not wait to receive her thanks.
Returning to her father's side,—"Come, let us leave them, now," she whispers; "now that your request is obeyed."
"But he must not die in this house."
"O, you will have time, ample time to remove him before the vial has done its work,"—a bitter smile crosses her face,—"Leave them together for an hour at least. Let them at least enjoy one hour of life, before his eyes are closed in death; only one hour, father!"
She takes her father by the hand, and hurries him from the room,—let us not dare to read the emotions now contending on her corpse-like face. From that room, which was to have been her bridal chamber,—the starting-point of a new and happy life!
"I must now see after the other," Tarleton soliloquizes, as he crossed the threshold. "This one removed, the other must be ready for to-morrow."
And Frank and her father leave the room.
The chest of Nameless began to heave,—his eyes gradually unclosed. With a vacant glance he surveyed the apartment.
"It is a dream," he said.
But there were arms about his neck, kisses on his lips, a warm cheek laid next to his own. Certainly not the clasp, the kiss, or the pressure of a dream.
"Not in a dream, Carl," she said, calling, him by the name which he had borne in other days.
"Carl? Who calls me Carl?"
"Not in a dream, Carl, but living and restored to me."
Even as he lay in her arms, his head resting on her young bosom, he raised his eyes and beheld her face.
"Mary!"
"Thou art my husband!"
"Thou art my wife!"
That moment was a full recompense for all they had suffered, yes, for a lifetime of suffering and anguish. They forgot everything,—the dark past,—the strange chance or providence which had brought them together,—they only felt that they were living and in each other's arms.
At sight of the pure, holy face of Mary, all consciousness of the fascination which Frank had held over him, passed like the memory of a dream from the soul of Nameless.
"O, Mary, wife, thou art living,—God is good," he said, as she bent over him, baptizing his lips with kisses, and his face with tears. "Do you remember that hour, when I lay in the coffin, while you bent over me, and our souls talked to each other, without the medium of words: 'you have seen him for the last time,' they said; 'not for the last time,—we will meet again,' was your reply. And now we have met! Mary—wife! let us never accuse Providence again, for God is good!"
Moment of joy too deep for words.
Drink every drop of the cup, now held to your lips, Carl Raphael! For even, as the arms of your young wife are about your neck, even as her young bosom throbs against your cheek, and you count the beatings of her heart, death spreads his shadow over you. The poison is in your veins,—your young life is about to set in this world forever.
CHAPTER V.
THE SCARLET CHAMBER.
Having once more resumed the attire of Leo the Tenth,—scarlet robe, cap, with nodding plumes and cross with golden chain; Dr. Bulgin was hurrying along a dark passage on his way to the Scarlet Chamber, where his nephew awaited him. The Scarlet Chamber was at the end of the passage; as he drew near it, the Doctor's reflections grew more pleasant and comfortable. It may be as well to make record, that after he had left the Bridal Chamber, he had refreshed himself with a fresh bottle of champagne.
"Odd scene that in the room of Tarleton's daughter! Very dramatic,—wish I knew what it all meant. However my 'nephew;'" a rich chuckle resounded from the depths of his chest—"'my nephew' awaits me, and after another bottle in the Scarlet Chamber, I must see her safely home. It is not such a bad world after all."
Thus soliloquizing he arrived at the end of the passage, and his head was laid against the door of the Scarlet Chamber.
"Cozy place,—bottle of wine,—good company—"
"Hush!" whispered a voice.
"That you Julia? What are you doing out here in the dark?" he wound his arms about his nephew's waist. "Waiting for me?"
"Do not,—do not," she gasped, struggling to free herself from his arms,—"Do not enter,—"
"Tush, child! you're nervous,—" and despite the struggles, he gathered his arm closer around her waist, pushed open the door and entered the Scarlet Room.
A quiet little apartment, lighted by a hanging lamp, whose mild beams softened the glare of the rich scarlet hangings. There was a sofa covered with red velvet, a table, on which stood a bottle, with two long necked glasses, and from an interval in the hangings, gleamed the vision of a snow-white couch. Altogether, a place worthy the private devotions of Leo the Tenth, or of any gentleman of his exquisite taste, and eccentric piety.
"What's the matter child? You're pale, and have been crying,—" exclaimed Bulgin, as he bore her over the threshold, and paused for a moment to gaze upon her face, which was bare to the light, the cap having fallen from her brow. As he spoke his back was to the sofa.
"There," was the only word which she had power to frame, and bursting into tears, she pointed over his shoulders to the sofa.
Somewhat surprised, Dr. Bulgin turned on his heel, the white plumes nodding over his bulky face, and,——
There are some scenes which must be left to the imagination.
On the sofa, sat three grave gentlemen, clad in solemn black, their severe features, rendered even more stern and formal, by the relief of a white cravat. Each of these gentlemen held his hat in one hand, and in the other a cane, surmounted by a head of white bone.
As Bulgin turned, the three gentlemen quietly rose, and said politely, with one voice:
"Good morning Dr. Bulgin."
And then as quietly sat down again.
The Doctor looked as though he had been lost in a railroad collision. He was paralyzed. He had not even the presence of mind, to release the grasp which gathered the young form of his lovely nephew to his side.
The exact position of affairs, at this crisis, will be better understood, when you are informed, that in these three gentlemen, the Rev. Dr. Bulgin recognized Mr. Watkins, Mr. Potts, and Mr. Burns, the leading members, perchance Deacons of his wealthy congregation. The one with the slight form, and short stiff gray, hair,—Watkins. Mr. Potts, is a small man, with a bald head, and the slightest tendency in the world to corpulence. Mr. Burns is tall and lean, with angular features, and an immense nose. Altogether, as grave and respectable men as you will meet in a day's walk, from Wall Street, to the head of Broadway. But what do they in the Temple, at any time, but especially at this unusual hour?
That was precisely the question which troubled Bulgin.
"W-e-l-l Gentle-m-e-n," he said, not exactly knowing what else to say.
To which they all responded with a singular unanimity,—"W-e-l-l D-o-c-t-o-r!"
"Did not I,—did not I,—tell,—tell you not to come in here?" sobbed the nephew,—that is Julia.
Mr. Watkins arose and passed his hand through his stiff gray hair,—
"Allow me to compliment you upon the becoming character of your costume!" and sat down again.
Then Mr. Potts, whose bald head shone in the light as he rose,—
"And allow me to congratulate you upon the character of this house, and especially the elegant seclusion of this chamber." And Mr. Potts sat down.
Mr. Burns' lean form next ascended, and his nose seemed to increase in size, as he projected it in a low bow,—
"And allow me,—" what a deep voice! "to congratulate you upon the society of your companion, who becomes her male attire exceedingly." And Mr. Burns gravely resumed his seat.
"Did—I—not—tell, tell—you,—n-o-t to come in," sobbed Julia.
The Doctor's face was partly hidden by his plumes, but that portion of it which was visible, resembled nothing so much in color, as a boiled lobster.
It now occurred to the Doctor, to release his grasp upon the waist of Julia. He left her to herself, and she fell on her knees, burying her face in her hands. As for the Doctor himself, he slid slowly into a chair, never once removing his gaze, from the three gentlemen on the sofa. Thus confronting them in his cardinal's attire, with the white plumes nodding over his forehead, he seemed, in the language of the chairman of a town meeting, "to be waiting for this here meeting to proceed to business."
There was a pause,—a painful and embarrassing pause.
The three sat like statues, only that Mr. Potts rubbed the end of his nose, with the top of his cane.
Why could not Dr. Bulgin, after the manner of the Genii in the Arabian Nights, disappear through the floor, in a cloud of mist and puff of perfume?
"Well,—gentlemen,—" said Bulgin at last, for the dead silence began to drive him mad, and made him hear all sorts of noises, in his ears,—"what are you doing in this place, at this unusual hour!"
This was a pointed question, to which Mr. Burns felt called upon to reply. He rose, and again the nose loomed largely, as he bowed,—
"Precisely the question which we were about to ask you," he said, and was seated again.
Mr. Potts took his turn:
"For a long time we have heard rumors," he said rising, "rumors concerning our pastor, of a painful nature. And although we did not credit them, yet they troubled us. Last night, however, we each received a letter, from an unknown person, who informed us, that in case we visited this house, between midnight and daybreak, we would discover our pastor, in company with the wife of an aged member of our church. As the letter inclosed the password, by which admittance is gained to this place, we took counsel upon the matter, and concluded to come. And,—"
"And,—" interrupted Watkins, rising solemnly, and extending the forefinger of his right hand, toward Bulgin, "and now we see!"
"And now we see!" echoed Mr. Watkins, absently shutting one eye, as he regarded Bulgin's face.
"We all see," remarked Mr. Potts resuming his seat, and then as if to clinch the matter—"and with our own eyes!"
Bulgin never before fully appreciated the meaning of the word "embarrassed." His wits had never failed him before; would they fail him now? He made an effort—
"Why, gentlemen, the truth is, I was summoned to this house, on professional duty,—" he began.
Mr. Potts groaned; they all groaned.
"In that costume?" asked Potts.
"And with madam there?" asked Watkins.
"Pro-fessi-o-n-a-l d-u-t-y!" thus Watkins in a hollow voice.
'Professional duty' would not do; evidently not. Foiled on this tack, the good Doctor tried another:
"The truth is," he began, with remarkable composure,—"I had been informed that Mrs. Parkins here,—" he pointed to the sobbing "nephew" otherwise Julia, and drew his chair nearer to the three, gradually softening his voice into a confidential whisper,—"Mrs. Parkins, the young wife of my aged friend Parkins, had been so far led away by the insinuating manners of a young man of fashion, as to promise to meet him in this improper place. Desirous to save the wife of my aged friend at all hazards, I assumed this dress,—the one which her seducer was to wear,—and came to this place, and,—rescued her. Do you understand?"
That "do you understand," was given in one of his most insinuating whispers; "and thus you see I periled my reputation in order to save,—her!"
What effect this story would have had upon the three, had it been suffered to travel unquestioned, it is impossible to tell. But low and softly as the Doctor whispered, he was overheard by his "nephew," otherwise, Julia.
"Don't lie, Doctor," she said quite tartly as she knelt on the floor. "I was not led away by any young man of fashion, and I did not come here to meet any young man of fashion. I was led away by you, and I came here with you."
Thus speaking, Julia rose from her knees, and came to the Doctor's side, thus presenting to the sight of the three gentlemen, the figure of a very handsome woman, dressed in blue frock coat and trowsers. She was somewhat tall, luxuriously proportioned, with a fine bust and faultless arms, her hair, chestnut brown, and her complexion a delicate mingling of "strawberries and cream." "A dem foine woman," the exquisite of Broadway would have called her. There was not so much of intellect in her face, as there was health, youth, passion. Married to a man of her own age, and whom she loved, she doubtless would have risen above temptation, and always proved a faithful wife, an affectionate mother. But sold by her parents, in the mockery of a marriage, to a man old enough to be her father,—perchance her grandfather,—transferred at the age of seventeen, like a bale of merchandise, to the possession of one whom she could not revere as a father, or love as a husband,—we behold her before us, the victim of the reverend tempter.
"You know, Doctor, that you led me away, you know you did," she cried, sobbing, "now did you not?" She bent down her head and looked into his face. "You can't say you didn't. No more he can't," and she turned in mute appeal to the three gentlemen.
"Evidently not," exclaimed Mr. Potts, who in his younger days had been somewhat wild, "that cock won't fight!" he continued, using a figure of speech, derived from the experience of said younger days.
As for the Doctor, he mentally wished the beautiful Mrs. Julia Parkins in Kamschatka.
"Never have an affair with a fool again, as long as I live!" he muttered.
"And while you soothed my poor old husband, on that doctrinal point; you,—you," sobbed Julia, "told me how handsome I was, and what a shame it was for me, to be jailed up with an old man like that. Yes, you said jailed. And how it was no harm for me to love you, and that it was no harm for you to love me. And I heard you preach, and you came to the house, day after day, and,—" poor Julia could not go on for sobbing.
The three gentlemen groaned.
As for Dr. Bulgin, he calmly rose from his seat, and taking the corkscrew from the tray on the table, proceeded quietly to draw the cork of a bottle of champagne. This accomplished, he filled a long necked glass to the brim with foaming Heidsick.
"Jig's up, gentlemen," he said, bowing to the three, as he tossed off the glass, and regarded them with a smile of matchless impudence,—"Jig's up!"
"What does he mean by 'jig's up?'" asked Mr. Burns of Mr. Potts, in a very hollow voice.
"He means," returned Bulgin himself, straightening up, and rubbing his broad chest with his fat hand, "that the jig is up. You've found me out. There's no use of lying about it. And now that you have found me out,—" he paused, filled another glass, and contemplated the three, over its brim,—"allow me to ask, what do you intend to do?"
He took a sip from the glass. The three were thunderstruck.
"Cool!" exclaimed Mr. Potts, punching the toe of his boot with his cane.
"You can't expose me," continued Bulgin, as he took another sip: "that would create scandal, you know, and hurt the church more than it would me."
The rich impudence of the Doctor's look, would "have made a cat laugh."
"We will expose you!" cried Watkins, hollowly, with an emphatic nodding of his nose. "The truth demands it. As long as you are suffered to prowl about in this way, no man's wife, sister, or daughter is safe."
"No man's wife, sister, or daughter is safe!" echoed Mr. Potts.
"Did I ever tempt your wife, Burns?" coolly asked Bulgin,—Burns winced, for his wife was remarkably plain.
"Or your sister, Potts?" Potts colored to the eyes; his sister was a miracle of plainness.
"Or your daughter, Watkins?" Watkins felt the thrust, for his daughter was as plain as Burns' wife and Potts' sister combined.
"Be assured I never will," continued Bulgin—"now, what do you intend to do? Expose me and ruin this poor creature here?"—"Don't call me a poor creature, you brute!" indignantly interrupted Julia. "Publish me in the papers, dismiss me from the church, give my name to be a by-word in the mouths of scoffers and infidels? Gravely, gentlemen, is that what you mean to do? Let us reflect a little. You pay me a good salary; I preach you good sermons. Granted. My practice may be a little loose, but, is not my doctrine orthodox? Where can you get a preacher who will draw larger crowds? And is it worth your while, merely on account of a little weakness like this,"—he pointed to Julia,—"to disgrace me and the church together?"
The Doctor saw by their faces, that he had made an impression. They conversed together in low tones, and with much earnestness. Meanwhile, Julia sobbed and Bulgin took another glass of champagne.
"Will you solemnly promise,"—Burns knocked his cane on the floor, and emphasised each word, "to be more careful of your conduct in the future, in case we overlook the present offense?"
"Cordially, gentlemen, and upon my honor!" cried Bulgin, rising from his seat, "I will take Julia quietly home, and to-morrow commence life anew. I give you my hand upon it."
He advanced, and shook them by the hand.
"If you keep your word, this will suit me," said Burns, with gloomy cordiality.
"And me," echoed Watkins.
"And me," responded Potts.
"But it will not suit me!" cried a strange voice, which started the whole company to their feet. The voice came from behind the hangings which concealed the bed. It was a firm voice, and deep as a well.
"It will not suit me, I say," and from the hangings the unknown speaker emerged with a measured stride.
He was a tall man, somewhat bent in the shoulders, and wore a long cloak, of an antique fashion, which was fastened to his neck by a golden clasp. His white hairs were covered by an old-fashioned fur-cap; his eyes hidden by large green glasses, and the furred collar of his cloak, concealed the lower part of his face. An aged man, evidently, as might be seen by his snow-white hair, and the wrinkles on the exposed portion of his face, but his step was strong and measured, and his voice firm and clear.
"And who are you?" cried Bulgin, recovering from his surprise. His remark was chorused by the others.
"A pew-holder in your church," emphatically exclaimed the cloaked individual. "Let that suffice you. Gentlemen,"—turning his back on Bulgin, he lifted his cap and exposed his forehead to the three gentlemen,—"you know me?"
With one impulse, they pronounced a name; and it was plainly to be seen that they respected that name, and its owner.
"This compromise does not suit me," said the cloaked gentleman, turning abruptly to Bulgin. "You are a villain, sir. It is men like you who bring the Gospel of Christ into contempt. You are an atheist, sir. It is men like you who fill the world with infidels. I have borne with you long enough. I will bear with you no longer. You shall be exposed, sir."
This style of attack, as impetuous as a charge of bayonets, evidently startled the good Doctor.
"Who are you?" he asked, sneeringly.
"I am the man who wrote the letters to these three gentlemen, yesterday," dryly responded the cloaked gentleman.
"This is a conspiracy," growled Bulgin. "Take care, sir! There is a law for conspirators against character and reputation—"
"Baugh!" responded the old gentleman, shrugging his shoulders; and then he beckoned with his hand, toward the recess in which stood the bed. "Come in," he said, "it is time."
Two persons emerged from the recess; one, an old man, of portly form, and mild, good-humored face—now, alas! dark and corrugated with suppressed wrath; the other, a slender woman, with pale face, and large, intellectual eyes,—and a baby, sleeping on her bosom.
Bulgin uttered an oath.
"My wife!—her father!" was all he could utter.
"I have summoned you from your home in the country," said the cloaked gentleman, "to meet me at this house at this unusual hour, to show you the husband and son-in-law in his festival attire, and in company with his paramour.—Look at him! Isn't he beautiful?"
The wife rushed forward, with an indignant glance—
"Let me see the woman who has stolen my husband's affections," she said.
The cloaked gentleman interposed between her and Julia,—
"Softly, my good lady; this poor child must not be disgraced;" and, turning to Julia, he whispered: "Hide your face with your 'kerchief, and hurry from the room. There is a carriage at the door; it will bear you home. Away now!"
"The nephew" did not need a second invitation. Hands over her face, she glided from the room.
Bulgin now found himself in this position:—behind him, Watkins, Burns and Potts; on his right, the cloaked gentleman; on his left, his weeping wife, with her baby; in front, the burly form of his father-in-law, who, clad in the easy costume of a country gentleman, seemed too full of wrath to trust himself with words.
"Oh! husband, how could you—" began the wife.
"Is that your wife, sir?" thundered the father-in-law. "Answer me! Is that your wife?"
"It is," answered Bulgin, retreating a step. "Allow me to explain,—"
"Is that your child, sir?" thundered the enraged old gentleman. "Answer me! Is that your child?"
"It—is—" and Bulgin retreated another step.
"Then, what in the devil do you do in a place like this?—Hey?—Answer me!—answer me!—"
The father-in-law was too much enraged to say any more. So he proceeded to settle the affair in his own way. He did not threaten "divorce;"—did not even mention "separate maintenance." Nothing of the kind. His course was altogether different. From beneath his capacious buff waistcoat, he drew forth a cow-hide—a veritable cow-hide,—and grasped it firmly.
"Don't strike a man of my cloth," cried Bulgin.
The only answer was a blow across the face, which left its livid mark on the nose and cheeks. The good Doctor bawled and ran. The father-in-law pursued, giving the cow-hide free play over the head and shoulders of the Doctor. And the wife, with baby on her bosom, pursued her father,—"Don't, father, don't!" Thus, the chase led round the room; the howls of the Doctor, the blows of the whip, the falling of chairs, and trampling of feet, forming, altogether, a striking chorus. And to add the feather to the camel's back, the baby lifted up its voice in the midst of the scene. Mr. Potts, Mr. Burns, and Mr. Watkins, mounted on the sofa, so that they might not be in the way.
As for the cloaked gentleman, leaning against the door, he laughed,—yes, perhaps for the first time in thirty years.
After making the circuit of the room three or four times, the scarlet attire of the Rev. Dr. Bulgin hung in rags upon his back; and the old man, red in the face, bathed in perspiration, and out of breath, sank panting in a chair.
He glanced at his daughter, who sat weeping in a corner, and then at the Rev. Doctor, who, with the figure of the letter X welted across his face, was rubbing his bruises in another corner.
"Now, sir, if ever I catch you at anything of this kind, if I don't lick you, my name ain't Jenkins!"
CHAPTER VI.
BANK-STOCK AT THE BAR.
The Court of Ten Millions was once more in session. The judge was once more in his seat; his form enveloped in the coat with many capes, his features shadowed by the hat with ample brim. But the beautiful Esther was no longer on his left, nor the giant negro on his right. The great statesman, with the somber brow and masquerade attire of Roderick Borgia, no longer sat in the seat of the criminal. The scene was altogether changed, although the candle on the table still shed its beams around that room, whose black hangings were fringed with gold, and whose gloomy ceiling represented a stormy sky, with the sun struggling among its clouds.
In the seat of the criminal sat Israel Yorke, the financier; his diminutive form, clad in the scarlet Turkish jacket and blue trowsers, contrasting somewhat oddly with his business-like face, and with the general appearance of the scene. Israel was perplexed, for he shifted uneasily in the chair and clasped its arms with his hands, while his ferret-like eyes, now peering above, now below, but never through the glasses of his spectacles, roved incessantly from side to side. There sat the silent judge, under the gloomy canopy, his head bowed on his breast. There was the black table, on which stood the solitary candle, and over which were scattered, an inkstand, pen and paper, a book, and sundry other volumes, looking very much like ledger and day-book. On one side of the table, ranged against the wall, were six sturdy fellows, attired in coarse garments, with crape over their faces; and each man held a club in his brawny hand. And on the opposite side, also ranged against the wall like statues, were six more sturdy fellows, each one grasping a club with his strong right arm. They were dumb as stone; only their hard breathing could be heard;—evidently men of toil, who, on occasion, in a good cause, can strike a blow that will be felt.
Israel did not like this scene. A few moments since, kneeling beside a beautiful girl, whose young loveliness was helpless and in his power;—and now, a prisoner in this nightmare sort of place, with the judge before him, and six sturdy fellows on either hand, waiting to do the judge's bidding! The contrast was too violent. Israel thought so; and—Israel felt anything but comfortable.
"Do they mean to murder me in this dismal den?" he ejaculated to himself. "Really, this way of doing business is exceedingly unbusiness-like. What would they say in Wall street to a scene like this?"
Here the voice of the judge was heard through the dead stillness:
"Israel Yorke, you are about to be put on trial for your crimes."
"My crimes?" ejaculated the little man, bounding from his seat. "Crimes!—What crimes have I committed?"
There, outspoke the sense of injured innocence! To be sure—what crimes had he committed? Had he ever stabbed a man, or put another man's name to paper, or stolen a loaf of bread? No,—indignantly—No! Israel Yorke was above all that. But how many robbers had he made, in the course of his career, by his banking speculations? how many forgers? how many murderers? how many honest men had he flung into the felon's cell? how many pure women had he transformed into walkers of the public streets? Ah! these are questions which Israel Yorke had rather not answer.
"Yes, your crimes, committed through a long course of years; not with the bravery and boldness of the highway robber, but with the cowardice and low cunning of the sneak and swindler, who robs within the letter of the law. Crimes committed, not upon the wealthy and the strong, but upon the weak, the poor, the helpless—the widow, by her fireless hearth—the orphan, by his father's grave. Oh, sir—we have just tried a bold, bad man; a colossal criminal, whose very errors wear something of the gloomy grandeur of the thunder-cloud. To put you on trial, after him, is like leaving the presence of Satan, his forehead yet bearing some traces of former splendor, to find ones-self confronted by Mammon, that most abased of all the damned. Yes, sir,—an apology is due to human nature, by this court, for stooping so low as to put you on your trial. And yet, even you derive some sort of consequence from the vast field of your crimes,—the wide-spread and infernal results of your life-long labors."
Israel crouched in his chair, as though he expected the ceiling to fall on him. "What d'ye mean by crimes?" he cried, grasping the arms of the chair with both hands;—"and what right have you to try me?"
The judge briefly but pointedly, and in a clear voice, which penetrated every nook of the chamber, explained the peculiar features of the court. Its power, backed by ten millions of silver dollars; its jurisdiction, over crimes committed by those who seek the fruits of labor, without its work, or who use the accident of wealth and social position to oppress or degrade man—their brother; its stern application to criminals, who, clad in wealth, had trampled all justice under foot of their own terse motto, "Might makes right."
The explanation of the judge was brief, but impressive. Israel began to feel conviction steal into his soul. "Might makes right!" Oh, how like the last nail in the coffin, are those simple words, to a wealthy scoundrel, who suddenly finds himself helpless in the grasp of a mightier power!
"Of—what—am—I—accused!" faltered Israel; thus recognising the jurisdiction of the court.
The judge answered him:
"Of every crime that can be committed by the man, who makes it his sole object in life to coin money out of the life and blood of the helpless and the poor;—and who pursues this object steadily, by day and night, for twenty years, with the untiring scent of the bloodhound on the track of blood. Survey your life for the last twenty years. You have appeared in various characters: as the trustee, as the executor, as the speculator, the landlord, and the financier."
He paused. Israel found himself listening with intense interest.
"As the trustee, to whom dying men, with their last breath, intrusted the heritage of the orphan, you have in every case, plundered the orphan out of bread, out of education, and cast him ignorant and helpless upon the world. How many orphans, given into your charge, with their heritage, now rot in the grave, or in the felon's dungeon? Your history is written in their blood. Do you,—" the voice of the judge sank low,—"do you remember one orphan, whom, when a little child, her father gave to your care, and whom, when grown to young womanhood, you robbed of her heritage? Do you remember the day on which she died, the tenant of a brothel?"
Once more the judge was silent, but Israel had no word of reply. As for the twelve listeners, they manifested their attention by an ominous murmur.