"As the landlord, it has not been your object to provide the poor with comfortable homes, in exchange for their hard-earned rent-money, but to pack as many human beings as you might, within the smallest compass of brick and mortar,—to herd creatures made in the image of the living God, in narrow rooms, dark courts, and pestilential alleys, as never beasts were herded,—and thus you have sowed death, you have bred the fever, the small-pox, the cholera,—but you have made money."
Seated in the shadow of the velvet canopy, from which his voice resounded, the judge again was silent. Israel, dropping his eyes, imitated the silence of the judge. The murmur of the twelve listeners was now accompanied by the sound of their clubs grating against the floor.
"It is as a banker, however, that your appetite for money, made out of human blood, takes its intensest form of baseness. You started with a Savings Fund, chartered by a well-paid legislature, who transformed you into a president and board of directors, and divesting you of all responsibility, as a man, authorized you to coin money out of the blind confidence of the poor. Hard-working men, servant-girls, needle-women, and others of the poor, who gain their pittance by labor that never knows rest, until it sleeps in the grave, deposited that pittance in your hands. A pittance, mark you, not so remarkable for its amount, as for the fact, that it might, in some future hour, become bread to the starving, warmth to the freezing, home to the homeless. And how did you deal with the sacred trust? The earnings of the poor filled the coffers of your Savings Fund, until they counted over a hundred thousand dollars, and then, on the eve of a dreary winter, the Savings Fund failed. That was all. You did not fail; oh, no; but the Savings Fund Corporation (into which a pliant legislature had transformed you),—it failed. And while you pocketed the hundred thousand dollars, you left the poor, who had trusted you, to starve, or beg, or die, as pleased them."
Israel shaded his eyes with his hands; he seemed buried in profound thought.
"This was the corner-stone of your fortunes. Then the Savings Fund swindler grew into the banker. There were legislatures at Albany, at Trenton and at Harrisburgh, eager to do your bidding,—hungry to be bought. For every dollar of real value in your coffers, these legislatures, by their charters, gave you the privilege to create at least fifty paper dollars; in other words, to demand from the toiling people of the land, some millions of dollars' worth of their labor, without any equivalent. Your banks grew; there were sham presidents and boards of directors, but you were the actual owner of them all; your paper was scattered broadcast over the land. It was in the hands of farmers and mechanics, of poor men and poor women, who had taken it in pay for hard labor; and all at once your banks failed. What became of the poor wretches who took your paper, is not known, but as for you, your capital of a hundred thousand now swelled into two millions of dollars. Let the poor howl! Had you not a press in your pay? Why should not the press be purchased, when legislatures are to be bought as so much merchandise?"
The judge paused, and after a moment resumed,—
"There was a clamor for a while, but you laughed in your sleeve, bought houses and lands,—dotted the city with pestilential dens, in which you crowded the poor, like insects in a festering carcass,—and after a time, raised your head once more as a banker. It was Harrisburgh, Albany or Trenton this time,—one of the three, or all of them,—which gave you the right to steal by law. You were now the owner (and behind the scenes, the wire-puller), of three banks. Last night you thought 'the pear ripe.' Your notes were once more scattered broadcast over the land. 'It is a good time to fail,' you thought, and so last night, in the railroad cars (in order to give a color to your failure) you pretended to be robbed of seventy-one thousand dollars."
"Pretended to be robbed? I tell you I was robbed," cried Israel, half-rising from his seat,—"robbed by an old convict and his young accomplice."
"And this morning, in due course, your three banks stopped payment. All day long your victims lined the street, in front of your den of plunder; and to-night found you in this place, seeking for a time, the gratification of one lust in place of another. And now you are in the hands of those who, having 'the might,' will do with you as your crimes deserve. 'Might makes right,' you know."
"But where is the proof of all this? Where are my accusers?" Israel's teeth chattered as he spoke.
"Do you ask for accusers? What accusers are needed more powerful than those voices which now,—and even your seared conscience must hear them,—arise against you from the silence of the grave and the darkness of the dungeon cell?"
Israel tried hard to brace his nerves against the force of words like these,—against the tone in which they were spoke,—but he shook from head to foot, as though he had been seized with an ague-fit.
"Think for a moment of Cornelius Berman, whom, by the grossest fraud, you stripped of property and home, leaving himself and his only child to sink heart-broken into the grave. And once you called yourself his friend. Think, also, of your instrument, Buggles, whose persecution of the artist, instigated by you, provoked a brave and honest youth into murder, and consigned him to the felon's death! Do you ask for accusers?"
"Cornelius Berman!" faltered Israel, as if thinking aloud.
"Do you ask for proofs? Behold them on the table before you. For years your course has been tracked, your crimes counted, and the hour of your punishment fixed. And the hour has come! On the table before you are proofs of all your crimes, proofs that would weigh you down in a convict's chains before any court of law. There are the secrets which you thought safely locked up in your fire-proof, or buried in the forgotten past,—secrets connected with the history of long years, with your transactions in Harrisburgh, Trenton, Albany,—with all your schemes from the very dawning of your infamous career."
"Can Fetch, the villain, have betrayed me?" and Israel sank back helplessly in the huge arm-chair;—"or, is this man only trying to bully me into some confession or other?"
"Israel Yorke! the devotion with which you, for long years, have pursued your object,—to coin money out of human blood,—has only been exceeded by the devotion of those who have followed you at every step of the way, and for years, singled you out as the victim of avenging justice."
"But what do you intend to do with me?" cried Yorke, now shivering from head to foot with terror.
"In the first place, you will sign a paper, stating the truth, viz: that you have ample means to redeem every dollar of your notes, and that you will redeem them to-day, and henceforth at your office."
"But I have not the funds," Israel began, but he was sternly interrupted by the judge: "It is false! you have the funds. Independent of the seventy-one thousand dollars, of which you say you were robbed, you can, at any moment, command a million dollars. The proofs are on the table before you. You must redeem your notes."
"And suppose I consent to sign such a paper?" hesitated the Financier.
"Then you must sign another paper, the contents of which you will not know until some future time," continued the judge, very quietly.
"If I do it, may I be ——!" screamed Israel, bouncing from his seat.
"It is well. You may go," calmly remarked the judge. "You are free; these gentlemen will see you from this house, and attend you until bank hours, when they will have the honor of presenting you to the holders of your notes, who will, doubtless, gather in respectable numbers in front of your banking house."
Israel was free, but the twelve gentlemen, with clubs, gathered round him, anxious to escort him safely on his way.
"Come, my dear little Turk, we are ready," said one of the number, with a very gruff voice, laying a hand,—it was such a hard hand,—on the shoulders of the Financier, "We're a-dyin' to go with you; ain't we, boys?"
"Dyin' ain't the word,—we're starvin' to death to be alone with the gentleman in blue trowsers," responded another.
Israel bit his lips in silent rage.
"Give me the papers," he said, in a sullen voice, and following a sign from the finger of the judge, he advanced to the table, and beheld the documents, the first of which he read.
It was an important document, containing a brief statement of all Israel's financial affairs,—evidently prepared by one who knew all about him,—together with his solemn promise to redeem every one of his notes, dollar for dollar.
"Could Fetch have betrayed me?"—Israel hissed the words between his set teeth, as he took up the pen.—"If I thought so, I'd cut his throat."
He signed, shook his gold spectacles, and uttered a deep sigh.
"Now, the other paper," said the judge, "its contents are concealed by another sheet, but there is room for your signature."
Israel's little eyes shone wickedly as he gazed upon the sheet of paper, which hid the mysterious document. He chewed the handle of his pen between his teeth,—stood for a moment in great perplexity, and then signed at the bottom of the sheet, the musical name of "Israel Yorke," and then fell back in the chair wiping the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his Turkish jacket.
"Anything more?" he gasped.
"You are free," said the judge; "you may now change your dress, and leave this house."
Israel bounced from his seat.
"Yet, hold a single moment. One of these gentlemen will accompany you wherever you go; eat, drink, walk, sit, sleep with you, and be introduced by you to all your financial friends, as your moneyed friend from the country,——"
"Why, you must be the devil incarnate," screamed Israel, and he beat his clenched hand against the arm of the chair.
"It will be the business of your attendant to accompany you to your banking house, and see that you commence the redemption of your notes at nine o'clock this morning. He will report all your movements to me. Were you suffered to go alone, you might, in a fit of absence, glide out of public view, and,—Havana is such a pleasant residence for runaway bankers, especially in winter time."
Israel gave utterance to an oath. The judge, without remarking this pardonable ebullition of feeling, quietly addressed his twelve,—
"Which of you gentlemen will put yourself under this gentleman's orders, as his attendant and shadow?"
There was a pause, and one of the twelve advanced and laid his brawny hand upon the table. His gaunt and muscular form was clad in a sleek frock-coat of dark blue cloth, buttoned over his broad chest to his throat, where it was relieved by a black cravat and high shirt collar. His harsh features, closely shaven, and disfigured by a hideous scar on his cheek,—features manifesting traces of hardship and age,—were in singular contrast with his hair, which, sleek, and brown and glossy, was parted neatly in the middle of his huge head, and descended to either ear, in massy curls. His eyes, half hidden by the shaggy brows, shone with an expression only to be described by the words, ferocious fun.
"I'll go with him, hoss," said a gruff voice; and, turning to Israel, this singular individual regarded him with a steady look. Israel returned his look, and the twain gazed upon each other with increasing interest; and at length the individual approached Israel, and bent down his head near to his face.
"It's the fellow,—it's the fellow!" cried Israel, once more bouncing from his seat. "He robbed me last night in the cars,—he——"
"Be silent," cried the judge, who had regarded this scene attentively, with his hand upraised to his brow.—"Gentlemen, conduct the prisoner into the next room, and leave me alone with this person," he pointed to the gaunt individual who stood alone by the table.
The eleven disappeared through the curtains into the Golden Room with Israel in their charge.
"Now sir, who are you?" sternly inquired the judge.
The individual gravely lifted his brown hair,—for it was a wig,—and disclosed the outline of his huge head, with the black hair streaked with gray, cut close to the scalp. Then turning down the high shirt-collar, he disclosed the lower part of his face,—the wide mouth and iron jaw, stamped with a savage resolution.
"Don't you think I'm hansum?" he said, and the eyes twinkled under the bushy brows, and the mouth distorted in a grin.
"It's the same!" ejaculated the judge,—"How did you escape from the room in which you were confined some three hours ago, and what do you here?"
"As yer so civil and pleasant spoken, I don't mind answerin' yer questions. Arter the poleese had tied me, and left me in the dark upon the bed, 'it looks black,' said I to myself, 'but don't give it up so easy!' and a side door was opened, an' a hand cut my cords, and a voice said 'get up and travel,—the way is clear,' and a bundle was put into my hand, containin' these clothes, and this head o' hair.—I rigged myself out in the dark, pitched my old clothes under the bed, an' then went down the back stairway. I certainly did travel—"
"And then?—"
"And then," responded the individual, "I went and got shaved."
"How came you here?"
"Thinking, I was safer in a crowd, than anywhere else, I put for down town, and I mixed in with the folks in front of Israel Yorke's banking-house, and as they were hollering, why I hollered too. They wanted to pitch into him,—so did I. Lord! didn't they holler! And a gen'elman, seein' I was so airnest, told me about a private party, who were about to foller up Isr'el, to this house. One o' their gang, he said, was sick,—he axed me to jine 'em,—and swore me in as one of your perleese,—and I jined 'em."
"What is your name?" cried the judge, sternly.
"In the place where I was last, they called me Ninety-One," answered the old convict, arranging the high collar about his face,—"Years ago, when I was an honest man, afore a man in a cloak, on a dark night, left a baby with me and my wife, I was called,——"
He paused, and passed his brawny hand over his eyes. The judge started up from his seat.—
"Yes, yes, you were called,—" he exclaimed.
"John Hoffman," replied the convict.
The judge sank back in his chair, and his head dropped upon his breast. It was sometime before he spoke,—
"I have heard of your story before," he said, in a tremulous voice. "And now answer me one question," he continued in a firmer voice.—"Did you commit the murder for which you were arrested?"
"I can't expect you to believe an old cuss like me, but I certainly did not," responded Ninety-One.
"How came you in the room next to the one in which the murdered man was found?"
"I was took there by a friend, who offered to hide me from the folks who were arter me, about Israel's valise."
The judge seemed buried in thought.
"And after the murder was discovered, and you were arrested and pinioned, the same friend appeared once more, and aided your escape?"
"It was a friend," dryly responded Ninety-One,—"can't say what he looked like, as the room was as black as your hat, (purviden you don't wear a white hat)."
"Did you commit the robbery on the railroad cars, last night?"
"I'll be straight up and down with you, boss," said Ninety-One,—"I did not,—and nobody didn't. The money was found on the track, after the smashin' up o' the cars."
"Do you imagine the friend, who hid you away in the house of old Mr. Somers, intended to implicate you in the murder of his son?"
"That's jist one o' th' p'ints I'd like to settle;" Ninety-One uttered a low deep laugh, "if he did, I wouldn't give three tosses of a bad copper for his windpipe."
"As the case stands now, you labor under the double suspicion of robbery and murder. Now mark me,—if you are innocent, I will defend you. In the course of the day, I will have some future talk with you. For the present, your disguise will avoid suspicion for a day or two. You will go with Israel Yorke, and report all his movements to me. My name and residence you will find on the card near the candlestick. One question more—there was a boy with you,—"
The voice of the judge again grew tremulous.
Ninety-One, attired in the neat frock-coat, which displayed the brawny width of his chest, drew himself to his full height, and gazed upon the judge, long and earnestly, his eyes deep-sunken behind his bushy brows.
"Do you think I'd a answered all your questions, hoss, if I hadn't thought you knew somethin' o' my life and had the will and the power to set me right afore the world? Well it's not for my own sake, I wish to be set right, but for the sake of that boy. And afore I answer your question, let me ax another: Did you ever happen to know a man named Doctor Martin Fulmer?"
Ninety-One could not see the expression of the judge's face, (for as you are aware, that face was concealed under the shadow of the broad brimmed hat,) but when the judge replied to his question, his voice was marked by perceptible agitation:
"I know Dr. Fulmer. In fact,—in fact,—I am often intrusted by him with business. He will be in town to-morrow."
"He is alive then," exclaimed Ninety-One. "Well hoss, when you meet Dr. Martin Fulmer, jist tell him that that boy, who was with me, had a parchment about his neck, on which these letters was writ, 'G. G. V. H. C.' The very same," he continued, as if thinking aloud, "which I used to send in a letter, to Dr. Martin Fulmer."
"And this boy," almost shrieked the judge, rising, and starting one step forward, on the platform, his corpse-like hand extended toward Ninety-One,—"This boy with the parchment about his neck, where,—where is he now?"
CHAPTER VII.
"WHERE IS THE CHILD OF GULIAN VAN HUYDEN?"
"In the early part of the evenin' I left him in this very house, in company with a gal named Frank,—"
The judge interrupted him,—"Bring in the prisoner!" he shouted, and the eleven shuffled into the room, escorting the little gentleman in Turkish jacket and trowsers: "Draw near sir," he beckoned to Ninety-One, "attend this man from this house,—" he pointed to Yorke, "and do with him as I direct you,—thus—" he communicated his directions to Ninety-One, in a rapid tone, broken by emotion, and inaudible to the eleven, "and you gentlemen,—" to the eleven,—"already have your instructions."
He paused and then clutched Ninety-One by the hand, the convict endeavoring, although vainly, to gain a glimpse of his features,—"In this house with Frank did you say?" his voice was husky.
"In this house, with a gal named Frank," answered Ninety-One.
The judge stepped hastily from the platform, and his steps trembling as he went, disappeared through a side door, his hands clasped over his breast.
Israel Yorke found himself alone with Ninety-One and the eleven gentlemen with clubs. Ninety-One addressed him in a tone of cheerful politeness:
"Come, old cock, you and me's got to travel," he said, covering Israel's right shoulder with his huge hand.
Israel, biting his lips with illy suppressed rage, could not help venting the bitterness of his soul, in a single word,—
"Devil," he hissed the word between his set teeth.
"Well, I am a devil Isr'el," answered Ninety-One good humoredly, "an' you're another. But you see there's two kind o' devils. I'll explain it to you. Once a little sneak of a devil came up to the head devil, (this happened in the lower regions,) and offered to take his arm, 'you're one devil, and I'm another, and so we're ekle,' says the little sneak of a devil. Now the head devil did not like this. He says, says he, to the little sneak, 'There's two kind o' devils, young gen'leman. There's me, for instance,—when I fell from Heaven. I showed pluck anyhow, and fell like a devil, and went about makin' stump speeches in the lower regions. But you,—you,—what was you doing meanwhile? Sneakin' out o' Heaven with your carpet-bag full of gold bricks, which you had stolen from the gold pavement.' Now Isr'el the name of the first devil was Beelzebub, and the little sneak of a devil was called, Mammon. Do you take?"
The eleven gentlemen with clubs, received this elegant apologue, with evident pleasure, manifesting their delight by a unanimous burst of laughter.
Israel said nothing, but evidently was absorbed in a multitude of reflections, not altogether of the most pleasant character.
In a short time, once more arrayed in his every-day attire he left the Temple, accompanied by Ninety-One, and followed by the eleven.
Hastening from the "Court of Ten Millions," his hands clasped tightly over his breast, and his steps trembling as he went, the judge was determined, at all hazards, to obtain an immediate interview with Frank. Hurrying along a dark passage, and then down the dark stairway,—for the lights had been extinguished, and the Temple was dark and silent as the tomb,—the judge muttered frequently the words "in this house,—in this house!" and then exclaimed,—"O, he cannot, cannot escape me! The hand of fate has led him hither."
He opened a door, and entered the magnificent apartment, in which, in the early part of the evening, Tarleton feasted with his friends, while at the head of the table, sat the corse of Evelyn Somers. Now all was dark and silent there.
The judge lost no time, but retraced his steps and hurried up-stairs. He presently entered the Central Chamber, where a few candles burned to their sockets, shed their pale and uncertain light, over the pictures and the mirrors, the tables coveted with flowers, and the lofty ceiling supported by marble pillars. When last we saw the Central Chamber, it was all life and motion; warm pulses were throbbing, bright eyes flashing there. Then gay and varied costumes glittered in the light, and each voluptuous recess, echoed to the sighs of passion. Now the scene presented that saddest of all spectacles,—the decaying lights of a festival, emitting their last dim gleam, upon the faded splendors of the forsaken festal hall. Popes, Caliphs, Cardinals, Quakeresses, Knights, Nymphs and Houris, all were gone. The place was silent as the grave, and much more sad.
A single form walked slowly up and down the silent hall,—a woman, whose noble person was attired in black velvet, her dark hair falling to her shoulders, and a white cross clustering on her brow. Her hands dropped listlessly by her side, and her dark eyes dilating in their sockets, were fixed in a vacant stare.
"Frank, I must speak with you at once, and on a subject of life and death," cried the judge, suddenly confronting her. Even as he spoke, he was startled at the unnatural pallor of her face. "To-night a young man, in whose history I am fearfully interested, entered this house, and saw you in your chamber. He is now here," he continued impetuously,—"I must see him."
"You mean the lost son of Gulian Van Huyden?" she calmly said, pausing in her walk, and folding her arms over her breast.
"He was here then," cried the judge, evidently wild with agitation, "nay he is here now."
"He was here half an hour ago," returned Frank, who, pre-occupied with her own thoughts, did not seem to notice the agitation of the Judge,—"half an hour ago he left the house."
"Left the house? Whither has he gone?"
"I know not."
"Child, child, you mock me," in his agitation he seized her wrist,—"I must see this boy, it is upon a matter of life and death. For God's sake do not trifle with me."
"I tell you, that he left the house half an hour ago," returned Frank, "and as I hope to have peace in the hour of my death, I do not know whither he has gone."
The solemnity of her tone impressed the judge.
"But will he return?"
"He will never return,—never!" she answered, and it seemed to the judge, as though there was a hidden meaning in her words.
"O, do not drive me to despair. I must see this youth, before to-morrow,—yes, to-day,—this hour!"
"You will never see him in this house again."
"Did he leave this house alone, or was he accompanied,—and by whom?"
A strange smile passed over her face as she replied in a whisper—
"He was accompanied by Mary Berman, who arisen from the grave, came here to claim her husband."
The Judge uttered a wild ejaculation, and sank half fainting in a chair,—his hat fell from his brow, and his face was revealed.
That face, remarkable in every outline, was bathed in cold moisture, and distorted by contending emotions.
CHAPTER VIII.
BEVERLY AND JOANNA.
In the Temple, near the hour of dawn, on the morning of the 24th of December, 1844.
"Fallen!"
Yes, fallen! nevermore to press the kiss of a pure mother upon the lips of her innocent child. Fallen! never more to meet her husband's gaze, with the look of a chaste and faithful wife. Fallen!—from wifely purity, from all that makes the past holy, or the future hopeful—fallen, from all that makes life worth the having,—fallen! and forever!
"Fallen!"
Oh, how this word, trembling from her lips—wrung from her heart—echoed through the stillness of the dimly-lighted chamber.
She was seated on the sofa, her noble form clad in the white silken robe—her hands clasped—her golden hair unbound—her neck and shoulders bare: and the same light hanging from the ceiling, which disclosed the details of that luxurious chamber—carpet, chairs, sofa, mirror, and the snow-white couch in a distant recess—fell upon her beautiful countenance, and revealed the remorse that was written there. There was a wild, startled look in her blue eyes; her lips were apart; her cheek was now, pale as death, and then, flushed with the scarlet hues of unavailing shame.
He was reclining at her feet; his arm resting on the sofa; his face upturned—his eyes gazing into hers. Clad in the costume of the white monk—a loose robe of white cloth, with wide sleeves, edged with red—Beverly Barron toyed with his flaxen curls, as he looked into her face, and remarked her with a look of mingled meaning. There was base appetite, gratified vanity, but no remorse in his look.
And the light fell on his florid face, with its sensual mouth, receding chin, wide nostrils, and bullet-shaped forehead, encircled by ringlets of flaxen hair—a face altogether animal, with scarcely a single ray of a higher nature, to light up or refine its grossness.
"Fallen!" cried Joanna; and clasped her hands, and shuddered, as if with cold.
"Never mind, dear," said Beverly, and he bent forward and kissed her hands—"I will love you always!"
"Oh, my God!"—and in that ejaculation, all the agony of her soul found utterance,—"Oh, my God! my child!"
Beverly knelt at her feet, and kissed her clenched hands, and endeavored to soothe her with professions of undying love; but she tore her hands from his grasp—
"My husband! How can I ever look into his face again!"
Had you seen that noble form, swelling in every fiber; had you seen the silken robe, heaved upward by the agony which filled her bosom; had you seen the look, so wild—remorseful—almost mad—which stamped her face,—you would have felt the emphasis with which she uttered these terrible words, "My husband! How can I ever look into his face again!"
"Your husband," whispered Beverly, with something of the devil in his eyes, "your husband, even now, is on his way to Boston, where the chosen mistress of his heart awaits him. His brother is at the point of death, is he? ha, ha, Joanna! 'Twas a good excuse, but, like all excuses, rather lame—when found out. The poor, good, dear Joanna, sits at home, pining at her husband's absence, while he, the faithful Eugene, consoles himself in the arms of his Boston love!"
"It cannot be! it cannot be!" cried Joanna, beating the carpet with her foot, and pressing her clenched hands against her heaving breast.
"Do you see this, darling?" and, throwing the robe of the white monk aside, he disclosed his "flashy" scarf, white vest and gold chain. "Do you see this, pet?" and from beneath his white vest he drew forth a package of letters.—"Her letters to her dear Eugene! How she loves him—how she pities him, because he is not married to a sympathetic soul,—how she counts the hours that must elapse before he comes! It is all written here, darling!"
Joanna took the package and passed it absently from one hand to the other. "Yes, yes, I read them yesterday! It is true, beyond hope of doubt. He loves her!—he loves her!"
"And you,"—Beverly arose and seated himself by her side, winding his arm about her waist. "And you, like a brave, noble woman, whose dearest affections have been trampled upon,"—he wound his left hand amid the rich masses of her golden hair,—"you, like a brave, proud heart, whose very May of life has been blighted by a husband's treachery,—have avenged yourself upon him!"
He pressed his kiss upon her lips. But the warmth of passion had passed away. Her lips were cold. She shrunk from his embrace. The vail had fallen from her eyes; the delusion, composed of a mad passion and a mad desire for revenge, had left her, and she knew herself to be no longer the stainless wife and holy mother—but that thing for which on earth there is no forgiveness—an adulteress!
"No, Beverly, no. It will not avail. His fault was no excuse for my crime. For his fault affects me only—wrongs me alone—but mine—," there was a choking sensation in her throat—she buried her face in her hands—"Oh God! oh God! my child!"
Beverly took a bottle of champagne which stood upon the table, drew the cork, and filled two brimming glasses.
"You are nervous, my darling," he said, "take this. Let us pledge each other—for the past, forgetfulness—for the future, hope and love."
He stood erect beneath the lamp—his tall form, clad in the robe of the white monk, relieved by the very gloom of the luxurious chamber; he pressed the glass to his lips, and over its rim surveyed the white couch, which looked dim and shadowy in its distant recess,—he murmured, "Eugene, your magnificent wife is mine!"
And then drained the glass without moving it from his lips.
She took the glass and drank; but the same wine which an hour ago had fired her blood, and completed the delusion of her senses, now only added to her remorse and shame.
"My father,—so proud of his name, so proud of the honor of his son, the purity of his daughter, how shall I ever meet his eye? how can I ever look him in the face again?"
And the image of that stern old man, with wrinkled visage and snow-white hair, rose vividly before her. Her father was an aristocrat of the old school—proud, not of his money, but of his blood. The royal blood of Orange flowed in his veins. Loving his only daughter better than his own soul, he would have put her to death with his own hand, sooner than she should incur even the suspicion of dishonor.
"Pshaw, Joanna! He need never know anything about the adventures of this night. You have been slighted, and you have taken your revenge;—that is all. No one need know anything about it. You will mingle in society as usual; these things, my darling, are almost things of course in the fashionable world, among the 'upper ten.' Among the beautiful dames whom you see at the opera, on a 'grand night,' how many do you suppose would waste one thought of regret upon an adventure like this?"
Joanna buried her burning temples in her hands. All of her life rushed before her. Her childhood—the days of her pure maidenhood—the hour of her marriage, when she gave herself to the husband who idolized her,—the hour of her travail, when she gave birth to her child,—all rushed upon her, with the voices, tones, faces of other days, commingled in one brief but vivid panorama.
"You see, my pet, you know but little of the world," continued Beverly. "In the very dawn of your beauty, ignorant of the world, and of the value of your own loveliness, you wedded Eugene. Life was a rose-colored dream to you; you thought of him only as the ideal of your existence. You thought that he regarded you in the same light. You did not dream that he would ever regard you simply as the handsomest piece of furniture about his splendid establishment,—a splendid fixture, destined to bear him children who would perpetuate the name of Livingston,—while his roving affections wandered about the world, constantly seeking new objects of passionate regard. You never dreamt of this, did you, darling?"
Joanna uttered a groan. Pressing her hands to her throbbing temples, she felt her bosom swell, but could not frame a word.
"Now, my dear, you are a woman; you know something of the world. Like hundreds of others of your wealth and station, you can, under the vail of decorum, select the object of a passionate attachment, and indulge your will at pleasure. A bright future, rich in love and in all that makes life dear, is before you——"
And Beverly drew her to him, putting one arm about her neck, while his left hand girdled her bosom. As he kissed her, her golden hair floated over his face and shoulders.
At this moment the door opened without a sound, and a man wrapped in a cloak, with a cap over his brow, advanced with a noiseless step toward the sofa.
It was not until his shadow interposed between them and the light, that they beheld him. As Joanna raised her head, struggling to free herself from the embrace of her seducer, she beheld the intruder, who had lifted his cap from his brow.
"O God, Eugene!" she shrieked, and fell back upon the sofa, not fainting, but utterly paralyzed, her limbs as cold as marble, her blood turned to ice in her veins.
It was Eugene Livingston. Gently folding his arms, cap in hand, he surveyed his wife. His face was turned from the light,—its ghastly paleness could not be seen. His cloak hid the heavings of his breast. But the light which fired his eyes, met the eyes of his wife, and burned into her soul.
He did not speak to her.
Turning from her, he surveyed Beverly Barron, who had started to his feet, and who now stood as if suddenly frozen, with something of the look and attitude of a man who is condemned to watch a lighted candle, as it burns away in the center of a barrel of gunpowder.
Not a word was spoken.
Joanna crouching on the sofa, her chin resting on her clasped hands,—Beverly on the floor, his hands outspread, and his face dumb with terror,—Eugene standing between them, folding his cloak upon his breast, as he silently turned his gaze, first to his wife, and then to her seducer.
At length Eugene spoke,—
"Come, Joanna," he said, "here is your father. He will take you home."
She looked up and beheld the straight, military form, the stern visage and snow-white hair of her father. One look only, and she sank lifeless at his feet. She may have meant to have knelt before him, but as she rose from the sofa, or rather, glided from it, she fell like a corpse at his feet. The old general's nether lip worked convulsively, but he did not speak.
"General, take her to my home, and at once," whispered Eugene. "There must be no scandal, no noise, and——" he paused as if suffocating,—"no harshness, mark you."
The general was a stalwart man, although his hair was white as snow,—a man whose well-knit limbs, erect bearing, and sinewy hands, indicated physical vigor undimmed by age, but he trembled like a withered leaf as he raised his daughter from the floor.
"I will do as you direct, Eugene," he said, in a husky voice.
"You will find her cloak in the next room," said Eugene, "and the carriage is at the door."
The general girded his insensible daughter in his arms, and bore her from the room. As he crossed the threshold, he groaned like a dying man.
Eugene and Beverly were alone. Beverly at a rapid glance surveyed the room. Eugene stood between him and the door; he turned to the windows, which were covered with thick curtains. Those windows were three stories high. There was no hope of escape by the windows.
"Will you take a chair, my friend," said Eugene.
Beverly sank into a chair, near the table; as he seated himself, he felt his knees bend beneath him, and his heart leap to his throat.
Eugene took a chair opposite, and shading his eyes with his hand, surveyed the seducer. There was silence for a few moments, a silence during which both these men endured the agonies of the damned.
"You have a daughter, I believe," said Eugene, in a voice that was broken by a tremor. "You may wish to send some word to her. Here is a pencil and tablets. Let me ask you to be brief."
He flung the pencil and tablets upon the table. Beverly recoiled as though a serpent had stung him.
"Eugene," he faltered, for the first time finding words, "you—you do not mean to murder me?"
And his florid face grew ashy with abject terror.
Eugene did not reply, but knocked twice upon the marble table with his clenched hand. Scarcely had the echo of the sound died away, when the door was once more opened, and two persons advanced to the table.
The first was a tall, muscular man, with a phlegmatic face, light hair, and huge red whiskers. His blue frock-coat was buttoned to the throat, and he carried an oblong box in his hands.
"Joanna's brother!" ejaculated Beverly.
The second person was a dapper little gentleman, with small eyes, a hooked nose, and an enormous black moustache. He was dressed in black, with a gold chain on his breast, and a diamond pin in his faultless shirt bosom.
"Major Barton!" ejaculated Beverly, bounding from his seat, for in Major Barton he recognized an old and intimate acquaintance.
"Robert," said Eugene, turning to Joanna's brother, "what have you there?"
"The dueling pistols," quietly responded Robert.
"Have you and this gentleman's friend arranged the preliminaries?"
"We have," interrupted the dapper Major; "distance, ten paces,—place, Weehawk, opposite the city,—time, right off."
"This without consulting me!" cried Beverly, who at the mention of a duel, felt a hope lighten up in his heart, for coward as he was, he was also a capital shot.
"Gentlemen, I beg to say,——" he drew his White Monk's robe over his heart, and assumed a grand air,—"gentlemen,——"
The dapper little major glided to his side,—
"Bev., my boy, better be quiet. Eugene waited on me an hour ago and explained all the circumstances,—desired me to act as your friend. As I'd rather see you have a chance for your life in a duel, than to see you killed in such a house as this, like a dog, I consented. Bev., my boy, better be quiet."
"If you don't wish to fight, say so," and the phlegmatic Robert stepped forward, eyeing Beverly with a look of settled ferocity, that was not altogether pleasant to see,—"if you decline the duel, just say so in the presence of your friend, Major Barton. Just say no."
And Robert eyed Beverly from head to foot, as though it would afford him much pleasure to pitch him from the third story window.
"I will fight," said Beverly, pale and red by turns.
"Then I'll get your hat, and coat, and cloak," said the obliging major,—"they're in the next room. We must leave the house quietly, and there's a boat waiting for us, at the foot of the street, or the North River. We can cross to the Jersey shore, before morning breaks. It will be a nice little affair all among ourselves. By-the-bye, how about a surgeon?"
"Yes, a surgeon!" echoed Robert, turning to Eugene, who, seated by the table, rested his forehead against his hand.
"We will not need a surgeon," said Eugene, raising his face, from which all color of life had fled. "Because our fight is to the death."
CHAPTER IX.
MARY BERMAN—CARL RAPHAEL.
They sat near the marriage altar, their hands clasped, and their gaze fixed upon each other's face. The countenance of Nameless was radiant with a deep joy. One hand resting upon the neck of Mary, the other clasping her hand, his soul was in his eyes, as he looked into her face. Her hair, brown and wavy, streamed over the hand, which rested on her neck. Despite her faded attire,—the gown of coarse calico, and the mantilla of black velvet,—Mary was very beautiful; as beautiful as her name. All the life which swelled her young bosom, was manifested in the bloom of her cheeks, the clear, joyous look of her eyes. Her beauty was the purity of a stainless soul, embodied in a person, rich with every tint and outline of warm, womanly loveliness.
"Well might my whole being thrill, as you passed by me to-night! Your form was vailed, your face hid, but my soul knew that you were near!"
"O, Carl, in all our lives, we will never know a moment of joy so deep as this!"—and there was something of a holy sadness in Mary's gaze as she spoke,—"After years of sorrow and trial, that might break the stoutest hearts, we have met again, like two persons who have risen from the grave. The world is so dark, Carl,—so crowded with the callous and the base,—that I fear for our future. O, would it not be beautiful, yes holy, to die now, in each other's arms, at the moment when our hearts are filled with the deepest joy they can ever know?"
The words of the pure girl, uttered in a voice imbued with a melancholy enthusiasm, cast a shadow over the face of Nameless, and brought a sad intense light to his eyes.
"Yes, Mary, it is even so," he replied,—"it is a harsh and bitter world, in which the base and callous-hearted, prey upon those who have souls. When I think of my own history, and of yours, it does not seem reality, to me, but the images of the past move before me, like the half defined shapes of a troubled dream."
And he bent his forehead,—fevered and throbbing with thought, upon her bosom, and listened to the beatings of that heart, which had been true to him, in every phase of his dark life. She pressed her lips silently upon his brow.
"But the future is bright before us, Mary," he whispered, raising his face, once more radiant with hope,—"the cottage by the river shore, shall be ours again! O, don't you remember it, Mary, as it leans against the cliff, with the river stretching before it, and the palisades rising far away, into the western sky? We will live there, Mary, and forget the world." Alas! he knew not of the poison in his veins. "Your father, too,—"
"My father!" she echoed, starting from her chair, as the memory of that broken man with the idiot face,—never for a moment forgotten,—came vividly before her, "My father! come Carl, let us go to him!"
She wound the mantilla about her form, and Carl, otherwise Nameless, also rose from his chair, when a footstep was heard, and the door was abruptly opened.
"Leave this house, at once, as you value your life," cried an agitated voice,—"You know my father,—know that he will shrink from no crime, when his darker nature is aroused,—you have foiled the purpose which was more than life to him. There is danger for you in this house! away!"
"Frank!" was all that Nameless could ejaculate, as he saw her stand before him, lividly pale, her hair unbound, and the golden cross rising and falling upon her heaving bosom. There was a light in her eyes, which he had never seen before.
"No words," she continued in broken and rapid tones,—"you must away at once. You are not safe from poison,"—a bitter, mocking smile,—"or steel, or any treachery, as long as you linger in this house. But this is no time for masquerade attire,—in the next room you will find the apparel which you wore, when first you entered this house, together with a cloak, which will protect you from the cold. You have no time to lose,—give me that bauble," and she tore the chain from his neck and the golden cross from his breast,—"away,—you have not a moment to lose." She pointed to the door.
"Frank!" again ejaculated Nameless, and something like remorse smote his heart, as he gazed upon her countenance, so sadly changed.
"Will you drive me mad? Go!" again she pointed to the door.
Nameless disappeared.
"And you,—" she took the hands of Mary within her own, and raised them to her breast, and gazed long and earnestly into that virgin face,—"You, O, I hate you!" she said her eyes flashing fire, and yet the next moment, she kissed Mary on the cheeks and forehead, and pressed her to her bosom with a frenzied embrace. "You are worthy of him," she said slowly, in a low voice, again perusing every line of that countenance,—"I know you, although an hour ago, I did not know that you lived;" once more her tones were rapid and broken,—"know your history, know who it was that lured you to this place, and know the desolate condition of your father. Your husband has money, but it will not be safe for him to attempt to use it for some days. Take this,—conceal it in your bosom,—nay, I will take no denial. Take it child! That money and purse are not the wages of pollution,—they were both mine, in the days when I was pure and happy."
Scarcely knowing what to do, Mary, whom the wild manner of Frank, struck at once with pity and awe, took the purse, and hid it in her bosom.
"I now remember you," said Mary, her eyes filling with tears, as she gazed into the troubled face of Frank,—"Father painted your picture, and afterward you sought us out in our garret, and left your purse upon the table, with a note stating that it contained the balance due on your portrait. O, it was kind, it was noble,—"
"Do not speak of it, child," Frank said in rapid and abrupt tones,—"Had I not been convinced that you and your father were dead, I would have visited you often. That is, if I could have concealed from you what I was, and the way of life which was mine."
Her lip quivered, and she hid her eyes with her hand.
"But come, your husband is here," she said, as Nameless re-appeared, his form once more clad in the faded frock-coat, but with a cloak drooping from his shoulders. "You must away, and at once."
"Frank,"—and Nameless, trembling with agitation, approached her, "we will meet again in happier hours."
O, the strange look of her eyes, the bitter mocking curl of her lip!
"We will never meet again," she answered, in a voice that sunk into his heart. Then burying the chain and golden cross in her bosom, she placed a letter in his hand,—"Swear to me that you will not read this, until three hours at least are passed?"
"I promise,—"
"Nay, you must swear it,—"
"I swear, in the sight of Heaven!"
"Now depart, and,—" she turned her face away from their gaze, and pointed to the door.
As she turned away, Mary approached her, and put her arms about her neck, and her eyes brim full of tears all the while,—kissed her on the forehead and the lips, saying at the same time, and from the depths of her heart, "May God in Heaven bless you!"
Frank took Mary's arms from her neck, and joined her hand in that of Nameless, and then pushed them gently to the door,—"Go, and at once," she whispered.
And they crossed the threshold, Mary looking back over her shoulder, until she disappeared with Nameless, in the shadows of the passage.
Frank stood with one hand extended to the door, and the other supporting her averted face,—she heard their footsteps in the passage, on the stairway, and in the hall beneath. Then came the sound of the opening and closing of the door, which led into the street.
And then the agony, the despair, the thousand emotions which racked her soul, found utterance in the simple, and yet awfully touching ejaculation,—"O, my God!—" and she flung herself on her knees, before the Marriage Altar, resting her clenched hands upon the Holy Bible, which was concealed by her bowed head, and unbound hair.
"O, my God! He is gone, and—forever!"
Yes, Frank, woman so beautiful and so utterly lost, gone and forever—gone, with his young wife by his side, and Poison in his veins.
PART FIFTH.
THE DAWN, SUNRISE AND DAY.
DECEMBER 24, 1844.
CHAPTER I.
"THE OTHER CHILD."
Baffled schemer!
In the dim hour which comes before the break of day, Colonel Tarleton was hurrying rapidly along the silent and deserted street.
Broadway, a few hours since, all light, and life, and motion, was now lonely as a desert. Gathering his cloak over his white coat, and drawing his cap lower upon his brows, Tarleton hurried along with a rapid and impetuous step, now and then suffering the thoughts which filled him, to find vent in broken ejaculations.
"Baffled schemer!" he exclaimed aloud, and then his thoughts arranged themselves into words:—"Why do those words ring in my ears? They do not apply to me; let me but live twenty-four hours, and all the schemes which I have worked and woven for twenty-one long years, will find their end in a grand, a final triumph. Baffled schemer! No,—not yet, nor never! This boy who was to marry Frank, will fade away in a few hours, and make no sign; and now for the other child. I must hasten to the house of old Somers,—his 'private secretary' must be mine before daybreak. The hour is unusual, the son lies dead in one room,—the father in the other; but I must enter the house at all hazards, for,—for,—the only remaining child of Gulian Van Huyden, must be in my power before daybreak."
And he hurried along toward the head of Broadway, through the silent city. Even in the gloom, the agitation which possessed him, was plainly discernible. The hand which held the cloak upon his breast was tightly clenched, and, as he passed through the light of a lamp, you might note his compressed lip, his colorless cheek, and eyes burning with intense thought. His whole life swept before him like a panorama. The day when the wife and mother lay dead in her palace home, while Gulian, his brother, clutched him with a death-grip as he plunged into the river,—the years which he had gayly passed in Paris, and the horrible years which he had endured in the felon's cell,—the happy childhood, and the irrevocable shame of his daughter, sold by her own mother into the arms of lust and gold,—his duel with young Somers, whom he had first murdered, and then smuggled his corpse into his father's home,—the scenes which he had this night witnessed in the Temple, beginning with his interview with Ninety-One, and ending in the marriage of Frank and Nameless, and the apparition of Mary Berman,—all flitted before him like the phantoms of a spectral panorama.
"And the next twenty-four hours will decide all! Courage, brain, you have never yet despaired,—" he struck his clenched hand against his forehead,—"do not fail me now!"
Turning from Broadway, as the night grew darker, he entered the street in which the house of Evelyn Somers, Sr., was situated. He was rapidly approaching that house,—cogitating what manner of excuse he should make to the servants for his call at such an unusual hour,—when he was startled by the sound of footsteps. He paused, where a street lamp flung its light over the pavement. Shading his eyes, he beheld two figures approaching through the gloom. He glided from the light, and stationed himself against the wall, so that he could see the figures as they passed, himself unseen. The steps drew near and nearer, and presently from the gloom the figures passed into the light. A man, wrapped in a cloak, with a broad sombrero drooping over his face, supported on his arm the form of a youth, who, clad in a closely buttoned frock-coat, trembled from weakness, or from the winter's cold. The face of the man was in shadow, but the light shone fully on the face of the youth as he passed by.
Tarleton, with great difficulty, suppressed an ejaculation and an oath.
For in that boy who leaned tremblingly upon the arm of the cloaked man, he recognized the Private Secretary of the merchant prince!
"Courage, my poor boy,"—Tarleton heard the cloaked man utter these words, as he passed by,—"it was a happy impulse which led me to leave my carriage, and walk along this street. I arrived just in time to save you; it is but a step to my carriage, and once in my carriage you will tell me all."
"O, sir, you will protect me,"—the voice of the youth was tremulous and broken,—"you will protect me from this man——"
And with these words they passed from the light into the gloom again.
Tarleton stood for a moment, as though nailed to the wall against which he leaned. He could not believe the evidence of his senses. That the boy, Gulian Van Huyden, the private secretary had left the mansion of the merchant prince, at this strange hour, and was now in the care of a man whom he, Tarleton, did not know; this fact was plain enough, but Tarleton could not believe it. He stood as though nailed to the wall, while the footsteps of the retreating figures resounded through the stillness. At length, with a violent effort, he recovered his presence of mind.
"I will follow them and reclaim my child!" he ejaculated, and gathering his cloak across the lower part of his face, hurried once more toward Broadway.
But as he discovered the distance between himself and the figures of the cloaked man and the youth, his purpose failed him, he knew not why,—he dared not address the man, much less seize the boy, Gulian,—but he still hung upon their back, watching their every movement, himself unobserved.
Meanwhile, a thousand vague suspicions and fears flitted through his mind.
At the head of Broadway, in the light of a lamp, stood a carriage, with a coachman in dark livery on the box. The horses, black as jet, stood, beating the pavement with their hoofs, and champing their bits impatiently.
The unknown paused beside this carriage, still supporting the boy, Gulian, on his arm.
"Felix," he said, in a low voice, addressing the coachman, who started up at the sound of his voice, "drive at once, and with all speed, to the house yonder,"—he pointed to the north.
"Yes, my lord," was the answer of the coachman.
"And you, poor boy," continued the unknown, thus addressed as "my lord," turning to young Gulian,—"enter, and be safe hereafter from all fear of persecution." He opened the carriage door, and Gulian entered, followed by the unknown.
And the next moment the sound of the wheels was heard, and the carriage passing Union Square and rolling away toward the north.
Tarleton, who had, unobserved, beheld this scene, started from the shadows and approached the lamp. He clenched his teeth in helpless rage.
"I saw his face for an instant, ere he entered the carriage, and as his cloak fell aside, I noticed the golden cross on his breast; and I neither like his cadaverous face, nor the golden cross. Why,—" he stamped angrily upon the pavement,—"why do I hate and fear this man whom I have never seen before?—'my lord!'—the cross on his breast,—perchance a dignitary of the Catholic Church! Ah! he will wring the secret from this weak and superstitious boy. All, all is lost!"
He was roused from this fit of despair and rage by the sound of carriage wheels. It was a hackney coach, returning homeward, the horses weary, and the driver lolling sleepily on the box.
Tarleton darted forward and stopped the horses.
"Do you want to earn five dollars for an hour's ride?" he said, "if so, strike up Broadway, and follow a dark carriage drawn by two black horses," and he mounted the box, and took his seat beside the coachman.
The latter gentleman waking up from his half slumber, and very wroth at the manner in which his horses had been stopped, and his box invaded, forthwith consigned Tarleton to a place which it is not needful to name, adding significantly,—
"An' if yer don't git down, I'll mash yer head,—if I don't,—" etc., etc.
"Pshaw! don't you know me?" cried Tarleton, lifting his cap,—"follow the carriage yonder, and I'll make it ten dollars for half an hour's ride."
"Why, it is the colonel!" responded the mollified hackman.—"My team is blowed, colonel, but you're a brick, and here goes! Up Broadway did you say?—let her rip!"
He applied the whip to his wearied horses, and away they dashed, passing Union Square, and entering upper Broadway.
"That the carriage, colonel?" asked the driver, as they heard the sound of wheels in front of them, "that concern as looks blacker than a stack of black cats?"
"It is. Follow it. Do not let the coachman know that we are in pursuit. Follow it carefully, and at a proper distance."
And the hackney coach followed the carriage of the unknown, until they passed from the shadows of the houses into the open country. Some four miles at least from the city hall, the carriage turned from one of the avenues, into a narrow lane, leading among the rocks, over a hill and down toward the North River.
The colonel jumped from the box.
"Wait for me here,—I'll not be long. Drive a little piece up the avenue, so that you will not be noticed, in case this carriage should return. Wait for me, I say,—for every hour I will give you ten dollars."
With these words he hurried up the hill, in pursuit of the retreating carriage. The ground was frosted and broken,—huge rocks blocked up the path on either hand, and on the hill-top stood a clump of leafless trees. Pausing beneath these trees, the colonel endeavored to discern the carriage through the darkness, but in vain. But he heard the sound of the wheels as they rolled over the hard ground in the valley below.
"It cannot go far. This lane terminates at the river, only two or three hundred yards away. Ah! I remember,—half-way between the hill and the river there is an old mansion which I noticed last summer, and which has not been occupied for years."
The sound of the wheels suddenly ceased. The colonel drew the cord of his cloak about his neck, so as to permit his arms full play. Then from one pocket of his overcoat he drew forth a revolver, and from the other a bowie-knife. Grasping a weapon firmly in each hand, he stealthily descended the hill, and on tip-toe approached the carriage, which had indeed halted in front of the old mansion.
The mansion, a strange and incongruous structure, built of stone, and brick, and wood, and enlarged from the original block house, which it had been two hundred years before, by the additions made by five or six generations, stood in a garden, apart from the road, its roofs swept by the leafless branches of gigantic forest-trees. In summer, quaint and incongruous as were the outlines of the huge edifice, it put on a beautiful look, for it was embowered in foliage, and its many roofs and walls of brick, and wood and stone, were hidden in a garment of vines and flowers. But now, in the blackness of this drear winter daybreak, it was black and desolate enough. Not a single light shed a cheerful ray, from any of the windows.
Gliding behind the trunk of a sycamore, the colonel heard the voice of the unknown man, as he conducted the boy, Gulian, from the carriage along the garden walk toward the hall door.
"Here you will be safe from all intrusion. I must return to the city at once, but I will be back early in the morning. Meanwhile, you can take a quiet sleep. You are not afraid to sleep in the old house, are you?"
"Oh, no, no,—afraid of nothing but his persecution," was the answer.
The colonel heard these words, and watched the figures of the unknown and Gulian, as they passed from the garden walk under the shadow of the porch, and into the hall door.
And then he waited,—O how earnestly and with what a tide of hopes, suspicions, fears!—for the re-appearance of the unknown!
Five minutes passed.
"The boy has not had time to confess the secret,"—the thought almost rose to the colonel's lips.—"If this unknown man returns to town, leaving Gulian here, all will yet be well."
The hall-door opened again, was locked, and the form of the unknown, in cloak and sombrero, once more appeared upon the garden walk.
"To town, Felix, as fast as you can drive. I must be back within two hours."
"Yes, my lord."
He entered the carriage,—it turned,—and the horses dashed up the narrow road at full speed.
"Two hours!" ejaculated Tarleton, as the sound of the wheels died away. "In two hours, 'my lord!' you will find the nest robbed of its bird."
Determined at all hazards to rescue the person of the boy, Gulian, and bear him from the old mansion, he opened the wicket gate, and, passing along the garden walk, approached the silent mansion. The wind sighed mournfully among the leafless branches, and not a single ray of light illumined the front of the gloomy pile.
The colonel passed under the porch, and tried the hall door; it was locked. With a half-muttered curse, he again emerged from the porch, and from the garden walk, once more surveyed the mansion.
Could he believe his eyes? From a narrow window, in the second story of the western wing, a ray of light stole out upon the gloom—stole out from an aperture in the window curtains—and trembled like a golden thread along the garden walk.
"The window is low,—the room is a part of the olden portion of the mansion,—that lattice work, intended for the vines, will bear my weight; one blow at the window-sash, and I am in the chamber!"
Thus reflecting, the colonel, ere he began to mount the lattice work, looked cautiously around and listened. All was dark; no sound was heard, save the low moan of the wind among the trees. Tarleton placed the revolver in one pocket, and buried the bowie-knife in its sheath. Then he began cautiously to ascend the lattice work, along which, in summer time, crept a green and flowering vine; it creaked beneath his weight, but did not break,—in a moment he was on a level with the narrow window. Resting his arms upon the deep window-sill, he placed his eye to the aperture in the curtains, and looked within.
He beheld a small room, with low ceiling, and wainscoted walls; a door, which evidently opened upon the corridor leading to the body of the mansion; a couch, with a canopy of faded tapestry; the floor of dark wood, uncarpeted, and its once polished surface thick with dust; a bureau of ebony, surmounted by an oval mirror in a frame of tarnished gilt. The light stood upon the bureau; and, in front of the light, an alabaster image of the crucified.
Before this image, with head bowed upon his clasped hands, knelt the boy, Gulian. The light shone upon his glossy hair, which fell to his shoulders, and over the outlines of his graceful shape. He was evidently absorbed in voiceless prayer.
Altogether, it was a singular—yes, a beautiful picture. But the Colonel had no time to waste on pictures, however beautiful.
He placed his arm against the sash—it yielded—and the colonel sprang through the window into the room.
Gulian heard the crash, and started up, and beheld the colonel standing near him, his arms folded on his breast, and his face stamped with a look of fiendish triumph.
"Oh, my God!" he ejaculated, and stood as if spell-bound by terror.
"You see it is all in vain," said the Colonel, showing his white teeth in a smile. "You cannot escape from me. You must do my will. Come, my child, we must be moving."
He placed Gulian's cap upon his chesnut curls, and pointed to the door.
The eyes of the poor youth were wild with affright. He evidently stood in mortal terror of Tarleton. His glance roved from side to side, and he ejaculated—
"In his power again; just as I thought myself forever safe from his persecution!"
"Answer me—where did you meet the man who brought you to this house?"
As he spoke, Tarleton seized the boy by the wrist.
"In the street; I had fainted on the sidewalk," was the answer, in a tremulous voice.
"And how came you in the street at such an unusual hour?"
"When you left Mr. Somers' house, you threatened to return to-morrow," answered Gulian, clasping his hands over his breast. "I was determined to avoid seeing you again, at all hazards. I left the house, and wandered forth, uncertain whither to direct my steps. Yes—oh yes! I had one purpose plainly in my mind,"—he smiled, and his eyes brightened up with a strange light,—"I resolved to bend my steps to the river."
"To the river?"
"Yes, to the river," answered the boy, with a singular smile: "for you know that if I was drowned, I would be safe from you forever."
"And you would become a—suicide!" said Tarleton, with a sneer; "you, so finely brought up! Have you no fear of the hereafter?"
Gulian's pale face lighted with a faint glow.—"There are some deeds which are worse than suicide," he answered quietly, yet with a significant glance. "It was to avoid the commission of one of these deeds, that, scarcely an hour ago, I left the house of Mr. Somers and bent my steps to the river."
"And you fainted, and this man came across you while you were insensible—eh? Who is he? and what was it that led him from his carriage, along the street where he found you?"
"An impulse, or presentiment, as he told me, which he could not resist, and which impressed him that he might save the life of a fellow-being. He left his carriage; he arrived before it was too late. In a little while I should have been frozen to death."
Again Tarleton seized the boy by the wrist; and his brow grew dark, his eyes fierce and threatening.
"And you confessed the secret to this man?" he exclaimed. "Nay, deny it not!" He tightened his grasp. "You did confess—did you not?"
"Oh, pity!—do not harm me!" and Gulian shrunk before Tarleton's gaze. "I did not confess the secret—indeed I did not."
"Swear you did not!"
"I swear I did not!"
"I will not believe you, unless you will place your hand upon this crucifix, and swear by the Savior, that you did not reveal the secret."
The boy placed his hand upon the alabaster image, and said solemnly, "By the name of the Savior, I swear that I did not reveal the secret of which you speak."
Tarleton burst into a laugh.
"I breathe freer!" he cried. "You are superstitious; and, with your hand upon an image like that, I know you cannot lie. The secret is safe, and all will yet be well. Come, we must go."
"Oh, you do not want me now!" cried Gulian, shrinking away from his grasp—"now that you are assured of the security of the secret?"
"Worse than ever, my boy," cried Tarleton, with a tone of mocking gayety. "I am positively starving to death for your company. To-day and to-morrow you must be with me all the time, and never for an instant quit my sight. After that you are free!"
The countenance of Gulian, in which a masculine vigor of thought was tempered by an almost woman-like roundness of outline and softness of expression, underwent a sudden and peculiar change.