"I will not go with you," he said, slowly and firmly, his eyes shining vividly, while his face was unnaturally pale.
"You will not go with me?" and Tarleton advanced with a scowling brow—"We'll see, we'll see,—"
"I will not go with you," repeated Gulian. "You call me superstitious. It may be superstition which makes my blood run cold with loathing, when you are near me; or it may be some voiceless warning from the dead, who, while in this life, were deeply injured by you. But it is not superstition which induces me to place my hand upon this crucifix, and tell you, that you cannot drag me from it, save at peril of your life. Ah, you sneer! The house is deserted:—true. The crucifix of frail alabaster:—true. But you are fairly warned. The moment that crucifix breaks, to you is one of peril."
Tarleton knew not what to make of the expression and words of the boy. At first there was something in the look of Gulian which touched him, against his will; but, as the closing words fell on his car, he burst into a laugh. "Come, child, we'll leave the house by the hall door," he said; and, as he passed an arm around Gulian's waist, he placed the other hand upon the door which led into the passage: "Nay, you need not cling to that bauble! Come! I'll endure this nonsense no longer—"
The alabaster image was crushed in the grasp of Gulian, as he was torn from it; and at the same instant the colonel opened the door.
Gulian, struggling in the grasp of Tarleton, clapped his hands twice, and cried aloud: "Cain! Cain!"
The next moment it seemed as though a crushing weight had bounded, or been hurled, against the colonel's back; he was dashed to the floor; he found himself struggling in the fangs of a huge dog, with short, shaggy hair, black as jet, short ears, and formidable jaws. As the dog uttered a low growl, his teeth sank deep into the back of Tarleton's neck, and Tarleton uttered a groan of intolerable agony. Tarleton was dragged along the floor, by the ferocious beast, which raised him by the neck, and then dashed him to the floor again; treating him as the tiger treats the prey which he is about to strangle and kill.
Cain was indeed a ferocious beast. He had accompanied the unknown over half the globe; and was obedient to his slightest sign; defending those whom he wished defended, and attacking those whom he wished attacked. Before leaving the mansion, the unknown had placed Cain before the door of Gulian's room, and given Gulian into its charge. "Guard him, Cain! obey him, Cain!" And, as Tarleton opened the door, at a sign and a word from Gulian, the dog proved faithful to his master's bidding. In the grasp of this formidable animal, Tarleton now found himself writhing—his blood spurting over the floor, as he was dragged along.
As Gulian beheld this scene, and heard the cries of Tarleton mingling with the low growl of the dog, his heart relented. He forgot all that Tarleton had made him suffer.
"Cain! Cain!—here, Cain!—here!" he cried; but in vain. Cain had tasted blood. His teeth twined deep in his victim's neck; and his jaws reddened with Tarleton's blood; he did not hear the voice of Gulian.
It was a terrible moment for Tarleton. Uttering frightful imprecations between his howls of pain, he made a last and desperate effort—an effort strengthened by despair and by pain, which seemed as the pang of death,—he turned, even as the teeth of the dog were in his neck; he clenched the infuriated animal by the throat. Then took place a brief but horrible contest, in which the dog and the man rolled over each other, the man clutching, as with a death-grasp, the throat of the dog, and the dog burying his teeth in the man's shoulder.
Gulian could bear the sight no longer; he sank, half fainting, against the bureau, and hid his eyes from the light.
Presently, the uproar of the combat—the growl of the dog, and the cries of Tarleton—were succeeded by a dead stillness.
Gulian raised his eyes.
Tarleton stood in the center of the room, his face and white coat bathed in blood—his bowie-knife, also dripping with blood, held aloft in his right hand. He presented a frightful spectacle. His coat was rent over the right shoulder, and his mangled flesh was discernible. And that face, whose death-like pallor was streaked with blood, bore an expression of anguish and of madness, which chilled Gulian's heart but to behold.
At his feet was stretched the huge carcass of the dog. The gash across his throat, from which the blood was streaming over the floor, had been inflicted by the hand of the colonel, in the extremest moment of his despair. Cain had fought his last battle. As Tarleton shook the bloody knife over his head, the brave old dog uttered his last moan and died.
"It will not do, my child—it will not do," and Tarleton burst into a loud and unnatural laugh. "You must go with me! With me; alive or dead." He rushed towards Gulian, brandishing the knife. "Oh, you d——d wretch! do you know that I've a notion to cut you into pieces, limb by limb?"
"Mercy! mercy!" shrieked the boy, falling on his knees, as that face, dabbled in blood, and writhing, as with madness, in every feature, glowered over him.
But Tarleton did not strike. He placed his hand upon his forehead, and made a desperate effort to recall his shattered senses. Suffering intolerable physical agony, he was yet firm in the purpose which had led him to the old mansion.
"If I can get this boy to the carriage, all will yet be well!" he muttered. "I'll faint soon from loss of blood; but not until this boy is in my power. Brain, do not fail me now!"
He dropped the bloody knife upon the carcass of the dog; and, taking a handkerchief from his pocket, he bound it tightly around his throat. Then, lifting his cloak from the floor, he wound it about him, and writhed with pain, as it touched the wound on his shoulder.
"Now will you go with me alive, or dead?" He lifted the knife again, and advanced to Gulian. "Take your choice. If your choice is life,"—he could not refrain a cry of pain—"take the light and go on before me!"
Trembling in every limb, his gaze riveted to the face of Tarleton, Gulian took the light, and crossed the threshold of the room. Tarleton followed him with measured step, still clutching the knife in his right hand.
"On—on!" muttered Tarleton; "attempt to escape, and I strike,—on—," and he reeled like a drunken man, and fell insensible at Gulian's feet.
CHAPTER II.
RANDOLPH AND HIS BROTHER.
The hour of dawn drew near, Randolph was in his own chamber, seated by his bed, watching the face of the sleeper, who was slumbering there.
A singular look passed over Randolph's visage, as he held the candle over the sleeper's face,—a look hard to define or analyze, for it seemed to indicate a struggle between widely different emotions. There was compassion and revenge, brotherly love and mortal hatred in that look.
For the sleeper was Harry Royalton, of Hill Royal.
The candle burned near and nearer to its socket,—the morning light began to mingle with its fading rays,—and still Harry slept on, and still Randolph watched, his eyes fixed on his brother's visage, and his own face disturbed by opposing emotions.
It was near morning when Harry woke.
"Hey! halloo! what's this?" he cried, starting up in the bed, and surveying the spacious apartment,—strange to him,—with a vacant stare. "Where am I?"
His gaze fell upon Randolph, who was seated by the bed.
"You here?" and his countenance fell.—"What in the devil does all this mean?"
Randolph did not reply. There was a slight trembling of his nether lip, and his eyes grew brighter as he fixed his gaze on his brother's face.
"Where's my coat?" cried Harry, surveying his shirt sleeves, "and my cravat,"—he passed his hands over his muscular throat,—"and—you,—what in the devil are you doing here?"
Randolph, still keeping his gaze on his brother's face, said in a low voice,—"I am in my own house, brother."
"Your house?" ejaculated Harry, and then burst into a laugh,—"come, now,—don't,—that's too good."
"My own house, to which I brought you some hours ago, after I had rescued you from the persons in the cellar——"
"Rescued me?" and an incredulous smile passed over Harry's face as he pulled at his bushy whiskers. "Better yet,—ha! ha!—You don't think to stuff me with any such damned nonsense?"
Randolph grew paler, but his eye flashed with deeper light.
"Brother, I did rescue you," he said, in the same low voice, as he bent forward.—"As we were about to engage in conflict, you fell like a dead man on the floor. I took you in my arms; I defended you from the negroes who were clamorous for your blood; I bore you to upper air, and I, brother, then brought you in a carriage to my home; and I laid you on my bed, brother; and when you awoke from your swoon,—awoke with the ravings of delirium on your tongue,—I soothed you, until you fell in a sound sleep. This is the simple truth, brother."
Harry grew red in the face, then pale,—bit his lip,—pulled his whiskers, and then without turning his head, regarded Randolph with a sidelong glance. To tell the simple truth, Harry did not know what to say. He felt a swelling of the heart, a warmth in his veins, as though the magnetic gaze of Randolph had influenced him even against his will.
"You did all this?"—there was a faint tremor in his voice.
"I did, brother,"—Randolph's voice was deep and earnest.
"Why,—why,—did not you kill me, when you had me in your power?"
"Brother, the blood of John Augustus Royalton flows in my veins, and it is not like a Royalton to strike a fallen foe."
"And you could have put poison in my drink," hesitated Harry, impressed against his will by the manner of his brother.
"I never heard of a Royalton who became a poisoner."
"A Royalton? and you call yourself a Royalton?" said Harry, still regarding his brother with a sidelong gaze.
Randolph bit his lip, and folded his arms upon his chest, as if to choke down the strong emotions which were struggling within him. He did not reply.
"I suppose I am your prisoner?" asked Harry, intently regarding Randolph's face. "You can keep me secluded until the twenty-fifth of December has passed. Is that the dodge?"
"Brother, the door is open, and the way is free, whenever you wish to leave this house," was Randolph's calm reply.
"Well, if I can make you out, may I be ——!" cried Harry, and the next moment uttered a groan of agony, for his back was very painful. "Why did you not take me to my hotel?" he said, in a peevish, impatient tone.
"You forget that I did not know the name of your hotel," replied Randolph, "and beside, what place so fitting for a sick man as his brother's home?"
Harry grew red in the face, and then burst into a laugh.—"We've been such good brothers to each other!"
The thought which had been working at Randolph's heart for hours, now found utterance in words,—
"Brother, O, brother! why can we not indeed be brothers?" his eyes flashed, his voice was deep and impassioned. "Children of one father, let us forget the past; let us bury all bitter memories, all feelings of hatred,—let us forget, forgive, and be as brothers to each other. Harry Royalton, my brother, there is my hand."
He rose,—his chest heaving, his eyes dimmed by tears,—and reached forth his hand.
Harry, completely overwhelmed by this unexpected appeal, reached forth his hand, but drew it back again.
"No," he cried, as his face was flushed,—"not with a nigger." The contempt, the scorn, the rage which convulsed his face, as he said these words, cannot be depicted.
CHAPTER III.
THE HUSBAND AND THE PROFLIGATE.
The boat was upon the river, borne onward over the wintery waves and through the floating ice, by the strong arms of two sturdy oarsmen.
Behind, like a huge black wall, was the city, a faint line of light separating its roofs from the bleak sky. Around were the waves, loaded with piles of floating ice, which crashed together with incessant uproar; and through the gloom the boat drove onward, bearing one man, perchance two men, to certain death.
Eugene and Robert, muffled in their cloaks, sat side by side on the stern; Beverly and his friend, the major, also muffled in their cloaks, sat side by side in the bow.
Eugene had drawn his cloak over his face as if to hide even from the faint light, the agony which was gnawing at his heart-strings.
"In case anything should happen," whispered Robert, "have you any message to send to her?"
"None," was the reply, uttered in a choking voice.
"Damn her!" said Robert, between his teeth.
Meanwhile, in the bow of the boat, Beverly, shuddering within his thick cloak, not so much from cold as from a mental cause, said to his friend, the major,—
"No way to get out o' this, I suppose, major?"
"None," said the major.
"I'd give a horse for a mouthful of good brandy——"
"Here it is," and the major drew a wicker flask from the folds of his cloak. "I always carry a pocket-pistol; touch her light."
It may be that Beverly "touched her light," but he held the flask to his mouth for a long time, and did not return it to the major until its contents were considerably diminished.
"A cursed scrape," he muttered. "If anything happens, what'll become of my daughter?" It seems he had a motherless child,—"and then there's the Van Huyden estate. If he wings me, all my hope of that is gone,—of course it is."
At length the broad river was crossed, and the oarsmen ran the boat into a sheltered cove, some three miles above Hoboken.
The first glimpse of the coming morn stole over the broad river, the distant city, and the magnificent bay.
"Wait for us,—you know what I told you?" said Robert to the oarsmen, who were stout fellows, in rough overcoats, and tarpaulin hats.
"Ay, ay sir," they responded in a breath.
"Major, you lead the way," said Robert, "up the heights we'll find a quiet place."
The Major took Beverly by the arm, and began to climb the steep ascent, over wildly scattered rocks, and among leafless trees.
They were followed by Robert and Eugene arm in arm.
After much difficult wayfaring, they reached the summit of the heights, just in time to catch the first ray of the rising sun, as it shot upward, among the leaden clouds of the eastern horizon.
All at once the steeples of the city caught the glow, and the distant day blushed scarlet and gold on every wave.
Among the heights,—may be some three miles above Hoboken,—there is a quiet nook, imbosomed, in the summer time, in foliage, and opening to the south-east, in a view of the Empire City, and Manhattan Bay. A place as level as a floor, bounded on all sides save one, by oak, and chestnut and cedar, with great rocks piled like monuments of a long passed age, among the massive trunks. It is green in summer time, with a carpet-like sward, and then the tree branches are woven together by fragrant vines; there are flowers about the rocks and around the roots of the old trees,—a balmy, drowsy atmosphere of June pervades the place. And looking to the east, or south-east, you see the broad river dotted with snowy sails, the great city, with its steeples glittering in the light, and with the calm, clear, vast Heaven arching overhead. The Bay gleams in the distance, white with sails, or shadowed here and there by the steamer's cloud of smoke, and far away Staten Island closes the horizon like a wall. Standing by one of these huge rocks, encircled by the trees, and steeped in the quiet of the place, you gaze upon the distant city, like one contemplating a far off battle-field, in which millions are engaged, and the fate of empires is the stake. A sadder battle-field, sun never shone upon, than the Empire City, in which millions are battling every moment of the hour, and battling all life long for fame, for wealth, for bread, for life. Sometimes the quiet nook rings with the laugh of happy children, who come here to stretch themselves upon the grass, and gather flowers among the rocks, and around the nooks of the grand old trees.
Far different is the scene on this drear winter morning. The trees are leafless; they raise their skeleton arms against the cold bleak sky. The rocks, no longer clad in vines and flowers, are grim and bare, with crowns of snow upon their summits. The glade itself, no longer clad with velvet-like sward, is faded and brown. The rising sun trembles through the leafless trees, invests the rocks with a faint glow of rosy light, and falls along the brown surface of the glade, investing it for a moment with a cheerful gleam.
And in the light of the rising sun, in sight of river, city, and distant bay, two men stand ready for the work of death.
The ground is measured; the seconds stand apart; before the fatal word is given, the combatants survey each other.
Eugene, with bared head, stands on the north, his slender form enveloped in a closely buttoned frock-coat. He is lividly pale, but the hand which grasps the pistol does not tremble. Notwithstanding the bitter cold, there is moisture on his forehead; the fire which burns in his eyes, tells you that his emotion is anything but fear. One glance toward the city,—one thought perhaps of other days,—and he is ready.
Opposite, in the south, his hat drawn over his flaxen curls, his tall form enveloped in a close fitting frock-coat, Beverly with an uncertain eye and trembling hand, is nerving himself for the fatal moment. He is afraid. As he catches a glimpse of the face of Eugene, his heart dies within him. All color has forsook his usually florid face.
"Gentlemen, you will fire when I give the word,—" cries Major Barton from the background of withered shrubbery. "Are you ready?"
But at this moment the voice of Beverly is heard—"Eugene! Eugene!" he cries, and starts forward, rapidly diminishing the ten paces, which lie between them—"Eugene! Eugene! my friend—can I make no apology, no reparation—"
Both Robert and the Major, saw Eugene's face, as he turned toward the seducer. The sun, which had been obscured by a passing cloud, shone out again, and shone full upon the face of Eugene. The look which stamped every line of that bronzed visage, was never forgotten by those who beheld it. O, the withering scorn of the lip, the concentrated hatred of the dark eyes, the utter loathing which impressed every lineament!
"Friend!" he echoed, as for a moment he looked Beverly in the face—and then turning to Barton, he said quietly: "Major take your man away. If he is a coward as well as a scoundrel, let us know it."
The look appalled Beverly; he receded step by step, unable to take his eyes from Eugene's face;—
"Be a man, curse you," whispered Barton who had glided to his side—"D'ye hear?" and he clutched him by the arm, with a grasp, that made Beverly writhe with pain—"Take your place, and fire as I give the word."
In a moment, Beverly was in his place, his right hand grasping his pistol, dropped by his side, which was presented toward Eugene, who, ten paces off, stood in a corresponding position.
Barton retired to the background, taking his place beside Robert. "Gentlemen, I am about to give the word!" said Barton, and then there was a pause like death,—"One—two—three! Fire!"
They wheeled and fired, Eugene with a fixed and decided aim; Beverly with eyes swimming in terror, and hand trembling with fright. The smoke of the pistols curled gracefully through the wintery air. Beverly stumbled as he fired, and fell on one knee; Eugene stood bolt upright for a moment, the pistol in his extended hand, and then fell flat upon his face.
Eugene's bullet sank into the cedar tree, directly behind where Beverly's head had been, only a moment before. Beverly was uninjured. No doubt the false step which he had made in wheeling had saved his life.
Eugene lay flat upon his face, the pistol still clutched in his extended hand.
The brother of Joanna rushed forward and raised him to his feet,—there was a red wound between his eyes,—he was dead.
The husband had been killed by the seducer of his wife.
Behold the justice of the Law of Duel!
"The damned fool," was the commentary of the phlegmatic Robert, as with tears gushing from his eyes, he held the body of the dead husband, and at the same time regarded Beverly, who pale with fright, cringed against a tree,—"If he'd a-taken my advice, he'd a-killed you like a dog, last night. He'd a-pitched you from the third story window,—he would,—and mashed your brains out against the pavement."
The sun came out from behind a cloud, and lighted the face of Eugene Livingston, with the red wound between his fixed eyeballs.
CHAPTER IV.
ISRAEL AND HIS VICTIM.
Israel Yorke left the Temple, accompanied by Ninety-One and followed by the eleven. Israel, clad once more in his every-day practical dress, with his hat drawn over his bald head, and his diminutive form enveloped in a loose sack of dark cloth, looked like a dwarf beside the almost gigantic frame of Ninety-One. Yet Ninety-One, with creditable politeness, gave his arm to the Financier, and urged him onward in the darkness, toward Broadway, something in the manner that you may have seen a very willing boy, assist the progress of a very unwilling dog,—the boy's hand being attached to one end of a string, and the dog's neck to the other. And Ninety-One cheered Israel with various remarks of a consolatory character, such as, "go in gold specks! let her went my darlin'! don't give it up so easy!—" and so-forth.
"It's so dark, and I'm so devilish cold," whined Israel, in vain endeavoring to keep pace with the giant strides of his huge companion,—"Where the deuce are we going anyhow?"
"Come along feller sinners," said Ninety-One, looking over his shoulders at the eleven who followed sturdily in the rear. The eleven did not deign to express themselves in words, but manifested some portion of their feelings, by bringing their clubs upon the pavement, with something of the force of thunder, and more of the wickedness of a suddenly slammed door. "Where are we leadin' you to? To one of yer tenants, Isr'el,—one of yer tenants, you pertikler example of all the christ'in vartues,—"
"To one of my tenants!" echoed Israel.
"To one of yer tenants," repeated Ninety-One, and he crossed a curb as he spoke, and gave Israel's arm a wrench which nearly tore the arm from Israel's body.—"You know you've got to pay cash for your bank notes to-day, an' you'll need all the money you can rake and scrape. To-day's rent day,—isn't it? Well we're goin' on a collectin' tower among yer tenants. Ain't we feller sinners?"
He turned his head over his shoulder, and again the clubs thundered their applause.
"I'll be deuced if I can make you out," said Israel arranging his 'specks,' which had been displaced by one of the eccentric movements of Ninety-One,—and Israel felt very much like the man who, finding himself late at night, very unexpectedly in the same bed-room with a bear, desired exceedingly to get out of the room, but thought it no more than proper to be civil to the bear until he did get out.
"Don't you own a four story house in —— street?" asked Ninety-One.
"I do. Four stories,—two to four rooms on a floor,—besides the cellar and the garret,—a fine property,—and, to-day is rent day—"
"You stow 'em away like maggots in a stale cheese,—do you?" and Ninety-One stopped, and regarded the little man admiringly,—added in an under tone, "Moses! How I'd like to have the picklin' of you!"
Thus conversing, they entered Broadway, along which they passed for some distance, and at last turned down a by-street, the eleven following them closely all the while.
They stood in front of a huge edifice, four stories high, formerly the residence of a Wall street nabob, but now the abode of,—we are afraid to say how many families. The basement was, of course, occupied as a manufactory of New York politics,—in simple phrase, it was a grog-shop; and although the hour was exceedingly late, its door was wide open, and the sound of drunken voices and the fragrance of bad rum, ascended together upon the frosty air. Save the basement, the entire front of the mansion was dark as ink; the poor wretches who burrowed in its many rooms, were doubtless sleeping after the toil of the winter's day.
"In the fourth story you have a tenant named —— ——?" whispered Ninety-One.
"Yes; a poor devil," responded Israel Yorke.
"Let's go up an' see the poor devil," said Ninety-One, and grasping Israel firmly by the arm, he passed through the front door and up the narrow stairway.
The eleven followed in silence, supporting Israel firmly in the rear.
As they reached the head of the fourth stairway, Ninety-One put forth his brawny hand, and,—in the darkness,—felt along the wall.
"Here's the door," he whispered, "in a minnit we'll bust in upon your tenant like a thousand o' brick."
Israel felt himself devoured by curiosity, suspense, and fear.
As for the eleven gathering around Israel closely in the darkness, they preserved a dead silence, only broken for a moment by the exclamation of one of their number,—"What a treat it 'ud be to pitch this here cuss down stairs!"
"Hush, boys! hark!" said Ninety-One, and laid his hand upon the latch of the door.
Before we enter the door and gaze upon the scene which Ninety-One disclosed to the gaze of Israel Yorke, our history must retrace its steps.
It was nightfall, and the light of the lamps glittering among the leafless trees of the Park, mingled with the last flush of the departed day, and the mild, tremulous rays of the first stars of evening. At the corner of Broadway and Chambers street, two young men held each other by the hand, as they talked together. The contrast between their faces and general appearance was most remarkable, even for this world of contrasts. One tall in stature, with florid cheeks, and blue eyes glittering with life and hope, was the very picture of health. He was dressed at the top of the fashion. A sleekly-brushed beaver sat jauntily upon his chesnut curls; an overcoat of fine gray cloth fitted closely to his vigorous frame, and by its rolling collar, suffered his blue scarf and diamond pin to be visible; his hands were gloved, and he carried a delicate cane, adorned with a head of amber; and his voice and laugh rung out so cheerily upon the frosty air!
The other,—alas! for the contrast,—dressed in a long overcoat of faded brown cloth, resembled a living skeleton. His face was terribly emaciated; his cheeks sunken; his eyes hollow. His voice was low and husky. As he spoke, his eyes lighted up like fire-coals, and seemed to burn in his sallow and withered face. His hair, black as jet, and straight and long, only made his countenance seem more pale and death-like. He was evidently in the last stage of consumption, and his dress, neat as it was,—the faded brown coat, and much-worn hat carefully brushed,—betokened poverty, and the saddest poverty of all,—that which tries, and vainly, to hide itself under a "decent" exterior.
And thus they met, at the corner of Chambers street and Broadway, Lewis Harding, the rich broker and man of fashion, and John Martin, the poor artist and—dying man. They had been playmates and school-fellows in other years. Five years ago, they left the academy, in a country town, to try their fortunes in the world; both orphans, both young, both full of life and hope, and—poor. Harding had taken the world as he found it, adopted its philosophy,—"Success is the only test of merit,"—and became a rich broker and a man of fashion. John Martin had taken the world as it ought to have been,—believed in the goodness of mankind, and in the certainty of honest success following honest labor—of hand and brain,—steadily devoted to the elevation of man. He became an artist, and,—we see him before us now.
"Why, Jack, my dear fellow, what are you doing out in the cold air?" said Harding, in his kindly voice. "You ought to be more careful of yourself,——"
"I am out in the cold air, because I cannot breathe freely in the house," answered the artist, with a smile on his cadaverous lips.
"But you have no cough,—you'll be better in spring."
"True, I have no cough, but the doctor informed me to-day that my right lung was entirely gone, and my left hard after it; the simple truth is, I am wasting to death; and I hate the idea of dying in bed. I want to keep on my feet,—I want to keep in the air,—I want to die on my feet."
Harding had rapidly grown into a man of the world, but somehow the tears started into his eyes.
"But you must keep up your spirits, Jack,—in the spring you will be——"
"In my grave, Harding; there's no use of lying about it."
And his eyes flared up, and a bitter smile moved his lips.
"O, how's the wife and children?" said Harding; as though anxious to change the conversation.
"They are well," said John, and a singular look passed over his face.
"And your sister?"
"Eleanor is well,"—and the vivid brightness of his eyes was for a moment vailed in moisture.
"O, by-the-bye, I met Nelly the other day," said Harding. "Bless my soul! what a handsome little girl she has grown! It was in a store where they sell embroidered work. I was pricing a set of regalia,—thirty dollars they said was the price,—and little Nell had worked on it about three weeks for five dollars. Great world, Jack!"
"Good night, Harding," said the artist, quietly.
"But let me accompany you home,——"
"I'd rather you would not. Good night, Harding."
"But God bless you, John, can't I do anything for you?"
"Why, why after I am dead,"—and the words seemed to stick in his throat,—"after I am dead,—my wife,—my sister,——" he could say no more.
"I swear that I will protect them," said Harding, warmly. John quietly pressed his hand, and turned his face away. After a moment they parted, Harding down Broadway on his way to the theater, and John up Broadway, on his way home. And Harding gazed after John for a moment,—"I'm glad he didn't want to borrow money! Nell is quite a beauty!"
Walking slowly, and pausing every now and then to breathe, John gazed in the bright shop-windows, and into the contrasted faces of the hurrying crowd as he passed along.
"Soon this will be all over for me," he muttered, with a husky laugh. "I'm afraid, friend John, that you are taking your last walk."
An arm was gently thrust through his own, and a voice light and trilling as the notes of a bird, said quietly,—
"I'm so glad I've caught up with you John,"—and he leaned upon that gentle arm, and turned to look upon the face of the speaker. It was his sister Eleanor, a very pretty child of some fourteen years, dressed in a faded cloak, and with a hood on her dark hair. Her complexion was a rich brown, tinged with red in the cheeks; her eyes, brows and hair, all black as midnight. And by turns, over that face, in which the woman began to mingle with the child, there flitted a look of the brightest joyousness, and an expression of the most touching melancholy.
"I've just been taking my work home, John. They paid me half a dollar for what I have done this week, (and that, you know, John, will keep us in bread and coal to-morrow,) and O, I am so glad you've got eight dollars saved for the rent. I am so glad! The rent is due to-morrow, and the landlord is such a hard man."
"Yes, I have eight dollars," John said, and there was an indefinable accent marking every word. "Yes, Nelly, dear, I have eight dollars."
"John, do tell me, who are those good ladies who pass us every moment, dressed so richly,—all in velvet, and satin, and jewels; who are they, John?"
John stopped,—bent upon his cane,—looked for a moment upon the crowd which whirled past him,—and then into the happy, innocent face of his sister. And then his shrunken chest heaved with a sigh. "O God!" he said, in a low voice.
"Who are they, John,—do tell me,—they must be very, O, ever so rich."
"Those handsome ladies, dressed so gaudily, Nelly, are sisters and daughters. Once they had brothers and fathers who protected them, and now their fathers and brothers are dead. The world takes care of them now, Nelly."
The poor girl heard his words, but did not guess their hidden meaning. Still supporting her brother on her arm, she continued,—
"Do you know, John, that your handsome friend, Mr. Harding, met me in the store the other day, and said he took such an interest in me, and that if I chose I might be dressed as rich and gayly as these grand ladies, who pass us every moment."
John started as though he had trodden upon a snake. "And only a moment ago he promised to protect her when I am gone," he muttered,—"Protection!"
And thus they passed along until turning into a by-street, they came near their home, which was composed of a single room, up four pairs of stairs, in a four-storied edifice. At the street door they were met by a young woman, plainly,—meagerly clad, but with a finely-rounded form, and a countenance, rich, not only in loveliness, but in all the goodness of womanly affection. It was the artist's wife.
"O, John, I have been so anxious about you," she said, and took him by the arm; and while Nelly held the other, she gently led him through the doorway and up the dark stairs. "Why will you go out when it is so cold?"
"I want air, Annie, air," he returned in his hollow voice,—"and I will die on my feet."
And the wife and sister helped the dying artist gently up the stairs; gently, slowly, step by step, and led him at last over the threshold, into that room which was their home.
About an hour afterward, John was seated in an arm-chair, in the center of that home, whose poverty was concealed as much as might be, by the careful exertions of his wife and sister. In the arm-chair, his death-like face looking ghastly in the candle-light,—his wife, a woman of blonde countenance, blue eyes, and chesnut-hair, on one side; his sister, with her dark hair, and clear, deep eyes, on the other; each holding a hand of the husband and the brother. A boy of four years, sat on a stool, looking up quietly with his big eyes into his father's face; and near, a little girl of three years, who took her brother by the hand, and also looked in the face of the dying artist. Very beautiful children; plainly clad, it is true, but beautiful; the girl with light hair and blue eyes, reflecting the mother, while the boy, dark-haired and black-eyed, was the image of the father.
The table, spread with the remains of the scanty meal, stood near; the grate was filled with lighted coals; a bed with a carefully patched coverlet stood in one corner; between the two windows was placed an old-fashioned bureau; and two pictures adorned the neatly whitewashed walls.
Such was the picture, and such the artist's home.
The stillness which had prevailed since supper, was at length broken by the voice of John.
"Annie, I'll leave you soon," he said, quietly, and his eyes lighted up.—"O, wouldn't it be a good thing if we could all die together! To die, I do not fear, but to leave you all,—and in such a world! O, my God! such a world!"
Annie buried her face in her hands, and rested her hands against the arm of the chair. Nelly, her large eyes brimful of tears, quietly put his hand to her lips. And the little boy, in his childish way, asked what "to die" meant.
"Bring me that picture, Nelly,"—he pointed to a picture on the wall. She went and brought it quietly. "Now let down the window a little, for I feel the want of air, and come and sit by me again."
He took the picture and gazed upon it earnestly and long. It was a picture of himself, in the prime of young manhood, the cheeks rounded, the eyes full of hope, the brow, shaded by glossy black hair, stamped with genius. A picture taken only sixteen months before.
"Only sixteen months ago, Nelly," he said. "Only sixteen months ago, Annie; and now—well, there's a crayon sketch on the bureau, which I took of myself the other day, as I looked in the glass. Bring it, Nelly."
His sister brought the crayon sketch; and, with a sad smile, he held it beside the other picture. It was all too faithful. His prominent cheek bones, hollow cheeks, colorless lips, and sunken eyes, all were copied there; only the deathly fire of the eyes was lacking.
"A sad contrast, isn't it, Annie? When this picture was taken, sixteen months ago, we were all doing well. My pictures sold; some lithographs which I executed, met also with ready sale. I had as much as I could do, and everything was bright before me. I even thought of a tour to Italy! Don't you remember our nice little cottage out in the country, Nell? But I was taken sick—sick;—I couldn't work any longer. Our money was soon spent; and you, Annie, made shirts; and you, Nelly, you embroidered; and that kept us thus far—and—," he stopped, and gazed upon his wife and sister, who were weeping silently: and then upon his children. "And now I must go and leave you in this world.—Oh, my God! such a world!"
"Don't think of us, John," said his wife. "If you could only live,—"
"Oh, you will—you will get better, as the spring comes on," exclaimed Nelly; "and we'll go into the country, on the first sunny day, and gather flowers there."
John drew forth from his vest pocket certain pieces of paper, which he spread forth upon his knee. Bank notes, each marked with the figure 2, and signed by the name of Israel Yorke, (a prominent banker of the bogus stamp,) in a bold hand. There were four in all.
"This is the eight dollars, Annie, which I saved to pay our rent," said the artist.
The wife and sister gazed upon the bank notes earnestly—for those bank notes were their last hope. Those bank notes were "rent money;" and of all money on the earth of God, none is so bitterly earned by Poverty, nor so pitilessly torn from its grasp by the hand of Avarice, as "rent money."
"Well,—well;"—and John paused, as if the words choked him. "These notes are not worth one penny. All of Israel Yorke's banks broke to-day."
There was not a word spoken for five minutes, or more. This news went like an ice-bolt through the hearts of the wife and sister.
"And to-morrow we'll be put into the street by this same Israel Yorke, who is also our landlord;" said John, breaking the long pause. "Put the window a little lower, Nelly—it feels close—I want air."
Nelly obeyed; and resumed her seat at her brother's face, which now glowed on the cheeks and shone in the eyes with an expression which she could not define.
"Oh, wouldn't it be good, Annie—would not it be glorious, Nelly—if I could gather you all up in my arms and take you with me, whither I am going?" he said, with a sort of rapture, looking from his children to his wife and sister. And then, in a gentler tone: "Kneel down, Nelly, and say a prayer, and ask God to forgive us all our sins—all, remember,—and to smooth the way for us, so that we may all go to Him."
Neither Nelly nor Annie remarked the singular emphasis which accompanied these words.
Nelly knelt in their midst, and prayed.
As she uttered that simple and child-like prayer, John fixed his eyes upon her face, and muttered, "And so he took a great interest in you, and would dress you gayly, would he?"
Then he said, aloud, in a kind of wild and wandering way—"Now we've had our last supper, and our last prayer. It will soon be time for us to go. Call me, love, in time for the cars."
He paused, and raised his hand to his forehead,—
"Don't cry, Annie; my mind wanders a little—that's all. I want rest. I'll take a little sleep in the chair, and you and Nelly, and the children, lay down in the bed. And let me kiss the children, and do you all kiss me—"
The young mother lifted the little boy and girl, and they pressed their kiss upon the lips of the dying man. Then the wife and the sister; their tears mingling on his face, as their lips were pressed by turns to his lips and brow.
"Come, Nelly," whispered the wife, "we'll lay down, but we will not sleep. He will take a little rest if he thinks we are sleeping."
Presently the sister and the wife, with the children near them, were resting on the bed, their hands silently joined. They conversed in low tones, while the children fell gently asleep. But gradually their conversation died away in inarticulate whispers; and they also slept.
And the artist—did he sleep? By no means. Sitting erect in his arm-chair, his back toward the bed, and his eyes every instant glittering bright and brighter, he listened intently to the low whispers of his wife and sister. "At last they sleep!" he cried, as the sound of their calm, regular breathing struck his ears. "They sleep—they sleep! They sleep—wife, sister, children; Annie, Nelly, little John, and little Annie,—they all sleep."
And he burst into tears.
But his death-stricken face was radiant through his tears:—radiant with intense joy.
John sat silently contemplating a small image of white marble, which he had taken from one of the drawers of the bureau. It represented the Master on the cross.
"Better go to God, and trust him, than trust to the mercy of man," he frequently murmured.
After much silent thought he rose, and, from beneath the bureau drew forth two objects into the light—a sack and a small plaster furnace. He placed the furnace in the center of the floor, and half filled it with lighted coals from the grate. Then he poured the contents of the sack upon the burning coals; his hands trembling, and his eyes, fiery as they were, suddenly dimmed by moisture.
"Charcoal, good charcoal—such a blessing to the poor! Nelly didn't know what a blessing it was, when I sent her for it this afternoon—that is, yesterday afternoon. It takes fire—it burns—such a mild, rich blue flame! Opium and charcoal are the poor man's best friends. They cost so little, and they save one from so much,"—as he knelt on the floor, he cast his gaze over his shoulder toward the bed—"so very much! They will save us all from so much!"
Nelly murmured in her sleep, and rose in bed, and, opening her eyes, gazed at her brother, kneeling by the lighted furnace, with a wild dreamy stare. Then she lay down and slept again.
The charcoal burned brightly, its pale blue flame casting a spectral glow over the face of the kneeling man, so haggard and death-stricken. The noxious gas began to fill the room. John rose and went, with unsteady steps to the window, and eagerly inhaled the fresh air. Resting his arms upon the sash, he felt the cold air upon his cheek, and looked out and upward,—there was the dark blue sky set with stars.
"In which of them, I wonder, will we all meet again?" he said, in a wandering way. Then he tottered from the window to the bed. The air was stifling. He breathed only in gasps.
By the bed again, gazing upon them all,—wife, sister, children,—so beautiful in their slumber.
And they began to move restlessly in their sleep, and mutter half-coherent words, and—"In the spring time, John, we'll gather flowers," said Nelly; "You'll be better soon, John," whispered the wife; and all was still again.
Back to the window, with unsteady steps, to inhale another mouthful of fresh air—to take another look at the cold, cold winter stars.
Brighter burns the charcoal; the pale blue flame hovers there, in the center of the room like an infernal halo. And there is Death in the air.
Breathing in gasps, John tottered from the window again. He took the image in one hand, the candle in the other; and thus, on tip-toe, he approached the bed.
A very beautiful sight. Little John and little Annie sleeping side by side, a glow upon their cheeks,—Nelly and Annie sleeping hand joined in hand; their beautiful faces invested with a smile that was all quietness and peace. They did not murmur in their sleep this time.
John's eyes glared strangely as he stood gazing upon them. "And did you think, Annie," he said softly, putting his hand upon her head, "that I'd leave you in this world, to work and to slave, and to rear our children up to work and to slave, and eat the bitter bread of poverty? And you, Nelly, did you think I'd leave you to slave here, until your soul was sick; and then, some day, when work failed, and starvation looked in at the window, to sell yourself to some rich scoundrel for bread? No, wife—no, sister—no, children: I have gathered you up in my arms, and we're all going together!"
He kissed them one by one, and then tottered back toward the lighted furnace—toward his chair—the light which he held, shining fully over his withered face and flaming eyes. In one hand he still grasped the marble image. He had gained half the distance to his chair, when the door opened. A man of middle age, clad in sober black, his hair gray, and his hooked nose supporting gold spectacles, appeared on the threshold.
"Ah, Doctor, is that you?" cried John, "I thought it was the landlord;—you've come too late, Doctor, too late."
"Too late? What mean you, Mr. Martin?" said the doctor, advancing into the room—but starting back again, as he encountered the poisoned air.
"Too late—too late!" cried John, the candle trembling in his unsteady grasp, as he raised his skeleton-like form to its full height—"We're all cured,—"
"Cured? What mean you? How cured?"
"Cured of—life!" said John; and, stepping quickly forward, he fell at the doctor's feet.
The doctor seized the light as he fell, and attempted to raise him from the floor,—but John was dead in his arms.
Our history now returns to Israel Yorke, whom, with Ninety-One and the eleven, we left waiting in the dark, outside the artist's door.
"Hush, boys! hush!" whispered Ninety-One, and laid his hand upon the latch "Enter, Isr'el, and talk to yer tenant."
The door opened, and Israel entered, followed by Ninety-One and the eleven, all of whom preserved a dead stillness.
A single light was burning dimly in the artist's humble room. It cast its rays over the humble details of the place,—over the bed, which was covered by a white sheet. The place was deathly still.
"What does all this mean?" cried Israel. "There is no one here." Ninety-One took the light from the table, and led Israel silently to the bed. The eleven gathered round in silence; you could hear their hard breathing through the dead stillness of the room. Ninety-One lifted the sheet, slowly; his harsh features quivering in every fiber.
"That's what it means," he said hoarsely.
They were there, side by side; the husband and the wife, the sister and the children—there, cold and dead. The light, as it fell upon them, revealed the wasted face of the artist, his closed eyelids, sunken far in their sockets, his dark hair glued to his forehead by the moisture of death; and the face of his young wife, with her fair cheek and sunny hair; and the sad, beautiful face of his sister, whose dark hair lay loosely upon her neck, while the long fringes of her eyelashes rested darkly upon her cheek. There was a look of anguish upon the face of John, as though Poverty had struck its iron seal upon him as he died; but the faces of Annie and Nelly were calm, smiling—very full of peace. The little children—the dark-haired boy, and bright-haired girl—slept quietly, their hands clasped and their cheeks laid close together. The poor artist, in the last wild hour of his life, had indeed gathered them up in his arms and taken them with him. They had all gone together.
The furnace, with the fire put out, still remained in the center of the room.
Such was the scene which the light disclosed; a scene incredible only to those who, unfamiliar with the actual of the large city, do not know that all the boasted triumphs of our modern civilization but miserably compensate for the poverty which it has created, and which stalks side by side with it, at every step of its progress, like a skeleton beside a painted harlot;—a poverty which gives to the phrase, "I am poor!" a despair unknown even in the darkest ages of the most barbarous past.
"They are asleep,—asleep, certainly," cried Israel, falling back, "they can't be dead."
The truth is, that Israel felt exceedingly uncomfortable.
"They ain't asleep,—they are dead," hoarsely replied Ninety-One, and he grasped Israel fiercely by the wrist. "They are dead, you dog. Look thar! That man owed you eight dollars for rent; he know'd if he didn't pay you this mornin' he'd be pitched into the street, dyin' as he was, with wife and children and sister at his heels. But he'd saved eight dollars, Israel, an' last night he crawled out to take a walk, an' found that his eight dollars was so much trash—found out that yer banks had broke, an' his eight dollars in yer bank notes, was wuss than nothin'. An' from yer bankin' house he went to a drug store, an' from a friend he got a quick an' quiet p'ison. He came home; he put it in the coffee, slyly; they all drank of it, an' slep'; an' then he filled the furnace with charcoal an' lighted it, an' then they slep' all the better,—an' there they air! out o' yer clutches, dog—out o' yer fangs, hell-hound,—gone safe to kingdom come!"
And he clutched Israel's wrist until the little man groaned with pain.
"But how do you know he poisoned himself and these?" faltered Israel.
"He left a scrap o' paper in which he told about it an' the reason for doin' it. The doctor who came in when it was too late, saw the charcoal burnin', an' found the p'ison at the bottom of the cups. An' this man," he pointed to one of the eleven, a sturdy fellow with a frank, honest face, "this man an' his wife live in the next room. He was out last evenin', but she was in, an' she heard poor Martin ravin' about you an' his eight dollars, an' his wife, an' sister, an' children, an' starvation, death, an' the cold dark street. She heered him, I say, but didn't suspec' there was p'ison in the case until the doctor called her in, an' then it was too late."
"But how did you know of all this? What have you to do with it?"
"You see the doctor went an' told the judge, who has just been tryin' you,—told him hours ago, you mind,—an' the judge sent me here with you, in order to show you some of yer work. How d'ye like it Isr'el?"
Ninety-One's features were harsh and scarred, but now they quivered with an almost child-like emotion. With his brawny hand he pointed to the bodies of the dead,—
"Thar's eight dollars worth o' yer notes, Isr'el," he said. "Thar's Chow Bank, Muddy Run, an' Tarrapin Holler! Look at 'em! Don't you think that some day God Almighty will ax you to change them notes?"
And Israel shrank back appalled from the bed. Ninety-One clutched his wrist with a firmer grasp; the eleven gathered closely in his rear, their ominous murmur growing more distinct; and the light, held in the convict's hand, shed its calm rays over the faces of the dead family.
This death-scene in the artist's home, calls up certain thoughts.
Poverty! Did you ever think of the full meaning of that word? The curse of poverty is the cowardice which it breeds, cowardice of body and soul. Many a man who would in full possession of his faculties, pour out his life-blood for a friend, or even for a stranger, will, when it becomes a contest for a crust of bread,—for the last means of a bare subsistence,—steal that crust from the very lips of his starving friend, and would, were it possible, drain the last life-drop in the veins of another, in order to keep life in his own wretched carcass. The savage, starving in the snow, in the center of his desolate prairie, knows nothing of the poverty of the civilized savage, much less of that poverty, which takes the man or woman of refined education, and kills every noble faculty of the soul, before it does its last work on the body. Poverty in the city, is not mere want of bread, but it is the lack of the means to supply innumerable wants, created by civilization,—and that lack is slow moral and physical death. Talk of the bravery of the hero, who, on the battle-field stands up to be shot at, with the chance of glory, on the one hand, and a quick death on the other! How will his heroism compare with that brave man, who in the large city, year after year, and day by day, expends the very life-strings of his soul, in battling against the fangs of want, in keeping some roof-shelter over his wife and children, or those who are as dependent upon him as wife and children? Proud lady, sitting on your sofa, in your luxurious parlor, you regard with a quiet sneer, that paragraph in the paper (you hold it in your hand), which tells how a virtuous girl, sold her person into the grasp of wealthy lust for—bread! You sneer,—virtue, refined education, beauty, innocence, chastity, all gone to the devil for a—bit of bread! Sneer on! but were you to try the experiment of living two days without—not your carriage and opera-box,—but without bread or fire in the dead of winter, working meanwhile at your needle, with half-frozen fingers for just sixteen pennies per day, you would, I am afraid, think differently of the matter. Instead of two days, read two years, and let your trial be one of perpetual work and want, that never for a moment cease to bite,—I am afraid, beautiful one, were this your case, you would sometimes find yourself thinking of a comfortable life, and a bed of down, purchased by the sale of your body, and the damnation of your soul. And you, friend, now from the quiet of some country village, railing bravely against southern slavery, and finding no word bitter enough to express your hatred of the slave market, in which black men and black women are sold—just look a moment from the window of your quiet home, and behold yonder huge building, blazing out upon the night from its hundred windows. That is a factory. Yes. Have you no pity for the white men, (nearer to you in equality of organization certainly than black men,) who are chained in hopeless slavery, to the iron wheels of yonder factory's machinery? Have you no thought of the white woman, (lovelier to look upon certainly than black women, and in color, in organization, in education resembling very much your own wife, sister, mother,) who very often are driven by want, from yonder factory to the grave, or to the—brothels of New York? You mourn over black children, sold at the slave block,—have you no tear for white children, who in yonder factory, are deprived of education, converted into mere working machines (without one tithe of the food and comfort of the black slave), and transformed into precocious old men and women, before they have ever felt one free pulse of childhood?
Ah! this enterprise which forms the impulse and the motto of modern civilization, will doubtless in the future ripen into good for all men,—for there is a God,—but the path of its present progress, is littered with human skulls. It weaves, it spins, it builds, it spreads forth on all sides its iron arms,—and it has a good capital,—the blood of human hearts. Labor-saving machinery, (the most awful feature of modern civilization,) will, in the future, when no longer monopolized by the few, do the greater portion of the physical work of the world, and bless the entire race of man,—but until that future arrives, labor-saving machinery will send more millions down to death, than any three centuries of battle-fields, that ever cursed the earth. Yes, modern civilization, is very much like the locomotive, rolling along an iron track, at sixty miles per hour, with hot coals at its heart, and a cloud of smoke and flame above it. Look at it, as it thunders on! What a magnificent impersonation of power; of brute force chained by the mind of man! All true,—but woe, woe to the weak or helpless, who linger on its iron track! and woe to the weak, the crippled, or the poor, whom the locomotive of modern civilization finds lingering in its way. Why should it care? It has no heart. Its work is to move onward, and to cut down all, whom poverty and misfortune have left in its path.
There is one phase of poverty which hath no parallel in its unspeakable bitterness. A man of genius with a good heart, and something of the all-overarching spirit of Christ in him, looks around the world, sees the vast sum of human misery, and feels like this, 'With but a moderate portion of money, what good might not be accomplished!' and yet that little sum is as much beyond him,—as far beyond his grasp, as the planet Jupiter.
That forth from the womb of the present chaos, a nobler era will be born, no one can doubt, who feels the force of these four words, 'there is a God.' And that the present age with its deification of the money power, is one of the basest the world ever saw, cannot be disproved, although it may be bitterly denied. There is something pitiful in the thought that a world once deemed worthy of the tread of Satan, is now become the crawling ground of Mammon.
CHAPTER V.
MARY, CARL, CORNELIUS.
Leaving Frank to writhe alone in her agony, Nameless and Mary pursued their way through the dark streets, as the morning drew near. They arrived at length, in front of that huge mansion, in Greenwich street, which once the palace of ease and opulence, was now, from the garret to the cellar, the palace of rags, disease and poverty. How Mary's heart thrilled as she led Nameless through the darkness up the marble stairs! A few hours since she went down those stairs, with death in her heart. Now her husband, risen from the grave was on her arm, hope was in her heart, and—although dark and bitter cold, and signs of poverty and wretchedness were all around her,—the future opened before her mental vision, rosy and golden in its hues of promise.
At the head of the stairway, on the fourth story Mary opened a door, and in the darkness, led Nameless across the threshold.
"My home!" she whispered, and lighted the candle, which hours ago, in the moment of her deepest despair, she had extinguished.
As the light stole around the place, Nameless at a glance beheld the miserable garret, with its sloping roof walls of rough boards, and scanty furniture, a mattress in one corner, a sheet-iron stove, a table, and in the recess of the huge garret window an old arm-chair.
"This your home!" he ejaculated and at the same time beheld the occupant of the arm-chair,—in that man prematurely old, his skeleton form incased in a loose wrapper, his emaciated hands resting on the arms, and one side of his corpse-like face on the back of the chair,—he after a long pause, recognized the wreck of his master, Cornelius Berman.
"O, my master!" he cried in a tone of inexpressible emotion, and sank on his knees before the sleeping man, and pressed his emaciated hand reverently to his lips. "Is it thus I find you!" and profoundly affected, he remained kneeling there, his gaze fixed upon that countenance, which despite its premature wrinkles, and dead apathetic expression, still bore upon its forehead,—half hid by snow-white hair,—some traces of the intellect of Cornelius Berman.
While Nameless knelt there in silence, Mary glided from the room, and after some minutes, again appeared, holding a basket on one arm, while the other held some sticks of wood. Leaving her husband in his reverie, at her father's feet, she built a fire in the sheet-iron stove, and began to prepare the first meal which she had tasted in the course of twenty hours. Continued excitement had kept her up thus far, but her brain began to grow dizzy and her hand to tremble. At length the white cloth was spread on the table, and the rich fragrance of coffee stole through the atmosphere of the dismal garret. The banquet was spread, bread, butter, two cups of coffee,—a sorry sort of banquet say you,—but just for once, try the experiment of twenty-four hours, without food, and you'll change your opinion.
The first faint gleam of the winter morning began to steal through the garret window.
"Come, Carl,"—she glided softly to his side, and tapped him gently on the shoulder, "breakfast is ready. While father sleeps, just come and see what a good housekeeper I am."
He looked up and beheld her smiling, although there were tears in her eyes.
He rose and took his seat beside her at the table. Now the garret was rude and lonely, and the banquet by no means luxurious, and yet Nameless could not help being profoundly agitated, as he took his seat by the side of Mary.
It was the first time, in all his memory, that he had sat down to a table, encircled by the sanctity which clusters round the word—Home.
His wife was by his side,—this was his—Home.
Breakfast over, he once more knelt at the feet of the sleeping man. And Mary knelt by his side, gazing silently into his face, while his gaze was riveted upon her father's countenance. Thus they were, as the morning light grew brighter on the window-pane. At length Mary rested her head upon his bosom, and slept,—he girdled her form in his cloak, and held her in his arms, while her bosom, heaving gently with the calm pulsation of slumber, was close against his heart. The morning light grew brighter on the window-pane, and touched the white hairs of the father, and shone upon the glowing cheek of the sleeping girl.
Nameless, wide awake, his eyes large and full, and glittering with thought, gazed now upon the face of his old master, and now upon the countenance of his young wife. And then his whole life rose up before him. He was lost in a maze of absorbing thought. His friendless childhood, the day when Cornelius first met him, his student life, in the studies of the artist, the pleasant home of the artist on the river, the hour when he had reddened his hand with blood, his trial, sentence, the day of execution, the burial, the life in the mad-house,—these scenes and memories passed before him, with living shapes and hues and voices. And after all, Mary, his wife was in his arms! The sun now came up, and his first ray shone rosily over the cheeks of the sleeping girl.
Nameless remembered the letter which Frank had given him, and now took it from the side pocket of his coat. He surveyed it attentively. It bore his name, "Gulian Van Huyden."
"What does it contain?" he asked himself the question mentally, little dreaming of the fatal burden which the letter bore.
The sleeping man awoke, and gazed around the apartment with large, lack-luster eyes. At the same time, with his emaciated hand, he tried to clutch the sunbeam which trembled over his shoulder. Nameless felt his heart leap to his throat at the sight of this pitiful wreck of genius.
"Do you not know me, master?" exclaimed Nameless, pressing the hand of the afflicted man, and fixing his gaze earnestly upon his face.
Was it an idle fancy? Nameless thought he saw something like a ray of intelligence flit across that stricken face.
"It is I, Carl Raphael, your pupil, your son!"
As though the sound of that voice had penetrated even the sealed consciousness of hopeless idiocy, the aged artist slightly inclined his head, and there was a strange tremulousness in his glance.
"Carl Raphael, your son!" repeated Nameless, and clutched the hands of the artist.
Again that tremulousness in the glance of the artist, and then,—as though a film had fallen from his eyes,—his gaze was firm, and bright, and clear. It was like the restoration of a blind man to sight. His gaze traversed the room, and at length rested on the face of Nameless.
"Carl!" he cried, like one, who, awaking from a troubled dream, finds, unexpectedly, by his bed a familiar and beloved face—"Carl, my son!"
Mary heard that voice; it roused her from her slumber. Starting up, she pressed her father's hands.
"O, Carl, Carl, he knows you! Thank God! thank God!"
"Mary," said the father, gazing upon her earnestly, like one who tries to separate the reality of his waking hours from the images of a past dream.
First upon one face, then upon the other, he turned his gaze, meanwhile, in an absent manner, joining the hand of Mary and the hand of Carl.
"Carl! Mary!" he repeated the names in a low voice, and laid his hands gently on their heads.—"I thought I had lost you, my children. Carl and Mary," he repeated their names again,—"Carl and Mary! God bless you, my children; and now——" he surveyed them with his large, bright eyes, "and now I must sleep."
His head fell gently forward on his breast, and he fell asleep to wake no more in this world. His mind had made its last effort in the recognition of Mary and Nameless. For a moment it flashed brightly in its socket, and then went out forever. He was dead. Nay, not dead, but he was,—to use that inexpressibly touching thought, in which the very soul and hope of Christianity is embodied,—"asleep in Christ."
When Mary raised his head from his breast, his eyes were vailed in the glassy film of death. Leaning upon the arm which never yet failed to support the weary head and the tired heart, gazing upon the face which always looks its ineffable consolation, into the face of the dying, Cornelius had passed away as calmly as a child sinking to sleep upon a mother's faithful breast.
Mary and Nameless, on their knees before the corse, clasped those death-chilled hands, and wept in silence.
And the winter sun, shining bright upon the window-pane, fell upon their bowed heads, and upon the tranquil face of the dead father, around whose lips a smile was playing, as though some word of "good cheer" had been whispered to him, by angel-tongues, in the moment ere he passed away.
And thou art dead, brave artist, and life's battle with thee is over,—the eyes that used to look so manfully upon every phase of sorrow and adversity, are all cold and lusterless now,—the heart that generous emotions filled and lofty conceptions warmed, sleeps pulseless in the lifeless bosom. Thou art dead!—dead in the dreary home of Want, with cold winter light upon thy gray hairs. Dead! Ah, no,—not dead, for there is a Presence in the dismal garret, invisible to external eyes, which puts Death to shame, and upon the gates of the grave writes, in letters of undying light:—In all the universe of God there is no such thing as death, but simply a transition from one life, or state of life, to another. Not dead, brave artist. Thou hast not, in a long life, cherished affections, gathered experience from the bitter tree of adversity, and developed, in storm as well as sunshine, thy clear, beautiful intellect, merely to bury them all in the dull grave at last. No,—thou hast borne affections, experience, and intellect, to the genial sunshine of the better land. The coffin-lid of this life has been lifted from thy soul,—thou art risen, indeed,—at last, in truth, thou livest!
And the Presence which fills thy dark chamber now, although often mocked by the gross interpretations of a brutal theology, often hid from the world by the Gehenna smoke of conflicting creeds, is a living Presence, always living, always loving, always bringing the baptism of consolation to the way-worn children of this life, even as it did in the hour when, embodied in a human form, face to face and eye to eye, it spoke to man.
The sun is high in the wintery heavens, and his light, streaming through the window-pane, falls upon the mattress, whereon, covered reverently, by the white sheet, the corse is laid. Mary is crouching there, one hand supporting her forehead, the other resting upon the open book, which is placed upon her knee. Thus all day long she watches by the dead. At last the flush of evening is upon the winter sky.
Nameless, standing by the window, tears open the letter of Frank, and reads it by the wintery light. The three hours have passed.
Why does his face change color, as he reads? The look of grief which his countenance wears is succeeded by one of utter horror.
"The poison vial!" he ejaculates, and places the fatal letter in Mary's hand.