New York: Its Upper Ten and Lower Million

In a word, the effect of the vial, applied but for an instant to his nostrils, threw into the shade all the wonders of opium, and rivaled in enchantment the maddening draught of oriental story,—the Hashish,—which the Old Man of the Mountain gave to his devotee Assassins,[1] intoxicating them with the odors of paradise, even as their hands were red with their victims' blood.

Like one awaking from a trance, Randolph slowly recovered from the effect of the Dream-Elixir, and once more saw the winter light shining through his window. The vial was in his hand,—he had taken the precaution to replace the stopple, the moment after he had applied it to his nostrils.

"It has lost none of its virtues. Held to the nostrils, or a few drops on a kerchief, applied to the mouth, its first effect is rapture; the second, rapture prolonged to delirium; its third, rapture that ends in death."

Randolph replaced the buckskin covering around the stopple of the vial, and then placed the vial in his vest pocket.

At this moment the door opened and the quiet Mr. Hicks entered the room, clad in his gray livery, turned up with black. He bowed and said,—

"Master, Mr. Lynn sends his compliments and desires to see you in the parlor."

"Tell Mr. Lynn that I will attend him presently," said Randolph rising from his knees.—"How is our patient, Mr. Hicks?"

"I left him asleep. He is very weak, though quite easy."

"Mr. Hicks, I desire that you will attend him throughout the day, or place him in the care of some trustworthy servant. If he asks for any one, send for me. Admit no one into his room,—you understand, he is a dear friend of mine,"—he placed his finger on his forehead,—"a little touched here, and I do not wish his misfortune to be known, until all the means of recovery, which I have at my command, prove hopeless. Mr. Hicks, you will remember."

"I will remember, and attend to your commands, master," and Mr. Hicks bowed like an automaton.

"Have this trunk removed to Miss Royalton's room," said Randolph, and leaving Mr. Hicks, he descended to the parlor.

Through the rich curtains of the eastern and western windows of that magnificent apartment, the morning light was dimly shining. The lofty walls, the pictures, the statues, the carpet, the mirrors, all looked grand and luxurious in the softened light.

Bernard Lynn sat on the sofa, in the center of the parlor, his arms folded and his countenance troubled. As he raised his gaze and greeted Randolph, in a kindly although absent way, Randolph saw that his bronzed visage, (above which rose masses of snow-white hair) was traced with the lines of anxious thought, and his dark eyes were feverish with restlessness and care.

"Sit by me, Randolph," he said in a serious voice, and he grasped Randolph's hand and gazed earnestly in his face.—"I wish to speak with you. I have traveled much, Randolph, and when matters press heavily on my mind, I am a blunt man,—I use few words. I desire you to give all imaginable emphasis to what I am about to say."

Randolph took his hand and met his gaze; but he felt troubled and perplexed at Bernard Lynn's words and manner.

"Briefly, then, Randolph,—when can you leave the city?"

Without knowing how the words came to his lips, Randolph replied,—"The day after to-morrow."

"Can you go with us, by steamer, to Charleston? I wish to visit the scene,—" he paused as if unable to proceed,—"the scene,—you understand me? And then, after a week's delay, we will go to Havana and spend the winter there. Will you go with us?"

It is impossible to describe the emotions which these words aroused. Hopes, fears, a picture of his father's home, the consciousness there was a taint upon his blood,—all whirled like lightning through his brain. But he did not stop to analyze his thoughts, but answered again,—as though the word was given to him,—in a single word, earnest in tone, and with a hearty grasp,—

"Willingly," he said.

A ray of pleasure flitted over the bronzed face of Bernard Lynn. But in an instant he was sad and earnest again. "Randolph, I have been thinking, and most seriously,—I beg you to listen to the result of my thoughts. Nay, not a word,—fewest words are best, and a plain answer to a plain question will decide all.—I have been thinking of the desolate condition in which Eleanor will be left, in case her father is suddenly taken away. She will need a friend, a protector, a husband."

He paused; Randolph, all agitation, awaited his next word in breathless suspense.

"I have long known her feelings,—she tells me that she knows yours. You are aware of my fortune and position,—I am aware of yours. Plainly, then, do you love her,—do you desire her hand?"

For a moment Randolph could not reply.

"O, my dearest friend, can you ask it?" he exclaimed, taking both hands of Mr. Lynn in his own,—"Do I desire Eleanor's hand? It is the only wish of my life,—"

"Enough, my friend, enough," replied Bernard, as a tear stole down his cheek. "In serious matters, I am a man of few words,—I fear that I may be suddenly taken away—I feel that there is no use of delay. Shall it take place this evening in your house?"

Randolph could only reply by a silent grasp of the hand.

"In presence of your sister, myself and the clergyman? And then, the day after to-morrow we leave for Charleston—"

"You speak the dearest wish of my soul," was all that Randolph could reply.

Bernard Lynn arose,—"I will go out and buy a bridal present for my child," he said, "and your sister and myself will take charge of all the details of the marriage. God bless you, my boy! What a load is lifted from my heart!"

How over his bronzed visage, a look cordial and joyous as the spring sunshine played, even while there were tears in his eyes!

Randolph felt his heart swell with rapture, but instantly,—growing pale as death,—he rose, and resolved to make a revelation, which would blast all his hopes to ashes.

"I will not deceive this good old man. I will tell him my real condition, tell him that there is the blood of the accursed race in my veins."

This was his thought, and feeling like a criminal on the scaffold, he prepared to fulfill it,—

"Ah, you and I are agreed," cried Bernard, with his usual jovial laugh.—"but you must ask this child what she says of the matter," and dropping Randolph's hand, he hurried from the room.

Even as the first word of the confession was on his lip, Randolph beheld Eleanor, who had entered unperceived, standing between him and the light, on the very spot which her father had just left.

She looked very beautiful.

Clad in a dark dress, which, fitting closely to her arms and bust, and flowing in rich folds, around her womanly proportions, from the waist to the feet, she stood before him, one finger raised to her lip, her eyes fixed upon him in a gaze, full of deep and passionate light. Her face was cast into faint shadow, by her hair, which was disposed about it, in brown and wavy masses. But through the shadow her eyes shone with deep and passionate light.

A very beautiful woman, now unable to utter a word, as with heaving breast, she confronts the man whom she knows is destined to be her husband.

Why does all thought of confession fade from Randolph's mind?

O, the atmosphere of the presence of a pure, and beautiful woman, whose eyes gleam upon you with passionate love, carries with it an enchantment, which makes you forget the whole universe,—everything,—save that she is before you, that she loves you, that your soul is chained to her eyes.

Randolph silently stretched forth his arms. She came to him, and laid her arms about his neck, her bosom upon his breast.

"My wife!" he whispered.

And she raised her face, until their lips and their eyes, met at once, whispering—"My husband."

Certainly, this was a happy day for Randolph Royalton.

Talk of opium, hashish, dream-elixir! Talk of their enchantment, and of the Mahomet's paradise which they create! What enchantment can rival the pressure of a pure woman's lips, which breathe softly, "husband!" as she lays them against your own?

But at least a dozen gentlemen who have divorce cases on hand, will curse me bitterly for writing the last sentence. And all the old bachelors who, having never known the kiss of a pure wife, or any wife at all, and having grown musty in their sins, will turn away with an "umph!" and an oath. And all the young libertines, who, deriving their opinion of women, merely from the unfaithful wives, and abandoned creatures with whom they have herded, and having expended even before the day of young manhood, every healthy throb, in shameless excess, they, too, will expand their faded eyes, and curl their colorless lips, at the very mention of "a pure woman," much less, a "pure woman's kiss." The "fast," the very "fast" boys!

But there are some who will not utterly dislike the allusion to a pure woman, or a pure woman's kiss.

That quiet sort of people who, having no divorce cases on hand, know that there are such things as pure women in the world, and know that a good wife, carries about her an atmosphere of goodness, that brings heaven itself down to the home.

And you, old bachelor,—a word in your ear,—if you only knew the experience of returning from a long journey late at night,—of stealing quietly into a home, your own home, up the dark stairs, and into a room, where a single light is shining near a bed,—of seeing there, blooming on the white pillow, the face of a pure wife, your own wife, rosy with sleep, and with her dark hair peeping out from her night-cap——, why, old bachelor, if you had only an idea of this kind of experience, you'd curse yourself for not getting married some forty years ago!—

The day passed quickly and happily, in quiet preparation for the bridal ceremony.

Eleanor was seated in a rocking-chair, her feet crossed and resting on a stool, her head thrown back, and her dark hair resting partly on her bared shoulders, partly on the arm of Esther, who stood behind her. The beams of the declining sun came softened through the window-curtains, and lit up the scene with mild, subdued light. It was a beautiful picture. There stood Esther, the matured woman, rich in every charm of voluptuous and stately beauty; and her gaze, softened by her long eyelashes, was tenderly fixed upon the upturned countenance of Eleanor,—a countenance radiant with youth, with abounding life, with passionate love. The habit of dark green cloth which Esther wore, contrasted with the robe of white muslin which enveloped Eleanor, its flowing folds girdled lightly about her waist and its snowy whiteness, half hidden by her unbound hair; for that hair which was soft brown in the sunlight and black in the shadow, fell in copious waves over her neck, her bosom, and below her waist. Eleanor was beautiful, Esther was beautiful, but their loveliness was of contrasted types; you could not precisely define how they differed; you only saw that they were beautiful, and that the loveliness of one, set off and added to, the charms of the other.

And as Esther was arranging the hair of the bride, for the marriage ceremony, they conversed in low tones:

"O, we shall all be so happy!" said Eleanor—"the climate of Havana, is as soft and bland as Italy, and it will be so delightful to leave this dreary sky, this atmosphere all storm and snow, for a land where summer never knows an end, and where every breeze is loaded with the breath of flowers!"

Esther was about to reply, but Eleanor continued,—and her words drove the life-blood from Esther's cheek.

"And on our way we will stop at the old mansion of Hill Royal, the home of Randolph's ancestors. How I shall delight to wander with you through those fine old rooms, where the associations of the past meet you at every step! Do you know, Esther, that I am a great aristocrat,—I believe in race, in blood,—in the perpetuation of the same qualities, either good or evil, from generation to generation? Look at Randolph, at yourself, for instance,—your look, your walk, every accent tell the story of a proud, a noble ancestry!"

"Or, look at yourself," was all that Esther could say, as she bent over the happy bride, thus hiding her face,—grown suddenly pale,—from the light. "Shall I tell her all?" the thought flashed over her, as she wound her hands through the rich meshes of Eleanor's hair,—"shall I tell this beautiful girl, who is as proud as she is beautiful, that in the veins of her husband there is—negro blood?"

But the very thought of such a revelation appalled her.

"Better leave it to the future," she thought, and then said aloud, "Tell me, Eleanor, something about Italy."

And while Esther, with sisterly hands, arrayed her for the bridal, the proud and happy bride, whose every vein swelled with abounding life and love, spoke of Italy,—of its skies and its monuments,—of the hour when she first met Randolph, and also of the moment when, amid the Apennines, he saved her life, her honor.

"O, sister, do you think that a love like ours can ever know the shadow of change?"

Happy Eleanor!

Meanwhile Randolph, standing by the parlor window apparently gazing upon the current of life which whirled madly along Broadway, in the light of the declining day, was in reality abstracted from all external existence, and buried in his own thoughts,—thoughts delicious and enchanting. Was there no phantom in the background, to cast its fatal shadow over the rich landscape which rose before his mental eye?

He was attired for the marriage ceremony, in a severely plain costume, which well became his thoughtful face and manly frame,—black dress coat, vest of white Marseilles, open collar and black neckerchief. As he stood there, noble-featured, broad-browed, his clear blue eyes and dark hair, contrasting with his complexion whose extreme pallor indicated by no means either lack of health or vigor, who would have thought that there was—negro blood in his veins?

"In an hour Eleanor will be my wife!" he muttered, and his brow grew clouded and thoughtful, even while his eyes were filled with passionate light. "But there is no use of reflecting now. I must leave that fatal disclosure, with all its chances and consequences, to the future. Eleanor will be my wife, come what will."

His meditations were interrupted by the entrance of Mr. Hicks, who wore his usual imperturbable look, which seemed as much a part of him as his livery of gray turned up with black.

"How has our patient been since I left him an hour ago?" asked Randolph.

"He is no longer delirious," answered Mr. Hicks. "About a half an hour ago, he asked me the time of day, in a tone, and with a look, that showed that he had come to his senses."

"You conversed with him?"

"No, sir. He fell into a quiet sleep, and I left him in charge of a faithful servant. Don't you think we had better change the bandages on his back, after awhile? He has been sadly abused——"

"And I came to the scene of conflict just in time to save his life, and bear him to my home,—I will see him at once, and then tell you when to dress his wounds."

He moved toward the door.

"Has Mr. Lynn returned?" he said, turning his head over his shoulder.

"About half an hour since, he went up stairs to his room," returned Mr. Hicks.

Randolph left the parlor and hastened toward his own chamber, determined to make one more effort to change the hard nature, the unrelenting hatred of his brother. As he passed along the corridor, conscious that the most important crisis, if not the all-important crisis, of his life was near, his thoughts mingling the image of Eleanor with the proud memory of his lineage on the father's side, were intense and all-absorbing. For the time he forgot the taint in his blood.

He arrived before the door of the chamber in which his brother lay. It was near the foot of a broad staircase which, thickly carpeted, and with bannisters of walnut, darkened by time, was illumined by light from the skylight far above. The door of the chamber was slightly open,—Randolph started, for he heard his brother's voice, speaking in rapid, impetuous tones. And the next instant, the voice of Bernard Lynn, hoarse with anger. Randolph, with his step upon the threshold, drew back and listened.

He did not pause to ask himself how Bernard Lynn came to be a visitor in the chamber of his brother,—he only listened to their voices,—with all his soul, he tried to distinguish their words.

It was the moment of his life. It required a terrible exertion of will, to suppress the cry of despair which rose to his lips.

"A negro!" he heard the voice of Bernard Lynn, hoarse with rage,—"and to my daughter! Never!"

And then the voice of Harry Royalton, whose life he had spared and saved,—"I heard of this marriage from one of the servants, and felt it my duty to set you on your guard. Therefore, I sent for you. I can give you proof,—proof that will sink the slave into the earth."

Once more the voice of Bernard Lynn,—"A negro! and about to marry him to my daughter! A negro!"

There was the hatred of a whole life embodied in the way he pronounced that word,—"a negro!"

Randolph laid his hand against the wall, and his head sank on his breast. He was completely unnerved.

The hopes of his life were ashes.

Once more, with a terrible exertion, he rallied himself, and with the thought,—"There remains, at least, revenge!"—he advanced toward the threshold.

But there was a footstep on the stair. Turning, Randolph beheld Eleanor, who was slowly descending the stairs. She was clad in her bridal dress. The light shone full upon her; she was radiantly beautiful. She wore a robe of snow-white satin, girdled lightly to her waist by a string of pearls, and over this a robe of green velvet, veined with flowers of gold, and open in front from her bosom to her feet. Her hair was disposed in rich masses about her face, and from its glossy blackness, and from the pure white of her forehead, a circlet of diamonds shone dazzlingly in the light. She saw Randolph, and her eyes spoke although her lips were silent.

That moment decided her fate and his own.

As she was halfway down the stairs, he sprang to meet her.

"Randolph! how pale you are," and she started as she saw his face.

"Dearest, I must speak with you a moment," he whispered.—"To the library."

He took her by the hand and led her up the stairs, and along a corridor; she noticed that his hand was hot and cold by turns, and she began to tremble in sympathy with his agitation.

They came to the door of the library. The lock was turned from the outside by a key, but when the door was closed it locked itself. Randolph found the key in the lock; he turned it; the door opened; he placed the key in his pocket; they crossed the threshold. The door closed behind them, and was locked at once. Eleanor was ignorant of this fact.

The library was a spacious apartment, with two windows opening to the east, and a ceiling which resembled a dome. The light came dimly through the closed curtains, but a wood-fire, smouldering on the broad hearth, which now flamed up, and as suddenly died away, served to disclose the high walls, lined with shelves, the table in the center overspread with books and papers, and the picture above the mantle, framed in dark wood. Two antique arm-chairs stood beside the table; there was a sofa between the windows, and in each corner of the room, a statue was placed on a pedestal. The shelves were crowded with huge volumes, whose gilt bindings, though faded by time, glittered in the uncertain light. Altogether, as the light now flashed up and died away again, it was an apartment reminding you of old times,—of ghosts and specters, may be,—but of anything save the present century.

"What a ghost-like place!" said Eleanor.

Randolph led her in silence to the sofa, and seated himself by her side.

"Eleanor, I am sadly troubled. I have just received a letter which informs me of a sad disaster which has happened to a friend,—a friend whom I have known from boyhood."

Eleanor took his hand. As the light flashed up for an instant, she was startled at the sight of his face.

"Compose yourself, Randolph," she said, kindly.—"The news may not be so disastrous as you think."

"I will tell you the story in a few words," and he took her hand as he continued: "A month ago, I left my friend in Charleston. Young, reputed to be wealthy, certainly connected with one of the first families of South Carolina, he was engaged in marriage to a beautiful girl,—one of the most beautiful that sun ever shone upon,—" he paused,—"as beautiful, Eleanor, as yourself."

And he fixed his ardent gaze upon that face which the soft shadow, broken now and then by the uncertain light, invested with new loveliness.

Eleanor made no reply in words; but her eyes met those of her plighted husband.

"The day was fixed for their marriage,—they looked forward to it with all the anticipations of a pure and holy love. It came,—the bride and bridegroom stood before the altar, in presence of the wedding-guests,—the priest began the ceremony, when a revelation was made which caused the bride to fall like one dead at the feet of her abashed and despair-stricken lover."

"This was, indeed, strange," whispered Eleanor, profoundly interested; "and this revelation?"

Randolph drew her nearer to him; his eyes grew deeper in their light, as in a voice, that grew lower at every word, he continued,

"The bridegroom was, indeed, connected with one of the first families in the State, but even as the priest began the ceremony, a voice from among the guests pronounced these words, 'Shame! shame! a woman so beautiful to marry a man who has negro blood in his veins!'"

"And these words,—they were not true?" eagerly asked Eleanor, resting her hand on Randolph's arm.

"They were true," answered Randolph. "It was their fatal truth which caused the bride to fall like a corpse, and covered the face of the bridegroom with shame and despair."

Eleanor's bosom heaved above the edge of her bridal robe; her lips curled with scorn; "And knowing this fatal truth, this lover sought her hand in marriage? O, shame! shame!"

"But hear the sequel of the story," Randolph continued, and well it was for him, at that instant, that no sudden glow from the hearth lit up his livid and corrugated face,—"What, think you, was the course of the plighted wife, when she came to her senses?"

"She spurned from her side this unworthy lover,—she crushed every thought of love—"

"No, dearest, no! Even in the presence of her father and the wedding-guests, she took the bridegroom by the hand, and although her face was pale as death, said, with a firm eye and unfaltering voice, 'Behold my husband! As heaven is above us, I will wed none but him!'"

"O, base and shameless! base and shameless!" cried Eleanor, the scorn of her tone and of her look beyond all power of words,—"to speak thus, and take by the hand a man whose veins were polluted by the blood of a thrice accursed race!"

Randolph raised his hand to his forehead; what thoughts were burning there, need not be told. Shading his eyes, he saw Eleanor before him, beautiful and voluptuous, in her bridal robe, her bosom swelling into view; but with unmeasured scorn in the curve of her proud lip, in the lightning glance of her eyes.

And after that gaze, he said in a low voice, the fatal words,—

"Eleanor, what would you say, were I to inform you, that my veins are also polluted by the blood of this thrice accursed race?"

She did not utter a cry; she did not shriek; but starting from the sofa, and resting for support one hand against the wall, she turned to him her horror-stricken face, uttering a single word,—"You?"

"That I, descended from one of the first families of Carolina, on my father's side, am on the mother's side, connected with the accursed race?"

"You, Randolph, you!"

"That knowing this, I fled from Florence, when first I won your love; but to-day, dazzled by your beauty, mad with love of the very atmosphere in which you breathe, I forgot the taint in my blood, I saw our marriage hour draw nigh, with heaven itself in my heart—"

"O, my God, why can I not die?"

"That even now your father knows the fatal secret, and breathes curses upon me, as he pronounces my name; resolves, that you shall die by his hand, ere you become my wife—"

She saw his face, by the sudden light,—it was impressed by a mortal agony. And although the room seemed to swim around, and her knees bent under her, she rallied her fast-fading strength, and advanced toward him, but with tottering steps.

"You are either mad, or you wish to drive me mad," she said, and laid her hand upon his shoulder,—"there is no taint upon your blood! The thought is idle. You, so noble browed, with the look, the voice, the soul of a man of genius,—you, that I love so madly,—you, one of the accursed race? No, Randolph, this is but a cruel jest—"

Her eyes looked all the brighter for the pallor of her face, as she bent over him, and her hair, escaping from the diamond circlet, fell over his face and shoulders like a vail.

He drew her to him, and buried his face upon her bosom,—"Eleanor! Eleanor," he groaned in very bitterness of spirit, as that bosom beat against his fevered brow, and that flowing hair shut him in its glossy waves,—"It is no jest. I swear it. But you will yet be mine! Will you not, Eleanor,—in spite of everything,—spite of the taint in my blood, spite of your father's wrath—"

As with the last effort of her expiring strength, she raised his head from her bosom, tore herself from his arms, and stood before him, her hair streaming back from her pallid face, while her right hand was lifted to heaven—

"It is true, then?" and her eyes wore that look, which revealed all the pride of her nature,—"you are then, one of that accursed race," she paused, unable to proceed, and stood there with both hands upon her forehead. "If I ever wed you, may my mother's curse—"

Randolph rose, the anguish which had stamped his face, suddenly succeeded by a look which we care not to analyze,—a look which gave a glow to his pale cheek, a wild gleam to his eyes. "You are faint, my love," he said, "this will revive you."

Seizing her by the waist, he placed her kerchief upon her mouth,—a kerchief which he had raised from the floor, and moistened with liquid from the silver vial which he carried in his vest pocket.

"Away! Your touch is pollution!" she cried, struggling in his embrace, but the effect of the liquid was instantaneous. Even as she struggled her powers of resistance failed, and the images of a delicious dream, seemed to pass before her, in soft and rosy light.

The tall wax candles were lighted in the parlor, and upon a table covered with a cloth of white velvet was placed a bible and a wreath of flowers.

It was the hour of sunset, but the closed curtains shut out the light of the declining day, and the light of the wax candles disclosed the spacious apartment, its pictures, statues and luxurious furniture. It was the hour of the bridal.

Two persons were seated near each other on one of the sofas. The preacher who had been summoned to celebrate the marriage,—a grave, demure man, with a sad face and iron-gray hair. Of course he wore black clothes and a white cravat. Esther arrayed in snow-white, as the bridesmaid,—white flowers in her dark hair, and her bosom heaving dimly beneath lace which reminded you of a flake of new-fallen snow.

They were waiting for the father, the bridegroom, and the bride.

"It will be a happy marriage, I doubt not," said the preacher, who had been gazing out of the corners of his eyes, at the beautiful Esther, and who felt embarrassed by the long silence.

But ere Esther could reply, the door was flung abruptly open, and Bernard Lynn strode into the room. His hat was in his hand; his cloak hung on his arm. His face was flushed; his brow clouded. Not seeming to notice the presence of Esther, he advanced to the clergyman,—

"Your services will not be needed, sir," he said, with a polite bow, but with flashing eyes. "This marriage will not take place."

Esther started to her feet, in complete astonishment.

Turning to Mr. Hicks, who had followed him into the room, Bernard Lynn continued, as he flung his cloak over his shoulders, and drew on his gloves,—

"Has the carriage come?"

"Yes, sir,—"

"Are our trunks on behind?"

"Yes, sir,—"

"Have you called my daughter, and told her that I desired her to put on her bonnet and cloak, and come to me at once?—"

"I have sent one of the maids up to her room," said Mr. Hicks, whose countenance manifested no small degree of astonishment, "but your daughter is not in her room."

Mr. Lynn turned his flushed face and clouded brow to Esther,—

"Perhaps you will tell my daughter," he said, with an air of insolent hauteur as though speaking to a servant,—"that I desire her to put on her things and leave this house with me, immediately—"

How changed his manner, from the kind and paternal tone, in which he had addressed her an hour before!

Esther keenly felt the change, and with her woman's intuition, divined that a revelation of the fatal truth had been made. Disguising her emotion, she said, calmly,—

"You will direct one of the servants to do your bidding. Your daughter is doubtless in the library. I saw her going there, with Randolph, only a few minutes since,—"

At the name of Randolph, all the rage which shook the muscular frame of Bernard Lynn, and which he had but illy suppressed, burst forth unrestrained.

"What!" he shouted, "with Randolph! The negro! The negro! The slave!"

"With Randolph, her plighted husband," calmly responded Esther.

"Negress!" sneered Bernard Lynn, almost beside himself, "where is my daughter? Will no one call her?"

"Eleanor is coming," said a low deep voice, and Randolph stood before the enraged father. He was ashy pale, but there was a light in his eyes which can be called by no other name than—infernal.

Even Esther, uttered a cry as she beheld her brother's face.

"Negro!" muttered Bernard Lynn, regarding Randolph in profound contempt.

"Well?" Randolph folded his arms, and steadily returned his gaze.

"I have, learned the secret in time, sir, in time," continued Bernard Lynn, "I am about to leave this house—"

"Well?" again exclaimed Randolph.

"I have saved her from this horrible match,—"

"Well?" for the third time replied Randolph, in complete nonchalance, and yet with that infernal light in his eyes.

A step was heard. Can this be Eleanor, who comes across the threshold, her dress torn, her bosom bared, her disheveled hair floating about that face which seems to have been touched by the hand of death?

Her hands clasped, her eyes downcast, she came on, with unsteady step, and sank at her father's feet. She did not once raise her eyes, but clasped his knees and buried her face on her bosom.

"Eleanor! Eleanor!" cried Bernard Lynn, "what does all this mean, my child?" and he sought to raise her from the floor, but she resisted him, and clutched his knees.

"It means that the honor of your daughter was saved once in Italy, by Randolph Royalton,—she was grateful, and would have manifested her gratitude by giving him her hand in marriage, but she could not do that, for there was—negro blood in his veins. So, as she could not marry him, she showed her gratitude in the only way left her,—by the gift of her person without marriage."

As in a tone of Satanic triumph, Randolph pronounced these words, a silence like death fell upon the scene.

Bernard Lynn stood for a moment paralyzed; but Esther came forward with flashing eyes,—"O, you miserable coward!" she cried, and with her clenched hand struck her brother,—struck Randolph on the forehead.

And turning away from him in scorn, she raised Eleanor in her arms.

Ere he could recover from the surprise which this blow caused him, Bernard Lynn reached forward, his hands clenched, his dark face purple with rage.

"Wretch! for this you shall die,"—and crushed by the very violence of his rage, his agony, he sank insensible at Randolph's feet.

"Our marriage ceremony is postponed for the present,—good evening, sir!" said Randolph, turning to the preacher, who had witnessed this scene in speechless astonishment. "Mr. Hicks, take care of my friend, Lynn, here, and have him put to bed; and you, Esther, take care of Eleanor: and as for myself,"—he turned his back upon them all, and left the room,—"I think I will go and see my dear brother."

Up-stairs, with the tortures of the damned in his heart,—up-stairs, with the infernal light in his eyes,—a moment's pause at the door of his brother's room,—and then he flings it open and enters.

Harry Royalton, sitting up in bed, his back against the pillows, was reading, by a lamp, which stood on a small table, by the bedside. He was reading the parchment, addressed to his father, as one of the seven. The light shone on his face, now changed from its usual robust hue, to a sickly pallor, as with his large bulging eyes, fixed upon the parchment, he quietly smoked a cigar, and by turns passed his hands over his bushy whiskers and through his thick curling hair. Weak from pain and loss of blood, he still enjoyed his cigar. There was a pleasant complacency about his lips. To-morrow was the twenty-fifth of December, and to-day—he had foiled all the plans of his slave brother. Harry was satisfied with himself The smoke of the Havana floated round him and among the curtains of the bed. It was, take it all in all, a picture.

It was in this moment of quiet complacency, that Randolph appeared upon the scene. Harry looked up,—he caught the glare of his eyes,—and at once looked about him for a bowie-knife or pistol. But there were no weapons near. With a cry for help, Harry sprang from the bed, clad as he was, only in his shirt and drawers. He cried for help, but only once, for ere he could utter a second cry, there was a hand upon his throat.

"I'm not a brother now,—only a slave,—it was as a brother, last night, I spared and saved you,—now I'm only a slave, a negro! But as a slave and negro, I am choking you to death!"

Harry might as well have battled with a thunderbolt. Randolph, with the madman's fire in his eyes, hears him to the floor, puts his knee upon his breast, and tightens his clutch upon his throat. And as a gurgling noise sounded in the throat of the poor wretch, Randolph bent his face nearer to him, and (to use an all-expressive Scotch word) glowered upon him with those madman's eyes.

"This time there must be no mistake, brother. The world is large enough for many millions of people, but not large enough for us two. You must go, Harry,—master! You are going! Go and tell your father and mine how you treated the children of Herodia! Go!"

CHAPTER IV.

THE BRIDALS OF JOANNA AND BEVERLY.

It was the night of December the twenty-fifth, 1844.

The mansion of Eugene Livingstone was dark as a tomb. The shutters were closed, and crape fluttered on the door.

Within,—in the range of parlors, where, last night, Eugene kissed good-bye on the lips of his young and beautiful wife, ere he left for Boston,—where, not an hour after, Beverly Barron came and folded the young wife to his breast, ere he bore her from her home to a haunt of shame,—within a single light is burning. One light alone, in the vast mansion, from foundation to roof.

It is a wax candle, placed in the front parlor, on a marble table, between a sofa and mirror, which reaches from the ceiling to the floor.

Joanna is sitting there alone, her golden hair neatly arranged about her blonde face; her noble form clad in a flowing robe of snowy whiteness. She is very beautiful. True, her face is very pale, but her lips are red and a flush burns on each cheek. True, beneath each eye a faint blue circle may be traced, but the eyes themselves, blue as a cloudless sky in June, shine with an intensity that almost changes their hue into black in the soft, luxurious light. Joanna is very beautiful,—a woman of commanding form and voluptuous bust,—the loose robe which she wears, by its flowing folds, gives a new charm, a more fascinating loveliness to every detail of her figure.

Holding the evening paper in her right hand, she beats the carpet somewhat impatiently with her satin-slippered foot.

Her eye rests upon a paragraph in the evening paper:—

"Affair in High Life.—There was a rumor about town, to-day, of an affair of honor in high life—among the 'upper ten,'—the truth of which, at the hour of going to press, we are not able, definitely, to ascertain. The parties named are the elegant and distinguished B——y B——n, and E——e L——ng——e, a well-known member of the old aristocracy, in the upper region of the city. A domestic difficulty is assigned as the cause; and one of the parties is stated to have been severely, if not mortally, wounded. By to-morrow we hope to be able to give the full particulars."

Joanna read this paragraph, and her glance dropped, and she remained for a long time buried in deep thought.

"Will he come?" she said at length, as if thinking aloud.

The silence of the vast mansion was around her, but it did not seem to fill her with awe. She remained sitting on the sofa, the evening paper in her hand, and her face impressed with profound thought.

"Hark!" she ejaculated, as a faint noise was heard in the hall without. She started, but did not rise from the sofa.

The door opened stealthily, with scarcely a perceptible sound, and a man clad in a rough overcoat, with great white buttons, a cap drawn over his brow, and a red neckerchief wound about the collar of his coat, came silently into the room and approached Joanna.

"Who are you?" she cried, as if in alarm,—"Your business here?"

"Joanna, dearest Joanna," cried a familiar voice, "and has my disguise deceived you? It deceived the police, but I did not think that it could deceive you!"

The overcoat, cap and neckerchief were thrown aside, and in an instant Beverly Barron was kneeling at Joanna's feet. His tall and not ungraceful form clad in blue coat, with bright metal buttons, white vest, black pantaloons, and patent leather boots, he wore a diamond pin, and a heavy gold chain. His whole appearance was that of a gentleman of leisure, dressed for the opera or a select evening party. His face was flushed, his eyes sparkling, and the flaxen curls which hung about his brow, emitted an odor of cologne or patchouilli.

"I had to come,—I could not stay away from you, dearest," he said, looking up passionately into her face. "All day long, I have dodged from place to place, determined to see you to-night or die."

She gave him her hand, and looking into the opposite mirror, saw that she was very pale, but still exceedingly beautiful.

"To risk so much for—my sake," she said, and threaded his curls with her delicate hand, and at the same time one of those smiles which set the blood on fire, animated her lips, and disclosed her white teeth.

"You are beautiful as an angel, I vow," exclaimed Beverly, and then glancing round the vast apartment,—"Are we all alone?" he asked.

"Yes, all alone," she replied, "the servants were discharged this morning,—all, save my maid, and she has retired by my orders."

"No danger of any one calling?"

"None."

"You are sure, dearest?"

"No one will call. You are safe, and we are alone, Beverly!" again that smile, and a sudden swell of the bosom.

"The body,—the body——"

"Is at my father, the general's,"—she replied to the question before it passed his lips.

"Then, indeed, dearest, we are alone, and we can talk of our future,—our future. We must come to a decision, Joanna, and soon."

And half raising himself, as she lowered her head, he pressed his kiss on her lips.

"O, I do so long to talk with you, Beverly," she murmured.

"To-morrow, dearest, I will be placed in possession of an immense fortune. You have heard of the Van Huyden estate?"

She made a sign in the affirmative.

"I am the heir of one-seventh of that immense estate. All the obstacles in the way of the seven heirs (as I was informed to-day) are removed. To-morrow the estate will be divided; I will receive my portion without scarcely the chance of disappointment; and next day——"

He paused; she bent down until he felt her breath on his face,—"Next day?" she whispered.

"We will sail for Europe. A palace, in Florence, my love, or in Venice, or some delightful nook of Sicily, where, apart from the world, in an atmosphere like heaven, we can live for each other. What say you to this, Joanna?"

"But you forget," she faltered, "the recent circumstance,——" her face became flushed, and then deathly pale.

"Can you live under your father's eye after what has happened?" he whispered.—"Think of it,—he will loathe the sight of you, and make your life a hell!"

"He will indeed,"—and she dropped her head upon her proud bosom.

"And your brother,—does he not thirst for my blood?"

"Ah! does he?" she cried, with a look of alarm.

"And yet, Joanna, I was forced into it. I did all I could to avoid it. I even apologized on the ground, and offered to make reparation."

"You offered to make reparation?" she cried, "that was, indeed, noble!" and an indescribable smile lighted her features.

"Joanna, dear, I have suffered so much to-day, that I am really faint. A glass of that old Tokay, if you please, my love."

She answered him with a smile, and rising from the sofa, passed into the darkness of the second parlor, separated from the first by folding-doors.

"A magnificent woman, by Jove!" soliloquized Beverly, as he remarked her noble form.

After a few moments she appeared again, bearing a salver of solid gold, on which was placed a decanter and goblet, both of Bohemian glass,—rich scarlet in color, veined with flowers of purple, and blue, and gold.

Never had she seemed more beautiful than when standing before him, she presented the golden salver, with one of those smiles, which gave a deeper red to her lips, a softer brightness to her eyes.

He filled the capacious goblet to the brim—for a moment regarded the wine through the delicate fabric, with its flowers of blue, and purple, and gold,—and then drained it at a draught.

"Ah!"—he smacked his lips,—"that is delicious!"

"Eugene's father imported it some twenty years ago," said Joanna, placing the salver on the table. "Come, Beverly, I want to talk with you."

Following the bewitching gesture which she made with her half-lifted hand, Beverly rose, and gently wound his arm about her waist.

"Come, let us walk slowly up and down these rooms, now in light and now in darkness, and as we walk we can talk freely to each other."

And they walked, side by side, over the carpet, through that splendid suite of rooms, where gorgeous furniture, pictures, statues, all spoke of luxury and wealth. Hand joined in hand, his arm about her waist, her head drooping to his shoulder, and her bosom throbbing near and nearer to his breast, they glided along; now coming near the light in the front room, and now passing into the shadows which invested the other rooms. It was a delightful, nay, an intoxicating tête-à-tête.

"I was thinking, this evening," she said, as they passed from the light, "of the history of our love."

"Ah, dearest!"

"It seems an age since we first met, and yet it's only a year."

"Only a year!" echoed Beverly, as they paused in a nook where a delicious twilight prevailed.

"Eugene presented you to me a year ago, as his dearest friend,—his most tried and trusted friend. Do you remember, Beverly?"

He drew her gently to him,—there was a kiss and an embrace.

"You discovered his infidelity. You brought me the letters written to him by the person in Boston, for whom he proved unfaithful to me. You brought them from time to time, and it was your sympathy with my wounded pride,—my trampled affection,—which consoled me and kept me alive. It was, Beverly."

"O, you say so, dearest," and as they came into light again, he felt her breast throbbing nearer to his own.

For a moment they paused by the table, whereon the wax candle was burning, its flame reflected in the lofty mirror. Her face half-averted from the light, as her head drooped on his shoulder, she was exceedingly beautiful.

"Beverly," she whispered, and placed her arm gently about his neck,—the touch thrilled him to the heart,—"you knew me, young, confiding, ignorant of the world. You took pity on my unsuspecting ignorance, and day by day, yes hour by hour, in these very rooms, you led me on, to see the full measure of my husband's guilt, and at the same time led me to believe in you, and love you."

She paused, and passed her hand gently among his flaxen curls.

"Ah, love, you are as good as you are beautiful!" he whispered.

"Before you spoke thus, I had no thought save of my duty to Eugene."

"Eugene, who betrayed you!"

"Yes, to Eugene, who betrayed me, and to my child. After you spoke, I saw life in a new light. The world did not seem to me, any longer, to be the scene of dull quiet home-like duty, but of pleasure,—mad, passionate pleasure,—may be, illicit pleasure, purchased at any cost. And letter after letter which you brought me, accompanied by proof which I could not doubt, only served to complete the work,—to wean me from my idol,—false, false idol, Eugene,—and to teach me that this world was not so much made for dull every-day duty, as for those pleasures which, scorning the laws of the common herd, develop into active life every throb of enjoyment of which we are capable."

"Yes, yes, love," interrupted Beverly, pressing his lips to hers.

"And thus matters wore on, until you brought me the last, the damning letter. He was going to Boston to see his dying brother,—so he pretended,—but in reality to see the woman for whom he had proved faithless to me. When you brought me this letter I was mad,—mad,—O, Beverly——"

"It was enough to drive you mad!"

"And yesterday, impelled by some vague idea of revenge, I consented to go with you to a place, where, as you said, we would see something of the world,—where, in the excitement of a masked ball, I might forget my husband's faithlessness, and at the same time show that I did not care for his authority. Some idea of this kind was in my mind, and last night when he kissed me, and so coolly lied to me, before his departure, O, then Beverly, then, I was cut to the quick. You came after he had gone, and,—and—I went with you—"

"You did dearest Joanna," said Beverly, pressing her closer to his side.

They passed from the light into the shadows together.

"And there, you know what happened there," she said, as they stood in the darkness. She clung nearer and nearer to him. "But you know, Beverly, you know, that it was not until my senses were maddened by wine," her voice grew low and lower,—"that I gave my person to you."

In the darkness she laid her head upon his breast, and put her arms about his neck, her bosom all the while throbbing madly against his chest.

"O, you know, that in the noble letters, which you wrote to me from time to time—letters breathing a pure spiritual atmosphere,—you spoke of your love for me as something far above all common loves, refined and purified, and separate from all thought of physical impurity. And yet,—and yet,—last night when half crazed by jealousy, I went with you to the place which you named, you took the moment, when my senses were completely delirious with wine, to treat me as though I had been your wife, as though you had been the father of my child."

She sobbed aloud, and would have fallen to the floor had he not held her in his arms.

"O, Joanna, you vex yourself without cause," he said, soothingly,—"I love you,—you know I love you—"

"O, but would it not be a dreadful thing, if you had been deceived in regard to these letters!"

"Deceived?"

"Suppose, for instance, some one had forged them, and imposed them upon you as veritable letters—"

"Forged? This is folly my love."

"In that case, you and I would be guilty, O, guilty beyond power of redemption, and Eugene would be an infamously murdered man."

"Dismiss these gloomy thoughts. The letters were true—"

"O, you are certain,—certain—"

"I swear it,—swear it by all I hold dear on earth or hope hereafter."

"O, do not swear, Beverly. Who could doubt you?"

They passed toward the light again. She wiped the tears from her eyes—those eyes which shone all the brighter for the tears.

"And the day after to-morrow," said Beverly, as he rested his hand upon her shoulder,—"we will leave for Italy—"

"You have been in Italy?" asked Joanna.

"O, yes dearest, and Italy is only another name for Eden," he replied, growing warm, even eloquent—"there far removed from a cold, a heartless world, we will live, we will die together!"

"Would it not," she said, in a low whisper, as with her hand on his shoulders and her bosom beating against his own, she looked up earnestly into his face, "O, would it not be well, could we but die at this moment,—now, when our love is in its youngest and purest bloom,—die here on this cold earth, only to live again, and live with each other in a happier world?"

And in her emotion, she wound her aims convulsively about his neck and buried her face upon his breast.

"Dismiss these gloomy thoughts,"—he kissed her forehead—"there are many happy hours before us in this world, Joanna. Think not of death—"

"O, do you know, Beverly," she raised her face,—it was radiant with loveliness—"that I love to think of death. Death, you know, is such a test of sincerity. Before it falsehood falls dumb and hypocrisy drops its mask—"

"Nay, nay you must dismiss these gloomy thoughts. You know I love you—you know—"

He did not complete the sentence, but they passed into the darkness again, his arms about her waist, her head upon his shoulder.

And there, in the gloom, he pressed her to his breast, and as she clung to his neck, whispered certain words, which died in murmurs on her ear.

"No, no, Beverly," she answered, in a voice, broken by emotion, "it cannot be. Consider—"

"Cannot be? And am I not all to you?" he said, impassionately,—"Yes, Joanna, it must be—"

There was a pause, only broken by low murmurs, and passionate kisses.

"Come then," she said, at last, "come, husband—"

Without another word, she took him by the hand, and led him from the room out into the darkened hall. Her hand trembled very much, as she led him through the darkness up the broad stairway. Then a door was opened and together they entered the bed-chamber.

It is the same as it was last night. Only instead of a taper a wax candle burns brightly before a mirror. The curtains still fall like snow-flakes along the lofty windows, the alabaster vase is still filled with flowers,—they are withered now,—and from the half-shadowed alcove, gleams the white bed, with curtains enfolding it in a snowy canopy.

Trembling, but beautiful beyond the power of words,—beautiful in the flush of her cheeks, the depth of her gaze, the passion of her parted lips,—beautiful in every motion of that bosom which heaved madly against the folds which only half-concealed it,—trembling, she led him toward the bed.

"My marriage bed," she whispered, and laid her hand upon the closed curtains.

Beverly was completely carried away by the sight of her passionate loveliness—"Once your marriage bed with a false husband," he said, and laid his hand also upon the closed curtains, "now your marriage bed with a true husband, who will love you until death—"

And he drew aside the curtains.

Drew aside the curtains, folding Joanna passionately to his breast, and,—fell back with a cry of horror. Fell back, all color gone from his face, his features distorted, his paralyzed hands extended above his head.

Joanna did not seem to share his terror for she burst into a fit of laughter.

"Our marriage bed, love," she said, "why are you so cold?" and again she laughed.

But Beverly could not move nor speak. His eyes were riveted to the bed.

Within the snowy curtains, was stretched a corpse, attired in the white garment of the grave. Through the parted curtains, the light shone fully on its livid face, while the body was enveloped in half shadow,—shone fully on the white forehead with its jet-black hair, upon the closed lids, and—upon the dark wound between the eyes. The agony of the last spasm was still upon that face, although the hands were folded tranquilly on the breast. Eugene Livingstone was sleeping upon his marriage bed,—sleeping, undisturbed by dreams.

Joanna stood there, holding the curtain with her uplifted hand, her eyes bright, her face flushed with unnatural excitement. Again she laughed loud and long—the echoes of her laughter sounded strangely in that marriage chamber.

"What,—what does this mean?" cried Beverly, at last finding words—"is this a dream——a——" He certainly was in a fearful fright, for he could not proceed.

"Why, so cold, love?" she said, smiling, "it is our marriage bed, you know—"

"Joanna, Joanna," he cried,—"are you mad?" and in his fright, he looked anxiously toward the door.

She took a package from her breast and flung it at his feet.

"Go," she cried, "but first take up your forged letters—"

"Forged letters?" he echoed.

"Forged letters," she answered,—her voice was changed,—her manner changed,—there was no longer any passion on her face,—pale as marble, her face rigid as death, she confronted him with a gaze that he dared not meet. "Go!" she cried, "but take with you your forged letters. Yes, the letters which you forged, and which you used as the means of my ruin. You have robbed me of my honor, robbed me of my husband,—your work is complete—go!"

Her face was white as the dress which she wore,—she pointed to the threshold.

"Joanna, Joanna," faltered Beverly.

"Not a word, not a word, villain, villain without remorse or shame! I am guilty, and might excuse myself by pleading your treachery. But I make no excuse. But for you,—for you,—where is the excuse? You have dishonored the wife,—made the child fatherless,—your work is complete! Go!"

Beverly saw that all his schemes had been unraveled; conscious of his guilt, and conscious that everything was at an end between him and Joanna, he made a desperate attempt to rally his usual self-possession; or, perhaps, impudence would be the better word.

He moved to the door, and placed his hand upon the lock.

"Well, madam, as you will," he said, and bowed. "Under the circumstances, I can only wish you a very good evening."

He opened the door.

"Hold!" she cried in a voice that made him start.—"Your work is complete, but so, also, is mine—"

She paused; her look excited in him a strange curiosity for the completion of the sentence. "You will not long enjoy your triumph. You have not an hour to live. The wine which you drank was poisoned."

Beverly's heart died in him at these words. A strange fever in his veins, a strange throbbing at the temples, which he had felt for an hour past, and which he had attributed to the excitement resulting from the events of the day, he now felt again, and with redoubled force.

"No,—no,—it is not so," he faltered.—"Woman, you are mad,—you had not the heart to do it."

"Had not the heart?" again she burst into a loud laugh,—"O, no, I was but jesting. Look here,"—she darted to the bed, flung the curtain aside, and disclosed the lifeless form of her husband,—"and here!" gliding to another part of the room, she gently drew a cradle into light, and throwing its silken covering aside, disclosed the face of her sleeping child,—that cherub boy, who, as on the night previous, slept with his rosy cheek on his bent arm, and the ringlets of his auburn hair tangled about his forehead, white as alabaster. "And now look upon me!" she dilated before him like a beautiful fiend; "we are all before you,—the dead husband, the dishonored wife, the fatherless child,—and yet I had not the heart,"—she laughed again.

Beverly heard no more. Uttering a blasphemous oath, he rushed from the room.

And the babe, awakened by the sound of voices, opened its clear, innocent eyes, and reached forth its baby hands toward its mother.

Urged forward by an impulse like madness, Beverly entered the rooms on the first floor, seized the rough overcoat and threw it on, passing the red neckerchief around its collar, to conceal his face. Then drawing the cap over his eyes, he hurried from the house.

"It's all nonsense," he muttered, and descended the steps.—"I'll walk it off."

Walk it off! And yet the fever burned the more fiercely, his temples throbbed more madly, as he said the words. Leaving behind him the closed mansion of Eugene Livingstone, with the crape fluttering on the door, he bent his steps toward Broadway.

"I'm nervous," he muttered.—"The words of that dev'lish hysterical woman have unsettled me. How cold it is!" He felt cold as ice for a moment, and the next instant his veins seemed filled with molten fire.

He hurried along the dark street toward Broadway. The distant lights at the end of the street, where it joined Broadway, seemed to dance and whirl as he gazed upon them; and his senses began to be bewildered.

"I've drank too much," he muttered.—"If I can only reach Broadway, and get to my hotel, all will be right."

But when he reached Broadway, it whirled before him like a great sea of human faces, carriages, houses and flame, all madly confused, and rolling through and over each other.

The crowd gave way before him, as he staggered along.

"He's drunk," cried one.

"Pitch into me that way ag'in, old feller, and I'll hit you," cried another.

It was Christmas Eve, and Broadway was alive with light and motion; the streets thronged with vehicles, and the sidewalks almost blocked up with men, and women, and children; the lamps lighted, and the shops and places of amusement illuminated, as if to welcome some great conqueror. But Beverly was unconscious of the external scene. His fashionable dress, concealed by his rough overcoat, and his face hidden by his cap and red neckerchief, he staggered along, with his head down and his hands swaying from side to side. There was a roaring as of waves or of devouring flame in his ears. A red haze was before his eyes; and the scenes of his whole life came up to him at once, even as a drowning man sees all his life, in a focus, before the last struggle,—there were the persons he had known, the adventures he had experienced, the events of his boyhood, and the triumphs and shames of his libertine manhood,—all these came up to him, and confronted him as he hurried along. Three faces were always before him,—the dead face of Eugene, the pale visage of Joanna, her eyes flaming with vengeance, and,—the innocent countenance of his motherless daughter.

And thus he hurried along.

"Old fellow, the stars'll be arter you," cried one in the crowd, through which he staggered on.

"My eyes! ain't he drunk?"

"Don't he pay as much attention to one side o' the pavement as the tother?"

"Did you ever see sich worm fence as he lays out?"

There was something grotesquely horrible in the contrast between his real condition, and the view which the crowd took of it.

At length, not knowing whither he went, he turned from the glare and noise of Broadway into a by-street, and hurried onward,—onward, through the gloom, until he fell.

In a dark corner of the street, behind the Tombs, close to the stones of that gloomy pile, he fell, and lay there all night long, with no hand to aid him, no eye to pity him.

He was found, on Christmas morning, stiff and cold; his head resting against the wall of the Tombs, his body covered with new-fallen snow. A pile of bricks lay on one side of him, a heap of boards on the other. This was the death-couch of the dashing Beverly Barron!

How he died, no one could tell; it was supposed that he had poisoned himself from remorse at the death of Eugene Livingstone.

As Beverly hurried from the room, the babe in the cradle opened its clear, innocent eyes, and reached forth its baby hands toward its mother.

She took it, and stilled it to rest upon her bosom: and then came to the bed and sat down upon it, near her dead husband.

"Eugene, Eugene!" she gently put her hand upon his cold forehead,—"let me talk to you,—I will not wake you,—let me talk to you, as you sleep. I am guilty, Eugene, you know I am,—you cannot forgive me,—I do not ask forgiveness; but you'll let me be near you, Eugene? You will not spurn me from you? This is our child, Eugene,—don't you know him?—O, look up and speak to him. Don't,—don't be angry with him,—his mother is a poor, fallen fallen thing, but don't be angry with our child!"

She did not weep. Her eyes, large and full of light, were fixed upon her husband's face. Cradling her babe upon her bosom, she sat there all night long, talking to Eugene, in a low, whispering voice, as though she wished him to hear her, and yet was afraid to awake him from a pleasant slumber. The light went out, but still she did not move. She was there at morning light, her baby sleeping on her breast, and her hand laid upon her dead husband's forehead.

And at early morning light, her father came,—the gray-haired man,—his face frowning, and his heart full of wrath against his daughter.

"What do you here?" he said, sternly. "This is no place for you. There is to be an inquest soon. You surely do not wish to look upon the ruin you have wrought?"

As though she was conscious of his presence, but had not heard his words, she turned her face over her shoulder,—that colorless face, lighted by eyes that still burned with undimmed luster,—and said,—

"Do you know, father. I have been talking with Eugene, and he has forgiven me!"

The voice, the look melted the old man's heart.

He fell upon the bed, and wept.