"Every coin gained by days and nights of work—hard work," he said. "It has taken me three years to save that sum. When I thought of Alice as a wife, this little hoard, (such was my fancy,) might enable me to furnish a good home. Do you understand me, sir? You who receive five thousand dollars per year for preaching the gospel of your church, can you comprehend how precious is this fortune of one hundred dollars, to a poor workman, who earns his bread by sitting in a cramped position, fourteen hours a day, making shoes?"
"Well, what have I to do with this money?"
"You comprehend that these ten gold pieces are as much to me, as a ten hundred would be to you? These gold pieces will buy books which I earnestly desire; they will help me to relieve a brother workman who happens to be poorer than myself; they will help me to go to the far west, where there is land and home for all. Well, this fortune, I have dedicated to one purpose: To support me, here in New York, on bread and water, until I can discover the hiding-place of Alice Burney, and meet her seducer face to face. How long do you think my gold will furnish me with bread, while I devote day and night to this purpose?"
The iron resolution of the young man's face, made the clergyman feel afraid.
"You will remark," he exclaimed, stretching himself in his chair, and contemplating the whiteness of his nails, "that a witness of our conversation might infer, from the tenor of your discourse, that you have an idea—an idea—" he hesitated, "that I have something to do with the abduction of this young lady. Doubtless you do not mean to convey this impression, and therefore I will thank you to correct the tone of your remarks."
Herman was quite lordly.
"Then you know nothing of the retreat of Alice Burney?"
"The question is an insult—"
"Nothing of her seducer?"
"I repeat it; the question is an insult," and Herman started up in his chair, with flashing eyes and corrugated brow.
"Will you swear that you are ignorant of her retreat, and of the name of her seducer?" coolly continued Dermoyne.
"Men of my cloth do not swear," as coolly returned Herman.
"Allow me to congratulate you upon your ignorance," replied Dermoyne, "for—for;—will you have the goodness to observe me for a moment?"
While Herman watched him with a wondering eye, the young man replaced the gold pieces in his pocket, and rising from his chair, surveyed the room with an attentive gaze. His eye rested at length upon an iron candlestick, which stood upon a shelf of the library; it was evidently out of place in that luxurious room; and had been left there through the forgetfulness of the servant who took care of the Rev. Dr. Bulgin's study. Dermoyne took this candlestick from the shelf, and then returned to the light.
"Do you see this? It is about six inches long and one inch in diameter. Would it not take a strong man to break that in twain with both hands?"
Herman took the candlestick; examined it attentively: "It would take a Sampson," he said.
"Now look at my hand." Dermoyne extended a hand which, hardened by labor in the palm, was not so large as it was muscular and bony.
"What have I to do with your hand?" exclaimed Herman, in evident disgust.
"Watch me," said Dermoyne; and, resting the candlestick on his right hand, he closed his fingers, and pressed his thumb against it. After an instant he opened his hand again. The iron candlestick was bent nearly double. Dermoyne had accomplished this feat without the appearance of exertion.
"Why, you are a very Hercules!" ejaculated Herman,—"and yet, you are not above the medium height. You do not look like a strong man."
"God has invested me with almost superhuman strength," replied Dermoyne, as he stood erect before the minister, resting one hand upon the table: "had it not been for that, hard work would have killed me long ago. I can lift with one hand, a weight, which would task the strength of almost any two men but to budge; I can strike a blow, which, properly planted, would fell an ox; I can—"
"You needn't dilate," interrupted Herman, "the study of the Rev. Dr. Bulgin is not exactly the place for gymnastic experiments—"
"Well, you'll see my drift directly," calmly continued Dermoyne—"I have never dared to use this strength, save in the way of work or occasional exercise. I regard it as a kind of trust, given to me by Providence for a good purpose."
"What purpose, pray?" said Herman, opening his eyes.
"To punish those criminals whom the law does not punish; to protect those victims it does not protect," answered Dermoyne, steadily. "Now, for instance, were I to encounter the seducer of Alice Burney,—were I to stand face to face with him, as I do with you,—were I to place my thumb upon his right temple and my fingers upon his left temple,—thus—"
"You,—you,—" gasped the minister, who suddenly felt the hand of Arthur Dermoyne upon his forehead; the thumb pressed gently upon the right temple and the fingers upon his left—"you,—would,—what?"
"I would, quietly, without a word, crush his skull as you might crush an egg-shell," slowly answered Dermoyne.
He took his hand away. The face of Herman was white as a sheet. He shook in his velvet chair. For a moment he could not speak.
"I, therefore, congratulate you, that you know nothing of the matter," calmly continued Dermoyne, not seeming to notice the fright of the minister; "for, with a villain like this unknown seducer before me, I would lose all control over myself, and (ere I was aware of it) I would have wiped him out of existence. This would be murder, you are about to remark! So it would. But, is not this seducer a murderer in a three fold sense? First, he has murdered the chastity of this poor girl; and second, in the attempt to get rid of the proof of his guilt, he may (who knows?) murder her body and the body of her unborn child."
The room was still as the grave, as Dermoyne concluded the last sentence.
Barnhurst sank back in the chair, helpless as a child. For a moment his self-possession deserted him. His guilt was stamped upon his face.
"Here you can count three murders," continued Dermoyne, not seeming to notice the dismay of the minister,—"the murder of a woman's purity,—the murder of her body—the murder of her babe. Now, I don't pretend to say, that it would be right for me to kill the three fold murderer, but I do say, that, were I to meet him, and know his guilt, that my blood would boil,—my eyes would grow dim,—my hand would be extended, and in an instant, would hold his mangled skull, between the thumb and fingers."
Herman's arms dropped helplessly by his side. He was extended in the capacious chair, a vivid picture of helpless fright.
Dermoyne, whose broad chest and bold features, caught on one side the glow of the light, as he stood erect by the table, gazed upon the minister with a calm look, and continued—
"So, you see, I congratulate you, that you know nothing of the matter—"
"Oh, I am shocked, shocked," and Herman made out to cover his face with his hands, "I am shocked, at the vivid, viv-id," he stammered,—"vivid picture which you have drawn of the crimes of this seducer."
Dermoyne sank quietly into the chair on the opposite side of the table, and shaded his eyes with his right hand. He also was thinking.
For a long pause, there was profound stillness. The lamp on the table shed its luxurious light over the vast room, peopled as it was, with images of wealth, ease and voluptuousness, and upon the figures of these men, seated opposite to each other, and each with his eyes shaded by his hand.
At length, Herman recovering a portion of his self-possession, exclaimed without raising his hands from his face:
"I trust you will end this interview at once. You have given my nerves a severe shock. To-morrow,—to-morrow,—I will talk to you about the Van Huyden estate, about which, I presume, you asked this interview."
Dermoyne raised his hand to his forehead,—somewhat after the manner of Herman,—and surveyed the clergyman with a keen, searching gaze. Gradually a smile, so faint as to be scarcely perceptible, stole over his features.
Herman felt the force of that gaze and his smooth complexion turned from deathly white to scarlet, and from scarlet to deathly white again.
"What next?" he muttered to himself, "does he know? Had I better call for assistance?"
Dermoyne, quietly left his seat, and advancing until he confronted Herman, placed a small piece of paper on the table, and held it firmly under his thumb, so that the words written upon it, were legible in the lamp-light.
"Read that," he said, and his flashing eye was fixed on Barnhurst's face.
Half wondering, half stupefied, Barnhurst bent forward and read:—
Dec. 24, 1844.
Madam:—Your patient will come to-night.
Herman Barnhurst.
As he read, Herman looked like a man who has received his death-warrant. The very effort,—and it was a mortal one,—which he made to control himself, only gave a stronger agitation to his quivering lineaments.
"Can you tell where I found this?" whispered Dermoyne. "Near the mangled body of the father of Alice,—at sunset, but a few hours ago, and at the house half-way between New York and Philadelphia,—there among the ashes, and half consumed by fire, I discovered this precious document. Did you drop this paper from your pocket, my friend, when you sought shelter in the house, after the accident on the railroad, last night?"
Herman had not the power to reply. His eyes were riveted by the half-burned fragment.
"What has the Rev. Herman Barnhurst, the clergyman, to do with Madam Resimer, the murderess of unborn children?" continued Dermoyne; "and the patient,—who is the patient? Is it Alice? This letter is dated the 24th, and to-morrow night, Alice will cross the threshold of that hell, where the Madam rules, as the presiding Devil!"
A gleam of hope shot across Herman's soul. "He does not know, that Alice is already in the care of Madam Resimer. Courage,—courage!"
"Have you no answer?" Dermoyne's eye gleamed with deadly light; still holding the paper, he advanced a step nearer to the clergyman.
"Yes, I have an answer!" exclaimed Herman, sinking back in the chair: "that letter is a forgery."
Dermoyne was astonished.
"You never wrote it?"
"Never,—never!" Herman raised his hands to Heaven,—"it is the work of some mortal enemy. Beside, were I guilty, is it reasonable to suppose, that I, a clergyman, would sign my own name to a letter addressed to Madam Resimer?"
Dermoyne was puzzled; he glanced from the letter to Barnhurst's face, and a look of doubt clouded his features.
"A forgery?" he asked.
"An infamous forgery!" cried Barnhurst, resuming his dignity. "Now, that you have wrung my very soul, by an accusation so utterly infamous, so thoroughly improbable, let me hope that you will—" he pointed to the door.
Dermoyne resumed his cap and cloak, first, carefully replacing the letter in his vest pocket.
"By to-morrow," he said, in a voice which rang low and distinct through the apartment, "by to-morrow, I will know the truth of this matter; and if I discover that this is, indeed, your letter,—if you have, indeed, dishonored poor Alice, and consigned herself and unborn babe, to the infernal mercies of Madam Resimer, why then,"—he moved toward the door, "then there will be one man the less, on the 25th of December."
He opened the door, and was gone ere his words had ceased to echo on the air.
His parting words rung in the very soul of the clergymen, as his footsteps died away on the stairs.
"What an abyss have I escaped!" ejaculated Herman, "exposure, disgrace and death!" He pressed his scented kerchief over his forehead, and wiped away the cold sweat which moistened it. "Fool! he little knows that Alice is already there. The Madam is a shrewd woman. Her rooms are dark, her doors secured by double bolts; her secrets are given to the keeping of the grave. This miserable idiot, this cobbler, cannot possibly gain admittance into her mansion? No, no, this thought is idle. And Alice, poor child, why can't I marry her? Her father's death will leave her in possession of a handsome fortune,—why can't I marry her?"
Too well he knew the only answer to this question.
"We are all but mortal; she may die!" and an expression of remarkable complacency came over his face. Joining his thumbs and fingers in front of his breast, he reflected deeply. "But if she survives?"
His brow became clouded, his lips compressed; all the vulture of his soul was written on his vulture-like countenance.
"If she survives!"
While the light disclosed his slender figure, centered in the scarlet cushions of the arm-chair, and fell upon his countenance, revealing the purpose which was written there, Herman still muttered between his set teeth, the question, "If she survives?" To him, it was a question of life and death.
But his meditations were interrupted by a burst of boisterous laughter.
"Why Barnhurst! you are grave as an owl. What's the matter, my dear?"
Herman looked up with a start, and a half-muttered ejaculation. The Rev. Dr. Bulgin stood before him, his cloak on his arm, and a cap in his hand.
"I thought you was out of town?" cried Herman.
"So I was; a convention of divines, speeches, resolutions, and so forth, you know. But now I'm in town, and,—such an adventure, my dear boy! I must tell you of it."
Before Bulgin tells his adventure, we must look at him. A man of thirty-five years, with broad shoulders, heavy chest and unwieldy limbs; a portly man, some would call him, dressed in black, of course, and with a white cravat about his neck, which was short and fat. Draggled masses of brownish hair stray, in uneven ends, about Bulgin's face and ears; that face is round and shiny,—its hue, a greasy florid,—its brow, broad and low; its eyes large, moist and oyster-like. In a word, the upper part of Bulgin's head indicates the man of intellect; the face, the eyes, mouth, nose and all, tell the story of a nature thoroughly animal,—bestial, would be a truer word.
That head and face were but too true in their indications.
Bulgin was, in intellect, something of a god; in real life; in the gratification of appetite; in habits, strengthened by the growth of years, he was a beast. It may seem a harsh word, but it is the only one that suits Bulgin's case. He was a beast. Not a quiet ox, cropping clover at his ease, nor yet a lordly bull, madly tossing his horns in the center of a grassy field,—of course, we mean nothing of the kind,—but a beast on two legs, gifted with a strong intellect and an immortal soul, and devoting intellect and soul to the full gratification of his beastly nature. He was, withal, a good-humored beast. He enjoyed a joke. His laugh was jovial; reminding you of goblets of wine and suppers of terrapin. His manner was off-hand, free and easy—out of the pulpit, of course; in the pulpit, no one so demure, so zealous and pathetic as the Rev. Dr. Bulgin.
He regarded his ministerial office as a piece of convenient clock-work, invented some years ago, for the purpose of supplying the masses with something to believe; and men like himself, with a good salary, a fine house, plenty to eat and drink, fair social position, and free opportunity for the gratification of every appetite.
His creed was a part of this clock-work. It was his living. Therefore, everything that he wrote or uttered, in regard to religion, was true to his creed; true, eloquent, and breathing the loftiest enthusiasm. To doubt his creed, was to doubt his living. Therefore, the Rev. Dr. Bulgin did not doubt his creed, but took it as he found it, and advocated it with all the energy of his intellectual nature.
As to any possible appreciation of the Bible, or of that Savior who, emerging from the shop of a carpenter, came to speak words of hope to all mankind, and, in especial, to that portion who bear all the slavery, and do all the work of the world, the Rev. Dr. Bulgin never troubled himself with thoughts like these; he was above and beyond them; the Bible and the Savior were, in his estimation, convenient parts of that convenient clock-work which afforded him the pleasant sum of five thousand dollars per year.
To look at the Rev. Dr. Bulgin; to see him stand there, with his sensual form and swinish face, you would not think that he was the author of one of the most spiritual works in the world, entitled "Our Communion with the Spirit."
To know the Rev. Dr. Bulgin,—to know him when, his stage drapery laid aside, he appeared the thing he was,—you could, by no means, imagine that he was the author of an excellent work on "Private Prayer."
And yet he was no hypocrite; not, at least, in the common sense of the word. He was an intellectual animal whose utmost hopes were bounded by the horizon of this world. Beyond this world there was nothing. He was an Atheist. Not an Atheist publishing a paper advocating Atheistic principles, but an Atheist in the pulpit, professing to preach the Gospel of Jesus Christ. You may shudder at the thought, but the Reverend Doctor Bulgin was such a man.
And just such men, in churches of all kinds,—Protestants and Catholics, Orthodox and Heterodox,—have these eighteen hundred years been preaching a clock-work Gospel, leaving unsaid, uncared for, the true Word of the Master—a Word which says, in one breath, temporal and spiritual prayers—a Word which enjoins the establishment of the kingdom of God, on earth, in the physical and intellectual welfare of the greatest portion of mankind.
Too well these Atheists know that were that Word once boldly uttered, their high pulpits and magnificent livings would vanish like cobwebs before the sweeper's broom.
How much evil have such Atheists accomplished in the course of eighteen hundred years?
It will do no harm to think upon this subject, just a little.
"Herman, my boy, I must tell you of my last adventure," said Bulgin, dropping into the seat which Dermoyne had lately occupied; "it will make your mouth water!" He smacked his lips and clapped his hands; the lips were oily, and the hands fat and dumpy. "But, first, you must tell me what's the matter with you? Anything wrong in your church?"
"That doesn't trouble me," responded Herman. "True, there is the trial of the Bishop, and the wrangling of these Low Church fellows, about our gowns and altars; our views of the sacrament, and our high notions of the priesthood. These Low Church people are actually Methodists. They would rob the church of all dignity, and turn the priest of the altar into the ranter of the conventicle,—"
"We are not troubled with bishops, nor apostolic successions," interrupted Bulgin: "High and Low Church don't trouble us.—Our deacons want a minister; they call him and pay him. Now, if our church admitted of a bishop, I think that—" he put his thumbs in the arm-holes of his vest, and surveyed his heavy limbs with great complacency, "that your humble servant would make a—"
"Bishop?" cried Herman, with a laugh.
"Ay, and a capital bishop, too, if all be true that these Low Church fellows say of the Bishop of your church. I am a man of feeling, eh, my boy?"
This was a home thrust. Notwithstanding his intimacy with Bulgin, Herman did not regard him as a real priest of the church, but only as the called teacher of a congregation. Therefore, he felt the allusion to his bishop the more heavily.
"You were speaking of an adventure?" suggested Herman, anxious to change the subject: "What about it?"
Bulgin flung back his head, and burst into a roar of laughter.
"I'm laughing at my adventure, not at you, my dear Herman. Just imagine my case. I have a patient on my hands, who is rich, crippled with a dozen diseases, and troubled in his mind on some doctrinal point. In the morning I visit the old gentleman, and after hearing afresh the list of his diseases, I soothe him on the doctrinal point.—Soothe him, and quote the Fathers, and fire him up with a word or two about the Pope. And in the afternoon—" he closed one eye, and looked at Herman in such a manner, that the latter could not avoid a burst of laughter, "in the afternoon, while the old man is asleep, I visit his wife,—young and handsome, and such a love of a woman—and soothe her mind on another doctrinal point. Sometimes my lessons are prolonged until evening, and—ha, ha!—I have my hands full, I assure you."
"You called there to-night, on your way home?" asked Herman, with a smile.
"Just to see if the old gentleman was better, and,—but wait a moment," he rose from his chair, and hurried into the shadows of the room, turned one of the recesses, between the western windows. There he remained, until Herman grew impatient.
"What are you doing," he exclaimed, and as he spoke, Bulgin returned toward the light, "what is this!" and his eyes opened with a wondering stare.
"I'm a cardinal; that is all. The dress of Leo the Tenth, before he became Pope. Don't you think I look the character?"
He was attired in a robe of scarlet velvet, which covered his unwieldy form from the neck to the feet, and enveloped his arms in its voluminous sleeves. His florid face appeared beneath the broad rim of a red hat, and upon his broad chest hung a golden chain, to which was appended a huge golden cross. The costume was of the richest texture, and gave something of a lordly appearance to the bulky form of the reverend doctor.
"I'm a cardinal," said Bulgin with a wink; "There is a nice party of us, who meet to-night, between twelve and one, to confer upon grave matters. Every one wears a mask and costume. Will you go with me? There is the robe of a Jesuit yonder, which will fit you to a hair."
Herman's eyes flashed, and he started from his chair.
"The wife of your old patient,"—he began.
"Goes as the cardinal's niece, you know! we didn't know the costume of a cardinal's niece, and so I told her to wear a dress-coat and pantaloons. Will you go?"
Herman's face glowed with the full force of his monomania.
"For wine and feasting, I care not," he cried, "but a scene where beautiful women—" he paused, and fixed his eyes on vacancy, while that singular monomania shone from his humid eyes, and fired his cheeks with a vivid glow. "Where are we to go?" he asked.
"To the Temple," said the Rev. Dr. Bulgin, with his finger on his light: "You remember the night when we were there?"
"Remember?" echoed the Rev. Herman Barnhurst, with an accent of inexpressible rapture: "Can I ever forget?" He strode hastily toward the recess. "Where is the Jesuit robe?"
But as he touched the curtain of the recess, he was palsied by a sudden thought.
"Ah, this cobbler, this Dermoyne! He will go to Madame Resimer's with my note in his hand, and pretend to come in my name. He will, at least, induce her to open the doors, and then force his way into her house. If he enters there, I am lost."
Turning to Bulgin, he flung his cloak around him, and took up his cap. "No, sir, I cannot go with you. Excuse me—I am in a great hurry."
He hurried to the door, and disappeared ere Bulgin could answer him with a word.
"Dermoyne has a half an hour's start of me," muttered Herman, as he disappeared, "I must be quick, or I am lost."
"That is cool!" soliloquized Bulgin: "some difficulty about a woman, I suppose: our young friend must be cautious: exposure in these matters is fatal."
Without bestowing another word upon his friend, the Rev. Dr. Bulgin, attired in the cardinal's hat and robe, sank in the arm-chair, and put his feet upon the table, and flung back his head, thus presenting one of the finest pictures of ecclesiastical ease, that ever gratified the eyes of mortal man.
He suffered himself to be seduced into the mazes of an enchanting reverie:
"Ah, that's my ideal of a man," he suffered his eye to rest upon the head of Leo the Tenth: "Without a particle of religion to trouble him, he took care of the spiritual destinies of the world, and at the same time enjoyed his palace, where the wine was of the choicest, and the women of the youngest and most beautiful. He was a gentleman. While poor Martin Luther was giving himself a great deal of trouble about this worthless world, Leo had a world of his own, within the Vatican, a world of wit, of wine and beauty. That's my ideal of an ecclesiastic. Religion, its machinery, and its terrors for the masses,—for ourselves," he glanced around his splendid room, "something like this, and five thousand a year."
And the good man shook with laughter.
"I must be going,"—he rose to his feet—"It's after twelve now, and before one, I must be at the Temple."
And while Barnhurst, Bulgin and Dermoyne go forth on their respective ways, let us—although the Temple is very near—gaze upon a scene, by no means lighted by festal lamps, or perfumed with voluptuous flowers. Let us descend into the subterranean world, sunken somewhere in the vicinity of Five Points and the Tombs.
CHAPTER XIV.
BELOW FIVE POINTS.
It is now the hour of twelve, midnight, on the 23d of December, 1844.
We are in the region of the Five Points, near the Tombs, whose sullen walls look still more ominous and gloomy in the wintery starlight.
Enter the narrow door of the frame-house, which seems toppling to the ground. You hear the sound of the violin, and by the light of tallow candles, inserted in tin sconces which are affixed to the blackened walls, you discover some twenty persons, black, white and chocolate-colored, of all ages and both sexes, dancing and drinking together. It is an orgie—an orgie of crime, drunkenness and rags.
Pass into the next room. By a single light, placed on a table, you discover the features of three or four gamblers,—not gamblers of the gentlemanly stamp, who, in luxurious chambers, prolong the game of "poker" all night long, until the morning breaks, or the champagne gives out,—but gamblers of a lower stamp, ill-dressed fellows, whose highest stake is a shilling, and whose favorite beverage is whisky, and whisky that is only whisky in name, while in fact, it is poison of the vilest sort—whisky classically called "red-eye."
Open a scarcely distinguishable door, at the back of the ruffian who sits at the head of the table. Descend a narrow stairway, or rather ladder, which lands you in the darkness, some twenty feet below the level of the street. Then, in the darkness, feel your way along the passage which turns to the right and left, and from left to right again, until your senses are utterly bewildered. At length, after groping your way in the darkness, over an uneven floor, and between narrow walls; after groping your way you know not how far, you descend a second ladder, ten feet or more, and find yourself confronted by a door. You are at least two stories under ground, and all is dark around you—the sound of voices strikes your ear; but do not be afraid. Find the latch of the door and push it open. A strange scene confronts you.
The Black Senate!
A room or cell, some twenty feet square, is warmed by a small coal stove, which, heated to a red heat, stands in the center, its pipe inserted in the low ceiling, and leading you know not where. Around the stove, by the light of three tallow candles placed upon a packing-box, are grouped some twenty or thirty persons, who listen attentively to the words of the gentleman who is seated by the packing-box.
This gentleman is almost a giant; his chest is broad; his limbs brawny; and his face, black as the "ace of spades," is in strong contrast with his white teeth, white eyeballs, white eyebrows, and white wool. He is a negro, with flat nose, thick lips, and mouth reaching from ear to ear. His almost giant frame is clad in a sleek suit of blue cloth, and he wears a cravat of spotless whiteness.
His auditors are not so fortunate in the way of dress. Of all colors, from jet black to chocolate-brown, they are clad in all sorts of costumes, only alike in raggedness and squalor.
This is the Black Senate, which has met for business to-night, in this den, two stories under ground. Its deliberations, in point of decorum, may well compare with some other senates,—one in especial, where 'Liar!' is occasionally called, fisticuffs exchanged, knives and pistols drawn; and it embraces representatives from all parts of the Union. Whether, like another senate, it has its dramatic characters,—its low clown, melodramatic ruffians, genteel comedian, and high tragedy hero, remains to be seen.
The very black gentleman, by the packing-box—book in one hand and paper and pencil before him—is the speaker of the house. It is our old acquaintance "Royal Bill," lately from South Carolina.
"The genelman frum Varginny hab de floor," said the speaker, with true parliamentary politeness.
The gentleman from Virginia was a six-foot mulatto, dressed in a ragged coat and trowsers of iron gray. As he rose there was an evident sensation; white teeth were shown, and "Go in nigga!" uttered encouragingly by more than one of the colored congressmen.
"Dis nigga rise to de point ob ordah. Dis nigga am taught a great many tings by philosopy. One day, in de 'baccy field, dis nigga says to hisself, says he. 'Dat are pig b'longs to massa, so does dis nigga. Dis nigga kill dat pig un eat 'um—dat be stealin'? Lordy Moses—no! It only be puttin' one ting dat b'longs to massa into anoder ting dat also b'longs to massa:'—dat's philosopy—"
"S'pose de nigga be caught?" interrupted a colored gentleman, lighting his pipe at the red-hot stove.
"Dat wouldn't be philosopy," responded the gentleman from Virginia. "It ain't philosopy to be caught. On de contrary it am dam foolishness."
A murmur of assent pervaded the place.
"Soh, reasonin' from de pig, dis nigga wor taught by philosopy to tink a great deal—to tink berry much;—and soh, one day de nigga got a kind o' absen' minded, and walked off, and forgot to come back.—Dis nigga actooaly did."
"Dat wor philosopy!" said a voice.
"An' as de nigga is in bad health, he am on his way to Canada, whar de climate am good for nigga's pulmonaries. An' fur fear de nigga mought hurt people's feelin', he trabels by night; an' fur fear he mought be axed questi'n which 'ud trubble him to ansaw, he carries dese sartificats—"
He showed his certificates—a revolving pistol and a knife. And each one of the colored congressmen produced certificates of a similar character from their rags.
"Lor', philosopy am a dam good ting!"
"Don't sweah, nigga!—behabe yesself!"
"Read us nudder won ob dem good chap'er from de Bible, Mistaw Speakaw," cried a dark gentleman, addressing old Royal.-"'Ehud, I hab a message from God to dee!' Yah-hah-hah!"
"Yah-hah-a-what!" chorused the majority of the congress, showing their teeth and shaking their woolly heads together.
"Jis tell us som'thin' more about yer ole massa, dat you lick last night," cried a voice.
"Dat am an ole story," said old Royal, with dignity. "Suffis it to say, dat about five o'clock last ebenin', I took massa Harry from de house whar he'd been licked, de night afore, and tuk him in a carriage and put 'im aboard de cars at Princeton. I gib him some brandy likewise. His back was berry sore—"
Here one of the gentlemen broke in with a parody of a well-known song—
"Oh, carry me back to ole Varginny—
My back am berry sore—"
He began, in rich Ethiopian bass.
"Silence nigga!" said old Royal, sternly, yet, showing his white teeth in a broad grin. "He am in New York at the present time, at de Astor House, I 'spec'; an' de Bloodhoun' am with him—"
"De kidnapper!"
"De nigger-catcher!"
Cries like these resounded from twenty throats; and by the way in which knives and pistols were produced and brandished, it was evident that there was a cordial feeling—almost too cordial—entertained by the congress, toward our old friend, Bloodhound.
"To business," said old Royal, surveying the motley crowd. "I hab come to visit you to-night by d'rection ob somebody dat you don't know. It am ob de last importance dat you all get yesselves out o' dis town to Canada as quick as de Lord 'ill let you. Darfore I hab provided you wid dem revolvers,"—he pointed to the pistols, "and derfore I am here, to send you on yer ways, for de kidnappers am about."
"Oh, dam de kidnappers!" was the emphatic remark of a dark gentleman; and it was chorused by the congress unanimously.
"It am berry easy to say 'dam de kidnappers,'—berry easy to say dam—dam's a berry short word; but s'pose de kidnapper hab you, and tie you, and take you down south—eh, nigga? w'at den?"
But before the gentlemen could reply to this pointed question of old Royal's, a circumstance took place which put an entire new face upon the state of affairs.
The door was burst open, and two persons tumbled into the room, heels over head. Descending the stairs in the darkness, these persons had missed their footing, and fell. The door gave way before their united weight, and they rolled into the room in a style more forcible than graceful.
When these persons recovered themselves and rose to their feet, they found themselves encircled by some thirty uplifted knives,—every knife grasped by the hand of a brawny negro. And the cry which greeted them was by no means pleasant to hear:—
"Death to the kidnappers!"
"We're fooled. It's a trap," cried one of the persons—our old friend Bloodhound.
"Trap or no trap, I'll cut the heart of the damned nigger that comes near me," cried the other person, who was none other than our friend Harry Royalton, of Hill Royal, South Carolina.
The cloak had fallen from his shoulders, the cap from his brow. He stood erect, his tall form clad in black, with a gold chain on the breast, dilating in every muscle. His face, with its large eyes and bushy whiskers—a face by no means unhandsome, as regards mere animal beauty—was convulsed with rage. And even as he started to his feet, he drew a revolver from his belt, and stood at bay, the very picture of ferocity and desperation. While his right hand grasped the revolver, his left hand flourished a bowie-knife. Harry Royalton was dangerous.
By his side was the short, stout figure of the Bloodhound, encased to his chin in a rough overcoat, and, with his stiff, gray hairs straggling from beneath his seal-skin cap over his prominent cheek-bones. His small gray eyes, twinkling under his bushy brows, glanced around with a look half desperation, half fear.
And around the twain crowded the negroes, every hand grasping a knife; every face distorted with hatred; and old Royal, in his sleek blue dress and white cravat, prominent in that group of black visages and ragged forms.
"They've got us! Judas Iscar-i-ot! It's a trap, my boy. We'll have to cut ourselves loose."
"Back, you dogs!" shouted Harry, with the attitude and look of command. "The first one that lays a finger on me I'll blow him to ——!"
There was a pause of a moment, ere the conflict began. Thirty uplifted knives, awaited only a look, a gesture, from old Royal.
That gentleman, grinning until his white teeth were visible almost from ear to ear, said calmly—"Dis am a revivin' time, wid showers of grace! Some nigga shut dat door and make 'um fast."
His words were instantly obeyed; one of the thirty closed the door and bolted it.
"Now, massa Harry," said old Royal, grinning and showing the whites of his eyes, "dis am a fav'oble opportunity fur savin' your poor lost soul. How you back feel, ole boy? Want a leetle more o' de same sort, p'raps? S'pose you draw dat trigger? Jis try. Lor a massa, why dere's enough niggas here to eat you up widout pepper or salt."
Harry laid his finger on the trigger and fired, at the same moment stepping suddenly backward, with the intention of planting himself against the wall. But he forgot the negroes behind him. As he fired, his heels were tripped up; his ball passed over old Royal's head. Harry was leveled to the floor, and in an instant old Royal's giant-like gripe was on his throat. And by his side, wriggling in the grasp of a huge negro, black as ink, and strong as Hercules, our friend Bloodhound, rubbed his face against the floor.
Over and around these central figures gathered the remainder of the band, filling the den with their shouts—
"Death to the dam kidnappers!"
"Yah-hah! Cut their dam throats!"
Cries like these, interspersed with frightful howls, filled the place.
The Bloodhound moaned pitifully; and Harry, with the suffocating gripe of old Royal on his throat, and his back yet raw from the lashes of the previous night, could not repress a groan of agony.
It was a critical moment.
"Do you know, massa Harry,"—and old Royal bent his face down until Harry felt his breath upon his cheek—"Do you know, massa Harry, dat you are not berry far from glory? Kingdom-come am right afore, ole boy—and you am booked—hah! yah!—wid a through ticket."
Old Royal, (who had laid down his pistol,) took a knife from one of the negroes, and, tightening his gripe and pressing his knee more firmly on Harry's breast, he passed the glittering blade before his eyes.
"Oh!" groaned Royalton. The groan was wrung from him by intolerable agony.
"Let me up—a-h!" cried Bloodhound, in a smothered voice, as his face was pressed against the hard boards.
"Death to the dam kidnappers!"
Old Royalton clenched the knife with his left hand, and placed its point against Harry's breast.
"You am bound for glory, massa—" and a negro held a candle over Harry's face, as old Royal spoke.
At this critical moment, even as Harry's life hung on a thread, a violent knocking was heard at the door, and a voice resounded through its panels—
"Old Royal, old Royal, I say! Let me in, quick! quick!"
"Open the door, nigga. It's massa Harry's brack brudder. Let um in, so he can see his brudder bound for glory!"
The door was opened, and Randolph, pale as death, came rushing to the light. Wrapped in the cloak, which concealed his pistols and knives, and which hung about his tall form in heavy folds, he advanced with a footstep at once trembling and eager.
His pale face was stamped with hatred; his blue eyes shone with vengeance, as he at a glance beheld the pitiful condition of his brother.
"Soh, brother of mine, we have met again!" he cried, in a voice which was hoarse and deep with the thirst of vengeance.
"Why, he's whitaw dan his white brudder!" cried the negro who held the light.
"Release him," cried Randolph—"Release him, I say! Tie that fellow there;" he touched Bloodhound with his foot; "close the door. You'll see a fight worth seeing; a fight between the master and slave, between brother and brother. Do you hear me, Royal? Let him get up,—"
"But massa 'Dolph!" hesitated old Royal.
"Up, I say!" and Randolph flung his cap and cloak to the floor, and drew two bowie-knives from his belt. "Up, I say! You have heard my history from old Royal?" he glanced around among the negroes.
"Yah-hah! an' ob de lashes dat you gib dis dam kidnapper!" said the negro who held the candle.
"Then stand by and see us settle our last account," cried Randolph. "Let him get up, old Royal."
Old Royal released his hold, and Harry slowly arose to his feet, and stood face to face with his brother.
"Good evening, brother," said Randolph. "We have met again, and for the last time. One of us will not leave this place alive. Take your choice of knives, brother. I will fight you with my left hand; I swear it by my mother's name!"
Harry looked around with a confused glance—
"It is easy for you to talk," he said, brushing his hand over his forehead and eyes, as if in effort to collect his scattered senses. "Even if I kill you, these niggers will kill me. They will not let me leave the door alive, even if I master you."
"Old Royal, you know my history; and you know how this man has treated me and my sister—his own flesh and blood. Now swear to me, that in case he is the victor in the contest that is about to take place, you will let him go from this place free and unharmed?"
"I—I—swear it massa 'Dolph; I swear it by de Lord!"
"And you?" Randolph turned to the negroes.
"We does jist as old Royal says," cried the one who held the candle; and the rest muttered their assent.
"Take your choice of knives, brother," said Randolph, as his eyes shone with deadly light, and his face, already pale, grew perfectly colorless: "The handles are toward you; take your choice. Remember I am to fight you with my left hand. You are weak, brother, from the wounds on your back. With my left hand I will fight and kill you."
Harry Royalton took one of the knives—they were ivory handled, silver mounted, and their blades were long, sharp and glittering—and at the same time surveyed his brother from head to foot.
"I can kill him," he thought, and smiled; and then said aloud, "I am ready."
The negroes formed a circle; old Royal held the light, and the brothers stood in the center, silently surveying each other, ere the fatal contest began. Every eye remarked the contrast between their faces. Harry's face flushed with long-pent-up rage, and Randolph's, pallid as a corpse, yet with an ominous light in his eyes. Both tall and well formed; both clad in black, which showed to advantage, their broad chests and muscular arms; there was, despite the color of their eyes and hair, some trace of a family likeness in their faces.
"Come, brother, begin," said Randolph, in a low voice, which was heard distinctly through the profound stillness. "Remember that I am your slave, and that when I have killed you, I, with sister Esther, also your slave, will inherit one seventh of the Van Huyden estate,—remember how you have lashed and hounded us,—remember the dying words of our father—and then defend yourself: for I must kill you, brother. Come!"
Raising the knife with his left hand, he drew his form to its full height, and stood on his defense.
You might have heard a pin drop in that crowded cellar.
"You damned slave!" shouted Harry, and at the same time, rushed forward, clutching his knife in his right hand. His face was inflamed with rage, his eye steady, his hand firm, and the point of his knife was aimed at his brother's heart.
The intention was deadly, but the knife never harmed Randolph's heart. Even as Harry rushed forward, his knees bent under him, and he fell flat on his face, and the knife dropped from his nerveless fingers. Overcome by the violence of his emotions, which whirled all the blood in his body, in a torrent to his head, he had sunk lifeless on the floor, even as he sprang forward to plunge his knife into his brother's heart.
Randolph, who had prepared himself to meet his brother's blow, was thunderstruck by this unexpected incident.
"De Lord hab touck him," cried old Royal; "he am dead."
Dead! At that word, revenge, vengeance, the memory of his wrongs, and of his brother's baseness, all glided from Randolph's heart, like snow before the flame. In vain he tried to combat this sudden change of feeling. Dead! The word struck him to the soul. He dropped his knife, and sinking on one knee, he placed upon the other the head of his lifeless brother. Harry's eyes were closed, as if in death; his lips hung apart, his face was colorless.
"De Lord hab touck him," again cried old Royal; and his remark was welcomed by a burst of laughter from the thirty negroes, which broke upon the breathless stillness, like the yell of so many devils.
"He is not dead: he has only fainted. Water! water!" cried Randolph. But he cried in vain.
"Dis nigga am not agoin' to gib him one drop to cool him parched tongue," said old Royal, showing his teeth. "What say, niggas?"
"Not a drop! not a dam drop!"
Reaching forth his hand, Randolph seized his cap and cloak, and then started to his feet, with the insensible form of Harry in his arms. Without a word, he moved to the door.
"Massa 'Dolph, massa 'Dolph!" shouted old Royal. "By de Lord, you don't take him from dis place;" and he endeavored to place himself between Randolph and the door.
Randolph saw the determination which was written on his face, and saw the looks and heard the yells of the thirty negroes; and then, without a word, felled old Royal to the floor. One blow of his right hand, planted on the negro's breast, struck him down like an ox under the butcher's ax. When old Royal, mad with rage, rose to his feet again, Randolph had disappeared—disappeared with his brother, whom he bore in his arms to upper air.
"Let's after um," shouted the foremost of the negroes.
Old Royal stepped to the door, (which Randolph had closed after him,) but stopped abruptly on the threshold, as if arrested by a sudden thought.
"Dis nigga meet you 'gin, massa 'Dolph," he muttered, and then, pointing to something which was folded up in one corner, he said, "Dar's game fur you niggas!"
He pointed to the form of poor Bloodhound, who, tied and gagged, lay helpless and groaning on the floor.
It was, perhaps, the most remarkable hour in Bloodhound's life. His hands and feet tightly bound, a coarse handkerchief wound over his mouth, and tied behind his neck, he was deprived of the power of speech or motion. But the power of vision remained. His small gray eyes twinkled fearfully, as he beheld the faces of the thirty negroes—faces that were convulsed with rage, resembling not so much the visages of men as of devils. And he could also hear. He heard the yell from thirty throats, a yell which was chorused with certain words, mingling his own name with an emphatic desire for his blood—his life.
Bloodhound was an old man; his hair was gray with the snows of sixty years, spent in the practice of all the virtues; but Bloodhound felt a peculiar sensation gather about his heart, at this most remarkable moment of his life.
"Bring forrad de pris'ner," said old Royal, resuming his seat by the packing-box. "Put 'um on him feet. Take de kankercher from him jaw."
He was obeyed. Bloodhound stood erect in the center of the group, his hands and feet tied, but his tongue free. The light, uplifted in the hand of a brawny negro, fell fully upon his corded face, with its gray hair, bushy eyebrows, and wide mouth. Bloodhound's hands shook,—not with cold, for the place was suffocatingly warm,—and Bloodhound trembled in every atom of his short thick-set body. Glancing before him, then to the right and left, and then backward over each shoulder, he saw black faces everywhere, and black hands grasping sharp knives, confronted him at every turn.
"You am a berry handsum man," said old Royal, encouragingly. "Jist look at um, niggas. Do you know de pris'ner?"
The replies to this query came so fast and thick, that we are unable to put them all upon paper.
"He stole me fader!"
"He took me mother from Fildelfy and sold her down south."
"He kidnapped my little boy."
"Dam kidnapper! he stole my wife!"
"I knows him, I does—he does work for da man dat sells niggas in Baltimore."
"Don't you know how he tuk de yaller gal away from Fildelfy, making b'lieve dat her own fader was a-dyin', and sent for her?"
Such were a few of the responses to old Royal's question. It was evident that Bloodhound was known. And, although his hair had grown gray in the practice of all the virtues, it did not give him much pleasure to find that he was known; for he felt that he was in the hands of the wicked.
"Don't hurt me, niggers, don't hurt me! I wasn't after any of you, upon my word, I wasn't. I've allays been good to the niggers, when I could get a chance,—don't hurt me!"
"Oh! we won't go fur to hurt massa, will we niggas?" replied old Royal.
"O' cos not. Don't tink of sich a ting!! Yah-hah!"
"You see I've got a child at home," faltered Bloodhound, "that is to say, two or three of 'em. You wouldn't go to hurt the father of a family, would you?"
"Does you know massa, dat you mos' make dis nigga cry," cried old Royal, with an infernal grin. "Niggas, 'scure dis tear! He am de fader ob a family, dis good man am."
Old Royal wiped away a tear,—that is, an imaginary tear,—and then surveyed the faces of his colored brethren, with a look that turned Bloodhound's heart to ice. He felt that he was lost.
"Don't, don't, d-o-n-'-t!" he shrieked, in agony of fear, "d-o-n-'-t!"
"Why, who's a-touchin' you? Dar am not a single, solitary, blessed soul, layin' a fingaw on you."
As old Royal spoke, he made a sign with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. It was obeyed by a huge negro who stood behind Bloodhound,—he struck the wretched man on the back of the head, with the stock of a revolver,—struck him with all the force of his brawny arm,—and the hard, dull sound of the blow, was heard distinctly, even above the fiendish shouts of the negroes.
"Oh! don't, d-o-n-'-t!" shrieked Bloodhound, as the blood spurted over his hair and forehead, and even into his eyes; "don't, d-o-n-'-t!"
Another blow.—from behind,—brought him to his knees. And then the thirty, or as many as could get near him, closed round him, shouting and yelling and striking. Every face was distorted with rage; every hand grasped a knife. Old Royal, who calmly surveyed the scene, saw the backs and faces of the negroes; saw the knives glittering, as they rose and fell; but Bloodhound was not to be seen. But his cries were heard, as he madly grappled with the knives which stabbed him,—for his bonds had been cut by one of the band,—and these cries, thick and husky, as though his utterance was choked by blood, would have moved a heart of stone. But every shriek only seemed to give new fire to the rage of the negroes; and gathering closer round the miserable man, they lifted their knives, dripping with his blood, and struck and struck and struck again, until his cries were stilled. As he uttered the last cry, he sprang madly into light, for a moment, shook his bloody hands above his head, and then fell to rise no more.
You would not have liked to have seen the miserable thing which was stretched on the floor, in the center of that horrible circle, a miserable, mangled, shapeless thing, which, only a moment ago, was a living man.
"Now genelmen," said old Royal, calmly, "de business bein' done, dis meetin' stand adjourn till furder ordaw. Niggas, I tink you'd bettaw cut stick."
PART THIRD.
"THROUGH THE SILENT CITY."
DECEMBER 24, 1844.
CHAPTER I.
THE DEN OF MADAM RESIMER.
Yonder, in the still winter night, the temple stands, all dark and sullen without, but bright with festal lights within. Stand here in the dark, and you will see the guests of the temple come,—now one by one,—now two by two,—sometimes in parties of four,—and all are carefully cloaked and masked. They come noiselessly along the dark street: they glide stealthily up the steps, and beneath the arch of the gloomy door. A gentle knock,—the door is slightly opened,—a password is whispered,—and one by one, and two by two, and sometimes in parties of four, the guests of the temple glide over its threshold, and pass like shadows from the sight.
Shall we also enter? Not yet. We will wait until the revel is at its height, and until the masks begin to fall.
Meanwhile, we will follow the adventures of Arthur Dermoyne.
About half-past twelve o'clock, Arthur Dermoyne stood in the street, in front of the house of Madam Resimer. Wrapped in his cloak, and with his cap drawn over his eyes, he stood in the shadows, and gazed fixedly upon the mansion opposite. It stood in the midst of a crowded street, joined with houses on either side, and yet it stood alone. Black and sullen with its closed shutters and somber exterior, it seemed to bear upon its face the stamp of the infernal crimes which had been committed within its walls. Lofty mansions lined the street, but their wealthy occupants little knew the real character of the woman (woman!—fiend would be a better name) who tenanted the gloomy house.
With great difficulty,—it matters not how,—Arthur had discovered the haunt of this murderess. Her name was one of those names which creep through society like the vague panic which foretells the pestilence; there were few who did not know that such a person existed, and few whose hearts did shrink in loathing, from the very mention of her name. But her haunt, centered in an aristocratic quarter, was comparatively unknown; only her customers and some of the publishers of newspapers, with whom she advertised, were aware that the sullen house which stood in a fashionable street, was the den of Madam Resimer.
That such a creature should exist, and grow rich in the city of New York, in the middle of the nineteenth century, by the pursuit of a traffic which, in its incredible infamy, has no name in language, may well excite the horror of every man and woman with a human heart within their bosom.
We read of the female poisoner, and shudder; but console ourselves with the thought, "These things happened in the dark ages, long ago, when knowledge was buried, and the human heart was utterly depraved."
We read in the daily papers the announcement of a wretch that, for a certain price, she will kill the unborn child,—an announcement made in plain terms, and paid for as an advertisement,—and we are dumb. It is the nineteenth century: will not future ages, raking the advertisement of this infamous woman from some dark corner, guess the awful secrets of the nineteenth century from that one infernal blot?
We see a carriage drawn by blooded steeds, whirling through Broadway; its only occupant a handsomely-attired female. And we say to ourselves, "There goes the murderess of mother and of the unborn child—there goes the wretch who thrives by the slaughter of lost womanhood; who owns a splendid carriage, a fine mansion, and a magnificent fortune, in the very vortex of a depraved social world—there goes the instrument of the very vilest crime known in the annals of Hell."
These words none of us dare say aloud; we only think of them; and we shudder as we see them written on paper,—they are so horribly true.
And as we ask—Why is such a creature needed in the world? Why does she find employment? Why do a hundred such as her, thrive and grow rich in the large cities? we are forced to accept one of these two answers:
1. A bad social state, based upon enormous wealth and enormous poverty,—a social state which gives to the few the very extravagancies of luxury, and deprives the countless many of the barest rights and comforts of life,—finds its natural result in the existence of this Madam Resimer.
Or,—
2. Human nature is thoroughly depraved. A certain portion of the race are born to be damned in this world, as well as in the next. Such creatures as Madam Resimer, are but the proper instruments of that damnation.
Upon my soul, good friend, who read this book, these answers are worthy of some moments of attentive thought.
Arthur Dermoyne stood in the gloom of that winter midnight,—a midnight awful and profound, and only deepened in its solemnity, by the clear, cold light of the wintery stars. A thousand thoughts flitted over his brain, as he gazed upon the fatal house. Was Alice already a tenant of that loathsome den? Again and again, he rejected the thought, but still, it came back upon him, and crept like ice through his veins. If she was, indeed, within these walls, what might be her fate ere the morrow's dawn? Arthur could not repress a cry of anguish. A vague picture of a lost woman, put to death in the dark, by the gripe of a fiend in human shape, seemed to pass before him, like a shadow from the other world.
He surveyed the house. A street-lamp, which stood some paces from it, shed a faint gleam over its walls, and served to show, that from cellar to garret, it was closed like a tomb.
The wealthy tenants of the houses on either hand, had evidently retired to their beds. Not a gleam of light shone from their many windows.
The street was profoundly still; a solitary footstep was heard in the distance; above the roof was the midnight sky and the wintery stars.
Arthur crossed the street.
"I remember what the policemen told me, who showed me the way to this place. Three cellar windows protected by sheet-iron bars; they are before me. Beyond these windows a cellar filled with rubbish; then a basement room, where one of the Madam's bullies is in waiting, day and night, ready to do her bidding."
The Madam was provided with two bullies, whom she had raked from the subterranean regions of New York. They were men of immense muscular strength, with the print of their depraved nature upon their brutal faces. One was six feet two inches in height; he was known among his familiars by the succinct name of "Dirk." He used a dirk-knife in his encounters. The other, short, bony, with broad chest and low legs, was known as "Slung-Shot." His favorite weapon was a leaden ball attached to a cord by net-work, with a loop for his wrist. One blow with this "Slung-Shot," rightly administered, on the temple, would kill the strongest man.
These were the Madam's watch-dogs. They formed the police of the mansion. One slept while the other watched, and when any little difficulty occurred, they settled the matter without noise. Whether they knew all the secrets of the Madam's mansion, or only regarded it as one of the many haunts of vulgar infamy, which infest New York, does not yet appear.
"Slung-Shot or Dirk, is now on the watch, in the basement room, next the cellar. Suppose I manage to force the bars of one of these windows,—I enter the basement room,—am confronted by one of the bullies. If I escape the dirk and the slung-shot, I may be handed over to the police, and sent to the Penitentiary on a charge of burglary. In the latter case, I will remain in the Tombs while the 25th of December passes, and thus escape all hope of participation in the settlement of the Van Huyden estate."
It did not take long for Dermoyne to come to a determination.
"True, after all, Barnhurst may be innocent, and Madam Resimer may have nothing to do with the affair. But I cannot remain any longer in this state of harrowing suspense. I will to work,—and at once."
For a moment, he surveyed the street, and you may be sure, that his gaze was keen and anxious. No one was in sight; all was breathlessly still.
Arthur drew from beneath his cloak an iron bar, with which he had provided himself. It was a square bar, about two inches in thickness, and as many feet in length. Next, fixing his gaze on the central window of the cellar, he ascertained that it was protected by three upright bars, separated from each other, by a space of six inches. These bars, scarcely more than an inch in thickness, were inserted into solid pieces of granite, which formed the top and base of the window-frame. Could he displace them from their sockets, by means of the bar which he carried?
Again, he glances up and down the street. Not a soul in sight. He cast an upward glance, over the wall of the house,—still closed in every shutter, and sullen as a vault. He crouched beside the window and began to use his iron bar. It required all the force of his almost supernatural strength, to bend the central bar, but presently it was accomplished. It yielded and was forced from its sockets. Then, resting the iron bar which he grasped, against the wall on the left, he forced the second bar from its socket, and in a few minutes, in a similar manner, the third yielded to the force of his powerful sinews. The three fell into the cellar, and produced a crashing sound as they came into contact with some loose boards.
Arthur did not hesitate a moment. Grasping the iron bar, and folding his cloak about his left arm, he crept through the window and descended into the cellar. All was thick darkness there, but a faint ray came from the door which opened into the basement room. Trampling over heaps of rubbish and loose piles of boards, Arthur made his way toward the door, and did not pause a single moment, but flinging his weight against its rough boards, he forced the staple which secured it, and burst it open with a crash.
Then his features were fixed, his eyes flashed, he clutched the iron bar, and advancing one step into the basement room, stood ready for the worst.
A candle, burning fast toward its socket, stood on a pine table, and flung its uncertain light over a small room, with cracked ceiling and rough walls, smeared with whitewash. A coal fire smouldered in a narrow grate.
Slung-Shot was there,—not on the watch precisely,—but with his brawny arms resting on the table, and his head bent on his arms. He was fast asleep, and snoring vigorously. An empty brandy bottle which stood near the light, explained the cause of his sleep. Arthur glanced at the door, which opened on the stairway, and then—"Can I cross the room and open the door without waking this wretch?" was his thought.
Slung-Shot, although by no means tall, was evidently a fellow of muscle, as his broad shoulders, (inclosed in a red flannel shirt) and his half-bared arms, served to show. His face was buried against the table, and Arthur could only see the back of his head; his hair closely cut, his long ears, and the greasy locks which draggled in front of each ear, were disclosed in the flickering light.
Arthur, after a moment of hesitation, advanced,—the boards creaked under his tread,—still the ruffian did not move, but snored on, in a deep, sonorous bass. Arthur placed his hand on the latch of the door—
The ruffian then moved. He raised his sleepy head, and Arthur beheld that brutal face, with its low forehead, broken nose and projecting under-jaw.
"S-a-y," he cried, in that peculiar dialect, which, accompanied by an elongation of the lower-jaw, forms the patois of a class of ruffians which infests the large cities, "what de thunder you 'bout?"
Arthur grasped his iron bar, but stood motionless as stone, awaiting the assault of the ruffian.
"Dat you Dirk?" continued Slung-Shot, rolling his eyes with a drunken stare; "why de thunder don't you let a feller sleep?—" and then came a round of oaths, uttered in that peculiar dialect, with the lower-jaw elongated and the head shaking briskly, from side to side. After which Slung-Shot sank to sleep again. He had mistaken Arthur for his comrade.
Arthur lifted the latch, and in a moment was ascending the narrow staircase, which led to the hall on the first floor. At the head of the stair was a door, which he opened, and found himself on a carpeted floor, but in utter darkness.
He could hear the beating of his heart, as pausing in the thick darkness, he bent his head and listened.
Not a sound was heard throughout the mansion.
What should be his next step? Enter the parlor on the first floor or ascend the stairway?
"If Alice is concealed within these walls, she must be in one of the rooms up-stairs," he thought, and felt his way toward the staircase. Presently, his hand encountered the banisters, and he began cautiously to ascend to the second floor. Arrived at the head of the stairs, he stopped again and listened: not a sound was heard. Torn as he was by suspense, the cold sweat started upon his forehead: he folded his cloak carefully around his left arm, and grasping the iron bar with his right hand, he listened once more. The house was as soundless, as though a human voice or footstep had never been heard within its walls.
At this moment Arthur was assailed by a terrible doubt—
"What if it should be all a dream?—Barnhurst may be innocent, and as for Alice, she may be at this moment, a hundred miles away! Nay, this house may be the residence of a peaceful family, and have nothing to do with Madam Resimer or her crimes—"
He was shaken by the doubt. Turning in the darkness, he began to descend the stairs—
"Ha! The ruffian in the cellar confirms the story of the policeman who led me here, and who stated that this was the house of Madam Resimer;" this thought flashed over him and arrested his steps. "I'll not retreat until my suspicions are confirmed or put to rest."
He turned again, and feeling his way up the stairs, and along the hall of the second floor, he began to ascend the second stairway. At the top he paused and listened—all was silent—not a whisper, nor the echo of a sound. Then stretching forth his hand he discovered that at a short distance beyond the stairway, another staircase led upward to the fourth floor. He also came to the conclusion, that from near the top of the stairway, even where he stood, a long and narrow passage led into some remote part of the mansion. For a moment he was at fault. Should he ascend the third stairway to the fourth floor, or should he traverse the long and narrow passage?
"I will ascend to the fourth floor," he thought, when he was arrested by a sound.
Low, very faint, ambiguous in its character, it seemed to proceed from the extremity of the passage, which branched from the head of the second staircase. Was it a faint cry for help—a moan of anguish—or the echo of voices, muffled by thick cowls?
He had no chance to determine.
For at the very moment when this sound reached his ears, it was drowned by another sound. The bell rang through the house, peal after peal, and died away in a dismal echo. There was a pause; it rang again, and this time more violently, as though an angry or frenzied hand grasped the bell-rope.—Another pause, and a light flashed in the face of Dermoyne. It came from the extremity of the passage at the head of the stairs, and was held in the hand of a woman, clad in a flowing wrapper, who advanced along the passage with rapid strides.—Standing at the head of the second stairway, Dermoyne surveyed her as she approached, and at a glance, as she came rapidly toward him, beheld her portly form and florid face.
That face wore a look of unmistakable chagrin.
"No time is to be lost—in a moment she will be here," thought Dermoyne—"can it be Madam Resimer?"
He advanced and shrouded himself in the darkness of the third stairway. Near and nearer grew the sound of footsteps—
"If she looks this way, as she descends the stairs, I am discovered," and Dermoyne could distinctly hear the beating of his heart.
The next moment the rustling of her dress was heard; her heavy strides resounded as she advanced; and then emerging from the passage, she reached the top of the second stairway. Her dress brushed Dermoyne, as he crouched on the first steps of the uppermost stairs; her face was visible in profile for a single instant.