The wreath of white jasmines is torn from her brow,The bride is alone, and, oh, desolate now.
The wreath of white jasmines is torn from her brow,The bride is alone, and, oh, desolate now.
The wreath of white jasmines is torn from her brow,The bride is alone, and, oh, desolate now.
The wreath of white jasmines is torn from her brow,
The bride is alone, and, oh, desolate now.
Julia Warren mounted the stairs in wild haste, as the caged bird springs from perch to perch when terrified by strange faces. Then she paused in her fright, doubtful where to turn or what room to enter. As she stood thus irresolute, a door was softly pushed open, and a fair young face looked out. The eyes werebent downward; the cheek and temples shaded with masses of loose ringlets, that admitted snowy glimpses of a graceful neck and shoulders, uncovered save by these bright tresses and a muslin dressing-down, half falling off, and huddled to the bosom with a fair little hand.
Imperceptibly the door swung more and more open, till Julia caught the outline of a figure, slender, flexible, and so fragile in its beauty, that to her excited imagination it seemed almost ethereal. Like a spirit that listens for some kindred sympathy, the young creature bent in the half-open door. The faint murmur of voices from below rose and fell upon her ear. No words could be distinguished; nothing but the low, deep tones of a voice, familiar and dear as the pulsations of her own heart, blended with the strangely passionate accents of another. The gentle listener could hardly convince herself that some strange woman had not entered the house, so thrilling and full of pathos was that voice, usually so calm and frigid.
Julia stood motionless, holding her breath. She saw nothing but the outline of a slender person, the shadowy gleam of features through masses of wavy hair, but it seemed as if she had met that graceful vision before—it might be in a dream—it might be—stay, the young girl lifted her head, and swept back the ringlets with her hand. A pair of dark, liquid eyes fell upon the flower girl, and she knew the glance. The eyes were larger, brighter, more densely circled with shadows than they had been, but the tender expression, the soft loveliness, nothing could change that.
The hand dropped from among the ringlets it held, away from that pale cheek, and a glow, as of freshly-gathered roses, broke through them as Florence drew her form gently up, and stood with her eyes fixed upon the intruder.
Julia came forward, changing color with every step.
"A gentleman—the lady, I mean—I—I was sent up here. If they want the flowers for you, I would not mind, though the other lady has spoken for them!"
Florence cast her eyes on the basket of flowers; a brightsmile kindled over her face, and drawing the girl into the chamber, she took the heavy basket in her arms, and, overpowered by its weight, sunk softly down to the carpet, resting it in her lap. Thus, with the blossoms half buried in the white waves of her dressing-gown, she literally buried her face in them, while her very heart seemed to drink in the perfume that exhaled again in broken and exquisite sighs.
"And he sent them?—how good, how thoughtful! Oh! I am too—too happy!"
She gathered up a double handful of the blossoms, and rained them back into the basket. Their perfume floated around her; some of the buds fell in the folds of her snowy muslin, that drooped like waves of foam over her limbs. She was happy and beautiful as an angel gathering blossoms in some chosen nook of Paradise.
There was something contagious in all this—something that sent the dew to Julia's eyes, and a glow of love to her heart.
"I am glad—I am almost glad that he made me come in," she said, dropping on her knees, that she might gather up some buds that had fallen over the basket. "How I wish you could have them all! He offered a large gold piece, but you know I could not take it. If we—that is, if grandpa and grandma were rich, I never would take a cent for flowers; it seems as if God made them on purpose to give away."
"So they are not mine, after all?" said Florence, with a look and tone of disappointment.
"Yes—oh, yes, a few. That glass thing on the toilet, I will crowd it quite full, the prettiest too—just take out those you like best."
"Still he ordered them—he tried to purchase the whole, in that lies happiness enough." The sweet, joyous look stole back to her face again; that thought was more precious than all the fragrance and bloom she had coveted.
The door-bell rang. Florence heard persons coming from the parlor, she started up leaving the basket at her feet.
"Oh, I shall delay him—I shall be too late; will no onecome to help me?" she exclaimed. "I dare not ask her, but you, surely you could stay for half an hour?"
"I must stay if you wish it; he will not let me go; but indeed, indeed, I am in haste. It will be quite dark."
"I do not wish to keep you by force," said Florence, gently; "but you seem kind, and I have no one to help me dress. Besides, she, his mother, will not stay in the room, and the thought of being quite alone, with no bridesmaid—no woman even for a witness—it frightens me!"
"What—what is it that you wish of me?" questioned Julia while a sudden and strange thrill ran through her frame.
"I wish you to stay a little while to help to put on my dress, and then go down with me. You look very young, but no one else will come near me, and it seems unnatural to be married without a single female standing by."
Florence grew pale as she spoke; there was indeed something lonely and desolate in her position, which all at once came over her with overwhelming force. Julia, too, from surprise or some deeper feeling, seemed struck with a sudden chill; her lips were slightly parted, the color fled from her cheek.
"Married! married!" she repeated, in a voice that fell upon the heart of Florence like an omen.
"To-night, in an hour, I shall be his wife!" How pale the poor bride was as these words fell from her lips! How coldly lay the heart in her bosom! She bent her head as if waiting for the guardian angel who should have kept better watch over a being so full of trust and gentleness.
"His wife!his!" said Julia, recoiling a step, "oh! how can you—how can you!"
A crimson flush shot over that pale forehead, and Florence drew up her form to its full height.
"Will you help me—will you stay?"
"I dare not say no!" answered the child; "I would not, if I dare."
Again the door-bell rang. "Hush!" said Florence, breathlessly; "it is the clergyman; that is a strange voice, and he—Leicester—admits him. How happy I thought to be at this hour; but I am chilly, chilly as death; oh, help me, child!"
She had been making an effort to arrange her hair, but her hands trembled, and at length fell helplessly down. She really seemed shivering with cold.
"Sit down, sit down in this easy-chair, and letmetry," said Julia, shaking off the chill that had settled on her spirits, and wheeling a large chair, draped with white dimity, toward the toilet. Lights were burning in tall candlesticks on each side of a swing mirror, whose frame of filagreed and frosted silver gleamed ghastly and cold on the pale face of the bride.
"How white I am; will nothing give me a color?" cried the young creature, starting up from the chair. "Warmth—that is what I want! My dress—let us put on that first; then I can muffle myself in something while you curl my hair."
She took up a robe of costly Brussels lace. "Isn't it beautiful?" she said, with a smile, shaking out the soft folds. "He sent it." She then threw off her dressing-gown, and arrayed herself in the bridal robe; the exertion seemed to animate her; a bright bloom rose to her cheek, and her motions became nervous with excitement.
"Some orange blossoms to loop up the skirt in front," she said, after Julia had fastened the dress; "here, just here!" and she gathered up some folds of the soft lace in her hand, watching the child as she fell upon one knee to perform the task. Florence was trembling from head to foot with the wild, eager excitement that had succeeded the chill of which she had complained, and could do nothing for herself. When the buds were all in place, she sunk into the easy-chair, huddling her snowy arms and bosom in a rose-colored opera cloak; for, though her cheeks were burning, cold shivers now and then seemed to ripple through her veins. The soft trimming of swan's down, which she pressed to her bosom with both hands, seemed devoid of all warmth one moment, and the next she flung it aside glowing with over-heat. There was something more than agitation in all this, but it gave unearthly splendor to her beauty.
"Now—now," said Julia, laying the last ringlet softly down upon the neck of the bride; "look at yourself, sweet lady, see how beautiful you are."
Florence stood up, and smiled as she saw herself in the mirror; an angel from heaven could not have looked more delicately radiant. Masses of raven curls fell upon the snowy neck and the bridal dress. Circling her head, and bending with a soft curve to the forehead, was a light wreath of starry jessamine flowers, woven with the deep, feathery green of some delicate spray, that Julia selected from her basket because it was so tremulous and fairy-like. All at once the smile fled from the lips of Florence Craft; a look of mournful affright came to her eyes, and she raised both hands to tear away the wreath.
"Did you know it? Was this done on purpose?" she said, turning upon the child.
"What—what have I done?"
"This wreath—these jessamines—you have woven them with cypress leaves." Florence sunk into the chair shuddering; she had no strength to unweave the ominous wreath from her head.
"I—I did not know it," said the child greatly distressed; "they were beautiful—I only thought of that. Shall I take them off, and put roses in the place?"
"Yes! yes—roses, roses—these make me feel like death!"
That instant there was a gentle knock at the chamber door; Julia opened it, and there stood Mr. Leicester. The child drew back: he saw Florence standing before the toilet.
"Florence, love, we are waiting!"
He advanced into the chamber and drew her arm through his. She looked back into the mirror, and shuddered till the cypress leaves trembled visibly in her curls.
"My beautiful—my wife!" whispered Leicester, pressing her hand to his lips.
What woman could withstand that voice—those words? The color came rushing to her cheek again, the light to her eyes; she trembled, but not with the ominous fear that possessed hera moment before. Those words—sweeter than hope—shed warmth, and light, and joy where terror had been.
"Follow us!" said Leicester addressing the child.
Julia moved forward: a thought seemed to strike the bridegroom; he paused—
"You can write—at least well enough to sign your name?" he said.
"Yes, I can write," she answered, timidly.
"Very well—come!"
The parlor was brilliantly illuminated, every shutter was closed, and over the long window, hitherto shaded only with lace, fell curtains of amber damask, making the seclusion more perfect.
A clergyman was in the room, and Leicester had brought his servant as a witness. This man stood near the window, leaning heavily against the wall, his features immovable, his eyes bent upon the door. Julia started as she saw him, for she remembered the time they had met before upon the wharf, on that most eventful day of her life. His glance fell on her as she came timidly in behind the bridegroom and the bride; there was a slight change in his countenance, then a gleam of recognition, which made the child feel less completely among strangers.
It was a brief ceremony; the clergyman's voice was monotonous; the silence chilling. Julia wept; to her it seemed like a funeral.
The certificate was made out. Jacob signed his name, but so bunglingly that no one could have told what it was. Mr. Leicester did not make the effort. Julia took the pen, her little hand trembled violently, but the name was written quite well enough for a girl of her years.
"Now, sir—now, please, may I go?" she said, addressing Leicester.
"Yes, yes—here is the piece of gold. I trust your employer will find no fault—but first tell me where you live?"
Julia told him where to find her humble abode, and hurriedfrom the room. Her basket of flowers had been left in the chamber above; she ran up to get it, eager to be gone. In her haste she opened the nearest door; it was a bed-room, dimly lighted, and by a low couch knelt the old lady she had seen in the hall. Her hands were clasped, her white face uplifted; there was anguish in her look, but that tearless anguish that can only be felt after the passions are quenched. Julia drew softly back. She found her basket in the next room, and came forth again, bearing it on her arm. She heard Leicester's voice while passing through the hall, and hurried out, dreading that he might attempt to detain her.
Scarcely had the child passed out when Leicester came forth, leading Florence by the hand. He spoke a few words to her in a low voice: "Try and reconcile her, Florence. She never loved me, I know that, but who could resist you? To-morrow, if she proves stubborn, I will take you hence, or, at the worst, in a few days we will be ready for our voyage to Europe."
Florence listened with downcast eyes. "My father, my kind old father! he will not be angry; he must have known how it would end when he gave me to your charge. Still it may offend him to hear that I am married, when he thinks me at school."
"He will not be angry, love," said Leicester, and he thought of the letter announcing old Mr. Craft's death. "But the good lady up stairs; you must win her into a better mood before we meet again; till then, sweet wife, adieu!"
He kissed her hand two or three times—cast a hurried glance up stairs, as if afraid of being seen, and then pressed her, for one instant, to his bosom.
"Sweet wife!" the name rang through and through her young heart like a chime of music. She held her breath, and listened to his footsteps as he left the house, then stole softly up the stairs.
The clergyman went out while Julia was up stairs in search of her flowers. Jacob Strong left the parlor at the same time, but instead of returning, he let the clergyman out, and, moving back into the darkened extremity of the hall, stood there,concealed and motionless. He witnessed the interview between Leicester and Florence, and, so still was everything around, heard a little of the conversation.
Before Florence was half way up the stairs he came out of the darkness and spoke to her.
"Only a little while, dear lady, pray come back; I will not keep you long."
Florence, thinking that Leicester had left some message with his servant, descended the stairs and entered the parlor. Jacob followed her and closed the door; a few minutes elapsed—possibly ten, and there came from the closed room a wild, passionate cry of anguish. The door was flung open—the bride staggered forth, and supported herself against the frame-work.
"Mother! mother! oh, madam!" Her voice broke, and ended in gasping sobs.
A door overhead opened, and the old lady whom Julia had seen upon her knees came gliding like a black shadow down the stairs.
"I thought that he had gone," she said, and her usually calm accent was a little hurried. "Would he kill you under my roof? William Leicester!"
"He is not here—he is gone," sobbed Florence, "but that man——" She pointed with her finger toward Jacob Strong, who stood a little within the door. He came forward, revealing a face from which all the stolid indifference was swept away. It was not only troubled, but wet with tears.
"It is cruel—I have been awfully cruel," he said, addressing the old lady—"but she must be told. I could not put it off. She thought herself his wife."
"I am his wife!—I am his wife!—his wife, do you hear?" almost shrieked the wretched girl. "He called me so himself.Yousaw us married, and yet dare to slander him!"
"Lady, she is not his wife!" said Jacob, sinking his voice, but speaking earnestly, as if the task he had undertaken were very painful. "He is married already!"
"He told me—and gave me letters from abroad to provethat Ada, his wife, was dead." The old lady spoke in her usual calm way, but her face was paler than it had been, and her eyes were full of mournful commiseration as she bent them upon the wretched bride.
"Then hewasmarried—he has been married before!" murmured Florence, and her poor, pale hands, fell helplessly down. The old lady drew close to her, as if to offer some comfort, but she had so long held all affectionate impulses in abeyance, that even this action was constrained and chilling, though her heart yearned toward the poor girl.
"Madam, did you believe him when he said his wife was no more?" questioned Jacob Strong.
The old lady shook her head, and a mournful smile stole across her thin lips; pain is fearfully impressive when wrung from the heart in a smile like that. Florence shuddered.
"And you—you also, his mother!" burst from her quivering lips.
"God forgive me! I am," answered the old lady.
"Then," said Jacob Strong, turning his face resolutely from the poor, young creature, whose heart his words were crushing: "Then, madam, you have seen his wife—you would know her again?"
"Yes, I should know her."
"This night, this very night, you shall see her then. Come with me; this poor young lady will not believe what I have said. Come and be a witness that Mrs. Ada Leicester is alive—alive with his knowledge. Two hours from this you shall see them together—Leicester and his wife, the mother of his child. Will you come? there seems no other way by which this poor girl can be saved."
"I—I will go! let me witness this meeting," cried Florence, suddenly arousing herself, and standing upright. "I will not take his word nor yours; you slander him, you slander him! If he has a wife, let me look upon her with my own eyes."
The old lady and Jacob looked at each other. Florencestood before them, her soft eyes flashing, her cheeks fired with the blood grief had driven from her heart.
"You dare not—I know it, you dare not!"
Still her auditors looked at each other in painful doubt.
"I knew that it was false!" cried Florence, with a laugh of wild exultation. "You hesitate, this proves it. To-morrow, madam, I will leave this roof—I will go to my husband. The very presence of those who slander him is hateful to me. To-night; yes, this instant, I will go."
"Let her be convinced," said the old lady.
The strong nerves of Jacob gave way. He looked at that young face, so beautiful in its wild anguish, and shrunk from the consequences of the conviction that awaited her.
"It would be her death," he said. "I cannot do it!"
"Better death than that which might follow this unbelief."
The old lady placed her hand upon Jacob's arm, and drew him aside. They conversed together in low voices, and Florence regarded them with her large, wild eyes, as a wounded gazelle might gaze upon its pursuers.
"Come!" said Leicester's mother, attempting to lay her hand upon the shrinking arm of the bride; "it needs some preparation, but you shall go. God help us both, this is a fearful task!"
Florence was strong with excitement. She turned, and almost ran up the stairs. Jacob went out, and during the next two hours, save a slight sound in the upper rooms, from time to time, the cottage seemed abandoned.
At length a carriage stopped at the gate. Jacob entered, and seating himself in the parlor, waited. They came down at last, but so changed, that no human penetration could have detected their identity. The old lady was still in black, but so completely enveloped in a veil of glossy silk, that nothing but her eyes could be seen. A diamond crescent upon the forehead, a few silver stars scattered among the sombre folds that flowed over her person, gave sufficient character to a dress that was only chosen as a disguise.
Florence was in a similar dress, save that everything about her was snowy white. A veil of flowing silk had been cast over her bridal array, glossy and wave-like, but thick enough to conceal her features. Gleams of violet and rosy tulle floated over this, like the first tints of sunrise and the morning star, sparkling with diamonds, gathered up the veil on her left temple, leaving it to flow, like the billows of a cloud, over her form, and downward till it swept her feet. Without a word the three went forth and entered the carriage.
The child stands, meekly, by her mother.Look, woman, in those earnest eyes!Say, canst thou understand, or smotherThe deep maternal mysteriesThat rise and swell within thy breast;That throb athwart thy aching brain,Till, with deep tenderness oppressed,Hope, thought, and feeling turn to pain?
The child stands, meekly, by her mother.Look, woman, in those earnest eyes!Say, canst thou understand, or smotherThe deep maternal mysteriesThat rise and swell within thy breast;That throb athwart thy aching brain,Till, with deep tenderness oppressed,Hope, thought, and feeling turn to pain?
The child stands, meekly, by her mother.Look, woman, in those earnest eyes!Say, canst thou understand, or smotherThe deep maternal mysteries
The child stands, meekly, by her mother.
Look, woman, in those earnest eyes!
Say, canst thou understand, or smother
The deep maternal mysteries
That rise and swell within thy breast;That throb athwart thy aching brain,Till, with deep tenderness oppressed,Hope, thought, and feeling turn to pain?
That rise and swell within thy breast;
That throb athwart thy aching brain,
Till, with deep tenderness oppressed,
Hope, thought, and feeling turn to pain?
We take the reader once more to the residence of Ada Leicester—not as formerly, when the tempest raged around its walls, and darkness slept in its sumptuous rooms—when the wail of tortured hearts and sobs of anguish alone broke the gloomy stillness—not as then do we revisit this stately mansion. Now it is lighted up like a fairy palace; through the richly stained sashes, from the gables, and the ivy-clad tower, clouds of tinted light kindle the bland autumnal atmosphere to a soft golden haze. The tall old trees that surround the mansion seem bending beneath a fruitage of stars, so thickly are they beset with lamps that light up the depths of their ripe foliage. So broad is the illumination, so rich the tinted rays, you mightsee to gather fall flowers from the ground, even to their shaded extremity. White dahlias are amber-hued in that mellow light; wax balls hang like drops of gold in the thickets; the ivy leaves about the narrow windows of the tower seem dripping with starlight; and a woodbine that has crept up one of the young maples, a little way off, glows out along the golden foliage so vividly, that the branches seem absolutely on fire.
Julia Warren approached this mansion with wonder. It seemed like something she had read of in a fairy tale—the lamps gleaming among the trees and in the thickets; the foliage so strangely luminous; the crisp grass tinged with a brownish and golden green; all these things were like enchantment to the child whose life had been spent in a comfortless basement. She looked around in delighted bewilderment; the very basket upon her arm seemed filled with strange blossoms as she entered the lofty vestibule, and changed the richly hued atmosphere, without for the flood of pure gas-light that filled the dwelling.
"Oh! here she is at last—why, child, what has kept you?"
A pretty young woman, in a jaunty cap and pink ribbons, made this exclamation, while Julia stood looking about for some one to address. Her manner, her quick but graceful movements, had an imposing effect upon the child.
"Are you the lady?" she said.
"No—no!" answered the girl, with a pretty laugh, for the compliment pleased her. "Come up stairs—quick, quick—my lady has beensoimpatient."
They went up a flight of steps, the waiting-maid exchanging words with a footman who passed them, Julia treading lightly under her load of flowers. Her little feet sunk into the carpet at every step; once only in her life had she felt the same elastic swell follow her tread. Yet nothing could be more unlike than the dark mansion that rose upon her memory, and the vision-like beauty of everything upon which her eyes rested. The floors seemed literally trodden down with flowers. Rich draperies of silk met her eye wherever she turned. A doorswung open to the touch of the waiting-maid. Julia remembered the room which they entered—the couch of carved ivory and azure damask—the lace curtains that hung against the windows like floating frost-work, and the rich blue waves that fell over them. Clearer than all she recognised the marble Flora placed near the couch, bending from its pedestal, with pure and classic grace, and gazing so intently on the white lilies in its hand, as if it doubted that the flowers were indeed but a beautiful mockery of nature.
Julia drew a quick breath as she recognised all these objects, but the waiting maid gave her but little time even for surprise. She crossed the room and opened a door on the opposite side. They entered a dressing-room, leading evidently to a sumptuous bed-chamber, for through the open door Julia could see glimpses of rose-colored damask sweeping from the windows, and a snow white bed, over which masses of embroidered lace fell in transparent waves to the floor. The dressing-room corresponded with the chamber, but Julia saw nothing of its splendor. Her eyes were turned upon a toilet richly draped with lace, and littered with jewels; a standing-glass set in frosted silver, was lighted on each side by a small alabaster lamp, which hung against the exquisite chasing like two great pearls, each with perfumed flame breaking up from its heart.
It was not the sight of this superb toilet, though a fortune had been flung carelessly upon it, that made the child's heart beat so tumultuously, but the lady who stood before it. Her back was toward the door, but Juliafeltwho she was, though the beautiful features were only reflected upon her from the mirror.
The lady turned. Her eyes were bent upon the diamond bracelet she was attempting to clasp on her arm. Oh! how different was that face from the tear-stained features Julia had seen that dark night. How radiant, how more than beautiful she was now! Every movement replete with grace; every look brilliant with flashes of exultant loveliness!
How great was the contrast between that superb creature,in her robe of rich amber satin, heightened by the floating lustre of soft Brussels lace, which fell around her like a web of woven moonlight, and the humble child who stood there so motionless, with the flower-basket at her feet. The pink hood, faded with much washing, shaded her eyes; her hands were folded beneath the little plaid shawl that half concealed her cheap calico dress. Notwithstanding this contrast between the proud and mature beauty of the woman and the meek loveliness of the child, there was an air, a look—something indeed indescribable in one, which reminded you of the other. Ada turned suddenly, and moved a step toward the child; a thousand rainbow gleams flashed from the folds of her lace overdress as she moved; a massive wreath of gems lighted up the golden depths of her tresses, but its brilliancy was not more beautiful than the smile with which she recognized the little girl.
"And so you have found me again," she said, untying the pink hood, and smoothing the bright hair thus exposed with her two palms, much to the surprise of the waiting-maid. "Look, Rosanna, is she not lovely, with her meek eyes and that smile?"
The waiting-maid turned her eyes from the lady to the child.
"Beautiful! why, madam the smile is your own."
"Rosanna!" cried the lady, "this is flattery; never again speak of my resemblance to any one, especially to a child of that age. It offends, it pains me!"
"I did not think to offend, madam; the little girl is so pretty—how could I?"
Ada did not heed her; she was gazing earnestly on the little girl. The smile had left her face, and this made a corresponding change in the sensitive child. She felt as if some offence had been given, else why should the lady look into her eyes with such earnest sadness?
"What is your name?"
The question was given in a low and hesitating voice.
"Julia—Julia Warren."
"That is enough. Rosanna, never speak in this way again!"
"Never, if madam desires it. But the flowers: see what quantities the little thing has brought. No wonder she was late—such a load."
"True, we were waiting for the flowers; here, fill my bouquet holder—the choicest, remember—and let every blossom be fragrant."
Rosanna took a bouquet-holder, whose delicate network of gold seemed too fragile for all the jewels with which it was enriched, and kneeling upon the floor, began to arrange a cluster of flowers. Her active fingers had just wound the last crimson and white roses together, when a footman knocked at the door. She started up, and went to see what was wanted.
"Madam, the company are arriving; two carriages have set down their loads already."
Ada had been too long in society for this announcement to confuse or hurry her, had no other cause of excitement arisen; as it was, the superb repose, usual to her manner, was disturbed.
"Who are they? have you seen them before?" she asked.
"Yes, madam, often."
"No stranger—no gentleman who never came before—you are certain?"
"None, madam."
There was something more in this than the usual anxiety of a hostess to receive her guests.
"I am insane to loiter here," she murmured, drawing on her gloves; "he might come and I not there; for the universe I would not miss his first look. The bouquet, Rosanna, and handkerchief—where is my handkerchief?"
"Is this it, ma'am?" said Julia, raising a soft mass of gossamer cambric and costly lace from the carpet, where it had fallen.
This drew Ada's notice once more to the child.
"Oh! I had forgotten," she said, going back to the toilet and taking up a purse that lay among the jewel cases; "Ihave not time to count it; take the money, but some day you must bring back the purse—remember."
She took her bouquet hastily from the waiting-maid, and went out, leaving the purse in Julia's hand. After crossing the boudoir, she turned back.
"Remember, the flowers are for these rooms," she said, addressing the maid, and waving her hand, with a motion that indicated the bed-chamber and boudoir. "Let me find them everywhere."
With this command, she disappeared, leaving the doors open behind her.
Julia drew a deep breath, as the wave of her garments was lost in descending the stairs; turning sorrowfully away, her eyes fell upon the purse; several gold pieces gleamed through the crimson net work.
"What shall I do—these cannot be all mine? the flowers did not cost half so much."
"No matter," was the cheerful reply; "she gave it to you. It is her way; keep it."
The child still hesitated.
"If you think it is not all right, say so when you bring back the purse," said the maid, good naturedly. "Who knows but it may prove a fairy gift? I'm sure her presents often do."
Julia was not quite convinced, even by this kind prophecy. Still, she had no choice but obedience, and so, bidding pretty Rosanna a gentle good night, she stole through the boudoir and away through the front entrance, for she knew of no other; and folding her shawl closer, as she encountered crowds of brilliantly dressed people she passed through the vestibule.
Secure in undiscovered crimeThe callous soul grows bold at length.Stern justice sometimes bides her time,But strikes at last with double strength.
Secure in undiscovered crimeThe callous soul grows bold at length.Stern justice sometimes bides her time,But strikes at last with double strength.
Secure in undiscovered crimeThe callous soul grows bold at length.Stern justice sometimes bides her time,But strikes at last with double strength.
Secure in undiscovered crime
The callous soul grows bold at length.
Stern justice sometimes bides her time,
But strikes at last with double strength.
Leicester went to the Astor House after his marriage, for though he had accepted an invitation to Mrs. Gordon's fancy ball, which was turning the fashionable world half crazy, matters more important demanded his attention. Premeditating a crime which might bring its penalty directly upon his own person, he had made arrangements to evade all possible chance of this result, by embarking at once for Europe with his falsely married bride. In order to prepare funds for this purpose, the project for which Robert Otis had been so long in training, had been that day put in action. The old copy-book, with its mass of evidence, was, as he supposed, safe in Robert's apartment. The check, forged with marvellous accuracy, which we have seen placed in his letter case, passed that morning into the hands of his premeditated victim, and at night the youth was to meet him with the money. Thus everything seemed secure. True, his own hands had signed the check, but Robert had presented it at the bank,hewould draw the money. When the fraud became known,hispremises would be searched, and there was the old copy-book bearing proofs of such practice in penmanship as would condemn any one. Over and over again might the very signature of that forged check be found in the pages of this book, on scraps of loose paper, and even on other checks bearing the same imprint, and on the same paper. With proof so strong against the youth, how was suspicion to reach Leicester? Would the simple word of an accused lad be taken? And what other evidence existed? None—none. It was a fiendishly woven plot, and at every point seemed faultless. StillLeicester was ill at ease. The consciousness that the act of this day had placed him within possible reach of the law, was unpleasant to a man in whom prudence almost took the place of conscience. The hour had arrived, but Robert was not at Leicester's chamber when he returned. This made the evil-doer anxious and restless. He walked the room, he leaned from the window and looked out upon the crowd below. He drank off glass after glass of wine, and for once suffered all the fierce tortures of dread and suspense which he had so ruthlessly inflicted on others.
At this time Robert Otis was in the building, waiting for Jacob Strong. That strange personage came at last, but more agitated than Robert had ever seen him. Well he might be; an hour before he had left Leicester's wretched bride but half conscious of her misery, and making heart-rending struggles to disbelieve the wrong that had been practised upon her. In an hour more he was to conduct her where she would learn all the sorrow of her destiny. Jacob had a feeling heart, and these thoughts gave him more pain than any one would have deemed possible.
"Here is the money; go down at once and give it to him; I heard his step in the chamber," he said, addressing Robert. "The count is correct, I drew it myself from the bank this morning."
"Tell me, is this money yours?" questioned the youth, "I would do nothing in the dark."
"You are right, boy; no, the money is not mine, I am not worth half the sum. I have no time for a long story, but there is one—a lady, rich beyond anything you ever dreamed of—who takes a deep interest in this bad man."
"What, Florence—Miss Craft?" exclaimed Robert.
"No, an older and still more noble victim. I had but to tell her the money would be used for him, and, behold, ten thousand dollars—the sum he thought enough to pay for your eternal ruin. My poor nephew!"
"Nephew, did you say, nephew, Jacob?"
"Yes, call me Jacob—Jacob Strong—Uncle Jacob—call me anything you like, for I have loved you, I have tried you—kiss me! kiss me! I haven't had you in my arms since you were a baby—and I want something to warm my heart. I never thought it could ache as it has to-night."
"Uncle Jacob—my mother's only brother—I do not understand it, but to know this is enough!"
The youth flung himself upon Jacob's bosom, and for a moment was almost crushed in those huge arms.
"Now that has done me lots of good!" exclaimed the uncle, brushing a tear from his eyes with the cuff of his coat, a school-boy habit that came back with the first powerful home feeling. "Now go down and feed the serpent with this money. You won't be afraid to mind me now."
"No, if you were to order me to jump out of the window I would do it."
"You might, you might, for I would be at the bottom to catch you in my arms! Here is the money, I will be in the drawing-room as a witness: it won't be the first time, I can tell you."
Leicester started and turned pale, even to his lips, as Robert entered his chamber, for a sort of nervous dread possessed him; and in order to escape from this, his anxiety to obtain means of leaving the country became intense. He looked keenly at Robert, but waited for him to speak. The youth was also pale, but resolute and self-possessed.
"The bank was closed before I got there," he said, in a quiet, business tone, placing a small leathern box on the table, and unlocking it, "but I found a person who was willing to negotiate the check. He will not want the money at once, and so it saves him the trouble of making a deposit."
Leicester could with difficulty suppress the exclamation of relief that sprang to his lips, as Robert opened the box, revealing it half full of gold; but remembering that any exhibition of pleasure would be out of place, he observed, with apparent composure—
"You have counted it, I suppose? Were you obliged to exchange bills with any of the brokers, as I directed, to get the gold?"
"No, it was paid as you see it," answered the youth, moving toward the door; for his heart so rose against the man, that he could not force himself to endure the scene a moment longer than was necessary.
"Stay, take the box with you," said Leicester, pouring the gold into a drawer of his desk; "I will not rob you of that."
Robert understood the whole; a faint smile curved his lip, and taking the box, he went out.
"No evidence—nothing but pure gold," muttered Leicester, exultingly, as he closed the drawer. "It is well for you, my young friend, that the holder of that precious document does not wish to present his check at once. Liberty is sweet to the young, and this secures a few more days of its enjoyment for you—and for me! Ah, there everything happens most fortunately. Why, a good steamer will put us half over the Atlantic before this little mistake is suspected."
Leicester was a changed man after this; his spirits rose with unnatural exhilaration.
"Now for this grand ball," he said aloud, surveying his fine person in the glass. "Surely a man's wedding garments ought to be fancy dress enough. Another pair of gloves, though. This comes of temptation. I must finger the gold, forsooth."
The ruthless man smiled, and muttered these broken fragments of thought, as he took off the scarcely soiled gloves, and replaced them with a pair still more spotlessly white. He was a long time fitting them on his hand. He fastidiously rearranged other portions of his dress. All sense of the great fraud, that ought to have borne his soul to the earth, had left him when the gold appeared. You could see, by his broken words, how completely lighter fancies had replaced the black deed.
"This Mrs. Gordon—I wonder if she really is the creature they represent her to be. If it were not for this voyage toEurope, now, one might—no, no, there is no chance now; but I'll have a sight at her." Thus muttering and smiling, Leicester left the hotel.
The evening was very beautiful, and Leicester always loved to enter a fashionable drawing-room after the guests had assembled. He reflected that a quiet walk would bring him to Mrs. Gordon's mansion about the time he thought most desirable, and sauntered on, resolved, at any rate, not to reach his destination too early. But sometimes he fell into thought, and then his pace became unconsciously hurried. He reached the upper part of the city earlier than he had intended, and had taken out his watch before a lighted window, to convince himself of the time, when a timid voice addressed him—
"Sir, will you please tell me the name of this street?"
He turned, and saw the little girl whom he had forced to become a witness to his marriage. She shrunk back, terrified, on recognizing him.
"I did not know—I did not mean it," she faltered out.
"What, have you lost your way?" said Leicester, in a voice that made her shiver, though it was low and sweet enough.
"Yes, sir, but I can find it!"
"Where do you live?—oh, I remember. Well, as I have time enough, what if I walk a little out of my way, and see that nothing harms you?"
"No, no—the trouble!"
"Never mind the trouble. You shall show me where you live, pretty one; then I shall be certain where to find you again."
Still Julia hesitated.
"Besides," said Leicester, taking out his purse, "you forget, I have not paid for robbing your basket of all those pretty flowers."
"No!" answered the child, now quite resolutely. "I am paid. The poor young lady is welcome to them."
Leicester laughed. "The poor young lady!—my own pretty bride! Well, I like that."
Julia walked on. She hoped that he would forget his object, or only intended to frighten her. But he kept by her side, and was really amused by the terror inflicted on the child. He had half an hour's time on his hand—how could he kill it more pleasantly? Besides, he really was anxious to know with certainty where the young creature lived. She was one of his witnesses. She had, in a degree, become connected with his fate. Above all, she was terrified to death, and like Nero, Leicester would have amused himself with torturing flies, if no larger or fiercer animal presented itself. His evil longing to give pain was insatiable as the Roman tyrant's, and more cruel; for while Nero contented himself with physical agony, Leicester appeased his craving spirit with nothing but keen mental feeling. The Roman emperor would sometimes content himself with a fiddle; but the music that Leicester loved best was the wail of sensitive heart-strings.
"I live here," said Julia, stopping short, before a low, old house, in a close side street, breathless with the efforts she had made to escape her tormentor. "Do not go any farther, Grandpa never likes to see strangers."
"Go on—go on," answered Leicester, in a tone that was jeeringly good-natured; "grandpa will be delighted."
Julia ran desperately down the area steps. She longed to close the basement door after her and hold it against the intruder, but as this idea flashed across her mind, Leicester stood by her side in the dark hall. She ran forward and opened the door of that poor basement room which was her home. Still he kept by her side. The basement was full of that dusky gloom which a handful of embers had power to shed through the darkness; for the old people, whose outlines were faintly seen upon the hearth, were still too poor for a prodigal waste of light when no work was to be done by it.
"Is it you, darling, and so out of breath?" said the voice of an old man, who rose and began to grope with his hand upon the mantel-piece. "What kept you so long? poor grandma has been in a terrible way about it." While he spoke, the gratingof a match that would not readily ignite, was heard against the chimney piece.
"The gentleman, grandpa—here is a gentleman. He would come!" cried the child, artlessly.
This seemed to startle the old man. The match would not kindle; he stooped down and touched it to a live ember; as he rose again the pale blue flames fell upon the face of his wife, and rose to his own features. The illumination was but for a moment—then the wick began to fuse slowly into flame, but it was nearly half a minute before the miserable candle gave out its full complement of light. The old man turned toward the open door, shading the candle with his hand.
"Where, child? I see no gentleman."
Julia looked around. A moment before, Leicester had stood at her side. "He is gone—he is gone," she exclaimed, springing forward. "Oh, grandma—oh, grandpa, how he did frighten me; it was the man I saw on the wharf, that day!"