We think to conquer circumstance, and sometimes winA hold upon events that seemeth power.But nothing stable waiteth upon sin;God holds the cords of life, and in an hourThe strongest fabric built by human mindFalls with a crash, and leaves a wreck behind.
We think to conquer circumstance, and sometimes winA hold upon events that seemeth power.But nothing stable waiteth upon sin;God holds the cords of life, and in an hourThe strongest fabric built by human mindFalls with a crash, and leaves a wreck behind.
We think to conquer circumstance, and sometimes winA hold upon events that seemeth power.But nothing stable waiteth upon sin;God holds the cords of life, and in an hourThe strongest fabric built by human mindFalls with a crash, and leaves a wreck behind.
We think to conquer circumstance, and sometimes win
A hold upon events that seemeth power.
But nothing stable waiteth upon sin;
God holds the cords of life, and in an hour
The strongest fabric built by human mind
Falls with a crash, and leaves a wreck behind.
Splendid beyond anything hitherto known in American life, was the ball, of which our readers have obtained but partial glimpses. At least a dozen rooms, some of them palatial in dimensions, others bijoux of elegance, were thrown open to the brilliant throng that had begun to assemble when the flower-girl left the mansion. The conservatory was filled with blossomingplants, and lighted entirely by lamps, placed in alabaster vases, or swinging-like moons, from the waves of crystal that formed the roof. Masses of South American plants sheeted the sides with blossoms. Passion flowers crept up the crystal roof, and drooped their starry blossoms among the lamps. Trees, rich with the light feathery foliage peculiar to the tropics, bent over and sheltered the blossoming plants. An aquatic lily floated in the marble basin of a tiny fountain, spreading its broad green leaves on the water, and sheltering a host of arrowy, little gold-fish, that flashed in and out from their shadows. The air was redolent with heliotrope, daphnes, and cape-jessamines. Soft mosses crept around the marble basin, and dropped downward to the tesselated floor. It was like entering fairy land, as you came into this star-lit wilderness of flowers, from a noble picture-gallery, which divided it from the reception room. It was one of Dunlap's master-pieces. No artist ever arranged a more noble picture—no peri ever found a lovelier paradise. The silken curtains that divided the picture-gallery from the reception rooms were drawn back; thus a vista was formed down which the eye wandered till the perspective lost itself in the star-lighted masses of foliage; and on entering the first drawing-room, which was flooded with gas-light, a scene was presented that no European palace could rival, save in extent. Each of the tall, stained windows, had a corresponding recess, filled with mirrors that multiplied and reflected back every beautiful object within its range. Fresco paintings gleamed from the ceilings, but so delicately managed and enwrought in the light golden scrolls, that all over-gorgeousness was avoided. Each room possessed distinct colors, and had its own style of ornament; but natural contrasts were so strictly maintained, and harmonies so managed, that the rooms, when all thrown open, presented one brilliant whole, that might have been studied like the work of a great artist, and always found to present new beauties.
The rooms filled rapidly. The fancy dresses gave new éclat to the rooms. No royal court day ever presented a scene ofgreater magnificence. The flash of jewels—the wave of feathers—the glitter of brocades, had something regal in it, quite at variance with the simple republican habits with which our young country began its career among the nations of the earth. But in all this dazzling throng, our story deals more particularly with the four persons toward whom destiny was making rapid strides through all this glitter and gaiety.
William Leicester entered among the latest guests. The evening had been so full of events, that even his iron nerves were shaken, and he entered the mansion with pale cheeks and glittering eyes, as if conscious that he was rushing forward to his fate.
What was it that prompted the tantalizing wish to follow that young girl home, till she led him into the presence of that old couple, cowering over the fire in that dark basement? What evil spirit was crowding events so closely around him? He began to feel a sort of self-distrust; something like superstition crept over him, and he panted to place the Atlantic between himself and all these haunting perplexities.
A few distinguished persons had been allowed to attend the ball in citizens' dress, and among these, was Leicester, who appeared in the elegant but unostentatious suit worn at his wedding ceremony.
"Why, Leicester, you are pale! Has anything happened; or is it only the effect of that white vest?" said a young Turk, who stood near the entrance, removing his admiring eyes from the point of his own embroidered slipper, to regard his friend.
"Pale! No, I am only tired, making preparations for Europe, you know."
"A great bore, isn't it?" answered the young man, adjusting his cashmere scarf. "Isn't Mrs. Gordon beautiful to-night; the handsomest woman in the room, not to speak of uncounted pyramids! She'd be a catch—even for you, Leicester."
"She must have demolished some of her pyramids, before this paradise was created, I fancy," answered Leicester, lookingdown the vista of open rooms, now crowded with life and beauty.
"Yes, three at least," replied the juvenile Turk, planting one foot forward on the carpet, that he might admire the flow of his ample trousers; "one hundred and fifty thousand never paid for a place like this."
"So you, young gentleman, set fifty thousand down as a pyramid. Now, what if a lady chances to have only the half of that sum; how do you estimate her?"
"Twenty-five thousand!" repeated the exquisite; "a woman with no more than that isn't worth estimating; at any rate, till after a fellow gets to be an old fogy of two or three and twenty."
A quiet, mocking smile curved Leicester's lip. Though rather sensitive regarding his own age, he was really amused by this specimen of Young America.
"So, this widow, with so many pyramids—you think she would be a match worth looking after. What if I make the effort?"
"If you were twenty or twenty-five years younger, it might do."
Leicester laughed outright.
"Well, as I am too old for a rival, perhaps you will show me where the lady is; I have never seen her yet."
"What—never seen Mrs. Gordon, the beautiful Mrs. Gordon! I thought you old chaps were keener on the scent. I know half a hundred young gentlemen dead in for it."
"Then there is certainly no chance for me."
"I should rather think not," replied the youth, smiling complacently at his own reflection in an opposite mirror; "especially without costume. A dress like this, now, is a sort of thing that takes with women."
Leicester was getting weary of the youth.
"Well," he said, "if you will not aid me, I must find the lady myself."
"Oh, wait till the crowd leaves us an opening. There, themusic strikes up—they are off for the waltz; now you have a good view; isn't she superb?"
For one moment a cloud came over Leicester's eyes. He swept his gloved hand over them, and now he saw clearly.
"Which—which is Mrs. Gordon?" he said in a sharp voice, that almost startled the young exquisite out of his oriental propriety.
"Why, how dull you are—as if there ever existed another woman on earth to be mistaken for her."
"Is that the woman?" questioned Leicester, almost extending his arm toward a lady dressed as Ceres, who stood near the door of an adjoining room.
"Of course it is. Come, let me present you, while there is a chance, though how the deuce you got here without a previous introduction, I cannot tell. Come, she is looking this way."
"Not yet," answered Leicester, drawing aside, where he was less liable to observation.
"Why, how strangely you look all at once. Caught with the first glance, ha?" persisted his tormentor.
Leicester attempted to smile, but his lips refused to move. He would have spoken, but for once speech left him.
"Come, come, I am engaged for the next polka."
"Excuse me," answered Leicester, drawing his proud figure to its full height; "I was only jesting; Mrs. Gordon and I are old acquaintances."
"Then I will go find my partner," cried the Turk, half terrified by the flash of those fierce eyes.
"Do," said Leicester, leaning upon the slab of a music table that stood near.
And now, with a fiend at his heart and fire in his eye, William Leicester stood regarding his wife.
Ada had given this ball for a purpose. It was here, surrounded by all the pomp and state secured by position and immense wealth, that she intended once more to meet her husband. What hidden motive lay in the depths of her mind, I do notknow. Perhaps—for love like hers will descend to strange humiliations—she expected to win back a gleam of his old tenderness, by the magnificence which she knew he loved so well. Perhaps she really intended to startle him by her queenly presence, load him with scornful reproaches, and so separate forever. This, probably, was the reason she gave to her own heart; but I still think a dream of reconciliation slept at the bottom of it all.
At another time Ada would have been dressed with less magnificence under her own roof: for her taste was perfect, and the elegant simplicity of her style was at all times remarkable. But now she had an object to accomplish—a proud soul to humble to the dust; and she loaded herself with pomp, as a warrior encases himself in armor just before a battle.
The character of Ceres, in which she appeared, was peculiarly adapted to the perfection of her beauty and the natural grace of her person. In order to increase the magnificence of this costume, she had ordered all her jewels to be reset at Ball & Black's, in wreaths, bouquets, and clusters, adapted to the character; and as Leicester gazed upon her from the distance, his eyes were absolutely dazzled with flashes of rainbow light that followed every movement of her person.
Her over-skirt of fine Brussels point was gathered up in soft clouds from the amber satin dress, by clusters of fruit, grass, and leaves, all of precious stones. Cherries, the size of life, cut from glowing carbuncles; grapes in amethyst clusters, or amber hued, from the Oriental topaz; stems of ruby currants; crab-apples, cut from the red coral of Naples; with wheat ears, barbed with gold, and set thick with diamond grain; all mingled with leaves and bending grass, lighted with emeralds, were grouped among the gossamer lace, whence the light came darting forth with a thousand sunset glories.
Her fair, round arms were exposed almost to the shoulder, where a quantity of soft lace, that fell like a mist across her bosom, was gathered up with clusters of fruit-like jewels. Her hair, arranged after the fashion of a Greek statue, flowedback from the head in waves and ringlets, and was crowned by a garland of jewels that shot rays of tinted light through all her golden tresses. The choicest jewels she possessed had been reserved for this garland, wreathed in both fruit and flowers. Here diamond fuschias, veined with rubies, and forget me-nots of torquoise, each with a yellow pearl at the heart, were grouped with diamond wheat ears and stems of currants, some heavy with ruby fruit, others beset with yellow diamonds. The grape leaves that fell around her temples were green with emeralds, and a single cluster of cherries, formed from carbuncles, that seemed to have a drop of wine floating at the heart, drooped over her white forehead. Great diamond drops were scattered like dew over these dazzling clusters, and fell away down the ringlets of her hair.
Ada stood beneath the blaze of a chandelier, that poured its light over the singular wreath, and struck the jewels of her girdle, till they sent it back in broken flashes. Waves of lace were gathered beneath this girdle, as we find the drapery around those antique statues of Ceres, still existing in fragments at Athens.
Leicester stood motionless, gazing upon his wife. Every gem about her person seemed to fix its value upon his mind. This surprise had overpowered him for a moment, but no event had the power to disturb him, even for the brief time he had been regarding her.
His resolution was taken. Self-possessed, and, but for a wild brilliancy of the eyes and a slight paleness about the mouth, tranquil as if they had parted but yesterday, he moved down the room.
The crowd was drawn off toward the dancing saloon, and at that moment the reception room, in which Ada stood, was somewhat relieved of the glittering crowd that had pressed around her but a moment before.
Still several persons were grouped near her, glad to seize upon every disengaged moment of the hostess; for never in her brightest mood had she been half so brilliant as now. Herlips grew red with the flashes of wit that passed through them. Her eyes flashed with animation, and a warm scarlet flush lay upon her cheek, burning there like flame, but growing more and more brilliant as the evening wore on. Sometimes she would pause in the midst of a sentence, and look searchingly in the crowd. Then a frown would contract her forehead, as if the jewelled garland were beset with hidden thorns that pierced her temples; but when reminded of this her smile grew brilliant again, and some flash of wit displaced the impression her countenance had made the moment before.
She had just made some laughing reply to a gentleman who stood near her, and turning away, cast another of those anxious looks over the room. She gave a faint start; her eye flashed, and drawing her form up to its full height, she stood with curved lips and burning cheeks, ready to receive her husband. He came down the room, slowly moving forward with his usual noiseless grace. He paused now and then as the crowd pressed on him, and it was a full minute after she first saw him, before he approached her near enough to speak.
"My dear lady, I shall never forgive myself for coming so late," he said, reaching forth his hand. "Why did not your invitations say at once that we were invited to paradise?"
For one moment Ada turned pale and lost her self-possession. The audacious coolness of the man astonished her. She had expected to take him by surprise, and promised herself the enjoyment of his confusion; but before his speech was finished the blood rushed to her cheek, her lips grew red again, and her eyes seemed showering fire into his. He had taken her hand, while speaking, and pressed it gently, but with a meaning that aroused all the pride of her nature.
Did he hope to practice his old arts upon her? Was she a school girl to be won back by a pressure of the hand and frothy compliments to her dwelling? The crafty man had mistaken her for once. She withdrew her hand with a laugh.
"So you were ignorant that the goddess of plenty reigned here."
There was meaning in the light words, and for an instant Leicester's audacious eyes fell beneath the glance of hers; but he recovered himself with a breath.
"The character is badly chosen. I could have selected better."
"What, pray—what would you have selected?" she asked, with breathless haste.
He stooped forward, and with a smile upon his lips, as if he had been uttering a compliment, whispered "A Niobe."
The tone in which this was uttered, more than the words, stung her.
She drew back with a suddenness that scattered the light like sunbeams from her jewelled garland.
"Everything that Niobe loved turned to stone. In that we are alike," she said, in a suppressed voice that trembled with feeling.
He bent his head and was about to answer in the same undertone, but she drew back with a low defiant laugh.
"No—no. It is a sad character, and I have long since done with tears," she answered, turning to a gay group that had gathered around her, "What say you, gentlemen, our friend here prefers a mournful character; do I look like a woman who ever weeps?"
"Not unless the angels weep," answered one of the group.
"Angels do weep when they leave the homes assigned to them," whispered Leicester, again bending towards her, "and it is fitting that they should."
She did not recoil that time. His words rather stung her into strength, and strange to say, Leicester seemed less hateful to her while uttering these covert reproaches, than his first adroit compliment had rendered him. A retort was on her lip, but that instant a group came in from the dancing saloon, laughing and full of excitement.
"Oh, Mrs. Gordon, such a droll character!" cried a flower girl, pressing her way to the hostess; "a postman with bundles of letters, real letters; you never saw anything like it. I'msure Mr. Willis and some other poets here, that I could point out, have had a hand in getting up this mail, for some of the letters are full of delightful poetry. Only look here, isn't this sweet?"
The girl held up an open paper, in which half a dozen lines of poetry were visible.
"Read it aloud—read it aloud," cried several voices at once. "No one has secrets here!"
"Oh, I wouldn't for anything," answered the young lady, tossing the flowers about in her basket, with a simper; "Mrs. Gordon won't insist, I am sure."
Ada saw what was expected of her, and held the letter aloof, when the young lady made feints at snatching it away.
"But what if Mrs. Gordon does insist?" she said. "The postman has no business to bring letters here that are not for the public amusement."
"Well, now, isn't it too bad," cried the flower girl, striving to conceal her satisfaction with a pout. "I am sure it's not my fault."
"Read, read," cried voices from the crowd.
"No," said Ada, weary with the scene, and mischievously inclined to punish the girl for her affectation; "all amusement must be voluntary here."
The young lady took her note with a pout that was genuine, this time, and hid it in her basket.
During this brief scene, Leicester had glided from the room unobserved, and two strange characters took his place. This would hardly have been remarked in so large an assembly, but the costumes in which these persons appeared, were so arranged that they amounted to a disguise. One was robed as Night, the other as Morning; but the cloud-like drapery that fell around them, was of glossy, Florence silk, which allowed them to see what was passing, while their own features were entirely concealed. Neither of them spoke, and their presence cast a restraint upon the crowd close around the hostess. They seemed conscious of this, and gradually drew back,stationing themselves at last close by a pillar, that separated two rooms directly behind Ada and the group that surrounded her.
Leicester had only been to the gentleman's dressing-room, which was at that hour quite empty. He seemed hurried and somewhat agitated on entering. Going up to a light he took a letter-case from his bosom, and hastily shuffling over some papers it contained, selected one from the parcel. He opened this hurriedly, glanced at the first lines, and then looked around the room, as if in search of something.
Evidently the letters and poems from which the mock postman was supplied, had been arranged there, for a writing table stood in one corner littered with pens, fancy note-paper and envelopes.
"How fortunate," broke from Leicester, as he saw these accommodations; and he began to search among the envelopes for one of the size he wanted. Having accomplished this, he placed the paper taken from his letter-case open upon the table; and the light of a wax taper, that stood ready for use, revealed a tress of hair that lay curled within it.
Leicester pushed the curl aside with his finger, while he directed the envelope, refering to the paper every other letter, as if to compare his work with the writing it contained.
When this was accomplished and his hand removed, the light fell upon his own name written in a feminine running hand. He smiled as if satisfied with the address, replaced the lock of hair in the paper, and folded both in the envelope, which he carefully sealed. He left the room with a crafty smile on his lip, and beckoned to an attendant.
"Take this and give it to the postman you will find somewhere in the second drawing-room. Tell him Mrs. Gordon wishes him to deliver it when she is present; you understand."
"Oh, yes," said the French servant, charmed with a mission so congenial to his taste, "I've had a good many to carry down before to-night."
"Do this quietly—you understand—and here is something for the postage."
"Monsieur is magnificent," said the man, taking the piece of gold with a profound bow. "He shall see how invisible I shall become."
Leicester stole back to the reception rooms again, and glided into the group that still surrounded the hostess, unobserved as he thought; but those who watched Ada closely, would have seen the apathy, that had crept over her during his absence, suddenly flung off, while her manner and look became wildly brilliant once more. At this moment Night and Morning drew closer to the pillar, and sheltered themselves behind it.
"Here he comes—here comes the postman," cried half a dozen young ladies at once; "who will get a letter now? Mrs. Gordon, of course!"
One of the first lawyers of the State entered the room, acting the postman with great diligence and exactitude. He carried a bundle of letters on his arm, and held some loose in his hands. There was a great commotion among the young ladies when he presented himself, a flirting of fans and waving of curls that might have tempted any man from his course. He turned neither to the right nor left, but marching directly up to Leicester, presented a letter with "Two cents, sir, if you please."
Leicester as gravely took the letter, drew a five-cent piece from his pocket, and placed it in the outstretched hand of the postman, with, "The change, if you please."
A burst of laughter followed this scene; but the postman, no way disconcerted, placed the five-cent piece between his teeth, while he searched his pocket for the change. Drawing forth three cents, he counted them into Leicester's palm, and strode on again, as if every mail in the United States depended on his diligence. Leicester stood a moment with the letter in his hand, smiling and seemingly a little embarrassed about opening it!
Ada glanced sharply from the letter to his face. Even then she was struck with a jealous pang that made her recoil with self-contempt.
"No! no—that will never do," called out voices all around, as Leicester seemed about to place the note in his pocket—"All letters are public property here—break the seal—break the seal!"
With a derisive smile on his lip, as if coerced into doing a silly thing, he broke the seal and unfolded the missive. A tress of golden hair dropped to his feet, which he snatched up hurriedly, and grasped in his hand. A burst of gay laughter followed the act.
"Read—read—it is poetry—we can see that—give us the poetry!" broke merrily around him.
"Spare me," said Leicester, apparently annoyed; "but if the fair lady chooses to enlighten you, she has my consent."
Ada reached forth her hand for the paper. A strange sensation crept over her, with the first sight of it in the mock postman's hand, and it was with an effort that she conquered this feeling sufficiently to open the paper, with her usual careless ease.
She glanced at the first line. Her lips moved as if she were trying to speak; but they uttered no sound, and by slow degrees the red died out from them.
Leicester watched her closely with his half averted eyes, and those around him looked on in gay expectation; for no one else observed the change in her countenance. To the crowd, she seemed only gathering up the spirit of the lines, before she commenced reading them aloud. The paper contained a wild, impulsive appeal to him, after the first jealous outbreak that had disturbed their married life. As usual, when a warm heart has either done or suffered wrong, it matters little which, she had been the first to make concessions, and lavish in self-blame, poured forth her passionate regret, as if all the fault had been hers. In her first jealous indignation, she had demanded a tress of hair, for which he had importuned her one night at the old homestead.
He rendered it coldly back without a word. Wild with affright, lest this was the seal of eternal separation, she had sentback the tress of hair now grasped in Leicester's hand, with the lines which, with the plotting genius of a fiend, he had placed in her hand.
Poor Ada, she was unconscious of the crowd. The days of her youth came back—the old homestead—the pangs and joys of her first married life. While she seemed to read, a life-time of memories swept through her brain, which ached with the sudden rush of thought.
Leicester stood regarding her with apparent unconcern; but it was as the spider watches the fly in his net.
"She cannot read it aloud—I thought so," he said inly, "let her struggle—while her lips pale in that fashion she is mine; I knew it would smite her to the heart. Let the fools clamor, she is struck dumb with old memories."
Unconsciously a cold smile of triumph crept over his lips, as these thoughts gained strength from Ada's continued silence. With her eyes on the paper, she still seemed to read.
At length her guests became politely impatient.
"We are all attention," cried a voice.
She did not hear it; but others set in with laughing clamor; and at length she looked up, as if wondering what all the noise was about. Her eyes fell upon Leicester. She saw the smile of which he was probably unconscious, and the present flashed back to her brain.
"He hopes to crush me with these memories," she thought with lightning intuition.
The life came back to her eyes, the strength to her limbs, and without hesitation or pause, her voice broke forth. As she went on, the fire of a wounded nature flashed over her face. Her voice swelled out rich and passionately. Her woman's heart seemed beating in every word.
Take back the tress! the broken chain,Its fragile folds have linked around us,May never re-unite again!And every gentle tie that bound us,The madness of a single hour—The madness of a word—has parted,Leaving the marble in thy power:And me, ah more than broken hearted.Take back the tress! I cannot bearTo hold the link my hand has scattered;It mocks me, in my dark despair,With scenes and hopes forever shatter'd;It haunts me with a thousand things—A thousand words, half felt, half spoken—When thy proud soul with eagle wingsStoop'd to the heart now almost broken.It haunts me with the deep, low tones,That stir'd my soul to more than gladnessWhen we seemed in the world, alone,And joy grew deep almost to sadness.Is there no charm to win thee back,To wake the love thy pride is crushing?Has mem'ry left no golden track—No music which thy heart is hushing?Is there within this little tressNo thought but that which wakes thy scorning?Oh say, was there no happinessWithin thy breast that summer morning,When from my brow the curl was shredWith hand that shook in joy, and terror;And love, half hush'd in trembling dread,Shrunk back, as if to feel were error?My soul is filled with deep regret,That I who loved thee so, could doubt thee!Sweep back thy pride, forgive, forget!Life is so desolate without thee.I will not keep this tress of hair:As ravens from their gloomy wingsCast shadows, it but leaves despairUpon the weary heart it wrings.Where hope, and life, and faith are given,I send it back, perchance too late;Go cast it to the winds of heaven,If it but rouse more bitter hate.Iwill not rend a single threadThat binds my willing soul to thine:Take then the task; if love has fled,Despoil love's desolated shrine.
Take back the tress! the broken chain,Its fragile folds have linked around us,May never re-unite again!And every gentle tie that bound us,The madness of a single hour—The madness of a word—has parted,Leaving the marble in thy power:And me, ah more than broken hearted.
Take back the tress! the broken chain,
Its fragile folds have linked around us,
May never re-unite again!
And every gentle tie that bound us,
The madness of a single hour—
The madness of a word—has parted,
Leaving the marble in thy power:
And me, ah more than broken hearted.
Take back the tress! I cannot bearTo hold the link my hand has scattered;It mocks me, in my dark despair,With scenes and hopes forever shatter'd;It haunts me with a thousand things—A thousand words, half felt, half spoken—When thy proud soul with eagle wingsStoop'd to the heart now almost broken.
Take back the tress! I cannot bear
To hold the link my hand has scattered;
It mocks me, in my dark despair,
With scenes and hopes forever shatter'd;
It haunts me with a thousand things—
A thousand words, half felt, half spoken—
When thy proud soul with eagle wings
Stoop'd to the heart now almost broken.
It haunts me with the deep, low tones,That stir'd my soul to more than gladnessWhen we seemed in the world, alone,And joy grew deep almost to sadness.Is there no charm to win thee back,To wake the love thy pride is crushing?Has mem'ry left no golden track—No music which thy heart is hushing?
It haunts me with the deep, low tones,
That stir'd my soul to more than gladness
When we seemed in the world, alone,
And joy grew deep almost to sadness.
Is there no charm to win thee back,
To wake the love thy pride is crushing?
Has mem'ry left no golden track—
No music which thy heart is hushing?
Is there within this little tressNo thought but that which wakes thy scorning?Oh say, was there no happinessWithin thy breast that summer morning,When from my brow the curl was shredWith hand that shook in joy, and terror;And love, half hush'd in trembling dread,Shrunk back, as if to feel were error?
Is there within this little tress
No thought but that which wakes thy scorning?
Oh say, was there no happiness
Within thy breast that summer morning,
When from my brow the curl was shred
With hand that shook in joy, and terror;
And love, half hush'd in trembling dread,
Shrunk back, as if to feel were error?
My soul is filled with deep regret,That I who loved thee so, could doubt thee!Sweep back thy pride, forgive, forget!Life is so desolate without thee.I will not keep this tress of hair:As ravens from their gloomy wingsCast shadows, it but leaves despairUpon the weary heart it wrings.
My soul is filled with deep regret,
That I who loved thee so, could doubt thee!
Sweep back thy pride, forgive, forget!
Life is so desolate without thee.
I will not keep this tress of hair:
As ravens from their gloomy wings
Cast shadows, it but leaves despair
Upon the weary heart it wrings.
Where hope, and life, and faith are given,I send it back, perchance too late;Go cast it to the winds of heaven,If it but rouse more bitter hate.Iwill not rend a single threadThat binds my willing soul to thine:Take then the task; if love has fled,Despoil love's desolated shrine.
Where hope, and life, and faith are given,
I send it back, perchance too late;
Go cast it to the winds of heaven,
If it but rouse more bitter hate.
Iwill not rend a single thread
That binds my willing soul to thine:
Take then the task; if love has fled,
Despoil love's desolated shrine.
Her voice ceased to vibrate over the throng full half a minute, before the listeners breathed freely. The mesmeric influence of her hidden grief spread from heart to heart, till in its earnestness, the crowd forgot to applaud. Thus it happened that for some moments after she had done, there was silence all around her. The paper began to tremble in her hand—she tossed it carelessly toward Leicester.
"The lady is too much in earnest—she quite takes away my breath," she said, with an air of gay mockery; "a grand passion like that must be very fatiguing."
A flash rose to Leicester's brow. He took the paper, and refolding the curl of hair in it, placed both in his bosom. His manner was grave—almost humble. She had baffled him for once. But the game was not played out yet.
The crowd that observed nothing but the surface of this scene, was still somewhat subdued by it; but the ringing notes of a waltz that swept in from the dancing saloon, set the gay current in motion again.
"Who was it that engaged me for this waltz?" cried the hostess, glancing around the throng of distinguished men that surrounded her.
Half a dozen voices gaily answered the challenge; but still, with a purpose at heart, she selected the most distinguished of the group, and was followed to the dancing saloon.
Leicester remained behind. Even his strong nerves were ready to break down under the excitement crowded upon him that evening. Never had he been placed in a position of such difficulty. With two important crimes, perpetrated almost the same hour, urging immediate flight to Europe, he found himself constrained to remain and secure the still richer prize, the discovery of that evening seemed to place within his grasp. He leaned against the pillar near which Ada had been stationedto receive her guests, and made a prompt review of his position.
"I must go," he thought, locking his teeth hard, as the necessity was forced upon him; "they must have time to put the boy up in Sing-Sing. The girl, too—fool that I was—she is the most troublesome part of the business. I will get her over sea, at once—the witnesses are nothing—she can't live over a few months—if she does——"
A fiendish expression crept over his face, and after a moment, he muttered, so audibly, that the two shrouded females close by the pillar heard him; "But women's hearts never do break; if they did, Wilcox's daughter would have been in her grave long ago."
A faint sob close by him, drove these evil thoughts inward again. There was a slight rustling near the pillar, and raising his eyes, he saw the two characters, Night and Morning, gliding away toward the dancers. He did not give the circumstance a second thought; but moved down the rooms toward the conservatory, where he could plot and think alone.
"Yes, Imustgo off and find a safe place for Florence. Thanks to my icy-hearted mother, who never had a visitor, there is no chance for gossip. Robert will be snugly-housed when I come back, and my man shall go with me."
But a new obstacle arose in his mind—the flower-girl, his other witness. The old people, whose faces he had so dimly seen—what if Ada should learn all from them? The thought was formidable; but at last he thrust it aside, as undeserving of anxiety.
"They will not meet; she has been years searching for them, and in vain; besides, I shall be back in a month or two. If that girl is obstinate and won't die, let her stay behind—that will settle it probably—the hectic is on her cheek now. But I must see this proud witch to-night. Poor Ada, how much trouble she takes to prove her love—I see it all; this grand display was for me—I was to be astonished, braved, taunted awhile, and after a tragic scene or two, my lady ismeek as a lamb once more. The handsome wretch—she did outwit me with those lines; I thought they would have touched her to the heart. It was our first love quarrel. How the creature did go on then! Now I shall find her more difficult to bring under; but the same heart is at the bottom. I didn't think she could have read those lines aloud—so dauntlessly too. Jove! I almost loved her as she did it. Fool that I was, to make this trip across the ocean necessary. But for that, I might take possession now. Ada Wilcox—my pretty rustic Ada, reigning here like a queen! Mrs. Gordon—Mrs. Gordon! Faith, it's a capital joke. She's managed it splendidly—out-generaled Mrs. Nash and Mrs. Sykes both. More than that, she has half out-generaled Leicester too."
Thy race is run—thy fate is sealed,Trust not the ties that bound thee;A thousand snares, still unrevealed,Are woven close around thee.Nor strength, nor craft availeth now;Thy stubborn will is riven;The death drops hang upon thy brow,There's justice yet in Heaven.
Thy race is run—thy fate is sealed,Trust not the ties that bound thee;A thousand snares, still unrevealed,Are woven close around thee.Nor strength, nor craft availeth now;Thy stubborn will is riven;The death drops hang upon thy brow,There's justice yet in Heaven.
Thy race is run—thy fate is sealed,Trust not the ties that bound thee;A thousand snares, still unrevealed,Are woven close around thee.
Thy race is run—thy fate is sealed,
Trust not the ties that bound thee;
A thousand snares, still unrevealed,
Are woven close around thee.
Nor strength, nor craft availeth now;Thy stubborn will is riven;The death drops hang upon thy brow,There's justice yet in Heaven.
Nor strength, nor craft availeth now;
Thy stubborn will is riven;
The death drops hang upon thy brow,
There's justice yet in Heaven.
It was over at last. The saloon, the banquet hall, the conservatory, sleeping in the moonlight shed from many a sculptured vase—all were deserted; wax candles flared and went out in their silver sockets; garlands grew dim and shadowy in the diminished light; half a dozen yawning footmen glided about extinguishing wax lights, and turning off gas, but they seemed ghost-like and dreary, wandering through the vast mansion.
But Ada Leicester felt no fatigue; she saw nothing of the gloom that was so rapidly spreading over the splendor of her mansion. Her boudoir was still lighted by those two pearl-like lamps. It was a dim, luxurious twilight, that seemed hazy with the perfume stealing up from a dozen snowy vases scattered through the dressing-room, the bed-chamber, and the boudoir. The doors connecting these apartments were ajar, but closed enough to conceal one room from the other.
Ada entered the boudoir. Her step was imperious; her cheek burning. Pride, anger and haughty scorn swelled in her bosom, as she seated herself to wait. One of those mysterious revulsions of feeling that are so frequent to a passionate and ill-disciplined nature, had swept over her heart. For the first time in her life she felt disposed to sting the foot that had trampled so ruthlessly upon her. In that moment, all the strong love of a lifetime seemed kindling into a fiery hate.
It was one of those hours when we defy destiny—defy our own souls. A few hours earlier and she could not have met him thus with scorn on her brow, rebellion in her heart. A few hours after she might repent in tears, but now she waited his approach without a thrill of pleasure or of fear. The very memory of former tenderness filled her with self-contempt. The marble Flora stood over her—crimson roses and heliotrope had been mingled with the sculptured lilies in its hand. A few hours before she had stolen away from her guests, to place these blossoms among the marble counterfeits, for they breathed his favorite perfume; now, she sickened as the fragrance floated over her, and tearing them from the statue, tossed them amid a bed of coals still burning in the silver grate.
She did not go back to the couch, but remained upon the ermine rug, with one arm resting upon the jetty marble of the mantel-piece. No footstep could be heard in that sumptuously carpeted house, but the proud spirit within her seemed to know when he stole softly forth from the conservatory, and approached the room where she was waiting.
Leicester was self-possessed; he had a game to play, moreintricate, more difficult than his experience had yet coped with, but this only excited his intellect. With a heart of stone the nerves hold no sympathy, and are obedient to the will alone: what or who had ever resisted Leicester's will!
But she also was self-possessed, and this took him by surprise. He moved toward the grate and leaned his elbow on the mantel-piece, directly opposite her. She held a superb fan, half open, against her bosom: it was fringed deep with the gorgeous plumage of some tropical bird, but no tumult of the heart stirred a feather. She held it there, as she had often done that evening, when homage floated around her, gracefully and quietly waiting to be addressed. This mood was one he had not expected; it deranged all his premeditated plan of attack. Instead of reproaching him, with that passionate anger that pants for reconciliation, she was silent.
"Ada!" The name was uttered in a voice that no heart that had loved the speaker could entirely resist. A faint shiver and an irregular breath were perceptibly ruffling, as it were, the plumage of her fan, but the proud woman only bent her head.
"Was it delicate—was it honorable to deceive your husband thus?" he said, "to grant him one interview after so many years, and then conceal yourself from his search under this disguise? I have sought for you, Ada, Heaven only knows how anxiously."
She smiled a cold incredulous smile, for well she knew how he had searched for her.
"You do not believe me," said Leicester, attempting to take her hand; but she drew back, pressing the fan harder to her bosom, till the delicately wrought ivory broke. The demon of pride grew strong within her. For the first time in her life she felt a knowledge of power over the man who had been her fate.
"Was I to seek you that your foot might be planted on my heart once more? Was I to offer my bosom to the serpent fang again and again? Have you forgotten our interview inthe chamber overhead?—that chamber where I had hoarded every thing connected with the only happy months you ever permitted me to know—so full of precious memories? I thought they would touch even your heart."
He attempted to speak, but she would not permit him. "I did not know you, notwithstanding past experience. Your heart has blacker shades than I imagined! Not up there—not among objects holy from association with my child, should I have taken you, but here! here! do not these things betoken great wealth?" A scornful smile curved her lips, and she glanced around the boudoir.
There was one word in this speech that Leicester seized upon. "Yourchild, Ada. Great Heaven! would you exclude me from all share even in the love of our child!"
Even this did not soften her, though she was fearfully moved at the mention of her lost infant. He saw this, and his manner instantly changed.
"Why should I plead with you—why waste words thus?" he said, casting aside all affectation of tenderness:—"you are my wife—lawfully married—the mother of my child. If you have property, by the laws of this land that property is mine! I plead no longer, madam! Being the master of this house, if it is yours, my province is to command. Tell me, then! this wealth—for which people give their idol,Mrs. Gordon, so much credit—this mansion; are they real?—are they yours?—and therefore mine?"
The scorn that broke over Ada's face was absolutely sublime.
"Yes," she said, "this wealth is mine, yours, if the law makes it so; but listen—then say if you will use it!"
She bent forward; her lips and cheek were pale as death, but across the snow of her forehead a crimson flush came and went, like an arrow shooting back and again.
"You asked me that night in the room above, if I had lived in Europe as the governess of that man's daughter—the governess only—I answered yes; a governess only. It was false!Every dollar of the millions I possess comes from this man; he bequeathed them on his death-bed, that I might not again become your slave!" The haughty air gave way as she uttered this confession; her limbs trembled so violently that she was obliged to lean on the mantel-piece to keep from sinking to the floor. Pride, that treacherous demon, left her then, helpless as a child.
"This," said Leicester, with a stern, clear enunciation, "this in no way interferes with my claim on the property. Were it double, that would be poor atonement for the outrage to my affections—the disgrace brought upon my name."
She did not speak, but listened in breathless silence, trying to comprehend the moral enormity before her, with a confused sense that even yet she had not fathomed the black depths of his heart.
Leicester had paused, thinking that she would answer; but as she remained silent he spoke again, still calmly, and with measured intonation.
"But that which you have confessed becomes important in another sense. If the law gives me your property, it also enables me to divest it of the only incumbrance that would be unpleasant. Your confession, madam, entitles me to a divorce."
"You would not—oh, Heavens, no!" gasped the wretched woman.
"Now you seem natural—now you are meek again," he said with a laugh that cut to the heart. "So, you thought to dazzle me with your wealth—wither me with haughty pride—fool! miserable fool!"
"Mercy, mercy! Will no one save me from this man?" shrieked the wretched woman, flinging her clasped hands wildly upward.
Leicester was about to speak again, something fearfully bitter—you could see it in the curve of his lip—but her cry had reached other ears, and while the taunt was yet unspoken, Jacob Strong entered the boudoir. Leicester gazed upon him in utter amazement, for he advanced directly toward Ada, andtaking the clasped hands she held out in both his, led her to the couch, trembling, and so faint that she was incapable of uttering a word.
"What is this? how came you here, fellow?" said Leicester, the moment he could break from the astonishment occasioned by Jacob's presence.
"My mistress called for help, and I came," was the steady answer.
"Your mistress! where—who?"
"This lady—yourfirstwife! the other——"
"Villain! who are you?"
Jacob looked into his master's eyes with a calm stare: "Look at me, Mr. Leicester! I have grown since you saw me at old Mr. Wilcox's! No doubt you have forgotten the awkward boy, who tended your horse, and pointed out the best trout streams for you? But I—I shall never forget! No angry looks—no frowns, sir! The rocks we climbed together would feel them more than I do."
"Go on—go on—I would learn more," said Leicester, paling fearfully about the mouth. "You have been a spy in my service!"
"Yes—a spy—a keeper of your most dangerous secrets! I read the letter from Georgia—I have that old copy-book, which was to have sent Robert Otis, my own nephew, to state prison. There is a check of ten thousand, which I can lay my hand on at any moment—you comprehend! I saw it written—I saw it pass from your hand to his. I was in the back room. Villain! I am your master."
The palor spread up from Leicester's mouth to his temples, leaving a dusky ring around his eyes. For the first time in his life, this man of evil and stern will was terrified. Yet wrath was stronger in his heart than fear, even then. His white lips curled in fierce disdain. He turned towards Ada, who lay with her face buried in the silken pillows, conscious of nothing but her own unutterable wretchedness. She did not feel the fiendish glance that he cast upon her; butJacob saw it, and his grey eyes kindled, till they seemed black as midnight: "If you wish to see another, come in here—come, I say! Victims are plenty about you; come in."
Jacob looked terribly imposing in this burst of indignation. His awkward form dilated into rude grandeur—his wrath, ponderous and intense, rolled forth like some fathomless stream, whose very tranquillity is terrible. He flung his powerful arm around Leicester, and drew him forward as if he had been a child.
Through the dressing-room, still flooded with soft light and redolent of flowers, and into the bed-chamber beyond, Jacob strode, grasping his companion firmly with one arm. He paused close by the bed. With an upward motion of his arms, he flung aside the cloud of lace that fell over it, and pointed to a form that lay underneath, pillowed, as it were, upon a snow drift. "Look! here is another!" said Jacob, towering above the man who had been his master—for there was no stoop in his shoulders then—"look! it is your last victim—to all eternity, the last!"
Leicester did look, for his gaze was fascinated by the soft eyes lifted to his from the pillow; the sweet, sweet smile that played around that lovely mouth. It went to his soul—that impenetrable soul—that Ada's anguish had failed to reach.
"She heard it all. She saw everything that passed between you and your wife," said Jacob.
"What—and smiles upon me thus?" There was something of human feeling in his voice. He stooped down, and put back some raven tresses that fell over the eyes that were searching for his.
Then the smile broke into a laugh so wild with insane glee, that even Leicester shuddered and drew back. Florence started up in the bed. The lace of her wedding garments was crushed around her form—her arms were entangled in the rich white veil which still clung, torn and ragged, to the diamond star fastened over her temple. The cypress and jessamine wreath, half torn away, hung in fragments among her black tresses. She saw that Leicester avoided her, and tearing the veil fiercely,set both her arms free. She leaned half over the bed, holding them out, as a child aroused from sleep, pleads for its mother. Leicester drew near, for a fiend could not have resisted that look. She caught both his hands, drew herself up to his bosom, and then began to laugh again.
That moment a female, whose black garments contrasted gloomily with the drift-like whiteness of the couch, came from the shadowy part of the room, and taking Florence in her arms laid her gently back upon the pillows. She had seen that of which Leicester and Jacob were unconscious—Ada Leicester, standing in the gorgeous gloom of her dressing-chamber, and watching the scene.
"Mother, you here also!" exclaimed Leicester, and his voice had, for the instant, something of human anguish in it. His mother pointed toward the dressing-room, and only answered—
"Would you drive her mad also?"
"Would to Heaven it were possible," answered Leicester, with a cold sneer. He bowed low, and with a gesture full of sarcastic defiance moved toward the dressing-room. Jacob followed him.
"Stay," said Ada, standing before them—"what is this—who are the persons you have left in my chamber?"
"One of them," answered Leicester, with calm audacity, "one of them is of little consequence, though you may find in her, my dear madam, an old acquaintance. The other is a young lady, very beautiful, as you may see even from here—to whom I had the honor of being married last evening. How she became your guest I do not know, but treat her with all hospitality, I beseech you, if it were only for the love that I bear her—love that I never felt for mortal woman before."
"Go," said Ada, stung into some degree of strength by his insolence, "or, rather let me go, if you are indeed the master here."
She took a shawl which had been flung across a chair, and folded it around her.
"Take everything, but let me go in peace. Jacob, oh, my friend,youwill not abandon me now?"
"No," answered Jacob, with a degree of respectful tenderness that gave to his rude features something more touching than beauty. "Take off your shawl, madam—he has lost all power to harm you—there is desperation in his insolence, nothing more. His own crimes have disabled him."
"How? how? Not that which he hinted—not marriage with another? Tell me, that it was only bravado. Rather, much rather, could I go forth penniless and bare-headed into the street."
She approached Leicester, holding out her hands. He saw all the unquenched love that shed anguish over that beautiful face, and took courage. In this weakness, lay some hope of safety.
"Ada let me see you alone," he said, with an abrupt change of voice and manner. She looked at Jacob irresolutely. He saw the danger at once, and taking her hand, led her with gentle force into the bed-chamber. "Look," he said, pointing to Florence, who lay upon the couch—"ask her, she will tell you what it means."
Ada advanced toward the old lady, who came to meet her as one who receives the mourners who gather to a funeral.
"It is Leicester's mother," broke from the pale lips of Leicester's wife.
"My poor daughter," said the old lady, wringing the trembling hand that Ada held out.
"Will you—can you, call me daughter? oh madam, how long it is since that sweet word has fallen on my ear." The pathos of her words—the humility of her manner—melted the old lady almost to tears. She opened her arms, and received the wretched woman to her bosom.
Jacob went out and found Leicester in the boudoir.
"Will she come? I am tired of waiting," he said, as Jacob closed and locked the door leading to the dressing-room.
"Expect nothing from her weakness—never hope to see heragain. It is with me—not a weak, loving, forgiving woman, you have to deal."
"With you—her father's clownish farmer-boy—my own servant."
"I have no words to throw away, and you will need them to defend yourself," answered Jacob, with firm self-possession. "You have committed, within the last twenty-four hours, two crimes against the law. You have married a woman, knowing your wife to be alive. I am the witness, I, her playmate when she was a little girl, her protector and faithful servant in the trouble and sin which you heaped upon her after she was a woman. I went with her to the hotel that night, I witnessed all—all—to the scene last evening. Let that pass, for itshouldpass, rather than have her history connected with yours before the world. But another crime. This forged check—this attempt to ruin as warm-hearted and honest a boy as ever lived. In this, her name cannot, from necessity, appear; for this you shall suffer to the extent of the law; for this, you shall live year after year in prison, not from revenge, mark, but that she, Ada Wilcox, may breathe in peace. Leave this house, sir, quietly, for I must not have a felon arrested beneath her roof. Go anywhere you like, for a few hours, not to the hotel, for Robert Otis is waiting in your chamber with an officer; not to ferry, or steamboat, in hopes of escaping; men are placed everywhere to stop you; but till noon you are safe from arrest."
"I will not leave this house without speaking with Ada," said Leicester, in a whisper so deep and fierce, that it came through his clenched teeth like the hiss of a wounded adder.
"Five minutes you have for deliberation; go forth quietly, and as a departing guest, or remain to be marshalled out by half a dozen men, whom the chief of police has sent to protect the grounds—you understand, to protect the grounds."
Leicester did not speak, but a sharp, fiendish gloom shot into his eyes, and he thrust one hand beneath his snowy vest, and drew it slowly out; then came the sharp click of a pocketpistol. Jacob watched the motion, and his heavy features stirred with a smile.
"You forget that I am your servant; that I laid out your wedding dress, and loaded the pistol; put it up, sir—as I told you before, when I play with rattlesnakes, I take a hard grip on the neck."
Leicester drew his hand up deliberately, and dashed the pistol in Jacob's face. The stout man recoiled a step, and blood flowed from his lips. It was fortunate for him that Leicester had found the revolver which he was in the habit of wearing too heavy for his wedding garments. As it was, he took out a silk handkerchief, and coolly wiped the blood from his mouth, casting now and then a look at the tiny clock upon the mantel-piece. The fiendish smile excited by the sight of his enemy's blood was just fading from Leicester's lip, when Jacob put the handkerchief back in his pocket.
"You will save a few hours of liberty by departing at once," he said. "To a man, who has nothing but prison walls before him, they should be worth something."
"Yes, much can be done in a few hours," muttered Leicester to himself, and gently settling his hat, he turned to go.
"Open the door," he said, turning coolly to Jacob; "your wages are paid up to this time, at any rate."
Jacob bowed gravely, and dropping into his awkward way, followed his master down stairs. He opened the principal door, and Leicester stepped into the street quietly, as if the respectful attendance had been real.
The morning had just dawned, cold, comfortless, and humid; a slippery moisture lay upon the pavements, dark shadows hung like drapery along the unequal streets; Leicester threaded them with slow and thoughtful step. For once, his great intellect, his plotting fiend, refused to work. What should he do? how act? His hotel, the very street which he threaded perhaps, beset with officers; his garments elegantly conspicuous; his arms useless, and in his pockets only a little silver and one piece of gold. Never was position more desperate.
Hour after hour wore on, and still he wandered through the streets. As daylight spread over the sky, kindling up the fog that still clung heavily around the city, Leicester saw two men walking near him. He quickened his pace, he loitered, turned again, down one street and up another; with their arms interlaced, their bodies sometimes enfolded in the fog, distinct or shadowy, those strange wanderers had a power to make Leicester's heart quail within him.
All at once he started, and stood up motionless in the street. That child—those two old people! He had recognized them at once the night before as Mr. Wilcox and his wife, poor, friendless; he had striven to cast them from his mind, to forget that they lived. The after events of that night had come upon him like a thunder-clap; in defending himself or attacking others, he had found little time to calculate on the discovery of his daughter and her old grand parents. Now, the thought came to his brain like lightning. He would secure the young girl—Ada's lost child. The secret of her existence was his; it should redeem him from the consequence of his great crime. The old people were poor—they would give up the child to a rich father, and ask no questions. With this last treasure in his power, Ada would not refuse to bribe it from him at any price. Her self-constituted guardian, too, that man of rude will, and indomitable strength, he who had sacrificed a lifetime to the mother of this child, who had tracked his own steps like a hound, could he, who had given up so much, refuse to surrender his vengeance, also? This humble girl, from whom Leicester had turned so contemptuously, how precious she became as these thoughts flashed through his brain.
Leicester proceeded with a rapid step to the neighborhood that he had visited the previous night. He descended to the area, glided through the dim hall, and entered the back basement just as old Mr. Warren, or Wilcox we must now call him, was sitting down to breakfast with his wife and grandchild. A look of poverty was about the room, warded off by care and cleanliness, but poverty still. Leicester had only time to remarkthis, when his presence was observed. Old Mr. Wilcox rose slowly from his chair, his thin face grew pale as he gazed upon the elegant person of his visitor, and the rich dress, so strongly at variance with the place. A vague terror seized him, for he did not at once recognize the features, changed by time, and more completely still, by a night of agonizing excitement. At length he recognized his son-in-law, and sinking to his chair, uttered a faint groan.
Julia started up, and flung her arms around the old man's neck. Leicester came quietly forward.
"Have you forgotten me, sir?" he said, laying one hand softly upon the table.
"No," gasped the old man, "no."
"And the little girl, she seems afraid of me, but when she knows—"
"Hush," said the old man, rising, with one arm around the child, "not another word till we are alone. Wife, Julia, leave the room."
The old woman hesitated. She, too, had recognized Leicester, and dreaded to leave him alone with her husband. Julia looked from one to the other, amazed and in trouble.
"As you wish. I have no time to spare. Send them away, and we can more readily settle my demands and your claims."
"Go!" replied the old man, laying his hand on Julia's head.
That withered hand shook like a leaf.
Julia and her grandmother went out, but not beyond the hall. There they stood, distant as the space would permit, but still within hearing of the voices within. Now and then a word rose high, and old Mrs. Wilcox would draw Julia's head against her side, and press a hand upon her ear, as if she dreaded that even those indistinct murmurs should reach her.
While these poor creatures stood trembling in the hall, a strange, fierce scene was going on over that miserable breakfast-table. Leicester had been persevering and plausible at first; with promises of wealth, and protestations of kindness, he had endeavored to induce the poor old man to render up thechild. When this failed, he became irritated, and, with fiercer passions, attempted to intimidate the feeble being whom he had already wronged almost beyond all hopes of human forgiveness. The old man said little, for he was terrified, and weak as a child; but his refusal to yield up the little girl was decided. "If the law takes her away, I cannot help it," he said, "but nothing else ever shall." Tears rolled down the old man's face as he spoke, but his will had been expressed, and the man who came to despoil him saw that it was immovable.
Despairing at last, and fiercely desperate, Leicester rushed from the basement. Julia and her grandmother shrunk against the wall, for the palor of his face was frightful. He did not appear to see them, but went quickly through the outer door and up to the side-walk. Here stood the two men, arm-in-arm, ready to follow him. He turned back, and retraced his steps, with a dull, heavy footfall, utterly unlike the elasticity of his usual tread. Further and further back crowded the frightened females. The old man was so exhausted that he could not arise from the chair to which he had fallen. He looked up when Leicester entered the room, and said, beseechingly, "Oh, let me alone! See how miserable you have made us! Do let us alone!"
"Once more—once more I ask, will you give up the child?"
"No—no."
A knife lay upon the table, long and sharp, one that Mrs. Wilcox had been using in her household work. Leicester's eye had been fixed on the knife while he was speaking. His hand was outstretched toward it before the old man could find voice to answer. Simultaneous with the brief "no," the knife flashed upward, down again, and Leicester fell dead at the old man's feet. Mr. Wilcox dropped on his knees, seized the knife, and tore it from the wound. Over his withered hands, over the white vest, down to his feet, gushed the warm blood. It paralyzed the old man; he tried to cry aloud, but had no power. A frightful stillness reigned over him; then many persons came rushing into the room.
A light shone in that pretty cottage—a single light from the chamber where Julia had robed Florence Nelson in her bridal dress. A bed was there, shrouded in drapery, that hung motionless, like marble, and as coldly white; glossy linen swept over the bed, frozen, as it were, over the outline of a human form. Death—death—the very atmosphere was full of death. On one corner of the bed, crushing the cold linen, wrinkled with her weight, Florence Nelson had seated herself, and with her black ringlets falling over the dead, sung to him as no human being ever sung before. Sometimes she laughed—sometimes wept. Every variation of her madness was full of pathos, sweet with tenderness, save when there came from the opposite room a pallid and grief-stricken creature, with drooping hands, and eyes heavy with unshed tears.
If this unhappy woman attempted to approach the bed, or even enter the room, Florence would spring up with the fierce cry of a wounded eagle; the song rose to a wail, then, with her waxen hands, she would gather up the linen in waves, over the dead, and if Ada came nearer, shriek after shriek rose through the cottage. Thus poor Ada Leicester, driven from the death-couch of her husband, would creep back to where his mother knelt in her calm, still grief. There, with her stately head bowed down, her limbs prone upon the floor, she would murmur, "Oh, God help me! It is just—but help me, help me! Oh, my God!"