"Curse this light, how it flares, and curse that bell—will it never cease ringing? At such a moment too,—"
And without once looking behind her, she hurriedly descended the second stairs. Dermoyne watched her tall form, with its loose gown, flowing all about her bulky outlines, until she turned the angle of the stairs and disappeared.
"Now is my time," muttered Dermoyne to himself, and at once he entered the passage, which branched from the head of the stairs, and led to the eastern wing of the mansion. How his heart beat, how his blood bounded in his veins, as he drew near the open door at the extremity of the passage!
On the threshold he paused—his form shrouded by the darkness, but the light from within the room shining upon his forehead—he paused and took a single glance at the scene which was disclosed to his vision.
Never till his dying hour shall he forget that scene.
A small apartment, with windows shut and sealed like the doors of a sepulcher.—On a small table, amid vials and surgical instruments, stands a light, whose rays tremble over the bed, which occupied the greater part of the room. Above the bed, from the darkly papered walls, smiles a picture of the Virgin Mary, while beneath, by the folds of the coverlet, you may trace the outlines of a human form.
Beside the bed stands a slender man dressed in black, with a heavy pair of gold spectacles on his hooked nose. It is Corkins, the familiar spirit of the Madam. Corkins, whose slender frame, incased in black, reminds you of the raven, while his face with top-knot, gold spectacles, ferret-like eyes, and pointed beard, reminds you of the owl.
"Bad!" mutters Corkins, "bad!" and he gazes upon the occupant of the bed, knotting his fingers together like a man who is exceedingly perplexed.
The bed and its occupant? Ask us not to picture the full horror of the sight which Arthur saw (from his place of concealment), as Corkins gently drew the coverlet aside.
"Alice!" he did not pronounce the word with his lips, but his heart uttered it—it was echoed in the depths of his soul.
He saw the pale face, and the sunny hair, which fell in a flood upon her bared shoulders. He saw the arms outspread, with the fingers trembling and working as with the impulse of a spasm. He saw the eyes which opened with a dead stare, and fixed vaguely upon the ceiling, had no look of life in their leaden glance. He saw the lips, which were colorless and almost covered with white foam. And as the sufferer moved her head, and flung it back upon the pillow, he saw her throat—no longer white and beautiful—but with swollen veins, writhing with torture, and starting from the discolored skin.
Never, never until his last hour can Arthur forget that sight.
And poor Alice, writhing thus between life and death, talked to herself in a voice husky and faint, and said certain words that made Arthur's blood gather in a flood about his heart:
"Herman, you will not desert me!" she said, and then while the foam was on her lips, she babbled of her father and home—writhing all the while in every nerve and vein.
Arthur entered the room. Corkins turned and beheld him, and uttered a cry of fright. For at that moment Arthur's face was not a pleasant face for any man to look upon, much less Corkins. And the iron bar which Arthur held in his clenched hand, taken into connection with the look on his face, reminded Corkins of stories which he had read—stories which told of living men, bruised suddenly to death by such a hand and such an iron bar. Corkins, therefore, uttered a cry of fright, and in his terror shook his gold spectacles from his parrot nose.
"Down," said Arthur, in a low voice, "on your knees,"—he pointed to a nook of the room, between the foot of the bed and the wall. "Stay there with your face to the wall."
Corkins obeyed. Trembling to the corner, he sank on his knees, and turned his face away from the door and turned toward the wall, there was such a persuasive eloquence in Arthur's look.
Then Arthur, still clutching the iron bar, drew near the head of the bed, and gazed upon Alice.
Stretching forth her arms, and opening and closing her little hands; flinging back her head, her eyes fixed upon the same point of the ceiling, no matter how she writhed—babbling with foaming lips about her father and her home,—it was one of the saddest sights that ever man beheld.
Arthur could not stand it. He turned his face away, and there was a choking sensation in his throat, and a painful heaving of his chest. His eyeballs were hot and tearless.—He would have given his life to shed a single tear.
But that moment of intolerable anguish was interrupted by the sound of footsteps resounding from the lower part of the mansion. Madam Resimer was returning to the room of Alice.
Arthur at once shrank into the corner where Corkins knelt, and touched the creature with his foot by way of warning. Then placing himself against the wall in such a manner that he could not be seen until the Madam entered the room, he awaited her return.
Her footsteps are on the stairs, and presently they are heard in the passage. Arthur, standing bolt upright against the wall, with the trembling Corkins at his feet, heard the rustling of her dress, as she came brushing along, with her heavy stride. Then he heard her voice—she was speaking to some one who accompanied her.
"There are two," he muttered, and bent his head to listen. He could distinguish her words:
"What a foolish fancy!" this was the voice of the Madam, "to think that any one could gain admittance to my house against my will. Why, my dear, the idea makes me laugh."
"Yes, but he's such a desperate ruffian," answered a second voice.
It was the voice of Rev. Herman Barnhurst.
"Oh! my God, I thank thee," muttered Arthur, and clutched the iron bar and crouched closer to the wall.
And ere a moment passed, the Madam entered the room, followed by Barnhurst. She held the light, and he advanced toward the bed.
"It looks rather bad," cried Barnhurst, as he caught sight of the face of Alice.
"Why, where has Corkins gone?" cried the Madam, and turning abruptly she sought for Corkins, and uttered a shriek. At the same instant Barnhurst raised his eyes from the face of Alice, and fell back against the wall, as though a bullet had pierced his temple.
They had at the same instant discovered Dermoyne, who, motionless as stone, stood against the wall, beside the door, his arms folded, and his head sunk on his breast. Thus, with his head drooped on his breast, he raised his eyes and silently surveyed them both, and with the same glance.
Not a word was spoken. The Madam, unable to support herself, sank on the foot of the bed, and Barnhurst, staggered to his feet again, looked around the room with a visage stamped with guilt and terror.
Arthur quietly advanced a step, and closed the door of the room. Then he locked it and put the key in his pocket.
"What do you mean?" cried the Madam the color rushing into her face.
"No noise," whispered Arthur, "unless indeed,"—and he smiled in a way which she understood,—"unless, indeed, you mean to alarm the neighborhood, and bring the police into the room. Would you like to have the police examine your house?"
The Madam bit her red lip, but did not answer. Arthur passed her, and approached the Rev. Herman Barnhurst.
"Nay, don't be afraid; I will not hurt you," he whispered, as the clergyman stretched forth his hands and retreated toward the wall. "Come, take courage, man,—look there!"
He pointed to the face of Alice.
Herman, ashy pale, and shaking in every limb, followed the movement of Arthur's hand, but did not utter a word.
"A 'man of your cloth' to be 'suspected'—eh, my friend?" and Arthur, laughed. "A minister of THE Church, to be suspected of seduction and of murder? Is it not a lying tongue that dare charge you, Reverend sir, with such crimes?"
Here, poor Alice, writhing in the bed, spoke a faint word about father, and home.
Barnhurst, cringing against the wall, his smooth complexion changed to a livid paleness, muttered an incoherent word about "reparation."
"Oh, youshallmake reparation,—never fear; youshallmake reparation," whispered Dermoyne, his eyes fairly blazing with light. "And you visited her father's house as a minister of God. She heard you preach in the church, and you talked to her in her home. What words you said, I know not; but some forty-eight hours ago you took her from her home; but a few hours have passed since then. The father lies a mangled corpse somewhere between this house and Philadelphia; and Alice, the daughter, is before you. Are you not proud of your work, my reverend friend?"
Herman's eye glanced from the ominous face of Dermoyne, and then to the iron bar which he held in his clenched hand,—
"You will not—kill—me?" he gasped.
Arthur was silent. The veins upon his forehead were swollen; his teeth were locked; his eyes, deep sunken under his down-drawn brows, emitted a steady and sinister light. He wasthinking.
"Kill you?" he said, in a measured voice, which seemed torn, word by word, through his clenched teeth, from his heart. "Oh, if I could believe your creed—that eternal vengeance is the only future punishment for earthly crimes—why, I would kill you, before you could utter another word. Do you believe that creed? No—wretch! you do not. You have but preached it as a part of that machinery which manufactures your salary. But now, wretch! as you stand by the death-bed of your victim, with the face of her avenger before you, now search your heart, and answer me—Do you not begin to feel that there is aGod?"
It was pitiful to see the poor wretch cringe against the wall, supporting himself with his hands, which he placed behind his back, while his head slowly sunk, and his eyes were riveted to the face of Dermoyne.
"You will not kill me," he faltered; and, with his left hand, tugged at his white cravat, for there was a choking sensation at his throat.
As for the Madam, who stood at the back of Dermoyne, she began to recover some portion of her self-possession, as a hope flashed upon her mind: "The handle of the bell is behind Barnhurst," she muttered to himself; "if he would only touch it, it would resound in the basement, and call Slung-Shot to our aid."
And with flashing eyes, the Madam gazed over Dermoyne's shoulder, watching every movement of the clergyman, and hoping that even in his fright, he might touch the handle of the bell. That bell communicated with the basement room; one movement of the handle, and Slung-Shot would be summoned to the scene.
However, as Barnhurst cringed against the wall, his hands strayed all around the handle of the bell, but did not touch it.
At this crisis, however, the Madam forming suddenly a bold resolution, strode across the floor and placed her bulky form between Dermoyne and the clergyman.
"What doyouwanthere, any how?" she said, tossing her head and placing her arms a-kimbo. "You are neither the brother nor the husband of this girl. Supposin' you was, what have you to complain of? Haven't I treated her like my own child? Yes, I've been a mother to her—andthat isa fact."
Dermoyne, for a moment, paused to admire the cool impudence which stamped the florid visage of the madam. Her chin projected, her nose upturned, and her nether lip protruded, she stood there in her flowing wrapper, with a hand on each side of her waist.
"Look there," he said quietly, and pointed to the bed, where the poor girl was stretched in her agony; her hands quivering and her lips white with foam: "When that poor child entered your house, she was in the enjoyment of good health. What is she now? Shall I go forth from this place and bring a physician to testify as to the nature of yourmotherlytreatment?"
The Madam retreated from the gaze of the young man, and felt the force of his words.
Too well she knew what verdict a physician would pass upon her treatment of the young girl.
"The bell-handle is behind you," she whispered, as she passed the cringing Barnhurst. He did not seem to heed her; but the moment that she passed him and resumed her former place, he fixed his stupefied gaze once more upon the visage of Dermoyne.
As for Dermoyne, for a moment he stood buried in profound thought. The clergyman trembled closer to the wall as he remarked the livid paleness of Arthur's face,—the peculiar light in Arthur's eyes.
Dermoyne, after a moment, advanced and extended his hand—"Come," he said, and sought to grasp Barnhurst's hands. But, shuddering and half dead with fright, Hermancrouchedaway from the extended hand,—crouched and cringed away as though he would bury himself in the very wall.
"Come," again repeated Dermoyne, his voice changed and husky. "Come!" He grasped the hand of the clergyman and dragged him to the bedside. "Oh, look upon that sight!" he groaned as the tortured girl writhed before them—"Look upon that sight, and tell me, what fiend of hell ever, even in thought, planned a deed like this?"
"Don't kill me, don't, don't!" faltered Herman.
"This is a strange meeting," continued Dermoyne, with a look that made Herman's blood run cold; "here we are together, you and I and Alice! I that loved her better than life, and would have been glad to have called her by the sacred name of wife. You, that without loving her or caring for her, save as the instrument of your brutal appetite, have made her what she is,—have made her what she is, and brought her here to die in a dark corner, something worse than the death of a dog. And Alice, poor Alice, who saw you first in the pulpit, and then listened to you and yielded to you in the home,—her father's home,—Alice lies before you now. Hark!"
The poor girl stretched forth her hands, and with the foam still white upon her livid lips, she said, in her wandering way—
"Oh! Herman, dear Herman! it was notfatherthat was hurt, was it? Oh! are you sure, are you sure?" And then came wandering words about father, Herman, home, and—her lost condition. There was something too, about returning to father and asking his forgiveness when thedangerwas over.
"Andyoudesire her death." In his agony, as he uttered these words, Arthur clutched Herman with a gripe that forced a groan from his lips. "You who have brought her tothis,—" he pointed to the bed,—"while I desire her to live; I, that by her death will become the sole inheritor of her father's fortune."
This was a revelation that astounded Herman, half dead as he was, with terror.
"The sole inheritor of her father's fortune!" he echoed.
At this crisis, the Madam darted forward. Arthur saw her hand extended toward the handle of the bell.
"Oh! ring by all means," he exclaimed, "ring, my dear Madam; summon your bullies; we will have as much noise as possible,—perchance, a fight! And then the police will come and examine the little mysteries of your mansion. Will you not ring?"
The Madam's hand dropped to her side, and she slunk back to her former position, her florid face impressed with an expression which was not, altogether, one of serenity or joy.
"You wondered, to-night, why Mr. Burney permitted the poor shoemaker to visit his house. Let me enlighten you a little. Not many years ago, an unknown mechanic called upon the rich merchant, in his library, and proved to the merchant's satisfaction, that he,—the poor mechanic,—had, in his possession, certain papers which established the fact that the immense wealth of Mr. Burney had been obtained by a gross fraud; a fraud which, in a court of law, would disclose itself in the two-fold shape ofperjuryandforgery. The father of the mechanic was the victim; Burney, the criminal; the victim had died poor and broken-hearted; but in the hands of the criminal, the property so illy-gotten, had swelled into an immense fortune. It was the son of the victim who, having lived through a friendless orphanage, now came to Mr. Burney and proved that at any moment he might involve the rich merchant in disgrace and ruin."
"Impossible!" ejaculated Barnhurst.
"The merchant made large offers to the mechanic to obtain his silence,—believing in the true mercantile way, that every man has his price, he offered a good round sum, and doubled it the next moment,—but in vain. The image of his broken-hearted father was before the mechanic,—he could not banish it,—he had but one purpose, and that was, to bring the rich man to utter ruin. This purpose was strong in his heart, when scorning all the offers of the merchant, he rose from his seat and moved toward the door. But at the door his purpose was changed. There he was confronted by the face of a happy, sinless girl,—a girl with all the beauty of a happy, sinless heart, written upon her young face. At the sight, the mechanic relented. Maddened by the thirst for a full and bitter revenge, he could destroy the father, but he had not the heart to destroy the father of that sinless girl. For,—do you hear me,—it was Alice,—it was Alice,—Alice."
The long-restrained agony burst forth at last. With her name upon his lips, he paused,—he buried his face in his hands.
"Alice, Alice, who lies before you now!" He raised his face again; it was distorted by agony; it was bathed in tears.
The clergyman fell on his knees.
"Don't harm me," he faltered, "I will make reparation."
"Up! up! don't kneel to me," shrieked Dermoyne, and he dragged the miserable culprit to his feet. "There's no manner of kneeling or praying between heaven and hell, that can help you, if that poor girl dies. I spared her father for her sake, (and to make my silence perpetual, he made a will, in which he names me as his sole heir, in case of his daughter's death); I spared her father for her sake, and can you think that I will spare you,—you who have brought her to a shame and death like this?"
He pointed to the bed, and once more the poor girl, writhing in pain, uttered, in a low, pleading voice, "Herman, Herman, do not, oh! do not desert me!"
Dermoyne, at a rapid glance, surveyed the culprit cringing against the wall,—the florid Madam, who stood apart, her face manifesting undeniable chagrin,—and then his gaze rested upon Corkins, who, kneeling in the corner, seemed to have been suddenly stricken dumb. And as he took that rapid glance, his eyes flashed, his face grew paler, his bosom heaved, and a world of thought rushed through his brain; and, in a moment, he had decided upon his course.
He drew near to the Madam: she could not meet the look which he fixed upon her face.
"To-morrow morning, at ten o'clock, I will return to this house," he said, in a low voice; "I hold you responsible for the life of this poor girl. Nay, do not speak; not a word from your accursed lips. Remember!—he drew a step nearer,—to-morrow morning, at ten o'clock, and—I hold you responsible for the life of Alice Burney."
The Madam quailed before his glance; for once, her florid face grew pale. "But how will you obtain entrance into my house?" she thought; and a faint smile crossed her countenance.
Dermoyne flung his cloak over his arm, drew his cap over his forehead, and grasped the iron bar with his right hand.
"Come with me," he said, in a low voice, to Barnhurst. He drew the key from his pocket, and led the way to the door. As though fascinated by his look, Herman followed him,—followed him trembling and with terror stamped on every line of his face.
"At ten o'clock, to-morrow morning, remember!" said Dermoyne, turning his face over his shoulder. He turned the key in the lock, and stood upon the threshold. "Come with me," he said, quietly, to Barnhurst. "Nay, take the light and walk before me."
Herman, with a quivering hand, seized a lighted lamp and led the way from the room, along the passage. He dared not turn his head. He heard Dermoyne's footsteps at his back, and shook with fright. "Does he intend to murder me?" and then he thought of the iron bar; of the strong hand of Dermoyne; and of his own defenseless head.
"Herman, don't, don't desert me," muttered Alice, in her delirium, as they crossed the threshold.
Dermoyne turned and saw the fixed eyes, the sunny hair, the lips white with foam; saw the writhing form and the hands clasped madly over the half-bared bosom; and then he looked no more.
Along the passage, Herman led the way and down the stairs, Dermoyne following silently at his heels. Thus they descended to the second floor.
"The Madam has a room where she keeps her papers and arranges her most important affairs. Conduct me there."
And Herman, scarce knowing what he did, led the way to the small room in the rear of the second floor,—the small room in which we first beheld the Madam. He entered, followed by Dermoyne, who carefully closed the door, and then, at a glance, surveyed the place. It looked the same as when we first beheld the Madam. The shaded lamp stood on the desk, describing a brief circle of light around it, while the rest of the place was vailed in twilight. On the desk was the seal and the pearl-handled pen, and beside it, was the capacious arm-chair.
"Come here," said Arthur, still in that low voice, but with the face unnaturally pale, and the eyes flashing with steady and ominous light; and he led the way to the desk. Barnhurst obeyed him without a word.
"To-morrow, at ten o'clock, we will return to this mansion," said Dermoyne, fixing his eyes upon the affrighted visage of Barnhurst. "We will return together, and if Alice yet lives, we will go away together; but," he laid his right hand upon the forehead of the wretch,—or rather placed his thumb upon the right temple, and his fingers on the left,—"but, if Alice is dead, I will kill you at her bedside."
There was a determination in his tone,—in his look,—nay, in the very pressure of the hand which touched Barnhurst's forehead; which gave a force to his brief words, that no pen can depict.
Barnhurst fell on his knees, and his head sank on his breast. He had no power to frame a word. He appeared conscious that he was in the hands of his fate.
"Get up, get up,my friend!" and Arthur raised him from his knees and placed him in a chair. (Now well we know that it would have been more in accordance with the rules provided for novel writers, for Arthur to have said, "Arise! villain!" but as he simply said, "Get up,my friend!" applying a singular emphasis to the italicized words: we feel bound to record his words just as he spoke them).
"I have a few words to say to you," said Arthur; "there's no use of your shuddering when I speak to you, and of crying when I touch you. You must listen to me and listen with all your senses about you. Why, you were courageous enough to blaspheme God, when you used his religion as the instrument of that poor girl's ruin: don't be afraid of me."
"When you leave this place,my friend, I will go with you. I will put no restraint upon your actions; you can go where you please, but wherever you go, I will go with you. I will not lose sight of you, until the life or death of Alice Burney is assured. Yes, you can go where you please, talk with whom you please, sleep, eat, drink where it suits you, but everywhereI will go with you. We will be together, side by side, until the life or the death of Alice is certain,—together, always together, like twin souls,—do you understand, my friend? Until we are assured of the fate of Alice, I will be yourshadow? Do you comprehend?"
Hermandidcomprehend. The full force of Arthur's determination crowded upon him, impressing every fiber of his soul.
"No,—no,—this cannot be," he faltered,—"If you must wreak your vengeance on me, kill me at once. But, to be thus accompanied, I will not consent—"
"Kill you?" and there was a sad smile on Dermoyne's face; "do you suppose that the mere act of physical death can atone for the moral and physical death of poor Alice? You commit a wrong, that is murder in a sense, that the basest physical murder can never equal; and you think the sacrifice of your life will atone for that wrong? Faugh! If Alice dies, I will kill you,—be assured of that—I will crush the miserable life which now beats within your brain,—but, first, I will make you die a thousand deaths—I will kill you in soul as well as in body—for every throb which you have made her suffer, you shall render an exact, a fearful account—yes, before I kill your miserable body, I will kill you in reputation, in all that makes life dear, in everything that you hold sacred, or that those with whom you are connected by all or any ties, hold sacred. To do this, I mustknow all about you, and to know all about you, I must go with you and be your shadow."
"Oh, this is infernal!" groaned Barnhurst, dropping his hands helplessly on his knees, while his head sank back against the chair, "Have you no mercy?"
"A preacher appeared as a demi-god, to the eyes of a sinless girl,—clad in the light of religion, he appeared to her as something more than mortal—aware of this fact, he passed from the pulpit where she heard him preach to her father's home, and there dishonored her. When her dishonor was complete, and a second life throbbed within her, so far from thinking of hiding her shame under the mantle of an honorable marriage, he calmly plotted the murder of his victim and her unborn child. And this preacher now crouches before his executioner, and falters, 'Have you no mercy?'"
"But I could not marry her," groaned Barnhurst, "it was impossible! impossible!"
"Why?"
Barnhurst buried his face in his hands, but did not answer.
"You killed her to save yourreputation," whispered Arthur, "and now I have your life and reputation in my grasp. In the name of Alice, I will use my power. Come! Let us be going. I am ready to attend you."
He took the hat and cloak of the clergyman, from a chair, (where Barnhurst had left them before he ascended to the chamber of Alice) and exclaimed with a low bow—
"Your hat and cloak, sir. I am ready."
Barnhurst rose, trembling and livid,—he placed the hat upon his sleeked hair, and wound the cloak about his angular form. For a moment his coward nature seemed stirred, by the extremity of his despair, into something like courage. His eyes (the dark pupils of which you will remember covered each eyeball) flashed madly from hisblondevisage, and he gazed from side to side, as if in search of some deadly weapon. At that moment he was prepared for combat and for murder.
Dermoyne caught his eye: never lunatic cowered at the sight of his keeper, as Barnhurst before Dermoyne.
"It won't do. You haven't the 'pluck,'" sneered Arthur,—"if it was a weak girl, there's no knowing what you might do; but as it is a man and an—executioner."
"I am ready," was all that Barnhurst could reply.
"One moment, dear friend, and I'll be with you," as he spoke, Dermoyne advanced toward the Madam's Desk. "I must have apledgebefore I go."
Before the preacher had time to analyze the meaning of these words, Dermoyne, with one blow of the iron bar, had forced the lock of the Madam's desk. He raised the lid and the light fell upon packages of letters, neatly folded, and upon a large book, square in shape and bound in red morocco.
"The red book!" the words were forced from Barnhurst's lips, as he saw Arthur raise the volume to the light and rapidly examine its contents.The red book! Well he knew the character of that singular volume!
"Yes, this will do," said Arthur, as he placed the book under his cloak. "I wanted a pledge,—that is to say, asure holdupon the Madam and her friends. And I have one!"
He took the clergyman by the arm and they went forth together from the private chamber,—the holy place—of the Madam. Went forth together, and descending the stairs, passed in the darkness along the hall. The key was in the lock of the front door. Arthur turned it, and in a moment, they passed together over the threshold of that mansion of crime, and stood in the light of the wintery stars.
"Who," whispered Arthur, as side by side, and arm in arm, they went down the dark street, "who to see us walk so lovingly together, would imagine the real nature of those relations which bind us together?"
He felt Barnhurst shudder as he held him to his side—
"The red book!" ejaculated the clergyman, with accent hard to define, whether of fear, or wonder, or of horror.
And by the light of the midnight stars, they went down the dark street together.
Scarcely had the echo of the front door, ceased to resound through the mansion, when the Madam entered the holy place from which Arthur and Herman had just departed. Her step was vigorous and firm, as she crossed the threshold; her face flashed with mingled rage and triumph.
"He will return to-morrow at ten o'clock!" she cried, and burst into a fit of laughter, which shook her voluminous bust,—"there's two ways of tellin' that story, my duck." (The Madam, as in all her vivacious moments, grew metaphorical.) "Catch a weasel asleep! Fool who with your tin 'fip!' I guess I haven't been about in the world all this while, to be out-generaled by a snip of a boy like that!"
Louder laughed the Madam, until her bust shook again—and in the midst of her calm enjoyment she saw—the desk and the broken lock. Her laughter stopped abruptly. She darted forward, like a tigress rushing on her prey. She seized the lamp and raised the lid, and saw the contents of the desk,—packages of letters, mysterious instruments and singular vials, all,—all,—save the red book.
The Madam could not believe her eyes. Rapidly she searched the desk, displacing its contents and researching every nook and corner, but her efforts were fruitless. There were packages of letters, mysterious vials, and instruments as mysterious, but,—the red book was not there.
For the first time in her life, the Madam experienced a sensation of fear,—unmingled fear,—and for the first time saw ruin open like a chasm at her very feet. She grew pale, sank helplessly in her arm-chair, and sat there like a statue,—rather like an image of imperfectly finished wax-work,—her visage blank as a sheet of paper.
"Gone,—gone," the words escaped from her lips, "ruined, undone!"
This state of "unmasterly inactivity" continued, however, but for a few moments. All at once she bounded from her chair, and a blasphemous oath escaped—more strictly speaking—shot from her lips. She crossed the floor, with a heavy stride, gave the bell-rope a violent pull, and then, hurrying to the door screamed "Corkins! Corkins!" with all her might.
"Why don't they come! Fools, asses!" and again, she attacked the bell-rope, and again, hurried to the door,—"Corkins, Corkins, I say! Halloo!"
In a few moments Corkins appeared, his spectacles awry and his right-hand laid affectionately upon his "goatee."
"The matter?"
"Don't stand there starin' at me like a stuck-pig!" was the elegant reply of the Madam,—"down into the cellar,—quick,—quick! Tell Slung to come here. Not a word. Go I say!"
She pushed Corkins out of the room. Then pacing up and down the small apartment, she awaited his return with an anxiety and suspense, very much like madness, uttering blasphemous oaths at every step she took.
Footsteps were heard, and at length, Corkins, dressed in sober black, appeared once more, leading Slung-Shot by the hand. The ruffian stumbled into the room, his brutal visage, low forehead, broken nose and elongated jaw, bearing traces of a recent debauch. Folding his brawny arms over his red flannel shirt, he gazed sleepily at the Madam, politely remarking at the same time—
"What de thunder's de muss,—s-a-y?"
"Are you sober?" and the Madam gave Slung a violent shake; "are you awake?"
"Old woman," responded Slung, "you better purceed to bisness, and give us none o' yer jaw. What de yer w-a-n-t? s-a-y!"
The Madam seized him by the arm.
"Two men have just left this house. One wears a cap,—the other, a hat. The one with the cap and cloak is the shortest of the two; and the one with a cap carries under his cloak a book, bound in red morocco, which he has just stolen from yonder desk. D'ye hear? I want you to track him and get back that book at any price; even if you have to—"
"Fech him up wid dis?" and the ruffian drew a "slung-shot" from the sleeve of his right arm.
"Yes, yes; anyhow, or by any means," continued the Madam; "only bring back the book before morning, and a hundred dollars are yours. D'ye hear?"
"A shortish chap with a cap an' cloak," exclaimed Slung; "there's a good many shortish chaps with caps in this 'ere town, old woman."
"I have it! I have it!" cried the Madam; and then she conveyed her instructions to Slung in a slow and measured voice. "Don't you think you'd know him now?" she exclaimed, when her instructions were complete.
"Could pick 'im out among a thousand." And the ruffian closed one eye, and increased the boundless ugliness of his face, by an indescribable grimace.
"Go then,—no time's to be lost,—a hundred dollars, you mind;" and she urged him to the door. He clutched the slung-shot and disappeared.
Corkins approached and looked the Madam in the face.
"The red book gone?" he asked, every line of his visage displaying astonishment and terror.
"Gone," echoed the Madam, "to be sure it is. Our only hope is in that ruffian. One well-planted blow with a slung-shot, will kill the strongest man."
"The red book gone!" Corkins fairly trembled with affright. Staggering like a drunken man, he managed to deposit himself in a chair. He took the gold spectacles from his nose, and wiped them, in an absent way. "Bad," he muttered. Then passing his hand from his "goatee" to his top-knot, and from top-knot to "goatee," again he muttered, "The red book gone! what will become of us?"
"If it is not recovered before morning, we are done for," cried the Madam; "that's all. But this is no time for foolin'? Come, sir! stir your stumps!"
She took the light and led the way up-stairs, followed by Corkins, who shook in every fiber; murmuring, at every step, "Gone! gone! The red book gone!"
Entering the passage which led to the chamber of Alice, the Madam paused at the door of that chamber, and pointed to the door of the closet which (you will remember) was buried under the stairway that led to the fourth story.
A faint moan was heard; it came from the chamber of Alice. The Madam did not heed that moan, but opening the closet door, crossed its threshold, followed by Corkins. The light disclosed the details of that small and gloomy place; and glittered brightly upon a mahogany chest or box which rested on the floor. A mahogany box, with surface polished like a mirror, and a shape that told at sight of death and the grave. It was a coffin; and the coffin of that nameless girl who had been removed from the bed, in the adjoining chamber, in order to make room for Alice.
"What,—what—is—to—be—done—with—her?" said Corkins, as he touched the coffin with his foot.
Here, for one moment, while Corkins and the Madam stand beside the coffin, in the lonely closet of the accursed mansion; here, for one moment, turn your gaze away. Look far through the night, and let your gaze rest upon the fireside light of yonder New England home. It is a quiet fireside, in the city of Hartford; and a father and a mother are sitting there, bewailing the singular absence of their only daughter, a beautiful girl, the hope and the light of their home; she strangely disappeared a week ago, and since then, they have heard no signs nor tidings of her fate.
And now they are sitting by their desolate fireside; the father choking down his agony in silent prayer; the mother giving free vent to her anguish in a flood of tears. And the eyes of father and mother turn to the daughter's place by the fireside; it is vacant, and forever. For while they bewail her absence,—while they hope for her return by morning light,—their daughter rests in the coffin, here, at the feet of Madam Resimer. Weep, fond mother; choke down your agony with silent prayer, brave father: but tears nor prayers can never bring your daughter back again. To-night, she rests in the coffin, at the feet of Madam Resimer; to-morrow night—Look yonder! A learned doctor is lecturing for the instruction of his students, and his "subject" lies on the table before him. That "subject," (Oh! do you see it, father and mother of the distant New England home,) that "subject" is your only daughter.
Verily, the tragedies of actual, every-day life, are more improbable than the maddest creations of romance.
"What shall we do withher?" again exclaimed Corkins, touching the coffin with his foot.
The Madam was troubled. "The red book!" she muttered, in an absent way, "the red book!" Her mind was evidently wandering. "It must be regained at any price."
"But—this—body," interrupted Corkins, tapping the coffin with his foot.
"Oh!this!" exclaimed the Madam, and a pleasant smile stole over her face.
"Oh! as tothis! we can easily dispose of it. I tell you, Corkins, we will—"
But she did not tell Corkins. For, from the adjoining room, came a cry, so ringing with the emphasis of mortal agony, that even the Madam was struck with terror, as she heard it.
Without a word, she led Corkins into the chamber of Alice.
Away from these scenes of darkness and of crime, let us, for a moment, turn aside and dwell, for a little while, on the fireside ray of a quiet home. Yes, leaving Arthur and Herman to pursue their way, let us indulge in a quiet episode:
It is a neat two-storied dwelling, standing apart from the street, somewhere in the upper region of the Empire City. Through the drawn window-curtains, a softened light trembles forth upon the darkness. Gaze through the curtains, and behold the scene which is disclosed by the mingled light of the open fire, and of the lamp whose beams are softened by a clouded shade.
A young mother sitting beside a cradle, with her baby on her breast, and a flaxen-haired boy, some three years old, crouching on the stool at her feet. A very beautiful sight,—save in the eyes of old bachelors, for whom this work is not written, and who are affectionately requested to skip this chapter,—a very beautiful sight, save in the eyes of that class of worn-out profligates, who never having had a mother or sister, and having spent their lives in degrading the holiest impulse of our nature, into a bestial appetite, come, at last, to look upon woman as a mere animal; come, at last, to sneer with their colorless lips and lack-luster eyes, at the very idea of a holy chastity, as embodied in the form of a pure woman. Of all the miserable devils, who crawl upon this earth, the most miserable is that lower devil, whose heart is foul with pollution at the very mention of woman. Take my word for it, (and if you look about the world, you'll find it so,) the man who has not, somewhere about his heart, a high, a holy ideal of woman,—an ideal hallowing every part of her being, as mother, sister, wife,—is a vile sort of man, anyhow you choose to look at him; a very vile man, rotten at the heart, and diffusing moral death wherever he goes. Avoid such a man;—not as you would the devil, for the devil is a king to him,—but as you would avoid the last extreme of depravity, loathsome, not only for its wretchedness, but for its utter baseness. It's a good rule to go by,—never trust that man who has a low idea of woman,—trust him not with purse, with confidence, in the street or over your threshold,—trust him not: his influence is poison; and the atmosphere which he carries with him, is that of hell.
It is a quiet room, neatly furnished; a lamp, with a clouded shade, stands on the table; a piano stands in one corner; the portrait of the absent father hangs on the wall; a wood fire burns briskly on the hearth. A very quiet room, full of the atmosphere of home.
The mother is one of those women whose short stature, round development of form and limb, clear complexion and abounding joyousness of look, seem more lovable in the eyes of a certain portion of the masculine race, than all the stately beauties in the world. Certainly, she was a pretty woman. Her eyes of clear, deep blue, her lips of cherry red, harmonized with the hue of her face, her neck and shoulders,—a hue resembling alabaster, slightly reddened by a glimpse of sunshine. Her hair rich and flowing, was neatly disposed about the round outlines of her young face. And in color,——ah, here's the trouble. I see the curl of your lip and the laugh in your eyes. And in color, her hair was not black, nor golden, nor brown, nor even auburn. Her hair was red. You may laugh if it suits you, but her red-hair became her; and this woman with the red-hair, was one of the prettiest, one of the most lovable women in the world. (Why is it that a certain class of authors, very poverty stricken in the way of ideas, always introduce a red-haired woman in the character of a vixen,—always expect you to laugh at the very mention of red-hair—in fact, invest the capital of what little wit they have, in lamentably funny allusions to red-heads, red-hair, and so forth? Or if they fall in love with a sweet woman, with bright red-hair, why do these authors, when they make sonnets to the object of their choice, persist in calling red-hair by the ambiguous name ofauburn?)
And thus, in her quiet home, with her baby on her breast and her boy at her knee, sat the beautiful woman, with red hair. Sat there, the very picture of a good mother and a holy wife, lulling her babe to sleep with a verse from some old-fashioned hymn. Somehow this mother, centered thus in her quiet home—the blessing of motherhood around and about her like a baptism,—seems more worthy of reverence and love, than the entire first circle of the opera, blazing with bright diamonds and brighter eyes, on a gala night.
The boy resting one hand on his mother's knee, and looking all the while into her face, asks in his childish tones, "When will father come home?"
"Soon, love, very soon," the mother answers, and resumes the verse of the old hymn.
Now, doesn't it strike you that the husband of such a wife, and the father of such children must be altogether a good man?
We will see him after awhile, and judge for ourselves.
Meanwhile, sit alone with your children, and watch for his coming,—you, simple hearted woman, that know no higher learning, than the rich intuitions of a mother's love. Your chastity is like a vail of light, making holy the room in which you watch, with your boy at your knee, and your baby on your bosom.
It was a strange march which Arthur and Barnhurst, arm in arm, took through the streets of the Empire City.
"I am ready to attend you wherever you go," whispered Arthur, as leaving the den of Madam Resimer, they went down the dark street.
"But, where shall I go?" was the question that troubled Barnhurst. "Home?" He shuddered at the thought. Any place but home! "Can I possibly get rid of him?" Doubtful, exceedingly doubtful; "his arm is too strong, and he has me in his power in every way. But that engagement which I have, to meet a person at the hour of four o'clock, at a peculiar place,—how shall I dispose of it? Shall I fail to keep it, or shall I make this man a witness of it?"
Barnhurst was troubled. He knew not what to do. And so arm in arm, they walked along in silence through a multitude of streets,—streets dark as grave-vaults, and laid out in old times, with a profound contempt of right angles—streets walled in with huge warehouses, above whose lofty roofs, you caught but a glimpse of the midnight stars.
And so passing along, they came at length upon the Battery, and caught the keen blast upon their cheeks, as they wandered among the leafless trees. They heard the roar of the waters, and saw the glorious bay,—dim and vast,—surging sullenly under the broad sky, dark with midnight, and yet, glittering with countless stars. A starlight view of Manhattan bay, from the Battery—it was a sight worth seeing. Herman and Arthur, standing there alone, looked forth in silence. They could not see each other's faces, but Arthur felt the incessant horror which agitated Barnhurst's arm and Barnhurst heard the groan which seemed wrung from Arthur's very heart.
For a long time there was silence. Flash on, old midnight, in your solemn drapery set with stars,—flash on,—you sparkled thus grandly ten thousand years ago, as you will ten thousand years hence,—what care you for the agony of these two men, who now with widely different feelings, stand awed by your sullen splendor!
"If you've seen enough of this, I guess we'd better go," said Arthur, mildly, "I am ready to follow you wherever you go."
Barnhurst silently moved away from the waters, and as they went among the leafless trees, Dermoyne looked back toward the sounding waves—looked back yearningly as though unwilling to leave the sight of them, something there was so tempting in that sight. One plunge and all is over!
They came upon Broadway. It was between two and three o'clock in the morning. I know of nothing in the world so productive of thought, as a walk along Broadway about three o'clock in the morning. The haunts of traffic are closed: the great artery of the city is silent as death: the mad current of life which whirled along it incessantly a few hours ago, has disappeared; or if there is life upon its broad flag-stones, it is life of a peculiar character, far different from the life of the day. And there it spreads before you, under the midnight stars, its vast extent defined by two lines of light, which, in the far distance melt into one vague mass of brightness. New York is the Empire City of the continent and Broadway is the Empire Street of the world.
If you don't believe it, just walk the length of Broadway on a sunny day, when it is mad with life and motion,—and then walk it, at night, and see the kind of life which creeps over its flag-stones under the light of the stars.
They took their silent march up Broadway.
What's this? A huge pile, surrounded by unsightly scaffolding—a huge Gothic pile, whose foundation is among graves, and whose unfinished spire already seems to touch the stars? Trinity Church—Trinity Church, fronting Wall street, as though to watch its worshipers, who scour Wall street, six days in the week in search of prey, and on the seventh, come to Trinity to say a rich man's prayer, from a prayer-book bound in gold.
And this, what's this? This creature in woman's attire, who glides along the pavement, now accosting the passer-by in language that sounds on woman's lips, like the accents of Hell,—and now, throwing her vail aside, clasps her hands and looks shudderingly around, as though conscious, that for her, not one heart in all the world, cared one throb! What's this? That is a woman, friend. A father used to hold her on his knees, just after the evening prayer was said—a mother used to bend over her as she slept, and kiss her smiling face, and breathe a mother's blessing over her sinless darling. But, what is she now? What does she here alone, out in the cold, dark night? * * * * She is a tenant of one of the houses owned by Trinity Church. She is out in the cold, dark night,—the poor blasted thing you see her,—seeking, out of the hire of her pollution, to swell the revenues of Trinity Church!
She came toward Arthur and Barnhurst, even as they passed before the portals of the unfinished church.
She laid her hand on Arthur's arm, and said to him, words that need not be written.
Arthur looked long and steadily into her face. It had been very beautiful once, but now there was fever in the flaming eyes, and death in the blue circles beneath them. She had fallen to the lowest deep.
"Look there!" whispered Arthur to Barnhurst, "she was as happy once as Alice, and as pure,—that is, as happy and as pure as Alice before you knew her. What is she now?"
Barnhurst did not reply.
Arthur took a silver dollar from his pocket and gave it to the girl. "Go home," he said, "and God pity you!"
"Home!" she echoed, and took the dollar with an incredulous look, and then uttering a strange mad laugh, she went to spend the dollar,—one-half of it for rum and the other half to pay the rent which she owed to Trinity Church.
(Here it occurs to us, to propose three cheers to good old Trinity Church,—and three more to the Patent Gospel which influences the actions of its venerable corporation. Hip—hip—hurrah! Hur—, but somehow the cheering dies away, when one thinks for a minute of the vast contrast between the Gospel of Trinity Church and the Gospel of the New Testament. I somehow think we won't cheer any more.)
Up Broadway they resumed their march, Herman and Arthur, arm in arm, and silent as the grave. To see them walk so lovingly together, you would have thought them the best friends in the world.
What's yonder light, flashing from the window of the fourth story? The light of a gambling hell, my friend. That light shines upon piles of gold and upon faces haggard with the tortures of the damned.
And these half naked forms, crouching in the doorway of yonder unfinished edifice,—huddling together in their rags, and vainly endeavoring to keep out the winter's cold. Children,—friendless, orphaned children. All day long they roam the streets in search of bread, and at night they sleep together in this luxurious style.
But we have arrived at the Astor and the Park stretches before us, the wind moaning among its leafless trees, and its lights glimmering in a sort of mournful radiance through the gloom. The Park, whose walks by day and night have been the theater of more tragedies of real life,—more harrowing agony, hopeless misery, starving despair,—than you could chronicle in the compass of a thousand volumes. Could these flag-stones speak, how many histories might they tell—histories of those, who, mad with the last anguish of despair, have paced these walks at dead of night, hesitating between crime and suicide, between the knife of the assassin and the last plunge of the self murderer!
But at this moment shouts of drunken mirth are heard, opposite the Astor. Some twenty gay young gentlemen, attired in opera uniform,—black dress-coat, white vest, white kid gloves,—and fragrant at once of champagne and cologne, have formed a circle around the ancient pump, which stands near the Park gate. These gay young gentlemen, after two hours painful endurance of that refinement of torture, known as the Italian Opera, have been making a tour of philosophical observation through the town; they have carried on a brisk crusade against the watchmen; have drank much champagne at a "crack" hotel; have tarried awhile in the aristocratic resort of Mr. Peter Williams, which, as you doubtless know, gives tone and character to the classic region of the Five Points; and now encircling the pump, they listen to the eloquent remarks of one of their number, who is interrupted now and then by rounds of enthusiastic applause. Very much inebriated, he is seated astride of the pump, which his vivid imagination transforms into a blooded racer—
"Gentlemen," he says, blandly and with a pardonable thickness of utterance, "if my remarks should seem confused, attribute it to my position; I am not accustomed to public speaking on horseback. But, as Congress is now in session, I deem it a duty which I owe to my constituents, to give my views on—on—on the great Bill for the Protection of—"
"Huckleberries!" suggested a voice.
"Thank the gentleman from Ann-street," continued the speaker, in true parliamentary style, as he swayed to and fro, on top of the pump; "of the great Bill for the Protection of Huckleberries! Now, gentlemen," he continued, suddenly forgetting his huckleberries, "you know they beat Henry Clay this time by their infernal cry of Texas and Oregon; you know it!"
There was a frightful chorus, "We do! we do!"
"You know how bad we felt when we crossed Cayuga bridge,—Polk on top, and Clay under,—but, gentlemen, I have a cry for 1848 that will knock their daylights out of 'em. They shouted Texas and Oregon, and licked us; but in 1848 we'll give 'em fits withClayand—Japan!"
"Clay andJapan!" was the chorus of the twenty young gentlemen.
"There's a platform for you, gentlemen! Clay and Japan! We'll give 'em annexation up to their eyes. Consider, gentlemen, the advantages of Japan! Separated from the continent by a trifling slip of water, known as the Pacific ocean. Japan may be considered in the light of a near neighbor. And then what a delicious campaign we can make, with Japan on our banner! Nobody I knows anything about her, and we can lie as we please, without the most remote danger of being found out. Isn't there something heart-stirring in the very word,Ja-pan? And then, gentlemen, we'll have 'em; for Japan ain't committed to any of the leading questions of the day, and we can make all sorts o' pledges to everybody, and—"
The orator, in his excitement, swayed too much to one side, and fell languidly from the pump into the arms of his enthusiastic friends; and, with three cheers for "Clay and Japan," the party of twenty young gentlemen went, in a staggering column, to a neighboringrestaurant, where—it is presumable—a few bottles more put them, not only into the humor of annexing Japan, but all Asia in the bargain. Arthur and Barnhurst had observed this scene from the steps of the Astor.
"Do you know this is very absurd?" said Barnhurst, pettishly—"this walking about town all night?"
"Do you think so?" responded Dermoyne.
"Then why don't you go home?"
Home! Barnhurst shuddered at the thought. Home! Anything, anything but that!
There was something, too, in the singular gayety of Arthur's tone, which struck him with more terror than the most boisterous threat. Underneath this gayety, like floods of burning lava beneath a morning mist, there rolled and swelled a tide of unfathomable emotion.
"Let us walk on," said Barnhurst, faintly; and they walked on, arm in arm—the false clergyman with the very terror of death in his heart—the poor mechanic with a face immovably calm, but with the fire of an irrevocable resolution in his eyes. They walked on: up Broadway, and into the region where sits the sullen Tombs, and through the maze of streets, where vice and squalor, drunkenness and crime, hold their grotesque revel all night long. Through the Five Points they walked, confronted at every step by a desperate or abandoned wretch, their ears filled with the cries of blasphemy, starvation and mirth,—mirth, that was very much like the joy of nethermost hell. Into Chatham street they walked, and up the Bowery, and once more across into Broadway, where the delicate outlines of Grace Church, with its fairy-like sculpture work, were dimly visible in the night. Toward the North River, and through narrow alleys, where human beings were herded together in the last extreme of misery, they walked; and then into broad streets, whose splendid mansions, dark without from pavement to roof, were bright within with rich men's revels,—revels, drunken and foul beyond the blush of shame.
It was a strange, sad march, which they took in the silent night, through the vast Empire City.
And at every step Arthur gathered the Red Book closer to his side.
And behind them, in all their march, even from the moment when they left the Battery, two figures followed closely in their wake—unseen by Arthur or by Barnhurst,—two figures, tracking every step of their way with all a bloodhound's stealth and zeal.
At length—it was near the hour of four—they came to the head of Wall street once more, and paused in front of the portals of unfinished Trinity.
"Here you must leave me," cried Barnhurst, in a tone of desperation, "I have an appointment in this church at the hour of four. Leave me,—at least for a little while—"
But Arthur held fast the false clergyman's arm.
"I will never leave you," he said. "Keep your appointment, I will witness it. It will be very interesting to know what business it is, that can bring you to this unfinished church at the hour of four in the morning."
Barnhurst set his teeth together in silent rage.
"You cannot,—cannot,—" he began.
"Not a word," sternly interrupted Dermoyne. "Go in and keep your appointment like a man of your word."
Barnhurst led the way, and they passed under heavy piles of scaffolding into the dark church. Dark indeed, and unenlivened by a single ray of light. All around was silent as the grave. The profound stillness was well calculated to strike the heart with awe, and Arthur and Barnhurst, as they groped their way along, did not utter a word.
"Here, near the third pillar, I am to meet him," whispered Barnhurst.
"Give me your left hand, then; I will conceal myself behind the pillar, and hold you firmly, while you converse with your friend."
Herman, in the thick darkness, placed himself against the pillar, and Dermoyne, firmly grasping his left hand, crept behind it.
Thus they stood for many minutes, awaiting the approach of Herman's friend. In the dark and stillness those moments seemed so many ages.
A bell, striking the hour of four, resounded over the city.
At length a step was heard, and then a faint cough,—
"Are you here?" said a voice; and Dermoyne, from his place of concealment, beheld a dimly-defined figure approach the third pillar.
"I am," answered Barnhurst.
"Who are you?" said the voice of the unknown.
"I am Herman Barnhurst."—His voice was low but distinct.
"How shall I know that you are the Barnhurst whom I seek?" asked the unknown.
There was a pause. Barnhurst seemed to hesitate:
"'The Night of the Tenth of November,1842,'" he said, and his voice trembled.
"Right; you are the man," said the unknown. "Did you receive a letter last evening?"
"I did,"—and Barnhurst's voice was very faint.
"How was that letter signed, and to what did it refer?"
Again Barnhurst hesitated. Arthur felt the hand which he held grow hot and cold by turns.
"It was signed by 'The Three,"' he replied in a faltering voice—"and referred to an event whichit assumestook place on the night of the tenth of November, 1842."
"'Assumes!'" echoed the unknown, with a faint laugh. "You think it anassumption, do you? Well, I like that. And the letter requested you to meet one of the 'Three,' at this place, at the hour of four this morning; and it concluded by stating that you would hear something of great interest to yourself in regard to theevents of that night."
"It did," faintly responded Barnhurst. "I am here, and—"
"We will have a little private conversation together. First of all, you must know that I am one of three persons who take a great interest in your affairs, and desire to save you from a great deal of trouble. We watch over you with fraternal anxiety, and do all we can to keep you out of harm. And on the part of the Three, (whose names you will know in good time, in case you prove reasonable,) I am deputed to give you a little good counsel."
"Good counsel?"
"Good counsel, was the word. Now, in order to understand this good counsel, you will understand that the Three are in possession of all the facts connected with the remarkable event of thenight of the tenth of November, 1842. Facts, certified by proof—you comprehend?"
Herman gave a start, but did not reply.
"You will, therefore, listen to the good counsel with patience, I doubt not. To come to the point, then:—You know that the immense property of Trinity Church, comprising, at a rough guess, one eighth of the greatest city on the American continent, has been threatened at various periods by a series of conspiracies, who have giventhe corporationmuch trouble, and who, more than once, have nearly accomplished its ruin?"
"I do," answered Herman; "and these conspiracies have all sprung from a band of persons, widely dispersed through the United States, and calling themselves the heirs of Anreke Jans Bogardus."
"Right," continued the unknown. "Anreke Jans, said to be the natural daughter of a king of Holland, lived on this island about two hundred years ago. At her death she bequeathed to her children a certain farm—a farm which at the present time forms the very heart of New York, and constitutes a great part of the wealth of Trinity Church, for it is worth countless millions of dollars. Now you are well aware that it is alleged by the descendants of Anreke Jans, that this farm was juggled out of the hands of one of their ancestors by a gross fraud—a fraud worthy of that curse which Scripture pronounces upon the man who removes his neighbor's land-mark—and that Trinity Church has only one right to the ownership of said farm, to wit: the right of the thief and robber?"
"I am aware of this," responded Herman; "and so powerful have been the proofs of this fraud, that the Church has, on various occasions, come near losing the very jewel of all its immense possessions. Only one course of action has saved it from the heirs of Anreke Jans Bogardus—"
"It has, when nearly driven to the wall, consented to compromise with the heirs for their claim,—has simply desired in return, a release, signed by all the heirs,—and then, on the very eve of settlement, it has managed to buy off one or two of the most prominent heirs. For instance, Aaron Burr, (who acted for the heirs, some thirty years ago,) was lulled into silence by the generosity of the Church. She gave him several valuable tracts of land, which he sold to Astor—"
The unknown paused for a moment, and then resumed:
"At the present time, these heirs are preparing a conspiracy, more desperately energetic than any previous effort. It is certainly the interest of the Church to foil this conspiracy at all hazards. And we 'Three' persons, not directly connected with the corporation, think that we can make it our interest to assist the Church in the final overthrow of the conspirators. To do this effectually, we require the assistance of one of the heirs, who will wind himself into the plans of the conspirators, help the plot to ripen, and help us togather itwhen it is ripe."
"'One of the heirs?'" muttered Herman.
"Ay, one of the heirs,—and he must be a man of sense, shrewdness and undoubted respectability. Now—do you hear me?—you, Herman Barnhurst, are one of the heirs of Anreke Jans Bogardus."
There was a pause of profound silence. You might have heard a pin drop, in the deep stillness of that vast edifice.
"I am one of the heirs of Anreke Jans," said Herman; "and what then?"
The voice of the unknown was deep, distinct and imperative:
"You will assist us in foiling these conspirators. You will assist us willingly, faithfully, and without reserve. This is the good counsel which I am deputed to give you."
"And if I decline?" said Herman, drawing a long breath.
"You will not decline when you remember the event of the night of the tenth of November, 1842."
Dermoyne felt the hand which he clasped tremble in his grasp.
"Ah!" and Herman drew another long breath.
"As the Third of the Three, I beg your opinion of my good counsel," said the unknown.
"I accept," said Herman, in a husky voice.
"But we must have some pledge for your fidelity—"
"Have you not pledge enough," said Herman, bitterly, "if you know the events of that night—"
"True; but we require some other little pledge in the way of collateral—as the money lenders say"—said the unknown, who had designated himself as "the Thirdof the Three." "In the event of a certain contingency—a very improbable contingency,—you will inherit one seventh of the Van Huyden estate—"
Herman gave a start;—he moved forward suddenly, but was drawn back against the pillar by the strong grip of Dermoyne:
"The Van Huyden estate!" he ejaculated in a tone of utter astonishment.
"I said the Van Huyden estate," continued the Third of the Three,—"and that should satisfy you that I know all about it. In witness of your good faith, you will to-morrow make over to us, by our own proper names, and over your own proper signature, all your right, title and interest in the Van Huyden estate. The final settlement, you know, takes place the day after to-morrow. In case you act faithfully to us, we will restore you your right on the day when, by your assistance, we have foiled the heirs of Anreke Jans. The good counsel which I have for you is this:—accept this proposition at once, if you know what is good for your health, your reputation, your liberty."
The words of the Third of the Three were succeeded by a dead pause. It was dark, and the changes of Herman's face could not be seen. A sound was heard, like a half-suppressed groan.
"And if I refuse?" he faltered—"if I cast your absurd proposition to the winds?"
"Then therevelationof the event of that night, may cast you to the devil," was the calm reply.
"At least give me some hours for reflection; let me consider your proposal."
"We had thought of this," answered the unknown. "The time is short. The 25th of December will soon be here. I am authorized to give you until to-day at mid-day,—that is, you have nearly eight hours for calm reflection."
Herman said, after a moment's hesitation, in a low and scarce perceptible voice,—
"Be it so."
"In case your answer is Yes, you will signify it in this manner"—and he whispered in the ear of his victim,—whispered a few brief words, which Herman drank in with all his soul. "Remember, before mid-day, some seven and a half hours hence."
"You shall have my answer in the manner specified," said Herman, in an accent of utter bewilderment.
"Our interview is at an end," said the Third of the Three. "As we must not by any chance be seen leaving this place together, I will pass through the graveyard, while you go out at the main door. Good night."
And leaving the miserable man, who sank back against the pillar for support, the Third of the Three passed from the shadows, out into the graveyard, where white tombstones appeared in the starlight, mingled with piles of lumber and heaps of building stone.
As he came into the starlight, it might be seen that he was a short thick-set man, clad in a dark over-coat, whose upturned collar hid the low part of his visage, while his hat, drawn low over his brows, masked the upper portion of his face. He chuckled to himself as he picked his way among the heaps of lumber and scattered masses of building stone:
"It is a nice game, any how you choose to look at it. The heirs of Anreke Jans can be played against the Church; this man Herman can be played against the heirs, and the Three can dictate terms to both parties, and decide the game. And when the Three have won, why then the Third of the Three can hold the First and Second in his power; especially, if this man's chance of the seventh of the Van Huyden estate is transferred to the Third, by his own proper name. Well, well; law, properly understood, is the science of pulling wool over other people's eyes: eloquent speeches in court, and the name of a big practice, may do for some people; but give me one of these nice little cases, which lie sequestered from the public view, quiet as an oyster in his bed, and as juicy!"