It was June again. One summer evening I took the path which led from the garden to the summit of the hill which rose behind the cottage. As I pursued my way upward the sun was setting, and at every step I obtained a broader glimpse of the river, the dark Palisades, and the bay white with sails. When I reached the summit, the sun was on the verge of the horizon, and the sky in the west all purple and gold. Seating myself on the huge rock, which rose on the summit, surrounded by a circle of grand old trees, I surrendered myself to the quiet and serenity of the evening hour. The view was altogether beautiful. Beneath me sloped the broad hills, clad in wheat which already was changing from emerald to gold. Farther down, my cottage home half hidden among trees. Then beneath the cottage, the homes of the village dotting the hills, among which wound the Neprehaun. The broad river and the wide bay heaving gently in the fading light, and the dark Palisades rising blackly against the gold and purple sky. A lovelier view cannot be imagined. And the air was full of summer—scented with breath of vines and blossoms and new-mown hay. As I surrendered myself to thoughts which arose unbidden, the first star came tremulously into view, and the twilight began to deepen into night. I was thinking of my life—of the past—of the future. A strange vision of the great world, struggled into dim shape before the eye of my mind.
"A year more, and I will enter the great world!" I ejaculated. A hand was laid lightly on my shoulder. I started to my feet with a shriek.
"What, Frank, don't you know me?" said a half laughing voice, and I beheld beside me a youth of some nineteen or twenty years, whose face, shaded by dark hair, was touched by the last flush of the declining day. It was Ernest, the only son of the good clergyman. I had not seen him for three years. In that time, he had grown from boyhood into young manhood. He sat beside me on the rock, and we talked together as freely as when we were but little children. Ernest was full of life and hope; his voice grew deep, his dark eyes large and lustrous, as he spoke of the prospects of his future.
"In one year, Frank, I will graduate and then,—then,—the great world lies before me!" His gaze was turned dreamily to the west, and his fine features drawn in distinct profile against the evening sky.
"And what part, Ernest, will you play in the great world?"
"Father wishes me to enter into the ministry, but,—" and he uttered a joyous, confident laugh,—"whatever part I play, I know that I will win!"
He uttered these words in the tone of youth and hope, that has never been darkened by a shadow, and then turning to me,—
"And you, Frank, what part will you play in the great world?" he said.
"I know not. My career is in the hands of my only parent, who will come next year to take me hence. My childhood has been wrapped in mystery; and my future, O, who can foretell the future?"
He gazed at me, for the first time, with an earnest and searching gaze. His eyes, large and gray, and capable of the most varied expression, became absent and dreamy.
"You are very beautiful!" he said, as though thinking aloud,—"O, very beautiful! You will marry rich,—yes,—wealth and position will be yours at once."
And as the moon, rising over the brow of the hill, poured her light upon his thoughtful face, he took my hand and said:
"Frank, why is it that certain natures live only in the future or the past—never in the present? Look at ourselves, for instance. Yonder among the trees, bathed in the light of the rising moon, lies the cottage home in which we have passed the happiest, holiest hours of life. Of that home we are not thinking now—we are only looking forward to the future—and yet the time will come, when immersed in the conflict of the world, we will look back to that home, with the same yearning that one, stretched upon the couch of hopeless disease, looks forward to his grave!"
His voice was low and solemn—I never forgot his words. We sat for many minutes in silence. At length without a word, he took my hand, and we went down the hill together, by the light of the rising moon. We climbed the stile, passed under the garden boughs, and entered the cottage, and found the good old man seated in his library among his books. He raised his eyes as we came in, hand joined in hand, and a look of undisguised pleasure stole over his face.
"See here, father," said Ernest laughingly, "when I went to college, I left my little sister in your care. I now return, and discover that my little sister has disappeared, and left in her place this wild girl, whom I found wandering to-night among the hills. Don't you think there is something like a witch in her eyes?"
The old man smiled and laid his hand on my dark hair.
"Would to heaven!" he said, "that she might never leave this quiet home." And the prayer came from his heart.
Ernest remained with us until fall. Those were happy days. We read, we talked, we walked, we lived with each other. More like sister and sister than brother and sister, we wandered arm-in-arm to the brow of the hill as the rich summer evening came on,—or crossed the river in early morning, and climbed the winding road that led to the brow of the Palisades,—or sat, at night, under the trees by the river's bank, watching the stars as they looked down into the calm water. Sometimes at night, we sat in the library, and I read while the old man's hand rested gently on my head and Ernest sat by my side. And often upon the porch, as the summer night wore on, Ernest and myself sang together some old familiar hymn, while "Father" listened in quiet delight. Thus three months passed away, and Ernest left for college.
"Next year, Frank, I graduate," he cried, his thoughtful face flushed with hope, and his gray eyes full of joyous light—"and then for the battle with the world!"
He left, and the cottage seemed blank and desolate. The good clergyman felt his absence most keenly.
"Well, well," he would mutter, "a year is soon round and then Ernest will be with us again!"
As for myself, I tried my books, my harp, took long walks alone, busied myself in household cares, but I could not reconcile myself to the absence of Ernest.
Winter came, and one night a letter arrived from Ernest to his father, and in that letter one for—Frank! How eagerly I took it from "father's" hand and hurried to my room,—that room which I remember yet so vividly, with its window opening on the garden, and the picture of the Virgin Mary on the snow-white wall. Unmindful of the cold, I sat down alone and perused the letter, O, how eagerly! It was a letter from a brother to a sister, and yet beneath the calm current of a brother's love, there flowed a deeper and a warmer love. How joyously he spoke of his future, and how strangely he seemed to mingle my name with every image of that future! I read his letter over and over, and slept with it upon my bosom; and I dreamed, O! such air-castle dreams, in which a whole lifetime seemed to pass away, while Ernest and Frank, always young, always happy, went wandering, hand-in-hand, under skies without a cloud. But I awoke in fright and terror. It seemed to me that a cold hand—like the hand of a corpse—was laid upon my bosom, and somehow I thought that my mother was dead and that it was her hand. I started up in fright and tears, and lay shuddering until the rising sun shone gayly through the frosted window-pane.
Another year had nearly passed away.
It was June again, and it was toward evening that I stood upon the cottage porch watching—not the cloudless sky and glorious river bathed in the setting sun—but watching earnestly for the sound of a footstep. Ernest was expected home. He had graduated with all the honors—he was coming home! How I watched and waited for that welcome step! At last the wicket-gate was opened, and Ernest's step resounded on the garden-walk. Concealing myself among the vines which covered one of the pillars of the porch, I watched him as he approached, determining to burst upon him in a glad surprise as soon as he reached the steps. His head was downcast, he walked with slow and thoughtful steps; his long black hair fell wild and tangled on his shoulders. The joyous hue of youth on his cheek had been replaced by the pallor of long and painful thought. The hopeful boy of the last year had been changed into the moody and ambitious man! As he came on, although my heart swelled to bursting at sight of him, I felt awed and troubled, and forgot my original intention of bursting upon him in a merry surprise. He reached the porch—he ascended the step—and I glided silently from behind the pillar and confronted him. O, how his face lighted up as he saw me! His eyes, no longer glassy and abstracted, were radiant with a delight too deep for words!
"Frank!" he said, and silently pressed my hand.
"Ernest," was all I could reply, and we stood in silence—both trembling, agitated—and gazing into each other's eyes.
The good Clergyman was happy that evening, as he sat at the supper table, with Frank on one hand and Ernest on the other. And old Alice peering at us through her spectacles could not help remarking, "Well, well, only yesterday children, and now such a handsomecouple!"
After supper, Ernest and I went to the rock on the summit of the hill, where we had met the year before. The scene was the same,—the river, the bay, the dark Palisades, and the vast sky illumined by the rising moon,—but somehow we seemed changed. We sat apart from each other on the rock, and sat for a long time in silence. Ernest, with downcast eyes, picked in an absent way at some flowers which grew in the crevices of the rock. And I,—well I believe I tied the strings of my sun-bonnet into all sorts of knots. I felt half disposed to laugh and half disposed to cry.
At last I broke the silence:—
"You have fulfilled your words, Ernest," I said, "You have graduated with all the honors—as last year you said you would,—and now a bright career stretches before you. You will go forth into the great world, you will battle, you will win!"
"Frank," said he, stretching forth his hand,—"Do you see yonder river as it flows broad and rapid, in the light of the rising moon? You speak of a bright career before me—now I almost wish that I was quietly asleep beneath those waves."
The sadness of his tone and look went to my heart.
"You surprise me, Frank. Now,"—and I attempted a laugh—"You have not fallen in love, since last year, have you?"
He looked up and surveyed me from head to foot. I was dressed in white—my hair fell in loose curls to my shoulders. In a year I had passed from the girl into the woman. I was taller, my form more roundly developed. And as he gazed upon me, I was conscious that he was remarking the change which had taken place in my appearance, and that his look was one of ardent admiration.
"Doyouthink that I have fallen in lovesincelast year?" he said slowly and with a meaning look.
I turned away from his gaze, and exclaimed—
"But you are moody, Ernest. Last year you were so hopeful—now so melancholy. Youcan, you will succeed in life."
"That I can meet with what the world calls success, I do not doubt," he replied: "There is the career of the popular preacher, armed with a white handkerchief and a velvet Gospel,—of the lawyer, growing rich with the rent paid to him by crime, and devoting all the powers of his immortal soul to prove that black is white and white is black—of the merchant, who sees only these words painted upon the face of God's universe, 'Buy cheap and sell dear,'—careers such as these, Frank, are before me, and I am free to choose, and doubt not but that I could succeed in any of them. But to achieve such success I would not spend, I do not say the labor of years—No,—I would not spend the thought of a single hour."
"But the life of a good Minister of the Gospel, Ernest, living in some quiet country town, dividing his time between his parishioners and his books, and dwelling in a home like the cottage yonder—what say you to such a life, Ernest?"
He raised his eyes, and again surveyed me earnestly—"Ambitious as I am, I would sacrifice every thought of ambition for a life such as you picture—but upon one condition,"—he paused—
"And that condition?" I said in a low voice.
"Ask your own heart," was his reply, uttered in a tremulous voice.
I felt my bosom heave,—was agitated, trembling I knew not why,—but I made no answer.
There was a long and painful pause.
"The night is getting chill," I said at length, for want of something better to say: "Father is waiting for us. Let us go home."
I led the way down the path, and he followed moodily, without a word. As he helped me over the stile I saw that his face was pale, his lips tightly compressed. And when we came into the presence of his Father, he replied to the old man's kind questions, in a vacant and abstracted manner. I bade him "good night!" at last; he answered me, but added in a lower tone, inaudible to the old man, "Young and rich and beautiful, you are beyond the reach of—acountry clergyman."
The next morning while we were at breakfast, a letter came. It was from my mother. To-morrow she would come and take me from the cottage!
The letter dropped from the old man's hand, and Ernest rising abruptly from the table, rushed from the room.
And I was to leave the home of my happiest hours, and go forth into the great world! The thought fell like a thunderbolt upon every heart in the cottage.
After an hour Ernest met me on the porch; he was very pale.
"Frank," said he, kindly, "To-morrow you will leave us forever. Would you not like to see once more the place yonder,"—he pointed across the river to the Palisades—"where we spent so many happy hours last summer?"
He spoke of that dear nook, high up among the rocks, encircled by trees, and canopied by vines, where, we had indeed spent many a happy hour.
I made no reply, but put on my sun-bonnet and took his arm, and in a little while we were crossing the river, he rowing, while I sat in the stern. It was a beautiful day. We arrived at the opposite shore, at a point where the perpendicular wall of the Palisades, is for a mile or more, broken by a huge and sloping hill, covered with giant forest trees. Together we took the serpentine path, which, winding toward all points of the compass, led to the top of the Palisades. The birds were singing, the broad forest leaves and hanging vines quivered in the sun, the air was balmy, and the day the very embodiment of the freshness and fragrance of June. As we wound up the road (whose brown graveled surface contrasted with the foliage), we saw the sunlight streaming in upon the deep shadows of the wood, and heard from afar the lulling music of a waterfall. Departing from the beaten road, we wandered among the forest trees, and talked together as gladly and as familiarly as in other days. There we wandered for hours, now in sunlight, now in shadow, now resting upon the brow of some moss-covered rock, and now stopping beside a spring of clear cold water, half hidden by thick green leaves. As noon drew near, we ascended to the top of the forest hill, and passing through a wilderness of tangled vines, came suddenly upon a rude farmhouse, one story high, built of logs, whose dark surface contrasted with the verdure of the garden and the foliage of the overshadowing tree. It was the same as in the year before. There was the well-pole rising above its roof and the well-bucket moist with clear cold water, and in the doorway stood the farmer's dame, who had often welcomed us to her quiet home.
"Bless me! how handsome my children have grown!" she cried, "and how's the good Domine? Come in, come in; the folks are all away in the fields; come in and rest you, and have some pie and milk, and"—she paused for breath—"and some dinner."
The good dame would take no denial, and we sat down to dinner with her—I can see the scene before me now—the carefully sanded floor, the old clock in the corner, the cupboard glistering with the burnished pewter, the neatly spread table, the broad hearth, covered with green boughs, and the open windows, with the sunbeams playing through the encircling vines. And then the good dame with her high cap, round, good-humored face, and spectacles resting on the bridge of her hooked nose. As we broke the home-made bread with her, we were as gay as larks.
"Well, I do like to see young folks enjoy themselves," said the dame.—"You don't know how often I've thought of you since you were here last summer. I have said, and I will say it, that a handsomer brother and sister I never yet did see."
"But you mistake," said Ernest, "We're not brother and sister."
"Only cousins," responded the dame, surveying us attentively, "Well, I'm glad of it, for there's no law ag'in cousins marryin', and you'd make such a handsome couple." And she laughed until her sides shook.
Leaving the farmhouse, we bent our way to the Palisades again. We had been gay and happy all the morning, now we became thoughtful. We entered a narrow path, and presently came upon the dear nook where we had spent so many happy hours. It was a quiet space of green-sward and velvet moss, encircled on all sides, save one, by the trunks of giant forest trees—the oak, the tulip poplar and the sycamore—which arose like rugged columns, their branches forming a roof far overhead. Half-way between the sward and the branches, hung a drapery of vines, swinging in the sunlight, and showering blossoms and fragrance on the summer air. Light shrubbery grew between the massive trunks of the trees, and in one part of the glade a huge rock arose, its summit projecting over the sward, and forming a sort of canopy or shelter for a rustic seat fashioned of oaken boughs. Looking upward through the drapery of vines and the roof of boughs, only one glimpse of blue sky was visible. Toward the east the glade was open, and over the tops of the forest trees (which rose from the glen beneath), you saw the river, the distant village and my cottage home shining in the sun. At the foot of the oak which formed one of the portals of the glade, was a clear cold spring, resting in a basin of rock, and framed in leaves and flowers. Altogether the dear nook of the forest was worthy of June.
For a moment we surveyed this quiet scene—thought of the many happy hours we had spent there in the previous summer—and then turning our faces to the east, we stood, hand link'd in hand, gazing over forest trees and river upon our far-off cottage home.
"Does it not look beautiful, as it shines there in the sun?"—I said.
Ernest at first did not reply, but turned his gaze full upon me. His face was flushed and there was a strange fire in his eyes.
"To-morrow you leave that home forever," he exclaimed, and I trembled, I knew not why at the sound of his voice—"I will never see you again—I—" he dropped my hand and turned his face away. I saw his head fall on his breast, and saw that breast heave with agitation; urged by an impulse I could not control, I glided to his side, put my hand upon his arm, and looked up into his face.
"Ernest," I whispered.
He turned to me, for a moment regarded me with a look of intense passion and then caught me to his heart. His arms were around me, my bosom heaved against his breast, his kiss was on my lips—the first kiss since childhood, and O, how different from the kiss which a brother presses on a sister's lips!
"Frank I love you! Many beautiful women have I seen, but there is that in your gaze, your voice, your very presence, which is Heaven itself to me. I cannot live without you! and cannot, cannot think of losing you without madness. Frank, be mine, be my wife! Be mine, and the home which shines yonder in the sunlight shall be ours! Frank, for God's sake say you love me!"
He sank at my feet and clasped my knees with his trembling hands. O the joy, the rapture of that moment! As I saw his face upraised to mine, I felt that I loved him with all my soul, that I could die for him. Reaching forth my hands I drew him gently to his feet, and fell upon his breast and called him, "Husband!" Would I had died there, on his bosom, even as his lips met mine, and the words "my wife!" trembled on my ear! Would I had at that moment fallen dead upon his breast!
Even as he gathered me to his bosom the air all at once grew dark; looking overhead, we saw a vast cloud rolling up the heavens, dark as midnight, yet fringed with sunlight. On and on it rolled, the air grew darker, darker, an ominous thunder-peal broke over our heads, and rolled away among the gorges of the hills. Then the clouds grew dark as night. We could not see each other's faces. For a moment our distant home shone in sunlight, and then the eastern sky was wrapt in clouds, the river hidden by driving rain. Trembling with fright I clung to Ernest's neck—he bore me to the beech in the shadow of the rock—another thunder peal and a flash of lightning that blinded me. I buried my face in his bosom, to hide my eyes from that awful glare. The tempest which had arisen so suddenly—even as we exchanged our first vows—was now upon us and in power. The trees rocked to the blast. The distant river was now dark and now one mass of sheeted flame. Peal on peal the thunder burst over our heads, and as one peal died away in distant echoes, another more awful seemed hurled upon us, from the very zenith. And amid the darkness and glare of that awful storm, I clung to Ernest's neck, my bosom beating against his heart, and we repeated our vows, and talked of our marriage, and laid plans for our future.
"Frank, my heart is filled with an awful foreboding," he said, and his voice was so changed and husky, that I raised my head from his bosom, and even in the darkness sought to gaze upon his face. A lightning flash came and was gone, but by that momentary glare, I saw his countenance agitated in every lineament.
"What mean you Ernest?"
"You will leave our home to-morrow and never return, never! The sunshine which was upon us, as we exchanged our vows, was in a moment succeeded by the blackness of the awful tempest. A bad omen, Frank, a dark prophecy of our future. There is only one way to turn the omen of evil, into a prophecy of good."
He drew me close in his arms, and bent his lips to my ear—"Be mine, and now! be mine! Let the thunder-peal be our marriage music, this forest glade our marriage couch!"
I was faint, trembling, but I sprang from his arms, and stood erect in the center of the glade. My dark hair fell to my shoulders; a flash of lightning lit up my form, clad in snow-white. As wildly, as completely as I loved him, I felt my eyes flash with indignation.
"Words like these to a girl who has been reared under your father's roof!"
He fell at my feet, besought my forgiveness in frantic tones, and bathed my hands with his tears.
I fainted in his arms.
When I unclosed my eyes again, I found myself pure and virgin in the arms of my plighted husband. The clouds were parting, the tempest was over, and the sun shone out once more. Every leaf glittered with diamond drops. The last blast of the storm was passing over the distant river, and through the driving clouds, I saw the sunlight shining once more upon our cottage home.
"Forgive me, Frank, forgive me," he cried, bending passionately over me. "See! Your bad omen has been turned into good!" I cried joyfully—"First the sunshine, then the storm, but now the sun shines clear again;" and I pointed to the diamond drops glittering in the sun.
"And you will be true to me, Frank?"
"Before heaven I promise it, in life, in death, forever!"
It was toward the close of the afternoon that we took our way from the glade through the forest to the river shore. We crossed the river, and passed through the village. Together we ascended the road that led to our home, and at the wicket-gate, found a splendid carriage with liveried servants.
The good clergyman stood at the gate, his bared forehead and white hairs bathed in the sunshine; beside him, darkly dressed, diamonds upon her rich attire, my mother. Old Alice stood weeping in the background.
"Come, Frank, your things are packed and we must be away," she said, abruptly, as though we had seen each other only the day before; "I wish to reach our home in New York, before night. Go in the house dear," she kissed me, "and get your bonnet and shawl. Quick my love!"
Not daring to trust myself to speak—for my heart was full to bursting—I hurried through the gate, and along the garden walk.
"How beautiful she has grown!" I heard my mother exclaim. One look into the old familiar library room, one moment in prayer by the bed, in which I had slept since childhood!
Placing the bonnet on my curls, and dropping my shawl around me, I hurried from my cottage home. There were a few moments of agony, of blessings, of partings and tears. Old Alice pressed me in her arms, and bid me good-by. The good old clergyman laid his hands upon my head, and lifting his beaming eyes to heaven, invoked the blessing of God upon my head.
"I give your child to you again!" he said, placing me in my mother's arms—"May she be a blessing to you, as for years past she has been the blessing and peace of my home!"
I looked around for Ernest; he had disappeared.
I entered the carriage, and sank sobbing on the seat.
"But I am not taking the dear child away from you forever," said my mother, bending from the carriage window. "She will come and see you often, my dear Mr. Walworth, and you will come and see her. You have the number of our town residence on that card. And bring your son, and good Alice with you, and,——"
The carriage rolled away.
So strange and unexpected had been the circumstances of this departure from my home, that I could scarce believe myself awake.
I did not raise my head, until we had descended the hill, passed the village and gained a mile or more on our way.
We were ascending a long slope, which led to the summit of a hill, from which, I knew, I might take a last view of my childhood's home.
As we reached the summit of the hill, my mother was looking out of one window toward the river, and I looked out of the other, and saw, beyond the church spire and over the hills, the white walls of my home.
"Frank!" whispered a low voice.
Ernest was by the carriage. There was a look exchanged, a word, and he was gone. Gone into the trees by the? roadside.
He left a flower in my hand. I placed it silently in my bosom.
"Frank! How beautiful you have grown!" said my mother, turning from the window, and fixing upon me an ardent and admiring gaze. And the next moment she was wrapt in thought and the wrinkle grew deeper between her brows.
Before I resume my own history, I must relate an instance in the life of Ernest, which had an important bearing on his fate. (This incident I derive from MSS. written by Ernest himself.) Soon after my departure from the cottage home, he came to New York with his father, and they directed their steps to my mother's residence; as indicated on the card which she had left with the clergyman; but to their great disappointment, they discovered that my mother and myself had just left town for Niagara Falls. Six months afterward, Ernest received a long letter from me, concluding with these words: "To-morrow, myself and mother take passage for Europe, in the steamer. We will be absent for a year or more."
Determined to see me at all hazards, he hurried to town, but, too late! The steamer had sailed; her flag fluttered in the air, far down the bay, as standing on the battery, Ernest followed her course, with an almost maddened gaze. Sorrowfully he returned to the country and informed his father of my sudden departure for Europe.
"Can she have forgotten us?" said the old man.
"O, father, this letter," replied Ernest, showing the long letter which I had written, "this will show you that she has not forgotten us, but that her heart beats warmly as ever—that she is the same."
And he read the letter to the good old man, who frequently interrupted him, with "God bless her! God bless my child!"
Soon afterward Ernest came to New York and entered his name in the office of an eminent lawyer. Determining to make the law his profession, he hoped to complete his studies before my return from Paris. He lived in New York, and began to move in the circles of its varied society. Among the acquaintances which he made were certain authors and artists who, once a month, in company with a few select friends, gave a social supper at a prominent hotel.
At one of these suppers Ernest was a guest. The wine passed round, wit sparkled, and the enjoyment of the festival did not begin to flag even when midnight drew near.
While one of the guests was singing, a portly gentleman (once well known as a man of fashion, the very Brummel of the sidewalk) began to converse with Ernest in a low voice.
He described a lady—a young widow with a large fortune—who at that time occupied a large portion of the interest of certain circles in New York. She was exceedingly beautiful. She was witty, accomplished, eloquent. She rivaled in fascination Ninon and Aspasia. Nightly, to a select circle, she presided over festivals whose voluptuousness was masked in flowers. Her previous history was unknown, but she had suddenly entered the orbit of New York social life—of a peculiar kind of social life—as a star of the first magnitude. His blood heated by wine, his imagination warmed by the description of his fashionable friend, Ernest manifested great curiosity to behold this singular lady.
"You shall see her to-night—at once," whispered the fashionable gentleman. "She gives a select party to-night. Let us glide off from the company unobserved."
They passed from the company, took their hats and cloaks—it was a clear, cold winter night—and entered a carriage.
"I will introduce you by the name of Johnson—Fred. Johnson, a rich southern planter," said the fashionable gentleman. "You need not call me by my real name. Call me Lawson."
"But why this concealment?" asked Ernest, as the carriage rolled on.
"O, well, never mind," added Lawson (as he desired to be called), and then continued: "We'll soon be near her mansion, orpalaceis the more appropriate word. We will find some of the first gentlemen and finest ladies of New York under her roof. I tell you, she'll set you half wild, this 'Midnight Queen!'"
"Midnight Queen!" echoed Ernest.
"That's what we call her. A 'Midnight Queen' indeed, as mysterious and voluptuous as the midnight moon shining in an Italian sky."
They arrived in front of a lofty mansion, situated in one of the most aristocratic parts of New York. Its exterior was dark and silent as the winter midnight itself.
"A light hid under a bushel—outside dark enough, but inside bright as a new dollar," whispered Lawson, ascending the marble steps and ringing the bell.
The door was opened for the space of six inches or more,—
"Who's there?" said a voice from within.
Lawson bent his face near to the aperture and whispered a few words inaudible to Ernest. The door was opened wide, and carefully closed and bolted behind them, as soon as they crossed the threshold. They stood in a vast hall lighted by a hanging lamp.
"Leave hats and cloaks here—and come." Lawson took Ernest by the hand and pushed open a door.
They entered a range of parlors, brilliantly lighted by two chandeliers, as brilliantly furnished with chairs and sofas and mirrors, and adorned with glowing pictures and statues of white marble. A piano stood in a recess, and in the last parlor of the three a supper-table was spread. These parlors were crowded by some thirty guests, men and women, some of whom, seated on chairs and sofas, were occupied in low whispered conversation, while others took wine at the supper-table, and others again were grouped round the piano, listening to the voice of an exceedingly beautiful woman.
Ernest uttered an ejaculation. Never had he seen a spectacle like this, never seen before, grouped under one roof, so many beautiful women. Beautiful women, richly dressed, their arms and shoulders bare, or vailed only by mist-like lace, which gave new fascination to their charms. It did not by any means decrease the surprise of Ernest when he discovered that some of the ladies—those whose necks and shoulders glowed most white and beautiful in the light—wore masks.
"What is this place?" he whispered to Lawson, as apparently unheeded by the guests, they passed through the parlors.
"Hush! not so loud," whispered his companion. "Take a glass of wine, my boy, and your eyesight will be clearer. This place is a quiet little retreat in which certain gentlemen and ladies of New York, by no means lacking in wealth or position, endeavor to carry the Koran into practice, and create, even in our cold climate, a paradise worthy of Mahomet. In a word, it is the residence of a widowed lady, who, blest with fortune and all the good things which fortune brings, delights in surrounding herself with beautiful women and intellectual men. How do you like that wine? There are at least a hundred gentlemen in New York, who would give a cool five hundred to stand where you stand now, or even cross the threshold of this mansion. I'm an old stager, and have brought you here in order to enjoy the effect which a scene like this produces on one so inexperienced as you. But you must remember one law which governs this place and all who enter it—"
"That condition?"
"All that is said or done here remains a secret forever within the compass of these walls; and you must never recognize, in any other place, any person whom you have first encountered here. This is a matter of honor, Walworth."
"And where is the 'Midnight Queen?'"
"She is not with her guests, I see—but I will give you an answer in a moment," and Lawson left the room.
Drinking glass after glass of champagne, Ernest stood by the supper-table, a silent spectator of that scene, whose voluptuous enchantment gradually inflamed his imagination and fired his blood. He seemed to have been suddenly transported from dull matter-of-fact, every-day life, to a scene in some far oriental city, in the days of Haroun Alraschid. And he surrendered himself to the enchantment of the place, like one for the first time enjoying the intoxication of opium.
Lawson returned, and came quietly to his side—
"Would you like to see the 'Midnight Queen,'—alone—in her parlor?" he whispered.
"Of all things in the world. You have roused my curiosity. I am like a man in a delicious dream."
"Understand me—she is chary of her smiles to an old stager like me—but I think, that there is something in you that will interest her. She awaits you in her apartments. You are a young English lord on your travels (better than a planter), Lord Stanley Fitz Herbert. With that black dress and somber face of yours you will take her wonderfully."
"But can I indeed see her?"
"Leave the room—ascend the stairs—at the head of the stairs a light shines from a door which is slightly open; take a bold heart and enter."
Inflamed by curiosity, by the wine which he had drunk, and the scene around him, Ernest did not take time for a second thought, but left the room, ascended the stairs, and stood before the door from whose aperture a belt of light streamed out upon the dark passage. There, for a moment, he hesitated, but that was all. He opened the door and entered. He stood spell-bound by the scene. If the parlors below were magnificently furnished, this apartment was worthy of an empress. There were lofty walls hung with silk hangings and adorned with pictures; a couch with a silken canopy; mirrors that glittered gently in the rich voluptuous light; in a word, every detail of luxury and extravagance.
In the center of all stood the "Midnight Queen"—in one hand she held an open letter. Her back was toward Ernest as he lingered near the threshold. Her neck and shoulders were bare, and he could remark at a glance their snowy whiteness and voluptuous outline, although her dark hair was gathered in glossy masses upon the shoulders, half hiding them from view. A dark dress, rich in its very simplicity, left her arms bare and did justice to the rounded proportions of her form.
She turned and confronted Ernest, even as he, the blood bounding in his veins, advanced a single step.
At once they spoke:
"My Lord Stanley, I believe,—"
"The 'Midnight Queen,'—"
The words died on their lips. They stood as if suddenly frozen to the floor. The beautiful face of the "Midnight Queen" was pale as death, and as for Ernest, the glow of the wine had left his cheek—his face was livid and distorted.
Moments passed and neither had power to speak.
"O, my God, it is Frank!" the words at last burst from the lips of Ernest, and he fell like a dead man at her feet.
Yes, the "Midnight Queen" was Frances Van Huyden, his betrothed wife—six months ago resting on his bosom and whispering "husband" in his ear,—and now—the wife of another? A widow? Or one utterly fallen from all virtue and all hope?
Having thus given the incident from the life of Ernest, as far as possible, in the very words of his MSS., let me continue my history from the hour when, in company with my mother, I left the cottage home of the good clergyman. After the incident just related, nothing in my life can appear strange.
I was riding in the carriage with my mother toward New York.
"You are, indeed, very beautiful, Frank," said she, once more regarding me attentively. "Your form is that of a mature woman, and your carriage (I remarked it as you passed up the garden-walk) excellent. But this country dress will not do. We will do better than all that when we get to town."
It was night when the carriage left the avenue and rolled into Broadway. The noise, the glare, the people hurrying by, all frightened me. At the same time Broadway brought back a dim memory of my early childhood in Paris. Turning from Broadway, the carriage at length stopped before a lofty mansion, the windows of which were closed from the sidewalk to the roof.
"This is your home," said my mother, as she led me from the carriage up the marble steps into the hall where, in the light of a globular lamp, a group of servants in livery awaited us.
"Jenkins,"—my mother spoke to an elderly servant in dark livery turned up with red—"let dinner be served in half an hour." Then turning to another servant, not quite so old, but wearing the same livery, she said: "Jones, Miss Van Huyden wishes to take a look at her house before we go to dinner. Take the light and go before us."
The servant, holding a wax candle placed in a huge silver candlestick, went before us and showed us the house from the first to the fourth floor. Never before had I beheld such magnificence even in my dreams. I could not restrain ejaculations of pleasure and surprise at every step,—my mother keenly regarding me, sometimes with a faint smile and sometimes with the wrinkle growing deeper between her brows. A range of parlors on the lower floor were furnished with everything that the most extravagant fancy could desire, or exhaustless wealth procure. Carpets that gave no echo to the step; sofas and chairs cushioned with velvet and (so it seemed to me) framed in gold; mirrors extending from the ceiling to the floor; pictures, statues, and tables with tops either of marble or ebony; the walls lofty, and the ceiling glowing with a painting which represented Aurora and the Hours winging their way through a summer sky.
"Whose picture, mother?" I asked, pointing to a picture of a singularly handsome man, with dark hair and beard, and eyes remarkable at once for their brightness and expression.
"Your father, dear," answered my mother, and again the mark between her brows became ominously perceptible. "There is your piano, Frank,—you'll find it something better than the one which you had at the good parson's."
The servant led the way, up the wide stairway, thickly carpeted, to the upper rooms. Here the magnificence of the first floor was repeated on a grander, a more luxurious scale. We passed through room after room, my eyes dazzled by new signs of wealth and luxury at every step. At last we paused on the thick carpet of a spacious bed-chamber, whose appointments combined the richest elegance with the nicest taste. It was hung with curtains of light azure. An exquisite and touching picture of the Virgin Mary confronted the toilette table and mirror. A bed with coverlet white as snow, satin covered pillows and canopy of lace, stood in one corner; and wherever I turned there were signs of neatness, taste and elegance. I could not too much admire the apartment.
"It is your bedroom, my dear," said my mother, silently enjoying my delight.
"Why," said I laughingly,—"it is grand enough for a queen."
"And are you not a queen," answered my mother, "and a very beautiful one." Turning to the servant, who stood staring at me with eyes big as saucers, she said—
"Tell Mrs. Jenkins, the housekeeper, to come here:"—Jones left the chamber, and presently returned with Mrs. Jenkins, a portly lady, with a round, good-humored face.
"Frank, this isyourhousekeeper;"—Mrs. Jenkins simpered and courtsied, shaking at the same time the bundle of keys at her waist. "Mrs. Jenkins, this is your young mistress, Miss Van Huyden. Give me the keys."
She took the keys from the housekeeper, and placed them in my hands:
"My dear, this house and all that it contains are yours, I surrender it to your charge."
Scarcely knowing what to do with myself I took the keys—which were heavy enough—and handing them back to Mrs. Jenkins, "hoped that she would continue to superintend the affairs of my mansion, as heretofore." All of which pleased my mother and made her smile.
"We will go to dinner without dressing," and my mother led the way down stairs to the dining-room. It was a large apartment, in the center of which stood a luxuriously furnished table, glittering with gold plate. Servants in livery stood like statues behind my chair and my mother's. How different from the plain fare and simple style of the good clergyman's home! Nay how widely contrasted with the rude dinner in a log cabin to which Ernest and myself sat down a few hours ago!
In vain I tried to partake of the rich dishes set out before me; I was too much excited to eat. Dinner over, coffee was served, and the servants retired. Mother and I were left alone.
"Frank, do you blame me," she said, looking at me carefully—"for having you reared so quietly, far away in the country, in order that at the proper age, strong in health and rich in accomplishments and beauty, you might be prepared to enter upon the enjoyments and duties suitable to your station?"
How could I blame her?
I spoke gratefully again and again of the wealth and comfort which surrounded me, and then forgetting it all—broke forth into impassioned praise of my cottage home, of the good clergyman, of old Alice and—Ernest.
Something which came over my mother's face at the mention of Ernest's name, warned me that it was not yet time to speak of my engagement to him.
That night I bathed my limbs in a perfumed bath, laid my head on a silken pillow, and slept beneath a canopy of lace, as soft and light and transparent as the summer mist through which you can see the blue sky and the distant mountain. And resting on the silken pillow I dreamed—not of the splendor with which I was surrounded, nor of the golden prospects of my future,—but, of my childhood's home, and the quiet scenes of other days. In my sleep my heart turned back to them. Once more I heard the voice of the good old man. I heard the shrill tones of Alice, as the sun shone on my frosted window-pane, on a clear, cold winter morn. Then the voice of Ernest, calling me "Wife!" and pressing me to his bosom in the forest nook. I awoke with his name on my lips, and,——
My mother stood by the bedside gazing upon me attentively, a smile on her lips, but the wrinkle darkly defined between her brows. The sun shone brightly through the window curtains.
"Get up my dear," she kissed me,—"You have a busy day before you."
And it was a busy day! I was handed over to the milliners and dressmakers, and whirled in my carriage from one jeweler's shop to another. It was not until the third day that my dresses were completed—according to my mother's taste,—and not until the fourth, that the jewels which were to adorn my forehead, my neck, my arms and bosom, had been properly selected. Wardrobe and diamonds worthy of a queen—and was I happy? No! I began to grow homesick, for my dear quiet home, on the hill-side above the Neprehaun.
It was on the fourth day, in the afternoon, that my mother desired my presence in the parlor, where she wished to present me to a much esteemed friend, Mr. Wareham—Mr. Wallace Wareham.
"An excellent man," whispered my mother as we went down stairs together, "and immensely rich."
I was richly dressed in black; my neck, my arms and shoulders bare. My dark hair, gathered plainly aside from my face, was adorned by a single snow-white flower. As I passed by the mirror in the parlor, I could not help feeling a throb of womanly pride, or—vanity; and my mother whispered, "Frank, you excel yourself to-day."
Mr. Wareham sat on the sofa, in the front parlor, in the mild light of the curtained window. He was an elderly gentleman, somewhat bald, and slightly inclined to corpulence. He was sleekly clad in black, and there was a gold chain across his satin vest, and a brilliant diamond upon his ruffled bosom. He sat in an easy, composed attitude, resting both hands on his gold-headed cane. At first sight he impressed me, as an elderly gentleman, exceedinglynicein his personal appearance; and that was all. But there was something peculiar and remarkable about his face and look, which did not appear at first sight.
I was presented to him: he rose and bowed; and took me kindly by the hand.
Then conversing in a calm, even tone, which soon set me at ease, he led me to talk of my childhood—of my home on the Neprehaun—of the life which I had passed with the good clergyman. I soon forgot myself in my subject, and grew impassioned, perchance eloquent. I felt my cheeks glow and my eyes sparkle. But all at once I was brought to a dead pause, by remarking the singular expression of Mr. Wareham's face.
I stopped abruptly—blushed—and at a glance surveyed him closely.
His forehead was high and bold, and encircled by slight curls of black hair, streaked with gray,—its expression eminently intellectual. But the lower part of his face was heavy, almost animal. There was a deep wrinkle on either side of his mouth, and as for the mouth itself, its upper lip was thin, almost imperceptible, while the lower one was large, projecting and of deep red, approaching purple, thus presenting a singular contrast to the corpse-like pallor of his cheeks. His eyes, half hidden under the bulging lids, when I began my description of my childhood's home, all at once expanded, and I saw their real expression and color. They were large, the eyeballs exceedingly white, and the pupils clear gray, and their expression reminded you of nothing that you had ever seen or heard of, but simply made youafraid. And as the eyes expanded, a slight smile would agitate his upper lip, while the lower one protruded, disclosing a set of artificial teeth, white as milk. It was the sudden expansion of the eyes, the smile on the upper lip and the protrusion of the lower one, that made up the peculiar expression of Mr. Wareham's face,—an expression which made you feel as though you had just awoke from a grotesque yet frightful dream.
"Why do you pause, daughter?" said my mother, observing my confusion.
"Proceed my child," said Mr. Wareham, devouring me from head to foot with his great eyes, at the same time rubbing his lower lip against the upper, as though he was tasting something good to eat. "I enjoy these delightful reminiscences of childhood. I dote on such things."
But I could not proceed—I blushed again—and the tears came into my eyes.
"You have been fatigued by the bustle of the last three days," said my mother kindly: "Mr. Wareham will excuse you," and she made me a sign to leave the room.
Never was a sign more willingly obeyed. I hurried from the room, and as I closed the door, I heard Mr. Wareham say in a low voice—
"She'll do. When will you tell her?"
That night, as I sat on the edge of my bed, clad in my night-dress—my dark hair half gathered in a lace cap and half falling on my shoulders—my mother came suddenly into the room, and placing her candle on a table, took her seat by me on the bed. She was, as I have told you, an exceedingly beautiful woman, in spite of the threads of silver in her hair and the ominous wrinkle between her brows. But as she sat by me, and put her arm about my neck, toying with my hair, her look was infinitely affectionate.
"And what do you think of Mr. Wareham, dear?" she asked me—and I felt that her gaze was fixed keenly on my face.
I described my impressions frankly and with what language I could command, concluding with the words, "In short, I do not like him. He makes me feel afraid."
"O, you'll soon get over that," answered my mother. "Now he takes a great interest in you. Let me tell you something about him. He is a foreign gentleman, immensely rich; worth hundreds of thousands, perhaps a million. He has estates in this country, in England and France. He has traveled over half the globe; on further acquaintance you will be charmed by his powers of observation, his fund of anecdote, his easy flow of conversational eloquence. And then he has a good heart, Frank! I could keep you up all night in repeating but a small portion of his innumerable acts of benevolence. I met him first in Paris, years ago, just after he had unhappily married. And since I first met him he has been my fast friend. He is a good, a noble man, Frank; youwill, youmustlike him."
"But, then, his eyes, mother! andthatlip!" and I cast my eyes meekly to the floor.
"Pshaw!" returned my mother, with a start, "don't allow yourself to make fun of a dear personal friend of mine." She kissed me on the forehead,—"youwilllike him, dear," and bade me good-night.
And on my silken pillow I slept and dreamed—of home,—of the good old man,—of Ernest and the forest nook,—but all my dreams were haunted by a vision of two great eyes and a huge red lip—everywhere, everywhere they haunted me, the lip now projecting over the clergyman's head and the eyes looking over Ernest's shoulder. I awoke with a start and a laugh.
"You are in good spirits, my child," said my mother, who stood by the bed.
"I had a frightful dream but it ended funnily. All night long I've seen nothing but Mr. Wareham's eyes and lip, but the last I saw of them they were flying like butterflies a few feet above ground, eyes first and lips next, and old Alice chasing them with her broom."
"Never mind; youwilllike him," rejoined my mother.
I certainly had every chance to like him. For three days he was a constant visitor at our house. He accompanied mother and myself on a drive along Broadway and out on the avenue. I enjoyed the excitement of Broadway and the fresh air of the country, but—Mr. Wareham was by my side, talking pleasantly, even eloquently, and looking all the while as if he would like to eat me. We went to the opera, and for the first time, the fairy world of the stage was disclosed to me. I was enchanted,—the lights, the costumes, the music, the circle of youth and beauty, all wrapt me in a delicious dream, but—close by my side was Mr. Wareham, his eyes expanded and his lip protruding. I thought of the Arabian Nights and was reminded of a well-dressed Ghoul. I began to hate the man. On the fourth day he brought me a handsome bracelet, glittering with diamonds, which my mother bade me accept, and on the fifth day I hated him with all my soul. There was an influence about him which repelled me and made me afraid.
It was the sixth night in my new home, and in my night-dress, I was seated on the edge of my bed, the candle near, and my mother by my side. She had entered the room with a serious and even troubled face. The wrinkle was marked deep between her brows. Fixing my lace cap on my head and smoothing my curls with a gentle pressure of her hand, she looked at me long and anxiously but in silence.
"O, mother!" I said, "when will we visit 'father,'—and good old Alice, and—Ernest? I am so anxious to see my home again!"
"You must forget that home," said my mother gravely. "You will shortly be surrounded by new ties and new duties. Nay, do not start and look at me with so much wonder. I see that I must be plain with you. Listen to me, Frank. Who owns this house?"
"It is yours!"
"The pictures, the gold plate, the furniture worthy of such a palace?"
"Yours,—all yours, mother."
"Who purchased the dresses and the diamonds which you wear,—dresses and diamonds worthy of a queen?"
"You did, mother—of course," I hesitated.
"Wrong, Frank, all wrong!" and her eyes shone vividly, and the mark between her brows grew blacker. "The house which shelters you, the furniture which meets your gaze, the dresses which clothe you, and the diamonds which adorn your person, are the property of—Mr. Wareham."
It seemed to me as if the floor had opened at my feet.
"O, mother! you are jesting," I faltered.
"I am a beggar, child, and you are a beggar's daughter. It is to Mr. Wareham that we are indebted for all that we enjoy. For years he has paid the expenses of your education; and now that you have grown to young womanhood he shelters you in a palace, surrounds you with splendor that a queen might envy, and not satisfied with this,—"
She paused and fixed her eyes upon my face, I know that I was frightfully pale.
"Offers you his hand in marriage."
For a moment the light, the mirrors, the roof itself swam round me, and I sank half-fainting in my mother's arms.
"O! this is but a jest, a cruel jest to frighten me. Say, mother, it is a jest!"
"It is not a jest; it is sober, serious earnest;" and she raised me sternly from her arms. "He has offered his hand, and youwillmarry him."
I flung myself on my knees at the bedside, clasped her hands, and as my night-dress fell back from my shoulders and bosom, I told her, with sobs and tears, of my love for Ernest, and my engagement with him.
"Pshaw! A poor clergyman's son," she said bitterly.
"O, let us leave this place, mother!" I cried, still pressing her hands to my bosom. "You say that we are poor. Be it so. We will find a home together in the home of my childhood. Or if that fails us, I will work for you. I will toil from sun to sun and all night long,—beg,—do anything rather than marry this man. For, mother, I cannot help it,—but I do hate him with all my soul."
"Pretty talk, very pretty!" and she loosened her hands from my grasp; "but did you ever try poverty, my child? Did you ever know what the word meant,—poverty? Did you ever work sixteen hours a day, at your needle, for as many pennies, walk the streets at dead of winter in half-naked feet, and go for two long days and nights without a morsel of food? Did you ever try it, my child? That's the life whichpoorwidows and their pretty daughters live in New York, my dear."
"But Ernest loves me,—he will make his way in life,—we will be married,—you will share our home, dear mother."
These words rendered her perfectly furious. She started up and uttered a frightful oath—it was the first time I had ever heard an oath from a woman's lips. Her countenance for a moment was fiendish. She assailed me with a torrent of reproaches, concluding thus:
"And this is your gratitude for the care, the anxiety, the very agony of a mother's anxiety, which I have endured on your account for years! In return for all you condemn me to—poverty! But it shall not be. One of us must bend, and that one will not be me. I swear, girl,"—her brows were knit, she was lividly pale, and she raised her right hand to heaven,—"that youshallmarry this man."
"And I swear,"—I bounded to my feet, my bosom bare, and the blood boiling in my veins—perchance it was the same blood which gave my mother her fiery temper,—"I swear that I willnotmarry him as long as there is life in me. Do you hear me, mother? Before I marry that miserable wretch, whose very presence fills me with loathing, I will fall a corpse at your feet."
My words, my attitude took her by surprise. She surveyed me silently but was too much enraged to speak.
"O, that my father was living!" I cried, the fit of passion succeeded by a burst of tears; "he would save me from this hideous marriage."
My mother quietly drew a letter from her bosom and placed it open in my hand.
"Your father is living. That letter is the last one I have received from him. Read it, my angel."
I took it,—it was very brief,—I read it at a glance. It was addressed to my mother, and bore a recent date. These were its contents:
"Dear Frank:"My sentence expires in two weeks from to-day. Send me some decent clothes, and let me know where I will meet you. Glad to hear that your plans as regardsour daughterapproach a 'glorious' completion."Yours as ever,"Charles."
"Dear Frank:
"My sentence expires in two weeks from to-day. Send me some decent clothes, and let me know where I will meet you. Glad to hear that your plans as regardsour daughterapproach a 'glorious' completion.
"Yours as ever,
"Charles."
It was a letter from a convict in Auburn prison,—and that convict was my father!
"It is false; my father died years ago," I cried in very agony. "This is not from my father."
"It is from your father," answered my mother; "and unless I send him the clothes which he asks for, you will see him, in less than three weeks, in his convict rags."
"O, mother! are you human? A mother to taunt her own daughter with her father's shame,—"
My temples throbbed madly and my sight failed. All that mortal can endure and be conscious, I had endured. I sank on the floor, and had not my mother caught me in her arms, I would have wounded my forehead against the marble table.
All night long, half waking, half delirious, I tossed on my silken couch mingling the name of my convict father and of Ernest in my broken exclamations. Once I was conscious for a moment and looked around with clear eyes. My mother was watching over me. Her face was bathed in tears. She washumanafter all. That moment past, the delirium returned and I struggled with horrible dreams until morning.
When I awoke next morning, my mind was clear again, and even as I unclosed my eyes and saw the sunlight shining gayly through the curtains, a fixed purpose took possession of my soul. It was yet early morning. There was no one save myself in the chamber. Perchance worn out by watching, my mother had retired to rest. I quietly arose and dressed myself—not in the splendid attire furnished by my mother, but in the plain white dress, bonnet, and shawl which I had brought with me from my cottage home.
"It is early. No one is stirring in the mansion. I can pass from the hall door unobserved. Then it is only sixteen miles to-home,—only sixteen miles, I can walk it."
And at the very thought of meeting "father" and Ernest again, my heart leaped in my bosom. Determined to escape from the mansion at all hazards, I drew my vail over my face, my shawl across my shoulders, and hurried to the door. I opened it, my foot was on the threshold, when I found myself confronted by the portly form of Mrs. Jenkins.
"Pardon me, Miss," she said, placing herself directly before me; "your mother gave me directions to call her as soon as you awoke."
"But I wish to take a short walk and breathe a little of the morning air," I answered, and attempted to pass her.
"The morning air is not good for young ladies," said another voice, and my mother's face, appeared over the housekeeper's shoulder. "After a while we shall take a ride, my dear. For the present, you will please retire to your room."
Startled at the sound of my mother's voice, I involuntarily stepped back—the door was closed, and I heard the key turn in the lock.
I was a prisoner in my own room. There I remained all day long; my meals were served by the housekeeper and my maid Caroline. My mother did not appear. How I passed that day, a prisoner in my luxurious chamber, cannot be described. I sat for hours, with my head resting on my hands, and my eyes to the floor. What plans of escape, mingled with forebodings of the future, crossed my brain! At length I took pen and paper, and wrote a brief note to Ernest, informing him of my danger, and begging him, as he loved me, to hasten at once to town and to the mansion. This note I folded, sealed, and directed properly. "Caroline," said I to my maid, who was a pleasant-faced young woman of about twenty, with dark hair and eyes—"I would like this letter to be placed in the post-office at once. Will you take charge of it for me?"
"I'll give it to Jones," she responded—"he's goin' down to the post office right away."
"But Caroline," I regarded her with a meaning look, "I do not wish any one to know, that I sent this letter to the post-office. Will you keep it a secret?"
"Not a livin' mortal shall know it—not a livin' mortal;" and taking the letter she left the room. After a few minutes she returned with a smiling face, "Jones has got it and he's gone!"
I could scarce repress a wild ejaculation of joy. Ernest will receive it to-night; he will be here to-morrow; I will be saved!
The day wore on and my mother did not appear. Toward evening Caroline came into my room, bearing a new dress upon her arm—a dress of white satin, richly embroidered and adorned with the costliest lace.
"O, Miss, ain't it beautiful!" cried Caroline, displaying the dress before me, "and the bonnet and vail to match it, will be here to-night, an' your new di'monds. It's really fit for a queen."
It was indeed a magnificent dress.
"Who is it for?" I asked.
"Now, come, ain't that good! 'Who is it for?' And you lookin' so innocent as you ask it. As if you did not know all the while, that it's your bridal dress, and that you are to be married airly in the mornin', after which you will set off on your bridaltower."
"Caroline, where did you learn this?" I asked, my heart dying within me.
"Why, how can you keep such things secret from the servants? Ain't your mother been gettin' ready for it all day, and ain't the servants been a-flyin' here and there, like mad? And Mr. Wareham's been so busy all day, and lookin'sopleased! Laws, Miss,howcan you expect to keep such things from the servants?"
I heard this intelligence, conveyed in the garrulous manner of my maid, as a condemned prisoner might hear the reading of his death warrant. I saw that nothing could shake my mother in her purpose. She was resolved to accomplish the marriage at all hazards. In the morning I was to be married, transferred body and soul to the possession of a man whom I hated in my very heart.
But I resolved that he should not possess me living. He might marry me, but he should only place the bridal ring upon the hand of a corpse.
The resolution came in a moment. How to accomplish it was next my thought.
Approaching Caroline in a guarded manner, I spoke of my nervousness and loss of sleep, and of a vial ofmorphinewhich my mother kept by her for a nervous affection.
"Could you not obtain it for me, Caroline? and without my mother seeing you, for she does not like me to accustom myself to the use of morphine. I am sadly in want of sleep, but I am so nervous that I cannot close my eyes. Get it for me," I put my arms about her neck—"that's a dear good girl."
"Laws, Miss, how kin one resist your purty eyes! It is in the casket on the bureau, is it? Just wait a moment;" she left the room and presently returned. She held the vial in her hand. I took it eagerly, pretended to place it in the drawer of a cabinet which stood near the bed, but, in reality, hid it in my bosom.
"Now mother, you may force on the marriage," I mentally ejaculated; "but your daughter has the threads of her own destiny in her hand."
How had I accustomed myself to the idea of suicide? It came upon me not slowly, but like a flash of lightning. It was in opposition to all the lessons I had learned from the good clergyman. 'But,' the voice of the tempter, seemed whispering in my ear—'while suicide is a crime, it becomes a virtue when it is committed to avoid a greater crime.' It is wrong to kill my body, but infinitely worse to kill both body and soul in the prostitution of an unholy marriage.
As evening drew on I was left alone. I bathed myself, arranged my hair, and then attired myself in my white night-robe. And then, as the last glimpse of day came faintly through the window curtains, I sank on my knees by the bed, and prayed. O how in one vivid picture the holy memories of the past came upon me, in that awful moment!
"Ernest I will meet you in the better world!"
I drank the contents of the vial and rose to my feet. At the same instant the door opened and my mother appeared, holding a lighted candle in her hand. She saw me in my white dress, was struck, perchance, by the wildness of my gaze, and then her eye rested upon the extended hand which held the vial.
"Well, Frank, how do you like your marriage dress," she began, but stopped, and changed color as she saw the vial.
"O, mother," I cried, "with my last breath I forgive you, and pray God that you may be able to forgive yourself."
I saw her horror-stricken look and I fell insensible at her feet.