Thus you see that the Third of the Three was a philosopher. He paused before a marble slab, over which he bent, tracing with difficulty the inscription, which was in quaint characters, much worn by time—"Van Huyden."
"Strange enough! Just as we were about to search the tomb last night,[1]to be interrupted and scared from our object by a circumstance so unusual! The snug sum of $200,000, in plate, buried in a coffin!—an odd kind of sub-treasury! Wonder if there's any truth in the legend?"
[1]See Episode, page 114 of the Empire City.
[1]See Episode, page 114 of the Empire City.
As the gentleman thus soliloquized he fixed his eyes attentively upon the slab; but he did not see the approach of a man, wrapped in the thick folds of a cloak, and with a broad-brimmed hat over his brow,—a man who came noiselessly from the shadows and took his place at the opposite extremity of the slab, quietly folding his arms, as he fixed his gaze upon the Third of the Three.
A wild sort of picture this: The gloomy church-yard, with its leafless trees, and tombstones half hidden among heaps of timber and of stone. Yonder, the church, looking like the grotesque creation of an enchanter's power, as hidden among uncouth scaffolding, it rises vague and shapeless into the sky. And here, by the tomb of the Van Huydens, two figures,—the Third of Three, who, in a deep revery, fixes his eyes upon the inscription—and the cloaked figure, whose steady gaze is centered upon the absent-minded gentleman.
"Two hundred thousand buried in a coffin,"—soliloquized "the Third,"—"I wonder if I could not make a little search. The place is quiet,—no watchman near—"
"Liar!" said a voice, in tones deep as the sound of an organ. "Learn that the Watcher always guards the vault of the Van Huydens:—learn that it is sacrilege to rob the dead."
As Dermoyne led Barnhurst forth into the open air, the false clergyman staggered like a drunken man. His tall and angular form shook like a reed; and Arthur, catching a glimpse of his countenance, saw that it was livid and distorted in every feature.
"Do with me what you will," he said in broken accents. "The worst has come.—I do not care! Come; at last, you shall go home with me. Home!"
He turned his steps up Broadway, leaning his weight on Arthur's arm as he staggered along.
Terrible as had been the crimes of the wretch, Arthur pitied him. For a moment, only; for the dying cry of Alice was in his ear.
"Your punishment begins," he whispered.
And thus, up Broadway, they resumed their march through the city.
They had not gone many paces from the church, when two forms sprang suddenly from the shadows of the scaffolding, both clad in dark overcoats, with caps drawn over their faces. They were the forms of those unknown persons who had followed Arthur and Barnhurst from the Battery over the city. One was lean, tall and sinewy in form; his quick, active, stealthy step, resembled the step of an Indian. The other was short and thick set, with broad chest and bow-legs.
"Did yer see der Red Book, Dirk?"
"O' coss I did; as he come out o' der church, his cloak opened, and I seed 'um under his arm. O' coss I did, Slung."
We cannot give any just idea of the peculiarpatoisof these delightful specimens of the civilized savages.
"Travel's der word," said Slung.
"O' coss it is: an' if we ketch 'um in a dark alley, or round a sharp corner, won't we smash his daylights in!"
And the one with his hand on his knife, concealed in the pocket of his overcoat, and the other with the cord of the slung-shot wound about his wrist, they resumed their hunt in the track of Dermoyne.
Unconscious of the danger which strode stealthily in his wake, Dermoyne clasped the Red Book to his side with one arm, and with the other supported the form of the trembling Barnhurst.
"Yes, we'll go home," muttered the false clergyman—"Home!" He pronounced the word with a singular emphasis, like a man half bereft of his senses. "You can work your vengeance on me there, for the worst has come."
Then, for a long time, they pursued their way in silence, turning toward the East River, as they drew near the head of Broadway.
As he drew near his destination—near the end of his singular march,—a wild hope agitated the heart of the wretched man, half stupefied as he was by despair. It was his last hope.
"This man has feeling," he thought, "and I will try him."
They stood, at length, in the hall of a quiet mansion, the hanging lamp above their heads shedding its waving light into their faces. Barnhurst had entered the door by a night key, forgetting, in his agitation, to close it after him. Arthur dropped his arm, and they confronted each other, surveying each other's faces for the first time in four long hours.
It was a singular sight. Both lividly pale, and with the fire of widely contrasted emotions, giving new fire to their gaze, they silently regarded each other. The tall and angular form of the clergyman was in contrast with the compact figure of the mechanic: and Herman's visage, singular eyes, aquiline nose, bland complexion, and hair sleekly disposed behind the ears, was altogether different from the face of the mechanic:—bold forehead, surmounted by masses of brown hair, short and curling—clear gray eyes, wide mouth, with firm lips, and round and massive chin; you might read the vast difference between their minds in their widely contrasted faces.
"Well, I am—home," said Barnhurst, with a smile hard to define.
"I will sleep in your room," answered Arthur, quietly. "To-morrow, at ten, we go together to that house."
"Let us retire, then," answered Herman. The hanging lamp lighted the stairway, and disclosed the door at its head.
Herman, with the hand of Arthur on his arm, led the way up the staircase, and paused for a moment at the door. He bent his head as if to listen for the echo of a sound, but no sound was heard. Herman gently opened the door, and entered—followed by Arthur—a spacious chamber, dimly lighted by a taper on the mantle.
"Hush!" said Herman, and pointed to a small couch, on which a boy of some three years was sleeping; his rosy face, ruffled by a smile, and his hair lying in thick curls all about his snow-white forehead.
"Hush!" again said Herman, and pointed to a curtained bed. A beautiful woman was sleeping there, with her sleeping infant cradled on her arm. The faces of the mother and babe, laid close together on the pillow, looked very beautiful—almost holy—in the soft mysterious light.
"My wife! my children!" gasped Herman. As he spoke, the agitation of his face was horrible to look upon.
Dermoyne felt his heart leap to his throat. He could not convince himself that it was not a dream. Again and again he turned from the face of Barnhurst to the rosy boy on the couch—to the beautiful mother and her babe, resting there in the half-broken shadows of the curtained bed,—and felt his knees tremble and his heart leap to his throat.
And in contrast with this scene of holy peace,—a pure mother, sleeping in the marriage chamber with her children,—came up before him, Alice, and her bed of torture in the den of Madam Resimer.
"This,—this," gasped Barnhurst, "this is why I couldn't marry Alice!"
Arthur was convulsed by opposing emotions.
"Devil!" he uttered with set teeth and clenched hands,—"and with a wife and children like these, you could still plot the ruin of poor Alice!"
"Husband," said the wife, as she awoke from her sleep—"have you come at last? I waited for you so long!"
Leave we this scene, and retrace our steps. The revel inthe Templeis at the highest. The masks begin to fall. Hark! to the whispers which mingle softly with the clinking of champagne glasses. By all means let us enterthe Temple.
It was two o'clock on the morning of the 24th of December, 1844, when Frank led Nameless over the threshold of a magnificent but dimly-lighted hall.
Attired in black velvet, the golden cross upon her breast, and with a white vail falling like a snowflake over her face and raven hair, she pressed his hand and led him forward to the light. You cannot, by the changes of his countenance, trace the emotions now busy at his heart; for his face is concealed by a mask; a cap, with a drooping plume, shades his brow; his form is attired in a tunic of black velvet, gathered to his waist by a scarlet sash; a falling collar discloses his throat; and there is a white cross upon his breast, suspended from his neck by a golden chain. His brown hair, no longer wild and matted, but carefully arranged by a woman's hand, falls in glossy masses to his shoulders.
"Stand here, my knight of the white cross, and observe some of the mysteries of our Temple."
For a moment she raised her vail, and her dark eyes emitted rays of magnetic fire, and the pressure of her hand made the blood bound in every vein.
They stood by a marble pillar, near a table on which was placed a lamp with a clouded shade,—a table loaded with fruits and flowers, with goblets and with bottles of rich old wine.
Nameless could not repress an ejaculation as he surveyed the scene.
"I am in a dream!" he said.
A vast and dimly-lighted hall, broken by a range of marble columns; pictures and mirrors flashing and glowing along the lofty walls; and the very air imbued with the breath of summer, the fragrance of freshly gathered flowers. Near every column was placed a table, covered with fruit and flowers, with goblets and bottles of rich old wine; and on every table, a lamp with a clouded shade shed around a light at once dim, mysterious and voluptuous. And the mirrors reflected the scene, amid whose silent magnificence Frank and Nameless stood alone.
"Not in a dream, but in the central chamber of the Temple," she whispered. "Here, shut out from the world by thick walls, the guests of the Temple assemble at dead of night, and create for themselves a sort of fairy world, far different from the world which you see at the church or opera, or even on Broadway on a sunshiny day."
There was a touch of mockery in her tone as she spoke.
"But do not these guests, as you call them, know each other?" whispered Nameless. "Do not those who mingle in the orgie of the night, recognize each other when they meet by daylight?"
"Everyaristocraticgentleman knows thearistocraticlady, who meets him within these walls," replied Frank. "Beyond that nothing is known. A mask, a convenient costume, hides ever face and form. They all, however, know the Queen of the Temple,"—she placed her hand upon her breast; "and the password, without which no one can cross the threshold of this house, is issued by the Queen of the Temple."
"Queen of the Temple?" echoed Nameless.
"Yes, Queen of the Temple! A Queen who rules by midnight—and the temple of whose power,—gay, voluptuous, flower-crowned, as you see it,—is founded upon pollution and death."
She paused; and Nameless saw her bosom heave, and heard the sigh which escaped from her lips.
"But this night past, you will bid adieu to scenes like this forever?" whispered Nameless. "You remember your pledge?"
She gently raised the vail; her countenance, in all its impassioned loveliness, lay open to his gaze. Her eyes flashed brightly, vividly, although wet with tears.
"Yes," she responded in a whisper. "This night past, I will bid adieu to scenes like this forever!" and she drew him gently to her bosom.—"Your life has been dark—mine dark and criminal. But there is hope for us, Gulian—hope beyond these walls, where pollution is masked in flowers,—hope in some far distant scene, where, unclogged by the dark memories of the past, we will begin life anew, and seek the blessing of God, in a career of faith, of self-denial!"
"And then, Frank," said Nameless,—"should wealth ever be ours, we will devote it to the redemption of those who have suffered like us, and like us fallen."
At this moment, a burst of music, from an adjoining chamber, floated through the vast and shadowy hall. And then the sound of dancing, mingled with the music—and now and then the music and the dance were interrupted by the echo of joyous voices.
"'The guests of the Temple' are dancing in the Banquet Chamber," said Frank. "Masked and vailed, shut out from the world by impenetrable walls, they are commencing one of those orgies, which awoke the echoes of the Vatican, in the days of Pope Borgia."
A curtain was thrust aside,—a momentary blaze of light rushed into the vast hall,—and masked and vailed, the "guests of the Temple" came pouring into the place.
"Stand here and observe them," whispered Frank.
"A strange and motley throng!" returned Nameless, in a whisper. "Are we indeed in New York, in the nineteenth century?—or is it in Rome, in the days of the Borgias?"
And for a few moments, he stood side by side with Frank, in the shadow of the central pillar, watching the scene in dumb amazement. Walking, two by two—some forty men and women in all—the guests glided through the voluptuous light—and shadow, no less voluptuous—of the central chamber. It was, indeed, a strange and motley crowd! Popes and cardinals, and monks and nuns, mingled with knights, caliphs and dancing girls. The effect of their rich and varied costumes, deepened by the soft light, was impressive, dazzling. A pope led a dancing girl by the hand—a Christian knight encircled the slender waist of a houri, a stately cardinal discoursed in low tones with a staid quakeress, whose enticing form lost none of its charms in her severely neat attire; and the grand Caliph Haroun Alraschid, unawed by the precepts of the prophet, supported a vailed abbess, on his royal arm. Contrasts like these glided among the pillars—now in light, now in shadow; echoes of softly whispered conversation filled the hall with a musical murmur; and the mirrors along the walls reflected the pictures—the tables, loaded with viands and flowers—the rich variety of costume—the pillars of white marble—the light and shadow, which gave new witchery to the scene.
There were certain of the maskers who, in an especial manner, riveted the attention of Nameless.
A man of stately presence and royal stride, attired in a tunic of purple silk, with an outer tunic of scarlet velvet, edged with white ermine—hose, also of scarlet—and shoes fastened with diamond buckles. Even had the mask failed to hide his face, it would have been concealed by the cluster of snowy plumes which nodded from his jeweled coronet.
"Behold Roderick Borgia!" whispered Frank, as the masked passed along with his stately stride.
"And the lady who leans upon his arm?"
"Lucretia Borgia!"
Lucretia was masked, but the mask which hid the beauty of her face, could not conceal the richness of her dark hair, which contrasted so vividly with the whiteness of her neck and shoulders. A single lily bloomed in solitary loveliness in the blackness of her hair; her form was encased in a white robe, which adapting itself in easy folds to the shape of her noble bust, is girded lightly to her waist by a scarlet scarf. From the wide sleeve, (edged like the skirt with scarlet), you catch a glimpse of a magnificent hand and arm.
"Worthy, my dear Lucretia, to rule hearts by your beauty and empires by your intellect!" said Roderick.
"Ah, your holiness flatters," was the whispered reply.
"Her shape, indeed, is worthy of Lucretia Borgia," said Frank, as Roderick Borgia and his daughter passed by the central pillar, and disappeared in the shadows.
"Does she inherit the morals as well as the beauty of the woman-fiend whose name she bears?"
Ere Frank could reply, another couple, arm in arm, approached the central pillar. A bulky cardinal in a scarlet hat and robe, holding by the arm a slender youth attired in modern style, in frock coat and trowsers of blue cloth,—the trowsers displaying limbs of unrivaled symmetry, and the frock coat buttoned to the throat over an all too-prominent bust. The cardinal wore a golden cross on his brawny chest, and the brown hair of the slender-waisted youth was gathered neatly beneath a velvet cap, surmounted by a single snowy plume. It was pleasant to note the affection which existed between the grave cardinal and his youthful friend! Not satisfied with suffering the head of the graceful boy to repose on his shoulder, the cardinal encircled that slender waist with his flowing scarlet sleeve! And thus whispering softly—
"Dearest Julia!" said the cardinal, "what think you of thatdoctrinalpoint?"
"Dearest doctor! what if my husband knew?" softly replied the youth.
They passed by the central pillar, from the light into the shadow.
"How name you these?" asked Nameless.
"Leo, the Tenth, and his nephew," was the answer of Frank,—"but see here! A monk and nun!"
The monk was tall; his hood and robe fashioned of white cloth bordered with red; the hood concealed his face, and the robe fell in easy folds from his shoulders to his sandaled feet. The nun was attired in a hood and robe of snow-white satin; the hood concealed her face and locks of gold; but the robe, although loose and flowing, could not conceal the rounded outlines of her shape. Her naked feet were encased in delicate slippers of white satin. And clinging with both hands to the arm of the White Monk, the White Nun went by.
"Beverly, are you sure?" Nameless heard her whisper.
"Sure?" replied the White Monk, in a tone that rose above a whisper,—"He is false—false—you have the proofs!" And they went from the light into the gloom.
"She trembles, and her voice falters," said Frank, observing the form of the retiring nun.
"Did she not sayBeverly?" asked Nameless, a tide of recollections rushing upon his brain. "That name—surely I heard it,—"
"Look!" interrupted Frank, pressing his arm,—"An oddly assorted couple as ever went arm in arm."
And a little Turk, dressed in a scarlet jacket and blue trowsers, with an enormous turban on his head, approached the central pillar, leaning on the arm,—nay, clutching the hand of a tall lady, whose face and form were completely concealed by an unsightly robe of black muslin; a garment which seemed to have been assumed, not so much for the sake of ornament, as for disguise. Gathering the robe across her head and face with one hand, she glided along; her other hand,—apparently not altogether to her liking,—grasped by her singular companion. As the "Lady in Black" passed by, Nameless heard these words,—
"Havana! A most delightful residence," whispered the Turk.
The "Lady in Black" made no reply,—did not even bend her head; but passed along, her robe brushing the tunic of Nameless, as she glided from view.
Why was it that through every nerve, Nameless felt a sensation which cannot be described, but which one cannot feel but once in a lifetime,—and once felt, thrilling from heart to brain, from brain to the remotest fiber of being, can never be forgotten? A sensation, as though the hand of one long since dead, had touched his cheek, as though the presence of one long since given to the grave, had come to him andovershadowedhim?
"Who is that lady?" he whispered,—resting one hand against the pillar, for a sudden faintness seized him,—"That lady who is matched with a companion so grotesque?"
"She may be young or old, fair or hideous, but her name I cannot tell," responded Frank. "As for her companion,—the diminutive Turk who clutches her hand, and to whose soft pleadings she does not seem to listen with the most affectionate interest,—his name is——" Frank bent her mouth close to the ear of Nameless.
"His name?" he interrupted.
"Is one which cannot but excite bitter memories. Israel Yorke, the Financier!"
At that name, linked with the events of the previous night, and with the somber memories of other years, Nameless started, and an ejaculation escaped his lips.
"Israel Yorke! and in this place?"
"Yes,—and why not?" responded Frank, bitterly. "What place so fitting for the swindler,—pardon me,Financier? Is it not well that the money which by day is wrung from the hard earnings of the poor, should be spent at night in debauchery and pollution?"
"Fromthe banktothe brothel," thought Nameless, but he did not breathe that thought aloud.
Frank silently took him by the hand, and lifted her vail. There was a magic in the pressure and the look. Holding the vail in such a manner that he might gaze freely upon her countenance, while it was hidden from all other eyes, she looked at him long and steadfastly.
"Do you regret your pledge?" she said, measuring every word.
"Regret!" he echoed,—for the touch, the look, the voluptuous atmosphere of her very presence, made him forget the past, the prospects of the future,—everything, but the woman whose soul shone upon him from her passionate eyes:—"Can you think it? Regret! Never!"
"Then this is my last night in the Temple. O, my heart, my soul is sick of scenes like these!" She glanced around the hall, crowded by the maskers,—"To-morrow,—" bending gently to him, until he felt her breath upon his cheek, "to-morrow,—"
"To-morrow!" echoed a strange voice; "but, my lady, I have a word to say to youto-night."
They turned with the same impulse, and beheld the unbidden speaker, in the form of a Spanish hidalgo, dressed in black velvet, richly embroidered with gold. He held his mask before his face, and a group of dark plumes shaded his brow.
She started at the voice, and Nameless felt her hand tremble in his own.
"In a moment I will join you again," she whispered to Nameless; "now, Count, I am at your service."
And leaving Nameless by the pillar, she took the Count by the arm, and with him disappeared in the shadows of the hall.
Leaning against the pillar, and folding his arms across his breast,—over the white cross which glittered there,—Nameless awaited her return with evident anxiety. He was devoured by contending emotions. The fascination with which this beautiful woman had enveloped him,—suspicion of the stranger who had called her from his side,—the strange and varied scene before him,—these occupied him by turns; and then, even amid the excitement and fascination of the present, some faces of the past looked vividly in upon his soul!
And while a scene is transpiring between Frank and the Count, which will hereafter have a strong influence upon the fate of Nameless, let us, for an instant, stand with him by the central pillar, and gaze upon the mysterious ball.
Mild lights, rich shadows, the ceiling supported by marble pillars, the maskers in their contrasted costumes, and the mirrors reflecting all. The stately Roderick and the enticing Lucretia are conversing earnestly in yonder recess,—the White Monk and the White Nun stand face to face near yonder pillar, her lip pressing the champagne glass offered by his hand,—Leo the Tenth, paces slowly from the middle of the hall to the mirror and back again, the head of his beloved nephew on his shoulder,herwaist encircled by his arm; and yonder, apart from all others, stands the Lady in Black, with her diminutive lover, even the Turk, kneeling at her feet. Nameless observes all these with an especial interest. As for the rest, there is a Pope sharing an orange with a dancing-girl, a Knight halving a bunch of grapes with a houri, a Cardinal taking wine with a Quakeress; and the saintly Abbess, yonder, is teaching the grave Haroun Alraschid how to eat a "philopoena!"
"Truly, my life is one of adventure!" muttered Nameless, observing the fantastic scene. "Last night, arrested as a thief,—a few nights since the tenant of a mad-house, and to-night in a scene like this! To-morrow nightwhatandwhere?"
To-morrow night!
Meanwhile, in a dark recess, whose mirror scarce reflected a single ray, Frank, trembling and agitated, stood face to face with the Count. His mask was laid aside, and in the dim light she saw his face stamped with an unusual energy.
"You wish to speak to me?" she said.
"An hour ago I came to this house,—entered your chamber unsummoned, and to my utter surprise found this young man there. I overheard the pledge which you exchanged; and now let us have a fair understanding. Has he promised,—has he plighted his word? Have you accepted him?" Thus spoke the Count, in a low voice.
"He has, father," replied Frank; "and I have accepted him."
"When and where?" asked the Count, or Col. Tarleton, as you please.
"As soon as I leave this place, and am the tenant of ahome," replied Frank, her voice trembling on that word, so new to her—"home!"
"Daughter," said Tarleton, and his voice was deep and husky, indicating powerful emotion, "I have a few words to say to you; you will do well to heed them. The drama of twenty-one years draws to a close. The termination of the fifth act will decide my fate and yours. Thisboyis now almost the only obstacle between myself and my brother's unbounded wealth, and between you and the position of a respected, if not virtuous, woman. And this boy, mark you, shall not leave this house save as your husband. I swear it! Do you hear me,—"
His voice grew thicker, huskier,—he seized her by the wrist.
"Father!" she gasped, as though her proud spirit was cowed by the ferocious determination of his manner.
"He shall not leave this house save as your husband. You say that he is fascinated with you, and you, at first sight, with him. Well! He has seventy-one thousand dollars now in his possession, (no matter how gained), and on the 25th of December, that is, to-morrow, ifliving, he will become the possessor of the Van Huyden estate, a richer man than Girard and Astor together; ay, ten Astors and Girards on top of that. As his wife, your position will be that of a queen; and as for myself, I will sacrifice my hopes as the brother of the testator, in order to behold you the queenly wife of that testator's son. You hear me?"
"I do," gasped Frank.
"But there must be no mistake, mark you, no 'slip between the cup and the lip;' the time is too near, to trust this matter to the remotest chance of failure. He must be your husband ere he leaves this house, or,—"
"Or?" faltered Frank.
"Or,—mark you, I do not threaten; but I am speaking Fate,—or, he will notappearon the 25th of December."
"He will notappear? What mean you?" her voice suddenly changed; she laid her hand upon his shoulder. "Do you mean to say that you willmurderhim, dear father?"
"He will notappear, I said, and say it again," he resumed in the same determined voice; "and the inheritance of this incredible estate will fall either to the seven, or to myself, the brother, or,—are you listening, daughter?—to thetwin brotherof this boy."
"Twin brother?" echoed Frank, utterly amazed.
"Yes, twin brother. The time is short, and we must put what we have to say in the fewest words. You remember your lost brother, Gulian?"
"I do."
"He was not your brother, although you were always taught to regard him as such. He was the twin brother of the boy who now leans against yonder pillar. On the night of his birth (wishing to destroy every obstacle between myself and my brother's estate), I stole him from his mother's arms. But when I learned the details of my brother's singular will, I resolved to rear him as my own, and keep him in reserve until the 25th of December, 1844, when thoroughly under my influence, and yet backed by undeniable proofs of his paternity, he would appear and claim his father's estate. It was not until 1832, that I learned that he had a twin brother in existence; you know what pains I took to sweep all proof of his existence from the memory of man; and it was only last night that I learned that this twin brother (now standing by yonder pillar), was still in being. Now, Frank, is the case clear? The one whom you were taught to call your brother Gulian, and to regard as lost, is neither your brother nor is he lost. He is living, and at my will, on the 25th of December, 1844,—to-morrow,—will appear in place of yonder youth, unless the marriage takes place at once."
Frank was utterly confounded. Well she remembered the revelation which Nameless made while in the clairvoyant state; that his mother had given birth to two children, one of whom had been secreted by the father, the other stolen by the uncle, but that the lost boy, whom she had been taught to regard as her brother Gulian, was one of these twins, was the brother of Nameless,—this was indeed a revelation, an overwhelming surprise. For a moment she was silent; her brain throbbed painfully.
"But how am I to believe this story?"
"You can disbelieve it, if you like," responded her father drily, "and risk the consequences—"
"But will not the marriage be as certain to-morrow, the day after, nay a week hence,—" she faltered.
"Girl! you will drive me mad,—" he clutched her by the wrist:—"nothing is certain that is not accomplished—"
She felt the blood mount to her cheek, and her heart swell in her breast:
"Have you no shame?" she said and flung his hand from her wrist—"Do you forget what you have made me? How can I, knowing what I am, what you have made me, urge him to hasten this marriage? Have you no shame? 'Come, I am lost and fallen,' shall I speak thus to him, 'I was sold into shame by my parents, when only fourteen years old. But you must marry me; to-night; at once; my father says so; he knows best; he sold me; and wants your fortune!' do you wish me to speak thus to him, father dear?"
It was now his turn to tremble. The proud spirit of her mother, (before he had degraded that mother,) spoke again in the tone, in the look of her daughter. He bit his lip, and ground his teeth.
"Frank, Frank, pity me,—I am desperate, but it is for your sake!" he cried, changing his method of attack—"Spare me the commission of a new crime,—spare me! I do not threaten, I entreat."
Wringing her hands within his own, he dragged her deeper into the shadows of the recess.
"Behold me at your feet;" he fell upon his knees; "the father on his knees at his daughter's feet; the father already steeped in crime, beseeches that daughter to save him from the commission of a new crime; to save him by simply pursuing her own happiness."
Frank was fearfully agitated; she drew her father to his right. "When do you wish the marriage to take place?" she said in a faltering tone.
"At once,—for your sake,—"
"But the clergyman,—"
"Dr. Bulgin is here. If you consent I will summon him to your chamber. The ceremony will take place there.
"Wait," she whispered; "I will see him. If I drop my 'kerchief, or take the cross from his neck all is right."
She glided from her father's side, and passing along the hall, among the maskers, soon stood by the side of Nameless once more.
Tarleton watched her as she went; watched her as she confronted Nameless; and while her back was toward him, endeavored, even through the distance, to mark the result of her mission, from the changes of the countenance of Nameless. Tarleton's form was concealed by the hangings of the recess, but his face, projecting from its shadow, was touched with faint light; light that only rendered more haggard and livid, its already haggard and livid lineaments. How earnestly he watched for the anticipated sign! It was not made. He clutched the hangings with both hands.
It had been a busy night with him. He had taken Ninety-One to the rooms of young Evelyn Somers, and placed the convict in one room, while the dead body of his own victim, rested in the other; thence he had passed to the library of Somers, the father, and held a pleasant chat with him; and from thence to the counting-room of Israel Yorke, where he had set Blossom on the track of Ninety-One. And from the counting-room of Israel Yorke, (after a deed or two which may hereafter be explained) he had repaired once more to the house of the merchant prince, in time to find Ninety-One accused of the murder of young Evelyn Somers. He had rushed to the room of Ninety-One, determined to avenge the murder of his friend, and to his great astonishment, found that Ninety-One had escaped by a secret door. Of course, the gallant Colonel knew nothing of that door! Then he had witnessed the death scene of the merchant-prince, and after threatening the boy, Gulian, he had returned to the Temple, brooding all sorts of schemes, big with all kinds of elaborate deviltry; and had discovered, to his real surprise, Nameless in his daughter's chamber! Discovered that Frank was in love with Nameless, and Nameless fascinated by Frank. A busy night, gallant Colonel! Well may you clutch the hangings with both hands, and watch for the falling of the 'kerchief, or the lifting of the cross!
"They are talking,—talking,—zounds! Why does she not give the sign? That sign given and all my difficulties are at an end! The seven heirs, Martin Fulmer, the estate, all are in my power!"
As these words escaped the Colonel's lips, two figures approached: one a knight in blue armor, (something like unto the stage image of the Ghost of Hamlet's father,) and the other in buff waistcoat, wide-skirted coat, ruffles, cocked hat, and buckskin small clothes,—supposed altogether to resemble a gentleman of the old school. The blue knight and the gentleman of the old school were moderately inebriated: even to a sinuousness of gait, and a tremulousness of the knees.
"I say Colonel,what—whatnews?" hiccupped the knight.
"Yes, yes," remarked the gentleman of the old school, with a bold attempt at originality of thought, "whatnews?"
"Pop!—" the Colonel looked at the knight,—"Pills!" he surveyed the gentleman of the old school; "I've sad news for you. Passing by the house of old Mr. Somers, an hour or two ago, I discovered that his son had been murdered in his room, you mark me, by an escaped convict, who was found concealed on the premises. Sad news, boys!"
"Extraordinary!" cried Pop and Pill in a breath. And the two drew near the principal and conversed at leisure with him; the Colonel all the while watching for the sign!
Frank and Nameless!
She found him leaning against the central pillar, his arms folded on his breast, his large gray eyes (for the mask had fallen from his face,) roving thoughtfully around the hall. How changed that face! The cheeks, no longer sallow, are flushed with hope; the lips, no longer colorless and dropped apart in vacant apathy, are firmly set together; the broad forehead, still white and massive, is stamped with thought; the thought which, no longer dismayed by the bitter past, looks forward, with a clear vision to the battles of the future. The events of the night had given new life to Nameless.
She caught his gaze,—and at once enchained it. His eye derived new fire from her look, but was chained to that look.
"It wasmy fatherwho wished to speak with me, Gulian," she said, and watched each lineament of his countenance.
"Your father?" he echoed.
"My father, who has worked you so much wrong,—who has worked such bitter wrong to me,—and who this very night, while brooding schemes for your ruin, entered my chamber, and found you in my arms, and heard the solemn pledge which we exchanged."
"Well, Frank," he interrupted, gazing anxiously into her face.
"He confesses that our,—ourmarriage, will more than exceed his wildest hope. That the very thought of it, makes him feel bitter remorse for the past, and levels every evil thought, as regards the future. But—"
She paused and took his hands in hers, and bent her face nearer to him, until her burning gaze, riveted every power of his soul.
"But he is afraid that you will hereafter regret your pledge of marriage."
"Frank!"
"That you, as the possessor of incredible wealth, will look back with wonder, with contempt upon the hour, when you plighted your faith to one like me!"
"One like you! Frank, Frank, do you think thus?"
"That once secure in your possessions, you will regard as worse than idle words, a promise made to the daughter of your enemy,—to a woman, whose life has been—spare me—"
She buried her head upon his breast; he drew her to him and felt the beating of her heart.
"Oh, Frank, can you think thus meanly of me?" he cried, completely carried away by her wild beauty, her agitation, her tears. "My promise once made cannot be taken back. I know what I promise; I know the future. I have risen from the grave of my past life; you, too, shall rise from the grave of your past life. We will begin life anew. We will walk the world together! Oh, would that this hour, this moment, I could make my compact good, beyond all chance of change, all danger of repeal!"
"Do you really wish thus, Gulian?" She raised her face, and her soul was in her eyes. "Is that the deepest wish of your heart?"
"Frank, I swear it!"
She took the white cross from his neck,—held it for a moment over her head; it glittered brightly in the light; and then she wound the chain about her own neck, and the white cross glittered on her proud bosom.
"Take this in exchange"—she took the golden cross from her breast, and wound its chain about his neck; the cross glitters over his heart—"in witness of our mutual pledge. And Gulian,—" there was a look—an extended hand—"Come!"
She led him from the light into the shadows, and—while his every pulse bounded as with a new life—from the hall.
And, as they passed from the hall, Leo the Tenth, clad in his cardinal attire, led his young nephew lovingly among the shadows of the vast apartment,—now pausing to refresh himself with sparkling Heidsick, and now twining his arm about the nephew's waist, trying to soothehermind upon some doctrinal point:
"Dearest Julia," he whispered, as they paused for a moment in the shadow of a pillar.
"Dearest Doctor," she responded—that is, the nephew, clad in blue frock-coat and trowsers; "you don't think that my husband ever will—"
The sentence was interrupted. A grave hidalgo, attired in black velvet, richly embroidered with gold, confronted the Doctor, otherwise Leo the Tenth, and whispered earnestly in his ear.
"Impossible!" responded Leo the Tenth, shaking his head. "Impossible, my dear Tarleton!"
"Itmustbe," answered the hidalgo, emphatically. "A quiet room up stairs, and no one present save myself, the bridegroom and the bride."
"But my name will appear on the certificate," hesitated the Doctor, "and questions may be asked as to theplacein which this marriage was celebrated, andhowI came to be there."
"Pshaw! You are strangely scrupulous," returned the hidalgo. "I tell you, Doctor, it is a matter of the last importance, and cannot be put off. Then you can celebrate the marriage asecondtime, inanother place, and—" he whispered a few emphatic words in the Doctor's ear.
Leo the Tenth was troubled, but he saw no way of escape.
"Well, well, be it so, Tarleton; you are an odd sort of fellow. Julia, dear,"—this, aside to his nephew; "wait for me in the Scarlet Chamber, up stairs, you know?" The nephew whisperedherassent. "I'll join you presently. Now Count,"—this to Tarleton,—"lead the way, and let us celebrate these mysterious nuptials."
And the three left the Central Hall together. Tarleton and the Doctor, on their way to the Bridal Chamber, and the nephew onherway to the Scarlet Chamber.
Near the central pillar stood the White Monk, with the hands of the White Nun resting on his shoulders, and his arms about her waist. Her hood has fallen; her countenance, flushed and glowing, lies open to his gaze. A beautiful nun, with blue eyes, swimming in fiery light, and unbound hair, bright as gold, sweeping a cheek like a rosebud, and resting upon neck and shoulders white as snow. And the White Monk bends down, and their lips meet, and she falls, half passionately, half shuddering, on his breast.
"Oh, Beverly, Beverly! whither would you lead me?" He scarce can distinguish the words, so faint, so broken by agitation is her voice.
"Your husband is false. He has trampled upon your love. I love you, and will avenge you. Come, Joanna!"
And from the light into the shadow, with the trembling nun half resting on his arm, half reposing on his breast, passes the White Monk. They reach the threshold of the hall. Pass it not, Joanna, as you love your child! pass it not, on peril of your soul! But no! "Come, Joanna!" and they are gone together.
From the throng of maskers who glide to and fro, select, for a moment, the lady in black, who stands gloomily yonder, gathering the folds of her robe about her face. Does this scene attract, or repel her? Within that shapeless robe, does her bosom swell with pleasure—voluptuous pleasure? or does it contract with terror and loathing?
Her Turkish friend,—the diminutive gentleman in the red jacket, spangled all over, blue trowsers and red morocco boots,—in vain offers her a glass of sparkling champagne; and just as vainly essays to draw her forth in conversation. At last, he seems to weary of her continued silence:
"If you will favor me with your company for a few moments, I will explain the purpose which impelled me to request an interview at this place."
"Let it be at once, then," is the whispered reply.
He offers his arm; she quietly but firmly pushes it aside.
"I will follow you," she says in her low-toned voice.
And the Turk leaves the hall, followed by the Lady in Black.
"The Blue Chamber!" he ejaculates, as he crosses the threshold.
Look again among the throng of guests. The stately Roderick Borgia stands yonder, his massive form reflected in a mirror, and the white robed Lucretia resting on his arm. They are masked; you cannot see the voluptuous loveliness of her face, nor the somber passion of his bronzed visage. But his brow,—that vast forehead, big with swollen veins,—is visible; and the mirror reflects her spotless neck and shoulders, and the single lily set among the meshes of her raven hair. It is a fine picture; the majestic Borgia, clad in purple, the enticing Lucretia robed in snowy white: never before did mirror reflect a more striking contrast. You hear his voice—that voice whose organ-like depth stirs the blood:
"A career, beautiful lady, now opens before you, such as the proudest queen might envy—"
And he attempts to take her soft, white hand within his own. But she gently withdraws it from his grasp. Lucretia, it seems, is timid, or—artful.
"Yes, we will revive the day, when intellect and beauty, embodied in a woman's form, ruled the world." How his deep voice adds force to his words. "Yes, yes; you shall be my Queen—mine! But come; I have that to say to you, which will have a vital bearing upon your fate."
"And my brother?" whispers Lucretia.
"And also the fate of your brother," responds Roderick Borgia. "Come with me to the Golden Room."
"To the Golden Room be it then!"
And Lucretia leans on the arm of Borgia and goes with him from the Hall to the Golden Room: his broad chest swelling with the anticipation of triumph,—and her right hand resting upon the hilt of the poniard which is inserted in the scarf that binds her waist.
Ere we follow the guests who have left the hall, and trace their various fortunes, let us cast a momentary glance upon those who remain.
The Caliph Haroun Alraschid sits by yonder table, sipping champagne from a long-necked glass, which now and then is pressed by the lips of his fair abbess. The caliph has evidently been refreshing himself too bountifully with the wines of the Giaour; his mask falls aside, and beneath his turban, instead of the grave oriental features of the magnificent sultan, you discern the puffy face and carbuncled nose of a Wall street broker.
A little beyond the caliph, a pope has fallen to sleep on yonder sofa, the triple crown resting neglected at his feet, and his pontifical robes soiled with the stains of wine. The cardinal and his Quakeress are trying the steps of the last waltz. The Christian knight and his houri, stand by the table, near the pillar,—discussing the merits of Mahomet's paradise? No! But the remains of a cold boiled fowl. And then, in the shadows of the pillars, and in front of the lofty mirrors, still glided to and fro the contrasted train of monks and nuns, knights and houris, cardinals and Quakeresses, popes and dancing girls. All were masked—still masked: for there were faces in that hall which you may have often seen in the dress circle of the opera, or in the dress pews of the fashionable church. Remove those masks? Never! not as you value the peace of a hundred families, the reputation of some of our most exclusive fashionables, the repose of "good society."
Thus the maskers glide along; the music strikes up in an adjoining hall—the dance begins—the orgie deepens,—and,—
Let the curtain fall.
The diminutive Turk, followed by the Lady in Black, led the way from the hall, to a distant and secluded apartment. She still gathered the hood of her robe closely about her face, and not a word was spoken as they pursued their way along the dark passage. A door was opened, and they entered a small although luxurious apartment, hung with hangings of azure, veined with golden flowers. A wax candle, placed in its massive candlestick, on a table before a mirror, gave light to the place. It was a silent, cozy, and luxurious nook of the Temple, remote from the hall, and secure from all danger of interruption.
As the Turk entered he flung aside his mask and turban, and disclosed the ferret eyes, bald head and wiry whiskers of Israel Yorke. Israel's bald head was fringed with white hairs; his wiry whiskers touched with gray; it was a strange contrast between his practicalbank-noteface, and his oriental costume.
"Now," he cried, flinging himself into a chair, "let us come to some understanding. What in the deuce do you mean?"
"What do I mean?" echoed the Lady in Black, who, seated on the sofa, held the folds of the robe across her face.
"Yes,whatdo you mean?" replied Israel, giving his Turkish jacket a petulant twitch. "Did I not help you out of that difficulty in Canal street, last evening, and rescue you from the impertinence of the shop-keeper?"
"Yes," briefly responded the lady.
"Did I not, seeing your forlorn and desolate condition, pin a note to your shawl, signed with my own name, asking you to meet me at this place, at twelve o'clock, 'where,' so I said, 'my worthy and unprotected friend, now so bravely endeavoring to get bread for an afflicted father, you will hear of something greatly to your advantage.' Those were my words, 'greatly to your advantage.'"
"Those were the words," echoed the lady, still preserving her motionless attitude.
"And in the note I inclosed the password by which only admittance can be gained to this mansion?"
"You did. I used it; entered the mansion and met you." Her voice was scarcely audible and very tremulous.
"You met me, oh, indeed you met me," said Israel, pulling his gray whiskers; "but what of that? An hour and more has passed. You have refused even a glass of wine,—have never replied one word to all my propositions; egad! I have not even seen your face."
"And now you have brought me to this lonely apartment to repeat your proposals?"
"Yes!" Israel picked up his turban and twirled it round on the end of his finger. "I want a plain answer, yes, or no! I am a plain man,—a man of business. You are poor, almost starving (pardon me if I pain you), and you have an aged and helpless father on your hands. You have nothing to look forward to, but starvation, or, the streets. You remember the scene in the shirt-store to-night?"
The lady gently bowed her head, and raised both hands to her face.
"I am rich, benevolent, always had a good heart,"—another twirl of the turban,—"and in a day or two I am about to sail for Havana. Accompany me! Your father shall be settled comfortably; the sea-breezes will do you good, and,—and,—the climate is delicious." And the fervent Turk stroked his bald head, and smoothed his white hairs.
"Accompany you," said the lady, slowly; "in what capacity? As a daughter, perchance?"
"Not ex-act-ly as a daugh-t-e-r," responded Israel; "but as acompanion."
There was a pause, and the robe was gently removed from the head and face of the Lady in Black. A beautiful countenance, shaded by dark brown hair, was disclosed; young and beautiful, although there was the shadow of sorrow on the cheeks, and traces of tears in the eyes. An expression inexpressibly sad and touching came over that face, as she said, in a voice which was musical in its very tremor,—
"And you, sir, knew my father in better days?"
"I did."
"You never knew any one of his race guilty of a dishonorable act?"
"Never did."
"And now you find him aged and helpless,—find myself, his only hope, reduced to the last extreme of poverty, with no prospect but (your own words), starvation, or the streets,—"
"Ay." Israel, beneath his spectacles, seemed to cast an admiring glance at his Turkish trowsers and red morocco boots.
"And in this hour, you, an old friend of the family, who have never known one of our name guilty of an act of dishonor, come to me, and seeing my father's affliction, and my perfectly helpless condition, gravely propose that I shall escape dishonor by becoming your—mistress! That is your proposition, sir."
She rose and placed her hand firmly on Israel's shoulder, and looked him fixedly in the eye. The little man was thunderstruck. Her flashing eyes, her bosom heaving proudly under its faded covering, the proud curl of her lip, and the firm pressure of the hand which rested on his shoulder, took the Financier completely by surprise.
"I am scarce sixteen years old," she continued, her eyes growing larger and brighter, "my childhood was passed without a care. But in the last two years I have gone through trials that madden me now to think upon; trials that the aged and experienced are rarely called upon to encounter; but in the darkest hour, I have never forgotten these words, 'Trust in God;' never for an instant believed that God would ever leave me to become the prey of a man likeyou!"
And she pressed his shoulder, until the little man shook again, his gold spectacles rattling on his nose.
"For, do you mark me, the very trials that have well-nigh driven me mad, have also given me strength and courage, may be, the strength, the courage of despair, but still the courage, when the last hope fails, to choose death before dishonor!"
"But your father," faltered Israel.
"My father is without bread; but once in twenty-four hours have I tasted food, and that a miserable morsel; but rather than accept your proposals, and lie down with shame, I would put the poison vial first to my father's lips, then to my own! Yes, Israel Yorke, there is a God, and He, in this house, when the last hope has gone out, when there is nothing but death before, gives me strength to spit upon your infamous proposals, and to die! Strength such as you will never feel in your death-hour!"
"Pretty talk, pretty talk," faltered Israel; "but what does it amount to? Talk on, still the fact remains; you and your father are starving, and you reject the offer of the only one who can relieve you."
She raised her eyes to heaven. She folded her hands upon her heaving breast. Her face was unnaturally pallid; her eyes unnaturally bright. As she stood, in an attitude so calm and severe, she was wondrously beautiful. Her voice was marked with singular elation,—
"O, my God! there must be a hell," she said. "There must be a place where the injustice of this world is made straight; else why does this man sit here, clad in ill-gotten and superfluous wealth, while my aged father, one of his victims, lacks at this hour even a crust of bread?"
Israel's feelings can only be described by a single word—"uncomfortable." He shifted nervously in his chair, and twirled his turban on the end of his finger; then rubbed his bald head, smoothed his white hair, and pulled his wiry whiskers.
"What in the devil did you come to see me for, if such was your opinion of me?"
"I came to see you as a last hope;" her countenance fell, and her tone was that of unalloyed despair. "I thought that remorse had been busy at your heart; that you wished to atone for the past by a just, although tardy, restitution. I thought——"
"Remorse! restitution!" laughed the Financier. "Come, I like that!"
"That knowing the utterly destitute condition of the father, you had summoned the daughter, in order to tender to her, at least, a portion of the wealth which you wrung from him——"
Choked by emotion, she could not proceed, but grew pale and paler, until a flood of tears came to her relief.
"O, sir, a pittance, a pittance, to save my father's life!" She flung herself at his feet, and clutched his knees. Her much-worn bonnet fell back upon her neck, and her hair burst its fastening, and descended in wavy masses upon her shoulders. Her face was flushed with sudden warmth; her eyes shone all the brighter for their tears. "A pittance out of your immense wealth, to save the life of your old friend, my father! His daughter begs it at your feet."
Israel gazed at her deliberately through his gold spectacles,—
"Oh, no, my dear," he said, and a sneer curled his cold lip; "you are too damnably virtuous."
The maiden said no more. Relaxing her grasp, she fell at his feet, and lay there, pale and insensible, her long hair floating on the carpet. The agony which she had endured in the last twenty-four hours had reached its climax. She was stretched like a dead woman at the feet of the Financier.
"Trust in God,—good motto for a picture-book; but what good does it do you now my dear?" thus soliloquized Israel, as he knelt beside the insensible girl. "Don't discount that kind of paper in my bank that I know of. Fine arm, that, and splendid bust!" He surveyed her maidenly, yet rounded proportions. "If it was not for her stubborn virtue, she would make a splendid companion. Well, well,——"
A vile thought worked its way through every lineament of his face.
"Once in my power, all her scruples would be at an end. We are alone,"—he glanced around the cozy apartment,—"and I think I'll try the effect of an anodyne. Anodynes are good for fainting spells, I believe."
He drew a slender vial from beneath his Turkish jacket, and holding it between himself and the light, examined it steadily with one eye.
"It is well I thought of it! 'Twill revive her,—make her gently delirious for a while, and she will not come to herself completely until to-morrow; much surer than persuasion, and quicker! Trust in God,—a-hem!"
He raised her head on his knee, and un corked the vial and held it to her lips.
At that moment there was a quick, rapid knock at the door. It broke startlingly upon the dead stillness.
"Why did I not lock it?" cried Israel, his hand paralyzed, even as it held the vial to the poor girl's lips.
Too late! The door opened, and one by one, six sturdy men, in rough garments and with faces by no means ominous of good stalked into the room.
And over the shoulders of the six, appeared six other faces, all wearing that same discouraging expression. It may not be improper to state that every one of the twelve carried in his right hand a piece of wood, that deserved the name of a stick, perchance, a club.
And shuffling over the floor, they encircled Israel. "Got him," said one who appeared to be the spokesman of the band, "safe and tight! Had a hunt, but fetched him at last. I say, Israel, my Turk, (a gentle hint with a club), get up and redeem your paper!"
And he held a bundle of bank notes,—Chow Bank, Muddy Run, Terrapin Hollow, under the nose of the paralyzed Financier.
Roderick Borgia leads Lucretia across the threshold of the Golden Room. She utters an ejaculation of wonder mingled with terror. For it is a magnificent, and yet a gloomy place that Golden Room. A large square apartment, the walls concealed by black hangings,—hangings of velvet fringed with gold. The floor is covered with a dark carpet, the ceiling represents a sun radiating among sullen clouds. The chairs, the sofa, are covered with black velvet, and framed in gold. Only a single mirror is there,—opposite the sofa, reaching from the floor to the ceiling, framed in ebony, which in its turn is framed in a border of gold. A lamp, whose light is softened by a clouded shade, stands on an ebony table, between the sofa and the mirror, and around the lamp are clustered fruits and flowers, two long necked glasses, and a bottle of Bohemian glass, blue, veined with gold. A single picture, suspended against the dark hangings, alone relieves the sullen grandeur of the place. It is of the size of life, and represents Lucretia Borgia, her unbound hair waving darkly over her white shoulders, and half bared bosom, her eyes shooting their maddening glance, from the shadow of the long eyelashes, her form clad in a white garment, edged with scarlet,—a garment which, light and airy, floats like a misty vail about her beautiful shape. Coming from the darkness into this scene, the masked Lucretia, as we have said, could not repress an ejaculation, half astonishment, half fear—
"Never fear," cries Roderick gayly, as he flung his plumed cap on the table. "It looks gloomy enough, but then it is like the Golden Room in the Vatican, of which history tells. And then,"—he pointed to the picture, "the living Lucretia need not fear a comparison with the dead one. Remove your mask! I am dying to look upon you."
Lucretia sank upon the sofa with Roderick by her side. Roderick unmasked and revealed the somber features of Gabriel Godlike. Lucretia dropped her mask, and the light shone on the face of Esther Royalton.
"By heavens, you are beautiful!"—his eyes streamed with singular intense light, from the shadow of his projecting brow.
And she was beautiful. A faultless shape, neck and shoulders white as snow, a countenance framed in jet-black hair, the red bloom of a passionate organization on lips and cheeks, large eyes, whose intense light was rather deepened than subdued by the shadow of the long eyelashes. And then the blush which coursed over her face and neck, as she felt Godlike's burning gaze fixed upon her, can be compared to nothing save a sudden flash of morning sunlight, trembling over frozen snow. One of those women, altogether, whose organization embodies the very intensity of intellect and passion, and whose way in life lies along no middle track, but either rises to the full sunlight, or is lost in shadows and darkness.
"You consent, my child?" Godlike softened his organ-like voice,—took her hand within his own—she did not give, nor did she withdraw her hand,—"Randolph shall go abroad, upon an honorable mission to a foreign court, where he will be treated as a man, without regard to the taint (if thus it may be called) in his blood. He will have fair and free scope for the development of his genius. And you,—"
He paused. She lifted her eyes to his face, and met his burning glances, with a searching and profound look.
"And myself,—"
"And you shall go with me to Washington, where your beauty shall command all hearts, your intellect carve for yourself a position, that a queen might envy."
She made no reply, but her eyes were downcast, her beautiful forehead darkened by a shade of thought. Was she measuring the full force and meaning of his words?
"In,—what—capacity—did—you—say?" she asked at length in a faint voice.
"As my ward,—" responded Godlike; "you will be known as my ward, the heiress and daughter of a wealthy West Indian, who at his death, intrusted your person and fortune to my care. You will have your own mansion, your pair of servants, carriage and so-forth,—in fact, all the externals of a person of immense wealth. As my ward you will enter the first circles of society. The whole machinery of life at the Capital will be laid bare to your gaze, and with your hand upon the spring which sets that machinery in motion, you can command it to your will. You will not live, you will reign!"
"Tell me something," said Esther, in a low voice, her bosom for a moment swelling above the scarlet border of her robe,—"Tell me something of life at the Capital,—life in Washington City."
Godlike laughed until his broad chest shook again,—a deep sardonic laugh.
"Poets have prated of the influence of woman, and most wildly! But life in Washington City distances the wildest dream of the poets. There woman is supreme. Never was her influence so absolute before, at any court,—neither at the court of Louis the Great, nor that of George the Fourth,—as at the plain republican court of Washington City. The simple people, afar off from Washington, think that it is the President, the Heads of the Department, the Senators and Representatives, who make the laws and wield the destinies of the republic. They think of great men sitting in council, by the midnight lamp, their hearts heavy, their eyes haggard with much watching over the welfare of the nation. Bah! when the real legislator is not a grave senator or solemn minister of state, but some lovely woman, armed only with a pair of bright eyes, and a soft musical voice. The grave legislators of the male gender, strut grandly in their robes of office, before the scenes,—and that poor dumb beast, the people, opens its big eyes, and stares and struts; but behind the scenes, it is woman who pulls the wires, makes the laws, and sets the nation going." He paused and laughed again. "Why, my child, I have known the gravest questions, in which the very fate of the nation was involved, decided upon, in senate or in cabinet, after long days and nights of council and debate, and,——knocked to pieces in an instant by the soft fingers of a pretty woman. It is red tape,versusbright eyes in Washington City, and eyes always carry the day."
"This is indeed a strange story you are telling me," said Esther, her eyes still downcast.
Godlike for a moment surveyed himself in the mirror opposite, and laughed.
"I vow I had quite forgotten, that I was arrayed in this singular costume,—scarlet tunic, edged with ermine, and so-forth,—it is something in the style of Borgia, and," he added to himself, surveying the somber visage and massive forehead, surmounted by iron gray hair,—"not so bad looking for a man of sixty! You think it impossible?" he continued aloud, turning to Esther, who had raised her hand thoughtfully to her forehead,—"why my dear child, a man who lives in Washington for any time, sees strange things. I have seen a husband purchase a mission by the gift of the person of a beautiful wife; I have seen a brother mount to office over the ruins of his sister's honor; I have seen a gray-haired father, when all his claims for position proved fruitless, place in the scale, the chastity of an only and beautiful daughter—and win. By ——!" he drew down his dark brows, until his eyes were scarcely visible, "How is it possible to look upon mankind with anything but contempt,—contempt and scorn!"
"But," and Esther raised her eyes to that bronzed face, every lineament of which now worked with a look of indescribable scorn,—"you have genius,—the loftiest! you tower above the mass of men. You have influence,—an influence rarely given to any one man; it spans the continent; why not use your genius and influence to make men better?"
There was something in her tone, which struck the heart of Godlike. The expression of intense scorn was succeeded by a look of sadness as intense. His brows rose, and his eyes looked forth, large, clear and dreamy. It was as though that dark countenance, seamed by the wrinkles of long years of sin, had been, for an instant, baptized with the hope and freshness of youth.
"That was long ago; long ago; the dream of making men better. I felt it once,—tried to carry it into deeds. But the dream has long since past. I awakened from it many years ago. You see it is very pleasant to believe in the innate goodness of human nature, but attempt to carry it into action, and hark! do you not hear them, the very people, to whom yesterday you sacrificed your soul; hark! 'crucify him! crucify him!'"
He rose from the sofa, and the mirror reflected his majestic form, clad in the attire of Roderick Borgia, and his dark visage, stamped with genius on the giant forehead, and burning with the light of a giant soul in the lurid eyes. He was strangely agitated. His chest heaved beneath his masker's attire. There was an absent, dreamy look in his upraised eyes.
"I used to think of it, and dream over it, in my college days,—of that history in which 'Hosanna!' is shouted to-day, and palm branches strewn; and to-morrow,—the hall of Pilate, the crown of thorns, the march up Calvary, and the felon's cross! I used, I say, to think and dream over it in my college days. As I looked around the world and surveyed history, and found the same story everywhere: found that for bold imposture and giant humbug, in every age, the world had riches, honor, fame, while in return, for any attempt to make it better, it had the cry, 'crucify! crucify!' it had the scourge, the crown of thorns, and the felon's cross."
His voice swelled bold and deep through the silent room; as he uttered the last word, he raised his hand to his eyes, and for a moment was buried in the depth of his emotions. Esther, raising her eyes, regarded with looks of mingled admiration and awe, that forehead, upon which the veins stood forth bold and swollen,—the handwriting of the inward thought.
"The devil is a very great fool," he said, with a burst of laughter, "to give himself so much trouble about a world which is not worth the damning." And then turning to Esther, he said bitterly: "Do you ask me why I utterly despise mankind, and why I have lost all faith in good? In the course of a long and somewhat tumultuous life, I have found one thing true,—whenever from a pure impulse, I have advocated a noble thought, or done a good deed, I have been hunted like a dog, and whenever from mere egotism, I have defended a bad principle, or achieved an infamous deed, I have been worshiped as a demigod. Yes, it is not for one's bad deeds that we are blamed; it is for the good, that condemnation falls upon us."
He strode to the table, and filled a glass to the brim with blood-red Burgundy: "My beautiful Esther, your answer! Which do you choose? On the one hand want and persecution, on the other, position and power,—yes, on the one hand the life of the hunted pariah; on the other, sway of an absolute queen."
He drained the glass, without removing it from his lips; then advancing to the sofa, he took her hands within his own, and raised her gently to her feet.
"Esther, it is time to make your choice," he said, bending the force of his gaze upon that beautiful countenance: "which will you be? Your brother's slave, hunted at every step, and even doomed to be the pariah of the social world,—or, will you be the ward of Gabriel Godlike, the beautiful heiress of his West Indian friend, the unrivaled queen of life at the capital."