"The deserted mission house of San Luis stands in the center of a pleasant valley, encircled by fertile hills. Its walls of intermingled wood and stone are almost buried from view by the ever-green foliage of the massive trees which surround it. Once merry with the hum of busy labor, and echoing with the voice of prayer and praise, it is now silent as a tomb. Its vineyards and its orchards are gone to decay,—orchards rich with the olive and the apple, the pomegranate and the orange, stand neglected and forsaken, under an atmosphere as calm, a climate as delicious as southern Italy. And the hills and fields, which once produced the plantain and banana, cocoanut, indigo and sugar-cane—which once resounded with the voices of hundreds of Indian laborers, who yielded to the rule of the Jesuit Fathers—are now as sad and silent as a desert. And yet a happier sight you cannot conceive than the valley of the San Luis, in the lap of which stands the deserted mission-house. It is watered by two rivulets, which, flowing from the gorges of distant hills, join near the mission-house, into a broad and tranquil river, whose shores are always bright with the verdure of spring. The valley is surrounded, as I have said, by a range of rolling hills, which formerly yielded, by their inexhaustible fertility, abundant wealth to the Fathers. Behind these, higher and abrupt hills arise, clad with ever-green forests. In the far distance, rise the white summits of the Sierra Nevada."
"This mission was one of the many established between the Sierra Nevada and the Pacific coast," interrupted Ezekiel, "by zealous missionaries of the Papal Church. If I mistake not, having obtained large grants of land from the Mexican government, they gathered the Indians into missions, reared huge mission-houses, and employed the Indians in the cultivation of the soil."
"Not only in California, on the west side of Sierra Nevada, but also far to the east of that range of 'Snow Mountains' abounded these missions, ruled by the Fathers and supported by the labor of the submissive Indians. But now, for hundreds and hundreds of miles, you will find the mission-houses silent and deserted. The rule of the Fathers passed away in 1836—in one of the thousand revolutions of Mexico—the missions passed into the hands of private individuals, and in some cases the Indians were transferred with the land."
"But the mission-house of San Luis?"
"Is claimed by powerful members of the Society of Jesus, who residing in the city of Mexico, have managed to keep a quiet hold upon the various governments, which have of late years abounded in that unhappy republic. They claim the mission-house and the lands, originally granted sixty years ago, to Brothers of their order by the Government, and they claim certain lands, not named in the original grant."
He paused, but Ezekiel Bogart completed the sentence:
"Lands purchased some years since, from the Government by Dr. Martin Fulmer? Is their claim likely to be granted?"
"That is a question upon which I will be most happy to converse with Dr. Martin Fulmer," was the bland reply of Gaspar Manuel.
"These lands are fertile—that is, as fertile as the lands immediately attached to the mission?"
"Barren, barren as Zahara," replied Gaspar. "A thousand acres in all, they are bounded by desolate hills, desolate of foliage, and broken into ravines and gorges, by mountain streams. You stand upon one of the hills, and survey the waste which constitutes Martin Fulmer's lands, and you contrast them with the mission lands, and feel as though Zahara and Eden stood side by side before you. A gloomier sight cannot be imagined."
"And yet," said Ezekiel, "these lands are situated but a few leagues from the mission-house. It is strange that the Jesuit Brothers should desire to possess such a miserable desert. Do you imagine their motives?"
"It is abouttheir motivesthat I desire to speak with Dr. Martin Fulmer," and Gaspar shaded his eyes with the white hand which blazed with the diamond ring.
There was a pause, and beneath his uplifted hand, Gaspar Manuel attentively surveyed Ezekiel Bogart, while Ezekiel Bogart, as earnestly surveyed Gaspar Manuel, under the protection of the green shade which concealed his eyes.
"You seem to have a great many visitors to-night," said Gaspar, resting his arm on the table and his forehead on his hand; "allow me to ask, is it usual to transact business, at such a late hour, in this country?"
"The business transacted by Dr. Martin Fulmer, differs widely from the business of Wall street," replied Ezekiel, dryly.
"The property of Gulian Van Huyden, has by this time doubled itself?" asked Gaspar, still keeping his eyes on the table. Ezekiel started, but Gaspar continued, as though thinking aloud—"Let me see: at the time of his death, the estate was estimated at two millions of dollars. Of this $1,251,000 was invested in real estate in the city of New York; $100,000 in bank and other kinds of stock; $50,000 in lands in the Western country; $1,000 in a tract of one thousand acres in Pennsylvania; and $458,000 in bank notes and gold. Then the Van Huyden mansion and grounds were valued at $150,000. Are my figures correct, sir?"
As though altogether amazed by the minute knowledge which Gaspar Manuel, seemed to possess, in regard to the Van Huyden estate, Ezekiel did not reply.
"By this time this great estate has no doubt doubled, perhaps trebled itself."
Ezekiel raised his hand to his mouth, and preserved a statue-like silence.
"This room, which is no doubt vaulted and fire-proof, contains I presume, all the important records, title-deeds and other papers relating to the estate."
Ezekiel rose from his chair, and slowly lighted a wax candle which stood upon the table. Gathering the dark wrapper, lined with scarlet, about his tall form which seemed bent with age, he took the silver candlestick in his right hand, and swept aside a curtain which concealed the shelves behind his chair. A narrow doorway was disclosed.
"Will you step this way, for a few moments, sir?" he said, pointing to the doorway, as he held the light above his head, thus throwing the shadow of the green shade completely over his face.
Gaspar Manuel without a word, rose and followed him. They entered a room or rather vault, resembling in the general features the one which they had left. It was racked and shelved; the floor was brick and the shelves groaned under the weight of carefully arranged papers.
"This room or vault, without windows as you see, and rendered secure, beyond a doubt, from all danger of robbery or of fire, is one of seven," said Ezekiel. "In this room are kept all title deeds and papers, which relate to theThousand acresin Pennsylvania."
"The Thousand acres in Pennsylvania!" echoed Gaspar, "surely all these documents and papers, do not relate to that tract, which Van Huyden originally purchased for one thousand dollars?"
"Twenty-one years ago, they could have been purchased for a thousand dollars," answered Ezekiel: "twenty-one years, to a country like this, is the same as five hundred to Europe. Those lands could not now be purchased for twenty millions."
"Twenty millions!"
"They comprise inexhaustible mines of coal and iron—the richest in the state," answered Ezekiel, quietly, and drawing a curtain, he led the way into a second vault.
"Here," he said, holding the light above his head, so that its rays fell full upon the pallid face of Gaspar, while his own was buried in shadow; "here are kept all papers and title-deeds, which relate to the lands in the western country—lands purchased for fifty thousand dollars, at a time when Ohio was a thinly settled colony and all the region further west a wilderness—but lands which now are distributed through five states, and which, dotted with villages, rich in mines and tenanted by thousands, return an annual rent of,——"
He paused.
"Of I do not care to say how many dollars. Enough, perhaps, to buy a German prince or two. This way, sir."
Passing through a narrow doorway, they entered a third vault, arched and shelved like the other.
"This place is devoted to the Van Huyden mansion," said Ezekiel, pointing to the well-filled shelves. "It was worth $150,000 twenty-one years ago, but now a flourishing town has sprung up in the center of its lands; mills and manufactories arise in its valleys; a population of five thousand souls exists, where twenty-one years ago there were not two hundred souls, all told. And these five thousand are laboring night and day, not so much for themselves as to increase the wealth of the Van Huyden estate."
"And all this is estimated at,——," began Gaspar.
"We will not say," quietly responded Ezekiel. "Here are the title-deeds of the town, of the mansion, of manufactory and mill, all belong to the estate; not one of the five thousand souls owns one inch of the ground on which they toil, or one shingle of the roof beneath which they sleep."
They entered the fourth vault.
"This is dedicated to the 'Real Estate in the city of New York,'" said Ezekiel—"worth $1,521,000, twenty-one years ago, and now—well, well—New York twenty-one years ago was the presumptuous rival of Philadelphia. She is now the city of the Continent. And this real estate is located in the most thriving portions of the city—among the haunts of trade near the Battery, and in the region of splendid mansions up town."
"And you would not like to name the usual revenue?"—a smile crossed the pale visage of Gaspar Manuel.
Ezekiel led the way into the fifth vault.
"Matters in regard to Banks and bank stock are kept here," he said, showing the light of the candle upon the well laden shelves—"Rather an uncertain kind of property. The United States' Bank made a sad onslaught upon these shelves. But let us go into the next room."
And they went into the sixth room.
"This is our bank," said Ezekiel; "that is to say, the Treasury of the Van Huyden estate, in which we keep ourspecie basis. You perceive the huge iron safe which occupies nearly one-half of the apartment? Dr. Martin Fulmer carries the Key of course, and with that Key he can perchance, at any moment, command the destinies of the commercial world. A golden foundation is a solid foundation, as the world goes."
As though for the moment paralyzed, by the revelation of the immense wealth of the Van Huyden estate, Gaspar Manuel stood motionless as a statue, resting one arm upon the huge safe and at the same time resting his forehead in his hand.
"We will now pass into the seventh apartment," said Ezekiel, and in a moment they stood in the last vault of the seven. "It is arched and shelved, you perceive, like the others; and the shelves are burdened with carefully-arranged papers——"
"Title-deeds, I presume, title-deeds and mortgages?" interrupted Gaspar Manuel.
"No," answered Ezekiel, suffering the rays of the candle to fall upon the crowded shelves. "Those shelves containbriefsof the personal history of permanent persons of this city, of many parts of the Union, I may say, of many parts of the globe. Sketches of the personal history of prominent persons, and of persons utterly obscure: records of remarkable facts, in the history of particular families: brief but interesting portraitures of incidents, societies, governments and men; the contents of those shelves, sir, is knowledge, and knowledge that, in the grasp of a determined man, would be a fearful Power. For," he turned and fixed his gaze on Gaspar Manuel; "for you stand in the Secret Police Department of the Van Huyden estate."
These last words, pronounced with an emphasis of deep significance, evidently aroused an intense curiosity in the breast of Gaspar Manuel.
"Secret Police Department!" he echoed, his dark eyes flashing with renewed luster.
"Even so," dryly responded Ezekiel, "for the Van Huyden estate is not a secret society like the Jesuits, nor a corporation like Trinity Church, nor a government like the United States or Great Britain, but it is aGovernment based upon Money and controlled by the Iron Will of One Man. A Government based, I repeat it, upon incredible wealth, and absolutely in the control of one man, who for twenty-one years, has devoted his whole soul to the administration of the singular and awful Power intrusted to him. Such a Government needs a Secret Police, ramifying through all the arteries of the social world—and you now stand in the office of that wide-spread and almost ubiquitous Police."
"A secret society may be disturbed by internal dissensions," said Gaspar Manuel, as though thinking aloud; "a government may be crippled by party jealousies, but this Government of the Van Huyden Estate, based upon money, is simply controlled by one man, who knows his mind, who sees his way clear, whose will is deepened by a conviction—perhaps a fanaticism—as unrelenting as death itself. Ah! the influence of such a Government is fearful, nay horrible, to contemplate!"
"It is, it is indeed," said Ezekiel, in a low and mournful voice; "and the responsibility of Dr. Martin Fulmer, most solemn and terrible."
"But what would become of this Government, were Dr. Martin Fulmer to die before the 25th of December?" asked Gaspar Manuel.
"But Dr. Martin Fulmer will not die before the 25th of December," responded Ezekiel, in a tone of singular emphasis.
"And this immense power will drop from his grasp on the 10th of December," continued Gaspar Manuel. "Who will succeed him? Into whose hands will it fall—this incredible power?"
"Your question will be answered on the 25th of December," slowly responded Ezekiel, and motioning to Gaspar, he retraced his steps through the six vaults or apartments, and presently stood in the first of the seven vaults, where we first beheld him.
He seated himself in the huge arm-chair, while Gaspar Manuel, resuming his cloak and sombrero, stood ready to depart.
"Now that I have given you some revelation of the immense resources of the Van Huyden Estate," said Ezekiel, as he attentively surveyed that cloaked and motionless figure; "you will, I presume, have no objection to converse with me in regard to the lands on the Pacific, as freely and as fully, as though you stood face to face with Dr. Martin Fulmer?"
"Pardon," said Gaspar Manuel with a low brow, "the facts in my possession are for the ear of Dr. Martin Fulmer, and for his ear alone."
"Very well, sir," replied Ezekiel, in a tone of impatience, "as you please. Call here to-morrow at—" he named the hour—"and you shall see Dr. Martin Fulmer."
"I will be here at the hour," and bidding good-night! to Ezekiel, Gaspar bowed and moved to the door. He paused for a moment on the threshold——
"Pardon me, sir, but I would like to ask you a single question."
"Well, sir."
"I am curious to know what has induced you, to disclose to me—almost an entire stranger—the secrets and resources of the Van Huyden Estate?"
"Sir," responded Ezekiel Bogart, in a voice which deep and stern, was imbued with the consciousness of Power; "you will excuse me from giving you a direct reply. But you would not have crossed the threshold of any one of the seven apartments, had I not been conscious, that it is utterly out of your power, toabusethe knowledge which you have obtained."
Again Gaspar Manuel bowed, and without a word, left the room.
Ezekiel Bogart was alone.
He folded his arms and bowed his head upon his breast. Strange and tumultuous thoughts, stamped their deep lines upon his massive brow. The dimly-lighted room was silent as the grave, and the light fell faintly upon that singular figure, buried in the folds of the dark robe lined with scarlet, the head covered with an unsightly skullcap, the eyes vailed by a green shade, the chin and mouth concealed by the cumbrous cravat. Lower drooped the head of Ezekiel, but still the light fell upon his bared forehead, and showed the tumultuous thoughts that were working there. The very soul of Ezekiel, retired within itself and absent from all external things, was buried in a maze of profound, of overwhelming thought.
The aged servant entered with a noiseless step, "Here is a letter, sir," he said. But Ezekiel did not hear. "Sir, a letter from Philadelphia, by a messenger who has just arrived." But Ezekiel, profoundly absorbed, was unconscious of his presence.
The aged servant advanced, and placed the letter on the table, directly before his absent-minded master. He touched Ezekiel respectfully on the shoulder and repeated in a louder voice—"A letter, sir, an important letter from Philadelphia, by a messenger who has just arrived."
Ezekiel started in his chair, like one suddenly awakened from a sound slumber. At a glance he read the superscription of the letter: "To Ezekiel Bogart, Esq.—Important."
"The handwriting of the Agent whom I yesterday sent to Philadelphia!" he ejaculated, and opened the letter. These were its contents:
Philadelphia, Dec.23, 1844.Sir:—I have just returned to the city, from the Asylum—returned in time to dispatch this letter by an especial messenger, who will go to New York, in the five o'clock train. At your request, and in accordance with your instructions, I visited the Asylum for the Insane, this morning, expecting to bring away with me the Patient whom you named.He escaped some days ago—so the manager informed me. And since his escape no intelligence has been had of his movements. I have not time to add more, but desire your instructions in the premises.Yours truly, H. H.ToEzekiel Bogart, Esq.
Philadelphia, Dec.23, 1844.
Sir:—I have just returned to the city, from the Asylum—returned in time to dispatch this letter by an especial messenger, who will go to New York, in the five o'clock train. At your request, and in accordance with your instructions, I visited the Asylum for the Insane, this morning, expecting to bring away with me the Patient whom you named.He escaped some days ago—so the manager informed me. And since his escape no intelligence has been had of his movements. I have not time to add more, but desire your instructions in the premises.
Yours truly, H. H.
ToEzekiel Bogart, Esq.
No sooner had Ezekiel scanned the contents of this epistle, than he was seized with powerful agitation.
"Escaped! The child of Gulian escaped!" he cried, and started from the chair—"to-morrow he was to be here, in this house, in readiness for the Day. Escaped! Why did not the manager at once send me word? Ah, woe, woe!" He turned to the aged servant, and continued, "Bring the person who brought this letter, to me, at once, quick! Not an instant is to be lost."
And as the aged servant left the room, Ezekiel sank back in his chair, like one who is overpowered by a sudden and unexpected calamity.
As Gaspar Manuel left the house of Ezekiel Bogart, he wrapped his cloak closely about his form, and drew his sombrero low upon his face. His head drooped upon his breast as he hurried along, with a quick and impetuous step. Soon he was in Broadway again, amid its glare and uproar, but he did not raise his head, nor turn his gaze to the right or left. Head drooped upon his breast and arms gathered tightly over his chest, he threaded his way through the mazes of the crowd, as absent from the scene around him, as a man walking in his sleep.
Arrived at the Astor House, he hurried to his room and changed his dress. Divesting himself of his fashionable attire—black dress-coat, scarf, white-vest—he clad himself in a single-breasted frock-coat, buttoned to the throat and reaching below the knees. Above its straight collar, a glimpse of his white cravat was perceptible. And over the dark surface of his coat, was wound a massy gold chain, to which was appended, a Golden Seal and a Golden Cross. Over this costume, which in its severe simplicity, displayed his slender frame to great advantage, he threw his cloak, and once more hurried from the Hotel.
Pausing on the sidewalk in front of the Astor, he engaged a hackney-coach—
"Do you know where, —— ——, resides?" he asked of the driver; a huge individual, in a white overcoat, and oil-skin hat.
"Sure and I does jist that," was the answer. "It's meself that knows the residence of his Riv'rence as well as the nose on my face."
"Drive me there, at once," said Gaspar Manuel.
And presently the carriage was rolling up Broadway, bearing Gaspar Manuel to the residence of a prominent dignitary of the Roman Catholic Church.
As the little clock on the mantle struck the hour of eleven, the Prelate was sitting in an easy chair, in front of a bright wood fire. It was in a spacious apartment, connected with his library by a narrow door. Two tall wax candles, placed upon the table by his side, shed their light over the softly carpeted floor, the neatly papered walls, and over the person of the Prelate, who was seated at his ease, in the center of the scene.
The Prelate was a man of some forty-five years, with boldly marked features, and sharp fiery eyes, indicating an incessantly active mind. The light fell mildly on his tonsured crown, encircled by brown hair, streaked with gray, and his bold forehead and compressed lip. His form broad in the shoulders, muscular in the chest, and slightly inclined to corpulence, was clad in a long robe of dark purple, reaching from his throat to his feet. There was a cross on his right breast and a diamond ring on the little finger of his left-hand.
Thus alone, in his most private room—the labors of the day accomplished and the world shut out—the Prelate was absorbed in the mazes of a delightful reverie.
He fixed his eyes upon a picture which hung over the mantle, on the left. It was a portrait of Cardinal Dubois, who in the days of the Regency, trailed his Red Hat in the mire of nameless debaucheries.
"Fool!" muttered the Prelate, "he had not even sense to hide his vices, under the thinnest vail of decency."
He turned his eyes to a portrait which hung over the mantle on the right. "There was a man!" he muttered, and a smile shot over his face. The portrait was that of Cardinal Richelieu who butchered the Huguenots in France, while he was supplying armies to aid the Protestants of Germany. Richelieu, one of those Politicians who seem to regard the Church simply as a machine for the advancement of their personal ambition,—the cross as a glittering bauble, only designed to dazzle the eyes of the masses,—the seamless Cloak of the Redeemer, as a cloak intended to cover outrages the most atrocious, which are done in the name of God.
"He was a man!" repeated the Prelate. "He moulded the men and events of his time, and,——" he stopped. He smiled. "Why cannot I mould to my own purposes, the men and events of my time, using the Church as a convenient engine?" Some thought like this seemed to flit over his mind.
Having attentively turned his gaze from Cardinal Dubois to Cardinal Richelieu, the Prelate at length fixed his eyes upon a marble bust, which stood in the center of the mantle. And his lips moved, and his eyes flashed, and his right hand waved slowly to and fro, before his face, as though he saw a glorious future, drawn in the air, by a prophetic pencil.
The marble bust upon which he gazed, was the bust of one, who from the very lowest walk in life had risen to be Pope: and one of the strongest, sternest Popes that ever held the scepter of the Vatican.
"It can be won," ejaculated the Prelate, "and the means lie here," he placed his hand upon a Map which lay on the table. It was a map of the American Continent.
"I came up stairs without ceremony," said a calm even voice; "your Grace's servant informed me, that you expected me."
"I am heartily glad to see you, my Lord," said the Prelate, turning abruptly and confronting his visitor: "it is now two years since I met your Lordship in Rome. It was, you remember, just before you departed to Mexico, as the Legate of His Holiness. How has it been with you since I saw you last?"
"I have encountered many adventures," answered "His Lordship," the Legate, "and none more interesting than those connected with the Mission of San Luis and its lands—"
Thus saying the Legate—in obedience to a courteous gesture from the Prelate—flung aside his hat and cloak, and took a seat by the table.
The Legate was none other than our friend Gaspar Manuel.
They were in singular contrast, the Legate and the Prelate. The muscular form and hardpracticalface of the Prelate, was certainly, in strong contrast with the slender frame, and pale—almost corpse-like—face of the Legate, with its waving hair and beard of inky blackness. Conscious that their conversation might one day have its issue, in events or in disclosures of vital importance, they for a few moments surveyed each other in silence. When the Prelate spoke, there was an air of deference in his manner, which showed that he addressed one far superior to himself in position, in rank and power.
We will omit the Lordships and Graces with which these gentlemen, interlarded their conversation. Lordships and Graces and Eminences, are matters with which we simple folks of the American Union, are but poorly acquainted.
"You are last from Havana?" asked the Prelate.
"Yes," answered the Legate: "and a month ago I was in the city of Mexico; two months since in California, at the mission of San Luis."
"And the Fathers are likely to regain possession of the deserted mission? You intimated so much in the letter which you were kind enough to write me from Havana."
"They are likely to regain possession," said the Legate.
"But the mission will be worth nothing without the thousand acres ofbarrenland," continued the Prelate: "Will thebarren landgo with the mission?"
"In regard to that point I will inform you fully before we part. For the present let me remind you, that it was an important part of my mission, to the New World, to ascertain the prospects of the Church in that section of the Continent, known as the United States. Allow me to solicit from you, a brief exposition of the condition and prospects of our Church in this part of the globe."
The Prelate laid his hand upon the American Continent:
"The north, that is the Republic of the United States, will finally absorb and rule over all the nations of the Continent. By war, by peace, in one way or another the thing is certain—"
He paused: the Legate made a gesture of assent.
"It is our true policy, then, to absorb and rule over the Republic of the North. To make our Church the secret spring of its Government; to gradually and without exciting suspicion, mould every one of its institutions to our own purposes; to control the education of its people, and bend the elective franchise to our will. Is not this our object?"
Again the Legate signified assent.
"And this must be done, by making New York the center of our system. New York is in reality, the metropolis of the Continent; from New York as from a common center, therefore all our efforts must radiate. From New York we will control the Republic, shape it year by year to our purposes; as it adds nation after nation to its Union, we will make our grasp of its secret springs of action, the more certain and secure; and at last the hour will come, when this Continent apparently one united republic, will in fact, be the richest altar, the strongest abiding-place, the most valuable property of the Church. Yes, the hour will come, when the flimsy scaffolding of Republicanism will fall, and as it falls, our Church will stand revealed, her foundation in the heart of the American Republic; her shadow upon every hill and valley of the Continent. For you know," and his eye flashed, "that our battle against what is called Democracy and Progress, is to be fought not in the Old World, where everything is on our side, but in the New World, where these damnable heresies do most abound."
"True," interrupted the Legate, thoughtfully; "the New World is the battle-field of opinions. Here the fight must take place."
"You ask how our work is to begin? Here in New York we will commence it. Hundreds of thousands of foreigners of our faith arrive in this city every year. Be it our task to plant an eternal barrier between these men, and those who are American citizens by birth. To prevent them from mingling with the American People, from learning the traditions of American history, which give the dogma of Democracy its strongest hold upon the heart, toisolatethem, in the midst of the American nation. In a word, the first step of our work is, to array at the zealousForeignparty, an opposition to an envenomedNative Americanparty."
"This you have commenced already," said the Legate,—"it was in Mexico, that I heard of Philadelphia last summer—of Philadelphia on the verge of civil war with Protestants and Catholics flooding the gutters with their blood, while the flames of burning churches lit up the midnight sky."
"The outbreak was rather premature," calmly continued the Prelate, "but it has done us good. It has invested us with the light of martyrdom, the glory of persecution. It has drawn to us the sympathies of tens of thousands of Protestants, who, honestly disliking the assaults of the mere 'No-Popery' lecturers upon our church, as honestly entertain the amusing notion, that the Rulers of our church, look upon 'Toleration, Liberty of Conscience,' and so forth, with any feeling, but profound contempt."
"Ah!" ejaculated the Legate, and a smile crossed his face, "deriving strength from the illimitable bitterness of the Native American and Foreign political parties, we already hold in many portions of the Union, the ballot box in our grasp. We can dictate terms to both political parties. Their leaders court us. Editors who know that we rooted Protestantism out of Spain, by the red hand of the Inquisition,—that for our faith we made the Netherlands rich in gibbets and graves,—that we gave the word, which started from its scabbard the dagger of St. Bartholomew,—grave editors, who know all this and more, talk of us as the friends of Liberty and Toleration—"
"But there was Calvert, the founder of Maryland, and Carroll the signer of the Declaration of Independence, these were Catholics, were they not, Catholics and friends of Liberty?"
"They werelaymen, notrulers, you will remember," said the Prelate, significantly: "at best they belonged to a sort of Catholics, which, in the Old World, we have done our best to root out of the church. But here, however, we can use their names and their memories, as a cloak for our purposes of ultimate dominion. But to resume: both political parties court us. Their leaders, who loathe us, are forced to kneel to us. Things we can do freely and without blame, which damn any Protestant sect but to utter. The very 'No-Popery' lecturers aid us: they attack doctrinal points in our church, which are no more assailable than the doctrinal points of any one of their ten thousand sects: they would be dangerous, indeed, were they to confine their assaults to the simple fact, that ours is not so much a church as an EMPIRE, having for its object, the temporal dominion of the whole human race, to be accomplished under the vail of spiritualism. An EMPIRE built upon the very sepulcher of Jesus Christ,—anempirewhich holds Religion, the Cross, the Bible, as valuable just so far as they aid its efforts for the temporal subjection of the world,—anempirewhich, using all means and holding all means alike lawful, for the spread of its dominion, has chosen the American Continent as the scene of its loftiest triumph, the theater of its final and most glorious victories!"
As he spoke the Atheist Prelate started from his chair.
Far different from those loving Apostles, who through long ages, have in the Catholic Church, repeated in their deeds, the fullness of Love, which filled the breast of the Apostle John,—far different from the Fenelons and Paschals of the church,—this Prelate was a cold-blooded and practical Atheist. Love of women, love of wine, swayed him not. Lust of power was his spring of action—his soul. He may have at times, assented to Religion, but that he believed in it as an awful verity, as a Truth worth all the physical power and physical enjoyment in the universe,—the Prelate never had a thought like this. An ambitious atheist, a Borgia without his lust, a Richelieu with all of Richelieu's cunning, and not half of Richelieu's intellect, a cold-blooded, practical schemer for his own elevation at any cost,—such was the Prelate. Talk to him of Christ as a consoler, as a link between crippled humanity and a better world, as of a friend who meets you on the dark highway of life, and takes you from sleet and cold, into the light of a dear, holy home,—talk to him of the love which imbues and makes alive every word from the lips of Christ,—ha! ha! Your atheistical Prelate would laugh at the thought. He was a worldling. Risen from the very depths of poverty, he despised the poor from whom he sprung. For years a loud and even brawling advocate of justice for Ireland,—an ecclesiastical stump orator; a gatherer of the pennies earned by the hard hand of Irish labor,—he was the man to blaspheme her cause and vilify its honest advocates, when her dawn of Revolution darkened into night again. He was the pugilist of the Pulpit, the gladiator of controversy, always itching for a fight, never so happy as when he set honest men to clutching each other by the throat. Secure in his worldly possessions, rich from the princely revenues derived from the poor—the hard working poor of his church,—a tyrant to the parish priests who were so unfortunate as to be subjected to his sway, by turns the Demagogue of Irish freedom and theMouchardof Austrian despotism, he was a vain, bad, cunning, butpracticalman, this Atheist Prelate of the Roman Church.
"Now, what think you of our plans and our prospects?" said the Prelate, triumphantly—"can we not, using New York as the center of our operations, the Ballot Box, social dissension and sectarian warfare as the means, can we not, mould the New World to our views, and make it Rome, Rome, in every inch of its soil?"
The Legate responded quietly:
"I see but one obstacle—"
"Only one; that is well—"
"And that obstacle is not so much the memory of the American Past, which some of these foolish Americans still consider holy—not so much the memory of Penn the Quaker; Calvert the Catholic, who planted their silly dogma of Brotherly love on the Delaware and St. Mary's, in the early dawn of this country,—not so much the Declaration of Independence, nor the blood-marks which wrote its principles, on the soil from Bunker Hill to Savannah, from Brandywine to Yorktown,—not so much the history of the sixty-eight years, which in the American Republic, have shown a growth, an enterprise, a development never witnessed on God's earth before,—not so much all this, as the single obstacle which I now lay on the table before you."
And from the breast of his coat he drew forth a small, thin volume, which he laid upon the table:
"This!" cried the Prelate, as though a bomb-shell had burst beneath his chair; "This! Why this is the four Gospels according to Matthew, Mark, Luke and John!"
"Precisely. And Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, those simple fellows are the very ones whom we have most to fear."
"But I have driven this book from the Common Schools!" cried the Prelate, rather testily.
"Have you driven it from the home?" quietly asked the Legate.
The Prelate absently toyed with his cross, but did not answer.
"Can you drive it from the home?" asked the Legate.
The Prelate gazed at the portrait of Cardinal Dubois, and then at Richelieu's, but did not reply.
"Do you not see the difficulty?" continued the Legate, "so long as Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, sit down by the firesides of the people, making themselves a part and parcel of the dearest memories of every household,—so long we may chop logic, weave plots, traffic in casuistry, but in vain!"
"True, that book is capable of much mischief," said the Prelate; "it has caused more revolutions than you could count in a year."
"In Spain, where this book is scarcely known, in Italy, where to read it is imprisonment and chains, we can get along well enough, but here, in the United States, where this book is a fireside book in every home, the first book that the child looks into, and the last that the dying old man listens to, as his ear is growing deaf with death,—here what shall we do? You know that it is a Democratic book?"
"Yes."
"That it is so simple in its enunciations of brotherly love, equality, and the love of God for all mankind, so simple and yet so strong, that it has required eighteen centuries of scholastic casuistry and whole tons of volumes, devoted to theological special pleading, to darken its simple meaning?"
"Yes, yes."
"That in its portraitures of Christ, there is something that stirs the hearts of the humblest, and sets them on fire with the thought, 'I too, am not a beast, but a child of God, destined to have a home here and an immortality hereafter?' That its profound contempt of riches and of mere worldly power,—its injunctions to the rich, 'sell all thou hast and give to the poor;' its pictures of Christ, coming from the workman's bench, and speaking, acting, doing and dying, so that the masses might no longer be the sport of priest or king, but the recreated men and women of a recreated social world; that in all this, it has caused more revolutions, given rise to more insurrections, leveled more deadly blows at absolute authority, than all other books that have been written since the world began?"
"Yes—y-e-s—y-e-s," said the Prelate. "True, true, a mischievous book. But how would you remedy the evil?"
"That's the question," said the Legate, dryly.
After a long pause they began to talk concerning the mission of San Luis in California—its fertile hills and valleys, rich in the olive, fig, grape, orange and pomegranate,—and of thethousand acres of barren land, claimed alike by the Jesuits and Dr. Martin Fulmer.
"The claim of the Fathers, to the mission-house and lands of San Luis, is established then?" said the Prelate.
"It has been acknowledged by the Mexican Government," was the reply of the Legate.
"And the claim to the thousand barren acres?"
"It rests in my hands," replied the Legate: "by a train of circumstances altogether natural, although to some they may appear singular, it is in my power to decide, whether these thousand barren acres shall belong to our Church or to Dr. Martin Fulmer."
"And it is not difficult to see which way your verdict wall fall;" the Prelate's eyes sparkled and a smile lit up his harsh features.
"These acres are barren, barren so far as the fig, the orange, the vine, the pomegranate are concerned, barren even of the slightest portion of shrubbery or verdure, but rich—"
"Rich in gold!" ejaculated the Prelate, folding his arms and fixing his eyes musingly upon the fire,—"gold sufficient to pave my way from this chair to the Papal throne;" he muttered to himself. "In Rome," he said aloud, "I had an opportunity to examine the records of the various missions, established by our Church in California; and they all contain traditions of incredible stores of gold, hidden under the rocks and sands of California. Does your experience confirm those traditions?"
"I have traversed that land from the Sierra Nevada to the Pacific, and from North to South," replied the Legate, "and it is my opinion, based on facts, that California is destined to exercise an influence upon the course of civilization and the fate of nations, such as has not been felt for a thousand years."
He paused, as if collecting in his mind, in one focus, a panorama of the varied scenery, climate, productions, of the region between the snows of the Sierra Nevada and the Pacific. Then, while his pale face flushed with excitement, and his bright eyes grew even yet more vivid in their luster, he continued:
"The bowels of the land are rich in gold," he said, in that low-toned but musical voice. "It is woven in the seams of her rocks. It impregnates her soil. It gleams in the sand of her rivers. Gold, gold, gold,—such as Banker never counted, nor the fancy of a Poet, ever dreamed of. Deep in her caverns the ore is shining; upon her mountain sides it flings back the rays of the sun; her forest trees are rooted in gold. Could you fathom her secrets, you would behold gold enough to set the world mad. Men would leave their homes, and all that makes life dear, and journey over land and sea, by hundreds of thousands, in pilgrimage to this golden land. The ships of the crusaders would whiten every sea, their caravans would belt every desert. The whole world, stirred into avaricious lust, would gravitate to this rock of gold."
Turning to the Prelate, he said abruptly:
"Did you ever attempt to unravel the superstition of Gold?"
"The superstition of Gold?" echoed the Prelate.
"Yes, superstition of gold. For that wide-spread opinion in regard to the value of gold, is one of the most incredible superstitions that ever damned the soul of man. It obtains in all ages and on every shore. In the days of the Patriarchs, and in the days of the Bankers,—among the sleekly-attired people of civilized races, and among savage hordes, naked as the beasts,—everywhere and in all ages, this superstition has obtained, and crushed mankind, not with an iron, but with a golden rod. (There are exceptions, I grant, as in the case of the North American Indians, and other savage tribes, but it cannot be denied, that this superstition which fixes a certain value on gold, has overspread the earth, in all ages, as universal as the very air.) What religion has ruled so absolutely and reigned so long, as this deep-implanted golden superstition,—this Catholic religion of the yellow ore?"
"But gold is valuable in itself," interrupted the Prelate—"it is something more than the representative of labor; in a thousand respects it surpasses all other metals. It is an article of merchandise, a part of commerce; even were it not money, it would always bring more money than any other metal."
"This is often said, and is plausible. Admit all you assert, and the question occurs, 'Why should it be so?' When you say that gold is the most precious of all metals, an article of value initself, as well as the representative of labor, you assert a fact, but you do notexplainthat fact. Far, far from it. But why should it be so? Whatusehas it been to man, that it should receive this high distinction? Iron, lead, copper—all of these are a million fold more useful than gold—No—reflect a little while. Bend all your thought to the subject. Track the yellow ore through all ages, and at last, you must come to the conclusion, that the value placed upon gold is a superstition, as vast as it is wicked,—a superstition which has crushed more hearts and damned more souls, than all the (so called)Religioussuperstitions that smear the page of history with blood. That such a superstition exists, would alone convince me of the existence of an embodied Devil, who, perpetually at war with God, does with a direct interference, derange his laws, and crush the hopes of his children."
For a moment, he shaded his eyes with his hand, while the Prelate gazed upon him, with something of surprise in his look.
"Can you estimate the evils which have flowed from this superstition? No. The reason falters, the imagination shudders: at the very thought you are bewildered,—dumb. But think of it as you will,—entangle yourself among the sophistries which attempt to explain, but in reality only darken it,—view it as a political economist, a banker, a merchant, or a worker in precious metals,—and you only plunge the deeper into the abyss of doubt and bewilderment. You cannot explain this superstition, unless you mount higher, and grasp that great law of God, which says, forever, 'It is wicked forone manto clothe himself with luxury, at the expense of the sweat and blood of anotherman,who is his Brother.' Grasp this truth firmly; understand it in all its bearings,—and you discern the source of the Golden superstition; for it had its source, in that depraved idleness which seeks luxury at the expense of human suffering,—which coins enjoyment for a few men, on the immeasurable wretchedness of entire races of mankind. The first man who sought to rob his Brother of the fruits of his labor, and of his place on the earth, was doubtless the inventor of the golden superstition; for turn and twist it as you will, gold is only valuable because itrepresentslabor. All its value springs from that cause. It represents labor already done, and it represents labor that is to be done, and therefore,—therefore only,—is it valuable. And it is the most convenient engine by which the idlers of the World can enslave the laborers—therefore it has always retained its value. Backed by thedelusionwhich fixes upon it a certain value, and makes it more precious than the blood of hearts, or the salvation of the entire human race, gold will continue to be the great engine for the destruction of that race—for its moral and physical damnation—just as long as the few continue to live upon the wretchedness of the many. Once destroy this superstition,—take away from gold its certain value—make that value vague, uncertain, and subject to as many changes as a bank note,—and you will have wrested the lash from the hand of the oppressor all over the world."
These words made a deep impression upon the Prelate, an impression which he dared not trust himself to frame in words. Suppressing an exclamation that started to his lips, he asked in a calm conversational tone—
"Will the discovery of the golden land have this effect?"
It was in a saddened tone, and with a downcast eye, that the Legate replied:
"Ah, that is, indeed, a fearful question. A question that may well make one shudder. One of two things must happen. From the rocks and sands of the golden land, the oppressors of the world will derive new means of oppression, or from those rocks and sands, will come the instrument, which is to lift up the masses and shake the oppressors to the dust. What shall be the result? Shall new and more damning chains, for human hearts, be forged upon the gold of these sands and rocks? Or, tottering among these rocks and sands, shall poor humanity at last discover the instrument of her redemption? God alone can tell."
The Prelate was silent. Folding his hands he surveyed the pallid visage of the Legate, with a look hard to define.
"The first wind that blows intelligence from this land of gold, will convulse the world. A few years hence, and these sands, now sparkling with ore, will be white with human skeletons. Thousands and hundreds of thousands will rush to seek the glittering ore, and find a grave, in the mud by the rivers' banks; hundreds of thousands will lie unburied in the depths of trackless deserts, or in the darkness of trackless ravines; the dog and the wolf will feed well upon human hearts."
Suppressing the emotion aroused, by a portion of the Legate's remarks, the Prelate asked:
"And the thousandbarrenacres contain incredible stores of gold?"
"Gold sufficient to affect the destiny of one-half the globe," replied the Legate: "gold, that employed in a good cause, would bless and elevate millions of the oppressed, or devoted to purposes of evil, might curse the dearest rights of half the human race."
"And it is in your power to establish the right of our Church to these lands?"
"It is. A word from me, and the thing is done."
"Pardon me," said the Prelate, slowly, and measuring every word,—"some portions of your remarks excite my curiosity. You speak of the oppressed, and of the oppressors. Now,—now,—from any lips but yours, these words, and the manner in which you use them, would sound like the doctrines of the French Socialists. What do you precisely mean by 'oppressed,'—and who, in your estimation, are the 'oppressors?'"
The Legate rose from his seat, and fixed his eyes upon the Prelate's face:
"There are many kinds of oppressors, but the most infamous, are those who use the Church of God, as the engine of their atrocious crimes."
This remark fell like a thunderbolt.
The Prelate slowly rose from his chair, his face flushed and his chest heaving.
"Sir!" he cried in a voice of thunder.
"Nay—you need not raise your voice,—much less confront me with that frowning brow. You know me and know the position which I hold. You know that I am above your reach,—that, perchance, a word from me, uttered in the proper place, might stop your career, even at the threshold. I know you, and know that you belong to the party, which, for ages, has made our church the instrument of the most infernal wrongs—"
"Sir!" again ejaculated the Prelate.
"A party, whose noblest monument is made of the skeletons, the racks and thumbscrews of the Inquisition, and whose history can only be clearly read, save by the torchlight of St. Bartholomew—"
"This from you, sir,—"
"A party whose avowed atheism produced the French Revolution, and whose cloaked atheism is even now sowing the seeds of social hell-fire, in this country and in Europe—"
"I swear, sir—"
"Hear me, sir, for I am only here to read you a plain lesson. You, and men like you, may possibly convert the Church once more into the instrument of ferocious absolutism and the engine of colossal murder, but remember—"
He flung his coat around him, and stood erect, his face even more deathly pale than usual, his eyes shining with clear and intense light. There was a grandeur in his attitude and look.
"Remember, even in the moments of your bloodiest triumphs, that even within the Church of Rome, swayed by such as you, there is another Church of Rome, composed of men, who, when the hour strikes, will sacrifice everything to the cause of humanity and God."
These words were pronounced slowly and deliberately, with an emphasis which drove the color from the Prelate's cheek.
"Think of it, within Rome, a higher, mightier Rome,—within the order of Jesuits, a higher and mightier order of Jesuits—and whenever you, and such as you, turn, you will be met by men, who have sworn to use the Church, as the instrument of human progress, or to drive forward the movement over its ruins."
He moved to the door, but lingered for a moment on the threshold:
"It is a great way," he said, "from the turnpike to the Vatican."
This he said, and disappeared. (The Prelate had risen from the position of breaker of stone on the public road, only to use all his efforts to crush and damn the masses from whom he sprung.)
And the Prelate was now left alone, to pick up the thunderbolt which had fallen at his feet.
Half an hour after this scene, the Legate once more ascended the steps of the Astor House, his cloak wound tightly about his slender form, his face,—and perchance the emotions written there,—cast into shadow by his broad sombrero. He was crossing the hall, flaring with gas-lights, when he was aroused from his reverie by these words,—
"My lord,—"
The speaker was a man of some forty-five years, with a hard, unmeaning face, and vague gray eyes. His ungainly form,—for he was round-shouldered, knock-kneed and clumsily footed,—was clad in black, varied only by a strip of dirty white about his bull-like neck. As he stood obsequiously, hat in hand, his bald crown, scantily encircled by a few hairs of no particular color, was revealed; and also his low, broad forehead. He looked very much like an ecclesiastic, whom habits of passive obedience have converted into a human fossil.
"My lord,—"
"Pshaw, Michael, none of that nonsense here. Have you obeyed the directions which I gave you before I left the steamer to-night?"
"I have, my—" 'lord,' he was about to say, but he substituted 'your excellence!'—"Your country seat, near the city, is in good order. Everything has been prepared in anticipation of your arrival. I have just returned from it,—Maryvale, I think you call it?"
"Maryvale," replied the Legate, "Did you tell Felix to have my carriage ready for me, after midnight, at the place and the hour which I named?"
"Yes, my lord,"—and Michael bowed low.
"No more of that nonsense, I repeat it.—This is not the country for it. How did you dispose of Cain?"
"I left Cain at the country seat."
"It is well," said the Legate, and having spoken further words to Michael, in a lower tone, he dismissed him, and went silently to his chamber.
AndCainof whom they spoke. We shall seeCainafter a while.
At the hour of eleven o'clock, on the night of December 23d, 1844, ——. A gentleman of immense wealth, who occupied his own mansion, in the upper part of New York, came from his library, and descended the broad staircase, which led to the first floor of his mansion. His slight frame was wrapped in a traveling cloak and a gay traveling cap shaded his features. He held a carpet-bag in his hand. Arrived on the first floor, he entered a magnificent range of apartments communicating with each other by folding-doors, and lighted by an elegant chandelier. Around him, wherever he turned, was everything in the form of luxury, that the eye could desire or the power of wealth procure. Thick carpets, massive mirrors, lofty ceiling, walls broken here and there with a niche in which a marble statue was placed—these and other signs of wealth, met his gaze at every step.
He was a young man of fine personal appearance, and refined tastes. Without a profession, he employed his immense wealth in ministering to his taste for the arts. The only son of a man of fortune, educated to the habit of spending money without earning it, he had married about two years before, an exceedingly beautiful woman, the only daughter of a wealthy and aristocratic family.
And far back in a nook of this imposingsuiteof apartments, where the light of the chandelier is softened by the shadows of statue and marble pillar, sits this wife, a woman in the prime of early womanhood.—Her shape, at the same time tall, rounded, and commanding, is enveloped in a loose wrapper, which seems rather to float about her form, than to gird it closely. Her face is bathed in tears. As her husband approaches she rises and confronts him with ablondecountenance, fair blue eyes and golden hair. That face, beaming with young loveliness, is shadowed with grief.
"Must you go, indeed, my husband?"—and clad in that flowing robe, she rests her hands upon his shoulder, and looks tearfully into his face.
His cloak falls and discloses his slight and graceful form. He removes his traveling cap, and his wife may freely gaze upon that dark-complexioned face, whose regular features, remind you of an Apollo cast in bronze. His dark eyes flash with clear light as she raises one hand, and places it upon his forehead, and twines her fingers among the curls of his jet-black hair.
Take it all in all, it is an interesting picture, centered in that splendid room, where everything breathes luxury and wealth—the slender form of the young husband clad in black, contrasted with the imposing figure of the young wife, enveloped in drapery of flowing white.
"I must go, wife. Kiss me."—She bent back his head and gazing upon him long and earnestly, suffered her lips to join his,—"I'll be back before Christmas."
"You are sure that you must go?" she exclaimed, toying with the curls of his dark hair.
"You saw the letter which I received from Boston. My poor brother lies at the point of death. I must see him, Joanna,—you know how it pains me to be absent from you, only for a day,—but I must go. I'll be back by Christmas morning."
"Will you; indeed, though, Eugene?"—she wound her arms about his neck—"You know how drearily the time passes without you. O, how I shall count the hours until you return!" And at every word she smoothed his forehead with her hand, and touched his mouth with those lips which bloomed with the ripeness and purity of perfect womanhood.
"I must go, Joanna,"—and convulsed at the thought of leaving this young wife, even for a day, the husband gathered her to his breast, and then seizing his cloak and carpet-bag, hurried from the room. His steps were heard in the hall without, and presently the sound of the closing door reached the ears of the young wife.
An expression of intense sorrow passed over her face, and she remained in the center of the room, her hand clasped over her noble bust, and her head bowed in an attitude of deep melancholy.
"He is gone," she murmured, and passing through the spacious apartment, she traversed the hall, and ascended the broad stairway.
At the head of the stairway was a large and roomy apartment, warmed (like every room in the mansion) from an invisible source, which gave a delightful temperature to the atmosphere. There was a small workstand in the midst of the apartment, on which stood a lighted candle. A servant maid was sleeping with her head upon the table, and one hand resting upon a cradle at her side. In that cradle, above the verge of a silken coverlet, appeared the face of a cherub boy, fast asleep, with a rose on his cheek, and ringlets of auburn hair, tangled about his forehead, white as alabaster.
This room the young mother entered, and treading on tiptoe, she approached the cradle and bent over it, until her lips touched the forehead of the sleeping boy. And when she rose again there was a tear upon his cheek,—it had fallen from the blue eye of the mother.
Retiring noiselessly, she sought her own chamber, where a taper was dimly burning before a mirror. By that faint light you might trace the luxurious appointment of the place,—a white bed, half shadowed in an alcove—a vase of alabaster filled with fragrant flowers—and curtains falling like snow-flakes along the lofty windows. The idea of wifely purity was associated with every object in that chamber.
"I shall not want you to-night, Eliza; I will undress myself," exclaimed Joanna to a female servant, who stood waiting near the mirror. "You may retire."
The servant retired, and the young wife was alone. She extinguished the taper, and all was still throughout the mansion. But she did not retire to her bed. Advancing in the darkness, she opened a door behind the bed, and entered the bath-room, where she lighted a lamp by the aid of a perfumed match which she found, despite the gloom. The bath-room was oval in shape, with an arched ceiling. The walls, the ceiling and the floor were of white marble. In the center was the bath, resembling an immense shell, sunk into the marble floor. This place, without ornament or decoration of any kind, save the pure white of the walls and floor, was pervaded by luxurious warmth. The water which filled the shell or hollow in the center of the floor, emitted a faint but pungent perfume.
She disrobed herself and descended into the bath, suffering her golden hair to float freely about her shoulders.
After the lapse of a quarter of an hour, this beautiful woman took the light and passed into the bed chamber. She cast a glance toward her bed, which had been consecrated by her marriage, and by the birth of her first and only child. Then advancing toward a wardrobe of rosewood, which stood in a recess opposite the bed, she took from thence a dress, with which she proceeded to encase her form. A white robe, loose and flowing, with a hood resembling the cowl of a nun. This robe was of the softest satin. She enveloped her form in its folds, threw the hood over her head, and looking in the mirror, surveyed her beautiful face, which, glowing with warmth, was framed in her golden hair, and in the folds of the satin cowl.
She drew slippers of delicate satin, white as her robe, upon her naked feet.
Then, taking from the wardrobe a heavy cloak, lined throughout with fur, as soft as the satin which clad her shape, she wound it about her from head to foot, and stood completely buried in its voluminous folds.
Once more she listened: all was still throughout that mansion, the home of aristocratic wealth. Thus clad in the silken robe and cowl, covered in its turn by the shapeless black cloak, this young wife, whose limbs were glowing with the warmth of the bath, whose person was invested with a delicate perfume, turned once more and gazed upon her marriage bed, and a deep sigh swelled her bosom. She next extinguished the light, and passing from the chamber, descended the marble staircase. All was dark. She entered the suite of apartments on the first floor, which, adorned with pillars, communicated with each other by folding-doors. The chandelier had been extinguished, and the scene was wrapt in impenetrable darkness.
Standing in the darkness,—her only apparel the silken robe, and the thick, warm cloak which covered it,—the young wife trembled like a leaf.
She attempted to utter a word, but her voice failed her.
"Joanna!" breathed a voice, speaking near her.
"Beverly!" answered the young wife, breathing the name in a whisper.
A faint sound like a step, whose echo is muffled by thick carpets, and the hand of a man, clasps the hand of Joanna.
"How long have you been here?" she whispered.
"I just entered," was the answer.
"How?"
"By the front door, and the key which you gave me."
"O, I tremble so,—I am afraid—"
An arm encircled the cloak which covered her, and girded it tightly about her form.
"Hashegone, Joanna?"
"Yes, Beverly,—half an hour ago."
"Come, then, let us go. The carriage is waiting at the next corner; and the street-lamp near the front door is extinguished. All is dark without; no one can see us."
"Are you sure, Beverly—I tremble so."
"Come, Joanna," and through the thick darkness he led her toward the hall, supporting her form upon his arm.
"O, whither are you leading me," she whispered in a broken voice.
"Can you ask? Don't you remember my note of to-day? To theTemple, Joanna."
Their steps echo faintly from the entry.
Then the faint sound produced by the careful closing of the street door is heard.
A pause of one or two minutes.
Hark! The rolling of carriage wheels.
All is still as death throughout the mansion and the street on which it fronts.
Hours pass away, and once more the street door is unclosed, and carefully closed again. A step echoes faintly through the hall,—very faintly,—and yet it can be heard distinctly, so profound is the stillness which reigns throughout the mansion. It ascends the marble staircase, and is presently heard crossing the threshold of the bed-chamber. A pause ensues, and the taper in front of the mirror is lighted again, and a faint ray steals through the chamber.
Eugene Livingstonestands in front of the mirror. He flings his cloak on a chair, dashes his cap from his brow, and wipes the sweat from his forehead,—although he has just left the air of a winter night, his forehead is bathed in moisture. His slender frame shakes as with an ague-chill. His eyes are unnaturally dilated; the white of the eyeball may be plainly traced around the pupil of each eye. His lips are pressed together, and yet they quiver, as if with deathly cold.
He does not utter a single ejaculation.
A letter is in his right hand, neatly folded and scented withpachouli. It bears the name "Joanna," as a superscription. He opens it and reads its contents, traced in a delicate hand—
Joanna—To-night,—at Twelve.—The Temple.Beverly.
Joanna—
To-night,—at Twelve.—The Temple.
Beverly.
Having read the brief letter, the husband draws another from a side-pocket: "There may be a mistake about the handwriting," he murmurs, "let us compare them."
The second letter is addressed to "Eugene Livingstone, Esq.," and its contents, which the husband traces by the light of the taper, are as follows:
New York, Dec.23, 1844.Dear Eugene:—Sorry to hear that you have such sad news from Boston. Must you go to-night? Send me word and I'll try to go with you. Thine, ever,Beverly Barron.
New York, Dec.23, 1844.
Dear Eugene:—Sorry to hear that you have such sad news from Boston. Must you go to-night? Send me word and I'll try to go with you. Thine, ever,
Beverly Barron.
Long and intently, the husband compared these two letters. His countenance underwent many changes. But there could be no doubt of it—both letters were written by the same hand.
"He wrote to me early this morning, and to my wife about an hour afterward,—as soon as he received my answer. I found the letter to her upon the floor of this chamber, only two hours ago."
He replaced both letters in his vest pocket.
Then taking the taper, he bent his steps toward the room at the head of the marble staircase. The young nurse was fast asleep on the couch, near the cradle.
Eugene bent over the cradle. Resting its rosy cheek on its bent arm, the child was sleeping there, its auburn hair still tangled about its forehead. He could not help pressing his lips to that forehead, and a tear—the only tear that he shed—fell from his hot eye-ball, and sparkled like a pearl upon the baby's cheek.
Then Eugene returned to the bedchamber, and sat down beside the bed, still holding the taper in his grasp. The light fell softly over the unruffled coverlet.
"I remember the night when she first crossed yonder threshold, and slept in this bed."
There were traces of womanish weakness upon his bronzed face, but he banished them in a moment, and the expression of his eye and lip became fixed and resolute.
He sat for five minutes with his elbow on his knee, and his forehead in his hand.
Then rising, he opened his carpet-bag, and took from thence a black robe, with wide sleeves, and a cowl. It took but a moment to assume his robe, and draw the cowl over his dark locks. He caught a glance at his face, thus framed in the velvet cowl, and started as he beheld the contrast between its ashy hues and the dark folds which concealed it.
"'The Temple!'" he muttered, and pressed his hand against his forehead,—"I believe I remember the pass word."
He took a pair of pistols, and a long slender dagger, sheathed in silver, from the carpet-bag, and regarded them for a moment.
"No, no," he exclaimed, "these will not avail for a night like this."
Gathering his cloak about him, he extinguished the taper, and crossed the threshold of his bed-chamber. His steps were heard on the stairs, and soon the faint jar of the shut door was heard.
And as he left the house, the child in the cradle awoke from its slumber and stretched forth its little head, and in its baby voice called the name of the youngmother.
Our story now turns to Randolph and Esther.