Madam Resimer was waiting in the little room up-stairs,—waiting and watching in that most secret chamber of her mansion,—her cheek resting on her hand, her eyes fixed upon the drawer from which the Red Book had been stolen. The day was bright without, but in the closed apartment, the Madam watched by the light of a candle, which was burning fast to the socket. The Madam had not slept. Her eyes were restless and feverish. Her cheeks, instead of their usual florid hues, were marked with alternate spots of white and red. Sitting in the arm-chair, (which her capacious form, clad in the chintz wrapper, filled to overflowing), the Madam beats the carpet nervously with her foot, and then her small black eyes assume a wicked, a vixenish look.
Daylight is bright upon the city and river; ten o'clock is near,—the hour at which Dermoyne intended to return,—and yet the Madam has no word of the bullies whom last night she set upon Dermoyne's track. Near ten o'clock, and no news of Dirk, Slung-Shot, or—the Red Book!
"Whydon'tthey come!" exclaimed the Madam, for the fiftieth time, and she beat the carpet wickedly with her foot.
And from the shadows of the apartment, a voice, most lugubrious in its tone, uttered the solitary word,—"Why?"
"If they don't come, what shall we do?" the Madam's eyes grew wickeder, and she began to "crack" the joints of her fingers.
"What?" echoed the lugubrious voice.
"I'll tell you what it is, Corkins," said the Madam, turning fiercely in her chair, "I wish the devil had you,—I do! Sittin' there in your chair, croakin' like a raven.—'What! Why!'" and she mimicked him wickedly; "when you should be doin' somethin' to stave off the trouble that's gatherin' round us. Now you know, that unless we get back the Red Book, we're ruined,—you know it?"
"Com-pletely ruined!" echoed Corkins, who sat in the background, on the edge of a chair, his elbows on his knees, and his chin on his hands. Corkins, you will remember, is a little, slender man, clad in black, with a white cravat about his neck, a top-knot on his low forehead, a "goatee" on his chin, and gold spectacles on his nose. And as Corkins sits on the edge of his chair, he looks very much like a strange bird on its perch,—a bird of evil omen, meditating all sorts of calamities sure to happen to quite a number of people, at some time not definitely ascertained.
"It's near ten o'clock," glancing at the gold watch which lay on the table before her, "and no word of Barnhurst, not even a hint of Dirk or Slung! And at ten, that villain who stole the book will come back,—that is, unless Dirk and Slung have taken care of him! I never was in such a fever in all my life! Corkins, whatisto be done? And your patient,—how is she?"
"As for the patient up-stairs," Corkins began, but the words died away on his lips.
The sound of a bell rang clearly, although gloomily throughout the mansion.
"Go to the front door,—quick!"—in her impatience the Madam bounded from her chair. "See who's there. Open the door, but don't undo the chain; and don't,—do you hear?—don't let anybody in until you hear from me! Quick, I say!"
"But it isn't the front door bell," hesitated Corkins.
Again the sound of the bell was heard.
"It's the bell of the secret passage," ejaculated Madam, changing color,—"the passage which leads to a back street, and of the existence of which, only four persons in the world know anything. There it goes again! who can it be?"
The Madam was evidently very much perplexed. Corkins, who had risen from his perch, stood as though rooted to the floor; and the bell pealed loud and louder, in dismal echoes throughout the mansion.
"Who can it be?" again asked the Madam, while a thousand vague suspicions floated through her brain.
"Who can it be?" echoed Corkins, shaking like a dry leaf in the wind.
Here let us leave them awhile in their perplexity, while we retrace our steps, and take up again the adventures of Barnhurst and Dermoyne. We left them in the dimly-lighted bed-chamber, at the moment when the faithful wife, awaking from her slumber, welcomed the return of her husband in these words,—"Husband! have you come at last? I have waited for you so long!"
"Husband!" said the wife, awaking from her sleep, and stretching forth her arms, "have you come at last? I have waited for you so long!"
"Dearest, I was detained by an unexpected circumstance," answered Barnhurst, and first turning to Dermoyne with an imploring gesture, he approached the bed, and kissed his wife and sleeping child. Then back to Dermoyne again with a stealthy step,—"Take your revenge!" he whispered; "advance, and tell everything to my wife."
Dermoyne's face showed the contest of opposing emotions; now clouded with a hatred as remorseless as death, now touched with something like pity. At a rapid glance he surveyed the face of the trembling culprit,—the boy sleeping on his couch,—the mother resting on the bed, with her babe upon her bent arm,—and then uttered in a whisper, a single word,—"Come!"
He led Barnhurst over the threshold, out upon the landing, and carefully closed the door of the bed-chamber.
"Now, sir," he whispered, fixing his stern gaze upon Barnhurst's face, which was lighted by the rays of the lamp in the hall below,—"what have you to propose?"
Barnhurst'sblondevisage was corpse-like in its pallor.
"Nothing," he said, folding his arms with the air of a man who has lost all hope, and made up his mind to the worst. "I am in your power."
Dermoyne, with this finger to his lip, remained for a moment buried in profound thought. Once his eyes, glancing sidelong, rested upon Barnhurst with a sort of ferocious glare. When he spoke again, it was in these words:—
"Enter your bed-chamber, and sleep beside your faithful wife, and,—think of Alice. As for myself, I will watch for the morning, on the sofa, down stairs. Enter, I say!" he pointed sternly to the door,—"and remember! at morning we take up our march again. Iknowthat you will not escape from me,—and as for your wife, if you do not wish her to see me, you will make your appearance at an early hour."
Barnhurst, without a word, glided silently into the bed-chamber, closing the door after him. Dermoyne, listening for a moment, heard the voices of the husband and the wife, mingling in conversation. Then he went quietly down stairs, took down the hanging-lamp, and with it in his hand, entered a room on the lower floor.
It was a neatly-furnished apartment with a sofa, a piano, and a portrait of Barnhurst on the wall. The remains of a wood-fire were smouldering on the hearth. Near the piano stood an empty cradle. It was very much like—home. It was, in a word, the room through whose curtained windows, we gazed in our brief episode, and saw the pure wife with her children, awaiting the return of the husband and father.
Dermoyne lit a candle, which stood on a table, near the sofa, and then replaced the hanging lamp. This done, he came into the quiet parlor again,—without once pausing to notice that the front door was ajar. Had he but remarked this little fact, he might have saved himself a world of trouble. He flung his cloak upon the table, and placed his cap and the iron bar beside it. Then seating himself on the sofa, he drew the Red Book from under his left arm, where for hours he had securely carried it,—and spread it forth upon his knees. Drawing the light nearer to him, he began to examine the contents of that massive volume. How his countenance underwent all changes of expression, as page after page was disclosed to his gaze! At first his lip curled, and his brow grew dark,—there was doubtless much to move contempt and hatred in those pages,—but as he read on, his large gray eyes, dilating in their sockets, shone with steady light; every lineament of his countenance, manifested profound, absorbing interest.
The Red Book!
Of all the singular volumes, ever seen, this certainly was one of the most singular. It comprised perchance, one thousand manuscript pages, written by at least a hundred hands. There were original letters, and copies of letters; some of them traced by the tremulous hand of the dying. There were histories and fragments of histories,—the darkest record of the criminal court is not so black, as many a history comprised within the compass of this volume. It contained the history, sometimes complete sometimes in fragmentary shape, of all who had ever sought the aid of Madam Resimer, or,—suffered beneath her hands. And there were letters there, and histories there, which the Madam had evidently gathered, with a view of extorting money from certain persons, who had never passed into the circle of her infernal influence. All the crimes that can spring from unholy marriages, from violation of the marriage vow, from the seduction of innocent maidenhood, from the conflict between poor chastity and rich temptation, stood out upon those pages, in forms of terrible life. That book was a revelation of the civilization of a large city,—a glittering mask with a death's head behind it,—a living body chained to a leperous corpse. Instead of being called the Red Book, it should have been called the Black Book, or the Death Book, or the Mysteries of the Social World.
How the aristocracy of the money power was set forth in those pages! That aristocracy which the French know as the "Bourgeoise," which the English style the "Middle Classes," and which the Devil knows for his "own,"—the name of whose god the Savior pronounced, when he uttered the word "Mammon,"—whose loftiest aspiration is embodied in the word "Respectable!" How this modern aristocracy of the money power, stood out in naked life, showy and mean, glittering and heartless, upon the pages of the Red Book! Stood out in colors, painted, not by an enemy, but by its own hand, the mark of its baseness stamped upon its forehead, by its own peculiar seal.
One history was there, which, written in different hands, in an especial manner, riveted the interest of Arthur Dermoyne. Bending forward, with the light of the candle upon his brow, he read it page by page, his face manifesting every contrast of emotion as he read. For a title it bore a single name, written in a delicate womanly hand,—"Marion Merlin." The greater portion of the history was written in the same hand.
Leaning upon the shoulder of Arthur Dermoyne, let us, with him, read this sad, dark history.
At the age of eighteen I was betrothed to Walter Howard, a young man of polished manners, elegant exterior, and connected with one of the first families of New York. I was beautiful, so the world said,—eighteen and an heiress. My father was one of the wealthiest merchants of New York, with a princely mansion in town, and as princely a mansion, for summer residence, in the country. I had lost my mother, at an age so early, that I can but dimly remember her pallid face. At eighteen, I was my father's only and idolized child.
Returning from boarding-school, where, apart from the busy world, I had passed four years of a life, which afterward was to be marked by deeds so singular, yes, unnatural, I was invested by my father, with the keys of his city mansion, and installed as its mistress. Still kept apart from the world,—for my father guarded me from its wiles and temptations, with an eye of sleepless jealousy,—I was left to form ideas of my future life, from the fancies of my day-dreams, or from what knowledge I had gleaned from books. Walter was my father's head clerk. In that capacity he often visited our mansion. To see him was to love him. His form was graceful, and yet manly; his complexion a rich bronze; his eyes dark, penetrating and melancholy. As for myself, a picture which, amid all my changing fortunes, I have preserved as a relic of happy and innocent days, shows a girl of eighteen, with a form that may well be called voluptuous, and a face, (shaded by masses of raven hair,) which, with its clear bronzed complexion, large hazel eyes, and arching brows, tells the story of my descent on my mother's side,—she was a West-Indian, and there is Spanish blood in my veins. My acquaintance with Walter, ripened into warm and passionate love, and one day, my father surprised me, as I hung upon my lover's breast, and instead of chiding us, said with a look of unmistakable affection:
"Right, Walter. You have won my daughter's love. When you return from the West Indies, you shall be married; and once married, instead of my head clerk, you shall be my partner."
My father was a venerable man, with a kindly face and snow-white hair: as he spoke the tears ran down his cheeks, for (as I afterward ascertained,) my marriage with Walter, the orphan of one of the dearest friends of his boyhood, had been the most treasured hope of his life for years.
Walter left for Havana, intrusted with an important and secret commission from my father. He was to be absent only a month. Why was it, on the day of his departure, as he strained me to his breast and covered my face with his passionate kisses, that a deep presentiment chilled my blood? O had he never left my side, what a world of agony, of despair,—yes of crime,—would have been spared to me!
"Be true to me, Marion!" these were his last words,—"in a month I will return—"
"True to you! can you doubt it Walter? True until death,—" and we parted.
I was once more alone, in my father's splendid mansion. One evening he came home, but not with his usual kindly smile. He was pale and troubled, and seemed to avoid my gaze. Without entering the sitting-room, he went at once to his library, and locked himself in, having first directed the servant to call him, in case a Mr. Issachar Burley inquired for him. It was after eight when Mr. Burley called, and was shown into the parlor, while the servant went to announce him to my father.
"Miss Marion, I believe!" he said, as he beheld me by the light of the astral-lamp,—and then a singular look passed over his face; a look which at that time I could not define, but which afterward was made terribly clear to me. This Mr. Burley, who thus for the first time entered my father's house, was by no means prepossessing in his exterior. Over fifty years of age, corpulent in form, bald-headed, his florid face bore the undeniable traces of a life, exhausted in sensual indulgences.
While I was taking a survey of this singular visitor, the servant entered the parlor,—
"Mr. Burley will please walk up into the library," he said.
"Good night, dear," said Mr. Burley with a bow, and a gesture that had as much of insolence as of politeness in it,—"By-by,—we'll meet again."
He went up stairs, and my father and he, were closeted together for at least two hours. At ten o'clock I was sent for. I entered the library, trembling, I know not why; and found my father and Mr. Burley, seated on opposite sides of a table overspread with papers,—a hanging lamp, suspended over the table, gave light to the scene. My father was deadly pale.
"Sit down, Marion," he said, in a voice so broken and changed, that I would not have recognized it, had I not seen his face,—"Mr. Burley has something to say to you."
"Mr. Burley!" I ejaculated,—"What can he have to say to me?"
"Speak to her,—speak," said my father,—"speak, for I cannot,—" and resting his hands on the table, his head dropped on his breast.
"Sit down, my dear," exclaimed Burley, in a tone of easy familiarity,—"I have a little matter of business with your father. There's no use of mincing words. Your father, my dear, is a ruined man."
I sank into a chair, and my father's groan confirmed Burley's words.
"Hopelessly involved," continued Mr. Burley,—"Unless he can raise three hundred thousand dollars by to-morrow noon, he is adishonoredman. Do you hear me, my dear? Dishonored!"
"Dishonored!" groaned my father burying his head in his hands.
"And more than this," continued Burley, "Your father, among his many mercantile speculations, has dabbled a little,—yes more than a little,—in the African slave-trade. He has relations with certain gentlemen at Havana, which once known to our government, would consign him to the convict's cell."
The words of the man filled me with indignation, and with horror. Half fainting as I was, I felt the blood boil in my veins.
"Father, rebuke the liar,"—I said as I placed my hand on his shoulder.—"Raise your face, and tell him that he is the coiner of a falsehood, as atrocious as it is foolish—"
My father did not reply.
"And more than this,"—Burley went on, as though he had not heard me,—"I have it in my power, either to relieve your father from his financial embarrassments, or,—" he paused and surveyed me from head to foot, "or to denounce him to the government as one guilty, of something which it callspiracy,—to wit, an intimate relationship with the African slave trade."
Again my father groaned, but did not raise his face.
The full truth burst upon me. My father was ruined, and in this man's power. Confused,—half maddened, I flung myself upon my knees, and clasped Burley by the hands.
"O, you will not ruin my father," I shrieked.—"You will save him."
Burley took my hands within his own, and bent down, until I felt his breath upon my cheeks—
"Yes, I will save him," he whispered,—"That is, for a price,—your hand, my dear."
His look could not be mistaken. At the same moment, my father raised his face from his hands,—it was pallid, distorted, stamped with despair.
"It is the only way, Marion," he said in a broken voice,—"Otherwise your father must rot in a felon's cell."
Amid all the misfortunes of a varied and changeful life, the agony of that moment has never once been forgotten. I felt the blood rush to my head—
"Be it so," I cried,—and fell like a dead woman on the floor, at the feet of Mr. Issachar Burley.
The next day we were married. In the dusk of the evening four figures stood in the spacious parlor of my father's mansion, by the light of a single waxen-candle. There was the clergyman, gazing in dumb surprise upon the parties to this ill-assorted marriage, there was my father, his countenance vacant almost to imbecility,—for the blow had stricken his intellect—there was the bridegroom, his countenance glowing with sensual triumph; and there the bride, pale as the bridal-dress which enveloped her form, about to be sacrificed on the altar of an unholy marriage. We were married, and between the parlor and the bridal chamber, one hope remained. Rather than submit to the embrace of the unworthy sensualist, I had determined to die, even upon the threshold of the bridal chamber. I had provided myself with a poniard. But alas! a glass of wine, drugged by my husband's hand, benumbed my reason, and when morning light broke upon me again, I found myself in his arms.
The history of the next three months may be rapidly told, for they were months of agony and shame.
"I have directed Walter by letter, to proceed from Havana to the city of Mexico," said my father to me, the second day after the marriage—"He will not return for six months, and certainly until his return, shall not hear of this,—this,—marriage."
My father's mind was broken, and from that hour, he surrendered himself to Issachar's control. Burley took charge of his business, made our house his home,—he was my father's master and mine. The course which he pursued to blunt my feelings, and deaden every faculty of my better nature, by rousing all that was sensual within me, was worthy of him. He gave parties at our home, to the profligate of both sexes, selected from a certain class of the so-called "fashionables," of New York. Revels, prolonged from midnight until dawn, disturbed the quiet of our mansion; and in the wine-cup, and amid the excitement of those fashionable, but unholy orgies, I soon learned to forget the pure hopes of my maidenhood.
Three months passed, and no word of Walter; my father, meanwhile, was sinking deeper every day into hopeless imbecility. At length, the early part of summer, my husband gathered together a party of his fashionable friends, and we departed on a tour to Niagara Falls, up the lakes, and then along the St. Lawrence, and to Montreal. At Niagara Falls we put up at the —— Hotel, and the orgies which had disgraced my father's mansion, were again resumed. My father we had left at home, in charge of a well-tried and faithful servant. One summer evening, tired of the scenes which took place in our parlors, at the hotel, I put on a bonnet and vail, and alone pursued my way, across the bridge to Iris Island, and from Iris to Luna Island. The night was beautiful; from a clear sky the moon shone over the falls; and the roar of waters, alone disturbed the silence of the scene. Crossing the narrow bridge which separates Iris Island from Luna Island, I took my way through the deep shadows of the thicket, until I emerged in the moonlight, upon the verge of the falls. Leaning against a small beech tree, which stands there, I clasped my hands upon my bosom, and wept. That scene, full of the grandeur and purity of nature, awoke the memory of my pure and happier days.
"One plunge and all is over!" the thought flashed over me,—and I measured with a rapid glance, the distance between myself and the brink of the cataract. But at this moment I discovered that I was not alone upon Luna Island. A stranger was leaning against a tree, which was nearer to the brink of the falls than the one against which I leaned. His face was in profile, the lower part of it covered with a thick moustache and beard; and his gaze was lifted absently to the moonlight sky. As I dropped my vail over my face, and gazed at him freely, myself unperceived, I felt my limbs bend beneath me, and the blood rush in a torrent to my head.
I had only strength to frame one word—"Walter!" and fell fainting on his breast.
When I recovered my consciousness, I found myself resting in his arms, while he covered my face with burning kisses.
"You here, Marion!" he cried. "This is indeed an unexpected pleasure!"
He had not heard of my marriage!
"I am here, with some friends," I faltered. "My father could not come with me—and—"
Between the kisses which he planted upon the lips of his betrothed—(so he thought)—he explained his unexpected appearance at Niagara. At Havana he had received the letter from my father, desiring him to hasten, on important business, to the city of Mexico. He had obeyed, and accomplished his mission sooner than he anticipated; had left Vera Cruz for New Orleans; taken steamboat for Cincinnati, and from thence to Cleveland, and across the lake to Buffalo and Niagara Falls.
"And now I'm on my way home, Marion," he concluded. "What a pleasant surprise it will be for father!"
"I am married, Walter."—The words were on my lips, but I could not speak them.
We rose, and, arm in arm, wandered over the bridge, up the steep, and through the winding walks of Goat Island. Leaning on the arm of Walter, I forgot everything but that he loved me and that he was with me. I did not dare to think that to-morrow's light would disclose to him the truth—that I was married, and to another. At length, as we approached the bridge which leads from the Island to the shore, I said—"Leave me Walter; we must not be seen to return together. To-morrow you can call upon me, when I am in presence of my—friends."
One passionate embrace was exchanged, and I watched him, as he crossed the bridge alone, until he was out of sight. Why, I knew not, but an impulse for which I could not account, induced me to retrace my steps to Luna Island. In a few moments I had crossed the bridge (connecting Iris with Luna Island,) and stood once more on the Cataract's brink, under the same tree where an hour before I had discovered Walter. Oh, the agony of that moment, as, gazing over the falls, I called up my whole life, my blighted prospect, and my future without one ray of hope! Should I advance, but a single step, and bury my shame and my sorrows beneath the cataract? Once dead, Walter would at least respect my memory, while living he could only despise and abhor me.
While thoughts like these flashed over my brain, my ear was saluted with the chorus of a drinking song, hummed in an uneven and tremulous voice; and, in a moment my husband passed before me, with an unsteady step. He was confused and excited by the fumes of champagne. Approaching the verge of the island—but a few feet from the verge of the cataract—where the waters look smooth and glassy, as they are about to take the last plunge, he stood gazing, now at the torrent, now at the moon, with a vague, half-drunken stare.
That moment decided my life!
His attitude, the cataract so near, my own lost and hopeless condition, all rushed upon me. Vailing my face, I darted forward and uttered a shriek. Startled by the unexpected sound, he turned, lost his balance, and fell backward into the torrent. But, as he fell, he clutched a branch which overhung the water. Thus, scarcely two yards from the brink, he struggled madly for his life, his face upturned to the moon. I advanced and uncovered my face. He knew me, for the shock had sobered him.
"Marion, save me, save me!" he cried.
I gazed upon him without a word, my arms folded on my breast, and saw him struggle, and heard the branch snap, and—heard his death-howl, as he was swept over the falls. Then, pale as death, and shuddering as with mortal cold, I dragged my steps from the Island, over the bridge—shrieking madly for help. Soon, I heard footsteps and voices. "Help! help!" I shrieked, as I was surrounded by a group of faces, men and women. "My husband! my husband! the falls!" and sank, fainting, in their midst.
Morning came, and no suspicion attached to me. A murderess—if not in deed, in thought, certainly—I was looked upon as the inconsolable widow. Walter left Niagara without seeing me. How did he regard me? I could not tell. The death of Burley broke up our traveling party, and we returned to New York. I returned in time to attend my father's funeral; and found myself the heiress, in my own right, of three hundred thousand dollars. An heiress and a widow, certainly life began to brighten! Burley removed, the incubus which sat upon my father's wealth was gone; and I was beautiful, and free, and rich—immensely rich.
But where was Walter? Months passed, and I did not see him. As he was the head clerk of my father, I hoped to see him, in company with legal gentlemen, engaged to close up my father's estate. But he settled his accounts, closed all connection with my father's estate and business, but did not come near me. At length, weary of suspense, and heart-sick of the loneliness of my desolate mansion, I wrote to him, begging an interview.
He called in the dusk of the evening, when a single candle lighted up the spacious and gloomy parlor. He was dressed in deep mourning, and very pale.
"Madam, you wished to see me," he began.
This cold and formal manner cut me to the heart.
"Walter!" I cried, and flung myself upon his breast, and passionately, but in broken accents, told him how my father's anticipated ruin had forced me to marry Burley.
Walter was melted. "Marion, I love you, and always shall love you, but—but—"
He paused. In an agony of suspense I hung upon his words.
"But—"
"But you are so rich, and I—I—am poor!"
I drowned all further words with kisses, and in a moment we were betrothed again.
We were married. Walter was the master of my fortune, my person and my future. We lived happily together, content with each other's society, and seeking, in the endearments of a pure marriage, to blot out the memory of an unholy one. My husband, truly my husband, was all that I could desire; and by me, he became the possessor of a princely revenue, free to gratify his taste for all that is beautiful in the arts, in painting and sculpture, without hinderance or control. Devoted to me, always kind, eager to gratify my slightest wish, Walter was all that I could desire. We lived to ourselves, and forgot the miserable mockery called "the fashionable world," into which Burley had introduced me. Thus a year passed away, and present happiness banished the memory of a gloomy past. After a year, Walter began to have important engagements, on pressing business, in Philadelphia, Boston, Baltimore and Washington. His absence was death to me; but, having full confidence in him, and aware that his business must be of vital importance, or assuredly he would not leave me, I saw him depart, time and again, with grief too deep for words, and always hailed his return—the very echo of his step with a joy as deep. On one occasion, when he left me, for a day, on a business visit to Philadelphia, I determined—I scarcely knew why—to follow him, and greet him, on his arrival in Philadelphia, with the unexpected but welcome surprise of my presence. Clothing myself in black—black velvet bonnet, and black velvet mantilla, and with a dark vail over my face—I followed him to the ferry-boat, crossed to Jersey City, and took my seat near him in the cars. We arrived in Philadelphia late at night. To my surprise he did not put up at one of the prominent hotels, but bent his way to an obscure and distant part of the city. I followed him to a remote part of Kensington, and saw him knock at the door of an isolated two-story house. After a pause, it was opened, and he entered. I waited from the hour of twelve until three, but he did not re-appear. Sadly and with heavy steps I bent my way to the city, and took lodgings at a respectable but third-rate tavern, representing myself as a widow from the interior, and taking great care to conceal my face from the gaze of the landlord and servants. Next morning it was my first care to procure a male dress,—it matters not how, or with what caution and trouble,—and, tying it up in a compact bundle, I made my way to the open country and entered a wood. It was the first of autumn, and already the leaves were tinted with rainbow dyes. In the thickest part of the wood I disposed of my female attire, and assumed the male dress—blue frock, buttoned to the throat, dark pantaloons, and gaiter boots. My dark hair I arranged beneath a glazed cap with military buttons. Cutting a switch I twirled it jauntily in my hand, and, anxious to test my disguise, entered a wayside cottage—near the Second Street Road—and asked for a glass of water. While the back of the tenant of the cottage—an aged woman—was turned, I gazed in the looking-glass, and beheld myself, to all appearance, a young man of medium stature, with brown complexion of exceeding richness, lips of cherry red, arched brows, eyes of unusual brilliancy, and black hair, arranged in a glossy mass beneath a glazed cap. It was the image of a handsome boy of nineteen, with no down on the lip and no beard on the chin. Satisfied with my disguise, and with a half-formed idea floating through my brain, I bent my steps to the isolated house, which I had seen my husband enter the night before. I knocked; the door was opened by a young girl, plainly clad, but of surpassing beauty—evidently not more than sixteen years old. A sunny complexion, blue eyes, masses of glossy brown hair, combined with an expression which mingled voluptuous warmth with stainless innocence. Such was her face. As to her form, although not so tall as mine, it mingled the graceful outlines of the maiden with the ripeness of the woman.
She gazed upon me with surprise. Obeying a sudden impulse, I said—"Excuse me, Miss, but I promised to meethimhere. You know," with a polite bow and smile, "you know whom I mean?"
"Mr. Barton—" she hesitated.
"Exactly so; Mr. Barton, my intimate friend, who has confidedallto me, and who desired me to meet him here at this hour."
"My mother is not at home," hesitated the young girl, "and, in her absence, I do not like to—"
"Receive strangers, you were about to add? Well, Miss, I am not a stranger. As the intimate friend of Mr. Barton, who especially desired me to meet him here—"
These words seemed to resolve all her doubts. She motioned me to enter, and we passed into a small room, neatly furnished, with the light which came through the curtained windows, shining upon a picture,—the portrait of Walter Howard, my husband.
"Capital likeness of Barton," I said, carelessly tapping my switch against my boot.
"Yes,—yes," she replied as she took a seat at the opposite end of the sofa,—"but not so handsome."
In the course of two hours, in which with a maddened pulse and heaving breast, I waited for the appearance of my husband, I learned from the young girl the following facts:—She was a poor girl, and her mother, with whom she lived, a widow in very moderate circumstances. Her name was Ada Bulmer. Mr. Lawrence Barton (this, of course, was the assumed name of my husband,) was a wealthy gentleman of a noble heart,—he had saved her life in a railroad accident, some months before. He had been unhappy, however, in marriage; was now divorced from a wicked and unfaithful woman; and,—here was the climax,—"and next week we are to be married, and mother, Lawrence, and myself will proceed to Europe directly after our marriage."
This was Ada's story, which I heard with emotions that can scarcely be imagined. Every word planted a hell in my heart. At length, toward nightfall, a knock was heard, and Ada hastened to the door. Presently I heard my husband's step in the entry, and then his voice,—
"Dearest,——" there was the sound of a kiss,—"I have got rid of that infamous woman, who killed her first husband, and have turned all my property into ready money. On Monday we start for Europe."
He entered, and as he entered I glided behind the door. Thus his back was toward me, while his face was toward Ada, and his arms about her waist.
"On Monday, dearest, we will be married, and then——"
I was white with rage, but calm as death. Drawing the poniard, (which I had never parted with since I first procured it,) I advanced and struck him, once, twice, thrice, in the back. He never beheld me, but fell upon Ada's breast, bathed in blood. She uttered a shriek, but laying my hand upon her shoulder, I said, sternly,—
"Not a word! this villain seducedmy only sister, as he would have seduced you!"
I tore him from her arms, and laid him on the sofa; he was speechless; the blood flowed from his mouth and nostrils, but by his glance, I saw that he knew me. Ada, white as a shroud, tottered toward him.
"Seducer of my sister, have we met at last?" I said aloud,—and then bending my face to his, and my bosom close to his breast, I whispered,—
"Thewicked womanwho killed her first husband, gives you this,"—and in my rage buried the poniard in his heart.
Ada fell fainting to the floor, and I hurried from the house. It was a dark night, enlivened only by the rays of the stars, but I gained the wood, washed the blood from my hands, and resumed my female attire. In less than an hour, I reached the depot at Kensington, entered the cars, and before twelve, crossed the threshold of my own home in New York.
How I passed the night,—with what emotions of agony, remorse, jealousy,—matters not. And for three days afterward, as I awaited for the developments, I was many times near raving madness. The account of my husband's death filled the papers; and it was supposed that he had been killed by some unknown man, in revenge, for the seduction of a sister. My wild demeanor was attributed to natural grief at his untimely end.
On the fourth day I had his body brought on from Philadelphia; and on the fifth, celebrated his funeral, following his corpse to the family vault, draped in widow's weeds, and blinded with tears of grief, or of—despair. Ada Bulmer I never saw again, but believe she died within a year of consumption or a broken heart.
Alone in my mansion, secluded from the world, I passed many months in harrowing meditations on the past. Oftentimes I saw the face of Walter dabbled in blood, and both awake and in my dreams, I saw, O, how vividly hislast look! I was still rich, (although Walter, as I discovered, after his death, had recklessly squandered more than one-half of my fortune,) but what mattered riches to one devoured like myself by an ever-gnawing remorse? What might I have been had not Burley forced me into that unholy marriage? This question was never out of my mind for a long year, during which I wore the weeds of widowhood, and kept almost entirely within the limits of my mansion.
Toward the close of the year an incident occurred which had an important bearing on my fate. Near my home stood a church, in which a young and eloquent preacher held forth to the admiration of a fashionable congregation, every Sabbath-day. On one occasion I occupied a seat near the pulpit, and was much struck by his youthful appearance, combined with eloquence so touching and enthusiastic. His eagle eye, shone from his pallid face, with all the fire of an earnest, a heartfelt sincerity. I was struck by the entire manner of the man, and more than once in his sermon he seemed to address me in especial, for our eyes met, as though there was a mutual magnetism in our gaze. When I returned home I could not banish his face nor his accents from my memory; I felt myself devoured by opposing emotions; remorse for the past, mingled with a sensation of interest in the youthful preacher. At length, after much thought, I sent him this note by the hands of a servant in livery:—
Reverend Sir,—A lady who heard your eloquent sermon on "Conscience," on Sabbath last, desires to ask your advice in a matter touching the peace of her soul. She resides at No. ——, and will be glad to receive you to-morrow evening.M. H.
Reverend Sir,—
A lady who heard your eloquent sermon on "Conscience," on Sabbath last, desires to ask your advice in a matter touching the peace of her soul. She resides at No. ——, and will be glad to receive you to-morrow evening.
M. H.
This singular note was dispatched, and the servant directed to inform the Rev. Herman Barnhurst of my full name. As the appointed hour drew nigh, I felt nervous and restless. Will he come? Shall I unbosom myself to him, and obtain at least a portion of mental peace by confessing the deeds and thoughts which rest so heavy on my soul? At last dusk came; two candles stood lighted on the mantle of the front parlor, and seated on the sofa I nervously awaited the coming of the preacher.
"I will confess all!" I thought, and raising my eyes, surveyed myself in the mirror which hung opposite. The past year, with all its sorrow, had rather added to, than detracted from, my personal appearance. My form was more matured and womanly. And the sorrow which I had endured had given a grave earnestness to my look, which, in the eyes of some, would have been more winning than the glance of voluptuous languor. Dressed in deep black, my bust covered to the throat, and my hair gathered plainly aside from my face, I looked the grave, serious—and, I may add, without vanity—the beautiful widow. The Rev. Herman Barnhurst was announced at last,—how I trembled as I heard his step in the hall! He entered, and greeting him with an extended hand, I thanked him warmly for calling in answer to my informal note, and motioned him to a chair. There was surprise and constraint in his manner, but he never once took his eyes from my face. He stammered and even blushed as he spoke to me.
"You spoke, madam, of a case of conscience," he began.
"A case of conscience about which I wished to speak to you."
"Surely," he said, fixing his gaze earnestly upon me, and his words seemed to be forced from him, even against his will,—"surely one so beautiful and so good cannot have anything like sin upon her soul——"
Our gaze met, and from that moment we talked of everything but the case of conscience. All his restraint vanished. His eye flashed, his voice rolled deep and full; he was eloquent, and he was at home. We seemed to have been acquainted for years. We talked of history, poetry, the beautiful in nature, the wonderful in art; and we talked without effort, as though our minds mingled together, without even the aid of voice and eyes. Time sped noiselessly,—it was twelve o'clock before we thought it nine. He rose to go.
"I shall do myself the pleasure to call again," he said, and his voice faltered.
I extended my hand; his hand met it in a gentle pressure. That touch decided our fate. As though my very being and his had rushed together and melted into one, in that slight pressure of hand to hand, we stood silent and confused,—one feeling in our gaze,—blushing and pale by turns.
"Woman," he said, in a voice scarcely above a whisper, "you will drive me mad," and sank half-fainting on his knees.
I bent down and drew him to my breast, and covered his forehead with kisses. Pale, half-fainting, he lay almost helpless in my arms.
"Not mad, Herman," I whispered, "but I will be your good angel; I will cheer you in your mission of good. I will watch over you as you ascend, step by step, the difficult steep of fame; and Herman, I will love you."
It was the first time that young brow had trembled to a woman's kiss.
"Nay,—nay,—tempt me not," he murmured, and unwound my arms from his neck, and staggered to the door.
But as he reached the threshold, he turned,—our gaze met,—he rushed forward with outspread arms,—
"I love you!" he cried, and his face was buried on my bosom.
From that hour the Rev. Herman Barnhurst was the constant visitor at my house. He lived in my presence. His sermons, formerly lofty and somber in their enthusiasm, became colored with a passionate warmth. I felt a strange interest in the beautiful boy; a feeling compounded of pure love; of passion; of voluptuousness, the most intense and refined.
"O, Marion, do you not think that if I act aright in all other respects, that thisone sinwill be forgiven me?" said Herman, as one Sabbath evening, after the service was over, we sat, side by side, in my house. It was in a quiet room, the curtains drawn, a light shining in front of a mirror, and a couch dimly seen through the shadows of an alcove.
"One sin? what mean you, Herman?"
"The sin of loving you,"—and he blushed as his earnest gaze met mine.
"And is it a sin to love me?" I answered in a low voice, suffering my hand to rest upon his forehead.
"Yes," he stammered,—"to love you thus unlawfully."
"Why unlawfully?"
He buried his head on my breast, as he replied,—"I love you as a husband, and I am not your husband."
"And why—" I exclaimed, seizing him in my arms, and gently raising his head, so that our gaze met,—"and why can you not be my husband? I am rich; you have genius. My wealth,—enough for us both,—shall be linked with your genius, and both shall the more firmly cement our love. Say, Herman, why can you not be my husband?"
He turned pale, and avoided my gaze.
"You are ashamed of me,—ashamed, because I have given you the last proof which a woman can give to the man she loves."
"Ashamed! O, no, no,—by all that is sacred, no,—but Marion——"
And bending nearer to me, in faltering accents, he whispered the secret to my ears. He was betrothed to Fanny Lansdale, the daughter of the wealthiest and most influential member of his congregation. He had been betrothed long before he met me. To Mr. Lansdale, the father, he owed all that he had acquired in life, both in position and fame. That gentleman had taken him when a friendless orphan boy, had educated him, and after his ordination, had obtained for him the pastoral charge of his large and wealthy congregation. Thus, he was bound to the father by every tie of gratitude; to the daughter by an engagement that he could not break, without ingratitude and disgrace. My heart died within me at this revelation. At once I saw that Herman could never be lawfully mine. Between him and myself stood Fanny Lansdale, and every tie of gratitude, and every emotion of self-respect and honor.
Not long after this interview, I saw Fanny Lansdale at church; made the acquaintance of her father—a grave citizen, who regarded me as a sincere devotee—and induced Fanny to become a frequent visitor at my house. She confided all to me. She loved Herman devotedly, and looked forward to their marriage as the most certain event in the world. She was a very pretty child, with clear blue eyes, luxuriant hair, and a look of bewitching archness. I do not step aside from the truth, when I state that I sincerely loved her; although it is also true, that I never suffered myself to think of her marriage with Herman as anything but an impossible dream. An incident took place one summer evening, about a year after Herman's first visit to my house, which, slight as it was, it is just as well to relate. It is such slight incidents which often decide the fate of a lifetime, and strike down the barrier between innocence and crime.
I was sitting on the sofa at the back window of the parlor, and Fanny sat on the stool at my feet. The light of the setting sun shone over my shoulders, and lighted up her face, as her clasped hands rested on my knees, and her happy, guileless look, was centered on my countenance. As I gazed upon that innocent face, full of youth and hope, I was reminded of my own early days; and at the memory, a tear rolled down my cheek.
"Yes, you shall marry Herman," the thought flashed over my mind; "and I will aid you, Fanny; yes, I will resign Herman to you."
At this moment Herman entered noiselessly, and took his place by my shoulder; and, without a word, gazed first into my face and then into the face of Fanny. Oh, that look! It was never forgotten. It was fate. For it said, as plainly as a soul, speaking through eyes, can say—"Thou, Marion, art my mistress, the companion of my illicit and sensual love; but thou, Fanny, art my wife, the pure partner of my lawful love!"
After that look, Herman bade us good evening! in a tone of evident agitation, and hurried from the room.
From that hour, Herman avoided me. Weeks passed, and he was not seen at my house. At church he never seemed to be conscious of my presence; and, the service over, hurried at once from the place, without a single glance or sign of recognition. At length, Fanny's visits became less frequent; and, when she did come to see me, her manner manifested a conflict of confidence and suspicion. That this wounded me—that the absence of Herman cut me to the soul—may easily be imagined. I passed my time between alternations of hope and despair; now listening, and in vain, for the echo of Herman's step—and now bathed in unavailing tears. Conscious that my passion for Herman was the last link that bound me to purity—to life itself—I did not give up the hope of seeing him at my feet, as in former days, until months had elapsed. Finally, grown desperate, and anxious to avoid the sting of wounded love, the perpetual presence of harrowing memories, I sought the society of that class of fashionables, to whom my first husband, Issachar Burley, had introduced me. I kept open house for them. Revels, from midnight until dawn, in which men and women of the first class mingled, served for a time to banish reflection, and sap, tie by tie, every thread of hope which held me to a purer state of life. The kennel has its orgies, and the hovel, in which ignorance and squalor join in their uncouth debauch; but the orgie of the parlor, in which beauty, intellect, fashion and refinement are mingled, far surpasses, in unutterable vulgarity, the lowest orgie of the kennel. Amid the uproar of scenes like these, news reached me that the Rev. Herman Barnhurst and Miss Fanny Lansdale were shortly to be united in marriage.
One evening I was sitting alone, in the back parlor, near a table on which stood a lighted candle and a wine-glass, (for I now at times began to seek oblivion in wine,) when Gerald Dudley was announced. Gerald was one of my fashionable friends, over forty in years, tall in stature, with a florid face, short curling brown hair, and sandy whiskers. He was aroué, and a gambler, and—save the mark—one of the first fashionables of New York. He entered, dressed in a showy style; blue coat, red velvet vest, plaid pants, brimstone-colored gloves, and a profusion of rings and other jewelry—a style indicative of the man. Seating himself on the sofa, he began chatting in his easy way about passing events of fashionable life, and of the world at large.
"By-the-bye, the popular preacher, young Barnhurst, is to be married; and to such a love of a girl—daughter of old Lansdale, themillionaire. Lucky fellow! Do you know that I've often noticed her at church—a perfectHebe—and followed her home, once or twice, and that I shouldn't mind marrying her myself if I could get a chance!"
And he laughed a laugh which showed his white teeth. "Bah! But that's it—I can't get a chance."
Perhaps I blushed at the mention of this marriage; but he immediately continued:—
"On dit, my pretty widow, that this girl, Lansdale, has cut you out. Barnhurst once was sadly taken with you; so I've heard. How is it? All talk, I suppose?"
I felt myself growing pale, although the blood was boiling in my veins. But before I could reply, there was a ring at the front door, followed by the sound of a hasty footstep, and the next moment, to my utter surprise, Fanny Lansdale rushed into the room. Without seeming to notice the presence of Dudley, she rushed forward, and fell on her knees before me, her bonnet hanging on her neck, her hair floating about her face, and that face bathed in blushes and tears.
"Oh, Marion! Marion!" she gasped,—"some slanderer has told father a story about you and Herman,—a vile, wicked story,—which you can refute, and which I am sure you will! For—for—"
She fell fainting on my knee. The violence of her emotions, for the time, deprived her of all appearance of life. Her head was on my lap; one hand sought mine, and was joined to it in a convulsive clasp.
Oh, who shall say that those crimes which make the world shudder but to hear told, are the result of long and skillful planning, of careful and intricate scheming? No, no; the worst crimes—those which it would seem might make even the heart of a devil, contract with horror—are not the result of long and deliberate purpose, but of the temptation of a moment—of the fatal opportunity!
As her head rested on my lap, a voice whispered in my ear:
"Your rival! Retire for a few moments, in search of hartshorn, or some such restorative, and leave the fainting one in my care."
I raised my head and caught the eye of Gerald Dudley. Only a single look, and the fiend was in my heart. I rose; the fainting girl fell upon the floor; I hurried from the room, and did not pause until I had reached my own chamber, and locked the door. Pressing my hands now on my burning temples, now on my breast, I paced the floor, while, perchance, fifteen minutes—they seemed an eternity—passed away.
Then I went slowly down stairs, and entered the back parlor. Gerald was there, standing near the sofa; his face wearing an insolent scowl of triumph. The girl was stretched upon the sofa, still insensible, but—I dare not write it—opposite Gerald stood Herman Barnhurst, who had followed Fanny to the house, and arrived—too late. His face was bloodless.
"Oh, villain!" he groaned, as his maddened gaze was fixed on Dudley; "you shall pay for this with your blood—"
"Softly, Reverend Sir! softly! One word of this, and the world shall know of your amours with the handsome widow."
Herman's gaze rested on my face—
"You,—know—of—this?" he began, with a look that can never be forgotten.
"Pardon, Herman, pardon! I was mad," I shrieked, flinging myself at his feet, and clutching his knees.
For a moment he gazed upon me, and then, lifting his clenched right hand, he struck me on the forehead, and I fell insensible on the floor. The curse, which he spoke as I fell, rings even yet in my ears.
Three days have passed since then. Such days as I will never pass again! I have just learned that Gerald Dudley has fled the city. His purpose to obtain Fanny's hand in marriage by first accomplishing her shame, has utterly failed. Her father knows all and is now using every engine of his wealth to connect my name with the crime which has damned every hope of his idolized child. And he will succeed! I feel it; I know it; my presentiment cannot prove false. What shall I do?—whither turn?
And Herman is a raving lunatic. This too is my work. Yes, yes, I am resolved.—Iamresolved. * * * *
To-morrow's dawn will bring disgrace and shame to me; and, in the future, I see the crowded court-house—the mob, eager to drink in the story of my guilt,—and the felon's cell. But the morrow's dawn I shall never see!
I am alone in my chamber—the very chamber in which I became Burley's, in an unholy marriage—Walter's, in the marriage of a stainless love—Herman's, in the mad embrace of passion. And now, O Death! upon that marriage couch, I am about to wed thee!
The brazier stands in the center of the bridal chamber; its contents were ignited half an hour ago; every avenue to my chamber is carefully closed; already the fumes of the burning charcoal begin to smite my temples and my heart.
This record, written from time to time, and now concluded by a hand chilled by death, I leave to my only living relative,—not as an apology for my crimes, but as an explanation of the causes which led me to the brink of this awful abyss.
Air! air! Burley, for thee I have no remorse. Let the branch snap!—over the cataract with thy accursed face! Thou wert the cause of all—thou! But, Walter, thy last look kills my soul.—Herman, thy curse is on me! And poor Fanny! Air! Light! It is so dark—dark!—Oh for one breath of prayer!
The preceding confession, signed by the tremulous hand of the poor suicide, was found in her room, with the senseless corse, by the relative, to whom she addressed it, and who adds these concluding pages. For days after the event, the papers were filled with paragraphs, in regard to the melancholy affair. A single one extracted from a prominent paper, will give some idea of the tone of the public mind:
Extract from a New York Paper."TRAGEDY IN HIGH LIFE."The town is full of rumors, in regard to a mysterious event, or series of events, implicating a member of one of the first families of New York. These rumors are singularly startling, and although they have not yet assumed a definite shape, certainly call for a judicial investigation. As far as we have been able to sift the stories now afloat, the plain truth, reduced to the briefest possible shape, appears to be as follows: Some years since, Miss Marion M——, daughter of old Mr. M——, one of our first merchants, was, while under an engagement of marriage with Walter H——, forced into a marriage with Mr. Issachar B——, a man old enough to be her father, who, it is stated, had the father absolutely in his power. The marriage took place, but not long afterward, B——, while on a visit to Niagara, was precipitated over the Falls, at dead of night, in a manner not yet satisfactorily explained. Soon afterward the young widow, then immensely rich, encountered her former betrothed, and the fashionable world were soon afterward informed of their marriage. A year passed, and Walter H——, the husband of the former widow, was found in a distant part of the country, mysteriously murdered, it was not known by whom, although it was rumored at the time, that the brother of a wronged sister, was on that occasion the avenger of his sister's shame. The beautiful Mrs. H——, was once more a widow. Here it might seem that her adventures, connected so strangely with the death of two husbands, had reached their termination. But it seems she was soon fascinated by the eloquence of a young man and popular divine, Rev. H—— B——. While betrothed to Miss Fanny L——, daughter of a wealthy member of his congregation, the eloquent preacher became a visitor at the house of the rich widow, and finally his affections became entangled, and he was forced to choose between said widow and his betrothed. He sacrificed his affection for the former, to his solemn engagement with the latter. The 'slighted' widow, endured the usual pangs of 'despised love,' coupled with something very much like Italian jealousy, or rather jealousy after the Italian school. The betrothed was inveigled into a certain house, and her honor sacrificed by a gentleman of fashion, known for thirty years as a constant promenader, on the west side of Broadway, Mr. Gerald D——. The widow (strangest freak of a slighted and vindictive woman!) is said to have been the planner and instigator of this crime. We have now arrived at the sequel of the story. Unable to obtain the hand of the Rev. H—— B——, and stung by remorse, for her share in the dishonor of his betrothed, the widow put a period to her own existence, in what manner is not exactly known, although conflicting rumors state the knife, or the poison vial was the instrument of her death. No coroner's inquest took place. The body gave no signs of a violent death. 'Disease of the heart' was stated in the certificate of the physician, (howcomplianthe was to the wishes of rich survivors, we will not say,) as the cause of her unexpected disease. She was quietly buried in the family vault, and her immense estate descends to a relative, who was especially careful, in cloaking over the fact of the suicide. The tragedy involved in this affair, will be complete, when we inform the reader, that Mr. Gerald D——, has left the city, while his poor victim, Fanny L——, tenants the cell of an asylum for the insane. Altogether, this affair is one of the wildest exaggerations, or one of the most painful tragedies, that ever fell to the lot of the press, to record. Can it be believed that a young lady, honorably reared, would put a period to the lives of two husbands, then procure the dishonor of a rival, who interposed between her and athird'husband?' Verily, 'fact is stranger than fiction,' and every day, reality more improbable than the wildest dreams of romance. The truth will not be known until theConfession,said to be left by the young widow, makes its appearance.But will it appear? we shall see."
Extract from a New York Paper.
"The town is full of rumors, in regard to a mysterious event, or series of events, implicating a member of one of the first families of New York. These rumors are singularly startling, and although they have not yet assumed a definite shape, certainly call for a judicial investigation. As far as we have been able to sift the stories now afloat, the plain truth, reduced to the briefest possible shape, appears to be as follows: Some years since, Miss Marion M——, daughter of old Mr. M——, one of our first merchants, was, while under an engagement of marriage with Walter H——, forced into a marriage with Mr. Issachar B——, a man old enough to be her father, who, it is stated, had the father absolutely in his power. The marriage took place, but not long afterward, B——, while on a visit to Niagara, was precipitated over the Falls, at dead of night, in a manner not yet satisfactorily explained. Soon afterward the young widow, then immensely rich, encountered her former betrothed, and the fashionable world were soon afterward informed of their marriage. A year passed, and Walter H——, the husband of the former widow, was found in a distant part of the country, mysteriously murdered, it was not known by whom, although it was rumored at the time, that the brother of a wronged sister, was on that occasion the avenger of his sister's shame. The beautiful Mrs. H——, was once more a widow. Here it might seem that her adventures, connected so strangely with the death of two husbands, had reached their termination. But it seems she was soon fascinated by the eloquence of a young man and popular divine, Rev. H—— B——. While betrothed to Miss Fanny L——, daughter of a wealthy member of his congregation, the eloquent preacher became a visitor at the house of the rich widow, and finally his affections became entangled, and he was forced to choose between said widow and his betrothed. He sacrificed his affection for the former, to his solemn engagement with the latter. The 'slighted' widow, endured the usual pangs of 'despised love,' coupled with something very much like Italian jealousy, or rather jealousy after the Italian school. The betrothed was inveigled into a certain house, and her honor sacrificed by a gentleman of fashion, known for thirty years as a constant promenader, on the west side of Broadway, Mr. Gerald D——. The widow (strangest freak of a slighted and vindictive woman!) is said to have been the planner and instigator of this crime. We have now arrived at the sequel of the story. Unable to obtain the hand of the Rev. H—— B——, and stung by remorse, for her share in the dishonor of his betrothed, the widow put a period to her own existence, in what manner is not exactly known, although conflicting rumors state the knife, or the poison vial was the instrument of her death. No coroner's inquest took place. The body gave no signs of a violent death. 'Disease of the heart' was stated in the certificate of the physician, (howcomplianthe was to the wishes of rich survivors, we will not say,) as the cause of her unexpected disease. She was quietly buried in the family vault, and her immense estate descends to a relative, who was especially careful, in cloaking over the fact of the suicide. The tragedy involved in this affair, will be complete, when we inform the reader, that Mr. Gerald D——, has left the city, while his poor victim, Fanny L——, tenants the cell of an asylum for the insane. Altogether, this affair is one of the wildest exaggerations, or one of the most painful tragedies, that ever fell to the lot of the press, to record. Can it be believed that a young lady, honorably reared, would put a period to the lives of two husbands, then procure the dishonor of a rival, who interposed between her and athird'husband?' Verily, 'fact is stranger than fiction,' and every day, reality more improbable than the wildest dreams of romance. The truth will not be known until theConfession,said to be left by the young widow, makes its appearance.But will it appear? we shall see."
So much for the public press.
The reader can contrast itsrumors, with thefactsof the case, as plainly set forth in the previous confession, penned by the hand of the unfortunate and guilty Marion Merlin.
A few words more will close this painful narrative. Marion was quietly and honorably buried. Her relatives were wealthy and powerful. The 'physician's certificate' enabled them to avoid the painful formality of a coroner's inquest. She sleeps beside her husband, Walter Howard, in Greenwood Cemetery.
Soon after her decease, Mr. Lansdale sold all his property in New York, and with his daughter disappeared completely from public view.
Herman Barnhurst remained in the Lunatic Asylum for more than a year, when he was released, his intellect restored, but his health (it is stated) irretrievably broken. After his release, he left New York, and his name was soon forgotten, or if mentioned at all, only as that of a person long since dead.
Gerald Dudley, after various adventures, in Texas and Mexico, suffered at the hands of Judge Lynch, near San Antonio.
About a year after the death of Marion Merlin, a young man in moderate circumstances, accompanied by his wife, (a pale, faded, though interesting woman) and her aged father took up his residence in C——, a pleasant village in south-western Pennsylvania. They were secluded in their habits, and held but little intercourse with the other villagers. The husband passed by the name of Wilton, which (for all that the villagers knew to the contrary,) was his real name.
One winter evening, as the family were gathered about the open wood-fire, a sleigh halted at the door, and a visitor appeared in the person of a middle-aged man, who came unbidden into the room, shaking the snow from his great coat, and seating himself in the midst of the family. Regarding for a moment the face of the aged father, and then the countenance of the young husband and wife, which alike in their pallor, seemed to bear the traces of an irrevocable calamity, the visitor said quietly,—
"Herman Barnhurst, I am the relative to whom Marion Merlin addressed her confession, and whom she invested with the trusteeship of her estate."
Had a thunderbolt fallen into the midst of the party, it would not have created so much consternation, as these few words from the lips of the visitor. The young wife shrieked, the old man started from his chair; Herman Barnhurst, (otherwise called Mr. Wilton,) with the blood rushing to his pale face, said simply, "That accursed woman!"
"I hold her last Will and Testament in my hand," continued the visitor: "I am her nearest relative, and would inherit her estate, but for this will, by which she namesyou and your wife Fanny, as the sole heirs of her immense property."
Herman took the Will from the visitor's hands.
"As administrator of her estate, I am here to surrender it into your hands. The will was made as a small atonement for the injury she caused you."
Herman quietly dropped the parchment into the fire:
"Her money and her memory are alike accursed. I will have nothing to do with either."
That night the relative turned his face eastward, to take possession of the estate of Marion Merlin.
And beneath this, in a different hand, was added the following singular narrative:
A pleasant place, in summer time, was the country-mansion of the celebrated Doctor N——, situated upon the heights of Weehawken, about one mile from the Hudson River. A huge edifice of brick, separated from the high road by a garden, it was surrounded by tall trees, whose branches overhung its steep roof, and relieved by the background of the rich foliage and blossoms of the orchard trees. A pleasant place, in summer, was the mansion of the celebrated Doctor, but lonely enough, and desolate enough in winter. On this drear winter night, it looks sad and desolate as the grave. The sky above it is leaden, the trees around it are leafless, the garden white with snow, and the bitter wind howls dismally over the waste of snow, which clothes the adjacent fields. In the distance, the Hudson glitters dimly, white and cold, with fields of floating ice. It is near morning, and but a single room in the vast country mansion is tenanted. You can see a light trembling faintly through the half vailed window yonder; the window near the roof, in the southern wing.
It is near morning; but one person by a solitary light, keeps his vigil in the deserted mansion; a sleigh drawn by a single horse, (he has been driven hard, for there is foam upon his flanks) and moving noiselessly, without the sound of bells stops at the garden gate. Two persons, whose forms are wrapped in thick overcoats, and whose faces are concealed by fur caps, drawn low over the brows, dismount and pass along the garden walk, bearing a burden on their shoulders. They ascend the steps of the porch, and stand in front of the hall door, looking anxiously about them, as if to assure themselves, their movements were not observed.
"So far safe enough,—" exclaims one in a hoarse voice, "the next thing is to getitup stairs." And he places a key in the lock of the door.
Meanwhile the light, which trembling outward from yonder window, shines redly over the frozen snow, shines within upon the face of the lonely watcher. A young man sits beside a table, reading by the light of a clouded lamp, his cheeks resting on his hands, and his gaze riveted upon the large volume, spread open before him. The light falls brightly upon the book, leaving his features in half twilight, but still you can trace the outlines of his face,—the enthusiasm of his fixed eyes,—the energy of his broad bold forehead. It is a small and comfortable apartment; near him a wood-fire is burning, on the open hearth; opposite him a sofa, and a range of shelves, filled with books, and upon the green cloth of the table by which he is seated, you discover a sort of semicircle of open volumes,—placed there evidently for reference,—a mass of carelessly strewn manuscripts, and a case of surgical instruments.
Arthur Conroy, the favorite student of the celebrated Doctor,—a student, whose organization combines the exactness and untiring industry of the man of science, with the rich enthusiasm of the poet,—is the only tenant of the mansion, during the dreary winter. He is not seen during the day, but every night, arriving from New York, after dark, he builds his fire, lights his candle, and commences his lonely vigil. Sometimes, late at night, he is joined by the grave Doctor himself, and they pursue their researches together. What manner of researches? We cannot tell; but there is a rumor, that one apartment of the huge mansion is used, in winter time, as a Dissecting-Room. And the light streaming night after night, from the window near the roof, strikes the lonely wayfarer with a sensation, in some manner, associated with ghosts, witches, and dealings with thedevilin general.
Arthur is ambitious; even while his mind is wrapt in the mazes of a scientific problem, he thinks of his widowed mother and orphan sisters far away in the great village near Seneca lake, and his pulse beats quicker, as he looks forward to the day when their ears shall be greeted by the tidings of his world-wide fame. For he has determined to be a surgeon, and a master in his art; he has the will and the genius; he will accomplish what he wills.
He raises his eyes from his book,—they are glittering with the clear light of intense thought,—and unconsciously begins to think aloud.
"Do the dead return? Are the dead indeeddead? You have nailed down the coffin-lid; you have seen the coffin as it sunk into the grave; you have heard the rattling of the clod,—but is that all? Is the beloved one whom you have given to the grave, indeeddead, or only more truly living in a new body, formed of refined matter, invisible to our gross organs? Is that which we call soul, only the result of a particular organization of gross matter, or is it the real, eternal substance of which all other matter is but the servant and the expression? Do the dead return? Do those whose faces we have seen for the last time, ere the coffin-lid closed upon them forever, ever come back to us, clad in spiritual bodies, and addressing us, not through our external organs, but by directlyimpressingthatdivine substancein us, which is like unto them,—that which we call oursoul?"
It was a thought which for ages has made the hearts of the noblest and truest of our race, alternately combat with despair, and swell with hope,—that thought which seeks to unvail the mystery of Life and Death, disclose the tie which connects perishable matter with eternal mind, and lift the curtain which hides from the present, the other world.
Arthur felt the vast thought gather all his soul into its embrace. But his meditations were interrupted by the opening of the door, and the two men,—whom we saw dismount from the sleigh,—entered the room of the student, bearing in their arms the burden, which was covered by folds of coarse canvas.
Very ungainly men they were, with their brawny forms wrapped in huge gray overcoats, adorned with white buttons, and their harsh visages half concealed by their coarse fur caps. They came into the room without a word.
"O, you have come," said Arthur, as if he recognized persons by no means strangers to him. "Have you the particular subject which the doctor desired you to procure?"
"Jist that partikler subject," said one of the twain,—"an' a devil of a time we've had to git it! Fust we entered the vault at Greenwood, with a false key, and then opened the coffin, so as it'll never be known that it was opened at all. Closed the vault ag'in and got the body over the wall, and hid it in the bottom of the sleigh. Crossed the ferry at Brooklyn—went through the city, and then took the ferry for Hoboken,—same sleigh, and same subject in the bottom of it; an' druv here with a blast in our face, sharp as a dozen butcher knives."
"But if it had not a-been for the storm, we wouldn't a-got the body," interrupted the other.
"And here weair, and hereitis, and that's enough. What shall we do with it?"
Arthur opened a small door near the bookcase, and a narrow stairway (leading up into the garret) was disclosed.
"You know the way," he said. "When you get up there placeiton the table."
They obeyed without a word. Bearing their burden slowly through the narrow doorway, they disappeared, and the echo of their heavy boots was heard on the stairway. They were not long absent. After a few moments they again appeared, and the one who had acted as principal spokesman, held out his open palm toward Arthur,—
"Double allowance to-night, you know," he said,—"Doctor generally gives us from forty to sixty dollars a job, but this partikler case axes for ten gold pieces,—spread eagles, you know, wuth ten dollars apiece,—only a hundred dollars in all. Shell out!"