As the night set in—the night of December 23d, 1844—two persons were seated in the recess of a lofty window, which commanded a view of Broadway. It was the window of a drawing-room, on the second floor of a four storied edifice, built of brick, with doors and window-frames of marble.—By the dim light which prevailed, it might be seen that the drawing-room was spacious and elegantly furnished. Mirrors, pictures and statues broke softly through the twilight.
Seated amid the silken curtains of the window, these persons sat in silence—the man with his arms folded, and his head sunk upon his breast, the woman with her hands clasped over her bosom, and her eyes fixed upon the face of her companion. The woman was very beautiful; one of those who are called 'queenly' by persons who have never seen a live queen, and who are ignorant of the philosophical truth, that one beautiful woman is worth all the queens in the universe. The man was dark-haired, and of a complexion singularly pale and colorless; there was thought upon his forehead, and something of an unpleasant memory, written in his knit brows and compressed lips.
The silence which had prevailed for half an hour, was broken by a whisper from the lips of the woman—
"Of what are you thinking, Randolph?"
"Of the strange man whom we met at the house half way between New York and Philadelphia. His name and his personality are wrapt in impenetrable mystery."
"Had it not been for him—"
"Ay, had it not been for him, we should have been lost. You would have become the prey of the—themaster, Esther, who owns you, and I,—I—well, no matter, I would have been dead."
"After the scene inthehouse, Randolph, he came on with us, and by his directions we took rooms at the City Hotel. From the moment of our arrival, only a few hours ago, we did not see him, until—"
"Until an hour ago. Then he came into our room at the hotel. 'Here is a key,' said he, 'and your home is No. ——, Broadway. Go there at once, and await patiently the coming of the twenty-fifth of December.—You will find servants to wait upon you, you will find money to supply your wants,—it is in the drawer of the desk which you will discover in your bedroom—and most of all, you will there be safe from the attempts of your persecutor.' These were his words. We came at once, and find ourselves—the servants excepted—the sole tenants of this splendid mansion."
"But don't you remember his last words, as we left the hotel? 'At the hour of six,' said he, this singular unknown, 'you will be waited on by a much treasured friend.'—Who can it be that is to come and see us at that hour?"
"Friend," Randolph echoed bitterly, "what 'friend' have we, save this personage, whose very name is unknown to us? Our father is dead. When I say that I say at once that we are utterly alone in the world."
"And yet there is a career before you, Randolph," faltered Esther.
"A splendid career, ha, ha, Esther, yes a splendid career for the White Slave! You forget, good girl, that we have negro blood in our veins. How much wealth do you think it would require to blot out the memory of the past? Suppose we are successful on the twenty-fifth of December,—suppose the mysterious trustee of the Van Huyden estate recognizes us as the children of one of the Seven,—suppose that we receive a share of this immense wealth—well, Esther, what will it avail us? Wherever we turn, the whisper will ring in our ears, 'They have negro blood in their veins. Their mother was descended from the black race. True, they look whiter than the palest of the Caucasian race, but—but'—(do you hear it, Esther?) 'but theyhave negro blood in their veins.'"
He started from his chair, and his sister saw, even by the dim light which came through the half-drawn window-curtains, that his chest heaved, and his face was distorted by a painful emotion.
She also arose.
"Randolph," she whispered, and laid her hand gently on his arm, "Randolph, my brother, I say it again, come wealth or poverty, you have a career before you. In Europe we may find a home,—"
"Europe!" he echoed, "And must we go to Europe, in order to be permitted to live? No, Esther, no! I am an American, yes,"—and his voice, low and deep, echoed proudly through the stillness of the dimly-lighted room,—"yes, I am a Carolinian, ay, a South Carolinian; South Carolina is my home; while I live, I will not cease to assert my right to a place, ay, and no dishonorable place—on my native soil."
He passed his sister's arm through his own, and led her gently over the carpet, which, soft as down, returned no echo to their tread. The lofty ceiling stretched above them, in the vague twilight; and on either hand were the walls adorned with paintings and statues. The mirror, which but dimly reflected their forms, flashed gently through the gloom.
"And Esther, there is one reason why I will not become an exile, which I have never spoken to mortal ears—not even to yours, my sister. It was communicated to me by my father, before I left for Europe: he placedproofsin my possession which do not admit of denial. Sister, my epistle!—Here, in the dimly-lighted room, to which we have been guided by an unknown friend,—here, surrounded by mystery, and with the marks of wealth all about us,—here, as the crisis of our fate draws near, let me breathe the secret in your ears."
He paused in the center of the room. His sister felt his arm tremble as he drew her to his side. His voice betrayed, in its earnest yet faltering tones, an unfathomable emotion. And Esther clinging to his side, and looking up into his face—which she could scarcely discern through the gloom—felt her bosom swell, and her breath come painfully in gasps, as she was made, involuntarily, a sharer of her brother's agitation.
"Randolph," she said, "what can be the secret, which you have kept ever from me, your sister?"
"I will not leave this country, in the first place, because I am of its soil," he answered, "and because, first and last, it is no common right, which binds me to my native land. Come, Esther, to the window, where the light will help my words; you shall know all—"
He led her to the window, and drew from beneath his vest, a miniature, which he held toward the fading light.
"Do you trace the features?" he whispered.
"I do. It is beautifully painted, and the likeness resembles a thousand others, that I have seen of the same man. But what has this portrait in miniature to do with us?"
"What has it to do with us? Regard it again, and closely, my sister. Do you not trace a resemblance?"
"Resemblance to whom?" Esther echoed. "Why it is the portrait of —— ——."
She repeated a name familiar to the civilized world.
"It ishisportrait. No one can deny it. But Esther, again I ask you,—" his voice sunk low and lower.—"Do you not trace a resemblance?"
"Resemblance to whom?" she answered, her tone indicating bewildered amazement.
"To the picture ofour Mother, which you have seen at Hill Royal," was Randolph's answer.
Utterly bewildered, Esther once more examined the miniature; and an idea, so strange, so wild that she deemed it but the idle fancy of a dream, began to take shape in her brain.
"I am in the dark, I know not what you mean. True, true, the face portrayed in miniature does, somewhat, resemble our mother's portrait, but—"
"That miniature, Esther, is the portrait of the Head of our Family. That man,—" again he pronounced the name,—"was the father of our mother. We are his grandchildren, my sister."
Esther suffered the miniature to fall from her hand. She sank back into a chair.
For a few moments, there was a death-like pause, unbroken by a single word.
"The grandchildren of —— ——!" echoed Esther, at length. "You cannot mean it, Randolph?"
Randolph bent his head until his lips well-nigh touched his sister's ear. At the same moment he clasped her hard with a painful pressure. The words which he then uttered were uttered in a whisper, but every word penetrated the soul of the listener.
"Esther, we are the grandchildren of that man whose name is on the lips of the civilized world. Our mother washischild.Hisblood flows in our veins. We are ofhisrace;hisfeatures may be traced in your countenance and in mine. Now let them cut and hack and maim us: let them lash us at the whipping-post, or sell us in the slave mart. At every blow of the lash, we can exclaim, 'Lash on! lash on! But remember, you are inflicting this torture upon no common slaves; for your whip at every blow is stained with the blood of —— ——. These slaves whom you lash arehisgrandchildren!'"
He paused, overcome by the violence of his emotion. In a moment he resumed:
"And it is because I amhisgrandson, that I will not exile myself from this land, which washisbirthplace as it is mine. Yes, I cannot exile myself, for the reason that mygrandfatherleft to my hands the fulfillment of an awful trust—of a work which, well fulfilled, will secure the happiness of all the races who people the American continent. I may become a suicide, but an exile,—never!"
"But our mother, was the daughter of Colonel Rawden. So the rumor ran, and so you stated before the Court of Ten Millions."
"In that statement I simply followed the popular rumor, for the time for theentire truthhad not yet come. But our mother was not the child of Colonel Rawden. Her mother was indeed Rawden's slave, but not one drop of Rawden's blood flows in our veins. Colonel Rawden was aware of the truth; well he knew thatHerodia, whom he sold to our father, was the child of —— ——."
There was a pause: and it was not broken until Esther spoke:
"You would not like to return to Europe, then?"
"For one reason, and one only, I would like to visit Europe."
"And that reason?"
"Know, Esther, that at Florence, in the course of a hurried tour through Italy, I met a gentleman named Bernard Lynn. His native country I never ascertained; he was near fifty years of age; gentlemanly in his exterior, of reputed wealth, and accompanied by an only daughter, Eleanor Lynn. At Florence,—it matters not how,—I saved his daughter's life—ay, more than life, her honor. All his existence was wrapt up in her; you may, therefore, imagine the extent of his gratitude to the young American who saved the life of this idolized child."
"Was the girl grateful, as well as the father?"
"I remained but a week in their company, and then separated, to see them no more forever. That week was sufficient to assure me that I loved her better than my life,—that my passion was returned; and could I but forget the negro blood which mingles in my veins, I might boldly claim her as my own. Her father had but one prominent hatred: mild and gentlemanly on all other subjects, he was ferocious at the sight or mention of a negro. He regarded the African race as a libel upon mankind; a link between the monkey and the man; a caricature of the human race; the work of Nature, in one of herunluckymoods. Conscious that there was negro blood in my veins, I left him abruptly. With this consciousness I could not press my suit for the hand of his daughter."
"But you would like to see her again?"
"Could I meet her as an equal, yes! But never can I look upon her face again. Don't you see, Esther, how at every turn of life, I am met by the fatal whisper, 'There isnegro blood in your veins!'"
"She was beautiful?"
"One of the fairest types of the Caucasian race, that ever eye beheld. Tall in stature, her form cast in a mould of enticing loveliness, her complexion like snow, yet blushing with roses on the lip and cheek; her hair, brown in the sunlight, and dark in the shade; her eyes of a shade between brown and black, and always full of the light of all-abounding youth and hope.—Yes, she was beautiful, transcendently beautiful! She had the intellect of an affectionate but proud and ambitious woman."
"You saved her life?"
"I saved her honor."
"Her honor?"
"So beautiful, so young, so gifted, she attracted the attention of an Italian nobleman, who sued in vain for her hand. Foiled in his efforts to obtain her in honorable marriage, he determined to possess her at all hazards. One night, as herself and her father were returning to Florence, after a visit to Valambrosa, the carriage was attacked by a band of armed ruffians. The father was stretched insensible, by a blow upon the temple, from the hilt of a sword. When he recovered his senses, he was alone, and faint with the loss of blood. His daughter had disappeared. He made out, at length, to get back to Florence, and instituted a search for his child. His efforts were fruitless. Suspicion rested upon the rejected lover, but he appeared before the father, and to the father's satisfaction established his innocence. At this period, when the father had relinquished all hope, I assumed the disguise of a traveling student, armed myself and departed from Florence. I bent my steps to the Apennines. A servant of the nobleman, impelled at once by a bribe, and by revenge for ill-treatment, had imparted certain intelligence to me; upon this information I shaped my course. In an obscure nook of the Apennines, separated from the main road by a wilderness frequented by banditti, I found the daughter of Bernard Lynn. She was a prisoner in a miserable inn, which was kept by a poor knave, in the pay of the robbers. I entered the room in which she was imprisoned, in time to rescue her from the nobleman, who had reached the inn before me, and who was about to carry his threats into force. Had I been a moment later, her honor would have been sacrificed. A combat ensued: Eleanor saw me peril my life for her; and saw the villain laid insensible at her feet. She fainted in my arms. It matters not to tell how I bore her back to her father, who confessed that I had done a deed, which could never be suitably rewarded, although he might sacrifice his fortune and his life, in the effort to display his gratitude."
"By what name did they know you?"
"As Randolph Royalton, the son of a gentleman of South Carolina. From this I am afraid the father built false impressions of my social position and my wealth. Afraid to tell Eleanor the truth, I left them without one word of farewell."
At this moment, a door was opened, and the light of a wax candle, held in the hand of a servant who occupied the doorway, flashed over the details of the drawing-room, lighting up the scene with a sudden splendor. The servant was a man of middle age and of a calm, sober look. He was clad in a suit of gray, faced with black velvet.
The light revealed the brother and sister as they stood in the center of the scene; Esther, clad in the green habit which fitted closely to her beautiful shape, and Randolph attired in a black coat, vest and cravat, which presented a strong contrast to his pallid visage.
The servant bowed formally upon the threshold, and advanced, holding a salver of silver in one hand and the candle in the other. As soon as he had traversed the space between Randolph and the door, he bowed again, and extended the salver, upon which appeared a card, inscribed with a name—
"Master, a gentleman desires to see you. He is in his carriage at the door. He gave me this card for you."
Randolph exchanged glances with Esther, as much as to say "our expected visitor," and then took the card, and read these words:
"An old friend desires to see Randolph Royalton and his sister."
"An old friend desires to see Randolph Royalton and his sister."
Randolph started as he beheld the handwriting, and the blood rushed to his cheek:
"Show the gentleman up stairs," he said quietly.
The servant disappeared, taking with him the light, and the room was wrapt in twilight once more.
"Have you any idea who is this visitor?" whispered Esther.
"Hush! Do not speak! Surrounded by mystery as we are, this new wonder throws all others completely into shade. I can scarcely believe it; and yet, it washishandwriting! I cannot be mistaken."
In vain did Esther ask, "Whose handwriting?" Trembling with anxiety and delight, Randolph listened intently for the sound of footsteps on the stairs.
Presently there came a sound, as of footsteps ascending a stairway, covered with thick carpet; and then the door opened and the servant stood on the threshold, light in hand:
"This way, sir, this way," he exclaimed, and entered: while Randolph and Esther's gaze was centered on the doorway; the servant in gray rapidly lighted the wax candles, which stood on the marble mantle, and the spacious room was flooded with radiance.
"Ah, ha, my dear boy, have I caught you at last?" cried a harsh but a cheerful voice, and an elderly man, wrapped in a cloak, crossed the threshold, and approached Randolph with rapid steps.
"Mr. Lynn!" ejaculated Randolph, utterly astonished.
"Yes, your old friend, whom you so abruptly left at Florence, without so much as a word of good-bye! How are you, my dear fellow? Give me a shake of your hand. Miss Royalton, I presume?"
By no means recovered from his bewilderment, Randolph managed to present Mr. Bernard Lynn to his sister, whom he called "Miss Esther Royalton."
The visitor gave his hat and cloak to the servant, and flung himself into an arm-chair. He was a gentleman of some fifty years, dark complexion, and with masses of snow-white hair. His somewhat portly form was attired in a blue frock coat, beneath which the collar of a buff waistcoat and a black stock were discernible.
"Come, come, Randolph, my boy, let me chat with Miss Esther, while you attend to your servant, who, if I may judge by his telegraphic signs, has something to say to you in regard to your household affairs."
Randolph turned and was confronted by the servant, Mr. Hicks, who bowed low, and said in a tone which was audible through the room—
"At what hour will you have dinner served?" and then added in a whisper, "I wish to speak with you alone."
"At seven, as I directed you, when I first arrived," replied Randolph, and followed the servant from the drawing-room.
Mr. Hicks led the way, down the broad staircase, to the spacious hall on the lower floor, which was now illuminated by a large globe lamp.
"Pardon me, Mr. Royalton," said Mr. Hicks, "for troubling you about the dinner hour. That, if you will excuse me for saying so, was only a pretext. Your Agent, who arrived before you, to-day, and engaged myself and the other domestics, gave me especial directions, to prepare dinner to-night, at seven precisely. It was not about the hour of dinner, therefore, that I wished to see you, for we all know our duty, and you may rely upon it, that all theappointmentsof this mansion, are in good hands."
"Right, Mr. Hicks, right, may I ask whether my Agent, who was here to-day, wore an odd dress which he sometimes wears, a,—a—"
"A blue surtout, with a great many capes? Yes, sir. The fashion in the south, I presume."
"It was then my unknown friend of the half-way-house," thought Randolph: presently, he said, "Why did you call me from the drawing-room?"
Mr. Hicks bowed his formal bow, and pointed to a door of dark mahogany:
"If you will have the kindness to enter that room, you will know why I called you."
And Mr. Hicks bowed again, and retreated slowly from the scene.
Placing his hand upon the door, Randolph felt his heart beat tumultuously against his breast.
"Yesterday, a hunted slave," the thought rushed over him, "and to-day, the master of a mansion, and with a train of servants to obey my nod! So, my unknown friend in the surtout, with blue capes, was here to-day, acting the part of my 'Agent.' What new wonder awaits me, beyond this door?"
He opened the door, and he trembled, although he was anything but a coward. The room into which he entered, was about half as large as the drawing-room above. A lamp standing in the center of the carpet, shed a soft luxurious luster over the walls, which, white as snow, were adorned with one mirror, and three or four pictures, set in frames of black and gold. At a glance, in one of these frames, Randolph recognized the portrait of his father. The windows, opening on the street, were vailed with damask curtains. A piano stood in one corner, a sofa opposite, and elegant chairs of dark wood, were disposed around the room. It was at once a neat, singular, and somewhat luxurious apartment.
And on the sofa, was seated the figure of a woman, closely vailed. Her dark attire was in strong contrast with the scarlet cushions on which she rested, and the snow-white wall behind her.
Randolph stopped suddenly; he was stricken dumb, by a sensation of utter bewilderment. The unknown did not remove the vail from her face; she did not even move.
"You wish to see me, Madam?" he said, at length.
She drew the vail aside—he beheld her face,—and the next moment she had bounded from the sofa and was resting in his arms.
"Eleanor!" he cried, as the vail removed, he beheld her face.
"Randolph!" she exclaimed, as he pressed her to his breast.
In a few moments they were seated side by side on the sofa, and while she spoke, in a low musical voice, Randolph devoured her with his eyes.
"We arrived from Europe, only the day before yesterday. Father determined to visit New York, on our way to Havana, where we intend to spend the winter. And to-day, by a strange chance at our hotel, he encountered your Agent—the superintendent of your southern plantation,—an eccentric person, who wears an old-fashioned surtout, with I know not how many capes. From this gentleman, father learned that you had just arrived from the south, and at once determined to give you a surprise. We came together, but to tell you the truth, I wanted to see you alone, and, therefore, lingered behind, while father went up stairs to prepare you for my presence."
She smiled, and Randolph, like a man in a delicious dream, feared to move or speak, lest the vision which he beheld might vanish into the air.
Words are but poor things, with which to paint a beautiful woman.
There was youth and health in every line of her face: her form, incased in a dark dress, which enveloped her bust and fitted around her neck, was moulded in the warm loveliness of womanhood, at once mature and virgin. Her bonnet thrown aside, her face was disclosed in full light. A brow, denoting by its outline, a bold, yet refined intellect; an eye, large, lustrous, and looking black by night; a lip that had as much of pride as of love in its expression—such were the prominent characteristics of her face.
"Why did you leave us so abruptly at Florence?" she exclaimed,—"Ah, I know the secret—"
"You know the secret?" echoed Randolph, his heart mounting to his throat.
"One of your friends in Florence—a young artist named Waters, betrayed you," she said, and laid her gloved hand on his arm, a sunny smile playing over her noble countenance. "At least after your departure he told your secrets to father."
Randolph started from the sofa, as though a chasm had opened at his feet.
"He betrayed me—he! And yet you do not scorn me?"
"Scorn you? Grave matter to create scorn! You have a quarrel with your father, and leave home on a run-a-way tour for Europe. There, in Europe,—we will say at Florence—you make friends, and run away from them, because you are afraid they will think less of you, when they are aware that your fathermaydisinherit you. Fie! Randolph, 'twas a sorry thing, for you to think so meanly of your friends!"
These words filled Randolph with overwhelming agony.
When she first spoke, he was assured that thesecret of his life, was known to her. He was aghast at the thought, but at the same time, overjoyed to know, that thetaintof his blood, was not regarded by Eleanor as a crime.
But her concluding words revealed the truth. She was not aware of the fact. She was utterly mistaken, as to his motive, for his abrupt departure from Florence. Instead of the real cause, she assigned one which was comparatively frivolous.
"Shall I tell her all?" the thought crossed his mind, as he gazed upon her, and he shuddered at the idea.
"And so you thought that our opinion of you, was measured by your wealth, or by your want of wealth? For shame Randolph! You are now the sole heir of your father, but were it otherwise, Randolph, our friendship for you would remain unchanged."
"The sole heir of my father's estate!" Randolph muttered to himself,—"I dare not, dare not, tell her the real truth."
But the fascination of that woman's loveliness was upon him. The sound of her voice vibrated through every fiber of his being. When he gazed into her eyes, he forgot the darkness of his destiny, the taint of his blood, the gloom of his heart, and the hopes and fears of his future. He lived in the present moment, in the smile, the voice, the glance of the woman who sat by him,—her presence was world, home, heaven to him—all else was blank nothingness.
"Don't you think that I'm a very strange woman?" she said with a smile, and a look of undefinable fascination. "Remember, from my childhood, Randolph, I have been deprived of the care and counsel of a mother. Without country and without home, I have been hurried with my father from place to place, and seen much of the world, and may be learned to battle with it. I am not much of a 'woman of society,' Randolph. The artificial life led by woman in that conventional world, called the 'fashionable,' never had much charm for me. My books, my pencil, the society of a friend, the excitement of a journey, the freedom to-speak my thoughts without fear of the world's frown,—these, Randolph, suit me much better than the life of woman, as she appears in the fashionable world. And whenever I transgress the 'decorums' and 'proprieties,' you will be pleased to remember that I am but a sort of a wild woman—a very barbarian in the midst of a civilized world."
Randolph did not say that she was an angel, but he thought that she was very beautiful for a wild woman.
She rose.
"Come, let us join father," she said,—"and I am dying to see this sister of yours, friend Randolph."
Taking her bonnet in one hand, she left her cloak on the sofa, and led the way to the door. At a glance Randolph surveyed her tall and magnificent figure. As leaving him, silent and bewildered, on the sofa, she turned her face over her shoulder, and looked back upon him, Randolph muttered to himself the thought of his soul, in one word, "negro!" So much beauty, purity and truth before him, embodied in a woman's form, and between that woman and himself an eternal barrier! The blood of an accursed race in his veins, the mark of bondage stamped upon the inmost fiber of his existence—it was a bitter thought. "You are absent, Randolph," she said, and came back to him, "shall I guess your thoughts?" She laid her hand upon his shoulder, and bent down until he felt her breath upon his forehead.
"You are thinking of thenight in the Apennines?" she whispered. Randolph uttered an incoherent cry of rapture, and reached forth his arms, and drew her to his breast.—Their lips met—"You have not forgotten it?" he whispered.
She drew back her head as she was girdled by his arms, in order to gaze more freely upon his face. Blushing from the throat to the forehead, not with shame, but with a passion as warm and as pure as ever lighted a woman's bosom, she answered in a whisper:
"Randolph, I love you!"
"Love me! Ah, my God, could I but hope," he gasped.
She laid her hand upon his mouth.
"Hush, I am my father's child. We happen to think alike on subjects of importance. If you have not changed since the night in the Apennines, why—why, then Randolph, you will find that I am the same. As for my father, he always loved you."
When a woman like Eleanor Lynn gives herself away, thus freely and without reserve, you may be sure that the passion which she cherishes is not of an hour, a day, or a year, but of a lifetime.
Randolph could not reply in coherent words. There was a wild ejaculation, a frenzied embrace, a kiss which joined together these souls, burning with the fire of a first and stainless love, but there was no reply in words.
And all the while, behind the form of Eleanor, Randolph saw a phantom shape, which stood between him and his dearest hope. A hideous phantom, which said, "Thou art young, and thy face is pale as the palest of the race who are born to rule, but the blood of the negro is in thy veins."
At length Randolph rose, and taking her by the hand, led her from the room.
"You will see my sister, and love her," said Randolph, as he crossed the threshold. A hand was laid gently on his arm, and turning he beheld Mr. Hicks, who slipped a letter in his hand, whispering,—
"Pardon me, sir. This was left half an hour ago."
Randolph had no time to read a letter at that moment, so placing it in his coat pocket, he led Eleanor up-stairs. They entered the drawing-room, and were received by her father with a laugh, and the exclamation,—
"So, my boy, you have found this wild girl of mine asecondtime! Confess that we have given you one of the oddest surprises you ever encountered!"
Presently Esther and Eleanor stood face to face, and took each other by the hand.—Both noble-looking women, of contrasted types of loveliness, they stood before the father and Randolph, who gazed upon them with a look of silent admiration.
"So, you are Esther!" whispered the daughter of Bernard Lynn.
"And you are Eleanor!" returned the sister of Randolph.
"We shall love each other very much," said Eleanor,—"Come, let us talk a little."
They went hand in hand to a recess near the window, and sat down together, leaving Randolph and Mr. Lynn alone, near the center of the drawing-room.
"Do you know, my boy, that I have a notion to make your house our home, while we remain in New York? I hate the noise of a hotel, and so using a traveler's privilege, of bluntness, I'll invite myself and Eleanor to be your guests. I have letters to the 'first people' of the city, but these 'first people,' as they are called, are pretty much the same everywhere—cut out of the same piece of cloth, all over the world—they tire one dreadfully. If you have no objection, my friend, we'll stay with you for a few days at least."
"Of course," Randolph replied to Mr. Lynn in the warmest and most courteous manner, concluding with the words, "Esther and myself will be too happy to have you for our guests. Make our house your home while you remain in New York, and—" he was about to add "forever!"
Mr. Lynn took him warmly by the hand.
"And in a few days, hemustlearn that I am not the legitimate son of my father, but hisslave," the thought crossed him as he shook the hand of Eleanor's father. "This Aladdin's palace will crumble into ashes, and this gentleman who now respects me, will turn away in derision from Randolph, the slave."
It was a horrible thought.
At this moment Mr. Hicks entered, and announced that dinner was ready. They left the room, Randolph with Eleanor on his arm, and Mr. Lynn with Esther, and bent their steps toward the dining-room. On the threshold Mr. Hicks slipped a letter in the hand of Esther, "It was left for you, Miss, half an hour ago," he said, and made one of his mechanical bows. Esther took the letter and placed it in her bosom, and Mr. Hicks threw open the door of the dining-room.
Randolph could scarce repress an ejaculation of wonder, as (for the first time) he beheld this apartment.
It was a spacious room, oval in shape, and with a lofty ceiling, which was slightly arched. The walls were covered with pale lilac hangings, and fine statues of white marble stood at equal distances around the place. In the center stood the table, loaded with viands, and adorned with an alabaster vase, filled with freshly-gathered flowers.—Wax candles shed a mild light over the scene, and the air was imbued at once with a pleasant warmth and with the breath of flowers. The service of plate which loaded the table was of massive gold. Everything breathed luxury and wealth.
"You planters know how to live!" whispered Bernard Lynn: "By George, friend Randolph, you are something of a republican, but it is after the Roman school!"
In accordance with Randolph's request, Mr. Lynn took the head of the table, with Esther and Eleanor on either hand. Randolph took his seat opposite the father of Eleanor, and gazed around with a look of vague astonishment. A servant clad in gray livery, fringed with black velvet, stood behind each chair, and Mr. Hicks, the imperturbable, retired somewhat in the background, presided in silence over the progress of the banquet.
"We are not exactly dressed for dinner," laughed Mr. Lynn,—"but you will excuse our breach of that most solemn code, profounder than Blackstone or Vattel, and calledEtiquette."
Randolph gazed first at his dark hair, which betrayed some of the traces of hazel, and at the costume of Esther, which although it displayed her form to the best advantage, was not precisely suited for the dinner-table.
"Ah, we southrons care little for etiquette," he replied,—"only to-day arrived from the south, Esther and I have had little time to attend to the niceties of costume. By-the-bye, friend Lynn, yourself and daughter are in the same predicament." And then he muttered to himself, "Still the dress is better than the costume of a negro slave."
The dinner passed pleasantly, with but little conversation, and that of a light and chatty character. The servants, stationed behind each chair, obeyed the wishes of the guests before they were framed in words; and Mr. Hicks in the background, managed their movements by signs, somewhat after the fashion of an orchestra leader. It was near eight o'clock when Esther and Eleanor retired, leaving Randolph and Mr. Lynn alone at the table.
"Dismiss these folks," said Bernard Lynn, pointing toward Mr. Hicks and the other servants, "and let us have a chat together." At a sign from Randolph, Mr. Hicks and the servants left the room.
"Draw your chair near me,—there,—let us look into each other's faces. By George! friend Randolph, your wine cellar must be worthy of a prince or a bishop! I have just sipped your Tokay, and tasted your Champagne,—both are superb. But as I am a traveler, I drink brandy. So pass the bottle."
As Mr. Lynn, seated at his ease, filled a capacious goblet with brandy from a bottle labeled "1796," Randolph surveyed attentively his face and form.
Bernard Lynn was a tall and muscular man, somewhat inclined to corpulence. His dark complexion was contrasted with the masses of snow-white hair, which surrounded his forehead, and the eyebrows, also white, which gave additional luster to his dark eyes. His features were regular, and there were deep furrows upon his forehead and around his mouth. Despite the good-humored smile which played about his lips, and the cheerful light which flowed from his eyes, there was at times, a haggard look upon his face. One moment all cheerfulness and animation, the next instant his face would wear a faded look; the corners of his mouth would fall; and his eye become vacant and lusterless.
He emptied the goblet of brandy without once taking it from his lips, and the effect was directly seen in his glowing countenance and sparkling eyes.
"Ah! that is good brandy," he cried, smacking his lips, and sinking back in his chair. "You think I am a deep drinker?" he remarked, after a moment's pause.—"Do not wonder at it. There are times in a man's life when he is forced to choose between the brandy bottle and the knife of the suicide."
At the word, his head sunk and his countenance became clouded and sullen.
Before Randolph could reply, he raised his head and exclaimed gayly:
"Do you know, my boy, that I have been a great traveler? Three times I have encircled the globe. I have seen most of what is to be seen under the canopy of heaven. I have been near freezing to death in Greenland, and have been burned almost to a cinder by the broiling sun of India. To-day, in the saloons of Paris; a month after in the midst of an Arabian desert; and the third month, a wanderer among the ruins of ancient Mexico and Yucatan. I have tried all climates, lived with all sorts of people, and seen sights that would make the Arabian Nights seem but poor and tame by contrast. And now, my boy, I'm tired."
And the wan, haggard look came over his face, as he uttered the word "tired."
"Your daughter has not accompanied you in these pilgrimages?"
"No. From childhood she was left under careful guardianship, in the bosom of an English family, who lived in Florence. Poor child! I have often wondered what she has thought of me! To-day I have been with her in Florence, and within two months she has received a letter from me, from the opposite side of the globe. But as I said before, I amtired. Were it not for one thing I would like to settle down in your country. A fine country,—a glorious country,—only one fault, and that very likely will eat you all up."
"Before I ask the nature of the fault, pardon me for an impertinent question. Of what country are you? You speak of the English as a foreign people; of the Americans in the same manner; yet you speak the language without the slightest accent."
The countenance of Mr. Lynn became clouded and sullen.
"I am of no country," he said harshly. "I ceased to have a country, about the time Eleanor was born. But another time," his tone became milder, "I may tell you all about it."
"And the fault of our country?" said Randolph, anxious to divert the thoughts of his friend from some painful memory, which evidently absorbed his mind, "what is it?"
Mr. Lynn once more filled and slowly drained his goblet.
"You are the last person to whom I may speak of this fault,—"
"How so?"
"You are a planter. You have been reared under peculiar influences. Your mind from childhood has been imperceptibly moulded into a certain form, and that form it is impossible to change. You cannot see, as I can; for I am a spectator, and you are in the center of the conflagration, which I observe from a distance. No, no, Randolph, I can't speak of it to you. But you planters will be wakened some day—you will. God help you in your awakening—hem!"
Randolph's face became pale as death.
"You speak, my friend, of the question of negro slavery. You surely don't consider it an evil. You—you—hatethe very mention of the race."
Shading his eyes with his uplifted hand, Bernard Lynn said, with slow and measured distinctness:
"Do I hate the race? Yes, if you could read my heart, you would find hatred to the African race written on its every fiber. The very name of negro fills me with loathing." He uttered an oath, and continued in a lower tone: "By what horrible fatality was that accursed race ever planted upon the soil of the New World!"
Randolph felt his blood boil in his veins; his face was flashed; he breathed in gasps.
"And then it is not sympathy for the negro, that makes you look with aversion upon the institution of American slavery?"
"Sympathy for a libel upon the race—a hybrid composed of the monkey and the man? The idea is laughable. Were the negro in Africa—his own country—I might tolerate him. But his presence in any shape, as a dweller among people of the white race, is a curse to that race, more horrible than the plagues of Egypt or the fires of Gomorrah."
"It is, then, theinfluence of negro slavery upon the white race, which concerns you?" faltered Randolph.
"It is the influence of negro slavery upon the white racewhich concerns me," echoed Lynn, with bitter emphasis: "But you are a planter. I cannot talk to you. To mention the subject to one of you, is to set you in a blaze. By George! how the devils must laugh when they see us poor mortals, so eager in the pursuit of our own ruin,—so merry as we play with hot coals in the midst of a powder magazine!"
"You may speak to me upon this subject," said Randolph, drawing a long breath, "and speak freely."
"It won't do. You are all blind. There, for instance, is the greatest man among you; his picture hangs at your back—"
Randolph turned and beheld, for the first time, a portrait which hung against the wall behind. It was a sad, stern face, with snow-white hair, and a look of intellect, moulded by an iron Destiny. It was the likeness ofJohn C. Calhoun,—Calhoun, the John Calvin of Political Economy.
"I knew him when he was a young man," continued Lynn, "I have met and conversed with him. Mind, I do not say that we wereintimate friends! A braver man, a truer heart, a finer intellect, never lived beneath the sun.Thenhe felt the evils of this horrible system, and felt that the only remedy, was the removal of the entire race to Africa. Yes, he felt that the black man could only exist beside the white, to the utter degradation of the latter.Now, ha! ha! he has grown into the belief, that Slavery,—in other words,the presence of the black race in the midst of the white,—is a blessing. To that belief he surrenders everything, intellect, heart, soul, the hope of power, and the approbation of posterity. When Calhoun is blind, how can you planters be expected to see?"
Randolph was silent. "There is in my veins, the blood of this accused race," he muttered to himself.
"In order to look up some of the results of this system," continued Bernard Lynn, "let us look at some of the characteristics of the American people. The north is a trader; it traffics; it buys; it sells; it meets every question with the words, 'Will it pay?' (As a gallant southron once said to me; 'When the north choose a patron saint, a new name will be added to the calendar, "Saint Picayune"'). The South is frank, generous, hospitable; there are the virtues of ideal chivalry among the southern people. And yet, the north prospers in every sense, while the south,—what is the future of the South?The west, noble, generous, and free from the traits which mark a nation of mere traffickers,is just what the south would be, were itfree from the Black Race. Think of that, friend Randolph! You may glean a bit of solid truth from the disconnected remarks of an old traveler."
"But you have not yet instanced a single evil of our institution," interrupted Randolph.
"Are you from the south, and yet, ask me to give you instances of the evils of slavery? Pshaw! I tell you man, the evil of slavery consists in the presence of the black race in the midst of the whites. That is the sum of the matter. You cannot elevate that race save at the expense of the whites—not the expense of money, mark you,—but at the expense of the physical and mental features of the white race. Don't I speak plain enough? The two races cannot live together andnotmingle. You know it to be impossible. And do you pretend to say, that the mixture of black and white, can produce anything but an accursed progeny, destitute of the good qualities of each race, and by their very origin, at war with both African and Caucasian? Nay, you need not hold your head in your hands. It is blunt truth, but it is truth."
The bolt had struck home. Randolph had buried his face in his hands,—"I am one of these hybrids," he muttered in agony; "at war at the same time, with the race of my father and my mother."
"But, how would you remedy this evil?" he asked, without raising his head.
"Remove the whole race to Africa," responded Lynn.
"How can this be done?"
"By one effort of southern will. Instead of attempting to defend the system, let the southern people resolve at once, that thepresence of the black race, is the greatest curse that can befall America. This resolution made, the means will soon follow. One-fourth the expenses of a five years' war would transport the negroes to Africa. One-twentieth part of the sum, which will be expended in the next ten years (I say nothing of the past) in the quarrel of north and south, about this matter, would do the work and do it well. And then,free from the black race, the south would go to work and mount to her destiny."
"But, what will become of the race, when they are transported to Africa?"
"If they are really of the human family, they will show it, by the civilization of Africa. They will establish a Nationality for the Negro, and plant the arts on seashore and desert. Apart from the white race, they can rise into their destiny."
"And if nothing is done?" interrupted Randolph.
"If the south continues to defend, and the north to quarrel about slavery,—if instead of making one earnest effort to do something with the evil, they break down national good-feeling, and waste millions of money in mutual threats,—why, in that case, it needs no prophet to foretell the future of the south. That future will realize one of two conditions—"
He paused, and after a moment, repeated with singular emphasis, "St. Domingo!—St. Domingo!"
"And the other condition," said Randolph.
"The whole race will be stript of all its noble qualities, and swallowed up in a race, composed of black and white, and cursing the very earth they tread. In the south, the white race will in time beannihilated. That garden of the world, composed, I know not of how many states,—extending from the middle states to the gulf, and from the Atlantic to the Mississippi,—will repeat on a colossal scale, the horrible farce, which the world has seen, in the case of St. Domingo."
Bernard Lynn again filled his goblet, and slowly sipped the brandy, while the fire faded from his eyes, the corners of his mouth fell,—his face became faded and haggard again.
Randolph, seated near him, his elbow on his knee, and his forehead supported by his hand, was buried in thought. His face was averted from the light: the varied emotions which convulsed it in every lineament, were concealed from the observation of Bernard Lynn.
Thus they remained for a long time, each buried in his own peculiar thoughts.
"Randolph," said Bernard Lynn,—and there was something so changed and singular in his tone, that Randolph started—"draw near to me. I wish to speak with you."
Randolph looked up, and was astonished by the change which had passed over the face of the traveler. His eyes flashed wildly, his features were one moment fixed and rigid and the next, tremulous and quivering with strong emotion; the veins were swollen on his broad forehead.
"Randolph," he said, in a low, agitated voice, "I am a Carolinian."
"A Carolinian?" echoed Randolph.
"The name of Bernard Lynn is not my real name. It is an assumed name, Randolph. Assumed, do you hear me?" his eyes flashed more wildly, and he seized Randolph's hand, and unconsciously wrung it with an almost frenzied clutch—"Assumed some seventeen years ago, when I forsook my home, my native soil, and became a miserable wanderer on the face of the earth. Do you know why I assumed that name,—do you know?—"
He paused as if suffocated by his emotions. After a moment he resumed in a lower, deeper voice,—
"Did you ever hear the name of —— ——?"
"It is the name of one of the first and oldest families of Carolina," responded Randolph. "A name renowned in her history, but now extinct, I believe."
"That is my name, my real name, which I have forsaken forever, for the one which I now bear," resumed Bernard Lynn. "I am the last male representative of the family. Seventeen years ago my name disappeared from Carolina. I left home—my native land—all the associations that make life dear, and became a miserable exile. And why?"
He uttered an oath, which came sharp and hissing through his clenched teeth.
Profoundly interested, Randolph, as if fascinated, gazed silently into the flashing eyes of Bernard Lynn.
"I was young,—rich,—the inheritor of an honored name," continued Bernard Lynn, in hurried tones,—"and I was married, Randolph, married to a woman of whom Eleanor is the living picture,—a woman as noble in soul, and beautiful in form as ever trod God's earth. One year after our marriage, when Eleanor was a babe,—nearer to me, Randolph,—I left my plantation in the evening, and went on a short visit to Charleston. I came home the next day, and where I had left my wife living and beautiful, I found only a mangled and dishonored corpse."
His head fell upon his breast,—he could not proceed.
"This is too horrible!" ejaculated Randolph,—"too horrible to be real."
Bernard raised his head, and clutching Randolph's hands—
"The sun was setting, and his beams shone warmly through the western windows as I entered the bedchamber. Oh! I can see it yet,—I can see it now,—the babe sleeping on the bed, while the mother is stretched upon the floor, lifeless and weltering in her blood. Murdered and dishonored—murdered and dishonored—"
As though those words, "murdered and dishonored," had choked his utterance, he paused, and uttered a groan, and once more his head fell on his breast.
At this moment, even as Randolph, absorbed by the revelation, sits silent and pale, gazing upon the bended head of the old man,—at this moment look yonder, and behold the form of a woman, who with finger on her lip, stands motionless near the threshold.
Randolph is not aware of her presence—the old man cannot see her, for there is agony like death in his heart, and his head is bowed upon his breast; but there she stands, motionless as though stricken into stone, by the broken words which she has heard.
It is Eleanor Lynn.
On the very threshold she was arrested by the deep tones of her father's voice,—she listened,—and for the first time heard the story of her mother's death.
And now, stepping backward, her eye riveted on her father's form, she seeks to leave the room unobserved,—she reaches the threshold, when her father's voice is heard once more:—
"Ask me not for details, ask me not," he cried in broken tones, as once more he raised his convulsed countenance to the light "The author of this outrage was not a man, but a negro,—a demon in a demon's shape; and"—he smiled, but there was no merriment in his smile,—"and now you know why I left home, native land, all the associations which make life dear, seventeen years ago. Now you know why I hate the accursed race."
As he spoke, Eleanor Lynn glided from the room.
As midnight drew near, Randolph was alone in his bedchamber,—a spacious chamber, magnificently furnished, and illumined by a single candle, which stood upon a rosewood table near the lofty bed. Seated in a chair, with his cloak thrown over his shoulders, and an opened letter in his hand, Randolph's eyes were glassy with profound thought. His face was very pale; a slight trembling of the lip, an occasional heaving of the chest, alone made him appear less motionless than a statue.
The letter which he held was the one which Mr. Hicks had given him, some three hours before, but he did not seem to be occupied with its contents.
"It look like a bridal chamber," he muttered, as his eye roved round the spacious apartment, "and this white couch like a bridal bed,"—a bitter smile crossed his face. "Think of it—the bridal bed of Eleanor Lynn and—the white slave!"
And he relapsed into his reverie; or rather, into a train of thought, which had occupied him for two hours at least, while he sat silent and motionless in his chamber.
Oh, dark and bitter thoughts—filling every vein with fire, and swelling every avenue of the brain with the hot pulsations of madness! The image of Eleanor, the story told two hours ago by Bernard Lynn, and the taint that corrupted the life-blood in his veins,—all these mingled in his thoughts, and almost drove him mad.
"And from this labyrinth, what way of escape? Will Eleanor be mine, when she learns that I am of the accursed race of the wretch who first dishonored and then outraged her mother? And the father,—ah!"
He passed his hand over his brow, as if to banish these thoughts, and then perused the letter which he held in his hand,—
"It is signed by my 'unknown friend of the half-way house,' and desires me, for certain reasons, to be at a particular locality, in the Five Points, at ten minutes past twelve. It is now,"—he took his gold watch from his pocket,—"half past eleven. I must be moving. A singular request, and a mysterious letter; but I will obey."
On the table lay a leather belt, in which were inserted two bowie-knives and a revolving pistol. Randolph wound it about his waist, and then drew a cap over his brow, and gathered his cloak more closely to his form.
He next extinguished the candle, and stole softly from the room. As he descended the stairway, all was still throughout the mansion. The servants had retired, and Eleanor, Esther, and the old man, no doubt, were sound asleep. Randolph passed along the hall, and opening the front door, crossed its threshold.
"Now for the adventure," he ejaculated, and hurried down Broadway. After nearly half an hour's walk, he turned into one of those streets which lead from the light and uproar of Broadway, toward the region of the Tombs.
Darkness was upon the narrow street, and his footsteps alone broke the dead stillness, as he hurried along.
As he reached a solitary lamp, which gave light to a portion of the street, his ear caught the echo of footsteps behind: and impelled by an impulse which he could not himself comprehend, Randolph paused, and concealed his form in the shadow of a deep doorway. From where he stood, by the light of the lamp, (which was not five paces distant,) he could command a view of any wayfarer who might chance to pass along the deserted street.
The footsteps drew nearer, and presently two persons came in sight. They halted beneath the lamp. Randolph could not see their faces, but he remarked that one was short and thick-set in form, while the other was tall and commanding. The tall one wore a cloak, and the other an overcoat.
And Randolph heard their voices—
"Are we near the hound? My back hurts like the devil, and I don't wish to go any farther than is necessary."
"Only a block or two, to go," replied the other. "Judas Iscariot! Just think that we're sure to findhimthere, Royalton, and your back won't hurt a bit."
"Oh, by ——! let me but findhim, and stand face to face withhim, and I'll take care of the rest."
These words, accompanied by an oath, and uttered with the emphasis of a mortal hatred, were all that Randolph heard.
The twain proceeded on their way.
It was not until the sound of their footsteps had died away, that Randolph emerged from his hiding-place—
"Yes, you will meethim, and stand face to face withhim, and—the rest is yet to be known."
He felt for his knives and pistols,—they were safe in the belt about his waist; and then, conscious that the crisis of his fate was near at hand, he silently pursued his way.
Return for a moment to the house in Broadway.
Esther is there, alone in her chamber, standing before a mirror, with a light in her hand. The mirror reaches from the ceiling to the floor; and never did mirror image forth before, a face and form so perfectly beautiful.
She has changed her attire. The green habit no longer incloses her form. A dress or robe of spotless white, leaves her neck and shoulders bare, rests in easy folds upon her proud bust, and is girdled gently to her waist by a sash of bright scarlet. The sleeves are wide, the folds loose and flowing, and the sleeves and the hem of the skirt are bordered by a line of crimson. The only ornament which she wears is not a diamond, brooch or bracelet, not even a ring upon her delicate hand, but a single lily, freshly gathered, which gleams pure and white from the blackness of her hair.
And what need she of ornament? A very beautiful woman, with a noble form, a voluptuous bust; a face pale as marble, ripening into vivid bloom on the lip and cheek, relieved by jet-black hair, and illumined by eyes that, flashing from their deep fringes, burn with wild, with maddening light. A very beautiful woman, who, as she surveys herself in the mirror, knows that she is beautiful, and feels her pulse swell, her bosom heave slowly into light, her blood bound with the fullness of life in every vein.
One hand holds the light above her dark hair—the other the letter which, three hours and more ago, she received from Mr. Hicks.
"It requested me to attire myself in the dress which I would find in my chamber, the costume of Lucretia Borgia. And I have obeyed. And then to enter the carriage, which at a quarter past twelve, will await me at the next corner, and bear me tothe Temple. I will obey."
She smiled—a smile that disclosed the ivory of her teeth, the ripeness of her lips—lit up her eyes with new light, and was responded to by the swell of her proud bosom.
Take care Esther! You wear the dress of Lucretia Borgia, and you are even more madly beautiful than that accursed child of the Demon-Pope; but have a care. You are yet spotless and pure. But the blood is warm in your veins, and perchance there is ambition as well as passion in the fire which burns in your eyes. Have a care! The future is yet to come, Esther, and who can tell what it will bring forth for you?
"I will meet Godlike there," she said, and an inexplicable smile animated her face.
She placed a small poniard in the folds of her sash, and threw a heavy cloak, to which was attached a hood, over her form. She drew the hood over her face, and stood ready to depart.
The light was extinguished. She glided from the room, and down the stairs, and passed unobserved from the silent house. At the corner of the next street the carriage waited with the driver on the box.
"Who are you?" she said in a low voice.
"The Temple," answered the driver, and descended from the box, and opened the carriage door.
Esther entered, the door was closed, the carriage whirled away.
"What will be the result of the adventures of this night?" she thought, and her bosom heaved with mad agitation.
And as she was thus borne to the Temple, there was a woman watching by the bedside of an old man, in one of the chambers of the Broadway mansion,—Eleanor watching while her father slept.
Her night-dress hung in loose folds about her noble form, as she arose and held the dim light nearer to his gray hairs. There was agony stamped upon his face, even as he slept—an agony which was reflected in the pallid face and tremulous lips of his daughter.
"He sleeps!" she exclaimed in a low voice: "Little does he fancy that I know the fearful history which this night fell from his lips. And this night, before he retired to rest, he clasped me to his bosom, and said—" she blushed in neck and cheek and brow,—"that it was the dearest wish of his heart, that I should be united to Randolph."
She kissed him gently on the brow, and crept noiselessly to her own room, and soon was asleep, the image of Randolph prominent in her dreams.
Poor Eleanor!
Leaving Randolph, his sister, and those connected with their fate, our history now turns to other characters.
Let us enter the house of the merchant prince.
It was near eleven o'clock, on the night of December 23d, 1844, when Evelyn Somers, Sen., sitting in his library by the light of the shaded candle, was startled by the ringing of the bell.
"The front door-bell!" he ejaculated, looking up from his labors, until the candle shone full upon his thin features and low forehead. "Can it be Evelyn? Oh! I forgot. He returned only this evening. One of the servants, I suppose—been out late—must look to this in the morning."
He resumed his pen, and again, surrounded by title-deeds and mortgages, bent down to his labors.
So deeply was he absorbed that he did not hear the opening of the front door, followed by a footstep in the hall. Nor did he hear the stealthy opening of the door of the library; much less did he see the burly figure which advanced on tiptoe to his table.
"Be calm!" said a gruff voice, and a hand was laid on his shoulder.
"Hey! What? Who,—who—are—you?" The merchant prince started in his chair, and beheld a burly form enveloped in a bear-skin overcoat and full-moon face, spotted with carbuncles.
"Be calm!" said the owner of the face, in a hoarse voice. "There's no occasion to alarm yourself. These things will happen."
The merchant prince was thoroughly amazed.
Opening his small eyes, half concealed by heavy lids, to their fullest extent, he cried: "What do you mean? Who are you?—I don't know you? What—what—"
"I'm Blossom, I am," returned the full-moon face, "Lay low! Keep dark!I'm Blossom, one of thesecret police. Lay low!"
"My God! Is Evelyn in another scrape?" ejaculated the merchant prince; "I will pay for no more of his misdeeds. There's no use of talking about it. I'll not go his bail, if he rots in the Tombs. I'll—" Mr. Somers doggedly folded his arms, and sat bolt upright in his chair.
With his contracted features, spare form and formal white cravat, he looked the very picture of an unrelenting father.
"Come, hoss, there's no use of that."
"Hoss! Do you apply such words to me," indignantly echoed the merchant prince.
"Be calm," soothingly remarked Blossom. "Lay low. Keep dark. Jist answer me one question: Has your son Evelyn asooto' rooms in the upper part o' this house?"
"What do you ask such a question for?" and Mr. Somers opened his eyes again. "He has all the rooms on the third floor, in the body of the mansion—there are four in all."
"Very good. Now, is Evelyn at home?" asked Blossom.
"Don't come so near. The smell of brandy is offensive to me. Faugh!"
"You'll smell brimstone, if you don't take keer!" exclaimed the indignant Blossom. "To think o' sich ingratitude from an old cock like you, when I've come to keep that throat o' yourn from bein' cut by robbers."
"Robbers!" and this time Mr. Somers fairly started from his seat.
"When I've come to purtect yourjugular,—yes, you needn't wink,—yourjugular!Oh, it was not for nothing that a Roman consul once remarked that republics is ungrateful."
"Robbers? Robbers! What d'ye mean? Speak—speak—"
Blossom laid his hand upon the merchant's shoulder.
"If you'll promise to keep a secret, and not make a fuss. I'll tell you all. If you go for raisin' a hellabaloo, I'll walk out and leave your jugular to take care of itself."
"I promise, I promise," ejaculated the merchant.
"Then, while you are sittin' in that ere identical chair, there's two crackmen—burglars, you know,—hid up-stairs in your son's room. They're a-waitin' until you put out the lights, and go to sleep, and then,—your cash-box and jugulars the word?—Why, I wouldn't insure your throat for all your fortin."
The merchant prince was seized with a fit of trembling.
"Robbers! in my house! Astounding, a-s-t-o-u-n-d-i-n-g! How did they get in?"
"By your son's night-key, and the front door. You see I was arter these crackmen to-night, and found 'em in a garret of the Yaller Mug. You never patronize the Yaller Mug, do you?"
Mr. Somers nodded "No," with a spasmodic shake of the head.
"Jist afore I pitched into 'em, I listened outside of the garret door, and overheard their plot to conceal themselves in Evelyn's room, until you'd all gone to bed, and then commence operations on your cash-box and jugular. One o' 'em's a convict o' eleven years' standin'. He's been regularly initiated into all the honors of Auburn and Cherry Hill."
"And you arrested them?"
"Do you see this coverlet about my head? That's what I got for attemptin' it. They escaped from the garret, by getting upon the roof, and jumpin' down on a shed. If my calculations are correct, they're up-stairs jist now, preparin' for their campaign on your cash-box and jugular."—
"Cash-box! I have no cash-box. My cash is all in bank!"
"Gammon. It won't do. Behind yer seat is yer iron safe,—one o' th' Salamanders; you're got ten thousand in gold, inthat."
Mr. Somers changed color.
"They intend to blow up the lock with powder, after they'd fixed yourjugular."
Mr. Somers clasped his hands, and shook like a leaf.
"What's to be done, what's to be done!" he cried in perfect agony.
"There's six o' my fellows outside. I've got a special warrant from the authorities. Now, if you've a key to Evelyn's rooms, we'll just go up-stairs and search 'em. You can stand outside, while we go in. But no noise,—no fuss you know."
"But they'll murder you," cried the merchant, "they'll murder me. They'll,"—
Blossom drew a six-barreled revolver from one pocket, and a slung-shot from the other.
"This is mysettler," he elevated his revolver, "and this, mygentle persuader," he brandished the slung-shot.
"Oh!" cried Mr. Somers, "property is no longer respected,—ah! what times we've fallen in!"
"How many folks have you in the house?"
"The servants sleep in the fourth story, over Evelyn's room. The housekeeper sleeps under Evelyn's room, and my room and the room of my private secretary are just above where I am sitting."
"Good. Now take the candle, and come," responded Blossom, "we want you as a witness."
The merchant prince made many signs of hesitation,—winking his heavy lids, rubbing his low forehead with both hands, and pressing his pointed chin between his thumb and forefinger,—but Blossom seized the candle, and made toward the door.
"You are not going to leave me in the dark?" cried Mr. Somers, bounding from his chair.
"Not if you follow the light," responded Blossom; "by-the-by, you may as well bring the keys to Evelyn's room."
With a trembling hand, Mr. Somers lifted a huge bunch of keys from the table.
"There, open all the rooms on the second and fourth floors," he said, and followed Blossom into the hall.
There, shoulder to shoulder, stood six stout figures, in glazed caps and great coats of rough, dark-colored cloth, with a mace or a pistol protruding from every pocket. They stood as silent as blocks of stone.