Arthur quietly placed ten gold pieces in the hands of the ruffian.—"The doctor left it for you. Now go."
And shuffling their heavy boots, they disappeared through the same door by which they had entered. Looking through the window after a few moments, he saw the sleigh moving noiselessly down the public road.
"Dangerous experiment for the doctor, especially if theeventof this night should happen to be discovered," ejaculated Arthur, as he rebuilt his fire. "A peculiar case of suicide, and he wishedthe bodyat all hazards. Well! I must to work."
He drew on an apron of dark muslin, which was provided with sleeves, and then lifting the shade from the lamp, he lighted a cigar. As the smoke of the grateful Havana rolled through his apartment, he took the lamp in one hand, and a case of instruments in the other, and ascended the secret stairway leading to the garret.
"I have seen her when living, arrayed in all the pride of youth and beauty," he said, as the lamp shone upon the vast and gloomy garret,—"and now let me look upon the shell which so lately held that passionate soul."
It was indeed a vast and gloomy garret. It traversed the entire extent of the southern wing. The windows at either end were carefully darkened. The ceiling was formed by the huge rafters and bare shingles of the steep roof. To one of these rafters a human skeleton was suspended, its white bones glaring amid the darkness. In the center was a large table, upon which was placed the burden which the ruffians had that night stolen from the grave. The place was silent, lonely,—the wind howled dismally among the chimneys,—and Arthur could not repress a slight shudder as his footsteps echoed from the naked floor. Arthur placed the lamp upon the table, and began to uncover the subject. Removing the coarse canvas he disclosed the corpse. An ejaculation burst from his lips,—a cry half of terror, half of surprise.
The light shone upon the body of a beautiful woman. From those faultless limbs and that snowy bosom the grave-clothes had been carefully stripped. A single fragment of the shroud fluttered around the right arm. Save this fragment the body was completely bare, and the dark hair of the dead fell loosely on her shoulders. The face was very beautiful and calm, as though sealed only for an hour in a quiet sleep,—the fringes of the eyelashes rested darkly upon the cheeks. Never had the light shone upon a shape of more surpassing loveliness, upon limbs more like ivory in their snowy whiteness, upon a face more like a dreamless slumber, in its calm, beautiful expression. Dead, and yet very beautiful! A proud soul dwelt in this casket once,—the soul has fled, and now the casket must be surrendered to the scalpel,—must be cut and rent, shred by shred, by the dissector's hand.
"But the limbs are not rigid with death," soliloquized Arthur,—"Decay has not yet commenced its work. As I live, there is a glow upon the cheek."
With his scalpel he inflicted a gash near the right temple, and at the same instant—imagining he heard a footstep,—he turned his face over his shoulder. It was only imagination, and he turned again to trace the result of the incision.
The dead woman was in a sitting posture, her eyes were wide open, she was gazing calmly into his face. Arthur fell back with a cry of horror.
"Nay, do not be frightened," said a low, although tremulous voice,—"I have simply been the victim of an attack of catalepsy."
And while he stood spell-bound, his eyes riveted to her face, and his ears drinking in the rich music of her voice, she continued,—
"Catalepsy, which leaves the soul keenly conscious and in possession of all its powers, but without the slightest control over the body, which appears insensible and dead. The agony of that state is beyond all power of words! To hear the voices which speak over your coffin, and yet be unable to frame a word, to breathe even a sigh! I heard them talk over my coffin,—I was conscious as the lid closed down upon my face,—conscious when they placed me in the vault, and locked the door, and left me there buried alive. And an eternity seemed to pass from the time when they locked the door, (I was only buried yesterday,) until your men came to-night, to rob the grave of its prey. I heard every word they uttered from the moment when they tore the shroud from my bosom, until they entered your room, and then I heard your voice. And when they left me here, I heard your step upon the stair, heard your ejaculation as you bent over me, and it seemed to me that my soul made its last effort to arouse from this unutterableliving death, as you struck the knife into my temple. You have saved my life——"
Arthur could not utter a word; he could not believe the scene to be real; he thought himself the victim of a terrible although bewitching dream.
"I arise from the grave, but it is to begin life anew. The name which I bore lies buried in the grave vault. It is with a new name, and under new auspices, that I will recommence life. And as for you, I know you to be young, gifted, ambitious. I will show my gratitude by making your fortune. But you must swear, and now, never to reveal the secret of this night!"
"I swear it," ejaculated Arthur, still pale and trembling.
"What, are you still afraid of me? Come near me,—nearer,—take my hand,—does that,—" and a bewitching smile crossed her face,—"does that feel like the hand of a dead woman?"
With these words the history of Marion came to a pause.
For the first time, Arthur Dermoyne raised his eyes from the pages which recorded the life of Marion Merlin. For an hour and more he had bent over those pages in profound and absorbing interest.
"Here, then, is the real secret of the life of Herman Barnhurst!" he ejaculated. "He was simply a sincere enthusiast, all his bad nature dormant, and all his good in active life, until this woman crossed his path. And the wife who now slumbers by his side, is none other than Fanny Lansdale, the victim of the unutterable crime. Who shall say that we are not, in a great measure, the sport of circumstance? How different would have been the life of Herman, had Marion never crossed his path?"
Something like pity for the crimes of Barnhurst began to steal over Dermoyne's face, as he sat thus alone, in the solitude of the last hour of the night; but the thoughts of Alice, on her bed of shame and anguish, started up like a phantom and drove every throb of compassion from his soul.
"If Alice dies, there is but one way,"—he said moodily, with a fixed light in his eyes.—"But this Marion,—ah! Something more of her history is written here. Let me read,—" Once more he bent over the Red Book. Even as his eyes were fixed upon the page, a shadow was cast over it, and then a dark object interposed between him and the light; and the next moment all was darkness. But on the instant, before the darkness came, he looked up, and saw before him a brawny form, a face stamped with ferocious brutality; an upraised hand grasping a knife, which glittered as it rose. This he saw for an instant only, and then all was blackness.
"Not wid de knife, Dirk! Let me fix him wid dis,—and do yer see to de Red Book!"
There was a sound as of a weapon whizzing through the air, and Dermoyne was felled to the floor by a blow from the "Slung-shot."
As the first gleam of morning stole into the bed-chamber, touching, with rosy light, the faces of the sleeping wife and her children, Barnhurst stealthily arose, dressed himself, and stole on tiptoe from the place. In the dark he descended the stairway, and all the while,—from loss of sleep, combined with the excitement of the past night,—he shook in every nerve. His thoughts were black and desperate.
"Ruin wherever I turn! If I escape this man, there remains the villain whom I met last night, in Trinity Church. On one side exposure, on the other death. What can be done? Cut the matter short, and renouncing all my prospects, seek safety in flight? or remain,—dare all the chances,—exposure,—the death of a dog,—all,—and trust to my good fortune?"
He paused at the foot of the stairway, and a hope shot through his heart,—"If I could seeGodivaall might yet be well! Yes, I must, I will seeGodiva."
Uttering the name ofGodiva, (new to the reader and to our history,) he approached the parlor door. "Now for this man!" he said, and shuddered. He opened the door, and looked around; the first rays of morning were stealing through the window-curtains, but the room was vacant. Dermoyne was not there. The carpet was torn near the sofa, the table overturned, and there was blood upon the carpet and sofa. But Dermoyne had disappeared.
It was toward evening, when, amid the crowd of Broadway—that crowd of mad and impetuous life—there glided, like a specter through the mazes of a voluptuous dance, a man of sober habit, pallid face, and downcast eyes. Beautiful women, wrapped in soft attire, passed him every moment; brushed him with their perfumed garments; but he heeded them not. There was the free laugh, the buzz of voices, and the tramp of footsteps all about him, but he did not raise his eyes, nor bend his ear. Gliding along in his dark habit, he was as much alone on that thronged pathway, as though he walked the sands of an Arabian desert. A man of hollow cheeks, features boldly marked, and eyes large and dark, and shining with the fire of disease, or with the restlessness of a soul that had turned upon itself, and was gnawing ever and ever at its own life-strings.
His habit—a long black coat, single breasted, and with a plain white band about the neck—indicated that he was a Catholic Priest.
He was a Priest. Struck down in his early manhood by an irreparable calamity, he had looked all around the horizon of his life for—peace. Repose, repose—a quiet life—an obscure grave—became the objects of his soul's desire, instead of the ambitions which his young manhood had cherished.
As there was not peace within him, so he searched the world for it, and in vain.
He sought it in a money-bound Protestant church, behind whose pulpit-bible—like a toad upon an altar—Mammon, holy mammon, squats in bank-note grandeur. And there, he found money, and much cant, and abundance of sect,—but no peace.
To the Catholic church he turned. Won by the poetry of that church—we use the word in its awful and intense sense, for poetry and religion are one—and, forgetful of the infernal deeds which demoniacs, in purple and scarlet, have done in the name of that church, tracking their footsteps over half the globe in blood, and lighting up the history of ten centuries, at least, with flames of persecution,—won by all that is good and true in that church, (which he forgot is good and true under whatsoever form it occurs,)—he sought repose in its bosom.
Did he find it? He found good and true men among priests and people; he found noble and pure women, in the valleys of the church; but, lifting his eyes to her lofty eminence, he too often saw purpled and mitred atheists, who, from their thrones, made sport of human misery, and converted Christ the Savior into theFetishof a brutal superstition.
He had been to Rome; in Rome he saw the seamless coat of Christ made a cloak for every outrage that can be inflicted upon the human race.
Did he find peace? Yes, when vailing his eyes from the atrocities done in the name of the church, turning himself away from the scarlet-clad atheists, who too often mount her seats of power, he retreated within himself, opened the gospels, and from their pages saw kindle into life and love, the face of Him, whom priests may misinterpret or defame, but whose name forever to suffering humanity, is "consolation."
As he passed thus along Broadway, buried in his thoughts, and utterly unconscious of the scene around him, he felt a hand press his own. He awoke from his thoughts, stopped and looked around him. The crowd was hurrying by, but the person who pressed his hand had disappeared. Was that pressure of the hand a mere freak of the imagination? No; for the hand of the unknown had left within the hand of the Priest a neatly-folded letter, upon which, in a fair and delicate hand, was written his own name.
Stepping aside from the crowd, he opened and read the letter. It was very brief, but its contents called a glow to the pale cheek of the Priest.
He at once retraced his steps, and passed down Broadway, with a rapid and eager step. Hurrying through the gay crowd, he turned, in a few moments, into a street leading to the North River. The sun was setting, and cast the shadow of his slender form long and black over the pavement, as he paused in front of a stately mansion. He once more examined the letter, and then surveyed the mansion.
"It is the same," he said, and ascended the lofty steps and rang the bell. "Truly, the office of a Priest is a painful one," the thought crossed his mind; "he sees so much misery that he has not the power to relieve. Misery, under the rags of the hovel, and despair under the velvet of the palace."
A male servant, in livery, answered the bell, and glanced somewhat superciliously at the faded attire of the Priest. But he inclined his head in involuntary respect, as the Priest said, simply—
"I am Father Luke,—"
"This way, sir. You are expected," answered the servant; and he led Father Luke along a lofty hall, and into a parlor, over whose rich furniture shone dimly the light of the setting sun. "Remain here, sir, and I will announce your coming."
He left the Priest alone. Father Luke placed his hat upon a table, and seated himself in a chair. In a moment, resting his cheek upon his hand, and turning his eyes to the light, (which shone through the curtained window,) he was buried in thought again. His singular and remarkable face stood forth from the back-ground of shadow like a portrait of another age. His crown was bald, but his forehead was encircled by dark hair, streaked with silver. As the light shone over that broad brow, and upon the great eyes, dilating in their sunken sockets, he seemed not like a practical man of the nineteenth century, but like one of those penitents or enthusiasts, who, in a dark age, shut up the fires of their agony, of trampled hope or undying remorse, within the shadows of a cloister.
"This way, sir,"—it was the voice of the servant, who touched him respectfully on the shoulder as he spoke.
Father Luke arose and followed him from the room, and up a broad stairway, and along a corridor: "At the end of this passage you will find a door. Open it and enter. You are expected there."
Passing from the corridor, lighted by the window at its extremity, the Priest entered a narrow passage where all was dark, and pursued his way until his progress was terminated by a door. He opened the door and crossed the threshold—but, upon the very threshold, stood spell-bound in surprise.
It was a large apartment, with lofty walls, and, instead of the cheerful rays of the declining sun, it was illuminated by a lamp with a clouded shade, which, suspended from the center of the ceiling, shed around a soft and mysterious light.
The walls were not papered nor panneled, but covered with hangings of a dark color. One part of the spacious chamber was occupied by a couch with a high canopy, and curtains whose snowy whiteness stood out distinctly from the dark back-ground. A wood fire was burning under the arch of the old-fashioned fire-place; and a mirror, in a frame of dark walnut, reflected the couch with its white canopy, and a table covered with a white cloth, which stood directly underneath the hanging lamp. Upon the white cloth was placed a crucifix, a book, a wreath of flowers.
The place was perfectly still, and the soft rays of the lamp, investing all its details with mingled light and shadow, gave an atmosphere of mystery to the scene.
Father Luke stood on the threshold, hesitating whether to advance or retreat, when a low voice broke the stillness:
"Come in, sir. I have waited for you."
And for the first time Father Luke took notice of the presence of the speaker. It was a woman, who, attired in black, sat in a rocking-chair, near the table, her hands folded over her breast. Her head and face were covered by a thick vail of white lace, which fell to her shoulders, contrasting strongly with her somber attire.
Father Luke entered and seated himself in a vacant chair, which stood near the table. Resting his arm on the table,—(he sat directly beneath the lamp, in a circle of shadow,)—and shading his eyes with his hand, he silently surveyed the woman, over whom the light fell in full radiance. There was dark hair, there were bright eyes, beneath that vail of lace; a young, a richly moulded form, beneath that garb of sable; but in vain he endeavored to trace the features of the unknown.
"You received a letter?" said the lady, in a low voice.
"As I was passing up Broadway, a few moments since, a letter was placed in my hand, bidding my presence at this house, on an errand of life and death."
She started at the sound of that sonorous and hollow voice, and, through her vail, seemed to survey him earnestly.
"I am glad that you have come. I thank you with all my soul. Although not a member of your church, I have heard of you for a long time, and heard of you as one who, having suffered much himself, was especially fitted to render consolation to the heart-broken and despair-stricken. Now I am heart-broken and despairing,"—she paused,—"I am dying,—"
"Dying?" he echoed.
"And have sent for you, believing you to be an honest man, not to hear confession of my sins, for they are too dark to be told or be forgiven. But to ask you a simple question, which I implore you to answer, not as a priest, but as a man;—to answer, not with the set phrases of your vocation, but frankly and fully, even as you wish to have peace yourself in the hour of death."
"And that question,—" the priest's head bent low upon his breast, and he surveyed her earnestly with his eyes hidden beneath his down-drawn brows.
"Do you believe in any Hereafter? Do you believe in another world? Does the death of the body end the story? Or, after the death of the body, does the soul rise and live again in a new and diviner life?"
"My sister," said the priest, with much emotion, "Iknowthat there is a hereafter,—Iknowthat the death of the body, is not the end of all, but simply the first step in an eternal pilgrimage—"
"This you say as a man, and not as a priest,—this is your true thought, as you wish to have peace, in the hour of your death?"
"Even so," said Father Luke.
"Thank you, O, bless you with all my soul. One question more,—O, answer me with the same frankness.—In the next world shall we meet, and know the friends whom we have loved in this?"
"We shall meet, we shall know, we shall love them in the next world, as certainly as we ever met, knew and loved them in this," was the answer of Father Luke, given with all the force and earnestness of undeniable sincerity. "Do you think we gather affections to our heart, only to bury them in the grave?"
The lady rose from her chair,—
"I thank you, once more, and with all my soul. Your words come from your heart. They confirm the intuitions of my own heart. For the consolation which these words afford, accept the gratitude of a dying woman. And now,—" she extended her hand, "and now farewell!"
The priest, who, through this entire interview, had never ceased to regard her, with his eyes almost hidden by his down-drawn brows,—struggling all the while to repress an agitation which increased every moment, and well nigh mastered him,—the priest also rose with these words on his lips:
"You dying, sister! you seem young, and full of life, and with the prospect of long years before you."
It was either the impulse of madness, or the force of a calm conviction, which induced her to reply:
"In one hour I will be dead."
The priest silently took her offered hand, and at the same instant, emerged from the circle of shadow, into the full glow of the light. There was something like magic in the pressure of their hands.
And the woman lifted her vail, disclosing a beautiful face, which already touched with the pallor of death, was lighted by dark eyes, whose brightness was almost supernatural.
Lifting her gaze heaven-ward, she said, as though thinking aloud,—
"In another world, Ernest, I will meet, I will know, I will love you!"
But ere the words had passed her lips,—yes, as the slowly lifted vail disclosed her face,—the priest sank back, as though stricken by a blow from an iron hand, uttering a wild and incoherent cry,—sank back as though the grave had yielded up its dead, and confronted him with a form, linked with holy and yet accursed memories.
"O, Frank, is it thus we meet," he cried, and fell on his knees, and buried his face in his hands.
The sound of his voice, at once lifted the scales from her eyes,—she knew him,—the vague consciousness of his presence, which had agitated her for the past few moments, became certainty. She knew that in Father Luke, who knelt before her, she beheld Ernest Walworth, her plighted husband. Sad and terrible indeed, must have been the change, which had fallen upon his countenance, that she did not know him, when he sat before her in the shadow!
Trembling in every nerve, and yet strong with the energy of a soul, that had taken its farewell of this life, she gave utterance to her feelings, in a single word,—his own,—pronounced in the soft low tones of other days.
"Ernest!"
"O, Frank, Frank, is it thus we meet!" he cried in wild agony, as he raised his face. "You,—you,—the only woman that I ever loved,—you, whose very memory has torn my heart, since that fatal hour, when I met you in the accursed haunt of death,—"
"Ernest you will sit by me as I die, you will press your hand in forgiveness on my forehead, my last look shall encounter yours—"
She opened her dark robe, and disclosed the snow-white dress which she wore beneath it. That dress was a shroud. Yes, the beautiful form, the bosom which had once been the home of a pure and stainless love, and which had beat with the throb of sensual passion, were now attired in a shroud.
"Behold me, attired for the grave," she said,—and the tears started to her eyes,—"This morning, resolved to quit this life, which for me, has been a life of unutterable shame and despair, I prepared for my departure. Everything is ready. Come, Ernest, and behold the preparations for my bridal,—" she pointed to the couch; he rose and followed her. "I am in love with death, and will wed him ere an hour is gone." She drew aside the curtains, and upon the white coverlet, Ernest beheld a dark object,—a coffin covered with black cloth, and glittering with a silver plate.
"Everything is ready, Ernest, and I am going. Nay, do not weep, do not attempt to touch my hand. I am but a poor polluted thing,—a wreck, a miserable, miserable wreck! My touch would pollute you,—I am not worth your tears."
Ernest hid his face in the hangings of the couch,—he writhed in agony.
"You shall not die,—you must be saved!" he wildly exclaimed.
She walked across the floor, with an even step; in a moment she was seated in the rocking-chair, with Ernest before her, his face hidden in his hands. Her face grew paler every moment; her eyes brighter; and the shroud which enveloped her bosom, began to quiver, with the last pulsations of her dying heart. As the vail mingled its fleecy folds with her raven hair, she looked very beautiful, yes, beautiful with the touch of death.
And as Ernest, choked with his agony, sat before her, hiding his face, she talked in a calm, even tone,—
"O, life! life! you have been a bitter draught to me, and now I am about to leave you! All day I have been thinking of my shame, of my crimes,—I have summoned up every act of my life,—the images of the past have walked before me in a sad funeral procession. O, Thou, who didst forgive the Magdalene,—Thou who hadst compassion on the poor wretch, whose cross arose beside thine own,—Thou who dost know all my life, my temptations, and my crimes,—forgive! forgive! It is a wandering child, sick of wandering, who now,—O, Thou, all-merciful!—gathers up the wreck of a miserable life, and lays it, with all its sins and shame, at Thy feet."
As she uttered this simple, yet awful prayer, Ernest did not raise his face. The agony which shook him was too deep for words.
Her voice grew faint and fainter, as she went on, in a vague and rambling way—
"And I was so innocent once, and did not know what sorrow was, and felt such gladness, at the sight of the sky, of the stars, of the flowers,—at the very breath of spring upon my cheek! O, I wonder if the old home stands there yet,—and the nook in the forest, don't you remember, Ernest? I was so happy, so happy then! And now I am dying—dying,—but you are near. You forgive me, Ernest, do you not?"
"Forgive you!" he echoed, raising his face, and spreading forth his clasped hands, "God's blessing and His consolation be upon you now and forever! And His curse,—" a look of hatred, which stamped every lineament of his face, revealed the intensity of his soul,—"and His curse be upon those, who brought you to this!"
As he spoke, the death damps began to glisten on her forehead; a glassy look began to vail the intense brightness of her eyes.
"Your hand, sit by me,—" she said faintly, "I shall sleep soon."
He drew his chair to her side, and softly put his hand upon her forehead,—it was cold as marble.
"It is good to go thus,—with Ernest by me,—and in token of forgiveness too, with his hand upon my forehead—"
Her words were interrupted by a footstep and a voice.
"Frank! Frank! where are you! I have triumphed!—triumphed! The one child is out of my way, and the other is in my power!"
It was Colonel Tarleton, who rushed to the light, his face lividly pale, and disfigured by wounds, his right arm carried in a sling. He had not seen his daughter since the hour when he left the Temple, before the break of day. And now, faint with loss of blood, and yet strong in the consciousness of his triumph, he rushed into the death-room of his child.
"I have had a hard time, Frank, but the game is won! The estate is ours! The other son of Gulian Van Huyden is in my power,—"
The words died on his lips. He beheld the dark form of the stranger, and the face of his dying child. The young form clad in a shroud; the countenance pale with death; the large eyes, whose brightness was vailed in a glassy film,—he saw this sad picture at a glance, but could not believe the evidence of his senses.
"Why, Frank, what's all this?" he cried, as with his pale face, marked by wounds, he stood before his daughter.
She slowly raised her eyes, and regarded him with a sad smile.
"The poison, father,—I drank it myself;hewent forth from this house safe from all harm—"
Her voice failed.
Tarleton uttered a frightful cry, and fell like a dead man on the floor, his face against the carpet. The reality of the scene had burst upon him; in the hour of his triumph he saw his schemes,—the plans woven through the long course of twenty-one years and darkened by hideous crimes,—leveled in a moment to the dust.
Frank slowly turned her head, and fixed her glassy eyes upon the face of Ernest,—O, the intensity of that long and yearning gaze!
"I am weary and cold," she gasped, "but it is light yonder."
And that was all. Her eyes became fixed,—she laid her head gently on her shoulder, and fell asleep.
She was dead!
Ernest knelt beside her, and with his eyes flashing from their sunken sockets, he clasped his hands and uttered a prayer for the dead.
There were footsteps in the passage and presently into the death-room came Mary Berman and Nameless, their faces stamped with the same look in which hope and terror mingled. Nameless bore the last letter of Frank in his hand; it had hurried him and Mary from the corpse of the artist to the home of Frank, and they arrived only in time to behold her dead.
"She died to save my life!" said Nameless solemnly, as he surveyed that face which looked so beautiful in death. That there were strong emotions tugging at his heart,—emotions such as are not felt twice in a lifetime,—need not be told.
And Mary, with tears upon her pure and beautiful face, stole silently to the side of the dead woman, and smoothed her dark hair, and put her kiss upon her clammy forehead, and closed those eyes which had looked their last upon this world.
The prayer was said, and Ernest, resting his hands upon the arm of the chair in which the dead woman sat, hid once more his face from the light, and surrendered himself to the full sway of his agony.
A voice broke the dead stillness, and a livid face was uplifted from the floor.
"It's an infernal dream, Frank. You could not have been so foolish! The estate is ours,—ours,—"
He saw at the same glance the face of Nameless and the face of his dead child.
Here let us return for a moment to Maryvale, the old mansion in the country, to which, this morning before break of day, theUnknown, (in whom you doubtless recognize Gaspar Manuel, or the Legate,) had conducted the boy, Gulian, the private secretary of Evelyn Somers, Sr.
The contest between Tarleton and the dog Cain, in the presence of young Gulian, will be remembered; as well as the fact, that even as Tarleton, suffering from his wounds, attempted to bear Gulian from the house, he fell insensible at his victim's feet.
An hour afterward, when the light of day shone on the old mansion, the Legate returned and eagerly sought the chamber of young Gulian. The floor was stained with blood, the dead body of Cain was stretched at his feet, but the boy had disappeared. The Legate was a man, who, through the course of long years had learned to restrain all external signs of emotion, but when he became conscious that young Gulian was gone,—he knew not whither,—his agitation broke forth in the wildest expressions of despair.
"But I will again rescue him from his persecutor. Yes, before the day is over, he will be safe under my protection."
And himself and his numerous agents sought the city through all day long; and sought in vain.
Our history now returns to Madam Resimer, whom we left in her most secret chamber, near ten o'clock, on the 24th of December, listening to the sound of the bell, which resounded through her mansion.
It was the bell of the secret passage.
"Who can it be?" again ejaculated the Madam, as she stood in the center of the room, with the light of the candle on one side of her florid face.
To which Corkins, who stood behind her, his slender form lost in her capacious shadow, responded in a quivering voice, "Whocanit be?"
Much troubled and very angry, and not knowing upon whom to vent her anger, the Madam turned upon her trembling satellite, and addressing him by numerous titles, not one of which but was more vigorous than elegant or complimentary, she bade him,—
"Run for your life. Answer the hell of the secret passage! Don't be foolin' away your time, when the very devil's to pay and no pitch hot. Cut!"
Corkins accordingly "cut," or, to speak in a less classical phrase, he glided from the room.
How anxiously the Madam waited there, in her most secret chamber, with her finger to her lip, and the candle-light on one side of her face!
"Who can it be? Only four persons in the world know of this secret passage. It can't be this devil from Philadelphia? O, I shall do somebody a mischief! I can't endure this any longer,—"
Hark! There are footsteps in the corridor; they approach the Madam's room. She fixes her small black eyes upon the door, with the intensity of a—cat, contemplating a rat-hole.
"This way," cries the voice of Corkins, and he enters the room, followed by two persons, one of whom is taller than the other, and both of whom wear caps and cloaks.
"Hashecome back?" cries the taller of the two, in a voice that trembles with anxiety and fear,—he lifts his cap, and discloses the face of Herman Barnhurst.
"No,—no,—I haven't laid eyes upon him since last night," and she clutched Barnhurst by the arm,—"Where did you leave him?"
"He went home with me," replied Barnhurst, and stopped to gaze around that room, dimly lighted by a single candle, as though he was afraid that Dermoyne was concealed in its shadows.—"I left him in the parlor down stairs. He was determined to wait for me until morning, and then come with me to this house. But this morning, when I came down stairs, he was not there."
"He was not there?" echoed the Madam, breathless with impatience.
"He wasn't there; there was blood upon the sofa and the carpet, and marks of a struggle."
The Madam uttered a round oath and a cry of joy.
"Good,—capital! My boys have done their work. You see, Herman, I sent Dirk and Slung after him, and they've laid him out. It's a sure thing."
Herman, even in his fright, could not but help shuddering, as he heard the cool manner in which she spoke of Dermoyne's death. The next instant the idea of his own safety rose uppermost in his mind.
"Do you think that your fellows have taken good care of him?" he asked.
"Don't doubt it,—don't doubt it," and she rubbed her hands joyfully together. "It's a sure thing!"
A raven-like voice, behind her, echoed, "Sure thing!" It was Corkins, of course.
"Andshe,—how isshe?"—Herman lowered his voice, and pointed upward.
"She is well!" was the emphatic response of the Madam,—"But how did you know of the secret bell? Only four persons in the world know of it, and you are not one of them."
Herman pointed to the person who had entered with him, and who now stood in the darkness at his back,—"Godiva!" he said.
The Madam gave a start, echoing "Godiva," and Corkins, behind the Madam, as in duty bound, re-echoed "Godiva!"
The person called by this name,—the name of the beautiful lady, famed in ancient story, for the sacrifice which she made of her modesty in order to achieve a noble purpose,—advanced from the shadows into the light, saying, "This boy came to me this morning, in a world of trouble; he confided all his sorrows to me. It appears he is in a devil of a scrape. I came here to get him out of it."
And removing cap and cloak, Godiva stood disclosed in the candle-light. Godiva was a woman of some twenty-five years, with a rounded form, brown complexion, large eyes that were hazel in the sun, and black by night; and Godiva wore her raven hair in rich masses on either side of her warm, tropical face. Godiva was dressed, not in those flowing garments which give such bewitching mystery to the form of a lovely woman, but, in male costume from head to foot,—a shirt, with open collar, dark satin vest, blue frock-coat, black pantaloons, and boots of patent leather. Although looking short in stature beside the tall Barnhurst, she was tall for a woman, and her male costume, which did full justice to her throat, her ample bust, and rounded limbs, became her exceedingly.
With her cloak on her right arm, her cap in her right hand, she rested her left hand on her hip, and looked in the face of the Madam with an air of insolent condescension that was quite refreshing.
"Howdoyoudo, my dear child?"—and the Madam offered her hand. Godiva waved her back.
"Don't be impertinent, woman," was the response. "The few days that I once passed in your house, by no means give you the right to be familiar. I am here, simply, for two reasons,—I wish, in the first place, to get the boy (she pointed to Barnhurst,) out of his 'scrape;' and, in the second place, to recover a certain manuscript which, it seems, I left in this house when I was here."
The Madam was an essentially vulgar, as well as wicked woman, but she could not help feeling the cutting insolence which marked the tone of the queenly Godiva.
"There is nosichmanuscript here," she said, tartly, and her thoughts reverted to the Red Book.
"Hadn't you better wait to know what kind of manuscript it was, before making such a flat denial?" coolly responded Godiva. "But now let's talk of this boy! What's the amount of his entanglements? How's the girl?"
"She is well," said the Madam, emphatically.
"Well!" croaked Corkins from the background.
"And this fellow from Philadelphia—was he really such a desperate creature?" asked Godiva.
"A devil incarnate," replied the Madam.
"What's that?" cried Herman, with a start, as the sound of a hell once more rang through the mansion.
"It's the bell of the door in the alley. Run, Corkins! It's Dirk and Slung. Bring 'em up,—'put', I say!"
Corkins "put," and the party waited for his return in evident anxiety. It was not long before there was the tramp of heavy steps in the passage, and two men, roughly clad—one, short, thick-set, and bow-legged, the other, tall and bony—stumbled into the room, bringing with them the perfume of very bad liquor.
"Where's de ole woman?" cried Dirk; "What in de thunder de yer have candles a-burnin' in daylight for—s-a-y?"
"Ole lady, I'll finger dat pewter—I will," said Slung-shot. "We laid yer man out—we did. Dat cool hundred, ef yer please."
And while Herman and Godiva glided into the shadows, the two ruffians recounted the incidents of the night, in their peculiarpatois; the Madam interrupting them with questions, at every step of the narrative.
The story of these savages of city life, (and we believe that only the English and American cities produce such ruffians in a perfect state of brute-and-devil completeness,) reduced to the briefest compass, and stripped of all its oaths, read thus:—They had followed Dermoyne and Barnhurst all night long. Entering the house of Barnhurst, (the door had been left ajar,) they had found Dermoyne seated on the sofa, his eyes fixed upon a book. As one struck him with the slung-shot, the other extinguished the light, and a brief but terrible contest took place in the dark. Finally, they had borne the insensible form of Dermoyne from the house, and flung him into the gutter of a dark and deserted street.
"An' dere he'd freeze to death, ef he gets over de dirk and de slung-shot—he would," added the thick-set ruffian.
"And where have you been ever since?" asked the Madam, whose little eyes sparkled with joy.
"Gittin' drunk," tersely remarked Dirk.
"The book—you have it?" she said eagerly.
To which Dirk replied, in his own way, that if he had, he hoped his eyes and liver might be made uncomfortable for an indefinite length of time.
"Fact is, it slid under de sofar in de muss, an' I couldn't' find it in de dark."
The Madam burst into a transport of fury, and in her rage administered the back of her hand somewhat freely to the faces of Dirk and Slung. "Out of my sight—out of my sight! Fools! Devils! That book was all that I sent you after!" and she fairly drove them from the room. They were heard shuffling in the passage, and murmuring and cursing as they went down stairs.
"The miserable knaves! What trust can you put in human natur' arter this!" and she fretted and fumed along the room.
"The book is safe in my house," said Barnhurst, advancing, his face glowing with satisfaction. "This fellow, it appears, is safe. I pledge my word to have that book in this room before an hour."
Godiva, looking over his shoulder, muttered in atone inaudible to the others: "And my manuscript is in the book, and I pledge my word to have that within an hour."
"If you do that, Herman, I'll sell my soul for you!" cried the Madam, warmly.
"Suppose we look at the—the patient," whispered Herman.
"Up-stairs in the same room;" and Herman and Godiva left her room together, and directed their steps toward the chamber of Alice.
"The book is safe; he'll keep his word—don't you think so, Corkins?" said the Madam, as she found herself once more alone with her familiar spirit.
"Safe—perfectly," returned Corkins, when his words were interrupted by the ring of a bell. It was the front door bell this time. Corkins hurried from the room, and in a few moments returned, and placed a card in the hands of the Madam:
"This person wants to see you."
Drawing near the candle, the Madam read upon the card this name—"Dr. Arthur Conroy." A name, you will remember, associated with the history of Marion Merlin. It was Arthur Conroy, who, in the dissecting room, saw the corpse before him start suddenly into life.
"Dr. Conroy!"—it seemed a familiar name to the Madam. "I wonder if he wants a subject? Show him up, Corkins."
Through the bowed window-shutters and the drawn curtains, the winter sunlight stole into the chamber of Alice, lighting up the bed, and touching with a few golden rays the face of the Virgin Mary on the wall.
Herman and Godiva stood by the bed, their backs toward the window, and their faces from the light. They did not speak. The room was breathlessly still.
Alice was there, resting on the bed, the coverlet drawn up to her neck, and her cheek pressed against the pillow, thus turning her face to the light. One hand and arm lay motionless on the coverlet, and her sunny hair strayed in unbound luxuriance over the pillow. Her eyes were closed; her lips slightly parted; her cheek pale as the pillow on which she slept: for she was sleeping. A bright ray, that found entrance through an aperture in the curtains, was playing over her face, now on her lips, now on her throat, and among the waves of her silken hair. The sight was so beautiful that Godiva, whose heart had long since ceased to feel, was awed into silence. As for Herman, he could not take his eyes away, but stood there with his gaze chained to the face of the sleeping girl; for she was sleeping—sleeping that dear, quiet sleep, which, in this world, never knows an awakening hour. In the language of the woman-fiend, she indeed "waswell!" Dead, with the second life which she bore, dead within her. Poor Alice! She had only opened her wings in the world, to fold them again and die.
"Herman," whispered Godiva, "look at that! Are you not proud of your work?"
"Don't taunt me, Marion," he answered. "Had I never met you—had you never made my life but one continued dream of sensuality—I would not stand here at this hour, gazing upon this murdered girl."
"Sweet boy! And so, when I first met you, you believed all that you preached in the pulpit?"
"If I did not believe it, I certainly did not wish to doubt it. You, and the life I've led since first I knew you, have made medreadthe very mention of the existence of a God, or of the immortality of the soul."
"Pretty boy! How sadly I've used you! But don't call me Marion again;—that name I left in the grave. Leave off preaching, and let us see what you intend to do?"
"Godiva, whichever way I look is ruin. I am rid of this Dermoyne; but there are those persons who, conscious ofthe event of that night in November, 1842, will expose me to the world, unless I become their tool, in regard to the heirs of Anreke Jans and Trinity Church. I am sick of this life of suspense and dread! Let us fly, Godiva; I will change my name, and, in some distant place, begin life anew."
"What, and leave your wife?"
"Take care, Godiva, take care! Don't press me too hard! You know who it was that planned the dishonor of that wife, when she was a maiden, and betrothed to me. Take care!"
"You needn't look so black at me with those devilish eyes," said Godiva, as her face lost that bitter sneer, which, for the last few moments, had made her resemble a beautiful fiend. "You mustn't be angry at my jests. Well—let us travel! I have money enough for both, and we can enjoy ourselves with money anywhere. But the Van Huyden estate?"
"I cannot call my share my own, even if a share should happen to fall to me. These people who knew ofthe event in1842, and who are now playing conspirator between Trinity Church and the heirs of Anreke Jans, will demand my share as the price of their silence. I cannot live in this state of dread. Listen Godiva! A vessel sails this afternoon for one of the West India Islands. What think you of a life in the tropics, far away from this devilishpracticalworld? Why, we can make an Eden to ourselves, and forget that we ever lived before! I have engaged passage for two on board this vessel. It makes my heart bound! Groves of palm—a cloudless sky—good wine—days all dream, and nights!—ah, Godiva! Flight, Godiva, flight!"
"Flight be it, and to-night!" cried Godiva, winding her arm about Herman's neck.
They were disturbed by a sound, low and scarcely audible—it resembled the sound of a footstep. Herman turned his head, and saw, between him and the doorway, the haggard face of—Arthur Dermoyne, whose cheek was marked with a hideous gash, but whose eyes shone with a clear unfaltering light.
Herman read his death in those eyes.
Let us turn from this scene, and enter once more the secret chamber of the Madam.
"Why, Doctor, I am glad to see you!" she cried, as Doctor Arthur Conroy entered her room; "I haven't clapped eyes upon you for a dog's age. Why, bless me, how changed you are!"
As Conroy flung his cloak upon a chair, and advancing to the light, seated himself opposite the Madam, it was evident that he was indeed changed. His eyes were dull and heavy, his cheeks bloated; the marks of days and nights spent in sensual excess, were upon every lineament of his once noble face. A sad, a terrible change! Can this man who sits before us, with his coat buttoned to the chin, and his heavy eyes rolling vacantly in his bloated countenance, be the same Arthur Conroy whom we first beheld in the lonely hour of his student vigil, his eyes dilating with a noble ambition, his forehead stamped with thought, with genius?
"I am changed," he said sullenly and with a thick utterance; "let me have some brandy."
The Madam, without a word, produced a bottle and a glass. Conroy filled the glass half-full, and drank it, undiluted with water, and without removing the glass from his lips.
And then his faded eyes began to flash and his cheek to glow.
It was the most melancholy kind of intemperance—that which drinks alone, and drinks in silence, and, instead of rousing the social feelings, or the grotesque fancies of drunken mirth, calls up the images of the past, and bids them feed upon the soul.
"Good brandy that! It warms the blood!"
"Why, Conroy, I have not seen you since you brought Godiva here, and that is a year and I don't know how many months ago."
"May God,"—he ended the sentence with an awful imprecation upon the very name of Godiva. And his face grew wild with hatred.
"Why I thought she was a favorite of yours, or you of hers," said the Madam.
"By ——! I wish I had buried my knife in her heart, as she lay on the dissecting table before me!" he cried, his voice hoarse with emotion. "Look at me! When first I met that woman I was studious, ambitious; the thought of my mother and two sisters, who depended upon my efforts, stirred me into superhuman exertion. Well!—It is notquiteacenturysince I met that woman, and look at me now—a gambler—a drunkard; yes," he struck the table with his fist—"Arthur Conroy is come to that! My mother dead, of a broken heart, and my sisters, well!—my sisters—"
As he tried to choke down his emotion, his features worked as with a spasm.
"Well! never mind!—and the accursed woman, whom I brought to your house, in order to kill the fruits of her passion,—she is the cause of all,—"
The light which left the greater part of the room in shadow, fell strongly over the florid face of the Madam, manifesting vague astonishment; and the flushed visage of Conroy, working with violent emotions.
"Yes," he said, as though thinking aloud, while his eyes shone with the brilliancy of a lighted coal,—"she was to make my fortune; she was to aid me, as I ascended that difficult path, which ambition treads in pursuit of fame. How smooth her words! I called her back from the dead,—she recovered from her relative a large portion of her property, sacrificing the rest, on condition that he concealed the fact of her existence from the world,—and I loved her, became the habitant of her mansion, the companion of her voluptuous hours. The she-devil! look to what she has brought me!"
"I wonder if he wants to borrow money?" said the Madam, in a sort of stage-whisper.
"No he does not," returned Conroy, with a scowl,—"He wants to do you a service, good lady. This morning about daybreak, as I was returning from the Club-Room, I came across a poor devil in the streets, who had been shockingly abused by ruffians,—"
"Ah!" and the Madam sank back in her chair.
"I could not let him die there, so I dragged him to the house of a clergyman, hard by, and laid him on the sofa. Then, assisted by the wife of the clergyman, a good sort of woman,—I dressed the wounds of the poor devil, and brought him to."
"The name of the clergyman?" asked the Madam, biting her lips.
"Barnet, or Barnhurst, or some such name."
"Ah!" and the Madam changed color, "and you left this man there?"
"He must have had a constitution of iron, to stand all those knocks! Do you know in a little while he was on his feet, explaining to the clergyman's lady, that he had come home with her husband, the night before, and had been dragged by unknown ruffians, from that very house,—"
"The dev-i-l!" and Madam clutched the arms of her chair, as she tried to restrain the rage, which filled every atom of her bulky frame.
"And now, he's down stairs at the door—"
"Down stairs at the door!" she bounded from her chair.
"He has a book under his arm, bound in red morocco," continued Dr. Conroy,—"and he desires to see you on particular business," and Conroy filled another glass, half full of brandy.
Once more to the death-room of Alice.
Dermoyne, who was as white as a sheet, stood but one step from the threshold, Godiva was by the bed, Herman near the head of the bed: thus Godiva was between the avenger and his victim.
Herman read his death in the eyes of Dermoyne, and looked to the window, as though he thought of raising the sashing, and dashing himself to pieces upon the pavement.
Godiva also caught the eye of Dermoyne,—she saw, that weak as he was from his wounds, and the loss of blood, that he was nerved by his emotions, by his purpose, with superhuman strength,—she saw the pistol in his hand. And all the craft of her dark and depraved nature, came in a moment to her aid. She resolved to save Herman,—that is, if her craft could save him.
"Hush! hush!" she whispered, "do not awake the sleeping girl! She has had a hard night, but now all is well. Hush! tread lightly,—lightly!—"
"Then she lives!" cried Dermoyne, and his savage eyes lit up with joy.
"Lives, and is doing well, don't you see how sweet she sleeps?" said Godiva advancing to him, on tip-toe, "Generous man! How can I thank you for your kindness to my cousin, poor, dear Alice?"
"Your cousin?" without another word, she flung herself upon Dermoyne's breast, wound her arms tightly about his neck, and hung there like a tigress upon the neck of her victim.
"Now's your time, Herman!" she cried,—and Dermoyne struggled madly in her embrace, but her arms wound closer about his neck, and he struggled in vain. His pistol fell to the floor.
Herman rushed by him, and the next instant, Dermoyne had unwound the arms of Godiva, and flung her violently to the floor. He turned to the door,—it was closed and locked,—Herman had escaped.
"Villain, you shall pay for this with your life!" he cried, as with flaming eyes, he advanced upon the prostrate Godiva.
"Don't be rash, my dear," she said, as seated on the floor, she was coolly engaged in arranging her disheveled hair, "You can't strike me. I'm a woman."
"A woman?" he echoed incredulously.
"Yes,—and a very good looking one,—don't you think so?" and she looked at him in insolent composure, while her vest,—torn open in the struggle,—displayed a glimpse of her neck and bosom.
Who, in this calm shameless thing,—proud at once of her beauty, and her shame, would recognize the innocent Marion Merlin of other years? With an ejaculation of contempt and anger, Dermoyne turned away from her, and approached the bed of Alice.
Alice was indeed sleeping there, her cheek upon the pillow, her lips apart, and with a ray of sunshine upon her closed eyelids, and sunny hair.
Dermoyne felt his heart die within him at the sight. There are emotions upon which it is best to drop the vail, for words are too weak to picture their awful intensity.
He called her name, "Alice!" and spreading forth his arms, he fell insensible upon the bed, his lips pressing the forehead of the dead girl.
Godiva rose, closed her vest, and calmly surveyed the scene, with her eyes shadowed by her uplifted hand:—
"I believe upon my soul, he did love her!" was her comment, and a tear shone in her eye.
The key turned in the lock, and presently a man with flushed face, and unsteady step, appeared upon the threshold. It was Arthur Conroy.
"Halloo! what's up?" he cried, with a thick utterance.—"That you Divy?" and staggering over the floor, he attempted to put his arm about her neck.
"Beast!" she cried, and struck him in the face. And ere he had recovered from the surprise of the blow, she glided from the room.
Seating himself on the foot of the bed, his eyes rolling in the vacancy of intoxication, he began to mutter words like these,—
"I'd a-better have cut you up, when I had you on the dissectin' table—I had. 'Beast.' You've served the devil for very small wages, Arthur Conroy! Ha, ha,—its a queer world."
Shall we ever see Herman and Godiva, Conroy and Dermoyne again?
The Twenty-Fourth of December was a happy day with Randolph Royalton. One happy day, after a long month devoted to agony and despair! Early morning light, found him in an upper chamber of the mansion, near the window, his form half concealed among the curtains, but his pale countenance, fully disclosed. There was thought upon his broad white forehead, relieved by the jet-black hair, an emotion of unspeakable tenderness,—passion,—in his large, clear blue eyes, and all the while upon his lips, an expression in which hatred mingled with contempt. For three images rose before him,—his future, and that was hard to read, and buried him in thought,—Eleanor, young and beautiful, and willing to become his own, and that filled his eyes with the light of passion,—his Brother, whom he had left helpless and insensible in a distant chamber, and who had met all his offers of fraternal love with withering scorn, and that thought curled his lip with mingled hatred and contempt.
In his hand he held a letter, which had just been delivered by Mr. Hicks, and before him were two huge trunks, one bearing the name of "Randolph Royalton, Heidelberg," and the other the name of "Esther Royalton, Hill Royal, S. C." These trunks which had just arrived in a mysterious manner, had been placed in his room by the hand of a servant.
On his way south, about a month before, Randolph had left his trunk in Washington, and hurried home, eager to see his father. When Esther was brought to Washington, by her brother and her purchaser, her trunk was brought with her from Royalton. And when Randolph and Esther escaped from Washington, they took their trunks with them as far as Philadelphia, where they left them in their eagerness to escape from their pursuers.
And now these trunks,—containing all that they were worth in the world,—had by some unknown person, been brought to the house in Broadway, and delivered into the servant's hands, accompanied by the note which Randolph held.
"Brother!" ejaculated Randolph, thinking of Harry Royalton, whom he had left weak and helpless in a distant chamber,—a chamber which Randolph had given up to him—"Brother! I am afraid our accounts draw to a close. I'm afraid that your nature cannot be changed. Shall I have to fight you with your own weapons? Last night I saved your life,—I brought you to my own home; I laid you on my own bed; I watched over you, and when you woke, held out to you a brother's hand. That hand you struck down in scorn! So much the worse for you, dear brother. Your condition will not allow you to leave this house for a day or two,—at least not untilto-morrowis over. Andto-morrowpast, brother, you will forfeit all interest in the Van Huyden Estate."
Randolph was a generous and a noble man, but there were desperate elements within, which the events of the last month had begun to develop. He now felt that his fate would be decided and forever, by the course of the next twenty-four hours. And every power of his soul, all the strength, the good,—shall we say evil?—began to rise within him to meet the crisis. There was energy in his look, danger in his eye.
"And Eleanor,—" he breathed that name and paused, and for a moment he was enveloped in the atmosphere of an intense but sinless passion. "Eleanor loves me! She will be mine!"
But how should his marriage with Eleanor be accomplished, without the fatal disclosure, that instead of being the legitimate child of John Augustine Royalton, he was simply—the White Slave of his own brother?
The thought was madness, but Randolph met it, and rousing every power of his soul, sought to pierce the clouds which hung upon his future.
He opened the letter, which Mr. Hicks had delivered to him, and recognized the hand of his unknown protector,—his friend of the Half-Way House. It was dated "Dec. 24th," 1844, and these were its contents:—
"To Randolph Royalton:—"When first I met you and your sister at the house near Princeton, and heard the story of your wrongs, in you I recognized the children of an old and dear friend, John Augustine Royalton. I determined to protect you. You know how my plans were laid. Your brother, also your persecutor, was delivered to punishment. Yourself and sister were brought to New York, and placed in the mansion which you now occupy. Last night, wishing to know whether there yet remained in your brother one throb of a better nature—conscious that if his feelings to you were unchanged, you would at no moment be safe from his vengeance,—I arranged your meeting with him and his instrument, in the den below Five Points. From old Royal (whom I first met in Philadelphia, and who told me of your story before I saw you at the half-way house,) I have learned all that occurred last night,—the attack made on you by your brother,—your magnanimous conduct,—the awful, although richly deserved death of Bloodhound, his atrocious tool. And although I know not what became of your brother after you bore him from the den, I doubt not but that you have placed him where he will be watched over with affectionate care."Yesterday I encountered Mr. Bernard Lynn, who seemed to take a great interest in you. I directed him to your house,—treat him as your guest in your own house,—for I especially desire you to regard the house and all it contains as yours, until the 25th of December has passed. Until then be perfectly at your ease. Await the developments of the 25th of December. In the meantime, if you want money, you will find it in the drawer of the desk (of which I inclose the key,) which you will find in your bed-room. Your trunks, which you lost in Philadelphia, I have recovered and send to you. Make no effort to see me, until I call upon you."Your friend,"Ezekiel Bogart."
"To Randolph Royalton:—
"When first I met you and your sister at the house near Princeton, and heard the story of your wrongs, in you I recognized the children of an old and dear friend, John Augustine Royalton. I determined to protect you. You know how my plans were laid. Your brother, also your persecutor, was delivered to punishment. Yourself and sister were brought to New York, and placed in the mansion which you now occupy. Last night, wishing to know whether there yet remained in your brother one throb of a better nature—conscious that if his feelings to you were unchanged, you would at no moment be safe from his vengeance,—I arranged your meeting with him and his instrument, in the den below Five Points. From old Royal (whom I first met in Philadelphia, and who told me of your story before I saw you at the half-way house,) I have learned all that occurred last night,—the attack made on you by your brother,—your magnanimous conduct,—the awful, although richly deserved death of Bloodhound, his atrocious tool. And although I know not what became of your brother after you bore him from the den, I doubt not but that you have placed him where he will be watched over with affectionate care.
"Yesterday I encountered Mr. Bernard Lynn, who seemed to take a great interest in you. I directed him to your house,—treat him as your guest in your own house,—for I especially desire you to regard the house and all it contains as yours, until the 25th of December has passed. Until then be perfectly at your ease. Await the developments of the 25th of December. In the meantime, if you want money, you will find it in the drawer of the desk (of which I inclose the key,) which you will find in your bed-room. Your trunks, which you lost in Philadelphia, I have recovered and send to you. Make no effort to see me, until I call upon you.
"Your friend,
"Ezekiel Bogart."
In the letter there was much food for thought.
"So far all well," thought Randolph,—"butto-morrowonce passed, what then?" He unlocked his trunk, and after a careful examination, found that its contents remained the same as when he had left it in Washington. It was very large, and divided into various compartments, and contained his wardrobe, his choicest books, and most treasured letters, together with numerous memorials of his student life in Heidelberg. Opening a small and secret drawer, he drew forth a package of letters, held together by a faded ribbon.
"Ah! letters from my father!" and he untied the package,—"What is this? I never saw it before!"
It was a letter directed to him in his father's hand, and sealed with his father's seal. To his complete astonishment the seal was unbroken.
"How came this letter here? My father's seal and unbroken,—this is indeed strange!"
He regarded the letter carefully, weighed it in his hand, but paused, in hesitation, ere he broke the seal. For the first time, written around the seal, in his father's hand, he beheld these words, "Not to be opened until my death."
Tears started into Randolph's eyes, and for a moment, as he knelt there, he rested his forehead on his hand.
Then, with an eager hand, he broke the seal. The contents of the letter were bared to the light.
"Heidelberg,September23, 1840."Dearest Son:—"You have just left me, and with the memory of our late conversation fresh in my mind, I now write this letter, which you will not read until I am dead. Randolph, I repeat the truth of that which I have just disclosed to you,—your mother was not my mistress, but my lawful wife. Yourself and Esther are legitimate. By my will I make you, with Harry, joint inheritors of my estate, and of my share in the Van Huyden estate."Your mother, Herodia, was not the child of Colonel Rawdon, but the dearly beloved daughter of —— ——, who never acknowledged her to the world. He communicated, however, the secret of her paternity to Rawdon, and left her in his charge, intrusting him with a sealed packet, which he directed should be delivered to Herodia's son, in case a son was ever born to her. A packet which contained a commission, upon whose fulfillment by that son, the happiness, the destiny of all the races on the American continent, might depend. Worshiping the memory of this great man, Rawdon treated Herodia (known as a slave) as his own child and would not transfer her to me, until I had made her my wife in a secret marriage."A sealed copy of my will I gave you a few moments since; and this letter contains an original letter of —— ——, written to Colonel Rawdon, and recognizing Herodia as his child."When I am dead, you will find the packet in a secret closet behind the fourth shelf of my library, at Hill Royal. There you will also find a large amount of gold, which may be useful to you in some unforeseen hour of adversity, and which I hereby give to you and Esther."This letter I inclose in the package of letters which you left for my perusal."Your father,"John Augustine Royalton,"of Hill Royal."
"Heidelberg,September23, 1840.
"Dearest Son:—
"You have just left me, and with the memory of our late conversation fresh in my mind, I now write this letter, which you will not read until I am dead. Randolph, I repeat the truth of that which I have just disclosed to you,—your mother was not my mistress, but my lawful wife. Yourself and Esther are legitimate. By my will I make you, with Harry, joint inheritors of my estate, and of my share in the Van Huyden estate.
"Your mother, Herodia, was not the child of Colonel Rawdon, but the dearly beloved daughter of —— ——, who never acknowledged her to the world. He communicated, however, the secret of her paternity to Rawdon, and left her in his charge, intrusting him with a sealed packet, which he directed should be delivered to Herodia's son, in case a son was ever born to her. A packet which contained a commission, upon whose fulfillment by that son, the happiness, the destiny of all the races on the American continent, might depend. Worshiping the memory of this great man, Rawdon treated Herodia (known as a slave) as his own child and would not transfer her to me, until I had made her my wife in a secret marriage.
"A sealed copy of my will I gave you a few moments since; and this letter contains an original letter of —— ——, written to Colonel Rawdon, and recognizing Herodia as his child.
"When I am dead, you will find the packet in a secret closet behind the fourth shelf of my library, at Hill Royal. There you will also find a large amount of gold, which may be useful to you in some unforeseen hour of adversity, and which I hereby give to you and Esther.
"This letter I inclose in the package of letters which you left for my perusal.
"Your father,
"John Augustine Royalton,
"of Hill Royal."
Randolph read this letter with signs of emotion not to be mistaken. Rising from his knees, he walked slowly up and down the room, his eyes shaded by his uplifted hand. As he drew near the window, his pale face was flushed, his eyes radiant with new light.
"So! I am then the elder brother, the real lord of Hill Royal! My mother was a slave, but she was the lawful wife of my father." His brow clouded and his lips curved. "It seems to me this younger brother has given us trouble enough,—let him have a care how his shadow crosses my way for the future."
He stood erect in every inch of his stature, his eyes dilating, and his hand extended, as though,—even like a glorious landscape, rich in vine-clad mountains and grassy meadows, smiling in the sun,—he beheld his future stretch clear and bold before him.
"Harry, I have given you my hand for the last time," he said, in a significant voice.
A piece of paper, carefully folded and worn by time, slipped from the letter which he held. Randolph seized it eagerly, and opening it, beheld a few lines traced in a handwriting which had long become historical. It was dated many years back, and was addressed to Colonel Rawdon.
"My Esteemed Friend:—"I am glad to hear the girl,Herodia, whom, many years ago, I placed in your care, (acquainting you with the circumstances of her birth and paternity,) progresses toward womanhood, rich in education, accomplishments and personal loveliness. While nominally your slave, you have treated her as a daughter,—accept her father's heartfelt gratitude. In consequence of her descent, on her mother's side, she cannot (with safety to herself) be formally manumitted, nor can she be publicly recognized as the equal of your own daughter, or the associate of ladies of the white race. But it is my last charge to you, that she be honorably (even although secretly) married; and that the inclosed sealed packet which I send to you, be given to her eldest son, in case a son is born to her. That packet contains matters which, carried into action by such a son, would do much, yes, everything, to establish the happiness of all the races on this continent. Kiss for me, that dear daughter of mine, whom, in this life, I shall never behold."Yours, with respect and gratitude,"—— ——."
"My Esteemed Friend:—
"I am glad to hear the girl,Herodia, whom, many years ago, I placed in your care, (acquainting you with the circumstances of her birth and paternity,) progresses toward womanhood, rich in education, accomplishments and personal loveliness. While nominally your slave, you have treated her as a daughter,—accept her father's heartfelt gratitude. In consequence of her descent, on her mother's side, she cannot (with safety to herself) be formally manumitted, nor can she be publicly recognized as the equal of your own daughter, or the associate of ladies of the white race. But it is my last charge to you, that she be honorably (even although secretly) married; and that the inclosed sealed packet which I send to you, be given to her eldest son, in case a son is born to her. That packet contains matters which, carried into action by such a son, would do much, yes, everything, to establish the happiness of all the races on this continent. Kiss for me, that dear daughter of mine, whom, in this life, I shall never behold.
"Yours, with respect and gratitude,
"—— ——."
A very touching,—an altogether significant letter.
Randolph pressed it to his lips in silence. Then inclosing it within his father's letter, he placed them both in a secret compartment of his trunk.
He seated himself, and folding his arms, gave himself up to the dominion of a crowd of thoughts, which flooded in upon his soul, like mingled sunshine and lightning through the window of a darkened room.
Bending over his trunk, he was examining, with an absent gaze, certain memorials of his old student brothers of Heidelberg. A small casket contained them all.
"This ring was given to me by poor Richmond, the English student. He was killed in a duel. And here is the watch of Van Brondt,—poor fellow! he died of consumption, even as his studies were completed, and a youth of poverty and hardship seemed about to be succeeded by a manhood of wealth and fame. And this,"—he took up a small vial, whose glass was incased in silver,—"this, Van Eichmer, the enthusiastic chemist, gave me. I wonder whether his dreams of fame, from the discovery embodied in this vial, will ever be realized? A rare liquid,—its powers rivaling the wonders of enchantment. He gave it to me under a solemn pledge not to subject it to chemical analysis, until he has time to mature his discovery, and make it known as the result of his own genius. He called it (somewhat after the fanciful fashion of the old alchemists) the 'Dream-Elixir.' I wonder if it has lost its virtues?"
Removing the buckskin covering which concealed the stopple, he then carefully drew the stopple, and applied the vial for a moment to his nostrils. The effect was as rapid as lightning. His face changed; his eyes grew wild and dreamy. His whole being was pervaded by an inexpressible rapture,—a rapture of calmness, (if we may thus speak) a rapture of unutterable repose. And like cloud-forms revealed by lightning, the most gorgeous images swept before him. He seemed to have been suddenly caught up into the paradise of Mahomet, among fountains, showering upon beds of roses, and with the white-bosomed houris gliding to and fro.