[A]A fact.
[A]A fact.
"Everything ready now, Minny?" said Della, glancing tearfully around her sumptuous apartments.
"Everything is prepared, Miss. Shall we go?"
"Sure you are able to walk to the carriage, Minny?"
"Oh, yes, Miss; certain of it."
Once more Della turned to look upon those objects, which use and long association had endeared to her. There were her books, her birds, her flowers, the bed, where she had dreamed so many happy dreams, and the cushioned chair, where she had so often sat listless and happy. With a sigh,which she could not repress, she waved them a fond adieu, and, taking Minny's arm, crept out upon the balcony, down the stairs, and through the secret garden-door. Here was an outlet Mr. Delancey had never thought of; and while the guard, he had placed at her door, stood vigilant and wakeful, the bird flew through the window.
Once in the street, at night, and in darkness, Della grew timid, and clutched convulsively her attendant's arm; but they went on steadily, until arriving at an adjacent corner, a third person joined them, and helped them into the carriage, which stood waiting near by.
"Oh, Bernard!" cried Della, laying her trembling hand upon his arm, as he sat beside her in the carriage, with Minny, and they were being whirled through the almost deserted streets, "no hand can ever come between us again. I am yours at last."
"Nothing shall ever part us more," returned Bernard, drawing her fondly towards him. "You have given up much for me, but the aim of my life shall be to make you happy."
"I have lost nothing, Bernard, compared to the love I have gained. Only never let that swerve or falter, and I shall be the happiest wife that ever God looked down upon and blessed."
The carriage stopped at the door of the cathedral, andthe party entered the church, where a priest was already in waiting. Blanche and Guly made their appearance from a side aisle, and Wilkins introduced them to Della, telling her he had engaged them, as dear friends of his, to officiate in the approaching ceremony. Della expressed her pleasure, and half-crying, half-smiling, kissed Blanche affectionately, telling her she hoped, since she was one of Wilkins' friends, that she would henceforth be a sister to her, and that they would all be very happy. Then Wilkins drew that fluttering hand in his, and led Della to the altar. Guly and Blanche stepped to their places, and the ceremony began.
Leaning against a pillar, a little in the shadow, behind the marriage-group, stood Minny, the quadroon; with face blanched to an almost unearthly pallor, she listened to the vows which fell from Bernard's lips. With chilled heart, again came back the memory of the hour when those same lips, in this very spot, had thus sworn to love and cherish her. But what of this? her heart had beenlegallybroken, and she had no right to complain!
The ceremony ended, Bernard and his bride, and Minny, started for the lake shore, where, though late in the season, they intended to remain awhile, previous to returning to take up their residence again in the city. They set Blanche down at her own door, and Guly, who was waiting for the adieus to be over, stepped forward, and pressing Wilkins' hand, exclaimed:—
"Matters have indeed explained themselves, my friend; I little thought of this. May you be as happy as you deserve to be!"
"Thank you, Guly; I shall, no doubt, be much happier than I deserve to be." Then bending forward, he added, in a lower tone, "If the old gentleman is stormy to-morrow, at the loss of his daughter, remember you know nothing about the affair; you'll lose your place, I'm afraid, if you do."
"You surely don't mean 'tis Mr. Delancey's child?"
"Aye, the same."
"Can it be possible! It will, no doubt, be a bitter blow to him; but I believe you worthy of any man's daughter, Wilkins. God bless you."
Wilkins smiled at Guly's warmth, and, waving his hand, the carriage rolled out of sight; and Della, trustful and happy, laid her head upon the broad breast which had vowed to cherish her, and wept her tears, and smiled her smiles—a bride.
Guly, after seeing Blanche safely to her home, turned away, and hurried to his room, thinking over the strange events of the day, and wondering what the morrow would bring.
In wedding Della, Wilkins had accomplished two things;he gratified the love he really felt for her, and, at the same time, in so terribly wounding Mr. Delancey's pride, he had amply revenged himself for the long years spent in his service in that humility of manner which the merchant ever seemed to exact from his clerks, as though they were but slaves of a whiter hue.
It was early in the morning, the day after Della's elopement, and Mr. Delancey, who had just risen, was walking back and forth upon the verandah, sipping his cup of strong coffee, nor dreaming of the shadow which had fallen on his hearth-stone. He was interrupted by a servant, who came to inform him that a messenger had just been sent, to say that one of the men, suspected of committing the robbery, had been arrested, and if he chose to see him, his case would come on the first one; and he might go early to the Recorder's Office of the Second Municipality.
Mr. Delancey decided to go; and without waiting for breakfast, which was always served late, he ordered his carriage, and drove directly to the spot.
When he entered the court-room, Guly was just giving in his testimony, and the crowd, that had congregated round, prevented the merchant from catching a glimpse of the prisoner. Guly gave his evidence in a clear, concisemanner, recognizing the prisoner as the man he had seen in the store on the night of the burglary.
"I have here," he added, drawing a small parcel from his pocket, "something which was found by my employer's negro, in cleaning up the bow-window, the morning after the theft. He supposed it belonged to the burglars, and gave it me previous to his death, begging me to keep it, unless some one were arrested, whose property it might prove to be. I have not opened it, or looked upon it, and do not know even what it is."
He passed it to the judge, who, untying the paper, drew forth a small box, such as is usually used to contain articles of jewelry. Lifting the lid, he held up to view a superb diamond ring, the curious setting of which Guly recognized at once, as being the same as on a diamond ring, of like appearance, he had seen the prisoner wear. While examining it, some words engraved on the inside, caught the judge's eye, and turning it to the light, he read, in full, clear tones, the name of "Clinton Delancey."
At that moment there was a sudden opening in the crowd, and Mr. Delancey tottered forward, with features ashy pale, and the strong eyes softened almost to tears.
"My son, my son!"
A gleam of triumph shot into Clinton's gaze, as stretching forth his hand, he exclaimed:—
"Aye, father, behold your son! It was not here Ithought next to see you when we parted last; but it is one of those retributive meetings, which come sometimes, God-appointed. What you see me, you have made me. By your own false pride I was forced to beg or steal. In taking from you, I felt I took but my just due. This shame be upon your own head!"
A dead silence fell upon all, and a glance of sympathy for Mr. Delancey ran round the court and the crowd of spectators; but, after a strong effort, the merchant drew himself to his full height, and, in a moment, all his coldness and flintiness of manner had returned to him. Turning to the Court, he said, firmly:—
"Let the law pursue its course," and passed from the room, striking his cane heavily down with each step, as Guly had often heard him do before.
The prisoner dropped his eyes, with a look of keen disappointment, and, at this moment, the strange figure of the dwarf forced itself in through the crowd, and, balancing himself on his crutches, stopped full in front of the judge.
"Hih! hih! Monsieur," he panted, turning his one eye up at the grave face of the officer, "I got something to say; please, sir, may I be heard?"
"Testimony with regard to this matter?"
"Yes, Monsieur; I hang round the courts, I find out what this man has done; I understand then something I saw him do. I may tell?"
The Court assented; and he went on to state where he had seen Clinton deposit the goods, on the night of the burglary, adding, that another man was with him, whom he did not know, but whose name the other had mentioned, and he remembered it was Quirk—CharleyQuirk, he guessed, because sometimes Mr. Clinton addressed him as Charley, sometimes as Quirk, and he continued: "You go there, Mr. Court, you find ze goods where I tell you; hih! hih! you dig um up, an' give dis poor little wretch someting for his information."
The dwarf was dismissed, but waited to hear the end of the trial; and had the satisfaction of seeing Clinton, against whom the testimony was so strong, sentenced to five years' imprisonment; and the veritable Charley Quirk brought in under arrest, on the strength of his evidence. He then turned to go away, but catching sight of Guly, he advanced toward him, nodding his head, winking his great eye, and chuckling joyfully to himself.
"Hih, Monsieur; not seen you since that day you so sick in bed. Tink of you one great deal—miss you great deal—need your picayune a great deal—love me yet, Monsieur?"
"Yes, Richard," said the boy, kindly, laying his hand on his great ill-shaped head, as they went out together. "Have you suffered for want of my humble charity, in this great city, poor fellow?"
"No, Monsieur; I have lived on the dime the tall man gave me, in your room the other day. Hih, hih! but I've suffered for want of your face, Monsieur. Rare thing for poor Richard to look in any one's face, and remember he has said he loved such a dismal little thing as me; hih! rare thing that, yes."
Guly sighed as he listened to these touching, mournful words, and slipping some money into the dwarf's hand, bade him good-bye, telling him he would see him soon again, and hurried on to the store.
He missed Wilkins' kind face, as he passed his desk, and felt sad, when he remembered he might never see him there any more. Mr. Delancey was not in the store either, and there was evidence of the want of a presiding mind in the appearance of the whole store; clerks talking together in knots, while some of the customers were being neglected; goods still covered with the linen curtains, and counters undusted and unattended.
As Guly took his place, Arthur crossed over, and inquired, in a steady tone, but with an excited manner, how the trial had gone.
Guly informed him, at the same time telling him the fact of Clinton's proving to be Mr. Delancey's son.
Arthur started violently, and turned away to conceal the emotion which he could not repress, as he remembered he had unconsciously assisted a son to rob his own father!The thought brought so much remorse with it, that, seizing his hat, he started away to the nearest saloon, to procure something to drown the unpleasant memory. Guly looked after him with a deep sigh, feeling that what influence he might once have possessed over him, was gone for ever,—wrested from him by the overpowering hands of an honest pride, unjustly dealt with, and the attendant circumstances of evil society.
The memory of the voice, which came from beneath the mask on that fearful night, had never passed from the boy's heart; and though he studiously concealed his fears, he could but tremble at the conviction, that Arthur might, at any moment, share the fate of the unfortunate young man he had just seen convicted.
But, though Quirk and Clinton both were found guilty, they faithfully kept their oath, and threw no suspicion upon Arthur. Poor Jeff, who had felt convinced of his guilt, had allowed his secret to die with him, for Guly's sake; Wilkins had rejected any such idea he may have entertained, the moment he saw Arthur that night in bed, and Guly alone was left to his cruel doubts, with the memory of that familiar voice haunting him, always haunting him.
Mr. Delancey hurried from the court-room to his own house. He said nothing about what had occurred, to his wife, but, stern and silent, took his seat in the breakfast-room, waiting for the morning meal to be served.
"Go to Miss Della's room," said he, to a servant, who entered, "and tell her I wish her to fill her place at table this morning."
The servant returned in a moment, telling his master that he had knocked loudly, but received no answer, and he could hear no one stirring in the room.
"And has Ruth been by the door constantly, as I bade her?"
"She has, sir; but says she has heard no sound in the room since the usual hour for retiring last night."
"She can't be asleep at this hour," said Mrs. Delancey, looking up from the morning paper.
A sudden thought seemed to strike the merchant, and starting to his feet, he hurried away to his daughter's apartment; he knocked, but all was still; he tried the door, but it was locked.
"Go," said he, to a servant standing near, "and bring me the brass key lying on my dressing-table; it fits this lock."
The key was brought, and Mr. Delancey entered the room, closing the door behind him. All was silence and loneliness around him. He called his daughter's name, there was no responsive voice; he rushed to her sleeping-apartment, but the luxurious couch, unrumpled and unpressed, told it had known no occupant during the night. The balcony, the garden, belonging to her rooms, all were searched, but in vain; and the agonized father threw himself upon the chair Della had so often occupied, with all the terrible truth rushing across his heart. He buried his pallid face in his hands, andwept; aye,wepthot, burning tears, from those steady eyes that had never wept for another's woe, and rarely for his own. There was no note, no word, or line, left to tell him of her flight, but he knew all without; and bitter, bitter was the crushing weight upon his mighty pride.
He sent word to Mrs. Delancey, that she would breakfastwithout him; and two hours passed before he again stood in the presence of his anxious wife. None might know what fearful storms, what blighting whirlwinds, what earthquakes of passion, had passed over that strong heart in those two short hours. However fierce had been the struggle, it had been conquered, not by prayer and pleading at that Throne whence all mercy flows, but by the unbending power of that strong, indomitable will.
When he broke the news to Mrs. Delancey, the voice was calm and quiet, and no signs of emotion were visible. But with his wife it was different. She shrieked, and screamed, and tore her hair, and wept with a wild violence; Mr. Delancey looked upon her anguish with those same cold eyes; and when she went off in a fit of violent hysterics, he ordered her attendants to convey her to her own room, and then drove off to the store, as though nothing had happened. But what a hidden fire was scorching up the heart within! Shame and sorrow, remorse and wounded pride, all struggling and battling there, with their volcanic fires striving to burst forth, but smothered and kept down by the strength of the proud heart they lacerated.
Arrived at the store, he seemed to take no notice of Wilkins' absence, but went straight to his own high desk, and sat there with his eyes looking out of the door before him. Those who knew the result of the morning trial pitied him deeply, wondering at the calmness he displayed;but Guly, who knew how much more he had suffered by the flight of his only daughter, and sole remaining child, felt for him a deep and earnest sympathy which he longed to, but dared not, express.
Suddenly the merchant rose in his seat.
"Gulian Pratt, if disengaged I would like to see you here."
Guly bowed and advanced toward him; but it was with a heart bounding forebodingly, for he remembered he had been chiefly instrumental in getting his son convicted, and he fancied that the merchant was about to discharge him. He saw that Mr. Delancey looked ten years older than when he had seen him in the morning, and with a gush of sympathy in his warm heart, he gained the merchant's side and extended his hand.
Mr. Delancey took it, and for the first time pressed it kindly.
"Pardon me, sir, for touching upon a painful subject, but allow me to express the sincere sympathy I feel for you."
The merchant bowed, and for an instant both were silent, Mr. Delancey sitting with his eyes looking down.
"I sent for you," said he at last, speaking very quietly, and in a measured tone, "to ask you if you think yourself capable of filling the—the vacant place yonder?"
"The head clerk's."
"The same."
"I certainly think not, sir," replied Guly, blushing; "even though I were capable—which I think I am not—it might give rise to dissatisfaction among the other clerks."
"As for the dissatisfaction, that is my business. Did you ever study book-keeping?"
"I have, sir."
"Know something about it?"
"Something, sir."
"Then take your place at the desk yonder, and consider the situation and the salary yours."
Guly was utterly astonished. It was something so far from his expectations—a promotion he had only aspired to in the future; and to receive such unexpected good fortune was something for which he felt deeply grateful, and he told the merchant so.
But, as Guly was moving away, a sudden thought crossed his mind, and with a glance of sorrow, not for himself, but for the bereaved father, he said:
"Mr. Delancey, I fear if you knew all you would not feel disposed to do this for me. There are some circumstances I would feel happier to have you know, and then if you still feel thus inclined, I shall take the situation, feeling that I have acted honestly with you."
"Whatever you wish to say, speak; I am ready to listen."
"Last night I wasthere," said the boy, hesitatingly, scarcely knowing how to tell it; "I saw them married—in the old Cathedral—Mr. Wilkins and—"
"Enough!" said the merchant; starting violently; then with an effort regaining his calmness, "don't speak that name in my presence, ever. How came you, young man, to be present at a ceremony you knew was without my sanction or knowledge, and utterly against my will?"
"I knew nothing of the circumstances, sir, before hand; not even aware I was to witness a marriage ceremony till after I reached the Cathedral. But I like Mr. Wilkins—have been a warm friend of his since I've been here, and when I found he was to be married, I officiated with pleasure."
"Knowing it was my—knowing who the lady was?"
"No, sir, not till afterwards—just as they were about to leave; but when I found out the truth, I did congratulate my friend most heartily, for I deem him worthy of any lady in the land, and rejoiced to see him happy."
"And they seemed happy. Oh, curses on them!"
"Nay, do not curse them. Your daughter's view of happiness was but different from your own, and she has seen fit to follow it out. She shed many tears, no doubt, for her father; but she smiled also many times upon her husband, and I know must have felt much sorrow mingled with her joy. Had she but gone with her father's blessing, how unalloyed would her happiness have been."
"He took her for her fortune; curse him, I say! Not a cent of mine shall he ever touch. When poverty falls upon her head, she'll think of what she's lost by her disobedience."
"A father's curse is a fearful thing," said Guly with a shudder.
Mr. Delancey suddenly drew himself up as if just aware that he had been betrayed into saying a great deal more than he ever intended to, and at the same time cast a look of mute wonder upon Guly, who stood with his eyes fixed upon his face. It was rarely that any one dared to approach the merchant, (at least any of his subordinates,) as, cold and stern, he sat at his high desk during business hours, and none ever thought of differing from his opinions, or advancing any of their own. Guly's courage astonished him.
"Go to your place, young man."
"My old place, I suppose, sir."
"Didn't I tell you to take the head clerk's? what I say I mean. Do your best, and I shall be satisfied. I have no more daughters to lose," he muttered as he looked after Guly's retreating figure, "and nothing to fear."
With a blush, Guly took his place at Wilkins' desk, to the no small surprise of the clerks, but the first moment that the store was clear of customers, Mr. Delancey rose up, and formally stated that henceforth Gulian Pratt wouldoccupy the situation of head clerk, and he hoped that all would look up to and respect him as such, and having delivered this speech in his peculiar formal manner, the merchant left, and drove home to dinner.
Guly's promotion gave general satisfaction, and as he sat there with his young face and golden curls bent over the great books, not an eye sought his, but had a warm glance of congratulation in it, and many pressed forward to express in words their gratification at the new arrangement. Now that Quirk was gone, not one in the establishment but loved and respected Guly; and, though there were many there older, who might perhaps more fitly have filled the important vacancy, all felt that it was held by one whose firm principles and noble heart would prompt him rightly to perform the onerous duties resting upon him. Guly, henceforth, occupied Wilkins' room with Arthur. Mr. Hull took Guly's old place, and a new clerk filled his own, and soon everything was again smoothly jogging on at No. — Chartres Street.
It was New Year's eve, and the brilliantly-lighted shops were thronged with purchasers of the innumerable articles exposed to tempt the purses of those able to buy. Any one who has been in New Orleans during the winter season, knows what a scene the thronged streets present on this night of nights.
Guly stood in the store-door, looking out upon the crowd of passers-by, when suddenly a liveried servant approached him from the mass, looked at him a moment intently, then thrust a small box in his hands, and disappeared. Surprised at the occurrence, Guly turned away, and waiting until the store was clear of customers, opened it. It contained an expensive gold watch, richly wrought and elaborately finished. Puzzled to know what it could mean, Guly was about to restore it to the box, when a small folded paper in the bottom caught his eye. It was directed to himself,and on unfolding it, Guly found but these simple words:
Guly immediately remembered that the lady to whom he had pointed out the blemishes in her purchase, and thereby lost a sale, had never been in the store since; but that she remembered the occurrence distinctly and gratefully was evident. The boy had noticed the servant's livery and now recognized it, and hoped that this might afford him some clue to the name of his kind friend.
As soon as the store was closed he put his present in his pocket, and started forth to show it to Blanche. Arthur was so rarely in the store any more at evening, that he could not talk it over with him, and with light steps he hurried to the presence of the pretty brodeuse. She had become the light of the boy's existence, and he could dream of nothing else. He was young to love, but his heart was older than his years, and it gave out its affection with the strength of manhood.
"Oh! grandpapa, if you could only see Guly's gift, his New Year's gift!" said Blanche, enthusiastically, after examining it herself.
The old man smiled, and taking it in his hand, held it for awhile and returned it, saying it was very beautiful.
"And have you no clue to the giver?" said Blanche.
"Only what I told you."
"What did you say was the servant's livery?"
Guly described it.
"I remember a lady," said Blanche, musingly, "whose servants used to wear such livery as that. She was a dear friend of mamma's when we were rich, and they used to be just like sisters. Her name was Belmont—Mrs. Belmont."
"And what became of her?" asked Guly.
"Oh, she went to France just before all our troubles came upon us, and I suppose she is there still. She wrote once or twice to mamma, but she was too ill to answer the letters, and so it all dropped."
Guly put up his watch, and sat conversing with Blanche until the clock struck ten, when he took his leave, telling Blanche, as he pressed her little hand at parting, that it was the most delightful New Year's eve he had ever spent.
Blanche replied that she could say the same, and added that she supposed he knew Della and Bernard had returned.
Guly informed her he did not.
"Oh, yes," she said, "returned yesterday, and have taken a house in Esplanade Street, and are very happy I think. Della visited me, yesterday."
Guly expressed his pleasure at the good news, and lefther, and returned home to dream of the mysterious donor of his New Year's gift and Blanche the brodeuse.
The winter glided pleasantly away; summer passed, and winter came again. Fortunately for the brothers, the first summer of their stay in the Pestilential City was free from epidemics of any kind, and they escaped all sickness, with the exception of a slight acclimating fever. All that Guly had to weigh upon his heart was Arthur's dissipation, which gradually grew worse and worse, and he dreaded lest one day he should have the pain of seeing Mr. Delancey discharge him.
Guly had retained the new situation which had been given him, and discharged its duties with honor to himself and to his employer. There was not a clerk in the store but what looked up to him with respect and affection, and since he had become head clerk there had never been a bottle of wine uncorked or a game of cards played under that roof. Mr. Delancey himself, with all his natural coldness and harshness of manner, could not conceal the high esteem in which he held him.
Guly frequently spent his evenings at Wilkins' house, and sometimes Arthur accompanied him; but he could not conceal from himself that those evenings that Arthur went with him were not the pleasantest, there being always a restraint in his presence, which was not felt when he was not there. Wilkins had always rejoiced at Guly's goodfortune in obtaining his vacant situation, and loved to sit by him and talk over the past or chat about Blanche and the happy future.
The evening after the brothers had been visiting at Wilkins', Arthur passed his arm through Guly's, and said:
"I have quite lost my heart, Guly, with a pair of the brightest black eyes that ever shone; she's a pretty little witch, but I am afraid some one has stepped in before me, for I can't contrive to make myself agreeable, and every time I call she grows more and more distant. She lives but a little way from here; what say you to making a call with me? perhaps you could assist me immeasurably. What say you, will you go?"
It was not often now that Arthur make a confidant of Guly, and the younger brother was surprised to find him in such a mood to-night. He had, on his part, with a caution he could scarcely define, always studiously concealed from Arthur his visits to Blanche, and had not sought his confidence lest he might see fit to ask for his own in return; and he answered almost coldly:
"No, Arthur, not to-night. It is already late, and I hope you wouldn't think of calling upon any young lady at such an hour as this."
"Well, what can I do to pass the time between this and bed-time?"
"It is bed-time now, Arthur; but I'll tell you what todo. Mr. Hull has gone out to the opera to-night, and if we go back to the store we can be there by ourselves. Let's go and do what we have not done in a long, long time—sit down together like the two brothers we once were, and talk over old scenes, old friends, and old times; will you do so?"
After a moment's hesitation, Arthur signified his consent, and they went into the store together. Guly raked up the dying coals in the stove, threw on some fresh anthracite, and they sat down side by side.
"Oh!" exclaimed Guly, laying his hand upon his brother's, "Arthur doesn't this make your heart bound? There is such a glow of home about it, such an air of other days."
Arthur sighed deeply.
"There is, indeed, Guly; this is a socialness which we have not shared before for months, and never may again."
"Why do you speak so despondingly, Arthur? The brightness or blackness of the future lies with ourselves, I am inclined to think; and since we can be so happy in each others society, why should we do ought to prevent our constantly having this enjoyment?"
"Younever will, Guly; it is me, all me—I have gone too far to return. I cannot tear myself away from the bonds which are dragging me down to destruction; evil companions, strong drink, and exciting play. Excitement is nownecessary to my existence. I cannot live without it. This is why we have no more of this kind of enjoyment. To-night I relish it because I'm in the humor; but as a general thing it is unbearable—too tame and prosy."
"Oh!" exclaimed Guly, "I have so often felt that the day we left the Hudson home was a fatal one for us. I had rather have staid there and toiled in the most humble manner, than to have ever heard such words as these pass your lips, and in my heart be forced to feel their truth."
"It is useless to repine, Guly. Perhaps 'tis all for the best. Sometimes when I have looked upon your calm and tranquil face, and noted the high principles which have governed your every action, I have felt as if I would give worlds to be possessed of the same; but again I have thought, perhaps you could not have been thus sustained had it not been for my fearful example, such a terrible, terrible lesson in itself of an undisciplined and erring heart."
Guly was silent. If this thought could afford his brother any consolation for the downward course he had been pursuing, it was not in his heart to deprive him of it, however much he might feel the reasoning to be false.
"I can never go back again," continued Arthur, "to what I once was. If this were possible, I might, perhaps, endeavor to reform; but I am so deeply steeped in sin, that its memory will be haunting me always, always; and it isuseless for me to strive to do aught but drown life and memory in the same cup."
"Wrong reasoning, my brother, wrong reasoning," said Guly, impressively, laying his hand on Arthur's arm; but he could say no more, his heart was too full; and, lifting his head, he sat looking into the coals, struggling to keep down his rising emotions.
Reaching out his hand, Arthur clasped Guly's in his and held it closely. Thus they sat side by side once again, heart to heart, and hand in hand. The bright fire-glow played and flickered on their thoughtful faces as they called up old memories and thought of old scenes; while the coals faded and died out—fit emblems of the dreams they were dreaming.
From this night, Arthur's course was more swiftly downward than ever it had been before. It seemed as if the last redeeming moment of his life was passed, and that some strong arm was hurrying him fiercely forward into the blackened pit of which he had dreamed one night long ago, when slumbering sweetly at his brother's side, his cheek upon his hand!
Every succeeding night plunged him deeper beneath the waves of that sea of dissipation upon which he had thrown himself. Theatres, dissolute balls, the gambling saloon and billiard table, each with their attendant quantity of exciting drinks, were his constant places of resort; and though Guly pleaded, and prayed him to renounce them forever, and come back to his old ways, 'twas in vain.
The Demon of Remorse was gnawing at his heart-stringsfor the crime he had committed, and pride, that fatal pride, was stinging him into silence and misery, withholding him from confessing, even to his Maker, his sorrow and repentance. He had given his right hand to the Evil One, and his left there was none to take.
Every morning, as Mr. Delancey's keen eyes searched that haggard and bloated face, Guly expected to hear him dismissed; but as yet that trial came not, and Guly felt that it was for his sake the merchant spared his brother, and the kindness sank deep into his young heart, never to be forgotten.
One night after the store was closed, Arthur sauntered up to Guly, and, laying his hand upon his arm, said:
"You remember the little black-eyed Creole I told you of one night some time ago?"
"The one you fancied had got your heart?" said Guly, kindly; "yes, I remember."
"Three nights ago, I proposed to her, offered her heart and hand, and told her, what was truth, that I loved her dearly, and, do you believe, she refused me flatly."
"She proved herself more prudent than you, Arthur. You should have known better than to ask a young girl to be your wife, when you have nothing, and will keep nothing, to support her.
"I'll risk the support," returned Arthur, with a short laugh, "if she had consented we could have managed tolive, I fancy; and had we failed, we'd have called on our relations." Here Arthur cast a meaning, but half-mirthful glance at Guly, who, seeing that even then he was half intoxicated, shrunk away, not wishing to prolong the conversation.
"Do you know what I am going to do?" continued Arthur, again looking up.
"Nothing wrong, I hope, Arthur."
"You may think so. Since I can't get her by fair means, I'm bound to get her by foul; that's what I'm going to do."
"For pity's sake, my brother, if the girl is good and innocent do not wrong her; there are enough ready to gratify your idle whims, without robbing the pure and happy of their peace. Where does she live?"
"Perhaps you think I'll tell you that, and have you play the defender? Ah, I've got my senses yet."
"How did you get acquainted, and where?"
"How?By my own natural conversational powers, which called out hers.Where?In the street, in the first place, where I was so fortunate as to meet her just as she had dropped one of a number of parcels of herb medicine she was carrying. I had the pleasure of picking it up for her, and of relieving her of some of her load. Thus I found out where she lived, and then took it upon myself to call again; but she hasn't seemed to like me from the first—hang her pretty eyes; but I'll be revenged for her refusal—see if I'm not."
"Let me beg of you to give up this cruel idea, Arthur. Shame upon you for harboring it for a single moment."
"Pooh!" said Arthur, scoffingly, "it's no use talking, I shall embrace the first opportunity."
Guly turned away heart-sick; he felt it was useless arguing the matter, and knew that had not Arthur been half intoxicated at the time, he would never have given him so much of his confidence; for he rarely now took an opportunity to say anything to him unless it was when extra draughts of wine had taken all restraint from his tongue.
It being the busy season of the year, Guly had of late been so confined to business that it had been impossible for him to slip away and visit Blanche as he had done formerly. Occasionally, he had written her a note and sent it by his friend the dwarf, making such errands the occasion of a round remuneration to the miserable cripple.
He would always hobble his way back after performing the errand, although the walk was long, to say to Guly: "Hih, hih, Monsieur, but she's a beauty, one of her pretty smiles is as good as a picayune to me; bless her heart; I think, Monsieur, she make you very happy one of these days when you both get old enough for the priest to pronounce you man and wife; hih, hih, that I do."
These were honest words; the dwarf meant every syllable of them; and the reward he received in Guly's bright smile, and sometimes an additional bit of silver, had nothing to do with calling them out, however joyfully such tokens were received.
The second evening after Guly's conversation with Arthur, the former stood in the store door waiting anxiously for the customers to leave that he might "close up" and visit Blanche. Arthur had already gone out, and he felt a nervous and anxious dread for which he could not account, and which made him all the more eager to be free. As he stood thus, he felt some one sieze the hand which was hanging at his side, and looking down, beheld Richard the dwarf.
"Hih! hih! Monsieur, very long walk, very much tired. She looks more beautiful than ever to-night, though she sheds very much tears. She say to me to-day, when I went by: 'Come to me to-night, Richard, grandpapa is very ill; I may have a message to send by you.' So to-night I went; I tapped at the door with my longest crutch, she come out, cry very much, and tell me give you this."
Guly took the little note the dwarf handed up to him, and hastened up to the light to read it.
It merely stated that her grandpapa was very,veryill, and begged him to get word to Mr. Wilkins and sisterDella, who were her only friends, beside himself, and old Eliza who gave her medicine for her poor sick grandpapa.
After he had read the characteristic and simple little note, Guly slipped a piece of money into Richard's hand, thanking him warmly for the service he had done him, and the little man swung himself away, talking pleasantly to himself as he went.
It was late before it was possible to shut the store, but the moment he could do so, Guly did; and then with a sinking heart took his way to Wilkins' house. Della and Wilkins were sitting by the grate when he entered, while Minny sat on a low stool just in front of her mistress, with one fair round arm thrown caressingly over Della's lap. It seemed too bright a picture to be disturbed, and Guly, who had entered unannounced, stood looking at it a moment before he did so.
The moment he told his errand, Della begged Wilkins to go and do all he could, to take Minny with him, and to give Blanche her dear love, and tell her she would have gone herself had she not felt too much indisposed.
Minny tied on her hat, threw a light shawl about her shoulders, and started away with Wilkins and Guly at a rapid pace. The moon was shining brightly, and as they walked briskly on, their shadows fell long and slender, marching on before them. They had approached within a few blocks of the house, when Guly's attention was attracted by the appearance of some dark object on the opposite side of the way, going slowly along in the shadow of the buildings, and evidently seeking concealment.
With his curiosity awakened, he pointed it out to Wilkins, and bidding Minny seek the shelter of an adjacent doorway, they crossed the narrow street to discover if possible what it was. As they approached, the object moved more quickly, but they soon drew near enough to see it was a female form, borne in the arms of a stout negro, and Arthur. As they passed an opening between two houses, the moonlight streamed down full upon the upturned face of the girl they were carrying, exposing her features clearly to Wilkins and his companion.
"Blanche! my own Blanche!"
Uttering these words, Guly sprang wildly forward. Arthur, finding he could not escape, turned short round and met him face to face.
The brothers grappled; all of Guly's meekness and forbearance was merged in the base insult which had been offered her he loved, and he seemed for the time gifted with almost superhuman strength. The struggle was brief; and Arthur was flung heavily upon the pavement. In an instant Blanche, whom Wilkins had released from the negro's grasp, was weeping on his bosom. With an effort, Arthur managed to pick himself up, and slunk away into the shadows, leaving Blanche with her defenders.
From that night the bonds of sympathy were broken between the brothers; and each trod his chosen path almost unheeded by the other.
"Tell me, Blanche," said Guly, as, rejoining Minny, they proceeded to her grandfather's house, "how this happened. What took you away from the sick-bed to be exposed to the craft of bad men?"
"Oh, I was so anxious and so unhappy," said Blanche, weeping bitterly, "I feared grandpapa would die before any of you came. I left Lilah, the little girl you sent me, Mr. Wilkins, to watch by grandpapa while I ran down the piazza steps to see if you were coming. The moment I reached the last step, that horrid negro threw his arm about me. I struggled and tried to scream, but the other forced a gag in my mouth, and carried me off. I gave myself up to die, but God sent you, dear Guly, to save me, and you, Mr. Wilkins, for the second time. This same bad man has hung about here for a week or more; but I have always tried to elude him, because I believed him wicked, though he pretended to love me and all that."
Guly shuddered as he felt it must have been Blanche of whom Arthur had spoken a few evenings before; but he said nothing, and stood once more in the little room where many times they had been so happy together. The old man's easy chair was empty now, and from an inner room came low faint moans of suffering.
Blanche hurried to the bedside, and stood bending over her grandfather, weeping bitterly. It was evident his hours were numbered, and they all gathered round, silent and tearful, to see the old man die. Blanche stood on one side of the bed, with Minny by her side, and Guly and Wilkins directly opposite. Slowly the breath came through those aged lips, slow and faint. In his effort to get air, the dying man threw out his arms upon the coverlet. His hands met those of Blanche and Guly, as they rested on the bedside. It might have been accident, but the trembling fingers clasped them tightly, and with a last effort folded them together above him. There came a shiver, a faint moan, and the grandsire was dead, with his chilling fingers still folding those two young hands together.
There seemed to be no bounds to Blanche's grief, and it was with the greatest difficulty she could be persuaded to leave for a moment the corpse of her grandfather. When she was at last induced to do so, Wilkins sent for an undertaker and had the body fitly prepared for its last resting-place.
Finding that Blanche would not think of taking a moments rest, or of remaining away from the corpse, Wilkins, and Guly, and Minny remained with her in that lonely and desolate room, where the shadow of death hung so darkly, until the morning sun streamed in through the little windows, robbing the chamber of some of its darkness and gloom.
It was not thought advisable to keep the body long, and the next afternoon the funeral took place. Guly attended it, as did Wilkins' family, and a few of Blanche's Creole neighbors.
When the last sad rites were over, Guly attended Blanche back to her lonely home. Wilkins kindly offered her a home in his house, an offer which Della warmly seconded; but Blanche had sufficient tact to see that Wilkins was poor, and had no little difficulty to support his own family comfortably, and she gratefully declined his invitation, stating there was much that required her attention for the present at home, but that she would soon visit them.
When she returned to the old spot, endeared to her by so many fond associations, her grief again burst forth, and Guly drawing a chair to her side strove to soothe and comfort her.
He could not leave her there without telling how deeply and truly he loved her, how faithfully his love would always endure, and how earnestly he desired that love should be returned.
Placing both her hands in his, Blanche told him in her own frank, innocent way, how dearly she loved him in return, and how fondly she had thought of him since the first day they ever met, and that she would never love any one else, never, never.
"And one of these days when I am a man, and have anice little home to offer you, you will be my own dear little wife. Blanche, you promise?"
"I promise, Guly, I could never be happy as the dear little wife of any one else, and when you say, 'Blanche, I want you now,' then Blanche is yours."
Guly pressed her to his heart and they plighted troth. This was but boy and girl love, but it was a love which decayed not, neither did it fade, but flourished and grew, even with the hand of sorrow and trial crushing out its young life.
Della sat rocking by the fire, looking pale and ill, and Bernard was fondly hanging over her chair. Minny sat a little way apart, holding upon her lap the first-born babe—a boy—"the darling of their een."
Never was a happier father, never a prouder and more delighted mother.
"Bernard," said Della, looking up in her husband's face, "I have a plan to propose."
"What is it, dearest?"
"Will you grant it?"
"Perhaps."
"Well, I think that now little Bernard is old enough to do a little while without me, and what I have to propose is, that you send me in the country, to visit our friends,and to regain my health, which you know is sadly impaired, while Minny stays home, and takes care of you, and plays mother to baby; what say you?"
"And leave me a widower?"
"Just a little while."
"And why not take the boy and Minny with you?"
"Oh, that would never do. Must leave my cares behind, when I go for my health, you know."
"Poor child! it seems strange to hear you talking of cares, you who were born to so much wealth and luxury."
"Hush, hush! you musn't talk so. Happy cares mine are, and you know it, though not just the ones to take with me on a visit. Now confess, that you never knew a happier little wife than yours, or a more joyous little household than ours."
"True, in spite of our poverty."
"Yes, in spite of everything. Love is our wealth, and we are so happy in the possession of it."
"Yet you want to run away from us all!"
"Yes, since you will have it so; do you consent?"
"Submissively."
It was so arranged, then, that Della should leave on one of the evening up-river boats, and the rest of the day was spent in the hurry and bustle of preparation.
Though Minny had felt really unhappy at the idea of being left alone with Bernard, toward whom she stood insuch a peculiar relation, she studiously concealed her feelings from Della, not wishing to mar the bright anticipations in which she was indulging; and, smothering her own forebodings, hoped for the best.
The parting hour arrived, and with many charges, and tears, and warnings, Della clung to her husband and her baby, regretting, even at the last moment, that she had made up her mind to part with them.
"Dear Bernard, I leave Minny in your charge; take precious care of her for my sake. A great charge I leave with you, dearest—my boy and dear Minny. You must be mother and sister till I come back."
"I will, love; truly is my charge a sacred one."
"Good-bye, my treasures."
"Good-bye."
She passed out to the carriage.
"Send Minny to me once again, Bernard."
Minny came.
Della threw her arms around her, and pressed her to her heart.
"I never parted from you before, dear Minny, and I can scarcely give you up. Were it not that health demanded it, and a narrow purse forbade our both going, this would have never been. There! don't cry, Minny; when we meet, it will be never to part again."
Was there prophecy in those parting words?
As the carriage rolled away, Minny stood holding the heavy black curls from her brow, gazing earnestly after it as long as she could see Della's white handkerchief waving her adieu; then, bursting into a flood of tears, she took the babe from its father's arms, and entered the house.
Bernard was a good husband to Della, and loved her as dearly as it was possible for him to love. But his marriage with her had not bettered his fortunes, and he was a poor man. This sometimes induced him to indulge in his old habits, in spite of Della's remonstrances, and tearful assurances that they were rich enough, and surely very happy, if he wouldn't follow these bad practices. He occasionally played high, in the hope of mending his purse, and then drank deep, to drown his disappointment. Several times since their marriage, he had gone home in such a state as this; but, every time, Della's unfeigned distress had called forth an earnest promise of amendment, which at the time he had faithfully meant to fulfill. But now Della was gone, and her restraining influence gone with her. She had been absent but a few days, when one night Bernard stayed out very late; and Minny, tired of waiting up for him, arranged the latch-key so that he might enter, and taking the baby in her arms, retired with him to her own room. She had but just laid the child upon his pillow when she heard his fathers step upon the stairs. She knew instantly, by its unsteadiness, that he was intoxicated. She did not disrobe, but, sitting down beside the bed, listened with painful anxiety to hear him go quietly to rest in his own room. She sat almost breathless, while a thrilling and undefinable dread crept through her whole frame. The steps went slowly on, she heard them pass into Della's chamber, linger there a moment, and then, oh, horror! they were directed straight toward her door. They came on, in their wavering unsteadiness, and, with a sudden impulse, Minny sprang to the bed, thinking to catch up his sleeping son, and meet him in the hall; but ere she could carry out her design Bernard had reached the door, entered, and closed it behind him. His blood-shot eyes, his flushed face, and trembling hand, as he held the lamp before him, all bore evidence of the excitement under which he labored.
"So, so, pretty one, how do you progress in playing mother, eh?"
"Very well," replied Minny, with forced calmness. "Did you come to look after him?"
"Look after him? no, I didn't; I knew he was doing well enough; I came to look after you."
"Is there anything you want, which I can get you," said Minny, approaching the door, and laying her hand on the knob.
"No, my beauty," returned the other, placing his back against the door, and turning the key in the lock, while heplaced his lamp on the table beside him, "there's nothing I want which you cangetme, but there's something I want which you cangiveme, and that's a kiss. Come here."
He seated himself, and motioned for her to come and sit upon his knee.
Minny grew deathly pale, and laid her hand upon her heart, to still its tumultuous throbbing. There was no way of escape; the window was too high from the ground, and the door was locked, and her persecutor had the key.
Striving to conceal her agitation, she said, as quietly as she could:—
"I cannot give you that, Bernard; such manifestations on your part, you should remember, belong to your wife and child."
"And isn't the mother of my boy my wife? and did you not just confess you were his mother?"
"In the absence of his rightful mother, I have striven to fill her place; and if you choose to look upon me in such a light, show me the respect which is my due. Leave my room, sir!"
"By Jove, girl, you are saucy; come here, and sit upon my knee. You're a little wrathful just now, but all the prettier for that. Come."
Minny rose up, with her face ashy pale, and stood in her calm womanly dignity before him.
"Are you not ashamed to show a defenceless womansuch an outrage, in your own house? I have seen the time when Bernard Wilkins would have scorned so cowardly an act as this."
"That was when he had drank less wine, and lost less gold; come, there is no use in parleying, come here by me."
He started forward, and grasping her rudely by the wrist, drew her toward him.
Minny struggled wildly, but his hold was firm.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, as with a violent effort she wrenched her wrist from his grasp, "for Heaven's sake, Bernard, remember what is due to your absent wife, what belongs to yourself, what in duty bound you owe to me. Think of your innocent babe, and be a man once more. I beg you leave me to myself."
"Nonsense, girl; haven't I a right here? Didn't I marry you once, and doesn't that make my presence here proper and right? Have you forgotten that?"
"No, never! butyouforgot it.Youmade the bonds, which united us, illegal, and took to your heart another bride. You have forgotten this, too, it would seem, or you would not thus insult me. I am no more to you now than if those days had never been."
"Zounds! my pretty one, we think differently on that score," said Wilkins, throwing his arms about her slender waist.
"Let go your hold this instant!" cried Minny, "or I will shriek for help, and expose you to the neighborhood."
"Shriek as loud as you choose," returned the now determined man; "who, do you suppose, will hear? Scream, and let me see how well you can do it up."
Still struggling in his grasp, Minny flung herself upon her knees before him, and clasped her hands upon her breast.
"Oh, Bernard, have mercy!"
"Yield, then."
"Never!"
"By Heaven, then, I will make you."
Tightening his clasp about her with one arm, with the other he drew a pistol from his side-pocket, and presented it at her forehead.
"How now?"
"Oh, Bernard, is this the sacred charge that Della left you?"
"Do you give up?"
"No, no! with my latest breath, no!"
"Then I shall fire."
"Fire, then! here is my heart, fire! I would sooner die a thousand deaths, than have my mistress think I was so base a thing as you would make me. You never shall dishonor her while Minny has power to prevent it."
Surely a demon had crept into Bernard's heart, as hestood an instant, with fascinated eye, gazing on the young girl, as she knelt in all her fearful beauty before him. He seemed to have lost entirely all control over himself, and with excited mien listened to the echo of those last words. It was but a second's pause, yet it embraced an eternity; the fatal trigger was drawn, by an impulse he could not withstand, and Minny fell backward on the floor, with her long curls falling round her like a pall.
The ball had entered just beneath her chin, glanced, and lodged in her right side. It was a most ghastly wound, and as the blood poured from it, over the snow-white dress, and trickled slowly along the floor, Bernard stood gazing upon it like one petrified. His eyes opened wide with horror, his limbs grew rigid, his very hair seemed to rise up, in the intense agony of the moment. The pistol dropped from his extended hand, and he fell upon his knees beside his victim, completely sobered, and awakened to the full magnitude of the crime he had committed.
"Oh, Minny, Minny! I have been the curse of your life-time; a shadow, mingling with all your sunlight; fearful, fearful is the retribution cast from your dying spirit upon mine. Forgive me, oh, forgive me!"
Suddenly, with the last remnant of strength gathered to speak once more, her small hands were raised convulsively, and placed in Bernard's, while her dark eyes, softened, and even more beautiful in their death-hour than ever before, sought his face.
"God forgive you, Bernard, as I this moment forgive youall, all. To your wife, Bernard, your Della, henceforth be faithful; be true to her, love her, cherish her, guard her as your life. Do this, and the shadow of this hour will rest ever on your heart holily."
"I promise; as God hears me, I promise."
There was a faint pressure from the hand he held, the lips moved, but gave out no sound, and Bernard sat alone in the chamber of death, clasping in his own the cold hands of the murdered Minny!