That evening, from every window of Mr. Goldworthy's princely mansion in Howard street, shone brilliant lights. It was the eve appointed for the marriage of Alice and the Chevalier Duvall.
In consequence of the melancholy and startling events which took place in the house on the preceding night—the severe wounding of Clarence, and the abduction of Fanny—it had been suggested by both Alice and her father, that it would be proper to defer the performance of the ceremony for a short time, or until the fate of the missing girl could be ascertained; the Chevalier, however, strongly opposed this proposition, and assuming the authority of an accepted suitor, delicately but firmly insisted that the marriage should take place that evening, as had been previously arranged "for," said he, "to defer the consummation of our happinesswill not assist in the recovery of Miss Aubrey. When I become your husband, my Alice, I can with far more propriety aid in seeking the lost one, for were we to remain unmarried, my interest in the poor young lady might be imputed to improper or even dishonorable motives."
This reasoning had the desired effect; it was decided that the marriage ceremony should not be postponed.
Alice had not communicated to the Chevalier the story which Fanny had told her, concerning the affair of the lost package of money—for as she utterly disbelieved the tale, (imputing it to the effects of an excited imagination,) she had no desire to wound the feelings of her lover by acquainting him with the absurd charge (as she thought) which had been brought against him. How blind is love to the imperfections, the faults, and even the crimes of the object of its adoration! We believe it is Shakespeare who says:
"Love looks not with the eye, but with the mind,And therefore is wing'd Cupid painted blind."
"Love looks not with the eye, but with the mind,And therefore is wing'd Cupid painted blind."
The folding doors which separated the two spacious parlors in Mr. Goldworthy's house were thrown open, forming a vast hall, brilliantly illuminated by superb chandeliers, and decorated with every appliance of modern elegance and taste. About a dozen relatives and friends of the family had assembled to witness the ceremony; among them were several of the wealthiest members of the Boston aristocracy. There was the gray-headed millionaire, who has made his name famous by the magnificence of his donations to public institutions which are already wealthy enough; but then such liberal gifts are heralded in the newspapers, and his name is blazoned forth as the great philanthropist; and—it really is so troublesome to give to the suffering poor; besides, the world seldom hears of deeds of unostentatious charity. Now, we are one of those plain people who like to look at things in the light of common reason, without regard to high-sounding titles, or lofty associations; and it is our unpretending opinion that the God of charity and mercy looks down with much greater approbation upon the act of feeding a starving family, or comfortably clothing a few of His naked little ones, than upon the bestowal of twenty or thirty thousand dollars on this or that University, for the purpose of endowing a Professor of Humbugonomy, that he may initiate a class of learned blockheads into the mysteries of star-gazing, patient-killing, legal fleecing, or cheating the devil by turning parson.
Besides the gray-headed millionaire, to whom we have thus particularly alluded, there was the young lady who boasts of being heiress to hundreds of thousands of dollars; consequently, of course, she is unanimously voted to be "charming—divine—perfection!" Her beauty is pronounced angelic; her accomplishments are the theme of universal admiration. "Oh, she is an unsurpassable creature!" exclaim the whole tribe of contemptible, sycophantic, brainless calves in broadcloth, who are ever ready to fall down and worship the golden emblem of themselves. And yet she is pug-nosed, freckle-faced, and red-headed; insolent to her equals, coarsely familiar with her inferiors; her vulgarity is without wit, her affectation is devoid of elegance or grace; ignorant and stupid, the meanest kitchen wench would sufferby a comparison with her. In striking contrast with this ludicrous specimen of degraded aristocracy, there were several young ladies present who were really lovely and accomplished women. These were the personal friends of Alice; they had come to witness her nuptials with the magnificent Chevalier.
Precisely as the clock struck eight, Duvall entered the apartment, and saluted the company with that exquisite and gentlemanly grace for which he was distinguished. With difficulty could the assembled guests refrain from expressing their admiration aloud; for his appearance was singularly grand and imposing. In his dress, not the slightest approach to foppery could be detected; all was faultless elegance. In his dark eyes and on his proud features an observer could read the lofty triumph which he felt; for was not he, an unknown and perhaps penniless adventurer, about to wed the beautiful and accomplished daughter of one of Boston's "merchant princes"?
Soon the clergyman arrived, and Alice was summoned to take her part in the solemn ceremony which was about to be performed. She was dressed in simple white, her only ornaments consisting of a few natural flowers among the rich clusters of her shining hair.
She was very beautiful; the flush of happiness suffused her cheeks—her eyes sparkled with ineffable joy. Oh, terrible sacrifice!
The ceremony proceeds; the solemn words are spoken. 'Tis all over—friends crowd around with their congratulations—there are smiles, and blushes, and tears; but a deep sense of happiness pervades every heart. Alice is the wife of Duvall, by the sacred rites of the church, in the sight of Heaven, and before men. The Chevalier pressed her madly to his heart, while
"Unto the ground she cast her modest eye,And, ever and anon, with rosy red,The bashful blush her snowy cheeks did dye."
"Unto the ground she cast her modest eye,And, ever and anon, with rosy red,The bashful blush her snowy cheeks did dye."
Then came music, and the merry dance—and finally, a repast, that rivalled in luxury the banquet of an emperor. In the midst of the supper, in obedience to the secret signal of one of her bridesmaids, Alice stole away, and was conducted by a charmingcoterieof her female friends, to Hymen's sacred retreat, the nuptial chamber—which nothing should induce us to invade, gentle reader, were it not necessary to do so in order to develop a scene in our narrative, which cannot possibly be omitted.
It was an apartment of but moderate size; yet it was a gem of luxurious comfort. Everything was in the most perfect taste; and it was evident by a certain refined delicacy in all the arrangements, that the fair Alice herself had superintended the preparations. Happy the man who should bestow the first chaste kiss of wedded love, upon the pure lips of a lovely bride, within that soft bower of voluptuousness!
She is disrobed; from her virgin limbs are removed the snowy garments; she is coquettishly arrayed in the seductive costume of bewitching night! She blushes, and is almost painfully embarrassed; for never before have her glowing charms been contemplated thus, even by female eyes. She finds herself at last reclining within the luxurious folds of the magnificent nuptial couch; then her kind friendskiss her—bid her a smiling good-night—and leave her to await the coming of her husband. For the first time, her bosom heaves tumultuously with emotions which she acknowledges to be delightful, though she cannot comprehend them.
But where, meanwhile, is the happy bridegroom? He is at the head of the splendid board, responding to the many toasts which are proposed in his honor, and that of his lovely and expectant bride. Again and again he fills the goblet, and quaffs the foaming champagne. He fascinates everybody by his rare eloquence—his inimitable wit; Mr. Goldworthy congratulates himself on his good fortune in having secured so charming—so talented a son-in-law. The dark eyes of the Chevalier sparkle almost fearfully; his superb countenance is flushed with wine and passion. This rosy god of the grape has nearly conquered him; he is more than half intoxicated. Losing his habitual caution, he launches forth into the recital of the most brilliant and daring adventures in intrigue, fraud and robbery, he relates these events with a gusto that would seem to indicate his having taken a leading part in them himself. The guests are startled, and view him with an admiration mixed with fear. The Chevalier drinks deeper and deeper. Wilder and more exciting grow his narratives; he tells strange tales of the Italian banditti—of pirates upon the Spanish main—of dashing French pickpockets—of bold English highwaymen—of desperate American burglars, and of expert counterfeiters. Mr. Goldworthy, at last, begins to regard him with a feeling akin to suspicion. "Who can this man be," he mentally asks himself—"that talks so familiarly of every species of crime and villainy? Is he a fitting husband for my pure and gentle daughter? Can he have been a participant in those lawless adventures which he so eloquently describes? I like not the dark frown upon his brow, nor the fierce glances of his eyes. But tush! of what am I thinking? I must not harbor unjust suspicions against the husband of my child; he is merely somewhat excited by the generous wine, and probably derived his knowledge of these matters from the romances of the day. 'Tis best that he should drink no more at present; I will therefore hint to him that it is high time for a loyal bridegroom to retire to the arms of his expectant bride. He surely will not disregard so tempting a suggestion, for my Alice is very like her mother, and egad! onmywedding night, twenty years ago, I needed no second hint to induce me to fly eagerly toherarms. Ah, I was young then, and old age plays sad havoc with us!"
The worthy old gentleman whispered a few moments in the ear of the Chevalier. The latter arose with a flushed cheek and a flashing eye.
"Thanks for the hint, good father-in-law," he cried, draining another goblet of wine—"I have paid my devoirs to Bacchus; now will I worship at the shrine of Venus!"
With rather an unsteady gait he left the apartment, and, under the guidance of two lovely, blushing, tittering damsels, sought the nuptial chamber. At the door of that sacred retreat, his fair guides left him. He entered—and the black-hearted villain, stained with a thousand crimes, stood in the presence of angel purity.
And now, fain would we draw a curtain over what followed—but if we did so, our task would be incomplete. We therefore pass over the delicate details with as much rapidity as the nature of the case will admit.
The Chevalier advanced to the couch, and viewed his bride; evading his ardent gaze, she turned away, her maiden cheek glowing with blushes. Upon the snowy pillow, in rich masses, lay her luxuriant hair; her modestly veiled bosom, whose voluptuousness of outline no drapery could entirely conceal, heaved tumultuously with gushing joy, and holy happiness, and pure passion, and maidenly fear. Her small, exquisite hand, on whose taper fore-finger glittered a magnificent diamond ring, (her husband's gift,) rested upon the gorgeous counterpane, like a snow-flake upon a cluster of roses.
Still the Chevalier profanes not that pure form with his unhallowed touch; perchance some unseen power, the guardian of spotless innocence, restrains him. Placing himself before the splendid mirror, he begins to remove his superb garments with a deliberation and a composure that astonishes even himself.
As each article of dress is successively thrown aside, the magnificent symmetry of that man's unrivalled form becomes more and more apparent. Though of a build unusually powerful, his limbs possess all the grace and suppleness of the Apollo Belvedere. He is one of those rare combinations of strength and beauty, so often represented by classic statuary, yet so seldom seen in a living model.
His task is at length completed; he is in the primeval costume of nature. Complacently he surveys his reflection in the mirror; for he is fully conscious of his great personal advantages, and, in the vanity of his heart, he wishes to display them to the enraptured gaze of his bride. And she—who will say that she does not stealthily contemplate his symmetrical proportions with secret satisfaction—for what woman could, under such peculiar circumstances, be indifferent to the physical advantages possessed by the man of her choice?
Alas! how suddenly did poor Alice's golden dream of happiness vanish forever!
For there—upon her husband's naked breast—in black characters of damning distinctness—isbrandedthe ghastly, hideous words—"CONVICTED FELON!!"
Alice uttered one piercing scream, and fainted.
The marriage guests below had not yet departed. They heard that awful cry, which seemed to be the very concentration of all human anguish. Mr. Goldworthy started to his feet, and his cheeks grew ashy pale.
"My friends," said he, in a low tone—"there is something wrong with my child. Remain here, and I will ascertain the cause of this strange outcry."
Having armed himself with a pistol, he repaired to his daughter's chamber, which he entered without ceremony; for when does a father stand on ceremony, when he believes the safety of his only child to be in danger? There, in the centre of the room, confused and abashed, stood the nude form of the Chevalier; and there, upon his breast, did Mr. Goldworthy behold the accursed brand of crime which had horrified his daughter, and elicited her piercing scream.
"Convicted felon!" gasped the old gentleman, almost disbelieving the evidence of his own senses. "Good God! am I dreaming, or do I actually behold that awful badge of infamy branded upon the flesh of the husband of my child! Almighty heaven, thy judgments are inscrutable, but this blow is too much—too much!"
He buried his face in his hands, and wept bitterly. The Chevalier, by a powerful effort, recovered his accustomed assurance and presence of mind.
"Come, my good sir," said he—"don't get in such a bad way about a few insignificant letters which are stamped upon me. I pledge you my honor 'twas merely done in jest, in a thoughtless moment. Pray retire, and leave me to console my bride for her silly fright."
"Liar and villain!" cried the old man—"would'st thou, with a red-hot iron, brand such words asthoseupon thee, in jest? Thou are a convicted scoundrel—an impostor—a murderer, for aught I know. Thou hast no claim upon my poor girl, who now lies there, insensible; the marriage is null and void!"
"Pooh—nonsense!" said the Chevalier, very coolly—"you make a devil of a fuss about a very small matter. This brand is but the consequence of a youthful folly—crime, if you will—of which I have long since repented, I assure you. A ruffled shirt will always conceal it from the world's prying gaze; your daughter and yourself are the only persons who will ever know of its existence; why, then, should it interfere with our matrimonial arrangements?"
"Dare you parley with me, villain?" cried Mr. Goldworthy, growing more and more indignant at the other's impudent assurance. "Hark'ee, sir," he continued, "the mystery which has always surrounded you, has been anything but favorable to your reputation, forhonestmen are seldom reluctant to disclose all that concerns their past career and present pursuits. But your damnable effrontery, and the accursed fascination of your manners, overcame all our suspicions relative to you; you were regarded as an honorable man, and a gentleman. Unfortunately, my Alice loved you, and in an evil moment I consented to your union. This evening, at the wine table, when you discoursed so learnedly and eloquently upon the exploits of daring villains, the thought struck me that you must have derived your knowledge of them from personal intimacy; but I instantly discarded the suspicion as unworthy of myself and unjust to you. But now—now your guilt can no longer be questioned, for its history is written there, upon your breast! Scoundrel, I might hand you over to the iron grasp of the law, but I will not; resume your garments, and leave this chamber—for your vile presence contaminates the very atmosphere, and 'tis no place for you!"
"No, you will not hand me over to the law, neither will you expose me," said the Chevalier, his lip curling with proud disdain. "Listen to me, old man: you are right—Iama villain—nay, more; I glory in the title. Am I not candid with you?—and yet you, yourself, will be as anxious as I can be, to keep the world ignorant of the fact that I am a villain,—for will the aristocratic Mr. Goldworthy consent that the public shall know that his beautiful daughter Alice is married to a branded criminal? Being perfectly safe, what need is there of concealment on my part? Know, then, that I am an escaped convict from Botany Bay, to which colony I was transported from England, for an atrocious crime. This brand upon my breast was placed there as a punishment for having attempted to murder one of my guards. I have been a pirate, a robber, a highwayman, a burglar, and (but let me whisper this word in your ear,) amurderer! Ha, ha, ha! how do you like your son-in-law now?"
"Monster, out of my sight!" cried the old man, shuddering.
"Softly, softly," said the Chevalier, with imperturbable calmness—"you havenot heard all yet; of my skill as a pickpocket, you yourself have had ample proof, for 'twas I who relieved you of the valuable package last night; yet you dare not prosecute me—for am I not your son-in-law? But curses on my own indiscretion, in allowing wine to overcome my habitual prudence! For had I not been partially intoxicated, think you this mark of guilt would have been so easily discovered? No, believe me—"
"Silence, villain!" thundered Mr. Goldworthy, no longer able to contain his indignation at the cool effrontery of the Chevalier—"I have bandied words with you too long already; you see this pistol?—you are unarmed; I give you five minutes to dress yourself and leave the house; if you are not gone at the end of that time, I swear by the living God to shoot you through the head."
These last words were pronounced with a calmness that left no doubt of their sincerity on the mind of the Chevalier. Villain as he was, he was brave even to desperation; yet he had no particular wish to be hurried into eternity so unceremoniously. He therefore commenced dressing himself, while Mr. Goldworthy stood with the pistol cocked and pointed at his head with a deadly aim.
Meanwhile, the unfortunate Alice recovered from her swoon. Starting up in bed, she cast a hurried glance at her father and the discomfited Chevalier. That glance was sufficient to reveal to her the true state of affairs; and covering her face with her hands, she wept bitterly.
Who can comprehend the depth and devotedness of woman's love? Could it be possible that there still lingered in her crushed heart a single atom of affection for that branded villain, who had so cruelly deceived her? Philosophy may condemn her—human reason itself may scoff at her—but from her pure heart could not utterly be obliterated the sincere and holy love which she had conceived for that unworthy object. To her might have been applied the beautiful words of the poet Campbell:
"Let the eagle change his plume,The leaf its hue, the flower its bloom,But ties around that heart were spunWhich would not, could not be undone."
"Let the eagle change his plume,The leaf its hue, the flower its bloom,But ties around that heart were spunWhich would not, could not be undone."
Before the expiration of the prescribed five minutes, the Chevalier was dressed, and ready to depart. Turning towards Alice, he regarded her with a look which was eloquently expressive of grief, remorse and sorrow. His breast heaved convulsively; he was evidently struggling with the most powerful emotions. A single tear rolled down his cheek—he hastily wiped it away—murmured, "Farewell, Alice, forever!"—and reminded by an imperious gesture from her father that the scene could continue no longer, he turned calmly and walked out of the room. Mr. Goldworthy followed him to the street door, and saw him depart from the house; then, with a deep-drawn sigh, he returned to his guests, who were naturally eager to know the nature of the difficulty. In answer to their inquiries, the old gentleman said—
"My dear friends, do not, I entreat you, press me for an explanation of thismost melancholy affair. Suffice it for me to say, the Chevalier Duvall has proved himself to be utterly unworthy of my daughter. The marriage which has taken place, though not legally void, ismorallyso. I beg of everyone present to respect my feelings as a father and as a man, so far as to preserve a strict silence in reference to this painful matter. The Chevalier Duvall has departed from the house, and will never see my daughter more."
The required promise was given, and the guests took their leave, experiencing feelings of a far different nature from those which had animated them at the commencement of the evening. They had come in the happy anticipation of witnessing the consummation of a beloved friend's felicity; they went away oppressed by a painful uncertainty as to the nature of the difficulty which had arisen in reference to the husband, and chilled by a fear that the earthly happiness of poor Alice was destroyed forever.
The Chevalier returned to the Duchess, to apprise her of the total ruin of his matrimonial schemes, in consequence of thefatal brandupon his person having been discovered; and we return to Fanny Aubrey, who had been conveyed by Jew Mike to the "Chambers of Love," in obedience to the directions given him by the Hon. Timothy Tickels.
We have seen in what manner Jew Mike escaped from the house of Mr. Goldworthy, bearing off the insensible form of Fanny Aubrey; but as the reader may be curious to learn how the ruffian gained entrance to the house, and to the chamber of the young lady, we shall briefly explain.
In the first place, it is perhaps understood that old Tickels applied to Sow Nance for assistance in the business of abducting Fanny, and conveying her to that den of iniquity called the "Chambers of Love,"—which place will be hereafter described. Nance, on being applied to, informed her employer that she had a "love cull," (paramour,) who was exactly suited to the business, and who would, for a proper compensation, engage to do the job. Tickels was delighted with the proposal, and eagerly desired to have an early interview with her accommodating lover. But there was a difficulty; Jew Mike had an invincible repugnance to going abroad under any circumstances, inasmuch as he had recently been engaged in a heavy burglary, and the pleasure of his company was earnestly sought after by police officer Storkfeather and other indefatigables. He was safely housed in the "Pig Pen," and regarded it as decidedly unsafe to venture out, even to execute a piece of work as profitable as the one which Mr. Tickels wished him to perform. It was finally arranged that the latter gentleman would call on Mike at the "Pen," on a certain evening. This was done; and the result of that interview was, that Mike,for and in consideration of receiving the sum of one hundred dollars, agreed to carry off Fanny Aubrey, and deposit her safely in the "Chambers of Love."
To obviate the possibility of Mike's being overhauled by his old friends the police officers, it was arranged that a cab should be at his entire disposal; the same vehicle would serve to convey the young lady with secrecy and rapidity to the place destined for her imprisonment. Tickels engaged to have Mike privately introduced into the house of Mr. Goldworthy, and it was effected in this manner.
On the night previous to the abduction, at about the hour of nine, a cab was driven through Ann street, and halted in front of the dance cellar which communicated with the "Pig Pen." The driver of this vehicle was a sable individual, who has since attained some notoriety under the cognomen of "Jonas." He is intimately acquainted with the location and condition of every house of prostitution in Boston, and enjoys the familiar acquaintance of many white courtezans of beauty and fashion, not a few of whom (so 'tis said,) testify their appreciation of his valuable services in bringing them profitable custom, by freely granting him those delightful privileges which are usually extended to white patrons only, who can pay well for the same. Jonas has lately become the editor and proprietor of that valuable periodical known as the "Key to the Chambers of Love," which is acardcontaining a list of almost every bower of pleasure in Boston, with the names of their keepers. It is a document which is extensively patronized by the sporting bloods. This fortunate darkey it was, then, who was employed in the delicate matter, the progress of which we are now describing.
He had no sooner halted his cab, as we have stated, than there cautiously issued from the cellar an individual carefully concealed from observation by a huge slouched hat and cloak. This, it is almost needless to say, was Jew Mike himself. Having greeted Jonas with the assurance of "all right," he quickly entered the cab, and the sable driver started his horse towards Howard street at a slapping pace.
In the neighborhood of the Athenaeum, the cab paused, and Mike got out. He was instantly joined by the Hon. Mr. Tickels, who said to Jonas—
"Drive away, and be on this spot again, with your horse and cab, precisely at twelve o'clock. Remain here until one; if by that time Mike does not make his appearance, you will know that the job can't be done to-night, and you need wait no longer. To-morrow night, be on this spot again, at twelve, and remain until one—and don't fail to repeat this every night until Mike appears with the young woman he is to carry off. For every night that you come here, you shall be paid five dollars. Do you understand?"
"Yes, indeed, ole hoss," replied the delighted Jonas, displaying his mouthful of dominoes—"dat five dollars ebery night will 'nable dis colored person to shine at de balls of de colored society dis winter; perhaps be de manager—yah, yah, yah!" When giving utterance to his peculiar laugh, Jonas makes a noise as if he were undergoing the process of being choked to death by a fat sausage. Having thus given vent to his satisfaction, he mounted his cab and drove off. When he had departed, Tickels drew Mike within the dark shadow of a building, and, in whispered tones, thus addressed him:—
"I have, as you are aware, succeeded in bribing one of Goldworthy's servants toadmit you into the house, and conceal you until the favorable moment arrives for you to bear off the prize. Whether you do it to-night, or to-morrow night, or the next, you must be sure to do it only between the hours of twelve and one, for only during that interval of time will Jonas and his cab be in waiting for you. When the time for action arrives, you must satisfy yourself that all is still in the house—that all have retired. I have ascertained that Goldworthy and his household almost invariably retire to rest at ten o'clock; therefore, it is reasonable to suppose that they are all asleep by twelve. At that hour, if you think the coast is clear, steal cautiously forth from your place of concealment, and noiselessly enter the young lady's chamber; this you will have no difficulty in doing, for I have taken the pains to ascertain that she never takes the precaution to lock the door."
"But," interrupted Jew Mike—"in that large mansion, containing so many apartments, how shall I know for certainty which particular room the young woman sleeps in?"
"I have anticipated and provided for that difficulty," rejoined Tickels—"although the servant whom I have bribed, could doubtless direct you to the chamber. Here, on this sheet of paper, I have drawn a diagram of the entire building; by studying it for a few minutes, you will readily be enabled to find your way to any part of the house.—To resume: you will enter the chamber, and assure yourself that the young lady is sleeping; this is an important point, because, if she should chance to be awake, and observe you, she would naturally scream with affright, which would ruin everything. Well, having satisfied yourself, beyond a doubt, that she is fast asleep, you will softly approach the bed, and, in the twinkling of an eye,bind and gag her!so that she will be utterly incapable of voice or motion. Then take her in your arms, steal noiselessly down stairs, and make your exit by the front door, which will be left unlocked for that purpose. Having reached the street, leap with your precious burden into the cab, and Jonas will drive you with all speed to the 'Chambers.' Take off your shoes when in the house, and your footsteps will be less liable to be heard. Now, Mike, I have one request to make: I know the laxity of your principles with respect to the virtue of honesty, and admire your system of appropriation—but steal nothing, not even the merest trifle, in the house. I will tell you why I require this of you; when the young lady is missed, if property is also missed, they will naturally suppose that both she and the valuables have been carried off by some marauder; for they could never believeherto be guilty of theft; and their affection for her would prompt them to make every effort for her recovery. If, on the contrary, no property disappears with her, they may possibly think that she has voluntarily eloped, and will be apt to trouble themselves very little about her, for her supposed ingratitude will arouse their indignation. Do you not perceive and acknowledge the force of my argument?"
Jew Mike replied that he certainly did, and assured his worthy employer that he would, for the first time in his life, refrain from stealing, even where he had an excellent opportunity.
"This heroic self-denial on your part is worthy of the highest commendation," said Mr. Tickels. "I have but one more observation to make, and then I will detain you no longer. If it should unfortunately happen that you are detected in thisbusiness, for God's sake don't bring my name in connection with it. Tell them that your design was to rob the house; they will send you to jail, and no matter how many charges may be brought against you, I have money and influence sufficient to procure your liberation. Now, my good fellow, do you consent to this?"
Mike answered affirmatively; and the two proceeded towards Mr. Goldworthy's house. Fortunately for their operations, there was no moon, and the night was intensely dark; therefore, they were by no means likely to be observed by any prying individual or inquisitive Charley—besides, the gentlemen who belong to the latter class, prefer rather to indulge in a comfortable doze on some door-step, than to go prowling about, impertinently interfering with the business of enterprising burglars and others, who "prefer darkness rather than light."
The Hon. Mr. Tickels and Jew Mike, having reached Mr. Goldworthy's house, stationed themselves in front of the door, and after a short pause, to assure themselves that all was right, the former worthy gave utterance to three distinct coughs, which were, however, rendered in a very low tone. The signal was answered almost immediately; the door was softly opened, and a man made his appearance; this was the unfaithful servant who had been bribed to admit a villain into his master's house.
"Is everything all right, Cushing?" asked Tickels, in a whisper.
"Yes, sir," replied the fellow, in the same tone—"there's no one stirring in the house except myself, as Mr. Goldworthy and the ladies have gone to the theatre, and have not yet returned; and as to the other servants, they have all gone to bed."
"That's well," remarked Tickels—"now, Mike, this man will conceal you in some safe place. If the business can be done to-night, do it; if not, defer it until a favorable opportunity presents itself. You know all the arrangements; therefore I need not repeat them. Fulfil your contract, and come to me for your reward. Good night."
He departed. Cushing desired Jew Mike to follow him into the house; the latter obeyed, and was conducted into a small room, which the servant gave him to understand was his sleeping chamber.
"Is this to be my place of concealment?" demanded Jew Mike, glancing around with a growl of dissatisfaction—"damn it, you couldn't hide a mouse here without its being discovered."
"That's true enough," rejoined Cushing—"you can't hide here, that's certain. I confess I am at a loss where to put you. There's no time to be lost, for I expect my master and the ladies to return every instant. Hell and furies, there's the carriage now! they have come!"
It was true; a carriage stopped at the door, and they could hear the voices and footsteps of people entering the house.
"We are lost!" cried Cushing, pale with fear—"yet stay; there is but one way of escaping immediate detection. Have you the courage to hide in—in—"
"Courage!" exclaimed Mike, in great rage—"show me a place of concealment, and I'll stow myself in it, if it be hell itself! Our enterprise must not fail by my being discovered here."
"Quick, then—this way—follow me—softly, softly," whispered the other,conducting Mike up a flight of stairs, and into a handsomely furnished bed-chamber.
"This," said Cushing—"is the room in which Miss Fanny Aubrey sleeps; the young lady whom you are to carry off. It is the best place in the world for you to conceal yourself in, for your victim will be almost within your grasp. Quick—stow yourselfunder the bed, in the farthest corner. She will not discover you, if you keep perfectly quiet, for you will be screened from view by the thick curtains of the bed. If you cannot do the job to-night, you must remain in your hiding-place all day to-morrow—and indeed, you must not think of stirring forth, until the moment arrives for you to carry off Miss Fanny. I will contrive to supply you with food and drink. Hark!—by God, somebody is coming up-stairs. I must be off—under the bed with you—quick, quick!"
In a twinkling was Jew Mike snugly ensconced beneath the bed, while Cushing hastily left the chamber, and repaired to his own room.
Within the space of one minute afterwards, Fanny Aubrey entered her chamber, accompanied by a maid-servant bearing a light.
"You may set down the candle, Matilda, if you please, dear," said Fanny, in her sweet, gentle voice—"and leave me, for I shall not need your assistance to undress me."
"Indeed, Miss, axing your pardon, I shall do no such thing," responded Matilda, who was a buxom, good-humored, and rather good-looking young woman; and with a kind of respectful familiarity, she began to perform upon her young mistress the delicate and graceful duties of afemme de chambre. "You are very silly, Matilda, thus to insist on waiting onme; I, that am as poor as yourself, and was brought up as nothing but a fruit girl."
"Lor, Miss!" cried Matilda, holding up her hands with a sort of pious horror—"how can you compare yourself with the likes of me? You were born to be a lady, and I am so happy to be your servant—your own ladies' maid! You will have a fine husband one of these days, Miss. Now, if I might make so bold, there is that pretty young gentleman, Miss Alice's cousin, Master Clarence—"
"Hush, Matilda," interrupted Fanny, blushing deeply—"what has Master Clarence to do with me? you are a silly creature. Make haste and undress me, since you will do it, for I am so tired and sleepy!"
Matilda did as she was desired, but being, like all other ladies' maids, very talkative, kept up a 'running commentary' on the charms of her young mistress, as ladies' maids are very apt to do.
"What beautiful hair!" quoth the abigail, in an under tone, as if she were merely holding a sociable chat with herself—"for all the world like skeins of golden thread; and what a fair skin! just like a heap of snow, or a newly washed sheet spread out to bleach. Patience alive! this pretty arm beats Mrs. Swelby's wax-work all hollow; and these beautiful—"
"You vex me to death with your nonsense, Matilda," cried Fanny—"how tiresome you are! Pray be silent."
Thus rebuked, the ladies' maid continued her task in silence. When the younglady was disrobed, and about to retire to bed, she was startled by a sudden exclamation of Matilda's—
"Bless me, Miss! what noise was that? It sounded as if somebody was hid somewhere in this very chamber."
They both paused and listened; all was again still. Fanny, as well as her maid had certainly heard a slight noise, which seemed to have been produced by a slow and cautious movement, and sounded like the rustling of a curtain.
"Twas nothing but the noise of the night-breeze agitating the window curtains," remarked Fanny, at length, with a smile.
Ah! neither she, nor her maid, saw the two fearful eyes that were glaring at them from among the intricate folds of the curtain, beneath the bed!—Neither saw they the dark and hideous countenance of the ruffian that lay concealed there.
"Well, Miss," said Matilda, not over half re-assured by the words of her mistress—"it may be nothing, as you say; but, for my part, I never go to bed a single night in the year, without firstlooking under the bedto see that nobody is hid away there. And I advise you to do the same, Miss; and I am sure you would, if you only knew what happened to my cousin Bridget."
"And what was that, pray?" asked Fanny, as she got into bed, and settled herself comfortably, in order to listen to what happened to cousin Bridget—all her fears in regard to the noise which she had heard, having vanished.
"Why, you see, miss," said Matilda, seating herself at the bed-side,—"cousin Bridget was cook in a gentleman's family in this city, and a very nice body she was, and is to this day. In the same family there lived a young man as was a coachman, very good-looking, and very attentive to Biddy, as we call her for shortness, miss. But, though he was desperate in love with my cousin, she would give him no encouragement, and the poor fellow pined away, and neglected his wittles, and grew thin in flesh, until, from being called Fat Tom, he got to be nicknamed the 'Natomy, which means a skeleton. It was in vain, miss, that poor 'Natomy threatened to take to hard drinking, or pizen himself with Prooshy acid, unless she took pity on him—not a smile, or a kiss, or a hope could he get from cousin Biddy. Now, between ourselves, I really think she had a sort of a sneaking notion after him; you know, miss, that we women folks like to tease the men, by making them think that we hate 'em, when all the time we are dead in love with 'em. Well, matters and things went on pretty much as I have said, for some times; until something happened that made a great change in the feelings of cousin Biddy towards Tom the coachman. Biddy slept in a nice little bed-room in the attic—all by herself; and Tom slept in another nice little bed-room in the attic—all byhimself, too. Well, miss, one night Biddy went to a fancy ball in Ann street, given in honor of her brother's wife's second cousin, Mrs. MacFiggins, having been blessed with three twins at a birth; she danced very late, and drank a great deal of hot toddy, which made her so nervous that she had to go home in a hackney-coach. She went to bed, but the toddy made her feel so very uncomfortable, that she had to get up again, during the night; and she happened, by accident, to reach her hand under the bed—and what do you think, miss? her hand caught hold of something—shepulled it towards her, out from under the bed—and oh, my gracious! what must have been the feelings of the poor body, when she found that she had taken hold of a man's—nose!and, what was worse than all, that nose belonged to Tom, the coachman! My poor cousin Biddy, on making this awful discovery, gave a low scream, and fainted; and then—and then, miss—in about half an hour, when she came to her senses, on finding that nobody, except Tom, had heard her scream, she felt so kind ofput outabout the whole matter, that she agreed to marry Tom, if he would promise never to say nothing about it. He agreed, and in a few weeks afterwards they were man and wife. I heard this story, miss, from Biddy's own lips, and it's as true as gospel. So that is the reason why I look under my bed every night, to see if anybody is hid away there; because the very idea of having a manundera body's bed, is so awful! But bless me, miss—you are fast asleep already, and I dare say you haven't heard half of my story."
Matilda was right; Fanny had fallen asleep at the most interesting point of the foregoing narrative, and she was therefore in blissful ignorance of the catastrophe by which cousin Biddy became the wife of Tom the coachman. The ladies' maid, muttering her indignation at the very little interest manifested in her story, by her young mistress, left the chamber, and took herself off to bed, leaving the candle burning upon the table.
Half an hour passed; all throughout the house was profoundly still. The deep and regular breathing of Fanny indicated that she slept soundly. A small clock in the chamber proclaimed the hour of midnight. Scarce had the tiny sounds died away in silence, when the hideous head of Jew Mike cautiously emerged from beneath the bed. The ruffian noiselessly crept forth from his place of concealment, and stood over the fair sleeper. Having satisfied himself of the soundness of her slumbers, he drew from his pocket the handkerchief and cord with which he intended to gag and bind her.
At that moment, Fanny stirred, and partially awoke; quick as lightning, Jew Mike crouched down upon the carpet, and crawled beneath the bed. To his inexpressible mortification and rage, the young lady arose from the couch, advanced to the table, and having snuffed the candle, and thrown a shawl over her shoulders, seated herself, and taking up a book, began to read. The truth is, she felt herself rather restless and unwell, and determined to while away an hour or so by perusing a few chapters in the work of a favorite author.
The clock struck one, and then Jew Mike knew that his villainous plans could not be carried out that night. A few minutes afterwards, the negro Jones, who had, since twelve o'clock, been waiting with his horse and cab near Mr. Goldworthy's house in Howard street, drove off—the sable genius muttering, as he urged his 'fast crab' onward—
"Five dollars for to-night, and five dollars more for to-morrow night—dat I'm sure of, any how; gorry, dis nigger's in luck."
After the lapse of fifteen or twenty minutes, Fanny Aubrey closed her book, and again retired to bed. Again she slept; and for that night, she was safe. Mike knew that the cab had departed, and was obliged to defer the execution of hisscheme until the next night, or even for a longer period, if a favorable opportunity did not then occur.
Poor Fanny! during the remainder of that night her slumbers were attended by peaceful and pleasant dreams. What if she had known that beneath her couch there lurked a desperate and bloody ruffian, impatiently awaiting the hour when he could bear her off to a fate worse than death!
Slowly wore the night away; and at length the cheerful rays of the morning sun, shining upon the beautiful countenance of the fair sleeper, awoke her from her slumbers. She arose—gracefully as a young fawn did she spring from the chaste embraces of her luxurious couch, and caroling forth a gay air—the gushing gladness of her happy heart—she proceeded to perform the duties of her toilet. Now, like a naiad at a fountain, does she lave that charming face and those ductile limbs in the limpid and rose-scented waters of a portable bath, sculptured in marble and supported by four little Cupids with gilded wings; then, like the fabled mermaid, does she arrange her shining hair in that style of beautiful simplicity which is so becoming, and so seldom successfully accomplished, even by women of undoubted taste. The amorous mirror glowingly reflects her young and budding charms, as she coquettishly admires the loveliness of her delicious little person, half-blushing at the sight of her own voluptuous nudity. Little does she suspect that the savage eyes of a concealed ruffian are gloating with lecherous delight upon her exposed form!
In happy unconsciousness of this hideous scrutiny, the young lady having completed the preliminary arrangements of her toilet, proceeded to array herself in a charming and delicate morning costume. Although it could not be said that