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NEW YORK: 
 
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 BY GEORGE LIPFARD, 
 
 AUTHOE OF "ADONAI;" "-WASHINGTON AND HIS GENERALS;" "THE QUAKER CITY;' 
 
 aedknheim;" "blanche of brandywine;" "legends of iiEXico; 
 
 " THE NAZARENE," ETC. ETC. ETC. 
 
 CIKCINNATI: 
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 Walnut Street. 
 
 1 8 54. 
 
If 
 
 
 
 Entered, according to act of Congress, in the year 1853, by 
 H. M. RULISON. 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the District of Ohio. 
 
 CINCINNATI: 
 C. A. MORGAN <b CO., STERSOTYPERS, 
 UAMMOXD ST. 
 
PRELIMINARY SKETCH. 
 
 Christmas Eve, 1823, was a memorable night in the history of a certain 
 wealthy family in New York. The night was dark and stormy, but the tempest 
 which swept over the bay, and whitened the city's roofs with snow, was but a faint 
 symbol of the tempest of human passion — ^jealousy, coVetousness, despair — then at 
 work, in the breasts of a group jof individuals, connected with the old and dis- 
 tinguished family of Van Huyden. 
 
 On that night, Gulian Van Huyden, the representative of the family, and 
 owner of its immense wealth — a young man in the prime of early manhood, who 
 had been happily married a year before — gave a great banquet to his male 
 friends, in his city mansion. By his side was seated his younger brother, Charles 
 Van Huyden, whom the will of their father had confined to a limited income, while 
 Gulian, as the elder son, had become the possessor of nearly all of the immense 
 wealth of the family. 
 
 The banquet was prolonged from about nine o'clock until near dawn, and during 
 its progress, Guhan and his brother had been alternately absent, for the space of 
 an hour, or a half hour at a time. 
 
 The city mansion of Gulian, situated not far from Trinity Church, flung the 
 blaze of its festival lights out upon the stormy night. That light was not sufficient 
 to light up the details of two widely different edifices, which, located within a hun- 
 dred yards of Gulian's mansion, had much to do with his fortunes, and the for- 
 tunes of his family. 
 
 The nearest of these edifices, an antique, high-roofed house, which stood in a 
 desolate garden, was (unknown to Gulian) the home of his brother, and of that 
 brother's mistress — a woman whom Charles did not wish to marry, until by some 
 chance or other, he became the possessor of the Van Huyden estate. 
 
 The other edifice, a one-storied hovel, was the home of a mechanic and his 
 young wife. His name was John Hoffman, his trade that of a stone mason, and 
 at the period of this narrative, he was miserably poor. 
 
 fv) 
 
vi PRKLIMINARr SKKTCH. 
 
 Now, during the night of Christmas eve (and while the banquet was in progress 
 in Gulian's city mansion), an unknown person, thickly cloaked, entered the hovel 
 of the mechanic, bearing a new-born child in his arms. An interview followed 
 between the unknown, John Hoffman, and his wife. The mechanic and his wife 
 consented to adopt the child in place of one which they had recently lost. The 
 stranger with the child, gave them a piece of parchment, which bore on one side, 
 the initials, **G. G. V. H. C." and on the other the name of **Dr. Martin Ful- 
 MER," an eccentric physician, well known in New York. This parchment deposited 
 in a letter addressed to Dr. Fulmer, and sent to the post office once a quarter, 
 would be returned to the mechanic, accompanied by the sum of a hundred dollars. 
 John was especially enjoined to keep this interview and its results a secret from 
 the Doctor. Having deposited the child and parchment with the worthy couple, 
 the stranger departed, and was never again seen by the mechanic or his wife. 
 
 Within an hour of this singular interview the mistress of Charles Van Huyden, 
 returned to her home (from which she had been absent for a brief period) — flakes of 
 snow upon her dress and upon her disordered hair — and placed upon her bed, the 
 burden which she carried, a new-born infant, enveloped in a shawl. As the fallen, 
 but by no means altogether depraved woman, surveyed this infant, she also beheld 
 her own child, sleeping in a cradle not far from the bed — a daughter some three 
 months old, and named after its mother Frank, that is, Francis Van Huyden. 
 
 Christmas Eve passed away, and Christmas morning was near. Dr. Martin 
 Fulmer was suddenly summoned to Gulian's mansion. And Gulian, fresh from 
 the scenes of the banquet room, met the Doctor in an obscure garret of his man- 
 sion. He first bound the Doctor by an oath, to yield implicit obedience to all his 
 wishes, an oath which appealed to all that was superstitious, as well as to all 
 that was truly religious in the Doctor's nature, and then the interview followed, 
 terrible and momentous in its details and its results. These results stretch over a 
 period of twenty-one years — from December 25, 1823, to December 25, 1844. 
 This interview over, Gulian left the- Doctor (who, stupefied and awe-stricken by the 
 words which he had just heard, sank kneeling on the floor of the room in which 
 the interview had taken place), and silently departed from his mansion. He bent 
 his steps to the Battery. And then — young, handsome, the possessor of enormoun 
 wealth — he left this life with the same composure, that he had just departed from 
 his mansion. In plain words, he plunged into the river, and met the death of thi 
 SUICIDE in its ice-burdened waves, while his brother Charles (whom we forgot te 
 state, had accompanied him from the threshold of his home), stood aff'righted and 
 appalled on the shore. 
 
 Meanwhile, Dr. Martin Fulmer (bound by his oath), descended from the garret 
 into a bedchamber of the Van Huyden mansion. Upon the bed was stretched a 
 beautiful but dying woman. It was Alice Van Huyden, the young wife of 
 Giihan. All night long (while the banquet progressed in another apartment) she 
 had wrestled in the agonies of maternity, unwatched and alone. She had given 
 
VRELIMINABTSEETCH. Vil 
 
 birth to a child, but when the Dr. stood by the bed, the child had been removed 
 by unknown hands. 
 
 Convinced of his wife's infidelity — believing that his own brother Charles was 
 the author of his dishonor — Gulian had left his mansion, his wealth, Hfe and all its 
 hopes, to meet the death of the suicide in the waves of Manhattan Bay. 
 
 And Dr. Martin Fulmer, but a few hours ago a poor man, now found himself, 
 as he stood by the bed of the dying wife, the sole trustee of the Van Huyden Estate. 
 
 His trust was to continue for twenty-one years. In case of his death, he had 
 power to appoint a successor. And at the end of twenty-one years, on the 26th 
 of December, 1844, the estate (swelled by the accumulations of twenty-one years), 
 was, by the will of Gulian Van Huyden, to be disposed of in this wise : 
 
 I. In case a son of Gulian should appear on that day (December 25th, 1844), the 
 estate should descend absolutely to him. Or, 
 
 II. In case on the day named, it should be proven to the satisfaction of the Trus- 
 tee, that such a son had been in existence, but had met his death in a truly just 
 cause, then the estate was to be disposed of, according to the directions em- 
 bodied in a sealed codicil (which was not to be opened until December 25, 
 1844). But in case such a son did not appear, and in case his death in a truly 
 just cause was not proven on the appointed day, then, 
 
 III. The estate was to be divided among the heirs of seven persons, descendants 
 of the first of the Van Huyden's, who landed on Manhattan Island, in the year 
 1623. These seven persons, widely distributed over the United States, were 
 (by the directions of :the Testator) to be furnished with a copy of the will. And 
 among these seven or their heirs — that is, those of the number who appeared 
 before Martin Fulmer, at the appointed place on the appointed day — the estate 
 would be divided. 
 
 Such in brief, were the essential features of the will. 
 
 A few days after December 26, 1823, Charles Van Huyden, having in bis pos- 
 sion 8200,000 (given to him by Dr. Martin Fulmer, in accordance with the wishes 
 of Gulian) left New York for Paris, taking with him his mistress (now his wife), 
 their child "Francis" or ** Frank," and the strange child which the woman had 
 brought to her home, on Christmas Eve, 1823. Whether this " strange" child, or 
 the child left with the poor mechanic, was the ojQfspring of GuHan Van Huyden, 
 will be seen from the narrative which follows this imperfect sketch. 
 
 Twenty-one years pass away; it lacks but a day or two of December 25th, 1844. 
 Who are the seven heirs ? Does a son of Gulian live ? What has become of 
 Charles Van Huyden; of Hoffman the mechanic, and of the child left in the care 
 of the mechanic ? What has become of Charles Van Huyden's wife and child ? 
 
 On a night in December 1844 — say the 23d of the month — we shall find in 
 New York, the following persons, connected with the fortunes of the Van Huyden 
 family : 
 
Viii PRKLIMINARTSKBTCH. 
 
 The " Seven" or their heirs. 
 
 I. Gabriel Godlike, a statesman, who with an intellect rivaling some o*" the great- 
 est names in our history, such as Clay, Calhoun or Webster, is destitute of the 
 patriotism and virtues of these great men. 
 
 II. Herman Barnhurst, a clergyman, who has lured from Philadelphia to New 
 York, the only daughter of a merchant of the former city. This clergyman and 
 his victim, are pursued by the Third of the Seven. 
 
 III. Arthur Dermoyne, a mechanic. 
 
 IV. Israel Yorke, a Banker. 
 
 V. Harry Royalton, of Hill Royal, S. C. His claim to an undivided seventh of 
 the Estate, will be contested by his half brother and sister, Randolph and 
 Esther, who although white, are alleged to have African blood in their veins. 
 
 VI. Beverly Barron, a "man of the world." 
 
 VII. Evelyn Somers, a New York Merchant Prince." 
 
 2d. We shall find in New York, at the period before named, Charles Van Huy- 
 Pen, transformed into Col. Tarleton, and endeavoring to remove from his hands 
 the blood of a man whom he has slain in a duel. His daughter " Frank" grown 
 to womanhood, and brought into contact with Nameless," who left in infancy at 
 the hovel of John Hoffman, has after a childhood of terrible hardships — a young 
 manhood darkened by madness and crime — suddenly appeared in New York, 
 in company with a discharged convict. This convict is none other than John Hoflf- 
 man the mechanic. And gliding through the narrative, and among its various 
 actors, we shall find Martin Fulmer, or his successor. 
 
 With this preliminary sketch — necessarily brief and imperfect, for it covers a 
 period of twenty-one years— the following narrative is submitted to the reader. 
 Yet first, let us for a moment glance at the Van Huyden Estate." This estate 
 in 1823, was estimated at two millions of dollars. What is it in 1844 ? 
 
 The history of two millions of dollars in twenty-one years ! Two milHons left to 
 go by itself, and ripen year after year, into new power, until at last the original 
 sum is completely forgotten in the vast accumulation of capital. In the Old World 
 twenty-one years glide by, and everything is the same. At the end of twenty-one 
 years, two millions would still be two millions. Twenty-one years in the New 
 World is as much as two centuries to the Old. The vast expanse of land ; the 
 constant influx of population; the space for growth afforded by institutions as diflfer- 
 «nt from those of Europe (that is from those of the past), as day from night — all 
 contribute to this result. From 1823 to 1844, the New World, hardened by a 
 childhood of battle and martyrdom, sprang into strong manhood. Behold the 
 philosophy of modem wealth, manifested in the growth of the Van Huyden Estate. 
 Without working itself it bids others to work. Left to the age, to the growth of 
 the people, the increase of commerce and labor, it swells into a wealth that puts 
 the Arabian Nights to shame. In 1823 it comprises certairt^ pieces of land in the 
 
PRSLXMINARTSSBTOH. ix 
 
 heart of New York, and in the open country beyond New York. In 1844 the city 
 land has repeated its value by a hundred ; the country lots have become the abid- 
 ing place of the Merchant Princes of New York. Cents in 1 823, become dollars 
 in 1844. This by the progress of the age, by the labor of the millions, and with- 
 out one effort on the part of the lands or their owner. In 1823 there is a country 
 seat and farm on the North River; in 1844 the farm has become the seat of 
 factories, mills, the dwelling place of five thousand tenants, whose labor has 
 swelled the original value of $160,000 into ten millions of dollars. In 1823, five 
 thousand acres, scattered over the wild west, are vaguely valued at $5000 — in 1844 
 these acres, located in various parts of the west, are the sites of towns, villages, 
 mines, teeming with a dense population, and worth thirty millions of dollars. In 
 1823 a tract of barren land among the mountains of Pennsylvania, is bought for 
 one thousand dollars ; in 1844 this tract, the location of mines of iron and coal, is 
 
 worth TWENTY MILLIONS. 
 
 Thus in twenty-one years, by holding on to its ovm, the Van Huyden Estate has 
 swelled from two millions to one hundred millions of dollars. The age moves 
 on ; it remains in its original proprietorship, swelled by the labor of millions, who 
 derive but a penny where they bestow upon the estate a dollar. It works not; 
 mankind works for it. Has this wealth no duties to mankind ? Is there not some- 
 thing horrible in the thought of an entire generation, for mere subsistence, spending 
 their Hves, in order to make this man, this estate, or this corporation, the possessor 
 of incredible wealth ? 
 
PROLOGUE. 
 
 The lamp has gone out in the old familiar room ! It used to shine, late at night 
 upon the books, upon the pictures on the wall, and upon my face as I sat writing 
 there! Oftentimes it shone upon another face which looked over my shoulder, and 
 cheered me in my labor. But now the lamp has gone out — and forever. The face 
 which looked upon me is gone ; the coffin lid shut down upon it one Summer day ! 
 The loom is dark forever. And the next room, where she used to sleep with her 
 children — it is dark and still ! The house is desolate ! There are no voices to 
 break its stillness ! Her voice, and the voices of our children, are silent forever on 
 this lower earth. My heart goes back to that house and to its rooms, and to the 
 voices tlat once sounded there, and the faces which once made it glad, and with 
 more than the bitterness of Death I confess, tJiat Time can never return. Never- 
 more, nevermore, nevermore ! Wealth may come ; change of scene may deaden 
 sorrow; wresthng with the world, may divert the soul from perpetual brooding, but 
 the Truth is still the Truth, that Time can never return. And this is the end of all, 
 after a life spent in perpetual battle — after toiling day and night for long years — 
 after looking to the Future, hoping, struggling, suffering — to find at last, even 
 before thirty years are mine, that the lamp has gone out, and forever I That those 
 for whom I toiled and suffered — whose well-being was the impulse and the ulti- 
 mate of all my exertions — are no longer with me, but gone to return never — never- 
 more. Upon this earth the lamp that lit my way through life, has indeed gone 
 out, and forever. But is it not lighted now by a higher hand than mortal, and is 
 it not shining now in a better world than this ? 
 
 Once more I resume my pen. Since this work was commenced, Death has been 
 busy with my home— death hath indeed laid my home desolate. It is a selfish 
 thing to write for money, it is a base and a mean thing to write for fame, but it is 
 a good and a holy thing to write for the approval of those whom we most intensely 
 
 (xi^ 
 
Xii PROLOOUK. 
 
 love. Deprived of this spring of action, it is hard, very hard to take up the pen 
 once more. Write, write ! but the face that once looked over your shoulder, and 
 cheered you in your task, shall look over it no more. Write, write! and turn your 
 gaze to every point of the horizon of life — not one face of home meets your eye. 
 
 Take up the pen once more. Banish the fast gathering memories — choke them 
 down. Forget the actual of your own life, in the ideal to which the pen gives 
 utterance. Brave old pen ! Always trusted, never faithless ! True through long 
 years of toil, be true and steadfast now ; when the face that once watched youj 
 progress is sleeping in graveyard dust. And when you write down a noble 
 thought, or give utterance to a holy truth, may be, that face will smile upon your 
 progress, even through the darkened glass which separates the present from the 
 Better World. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAQE. 
 
 PBELisayAitT Sketch >. v 
 
 FboLOQUE zi 
 
 JJart irirsl. 
 
 " FRANK VAN HUYDEN." DEC. 23 1844.— EVENING. 
 
 PAGK , 
 
 CHAPTER I. "Does se Remember?" 21 
 
 CHAPTER II. Frank and her Singular Visitor 23 
 
 CHAPTER III. The Childhood of the Midnight Queen 25 
 
 CHAPTER IV. Maidenhood 28 
 
 CHAPTER V. On the Rock 30 
 
 CHAPTER VI. Among the Palisades 31 
 
 CHAPTER VII. In the Forest Nook 32 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. Home, Adieu!... 34 
 
 CHAPTER IX. Ernest and his Singular Adventures 35 
 
 CHAPTER X. The Palace Home 37 
 
 CHAPTER XI. "She'll Do!" 39 
 
 CHAPTER XII. A Revelation 41 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. Morphine 42 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. The Sale is complete 44 
 
 CHAPTER XV. "Lost— Lost, Utterly ! " 4* 
 
 (xiii; 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Part Qcconlt. 
 
 FROM NIGHTFALL UNTIL MIDNIGHT. DEC. 23, 1844. 
 
 CHAPTER I, Bloodhound and the Unknown 49 
 
 CHAPTER II. The Canal street Shtbt Stoee« - 50 
 
 CHAPTER IIL "Do they RoAE?" 54 
 
 CHAPTER IV. ^The Seven Vaults 58 
 
 CHAPTER V. The Legate OF the Pope 66 
 
 CHAPTER VL "Joanna!" 74 
 
 CHAPTER VII. The White Slave and his Sisteb 77 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. Eleanor Ltnn 82 
 
 CHAPTER IX. Bernard Lynn 86 
 
 CHAPTER X. "Yes I You will meet Him." 90 
 
 CHAPTER XI. In the House of the Merchant Prince 92 
 
 CHAPTER XII. "Show Me the Way" 98 
 
 CHAPTER XIII "The Reverend Voluptuaries" 104 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. "Below Five Points" 116 
 
 THROUGH THE SILENT CITY. DEC. 24, 1844. 
 
 CHAPTER I. The Den of Madam Resimee 123 
 
 CHAPTER II. "Herman, you will not desert Me?". 127 
 
 CHAPTER III. Herman, Arthur, Alice 128 
 
 CHAPTER IV. The Red Book 131 
 
 CHAPTER V. "What shall we do with her ? " 134 
 
 CHAPTER VL A Brief Episode 136 
 
 CHAPTER VII. Through the Silent City 13 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. In Trinity Churoh 14 
 
 CHAPTER IX. The End op thk Maboh 14 
 
CONTENTS. XV 
 
 part ir0txrtl) 
 
 IN THE TEMPLE— FROM MIDNIGHT UNTIL DAWN. DEO. 24, 1844 
 
 PAOX. 
 
 CHAPTER I. The Central Chamber 140 
 
 CHAPTER II. The Blue Room 155 
 
 CHAPTER III. The Goldex Room 15 
 
 CHAPTER ly. The Bridal Chamber 167 
 
 CHAPTER V. The Scarlet Chamber 170 
 
 CHAPTER VI. Bank Stock at the Bar 175 
 
 CHAPTER VIL *'"Where is the Child op Guhak Van Huyden?" 181 
 
 CHAPTER VIIL Beverly and Joan-na 183 
 
 CHAPTER IX. Mary Berman— Carl Raphael 186 
 
 part iTiftl). 
 
 ^ THE DAWN, SUNRISE AND DAY. DEC. 24, 1844. 
 
 CHAPTER L ''The Other Child" 189 
 
 CHAPTER II. Randolph and his Brother 195 
 
 CHAPTER III, The Husband and the Profligate 196 
 
 CHAPTER IV. Israel and his Victim 198 
 
 CHAPTER V. Mary, Carl, Cornelius 207 
 
 CHAPTER VI. A Look into the Red Book 210 
 
 CHAPTER VII. Marion Merlin 212 
 
 CHAPTER VIII . Niagara 214 
 
 CHAPTER IX. A Second Marriage 216 
 
 CHAPTER X. A Second Murder 217 
 
 CHAPTER XL Marion and Herman Barnhubst 218 
 
 CHAPTER XII. Marion and Fanny 220 
 
 CHAPTER XIII An Unutterable Crime 221 
 
 CHAPTERXIV. Suicide ^ 222 
 
 CHAPTER XV. After the Death of Marion 225 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Part SijctI). 
 
 DAY, SUNSET, NIGHT. DECEMBER 24, 1844. 
 
 PAGK. 
 
 CHAPTER I. Arratkd foe the Bridal 229 
 
 CHAPTER II. Herman and Godiva 234 
 
 CHAPTER III. The Dream Elixir 240 
 
 CHAPTER IV. The Bridal of Joanna and Beverly 252 
 
 CHAPTER V. An Episode 258 
 
 part 0;eDjettt[). 
 
 THE DAY OF TWENTY-ONE YEARS. DEC. 25, 1844, 
 
 , CHAPTER I. Martin Fulmer appears 261 
 
 CHAPTER II. "The Seven" are summoned 267 
 
 CHAPTER III. "Sat, between us Three 1" •SXeD 
 
 CHAPTER IV. The Legate of His Holiness 272 
 
 CHAPTER V. The Son, at LastI 273 
 
 CHAPTER VI. A Long Account Settled 274 
 
 CHAPTER VII. The Banquet Room once more 275 
 
 Ow the Ocean — ^Bt the River Shore — In the Vatican — On thb pBAmrs 
 
 S73 
 
W E ¥ YORK: 
 
 ITS 
 
 UPPER-TEN AND LOWER MILLION. 
 
 PART FIRST. 
 
 "FRANK VAN HUYDEN." 
 
 DEC. 23, 1844.— EVENING. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 " DOES HE REMEMBER ?" 
 
 " Does he remember?" was tlie exclama- 
 tion of Frank, as concealing the history of 
 the Life of Nameless within her bosom, 
 a singular expression flashed over her beau- 
 tiful face. "Does he remember?" was her 
 thought — " Is he conscious of the words 
 which have fallen from his lips? Does he 
 pass from this singular state of trance, only 
 to forget the real history of his life?" 
 
 The agitation which had convulsed the 
 face of Nameless, at the moment when 
 he emerged from the clairvoyant state (if 
 thus we may designate it) soon passed away. 
 HiSj^Ipe became calm and almost radiant in 
 its every line. His eyes, no longer glassy, 
 shone with clear and healthy light; a slight 
 flush animated his hitherto sallow cheeks; 
 in a word, his countenance, in a moment, 
 underwent a wonderful change. 
 
 Frank uttered an exclamation of surprise. 
 
 "Ah ! I begin to live !" said Nameless, 
 passing his hand over his forehead — "Yes, 
 yes," he uttered, with a sigh of mingled sor- 
 row and delight, "I have risen from the 
 grave. For two years the victim of a living 
 death, J now begin to live. The cloud is 
 gone; I see, I see the light !" 
 
 He rose and confronted Frank. 
 
 " There was another child — yes, my ' 
 mother gave birth to two children, one of 
 whom your father stole on the night of its 
 birth and reared as his own. His purpose 
 you may guess. But what has become of 
 that child? It disappeared, I know, at the 
 time when your father arrived from Paris — 
 disappeared, ha, ha, Frank! Did it not dis- 1 
 appear to rise into light again, on the 25th I 
 
 of December, 1844, as the only child of 
 GuLiAN Van Huyden? Your father is a 
 bold gamester; he plays with a fearless 
 hand!" 
 
 He paced the room, while Frank, listening 
 intently to his words, watched with dumb 
 wonder the delight which gave a new life to 
 his countenance. 
 
 "And Cornelius Berman, Frank — " he 
 turned abruptly. 
 
 "Died last year." 
 
 His countenance fell. 
 
 "And Mary — " 
 
 " Followed her father to the grave." 
 
 He fell back upon the sofa like a wounded 
 man. It was some moments before he re- 
 covered the appearance of calmness. 
 
 " How knew you this?" 
 
 "A year ago, an artist reduced to poverty, 
 through the agency of Israel Yorke, came to 
 my home to paint my portrait. It was Cor- 
 nelius Berman. Yorke had employed Bug- 
 gies as his agent in the affair of the transfer 
 of the property of Cornelius ; Buggies the 
 agent was dead indeed, but Yorke appeared 
 upon the scene, as the principal, and sold 
 Cornelius out of house and home. The 
 papers which you took from the dead body 
 of Buggies were only copies ; the originals 
 were in the possession of Israel Yorke." 
 
 Nameless hid his face in his hands. He 
 did not speak again until many minutes had 
 elapsed. 
 
 "And you thought that Cornelius had put 
 Buggies to death?" 
 
 "I gathered it from a rumor which has 
 crept through New Y^ork for the last two 
 years. The haggard face and wandering eye 
 of the dying artist, who painted my pictm-e, 
 confirmed this impression." 
 
 (21) 
 
22 
 
 FRANK VAN HUYDEN. 
 
 "And Cornelius came to this house?" 
 
 " No; to another house, where I had been 
 placed by my father. He procured a person 
 to represent a southern gentleman, and por- 
 flonate my father. That is, I was represented 
 as the only child of a rich southerner ; and 
 in that capacity my picture was painted, 
 and — and — I afterward visited the home of 
 the artist, in a miserable garret, and saw his 
 daughter, who assisted her father, by the 
 humblest kind of work. She was a seam- 
 stress — she worked for 'sixteen cents per 
 day.' " 
 
 "And she is dead," said Nameless, in a 
 loAv voice. 
 
 " I lost sight of Mary and her father about 
 a year ago, and have since received intelli- 
 gence of their death," 
 
 "How did you receive this intelligence?" 
 
 " It was in all the papers. Beverly Bar- 
 ron wrote quite a touching poem upon the 
 Death of the Artist and his Daughter. 
 Beverly, you are aAvare, was eloquent upon 
 such occasions : the death of a friend was 
 always a godsend to him." 
 
 Nameless did not reply, but seemed for a 
 moment to surrender himself to the influence 
 of unalloyed despair. 
 
 " Look you, Frank," he said, after a long 
 pause, "I have seventy-one thousand dol- 
 lars — " 
 
 " Seventy-one thousand dollars !" she ejac- 
 ulated. 
 
 "Yes, and it is 'Frank and Nameless 
 AND Ninety-One against the world.' To- 
 morrow is the 24th of December ; the day 
 after will be THE DAY. We must lay our 
 plans ; we must track Martin Fulmer to his 
 haunt ; we must foil your father, and, in a 
 word, show the world that its cunning can 
 be baffled and its crime brought to justice, 
 by the combination of three persons — a 
 Fallen Woman, a Convict and a Murderer ! 
 O, does it not make your heart bound to 
 think of the good work we can do with 
 seventy-one thousand dollai-s !" 
 
 She gave him her hand, quietly, but 
 her dark eye answered the excitement 
 which flashed from every line of his coun- 
 tenance. 
 
 "And will it not be a glorious thing for us, 
 if we can wash away our crimes — yes, Frank, 
 our crimes— and show the %rorld what virtue 
 
 lurks in the breast of the abandoned and tha 
 lost ?" 
 
 " Then I can atone for the crime of which 
 I am guilty — for I am guilty of being the 
 child of a man who sold me into shame — 
 you are guilty of having stained your hands 
 in the blood of a wretch who cursed the 
 very air which he breathed — and Ninety- 
 One, is guilty, yes guilty of having once 
 been in — my falJier's way. These are terri- 
 ble crimes, Gulian — " 
 
 " Call me not by that name imtil the 25th 
 of December," exclaimed Nameless. 
 
 At this moment, Frank turned aside and 
 from the drawer of a cabinet, drew forth a 
 long and slender vial, which she held 
 before the eyes of Nameless. 
 
 "And if we fail, this will give us peacQ. 
 It is a quiet messenger, Gulian. Within 
 twelve hours after the contents of this vial 
 have passed the lips, the body >vill sink into 
 a peaceful sleep, without one sign or token 
 to tell the tale of suicide. Yes, Gulian, if 
 we fail, this vial, which I procured with dif- 
 ficulty, and which I have treasured for years, 
 will enable us to fall asleep in each other's 
 arms, and — forever !" 
 
 " Suicide !" echoed Nameless, gazing now 
 upon the vial, then upon her countenance, 
 imbued with a look of somber enthuiifcm — 
 " You have thought of that?" 
 
 " had this vial been mine, in the hour 
 when, pure and hopeful, I was sold into the 
 arms of shame, do you think that for an 
 instant I would have hesitated between the 
 death that lays you quietly asleep in the 
 coffin, and that death which leaves the body 
 living, while it cankers and kills the soul?' 
 
 Nameless took the vial from her hand and 
 regarded it long and ardently. what 
 words can picture the strange look, which 
 then came over his face ! He uttered a deep 
 sigh and placed the vial in her hands again. 
 She silently placed it in the drawer of the 
 cabinet. 
 
 As she again confronted him, their eyes 
 met, — they understood each other. 
 
 "Frank," said Nameless in a measured 
 tone — " Who owns this house? What is its 
 true character?" 
 
 Seating herself beside him on the sofa she 
 replied : 
 
 "As to the c/wner of this house, you id*7 
 
FRANK VAN HUYDEN. 
 
 23 
 
 be sure that he is a man of property and 
 moral worth, a church-member and a respect- 
 able citizen. But do not imagine for a 
 moment that this is a common haunt of 
 infamy — no, my friend, no ! None but the 
 most select^ the most aristocratic, ever cross 
 the threshold of this place. Remain until 
 twelve o'clock to-night and you will behold 
 some of the guests who honor my house 
 with their presence." 
 
 There was a mocking look upon her face 
 as she gave utterance to these words. She 
 beat the carpet with her slipper and grasped 
 the cross which rested on her bosom ^^dth a 
 nervous and impatient clutch. 
 
 "At twelve to-night!" echoed Nameless, 
 and looked into her face. " I will remain ;" 
 and once more his whole being was enveloped 
 in the magnetic influence which flowed from 
 the eyes of the lost woman. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 FRANK AND HER SINGULAR VISITOR. 
 
 It will soon fall to our task to depict cer- 
 tain scenes, which took place in the Empire 
 City on the 23d of December, between 
 nightfall and midnight. The greater portion 
 of these scenes will find their legitimate de- 
 velopment in " THE Temple," from midnight 
 until morning; while others will lift the 
 " Golden Shroud" and uncover to our gaze 
 threads and arteries of that great social heart 
 of New York, which throbs with every pang 
 of unutterable misery, or dilates and bums 
 with every pulse of voluptuous luxury. 
 
 Ere we commence our task, let us look in 
 upon a scene which took place in the house of 
 Frank, about nightfall and (of course) before 
 Nameless had sought refuge in her room. 
 
 Frank was sitting alone, in a quiet room 
 near a desk upon which pen and ink and 
 papers were spread. It was the room de- 
 voted to the management of her household 
 affairs. She sat in an arm-chair, with her 
 feet on a stool and her back to the window, 
 while she lifted the golden cross and regarded 
 it with an absent gaze. The white curtains 
 of the wmdows were turned to crimson by 
 the reflection of the setting sun, and the 
 warm glow shining through the intervals of 
 her black hair, which fell loosely on her 
 ehouldere, rested warmly upon her cheek. 
 2 
 
 Her whole attitude was that of revery or 
 dreamy thought 
 
 While thus occupied, a male servant, 
 dressed in rich livery, entered, and addressed 
 his mistress in these words : 
 
 " Madam, he wishes to see you." 
 
 " He ! Whom do you mean?" said Frank, 
 raising her eyes but without changing her 
 position. 
 
 " That queer stranger, who never gives his 
 name, — who has been here so often within 
 the last three weeks, — I mean the one who 
 wears the blue cloak with evcr-so-mauy 
 capes." 
 
 Frank started up in her chair. 
 
 " Show him in," she said, — " Yet stay a 
 moment, Walker. Are all the arrangements 
 made for to-night?" 
 
 " Everything has been done, precisely as 
 Madam ordered it to be done," said the ser- 
 vant obsequiously. 
 
 He then retired and presently the visitor 
 entered. The room is Avrapped in twilight 
 and we cannot trace the details of his appear- 
 ance clearly, for he seats himself in the 
 shadow, opposite Frank. We can discern, 
 however, that his tall form, bent with age, is 
 clad in a blue cloak with numerous capes, 
 and he wears a black fur hat with ample 
 brim. He takes his seat quietly, and rests 
 his hand upon the head of his cane. 
 
 Not a word was spoken for several 
 minutes. Each seemed to be waiting for the 
 other to commence the conversation. Frank 
 at last broke the embarrassing stillness. 
 
 " Soh ! you are here again." 
 
 ''Yes, madam," replied the stranger in a 
 hai*sh but not unmusical voice, " according to 
 appointment." 
 
 "It is now three weeks since we first 
 met," said Frank. "You purchased this 
 house of the person from whom I leased it, 
 some three weeks ago. But I have a lease 
 upon it which has yet one year to run. You 
 desire, I believe, to purchase my lease, and 
 enter at once upon possession? Well, sir, 
 I am resolved not to sell." 
 
 Without directly replying to her question, 
 the man in the cloak with many capes 
 replied — 
 
 "We did not meet three weeks ago for 
 the first time," he said. " Our first meeting 
 was long before that period." 
 
24 
 
 FRANK VAN HUYDEN. 
 
 "What mean you?" said Frank raising 
 her eyes and endeavoring, although vainly, 
 to pierce the gloom which enshrouded the 
 stranger. " 0, it is getting dark. I will ring 
 for lights." 
 
 " Before you ring for lights, a word, — " the 
 stranger's voice sank but Frank heard every 
 word, — " we met for the first time at a 
 funeral — " 
 
 "At a funeral !" 
 
 "At a funeral; and after the funeral I had 
 the hodij taken up privately and ordered a 
 post mortem examination to be made. Upon 
 that body, madam, " he paused. 
 
 "Well, sir?" Frank's voice was tremu- 
 lous. 
 
 " Upon that body I discovered traces of a 
 fatal although subtle poison." 
 
 Again he paused. Frank made no reply. 
 Even in the dim light it might be seen that 
 her head sank slowly on her breast. Did 
 the words of the stranger produce a strong 
 impression? We cannot see her face, for the 
 room is vailed in twilight. 
 
 "This darkness grows embarrassing," he 
 said, "will you ring for lights?" 
 
 She replied with a monosyllable, uttered 
 in a faint voice, — " No I" she said, then a 
 dead stillness once more ensued, which con- 
 tinued until the stranger again spoke. 
 
 " In regard to the lease, madam. Do you 
 agree to sell, and upon the terms which I 
 proposed when I w-as here last?" 
 
 Again Frank replied with a monosyllable. 
 " Yes I" she faintly said. 
 
 "And the other proposition : to-night you 
 hold some sort of festival in this i^lace. I 
 desire to know the names of all your guests; 
 to introduce such guests as I choose w^ithin 
 these walls ; to have, for one night only, a 
 certain control over the internal economy of 
 this place. In case you consent to this pro- 
 position, I will pay you for the lease double 
 the amount which I have already offered, 
 and promise, on my honor, to do nothing 
 within these walls to-night, which can in 
 the slightest degree harm or compromise 
 you." 
 
 He stated his proposition slowly and de- 
 liberately. Frank took full time to ponder 
 upon every wwd. Simple as the proposition 
 looked, well she knew, that it might embrace 
 results of the most important nature. 
 
 "Must I consent?" she said, and her voice 
 faltered. " It is hard — " 
 
 " 'Must' is no word in the case, madam," 
 answered that stern even voice. " Use your 
 own will and pleasure." 
 
 "But the request is so strange," said 
 Frank, " and suppose I grant it? Who can 
 tell the consequences?" 
 
 "It is singular," said the stranger as 
 though thinking aloud, " to what an extent 
 the art of poisoning was carried in the mid- 
 dle ages ! The art has long been lost, — 
 people poison each other bunglingly now-a- 
 days, — although it is said, that the secret ot 
 a certain poison, which puts its victim* 
 quietly to sleep, leaving not the slightest 
 tell-tale trace or mark, has survived even to 
 the present day." 
 
 Certainly the stranger had a most remark- 
 able manner of thinking aloud. 
 
 Frank spoke in a voice scarcely audible : 
 
 " I consent to your proposition." 
 
 She rose, and although it was rapidly 
 getting qnite dark, she unlocked a secret 
 drawer of her desk, and drew from thence 
 two packages. 
 
 " This way, sir," she spoke in a low voice, 
 and the stranger rose and approached her. 
 "Here you will find the names of all my 
 guests, and especially of those who will 
 come here to-night. You will find such 
 other information as may be useful to you 
 and aid your purposes." She placed the 
 package in his hand. " I will place Walker 
 and the other servants under your com- 
 mand." She paused, and resumed after an 
 instant, in a firmer voice: "If I have yielded 
 to your request, it has not been altogether 
 from fear, — " 
 
 " Fear ! Who spoke of fear?" 
 
 " Don't mock me. I have yielded trom 
 fear, but not altogether from fear. I have 
 nursed a hope that you can aid me to 
 quit this thrice accursed life which I now 
 lead. For though your polite manner only 
 thinly vails insinuations the most deadly, 
 yet I believe you have a heart. I feel that 
 when you know all of my past life, all, 
 you will think, I do not say better of 
 me, but difi"erently, from what you do 
 now. Here, take this package, — it con- 
 tains my history written hy my own hand, 
 and only intended to be read after my 
 
FRANK VAN HUYDEN. 
 
 25 
 
 death — ^but you may read it now or at your 
 leisure." 
 
 The man in the cloak took the package ; 
 his voice trembled when he spoke — 
 
 " Girl, you shall not regret this confidence. 
 I will aid you to quit this accursed life." 
 
 " Leave me for a few moments. I wish 
 to sit alone and think for a little while. 
 After that we will arrange matters in regard 
 to the festival to-night." 
 
 The stranger in the cloak left the room, 
 bearing with him the two packages, one of 
 which embraced the mysteries of the house 
 of Frank, and the other contained the story 
 of her life. 
 
 And in the darkness, Frank walked up 
 and down the room, pressing one clenched 
 hand against her heaving bosom, and the 
 other against her burning brow. 
 
 Soon afterward, Frank and the stranger in 
 the gld-fashioned cloak, w^ere closeted for 
 half an hour in earnest conversation. 
 
 We will not record the details of the con- 
 versation, but its results will perchance be 
 seen in the future pages of our history. 
 
 Here, at this point of our story, let ns 
 break the seals of the second package which 
 Frank gave to the stranger, and linger for a 
 little while upon the pages of her history, 
 written by her own hand. A strange history 
 in every line ! It is called The History of 
 THE Midnight Queen ! 
 
 CHAPTER m. 
 
 THE CHILDHOOD OF THE MIDNIGHT QUEEN. 
 
 My childhood's home ! 0, is there in all 
 the world a phrase so sweet as this, *'My 
 childhood's home !" Others may look back 
 to childhood, and be stung by bitter memo- 
 ries, but my childhood was the heaven of 
 my life. As from the hopeless present, I 
 gaze back upon it, I seem like a traveler, 
 half way up the Alps, surrounded by snow 
 and clouds and mist, and looking back upon 
 the happy valley, which, dotted with homes 
 and rich in vines and flowers, smiles in the 
 sunshine far below. 
 
 My childhood's home was very beautiful. 
 It was a two-story cottage, situated upon 
 an eminence, its white front and rustic porch, 
 half hidden by the horse-ch-esnut trees, 
 which in the early summer had snowy blos- 
 
 \ soms among their deep green leaves. Behind 
 the cottage arose a broad and swelling hill, 
 which, fringed with gardens at its base, and 
 crowned on its summit by a few grand old 
 trees standing alone against the sky, was in 
 summer-time clad along its entire extent 
 with a garment of golden wheat. Beneath 
 the cottage flowed the Neprehaun, a gentle 
 rivulet, which wound among abrupt hills, — 
 every hill rich in foliage and dotted with 
 homes — until it lost itself in the waves of 
 the Hudson. Yes, the Hudson was there, 
 grand and beautiful and visible always from 
 the cottage porch ; the Palisades rising from 
 its opposite shore into heaven, and the broad 
 bay of Tapaan Zee glistening in sunlight to 
 the north. 
 
 0, that scene is before me now — the cot- 
 tage with its white front, half hidden by 
 broad green leaves intermingled with white 
 blossoms, — the hill, which rose behind it, 
 golden with wheat, — the Neprehaun below, 
 winding among the hills, now in sunshine, 
 now in shadow, — the Hudson, \vith its vast 
 bay and the somber wall which rose into the 
 sky from its western shore, — it is before me 
 now, with the spring blossoms, the voices, 
 the sky, the very air of my childhood's daj's. 
 
 In this home I found myself at the age of 
 thirteen. I was the pupil and the charge 
 of the occupant of the cottage, a retired 
 clergyman, the Rev. Thomas Walworth, who 
 having grown gray in the active service of 
 his Master, had come there to pass his last 
 days in the enjoyment of competence and 
 peace. Even now, as on the day when I 
 left him forever, I can see his tall form, bent 
 Avith age and clad in black, his mild, pale 
 face, with hair as white as snow, — I can hear 
 that voice, whose very music was made up 
 of the goodness of a heart at peace with 
 God and man. When I was thirteen, 
 myself, the good clergyman, and an aged 
 woman — the housekeeper — were the only 
 occupants of the cottage. His only son was 
 away at college. And when I vas thirteen, 
 my mother, who had placed me in the care 
 of the clergyman years before, came to see 
 me. I shall never forget that visit. I was 
 sitting on the cottage por«h — it was a June 
 day — the air was rich with fragrance and blos- 
 soms — my book was on my knee — when I 
 heard her step in the garden- walk. She was 
 
26 
 
 FKANK VAIST HUYDEN, 
 
 tall and very beautiful, and richly clad in 
 Liack, and her dark attire shone with dia- 
 monds. Very beautiful, I say, although 
 there were threads of silver in her brown 
 hair, and an incessant contraction of her dark 
 brows, which gave a look of anxiety or pain 
 to her face. 
 
 As she came up the garden- walk, pushing 
 aside her vail of dark lace, I knew her, 
 although I had not seen her for three years. 
 Her presence was strange to me, yet still my 
 heart bounded as I saw her come. 
 
 " Well, Frank," she said, as though it was 
 but yesterday since I had seen her, ** I have 
 come to see you," — she kissed me w^armly 
 on the lips and cheeks. — " Your father is 
 dead, my child." 
 
 A tear stood in her dark eye, a slight 
 tremor moved her lip — that was all. My 
 father dead I I can scarcely describe the 
 emotions which these words caused. I had 
 not seen my father for years. There was 
 still a memory of his face present with me, 
 coupled with an indistinct memory of my 
 early childhood, passed in a city of a foreign 
 land, and a dim vision of a voyiige upon the 
 ocean. And at my mother's words there 
 came up the laughing face and sunny hair 
 of my brother Gulian, who had suddenly 
 disappeared about the time my parents 
 returned from Paris, and just before I had 
 been placed in the charge of the good cler- 
 gyman. These mingling memories arose at 
 my mother's words, and although the good 
 clergyman stood more to me in the relation 
 of a father than my own father, still I wept 
 bitterly as I heard the words, Your father 
 is dead, my child." 
 
 My mother, who seemed to me like one 
 of those grand, rich ladies of whom I had 
 read in story-books, seated herself beside me 
 on the cottage porch. 
 
 " You are getting quite beautiful, Frank," 
 she said, and lifted my sunbonnet and put 
 her hand through the curls of my hair, 
 which was black as jet. " You will be a 
 woman soon." She kissed me, and then as 
 she timied away, I heard her mutter these 
 w^ords which struck me painfully although 
 then I could not understand them : " A 
 woman ! with your mother's beauty for your 
 dowry and your mother's fate for your 
 futuio !" 
 
 The slight wrinkle between her brows 
 grew deeper as she said these words. 
 
 " You will be a woman, and must have an 
 education suitable to the station you will 
 occupy," continued my mother, drawing me 
 quietly to her, and surveying me earnestly. 
 "Now what do tliey teach you here?" 
 
 She laughed as I gravely related the part 
 which good old Alice — the housekeeper- 
 took in my education. Old Alice taught me 
 all the details of housekeeping ; to sow, to 
 knit, the fabrication of good pies, good but- 
 ter, and good bread ; the mystery of the 
 preparation of various kinds of preserves; in 
 fact, all the details of housekeeping as she 
 understood it. And the good old dame, with 
 her high cap, clear, bright little eyes, sharp 
 nose, and white apron strung with a bundle 
 of keys, always concluded her lesson with a 
 mysterious intimation that, saving the good 
 Mr. Walworth only, all the men in the 
 world were monsters, more dangerous than 
 the bears which ate up the bad children who 
 mocked at Elijah. 
 
 Laughing heartily as she heard me gravely 
 enter into all these details, which I con- 
 cluded with, " You see, mother, I'm quite a 
 housekeeper already 1" she continued : 
 
 "And what does he teach you, my dear?' 
 
 The laughter which animated her face, 
 was succeeded by a look of vague curiosity 
 as I began my answer. But as I went on, 
 her face became sad and there were tears in 
 her eyes. 
 
 My father (as I had learned to call the 
 good clergyman) taught me to read, to write, 
 and to cipher. He gradually disclosed to 
 mo (more by his conversation than through 
 the medium of books) the history of past 
 ages, the wonders of the heavens above me, 
 the properties of the plants and flowers that 
 grew in my path. And oftentimes by the 
 bright wood-fire in winter, or upon the 
 porch under the boughs, in the rich twilight 
 of the summer scenery — while the stars 
 twinkled through the leaves, or the Hudson 
 glistened in the light of the rising moon — 
 he had talked to me of God. Of his love 
 for all of us, his providence watching the 
 sparrow's fall, his mercy reaching forth its 
 almighty arms to the lowest of earth's 
 stricken children. Of the other world, which 
 stretches beyond the shores of the present, 
 
FRANK VAN HUYDEN. 
 
 27 
 
 not dim and cloud-sliadowed, but rich in the 
 sunlight of eternal love, and living with the 
 realities of a state of being in which there 
 shall be no more sickness nor pain, and tears 
 shall be wiped from every eye, and all things 
 be made new. 
 
 Of the holy mother watching over her 
 holy child, while the stars shone in upon his 
 humble bed in the manger, — of that child, 
 in early boyhood, sitting in the temple con- 
 founding grave men, learned in the logic of 
 the world, by the simple intuitions of a heart 
 filled with the presence of God, — of the way 
 of life led by that mother's child, wdien 
 thirty years had set the seal of the divine 
 manhood on his brow. How after the day's 
 hard travel, he stopped to rest at the cottage 
 home of Martha and Mary, — how he took 
 up little children and Messed them, — how 
 the blind began to see, the deaf to hear^ the 
 dead to live, at sound of his voice, — how 
 on the calm of evening, in a modest room, 
 he took his last supper with the Twelve, 
 John resting on his bosom, Judas scowling 
 in the background, — how, amid the olives of 
 O-ethsemane, at dead ©f night, while his dis- 
 ciples slept, he went through the unutterable 
 agony alone until an angel^s hand wiped the 
 sweat of blood from his brow, — how he died 
 upon the felon's tree, the heavens black above 
 him, the earth beneath him dark with the 
 vast multitude, — and how, on the clear Sab- 
 bath morn he rose again, and called the 
 faithful woman, who had followed him to 
 the sepulcher, by the name which his mother 
 bore, spoken in the old familiar tone — 
 Mary t*' How he walked the earth in 
 bodily form eighteen hundred years ago, 
 shedding the presence of God around him, 
 and even now he walked it still in spiritual 
 hodj, shedding still upon sin-stricken and 
 sorrowing hearts the presence and the love 
 of God the Father. Lessons such as these, 
 the good clergyman, my father (as I called 
 him) taught me, instructing me always to do 
 good and lead a life free from sin, not from 
 fear of damnation or hell, but because good- 
 ness is growth, a good life is ho/ppiness. A 
 flower shut out from the light is damned : it 
 cannot grow. An evil life here or hereafter , 
 is in itself damnation; for it is ivant of \ 
 growth, paralysis or decay of all the nobler ^ 
 faculties. ; 
 
 As in my own way, and with such words 
 as I could command, I recounted the manner 
 in which the good clergyman educated me, 
 my mother's face grew sad and tearful. She 
 did not speak for some minutes ; her gaze 
 was downcast, and through her long dark 
 eyelashes the tears began to steal. 
 
 "A dream," she muttered, "only a dream! 
 Did he know mankind and know but a por- 
 tion of their unfathomable baseness, he 
 would see the impossibility of making them 
 better, would feel the necessity of an actual 
 hell, black as the darkest that a poet ever 
 fancied.'' 
 
 As she was thus occupied in her own 
 thoughts, a step — a well-known step — re- 
 sounded on the garden-walk, and the good 
 clergyman advanced from the wicket-gate to 
 the porch. Even now I see that pale face, 
 with the white hair and large clear eyes ! 
 
 He advanced and took my mother cor- 
 dially by the hand, and was much affected 
 when he heard of my father's death. My 
 mother thanked him warmly for the care 
 which he had taken of her child. 
 
 "This child will be a woman soon, and 
 she must be prepared to enter upon life with 
 all the accomplishments suitable to the posi- 
 tion which she will occupy," continued my 
 mother ; " I wish her to remain with you 
 until she is ready to enter the great world. 
 But she must have proper instruction ia 
 music and dancing. She must not be alto- 
 gether a wild country girl, when she goes 
 into society. But, however, my dear Mr. 
 Walworth, we will talk of this alone." 
 
 Young as I was I could perceive that there 
 was a mystery about my mother, her pre- 
 vious life, or present position, which the 
 good clergyman did not feel himself called 
 upon to penetrate. 
 
 She took his arm and led him into the 
 cottage, and they conversed for a long time 
 alone, while I remained upon the porch, 
 buried in a sort of dreamy revery, and watch- 
 ing the white clouds as they sailed along the 
 summer sky. 
 
 "I shall be absent two years,.** I heard my 
 mother's voice, as leaning on the good cler- 
 i gyman's arm she again c^me forth upon the 
 : porch ; " see that when I return, in place of 
 I this pretty chilli you will present to me a 
 ; beautifu,!; ajid accomplished lady." 
 
28 
 
 FRANK VAN HUYDEN. 
 
 She took me in her arms and kissed me, 
 ^vhile Mr, "Walworth exclaimed : 
 
 " Indeed, my dear madam, I can never 
 allow myself to think of Frances' leaving 
 this home while I am living. She has been 
 ■with me so long — ^is so dear to me — that the 
 very thought of parting with her, is like 
 tearing my heart-strings !" 
 
 He spoke with undisguised emotion ; my 
 mother took him warmly by the hand, and 
 again thanked kim for the care and love 
 ^vhich he had lavished on her child. 
 
 At length she said "Farewell'." and I 
 watched her as she went down the garden- 
 walk to the wicket gate, and then across the 
 road, until she entered a by-path which 
 wound among the hills of the Neprehaun 
 into the valley below. She was lost to my 
 sight in the shadows of the foliage. She 
 emerged to view again far down the valley, 
 and I saw her enter her grand carriage, and 
 saw her kerchief waving from the carriage 
 window, as it rolled away. 
 
 I watched, 01 how earnestly I watched, 
 until the carriage rose to sight on the sum- 
 mit of a distant hill, beyond the spire of the 
 village church. Then, as it disappeared and 
 bore my mother from my sight, I sat down 
 and wept bitterly. 
 
 Would I had never seen her face again I 
 
 A year passed away. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 MAIDENHOOD. 
 
 It was June again. One summer even- 
 ing I took the path which led from the 
 garden to the summit of the hill which 
 rose behind the cottage. As I pursued 
 my way upward the sun was setting, and 
 at every step I obtained a broader glimpse 
 of the river, the dark Palisades, and the 
 bay white with sails. When I reached the 
 summit, the sun was on the verge of the 
 horizon, and the sky in the west all purple 
 and gold. Seating myself on the huge rock, 
 which rose on the summit, surrounded by a 
 circle of grand old trees, I surrendered my- 
 self to the quiet and serenity of the evening 
 hour. The view was altogether beautiful. 
 Beneath me sloped the broad hills, clad in 
 wheat which already was changing from 
 emerald to gold. Farther down, my cottage 
 
 home half hidden among trees. Then be- 
 neath the cottage, the homes of the village 
 dotting the hills, among wljich wound the 
 Neprehaun. The broad river and the wide 
 bay heaving gently in the fading light, and 
 the dark Palisades rising blackly against the 
 gold and purple sky. A lovelier view can- 
 not be imagined. And the air was full of 
 summer — scented with breath of vines and 
 blossoms and new-mown hay. As I surren- 
 dered myself to thoughts which arose unbid- 
 den, the first star came tremulously into 
 view, and the twilight began to deepen into 
 night. I was thinking of my life — of the 
 past — of the future. A strange vision of the 
 great world, struggled into dim shape before 
 the eye of my mind. 
 
 "A year more, and I will enter the great 
 world I" I ejaculated. A hand was laid 
 lightly on my shoulder. I started to my 
 feet w'th a shriek. 
 
 "What, Frank, don't you know me?" said 
 a half laughing voice, and I beheld beside 
 me » youth of some nineteen or twenty 
 years, whose face, shaded by dark hair, was 
 touche<^ by the last flush of the declining 
 day. JK was Ernest- the only son of the 
 good clp'ycyman. I had not seen him for 
 three year?- In that time, he had grown 
 from boyho<>^ into young manhood. He sat 
 beside me on tKe rock, and we talked together 
 as freely as wh^^n we were but little child- 
 ren. Ernest wa* full of life and hope ; his 
 voice grew deep, bis dark eyes large and 
 lustrous, as he spoliA of the prospects of his 
 future. 
 
 "In one year, FrarJc^ I will graduate and 
 then, — then, — the great world lies before 
 me 1" His gaze was turncil dreamily to the 
 
 j west, and his fine features drawn in distinct 
 profile against the evening sky. 
 
 1 "And what part, Ernest, will you play in 
 the great world?" 
 
 I " Father wishes me to enter into the min- 
 ' istry, but, — " and he uttered a joyous, con- 
 I fident laugh, — " whatever part I play, I 
 know that I will win !" 
 
 1 He uttered these words in the tone of 
 youth and hope, that has never been dark- 
 ened by a shadow, and then turning to me, — 
 
 I "And you, Frank, what part will you play 
 
 ' in the great world?" he said. 
 
 i "I know not. My career is in the hiyids 
 
FRANK VAN HUYDEN. 
 
 20 
 
 of my only parent, who will come next year 
 to take me hence. My childhood has been 
 
 wrapped in mystery; and my future, 0, 
 
 who can foretell the future?" 
 
 He gazed at me, for the first time, with an 
 earnest and searching gaze. His eyes, large 
 and gray, and capable of the most varied 
 expression, became absent and dreamy. 
 
 " You are very beautiful !" he said, as 
 though thinking aloud, — " 0, very beautiful ! 
 You will marry rich, — yes, — wealth and 
 position will be yours at once." 
 
 And as the moon, rising over the brow of 
 the hill, poured her light upon his thought- 
 ful face, he took my hand and said : 
 
 " Frank, why is it that certain natures live 
 only in the future or the past — never in the 
 present ? Look at ourselves, for instance. 
 Yonder among the trees, bathed in the light 
 of the rising moon, lies the cottage home in 
 which we have passed the happiest, holiest 
 hours of life. Of that home we are not 
 thinking now — we are only looking forward 
 to the future — and yet the time will come, 
 when immersed in the conflict of the world, 
 we will look back to that home, with the 
 same yearning that one, stretched upon the 
 couch of hopeless disease, looks forward to 
 his grave !" 
 
 His voice was low and solemn — I never 
 forgot his words. We sat for many minutes, 
 m silence. At length without a word, he 
 took my hand, and we went down the hill 
 together, by the light of the rising moon. 
 We climbed the stile, passed under the gar- 
 den boughs, and entered the cottage, and 
 found the good old man seated in his library 
 -among his books. He raised his eyes as we 
 came in, hand joined in hand, and a look of 
 undisguised pleasure stole over his face. 
 
 " See here, father," said Ernest laughingly, 
 "when I went to college, I left my little 
 sister in your care. I now return, and dis- 
 cover that my little sister has disappeared, 
 and left in her place this wild girl, whom I 
 found wandering to-night among the hills. 
 Don't you think there is something like a 
 witch in her eyes?" 
 
 The old man smiled and laid his hand on 
 my dark hair. 
 
 "Would to heaven!" he said, "that she 
 might never leave this quiet home." And 
 ihe prayer came from his heart. 
 
 Ernest remained with us until fall. Those 
 were happy days. We read, we talked, we 
 walked, we lived with each other. More 
 like sister and sister than brother and sister, 
 we wandered arm-in-arm to the brow of the 
 hill as the rich summer evening came on, — 
 or crossed the river in early morning, and 
 climbed the winding road that led to the 
 brow of the Palisades, — or sat, at night, 
 under the trees by the river's bank, watching 
 the stars as they looked down into the calm 
 water. Sometimes at night, we sat in the 
 library, and I read while the old man's hand 
 rested gently on my head and Ernest sat by 
 my side. And often upon the porch, as the 
 summer night wore on, Ernest and myself 
 sang together some old familiar hymn, while 
 "Father" listened in quiet delight. Thus 
 three months passed away, and Ernest left 
 for college. 
 
 " Next year, Frank, I graduate," he cried, 
 his thoughtful face flushed with hope, and 
 his gray eyes full of joyous light — "and 
 then for the battle with the world 1" 
 
 He left, and the cottage seemed blank 
 and desolate. The good clergyman felt his 
 absence most keenly. 
 
 "Well, well," he would mutter, "a year 
 is soon round and then Ernest will be with 
 us again !" 
 
 As for myself, I tried my books, my harp, 
 took long walks alone, busied myself in 
 household cares, but I could not reconcile 
 myself to the absence of Ernest. 
 
 Winter came, and one night a letter 
 arrived from Ernest to his father, and in 
 that letter one for — Frank ! How eagerly I 
 took it from " father's" hand and hurried to 
 my room, — that room which I remember yet 
 so vividly, with its window opening on the 
 garden, and the picture of the Virgin Mary 
 on the snow-white wall. Unmindful of the 
 cold, I sat down alone and perused the let- 
 ter, O, how eagerly ! It was a letter from a 
 brother to a sister, and yet beneath the calm 
 current of a brother's love, there flowed a 
 deeper and a wanner love. How joyously 
 he spoke of his future, and how strangely 
 he seemed to mingle my name with every 
 image of that future ! I read his letter over 
 and over, and slept with it upon my bosom ; 
 and I dreamed, 01 such air-castle dreams, in 
 I which a whole lifetime seemed to pass away, 
 
30 
 
 FRANK VAN HUYDEN. 
 
 ■while Ernest and Frank, always young, 
 always bappy, went wandering, hand-in- 
 hand, under skies without a cloud. But I 
 awoke in fright and terror. It seemed to 
 me that a cold hand — like the hand of a 
 corpse — was laid upon my bosom, and some- 
 how I thought that my mother was dead 
 and that it was her hand. I started up in 
 fright and tears, and lay shuddering until 
 the rising sun shone gayly through the 
 frosted window-pane. 
 
 Another year had nearly passed away. 
 
 It was June again, and it was toward 
 evening that I stood upon the cottage porch 
 "watching — not the cloudless sky and glorious 
 river bathed in the setting sun — but watch- 
 ing earnestly for the sound of a footstep. 
 Ernest was expected home. He had gradu- 
 ated with all the honors — he was coming 
 home! How I watched and waited for that 
 ■welcome step ! At last the wdcket-gate was 
 opened, and Ernest*s step resounded on the 
 garden- walk. Concealing myself among the 
 vines which covered one of the pillars of the 
 porch, I watched him as he approached, 
 determining to burst upon him in a glad sur- 
 prise as soon as he reached the steps. His 
 head was downcast, he walked with slow 
 and thoughtful steps ; his long black hair 
 fell wild and tangled on his shoulders. 
 The joyous hue of youth on his cheek had 
 been replaced by the pallor of long and 
 painful thought. The hopeful boy of the 
 last year had been changed into the moody 
 and ambitious man ! As he came on, 
 although my heart swelled to bursting at 
 sight of him, I felt awed and troubled, and 
 forgot my original intention of biu-sting upon 
 him in a merry surprise. He reached the 
 porch — he ascended the step — and I glided 
 silently from behind the pillar and con- 
 fronted him. 0, how his face lighted up as 
 he saw me ! His eyes, no longer glassy and 
 abstracted, were radiant with a delight too 
 deep for words ! 
 
 " Frank !" he said, and silently pressed 
 my hand. 
 
 "Ernest," was all I could repl}-, and we 
 stood in silence — both trembling, agitated — 
 and gazing into each other's eyes. 
 
 The good Clergyman was happy that eve- 
 ning, as he sat at the supper table, with 
 Frank on one hand and Ernest on the other. 
 
 And old Alice peering at us through her 
 spectacles could not help remarking, " Well, 
 well, only yesterday childi-en, and now such 
 a handsome couple!*^ 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 ON THE BOCK. 
 
 After supper, Ernest and I went to the 
 rock on the summit of the hill, where we 
 had met the year before. The scene wa» 
 the same, — ^the river, the bay, the dark Pal- 
 isades, and the vast sky illumined by the 
 rising moon, — but somehow we seemed 
 changed. We sat apart from each other on 
 the rock, and sat for a long time in silence. 
 Ernest, with downcast eyes, picked in an ab- 
 sent way at some flowers which grew in the 
 crevices of the rock. And I, — well I believe 
 I tied the strings of my sun-bormet into all 
 sorts of knots. I felt half disposed to laugh 
 and half disposed to cry. 
 
 At last I broke the silence : — 
 
 " You have fulfilled your words, Eme§t," 
 I said, " You have graduated with all th^ 
 honors — as last year you said you would,— 
 and now a bright career stretches before you. 
 You will go forth into the great world, you 
 will battle, you will win I" 
 
 "Frank," said he, stretching forth his 
 hand, — " Do you see yonder river as it flows 
 broad and rapid, in the light of the rising- 
 moon? You speak of a bright career before 
 me — ^now I almost wish that I was quietly 
 asleep beneath those w^aves." 
 
 The sadness of his tone and look went to 
 my heart. 
 
 " You surprise me, Frank. Now," — and 
 I attempted a laugh — " You have not fallen 
 in love, since last year, have you ?" 
 
 He looked up and surveyed me from head 
 to foot. I was dressed in white — my hair 
 fell in loose curls to my shoulders. In a year 
 I had passed from the girl into the woman. 
 I was taller, my form more roundly devel- 
 oped. And as he gazed upon me, I was 
 conscious that he was remarking the change 
 which had taken place in my appearance, 
 and that his look was one of ardent admira- 
 tion. 
 
 " Do you think that I have fallen in love 
 since last year ?" he said slowly and with a 
 meaning look. 
 
FRANK VAN HUYDEN. 
 
 31 
 
 I turned away from his gaze, and ex- 
 claimed — 
 
 " But you are moody, Ernest. Last year 
 you were so hopeful — now so melancholy. 
 You can, you will succeed in life." 
 
 " That I can meet with what the world 
 calls success, I do not doubt," he replied : 
 " There is the career of the popular preacher, 
 armed with a white handkerchief and a vel- 
 vet Gospel, — of the lawyer, growing rich 
 with the rent paid to him by crime, and de- 
 voting all the powers of his immortal soul 
 to prove that black is white and white is 
 black — of the merchant, who sees only these 
 words painted upon the face of God's uni- 
 verse, 'Buy cheap and sell dear,' — careers 
 such as these, Frank, are before me, and I 
 am free to choose, and doubt not but that I 
 could succeed in any of them. But to achieve 
 such success I would not spend, I do not say 
 the labor of years — No, — I would not spend 
 the thought of a single hour." 
 
 " But the life of a good Minister of the 
 Gospel, Ernest, living in some quiet country 
 town, dividing his time between his parish- 
 ioners and his books, and dwelling in a home 
 like the cottage yonder — what say you to 
 such a life, Ernest ?" 
 
 He raised his eyes, and again surveyed me 
 earnestly — "Ambitious as I am, I would 
 sacrifice every thought of ambition for a life 
 such as you picture — ^but upon one condi- 
 tion," — he paused — 
 
 " And that condition ?" I said in a low 
 voice. 
 
 "Ask your own heart," was his reply, ut- 
 tered in a tremulous voice. 
 
 I felt m]^bosom heave, — was agitated, 
 trembling I knew not why, — but I made no 
 answer. 
 
 There was a long and painful pause. 
 
 " The night is getting chill," I said at 
 length, for want of something better to say : 
 " Father is waiting for us. Let us go home." 
 
 I led the way down the path, and he fol- 
 lowed moodily, without a word. As he 
 helped me over the stile I saw that his face 
 was pale, his lips tightly compressed. And 
 when we came into the presence of his Fa- 
 ther, he replied to the old man's kind ques- 
 tions, in a vacant and abstracted manner. I 
 bade him " good night !" at last ; he answer- 
 ed me, but added in a lower tone, inaudible 
 
 to the old man, " Young and rich and beau- 
 tiful, you are beyond the reach of — a country 
 clergyman.^' 
 
 The next morning while we were at break- 
 fast, a letter came. It was from my mother. 
 To-morrow she would come and take me 
 from the cottage ! 
 
 The letter dropped from the old man's 
 hand, and Ernest rising abruptly from the 
 table, rushed from the room. 
 
 And I was to leave the home of my hap- 
 piest hours, and go forth into the great world! 
 The thought fell like a thunderbolt upon 
 every heart in the cottage. 
 
 CHAPTER YL 
 
 AMONG THE PALISADES. 
 
 After an hour Ernest met me on the 
 porch ; he was very pale. 
 
 " Frank," said he, kindly, " To-morrow you 
 will leave its forever. Would you not like 
 to see once more the place yonder," — he 
 pointed across the river to the Palisades — 
 " where we spent so many happy hours last 
 summer ?" 
 
 He spoke of that dear nook, high up among 
 the rocks, encircled by trees, and canopied 
 by vines, where, we had indeed spent many 
 a happy hour. 
 
 I made no reply, but put on my sun-bon- 
 net and took his arm, and in a little while 
 we were crossing the river, he rowing, while 
 I sat in the stern. It was a beautiful day. 
 We arrived at the opposite shore, at a point 
 where the perpendicular wall of the Pali- 
 sades, is for a mile or more, broken by a huge 
 and sloping hill, covered with giant forest 
 trees. Together we took the serpentine path, 
 which, winding toward all points of the 
 compass, led to the top of the Palisades. 
 The birds were singing, the broad forest 
 leaves and hanging vines quivered in the sun, 
 the air wa.s balmy, and the day the very em- 
 bodiment of the freshness and fragrance of 
 June. As we w-ound up the road (whose 
 brown graveled surface contrasted with the 
 foliage), we saw the sunlight streaming in 
 upon the deep shadows of the wood, and 
 heard from afar the lulling music of a water- 
 fall. Departing from the beaten road, we 
 wandered among the forest trees, and talked 
 together as gladly and as familiarly as in other 
 
82 
 
 FRANK VAN HUTDEN. 
 
 days. There we wandered for hours, now 
 in sunlight, now in shadow, now resting upon 
 the brow of some moss-covered rock, and 
 now stopping beside a spring of clear cold 
 water, half hidden by thick green leaves. 
 As noon drew near, we ascended to the top 
 of the forest hill, and passing through a wil- 
 derness of tangled vines, came suddenly upon 
 a rude farmhouse, one story high, built of 
 logs, whose dark surface contrasted with the 
 verdure of the garden and the foliage of the 
 overshadowing tree. It was the same as in 
 the year before. There was the well-pole 
 rising above its roof and the well-bucket 
 moist with clear cold water, and in the door- 
 way stood the farmer's dame, who had often 
 welcomed us to her quiet home. 
 
 " Bless me ! how handsome my children 
 have grown !" she cried, ** and how's the 
 good Domiue ? Come in, come in ; the folks 
 are all away in the fields ; come in and rest 
 you, and have some pie and milk, and" — she 
 paused for breath — " and some dinner." 
 
 The good dame would take no denial, and 
 we sat down to dinner with her — I can see 
 the scene before me now — the carefully sand- 
 ed floor, the old clock in the corner, the cup- 
 board glistering with the burnished pewter, 
 the neatly spread table, the broad hearth, 
 covered with green boughs, and the open 
 windows, with the sunbeams playing through 
 the encircling vines. And then the good 
 dame with her high cap, round, good-hu- 
 mored face, and spectacles resting on the 
 bridge of her hooked nose. As we broke 
 the home-made bread with her, we were as 
 gay as larks. 
 
 "Well, I do like to see young folks enjoy 
 themselves," said the dame. — " You don't 
 know how often I've thought of you since 
 you were here last summer. I have said, 
 and I will say it, that a handsomer brother 
 and sister I never yet did see." 
 
 " But you mistake," said Ernest, " We're 
 not brother and sister." 
 
 " Only cousins," responded the dame, sur- 
 veying us attentively, "Well, I'm glad of it, 
 for there's no law ag'in cousins marryin', and 
 you'd make such a handsome couple." And 
 she laughed mitil her sides shook. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 IN THE FOREST NOOK. 
 
 Leaving the farmhouse, we bent our way 
 to the Palisades again. We had been gay 
 and happy all the morning, now we became 
 thoughtful. We entered a narrow path, and 
 presently came upon the dear nook where 
 we had spent so many happy hours. It was 
 a quiet space of green-sward and velvet moss, 
 encircled on all sides, save one, by the trunks 
 of giant forest trees — the oak, the tulip pop- 
 lar and the sycamore — which arose like 
 rugged columns, their branches forming a 
 roof far overhead. Half-way between the 
 sward and the branches, hung a drapery of 
 vines, swinging in the simlight, and shower- 
 ing blossoms and fragrance on the summer 
 air. Light shrubbery grew between the m^- 
 sive trunks of the trees, and in one part of 
 the glade a huge rock arose, its summit pro- 
 jecting over the sward, and forming a sort of 
 canopy or shelter for a rustic seat fashioned 
 of oaken boughs. Looking upward through 
 the drapery of vines and the roof of boughs, 
 only one glimpse of blue sky was visible. 
 Toward the east the glade was open, and 
 over the tops of the forest trees (which rose 
 from the glen beneath), you saw the river, 
 the distant village and my cottage home 
 shining in the sun. At the foot of the oak 
 which formed one of the portals of the 
 glade, was a clear cold spring, resting in a 
 basin of rock, and framed in leaves and 
 flowers. Altogether the dear nook of the 
 forest was worthy of June. 
 
 For a moment we surveye^, this quiet 
 scene — thought of the many happy hours 
 we had spent there in the previous summer — 
 and then turning our faces to the east, we 
 stood, hand link'd in hand, gazing over 
 forest trees and river upon our far-off cottage 
 home. 
 
 " Does it not look beautiful, as it shines 
 there in the sun ?" — I said. 
 
 Ernest at first did not reply, but turned 
 his gaze full upon me. His face was flushed 
 and there was a strange fire in his eyes. 
 
 " To-morrow you leave that home for- 
 ever," he exclaimed, and I trembled, I knew 
 not why at the sound of his voice — "I will 
 never see you again — I — " he dropped my 
 
FEANK VAN IIUYDEN. 
 
 33 
 
 hand and turned his face away. I saw his \ 
 Jiead fall on his breast, and saw that breast ■ 
 heave with agitation ; urged by an impulse I ' 
 could not control, I glided to his side, put j 
 my hand upon his arm, and looked up into 
 his face. 
 
 " Ernest," I whispered. 
 
 He turned to me, for a moment regarded 
 me with a look of intense passion and then 
 caught me to his heart. His arms were 
 around me, my bosom heaved against his 
 breast, his kiss was on my lips — the first 
 kiss since childhood, and 0, how different 
 from the kiss which a brother presses on a 
 sister's lips ! 
 
 " Frank I love you ! Many beautiful 
 women have I seen, but there is that in your 
 gaze, your voice, your very presence, which 
 is Heaven itself to me. I cannot live with- 
 out you ! and cannot, cannot think of losing 
 you without madness. Frank, be mine, be 
 my wife ! Be mine, and the home which 
 shines yonder in the sunlight shall be ours ! 
 Frank, for God's sake say you love me !" 
 
 He sank at my feet and clasped my knees 
 with his trembling hands. the joy, the 
 rapture of that moment ! As I saw his face 
 upraised to mine, I felt that I loved him 
 with all my soul, that I could die for him. 
 Reaching forth my hands I drew him gently 
 to his feet, and fell upon his breast and 
 called him, *' Husband !" Would I had died 
 there, on his bosom, even as his lips met 
 mine, and the words " my wife !" trembled 
 on my ear ! Would I had at that moment 
 fallen dead upon his breast ! 
 
 Even as he gathered me to his bosom the 
 air all at once grew dark ; looking overhead, 
 we saw a vast cloud rolling up the heavens, 
 dark as midnight, yet fringed with sunlight. 
 On and on it rolled, the air grew darker, 
 darker, an ominous thunder-peal broke over 
 our heaas, and rolled away among the 
 gorges of the hills. Then the clouds grew 
 dark as night. We could not see each other's 
 faces. For a moment our distant home 
 shone in sunlight, and then the eastern sky 
 was wrapt in clouds, the river hidden by 
 driving rain. Trembling with fright I clung 
 to Ernest's neck — he bore me to the beech 
 in the shadow of the rock — another thunder 
 peal and a flash of lightning that blinded me. 
 I buried my face in his bosom, to hide my | 
 
 j eyes from that awful glare. The tempest 
 which had arisen so suddenly — even as we 
 i exchanged our first vows — was now upon us 
 j and in power. The trees rocked to the blast. 
 The distant river was now dark and now one 
 mass of sheeted flame. Peal on peal the 
 thunder burst over our heads, and as one peal 
 died away in distant echoes, another more 
 awful seemed hurled upon us, from the very 
 zenith. And amid the darkness and glare 
 of that awful storm, I clung to Ernest's neck, 
 my bosom beating against his heart, and we 
 repeated our vows, and talked of our mar- 
 riage, and laid plans for our future. 
 
 " Frank, my heart is filled with an awful 
 foreboding," he said, and his voice was so 
 changed and husky, that I raised my head 
 from his bosom, and even in the darkness 
 sought to gaze upon his face. A lightning 
 flash came and was gone, but by that momen- 
 tary glare, I saw his countenance agitated in 
 every lineament. 
 
 '* What mean you Ernest ?" 
 " You will leave our home to-morrow and 
 never return, never ! The sunshine which 
 was upon us, as we exchanged our vows, 
 was in a moment succeeded by the blackness 
 of the awful tempest. A bad omen, Frank, 
 a dark prophecy of our future. There is 
 only one way to turn the omen of evil, into 
 a prophecy of good." 
 
 He drew me close in his arms, and bent 
 his lips to my ear — " Be mine, and now ! be 
 mine ! Let the thunder-peal be our mar- 
 riage music, this forest glade our maniago 
 couch !" 
 
 I was faint, trembling, but I sprang from 
 his arms, and stood erect in the center of the 
 glade. My dark hair fell to my shoulders ; 
 a flash of lightning lit up my form, clad in 
 snow-white. As wildly, as completely as I 
 loved him, I felt my eyes flash with indig- 
 nation. 
 
 " Words like these to a girl who has been 
 reared under your father's roof !" 
 
 He fell at my feet, besought my forgive- 
 ness in frantic tones, and bathed my hands 
 with his tears. 
 
 I fainted in his arms. 
 
 When I unclosed my eyes again, I found 
 myself pure and virgin in the arms of my 
 plighted husband. The clouds were parting, 
 I the tempest was over, and the sun shone out 
 
34 
 
 FRANK VAN HUYDEN. 
 
 once more. Every leaf glittered ^vilh dia- 
 mond drops. The last blast of the storm 
 was passing over the distant river, and 
 through the driving clouds, I saw the sun- 
 light shining once more upon our cottage 
 home. 
 
 " Forgive me, Frank, forgive me," he cried, 
 bending passionately over me. " See ! Your 
 bad omen has been turned into good !" I 
 cried joyfully — "First the sunshine, then the 
 storm, but now the sun shines clear again ;" 
 and I pointed to the diamond dro]DS glitter- 
 ing in the sun. 
 
 " And you will be true to me, Frank ?" 
 
 "Before heaven I pi-omise it, in life, in 
 death, forever !" 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 HOME, ADIEU ! 
 
 It was toward the close of the afternoon 
 that we took cur way from the glade through 
 the forest to the river shore. We crossed 
 the river, and passed through the village. 
 Together we ascended the road that led to 
 our home, and at the wicket-gate, found a 
 splendid carriage with liveried servants. 
 
 The good clergyman stood at the gate, 
 his bared forehead and white hairs bathed 
 in the sunshine ; beside him, darkly dressed, 
 diamonds upon her rich attire, my mother. 
 Old Alice stood weeping in the background. 
 
 "Come, Frank, your things are packed and 
 we must be away," she said, abruptly, as 
 though we had seen each other only the day 
 before ; " I wish to reach our home in New 
 York, before night. Go in the house dear," 
 she kissed me, "and get your bonnet and 
 shawl. Quick my love !" 
 
 Not daring to trust myself to speak — for . 
 my heai't was full to bursting — I hurried 
 through the gate, and along the garden walk. 
 
 " How beautiful she has grown I" I heard 
 my mother exclaim. One look into the old 
 familiar library room, one moment in prayer 
 by the bed, in which I had slept since child- 
 hood ! 
 
 Placing the bonnet on my curls, and drop- 
 ping my shawl around me, I hurried from 
 my cottage home. There were a few mo- 
 ments of agony, of blessings, of partings and 
 
 tears. Old Alice pressed me in her arms, 
 and bid me good-by. The good old cler- 
 g\Tnan laid his hands upon my head, and 
 lifting his beaming eyes to heaven, invoked 
 the blessing of God upon my head. 
 
 " I give your child to you again !" he said, 
 placing me in my mother's arras — " May she 
 be a blessing to you, as for years past she has 
 been the blessing and peace of my home !" 
 
 I looked around for Ernest ; he had dis- 
 appeared. 
 
 I entered the carriage, and sank sobbing 
 on the seat. 
 
 " But I am not taking the dear child away 
 from you forever," said my mother, bending 
 from the carriage window. " She will come 
 and see you often, my dear Mr. Walworth, 
 and you will come and see her. You have 
 the number of our town residence on that 
 card. And bring your son, and good Alice 
 
 with you, and, " 
 
 The carriage rolled away. 
 So strange and unexpected had been the 
 circumstances of this departure from my 
 home, that I could scarce believe myself 
 awake. 
 
 I did not raise my head, until we had 
 descended the hill, passed the village and 
 gained a mile or more on our way. 
 
 We were ascending a long slope, which 
 led to the summit of a hill, from which, I 
 knew, I might take a last view of my child- 
 hood's home. 
 
 As we reached the summit of the hill, 
 my mother was looking out of one window 
 toward the river, and I looked out of the 
 other, and saw, beyond the church spire and 
 over the hills, the white walls of my home. 
 " Frank !" whispered a low voice. 
 Ernest was by the carriage. There was 
 a look exchanged, a word, and he was gone. 
 I Gone into the trees by the roadside. 
 
 He left a flower in my hand. I placed it 
 silently in my bosom. 
 
 " Frank ! How beautiful you have groMTi!" 
 said my mother, turning from the window, 
 and fixing upon me an ardent and admiring 
 gaze. And the next moment she was wrapt 
 in thought and the wrinkle grew deeper 
 between her brows. 
 
 y 
 
FRANK VAN HUYDEN. 
 
 35 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 EKJEST AND HIS SINGULAR ADVENTURE. 
 
 Before I resume my own history, I must 
 relate an instance in the life of Ernest, which 
 had an important bearing on his fate. (This 
 incident I derive from M8S. written by Ern- 
 est himself.) Soon after my departure from 
 the cottage home, he came to New York 
 with his father, and they directed their steps 
 to my mother's residence ; as indicated on 
 the card which she had left with the clergy- 
 man ; but to their great disappointment, 
 they discovered that my mother and myself 
 had just left town for Niagara Falls. Six 
 months afterward, Ernest received a long 
 letter from me, concluding with these words: 
 " To-morrow, myself and frnther take passage 
 for Europe, in tlie steamer. We will he absent 
 for a year or more^ 
 
 Determined to see me at all hazards, he 
 hurried to towm, but, too late ! The steamer 
 had sailed ; her flag fluttered in the air, far 
 down the bay, as standing on the battery, 
 Ernest followed her course, with an almost 
 maddened gaze. Sorrowfully he returned to 
 the country and informed his father of my 
 sudden departure for Europe. 
 
 " Can she have forgetten us ?" said the old 
 man. 
 
 "0, father, this letter," replied Ernest, 
 showing the long letter which I had written, 
 " this will show you that she has not forgotten 
 us, but that her heart beats warmly as ever — 
 that she is the same." 
 
 And he read the letter to the good old 
 man, who frequently interrupted him, with 
 " God bless her ! God bkss my child !" 
 
 Soon afterward Ernest came to New York 
 and entered his name in the office of an 
 eminent lawyer. Determining to make the 
 law his profession, he hoped to complete his 
 studies before my return from Paris. He 
 lived in New York, and began to move in 
 the circles of its varied society. Among the 
 acquaintances which he made were certain 
 authors and artists who, once a month, in 
 company with a few select friends, gave a 
 social supper at a prominent hotel. 
 
 At one of these suppers Ernest was a 
 guest. The wine passed round, wit sparkled, 
 and the enjoyment of the festival did not 
 begin to flag even when midnight drew near. 
 
 While one of the guests was singing, a 
 portly gentleman (once well known as a 
 man of fashion, the very Brummel of the 
 side-walk) began to converse with Ernest in 
 a low voice. 
 
 He described a lady — a young Avidow with 
 a large fortune — who at that time occupied 
 a large portion of the interest of certain 
 circles in New York. She was exceedingly 
 beautiful. She .was witty, accomplished, 
 eloquent. She rivaled in fascination Ninon 
 and Aspasia. Nightly, to a select circle, sho 
 presided over festivals whose voluptuous- 
 ness was masked in flowers. Her previous 
 history was unknown, but she had suddenly 
 entered the orbit of New York social life — 
 of a peculiar kind of social life — as a star of 
 the first magnitude. His blood heated by 
 wine, his imagination warmed by the descrip- 
 tion of his fashionable friend, Ernest mani- 
 fested great cmiosity to behold this singular 
 lady. 
 
 "You shall see her to-night — at once," 
 whispered the fashionable gentleman. " She 
 gives a select party to-night. Let us glide 
 ofl" from the company unobserved." 
 
 They passed from the company, took 
 their hats and cloaks — it was a clear, cold 
 winter night — and entered a carriage. 
 
 "I will introduce you by the name of 
 Johnson — Fred. Johnson, a rich southern 
 planter," said the fashionable gentleman. 
 " You need not call me by my real name. 
 Call me Lawson." 
 
 "But why this concealment?" asked 
 Ernest, as the carriage rolled on. 
 
 " 0, well, never mind," added Lawson (as 
 he desired to be called), and then continued: 
 " We'll soon be near her mansion, or palace 
 is the more appropriate word. We will find 
 some of the first gentlemen and finest ladies 
 of New York under her roof. I tell you, 
 she'll set you half wild, this 'Midnight 
 Queen !' " 
 
 " Midnight Queen !" echoed Ernest. 
 
 " That's what we call her. A 'Midnight 
 Queen' indeed, as mysterious and voluptuous 
 as the midnight moon shining in an Italian 
 sky." 
 
 They arrived in front of a lofty mansion, 
 situated in one of the most aristocratic parts 
 of New York. Its exterior w^as dark and 
 silent as the winter midnight itselt 
 
86 
 
 FRANK VAN HUYDEK. 
 
 "A light hid under a bushel — outside dark 
 enough, but inside bright as a new dollar," 
 whispered Lawson, ascending the marble 
 steps and ringing the bell. 
 
 The door was opened for the space of six 
 inches or more, — 
 
 "Who 's there?" said a voice from within. 
 
 Lawson bent his face near to the aperture 
 and whispered a few words inaudible to 
 Ernest. The door was opened wide, and 
 carefully closed and bolted behind them, as 
 soon as they crossed the threshold. They 
 stood in a vast hall lighted by a hanging 
 lamp. 
 
 *' Leave hats and cloaks here — and come." 
 Lawson took Ernest by the hand and pushed 
 open a door. 
 
 They entered a range of parlors, brilliantly 
 lighted by two chandeliers, as brilliantly 
 furnished with chairs and sofas and mirrors, 
 and adorned with glowing pictures and 
 statues of white marble. A piano stood in 
 a recess, and in the last parlor of the three 
 a supper-table was spread. These parlors 
 were crowded by some thirty guests, men 
 and women, some of whom, seated on chairs 
 and sofas, were occupied in low whispered 
 cx)nversation, while others took wine at the 
 supper-table, and others again were grouped 
 round the piano, listening to the voice of an 
 exceedingly beautiful woman. 
 
 Ernest uttered an ejaculation. Never had 
 he seen a spectacle like this, never seen 
 before, grouped under one roof, so many 
 beautiful women. Beautiful women, richly 
 dressed, their arms and shoulders bare, or 
 vailed only by mist-like lace, which gave 
 new fascination to their charms. It did not 
 by any means decrease the surprise of Ernest 
 when he discovered that some of the ladies — 
 those whose necks and shoulders glowed 
 most white and beautiful in the light — wore 
 masks. 
 
 "What is this place?" he whispered to 
 Lawson, as apparently unheeded by the 
 guests, they passed through the parlors. 
 
 " Hush ! not so loud," whispered his com- 
 panion. " Take a glass of wine, my boy, 
 and your eyesight will be clearer. This 
 place is a quiet little retreat in which certain 
 gentlemen and ladies of New York, by no 
 means lacking in wealth or position, endea- 1 
 vor to carry the Koran into practice, and | 
 
 create, even in our cold climate, a paradise 
 worthy of Mahomet. In a word, it is the 
 residence of a widowed lady, who, blest 
 with fortune and all the good things which 
 fortune brings, delights in surrounding her- 
 self with beautiful women and intellectual 
 men. How do you like that wine? There 
 are at least a hundred gentlemen in New 
 York, who would give a cool five hundred 
 to stand where you stand now, or even 
 cross the threshold of this mansion. I 'm 
 an old stager, and have brought you here in 
 order to enjoy the effect which a scene like 
 this produces on one so inexperienced as 
 you. But you must remember one law 
 which governs this place and all who 
 enter it — " 
 
 " That condition?" 
 
 "All that is said or done here remains a 
 secret forever within the compass of these 
 walls ; and you must never recognize, in 
 any other place, any person whom you have 
 first encountered here. This is a matter of 
 honor, Walworth." 
 
 "And where is the * Midnight Queen?' " 
 
 " She is not with her guests, I see — but I 
 will give you an answ^er in a moment," and 
 Lawson left the room. ^ 
 
 Drinking glass after glass of champagne, 
 Ernest stood by the supper-table, a silent 
 spectator of that scene, whose voluptuous 
 enchantment gradually inflamed his imagi- 
 nation and fired his blood. He seemed to 
 have been suddenly transported from dull 
 matter-of-fact, every-day life, to a scene in 
 some far oriental city, in the days of Haroun 
 Alraschid. And he surrendered himself to 
 the enchantment of the place, like one for 
 the first time enjoying the intoxication of 
 opium. 
 
 Lawson returned, and came quietly to his 
 side — 
 
 " Would you like to see the * Midnight 
 Queen,' — alone — in her parlor ?" he whis- 
 pered. 
 
 " Of all things in the world. You have 
 roused my curiosity. I am like a man in a 
 delicious dream." 
 
 "Understand me — she is chary of her 
 smiles to an old stager like me — but I think, 
 that there is something in you that will 
 interest her. She awaits you in her apart- 
 ments. You are a young English lord on 
 
FRANK VAN HUYDEN. 
 
 37 
 
 your travels (better than a planter), Lord 
 Stanley Fitz Herbert. With that black 
 dress and somber face of yours you will take 
 her wonderfully." 
 
 " But can I indeed see her?" 
 
 "Leave the room — ascend the stairs — at 
 the head of the stairs a light shines from a 
 door which is slightly open ; take a bold 
 heart and enter." 
 
 " Inflamed by curiosity, by the wine which 
 he had drunk, and the scene around him, 
 Ernest did not take time for a second 
 thought, but left the room, ascended the 
 stairs, and stood before the door from whose 
 aperture a belt of light streamed out upon 
 the dark passage. There, for a moment, he 
 hesitated, but that was all. He opened the 
 door and entered. He stood spell-bound by 
 the scene. If the parlors below were mag- 
 nificently furnished, this apartment was 
 worthy of an empress. There were lofty 
 walls hung with silk hangings and adorned 
 with pictures ; a couch with a silken canopy; 
 mirrors that glittered gently in the rich 
 voluptuous light ; in a word, every detail of 
 luxury and extravagance. 
 
 In the center of all stood the " Midnight 
 Queen" — iirtl^s hand she held an open let- 
 ter. Her back was toward Ernest as he 
 lingered near the threshold. Her neck and 
 shoulders were bare, and he could remark at 
 a glance their snowy whiteness and volup- 
 tuous outline, although her dark hair was 
 gathered in glossy masses upon the shoul- 
 ders, half hiding them from view. A dark 
 dress, rich in its very simplicity, left her 
 arms bare and did justice to the rounded 
 proportions of her form. 
 
 She turned and confronted Ernest, even as 
 he, the blood bounding in his veins, advanced 
 a single step. 
 
 At once they spoke : 
 
 " My Lord Stanley, I believe, — " 
 
 "The 'Midnight Queen,'—" 
 
 The words died on their lips. They stood 
 as if suddenly frozen to the floor. The 
 beautiful face of the "Midnight Queen" was 
 pale as death, and as for Ernest, the glow of 
 the wine had left his cheek — his face was 
 livid and distorted. 
 
 Moments passed and neither had power 
 to speak. 
 
 " 0, my God, it is Frank !" the words at 
 
 last burst from the lips of Ernest, and he fell 
 like a dead man at her feet. 
 
 Yes, the "Midnight Queen" was Frances 
 Van Huyden, his betrothed wife — six months 
 ago resting on his bosom and whispering 
 "husband" in his ear, — and now — the wife 
 of another ? A widow ? Or one utterly 
 fallen from all virtue and all hope? 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE PALACE-HOME. 
 
 Having thus given the incident from the 
 life of Ernest, as far as possible, in the very 
 words of his MSS., let me continue my his- 
 tory from the hour when, in company with 
 my mother, I left the cottage home of the 
 good clergyman. After the incident just 
 related, nothing in my life can appear 
 strange. 
 
 I was riding in the carriage with my 
 mother toward New York. 
 
 " You are, indeed, very beautiful, Frank," 
 said she, once more regarding me attentively. 
 " Your form is that of a mature woman, and 
 your carriage (I remarked it as you passed 
 up the garden-walk) excellent. But this 
 country dress will not do. We will do bet- 
 ter than all that when we get to town." 
 
 It was night w^hen the carriage left the 
 avenue and rolled into Broadway. The 
 noise, the glare, the people hurrying by, all 
 frightened me. At the same time Broad- 
 way brought back a dim memory of my 
 early childhood in Paris. Turning from 
 Broadway, the carnage at length stopped 
 before a lofty mansion, the windows of which 
 were closed from the sidewalk to the roof. 
 
 " This is your home," said my mother, as 
 she led me from the carriage up the marble 
 steps into the hall where, in the light of a 
 globular lamp, a group of servants in livery 
 awaited us. 
 
 "Jenkins," — my mother spoke to an 
 elderly servant in dark livery turned up with 
 red — " let dinner be served in half an hour." 
 
 Then turning to another servant, not quite 
 so old, but wearing the same livery, she said : 
 
 "Jones, Miss Van Huyden wishes to take 
 a look at her house before we go to dinner. 
 Take the light and go before us." 
 
 The servant, holding a wax candle placed 
 in a huge silver candlestick, went before us 
 
88 
 
 FRANK VAN HUYDEN. 
 
 and showed us the house from the first to 
 the fourth floor. Never before had I beheld 
 such magnificence even in my dreams. I 
 could not restrain ejaculations of pleasure 
 and surprise at every step, — my mother 
 keenly regarding me, sometimes vnth a faint 
 smile and sometimes with the wrinkle grow- 
 ing deeper between her brows. A range of 
 jjarlors on the lower floor were furnished 
 with everything that the most extravagant 
 fancy could desire, or exhaustless wealth 
 procure. Carpets that gave no echo to the 
 step ; sofas and chairs cushioned with velvet 
 and (so it seemed to me) framed in gold ; 
 mirrors extending from the ceiling to the 
 floor ; pictures, statues, and tables with tops 
 either of marble or ebony; the walls lofty, 
 and the ceiling glowing with a painting 
 which represented Aurora and the Hours 
 winging their way through a summer sky. 
 
 "Whose picture, mother ?" I asked, point- 
 ing to a picture of a singularly handsome 
 man, with dark hair and beard, and eyes re- 
 markable at once for their brightness and ex- 
 pression. 
 
 " Your father, dear," answered my mother, 
 and again the mark between her brows be- 
 came ominously perceptible. " There is your 
 piano, Frank, — you'll find it something bet- 
 ter than the one which you had at the good 
 parson's." 
 
 The servant led the way, up the wide stair- 
 way, thickly carpeted, to the upper rooms. 
 Here the magnificence of the first floor was 
 repeated on a grander, a more luxurious scale. 
 We passed through room after room, my eyes 
 dazzled by new signs of wealth and luxury 
 at every step. At last we paused on the 
 thick carpet of a spacious bed-chamber, whose 
 appointments combined the richest elegance 
 with the nicest taste. It was hung with 
 curtains of light azure. An exquisite and 
 touching picture of the Virgin Mary con- 
 fronted the toilette table and mirror. A bed 
 with coverlet white as snow, satin covered 
 pillows and canopy of lace, stood in one cor- 
 ner ; and wherever I turned there were signs 
 of neatness, taste and elegance. I could not 
 too much admire the apartment. 
 
 "It is your bedroom, my dear," said my 
 mother, silently enjoying my delight. 
 
 Why," said I laughingly, — " it is grand 
 enough for a queen." i 
 
 I ** And are you not a queen," answered my 
 mother, ** and a very beautiful one." Turn- 
 
 I ing to the servant, who stood staring at mo 
 with eyes big as saucers, she said — 
 
 " Tell Mrs. J enkins, the housekeeper, to 
 come here :" — Jones left the chamber, and 
 presently returned with Mrs. Jenkins, a port- 
 ly lady, with a round, good-humored face. 
 
 "Frank, this is ijour housekeeper;" — Mrs. 
 Jenkins simpered and courtsied, shaking at 
 the same time the bundle of keys at her 
 waist. " Mrs. Jenkins, this is your young 
 mistress, Miss Van Huyden. Give me the 
 keys." 
 
 She took the keys from the housekeeper, 
 and placed them in my hands : 
 
 " My dear, this house and all that it con- 
 tains are yours, I surrender it to your charge." 
 
 Scarcely knowing what to do with myself 
 I took the keys— which were heavy enough — 
 and handing them back to Mrs. Jenkins, 
 " hoped that she would continue to superin- 
 tend the afifairs of my mansion, as hereto- 
 fore." All of which pleased my mother and 
 made her smile. 
 
 " We will go to dinner without dressing/* 
 and my mother led the way down stairs to 
 the dining-room. It was a lar^l^ apartment, 
 in the center of which stood a luxuriously 
 furnished table, glittering with gold plate. 
 Servants in livery stood like statues behind 
 my chair and my mother's. How difi"erent 
 from the plain fare and simple style of the 
 good clergyman's home ! Nay how widely 
 contrasted with the rude dinner in a log 
 cabin to which Ernest and myself sat down 
 a few hours ago ! 
 
 In vain I tried to partake of the rich dishes 
 set out before me ; I was too much excited to 
 eat. Dinner over, coffee was served, and the 
 servants retired. Mother and I were left 
 alone. 
 
 " Frank, do you blame me," she said, look- 
 ing at me carefully — " for having you reared 
 so quietly, far away in the country, in order 
 that at the proper age, strong in health and 
 rich in accomplishments and beauty, you 
 might be prepared to enter upon the enjoy- 
 ments and duties suitable to your station ?" 
 
 How could I blame her ? 
 
 I spoke gratefully again and again of the 
 wealth and comfort which sun-ounded me, and 
 then forgetting it all — broke forth into im- 
 
FRANK VAN HUYDEN. 
 
 39 
 
 passioned praise of my cottage home, of the 
 good clergyman, of old Alice and — Ernest. 
 
 Something which came over my mother's 
 face at the mention of Ernest's name, warned 
 me that it was not yet time to speak of my 
 engagement to him. 
 
 That night I bathed my limbs in a per- 
 fumed bath, laid my head on a silken pillow, 
 and slept beneath a canopy of lace, as soft 
 and light and transparent as the summer 
 mist through which you can see the blue sky 
 and the distant mountain. And resting on 
 the silken pilloAV I dreamed — not of the 
 splendor with which I was surrounded, nor 
 of the golden prospects of my future, — but, 
 of my childhood's home, and the quiet scenes 
 of other days. In my sleep my heart turned 
 back to them. Once more I heard the voice 
 of the good old man. I heard the shrill 
 tones of Alice, as the sun shone on my frosted 
 window-pane, on a clear, cold winter morn. 
 Then the voice of Ernest, calling me "Wife!" 
 and pressing me to his bosom in the forest 
 nook. I awoke with his name on my lips, 
 and, 
 
 My mother stood by the bedside gazing upon 
 me attentively, a smile on her lips, but the 
 wrinkle darkly defined between her brows. 
 The sun shone brightly through the window 
 curtains. 
 
 " Get up my dear," she kissed me, — "You 
 have a busy day before you." 
 
 And it was a busy day ! I w^as handed 
 over to the milliners and dressmakers, and 
 whirled in my carriage from one jeweler's 
 shop to another. It was not until the third 
 day that my dresses w^ere completed — ac- 
 cording to my mother's taste, — and not until 
 the fourth, that the jewels which were to 
 adorn my forehead, my neck, my arms and 
 bosom, had been properly selected. Ward- 
 robe and diamonds worthy of a queen — and 
 was I happy ? No ! I began to grow home- 
 sick, for my dear quiet home, on the hill-side 
 above the Neprehaun. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 "she'll do." 
 
 It was on the fourth day, in the afternoon, 
 that my mother desired my presence in the 
 parlor, where she wished to present me to a 
 
 much esteemed friend, Mr. Wareham — Mr. 
 Wallace Wareham. 
 
 " An excellent man," whispered my mo- 
 ther as we went down stairs together, " and 
 immensely rich." 
 
 I was richly dressed in black ; my neck, 
 my arms and shoulders bare. My dark hair, 
 gathered plainly aside from my face, was 
 adorned by a single snow-white flower. As 
 I passed by the mirror in the parlor, I could 
 not help feeling a throb of womanly pride, 
 or — vanity; and my mother whispered, 
 " Frank, you excel yourself to-day." 
 
 Mr. Wareham sat on the sofa, in the front 
 parlor, in the mild light of the curtained 
 window. He was an elderly gentleman, 
 somewhat bald, and slightly inclined to cor- 
 pulence. He was sleekly clad in black, and 
 there Avas a gold chain across his satin vest, 
 and a brilliant diamond upon his ruffled 
 bosom. He sat in an easy, composed attitude, 
 resting both hands on his gold-headed cane. 
 At first sight he impressed me, as an elderly 
 gentleman, exceedingly nice in his peisonal 
 appearance ; and that was all. But there 
 was something peculiar and remarkable about 
 his face and look, Avhich did not appear at 
 first sight. 
 
 I was presented to him : he rose and 
 bowed ; and took me kindly by the hand. 
 
 Then conversing in a calm, even tone, 
 which soon set me at ease, he led me to talk 
 of my childhood — of my home on the Ne- 
 prehaun — of the life which I had passed with 
 the good clergyman. I soon forgot myself in 
 my subject, and grew impassioned, perchance 
 eloquent. I felt my cheeks glow and my 
 eyes sparkle. But all at once I was brought 
 to a dead pause, by remarking the singular 
 expression of Mr. Wareham's face. 
 
 I stopped abruptly — blushed — and at a 
 glance surveyed him closely. 
 
 His forehead w'as high and bold, and en- 
 circled by slight curls of black hair, streaked 
 with gray, — its expression eminently intellec- 
 tual. But the lower part of his face was 
 heavy, almost animal. There was a deep 
 wrinkle on either side of his mouth, and as 
 for the mouth itself, its upper lip was thin, 
 almost imperceptible, while the lower one 
 was large, projecting and of deep red, ap- 
 proaching purple, thus presenting a singu- 
 lar contrast to the corpse-like pallor of his 
 
40 
 
 FRANK VAN HUYDEN. 
 
 clieeks. His eyes, half hidden under the 
 bulging lids, when I began my description 
 of my childhood's home, all at once expand- 
 ed, and I saw their real expression and color. 
 They were large, the eyeballs exceedingly 
 white, and the pupils clear gray, and their 
 expression reminded you of nothing that 
 you had ever seen or heard of, but simply 
 made you afraid. And as the eyes expand- 
 ed, a slight smile would agitate his upper lip, 
 while the lower one protruded, disclosing a 
 yet of artificial teeth, white as milk. It was 
 the sudden expansion of the eyes, the smile 
 on the upper lip and the protrusion of the 
 lower one, that made up the peculiar expres- 
 sion of Mr. "Wareham's face, — an expression 
 which made you feel as though you had just 
 awoke from a grotesque yet frightful dream. 
 
 "Why do you pause, daughter?" said my 
 mother, observing my confusion. 
 
 " Proceed my child," said Mr. Wareham, 
 devouring me from head to foot with his 
 great eyes, at the same time rubbing his 
 lower lip against the upper, as though he was 
 tasting something good to eat. "I enjoy 
 these delightful reminiscences of childhood. 
 I dote on such things." 
 
 But I could not proceed—I blushed again — 
 and the tears came into my eyes. 
 
 " You have been fatigued by the bustle of 
 the last three days," said my mother kindly : 
 "Mr. Wareham will excuse you," and she 
 made me a sign to leave the room. 
 
 Never was a sign more willingly obeyed. 
 I hurried from the room, and as I closed the 
 door, I heard Mr. Wareham say in a low 
 voice — 
 
 " She'll do. When will you tell her ?" 
 
 That night, as I sat on the edge of my 
 bed, clad in my night-dress — my dark hair 
 half gathered in a lace cap and half falling 
 on my shoulders — my mother came suddenly 
 into the room, and placing her candle on a 
 table, took her seat by me on the bed. She 
 was, as I have told you, an exceedingly 
 beautiful woman, in spite of the threads of 
 silver in her hair and the ominous wrinkle 
 between her brows. But as she sat by me, 
 and put her arm about my neck, toying with 
 my hair, her look was infinitely affectionate. 
 
 "And what do you think of Mr. Ware- 
 ham, dear?" she asked me — and I felt that 
 her gaze was fixed keenly on my face. 
 
 I 
 
 I described my impressions frankly and 
 with what language I could command, con- 
 cluding with the words, " In short, I do not 
 like him. He makes me feel afraid." 
 
 " 0, you '11 soon get over that," answered 
 my mother. " Now he takes a great interest 
 in you. Let me tell you something about 
 him. He is a foreign gentleman, immensely 
 rich ; M'orth hundreds of thousands, perhaps 
 a million. He has estates in this country, 
 in England and France. He has traveled 
 over half the globe ; on further acquaintance 
 you will be charmed by his powers of obser- 
 vation, his fund of. anecdote, his easy flow 
 of conversational eloquence. And then he 
 has a good heart, Frank ! I could keep you 
 up all night in repeating but a small portion 
 of his innumerable acts of benevolence. I 
 met him first in Paris, years ago, just aftet 
 he had unhappily married. And since I first 
 met him he has been my fast friend. He is 
 a good, a noble man, Frank ; you will, you 
 must like him." 
 
 " But, then, his eyes, ■ mother ! and that 
 lip !" and I cast my eyes meekly to the 
 floor. 
 
 " Pshaw !" returned my mother, with a 
 start, " don't allow yourself to make fun of 
 a dear personal friend of mine." She kissed 
 me on the forehead, — "you ivill like him, 
 dear," and bade me good-night. 
 
 And on my silken pillow I slept and 
 dreamed — of home, — of the good old man,— 
 of Ernest and the forest nook, — ^but all my 
 dreams were haunted by a vision of two 
 great eyes and a huge red lip — everywhere, 
 everywhere they haunted me, the lip now 
 projecting over the clergyman's head and 
 the eyes looking over Ernest's shoulder. I 
 awoke with a start and a laugh. 
 
 " You are in good spirits, my child," said 
 my mother, who stood by the bed. 
 
 "I had a frightful dream but it ended 
 fumiily. All night long I've seen nothing 
 but Mr. Wareham's eyes and lip, but the last 
 I saw of them they were flying like butter- 
 flies a few feet above ground, eyes first and 
 lips next, and old Alice chasing them with 
 her broom." 
 
 " Never mind; you will like him," rejoined 
 my mother. 
 
 I certainly had every chance to like him. 
 For three days he was a constant visitor at 
 
FRANK VAN HUYDEN. 
 
 41 
 
 our house. He accompanied mother and 
 myself on a drive along Broadway and out 
 on the avenue. I enjoyed the excitement 
 of Broadway and the fresh air of the coun- 
 try, but — Mr. Wareham was by my side, talk- 
 ing pleasantly, even eloquently, and looking 
 all the while as if he would like to eat me. 
 We went to the opera, and for the first time, 
 the fairy world of the stage was disclosed to 
 me. I was enchanted, — the lights, the cos- 
 tumes, the music, the circle of youth and 
 beauty, all wrapt me in a delicious dream, 
 but — elope by my side was Mr. Wareham, 
 his eyes expanded and his lip protruding. I 
 thought of the Arabian Nights and was re- 
 minded of a well-dressed Ghoul. I began 
 to hate the man. On the fourth day he 
 brought me a handsome bracelet, glittering 
 with diamonds, which my mother bade me 
 accept, and on the fifth day I hated him with 
 all my soul. There was an influence about 
 him which repelled me and made me afraid. 
 
 It was the sixth night in my new home, 
 and in my night-dress, I was seated on the 
 edge of my bed, the candle near, and my 
 mother by my side. She had entered the 
 room with a serious and even troubled face. 
 The wrinkle was marked deep betw^een her 
 brows. Fixing my lace cap on my head 
 and smoothing my curls w4th a gentle pres- 
 sure of her hand, she looked at me long and 
 anxiously but in silence. 
 
 " 0, mother !" I said, " when will we visit 
 'father,' — and good old Alice, and — Ernest? 
 I am so anxious to see my home again !" 
 
 "You must forget that home," said my 
 mother gravely. *' You will shortly be sur- 
 rounded by new ties and new duties. Nay, 
 do not start and look at me with so much 
 wonder. I see that I must be plain with 
 you. Listen to me, Frank. Who owns this 
 house?" 
 
 "It is yours 1" 
 
 "The pictures, the gold jolatc, the furui- 
 lure worthy of such a palace?" 
 
 "Yours, — all yours, mother." 
 
 " Who purchased the dresses and the dia- 
 monds which you w^ear, — dresses and dia- 
 monds worthy of a queen?" 
 
 "You did, mother — of course," I hesi- 
 tated. 
 
 " Wrong, Frank, all wTong !" and her eyes 
 shone vividly, and the mark between her 
 
 { brows grew blacker. " The house which 
 sheltei-3 you, the furniture which meets your 
 gaze, the dresses which clothe you, and the 
 diamonds which adorn your person, are the 
 property of — Mr. Wareham." 
 
 It seemed to me as if the floor had opened 
 at my feet. 
 
 "0, mother! you are jesting," I faltered. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 A REVELATION. 
 
 "I AM a beggar, child, and you are a beg- 
 gar's daughter. It is to Mr. Wareham that 
 we are indebted for all that we enjoy. For 
 years he has paid the expenses of your edu- 
 cation ; and now that you have grown to 
 young womanhood he shekel's you in a 
 palace, surrounds you with splendor that a 
 queen might envy, and not satisfied with 
 this,—" 
 
 She paused and fixed her eyes upon my 
 face, I know that I was frightfully pale. 
 
 " Offers you his hand in marriage." 
 
 For a moment the light, the mirrors, the 
 roof itself swam round me, and I sank half- 
 fainting in my mother's arms. 
 
 "0! this is but a jest, a cruel jest to 
 frighten me. Say, mother, it is a jest !" 
 
 "It is not a jest; it is sober, serious ear- 
 nest ;" and she raised me sternly from her 
 arms. "He has offered his hand, and you 
 will marry him." 
 
 I flung myself on my knees at the bedside, 
 clasped her hands, and as my night-dress 
 fell back from my shoulders and bosom, I 
 told her, with sobs and tears, of my love for 
 Ernest, and my engagement with him. 
 
 " Pshaw^ ! A poor clergyman's son," she 
 said bitterly. 
 
 " 0, let us leave this place, mother !" I 
 cried, still pressing her hands to my bosomu 
 " You say that we are poor. Be it so. We 
 will find a home together in the home of my 
 childhood. Or if that fails us, I will work 
 for you. I will toil from sun to sun and all 
 night long, — beg, — do anything rather than 
 marry this man. For, mother, I cannot 
 help it, — but I do hate him with all my soul." 
 
 " Pretty talk, very pretty !" and she 
 loosened her hands from my grasp ; " but 
 did you ever try poverty, my child? Did 
 you ever know what the word meant,— 
 
42 
 
 FRANK VAN HUYDEN. 
 
 POVERTY? Did you ever work sixteen hours 
 a day, at your needle, for as many pennies, 
 walk the streets at dead of winter in half- 
 naked feet, and go for two long days and 
 nights without a morsel of food? Did you 
 ever try it, my child? That 's the life which 
 poor widows and their pretty daughters live 
 in New York, my dear." 
 
 "But Ernest loves me, — he will make his 
 way in life, — we will be married, — you will 
 share our home, dear mother." 
 
 These words rendered her perfectly furi- 
 ous. She started up and uttered a frightful 
 oath — it was the first time I had ever heard 
 an oath from a woman's lips. Her counte- 
 nance for a moment was fiendish. She 
 assailed me with a torrent of reproaches, 
 concluding thus : I 
 
 "And this is your gratitude for the care, ! 
 the anxiety, the very agony of a mother's ; 
 anxiety, which I have endured on j^our i 
 account for years ! In return for all you ! 
 condemn me to — poverty ! But it shall not j 
 be. One of us must bend, and that one will 
 not be me. I swear, girl," — her brows were i 
 knit, she was lividly pale, and she raised her , 
 right hand to heaven, — " that you shall 
 many this man." 
 
 'And I swear," — I bounded to my feet, 
 my bosom bare, and the blood boiling in my ' 
 veins — perchance it was the same blood 
 which gave my mother her fiery temper, — ; 
 " I swear that I will not marry him as long : 
 as there is life in me. Do you hear me, | 
 mother ? Before I marry that miserable : 
 wretch, whose very presence fills me with I 
 loathing, I will fall a corpse at your feet." 
 
 My words, my attitude took her by sur- 
 prise. She surveyed me silently but was 
 too much enraged to speak. 
 
 " 0, that my father was living !" I cried, 
 the fit of passion succeeded by a burst of 
 tears ; " he would save me from this hideous 
 marriage." 
 
 My mother quietly drew a letter from her 
 bosom and placed it open in my hand. 
 
 " Your father is living. That letter is the 
 last one I have received from him. Read it, 
 my angel." 
 
 I took it, — it was very brief, — I read it at 
 a glance. It was addressed to my mother 
 
 and bore a recent date, 
 tentfi : 
 
 These were its con- 
 
 " Dear Frank : 
 "My sentence expires in two weeks from 
 to-day. Send me some decent clothes, and 
 let me know where I will meet you. Glad 
 to hear that your plans as regards our daugh- 
 ter approach a * glorious' completion. 
 " Yours as ever, 
 
 " Charles." 
 It was a letter from a convict in Auburn 
 prison, — and that convict was my father ! 
 
 " It is false ; my father died years ago," I 
 cried in very agon3\ " This is not from my 
 father." ~ 
 
 "It is from your father," answered my 
 mother ; " and unless I send him the clothes 
 which he asks for, you will see him, in less 
 than three -weeks, in his convict rags." 
 
 " 0, mother ! are you human? A mother 
 to taunt her own daughter with her father's 
 shame, — " 
 
 My temples throbbed madly and my sight 
 failed. All that mortal can endure and be 
 conscious, I had endured. I sank on the 
 floor, and had not my mother caught me in 
 her arms, I would have wounded my fore- 
 head against the marble table. 
 
 All night long, half waking, half delirious, 
 I tossed on my silken couch mingling the 
 name of my convict father and of Ernest in 
 my broken exclamations. Once I was con- 
 scious for a moment and looked around with 
 clear eyes. My mother was watching ovei 
 me. Her face was bathed in tears. She 
 was human after all. That moment past, 
 the delirium returned and I struggled with 
 horrible dreams until morning. 
 
 CHAPTER XIIL 
 
 MORPHINE. 
 
 "When I awoke next morning, my mind 
 was clear again, and even as I unclosed my 
 eyes and saw the sunlight shining gayly 
 through the curtains, a fixed purpose took 
 possession of my soul. It was yet early 
 morning. There w^as no one save myself in 
 the chamber. Perchance Avorn out by 
 watching, my mother had retired to rest. I 
 quietly arose and dressed myself — not in the 
 si)lendid attire furnished by my mother, but 
 in the plain white dress, bonnet, and shawl 
 which I had brought with me from my cot- 
 tage home. ^ 
 
FRANK VAN HUYDEN. 
 
 43 
 
 "It is early. No one is stirring in the 
 .AAnsion. I can pass from the hall door 
 anobscrved. Then it is only sixteen miles 
 to home, — only sixteen miles, I can walk it." 
 
 And at the very thought of meeting 
 "father" and Ernest again, my heart leaped 
 in my bosom. Determined to escape from 
 the mansion at all hazards, I drew my vail 
 over my face, my shawl across my shoulders, 
 and hurried to the door. I opened it, my 
 foot was on the threshold, when I found 
 myself confronted by the portly form of 
 Mrs. Jenkins. 
 
 " Pardon me. Miss," she said, placing her- 
 self directly before me ; " your mother gave 
 me directions to call her as soon as you 
 awoke." 
 
 "But I wish to take a short walk and 
 breathe a little of the morning air," I an- 
 swered, and attempted to pass her. 
 
 " The morning air is not good for young 
 ladies," said another voice, and my mother's 
 face appeared over the housekeeper's shoul- 
 der. "After a while we shall take a ride, 
 my dear. For the present, you will please 
 retire to your room." 
 
 Startled at the sound of my mother's 
 voice, I involuntarily stepped back — the door 
 was closed, and I heard the key turn in the 
 lock. 
 
 I was a prisoner in my own room. There 
 I remained all day long ; my meals were 
 served by the housekeeper and my maid 
 Caroline. My mother did not appear. How 
 I passed that day, a prisoner in my luxurious 
 chamber, cannot be described. I sat for hours, 
 with my head resting on my hands, and my 
 eyes to the floor. What plans of escape, 
 mingled with forebodings of the future, 
 crossed my brain ! At length I took pen and 
 paper, and wrote a brief note to Ernest, in- 
 forming him of my danger, and begging him, 
 as he loved me, to hasten at once to town 
 and to the mansion. This note I folded, | 
 sealed, and directed properly. " Caroline," j 
 said 1 to my maid, who was a pleasant-faced ; 
 young woman of about twenty, with dark 
 hair and eyes — " I would like this letter to 
 be placed in the post-office at once. Will 
 you take charge of it for me ?" 
 
 "I'll give it to Jones," she responded — 
 "He's goin' down to the post office right 
 away." 
 
 "But Caroline," I regarded her with a 
 meaning look, " I do not wish any one to 
 know, that I sent this letter to the post-office. 
 Will you keep it a secret ?" 
 
 "Not a livin' mortal shall know it — not a 
 livin' mortal ;" and taking the letter she left 
 the room. After a few minutes she returned 
 with a smiling face, " Jones has got it and 
 he's gone !" 
 
 I could scarce repress a wild ejaculation 
 of joy. Ernest will receive it to-night ; he 
 will be here to-morrow ; I will be saved ! 
 
 The day wore on and my mother did not 
 appear. Toward evening Caroline came into 
 my room, bearing a new dress upon her arm 
 — a dress of white satin, richly embroidered 
 and adorned with the costliest lace. 
 
 " 0, Miss, aint it beautiful !" cried Caroline, 
 displaying the dress before me, " and the 
 bonnet and vail to match it, wall be here to- 
 night, an' your new di'monds. It's really fit 
 for a queen." 
 
 It was indeed a magnificent dress. 
 
 " Who is it for?" I asked. 
 
 " Now, come, aint that good ! ' Who is it 
 for ?' And you lookin' so innocent as you 
 ask it. As if you did not know all the 
 while, that it's your bridal dress, and that 
 you are to be married airly in the mornin', 
 after which you will set off on your bridal 
 toiuer." 
 
 " Caroline, where did you learn this ?" I 
 asked, my heart dying within me. 
 
 " Why, how can you keep such things 
 secret from the servants ? Aint your mother 
 been gettin' ready for it all day, and aint the 
 servants been a-flyin' here and there, like 
 mad ? And Mr. Wareham's been so busy 
 all day, and lookin' so pleased ! Laws, Miss, 
 hmo can you expect to keep such things from 
 the servants ?" 
 
 I heard this intelligence, conveyed in the 
 garrulous manner of my maid, as a con- 
 demned prisoner might hear the reading of 
 his death warrant. I saw that nothing could 
 shake my mother in her purpose. She was 
 resolved to accomplish the marriage at aU 
 hazards. In the morning I was to be mar- 
 ried, transferred body and soul to the posses- 
 sion of a man whom I hated in my very 
 heart. 
 
 But I resolved that he should not possess 
 me living. He might marry me, but ho 
 
44 
 
 FRANK VAN HUYDEN. 
 
 should onlj' place the bridal ring upon the 
 hand of a corpse. 
 
 The resolution came in a moment. How 
 to accomplish it was next my thought. 
 
 Approaching Caroline in a guarded manner, 
 I spoke of my nervousness and loss of sleep, 
 and of a vial of morjfkine which my mother 
 kept by her for a nervous affection. 
 
 " Could you not obtain it for me, Caroline? 
 and without my mother seeing you, for she 
 does not like me to accustom myself to the 
 use of morphine. I am sadly in want of 
 yleep. but I am so nervous that I cannot 
 close my eyes. Get it for me," I put my 
 arms about her neck — "that's a dear good 
 
 girl." 
 
 " Laws, Miss, how kin one resist your purty 
 eyes ! It is in the casket on the bureau, is 
 it ? Just wait a moment she left the room 
 and presently returned. She held the vial 
 in her hand. I took it eagerly, pretended to 
 place it in the drawer of a cabinet which 
 stood near the bed, but, in realitj'-, hid it in 
 my bosom. 
 
 " Now mother, you may force on the 
 marriage," I mentally ejaculated ; "but your 
 daughter has the threads of her own destiny 
 in her hand." 
 
 How had I accustomed myself to the idea 
 of suicide? It caoc upon me not slowly, 
 but like a flash of lightning. It was in op- 
 position to all the lessons I had learned from 
 the good clergyman. *But,' the voice of the 
 tempter, seemed whispering in my ear — 
 ' while suicide is a crime, it becomes a vir- 
 tue when it is committed to avoid a greater 
 crime.' It is wrong to kill my body, but 
 infinitely worse to kill both body and soul in 
 the prostitution of an unholy marriage. 
 
 As evening drew on I was left alone. I 
 hathed myself, arranged my hair, and then 
 attired myself in my white night-robe. And 
 then, as the last glimpse of day came faintly 
 through the -svindow curtains, I sank on my 
 knees by the bed, and prayed. how in 
 one vivid picture the holy memories of the 
 past came upon me, in that awful moment ! 
 
 ** Ernest I will meet you in the better 
 world !" 
 
 I drank the contents of the vial and rose 
 to my feet. At the same instant the door 
 opened and my mother appeared, holding a 
 lighted candle in her hand. She saw me in 
 
 my white dress, was struck, perchance, by 
 the wildness of my gaze, and then her eye 
 rested upon the extended hand which held 
 the vial. 
 
 " Well, Frank, how do you like your mar- 
 riage dress," she began, but stopped, and 
 changed color as she saw the vial. 
 
 " 0, mother," I cried, " with my last breath 
 I forgive you, and pray God that you may 
 be able to forgive yourself." 
 
 I saw her horror-stricken look and I fell 
 insensible at her feet. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE SALE IS COMPLETE. 
 
 When I awoke again — but I cannnot pro 
 ceed. There are crimes done every day, 
 which the world knows by heart, and yet 
 1 shudders to see recorded, even in the most 
 I carefully vailed phrase. But the crime of 
 which I was the victim, was too horrible 
 for belief. Wareham the criminal, my own 
 mother the accomplice, the victim a girl of 
 fifteen, who had been reared in purity and 
 innocence afar from the world. 
 
 When I awoke again — for the potion failed 
 to kill — I found myself in my room, and 
 Wareham by my side, surveying me as a 
 ghoul might look upon the dead body which 
 he has stolen from the grave. The vial 
 given to me by the maid did not contain a 
 fatal poison, but merely a powerful anodyne, 
 which sealed my senses for hours in sleep, 
 and — combined with the reaction of har- 
 rowing excitement — left me for days in a 
 state of half dreamy consciousness. I awoke 
 * =fc * * My sight was dim, my senses 
 dulled, but I knew that I w^as lost ! Lost ! 
 0, how poor and tame that word, to express 
 the living damnation of which I was the 
 victim ! The events of the next twenty- four 
 hours, I can but vaguely remember. I was 
 taken from the bed, arrayed in the bridal 
 costume, and then led down stairs into the 
 parlor. There Avas a marriage celebrated 
 there (as I was afterward told) — yes! it 
 was there that a minister of the Gospel, 
 book in hand, sanctified with the name of 
 marriage, the accursed bargain of which I 
 was the victim — mamage, that sacrament 
 which makes of home, God's holiest altar, 
 the truest type of Heaven — marriage was, in 
 
FRANK VAN HUYDEN. 
 
 45 
 
 fiiy case, made the cloak of an unspeakable 
 crime. I can remember that I said some 
 words, which my mother whispered in my 
 ear, and that I signed my name to a letter 
 which she had written. It was the letter 
 which Ernest received, announcing my inten- 
 tion to visit Niagara. As for the letter which 
 I had written to him, on the previous day, 
 it never went farther than from the hands of 
 Caroline to those of my mother. I was hur- 
 ried into a carriage, Wareham by my side, 
 and then on board of a steamboat, and have a 
 vague consciousness of passing up the Hud- 
 son river. I did not clearly recover my 
 senses, until I found myself at Niagara Falls, 
 leaning on Wareham's arm, and pointed at 
 by the crowd of visitors at the Falls, as " the 
 beautiful bride of the Millionaire." 
 
 From the Falls, we passed up the Lakes, 
 and then retraced our steps; visited the Falls 
 again; journeyed to Montreal, and then home 
 by Lake Champlain and the Hudson river. 
 My mother did not accompany us. We 
 were gone three months, and as the boat 
 glided down the Hudson, the trees were 
 already touched by autumn. As the boat 
 drew near Tapaan bay, I concealed myself in 
 my stateroom — I dared not look upon my 
 cottage home. 
 
 We arrived at home toward the close of a 
 September day. My mother met me at the 
 door, calm and smiling. She gave me her 
 hand — but I pushed it gently away. Ware- 
 ham led me up the steps. I stood once 
 more in that house, from which I had gone 
 forth, like one walking in their sleep. And 
 that night, in our chamber, Wareham and 
 myself held a conversation, which had an 
 important bearing on his life and mine. 
 
 I was sitting alone in my chamber, dressed 
 in a white wrapper, and my hair flowing 
 unconfined upon my shoulders ; my hands 
 were clasped and my head bent upon my 
 breast. I was thinking of the events of the 
 last three months, of all that I had endured 
 from the man whose very presence in the 
 same room, filled me with loathing. My 
 husband entered, followed by Jenkins, who 
 placed a lighted candle, a bottle of wine and 
 glasses on the table, and then retired. 
 
 " What, is my pretty girl all alone, and in 
 a thinking mood ?" cried Wareham, seating 
 himself by the table and filling a glass with 
 
 wine ; " and pray, my love, what is the sub- 
 ject of your thoughts?" 
 
 And raising the glass to his lips, he sur- 
 veyed me from head to foot with that gloat- 
 ing gaze which always gave a singular light 
 to his eyes. His face was slightly flushed 
 on the colorless cheeks. He had already 
 been drinking freely, and was now evidently 
 under the influence of wine. 
 
 " You have a fine bust, my girl," he con- 
 tinued, as though he was repeating the 
 " points" of a horse ; " a magnificent arm, a 
 foot that beats the Medicean Venus all hol- 
 low, and limbs, — " he paused and sipped his 
 wine, protruding his nether lip which now 
 was scarlet red, — " such limbs ! I like the 
 expression of jour eyes — there's fire in 
 them, and your clear brown complexion, and 
 your moist red lips, and, — " he sipped Ms 
 wine again, — " altogether an elegantly built 
 female." 
 
 And he rose and approached me. I also 
 rose, my eyes flashing and my bosom swell- 
 ing with suppressed rage. 
 
 " Wareham, I warn you not to touch me," 
 I said in a low voice. ' " For three months I 
 have been your prey. I will be so no longer. 
 Before the world you may call me wife, if 
 you choose — you have bought the right to 
 do that — but I inform you, once for all, that 
 henceforth we are strangers. Do you under- 
 stand me, Wareham ? I had as lief be 
 chained to a corpse as to submit to be 
 touched by you." 
 
 He fell back startled, his face manifesting 
 surprise and anger, but in an instant his gaze 
 was upon me again, and he indulged in a 
 low burst of laughter. 
 
 " Come, I like this ! It is a pleasant 
 change from the demure, pious girl of three 
 months ago to the full-blown tragedy- 
 queen." He sank into a chair and filled 
 another glass of wine. "Be seated, Frank, 
 I want to have a little talk with my pet." 
 
 I resumed my seat. 
 
 " You give yourself airs under the impres- 
 sion that you are my wife, — joint owner of 
 my immense fortune, — my rich widow iu 
 perspective. Erroneous impression, Frank. 
 I have a wife living in England." 
 
 The entirely malignant look, which acconi 
 panied these words, convinced me of tluji* 
 sincerity. For a moment I felt as thoujh 
 
46 
 
 FKANK VAN HUYDEN. 
 
 an awful weight had crushed my brain, and 
 by a glance at the mirror, I saw I was fright- 
 fully pale ; but recovering myself by a strong 
 exertion of will, I answered him in these 
 words : 
 
 "Gentlemen, who allow themselves more 
 than one wife at a time, are sometimes 
 (owing to an unfortunate prejudice of soci- 
 etf) invited to occupy an apartment in the 
 state prison." 
 
 "And so you think you hold a rod over 
 my head?" — he drank his wine — "but I 
 have only one wife, Frank, The gentleman, 
 who married jon and me, was neither cler- 
 gyman nor officer of the law, but simply a 
 convenient friend. Our mock marriage was 
 not even published in the papers." 
 
 Every word went like an icebolt to my 
 heart. I could not speak. Then, as his eyes 
 glared with a mingled look of hatred and 
 of brutal passion, he sipped his wine as he 
 surveyed me, and continued : 
 
 " You used the word ' bought' some time 
 ago. You were right. 'Bought' is the 
 word. You are simply my purchase. In 
 Constantinople these things are easily man- 
 aged ; they keep an open market of fine 
 girls there ; but here we must find an a£fable 
 mother, and pay a huge price — sometimes 
 even marry the dear angels. I met your 
 mother in Paris some years ago, and have 
 been intimately acquainted with her ever 
 since. When she first spoke of you, you 
 were a child and I was weary of the world — 
 jaded, sick of its pleasures, by which I mean 
 its women. An idea struck me ! What if 
 this pretty little child, now being educated 
 in innocence and pious ways, and so forth, 
 should, in the full blossom of her beauty and 
 piety — say at the ripe age of sixteen — ^be- 
 come the consoler of my declining years? 
 And so I paid the expenses of your educa- 
 tion (your father consenting that I should 
 adopt you, but very possibly understanding 
 the whole matter as well as your mother), 
 and you were accordingly educated for me. 
 And when I first saw you, three months ago, 
 it was your very innocence and pious way 
 of talking which gave an irresistible eff"ect to 
 your beauty, and made me mad to possess 
 you at all hazards." 
 
 It is impossible to depict the bitter mock- 
 ing tone in which these words were spoken. 
 
 " I settled this mansion, the furniture, and 
 so forth upon your mother, with ten thou- 
 sand dollars. That was the price. You see 
 how much you have cost me, my dear." 
 
 "But I will leave your accursed man- 
 sion." I felt, as I spoke, as though my 
 heart was dead in my bosom. " I am not 
 chained to you in marriage ; I am, at least, 
 free." I started to my feet and moved a 
 step toward the door. 
 
 "But where will you go? back to your 
 elderly clerical friend, with every fijiger 
 leveled at you and every voice whispering 
 * There goes the mistress of the rich English- 
 man !' Back to your village lover to palm 
 yourself upon him as a pure and spotless 
 maiden?" 
 
 I sank into a chair and covered my face 
 with my hands. / 
 
 "Or will you begin the life of a poor 
 seamstress, working sixteen hours per day for 
 as many pennies, and at last, take to the 
 streets for bread?" 
 
 His w^ords cut me to the quick. I saw 
 that there was no redemption in this world 
 for a woman whose innocence has beeai 
 sacrificed. 
 
 " But think better of it, my dear. Your 
 mother shall surround you with the most 
 select and fashionable company in New 
 York, — she shall give splendid parties, — you 
 will be the presiding genius of every festi- 
 val. As for myself, dropping the name of 
 husband, I will sink into an unobtrusive 
 visitor. When you see a little more of the 
 world you will not think your case such a 
 hard one after all." 
 
 My face buried in my hands, I had not 
 one word of reply. Lost, — lost, — utterly 
 lost! 
 
 CHAPTER XY. 
 "lost, lost utterly." 
 My mother soon afterward gave her first 
 party. It was attended by many of the rich 
 and the fashionable of both sexes, and there 
 Avere the glare of lights, the presence of beau- 
 tiful women, and the wine-cup and the 
 dance. The festival was prolonged till day- 
 break, and another followed soon. The 
 atmosphere was new to me. At first I was 
 amazed, then intoxicated, and then — cor- 
 
FRANK VAN HUYDEN. 
 
 47 
 
 rupted. Anxious to bury the memory of | 
 my sliame, to forget how lost and abandoned 
 I was, to drown every thought of my chikl- 
 hood's home and of Ernest, who never could 
 be mine, soon from a silent spectator I be- 
 came a participant in the revels which, night 
 after night, were held beneath my mother's 
 roof. The persons who mingled in these 
 scenes, were rich husbands who came accom- 
 panied by other men's wives ; wives, who 
 had sacrificed themselves in marriage, for the 
 sake of wealth, to husbands twice their age, 
 and these came with the husbands of other 
 women, — in a word, all that came to the 
 mansion and shared in its orgies, were either 
 the victims or the criminals of society, — of a 
 bad social world, which on every hand con- 
 trasts immense wealth and voluptuous indul- 
 gence with fathomless povert}'- and withering 
 want, and which too often makes of a mar- 
 riage but the cloak for infamy and prostitu- 
 tion. I shared in every revel, and lost 
 myself in their maddening excitement. I 
 was admired, flattered, and elevated at last 
 to the position of presiding genius of these 
 scenes. I became the "Midnight Queen." 
 But let the curtain fall. 
 
 One night I noticed a new visitor, a re- 
 markably handsome gentleman who sat near 
 me at the supper-table, and whose hair and 
 eyes and whiskers were black as jet. He 
 regarded me very earnestly and with a look 
 which I could not define. 
 
 "Don't think me impertinent," he said, 
 and then added in a lower voice, "for I am 
 your father, Frank. Don't call me Van 
 Huyden — my name is Tarleton now." 
 
 Fearful that I might one day encounter 
 Ernest, I wrote him a long letter breathing 
 something of the tone of my early days — 
 for I forgot for awhile my utterly hopeless 
 condition — and informing him that mother 
 and myself were about to sail for Europe. 
 I wished him to believe that I was in a 
 foreign land. 
 
 And one night, while the revel was pro- 
 gressing in the rooms below, Wareham en- 
 tered my room and interested me in the 
 description which he gave of a young lord, 
 who wished to be introduced to me. 
 
 "Young, handsome, and pale as if from 
 thought. The very style of man you admire, 
 my pet." 
 
 I "Let him come up," 1 answered, and 
 Wareham retired. 
 
 I stood before the mirror as the young lord 
 entered, and as I turned, I saw the face of 
 my betrothed husband, Ernest Walworth. 
 
 Upon the horror of that moment I need 
 not dwell. 
 
 He fell insensible to the floor, and was 
 carried from the room and the house to the 
 carriage by Wareham, who had led him to 
 the place. 
 
 I have never seen the face of Ernest since 
 that hour. 
 
 I received one letter from him — one 
 only — in which he set forth the circum- 
 stances which induced him to visit my 
 house, and in which he bade me " fare- 
 well." 
 
 He is now in a foreign land. The bones 
 of his father rest in the village churchyard. 
 The cottage home is desolate. 
 
 Wareham died suddenly about a year after 
 our "marriage." The doctors said that his 
 death was caused by an overdose of Morphine 
 administered hy himself in mistake. He died 
 in our house, and as mother and myself stood 
 over his cofiSn in the darkened room, the day 
 before the funeral, I noticed that she regard- 
 ed first myself and then the face of the dead 
 profligate with a look full of meaning. 
 
 "Don't you think, dear mother," I whis- 
 pered, " that the death of this good man was 
 very singular ?" 
 
 She made no reply, but still her face wore 
 that meaning look. 
 
 " Would it be strange, mother, if your 
 daughter, improving on your lessons, had 
 added another feature to her accomplish- 
 ments — had from the Midnight Queen," — I 
 lowered my voice — " become the Midnight 
 Poisoner f" 
 
 I met her gaze boldly — and she turned 
 her face away. 
 
 He died without ever a dog to mourn for 
 him, and his immense wealth was inherited 
 by a deserted and much abused wife, who 
 lived in a foreign land. 
 
 Immense wealth in him bore its natural 
 flower — a life of shameless indulgence, end- 
 ing in a miserable death. 
 
 I did not shed very bitter tears at his fu- 
 neral. Hatred is not the word to express the 
 feeling with which I regard his memory. 
 
48 
 
 FRANK VAN HUYDEN. 
 
 Soon afterward my mother was taken ill, 
 and wasted rapidly to death. Hers was an 
 awful death-bed. The candle was burning 
 to its socket, and mingled its rays with the 
 pale moonlight which shone through the 
 window-curtains. Her brown hair, streaked 
 with gray, falling to her shoulders, her form 
 terribly emaciated, and her eyes glaring in 
 lier shrunken face, she started up in her bed, 
 clutched my hands in hers, and — begged 
 me to forgive her. 
 
 My heart was stone. I could not frame 
 one forgiving word. 
 
 As her chilled hands clutched mine, she 
 rapidly went over the dark story of her life, — 
 how from an innocent girl, she had been 
 hardened into the thiijg she was, — and again, 
 her eyes glaring on my face, besought my 
 forgiveness. 
 
 "I forgive you. Mother," I said slowly, 
 and she died. 
 
 My father was not present at her death, 
 nor did he attend her funeral. 
 
 And for myself — what has the Future in 
 store for me ? 
 
 0, for Rest ! 0, for Forgiveness ! 0, for a 
 quiet Sleep beneath the graveyard sod ! 
 
 And with that aspiration for Rest, For- 
 giveness, Peace, uttered with all the yearn- 
 ing of a heart sick to the core, of life and all 
 that life can inflict or give, ended the manu- 
 script of Frances Van Huyden, the Mid- 
 night Queen. 
 
 It is now our task to describe certain scenes 
 which took place in New York, between 
 Nightfall and Midnight, on this 23d of De- 
 cember, 1844. And at midnight we will 
 enter The Temple where the death's head 
 is hidden among voluptuous flowers. 
 
NEW Y E K : 
 
 ITS 
 
 [JPPER-TEN AND LOWER MILLION. 
 
 PART SECOND. 
 
 FROM NIGHTFALL UNTIL MIDNIGHT.' 
 
 DEC. 23, 1S44. 
 
 CHAPTER 1. 
 
 BLOODHOUND AND THE UNKNOWN. 
 
 Two persons were sitting at a table, in the 
 Kefectory beneath Lovejoy's Hotel. One of 
 these drank brandy and the other drank 
 water. The brandy drinker was our friend 
 Bloodhound, and the drinker of water was 
 a singular personage, whose forehead was 
 shaded by a broad-brimmed hat, while the 
 lower part of his face was covered by a blue 
 kerchief, which was tied over his throat and 
 mouth. 
 
 Seated at a table in the center of the 
 place, these two conversed in low tones, 
 while all around was uproar and confu- 
 sion. 
 
 " You found these persons ?" said the 
 gentleman with the broad-brimmed hat and 
 blue neckerchief. 
 
 "I didn't do anything else," replied the 
 Hound — ''I met you here, at Lovejoy's, 
 about dusk. You were a tee-total stranger 
 to me. You says, says you, that you'd like 
 to do a good turn to Harry Eoyalton, and at 
 the same time fix this white nigger and his 
 sister — you know who I mean ?" 
 
 " Randolph and Esther—" 
 
 " Well, we closed our bargain. You gave 
 me a note to Randolph and one to his sister. 
 I hunted 'em out and delivered your notes, 
 and here I am." 
 
 Bloodhound smiled one of his most fright- 
 ful smiles, and consoled himself with a glass 
 of brandy. 
 
 " Where did you find these persons ?" 
 asked Blue Kerchief. 
 
 "At a tip-top boardin' house up town, ac- j 
 cordin' to your directions. I fust saw the 
 boy and delivered your note, and arter ho 
 
 was gone I saw the gal and did the same. 
 Now, old boss, do you think they'll come ?" 
 You saw the contents of those notes ?" 
 
 " I did. I saw you write 'em and read 'em 
 afore you sealed 'em up. The one to Ran- 
 dolph requested him to be at a sartin place 
 on the Five Points about twelve o'clock. 
 An' the one to Esther requested her to be 
 at the Temple about the same hour. Now 
 do you think they'll come ?" 
 
 " You have seen Grodlike and Royalton 
 said the unknown, speaking thickly through 
 the neckerchief which enveloped his mouth. 
 
 " Godlike will be at the Temple as the 
 clock strikes twelve, and Harry and me will 
 be at Five Points, at the identical spot — you 
 know — at the very same identical hour." 
 
 " That is sufficient. Here is the sum I 
 promised you," and the stranger laid two 
 broad gold pieces oji the table : we must 
 now part. Should I ever need you, w^e will 
 meet again. Good night." 
 
 And the stranger rose, and left the refec- 
 tory. Bloodhound turning his head over his 
 shoulder as he watched his retreating figure 
 with dumb amazement. 
 
 " Cool ! I call it cool !" he soliloquised ; 
 " Waiter, see here ; another glass of brandy. 
 Yet this is good gold ; has the right ring, 
 hey ? Judas Iscariot ! Somehow or 'nother, 
 everything I touch turns to gold. Wonder 
 what the chap in the blue handkercher has 
 agin the white nigger and his sister ? Who 
 keers ? At twelve to-night Godlike will 
 have the gal, and Harry and I will have the 
 nigger. Ju-das Iscariot !" Here let us leave 
 the Bloodhound for awhile, to his solemn 
 meditations and his glass of brandy. 
 
 (49) 
 
50 
 
 FROM NIGHTFALL 
 
 UNTIL MIDNIGHT. 
 
 CHAPTER IL 
 
 THE CANAL STREET SUIRT STORE. 
 
 " Do you call them stitches ? S-a-y ? 
 How d'ye expect a man to git a livin' if he's 
 robbed in that way ? Do you call that a 
 shirt — s-a-y ?" 
 
 " Indeed I did my best — " 
 
 " Did your best ? I should like to know 
 what you take mc for ? D'ye think I'm a 
 fool ?• Did not I give you the stuff for jBve 
 shirts, and fust of all, I exacted a pledge of 
 five dollars from you, to be forfeited if you 
 spoilt the stuff — " 
 
 " And you know I was to receive two shil- 
 Imgs for each shirt. I'll thank you to pay 
 me my money, and restore my five dollars 
 and let me go — " 
 
 " Not a copper. This shirt is spoilt. And 
 if those you have in your arms are no better, 
 why they are spoilt too — " 
 
 " They're made as well as the one you 
 hold — no better." 
 
 " Then I can't sell 'em for old rags. Just 
 give 'em to me, and clear out — " 
 
 " At least give me back my five dol- 
 lars—" 
 
 " Not a copper. Had you finished these 
 shirts in the right style, they'd a-sold for fif- 
 teen dollars. As it is, the money is forfeit- 
 ed, — ^I mean the five dollars which you left 
 with me as a pledge. I can't employ you 
 any more. Just give me the other four 
 shirts, and clear out." 
 
 The storekeeper and the poor girl were 
 separated by a counter, on which was placed 
 a showy case. She was dressed in a faded 
 calico gown, and a shawl as worn and faded, 
 hung about her shoulders. She wore a straw 
 bonnet, although it was a night in mid-win- 
 ter ; and beneath her poverty-stricken dress, 
 her shoes were visible : old and worn into 
 shreds they scarcely clung to her feet. Her 
 entire appearance indicated extreme pover- 
 ty. 
 
 The storekeeper, who stood beneath the 
 gas-light, was a well preserved and portly 
 man of forty years, or more, with a bald head, 
 a wide mouth and a snub nose. Rings glis- 
 tered on his fat fingers. His black velvet 
 vest was crossed by a gold chain. His spot- 
 less shirt bosom was decorated by a flashy 
 
 breastpin. He spoke sharp and quick, and 
 with a proper sense of his dignity as the 
 Proprietor of the "only universal shirt 
 STORE, No. , Canal St., New York." 
 
 Between him and the girl was a glass case, 
 in which were displayed shirts of the most 
 elegant patterns and elaborate Avorkmanship, 
 Behind him were shelves, lined with boxes, 
 also filled with shirts, whose prices were la- 
 beled on the outside of each box. At his 
 right-hand, was the shop-window, — a small 
 room in itself — flaring with gas, and crowd- 
 ed with shirts of all imaginable shapes — 
 shirts with high collars, Byron collars, and 
 shirts without any collars at all ; — shirts with 
 plaits large, small and infinitesimal — shirts 
 with ruffles, shirts with stripes and shirts 
 with spots ; — in fact, looking into the win- 
 dow, you would have imagined that Mr. 
 Screw Grabs was a very Ajpostle of clean 
 linen, with a mission to clothe a benighted 
 world, with shirts; and that his Temple, 
 ^Hlie Only Universal Shirt Store," waa 
 the most important place on the face of the 
 globe. There, too, appeared eloquent ap- 
 peals to passers-by. These were printed on 
 cards, in immense capitals, — " Shirts for 
 the Million ! The Great Shirt Em- 
 porium ! "Who would be without a shirty 
 when Screw Gi-ab sells them for only $1 ? 
 This IS the ONLY Shirt Store,"— and so 
 on to the end of the chapter. 
 
 The conversation which we have recorded, 
 took place in this store, soon after ' gas-light* 
 on the evening of Dec. 23d, 1844, between 
 Mr. Screw Grabb and the Poor Girl, who 
 stood before him, holding a small bundle in 
 her arms. 
 
 " You surely do not mean to retain my 
 money ?" said the girl — and she laid one 
 hand against the counter, and attentively sur- 
 veyed the face of Mr. Grabb — " You fijQd 
 fault with my work — " 
 
 "Never saw wuss stitchin' in my life," 
 said Grabb. 
 
 " But that is no reason why you should 
 refuse to return the money which I placed 
 in your hands. Consider, Sir, you will dis- 
 tress me very much. I really cannot afford 
 to lose that five dollars, — indeed — " 
 
 She turned toward him a face which, im- 
 pressed as it was with a look of extreme dis- 
 tress, was also invested with the light of a 
 
FROM NIGHTFALL 
 
 UNTIL MIDNIGHT. 
 
 51 
 
 clear, calm, almost holy beauty. It was the 
 face of a girl of sixteen, whom thought and 
 anxiety had ripened into grave and serious 
 womanhood. Her brown hair was gathered 
 neatly under her faded straw bonnet, display- 
 ing a forehead which bore traces of a cor- 
 roding care ; there was light and life in her 
 large eyes, light and life without much of 
 hope ; there was youth on her cheeks and 
 lips ; youth fresh and virgin, and unstained 
 by the touch of sin. 
 
 "Will you give me them four shirts, — 
 s-a-y?" was the answer of Grabb, — " them 
 as you has in your bundle there?" 
 
 The girl for a moment seemed buried in 
 reflection. May -be the thought of a dreary 
 winter night and a desolate home was busy 
 at her heart. When she raised her head she 
 fixed her eyes fiill upon the face of Mr. 
 Grabb, and said distinctly : 
 
 " I will not give you these shirts until you 
 return my money."" 
 
 " What's that you say? You won't give 
 'em back — wont you?" and Mr. Grabb dart- 
 ed around the counter, yardstick in hand. 
 "We'll see, — we'll see. Now just hand 'em 
 over !" 
 
 He placed himself between her and the 
 door, and raised the yardstick over her 
 head. 
 
 The girl retreated step by step, Mr. Grabb 
 advancing as she retreated, with the yard- 
 stick in his fat hand. 
 
 " Give 'em up, — " he seized her arm, and 
 attempted to tear the bundle from her grasp. 
 "Give 'em up you " he applied an epi- 
 thet which he had heard used by a manager 
 of a theater to the unfortunate girls in his 
 employment. 
 
 At the word, the young w^oman retreated 
 into a corner behind the counter, her face 
 flushed and her eyes flashing with an almost 
 savage light — 
 
 "You cowardly villain!" she said, ^' to in- 
 sult me because I will not permit you to 
 rob me. 0, you despicable coward — for 
 shame !" 
 
 The look of her eye and curl of her lip 
 by no means pleased the corpulent Grabb. 
 He grew red with rage. Wlien he spoke 
 again it was in a loud voice and with an 
 emphatic sweep of the yardstick. 
 
 "If you don't give 'em up, I'll — I'll 
 
 break every bone in your body. You hussy! 
 You ! What do you think of your- 
 self — to attempt to rob a poor man of his 
 jjroperty?" 
 
 These words attracted the attention of the 
 passers-by; and in a moment, the doorway 
 was occupied by a throng of curious specta- 
 tors. The poor girl, looking over Grabb's 
 shoulders, saw that she was the object of the 
 gaze of some dozen pairs of eyes. 
 
 " Gentlemen, this hussy has attempted to 
 rob me of my property! I gave her stuff 
 sufficient to make five shirts, and she 's spoilt 
 'ern so I can't sell 'em for old rags, and — and 
 she won't give 'em up." 
 
 " If they aint good for nothing, what d 'ye 
 want with 'em?" remarked the foremost of 
 the spectators. 
 
 But Grabb was determined to bring mat- 
 ters to a crisis. 
 
 "Now, look here," he said, holding the 
 yardstick in front of the girl, and thus im- 
 prisoning her in the corner; "if you don't 
 give ■'em up, I '11 strip the clothes from your 
 back." 
 
 The girl turned scarlet in the face ; her 
 arms sank slowly to her side ; the bundle 
 fell from her hands ; she burst into tears. 
 
 " Shame ! shame !" cried one of the spec- 
 tators. 
 
 " It 's the way he does business," added a 
 voice in the background. " He won't give 
 out any work unless the girl, who applies for 
 it, places some money in his hands as a 
 pledge. When the work is brought into the 
 store, he pretends that it 's spoilt, and keeps 
 the money. That 's the way he raises 
 capital !" 
 
 "What's that you say?" cried Grabb, 
 turning fiercely on the crowd, who had ad- 
 vanced some one or two paces into the store. 
 "Who said that?" 
 
 A man in a coarse, brown bang-up ad- 
 vanced from the crowd — 
 
 " I said it, and I '11 stand to it ! Aint 
 you a purty specimen of a bald-headed 
 Christian, to try and cheat the poor girl out 
 of her hard-airned money?" 
 
 "I'll call the police," cried Grabb. 
 
 " What a pattern ! what a beauty !" con- 
 tinued the man in the brown bang-up ; 
 " why rotten eggs 'ud be wasted on such a 
 carcass as that !" 
 
52 
 
 FROM NIGHTFALL 
 
 UNTIL MIDNIGHT. 
 
 " Police ! Police !" screamed Grabb, — 
 *' Gentlemen, I 'd like to know if there is any 
 law in this land ?" 
 
 While this altercation was in progress the 
 poor girl — thoroughly ashamed to find her- 
 self the center of a public broil — covered 
 her face with her hands and wept as if her 
 heart would break. 
 
 " Take my arm," said a voice at her side; 
 " there will be a fight. Quick, my dear Miss, 
 you must get out of this as quick as 
 possible." 
 
 The speaker was a short and slender man, 
 wrapped in a Spanish mantle, and his hat 
 was drawn low over his forehead. 
 
 The girl seized his ama, and while the 
 crowd formed a circle around Grabb and the 
 brown bang-up, they contrived to pass unob- 
 aerved from the store. Presently the poor 
 girl was hurrying along Canal street, her 
 hand still clasping the arm of the stranger 
 in the cloak. 
 
 " Bad business ! Bad business !" he said 
 in a quick, abrupt tone. " That Grabb 's a 
 scoundrel. Here 's Broadway, my dear, and 
 I must bid you good-night. Good-night, — 
 good-night." 
 
 And he left the poor girl at the corner of 
 Broadway and Canal street. He was lost in 
 the crowd ere she was aware of his departure. 
 She was left alone, on the street corner, in 
 the midst of that torrent of life ; and it was 
 not until some moments had elapsed that 
 she could fully comprehend her desolate 
 condition. 
 
 " It was the last five dollars I had in the 
 world ! What can I do ! In the name of 
 God, what can I do !" 
 
 She looked up Broadway — it extended 
 there, one glittering track of light. 
 
 "Not a friend, and not a dollar in the 
 world !" 
 
 She looked down Broadway — far into the 
 distance it extended, its million lights over- 
 arched by a dull December sky. 
 
 "Not a friend and not a dollar !" 
 
 She turned down Broadway with languid- 
 and leaden steps. A miserably clad and 
 heart-broken girl, she glided among the 
 crowds, which lined the street, like a specter 
 through the mazes of a banquet. 
 
 Poor girl ! Down Broadway, until the 
 Paik is passed, and the huge Astor House 
 
 glares out upon the darkness from its hun- 
 dred windows. Down Broadway, until you 
 reach the unfinished pile of Trinity Church, 
 ■where heaps of lumber and rubbish appear 
 among white tombstones. Turn from Broad- 
 way and stride this narrow street which 
 leads to the dark river : your home is there 
 
 Back of Trinity Church, in Greenwich 
 street, we believe, there stands on this 
 December night a four storied edifice, ten- 
 anted, only a few years ago, by a wealthy 
 family. Then it was the palace of a man 
 who counted his wealth by hundreds of 
 thousands. Now it is a palace of a different 
 sort ; look at it, as from garret to cellar it 
 flashes with light in every window. 
 
 The cellar is the home of ten families. 
 
 The first floor is occupied as a beer 
 " saloon ;" you can hear men getting drunk 
 in three or four languages, if you will only 
 stand by the window for a moment. 
 
 Twenty persons live on the second floor. 
 
 Fifteen make their home on the third 
 floor. 
 
 The fourth floor is tenanted by nineteen 
 human beings. 
 
 The garret is divided into four apartments; 
 one of these has a garret- window to itself, 
 and this is the home of the poor girl. 
 
 She ascended the marble staircase which 
 led from the first to the fourth floor. At 
 every step her ear was assailed with curses, 
 drunken shouts, the cries of children, and a 
 thousand other sounds, which, night and 
 day resounded through that palace of rags 
 and wretchedness. Feeble and heart-sick 
 she arrived at length in front of the garret 
 door, which ojoened into her home. 
 
 She listened in the darkness ; all was still 
 within. 
 
 " He sleeps," she murmured, " thank 
 God !" and opened the door. All was dark 
 within, but presently, with the aid of a 
 match, she lighted a candle, and the details 
 of the place were visible. It was a nook of 
 the original garret, fenced ofl" by a partition 
 of rough boards. The slope of the roof 
 formed its ceiling. The garret window 
 occupied nearly an entire side of the place. 
 There was a mattress on the floor, in one cor- 
 ner; a small pine table stood beside the par- 
 tition ; and the recess of the garret- window 
 was occupied by an old arm-chair. 
 
FROM NIGHTFALL UNTIL MIDNIGHT. 
 
 53 
 
 This chair was occupied by a man whose 
 body, incased in a faded wrapper, reminded 
 you of a skeleton placed in a sitting posture. 
 His emaciated hands rested on the arms, and 
 his head rested helplessly against the back 
 of the chair. His hair was white as snow; 
 it was scattered in flakes about his forehead. 
 His face, furrowed in deep wrinkles, was 
 lividly pale ; it resembled nothing save the 
 face of a corpse. His eyes, wide open and 
 fixed as if the hand of death had touched 
 him, were centered upon the flame of the 
 candle, while a meaningless smile played 
 about his colorless lips. 
 
 The girl kissed him on the lips and fore- 
 head, but he gave no sign of recognition 
 save a faint laugh, which died on the air ere 
 it was uttered. 
 
 For the poor man, prematurely old and 
 reduced to a mere skeleton, was an idiot. 
 
 " Oh, my God, and I have not bread to 
 feed him !" No words can describe the tone 
 and look with which the poor girl uttered 
 these words. 
 
 She flung aside her bonnet and shawl. 
 
 Then it might be seen that, in spite of her 
 faded dress, she was a very beautiful young 
 woman ; not only beautiful in regularity of 
 features, but in the whiteness of her shoul- 
 ders, the fullness of her bust, the proportions 
 of her tall and rounded form. Her hair, 
 escaping from the ribbon which bound it, 
 streamed freely over her shoulders, and 
 caught the rays of the light on every glossy 
 wave. 
 
 She leaned her forehead upon her head, 
 and — thought. 
 
 Hard she had tried to keep a home for the 
 poor Idiot, who sat in the chair — very hard. 
 She had tried her pencil, and gained bread 
 for awhile, thus ; but her drawings ceased to 
 command a price at the picture store, and 
 this means of subsistence failed her. She 
 
 had taught music, and had been a miserable 
 
 dependent upon the rich ; been insulted by i scarlet with the same blush, 
 their daughters, and been made the object ' grew brighter as she read 
 
 the summer ; an immense treasure — Five 
 Dollars. 
 
 She had not a penny; there was no bread 
 in the closet ; there was no fire in the sheet 
 iron stove which stood in one corner ; her 
 Idiot Father, her iron fate were before her — 
 harsh and bitter realities. 
 
 She was thinking. 
 
 Apply to those rich relations, who had 
 known her father in days of prosperity ? No. 
 Better death than that. 
 
 She was thinking. Her forehead on her 
 hand, her hair streaming over her shoulders, 
 her bosom which had never known even the 
 thought of pollution, heaving and swelling 
 within her calico gown — she was thinking. 
 
 And as she thought, and thought her hair 
 began to burn, and her blood to bound rapidly 
 in her veins. 
 
 Her face is shaded by her hand, and a 
 portion of her hair falls over that hand ; 
 therefore you cannot tell her thoughts by 
 the changes of her countenance. 
 
 I would not like to know her thoughts. 
 
 For there is a point of misery, at which 
 but two doors of escape open to the gaze of 
 a beautiful woman, who struggles with the last 
 extreme of poverty: one door has the grave 
 behind it, and the other, 
 
 Yes, there are some thoughts which it is 
 not good to write on paper. It was in the 
 midst of this current of dark and bitter 
 thoughts, that the eye of the young woman 
 wandered absently to the faded shawl which 
 she had thrown across the table. 
 
 " What is this ? A letter ! Pinned to my 
 shawl — by whom ?" 
 
 It was indeed a letter, addressed to her, 
 and pinned to her shawl by an unknown 
 hand. 
 
 She seized it eagerly, and opened it, and 
 read. 
 
 Her face, her neck, and the glimpse of her 
 bosom, opening above her dress, all became 
 
 Still her eyes 
 
 the letter, and 
 
 of the insulting ofi'ers of their sons. And : incoherent ejaculations passed from her lips. 
 
 forced at length 
 Idiot Father, to 
 
 by the condition of her 
 remain with him, in their 
 
 The letter Avas written — so it said — by the 
 man who had taken her from the store on 
 
 own home — to be constantly near him, day j Canal street. Its contents we may not guess, 
 and night — she had sought work at the shirt i save from the broken words of the agitated 
 store on Canal street, and been robbed of the ! sirl. 
 treasure which she had accumulated tlirough | 
 
 At twelve o'clock^ at "the Temple," 
 
64 
 
 FROM NIGHTFALL UNTIL MIDNIGHT. 
 
 wlwse street ami numher ijou will Jind on the 
 inclosed cariV " 
 
 And a card dropped from tlie letter upon 
 the table. She seized it eagerly and cliu?ped 
 it as though it was so much gold. 
 
 " ' The Temple,' " she munnured again, 
 and her eyes instinctively wandered to the 
 face of her father 
 
 Then she burst into a flood of tears. 
 
 For three hours, while the candle burned 
 toward its socket, she meditated upon the 
 contents of that letter. 
 
 At last she rose, and took from a closet 
 near the door, a mantilla of black velvet, the 
 only garment which the pawnbroker had 
 spared. It was old and faded ; it was the 
 only relic of better days. She resumed her 
 bonnet and wound the mantilla about her 
 shoulders and kissed her Idiot Father on 
 the lips and brow. He had fallen into a 
 dull, dreamless sleep, and looked like a dead 
 man with his fallen lip and half-shut eyes. 
 
 " ' The Temple !' " she exclaimed and at- 
 tentively perused the card. 
 
 Then extinguishing the candle, she wound 
 a coverlet about her father's form, and left 
 him there alone in the garret. She passed 
 the threshold and went down the marble 
 stairs. God pity her. 
 
 Yes, God pity her ! 
 
 CHAPTER IIL 
 
 DO THEY ROAR 
 
 9?> 
 
 At nine o'clock, on the night of December 
 23d, 1844, 
 
 " Do they roar ?" said Israel Yorke, pass- 
 ing his hand through his gray v\^hiskers, as 
 he sat at the head of a large table covered 
 Avith green baize. 
 
 It was in a large square room, on the 
 second story of his Banking House — if Israel's 
 place of business can be designated by that 
 name. The gas-light disclosed the floor 
 covered with matting, and the high walls, 
 ovei'spreac? with lithographs of unknoMTi 
 cities and imaginary copper-mines. There 
 were also three lithographs of the towns in 
 wnich Israel's principal Banks were situated. 
 There was Chow Bank and Muddy Run, 
 and there in all its glory was Terrapin Hol- 
 low. In each of these distant towns, located 
 somewhere in New Jersey or Pennsylvania — 
 
 or Heaven only knows where — Israel owned 
 a Bank, a live Bank, chartered by a State 
 Legislature, and provided with a convenient 
 President and Ca.shier. Israel was a host of 
 stockholders in himself. He had an office in 
 New York for the redemption of the notes 
 of the three Banks ; it is in the room above 
 this office that we now behold him. 
 
 ** Do they roar ?" he asked, and arranged 
 his spectacles on his turn up nose, and 
 grinned to himself until his little black eyes 
 shone again. 
 
 "Do they roar?" answered the voice of 
 Israel's man of business, who sat at the lower 
 end of the green baize table — "Just go to the 
 window and hear 'cm ! Hark ! There it 
 goes again. It sounds like fourth of July." 
 
 Truth to say, a strange ominous murmur 
 came from the street — a murmur composed 
 of about an equal quantity of curses and 
 groans. 
 
 "There's six thousand of 'em,"' said the 
 man of business ; " The street is black with 
 'em. And all sorts o' nasty little boys go 
 about with placards on which such words are 
 inscribed: 'Here's an orphan — me a tJiem 
 that was cheated hij Israel Yorke and his Three 
 Banks.' Hark ! There it goes again !" 
 
 The man of business was a phlegmatic in- 
 dividual of about fortj" years ; a dull heavy 
 face adorned with green spectacles, and prop- 
 ped by a huge black stock and a pair of im- 
 mense shirt collars. Mr. Fetch was indeed 
 Israel's Man ; he in some measure supplied 
 the place of the late lamented Jedediah 
 Buggies, Esq., 'whose dignity of character 
 and strict integrity,' etc., etc., (for the rest, 
 see obituaries on Buggies in the daily pa- 
 pers). 
 
 "Fetch, they do roar," responded Israel. 
 " Was there notice of the failure in the af- 
 ternoon papers?" 
 
 " Had it put in myself. Dilated upon the 
 robbery which was committed on you last 
 night, in the cars ; and spoke of your dispo- 
 sition to redeem the notes of Chow Bank, 
 Muddy Run and Terrapin Hollow, as soon 
 as — you could make it convenient.'' 
 
 " Yes, Fetch, in about a week these notes 
 can be bought for ten cents on the dollar," 
 calmly remarked Yorke, " they're mostly in 
 the hands of market people, mechanics, day- 
 laborers, servant-maids, and those kind of 
 
FROM NIGHTFALL UNTIL MIDNIGHT. 
 
 55 
 
 people, who canH afford to wait. AVell, 
 Fetch, what were thcv sellin' at to-day?" 
 
 " Three shillings on the dollar. You know 
 we only failed this movninV' answered Fetch. 
 
 "Yes, yes, about a week will do it" — Is- 
 rael drew forth a gold pencil, and made a 
 calculation ou a card, — In about a week 
 they'll be down to ten cents on the dollar. 
 We must buy 'cm in quietly at that rate ; 
 our friends on Wall street will help us, 3'ou 
 know. Well, let's see how the i)rofit will 
 stand — there are in circulation $300,000 of 
 Chow Bank notes — " 
 
 "And $150,000 of Muddy Run," inter- 
 rupted Fetch. 
 
 "And $200,000 of Terrapin Hollow," con- 
 tinued Yorke, — "Now supposin' that there 
 are altogether $500,000 — a half million of 
 these notes now in circulation — we can buy 
 'eni in quietly you know, at ten cents on the 
 dollar, for some — some — yes, $50,000 will 
 do it That will leave a clear profit of 
 $450,00^1 Not so bad,— eh, Fetch?" 
 
 " But you forget how much it cost you to 
 get the charters of these banks — " interrupt- 
 ed Fetch. " The amount of champagne 
 that I myself forwarded to Trenton and to 
 Harrisburg, would float a small brig. Then 
 there was some ready money that you loaned 
 to Members of Legislature — put that down 
 Mr. Yorke." 
 
 "We'll say $5000 for champagne, and 
 $25,000 loaned to Members of Legislature 
 (though they don't bring anything near that 
 now), why we have a total of $25,000 for 
 expenses imurred in procuring charters. De- 
 duct that from $450,000 and you still have 
 $425,000. A neat sum. Fetch." 
 
 " Yes, but you must look to your charac- 
 ter. Y'"ou must come out of it with flyin' 
 colors. After nearly all the notes have been 
 bought in, by ourselves or our agents, we 
 must announce that having recovered from 
 our late reverses, wt are now prepared to re- 
 deem all our notes, dollar for dollar." 
 
 "And Fetch, if we manage it right, 
 there'll be only $10,000 worth left in circu- 
 lation, at the time we make the announce- 
 ment. That will take $10,000 from our to- 
 tal of $425,000, leavin'' us still the sum of 
 $415,000. A pretty sum. Fetch. 
 
 " You may as well strike off that $15,000 
 for extra expenses, — paragraphs in some of 
 
 the newspapers, — grand juries, and other 
 little incidents of that kind. 0, you'll come 
 out of it with character.''^ 
 
 " Ghoul of the Blerze will assail me, eh ?" 
 said Israel, fidgeting in his chair : " He'll 
 talk o' nothin' else than Chow Bank, Muddy 
 Hun and Terrapin Hollow, for months to 
 come, — eh. Fetch ?" 
 
 "For years, for years," responded Fetch, 
 " It will be nuts for Ghoul." 
 
 " And that cursed affair last night ! " con- 
 tinued Yorke, as though thinking aloud, 
 "Seventy-one thousand gone at one slap." 
 
 Fetch looked funnily at his principal from 
 beneath his gold spectacles : " No ? It was 
 real then ? I thought — " 
 
 Mr. I'orke abruptly consigned the thoughts 
 of Mr. Fetch to a personage who shall be 
 nameless, and then continued : 
 
 It was rea.l^ — a hona fide robbery. Seventy- 
 one thousand at a slap ! By-the-bye, Fetch, 
 has Blossom been here to-night — Blossom 
 the police officer ?" 
 
 " Couldn't get in ; too much of a crowd in 
 the street." 
 
 "I did not intend him to come by the 
 front door. He was to come up the back 
 way, — about this hour — he gave me some 
 hope this afternoon. Uiat was an mifortunate 
 affair last night !" 
 
 " How they roar ! Listen !" said Fetch, 
 bending himself into a listening attitude. 
 
 And again that ominous sound came from 
 the street without, — the combined groans 
 and curses of six thousand human beings. 
 
 " Like buffaloes !" quietly remarked Mr. 
 Yorke. 
 
 " Like demons !" added Mr. Fetch. "Hear 
 'em." 
 
 " Was there much fuss to-day, when w^e 
 suspended. Fetch ?" 
 
 " Quantities of market people, mechanics, 
 widows and servant maids," said the man of 
 business. "I should think you'd stood a 
 pretty good chance of being torn to pieces, 
 if you'd been visible. Had this happened 
 south, you'd have been tarred and feathered. 
 Here you'd only be tore to pieces." 
 
 A step was heard in the back part of the 
 room, and in a moment Blossom, in his 
 pictorial face and bear-skin over-coat, ap- 
 peared upon the scene. 
 
 "What is the matter with your head?" 
 
66 
 
 FROM NIGHTFALL 
 
 asked Mr. Fetch, — " Is that a handkerchief 
 or a towel ?" lie pointed to something like 
 a turban, which Poke-Berry Blossom wore 
 under his glossy hat. 
 
 Blossom sunk sullenly into a chair, with- 
 out a Avord. 
 
 " What's the matter ?" exclaimed Yorke, 
 " Have you — " 
 
 "Suppose you had sixteen inches taken 
 out of yer skull," responded Blossom in a 
 sullen tone, "You'd know what was the 
 matter. Thunder!" he added, "this is a 
 rum world !" 
 
 "Did you — " again began Yorke, brushing 
 his gray whiskers and fidgeting in his 
 chair. 
 
 " Yes I did. I tracked 'em to a groggery 
 up town airly this evenin'. I had 'em all 
 alone, to myself, up stairs. I caught the 
 young *un examinin' the valise — I seed the 
 dimes with my own eyes. I — " 
 
 "You an'ested them ?" gasped Yorke. 
 
 " How could I, when I aint a real police, 
 and hadn't any warrant ? I did grapple 
 with 'em ; but the young 'un got out on the 
 roof with the valise, and I was left to 
 manage the old 'un as best I could. I tried 
 to make him b'lieve that I had a detachment 
 down stairs, but he gi'n me a lick over the 
 topknot that made me see Fourth of July, 
 I tell you. There I laid, I don't know how 
 long. When I got my senses, they was 
 gone." 
 
 "But 3'ou pursued them?" asked Yorke, 
 with a nervoub start. 
 
 " With a hole in my head big enough to 
 put a market-basket in ?" responded Blos- 
 som, with a pitying smile, "what do yoM 
 think I'm made of ? Do you think I'm a 
 Japan mermaid or an Egyptian mummy ?" 
 
 It will be perceived that Mr. Blossom said 
 nothing about the house which stood next 
 to the Yellow Mug ; he did not even 
 mention the latter place by name. Nor did 
 he relate how he pursued Nameless into this 
 house, and how after nn unsuccessful pursuit, 
 he returned into the garret of the Mug, 
 where Ninety One, (who for a moment or 
 two had been hiding upon the roof,) grappled 
 with him, and laid him senseless by a well 
 ])lanted blow. Upon these topics Mr. Blos- 
 Hom maintained a mysterious silence. His 
 reasons for this course may hereafter appear. 
 
 " And so you've given up the affair ?" said 
 Yorke, sinking back into his chair. 
 
 Now the truth is, that Blossom, chafed by 
 his inquiries and mortified at his defeat, was 
 cogitating an important matter to himself — 
 " Can I make anything by givin' Israel into 
 the hands of the mob ? I might lead 'em 
 up the back stairs. Lord ! how they'd make 
 the fur fly ! But who'd 2^ay riie ? The 
 italicized query troubled Blossom and made 
 him thoughtful. 
 
 "And so the seventy thousand 's clean 
 gone," exclaimed Fetch, in a mournful tone : 
 " It makes one melancholy to think of it." 
 
 " Pardon me, Mr. Yorke, for this intru- 
 sion," said a bland voice, "but I have fol- 
 lowed Mr. Blosso ; to this room. I caught 
 sight of him a fcAv mom«nts ago as he left 
 Broadway, and tried to speak to him as he 
 pushed through the crowd in front of your 
 door, but in vain. So being exceedingly 
 anxious to see him, I was forced to follow 
 him uj) stairs, into your room," 
 
 " Colonel Tarleton !" ejaculated Yorke. 
 
 " The handsom' Curnel 1" chorussed Blos- 
 som. 
 
 It was indeed the handsome Colonel, who 
 wdth his w hite coat buttoned tightly over his 
 chest and around his waist, stood smiling 
 and bowing behind the chair of Berry 
 Blossom. 
 
 "You did not tell any one of the back 
 door," cried Yorke, — "If you did — " 
 
 " Why then, (you were about to remark I 
 believe,) we should have a great many more 
 persons in the room, than it would be 
 pleasant for you to see, just now. 
 
 The Colonel made one of his most ele- 
 gant bows as he made this remark. Mr. 
 Yorke bit his nails but made no reply. 
 
 " Mr. Blossom, a Avord with you." The 
 Colonel took the police officer by the arm 
 and led him far back into that part of the 
 room most remote from the table. 
 
 " What's up, Mister ?" asked Blossom, 
 arranging his turban. 
 
 As they stood there, in the gloom which 
 pervaded that part of the room, the Colonel 
 answered him with a low and significant 
 whisper : 
 
 "Do you remember that old ruffian who 
 was charged last night in the cars with — " 
 " You mean old Ninety-One, as ho calls 
 
FROM NIGHTFALL UNTIL MIDNIGHT. 
 
 57 
 
 hisself," interrupted Blo.ssom — "Well, I 
 guess I do." 
 
 "Very good," continued the Colonel. — 
 "Now suppose this ruftian had concealed 
 himself in the house of a wealthy man, with 
 the purpose of committing a rohhcry this 
 very night !" 
 
 Blossom was all ears. 
 
 "Well, well, — drive ahead. Suppose, — 
 suppose," — he said impatiently. 
 
 " Not so fast. Suppose, further, that a 
 gentleman who had overheard this villain 
 plotting this purposed crime, was to give you 
 full information in regard to the affair, could 
 you, — could you, — when called upon to 
 give evidence before the court, forget the 
 name of this gentleman 
 
 " rd know no more of him than an un- 
 born baby," eagerly Avhispered Blossom. 
 
 "Hold a moment. This gentleman over- 
 hears the plot, in the room of a certain house, 
 not used as a church, precisely. The gentle- 
 man does not wish to be known as a visitor 
 to that house, — you comprehend? But in 
 tJuit Jiouse, he happens to hear the ruffian and 
 his young comrade planning this robbery. 
 Himself unseen, he hears their whole con- 
 versation. He finds out that they intend to 
 enter the house where the robbery is to take 
 place, by a false key and a back stairway. 
 Now—" 
 
 "You want to know, in straight-for'ard 
 talk," interrupted Blossom, " whether, when 
 the case comes to trial, I could remember 
 having overheard the convict and the young 
 'un mesself? There's my hand on it, 
 Curnel. Just set me on the track, and you'll 
 find that I'll never say one word about you. 
 Beside, I was arter these two covies this 
 very night, — I seed 'em with my own eyes, 
 in the garret of the Yellow Mug." 
 
 " Y'ou did !" cried the Colonel, with an ac- 
 cent of undisguised satisfaction. "Then 
 possibly you may remember that you over- 
 heard them planning this burglary, as you lis- 
 tened behind the garret door ? " 
 
 "Of course I can," replied Blossom, "I 
 remember it quite plain. Jist tell me the 
 number of the house that is to be robbed, 
 and I'll show you fireworks." 
 
 The Colonel's face was agitated by a 
 smile of infernal delight. Leaving Blossom 
 
 for a moment, he paced the floor, with his 
 finger to his lip. 
 
 " Pop and Pill will leave town to-mor- 
 row," he muttered to himself, "and they'll 
 keep out of the way until the storm blows 
 over. Thi^ fellow will go to the house of 
 Sowers, inform him of the robbery, a search 
 will be made, and Ninety-one discovered in 
 one room, and the corpse of Evelyn in the 
 other. Just at that hour I'll happen to bo 
 passing by, and in the confusion I'll try to 
 secure this youthful secretary of Old Sow- 
 ers. I shall want him for the twenty-fifth 
 of December. As for the other, why, 
 Frank must take care of him. Shall Nine- 
 ty-one come to a hint of the murder?" — 
 the Colonel paused and struck his forehead. 
 " Head, you have never failed me, and will 
 not fail me now ! " 
 
 He turned to Blossom, and in low whis- 
 pers the twain arranged all the details of the 
 affair. They conversed together there in the 
 gloom until they perfectly understood each 
 other, Blossom turning now and then to in- 
 dulge in a quiet laugh, and the Colonel's 
 dark eyes flashing with earnestness, and may 
 be, with the hope of gratified revenge. At 
 length they shook hands, and the Colonel 
 approached the table : 
 
 "Mr. Yorke, I have the honor to wish 
 you a very good evening," said the Colonel, 
 and after a polite bow, he departed. 
 
 " I leave him with his serenaders," he 
 muttered as he disappeared. " This murder 
 off my hands, and the private secretary in 
 my power, I think I will hold the trump 
 card on the Twenty-fifth of December ! " 
 
 With this muttered exclamation he went 
 down the back stairway. 
 
 " Yorke, my genius!" cried Blossom, clap- 
 ping the financier on the back, "if I dont 
 have them $71,000 dollars before twenty- 
 four hours, 3^ou may call me — you may call 
 me, — most anything you please. By-the- 
 bye, did you hear that howl ? Good-night, 
 i l''orke." And he went down the back stair- 
 way. 
 
 The financier, coughing for breath, (for 
 the hand of Blossom had been somewhat 
 emphatic), fixed his gold specs, and brushed 
 his gray whiskers, and turning to Mr. Fetch, 
 said gayly, 
 
58 
 
 FROM NIGHTFALL 
 
 UNTIL MIDNIGHT. 
 
 "He looks as if lie was on the right 
 track; dont he, Fetch?" 
 
 Fetch said he did ; and presently he also 
 retired down the back stairway, promising to 
 see his Principal at an early hour on the 
 morrow. " How they do roar ! " he ejacu- 
 lated, as he disappeared. 
 
 Yorke was alone. He shifted and twisted 
 uneasily in his chair. His little black eyes 
 shone with peculiar luster. He sat for a 
 long time buried in thought, and at last 
 gave utterance to these words : 
 
 " I think I'd better retire until the storm 
 , blows over, leaving Fetch to bring in my 
 notes, and manage affairs. To what part of 
 the world shall I go ? Well, — w-e-11 ! — 
 Havana, yes, that's the word, Havana ! But 
 first I must see the result of this Van Huy- 
 den matter on the Twenty-fifth, and provide 
 myself with a conqjanion — a pleasant ccnn- 
 panion to cheer me in my loneliness at Ha- 
 vana. Ah ! " the man of money actually 
 breathed an amorous sigh, — " twelve to-night^ 
 — THE Temple 1 — that's the word." 
 
 And in the street without, black with 
 heads, there were at least three thousand 
 people who would have cut the throat of Is- 
 rael, had they once laid hands upon him. 
 
 " The Temple ! " he again ejaculated, and 
 sinking back in his chair, he inserted his 
 thumbs in the armholes of his vest, and 
 resigned himself to a pleasant dream. 
 
 Leaving Israel Yorke for a little while, 
 we will trace the movements, and listen to 
 the words of a personage of far different 
 character. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 the seven vaults. 
 About the hour of nine o'clock, on the 
 23d of December, a gentleman, wrapped in 
 the folds of a Spanish mantle, passed along 
 Broadway, on his way to the Astor House. 
 Through the glare and glitter, the uproar 
 and the motion of that thronged pathway, he 
 passed rapidly along, his entire appearance 
 and manner distinguishing him from the 
 crowd. As he came into the glare of the 
 brilliantly-lighted windows, his face and fea- 
 tures, disclosed but for an instant, beneath 
 his broad sombrero, made an impression 
 
 upon those who beheld them, which they 
 did not soon forget. That face, unnat- 
 urally pale, was lighted by eyes that shone 
 with incessant luster ; and its almost death- 
 like pallor was in strong contrast with his 
 moustache, his beard and hair, all of intense 
 bhickness. His dark hair, tossed by the 
 winter winds, fell in wavy tresses to the col- 
 lar of his cloak. His movements were quick 
 and impetuous, and his stealthy gait, in 
 some respects, reminded you of the Indian. 
 Altogether, in a crowd of a thousand you 
 would have singled him out as a remarkable 
 man, — one of those whose faces confront 
 you at rare intervals, in the church, the 
 street, in the railroad- car, on ship-board, and 
 who at first sight elicit the involuntary ejac- 
 ulation, " That man's history I would like to 
 know !" 
 
 Arrived at the Astor House he registered 
 his name, Gaspar Manuel, Havana. 
 
 He had just landed from the Havana 
 steamer. 
 
 As he wrote his name on the Hotel book, 
 he uncovered his head, and — by the gas 
 light which shone fully on him, — it might 
 be seen that his dark hair, which fell to his 
 shoulders, was streaked with threads of 
 silver. The vivid brightness of his eyes, 
 the deathlike pallor of his face, became 
 more perceptible in the strong light ; and 
 when he threw his cloak aside, you beheld a 
 slender frame, slightly bent in the shoulders, 
 clad in a dark frock coat, which, single 
 breasted, and with a strait collar, reached to 
 the knees. 
 
 His face seemed to indicate the traveler 
 who has journeyed in many lands, seen all 
 phases of life, thought much, suffered deeply, 
 and at times grown sick of all that life can 
 inflict or bestow ; his attire indicated a mem- 
 ber of some religious organization, per- 
 chance a member of that society founded 
 by Loyola, which has sometimes honored, 
 but oftener blasphemed, the name of Jesus. 
 Directing his trunks, — there were some 
 three or four, huge in size, and strangely 
 strapped and banded — to be sent to his 
 room. Gaspar Manuel resumed his cloak and 
 sombrero, and left the hall of the hotel. 
 
 It was an hour before he appeared again. 
 As he emerged from one of the corridors 
 into the light of the hall, you would have 
 
FROM NIGHTFALL UNTIL MIDNIGHT. 
 
 59 
 
 scarcely recognized the man. In place of 
 his Jesuit-lilvo attire, he wore a fcishionably 
 made black dress coat, a snow-white vest, 
 black pants and neatly-fltting boots^ There 
 was a diamond in the center of his black 
 scarf, and a mass}'- gold chain across his vest. 
 And a diamond even more dazzling than 
 that Avhich shone upon his scarf, sparkled 
 from the little finger of his left-hand. 
 
 But the change in his attire only made that 
 face, framed in hair and beard, black as jet, 
 seem more lividly pale. It -vvas a strange 
 faded face, — you would have given the w^orld 
 to have known the meaning of that thought 
 which imparted its incessant fire to his eyes. 
 
 Winding his cloak about his slender frame, 
 and placing his sombrero upon his dark hair, 
 he left the hotel. Passing with his quick 
 active step along Broadway, he turned to the 
 East river, and soon entered a silent and de- 
 serted neighboring house. Silent and deser- 
 ted, because it stands in the center of a 
 haunt of trade, which in the day-time, mad 
 with the fever of traffic, was at night as 
 silent and deserted as a desert or a tomb. 
 
 He paused before an ancient dAvelling- 
 house, which, wedged in between huge ware- 
 houses, looked strangely out of place, in that 
 domain of mammon. Twenty-one years be- 
 fore,that dwelling-house had stood in the very 
 center of the fashionable quarter of the city. 
 Now the aristocratic mansions which once 
 lined the street had disappeared ; and it was 
 left alone, amid the lofty walls and closed 
 windows of the warehouses which bounded 
 it on either hand, and gloomily confronted it 
 from the opposite side of the narrow street. 
 
 It was a double mansion — the hall door 
 in the center — ranges of apartments on ei- 
 ther side. Its brick front, varied by marble 
 over the windows, bore the marks of time. 
 And the wide marble steps, which led from 
 the pavement to the hall door — marble 
 steps once white as snow — could scarcely be 
 distinguished from the brown sandstone of 
 the pavement. In place of a bell, there was 
 an unsightly-looking knocker, in the center 
 of the massive door ; and its roof, crowned 
 with old fashioned dormer-wundows, and 
 heavy along the edges with cumbrous wood- 
 work, presented a strange contrast to the 
 monotonous flat roofs of the warehouses on 
 either side. 
 
 Altogether, that old-fashioned dwelling 
 looked as much out of place in that silent 
 street of trade, as a person attired in the cos- 
 Itume of the Revolution, — powdered wig, 
 I ruffled shirt, wide skirted coat, breeches and 
 I knee-buckles, — would look, surrounded by 
 gentlemen attired in the business-like and 
 practical costume of the present day. And 
 while the monotonous edifices on cither side, 
 only spoke of Trade — the Rate of Ex- 
 change — the price of Dry Goods, — the old 
 dwelling-house had something about it 
 which breathed of the associations of Home. 
 There had been marriages in that house, and 
 deaths : children had first seen the light 
 within its walls, and coffins, containing the 
 remains of the fondly loved, had emerged 
 from its wide hall door : dramas of every- 
 day life had been enacted there : and there, 
 perchance, had also been enacted one of 
 those tragedies of every-day life which dif- 
 fer so widely from the tragedies of fiction, 
 in their horrible truth. 
 
 There was a story about the old dwelling 
 which, as you passed it in the day-time, 
 when it stood silent and deserted, while all 
 around was deafening uproar, made your heart 
 dilate with involuntary curiosity to know 
 the history of the ancient fabric, and the 
 history of those who had lived and died 
 within its walls. 
 
 Gaspar Manuel ascended the marble 
 steps, and with the knocker sounded an 
 alarm, which echoing sullenly through the 
 ! lofty hall, was shortly answered by the open- 
 1 ing of the door. 
 
 ! In the light which flashed upon the pallid 
 visage of Gaspar Manuel, appeared an aged 
 servant, clad in gray livery faced with black 
 velvet, 
 
 " Take these letters to your master, and 
 tell him that I am come," said Gaspar in a 
 prompt and decided tone, marked, although 
 but slightly, with a foreign accent. He 
 handed a package to the servant as he 
 spoke. 
 
 " But how do you know that my master is 
 at home ?" — The servant shaded his eyes 
 with his withered hand, and gazed hesi- 
 tatingly into that strange countenance, so 
 lividly pale, with eyes unnaturally bright 
 and masses of waving hair, black as jet. 
 
 " Ezekiel Bogart lives here, does he not ?'* 
 
60 
 
 FROM NIGHTFALL UNTIL MIDNIGHT. 
 
 ** That is my master's name." 
 
 "Take these letters to him then at once, 
 and tell him I am waiting." 
 
 Perchance the soft and musical intonations 
 of the stranger's voice had its effect upon 
 the servant, for he replied, " Come in, sir," 
 and led the way into the spacious hall, 
 which was dimly lighted by a hanging lamp 
 of an antique pattern. 
 
 " Step in there, sir, and presently I will 
 bring you an answer." 
 
 The aged servant opened a door on the 
 left side of the hall and Gaspar Manuel 
 entered a square apartment, which had 
 evidently formed a part of a larger room. 
 The walls were panneled witli oak ; a 
 cheerful wood lire burned in the old-fashion- 
 ed arch ; an oaken table, without covering of 
 any sort, stood in the center; and oaken 
 benches were placed along the walls. Taking 
 the old chair, — it stood by the table, — Gas- 
 par Manuel, by the light of the wax candle 
 on the table, discovered that the room was 
 already occupied by some twenty or thirty 
 persons, who sat upon the oak benches, as 
 silent as though they had been carved there. 
 Persons of all classes, ages, and with every 
 variety of visage and almost every contrast 
 of apparel. There was the sleek dandy of 
 Broadway ; there the narrow-faced vulture 
 of Wall street ; there some whose decayed 
 attire reminded you either of poets out of 
 favor with the Magazines, or of police offi- 
 cers out of office : one whose half Jesuit 
 attire brought to mind a Puseyite clergyman ; 
 and one or two whose self-complacent vis- 
 ages reminded one of a third-rate lawyer, who 
 had just received his first fee ; in a word, 
 types of the varied and contrasted life which 
 creeps or throbs Avithin the confines of the 
 large city. Among the crowd, were several 
 whose rotund corporations and evident dis- 
 position to shake hands wdth themselves, 
 indicated the staid man of business, whose 
 capital is firm in its foundation, and duly 
 recognized in the solemn archives of the 
 Bank. A man of gray hairs, clad in rags, 
 sat in a corner by himself ; there was a wo- 
 man with a vail over her face ; a boy with 
 half developed form, and lip innocent of 
 hair : it was, altogether, a singular gathering. 
 
 The dead silence which prevailed was 
 most remarkable. Not a word was said. 
 
 Not one of those persons seemed to be 
 aware of the existence of the others. As 
 motionless as the oak benches on which they 
 sat, they were waiting to see Ezekiel Bogart, 
 and this at the unusual hour of ten at night. 
 
 Who was Ezekiel Bogart? This was a 
 question often asked, but which the denizens 
 of Wall street found hard to answer. He 
 was not a merchant, nor a banker, nor a law- 
 yer, nor a gentleman of leisure, although in 
 some respects he seemed a combination of 
 all. 
 
 He occupied the old-fashioned dwelling ; 
 was seen at all sorts of i)laces at all hours ; 
 and was visited by all sorts of people at 
 seasons most unusual. Thus much at least 
 was certain. But what he was precisely, 
 what he exactly followed, what the sum of 
 his wealth, and who were his relations, — 
 these Avere questions shadowed in a great 
 deal more mystery than the reasons which 
 induce a Washington Minister of State to 
 sanction a worn-out claim, of Avhich he is at 
 once the judge, hiAvyer and (under the rose) 
 sole proprietor. 
 
 The transactions of Ezekiel Bogart Avere 
 quite extensive : they involved much money 
 and ramified through all the arteries of the 
 great social Avorld of Ncav York. But the 
 exact nature of these transactions ? All was 
 doubt, — no one could tell. 
 
 So much did the mystery of Mr. Bogart's 
 career puzzle the knoAving ones of Wall 
 street, that one gentleman of the Green 
 Board AA-ent quite crazy on the subject, — 
 after the fourth bottle of champagne — and 
 off"ered to bet Erie Rail-road stock against 
 NeAv Jersey copper stock, that no one could 
 proA'e that Bogart had ever been born. 
 
 ''Who IS IJzeh'el Bogart ?" 
 
 No doubt every one of the persons here 
 assembled, in the oak j)anneled room, can 
 return some sort of ansAver to this question ; 
 but Avill not their ansAvers contradict each 
 other, and render Ezekiel more mythical 
 than ever ? 
 
 " Sir, this Avay," said the aged servant, 
 opening the door and beckoning to Gaspar 
 Manuel. 
 
 Gaspar folloAved the old man, and leaving 
 the room, ascended the oaken staircase, 
 Avhoso banisters Avere fashioned of solid 
 mahogany. 
 
FROM NIGHTFALL UNTIL MIDNIGHT. 
 
 On the second floor he opened a door, — 
 "In there, sir," and crossing the threshold, 
 Gaspar Manuel found himself in the pre- 
 sence of Ezekiel Bogart. 
 
 It was a square apartment, lined with 
 shelves from the ceiling to the floor, and 
 illumined by a lamp, which hanging from 
 the ceiling, shed but a faint and mysterious 
 light through the place. In the center was 
 a large square table, whose green baize sur- 
 face was half concealed by folded packages, 
 opened letters, and huge volumes, bound in 
 dingy buff. Without Avindows, and warmed 
 by heated air, this room was completely fire- 
 proof — for the contents of those shelves 
 were too precious to be exposed to the 
 slightest chance of destruction. 
 
 In an arm-chair, covered with red morocco, 
 and placed directly beneath the light, sat 
 Ezekiel Bogart ; a man whom we may as 
 well examine attentively, for we shall not 
 soon see his like again. His form bent in 
 the shoulders, yet displaying marks of mus- 
 cular power, was clad in a loose wrapper of 
 dark cloth, with wide sleeves, lined with 
 red. A dark skull-cap covered the crown 
 of his head ; and a huge green shade, evi- 
 dently worn to protect his eyes from the 
 light, completely concealed his eyes and 
 nose, and threw its shadow over his mouth 
 and chin, A white cravat, wound about his 
 throat in voluminous folds, half concealed 
 his chin ; and his right hand — sinewy, yet 
 colorless as the hand of a corpse — Avhich 
 was relieved by the crimson lining of the 
 large sleeve — was laid upon an open letter. 
 
 Gaspar Manuel seated himself in a chair 
 opposite this singular figure, and observed 
 him attentively without uttering a word. 
 And Ezekiel Bogart, whose eyes were pro- 
 tected by the huge green shade, seemed for 
 a moment to study with some earnestness, 
 the pallid face of Gaspar Manuel. 
 
 " My name is Ezekiel Bogart," he spoke 
 in a voice so low as to be scarcely audible, — 
 "and I am the General Agent of Martin 
 Fulmer," 
 
 He paused as if awaiting a reply from 
 Gaspar Manuel, but Gaspar Manuel did not 
 utter a word, 
 
 " You come highly recommended by Mr. 
 John Grubb, who is Mr, Fulmer's agent on 
 the Pacific coast," continued EzekieL "He 
 
 especially commends you to my kindness 
 and attention, in the letter which I hold in 
 my hand, lie desires me to procure you an 
 early interview with my principal, Dr. Martin 
 Fulmer. He also states that you have im- 
 portant information in your possession, in 
 regard to certain lands in the vicinity of the 
 Jesuit Mission of San Luis, near the Pacific 
 coast, — lands purchased some years ago, from 
 the Mexican government, by Dr. Martin 
 Fulmer, Now, in the absence of the Doctor, 
 I will be most happy to converse with you 
 on the subject" — 
 
 "And I Avill be happy to converse on the 
 subject," exclaimed Gaspar, in his low voice 
 and with a slight but significant smile, "but 
 first I must see Dr, Martin Fulmer." 
 
 Ezekiel gave a slight start — 
 
 " But you may not be able to see Dr. Mar- 
 tin Fulmer for some days," he said. " His 
 movements are uncertain ; it is at times very 
 difficult to procure an interview with him," 
 
 " I must see him," replied Gaspar Manuel 
 in a decided voice, "and before the Twenty- 
 Fifth of December." 
 
 Again Ezekiel started : 
 
 " Soh ! He knows of the Twenty-Fifth !" 
 he muttered. After a moment's hesitation 
 he said aloud : " This land which the Doc- 
 tor bought from the Mexican government, 
 and which he sent John Grubb to overlook, 
 is fertile, is it not ?" 
 
 Gaspar Manuel answered in a low voice, 
 whose faintest tones were marked with a 
 clear and impressive emphasis : 
 
 " The deserted mission house of San Luis 
 stands in the center of a pleasant valley, en- 
 circled by fertile hills. Its walls of inter- 
 mingled wood and stone are almost buried 
 from view by the ever-green foliage of the 
 massive trees which surround it. Once 
 merry with the hum of busy labor, and 
 echoing with the voice of prayer and praise, 
 it is now silent as a tomb. Its vineyards and 
 its orchards are gone to decay, — orchards 
 rich with the olive and the apple, the pome- 
 granate and the orange, stand neglected and 
 forsaken, under an atmosphere as calm, a 
 climate as delicious as southern Italy, And 
 the hills and fields, which once produced the 
 plantain and banana, cocoanut, indigo ant? 
 sugar-cane — which once resounded with 
 the voices of hundreds of Indian laborers, 
 
63 
 
 FROM NIGHTFALL UNTIL MIDNIGHT. 
 
 who yielded to the rule of the Jesuit Fa- 
 thers — are now as sad and silent as a desert. 
 And yet a happier sight you cannot conceive 
 than the valley of the San Luis, in the lap 
 of "which stands the deserted mission- liouse. 
 It is watered by two rivulets, which, flowing 
 from the gorges of distant hills, join near the 
 mission-house, into a broad and tranquil 
 river, whose shores are always bright with 
 the verdure of spring. The valle}' is sur- 
 rounded, as I have said, by a range of rolling 
 hills, which formerly yielded, by their inex- 
 haustible fertility, abundant wealth to the 
 Fathers. Behind these, higher and abrupt 
 hills arise, clad with ever-green forests. In 
 the far distance, rise the white summits of 
 the Sierra Nevada." 
 
 " This mission was one of the many esta- 
 blished between the Sierra Nevada and the 
 Pacific coast," interrupted Ezekiel, " by zeal- 
 ous missionaries of the Papal Church. If I 
 mistake not, having obtained large grants of 
 land from the Mexican government, they 
 gathered the Indians into missions, reared 
 huge mission-houses, and employed the Indi- 
 ans in the cultivation of the soil." 
 
 " Not only in California, on the west side 
 of Sierra Nevada, but also far to the east of 
 that range of * Snow Mountains ' abounded 
 these missions, ruled by the Fathers and 
 supported by the labor of the submissive 
 Indians. But now, for hundreds and hun- 
 dreds of miles, you will find the mission- 
 houses silent and deserted. The rule of the 
 Fathers passed away in 1836 — in one of the 
 thousand revolutions of Mexico — the mis- 
 sions passed into the hands of private indi- 
 viduals, and in some cases the Indians were 
 transferred with the land." 
 
 " But the mission-house of San Luis ?" 
 
 " Is claimed by powerful members of the 
 Society of Jesus, who residing in the city 
 of Mexico, have managed to keep a quiet 
 hold upon the various governments, which 
 have of late years abounded in that unhappy 
 republic. They claim the mission-house and 
 the lands, originally granted sixty years ago, 
 to Brothers of their order by the Govern- 
 ment, and they claim certain lands, not named 
 in the original grant." 
 
 He paused, but Ezekiel Bogart completed 
 the sentence : 
 
 ** Lands purchased some years since, froni 
 
 I the Government by Dr. Martin Fulmer ? Is 
 j their claim likely to be granted ?" 
 j " That is a question upon which I will be 
 most happy to converse with Dr. Martin 
 Fulmer," was the bland reply of Gaspar 
 Manuel. 
 
 i " These lands are fertile — that is, as fertile 
 j as the lands immediately attached to the 
 ; mission ?" 
 
 I " Barren, barren as Zahara," replied Gaspar. 
 
 I " A thousand acres in all, they are bounded 
 by desolate hills, desolate of foliage, and 
 
 i broken into ravines and gorges, by mountain 
 
 I streams. You stand upon one of the hills, 
 and survey the waste Avhich constitutes Mar- 
 
 ] tin Fulmer's lands, and you contrast them 
 with the mission lands, and feel as though 
 Zahara and Eden stood side by side before 
 
 I you. A gloomier sight cannot be imagined." 
 
 I "And yet," said Ezekiel, "these lands 
 are situated but a few leagues from the 
 mission-house. It is strange that the Jesuit 
 Brothers should desire to possess such a 
 miserable desert. Do you imagine their 
 motives ?" 
 
 " It is about their 'tnotivcs that I desire to 
 speak with Dr. Martin Fulmer," and Gaspar 
 i shaded his eyes with the white hand which 
 ! blazed with the diamond ring. 
 
 There was a pause, and beneath his up- 
 lifted hand, Gaspar Manuel attentively sur- 
 veyed Ezekiel Bogart, while Ezekiel Bogart, 
 as earnestly surveyed Gaspar Manuel, under 
 the protection of the green shade which 
 concealed his eyes. 
 
 " You seem to have a great many visitors 
 to-night," said Gaspar, resting his arm on tho 
 table and his forehead on his hand ; " allow 
 me to ask, is it usual to transact business, at 
 such a late hour, in this country ?" 
 
 " The business transacted by Dr. Martin 
 Fulmer, dilfers widely from the business of 
 Wall street," replied Ezekiel, dryly. 
 
 " The proi:)erty of Gulian Van Huyden, 
 has by this time doubled itself ?" asked 
 Gaspar, still keeping his eyes on the table. 
 Ezekiel started, but Gaspar continued, as 
 though thinking aloud — "Let me see: at the 
 time of his death, the estate was estimated 
 at two millions of dollars. Of this $1,251,- 
 000 was invested in real estate in the city of 
 New Y'ork; $100,000 in bank and other 
 Hands of stock; $50,000 in lands in the 
 
FROM NIGHTFALL 
 
 UNTIL MIDNIGHT. 
 
 63 
 
 Western country; $1,000 in a tract of one 
 thousand acres in Pennsylvania; and $458,- 
 000 in bank notes and gold. Then the Van 
 Huyden mansion and grounds were valued 
 at $150,000. Are my figures correct, sir ?" 
 
 As though altogether amazed by the 
 minute knowledge which Gaspar Manuel, ! 
 seemed to possess, in regard to the Van 
 Huyden estate, Ezekiel did not reply. 
 
 "By this time this great estate has no 
 doubt doubled, perhaps trebled itself." 
 
 Ezekiel raised his hand to his mouth, and 
 preserved a statue-like silence. 
 
 '* This room, which is no doubt vaulted 
 and fire-proof, contains I presume, all the 
 important records, title-deeds and other papers 
 relating to the estate." 
 
 Ezekiel rose from his chair, and slowly 
 lighted a wax candle which stood upon the 
 table. Gathering the dark wrapper, lined 
 with scarlet, about his tall form which seemed 
 bent with age, he took the silver candlestick 
 in his right hand, and swept aside a curtain 
 which concealed the shelves behind his chair. 
 A narrow doorway was disclosed. 
 
 " Will you step this way, for a few mo- 
 ments, sir ?" he said, pointing to the doorway, 
 as he held the light above his head, thus 
 throwing the shadow of the green shade 
 completely over his face. 
 
 Gaspar Manuel without a word, rose and 
 followed him. They entered a room or rather 
 vault, resembling in the general features the 
 one which they had left. It w^as racked and 
 shelved ; the floor was brick and the shelves 
 groaned under the weight of carefully ar- 
 ranged papers. 
 
 " This room or vault, without windows as 
 you see, and rendered secure, beyond a 
 doubt, from all danger of robbery or of fire, 
 is one of seven," said Ezekiel. " In this room 
 are kept all title deeds and papers, which 
 relate to the Thousand acres in Pennsyl- 
 vania." 
 
 " The Thousand acres in Pennsylvania !" 
 echoed Gaspar, '* surely all these documents 
 and papers, do not relate to that tract, which 
 Van Huyden originally purchased for one 
 thousand dollars ?" 
 
 " Twenty-one years ago, they could have 
 been purchased for a thousand dollars," an- 
 swered Ezekiel : " twenty-one years, to a 
 country like this, is the same as five hundred ' 
 
 to Europe. Those lands could not now be 
 purchased for twenty millions." 
 " Twenty millions !" 
 
 " They comprise inexhaustible mines of 
 coal and iron — the richest in the state," an- 
 swered Ezekiel, quietly, and drawing a cur- 
 ! tain, he led the way into a third vault. 
 
 " Here," he said, holding the light above 
 his head, so that its rays fell full upon the 
 pallid face of Gaspar, while his own was 
 buried in shadow ; " here are kept all papers 
 and title-deeds, which relate to the lands in 
 the Avestern country — lands purchased for 
 fifty thousand dollai-s, at a time when Ohio 
 was a thinly settled colony and all the region 
 further west a wilderness — but lands which 
 now are distributed through five states, and 
 which, dotted with villages, rich in mines 
 and tenanted by thousands, return an annual 
 
 rent of, " 
 
 He paused. 
 
 " Of I do not care to say how many dol- 
 lars. Enough, perhaps, to buy a German 
 prince or two. This way, sir." 
 
 Passing through a narrow doorway, they 
 entered a third vault, arched and shelved 
 like the other. 
 
 " This place is devoted to the Van Huy- 
 den mansion," said Ezekiel, pointing to the 
 well-filled shelves. " It was M'orth $150,000 
 twenty-one years ago, but now a flourishing 
 town has sprung up in the center of its lands; 
 mills and manufactories arise in its valleys ; 
 a population of five thousand souls exists, 
 where twenty-one years ago there were not 
 two hundred souls, all told. And these five 
 thousand are laboring night and day, not so 
 much for themselves as to increase the wealth 
 of the Van Huyden estate." 
 
 " And all this is estimated at, ," began 
 
 Gaspar. 
 
 "We will not say," quietly responded 
 Ezekiel. "Here are the title-deeds of the 
 town, of the mansion, of manufactory and 
 mill, all belong to the estate ; not one of the 
 five thousand souls owns one inch of the 
 ground on which they toil, or one shingle of 
 the roof beneath which they sleep. 
 They entered the fourth vault. 
 " This is dedicated to the ' Real Estate in 
 the city of New York,' " said Ezekiel — 
 worth $1,521,000, twenty-one years ago, 
 ' and now — well, well — New York twenty- 
 
64 
 
 FROM NIGHTFALL UNTIL MIDNIGHT. 
 
 one yeai"S ago was the presumptions rival of 
 Philadelphia. vShe is now the city of the 
 Continent. And this real estate is located in 
 the most thriving portions of the city — 
 among the haunts of trade near the Battery, 
 and in the region of splendid mansions up 
 town." 
 
 "And 3'ou would not like to name the 
 usual revenue ?" — a smile crossed the pale 
 visage of Gtispar Manuel. 
 
 Ezekiel led the way into the fifth vault. 
 
 "Matters in regard to Banks and bank 
 stock are kept here," he said, showing the 
 light of the candle upon the well laden 
 shelves — " Ilather an uncertain kind of pro- 
 perty. The United States' Bank made a 
 sad onslaught upon these shelves. But let 
 us go into the next room." 
 
 And they went into the sixth room. 
 
 " This is our bank," said Ezekiel ; " that 
 is to say, the Treasury of the Van Huyden 
 estate, in which we keep our specie basis. 
 You perceive the huge iron safe which occu- 
 pies nearly one-half of the apartment ? Dr. 
 Martin Fulmer carries the Key of course, and 
 with that Key he can perchance, at any mo- 
 ment, command the destinies of the commer- 
 cial world. A golden foundation is a solid 
 foundation, as the world goes." 
 
 As though for the moment paralyzed, by 
 the revelation of the immense v\'ealth of the 
 Van Huyden estate, Gaspar Manuel stood 
 motionless as a statue, resting one arm upon 
 the huge safe and at the same time resting 
 his forehead in his hand. 
 
 " We will now pass into t^.e seventh apart- 
 ment," said Ezekiel, and in a moment they 
 stood in the last vault of the seven. " It is 
 arched and shelved, you perceive, like the 
 others ; and the shelves are burdened Avith 
 carefully-arranged papers " 
 
 " Title-deeds, I presume, title-deeds and 
 mortgages ?" interrupted Gaspar Manuel. 
 
 " No," answered Ezekiel, suffering the rays 
 of the candle to fall upon the crowded 
 shelves. " Those shelves contain briefs of the 
 personal history of perpnanent persons of this 
 city, of many parts of the Union, I may say, 
 of many parts of the globe. Sketches of the 
 personal history of prominent persons, and of 
 persons utterly obscure : records of remark- 
 able facts, in the history of particular fami- 
 lies : br.i '^•t^resting portraitures of 
 
 incidents, societies, governrients and men ; 
 
 ithe contents of those shelves, sir, is know- 
 ledge, and knowledge that, in the grasp of a 
 determined man, would be a fearful Power. 
 
 : For," he turned and fixed his gaze on Ga?; •\r 
 Manuel ; " for you stand in the Secret Pa 
 
 j lice Department of the Van Huyden estate." 
 
 1 These last words, pronounced with an em- 
 phasis of deep significance, evidently aroused 
 an intense curiosity in the breast of Gaspar 
 Manuel. 
 
 " Secret Police Department !" he echoed, 
 his dark eyes flashing Avith renewed luster. 
 
 "Even so," dryly responded Ezekiel, "for 
 the Van Huyden estate is not a secret society 
 jlike the Jesuits, nor a corporation like 
 Trinity Church, nor a government like the 
 United States or Great Britain, but it is a 
 Goi:ermnent based vpm Money and controlled by 
 the Iron Will of One Man. A Government 
 based, I repeat it, upon incredible wealth, 
 and absolutely in the control of one man, 
 who for twenty-one years, has devoted his 
 whole soul to the administration of the sin- 
 gular and awful Power intrusted to him. 
 Such a Government needs a Secret Police, 
 ramifying through all the arteries of the 
 social world — and you now stand in the 
 office of that wide-spread and almost ubiqui- 
 tous Police." 
 
 "A secret society may be disturbed by 
 internal dissensions," said Gaspar Manuel, as 
 though thinking aloud ; " a government may 
 be crippled by party jealousies, but this Gov- 
 ernnment of the Van Huyden Estate, based 
 upon money, is simply controlled by one 
 man, who knows his mind, who sees his 
 way clear, whose will is deepened by a con- 
 viction — perhaps a fanaticism — as unrelent- 
 ing as death itself. Ah ! the influence of 
 such a Government is fearful, nay horrible, 
 to contemplate !" 
 
 " It is, it is indeed," said Ezekiel, in a low 
 and mournful voice ; " and the responsibi- 
 lity of Dr. Martin Fulmer, most solemn and 
 terrible." 
 
 " But what would become of this Govem- 
 ! ment, were Dr. Martin Fulmer to die before 
 I the 25th of December ?" asked Gaspar 
 I Manuel. 
 
 I " But Dr. Martin Fulmer will not die 
 ! before the 25th of December," responded 
 j Ezekiel, in a tone of singular emphasis. 
 
r 
 
 FROM NIGHTFALL UNTIL MIDNIGHT. 
 
 65 
 
 "And this immense power will drop from 
 his grasp on the 25th of December," continued 
 Caspar Manuel. ** Who will succeed him ? 
 Into whose hands will it fall — this incredible 
 power ?" 
 
 " Your question will be answered on the 
 25th of December," slowly responded Ezc- 
 kiel, and motioning to Gaspar, he retraced 
 his steps through the six vaults or apart- 
 ments, and presently stood in the first of the 
 seven vaults, where we first beheld him. 
 
 He seated himself in the huge arm-chair, 
 while Gaspar Manuel, resuming his cloak and 
 sombrero, stood ready to depart. 
 
 " Now that I have given you some reve- 
 lation of the immense resources of the Van 
 Huyden Estate," said Ezekiel, as he atten- 
 tively surveyed that cloaked and motionless 
 figure ; " you will, I presume, have no objec- 
 tion to converse with me in regard to the 
 lands on the Pacific, as freely and as fully, 
 as though you stood face to face with Dr. 
 Martin Fulmer ?" 
 
 " Pardon," said Gaspar Manuel with a low 
 brow, " the facts in my possession are for the 
 ear of Dr. Martin Fulmer, and for his ear 
 alone." 
 
 "Very well, sir," replied Ezekiel, in a tone 
 of impatience, " as you please. Call here to- 
 morrow at — " he named the hour — " and 
 you shall see Dr. Martin Fulmer." 
 
 "I will be here at the hour," and bidding 
 good-night ! to Ezekiel, Gaspar bowed and 
 moved to the door. He paused for a mo- 
 ment on the threshold 
 
 " Pardon me, sir, but I would like to ask 
 you a single question." 
 
 " Well, sir." 
 
 " I am curious to know what has induced 
 you, to disclose to me — almost an entire 
 stranger — the secrets and resources of the 
 Van Huyden Estate ?" 
 
 " Sir," responded Ezekiel Bogart, in a 
 voice which deep and stern, was imbued 
 with the consciousness of Power; "you will 
 excuse me from giving you a direct reply. 
 But you would not have crossed the thresh- 
 old of any one of the seven apartments, had 
 I not been conscious, that it is utterly out of 
 your power, to abuse the knowledge which 
 you have obtained." 
 
 Again Gaspar Manuel bowed, and without 
 a word, left the room. 
 
 Ezekiel Bogart was alone. 
 
 He folded his arms and bowed his head 
 upon his breast. Strange and tumultuous 
 thoughts, stamped their deep lines upon his 
 massive brov/. The dimly-lighted room was 
 silent as the grave, and the light fell faintly 
 upon that singular figure, buried in the folds 
 of the dark robe lined with scarlet, the head 
 covered with an inisightly skullcap, the eyes 
 vailed by a green shade, the chin and mouth 
 concealed by the cumbrous cravat. Lower 
 drooped the head of Ezekiel, but still the 
 light fell upon his bared forehead, and 
 showed the tumultuous thoughts that were 
 working there. The very soul of Ezekiel, 
 retired within itself and absent from all ex- 
 ternal things, was buried in a maze of pro- 
 found, of overwhelming thought. 
 
 The aged servant entered with a noiseless 
 step, " Here is a letter, sir," he said. But 
 Ezekiel did not hear. " Sir, a letter from 
 Philadelphia, by a messenger who has just 
 arrived." But Ezekiel, profoundly absorbed, 
 was unconscious of his presence. 
 
 The aged servant advanced, and placed 
 the letter on the table, directly before his 
 absent-minded master. He touched Ezekiel 
 respectfully on the shoulder and repeated in 
 a louder voice — "A letter, sir, an important 
 letter from Philadelphia, by a messenger 
 who has just arrived." 
 
 Ezekiel started in his chair, like ono 
 suddenly awakened from a sound slumber. 
 At a glance he read the superscription of 
 the letter : " To Ezekiel Boijart, Esq. — Imr- 
 portanU^ 
 
 " The handwriting of the Agent whom I 
 yesterday sent to Philadelphia !" he ejacu- 
 lated, and opened the letter. These were 
 its contents : 
 
 Philadelphia, Dec. 23, 1844. 
 Sir : — I have just returned to the city, 
 from the Asylum — returned in time to dis- 
 patch this letter by an especial messenger, 
 who will go to New^ York, in the five o'clock 
 train. At your request, and in accordance 
 with your instructions, I visited the Asylum 
 for the Insane, this morning, expecting to 
 bring away with me the Patient whom you 
 named. lie escaped sc/tne days ago — so the 
 manager infonned me. And since his escape 
 no intelligence has been had of his move- 
 
66 
 
 FROM NIGHTFALL UNTIL MIDNIGHT. 
 
 meuts. I have not time to add more, but 
 desire your instructions in the premises. 
 
 Yours truly, H. H. 
 
 To EZEKIEL BOGART, EsQ. 
 
 No sooner had Ezckiel scanned the con- 
 tents of this epistle, than he was seized with 
 powerful agitation. 
 
 " Escaped ! The child of Gulian escaped!" 
 he cried, and started from the chair — "to- 
 morrow he was to be here, in this house, in 
 readiness for the Day. Escaped ! Why did 
 not the manager at once send me word ? 
 Ah, woe, woe !" He turned to the aged 
 servant, and continued, "Bring the person 
 who brought this letter, to me, at once, 
 quick ! Not an instant is to be lost." 
 
 And as the aged servant Icfc the room, 
 Ezekiel sank back in his chair, like one who 
 is overpowered by a sudden and unexpected 
 calamity. 
 
 CHAPTER Y. 
 
 THE LEGATE OF THE POPE. 
 
 As Gaspar Manuel left the house of Eze- 
 kiel Bogart, he wrapped his cloak closely 
 about his form, and drew his sombrero low 
 upon his face. His head drooped upon his 
 breast as he hurried along, with a quick and 
 impetuous step. Soon he was in Broadway 
 again, amid its glare and uproar, but he did 
 not raise his head, nor turn his gaze to the 
 right or left. Head drooped upon his breast 
 and arms gathered tightly over his chest, he 
 threaded his way through the mazes of the 
 crowd, as absent from the scene around him, 
 as a man walking in his sleep. 
 
 Arrived at the Astor House, he hurried to 
 his room and changed his dress. Divesting 
 himself of his fashionable attire — black dress- 
 coat, scarf, white- vest — he clad himself in a 
 single-breasted frock-coat, buttoned to the 
 throat and reaching below the knees. Above 
 its straight collar, a glimpse of his white- 
 cravat was perceptible. And over the dark 
 surface of his coat, was wound a massy goH 
 chain, to which was appended, a Golden Seal 
 and a Golden Cross. Over this costume, 
 which in its severe simplicity, displayed his 
 slender frame to great advantage, he threw | 
 his cloak, and once more hurried from the | 
 Hotel. 
 
 • Pausing on the sidewalk in front of the 
 Astor, he engaged a hackney-coach — 
 
 " Do you know where, , resides?" 
 
 he asked of the driver ; a huge individual, 
 in a white overcoat, and oil-skin hat. 
 
 " Sure and I does jist that," was the an- 
 swer. " It's meself that knows the residence 
 of his Riv'rence as well as the nose on my 
 face." 
 
 "Drive me there, at once," said Gaspar 
 Manuel. 
 
 And presently the carriage was rolling up 
 Broadway, bearing Gaspar Manuel to the 
 residence of a prominent dignitary of the 
 Roman Catholic Church. 
 
 As the little clock on the mantle struck 
 the hour of eleven, the Prelate was sitting in 
 an e£isy chair, in front of a bright wood fire. 
 It was in a spacious apartment, connected 
 with his library by a narrow door. Two 
 tall wax candles, placed upon the table by 
 his side, shed their light over the softly car- 
 peted floor, the neatly papered walls, and 
 over the person of the Prelate, who was seated 
 at his ease, in the center of the scene. 
 
 The Prelate was a man of some forty-five 
 years, with boldly marked features, and sharp 
 fiery eyes, indicating an incessantly active 
 mind. The light fell mildly on his tonsured 
 crown, encircled by brown hair, streaked with 
 gray, and his bold forehead and compressed 
 lip. His form broad in the shoulders, mus- 
 cular in the chest, and slightly inclined to 
 corpulence, was clad in a long robe of dark 
 purple, reaching from his throat to his feet. 
 There was a cross on his right breast and a 
 diamond ring on the little finger of his left- 
 hand. 
 
 Thus alone, in his most private room — the 
 labors of the day accomplished and the world 
 shut out — the Prelate was absorbed in the 
 mazes of a delightful reverie. 
 
 He fixed his eyes upon a picture whic^ 
 hung over the mantle, on the left. It was a 
 portrait of Cardinal Dubois, wlio in the days 
 of the Regency, trailed his Red Hat in the 
 mire of nameless debaucheries. 
 
 "Fool!" muttered the Prelate, '"he had 
 not even sense to hide his vices, under the 
 thinnest vail of decency." 
 
 He turned his eyes to a portrait which 
 hung over the mantle on the right. " There 
 was a man 1" he muttered, and a smile shot 
 
FROM KIGHTFALL UNTIL MIDNIGHT. 
 
 67 
 
 over his face. The portrait was that of 
 Cardinal Richelieu who butchered the Hu- 
 guenots in France, while he was supplying 
 armies to aid the Protestants of Germany. 
 Richelieu, one of those Politicians who seem 
 to regard the Church simply as a machine 
 for the advancement of their personal ambi- 
 tion, — the cross as a glittering bauble, only 
 designed to dazzle the eyes of the masses, — 
 the seamless Cloak of the Redeemer, as a 
 cloak intended to cover outrages the most 
 atrocious, which are done in the name of 
 God. 
 
 " He was a man !" repeated the Prelate. 
 "He moulded the men and events of his 
 
 time, and, " he stopped. He smiled. 
 
 "Why cannot I mould to my own purposes, 
 the men and events of my time, using the 
 Church as a convenient engine ?" Some 
 thought like this seemed to flit over his 
 mind. 
 
 Having attentively turned his gaze from 
 Cardinal Dubois to Cardinal Richelieu, the 
 Prelate at length fixed his eyes upon a mar- 
 ble bust, which stood in the center of the 
 mantle. And his lips moved, and his eyes 
 flashed, and his right hand waved slowly 
 to and fro, before his face, as though he saw 
 a glorious future, drawn in the air, by a pro- 
 phetic pencil. 
 
 The marble bust upon which he gazed, 
 was the bust of one, who from the very 
 lowest walk in life had risen to be Pope : and 
 one of the strongest, sternest Popes that ever 
 held the scepter of the Vatican. 
 
 "It can be won," ejaculated the Prelate, 
 "and the means lie here," he placed his 
 hand upon a Map which lay on the table. 
 It was a map of the American Continent. 
 
 " I came up stairs without ceremony," said 
 a calm even voice ; " your Grace's servant in- 
 formed me, that you expected me." 
 
 " I am heartily glad to see you, my Lord," 
 said the Prelate, turning abruptly and con- 
 fronting his visitor : " it is now two years 
 since I met your Lordship in Rome. It was, 
 you remember, just before you departed to 
 Mexico, as the Legate of His Holiness. How 
 has it been with you since I saAv you last ?" 
 
 "I have encountered many adventures," 
 answered " His Lordship," the Legate, " and 
 none more interesting than those connected 
 with the Mission of San Luis and its lands — " 
 
 I Thus saying the Legate — in obedience to 
 a courteous gesture from the Prelate — flung 
 \ aside his hat and cloak, and took a seat by 
 I the table. 
 
 I The Legate was none other than our friend 
 Gaspar Manuel. 
 
 They were in singular contrast, the Legato 
 and the Prelate. The muscular form and 
 hard practical face of the Prelate, was cer- 
 tainly, in strong contrast with the slender 
 j frame, and pale — almost corpse-like-face of 
 the Legate, with its waving hair and beard 
 of inky blackness. Conscious that their con- 
 versation might one day have its issue, in 
 events or in disclosures of vital importance, 
 they for a few moments surveyed each other 
 in silence. When the Prelate spoke, there 
 was an air of deference in his manner, which 
 showed that he addressed one far superior to 
 himself in position, in rank and power. 
 
 We will omit the Lordships and Graces 
 with which these gentlemen, interlarded their 
 conversation. Lordships and Graces and 
 Eminences, are matters with which we sim- 
 ple folks of the American Union, are but 
 poorly acquainted. 
 
 " You are last from Havana ?" asked the 
 Prelate. 
 
 " Yes," answered the Legate : " and a 
 month ago I was in the city of Mexico ; two 
 months since in California, at the mission of 
 San Luis." 
 
 "And the Fathers are likely to regain 
 possession of the deserted mission ? You 
 intimated so much in the letter which you 
 were kind enough to write me from Havana." 
 
 " They are likely to regain possession," 
 said the Legate. 
 
 "But the mission will be worth nothing 
 without the thousand acres of barren land," 
 continued the Prelate : " Will the barren 
 land go with the mission ?" 
 
 " In regard to that point I will inform you 
 fully before we part. For the present let me 
 remind you, that it was an important part of 
 my mission, to the New World, to ascertain 
 the prospects of the Church in that section 
 of the Continent, known as the United States. 
 Allow me to solicit from you, a brief exposi- 
 tion of the condition and prospects of our 
 Church in this part of the globe." 
 
 The Prelate laid his hand upon the Ame- 
 rican Continent : 
 
68 
 
 FROM NIGHTFALL 
 
 " The north, that is tho Republic of the 
 United States, will finally absorb and rule 
 over all the nations of the Continent. By 
 Avar, by peace, in one way or another the 
 thing is certain — " 
 
 He paused : the Legate made a gesture of 
 assent. 
 
 "It is our true policy, then, to absorb and 
 rule over the Republic of the North. To 
 make our Church the secret spring of its 
 Government ; to gradually and without ex- 
 citing suspicion, mould every one of its 
 institutions to our own purposes ; to control 
 the education of its people, and bend the 
 elective francliiae to our will. Is not this 
 our object ?" 
 
 Again the Legate signified assent. 
 
 "And this must be done, by making New 
 York the center of our system. New York 
 is in reality, the metropolis of the Continent; 
 from New York as from a common center, 
 therefore all our efforts must radiate. From 
 New York we will control the Republic, 
 shape it year by year to our purposes ; as it 
 adds nation after nation to its Union, we will 
 make our grasp of its secret springs of action, 
 the more certain and secure ; and at last the 
 hour will come, when this Continent appa- 
 rently one united republic, will in fact, be 
 the richest altar, the strongest abiding-place, 
 the most valuable property of the Church. 
 Yes, the hour will come, when the flimsy 
 scaffolding of Republicanism will fall, and as 
 it falls, our Church will stand revealed, her 
 foundation in the heart of the American 
 Republic ; her shadow upon every hill and 
 valley of the Continent. For you know," 
 and his eye flashed, " that our battle against 
 what is called Democracy and Progress, is 
 to be fought not in the Old World, where 
 everything is on our side, but in the New 
 World, where these damnable heresies do 
 most abound." 
 
 " True," interrupted the Legate, thought- 
 fully; "the New World is the battle-field of 
 opinions. Here the fight must take place." 
 
 " You ask how our work is to begin ? 
 Here in New York we will commence it. 
 Hundreds of thousands of foreigners of our 
 faith arrive in this city every year. Be it 
 our task to plant an eternal barrier between 
 these men, and those who are American 
 citizens by birth. To prevent them from 
 
 mingling with the American People, from 
 learning the traditions of American history, 
 which give the dogma of Democracy its 
 strongest hold uj^on the heart, to isolate them, 
 jin the midst of the American nation. In a 
 word, the first stop of our work is, to array 
 at the zealous Foreign party, an oi)positicn lo 
 an envenomed Native Aiucrican })arty." 
 
 " This you have commenced already," 
 said the Legate, — " it was in Mexico, +ihat I 
 heard of Philadelphia last summer — of Phil- 
 adelphia on the verge of civil war with Pro- 
 testants and Catholics flooding the gutters 
 with their blood, while the flames of burning 
 churches lit up the midnight sky." 
 
 "The outbreak was rather premature," 
 calmly continued the Prelate, "but it hiva 
 done us good. It has invested us Avith the 
 light of martyrdom; the glory of persecution. 
 It has drawn to us the sympathies of tens 
 of thousands of Protestants, who, honestly- 
 disliking the assaults of the mere 'No-Po- 
 pery' lecturers upon our church, as honestly 
 entertain the amusing notion, that the Rulers 
 of our church, look uj)on ' Toleration, Liberty 
 of Conscience,' and so forth, with any feeling, 
 but profound contempt." 
 
 " Ah !" ejaculated the Legate, and a smile 
 crossed his ftice, "deriving strength from tho 
 illimitable bitterness of the Native American 
 and Foreign political i^artics, we already 
 hold in many portions of the Union, the 
 ballot box in our grasp. We can dictate 
 terms to both political parties. Their leaders 
 court us. Editors Avho know that we rooted 
 Protestantism out of Spain, b}- the red hand 
 of the Inquisition, — that for our faith we 
 made the Netherlands rich in gibbets and 
 graves, — that we gave the word, v. hich start- 
 ed from its scabbard the dagger of St. Bar- 
 tholomew, — grave editors, who know all this 
 and more, talk of us as the friends of Liberty 
 and Toleration — " 
 
 " But there was Calvert, the founder of 
 Maryland, and CaiToU the signer of the De- 
 claration of Independence, these were Catho- 
 lics, were they not, Catholics and friends of 
 Liberty ?" 
 
 " They were laijmen, not rulers, you will 
 remember," said the Prelate, significantly : 
 " at best they belonged to a sort of Catholics, 
 which, in the Old World, we have done our 
 best to root out of the church. But her*?, 
 
FROM NIGHTFALL 
 
 UNTIL MIDNIGHT. 
 
 jiowever, we can use their names and their 
 memories, as a cloak for our ^^urposes of ulti- 
 mate dominion. But to resume : both poli- 
 tical parties court us. Their leaders, who 
 loathe us, are forced to kneel to us. Things 
 we can do freely and without blame, which 
 damn any Protestant sect but to utter. The 
 very 'No-Popery' lecturers aid us: they 
 attack doctrinal points in our church, which 
 are no more assailable than the doctrinal 
 points of any one of their ten thousand sects: 
 they would be dangerous, indeed, were they 
 to confine their assaults to the simple fact, 
 that ours is not so much a church as an EM- 
 PIRE, having for its object, the temporal 
 dominion of the whole human race, to be 
 accomplished under the vail of spiritualism. 
 An EMPIRE built upon the very sepulcher 
 of Jesus Christ, — an empire which holds 
 Religion, the Cross, the Bible, as valuable 
 j ust so far as they aid its efforts for the tem- 
 poral subjection of the world, — an empire 
 which, using all means and holding all means 
 alike lawful, for the spread of its dominion, 
 has chosen the American Continent as the 
 scene of its loftiest triumph, the theater of its 
 final and most glorious victories !" 
 
 As he spoke the Atheist Prelate started 
 from his chair. 
 
 Far different from those loving Apostles, 
 who through long ages, have in the Catholic 
 Church, repeated in their deeds, the fullness 
 of Love, which filled the breast of the Apos- 
 tle John, — far different from the Fenelons 
 and Paschals of the church, — this Prelate 
 was a cold-blooded and practical Atheist. 
 Love of women, love of wine, swayed him 
 not. Lust of power was his spring of action 
 — his soul. He may have at times, assented 
 to Religion, but that he believed in it as an 
 awful verity, as a Truth worth all the phy- 
 sical power and physical enjoyment in the 
 universe, — the Prelate never had a thought 
 like this. An ambitious atheist, a Borgia 
 without his lust, a Richelieu with all 
 of Richelieu's cunning, and not half of 
 Richelieu's intellect, a cold-blooded, practical 
 schemer for his own elevation at any cost, — 
 such was the Prelate. Talk to him of Christ 
 as a consoler, as a link between crippled 
 humanity and a better world, as of a friend 
 who meets you on the dark highway of life, 
 and takes you from sleet and cold, into the 
 
 light of a dear, holy home, — talk to him of 
 the love \Yhich imbues and makes alive 
 every word from the lips of Christ, — ha 1 ha ! 
 Your atheistical Prelate would laugh at the 
 thought. He was a worldling. Risen from 
 the very depths of poverty, he despised the 
 poor from whom he sprung. For years a 
 loud and even brawling advocate of justice 
 for Ireland, — an ecclesiastical stump orator ; 
 a gatherer of the pennies earned by the hard 
 hand of Irish labor, — he was the man to 
 blaspheme her cause and villify its honest 
 advocates, when her dawn of Revolution 
 darkened into night again. He was the 
 pugilist of the Pulpit, the gladiator of con- 
 troversy, always itching for a fight, never so 
 happy as when he set honest men to clutch- 
 ing each other by the throat. Secure in his 
 worldly possessions, rich from the princely 
 revenues derived from the poor — the hard 
 working poor of his church, — a tyrant to the 
 parish priests who were so unfortunate as to 
 be subjected to his sway, by turns the Dema- 
 gogue of Irish freedom and the Mouchard of 
 Austrian despotism, he was a vain, bad, cun- 
 ning, but practical man, this Atheist Prelate 
 of the Roman Church. 
 
 " Now, what think you of our plans and 
 our prospects ?" said the Prelate, trium- 
 phantly — " can we not, using New York as 
 the center of our oiDcrations, the Ballot Box, 
 social dissension and sectarian warfare as the 
 means, can we not, mould the New World 
 to our views, and make it Rome, Rome, in 
 every inch of its soil ?" 
 
 The Legate responded quietly: 
 I see but one obstacle — " 
 
 " Only one ; that is well — " 
 
 "And that obstacle is not so much the 
 memory of the American Past, which some 
 of these foolish Americans still consider holy 
 — not so much the memory of Penn the 
 Quaker ; Calvert the Catholic, who planted 
 their silly dogma of Brotherly love on the 
 Delaware and St. Mary's, in the early dawn 
 of this country, — not so much the Declara- 
 tion of Independence, nor the blood-marks 
 which wrote its principles, on the soil from 
 Bunker Hill to Savannah, from Brandywine 
 j to Yorktown, — not so much the history of 
 j the sixty-eight years, which in the American 
 ! Republic, have shown a growth, an enterprise, 
 I a development never witnessed on God'3 
 
70 
 
 earth before, — not so much all this, as the 
 single obstacle which I now lay on the table 
 before you,"' 
 
 And from the breast of his coat he drew 
 forth a small, thin volume, which he laid 
 upon the table : 
 
 ''This!" cried the Prelate, as though a 
 bomb-shell had burst beneath his chair ; 
 ** This ! Why this is the four Gospels ac- 
 cording to Matthew, Mark, Luke and John !" 
 
 "Precisely. And Matthew, Mark, Luke 
 and John, those simple fellows are the very 
 ones whom we have most to fear." 
 
 " But I have driven this book from the 
 Common Schools !" cried the Prelate, rather 
 testily. 
 
 " Have you driven it from the home ?" 
 quieth^ tiskcd the Legate. 
 
 The Prelate absently toyed with his cross, 
 but did not answer. 
 
 " CaJi j'-ou drive it from the home ?" asked 
 the Legate. 
 
 The Prelate gazed at the portrait of Car- 
 dinal Dubois, and then at Richelieu's, but did 
 not reply. 
 
 " Do you not see the difiiculty?" continued 
 the Legate, "so long as Matthew, Mark, 
 Luke and John, sit down by the firesides of 
 the people, making themselves a part and 
 parcel of the dearest memciies of every 
 household, — so long w^e may chop logic, 
 weave plots, traffic in casuistry, but in vain !" 
 
 " True, that book is capable of much mis- 
 chief," said the Prelate ; " it has caused more 
 revolutions than you could count in a year." 
 
 "In Spain, where this book is scarcely 
 known, in Itah'-, where to read it is impri- 
 sonment and chains, we can get along well 
 enough, but here, in the United States, Avhere 
 this book is a fireside book in every home, 
 the first book that the child looks into, and 
 the last that the dying old man listens to, as 
 liis ear is growing deaf with death, — here 
 what shall we do ? You know that it is a 
 Democratic book ?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "That it is so simple in its enunciations 
 of brotherly love, equality, and the love of ; 
 God for all mankind, so simple and yet so 
 strong, that it has required eighteen centuries \ 
 of scholastic casuistry and whole tons of j 
 volumes, devoted to theological special plead- . 
 ing, to darken its simple meaning ?" | 
 
 j " Yes, yes." 
 
 I "That in its portraitures of Christ, there 
 I is something that stirs the hearts of the 
 humblest, and sets them on fire with the 
 I thought, * I too, am not a beast, but a 
 I child of God, destined to have a home 
 j here and an immortality hereafter ?' That 
 its profound contempt of riclies and of 
 I mere worldly power, — its injunctions to the 
 ' rich, 'sell all thou hast and give to the poor ;' 
 its pictures of Christ, coming from the work- 
 man's bench, and speaking, acting, doing and 
 dying, so that the masses might no longer be 
 the sport of priest or king, but the recreated 
 men and women of a recreated social world ; 
 that in all this, it has caused more revolu- 
 tions, given rise to more insurrections, level- 
 ed more deadly blows at absolute authority, 
 than all other books that have been written 
 since the Avorld began ?" 
 
 "Yes — y-e-s — y-e-s," said the Prelate. 
 " True, true, a mischievous book. But how 
 Avould you remedy the evil ?" 
 
 "That's the question," said the Legate, 
 dryly. 
 
 After a long pause they began to talk con- 
 cerning the mission of San Luis in California 
 — its fertile hills and valleys, rich in the 
 olive, fig, grape, orange and pomegranate, — 
 and of the thousand acres of han-en land, 
 claimed alike by the Jesuits and Dr. Martin 
 Fiilmer. 
 
 " The claim of the Fathers, to the mission- 
 house and lands of San Luis, is established 
 then ?" said the Prelate. 
 
 " It has been acknowledged by the Mexi- 
 can Government," wtis the reply of the 
 Legate. 
 
 "Anu the claim to the thousand barren 
 acres ?" 
 
 "It rests in my hands," replied the Le- 
 gate : " by a train of circumstances altogether 
 natural, although to some they may appear 
 singular, it is in my power to decide, whether 
 these thousand barren acrts shall oeiong to 
 our Church or to Dr. Martin Fulmer."' 
 
 " And it is not difficult to see which way 
 your verdict will fall ;" the Prelate's eyes 
 sparkled and a smile lit up his harsh fea- 
 tures. 
 
 " These acres arc barren, barren so far as 
 the fig, the orange, the vine, the pome- 
 granate are concerned, barren even of the 
 
FROM NIGHTFALL 
 
 UNTIL MIDNIGHT. 
 
 71 
 
 slightest portion of shrubbery or verdure, but 
 rich—" 
 
 "Rich in gold !" ejaculated the Prelate, 
 folding his arms and fixing his eyes musingly 
 upon the fire, — " gold sufiicient to pave my 
 way from this chair to the Papal throne 
 he muttered to himself. "'In Rome," he 
 said aloud, "I had an opportunity to exa- 
 mine the records of the various missions, 
 established by our Church in California ; and 
 they all contain traditions of incredible stores 
 of gold, hidden under the rocks and sands of 
 California. Does your experience confirm 
 those traditions ?" 
 
 " I have traversed that land from the Sier- 
 ra Nevada to the Pacific, and from North to 
 South," replied the Legate, " and it is my 
 opinion, based on facts, that California is 
 destined to exercise an influence upon the 
 course of civilization and the fate of nations, 
 such as has not been felt for a thousand 
 years." 
 
 He paused, as if collecting in his mind, in 
 one focus, a panorama of the varied scenery, 
 climate, productions, of the region between 
 the snows of the Sierra Nevada and the 
 Pacific. Then, while his pale face flushed 
 with excitement, and his bright eyes grew 
 even yet more vivid in their luster, he con- 
 tinued : 
 
 " The bowels of the land are rich in gold," 
 he said, in that low-toned but musical voice. 
 " It is woven in the seams of her rocks. It 
 impregnates her soil. It gleams in the sand 
 of her rivers. Gold, gold, gold, — such as 
 Banker never counted, nor the fancy of a 
 Poet, ever dreamed of. Deep in her caverns 
 the ore is shining ; upon her mountain sides 
 it flings back the rays of the sun ; her forest 
 trees are rooted in gold. Could you fathom 
 her secrets, you would behold gold enough 
 to set the world mad. Men would leave 
 their homes, and all that makes life dear, 
 and journey over land and sea, by hundreds 
 of thousands, in pilgrimage to this golden 
 land. The ships of the crusaders would, 
 whiten every sea, their caravans would belt 
 every desert. The whole world, stirred into 
 avaricious lust, would gravitate to this rock 
 of gold." 
 
 Turning to the Prelate, he said abruptly : 
 "Did you ever attempt to unravel the 
 supGi-stition of Gold ?" 
 5 
 
 " The superstition of Gold ?" echoed the 
 Prelate. 
 
 " Yes, superstition of gold. For that wide- 
 sjDread opinion in regard to the value of gold, 
 is one of the most incredible superstitions 
 that ever damned the soul of man. It ob- 
 tains in all ages and on every shore. In the 
 days of the Patriarchs, and in the days of the 
 Bankers, — among the sleekly-attired people 
 of civilized races, and among savage hordes, 
 naked as the beasts, — everywhere and in all 
 ages, this suiDerstition has obtained, and 
 crushed mankind, not with an iron, but 
 with a golden rod. (There are exceptions, 
 I grant, as in the case of the North American 
 Indians, and other savage tribes, but it can- 
 not be denied, that this superstition which 
 fixes a certain value on gold, has overspread 
 the earth, in all ages, as universal as the very 
 air.) What religion has ruled so absolutely 
 and reigned so long, as this deep-implanted 
 golden superstition, — this Catholic religion 
 of the yellow ore ?" 
 
 " But gold is valuable in itself," interrupt- 
 ed the Prelate — " it is something more than 
 the representative of labor ; in a thousand 
 respects it surpasses all other metals. It is 
 an article of merchandise, a part of com- 
 merce ; even were it not money, it would 
 always bring more money than any other 
 metal." 
 
 " This is often said, and is plausible. Ad- 
 mit all you assert, and the question occurs, 
 ' Why should it he so P When you say that 
 gold is the most precious of all metals, an 
 article of value in itself^ as well as the repre- 
 sentative of labor, you assert a fact, but you 
 do not explain that fact. Far, far from it. 
 Bull why should it be so ? What use has it 
 been to man, that it should receive this high 
 distinction ? Iron, lead, copper — all of these 
 are a million fold more useful than gold — 
 No — reflect a little while. Bend all you? 
 thought to the subject. Track the yellow- 
 ore through all ages, and at last, you must 
 come to the conclusion, that the value placed 
 upon gold is a superstition, as vast as it is 
 wicked, — a superstition which has cnished 
 more hearts and damned more souls, than all 
 the (so called) Religious superstitions that 
 smear the page of history with blood. That 
 such a superstition exists, would alone con- 
 vince me of the existence of an embodied 
 
FROM NIGHTFALL 
 
 UNTIL MIDNIGHT. 
 
 Devil, who, perpetually at war with God, 
 does with a direct interference, derange his 
 laws, and crush the hopes of his children." 
 
 For a moment, lie shaded his eyes with 
 his hand, while the Prelate gazed upon him, 
 with something of surprise in his look. 
 
 ** Can you estimate the evils which have 
 flowed from this superstition ? No. The 
 reason falters, the imagination shudders : at 
 the very thought you are bewildered, — 
 dumb. But think of it as you will, — entan- 
 gle yourself among the sophistries which 
 {ittempt to explain, but in reality onl}; dark- 
 en it, — view it as a political economist, a 
 banker, a merchant, or a worker in precious 
 metals, — and you only plunge the deeper 
 into the abyss of doubt and bewilderment. 
 "Ycfu cannot explain this superstition, unless 
 you mount higher, and grasp that great law 
 of God, which says, forever, * It is wicked for 
 ONE MAN to clothe himself with luxury, at the 
 expense of the sweat and Mood of another man, 
 wJu) is his Brother.' Grasp this truth firmly; 
 tmderstand it in all its bearings, — and you 
 discern the source of the Golden superstition; 
 for it had its source, in that depraved idle- 
 ness which seeks luxury at the expense of 
 human suffering, — which coins enjoyment for 
 a few men, on the immeasurable wretched- 
 ness of entire races of mankind. The first 
 man who sought to rob his Brother of the 
 fruits of his labor, and of his place on the 
 earth, was doubtless the inventor of the 
 golden superstition ; for turn and twist it as 
 you will, gold is only valuable because it 
 represents labor. All its value springs from 
 that cause. It represents labor already done, 
 and it represents labor that is to be done, and 
 therefore, — therefore only, — is it valuable. 
 And it is the most convenient engine by which 
 the idlers of the World can enslave the 
 laborers — therefore it has always retained its 
 value. Backed by the delusion which fixes 
 tfpon it a certain value, and makes it more 
 precious than the blood of hearts, or the sal- 
 vation of the entire human race, gold will 
 continue to be the great engine for the de- 
 struction of that race — for its moral and 
 physical damnation — just as long as the few 
 continue to live upon the wretchedness of 
 the many. Once destroy this superstition, — 
 take away from gold its certain value — ^make 
 that value vague, uncertain, and subject to 
 
 as many changes as a bank note, — and you 
 will have wrested the lash from the hand of 
 the oppressor all over the world." 
 
 These words made a deep impression upon 
 the Prelate, an impression which he dared 
 not trust himself to frame in words. Sup- 
 pressing an exclamation that started to his 
 lips, he asked in a calm conversational tone — 
 
 " Will the discovery of the golden land 
 have this effect ?" 
 
 It was in a saddened tone, and with a 
 downcast eye, that the Legate replied : 
 
 "Ah, that is, indeed, a fearful question, 
 A question that may well make one shudder. 
 One of two things must happen. From the 
 Tocks and sands of the golden land, the 
 oppressors of the world will derive new 
 means of oppression, or from those rocks and 
 sands, will come the instrument, which is to 
 lift up the masses and shake the oppressors 
 to the dust. What shall be the result ? 
 Shall new and more damning chains, for 
 human hearts, be forged upon the gold of 
 these sands and rocks ? Or, tottering among 
 these rocks and sands, shall poor humanity 
 at last discover the instrument of her re- 
 demption ? God alone can tell." 
 
 The Prelate was silent. Folding his hands 
 he surveyed the pallid visage of the Legate, 
 with a look hard to define. 
 
 " The first wind that blows intelligence 
 from this land of gold, will convulse the 
 world. A few years hence, and these sands, 
 now sparkling with ore, will be white with 
 human skeletons. Thousands and hundreds 
 of thousands will rush to seek the glittering 
 ore, and find a grave, in the mud by the 
 rivers' banks ; hundreds of thousands will lie 
 unburied in the depths of trackless deserts, 
 or in the darkness of trackless ravines ; the 
 dog and the wolf will feed well upon human 
 hearts." 
 
 Suppressing the emotion aroused, by a por- 
 tion of the Legate's remarks, the Prelate 
 asked : 
 
 "And the thousand barren acres contain 
 incredible stores of gold ?" 
 
 " Gold sufiicient to afi'ect the destiny of 
 one-half the globe," replied the Legate : 
 " gold, that employed in a good cause, would 
 bless and elevate millions of the oppressed, 
 or devoted to purposes of evil, might curse 
 the dearest rights of half the human race." 
 
FROM NIGHTFALL 
 
 UNTIL MIDNIGHT. 
 
 73 
 
 " And it is in your power to establish the 
 right of our Church to these lands ?" 
 
 " It is. A word from me, and the thing 
 is done." 
 
 " Pardon me," said the Prelate, slowly, 
 and measuring every word, — "some portions 
 of your remarks excite my curiosity. You 
 speak of the oppressed, and of the oppressors. 
 Now, — now, — from any lips but yours, these 
 words, and the manner in which you use 
 them, would sound like the doctrines of the 
 French Socialists. What do you precisely 
 mean by ' oppressed,' — and who, in your 
 estimation, are the * oppressors P " 
 
 The Legate rose from his scat, and fixed 
 his eyes upon the Prelate's face : 
 
 " There are many kinds of oppressors, but 
 the most infamous, are those who use the 
 -Church of God, as the engine of their atro- 
 ,cious crimes." 
 
 This remark fell like a thunderbolt. 
 
 The Prelate slowly rose from his chair, 
 his face flushed and his chest heaving. 
 
 " Sir !" he cried in a voice of thunder. 
 
 " Nay — you need not raise your voice, — 
 jnuch less confront me with that frowning 
 brow. You know me and know the position 
 which I hold. You know that I am above 
 yeur reach, — that, perchance, a word from 
 me, uttered in the proper place, might stop 
 your career, even at the threshold. I know 
 you, and know that you belong to the party, 
 which, for ages, has made our church the in- 
 strument of the most infernal wrongs — " 
 
 " Sir !" again ejaculated the Prelate. 
 
 "A party, Avhose noblest monument is 
 made of the skeletons, the racks and thumb- 
 screws of the Inquisition, and whose history 
 can only be clearly read, save by the tor^- 
 light of St. Bartholomew — " 
 
 " This from you, sir, — " 
 
 "A party whose avowed atheism pro- 
 duced the French Revolution, and whose 
 cloaked atheism is even now sowing the 
 seeds of social hell-fire, in this country and 
 in Europe — " 
 
 " I swear, sir — " 
 
 " Hear me, sir, for I am only here to read 
 you a plain lesson. You, and men like you, 
 may possibly convert the Church once more 
 into the instrument of ferocious absolutism 
 and the engine of colossal murder, but re- 
 member — " 
 
 He flung his coat around him, and stood 
 erect, his face even more deathly pale than 
 usual, his eyes shining with clear and intense 
 light. There was a grandeur in his attitude 
 and look. 
 
 " Remember, even in the moments of your 
 bloodiest triumphs, that even within the 
 Church of Rome, swayed by such as you, 
 there is another Church of Rome, composed 
 of men, who, when the hour strikes, will 
 sacrifice everything to the cause of humanity 
 and God." 
 
 These w^ords were pronounced slowly and 
 deliberately, with an emphasis Avhich drove 
 the color from the Prelate's cheek. 
 
 " Think of it, within Rome, a higher, 
 mightier Rome, — within the order of Jesuits, 
 a higher and mightier order of Jesuits — and 
 whenever you, and such as you, turn, you will 
 be met by men, who have sworn to use the 
 Church, as the instrument of human progress, 
 or to drive forward the movement over its 
 ruins." 
 
 He moved to the door, but lingered for a 
 moment on the threshold : 
 
 " It is a great way," he said, " from the 
 turnpike to the Vatican." 
 
 This he said, and disappeared. (The Pre- 
 late had risen from the position of breaker of 
 stone on the public road, only to use all his 
 efforts to crush and damn the masses from 
 whom he sprung.) 
 
 And the Prelate was now left alone, to 
 pick up the thunderbolt which had fallen 
 at his feet. 
 
 Half an hour after this scene, the Legate 
 once more ascended the steps of the Astor 
 House, his cloak w^ound tightly about his 
 slender form, his face, — and perchance the 
 emotions written there, — cast into shadow 
 by his broad sombrero. He was crossing the 
 hall, flaring with gas-lights, when he was 
 aroused from his reverie by these words, — ■ 
 
 "My lord, — " 
 
 The speaker was a man of some forty- 
 five years, with a hard, unmeaning face, and 
 vague gray eyes. His ungainly form, — for 
 he was round-shouldered, knock-kneed and 
 clumsily footed, — was clad in black, varied 
 only by a strip of dirty white about his bull- 
 like neck. As he stood obsequiously, hat in 
 hand, his bald crown, scantily encircled by a 
 few hairs of no pai'ticular color, was revealed; 
 
74: 
 
 FROM NIGHTFALL 
 
 UNTIL MIDNIGHT. 
 
 and also his low, broad forehead. He looked 
 very much like an ecclesiastic, whom habits 
 of passive obedience have converted into a 
 human fossil. 
 "My lord, — " 
 
 "Pshaw, Michael, none of that nonsense 
 here. Have you obeyed the directions 
 which I gave you before I left the steamer 
 to-night ? " 
 
 "I have, my — " 'lord,' he was about to 
 say, but he substituted * your excellence ! ' — 
 Your country seat, near the city, is in good 
 order. Everything has been prepared in an- 
 ticipation of your arrival. I have just re- 
 turned from it, — Mary vale, I think you call 
 it?" 
 
 "Mary vale," replied the Legate, "Did 
 you tell Felix to have my carriage ready for 
 me, after midnight, at the place and the 
 hour which I named ? " 
 
 " Yes, my lord,'! — and Michael bowed 
 low. 
 
 " No more of that nonsense, I repeat it. — 
 This is not the country for it. How did you 
 dispose of Cain ? " 
 
 " I left Cain at the country seat." 
 
 " It is well," said the Legate, and having 
 spoken further words to Michael, in a lower 
 tone, he dismissed him, and went silently to 
 his chamber. 
 
 And Cain of whom they spoke. We 
 shall see Cain after a while. 
 
 CHAPTER VL 
 
 " JOANNA." 
 
 At the hour of eleven o'clock, on the 
 
 night of December 23d, 1844, . A 
 
 gentleman of immense wealth, who occupied 
 his own mansion, in the upper part of New 
 York, came from his library, and descended 
 the broad staircase, which led to the first 
 floor of his mansion. His slight frame was 
 wrapped in a traveling cloak and a gay trav- 
 eling cap shaded his features. He held a 
 carpet-bag in his hand. Arrived on the first 
 floor, he entered a magnificent range of 
 apartments communicating with each other 
 by folding-doors, and lighted by an elegant 
 chandelier. Around him, wherever he turn- 
 ed, was everything in the form of luxury, 
 that the eye could desire or the power of 
 'Wealth procure. Thick carpets, massive mir- 
 
 rors, lofty ceiling, w^alls broken here and 
 there with a niche in which a marble statue 
 was placed — these and other signs of 
 wealth, met his gaze at every step. 
 
 He was a young man of fine personal ap- 
 pearance, and refined tastes. Without a 
 profession, he employed his immense wealth 
 in ministering to his taste for the arts. The 
 only son of a man of fortune, educated to 
 the habit of spending money without earn- 
 ing it, he had man-ied about two years 
 before, an exceedingly beautiful woman, the 
 only daughter of a wealthy and aristocratic 
 family. 
 
 And far back in a nook of this imposing 
 suite of apartments, where the light of the 
 chandelier is softened by the shadows ot 
 statue and marble pillar, sits this wife, a 
 woman in the prime of early womanhood. — 
 Her shape, at the same time tall, rounded, 
 and commanding, is enveloped in a loose 
 wrapper, which seems rather to float about 
 her form, than to gird it closely. Her face is 
 bathed in tears. As her husband approaches 
 she rises and confronts him with a blonde 
 countenance, fair blue eyes and golden hair. 
 That face, beaming with young loveliness, is 
 shadowed with grief. 
 
 " Must you go, indeed, my husband ? " — 
 and clad in that flowing robe, she rests her 
 hands upon his shoulder, and looks tearfully 
 into his face. 
 
 His cloak falls and discloses his slight and 
 graceful form. He removes his traveling 
 cap, and his wife may freely gaze upon that 
 dark-complexioned face, whose regular fea- 
 tures, remind you of an Apollo cast in 
 bronze. His dark eyes flash with clear light 
 a^he raises one hand, and jDlaces it upon his 
 fffehead, and twines her fingers among the 
 curls of his jet-black hair. 
 
 Take it all in all, it is an interesting pic- 
 ture, centered in that splendid room, where 
 everything breathes luxury and wealth — 
 the slender form of the young husband clad 
 in black, contrasted with the imposing figure 
 of the young wife, enveloped in drapery of 
 flowing white. 
 
 " I must go, wife. Kiss me." — She bent 
 back his head and gazing upon him long 
 and earnestly, suff"ered her lips to join his, — 
 " I'll be back before Christmas." 
 
 " You are sure that you must go ? " she 
 
FROM NIGHTFALL UNTIL MIDNIGHT. 
 
 75 
 
 exclaimed, tojdng with the curls of his dark 
 hair. 
 
 " You saw the letter which I received from 
 Boston. My poor brother lies at the point of 
 death. I must see him, Joanna, — you. 
 know how it pains me to be absent from you, 
 only for a day, — but I must go. I'll be 
 back by Christmas morning." 
 
 " Will you, indeed, though, Eugene ? " — 
 she wound her arms about his neck — " You 
 know how drearily the time passes without 
 you. 0, how I shall count the hours until 
 you return ! " And at every word she 
 smoothed his forehead with her hand, and 
 touched his mouth with those lips which 
 bloomed with the ripeness and purity of 
 perfect womanhood. 
 
 " I must go, Joanna, " — and convulsed at 
 the thought of leaving this young wife, even 
 for a day, the husband gathered her to his 
 breast, and then seizing his cloak and carpet- 
 bag, hurried from the room. His steps were 
 heard in the hall without, and presently the 
 sound of the closing door reached the ears 
 of the young wife. 
 
 An expression of intense sorrow passed 
 over her face, and she remained in the cen- 
 ter of the room, her hand clasped over her 
 Doble bust, and her head bowed in an atti- 
 tude' of deep melancholy. 
 
 "He is gone," she murmured, and passing 
 through the spacious apartment, she travers- 
 sd the hall, and ascended the broad stair- 
 way. 
 
 At the head of the stairway was a large 
 and roomy apartment, warmed (like every 
 room in the mansion) from an invisible 
 source, which gave a delightful temperature 
 to the atmosphere. There was a sn^all 
 workstand in the midst of the apartment, 
 m which stood a lighted candle. A servant 
 maid was sleeping with her head upon tbe ' 
 table, and one hand resting upon a cradle at 
 tier side. In that cradle, above the verge of \ 
 a silken coverlet, appeared the face of a j 
 cherub boy, fast asleep, with a rose on his j 
 cheek, and ringlets of auburn hair, tangled j 
 about his forehead, white as alabaster. 
 
 This room the young mother entered, and \ 
 treading on tiptoe, she approached the era- ; 
 die and bent over it, until her lips touched 
 the forehead of the sleeping boy. And 
 when she rose again there wa;3 a tear upon ; 
 
 his cheek, — it had fallen from the blue eye 
 of the mother. 
 
 Retiring noiselessly, she sought her own 
 chamber, where a taper was dimly burning 
 before a mirror. By that faint light you 
 might trace the luxurious appointment of the 
 place, — a white bed, half shadowed in an 
 alcove — a vase of alabaster filled with fra- 
 grant flowers — and curtains falling like 
 snow-flakes along the lofty windows. The 
 idea of wifely purity was associated with 
 every object in that chamber. 
 
 " I shall not want you to-night, Eliza ; I 
 will undress myself," exclaimed Joanna to a 
 female servant, who stood waiting near the 
 mirror. " You may retire." 
 
 The servant retired, and the young wife 
 was alone. She extinguished the taper, and 
 all was still throughout the mansion. But she 
 did not retire to her bed. Advancing in the 
 darkness, she opened a door behind the bed, 
 and entered the bath-room, where she light- 
 ed a lamp by the aid of a perfumed match 
 which she found, despite the gloom. The 
 bath-room was oval in shape, with an arched 
 ceiling. The walls, the ceiling and the floor 
 were of white marble. In the center was the 
 bath, resembling an immense shell, sunk into 
 the marble floor. This place, without orna- 
 ment or decoration of any kind, save the pure 
 white of the walls and floor, was pervaded 
 by luxurious warmth. The water which 
 filled the shell or hollow in the center of the 
 floor, emitted a faint but pungent perfume. 
 
 She disrobed herself and descended into 
 the bath, sufi"ering her golden hair to float 
 freely about her shoulders. 
 
 After the lapse of a quarter of an hour, 
 this beautiful woman took the light and 
 passed into the bed chamber. She cast a 
 glance toward her bed, which had been con- 
 secrated by her marriage, and by the birth of 
 her first and only child. Then advancing 
 toward a wardrobe oFrosewood, which stood 
 in a recess opposite the bed, she took from 
 thence a dress, with which she proceeded to 
 encase her form. A white robe, loose and 
 flowing, with a hood resembling the cowl of 
 a nun. This robe was of the softest satin. 
 She enveloped her form in its folds, threw 
 the hood over her head, and looking in the 
 mirror, surveyed her beautiful face, which, 
 glowing with warmth, was framed in her 
 
76 
 
 FROM NIGHTFALL 
 
 UNTIL MIDNIGHT. 
 
 golden hair, and in tlic folds of the satin 
 cowl. 
 
 She drew slippers of delicate satin, white 
 as her robe, upon her naked feet. 
 
 Then, taking from the wardrobe a heavy- 
 cloak, lined throughout with fur, as soft as 
 the satin which clad her shape, she wound 
 it about her from head to foot, and stood 
 completely buried in its voluminous folds. 
 
 Once more she listened : all was still 
 throughout that mansion, the home of aristo- 
 cratic wealth. Thus clad in the silken robe 
 and coAvl, covered in its turn by the shape- 
 less black cloak, this young wife, whose 
 limbs were glowing with the warmth of the 
 bath, whose person was invested wdth a deli- 
 cate perfume, turned once more and gazed 
 upon her marriage bed, and a deep sigh 
 swelled her bosom. She next extinguished 
 the light, and passing from the chamber, 
 descended the marble staircase. All w^as 
 dark. She entered the suite of apartments 
 on the first floor, which, adorned with pillars, 
 communicated with each other by folding- 
 doors. The chandelier had been extinguish- 
 ed, and the scene was wrapt in impenetrable 
 darkness. 
 
 Standing in the darkness, — her only ap- 
 parel the silken robe, and the thick, warm 
 cloak which covered it, — the young wife 
 trembled like a leaf. 
 
 She attempted to utter a word, but her 
 voice failed her. 
 
 " Joanna !" breathed a voice, speaking 
 near her. 
 
 " Beverly !" answered the young wdfe, 
 breathing the name in a whisper. 
 
 A faint sound like a step, wdiose echo is 
 muffled by thick carpets, and the hand of a 
 man, clf\sps the hand of J oanna. 
 
 " How long have you been here ?" she 
 whispered. 
 
 "I just entered," was the answer. 
 
 " How ?" 
 
 " By the front door, and the key which 
 you gave me." 
 
 " 0, I tremble so, — I am afraid — " 
 
 An arm encircled the cloak which covered 
 her, and girded it tightly about her form. 
 
 *• Haa he gone, Joanna ?" 
 
 " Yes, Beverh% — half an hour ago." 
 
 " Come, then, let us go. The carriage is 
 waiting at the next corner; and the street-lamp 
 
 j near the front door is extinguished. All is 
 I dark without ; no one can see us." 
 
 "Are you sure, Beverly — J tremble so." 
 
 *' Come, Joanna," and through the thick 
 darkness he led her toward the hall, sup- 
 porting her form upon his arm. 
 
 "0, whither are you leading me," she 
 whispered in a broken voice. 
 
 " Can you ask ? Dont you remember niy 
 note of to-day. To the temple, J oanna." 
 
 Their steps echo faintly from the entry. 
 
 Then the faint sound produced by the 
 careful closing of the street door is heard. 
 
 A pause of one or two minutes. 
 
 Hark ! The rolling of carriage wheels. 
 
 All is still as death throughout the man- 
 sion and the street on which it fronts. 
 
 Hours pass away, and once more the street 
 door is unclosed, and carefully closed again. 
 A step echoes faintly through the hall, — very 
 faintly, — and yet it can be heard distinctly, 
 so profound is the stillness which reigns 
 throughout the mansion. It ascends the 
 marble staircase, and is presently heard cross- 
 ing the threshold of the bed-chamber. A 
 pause ensues, and the taper in front of the 
 mirror is lighted again, and a faint ray steals 
 through the chamber. 
 
 Eugene Livingstone stands in front of 
 the mirror. He flings his cloak on a chair, 
 dashes his cap from his brow, and Avipes the 
 sweat from his forehead, — although he has 
 just left the air of a winter night, his fore- 
 head is bathed in moisture. His slender 
 frame shakes as with an ague-chill. His 
 eyes are unnaturally dilated ; the white of 
 the eyeball may be plainly traced around the 
 pupil of each eye. His lips are pressed toge- 
 ther, and yet they quiver, as if with deathly 
 cold. 
 
 He does not utter a single ejaculation. 
 A letter is in his right hand, neatly folded 
 and scented with paclwuli. It bears the name 
 Joanna as a superscription. He opens it 
 and reads its contents, traced in a delicate 
 hand — 
 
 J OANNA 
 
 To-night,— at Twelve.— The Temple. 
 
 Beverly. 
 
 Having read the brief letter, the husband 
 draws another from a side-pocket : " There 
 may be a mistake about the handwriting," 
 he murmurs, " let us compare them." 
 
FEOM NIGHTFALL 
 
 UNTIL MIDNIGHT. 
 
 77 
 
 The second letter is addressed to " Eugene 
 Livingstone, Esq.," and its contents, which 
 the husband traces by the light of the taper, 
 are as follows : 
 
 New York, Bee. 23, 1844. 
 Dear Eugene : — Sorry to hear that you 
 have such sad news from Boston. Must you 
 go to-night ? Send me word and I'll try to 
 go with you. Thine, ever, 
 
 Beverly Barron. 
 
 Long and intentl}', the husband compared 
 these two letters. His countenance under- 
 went many changes. But there could be no 
 ioubt of it — both letters were written by the 
 same hand. 
 
 " He wrote to me early this morning, and to 
 tny wife about an hour afterward, — as soon 
 as he received my answer. I found the let- 
 ter to her upon the floor of this chamber, 
 >nly two hours ago." 
 
 He replaced both letters in his vest pocket. 
 
 Then taking the taper, he bent his steps 
 toward the room at the head of the marble 
 staircase. The young nurse was fast asleep 
 on the couch, near the cradle. 
 
 Eugene bent over the cradle. Besting its 
 •osy cheek on its bent arm, the child was 
 sleeping there, its auburn hair still tangled 
 ibout its forehead. He could not help press- 
 ng his lips to that forehead, and a tear — 
 ;he only tear that he shed — fell from his 
 lot eye-ball, and sparkled like a pearl upon 
 ;he baby's cheek. 
 
 Then Eugene returned to the bedcham- 
 ber, and sat down beside the bed, still hold- 
 .ng the taper in his grasp. The light fell 
 softly over the unruffled coverlet. 
 
 " I remember the night when she first 
 crossed yonder threshold, and slept in this 
 Ded." 
 
 There were traces of womanish weakness 
 ipon his bronzed face, but he banished them 
 n a moment, and the expression of his eye 
 md lip became fixed and resolute. 
 
 He sat for five minutes with his elbow 
 )n his knee, and his forehead in his hand. 
 
 Then rising, he opened his carpet-bag, 
 md took from thence a black robe, with 
 .vide sleeves, and a cowl. It took but a mo- 
 nent to assume his robe, and draw the cowl 
 )ver his dark locks. He caught a glance at 
 [lis face, thus framed in the velvet cowl, and j 
 
 I started as he beheld the contrast between its 
 ashy hues and t.ie dark folds which conceal- 
 ed it. 
 
 " ' The Temple ! ' " he muttered, and 
 pressed his hand against his forehead, — "I 
 believe I remember the pass word." 
 
 He took a pair of pistols, and a long slen- 
 der dagger, sheathed in silver, from the 
 carpet-bag, and regarded them for a moment. 
 
 "No, no," he exclaimed, " these will not 
 avail for a night like this." 
 
 Gathering his cloak about hira, he extin- 
 guished the taper, and crossed the threshold 
 of his bed-chamber. His steps were heard 
 on the stairs, and soon the faint jar of th^ 
 shut door was heard. 
 
 And as he left the house, the child in th.& 
 cradle awoke from its slumber and stretched 
 forth its little head, and in its baby voice 
 called the name of the young mother. 
 
 Our story now turns to Randolph and Es- 
 ther. 
 
 CHAPTER YIL 
 the white slave and his sister. 
 As the night set in — the night of Decem- 
 ber 23d, 1844 — two persons were seated in 
 the recess of a lofty window, which com-: 
 manded a view of Broadway. It was the 
 window of a drawing-room, on the second 
 floor of a four, storied edifice, built of brick, 
 with doors and window-frames of marble. — 
 By the dim light which prevailed, it might 
 be seen that the drawing-room was spacious 
 and elegantly furnished. Mirrors, pictures 
 and statues broke softly through the twi- 
 light. 
 
 Seated amid the silken curtains of the 
 window, these persons sat in silence — the 
 man with his arms folded, and his head 
 sunk upon his breast, the woman with her 
 hands clasped over her bosom, and her eyes 
 fixed upon the face of her companion. The 
 woman was very beautiful ; one of those 
 who are called 'queenly' by persons who 
 have never seen a live queen, and who are ig- 
 norant of the philosophical truth, that one 
 beautiful woman is worth all the queens in. 
 the universe. The man was dark-haired, and 
 of a complexion singularly pale and color- 
 less ; there was thought upon his forehead, 
 and something of an unpleasant memory, 
 written in his knit brows and compressed hps. 
 
78 
 
 FROM NIGETFALL 
 
 UNTIL MIDNIGHT. 
 
 The silence which had prevailed for half 
 an hour, was broken by a whisper from the 
 lips of the woman — 
 
 Of what are you thinking, Randolph ? " 
 
 " Of the strange man whom we met at the 
 house half way between New York and 
 Philadelphia. His name and his personality 
 are wrapt in impenetrable mystery." 
 
 " Had it not been for him — " 
 Ay, had it not been for him, we should 
 have been lost. You would have become 
 the prey of the — the master, Esther, who 
 owns you, and I, — I — well, no matter, I 
 would have been dead." 
 
 "After the scene in the house, Randolph, 
 lie came on with us, and by his directions 
 •we took rooms at the City Hotel. From the 
 moment of our arrival, only a few hours ago, 
 we did not see him, until — " 
 
 " Until an hour ago. Then he came into 
 our room at the hotel. * Here is a key,' said 
 
 he, ' and your home is No. , Broadway. 
 
 Go there at once, and await patiently the 
 coming of the twenty-fifth of December. — 
 You will find servants to wait upon you, 
 you will find money to supply your wants, 
 — it is in the drawer of the desk which you 
 will discover in your bedroom — and most 
 of all, you will there be safe from the 
 attempts of your persecutor.' These were 
 his words. We came at once, and find our- 
 selves — the servants excepted — the sole 
 tenants of this splendid mansion." 
 
 " But don't you remember his last words, 
 as we left the hotel ? ' At the hour of six,' 
 said he, this singular unknown, ' you will be 
 waited on by a much treasured friend.' — 
 Who can it be that is to come and see us at 
 that hour?" 
 
 "Friend," Randolph echoed bitterly, 
 " what ^friend ' have we, save this personage, 
 whose very name is unknown to us ? Our 
 father is dead. When I say that I say at once 
 that we are utterly alone in the world." 
 
 "And yet there is a career before you, 
 Randolph," faltered Esther. 
 
 " A sj^lendid career, ha, ha, Esther, yes a 
 splendid career for the White Slave ! You 
 forget, good girl, that we have negro blood 
 in our veins. How much wealth do you 
 think it would require to blot out the mem- 
 ory of the past ? Suppose we are successful 
 on the twenty-fifth of December, — suppose 
 
 the mysterious trustee of the Van Huyden 
 estate recognizes us as the children of one of 
 the Seven, — suppose that we receive a share 
 of this immense wealth — well, Esther, what 
 will it avail us ? Wherever we turn, the 
 whisper will ring in our ears, 'They have 
 negro blood in their veins. Their mother 
 was descended from the black race. True, 
 they look whiter than the palest of the 
 Caucasian race, but — but' — (do you hear 
 it, Esther ?) * but they have negro Hood in 
 their veins J " 
 
 He started from his chair, and his sister 
 saw, even by the dim light which came 
 through the half-drawn window-curtains, that 
 his chest heaved, and his face was distorted 
 by a painful emotion. 
 
 She also arose. 
 
 " Randolph," she whispered, and laid her 
 hand gently on his arm, " Randolph, my 
 brother, I say it again, come wealth or pover- 
 ty, you have a career before you. In Eu- 
 rope we may find a home, — " 
 
 " Europe ! " he echoed, " And must we go 
 to Europe, in order to be permitted to live ? 
 No, Esther, no ! I am an American, yes," 
 
 — and his voice, low and deep, echoed proud- 
 ly through the stillness of the dimly- lighted 
 room, — yes, I am a Carolinian, ay, a South 
 Carolinian ; South Carolina is my home ; 
 while I live, I will not cease to assert my 
 right to a place, ay, and no dishonorable 
 place — on my native soil." 
 
 He passed his sister's arm through his 
 own, and led her gently over the carpet, 
 which, soft as down, returned no echo to 
 their tread. The lofty ceiling stretched 
 above them, in the vague twilight ; and on 
 either hand were the walls adorned with 
 paintings and statues. The mirror, which 
 but dimly reflected their forms, flashed 
 gently through the gloom. 
 
 " And J]sther, there is one reason why I 
 will not become an exile, which I have 
 never spoken to mortal ears — not even to 
 yours, my sister. It was communicated to 
 me by my father, before I left for Europe : 
 he placed proofs in my possession which do 
 not admit of denial. Sister, my epistle ! — 
 Here, in the dimly-lighted room, to which 
 we have been guided by an unknown friend, 
 
 — here, surrounded by mystery, and with 
 the marks of wealth all about us, — here, as 
 
FROM NIGHTFALL 
 
 the crisis of our fate draws near, let me 
 breathe the secret in your ears." 
 
 He paused in the center of the room. His 
 sister felt his arm tremble as he drew her to 
 his side. His voice betrayed, in its earnest 
 yet faltering tones, an unfathomable emotion. 
 And Esther clinging to his side, and looking 
 up into his face — which she could scarcely 
 discern through the gloom — felt her bosom 
 swell, and her breath come painfully in gasps, 
 as she was made, involuntarily, a sharer of 
 her brother's agitation. 
 
 ''Randolph," she said, "what can be the 
 secret, which you have kept ever from me, 
 your sister ?" 
 
 "I will not leave this country, in the first 
 place, because I am of its soil," he answered, 
 " and because, first and last, it is no common 
 right, which binds me to my native land. 
 Come, Esther, to the window, where the 
 light will help my words ; you shall know 
 all—" 
 
 He led her to the window, and drew from 
 beneath his vest, a miniature, which he held 
 toward the fading light. 
 
 "Do you trace the features?" he whis- 
 pered. 
 
 " I do. It is beautifully painted, and the 
 likeness resembles a thousand others, that I 
 have seen of the same man. But what has 
 this portrait in miniature to do with us ?" 
 
 " What has it to do with us ? Regard it 
 again, and closely, my sister. Do you not 
 trace a resemblance ?" 
 
 " Resemblance to whom ?" Esther echoed. 
 " Why it is the portrait of ." 
 
 She repeated a name familiar to the civil- 
 ized world. 
 
 " It is his portrait. No one can deny it. 
 But Esther, again I ask you, — " his voice 
 sunk low and lower. — " Do you not trace a 
 resemblance ?" 
 
 "Resemblance to whom?" she answered, 
 her tone indicating bewildered amazement. 
 
 "To^ the picture of our Mother, which 
 you have seen at Hill-Royal," was Ran- 
 dolph's answer. 
 
 Utterly bewildered, Esther once more ex- 
 amined the miniature ; and an idea, so 
 strange, so wild that she deemed it but the 
 idle fancy of a dream, began to take shape 
 ji her brain. 
 
 " I am in the dark, I know not what you 
 
 UNTIL MIDNIGHT. 79 
 
 mean. True, true, the face portrayed in 
 miniature does, somewhat, resemble our 
 mother's portrait, but — " 
 
 " That miniature, Esther, is the portrait 
 of the Head of our Family. That man, — " 
 again he pronounced the name, — " was the 
 father of our mother. We are his grand- 
 children, my sister." 
 
 Esther suffered the miniature to fall from 
 hsr hand. She sank back into a chair. 
 
 For a few moments, there was a death-like 
 pause, unbroken by a single word. 
 
 " The grandchildren of !" echoed 
 
 Esther, at length. "You cannot mean it, 
 Randolph ?" 
 
 "Randolph bent his head until his lips 
 well-nigh touched his sister's ear. At the 
 same moment he clasped her hard with a 
 painful pressure. The words which he then 
 uttered were uttered in a whisper, but every 
 word penetrated the soul of the listener. 
 
 " Esther, we are the grandchildren of 
 that man whose name is on the lips of the 
 civilized world. Our mother was his child. 
 His blood flows in our veins. We are oi his 
 race ; his features may be traced in your 
 countenance and in mine. Now let them 
 cut and hack and maim us : let them lash 
 us at the whipping-post, or sell us in the 
 slave mart. At every blow of the lash, we 
 can exclaim, * Lash on ! lash on ! But 
 remember, you are inflicting this torture 
 upon no common slaves ; for your whip at 
 
 every blow is stained with the blood of 
 
 . These slaves whom you lash are his 
 
 grandchildren !' " 
 
 He paused, overcome by the violence of 
 his emotion. In a moment he resumed ! 
 
 "And it is because I am his grandson, 
 that I will not exile myself from this land, 
 which was his birthplace as it is mine. 
 Yes, I cannot exile myself, for the reason 
 that my grandfather left to my hands 
 the fulfillment of an awful trust — of a work 
 which, well fulfilled, will secure the happi- 
 ness of all the races v/ho people the Ameri- 
 can continent. I may become a suicide, but 
 an exile, — never !" 
 
 "But our mother, was the daughter of 
 Colonel Rawden. So the rumor ran, and so 
 you stated before the Court of Ten Mil- 
 lions." 
 
 " In that statement I simply followed the 
 
80 
 
 FROM NIGHTFALL 
 
 UNTIL MIDNIGHT. 
 
 popular rumor, for tlie time for the entire 
 truth had not yet come. But our mother 
 was not the child of Colonel Rawden. Her 
 mother was indeed Rawden's slave, but 
 not one drop of Jlawden's blood flows in 
 our veins. Colonel Rawden was aware of 
 the truth ; well he knew that Herodia, 
 whom he sold to our father, was the child 
 of . 
 
 There was a pause : and it was not broken 
 until Esther spoke : 
 
 " You would not like to return to Europe, 
 then ?" 
 
 "For one reason, and one only, I would 
 like to visit Europe." 
 " And that reason ?" 
 
 "Know, Esther, that at Florence, in the 
 course of a hurried tour through Italy, I 
 met a gentleman named Bernard Lynn. His 
 native country I never ascertained ; he was 
 near fifty years of age ; gentlemanly in his 
 exterior, of reputed wealth, and accompanied 
 by an only daughter, Eleanor Lynn. At 
 Florence, — it matters not how, — I saved his 
 daughter's life — ay, more than life, her 
 honor. All his existence was wrapt up in 
 her ; you may, therefore, imagine the extent 
 of liis gratitude to the young American who 
 saved the life of this idolized child." 
 
 "Was the girl grateful, as well as the 
 father ?" 
 
 " I remained but a week in their company, 
 and then separated, to see them no more 
 forever. That week was sufficient to assure 
 me that I loved her better than my life, — 
 that my passion was returned ; and could I 
 but forget the negro blood which mingles in 
 my veins, I might boldly claim her as my 
 own. Her father had but one prominent 
 hatred : mild and gentlemanly on all other 
 subjects, he was ferocious at the sight or 
 mention of a negro. He regarded the Afri- 
 can race as a libel upon mankind ; a link 
 between the monkey and the man ; a carica- 
 ture of the human race ; the work of Nature, 
 in one of her unlucky moods. Conscious 
 that there was negro blood in my veins, I 
 left him abruptly. With this consciousness 
 I could not press my suit for the hand of his 
 daughter." 
 
 " But you would like to see her again ?" 
 
 " Could I meet her as an equal, yes ! But 
 never can I look upon her face again. Don't 
 
 you see, Esther, how at every turn of life, I 
 am met by the fatal whisper, 'There is 
 negro hlood in your veins!' " 
 
 " She was beautiful ?" 
 
 " One of the fairest types of the Caucasian 
 race, that ever eye beheld. Tall in stature, 
 her form cast in a mould of enticing loveli- 
 ness, her complexion like snow, yet blushing 
 with roses on the lip and check ; her hair, 
 brown in the sunlight, and dark in the shade; 
 her eyes of a shade between brown and 
 black, and always full of the light of all- 
 abounding youth and hope. — Yes, she was 
 beautiful, transcendently beautiful ! She had 
 the intellect of an affectionate but proud and 
 ambitious w^oman." 
 
 " You saved her life ?" 
 
 " I saved her honor." 
 
 " Her honor ?" 
 
 "So beautiful, so young, so gifted, she 
 attracted the attention of an Italian noble- 
 man, who sued in vain for hei- hand. Foiled 
 in his efforts to obtain her in honorable mar- 
 riage, he determined to possess her at all 
 hazards. One night, as herself and her 
 father were returning to Florence, after a 
 visit to Yalambrosa, the carriage was attacked 
 by a band of armed ruffians. The father 
 was stretched insensible, by a blow upon the 
 temple, from the hilt of a sword. When 
 he recovered his senses, he was alone, and 
 faint with the loss of blood. His daughter 
 had disappeared. He made out, at length, 
 to get back to Florence, and instituted a 
 search for his child. His efforts were fruit- 
 less. Suspicion rested upon the rejected 
 lover, but he appeared before the father, and 
 to the father's satisfaction established hia 
 innocence. At this period, when the father 
 had relinquished all hope, I assumed the 
 disguise of a traveling student, aimed myself 
 and departed from Florence. I bent my 
 steps to the Appenines. A servant of the 
 nobleman, impelled at once by a bribe, and 
 by revenge for ill-treatment, had imparted 
 certain intelligence to me ; upon this infor- 
 mation I shaped my course. In an obscure 
 nook of the Appenines, separated from the 
 main road by a wilderness frequented by 
 banditti, I found the daughter of Bernard 
 Lynn, She was a prisoner in a miserable 
 inn, which was kept by a poor knave, in the 
 pay of the robbers. I entered the room in 
 
FROM NIGHTFALL UNTIL MIDNIGHT. 
 
 81 
 
 which she was imprisoned, in time to rescue 
 her from the nobleman, who had reached 
 the inn before me, and who was about to 
 carry his threats into force. Had I been a 
 moment later, her honor would have been 
 sacrificed. A combat ensued : Eleanor saw 
 me peril my life for her ; and saw the villain 
 laid insensible at her feet. She fainted in 
 my arms. It matters not to tell how I bore 
 her back to her father, who confessed that I 
 had done a deed, which could never be 
 suitably rewarded, although he might sacri- 
 fice his fortune and his life, in the effort to 
 display his gratitude." 
 
 " By what name did they know you ?" 
 
 "As Randolph Royalton, the son of a 
 gentleman of South Carolina. From this I 
 am afraid the father built false impressions 
 of my social position and my wealth. Afraid 
 to tell Eleanor the truth, I left them without 
 one word of farewell." 
 
 At this moment, a door was opened, and 
 the light of a wax candle, held in the hand 
 of a servant who occupied the doorway, 
 flashed over the details of the drawing-room, 
 lighting up the scene with a sudden splen- 
 dor. The servant was a man of middle age 
 and of a calm, sober look. He was clad in 
 a suit of gray, faced with black velvet. 
 
 The light revealed the brother and sister 
 as they stood in the center of the scene ; 
 Esther, clad in the green habit which fitted 
 closely to her beautiful shape, and Randolph 
 attired in a black coat, vest and 'cravat, 
 which presented a strong contrast to his pal- 
 lid visage. 
 
 The servant bowed formally upon the 
 threshold, and advanced, holdmg a salver of 
 silver in one hand and the candle in the 
 other. As soon as he had traversed the 
 space betAveen Randolph and the door, he 
 bowed again, and extended the salver, upon 
 which appeared a card, inscribed with a 
 name— 
 
 " Master, a gentleman desires to see you. 
 He is in his carriage at the door. He gave 
 me this card for you." 
 
 Randolph exchanged glances with Esther, 
 as much as to say " our expected visitor," 
 and then took the card, and read these 
 words : 
 
 "An old fnend desires to see Itand.olph 
 Moyalton and lis sister." 
 
 Randolph started as he beheld the hand- 
 writing, and the blood rushed to his cheek : 
 " Show the gentleman up stairs," he said 
 quietly. 
 
 The servant disappeared, taking with him 
 the light, and the room was wrapt in 
 twilight once more. 
 
 " Have you any idea who is this visitor ?" 
 whispered Esther. 
 
 " Hush ! Do not speak ! Surrounded by 
 mystery as we are, this new wonder throws 
 all others completely into shade. I can 
 scarcely believe it ; and yet, it was Ms hand- 
 writing ! I cannot be mistaken." 
 
 In vain did Esther ask, "Whose hand- 
 writing ?" Trembling with anxiety and de- 
 light, Randolph listened intently for the 
 sound of footsteps on the stairs. 
 
 Presently there came a sound, as of foot- 
 steps ascending a stairway, covered with 
 thick carpet ; and then the door opened and 
 the servant stood on the threshold, light in 
 hand : 
 
 " This way, sir, this way," he exclaimed 
 and entered : while Randolph and Esther's 
 gaze was centered on the doorway ; the 
 servant in gray rapidly lighted the wax can- 
 dles, which stood on the marble mantle, and 
 the spacious room was flooded with radiance. 
 
 "Ah, ha, my dear boy, have I caught you 
 at last ?" cried a harsh but a cheerful voice, 
 and an elderly man, wrapped in a cloak, 
 crossed the threshold, and approached Ran- 
 dolph with rapid steps. 
 
 " Mr. Lynn !" ejaculated Randolph, utterly 
 astonished. 
 
 " Yes, your old friend, whom you so ab- 
 ruptly left at Florence, without so much as a 
 word of good-bye ! How are you, ray dear 
 fellow ? Give me a shake of your hand. 
 Miss Royalton, I presume ?" 
 
 By no means recovered from his bewilder- 
 ment, Randolph managed to present Mr. 
 Bernard Lynn to his sister, whom he called 
 " Miss Esther Royalton." 
 
 The visitor gave his hat and cloak to the 
 servant, and flung himself into an arm-chair. 
 He was a gentleman of some fifty years, 
 dark complexion, and with masses of snow- 
 white hair. His somewhat portly form was 
 attired in a blue frock coat, beneath which 
 the collar of a buft" waistcoat and a black 
 stock were discernible. 
 
82 
 
 FROM NIGHTFALL 
 
 UNTIL MIDNIGHT. 
 
 " Come, come, Eandolph, my boy, let me 
 chat with Miss Esther, while you attend to 
 your servant, who, if I may jud^e by his 
 telegraphic signs, has something to say to 
 you in regard to your household affairs." 
 
 Eandolph turned and was confronted by 
 the servant, Mr. Hicks, who bowed low, and 
 said in a tone which was audible through the 
 room — 
 
 "At what hour will you have dinner 
 served ?" and then added in a whisper, " I 
 wish to speah with you alone." 
 
 "At seven, as I directed you, when I first 
 arrived," replied Randolph, and followed the 
 servant from the drawing-room. 
 
 Mr. Hicks led the way, down the broad 
 staircase, to the spacious hall on the lower 
 floor, which was now illuminated by a large 
 globe lamp. 
 
 " Pardon me, Mr. Royalton," said Mr. 
 Hicks, " for troubling you about the dinner 
 hour. That, if you will excuse me for saying 
 so, was only a pretext. Your Agent, who 
 arrived before you, to-day, and engaged my- 
 self and the other domestics, gave me espe- 
 cial directions, to prepare dinner to-night, at 
 seven precisely. It was not about the hour 
 of dinner, therefore, that I wished to see 
 you, for we all know our duty, and you may 
 rely upon it, that all the appointments of this 
 mansion, are in good hands." 
 
 " Right, Mr. Hicks, right, may I ask whe- 
 ther my Agent, who was here to-day, wore 
 an odd dress which he sometimes wears, 
 a, — a — " 
 
 " A blue surtout, with a great many capes? 
 Yes, sir. The fashion in the south, I pre- 
 sume." 
 
 icas then my unknown friend of the 
 half-way-house," thought Randolph : pres- 
 ently, he said, " Why did you call me from 
 the drawing-room ?" 
 
 Mr. Hicks bowed his formal bow, and 
 pointed to a door of dark mahogany : 
 
 "If you will have the kindness to enter 
 that room, you will know why I called you." 
 
 And Mr. Hicks bowed again, and retreated 
 slowly from the scene. 
 
 Placing his hand upon the door, Randolph 
 felt his heart beat tumultuously against his 
 breast. 
 
 " Yesterday, a hunted slave," the thought 
 rushed over him, "and to-day, the master of i 
 
 a mansion, and with a train of servants to 
 obey my nod ! Sol, my unknown friend in 
 the surtout, with blue capes, was here to- 
 day, acting the part of my ' Agent.' What 
 new wonder awaits mq, beyond this door ?'* 
 
 He opened the door, and he trembled, 
 although he was anything but a coward. 
 The room into which he entered, was about 
 half as large as the drawing-room above. A 
 lamp standing in the center of the carpet, 
 shed a soft luxurious luster over the walls, 
 which, white as snow, WQre adorned with ono 
 mirror, and three or four pictures, set in 
 frames of black and gold. At a glance, in 
 one of these frames, Randolph recognized the 
 portrait of his father. The windows, open- 
 ing on the street, were vailed with damask 
 curtains. A piano stood in one corner, a 
 sofa opposite, and elegant chairs of dark 
 wood, were disposed around the room. It 
 was at once a neat, singular, and somewhat 
 luxurious apartment. 
 
 And on the sofa, was seated the figure of 
 a woman, closely vailed. Her dark attire 
 was in strong contrast with the scarlet 
 cushions on which she rested, and the snow- 
 white wall behind her. 
 
 Randolph stopped suddenly ; he was 
 stricken dumb, by a sensation of utter bewil- 
 derment. The unknown did not remove 
 the vail from her face ; she did not even 
 move. 
 
 " You wish to see me, Madam ?" he said, 
 at length. 
 
 She drew the vail aside — he beheld her 
 face, — and the next moment she had bound- 
 ed from the sofa and was resting in his 
 arms. 
 
 " Eleanor !" he cried, as the vail removed, 
 he beheld her face. 
 
 " Randolph !" she exclaimed, as he pressed 
 her to his breast. 
 
 CHAPTER VIIL 
 
 ELEANOR LYNN. 
 
 In a few moments they were seated side 
 by side on the sofa, and while she spoke, in 
 a low musical voice, Randolph devoured her 
 with his eyes. 
 
 " We arrived from Europe, only the day 
 before yesterday. Father determined to 
 visit New York, on our way to Havana, 
 
FROM NIGPITFALL UNTIL MIDNIGHT. 
 
 83 
 
 whero we intend to spend the winter. And 
 to-day, by a strange chance at our hotel, he 
 encountered your Agent — the superintendent 
 of your southern plantation, — an eccentric 
 person, who wears an old-fashioned surtout, 
 with I know not how many capes. From 
 this gentleman, father learned that you had 
 just arrived from the south, and at once de- 
 termined to give you a surprise. We came 
 together, but to tell you the truth, I wanted 
 to see you alone, and, therefore, lingered 
 behind, while father went up stairs to pre- 
 pare you for my presence." 
 
 She smiled, and Randolph, like a man in 
 a delicious dream, feared to move or speak, 
 lest the vision which he beheld might vanish 
 into the air. 
 
 Words are but poor things, with which to 
 paint a beautiful woman. 
 
 There was youth and health in every line 
 of her face : her form, incased in a dark 
 dress, which enveloped her bust and fitted 
 around her neck, was moulded in the warm 
 loveliness of womanhood, at once mature 
 and virgin. Her bonnet thrown aside, her 
 face was disclosed in full light. A brow, de- 
 noting by its outline, a bold, yet refined 
 intellect ; an eye, large, lustrous, and looking 
 black by night ; a lip that had as much of 
 pride as of love in its expression — such were 
 the prominent characteristics of her face. 
 
 Why did you leave us so abruptly at 
 Florence ?" she exclaimed, — "Ah, I know 
 the secret — " 
 
 "You know the secret?" echoed Randolph, 
 hif5 heart mounting to his throat. 
 
 " One of your friends in Florence — a young 
 artist named Waters, betrayed you," she 
 said, and laid her gloved hand on his arm, a 
 sunny smile playing over her noble counte- 
 nance. "At least after your departure he 
 told your secrets to father." 
 
 Randolph started from the sofa, as though 
 a chasm had opened at his feet. 
 
 " He betrayed me — he ! And yet you do 
 not scorn me ?" 
 
 " Scorn you ? Grave matter to create 
 Bcorn ! You have a quarrel with your father, 
 and leave home on ,a run- a- way tour for 
 Europe. There, in Europe, — we will say 
 at Florence — you make friends, and run 
 away from them, because you are afraid they 
 will think less of you, when they are aware 
 
 that your father may disinherit you. Fie ! 
 Randolph, twas a sorry thing, for you to 
 think so meanly of your friends I" 
 
 These words filled Randolph with over- 
 whelming agony. 
 
 1 When she first spoke, he was assured that 
 the secret of his life, was known to her. He 
 was aghast at the thought, but at the same 
 
 ' time, overjoyed to know, that the taint of 
 his blood, was not regarded by Eleanor as a 
 crime. 
 
 But her concluding words revealed the 
 truth. She was not aware of the fact. She 
 was utterly mistaken, as to his motive, for 
 : his abrupt departure from Florence. Instead 
 of the real cause, she assigned one whicli 
 was comparatively frivolous. 
 
 " Shall I tell her all ?" the thought cross- 
 ed his mind, as he gazed upon her, and he 
 shuddered at the idea. 
 
 " And so you thought that our opinion of 
 you, was measured by your wealth, or by 
 your want of wealth ? For shame Randolph! 
 You are now the sole heir of your father» 
 but were it otherwise, Randolph, our friend- 
 ship for you would remain unchanged." 
 
 " The sole heir of my father's estate 1" 
 Randolph muttered to himself, — " I dare not, 
 dare not, tell her the real truth." 
 
 But the fascination of that woman's loveli- 
 ness was upon him. The sound of her 
 voice vibrated through every fiber of his 
 being. When he gazed into her eyes, he 
 forgot the darkness of his destiny, the taint 
 of his blood, the gloom of his heart, and the 
 hopes and fears of his future. He lived in 
 the present moment, in the smile, the voice, 
 the glance of the woman who sat by him. — 
 her presence was world, home, heaven to 
 him — all else was blank nothingness. 
 
 "Don't you think that I'm a very strange 
 woman ?" she said with a smile, and a look 
 of undefinable fascination. " Remember, from 
 my childhood, Randolph, I have been de- 
 prived of the care and counsel of a mother. 
 Without country and without home, I have 
 been hurried with my father from place to 
 place, and seen much of the Avorld, and may 
 be learned to battle with it. I am not much 
 of a 'woman of society,' Randolj^h. The 
 artificial life led by woman in that conven- 
 tional world, called the ' fashionable,' never 
 had much charm for me. My books, my 
 
FROM NIGHTFALL 
 
 UNTIL MIDNIGHT. 
 
 pencil, the society of a friend, the excite- 
 ment of a jour'iev, the freedom to speak my 
 thoughts without fear of the world's frown, 
 — these, Randolph, suit me much better 
 than the life of woman, as she appears in 
 the fashionable world. And whenever I 
 transgress the 'decorums' and 'proprieties,' 
 you will be pleased to remember that I am 
 but a sort of a wild woman — a very barba- 
 rian in the midst of a civilized world." 
 
 Randolph did not say that she was an an- 
 gel, but he thought that she was very beau- 
 tiful for a wild woman. 
 
 She rose. 
 
 "Come, let us join father," she said, — "and 
 I am dying to see this sister of yours, friend 
 Randolph." t 
 
 Taking her bonnet in one hand, she left 
 her cloak on the sofa, and led the way to the 
 door. At a glance Randolph surveyed her 
 tall and magnificent figure. As leaving him, 
 silent and bewildered, on the sofa, she 
 turned her face over her shoulder, and look- 
 ed back upon him, Randolph muttered to 
 himself the thought of his soul, in one 
 word, " negro ! " So much beauty, purity 
 and truth before him, embodied in a wo- 
 man's form, and between that woman and 
 himself an eternal barrier ! The blood of an 
 accursed race in his veins, the mark of bond- 
 age stamped ujDon the inmost fiber of his 
 existence — it was a bitter thought. " You 
 are absent, Randolph," she said, and came 
 back to him, " shall I guess your thoughts ?" 
 She laid her hand upon his shoulder, and 
 bent down until he felt her breath upon his 
 forehead. 
 
 " You are thinking of the niglit in the A_p- 
 ennines f " she whispered. Randolph uttered 
 an incoherent cry of rapture, and reached 
 forth his arms, and drew her to his breast. — 
 Their lips met — "You have not forgotten 
 it ?" he whispered. 
 
 She drew back her head as she ^vas girdled 
 by his arms, in order to gaze more freely 
 upon his face. Blushing from the throat to 
 the forehead, not with shame, but with a 
 passion as warm and as pure as ever lighted a 
 woman's bosom, she answered in a whisper : 
 
 " Randolph, I love you ! " 
 
 " Love me ! Ah, my God, could I but 
 hope," he gasped. 
 
 She laid her hand upon his mouth. 
 
 " Hush, I am my father's child. We hap- 
 pen to think alike on subjects of importance. 
 If you have not changed since the night in 
 the Apennines, why — why, then Randolph, 
 you will find that I am the same. As for 
 my father, he always loved you." 
 
 When a woman like Eleanor Lynn gives 
 herself away, thus freely and without re- 
 serve, you may be sure that the passion 
 which she cherishes is not of an hour, a day, 
 or a year, but of a lifetime. 
 
 Randolph could not reply in coherent words. 
 There was a wild ejaculation, a frenzied 
 embrace, a kiss which joined together these 
 souls, burning with the fire of a first and 
 stainless love, but there was no reply in words. 
 
 And all the while, behind the form of 
 Eleanor, Randolph saw a phantom shape, 
 which stood between him and his dearest 
 hope. A hideous phantom, which said, 
 " Thou art young, and thy face is pale as the 
 palest of the race who are born to rule, but 
 the blood of the negro is in thy veins." 
 
 At length Randolph rose, and taking her 
 by the hand, led her from the room. 
 
 " You will see my sister, and love her,*» 
 said Randolph, as he crossed the threshold. 
 A hand was laid gently on his arm, and 
 turning he beheld Mr. Hicks, who slipped a 
 letter in his hand, whispering, — 
 
 " Pardon me, sir. This was left half an 
 hour ago." 
 
 Randolph had no time to read a letter at 
 that moment, so placing it in his coat pock- 
 et, he led Eleanor up-stairs. They entered 
 the draAving-room, and were received by her 
 father with a laugh, and the exclamation, — 
 
 " So, my boy, you have found this wild 
 girl of mine a second time ! Confess that 
 we have given you one of the oddest sur- 
 prises you ever encountered ! " 
 
 Presently Esther and Eleanor stood face to 
 face, and took each other by the hand. — 
 Both noble-looking women, of contrasted 
 types of loveliness, they stood before the 
 father and Randolph, who gazed upon them 
 with a look of silent admiration. 
 
 " So, you are Esther ! " whispered th« 
 daughter of Bernard Lynn. 
 
 " And you are Eleanor!" returned the sis- 
 ter of Randolph. 
 
 " We shall love each other very much," 
 said Eleanor, — " Come, let us talk a little.*' 
 
FROM NIGHTFALL 
 
 UNTIL MIDNIGHT. 
 
 85 
 
 They went hand in hand to a recess near 
 the window, and sat down together, leaving 
 Randolph and Mr. Lynn alone, near the 
 center of the drawing-room. 
 
 " Do you know, my boy, that I have a no- 
 tion to make your house our home, while we 
 remain in New York ? I hate the noise of 
 a hotel, and so using a traveler's privilege, 
 of bluntness, I'll invite myself and Eleanor 
 to be your guests. I have letters to the ' first 
 people ' of the city, but these * first people,' 
 as they are called, are pretty much the same 
 everywhere — cut out of the same piece of 
 cloth, all over the W' orld — they tire one dread- 
 fully. If you have no objection, my friend, 
 we'll stay with you for a few days at least. 
 
 Of course, Randolph replied to Mr. Lynn 
 in the warmest and most courteous manner, 
 concluding with the words, " Esther and 
 myself will be too happy to have you for our 
 guests. Make our house your home while 
 you remain in New York, and — " he was 
 about to add " forever 1 " 
 
 Mr. Lynn took him warmly by the hand. 
 
 " And in a few days, he must learn that I 
 am not the legitimate son of my father, but 
 his slave,''^ the thought crossed him as he 
 shook the hand of Eleanor's father. " This 
 Aladdin's palace will crumble into ashes, and 
 this gentleman who now respects me, will 
 turn away in derision from Randolph, the 
 slave." 
 
 It was a homble thought. 
 
 At this moment Mr. Hicks entered, and 
 announced that dinner was ready. They left 
 the room, Randolph with Eleanor on his 
 arm, and Mr. Lynn with Esther, and bent 
 their steps toward the dining-room. On the 
 threshold Mr. Hicks slipped a letter in the 
 hand of Esther, " It was left for you. Miss, 
 half an hour ago," he said, and made one 
 of his mechanical bows. Esther took the 
 letter and placed it in her bosom, and 
 Mr. Hicks threw open the door of the dining- 
 room. 
 
 Randolph could scarce repress an ejacula- 
 tion of wonder, as (for the first time) he be- 
 held this apartment. 
 
 It was a spacious room, oval in shape, and 
 with a lofty ceiling, which was slightly 
 arched. The walls were covered with pale 
 lilac hangings, and fine statues of white 
 marble stood at equal distances around the 
 
 place. In the center stood the table, loaded 
 with viands, and adorned with an alabaster 
 vase, filled with freshly-gathered flowers. — 
 Wax candles shed a mild light over the 
 scene, and the air was imbued at once with 
 a pleasant warmth and with the breath of 
 flowers. The service of plate which loaded 
 the table was of massive gold. Everything 
 breathed luxury and wealth, 
 
 " You planters know how to live ! " whis- 
 pered Bernard Lynn : " By George, friend 
 Randolph, you are something of a repub- 
 lican, but it is after the Roman school ! " 
 
 In accordance with Randolph's request, 
 Mr. Lynn took the head of the table, wnth 
 Esther and Eleanor on either hand. Ran- 
 dolph took his seat opposite the father of 
 Eleanor, and gazed around with a look of 
 vague astonishment. A servant clad in gray 
 livery, fringed with black velvet, stood be- 
 hind each chair, and Mr. Hicks, the imper- 
 turbable, retired somewhat in the background, 
 presided in silence over the progress of the 
 banquet. 
 
 " We are not exactly dressed for dinner," 
 laughed Mr. Lynn, — " but you will excuse 
 our breach of that most solemn code, pro- 
 founder than Blackstone or Vattel, and called 
 Etiquette:' 
 
 Randolph gazed first at his dark hair, 
 which betrayed some of the traces of hazel, 
 and at the costume of Esther, which although 
 it displayed her form to the best advantage, 
 was not precisely suited for the dinner-table. 
 
 "Ah, we southrons care little for etiquette," 
 he replied, — " only to-day arrived from the 
 south, Esther and I have had little time to 
 attend to the niceties of costume. By-the- 
 bye, friend Lynn, yourself and daughter are 
 in the same predicament." And then he 
 muttered to himself, " Still the dress is better 
 than the costume of a negro slave." 
 
 The dinner passed pleasantly, with but 
 little conversation, and that of a light and 
 chatty character. The servants, stationed be- 
 hind each chair, obeyed the wishes of the 
 guests before they Avere framed in words ; 
 and Mr. Hicks in the background, managed 
 their movements by signs, somewhat after 
 the fashion of an orchestra leader. It was 
 near eight o'clock when Esther and Eleanoi 
 retired, leaving Randolph and Mr. Lyna 
 alone at the table. 
 
86 
 
 FROM NIGHTFALL 
 
 UNTIL MIDNIGHT. 
 
 " Dismiss these folks," Scaid Bernard Lynn, 
 pomting toward Mr. llicks and the other 
 servants, " and let us have a chat together." 
 
 At a sign from Randolph, Mr. Hicks and 
 the servants left the room. 
 
 "Draw your chair near me, — there, — let 
 us look into each other's faces. By George ! 
 friend Randolph, your wine cellar must be 
 worthy of a prince or a bishop 1 I have just 
 sipped 3^our Tokay, and tasted your Cham- 
 pagne, — both are superb. But as I am a 
 traveler, I drink brandy. So pass the bottle." 
 
 As Mr. Lynn, seated at his ease, filled a 
 capacious goblet with brandy from a bottle 
 labeled "1796," Randolph surveyed atten- 
 tively his face and form. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 BERNARD LYNN. 
 
 Bernard Lynn was a tall and muscular 
 man, somewhat inclined to corpulence. His 
 dark complexion was contrasted with the 
 masses of snow-white hair, which surrounded 
 his forehead, and the eyebrows, also white, 
 which gave additional luster to his dark 
 eyes. His features were regular, and there 
 were deep furrows upon his forehead and 
 around his mouth. Despite the good-hu- 
 mored smile which played about his lips, 
 and the cheerful light which flowed from his 
 eyes, there was at times, a haggard look 
 upon his face. One moment all cheerfulness 
 and animation, the next instant his face 
 would wear a faded look ; the corners of his 
 mouth would fall ; and his eye become 
 vacant and lusterless. 
 
 He emptied the goblet of brandy without 
 once taking it from his lips, and the effect 
 was directly seen in his glowing countenance 
 and sparkling eyes. 
 
 " Ah ! that is good brandy," he cried, 
 smacking his lips, and sinking back in his 
 chair. " You think I am a deep drinker ?" 
 he remarked, after a moment's pause. — " Do 
 not wonder at it. There are times in a man's 
 life wdien he is forced to choose between the 
 brandy bottle and the knife of the suicide." 
 
 At the word, his head sunk and his coun- 
 tenance became clouded and sullen. 
 
 Before Randolph could reply, he raised 
 his head and exclaimed gayly : 
 
 " Do you know, my boy, that I have been 
 
 a great traveler? Three times I have 
 encircled the globe. I have seen most of 
 what is to be seen under the canopy of 
 heaven. I have been near freezing to death 
 in Greenland, and have been burned almost 
 to a cinder by the broiling sun of India. 
 To-day, in the saloons of Paris ; a month 
 after in the midst of an Arabian desert ; and 
 the third month, a wanderer among the ruins 
 of ancient Mexico and Yucatan. I have 
 tried all climates, lived with all sorts of 
 people, and seen sights that would make the 
 Arabian Nights seem but poor and tame by 
 contrast. And now, my boy, I'm tired." 
 
 And the wan, haggard look came over his 
 face, as he uttered the word ^' tired." 
 
 " Your daughter has not accompanied you 
 in these pilgrimages ?" 
 
 "No. From childhood she was left under 
 careful guardianship, in the bosom of an 
 English family, who lived in Florence, 
 Poor child ! I have often wondered what 
 she has thought of me ! To-day I have 
 been with her in Florence, and within two 
 months she has received a letter from me, 
 from the ojDposite side of the globe. But as 
 I said before, I am tired. Were it not for 
 one thing I would like to settle down in 
 your country. A fine country, — a glorious 
 country, — only one fault, and that very 
 likely Avill eat you all up." 
 
 "Before I ask the nature of the fault, 
 pardon me for an impertinent question. Of 
 what country are you ? You speak of the { 
 English as a foreign people ; of the Ameri- 
 cans in the same manner ; yet you speak the 
 language without the slightest apcent." 
 
 The countenance of Mr, Lynn became 
 clouded and sullen, 
 
 "I am of no country," he said harshly. 
 " I ceased to have a country, about the time 
 Eleanor w^as born. But another time," his 
 tone became milder, "I may tell you all 
 about it." 
 
 "And the fault of our country?" said 
 Randolph, anxious to divert the thoughts of 
 his friend from some painful memory, which 
 evidently absorbed his mind, " what is it ?'* 
 
 Mr. Lynn once more filled and slowlr 
 drained his goblet. 
 
 " You are the last person to whom I may 
 speak of this fault, — " 
 
 " How so ?" 
 
FROM NIGHTFALL 
 
 UNTIL MIDNIGHT. 
 
 87 
 
 "You are a planter. You have been 
 reared under peculiar influences. Your 
 mind from childhood has been impercepti- 
 bly moulded into a certain form, and that 
 form it is impossible to change. You cannot 
 see, as I can ; for I atti a spectator, and you 
 are in the center of the conflagration, which 
 I observe from a distance. No, no, Ran- 
 dolph, I can't speak of it to you. But you 
 planters will be wakened some day — you 
 will. God help you in your awakening — 
 hem !" 
 
 Randolph's face became pale as death. 
 
 " You speak, my friend, of the question 
 of negro slavery. You surely don't con- 
 sider it an evil. You — ^you — hate the very 
 mention of the race." 
 
 Shading his eyes with his uplifted hand, 
 Bernard Lynn said, with slow and measured 
 distinctness : 
 
 "Do I hate the race ? Yes, if you could 
 read my heart, you would find hatred to the 
 African race written on its every fiber. The 
 very name of negro fills me with loathing." 
 He uttered an oath, and continued in a 
 lower tone : " By what horrible fatality was 
 that accursed race ever planted upon the soil 
 of the New World 1" 
 
 Randolph felt his blood boil in his veins ; 
 his face was flushed ; he breathed in gasps. 
 
 "And then it is not sympathy for the 
 negro, that makes you look with aversion 
 upon the institution of American slavery ?" 
 
 " Sympathy for a libel upon the race — a 
 hybrid composed of the monkey and the 
 man ? The idea is laughable. Were the 
 negro in Africa — his own country — I might 
 tolerate him. But his presence in any shape, 
 as a dweller among people of the white 
 race, is a curse to that race, more horrible 
 than the plagues of Egypt or the fires of 
 Gomorrah." 
 
 " It is, then, the irifluence of negro slavery 
 upm the ivhite race, which concerns you ?" 
 faltered Randolph. 
 
 "It is the influence of negro slavery upon 
 the white race which concerns me," echoed 
 Lynn, with bitter emphasis : " But you are 
 a planter. I cannot talk to you. To 
 mention the subject to one of you, is to set 
 you in a blaze. By George ! how the devils 
 must laugh when they see us poor mortals, 
 BO eager in the pursuit of our own ruin, — so 
 6 
 
 merry as we play with hot coals in the midst 
 of a powder magazine !" 
 
 "You may speak to me upon this sub- 
 ject," said Randolph, drawing a long breath, 
 " and speak freely." 
 
 " It wont do. You are all blind. There, 
 for instance, is the greatest man among you ; 
 his picture hangs at your back — " 
 
 Randolph turned and beheld, for the first 
 time, a portrait which hung against the wall 
 behind. It was a sad, stern face, with snow- 
 white hair, and a look of intellect, moulded 
 by an iron Destiny. It was the likeness of 
 John C. Calhoun, — Calhoun, the John 
 Calvin of Political Economy. 
 
 " I knew him when he was a young man," 
 continued Lynn, " I have met and conversed 
 with him. Mind, I do not say that we were 
 intimate friends! A braver man, a truer 
 heart, a finer intellect, never lived beneath 
 the sun. Then he felt the evils of this hor- 
 rible system, and felt that the only remedy, 
 was the removal of the entire race to Africa. 
 Yes, he felt that the black man could only 
 exist beside the white, to the utter degrada- 
 tion of the latter. Now, ha ! ha ! he has 
 grown into the belief, that Slavery, — in other 
 words, the presence of the black race in the 
 midst of the white, — is a blessing. To that 
 belief he surrenders everything, intellect, 
 heart, soul, the hope of power, and the ap- 
 probation of posterity. When Calhoun is 
 blind, how can you planters be expected to 
 see ?" 
 
 Randolph was silent. " There is in my 
 veins, the blood of this accused race," he 
 muttered to himself. 
 
 " In order to look up some of the results 
 of this system," continued Bernard Lynn, 
 " let us look at some of the characteristics of 
 the American people. The north is a trader; 
 it traffics ; it buys ; it sells ; it meets every 
 question with the words, * Will it pay P 
 (As a gallant southron once said to me; 
 " When the north choose a patron saint, a 
 new name will be added to the calendar, 
 ' Saint Picayune ' "). The South is frank, 
 generous, hospitable ; there are the virtues 
 of ideal chivalry among the southern people. 
 And yet, the north prospers in every sense, 
 while the south, — what is the f uture of the 
 South ? The west, noble, generous, and free 
 from the traits which mark a nation of mere 
 
88 
 
 FROM NIGHTFALL UNTIL MIDNIGHT. 
 
 traffickers, is Just what the south would he, 
 were it free from the Black Race. Think 
 of that, friend Randolph ! You may glean a 
 bit of solid truth from the disconnected re- 
 marks of an old traveler." 
 
 " But you have not yet, instanced a single 
 evil of our institution," interrupted Ran- 
 dolph. 
 
 " Are you from the south, and yet, ask me 
 to give you instances of the evils of slavery ? 
 Pshaw ! I tell you. man, the evil of slavery 
 consists in the presence of the black race 
 in the midst of the whites. That is the sum 
 of the matter. You cannot elevate that race 
 save at the expense of the whites — not the 
 expense of money, mark you, — but at the 
 expense of the physical and mental features 
 of the white race. Don't I speak plain 
 enough ? The two races cannot live toge- 
 ther and not mingle. You know it to be 
 impossible. And do you pretend to say, that 
 the mixture of black and white, can produce 
 anything but an accursed progeny, destitute 
 of the good qualities of each race, and by 
 their veiy origin, at war with both African 
 and Caucasian ? Nay, you need not hold 
 your head in your hands. It is blunt truth, 
 but it is truth." 
 
 The bolt had struck home. Randolph 
 had buried his face in his hands, — "I am 
 one of these hybrids," he muttered in agony; 
 <' at war at the same time, with the race of 
 my father and my mother." 
 
 " But, how would you remedy this evil ?" 
 he asked, without raising his head. 
 
 "Remove the whole race to Africa," re- 
 sponded Lynn. 
 
 " How can this be done ?" 
 
 " By one effort of southern will. Instead 
 of attempting to defend the system, let the 
 southern people resolve at once, that the 
 presence of the black race, is the greatest curse 
 that can befall America. This resolution 
 made, the means will soon follow. One- 
 fourth the expenses of a five years' war 
 would transport the negroes to Africa. One- 
 twentieth part of the sum, which will be ex- 
 pended in the next ten years (I say nothing 
 of the past) in the quarrel of north and south, 
 about this matter, would do the work and do 
 it well. And then, free from the black race, 
 the south would go to work and mount to her 
 destiny.'* 
 
 " But, what will become of the race, when 
 they are transported to Africa ?" 
 
 " If they are really of the human family, 
 they will show it, by the civilization of 
 Africa. They will establish a Nationality 
 for the Negro, and plant the arts on sea- 
 shore and desert. Apart from the white 
 race, they can rise into their destiny." 
 
 " And if nothing is done ?" interrupted 
 Randolph. 
 
 •* If the south continues to defend, and the 
 north to quarrel about slavery, — if instead of 
 making one earnest eff"ort to do something 
 with the evil, they break down national 
 good-feeling, and waste millions of money in 
 mutual threats, — why, in that case, it needs 
 no prophet to foretell the future of the south. 
 That future will realize one of two condi- 
 tions — " 
 
 He paused, and after a moment, repeated 
 with singular emphasis, " St Domingo ! — St, 
 Domingo !" 
 
 " And the other condition," said Randolph. 
 
 " The whole race will be stript of all its 
 noble qualities, and swallowed up in a race, 
 composed of black and white, and cursing 
 the very earth they tread. In the south, the 
 white race will in time be annihilated. That 
 garden of the world, composed, I know not 
 of how many states, — extending from the 
 middle states to the gulf, and from the At- 
 lantic to the Mississippi, — will repeat on a 
 colossal scale, the horrible farce, which the 
 world has seen, in the case of St. Domingo." 
 
 Bernard Lynn again filled his goblet, and 
 slowly sipped the brandy, while the fire 
 faded from his eyes, the corners of his mouth 
 fell, — his face became faded and haggard 
 again. 
 
 Randolph, seated near him, his elbow on 
 his knee, and his forehead supported by his 
 hand, was buried in thought. His face was 
 averted from the light : the varied emotions 
 which convulsed it in every lineament, were 
 concealed from the observation of Bernard 
 Lynn. 
 
 Thus they remained for a long time, each 
 bm-ied in his own peculiar thoughts. 
 
 "Randolph," said Bernard Lynn, — and 
 there was something so changed and singular 
 in his tone, that Randolph started — " draw 
 near to me. I wish to speak with you." 
 
 Randolph looked up, and was astonished 
 
PROM NIGHTFALL 
 
 UNTIL MIDNIGHT. 
 
 89 
 
 by the change which had passed over the 
 face of the traveler. His eyes flashed wild- 
 ly, his features were one moment fixed and 
 rigid and the next, tremulous and quivering 
 with strong emotion ; the veins were swollen 
 on his broad forehead. 
 
 " Randolph," he said, in a low, agitated 
 voice, " I am a Carolinian." 
 
 "A Carolinian ?" echoed Randolph. 
 
 " The name of Bernard Lynn is not my 
 real name. It is an assumed name, Randolph. 
 Assumed, do you hear me ?" his eyes flash- 
 ed more wildly, and he seized Randolph's 
 hand, and unconsciously wrung it with an 
 almost frenzied clutch — "Assumed some 
 seventeen years ago, when I forsook my 
 home, my native soil, and became a miser- 
 able wanderer on the face of the earth. Do 
 you know why I assumed that name, — do 
 you know ? — " 
 
 He paused as if sufibcated by his emotions. 
 After a moment he resumed in a lower, 
 deeper voice, — 
 
 "Did you ever hear the name of ? 
 
 " It is the name of one of the first and 
 oldest families of Carolina," responded Ran- 
 dolph. " A name renowned in her history, 
 but now extinct, I believe." 
 
 " That is my name, my real name, which 
 I have forsaken forever, for the one which I 
 now bear," resumed Bernard Lynn. " I am 
 the last male representative of the family. 
 Seventeen years ago my name disappeared 
 from Carolina. I left home — my native 
 land — all the associations that make life 
 dear, and became a miserable exile. And 
 why ?" 
 
 He uttered an oath, which came sharp and 
 hissing through his clenched teeth. 
 
 Profoundly interested, Randolph, as if 
 fascinated, gazed silently into the flashing 
 eyes of Bernard Lynn. 
 
 " I was young, — rich, — the inheritor of an 
 honored name," continued Bernard Lynn, in 
 hurried tones, — "and I was married, Ran- 
 dolph, married to a woman of whom Eleanor 
 is the living picture, — a woman as noble in 
 soul, and beautiful in form as ever trod 
 God's earth. One year after our marriage, 
 when Eleanor Avas a babe, — nearer to me, 
 Randolph, — I left my plantation in the eve- 
 ning, and went on a short visit to Charleston. 
 I came home the next day, and where I had 
 
 left my wife living and beautiful, I found 
 only a mangled and dishonored corpse." 
 
 His head fell upon his breast, — he could 
 not proceed. 
 
 " This is too horrible !" ejaculated Ran- 
 dolph, — " too horrible to be real." 
 
 Bernard raised his head, and clutching 
 Randolph's hands — 
 
 " The sun was setting, and his beams 
 shone warmly through the western windows 
 as I entered the bedchamber. Oh ! I can 
 see it yet, — I can see it now, — the babe 
 sleeping on the bed, while the mother is 
 stretched upon the floor, lifeless and welter- 
 ing in her blood. Murdered and dishonored — 
 mm'dered and dishonored — " 
 
 As though those words, " murdered and 
 dishonored," had choaked his utterance, he 
 paused, and uttered a groan, and once more 
 his head fell on his breast. 
 
 At this moment, even as Randolph, ab- 
 sorbed by the revelation, sits silent and pale, 
 gazing upon the bended head of the old 
 man, — at this moment look yonder, and 
 behold the form of a woman, who with 
 finger on her lip, stands motionless near the 
 threshold. 
 
 Randolph is not aware of her presence— 
 the old man cannot see her, for there is 
 agony like death in his heart, and his head 
 is bowed upon his breast; but there she 
 stands, motionless as though stricken into 
 stone, by the broken words which she has 
 heard. 
 
 It is Eleanor Lynn. 
 
 On the very threshold she was arrested by 
 the deep tones of her father's voice, — she 
 listened, — and for the first time heard the 
 story of her mother's death. 
 
 And now, stepping backward, her eye 
 riveted on her father's form, she seeks to 
 leave the room unobserved, — she reaches the 
 threshold, when her father's voice is heard 
 once more : — 
 
 " Ask me not for details, ask me not," he 
 cried in broken tones, as once more he raised 
 his convulsed countenance to the light. 
 " The author of this outrage was not a man, 
 but a negro, — a demon in a demon's shape ; 
 and " — he smiled, but there was no merri- 
 ment in his smile, — "and now you know 
 why I left home, native land, all the associ- 
 ations which make life dear, seventeen years 
 
90 
 
 FROM NIGHTFALL 
 
 UNTIL MIDNIGHT. 
 
 ago. Now you know why I hate the 
 accursed race. 
 
 As he spoke, Eleanor Lynn glided from 
 the room. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 "yes, you will meet him." 
 
 As midnight drew near, Randolph was 
 alone in his bedchamber, — a spacious cham- 
 ber, magnificently furnished, and illumined 
 by a single candle, which stood upon a rose- 
 wood table near the lofty bed. Seated in a 
 chair, with his cloak thrown over his 
 shoulders, and an opened letter in his hand, 
 Randolph's eyes were glassy with profound 
 thought. His face was very pale ; a slight 
 trembling of the lip, an occasional heaving 
 of the chest, alone made him appear less 
 motionless than a statue. 
 
 The letter which he held was the one 
 which Mr. Hicks had given him, some three 
 hours before, but he did not seem to be 
 occupied with its contents. 
 
 "It looks like a bridal chamber," he 
 muttered, as his eye roved round the spacious 
 apartment, " and this white couch like a 
 bridal bed," — a bitter smile crossed his face. 
 "Think of it— the bridal bed of Eleanor 
 Lynn and — ^the white slave !" 
 
 And he relapsed into his reverie ; or 
 rather, into a train of thought, which had 
 occupied him for two hours at least, while 
 he sat silent and motionless in his cham- 
 ber. 
 
 Oh, dark and bitter thoughts — filling every 
 vein with fire, and swelling every avenue of 
 the brain with the hot pulsations of mad- 
 ness ! The image of Eleanor, the story told 
 two hours ago by Bernard Lynn, and the 
 taint that corrupted the life-blood in his 
 veins, — all these mingled in his thoughts, 
 and almost drove him mad. 
 
 "And from this labyrinth, what way of 
 escape ? Will Eleanor be mine, when she 
 learns that I am of the accursed race of the 
 wretch who first dishonored and then out- 
 raged her mother ? And the father, — ah !" 
 
 He passed his hand over his brow, as if to 
 banish these thoughts, and then perused the 
 letter which he held in his hand, — 
 
 " It is signed by my * unknown friend of 
 the half-way-house/ and desires me, for 
 
 certain reasons, to be at a particular locality, 
 in the Five Points, at ten minutes past 
 twelve. It is now," — he took his gold 
 watch from his pocket, — " half past eleven. 
 I must be moving, A singular request, and 
 a mysterious letter ; but I will obey." 
 
 On the table lay a leather belt, in which 
 were inserted two bowie-knives and a revolv- 
 ing pistol. Randolph wound it about his 
 waist, and then drew a cap over his brow, 
 and gathered his cloak more closely to his 
 form. 
 
 He next extinguished the candle, and 
 stole softly from the room. As he descended 
 the stairway, all was still throughout the 
 mansion. The servants had retired, and 
 Eleanor, Esther, and the old man, no doubt, 
 were sound asleep. Randolph passed along 
 the hall, and opening the front door, crossed 
 its threshold. 
 
 " Now for the adventure," he ejaculated, 
 and hurried down Broadway. After nearly 
 half an hour's walk, he turned into one of 
 those streets which lead from the light and 
 uproar of Broadway, toward the region of 
 the Tombs. 
 
 Darkness was upon the narrow street, and 
 his footsteps alone broke the dead stillness, 
 as he hurried along. 
 
 As he reached a solitary lamp, which gave 
 light to a portion of the street, his ear 
 caught the echo of footsteps behind ; and, 
 impelled by an impulse which he could not 
 himself comprehend, Randolph paused, and 
 concealed his form in the shadow of a deep 
 doorway. From where he stood, by the 
 light of the lamp, (which was not five paces 
 distant,) he could command a view of any 
 wayfarer who might chance to pass along 
 the deserted street. 
 
 The footsteps drew nearer, and presently 
 two persons came in sight. They halted 
 beneath the lamp. Randolph could not see 
 their faces, but he remarked that one was 
 short and thick-set in form, while the other 
 was tall and commanding. The tall one 
 wore a cloak, and the other an overcoat. 
 
 And Randolph heard their voices — 
 
 " Are we near the hound ? My back 
 hurts like the devil, and I don't wish to> go 
 any farther than is necessary." 
 
 " Only a block or two, to go," replied .the 
 other. "Judas Iscariot! Just think that 
 
FROM NIGHTFALL 
 
 we're sure to find Tiim there, Royalton, and 
 your back wont hurt a bit." 
 
 " Oh, by ! let me but find /ii'm, and 
 
 stand face to face with him, and I'll take 
 care of the rest." 
 
 These words, accompanied by an oath, 
 and uttered with the emphasis of a mortal 
 hatred, were all that Randolph heard. 
 
 The twain proceeded on their way. 
 
 It was not until the sound of their foot- 
 steps had died away, that Randolph emerged 
 from his hiding-place — 
 
 " Yes, you will meet him, and stand face 
 to face with hiTifi^ and — the rest is yet to be 
 known." 
 
 He felt for his knives and pistols, — they 
 were safe in the belt about his waist ; and 
 then, conscious that the crisis of his fate 
 was near at hand, he silently pursued his way. 
 
 Return for a moment to the house in 
 Broadway. 
 
 Esther is there, alone in her chamber, 
 standing before a mirror, with a light in her 
 hand. The mirror reaches from the ceiling 
 to the floor; and never did mirror image 
 forth before, a face and form so perfectly 
 beautiful. 
 
 She has changed her attire. The green 
 habit no longer incloses her form. A dress 
 or robe of spotless white, leaves her neck 
 and shoulders bare, rests in easy folds upon 
 her proud bust, and is girdled gently to her 
 waist by a sash of bright scarlet. The 
 sleeves are wide, the folds loose and flowing, 
 and the sleeves and the hem of the skirt are 
 bordered by a line of crimson. The only 
 ornament which she wears is not a diamond, 
 Vooch or bracelet, not even a ring upon her 
 delicate hand, but a single lily, freshly gath- 
 ered, which gleams pure and white from the 
 blackness of her hair. 
 
 And what need she of ornament ? A 
 very beautiful woman, with a noble form, a 
 voluptuous bust; a face pale as marble, 
 ripening into vivid bloom on the lip and 
 cheek, relieved by jet-black hair, and illu- 
 mined by eyes that, flashing from their deep 
 fringes, bum with wild, with maddening 
 light. A very beautiful woman, who, as she 
 surveys herself in the mirror, knows that 
 she is beautiful, and feels her pulse swell, 
 [ her bosom heave slowly into light, her blood 
 bound with the fullness of life in eveiy vein. 
 
 UNTIL MIDNIGHT. fi% 
 
 One hand holds the light above her dark 
 hair — the other the letter which, three hours 
 and more ago, she received from Mr. Hicks. 
 
 " It requested me to attire myself in the 
 dress which I would find in my chamber, the 
 costume of Lucretia Borgia. And I have 
 obeyed. And then to enter the carriage, 
 which at a quarter past twelve, will await 
 me at the next comer, and bear me to the 
 Temple. I will obey." 
 
 She smiled — a smile that disclosed the 
 ivory of her teeth, the ripeness of her lips — 
 lit up her eyes with new light, and was re- 
 sponded to by the swell of her proud bosom. 
 
 Take care Esther ! You wear the dress 
 of Lucretia Borgia, and you are even more 
 madly beautiful than that accursed child of 
 the Demon-Pope; but have a care. You are 
 yet spotless and pure. But the blood is 
 warm in your veins, and perchance there is 
 ambition as well as passion in the fire which 
 bums in your eyes. Have a care ! The fu- 
 ture is yet to come, Esther, and who can tell 
 what it will bring forth for you ? 
 
 " I will meet Godlike there," she said, 
 and an inexplicable smile animated her 
 face. 
 
 She placed a small poniard in the folds 
 of her sash, and threw a heavy cloak, to 
 which was attached a hood, over her form. 
 She drew the hood over her face, and stood 
 ready to depart. 
 
 The light was extinguished. She glided 
 from the room, and do^vn the stairs, and 
 passed unobserved from the silent house. At 
 the comer of the next street the carriage 
 waited with the driver on the box. 
 
 " Who are you ? " she said in a low voice. 
 
 " The Temple," answered the driver, and 
 descended from the box, and opened the 
 carriage door. 
 
 Esther entered, the door was closed, the 
 carriage whirled away. 
 
 "What will be the result of the adven- 
 tures of this night ? " she thought, and her 
 bosom heaved with mad agitation. 
 
 And as she was thus home to the Temple, 
 there was a woman watching by the bedside 
 of an old man, in one of the chambers of 
 the Broadway mansion, — Eleanor watching 
 while her father slept. 
 
 Her night-dress hung in loose folds about 
 her noble form, as she arose and held tlie dim 
 
92 
 
 FROM NIGHTFALL 
 
 UNTIL MIDNIGHT. 
 
 light nearer to his gray hairs. There was 
 agony stamped upon his face, even as he 
 slept — an agony which was reflected in the 
 pallid face and tremulous lips of his daugh- 
 ter. 
 
 " He sleeps ! " she exclaimed in a low 
 voice : " Little does he fancy that I know 
 the fearful history which this night fell from 
 his lips. And this night, hefore he retired to 
 rest, he clasped me to his hosom, and said — " 
 she blushed in neck and cheek and brow, — 
 " that it was the dearest wish of his heart, 
 that I should be united to Randolph." 
 
 She kissed him gently on the brow, and 
 crept noiselessly to her own room, and soon 
 was asleep, the image of Randolph prom- 
 inent in her dreams. 
 
 Poor Eleanor ! 
 
 Leaving Randolph, his sister, and those 
 connected with their fate, our history now 
 turns to other characters. 
 
 Let us enter the house of the merchant 
 prince. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 IN THE HOUSE OF THE MERCHANT PRINCE. 
 
 It was near eleven o'clock, on the night 
 of December 23d, 1844, when Evelyn Som- 
 ers, Sen., sitting in his library by the light 
 of the shaded candle, was startled by the 
 ringing of the bell. 
 
 " The front door-bell ! " he ejaculated, 
 looking up from his labors, until the candle 
 shone full upon his thin features and low 
 forehead. " Can it be Evelyn ? Oh ! I for- 
 got. He returned only this evening. One 
 of the servants, I suppose — been out late — 
 must look to this in the morning." 
 
 He resumed his pen, and again, surrounded 
 by title-deeds and mortgages, bent down to 
 his labors. 
 
 So deeply was he absorbed that he did 
 not hear the opening of the front door, fol- 
 lowed by a footstep in the hall. Nor did 
 he hear the stealthy opening of the door of 
 the library ; much less did he see the burly 
 figure which advanced on tiptoe to his table. 
 
 " Be calm 1 " said a gruff voice, and a 
 hand was laid on his shoulder. 
 
 "Hey! What? Who, — who — are — 
 you ? " The merchant prince started in his 
 chair, and beheld a burly form enveloped in 
 
 a bear-skin overcoat and full-moon face, 
 spotted with carbuncles. 
 
 " Be calm ! " said the owner of the face, in 
 a hoarse voice. " There 's no occasion to 
 alarm yourself. These things will happen." 
 
 The merchant prince was thoroughly 
 amazed. 
 
 Opening his small eyes, half concealed by 
 heavy lids, to their fullest extent, he cried : 
 
 " What do you mean ? Who are you ? — 
 I don't know you ? What — what — " 
 
 " I'm Blossom, I am," returned the full- 
 moon face, Lay low! Keep dark! I'm 
 Blossom, one of the secret police. Lay low I" 
 
 " My God ! Is Evelyn in another scrape?'* 
 ejaculated the merchant prince ; " I will pay 
 for no more of his misdeeds. There's no use 
 of talking about it. I'll not go his bail, if 
 he rots in the Tombs. I'll — " Mr. 
 Somers doggedly folded his arms, and sat 
 bolt upright in his chair. 
 
 With his contracted features, spare form 
 and formal white cravat, he looked the very 
 picture of an unrelenting father. 
 
 ** Come, boss, there's no use of that.'* 
 
 " Hoss ! Do you apply such words to 
 me," indignantly echoed the merchant 
 prince. 
 
 "Be calm, soothingly remarked Blossom. 
 Lay low. Keep dark. Jist answer me one 
 question : Has your son Evelyn a soot o' 
 rooms in the upper part o' this house ? " 
 
 " What do you ask such a question for ? » 
 and Mr. Somers opened his eyes again. " He 
 has all the rooms on the third floor, in the 
 body of the mansion — there are four in all." 
 
 " Very good. Now, is Evelyn at home ?" 
 asked Blossom. 
 
 " Don't come so near. The smell of bran- 
 dy is ofi'ensive to me. Faugh ! " 
 
 " You'll smell brimstone, if you don't 
 take keer!" exclaimed the indignant Blos- 
 som. " To think o' sich ingratitude from an 
 old cock like you, when I've come to keep 
 that throat o' yourn from bein' cut by rob- 
 bers." 
 
 " Robbers ! " and this time Mr. Somers 
 fairly started from his seat. 
 
 " When I've come to purtect yoMx jugularf 
 — yes, you need n't wink, — your jugular ! 
 Oh, it was not for nothing that a Roman 
 consul once remarked that republics is un- 
 grateful." 
 
 1 
 
FKOM NIGHTFALL UNTIL MIDNIGHT. 
 
 93 
 
 " Kobbers ? Bobbers ! What d'ye mean ? 
 Speak — speak — " 
 
 Blossom laid his hand upon the mer- 
 chant's shoulder. 
 
 "If you'll promise to keep a secret, and 
 not make a fuss, I'll tell you all. If you go 
 for raisin' a hellabaloo, I'll walk out and 
 leave your jugular to take care of itself." 
 
 "I promise, I promise," ejaculated the 
 merchant. 
 
 " Then, while you are sittin' in that ere 
 identical chair, there's two crackmen — bur- 
 glars, you know, — hid up-stairs in your 
 son's room. They're a-waitin' until you 
 put out the lights, and go to sleep, and then, 
 — your cash-box and jugular's the word ? — 
 Why, I wouldn't insure your throat for all 
 your fortin." 
 
 The merchant prince was seized with a 
 fit of trembling. 
 
 " Bobbers ! in my house ! 
 
 Astounding, 
 
 a-s-t-o-u-n-d-i-n-g ! How did they get 
 
 in 
 
 9» 
 
 " By your son's night-key, and the front 
 door. You see I was arter these crackmen 
 to-night, and found 'em in a garret of the 
 Yaller Mug. You never patronize the 
 Yaller Mug, do you ? " 
 
 Mr. Somers nodded "No," with a spas- 
 modic shake of the head. 
 
 " Jist afore I pitched into 'em, I listened 
 outside of the garret door, and overheard 
 their plot to conceal themselves in Evelyn's 
 room, until you'd all gone to bed, and then 
 commence operations on your cash-box and 
 jugular. One o' 'em's a convict o' eleven 
 years' standin'. He's been regularly initiated 
 into all the honors of Auburn and Cherry 
 Hill." 
 
 " And you arrested them ? " 
 
 " Do you see this coverlet about my head ? 
 That's what I got for attemptin' it. They 
 escaped from the garret, by getting upon the 
 roof, and jumpin* down on a shed. If my 
 calculations are correct, they're up-stairs jist 
 now, preparin' for their campaign on your 
 cash-box and jugular." — 
 
 "Cash-box! I have no cash-box. My 
 cash is all in bank ! " 
 
 " Gammon. It won't do. Behind yer 
 seat is yer iron safe, — one o' th' Salamand- 
 ers; you're got ten thousand in gold, in 
 that." 
 
 Mr. Somers changed color. 
 
 " They intend to blow up the lock with 
 powder, after they'd fixed your jugular." 
 
 Mr. Somers clasped his hands, and shook 
 like a leaf. 
 
 " What's to be done, what's to be done ! " 
 he cried in perfect agony. 
 
 " There's six o' my fellows outside. I've 
 got a special warrant from the authorities. 
 Now, if you've a key to Evelyn's rooms, 
 we'll just go up-stairs and search 'em. You 
 can stand outside, while we go in. But no 
 noise, — no fuss you know." 
 
 "But they'll murder you," cried the mer- 
 chant, " they'll murder me. They'll," — 
 
 Blossom drew a six-barreled revolver from 
 one pocket, and a slung-shot from the other. 
 
 " This is my settler^" he elevated his re- 
 volver, " and this, my gentle persuader," he 
 brandished the slung-shot. 
 
 " Oh ! " cried Mr. Somers, " property is no 
 longer respected, — ah ! what times we've 
 fallen in ! " 
 
 "How many folks have you in the 
 house ? " 
 
 " The servants sleep in the fom'th story, 
 over Eveyln's room. The housekeeper sleeps 
 under Evelyn's room, and my room and the 
 room of my private secretary are just above 
 where I am sitting." 
 
 "Good. Now take the candle, and 
 come," responded Blossom, "we want you 
 as a witness." 
 
 The merchant prince made many signs of 
 hesitation, — winking his heavy lids, rub- 
 bing his low forehead with both hands, and 
 pressing his pointed chin between his thumb 
 and forefinger, — but Blossom seized the 
 candle, and made toward the door. 
 
 "You are not going to leave me in the 
 dark ? " cried Mr. Somers, bounding from his 
 chair. 
 
 " Not if you follow the light," responded 
 Blossom ; "by-the-by, you may as well bring 
 the keys to Evelyn's room." 
 
 With a trembling hand, Mr. Somers lifted 
 a huge bunch of keys from the table. 
 
 " There, open all the rooms on the second 
 and fourth floors," he said, and followed 
 Blossom into the hall. 
 
 There, shoulder to shoulder, stood six 
 stout figures, in glazed caps and great coats 
 of rough, dark-colored cloth, with a mace or 
 
94 
 
 FEOM KIGHTFALL UNTIL MrD^^GHT. 
 
 a pistol protruding from every pocket Thev 
 Btood as silent as blocks of stone. 
 
 " Bovs," whispered Blossom, " we'll go up 
 first. You follow and station yerselves on 
 the second landin', so as to be ready when I 
 whistle." 
 
 A murmur of assent was heard, and Blos- 
 som, light in hand, led the merchant prince 
 toward the stainvay which led upward from 
 the center of the hall. At the foot of the 
 stainvay, they were confronted by a servant- 
 maid, who had answered the bell when 
 Blossom first rang : her red, round cheeks 
 were pale as ashes, and she clung to the 
 railing of the staircase for support. 
 
 " Och, murthcr ! " she ejaculated, as she 
 beheld the red face of Blossom, and the 
 frightened visage of her master. 
 
 Blossom seized her arm with a tight grip, 
 
 " Look here, Biddy, do you know how to 
 sleep?" was the inquiry of the rubicund 
 gentleman. 
 
 "Slape ?" echoed the girl, with eyes like 
 saucers. 
 
 "'Cause if you don't go back into tho 
 kitchen, and put yourself into a sound sleep 
 d'rectly ; yourself, yoiu: master and me, will 
 all be murdered in our beds. It 'ud hurt 
 my feelin's, Biddy, to see you with your 
 throat cut, and sich a nice fat throat as 
 it is ! " 
 
 Biddy uttered a groan, and shrunk back 
 behind the stairway. 
 
 " Now then ! " and Blossom led the way 
 ap-stairs, followed by the lean, angular 
 form of the merchant prince, who turned his 
 head over his shoulder, like a man afraid 
 of ghosts. 
 
 They arrived at the small entry at the 
 head of the stairs, on the third floor ; three 
 doors opened into the entry ; one on the 
 right, one on the left, and the third directly 
 in the background, facing the head of the 
 stairs. 
 
 "Hush I" whispered Blossom, "do you 
 hear any noise ? " 
 
 Advancing on tip-toe, he crouched against 
 the door on the right, and listened. In an 
 instant he came back to the head of the 
 stairs, where stood Mr, Somers, shaking in 
 every nerve. 
 
 " It's a snore," said Blossom, " jist go and 
 listen, and see if it's your son's snore." 
 
 It required much persuasion to induce the 
 merchant prince to take the step. 
 •* Where are your men ? " 
 Blossom pointed over the merchant's 
 shoulder, to the landing beneath. There, in 
 the gloom, stood the six figures, shoulder to 
 shoulder, and as motionless as stone. 
 "!S'ow will you go ?" 
 Mr. Somers advanced, and placed his 
 head against the door on the right. After a 
 brief pause, he returned %o the head of the 
 ' stairs where Blossom stood. " It is not my 
 j son's snore/' he said, " that is, if I am any 
 I judge of snores." 
 
 j Blossom took the light and the keys, and 
 j advanced to the door on the right, which he 
 
 gently tried to open, but found it locked. 
 [ Making a gesture of caution to the merchant 
 i prince, he selected the key of the door from 
 ' the bunch, softly inserted it, and as softly 
 [ turned it in the lock. The door oi)€ned 
 I with a sound. Then stepping on tip-toe, 
 
 he crossed the threshold, taking the light 
 
 with him. 
 
 Mr. Somers, left alone in the dark, felt 
 his heart march to his throat, 
 
 " I shall be murdered, — I know I sh^" 
 he muttered, when the light shone on his 
 frightened face again. Blossom stood in the 
 doorway, beckoning to him. 
 
 Somers advanced and crossed the threshold. 
 
 "Look there," whispered Blossom "now 
 d'ye believe me ? " 
 
 A huge man, dressed in the jacket and 
 trowsers of a convict, was sleeping on the 
 bed, his head thrown back, his mouth wide 
 open, and one arm hanging over the bed- 
 side. His chest heaved with long, deep 
 respirations, and his nostrils emitted a snore 
 of frightful depth. 
 
 At tins confirmation of the truth of Blos- 
 som's statement, Mr. Somers^ face became as 
 white as his cravat 
 
 " Look there ! " whispered Blossom, point- 
 ing to a pistol which lay upon the carpet, 
 almost within reach of the l»^wny hand 
 which hung over the bed-side, 
 
 "Good God I" ejaculated Somers, 
 
 " Now look there ! " Blossom pointed to 
 the brandy bottle on the table, and held the 
 light near it '■'Empty ! d'ye see ? " 
 
 Then Blossom drew from his capacious 
 pocket, certain pieces of rope, each of which 
 
FKOM NIGHTFALL UNTIL MIDNIGHT. 
 
 95 
 
 was attached to the middle of a piece of 
 hickory, as hard as iron. 
 
 " Hold the light," and like a nurse attend- 
 ing to a sleeping babe, the ingenious Blos- 
 som gently attached one of the aforesaid 
 pieces of rope to the ankles of the sleeper, in 
 such a manner, that the two pieces of hick- 
 ory, — one at either end of the rope, — formed 
 a knot, which a giant would have found it 
 hard to break. As the ankles rested side by 
 side, this feat was not so difficult. 
 
 " Now for the wrists," and Blossom quiet- 
 ly regarded the position of the sleeper's 
 hands. One was doubled on his huge chest, 
 the other hung over the bedside. To 
 straighten one arm and lift the other, — to do 
 this gently and without awaking the sleep- 
 er, — to tie both wrists together as he had tied 
 the ankles, — this was a difficult task, but 
 Blossom accomplished it. Once the convict 
 moved. " Dont give it up so easy /" he mut- 
 tered and snored again. 
 
 Blossom surveyed him with great satisfac- 
 tion. — " There's muscle, and bone, and fists, — 
 did you ever see sich fists !" 
 
 " A perfect bmte !" ejaculated Somers. 
 
 "Now you stay here, while I go into the 
 next room, and hunt for the tother one." 
 
 This room, it will be remembered, com- 
 municated with an adjoining apartment by 
 folding-doors. Blossom took the candle and 
 listened ; all was silent beyond the folding- 
 doors. He carefully opened these doors, and 
 light in hand, went into the next apartment. 
 A belt of light came through the aperture, 
 and fell upon the tall, spare form of the mer- 
 chant prince, who, standing in the center of 
 the first apaiiment gazed through the aper- 
 ture just mentioned, into the second room. 
 All the movements of Blossom were open to 
 his gaze. 
 
 He saw him approach a bed, whose ruf- 
 fled coverlet indicated that a man was sleep- 
 ing there. He saw him bend over this bed, 
 but the burly form of the police-officer hid 
 the face of the sleeper from the sight of the 
 merchant prince. He saw him lift the cover- 
 let, and stand for a moment, as if gazing 
 "Upon the sleeping man, and then saw him 
 start abruptly from the bed, and turn his step 
 toward the first room. j 
 
 "What's the matter with i/m^," cried the 
 merchant prince, "are you frightened ?" | 
 
 Truth to tell, the full-moon face of Blos- 
 som, spotted with carbuncles, had somewhat 
 changed its color. 
 
 " Can't you speak ? It's Evelyn who's 
 sleeping yonder, — isn't it? Hadn't you 
 better wake him quietly ?" 
 
 "Ah my feller," and the broken voice of 
 Blossom, showed that he was human after 
 all — all that he had seen in his lifetime, — 
 "Ah my feller, he'll never wake again." 
 
 Somers uttered a cry, seized the light and 
 strode madly into the next room, and turned 
 the bed where the sleeper laid. The fallen 
 jaw, the fixed eyeballs, the hand upon the 
 chest, stained with the blood which flowed 
 from the wound near the heart — he saw it 
 all, and uttered a horrible cry, and fell like 
 a dead man upon the floor. 
 [ Blossom seized the light from his hand as 
 he fell, and turning back into the first room 
 blew his whistle. The room was presently 
 occupied by the six assistants. 
 
 " There's been murder done here to-night," 
 he said, gruffly: " Potts, examine that pistol 
 near the bed. Unloaded, is it ? Gentlemen, 
 take a look at the prisoner and then follow 
 me." 
 
 He led the way into the second room, and 
 they all beheld the dead body of Evelyn 
 Somers. 
 
 " Two of you carry the old man down 
 stairs and try and rewive him ;" two of the 
 assistants lifted the insensible fomi of the 
 merchant prince, and bore it from the room. 
 " Now, gentlemen, we '11 wake the prisoner." 
 
 He approached the sleeping convict, fol- 
 lowed by four of the policemen, whose faces 
 manifested immingled horror. He struck 
 the sleeping man on the shoulder, — " Wake 
 up Gallus. Wake up Gallus, I say !" 
 
 After another blow, Ninety-One unclosed 
 his eyes, and looked around with a vague and 
 stupefied stare. It was not until he sat up in 
 bed, that he realized the fact, that his wrists 
 and ankles were pinioned. His gaze wan- 
 dered from the face of Blossom to the coun- 
 tenances of the other police-officers, and last 
 of all, rested upon his corded hands. 
 
 " My luck," he said, quietly, — " curse you, 
 you needn't awakened a fellow in his sleep. 
 Why couldn't you have waited till mor- 
 nin' ?" 
 
 And he sank back on the bed again. 
 
96 
 
 FROM NIGHTFALL UNTIL MIDNIGHT. 
 
 Blossom seized a pitcher filled with, water, 
 which stood upon a table, and dashed the 
 contents in the convict's face. 
 
 Thoroughly awake, and thoroughly en- 
 raged, Ninety- One started up in the bed, and 
 gave utterance to a volley of curses. 
 
 Blossom made a sign with his hand ; the 
 four policemen seized the convict and bore 
 him into the second room, while Blossom 
 held the light over the dead man's livid face 
 and bloody chest. 
 
 "Do you see that bullet-hole ?" said Blos- 
 som ; " the pistol was found a-side of your 
 bed, near your hand. Gallus, you '11 have to 
 dance on nothin', I'm werry much afeard 
 you will. But it 'ill take a strong rope to 
 hang you." 
 
 " What !" shouted Ninety-One, " you don't 
 mean to say, — " he cast a horrified look at 
 the dead man, and then, like a flash of light- 
 ning, the whole matter became as plain as 
 day to him. " Oh, Thirty-One," he groaned 
 between his set-teeth, " this is your dodge, — 
 is it ? Oh, Thirty-One, this is another little 
 item in our long account." 
 
 "What do you say?" asked one of the 
 policemen. Ninety-One relapsed into a 
 dogged silence. They could not force an- 
 other word from him. Carrying him back 
 into the first room, they laid him on the 
 bed, and secured his ankles and wrists with 
 additional cords. Meanwhile, they could 
 peruse at their leisure, that face, whose deep 
 jaw, solid chin, and massive throat, covered 
 with a stiff beard, manifested at once, im- 
 mense muscular power, and an indomitable 
 will. The eyes of the convict, overhung by 
 his bushy brows, the cheeks disfigured by a 
 hideous scar, the square forehead, with the 
 protuberance in the center, appearing amid 
 masses of gray hair, — all these details, were 
 observed by the spectatoi-s, as they added 
 new cords to the ankles and the wrists of 
 
 Ninety-One. 
 
 His chest shook with a burst of laughter, 
 " Don't give it up so easy !" he cried, " I'll 
 be even with you yet, Thirty-One." 
 
 " S'arch all the apartments, — we must find 
 his comrade," exclaimed Blossom, — " a pale- 
 faced young devil, whom I seen with him, 
 last night, in the cars." 
 
 Ninety-One started, even as he lay pinion- 
 ed upon the bed.— "Oh, Thirty-One," he 
 
 groaned, " and you must bring the boy in it, 
 too, must you ? Just add another figure to 
 our account." 
 
 The four rooms were thoroughly searched, 
 but the comrade was not found. 
 
 " Come, boys," said Blossom, " we '11 go 
 down-stairs and talk this matter over. Gal- 
 lus," directing his conversation to Ninety- 
 One, " we'll see you again, presently." 
 
 Ninety- One saw them cross the threshold, 
 and heard the key turn in the lock. He 
 was alone in the darkness, and with the 
 dead. 
 
 As Blossom, followed by the policemen, 
 passed down stairs, he was confronted on the 
 second landing by the affrighted servants, — 
 some of them but thinly clad, — who assailed 
 him with questions. Instead of answering 
 these multiplied queries, Blossom addressed 
 his conversation to a portly dame of some 
 forty years, who appeared in her night-dress 
 and with an enormous nightcap. 
 
 " The housekeeper, I believe. Ma'am ?" 
 "Yes, sir, — Mrs. Tompkins," replied the 
 dame, " Oh, do tell me, what does this all 
 mean ?" 
 
 Sow's the old gentleman ?" asked Blos- 
 som. 
 
 " In his room. He's reviving. Mr. Van 
 Huyden, his private secretary is with him. 
 But do tell us the truth of this affair — 
 what — what, does it all mean ?" 
 
 Madam, it means murder and blood and 
 an old convict. Excuse me, I must go— down- 
 stairs." 
 
 While the house rang with the exclama- 
 tions of his affrighted listeners, Blossom 
 passed down stairs, and, with his assistants, 
 entered the Library. 
 
 "The question afore the house, gentle- 
 men, is as follows," — and Blossom sank into 
 the chair of the merchant prince — "Shill 
 we keep the prisoner up-stairs all night, or 
 shill we take him to the Tombs ?" 
 
 Various opinions were given by the police- 
 men, and the debate assumed quite an ani- 
 mated form. Blossom, in all the dignity of 
 his bear-skin coat and carbuncled visage, 
 presiding as moderator. 
 
 "Address the cheer," he mildly exdaimed, 
 as the debate grew warm. "Allow me to 
 remark, gentlemen, that Stuffletz, there, is 
 very sensible. Stuff., you think as the coro- 
 
FROM NIGHTFALL 
 
 UNTIL MIDNIGHT. 
 
 97 
 
 ner's inquest will be held iip-stairs by arly 
 daylight to-morrow mornin' it 'ud be better 
 to keep the prisoner there so as to confront 
 him with the body ? That's your opinion, 
 Stuff. Well, I can't speak for you, gentle- 
 men, as I don't b'long to the reg'lar police, — 
 (I'm only an extra, you know !) — but it 
 seems to me, Stuff, is right. Therefore, let 
 the prisoner stay up-stairs all night ; the 
 room is safe, and I'll watch him mesself. 
 Beside, you don't think he's a-goin' to 
 tumble himself out of a third story winder, 
 or vanish in a puff o' brimstone, as the devil 
 does in the new play at the Bowery — do 
 you ?" 
 
 There was no one to gainsay the strong 
 position thus assumed by Poke-Berry Blos- 
 som, Esq. 
 
 " And then I kin have a little private chat 
 with him, in regard to the $71,000, — I guess 
 I can," he muttered to himself. 
 
 " What's the occasion of this confusion ?" 
 said a bland voice ; and, clad in his elegant 
 white coat, with his cloak drooping from his 
 right shoulder, Colonel Tarleton advanced 
 from the doorway to the light. " Passing by 
 I saw Mr. Somers' door open, and hear an 
 Uproar, — what is the matter, gentlemen ? 
 My old friend, Mr. Somers, is not ill, I 
 hope ?" 
 
 ** Evelyn, his son, has been shot," bluntly 
 responded Blossom — "by an old convict, 
 who had hid himself in the third story, with 
 the idea o' attackin' old Somers' cash-box 
 and jugular." 
 
 Colonel Tarleton, evidently shocked, raised 
 his hand to his forehead and staggered to a 
 chair. 
 
 " Evelyn shot !" he gasped, after a long 
 pause. — " Surely you dream. The particu- 
 lars, the particulars — " 
 
 Blossom recapitulated the particulars of 
 the case, according to the best of his know- 
 ledge. 
 
 "It is too horrible, too horrible," cried 
 Tarleton, and his extreme agitation was per- 
 ceptible to the policemen. " My young 
 friend Evelyn murdered ! Ah ! — " he started 
 from the chair, and fell back again with his 
 head in his hands. 
 
 " But we've got the old rag'muflfin," cried 
 Blossom, " safe and tight ; third story, back 
 room." 
 
 Tarleton started from the chair and ap- 
 proached Blossom, — his pale face stamped 
 with hatred and revenge. 
 
 " Mr. Blossom," he said, and snatched tho 
 revolver from the pocket of the rubicund 
 gentleman. " Hah ! it's loaded in six barrels ! 
 Murdered Evelyn — in the back room you 
 say — I'll have the scoundrel's life !" 
 
 He snatched the candle from the table, 
 and rushed to the door. The policemen did 
 not recover from their surprise, until they, 
 heard his steps on the stairs. 
 
 "After him, after him, — there'll be mis- 
 chief," shouted Blossom, and he rushed 
 after Tarleton, followed by the six police- 
 men. Tarleton's shouts of vengeance re- 
 sounded through the house, and once more 
 drew the servants, both men and women, to 
 the landing-place at the head of the stairs. 
 That figure attracted every eye — a man 
 attired in a white coat, his face wild, his hair 
 streaming behind him, a loaded pistol in one 
 hand and a light in the other. 
 
 " Ketch his coat-tails," shouted Blossom, 
 and, followed by policemen and servant- 
 maids, he rushed up the second stairway. 
 
 He found Tarleton in the act of forcing 
 the door on the right, which led into the 
 room where Ninety-One was imprisoned. 
 
 "It is locked ! Damnation 1" shouted 
 Tarleton, roaring like a madman. "Will 
 no one give me the key ?" 
 
 " I'll tell you what I'll give you," was the 
 remark of Blossom. " I'll give you one 
 under yer ear, if you don't keep quiet, — " 
 
 But his threat came too late. Tarleton 
 stepped back and then plunged madly 
 against the door. It yielded with a crash. 
 Then, with Blossom and the crowd at his 
 heels, he rushed into the room, brandishing 
 the pistol, as the light which he held fell 
 upon his convulsed features, — 
 
 "Where is the wretch? — show him to 
 me ! Where is the murderer of poor Eve- 
 lyn ? " 
 
 "Blossom involuntarily turned his eyes 
 toward the bed. It was empty. Ninety-One 
 was not there. His gaze traversed the room : 
 a door, looking like the doorway of a closet, 
 stood wide open opposite the bed. It 
 required but a moment to ascertain that the 
 door opened upon a stairway. 
 
 " By ! shouted Blossom, " he's gone I 
 
98 
 
 FROM NIGHTFALL 
 
 UNTIL MIDNIGHT. 
 
 His comrade has been concealed somewhere, | 
 and has cut him loose." 
 
 "Gonel" echoed police-officers and ser- 
 vants. 
 
 " Gone I" ejaculated Tarleton, and fell 
 back into a chair, and his head sunk upon 
 his breast. 
 
 There he remained muttering and moan- 
 ing, while the four apartments on the third 
 floor were searched in every corner by 
 Blossom and his gang. The search was vain. 
 
 "He can't be got far," cried Blossom. 
 " Some o' you go down into the yard, and 
 I'll s'arch this staircase." 
 
 Thus speaking, he took the light and dis- 
 appeared through the open doorway of the 
 staircase, while the other police-officers 
 hastily descended the main stairway. 
 
 Tarleton remained at least five minutes in 
 the darkness, while shouts were heard in 
 the yard behind the mansion. Then, emerg- 
 ing from the room, he descended to the 
 second floor, where he was confronted by the 
 housekeeper, who was struck with pity at 
 the sight of his haggard face. 
 
 " I am weak — I am faint ; allow me to 
 lean upon your arm," said Tarleton, and 
 supported his weight upon the fat arm of 
 the good lady. — " Support me to the bed- 
 chamber of my dear friend Somers, — the 
 father of poor murdered Evelyn." 
 
 " This way, sir," said the housekeeper, 
 kindly, " he's in there, with his private 
 secretary — " 
 
 " With his private secretary, did you say?*^ 
 faintly exclaimed Tarleton. " Close the door 
 after me, good madam, I wish to talk with 
 the dear old man." 
 
 He entered the bedchamber, leaving the 
 housekeeper at the door. 
 
 CHAPTER XIL 
 "show me the way." 
 A SINGLE lamp stood on a table, near a 
 bed which was surmounted by a canopy of 
 silken curtains. The room was spacious and 
 elegant ; chairs, carpet, the marble mantle, 
 elaborately carved, and the ceiling adorned 
 with an elaborate painting, — all served to 
 show that the merchant prince slept in a 
 "place of state." Every detail of that 
 richly-fumished apartment, said " Gold !" as 
 
 plainly as though a voice was speaking it all 
 the while. 
 
 His lean form, attired in every- day apparel, 
 
 was stretched upon the bed, and through the 
 aperture in the curtains, the lamp-light fell 
 upon one side of his face. He appeared to 
 be bleeping. His arms lay listlessly by his 
 side, and his head was thrown back upon the 
 pillow. His breathing was audible in the 
 most distant comer of the chamber. 
 
 "Gulian," said Tarleton, who seemed to 
 recover his usual strength and spirit, as soon 
 as he entered the room, "Where are you, 
 my dear ? " 
 
 The slight form of the private secretary 
 advanced from among the curtains at the foot 
 of the bed. His face, almost feminine in its 
 expression, appeared in the light, with tears 
 glistening on the cheeks. It was a beautiful 
 face, illumined by large, clear eyes, and 
 framed in the wavy hair, which flowed in 
 rich masses to his shoulders. At sight of the 
 elegant Colonel, the blue eyes of the boy 
 shone with a look of terror. He started 
 back, folding his hands over the frock coat, 
 which enveloped his boyish shape. 
 
 "Ah, my God, — you here!" was his 
 exclamation, "when will you cease to per- 
 secute me ? " 
 
 The Colonel smiled, patted his elegant 
 whiskers, and drawing nearer to the boy, 
 who seemed to cringe away from his touch, 
 he said in his blandest tone, — 
 
 " Persecute you ! Well, that is clever ! — 
 Talk of gratitude again in this world ! I 
 took you when you were a miserable found- 
 ling, a wretched little baby, without father, 
 mother, or name. I placed you in the quiet 
 of a country town, where you received an 
 elegant education. I gave you a name, — a 
 fancy name, I admit — the name which you 
 now wear — and when I visited you, once or 
 twice a year, you called me by the name of 
 father. How I gained money to support you 
 these nineteen or twenty years, and to adorn 
 that fine intellect of yours, with a finished 
 education, — why, you don't know, and I 
 scarcely can tell, myself. But after these 
 years of protection and support, I appeared 
 at your home in the country, and asked a 
 simple favor at your hands. Ay, child, the 
 man you delighted to call father asked in 
 return for all that he had done for you, ft 
 
FROM NIGHTFALL UNTIL MIDNIGHT. 
 
 99 
 
 favor — only one favor — and that of the! 
 simplest character. Where was your grati- 
 tude ? You refused me ; you fled from your 
 home in the country, and I lost sight of you 
 until to-night, when I find my lost lamb, in 
 the employment of the rich merchant. His 
 private secretary, forsooth ! " 
 
 " Hush," exclaimed Gulian, with a depre- 
 catory gesture, " You will wake Mr. Somers. 
 He has had one convulsion already, and it 
 may prove fatal. I have sent for a doctor, — 
 oh, why does he not come ? " 
 
 " You shall not avoid me in that way, my 
 young friend," said Tarleton. He laid his 
 hand on the arm of the boy, and bent his 
 face so near to him that the latter felt the 
 Colonel's breath upon his forehead. " The 
 money which I bestowed upon your educa- 
 tion, I obtained by what the world calls fel- 
 ony. For you — for you — " his voice sunk 
 to a deeper tone, and his eyes flashed with 
 anger ; " for you I spent some years in that 
 delightful retreat, which is known to vulgar 
 ears by the word, — Penitentiary ! " 
 
 " God help me," cried the boy, affrighted 
 by the expression which stamped the Colo- 
 nel's face. 
 
 " Penitentiary or jail, call it what you will, 
 I spent some years there for your sake. And 
 do you wish to evade me now when, I tell 
 you that I reared you but for one object, and 
 that object dearer to me than life ? You 
 Tan away from my guardianship; you attempt 
 to conceal yourself from me; you attempt to 
 foil the hope for which I have suffered the 
 tortures of the damned these twenty years ? 
 Come, my boy, you'll think better of it." 
 
 The smile of the Colonel was altogether 
 fiendish. The boy sank on his knees, and 
 raised to the Colonel's gaze that beautiful face 
 stamped with terror, and bathed in tears. 
 
 " Oh, pardon me — forgive me ! " he cried, 
 "Do not kill me — " 
 " Kill you ! Pshaw ! " 
 " Let me live an obscure life, away from 
 your observation; let me be humble, poor and 
 imknown ; as you value the hope of salva- 
 tion, do not — I beseech you on my knees — do 
 not ask me to comply with your request ! " 
 
 "If you don't get up, I may be tempted 
 to strike you," was the brutal remark of the 
 Colonel. " Pitiful wretch I Hark ye," he 
 bent his head, — " the robber who this night 
 
 to this house by means of a night-key. He 
 had an accomplice in the house, who supplied 
 him with the key. That accomplice, (let U3 
 suppose a case) was yourself — " 
 
 Me ! " cried the boy, in utter horror. 
 
 "I can obtain evidence of the fact," con- 
 tinued the Colonel, and paused. " You had 
 better think twice before you enter the lists 
 with me and attempt to thwart my will." 
 
 The boy, thus kneeling, did not reply, but 
 buried his face in his hands, and his flowing 
 hair hid those hands with its luxurious 
 waves. He shook in every nerve with ag- 
 ony. He sobbed aloud. 
 
 " Will you be quiet ? " the Colonel seized 
 him roughly by the shoulder, "or shall I 
 throttle you ? " 
 
 " Yes, kill me, fiend, kill me, oh! kill me 
 with one blow:'* the boy raised his face, and 
 pronounced these words, his eyes flashing 
 with hatred, as he uttered the word fiend" 
 There was something startling in the look of 
 mortal hatred which had so suddenly fixed 
 itself upon that beautiful face. Even the 
 Colonel was startled. 
 
 " Nay, nay, my child," he said in a sooth- 
 ing tone, "get up, get up, that's a dear 
 child — I meant no harm — " 
 
 At this moment the conversation was in- 
 terrupted by a hollow voice. 
 
 " You must pay, sir. That 's my way. — 
 You must pay or you must go." 
 
 The business-like nature, the every-day 
 character of these words, was in painful con- 
 trast with the hollow accent which accom- 
 panied their utterance. At the sound the 
 boy sprang to his feet, and the Colonel start- 
 ed as though a pistol had exploded at his 
 ear. 
 
 The merchant prince had risen into a sit« 
 ting posture. His thin features, low, broad 
 forehead, wide mouth, with thin lips and 
 pointed chin, were thrown strongly into view 
 by the white cravat which encircled his 
 throat. Those features were bathed in mois- 
 ture. The small eyes, at other times half 
 concealed by heavy lids, were now expanded 
 in a singular stare, — a stare which made the 
 blood of the Colonel grow cold in his veins. 
 
 " God bless us ! What 's the matter with 
 you, good Mr. Somers ? " he ejaculated. 
 
 But the rich man did not heed him. 
 
100 
 
 FROM NIGHTFALL UNTIL MIDNIGHT. 
 
 " I wouldn't give a snap for your Eeading 
 Railroad — bad stock — bad stock — it must 
 burst. It will burst, I say. Pay, pay, pay, 
 or go ! That 's the only way to do busi- 
 ness. D'ye suppose I'm an ass ? The 
 note can't lie over. If you don't meet it, it 
 shall be protested. 
 
 As he uttered these incoherent words, his 
 expanding eyes still fixed, he inserted his 
 tremulous hand in his waist-coat pocket, and 
 took from thence a golden eagle, which he 
 brought near his eyes, gazing at it long and 
 eagerly. 
 
 "He's delirious," ejaculated Tarleton, 
 " why don't you go for a doctor ? " 
 
 "Oh, what shall I do?" cried Gulian, 
 rushing to the door, " why doesn't the doc- 
 tor come ? — " 
 
 But at the door he was confronted by the 
 buxom housekeeper, who whispered, " Our 
 doctor is out of town, but one of the ser- 
 vants has found another one : he 's writing 
 down-stairs." 
 
 " Quick ! Quick ! Bring him at once ; " 
 and Gulian, in his flight, pushed the house- 
 keeper out of the room. 
 
 Mr. Somers still remained in a sitting pos- 
 ture, his eye fixed upon the golden eagle. 
 
 " Tel] Jenks to foreclose," he muttered. 
 
 his mild voice, "I am sufi"ering from a severe 
 cold." He then directed his attention to the 
 sick man, while Gulian and Tarleton watch- 
 ed his movements, with evident interest. 
 
 The doctor did not touch the merchant ; 
 he stood by the bedside, gazing upon him 
 silently. 
 
 " What 's the matter with our friend " 
 whispered Tarleton. 
 
 The doctor did not answer. He remained 
 motionless by the bedside, surveying the 
 quivering features and fixed eyes of the af- 
 flicted man. 
 
 "This person," exclaimed the doctor, 
 after a long pause, is not suffering from a 
 physical complaint. His mind is afflicted. 
 From the talk of the servants in the hall, I 
 learned that he has this night lost his only 
 son, by the hands of a murderer. The shock 
 has been too great for him. My young 
 friend," he addressed Gulian, who stood at 
 his back, " it were as well to send for a cler- 
 gyman." 
 
 Gulian hurried to the door, and whispered 
 to the housekeeper. Returning to the bed 
 side, he found the doctor seated in a chair, 
 ■^^'ith a watch in his hand, in full view of the 
 delirious man. The Colonel, grasping the 
 bed-curtain, stood behind him, in an attitude 
 
 I've nothing to do with the man's wife [of profound thought, yet with a faint smile 
 and children. It isn't in the way of busi- upon his lips. 
 
 ness. The mortgage isn't paid, and we As for the merchant prince, seated bolt 
 
 upright in the bed, he clutched the golden 
 eagle, (which seemed to have magnetized 
 his gaze), and babbled in his delirium — 
 
 " You an heir of Trinity Church ? " he 
 said, with a mocking smile upon his thin 
 lips, " you one of the descendants of Anreke 
 Jans Bogardus ? Pooh ! Pooh ! The Church 
 is firm,— j^m. She defies you. Aaron Bun- 
 tried that game, he ! he ! and found it best to 
 quit, — to quit — to quit. What Trinity 
 Church has got, she will hold, — hold — hold. 
 She buys, — she sells — she sells — she 
 buys — a great business man is Trinity 
 Church ! And with your two hundred beg- 
 garly heirs of Anreke Jans Bogardus, you 
 will go to law about her title. Pooh !" 
 
 " He is going fast," whispered the Doctor, 
 "his mind is killing him. Where are his 
 relatives ? " 
 
 His relatives ! Sad, sad word ! His wife 
 had been dead many years, and her relatives 
 
 must sell — sell — sell, — sell," he repeated 
 until his voice died away in a murmur. 
 
 The doctor entered the room. "Where 
 is our patient ? " he said, as he advanced to 
 the bedside. He was a man somewhat ad- 
 vanced in years, with bent figure and stoop- 
 ing shoulders. He was clad in an old-fash- 
 ioned surtout, with nine or ten heavy capes 
 hanging about his shoulders ; and, as if to 
 protect him from the cold, a bright-red ker- 
 chief was tied about his neck and the lower 
 part of his face. He wore a black fur hat, 
 with an ample brim, which effectually shaded 
 his features. 
 
 The Colonel started at the sight of this 
 singular figure. " Our friend of the blue 
 capes, as I 'm alive ! " he muttered half 
 aloud. 
 
 The doctor advanced to the bedside. — 
 " You will excuse me for retaining my hat 
 and this kerchief about my neck," he said in 
 
FROM NIGHTFALL 
 
 UNTIL MIDNIGHT. 
 
 101 
 
 were at a distance ; perchance in a foreign 
 land. His yiearest relative was a corpse, up- 
 stairs, with a pistol wound through his 
 heart. 
 
 Evelyn Somers, Sen., was one of the rich- 
 est men in New York, and yet there was not 
 a single relative to stand by his dying-bed. 
 The death-sweat on his fevered brow, the 
 whiteness of death on his quivering lips, the 
 fire of the grave in his expanding eyes, 
 Evelyn Somers, the merchant prince, had 
 neither wife nor child nor relative to stand 
 by him in his last hour. The poor boy who 
 wept by the bed-side was, perchance, his 
 only friend. 
 
 " Cornelius Berman, the artist, (who died, 
 I believe, some years ago,) was his only rela- 
 tive in New York : his only son out of 
 view." This was the answer of Colonel 
 Tarleton, to the question of the Doctor. 
 
 And the dying man, still sitting bolt up- 
 right, one hand on his knee, and the other 
 grasping the golden coin, still babbled in his 
 delirium in the hollow tone of death. He 
 talked of everything. He bought and sold, 
 received rent and distressed tenants, paid 
 notes and protested them, made imaginary 
 sums by the sale of stocks, and achieved 
 imaginary triumphs by the purchase of profit- 
 able tracts of land, — it was a frightful scene. 
 
 The Doctor shuddered, and as he looked 
 at his watch, muttered a word of prayer. 
 
 The Colonel turned his face away, but 
 was forced by an involuntary impulse, to 
 turn again and gaze upon that livid coun- 
 tenance. 
 
 The boy Gulian — in the shadows of the 
 room — sunk on his knees and uttered a 
 prayer, broken by sobs. 
 
 At length the dying man seemed to re- 
 cover a portion of his consciousness. Turn- 
 ing his gaze from the golden coin which he 
 still clutched in his fingers, he said in a voice 
 which, in some measure, resembled his 
 e very-day tone, — 
 
 " Send for a minister, a minister, quick ! I 
 am very weak." 
 
 The words had scarcely passed his lips, 
 when a soft voice exclaimed, "I am here, 
 my dear friend Somers, I trust that this is 
 not serious. A sad, sad affliction, you have 
 encountered to-night. But you must cheer 
 up, you must, indeed." 
 
 The minister had entered the room un- 
 perceived, and now stood by the bed-side. 
 
 " Herman Bamhiurst ! " ejaculated Colonel 
 Tarleton. 
 
 The tall, slender figure of the clergyman, 
 dressed in deep black, was disclosed to the 
 gaze of the dying man, who gazed intently 
 at his blonde face, effeminate in its excessive 
 fairness, and then exclaimed, reaching his 
 hand, — 
 
 " Come, I am going. I want you to show 
 me the way ! " 
 
 "Really, my dear friend," began Bam- 
 hurst, passing his hand over his hair, which, 
 straight and brown and of silken softness, 
 fell smoothly behind his ears, "you must 
 bear up. This is not so serious as you im- 
 agine." 
 
 "I tell you I am going. I have often 
 heard you preach, — once or twice in 
 Trinity — I rather liked you — and now I 
 want you to show me the way ! Do you 
 see there?" he extended his trembling 
 hand, " there's the way I'm going. Its all 
 dark. You're a minister of my church too ; 
 I want you to show me the way f " 
 
 There was a terrible emphasis in the 
 accent, — a terrible entreaty in the look of 
 the dying man. 
 
 The Rev. Herman Barnhurst sank back 
 in a chair, much affected. 
 
 " Has he made his will ? " he whispered 
 to the Doctor, ''so much property and no 
 heirs : he could do so much good with it. 
 Had not you better send for a lawyer ? " 
 
 The Doctor regarded, for a moment, the 
 fair complexion, curved nose, warm, full 
 lips, and rounded chin of the young minis- 
 ter ; and then answered, in a low voice, 
 
 " You are a minister. It is your duty not 
 altogether to preach eloquent sermons, and 
 show a pair of delicate hands from the sum- 
 mit of a marble pulpit. It is your duty to 
 administer comfort by the dying-bed, where 
 humbug is stripped of its mark, and death is 
 the only reality. Do your duty, sir. Save 
 this man's soul." 
 
 " Yes, save my soul," cried Somers, who 
 heard the last words of the Doctor, "I don't 
 want the offices of the chiu-ch ; I don't want 
 prayers. I want comfort, comfort ; naio.''* 
 He paused, and then reaching forth his 
 hand, said in a low voice, half broken by a 
 
102 
 
 FROM NIGHTFALL 
 
 UNTIL MIDNIGHT. 
 
 burst of horrible laughter, " There's the way 
 I've got to travel. Now tell me, minister, 
 do you really believe that there is anything 
 there ? When we die, we die, don't we ? 
 Sleep and rot, rot and sleep, don't we ? " 
 
 Herman, who was an Atheist at heart, 
 though he had never confessed the truth 
 even to himself — Herman, who was a min- 
 ister for the sake of a large salary, fine car- 
 riage, and splendid house — Herman, who 
 was, in fact, an intellectual voluptuary, de- 
 voting life and soul to the gratification of 
 one appetite, which had, with him, become 
 a monomania — Herman, now, for the first 
 moment in his life, was conscious of a some- 
 thing heyond the grave ; conscious that this 
 religion of Christ, the Master, which he used 
 as a trade, was something more than a trade ; 
 was a fact, a reality, at once a hope and a 
 judgment. 
 
 And the Rev. Herman Barnhurst felt one 
 throe of remorse, and shuddered. Vailing 
 his fair face in his delicate hands, he gave 
 himself up to one moment of terrible re- 
 flection. 
 
 " He is failing fast," whispered the Doc- 
 tor ; " you had better say a word of hope to 
 him." 
 
 " Yes, the camel is going through the eye 
 of the needle," cried Somers, with a burst 
 of shrill laughter. " Minister, did you ever 
 see a camel go through the eye of a needle ? 
 Oh ! you fellows preach such soft and vel- 
 vety sermons to us, — but you never say a 
 word about the camel — never a word about 
 the camel. You see us buy and sell, — you 
 see us hard landlords, careful business men, — 
 you see us making money day after day, 
 and year after year, at the cost of human 
 life and human blood, — and you never say a 
 word about the camel. Never ! never ! Why 
 we Tceep such fellows as you, for our use : 
 for every thousand that we make in trade, 
 we give 3^ou a good discount, in the way of 
 salary, and so as we go along, we keep a 
 debit and credit account with what you call 
 Providence. Now rub out my sins, will 
 you ? I've paid you for it, I believe ! " 
 
 " Poor friend ! He is delirious !" ejacu- 
 lated Hennan Barnhurst. 
 
 The boy Gulian, (unperceived by the 
 doctor,) brought a golden-clasped Bible, and 
 laid it on the minister's knees. Then look- 
 
 ing with a shudder at the livid face of the 
 merchant prince, he shrank back into the 
 shadows, first whispering to the minister — 
 ** Read to him from this book." 
 
 Somers, with his glassy eye, caught a 
 glimpse of the book, as in its splendid bind- 
 ing, it rested on the minister's knees — 
 
 " Pooh ! pooh ! you needn't read. Be- 
 cause if that book is true, why then I've 
 made a bad investTnent of my life. I never 
 deceived myself. I always looked upon this 
 thing you call religion as a branch of trade — 
 a cloak — a trap. But now I want you to 
 tell me one thing, (and I've paid enough 
 money to have a decent answer) : Do you 
 really believe that there is anything after this 
 life ? Speak, minister ! Don't we go to 
 sleep and rot, — and isn't that all ? " 
 
 Herman did not answer. 
 
 But the voice of the boy Gulian, who was 
 kneeling in the shadows of the death- 
 chamber, broke through the stillness — 
 
 "There is something beyond the grave. 
 There is a God ! There is a heaven and a 
 hell. There is a hope for the repentant, and 
 there is a judgment for the impenitent." 
 
 There was something almost supernatural 
 in the tones of the boy's voice, breaking so 
 slowly and distinctly upon the profound 
 stillness. 
 
 The spectators started at the sound ; and 
 as for the dying man, he picked at his 
 clothing and at the coverlet with his long 
 fingers, now chilling fast with the cold of 
 death — and muttered incoherent soimds, 
 without sense or meaning of any kind. 
 
 " His face has a horrible look 1" ejaculated 
 the Colonel ; who was half hidden among 
 the curtains of the bed. 
 
 " He is going fast," said the Doctor, looking 
 at his watch. " In five minutes all will be 
 over, — " 
 
 " And you said, I believe, that he had not 
 made his will ?" 
 
 It was Herman who spoke. The sensation 
 of remorse had been succeeded by his accus- 
 tomed tone of feeling. His face was im- 
 pressed with the profound selfishness which 
 impelled his words. ** He had better make 
 his will. Without heirs, he can leave hii 
 fortune to the church, — " 
 
 *' For shame ! for shame !" cried the Doc- 
 tor. 
 
FEOM NIGHTFALL UNTIL MIDNIGHT. 
 
 103 
 
 "A little too greedy, my good friend," the 
 Colonel, at his back, remarked. " Allow me 
 to remark, that your conduct manifests too 
 much of the Levite, and too little of the 
 gentleman." 
 
 Herman bit his lip, and was silent. 
 
 After this, there was no word sj-yoken for a 
 long time. 
 
 The spectators watched in silence the 
 struggles of the dying man. 
 
 How he died ! — I shudder but to write it ; 
 and would not write it, were I not convinced 
 that atheism in the church is the grand cause 
 of one half of the crimes and evils that 
 afflict the world. 
 
 The death-bed of the atheist church- 
 member, with the ATHEIST minister sitting 
 by the bed, was a horrible seen*. 
 
 I see that picture, now : — 
 
 A vast room, furnished with all the inci- 
 dents of -wealth, lofty ceiling, walls adorned 
 with pictures, and carpet that was woven in 
 human blood. A single lamp on the table 
 near the bed, breaks the gloom. The 
 curtains of that bed are of satin, the pillow 
 is of down, the coverlet is spotless as the 
 snow ; and there a long slender frame, and a 
 face with the seal of sixty years of life upon 
 it, attract the gaze of silent spectators. 
 
 The doctor — his face shaded by the wide 
 rim of his hat, sits by the bed, watch in 
 hand. 
 
 Behind him appears the handsome face 
 of Colonel Tarleton — the man of the world, 
 whose form is shrouded in the curtains. 
 
 A little apart, kneels the boy, Gulian, 
 whose beautiful face is stamped with awe 
 and bathed in tears. 
 
 And near the head of the bed, seated on 
 a chair, which touches the pillow upon which 
 rests the head of the dying — behold-the tall 
 form and aquiline face of the minister, who 
 listens to the moans of death, and subdues his 
 conscience into an expression of calm serenity. 
 
 The dying man is seized with a spasm, 
 which throws his limbs into horrible contor- 
 tions. He writhes, and struggles, with hands 
 and feet, as tho\igh wrestling with a mur- 
 derer : he utters horrible cries. At length, 
 raising himself in a sitting posture, he pro- 
 jects his livid face into the light; he reaches 
 forth his arm, a'ld grasps the minister by the 
 wrist, — the minister utters an involuntary 
 7 
 
 cry of pain, — for that grasp is like the in-es- 
 sure of an iron vice. 
 
 "Not a word about the camel, — hey, min- 
 ister ?" 
 
 That was the last word of Evelyn Somcrs, 
 Sen., the merchant prince. 
 
 There, projecting from the bed-curtains 
 his livid face, — there, with features distorted 
 and eyes rolling, the last glance upon the 
 evidences of wealth, which filled the cham- 
 ber, — there, even as he clasped the minister 
 by the wrist, he gasped his last breath, and 
 was a dead man. 
 
 It was with an effort that Herman Barn- 
 hurst disengaged his wrist from the gripe of 
 the dead man's hand. As he tore the hand 
 away, a golden eagle fell from it, and 
 sparkled in the light, as it fell. The rich 
 man couldn't take it with him, to the place 
 where he was going, — not even one piece of 
 gold. 
 
 The Rev. Herman Barnhurst rose and left 
 the room without once looking back. 
 
 The doctor, also, rose and straightened the 
 dead man's limbs, and closed his eyes. This 
 done, he drew his broad-brimmed hat over 
 his brow, and left the room without a 
 word — yes, he si)oke four words, as he left 
 the place : " One out of seven !" he said. 
 
 The Colonel emerged from the curtains ; 
 he was ashy pale, and he tottered as he 
 walked. This time his agitation was not a 
 sham. Once he looked back upon the dead 
 man's face, and then directed his steps to the 
 door. 
 
 "Remember, Gulian," he whispered as he 
 passed the kneeling boy : " to-morrow I 
 will see you." 
 
 Gulian, still on his knees in the center of 
 the apartment, prayed God to be merciful to 
 the dead, — to the dead son, whose corpse lay 
 in the room above, and to the dead father, 
 whose body^was stretched before his eyes. 
 
 Tarleton paused for a moment on the 
 threshold, with his hand upon the knob of 
 the door — 
 
 "If Cornelius Berman were alive, he 
 would inherit this immense estate !" mut- 
 tered the Colonel. "As it is, here is a palace 
 with two dead bodies in it, and no heir to 
 : inherit the wealth of the corpse which only 
 I half an hour ago was the owner of half a 
 ' million dollars. But it is no time to medi- 
 
104 
 
 FROM NIGHTFALL 
 
 UNTIL MIDNIGHT. 
 
 tate. There's work for me at the tem- 
 ple." 
 
 Turning from that stately mansion, in 
 which father and son lay dead, we will fol- 
 low the steps of Rev. Herman Barnhurst. 
 
 CHAPTER XIIL 
 
 THE REVEREND VOLUPTUARIES. 
 
 As the Rev. Herman Barnhurst passed 
 from the hall-door of the palace of the mer- 
 chant prince, and descended the marble steps, 
 his thoughts were by no means of a pleasant 
 character. The image of Alice, for the mo- 
 ment forgotten, the thoughts of Herman were 
 occupied with the scene which he had just 
 witnessed, — the hopeless death-bed of the 
 merchant prince. 
 
 " The fool !" muttered Herman, drawing 
 his cloak around him, and pulling his hat 
 over his brows, " The miserable fool ! To 
 die without making a will, when he has no 
 heirs and the church has done so much for 
 him. Why (in his own phrase) it has been 
 capital to him, in the way of reputation ; he 
 has grown rich by that reputation ; and now 
 he dies, leaving the church and her minis- 
 ters, — ^not a single copper, not a single cop- 
 per." 
 
 It was too early for Herman to return to 
 his home, — so he thought, — therefore, he 
 directed his steps toward Broadway, resolv- 
 ing, in spite of the late hour of the night, to 
 pay a visit to one of his most intimate friends. 
 
 But, as he left the palace of the merchant 
 prince, a man wrapped also in a cloak, and 
 with a cap over his eyes, rose from the 
 shadows behind the marble steps, and walk- 
 ed with an almost noiseless pace in the foot- 
 steps of the young clergyman. 
 
 This man had seen Herman enter the 
 house of the merchant prince. Standing 
 himself in the darkness behind the steps, he 
 had waited patiently until Herman again 
 appeared. In fact, he had followed the 
 steps of the clergyman for at least three 
 hours previous to the moment when he came 
 to the residence of Evelyn Somers, Sr.; fol- 
 lowed him from street to street, from house 
 to house, walking fast or slow, as Herman 
 quickened or moderated his pace ; stopping 
 when Herman stopped ; and thus, for three 
 long hours, he had dogged the steps of the 
 
 clergyman with a patience and perseverance, 
 that must certainly have been the result of 
 some powerful motive. 
 
 And now, as the Rev. Herman Barnhurst 
 left the house where the merchant prince 
 lay dead, the man in cap and cloak, quietly 
 resumed his march, like a veteran at the tap 
 of the drum. 
 
 At the moment when Herman reached a 
 dark point of the street near Broadway, the 
 MAN stole noiselessly to his side and tapped 
 him on the shoulder. 
 
 Herman turned with an ejaculation, — half 
 fear, half wonder. The street was dark and 
 deserted ; the lights of Broadway shone two 
 hundred yards ahead. Herman, at a glance, 
 saw that himself and the man were the only 
 persons visible. 
 
 " It's a thief," he thought, — and then, said 
 aloud, in his sweetest voice : "What do you 
 want, my friend ?" 
 
 The twenty-fifth of December is near,''^ said 
 the MAN, in a slow and significant voice: "I 
 have important information to communicate 
 to you, in relation to the Van Huyden estate." 
 
 Herman was, of course, interested in the 
 great estate, as one of the seven ; but he ha<i 
 a deeper interest in it, than the reader, — at 
 present, can imagine. The words of the 
 Man, therefore, agitated him deeply. 
 
 " Who are you ?" he asked. 
 
 " That I will tell you, when you have 
 taken me to a place, where we can converse 
 freely together." 
 
 Herman hesitated. 
 
 " Well, as you will," said the man — " It 
 concerns you as much as it does me. You 
 are afraid to grant me an interview. Good 
 night—" 
 
 Thus speaking, he carelessly turned away. 
 
 Now Herman was • afraid of the man, but 
 there were other Men of whom he was more 
 afraid. So balancing one fear against another, 
 he came to this conclusion, that the Man 
 might communicate something, which would 
 save him from the other Men, and so he 
 called the stranger back. 
 
 " Why this concealment ?" he asked. 
 
 " You will confess, after we have talked 
 together, that I have good reasons for this 
 concealment," was the ansAver of the Man. 
 
 " Come, then, with me," said Herman, " I 
 will not take you to my own rooms, but I 
 
FROM NIGHTFALL UNTIL MIDNIGHT. 
 
 105 
 
 "will take you to the rooms of a friend. He 
 is out of town and we can converse at our 
 ease." 
 
 He led the M-ay toward the room of the 
 Rev. Dr. Bulgin, whom the profane some- 
 times called Bulging, which, as the learned 
 know, is good Ethiopian for Steam Engine. 
 This seemed to imply that the Rev, Dr. was 
 a perfect Locomotive in his way. 
 
 *' My friend Bulgin," said Herman, as they 
 arrived in front of a massive four story build- 
 ing, on a cross street, not more than a quarter 
 of a mile from the head of Broadway, 
 " occupies the entire upper floor of this house, 
 as a study. There he secludes himself while 
 engaged in the composition of his more ela- 
 borate works. He has a body servant and a 
 maid servant to wait upon him ; and a parlor 
 down stairs, for the reception of his visitors ; 
 but he has no communication with the other 
 ' art of the house. In fact, he never sees the 
 occupants of the boarding-house beneath his 
 study. He rents his rooms of the lady who 
 keeps the boarding-house, — Mrs. Smelgin, — 
 who supplies his meals. Thus, he has the 
 upper part of the house all to himself; and 
 as I have a key to his rooms, we can go 
 Tip there and talk at our ease." 
 
 " But, is not Dr. Bulgin married. ?" asked 
 the MAN. 
 
 " He is. But his lady, on account of her 
 health (she cannot bear the noise of the city), 
 is forced to reside in the country with her 
 father." 
 
 " Ah !" said the man, 
 
 Herman opened the front door with a 
 night key, a«d led the way along a hall and 
 up three ranges of stairs, until he came to a 
 door. This door he opened with another 
 key, and followed by the man, he entered 
 Dr. Bulgin's study. He then locked the 
 door, and they found themselves enveloped 
 in Egyptian darkness. 
 
 " This may be Dr. Bulgin's study, but it 
 strikes me, a little light would not do it 
 much harm." 
 
 "Wait a moment," said Barnhurst, — "I'll 
 light the lamp." And presently, by the aid 
 of matches, he lighted a lamp which stood 
 on a table of variegated marble. A globular 
 shade of an exquisite pattern tempered the 
 rays of the lamp, and filled the place with 
 a light that was eminently soft and luxurious. 
 
 " Be seated," said Barnhurst, but the 
 stranger remained standing, with his cloak 
 wound about him and his cap drawn over 
 his brows. He was evidently examining the 
 details of the study with an attentive, — may 
 be — an astonished gaze. 
 
 Dr. Bulgin's study was worthy of exami- 
 nation. 
 
 It was composed of the upper floor of Mrs. 
 Smelgin's boarding-house, and was, there- 
 fore, a vast room, its depth and breadth cor- 
 responding to the depth and breadth of the 
 house. 
 
 It was, at least, thirty yards in length and 
 twenty in breadth, and the ceiling was of 
 corresponding height. Four huge windows 
 faced the east, and four the west. 
 
 Thus, vast and roomy, the apartment was 
 furnished in a style which might well excit.e 
 the attentive gaze of the stranger. 
 
 In the center of the southern wall, stood 
 the bookcase, an elegant fabric of rosewood, 
 surmounted by richly-carved work, and 
 crowned with an alabaster bust of Leo the 
 Tenth ; the voluptuous Pope who drank 
 his wine, v/hile poor Martin Luther was 
 overturning the world. 
 
 The shelves of this bookcase were stored 
 with the choicest books of five languages ; 
 some glittering in splendid binding, and 
 others looking ancient and venerable in their 
 faded covers. There were the most recon- 
 dite works in English, French, German, 
 Spanish ; and there were also the most 
 popular works in as many languages. The- 
 ology, metaphysics, mathematics, geometry, 
 poetry, the drama, history, fact, fiction, — all 
 were there, and of all manner of shapes, 
 styles and ages. It was a very Noah's 
 Ark of literature, into which seemed to have 
 been admitted one specimen, at least, of 
 every book in the universe. 
 
 On the right of the bookcase was a sofa 
 that made you sleepy just to look at it ; it 
 was so roomy, and its ^ed-velvet cushioning 
 looked so soft and tempting. This sofa was 
 framed in rosewood^ with little rosewood 
 cupids wreathed around its legs. 
 
 And on the left of the bookcase was 
 another sofa of a richer style, and of a more 
 sleep-impelling exterior. 
 
 Above each sofa hung a picture, concealed 
 by a thick curtain^ 
 
FROM NIGHTFALL UNTIL MIDNIGHT. 
 
 106 
 
 Along the northern Avail of the study 
 were disposed a sofa as magnificent as the 
 others, and a series of marble pedestals and 
 red-velvet ai-m-chairs. Every pedestal was 
 crowned by an alabaster vase or statue of 
 white marble. There were Eve, Apollo, 
 Canova's Venus, and the Three Graces, — 
 all exquisite originals or exquisite copies, in 
 snowy marble. 
 
 The arm-chairs were arm-chairs indeed. 
 Eed-velvet cushions and high backs and 
 great broad arms ; they were the idea of a 
 happy brain, impregnated with belief in 
 Sancho's " Blessed be the man that invented 
 sleep." 
 
 And this northern wall was hung with 
 pictures in massive frames, richly gilt ; the 
 frames \fere exposed, but the pictures were 
 vailed. 
 
 In the intervals between the western 
 windows were pedestals crowned with vases, 
 and mosaic tables loaded with objects of 
 viHu : exquisite trifles of all sorts, gleaned 
 from the Old World. 
 
 And in the intervals between the eastern 
 windows were recesses, covered with hang- 
 ings of pale crimson. What is concealed 
 in those recesses, doth not yet appear. Both 
 eastern and western windows were curtained 
 with folds of intermingled white and damask, 
 floating luxuriantly from the ceiling to the 
 floor. 
 
 The floor was covered with an Axminster 
 carpet of the richest dyes. 
 
 Gilt mouldings ran around the ceiling, 
 and in the center thereof, was a cupid, en- 
 circled by a huge weath of roses, and re- 
 posing on a day -break cloud. ^ 
 
 The table, of variegated marble, which 
 stood in the center of the study, was sur- 
 rounded by three arm-chairs of the same 
 style as those which lined the wall. It was 
 circular in form, and upon it, appeared an 
 elegant alabaster inkstand, gold pens with 
 pearl handles, gilt-en^ed paper touched 
 with perfume, a few choice books, and an 
 exquisite " Venus in the Shell," done in ala- 
 baster. One of these books was a modern 
 edition of the Golden Ass of Apuleius ; and 
 the other was a choice translation of Ea- 
 belais. 
 
 Altogether, the Rev. Dr. Bulgin's room 
 was one of those rooms worthy of a place 
 
 in history ; and which, may be, could tell 
 strange histories, were its chairs and tables 
 gifted with the power of speech. 
 
 "And this is the study of the Rev. Dr. 
 Bulgin !" ejaculated the man. 
 
 " It is," replied Herman, flinging himself 
 into an arm-chair ; " here he composes his 
 most elaborate theological works." 
 
 "Why is his library crowned with that 
 bust of Leo the Tenth, the Atheist and 
 Sensualist ? " 
 
 " He is Avriting a work on the age of Lu- 
 ther," replied Hei-man. 
 
 " Oh ! " responded the man. 
 
 " And this ! " the man drew the vail and 
 bore one of the pictures to the light : " and 
 this ! what does it mean ? " 
 
 "You are inquisitive, sir," replied Her- 
 man, somewhat confounded by the sudden 
 disclosure of this singular picture, " why, in 
 fact. Dr. Bulgin is writing a tract agoAnst im- 
 moral pictures." 
 
 " A-h ! " responded the man, and picked 
 from the table the Golden Ass of Apuleius, 
 illustrated with plates, " what does this do 
 here ? Are these plates to be understood in 
 a theological sense ? " 
 
 " Dr. Bulgin is getting up a treatise upon 
 the subject of immoral literature. He has 
 that book as an example." 
 
 "And when he writes a treatise on the 
 infernal regions, he 'd send there for a piece 
 of the brimstone as an example ? " 
 
 " You are profane," said Herman, tartly ; 
 " let me hope that you will proceed to busi- 
 ness." 
 
 The man placed his cloak on a chair, and 
 his cap on the table. Then seating himself 
 opposite the minister, he gazed steadily in 
 his face. Herman grew red in the face, and 
 felt as though he had suddenly been plunged 
 into an oven. 
 
 " Your name is, — is," — he hesitated. 
 
 " Don't ijou know me ? " said the man. 
 
 " I, — I, — why, — I, — let me see." 
 
 Herman shaded his eyes with his hand, 
 and steadily perused the face of the 
 STRANGER, as though, in the eflort, to recog- 
 nize him. 
 
 He was a young man of a muscular frame, 
 clad in a single-breasted blue coat, which 
 was buttoned over a broad chest He was 
 of the medium height. His forehead was 
 
FROM NIGHTFALL 
 
 UNTIL MIDNIGHT. 
 
 107 
 
 broad ; his eyes clear gray ; his lips wide 
 and firm ; his nose inclining to the aquline ; 
 his chin round and solid. The general ex- 
 pression of his features was that of straight- 
 forwardness and energy of character. There 
 was the freshness and the warmth of youth 
 upon his face, and his forehead was stamped 
 with the ideality of genius As he wore 
 his brown hair in short, thick curls, it 
 marked the outline of his head, and threw 
 his forehead distinctly into view. 
 
 "You are, — you are, — where did I see 
 you ? " hesitated Herman. 
 
 " I am Arthur Dermoyne," was the reply, 
 in an even, but emphatic voice. 
 
 Then there was an embarrassing pause. 
 
 " Where have I met you ? " said Herman, 
 fls if in the painful effort to recollect. 
 
 "At the house of Mr. Burney, in the city 
 of Philadelphia," was the answer. 
 
 "Ah! now I remember!" ejaculated 
 Herman ; " Poor, poor Mr. Burney ! You 
 have heard of the sad accident which took 
 place last night, ah — ah — ?" 
 
 Herman buried his face in his hands, and 
 seemed profoundly affected. 
 
 "I saw his mangled body at the house 
 half way between New York and Philadel- 
 phia, only a few hours ago," the young 
 man's voice was cold and stern, " and now 
 I am in New York, endeavoring to find the 
 scoundrel who abducted his only daughter." 
 
 Herman looked at cupid in the ceiling 
 and pretended to brush a hair from his 
 nose — 
 
 " Ah, I remember, poor Mr. Burney told 
 me last night, that his child had been abduc- 
 ted. Yes, — " Herman looked at the hair, and 
 held it between his eyes and the light, " he 
 told me about it just before the accident oc- 
 curred. Poor girl ! Poor girl ! Oh, by-the- 
 bye," turning suddenly in his arm-chair, but 
 •without looking into the face of Dermoyne, 
 "you take an interest in the Burney family. 
 Are you a relative ? " 
 
 "I have visited the house of Mr. Burney, 
 from time to time, and have seen Alice, his 
 only daughter. You may think me roman- 
 tic, but to see that girl, so pure, so innocent, 
 BO beautiful, was to love her. I will con- 
 fess that had it not been for a disparity 
 of fortune, and a difference in regard to re- 
 ligious views, between her father and myself, 
 
 I would have been most happy to have 
 made her my wife." 
 
 The tone of the young man was some- 
 what agitated ; he was endeavoring to sup- 
 press his emotions. 
 
 " Courage ! He does not hioio,^' muttered 
 Herman to himself, and then assuming a 
 calm look, he continued, aloud : " And she 
 would have made you a noble wife. By-the- 
 bye, you spoke of your profession. A mer-^ 
 chant, I suppose ? " 
 
 " No, sir." 
 
 "A lawyer ? " 
 
 "No, sir." 
 
 " A medical gentleman ? " 
 "No, sir." 
 " You are then — " 
 "A shoemaker." 
 
 "A WHAT," ejaculated Herman, jumping 
 from his chair. 
 
 "A shoemaker," repeated Arthur Der- 
 moyne. " I gain my bread by the work of 
 my hands, and by the hardest of all kinds 
 of work. I am not only a mechanic, but a 
 shoemaker." 
 
 Herman could not repress a burst of 
 laughter. 
 
 " Excuse me, but, ha, ha, ha ! You are a 
 shoemaker?" And you visited the house 
 of the wealthy Burney, and aspired to his 
 daughter's hand ? " You will excuse me, 
 ha, ha, ha ! — but it is so very odd." 
 
 Deraioyne's forehead grew dark. 
 
 " Yes, I am a shoemaker. I earn my 
 bread by the work of my hands. But be- 
 fore you despise me, you will hear why I 
 am a shoemaker. As an orphaned child, 
 without father or mother, there was no other 
 career before me, than the pauperism of the 
 outcast or the slavery of an apprentice. I 
 chose the latter. The overseers of the poor 
 bound me out to a trade. I grew up with- 
 out hope, education, or home. In the day- 
 time I worked at an occupation which is 
 work without exercise, and which continued 
 ten years, at ten hours a day, will destroy 
 the constitution of the strongest man. From 
 this hopeless apprenticeship, I passed into the 
 life of a journeyman, and knew what it was 
 to battle with the world for myself. How I 
 worked, starved and worked, matters not, 
 for we folks are born for that kind of thing. 
 But as I sat upon my work -bench, listeuing 
 
108 
 
 FROM NIGHTFALL 
 
 UNTIL MIDNIGHT. 
 
 to a book which was read by one of my own 
 brother workmen, I became aware that I was 
 not only poor, but ignorant ; that my body 
 was not only enslaved, but also my soul. — 
 Therefore, I taught myself to read ; to 
 write ; and for three years I have devoted 
 five hours of every night to study." 
 
 " And are still a shoemaker ? " Herman's 
 smooth face was full of quiet scorn and 
 laughter. 
 
 " I am still a shoemaker — a workman at 
 the bench — because I cannot, in conscience, 
 enter one of the professions called learned. — 
 I cannot separate myself from that nine- 
 tenths of the human family, who seem to 
 have been only born to work and die — die 
 in mind, as well as body — in order to sup- 
 ply the idle tenth with superfluities. Oh! 
 sir, you, who are so learned and eloquent, 
 could you but read the thoughts which enter 
 the heart of the poor shoemaker, who, sitting 
 at his work-bench, in a cramped position, is 
 forced sometimes to reflect upon his fate! — 
 He beholds the lawyer, with a conscience 
 distinct from that given to him by God ; a 
 conscience that makes him believe that it is 
 right to grow rich by the tricks and frauds 
 of law. He beholds the doctor, also with 
 the conscience of his class, sending human 
 beings to death by system, and filling grave- 
 yards by the exact rule of the schools. He 
 beholds the minister, too often also with but 
 the conscience of a class, preaching the thoughts 
 of those who do not work, and failing to 
 give utterance to the agonies of those who 
 do work — who do all the labor, and suffer 
 all the misery in the world. And these classes 
 are respected ; honored. They are the true 
 noblemen ! Their respectability is shared 
 by the merchant, who grows rich by distrib- 
 uting the products of labor. But as for the 
 shoemaker — nay, the workman, of what- 
 ever trade — whose labor produces all the 
 physical wealth of the world — who works all 
 life long, and only rests when his head is in 
 the cold grave, — what of him ? He is a 
 serf, a slave, a Pariah. On the stage no joke 
 is so piquant as the one which is leveled at 
 the ' tailor,' or the ' cobbler ;' in literature, 
 the attempt of an unknown to elevate him- 
 self, is matter for a brutal laugh ; and even 
 grave men like you, when addressed by a 
 man who, like myself, confesses that he is a — 
 
 shoemaker! you burst into laughter, aa 
 though the master you profess to serve, waa 
 not himself, one day, a workman at the car- 
 penter's bench." 
 
 " These words are of the French school.'* 
 Herman gave the word " French " a with- 
 ering accent. 
 
 " Did the French school produce the New 
 Testament?" 
 
 Herman did not answer, but fixed his 
 glance upon cupid in the ceiling. 
 
 " But you are educated — why not devote 
 yourself to one of the professions ? " and 
 Herman turned his eyes from cupid in the 
 ceiling, to Venus in the Shell. 
 
 Dermoyne's face gleamed with a calm se- 
 riousness, a deep enthusiasm, which imparted 
 a new life to every lineament. 
 
 Because I do not wish to separate myself 
 from the largest portion of humanity. No, 
 no, — had I the intellect of a Shakspeare, or 
 the religion of a St. Paul, I would not wish to 
 separate myself from the greater portion of 
 God's family — those who are born, who work, 
 v/ho die. No, no! I am waiting — I am 
 waiting ! " 
 
 " Waiting ? " echoed Herman. 
 
 " May be the day will come, when, gifted 
 with wealth, I can enter the workshops of 
 Philadelphia, and say to the workmen, 
 * Gome, brothers. Here is capital. Let us 
 go to the west. Let us find a spot of God's 
 earth unpolluted by white or black slavery. 
 Let us build a community where every man 
 shall work with his hands, and where every 
 man will also have the opportunity to culti- 
 vate his mind — to work with his brain. — 
 There every one will have a j)lace to work, 
 and every one will receive the fruits of his 
 work. And there, — oh, my God! — there 
 will we, without priest, or monopolist, or 
 slaveholder, establish in the midst of a band 
 of brothers, the worship of that Christ who 
 was himself a workman, even as he is now, 
 the workman's God.' " 
 
 Arthur Dermoyne had started from his 
 chair ; his hands were clasped ; his gray eyes 
 were filled with tears. 
 
 " French ideas — French ideas," cried Her- 
 man. VYou have been reading French 
 books, young man ! " 
 
 Arthur looked at the clergyman, and said 
 quietly : 
 
FKOM NIGHTFALL 
 
 UNTIL MIDNIGHT. 
 
 109 
 
 "These ideas were held by the GeiTaan 
 race who settled in Pennsylvania, in the 
 time of William Penn. Driven from Ger- 
 many by the hands of Protestant priests, 
 they brought with them to the New World, 
 the ' French ideas ' of the New Testament." 
 
 " The Germans who settled Pennsylvania 
 — a stupid race," observed Herman, in calm 
 derision ; " Look at some of their descend- 
 ants." 
 
 " The Germans of the present day — or, to 
 speak more distinctly, — the Pennsylvania 
 Germans, descendants of the old stock, who 
 came over about the time of Ponn, are a 
 conquered race !— " 
 
 "A conquered race ?" echoed Herman. 
 
 " Conquered by the English language," 
 continued Dermoyne. " As a mass, t\iQY are 
 not well instructed either in English or in 
 German, and therefore have no chance to 
 develop, to its filllest extent, the stamina 
 of their race. They know but little of the 
 real history of their ancestors, who first 
 brought to Pennsylvania the great truth, that 
 God is not a God of hatred, pleased with 
 blood, but a God of love, whose great law 
 is the PROGRESS of all his children, — that is, 
 the entire family of man, both here and 
 HEREAFTER. And the Pennsylvanian Ger- 
 mans are the scoff and sneer of Yankee 
 swindler and southern braggart ; but the day 
 will come, when the descendants of that 
 race will rise to their destiny, and even as 
 the farms of Pennsylvania now show their 
 jphysical progress, so will the entire Ameri- 
 can continent bear witness to their intellectual 
 power. They are of the race of Luther, of 
 Goethe, and of Schiller, — hard to kill, — the 
 men who can work, and the men whose 
 work will make a people strong, a nation 
 great and noble." 
 
 " You are of this race ?" asked Herman, 
 pulling his cloak gently with his delicate 
 hand. 
 
 " My father, (I am told, for he died when 
 I was a child,) was a wealthy farmer, whose 
 wealth was swallowed up by an unjust law- 
 suit and a fraudulent bank. My grandfather 
 was a wheelwright ; my great-grandfather a 
 cobbler; my great-great-grandfather a car- 
 penter ; and his father, was a tiller of the 
 field. So you see, I am nobly descended," 
 ai'.d a smile crossed the lips of Dermoyne. 
 
 "Not a single idler or vagabond in our 
 family, — all workers, like their Savior, — all 
 men who eat the bread of honest labor. 
 Ah ! I forgot ;'!*he passed his hand over his 
 forehead — " there was a count in our family. 
 This, I confess, is a blot upon us ; but when 
 you remember that ho forsook his countship 
 in Germany, to become a tiller of the fields 
 in Pennsylvania — about the year 1680 — you 
 will look over the fault of his title." 
 
 Herman burst into a fit of pleasant 
 laughter. 
 
 "You have odd ideas of nobility!" he 
 ejaculated. 
 
 " Odd as the New Testament," said Der- 
 moyne ; and as old. By-the-bye, this count 
 in our family, was related to the Van Huy- 
 den family. (You, also, are one of the 
 seven ? — Yes, your name is among the 
 others.) Ah ! should the 25th of December 
 give into my hands but a few thousand 
 dollars, I will try and show the world how 
 workmen, united for the common good, can 
 live and work together." 
 
 " A few thousands !" laughed Herman, 
 displaying himself at full length on ttie 
 capacious chair ; " why, in case the Seven 
 receive the estate at all, they will divide 
 among them some twenty, perhaps, forty 
 millions of dollars !" 
 
 " Forty millions of dollars !" Dermoyne 
 was thunderstruck. He folded his arms, 
 and gazed upon vacancy with fixed eyes. 
 '* My God ! what might not be done with 
 forty millions !" — he paused and stretc]ied 
 forth his hand, as though a vision of the 
 future dawned upon him. 
 
 "Did Mr. Burney — poor friend! — know 
 that you were a — shoemaker ?" Once more 
 Herman shaded his eyes with his hand, and 
 regarded the young man with a pleasant 
 smile. 
 
 "He did not," answered Dermoyne. "I 
 became acquainted with him, — it matters not 
 how, — and visited his house, where, more 
 than once, I have conversed with his 
 daughter Alice. No, Mr. Burney did me 
 wrong ; for while I was a shoemaker, he 
 persisted, (in ignorance of my character,) in 
 thinking me — a gentleman! A gentleman — 
 an idle vagabond, whose gentility is sup- 
 ported by the labor of honest men. — 
 Faugh !" 
 
110 
 
 FROM NIGHTFALL 
 
 UNTIL MIDNIGHT. 
 
 " Well, I must confess," Herman said with 
 a wave of the hand and a patronizing tone, 
 " that from your manner, gestures, accent, et 
 cetera, I have always taken you for an 
 educated gentleman. But your principles 
 are decidedly migenteel, — allow me the 
 remark." 
 
 Herman began to feel much more at ease. 
 
 " He does not dream I have any share in 
 the abduction of Alice !" This thought was 
 comfort and repose to his mind. 
 
 But Arthur Dermoyne changed the tone 
 of this pleasant dream by a single question : 
 
 "Do you, — " he fixed his eyes sternly 
 upon the young minister : " Do you know 
 anything of the retreat of Alice Burney ?" 
 
 "Do I know anything of the retreat — of — 
 Alice — Burney !" he echoed: "What a 
 question to ask a man of my cloth !" 
 
 Dermoyne placed his hand within the 
 breast of his coat, and drew forth ten gold 
 pieces, which he held in the light, in the 
 palm of his hand. 
 
 "Every coin gained by days and nights of 
 work — hard work," he said. " It has taken 
 me three years to save that sum. When I 
 thought of Alice as a wife, this little horde, 
 (such was my fancy,) might enable me to 
 furnish a good home. Do you understand 
 me, sir ? You who receive five thousand 
 dollars per year for preaching the gospel of 
 your church, can you comprehend how 
 precious is this fortune of one hundred dol- 
 lars, to a poor workman, who earns his bread 
 by sitting in a cramped position, fourteen 
 hours a day, making shoes ?" 
 
 "Well, what have I to do with this 
 money ?" 
 
 " You comprehend that these ten gold 
 pieces are as much to me, as a ten hundred 
 would be to you ? These gold pieces will 
 buy books which I earnestly desire ; they 
 will help me to relieve a brother workman 
 who happens to be poorer than myself ; they 
 will help me to go to the far west, where 
 there is land and home for all. Well, this 
 fortune, I have dedicated to one purpose: 
 To support me, here in New York, on bread 
 and water, until I can discover the hiding- 
 place of Alice Barney, and meet her seducer 
 face to face. How long do you think my 
 gold will furnish me with bread, while I 
 devote day and night to this purpose ?" 
 
 The iron resolution of the young man's 
 face, made the clergyman feel afraid. 
 
 " You will remark," he exclaimed, stretch- • 
 ing himself in his chair, and contemplating 
 the whiteness of his nails, " that a witness 
 of our conversation might infer, from the 
 tenor of your discourse, that you have an 
 idea — an idea — " he hesitated, " that I have 
 something to do with the abduction of this 
 young lady. Doubtless you do not mean to 
 convey this impression, and therefore I will 
 thank you to correct the tone of your 
 remarks." 
 
 Herman was quite lordly. 
 
 " Then you know nothing A the retreat 
 of Alice Burney ?" 
 
 " The question is an insult — " 
 
 " Nothing of her seducer ?" 
 
 " I repeat it ; the question is an insult," 
 and Herman started up in his chair, with 
 flashing eyes and corrugated brow. 
 
 " Will you swear that you are ignorant of 
 her retreat, and of the name of her seducer?" 
 coolly continued Dermoyne. 
 
 " Men of my cloth do not swear," as 
 coolly returned Herman. 
 
 "Allow me to congratulate you upon 
 your ignorance," replied Dermoyne, "for — 
 for ; — will you have the goodness to observe 
 me for a moment ?" 
 
 While Herman watched him with a won- 
 dering eye, the young man replaced the gold 
 pieces in his pocket, and rising from his 
 chair, surveyed the room with an attentive 
 gaze. His eye rested at length upon an iron 
 candlestick, which stood upon a shelf of the 
 library ; it was evidently out of place in 
 that luxurious room ; and had been left 
 there through the forgetfulness of the servant 
 who took care of the Rev. Dr. Bulgin's 
 study. Dermoyne took this candlestick from 
 the shelf, and then returned to the light. 
 
 " Do you see this ? It is about six inches 
 long and one inch in diameter. Would it 
 not take a strong man to break that in twain 
 with both hands ?" 
 
 Herman took the candlestick ; examined 
 it attentively : " It would take a Sampson," 
 he said. 
 
 "Now look at my hand." Dermoyne 
 extended a hand which, hardened by labor 
 in the palm, was not so large as it was 
 muscular and bony. 
 
FllOM NIGPITFALL UNTIL MIDNIGHT. 
 
 Ill 
 
 "What have I to do with your hand?" 
 exclaimed Herman, in evident disgust. 
 
 " Watch me," said Dermoyne ; and, resting 
 the candlestick on his right hand, he closed 
 his fingers, and pressed his thumb against it. 
 After an instant he opened his hand again. 
 The iron candlestick was bent nearly double. 
 Dermoyne had accomplished this feat with- 
 out the appearance of exertion. 
 
 "Why, you are a very Hercules !" ejacu- 
 lated Herman, — " and yet, you are not above 
 the medium height. You do not look like 
 a strong man." 
 
 " God has invested me with almost super- 
 human strength," replied Dermoyne, as he 
 stood erect before the minister, resting one 
 hand upon the table ; " had it not been for 
 that, hard work would have killed me long 
 ago. I can lift with one hand, a weight, 
 "which would task the strength of almost any 
 two men but to budge ; I can strike a blow, 
 which, properly planted, would fell an ox ; 
 I can — " \ 
 
 " You needn't dilate," interrupted Herman, 
 " the study of the Kev. Dr. Bulgin is not ex- 
 actly the place for gymnastic experiments — " 
 
 " Well, you '11 see my drift directly," 
 calmly continued Dermoyne — " I have never 
 dared to use this strength, save in the way 
 of work or occasional exercise. I regard it 
 as a kind of trust, given to me by Providence 
 for a good purpose." 
 
 " What purpose, pray ?" said Herman, 
 opening his eyes. 
 
 " To punish those criminals whom the law 
 does not punish ; to protect those victims it 
 does not protect," answered Dermoyne, stea- 
 dily. " Now, for instance, were I to encoun- 
 ter the seducer of Alice Burney, — were I to 
 stand face to face him, as I do with 
 
 you, — were I to place my thumb upon his 
 right temple and my fingers upon his left 
 temple, — thus — " 
 
 " You, — you, — " gasped the minister, who 
 suddenly felt the hand of Arthur Dermoyne 
 upon his forehead ; the thumb pressed gently 
 upon the right temple and the fingers upon 
 his left — *' you, — would, — what ?" 
 
 " I would, quietly, without a word, crush 
 his skull as you might crush an egg-shell," 
 slowly answered Dermoyne. 
 
 He took his hand away. The face of 
 Herman was white as a sheet. He shook in 
 
 his velvet chair. For a moment he could 
 not speak. 
 
 "I, therefore, congratulate you, that you 
 know nothing of the matter," calmly conti- 
 nued Dermoyne, not seeming to notice the 
 fright of the minister ; " for, with a villain 
 like this unknown seducer before me, I would 
 lose all control over myself, and (ere I was 
 aware of it) I would have wiped him out of 
 existence. This would be murder, you are 
 about to remark ! So it would. But, is not 
 this seducer a murderer in a three fold sense? 
 First, he has murdered the chastity of this 
 poor girl ; and second, in the attempt to get 
 rid of the proof of his guilt, he may (who 
 knows ?) murder her body and the body^of 
 her unborn child." 
 
 The room was still as the grave, as Der- 
 moyne concluded the last sentence. 
 
 Barnhurst sank back in the chair, helpless 
 as a child. For a moment his self-possession 
 deserted him. His guilt was stamped upon 
 his face. 
 
 "Here you can count three murders," 
 continued Dermoyne, not seeming to notice 
 the dismay of the minister, — " the murder 
 of a woman's purity, — the murder of her 
 body — the murder of her babe. Now, I 
 don't pretend to say, that it would be righi? 
 for me to kill the three fold murderer, but I 
 do say, that, were I to meet him, and Jcnow 
 his guilt, that my blood would boil, — my 
 eyes would grow dim, — •my hand would be 
 extended, and in an instant, would hold his 
 mangled skull, between the thumb and fin- 
 gers." 
 
 Herman's arms dropped helplessly by his 
 side. He was extended in the capacious 
 chair, a vivid picture of helpless fright. 
 
 Dermoyne, whose broad chest and bold 
 features, caught on one side the glow of the 
 light, as he stood erect by the table, gazed 
 upon the minister with a calm look, and 
 continued — 
 
 " So, you see, I congratulate you, that you 
 know nothing of the matter — " 
 
 " Oh, I am shocked, shocked," and Her- 
 man made out to cover his face with his 
 hands, " I am shocked, at the vivid, viv-id," 
 he stammered, — " vivid picture which you 
 have drawn of the crimes of this seducer." 
 
 Dermoyne sank quietly into the chair on 
 the opposite side of the table, and shaded 
 
112 
 
 FROM NIGHTFALL UNTIL MIDNIGHT. 
 
 his eyes with his right hand. He also was 
 HiirHcing. 
 
 For a long pause, there was profound still- 
 ness. The lamp on the table shed its luxu- 
 rious light over the vast room, peopled as it 
 was, with images of wealth, ease and volup- 
 tuousness, and upon the figures of these men, 
 seated opposite to each other, and each with 
 his eyes shaded by his hand. 
 
 At length, Herman recovering a portion 
 of his self-possession, exclaimed without 
 raising his hands from his face : 
 
 "I trust you will end this interview at 
 once. You have given my nerves a severe 
 shock. To-morrow, — to-morrow, — I will 
 iaJtt to you about the Van Huyden estate, 
 about which, I presume, you asked this in- 
 terview." 
 
 Dermoyne raised his hand to his forehead, 
 —-somewhat after the manner of Herman, — 
 and surveyed the clergyman with a keen, 
 searching gaze. Gradually a smile, so faint 
 as to be scarcely perceptible, stole over his 
 features. 
 
 Herman felt the force of that gaze and his 
 smooth complexion turned from deathly 
 white to scarlet, and from scarlet to deathly 
 white again. 
 
 " What next ?" he muttered to himself, 
 "does he know? Had I better call for assist- 
 ance ?" 
 
 Dermoyne, quietly left his seat, and ad- 
 vancing until he confronted Herman, placed 
 a small piece of paper on the table, and held 
 it firml}^ under his thumb, so that the words 
 written upon it, were legible in the lamp- 
 light. 
 
 " Read that," he said, and his flashing eye 
 was fixed on Barnhurst's face. 
 
 Half Avondering, half stupefied, Barnhurst 
 bent forward and read : — 
 
 Dec. 24, 1844. 
 Madam : — Yomv patient will come to-night. 
 
 Herman Barnhurst. 
 
 As he read, Herman looked like a man 
 who has received his death-warrant. The 
 very effort, — and it was a mortal one, — 
 which he made to control himself, only gave 
 a stronger agitation to his quivering linea- 
 ments. 
 
 " Can you tell where I found this ?" whis- 
 pered Dermoyne. " Near the mangled body 
 
 of the father of Alice, — at sunset, but a few 
 hours ago, and at the house half-way between 
 New York and Philadelphia, — there among 
 the ashes, and half consumed by fire, I dis- 
 covered this precious document. Did you 
 drop this paper from your pocket, my friend, 
 when you sought shelter in the house, after 
 the accident on the railroad, last night ?" 
 
 Herman had not the power to reply. His 
 eyes were riveted by the half-burned frag- 
 ment. 
 
 " What has the Rev. Herman Barnhurst, 
 the clergyman, to do with Madam Resimer, 
 the murderess of unhorn children f" continued 
 Dermoyne ; " and the patient, — who is the 
 patient f Is it Alice ? This letter is dated 
 the 24th, and to-morrow night, Alice, will 
 cross the threshold of that hell, where the 
 Madam rules, as the presiding Devil !" 
 
 A gleam of hope shot across Herman's 
 soul. " He does not know, that Alice is al- 
 ready in the care of Madam Resimer. Cour- 
 age, — courage !" 
 
 " Have you no ansAver ?" Dermoyne's 
 eye gleamed with deadly light ; still holding 
 the paper, he advanced a step nearer to the 
 clergyman. 
 
 "Yes, I have an answer!" exclaimed 
 Herman, sinking back in the chair : " that 
 letter is a forgery." 
 
 Dermoyne was astonished. 
 
 " You never wrote it ?" 
 " Never, — never !" Herman raised his 
 hands to Heaven, — " it is the work of some 
 mortal enemy. Beside, were I guilty, is it 
 reasonable to suppose, that I, a clergyman, 
 would sign my own name to a letter address- 
 ed to Madam Resimer ?" 
 
 Dermoyne was puzzled ; he glanced from 
 the letter to Barnhurst's face, and a look of 
 do-ubt clouded his features. 
 
 " A forgery ?" he asked. 
 
 "An infamous forgery !" cried Barnhurst^ 
 resuming his dignity. " Now, that you have 
 wrung my very soul, by an accusation so 
 utterly infamous, so thoroughly improbable, 
 let me hope that you will — " he pointed to 
 the door. 
 
 Dermoyne resumed his cap and cloak, 
 first, carefully replacing the letter in his vest 
 pocket. 
 
 " By to-morrow," he said, in a voice which 
 nmg low and distinct through the apartment, 
 
FKOM NIGHTFALL UNTIL MIDNIGHT. 
 
 113 
 
 "by to-morrow, I will know the truth of 
 this matter ; and if I discover that this is, 
 indeed, your letter, — if you have, indeed, 
 dishonored poor Alice, and consigned her- 
 self and unborn babe, to the infernal mercies 
 of Madam Resimer, why then," — he moved 
 toward the door, "then there will be one 
 man the less, on the 25th of December." 
 
 He opened the door, and was gone ere 
 his words had ceased to echo on the air. 
 
 His parting words rung in the very soul 
 of tbe clergymen, as his footsteps died away 
 (Ml the stairs. 
 
 "What an abyss have I escaped !" ejacu- 
 lated Herman, "exposure, disgrace and 
 death 1 " He pressed his scented kerchief 
 over his foreliead, and wiped away the cold 
 sweat which moistened it. " Fool ! he little 
 knows that Alice is already there. The 
 Madam is a shrewd woman. Her rooms are 
 dark, ber doors secured by double bolts ; her 
 secrets are given to the keeping of the 
 grave. This miserable idiot, this cobbler, 
 cannot possibly gain admittance into her 
 mansion ? No, no, this thought is idle. 
 And Alice, poor child, why can't I marry 
 her ? Her father's death will leave her in 
 possession of a handsome fortune, — why 
 can't I marry her ? " 
 
 Too well he knew the only answer to this 
 q^uestion. 
 
 " We are all but mortal ; she may die 
 and an expression of remarkable compla- 
 cency came over his face. Joining his 
 thumbs and fingers in front of his breast, he 
 reflected deeply. "But if she survives?" 
 
 His brow became clouded, his lips com- 
 pressed ; all the vidture of his soul was 
 written on his vulture-like countenance. 
 
 " If she survives ! " 
 
 While the light disclosed his slender fig- 
 ure, centered in the scarlet cushions of the 
 arm-chair, and fell upon his countenance, 
 revealing the purpose which was written 
 there, Herman still muttered between his 
 set teeth, the question, " If she survives ? " 
 To him, it was a question of life and death. 
 
 But his meditations were interrupted by a 
 burst of boisterous laughter. 
 
 " Why Barnhurst ! you are grave as an 
 owl. What's the matter, my dear ? " 
 
 Herman looked up with a start, and a 
 half-muttered ejaculation. The Rev. Dr. 
 
 Bulgin stood before him, his cloak on his 
 arm, and a cap in his hand. 
 
 "I thought you was out of town ?" cried 
 Herman. 
 
 " So I was ; a convention of divines, 
 speeches, resolutions, and so forth, you 
 know. But now I'm in town, and, — such 
 an advcuture, my dear boy ! I must tell 
 you of it." 
 
 Before Bulgin tells his adventure, we 
 must look at him. A man of thirty-five 
 years, with broad shoulders, heavy chest 
 and unwieldy limbs ; ^ portly man, some 
 would call him, dressed in black, of course, 
 and with a white cravat about his neck, 
 which was short and fat. Draggled masses 
 of brownish hair stray, in uneven ends, 
 about Bulgin's face and ears ; that face is 
 round and shiny, — its hue, a greasy florid, — 
 its brow, broad and low; its eyes large, 
 moist and oyster-like. In a M^ord, the upper 
 part of Bulgin's head indicates the man of 
 intellect ; the face, the eyes, mouth, nose 
 and all, tell the story of a nature thor- 
 oughly animal, — bestial, would be a truer 
 word. 
 
 That head and face were but too true in 
 their indications. 
 
 Bulgin was, in intellect, something of a god; 
 in real life; in the gratiflcation of appetite; in 
 habits, strengthened by the growth of years, 
 he was a beast. It may seem a harsh word, 
 but it is the only one that suits Bulgin's 
 case. He was a beast. Not a quiet ox, 
 cropping clover at his ease, nor yet a lordly 
 bull, madly tossing his horns in the center 
 of a grassy field, — of course, we mean noth- 
 ing of the kind, — but a beast on two legs, 
 gifted with a strong intellect and an immor- 
 tal soul, and devoting intellect and soul to 
 the full gratification of his beastly nature. 
 He was, withal, a good-humored beast. He 
 enjoyed a joke. His laugh was jovial ; re- 
 minding you of goblets of wine and sup- 
 pers of terrapin. His manner was ofi"-hand, 
 free and easy — out of the pulpit, of course ; 
 in the pulpit, no one so demure, so zealous 
 and pathetic as the Rev, Dr. Bulgin. 
 
 He regarded his ministerial oflSce as a 
 j)iece of convenient clock-work, invented 
 some years ago, for the purpose of supply- 
 ing the masses with something to believe ; and 
 men like himself, with a good salary, a fine 
 
FROM NIGHTFALL UNTIL MIDNIGHT. 
 
 house, plently to eat and drink, fair social 
 position, and free opportunity for the gratifi- 
 cation of every appetite. 
 
 His creed was a part of this clock-work. 
 It was his living. Therefore, everything 
 that he wrote or uttered, in regard to relig- 
 ion, was true to his creed ; true, eloquent, 
 and breathing the loftiest enthusiasm. To 
 doubt his creed, was to doubt his living. 
 Therefore, the Rev. Dr. Bulgin did not 
 doubt his creed, but took it as he found it, 
 and advocated it with all the energy of his 
 intellectual nature. 
 
 As to any possible appreciation of the 
 Bible, or of that Savior who, emerging from 
 the shop of a carpenter, came to speak 
 •words of hope to all mankind, and, in 
 especial, to that portion who bear all the 
 slavery, and do all the work of the world, 
 the Rev. Dr. Bulgin never troubled himself 
 with thoughts like these ; he was above and 
 beyond them; the Bible and the Savior 
 were, in his estimation, convenient parts of 
 that convenient clock-work which afforded 
 him the pleasant sum of five thousand dol- 
 lars per year. 
 
 To look at the Rev. Dr. Bulgin ; to see 
 him stand there, with his sensual form and 
 swinish face, you would not think that he 
 was the author of one of the most spiritual 
 works in the world, entitled " Our Commu- 
 nion with the Spirit." 
 
 To know the Rev. Dr. Bulgin, — to know 
 him when, his stage drapery laid aside, he 
 appeared the thing he was, — you could, by 
 no means, imagine that he was the author 
 of an excellent work on " Private Prayer." 
 
 And yet he was no hypocrite ; not, at 
 least, in the common sense of the word. 
 He was an intellectual animal whose utmost 
 hopes were bounded by the horizon of this 
 world. Beyond this world there was noth- 
 ing. He was an Atheist. Not an Atheist 
 publishing a paper advocating Atheistic prin- 
 ciples, but an Atheist in the pulpit, profess^ 
 ing to preach the Gospel of Jesus Christ. 
 You ma}' shudder at the thought, but the 
 Reverend Doctor Bulgin was such a man. 
 
 And just such men, in churches of all 
 kinds, — Protestants and Catholics, Orthodox 
 and Heterodox, — have these eighteen hun- 
 dred years been preaching a clock-work 
 Gospel, leaving unsaid, uncared for, the true 
 
 Word of the Master — a Word which says, in 
 one breath, temporal and spiritual prayers — a 
 Word which enjoins the establishment of 
 the kingdom of God, on earth, in the physi- 
 cal and intellectual welfare of the greatest 
 portion of mankind. 
 
 Too well these Atheists know that were 
 that Word once boldly uttered, their high 
 pulpits and magnificent livings would van- 
 ish like cobwebs before the sweeper's broom. 
 
 How much evil have such Atheists ac- 
 complished in the course of eighteen hun- 
 dred years ? 
 
 It will do no harm to think upon thii 
 subject, just a little. 
 
 " Herman, my boy, I must tell you of my 
 last adventure," said Bulgin, dropping into 
 the seat which Dermoyne had lately occu- 
 pied ; " it will make your mouth water ! " 
 He smacked his lips and clapped his hands ; 
 the lips were oily, and the hands fat and 
 dumpy. " But, first, you must tell me 
 what 's the matter with, you ? Anything 
 wrong in your church ? " 
 
 "That doesn't trouble me," responded 
 Herman. " True, there is the trial of the 
 Bishop, and the wrangling of these Low 
 Church fellows, about our gowns and altars ? 
 our views of the sacrament, and our high 
 notions of the priesthood. These Low 
 Church people are actually MetJiodists. They 
 would rob the church of all dignity, and 
 turn the priest of the altar into the ranter of 
 the conventicle, — " 
 
 " We are not troubled with bishops, nor 
 apostolic successions," interrupted Bulgin : 
 " High and Low Church don't trouble us. — 
 Our deacons want a minister ; they call him 
 and pay him. Now, if our church admitted 
 of a bishop, I think that — " he put his 
 thumbs in the arm-holes of his vest, and 
 surveyed his heavy limbs with great com- 
 placency, " that your humble servant would 
 make a — " 
 
 " Bishop ? " cried Herman, with a laugh. 
 "Ay, and a capital bishop, too, if all be 
 true that these Low Church fellows say of 
 the Bishop of your church. I am a man 
 of feeling, eh, my boy ?" 
 
 This was a home thrust. Notwithstand- 
 ing his intimacy with Bulgin, Herman did 
 not regard him as a real priest of the church, 
 but only as the called teacher of a congrega- 
 
 J 
 
FROM NIGHTFALL UNTIL MIDNIGHT. 
 
 115 
 
 tion. Therefore, he felt the allusion to his 
 bishop the more heavily. 
 
 " You were speaking of an adventure ? " 
 suggested Herman, anxious to change the 
 subject : " What about it ? " 
 
 Bulgin flung back his head, and burst 
 into a roar of laughter. 
 
 " I'm laughing at my adventure, not at 
 you, ray dear Herman. Just imagine my 
 case. I have a patient on my hands, who is 
 rich, crippled with a dozen diseases, and 
 troubled in his mind on some doctrinal point. 
 In the morning I visit the old gentleman, 
 and after hearing afresh the list of his dis- 
 eases, I soothe him on the doctrinal point. — 
 Soothe him, and quote the Fathers, and fire 
 him up with a word or two about the Pope. 
 And in the afternoon — " he closed one eye, 
 and looked at Herman in such a manner, 
 that the latter could not avoid a burst of 
 laughter, "in the afternoon, while the old man 
 is asleep, I visit his wife, — young and hand- 
 some, and such a love of a woman — and 
 soothe her mind on another doctrinal point. 
 Sometimes my lessons are prolonged until 
 evening, and — ha, ha ! — I have my hands 
 full, I assure you." 
 
 " You called there to-night, on your way 
 home ? " asked Herman, with a smile. 
 
 "Just to see if the old gentleman was 
 better, and, — but wait a moment," he rose 
 from his chair, and hurried into the shadows 
 of the room, turned one of the recesses, be- 
 tween the western windows. There he 
 remained, until Herman grew impatient. 
 
 "What are you doing," he exclaimed, 
 and as he spoke, Bulgin returned toward 
 the light, " what is this ! " and his eyes 
 opened with a wondering stare. 
 
 "I'm a cardinal; that is ^11. The dress 
 of Leo the Tenth, before he became Pope. 
 Don't you think I looh the character ? " 
 
 He was attired in a robe of scarlet velvet, 
 which covered his unwieldy form from the 
 neck to the feet, and enveloped his arms in 
 its voluminous sleeves. His florid face ap- 
 peared beneath the broad rim of a red hat, 
 and upon his broad chest hung a golden chain, 
 to which was appended a huge golden cross. 
 The costume was of the richest texture, and 
 gave something of a lordly appearance to the 
 t)ulky iorm of the reverend doctor. 
 
 "I'm a cardinal," said Bulgin with a 
 
 wink ; " There is a nice party of us, who 
 meet to-night, between twelve and one, to 
 confer upon (jrave matters. Eveiy one wears 
 a mask and costume. Will you go with me ? 
 There is the robe of a Jesuit yonder, which 
 will fit you to a hair." 
 
 Herman's eyes flashed, and he started 
 from his chair, 
 
 " The wife of your old patient,'' —-he be- 
 gan. 
 
 " Goes as the cardinal's niece, you know ! 
 we didn't know the costume of a cardinal's 
 niece, and so I told her to wear a dress-coat 
 and pantaloons. Will you go ? " 
 
 Herman's face glowed with the full force 
 
 of his MONOMANIA. 
 
 "For" wine and feasting, I care not," he 
 cried, "but a scene where beautiful wo- 
 men — " he paused, and fixed his eyes on 
 vacancy, while that singular monomania 
 shone from his humid eyes, and fired his 
 cheeks with a vivid glow. Where are we to 
 go ?" he asked. 
 
 " To the Temple," said the Rev. Dr. Bul- 
 gin, with his finger on his light : " You re- 
 member the night when we were there ? " 
 
 " Remember ? " echoed the Rev. Herman ' 
 Bamhurst, with an accent of inexpressible 
 rapture : " Can I ever forget ? " He strode 
 hastily toward the recess. " Where is the 
 Jesuit robe ? " 
 
 But as he touched the curtain of the re- 
 cess, he was palsied by a sudden thought. 
 
 "Ah, this cobbler, this Dermoyne ! He 
 will go to Madame Resimer's with my note 
 in his hand, and pretend to come in my 
 name. He will, at least, induce her to open 
 the doors, and then force his way into her 
 house. If he enters there, I am lost." 
 
 Turning to Bulgin, he flung his cloak 
 around him, and took up his cap. "No, sir, I 
 cannot go with you. Excuse me — I am in 
 a great hurry." 
 
 He hurried to the door, and disappeared 
 ere Bulgin could answer him with a word. 
 
 " Dermoyne has a half an hour's start of 
 me," muttered Herman, as he disappeared, 
 " I must be quick, or I am lost." 
 
 " That is cool ! " soliloquized Bulgin : 
 " some difficulty about a woman, I suppose : 
 our young friend must be cautious : exposure 
 in these matters is fatal." 
 
 Without bestowing another word upon his 
 
 I 
 
116 
 
 FROM NIGHTFALL UNTIL MIDNIGHT. 
 
 friend, the Rev. Dr. Bulgin, attired in the 
 cardinal's hat and robe, sank in the arm- 
 chair, and put his feet upon the table, and 
 flung back his head, thus presenting one of 
 the finest pictures of ecclesiastical ease, that 
 ever gratified the eyes of mortal man. 
 
 He suffered himself to be seduced into the 
 mazes of an enchanting reverie : 
 
 "Ah, that's my ideal of a man," he 
 suffered his eye to rest upon the head of 
 Leo the Tenth : " Without a particle of re- 
 ligion to trouble him, he took care of the 
 spiritual destinies of the world, and at the 
 same time enjoyed his palace, where the 
 wine Avas of the choicest, and the women of 
 the youngest and most beautiful. He was a 
 gentleman. While poor Martin Luther was 
 giving himself a great deal of trouble about 
 this worthless world, Leo had a world of his 
 own, within the Vatican, a world of wit, of 
 wine and beauty. That's my ideal of an 
 ecclesiastic. Religion, its machinery, and its 
 terrors for the masses, — for ourselves," he 
 glanced around his splendid room, "some- 
 thing like tliis^ and five thousand a year." 
 
 And the good man shook with laughter. 
 
 "I must be going," — he rose to his feet — 
 "It's after twelve now, and before one, I 
 must be at the Temple." 
 
 And while Barnhurst, Bulgin and Der- 
 moyne go forth on their respective ways, let 
 us — although the Temple is very near — 
 gaze upon a scene, by no means lighted by 
 festal lamps, or perfumed with voluptuous 
 flowers. Let us descend into the subterra- 
 nean world, sunken somewhere in the vicin- 
 ity of Five -Points and the Tombs. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 BELOW FIVE POIXTS. 
 
 It is NOW the hour of tAvelve, midnight, 
 on the 23d of December, 1844. 
 
 We arc in the region of the Five Points, 
 near the Tombs, whose sullen walls look 
 still more ominous and gloomy in the wintery 
 starlight. 
 
 Enter the narow door of the frame-house, 
 which seems toppling to the ground. You 
 hear the sound of the violin, and by the 
 light of tallow candles, inserted in tin sconces 
 which are affixed to the blackened walls, 
 
 you discover some twenty persons, black, 
 white and chocolate-colored, of all ages and 
 both sexes, dancing and drinking together. 
 It is an orgie — an orgie of crime, drunken- 
 ness and rags. 
 
 Pass into the next room. By a single 
 light, placed on a table, you discover the 
 features of three or four gamblers, — not 
 gamblers of the gentlemanly stamp, who, in 
 luxurious chambers, prolong the game of 
 " poker " all night long, until the morning 
 breaks, or the champagne gives out, — but 
 gamblers of a lower stamp, ill-dressed fel- 
 lows, whose highest stake is a shilling, and 
 whose favorite beverage is whisky, and 
 Avhisky that is only whisky in name, while 
 in fact, it is poison of the vilest sort — whis- 
 ky classically called "red-eye." 
 
 Open a scarcely distinguishable door, at 
 the back of the ruffian who sits at the head 
 of the table. Descend a narrow stairway, 
 or rather ladder, which lands you in the 
 darkness, some twenty feet below the level 
 of the street. Then, in the darkness, feel 
 your way along the passage which turns to 
 the right and left, and from left to right 
 again, until your senses are utterly bewilder- 
 ed. At length, after groping your way in the 
 darkness, over an uneven floor, and between 
 narrow walls ; after groping your Avay you 
 know not how far, you descend a second 
 ladder, ten feet or more, and find yourself 
 confronted by a door. You are at least two 
 stories under ground, and all is dark aroimd 
 you — the sound of voices strikes your ear ; 
 but do not be afraid. Find the latch of the 
 door and push it open. A strange scene 
 confronts you. 
 
 The Black Senate ! 
 
 A room or cell, some twenty feet square, 
 is warmed by a small coal stove, which, heat- 
 ed to a red heat, stands in the center, its pipe 
 
 ' inserted in the low ceiling, and leading you 
 know not where. Around the stove, by the 
 light of three tallow candles placed upon a 
 
 I packing-box, are grouped some twenty oi 
 
 ' thirty persons, who listen attentively to tli? 
 
 I words of the gentlaman who is seated by 
 
 : the packing-box. 
 
 ' This gentleman is almost a giant ; hit 
 chest is broad ; his limbs brawny ; and hii 
 ' face, black as the " ace of spades," is ii. 
 ' strong contrast with his white teeth, whitil 
 
i sii»le 
 ■•er iiie 
 
 :imf of 
 Hiorjig 
 '■■Ai 
 
 door, at 
 
 j!i ia 
 liie level 
 ines, feel 
 1 turns to 
 to riglit 
 ae A' 
 
 FROM NIGHTFALL UNTIL MIDNIGHT. 
 
 117 
 
 d between 
 r m jon 
 a second 
 ,1 yoiiRelf . 
 
 arhroimi 
 rourear 
 iVliof thi 
 m sceiw 
 
 eyeballs, white eyebrows, and white wool. 
 He is a negro, with flat nose, thick lips, and 
 mouth reaching from ear to ear. His almost 
 giant frame is clad in a sloek suit of blue 
 cloth, and he wears a cravat of spotless 
 whiteness. 
 
 His auditors arc not so fortunate in the 
 way of dress. Of all colors, from jet black 
 to chocolate-brown, they are clad in all 
 sorts of costumes, only alike in raggedness 
 and squalor. 
 
 This is the Black Senate, which has met 
 for business to-night, in this den, two stories 
 under ground. Its deliberations, in point of 
 decorum, may well compare with some other 
 senates, — one in especial, where ' Liar !' 
 is occasionally called, fisticuffs exchanged, 
 knives and pistols drawn ; and it embraces 
 representatives from all parts of the Union. 
 "Whether, like another senate, it has its 
 dramatic characters, — its low clown, melo- 
 dramatic ruffians, genteel comedian, and 
 high tragedy hero, remains to be seen. 
 
 The very black gentleman, by the packing- 
 box — book in one hand and paper and pencil 
 before him — is the speaker of the house. It 
 is our old acquaintance "Royal Bill," 
 
 wintlie|lately from South Carolina. 
 
 " The genelman frum Varginny hab de 
 floor," said the speaker, with true parlia- 
 mentary politeness. 
 
 The gentleman from Virginia was a six- 
 foot mulatto, dressed in a ragged coat and 
 trowsers of iron gray. As he rose there was 
 an evident sensation ; white teeth were 
 shown, and " Go in nigga !" uttered encou- 
 ragingly by more than one of the colored 
 congressmen. 
 
 '*Dis nigga rise to de point ob ordah. 
 square, |Di3 nigga am taught a great many tings by 
 rtichjWfpliilosopy. One day, in de 'baccy field, dis 
 ,,r its pipe fnigga says to hisself, saj's he. * Dat are pig 
 leadin^yi' lit)' longs to massa, so does dis nigga. Dis 
 j,,^5 bjtlnitiigga kill dat pig un eat 'um — dat be 
 jpoDlistealin'? Lordy Moses — no! It only be 
 , {^ejty *[puttin' one ting dat b' longs to massa into 
 v^]^ to tinman Oder ting dat also b'longs to ma.ssa : — dat's 
 .jjjtedljipliilosopy— " 
 
 ! " S'pose de nigga be caught ?" interrupted 
 ^jjt; lil^a colored gentleman, lighting his pipe at the 
 J. jjildllred-hot stove. 
 
 " 2?rt^ wouldn't be philosopy," responded 
 ^^^^ Ithe gentleman from Virginia. " It aint phi- 
 
 losopy to be caught. On de contrary it am 
 dam foolishness." 
 
 A murmur of assent pervaded the place. 
 
 " Soh, reasonin' from de pig, dis nigga wor 
 taught by philosopy to tink a great deal— to 
 tink berry much; — and soh, one day de 
 nigga got a kind o' abscn' minded, and 
 walked off, and f<n-got to come hach. — Dis 
 nigga actooaly did." 
 
 "Dat loor philosopy!" said a voice. 
 
 " An' as de nigga is in bad health, he am 
 on his way to Canada, whar de climate am 
 good for nigga's pulmonaries. An' fur fear 
 de nigga m ought hurt people's fcelin', he 
 trabels by night ; an' fur fear he mought be 
 axed questi'n which 'ud trubble him to 
 ansaw, he canies dese sartificats — " 
 
 He showed his certificates — a revolving 
 pistol and a knife. And each one of the' 
 colored congressmen produced certificates of 
 a similar character from their rags. 
 
 " Lor', philosopy am a dam good ting !" 
 
 "Don't sweah, nigga! — behabe yesself!" 
 
 "Read us nuddcr won ob dem good chap'er 
 from de Bible, Mistaw Speakaw," cried a 
 dark gentleman, addressing old Royal. — 
 " ^JShud, I hab a message f ro7n God to dee ! ' 
 Yah-hah-hah !" 
 
 " Yah-hah-a-what !" chorused the ma- 
 jority of the congress, showing their teeth 
 and shaking their woolly heads together. 
 
 " Jis tell us som'thin' more about yer ole 
 massa, dat you lick last night," cried a 
 voice. 
 
 " Dat am an ole story," said old Royal, 
 with dignity. " Suffis it to say, dat about 
 five o'clock last ebenin', I took massa Harry 
 from de house whar he'd been licked, de 
 night afore, and tuk him in a carriage and 
 put 'im aboard de cars at Princeton. I gib 
 him some brandy likewise. His back was 
 berry sore — " 
 
 Here one of the gentlemen broke in with 
 a parody of a well-known song — 
 
 "Oh, carry mc back to olc Varginny— 
 My back am berry sore — "' 
 
 He began, in rich Ethiopian bass. 
 
 " Silence nigga !" said old Royal, sternly, 
 yet, shoAving his white teeth in a broad grin. 
 " He am in New York at the present time, 
 at de Astor House, I 'spec' ; an' de Blood- 
 houn' am with him — " 
 
 " De kidnapper !" 
 
118 
 
 FROM NIGHTFALL 
 
 UNTIL MIDNIGHT. 
 
 "De nigger- catcher 
 
 Cries like these resounded from twenty- 
 throats ; and by the way in which knives 
 and pistols were produced and brandished, 
 it was evident that there was a cordial feel- 
 ing — almost too cordial — entertained by the 
 congress, toward our old friend, Bloodhound. 
 
 " To business," said old Royal, surveying 
 the motley crowd. "I hab come to visit you 
 to-night by d'rection ob somehody dat you 
 dovHt Icnoiv. It am ob de last importance dat 
 you all get yesselves out o' dis town to 
 Canada as quick as de Lord 'ill let you. 
 Darfore I hab provided you wid dem 
 revolvers," — he pointed to the pistols, "and 
 derfore I am here, to send you on yer ways, 
 for de kidnappers am about." 
 
 " Oh, dam de kidnappers !" was the em- 
 phatic remark of a dark gentleman ; and it 
 was chorused by the congress unanimously. 
 
 "It am berry easy to say 'dam de kid- 
 nappers,' — berry easy to say dam — dam 's a 
 berry short word ; but s'pose de kidnapper 
 hab you, and tie you, and take you down 
 south — eh, nigga ? w'at den ?" 
 
 But before the gentlemen could reply to 
 this pointed question of old Royal's, a cir- 
 cumstance took place which put an entire 
 new face upon the state of affairs. 
 
 The door was burst open, and two persons 
 tumbled into the room, heels over head. 
 Descending the stairs in the darkness, these 
 persons had missed their footing, and fell. 
 The door gave way before their united 
 weight, and they rolled into the room in a 
 style more forcible than graceful. 
 
 When these persons recovered themselves 
 and rose to their feet, they found themselves 
 encircled by some thirty uplifted knives, — 
 every knife grasped by the hand of a brawny 
 negro. And the cry which greeted them 
 was by no means pleasant to hear : — 
 
 "Death to the kidnappers !" 
 
 " We're fooled. It's a trap," cried one of 
 the persons — our old friend Bloodhound. 
 
 " Trap or no trap, I'll cut the heart of the 
 damned nigger that comes near me," cried 
 the other person, who was none other than 
 our friend Harry Royalton, of Hill Royal, 
 South Carolina. 
 
 The cloak had fallen from his shoulders, 
 the cap from his brow. He stood erect, his 
 tall form clad in black, with a gold chain on 
 
 the breast, dilating in every muscle. His 
 face, with its large eyes and bushy whiskers — 
 a face by no means unhandsome, as regards 
 mere animal beauty — was convulsed with 
 rage. And even as he started to his feet, he 
 drew a revolver from his belt, and stood at bay, 
 the very picture of ferocity and desperation. 
 While his right hand grasped the revolver, 
 his left hand flourished a bowie-knife. 
 Harry Royalton was dangerous. 
 
 By his side was the short, stout figure of 
 the Bloodhound, encased to his chin in a 
 rough overcoat, and, with his stiff, gray hairs 
 straggling from beneath his seal-skin cap 
 over his prominent cheek-bones. His small 
 gray eyes, twinkling under his bushy brows, 
 glanced around with a look half desperation, 
 half fear. 
 
 And around the twain crowded the ne- 
 groes, every hand grasping a knife ; every 
 face distorted with hatred ; and old Royal, 
 in his sleek blue dress and white cravat, 
 prominent in that group of black visa,ges 
 and ragged forms. 
 
 " They've got us ! Judas Iscar-i-ot ! It's 
 a trap, my boy. We'll have to cut ourselves 
 loose." 
 
 "Back, you dogs !" shouted Ham'-, with 
 the attitude and look of command. " The 
 first one that lays a finger on me I'll blow 
 him to !" 
 
 There was a pause of a moment, ere 
 the conflict began. Thirty uplifted knives, 
 awaited only a look, a gesture, from old 
 Royal. 
 
 That gentleman, grinning until his white 
 teeth were visible almost from ear to ear, 
 said calmly — "Dis am a revivin' time, wid 
 showers of grace ! Some nigga shut dat 
 door and make 'um fast." 
 
 His words were instantly obeyed ; one of 
 the thirty closed the door and bolted it. 
 
 "Now, massa Harry," said old Royal, 
 grinning and showing the whites of his eyes, 
 " dis am a fav'oble opportunity fur savin* 
 your poor lost soul. How you back feel, ole 
 boy ? Want a leetle more o' de same sort, 
 p'raps ? S'pose you draw dat trigger ? Jis 
 try. Lor a massa, why dere's enough niggas 
 here to eat you up widout pepper or salt." 
 
 Harry laid his finger on the trigger and 
 fired, at the same moment stepping suddenly 
 backward, with the intention of planting 
 
FROM NIGHTFALL UNTIL MIDNIGHT. 
 
 119 
 
 regaiJs 
 1 ik 
 
 evok 
 
 3^11! of 
 
 in in 3 
 
 'iin ca| 
 h siall 
 J broffj, 
 [leratioD, 
 
 h Be- 
 e; eTcry 
 
 ^ m\ 
 i v: 
 
 ■ot! 
 
 irrv, mtl 
 
 il'libloii 
 
 meot, ere 
 
 from ol( 
 
 his white 
 ar to eaJ| 
 
 himself against the wall. But he forgot the 
 negroes behind him. As he fired, his heels 
 were tripped up ; his ball passed over old 
 Boyal's head. Harry was leveled to the 
 floor, and in an instant old Ro3^al's giant-like 
 gripe was on his throat. And by his side, 
 wriggling in the grasp of a huge negro, black 
 as ink, and strong as Hercules, our friend 
 Bloodhound, rubbed his face against the 
 floor. 
 
 Over and around these central figures 
 gathered the remainder of the band, filling 
 the den with their shouts — 
 
 " Death to the dam kidnappers !" 
 " Yah-hah ! Cut their dam throats !" 
 Cries like these, interspersed with frightful 
 howls, filled the place. 
 
 The Bloodhound moaned pitifully; and 
 Parry, with the suffocating gripe of old 
 ■Boyal on his throat, and his back yet raw 
 from the lashes of the previous night, could 
 not repress a groan of agony. 
 It was a critical moment. 
 " Do you know, massa Harry," — and old 
 Eoyal bent his face down until Harry felt 
 his breath upon his cheek — " Do you know, 
 massa Harry, dat you are not berry far from 
 glory ? Kingdom-come am right afore, ole 
 boy — and you am booked — hah ! yah ! — wid 
 a through ticket." 
 Old Royal, (who had laid down his pistol,) 
 a knife from one of the negroes, and, 
 tightening his gripe and pressing his knee 
 more firmly on Harry's breast, he passed the 
 'ittering blade before his eyes. 
 
 " Oh !" groaned Royalton. The groan 
 was wrung from him by intolerable agony. 
 " Let me up — a-h !" cried Bloodhound, 
 , sliut d) ^ smothered voice, as his face was pressed 
 against the hard boards. 
 0118 "Death to the dam kidnappers !" 
 ted it. 1 Old Royalton clenched the knife with 
 old ibis left hand, and placed its point against 
 
 time, 
 
 •fiirsavii 
 same suit 
 
 or salt'' 
 
 Carry's breast, 
 
 *' You am bound for glory, massa — " and 
 A negro held a candle over Harry's face, as 
 ■aid Royal spoke. i 
 I At this critical moment, even as Harry's { 
 life hung on a thread, a violent knocking j 
 was heard at the door, and a voice resounded i 
 ^ 'through its panels — j 
 Old Royal, old Royal, I say ! Let me in, 
 ^juick ! quick !" i 
 8 
 
 " Open the door, nigga. It's massa Harry's 
 brack brudder. Let um in, so he can see his 
 brudder bound for glory !" 
 
 The door was opened, and Randolph, palo 
 as death, came rushing to the light. Wrap- 
 ped in the cloak, which concealed his pistols 
 and knives, and which hung about his tall 
 form in heavy folds, he advanced with a 
 footstep at once trembling and e^ger. 
 
 His pale face was stamped with hatred ; 
 his blue eyes shone with vengeance, as he 
 at a glance beheld the pitiful condition of 
 his brother. 
 
 " Soh, brother of mine, we have met 
 again !" he cried, in a voice which was 
 hoarse and deep with the thirst of ven- 
 geance. 
 
 " Why, he's whitaw dan his white brud- 
 der !" cried the negro who held the light. 
 
 "Release him," cried Randolph — "Re- 
 lease him, I say ! Tie that fellow there ;" 
 he touched Bloodhound with his foot ; 
 close the door. You'll see a fight worth 
 seeing ; a fight between the master and 
 slave, between brother and brother. Do you 
 hear me, Royal ? Let him get up, — " 
 
 " But massa 'Dolph !" hesitated old Royal. 
 
 " Up, I say !" and Randolph flung his cap 
 and cloak to the floor, and drew two bowie- 
 knives from his belt. " Up, I say ! You 
 have heard my history from old Royal ?" he 
 glanced around among the negroes. 
 
 " Yah-hah ! an' ob de lashes dat you gib 
 dis dam kidnapper !" said the negro who 
 held the candle. 
 
 " Then stand by and see us settle our last 
 account," cried Randolph. " Let him get 
 up, old Royal." 
 
 " Old Royal released his hold, and Harry 
 slowly arose to his feet, and stood face to 
 face with his brother. 
 
 " Good evening, brother," said Randolph. 
 " We have met again, and for the last time. 
 One of us will not leave this place alive. 
 Take your choice of knives, brother. I will 
 fight you with my left hand ; I swear it by 
 my mother's name !" 
 
 Harry looked around with a confused 
 glance — 
 
 "It is easy for you to talk," he said, 
 brushing his hand over his forehead and eyes, 
 as if in effort to collect his scattered senses. 
 " Even if I kill you, these niggers will kill me. 
 
120 
 
 FKOM NIGHTFALL 
 
 UNTIL MIDNIGHT. 
 
 They will not Jet me leave the door alive, 
 even if I master you." 
 
 " Old Royal, you know my histor}^ ; and 
 you know how this man has treated me and 
 my sister' — his own flesh and blood. Now 
 swear to me, that in case he is the victor in 
 the contest that is about to take place, you 
 will let him go from this place free and un- 
 harmed ?" 
 
 " I — I — swear it massa 'Dolph ; I swear it 
 by de Lord !" 
 
 "And you?" Randolph turned to the 
 negroes. 
 
 " We does jist as old Royal says," cried 
 the one who held the candle ; and the rest 
 muttered their assent. 
 
 "Take your choice of knives, brother," 
 said Randolph, as his eyes shone with 
 deadly light, and his face, already pale, grew 
 perfectly colorless : " The handles are toward 
 you ; take your choice. Remember I am to 
 fight you with my left hand. You are weak, 
 brother, from the wounds on your back. 
 With my left hand I will fight and kill 
 you." 
 
 Harry Royalton took one of the knives — 
 they were ivory handled, silver mounted, 
 and their blades were long, sharp and glitter- 
 ing — and at the same time surveyed his 
 brother from head to foot. 
 
 " I can kill him," he thought, and smiled; 
 and then said aloud, " I am ready." 
 
 The negroes formed a circle ; old Royal 
 held the light, and the brothers stood in the 
 center, silently surveying each other, ere the 
 fatal contest began. Every eye remarked 
 the contrast between their faces. Harry's 
 face flushed with long- pent-up rage, and 
 Randolph's, pallid as a corpse, yet with an 
 ominous light in his eyes. Both tall and 
 well formed ; both clad in black, which 
 showed to advantage, their broad chests and 
 muscular arms ; there was, despite the color 
 of their eyes and hair, some trace of a family 
 likeness in their faces. 
 
 " Come, brother, begin," said Randolph, in 
 a low voice, which was heard distinctly 
 through the profound stillness. " Remember 
 that I am your slave, and that when I have 
 killed you, I, with sister Esther, also 
 your slave, will inherit one seventh of the 
 Van Huyden estate, — remember how you 
 have lashed and hounded us, — remember the 
 
 dying words of our father — and then defend 
 yourself: for I must kill you, brother. 
 Come !" 
 
 Raising the knife with his left hand, ha 
 drew his form to its full height, and stood 
 on his defense. 
 
 You might have heard a pin drop in that 
 crowded cellar. 
 
 "You damned slave!" shouted Harry, 
 and at the same time, rushed forward, 
 clutching his knife in his right hand. His 
 face was inflamed with rage, his eye steady, 
 his hand firm, and the point of his knife 
 was aimed at his brother's heart. 
 
 The intention was deadly, but the knife 
 never harmed Randolph's heart. Even as 
 Harry rushed forward, his knees bent under 
 him, and he fell flat on his face, and the 
 knife dropped from his nerveless fingers. 
 Overcome by the violence of his emotions, 
 which whirled all the blood in his body, in 
 a torrent to his head, he had sunk lifeless on 
 the floor, even as he sprang forward to plunge 
 his knife into his brother's heart. 
 
 Randolph, who had prepared himself to 
 meet his brother's blow, was thunderstruck 
 by this unexpected incident. 
 
 "De Lord hab touck him," cried old 
 Royal; "he am dead." 
 
 Dead ! At that word, revenge, vengeance, 
 the memory of his wrongs, and of hia 
 brother's baseness, all glided from Ran- 
 dolph's heart, like snow before the flame. 
 In vain he tried to combat this sudden 
 change of feeling. Dead ! The word struck 
 him to the soul. He dropped his knife, and 
 sinking on one knee, he placed upon the 
 other the head of his lifeless brother. 
 Harry's eyes were closed, as if in death ; his 
 lips hung apart, his face was colorless. j 
 
 " De Lord hab touck him," again cried old 
 Royal ; and his remark was welcomed by o 
 burst of laughter from the thirty negroes, 
 which broke upon the breathless stillness, 
 like the yell of so many devils. 
 
 " He is not dead : he has only fainted 
 Water! water!" cried Randolph. But he 
 cried in vain. 
 
 " Dis nigga am not agoin' to gib him on( 
 drop to cool him parched tongue," said ok 
 Royal, showing his teeth. "What say 
 niggas ?" 
 
 " Not a drop ! not a dam drop 1" 
 
FROM NIGHTFALL UNTIL MIDNIGHT. 
 
 121 
 
 Reaching forth his hand, liandolph seized 
 his cap and cloak, and then started to his 
 feet, with the insensible form of Harry in 
 his arms. Without a -word, he moved to the 
 door. 
 
 "Massa 'Dolph, massa 'Dolph !" shouted 
 old Royal. " By de Lord, you don't take 
 him from dis place ;" and he endeavored to 
 place himself between Randolph and the 
 door. 
 
 Randolph saw the determination which 
 was written on his face, and saw the looks 
 and heard the yells of the thirty negroes ; 
 and then, without a word, felled old Royal 
 to the floor. One blow of his right hand, 
 planted on the negro's breast, struck him 
 down like an ox under the butcher's ax. 
 When old Royal, mad with rage, rose to his 
 feet again, Randolph had disappeared — dis- 
 appeared with his brother, whom he bore in 
 his arms to upper air. 
 
 " Let's after um," shouted the foremost of 
 the negroes. 
 
 Old Royal stepped to the door, (which 
 Randolph had closed after him,) but stopped 
 abruptly on the threshold, as if arrested by 
 . a sudden thought. 
 
 " Dis nigga meet you 'gin, massa 'Dolph," 
 he muttered, and then, pointing to some- 
 thing which was folded up in one corner, he 
 .said, " Dar's game fur you niggas !" 
 
 He pointed to the form of poor Blood- 
 hound, who, tied and gagged, lay helpless 
 and groaning on the floor. 
 
 It was, perhaps, the most remarkable hour 
 in Bloodhound's life. His hands and feet 
 tightly bound, a coarse handkerchief wound 
 over his mouth, and tied behind his neck, 
 he was deprived of the power of speech or 
 motion. But the power of vision remained. 
 His small gray eyes twinkled fearfully, as he 
 beheld the faces of the thirty negroes — faces 
 that were convulsed with rage, resembling 
 not so much the visages of men as of devils. 
 And he could also hear. He heard the yell 
 from thirty throats, a yell which was cho- 
 rused with certain Avords, mingling his own 
 name with an emphatic desire for his blood — 
 his life. 
 
 Bloodhound was an old man ; his hair was 
 gray with the snows of sixty years, spent in 
 the practice of all the virtues ; but Blood- 
 hound felt a peculiar sensation gather about 
 
 his heart, at this most remarkable moment 
 of his life, 
 
 * Bring forrad de pris'ner," said old Royal, 
 resuming his seat by the packing-box. " Put 
 'um on him feet. Take de kankercher from 
 him jaw." 
 
 He was obeyed. Bloodhound stood erect 
 in the center of the group, his hands and 
 feet tied, but his tongue free. The light, 
 uplifted in the hand of a brawny negro, fell 
 fully upon his carded face, with its gray 
 hair, bushy eyebrows, and wide mouth. 
 Bloodhound's hands shook, — not with cold, 
 for the place was suffocatingly warm, — and 
 Bloodhound trembled in every atom of his 
 short thick-set body. Glancing before him, 
 then to the right and left, and then back- 
 ward over each shoulder, he saw black faces 
 everywhere, and black hands grasping sharp 
 knives, confronted him at every turn. 
 
 " You am a berry handsum man," said old 
 Royal, encouragingly. " Jist look at imi, 
 niggas. Do you know de pris'ner ?" 
 
 The replies to this query came so fast and 
 thick, that we are unable to put them all 
 upon paper. 
 
 "He stole me fader !" 
 
 " He took me mother from Fildelfy and 
 sold her down south." 
 
 " He kidnapped my little boy.'' 
 
 " Dam kidnapper ! he stole my wife !" 
 
 ** I knows him, I does — he does work for 
 de man dat sells niggas in Baltimore." 
 
 "Don't you know how he tuk de yaller 
 gal away from Fildelfy, making b'lieve dat 
 her own fader was a-dyin', and sent for her? " 
 
 Such were a few of the responses to old 
 Royal's question. It was evident that 
 Bloodhound was hnown. And, although, 
 his hair had grown gray in the practice of 
 all the virtues, it did not give him much 
 pleasure to find that he was known ; for 
 he felt that he was in the hands 'of the 
 wicked. 
 
 " Don't hurt me, niggers, don*t hurt me ! 
 I was 'nt after any of you, upon my word, I 
 was'nt. I've allays been good to. the nig- 
 gers, when I could get a chance, — don't hurt 
 me ! " 
 
 " Oh ! we won't go fur to hurt massa, will 
 we niggas ? " replied old Royal. 
 
 " 0' cos no^, Pon't tink of sich a ting 1 
 Yah-hah!" 
 
122 
 
 FROM NIGHTFALL UNTIL MIDNIGHT. 
 
 " You see I've got a child at home," fal- 
 tered Bloodhound, "that is to say, two or 
 three of 'em. You would'nt go to hurt the 
 father of a family, would you ? " 
 
 "Does you know massa, dat you mos' 
 make dis nigga cry," cried old Royal, with 
 an infernal grin. " Niggas, 'scure dis tear I 
 He am de fader ob a family, dis good man 
 am." 
 
 Old Royal wiped away a tear, — that is, 
 an imaginary tear, — and then surveyed the 
 faces of his colored brethren, with a look 
 that turned Bloodhound's heart to ice. He 
 felt that he was lost. 
 
 " Don't, don't, d-o-n-'-t ! " he shrieked, in 
 agony of fear, " d-o-n-'-t ! " 
 
 " Why, who's a-touchin' you ? Dar am 
 not a single, solitary, blessed soul, layin' a 
 fingaw on you." 
 
 As old Royal spoke, he made a sign with 
 the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. 
 It was obeyed by a huge negro who stood 
 behind Bloodhound, — he struck the wretch- 
 ed man on the back of the head, with the 
 stock of a revolver, — struck him with all 
 the force of his brawny arm, — and the 
 hard, dull sound of the blow, was heard 
 distinctly, even above the fiendish shouts of 
 the negroes. 
 
 "Oh! don't, d-o-n-'-t!" shrieked Blood- 
 hound, as the blood spurted over his hair 
 and forehead, and even into his eyes ; 
 " don»t, d-o-n-'-t ! " 
 
 Another blow. — from behind, — brought 
 
 him to his knees. And then the thirty, or 
 as many as could get near him, closed round 
 him, shouting and yelling and striking. 
 Every face was distorted with rage ; every 
 hand grasped a knife. Old Royal, who 
 calmly surveyed the scene, saw the backs 
 and faces of the negroes ; saw the knives 
 glittering, as they rose and fell ; but Blood- 
 i hound was not to be seen. But his cries 
 were heard, as he madly grappled with the 
 knives which stabbed him, — for his bonds 
 had been cut by one of the band, — and 
 these cries, thick and husky, as though his 
 utterance was choked by blood, would have 
 moved a heart of stone. But every shriek 
 only seemed to give new fire to the rage of 
 the negroes ; and gathering closer round the 
 miserable man, they lifted their knives, 
 dripping with his blood, and struck and 
 struck and struck again, until his cries were 
 stilled. As he uttered the last cry, he ^ 
 sprang madly into light, for a moment, 
 shook his bloody hands above his head, and 
 then fell to rise no more. 
 
 You would not have liked to have seen 
 the miserable thing which was stretched on 
 the floor, in the center of that horrible cir- 
 cle, a miserable, mangled, shapeless thing, 
 which, only a moment ago, was a living 
 man. 
 
 "Now genelmen," said old Royal, calmly, 
 "de business bein' done, dis meetin' stand 
 adjourn till furder ordaw. Niggas, I tink 
 you'd bettaw cut stick." 
 
NEW YORK: 
 
 ITS 
 
 [JPPER-TEN AND LOWER MILLION. 
 
 PART THIRD. 
 
 "THROUGH THE SILENT CITY." 
 
 DECEMBER 24, 1844. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE DEN OF MADAM RESIMER. 
 
 Yonder, in the still winter night, the tem- 
 ple stands, all dark and sullen without, but 
 bright with festal lights within. Stand here 
 in the dark, and you will see the guests of 
 the temple come, — now one by one, — ^now 
 two by two, — sometimes in parties of four, — 
 and all are carefully cloaked and masked. 
 They come noiselessly along the dark street : 
 they glide stealthily up the steps, and be- 
 neath the arch of the gloomy door. A gentle 
 knock, — the door is slightly opened, — a pass- 
 word is whispered, — and one by one, and two 
 two, and sometimes in parties of four, the 
 guests of THE temple glide over its threshold, 
 and pass like shadows from the sight. 
 
 Shall we also enter ? Not yet. We will 
 wait until the revel is at its height, and 
 until the masks begin to fall. 
 
 Meanwhile, we will follow the adventures 
 of Arthur Dermoyne. 
 
 About half-past twelve o'clock, Arthur 
 Dermoyne stood in the street, in front of the 
 house of Madam Resimer. Wrapped in his 
 cloak, and with his cap drawn over his eyes, 
 he stood in the shadows, and gazed fixedly 
 upon the mansion opposite. . It stood in the 
 midst of a crowded street, joined with 
 houses on either side, and yet it stood alone. 
 Black and sullen with its closed shutters 
 and somber exterior, it seemed to bear upon 
 its face the stamp of the infernal crimes 
 which had been committed within its walls. 
 Lofty mansions lined the street, but their 
 wealthy occupants little knew the real 
 character of the woman (woman ! — fiend 
 ■would be a better name) who tenanted the 
 gloomy house. 
 
 With great difficulty, — it matters not 
 how, — Arthur had discovered the haunt of 
 this murderess. Her name was one of those 
 names which creep through society like the 
 vague panic which foretells the pestilence ; 
 there were few who did not know that such 
 a person existed, and few whose hearts did 
 shrink in loathing, from the very mention of 
 her name. But her haunt, centered in an 
 aristocratic quarter, was comparatively un- 
 known ; only her customers and some of the 
 publishers of newspapers, with whom she 
 advertised, were aware that the sullen house 
 which stood in a fashionable street, was the 
 den of Madam Resimer. 
 
 That such a creature should exist, and 
 grow rich in the city of New York, in the 
 middle of the nineteenth century, by the 
 pursuit of a traffic which, in its incredible 
 infamy, has no name in language, may well 
 excite the horror of every man and w^oman 
 with a human heart within their bosom. 
 
 We read of the female poisoner, and 
 shudder; but console ourselves with the 
 thought, "These things happened in the 
 dark ages, long ago, when knowledge was 
 buried, and the human heart was utterly 
 depraved." 
 
 We read in the daily papers the aimounce- 
 ment of a wretch that, for a certain price, 
 she will kill the unborn child, — an announce- 
 ment made in plain terms, and paid for as 
 an advertisement, — and we are dumb. It is 
 the nineteenth century : will not future ages, 
 raking the advertisement of this infamous 
 woman from some dark comer, guess the 
 awful secrets of the nineteenth century from 
 that one infernal blot ? 
 
 We see a carriage drawn by blooded 
 steeds, whirling through Broadway ; its only 
 (123) 
 
124 
 
 THKOUGH THE SILENT CITY. 
 
 occupant a handsomely*attired female. And 
 wo say to ourselves, " There goes the mur- 
 deress of mother and of the unborn child — 
 there goes the wretch who thrives by the 
 slaughter of lost womanhood ; who owns a 
 splendid carriage, a fine mansion, and a 
 magnificent fortune, in the very vortex of a 
 depraved social world — there goes the in- 
 strument of the very vilest crime known 
 in the annals of Hell." 
 
 These words none of us dare say aloud ; 
 we only think of them ; and we shudder as 
 we see them written on paper, — they are so 
 horribly true. 
 
 And as we ask — Why is such a creature 
 needed in the world ? Why does she find 
 employment f Why do a hundred such as 
 her, thrive and grow rich in the large cities ? 
 we are forced to accept one of these two 
 answers : 
 
 1. A bad social state, based upon enormous 
 wealth and enormous poverty, — a social state 
 which gives to the few* the very extrava- 
 gancies of luxury, and deprives the countless 
 many of the barest rights and comforts of 
 life, — finds its natural result in the existence 
 of this Madam Resimer. 
 
 Or,- 
 
 2. Human nature is thoroughly depraved. 
 A certain portion of the race are born to be 
 damned in this world, as well as in the next. 
 Such creatures as Madam Resimer, are but 
 the proper instruments of that damnation. 
 
 Upon my soul, good friend, who read this 
 book, these answers are worthy of some mo- 
 ments of attentive thought. 
 
 Arthur Dermoyne stood in the gloom of 
 that winter midnight, — a midnight awful 
 and profound, and only deepened in its 
 solemnity, by the clear, cold light of the win- 
 tery stars. A thousand thoughts flitted over 
 his brain, as he gazed upon the fatal house. 
 Was Alice already a tenant of that loathsome 
 den ? Again and again, he rejected the 
 thought, but still, it came back upon him, 
 and crept like ice through his veins. If she 
 was, indeed, within these walls, what might 
 be her fate ere the morrow's dawn ? Arthur 
 could not repress a cry of anguish. A vague 
 picture of a lost woman, put to death in the 
 dark, by the gripe of a fiend in human shape, 
 seemed to pass before him, like a shadow 
 from the oth«r world, I 
 
 I He surveyed the house. A street-lamp, 
 which stood some paces from it, shed a faint 
 I gleam over its walls, and served to show, 
 I that from cellar to garret, it was closed like 
 a tomb. 
 
 The wealthy tenants of the houses on 
 either hand, had evidently retired to their 
 beds. Not a gleam of light shone from their 
 many windows. 
 
 The street was profoundly still ; a solitary 
 footstep was heard in the distance ; above 
 the roof was the midnight sky and the win- 
 tery stars. 
 
 Arthur crossed the street. 
 
 " I remember what the policemen told 
 me, who showed me the way to this place. 
 Three cellar windows protected by sheet- 
 iron bars ; they are before me. Beyond these 
 windows a cellar filled with rubbish ; then 
 a basement room,- where one of the Madam's 
 bullies is in waiting, day and night, ready to 
 do her bidding." 
 
 The Madam was provided with two bul- 
 lies, whom she had raked from the subterra- 
 nean regions of New York. They were men 
 of immense muscular strength, with the print 
 of their depraved nature upon their brutal 
 faces. One was six feet two inches in height; 
 he was known among his familiars by the 
 succinct name of " Diek." He used a dirk- 
 knife in his encounters. The other, short, 
 bony, with broad chest and low legs, was 
 known as " Slung-Shot." His favorite wea- 
 pon was a leaden ball attached to a cord by 
 net- work, with a loop for his wrist. One 
 blow with this " Slung-Shot," rightly admin- 
 istered, on the temple, would kill the strong- 
 est man. 
 
 These were the Madam's watch-dogs. 
 They formed the police of the mansion. 
 One slept while the other watched, and when 
 any little difficulty occurred, they settled the 
 matter witJiout noise. Whether they knew 
 all the secrets of the Madam's mansion, or 
 only regarded it as one of the many haunts 
 of vulgar infamy, which infest New York, 
 does not yet appear. 
 
 " Slung-Shot or Dirk, is now on the watch, 
 in the basement room, next the cellar. Sup- 
 pose I manage to force the bars of one of 
 these windows, — I enter the basement room, 
 — am confronted by one of the bullies. If 
 I escape the dirk and the slung-shot, I may 
 
THROUGH THE SILENT CITY. 
 
 125 
 
 be handed over to the police, and sent to 
 the Penitentiary on a charge of burglary. In 
 the latter case, I will remain in the Tombs 
 while the 25th of December passes, and 
 thus escape all hope of participation in the 
 settlement of the Van Huyden estate." 
 
 It did not take long for Dermoyne to come 
 to a determination. 
 
 " True, after all, Barnhurst may be inno- 
 cent, and Madam Resimer may have nothing 
 to do with the affair. But I cannot remain 
 any longer in this state of harrowing sus- 
 pense. I will to work, — and at once." 
 
 For a moment, he surveyed the street, and 
 you may be sure, that his gaze was keen 
 and anxious. No one was in sight ; all was 
 breathlessly still. 
 
 Arthur drew from beneath his cloak an 
 iron bar, with which he had provided him- 
 self. It was a square bar, about two inches 
 in thickness, and as many feet in length. 
 Next, fixing his gaze on the central window 
 of the cellar, he ascertained that it was pro- 
 tected by three upright bars, separated from 
 each other, by a space of six inches. These 
 bars, scarcely more than an inch in thickness, 
 were inserted into solid pieces of granite, 
 which formed the top and base of the window- 
 frame. Could he displace them from their 
 sockets, by means of the bar which he carried? 
 
 Again, he glances up and down the street. 
 Kot a soul in sight. He cast an upward 
 glance, over the wall of the house, — still 
 closed in every shutter, and sullen as a vault. 
 He crouched beside the window and began 
 to use his iron bar. It required all the force 
 of his almost supernatural strength, to bend 
 the central bar, but presently it was accom- 
 plished. It yielded and was forced from its 
 sockets. Then, resting the iron bar which 
 he grasped, against the wall on the left, he 
 forced the second bar from its socket, and in 
 a few minutes, in a similar manner, the third 
 yielded to the force of his powerful sinews. 
 The three fell into the cellar, and produced 
 a crashing sound as they came into contact 
 with some loose boards. 
 
 Arthur did not hesitate a moment. Grasp- 
 ing the iron bar, and folding his cloak about ; 
 his left arm, he crept through the window j 
 and descended into the cellar. All was thick | 
 darkness there, but a faint ray came from | 
 the door which opened into the basement j 
 
 room. Trampling over heaps of rubbish and 
 loose piles of boards, Arthur made his way 
 toward the door, and did not pause a single 
 moment, but flinging his weight against its 
 rough boards, he forced the staple .which 
 secured it, and burst it open with a crash. 
 
 Then his features were fixed, his eyes 
 flashed, he clutched the iron bar, and ad- 
 vancing one step into the basement room, 
 stood ready for the worst. 
 
 A candle, burning fast toward its socket, 
 stood on a pine table, and flung its uncertain 
 light over a small room, with cracked ceil- 
 ing and rough walls, smeared with white- 
 wash. A coal fire smouldered in a narrow 
 grate. 
 
 Slung- Shot was there, — not on the watch 
 precisely, — but with his brawny arms resting 
 on the table, and his head bent on his arms. 
 He was fast asleep, and snoring vigorously. 
 An empty brandy bottle which stood near 
 the light, explained the cause of his sleep. 
 Arthur glanced at the door, which opened on 
 the stairway, and then — "Can I cross the 
 room and open the door without waking this 
 wretch ?" was his thought. 
 
 Slung-Shot, although by no means tall, 
 was evidently a fellow of muscle, as his 
 broad shoulders, (inclosed in a red flannel 
 shirt) and his half-bared arms, served to 
 show. His face was buried against the table, 
 and Arthur could only see the back of his 
 head ; his hair closely cut, his long ears, and 
 the greasy locks which draggled in front of 
 each ear, were disclosed in the flickering 
 light. 
 
 Arthur, after a moment of hesitation, ad- 
 vanced, — the boards creaked under his tread, 
 — still the ruffian did not move, but snored 
 on, in a deep, sonorous bass. Arthur placed 
 his hand on the latch of the door — 
 
 The ruffian then moved. He raised his 
 sleepy head, and Arthur beheld that brutal 
 face, with its low forehead, broken nose and 
 projecting under-jaw. 
 
 " S-a-y," he cried, in that peculiar dialect, 
 which, accompanied by an elongation of the 
 lower- jaw, forms the patois of a class of ruf- 
 fians which infests the large cities, "what 
 de thunder you 'bout ?" 
 
 Arthur grasped his iron bar, but stood 
 motionless as stone, awaiting the assault of 
 the ruffian. 
 
126 
 
 THROUGH THE SILENT CITY. 
 
 " Dat you Dirk ?" continued Slung-Shot, 
 rolling his eyes with a drunken stare ; " why 
 de thunder don't you let a feller sleep ? — " 
 and then came a round of oaths, uttered in 
 that peculiar dialect, with the lower-jaw 
 elongated and the head shaking briskly, 
 from side to side. After which Slung-Shot 
 sank to slfeep again. He had mistaken Ar- 
 thur for his comrade. 
 
 Arthur lifted the latch, and in a moment 
 was ascendint,- the narrow staircase, which 
 led to the hall on the first floor. At the 
 head of the sCair was a door, which he 
 opened, and found himself on a carpeted floor, 
 but in utter darkness. 
 
 He could hear the beating of his he^i;, as 
 pausing in the thick darkness, he bent his 
 head and listened. 
 
 Not a sound was heard throughout the 
 mansion. 
 
 What should be his next step ? Enter 
 the parlor on the first floor or ascend the 
 stairway ? 
 
 " If Alice is concealed within these walls, 
 she must be in one of the rooms up-stairs," 
 he thought, and felt his way toward the 
 staircase. Presently, his hand encountered 
 the banisters, and he began cautiously to 
 ascend to the second floor. Arrived at the 
 head of the stairs, he stopped again and list- 
 ened : not a sound was heard. Torn as he 
 was by suspense, the cold sweat started upon 
 his forehead : he folded his cloak carefully 
 around his left arm, and grasping the iron 
 bar with his right hand, he listened once 
 more. The house was as soundless, as 
 though a human voice or footstep had never 
 been heard within its walls. 
 
 At this moment Arthur was assailed by a 
 terrible doubt — 
 
 "What if it should be all a dream? — 
 Barnhurst may be innocent, and as for Alice, 
 she may be at this moment, a hundred miles 
 away 1 Nay, this house may be the resi- 
 dence of a peaceful family, and have noth- 
 ing to do with Madam Resimer or her 
 crimes — " 
 
 He was shaken by the doubt. Turning in 
 the darkness, he began to descend the stairs — 
 
 " Ha ! The ruflfian in the cellar confirms 
 the story of the policeman who led me here, 
 and who stated that this was the house of 
 Madam Resimer;" this thought flashed 
 
 over him and arrested his steps. " I'll not 
 retreat until my suspicions are confirmed or 
 put to rest." 
 
 He turned £^ain, and feeling his way up 
 the stairs, and along the hall of the second 
 floor, he began to ascend the second stair- 
 way. At the top he paused and listened — 
 all was silent — not a whisper, nor the echo 
 of a sound. Then stretching forth his hand 
 he discovered that at a short distance be- 
 yond the stairway, another staircase led up- 
 ward to the fourth floor. He also came to 
 the conclusion, that from near the top of the 
 stairway, even where he stood, a long and 
 narrow passage led into some remote part of 
 the mansion. For a moment he was at 
 fault. Should he ascend the third stair- 
 way to the fourth floor, or should he traverse 
 the long and narrow passage? 
 
 " I will ascend to the fourth floor," he 
 thought, when he was arrested by. a sound. 
 
 Low, very faint, ambiguous in its charac- 
 ter, it seemed to proceed from the extremity 
 of the passage, which branched from the 
 head of the second staircase. Was it a 
 faint cry for help — a moan of anguish — or 
 the echo of voices, muffled by thick cowls ? 
 
 He had no chance to determine. 
 
 For at the very moment when this sound 
 reached his ears, it was drowned by another 
 sound. The bell rang through the house, 
 peal after peal, and died away in a dismal 
 echo. There was a pause; it rang again, and 
 this time more violently, as though an angry 
 or frenzied hand grasped the bell-rope. — 
 Another pause, and a light flashed in the 
 face of Dermoyne. It came from the ex- 
 tremity of the passage at the head of the 
 stairs, and was held in the hand of a woman, 
 clad in a flowing wrapper, who advanced 
 along the passage with rapid strides. — 
 Standing at the head of the second stairway, 
 Dermoyne surveyed her as she approached, 
 and at a glance, as she came rapidly toward 
 him, beheld her portly form and florid face. 
 
 That face wore a look of unmistakable 
 chagrin. 
 
 "No time is to be lost — in a moment she 
 will be here," thought Dermoyne — " can it 
 be Madam Resimer?" 
 
 He advanced and shrouded himself in the 
 darkness of the third stairway. Near and 
 neaAr grew the sound of footsteps — 
 
THROUGH THE SILENT CITY. 
 
 127 
 
 "If she looks this way, as she descends 
 the stairs, I am discovered," and Dermoyne 
 could distinctly hear the beating of his 
 heart. 
 
 The next moment the rustling of her 
 dress was heard ; her heavy strides resound- 
 ed as she advanced ; and then emerging 
 from the passage, she reached the top of the 
 second stairway. Her dress brushed Der- 
 moyne, as he crouched on the first steps of 
 the uppermost stairs ; her face was visible in 
 profile for a single instant. 
 
 " Curse this light, how it flares, and curse 
 that bell — will it never cease ringing? At 
 Btich a moment too, — " 
 • And wdthout once looking behind her, she 
 hurriedly descended the second stairs. Der- 
 moyne watched her tall form, with its loose 
 gown, flowing all about her bulky outlines, 
 until she turned the angle of the stairs and 
 disappeared. 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 "HERMAN, YOU WILL NOT DESERT ME?" 
 
 " Now is my time," muttered Dermoyne to 
 himself, and at once he entered the passage, 
 which branched from the head of the stairs, 
 and led to the eastern wing of the mansion. 
 How his heart beat, how his blood bounded 
 in his veins, as he drew near the open door 
 at the extremity of the passage 1 
 
 On the threshold he paused — his form 
 shrouded by the darkness, but the light from 
 within the room shining upon his forehead 
 • — he paused and took a single glance at the 
 scene which was disclosed to his vision. 
 
 Never till his dying hour shall he forget 
 that scene. 
 
 A small apartment, "vvith windows shut 
 and sealed like the doors of a sepulcher. — 
 On a small table, amid vials and surgical in- 
 struments, stands a light, whose rays tremble 
 over the bed, which occupied the greater 
 part of the room. Above the bed, from the 
 darkly- papered walls, smiles a picture of the 
 "Virgin Mary, while beneath, by the folds of 
 the coverlet, you may trace the outlines of 
 a human form. 
 
 Beside the bed stands a slender man dress- 
 ed in black, with a heavy pair of gold spec- j 
 tuoles on his hooked nose. It is Corkins, , 
 the familiar spirit of the Madam, Corkins, | 
 
 I whose slender frame, incased in black, re- 
 minds you of the raven, while hia face with 
 top-knot, gold spectacles, ferret-like eyes, ana 
 pointed beard, reminds you of the owl. 
 
 "Bad!" mutters Corkins, "bad!" and 
 he gazes upon the occupant of the bed, 
 knotting his fingers together like a man who 
 is exceedingly perplexed. 
 
 The bed and its occupant ? Ask us not 
 to picture the full horror of the sight which 
 Arthur saw (from his place of concealment), 
 as Corkins gently drew the coverlet aside. 
 
 " Alice !" he did not pronounce the word 
 with his lips, but his heart uttered it — it was 
 echoed in the depths of his soul. 
 
 He saw the pale face, and the sunny hair, 
 which fell in a flood upon her bared shoul- 
 ders. He saw the arms outspread, with the 
 fingers trembling and working as with the 
 impulse of a spasm. He saw the eyes which 
 opened with a dead stare, and fijsed vaguely 
 upon the ceiling, had no look of life in 
 their leaden glance. He saw the lips, which 
 were colorless and almost covered with 
 white foam. And as the sufferer moved her 
 head, and flung it back upon the pillow, 
 he saw her throat — no longer white and 
 beautiful — but with swollen veins, writhing 
 with torture, ^d starting from the discolor- 
 ed skin. 
 
 Never, never until his last hour can Ar- 
 thur forget that sight. 
 
 And poor Alice, writhing thus between 
 life and death, talked to herself in a voice 
 husky and faint, and said certain words that 
 made Arthur's blood gather in a flood about 
 his heart : 
 
 "Herman, you will not desert me!" she 
 said, and then while the foam was on her 
 lips, she babbled of her father and home — 
 writhing all the while in every nerve and 
 vein. 
 
 Arthur entered the room. Corkins turned 
 and beheld him, and uttered a cry of fright. 
 For at that moment Arthur's face was not a 
 pleasant face for any man to look upon, much 
 less Corkins. . And the iron bar which Ar- 
 thur held in his clenched hand, taken into 
 connection with tlie look on his face, reminded 
 Corkins of stories which he had read — stories 
 which told of living men, bruised suddenly to 
 death by such a hand and such an iron bar. 
 Corkins, therefore, uttered a cry of fright, and 
 
128 
 
 THROUGH THE SILENT CITY. 
 
 in his terror shook his gold spectacles from 
 his parrot nose. 
 
 " Down," said Arthur, in a low voice, "on 
 your knees," — he pointed to a nook of the 
 room, between the foot of the bed and the 
 wall. "Stay there with your face to the 
 wall." 
 
 Corkins obeyed. Trembling to the corner, 
 he sank on his knees, and turned his face 
 away from the door and turned toward the 
 wall, there was such a persuasive eloquence 
 in Arthur's look. 
 
 Then Arthur, still clutching the iron bar, 
 drew near the head of the bed, and gazed 
 upon Alice. 
 
 Stretching forth her arms, and opening 
 and closing her little hands ; flinging back 
 her head, her eyes fixed upon the same 
 point of the ceiling, no matter how she 
 writhed — babbling with foaming lips about 
 her father and her home, — it was one of the 
 saddest sights that ever man beheld. 
 
 Arthur could not stand it. He turned his 
 face away, and there was a choking sensation 
 in his throat, and -a painful heaving of his 
 chest. His eyeballs were hot and tearless. — 
 He would have given his life to shed a sin- 
 gle tear. 
 
 But that moment of intolerable anguish 
 was interrupted by the sound of footsteps 
 resounding from the lower part of the man- 
 sion. Madam Resimer was returning to the 
 room of Alice. 
 
 Arthur at once shrank into the comer 
 where Corkins knelt, and touched the crea- 
 ture with his foot by way of warning. Then 
 placing himself against the wall in such a 
 manner that he could not be seen until the 
 Madam entered the room, he awaited her 
 return. 
 
 Her footsteps are on the stairs, and pres- 
 ently they are heard in the passage. Arthur, 
 standing bolt upright against the wall, with 
 the trembling Corkins at his feet, heard 
 the rustling of her dress, as she came brush- 
 ing along, with her heavy stride. Then he 
 heard her voice — she was speaking to some 
 one who accompanied her. 
 
 " There are two," he muttered, and bent 
 his head to listen. He could distinguish her 
 words : 
 
 " What a foolish fancy ! " this was the 
 voice of the Madam, " to think that any 
 
 I one could gain admittance to my house 
 against my will. Why, my dear, the idea 
 makes me laugh." 
 
 " Yes, but he's such a desperate ruffian," 
 answered a second voice. 
 
 It was the voice of Rev. Herman Barn- 
 hurst. 
 
 CHAPTER ni. 
 
 HERMAN, ARTHUR, ALICE. 
 
 " Oh ! my God, I thank thee," muttered 
 Arthur, and clutched the iron bar and 
 crouched closer to the wall. 
 
 And ere a moment passed, the Madam 
 entered the room, followed by Bamhurst. 
 She held the light, and he advanced toward 
 the bed. 
 
 " It looks rather bad," cried Bamhurst, as 
 he caught sight of the face of Alice. 
 
 " Why, where has Corkins gone ?" cried 
 the Madam, and turning abmptly she sought 
 for Corkins, and uttered a shriek. At the 
 same instant Bamhurst raised his eyes from 
 the face of Alice, and fell back against the 
 wall, as though a bullet had pierced his 
 temple. 
 
 They had at the same instant discovered 
 Dermoyne, who, motionless as stone, stood 
 against the wall, beside the door, his arms 
 folded, and his head sunk on his breast. 
 Thus, with his head drooped on his breast, 
 he raised his eyes and silently surveyed them 
 both, and with the same glance. 
 
 Not a word was spoken. The Madam, 
 unable to support herself, sank on the foot 
 of the bed, and Bamhurst, staggered to his 
 feet again, looked around the room with a 
 visage stamped with guilt and terror. 
 
 Arthur quietly advanced a step, and closed 
 the door of the room. Then he locked it 
 and put the key in his pocket. 
 
 " What do you mean ?" cried the Madam, 
 the color rushing into her face. 
 
 "No noise," whispered Arthur, "unless 
 indeed," — and he smiled in a way which she 
 understood, — " unless, indeed, you mean to 
 alarm the neighborhood, and bring the police 
 into the room. Would you like to have the 
 police examine your house ?" 
 
 The Madam bit her red lip, but did not 
 answer. Arthur passed her, and approached 
 the Rev. Herman Barnhiirst. 
 
THROUGH THE 
 
 Nay, don't be afraid; I will not hurt you," 
 he whispered, as the clergyman stretched 
 forth his hands and retreated toward the wall. 
 ** Come, take courage, man, — look there !" 
 He pointed to the face of Alice. 
 Herman, ashy pale, and shaking in every 
 limb, followed the movement of Arthur's 
 hand, but did not utter a word. 
 
 "A 'man of your cloth' to be 'sus- 
 pected ' — eh, my friend ?" and Arthur, 
 laughed. "A minister of THE Church, 
 to be suspected of seduction and of murder ? 
 Is it not a lying tongue that dare charge you, 
 Reverend sir, with such crimes ? 
 
 Here, poor Alice, writhing in the bed, 
 spoke a faint word about father, and home. 
 
 Barnhurst, cringing against the wall, his 
 smooth complexion changed to a livid pale- 
 ness, muttered an incoherent word about 
 " reparation." 
 
 *' Oh, you shall make reparation, — never 
 fear ; you shall make reparation," whispered 
 Dermoyne, his eyes fairly blazing with light. 
 "And you visited her father's house as a 
 minister of God. She heard you preach in 
 the church, and you talked to her in her 
 home. What words you said, I know not ; 
 but some forty- eight hours ago you took her 
 from her home ; but a few hours have 
 passed since then. The father lies a mangled 
 corpse somewhere between this house and 
 Philadelphia ; and Alice, the daughter, is 
 before you. Are you not proud of your 
 work, my reverend friend ?" 
 
 Herman's eye glanced from the ominous 
 face of Dermoyne, and then to the iron bar 
 which he held in his clenched hand, — 
 " You will not — kill — me ?" he gasped. 
 Arthur was silent. The veins upon his 
 forehead were swollen ; his teeth were 
 locked ; his eyes, deep sunken under his 
 down- drawn brows, emitted a steady and 
 sinister light. He was thinking. 
 
 " Kill you ?" he said, in a measured voice, 
 which seemed torn, word by word, through 
 his clenched teeth, from his heart. " Oh, if 
 I could believe your creed — that eternal 
 vengeance is the only future punishment for 
 earthly crimes — why, I would kill you, 
 before you could utter another word. Do 
 you believe that creed? No — wretch ! you 
 do not. You have but preached it as a part 
 of that machinery which manufactures your 
 
 SILENT CITY. 129 
 
 salary. But now, wretch ! as you stand by 
 the death-bed of your victim, with the face 
 of her avenger before you, now search your 
 heart, and answer me — Do you not begin to 
 feel that there is a God ?" 
 
 It was pitiful to see the poor wretch cringe 
 against the wall, supporting himself with his 
 hands, which he placed behind his back, 
 while his head slowly sunk, and his eyes 
 were riveted to the face of Dermoyne. 
 
 "You will not kill me," he faltered ; and, 
 with his left hand, tugged at his white 
 cravat, for there was a choking sensation at 
 his throat. 
 
 As for the Madam, who stood at the back 
 of Dermoyne, she began to recover some 
 portion of her self-possession, as a hope 
 flashed upon her mind : " The handle of the 
 bell is behind Barnhurst," she muttered to 
 himself ; " if he would only touch it, it 
 would resound in the basement, and call 
 Slung-Shot to our aid." 
 
 And with flashing eyes, the Madam gazed 
 over Dermoyne's shoulder, watching every 
 movement of the clergyman, and hoping 
 that even in his fright, he might touch the 
 handle of the bell. That bell communi- 
 cated with the basement room ; one move- 
 ment of the handle, and Slung-Shot would 
 be summoned to the scene. 
 
 However, as Barnhurst cringed against the 
 wall, his hands strayed all around the 
 handle of the bell, but did not touch it. 
 
 At this crisis, however, the Madam form- 
 ing suddenly a bold resolution, strode across 
 the floor and placed her bulky form between 
 Dermoyne and the clergyman. 
 
 " What do you want here, any how ?" she 
 said, tossing her head and placing her arms 
 a-kimbo. " You are neither the brother nor 
 the husband of this girl. Supposin' you 
 was, what have you to complain of ? Haven't 
 I treated her like my own child ? Yes, I've 
 been a mother to her — and that is a fact." 
 
 Dermoyne, for a moment, paused to ad- 
 mire the cool impudence which stamped the 
 florid visage of the madam. Her chin pro- 
 jected, her nose upturned, and her nether 
 lip protruded, she stood there in her flowing 
 wrapper, with a hand on each side of her 
 waist. 
 
 " Look there," he said quietly, and pointed 
 to the bed, where the poor girl was stretched 
 
130 
 
 THROUGH THE SILENT CITY". 
 
 in her agony; her hands quivering and her 
 lips white with foam : " When that poor 
 child entered your house, she was in the 
 enjoyment of good health. What is she 
 now ? Shall I go forth from this place and 
 bring a physician to testify as to the nature 
 of your TnotJierly treatment ? 
 
 The Madam retreated from the gaze of the 
 young man, and felt the force of his words. 
 
 Too well she knew what verdict a physi- 
 cian would pass upon her treatment of the 
 young girl. 
 
 "The bell-handle is behind you," she 
 whispered, as she passed the cringing Barn- 
 hurst He did not seem to heed her ; but 
 the moment that she passed him and 
 resumed her former place, he fixed his 
 stupefied gaze once more upon the visage 
 of Dermoyne. 
 
 As for Dermoyne, for a moment he stood 
 buried in profound thought. The clergyman 
 trembled closer to the wall as he remarked 
 the livid paleness of Arthur's face, — the 
 peculiar light in Arthur's eyes. 
 
 Dermoyne, after a moment, advanced and 
 extended his hand — " Come," he said, and 
 sought to grasp Barnhurst's hands. But, shud- 
 dering and half dead with fright, Herman 
 crouched away from the extended hand, — 
 crouched and cringed away as though he 
 would bury himself in the veiy wall. 
 
 "Come," again repeated Dermoyne, his 
 voice changed and husky. " Come !" He 
 grasped the hand of th« clergyman and 
 dragged him to the bedside. "Oh, look 
 upon that sight !" he groaned as the tortured 
 girl writhed before them — " Look upon that 
 sight, and tell me, what fiend of hell ever, 
 even in thought, planned a deed like this ?" 
 
 " Don't kill me, don't, don't ! " faltered 
 Hermaru 
 
 "This is a strange meeting," continued 
 Dermoyne, with a look that made Herman's 
 blood run cold ; "here we are together, you 
 and I and Alice ! I that loved her better 
 than life, and would have been glad to have 
 called her by the sacred name of wife. You, 
 that without loving her or caring for her, 
 save as the instrument of your brutal appetite, 
 have made her what she is, — have made her 
 what she is, and brought her here to die in 
 a dark comer, something worse than the 
 ueath of a dog. And Alice, poor Alice, 
 
 who saw you first in the pulpit, and then 
 listened to you and yielded to you in the 
 home, — her father's home, — Alice lies be- 
 fore you now. Hark ! " 
 
 The poor girl stretched forth her hands, 
 and with the foam still white upon her 
 livid lips, she said, in her wandering way — 
 
 " Oh ! Herman, dear Herman ! it was not 
 fatlier that was hurt, was it ? Oh ! are you 
 sure, are you sure ? " And then came wan- 
 dering words about father, Herman, home, 
 and — her lost condition. There was some- 
 thing too, about returning to father and ask- 
 ing his forgiveness when the danger was 
 over. 
 
 "And you desire her death." In his 
 agony, as he uttered these words, Arthur 
 clutched Herman with a gripe that forced a 
 groan from his lips. "You who have 
 brought her to this, — he pointed to the 
 bed, — while I desire her to live ; I, that by 
 her death will become the sole inheritor of 
 her father's fortime." 
 
 This was a revelation that astounded Her- 
 man, half dead as he was, with terror. 
 
 " The sole inheritor of her father's for- 
 tune ! " he echoed. 
 
 At this crisis, the Madam darted forward. 
 Arthur saw her hand extended toward the 
 handle of the bell. 
 
 " Oh ! ring by all means," he exclaimed, 
 " ring, my dear Madam ; summon your bul- 
 lies ; we will have as much noise as possi- 
 ble, — perchance, a fight ! And then the 
 police will come and examine the little 
 mysteries of your mansion. Will you not 
 ring ? " 
 
 The Madam's hand dropped to her side, 
 and she slunk back to her former position, 
 her florid face impressed with an expression 
 which was not, altogether, one of serenity 
 or joy. 
 
 " You wondered, to-night, why Mr. Bur- 
 ney permitted the poor shoemaker to visit 
 his house. Let me enlighten you a little. 
 Not many years ago, an unknown mechanic 
 called upon the rich merchant, in his library, 
 and proved to the merchant's satisfaction, 
 that he, — the poor mechanic, — had, in his 
 possession, certain papers which established 
 the fact that the immense wealth of Mr. 
 Bumey had been obtained by a gross fraud ; 
 a fraud which, in a court of law, would 
 
THROUGH THE SILENT CITY. 
 
 181 
 
 disclose itself in the two-fold shape oi perjury 
 and forgery. The father of the mechanic 
 was the victim ; Bumey, the criminal ; the 
 victim had died poor and broken-hearted ; 
 but in the hands of the criminal, the 
 property so illy-gotten, had swelled into an 
 immense fortune. It was the son of the 
 victim who, having lived through a friend- 
 less orphanage, now came to Mr. Burney 
 and proved that at any moment he might 
 involve the rich merchant in disgrace and 
 ruin." 
 
 "Impossible!" ejaculated Barnhurst. 
 
 " The merchant made large offers to the 
 mechanic to obtain his silence, — believing in 
 the true mercantile way, that every man has 
 his price, he offered a good round sum, and 
 doubled it the next moment, — but in vain. 
 The image of his broken-hearted father was 
 before the mechanic, — he could not banish 
 it, — he had but one purpose, and that was, 
 to bring the rich man to utter ruin. This 
 purpose was strong in his heart, when scorn- 
 ing all the offers of the merchant, he rose 
 from his seat and moved toward the door. 
 But at the door his purpose was changed. 
 There he was confronted by the face of a 
 happy, sinless girl, — a girl with all the 
 heauty of a happy, sinless heart, written 
 tipon her young face. At the sight, the 
 mechanic relented. Maddened by the thirst 
 for a full and bitter revenge, he could de- 
 stroy the father, but he had not the heart 
 to destroy the father of that sinless girl. 
 For, — do you hear me, — it was Alice, — it 
 was Alice, — Alice." 
 
 The long-restrained agony burst forth at 
 last. "With her name upon his lips, he 
 paused, — he buried his face in his hands. 
 
 " Alice, Alice, who lies before you now ! " 
 He raised his face again ; it was distorted by 
 agony ; it was bathed in tears. 
 
 The clergyman fell on his knees. * 
 
 "Don't harm me," he faltered, "I will 
 make reparation." 
 
 " Up ! up ! don't kneel to me," shrieked 
 Dermoyne, and he dragged the miserable 
 culprit to his feet. " There's no manner of 
 kneeling or praying between heaven and 
 hell, that can help you, if that poor girl 
 dies. I spared her father for her sake, (and 
 to make my silence perpetual, he made a 
 wll, in which he names me as his sole heir, 
 
 in case of his daughter's death) ; I spared 
 her father for her sake, and can you think 
 that I will spare you, — you who have 
 brought her to a shame and death like 
 this?" 
 
 He pointed to the bed, and once more the 
 poor girl, writhing in pain, uttered, in a low, 
 pleading voice, "Herman, Herman, do not, 
 oh ! do not desert me ! " 
 
 Dermoyne, at a rapid glance, surveyed 
 the culprit cringing against the wall, — the 
 florid Madam, who stood apart, her face 
 manifesting undeniable chagrin, — and then 
 his gaze rested upon Corkins, who, kneeling 
 in the comer, seemed to have been suddenly 
 stricken dumb. And as he took that rapid 
 glance, his eyes flashed, his face grew paler, 
 his bosom heaved, and a world of thought 
 rushed through his brain ; and, in a mo- 
 ment, he had decided upon his course. 
 
 He drew near to the Madam : she could 
 not meet the look which he fixed upon her 
 face. 
 
 "To-morrow morning, at ten o'clock, I 
 will return to this house," he said, in a low 
 voice ; " I hold you responsible for the life 
 of this poor girl. ISTay, do not speak ; not 
 a word from your accursed lips. Remem- 
 ber ! — he drew a step neamer, — to-morrow 
 morning, at ten o'clock, and — I hold you 
 responsible for the life of Alice Burney." 
 
 The Madam quailed before his glance ; 
 for once, her florid face grew pale. "But 
 how will you obtain entrance into my 
 house ? " she thought ; and a faint smile 
 crossed her countenance. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE RED BOOK. 
 
 Dermoyne flung his cloak over his arm, 
 drew his cap over his forehead, and grasped 
 the iron bar with his right hand. 
 
 " Come with me," he said, in a low voice, 
 to Barnhurst. He drew the key from his 
 pocket, and led the way to the door. As 
 though fascinated by his look, Herman fol- 
 lowed him, — followed him trembling and 
 with terror stamped on every line of his 
 face. 
 
 "At ten o'clock, to-morrow morning, re- 
 member ! " said Dermoyne, turning his face 
 over his shoulder. He turned the key in 
 
132 
 
 THKOUGH THE SILENT CITY. 
 
 the lock, and stood upon the threshold. 
 "Come with me," he said, quietly, to Barn- 
 hurst. " Nay, take the light and walk be- 
 fore me." 
 
 Herman, with a quivering hand, seized a 
 lighted lamp and led the way from the 
 room, along the passage. He dared not 
 turn his head. He heard Dermoyne's foot- 
 steps at his back, and shook with fright. 
 " Does he intend to murder me ? " and then 
 he thought of the iron bar ; of the strong 
 hand of Dermoyne ; and of his own de- 
 fenseless head. 
 
 " Herman, don't, don't desert me," mut- 
 tered Alice, in her delirium, as they crossed 
 the threshold. 
 
 Dermoyne turned and saw the fixed eyes, 
 the sunny hair, the lips white with foam ; 
 saw the writhing form and the hands clasped 
 madly over the half-bared bosom ; and then 
 he looked no more. 
 
 Along the passage, Herman led the way 
 and down the stairs, Dermoyne following 
 silently at his heels. Thus they descended 
 to the second floor. 
 
 " The Madam has a room where she keeps 
 her papers and arranges her most important 
 affairs. Conduct me there." ♦ 
 
 And Herman, scarce knowing what he 
 did, led the way to the small room in the 
 rear of the second floor, — the small room in 
 which we first beheld the Madam. He en- 
 tered, followed by Dermoyne, who carefully 
 closed the door, and then, at a glance, sur- 
 veyed the place. It looked the same as 
 when we first beheld the Madam. The 
 shaded lamp stood on the desk, describing a 
 brief circle of light around it, while the rest 
 of the place was vailed in twilight. On the 
 desk was the seal and the pearl-handled pen, 
 and beside it, was the capacious arm-chair. 
 
 "Come here," said Arthur, still in that 
 low voice, but with the face unnaturally 
 pale, and the eyes flashing with steady and 
 ominous light ; and he led the way to the 
 desk. Barnhurst obeyed him without a 
 word. 
 
 "To-morrow, at ten o'clock, we will re- 
 turn to this mansion," said Dermoyne, fixing 
 his eyes upon the affrighted visage of Barn- 
 hurst. "We will return together, and if 
 Alice yet lives, we will go away together ; 
 but," he laid his right hand upon the fore- 
 
 head of the wretch, — or rather placed his 
 thumb upon the right temple, and his 
 fingers on the left, — " but, if Alice is dead, 
 I will kill you at her bedside." 
 
 There was a determination in his tone, — 
 in his look, — nay, in the very pressure of 
 the hand which touched Barnhurst's fore- 
 head ; which gave a force to his brief words, 
 that no pen can depict. 
 
 Barnhurst fell on his knees, and his head 
 sank oj^ his breast. He had no power to 
 frame a word. He appeared conscious that 
 he was in the hands of his fate. 
 
 " Get up, get up, my friend ! " and Arthur 
 raised him from his knees and placed him 
 in a chair. (Now well we know that it 
 would have been more in accordance with 
 the rules provided for novel writers, for 
 Arthur to have said, " Arise ! villain ! " but 
 as he simply said, "Get up, my friend!" 
 applying a singular emphasis to the italicized 
 words : we feel bound to record his words 
 just as he spoke them). 
 
 " I have a few words to say to you," said 
 Arthur ; " there's no use of your shuddering 
 when I speak to you, and of crying when 
 I touch you. You must listen to me and 
 listen with all your senses about you. Why, 
 you were courageous enough to blaspheme 
 God, when you used his religion as the in- 
 strument of that poor girl's ruin : don't be 
 afraid of me." 
 
 "When you leave this place, my friend, I 
 will go with you. I will put no restraint 
 upon your actions ; you can go where you 
 please, but wherever you go, I will go with 
 you. I will not lose sight of you, until the 
 life or death of Alice Burney is assured. 
 Yes, you can go where you please, talk with 
 whom you please, sleep, eat, drink where 
 it suits you, but everywhere / will go with 
 you. We will be together, side by side, 
 until the life or the death of Alice is cer- 
 tain, — together, always together, like twin 
 souls, — do you understand, my friend ? 
 Until we are assured of the fate of Alice, 
 I will be your shadow? Do you compre- 
 hend ?" 
 
 Herman did comprehend. The full force 
 of Arthur's determination crowded upon him, 
 impressing every fiber of his soul. 
 
 " i^o, — no, — this cannot be," he faltered, — 
 " If you must wreak your vengeance on nie> 
 
THEOUGH THE SILENT CITY. 
 
 133 
 
 kill me at once. But, to be thus accompa- 
 nied, I will not consent — " 
 
 " Kill you ?" and there was a sad smile on 
 Dermoyne's face ; " do you suppose that the 
 mere act of physical death can atone for the 
 moral and physical death of poor Alice ? 
 You commit a wrong, that is murder in a 
 sense, that the basest physical murder can 
 never equal ; and you think the sacrifice of 
 your life will atone for that wrong ? Faugh ! 
 If Alice dies, I will kill you, — be assured of 
 that — I will crush the miserable life which 
 now beats within your brain, — but, first, I 
 will make you die a thousand deaths — I will 
 kill you in soul as well as in body — for every 
 throb which you have made her suffer, you 
 shall render an exact, a fearful account — yes, 
 before I kill your miserable body, I will kill 
 yoit in reputation, in all that makes life dear, 
 in everything that you hold sacred, or that 
 those with whom you are connected by all 
 or any ties, hold sacred. To do this, I must 
 Tcnow all about you, and to know all about you, 
 I must go with you and be your shadow." 
 
 " Oh, this is infernal !" groaned Barnhurst, 
 dropping his hands helplessly on his knees, 
 while his head sank back against the chair, 
 " Have you no mercy ?" 
 
 "A preacher appeared as a demi-god, to 
 the eyes of a sinless girl, — clad in the light 
 of religion, he appeared to her as something 
 more than mortal — aware of this fact, he 
 passed from the pulpit where she heard him 
 preach to her father's home, and there dishon- 
 ored her. When her dishonor was complete, 
 and a second life throbbed within her, so far 
 from thinking of hiding her shame under the 
 mantle of an honorable marriage, he calmly 
 plotted the murder of his victim and her un- 
 born child. And this preacher now crouches 
 before his executioner, and falters, "Have 
 you no mercy ?' " 
 
 "But I could not marry her," groaned 
 Barnhurst, " it was impossible ! impossible !" 
 
 " Why ?" 
 
 Barnhurst buried his face in his hands, but 
 did not answer. 
 
 "You killed her to save your reputation,** 
 ■whispered Arthur, "and now I have your 
 life and reputation in my grasp. In the 
 name of Alice, I will use my power. Come ! 
 Let us be going. I am ready to attend you." 
 
 He took the hat and cloak of the clergy- 
 
 man, from a chair, (where Barnhurst had left 
 them before he ascended- to the chamber of 
 Alice) and exclaimed with a low bow — 
 " Your hat and cloak, sir. I am ready.'* 
 Barnhurst rose, trembling and livid, — he 
 placed the hat upon his sleeked hair, and 
 wound the cloak about his angular form. 
 For a moment his coward nature seemed 
 stirred, by the extremity of his despair, into 
 something like courage. His eyes (the dark 
 pupils of which you will remember covered 
 each eyeball) flashed madly from his hlmide 
 visage, and he gazed from side to side, as if 
 in search of some deadly weapon. At that 
 moment he was prepared for combat and for 
 murder. 
 
 Dermoyne caught his eye : never lunatic 
 cowered at the sight of his keeper, as Barn- 
 hurst before Dermoyne. 
 
 "It wont do. You haven't the 'pluck,'" 
 sneered Arthur, — "if it was a weak girl, 
 there's no knowing what you might do ; 
 but as it is a man and an — executioner." 
 
 "I am ready," was all that Bamhiu^t 
 could reply. 
 
 " One moment, dear friend, and I '11 be 
 with you," as he spoke, Dermoyne advanced 
 toward the Madam's Desk. " / must have a 
 PLEDGE hefore I go.'" 
 
 Before the preacher had time to analyze 
 the meaning of these words, Dermoyne, with 
 one blow of the iron bar, had forced the lock 
 of the Madam's desk. He raised the lid and 
 the light fell upon packages of letters, neatly 
 folded, and upon a large book, square in shape 
 and bound in red morocco. 
 
 " The red book !" the words were forced 
 from Barnhurst's lips, as he saw Arthur raise 
 the volume to the light and rapidly examine 
 its contents. The red book ! Well he 
 knew the character of that singular volume ! 
 
 " Yes, this will do," said Arthur, as he 
 placed the book under his cloak. " I wanted 
 a pledge, — that is to say, a sure hold upon 
 the Madam and her friends. And I have 
 one !" 
 
 He took the clergyman by the arm and 
 they went forth together from the private 
 chamber, — the holy place — of the Madam. 
 Went forth together, and descending the 
 stairs, passed in the darkness along the hall. 
 The key was in the lock of the front door. 
 Arthur turned it, and in a moment, thej 
 
134 
 
 THEOUGH THE SILENT CITY. 
 
 passed together over the threshold of that 
 mansion of crime, and stood in the light of 
 the wintery stars. 
 
 " Who," whispered Arthur, as side by side, 
 and arm in arm, they went down the dark 
 street, " who to see us walk so lovingly toge- 
 ther, would imagine the real nature of those 
 relations which bind us together ?" 
 
 He felt Barnhurst shudder as he held him 
 to his side — 
 
 " The red book !" ejaculated the clergy- 
 man, with accent hard to define, whether of 
 fear, or wonder, or of horror. 
 
 And by the light of the midnight stars, 
 they went down the dark street together. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 "what shall we do with her?" 
 
 Scarcely had the echo of the front door, 
 ceased to resound through the mansion, when 
 the Madam entered the holy place from 
 which Arthur and Herman had just departed. 
 Her step was vigorous and firm, as she 
 crossed the threshold ; her face flashed with 
 mingled rage and triumph. 
 
 " He will return to-morrow at ten o'clock !" 
 she cried, and burst into a fit of laughter, 
 which shook her voluminous bust, — " there's 
 two ways of tellin' that story, my duck." 
 (The Madam, as in all her vivacious mo- 
 ments, grew metaphorical.) " Catch a wea- 
 sel asleep ! Fool who with your tin * fip !' 
 I guesnU haven't been about in the world 
 all this while, to be out-generaled by a snip 
 of a boy like that !" 
 
 Louder laughed the Madam, until her 
 bust shook again — and in the midst of her 
 calm enjoyment she saw — the desk and the 
 broken lock. Her laughter stopped abrupt- 
 ly. She darted forward, like a tigress rush- 
 ing on her prey. She seized the lamp and 
 raised the lid, and saw the contents of the 
 desk, — packages of letters, mysterious instru- 
 ments and singular vials, all, — all, — save 
 the red book. 
 
 The Madam could not believe her eyes. 
 Rapidly she searched the desk, displacing its 
 contents and researching every nook and 
 comer, but her efforts were fruitless. There 
 were packages of letters, mysterious vials, 
 and instruments as mysterious, but, — the 
 red book was not there. 
 
 For the first time in her life, the Madam 
 experienced a sensation of fear, — unmingled 
 fear, — and for the first time saw ruin open 
 like a chasm at her very feet. She grew 
 pale, sank helplessly in her arm-chair, and 
 sat there like a statue, — rather like an image 
 of imperfectly finished wax- work, — her vis- 
 age blank as a sheet of paper. 
 
 " Gone, — gone," the words escaped from 
 her lips, " ruined, undone !" 
 
 This state of "unmasterly inactivity" 
 continued, however, but for a few moments. 
 All at once she bounded from her chair, and 
 a blasphemous oath escaped — more strictly 
 speaking — shot from her lips. She crossed 
 the floor, with a heavy stride, gave the bell- 
 rope a violent pull, and then, hurrying to the 
 door screamed " Corkins ! Corkins !" with all 
 her might. 
 
 "Why don't they come ! Fools, asses!" 
 and again, she attacked the bell-rope, and 
 again, buried to the door, — "Corkins, Cork- 
 ins, I say ! Halloo !" 
 
 In a few moments Corkins appeared, his 
 spectacles awry and his right-hand laid affec- 
 tionately upon his " goatee." 
 "The matter?" 
 
 " Don't stand there starin' at me like a 
 stuck-pig !" was the elegant reply of the 
 Madam, — " down into the cellar, — quick, — 
 quick ! Tell Slung to come here. Not a 
 word. Go I say ! " 
 
 She pushed Corkins out of the room. 
 Then pacing up and down the small apart- 
 ment, she awaited his return with an anxiety 
 and suspense, very much like madness, ut- 
 tering blasphemous oaths at every step she 
 took. 
 
 Footsteps were heard, and at length, Cor- 
 kins, dressed in sober black, appeared once 
 more, leading Slung-Shot by the hand. The 
 ruffian stumbled into the room, his brutal 
 visage, low forehead, broken nose and elon- 
 gated jaw, bearing traces of a recent de- 
 bauch. Folding his brawny arms over his red 
 flannel shirt, he gazed sleepily at the Madam, 
 politely remarking at the same time — 
 " What de thunder's de muss, — s-a-y ?" 
 " Are you sober ? " and the Madam gave 
 Slung a violent shake ; " are you awake ?" 
 
 "Old woman," responded Slung, "you 
 better purceed to bisness, and give us none 
 yer jaw. What de yer w-a-n-t ? s-a-y ! " 
 
■ Th«'-Madafti^ e^i z«d' him the- arm. ; • 
 ^ •M.'iVo'Trte^n'ha^'e^jttst^lefl this hoUse; •lOne 
 wears a cap,-^the ofehef/^a •hft-t. • 1?ki(^ -©rwj 
 wi1jh''-the'ca)^'and' cloak' is th« shGrtesfc ot the 
 two-';'' aii(i the onfe Avith a eap .carrios undfiff 
 hie dIoft.te' 'a ''t)<:)akv -bouiiicli ■ in ' ¥ed mdroGco; 
 Which -hfe' has' just stb'ten friim -yonder desk; 
 jyye ^vekt ? "' 1 ^vdnt 'jon" to- • track - hiin; 
 gbt' bjl'ck thdt^ book 'at iiny prrc6 eveil if ' 
 ybit'h'aVe to--" ' '•' . ; 
 
 '^' Fech him- ill) wM-dis'?'" and the TtlfBatl 
 di'cr^V' a-"'sli>ng-shot " from the sleeve of his 
 ri^htaritt;' • ' '■ ■■■■■■ 
 
 ^' **"'YesV"^^s ' ariyhoTvv'or' by'' any means," 
 c(WitiMtied 'the Maddm ;'** 6n]y brittg Mck the' 
 bb(Jk' bftfore-'iliormng;- and a hundred dollars' 
 
 ft^e yours, i&'ye'-hettf ?" •' - " ' • • ■• 
 
 A ^hbrti§h"-'tfhap--'\vith sfc 'cap'a'n* eldak-,''' 
 cx'claiitted ■ Sluii^ ; "'there's a • good • mAny 
 shbVtish chap^'Wit-h xapd in this 'ere town^ 
 
 '''*"'r hstts'it ! ■! haV-e it !" '6ned' the Madam; 
 atid' then' she conveyed hei" irlstrtictions' to- 
 Siiih^' ih"a sfew 'tod measured VOiCe, -"'Bori't 
 yb'ii"' think' 'VOu'd- -ktitix' hitii' ftow'?."- she- e-Xr 
 cfaittied, -^i^hen herinsti'iictio'n&' W6re eompiet^-.- 
 
 y Cbuld pidc 'im out ''arriong'-a' thousand."' ■ 
 Atja ' the ■•'raffiiiri.-- 'closed- '•ott^"eye;--!CiaAH^-- 
 cfe'aied the boundless- ligTin'esls 'Of -his" "face; 
 bj^'a'h'irid'dscrt'b'abl^ ^imace;' ''. - •• 
 
 ''**'Xx6 thfen,^nb''titoe''s-'t6 bfe ^lost,^a" huh-' 
 d/ed' iioriat^; you'' miM ;' ** And Shc' urge'd him' 
 tS ' "the ' door." ■ ' He-' dntch'ed 'thfe ^sluiig^shdt 
 afi'd 'disappedt-'ed: ' ■■ *' '' '-' " ' '"' •'• -'' ■' 
 
 * "Corking 'ap'pt6^cliM* arid looked' the Ma-dam ' 
 in 'the face." '•' '"•'.■■*'--•''=•••■•'<•'.•''•>•-:• 
 
 '■""i^he tet'Tjobi g6ntl ?"" -he"^sl^ed, every" 
 liiie ^of'-"hls viSag^ 'dl'spTajrin^- as'toni^Htn'^ht' 
 a^^d 'terroV.' ■' '" ' ' ■' ' " '• ' 
 
 "'/'•'i&bne;" '^'chbVd ''the' M'acdam; -^'t'o Suffe' 
 I't^'is."' ''"Our o'nly' fepc'''i^' ifr' th-dt ■'.ru^S^an.-- 
 Ofn'e'^\^IT-iplant''e(^ blow \yith''i stung-shdt;' 
 wlirlcill.tHc'sfrongiesVm'dtl."'' '''' •• 
 
 ''•;T^e''r^i"'"TDbyk'^ri^M''*' 'cijrkins 'fairly 
 tfemblei 'vntYi a'-ffrigll ' 'Sfaggeririg - like" a' 
 drii^ken'man, he 'nianaged "to' 'd'eposlt hiiii'-' 
 setC'in a cTfaif.' He took' the' gdld speCtacU'^ 
 from his nose/ and wiped themV ih 'an' "absent 
 way. Bad|'' 'iie''mutt'e'fe'd. • ' T^hdh passitig 
 his hand from his "goatee ''''to his (bp-^iiat; 
 and 'frojn'to'p-knot''to'''";'g^^^ d^'dih''he; 
 mutiierek; ^ red' t^ok' ' ^ohe'T ' w'hs.'t Will' j 
 b^cbme'of'usf »> ^'^^^^-'i^--' '^'•^^ '^''H 
 
 •■' :**jlf 1 i t'ia : not naboTcfccd' -before , mofniflg,. .we . 
 are' ^ionia for/*/, feriad ,tiie Madaip/y "ith^itfa ; 
 all;'? '. But thi&:. is no- time foe /fogliiaV?,^ 
 Come; sir; !• stir. your stumps !."■■ -. v.;- '-,:* 
 
 ■ 8h,e took- the--- light xiiid. vied'. the way up- 
 stairs,- folio wefd : by ■■ Corldjis, ,who: . shook- . .in, / 
 e.Very -fiber y.-. mUr nau ring, at. ev^ry: ' step; , 
 "•Gone-! gone I •'The rcd-boak gona^I/^...);;-- r 
 
 • Entering- th«-' passage which, .ladr. to....th«w 
 chiamber of- Alice, the Madam paused- at.. tha , 
 door, of th'at'.chambeiv stnd pointed -to. ,tho.i 
 •-dO'Or''of the • closet • which (you. will idmem-..-. 
 ber) was -buried- ii-ndei- the stairway -that: ;led; 
 to the fourth story. '^.u,;^ 
 
 : A'- faiint ■ moan • -was heard- ; it cam-d . frbln 
 the- ehamber- of Alice.- ■• • The .Madam did. n^ .' 
 heed that moan, but opening the. closet daoff^ 
 crossed • Ifes thresh&ld^- followed by ;Gbr.kinB. 
 The -light- disclosed ;thG details, of -thatsmail * 
 and gloomy place ; and glittered brightly!.' 
 upon a' inahogany chest oy:box: .whi(Jh tested 
 on the- -floori ••A .mahoga/ny box, -with. &upt,i 
 face -polished like a- m-irror, and a shape- -thxit 2 
 told ' at sight of -death and - the: -grave; . w'ltD 
 was'a-coffin -;^ »nd''-the "coffin- of -that- tname- 
 less girl who --had -been. remoTed'ifropX''lll^'«* 
 biedj- in'' -tii^-' 'adjoining' ieb^bei-;. inV.oirdet 'to 
 make room'for AjliOe^'-- •?;.'/a>. jj-jA...::,;,; a 
 WhatJi-^.whdt-^s-^to-U.be'— doneU^wfth 
 — her ? " said ^ -GOfkins, ^ a^- be. toucihedi tha r 
 CdfStt With his- foot;-' :■!•.•; -.isil 
 
 ■ -Here, 'f or : one - m-oraentj • Whilei Gorkijngi aa^ i 
 the-M'add.m -st^nd'- besid« -4^6-- coffin,. aiiAth?©'' 
 lonely-closet of the'-ac«utsed-'mau^ioni} •' h&ve'f-j 
 for one moment, turn your gaze-away/!: Look.'. 
 fkt'ihi^iigh'tlk'&m^bi, add .J(?t>yourJgafe6./<J5i 
 upon the fireside light of yonder Jv!>eW"E?)g^> 
 land home. It is a q-uiet fireside, in the city 
 of Hartford ; ai;|d, a, father .aiid, a mother are 
 sitting there, bewailing the siiigular absence 
 of their only daughter, a' b'eaiiti'ful'''girl, the 
 hiop;fe 'and' t-h^ ^Tigh^ ••••Of ''their ^-■bome^'-s-'ke 
 sfrari'gely idi sappeai^ed a- w^ek - ago; -^n'd! ' Bi^Ef ce'"-* 
 then, 'tHe'3A'-hdH"'e -■'l\eaiti"*ho- ^sign's 'tod^'-ti^n^' 
 oi'^hii'Me: -"-f' 
 
 ■ Arid iidw-ihey ure sitting by 'thieir-'^Iesolat-e^; 
 fireside; the father choking- do-tVil- Ms 'ag&toyi' 
 in'-sif^h't'pray er ' IRe ' tft'oth^'r 'givilrfg 'Trfee- veiit 
 t6''h^er ianguish''''in-d'flo6d 'Of - tears. •-'TA.'ad 'fh'd" 
 eye'^'"'6f 'fathier ' arid, 'mother ' 'turn-'-'fb' -tbfe^ 
 dkn^htei^s pkce'by the-'fii'es^ it is'-vftban^'- 
 arid" forever."' ••■'For "AVhili^ ' they 'beVa-it 
 
186 
 
 THROUGH THE SILENT CITY. 
 
 morning light, — their daughter rests in the 
 coffin, here, at the feet of Madam liesimer. 
 Weep, fond mother ; choke down your 
 agony with silent prayer, brave father : but 
 tears nor prayers can never bring your 
 daughter back again. To-night, she rests in 
 the coffin, at the feet of Madam Kesimer ; 
 to-morrow night — Look yonder ! A learned 
 doctor is lecturing for the instruction of his 
 students, and his "subject" lies on the table 
 before him. That " subject," (Oh ! do you 
 see it, father and mother of the distant New 
 England home,) that "subject" is your only 
 daughter. 
 
 Verily, the tragedies of actual, every-day 
 life, are more improbable than the maddest 
 creations of romance. 
 
 ** What shall we do with her f " again ex- 
 claimed Corkins, touching the coffin with his 
 foot. 
 
 The Madam was troubled. " The red 
 book !" she muttered, in an absent way, "the 
 red book ! " Her mind was evidently wan- 
 dering. " It must be regained at any price." 
 
 "But — this — body," interrupted Corkins, 
 tapping the coffin with his foot. 
 
 " Oh ! this ! " exclaimed the Madam, and 
 a pleasant smile stole over her face. 
 
 " Oh ! as to this ! we can easily dispose of 
 it. I tell you, Corkins, we will — " 
 
 But she did not tell Corkins. For, from 
 the adjoining room, came a cry, so ring- 
 ing with the emphasis of mortal agony, that 
 even the Madam was struck with terror, 
 as she heard it. 
 
 Without a word, she led Corkins into the 
 chamber of Alice. 
 
 CHAPTER VL 
 
 A BRIEF EPISODE. 
 
 Away from these scenes of darkness and 
 of crime, let us, for a moment, turn aside 
 and dwell, for a little while, on the fireside 
 ray of a quiet home. Yes, leaving Arthur 
 and Herman to pursue their way, let us in- 
 dulge in a quiet episode : 
 
 It is a neat two-storied dwelling, standing 
 apart from the street, somewhere in the 
 upper region of the Empire City. Through 
 the drawn window- curtains, a softened light 
 trembles forth upon the darkness. Gaze 
 through the eurtains, and behold the scene 
 
 which is disclosed by the mingled light of 
 the open fire, and of the lamp whose beams 
 are softened by a clouded shade, 
 j A young mother sitting beside a cradle, 
 ; with her baby on her breast, and a flaxen- 
 I haired boy, some three years old, crouching 
 I on the stool at her feet. A very beautiful 
 I sight, — save in the eyes of old bachelors, for 
 whom this work is not written, and who are 
 affectionately requeste'd to skip this chap- 
 ter, — a very beautiful sight, save in the eyes 
 of that class of worn-out profiigates, who 
 never having had a mother or sister, and 
 having spent their lives in degrading the 
 holiest impulsQi, of our nature, into a bestial 
 appetite, come, at last, to look upon woman 
 as a mere animal ; come, at last, to sneer 
 with their colorless lips and lack-luster eyes, 
 at the very idea of a holy chastity, as em- 
 bodied in the fonn of a pure woman. Of all 
 the miserable devils, who crawl upon this 
 earth, the most miserable is that lower devil, 
 whose heart is foul with pollution at the 
 very mention of woman. Take my word for 
 it, (and if you look about the world, you'll 
 find it so,) the man who has not, somewhere 
 about his heart, a high, a holy ideal of 
 woman, — an ideal hallowing every part of 
 her being, as mother, sister, wife, — is a vile 
 sort of man, anyhow you choose to look at 
 him ; a very vile man, rotten at the heart, 
 and diffusing moral death wherever he goes. 
 Avoid such a man, — -not as you would the 
 devil, for the devil is a king to him, — but as 
 you would avoid the last extreme of de- 
 pravity, loathsome, not only for its wfetch- 
 edness, but for its utter baseness. It's a 
 good rule to go by, — never trust that man 
 v/ho has a low idea of woman, — trust him 
 not with purse, with confidence, in the street 
 or over your threshold, — trust him not ' his 
 influence is poison ; and the atmosphere 
 which he carries with him, is that of hell. 
 
 It is a quiet room, neatly furnished ; a 
 lamp, with a clouded shade, stands on the 
 table ; a piano stands in one corner ; the 
 portrait of the absent father hangs on the 
 wall ; a wood fire burns briskly on the 
 hearth. A very quiet room, full of the 
 atmosphere of home. 
 
 The mother is one of those women whose 
 short stature, round development of form 
 and limb, clear complexion and abounding 
 
THROUGH THE SILENT CITY. 
 
 137 
 
 joyousness of look, seem more lovable in 
 the eyes of a certain portion of the mascu- 
 line race, than all the stately beauties in the 
 world. Certainly, she was a pretty woman. 
 Her eyes of clear, deep blue, her lips of 
 cherry red, harmonized with the hue of her 
 face, her neck and shoulders, — a hue resem- 
 bling alabaster, slightly reddened by a glimpse 
 of sunshine. Her hair rich and flowing, was 
 neatly disposed about the round outlines 
 
 of her young face. And in color, ah, 
 
 here's the trouble. I see the curl of your 
 lip and the laugh in your eyes. And in 
 color, her hair was not black, nor golden, 
 nor brown, nor even auburn. Her hair was 
 red. You may laugh if it suits you, but her 
 red-hair became her ; and this woman with 
 the red-hair, was one of the prettiest, one 
 of the most lovable women in the world. 
 (Why is it that a certain class of authors, 
 very poverty stricken in the way of ideas, 
 always introduce a red-haired woman in the 
 character of a vixen, — always expect you to 
 laugh at the very mention of red-hair — in 
 fact, invest the capital of what little wit they 
 have, in lamentabh'- funny allusions to red- 
 heads, red-hair, and so forth ? Or if they 
 fall in love with a sweet woman, with bright 
 red-hair, why do these authors, when they 
 make sonnets to the object of their choice, 
 persist in calling red-hair by the ambiguous 
 name of auburn f) 
 
 And thus, in her quiet home, with her 
 baby on her breast and her boy at her knee, 
 sat the beautiful woman, with red hair. Sat 
 there, the very picture of a good mother and a 
 holy wife, lulling her babe to sleep with a verse 
 from some old-fashioned hymn. Somehow 
 this mother, centered thus in her quiet home 
 — the blessing of motherhood around and 
 about her like a baptism, — seems more worthy 
 of reverence and love, than the entire first 
 circle of the opera, blazing with bright dia- 
 monds and brighter eyes, on a gala night. 
 
 The boy resting one hand on his mother's 
 knee, and looking all the while into her face, 
 asks in his childish tones, " When will father 
 come home ?" 
 
 "Soon, love, very soon," the mother an- 
 swers, and resumes the verse of the old 
 hymn. 
 
 Now, doesn't it strike you that the 
 usband of such a wife, and the father of 
 
 such children must be altogether a good 
 man ? 
 
 We will see him after awhile, and judge 
 for ourselves. 
 
 Meanwhile, sit alone with your children, 
 and watch for his coming, — you, simple 
 hearted woman, that know no higher learn- 
 ing, than the rich intuitions of a mother's 
 love. Your chastity is like a vail of light, 
 making holy the room in which you watch, 
 with your boy at your knee, and your baby 
 on your bosom. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THKOUQH THE SILENT CITY. 
 
 It was a strange march which Arthur and 
 Barnhurst, arm in arm, took through the 
 streets of the Empire City. 
 
 " I am ready to attend you wherever you 
 go," whispered Arthur, as leaving the den 
 of Madam Resimer, they went down the 
 dark street. 
 
 " But, where shall I go ?" was the ques- 
 tion that troubled Barnhurst. " Home ?*» 
 He shuddered at the thought. Any place 
 but home ! " Can I possibly get rid of him?" 
 Doubtful, exceedingly doubtful ; " his arm 
 is too strong, and he has me in his power in 
 every way. But that engagement which I 
 have, to meet a person at the hour of four 
 o'clock, at a peculiar place, — how shall I 
 dispose of it ? Shall I fail to keep it, or 
 shall I make this man a witness of it ?" 
 
 Barnhurst was troubled. He knew not 
 what to do. And so arm in arm, they 
 walked along in silence through a multitude 
 of streets, — streets dark as grave- vaults, and 
 laid out in old times, with a profound con- 
 tempt of right angles — streets walled in with 
 huge warehouses, above whose lofty roofs, 
 you caught but a glimpse of the midnight 
 stars. 
 
 And so passing along, they came at length 
 upon the Battery, and caught the keen blast 
 upon their cheeks, as they wandered among 
 the leafless trees. They heard the roar of 
 the waters, and saw the glorious bay, — dim 
 and vast, — surging sullenly under the broad 
 sky, dark with midnight, and yet, glittering 
 with countless stars. A star-light view of 
 Manhattan bay, from the Battery — it was » 
 sight worth seeing. Herman and Arthur, 
 
Tmoutmi THE: ; sii^ent; cirrnr. 
 
 stepd^ng tj[ikei:e,:pJ.Q^ii5, 4<j>ol(;e«l!:foi!th: ini Silence^ 
 They could not see each other's faces,'' but 
 Arth.ul; felt ,thei incossmt.'toroE-Avijitth ^agi- 
 tated Banihurst's arm and Baruh:iu-trt heixrd 
 tb^ gi'.OAn \MhLch:.iS(iemed.;W«i)g:,from:'.A'r- 
 thtir^. vefy .lioart;,:.. ■ •; .; r j. ■ 
 
 Tor A ioiig time thcve: was.-sUeiwe,'' iF;la«h 
 on, old • iftidnight,^ iij. your, jsolemn- .drapery set 
 A\;ith.. jstftrs,f-rMash- ;on,.--.youx:s4paTklieil thm. 
 gran.diy t.eu.' tihousantJ yieai'S ago, aB -ypiirwiU 
 tea^^tha«6a^ld•.3Ie:)i's• •hiencei^wbat; care; ybii 
 for the agony of these two nien^v\vhQ,.;.Bo\H! 
 ■with widely different_..fe^lings, stand awed 
 by your sullen splendor ! 
 
 "If you've s'deh eiibAg'h'or 'this, I guess 
 we'd bettet^gb,'^- Md--A?t¥t\r,^-TOilMif7 " I am 
 ready -toofollovi^iytHi svhereveri you go.-" ••■ 
 
 ^iBtirhiiurst:.Bilently .moved; away from'tW 
 waters, and as they- went ;amoiig the leafless: 
 tneeg, -Dermdyne- • !l9ok«d ' .• back : toward "th e 
 somldirDg.' wAV.es.-Ulooked :back yjearmngly'as 
 thoHgk «mviWing ta Idave tke'.sightrrof; tliem',- 
 something there was so tempting -.'in:.-that 
 fiight.;' Onfe ^iun'^e -and allisrover:! v . ■: ' i 
 
 '"They came upon: Broad Way. --.It was be- 
 tween;; two-^ind. tiiafee ^o'clock 'in the tflorning.: 
 I -kiiowidf iiothirig.jnitka world-, so ptodiWctave 
 of -thoi^ht:,- as ! a'Jwalk! along-. iBroad wa s'abbufc 
 tlij\ee; 0'«l.peka.n. the laKiraing.;'; Xhe' haunts 
 oi tmffio 'are: : closed-.: the great .'irtGry, of ■ tho 
 city is "silent" as di^ath : ithe Ti>ad-. oun-ent. -of. 
 life iwh;ich-^'Whii4ed along, it' inoegsantiy ,a felw 
 h&iii;^- afg^' -has/ dis:^ppeared<^^ or if "there- is 
 life upb'ii-itB.- broad llag-stonesi'ltiisdifelof rai 
 p^etiliar ^charadter, fiiT'differeBt 'fro.'Biith»:*Hfe 
 of'.thSe d&fi^' Aaid- there it ispwaads. before yoWy 
 iiiidfei*' • -thfe ' midoigbt: stars] - -its.^ yast.< extertt. 
 d^fiai^d ■ two -lilies of' -light, -whieli,- ifr. thei 
 far dis^a^ee 'melt Q«t6 . 0110 : vague mass' (j)f/; 
 brightner8S/" 'N^w *Yt>rk--i« -ths Einpiite City: 
 of the<;ah€iiient'arid'' Broad^wayiii -the" Empire ; 
 Street trf't/he-WoM;'- ;-'!^;..; ^ i : : 
 
 If you don't believe it, just walk the* 
 le^gt^i'^f ■ BrcJaidAYaji on"a*-«itiitiy •d^y;-: ^hen. 
 it is-'tnad '^'ith- Ufa 'and= motj.on;*— an4 the^: 
 "wailk^Mt, kt'"'night;' a6d • the -'kmd of: MtJ-' 
 wblch-'c'ree^ 6v«r-its ^^-st<!)m%' ti-ndlatr.'lthoi 
 lij^htTJf'thef stars.!- •;■ .-..J; v/...; htu. « -.i 
 
 ' They todkHHcir' sil^ht ttifi^eh'¥p" Brodd^ay*: 
 
 : What4; this ?^--«'A/Hligfr''-^irflo;-' •fettrFcWiwid^Ji 
 b^'tiiislgbt^y-&^afft3Wfeg--^>M pilfe:,' 
 WhdS'e'fdtimJial^ott-'ife a'ffibiJg'-^i?-ay'efl: and'^-liosd' 
 
 fctfirs . 2 ' • : vTj-iaityri i Chiu'ch .-4^ .Trihity.:-: Ghwuab^ 
 frentiflg WiallifStfreetv ap rthdnglu to-.xN^itra its.: 
 w.oj-bhipersijwbt) -.si^OMr-: WiilLiSiti^oot!; ^ix-z-daysl 
 iu.,tb)3.-we<ik'..ji] uearoh -.tif-: prfe)vari4' ou-i-thiafr 
 serveiitlj; efioae.to;.Tri|aty to:.say a rich-,i»aii<il 
 pfaye'r,.- fwm aiprayer-boakibQitad ^iirgoi;d;.'j:-i 
 
 - Ai>d': tlija,. w4Mi.b*8..-thisi-? ; /l.'dis- cueatui'e'-itt"' 
 \YQman?jj : atticey whb:gl>deS:.,al-opg.i.tiiia Ipar^ii 
 me»'ty-'no»';Vac)CQ*tiji3^; felia! pas3er-byiilt.:lanV> 
 g«age:,thatf &ovind*x)n woman'ls Ji.ps^ likeithai 
 apcfints-df ^c'll-,^^arwi iJDw,-tJiilowiiig! hei'.-vail> 
 aside^ elus jja. bex- ha»ds i an d- i looks shudder*: I 
 ingly acQund;' as though; ccoijacd^its^itliiat.'fopl 
 l\er,-iM one^hearb in a-llitke worldi, caa-eid.orio'j 
 throb i.-.i What's. this' 2; .That-tis: ^ivmmmii'. 
 friends.) • A'fatbeiiiused ii0i:ho]^-kQn 'iin 
 kheiDS, -just after; th^.evqndiiig pEaye*..Kv-ais:aa£4i 
 — ra. mt>ther-'Used.: to-.-bend a'rer.-Kei -&s-:s1»«j 
 slept,- and -kiaslheFfsmilii^gifatiei, aB-dabr^ath^'j 
 a, -mother'si.btetaaEg.-.ctver hjer.-sialess darlin'gi} 
 But,:.cwlia«tvis.' she n6w:?..-;"What=id©e6[ sha/ 
 here .alcmevrotitl. iri.i.th'e-.-cold;; filarfc:inight.?fi 
 ,* : •*;:< She . i-s;ia-4^naiit' of bueiaf .^the3 
 Louses* ; o.iviied by : iTi-inity Ghurch; She;: list ( 
 out in .tlie '.cold, xiark Dight,-TT,the.::po(aEblastHd'i 
 thiiig y<i)U:se«;-hev,-^eekingv.-{jut; .o£.;ths 
 of her ■5)oUutictti^.to ■iswelL.thq-irB!v^aTa^i>ofi[ 
 Tiisity ChurcliiL';-^ ''' '^^ r riii vv ovw iii lij^ 
 
 .' She :o.ame t-OAvacdjArt^biir i.aind- rBar^ilrsty-r 
 even. &s they! .piissed before.' the p.ortalg.^)f j ih^i 
 unfinisbM.ehriccki -ili-.d-ir-A ;,•,?!;>;•> i.-: H'.Uiq'I 
 She laid her hand on ^i^thxir'a! «rto, .-ajid;: 
 saidltoih'ijQQ„'W:«>rds .tfeai^-mefid net^j-feeiwiStt^iri. 
 
 , A:i'tbur.: looked .'long iaad .'SfceadHy^anto •Keri 
 fae<j; It- : .had-;-befin •,• v.eny : beaiftiTu;i • mcc/fbuk :-; 
 noAVi tb«5e. was &\'4^r;i»ithfi;iiajpiQg-/ey,e«,,end;.; 
 deafeh/in:!t.he- hhieicirolefi jbeufeathsthejiai; .•.■SrUea 
 had.faUe»,-:to .th^ j0We!sfc;di^ft-;..lv.^ '. (^u - xnoil: 
 
 .• f-'JLook .ti^ete A" iwhispeiled Aitthi^r-jlste JSaiai*-! ) 
 buret, f she'Wa$;;as.5ioppy::PuP!B ;aa;AlijcB,:ai}d- 
 as^ .pci<re,-f-thafc.riB^:.as- happ^f. md.i aj>i -pureL-ad;: 
 Alice rbefoje:..you:l4txe)v.b.ieri., ^-Wibiitiis ::aliai) 
 nawr-?']/;.:;-;;: ,M"vii; '^lij 'li' 
 
 Barnbiur8t".did.nat repiy.-ivJil;;'!-:/ iom 
 
 .-. Arthur took a -silver' dollar. froKr his pocHet 
 and'.'gav.e - -itr :to.' the • girli.! : ♦••G6<' Ja!ofais/,'>he;( 
 said[:.{^aiDd'/ God'^ity youj!'^c;il>;ii!:.^ ;;: '..'iS 
 "Home !" she echoed, and tobk.fcbedollaro 
 witth a»iiftci«di*IOifs, look, and th^jri uttering 
 ai»i»aBg0niad'J*«gh,Jsh)e wemub^la s^end-.thea 
 dollar, — one-half of it for rum and the otteJ 
 haliUoipay tbe.TeotiwijichisW owed ta.TH- 
 
: ' Here iit crociars ; to • ms., .>toi . jirojiosfc • -threei 
 
 cheers, 'to; ^otl old .TiriuiibV' Cliurch.-K-ajad, 
 . three more ito the Pntoiit (gospel which in- 
 1 fluences the tictiojis of -its vcaerftblo eorpo- 
 - rition. : Uip^hip-r— hurrahi! Htir.— , Ixit 
 
 . somehow -the cheering dies; awAy,' when one 
 i thinks for a Biiiiute of ;;the vaat ;tontr{ifit Ue- 
 • tween: the Gt^spel. of: Trinity Church and the. 
 :• Gpspcl of the Ntnv Testament ;. I .somehow 
 
 thiijk we Avont eheer any more.) 
 : Up Broadway they resiinipd their march, 
 ..HerBian aiidJ Arthiw, arm ia arm^ and silent 
 
 as the grave. To see; them walk so ilovingly 
 •tdgether^ you would :have thought tKenl the 
 j -best 'friends in the world. ; 
 
 What's yonder light, flashing' frdra .tihe; 
 
 •window of .the iourthistory ? The light of- 
 
 a gambling hell, my friend. , That ; li^hfe 
 . shines : upon • pilds; of . gold land itpon / faces 
 . haggard w ith the tortures of the damned.'; 
 •And' these half naked forms, cro.itchiDg ;in 
 
 the -d'oorway of ydnder mifini'shed edifice^— 
 •. huddling together in their raigs,- and vasinly; 
 
 endea^voring to keep OAit: ;the. winter'si icold. 
 
 Children, — friendless^ orphaned children. 
 
 All day long, th^y, roam the streets in search 
 
 of bread, and at night tkey sleep together in 
 
 this luxurious styl^. '' ^ ' '• 
 — -irBut we have; arrived at the Astoif an'd the. 
 c-^Park"' stretched" before lis, the wind, moaning 
 l aoiong its leafless trises,' Snd its lights :glim'« 
 
 mering in a sort of mournful radiance through: 
 -f.thid gloom. '. The- Park, whose ■walks by day 
 ct.!and .ni«;;ht have been ithe theater of more 
 1- tragedies of real life,^^iore harrowing ago- 
 ei'ny, hopeless) mifeery,- starving deai!)air,-^han 
 
 you could chronicle in the compass 6.f a 
 <';th'0iisand voUimek ■.Gould : these . flagSftonc!? 
 
 speak, how many histories might they. tell— . 
 ( : 'lustbries.. of tllOse^ who, .mad - with the last 
 i anguish of despair, haivp • paced these: walks 
 
 ■ at -dead of night, hesitating befcwen crime 
 
 ■ and suicidcj between the knifeiof the assasr 
 '■ lin and' the last pluaige of the self murderer ! 
 
 Bat at this: moment, shoutsi of dninkeii. 
 
 mirth are heard, opposite the Astor. . Som$ 
 
 twenty gay young: gentlemem, attired iii opera: 
 ''\inifonfq,—btaiGk drcss-c6at^- white vest, is hite 
 
 kid gloyeSj^and fragrant at once of eham-. 
 
 pagne and co 1 6gno, have formed- a circle j 
 i around tile, ancient pump, whioli stands neat . 
 
 the Park gate. These gay young gentl.emen, 
 l ifter twoi lioncs' painfttl^induraaedjOf :tha^ 
 
 refinement :oC bortui^e, Ikhcvwn as the . Italian 
 Opera, hive ,b(;ch m-Jikjiig a .tCiu,rof philoso- 
 phical observation through the 'town they 
 have carried on a brisk crusade against tho 
 watchmen ; have drank miuch champagno 
 at St V crack " hatel ; hive tarried awhile in 
 the firistocratic resort of, Mr^ Peter Williams, 
 wldch, as you doubtless ,k no w^ ^ives totie 
 and character to the classic region of the 
 Five Points; and now encircling the pump, 
 they listen to the eloquent remarks of one 
 of ;their nuiiiber,.Avto,is interrupted now and 
 then by rounds of enthusiastic ajpplause. 
 Very much . inebriated, he is seated astride 
 of the pump, which his vivid imagination 
 transforms into a. blooded racer — r 
 
 ; " Gentlemen," he. says,, blandly anci with, 
 ^pardonable tljiickness.of utterance; "if nav 
 xernarksi should :§ee.m ; confused,; attribute it 
 to my • position ; I am not accustomed to 
 public speaking .o.n hoi;-seb,aGk. . But,. Jis-Cpn- 
 gress is now in session, I deem it a 'duty 
 wiii<?h, .l;)0>ve to, my constituents, to give my 
 ,vi§;ws ,i(>^77-pn— rfqa-Jihe.i gr^at Bill ,fpr, the 
 Protection of — " ; ., ; ; ; 
 
 , " Huckleberries ! suggested a, yoic^. 
 " Thank the gentlenian frpm Ann-street," 
 continued thp. speaker,; in true parliamentary 
 ^tyle> ifk^ he . swayed, to ;and, . f 130, on - top of 
 the pump ; " of the great Bill for the , Pro- 
 tection of Huckleberries 1" .Now,., gentle- 
 ;menr"-he continued,, suddenly, forgetting his 
 huckleberries, "you know they beat Henry 
 Clay this, time by their infernal, cry of Texas 
 .a*iid Oregon; you :know it 
 
 I'jtiere was a frightful <;hpiiis,|",W^ do ! 
 we do ! " 
 
 ■■: "Ypu know: how bad we felt when we 
 crossed- -Cayuga: bridge,^ — ^^P.olk on .^opj. and 
 GUy.tinderj-^but, gentlemen, . I.. hfiye -a. qry 
 fpr ',1848 .that , Avill knogk their Aay lights out 
 of'i 'emi;; Thej-: shouted Texas and Oregon, 
 and licked us ; but in 1848 .we'll -give 'em 
 fits with: G7rt?/ and^jAPAN ! , ; .■; 
 ■ "Clay; and Japan!" was 4;he.. chorus of 
 the twenty young gentlemen, ^ 
 -"There's a platform for you, gentlemen! 
 Clay .and; Japan ! "\W,ll give 'em annexa-^ 
 tiou: up to their eyes. ■ Consider, gentlemen, 
 i the advar>tagea of Japan ! Separiited , fr^m 
 the continent by a trifling slip of w^ater, 
 known as the Papific oceani Japan may. be 
 <;oia9id^©d.iA tlw Ixght of a near.r^ieighbor. 
 
140 THROUGH THE 
 
 And then what a delicious campaign we can \ 
 make, with J apan on our banner I Nobody ! 
 knows anvthinsj about her, and we can lie i 
 as we please, without the most remote danger 
 of being found out. Is n't there something 
 heart-stirring in the very word, Ja-pan ? 
 And then, gentlemen, we'll have 'em ; for 
 Japan aint committed to any of the leading 
 questions of the day, and we can make all 
 sorts o' pledges to everybody, and — " 
 
 The orator, in his excitement, swayed too 
 much to one side, and fell languidly from 
 the pump into the arms of his enthusiastic 
 friends ; and, with three cheers for " Clay 
 and Japan," the party of twenty young gen- 
 tlemen went, in a staggering column, to a 
 neighboring restaurant, where — it is pre- 
 sumable — a feAv bottles more put them, not 
 only into the humor of annexing Japan, but 
 all Asia in the bargain. Arthur and Barn- 
 hurst had observed this scene from the steps 
 of the Astor. 
 
 " Do you know this is very absurd ?" said 
 Bamhurst, pettishly — "this walking about 
 town all night ?" 
 
 "Do you think so?" responded Dermoyne. 
 •* Then why don't you go home ?" 
 
 Home ! Bamhurst shuddered at the 
 thought. Home ! Anything, anything but 
 that ! 
 
 There was something, too, in the singular 
 gayety of Arthur's tone, which struck him 
 with more terror than the most boisterous 
 threat. Underneath this gayety, like floods 
 of burning lava beneath a morning mist, 
 there rolled and swelled a tide of unfathom- 
 able emotion. 
 
 "Let us walk on," said Bamhurst, faintly; 
 and they walked on, arm in arm — the false 
 clergyman with the very terror of death in 
 his heart — the poor mechanic with a face 
 immovably calm, but with the fire of an 
 irrevocable resolution in his eyes. They 
 walked on : up Broadway, and into the 
 region where sits the sullen Tombs, and 
 through the maze of streets, where vice and 
 equalor, drunkenness and crime, hold their 
 grotesque revel all night long. Through the 
 Five Points they walked, confronted at 
 every step by a desperate or abandoned 
 wretch, their ears filled with the cries of 
 blasphemy, starvation and mirth,— mirth, 
 ^hat was very much like tho joy of nether- 
 
 SILENT CITY. 
 
 most hell. Into Chatham street they walked, 
 and up the Bowery, and once more across 
 into Broadway, where the delicate outlines 
 of Grace Church, with its fairy-like sculpture 
 work, were dimly visible in the night. To- 
 ward the North River, and through narrow 
 alleys, where human beings were herded 
 together in the last extreme of misery, they 
 walked ; and then into broad streets, whose 
 splendid mansions, dark without from pave- 
 ment to roof, were bright within with rich 
 men's revels, — revels, drunken and foul 
 beyond the blush of shame. 
 
 It was a strange, sad march, which they 
 took in the silent night, through the vast 
 Empire City. 
 
 And at every step Arthur gathered the 
 Red Book closer to his side. 
 
 And behind them, in all their march, even 
 from the moment when they left the Battery, 
 two figures followed closely in their wake — 
 unseen by Arthur or by Bamhurst, — two 
 figures, tracking every step of their way 
 with all a bloodhound's stealth and zeal. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 TRINITY CHUBCH. 
 
 At length — it was near the hour of four — 
 they came to the head of Wall street once 
 more, and paused in front of the portals of 
 unfinished Trinity. 
 
 " Here you must leave me," cried Bam- 
 hurst, in a tone of desperation, " I have an 
 appointment in this church at the hour of 
 four. Leave me, — at least for a little 
 while — " 
 
 But Arthur held fast the false clergyman's 
 arm. 
 
 " 1 will never leave you," he said. "Keep 
 your appointment, I will witness it. It will 
 be very interesting to know what business it 
 is, that can bring you to this unfinished 
 church at the hour of four in the morning." 
 
 Barnhurst set his teeth together in silent 
 rage. 
 
 " You cannot,— cannot, — " he began. 
 
 " Not a word," stemly intermpted Der- 
 moyne. " Go in and keep your appointment 
 like a man of your word." 
 
 Barnhurst led the way, and they passed 
 under heavy piles of scaffolding into the 
 dark churclL Dark indeed, and unenlivened 
 
THROUGH THE 
 
 by a single ray of light. All around was 
 silent as the grave. The profound stillness 
 was well calculated to strike the heart with 
 awe, and Arthur and Barnhurst, as they 
 groped their way along, did not utter a 
 word. 
 
 " Here, near the third pillar, I am to meet 
 him," whispered Barnhurst, 
 
 " Give me your left hand, then ; I will 
 conceal myself behind the pillar, and hold 
 you firmly, while you converse with your 
 friend." 
 
 Herman, in the thick darkness, placed 
 himself against the pillar, and Dermoyne, 
 firmly grasping his left hand, crept behind it. 
 
 Thus they stood for many minutes, await- 
 ing the approach of Herman's friend. In 
 the dark and stillness those moments seemed 
 80 many ages. 
 
 A bell, striking the hour of four, re- 
 sounded over the city. 
 
 At length a step was heard, and then a 
 faint cough, — 
 
 "Are you here ?'' said a voice ; and Der- 
 moyne, from his place of concealment, 
 beheld a dimly-defined figure approach the 
 third pillar. 
 
 " I am," answered Barnhurst. 
 
 " Who are you ?" said the voice of the 
 unknown. 
 
 "I am Herman Barnhurst" — His voice 
 was low but distinct. 
 
 "How shall I know that you are the 
 Barnhurst whom I seek ?" asked the un- 
 known. 
 
 There was a pause. Barnhurst seemed to 
 hesitate : 
 
 "*27i« Night of the Tenth of Xovemher, 
 1842/ " he said, and his voice trembled. 
 
 "Right; you are the man," said the 
 unknown. "Did you receive a letter last 
 evening ?" 
 
 "I did," — and Barnhurst's voice was very 
 faint. 
 
 " How was that letter signed, and to what 
 did it refer ?" 
 
 Again Barnhurst hesitated. Arthur felt 
 the hand which he held grow hot and cold 
 by turns. 
 
 " It was signed by ' The Three,' " he 
 replied in a faltering voice — "and referred to 
 an event which it a^ssumes took place on ths 
 night of the tenth of November, 1842." 
 
 SILENT CITY. 141 
 
 " 'Assumes ." " echoed the unknown, with 
 a faint laugh. " You think it an assumption^ 
 do you ? Well, I like that. And the letter 
 requested you to meet one of the * Three,* 
 at this place, at the hour of four this 
 morning ; and it concluded by stating that 
 you would hear something of great interest 
 to yourself in regard to the events of tJuit 
 night." 
 
 "It did," faintly responded Barnhurst. "I 
 am here, and — " 
 
 "We will have a little private conversa- 
 tion together. First of all, you must know 
 that I am one of three persons who take a 
 great interest in your affairs, and desire to save 
 you from a great deal of trouble. We watch 
 over you with fraternal anxiety, and do all 
 we can to keep you out of harm. And oa 
 the part of the Three, (whose names you 
 will know in good time, in case you prove 
 reasonable,) I am deputed to give you a 
 little good counsel." 
 
 " Good counsel ?" 
 
 " Good counsel, was the word. Now, ia 
 order to understand this good counsel, you 
 will understand that the Three are in 
 possession of all the facts connected with the 
 remarkable event of the night of the tenth of 
 November^ 1842. Facts, certified by proof — 
 you comprehend ?" 
 
 Herman gave a start, but did not reply. 
 
 " You will, therefore, listen to the good 
 counsel with patience, I doubt not. To corns 
 to the point, then : — Y'ou know that tha 
 immense property of Trinity Church, com- 
 prising, at a rough guess, one eighth of tha 
 greatest city on the American continent, has 
 been threatened at various periods by a series 
 of conspiracies, who have given the corpo- 
 ration much trouble, and who, more than 
 once, have nearly accomplished its ruin ?" 
 
 "I do," answered Herman; "and thesa 
 conspiracies have all sprung from a band of 
 persons, widely dispersed through the United 
 States, and calling themselves the heirs of 
 Anreke Jans Bogardus." 
 
 "Right," continued the unknown. "An- 
 reke Jans, said to be the natural daughter of 
 a king of Holland, lived on this island about 
 two hundred years ago. At her death she 
 bequeathed to her children a certain farm — 
 a farm which at the present time forms tha 
 very heart of New York, and constitates a 
 
IU2 
 
 -TSUOtrGH 'THE SILENT CITY. 
 
 ; ^great;part :of the \vealtli -of Trinity* Chl\rch/ 
 -• for it ia wol'th countless •triillio'ns of doHaJs.^ 
 •■■ Now-ydu are well aware that ii/ is alleged by: 
 
 ■ the descendants df Art"?eke Jans, that this 
 ' fftVm" was Juggled oxit of the hands of one- 
 '•of their ancestors "by a, gross fraud— a' fraud 
 
 ■worthy of 'that cufse which Sct-ipture ^ pro- 
 " iiOuijces: upon the Irian;" who reirioves his 
 neighbor's land-mark — and that Trinity' 
 ^ Church hfiS' tfnly one right to the ownietship 
 of said farm, to wit : the i"l^ht of the thief ■ 
 - and' robber ?'*' •; ' " '' •-. .; • ■ 
 "■^ I am aware of this,'-*' responded .'Herman;: 
 "aiid so' powerful; h-ave been the prbdfs of 
 '- this fraud; that the Church has, on various 
 oocasions, come near losing the' very •' jewel- 
 of dll' its. immense possessions; -Only onc' 
 i'-'coui'se of action has baved it' from' the' heirs; 
 -'of Anreke Jans Bogardus— • 
 
 h:as',- when neatly driven to the wall,- 
 c*>ns.ented' to 'compTQmise with the heirs for 
 their claim, — has simply desired in retutnj a 
 release, signed by all the heirs, — ^and then, 
 ' ''oii' tlie vei'y eve' of -settlement, it has' man- 
 ^ age^ tD bu^ off otie or two of the iiiost 
 : '''prominent 'heirs. ■ •■ For insiailMie,' Aai'on Burr, 
 •■ ' ('wiio' ■ aeted foi* tke ' ' ^lieii'^y SOm'e thirty^ years 
 \'ago;) -\^ras iulted i'nto silence by the generosity 
 —of the iCburch; •She''gave him several valua-^ 
 ble tracts of land, whicK lie sold- tO"A'st6r-^" 
 •".■Diie 'uii^nowtL'ipjtUSled' for' a moment, and 
 i theri ^esuifaed'^ ' . : ='''i^' . ; • i' 
 ■"'•""'At the pre'i^en^t tinie,' the^e "iieil-s are p're-^ 
 *^ai*ing a cdri^piracy,^Tnbre desperately ener- 
 ^ getic than any previous eflfoi^t. It is certainly 
 • Wie interest of the ^ Church ' to -foil this^ cdn- 
 
 ■ Spiracy ait all • hiazatds. And .we - * TflftEE ' 
 ^■'pei»se)ris; not directly eohh^ected: with the cor-' 
 --'J>oratibn, thiilk that we '• cati ' make it Our 
 
 -intetest ' to assist the Ch'urch ifi the fifial 
 Overthrow of the conspirators: To' do this 
 ♦"'■' e^otiialTy,- -Nis'e require the 'assistance of one 
 of the heits,' who \vdil svind himself into the. 
 
 ■ "jylanB of 'the cdnspiratdts, help the' plot to 
 'i'tipeti' and help us to rgctikBf it Vfhen it is 
 
 ripe." ■•'•••.; 
 
 ■ - •'- ' Oiie of the heirs ?' " muttered Herman. 
 
 ■ ■ " Ay, bne ' of the heiTs,^and he must be 
 
 ■ • a mill - of sense, shrewdness aiid ' undoubted 
 I'espec'tability; Noxv—db ' you" Heat me ?—- 
 you, Hetm^n Ba^nhurst, are one of the heirs 
 of -'Anreke Jan's Bdgardtis.'''' ' 
 
 '• 'Thet* was a patisle br^^ silence. 
 
 •You mi^ht have ^heaM a pin diap, in the 
 •deep stillness of that vast edifice.; " • - » 
 
 " I am one of the heirs of Anreke Jans/* 
 said Herman'; and what then/?" . 
 
 The voice, of the unknown was deep, dis- 
 tinct and imperative : 
 
 "You will assist us in • foiling these con- 
 spirators. YoU' will • assist • us- wrllingly, 
 faitliifally, and >vtihout reserve. > This is the 
 good caounsel whlck I am deputed to give 
 .you.-'? • •■■ - . ■ . • • ■ ' . ■ . . ; 
 
 "And if I decline ?" said Herman, drain- 
 ing' a long breath. .. ; 
 
 " You will not decline, when'.you 'r«meAi* 
 ber the ervent of the night qf the tenth :iof 
 November, 1642.": . - 
 
 ' Dermoyne felt the hand which be clasped 
 tremble in :his. grasp. ••. ; • :• 
 
 "Ah!" and Herman drew • another, long 
 breathj ' ■ ■ • . 
 
 "As the Third of the Three, I beg .your 
 opinioh of my good cou'nsel," said the un- 
 known. - . . : • : . ■ 
 ' ^" I accept," said Herman, in ^a liUskjr 
 
 ■voice; ' ' • ■ ..■■•■.'/.••: 
 
 • But Me must :haTe some =pledge ifor ydruf 
 fidelity—" ;' : 
 
 " Have you not pledge enoughy' Baid 'Her- 
 msLn, bitterly, i" if you know the ev-e'rits of 
 that night — " • • v •: .■:!;• 
 
 • •" True-; but We: require some othelr little 
 pledge in the way of eollateral -^ias-^ -the 
 money lenders say"— said' the unknown; who 
 had designated himself as " the Third' 0/ 
 tJie Three." "In the event of a certain cbn- 
 titigency— a ve^y' improbable oontingeiicy, — 
 you will inherit one seventh of' 'the ¥an 
 H'liyden estitte^" '• • ' '■ ' • • '. ' 
 
 Herman gave a start '-^e- moved fofvrard 
 suddenly, but was drawn b^ick : against the 
 pillar by the' sttong grip- of' Dermoyne -:• : . ■ 
 
 " The Van Huyden estate !" he ejaculated 
 in a tone of utter astdnishment.' • ■ ' 
 
 "I said the Van Huyden estate,'^ cbn- 
 tiiiued the^hird df ' the ■Three,— " and that 
 should satisfy you that I know all about' it. 
 In witness of your gddd: faith, yqU will 
 to-morrow make over to us, by our own 
 proper names, and over your own proper 
 ■ signature, all yoiir rjght, title and interest in 
 the "Van Hiiyden estate. The final settle- 
 in en t;yoti know,, takes place- the day after 
 to-mono w. Jn case you act faithfully us, 
 
''We v^'ilt'restBl^' 'y()U your right «fi'" tlie day 
 ■Wlieh,"bj your assistance, \rc hat'e foilcJd'th'e 
 heirs of Anrcke Jans. The good ■counsel 
 Vhich I 'liave for y6u is this : — accept this 
 'pf6p6sitrbn at t)rice/if you Ttnow what is 
 good for your health, your reputation, yoilr 
 liberty."-'- •■ ' '"• - • ' 
 
 ^'Th-e woras of the Third of the Three 
 ■"sVefe succeeded by a dead pause. It was 
 dark, and the changes • of Hehnan's face 
 • coiild fiot be seen. A sound wjls heard, like 
 'd ha:lf-Suppressed groAtt. - 
 
 ■ ^ And if I refuse ?" he faltered ~ " if I 
 ^ca:St ybur absurd propositibri to the winds ?" 
 
 "Then (he revelation of the event of that 
 %i^ht, niay cast you to the devil,'^ Was the 
 "Caltn' reply. ' • ' 
 
 ' ■ ''At least give me sbinS hours I'or re- 
 '^e'dtion'; let hie consider yoUt proposal." 
 
 *' We had thought of this," answered the 
 •' tinknbWh. " The time is short: ' The ^5th 
 ' tif T)etiem1ber' Will soon b^ here.^ -I "iiin 
 "Authorized to give ybU Until tb-day 'at rrifd- 
 ' diy,— that is, you have nearly eight hours 
 ' fbi"' cairn reflection." ' . - 
 
 Herman said, after a moment's 'Hesitatibn,' 
 " ftl ia, IbW'and scarce 'perceptible vbicej— 
 *^"'^'Be'it;so.'^' ■ " ■ ■ '^^ ; 
 
 '■''^^ in "case' ybur answer' is -Yes, you ■v^'ill' 
 Bignify it in this manner" — and he whispered 
 ^ 'in tlie ear of his victim,— whispered a few 
 '' brief Wbrds,' which Herman drank in with" 
 ■^11 his soul. "Kemfember, before tdid-day,' 
 *'1iome seven arid k'hialf hbure hence."^ ■ 
 
 " You shall have my answer iri the man- 
 ner Specified," said Herman, in an accent of 
 utter bewilderment. 
 
 "O'lir interview is at ^n erid^" saii the 
 *rhird of the Three. " As We must not -bj 
 any chance be seen ' leaving this place 
 " together, I will pass through the grave-ysird, 
 while you go but at the main door. Good 
 '"'night'." '■"•■■" ■ ' • ■■ 
 
 And leaving the miserable man, who sank 
 back" against the pillar for support, the Third 
 jof the Three passed from the shadows, out 
 ' 'into the graveyard, where wiite torrtbstones 
 ippeared in the- starlight, tnfngled with piles 
 ^- of lumber . and heaps of building stone. 
 
 As he came into the starlight, it might be 
 .seen that Ke was a slibrt thick-set maU,- clad 
 ■.in a dark'-bver-coati whose Upturned collai' 
 hid th6 low part of hi^ visage, while his hat, 
 
 ^ra-vmlbw ov^r his bro^s,: masked the upper 
 pbf tibn 'of his face. . He ohuckled to himself 
 as he picked his Way- among the heaps' of 
 lumber -and scattered masses of building 
 stone : • . " •. ■ ■■ . • 
 
 " It is a nice ganie, auy how you choose to 
 look at it. ■■ The heirs ; of Anrcke Jans' can 
 be played against the Church ; this man 
 Herman chn be played against the heirs, 
 and the Three can dicftate terms to both 
 paf ties, and decide the game. Aiid when the 
 Three have Wort, why then the Third of the 
 Three ean hold the First and Second in his 
 power ; especially, if this man's :chance erf 
 the Seventh of the Van Huyden- -estate Is 
 transferred to the Third, by hi« own propfer 
 name. Well, well; law, properly Understood, 
 is the science of pulling wool over other 
 people's eyes : . eloc[uent speeches in court, 
 and the name of a big practice, may do for 
 some people ; but give me"one'of these nice 
 little cases, which 'He' seqiiestered' •froln the 
 public view, quiet as an oyster in his bed, 
 and as juicy •■ • • ' ■ - 
 
 ■ Thus you seb that- the- Third of the^Three 
 •Was' a philosopher. He paused before - a 
 marble slab, Over which he bent, tracing with 
 difficulty the insbription, which was iri quaint 
 characters, miuch' worn by tiuie Van 
 HutriEN;" . - ; ■ ■ ■ '■ 
 
 "Strange enough! Just aS We Were about 
 to search the tomb last night,* to be inter- 
 rupted arid scarbd frbm our object by; a 
 circumstance so unusual ! The snug sum of 
 $200,000, iri plate, buried in^a coffin!^ an 
 odd kind of sub-treasury ! Wonder if there's 
 any truth in the legend ?" • " - : ." ' • 
 
 As the gentleman thus soliloquized he 
 fixed his byes attentively upon the slab ; but 
 he' did not' see" the 'iippyoaGh of a' man, 
 wrapped in the thick folds of a clOak, and 
 With a brbadj-birimmed hat over -his brOw, — a 
 triari who came noiselessly from the shadows 
 and took his place at the opposite extremity 
 bf the' "slab, 'quietly folding ' his ' arms, -as he 
 fixed hfs gaJie upon the Third of the Three. 
 
 A wild sort of picture this': :The gloomy 
 church-tard, with its leafless trees, and tomb- 
 stones half hidden atnong heaps of timber 
 and of stone. Yondet, the church, booking 
 like th'b grotesque creation 'of ari -eilcbanWr's 
 
 * See Epitode, page 114 of the Empire Ci^. 
 
144 
 
 THROUGH THE SILENT CITY. 
 
 power, as hidden among uncouth scaffolding, . 
 it rises vague and shapeless into the sky. 
 And here, by the tomb of the Van Huydens, 
 two figures, — the Third of Three, who, in a | 
 deep revery, fixes his eyes upon the inscrip- ' 
 tion — and the cloaked figure, whose steady i 
 gaze is centered upon the absent-minded 
 gentleman. 
 
 "Two hundred thousand buried in a 
 coffin,"— soliloquized "the Third," — "I 
 wonder if I could not make a little search. 
 The place is quiet, — no watchman near — " 
 
 "Liar !" said a voice, in tones deep as the 
 sound of an organ. "Learn that the 
 Watcher always guards the vault of the Van 
 Huydens : — learn that it is sacrilege to rob 
 the dead." 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE END OF THE MARCH. 
 
 As Dermoyne led Barnhui-st forth into the 
 open air, the false clergyman staggered like 
 a drunken man. His tall and angular form 
 shook like a reed ; and Arthur, catching a 
 glimpse of his countenance, saw that it was 
 livid and distorted in every feature. 
 
 "Do with me what you will," he said in 
 broken accents. " The worst has come. — I 
 do not care ! Come ; at last, you shall go 
 home with me. Home !" 
 
 He turned his steps up Broadway, leaning 
 his weight on Arthur's arm as he staggered 
 along. 
 
 Terrible as had been the crimes of the 
 wretch, Arthur pitied him. For a moment, 
 only ; for the dying cry of Alice was in his 
 ear. 
 
 " Your punishment begins," he whispered. 
 
 And thus, up Broadway, they resumed 
 their march through the city. 
 
 They had not gone many paces from the 
 church, when two forms sprang suddenly 
 from the shadows of the scaffolding, both 
 clad in dark overcoats, with caps drawn over 
 their faces. They were the forms of those 
 unknown persons who had followed Arthur 
 and Barnhurst from the Battery over the 
 city. One was lean, tall and sinewy in form; 
 his quick, active, stealthy step, resembled 
 the step of an Indian. The other was short 
 and thick set, with broad chest and bow legs. 
 
 "Did yer see der Bed Book, Dirk ?'* 
 
 " 0' coss I did ; as he come out o' der 
 church, his cloak opened, and I seed 'um 
 under his arm. 0' coss I did. Slung." 
 
 We cannot give any just idea of the 
 peculiar patois of these delightful specim.ena 
 of the civilized savages. 
 
 " Travel's der word," said Slung. 
 
 "0' coss it is : an' if we ketch 'um in a 
 dark alley, or round a sharp corner, wont we 
 smash his daylights in !" 
 
 And the one with his hand on his knife, 
 concealed in the pocket of his overcoat, and 
 the other with the cord of the slung-shot 
 wound about his wrist, they resumed their 
 hunt in the track of Dermoyne. 
 
 Unconscious of the danger which strode 
 stealthily in his wake, Dermoyne clasped the 
 Red Book to his side with one arm, and with 
 the other supported the form of the trem- 
 bling Barnhurst. 
 
 " Yes, we'll go home," muttered the false 
 clergyman — "Home !" He pronounced the 
 word with a singular emphasis, like a man 
 half bereft of his senses. " You can work 
 your vengeance on me there, for the worst 
 has come." 
 
 Then, for a long time, they pursued their 
 way in silence, turning toward the East 
 River, as they drew near the head of Broad- 
 way. 
 
 As he drew near liis destination — near the 
 end of his singular march, — a wild hope 
 agitated the heart of the wretched man, half 
 stupefied as he was by despair. It was his 
 last hope. 
 
 " This man has feeling," he thought, " and 
 I will try him." 
 
 They stood, at length, in the hall of a 
 quiet mansion, the hanging lamp above their 
 heads shedding its waving light into their 
 faces. Barnhurst had entered the door by a 
 night key, forgetting, in his agitation, to 
 close it after him. Arthur dropped his arm, 
 and they confronted each other, surveying 
 each other's faces for the first time in four 
 long hours. 
 
 It was a singular sight. Both lividly pale, 
 and with the fire of widely contrasted emo- 
 tions, giving new fire to their gaze, they 
 silently regarded each other. The tall and 
 angular form of the clergyman was in 
 contrast with the compact figure of tlie 
 mechanic: and Herman's visage, singular 
 
THROUGH THE 
 
 eyes, aquiline nose, bland complexion, and 
 hair sleekly disposed behind the ears, waa 
 altogether different from the face of the 
 mechanic : — bold forehead, surmounted by 
 masses of brown hair, short and curling — 
 clear gray eyes, wide mouth, with firm lips, 
 and round and massive chin ; you might 
 read the vast difference between their minds 
 in their widely contrasted faces. 
 
 " Well, I am — home," said Barnhurst, 
 with a smile hard to define. 
 
 "I will sleep in your room," answered 
 Arthur, quietly. " To-morrow, at ten, we go 
 together to that house." 
 
 "Let us retire, then," answered Herman. 
 The hanging lamp lighted the stairway, and 
 disclosed the door at its head. 
 
 Herman, with the hand of Arthur on his " 
 arm, led the way up the staircase, and 
 paused for a moment at the door. He bent 
 his head as if to listen for the echo of a 
 sound, but no sound was heard. Herman 
 gently opened the door, and entered — fol- 
 lowed by Arthur — a spacious chamber, dimly 
 lighted by a taper on the mantle. 
 
 " Hush !" said Herman, and pointed to a 
 small couch, on which a boy of some three 
 years was sleeping ; his rosy face, ruffled by 
 a smile, 2nd his hair lying in thick curls all 
 about his j;now- white forehead. 
 
 " Hush !" again said Herman, and pointed 
 to a curtained bed. A beautiful woman was 
 sleeping there, with her sleeping infant cra- 
 dled on her arm. The faces of the mother 
 and babe, laid close together on the pillow, 
 
 SILENT CITY. 145 
 
 looked very beautiful — almost holy — in tho 
 soft mysterious light. 
 
 "My wife! my children!" gasped Her- 
 man. As he spoke, the agitation of his face 
 was horrible to look upon. 
 
 Dermoyne felt his heart leap to his throat. 
 He could not convince himself that it was 
 not a dream. Again and again he turned 
 from the face of Barnhurst to the rosy boy 
 on the couch — to the beautiful mother and 
 her babe, resting there in the half-broken 
 shadows of the curtained bed, — and felt his 
 knees tremble and his heart leap to his throat. 
 
 And in contrast with this scene of holy 
 peace, — a pure mother, sleeping in the mar- 
 riage chamber with her children, — came up 
 before him, Alice, and her bed of torture in 
 the den of Madam Resimer. 
 
 " This, — this," gasped Barnhurst, " this is 
 why I couldn't marry Alice !" 
 Arthur was convulsed by opposing emotions. 
 
 "Devil !" he uttered with set teeth and 
 clenched hands, — "and with a wife and 
 children like these, you could still plot tho 
 ruin of poor Alice !" 
 
 "Husband," said the wife, as she awoko 
 from her sleep — " have you come at last ? I 
 waited for you so long !" 
 
 Leave we this scene, and retrace our steps. 
 The revel in the Temple is at the highest. 
 The masks begin to fall. Hark! to the 
 whispers which mingle softly with the 
 clinking of champagne glasses. By all 
 means let us enter the Temple. 
 
1 
 
 MKT FOURTH 
 
 iMji.icia In 
 
 Ivi-Ti.!:!! Mt 
 
 ■f,')0'r 
 
 Hi!!! ,{rtvr 
 
 Iff JHE TEMPLE. 
 
 f>i::-; 
 
 r;GHAP[rEB.;L 
 
 m THE TEMPLK-^TaE CENTlJAi:* CHAJtfBEB.; 
 
 ■ •t'r was^ i\v6 e^elock; on: tlie *rio-ra1ngibf the 
 24th of December, 18M;!wheni ' Fr&nkf kd 
 'Nrirridless ' OTeH' ith$ threshold of; a magnificent: 
 '•fcufcidinilj-iighlieid halh^ - ; "iii ■•'! • ; 
 ' • • • ■ Atth-ed in • Mack 'velvet, the ■ 'golden ' cross 
 '-'iipbniher' brek3t; 'a«d Av.ith''la white; vail lall- 
 ing like a snowflake over her face ;aiid Taven 
 •' hair, ghcl ptfess'ed hls hfind and led' hiin for-; 
 ^ard; ^ the' light. ■-'••Y'dii- pa-rinotj^f by ihe 
 changes of his colintetianGe,: 'trace i the;. emo- 
 tions now busy at his heart ; for his face is. 
 ■ jconcefele'd'fey ft mask; a' Gap> with a •d3"0(i)ping 
 ^JyliX-m^e;' shades hi^'brovV ; :his form i-s attiir'ed." 
 '^in ' a iitbid 'of black velvety ^gathered to Ihis- 
 ''waik by a scarlet -Sttsh; availing collar 'dis-- 
 'Aloises his throat ;■ and :there' is: a w;hite cross; 
 upon his b'reai^f;! Suspended ftoni his -neck; iby. 
 a golden chain. His brown hair, no lonsrer 
 
 BiEfCEMBER 24, 1844. ' /.;-( i . ^ r 
 
 Hi; " 'I am.-:|n 9i idrfcami .1^ Iwf, firpdv ; .. -.j, jj , ri 
 
 A vast and;dimly-iiffhied;.hftU» ibvakien ity 
 I A (rang«.;of/ miarli)le. iCoUimns;*,. ' piptwve^' and 
 : mirrors ^^iashing 'and , iglo^ving Jil-ong. the- lofty 
 ; walls! ; and . fihe . yery ■ ; air , jn?;bvied- wiU>; the 
 breath of . simmier, the fr^igtanoe jof . freshly 
 .gftthiJred ,flQ.w0rs.j .vN:ear ev/ersy ,jGoluf3i\; Wiaa 
 .placeid : a ; tables covered: \ \y.ith fruit • and 
 flowers, i^yith goblets and.. l^^jt^lp^. of rich old 
 wine ; and : .on : every: , table, a . -lai^ip ^with ' a 
 clouded: shade;jMi^iiarOund;.a; light :,$t once 
 diln, . mysterious;: and : vcfluptuqvis. i . And. . the 
 JnirrOrs : reflijcted- th$ ;scen9y ,ia.raid .^Mhose 
 rsilfent: magnittcencei vFt-^nki; and; Niameless 
 
 stood alone..;, ,i .•;,( 
 
 : : V ]^(5tr,';ipr , : flL, : ^Hc^S^kj' fl^vit '.in'! r central 
 chamber,- 6iE i the- :T,emp]oj'! ^he;,- wbiepered. 
 
 Here, shut ; oiiit from the \v^rld :by i tUick 
 ivv'alls, -the guQsts "pf; ■ tti'e Tempha , iasscnible ,at 
 rd^iad of -nigJit^aad creaite: ,fqri;.thern«elye* a 
 sort of fairy world, far different from the 
 
 wild and matted, but carefully arranged by world which you see at the church or opera, 
 
 a woman's hand, falls in glossy masses to his 
 shoulders. 
 
 "Stand here, my knight of the wdiite 
 cross, and observe some of the mysteries of 
 our Temple." 
 
 For a moment she raised her vail, and her 
 dark eyes emitted rays of magnetic fire, and 
 the pressure of her hand made the blood 
 bound in every vein. 
 
 They stood by a marble pillar, near a 
 table on which was placed a lamp with a 
 clouded shade, — a table loaded with fruits 
 and flowers, with goblets and with bottles 
 of rich old wine. 
 
 Nameless could not repress an ejaculation 
 as he surveyed the scene. 
 (146) 
 
 or even on Broadway on a sunshiny day. 
 
 There was a touch of mockery in her tone 
 as she spoke. 
 
 "But do not these guests, as you call 
 them, know each other ?" whispered Name- 
 less. "Do not those who mingle in the 
 orgie of the night, recognize each other 
 when the)' meet by daylight ?" 
 
 " Every am^ocrrt^tc gentleman knows the 
 aristocratic lady, who meets him within 
 these walls," replied Frank. " Beyond that 
 nothing is known. A mask, a convenient 
 costume, hides ever face and form. They 
 all, however, know the Queen of the Tem- 
 ple/' — she placed her hand upon her breast; 
 " and the password, without which no one 
 
FROM Mm;^I(^pj?|. ,DAWX. 
 
 mi 
 
 issued by the Queen of the T(jri(^)le.[|,,j. 
 
 iis'./f jir..,.' ) ;;:ji;v/ to i> ) Kh'il^:;.' 
 
 pQjjtnt|qn.;»n4<.-tl^3t^v/' •.••>..) -. ..; |)..!,:-.. » i.-. 
 
 iSh^,pa«6Q4.;; ivad.Kqjitiqle^^ sa>Y;her.bp^pm; 
 hQaY.^j;ai?4; •.tor4i:.the| ;sjgh;,>yli^ch . es.p^jpe^ 
 froa^;! her. lips,, ; .„.„.„i'; ;/ , 
 
 <!' IJ^it; t:l>^.njglit. past,' you ; w^ll, .)?i4. ^,4ieM, 
 tOf;,$.C(?n(38. iJik,Q.;.t^s...^r^ver.^^!' .,,>vh;ftpert;i<J, 
 Nameless. "You rcmiimh^r.jp^T.^^^^el'^^ 
 
 jSitft-g^W^tliTupatised ..t,Uy Jy^iil,;,.,h^r..C9UiI}te- 
 nance, in all its impassioned love,^r)es.s,,lay;^ 
 op!.ei3i;tq;.l)W:gaz£>.:;i ^Jer,.eyes,,fla^>|ie(l iirigl^tly, 
 vividliy,''altl^o,ug;b,' wet ^vujt)^itJeaI$l,,^ . , 
 
 J.ft.Yes/* ah^i . re&pon^^e^ --*tM,l^'.lilkP•%. 
 " Thia;«ight -p^pi,il; 3Yill.;Vitl;{^clic;W: to.^pei^e.^. 
 Ii);^. thi.s ;foreyef..!:;,.aii4i s^ej;dre\yiliirfi geptly 
 to lj.iar;b9som.-TT!' XiOW lifp; bai^; bp?.n;, dark-r-', 
 mine dark and criminal. But there is hope (9;^, 
 usy,Q<ul;i:aii.TTr:bepe' bej.oja.(^ th9se. :.">yallSj wjiere 
 pftUiufeio^ii i&,:iija8^ve4,.;in.,;%)\^^^ iii, 
 some. far .(Jislianit fco^ij3^1>^re, upplogged ,l)y,, 
 tlnti; d^Mifc; .ineiiipp-e? pt. slih,e.,.past,; -vyje.^, >vill 
 b^gia lyp fanftiv;, am^-.s^gk , the, , blessing; c)i. 
 God, in a career of faith,. Qf.,jself-^pnial !''. 
 
 j.'^A^pjd ;;tl)sn,^,.|:r^^^V,'/,: :P^<1 
 **:S^<HVW 'Ci^er.Jje. o^irs,.\xe.;WiU^d:evoie: 
 i1j.4^,tiip cej4epa|)jtion.,of ..tlw;s^^ ha,w^ s}^-^^ 
 %edliil?;^'USv,aBiLli^0^^ . 
 
 /.M":thift;mx?^ejot,,p,;bu/pt.jof^^ frqw an, 
 
 a^j©iiai^ig;,chftna,bpr^.flL<^ ,t}i^ v^st. 
 
 ttfi<l!flWdqwy,^)_a]l.j Afl!i.,tbp tbe;'^OHnd Qf 
 d^nfiipg„jiiipgle4,,^yijtb t^'9.,?Py,.s;pTr-and,.i},9w 
 an4:;tb.ep -tlje. musi9^,.^|id^ t|ie .dance .•\yere 
 iiii,tQr;rvi.p^e4.>>f , t)ij^ eeJip . 9/ . j pyo.u3 ..yoiG.e,s.; . , 
 
 •,.j{;';T^. guea^p, ^^f ! .tb^ ^Temple,'. ^i^e ^ai^cing 
 iil-^.ith^,; ^^anqji^t :.:Ch;apjibeE,j[,.,said Frank.. 
 ".M^tska^ i ,.a,iid. ; .y a^bd,^ , - sbi^t ^ Q,ut ,'ij:om,', X]}!^, 
 •WflrJ4 '^X AinpeDi^ti^able..)v-ajls,, tl^ey^^ .<rPPi7 
 mencing one of tlio&e. Qrg|§^,,,-\vliicb, ?^;W|Oke 
 the .. qcl^qes , qf/. iYjaticf 9^ ijL tbp. (ja^s of 
 Pope Borgia." ' . .^-j 
 
 -JL .eur<iaia w^^tJ3TO^t,a8.ide,— ^momcA^^ 
 bJa^e; Cjf Ijg-ht rji^J^et^ into .tj^e "vast Ji^li,rT» 
 aii4n P)<is\;e4 ; .. ?iV^,w\^^f .the gju.esjtp. , pf tjtie 
 Temple" came pQ.uri;ig,,iutO: tbe pljv?;^. ^ , 
 
 J^i\R:\q|^'ss^, ill ^ sij \vhisper.. " Are ,^ we indeed j 
 in .J^J,e\y:.^.ofk, iq ^the.jupeteqnljb century.^?-;-;; . 
 or..j^ ;i^ j^_g9;j,^e^ ,i^ .the ^^daj^s qf/the ;.P.of- ^ 
 
 ., .^-nd , fpr^ a iCjNY jm_9jme^ ts, .^G; .stood , si4e| ^ by^ ^ 
 sidj[^,,,^yitl)..^^rank|_. in,^,pie ..^hj^d.ovy^ . of .the j 
 c^u^tra|l .piUar^ xvatchii^g-, ;thq: s,ceue. jn dum^b^ 
 , ama:?ei)ient, j'J^.alHiiig, two, by.^ tw 
 fqi;t^:;^ meiji . ^ridi women ,.in^ all— the guests , 
 , glided.. tbrpu^h .tbe yqluj)tupU(;5 ligbtr^and. 
 sbad(j^w^ pq .-.IcifS.. voluptuous— o,f tbe central ^ 
 chamber. It was, indeed,' a stran^e.^ ap4* 
 niq.tlpy .crp.wcl ! Pqpe^ and cardinals,. , ai]d 
 m_qi;k§ . .^n.d nuns^., i^^in^led witli .knights,^ ^ 
 caliphs and dancing' girl;?.:. .Tb,e , effect, o^^ 
 their .rich .and varied, .qostiirn^s, .d.ecp.ened hy 
 the soft light, was impressive, dazxlin^.; 
 popp jqd , a. dancijig. girl \)y thq, haijd;— a.chri^- ' 
 tian knight; ehci.rcled, the slender waigt qf a, 
 hf)Ufi,.^^ac; ^ta|,qiy ..(3a,rdiAal' disc9urjsed.ii), tpyy.i 
 tones with' a staid (:j\iakev^ss,, w.Ii:08e..en 
 fqrmjbD^t ^pn^!.qf..its.9har^ls^ her sey^fely 
 n.e^t,.,attir^ { S^.V^V:^*- 
 Alraschid, unawed by the precept^i. of the. 
 prqj|het^ supported. ; i^. . vajlied. abbess^, on . i^is 
 rqyal^ .arm^, .. . C,qntrast;S .like these. _gl id e(|^ 
 arn^n^ ,tb^ j p.niarsr-r:n.ow^ in -IjgHt^ ..now "jnj 
 shadqw; ; . .echoes .of ^softlj^ -vyhispered, cqnyer- . 
 sation .fill.ed .the haU .with. a nQUsicjal. murmur^ | 
 and .the; ! mirrors aloqg thg. wa^lls" reflected ^ 
 th.e picture^^T^the., fables, .lq?uiled..wilh v.iauiis 
 and .flowers— tbe rich variety .oif cpstume--j, 
 the pillars' of .white .ma^^^ li^t andj 
 
 shadqw,. :whicb ^9,yq: new witcheryjto/ithe. 
 sqeiie. . r.,.. ji...^. .;.,.,,.* , i 
 
 (There w^ere certain of ithe masicers. wlio* ' 
 in a,n qspecia; manner, riveted the, attention 
 
 of.^Nameless,, -^^ ^ ; , ' 
 
 ■ 4- . .^nap of , sta.|i^l/y-; .presencqj and , _ ro^yal' 
 st.rijd^, flttir^4 -in a tunic of. IJVirf|le ^sill^, with-] 
 a^i Qiitjer. tun;c.. of , scarlet, velvet, edged witli^ 
 wliitft .efpii,fi,e-r-h(:|se^ aIso . qf , SGaHpt7:-:and 
 sh.qes^ fa^tjeped, with diamond buckles,. .Even; 
 had tlie mask failed to hide his face,,.jit. 
 \\M3,iild,,ha<v.e,.|)e,eu. cpncea-led .b^i^ the. clji|s.t.er 
 .of snowy. plu?Qes.. which nqdd^d jrom. hj^^ 
 
 " Behold' i^qderiok j ipqrgia J'tV. whj§pere^ 
 ii^^a^i^Jc, ^4Jie.m^lved ^ass.ed ajong wjth-.i'is 
 istately stride. , , ,, 
 
148 IN THE 
 
 Lucretia was masked, but the mask which 
 hid the beauty of her face, could not conceal 
 the richness of her dark hair, which con- 
 trasted so vividly with the whiteness of her 
 neck and shoulders. A single lily bloomed 
 in solitary loveliness in the blackness of her 
 hair ; her form was encased in a white robe, 
 which adapting itself in easy folds to the 
 shape of her noble bust, is girded lightly to 
 her waist by a scarlet scarf. From the wide 
 sleeve, (edged like the skirt with scarlet), 
 you catch a glimpse of a magnificent hand 
 and arm. 
 
 " Worthy, my dear Lucretia, to rule hearts 
 by your beauty and empires by your intel- 
 lect ! " said lloderick. 
 
 " Ah, your holiness flatters," was the whis- 
 pered reply. 
 
 " Her shape, indeed, is worthy of Lucretia 
 Borgia," said Frank, as Roderick Borgia and 
 his daughter passed by the central pillar, and 
 disappeared in the shadows. 
 
 "Does she inherit the morals as well as 
 the beauty of the woman-fiend whose name 
 she bears ? " 
 
 Ere Frank could reply, another couple, 
 arm in arm, approached the central pillar. A 
 Dulky cardinal in a scarlet hat and robe, hold- 
 ing by the arm a slender youth attired in 
 modern style, in frock coat and trowsers of 
 blue cloth, — the trowsere displaying limbs of 
 unrivaled symmetry, and the frock coat but- 
 toned to the throat over an all too-prominent 
 bust. The cardinal wore a golden cross on 
 his brawny chest, and the brown hair of the 
 slender-waisted youth wa.s gathered neatly 
 beneath a velvet cap, surmounted by a single 
 snowy plume. It was pleasant to note the 
 affection which existed between the grave 
 cardinal and his youthful friend ! Not satis- 
 fied with suffering the head of the graceful 
 boy to repose on his shoulder, the cardinal 
 encircled that slender waist with his flow- 
 ing scarlet sleeve ! And thus whispering 
 softly — 
 
 " Dearest Julia ! " said the cardinal, " what 
 think you of that doctrinal point ? " 
 
 ** Dearest doctor ! what if my husband 
 knew ?" softly replied the youth. 
 
 They passed by the central pillar, from 
 the light into the shadow. 
 
 " How name you these ? " asked Nameless. 
 
 " Loo, tho Tenth, and his nephew," was 
 
 TEMPLE. 
 
 the answer of Frank, — " but see here ! A 
 monk and nun ! " 
 
 The monk was tall ; his hood and robe 
 fashioned of white cloth bordered with red ; 
 the hood concealed his face, and the robe 
 fell in easy folds from his shoulders to hi/ 
 sandaled feet. The nun was attired in a 
 hood and robe of snow-white satin ; the hood 
 concealed her face and locks of gold ; but 
 the robe, although loose and flowing, could 
 not conceal the rounded outlines of her shape. 
 Her naked feet were encased in delicate slip- 
 pers of white satin. And clinging with both 
 hands to the arm of the White Monk, the 
 White Nun went by. 
 
 " Beverly, are you sure ? " Nameless heard 
 her whisper. 
 
 " Sure ? " replied the White Monk, in a 
 tone that rose above a whisper, — "He is 
 false — false — you have the proofs ! " And 
 they went from the light into the gloom. 
 
 " She trembles, and her voice falters," said 
 Frank, observing the form of the retiring 
 nun. 
 
 " Did she not say Beverly f " asked Name- 
 less, a tide of recollections rushing upon his 
 brain. " That name — surely I heard it, — " 
 
 " Look ! " interrupted Frank, pressing his 
 arm, — "An oddly assorted couple as ever 
 went arm in arm." 
 
 And a little Turk, dressed in a scarlet 
 jacket and blue trowsers, with an enormous 
 turban on his head, approached the central 
 pillar, leaning on the arm, — ^nay, clutching 
 the hand of a tall lady, whose face and form 
 were completely concealed by an unsightly 
 robe of black muslin ; a garment which 
 seemed to have been assumed, not so much 
 for the sake of ornament, as for disguise. 
 Gathering the robe across her head and face 
 with one hand, she glided along ; her other 
 hand, — apparently not altogether to her 
 liking, — grasped by her singular companion. 
 As the " Lady in Black " passed by, Name- 
 less heard these words, — 
 
 " Havana ! A most delightful residence," 
 whispered the Turk. 
 
 The " Lady in Black " made no reply, — 
 did not even bend her head ; but passed 
 along, her robe brushing the tunic of Name- 
 less, as she glided from view. 
 
 Why was it that through every nerve. 
 Nameless felt a sensation which cannot be 
 
FROM MIDNIGHT UNTIL DAWN. 
 
 149 
 
 described, but which one cannot feel but once 
 in a lifetime, — and once felt, thrilling from 
 heart to brain, from brain to the remotest 
 fiber of being, can never be forgotten ? A 
 sensation, as though the hand of one long 
 since dead, had touched his cheek, as though 
 the presence of one long since given to the 
 grave, had come to him and overshadowed 
 him ? 
 
 " Who is that lady ? " he whispered, — 
 resting one hand against the pillar, for a sud- 
 den faintness seized him, — " That lady who 
 is matched with a companion so grotesque ?" 
 
 " She may be young or old, fair or hideous, 
 but her name I cannot tell," responded 
 Frank. " As for her companion, — the dimin- 
 utive Turk who clutches her hand, and to 
 whose soft pleadings she does not seem to 
 listen with the most affectionate interest, — 
 
 his name is " Frank bent her mouth 
 
 close to the ear of Nameless. 
 
 " His name ? " he interrupted. 
 
 "Is one which cannot but excite bitter 
 memories. Israel Yorke, the Financier 1 " 
 
 At that name, linked with the events of 
 the previous night, and with the somber 
 memories of other years. Nameless started, 
 and an ejaculation escaped his lips. 
 
 "Israel Yorke! and in this place?" 
 
 " Yes, — and why not ? " responded Frank, 
 bitterly. "What place so fitting for the 
 •windier, — pardon me. Financier ? Is it not 
 well that the money which by day is wrung 
 from the hard earnings of the poor, should 
 be spent at night in debauchery and pollu- 
 tion ? " 
 
 " From the bank to the brothel," thought 
 Nameless, but he did not breathe that 
 thought aloud. 
 
 Frank silently took him by the hand, and 
 lifted her vail. There was a magic in the 
 pressure and the look. Holding the vail in 
 such a manner that he might gaze- freely 
 upon her countenance, while it was hidden 
 from all other eyes, she looked at him long 
 and steadfastly. 
 
 "Do you regret your pledge?" she said, 
 measuring every word. 
 
 " Regret ! " he echoed, — for the touch, the 
 look, the voluptuous atmosphere of her very 
 presence, made him forget the past, the pros- 
 pects of the future, — everything, but the 
 woman whose soul shone upou him from 
 
 her passionate eyes : — " Can you think it ? 
 Regret ! Never ! " 
 
 " Then this is my last night in the Tem- 
 ple. 0, my heart, my soul is sick of scenes 
 like these ! " She glanced around the hall, 
 crowded by the maskers, — " 'To-morrow, — " 
 bending gently to him, until he felt her 
 breath upon his cheek, " to-morrow, — " 
 
 " To-morrow ! " echoed a strange voice ; 
 " but, my lady, I have a word to say to you 
 to-night." 
 
 They turned with the same impulse, and 
 beheld the unbidden speaker, in the form of 
 a Spanish hidalgo, dressed in black velvet, 
 richly embroidered with gold. He held his 
 mask before his face, and a group of dark 
 plumes shaded his brow. 
 
 She started at the voice, and Nameless felt 
 her hand tremble in his own. 
 
 " In a moment I will join you again," she 
 whispered to Nameless ; "now, Count, I am 
 at your service." 
 
 And leaving Nameless by the pillar, she 
 took the Count by the arm, and with him 
 disappeared in the shadows of the hall. 
 
 Leaning against the pillar, and folding his 
 arms across his breast, — over the white cross 
 which glittered there, — Nameless awaited 
 her return with evident anxiety. He was 
 devoured by contending emotions. The 
 fascination with which this beautiful woman 
 had enveloped him, — suspicion of the stran- 
 ger who had called her from his side, — tho 
 strange and varied scene before him, — these 
 occupied him by turns ; and then, even amid 
 the excitement and fascination of the pres- 
 ent, some faces Ci the past looked vividly in 
 upon his soul ! 
 
 And while a scene is transpiring between 
 Frank and the Count, which will hereafter 
 have a strong influence upon the fate of 
 Nameless, let us, for an instant, stand with 
 him by the central pillar, and gaze upon the 
 mysterious hall. 
 
 Mild lights, rich shadows, the ceiling sup- 
 ported by marble pillars, the maskers in 
 their contrasted costumes, and the mirrors 
 reflecting all. The stately Roderick and the 
 enticing Lucretia are conversing earnestly iu 
 yonder recess, — the White Monk and tho 
 White Nun stand face to face near yonder 
 pillar, her lip pressing the champagne glass 
 offered by his hand, — Leo the Tenth, paces 
 
156' 
 
 slowh- -frtjiia the; midk.U«-of -the hall .to...the ,.the .pQsitji<?ii. qf -a, ,rp,specjt,9d^.if ; ijat. yirt^^ 
 mirror and back again, the ' head- of bils. .bie- ii^voraaji. . ..An^.-tliis.b^^ s^'ail not"^.. 
 
 lovefd' bdpbetv :oii;^hra. •sho.ulideEj': i^T: -waist lea-v^,..!^ Uoiiso.save jpur l^usband. 
 eneirded '^'by- iiisiiai-ni'-; vand r.yicitderi ,'dpart | pp;ar it | ^:3D<>.ypa.hear,ij>.e,— ?' -V 
 frortt 'alb-6tii:ei'«, stands- .'the .•Ladyiu..Black,.j:; IJj^.ivoice grexj^thjpker, husk^ler^he se^^ 
 witlr-her xiimihutiv-e. lover^ievea- t/he .T•Urk^^:he^. by thQ;.>vrist,,. . , . . , • ,,• :,. . .. ;. ' • 
 
 : V.Jj'athftr.!.';. she .g^ppd.,..aa,.thQugii. her,.> 
 
 kneeling at hbr-feet. .'Kaimeless.'obseryes.ftU: 
 these \\'rth an : especial' interest. . !AiS,.fQf ;,the 
 rest,' 'th(3re - is a • Pope sharing ati orange • \Vjith 
 a d^inctng-^giTl',-a ^Kmight . halvihg ja bunolx oXi 
 grapes with a houri, a Cardinal taking. w.ine. 
 with- -a Quakeress:;; and: the- .saiatlyiAbb.Qsg, 
 yonde-r,- is teaching' the- gra^-y^e .Haroun, Aiiasr, 
 chid -how tOfieitia '^philojKODai!:?^.:i 
 
 Truly, -niy life -.is ..one .of adiVfintjur^I.^^ 
 mftttered • Kamelessy • observiing ; :the . .fantastic. 
 Last nisht 
 
 pi-Qud-.^prnt^ Ayas.cQwe^ .by the f^f-oc.ious de- ..^ 
 termination of his manner. V 
 ' ."-JHe :shali._ »ot : leave tl)is ,housg say^^ £13 
 yo^r. .husband,; ; :Yoii say that he. ,is^ fascinated, . ., 
 with .yo.u,.,an4.}fou^at:£Fst" sight, ^w^^^^ . 
 ^V•eiU., . ha$, s^yenty-ope .t^qijsand. dolr . 
 Jars.. now in., his pqs^Q^ion, (no matter ho>y 
 gainj^d),. a?i-d ^^,1^^^ Sp^h of -.I^ec^mber^ 
 is, -tOrplp^r.o.WtJX^??.V?M^.^i^^^•^?^ , hecome the 
 
 scene. " i^ast nignt, arrested. .a« a. thief,-rr3-;l possessor of .^he jVan.Huyden estate, a richer ,, 
 fevV:fijghisisiiK:e-'the tejQivn-t iof a mad--h^^^ than Girard^and. Astor together; siy,^ 
 
 and to-night in asGene.lik-e this.l /s Tcnift.or- 
 roW-nvghti^ta/iaj^and t*i7i€ref ? .-, ■• 
 "To-inoOTow night t ; r.;.-.-J'..,i-. / <■..', ■ 
 Meanwhile, in a dark recess^ .wh^- mirror 
 sc&rcfe -Heiflected' a isihgle.'ray , .Fraiifc, .tr^mblipg 
 arid^iagitated,--:sto(D<L faca to face , witslfi; th$ 
 Count. ■ 1 ' His- tinafc'k 'Wasi -laid ^sitie; ; in rthe 
 diiri^ Mgbfc 'sh6- savp:-iiisifacei stamped-. with: -xpi 
 
 UHttSUal etiefgy^ V ,.c.,. I ;-..-.ov,c ;•..?•! 
 
 i «. Yoti-' '■ wish' to sfieak, to- fine ?> 'h she gaid* . i 
 All' ■hom*'',fig^ 'L-caniQ 'to: this housfe,-^eu« 
 t^ri^^ your chamber UMsiummoned, : and tO; -my 
 uttef sirT'i)rf'3e foii«d this :youfflgtmjyni :thexQ< ..i 
 overheard' 'th-6 Jiledge^ which- yba.> e:5sehaBged,;. 
 afld ■ Tio^ -fet -tis-'hfitcJ a* fair i ujidersitandimgi; 
 H-a&' h^"pTOtrtisfe'(l,^h as > h^e^^pl igh-fcerd : his word:.?- 
 Ilitr^' yoli' aoce^red^him- '4.^Iiiis Ispoke^tbe; 
 Ckfvttii, "in'aAoW-'vbi^eV-'-"' ihI 
 
 ' ' " lie ' ha<s, • father, t^eipiied iFrank: ;•. and; X 
 have accepted him." ; 'ii"-: '.'ii 
 
 ^•'**-W5i^n~:arldl'Wl1^r^? 'disked-. th»' GouDt, 
 oF'Goli-Tkrlki5n,"as<'yOu pi-ease^h in..; .•.;r'/-! 
 
 ^" As sobtt-a9*I' leave' thisi^plaq^,. -and amrthei: 
 t^iiarit ^f - a- AtMnc;'''repiisdi Enank- hea'.yo'w^: 
 mikWYn^ '<ml;th^ii ,wdrd; so;ija«%vuto ^iajern^' 
 '^Juyine!'' .-mo.-.vjVw.; 
 
 -'?'©iiti^lkerp" feaid -l^Aiil*lscrn,i a«d .h^ 
 was •d'e«p"^and-'' hu9kyji'iii^i'Cating vpowerfiui 
 eiTiO^tixM^, -^'t hflv« afe^W'. 'rt^rd& tO'Say .io-yQti,;.] 
 wili d'o'W^ll'io'.heed' thfefc. .iTli;e;:dramfti 
 
 .ten. Astoj-s^and. Gi^^ . ^9? 9l" that-.. As f 
 
 hig ; wife, -.ypur .ppsitiop . will be that , .of a 
 .queen ; and as for.myself,,! >vi 11 sacrifice, vaj/.^ 
 ..hopes as the brother pf the^ testatpr^ ip order 
 to.behpld;you th.e. queerily wife pf .that ies- 
 itator^ Bpn.. Yqii,|iear .ine-..? ■'. . ,.| 
 . f,'.,I dp,',' .gasped F^apk; ...... 
 
 •;",B.iii.t4here; n'^ust; be no mistake,^ ipark,.you,:.j 
 ;n9; ,'.sljp,; betw.eea the. cu,p and the lip, 'the 
 time is too. :riear., to.tru^t, /this.-niatte^ the,, 
 remotest •; choice.. ; pf , failu^e._ ^. ..He - must ; be 
 iypi(Xi;<ht^sband.;^re.)]o-l«ayes,t^^ hpuse, o.r,j-ri" 
 . ',A\Ot-Sr fal^r^d.l'rjvi;^,, ''1,/// "' ? 
 
 • ,V| Pri-rrm ark..y .pu,. • I- dp . np t. .threaten .but . I. 
 ; ai^ , ,§p^akiBg Fa^e,r-:rpr, >v^l . T^ot '.fl^j>ecir,^ 
 op,1h.P:29fch.<?f-,i??ec>ejiiibqYi"^ ,...,.1 
 
 H.e ^■Q.t,/ij?£^(?r / ..^V l^at iPi^^P-. IP*?, j 
 her voice suddenly changed ; she laid tli^r. ,. 
 hftthd-ugion-.iiisjsliQuli^er... J\I)^ ypu ynes,n.to 
 sayutha|^!y.ou...wiU,7^i^r(Z«r hjip, ;dear fath.9r|?!',/ 
 "He will not appear,! said,, ^^nd. say, it: . 
 again^'f ■ ibe I regynjk j3dj.; in; tlip.^apap. 4,ei e^mijpi^d 
 v.OApe j::*:';an(|...the j.iiherj-tapqe of;;U^is..i,ncre^ij':r 
 bliC 0&tat§ ..-Ny ill , ifa).l, ^ pi ther, ^tp .t^ e se.yeq,, .pr, to, . 
 m;^^^lf,.;t.l;iie Wtl^ftT, .^T,^^^ .,y,p_i^,..^listen;p^, * 
 
 ;. .'AJvyWi lirpt#er,2,«' ;.e,?ho.e4 .F^an^^ 
 amazed. . > - . 
 
 w:^^X9ftl.-;twi-ii,,l^fPithe^,,,.,TJ^Q. .ti^m.e_;s _sJ^ort, 
 and we must put what »;^. have, tp sa^jin the^^ 
 
 of 'tX^I-cfttty^One'Veaps-d^aW to-^a- claie.; uThei fev^^^tl worc^,': ^Xsi^iMBPF^^^- : 7iiS^?'.::^«^* 
 tgi^inatioH'-<>t''1the-fiffeK acb^ilird'eeidelBay/] brp^,h6rriC^l^lW..o^ u.:;' if iwv • , 
 
 fatfe' and •ysurs: ■■*:-T?his'&o|/ is.!now;alF6o6t:thjft* 
 dttl^robstadie-botweci^! n^yselfi-an^ .'na-ycbw^lh'-; 
 <jjtfg'^b©iiu(3ied' J^ealtblj-and ibeiwedn/^f oiu, ao^ , 
 
 ^■U-doiy^u ^ ^ ^ 
 
 v,t;Hje;.Tvaa,;n9t-^.y;pi\yir9the.^^^ alth,ough jou^ 
 \y:«i»;al,yy^y3,tawiht,,^;/eg^ :fev,^^JV:ffer 
 
FROM MIDNIGHT UNTIL DAWN. 
 
 He was the twin brother of the boy who 
 now leans against yonder pillar. On the 
 night of his birth (wishing to destroy every 
 obstacle between myself and my brother's 
 • estate), I stole him from his mother's arms. 
 But when I learned the details of my broth- 
 er's singular will, I resolved to rear him as 
 my own, and keep him in reserve until the 
 25th of December, 1844, when thoroughly 
 under my influence, and yet backed by un- 
 deniable proofs of his paternity, he would 
 appear and claim his father's estate. It was 
 not until 1832, that I learned that he had a 
 twin brother in existence ; you know what 
 pains I took to sweep all proof of his exist- 
 ence from the memory of man ; and it was 
 only last night that I learned that this twin 
 brother (now standing by yonder pillar), was 
 still in being. Now, Frank, is the case 
 clear ? The one whom you were taught to 
 call your brother Gulian, and to regard as 
 lost, is neither your brother nor is he lost. 
 He is living, and at my will, on the 25th of 
 December, 1844, — to-morrow, — will appear 
 in place of yonder youth, unless the mar- 
 riage takes place at once." 
 
 Frank was utterly confounded. Well she 
 remembered the revelation which Nameless 
 made while in the clairvoyant state ; that 
 his mother had given birth to two children, 
 one of whom had been secreted by the father, 
 the other stolen by the uncle, but that the 
 lost boy, whom she had been taught to 
 regard as her brother Gulian, was one of 
 these twins, was the brother of Nameless, — 
 this was indeed a revelation, an overwhelm- 
 ing surprise. For a moment she was silent ; 
 her brain throbbed painfully. 
 
 "But how am I to believe this story ?" 
 "You can disbelieve it, if you like," re- 
 sponded her father drily, " and risk the con- 
 sequences — " 
 
 "But will not the marriage be as cer- 
 tain to-morrow, the day after, nay a week 
 hence, — " she faltered. 
 
 "Girl! you will drive me mad, — " he 
 ^ clatched her by the wrist: — "nothing is 
 certain that is not accomplished — " 
 
 She felt the blood mount to her cheek, 
 I and her heart swell in her breast : 
 
 "Have you no shame?" she said and 
 
 10 
 
 flung his hand from her wrist — "Do you 
 forget what you have made me ? How can 
 I, knowing what I am, what you have made 
 me, urge him to hasten this marriage ? Have 
 you no shame ? ' Come, I am lost and 
 fallen,' shall I speak thus to him, ' I was 
 sold into shame by my parents, when only 
 fourteen years old. But you must marry 
 me ; to-night ; at once ; my father says so ; 
 he knows best ; he sold me ; and wants 
 your fortune !' do you wish me to speak thus 
 to him, father dear ?" 
 
 It was now his turn to tremble. The 
 proud spirit of her mother, (before he had 
 degraded that mother,) spoke again in the 
 tone, in the look of her daughter. He bit 
 his lip, and ground his teeth. 
 
 "Frank, Frank, pity me, — I am despe- 
 rate, but it is for your sake '." he cried, chang- 
 ing his method of attack — " Spare me the 
 commission of a new crime, — spare me ! I 
 do not threaten, I entreat." 
 
 Wringing her hands within his own, he 
 dragged her deeper into the shadows of the 
 recess. 
 
 "Behold me at your feet;" he fell upon 
 his knees ; " the father on his knees at his 
 daughter's feet ; the father already steeped 
 in crime, beseeches that daughter to save 
 him from the commission of a new crime ; 
 to save him by simply pursuing her own 
 happiness.'^ 
 
 Frank was fearfully agitated ; she drew 
 her father to his right. "W^hen do you 
 wish the marriage to take place ?" she said 
 in a faltering tone. 
 
 "At once, — for your sake, — " 
 
 " But the clergyman, — " 
 
 "Dr. Bulgin is here. If you consent I 
 will summon him to your chamber. The 
 ceremony will take place there. 
 
 " AVait," she whispered ; " I will see him. 
 If I drop my 'kerchief, or take the cross 
 from his neck all is right." 
 
 She glided from her father's side, ana 
 passing along the hall, among the maskers, 
 soon stood by the side of Nameless once 
 more. 
 
 Tarleton watched her as she went; watched 
 her as she confronted Nameless ; and while 
 her back was toward him, endeavored, even 
 through the distance, to mark the result of 
 her mission,, from the changes of the coim- 
 
152 
 
 IN THE TEMPLE. 
 
 tenance of Nameless. Tarleton's form was 
 concealed by the hangings of the recess, but 
 his face, projecting from its shadow, was 
 touched with faint light ; light that only 
 rendered more haggard and livid, its already 
 haggard and livid lineaments. How earnest- 
 ly he watched for the anticipated sign ! It 
 was not made. He clutched the hangings 
 with both hands. 
 
 It had been a busy night with him. He 
 had taken Ninety-One to the rooms of 3'oung 
 Evelyn Somers, and placed the convict in 
 one room, while the dead body of his own 
 victim, rested in the other ; thence he had 
 passed to the library of Somers, the father, 
 and held a pleasant chat with him ; and 
 from thence to the counting-room of Israel 
 Yorke, where he had set Blossom on the 
 track of Ninety-One. And from the coun- 
 ting-room of Israel Yorke, (after a deed or 
 two which may hereafter be explained) he had 
 repaired once more to the house of the mer- 
 chant prince, in time to find Ninety-One ac- 
 cused of the murder of young Evelyn Somers. 
 He had rushed to the room of Ninety-One, 
 determined to avenge the murder of his 
 friend, and to his great astonishment, found 
 that Ninety-One had escaped by a secret 
 door. Of course, the gallant Colonel knew 
 nothing of that door ! Then he had witness- 
 ed the death scene of the merchant-prince, 
 and after threatening the boy, Gulian, he had 
 returned to the Temple, brooding all sorts 
 of schemes, big with all kinds of elaborate 
 deviltry ; and had discovered, to his real 
 surprise. Nameless in his daughter's chamber ! 
 Discovered that Frank was in love with 
 Nameless, and Nameless fascinated by Frank. 
 A busy night, gallant Colonel ! Well may 
 you clutch the hangings with both hands, 
 and watch for the falling of the 'kerchief, 
 or the lifting of the cross ! 
 
 *' They are talking, — talking, — zounds ! 
 Why does she not give the sign ? That 
 sign given and all my difficulties are at an 
 end ! The seven heirs, Martin F aimer, the 
 estate, all are in my power 1" 
 
 As these words escaped the Colonel's lips, 
 two figures approached : one a knight in 
 blue armor, (something like unto the stage 
 image of the Ghost of Hamlet's father,) and 
 the other in buff waistcoat, wide-skirted 
 coat, ruffles, cocked hat, and buckskin small 
 
 clothes, — supposed altogether to resemble a 
 gentleman of the old school. The blue 
 knight and the gentleman of the old school 
 were moderately inebriated : even to a sinu- 
 ousness of gait, and a tremulousness of the 
 knees. 
 
 " I say Colonel, wliat — what news ?" hic- 
 cupped the knight. 
 
 "Yes, yes," remarked the gentleman of 
 the old school, with a bold attempt at origi- 
 nality of thought, " what neivs ?" 
 
 " Pop ! — " the Colonel looked at the 
 knight, — " Pills 1" he surveyed the gentle- 
 man of the old school; "I've sad news for 
 you. Passing by the house of old Mr. 
 Somers, an hour or tAvo ago, I discovered 
 j that his son had been murdered in his room, 
 I you mark me, by an escaped convict, who 
 I was found concealed on the premises. Sad' 
 ! news, boys !" 
 
 " Extraordinary !" cried Pop and Pill ia a 
 breath. And the two drew near the princi- 
 pal and conversed at leisure with him ; the 
 Colonel all the while watching for the sign ! 
 
 Frank and Nameless ! 
 
 She found him leaning against the central 
 pillar, his arms folded on his breast, his 
 large gray eyes (for the mask had fallen 
 from his face,) roving thoughtfully around 
 the hall. How changed that face ! The 
 cheeks, no longer sallow, are flushed with 
 hope ; the lips, no longer colorless and drop- 
 ped apart in vacant apathy, are firmly set 
 together ; the broad forehead, still white 
 and massive, is stamped with thought ; the 
 thought which, no longer dismayed by the 
 bitter past, looks forward, with a clear vision 
 to the battles of the future. The events of 
 the night had given new life to Nameless. 
 
 She caught his gaze, — and at once en- 
 chained it. His eye derived new fire from 
 her look, but was chained to that look. 
 
 " It was my father who wished to speak 
 with me, Gulian," she said, and watched 
 each lineament of his countenance. 
 
 " Your father ?" he echoed, 
 
 "My father, who has worked you so 
 much wrong, — who has worked such bitter 
 wrong to me, — and who this very night, 
 while brooding schemes for your ruin, 
 entered my chamber, and found you in my 
 arms, and heard the solemn pledge which we 
 exchanged." 
 
FROM MIDNIGHT UNTIL DAWN. 
 
 " Well, Frank," he interupted, gazing anx- 
 iously into her face. 
 
 "He confesses that our,— our marriage, 
 will more than exceed his wildest hope. 
 That the very thought of it, makes him 
 feel bitter remorse for the past, and levels 
 every evil thought, as regards the future. 
 But—" 
 
 She paused and took his hands in hers, 
 and bent her face nearer to him, until her 
 burning gaze, riveted every power of his 
 soul. 
 
 *' But he is afraid that you will hereafter 
 regret your pledge of marriage." 
 "Frank!" 
 
 " That you, as the possessor of incredible 
 wealth, will look back with wonder, with 
 contempt upon the hour, when you plighted 
 your faith to one like me !" 
 
 "One like you! Frank, Frank, do you 
 think thus 
 
 "That once secure in your possessions, 
 you will regard as worse than idle words, a 
 promise made to the daughter of your 
 enemy, — to a woman, whose life has been — 
 spare me — " 
 
 She buried her head upon his breast ; he 
 drew her to him and felt the beating of her 
 heart. 
 
 " Oh, Frank, can you think thus meanly of 
 me ?" he cried, completely carried away by 
 her wild beauty, her agitation, her tears. 
 "My promise once made cannot be taken 
 back. I know what I promise ; I know the 
 future. I have risen from the grave of my 
 past life ; you, too, shall rise from the grave 
 of your past life. We will begin life anew. 
 "We will walk the -^oxl^ together [ Oh, 
 "wtould that this hour, this moment, I could 
 make my compact good, bej^ond all chance 
 of change, all danger of repeal !" 
 
 " Do you really wish thus, Gulian ?" She 
 raised her face, and her soul was in her eyes. 
 " Is that the deepest wish of your heart ?" 
 
 "Frank, I swear it !" 
 
 She took the white cross from his neck, — 
 held it for a moment over her head ; it 
 glittered brightly in the light ; and then she 
 wound the chain about her own neck, and 
 the white cross glittered on her proud 
 bosom. 
 
 "Take this in exchange" — she took the 
 golden cross from her breast, and wound its 
 
 153 
 
 chain about his neck ; the cross glitters over 
 his heart — " in witness of our mutual pledge. 
 And Gulian, — " there was a look — an ex- 
 tended hand — " Come !" 
 
 She led him from the light into the 
 shadows, and — while his every pulse 
 bounded as with a new life — from the hall. 
 
 And, as they passed from the hall, Leo 
 the Tenth, clad in his cardinal attire, led his 
 young nephew lovingly among the shadows 
 of the vast apartment, — now pausing to 
 refresh himself with sparkling Heidsick, and 
 now twining his arm about the nephew's 
 waist, trying to soothe her mind upon some 
 doctrinal point : 
 
 "Dearest Julia," he whispered, as they 
 paused for a moment in the shadow of a 
 pillar. 
 
 " Dearest Doctor," she responded — that is, 
 the nephew, clad in blue frock-coat and 
 trowsers ; " you don't think that my husband 
 ever will — " 
 
 The sentence was interrupted. A grave hi- 
 dalgo, attired in black velvet, richly embroi- 
 dered with gold, confronted the Doctor, 
 otherwise Leo the Tenth, and whispered 
 earnestly in his ear. 
 
 " Impossible !" responded Leo the Tenth, 
 shaking his head. "Impossible, my dear 
 Tarleton!" 
 
 " It mmt be," answered the hidalgo, em- 
 phatically. "A quiet room up stairs, and 
 no one present save myself, the bridegroom 
 and the bride." 
 
 "But my name will appear on the certifi- 
 cate," hesitated the Doctor, " and questions 
 may be asked as to the place in which this 
 marriage was celebrated, and hmo I came to 
 be there." 
 
 " Pshaw ! You are strangely scrupulous," 
 returned the hidalgo. " I tell you, Doctor, 
 it is a matter of the last importance, and 
 cannot be put off. Then you can celebrate 
 the marriage a second time, in another place^ 
 and — " he whispered a few emphatic words 
 in the Doctor's ear. 
 
 Leo the Tenth was troubled, but he saw 
 no way of escape. 
 
 " Well, well, be it so, Tarleton ; you are 
 an odd sort of fellow. Julia, dear," — this, 
 aside to his nephew ; " wait for me in the 
 Scarlet Chamber, up stairs, you know?" The 
 nephew whispered her assent. "I'll join 
 
154 IN THE 
 
 you presently. Now Count," — this to Tarle- 
 ton, — "lead the way, and let us celebrate 
 these mysterious nuptials." 
 
 And the three left the Central Hall 
 together. Tarleton and the Doctor, on their 
 way to the Bridal Chamber, and the nephew 
 on her way to the Scarlet Chamber. 
 
 Near the central pillar stood the White 
 Monk, with the hands of the White Nun 
 resting on his shoulders, and his arms about 
 her waist. Her hood has fallen ; her coun- 
 tenance, flushed and glowing, lies open to 
 his gaze. A beautiful nun, with blue eyes, 
 swimming in fiery light, and unbound hair, 
 bright as gold, sweeping a cheek like a rose- 
 bud, and resting upon neck and shoulders 
 white as snow. And the White Monk bends 
 down, and their lips meet, and she falls, half 
 passionately, half shuddering, on his breast. 
 
 " Oh, Beverly, Beverly ! whither would 
 you lead me ?" He scarce can distinguish 
 the words, so faint, so broken by agitation is 
 her voice. 
 
 " Your husband is false. He has trampled 
 upon your love. I love you, and will avenge 
 you. Come, Joanna !" 
 
 And from the light into the shadow, with 
 the trembling nun half resting on his arm, 
 half reposing on his breast, passes the White 
 Monk. They reach the threshold of the 
 hall. Pass it not, Joanna, as you love your 
 child ! pass it not, on peril of your soul ! 
 But no ! " Come, J oanna !" and they are 
 gone together. 
 
 From the throng of maskers who glide to 
 and fro, select, for a moment, the lady in 
 black, who stands gloomily yonder, gather- 
 ing the folds of her robe about her face. 
 Does this scene attract, or repel her ? 
 Within that shapeless robe, does her bosom 
 swell with pleasure — voluptuous pleasure? or 
 does it contract with terror and loathing ? 
 
 Her Turkish friend,— the diminutive gen- 
 tleman in the red jacket, spangled all over, 
 blue trowsers and red morocco boots,— in 
 vain offers her a glass of sparkling cham- 
 pagne ; and just as vainly essays to draw 
 her forth in conversation. At last, he seems 
 to weary of her continued silence : 
 
 " If you will favor me with your company 
 for a few moments, I will explain the pur- 
 pose which impelled me to request an inter- 
 view at this place." 
 
 TEMPLE. 
 
 " Let it be at once, then," is the whispered 
 reply. 
 
 He offers his arm ; she quietly but firmly 
 pushes it aside. 
 
 " I will follow you," she says in her low- 
 toned voice. 
 
 And the Turk leaves the hall, followed 
 by the Lady in Black. 
 
 " The Blue Chamber !" he ejaculates, as 
 he crosses the threshold. 
 
 Look again among the throng of guests. 
 The stately Roderick Borgia stands yonder, 
 his massive form reflected in a mirror, and 
 the white robed Lucretia resting on his arm. 
 They are masked ; you cannot see the 
 voluptuous loveliness of her face, nor the 
 somber passion of his bronzed visage. But 
 his brow, — that vast forehead, big with 
 swollen veins, — is visible ; and the mirror 
 reflects her spotless neck and shoulders, and 
 the single lily set among the meshes of her 
 raven hair. It is a fine picture ; the majestic 
 Borgia, clad in purple, the enticing Lucretia 
 robed in snowy white : never before did 
 mirror reflect a more striking contrast. You 
 hear his voice — that voice whose organ-like 
 depth stirs the blood : 
 
 "A career, beautiful lady, now opens 
 before you, such as the proudest queen might 
 envy — " 
 
 And he attempts to take her soft, white 
 hand within his own. But she gently with- 
 draws it from his grasp. Lucretia, it seems, 
 is timid, or — artful. 
 
 " Yes, we will revive the day, when intel- 
 lect and beauty, embodied in a woman's 
 form, ruled the world." How his deep voice 
 adds force to his words. " Yes, yes ; you 
 shall be my Queen — mine ! But come ; I 
 have that to say to you, which will have a 
 vital bearing upon your fate." 
 
 " And my brother ?" whispers Lucretia. 
 
 "And also the fate of your brother," 
 responds Roderick Borgia. " Come with 
 me to the Golden Room." 
 
 " To the Golden Room be it then !" 
 
 And Lucretia leans on the arm of Borgia 
 and goes with him from the Hall to the 
 Golden Room : his broad chest swelling 
 with the anticipation of triumph, — and her 
 right hand resting upon the hilt of the 
 poniard which is inserted in the scarf that 
 binds her waist. 
 
FROM MIDNIGHT UNTIL DAWN. 
 
 155 
 
 Ere we follow the guests who have left 
 Ihe hall, and trace their various fortunes, let 
 us cast a momentary glance upon those who 
 remain. 
 
 The Caliph Haroun Alraschid sits by 
 yonder table, sipping champagne from a 
 long-necked glass, which now and then is 
 pressed by the lips of his fair abbess. The 
 caliph has evidently been refreshing himself 
 too bountifully with the wines of the Giaour; 
 his mask falls aside, and beneath his turban, 
 instead of the grave oriental features of the 
 magnificent sultan, you discern the puflfy face 
 and carbuncled nose of a Wall street broker. 
 
 A little beyond the caliph, a pope has 
 fallen to sleep on yonder sofa, the triple 
 crown resting neglected at his feet, and his 
 pontifical robes soiled with the stains of 
 wine. The cardinal and his Quakeress are 
 trying the steps of the last waltz. The 
 christian knight and his houri, stand by the 
 table, near the pillar, — discussing the merits 
 [of Mahomet's paradise ? No ! But the 
 remains of a cold boiled fowl. And then, 
 in the shadows of the pillars, and in front 
 iof the lofty mirrors, still glided to and fro 
 the contrasted train of monks and nuns, 
 knights and houris, cardinals and Quaker- 
 esses, popes and dancing girls. All were 
 masked — still masked : for there were faces 
 |in that hall which you may have often seen 
 in the dress circle of the opera, or in the 
 dress pews of the fashionable church. Re- 
 move those masks? Never ! not as you value 
 the peace of a hundred families, the reputa- 
 tion of some of our most exclusive fashion- 
 ables, the repose of " good society." 
 ' Thus the maskers glide along ; the music 
 strikes up in an adjoining hall — the dance 
 begins — the orgie deepens, — and, — 
 Iiet the curtain fall. 
 
 ilM 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE BLUE ROOM. 
 
 The diminutive Turk, followed by the 
 jLady in Black, led the w^ay from the hall, 
 io a distant and secluded apartment. She 
 still gathered the hood of her robe closely 
 iibout her face, and not a word was spoken 
 IS they pursued their way along the dark 
 passage. A door was opened, and they 
 entered a small although luxurious apart- 
 pient, hung with hangings of azure, veined 
 
 with golden flowers. A wax candle, placed 
 in its massive candlestick, on a table before 
 a mirror, gave light to the place. It was a 
 silent, cozy, and luxurious nook of the Tem- 
 ple, remote from the hall, and secure from 
 all danger of interruption. 
 
 As the Turk entered he flung aside hlg 
 mask and turban, and disclosed the ferret 
 eyes, bald head and wiry whiskers of Israel 
 Yorkc. Israel's bald head was fringed with 
 white hairs ; his wiry whiskers touched with 
 gray ; it was a strange contrast between his 
 practical bank-note face, and his oriental cos- 
 tume. 
 
 " Now," he cried, flinging himself into a 
 chair, " let us come to some understanding. 
 What in the deuce do you mean ? " 
 
 " What do I mean ? " echoed the Lady in 
 Black, who, seated on the sofa, held the folds 
 of the robe across her face. 
 
 " Yes, what do you mean ? " replied Israel, 
 giving his Turkish jacket a petulant twitch. 
 " Did I not help you out of that difficulty in' 
 Canal street, last evening, and rescue you 
 from the impertinence of the shop-keeper ? 
 
 " Yes," briefly responded the lady. 
 
 " Did I not, seeing your forlorn and deso- 
 late condition, pin a note to your shawl, 
 signed with my own name, asking you to 
 meet me at this place, at twelve o'clock, 
 * whej-e,' so I said, * my worthy and unpro- 
 tected friend, now so bravely endeavoring to 
 get bread for an afflicted father, you will hear 
 of something greatly to your advantage.* 
 Those were my w-ords, 'greatly to your ad- 
 vantage ' " 
 
 " Those were the words," echoed the lady, 
 still preserving her motionless attitude. 
 
 " And in the note I inclosed the pass- word 
 by which only admittance can be gained to 
 this mansion ? " 
 
 " You did. I used it; entered the mansion 
 and met you." Her voice was scarcely au- 
 ble and very tremulous. 
 
 " You met me, oh, indeed you met me," 
 said Israel, pulling his gray whiskers ; " but 
 what of that? An hour and more has 
 passed. You have refused even a glass of 
 wine, — have never replied one word to all 
 my propositions ; egad ! I have not even seen 
 , your face." 
 
 I " And now you have brought me to this 
 ; lonely apartment to repeat your proposals ? " 
 
156 
 
 IN THE TEMPLE. 
 
 " Yes ! " Israel picked up his turban and 
 twirled it round on the end of his finger. 
 " I want a plain answer, yes, or no ! I am a 
 plain man, — a man of business. You are 
 poor, almost starving (pardon me if I pain 
 you), and you have an aged and helpless 
 father on your hands. You have nothing to 
 look forward to, but starvation, or, the streets. 
 You remember the scene in the shirt-store 
 to-night?" 
 
 The lady gently bowed her head, and 
 raised both hands to her face. 
 
 " I am rich, benevolent, always had a good 
 heart," — another twirl o'f the turban, — " and 
 in a day or two I am about to sail for Ha- 
 vana. Accompany me ! Your father shall 
 be settled comfortably ; the sea-breezes will 
 do you good, and, — and, — the climate is de- 
 licious." And the fervent Turk stroked his 
 bald head, and smoothed his white hairs. 
 
 " Accompany you," said the lady, slowly ; 
 "in what capacity? As a daughter, per- 
 chance ? " 
 
 "Not ex-act-ly. as a daugh-t-e-r," res- 
 ponded Israel ; " but as a companion." 
 
 There was a pause, and the robe was 
 gently removed from the head and face of 
 the Lady in Black. A beautiful countenance, 
 shaded by dark brown hair, was disclosed ; 
 young and beautiful, although there was the 
 shadow of sorrow on the cheeks, and traces 
 of tears in the eyes. An expression inex- 
 pressibly sad and touching came over that 
 face, as she said, in a voice which was musi- 
 cal in its very tremor, — 
 
 " And you, sir, knew my father in better j 
 days?" 
 
 "I did." 
 
 "You never knew any one of his race 
 guilty of a dishonorable act?" 
 "Never did." 
 
 " And now you find him aged and help- 
 less, — find myself, his only hope, reduced 
 to the last extreme of poverty, with no pros- 
 pect but (your own words), starvation, or the 
 streets, — " 
 
 "Ay." Israel, beneath his spectacles, 
 seemed to cast an admiring glance at his 
 Turkish trowsers and red morocco boots. 
 
 " And in this hour, you, an old friend of 
 the family, who have never known one of 
 our name guilty of an act of dishonor, come 
 to me, and seeing my father's affliction, and 
 
 my perfectly helpless condition, gravely pro- 
 pose that I shall escape dishonor by becom- 
 ing your — mistress ! That is your proposi- 
 tion, sir." 
 
 She rose and placed her hand firmly or 
 Israel's shoulder, and looked him fixedly ir 
 the eye. The little man was thunderstruck, 
 Her flashing eyes, her bosom heaving proudlj 
 under its faded covering, the proud curl of 
 her lip, and the firm pressure of the hand i 
 which rested on his shoulder, took the Fi- 
 nancier completely by surprise. 
 
 " I am scarce sixteen years old," she con- 
 tinued, her eyes growing larger and brighter, 
 " my childhood was passed Avithout a care, 
 But in the last two years I have gone 
 through trials that madden me now to thinlt 
 upon ; trials that the aged and experienced 
 are rarely called upon to encounter ; but ii 
 the darkest hour, I have never forgotter 
 these words, ' Trust in God ;' never for ar 
 instant believed that God would ever leave ; 
 me to become the prey of a man like you • 
 And she pressed his shoulder, until th<' 
 little man shook again, his gold spectacles 
 rattling on his nose. 
 
 "For, do you mark me, the very triahi 
 that have well-nigh driven me mad, hav< 
 also given me strength and courage, may be, 
 the strength, the courage of despair, bui 
 still the courage, when the last hope fails, tc 
 choose death before dishonor ! " 
 "But your father," faltered Israel. 
 "My father is without bread ; but once ir' 
 twenty- four hours have I tasted food, and' 
 j that a miserable morsel ; but rather than ac- 
 cept your proposals, and lie down witl! 
 shame, I would put the poison vial first tc' 
 my father's lips, then to my own ! Yes,' 
 Israel Yorke, there is a God, and He, in thif 
 house, when the last hope has gone out 
 when there is nothing but death before, 
 gives me strength to spit upon your infa- 
 mous proposals, and to die ! Strength such 
 as you will never feel in your death-hour ! " 
 
 " Pretty talk, pretty talk," faltered Israel ; 
 " but what does it amount to ? Talk on, 
 still the fact remains ; you and your fathei 
 are starving, and you reject the offer of the 
 only one who can relieve you." 
 
 She raised her eyes to heaven. She folded 
 her hands upon her heaving breast. Hei 
 face was unnatiu-ally pallid ; her eyes unnat- 1 
 
FROM MIDNIGHT UNTIL DAWN. 
 
 157 
 
 urally bright. As she stood, in an attitude 
 BO calm and severe, she was vvondrously 
 •beautiful. Her voice was marked with sin- 
 gular elation, — 
 
 "0, my God ! there must be a hell," she 
 <aid. " There must be a place where the 
 injustice of this world is made straight ; else 
 why does this man sit here, clad in ill-gotten 
 and superfluous wealth, while my aged 
 father, one of his victims, lacks at this hour 
 even a crust of bread ? " 
 
 Israel's feelings can only be described by 
 a single word — " uncomfortable." He shifted 
 nervously in his chair, and twirled his tur- 
 ban on the end of his finger ; then rubbed 
 his bald head, smoothed his white hair, and 
 pulled his wiry whiskers. 
 
 " What in the devil did you come to see 
 me for, if such was your opinion of me ? " 
 
 " I came to see you as a last hope ; " her 
 countenance fell, and her tone was that of 
 unalloyed despair. " I thought that remorse 
 had been busy at your heart ; that you 
 wished to atone for the past by a just, al- 
 though tardy, restitution. I thought " 
 
 " Remorse ! restitution ! " laughed the Fi- 
 nancier. " Come, I like that ! " 
 
 " That knowing the utterly destitute con- 
 dition of the father, you had summoned the 
 daughter, in order to tender to her, at least, 
 a portion of the wealth which you wrung 
 from him " 
 
 Choked by emotion, she could not pro- 
 ceed, but grew pale and paler, until a flood 
 of tears came to her relief. 
 
 " 0, sir, a pittance, a pittance, to save my 
 father's life ! " She flung herself at his feet, 
 and clutched his knees. Her much-worn 
 bonnet fell back upon her neck, and her hair 
 burst its fastening, and descended in wavy 
 masses upon her shoulders. Her face was 
 flushed with sudden warmth ; her eyes shone 
 all the brighter for their tears. " A pittance 
 out of your immense wealth, to save the life 
 of your old friend, my father ! His daugh- 
 ter begs it at your feet." 
 
 Israel gazed at her deliberately through his 
 gold spectacles, — 
 
 "Oh, no, my dear," he said, and a sneer 
 curled his cold lip ; " you are too damnably 
 virtuous." 
 
 The maiden said no more. Relaxing her 
 grasp, she fell at his feet, and lay there, pale 
 
 and insensible, her long hair floating on the 
 carpet. The agony which she had endured 
 in the last twenty-four hours had reached its 
 climax. She was stretched like a dead wo- 
 man at the feet of the Financier. 
 
 " Trust in God, — good motto for a picture- 
 book ; but what good does it do you now 
 my dear?" thus soliloquized Israel, as he 
 knelt beside the insensible girl. " Don't dis- 
 count that kind o' paper in my bank that I 
 know of. Fine arm, that, and splendid 
 bust ! " He surveyed her maidenly, yet 
 rounded proportions. " If it was not for her 
 stubborn virtue, she would make a splendid 
 companion. Well, well, " 
 
 A vile thought worked its way through 
 every lineament of his face. 
 
 " Once in my power, all her scruples would 
 be at an end. We are alone," — he glanced 
 around the cozy apartment, — " and I think 
 I'll try the effect of an anodyne. Anodynes 
 are good for fainting spells, I believe." 
 
 He drew a slender vial from beneath his 
 Turkish jacket, and holding it between him- 
 self and the light, examined it steadily with 
 one eye. 
 
 "It is well I thought of it ! 'Twill revive 
 her, — make her gently delirious for a while, 
 and she will not come to herself completely 
 until to-morrow ; much surer than persua- 
 sion, and quicker ! Trust in God, — a-hem !** 
 
 He raised her head on his knee, and un- 
 corked the vial and held it to her lips. 
 
 At that moment there was a quick, rapid 
 knock at the door. It broke startlingly upon 
 the dead stillness. 
 
 " Why did I not lock it ? " cried Israel, 
 his hand paralyzed, even as it held the vial 
 to the poor girl's lips. 
 
 Too late ! The door opened, and one by 
 one, six sturdy men, in rough garments and 
 with faces by no means ominous of good, 
 stalked into the room. 
 
 And over the shoulders of the six, ap- 
 peared six other faces, all wearing that same 
 discouraging expression. It may not be im- 
 proper to state that every one of the twelve 
 carried in his right hand a piece of wood, 
 that deserved the name of a stick, perchance, 
 a club. 
 
 And shuffling over the floor, they encircled 
 Israel. " Got him," said one who appeared 
 to be the spokesman of the band, " safe and 
 
158 
 
 IN THE TEMPLE. 
 
 tight ! Had a hunt, but fetched him at last. 
 I say, Israel, my Turk, (a gentle hint with a 
 club), get up and redeem your paper ! " 
 
 And he held a bundle of bank notes, — 
 Chow Bunk, Muddy Run, Terrapin Hollow, 
 under the nose of the paralyzed Financier. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE GOLDEN ROOM. 
 
 Roderick Borgia leads Lucretia across 
 the threshold of the Golden Room. She 
 litters an ejaculation of wonder mingled with 
 terror. For it is a magnificent, and yet a 
 gloomy place that Golden Room. A large 
 square apartment, the walls concealed by 
 black hangings, — hangings of velvet fringed 
 with gold. The floor is covered with a dark 
 carpet, the ceiling represents a sun radiating 
 among sullen clouds. The chairs, the sofa, 
 are covered with black velvet, and framed 
 in gold. Only a single mirror is there, — op- 
 posite the sofa, reaching from the floor to 
 the ceiling, framed in ebony, which in its 
 turn is framed in a border of gold. A lamp, 
 whose light is softened by a clouded shade, 
 stands on an ebony table, between the sofa 
 and the mirror, and around the lamp are 
 clustered fruits and flowers, two long necked 
 glasses, and a bottle of Bohemian glass, 
 blue, veined with gold. A single picture, 
 suspended against the dark hangings, alone 
 relieves the sullen grandeur of the place. 
 It is of the size of life, and represents Lucre- 
 tia Borgia, her unbound hair waving darkly 
 over her white shoulders, and half bared 
 bosom, her eyes shooting their maddening 
 'glance, from the shadow of the long eyelashes, 
 her form clad in a white garment, edged 
 with scarlet, — a garment which, light and 
 airy, floats like a misty vail about her beau- 
 tiful shape. Coming from the darkness into 
 this scene, the masked Lucretia, as we have 
 said, could not repress an ejaculation, half 
 astonishment, half fear — 
 
 " Never fear," cries Roderick gayly, as he 
 flung his plumed cap on the table. " It ^ 
 looks gloomy enough, but then it is like the j 
 Golden Room in the Vatican, of which his- : 
 tory tells. "And then," — he pointed to the 
 picture, " the living Lucretia need not fear a ^ 
 comparison with the dead one. Remove j 
 your mask ! I am dying to look upon you." , 
 
 Lucretia sank upon the sofa with Roderick 
 by her side. Roderick unmasked and re- 
 vealed the somber features of Gabriel Godlike. 
 Lucretia dropped her mask, and the light 
 shone on the face of Esther Royalton. 
 
 " By heavens, you are beautiful !'■' — his 
 eyes streamed with singular intense light, 
 from the shadow of his projecting brow. 
 
 And she was beautiful. A faultless shape, 
 neck and shoulders white as snow, a counte- 
 nance framed in jet-black hair, the red 
 bloom of a passionate organization on lips 
 and cheeks, large eyes, whose intense light 
 was rather deepened than subdued by the 
 shadow of the long eyelashes. And then 
 the blush which coursed over her face and 
 neck, as she felt Godlike's burning gaze fixed 
 upon her, can be compared to nothing save a 
 sudden flash of morning sunlight, trembling 
 over frozen snow. One of those women, 
 altogether, whose organization embodies the 
 very intensity of intellect and passion, and 
 whose way in life lies along no middle 
 track, but either rises to the full sunlight, or 
 is lost in shadows and darkness. 
 
 " You consent, my child ?" Godlike 
 softened his organ-like voice, — took her hand 
 within his own — she did not give, nor did 
 she withdraw her hand, — "Randolph shall 
 go abroad, upon an honorable mission to a 
 foreign court, where he* will be treated as a 
 man, without regard to the taint (if thus it 
 may be called) in his blood. He will have 
 fair and free scope for the development of 
 his genius. And you, — " 
 
 He paused. She lifted her eyes to his 
 face, and met his burning glances, with a 
 searching and profound look. 
 
 "And myself, — " 
 
 "And you shall go with me to Washing- 
 ton, where your beauty shall command all 
 hearts, your intellect carve for yourself a 
 position, that a queen might envy." 
 
 She made no reply, but her eyes were 
 downcast, her beautiful forehead darkened 
 by a shade of thought. Was she measuring 
 the full force and meaning of his words ? 
 
 " In, — what — capacity — did — you — say ?'* 
 she asked at length in a faint voice. 
 
 "As my ward, — " responded Godlike; 
 " you will be known as my ward, the heiress 
 and daughter of a wealthy West Indian, who 
 at his death, intrusted your person and for- 
 

 
 FROM MIDNIGHT UNTIL DAWN. 
 
 159 
 
 ^ tune to my care. You will have your own 
 mansion, your pair of servants, carriage and 
 ^ BO-forth, — in fact, all the externals of a per- 
 ^ Bon of immense wealth. As my ward you 
 will enter the first circles of society. The 
 ^ I whole machinery of life at the Capital will 
 r be laid bare to your gaze, and with your 
 hand upon the spring which sets that ma- 
 I chinery in motion, you can command it to 
 J- your will. You will not live, you will 
 ; reign !" 
 
 "Tell me something," said Esther, in a 
 low voice, her bosom for a moment swelling 
 above the scarlet border of her robe, — " Tell 
 me something of life at the Capital, — life in 
 Washington City." 
 
 Godlike laughed until his broad chest 
 shook again, — a deep sardonic laugh. 
 
 "Poets have prated of the influence of 
 '1 woman, and most wildly ! But life in 
 iii Washington City distances the wildest dream 
 i of the poets. There woman is supreme, 
 i? Never was her influence so absolute before, 
 1 at any court, — neither at the court of Louis 
 the Great, nor that of George the Fourth, — 
 as at the plain republican court of Washing- 
 ; ton City. The simple people, afar off from 
 c Washington, think that it is the President, the 
 11. Heads of the Department, the Senators and 
 al i Kepresentatives, who make the laws and 
 3 wield the destinies of the republic. They 
 t think of great men sitting in council, by the 
 3 midnight lamp, their hearts heavy, their 
 eyes haggard with much watching over the 
 welfare of the nation. Bah ! when the real 
 j legislator is not a grave senator or solemn 
 1 minister of state, but some lovely woman, 
 armed only with a pair of bright eyes, and a 
 soft musical voice. The grave legislators of 
 the male gender, strut grandly in their robes 
 of office, before the scenes, — and that poor 
 dumb beast, the people, opens its big eyes, 
 and stares and struts ; but behind the scenes, 
 it is woman who pulls the wires, makes 
 the laws, and sets the nation going." He 
 paused and laughed again. " Why, my child, 
 I have known the gravest questions, in 
 which the very fate of the nation was in- 
 volved, decided upon, in senate or in cabinet, 
 after long days and nights of council and 
 
 debate, and, knocked to pieces in an 
 
 instant by the soft fingers of a pretty 
 woman. It is red tape, versus bright eyes in 
 
 I Washington City, and eyes always carry the 
 day." 
 
 "This is indeed a strange story you are 
 telling me," said Esther, her eyes still 
 downcast. 
 
 Godlike for a moment surveyed himself 
 in the mirror opposite, and laughed. 
 
 " I vow I had quite forgotten, that I was 
 arrayed in this singular costume, — scarlet 
 tunic, edged with ermine, and so-forth, — it 
 is something in the style of Borgia, and," 
 he added to himself, surveying the somber 
 visage and massive forehead, surmounted by 
 iron gray hair, — " not so bad looking for a 
 man of sixty ! You think it impossible ?" 
 he continued aloud, turning to Esther, who 
 had raised her hand thoughtfully to her 
 forehead, — " why my dear child, a man who 
 lives in Washington for any time, sees 
 strange things. I have seen a husband 
 purchase a mission by the gift of the person 
 of a beautiful wife ; I have seen a brother 
 mount to office over the ruins of his sister's 
 honor; I have seen a gray-haired father, 
 when all his claims for position proved 
 fruitless, place in the scale, the chastity of 
 an only and beautiful daughter — and wiru 
 
 By !" he drew down his dark brows, 
 
 until his eyes were scarcely visible, " How is 
 it possible to look upon mankind with any- 
 thing but contempt, — contempt and scorn !" 
 
 " But," and Esther raised her eyes to that 
 bronzed face, every lineament of which now 
 worked with a look of indescribable scorn, — 
 "you have genius, — the loftiest ! you tower 
 above the mass of men. You have influ- 
 ence, — an influence rarely given to any one 
 man ; it spans the continent ; why not use 
 your genius and influence to make men 
 better ?" 
 
 There was something in her tone, which 
 struck the heart of Godlike. The expression 
 of intense scorn was succeeded by a look of 
 sadness as intense. His brows rose, and his 
 eyes looked forth, large, clear and dreamy. 
 It was as though that dark countenance, 
 seamed by the wrinkles of long years of sin, 
 had been, for an instant, baptized with the 
 hope and freshness of youth. 
 
 "That was long ago; long ago; the dream of 
 making men better. I felt it once, — tried to 
 carry it into deeds. But the dream has long 
 since past. I awakened from it many years ago. 
 
160 IN THE 
 
 You see it is very pleasant to believe in the 
 innate goodness of human nature, but attempt 
 to carry it into action, and hark ! do you 
 not hear them, the very people, to whom 
 yesterday you sacrificed your soul ; hark ! 
 ^crucify him ! crucify him V " 
 
 He rose from the sofa, and the mirror re- 
 flected his majestic form, clad in the attire 
 of Koderick Borgia, and his dark visage, 
 stamped with genius on the giant forehead, 
 and buraing with the light of a giant soul in 
 the lurid eyes. He was strangely agitated. 
 His chest heaved beneath his masker's attire- 
 There was an absent, dreamy look in his up- 
 raised eyes. 
 
 " I used to think of it, and dream over it, 
 in my college days, — of that history in which 
 *Hosanna!' is shouted to-day, and palm 
 branches strewn ; and to-morrow, — ^the hall 
 of Pilate, the crown of thorns, the march up 
 Calvary, and the felon's cross ! I used, I 
 say, to think and dream over it in my col- 
 lege days. As I looked around the world 
 and surveyed history, and found the same 
 story everywhere : found that for bold im- 
 posture and giant humbug, in every age, the 
 world had riches, honor, fame, while in re- 
 turn, for any attempt to make it better, it 
 had the cry, ' crucify ! crucify !' it had the 
 scourge, the crown of thorns, and the felon's 
 cross." 
 
 His voice swelled bold and deep through 
 the silent room ; as he uttered the last word, 
 he raised his hand to his eyes, and for a 
 moment was buried in the depth of his 
 emotions. Esther, raising her eyes, regarded 
 with looks of mingled admiration and aw^e, 
 that forehead, upon w^hich the veins stood 
 forth bold and swollen, — the handwriting of 
 the inward thought. 
 
 " The devil is a very great fool," he said, 
 with a burst of laughter, " to give himself so 
 much trouble about a world which is not 
 worth the damning." And then turning to 
 Esther, he said bitterly : " Do you ask me 
 why I utterly despise mankind, and why I 
 have lost all faith in good ? In the course of 
 a long and somewhat tumultuous life, I have 
 found one thing true, — whenever from a 
 pure impulse, I have advocated a noble 
 thought, or done a good deed, I have been 
 hunted like a dog, and whenever from mere 
 egotism, I have defended a bad principle, or 
 
 ; TEMPLE. 
 
 achieved an infamous deed, I have been wot 
 shiped as a demigod. Yes, it is not for 
 one's bad deeds that we are blamed ; it is 
 for the good, that condemnation falls upon 
 us." 
 
 He strode to the table, and filled a glass 
 to the brim with blood-red Burgundy : *' My 
 beautiful Esther, your answer ! Which do 
 you choose ? On the one hand want and 
 persecution, on the other, position and 
 power, — yes, on the one hand the life of the 
 hunted pariah ; on the other, sway of an ab- 
 solute queen." 
 
 He drained the glass, without removing it 
 from his lips ; then advancing to the sofa, he 
 took her hands wdthin his own, and raised 
 her gently to her feet. 
 
 " Esther, it is time to make your choice," 
 he said, bending the force of his gaze upon that 
 beautiful countenance : " which will you be ? 
 Your brother's slave, hunted at every step, 
 and even doomed to be the pariah of the 
 social world, — or, will you be the ward of 
 Gabriel Godlike, the beautiful heiress of his 
 West Indian friend, the unrivaled queen of 
 life at the capital." 
 
 Esther felt his burning gaze, and said with 
 downcast eyes, — her voice very low and 
 faint — " And in return for this generous pro- 
 tection, what am I to give you ?" 
 
 " Can you ask, my child ?" he said, and 
 pressed her hand within his own. — "You 
 wall be my friend, my counselor, my com- 
 panion." 
 
 " Companion ?" 
 
 " Wearied with the toils of state, the wear 
 and tear of the world, — in your presence, I 
 will seek oblivion of the w^orld and its cares. 
 With you I will grow young again, and — 
 w'ho knows — but guided by you, I shall, 
 even at three-score, learn to hope in man ? 
 Your heart is fresh, your intellect clear and 
 vivid : I shall often seek your counsel in 
 affairs of state, for I have learned, that in nine 
 cases out of ten, it is better to rely upon the 
 intuitions of woman, than upon the careful 
 logic of the shrewdest man. In a word, 
 dear child, you will be my companion, — my 
 divinity" — 
 " Divinity ?" 
 
 "Yes, — divinity! Tradition says that 
 Lucretia Borgia was the most wondrously 
 beautiful woman of all her age ; and if 
 
11 
 
 FROM MIDNIGHT UNTIL DAWN. 
 
 yonder canvas does not flatter her, tradition 
 doea not lie. Now, you are living and more 
 beautiful than Lucretia Borgia, without her 
 crimes. Yes, more lovely than Lucretia, 
 and, — pure as heaven's own light." 
 " Pure as heaven's own light ?" 
 "You echo me, — and with a mocking 
 smile. Woman ! your beauty maddens me ! 
 I adore you !" His face was flushed with 
 passion, — his deep-set eyes flamed with a 
 fire that could not be mistaken, — his voice, at 
 other times deep as an organ, was tremulous 
 and broken. First pressing her clasj^ed 
 hands against his broad chest, — which heaved 
 with emotion, — he next girdled her waist 
 with his sinewy arm, and despite her strug- 
 gles, drew her to his bosom. " Gaze upon 
 yonder portrait ! those eyes are wildly beau- 
 tiful, but pale when compared with yours. 
 That form is cast in the mould of voluptu- 
 ous loveliness, but yours, — yours, Esther, — 
 yours — " 
 
 Advancing toward the portrait, he pushed 
 the hangings aside, — the doorway of an ad- 
 joining apartment was revealed. 
 
 " Come, Esther, by heavens you must be 
 mine, — and now !" 
 
 There was no mistaking the determination 
 of that husky voice, the passion of that 
 bloodshot eye. 
 
 Now pale as death, now covered from the 
 bosom to the brow with burning blushes, she 
 •truggled in his embrace, but in vain. He 
 dragged her near and nearer to the threshold — 
 on the threshold (which divided the Golden 
 Room from the next apartment, where all was 
 dark as midnight) he paused, drew her strug- 
 gling form to his breast, and stifled the cry 
 wbich rose to her lips, with burning kisses. 
 
 With a desperate effort she glided from 
 his arms, and the next moment, — her hair 
 unloosed on her bosom bared in the struggle,— 
 confronted him with the poniard gleaming 
 over her head. 
 
 " Hoary villain !" she cried, dilating in 
 every inch of her stature, until she seemed to 
 rival his almost giant height, — "lay but a 
 finger on me and you shall pay for the out- ; 
 fage with your life !" 
 
 Her head thrown back, her bared bosom 
 swelling madly in the light, her dark hair 
 resting in one rich, wavy mass upon her neck 
 «nd shoulders, — it was a noble picture. And 
 
 161 
 
 her eyes, — you should have seen the flashing 
 of her eyes ! As for the statesman, with 
 one foot upon the threshold, he turned his 
 face over his shoulder, thus exhibiting his 
 massive features in profile, and gazed upon 
 her with a look which was something be- 
 tween the sublime and the ridiculous ; a 
 strange mixture of passion, wonder and 
 chagrin. 
 
 " Esther, " 
 
 " No doubt you can induce husbands to 
 sell their wives to you ; " the eyes still 
 flashed, and the poniard glittered overhead ; 
 "no doubt, gray-haired fathers have sold their 
 daughters to your embrace ; nay, even broth- 
 ers, for a place, may have given their sisters 
 to your lust ; but know," again that bitter 
 word so bitterly said, — * hoary villain ! ' — 
 " know, hoary villain ! that Esther Royalton 
 will not sell herself to you, even to purchase 
 her brother's safety, his life, much less her 
 own ! For know, that while there is a taint 
 upon my blood, that there is blood in my 
 veins which never knew dishonor, the blood 
 
 of , whose grandchild stands 
 
 before you ! " 
 
 As she named that name, Godlike repeated 
 it from pure astonishment. 
 
 " You a statesman ! you a leader of the 
 American people ! Faugh ! (Back ! Lay 
 not a finger upon me as you value your life !) 
 May God help the Eepublic whose leaders 
 play the farce of solemn statesmanship by 
 daylight, and at night seek their inspiration 
 in the orgies of the brothel ! " 
 
 " But, Esther, you mistake me ; do not 
 
 raise your voice, " his face flushed, his 
 
 eyes bloodshot, he advanced toward her. 
 
 At the same instant she caught the pur- 
 pose of his eye, and with a blush of mingled 
 shame and anger, for the first time be- 
 came aware that her bosom was bared to the 
 light. 
 
 She retreated, — Godlike advanced, — she, 
 brandishing the dagger, — he, with his hands 
 extended, his face mad with bafiled passion. 
 Thus retreating, step by step before him, she 
 reached the table, and cast a lightning glance 
 toward the lamp. 
 
 " You shall be mine, I swear it ! " He 
 darted forward. 
 
 But while her right hand held the dagger 
 aloft, her left sought the lamp, and even as 
 
162 IN THE 
 
 he rushed forward with the oath on his lips, 
 the room was wrapt in utter darkness. 
 
 He was foiled. A mocking laugh, which 
 resounded through the darkness, did not add 
 to his composure. 
 
 " Esther, Esther," he said, in a softer tone, 
 endeavoring to smother his rage, *' I will not 
 harn you, I swear it." 
 
 And with his hands extended he advanced 
 in the thick gloom ; and Esther, with the 
 handle of her poniard, knocked thrice upon 
 the ebony table. 
 
 "Dearest Esther," — he advanced in the 
 direction from whence the knocks proceeded, 
 and came in contact with a form, — the form 
 of a voluptuous woman, with a young bosom 
 warm with life, and young limbs moulded 
 in the flowing lines of the Medicean Venus ? 
 No. Precisely the contrary. But he came 
 in contact with a brawny form, which bound- 
 ed against him, pinioning his arms to his 
 side, at the same moment that another 
 brawny form clasped him from behind. In 
 a moment, ere he had recovered the surprise 
 caused by this double and unexpected em- 
 brace, his arms were tied behind his back, a 
 handkerchief was tightly bound across his 
 mouth, and a second kerchief across his eyes, 
 he was lifted from his feet, and borne upon 
 the shoulders of two muscular men. It was 
 not dignified or statesmanlike, but, — histori- 
 cal truth demands the record, — while in this 
 position, the grave statesman kicked, deliber- 
 ately and wickedly kicked. But he kicked 
 in vain. 
 
 Presently he was placed upon his feet 
 again, and seated in a chair whose oaken 
 back reached above his head, and whose 
 oaken arms pressed against his sides. Ho 
 could not see, but he felt that light was 
 shining on his face. 
 
 So suddenly had his capture been achieved, 
 so strange and complete was the transition 
 from the pursuit of the beautiful Esther, to 
 his present blindfolded and helpless condi- 
 tion, that the statesman, for a few moments, 
 almost believed himself the victim of some 
 grotesque and frightful dream. 
 
 All was silent around him. 
 
 At length a voice was heard, hollow and 
 distinct in its every tone, — 
 
 " Gabriel Godlike, you are now about to be 
 put on trial before the Court of Ten Millions." I 
 
 TEMPLE. ' 
 
 There was a long pause ; and Godlike, on 
 the moment, remembered every detail which 
 Harry Royalton had poured into his ears, 
 concerning this Court of Ten Millions; its 
 power backed by ten millions of dollars,— 
 its jurisdiction over crimes that 'Courts of I 
 Justice' could not reach, — its sessions held 
 in the deep silence of night, and its judg- 
 ments executed as soon as pronounced. Viv- 
 idly the story of Harry rose before him ; the 
 accusation, the trial, the judgment, the lash, 
 and the back of the criminal covered with 
 stripes and blood. 
 
 " The Court of Ten Millions," — the voice 
 was heard again, — " as you are, doubtless, 
 aware, is thus called, because its power is 
 backed by ten millions of dollars. It exists 
 to punish those crimes which, perchance, 
 from their very magnitude, go unpunished 
 by other courts of justice. It exists to judge 
 and punish two classes of crime in especial : 
 crimes committed for the hve of money, by 
 the man who seeks to enjoy labor's fruits, 
 without sharing labor's works ; crimes com- 
 mitted by the man who uses his wealth, or 
 the accideni of his social position, as the means 
 of oppressing his fellow-creature, even the 
 poorest and the meanest. Your mind is pro- 
 found in analysis. You are able, at a glance, 
 to trace nearly all the wrongs which desolate 
 society, and mar the purposes of God in this 
 world, to the classes of crimes which have 
 been named." 
 
 There was another long pause. Gabriel 
 had time for thought. 
 
 " Gabriel Godlike ! Detected in a gross 
 outrage upon a woman whom you thought 
 poor and friendless, — detected in using your 
 wealth and your social position as the means 
 of achieving that woman's dishonor, you are 
 now about to be put on trial before the Court 
 of Ten Millions." 
 
 Another pause. Gabriel began to recover, 
 his scattered senses. The bandage across, 
 his mouth concealed the sardonic smile 
 which flitted over his lips. 
 
 "A sort of Vixhme Qtricht, — something 
 from the dark ages," — he ejaculated, men- 
 tally. And yet he did not feel comfortable. 
 There was Harry Royalton's back ; he had 
 seen it. " But they would not dare to flog a 
 statesman, — me ! Gabriel Godlike ! " 
 
 " Still you are at liberty to refuse a tria* 
 
FROM MIDNIGHT UNTIL DAWN. 
 
 165 
 
 before this court," — the voice spoke again, — 
 *' but upon one condition. In a room not far 
 removed from this, removed from hearing, 
 tod yet within a moment's call, are gathered 
 I at this moment a number of gentlemen, who 
 have been summoned to this house on vari- 
 ous pretexts ; gentlemen, you will remark, 
 of all political parties, high in social posi- 
 tion, and bearing the reputation of honorable 
 minded and moral men. Your strongest 
 political friends, your bitterest political op- 
 ponents are there." 
 
 Gabriel began to listen with attention. 
 
 ** Now you may refuse to be tried before 
 this court on one condition, — that you will 
 be exposed to the gaze of this party of gen- 
 tlemen, in your present state, with your 
 masquerade attire, and in presence of the 
 woman whom, but a moment since, you 
 threatened with a gross outrage." 
 
 Gabriel listened with keener interest. 
 
 "If you doubt that this party of gentle- 
 men, consisting of — (he named a number of 
 names familiar to Godlike's ear) — are within 
 call, your doubt can be solved in a moment." 
 
 "It is an infernal trap," and Gabriel 
 ground his teeth with suppressed rage. 
 
 " If you consent to be tried by this court, 
 be pleased to give a gesture of assent." 
 
 Gabriel revolved for a moment within 
 himself, and then slowly nodded his head. 
 
 The bandage was removed from his eyes, 
 and the kerchief from his mouth. He slowly 
 surveyed the scene in which, much against 
 his will, he found himself an actor. 
 
 It ^vajs a spacious apartment, resembling 
 the Golden Room, the walls were hung with 
 black velvet, fringed with gold, and dotted 
 with golden flowers ; the ceiling represented 
 a gloomy sky, with the sun in the center, 
 straggling among clouds. It was the 
 same to which he was about to conduct 
 Esther when she escaped from his arms and 
 confronted him with the poniard. 
 
 But in place of the voluptuous couch 
 which had stood there, with silken pillows 
 and canopy white as snow, there was a large 
 table covered with black cloth, and extend- 
 ing across the room froni wall to wall, and 
 behind the table a raised platform, on which 
 stood an arm-chair, beneath a canopy of dark 
 velvet. A lighted candle in an iron candle- 
 itick. stood on the center of the table, and 
 
 near it, a knotted rope, a book, an inkstand, 
 and a sheet of white paper. 
 
 The judge of the court was seated in the 
 arm-chair, under the shadow of the canopy. 
 His face Godlike could not see, for ho wore 
 a hat whose ample brim concealed his fea- 
 tures, but his white hair descended to the 
 collar of his coat. He wore an old-fashioned 
 surtout of dark cloth, with manifold capes, 
 about the shoulders. His head was bent, his 
 hands clasped, his attitude that of profound 
 quiet or profound thought. 
 
 On his left, resting one hand on the arm 
 of his chair, was Esther ; her white dress in 
 bold relief with the dark background. Her 
 unbound hair increased the deathlike pallor 
 of her face, and her eyes shone with all their 
 fire. 
 
 And on the right of the judge stood a huge 
 negro, whose giant frame was clad in a suit 
 of sleek blue cloth, while his white cravat 
 and his wool, also of snow-like whiteness, 
 increased the blackness of his visage. It 
 was, of course, old Royal. He also rested 
 one hand on an arm of the judge's chair. 
 
 And on the right and left of Gabriel's 
 chair, stood a muscular man, whose features 
 were hidden by a crape mask. 
 
 The scene altogether was highly dramatic. 
 The Borgian attire of Godlike by no means 
 detracted from its dramatic efifect. 
 
 The silence of the place, — the gloom 
 scarcely broken by the light of the solitary 
 candle, — the contrast between this scene and 
 the one in which he had been an actor but a 
 few moments previous, — all had their efifect 
 upon the mind of the statesman. 
 
 " A trap ! get out of it as I may. An in- 
 fernal trap !" 
 
 Without raising his head, or removing his 
 clasped hands from his breast, the judge 
 spoke, in an even and distinct, although hol- 
 low voice, — 
 
 " You may still refuse to be tried by this 
 court. Consent to be exposed in your pres- 
 ent condition to the gentlemen whom I have 
 named, (and who may be brought hither in 
 an instant), and the trial will not proceed." 
 
 The blood rushed to Gabriel's face, but he 
 made no reply. 
 
 "Or, if you doubt that those gentlemen 
 are near, it is not too late to remove your 
 doubts." 
 
IN THE 
 
 TEMPLE. 
 
 The veins began to swell on Gabriel's 
 forehead. 
 
 "Go on," he said, in a half-smothered 
 tone. 
 
 The judge extended his hand and placed 
 a parchment in the hands of Esther. 
 
 " Read the accusation," he said, and in a 
 voice at first low and faint, but gradually 
 growing stronger and deeper, Esther read, 
 while a death-like stillness prevailed: 
 
 " Gabriel Godlike is accused of the follow- 
 ing offenses against man, against society, 
 against God : — 
 
 "As a man of genius, intrusted by the 
 Almighty with the noblest, the most exalted 
 powers, and bound to use those powers for 
 the good of his race, he has, in the course of 
 his whole life, prostituted those powers to 
 the degradation and oppression of his race. 
 
 " As a statesman, rivaling in intellect the 
 three great names of the nineteenth century, 
 Clay, Calhoun and Webster, he has not, like 
 these great men, been governed by a high 
 aim, an earnest-souled sincerity. His intel- 
 lect approaches theirs in powers, but as a 
 man, as a statesman, he has not exhibited 
 their virtues. Wielding a vast influence, 
 and bound to use that influence in securing 
 to the masses such laws as will invest every 
 man with the right to the full fruits of his 
 labor, and the possession of a home, he has 
 lent his influence, sold his intellect, mort- 
 gaged his official position, to those who en- 
 slave labor in workshop and factory, defraud 
 it in banks, and rob the laborer — the free- 
 man — of a piece of land which he may call 
 by the sacred title of home. 
 
 "As a lawyer, having a profound know- 
 ledge of the technicalities of Avritten law, and 
 an intuitive knowledge of that great law 
 of God, which proclaims that all men are 
 brothers, bound to each other by ties of 
 reciprocal love and duty, he has used his 
 knowledge of written law to gloss over and 
 sanction the grossest wrongs; he has darkened 
 and distorted the great laws of God to suit 
 any case of social tyranny, no matter how 
 damning, how revolting, which he has been 
 called upon to defend for hire. 
 
 "As a citizen, bound to illustrate in his 
 life the purity of the christian, the integrity 
 of the republican, he has never known the 
 affections of a wife, or children, but his pri- 
 
 vate career has been one long catalogue of 
 the basest appetites, gratified at the expense- 
 of every tie of truth and honor. 
 
 " In his long career, he has exhibited that 
 saddest of all spectacles : — a lawyer, with no 
 sense of right or wrong, higher than his feej 
 a statesman, regarding himself not as the 
 representative of the people, but as the feed 
 and purchased lawyer of a class ; a man of 
 god-like intellect, without faith in God, 
 without love for his race." 
 
 Esther concluded ; her face was radiant, 
 but her eyes dimmed with tears. 
 
 " Gabriel Godlike, what say you to this 
 accusation ?" exclaimed the judge. 
 
 A sardonic smile agitated the lips of the 
 statesman, but he made no reply in words. 
 At the same time, despite his attempt to 
 meet the accusation with a sneer, its words 
 rung in his very soul, and especially the 
 closing clause, without faith in God, without 
 love to his race.^^ 
 
 Gabriel's head sank slowly on his breast,.' 
 and his doAvn-drawn brows hid his eyes from 
 the light. He was thinking of other years ; 
 of the promise of his young manhood ; of the 
 dark realities of his maturer years. The 
 judge spoke again. 
 
 " Gabriel Godlike, you are silent. You 
 have no reply. In your own soul and before 
 Heaven, you know that every word of the 
 accusation is true. You cannot deny it. 
 Your own soul and conscience convict you." 
 
 He paused ; again the mocking sneer 
 crossed Gabriel's lips, but a crowd of emo- 
 tions were busy at his heart. The judge 
 proceeded, in a measured tone. Every word 
 fell distinctly upon the statesman's unwilling 
 ears : 
 
 " Gabriel Godlike, you may smile at the 
 idea of being held accountable to God and 
 man, for the use which you have made of 
 your talents in the last forty years, but there 
 will come an hour when History will pass 
 its judgment upon you ; there will come an 
 hour when God will demand of you the in- 
 tellect which he has intrusted to your care. 
 That hour will come. Then, what will be 
 your answer to Almighty God ?" * Lord, 
 thou didst intrust me with superior intellect, 
 to be used for the good of my brothers of 
 the human family ; and after a life of sixty 
 years, I can truly say, I have never once 
 
FROM MIDNIGHT UNTIL DAWN. 
 
 used that intellect for the elevation of man- 
 kind, and have never once failed, when ap- 
 petite or ambition tempted, to squander it in 
 the basest lusts.' What a record will this 
 j , be for history ; what an answer to be ren- 
 :f| I dered to Almighty God ! 
 ^ ° " Gabriel Godlike ! Great men are placed 
 upon earth, as the prophets and apostles of 
 the poor. It is their vocation to speak the 
 wrongs which the poor suffer, but are unable 
 to tell ; it is their mission to find the deepest 
 • thought which God has implanted in the 
 breast of the age, and to carry that thought 
 ^ into action, or die. What has been the 
 ;i thought struggling in the bosom of the last 
 Ij j fifty years ? A thought vast as the provi- 
 I dence of God, which, whether called by the 
 i, name of Social Progress, or Social Ee-organi- 
 . I; zation, or by whatsoever name, still looks for- 
 j ward to the day when social misery will be 
 , j annihilated ; when the civilization will no 
 ! longer show itself only in the awful contrast 
 of the few, immersed in superflous wealth,— 
 ] of the many, immersed in poverty, in crime, 
 ^ I in despair ; a day, when in truth, the gospel 
 j^'l of the New Testament will no longer be the 
 ij^^l hollow echo of the sounding-board above the 
 I pulpit, but an every-day verity, carried with 
 deeds along all the ways of life, and mani- 
 I fested in the physical comfort as well as the 
 ' moral elevation of all men. 
 
 " Something like this has been the thought 
 ■ of the last fifty— yes, of the last hundred years. 
 It was the secret heart of our own Revolu- 
 tion. It was the great truth, whose features 
 you may read even beneath the blood-red 
 °, waves of the French Revolution. And in 
 the nineteenth century this thought has 
 called into action legions of noble-hearted 
 men, who have earnestly endeavored to 
 ^ carry it into action. It has had its confessors, 
 
 its saints, its martyrs. 
 ^ " Gabriel Godlike ! In the course of your 
 long career, what have you done to aid the 
 ' development of this thought ? Alas ! alas ! 
 Look back upon your life ! In all your 
 career, not one brave blow for man — your 
 ' brother — not one, not 6ne ! As a lawyer, the 
 hired vassal of any wealthy villain, or class 
 of villains ; as a legislator, not a statesman, 
 but always the paid special pleader of heart- 
 less monopoly and godless capital ; as a 
 man, your intellect always towers among the 
 
 165 
 
 stars, while your moral character sinks be- 
 neath the kennel's mud ! Such has been 
 your life ; such is the use to which you have 
 bent your powers. Like the sublime egotist, 
 Napoleon Bonaparte, you regarded the world 
 as a world without a God, and mankind as 
 the mere creatures of your pleasure and your 
 sport. If the poor wretch, who, driven mad 
 by hunger, steals a loaf of bread, is branded 
 as a CRIMINAL, and adjudged to darkness 
 and chains, by what name, Gabriel Godlike, 
 shall we call you f what judgment shall we 
 pronounce upon your head ?" 
 
 The judge arose, and with his face shaded 
 from the light, and his white hairs falling to 
 his shoulders, he extended his hand toward 
 
 the CRIMINAL. 
 
 There was a blush of shame \i])oti Gabriel's 
 downcast forehead ; shame, mingled with 
 suppressed rage. 
 
 " Shall we adjudge you to the lash ?" and 
 the judge looked first to Gabriel, then to the 
 giant negro by his side. 
 
 Godlike raised his head ; Esther shud- 
 dered as she beheld his look. 
 
 " The lash !" he echoed,—" No, by ! 
 
 The man does not live who dares speak of 
 such a thing." 
 
 " I live, and I speak of it," responded the 
 judge, calmly. "You forget that you are 
 in my power ; and, as you are well aware, 
 (it is a maxim upon which you have acted 
 all your life,) ' might makes right.' And 
 why should you shudder at the mention of 
 the lash ? What is the torture, the disgrace 
 of the lash, compared with the torture and 
 disgrace which your deeds have inflicted 
 upon thousands of your fellow men ?" 
 
 Godlike uttered a frightful oath. — " You 
 will drive me mad !" and he ground his 
 teeth in impotent rage. It was a pitiful con- 
 dition for a great statesman. 
 
 " No, no ; the lash is too light a punish- 
 ment for a criminal of your magnitude. 
 Prisoner, stand up and hear the sentence of 
 the court !" 
 
 Gabriel had a powerful will, but the will 
 which spoke in the voice of that old man, 
 his judge, w^as more powerful than his own. 
 Reluctantly he arose to his feet, his broad 
 chest panting and heaving beneath its scarlet 
 attire. 
 
 " Unbind his arms." The masked attend- 
 
166 IN THE 
 
 ants obeyed. Gabriel's hands were free. 
 " Secure hira, at the first sign of resistance or 
 of disobedience." 
 
 The judge calmly proceeded — 
 " Gabriel Godlike, hear the sentence of the 
 court. You will affix your own proper sig- 
 nature to two documents, which will now 
 be presented to you. After which you are 
 free." 
 
 Gabriel could not repress an ejaculation. 
 The simplicity of the sentence struck him 
 with astonishment. 
 
 "Hand the prisoner the first document, 
 which he may read," said the judge. Pale 
 and trembling, Esther advanced, and, passing 
 the table, placed a paper in the hands of 
 Godlike, which he read : 
 
 " New Yobk, Dec. 24th, 1844. 
 " The undersigned, Gabriel Godlike, hereby 
 acknowledges that he was this day detected 
 in the act of attempting a gross outrage upon 
 the person of Esther Royalton, whom he 
 had inveigled to a house of improper report. 
 
 No. — , street, New York : an outrage 
 
 "which, investigated before a court of law, 
 would justly consign him to the State's 
 Prison. 
 
 " Signed in presence of | 
 
 No words can picture the rage which cor- 
 rugated Godlike's visage as he perused this 
 singular document. 
 
 " No, I will not sign !" — he fixed his flaming 
 eyes upon Esther's pallid face — " not if you 
 rend me into fragments." 
 
 "Esther," said the judge, calmly, "call 
 the gentlemen from the neighboring apart- 
 ment. Tell them that the purpose for which 
 I summoned them will be explained in this 
 room." 
 
 Esther cast a glance upon Godlike's flushed 
 visage, and moved to the door, — 
 
 " Stay ! I will — I will !" Shame and 
 mortification choked his utterance. He ad- 
 vanced to the table and signed his name to 
 the paper. 
 
 The judge drew his broad-brimmed hat 
 deeper over his brows, and advanced to the 
 table. — " I will witness your signature," he 
 quietly observed, and signed a name which 
 Godlike would have given five years of his 
 life to have read. 
 
 TEMPLE. 
 
 " The second document rests on the table 
 before you. The writing is concealed by a 
 sheet of paper. You will sign without 
 reading it. There is the place for your sig- 
 nature." And he pushed the concealed 
 document across the table. 
 
 " This is too much, — it is infamous," said 
 Godlike, between his teeth. "How do I 
 know what I am signing ? I will not do it** 
 He sank back doggedly in his chair ; the 
 perspiration stood in thick beads upon his 
 brow. 
 
 " Esther," (she lingered on the threshold, 
 as the judge addressed her,) "tell Mr. God- 
 like's friends that he will be glad to see 
 them." 
 
 Oh ! bitterly, in that moment, did the 
 fallen statesman pay for the misdeeds of 
 years ! As if urged from his seat by an 
 influence beyond his control, he rose and 
 advanced to the table, his brow deformed by 
 the big veins of helpless rage, his eyes blood- 
 shot with suppressed fury, — he signed his 
 name. His hand trembled like a leaf. 
 
 " Now, now — am I free ?" he cried, beat- 
 ing the table with his clenched hand* 
 " Have you done with me ?" He turned hia 
 gaze from Esther, who stood trembling on 
 the threshold, to the judge, who, with his 
 shadowed face, stood calm and composed 
 before him. 
 
 " I will witness your signature," said the 
 judge, and again signed that name, which 
 Godlike, even amid his wrath, endeavored, 
 and in vain, to read. 
 
 At the same instant he placed his hand 
 upon the candle, and all was darkness. In 
 less time than it takes to record it, Godlike 
 was seized, pinioned and blindfolded. 
 
 " You will be taken to your dressing-room, 
 in which you will resume your usual attire, 
 after which, without questioning or seeing 
 any one, you will quietly leave this house. 
 As for the gentlemen whom I summoned to 
 this house to look upon your disgrace, I will 
 manage to dismiss them, without mentioning 
 your name." 
 
 " And the papers which you have forced 
 me to sign ?" interrupted Gabriel. 
 
 "Do not speak of force. There was no 
 force save the compulsion of your own 
 crimes. And I give you fair warning that 
 those papers which you have signed here M 
 
FROM MIDNIGHT UNTIL DAWN. 
 
 107 
 
 ilarkness, you will bo asked to sign yet once 
 again in broad daylight. Go, sir: for the 
 present we have done with you." 
 
 And as in thick darkness lie was led from 
 the hall, trembling with rage and shame, the 
 voice of the judge once more broke on his 
 cars, but this time not addressed to him : 
 
 " Pity, good Lord ! Pardon me, if I am 
 wrong !" 
 
 It was the voice of earnest prayer. 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE BRIDAL CHAMBER. 
 
 It was the bridal chamber. A strange 
 hour, and a strange bridal ! 
 
 In the luxurious apartment, w^here Name- 
 less and Frank first met, a Holy Bible was 
 placed wide open upon a table, or altar, cov- 
 ered with a snow-white cloth. On either 
 side of the book w^ere placed wax candles, 
 shedding their clear light around the room, 
 upon the details of the place, and upon the 
 gorgeous curtains of the marriage-bed. 
 
 Frank and Nameless joined hands beside 
 that altar, before the opened Bible. Never 
 had Frank's magnetic beauty shone with 
 such peculiar power. She was clad in black 
 velvet, her dark hair gathered plainly aside 
 from her brow, and the white cross rose and 
 fell with every throb of her bosom. Name- 
 less wore the black tunic which, with his 
 dark brown hair, threw his features into 
 strong relief. The golden cross hung on his 
 breast, over his heart. He was pale, as if 
 with intense thought, but his large, gray 
 eyes met the gaze cf Frank, as though his 
 soul was riveted there. 
 
 And thus they joined hands, near the 
 morning hour. 
 
 The Rev. Dr. Bulgin stood a little in the 
 background, his broad red face glowing in 
 the light. His cardinal's attire thrown aside, 
 he appeared in sleek black, with the eternal 
 white cravat about his neck. There was the 
 flush of champagne upon the good doctor's 
 florid face. 
 
 Behind Nameless stood Colonel Tarleton, 
 dressed as the hidalgo, his right hand grasp- 
 ing a roll of paper, raised to his mouth, and 
 his eyes gazing fixedly from beneath his 
 down-drawn brows. It was the moment of 
 his life. 
 
 11 
 
 " Once married and the way is clear ! " he 
 thought. "To think of it — after twenty- 
 one years my hand grasps the prize !" 
 
 " We will walk through life together," 
 said Frank, pressing the hand of Nameless. 
 
 " And devote our wealth to the elevation 
 of the unfortunate and the fallen ! " ho res- 
 ponded, as a vision of future good gave new 
 fire to his eye. And then he pressed his 
 hand to his forehead, for his temples throb- 
 bed. A vivid mem'ory of every event of 
 his past life started up suddenly before his 
 soul, every event invested with the familiar 
 faces, the well-known voices of other days. 
 He raised his eyes to the face of Frank, and 
 the singular influence which seemed to in- 
 vest her like an atmosphere, again took pos- 
 session of him. It was not the influence of 
 passion, nor the spell of her mere loveliness, 
 although her person was voluptuously 
 moulded, and the deep red in the center of 
 her rich brown cheek, told the story of a 
 warm and passionate nature ; but it was as 
 though her very soul, embodied in her lus- 
 trous eyes, encircled and possessed his own. 
 
 Was it love, in the common acceptation of 
 the word ? Was it fascination ? Was it the 
 result of sympathy between two lives, each, 
 of which had been made the sport of a dark 
 and singular destiny ? 
 
 " Had not we better go on ? " said Dr. Bul- 
 gin, mildly. " Summoned to this house to 
 celebrate these nuptials at this unusual hour, 
 I feel somewhat fatigued with the duties of 
 the day," and he winked at Tarleton. 
 
 *' Proceed," said Tarleton, pressing the 
 right hand, with the roll of paper to his 
 lip. 
 
 The marriage service was deliberately said 
 in the rich, bold voice of the eloquent Dr. 
 Bulgin. The responses were duly made. 
 The ring was placed upon the finger of the 
 bride, and the white cross sparkled in the 
 light, as it rose with the swell of her proud 
 bosom. 
 
 "Husband," she whispered, as their lips 
 met, " I have been sacrificed to others, but I 
 never loved but you, and I will love you till 
 I die." And she spoke the truth. 
 
 " Wife ! " — he called that sacred name in 
 a low and softened voice, — "let the past be 
 forgotten. Arisen from the graves of our 
 past lives, it is our part to begin life anew.'* 
 
168 IN THE 
 
 And his tone was that of truth and enthu- 
 siasm. 
 
 " My son ! " — Tarleton started forward and 
 clasped Nameless by the hand, — "Gulian, 
 my son, let the past be forgotten, — forgiven, 
 and let us look only to the future ! The 
 proudest aspiration of my life is fulfilled !" 
 
 Nameless returned his grasp with a cordial 
 pressure ; but at the same instant a singular 
 sensation crept like a chill through his blood. 
 Was the presence of the dead father near at 
 the moment when his son joined hands with 
 the false brother ? 
 
 "Here, my boy," continued Tarleton, 
 laughingly, as he spread forth upon the table 
 the roll of paper which he had held to his 
 lip ; " sign this, and we will bid you good 
 night. It's a mere matter of form, you 
 know. Nay, Frank, you must not see it; 
 you women know nothing of these matters 
 of business." Motioning his daughter back, 
 he placed pen and ink before Nameless, and 
 then quietly arranged his dark whiskers and 
 smoothed his black hair ; and yet his hand 
 trembled. 
 
 Nameless took the pen, and bent over the 
 table and read : — 
 
 December 24, 1844. 
 To Dr. Martin Fulmer : — 
 
 This day I transfer and assign to my wife, 
 dances Van Huyden, all my right, title, and 
 inierest in the estate of my deceased fatlier, 
 Oulian Van Huyden ; and hereby promise, on 
 my word of honor, to hold this transfer sacred 
 at all times, and to maJce it binding {if re- 
 quested), by a document drawn up according to 
 the forms of law. 
 
 Nameless dipped the pen in the ink, and 
 was about to sign, when Frank suddenly 
 drew the paper from beneath his hand. She 
 read it with a kindling cheek and flashing eye. 
 
 "For shame!" she cried, turning to her 
 father, "for shame !" and was about to rend 
 it in twain, when Nameless seized her wrist, 
 and took the paper from her hand. 
 
 "Nay, Frank, I will sign," he exclaimed, 
 and put the pen to the paper. 
 
 "0, father," whispered Frank, with a 
 glance of burning indignation, "this is too 
 much — " Her words were interrupted by 
 the sudden opening of the door. 
 
 TEMPLE. ' ] 
 
 "Is there no way of escape. — none ?" — 
 voice was heard exclaiming these words, ia 
 tones of fright and madness, — "Is there no 
 way of escape from this abode of ruin and 
 death ? " 
 
 The pen dropped from the hand of Name- 
 less. That voice congealed the blood in^his 
 veins. 
 
 Turning his head over his shoulders, he 
 saw the speaker, — while the whole scene 
 swam for a moment before his eyes, — saw- 
 that young countenance, now wild with af- 
 fright, on which was imprinted the stainless 
 beauty of a pure and virgin soul. 
 
 " The grave has given up its dead ! " he 
 cried, and staggered toward the phantom 
 which rose between him and the door ; the 
 phantom of a young and beautiful woman, 
 clad in the faded garments of poverty and 
 toil ; her unbound hair streaming wildly 
 about her face, her eyes dilating with terror, 
 her clasped hands strained a.'^ainst her agita- 
 ted bosom. 
 
 "The grave has given up its dead," he 
 cried. " Mary ! " 0, how that name awoke 
 the memories of other days ! " Mary ! when 
 last I saw thee, thou wert beside my coflSn, 
 while my soul communed with thine." And 
 again he called that sacred name. 
 
 It was no phantom, but a living and beau- 
 tiful woman. She saw his face, — she uttered 
 a cry, — she knew him. 
 
 " Gulian ! " she cried, and spread forth 
 her arms. Not one thought that he had 
 died and been buried, — she saw him living, — 
 she knew him, — he was before her, — that 
 was all. " Husband ! " 
 
 He rushed to her embrace, but even as his 
 arms were outspread to clasp her form, he 
 fell on his knees. His head rested against 
 her form, his hands clasped her knees. The 
 emotion of the moment had been too much 
 for him ; he had fainted at her feet. 
 
 She knelt beside him, and took his bead 
 to her bosom, and pressed her lips against 
 his death-like forehead, and then her loos- 
 ened hair hid his face from the light. She 
 wept aloud. 
 
 " Husband I " 
 
 At this moment turn your gaze to the 
 marriage altar. Dr. Bulgin is still there, 
 gazing in dumb surprise, first upon the face 
 I of Frank, then upon her father. It is hard 
 
PROM MIDNIGHT UNTIL DAWN. 
 
 169 
 
 to tell which looks most ghastly and death- 
 like. Tarleton looks like a man who has 
 been stricken by a thunderbolt. Frank rests 
 one hand upon the marriage altar, and raises 
 the other to her forehead. For a moment 
 death seems busy at her heart. 
 
 With a desperate effort, Tarleton rallies 
 his presence of mind. 
 
 " Good evening, or, rather, good morning, 
 4octor," he says, and then points to the door. 
 The reverend gentleman takes the hint, and 
 quietly fades from the room. 
 
 At times like this, one moment of resolve 
 |s worth an age. Tarleton's face is colorless, 
 but he sees, with an ominous light in his 
 eyes, the way clear before him. He turns 
 aside for a moment, to the cabinet yonder, 
 and from a small drawer, takes a slender 
 vial, filled with a colorless liquid ; then 
 quietly glides to his daughter's side. 
 
 " Frank ! " — she raises her head, — their 
 eyes meet. He holds the vial before her face — 
 "your husband has fainted ; this will revive 
 him." That singular smile discloses his 
 white teeth. Frank reads his meaning at a 
 glance. 0, the unspeakable agony, — the 
 conflict between two widely different emo- 
 tions, which writhes over her face ! 
 
 "No, father, no ! It must not be," and 
 she pushes the vial from her sight. 
 
 His words, uttered rapidly, and in a whis- 
 per, come tlirough his set teeth, — " It must 
 be, — the game cannot be lost now ; in twelve 
 hours, you know, this vial will do its work, 
 and leave no sign ! " 
 
 An expression which he cannot read, 
 crosses her face. A moment of profound 
 and harrowing thought, — a glance at the 
 kneeling girl, who hides in her flowing hair, 
 the face of her unconscious husband. 
 
 "Be it so," Frank exclaims, "give me the 
 «^ial ; I will administer it." Taking the vial 
 from her father's hand, she advances to the 
 cabinet, and for a moment bends over the 
 open drawer. 
 
 And the next instant she is kneeling be- 
 side Nameless and the weeping girl. 
 
 "Mary !" whispers Frank, and the young 
 wife raises her face from her husband's fore- 
 head, and they gaze in each other's face, — a 
 contrast which you do not often behold. The 
 face of Frank, dark-hued at other times, and 
 red with passion on the cheek and lip, but \ 
 
 now, lividly pale, and only expressing the 
 intensity of her organization in the lightning 
 glance of the eyes, — the face of Mary, al- 
 though touched by want and sorrow, bearing 
 the look of a guileless, happy soul in every 
 outline, and shining all the love of a pure 
 woman's nature from the large, clear eyes, 
 It was as though night and morning had 
 met together. 
 
 " Mary ! " said Frank, — her hand trem- 
 bling, but her purpose firm, — " your husband 
 will die unless aid is rendered at once. Let 
 me revive him." 
 
 Before Mary can frame a word in reply, 
 she places the vial to the lips of Nameless, 
 and does not remove her hand until the last 
 drop is emptied. Tarleton yonder watches 
 the scene, with his head drooping on his 
 breast, and his hand raised to his chin. 
 
 " He will revive presently," Frank ex- 
 claims with a smile. 
 
 " God bless you, generous woman, " 
 
 But Frank does not wait to receive her 
 thanks. . 
 
 Returning to her father's side, — " Come, 
 let us leave them, she w^hispers ; " now 
 
 that your request is obeyed." 
 
 "But he must not die in this house." 
 
 " 0, you will have time, ample time to re- 
 move him before the vial has done its work," — 
 a bitter smile crosses her face, — "Leave them 
 together for an hour at least. Let them at 
 least enjoy one hour of life, before his eyes 
 are closed in death ; only one hour, father !" 
 
 She takes her father by the hand, and 
 hurries him from the room, — let us not dare 
 to read the emotions now contending on her 
 corpse-like face. From that room, which 
 was to have been her bridal chamber, — the 
 starting-point of a new and happy life ! 
 
 "I must now see after the ofhci;'^ Tarleton 
 soliloquizes, as he crossed the threshold. 
 " This one removed, tJie other must be ready 
 for to-morrow." 
 
 And Frank and her father leave the room. 
 
 The chest of Nameless began to heave, — 
 his eyes gradually unclosed. With a vacant 
 glance he surveyed the apartment. 
 
 "It is a dream," he said. 
 
 But there were arms about his neck, kisses 
 on his lips, a warm cheek laid next to his 
 own. Certainly not the clasp, the kiss, or 
 the pressure of a dream. 
 
170 
 
 IN THE TEMPLE. 
 
 " Not in a ^ream, Carl," she said, calling, 
 him by the name which he had borne in 
 other days. 
 
 " Carl ? Who calls me Carl ? " 
 
 " Not in a dream, Carl, but living and re- 
 stored to me." 
 
 Even as he lay in her arms, his head rest- 
 ing on her young bosom, he raised his eyes 
 and beheld her face. 
 
 " Mary ! " 
 
 *' Thou art my husband ! " 
 
 " Thou art my wife ! " 
 
 That moment was a full recompense for 
 all they had suffered, yes, for a lifetime of 
 suflferirig and anguish. They forgot every- 
 thing, — the dark past, — the strange chance 
 or providence which had brought them to- 
 gether, — they only felt that they were living 
 and in each other's arms. 
 
 At sight of the pure, holy face of Mary, 
 all consciousness of the fascination which 
 Frank had held over him, passed like the 
 memory of a dream from the soul of Name- 
 less. 
 
 " 0, Mary, wife, thou art living, — God is 
 good," he said, as she bent over him, bap- 
 tizing his lips with kisses, and his face Avith 
 tears. " Do you remember that hour, when 
 I lay in the coffin, while you bent over me, 
 and our souls talked to each other, without 
 the medium of words : 'you have seeji him 
 for the last time,' they said; 'not for the 
 last time, — we will meet again was your 
 reply.' And now we have met ! Mary — 
 wife ! let us never accuse Providence again, 
 for Grod is good !" 
 
 Moment of joy too deep for words. 
 
 Drink every drop of the cup, now held to 
 your lips, Carl Raphael ! For even, as the 
 arms of your young wife are about your 
 neck, even as her young bosom throbs 
 against your cheek, and you count the beat- 
 ings of her heart, death spreads his shadow 
 over you. The poison is in your veins, — 
 your young life is about to set in this world 
 forever. 1 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE SCARLET CHAMBER. 
 
 Having once -more resumed the attire of 
 Leo the Tenth, — scarlet robe, cap, with 
 nodding plumes and cross with golden chain ; 
 
 Dr. Bulgin was hurrying along a dark pas- 
 sage on his way to the Scarlet Chamber, where 
 his nephew awaited him. The Scarlet Cham- 
 ber was at the end of the passage; as he drew 
 near it, the Doctor's reflections grew more 
 pleasant and comfortable. It may be as well 
 to make record, that after he had left the 
 Bridal Chamber, he had refreshed himself 
 with a fresh bottle of champagne. 
 
 " Odd scene that in the room of Tarleton's 
 daughter! Very dramatic, — wish I knew 
 what it all meant. However my * nephew ;' " 
 a rich chuckle resounded from the depths of 
 his chest — "'my nephew' awaits me, and 
 after another bottle in the Scarlet Chamber, 
 I must see he^- safely home. It is not such 
 a bad world after all." 
 
 Thus soliloquizing he arrived at the end 
 of the passage, and his head was laid against 
 the door of the Scarlet Chamber. 
 
 " Cozy place, — bottle of wine, — good com- 
 pany — " 
 
 " Hush !" whispered a voice. 
 
 " That you J ulia ? What are you doing 
 out here in the dark ?" he wound his arms 
 about his nephew's waist. " Waiting for 
 
 me 
 
 "Do not, — do not," she gasped, struggling 
 to free herself from his arms, — "Do not 
 enter, — " 
 
 "Tush, child! you're nervous, — " and 
 despite the struggles, he gathered his arm 
 closer around her waist, pushed open the 
 door and entered the Scarlet Room. 
 
 A quiet little apartment, lighted by a 
 hanging lamp, whose mild beams softened 
 the glare of the rich scarlet hangings. 
 There was a sofa covered with red velvet, a 
 table, on which stood a bottle, with two 
 long necked glasses, and from an interval in 
 the hangings, gleamed the vision of a snow- 
 white couch. Altogether, a place worthy 
 the private devotions of Leo the Tenth, or 
 of any gentleman of his exquisite taste, and 
 eccentric piety," 
 
 " What's the matter child ? You're pale, 
 and have been crying, — " exclaimed Bulgin, 
 as he bore her over the threshold, and 
 paused for a moment to gaze upon her face, 
 Avhich was bare to the light, the cap having' 
 fallen from her brow. As he spoke his 
 back was to the sofa, 
 
 " There," was the only word which she 
 
FROM MIDNIGHT UNTIL DAWN. 
 
 171 
 
 had power to frame, and bursting hito tears, 
 she pointed over his shoulders to the sofa. 
 
 Somewhat surprised, Dr. Bulgin turned on 
 his heel, the white plumes nodding over 
 his hulky face, and, 
 
 There are some scenes which must be left 
 to the imagination. 
 
 On the sofa, sat three grave gentlemen, 
 clad in solemn black, their severe features, 
 rendered even more stern and formal, by the 
 relief of a white cravat. Each of these 
 gentlemen held his hat in one hand, and in 
 the other a cane, surmounted by a head of 
 white bone. 
 
 As Bulgin turned, the three gentlemen 
 quietly rose, and said politely, with one 
 Toice : 
 
 " Good morning Dr. Bulgin." 
 . And then as quietly sat down again. 
 
 The Doctor looked as though he had been 
 lost in a railroad collision. He was para- 
 lyzed. He had not even the presence of mind, 
 to release the grasp which gathered the 
 young form of his lovely nephew to his 
 side. 
 
 The exact position of affairs, at this crisis, 
 will be better understood, when you are in- 
 formed, that in these three gentlemen, the 
 Rev. Dr. Bulgin recognized Mr. Watkins, Mr. 
 Potts, and Mr. Burns, the leading members, 
 perchance Deacons of his wealthy congrega- 
 tion. The one with the slight form, and 
 short stiff gray, hair, — Watkins. Mr. Potts, 
 is a small man, with a bald head, and the 
 slightest tendency in the world to corpu- 
 lence. Mr. Burns is tall and lean, with an- 
 gular features, and an immense nose. Alto- 
 gether, as grave and respectable men as you 
 will meet in a days walk, from Wall Street, 
 to the head of Broadway. But what do 
 they in the Temple, at any time, but espe- 
 cially at this unusual hour ? 
 
 That was precisely the question which 
 troubled Bulgin. 
 
 "W-e-1-1 Gentle-m-e-n," he said, not 
 exactly knowing what else to say. 
 
 To which they all responded with a sin- 
 gular unanimity, — "W-e-1-1 D-o-c-t-o-r !" 
 
 " Did not I,— did not I,— tell,— tell you 
 not to come in here ?" sobbed the nephew, — 
 that is J ulia. 
 
 Mr. Watkins arose and passed his hand 
 through his stiff gray hair, — 
 
 "Allow me to compliment you upon the 
 becoming character of your costume 1" and 
 sat down again. 
 
 Then Mr. Potts, whose bald head shone 
 in the light as he rose, — 
 
 "And allow me to congratulate you upon 
 the character of this house, and especially 
 the elegant seclusion of this chamber." And 
 Mr. Potts sat down. 
 
 Mr. Burns' lean form next ascended, and 
 his nose seemed to increase in size, as he 
 projected it in a low bow, — 
 
 "And allow me, — " what a deep voice ! 
 " to congratulate you upon the society of your 
 companion, who becomes her male attire 
 exceedingly." And Mr. Burns gravely re- 
 sumed his seat. 
 
 "Did — I — not— tell, tell — you, — n-o-t to 
 come in," sobbed Julia. 
 
 The Doctor's face was partly hidden by 
 his plumes, but that portion of it which waa 
 visible, resembled nothing so much in color, 
 as a boiled lobster. 
 
 It now occurred to the Doctor, to release 
 his grasp upon the waist of J ulia. He left 
 her to herself, and she fell on her knees, 
 burying her face in her hands. As for the 
 Doctor himself, he slid slowly into a chair, 
 never once removing his gaze, from the three 
 gentlemen on the sofa. Thus confronting 
 them in his cardinal's attire, with the white 
 plumes nodding over his forehead, beseemed, 
 in the language of the chairman of a town 
 meeting, "to be waiting for this here meeting 
 to proceed to business." 
 
 There was a pause, — a painful and em- 
 barrassing pause. 
 
 The three sat like statues, only that Mr. 
 Potts rubbed the end of his nose, with the 
 top of his cane. 
 
 Why could not Dr. Bulgin, after the 
 manner of the Genii in the Arabian Nights, 
 disappear through the floor, in a cloud of 
 mist and puff of perfume ? 
 
 "Well, — gentlemen, — " said Bulgin at 
 last, for the dead silence began to drive him 
 mad, and made him hear all sorts of noises, 
 in his ears, — "what are you doing in this 
 place, at this unusual hour !" 
 
 This was a pointed question, to which 
 Mr. Bums felt called upon to reply. He 
 rose, and again the nose loomed largely, as 
 he bowed, — 
 
172 
 
 IN THE TEMPLE. 
 
 "Precisely the question whicli we were 
 about to ask you," he said, and was seated 
 again. 
 
 Mr. Potts took his turn : 
 
 " For a long time we have heard rumors," 
 he said rising, " rumors concerning our pas- 
 tor, of a painful nature. And although we 
 did not credit them, yet they troubled us. 
 Last night, however, we each received a 
 letter, from an unknown person, who in- 
 formed us, that in case we visited this house, 
 between midnight and daybreak, we would 
 discover our pastor, in company with the 
 wife of an aged member of our church. As 
 the letter inclosed the password, by which 
 admittance is gained to this place, Ave took 
 counsel upon the matter, and concluded to 
 some. And, — " 
 
 "And, — " interrupted Watkins, rising 
 solemnly, and extending the forefinger of his 
 right hand, toward Bulgin, " and iww we see!*' 
 
 "And now we see echoed Mr. Watkins, 
 absently shutting one eye, as he regarded 
 Bulgin's face. 
 
 " We all see," remarked Mr. Potts resum- 
 ing his seat, and then as if to clinch the 
 matter — " and with our own eyes !" 
 
 Bulgin never before fully appreciated the 
 meaning of the word "embarrassed." His 
 wits had never failed him before; would 
 they fail him now ? He made an effort — 
 
 " Why, gentlemen, the truth is, I was sum- 
 moned to this house, on professional duty, — " 
 he began. 
 
 " Mr. Potts groaned ; they all groaned. 
 " In that costume ? asked Potts. 
 "And with madam there?" asked Wat- 
 kins. 
 
 " Pro-fessi-o-n-a-1 d-u-t-y!" thus Watkins 
 in a hollow voice. 
 
 * Professional duty ' would not do ; evi- 
 dently not. Foiled on this tack, the good 
 Doctor tried another : 
 
 " The truth is," he began, with remarkable 
 composure, — "I had been informed that 
 Mrs. Parkins here, — " he pointed to the 
 sobbing "nephew" otherwise Julia, and 
 drew his chair nearer to the three, gradually 
 softening his voice into a confidential whis- 
 per, — " Mrs. Parkins, the young wife of my 
 aged friend Parkins, had been so far led 
 away by the insinuating manners of a young 
 man of fashion, as to promise to meet him 
 
 in this improper place. Desirous to save th( 
 wife of my aged friend at all hazards, I as 
 sumed this dress, — the one which her sedu- 
 cer was to wear, — and came to this place 
 and, — rescued her. Do you understand ?" 
 
 That "do you understand," was given ir 
 one of his most insinuating whispers ; " anc 
 thus you see I periled my reputation ir 
 order to save, — her .'" 
 
 What effect this story would have had 
 upon the three, had it been suffered to travd 
 unquestioned, i*-, is impossible to tell. But 
 low and softly as the Doctor whispered, 111 
 Avas overheard by his "nephew," otherwise, 
 J ulia. 
 
 " Don't lie. Doctor," she said quite tartly aa 
 she knelt on the floor. "I was not led away, 
 by any young man of fashion, and I did not 
 come here to meet any young man of fashion. 
 I was led away by you, and I came here 
 with ]fou." 
 
 Thus speaking, Julia rose from her knees, 
 and came to the Doctor's side, thus present- 
 ing to the sight of the three gentlemen, the 
 figure of a very handsome woman, dressed , 
 in blue frock coat and trowsers. She was 
 somewhat tall, luxuriously proportioned, 
 with a fine bust and faultless arms, her hair, 
 chestnut brown, and her complexion a deli- 
 cate mingling of " strawberries and cream." 
 "A dem foine woman, the exquisite of 
 Broadway would have called her. There 
 was not so much of intellect in her face, as 
 there was health, youth, passion. Mar- 
 ried to a man of her own age, and whom she , 
 loved, she doubtless would have risen above 
 temptation, and always proved a faithful 
 wife, an affectionate mother. But sold by 
 her parents, in the mockery of a marriage, to 
 a man old enough to be her father, — per- 
 chance her grandfather, — transferred at the 
 age of seventeen, like a bale of merchandise, 
 to the possession of one Avhom she could not 
 revere as a father, or love as a husband, — 
 we behold her before us, the victim of the 
 reverend tempter. 
 
 "You know. Doctor, that you ied me 
 away, you know you did," she cried, J6b- 
 bing, "now did you not?" She bent 
 down her head and looked into his face. 
 "You can't say you didn't. No more he 
 can't," and she turned in mute appeal to the 
 three gentlemeru 
 
FROM MIDNIGHT UNTIL DAWN. 
 
 178 
 
 "Evidently not,'' exclaimed Mr. Potts, 
 who in his younger daj's had been somewhat 
 wild, "that cock Avon't fight !" he continued 
 using a figure of speech, derived from the 
 experience of said younger days. 
 
 As for the Doctor, he mentally wished 
 tite beautiful Mrs. Julia Parkins in Kams- 
 cbatka. 
 
 "Never have an affair with a fool again, 
 as long 2S I live !" he muttered. 
 
 "And while you soothed my poor old 
 husband, on that doctrinal point; you, — you," 
 sobbed Julia, " told me how handsome I was, 
 and what a shame it was for me, to be jailed 
 cp with an old man like that. Yes, you 
 said jailed. And how it was no harm for 
 me to love you, and that it was no harm for 
 you to love me. And I heard you preach, and 
 you came to the house, day after day, and, — " 
 poor Julia could not go on for sobbing. 
 
 The three gentlemen groaned. 
 
 As for Dr. Bulgin, he calmly rose from his 
 seat, and taking the corkscrew from the tray 
 on the table, proceeded quietly to draw the 
 cork of a bottle of champagi]^. This accom- 
 plished, he filled a long necked glass to the 
 brim wJfth foaming Heidsick. 
 
 "Jig's up, gentlemen," he said, bowing to 
 tb6 three, as he tossed oflf the glass, and re- 
 garded them with a smile of matchless im- 
 pudence, — "Jig's up !" 
 
 ■•^What does he mean by 'jig's up 
 asked Mr. Burns of Mr. Potts, in a very 
 hollow voice. 
 
 "He means," returned Bulgin himself, 
 straightening up, and rubbing his broad chest 
 with his fat hand, " that the jig is up. 
 You've found me out. There's no use of 
 lying about it. And now that you have 
 found me out, — " he paused, filled another 
 glass, and contemplated the three, over its 
 brim, — " allow me to ask, what do you intend 
 to do ?" 
 
 He took a sip from the glass. The three 
 were thunderstruck. 
 
 " Cool !" exclaimed Mr. Potts, punching 
 the toe of his boot with his cane. 
 
 " You cant expose me," continued Bulgin, 
 as he took another sip : " that would create 
 scandal, you know, and hurt the church more 
 than it would me." 
 
 The rich impudence of the Doctor's look, 
 would " have made a cat lausrh." 
 
 9' » 
 
 "We will expose you!" cried Watkins, 
 hollowly, with an emphatic nodding of his 
 nose. " The truth demands it. As long as 
 you are suffered to prowl about in this way, 
 no man's wife, sister, or daughter is safe." 
 
 "No man's wife, sister, or daughter is 
 safe !" echoed Mr. Potts. 
 
 " Did I ever tempt 7jour wife. Burns ?" 
 coolly asked Bulgin, — Burns winced, for his 
 wife was remarkably plain. 
 
 " Or your sister, Potts ?" Potts colored to 
 the eyes ; his sister was a miracle of plain- 
 ness. 
 
 " Or your daughter, Watkins ?" Watkins 
 felt the thrust, for his daughter was as plain 
 as Burns' wife and Potts' sister combined. 
 
 " Be assured I never will," continued 
 Bulgin — " now, what do you intend to do ? 
 Expose me and ruin this poor creature here?" 
 " Don't call me a poor creature, you brute !" 
 indignantly interrupted Julia. " Publish me 
 in the papers, dismiss me from the church, give 
 my name to be a by- word in the mouths of 
 scoffers and infidels ? Gravely, gentlemen, 
 is that what you mean to do ? Let us reflect 
 a little. You pay me a good salary; I preacl^ 
 you good sermons. Granted. My practice 
 may be a little loose, but, is not my doctrine 
 orthodox ? Where can you get a preache? 
 who will draw larger crowds ? And is it 
 worth your while, merely on account of a 
 little weakness like this," — he pointed to 
 J ulia, — " to disgrace me and the church 
 together ?" 
 
 The Doctor saw by their faces, that he 
 had made an impression. They conversed 
 together in low tones, and with much earn- 
 estness. Meanwhile, J ulia sobbed and Bul- 
 gin took another glass of champagne. 
 
 "Will you solemnly promise," — Bums 
 knocked his cane on the floor, and emphasis- 
 ed each word, " to be more careful of your 
 conduct in the future, in case we overlook 
 the present offense ?" 
 
 " Cordially, gentlemen, and upon my 
 honor !" cried Bulgin, rising from his seat, 
 "I will take Julia quietly home, and to- 
 morrow commence life anew. I give you 
 my hand upon it." 
 
 He advanced, ^nd shook them by the 
 hand. 
 
 " If you keep your word, this will SBit 
 me," said Bums, wdth gloomy cordiality. 
 
174 
 
 IN THE TEMPLE. 
 
 "And me," echoed Watkins. 
 
 /"And me," responded Potts. 
 " But it will not suit me !" cried a strange 
 voice, which started the whole company to 
 their feet. The voice came from behind the 
 hangings which concealed the bed. It was 
 a firm voice, and deep as a well. 
 
 " It will not suit me, I say," and from the 
 hangings the unknown speaker emerged with 
 a measured stride. 
 
 He was a tall man, somewhat bent in the 
 shoulders, and wore a long cloak, of an an- 
 tique fashion, which was fastened to his neck 
 by a golden clasp. His white hairs were 
 covered by an old-fashioned fur-cap ; his 
 eyes hidden by large green glasses, and the 
 furred collar of his cloak, concealed the 
 lower part of his face. An aged man, evi- 
 dently, as might be seen by his snow-white 
 hair, and the wrinkles on the exposed por- 
 tion of his face, but his step was strong and 
 measured, and his voice firm and clear. 
 
 "And who are youV^ cried Bulgin, 
 recovering from his surprise. His remark 
 was chorused by the others. 
 
 "A pew-holder in your church," emphati- 
 cally exclaimed the cloaked individual. 
 " Let that suffice you. " Gentlemen," — turn- 
 mg his back on Bulgin, he lifted his cap and 
 exposed his forehead to the three gentle- 
 men, — " you know me ?" 
 
 With one impulse, they pronounced a 
 name ; and it was plainly to be seen that 
 they respected that name, and its owner. 
 
 " This compromise does not suit me," said 
 the cloaked gentleman, turning abruptly to 
 Bulgin. " You are a villain, sir. It is men 
 like you who bring the Gospel of Christ into 
 contempt. You are an atheist, sir. It is 
 men like you who fill the world with infi- 
 dels. I have borne with you long enough. 
 I will bear with you no longer. You shall 
 be exposed, sir." 
 
 This style of attack, as impetuous as a 
 charge of bayonets, evidently startled the 
 good Doctor. 
 
 " Who are you f " he asked, sneeringly. 
 
 " I am the man who wrote the letters to 
 these three gentlemen, yesterday," dryly 
 responded the cloaked gentleman. 
 
 " This is a conspiracy," growled Bulgin. 
 " Take care, sir ! There is a law for con- 
 Bpirators against character and reputation — " 
 
 " Baugh !" responded the old gentleman, 
 shrugging his shoulders ; and then he beck- 
 oned with his hand, toward the recess in 
 which stood the bed. " Come in," ho said, 
 "it is time." 
 
 Two persons emerged from the recess ; 
 one, an old man, of portly form, and mild, 
 good-humored face — now, alas ! dark and 
 coiTugated with suppressed wrath ; the other, 
 a slender woman, with pale face, and large, 
 intellectual eyes, — and a baby, sleeping on 
 her bosom. 
 
 Bulgin uttered an oath. 
 
 " My wife ! — her father !" was all he could 
 utter. 
 
 *' I have summoned you from your home 
 in the country," said the cloaked gentleman, 
 " to meet me at this house at this unusual 
 hour, to show you the husband and son-in- 
 law in his festival attire, and in company 
 with his paramour. — Look at him ! Isn't he 
 beautiful ?" 
 
 The wife rushed forward, with an indig- 
 nant glance — 
 
 " Let me see the woman who has stolen 
 my husband's afl^ctions," she said. 
 
 The cloaked gentleman interpos^ be- 
 tween her and Julia, — 
 
 " Softly, my good lady ; this poor child 
 must not be disgraced;" and, turning to 
 Julia, he whispered : " Hide your face with 
 your 'kerchief, and hurry from the rooE^. 
 There is a carriage at the door ; it will bear 
 you home. Away now !" 
 
 " The nephew" did not need a second 
 invitation. Hands over her face, she glided 
 from the room. 
 
 Bulgin now found himself in this posi- 
 tion : — behind him, Watkins, Burns and 
 Potts ; on his right, the cloaked gentleman ; 
 on his left, his weeping wife, with her baby; 
 in front, the burly form of his father-in-law, 
 who, clad in the easy costume of a country 
 gentleman, seemed too full of wrath to trust 
 himself with Avords. 
 
 " Oh ! husband, how could you — " began 
 the wife. 
 
 " Is that your wife, sir ? " thundered the 
 father-in-law. " Answer me ! Is that your 
 wife ?" 
 
 *• "It is," answered Bulgin, retreating a step. 
 " Allow me to explain, — " 
 
 " Is that your child, sir ?" thundered tho 
 
FROM MIDNIGHT UNTIL DAWN. 
 
 175 
 
 enraged old gentleman. " Answer me ! Is 
 that your child ?" 
 
 "It — is — " and Bulgin retreated another 
 step. 
 
 " Then, what in the devil do you do in a 
 place like this ? — Hey ? — Answer me ! — an- 
 swer me ! — " 
 
 The father-in-law was too much enraged 
 to say any more. So he proceeded to settle 
 the affair in his own way. He did not 
 threaten " divorce — did not even mention 
 "separate maintenance." Nothing of the 
 kind. His course was altogether different. 
 From beneath his capacious buff waistcoat, 
 he drew forth a cow-hide — a veritable cow- 
 hide, — and grasped it firmly. 
 
 "Don't strike a man of my cloth," cried 
 Bulgin, 
 
 The only answer was a blow across the 
 face, which left its livid mark on the nose 
 and cheeks. The good Doctor bawled and 
 ran. The father-in-law pursued, giving the 
 cow-hide free play over the head and shoul- 
 ders of the Doctor. And the wife, with 
 baby on her bosom, pursued her father, — 
 "Don't, father, don't!" Thus, the chase 
 led round the room ; the howls of the Doc- 
 tor, the blows of the whip, the falling of 
 chairs, and trampling of feet, forming, alto- 
 gether, a striking chorus. And to add the 
 feather to the camel's back, the baby lifted 
 up its voice in the midst of the scene. Mr. 
 Potts, Mr. Burns, and Mr. Watkins, mounted 
 on the sofa, so that they might not be in the 
 way. 
 
 As for the cloaked gentleman, leaning 
 against the door, he laughed, — yes, perhaps 
 for the first time in thirty years. 
 
 After making the circuit of the room three 
 or four times, the scarlet attire of the Eev. 
 Dr. Bulgin hung in rags upon his back ; and 
 the old man, red in the face, bathed in per- 
 spiration, and out of breath, sank panting in 
 a chair. 
 
 He glanced at his daughter, who sat weep- 
 ing in a corner, and then at the Rev. Doctor, 
 who, with the figure of the letter X welted 
 across his face, was rubbing his bruises in 
 another corner. 
 
 "Now, sir, if ever I catch you at anything 
 of this kind, if I don't lick you, my name 
 B\nt J nkins !" 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 BANK-STOCK AT THE BAB. 
 
 The Court of Ten Millions was once more 
 in session. The judge was once more in his 
 seat ; his form enveloped in the coat with 
 many capes, his features shadowed by the 
 hat with ample brim. But the beautiful 
 Esther was no longer on his left, nor the 
 giant negro on his right. The great states- 
 man, with the somber brow and masquerade 
 attire of Roderick Borgia, no longer sat in 
 the seat of the criminal. The scene was 
 altogether changed, although the candle on 
 the table still shed its beams around that 
 room, whose black hangings were fringed 
 with gold, and whose gloomy ceiling repre- 
 sented a stormy sky, with the sun struggling 
 among its clouds. 
 
 In the seat of the criminal sat Israel 
 Yorke, the financier ; his diminutive form, 
 clad in the scarlet Turkish jacket and blue 
 trowsers, contrasting somewhat oddly with 
 his business-like face, and with the general 
 appearance of. the scene. Israel was per- 
 plexed, for he shifted uneasily in the chair 
 and clasped its arms with his hands, while 
 his ferret-like eyes, now peering above, now 
 below, but never through the glasses of his 
 spectacles, roved incessantly from side to 
 side. There sat the silent judge, under the 
 gloomy canopy, his head bowed on his 
 breast. There w^as the black table, on which 
 stood the solitary candle, and over which 
 were scattered, an inkstand, pen and paper, 
 a book, and sundry other volumes, looking 
 very much like ledger and day-book. On 
 one side of the table, ranged against the 
 wall, were six sturdy fellows, attired in 
 coarse garments, with crape over their faces; 
 and each man held a club in his brawny 
 hand. And on the opposite side, also ranged 
 against the wall like statues, were six more 
 sturdy fellows, each one grasping a club with 
 his strong right arm. They were dumb as 
 stone ; only their hard breathing could be 
 heard ; — evidently men of toil, who, on occa- 
 sion, in a good cause, can strike a blow that 
 will be felt. 
 
 Israel did not like this scene. A few 
 moments since, kneeling beside a beautiful 
 girl, whose young loveliness was helpless 
 and in his power ; — and now, a prisoner in 
 
176 
 
 IN THE TEMPLE. 
 
 this nightmare sort of place, with the judge 
 Defore him, and six sturdy fellows on either 
 hand, waiting to do the judge's bidding ! 
 The contrast was too violent. Israel thought 
 so ; and — Israel felt anything but comfort- 
 able. 
 
 "Do they mean to murder me in this dis- 
 mal den?" he ejaculated to himself. " Really, 
 this way of doing business is exceedingly 
 unbusiness-like. What would they say in 
 Wall street to a scene like this ?" 
 
 Here the voice of the judge was heard 
 through the dead stillness : 
 
 " Israel Yorke, you are about to be put on 
 trial for your crimes." 
 
 "My crimes ?" ejaculated the little man, 
 bounding from his seat. " Crimes ! — What 
 crimes have I committed ?" 
 
 There, outspoke the sense of injured inno- 
 cence ! To be sure — what crimes had he 
 committed ? Had he ever stabbed a man, or 
 put another man's name to paper, or stolen a 
 loaf of bread? No, — indignantly — No! 
 Israel Yorke was above all that. But how 
 many robbers had he made, in the course of 
 his career, by his banking speculations? how 
 many forgers? how many murderers? how 
 many honest men had he flung into the 
 felon's cell? how many pure women had he 
 transformed into walkers of the public 
 streets ? Ah ! these are questions which 
 Israel Yorke had rather not answer. 
 
 "Yes, your crimes, committed through a 
 long course of years ; not with the bravery 
 and boldness of the highway robber, but 
 with the cowardice and low cunning of the 
 sneak and swindler, who robs within the 
 letter of the law. Crimes committed, not 
 upon the wealthy and the strong, but upon 
 the weak, the poor, the helpless — the widow, 
 by her fireless hearth — the orphan, by his 
 father's grave. Oh, sir — we have just tried 
 a bold, bad man ; a colossal criminal, whose 
 very errors wear something of the gloomy 
 grandeur of the thunder-cloud. To put you 
 on trial, after him, is like leaving the 
 presence of Satan, his forehead yet bearing 
 some traces of former splendor, to find ones- 
 self confronted by Mammon, that most 
 abased of all the damned. Yes, sir, — an 
 apology is due to human nature, by this 
 court, for st coping so low as to put you on 
 your trial. And yet, even you derive some 
 
 sort of consequence from the vast field of 
 your crimes, — the wide-spread and infernal 
 results of your life-long labors." 
 
 Israel crouched in his chair, as though he 
 expected the ceiling to fall on him. "What 
 d'ye mean by crimes ? " he cried, grasping 
 the arms of the chair with both hands ; — 
 " and what right have you to try me ?" 
 
 The judge briefly but pointedly, and in a 
 clear voice, which penetrated every nook of 
 the chamber, explained the peculiar features 
 of the court. Its power, backed by ten mil- 
 lions of silver dollars ; its jurisdiction, over 
 crimes committed by those who seek the 
 fruits of labor, without its work, or who use 
 the accident of wealth and social position to 
 oppress or degrade man — their brother ; its 
 stern application to criminals, who, clad iU 
 wealth, had trampled all justice under foot 
 of their own terse motto, "Might makes 
 
 RIGHT." 
 
 The explanation of the judge was brief, 
 but impressive. Israel began to feel convic- 
 tion steal into his soul. " Might makes right !" 
 Oh, how like the last nail in the coffin, 
 are those simple words, to a wealthy scoun- 
 drel, who suddenly finds himself helpless in 
 the grasp of a mightier power ! 
 
 " Of — what — am — I — accusf^d !" faltered 
 Israel ; thus recognising the jurisdiction of 
 the court. 
 
 The judge answered him : 
 
 " Of every crime that can be committed 
 by the man, who makes it his sole object in 
 life to coin money out of the life and blood 
 of the helpless and the poor ; — and who 
 pursues this object steadily, by day and 
 night, for twenty years, with the untiring 
 scent of the bloodhound on the track of 
 blood. Survey your life for the last twenty 
 years. You have appeared in various char* 
 acters : as the trustee, as the executor, as the 
 speculator, the landlord, and the financier. 
 
 He paused. Israel found himself listen- 
 ing with intense interest. 
 
 " As the trustee, to whom dying men, with 
 their last breath, intrusted the heritage of 
 the orphan, you have in every case, plun- 
 dered the orphan out of bread, out of edu- 
 cation, and cast him ignorant and helpless 
 upon the world. How many orphans, given 
 into your charge, with their heritage, now 
 rot in the grave, or in the felon's dungeon ? 
 
FROM MIDNIGHT UNTIL DAWN. 
 
 177 
 
 Your history is written in their blood. Do 
 you, — " the voice of the judge sank low, — 
 " do you remember one orphan, whom, when 
 a little child, her father gave to your care, 
 and whom, when grown to young woman- 
 hood, you robbed of her heritage ? Do you 
 remember the day on which she died, the 
 tenant of a brothel ? " 
 
 Once more the judge was silent, but Israel 
 had no word of reply. As for the twelve 
 listeners, they manifested their attention by 
 BJi ominous murmur. 
 
 "As the landlord, it has not been your 
 object to provide the poor with comfortable 
 homes, in exchange for their hard-earned 
 rent-money, but to pack as many human be- 
 ings as you might, within the smallest com- 
 pass of brick and mortar, — to herd creatures 
 made in the image of the living God, in nar- 
 row rooms, dark courts; and pestilential al- 
 leys, as never beasts were herded, — and thus 
 you have sowed death, you have bred the 
 fever, the small-pox, the cholera, — but you 
 have made money.''^ 
 
 Seated in the shadow of the velvet canopy, 
 from which his voice resounded, the judge 
 again was silent. Israel, dropping his eyes, 
 imitated the silence of the judge. The 
 murmur of the twelve listeners was now 
 accompanied by the sound of their clubs 
 grating against the floor. 
 
 " It is as a banker, however, that your ap- 
 petite for money, made out of human blood, 
 takes its intensest form of baseness. You 
 started with a Savings Fund, chartered by 
 a well-paid legislature, who transformed you 
 into a president and board of directors, and 
 divesting you of all responsibility, as a man, 
 authorized you to coin money out of the 
 blind confidence of the poor. Hard-work- 
 ing men, servant-girls, needle-women, and 
 others of the poor, who gain their pittance 
 by labor that never knows rest, until it sleeps 
 in the grave, deposited that pittance in your 
 hands. A pittance, mark you, not so re- 
 markable for its amount, as for the fact, that 
 it might, in some future hovn*, become bread 
 to the starving, warmth to the freezing, home 
 to the homeless. And how did you deal 
 with the sacred trust ? The earnings of the 
 poor filled the cofters of your Savings Fund, 
 until they counted over a hundred thousand 
 dollars, anl then, on the eve Df a dreary 
 
 winter, the Savings Fund failed. That wai< 
 all. You did not fail; oh, no; but the Sa^ 
 vings Fund Corporation (into which a pliant 
 legislature had transformed you), — it failed. 
 And while you pocketed the hundred thou- 
 sand dollars, you left the poor, who had 
 trusted you, to starve, or beg, or die, as 
 pleased them." 
 
 Israel shaded his eyes with his hands ; ha 
 seemed buried in profound thought. 
 
 " This was the corner-stone of your for- 
 tunes. Then the Savings Fund swindler 
 grew into the banker. There were legisla- 
 tures at Albany, at Trenton and at Harris- 
 burgh, eager to do your bidding, — hungry to 
 be bought. For every dollar of real value 
 in your coffers, these legislatures, by their 
 charters, gave you the privilege to create at 
 least fifty paper dollars ; in other words, to 
 demand from the toiling people of the land, 
 some millions of dollars' worth of their labor, 
 without any equivalent. Your banks grew ; 
 there were sham presidents and boards of 
 directors, but you were the actual owner of 
 them all ; your paper was scattered broad- 
 cast over the land. It was in the hands of 
 farmers and mechanics, of poor men and 
 poor women, who had taken it in pay for 
 hard labor ; and all at once your banks failed. 
 What became of the poor wretches who took 
 your paper, is not known, but as for you, 
 your capital of a hundred thousand now 
 swelled into two millions of dollars. Let the 
 poor howl ! Had you not a press in your 
 pay ? Why should not the press be pur- 
 chased, when legislatures are to be bought as 
 so much merchandise ? " 
 
 The judge paused, and after a moment 
 resumed, — 
 
 " There was a clamor for a while, but you 
 laughed in your sleeve, bought houses and 
 lands, — dotted the city with pestilential dens, 
 ' in which you crowded the poor, like insects 
 j in a festering carcass, — and after a time, raised 
 I your head once more as a banker. It was 
 j Harrisburgh, Albany or Trenton this time, — 
 ! one of the three, or all of them, — which 
 gave you the right to steal by law. You 
 i were now the owner (and behind the scenes, 
 I the wire-puller), of three banks. Last night 
 ' you thought ' the pear ripe.' Your notes 
 were once more scattered broadcast over the 
 _ land. ' It is a good time to fail,' you thought, 
 
178 IN THE 
 
 and so last night, in the railroad cars (in order 
 to give a color to your failure) you pretended 
 to be robbed of seventy-one thousand dollars." 
 
 *' Pretended to be robbed ? I tell you I 
 was robbed," cried Israel, half-rising from 
 his seat, — " robbed by an old convict and his 
 young accomplice." 
 
 "And this morning, in due course, your 
 three banks stopped payijient. All day long 
 your victims lined the street, in front of your 
 den of plunder ; and to-night found you in 
 this place, seeking for a time, the gratifica- 
 tion of one lust in place of another. And 
 now you are in the hands of those who, 
 having ' the might,' will do with you as 
 your crimes deserve. 'Might makes right,' 
 you know. " 
 
 "But where is the proof of all this? Where 
 are my accusers ? " Israel's teeth chattered 
 as he spoke. 
 
 " Do you ask for accusers ? What accusers 
 are needed more powerful than those voices 
 which now, — and even your seared conscience 
 must heai- them, — arise against you from the 
 silence of the grave and the darkness of the 
 dungeon cell ? " 
 
 Israel tried hard to brace his nerves 
 against the force of words like these, — 
 against the tone in which they were spoke, — 
 but he shook from head to foot, as though he 
 had been seized with an ague-fit. 
 
 " Think for a moment of Cornelius Ber- 
 men, whom, by the grossest fraud, you strip- 
 ped of property and home, leaving himself 
 and his only child to sink heart-broken into 
 the grave. And once you called yourself 
 his friend. Think, also, of your instrument. 
 Buggies, whose persecution of the artist, in- 
 stigated by you, provoked a brave and hon- 
 est youth into murder, and consigned him to 
 the felon's death ! Do you ask for accusers ?" 
 
 " Cornelius' Bermen ! " faltered Israel, as 
 if thinking aloud. 
 
 " Do you ask for proofs ? Behold them 
 on the table before you. For years your course 
 has been tracked, your crimes counted, and 
 the hour of your punishment fixed. And 
 the hour has come ! On the table before 
 you are proofs of all your crimes, proofs that 
 would weigh you down in a convict's chains 
 before any court of law. There are the se- 
 crets which you thought safely locked up in 
 your fire-proof, or buried in the forgotten 
 
 TEMPLE. 
 
 past, — secrets connected v^ith the history of 
 long years, with your transactions in Harris- 
 burgh, Trenton, Albany, — with all your 
 schemes from the very dawning of your in- 
 famous career." 
 
 " Can Fetch, the villain, have betrayed 
 me ? " and Israel sank back helplessly in 
 the huge arm-chair; — "or, is this man only 
 trying to bully me into some confession or 
 other ? " . . 
 
 " Israel Yorke ! the devotion with which 
 you, for long years, have pursued your ob- 
 ject, — to coin money out of human blood,— 
 has only been exceeded by the devotion of 
 those who have followed you at every step 
 of the way, and for 3'ears, singled you out as 
 the victim of avenging justice." 
 
 " But what do you intend to do with me ?" 
 cried Yorke, now shivering from head to foot 
 with terror. 
 
 " In the first place, you will sign a paper, 
 stating the truth, viz : that you have ample 
 means to redeem every dollar of your notes, 
 and that you will redeem them to-day, and 
 henceforth at your office." 
 
 " But I have not the funds," Israel began, 
 but he was sternly interrupted by the judge : 
 " It is false ! you have the funds. Independ- 
 ent of the seventy-one thousand dollars, of 
 which you say you were robbed, you can, at 
 any moment, command a million dollars. 
 The proofs are on the table before you. You 
 must redeem your notes." 
 
 "And suppose I consent to sign such a 
 paper?" hesitated the Financier. 
 
 " Then you must sign another paper, the 
 contents of which you will not know until 
 some future time," continued the judge, very 
 quietly. 
 
 " If I do it, may I be ! " screamed 
 
 Israel, bouncing from his seat. 
 
 " It is well. You may go," calmly re- 
 marked the judge. " You are free ; these 
 gentlemen will see you from, this house, and 
 attend you until bank hours, when they will 
 have the honor of presenting you to the 
 holders of your notes, who will, doubtless, 
 gather in respectable numbers in front of 
 your banking house." 
 
 Israel was free, but the twel ve gentlemen, 
 with clubs, gathered round him, anxious to 
 escort him safely on his way. 
 
 " Come, my dear little Turk:, we are ready," 
 
FROM MIDNIGHT UNTIL DAWN. 
 
 179 
 
 said one of the number, with a very gruff 
 voice, laying a hand, — it was such a hard 
 hand, — on the shoulders of the Financier, 
 "We're a-dyin' to go with you; ain't we, 
 boys ?" 
 
 •* Dyin' ain't the word, — we're starvin' to 
 death to be alone with the gentleman in blue 
 trowsers," responded another. 
 
 Israel bit his lips in silent rage. 
 
 " Give me the papers," he said, in a sullen 
 voice, and following a sign from the finger 
 of the judge, he advanced to the table, and 
 beheld the documents, the fii-st of which he 
 read. 
 
 It was an important document, containing 
 a brief statement of all Israel's financial af- 
 fairs, — evidently prepared by one who knew 
 all about him, — together with his solemn 
 promise to redeem every one of his notes, 
 dollar for dollar. 
 
 " Could Fetch have betrayed me ? " — Is- 
 rael hissed the words between his set teeth, 
 as he took up the pen. — " If I thought so, 
 I'd cut his throat." 
 
 He signed, shook his gold spectacles, and 
 uttered a deep sigh. 
 
 " Now, the other paper," said the judge, 
 " its contents are concealed by another sheet, 
 but there is room for jom signature." 
 
 Israel's little eyes shone wickedly as he 
 gazed upon the sheet of paper, which hid 
 the mysterious document. He chewed the 
 handle of his pen between his teeth, — stood 
 for a moment in great perplexit}^, and then 
 signed at the bottom of the sheet, the mu- 
 sical name of "Israel Yorke," and then 
 fell back in the chair wiping the sweat from 
 his forehead with the sleeve of his Turkish 
 jacket. 
 
 "Anything more ?" he gasped. 
 
 "You are free," said the judge; "you 
 may now change your dress, and leave this 
 house." 
 
 Israel bounced from his seat. 
 
 "Yet, hold a single moment. One of these 
 gentlemen will accompany you wherever you 
 go; eat, drink, walk, sit, sleep with you, and 
 be introduced by you to all your financial 
 friends, as your moneyed friend from the 
 country, " 
 
 " Why, you must be the devil incarnate," 
 screamed Israel, and he beat his clenched 
 hand against the arm of the chair. 
 
 " It will be the business of your attendant 
 to accompany you to your banking house, 
 and see that you commence the redemption 
 of your notes at nine o'clock this morning. 
 He will report all your movements to me. 
 Were you suffered to go alone, you might, in 
 a fit of absence, glide out of public view, 
 and, — Havana is such a pleasant residence for 
 runaway bankers, especially in winter time." 
 
 Israel gave utterance to an oath. The 
 judge, without remarking this pardonable 
 ebullition of feeling, quietly addressed his 
 twelve, — 
 
 " Which of you gentlemen will put your- 
 self under this gentleman's orders, as his at- 
 tendant and shadow ? " 
 
 There was a pause, and one of the twelve 
 advanced and laid his brawny hand upon 
 the table. His gaunt and muscular form 
 was clad in a sleek frock-coat of dark blue 
 cloth, buttoned over his broad chest to his 
 throat, where it was relieved by a black cra- 
 vat and high shirt collar. His harsh fea- 
 tures, closely shaven, and disfigured by a 
 hideous scar on his cheek, — features mani- 
 festing traces of hardship and age, — were in 
 singular contrast with his hair, Avhich, sleek, 
 and brown and glossy, was parted neatly in 
 the middle of his huge head, and descended 
 to either ear, in massy curls. His eyes, half 
 hidden by the shaggy brows, shone with an 
 expression only to be described by the words, 
 ferocious fun. 
 
 " I'll go with him, boss," said a gruff 
 voice ; and, turning to Israel, this singular 
 individual regarded him with a steady look, 
 Israel returned his look, and the twain gazed 
 upon each other with increasing interest ; and 
 at length the individual approached Israel, 
 and bent down his head near to his face. 
 
 " It's the fellow, — it's the follow ! " cried 
 Israel, once more bouncing from his seat. 
 "He robbed me last night in the cars, — 
 he " 
 
 "Be silent," cried the judge, who had re- 
 garded this scene attentively, M'ith his hand 
 upraised to his brow. — " Gentlemen, conduct 
 the prisoner into the next room, and leave 
 me alone with this person," he pointed to the 
 gaunt individual who stood alone by the table. 
 
 The eleven disappeared through the cur- 
 tains into the Golden Eoom with Israel m 
 their charge. 
 
180 IN THE 
 
 " Now sir, who aro you ?" sternly in- 
 quired the judge. 
 
 The individual gravely lifted his brown 
 hair, — for it was a wig, — and disclosed the 
 outline of his huge head, with the black 
 hair streaked with gray, cut close to the 
 scalp. Then turning down the high shirt- 
 collar, he disclosed the lower part of his 
 face, — the wide mouth and iron jaw, stamp- 
 ed with a savage resolution. 
 
 "Don't you think I'm hansum ?" he said, 
 and the eyes twinkled imder the bushy 
 brows, and the mouth distorted in a grin. 
 
 " It's the same !" ejaculated the judge, — 
 "How did you escape from the room in 
 v^^hich you were confined some three hours 
 ago, and what do you here ?" 
 
 "As yer so civil and pleasant spoken, I 
 don't mind answerin' yer questions. Arter 
 the poleese had tied me, and left me in the 
 dark upon the bed, *it looks black,' said I to 
 myself, 'but don't give it up so easy !' and a 
 side door was opened, an' a hand cut my cords, 
 and a voice said ' get up and travel, — the 
 way is clear,' and a bundle was put into my 
 hand, containin' these clothes, and this head 
 o' hair. — I rigged myself out in the dark, 
 pitched my old clothes under the bed, an' 
 then went down the back stairway. I cer- 
 tainly did travel — " 
 "And then ?— " 
 
 "And then," responded the individual, " I 
 went and got shaved," 
 
 " How came you here ?" 
 
 " Thinking, I was safer in a crowd, than 
 anywhere else, I put for down town, and I 
 mixed in with the folks in front of Israel 
 Yorke's banking-house, and as they were 
 hollering, why I hollered too. They wanted 
 to pitch into him,— so did I. Lord ! didn't 
 they holler ! And a gen'elman, seein' I was 
 so airnest, told me about a private party, who i 
 were about to foller up Isr'el, to this house. 
 One 0' their gang, he said, was sick, — he 
 axed me to jine 'em, — and swore me in as 
 one of your perleese, — and I jined 'em." 
 
 " What is your name ?" cried the judge, 
 sternly. 
 
 " In the place where I was last, they called 
 me Ninety-One," answered the old convict, 
 arranging the high collar about his face, — | 
 " Years ago, when I was an honest ^man, ' 
 afore a man in a cloak, qn a dark night, j 
 
 TEMPLE. 
 
 left a baby with me and my wife, I was 
 
 called, " 
 
 He paused, and passed his brawny hand 
 over his^eyes. The judge started up from 
 his seat. — 
 
 "Yes, yes, you were called, — " he ex- 
 claimed. 
 
 " John Hofi'man," replied the convict. 
 
 The judge sank back in his chair, and 
 his head dropped upon his breast. It was 
 sometime before he spoke, — 
 
 " I have heard of your story before," he 
 said, in a tremulous voice. "And now an- 
 swer me one question," he continued in a 
 firmer voice. — "Did you commit the mur- 
 der for which you were arrested ?" 
 
 "I can't expect you to believe an old cuss 
 like me, but I certainly did ?2o^," responded 
 Ninety-One. 
 
 " How came you in the room next to the 
 one in Avhich the murdered man was found?" 
 
 " I was took there by a frieml, who ofi"ered 
 to hide me from the folks who were arter 
 me, about Israel's valise." 
 
 The judge seemed buried in thought. 
 
 "And after the murder was discovered, 
 and you were arrested and pinioned, the 
 same friend appeared once more, and aided 
 your escape ?" 
 
 " It was a friend," dryly responded Ninety- 
 One, — "can't say what he looked like, as 
 the room was as black as your hat, (purviden 
 you don't wear a white hat"). 
 
 "Did you commit the robbery on the 
 railroad cars, last night ?" 
 
 " I'll be straight up and down with you, 
 boss," said Ninety-One, — "I did not, — and 
 nobody didn't. The money was found on 
 the track, after the smashin' up o' the cars.'* 
 
 " Do you imagine the friend, who hid you 
 away in the house of old Mr. Somers, in- 
 tended to implicate you in the murder of 
 his son ?" 
 
 " That's jist one o' th' p'ints I'd like to 
 settle;" Ninety-One uttered alow deep laugh, 
 " if he did, I wouldn't give three tosses of a 
 bad copper for his windpipe." 
 
 "As the case stands now, you labor under 
 the double suspicion of robbery and murder. 
 Now mark me, — if you are innocent, I will 
 defend you. In the course of the day, I will 
 have some future talk with you. For the 
 present, your disguise will avoid suspicion 
 
FROM MIDNIGHT UNTIL DAWN. 
 
 381 
 
 for a day or two. You will go with Israel 
 Yorke, and report all his movements to me. 
 My name and residence you will find on the 
 card near the candlestick. One question 
 more — there was a boy with you, — " 
 
 The voice of the judge again grew tremu- 
 lous. 
 
 Ninety-One, attired in the neat frock-coat, 
 which displayed the brawny width of his 
 chest, drew himself to his full height, and 
 gazed upon the judge, long and earnestly, 
 his eyes deep-sunken behind his bushy brows. 
 
 "Do you think I'd a answered all your 
 questions, hoss, if I hadn't thought you knew 
 Bomethin' o' my life and had the will and 
 the power to set me right afore the world ? 
 Well it's not for my own sake, I wish to be 
 set right, but for the sake of that boy. And 
 afore I answer your question, let me ax an- 
 other : Did you ever happen to know a man 
 named Doctor Martin Fulmer?" 
 
 Ninety-One could not see the expression 
 of the judge's face, (for as you are aware, 
 that face was concealed under the shadow 
 of the broad brimmed hat,) but when the 
 judge replied to his question, his voice was 
 marked by perceptible agitation: 
 
 " I know Dr. Fulmer. In fact, — in fact, — 
 1 am often intrusted by him with business. 
 He will be in town to-morrow." 
 
 " He is alive then," exclaimed Ninety-One. 
 "Well hoss, when you meet Dr. Martin 
 Fulmer, jist tell him that that boy, who was 
 with me, had a parchment about his neck, 
 on which these letters was wi it, ' G. G. V. 
 H. C The very same," he continued, as if 
 thinking aloud, " which I used to send in a 
 letter, to Dr. Martin Fulmer." 
 
 "And this boy," almost shrieked the 
 judge, rising, and starting one step forward, 
 on the platform, his corpse-like hand extend- 
 ed toward Ninety-One, — " This boy with the 
 parchment about his neck, where, — where is 
 ne now ?" 
 
 CHAPTER TIL 
 "where is the child of gulian van 
 
 HUYDEN ?" 
 
 " In the early part of the evenin' I left 
 fiim in this very house, in company v/ith a 
 gal named Frank, — " 
 
 The judge interrupted him, — "Bring in 
 the prisoner!" he shouted, and the eleven 
 
 shuffled into the room, escorting the little 
 gentleman in Turkish jacket and trowsers : 
 "Draw near sir," he beckoned to Ninety-One, 
 "attend this man from this house, — " he 
 pointed to Yorke, "and do with him as I 
 direct you, — thus — " he communicated his 
 directions to Ninety-One, in a rapid tone, 
 broken by emotion, and inaudible to the 
 eleven, "and yon gentlemen, — " to the 
 eleven, — " already have your instructions." 
 
 He paused and then clutched Ninety-One 
 by the hand, the convict endeavoring, al- 
 though vainly, to gain a glimpse of his fea- 
 tures, — " In this house with Frank did you 
 say ?" his voice was husky. 
 
 " In this house, with a gal named Frank," 
 answered Ninety-One. 
 
 The judge stepped hastily from the plat- 
 form, and his steps trembling as he went, 
 disappeared through a side door, his hands 
 clasped over his breast. 
 
 Israel Yorke found himself alone with 
 Ninety-One and the eleven gentlemen with 
 clubs. Ninety-One addressed him in a tone 
 of cheerful politeness : 
 
 "Come, old cock, you and me's got to 
 travel," he sa'd, covering Israel's right shoul- 
 der with his huge hand. 
 
 Israel, biting his lips with illy suppressed 
 rage, could not help venting the bitterness 
 of his soul, in a single word, — 
 
 "Devil," he hissed the word between his 
 set teeth. 
 
 " Well, I am a devil Isr'el," answered 
 Ninety-One good humoredly, " an' your anoT 
 ther. But you see there's two kind o' devils. 
 I'll explain it to you. Once a little sneak of 
 a devil came up to the head devil, (this 
 happened in the lower regions,) and offered 
 to take his arm., 'you're one devil, and I'm ano- 
 ther, and so w-e're ekle,' says the little sneak 
 of a devil. Now the head devil did not like 
 this. He says, says he, to the little sneak, 
 ' There's two kind o' devils, young gen'le- 
 man. There's me, for instance, — when I fell 
 from Heaven, I showed phick anyhow, and 
 fell like a devil, and went about makin' 
 stump speeches in the lower regions. But 
 you, — you, — what was you doing meanwhile? 
 Sneakin' out o' Heaven with your carpet-bag 
 full of gold bricks, w^hich you had stolen 
 from the gold pavement.' Now. Isr'el the 
 name of the first devil was Beelzebub, and 
 
182 IN THE 
 
 the little sneak of a devil was called, Mam- 
 mon. Do yo!i take ?" 
 
 The eleven gentlemen with clubs, received 
 this elegant apologue, with evident pleasure, 
 manifesting their delight by a unanimous 
 burst of laughter. 
 
 Israel said nothing, but evidently was ab- 
 sorbed in a multitude of reflections, not al- 
 together of the most pleasant character. 
 
 In a short time, once more arrayed in 
 his every-day attire he left the Temple, ac- 
 companied by Ninety-One, and followed by 
 the eleven. 
 
 Hastening from the " Court of Ten Mil- 
 lions," his hands clasped tightly over his 
 breast, and his steps trembling as he went, 
 THE JUDGE was determined, at all hazards, 
 to obtain an immediate interview with 
 Frank. Hurrying along a dark passage, and 
 then down the dark stairway, — for the 
 lights had been extinguished, and the 
 Temple was dark and silent as the tomb, — 
 the judge muttered frequently the words "in 
 this house, — in this house!" and then ex- 
 claimed, — " 0, he cannot, cannot escape me ! 
 The hand of fate has led him hither." 
 
 He opened a door, and entered the mag- 
 nificent apartment, in which, in the early 
 part of the evening, Tarleton feasted with 
 his friends, while at the head of the table, 
 sat the corse of Evelyn Somers. Now all 
 was dark and silent there. 
 
 The judge lost no time, but retraced his 
 steps and hurried up-stairs. He presently 
 entered the Central Chamber, where a few 
 candles burned to their sockets, shed their 
 pale and uncertain light, over the pictures 
 and the mirrors, the tables covered with 
 flowers, and the lofty ceiling supported by 
 marble pillars. When last v:e saw the 
 Central Chamber, it was all life and motion ; 
 warm pulses were throbbing, bright eyes 
 flashing there. Then gay and varied cos- 
 tumes glittered in the light, and each volup- 
 tuous recess, echoed to the sighs of passion. 
 Now the scene presented that saddest of all 
 spectacles, — the decaying lights of a festival, 
 emitting their last dim gleam, upon the faded 
 splendors of the forsaken festal hall. Popes, 
 Caliphs, Cardinals, Quakeresses, Knights, > 
 Nymphs and Houris, all were gone. The 
 place was silent as the grave, and much 
 more sad. 
 
 TEMPLE. 
 
 A single form walked slowly up and 
 down the silent hall, — a woman, whose no 
 ble person was attired in black velvet, her 
 dark hair falling to her shoulders, and a 
 white cross clustering on her brow. Her 
 hands dropped listlessly by her side, and 
 her dark eyes dilating in their sockets, were 
 fixed in a vacant stare. ■ 
 
 " Frank, I must speak with you at once, 
 and on a subject of life and death," cried the 
 judge, suddenly confronting her. Even as he 
 spoke, he was startled at the unnatural 
 pallor of her face. " To-night a young 
 man, in whose history I am fearfully inter- 
 ested, entered this house, and saw you in 
 your chamber. He is now here," he continued 
 impetuously, — " I must see him." 
 
 " You mean the lost son of Gulian Van 
 Huyden ?" she calmly said, pausing in her 
 walk, and folding her arms over her breast. 
 
 " He was here then," cried the judge, evi- 
 dently wild with agitation, " nay he is here 
 now." 
 
 " He was here half an hour ago," returned 
 Frank, who, pre-occupied with her own 
 thoughts, did not seem to notice the agita- 
 tion of the Judge, — " half an hour ago ne 
 left the house." 
 
 "Left the house? "Whither has he gone?" 
 "I know not." 
 
 "Child, child, you mock me," in his agi- 
 tation he seized her wrist, — " I must see 
 this boy, it is upon a matter of life and 
 death. For God's sake do not trifle with me." 
 
 "I tell you, that he left the house half 
 an hour ago," returned Frank, "and as I 
 hope to have peace in the hour of my death, 
 I do not know whither he has gone." 
 
 The solemnity of her tone impressed the 
 judge. 
 
 " But will he return ?" 
 " He will never return, — never !" she an- 
 swered, and it seemed to the judge, as thougli 
 there was a hidden meaning in her words. 
 
 " 0, do not drive me to despair. I must 
 see this j'outh, before to-morrow, — yes, to- 
 day, — this hour !" 
 "You will never see him in this house again." 
 " Did he leave this house alone, or was he 
 ' accompanied, — and by whom ?" 
 
 A strange smile passed over her face as 
 she replied in a whisper — 
 
 " He was accompanied by Mary Berman, 
 
FEOM MIDNIGHT UNTIL DAWN. 
 
 183 
 
 who arisen from the grave, came here to ' 
 claim her husband." I 
 
 The Judge uttered a wild ejaculation, and 
 sank half fainting in a chair, — his hat fell 
 from his brow, and his face was revealed. 
 
 That face, remarkable in every outline, 
 ■was bathed in cold moisture, and distorted 
 by contending emotions. 
 
 CHAPTER YIII. 
 
 BEVERLY AND JOANNA. 
 
 In the Temple, near the hour of dawn, on | 
 the morning of the 24th of December, 1844. 
 « Fallen !" 
 
 Yes, fallen ! nevermore to press the kiss 
 of a pure mother upon the lips of her inno- 
 cent child. Fallen ! never more to meet her 
 husband's gaze, with the look of a chaste 
 and faithful wife. Fallen ! — from wifely 
 purity, from all that makes the past holy, or 
 the future hopeful — fallen, from all that 
 makes life worth the having, — fallen ! and 
 forever ! 
 
 "Fallen!" 
 
 Oh, how this word, trembling from her 
 lips — wrung from her heart — echoed through 
 the stillness of the dimly-lighted chamber. 
 
 She was seated on the sofa, her noble form 
 clad in the white silken robe — her hands 
 clasped — her golden hair unbound — her 
 neck and shoulders bare : and the same light 
 hanging from the ceiling, which disclosed 
 the details of that luxurious chamber — car- 
 pet, chairs, sofa, mirror, and the snow-white 
 couch in a distant recess — fell upon her beau- 
 tiful countenance, and revealed the remorse 
 that was written there. There was a wild, 
 startled look in her blue eyes; her lips %vere 
 apart; her cheek was now, pale as death, and 
 then, flushed with the scarlet hues of una- 
 vailing shame. 
 
 He was reclining at her feet ; his arm 
 resting on the sofa; his face upturned — his 
 eyes gazing into hers. Clad in the costume 
 of the white monk — a loose robe of white 
 cloth, with wide sleeves, edged with red — 
 Beverly Barron toyed with his flaxen curls, 
 as he looked into her face, and remarked her 
 vnth a look of mingled meaning. There 
 was base appetite, gratified vanity, but no 
 remorse in his look. 
 
 And the l.ght fell on his florid face, with | 
 12 
 
 ' its sensual mouth, receding chin, wide 
 I nostrils, and bullet-shaped forehead, encircled 
 by ringlets of flaxen hair — a face altogether 
 cmimal, with scarcely a single ray of a 
 higher nature, to light up or refine its gross- 
 ness. 
 
 " Fallen !" cried Joanna; and clasped her 
 hands, and shuddered, as if with cold. 
 
 " Never mind, dear," said Beverly, and he 
 bent forward and kissed her hands — " I will 
 love you always !" 
 
 " Oh, my God 1" — and in that ejaculation, 
 all the agony of her soul found utterance, — 
 " Oh, my God ! my child !" 
 
 Beverly knelt at her feet, and kissed her 
 clenched hands, and endeavored to soothe 
 her with professions of undying love ; but 
 she tore her hands from his grasp — 
 
 " My husband 1 How can I ever look into 
 his face again !" 
 
 Had you seen that noble form, swelling in 
 every fiber ; had you seen the silken robe, 
 heaved upward by the agony which filled 
 her bosom ; had you seen the look, so wild — 
 remorseful — almost mad — which stamped 
 her face, — you would have felt the emphasis 
 with which she uttered these terrible words, 
 " My husband ! How can I ever look into 
 his face again !" 
 
 " Your husband," whispered Beverly, with 
 something of the devil in his eyes, "your 
 husband, even now, is on his way to Boston, 
 where the chosen mistress of his heart awaits 
 him. His brother is at the point of death, 
 is he ? ha, ha, Joanna ! 'Twas a good excuse, 
 but, like all excuses, rather lame — when 
 found out. The poor, good, dear Joanna, 
 sits at home, pining at her husband's ab- 
 sence, while he, the faithful Eugene, consoles 
 himself in the arms of his Boston love !" 
 
 " It cannot be ! it cannot be !" cried Jo- 
 anna, beating the carpet with her foot, and 
 pressing her clenched hands against her 
 heaving breast. 
 
 "Do you see this, darling ?" and, throwing 
 the robe of the white monk aside, he dis- 
 closed his " flashy" scarf, white vest and 
 gold chain. " Do you see this, j)et ?" and 
 from beneath his white vest he drew forth a 
 package of letters. — " Her letters to her dear 
 Eugene ! How she loves him — how she 
 pities him, because he is not married to a 
 I sympathetic soul, — how she counts the hjursi 
 
IN THE TEMPLE. 
 
 that must elapse before ho comes ! It is all 
 written here, darling !" 
 
 Joanna took the package and passed it 
 absently from one hand to the other. " Yes, 
 yes, I read them yesterday ! It is true, be- 
 yond hope of doubt. He loves her ! — he 
 loves her !" 
 
 "And you," — Beverly arose and seated 
 himself by her side, winding his arm about 
 her waist. "And you, like a brave, noble 
 woman, whose dearest affections have been 
 trampled upon," — he wound his left hand 
 amid the rich masses of her golden hair, — 
 "you, like a brave, proud heart, whose very 
 May of life has been blighted by a husband's 
 treachery, — have avenged yourself upon 
 him !" 
 
 He pressed his kiss upon her lips. But 
 the warmth of passion had passed away. 
 Her lips were cold. She shrunk from his 
 embrace. The vail had fallen from her 
 eyes ; the delusion, composed of a mad pas- 
 sion and a mad desire for revenge, had left 
 her, and she knew herself to be no longer 
 the stainless wife and holy mother — but that 
 thing for which on earth there is no forgive- 
 ness — an adulteress ! 
 
 " No, Beverly, no. It will not avail. His 
 fault was no excuse for my crime. For his 
 fault affects me only — wrongs me alone — but 
 mine — ," there was a choking sensation in 
 her throat — she buried her face in her 
 hands—" Oh God ! oh God ! my child !" 
 
 Beverly took a bottle of champagne 
 which stood upon the table, drew the cork, 
 and filled two brimming glasses. 
 
 "You are nervous, my darling," he said, 
 " take this. Let us pledge each other — for 
 the past, forgetfulness — for the future, hope 
 and love." 
 
 He stood erect beneath the lamp — his tall 
 form, clad in the robe of the white monk, 
 relieved by the very gloom of the luxurious 
 chamber ; he pressed the glass to his lips, 
 and over its rim surveyed the white couch, 
 which looked dim and shadowy in its distant 
 recess, — he murmured, " Eugene, your mag- 
 nificent wife is mine !" 
 
 And then drained the glass without mov- 
 ing it from his lips. 
 
 She took the glass and drank ; but the 
 same wine which an hour ago had fired her 
 blood, and completed the delusion of her 
 
 senses, now only added to her remorse and 
 shame. 
 
 "My father, — so proud of his name, so 
 proud of the honor of his son, the purity of 
 his daughter, how shall I ever meet his eye? 
 how can I ever look him in the face 
 again?" 
 
 And the image of that stern old man, with 
 wrinkled visage and snow-white hair, rose 
 vividly before her. Her father was an aris- 
 tocrat of the old school — proud, not of his 
 mone}^ but of his blood. The royal blood 
 of Orange flowed in his veins. Loving his 
 only daughter better than his own soul, he 
 would have put her to death with his own 
 hand, sooner than she should incur even the 
 suspicion of dishonor. 
 
 " Pshaw, Joanna ! He need never know 
 anj'thing about the adventures of this night. 
 You have been slighted, and you have taken 
 your revenge ; — that is all. No one need 
 know anything about it. You will mingle 
 in society as usual ; these things, my darling, 
 are almost things of course in the fashionable 
 Avorld, among the ' upper ten." Among the 
 beautiful dames whom you see at the opera, 
 on a 'grand night,' how many do you sup- 
 pose would waste one thought of regret upon 
 an adventure like this ?" 
 
 Joanna buried her burning temples in her 
 hands. All of her life rushed before her. 
 Her childhood — tEe" days of her pure maid- 
 enhood — the hour of her marriage, when she 
 gave herself to the husband who idolized 
 her,— the hour of her travail, when she gave 
 birth to her child, — all rushed upon her, 
 with the voices, tones, faces of other days, 
 commingled in one brief but vivid pano- 
 rama. 
 
 " You see, my pet, you know but little of 
 the world," continued Beverly. "In the 
 very dawn of your beauty, ignorant of the 
 world, and of the value of your own loveli- 
 ness, you wedded Eugene. Life was a rose- 
 colored dream to you ; you thought of him 
 ' only as the ideal of your existence. You 
 ' thought that he regarded you in the same 
 j light. You did not dream that he would 
 ever regard you simply as the handsomest 
 I piece of fm-niture about his splendid estab- 
 I lishment,— a splendid fixture, destined to 
 I bear him children who would perpetuate the 
 1 name of Livingston, — while his roving affec- 
 
FROM MIDNIGHT UNTIL DAWN. 
 
 185 
 
 tious wandered about the world, constantly 
 seeking new objects of passionate regard. 
 You never dreamt of this, did you, darling?" 
 
 Joanna uttered a groan. Pressing her 
 hands to her throbbing temples, she felt her 
 bosom swell, but could not frame a word. 
 
 " Now, my dear, you are a woman ; you 
 know something of the world. Like hun- 
 dreds of others of your wealth and station, 
 you can, under the vail of decorum, select 
 the object of a passionate attachment, and 
 indulge your will at pleasure. A bright fu- 
 ture, rich in love and in all that makes life 
 dear, is before you " 
 
 And Beverly drew her to him, putting one 
 arm about her neck, while his left hand gir- 
 dled her bosom. As he kissed her, her gol- 
 den hair floated over his face and shoulders. 
 
 At this moment the door opened without 
 a sound, and a man wrapped in a cloak, with 
 a cap over his brow, advanced with a noise- 
 less step toward the sofa. 
 
 It was not until his shadow interposed be- 
 tween them and the light, that they beheld 
 him. As Joanna raised her head, struggling 
 to free herself from the embrace of her sedu- 
 cer, she beheld the intruder, who had lifted 
 his cap from his brow. 
 
 "0 God, Eugene !" she shrieked, and fell 
 back upon the sofa, not fainting, but utterly 
 paralyzed, her limbs as cold as marble, her 
 blood turned to ice in her veins. 
 
 It was Eugene Livingston. Gently fold- 
 ing his arms, cap in hand, he surveyed his 
 wife. His face was turned from the light, — 
 its ghastly paleness could not be seen. His 
 cloak hid the heavings of his breast. But 
 the light which fired his eyes, met the eyes 
 of his wife, and burned into her soul. 
 
 He did not speak to her. 
 
 Turning from her, he surveyed Beverly 
 Barron, who had started to his feet, and who 
 now stood as if suddenly frozen, with some- | 
 thing of the look and attitude of a man who ' 
 is condemned to watch a lighted candle, as 
 it burns away in the center of a barrel of i 
 gunpowder. | 
 
 Not a word was spoken. | 
 
 Joanna crouching on the sofa, her chin' 
 resting on her clasped hands, — Beverly on ' 
 the floor, his hands outspread, and his face | 
 dumb with terror, — Eugene standing between 
 them, folding his cloak upon his breast, as ; 
 
 he silently turned his gaze, first to his wife, 
 and then to her seducer. 
 
 At length Eugene spoke, — 
 
 "Come, Joanna," he said, "here is youi 
 father. He will take you home." 
 
 She looked up and beheld the straight, mil- 
 itary form, the stern visage and snow-white 
 hair of her father. One look only, and she 
 sank lifeless at his feet. She may have 
 meant to have knelt before him, but as she 
 rose from the Fofa, or rather, glided from it^ 
 she fell like a corpse at his feet. The old 
 general's nether lip worked convulsively, but 
 he did not speak. 
 
 " General, take her to my home, and ;*t 
 once," whispered Eugene. " There must be 
 
 no scandal, no noise, and " he paused 
 
 as if suffocating, — " no harshness, mark you." 
 
 The general was a stalwart man, although 
 his hair was white as snow, — a man whose 
 well-knit limbs, erect bearing, and sinewy 
 hands, indicated physical vigor undimmed 
 by age, but he trembled like a withered leaf 
 as he raised his daughter from the floor. 
 
 " I will do as you direct, Eugene," he said, 
 in a husky voice. 
 
 "You will find her cloak in the next 
 room," said Eugene, " and the carriage is at 
 the door." 
 
 The general girded his insensible daughter 
 in his arms, and bore her from the room. 
 As he crossed the threshold, he groaned like 
 a dying man. 
 
 Eugene and Beverly were alone. Beverly 
 at a rapid glance surveyed the room. Eugene 
 stood between him and the door ; he turned 
 to the windows, which were covered with 
 thick curtains. Those windows were three 
 stories high. There was no hope of escape 
 by the windows. 
 
 " Will you take a chair, my friend," said 
 Eugene. 
 
 Beverly sank into a chair, near the table ; 
 as he seated himself, he felt his knees bend 
 beneath him, and his heart leap to his throat. 
 
 Eugene took a chair opposite, and shad- 
 ing his eyes with his hand, surveyed the 
 seducer. There was silence for a feAv mo- 
 ments, a silence during which both these 
 men endured the agonies of the damned. 
 
 " You have a daughter, I believe," said 
 Eugene, in a voice that was broken by a 
 tremor. *' You may wish to send some word 
 
186 IN THE 
 
 to her. Here is a pencil and tablets. Let 
 me ask you to be brief." 
 
 He flung the pencil and tablets upon the 
 table. Beverly recoiled as though a serpent 
 had stung him. 
 
 " Eugene," he faltered, for the first time 
 finding words, " you — you do not mean to 
 murder me ? " 
 
 And his florid face grew ashy with abject 
 terror. 
 
 Eugene did not reply, but knocked twice 
 upon the marble table with his clenched 
 hand. Scarcely had the echo of the sound 
 died away, when the door was once more 
 opened, and two persons advanced to the 
 table. 
 
 The first was a tall, muscular man, with a 
 phlegmatic face, light hair, and huge red 
 whiskers. His blue frock-coat was buttoned 
 to the throat, and he carried an oblong box 
 in his hands. 
 
 "Joanna's brother !" ejaculated Beverly. 
 
 The second person was a dapper little 
 gentleman, with small eyes, a hooked nose> 
 and an enormous black moustache. He was 
 dressed in black, with a gold chain on his 
 breast, and a diamond pin in his faultless 
 sHrt bosom. 
 
 " Major Barton ! " ejaculated Beverly, 
 bounding from his seat, for in Major Barton 
 he recognized an old and intimate acquaint- 
 ance. 
 
 "Robert," said Eugene, turning to Joan- 
 na's brother, " what have you there ? " 
 
 " The dueling pistols," quietly responded 
 Robert. 
 
 " Have you and this gentleman's friend 
 arranged the preliminaries ? " 
 
 " We have," interrupted the dapper Ma- 
 jor ; " distance, ten paces, — place, Weehawk, 
 opposite the city, — time, right ofiF." 
 
 " This without consulting me ! " cried 
 Beverly, who at the mention of a duel, felt 
 a hope lighten up in his heart, for coward as 
 he was, he was also a capital shot. 
 
 " Gentlemen, I beg to say, " he drew 
 
 his White Monk's robe over his heart, and 
 assumed a grand air, — " gentlemen, " 
 
 The dapper little major glided to his 
 side, — 
 
 "Bev., my boy, better be quiet. Eugene 
 waited on me an hour ago and explained all 
 the circumstances, — desired me to act as 
 
 TEMPLE. 
 
 your frierid. As Pd rather see you have £i 
 chance for your life in a duel, than to see 
 you killed in such a house as this, like a dog, 
 I consented. Bev., my boy, better be quiet." 
 
 " If you don't wish to fight, say so," and 
 the phlegmatic Robert stepped forward, eye- 
 ing Beverly with a look of settled ferocity, 
 that was not altogether pleasant to see, — " if 
 you decline the duel, just say so in the pres- 
 ence of your friend. Major Barton. Just 
 say no." 
 
 And Robert eyed Beverly from head to 
 foot, as though it would afi'ord him much 
 pleasure to pitch him from the third story 
 window. 
 
 "I will fight," said Beverly, pale and red 
 by turns. 
 
 " Then I'll get your hat, and coat, and 
 cloak," said the obliging major, — " they're 
 in the next room. We must leave the house 
 quietly, and there's a boat waiting for us, at 
 the foot of the street, or the North River. 
 We can cross to the Jersey shore, before 
 morning breaks. It will be a nice little af- 
 fair all among ourselves. By-the-bye, how 
 about a surgeon ? " 
 
 " Yes, a surgeon ! " echoed Robert, turn- 
 ing to Eugene, who, seated by the table, 
 rested his forehead against his hand. 
 
 " We will not need a surgeon," said Eu- 
 gene, raising his face, from which all color 
 of life had fled. "Because our fight is to the 
 death." 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 MARY BERMAN — CARL RAPHAEL. 
 
 They sat near the marriage altar, their 
 hands clasped, and their gaze fixed upon 
 each other's face. The countenance of 
 Nameless was radiant with a deep joy. 
 One hand resting upon the neck of Mary, 
 the other clasping her hand, his soul was in 
 his eyes, as he looked into her face. Her 
 hair, brown and wavy, streamed over the 
 hand, which rested on her neck. Despite 
 her faded attire, — the gown of coarse calico, 
 and the mantilla of black velvet, — Mary was 
 very beautiful; as beautiful as her name. All 
 the life which swelled her young bosom, 
 was manifested in the bloom of her cheeks, 
 the clear, joyous look of her eyes. Her 
 beauty was the pnriK of a stainless soul, 
 
FROM MIDNIGHT UNTIL DAWN. 
 
 187 
 
 embodied in a person, rich with every tint 
 and outlino of warm, womanly loveliness. 
 
 "Well might my whole being thrill, as 
 you passed by me to-night ! Your form 
 was vailed, your face hid, but ray soul knew 
 that you Averc near 1" 
 
 " 0, Carl, in all our lives, we will never 
 know a moment of joy so deep as this !" — 
 and there was something of a holy sadness 
 in Mary's gaze as she spoke, — "After years 
 of sorrow and trial, that might break the 
 stoutest hearts, we have met again, like two 
 persons who have risen from the grave. 
 The world is so dark, Carl, — so crowded 
 with the callous and the base, — that I fear 
 for our future. 0, v/ould it not be beautiful, 
 yes holy, to die now, in each other's arms, 
 at the moment when our hearts are filled 
 with the deepest joy they can ever know ?" 
 
 The words of the pure girl, uttered in a 
 voice imbued with a melancholy enthusiasm, 
 cast a shadow over the face of Nameless, and 
 brought a sad intense light to his eyes. 
 
 *' Yes, Mary, it is even so," he replied, — 
 " it is a harsh and bitter world, in which the 
 base and callous-hearted, prey upon those 
 who have souls. When I think of my own 
 history, and of yours, it does not seem reality, 
 to me, but the images of the past move 
 before me, like the half defined shapes of a 
 troubled dream." 
 
 And he bent his forehead, — fevered and 
 throbbing with thought, upon her bosom, 
 and listened to the beatings of that heart, 
 which had been true to him, in every phase 
 of his dark life. She pressed her lips silently 
 upon his brow. 
 
 " But the future is bright before us, Mary," 
 lie whispered, raising his face, once more 
 radiant with hope, — "the cottage by the 
 river shore, shall be ours again ! 0, don't 
 you remember it, Mary, as it leans against 
 the cliff, with the river stretching before it, 
 and the palisades rising far away, into the 
 western sky ? We will live there, Mary, 
 and forget the world." Alas ! he knew not 
 of the poison in his veins. "Your father, 
 too,—" 
 
 " My father !" she echoed, starting from 
 her chair, as the memory of that broken man 
 with the idiot face, — never for a moment 
 forgotten, — came vividly before her, " My 
 father ! come Carl, let us go to him !' 
 
 She wound the mantilla about her form, 
 and Carl, otherwise Nameless, also rose from 
 his chair, when a footstep was heard, and 
 the door was abruptly opened. 
 
 " Leave this house, at once, as you value 
 your life," cried an agitated voice, — " You 
 know my father, — know that he will shrink 
 from no crime, when his darker nature is 
 aroused, — you have foiled the purpose which 
 was more than life to him. There is danger 
 for you in this house ! away !" 
 
 " Frank !" was all that Nameless could 
 ejaculate, as he saw her stand before him, 
 lividly pale, her hair unbound, and the gol- 
 den cross rising and falling upon her heaving 
 bosom. There was a light in her eyes, 
 which he had never seen before. 
 
 " No words," she continued in broken and 
 rapid tones, — "you must away at once. 
 You are not safe from poison," — a bitter, 
 mocking smile, — " or steel, or any treachery, 
 as long as you linger in this house. But 
 this is no time for masquerade attire, — in tho 
 next room you will find the apparel which 
 you wore, when first you entered this house, 
 together with a cloak, which will protect 
 you from the cold. You have no time to 
 lose, — give me that bauble," and she tore th^ 
 chain from his neck and the golden cross from 
 his breast, — "away, — you have not a mo- 
 ment to lose." She pointed to the door. 
 
 " Frank !" again ejaculated Nameless, and 
 something like remorse smote his heart, as 
 he gazed upon her countenance, so sadly 
 changed. 
 
 "Will you drive me mad? Go !" again 
 she pointed to the door. 
 
 Nameless disappeared. 
 
 "And you,—" she took the hands of 
 Mary within her own, and raised them to 
 her breast, and gazed long and earnestly into 
 that virgin face, — " You, 0, I hate you !" she 
 said her eyes flashing fire, and yet the next 
 moment, she kissed Mary on the cheeks and 
 forehead, and pressed her to her bosom with 
 a frenzied embrace. " You are worthy of 
 him," she said slowly, in a low voice, again 
 perusing every line of that countenance, — 
 " I know you, although an hour ago, I did 
 not know that you lived ;" once more her 
 tones were rapid and broken, — "know your 
 history, know who it was that lured you to 
 this place, and know the desolate condition 
 
188 
 
 IN THE TEMPLE. 
 
 of your father. Your husband has money, 
 but it will not be safe for him to attempt to 
 use it for some days. Take this, — conceal it 
 in your bosom, — na}'^, I will take no denial. 
 Take it child ! That money and purse are 
 not the wages of pollution, — they were both 
 mine* in the days when I was pure and 
 liapf)y." 
 
 Scarcely knowing what to do, Mary, whom 
 the wild manner of Frank, struck at once 
 with pity and awe, took the purse, and hid 
 it in her bosom. 
 
 "I now remember you," said Mary, her 
 eyes filling with tears, as she gazed into the 
 troubled face of Frank, — " Father painted 
 your picture, and afterward you sought us 
 out in our garret, and left your purse upon 
 the table, with a note stating that it contained 
 the balance due on your portrait. 0, it was 
 kind, it was noble, — " 
 
 " Do not speak of it, child," Frank said in 
 rapid and abrupt tones, — "Had I not been 
 convinced that you and your father were 
 dead, I would have visited you often. That 
 is, if I could have concealed from you what 
 I was, and the way of life which was mine." 
 
 Her lip quivered, and she hid her eyes 
 with her hand. 
 
 "But come, your husband is here," she 
 said, as Nameless re-appeared, his form once 
 more clad in the faded frock-coat, but with 
 a cloak drooping from his shoulders. " You 
 must away, and at once." 
 
 " Frank," — and Nameless, trembling with 
 agitation, approached her, "we will meet 
 again in happier hours." 
 
 O, the strange look of her eyes, the bitter 
 mocking curl of her lip ! 
 
 " We will never meet again," she answered, 
 in a voice that sunk into his heart. Then 
 burying the chain and golden cross in her 
 bosom, she placed a letter in his hand, — 
 
 " Swear to me that you will not read this, 
 until three hours at least are passed ?" 
 
 " I promise, — " 
 
 " Nay, you must swear it, — " 
 
 " I swear, in the sight of Heaven !" 
 
 "Now depart, and, — " she turned her 
 face away from their gaze, and pointed to 
 the door. 
 
 As she turned away, Mary approached 
 her, and put her arms about her neck, and 
 her eyes brim full of tears all the while, — 
 kissed her on the forehead and the lips, 
 saying at the same time, and from the depths 
 of her heart, "May God in Heaven bless 
 you !" 
 
 Frank took Mary's arms from her neck, 
 and joined her hand in that of Nameless, 
 and then pushed them gently to the door, — 
 " Go, and at once," she whispered. 
 
 And they crossed the threshold, Mary 
 looking back over her shoulder, until she 
 disappeared with Nameless, in the shadows 
 of the passage. 
 
 Frank stood with one hand extended to 
 the door, and the other supporting her 
 averted face, — she heard their footsteps in 
 the passage, on the stairway, and in the hall 
 beneath. Then came the sound of the 
 opening and closing of the door, which led 
 into the street. 
 
 And then the agony, the despair, the 
 thousand emotions which racked her soul, 
 found utterance in the simple, and yet 
 awfully touching ejaculation, — " 0, my 
 God ! — " and she flung herself on her knees, 
 before the Marriage Altar, resting her clench- 
 ed hands upon the Holy Bible, which was con- 
 cealed by her bowed head, and unbound hair. 
 
 " 0, my God ! He is gone, and — forever !" 
 
 Yes, Frank, woman so beautiful and so 
 utterly lost, gone and forever — gone, with his 
 young wife by his side, and Poison in his veip^i 
 
NEW YORK: 
 
 ITS 
 
 UPPER -TEN AND LOWER MILLION. 
 
 PART FIFTH. 
 
 THE DAWN, SUNRISE AND DAY. 
 
 DECEMBER 24, 1844. 
 
 CHArTER I. 
 "the other child." 
 Baffled schemer! 
 
 In the dim hour which comes before the 
 fcreak of day, Colonel Tarleton was hurrying 
 rapidly along the silent and deserted street. 
 
 Broadway, a few hours since, all light, and 
 life, and motion, was now lonely as a desert. 
 Gathering his cloak over his white coat, and 
 drawing his cap lower upon his brows, Tarle- 
 ton hurried along with a rapid and impetuous 
 step, now and then suifering the thoughts 
 which filled him, to find vent in broken 
 ejaculations. 
 
 " Baffled schemer ! " he exclaimed aloud, 
 and then his thoughts arranged themselves 
 into words : — " Why do those words ring 
 in my ears ? They do not apply to me ; let 
 me but live twenty-four hours, and all the 
 schemes which I have worked and woven 
 for twenty-one long years, will find their end 
 in a grand, a final triumph. Baffled schemer ! 
 No, — not yet, nor never ! This boy who 
 was to marry Frank, will fade away in a few 
 hours, and make no sign ; and now for the 
 Other child. I must hasten to the house of 
 old Somers, — his * private secretary ' must be 
 mine before daybreak. The hour is unusual, 
 the son lies dead in one room, — the father in 
 the other ; but I must enter the house at all 
 hazards, for, — for, — the only remaining child 
 of Gulian Van Huyden, must be in my power 
 before daybreak." 
 
 And he hurried along toward the head of 
 Broadway, through the silent city. Even in 
 the gloom, the agitation which possessed 
 him, was plainly discernible. The hand 
 which held the cloak upon his breast was 
 tightly clenched, and, as he passed through 
 
 the light of a lamp, you might note his 
 compressed lip, his colorless cheek, and eyes 
 burning with intense thought. His whole 
 life swept before him like a panorama. The 
 day when the wife and mother lay dead in 
 her palace home, while Gulian, his brother, 
 clutched him with a death-grip as he 
 plunged into the river, — the years which he 
 had gayly passed in Paris, and the horrible 
 years which he had endured in the felon's 
 cell, — the happy childhood, and the irrevo- 
 cable shame of his daughter, sold by her 
 own mother into the arms of lust and gold, — 
 his duel with young Somers, whom he had 
 first murdered, and then smuggled his corpse 
 into his father's home, — the scenes which he 
 had this night witnessed in the Temple, be- 
 ginning with his interview with Ninety-One, 
 and ending in the marriagqpof Frank and 
 Nameless, and the apparition of Mary Ber- 
 man, — all flitted before him like the phan- 
 torns of a spectral panorama. 
 
 " And the next twenty-four hours will de- 
 cide all ! Courage, brain, you have never 
 yet despaired, — " he struck his clenched hand 
 against his forehead, — "do not fail me now!" 
 
 Turning from Broadway, as the night 
 grew darker, he entered the street in which 
 the house of Evelyn Somers, Sr., was situated. 
 He was rapidly approaching that house, — 
 cogitating what manner of excuse he should 
 make to the servants for his call at such an 
 unusual hour, — when he was startled by the 
 sound of footsteps. He paused, where a 
 street lamp flung its light over the pavement. 
 Shading his eyes, he beheld two figures ap- 
 proaching through the gloom. He glided 
 from the light, and stationed himself against 
 ] the wall, so that he could see the figures as 
 i they passed, himself unseen. The steps 
 
 (189^ 
 
190 
 
 THE DAWN, SUNRISE AND DAY. 
 
 drew near and nearer, and presently from the 
 gloom the figures passed into the light. A 
 man, Avrapped in a cloak, with a broad som- 
 hrero drooping over his face, supported on 
 his arm the form of a youth, who, clad in a 
 closely buttoned frock-coat, trembled from 
 ■weakness, or from the winter's cold. The 
 face of the man was in shadow, but the light 
 shone full}" on the face of the youth as he 
 passed by. 
 
 Tarleton, with great difficulty, suppressed 
 an ejaculation and an oath. 
 
 For in that boy who leaned tremblingly 
 upon the arm of the cloaked man, he recog- 
 nized the Private Secretary of the merchant 
 prince ! 
 
 " Courage, my poor boy," — Tarleton heard 
 the cloaked man utter these words, as he 
 passed by, — " it was a happy impulse which 
 led me to leave my carriage, and walk along 
 this street. I arrived just in time to save 
 you ; it is but a step to my carriage, and once 
 in my carriage yon will tell me all." 
 
 " 0, sir, you will protect me," — the voice 
 of the youth was tremulous and broken, — 
 "you will protect me from this man " 
 
 And with these words they passed from 
 the light into the gloom again. 
 
 Tarleton stood for a moment, as though nail- 
 ed to the wall against which he leaned. He 
 could not believe the evidence of his senses. 
 That the boy, Gulian Yan Huyden, the pri- 
 Tate secretary had left the mansion of the 
 merchant prince, at this strange hour, and 
 was now in the care of a man Avhom he, 
 Tarleton, did not know ; this fiict was plain 
 enough, but Tarleton could not believe it. 
 He stood as though nailed to the wall, while 
 the footsteps of the retreating figures resound- 
 ed through the stillness. At length, with a 
 violent effort, he recovered his presence of 
 mind. 
 
 " I will follow them and reclaim my child!" 
 he ejaculated^ and gathering his cloak across 
 the lower part of his face, hurried once more 
 toward Broadway. 
 
 But as he discovered the distance between 
 himself and the figures of the cloaked man 
 and the youth, his purpose failed him, he 
 knew not why^ — he dared not address the 
 man, much less seize the boy, Gulian, — but 
 he still hung upon their back, Avatching their 
 ©very movement, himself unobserved. 
 
 Meanwhile, a thousand vague suspicions 
 and fears flitted through his mind. 
 
 At the head of Broadway, in the light of 
 a lamp, stood a carriage, with a coachman in 
 dark livery on the box. The horses, black 
 as jet, stood, beating the pavement with their 
 hoofs, and champing their bits impatiently. 
 
 The unknown paused beside this carriage, 
 still supporting the boy, Gulian, on his arm, 
 
 "Felix," he said, in a low voice, address- 
 ing the coachman, who started up at the 
 sound of his voice, "drive at once, and with 
 all speed, to the Iwuse yoiuler*' — he pointed 
 to the north. 
 
 " Yes, my lord," was the answer of the 
 coachman. 
 
 "And 5'ou, poor boy," continued the un- 
 known, thus addressed as " my lord," turning 
 to young Gulian, — " enter, and be safe here- 
 after from all fear of persecution." He 
 opened the carriage door, and Gulian entered, 
 followed by the unknown. 
 
 And the next moment the sound of the 
 wheels was heard, and the carriage passing 
 Union Square and rolling away toward the 
 north. 
 
 Tarleton, who had, unobserved, beheld this 
 scene, started from the shadows and ap- 
 proached the lamp. He clenched his teeth 
 in helpless rage. 
 
 " I saw his face for an instant, ere he en- 
 tered the carriage, and as his cloak fell aside, 
 I noticed the golden cross on his breast ; and 
 I neither like his cadaverous face, nor the 
 golden cross. Why, — " he stamped angrily 
 upon the pavement, — " why do I hate and 
 fear this man whom I have never seen be- 
 fore ? — 'my lord ! ' — the cross on his breast, — 
 perchance a dignitary of the Catholic Church ! 
 Ah ! he will wring the secret from this weak 
 and superstitious boy. All, all is lost !" 
 
 He was roused from this fit of despair and 
 rage by the sound of carnage wheels. It 
 was a hackney coach, returning homeward, 
 the horses weary, and the driver lolling 
 sleepily on the box. 
 
 Tarleton darted forward and stopped the 
 horses. 
 
 "Do you want to earn five dollars for an 
 hour's ride?" he said, "if so, strike up 
 Broadway, and follow a dark carriage drawn 
 by two black horses," and he mounted the 
 box, and took his seat beside the coachman 
 
THE DAWN, SUNRISE AND DAY. 
 
 191 
 
 The latter gentleman waking up from his 
 half slumber, and very wroth at the manner 
 in which his horses had been stopped, and 
 his box iAvaded, forthwith consigned Tarle- 
 ton to a place which it is not needful to 
 name, adding significantly, — 
 
 "An' if yer don't git down, I'll mash yer 
 head, — if I don't, — " etc., etc. 
 
 " Pshaw ! don't you know me ?" cried 
 Tarleton, lifting his cap, — " follow the car- 
 riage yonder, and I'll make it ten dollars for 
 half an hour's ride." 
 
 " Why, it is the colonel !" responded the 
 mollified hackman. — " My team is bio wed, 
 colonel, but you're a brick, and here goes ! 
 Up Broadway did you say ? — let her rip !" 
 
 Ho applied the whip to his wearied horses, 
 and away they dashed, passing Union Square, 
 and entering upper Broadway. 
 
 " That the carriage, colonel ?" asked the 
 driver, as they heard the sound of wheels in 
 front of them, " that concern as looks blacker 
 than a stack of black cats ?" 
 
 " It is. Follow it. Do not let the coach- 
 man know that we are in pursuit. Follow 
 it carefully, and at a proper distance." 
 
 And the hackney coach followed the car- 
 riage of the unknown, until they passed from 
 the shadows of the houses into the open 
 country. Some four miles at least from the 
 city hall, the carriage turned from one of the 
 avenues, into a narrow lane, leading among 
 the rocks, over a hill and down toward the 
 North Ptiver. 
 
 The colonel jumped from the box. 
 
 "Wait for me here, — I'll not be long. 
 Drive a little piece up the avenue, so that 
 you will not be noticed, in case this carriage 
 should return. Wait for me, I say, — for 
 every hour I will give you ten dollars." 
 
 With these words he hurried up the hill, 
 in pursuit of the retreating carriage. The 
 ground was frosted and broken, — huge rocks 
 blocked up the path on either hand, and on 
 the hill-top stood a clump of leafless trees. 
 Pausing beneath these trees, the colonel en- 
 deavored to discern the carriage through the 
 darkness, but in vain. But he heard the 
 sound of the wheels as' they rolled over the 
 hard ground in the valley below, 
 
 " It cannot go far. This lane terminates 
 at the river, only two or three hundred yards ^ 
 away. Ah ! I remember, — half-way between [ 
 
 the hill and the river there is an old man- 
 sion which I noticed last summer, and which 
 has not been occupied for years." 
 
 The sound of the wheels suddenly ceased. 
 The colonel drew the cord of his cloak 
 about his neck, so as to permit his arms full 
 play. Then from one pocket of his over- 
 coat he drew forth a revolver, and from the 
 other a bowie-knife. Grasping a weapon 
 firmly in each hand, he stealthily descended 
 the hill, and on tip-toe approached the car- 
 riage, which had indeed halted in front of the 
 old mansion. 
 
 The mansion, a strange and incongruous 
 structure, built of stone, and brick, and wood, 
 and enlarged from the original block house, 
 which it had been two hundred years before, 
 by the additions made by five or six genera- 
 tions, stood in a garden, apart firom the road, 
 its roofs swept by the leafless branches of gi- 
 gantic forest-trees. In summer, quaint and 
 incongruous as were the outlines of the huge 
 edifice, it put on a beautiful look, fc# it was 
 embowered in foliage, and its many roofs and 
 walls of brick, and wood and stone, were 
 hidden in a garment of vines and flowers. 
 But now, in the blackness of this drear win- 
 ter daybreak, it was black and desolate 
 enough. Not a single light shed a cheerful 
 ray, from any of the windows. 
 
 Gliding behind the trunk of a sycamore, 
 the colonel heard the voice of the unknown 
 man, as he conducted the boy, Gulian, from 
 the carriage along the garden walk toward 
 the hall door. 
 
 " Here you will be safe from all intrusion. 
 I must return to the city at once, but I will 
 be back early in the morning. Meanwhile, 
 you can take a quiet sleep. You are not 
 afraid to sleep in the old house, are you ?" 
 
 " Oh, no, no, — afraid of nothing but his 
 persecution," was the answer. 
 
 The colonel heard these words, and watched 
 the figures of the unknown and Gulian, as 
 they passed from the garden walk under the 
 shadow of the porch, and into the hall door. 
 
 And then he waited, — Ohow earnestly and 
 with what a tide of hopes, suspicions, fears! — 
 for the re-appearance of the unknown ! 
 Five minutes passed. 
 
 "The boy has not had time to confess the 
 secret," — the thought almost rose to tlie col- 
 onel's lips. — " If this unknown man retuma 
 
192 
 
 THE DAWN, SUNKISE AND DAY. 
 
 to town, leaving Gulian here, all will yet be 
 well." 
 
 The hall-door opened again, was locked, 
 and the form of the unknown, in cloak and 
 sombrero, once more appeared upon the gar- 
 den walk. 
 
 " To town, Felix, as fast as you can drive. 
 I must be back within two hours." 
 " Yes, my lord." 
 
 He entered the carriage, — it turned, — and 
 the horses dashed up the narrow road at full 
 speed. 
 
 " Two hours !" ejaculated Tarleton, as the 
 sound of the wheels died away. " In two 
 hours, ' my lord !' you wall find the nest rob- 
 bed of its bird," 
 
 Determined at all hazards to rescue the 
 person of the boy, Gulian, and bear him from 
 the old mansion, he opened the wicket gate, 
 and, passing along the garden walk, ap- 
 proached the silent mansion. The wind sighed 
 mournfully among the leafless branches, and 
 not a smgle ray of light illumined the front 
 of the gloomy pile. 
 
 The colonel passed under the porch, and 
 tried the hall door ; it was locked. With a 
 half-muttered curse, he again emerged from 
 the porch, and from the garden \valk, once 
 more surveyed the mansion. 
 
 Could he believe his eyes ? From a 
 narrow w^indow, in the second story of the 
 western wing, a ray of light stole out upon 
 the gloom — stole out from an aperture in the 
 window curtains — and trembled like a golden 
 thread along the garden walk. 
 
 " The window is low, — the room is a part 
 of the olden portion of the mansion, — that 
 lattice W'Ork, intended for the vines, will bear 
 my weight ; one blow at the window-sash, 
 and I am in the chamber !" 
 
 Thus reflecting, the colonel, ere he began 
 to mount the lattice work, looked cautiously 
 around and listened. All was dark ; no 
 sound was heard, save the low moan of the 
 "wind among the trees. Tarleton placed the 
 revolver in one pocket, and buried the bowie- 
 knife in its sheath. Then he began cautiously 
 to ascend the lattice work, along which, in 
 summer time, crept a green and flowering 
 vine ; it creaked beneath his weight, but did - 
 not break, — in a moment he was on a level 
 with the narrow window. Resting his arms 
 upon the deep window-sill, he placed his eye ! 
 
 to the aperture in the curtains, and looks 
 within. 
 
 He beheld a small room, with low ceiling, 
 and w^ainscoted walls ; a door, wliich evi- 
 dently opened upon the corridor leading to j 
 the body of the mansion ; a couch, with a I 
 canopy of faded tapestry ; the floor of dark j 
 w^ood, uncarpeted, and its once polished sur- 
 face thick with dust ; a bureau of ebony, 
 surmounted by an oval mirror in a frame of 
 tarnished gilt. The light stood upon the 
 bureau ; and, in front of the light, an alabas- | 
 ter image of the crucified. 
 
 Before this image, with head bowed upon 
 his clasped hands, knelt the boy, Gulian. 
 The light shone upon his glossy hair, which 
 fell to his shoulders, and over the outlines 
 of his graceful shape. He was evidently 
 absorbed in voiceless prayer. 
 
 Altogether, it was a singular — yes, a beau- 
 tiful picture. But the Coloilel had no time 
 to waste on pictures, however beautiful. 
 
 He placed his arm against the sash — it 
 yielded — and the colonel sprang through the 
 window into the room. l 
 
 Gulian heard the crash, and started up, 
 and beheld the colonel standing near him, 
 his arms folded on his breast, and his face 
 stamped with a look of fiendish triumph. 
 
 ** Oh, my God !" he ejaculated, and stood 
 as if spell-bound by terror. 
 
 " You see it is all in vain," said the Colo- 
 nel, showing his white teeth in a smile. 
 " You cannot escaj)e from me. You must 
 do my will. Come, my child, we must be 
 moving." 
 
 He placed Gulian's cap upon his chesnut 
 curls, and pointed to the door. 
 
 The eyes of the poor youth were wild 
 with aff'right. He evidently stood in mortal 
 terror of Tarleton. His glance roved from 
 side to side, and he ejaculated — 
 
 "In his power again; just as I thought 
 myself forever safe from his persecution!" 
 
 "Answer me — where did you meet the 
 man who brought you to this house ?" 
 
 As he spoke, Tarleton seized the boy by \ 
 the wrist. 
 
 " In the street ; I had fainted on the side- 
 walk," was the answer, in a tremulous voice. 
 
 "And how came you in the street at such 
 an unusual hour ?" 
 
 " When you left Mr. Somers' house, you 
 
THE DAWN, SUNRISE AND DAY. 
 
 193 
 
 threatened to return to-morrow," answered 
 Gillian, clasping his hands over his breast. 
 " I was determined to avoid seeing you again, 
 at all hazards. I left the house, and wan- 
 dered forth, uncertain whither to direct my 
 steps. Yes — oh yes ! I had one purpose 
 plainly in my mind," — he smiled, and his 
 eyes brightened up with a strange light, — " I 
 resolved to bond my steps to the river." 
 " To the river ?" 
 
 "Yes, to the river," answered the boy, 
 with a singular smile : " for you know that 
 if I was drowned, I would be safe from you 
 forever." 
 
 "And you would become a — suicide!" 
 said Tarleton, with a sneer ; " you, so finely 
 brought up ! Have you no fear of the here- 
 after ?" 
 
 Gulian's pale face lighted with a faint 
 glow. — " There are some deeds which are 
 worse than suicide," he answered quietly, yet 
 with a significant glance. " It was to avoid 
 the commission of one of these deeds, that, 
 scarcely an hour ago, I left the house of Mr. 
 Somers and bent my steps to the river." 
 
 "And you fainted, and this man came 
 across you while you were insensible — eh ? 
 Who is he ? and what was it that led him 
 from his carriage, along the street where he 
 found you ?" 
 
 "An impulse, or presentiment, as he told 
 me, which he could not resist, and which 
 impressed him that he might save the life 
 of a fellow-being. He left his carriage ; he 
 arrived before it was too late. In a little 
 while I should have been frozen to death." 
 
 Again Tarleton seized the boy by the 
 wrist ; and his brow grew dark, his eyes 
 fierce and threatening. 
 
 "And you confessed the secret to this 
 man ?" he exclaimed. " Nay, deny it not !" 
 He tightened his grasp. " You did confess — 
 did you not ?" 
 
 "Oh, pity ! — do not harm me !" and Gu- 
 lian shrunk before Tarleton's gaze. "I did 
 not confess the secret — indeed I did not." 
 
 " Swear you did not ,!" 
 
 "I swear I did not !" 
 
 "I will not believe you, unless you will 
 place your hand upon this crucifix, and swear 
 by the Savior, that you did not reveal the 
 
 secret y 
 
 The boy placed his hand upon the alabas- 
 
 ter image, and said solemnly, " By the name 
 of the Savior, I swear that I did not reveal 
 the secret of which you speak." 
 
 Tarleton burst into a laugh. 
 
 "I breathe freer!" he cried. "You are 
 sujDerstitious ; and, with your hand upon an 
 image like that, I know you cannot lie. The 
 secret is safe, and all will yet be well. Come, 
 we must go." 
 
 " Oh, you do not want me now !" cried 
 Gulian, shrinking away from his grasp — 
 " noAv that you are assured of the security 
 of the secret f" 
 
 " Worse than ever, my boy," cried Tarle- 
 ton, with a tone of mocking gayety. " I am 
 positively starving to death for your company. 
 To-day and to-morrow you must be with me 
 all the time, and never for an instant quit 
 my sight. After that you are free !" 
 
 The countenance of Gulian, in which a 
 masculine vigor of thought was tempered by 
 an almost woman-like roundness of outline 
 and softness of expression, underwent a sud- 
 den and peculiar change. 
 
 " I will not go with you," he said, slowly 
 and firmly, his eyes shining vividly, while 
 his face was unnaturally pale. 
 
 " You will not go with me ?" and Tarle- 
 ton advanced with a scowling brow — " We'll 
 see, we'll see, — " 
 
 " I will not go with you," repeated Gulian. 
 " You call me superstitious. It may be su- 
 perstition which makes my blood run cold 
 with loathing, when you are near me ; or it 
 may be some voiceless warning from the 
 dead, who, while in this life, were deeply 
 injured by you. But it is not supersti- 
 tion which induces me to place my hand 
 upon this crucifix, and tell you, that you 
 cannot drag me from it, save at peril of your 
 life. Ah, you sneer ! The house is deserted: — 
 true. The crucifix of frail alabaster: — true. 
 But you are fairly warned. The moment 
 that crucifix breaks, to you is one of perih" 
 
 Tarleton knew not what to make of the 
 expression and words of the boy. At first 
 there was something in the look of Gulian 
 which touched him, against his will ; but, as 
 the closing words fell on his ear, he burst 
 into a laugh. " Come, child, we'll leave the 
 house by the hall door," he said ; and, as he 
 passed an arm around Gulian's waist, ho 
 placed the other hand upon the door which 
 
194 
 
 THE DAWN, SUNRISE AND DAY. 
 
 led into the passage : " Nay, you need not 
 cling to that bauble ! Come ! I'll endure 
 this nonsense no longer — " 
 
 The alabaster image was crushed in th(^ 
 grasp of Gulian, as he was torn from it; and 
 at the same instant the colonel opened the 
 door. 
 
 Gulian, struggling in the grasp of Tarle- 
 ton, clapped his hands twice, and cried aloud: 
 "Cain! Cain 1" 
 
 The next moment it seemed as though a 
 crushing weight had bounded, or been hurled, 
 against the colonel's back ; he was dashed to 
 the floor ; he found himself struggling in 
 the fangs of a huge dog, with short, shaggy 
 hair, black as jet, short ears, and formidable 
 jaws. As the dog uttered a low growl, his 
 teeth sank deep into the back of Tarleton's 
 neck, and Tarleton uttered a groan of intol- 
 erable agony. Tarleton was dragged along 
 the floor, by the ferocious beast, which raised 
 him by the neck, and then dashed him to 
 the floor again ; treating him as the tiger 
 treats the prey w^hich he is about to strangle 
 and kill. 
 
 Cain w^as indeed a ferocious beast. He 
 had accompanied the unknown over half the 
 globe ; and w^as obedient to his slightest sign; 
 defending those whom he wished defended, 
 and attacking those whom he wished at- 
 tacked. Before leaving the mansion, the 
 unknown had placed Cain before the door 
 of Gulian's room, and given Gulian into its 
 charge. "Guard him, Cain ! obey him, Cain !" 
 And, as Tarleton opened the door, at a sign 
 and a word from Gulian, the dog proved 
 faithful to his master's bidding. In the 
 grasp of this formidable animal, Tarleton 
 now found himself writhing — his blood 
 spurting over the floor, as he was dragged 
 along. 
 
 As Gulian beheld this scene, and heard 
 the cries of Tarleton mingling with the low 
 growl of the dog, his heart relented. He 
 forgot all that ^Tarleton had made him 
 suffer. 
 
 " Cain ! Cain ! — here, Cain ! — here !" he 
 cried; but in vain. Cain had tasted blood. 
 His teeth twined deep in his victim's neck ; 
 and his jaws reddened with Tarleton's blooJ; 
 ne did not hear the voice of- Gulian. 
 
 It was a terrible moment for Tarleton. 
 U ttering frightful imprecations between his j 
 
 how^ls of pain, he made a last and desperate 
 effort — an effort strengthened by despair and 
 by pain, which seemed as the pang of 
 death, — he turned, even as the teeth of the 
 dog were in his neck^ he clenched the infu- 
 riated animal by the throat. Then took place 
 a brief but horrible contest, in which the dog 
 and the man rolled over each other, the man 
 clutching, as with a death-grasp, the throat 
 of the dog, and the dog burying his teeth in 
 the man's shoulder. 
 
 Gulian could bear the sight no longer ; he 
 sank, half fainting, against the bureau, and 
 hid his eyes from the light. 
 
 Presently, the uproar of the combat — the 
 growl of the dog, and the cries of Tarle- 
 ton — were succeeded by a dead stillness. 
 
 Gulian raised his eyes. 
 
 Tarleton stood in the center of the room, 
 his face and white coat bathed in blood — his 
 bowie-knife, also dripping with blood, held 
 aloft in his right hand. He presented a 
 frightful spectacle. His coat was rent over 
 the right shoulder, and his mangled flesh, 
 was discernible. And that face, whose death- 
 like pallor was streaked with blood, bore 
 an ex^jression of anguish and of madness, 
 which chilled Gulian's heart but to be- 
 hold. 
 
 At his feet was stretched the huge carcass 
 of the dog. The gash across his throat, from 
 which the blood was streaming over the 
 floor, had been inflicted by the hand of the 
 colonel, in the extremest moment of his 
 despair. Cain had fought his last battle. As 
 Tarleton shook the bloody knife over his 
 head, the brave old dog uttered his last moan 
 and died. 
 
 " It will not do, my child — it will not do," 
 and Tarleton burst into a loud and unnatural 
 laugh. " You must go with me ! With me, 
 alive or dead." He rushed towards Gulian, 
 
 brandishing the knife. "Oh, you d d 
 
 wretch ! do you know that I've a notion to 
 cut you into pieces, limb by limb?" 
 
 " Mercy ! mercy !" shrieked the boy, fall- 
 ing on his knees, as that face, dabbled in 
 blood, and writhing, as with madness, in 
 ever}^ feature, ghwereJ over him. 
 
 But Tarleton did not strike. He placed 
 his hand upon his forehead, and made a des- 
 perate effort to recall his shattered senses. 
 Suffering intolerable physical agony, he was 
 
THE DAWN, SUNRISE AND DAY. 
 
 195 
 
 yet firm in the purpose which had led him 
 to the old mansion. 
 
 " If I can get this boy to the carriage, all 
 will yet be well !" he muttered. " HI faint 
 Boon from loss of blood ; but not until this 
 boy is in my power. Brain, do not fail me 
 now !" 
 
 Ue dropped the bloody knife upon the 
 carcass of the dog ; and, taking a handker- 
 ciiief from his pocket, he bound it tightly 
 around his throat. Then, lifting his cloak 
 from the floor, he wound it about him, and 
 writhed with pain, as it touched the wound 
 on his shoulder. 
 
 "Now will you go with me alive, or 
 dead ?" He lifted the knife again, and ad- 
 vanced to Gulian. " Take your choice. If 
 your choice is life," — he could not refrain a 
 cry of pain — '* take the light and go on before 
 me 
 
 Trembling in every limb, his gaze riveted 
 to the face of Tarleton, Gulian took the 
 light, and crossed the threshold of the room. 
 Tarleton followed him with measured step, 
 still clutching the knife in his right hand. . 
 
 " On — on !" muttered Tarleton ; " attempt 
 to escape, and I strike, — on — and he 
 reeled like a drunken man, and fell insensi- 
 ble at Gulian's feet. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 RANDOLPH AND HIS BROTHER. 
 
 The hour of dawn drew near, Ran- 
 dolph was in his own chamber, seated by his 
 bed, watching the face of the sleeper, who 
 was slumbering there. 
 
 A singular look passed over Randolph's 
 visage, as he held the candle over the sleep- 
 er's face, — a look hard to define or analyze, 
 for it seemed to indicate a struggle between 
 widely different emotions. There was com- 
 passion and revenge, brotherly love and mor- 
 tal hatred in that look. *' 
 
 For the sleeper was Harry Royalton, of 
 Hill Royal. 
 
 The candle burned near and nearer to its 
 socket, — the morning light began to mingle 
 with its fading rays, — and still Hany slept 
 on, and still Randolph watched, his eyes 
 fixed on his brother's visage, and his own 
 face disturbed by opposing emotions. 
 
 It was near morning when Harry woke. 
 
 " Hey ! halloo ! what's this ?" he cried, 
 starting up in the bed, and surveying the 
 spacious apartment, — strange to him,i^with 
 a vacant stare. " Where am I ?" 
 
 His gaze fell upon Randolph, who was 
 seated by the bed. 
 
 " You here ?" and his countenance fell. — 
 " What in the devil does all this mean ? " 
 
 Randolph did not reply. There was a 
 slight trembling of his nether lip, and his 
 eyes grew brighter as he fixed his gaze on 
 his brother's face. 
 
 " Where's my coat ? " cried Harry, sur- 
 veying his shirt sleeves, " and my cravat," — 
 he passed his hands over his muscular throat, 
 — " and — you, — what in the devil are you 
 doing here ? " 
 
 Randolph, still keeping his gaze on his 
 brother's face, said in a low voice, — " I am 
 in my own house, brother." 
 
 "Your house?" ejaculated Harry, and 
 then burst into a laugh, — come, now, — 
 don't, — that's too good." 
 
 " My ow^n house, to which I brought 3'OU 
 some hours ago, after I had rescued you from 
 the persons in the cellar " 
 
 " Rescued me ? " and an incredulous smile 
 passed over Harry's face as he pulled at his 
 bushy whiskers. "Better yet, — ha ! ha ! — 
 You don't think to stuff me with any such 
 damned nonsense ?" 
 
 Randolph grew paler, but his eye flashed 
 with deeper light. 
 
 " Brother, I did rescue you," he said, in 
 the same low voice, as he bent forward. — 
 " As w^e were about to engage in conflict, you 
 fell like a dead man on the floor. I took you 
 in my arms ; I defended you from the ne- 
 groes who were clamorous for your blood ; 
 I bore you to upper air, and I, brother, then 
 brought you in a carriage to my home ; and 
 I laid you oij. my bed, brother ; and when 
 you awoke from your swoon, — awoke with 
 the ravings of delirium on your tongue, — I 
 soothed you, until you fell in a sound sleep. 
 This is the simple truth, brother." 
 
 Harry grew red in the face, then pale, — bit 
 his lip, — pulled his w-hiskers, and then with- 
 out turning his head, regarded Randolph 
 with a sidelong glance. To tell the simple 
 truth, Harry did not know w^hat to say. He 
 felt a sw^elling of the heart, a warmth in his 
 , veins, as though the magnetic gaze of 
 
196 
 
 THE DAWN, SUNRISE AND DAY. 
 
 Eandolph had influenced him even against 
 his will. 
 
 " You did all this ? " — there was a faint 
 tremor in his voice. 
 
 "I did^ brother," — Randolph's voice was 
 deep and earnest. 
 
 "Why, — why, — did not you kill me, 
 when you had me in your power ? " 
 
 " Brother, the blood of John Augustus 
 Royalton flows in my veins, and it is not 
 like a Royalton to strike a fallen foe." 
 
 " And you could have put poison in my 
 drink," hesitated Harry, impressed against 
 his will by the manner of his brother. 
 
 " I never heard of a Royalton who became 
 a poisoner." 
 
 " A Royalton f and you call yourself a 
 Royalton ? " said Harry, still regarding his 
 brother with a sidelong gaze. 
 
 Randolph bit his lip, and folded his arms 
 upon his chest, as if to choke down the 
 strong emotions which were struggling within 
 him. He did not reply. 
 
 ** I suppose I am your prisoner ? " asked 
 Harry, intently regarding Randolph's face. 
 You can keep me secluded until the twenty- 
 fifth of December has j)assed. Is that the 
 dodge ?" 
 
 " Brother, the door is open, and the way 
 is free, whenever you Avish to leave this 
 house," was Randolph's calm reply. 
 
 " Well, if I can make you out, may I be 
 
 !" cried Harry, and the next moment 
 
 uttered a groan of agony, for his back was 
 very painful. " Why did you not take me 
 to my hotel ?" he said, in a peevish, impa- 
 tient tone. 
 
 " You forget that I did not know the name 
 of your hotel," replied Randolph, " and be- 
 side, what place so fitting for a sick man as 
 his brother's home ?" 
 
 Harry grew red in the face, and then burst 
 into a laugh. — " We've been such good broth- 
 ers to each other !" 
 
 The thought which had been working at 
 Randolph's heart for hours, now found utter- 
 ance in words, — 
 
 " Brother, 0, brother ! why can we not 
 indeed be brothers ?" his eyes flashed, his 
 voice was deep and impassioned. " Children 
 of one father, let us forget the past ; let us 
 bury all bitter memories, all feelings of ha- 
 tred, — let us forget, forgive, and be as broth- 
 
 ers to each other. Harry Royalton, my 
 brother, there is my hand." 
 
 He rose, — his chest heaving, his eyes 
 dimmed by tears, — and reached forth his 
 hand. 
 
 Harry, completely overwhelmed by this 
 unexpected appeal, reached forth his hand, 
 but drew it back again. 
 
 " No," he cried, as his face was flushed, — 
 "not with a nigger." The contempt, the 
 scorn, the rage which convulsed his face, as 
 he said these words, cannot be depicted. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE HUSBAND AND THE PROFLIQATE. 
 
 The boat was upon the river, borne onward 
 over the wintery waves and through the float- 
 ing ice, by the strong arms of two sturdy 
 oarsmen. 
 
 Behind, like a huge black wall, was the 
 city, a faint line of light separating its roofs 
 from the bleak sky. Around were the 
 waves, loaded with piles of floating ice, 
 which crashed together with incessant up- 
 roar ; and through the gloom the boat drove 
 onward, bearing one man, perchance two 
 men, to certain death. 
 
 Eugene and Robert, muffled in their cloaks, 
 sat side by side on the stern ; Beverly and 
 his friend, the major, also muffled in their 
 cloaks, sat side by side in the bow. 
 
 Eugene had drawn his cloak over his face 
 as if to hide even from the faint light, the 
 agony which was gnawing at his heart- 
 strings. 
 
 " In case anything should happen," whis- 
 pered Robert, "have you any message to 
 seni to her f" 
 
 " None," was the reply, uttered in a chok- 
 ing voice. 
 
 "Damn her!" said Robert, between his 
 teetK 
 
 Mopiwhile, in the bow of the boat, Bev- 
 erly, shuddering within his thick cloak, not 
 so much from cold as from a mental cause, 
 said to his friend, the major, — 
 
 "No way to get out o' this, I suppose, 
 major ?" 
 
 " None," said the major. 
 
 " I'd give a hoi*se for a mouthful of good 
 brandy " 
 
 " Here it is," and the major drew a 
 
THE DAWN, SUNKISE AND DAY. 
 
 197 
 
 wicker flask from the Ads of his cloak. " 1 
 always carry a pocket-pistol; touch her light." 
 
 It may be that Beverly " touched her 
 light," but ho held the flask to his mouth for 
 a long time, and did not return it to the ma- 
 jor until its contents were considerably dim- 
 inished. 
 
 "A cursed scrape," he muttered. "If 
 anything happens, what '11 become of my 
 daughter ?" It seems he had a motherless 
 child, — " and then there's the Van Huyden 
 estate. If he wings me, all my hope of 
 that is gone, — of course it is." 
 
 At length the broad river was crossed, and 
 the oarsmen ran the boat into a sheltered 
 cove, some three miles above Hoboken. 
 
 The first glimpse of the coming morn stole 
 over the broad river, the distant city, and the 
 magnificent bay. 
 
 "Wait for us, — you know what I told 
 you ?" said Robert to the oarsmen, who were 
 stout fellows, in rough overcoats, and tarpau- 
 lin hats. 
 
 "Ay, ay sir," they responded in a breath. 
 
 " Major, you lead the way," said Robert, 
 **up the heights we'll find a quiet place." 
 
 The Major took Beverly by the arm, and 
 began to climb the steep ascent, over wildly 
 scattered rocks, and among leafless trees. 
 
 They were followed by Robert and Eugene 
 arm in arm. 
 
 After much difiicult wayfaring, they 
 reached the summit of the heights, just in 
 time to catch the first ray of the rising sun, 
 as it shot upward, among the leaden clouds 
 of the eastern horizon. 
 
 All at once the steeples of the city caught 
 the glow, and the distant day blushed scar- 
 let and gold on every wave. 
 
 Among the heights, — may be some three 
 miles above Hoooken, — there is a quiet nook, 
 imbosomed, in the summer time, in foliage, 
 and opening to the south-east, in a view of 
 the Empire City, and Manhattan Bay. A 
 place as level as a floor, bounded on all sides 
 save one, by oak, and chestnut and cedar, 
 with great rocks piled like monuments of a 
 long passed age, among the massive trunks. 
 It is green in summer time, with a carpet-like 
 sward, and then the tree branches are woven 
 together by fragrant vines ; there are flowers 
 about the rocks and around the roots of the 
 old trees, — a balmy, drowsy atmosphere of 
 
 June pervades the place. And looking to 
 the east, or south-east, you see the broad 
 river dotted with snowy sails, the great city, 
 with its steeples glittering in the light, and 
 with the calm, clear, vast Heaven arching 
 overhead. The Bay gleams in the distance, 
 white with sails, or shadowed here and there 
 by the steamer's cloud of smoke, and far 
 away Staten Island closes the horizon like a 
 wall. Standing by one of these huge rocks, 
 encircled by the trees, and steeped in the 
 quiet of the place, you .gaze upon the distant 
 city, like one contemplating a far off battle- 
 field, in which millions are engaged, and the 
 fate of empires is the stake. A sadder 
 battle-field, sun never shone upon, than the 
 Empire City, in which millions are battling 
 every moment of the hour, and battling all 
 life long for fame, for wealth, for bread, for 
 life. Sometimes the quiet nook rings with 
 the laugh of happy children, who come here 
 to stretch themselves upon the grass, and 
 gather flowers among the rocks, and around 
 the nooks of the grand old trees. 
 
 Far different is the scene on this drear 
 winter morning. The trees are leafless ; 
 they raise their skeleton arms against the 
 cold bleak sky. The rocks, no longer clad 
 in vines and flowers, are grim and bare, with 
 crowns of snow upon their summits. The 
 glade itself, no longer clad with velvet-like 
 sward, is faded and brown. The rising sun 
 trembles through the leafless trees, invests 
 the rocks with a faint glow of rosy light, 
 and falls along the brown surface of the 
 glade, investing it for a moment with a 
 cheerful gleam. 
 
 And in the light of the rising smi, in sight 
 of river, city, and distant bay, two men 
 stand ready for the work of death. 
 
 The ground is measured ; the seconds 
 stand apart ; before the fatal word is given, 
 the combatants survey each other. 
 
 Eugene, with, bared head, stands on the 
 north, his slender form enveloped in a closely 
 buttoned frock-coat. He is lividly pale, but 
 the hand which grasps the pistol does not 
 tremble. Notwithstanding the bitter cold, 
 there is moisture on his forehead ; the fire 
 which burns in his eyes, tells you that his 
 emotion is anything but fear. One glance 
 toward the city, — one thought perhaps of 
 other days, — and he is ready. 
 
198 
 
 THE DAWN, SUNKISE AND DAY. 
 
 Opposite, in the south, his hat drawn over 
 his flaxen curls, his tall form enveloped in a 
 close fitting frock-coat, Beverly with an un- 
 certain eye and trembling hand, is nerving 
 himself for the fatal moment. He is afraid. 
 As he catches a glimpse of the face of Eu- 
 gene, his heart dies within him. All color 
 has forsook his usually florid face. 
 
 " Gentlemen, you will fire when I give the 
 w^ord, — " cries Major Barton from the back- 
 ground of withered shrubbery. "Are you 
 ready ?" 
 
 But at this moment the voice of Beverly 
 is heard — " Eugene ! Eugene !" he cries, and 
 starts forward, rapidly diminishing the ten 
 paces, which lie between them — "Eugene ! 
 Eugene ! my friend — can I make no apology, 
 no reparation — " 
 
 Both Robert and the Major, saw Eugene's 
 face, as he turned toward the seducer. The 
 8un, which had been obscured by a passing 
 cloud, shone out again, and shone full upon 
 the face of Eugene. The look which stamp- 
 ed every line of that bronzed visage, was 
 never forgotten by those who beheld it. 
 0, the withering scorn of the lip, the concen- 
 trated hatred of the dark eyes, the utter 
 loathing which impressed every lineament ! 
 
 "Friend!" he echoed, as for a moment he 
 looked Beverly in the face — and then turn- 
 ing to Barton, he said quietly : " Major take 
 your man away. If he is a coward as well 
 as a scoundrel, let us know it." 
 
 The look appalled Beverly; he receded 
 step by step, unable to take his eyes from 
 Eugene's face ; — 
 
 " Be a man, curse you," whispered Barton 
 who had glided to his side — " D'ye hear ?" 
 and he clutched him by the arm, with a 
 grasp, that made Beverly writhe with pain — 
 "Take your place, and fire as I give the word." 
 
 In a moment, Beverly was in his place, 
 his right hand grasping his pistol, dropped 
 by his side, which was presented toward 
 Eugene, who, ten paces off, stood in a corres- 
 ponding position. 
 
 Barton retired to the background, taking 
 his place beside Robert. " Gentlemen, I am 
 about to give the word !" said Barton, and 
 then there was a pause like death, — " One — 
 two — three ! Fire ! 
 
 They wheeled and fired, Eugene with a 
 fixed and decided aim ; Beverly with eyes 
 
 swimming in terror,tand hand trembling 
 with fright. The smoke of the pistols 
 curled gracefully through the wintery air. 
 Beverly stumbled as he fired, and fell on 
 one knee ; Eugene stood bolt upright for a 
 moment, the pistol in his extended hand, 
 and then fell flat upon his face. 
 
 Eugene's bullet sank into the cedar tree, 
 directly behind where Beverly's head had 
 been, only a moment before. Beverly was 
 uninjured. No doubt the false step which 
 he had made in wheeling had saved his life. 
 
 Eugene lay flat upon his face, the pistol 
 still clutched in his extended hand. 
 
 The brother of Joanna rushed forward 
 and raised him to his feet, — there was a red 
 wound between his eyes, — he was dead. 
 
 The husband had been killed by the se- 
 ducer of his wife. 
 
 Behold the justice of the Law of Duel 1 
 
 " The damned fool," was the commentary 
 of the phlegmatic Robert, as with tears 
 gushing from his eyes, he held the body of 
 the dead husband, and at the same time 
 regarded Beverl}'-, who pale with fright, 
 cringed against a tree, — " If he'd a-taken my 
 advice, he'd a-killed you like a dog, last 
 night. He'd a-pitched you from the third 
 story window, — he would, — and mashed 
 your brains out against the pavement." 
 
 The sun came out from behind a cloud, 
 and lighted the face of Eugene Livingston, 
 with the red wound between his fixed eyeballs. 
 
 CHAPTER lY. 
 
 ISRAEL AND HIS VICTIM. 
 
 Israel Yorke left the Temple, accom- 
 panied by Ninety-One and followed by the 
 eleven. Israel, clad once more in his every- 
 day practical dress, with his hat drawn over 
 his bald head, and his diminutive form 
 enveloped in a loose sack of dark cloth, 
 looked like a dwarf beside the almost gigan- 
 tic frame of Ninety-One. Yet Ninety-One, 
 with creditable politeness, gave his arm to 
 the Financier, and urged him onward in the 
 darkness, toward Broadway, something in 
 the manner that you may have seen a very 
 willing boy, assist the progress of a very un- 
 willing dog, — the boy's hand being attached 
 to one end of a string, and the dog's neck 
 to the other. And Ninety-One cheered 
 
THE DAWN, SUNEISE AND DAY. 
 
 199 
 
 Israel with various remarks of a consolatory- 
 character, such as, " go in gold specks ! let 
 her went my darlin' ! don't give it up so 
 easy ! — " and so-forth. 
 
 "It's so dark, and I'm so devilish cold," 
 whined Israel, in vain endeawmng to keep 
 pace with the giant strides of his huge com- 
 panion, — "Where the deuce are we going 
 anyhow ?" 
 
 " Come along feller sinners," said Ninety- 
 One, looking over his shoulders at the eleven 
 who followed sturdily in the rear. The 
 eleven did not deign to express themselves 
 in words, but manifested some portion of 
 their feelings, by bringing their clubs upon 
 the pavement, with something of the force 
 of thunder, and more of the wickedness of a 
 suddenly slammed door. "Where are we 
 leadin' you to ? To one of yer tenants, 
 Isr'el, — one of yer tenants, you pertikler ex- 
 ample of all the christ'in vartues, — " 
 
 " To one of my tenants !" echoed Israel. 
 
 " To one of yer tenants," repeated Ninety- 
 One, and ho crossed a curb as he spoke, and 
 gave Israel's arm a wrench which nearly tore 
 the arm from Israel's body. — "You know 
 you've got to pay cash for your bank notes 
 to-day, an' you'll need all the money you 
 can ral?e and scrape. To-day's rent day, — 
 isn't it ? Well we're goin' on a collectin' 
 towe)' among yer tenants. Aint we feller 
 sinners ?" 
 
 He turned his head over his shoulder, and 
 again the clubs thundered their applause. 
 
 " I'll be deuced if I can make you out," 
 said Israel arranging his ' specks,' which had 
 been displaced by one of the eccentric move- 
 ments of Ninety-One, — and Israel felt very 
 much like the man who, finding himself late 
 at night, very unexpectedly in the same 
 bed-room with a bear, desired exceedingly 
 to get out of the room, but thought it no 
 more than proper to be civil to the bear until 
 he did get out. 
 
 "Don't you own a four story house in 
 street ?" asked Ninety-One. 
 
 **I do. Four stories, — two to four rooms 
 on ti floor, — besides the cellar and the gar- 
 ret, — a fine property, — and, to-day is rent 
 day—" 
 
 "You stow 'em away like maggots in a 
 stale cheese, — do you?" and Ninety-One 
 stopped, and regarded the little man admi- 
 13 
 
 ringly, — added in an under tone, "Moses! 
 How I'd like to have the picklin' of you !" 
 
 Thus conversing, they entered Broadway, 
 along which they passed for some distance, 
 and at last turned down a by-street, the 
 eleven following them closely all the while. 
 
 They stood in front of a huge edifice, four 
 stories high, formerly the residence of a 
 Wall street nabob, but now the abode of, — 
 we are afraid to say how many families. 
 The basement was, of course, occupied as a 
 manufactory of New York politics, — in sim- 
 ple phrase, it was a grog-shop ; and although 
 the hour was exceedingly late, its door was 
 wide open, and the sound of drunken voices 
 and the fragrance of bad rum, ascended to- 
 gether upon the frosty air. Save the base- 
 ment, the entire front of the mansion was 
 dark as ink ; the poor wretches who bur- 
 rowed in its many rooms, were doubtless 
 sleeping after the toil of the winter's day. 
 
 " In the fourth story you have a tenant 
 
 named ?" whispered Ninety - 
 
 One. 
 
 " Yes ; a poor devil," responded Israel 
 Yorke. 
 
 " Let's go up an' see the poor devil," said 
 Ninety- One, and grasping Israel firmly by 
 the arm, he passed through the front door 
 and up the narrow stairway. 
 
 The eleven followed in silence, supporting 
 Israel firmly in the rear. 
 
 As they reached the head of the fourth 
 stairway, Ninety-One put forth his brawny 
 hand, and, — in the darkness, — felt along the 
 wall. 
 
 "Here's the door," he whispered, "in a 
 minnit we'll bust in upon your tenant like a 
 thousand o' brick." 
 
 Israel felt himself devoured by curiosity, 
 suspense, and fear. 
 
 As for the eleven gathering around Israel 
 closely in the darkness, they preserved a dead 
 silence, only broken for a moment by the ex- 
 clamation of one of their number, — " What 
 a treat it 'ud be to pitch this here cuss down 
 stairs ! '' 
 
 "Hush, boys! hark!" said Ninety-One, 
 and laid his hand upon the latch of the door. 
 
 Before we enter the door and gaze upon 
 the scene which Ninety-One disclosed to the 
 gaze of Israel Yorke, our history must re- 
 trace its steps. 
 
200 
 
 THE DAWN, SUNRISE AND DAY. 
 
 It was nightfall, and the light of the lamps 
 glittering among the leafless trees of the 
 Park, mingled with the last flush of the de- 
 parted day, and the mild, tremulous rays of 
 the first stars of evening. At the corner of 
 Broadway and Chambers street, two young 
 men held each other by the hand, as they 
 talked together. The contrast between their 
 faces and general appearance was most re- 
 markable, even for this world of contrasts. 
 One tall in stature, with florid cheeks, and 
 blue eyes glittering with life and hope, was 
 the very picture of health. He was dressed 
 at the top of the fashion. A sleekly-brushed 
 beaver sat jauntily upon his chesnut curls ; 
 an overcoat of fine gray cloth fitted closely to 
 his vigorous frame, and by its rolling collar, 
 suffered his blue scarf and diamond pin to be 
 visible ; his hands were gloved, and he car- 
 ried a delicate cane, adorned with a head of 
 amber ; and his voice and laugh rung out so 
 cheerily upon the frosty air! 
 
 The other, — alas ! for the contrast, — dress- 
 ed in a long overcoat of faded broAvn cloth, 
 resembled a living skeleton. His face was 
 terribly emaciated ; his cheeks sunken ; his 
 eyes hollow. His voice was low and husky. 
 As he spoke, his eyes lighted up like fire- 
 coals, and seemed to burn in his sallow and 
 withered face. His hair, black as jet, and 
 straight and long, only made his countenance 
 seem more pale and death-like. He was 
 evidently in the last stage of consumption, 
 and his dress, neat as it was, — the faded 
 Drown coat, and much-worn hat carefully 
 brushed,— betokened poverty, and the sad- 
 dest poverty of all, — that which tries, and 
 vainly, to hide itself under a "decent" ex- 
 terior. 
 
 And thus they met, at the corner of Cham- 
 bers street and Broadway, Lewis Harding, 
 the rich broker and man of fashion, and 
 John Martin, the poor artist and — dying 
 man. They had been playmates and school- 
 fellows in other years. Five years ago, they 
 left the academy, in a country town, to try 
 their fortunes in the world ; both orphans, 
 both young, both full of life and hope, and — 
 poor. Harding had taken the world as he 
 found it, adopted its philosophy, — " Success 
 is the only test of merit," — and became a 
 rich broker and a man of fashion. John 
 Martin had taken the world as it ought to 
 
 I have been, — believed in the goodness of man- 
 kind, and in the certainty of honest success 
 following honest labor — of hand and brain, — 
 steadily devoted to the elevation of man. 
 He became an artist, and, — we see him be- 
 fore us now. 
 
 "Why, Jack, my dear fellow, what are 
 you doing out in the cold air ?" said Har- 
 ding, in his kindly voice. " You ought to 
 be more careful of yourself, " 
 
 " I am out in the cold air, because I cannofc 
 breathe freely in the house," answered the 
 artist, with a smile on his cadaverous lips. 
 
 " But you have no cough, — you'll be bet- 
 ter in spring." 
 
 " True, I have no cough, but the doctor 
 informed me to day that my right lung was 
 entirely gone, and my left hard after it ; the 
 simple truth is, I am wasting to death ; and I 
 hate the idea of dying in bed. I want to keep 
 on my feet, — I want to keep in the air, — I 
 want to die on my feet." 
 
 Harding had rajjidly grown into a man of . 
 the world, but somehow the tears started 
 into his eyes. 
 
 "But you must keep up your spirits, 
 Jack, — in the spring you will be " 
 
 "In my grave, Harding; there's no use 
 of lying about it." 
 
 And his eyes flared up, and a bitter smile 
 moved his lips. 
 
 "0, how*s the wife and children?" said 
 Harding, as though anxious to change the 
 conversation. 
 
 " They are well," said John, and a singu- 
 lar look passed over his face. 
 
 "And your sister ?" 
 
 " Eleanor is well," — and the vivid bright- 
 ness of his eyes was for a moment vailed in. 
 moisture. 
 
 " 0, by-the-bye, I met Nelly the other 
 day," said Harding. " Bless my soul ! what 
 a handsome little girl she has grown ! It 
 was in a store where they sell embroidered 
 work. I was pricing a set of regalia, — thirty 
 dollars they said was the price, — and little 
 Nell had worked on it about three weeks for 
 five dollars. Great world. Jack !" 
 
 " Good night, Harding," said the artist, 
 quietly. 
 
 " But let me accompany you home, " 
 
 " I'd rather you would not. Good nighty 
 Harding." 
 
THE DAWiT, SUNEISE AND DAY. 
 
 201 
 
 " But God bless you, John, can't I do 
 anything for you ?" 
 
 " Why, why after I am dead," — and the 
 words seemed to stick in his throat, — " after 
 
 I am dead, — my wife, — my sister, " he 
 
 could say no more. 
 
 " I swear that I will protect them," said 
 Harding, warmly. John quietly pressed his 
 hand, and turned his face away. After a 
 moment they parted, Harding down Broad- 
 way on his way to the theater, and John up 
 Broadway, on his way home. And Harding 
 gazed after John for a moment, — ** I'm glad 
 he didn't want to borrow money ! Nell is 
 quite a beauty !" 
 
 Walking slowly, and pausing every now 
 and then to breathe, John gazed in the 
 bright shop-windows, and into the contrasted 
 faces of the hurrying crowd as he passed 
 along. 
 
 " Soon this will be all over for me," he 
 muttered, with a husky laugh. "I'm afraid, 
 friend John, that you are taking your last 
 walk." 
 
 An arm was gently thrust through his 
 own, and a voice light and trilling as the 
 notes of a bird, said quietly, — 
 
 "I'm so glad I've caught up with you 
 John," — and he leaned upon that gentle 
 arm, and turned to look upon the face of 
 the speaker. It was his sister Eleanor, a very 
 pretty child of some fourteen years, dressed 
 in a faded cloak, and with a hood on her 
 dark hair. Her complexion was a rich 
 brown, tinged with red in the cheeks ; her 
 eyes, brows and hair, all black as midnight. 
 And by turns, over that face, in which the 
 woman began to mingle with the child, there 
 flitted a look of the brightest joyousness, and 
 an expression of the most touching melan- 
 choly. 
 
 " I've just been taking my work home, 
 John. They paid me half a dollar for what 
 I have done this week, (and that, you know, 
 John, will keep us in bread and coal to- 
 morrow,) and 0, I am so glad you've got 
 eight dollars saved for the rent. I am so 
 glad ! The rent is due to-morrow, and the 
 landlord is such a hard man." 
 
 " Yes, I have eight dollars," John said, 
 and there was an indefinable accent marking 
 every word. " Yes, Nelly, dear, I have eight 
 dollars." 
 
 "John, do tell me, who are those good 
 ladies who pass us every moment, dressed so 
 richly, — all in velvet, and satin, and jewels ; 
 who are they, John ?" 
 
 John stopped, — bent upon his cane, — 
 looked for a moment upon the crowd which 
 whirled past him, — and then into the happy, 
 innocent face of his sister. And then his 
 shrunken chest heaved with a sigh. " 
 God !" he said, in a low voice. 
 
 " Who are they, John, — do tell me, — they 
 must be very, 0, ever so rich." 
 
 " Those handsome ladies, dressed so gaud- 
 ily, Nelly, are sisters and daughters. Once 
 they had brothers and fathers who protected 
 them, and now their fathers and brothers are 
 dead. The world takes care of them now, 
 Nelly." 
 
 The poor girl heard his words, but did not 
 guess their hidden meaning. Still supporting 
 her brother on her arm, she continued, — 
 
 "Do you know, John, that your hand- 
 some friend, Mr. Harding, met me in the 
 store the other day, and said he took such 
 an interest in me, and that if I chose I 
 might be dressed as rich and gayly as these 
 grand ladies, who pass us every moment." 
 
 John started as though he had trodden 
 upon a snake. " And only a moment ago 
 he promised to protect her when I am gone," 
 he muttered, — " Protection .'" 
 
 And thus they passed along until turning 
 into a by-street, they came near their home, 
 which was composed of a single room, up 
 four pairs of stairs, in a four-storied edifice. 
 At the street door they were met by a young 
 woman, plainly, — meagerly clad, but with a 
 finely-rounded form, and a countenance, rich, 
 not only in loveliness, but in all the goodness 
 of womanly affection. It was the artist's 
 wife. 
 
 " 0, John, I have been so anxious about 
 you," she said, and took him by the arm ; 
 and while Nelly held the other, she gently 
 led him through the doorway and up the 
 dark stairs. " Why will you go out when it 
 is so cold ?" 
 
 " I want air, Annie, «?>," he returned in 
 his hollow voice, — " and I will die on my 
 feet." 
 
 And the wife and sister helped the dying 
 artist gently up the stairs ; gently, slowly, 
 step by step, and led him a?t last over the 
 
202 
 
 THE DAWN, SUNRISE AND DAY, 
 
 threshold, into that room M-hich was their 
 home. 
 
 About an lioiir afterward, John was seated 
 in an arm-chair, in the center of that home, 
 whose poverty was concealed as much as 
 might be, by the careful exertions of his 
 wife and sister. lu the arm-chair, his death- 
 like face looking ghastly in the candle- 
 light, — his wife, a woman of blonde counte- 
 nance, blue eyes, and chesnut-hair, on one 
 side ; his sister, with her dark hair, and clear, 
 deep eyes, on the other ; each holding a hand 
 of the husband and the brother. A boy of 
 four years, sat on a stool, looking up quietly 
 with his big eyes into his father's face ; and 
 near, a little girl of three years, who took 
 her brother by the hand, and also looked in 
 the face of the dying artist. Very beautiful 
 children ; plainly clad, it is tme, but beauti- 
 ful ; the girl with light hair and blue eyes, 
 reflecting the mother, while the boy, dark- 
 haired and black-eyed, was the image of the 
 father. 
 
 The table, spread with the remains of the 
 scanty meal, stood near ; the grate was filled 
 with lighted coals ; a bed wuth a carefully 
 patched coverlet stood in one corner ; be- 
 tween the two windows was placed an old- 
 fashioned bureau ; and two pictures adorned 
 the neatly whitewashed walls. 
 
 Such was the picture, and such the artist's 
 home. 
 
 The stillness which had prevailed since 
 supper, was at length broken by the voice of 
 John. 
 
 "Annie, I'll leave you soon," he said, qui- 
 etly, and his eyes lighted up. — " 0, wouldn't 
 it be a good thing if we could all die togeth- 
 er ! To die, I do not fear, but to leave you 
 all, — and in such a world ! 0, my God ! 
 such a world !" 
 
 Annie buried her face in her hands, and 
 rested her hands against the arm of the chair. 
 Nelly, her large eyes brimful of tears, quietly 
 put his hand to her lips. And the little boy, 
 in his childish way, asked what " to die " 
 meant. 
 
 "Bring me that picture, Nelly," — he 
 pointed to a picture on the wall. She went 
 and brought it quietly. "Now let down the 
 window a little, for I feel the want of air, 
 and come and sit by me again." 
 
 He took the picture and gazed upon it 
 
 earnestly and long. It was a picture of him- 
 self, in the prime of young manhood, the 
 cheeks rounded, the eyes full of hope, the 
 brow, shaded by glossy black hair, stamped 
 ,with genius. A picture taken only sixteen 
 months before. 
 
 "Only sixteen months ago, Nelly," he 
 said. Only sixteen months ago, Annie ; and 
 now — well, there's a crayon sketch on the 
 bureau, which I took of myself the other 
 day, as I looked in the glass. Bring it, 
 Nelly." 
 
 His sister brought the crayon sketch ; and, 
 with a sad smile, he held it beside the other 
 picture. It was all too faithful. His promi- 
 nent cheek bones, hollow cheeks, colorless 
 lips, and sunken eyes, all were copied there ; 
 only the deathly fire of the eyes was 
 lacking. 
 
 "A sad contrast, isn't it, Annie ? When 
 this picture was taken, sixteen months ago, 
 we were all doing well. My pictures sold ; 
 some lithographs which I executed, met 
 also with ready sale. I had as much as I 
 could do, and everything was bright before 
 me. I even thought of a tour to Italy ! 
 Don't you remember our nice little cottage 
 out in the country, Nell ? But I was taken 
 sick — sick ; — I couldn't work any longer. 
 Our money was soon spent ; and you, Annie, 
 made shirts ; and you, Nelly, you embroi- 
 dered ; and that kept us thus far — and — ," 
 he stopped, and gazed'upon his wife and sis- 
 ter, who were weeping silently : and then 
 upon his children. "And now I must go 
 and leave you in this world. — Oh, my God ! 
 such a world !" 
 
 "Don't think of us, John," said his wife. 
 " If you could only live, — " 
 
 " Oh, you will — you will get better, as the 
 spring comes on," exclaimed Nelly ; " and 
 we'll go into the country, on the first sunny 
 day, and gather flowers there." 
 
 John drew forth from his vest pocket cer- 
 tain pieces of paper, which he spread forth 
 upon his knee. Bank notes, each marked 
 with the figure 2, and signed by the name 
 of Israel Yorke, (a prominent banker of the 
 bogus stamp,) in a bold hand. There were 
 four in all. 
 
 " This is the eight dollars, Annie, which 1 
 saved to pay our rent," said the artist. 
 The wife and sister gazed upon the bank 
 
THE DAWN, SUNRISE AND DAY. 
 
 203 
 
 notes earnestly — for those bank notes were 
 their last hope. Those bank notes were 
 **rent money;'' and of aft money on the 
 earth of God, none is so bitterly earned by 
 Poverty, nor so pitilessly torn frona its grasp 
 by the hand of Avarice, as " rent money." 
 
 "Well, — well;" — and John paused, as if 
 the words choked him. "These notes are 
 not worth one penny. All of Israel Yorke's 
 banks broke to-day." 
 
 There was not a word spoken for five 
 minutes, or more. This ncAvs went like an 
 ice-bolt through the hearts of the wife and 
 Bister. 
 
 "And to-morrow we'll be put into the 
 street by this same Israel Yorke, who is also 
 our landlord ;" said John, breaking the long 
 pause. "Put the window a little lower, 
 Nelly — it feels close — I want air." 
 
 Nelly obeyed ; and resumed her seat at 
 her brother's face, which now glowed on the 
 cheeks and shone in the eyes with an ex- 
 pression which she could not define. 
 
 " Oh, wouldn't it be good, Annie — would 
 not it be glorious, Nelly — if I could gather 
 you all up in my arms and take you with 
 me, whither I am going ?" he said, with a 
 sort of rapture, looking from his children to 
 his wife and sister. And then, in a gentler 
 tone : " Kneel down, Nelly, and say a prayer, 
 and ask God to forgive us all our sins — alJ^ 
 remember, — and to smooth the way for us, so 
 that we may all go to Him." 
 
 Neither Nelly nor Annie remarked the 
 singular emphasis which accompanied these 
 words. 
 
 Nelly knelt in their midst, and prayed. 
 
 As she uttered that simple and child-like 
 prayer, John fixed his eyes upon her face, 
 and muttered, " And so he took a great in- 
 terest in you, and would dress you gayly, 
 would he ?" 
 
 Then he said, aloud, in a kind of wild and 
 wandering way — "Now we've had our last 
 supper, and our last prayer. It will soon be 
 time for us to go. Call me, love, in time for 
 the cars.'? 
 
 He paused, and raised his hand to his 
 forehead, — 
 
 "Don't cry, Annie; my mind wanders a 
 little— that's all. I want rest. I'll take a 
 Jittle Sleep in the chair, and you and Nelly, 
 and the children, lay down in the bed. And 
 
 let me kiss the children, and do you all kiss 
 me — " 
 
 The young mother lifted the little boy 
 and girl, and they pressed their kiss upon the 
 lips of the dying man. Then the wife and 
 the sister ; their tears mingling on his face, 
 as their lips were pressed by turns to his lips 
 and brow. 
 
 " Come, Nelly," whispered the wife, "we'll 
 lay down, but we will not sleep. He will 
 take a little rest if he thinks we are 
 sleeping. 
 
 Presently the sister and the wife, with the 
 children near them, were resting on the bed, 
 their hands silently joined. They conversed 
 in low tones, while the children fell gently 
 asleep. But gradually their conversatioii 
 died away in inarticulate whispers; and they 
 also slept. 
 
 And the artist — did he sleep ? By no 
 means. Sitting erect in his arm-chair, his 
 back toward the bed, and his eyes every 
 instant glittering bright and brighter, he 
 listened intently to the low whispers of his 
 wife and sister. "At last they sleep 1" he 
 cried, as the sound of their calm, regular 
 breathing struck his ears. " They sleep — 
 they sleep ! They sleep — wife, sister, chil- 
 dren ; Annie, Nelly, little J ohn, and little 
 Annie, — they all sleep." 
 
 And he burst into tears. 
 
 But his death-stricken face was radiant 
 through his tears: — radiant with intense joy. 
 
 John sat silently contemplating a small 
 image of white marble, which he had taken 
 from one of the drawers of the bureau. It 
 represented the Master on the cross. 
 
 "Better go to God, and trust him, than 
 trust to the mercy of man," he frequently 
 murmured. 
 
 After much silent thought he rose, and, from 
 beneath the bureau drew forth two objects 
 into the light — a sack and a small plaster 
 furnace. He placed the furnace in the cen- 
 ter of the floor, and half filled it with lighted 
 coals from the grate. Then he poured the 
 contents of the sack upon the burning coals; 
 his hands trembling, and his eyes, fiery as 
 they were, suddenly dimmed by moisture. 
 
 " Charcoal, good charcoal — such a bless- 
 ing to the poor ! Nelly didn't know what 
 a blessing it was, when I sent her for it this 
 afternoon — that is, yesterday afternoon. It 
 
20i 
 
 THE DAWN, SUNRISE AND DAY. 
 
 takes fire — it burns — such a mild, rich blue 
 flame ! Opium and charcoal are the poor 
 man's best friends. They cost so little, and 
 they save one from so much," — as he knelt 
 on the floor, he cast his gaze over his shoul- 
 der toward the bed — " so very much ! They 
 will save us all from so much !" 
 
 Nelly murmured in her sleep, and rose in 
 bed, and, opening her eyes, gazed at her 
 brother, kneeling by the lighted furnace, with 
 a wild dreamy stare. Then she lay down 
 and slept again. 
 
 The charcoal burned brightly, its pale 
 blue flame casting a spectral glow over the 
 face of the kneeling man, so haggard and 
 death-stricken. The noxious gas began to 
 fill the room. John rose and went, with 
 unsteady steps to the window, and eagerly 
 inhaled the fresh air. Resting his arms upon 
 the sash, he felt the cold air upon his cheek, 
 and looked out and upward, — there was the 
 dark blue sky set with stars. 
 
 " In which of them, I wonder, will we all 
 meet again ?" he said, in a wandering way. 
 Then he tottered from the window to the 
 bed. The air was stifling. He breathed only 
 in gasps. 
 
 By the bed again, gazing upon them all, — 
 wife, sister, children, — so beautiful in their 
 slumber. 
 
 And they began to move restlessly in their 
 sleep, and mutter half-coherent words, and— 
 "In the spring time, John, we'll gather 
 flowers," said Nelly ; " You'll be better soon, 
 John," whispered the wife ; and all was still 
 again. 
 
 Back to the window, with unsteady steps, 
 to inhale another mouthful of fresh air — to 
 take another look at the cold, cold winter 
 stars. 
 
 Brighter bums the charcoal ; the pale blue 
 flame hovers there, in the center of the room 
 like an infernal halo. And there is Death 
 in the air. 
 
 Breathing in gasps, John tottered from the 
 window again. He took the image in one 
 hand, the candle in the other ; and thus, on 
 tip-toe, he approached the bed. 
 
 A very beautiful sight. Little John and 
 little Annie sleeping side by side, a glow 
 upon their cheeks, — Nelly and Annie sleep- 
 ing hand joined in hand ; their beautiful faces 
 invested with a smile that was all quietness 
 
 and peace. They did not murmur in their 
 sleep this time. 
 
 John's eyes glared strangely as he stood 
 gazing upon them. "And did you think, 
 Annie, he said softly, putting his hand upon 
 her head, " that I'd leave you in this world, 
 to work and to slave, and to rear our chil- 
 dren up to work and to slave, and eat the 
 bitter bread of poverty ? And you, Nelly, 
 did you think I'd leave you to slave here, 
 until your soul was sick ; and then, some 
 da}', when work failed, and starvation looked 
 in at the window, to sell yourself to some 
 rich scoundrel for bread ? No, wife — no sis- 
 ter — no, children : I have gathered you up in 
 my arms, and we're all going together /" 
 
 He kissed them one by one, and then tot- 
 tered back toward the lighted furnace — 
 toward his chair — the light which he held, 
 shining fully over his withered face and 
 flaming eyes. In one hand he still grasped 
 the marble image. He had gained half the 
 distance to his chair, when the door opened. 
 A man of middle age, clad in sober black, 
 his hair gray, and his hooked nose sup- 
 porting gold spectacles, appeared on the 
 threshold. 
 
 " Ah, Doctor, is that you ?" cried John, 
 "I thought it was the landlord; — you've 
 come too late. Doctor, too late." 
 
 " Too late ? What mean you, Mr. Mar- 
 tin ?" said the doctor, advancing into the 
 room — but starting back again, as he encoun- 
 tered the poisoned air. 
 
 ** Too late — too late !" cried J ohn, the can- 
 dle trembling in his unsteady grasp, as he 
 raised his skeleton-like form to its full 
 height — " We're all cured, — " 
 
 "Cured? What mean you? How cured?" 
 
 " Cured of — life !" said John ; and, step- 
 ping quickly forward, he fell at the doctor's 
 feet. 
 
 The doctor seized the light as he fell, and 
 attempted to raise him from the floor, — but 
 John was dead in his arms. 
 
 Our history now returns to Israel Yorke, 
 whom, with Ninety-One and the eleven, we 
 left waiting in the dark, outside the artist's 
 door. 
 
 " Hush, boys ! hush !" whispered Ninety 
 One, and laid his hand upon the latcb 
 "Enter, Isr'el, and talk to yer tenant." 
 
THE DAWN, SUNRISE AND DAY. 
 
 205 
 
 The door opened, and Israel entered, fol- 
 lowed by Ninety-One and the eleven, all of 
 whom preserved a dead stillness. 
 
 A single light was burning dimly in the 
 artist's humble room. It cast its rays over 
 the humble details of the place, — over the 
 bed, which was covered by a white sheet. 
 The place was deathly still. 
 
 " What does all this mean ?" cried Israel. 
 " There is no one here." Ninety-One took 
 the light from the table, and led Israel 
 silently to the bed. The eleven gathered 
 round in silence ; you could hear their 
 hard breathing through the dead stillness of 
 the room. Ninety-One lifted the sheet, 
 slowly; his harsh features quivering in every 
 fiber. 
 
 " That's what it means," he said hoarsely. 
 
 They were there, side by side ; the hus- 
 band and the wife, the sister and the 
 children — there, cold and dead. The light, 
 as it fell upon them, revealed the wasted 
 face of the artist, his closed eyelids, sunken 
 far in their sockets, his dark hair glued to her 
 forehead by the moisture of death ; and the 
 face of his young wife, with her fair cheek 
 and sunny hair ; and the sad, beautiful face 
 of his sister, whose dark hair lay loosely 
 upon her neck, while the long fringes of her 
 eyelashes rested darkly upon her cheek. 
 There was a look of anguish upon the face 
 of John, as though Poverty had struck its 
 iron seal upon him as he died ; but the faces 
 of Annie and Nelly were calm, smiling — 
 very full of peace. The little children — the 
 dark-haired boy, and bright-haired girl — 
 slept quietly, their hands clasped and their 
 cheeks laid close together. The poor artist, 
 in the last wild hour of his life, had indeed 
 gathered them up in his arms and taken them 
 with him. They had all gone together. 
 
 The fui'nace, with the fire put out, still 
 remained in the center of the room. 
 
 Such was the scene which the light dis- 
 closed ; a scene incredible only to those who, 
 unfamiliar with the actual of the large 
 city, do not know that all the boasted tri- 
 umphs of our modern civilization but mise- 
 rably compensate for the poverty which it 
 lias created, and which stalks side by side 
 with it, at every step of its progress, like a 
 skeleton beside a painted harlot ; — a poverty 
 which gives to the phrase, " / am poor a 
 
 despair unknown even in the darkest ages 
 of the most barbarous past, 
 
 "They are asleep, — asleep, certainly," 
 cried Israel, falling back, "they can't be 
 dead." 
 
 The truth is, that Israel felt exceedingly 
 uncomfortable. 
 
 "They aint asleep, — they are dead," 
 hoarsely replied Ninety-One, and he grasped 
 Israel fiercely by the wrist. " They are dead, 
 you dog. Look thar ! That man owed you 
 eight dollars for rent ; he know'd if he didn't 
 pay you this mornin' he'd be pitched into 
 the street, dyin' as he was, with wife and 
 children and sister at his heels. But he'd 
 saved eight dollars, Israel, an' last night he 
 crawled out to take a walk, an' found that 
 his eight dollars was so much trash — found 
 out that yer banks had broke, an' his eight 
 dollars in yer bank notes, was wuss than, 
 nothin'. An' from yer bankin' house he 
 went to a drug store, an' from a friend he got 
 a quick an' quiet p'ison. He came home ; 
 he put it in the coffee, slyly ; they all drank 
 of it, an' slep'; an' then he filled the furnace 
 with charcoal an' lighted it, an' then they 
 slep' all the better, — an' there they air ! out 
 o' yer clutches, dog — out o' yer fangs, hell- 
 hound, — gone safe to kingdom come 1" 
 
 And he clutched Israel's wrist until the 
 little man groaned with pain. 
 
 " But how do you know he poisoned him- 
 self and these ?" faltered Israel. 
 
 " He left a scrap o' paper in which he told 
 about it an' the reason for doin' it. The 
 doctor who came in when it was too late, 
 saw the charcoal burnin', an' found the p'ison 
 at the bottom of the cups. An' this man," 
 he pointed to one of the eleven, a sturdy 
 fellow with a frank, honest face, "this man 
 an' his wife live in the next room. He was 
 out last evenin', but she was in, an' she heard 
 poor Martin ravin' about you an' his eight 
 dollars, an' his wife, an' sister, an' children, 
 an' starvation, death, an' the cold dark street. 
 She heered him, I say, but didn't suspec* 
 there was p'ison in the case until the doctor 
 called her in, an' then it was too late." 
 
 " But how did you know of all this ? 
 What have you to do with it ?" 
 
 "You see the doctor went an' told the 
 JUDGE, who has just been tryin' you, — told 
 him hours ago, you mind, — an' the judge 
 
206 
 
 THE DAWN, SUNRISE AND DAY. 
 
 sent me here with you, in order to show you 
 some of yer work. How d'ye like it Isr'el ?" 
 
 Ninety-One's features were harsh and scar- 
 red, but now they quivered with an almost 
 child-like emotion. With his brawny hand 
 he pointed to the bodies of the dead, — 
 
 " Thar's eight dollars worth o' yer notcs^ 
 Isr'el," he said. *' Thar's Chow Bunk, Muddy 
 Run, an' Tarrapin Holler! Look at 'em! 
 Don't you think that some day God Al- 
 mighty will ax you to change them notes ?" 
 
 Andlsrael shrank back appalled from the 
 bed. Ninety-One clutched his wrist with a 
 firmer grasp ; the eleven gathered closely in 
 his rear, their ominous murmur growing 
 more distinct ; and the light, held in the 
 convict's hand, shed its calm rays over the 
 faces of the dead family. 
 
 This death-scene in the artist's home, calls 
 up certain thoughts. 
 
 Poverty ! Did you ever think of the full 
 meaning of that word ? The curse of pover- 
 ty is the cowardice which it breeds, coward- 
 ice of body and soul. Many a man who 
 would in full possession of his faculties, 
 pour out his life-blood for a friend, or even 
 for a stranger, will, when it becomes a con- 
 test for a crust of bread, — for the last means 
 of a bare subsistence, — steal that crust from 
 the very lips of his starving friend, and 
 would, were it possible, drain the last life- 
 drop in the veins of another, in order to 
 keep life in his own wretched carcass. The 
 savage, starving in the snow, in the center 
 of his desolate prairie, knows nothing of the 
 poverty of the civilized savage, much less of 
 that poverty, which takes the man or woman 
 of refined education, and kills every noble 
 faculty of the soul, before it does its last work 
 on the body. Poverty in the city, is not 
 mere want of bread, but it is the lack of the 
 means to supply innumerable wants, created 
 by civilization, — and that lark is slow moral 
 and physical death. Talk of the bravery of 
 the hero, who, on the battle-field stands up 
 to be shot at, with the chance of glory, on 
 the one hand, and a quick death on the 
 other ! How will his heroism compare with 
 that brave man, who in the large city, year 
 after year, and day by day, expends the very 
 life-strings of his soul, in battling against the | 
 fangs of want, in keeping some roof-shelter^ 
 over his wife and children, or those who arc ] 
 
 as dependent upon hira as wife and children? 
 Proud lady, sitting on your sofa, in your 
 luxurious parlor, you regard with a quiet 
 sneer, that paragraph in the paper (you hold 
 it in your hand), which tells how a virtuous 
 girl, sold her person into the grasp of 
 wealthy lust for — bread ! You sneer, — virtue, 
 refined education, beauty, innocence, chastity, 
 all gone ;to the devil for a — bit of bread ! 
 Sneer on ! but were you to try the experi- 
 ment of living two days without — not your 
 carriage and opera-box, — but without bread 
 or fire in the dead of winter, working mean- 
 while at your needle, with half-frozen fin- 
 gers for just sixteen pennies per day, you 
 would, I am afraid, think difi"erently of the 
 matter. Instead of two days, read two 
 years, and let your trial be one of perpetual 
 work and want, that never for a moment 
 cease to bite, — I am afraid, beautiful one, 
 were this your case, you would sometimes 
 find yourself thinking of a comfortable life, 
 and a bed of down, purchased by the sale of 
 your body, and the damnation of your soul. 
 And you, friend, now from the quiet of some 
 country village, railing bravely against south- 
 ern slavery, and finding no word bitter 
 enough to express your hatred of the slave 
 market, in which black men and black wo- 
 men are sold — ^just look a moment from the 
 window of your quiet home, and behold 
 yonder huge building, blazing out upon the 
 night from its hundred windows. That is a 
 factory. Yes. Have you no pity for the 
 white men, (nearer to you in equality of 
 organization certainly than black men,) who 
 are chained in hopeless slavery, to the iron 
 wheels of yonder factory's machinery ? HavA 
 you no thought of the white woman, (love- 
 lier to look upon certainly than black women, 
 and in color, in organization, in education* 
 resembling very much your own wife, sister, 
 mother,) who very often are driven by want, 
 from yonder factory to the grave, or to the — 
 brothels of New York ? You mourn over 
 black children, sold at the slave block, — 
 have you no tear for white children, who in 
 yonder factory, are deprived of education, 
 converted into mere working machines (with- 
 out one tithe of the food and comfort of the 
 black slave), and transformed into precocious 
 old men and women, before they have ever 
 felt one free pulse of childhood ? 
 
THE DAWN, SUNRISE AND DAY. 
 
 207 
 
 Ah! this enterprise which forms the impulse 
 and the motto of modern civilization, will 
 doubtless in the future ripen into good for 
 all men, — for there is a God, — but the path 
 of its present progress, is littered with hu- 
 man skulls. It weaves, it spins, it builds, 
 it spreads forth on all sides its iron arms, — 
 and it has a good capital, — the blood of hu- 
 man hearts. Labor-saviug machinery, (the 
 most awful feature of modern civilization,) 
 will, in the future, when no longer monopo- 
 lized by the few, do the greater portion of 
 the physical work of the world, and bless 
 the entire race of man, — but until that future 
 arrives, labor-saving machinery will send 
 more millions down to death, than any three 
 centuries of battle-fields, that ever cursed 
 the earth. Yes, modern civilization, is very 
 much like the locomotive, rolling along an 
 iron track, at sixty miles per hour, with hot 
 coals at its heart, and a cloud of smoke and 
 flame above it. Look at it, as it thunders 
 on ! What a magnificent impersonation of 
 power ; of brute force chained by the mind 
 of man ! All true, — but woe, woe to the 
 weak or helpless, who linger on its iron 
 track ! and woe to the weak, the crippled, 
 or the poor, whom the locomotive of modern 
 civilization finds lingering in its way. Why 
 should it care ? It has no heart. Its work 
 is to move onward, and to cut down all, 
 whom poverty and misfortune have left in 
 its path. 
 
 There is one phase of poverty which hath 
 no parallel in its unspeakable bitterness. A 
 man of genius with a good heart, and some- 
 thing of the all-overarching spirit of Christ ^ 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 MARY, CARL, CORNELIUS. 
 
 Leaving Frank to writhe alone m her 
 agony. Nameless and Mary pursued their 
 way through the dark streets, as the morning 
 drew near. They arrived at length, in 
 front of that huge mansion, in Greenwich 
 street, which once the palace of ease and 
 opulence, was now, from the garret to the 
 cellar, the palace of rags, disease and poverty. 
 How Mary's heart thrilled as she led Name- 
 less through the darkness up the marble 
 stairs ! A few hours since she went down 
 those stairs, with death in her heart. Now 
 ber husband, risen from the grave was on 
 her arm, hope was in her heart, and — 
 although dark and bitter cold, and signs of 
 poverty and wretchedness were all around 
 her, — the future opened before her mental 
 vision, rosy and golden in its hues of pro- 
 mise. 
 
 At the head of the stairway, on the 
 fourth story Mary opened a door, and in the 
 darkness, led Nameless across the threshold. 
 
 " My home !" she whispered, and lighted 
 the candle, which hours ago, in the moment 
 of her deepest despair, she had extinguished. 
 
 As the light stole around the place. Name- 
 less at a glance beheld the miserable garret, 
 with its sloping roof walls of rough boards, 
 and scanty furniture, a mattress in one cor- 
 ner, a sheet-iron stove, a table, and in the 
 recess of the huge garret window an old arm- 
 chair. 
 
 " This your home !" he ejaculated and at 
 
 in him, looks around the world, sees the i the same time beheld the occupant of the 
 vast sum of human misery, and feels like ! arm-chair, — in that man prematurely old, 
 this, * with hut a moderate 'portion of money, ' his skeleton form incased in a loose wrap- 
 wliat good might not he accomplished !' and ' per, his emaciated hands resting on the arms, 
 yet that little sum is as much beyond him, — ! and one side of his corpse-like face on the 
 as far beyond his grasp, as the planet Jupiter. ' back of the chair, — he after a long pause, 
 That forth from the womb of the present ' recognized the wreck of his master, Cornelius 
 
 Berman. 
 
 ** 0, my master !*' he cried in a tone of 
 words, ' there is a God.' And that the pres- inexpressible emotion, and sank on his knees 
 ent age with its deification of the money | before the sleeping man, and pressed his 
 power, is one of the basest the world ever saw, . emaciated hand reverently to his lips. " Is 
 cr.nnot be disproved, although it may be it thus I find you !" and profoundly affected, 
 bitterly denied. There is something pitiful he remained kneeling there, his gaze fixed 
 in the thought that a world once deemed upon that countenance, which despite its pre- 
 worthy of the tread of Satan, is now become mature wrinkles, and dead apathetic expres- 
 
 chaos, a nobler era will be born, no one can 
 doubt, who feels the force of these four 
 
 the crawling ground of Mammon. 
 
 sion, still bore upon its forehead, — half hid by 
 
208 
 
 THE DAWN, SUNRISE AND DAY. 
 
 snow-white hair, — some traces of the intellect 
 of Cornelius Berman. 
 
 While Nameless knelt there in silence, 
 Mary glided from the room, and after some 
 minutes, again appeared, holding a basket on 
 one arm, while the other held some sticks 
 of wood. Leaving her husband in his rev- 
 erie, at her father's feet, she built a fire in 
 the sheet-iron stove, and began to prepare 
 the first meal which she had tasted in the 
 course of twenty hours. Continued excite- 
 ment had kept her up thus far, but her 
 brain began to grow dizzy and her hand to 
 tremble. At length the white cloth was 
 spread on the table, and the rich fragrance 
 of coffee stole through the atmosphere of 
 the dismal garret. The banquet was spread, 
 bread, butter, two cups of cofi'ee, — a sorry 
 sort of banquet say you, — but just for once, 
 try the experiment of twenty-four hours, 
 without food, and you'll change your opin- 
 ion. 
 
 The first faint gleam of the winter morn- 
 ing began to steal through the garret win- 
 dow. 
 
 "Come, Carl," — she glided softly to his 
 side, and tapped him gently on the shoulder, 
 "breakfrist is ready. While father sleeps, 
 just come and see what a good housekeeper 
 I am." 
 
 He looked up and beheld her smiling, 
 although there were tears in her eyes. 
 
 He rose and took his seat beside her at 
 the table. Now the garret was rude and 
 lonely, and the banquet by no means luxu- 
 rious, and yet Nameless could not help 
 being profoundly agitated, as he took his 
 seat by the side of Mary. 
 
 It was the first time, in all his memory, 
 that he had sat down to a table, encircled 
 by the sanctity which clusters round the 
 word — Home. 
 
 His wife was by his side, — this was his — 
 Home. 
 
 Breakfast over, he once more knelt at the 
 feet of the sleeping man. And Mary knelt 
 by his side, gazing silently into his face, 
 while his gaze was riveted upon her father's , 
 countenance. Thus they were, as the morn- 1 
 ing light grew brighter on the window-pane, j 
 At length Mary rested her head upon his 
 bosom, and slept,— he girdled her form in [ 
 his cloak, and held her in h}s arms, while 
 
 her bosom, heaving gently with the calm 
 pulsation of slumber, was close against his 
 heart. The morning light grew brighter on 
 the window-pane, and touched the white 
 hairs of the father, and shone upon the 
 glowing cheek of the sleeping girl. 
 
 Nameless, wide awake, his eyes large and 
 full, and glittering with thought, gazed now 
 upon the face of his old master, and now 
 upon the countenance of his young wife. 
 And then his whole life rose up before him. 
 He was lost in a maze of absorbing thought. 
 His friendless childhood, the day when 
 Cornelius first met him, his student life, in 
 the studies of the artist, the pleasant home 
 of the artist on the river, the hour when he 
 had reddened his hand with blood, his trial, 
 sentence, the day of execution, the burial, 
 the life in the mad-house, — these scenes and 
 memories passed before him, with living 
 shapes and hues and voices. And after all, 
 Mary, his wife was in his arms ! The sun 
 now came up, and his first ray shone rosily 
 over the cheeks of the sleeping girl. 
 
 Nameless remembered the letter which 
 Frank had given him, and now took it from 
 the side pocket of his coat. He surveyed it 
 attentively. It bore his name, "Gulian Van 
 
 HUYDEN." 
 
 " What does it contain ?" he asked him- 
 self the question mentally, little dreaming 
 of the fatal burden which the letter bore. 
 
 The sleeping man awoke, and gazed around 
 the apartment with large, lack-luster eyes. 
 At the same time, with his emaciated hand, 
 he tried to clutch the sunbeam which trem- 
 bled over his shoulder. Nameless felt his 
 heart leap to his throat at the sight of this 
 pitiful wreck of genius. 
 
 "Do you not know me, master?" ex- 
 claimed Nameless, pressing the hand of the 
 afflicted man, and fixing his gaze earnestly 
 upon his face. 
 
 Was it an idle fancy ? Nameless thought 
 he saw something like a ray of intelligence 
 flit across that stricken face. 
 
 "It is I, Carl Raphael, your pupil, your 
 son !" 
 
 As though the sound of that voice had pene- 
 trated even the sealed consciousness of hope- 
 less idiocy, the aged artist slightly inclined 
 his head, and there was a strange tremulous- 
 ness in his glance. 
 
THE DAWN, SUNRISE AND DAY. 
 
 209 
 
 " Carl Raphael, your son !" repeated Name- 
 less, and clutched the hands of the artist. 
 
 Again that tremulousness in the glance of 
 the artist, and then, — as though a film had 
 fallen from his eyes, — his gaze was firm, and 
 bright, and clear. It was like the restoration 
 of a blind man to sight. His gaze traversed 
 the room, and at length rested on the face 
 of Nameless. 
 
 " Carl !" he cried, like one, who, awaking 
 from a troubled dream, finds, unexpectedly, 
 by his bed a familiar and beloved face — 
 " Carl, my son !" 
 
 Mary heard that voice ; it roused her from 
 her slumber. Starting up, she pressed her 
 father's hands. 
 
 " 0, Carl, Carl, he knows you ! Thank 
 God ! thank God !" 
 
 ** Mary," said the father, gazing upon her 
 earnestly, like one who tries to separate the 
 reality of his waking hours from the images 
 of a past dream. 
 
 First upon one face, then upon the other, 
 he turned his gaze, meanwhile, in an absent 
 manner, joining the hand of Mary and the 
 hand of Carl. 
 
 " Carl ! Mary !" he repeated the names in 
 a low voice, and laid his hands gently on 
 theii- heads. — " I thought I had lost you, my 
 children. Carl and Mary," he repeated their 
 names again, — " Carl and Mary ! God bless 
 you, my children ; and now " he sur- 
 veyed them with his large, bright eyes, " and 
 now I must sleep." 
 
 His head fell gently forward on his breast, 
 and he fell asleep to wake no more in this 
 world. His mind had made its last effort 
 in the recognition of Mary and Nameless. 
 For a moment it flashed brightly in its sock- 
 et, and then went out forever. He was dead. 
 Nay, not dead, but he was, — to use that in- 
 expressibly touching thought, in which the 
 very soul and hope of Christianity is embo- 
 died,— " a^Zeep m CAmi." 
 
 " When Mary raised his head from his 
 breast, his eyes were vailed in the glassy film 
 of death. Leaning upon the arm which 
 never yet failed to support the weary head 
 and the tired heart, gazing upon the face 
 which always looks its ineffable consolation, 
 into the face of the dying, Cornelius had 
 passed away as calmly as a child sinking to 
 Bleep upon a mother's faithful breast. 
 
 Mary and Nameless, on their knees before 
 the corse, clasped those death-chilled hands, 
 and wept in silence. 
 
 And the winter sun, shining bright upon 
 the window-pane, fell upon their bowed 
 heads, and upon the tranquil face of the 
 dead father, around whose lips a smile was 
 playing, as though some word of "good 
 cheer" had been w^hispered to him, by 
 angel-tongues, in the moment ere he passed 
 away. 
 
 And thou art dead, brave artist, and life's 
 battle with thee is over, — the eyes that used 
 to look so manfully upon every phase of 
 sorrow and adversity, are all cold and luster- 
 less now, — the heart that generous emotions 
 filled and lofty conceptions warmed, sleeps 
 pulseless in the lifeless bosom. Thou art 
 dead ! — dead in the dreary home of Want, 
 with cold winter light upon thy gray hairs. 
 Dead ! Ah, no, — not dead, for there is a 
 Presence in the dismal garret, invisible to 
 external eyes, which puts Death to shame, 
 and upon the gates of the grave writes, in 
 letters of undying light : — In all the uni- 
 verse of Qx)d there is no such thing as death, hut 
 sim])hj a transition from one life, or state of 
 life, to another. Not dead, brave artist. 
 Thou hast not, in a long life, cherished af- 
 fections, gathered experience from the bitter 
 tree of adversity, and developed, in storm as 
 well as sunshine, thy clear, beautiful intel- 
 lect, merely to bury them all in the dull 
 grave at last. No, — thou hast borne affec- 
 tions, experience, and intellect, to the genial 
 sunshine of the better land. The coffin-lid 
 of this life has been lifted from thy soul, — 
 thou art risen, indeed, — at last, in truth, 
 
 THOU LIVEST ! 
 
 And the Presence which fills thy dark 
 chamber now, although often mocked by the 
 gross interpretations of a brutal theology, 
 often hid from the world by the Gehenna 
 smoke of conflicting creeds, is a living Pres- 
 ence, always living, always loving, always 
 bringing the baptism of consolation to the 
 way-worn children of this life, even as it did 
 in the hour when, embodied in a human 
 form, face to face and eye to eye, it spoke to 
 man. 
 
 The sun is high in the wintery heavens, 
 and his light, streaming thr(5hgh the window- 
 pane, falls upon the mattress, whereon^ coy- 
 
210 
 
 TUE DAWN, SUNRISE AND DAY. 
 
 ored reverently, by the white sheet, the corse 
 is laid. Mary is crouching there, one hand 
 supporting her forehead, the other resting 
 upon the open book, which is placed upon 
 her knee. Thus all day long she watches by 
 the dead. At last the flush of evening is 
 upon the winter sky. 
 
 Nameless, standing by the window, tears 
 open the letter of Frank, and reads it by the 
 ■wintery light The three hours have passed. 
 
 Why does his face change color, as he 
 reads ? The look of grief which his coun- 
 tenance wears is succeeded by one of utter 
 horror. 
 
 "The poison vial!" he ejaculates, and 
 places the fatal letter in Mary's hand. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 A LOOK INTO THE RED BOOK. 
 
 Madam Resimer was waiting in the little 
 room up-stairs, — waiting and watching in 
 that most secret chamber of her mansion, — 
 her cheek resting on her hand, her eyes 
 fixed upon the drawer from which the Red 
 Book had been stolen. The day was bright 
 "without, but in the closed apartment, the 
 Madam watched by the light of a candle, 
 which was burning fast to the socket. The | 
 Madam had not slept. Her eyes were rest- 
 less and feverish. Her cheeks, instead of | 
 their usual florid hues, were marked with al- j 
 temate spots of white and red. Sitting in ! 
 the arm-chair, (which her capacious form, ! 
 clad in the chintz wrapper, filled to overflow- 1 
 ing), the Madam beats the carpet nervously 
 with her foot, and then her small black eyes 
 assume a wicked, a vixenish look. j 
 
 Daylight is bright upon the city and river ; ' 
 ten o'clock is near, — the hour at which Der- 1 
 moyne intended to return, — and yet the Mad- 1 
 am has no word of the bullies whom last 
 night she set upon Dermoyne's track. Near ^ 
 ten o'clock, and no news of Dirk, Slung-Shot, ' 
 or — the Red Book ! 
 
 " Why don't they come ! " exclaimed the 
 Madam, for the fiftieth time, and she beat 
 the carpet wickedly with her foot. \ 
 
 And from the shadows of the apartment, 
 a voice, most lugubrious in its tone, uttered 
 the solitary word?^" Why f" 
 
 "If they don't come, what shall we do ?" 
 
 the Madam's eyes grew wickeder, and she 
 began to "crack" the joints of her fingers. 
 
 " What f" echoed the lugubrious voice. 
 
 " I'll tell you what it is, Corkins," said the 
 Madam, turning fiercely in her chair, "I 
 wish the devil had you, — I do ! Sittin' there 
 in your chair, croakin' like a raven. — 'What ! 
 Why ! ' " and she mimicked him wickedly ; 
 " when you should be, doin' somethin' to 
 stave off the trouble that's gatherin' round 
 us. Now you know, that unless we get 
 back the Red Book, we're ruined, — you 
 know it ?" 
 
 " Com-pletely ruined !" echoed Corkins, 
 who sat in the background, on the edge of 
 a chair, his elbows on his knees, and his chin 
 on his hands. Corkins, you will remember, 
 is a little, slender man, clad in black, with a 
 white cravat about his neck, a top-knot on 
 his low forehead, a " goatee " on his chin, 
 and gold spectacles on his nose. And as 
 Corkins sits on the edge of his chair, he looks 
 very much like a strange bird on its perch, — 
 a bird of evil omen, meditating all sorts of 
 calamities sure to happen to quite a number 
 of people, at some time not definitely ascer- 
 tained. 
 
 " It's near ten o'clock," glancing at the gold 
 watch which lay on the table before her, " and 
 no word of Barnhurst, not even a hint of 
 Dirk or Slung ! And at ten, that villain w^ho 
 stole the book will come back, — that is, un- 
 less Dirk and Slung have taken care of him ! 
 I never was in such a fever in all my life ! 
 Corkins, what is to be done ? And your pa- 
 tient, — how is she ?" 
 
 " As for the patient up-stairs," Corkins be- 
 gan, but the w^ords died away on his lips. 
 
 The sound of a bell rang clearly, although 
 gloomily throughout the mansion. 
 
 " Go to the front door, — quick !" — in her 
 impatience the Madam bounded from her 
 chair. " See who's there. Open the door, 
 but don't undo the chain ; and don't, — do 
 you hear ? — don't let anybody in until you 
 hear from me ! Quick, I say !" 
 
 " But it isn't the front door bell," hesita- 
 ted Corkins. 
 
 Again the sound of the bell was heard. 
 
 " It's the bell of the secret passage," ejac- 
 ulated Madam, changing color, — "the pas- 
 sage which leads to a back street, and of the 
 existence of which, only four persons in the 
 
THE DAWN, SUNRISE AND DAY. 
 
 211 
 
 world know anything. There it goes again ! 
 who can it be ?" 
 
 The Madam was evidently very much 
 perplexed. Corkins, who had risen from his 
 perch, stood as though rooted to the floor ; 
 and the bell pealed loud and louder, in dis- 
 mal echoes throughout the mansion. 
 
 " Who can it be ? " again asked the Mad- 
 am, while a thousand vague suspicions float- 
 ed through her brain. 
 
 "Who can it be ? " echoed Corkins, shak- 
 ing like a dry leaf in the wind. 
 
 Here let us leave them awhile in their per- 
 plexity, while we retrace our steps, and take 
 up again the adventures of Bamhurst and 
 Dermoyne. We left them in the dimly- 
 lighted bed-chamber, at the moment when 
 the faithful wife, awaking from her slumber, 
 welcomed the return of her husband in these 
 words, — " Husband ! have you come at last ? 
 I have waited for you so long ! " 
 
 " Husband ! " said the wife, awaking from 
 her sleep, and stretching forth her arms, 
 " have you come at last ? I have waited for 
 you so long ! " 
 
 " Dearest, I was detained by an unexpected 
 circumstance," answered Barnhurst, and first 
 turning to Dermoyne with an imploring ges- 
 ture, he approached the bed, and kissed his 
 wife and sleeping child. Then back to Der- 
 moyne again with a stealthy step, — *' Take 
 your revenge ! " he whispered ; " advance, 
 and tell everything to my wife." 
 
 Dermoyne's face showed the contest of oppo- 
 sing emotions ; now clouded -with, a hatred as 
 remorseless as death, now touched with some- 
 thing like pity. At a rapid glance he sur- 
 veyed the face of the trembling culprit, — 
 the boy sleeping on his couch, — the mother 
 resting on the bed, with her babe upon her 
 bent arm, — and then uttered in a whisper, a 
 single word, — " Come ! " 
 
 He led Barnhurst over the threshold, out 
 upon the landing, and carefully closed the 
 door of the bed-chamber. 
 
 *' Now, sir," he whispered, fixing his stem 
 gaze upon Bamhurst's face, which was lighted 
 by the rays of the lamp in the hall below, — 
 "^what have you to propose ?" 
 
 Bamhurst's hhnde visage was corpse-like 
 in its pallor. 
 
 "Nothing,'' he saiu, folding his arms with 
 the air of a man who has lost all hope, and 
 
 made up his mind to the worst. " I am in 
 your power." 
 
 Dermoyne, with his finger to his lip, re- 
 mained for a moment buried in profound 
 thought. Once his eyes, glancing sidelong, 
 rested upon Barnhurst with a sort of fero- 
 cious glare. , When he spoke again, it was 
 in these words : — 
 
 " Enter your bed-chamber, and sleep be- 
 side your faithful wife, and, — think of Alice. 
 As for myself, I will watch for the morning, 
 on the sofa, down stairs. Enter, I say ! " he 
 pointed sternly to the door, — and remem- 
 ber ! at morning we take up our march 
 again. I Jcjiow that you will not escape from 
 me, — and as for your wife, if you do not 
 wish her to see me, you will make your ap- 
 pearance at an early hour." 
 
 Barnhurst, without a v.-ord, glided silently 
 into the bed-chamber, closing the door after 
 him. Dermoyne, listening for a moment, 
 heard the voices of the husband and the 
 wife, mingling in conversation. Then he 
 went quietly down stairs, took down the hang- 
 ing-lamp, and with it in his hand, entered a 
 room on the lower floor. 
 
 It was a neatly-furaished apartment with 
 a sofa, a piano, and a portrait of Barnhurst 
 on the M^all. The remains of a wood-fire 
 were smouldering on the hearth. Near the 
 piano stood an empty cradle. It was very 
 much like — home. It was, in a word, the 
 room through whose curtained windows, we 
 gazed in our brief episode, and saw the 
 pure wife with her children, awaiting the 
 return of the husband and father. 
 
 Dermoyne lit a candle, which stood on a 
 table, near the sofa, and then replaced the 
 hanging lamp. This done, he came into the 
 quiet parlor again, — without once pausing to 
 notice that the front door was ajar. Had he 
 but remarked this little fact, he might have 
 saved himself a world of trouble. He flung 
 his cloak upon the table, and placed his cap 
 and the iron bar beside it. Then seating 
 himself on the sofa, he drew the Eed Book 
 from under his left arm, where for hours he 
 ' had securely carried it, — and spread it forth 
 upon his knees. Drawing the light nearer 
 to him, he began to examine the contents of 
 ±hat massive volume. How his countenance 
 underwent all changes of expression, as pago 
 after page was disclosed to his gaze ! At 
 
212 
 
 THE DAWN, SUNRISE AND DAY. 
 
 first his lip curled, and his brow grew dark, — 
 there was doubtless much to move contempt 
 and hatred in those pages, — but as he read 
 on, his large gra}^ eyes, dilating in their 
 sockets, shone with steady light ; every lin- 
 eament' of his countenance, manifested pro- 
 found, absorbing interest. 
 The Red Book ! 
 
 Of all the singular volumes, ever seen, this 
 certainly Avas one of the most singular. It 
 comprised perchance, one thousand manu- 
 script pages, written by at least a hundred 
 hands. There were original letters, and 
 copies of letters; gome of them traced by 
 the tremulous hand of the dying. There 
 ■were histories and fragments of histories, — 
 the darkest record of the criminal court is 
 not so black, as many a history comprised 
 within the compass of this volume. It con- 
 tained the history, sometimes complete some- 
 times in fragmentary shape, of all who had 
 ever sought the aid of Madam Resimer, or, — 
 Buffered beneath her hands. And there 
 were letters there, and histories there, which 
 the Madam had evidently gathered, with a 
 view of extorting money from certain per- 
 sons, who had never passed into the circle 
 of her ififernal influence. All the crimes 
 that can spring from unholy marriages, from 
 violation of the marriage vow, from the se- 
 duction of innocent maidenhood, from the 
 conflict between poor chastity and rich 
 temptation, stood out upon those pages, in 
 forms of terrible life. That book was a rev- 
 elation of the civilization of a large city, — 
 a glittering mask with a death's head behind 
 it, — a living body chained to a leperous 
 corpse. Instead of being called the Red 
 Book, it should have been called the Black 
 Book, or the Death Book, or the Mysteries of 
 the Social World. 
 
 How the aristocracy of the money power 
 was set forth in those pages ! That aristoc- 
 racy which the French know as the " Bour- 
 geoise," which the English style the "Mid- 
 dle Classes," and which the Devil knows 
 for his "own," — the name of whose god the 
 Savior pronounced, when he uttered the 
 word " Mammon," — whose loftiest aspiration 
 is embodied in the word " Respectable !" 
 How this modern aristocracy of the money 
 power, stood out in naked life, showy and 
 mean, glittering and heartless, upon the 
 
 pages of the Red Book ! Stood out in colors, 
 painted, not by an enemy, but by its own hand, 
 the mark of its baseness stamped upon its 
 forehead, by its own peculiar seal. 
 
 One history was there, which, written in 
 different hands, in an especial manner, riveted 
 the interest of Arthur Dermoyne. Bending 
 forward, with the light of the candle upon 
 his brow, he read it page by page, his face 
 manifesting every contrast of emotion as he 
 read. For a title it bore a single name, 
 Avritten in a delicate womanly hand, — 
 "Marion Merlin." The grater portion 
 of the history was written in the same 
 hand. 
 
 Leaning upon the shoulder of Arthur 
 Dermoyne, let us, with him, read this sad, 
 dark history. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 MARIO N MERLIN. 
 
 At the age of eighteen I was betrothed to 
 Walter Howard, a young man of polished 
 manners, elegant exterior, and connected 
 with one of the first families of New York. 
 I was beautiful, so the world said, — eighteen 
 and an heiress. My father was one of the 
 wealthiest merchants of New York, with a 
 princely mansion in town, and as princely a 
 mansion, for summer residence, in the coun- 
 try. I had lost my mother, at an age so 
 early, that I can but dimly remember her 
 pallid face. At eighteen, I was my father's 
 only and idolized child. 
 
 Returning from boarding-school, where, 
 apart from the busy world, I had passed 
 four years of a life, which afterward was to 
 be marked by deeds so singular, yes, un- 
 natural, I was invested by my father, with 
 the keys of his city mansion, and installed 
 as its mistress. Still kept apart from the 
 world, — for my father guarded me from its 
 wiles and temptations, with an eye of sleep- 
 less jealousy, — I was left to form ideas of my 
 future life, from the fancies of my day- 
 dreams, or from what knowledge I had 
 gleaned from books. Walter was my fa- 
 ther's head clerk. In that capacity he often 
 visited our mansion. To see him was to 
 love him. His form was graceful, and yet 
 manly ; his complexion a rich bronze ; his 
 eyes dark, penetrating and melancholy. As 
 
213 
 
 for mj'self, a picture which, amid all my 
 changing fortunes, I have preserved as a 
 relic of happy and innocent days, shows a 
 girl of eighteen, with a form that may well 
 be called voluptuous, and a face, (shaded by 
 masses of raven hair,) which, with its clear 
 bronzed complexion, large hazel eyes, and 
 arching brows, tells the story of my descent 
 on my mother's side, — she was a West-Indian, 
 and there is Spanish blood in my veins. My 
 acquaintance with Walter, ripened into warm 
 and passionate love, and one day, my father 
 surprised me, as I hung upon my lover's 
 breast, and instead of chiding us, said with a 
 look of unmistakable affection : 
 
 "Right, Walter. You have won my 
 daughter's love. When you return from the 
 West Indies, you shall be married ; and 
 once married, instead of my head clerk, you 
 shall be my partner." 
 
 My father w^as a venerable man, with a 
 kindly face and snow-white hair : as he 
 spoke the tears ran down his cheeks, for (as 
 I afterward ascertained,) my marriage with 
 Walter, the orphan of one of the dearest 
 friends of his boyhood, had been the most 
 treasured hope of his life for years. 
 
 Walter left for Havanna, intrusted with 
 an important and secret commission from 
 my father. He was to be absent only a 
 month. Why was it, on the day of his de- 
 parture, as he strained me to his breast and 
 covered my face with his passionate kisses, 
 that a deep presentiment chilled my blood ? 
 had he never left my side, what a world 
 of agony, of despair, — yes of crime, — would 
 liave been spared to me ! 
 
 "Be true to me, Marion !" these were his 
 last words, — " in a month I will return — " 
 
 " True to you 1 can you doubt it Walter ? 
 True until death, — " and we parted. 
 
 I Avas once more alone, in my father's 
 splendid mansion. One evening he came 
 home, but not with his usual kindly smile. 
 He was pale and troubled, and seemed to 
 avoid my gaze. Without entering the sit- 
 ting-room, he went at once to his library, 
 and locked himself in, having first directed 
 the servant to call him, in case a Mr. Issachar 
 Burley inquired for him. It was after eight 
 when Mr. Burley called, and was shown into 
 the parlor, while the servant went to an- 
 nounce him to my father. 
 
 "Miss Marion, I believe!" ho said, as he 
 beheld me by the light of the astral-lamp, — 
 and then a singular look passed over his face ; 
 a look which at that time I could not define, 
 but which afterward was made terribly clear 
 to me. This Mr. Burley, who thus for the 
 first time entered my father's house, was by 
 no means prepossessing in his exterior. Over 
 fifty years of age, corpulent in form, bald- 
 headed, his florid face bore the undeniable 
 traces of a life, exhausted in sensual indul- 
 gences. 
 
 While I was taking a survey of this sin- 
 gular visitor, the servant entered the par- 
 lor, — 
 
 " Mr. Burley will please walk up into the 
 library," he said. 
 
 " Good night, dear," said Mr. Burley with 
 a bow, and a gesture that had as much of 
 insolence as of politeness in it, — "By-by, — 
 we'll meet again." 
 
 He went up stairs, and my father and he, 
 were closeted together for at least two hours. 
 At ten o'clock I was sent for. I entered the 
 library, trembling, I know not why ; and 
 found my father and Mr. Burley, seated 
 on opposite sides of a table overspread with, 
 papers, — a hanging lamp, suspended over 
 the table, gave light to the scene. My fa- 
 ther was deadly pale. 
 
 " Sit down, Marion," he said, in a voice 
 so broken and changed, that I w'ould not 
 have recognized it, had I not seen his face, — 
 " Mr. Burley has something to say to you." 
 
 "Mr. Burley !" I ejaculated, — "What can 
 he have to say to me ?" 
 
 " Speak to her, — speak," said my father, — 
 "speak, fori cannot, — " and resting his hands 
 on the table, his head dropped on his breast. 
 
 " Sit down, my dear," exclaimed Burley, 
 in a tone of easy familiarity, — "I have a 
 little matter of business with your father. 
 There's no use of mincing words. Your fa- 
 ther, my dear, is a ruined man." 
 
 I sank into a chair, and my father's 
 groan confirmed Burley's words. 
 
 " Hopelessly involved," continued Mr. 
 Burley, — "Unless he can -raise three hun- 
 dred thousand dollars by to-morrow noon, 
 he is a dishonored man. Do you hear me, 
 my dear ? Dishonored !" 
 
 "Dishonored!" groaued my father burying 
 his head in his hands. 
 
214 
 
 THE DAWN, SUNRISE AND DAY. 
 
 "And more than this," continued Burley, 
 "Your father, among his many mercantile 
 specuhitions, has dabbled a little, — yes more 
 than a little, — in the African slave-trade. 
 He has relations with certain gentlemen at 
 Havanna, which once known to our govern- 
 ment, would consign him to the convict's 
 cell." 
 
 The words of the man filled me with in- 
 dignation, and with horror. Half fainting as 
 I was, I felt the blood boil in my veins. 
 
 "Father, rebuke the liar," — I said as I 
 placed my hand on his shoulder. — "Raise 
 your face, and tell him that he is the coiner 
 of a falsehood, as atrocious as it is foolish — " 
 
 My father did not reply. 
 
 "And more than this," — Burley went on, 
 as though he had not heard me, — " I have it 
 in my power, either to relieve your father 
 from his financial embarrassments, or, — " he 
 paused and surveyed me from head to foot, 
 — " or to denounce him to the government 
 as one guilty, of something which it calls 
 piracy, — to wit, an intimate relationship with 
 the African slave trade." 
 
 Again my father groaned, but did not 
 raise his face. 
 
 The full truth burst upon me. My father 
 Tvas ruined, and in this man's power. Con- 
 fused, — half maddened, I flung myself upon 
 my knees, and clasped Burley by the hands. 
 
 " 0, you will not ruin my father," I shriek- 
 ed. — " You will save him." 
 
 Burley took my hands within his own, 
 and bent down, until I felt his breath upon 
 my cheeks — 
 
 " Yes, I will save him," he whispered, — 
 "That is, for a price, — your hand, my 
 dear." 
 
 His look could not be mistaken. At the 
 same moment, my father raised his face from 
 his hands, — it was pallid, distorted, stamped 
 with despair. 
 
 " It is the only way, Marion," he said in 
 a broken voice, — " Otherwise your father 
 must rot in a felon's cell." 
 
 Amid all the misfortunes of a varied and 
 changeful life, the agony of that moment has 
 never once been forgotten. I felt the blood 
 rush to my head — 
 
 " Be it 60," I cried, — and fell like a dead 
 woman on the floor, at the feet of Mr. Issa- 
 char Burley. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 NIAGARA. 
 
 The next day we were married. In the 
 dusk of the evening four figures stood in the 
 spacious parlor of my father's mansion, by the 
 light of a single waxen-candle. There was 
 the clergyman, gazing in dumb surprise upon 
 the parties to this ill-assorted marriage, there 
 was my father, his countenance vacant almost 
 to imbecility, — for the blow had stricken 
 his intellect — there was the bridegroom, his 
 countenance glowing with sensual triumph ; 
 and there the bride, pale as the bridal- dress 
 which enveloped her form, about to be sacri- 
 ficed on the altar of an unholy marriage. 
 We were married, and between the parlor 
 and the bridal chamber, one hope remained. 
 Rather than submit to the embrace of the 
 unworthy sensualist, I had determined to 
 die, even upon the threshold of the bridal 
 chamber. I had provided myself with a 
 poniard. But alas ! a glass of wine, drugged 
 by my husband's hand, benumbed my reason, 
 and when morning light broke upon me 
 again, I found myself in his arms. 
 
 The history of the next three months may 
 be rapidly told, for they were months of 
 agony and shame, 
 
 " I have directed Walter by letter, to pro- 
 ceed from Havanna to the city of Mexico," 
 said my father to me, the second day after 
 the marriage — "He will not return for six 
 months, and certainly until his return, shall 
 not hear of this, — this, — marriage." 
 
 My father's mind was broken, and from 
 that hour, he surrendered himself to Issa- 
 char's control. Burley took charge of his 
 business, made our house his home, — he was 
 my father's master and mine. The course 
 which he pursued to blunt my feelings, and 
 deaden every faculty of my better nature, by 
 rousing all that was sensual within me, was 
 worthy of him. He gav.e parties at our 
 home, to the profligate of both sexes, selected 
 from a certain class of the so-called " fash- 
 ionables," of New York. Revels, prolonged 
 from midnight until dawn, disturbed the 
 quiet of our mansion ; and in the wine-cup, 
 and amid the excitement of those fashion- 
 able, but unholy orgies, I soon learned to 
 forget the pure hopes of my maidenhood. 
 
THE DAWN, SUNRISE AND DAY. 
 
 215 
 
 Three months passed, and no word of 
 Walter ; my father, meanwhile, was sinking 
 deeper every day into hopeless imbecility. 
 At length, the early part of summer, my hus- 
 band gathered together a party of his fashion- 
 able friends, and we departed on a tour to 
 Niagara Falls, up the lakes, and then along 
 the St. Lawrence, and to Montreal. At 
 
 Niagara Falls we put up at the Hotel, 
 
 and the orgies which had disgraced my 
 father's mansion, were again resumed. My 
 father we had left at home, in charge of a 
 well-tried and faithful servant. One summer 
 evening, tired of the scenes which took place 
 in our parlors, at the hotel, I put on a bonnet 
 and vail, and alone pursued my way, across 
 the bridge to Iris Island, and from Iris to 
 Luna Island. The night was beautiful ; from 
 a clear sky the moon shone over the falls; and 
 the roar of waters, alone disturbed the silence 
 of the scene. Crossing the narrow bridge which 
 separates Iris Island from Luna Island, I took 
 my way through the deep shadows of the 
 thicket, until I emerged in the moonlight, 
 upon the verge of the falls. Leaning against 
 a small beech tree, which stands there, I 
 clasped my hands upon my bosom, and 
 v/ept. That scene, full of the grandeur and 
 purity of nature, awoke the memory of my 
 pure and happier days. 
 
 " One plunge and all is over !" the thought 
 flashed over me, — and I measured with a 
 rapid glance, the distance between myself 
 and the brink of the cataract. But at this 
 moment I discovered that I was not alone 
 upon Luna Island. A stranger was leaning 
 ago.inst a tree, which was nearer to the brink 
 6f the falls than the one against which I 
 .eaned. His face was in profile, the lower 
 part of it covered with a thick moustache and 
 beard; and his gaze was lifted absently to 
 the moonlight sky. As I dropped my vail 
 over my face, and gazed at him freely, my- 
 self unperceived, I felt my limbs bend 
 beneath me, and the blood rush in a torrent 
 to my head. 
 
 I had only strength to frame one word — 
 "Walter !" and fell fainting on his breast. 
 
 When I recovered my consciousness, I 
 found myself resting in his arms, while he 
 covered my face with burning kisses. 
 
 "You here, Marion '." he cried. *' This is 
 indeed an unexpected pleasure !" 
 U 
 
 He had not heard of my marriage ! 
 
 "I am here, with some friends," I faltered. 
 " My father could not come with me -and — " 
 
 Between the kisses which he planted upon 
 the lips of his betrothed — (so he thought) — 
 he explained his unexpected appearance at 
 Niagara. At Ilavanna he had received the 
 letter from my father, desiring him to hasten, 
 on important business, to the city of Mexico. 
 He had obeyed, and accomplished his mis- 
 sion sooner than he anticipated ; had left 
 Vera Cruz for New Orleans; taken steamboat 
 for Cincinnati, and from thence to Cleveland, 
 and across the lake to Buffalo and Niagara 
 Falls. 
 
 "And now I'm on my way home, Marion," 
 he concluded. " What a pleasant surprise it 
 will be for father !" 
 
 " I am married, Walter." — The words 
 were on my lips, but I could not speak 
 them. 
 
 We rose, and, arm in arm, wandered over 
 the bridge, up the steep, and through the 
 winding walks of Goat Island. Leaning ou 
 the arm of Walter, I forgot everything but 
 that he loved me and that he was with me. 
 I did not dare to think that to-morrow's 
 light would disclose to him the truth — that 
 I v/as married, and to another. At length, 
 as we approached the bridge Avhich leads 
 from the Island to the shore, I said — " Leave 
 me Walter ; we must not be seen to return 
 together. To-morrow you can call upon me, 
 when I am in presence of my — friends." 
 
 One passionate embrace was exchanged, 
 ' and I watched him, as he crossed the bridge 
 j alone, until he was out of sight. Why, I 
 j knew not, but an impulse for which I could 
 ; not account, induced me to retrace my steps 
 I to Luna Island. In a few moments I had 
 I crossed the bridge (connecting Iris with Luna 
 ! Island,) and stood once more on the Cata- 
 ract's brink, under the same tree where an 
 hour before I had discovered Walrer. Oh, 
 the agony of that moment, as, gazing over 
 the falls, I called up my whole life, my 
 blighted prospect, and my future without 
 one ray of hope ! Should I advance, but a 
 
 single step, and bury my shame and my sor- 
 rows beneath the cataract ? Once dead, Wal- 
 ter would at least respect my memory, while 
 living he could only despise and abhor me. 
 While thoughts like these flashed over my 
 
216 
 
 THE DAWN, SUNRISE AND DAY. 
 
 brain, my ear was saluted with the chorus 
 of a drinking song, hummed in an uneven 
 and tremulous voice ; and, in a moment my 
 husband passed before me, with an unsteady 
 step. He was confused and excited by the 
 fumes of champagne. Approaching the 
 verge of the island — but a few feet from the 
 verge of the cataract — where the waters look 
 smooth and glassy, as they are about to take 
 the last plunge, he stood gazing, now at the 
 torrent, now at the moon, with a vague, half- 
 drunken stare. 
 
 That moment decided my life ! 
 
 Uis attitude, the cataract so near, my own 
 lost and hopeless condition, all rushed upon 
 me. Vailing my face, I darted forward and 
 uttered a shriek. Startled by the unexpected 
 sound, he turned, lost his balance, and fell 
 backward into the torrent. But, as he fell, 
 he clutcheu a branch Avhich overhung the 
 water. Thus, scarcely two yards from the 
 brink, he struggled madly for his life, his 
 face upturned to the moon. I advanced and 
 uncovered my face. He knew me, for the 
 shock had sobered him. 
 
 "Marion, save me, save me !" he cried. 
 
 I gazed upon him without a word, my 
 arms folded on my breast, and saw him 
 struggle, and heard the branch snap, and — 
 heard his death-howl, as he was swept over 
 the falls. Then, pale as death, and shudder- 
 ing as with mortal cold, I dragged my steps 
 from the Island, over the bridge — shrieking 
 madly for help. Soon, I heard footsteps 
 and voices. " Help ! help !" I shrieked, as I 
 was surrounded by a group of faces, men and 
 women. " My husband ! my husband ! the 
 falls !" and sank, fainting, in their midst. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 A SECOND MARRIAGE, 
 
 Morning came, and no suspicion attached 
 to mc. A murderess — if not in deed, in 
 thought, certainly — I was looked upon as 
 the inconsolable widow. Walter left Niagara 
 without seeing me. How did he regard me? 
 I could not tell. The death of Burley broke 
 up our traveling part}', and we returned to 
 New York. I returned in time to attend my 
 father's funeral; and found myself the 
 heiress, in my own right, of three hundred 
 thousand dollars. An heiress and a widow, 
 
 certainly life began to brighten ! Burley 
 removed, the incubus which sat upon my 
 father's Avealth was gone ; and I was beauti- 
 ful, and free, and rich — immensely rich. 
 
 But where was Walter ? Months passed, 
 and I did not see him. As he was the head 
 clerk of my father, I hoped to see him, in 
 company with legal gentlemen, engaged to 
 close up my father's estate. But he settled 
 his accounts, closed all connection with my 
 father's estate and business, but did not come 
 near me. At length, weary of suspense, and 
 heart-sick of the loneliness of my desolate 
 mansion, I wrote to him, begging an inter- 
 view. 
 
 He called in the dusk of the evening, 
 when a single candle lighted up the spacious 
 and gloomy parlor. He was dressed in deep 
 mourning, and very pale. 
 
 "Madam, you wished to see me," he 
 began. 
 
 This cold and formal manner cut me to 
 the heart. 
 
 "Walter !" I cried, and flung myself upon 
 his breast, and passionately, but in broken 
 accents, told him how my father's antici- 
 pated ruin had forced me to marry Burley. 
 
 Walter was melted. " Marion, I love you, 
 and always shall love you, but — but — " 
 
 He paused. In an agony of suspense I 
 hung upon his words. 
 
 " But—" 
 
 "But you are so rich, and I — I — am 
 poor !" 
 
 I drowned all further words with kisses, 
 and in a moment we were betrothed again. 
 
 We were married. Walter was the mas- 
 ter of my fortune, my person and my future. 
 We lived happily together, content with 
 each other's society, and seeking, in the en- 
 dearments of a pure marriage, to blot out tho 
 memorj'- of an unholy one. Lly husband, 
 truly my husband, was all that I could de-. 
 sire ; and by me, he became the possessor of 
 a princely revenue, free to gratify his tasto J 
 for all that is beautiful in the arts, in paint- 
 ing and sculpture, without hinderance or con- 
 trol. Devoted to mc, always kind, eager to 
 gratify m.y slightest wish, Walter was all 
 that I could desire. We lived to ourselves, 
 and forgot the miserable mockery called "the 
 fashionable world," into which Burley had 
 introduced me. Thus a year passed away. 
 
THE DAWK, SUNRISE AND DAY. 
 
 217 
 
 and present happiness banished the memory 
 of a gloomy past. After a year, Walter 
 began to have important engagements, on 
 pressing business, in Philadelphia, Boston, 
 Baltimore and Washington. His absence 
 ^vas death to me ; but, having full confidence 
 in him, and aware that his business must be 
 of vital importance, or assuredly he would not 
 leave me, I saw him depart, time and again, 
 with grief too deep for words, and always 
 .. hailed his return — the very echo of his step 
 t with a joy as deep. On one occasion, when 
 •■'he left me, for a day, on a business visit to 
 Philadelphia, I determined — I scarcely knew 
 why — to follow him, and greet him, on his 
 arrival in Philadelphia, with the unexpected 
 , but welcome surprise of my presence. Cloth- 
 ing myself in black — black velvet bonnet, 
 . and black velvet mantilla, and with a dark 
 vail over my face — I followed him to the 
 ferry-boat, crossed to Jersey City, and took 
 my seat near him in the cars. We arrived 
 in Philadelphia late at night. To my sur- 
 prise he did not put up at one of the promi- 
 nent hotels, but bent his way to an obscure 
 and distant part of the city. I followed him 
 to a remote part of Kensington, and saw him 
 knock at the door of an isolated two-story 
 house. After a pause, it was opened, and he 
 entered. I waited from the hour of twelve 
 until three, but he did not re-appear. Sadly 
 and with heavy steps I bent my way to the 
 city, and took lodgings at a respectable but 
 third-rate tavern, representing myself as a 
 widow from the interior, and taking great 
 care to conceal my face from the gaze of the 
 landlord and servants. Next morning it was 
 my first care to procure a male dress, — it 
 matters not how, or with what caution and 
 trouble, — and, tying it up in a compact bun- 
 dle, I made my way to the open country and 
 entered a wood. It was the first of autumn, 
 and already the leaves were tinted with rain- 
 bow dyes. In the thickest part of the wood 
 I disposed of my female attire, and assumed 
 the male dress — blue frock, buttoned to the 
 throat, dark pantaloons, and gaiter boots. 
 My dark hair I arranged beneath a glazed 
 cap 'with military buttons. Cutting a switch 
 I twirled it jauntily in my hand, and, 
 anxious to test my disguise, entered a way- 
 side cottage — near the Second Street Road — 
 and asked for a glass of water. While the 
 
 back of the tenant of the cottage — an aged 
 woman — was turned, I gazed in the looking- 
 glass, and beheld myself, to all appearance, 
 a young man of medium stature, with brown 
 complexion of exceeding richness, lips of 
 cherry red, arched brows, eyes of unusual 
 brilliancy, and black hair, arranged in a 
 glossy mass beneath a glazed cap. It was 
 the image of a handsome boy of nineteen, 
 with no down on the lip and no beard on the 
 chin. Satisfied with my disguise, and with 
 a half-formed idea floating through my brain, 
 I bent my steps to the isolated house, 
 which I had seen my husband enter the 
 night before. I knocked ; the door was 
 opened by a young girl, plainly clad, but of 
 surpassing beauty — evidently not more than 
 sixteen years old. A sunny complexion, 
 blue eyes, masses of glossy brown hair, com- 
 bined with an expression which mingled 
 voluptuous warmth with stainless innocence 
 Such was her face. As to her form, although 
 not so tall as mine, it mingled the graceful 
 outlines of the maiden with the ripeness of 
 the woman. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 A SECOND MUEDER. 
 
 She gazed upon me with surprise. Obey- 
 ing a sudden impulse, I said — " Excuse me, 
 Miss, but I promised to meet him here. You 
 know," Avith a polite bow and smile, " you 
 know whom I mean ?" 
 
 "Mr. Barton — " she hesitated. 
 
 " Exactly so ; Mr. Barton, my intimate 
 friend, who has confided all to me, and who 
 desired me to meet him here at this hour." 
 
 "My mother is not at home," hesitated 
 the young girl, "and, in her absence, I do 
 not like to — " 
 
 "Receive strangers, you were about to 
 add ? Well, Miss, I am not a stranger. As 
 the intimate friend of Mr. Barton, v/ho 
 especially desired me to meet him here — " 
 
 These words seemed to resolve all her 
 doub*^s. She motioned me to enter, and we 
 passed into a small room, neatly furnished, 
 with the light which came through the cur- 
 tained windows, shining upon a picture,— 
 the portrait of Walter Howard, my husband. 
 
 " Capital likeness of Barton," I said, care- 
 lessly tapping my switch against my boot. 
 
THE DAWN, SUNRISE AND DAY. 
 
 218 
 
 "Yes, — yes," she replied as she took a 
 seat at the opposite end of the sofa, — " but 
 not so handsome." 
 
 In the course of two hours, in which with 
 a maddened pulse and heaving breast, I 
 waited for the appearance of my husband, 
 I learned from the young girl the following 
 facts : — She was a poor girl, and her mother, 
 •with whom she lived, a widow in very mod- 
 erate circumstances. Her name was Ada Bul- 
 mer. Mr. Lawrence Barton (this, of course, 
 was the assumed name of my husband,) was 
 a wealthy gentleman of a noble heart, — he 
 had saved her life in a railroad accident, 
 some months before. He had been unhap- 
 py, however, in marriage ; was now divorced 
 from a wicked and unfaithful woman ; and, — 
 here was the climax, — " and next week we 
 are to be married, and mother, Lawrence, and 
 myself will proceed to Europe directly after 
 our marriage." 
 
 This was Ada's story, which I heard 
 with emotions that can scarcely be imagined. 
 Every word planted a hell in my heart. At 
 length, toward nightfall, a knock was heard, 
 and Ada hastened to the door. Presently I 
 heard my husband's step in the entry, and 
 then his voice, — 
 
 " Dearest, " there was the sound of a 
 
 kiss, — " I have got rid of that infamous wo- 
 man, who killed her first husband, and have 
 turned all my property into ready money. 
 On Monday we start for Europe." 
 
 He entered, and as he entered I glided be- 
 hind the door. Thus his back was toward 
 me, while his face was toward Ada, and his 
 arms about her waist. 
 
 " On Monday, dearest, we will be married, 
 and then " 
 
 I was white with rage, but calm as death. 
 Drawing the poniard, (which I had never 
 parted with since I first procured it,) I ad- 
 vanced and struck him, once, twice, thrice, 
 in the back. He never behold me, but fell 
 upon Ada's breast, bathed in blood. She 
 uttered a shriek, but laying my hand upon 
 her shoulder, I said, sternly, — 
 
 '* Not a word ! this villain seduced 
 my only sister, as he would have seduced 
 you !" 
 
 I tore him from her arms, and laid him on 
 the sofa ; he was speechless ; the blood flow- 
 ed from his mouth and nostrils, but by his 
 
 glance, I saw that he knew me. Ada, white 
 as a shroud, tottered toward him. i 
 
 *' Seducer of my sister, have we met at I 
 last ?" I said aloud, — and then bending my . 
 face to his, and my bosom close to his breast, 
 I whispered,—^ 
 
 "The wicked woman v/ho killed her first 
 husband, gives you this," — and in my rage . 
 buried the poniard in his heart. 
 
 Ada fell fainting to the floor, and I hurried 
 from the house. It was a dark night, enliv- 
 ened only by the rays of the stars, but I 
 gained the wood, washed the blood from my 
 hands, and resumed my female attire. Ini 
 less than an hour, I reached the depot at , 
 Kensington, entered the cars, and beforei 
 twelve, crossed the threshold of my own 
 home in New York. 
 
 How I passed the night, — with what emo- 
 tions of agony, remorse, jealousy, — matters 
 not. And for three days afterward, as I 
 awaited for the developments, I was many c 
 times near raving madness. The account of [ 
 my husband's death filled the papers ; and it a 
 was supposed that he had been killed by )j 
 some unknown man, in revenge, for the se- k 
 duction of a sister. My wild demeanor was t 
 attributed to natural grief at his untimely 
 end. 
 
 On the fourth day I had his body brought 
 on from Philadelphia ; and on the fifth, cel- 
 ebrated his funeral, following his corpse to 
 the family vault, draped in widow's weeds, 
 and blinded with tears of grief, or of — despair. 
 Ada Bulmer I never saw again, but believe 
 she died within a year of consumption or a 
 broken heart. 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 MARION AND HERMAN BARNHUBST. ^ 
 
 Alone in my mansion, secluded from the n; 
 world, I passed many months in harrowing if 
 meditations on the past. Oftentimes I saw 
 the face of Walter dabbled in blood, and 
 both awake and in my dreams, I saw, 0, 
 how vividly his last look ! I was still rich, 
 (although Walter, as I discovered, after his 
 death, had recklessly squandered more than 
 one-half of my fortune,) but what mattered 
 riches to one devoured like myself by an 
 ever-gnawing remorse ? What might I have 
 been had not Burley forced me into that 
 
THE DAWN, SUNRISE AND DAY. 
 
 219 
 
 unholy marriage ? This question was never 
 out of my mind for a long year, during which 
 I wore the weeds of widowhood, and kept al- 
 most entirely within the limits of my mansion. 
 
 Toward the close of the year an incident 
 occurred which had an important bearing on 
 my fate. Near my home stood a church, in 
 which a young and eloquent preacher held 
 forth to the admiration of a fashionable con- 
 gregation, every Sabbath-day. On one occa- 
 sion I occupied a seat near the pulpit, and 
 was much struck by his youthful appear- 
 , ance, combined with eloquence so touching 
 and enthusiastic. His eagle eye, shone from 
 I his pallid face, with all the fire of an earnest, 
 a heartfelt sincerity. I was struck by the 
 entire manner of the man, and more than 
 once in his sermon he seemed to address me 
 f in especial, for our eyes met, as though there 
 : was a mutual magnetism in our gaze. When 
 : I returned home I could not banish his face 
 ' nor his accents from my memory ; I felt my- 
 self devoured by opposing emotions ; re- 
 morse for the past, mingled with a sensation 
 of interest in - the youthful preacher. At 
 length, after much thought, I sent him this 
 note by the hands of a servant in livery : — 
 
 Reverend Sir, — 
 
 A lady who heard your eloquent sermon 
 on " Cmscieiice,'" on Sabbath last, desires to 
 ask your advice in a matter touching the 
 
 peace of her soul. She resides at No. , 
 
 and will be glad to receive you to-morrow 
 evening. M. h. 
 
 This singular note was dispatched, and 
 the servant directed to inform the Rev. Her- 
 man Barnhurst of my full name. As the 
 appointed hour drew nigh, I felt nervous and 
 restless. Will he come ? Shall I unbosom 
 myself to him, and obtain at least a portion 
 of mental peace by confessing the deeds and 
 thoughts which rest so heavy on my soul ? 
 At last dusk came ; two candles stood lighted 
 on the mantle of the front parlor, and seated | 
 on the sofa I nervously awaited the coming j 
 of the preacher. j 
 
 " I will confess all !" I thought, and rais- ; 
 ing my eyes, surveyed myself in the mirror j 
 which hung opposite. The past year, with | 
 all its sorrow, had rather added to, than de- 
 tracted from, my personal appearance. My 1 
 
 form was more matured and womanly. And 
 the sorrow which I had endured had given a 
 grave earnestness to my look, which, in the 
 eyes of some, would have been more win- 
 ning than the glance of voluptuous languor. 
 Dressed in deep black, my bust covered to 
 the throat, and my hair gathered plainly 
 aside from my face, I looked the grave, seri- 
 ous — and, I may add, without vanity — the 
 beautiful widow. The Rev. Herman Barn- 
 hurst was announced at last, — how I trem- 
 bled as I heard his step in the hall ! He 
 entered, and greeting him with an extended 
 hand, I thanked him warmly for calling in 
 answer to my informal note, and motioned 
 him to a chair. There was surprise and con- 
 straint in his manner, but he never once took 
 his eyes from my face. He stammered and 
 even blushed as he spoke to me. 
 
 ** You spoke, madam, of a case of con- 
 science," he began. 
 
 " A cas.e of conscience about which I 
 wished to speak to you," 
 
 " Surely," he said, fixing his gaze earnestly 
 upon me, and his words seemed to be forced 
 from him, even against his will, — " surely 
 one so beautiful and so good cannot have 
 
 anything like sin upon her soul " 
 
 Our gaze met, and from that moment we 
 talked of everything but the case of con- 
 science. All his restraint vanished. His 
 eye flashed, his voice rolled deep and full ; 
 he was eloquent, and he was at home. We 
 seemed to have been acquainted for years. 
 We talked of history, poetry, the beautiful 
 in nature, the wonderful in art ; and we 
 talked without effort, as though our minds 
 mingled together, without even the aid of 
 voice and eyes. Time sped noiselessly, — it 
 was twelve o'clock before we thought it 
 nine. He rose to go. 
 
 " I shall do myself the pleasure to call 
 again," he said, and his voice faltered. 
 
 I extended my hand ; his hand met it in 
 a gentle pressure. That touch decided our 
 fate. As though my very being and his had 
 rushed together and melted into one, in that 
 slight pressure of hand to hand, we stood 
 silent and confused, — one feeling in our gaze, 
 — blushing and pale by turns. 
 
 " Woman," he said, in a voice scarcely 
 above a whisper, " you will drive me mad/" 
 and sank half-fainting on his knees. 
 
THE DAWN, SUNRISE AND DAY. 
 
 220 
 
 I bent down and drew him to my breast, 
 and covered his forehead with kisses. Pale, 
 half- fainting, he lay almost helpless in my 
 arms. 
 
 *' Not mad, Herman," I whisjDcred, " but I 
 •will be your good angel ; I will cheer you 
 in your mission of good. I will watch over 
 you as you ascend, step by step, the diffi- 
 cult steep of fame ; and Herman, I will love 
 you." 
 
 It was the first time that young brow had 
 trembled to a woman's kiss. 
 
 "Nay, — nay, — tempt me not," he mur- 
 mured, and unwound my arms from his 
 neck, and staggered to the door. 
 
 But as he reached the threshold, he turn- 
 ed, — our gaze met, — he rushed forward with 
 outspread arms, — 
 
 " I love you ! " he cried, and his face was 
 buried on my bosom. 
 
 ******** 
 From that hour the Eev. Herman Barn- 
 hurst was the constant visitor at my house. 
 He lived in my presence. His sermons, for- 
 merly lofty and somber in their enthusiasm, 
 became colored with a passionate Avarmth. 
 I felt a strange interest in the beautiful boy ; 
 a feeling compounded of pure love ; of pas- 
 sion ; of voluptuousness, the most intense 
 and refined. 
 
 " 0, Marion, do you not think that if I act 
 aright in all other respects, that this one sin 
 will be forgiven me ?" said Herman, as one 
 Sabbath evening, after the service was over, 
 we sat, side by side, in my house. It was 
 in a quiet room, the curtains drawn, a light 
 shining in front of a mirror, and a couch 
 dimly seen through the shadows of an al- 
 cove. 
 
 " One sin ? what mean you, Herman ?" 
 
 ** The sin of loving you," — and he blushed 
 as his earnest gaze met mine. 
 
 "And is it a sin to love me ?" I answered 
 in a low voice, suffering my hand to rest 
 upon his forehead. 
 
 " Yes," he stammered, — " to love you 
 thus Tinlawfully." 
 
 " Why unlawfully ?" 
 
 He buried hs head on my breast, as he 
 replied, — " I love you as a husband, and I 
 am iiOt your husband." 
 
 "And why — " I exclaimed, seizing him 
 Li my arms, and gently raising his head, so 
 
 that our gaze met, — " and why can you not| 
 be my husband ? I am rich ; you have ge- 
 nius. My wealth, — enough for us both, — 
 shall be linked with your genius, and both 
 shall the more firmly cement our love. 
 Say, Herman, why can you not be my hus- 
 band ?" 
 
 He turned pale, and avoided my gaze. 
 
 "You are ashamed of me, — ashamed, be- 
 cause I have given you the last proof which 
 a woman can give to the man she loves." 
 
 "Ashamed! 0, no, no, — by all that L* 
 sacred, no, — ^but Marion " 
 
 And bending nearer to me, in faltering ac- 
 cents, he whispered the secret to my ears. 
 He was betrothed to Fanny Lansdale, th^' 
 daughter of the wealthiest and most influen- 
 tial member of his congregation. He had 
 been betrothed long before he met me. To 
 Mr. Lansdale, the father, he owed all that 
 he had acquired in life, both in position and i 
 fame. That gentleman had taken him when 
 a friendless orphan boy, had educated him, 
 and after his ordination, had obtained for 
 him the pastoral charge of his large and 
 wealthy congregation. Thus, he was bound 
 to the father by every tie of gratitude ; tO; 
 the daughter by an engagement that he 
 could not break, without ingratitude and 
 disgrace. My heart died within me at 
 this revelation. At once I saw that Her- 
 man could never be lawfully mine. Be- 
 tween him and myself stood Fanny Lans« 
 dale, and every tie of gratitude, and every 
 emotion of self-respect and honor. 
 
 CHAPTEK XII. 
 
 MARION AND FANNY. 
 
 Not long after this interview, I saw Fanny 
 Lansdale at church ; made the acquaintance 
 of her father — a grave citizen, who regarded 
 me as a sincere devotee — and induced Fanny 
 to become a frequent visitor at my house. 
 She confided all to me. She loved Herman 
 devotedly, and looked forward to their map* 
 riage as the most certain event in the world. 
 She was a very pretty child, with clear blue 
 eyes, luxuriant hair, and a look of bewitch- 
 ing archness. I do not step aside from the 
 truth, when I state that I sincerely loved 
 her ; although it is also ti'ue, that I never 
 
THE DAWN, SUNRISE AND DAY. 
 
 221 
 
 suffered myself to think of her marriage | 
 with Herman as anj-thing but an impossible | 
 dream. An incident took place one summer | 
 evening, about a year after Herman's first 
 visit to my house, which, slight as it was, it 
 is just as well to relate. It is such slight 
 incidents which often decide the fate of a 
 lifetime, and strike down the barrier between 
 innocence and crime. 
 
 I was sitting on the sofa at the back win- 
 dow of the parlor, and Fanny sat on the 
 stool at my feet. The light of the setting 
 sun shone over my shoulders, and lighted up 
 her face, as her clasped hands rested on my 
 knees, and her happ}^, guileless look, was 
 centered on my countenance. As I gazed 
 upon that innocent face, full of youth and 
 hope, I w^as reminded of my own early days; 
 and at the memory, a tear rolled down my 
 cheek. 
 
 "Yes, you shall marry Herman," the 
 thought flashed over my mind ; " and I will 
 aid you, Fanny ; yes, I will resign Herman 
 to you." 
 
 At this moment Herman entered noise- 
 lessly, and took his place by my shoulder ; 
 and, without a word, gazed first into my face 
 and then into the face of Fanny. Oh, that 
 look ! It was never forgotten. It was fate. 
 For it said, as plainly as a soul, speaking 
 through eyes, can say — " Thou, Marion, art 
 my mistress, the companion of my illicit and 
 sensual love ; but thou, Fanny, art my wife, 
 the pure partner of my lawful love !" 
 
 After that look, Herman bade us good 
 evening ! in a tone of evident agitation, and 
 hurried from the room. 
 
 From that hour, Herman avoided me. 
 Weeks passed, and he was not seen at my 
 house. At church he never seemed to be 
 conscious of my presence ; and, the service 
 over, hurried at once from the place, with- 
 out a single glance or sign of recognition. 
 At length, Fanny's visits became less fre- 
 quent ; and, when she did come to see me, 
 her manner manifested a conflict of confi- 
 dence and suspicion; That this wounded 
 me — that the absence of Herman cut me to 
 the soul — may easily be imagined. 1 passed 
 my time between alternations of hope and 
 despair ; now listening, and in vain, for the 
 echo of Herman's step — and now bathed in 
 uc availing tears. Conscious that my passion 
 
 for Herman was the last link that bound mo 
 to purity — to life itself — I did not give up 
 the hope of seeing him at my feet, as in 
 former da^'s, until months had elapsed. Fi- 
 nally, grown desperate, and anxious to avoid 
 the sting of wounded love, the perpetual 
 presence of harrowing memories, I sought 
 the society of that class of fashionables, to 
 whom my first husband, Issachar Burley, had 
 introduced me. I kept open house for them. 
 Revels, from midnight until dawn, in which 
 men and women of the first class mingled, 
 served for a time to banish reflection, and 
 sap, tie by tie, every thread of hope which 
 held me to a purer state of life. The kennel 
 has its orgies, and the hovel, in which igno- 
 rance and squalor join in their uncouth de- 
 bauch; but the orgie of the parlor, in which 
 beauty, intellect, fashion and refinement are 
 mingled, far surpasses, in unutterable vulgar- 
 ity, the lowest orgie of the kennel. Amid 
 the uproar of scenes like these, news reached 
 me that the Rev. Herman Barnhurst and 
 Miss Fanny Lansdale were shortly to be 
 united in marriage. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 AN UNUTTERABLE CRIirE. 
 
 One evening I was sitting alone, in the 
 back parlor, near a table on which stood si 
 lighted candle and a wine-glass, (for I now 
 at times began to seek oblivion in wine,) 
 when Gerald Dudley was announced. Gerald 
 was one of my fashionable friends, over forty 
 in years, tall in statue, with a florid face, 
 short curling brown hair, and sandy whis- 
 kers. He was a roue^ and a gambler, and — 
 save the mark — one of the first fashionablea 
 of New York. He entered, dressed in a 
 showy style ; blue coat, red velvet vest, 
 plaid pants, brimstone-colored gloves, and a 
 profusion of rings and other jewelry — a stylo 
 indicative of the man. Seating himself on 
 the sofa, he began chatting in his easy way 
 about passing events of fashionable life, and 
 of the world at large. 
 
 " By-the-bye, the popular preacher, young 
 Barnhurst, is to be married ; and to such a 
 love of a girl — daughter of old Lansdale, the 
 millionaire. Lucky fellow ! Do you know that 
 I've often noticed her at church — a perfect 
 Ede — and followed her home, once or twice, 
 
222 
 
 THE DAWN, SUNRISE AND DAY. 
 
 and that I shouldn't mind marrying her my- 
 self if I could get a chancel" 
 
 And he laughed a laugh which showed 
 his white teeth. "Bah! But that's it— I 
 can't get a chance," 
 
 Perhaps I blushed at the mention of this 
 marriage ; hut he immediately continued : — 
 
 " On dit, my pretty widow, that this girl, 
 Lansdale, has cut you out, Barnhurst once 
 was sadly taken with you ; so I've heard. 
 How is it ? All talk, I suppose ?" 
 
 I felt myself growing pale, although the 
 blood was boiling in my veins. But before 
 I could reply, there was a ring at the front 
 door, followed by the sound of a hasty foot- 
 step, and the next moment, to my utter sur- 
 prise, Fanny Lansdale rushed into the room. 
 Without seeming to notice the presence of 
 Dudley, she rushed forward, and fell on her 
 knees before me, her bonnet hanging on her 
 neck, her hair floating about her face, and 
 that face bathed in blushes and tears. 
 
 " Oh, Marion ! Marion !" she gasped, — 
 "some slanderer has told father a story about 
 you and Herman, — a vile, wicked story, — 
 which you can refute, and which I am sure 
 you will 1 For — for — " 
 
 She fell fainting on my knee. The vio- 
 lence of her emotions, for the time, deprived 
 her of all appearance of life. Her head was 
 on my lap ; one hand sought mine, and was 
 joined to it in a convulsive clasp. 
 
 Oh, who shall say that those crimes which 
 make the world shudder but to hear told, 
 are the result of long and skillful planning, 
 of careful and intricate scheming ? No, no; 
 the worst crimes — those Avhich it would 
 seem might make even the heart of a devil, 
 contract with horror — are not the result of 
 long and deliberate purpose, but of the 
 temptation of a moment — of the fatal oppor- 
 tunity 1 
 
 As her head rested on my lap, a voice 
 whispered in my ear : 
 
 "Your rival ! Retire for a few moments, 
 in search of hartshorn, or some such restora- 
 tive, and leave the fainting one in my care." 
 
 I raised my head and caught the eye of 
 Gerald Dudley. Only a single look, and the 
 fiend was in my heart. I rose ; the fainting 
 girl fell upon the floor ; I hurried from the 
 room, and did not pause until I had reached 
 my ov/n chamber, and locked the door. 
 
 Pressing my hands now on my burning tem- 
 ples, now on my breast, I paced the floor, 
 while, perchance, fifteen minutes — they 
 seemed an eternity — passed away. 
 
 Then I went slowly down stairs, and 
 entered the back parlor. Gerald was there, 
 standing near the sofa ; his face wearing an 
 insolent scowl of triumph. The girl was 
 stretched uj^on the sofa, still insensible, but — 
 I dare not write it — opposite Gerald stood 
 Herman Barnhurst, who had followed Fanny 
 to the house, and arrived — too late. His 
 face was bloodless. 
 
 " Oh, villain !" he groaned, as his mad- 
 dened gaze was fixed on Dudley; " you shall 
 pay for this with your blood — " 
 
 " Softly, Reverend Sir ! softly ! One word 
 of this, and the world shall know of your 
 amours with the handsome widow." 
 
 Herman's gaze rested on my face — 
 
 " You, — know — of — this ?" he began, with 
 a look that can never be forgotten. 
 
 " Pardon, Herman, pardon ! I was mad," 
 I shrieked, flinging myself at his feet, and 
 clutching his knees. 
 
 For a moment he gazed upon me, and 
 then, lifting his clenched right hand, he 
 struck me on the forehead, and I fell insen- 
 sible on the floor. The curse, which he spoke 
 as I fell, rings even yet in my ears. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 SUICIDE. 
 
 Three days have passed since then. Such 
 days as I will never pass again ! I have 
 just learned that Gerald Dudley has fled the 
 city. His purpose to obtain Fanny's hand in 
 marriage by first accomplishing her shame, 
 has utterly failed. Her father knows all, 
 and is now using every engine of his wealth 
 to connect my name with the crime which 
 has damned every hope of his idolized child. 
 And he will succeed ! I feel it ; I know it ; 
 my presentiment cannot prove false. What 
 shall I do ? — whither turn ? 
 
 And Herman is a raving lunatic. This too 
 is my work. Yes, yes, I am resolved. — I am 
 resolved. * * * * 
 
 To-morrow's daAvn will bring disgrace and 
 shame to me ; and, in the future, I see the 
 crowded court-house — the mob, eager to 
 drink in the story of my guilt, — and the 
 
THE DAWN, SUNEISE AND DAY. 
 
 223 
 
 felon's cell. But the morrow's dawn I shall 
 
 never see 
 
 I am alone in my chamber — the very 
 chamber in which I became Burley's, in an 
 unholy marriage — Walter's, in the marriage 
 of a stainless love — Herman's, in the mad 
 embrace of jjassion. And now, Death ! 
 upon that marriage couch, I am about to wed 
 thee ! 
 
 The brazier stands in the center of the 
 bridal chamber ; its contents were ignited 
 half an hour ago ; every avenue to my 
 chamber is carefully closed ; already the 
 fumes of the burning charcoal begin to smite 
 my temples and my heart. 
 
 This record, written from time to time, 
 and now concluded by a hand chilled by 
 death, I leave to my only living relative, — 
 not as an apology for my crimes, but as an 
 explanation of the causes which led me to 
 the brink of this awful abyss. 
 
 Air ! air ! Burley, for thee I have no 
 remorse. Let the branch snap ! — over the 
 cataract with thy accursed face ! Thou wert 
 the cause of all — thou ! But, Walter, thy 
 last look kills my soul. — Herman, thy curse 
 is on me ! And poor F^nny ! Air ! Light ! 
 It is so dark — dark ! — Oh for one breath of 
 prayer ! 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 The preceding confession, signed by the 
 tremulous hand of the poor suicide, was 
 found in her room, with the senseless corse, 
 by the relative, to whom she addressed it, 
 and who adds these concluding pages. For 
 days after the event, the papers were filled 
 with paragraphs, in regard to the melancholy 
 affair. A single one extracted from a promi- 
 nent paper, will give some idea of the tone 
 of the public mind : 
 
 Extract from a New YorJc Paper. 
 "tragedy in high life. 
 " The town is full of rumors, in regard to 
 a mysterious event, or series of events, im- 
 plicating a member of one of the first fami- 
 lies of New York. These rumors are sin- 
 gularly startling, and although they have 
 not yet assumed a definite shape, certainly call 
 for a judicial investigation. As far as w' e have 
 been able to sift the stories now afloat, the 
 plain truth, reduced to the briefest possible 
 shape, appears to be as follows : Some . 
 
 years since. Miss Marion M , daughter 
 
 i of old Mr. M , one of our first merchants. 
 
 j was, while under an engagement of marriage 
 
 ; with Walter H , forced into a marriage 
 
 I with Mr. Issachar B , a man old enough 
 
 I to be her father, who, it is stated, had the 
 father absolutely in his power. The mar- 
 riage took place, but not long afterward, 
 
 B , while on a visit to Niagara, was 
 
 precipitated over the Falls, at dead of night, 
 in a manner not yet satisfactorily explained. 
 Soon afterward the young widow, then 
 immensely rich, encountered her former 
 betrothed, and the fashionable world were 
 soon afterward informed of their marriage. 
 A year passed, and Walter H , the hus- 
 band of the former widow, was found in a 
 distant part of the country, mysteriously 
 murdered, it was not known by whom, al- 
 though it was rumored at the time, that the 
 brother of a wronged sister, was on that 
 occasion the avenger of his sister's shame. 
 
 The beautiful Mrs. H , was once more a 
 
 widow. Here it might seem that her adven- 
 tures, connected so strangely with the death 
 of two husbands, had reached their termina- 
 tion. But it seems she was soon fascinated 
 by the eloquence of a young man and pop- 
 ular divine, Eev. H B . While 
 
 betrothed to Miss Fanny L , daughter 
 
 of a wealthy member of his congregation, 
 the eloquent preacher became a visitor at 
 the house of the rich widow, and finally his 
 affections became entangled, and he was 
 forced to choose between said widow and 
 his betrothed. He sacrificed his affection 
 for the former, to his solemn engagement 
 with the latter. The 'slighted' widow, en- 
 dured the usual pangs of 'desj^ised love,' 
 coupled with something very much like 
 Italian jealousy, or rather jealousy after the 
 Italian school. The betrothed was inveigled 
 into a certain house, and her honor sacrificed 
 by a gentleman of fashion, known for thirty 
 years as a constant promenader, on the west 
 
 side of Broadway, Mr. Gerald D . The 
 
 widow (strangest freak of a slighted and 
 vindictive woman !) is said to have been the 
 planner and instigator of this crime. We 
 have now arrived at the sequel of the story. 
 
 Unable to obtain the hand of the Bev. H 
 
 B , and stung by remorse, for her 
 
 share in the dishonor of his betrothed, the 
 
224 
 
 THE DAWN, SUNRISE AND DAY, 
 
 •widow put a period to her own existence, in 
 what manner is not exactly known, although 
 conflicting rumors state the knife, or the 
 poison vial was the instrument of her 
 death. No coroner's inquest took place. 
 The body gave no signs of a violent death. 
 "Disease of the heart" was stated in the 
 certificate of the physician, (how compliant 
 he was to the wishes of rich survivors, we 
 will not say,) as the cause of her unexpected 
 disease. She was quietly buried in the 
 family vault, and her immense estate de- 
 scends to a relative, who was especially 
 careful, in cloaking over the fact of the sui- 
 cide. The tragedy involved in this affair, 
 will be complete, when we inform the 
 
 reader, that Mr, Gerald D , has left 
 
 the city, while his poor victim, Fanny L , 
 
 tenants the cell of an asylum for the insane. 
 Altogether, this affair is one of the wildest 
 exaggerations, or one of the most painful 
 tragedies, that ever fell to the lot of the press, 
 to record. Can it be believed that a young 
 lady, honorably reared, would put a period 
 to the lives of two husbands, then procure 
 the dishonor of a rival, who interposed 
 between her and a third * husband?' Verily, 
 * fact is stranger than fiction,' and every day, 
 reality more improbable than the -wildest 
 dreams of romance. The truth will not be 
 known until the Confession, said to he left 
 hy the young loidow, makes its appearance. 
 But will it appear ? we shall see." 
 
 So much for the public press. 
 
 The reader can contrast its rumors, with 
 the facts of the case, as plainly set forth in 
 the previous confession, penned by the hand 
 of the unfortunate and guilty Marion Mer- 
 lin. 
 
 A few words more will close this painful 
 narrative. Marion was quietly and honor- 
 ably buried. Her relatives were wealthy 
 and powerful. The * physician's certificate' 
 enabled them to avoid the painful formality 
 of a coroner's inquest. She sleeps beside her 
 husband, Walter Howard, in Greenwood 
 Cemetery. 
 
 Soon after her decease, Mr. Lansdale sold 
 all his property in New York, and with his 
 daughter disappeared completely from pub- 
 lic view. 
 
 Herman Barnhurst remained in the Lu- 
 
 ^ natic Asylum for more than a year, when 
 , he was released, his intellect restored, but 
 ' his health (it is stated) irretrievably broken. 
 After his release, he left New York, and his 
 name was soon forgotten, or if mentioned at 
 all, only as that of a person long since dead. 
 
 Gerald Dudlej'-, after various adventures, 
 ^ in Texas and Mexico, suffered at the hands 
 of J udge Lynch, near San Antonio. 
 
 About a year after the death of Marion 
 Merlin, a young man in moderate circum- 
 stances, accompanied by his wife, (a pale, 
 , faded, though interesting woman) and her 
 
 aged father took up his residence in C 
 
 a pleasant village in south-western Pennsyl- 
 vania. They were secluded in their habits, 
 and held but little intercourse with the 
 other villagers. The husband passed by the 
 name of Wilton, which (for all that the 
 villagers knew to the contrary,) was his real 
 name. 
 
 One winter evening, as the family were 
 gathered about the open wood-fire, a sleigh 
 halted at the door, and a visitor appeared in 
 the person of a middle-aged man, who 
 came unbidden into the room, shaking the 
 snow from his great coat, and seating himself 
 in the midst of the family. Regarding for a 
 moment the face of the aged father, and 
 then the countenance of the young husband 
 and wife, which alike in their pallor, seemed 
 to bear the traces of an irrevocable calamity, 
 the visitor said quietly, — 
 
 " Herman Barnhurst, I am the relative to 
 whom Marion Merlin addressed her confes- 
 sion, and whom she invested with the trus- 
 teeship of her estate." 
 
 Had a thunderbolt fallen into the midst of 
 the party, it would not have created so much 
 consternation, as these few words from the 
 lips of the visitor. The young wife shrieked, 
 the old man started from his chair ; Herman 
 Barnhurst, (otherwise called Mr. Wilton,) 
 with the blood rushing to his pale face, said 
 simply, " That accursed woman !" 
 
 "I hold her last Will and Testament in 
 my hand," continued the visitor : " I am her 
 nearest relative, and would inherit her estate, 
 but for this will, by which she names you 
 and your wife Fanny, as the sole heirs of Jier 
 immense property." 
 
 Herman took the Will from the visitor's 
 hands. 
 
THE DAWN, SUNRISE AND DAY. 
 
 225 
 
 "As administrator of her estate, I am here 
 to surrender it into your hands. The will 
 was made as a small atonement for the injury 
 she caused you." 
 
 Herman quietly dropped the parchment 
 into the fire : 
 
 "Her money and her memory are alike 
 accursed. I will have nothing to do with 
 either." 
 
 That night the relative turned his face 
 eastward, to take possession of the estate of 
 Marion Merlin. 
 
 And beneath this, in a different hand^ icas 
 added the following singular narrative: 
 
 CHAPTER XY. 
 
 AFTER THE DEATH OF MARION. 
 
 A PLEASANT place, in summer time, was 
 the country-mansion of the celebrated Doctor 
 
 N , situated upon the heights of Wee- 
 
 hawken, about one mile from the Hudson 
 River. A huge edifice of brick, separated 
 from the high road by a garden, it was sur- 
 rounded by tall trees, whose branches over- 
 hung its steep roof, and relieved by the 
 background of the rich foliage and blossoms 
 of the orchard trees. A pleasant place, in 
 summer, was the mansion of the celebrated 
 Doctor, but lonely enough, and desolate 
 enough in winter. On this drear winter 
 night, it looks sad and desolate as the grave. 
 The sky above it is leaden, the trees around 
 it are leafless, the garden white with snow, 
 and the bitter wind howls dismally over 
 the waste of snow, which clothes the adjacent 
 fields. In the distance, the Hudson glitters 
 dimly, white and cold, with fields of floating 
 ice. It is near morning, and but a single 
 room in the vast country mansion is tenanted. 
 You can see a light trembling faintly through 
 the half vailed window yonder ; the win- 
 dow near the roof, in the southern wing. 
 
 It is near morning ; but one person by a 
 solitary light, keeps his vigil in the deserted 
 mansion ; a sleigh drawn by a single horse, 
 (he has been driven hard, for there is foam 
 upon his flanks) and moving noiselessly, 
 without the sound of bells stops at the gar- 
 den gate. Two persons, whose forms are 
 
 the brows, dismount and pass along the gar- 
 den walk, bearing a burden on their shouU 
 ders. They ascend the steps of the porch, 
 and stand in front of the hall door, looking 
 anxiously about them, as if to assure them- 
 selves, their movements were not observed. 
 
 " So far safe enough, — " exclaims one in a 
 hoarse voice, "the next thing is to get it up 
 stairs." And he places a key in the lock of 
 the door. 
 
 Meanwhile the light, which trembling 
 outward from yonder window, shines redly 
 over the frozen snow, shines within upon the 
 face of the lonely watcher. A young man 
 sits beside a table, reading by the light of a 
 clouded lamp, his cheeks resting on his 
 hands, and his gaze riveted upon the large 
 volume, spread open before him. The light 
 falls brightly upon the book, leaving his 
 features in half twilight, but still you can 
 trace the outlines of his face, — the enthu- 
 siasm of his fixed eyes, — the energy of his 
 broad bold forehead. It is a small and com- 
 fortable apartment ; near him a wood-fire is 
 burning, on the open hearth ; opposite him 
 a sofa, and a range of shelves, filled with 
 books, and upon the green cloth of the table 
 by which he is seated, you discover a sort of 
 semicircle of open volumes, — placed there 
 evidently for reference, — a mass of carelessly 
 strewn manuscripts, and a case of surgical 
 instruments. 
 
 Arthur Conroy, the favorite student of the 
 celebrated Doctor, — a student, whose organi- 
 zation combines the exactness and untiring 
 industry of the man of science, with the rich 
 enthusiasm of the poet, — is the only tenant of 
 the mansion, during the dreary winter. He 
 is not seen during the day, but every night, 
 arriving from New York, after dark, he 
 builds his fire, lights his candle, and com- 
 mences his lonely vigil. Sometimes, late at 
 night, he is joined by the grave Doctor him- 
 self, and they pursue their researches toge- 
 ther. What manner of researches? We can- 
 not tell ; but there is a rumor, that one 
 apartment of the huge mansion is used, in 
 winter time, as a Dissecting-Room, And 
 the light streaming night after night, from 
 the window near the roof, strikes the lonely 
 wayfarer with a sensation, in some manner, 
 associated with ghosts, witches, and dealings 
 
 wrapped in thick overcoats, and whose faces 
 are concealed by fur caps, drawn low over j with the devil in general. 
 
226 
 
 THE DAWN, SUNRISE AND DAY. 
 
 Arthur is ambitious ; even while his mind 
 is wrapt in the mazes of a scientific prob- 
 lem, he thinks of his widowed mother and 
 orphan sisters far away in the great village 
 near Seneca lake, and his pulse beats quicker, 
 as he looks forward to the day when their 
 ears shall be gree;;ed by the tidings of his 
 world-wide fame. For he has determined to 
 be a surgeon, and a master in his art ; he 
 has the will and the genius ; he will accom- 
 plish what he wills. 
 
 He raises his eyes from his book, — they 
 are glittering with the clear light of intense 
 thought, — and unconsciously begins to think 
 aloud. 
 
 " Do the dead return ? Are the dead in- 
 deed dead? You have nailed down the 
 coffin-lid ; you have seen the coffin as it 
 sunk into the grave ; you have heard the 
 rattling of the clod, — but is that all ? Is the 
 beloved one whom you have given to the 
 grave, indeed dead, or only more truly living 
 in a new body, formed of refined matter, 
 invisible to our gross organs ? Is that which 
 we call soul, only the result of a particular 
 organization of gross matter, or is it the real, 
 eternal substance of which all other matter 
 is but the servant and the expression ? Do 
 the dead return ? Do those whose faces we 
 have seen for the last time, ere the coffin-lid 
 closed upon them forever, ever come back to 
 us, clad in spiritual bodies, and addressing us, 
 not through our external organs, but by di- 
 rectly impressing that divine substance in us, 
 which is like unto them, — that which we call 
 our SOUL ?" 
 
 It was a thought which for ages has mado 
 •the hearts of the noblest and truest of our 
 race, alternately combat with despair, and 
 swell with hope, — that thought which seeks 
 to unvail the mystery of Life and Death, 
 disclose the tie which connects perishable 
 matter with eternal mind, and lift the cur- 
 tain which hides from the present, the other 
 world. 
 
 Arthur felt the vast thought gather all his 
 soul into its embrace. But his meditations 
 were interrupted by the opening of the door, 
 and the two men, — whom we saw dismount 
 from the sleigh, — entered the room of the 
 student, bearing in their arms the burden, 
 which was covered by folds of coarse canvas. 
 
 Very ungainly men they were, with their 
 
 brawny forms wrapped in huge gray over- 
 coats, adorned with white buttons, and their 
 harsh visages half concealed by their coarse 
 fur caps. They came into the room without 
 a word. 
 
 " 0, you have come," said xirthur, as if he 
 recognized persons by no means strangers to 
 him. "Have you the particular subject 
 which the doctor desired you to pro- 
 cure ?" 
 
 " Jist that partikler subject," said one of 
 the twain, — " an' a devil of a time we've 
 had to git it ! Fust we entered the vault at 
 Greenwood, with a false key, and then 
 opened the coffin, so as it '11 never be known 
 that it was opened at all. Closed the vault 
 ag'in and got the body over the wall, and hid 
 it in the bottom of the sleigh. Crossed the 
 ferry at Brooklyn — went through the city, 
 and then took the ferry for Hoboken, — same 
 sleigh, and same subject in the bottom of it ; 
 an' druv here with a blast in our face, sharp 
 as a dozen butcher knives." 
 
 "But if it had not a-been for the storm, 
 we wouldn't a-got the body," interrupted the 
 other. 
 
 "And here we aiV, and here it is, and 
 that's enough. What shall we do with it ?" 
 
 Arthur opened a small door near the book- 
 case, and a narrow stairway (leading up into 
 the garret) was disclosed. 
 
 " You know the way," he said. " When 
 you get up there place it on the table." 
 
 They obeyed without a word. Bearing 
 their burden slowly through the narrow door- 
 way, they disappeared, and the echo of their 
 heavy boots was heard on the stairway. 
 They were not long absent. After a few 
 moments they again appeared, and the one 
 who had acted as principal spokesman, held 
 out his open palm toward Arthur, — 
 
 " Double allowance to-night, you know," 
 he said, — " Doctor generally gives us from 
 forty to sixty dollars a job, but this partikler 
 case axes for ten gold pieces, — spread eagles, 
 you know, wuth ten dollars apiece, — only a 
 hundred dollars in all. Shell out !" 
 
 Arthur quietly placed ten gold pieces in 
 the hands of the ruffian.—" The doctor left 
 it for you. Now go." 
 
 And shuffling their heavy boots, they dis- 
 appeared through the same door by which 
 they had entered. Looking through tho 
 
 \ 
 
THE DAW]<r, SUNRISE AND DAY. 
 
 227 
 
 window after a few moments, he saw the sleigh 
 moving noiselessly down the public road. 
 
 "Dangerous experiment for the doctor, 
 especially if the event of this night should 
 happen to be discovered," ejaculated Arthur, 
 as he rebuilt his fire. " A peculiar case of 
 suicide, and he wished the hody at all haz- 
 ards. Well ! I must to work." 
 
 He drew on an apron of dark muslin, 
 which was provided with sleeves, and then 
 lifting the shade from the lamp, he lighted 
 a cigar. As the smoke of the grateful Ha- 
 vana rolled through his apartment, he took 
 the lamp in one hand, and a case of instru- 
 ments in the other, and ascended the secret 
 stairway leading to the garret. 
 
 "I have seen her when living, arrayed in 
 all the pride of youth and beauty," he said, 
 as the lamp shone upon the vast and gloomy 
 garret, — " and now let me look upon the shell 
 which so lately held that passionate soul." 
 
 It was indeed a vast and gloomy garret. 
 It traversed the entire extent of the southern 
 wing. The windows at either end were 
 carefully darkened. The ceiling was formed 
 by the huge rafters and bare shingles of the 
 steep roof. To one of these rafters a human 
 skeleton was suspended, its white bones 
 glaring amid the darkness. In the center 
 was a large table, upon which was placed the 
 burden which the ruffians had that night 
 stolen from the grave. The place was 
 silent, lonely, — the wind howled dismally 
 among the chimneys, — and Arthur could 
 not repress a slight shudder as his footsteps 
 eohoed from the naked floor. Arthur placed 
 the lamp upon the table, and began to uncover 
 the subject. Removing the coarse canvas 
 he disclosed the corpse. An ejaculation 
 burst from his lips, — a cry half of terror, 
 half of surprise. 
 
 The light shone upon the body of a beau- 
 tiful woman. From those faultless limbs 
 and that snowy bosom the grave-clothes had 
 been carefully stripped. A single fragment 
 of the shroud fluttered around the right arm. 
 Save this fragment the body was completely 
 bare, and the dark hair of the dead fell 
 loosely on her shoulders. The face was very 
 beautiful and calm, as though sealed only 
 for an hour in a quiet sleep, — the fringes of 
 the eyelashes rested darkly upon the cheeks. 
 Never had the light shone upon a shape of 
 
 more surpassing loveliness, upon limbs more 
 like ivory in their snowy v/hiteness, upon a 
 face more like a dreamless slumber, in its 
 calm, beautiful expression. Dead, and yet 
 very beautiful ! A proud soul dwelt in this 
 casket once, — the soul has fled, and now the 
 casket must be surrendered to the scalpel, — 
 must be cut and rent, shred by shred, by the 
 dissector's hand. 
 
 "But the limbs are not rigid with death," 
 soliloquized Arthur, — "Decay has not yet 
 commenced its work. As I live, there is a 
 glow upon the check." 
 
 With his scalpel he inflicted a gash near 
 the right temple, and at the same instant, — 
 imagining he heard a footstep, — he turned 
 his face over his shoulder. It was only 
 imagination, and he turned again to trace the 
 result of the incision. 
 
 The dead woman was in a sitting posture, her 
 arms were folded over her breast ; her eyes 
 were wide open/shc was gazing calmly into 
 his face. Arthur fell back Avith a cry of horror. 
 
 "Nay, do not be frightened," said a low, 
 although tremulous voice, — " I have simply 
 been the victim of an attack of catalepsy." 
 
 And while he stood spell-bound, his eyes 
 riveted to her face, and his ears drinking in the 
 rich music of her voice, she continued, — 
 
 " Catalepsy, which leaves the soul keenly 
 conscious and in possession of all its powers, 
 but without the slightest control over the 
 body, which appears insensible and dead. 
 The agony of that state is beyond all power 
 of words ! To hear the voices which speak 
 over your cofiin, and yet be unable to frame 
 a word, to breathe even a sigh ! I heard 
 them talk over my coffin, — I was conscious 
 as the lid closed down upon my face, — con- 
 scious when they placed me in the vault, 
 and locked the door, and left me there 
 buried alive. And an eternity seemed to 
 pass from the time when they locked the 
 door, (I was only buried yesterday,) until 
 your men came to-night, to rob the grave of 
 its prey. I heard every word they uttered 
 from the moment when they tore the shroud 
 from my bosom, until they entered your 
 room, and then I heard your voice. And 
 when they left me here, I heard your step 
 upon the stair, heard your ejaculation as you 
 bent over me, and it seemed to me that my 
 soul made its last etiort to arouse from thia 
 
228 
 
 THE DAWN, SUNRISE AND DAY. 
 
 unutterable living death, as you struck the 
 knife into my temple. You have saved 
 ■my life " 
 
 Arthur couUi not utter a word ; he could 
 not believe the scene to be real ; he thought 
 himself the victim of a terrible although be- 
 witching dream. 
 
 "I arise from the grave, but it is to begin 
 life anew. The name which I bore lies 
 buried in the grave vault. It is with a new 
 name, and under new auspices, that I will 
 recommence life. And as for you, I know 
 you to be young, gifted, ambitious. I will 
 show my gratitude by making your fortune. 
 But you must swear, and now, never to re- 
 veal the secret of this night ! " 
 
 "I swear it," ejaculated Arthur, still pale 
 and trembling. 
 
 " What, are you still afraid of me ? Come 
 near me, — nearer, — take my hand, — does 
 that, — " and a bewitchi'rt^J smile crossed her 
 face, — " does that feel like the hand of a 
 dead woman ?" 
 
 With these words the history of Marion 
 came to a pause. 
 
 For the first time, Arthur Dermoyne raised 
 his eyes from the pages which recorded the 
 life of Marion Merlin. For an hour and 
 more he had bent over those pages in pro- 
 found and absorbing interest. 
 
 " Here, then, is the real secret of the life 
 of Herman Barnhurst ! " he ejaculated. " He 
 was simply a sincere enthusiast, all his bad 
 nature dormant, and all his good in active 
 life, until this woman crossed his path. And 
 the wife who now slumbers by his side, is 
 none other than Fannj^ Lansdale, the vic- 
 tim of the imutterable crime. Who shall 
 say that we are not, in a great measure, 
 the sport of circumstance ? IIow different 
 would have been the life of Herman, had 
 Marion never crossed his path ? " 
 
 Something like pity for the crimes of 
 Barnhurst began to steal over Dermoyne's 
 face, as he sat thus alone, in the solitude 
 of the last hour of the night; but the 
 thoughts of Alice, on her bed of shame and 
 anguish, started up like a phantom and drove 
 every throb of compassion from his soul. 
 
 "If Alice dies, there is but cuie wa}'," — 
 he said moodily, with a fixed light in his 
 eyes — "But this Marion, — ah! Something 
 
 more of her history is written here. Let 
 me read, — " Once more he bent over the 
 Red Book. Even as his eyes were fixed 
 upon the page, a shadow was cast over it, 
 and then a dark object interposed between 
 him and the light ; and the next moment 
 all was darkness. But on the instant, be- 
 fore the darkness came, he looked up, and 
 saw before him a brawny form, a face 
 stamped with ferocious brutality ; an up- 
 raised hand grasping a knife, which glit- 
 tered as it rose. This he saw for an in- 
 stant only, and then all was blackness. 
 
 " Not wid de knife. Dirk ! Let me fix him 
 wid dis, — and do yer see to de Red Book ! " 
 
 There was a sound as of a Aveapon whiz- 
 zing through the air, and Dermoyne was 
 felled to the floor by a blow from the 
 " Slung-shot." 
 
 As the first gleam of morning stole into 
 the bed-chamber, touching, with rosy light, 
 the faces of the sleeping wife and her chil- 
 dren, Barnhurst stealthily arose, dressed him- 
 self, and stole on tiptoe from the place. In 
 the dark he descended the stairway, and all 
 the while, — from loss of sleep, combined 
 with the excitement of the past night, — he 
 shook in every nerve. His thoughts were 
 black and desperate. 
 
 " Ruin wherever I turn ! If I escape this 
 man, there remains the villain whom I met 
 last night, in Trinity Church. On one side 
 exposure, on the other death. What can be 
 done ? Cut the matter short, and renouncing 
 all my prospects, seek safety in flight ? or 
 remain, — dare all the chances, — exposure, — 
 the death of a dog, — all, — and trust to my 
 good fortune ? " 
 
 He paused at the foot of the stairway, and 
 a hope shot through his heart, — " If I could 
 see GoDiVA all might yet be well ! Yes, I 
 must, I will see Godiva." 
 
 Uttering the name of Godiva, (new to 
 the reader and to our history,) he approached 
 the parlor door. "Now for this man !" he 
 said, and shuddered. He opened the door, 
 and looked ai'ound ; the first rays of morning 
 were stealing through the window-curtains, 
 but the room Avas vacant. Dermoyne was 
 not there. The carpet was torn near the 
 sofa, the table overturned, and there was 
 blood upon the carpet and sofa. But Der- 
 moyne had disappeared. 
 
N E ¥ YORK: 
 
 IT8 
 
 UPPER-TEN AND LOWER MILLION. 
 
 PART SIXTH. 
 
 DAY, SUNSET, NIGHT. 
 
 DECEMBER 24, 1844. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 ARRAYED FOR THE BRIDAL. 
 
 It was toward evening, when, amid the 
 crowd of Broadway — that crowd of mad 
 and impetuous life — there glided, like a 
 specter through the mazes of a voluptuous 
 dance, a man of sober habit, pallid face, and 
 downcast eyes. Beautiful women, wrapped 
 in soft attire, passed him every moment ; 
 brushed him with their perfumed garments ; 
 but he heeded them not. There was the 
 free laugh, the buzz of voices, and the tramp 
 of footsteps all about him, but he did not 
 raise his eyes, nor bend his ear. Gliding 
 along in his dark habit, he was as much 
 altine on that thronged pathway, as though 
 he walked the sands of an Arabian desert. A 
 man of hollow cheeks, features boldly 
 marked, and eyes large and dark, and shin- 
 ing with the fire of disease, or with the 
 restlessness of a soul that had turned upon 
 itself, and was gnawing ever and ever at its 
 own life-strings. 
 
 His habit — a long black coat, single 
 breasted, and with a plain white band about 
 the neck — indicated that he was a Catholic 
 Priest. 
 
 He was a Priest. Struck down in his early 
 manhood by an irreparable calamity, he had 
 looked all around the horizon of his life for 
 — peace. Repose, repose — a quiet life — an 
 obscure grave — became the objects of his 
 soul's desire, instead of the ambitions which 
 his young manhood had cherished. 
 
 As there was not peace within him, so he 
 searched the world for it, and in vain. 
 
 He sought it in a money-bound Protestant 
 church, behind whose pulpit-bible — like a j 
 toad upon an altar — Mammon, holy mam- 1 
 
 mon, squats in bank-note grandeur. And 
 there, he found money, and much cant, and 
 abundance of sect, — but no peace. 
 
 To the Catholic church he turned. Won 
 by the poetry of that church — we use the 
 word in its awful and intense sense, for 
 poetry and religion are one — and, forgetful 
 of the infernal deeds which demoniacs, in 
 jDurple and scarlet, have done in the name 
 of that church, tracking their footsteps over 
 half the globe in blood, and lighting up the 
 history of ten centuries, at least, with flames 
 of persecution, — won by all that is good and 
 true in that church, (which he forgot is good 
 and true under whatsoever form it occurs,) — 
 he sought repose in its bosom. 
 
 Did he find it ? He found good and true 
 men among priests and people ; he found 
 noble and pure women, in the valleys of the 
 church; but, lifting his eyes to her lofty emi- 
 nence, he too often saw purpled and mitred 
 atheists, who, from their thrones, made sport 
 of human misery, and converted Christ the 
 Savior into the Fetish of a brutal super- 
 stition. 
 
 He had been to Rome ; in Rome he saw 
 the seamless coat of Christ made a cloak for 
 every outrage that can be inflicted upon the 
 human race. 
 
 Did he find peace ? Yes, when vailing 
 his eyes from the atrocities done in the name 
 of the church, turning himself away from 
 the scarlet-clad atheists, who too often mount 
 her seats of power, he retreated within him- 
 self, opened the gospels, and from their pages 
 saw kindle into life and love, the face of 
 Him, whom priests may misinterpret or de- 
 fame, but whose name forever, to suffering 
 humanity, is " consolation." 
 
 As he passed thus along Broadway, buried 
 
230 
 
 DAY, SUNSET, NIGHT. 
 
 ill his thoughts, and utterly unconscious of 
 the scene around him, he felt a hand press 
 his own. He awoke from his thoughts, 
 slopped and looked around him. The crowd 
 >vas hurrying by, but the person v/ho pressed 
 his hand had disappeared. Was that pressure 
 of the hand a mere freak of the imagina- 
 tion ? No ; for the hand of the unknown 
 had left within the hand of the Priest a 
 neatly-folded letter, upon which, in a fair 
 and delicate hand, was written his own 
 name. 
 
 Stepping aside from the crowd, he opened 
 and read the letter. It was very brief, but 
 its contents called a glo\v to the pale cheek 
 of the Priest. 
 
 He at once retraced his steps, and passed 
 down Broadway, with a rapid and eager 
 step. Hurrying through the gay crowd, he 
 turned, in a few moments, into a street lead- 
 ing to the North River. The sun Avas set- 
 ting, and cast the shadow of his slender form 
 long and black over the pavement, as he 
 paused in front of a stately mansion. He 
 once more examined the letter, and then 
 surveyed the mansion. 
 
 "It is the same," he said, and ascended 
 the lofty steps and rang the bell. " Truly, 
 the office of a Priest is a painful one," the 
 thought crossed his mind ; " he sees so much 
 misery that he has not the power to relieve. 
 Misery, under the rags of the hovel, and 
 despair under the velvet of the palace." 
 
 A male servant, in livery, answered the 
 bell, and glanced somewhat superciliously at 
 the faded attire of the Priest. But he in- 
 clined his head in involuntary respect, as the 
 Priest said, simply — 
 
 I am Father Luke,—" 
 
 " This way, sir. You are expected," an- 
 swered the servant ; and he led Father Luke 
 along a lofty hall, and into a parlor, over 
 whose rich furniture shone dimly the light 
 of the setting sun. Remain here, sir, and 
 I will announce your coming." 
 
 He left the Priest alone. Father Luke 
 placed his hat upon a table, and seated him- 
 self in a chair. In a moment, resting his 
 cheek upon his hand, and turning his eyes 
 to the light, (which shone through the cur- 
 tained window,) he was buried in thought 
 again. His singular and remarkable face stood 
 forth from the back-ground of shadow like a 
 
 portrait of another age. His crown was bald, 
 but his forehead was encircled by dark hair, 
 streaked with silver. As the light shone over 
 that broad brow, and upon the great eyes, di- 
 lating in their sunken sockets, he seemed not 
 like a practical man of the nineteenth centur}-, 
 but like one of those penitents or enthusi- 
 asts, who, in a dark age, shut up the fires of 
 their agony, of trampled hope or undying 
 remorse, within the shadows of a cloister. 
 
 " This way, sir," — it was the voice of the 
 servant, who touched him respectfully on 
 the shoulder as he spoke. 
 
 Father Luke arose and followed him from 
 the room, and up a broad stairway, and along 
 a corridor : " At the end of this passage 
 you will find a door. Open it and enter. 
 You are expected there." 
 
 Passing from the corridor, lighted by the 
 window at its extremity, the Priest entered 
 a narrow passage where all was dark, and 
 pursued his way until his progress was ter- 
 minated by a door. He opened the door and 
 crossed the threshold — but, upon the very 
 threshold, stood spell-bound in surprise. 
 
 It was a large apartment, with lofty walls, 
 and, instead of the cheerful rays of the de- 
 clining sun, it was illuminated by a lamp 
 with a clouded shade, which, suspended f]?pm 
 the center of the ceiling, shed around a-&(5ft 
 and mysterious light. 
 
 The walls were not papered nor panneled, 
 but covered with hangings of a dark color. 
 One part of the spacious chamber was occu- 
 pied by a couch with a high canopy, and 
 curtains whose snowy whiteness stood out 
 distinctly from the dark back-ground. A 
 wood fire was burning under the arch of the 
 old-fashioned fire-place ; and a mirror, in a 
 frame of dark walnut, reflected the couch 
 with its white canopy, and a table covered 
 with a white cloth, which stood directly 
 underneath the hanging lamp. Upon the 
 white cloth was placed a crucifix, a book, a 
 wreath of flowers. 
 
 The place was perfectly still, and the soft 
 rays of the lamp, investing all its details 
 with mingled light and shadow, gave an 
 atmosphere of mystery to the scene. 
 
 Father Luke stood on the threshold, hesi- 
 tating whether to advance or retreat, when 
 a low voice broke the stillness : 
 
 " Come in, sir. I have waited for you." 
 
DAY, SUNSET, NIGHT. 
 
 231 
 
 And for the first time Father Luke took 
 notice of the presence of the speaker. It was 
 a woman, who, attired in black, sat in a 
 rocking-chair, near the table, her hands 
 folded over her breast. Her head and face 
 were covered by a thick vail of white lace, 
 which fell to her shoulders, contrasting 
 strongly with her somber attire. 
 
 Father Luke entered and seated himself 
 in a vacant chair, which stood near the table. 
 Resting his arm on the table, — (he sat 
 directly beneath the lamp, in a circle of 
 shadow,) — and shading his eyes with his 
 hand, he silently surveyed the woman, over 
 whom the light fell in full radiance. There 
 was dark hair, there were bright eyes, be- 
 neath that vail of lace ; a young, a richly 
 moulded form, beneath that garb of sable ; 
 but in vain he endeavored to trace the fea- 
 tures of the unknown. 
 
 " You received a letter ?" said the lady, 
 in a low voice. 
 
 "As I was passing up Broadway, a few 
 moments since, a letter was placed in my 
 hand, bidding my presence at this house, on 
 an errand of life and death," 
 
 She started at the sound of that sonorous 
 and hollow voice, and, through her vail, 
 seemed to survey him earnestly. 
 
 " I am glad that you have come. I thank 
 you with all my soul. Although not a mem- 
 ber of your church, I have heard of you 
 for a long time, and heard of you as 
 one who, having suffered much himself, was 
 especially fitted to render consolation to the 
 heart-broken and despair-stricken. Now I 
 am heart-broken and despairing," — she 
 paused, — " I am dying, — " 
 Dying ?" he echoed. 
 " And have sent for you, believing you to 
 be an honest man, not to hear confession of 
 my sins, for they are too dark to be told or 
 be forgiven. But to ask you a simple ques- 
 tion, which I implore you to answer, not as 
 a priest, but as a man- ; — to answer, not with 
 the set phrases of your vocation, but frankly 
 and fully, even as you wish to have peace 
 yourself in the hour of death." 
 
 "And that question, — " the priest's head 
 bent low upon his breast, and he surveyed 
 her earnestly \vith his eyes hidden beneath 
 his down- drawn brows. 
 
 "Do you believe in any Hereafter? Do 
 15 
 
 you believe in another world ? Docs the 
 death of the body end the story ? Or, after 
 the death of the body, does the soul rise and 
 live again in a new and diviner life ?" 
 
 " My sister," said the priest, with much 
 emotion, "I Jmoiu that there is a hereafter, — 
 I l-noiv that the death of the body, is not the 
 end of all, but simply the first step in an 
 eternal pilgrimage — " 
 
 "This you say as a man, and not as a 
 priest, — this is your true thought, as you wish 
 to have peace, in the hour of your death ?" 
 
 "Even so," said Father Luke. 
 
 " Thank you, 0, bless you with all my 
 soul. One question more, — 0, answer me 
 with the same frankness. — In the next world 
 shall we meet, and know the friends whom 
 we have loved in this ?" 
 
 " We shall meet, we shall know, we shall 
 love them in the next world, as certainly as 
 we ever met, knew and loved them in this," 
 was the answer of Father Luke, given with 
 all the force and earnestness of undeniable 
 sincerity. " Do you think we gather affec- 
 tions to our heart, only to bury them in the 
 grave ?" 
 
 The lady rose from her chair, — 
 
 " I thank you, once more, and with all my 
 soul. Your words come from your heart. 
 They confirm the intuitions of my own 
 heart. For the consolation which these 
 words afford, accept the gratitude of a dying 
 woman. And now, — " she extended her 
 hand, " and now farewell !" 
 
 The priest, who, through this entire inter- 
 view, had never ceased to regard her, with 
 his eyes almost hidden by his down-drawn 
 brows, — struggling all the while to repress 
 an agitation which increased every moment, 
 and well nigh mastered him, — the priest 
 also rose ^\ith these words on his lips : 
 
 " You dying, sister ! you seem young, and 
 full of life, and with the prospect of long 
 years before you." 
 
 It was either the impulse of madness, or 
 i the force of a calm conviction, which indjjced 
 ; her to reply : 
 
 " In one hour I will be dead." 
 
 The priest silently took her offered hand, 
 : and at the same instant, emerged from the 
 I circle of shadow, into the full glow of the 
 j light. There v.-as something like magic in 
 I the pressure of their hands. 
 
£32 
 
 DAY, SUNSET, NIGHT. 
 
 And the woman lifted her vail, disclosing 
 a beautiful face, which already touched with 
 the pallor of death, was lighted by dark 
 eyes, whose brightness was almost superna- 
 tural. 
 
 Lifting her gaze lieaven-ward, she said, as 
 though thinking aloud, — 
 
 "In another world, Ernest, I will meet, 
 I will know, I will love you !" 
 
 But ere the words had passed her lips, — 
 yes, as the slowly lifted vail disclosed her 
 face, — the priest sank back, as though stricken 
 by a blow from an iron hand, uttering a 
 wild and incoherent cry, — sank back as 
 though the grave had yielded up its dead, 
 and confronted him with a form, linked with 
 holy and yet accursed memories. 
 
 " 0, Frank, is it thus we meet," he cried, 
 and fell on his knees, and buried his face in 
 his hands. 
 
 The sound of his voice, at once lifted the 
 scales from her eyes, — sl^e knew him, — the 
 vague consciousness of his presence, which 
 had agitated her for the past few moments, 
 became certainty. She knew that in Father 
 Luke, who knelt before her, she beheld 
 Ernest Walworth, her plighted husband. 
 Sad and terrible indeed, must have been the 
 change, which had fallen upon his counte- 
 nance, that she did not know him, when he 
 sat before her in the shadow ! 
 
 Trembling in every nerve, and yet strong 
 with the energy of a soul, that had taken its 
 farewell of this life, she gave utterance to 
 her feelings, in a single word, — his own, — 
 pronounced in the soft low tones of other 
 days. 
 
 " Ernest !" 
 
 " 0, Frank, Frank, is it thus we meet !" he 
 cried in wild agony, as he raised his face. 
 " You, — you, — the only woman that I ever 
 loved, — you, wdiose very memory has torn 
 my heart, since that fatal hour, when I met 
 you in the accursed haunt of death, — " 
 
 "Ernest jou. will sit by me as I die, you 
 will press your hand in forgiveness on my 
 foreh^^ad, my last look shall encounter 
 yours — " 
 
 She opened her dark robe, and disclosed 
 the snow-white dress which she wore beneath 
 it. That dress was a shroud. Yes, the 
 beautiful form, the bosom which had once 
 been the home of a pure and stainless love, 
 
 ' and which had beat with the throb of sensual 
 passion, were now attired in a shroud. 
 
 "Behold me, attired for the grave," she 
 said, — and the tears started to her eyes, — 
 "This morning, resolved to quit this life, 
 which for me, has been a life of unutterable 
 shame and despair, I prepared for my de- 
 parture. Everything is ready. Come, Er- 
 nest, and behold the preparations for my 
 bridal, — " she pointed to the couch; he rose 
 and followed her. "I am in love with 
 death, and will wed him ere an hour is 
 gone." She drew aside the curtains, and 
 upon the white coverlet, Ernest beheld a 
 dark object, — a coflSn covered with black- 
 cloth, and glittering with a silver plate. 
 
 "Everything is ready, Eraest, and I am 
 going. Nay, do not weep, do not attempt to 
 touch my hand. I am but a poor polluted 
 thing, — a wreck, a miserable, miserable 
 wreck ! My touch would pollute you, — I 
 am not worth your tears." 
 
 Ernest hid his face in the hangings of the 
 couch, — he Avrithed in agony. 
 
 " You shall not die, — you must be saved!" 
 he wildly exclaimed. 
 
 She walked across the floor, with an even 
 step ; in a moment she was seated in the 
 rocking-chair, with Ernest before her, his 
 face hidden in his hands. Her face grew 
 paler every moment ; her eyes brighter ; and 
 the shroud which enveloped her bosom, 
 began to quiver, with the last pulsations of 
 her dying heart. As the vail mingled its 
 fleecy folds with her raven hair, she looked 
 very beautiful, yes, beautiful with the touch 
 of death. 
 
 And as Ernest, choked with his agony, sat 
 before her, hiding his face, she talked in a 
 calm, even tone, — 
 
 "0, life! life! you have been a bitter 
 draught to me, and now I am about to leave 
 you ! All day I have been thinking of my 
 shame, of my crimes, — I have summoned up 
 every act of my life, — the images of the past 
 have walked before me in a sad funeral pro- 
 cession. 0, Thou, w^ho didst forgive the 
 Magdalene, — Thou who hadst compassion 
 on the poor wretch, whose cross arose beside 
 thine own, — Thou who dost know all my 
 life, my temptations, and my crimes, — for- 
 give ! forgive ! It is a wandering child, sick 
 of wandering, who now. — 0, Thou, all-mer- 
 
DAY, SUNSET, NIGHT. 
 
 233 
 
 ciful ! — gathers up the wreck of a miserable 
 life, and Lays it, with all its sins and shame, at 
 Thy feet. 
 
 As she uttered this simple, yet awful 
 prayer, Ernest did not raise his face. The 
 agony which shook him was too deep for 
 words. 
 
 Her voice grew faint and fainter, as she 
 went on, in a vague and rambling way — 
 
 "And I was so innocent once, and did not 
 know what sorrow was, and felt such glad- 
 ness, at the sight of the sky, of the stars, of 
 the flowers, — at the very breath of spring 
 upon my cheek ! 0, I wonder if the old 
 home stands there yet, — and the nook in the 
 forest, don't you remember, Ernest ? I was 
 BO happy, so happy then ! And now I am 
 dying — dying, — but you are near. You 
 forgive me, Ernest, do you not ?" 
 
 " Forgive you 1" he echoed, raising his 
 face, and spreading forth his clasped hands, 
 " God's blessing and His consolation be upon 
 you now and forever! And His curse, — " 
 a look of hatred, Avhich stamped every linea- 
 ment of his face, revealed the intensity of 
 his soul, — "and His curse be upon those, 
 who brought you to this !" 
 
 As he spoke, the death damps began to 
 glisten on her forehead ; a glassy look began 
 to vail the intense brightness of her eyes. 
 
 " Your hand, sit by me, — " she said faintly, 
 " I shall sleep soon." 
 
 He drew his chair to her side, and softly 
 put his hand upon her forehead, — it was 
 cold as marble. 
 
 " It is good to go thus, — with Ernest by 
 me, — and in token of forgiveness too, with 
 his hand upon my forehead — " 
 
 Her words were interrupted by a footstep 
 and a voice. 
 
 " Frank ! Frank ! \vhere are you ! I have 
 triumphed ! — triumphed ! The one child is 
 out of my way, and the other is in my power!" 
 
 It was Colonel Tarleton, who rushed to 
 the light, his face lividly pale, and disfigured 
 by wounds, his right arm carried in a sling. 
 He had not seen his daughter since the hour 
 when he left the Temple, before the break 
 of day. And now, faint with loss of blood, 
 and yet strong in the consciousness of his 
 triumph, he rushed into the death-room of 
 his child. 
 
 " I have had a hard time, Frank, but the 
 
 game is won ! The estate is ours ! The 
 other son of Gulian Van Huyden is in my 
 power, — " 
 
 The words died on his lips. He beheld 
 the dark form of the stranger, and the face 
 of his dying child. The young form clad in 
 a shroud ; the countenance pale with death ; 
 the large eyes, whose brightness was vailed 
 in a glassy film, — he saw this sad picture at 
 a glance, but could not believe the evidence 
 of his senses. 
 
 " Why, Frank, what's all this ? " he cried, 
 as with his pale face, marked by wounds, he 
 stood before his daughter. 
 
 She slowly raised her eyes, and regarded 
 him with a sad smile. 
 
 " The poison, father, — I drank it myself ; 
 he went forth from this house safe from all 
 harm — " 
 
 Her voice failed. 
 
 Tarleton uttered a frightful cry, and fell 
 like a dead man on the floor, his face against 
 the carpet. The reality of the scene had 
 burst upon him ; in the hour of his triumph 
 he saw his schemes, — the plans woven 
 through the long course of twenty-one years 
 and darkened by hideous crimes, — leveled 
 in a moment to the dust. 
 
 Frank slowly turned her head, and fixed 
 her glassy eyes upon the face of Ernest, — 
 0, the intensity of that long and yearning 
 gaze ! 
 
 " I am Aveary and cold," she gasped, " but 
 it is light yonder." 
 
 And that was all. Her eyes became 
 fixed, — she laid her head gently on her 
 shoulder, and fell asleep. 
 
 She was dead ! 
 
 Ernest knelt beside her, and with his eyes 
 flashing from their sunken sockets, he clasped 
 his hands and uttered a prayer for the dead. 
 
 There were footsteps in the pas age and 
 presently into the death-room came Mary 
 Berman and Nameless, their faces stamped 
 with the same look in which hope and ter- 
 ror mingled. Nameless bore the last letter 
 of Frank in his hand ; it had hurried him 
 and Mary from the corpse of the artist to the 
 home of Frank, and they arrived only in. 
 time to behold her dead. 
 
 "She died to save my life !" said Name- 
 less solemnly, as he surveyed that face which 
 looked so beautiful in death. That there 
 
234 
 
 DAY, SUNSET, NTGHT. 
 
 were strong emotions tugging at his heart, — 
 emotions such as are not felt twice in a life- 
 time, — need not be told. 
 
 And Mary, with tears upon her pure and 
 beautiful face, stole silently to the side of the 
 dead woman, and smoothed her dark hair, 
 and put her kiss upon her clammy forehead, 
 and closed those eyes which had looked their 
 last upon this world. 
 
 The prayer was said, and Ernest, resting 
 his hands upon the arm of the chair in which 
 the dead woman sat, hid once more his face 
 from the light, and surrendered himself to 
 the full sway of his agony. 
 
 A voice broke the dead stillness, and a 
 livid face was uplifted from the floor. 
 
 " It's an infernal dream, Frank. You 
 could not have been so foolish ! The estate 
 is ours, — ours, — " 
 
 He saw at the same glance the face of 
 Nameless and the face of his dead child. 
 
 Here let us return for a moment to Mary- 
 vale, the old mansion in the country, to 
 which, this morning before break of day, the 
 Unknown, (in whom you doubtless recognize 
 Gaspar Manuel, or the Legate,) had con- 
 ducted the boy, Gulian, the private secretary 
 of Evelyn Somers, Sr. 
 
 The contest between Tarleton and the dog 
 Cain, in the presence of young Gulian, will 
 be remembered ; as well as the fact, that 
 even as Tarleton, suffering from his wounds, 
 attempted to bear Gulian from the house, he 
 fell insensible at his victim's feet. 
 
 An hour afterward, when the light of day 
 shone on the old mansion, the Legate re- 
 turned and eagerly sought the chamber of 
 young Gulian. The floor w^as stained with 
 blood, the dead body of Cain was stretched at 
 his feet, but the boy had disappeared. The 
 Legate was a man, who, through the course 
 of long years had learned to restrain all ex- 
 ternal signs of emotion, but when he became 
 conscious that young Gulian was gone, — he 
 knew not whither, — his agitation broke forth 
 in the wildest expressions of despair. 
 
 " But I will again rescue him from his 
 persecutor. Yes, before the day is over, he 
 will be safe under my protection." 
 
 And himself and his numerous agents 
 sought the city through all day long ; and 
 Bought in vain. 
 
 CHAPTER IL 
 
 HERMAN AND GODIVA. 
 
 Our history now returns to Madam Resi- 
 mer, whom we left in her most secret cham- 
 ber, near ten o'clock, on the 24th of Decem- 
 be, listening to the sound of the bell, which 
 resounded through her mansion. 
 
 It was the bell of the secret passage. 
 
 "Who can it be?" again ejaculated the 
 Madam, as she stood in the center of the 
 room, with the light of the candle on one 
 side of her florid face. 
 
 To which Corkins, who stood behind her, 
 his slender form lost in her capacious sha- 
 dow, responded in a quivering voice, " Who 
 can it be ?" 
 
 Much troubled and very angry, and not 
 knowing upon w'hom to vent her anger, the 
 Madam turned upon her trembling satellite, 
 and addressing him by numerous titles, not 
 one of w^hich but was more vigorous than 
 elegant or complimentary, she bade him, — 
 
 " Run for your life. Answer the bell of 
 the secret passage ! Don't be foolin' away 
 your time, when the very devil's to pay and 
 no pitch hot. Cut !" 
 
 Corkins accordingly " cut," or, to speak in 
 a less classical phrase, he glided from the 
 room. 
 
 How anxiously the Madam waited there, 
 in her most secret chamber, with, her finger 
 to her lip, and the candle-light on one side 
 of her face ! 
 
 " Who can it be ? Only four persons in 
 the world know of this secret passage. It 
 can't be this devil from Philadelphia ? 0, I 
 shall do somebody a mischief ! I can't en- 
 dure this any longer, — " 
 
 Hark ! There are footsteps in the corri- 
 dor ; they approach the Madam's room. She 
 fixes her small black eyes upon the door, 
 with the intensity of a — cat, contemplating 
 a rat-hole. 
 
 " This w^ay," cries the voice of Corkins, 
 and he enters the room, followed by two per- 
 sons, one of whom is taller than the other, 
 and both of whom wear caps and cloaks. 
 
 " Has he come back ?" cries the taller of 
 the two, in a voice that trembles with anxi- 
 ety and fear, — he lifts his cap, and discloses 
 the face of Herman Barnhurst. 
 
DAY, SUNSET, NIGHT. 
 
 235 
 
 "No, — no, — I haven't laid eyes upon him 
 since last night," and she clutched Barnliurst 
 by the arm, — " Where did you leave him ?" 
 
 " He went home with me," replied Barn- 
 hurst, and stopped to gaze around that room, 
 dimly lighted by a single candle, as though 
 he was afraid that Dermoyne was concealed 
 in its shadows. — " I left him in the parlor 
 down stairs. He was determined to wait for 
 me until morning, and then come with me 
 to this house. But this morning, when I 
 came down stairs, he was not there." 
 
 " He was not there ?" echoed the Madam, 
 breathless with impatience. 
 
 "He wasn't there; there was blood upon 
 the sofa and the carpet, and marks of a 
 struggle." 
 
 The Madam uttered a round oath and a 
 cry of joy. 
 
 " Good, — capital ! My boys have done 
 their work. You see, Herman, I sent Dirk 
 and Slung after him, and they've laid him 
 out. It's a sure thing." 
 
 Herman, even in his fright, could not but 
 help shuddering, as he heard the cool manner 
 in which, she spoke of Dermoyne's death. The 
 next instant the idea of his own safety rose 
 uppermost in his mind. 
 
 " Do you think that your fellows have 
 taken good care of him ?" he asked. 
 
 "Don't doubt it, — don't doubt it," and she 
 rubbed her hands joyfully together. " It's a 
 sure thing !" 
 
 A raven-like voice, behind her, echoed, 
 " Sure thing !" It was Corkins, of course. 
 
 " And she, — how is she — Herman low- 
 ered his voice, and pointed upward. 
 
 " She is well !" was the emphatic response 
 of the Madam, — "But how did you know 
 of the secret bell ? Only four persons in the 
 world know of it, and you are not one of 
 them." 
 
 Herman pointed to the persen who had 
 entered with him, and who now stood in the 
 darkness at his back, — " Godiva !" he said. 
 
 The Madam gave a start, echoing " Go- 
 diva," and Corkins, behind the Madam, as 
 in duty bound, re-echoed " Godiva !" 
 
 The person called by this name, — the name 
 of the beautiful lady, famed in ancient story, 
 for the sacrifice which she made of her mo- 
 desty in order to achieve a noble purpose, — 
 advanced from the shadows into the light, 
 
 saying, " This boy came to me this morning, 
 in a world of trouble ; he confided all his 
 sorrows to me. It appears he is in a devil 
 of a scrape. I came here to get him out of it." 
 
 And removing cap and cloak, Godiva stood 
 disclosed in the candle-light. Godiva was a 
 Avoman of some twenty-five years, with a 
 rounded form, brown complexion, large eyes 
 that were hazel in the sun, and black by 
 night ; and Godiva wore her raven hair in 
 rich masses on either side of her warm, trop- 
 ical face. Godiva was dressed, not in those 
 flowing garments which give such bewitch- 
 ing mystery to the form of a lovely woman, 
 but, in male costume from head to foot, — a 
 shirt, with open collar, dark satin vest, blue 
 frock-coat, black pantaloons, and boots of 
 patent leather. Although looking short in 
 stature beside the tall Barnhurst, she was 
 tall for a woman, and her male costume, 
 which did full justice to her throat, her 
 ample bust, and rounded limbs, became her 
 exceedingly. 
 
 With her cloak on her right arm, her cap 
 in her right hand, she rested her left hand oa 
 her hip, and looked in the face of the Mad- 
 am with an air of insolent condescension 
 that was quite refreshing. 
 
 " How do you do, my dear child ?" — and 
 the Madam offered her hand. Godiva waved 
 her back. 
 
 " Don't be impertinent, woman," was the 
 response. " The few days that I once passed 
 in your house, by no means give you the 
 right to be familiar. I am here, simply, for 
 two reasons, — I wish, in the first place, to 
 get the boy (she pointed to Barnhurst,) out 
 of his * scrape ;' and, in the second place, to 
 recover a certain manuscript which, it seems, 
 I left in this house when I was here." 
 
 The Madam was an essentially vulgar, as 
 well as wicked woman, but she could not 
 help feeling the cutting insolence which 
 marked the tone of the queenly Godiva. 
 
 " There is no sich manuscript here," she 
 said, tartly, and her thoughts reverted to the 
 Red Book. 
 
 " Hadn't you better wait to know what 
 kind of manuscript it was, before mak- 
 ing vsuch a flat denial ?" coolly responded 
 Godiva. " But now let's talk of this boy ! 
 What's the amount of his entanglements ? 
 How's the girl ?" 
 
DAY, SUXSET, NIGHT. 
 
 - — : . 
 
 236 
 
 " She is well," said the Madam, emphati- 
 cally. 
 
 " Well !" croaked Corkins from the back- 
 ground. 
 
 "And this fellow from Philadelphia — was 
 he really such a desperate creature ?" asked 
 Godiva. 
 
 "A devil incarnate," replied the Madam. 
 
 "What's that?" cried Herman, with a 
 start, as the sound of a bell once more rang 
 through the mansion. 
 
 "It's the bell of the door in the alley. 
 Kun, Corkins ! It's Dirk and Slung. Bring 
 'em up, — ' put', I say !" 
 
 Corkins " put," and the party waited for 
 his return in evident anxiety. It was not 
 long before there was the tramp of heavy 
 steps in the passage, and two men, roughly 
 clad — one, short, thick-set, and bow-legged, 
 the other, tall and bony — stumbled into the 
 room, bringing with them the perfume of 
 very bad liquor. 
 
 " Where's de ole woman ?" cried Dirk ; 
 " What in do thunder de yer have candles 
 a-burnin' in daylight for — s-a-y?" 
 
 " Ole lady, I'll finger dat pewter — I will," 
 said Slung-shot. " We laid yer man out — 
 we did. Dat cool hundred, ef yer please." 
 
 And while Herman and Godiva glided into 
 the shadows, the two rufiQans recounted the 
 incidents of the night, in their peculiar pa- 
 tois; the Madam interrupting them with 
 questions, at every step of the narrative. 
 
 The story of these savages of city life, 
 (and we believe that only the English and 
 American cities produce such rufiians in a 
 perfect state of brute-and-devil complete- 
 ness,) reduced to the briefest compass, and 
 stripped of all its oaths, read thus : — They 
 had followed Dermoyne and Barnhurst all 
 night long. Entering the house of Barn- 
 hurst, (the door had been left ajar,) they had 
 found Dermoyne seated on the sofa, his eyes 
 fixed upon a book. As one struck him with 
 the slung-shot, the other extinguished the 
 light, and a brief but terrible contest took 
 place in the dark. Finally, they had borne 
 the insensible form of Dermoyne from the 
 house, and flung him into the gutter of a 
 dark and deserted street. 
 
 "An' dere he'd freeze to death, ef he gets 
 over de dirk and de slung-shot — he would," 
 added the thick-set ruffian. 
 
 "And where have you been ever since ?" 
 asked the Madam, whose little eyes sparkled 
 with joy. 
 
 " Gittin' drunk," tersely remarked Dirk. 
 " The book — you have it ?" she said 
 eagerly. 
 
 To which Dirk replied, in his own way, 
 that if he had, he hoped his eyes and liver 
 might be made uncomfortable for an indefi- 
 nite length of time. 
 
 " Fact is, it slid under de sofar in de muss, 
 an' I couldn't find it in de dark." 
 
 The Madam burst into a transport of fury, 
 and in her rage administered the back of her 
 hand somewhat freely to the faces of Dirk 
 and Slung. " Out of my sight — out of my 
 sight ! Fools ! Devils ! That book was all 
 that I sent you after !" and she fairly drove 
 them from the room. They were heard 
 shufiiing in the passage, and murmuring and 
 cursing as they went down stairs. 
 
 " The miserable knaves ! What trust can 
 you put in human natur' arter this !" and she 
 fretted and fumed along the room. 
 
 "The book is safe in my house," said 
 Barnhurst, advancing, his face glowing with 
 satisfaction. " This fellow, it appears, is safe. 
 I pledge my word to have that book in this 
 room before an hour." 
 
 Godiva, looking over his shoulder, mut- 
 tered in atone inaudible to the others : "And 
 my manuscript is in the book, and I pledge 
 my word to have that within an hour." 
 
 "If you do that, Herman, I'll sell my 
 soul for you !" cried the Madam, warmly. 
 
 " Suppose we look at the — t/ie j)atie}it," 
 whispered Herman. 
 
 " Up-stairs in the same room ;" and Her- 
 man and Godiva left her room together, and 
 directed their steps toward the chamber of 
 Alice. 
 
 " The book is safe ; he'll keep his word — 
 don't you think so, Corkins?" said the 
 Madam, as she found herself once more alone 
 with her familiar spirit. 
 
 " Safe — perfectly," returned Corkins, when 
 his words were interrupted by the ring of a 
 bell. It was the front door bell this time. 
 Corkins hurried from the room, and in a few 
 moments returned, and placed a card in the 
 hands of the Madam : 
 
 " This person wants to see you." 
 
 Drawing near the candle, the Madam read 
 
DAY, SUNSET, NIGHT. 
 
 237 
 
 upon tbo card this name — " Dr. Arthur ] 
 CoNROY." A name, you will remember, as- i 
 sociated with the history of Marion Merlin. | 
 It was Arthur Conroy, who, in the dissecting 
 room, saw the corpse before him start sud- 
 denly into life, 
 
 "Dr. Conroy!" — it seemed a familiar name 
 to the Madam. " I wonder if he wants a 
 subject ? Show him up, Corkins." 
 
 Through the bowed window-shutters and 
 the drawn curtains, the winter sunlight stole 
 into the chamber of Alice, lighting up the 
 bed, and touching with a few golden rays the 
 face of the Virgin Mary on the w'all. 
 
 Herman and Godiva stood by the bed, 
 their backs toward the window, and their 
 faces from the light. They did not speak. 
 The room was breathlessly still. 
 
 Alice was there, resting on the bed, the 
 coverlet drawn up to her neck, and her cheek 
 pressed against the pillow, thus turning her 
 face to the light. One hand and arm lay 
 motionless on the coverlet, and her sunny 
 hair strayed in unbound luxuriance over the 
 pillow. Her eyes were closed ; her lips | 
 slightly parted ; her cheek pale as the pil- 
 low on which she slept : for she was sleep- 
 ing. A bright ray, that found entrance 
 through an aperture in the curtains, was 
 playing over her face, now on her lips, now 
 on her throat, and among the waves of her j 
 silken hair. The sight was so beautiful that 
 Godiva, whose heart had long since ceased 
 to feel, was awed into silence. As for Her- 
 man, he could not take his eyes away, but 
 stood there with his gaze chained to the face 
 of the sleeping girl ; for she was sleeping — 
 sleeping that dear, quiet sleep, which, in this 
 world, never knows an awakening hour. In 
 the language of the Avoman-fiend, she in- 
 deed "was well!'' Dead, with the second 
 life whicli she bore, dead within her. Poor 
 Alice ! She had only opened her wings in 
 the world, to fold them again and die. 
 
 "Herman," whispered Godiva, "look at 
 that ! Are you not proud of your work ?" 
 
 "Don't taunt me, Marion," he answered. 
 " Had I never met you — had you never 
 made my life but one continued dream of 
 sensuality — I would not stand here at this 
 hour, gazing upon this murdered girl. 
 
 " Sweet boy ! And so, when I first met 
 
 ' you, you believed all that you preached in 
 1 the pulpit ?" 
 
 " If I did not believe it, I certainly did not 
 wish to doubt it. You, and the life I've led 
 ' since first I knew you, have made me dread 
 the very mention of the existence of a God, 
 or of the immortality of the soul." 
 
 " Pretty boy ! How sadly I've used you ! 
 But don't call me Marion again; — that name 
 I left in the grave. Leave off preaching, and 
 let us see what you intend to do ?" 
 
 "Godiva, whichever way I look is ruin, 
 I am rid of this Dermoyne ; but there are 
 those persons who, conscious of the event of 
 that night in November, 1842, will expose me 
 to the world, unless I become their tool, in 
 regard to the heirs of Anreke Jans and 
 Trinity Church. I am sick of this life of 
 suspense and dread ! Let us fly, Godiva ; I 
 will change my name, and, in some distant 
 place, begin life anew." 
 
 "What, and leave your wife ?" 
 " Take care, Godiva, take care ! Don't 
 press me too hard ! You know who it was 
 that planned the dishonor of that wife, when 
 I she was a maiden, and betrothed to me. 
 Take care !" 
 
 " You needn't look so black at me with 
 those devilish eyes," said Godiva, as her face 
 lost that bitter sneer, which, for the last few 
 moments, had made her resemble a beautiful 
 j fiend. " You mustn't be angry at my jests. 
 Well — let us travel ! I have money enough 
 for both, and we can enjoy ourselves with mo- 
 ney anywhere. But the Van Huyden estate?" 
 
 "I cannot call my share my own, even if 
 a share should happen to fall to me. These 
 people who knew of tJie event in 1842, and 
 who are now playing conspirator between 
 Trinity Church and the heirs of Anreke 
 Jans, will demand my share as the price of 
 their silence. I cannot live in this state of 
 dread. Listen Godiva ! A vessel sails this 
 afternoon for one of the West India Islands. 
 What think you of a life in the tropics, far 
 away from this devilish p-adical world ? 
 Why, we can make an Eden to ourselves, 
 and forget that we ever lived before? I have 
 engaged passage for two on board this vessel. 
 It makes my heart bound ! Groves of palm — 
 a cloudless sky — good wine — days all dream, 
 and nights ! — ahj Godiva ! Flight, Godiva, 
 flight !" 
 
238 
 
 DAT, SUNSET, NIGHT. 
 
 "Flight be it, and to-night!" cried Go- 
 diva, winding her arm about Herman's neck. 
 
 They were disturbed by a sound, low and 
 scarcely audible — it resembled the sound of 
 a footstep. Herman turned his head, and 
 saw, between him and the doorway, the hag- 
 gard face of — Arthur Dermoyne, whose cheek 
 was marked with a hideous gash, but whose 
 eyes shone with a clear unfaltering light. 
 
 Herman read his death in those eyes. 
 
 Let us turn from this scene, and enter once 
 more the secret chamber of the Madam 
 
 " Why, Doctor, I am glad to see 
 she cried, as Doctor Arthur Conroy entered 
 her room ; " I haven't clapped eyes upon you 
 for a dog's age. Why, bless me, how changed 
 
 you !" 
 
 you are !" 
 
 As Conroy flung his cloak upon a chair, 
 and advancing to the light, seated himself 
 opposite the Madam, it was evident that he 
 was indeed changed. His eyes were dull 
 and heavy, his cheeks bloated ; the marks 
 of days and nights spent in sensual excess, 
 were upon every lineament of his once noble 
 face. A sad, a terrible change ! Can this 
 man who sits before us, with his coat but- 
 toned to the chin, and his heavy e3^es rolling 
 vacantly in his bloated countenance, be the 
 same Arthur Conro}'- whom we first beheld 
 in the lonely hour of his student vigil, his 
 eyes dilating with a noble ambition, his fore- 
 head stamped with thought, with genius ? 
 
 " I am changed," he said sullenly and with 
 a thick utterance ; " let me have some 
 brandy." 
 
 The Madam, without a word, produced a 
 bottle and a glass. Conroy filled the glass 
 half-full, and drank it, undiluted with water, 
 and without removing the glass from his 
 lips. 
 
 And then his faded eyes began to flash 
 and his cheek to glow. 
 
 It was the most melancholy kind of in- 
 temperance — that which drinks alone, and 
 drinks in silence, and, instead of rousing the 
 social feelings, or the grotesque fancies of 
 drunken mirth, calls up the images of the 
 past, and bids them feed upon the soul. 
 
 *' Good brandy that ! It warms the blood!" 
 
 "Why, Conroy, I have not seen you since 
 you brought Godiva here, and that is a year 
 and I don't know how many months ago." 
 
 " May God," — he ended the sentence with 
 an awful imprecation upon the very name 
 of Godiva. And his face grew wild with 
 hatred. 
 
 " Why I thought she was a favorite of 
 yours, or you of hers," said the Madam. 
 
 " By ! I wish I had buried my knife 
 
 in her heart, as she lay on the dissecting 
 table before me !" he cried, his voice hoarse 
 with emotion. Look at me ! When first I 
 met that woman I was studious, ambitious ; 
 the thought of my mother and two sisters, 
 who depended upon my efiforts, stirred me 
 into superhuman exertion. Well ! — It is not 
 quite a century since I met that Avoman, and 
 look at me now — a gambler — a drunkard ; 
 yes," he struck the table with his fist — "Ar- 
 thur Conroy is come to that ! My mother 
 dead, of a broken heart, and my sisters, well ! 
 — my sisters — " 
 
 As he tried to choke down his emotion, 
 his features worked as with a spasm. 
 
 " Well ! never mind ! — and the accursed 
 woman, whom I brought to your house, in 
 order to kill the fruits of her p»assion, — she is 
 the cause of all, — " 
 
 The light which left the greater part of 
 the room in shadow, fell strongly over the 
 florid face of the Madam, manifesting vague 
 astonishment ; and the flushed visage of 
 Conroy, working with violent emotions. 
 
 " Yes," he said, as though thinking aloud, 
 while his eyes shone with the brilliancy of a 
 lighted coal, — " she was to make my fortune ; 
 she was to aid me, as I ascended that diffi- 
 cult path, which ambition treads in pursuit 
 of fame. How smooth her words ! I 
 called her back from the dead, — she recovered 
 from her relative a large portion of her prop- 
 erty, sacrificing the rest, on condition that he 
 concealed the fact of her existence from the 
 world, — and I loved her, became the habi- 
 tant of her mansion, the companion of her 
 voluptuous hours. The she-devil ! look to 
 Avhat she has brought me !'■ 
 
 " I wonder if he wants to bon-ow money ?" 
 said the Madam, in a sort of stage-whisper. 
 
 " No he does not," returned Conroy, with 
 a scowl, — " He wants to do you a service, 
 good lady. This morning about daybreak, 
 as I was returning from the Club-Room, I 
 came across a poor devil in the streets, who 
 had been shockingly abused by ruffians, — 
 
DAY, SUNSET, NIGHT. 
 
 239 
 
 "Ah !" and the Madam sank back in her 
 diair. 
 
 " I could not let him die there, so I drag- 
 ged him to the house of a clergyman, hard 
 by, and laid him on the sofa. Then, assisted 
 by the wife of the clergymen, a good sort of 
 woman, — I dressed the wounds of the poor 
 devil, and brought him to." 
 
 " The name of the clergyman ?" asked the 
 Madam, biting her lips. 
 
 "Barnet, or Barnhurst, or some such name." 
 
 "Ah !" and the Madam changed color, 
 " and you left this man there ?" 
 
 " He must have had a constitution of iron, 
 to stand all those knocks ! Do you know in 
 a little while he was on his feet, explaining 
 to the clergyman's lady, that he had come 
 home with her husband, the night before, 
 and had been dragged by unknown ruffians, 
 from that very house, — " 
 
 " The dev-i-1 !" and Madam clutched the 
 arms of her chair, as she tried to restrain the 
 rage, which filled every atom of her bulky 
 frame. 
 
 "And now, he's down stairs at the door — " 
 "Down stairs at the door!" she bounded 
 from her chair. 
 
 " He has a book under his arm, bound in 
 red morocco," continued Dr. Conro}^, — " and 
 he desires to see you on particular business," 
 and Conroy filled another glass, half full of 
 bi-andy. 
 
 Once more to the death-room of Alice. 
 
 Dermoyne, who was as white as a sheet, 
 stood but one step from the threshold, Godi- 
 va was by the bed, Herman near the head of 
 the bed : thus Godiva was between the 
 avenger and his victim. 
 
 Herman read his death in the eyes of 
 Dermoyne, and looked to the window, as 
 though he thought of raising the sashing, 
 and dashing himself to pieces upon the 
 pavement. 
 
 Godiva also caught the eye of Dermoyne, — 
 she saw, that weak as he was from his 
 wounds, and the loss of blood, that he was 
 nerved by his emotions, by his purpose, with 
 superhuman strength, — she saw the pistol in | 
 his hand. And all the craft of her dark and I 
 depraved nature, came in a moment to her ; 
 aid. She resolved to save Herman, — that is, ' 
 if her craft could save him. i 
 
 " Hush ! hush !" she whispered, " do not 
 awake the sleeping girl ! She has had a 
 hard night, but now all is well. Hush ! 
 tread lightly, — lightly !— " 
 
 " Then she lives !" cried Dermoyne, and 
 his savage eyes lit up with joy. 
 
 "Lives, and is doing well, don't you see 
 how sweet she sleeps ?" said Godiva advan- 
 cing to him, on tip-toe, " Generous man ! 
 How can I thank you for your kindness to 
 my cousin, poor, dear Alice ?" 
 
 " Your cousin ?" without another word, 
 she flung herself upon Dermoyne's breast, 
 wound her arms tightly about his neck, and 
 hung there like a tigress upon the neck of her 
 victim. 
 
 "Now's your time, Herman !" she cried, — 
 and Dermoyne struggled madly in her em- 
 brace, but her arms w^ound closer about his 
 neck, and he struggled in vain. His pistol 
 fell to the floor. 
 
 Herman rushed by him, and the next in- 
 stant, Dermoyne had unwound the arms of 
 Godiva, and flung her violently to the floor. 
 He turned to the door, — it was closed and 
 locked, — Herman had escaped. 
 
 " Villain, you shall pay for this with your 
 life !" he cried, as with flaming eyes, he ad- 
 vanced upon the prostrate Godiva. 
 
 "Dont be rash, my dear," she said, as 
 seated on the floor, she was coolly engaged 
 in arranging her disheveled hair, " You 
 can't strike me. I'm a woman." 
 
 "A woman ?" he echoed incredulously. 
 
 " Yes, — and a very good looking one, — 
 don't you think so ?" and she looked at hira 
 in insolent composure, while her vest, — 
 torn open in the struggle, — displayed a 
 glimpse of her neck and bosom. 
 
 Who, in this calm shameless thing, — 
 proud at once of her beauty, and her shame, 
 would recognize the innocent Marion Merlin 
 of other years ? With an ejaculation of con- 
 tempt and anger, Dermoyne turned away 
 from her, and approached the bed of Alice. 
 
 Alice was indeed sleeping there, her cheek 
 upon the pillow, her lips apart, and Avith a 
 ray of sunshine upon her closed eyelids, and 
 sunny hair. 
 
 Dermoyne felt his heart die within him at 
 the sight. There are emotions upon which 
 it is best to drop the vail, for words are too 
 weak to picture their awful intensity. 
 
240 
 
 DAY, SUXSET, NIGHT. 
 
 He called her name, "Alice !" and spread- 
 ing forth his arms, he fell insensible upon 
 the bed, his lips pressing the forehead of the 
 dead girl. 
 
 Godiva rose, closed her vest, and calmly 
 surveyed the scene, with her eyes shadowed 
 by her uplifted hand : — 
 
 " I believe upon my soul, he did love 
 her !" was her comment, and a tear shone in 
 her eye. 
 
 The key turned in the lock, and presently 
 a man with flushed face, and unsteady step, 
 appeared upon the threshold. It was Arthur 
 Conroy. 
 
 " Halloo ! what's up ?" he cried, with a 
 thick utterance. — " That you Divy ?" and 
 staggering over the floor, he attempted to jjut 
 his arm about her neck. 
 
 " Beast !" she cried, and struck him in 
 the face. And ere he had recovered from 
 the surprise of the blow, she glided from the 
 room. 
 
 Seating himself on the foot of the bed, his 
 eyes rolling in the vacancy of intoxication^ 
 he began to mutter words like these, — 
 
 " I'd a-better have cut you up, when I had 
 you on the dissectin' table — I had. ' Beast,' 
 You've served the devil for very small 
 wages, Arthur Conroy ! Ha, ha, — its a 
 queer world." 
 
 Shall we ever see Herman and Godiva, 
 Conroy and Dermoyne again ? 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE DREAM-ELIXIR. 
 
 The Twenty-Fourth of December was a 
 happy day with Randolph Royalton, One 
 happy day, after a long month devoted to 
 agony and despair ! Early morning light, 
 found him in an upper chamber of the man- 
 sion, near the window, his form half concealed 
 among the curtains, but his pale countenance, 
 fully disclosed. There was thought upon his 
 broad white forehead, relieved by the jet-black 
 hair, an emotion of unspeakable tenderness, — 
 passion, — in his large, clear blue-eyes, and all 
 the while upon his lips, an expression in 
 which hatred mingled with contempt. For 
 three images rose before him, — his future, 
 and that was hard to read, and buried him 
 m thought, — Eleanor, young and beautiful, 
 and willing io become his own, and that 
 
 I filled his eyes with the light of passion, — 
 his Brother, whom he had left helpless and 
 insensible in a distant chamber, and who had 
 met all his ofiTers of fraternal love with with- 
 ering scorn, and that thought curled his lip 
 with mingled hatred and contempt. 
 
 In his hand he held a letter, which had 
 just been delivered by Mr. Hicks, and before 
 him were two huge trunks, one bearing the 
 name of "Randolph Royalton, Heidleberg," 
 and the other the name of " Esther Royalton, 
 Hill-Royal, S. C." These trunks which 
 had just arrived in a mysterious manner, had 
 been placed in his room by the hand of a 
 servant. 
 
 On his way south, about a month before, 
 Randolph had left his trunk in "Washington, 
 and huiTied home, eager to see his father. 
 When Esther was brought to Washington, 
 by her brother and her purchaser, her trunk 
 was brought with her from Royalton. And 
 when Randolph and Esther escaped from 
 Washington, they took their trunks with 
 them as far as Philadelphia, where they left 
 them in their eagerness to escape from their 
 pursuers. 
 
 And now these trunks, — containing all 
 that they were worth in the world, — had 
 by some unknown person, been brought to 
 the house in Broadway, and delivered into 
 the servant's hands, accompanied by the note 
 which Randolph held. 
 
 "Brother !" ejaculated Randolph, thinking 
 of Harry Royalton, whom he had left weak 
 and helpless in a distant chamber, — a cham- 
 ber which Randolph had given up to him — 
 " Brother ! I am afraid our accounts draw to 
 a close. I'm afraid that your nature cannot 
 be changed. Shall I have to fight you with 
 your owa weapons? Last night I saved 
 your life, — I brought you to my own home ; 
 I laid you on my own bed ; I watched over 
 you, and when you woke, held out to you a 
 brother's hand. That hand you struck 
 down in^scorn ! So much the worse for you, 
 dear brother. Your condition will not allow 
 you to leave this house for a day or two, — 
 at least not until to-morrow is over. And 
 to-morrow past, brother, you will forfeit all 
 interest in the Van Huyden Estate. 
 
 Randolph was a generous and a noble man, 
 but there were desperate elements within, 
 which the events of the last month had 
 
DAY, SUNSET, NIGHT. 
 
 211 
 
 begun to develop. He now felt that his 
 fate WDiild be decided and forever, by the 
 course of the next twenty -four hours. And 
 every power of his soul, all the strength, the 
 good, — shall we say evil ? — began to rise 
 within him to meet the crisis. There was 
 energy in his look, danger in his eye. 
 
 "And Eleanor, — " he breathed that name 
 and paused, and for a moment he was en- 
 veloped in the atmosphere of an intense but 
 sinless passion. "Eleanor loves me ! She 
 will be mine !" 
 
 But how should his marriage with Elea- 
 nor be accomplished, without the fatal dis- 
 closure, that instead of being the legitimate 
 child of J ohn Augustine Royalton, he was 
 simply — the White Slave of his own brother ? 
 
 The thought was madness, but Randolph 
 met it, and rousing every power of his soul, 
 sought to pierce the clouds which hung 
 upon his future. 
 
 He opened the letter, which Mr. Hicks 
 had delivered to him, and recognized 
 the hand of his unknown protector, — his 
 friend of the Half-Way House. It was 
 dated "Dec. 24:th," 18M, and these were its 
 contents : — 
 
 " To Randolph Royalton : — 
 
 "When first I met you and your sister at 
 the house near Princeton, and heard the 
 story of your wrongs, in you I recognized 
 the children of an old and dear friend, John 
 Augustine Royalton. I determined to pro- 
 tect you. You know how my plans were 
 laid. Your brother, also your persecutor, 
 was delivered to punishment. Yourself and 
 sister were brought to New York, and placed 
 in the mansion which you now occupy. 
 Last night, wishing to know whether there 
 yet remained in your brother one throb of a 
 better nature — conscious that if his feelings 
 to you were unchanged, you would at no 
 moment be safe from his vengeance, — I ar- 
 ranged your meeting with him and his instru- 
 ment, in the den below Five Points. From 
 old Royal (whom I first met in Philadel- 
 phia, and who told me of your story before 
 I saw you at the half-way house,) I have 
 learned all that occurred last night, — the at- 
 tack made on you by your brother, — your 
 magnanimous conduct, — the awful, although 
 richly deserved death of Bloodhound, his 
 
 atrocious tool. And although I know not 
 what became of your brother after you bore 
 him from the den, I doubt not but that you 
 have placed him where he will be watched 
 ovrr vith affectionate care. 
 
 "Yesterday I encountered Mr. Bernard 
 Lynn, who seemed to take a great interest in 
 you. I directed him to your house, — treat 
 him as your guest in your own house, — for I 
 especially desire you to regard the house and 
 all it contains as yours, until the 25th of 
 December has passed. Until then be perfectly 
 at your ease. Await the developments of 
 the 25th of December. In the meantime, 
 if you want money, you will find it in the 
 drawer of the de^k (of which I inclose the 
 key,) which you will find in your bed-room. 
 Your trunks, whiih you lost in Philadelphia, 
 I have recovered and send to you. Make no 
 effort to see me, until I call upon you. 
 " Your friend, 
 
 "EZEKIEL BOGART." 
 
 In the letter there was much food for 
 thought. 
 
 "So far all well," thought Randolph, — 
 " but to-morrow once passed, what then ?" 
 He unlocked his trunk, and after a careful 
 examination, found that its contents remained 
 the same as when he had left it in Washing- 
 ton. It was very large, and divided into 
 various compartments, and contained his 
 wardrobe, his choicest books, and most treas- 
 ured letters, together with numerous memo- 
 rials of his student life in Heidelberg. Open- 
 ing a small and secret drawer, he drew forth 
 a package of letters, held together by a faded 
 ribbon. 
 
 " Ah ! letters from my father ! " and ho 
 untied the package, — " What is this ? I 
 never saw it before !" 
 
 It was a letter directed to him in his fath- 
 er's hand, and sealed with his father's seal. 
 To his complete astonishment the seal was 
 unbroken. 
 
 " How came this letter here ? My father's 
 seal and unbroken, — this is indeed strange !" 
 
 He regarded the letter carefully, weighed 
 it in his hand, but paused, in hesitation, ere 
 he broke the seal. For the first time, written 
 around the seal, in his father's hand, he be- 
 held these words, " Not to he ojpened until my 
 death." 
 
242 
 
 DAY, SUNSET, KIGHT. 
 
 Tears started into Randolph's eyes, and 
 for a moment, as he knelt there, he rested 
 his forehead on his hand. 
 
 Then, with an eager hand, he broke the 
 seal. The contents of the letter were bared 
 to the light. 
 
 " Heidelberg, September 23, 1840. 
 "Dearest Son : — 
 
 " You have just left me, and with the 
 memory of our late conversation fresh in my 
 mind, I now write this letter, which you 
 will not read until I am dead. Randolph, I 
 repeat the truth of that which I have just 
 disclosed to you, — j-our mother was not my 
 mistress, but my lawful wife. Yourself and 
 Esther are legitimate. By my will I make 
 you, with Harry, joint inheritors of my es- 
 tate, and of my share in the Van Huj'den 
 estate. 
 
 *' Your mother, Herodia, was not the child 
 of Colonel Rawdon, but the dearly beloved 
 daughter of , who never ac- 
 knowledged her to the world. He commu- 
 nicated, however, the secret of her paternity 
 to Rawdon, and left her in his charge, in- 
 trusting him with a sealed packet, which he 
 directed should be delivered to Herodia's 
 son, in case a son was ever born to her. A 
 packet which contained a commission, upon 
 whose fulfillment by that son, the happiness, 
 the destiny of all the races on the American 
 continent, might depend. Worshiping the 
 memor}^ of this great man, Rawdon treated 
 Herodia (known as a slave) as his own child 
 and would not transfer her to me, until I had 
 made her my wife in a secret marriage. 
 
 " A sealed copy of my will I gave you a 
 few moments since ; and this letter contains 
 
 an original letter of , written 
 
 to Colonel Rawdon, and recognizing Herodia 
 as his child. 
 
 " When I am dead, you will find the 
 packet in a secret closet behind the fourth 
 shelf of my library, at Hill Royal. There 
 you will also find a large amount of gold, 
 which may be useful to you in some unfore- 
 seen hour of adversity, and which I hereby 
 give to you and Esther. 
 
 " This letter I inclose in the package of 
 letters which you left for my perusal 
 '* Your father, 
 " John Augustine Royalton, 
 
 " of Hill BoyaV 
 
 Randolph read this letter with signs cf 
 emotion not to be mistaken. Rising froir* 
 his knees, he walked slowly up and down 
 the room, his eyes shaded by his uplifted 
 hand. As he drew near the window, his 
 pale face was flushed, his eyes radiant with 
 new light. 
 
 " So ! I am then the elder brother, the 
 real lord of Hill Royal ! My mother was a 
 slave, but she was the lawful wife of my 
 father." His brow clouded and his lips 
 curved. " It seems to me this younger bro- 
 ther has given us trouble enough, — let him 
 have a care how his shadow crosses my way 
 for the future." 
 
 He stood erect in every inch of his stature, 
 his eyes dilating, and his hand extended, as 
 though, — even like a glorious landscajoe, 
 rich in vine-clad mountains and grassy mead- 
 ows, smiling in the sun, — he beheld his fu- 
 ture stretch clear and bold before him. 
 
 " Harry, I have given you my hand for 
 the last time," he said, in a significant voice. 
 
 A piece of paper, carefully folded and 
 worn by time, slipped from the letter which 
 he held. Randolph seized it eagerly, and 
 opening it, beheld a few lines traced in a 
 handwriting which had long become histo- 
 rical. It was dated many years back, and 
 was addressed to Colonel Rawdon. 
 
 " My Esteemed Friend : — 
 
 "I am glad to hear the girl, Herodia, 
 whom, many years ago, I placed in your 
 care, (acquainting you with the circumstances 
 of her birth and paternity,) progresses to- 
 ward womanhood, rich in education, accom- 
 plishments and personal loveliness. While 
 nominally your slave, you have treated her 
 as a daughter, — accept her father's heartfelt 
 gratitude. In consequence of her descent, 
 on her mother's side, she cannot (with safety | 
 to herself) be formally manumitted, nor can 
 she be publicly recognized as the equal of 
 your own daughter, or the associate of ladies 
 of the white race. But it is my hist charge 
 to you, that she be honorably (even although 
 secretly) married ; and that the inclosed 
 sealed packet which I send to you, be given 
 to her eldest son, in case a son is born to her. 
 That packet contains matters which, carried 
 into action by such a son, would do much, 
 yes, everything, to establish the happiness 
 
DAT, SUNSET, NIGHT. 
 
 243 
 
 of all the races on this continent. Kiss for 
 me, that dear daughter of mine, whom, in 
 this life, I shall never behold. 
 
 " Yours, with respect and gratitude, 
 
 « >> 
 
 A very touching, — an altogether signifi- 
 cant letter. 
 
 Kandolph pressed it to his lips in silence. 
 Then inclosing it within his father's letter, 
 he placed them both in a secret compartment 
 of his trunk. 
 
 He seated himself, and folding his arms, 
 gave himself up to the dominion of a crowd 
 of thoughts, which flooded in upon his soul, 
 like mingled sunshine and lightning through 
 the window of a darkened room. 
 
 ****** 
 
 Bending over his trunk, he was examin- 
 ing, with an absent gaze, certain memorials 
 of his old student brothers of Heidelberg. 
 A small casket contained them all. 
 
 " This ring was given to me by poor Rich- 
 mond, the English student. He was killed 
 in a duel. And here is the watch of Yan 
 Brondt, — poor fellow ! he died of consump- 
 tion, even as his studies were completed, and 
 a youth of poverty and hardship seemed about 
 to be succeeded by a manhood of wealth and 
 fame. And this," — he took up a small vial, 
 whose glass was incased in silver, — '* this, 
 Van Eichmer, the enthusiastic chemist, gave 
 me. I wonder whether his dreams of fame, 
 from the discovery embodied in this vial, 
 will ever be realized ? A rare liquid, — its 
 powers rivaling the wonders of enchantment. 
 He gave it to me under a solemn pledge not 
 to subject it to chemical analysis, until he 
 has time to mature his discovery, and make 
 it known as the result of his own genius. 
 He called it (somewhat after the fanciful 
 fashion of the old alchemists) the * Dream- 
 Elixir.' I wonder if it has lost its virtues ?" 
 
 Eemoving the buckskin covering which 
 concealed the stopple, he then carefully drew 
 the stopple, and applied the vial for a mo- 
 ment to his nostrils. The effect was as rapid 
 as lightning. His face changed ; his eyes 
 grew wild and dreamy. His whole being 
 was pervaded by an inexpressible rapture, — 
 a rapture of calmness, (if we may thus 
 speak) a rapture of unutterable repose. And 
 like cloud-forms revealed by lightning, the 
 
 most gorgeous images swept before him. He 
 seemed to have been suddenly caught up 
 into the paradise of Mahomet, among foun- 
 tains, showering upon beds of roses, and with 
 the white-bosomed houris gliding to and 
 fro. 
 
 In a word, the effect of the vial, applied 
 but for an instant to his nostrils, threw into 
 the shade all the wonders of opium, and 
 rivaled in enchantment the maddening 
 draught of oriental story, — the Hashish, — 
 which the Old Man of the Mountain gave to 
 his devotee Assassins,* intoxicating them 
 with the odors of paradise, even as their 
 hands were red with their victims' blood. 
 
 Like one awaking from a trance, Randolph 
 slowly recovered from the effect of the Dream- 
 Elixir, and once more saw the winter light 
 shining through his window. The vial was 
 in his hand, — he had taken the precaution to 
 replace the stopple, the moment after he had 
 applied it to his nostrils. 
 
 " It has lost none of its virtues. Held to 
 the nostrils, or a few drops on a kerchief, 
 applied to the mouth, its first effect is rapture; 
 the second, rapture prolonged to delirium; its 
 third, rapture that ends in death." 
 
 Randolph replaced the buckskin covering 
 around the stopple of the vial, and then 
 placed the vial in his vest pocket. 
 
 At this moment the door opened and the 
 quiet Mr. Hicks entered the room, clad in his 
 gray livery, turned up wdth black. He bowed 
 and said, — 
 
 " Master, Mr. Lynn sends his compliments 
 and desires to see you in the parlor." 
 
 "Tell Mr. Lynn that I will attend him 
 presently," said Randolph rising from his 
 knees. — "How is our patient, Mr. Hicks ?" 
 
 "I left him asleep. He is very weak, 
 though quite easy." 
 
 " Mr. Hicks, I desire that you will attend 
 him throughout the day, or place him in 
 the care of some trustworthy servant. If he 
 asks for any one, send for me. Admit no 
 one into his room, — you understand, he is a 
 
 * The order of the Assji^sins prevailed in Asia, in th« 
 days of the Crusade?, and the history of their power ard 
 terrible influence is strangely connected with the history 
 of the Knights Templars. The founder of the order, 
 Hassan Sabah, rewarded his devotees for their deeds of 
 murder, by a draught (called as above, the hashish,) 
 whose powers of enchantment consoled them for a life- 
 time of hardship and danger. 
 
214 
 
 DAY, SUNSET, NIGHT. 
 
 dear friend of mine," — he placed his finger 
 on his forehead, — " a little touched here, and 
 I do not wish his misfortune to be known, 
 until all the means of recovery, which I have 
 at my command, prove hopeless. Mr. Hicks, 
 you will remember." 
 
 "I will remember, and attend to your 
 commands, master," and Mr. Hicks bowed 
 like an automaton. 
 
 " Have this trunk removed to Miss Koyal- 
 ton's room," said Randolph, and leaving Mr. 
 Hicks, he descended to the parlor. 
 
 Through the rich curtains of the eastern 
 and western windows of that magnificent 
 apartment, the morning light was dimly 
 shining. The lofty walls, the pictures, the 
 statues, the carpet, the mirrors, all looked 
 grand and luxurious in the softened light. 
 
 Bernard Lynn sat on the sofa, in the cen- 
 ter of the parlor, his arms folded and his 
 countenance troubled. As he raised his 
 gaze and greeted Randolph, in a kindly al- 
 though absent way, Randolph saw that his 
 bronzed visage, (above which rose masses of 
 snow-white hair) was traced with the lines 
 of anxious thought, and his dark eyes were 
 feverish with restlessness and care. 
 
 " Sit by me, Randolph," he said in a seri- 
 ous voice, and he grasped Randolph's hand 
 and gazed earnestly in his face. — I wish to 
 speak with you. I have traveled much, 
 Randolph, and when matters press heavily 
 on my mind, I am a blunt man, — I use few 
 words. I desire you to give all imaginable 
 emphasis to what I am about to say. 
 
 Randolph took his hand and met his gaze; 
 but he felt troubled and perplexed at Ber- 
 nard Lynn's words and manner. 
 
 "Briefly, then, Randolph, — when can you 
 leave the city ?" 
 
 Without knowing how the words came to 
 his lips, Randolph replied, — " The day after 
 to-morrow." 
 
 "Can you go with us, by steamer, to 
 Charleston ? I wish to visit the scene, — " 
 he paused as if unable to proceed, — "the 
 scene, — you understand me ? And then, 
 after a week's delay, we will go to Havanna 
 and spend the winter there. Will you go ' 
 with us ?" j 
 
 It is impossible to describe the emotions | 
 which these words aroused. Hopes, fears, a j 
 picture of his father's home, the conscious- 1 
 
 ness there was a taint upon his blood, — all 
 whirled like lightning through his brain. 
 But he c id not stop to analyze his thoughts, 
 but answered again, — as though the word 
 was given to him, — in a single word, earnest 
 in tone, and with a hearty grasp, — 
 
 " Willingly," he said. 
 
 A ray of pleasure flitted over the bronzed 
 face of Bernard Lynn. But in an instant 
 he was sad and earnest again. " Randolph, 
 I have been thinking, and most seriously, — 
 I beg you to listen to the result of my 
 thoughts. Nay, not a word, — fewest words 
 are best, and a plain answer to a plain ques- 
 tion Avill decide all. — I have been thinking 
 of the desolate condition in which Eleanor 
 will be left, in case her father is suddenly 
 taken away. She will need a friend, a pro- 
 tector, a husband." 
 
 He paused; Randolph, all agitation, 
 awaited his next word in breathless sus- 
 pense. 
 
 "I have long known her feelings, — she 
 tells me that she knows yours. You are 
 aware of my fortune and position, — I am 
 aware of yours. Plainly, then, do you love 
 her, — do you desire her hand ?" 
 
 For a moment Randolph could not reply. 
 
 " 0, my dearest friend, can you ask it ?" 
 he exclaimed, taking both hands of Mr. 
 Lynn in his own, — " Do I desire Eleanor's 
 hand ? It is the only wish of my life, — " 
 
 " Enough, my friend, enough," replied 
 Bernard, as a tear stole down his cheek. 
 "In serious matters, I am a man of few 
 words, — I fear that I may be suddenly taken 
 away — I feel that there is no use of delay. 
 Shall it take place this evening in your 
 house ?" 
 
 Randolph could only reply by a silent 
 grasp of the hand. 
 
 " In presence of your sister, myself and 
 the clergyman ? And then, the day after 
 to-morrow we leave for Charleston — " 
 
 " You speak the dearest wish of my soul," 
 was all that Randolph could reply. 
 
 Bernard Lynn arose, — " I will go out and 
 buy a bridal present for my child," he said, 
 " and your sister and myself will take charge 
 of all the details of the marriage. God bless 
 you, my boy ! What a load is lifted from 
 my heart !" 
 
 How over his bronzed visage, a look cor- 
 
DAY, SUXSET, NIGHT. 
 
 245 
 
 dial an.i joyous as the spring sunshine played, 
 even while there were tears in his eyes ! 
 
 Kandolph felt his heart swell with rapture, 
 but instantly, — growing pale as death, — 
 he rose, and resolved to make a revelation, 
 which would blast all his hopes to ashes. 
 
 " I will not deceive this good old man. I 
 will tell him my real condition, tell him that 
 there is the blood of the accursed race in my 
 veins." 
 
 This was his thought, and feeling like a 
 criminal on the scaffold, he prepared to fulfill 
 it,— 
 
 "Ah, you and I are agreed," cried Ber- 
 nard, with his usual jovial laugh. — " but you 
 must ask this child what she says of the 
 matter," and dropping Kandolph's hand, he 
 hurried from the room. 
 
 Even as the first word of the confession 
 was on his lip, Kandolph beheld Eleanor, 
 who had entered unperceived, standing be- 
 tween him and the light, on the very spot 
 which her father had just left. 
 
 She looked very beautiful. 
 
 Clad in a dark dress, which, fitting closely 
 to her arms and bust, and flowing in rich 
 folds, around her womanly proportions, from 
 the waist to the feet, she stood before him, 
 one finger raised to her lip, her eyes fixed 
 upon him in a gaze, full of deep and pas- 
 sionate light. Her face was cast into faint 
 shadow, by her hair, which was disposed 
 about it, in brown and wavy masses. But 
 through the shadow her eyes shone with 
 deep and passionate light. 
 
 A very beautiful Avoman, now unable to 
 Titter a word, as with heaving breast, she con- 
 fronts the man whom she knows is destined 
 to be her husband. 
 
 Why does all thought of confession fade 
 from Kandolph's mind ? 
 
 0, the atmosphere of the presence of a 
 pure, and beautiful woman, whose eyes 
 gleam upon you with passionate love, carries 
 with it an enchantment, which makes you 
 forget the whole universe, — everything, — 
 save that she is before you, that she loves 
 you, that your soul is chained to her eyes. 
 
 Kandolph silently stretched forth his arms. 
 She came to him, and laid her arms about 
 his neck, her bosom upon his breast. 
 
 " My wife !" he whispered. 
 
 And she raised her face, until their lips 
 
 and their eyes, met at once, whispering — 
 " My husband." 
 
 ******* 
 
 Certainly, this was a happy day for Kan- 
 dolph Koyalton. 
 
 Talk of opium, hashish, dream-elixir ! 
 Talk of their enchantment, and of the Ma- 
 homet's paradise which they create ! What 
 enchantment can rival the pressure of a pure 
 woman's lips, which breathe softly, " hus- 
 band !" as she lays them against your 
 own ? 
 
 But at least a dozen gentlemen who have 
 divorce cases on hand, will curse me bitterly 
 for writing the last sentence. And all the 
 old bachelors who, having never known the 
 kiss of a pure wife, or any wife at all, and 
 having grown musty in their sins, will turn 
 away with an ** umph 1" and an oath. And 
 all the young libertines, Vvrho, deriving their 
 opinion of women, merely from the unfaith- 
 ful wives, and abandoned creatures with 
 whom they have herded, and having ex- 
 pended even before the day of young man- 
 hood, every healthy throb, in shameless 
 excess, they, too, will expand their faded 
 eyes, and curl their colorless lips, at the very 
 mention of " a pure woman," much less, a 
 "pure woman's kiss." The "fast," the very 
 " fast " boys ! 
 
 But there are some who will not utterly 
 dislike the allusion to a pure woman, or a 
 pure woman's kiss. 
 
 That quiet sort of people who, having no 
 divorce cases on hand, know that there are 
 such things as pure women in the world, and 
 know that a good wife, carries about her an 
 atmosphere of goodness, that brings heaven 
 itself down to the home. 
 
 And you, old bachelor, — a word in your 
 ear, — if you only knew the exjDerience of 
 returning from a long journey late at night,— 
 of stealing quietly into a home, your own 
 home, up the dark stairs, and into a room, 
 where a single light is shining near a bed, — 
 of seeing there, blooming on the white pil- 
 low, the face of a pure ^ife, your own wife, 
 rosy with sleep, and with her dark hair 
 
 peeping out from her night-cap , why, 
 
 old bachelor, if you had only an idea of this 
 kind of experience, you'd curse yourself for 
 not getting married some forty years ago ! — ■ 
 * ****** 
 
246 
 
 DAT, SUNSET, NIGHT. 
 
 The day passed quickly and liappily, in 
 quiet preparation for the bridal ceremony. 
 ******* 
 
 Eleanor was seated in a rocking-chair, her 
 feet crossed and resting on a stool, her head 
 thrown back, and her dark hair resting partly 
 on her bared shoulders, partly on the arm of 
 Esther, who stood behind her. The beams 
 of the declining sun came softened through 
 the window-curtains, and lit up the scene 
 with mild, subdued light. It was a beautiful 
 picture. There stood Esther, the matured 
 woman, rich in every charm of voluptuous 
 and stately beauty ; and her gaze, softened 
 by her long eyelashes, was tenderly fixed 
 upon the upturned countenance of Eleanor, 
 — a countenance radiant with youth, with 
 abounding life, with passionate love. The 
 habit of dark green cloth which Esther wore, 
 contrasted with the robe of white muslin which 
 enveloped Eleanor, its flowing folds girdled 
 lightly about her waist and its snowy white- 
 ness, half hidden by her unbound hair ; for 
 that hair which was soft brown in the sun- 
 light and black in the shadow, fell in copious 
 waves over her neck, her bosom, and below 
 her waist. Eleanor was beautiful, Esther 
 was beautiful, but their loveliness was of 
 contrasted types ; you could not precisely 
 define how they difiered ; you only saw that 
 they were beautiful, and that the loveliness 
 of one, set off and added to, the charms of 
 the other. 
 
 And as Esther was arranging the hair of 
 the bride, for the marriage ceremony, they 
 conversed in low tones : 
 
 *' 0, we shall all be so happy !" said Elea- 
 nor — " the climate of Havanna, is as soft 
 and bland as It^ily, and it will be so delight- 
 ful to leave this dreary sky, this atmosphere 
 all storm and snow, for a land where sum- 
 mer never knows an end, and where 
 every breeze is loaded M-ith the breath of 
 flowers 1" 
 
 Esther was about to reply, but Eleanor 
 continued, — and her words drove the life- 
 blood from Esther's cheek. 
 
 " And on our way we will stop at the old 
 mansion of Hill Royal, the home of Ran- 
 dolph's ancestors. How I shall delight to 
 wander with you through those fine old 
 rooms, where the associations of the past 
 meet you at every step ! Do you know, 
 
 Esther, that I am a great aristocrat, — I be- 
 lieve in race, in blood, — in the perpetua- 
 tion of the same qualities, either good or 
 evil, from generation to generation ? Look 
 at Randolph, at yourself, for instance, — your 
 look, your walk, every accent tell the story 
 of a proud, a noble ancestry 1" 
 
 " Or, look at yourself," was all that Esther 
 could say, as she bent over the happy bride, 
 thus hiding her face, — grown suddenly pale, 
 —from the light. " Shall I tell her all ?" 
 the thought flashed over her, as she wound 
 her hands through the rich meshes of Elea- 
 nor's hair, — " shall I tell this beautiful girl, 
 who is as proud as she is beautiful, that in 
 the veins of her husband there is — negro 
 blood ?" 
 
 But the very thought of such a revelation 
 appalled her. 
 
 "Better leave it to the future," sha 
 thought, and then said aloud, " Tell me, 
 Eleanor, something about Italy." 
 
 And while Esther, with sisterly hands, 
 arrayed her for the bridal, the proud and 
 happy bride, whose every vein swelled with 
 abounding life and love, spoke of Italy, — of 
 its skies and its monuments, — of the hour 
 when she first met Randolph, and also of the 
 moment when, amid the Appenines, he 
 saved her life, her honor. 
 
 " 0, sister, do you think that a love like ours 
 can ever know the shadow of change ?" 
 
 Happy Eleanor ! 
 
 ****** 
 
 Meanwhile Randolph, standing by the 
 parlor window apparently gazing upon the 
 current of life which Avhirled madly along 
 Broadway, in the light of the declining day, 
 was in reality abstracted from all external 
 existence, and buried in his own thoughts, — 
 thoughts delicious and enchanting. Was 
 there no phantom in the background, to cast 
 its fatal shadow over the rich landscaj^e 
 which rose before his mental eye ? 
 
 He was attired for the marriage ceremony, 
 in a severely plain costume, which well be- 
 came his thoughtful face and manly frame, — 
 black dress coat, vest of while Marseilles, 
 open collar and black neckerchief. As he 
 stood there, noble-featured, broad-browed, 
 his clear blue eyes and dark hair, contrasting 
 with his complexion whose extreme pallor 
 indicated by no means either lack of health 
 
DAY, SUNSET, NIGHT. 
 
 or vigor, who would have thought that there 
 was — negro blood in his veins ? 
 
 " In an hour Eleanor will be my wife !" he 
 muttered, and his brow grew clouded and 
 thoughtful, even while his eyes were filled 
 with passionate light. "But there is no use 
 of reflecting now. I must leave that fatal 
 disclosure, with all its chances and conse- 
 quences, to the future. Eleanor will be my 
 wife, come what will." 
 
 His meditations were interrupted by the 
 entrance of Mr. Hicks, who wore his usual 
 imperturbable look, which seemed as much 
 a part of him as his livery of gray turned up 
 with black. 
 
 "How has bur patient been since I left 
 him an hour ago ?" asked Eandolph. 
 
 *' He is no longer delirious," answered Mr. 
 Hicks. " About a half an hour ago, he asked 
 me the time of day, in a tone, and with a 
 look, that showed that he had come to his 
 senses." 
 
 " You conversed with him ?" 
 
 " No, sir. He fell into a quiet sleep, and I 
 left him in charge of a faithful servant. 
 Don't you think we had better change the 
 bandages on his back, after awhile ? He has 
 been sadly abused " 
 
 "And I came to the scene of conflict just 
 in time to save his life, and bear him to my 
 home, — I will see him at once, and then tell 
 you when to dress his wounds." 
 
 He moved toward the door. 
 
 " Has Mr. Lynn returned ?" he said, turn- 
 ing his head over his shoulder. 
 
 " About half an hour since, he went up 
 stairs to his room," returned Mr. Hicks. 
 
 Eandolph left the parlor and hastened to- 
 ward his own chamber, determined to make 
 cue more effort to change the hard nature, 
 the unrelenting hatred of his brother. As 
 he passed along the corridor, conscious that 
 the most important crisis, if not the all-im- 
 portant crisis, of his life was near, his thoughts 
 mingling the image of Eleanor with the 
 proud memory of his lineage on the father's 
 side, were intense and all-absorbing. For 
 the time he forgot the taint in his blood. 
 
 He arrived before the door of the cham- 
 ber in which his brother lay. It was near 
 the foot of a broad staircase which, thickly 
 carpeted, and with bannisters of walnut, 
 darkened by time, was illumined by light 
 16 
 
 from the skylight far above. The door of 
 the chamber was slightly open, — Randolph 
 started, for he heard his brother's voice, 
 speaking in rapid, impetuous tones. And 
 the next instant, the voice of Bernard Lynn, 
 hoarse with anger, Randolph, with his step 
 upon the threshold, drew back and listened. 
 
 He did not pause to ask himself how Ber- 
 nard Lynn came to be a visitor in the cham- 
 ber of his brother, — he only listened to their 
 voices, — with all his soul, he tried to distin- 
 guish their words. 
 
 It was the moment of his life. It re- 
 quired a terrible exertion of will, to suppress 
 the cry of despair which rose to his lips. 
 
 "A negro !" he heard the voice of Ber- 
 nard Lynn, hoarse with rage, — "and to my 
 daughter ! Never !" 
 
 And then the voice of Harry Royalton, 
 whose life he had spared and saved, — "I 
 heard of this marriage from one of the ser- 
 vants, and felt it my duty to set you on your 
 guard. Therefore, I sent for you. I can 
 give you proof, — proof that will sink tha 
 slave into the earth." 
 
 Once more the voice of Bernard Lynn, — 
 " A negro ! and about to marry him to my 
 daughter ! A negro ! " 
 
 There was the hatred of a whole life em- 
 bodied in the way he pronounced that word, 
 — " a negro !" 
 
 Randolph laid his hand against the wall, 
 and his head sank on his breast. He was 
 completely unnerved. 
 
 The hopes of his life were ashes. 
 
 Once more, with a terrible exertion, he 
 rallied himself, and with the thought, — 
 " There remains, at least, revenge ! " — he ad- 
 vanced toward the threshold. 
 
 But there was a footstep on the stair. 
 Turning, Randolph beheld Eleanor, who was 
 slowly descending the stairs. She was clad 
 in her bridal dress. The light shone full 
 upon her ; she was radiantly beautiful. She 
 wore a robe of snow-white satin, girdled 
 lightly to her waist by a string of pearls, and 
 over this a robe of green velvet, veined with 
 flowers of gold, and open in front from her 
 bosom to her feet. Her hair was disposed in 
 rich masses about her face, and from its 
 glossy blackness, and from the pure white of 
 her forehead, a circlet of diamonds shone 
 dazzlingly in the light. She saw Randolph, 
 
248 
 
 and her eyes spoke altbough her lips were 
 eilent. 
 
 That moment decided her fate and his own. 
 
 As she was halfway down the stairs, he 
 sprang to meet her. 
 
 " Randolph ! how pale you are," and she 
 started as she saw his face. 
 
 " Dearest, I must speak with you a mo- 
 ment," he whispered. — " To the library." 
 
 He took her by the hand and led her up 
 the stairs, and along a corridor ; she noticed 
 that his hand was hot and cold by turns, and 
 she began to tremble in sympathy with his 
 agitation. 
 
 They came to the door of the library. 
 The lock was turned from the outside by a 
 key, but when the door was closed it locked 
 itself. Randolph found the key in the lock ; 
 he turned it ; the door opened ; he placed 
 the key in his pocket ; they crossed the 
 threshold. The door closed behind them, 
 and was locked at once. Eleanor was igno- 
 rant of this fact. 
 
 The library was a spacious apartment, with 
 two windows opening to the east, and a ceil- 
 ing which resembled a dome. The light 
 came dimlythrough the closed curtains, but 
 a wood-fire, smouldering on the broad hearth, 
 which now flamed up, and as suddenly died 
 away, served to disclose the high walls, lined 
 with shelves, the table in the center over- 
 spread with books and papers, and the pic- 
 ture above the mantle, framed in dark wood. 
 Two antique arm-chairs stood beside the ta- 
 ble ; there was a sofa between the windows, 
 and in each corner of the room, a statue was 
 placed on a pedestal. The shelves were 
 crowded with huge volumes, whose gilt 
 bindings, though faded by time, glittered in 
 the uncertain light. Altogether, as the light 
 now flashed up and died away again, it was 
 an apartment reminding you of old times, — 
 of ghosts and specters, may be, — but of any- 
 thing save the present century. 
 
 " What a ghost-like place !" said Eleanor. 
 
 Randolph led her in silence to the sofa, 
 and seated himself by her side. 
 
 "Eleanor, I am sadly troubled. I have 
 •ust received a letter which informs me of a 
 sad disaster which has happened to a friend, 
 — a friend whom I have known from boy- 
 hood." 
 
 Eleanor took his hand. As the light 
 
 flashed up for an instant, she was startled at 
 the sight of his face. 
 
 " Compose yourself, Randolph," she said, 
 kindly. — " The news may not be so disas- 
 trous as you think." 
 
 "I will tell you the story in a few words," 
 and he took her hand as he continued : " A 
 month ago, I left my friend in Charleston. 
 Young, reputed to be wealthy, certainly con- 
 nected with one of the first families of South 
 Carolina, he was engaged in marriage to a 
 beautiful girl, — one of the most beautiful that 
 sun ever shone upon, — " he paused, — "aa 
 beautiful, Eleanor, as yourself." 
 
 And he fixed his ardent gaze upon that 
 face which the soft shadow, broken now and 
 then by the uncertain light, invested with 
 new loveliness. 
 
 Eleanor made no reply in words ; but her 
 eyes met those of her plighted husband. 
 
 " The day was fixed for their marriage, — 
 they looked forward to it with all the anti- 
 cipations of a pure and holy love. It came, — 
 the bride and bridegroom stood before the 
 altar, in presence of the wedding-guests, — 
 the priest began the ceremony, when a reve- 
 lation was made which caused the bride to 
 fall like one dead at the feet of her abashed 
 and despair-stricken lover." 
 
 *' This was, indeed, strange," whispered 
 Eleanor, profoundly interested ; " and this 
 revelation ?" 
 
 Randolph drew her nearer to him; his 
 eyes grew deeper in their light, as in a voice, 
 that grew lower at every word, he continued. 
 The bridegroom was, indeed, connected 
 with one of the first families in the State, 
 but even as the priest began the ceremony, 
 a voice from among the guests pronounced 
 these words, * Shame ! shame ! a woman so 
 beautiful to marry a man who has negro 
 blood in his veins !' " 
 
 "And these words, — they were not true ?" 
 eagerly asked Eleanor, resting her hand on 
 Randolph's arm. 
 
 *' They were true," answered Randolph. 
 " It was their fatal truth which caused the 
 bride to fall like a corpse, and covered the 
 face of the bridegroom with shame and de- 
 spair." 
 
 Eleanor's bosom heaved above the edge o 
 her bridal robe ; her lips curled with scorn ; 
 "And knowing this fatal truth, this lover 
 
DAY, SUNSET, NIGHT. 
 
 249 
 
 sought her hand in marriage ? 0, shame ! 
 shame !" 
 
 "But hear the sequel of the story," Ran- 
 dolph continued, and well it was for him, at 
 that instant, that no sudden glow from the 
 hearth lit up his livid and corrugated face, — 
 "What, think you, was the course of the 
 plighted wife, when she came to her senses?" 
 
 "She spurned from her side this unworthy 
 lover, — she crushed every thought of 
 love — " 
 
 " No, dearest, no ! Even in the presence 
 of her father and the wedding-guests, she 
 took the bridegroom by the hand, and al- 
 though her face was pale as death, said, with 
 a firm eye and unfaltering voice, 'Behold 
 my husband ! As heaven is above us, I 
 will wed none but him ! ' " 
 
 " 0, base and shameless ! base and shame- 
 less !" cried Eleanor, the scorn of her tone 
 and of her look beyond all power of ^^•ords, — 
 "to speak thus, and take by the hand a 
 man whose veins were polluted by the blood 
 of a thrice accursed race !" 
 
 Randolph raised his hand to his fore- 
 head ; what thoughts Avere burning there, 
 need not be told. Shading his eyes, he 
 saw Eleanor before him, beautiful and vo- 
 luptuous, in her bridal robe, her bosom 
 swelling into view ; but with unmeasured 
 scorn in the curve of her proud lip, in 
 the lightning glance of her eyes. 
 
 And after that gaze, he said in a low voice, 
 i the fatal words, — 
 
 I " Eleanor, what would you say, were 
 I to inform you, that my veins are also 
 polluted by the blood of this thrice accursed 
 race ?" 
 
 She did not utter a cry ; she did not 
 shriek ; but starting from the sofa, and rest- 
 ing for support one hand against the wall, 
 > she turned to him her horror-stricken face, 
 uttering a single word, — " You ?" 
 
 " That I, descended from one of the first 
 families of Carolina, on my father's side, am 
 i on the mother's side, connected with the 
 accursed race ?" 
 
 " You, Randolph, you !" 
 
 " That knowing this, I fled from Florence, 
 when first I won your love ; but to-day, 
 dazzled by your beauty, mad with love of 
 the very atmosphere in which you breathe, 
 I forgot the taint in my blood, I saw our | 
 
 marriage hour draw nigh, with heaven itself 
 in my heart — " 
 
 " 0, my God, why can I not die ?" 
 
 "That even now your father knows the 
 fatal secret, and breathes curses upon me, as 
 he pronounces my name ; resolves, that 
 you shall die by his hand, ere you become 
 my wife — " 
 
 She saw his face, by the sudden light, — 
 it was impressed by a mortal agony. And 
 although the room seemed to swim around, 
 and her knees bent under her, she rallied her 
 fast-fading strength, and advanced toward 
 him, but with tottering steps. 
 
 " You are either mad, or you wish to drive 
 me mad," she said, and laid her hand upon 
 his shoulder, — "there is no taint upon your 
 blood ! The thought is idle. You, so noble 
 browed, with the look, the voice, the soul 
 of a man of genius, — you, that I love so 
 madly, — you, one of the accursed race ? 
 No, Randolph, this is but a cruel jest — " 
 
 Her eyes looked all the brighter for the 
 pallor of her face, as she bent over him, and 
 her hair, escaping from the diamond circlet, 
 fell over his face and shoulders like a vail. 
 
 He drew her to him, and buried his face 
 upon her bosom, — " Eleanor ! Eleanor," 
 he groaned in very bitterness of spirit, as 
 that bosom beat against his fevered brow, 
 and that flowing hair shut him in its glossy 
 waves, — " It is no jest. I swear it. But 
 you will yet be mine ! Will you not, Elea- 
 nor, — in spite of everything, — spite of the 
 taint in my blood, spite of your father's 
 wrath — " 
 
 As with the last eS'ort of her expiring 
 strength, she raised his head from her bosom, 
 tore herself from his arms, and stood before 
 him, her hair streaming back from her pallid 
 face, while her right hand was lifted to 
 heaven — 
 
 " It is true, then ?" and her eyes wore 
 that look, which revealed all the pride of 
 her nature, — "you are then, one of that 
 accursed race," she paused, unable to pro- 
 ceed, and stood there with both hands upon 
 her forehead. " If I ever wed you, may my 
 mother's curse — " 
 
 Randolph rose, the anguish which had 
 stamped his face, suddenly succeeded by a 
 look which we care not to analyze, — a look 
 which gave a glow «o his pale cheek, a wild 
 
250 
 
 DAY, SUNSET, NIGHT. 
 
 gleam to his eyes. " You are faint, my love," 
 he said, " this will revive you." 
 
 Seizing her by the waist, he placed her 
 kerchief upon her mouth, — a kerchief which 
 he had raised from the floor, and moistened 
 with liquid from the silver vial which he 
 carried in his vest pocket. 
 
 "Away! Your touch is pollution!" she 
 cried, struggling in his embrace, but the 
 efifect of the liquid was instantaneous. Even 
 as she struggled her powers of resistance 
 failed, and the images of a delicious dream, 
 seemed to pass before her, in soft and rosy 
 light. 
 
 The tall wax candles were lighted in the 
 parlor, and upon a table covered with a 
 cloth of white velvet was placed a bible and 
 a wreath of flowers. 
 
 It was the hour of sunset, but the closed 
 curtains shut out the light of the declining 
 day, and the light of the wax candles dis- 
 closed the spacious apartment, its pictures, 
 statues and luxurious furniture. It was the 
 hour of the bridal. . 
 
 Two persons were seated near each other 
 on one of the sofas. The preacher who had 
 been summoned to celebrate the marriage, — 
 a grave, demure man, with a sad face and 
 iron-gray hair. Of course he wore black 
 clothes and a white cravat. Esther arrayed 
 in snow-white, as the bridesmaid, — white 
 flowers in her dark hair, and her bosom 
 heaving dimly beneath lace which reminded 
 you of a flake of new-fallen snow. 
 
 They were waiting for the father, the 
 bridegroom, and the bride. 
 
 " It will be a happy marriage, I doubt not," 
 said the preacher, who had been gazing out 
 of the corners of his eyes, at the beautiful 
 Esther, and who felt embarrassed by the 
 long silence. 
 
 But ere Esther could reply, the door was 
 flung abruptly open, and Bernard Lynn 
 strode into the room. His hat was in his 
 hand • his cloak hung on his arm. His face 
 was flushed ; his brow clouded. Not seem- | voice, and Randolph stood before the en- 
 ing to notice the presence of Esther, he ad- | raged father. He was ashy pale, but there 
 
 Turning to Mr. Hicks, who had followed 
 him into the room, Bernard Lynn continued, 
 as he flung his cloak over his shoulders, and 
 drew on his gloves, — 
 
 " Has the carriage come ?" 
 " Yes, sir,—" 
 
 " Are our trunks on behind ?" 
 " Yes, sir,—" 
 
 " Have you called my daughter, and told 
 her that I desired her to put on her bonnet 
 and cloak, and come to me at once ? — " 
 
 " I have sent one of the maids up to her 
 room," said Mr. Hicks, whose countenance 
 manifested no small degree of astonishment, 
 " but your daughter is not in her room." 
 
 Mr. Lynn turned his flushed face and 
 clouded brow to Esther, — 
 
 " Perhaps you will tell my daughter," he 
 said, with an air of insolent hauteur as 
 though speaking to a servant, — " that I de- 
 sire her to put on her things and leave this 
 house with me, immediately — " 
 
 How changed his manner, from the kind 
 and paternal tone, in which he had addressed 
 her an hour before ! 
 
 Esther keenly felt the change, and with 
 her woman's intuition, divined that a reve- 
 lation of the fatal truth had been made. 
 Disguising her emotion, she said, calmly, — 
 
 You will direct one of the servants to do 
 your bidding. Your daughter is doubtless 
 in the library. I saw her going there, with 
 Randolph, only a few minutes since, — " 
 
 At the name of Randolph, all the rage 
 which shook the muscular frame of Bernard 
 Lynn, and which he had but illy suppressed, 
 burst forth unrestrained. 
 
 " What !" he shouted, " with Randolph ! 
 The negro ! The negro ! The slave !" 
 
 " With Randolph, her plighted husband," 
 calmly responded Esther. 
 
 " Negress !" sneered Bernard Lynn, almost 
 beside himself, " where is my daughter ? 
 Will no one call her ?" 
 
 "Eleanor is coming," said a low deep 
 
 vanced to the- clergyman, — 
 
 " Your services will not be needed, sir," 
 he said, with a polite bow, but with flashing 
 eyes. " This marriage will not take place." 
 
 Esther started to her feet, in complete 
 astonishment. 
 
 was a light in his eyes which can be called 
 by no other name than — infernal. 
 
 Even Esther, uttered a cry as she beheld 
 her brother's face. || 
 
 " Negro !" muttered Bernard Lynn, re- 
 1 garding Randolph in profound contempt. 
 
DAY, SUNSET, NIGHT. 
 
 251 
 
 "Well ?" Randolph folded his arms, and 
 steadily returned his gaze. 
 
 " I have learned the secret in time, sir, in 
 time," continued Bernard Lynn, " I am about 
 to leave this house — " 
 
 Well ?" again exclaimed Randolph. 
 
 "I have saved her from this horrible 
 match, — " 
 
 " Well ?" for the third time replied Ran- 
 dolph, in complete nonchalance, and yet with 
 that infernal light in his eyes. 
 
 A step was heard. Can this be Eleanor, 
 who comes across the threshold, her dress 
 torn, her bosom bared, her disheveled hair 
 floating about that face which seems to have 
 been touched by the hand of death ? 
 
 Her hands clasped, her eyes downcast, she 
 came on, with unsteady step, and sank at 
 her father's feet She did not once raise her 
 eyes, but clasped his knees and buried her 
 face on her bosom. 
 
 " Eleanor ! Eleanor 1" cried Bernard Lynn, 
 " what does all this mean, my child ? " and 
 he sought to raise her from the floor, but 
 she resisted him, and clutched his knees. 
 
 " It means that the honor of your daugh- 
 ter was saved once in Italy, by Randolph 
 Royalton, — she was grateful, and would have 
 manifested her gratitude by giving him her 
 hand in marriage, but she could not do that, 
 for there was — negro blood in his veins. So, 
 as she could not marry him, she showed her 
 gratitude in the only way left her, — by the 
 gift of her person without marriage." 
 
 As in a tone of Satanic triumph, Randolph 
 pronounced these words, a silence like death 
 fell upon the scene. 
 
 Bernard Lynn stood for a moment para- 
 lyzed ; but Esther came forward with flash- 
 ing eyes, — " 0, you miserable coward !" she 
 cried, and with her clenched hand struck her 
 I brother, — struck Randolph on the fore- 
 I head. 
 
 And turning away from him in scorn, she 
 raised Eleanor in her arms. 
 
 Ere he could recover from the surprise 
 which this blow caused him, Bernard Lynn 
 reached forward, his hands clenched, his 
 dark face purple with rage. 
 
 " Wretch ! for this you shall die," — and 
 crushed by the very violence of his rage, 
 his agony, he sank insensible at Randolph's 
 feeU 
 
 Our marriage ceremony is postponed for 
 the present, — good evening, sir !" said Ran- 
 dolph, turning to the preacher, who had wit- 
 nessed this scene in speechless astonishment. 
 " Mr. Hicks, take care of my friend, Lynn, 
 here, and have him put to bed ; and you, 
 Esther, take care of Eleanor : and as for 
 myself," — he turned his back upon them all, 
 and left the room, — " I think I will go and 
 see my dear brother." 
 
 Up-stairs, with the tortures of the damned 
 in his heart, — up-stairs, with the infernal 
 light in his eyes, — a moment's pause at the 
 door of his brother's room, — and then he 
 flings it open and enters. 
 
 Harry Royalton, sitting up in bed, his 
 back against the pillows, was reading, by a 
 lamp, which stood on a small table, by the 
 bedside. He was reading the parchment, 
 addressed to his father, one of the seven. 
 The light shone on his face, now changed 
 from its usual robust hue, to a sickly pallor, 
 as with his large bulging eyes, fixed upon 
 the parchment, he quietly smoked a cigar, 
 and by turns passed his hands over his bushy 
 whiskers and through his thick curling hair. 
 Weak from pain and loss of blood, he still 
 enjoyed his cigar. There was a pleasant 
 complacency about his lips. To-morrow 
 was the twenty-fifth of December, and to- 
 day — he had foiled all the plans of his slave 
 brother. Harry was satisfied with himself 
 The smoke of the Havanna floated round 
 him and among the curtains of the bed. It 
 was, take it all in all, a picture. 
 
 It was in this moment of quiet compla- 
 cency, that Randolph appeared upon the 
 scene. Harry looked up, — he caught the 
 glare of his eyes, — and at once looked 
 about him for a bowie-knife or pistol. But 
 there were no weapons near. With a cry 
 for help, Harry sprang from the bed, clad as 
 he was, only in his shirt and drawers. Ho 
 cried for help, but only once, for ere he 
 could utter a second cry, there was a hand 
 upon his throat. 
 
 " I'm not a brother now, — only a slave, — 
 it was as a brother, last night, I spared and 
 saved you, — now I'm only a slave, a negro ! 
 But as a slave and negro, I am choking you 
 to death ! " 
 
 Harry might as well have battled with a 
 thunderbolt Randolph, with the madman'a 
 
252 
 
 DAY, SUNSET, NIGHT. 
 
 fire in liis eyes, bears him to the floor, puts 
 his knee upon his breast, and tightens his 
 clutch upon his throat. And as a gurgling 
 noise sounded in the throat of the poor 
 wretch, Randolph bent his face nearer to 
 him, and (to use an all-expressive Scotch 
 word) glowered upon him with those mad- 
 man's eyes. 
 
 " This time there must be no mistake, 
 brother. The world is large enough for 
 many millions of people, but not large 
 enough for us two. You must go, Harry, — 
 master ! You are going ! Go and tell your 
 father and mine how you treated the chil- 
 dren of Herodia ! Go ! " 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE BRIDALS OF JOANNA AND BEVERLY. 
 
 It was the night of December the twen- 
 ty-fifth, 1844. 
 
 The mansion of Eugene Livingstone was 
 dark as a tomb. The shutters were closed, 
 and crape fluttered on the door. 
 
 Within, — in the range of parlors, where, 
 last night, Eugene kissed good-bye on the 
 lips of his young and beautiful wife, ere he 
 left for Boston, — where, not an hour after, 
 Beverly Barron came and folded the young 
 wife to his breast, ere he bore her from her 
 home to a haunt of shame, — within a single 
 light is burning. One light alone, in the 
 vast mansion, from foundation to roof. 
 
 It is a wax candle, placed in the front par- 
 lor, on a marble table, between a sofa and 
 mirror, which reaches from the ceiling to the 
 floor. 
 
 Joanna is sitting there alone, her golden 
 hair neatly arranged about her blonde face ; 
 her noble form clad in a flowing robe of 
 snowy whiteness. She is very beautiful. 
 True, her face is very pale, but her lips are 
 red and a flush bums on each check. True, 
 beneath each eye a faint blue circle may be 
 traced, but the eyes themselves, blue as a 
 cloudless sky in June, shine wilh an inten- 
 sity that almost changes their hue into black 
 in the soft, luxurious light. Joanna is very 
 beautiful, — a woman of coraniandhig form 
 and voluptuous bust, — the loose robe which 
 she wears, by its flowing folds, gives a new 
 charm, a more fascinating loveliness to every 
 detail of her figure. 
 
 Holding the evening paper in her right 
 hand, she beats the carpet somewhat impa- 
 tiently v»'ith her satin-slippered foot. 
 
 Her eye rests upon a paragraph in the 
 evening paper : — 
 
 "Affair in High Life. — There was a 
 rumor about town, to-day, of an affair of 
 honor in high life — among the ' upper ten,' — 
 the truth of which, at the hour of going to 
 press, we are not able, definitely, to ascer- 
 tain. The parties named are the elegant 
 
 and distinguished B y B n, and 
 
 E e L ng e, a well-known mem- 
 ber of the old aristocracy, in the upper re- 
 gion of the city. A domestic difficulty is 
 assigned as the cause ; and one of the parties 
 is stated to have been severely'-, if not mor- 
 tally, wounded. By to-morrow we hope to 
 be able to give the full particulars." 
 
 Joanna read this paragraph, and her glance 
 dropped, and she remained for a long time 
 buried in deep thought. 
 
 " Will he come ?" she said at length, as 
 if thinking aloud. 
 
 The silence of the vast mansion was around 
 her, but it did not seem to fill her with awe. 
 She remained sitting on the sofa, the evening 
 paper in her hand, and her face impressed 
 with profound thought. 
 
 " Hark !" she ejaculated, as a faint noise 
 was heard in the hall without. She started, 
 but did not rise from the sofa. 
 
 The door opened stealthily, with scarcely 
 a perceptible sound, and a man clad in a 
 rough overcoat, with great white buttons, a 
 cap drawn over his brow, and a red necker- 
 chief wound about the collar of his coat, 
 came silently into the room and approached 
 Joanna. 
 
 " Who are you ?" she cried, as if in alarm, 
 — " Your business here ?" 
 
 " Joanna, dearest Joanna," cried a famil- 
 iar voice, " and has my disguise deceived 
 you ? It deceived the police, but I did not 
 think that it could deceive you !" 
 
 The overcoat, cap and neckerchief were 
 thrown aside, and in an instant Beverly Bar- 
 ron was kneeling at Joanna's feet. His tall 
 and not ungraceful form clad in blue coat, 
 with bright metal buttons, white vest, black 
 pantaloons, and patent leather boots. He 
 wore a diamond pin, and a heavy gold chain* 
 
DAY, SUNSET, NIGHT. 
 
 253 
 
 His whole appearance was that of a gentle- 
 man of leisure, dressed for the opera or a 
 select evening party. His face was flushed, 
 his eyes sparkling, and the flaxen curls which 
 hung about his brow, emitted an odor of co- 
 logne or patcJwuilU. 
 
 " I had to come, — I could not stay away 
 from you, dearest," he said, looking up pas- 
 sionately into her face. "All day long, I 
 have dodged from place to place, determined 
 to see you to-night or die." 
 
 She gave him her hand, and looking into 
 the opposite mirror, saw that she was very 
 pale, but still exceedingly beautiful. 
 
 " To risk so much, for — my sake," she 
 said, and threaded his curls with her deli- 
 cate hand, and at the same time one of 
 those smiles which set the blood on fire, 
 animated her lips, and disclosed her white 
 teeth. 
 
 "You are beautiful as an angel, I vow," 
 exclaimed Beverly, and then glancing round 
 the vast apartment, — " Are we all alone ?" 
 he asked. 
 
 " Yes, all alone," she replied, " the ser- 
 vants were discharged this morning, — all, 
 save my maid, and she has retired by my 
 orders." 
 
 ** No danger of any one calling ?" 
 " None." 
 
 " You are sure, dearest ? " 
 
 " No one wall call. You are safe, and we 
 are alone, Beverly ! " again that smile, and a 
 sudden swell of the bosom. 
 
 " The body,— the body " 
 
 " Is at my father, the general's," — she re- 
 plied to the question before it passed his 
 lips. 
 
 " Then, indeed, dearest, Ave are alone, and 
 we can talk of our future, — our future. We 
 must come to a decision, Joanna, and soon." 
 
 And half raising himself, as she lowered 
 her head, he pressed his kiss on her lips. 
 
 " 0, I do so long to talk with you, Bev- 
 erly," she murmured. 
 
 " To-morrow, dearest, I will be placed in 
 possession of an immense fortune. You have 
 heard of the Van Huyden estate ?" 
 
 She made a sign in the aflSrmative. 
 
 " I am the heir of one-seventh of that im- 
 mense estate. All the obstacles in the way 
 of the seven heirs (as I was informed to-day) 
 are removed. To-morrow the estate will be 
 
 divided ; I will receive my portion without 
 scarcely the chance of disappointment ; and 
 
 next day " 
 
 He paused ; she bent down until he felt 
 her breath on his face, — " Next day ?'• sho 
 whispered. 
 
 " We will sail for Europe. A palace, in 
 Florence, my love, or in Venice, or some de- 
 lightful nook of Sicily, where, apart from the 
 world, in an atmosphere like heaven, we can 
 live for each other. W hat say you to this, 
 Joanna ?" 
 
 " But you forget," she faltered, " the recent 
 
 circumstance, " her face became flushed, 
 
 and then deathly pale. 
 
 " Can you live under your father's eye 
 after what has happened ?" he whispered. — 
 " Think of it,— he will loathe the sight of 
 you, and make your life a hell !" 
 
 " He will indeed," — and she dropped her 
 head upon her proud bosom. 
 
 "And your brother, — does he not thirst 
 for my blood ?" 
 
 " Ah ! does he ?" she cried, with a look 
 of alarm. 
 
 "And yet, Joanna, I was forced into it. 
 I did all I could to avoid it. I even apolo- 
 gized on the ground, and offered to make 
 reparation." 
 
 " You offered to make reparation ? " she 
 cried, " that was, indeed, noble I" and an 
 indescribable smile lighted her features. 
 
 "Joanna, dear, I have suffered so much 
 to-day, that I am really faint. A glass of 
 that old Tokay, if you please, my love." 
 
 She answered him with a smile, and rising 
 from the sofa, passed into the darkness of 
 the second parlor, separated from the first by 
 folding-doors. 
 
 " A magnificent woman, by Jove !" solilo- 
 quized Beverly, as he remarked her noble 
 form. 
 
 After a few moments she appeared again, 
 bearing a salver of solid gold, on which was 
 placed a decanter and goblet, both of Bohe- 
 mian glass, — rich scarlet in color, veined with 
 flowers of purple, and blue, and gold. 
 
 Never had she seemed more beautiful than 
 when standing before him, she presented the 
 golden salver, with one of those smiles, 
 w^hich gave a deeper red to her lips, a softer 
 brightness to her eyes. 
 
 He filled the capacious goblet to the brim — 
 
264 
 
 DAY. SUNSET. NIGHT. 
 
 for a moment regarded the wine through the 
 delicate fabric, with its flowers of blue, and 
 purple, and gold, — and then drained it at a 
 draught. 
 
 " Ah !" — he smacked his lips, — " that is 
 delicious !" 
 
 " Eugene's father imported it some twenty- 
 years ago," said Joanna, placing the salver 
 on the table. " Come, Beverly, I want to 
 talk with you." 
 
 FolIowiDg the bewitching gesture which 
 she made with her half-lifted hand, Beverly 
 rose, and gently wound his arm about her 
 waist. 
 
 " Come, let us walk slowly up and down 
 these rooms, now in light and now in dark- 
 ness, and as we walk we can talk freely to 
 each other." 
 
 And they walked, side by side, over the 
 carpet, through that splendid suite of rooms, 
 where gorgeous furniture, pictures, statues, 
 all spoke of luxury and wealth. Hand 
 joined in hand, his arm about her waist, her 
 head drooping to his shoulder, and her bo- 
 som throbbing near and nearer to his breast, 
 they glided along ; now coming near the 
 light in the front room, and now passing into 
 the shadows which invested the other rooms. 
 It was a delightful, nay, an intoxicating tete- 
 a-tete. 
 
 " I was thinking, this evening," she said, 
 as they passed from the light, " of the his- 
 tory of our love." 
 
 "Ah, dearest !" 
 
 '* It seems an age since we first met, and 
 yet it's only a year." 
 
 " Only a year !" echoed Beverly, as they 
 paused in a nook where a delicious twilight 
 prevailed. 
 
 " Eugene presented you to me a year ago, as 
 his dearest friend, — his most tried and trusted 
 friend. Do you remember, Beverly ?" 
 
 He drew her gently to him, — there was 
 a kiss and an embrace. 
 
 "You discovered his infidelity. You 
 brought me the letters written to him by the 
 person in Boston, for whom he proved un- 
 faithful to me. You brought them from 
 time to time, and it was your sympathy with 
 my wounded pride, — my trampled affection, 
 — which consoled me and kept me alive. It 
 was, Beverly." 
 
 ^0^ you say so, dearest^" and as they 
 
 came into light again, he felt her breast 
 throbbing nearer to his own. 
 
 For a moment they paused by the table, 
 whereon the wax candle was burning, its 
 flame reflected in the lofty mirror. Her face 
 half-averted from the light, as her head 
 drooped on his shoulder, she was exceedingly 
 beautiful. 
 
 "Beverly," she whispered, and placed her 
 arm gently about his neck, — the touch 
 thrilled him to the heart, — " you knew me, 
 young, confiding, ignorant of the world. 
 You took pity on my unsuspecting igno- 
 rance, and day by day, yes hour by hour, Id 
 these very rooms, you led me on, to see the 
 full measure of my husband's guilt, and at 
 the same time led me to believe in you, and 
 love you." 
 
 She paused, and passed her hand gently 
 among his flaxen curls. 
 
 " Ah, love, you are as good as you are 
 beautiful !" he whispered. 
 
 " Before you spoke thus, I had no thought 
 save of my duty to Eugene." 
 
 "Eugene, who betrayed you !" 
 
 " Yes, to Eugene, who betrayed me, and 
 to my child. After you spoke, I saw life in 
 a new light. The world did not seem to 
 me, any longer, to be the scene of dull quiet 
 home-like duty, but of pleasure, — mad, pas- 
 sionate pleasure, — may be, illicit pleasure, 
 purchased at any cost. And letter after let- 
 ter which you brought me, accompanied by 
 proof which I could not doubt, only served 
 to complete the work, — to wean me from 
 my idol, — false, false idol, Eugene, — and to 
 teach me that this world was not so much 
 made for dull every-day duty, as for those 
 pleasures which, scorning the laws of the 
 common herd, develop into active life every 
 throb of enjoyment of which we are capa- 
 ble." 
 
 "Yes, yes, love," interrupted Beverly, 
 pressing his lips to hers. 
 
 "And thus matters wore on, until you 
 brought me the last, the damning letter. He 
 was going to Boston to see his dying broth- 
 er, — so he pretended, — but in reality to see 
 the woman for whom he had proved faith- 
 less to me. When you brought me this let 
 ter I was mad, — mad, — 0, Beverly " 
 
 " It was enough to drive you mad 1" 
 
 "And yesterday, impelled by some vagua 
 
DAY, SUNSET, NIGHT. 
 
 255 
 
 idea of revenge, I consented to go with you 
 to a place, where, as you said, we would see 
 something of the world, — where, in the ex- 
 citement of a masked ball, I might forget 
 my husband's faithlessness, and at the same 
 time show that I did not ciu-e for his author- 
 ity. Some idea of this kind was in my 
 mind, and last night when he kissed me, and 
 80 coolly lied to me, before his departure, 0, 
 then Beverly, then, I was cut to the quick. 
 You came after he had gone, and, — and — I 
 went with you — " 
 
 ** You did dearest Joanna," said Beverly, 
 pressing her closer to his side. 
 
 They passed from the light into the sha- 
 dows together. 
 
 "And there, you know what happened 
 there," she said, as they stood in the dark- 
 ness. She clung nearer and nearer to him, 
 "But you know, Beverly, you know, that it 
 was not until my senses were maddened by 
 vine," her voice grew low and lower, — "that 
 I gave my person to you." 
 
 In the darkness she laid her head upon his 
 breast, and put her arms about his neck, her 
 bosom all the while throbbing madly against 
 his chest. 
 
 " 0, you know, that in the noble letters, 
 which you wrote to me from time to time — 
 letters breathing a pure spiritual atmosphere, 
 — you spoke of your love for me as some- 
 thing far above all common loves, refined 
 and purified, and separate from all thought 
 of physical impurity. And yet, — and yet, — 
 last night when half crazed by jealousy, I 
 went with you to the place which you 
 named, you took the moment, when my 
 senses were completely delirious with wine, 
 to treat me as though I had been your wife, 
 as though you had been the father of my 
 child." 
 
 She sobbed aloud, and would have fallen 
 to the floor had he not held her in his arms. 
 
 " 0, J oanna, you vex yourself without 
 cause," he said, soothingly, — " I love you, — 
 you know I love you — " 
 
 " 0, but would it not be a dreadful thing, : 
 if you had been deceived in regard to these 
 letters !" 
 
 " Deceived ?" 
 
 " Suppose, for instance, some one had 
 forged them, and imposed them upon you ■ 
 as veritable letters — " i 
 
 L "Forged? This is folly my love." 
 ! " In that case, you and I would be guilty, 
 0, guilty beyond power of redemption, and 
 , Eugene would be an infamously murdered 
 man." 
 
 "Dismiss these gloomy thoughts. The 
 letters were true — " 
 
 " 0, you are certain, — certain — " 
 " I swear it, — swear it by all I hold dear 
 on earth or hope hereafter." 
 
 " 0, do not swear, Beverly. Who could 
 doubt you f " 
 
 They passed toward the light again. She 
 wiped the tears from her eyes — those eyes 
 which shone all the brighter for the tears. 
 
 "And the day after to-morrow," said Bev- 
 erly, as he rested his hand upon her shoul- 
 der, — " we will leave for Italy — " 
 
 " You have been in Italy ?" asked Jo- 
 anna. 
 
 " 0, yes dearest, and Italy is only another 
 name for Eden," he replied, growing warm, 
 even eloquent — " there far removed from a 
 cold, a heartless world, we will live, we 
 will die together !" 
 
 " Would it not," she said, in a low whis- 
 per, as with her hand on his shoulders and 
 her bosom beating against his own, she looked 
 up earnestly into his face, " 0, would it not 
 be well, could we but die at this moment, — 
 die now, when our love is in its youngest 
 and purest bloom, — die here on this cold 
 earth, only to live again, and live with each 
 other in a happier world ?" 
 
 And in her emotion, she wound her arms 
 convulsively about his neck and buried her 
 face upon his breast. 
 
 " Dismiss these gloomy thoughts," — he 
 kissed her forehead — " there are many happy 
 hours before us in this world, Joanna. 
 Think not of death — " 
 
 " 0, do you know, Beverly," she raised 
 her face, — it was radiant with loveliness— 
 " that I love to think of death. Death, you 
 know, is such a test of sincerity. Before it 
 falsehood falls dumb and hypocrisy drops its 
 mask — " 
 
 " Nay, nay you must dismiss these gloomy 
 thoughts. You know I love you — you 
 know — " 
 
 He did not complete the sentence, but they 
 passed into the darkness again, his arms 
 about her waist, her head upon his shoulder. 
 
256 
 
 DAY, SUNSET, NIGHT. 
 
 And there, in the gloom, he pressed her 
 to his breast, and as she clung to his neck, 
 whispered certain words, which died in mur- 
 murs on her ear. 
 
 " No, no, Beverly," she answered, in a 
 voice, broken by emotion, " it cannot be. 
 Consider — " 
 
 " Cannot be ? And am I not all to you ?" 
 he said, impassionately, — " Yes, Joanna, it 
 must be — " 
 
 There was a pause, only broken by low 
 murmurs, and passionate kisses. 
 
 " Come then," she said, at last, " come, 
 husband — " 
 
 Without another word, she took him by 
 the hand, and led him from the room out 
 into the darkened hall. Her hand trembled 
 very much, as she led him through the 
 darkness up the broad stairway. Then a 
 door was opened and together they entered 
 the bed-chamber. 
 
 It is the same as it was last night. Only 
 instead of a taper a wax candle burns brightly 
 before a mirror.' The curtains still fall like 
 snow-flakes along the lofty windows, the 
 alabaster vase is still filled with flowers, — 
 they are withered now, — and from the half- 
 shadowed alcove, gleams the white bed, with 
 curtains enfolding it in a snowy canopy. 
 
 Trembling, but beautiful beyond the power 
 of words, — beautiful in the flush of her 
 cheeks, the depth of her gaze, the passion 
 of her parted lips, — beautiful in every mo- 
 tion of that bosom which heaved madly 
 against the fblds which only half- concealed 
 it, — trembling, she led him toward the bed. 
 
 " My marriage bed," she whispered, and 
 laid her hand upon the closed curtains. 
 
 Beverly was completely carried away by 
 the sight of her passionate loveliness — 
 " Once your marriage bed with a false hus- 
 band," he said, and laid his hand also upon 
 the closed curtains, " now your marriage bed 
 with a true husband, who will love you until 
 death—" 
 
 And he drew aside the curtains. 
 
 Drew aside the curtains, folding Joanna 
 passionately to his breast, and, — fell back 
 with a cry of horror. Fell back, all color 
 gone from his face, his features distorted, his 
 paralyzed hands extended above his head. 
 
 Joanna did not seem to share his terror 
 for she burst into a fit of laughter. 
 
 " Our marriage bed, love," she said, " why- 
 are you so cold ?" and again she laughed. 
 
 But Beverly could not move nor speak. 
 His eyes were riveted to the bed. 
 
 Within the snowy curtains, was stretched 
 a corpse, attired in the white garment of the 
 grave. Through the parted curtains, the 
 light shone fully on its livid face, while the 
 body was enveloped in half shadow, — shone 
 fully on the white forehead with its jet-black 
 hair, upon the closed lids, and — upon the 
 dark wound between the eyes. The agonj 
 of the last spasm was still upon that face, 
 although the hands were folded tranquilly 
 on the breast. Eugene Livingstone was 
 sleeping upon his marriage bed, — sleeping, 
 undisturbed by dreams. 
 
 Joanna stood there, holding the curtain 
 with her uplifted hand, her eyes bright, her 
 face flushed with unnatural excitement. 
 Again she laughed loud and long — the 
 echoes of her laughter sounded strangely in 
 that marriage chamber. 
 
 " What, — what does this mean ?" cried 
 Beverly, at last finding words — "is this a 
 
 dream a " He certainly w^is in a 
 
 fearful fright, for he could not proceed. 
 
 " Why, so cold, love ?" she said, smiling, 
 " it is our marriage bed, you know — " 
 
 " Joanna, Joanna," he cried, — " are you 
 mad ?" and in his fright, he looked anx- 
 iously toward the door. 
 
 She took a package from her breast and 
 flung it at his feet. 
 
 " Go," she cried, " but first take up yonr 
 forged letters — " 
 
 " Forged letters ?" he echoed. 
 
 " Forged letters," she answered, — her 
 voice was changed, — her manner changed, — 
 there was no longer any passion on her face, 
 — pale as marble, her face rigid as death, she 
 confronted him with a gaze that he dared 
 not meet. " Go !" she cried, " but take with 
 you your forged letters. Yes, the letters 
 which you forged, and which you used as 
 the means of my ruin. You have robbed 
 me of my honor, robbed me of my husband, 
 — your work is complete — go !" 
 
 Her face was white as the dress which she 
 wore, — she pointed to the threshold. 
 
 "Joanna, Joanna," faltered Beverly. 
 
 "Not a word, not a word, villain, villain 
 without remorse or shame! I am guilty, 
 
DAY, SUNSET, NIGHT. 
 
 257 
 
 and might excuse myself by pleading your 
 treachery. But I make no excuse. But for 
 you, — for you, — where is the excuse ? You 
 have dishonored the wife, — made the child 
 fatherless, — your work is complete ! Go ! " 
 
 Beverly saw that all his schemes had been 
 unraveled ; conscious of his guilt, and con- 
 scious that everything was at an end between 
 him and Joanna, he made a desperate attempt 
 to rally his usual self-possession ; or, perhaps, 
 impudence would be the better word. 
 
 He moved to the door, and placed his 
 hand upon the lock. 
 
 " Well, madam, as you will," he said, and 
 bowed. " Under the circumstances, I can 
 only wish you a very good evening." 
 
 He opened the door. 
 
 " Hold ! " she cried in a voice that made 
 him start. — " Your work is complete, but so, 
 also, is mine — " 
 
 She paused ; her look excited in him a 
 strange curiosity for the completion of the 
 sentence. " You will not long enjoy your 
 triumph. You have not an hour to live. 
 The wine which you drank was poisoned." 
 
 Beverly's heart died in him at these 
 words. A strange fever in his veins, a stran- 
 ge throbbing at the temples, which he had 
 felt for an hour past, and which he had at- 
 tributed to the excitement resulting from the 
 events of the day, he now felt again, and 
 with redoubled force. 
 
 "No, — no, — it is not so," he faltered. — 
 Woman, you are mad, — you had not the 
 heart to do it." 
 
 " Had not the heart ?" again she burst into 
 a loud laugh, — " 0, no, I was but jesting. 
 Look here," — she darted to the bed, flung 
 the curtain aside, and disclosed the lifeless 
 form of her husband, — " and here !" gliding 
 to another part of the room, she gently drew 
 a cradle into light, and throwing its silken 
 covering aside, disclosed the face of her 
 sleeping child, — that cherub boy, who, as on 
 the night previous, slept with his rosy cheek 
 on his bent arm, and -the ringlets of his au- 
 burn hair tangled about his forehead, white 
 as alabaster. " And now look upon me ! " 
 she dilated before him like a beautiful fiend ; 
 " we are all before you, — the dead husband, 
 the dishonored wife, the fatherless child, — 
 and yet I had not the heart," — she laughed 
 again. 
 
 Beverly heard no more. Uttering a blas- 
 phemous oath, he rushed from the room. 
 
 And the babe, awakened by the sound of 
 voices, opened its clear, innocent eyes, and 
 reached forth its baby hands toward its 
 mother. t 
 
 Urged forward by an impulse like mad- 
 ness, Beverly entered the rooms on the first 
 floor, seized the rough overcoat and threw it 
 on, passing the red neckerchief around its 
 collar, to conceal his face. Then drawing 
 the cap over his eyes, he hurried from the 
 house. 
 
 " It's all nonsense," he muttered, and de- 
 scended the steps. — I'll walk it off." 
 
 Walk it off ! And yet the fever burned 
 the more fiercely, his temples throbbed more 
 madly, as he said the words. Leaving be- 
 hind him the closed mansion of Eugene Liv- 
 ingstone, with the crape fluttering on the 
 door, he bent his steps toward Broadway. 
 
 " I'm nervous," he muttered. — ** The 
 words of that dev'lish hysterical woman have 
 unsettled me. How cold it is !" He felt 
 cold as ice for a moment, and the next in- 
 stant his veins seemed filled with molten fire. 
 
 He hurried along the dark street toward 
 Broadway. The distant lights at the end 
 of the street, where it joined Broadway, 
 seemed to dance and whirl as he gazed upon 
 them ; and his senses began to be bewildered. 
 
 "I've drank too much," he muttered. — 
 " If I can only reach Broadway, and get to 
 my hotel, all will be right." 
 
 But when he reached Broadway, it whirled 
 before him like a great sea of human faces, 
 carriages, houses and flame, all madly con- 
 fused, and rolling through and over each other. 
 
 The crowd gave way before him, as he 
 staggered along. 
 
 " He's drunk," cried one. 
 
 " Pitch into me that way ag'in, old feller, 
 and I'll hit you," cried another. 
 
 It was Christmas Eve, and Broadway was 
 alive with light and motion ; the streets 
 thronged with vehicles, and the sidewalks 
 almost blocked up with men, and women, 
 and children ; the lamps lighted, and the 
 shops and places of amusement illuminated, 
 as if to welcome some great conqueror. But 
 Beverly was unconscious of the external 
 scene. His fashionable dress, concealed by 
 his rough overcoat, and his face hidden by 
 
258 
 
 DAY, SUNSET, NIGHT. 
 
 his cap and red neckerchief, he staggered 
 along, with his head down and his hands 
 swaying from side to side. There was a 
 roaring as of waves or of devouring flame in 
 his ears. A red haze was before his eyes ; 
 and the scenes of his whole life came up to 
 him at once, even as a drowning man sees 
 all his life, in a focus, before the last strug- 
 gle, — there were the persons he had known, 
 the adventures he had experienced, the 
 events of his boyhood, and the triumphs and 
 shames of his libertine manhood, — all these 
 came up to him, and confronted him as he 
 hurried along. Three faces were always be- 
 fore him, — the dead face of Eugene, the 
 pale visage of Joanna, her eyes flaming with 
 vengeance, and, — the innocent countenance 
 of his motherless daughter. 
 
 And thus he hurried along. 
 
 " Old fellow, the stars '11 be arter you," 
 cried one in the crowd, through which he 
 staggered on. 
 
 My eyes ! aint he drunk ?" 
 Don't he pay as much attention to one 
 side o' the pavement as the tother ?" 
 
 "Did you ever see sich worm fence as 
 he lays out ?" 
 
 There was something grotesquely horrible 
 in the contrast between his real condition, 
 and the view which the crowd took of it. 
 
 At length, not knowing whither he went, 
 he turned from the glare and noise of Broad- 
 way into a by-street, and hurried onward, — 
 onward, through the gloom, until he fell. 
 
 In a dark corner of the street, behind the 
 Tombs, close to the stones of that gloomy 
 pile, he fell, and lay there all night long, 
 with no hand to aid him, no eye to pity him. 
 
 He was found, on Christmas morning, stiflf 
 and cold ; his head resting against the wall 
 of the Tombs, his body covered with new- 
 fallen snow. A pile of bricks lay on one 
 side of him, a heap of boards on the other. 
 This was the death-couch of the dashing 
 Beverly Barron ! 
 
 How he died, no one could tell ; it was 
 supposed that he had poisoned himself from 
 remorse at the death of Eugene Livingstone. 
 
 As Beverly hurried from the room, the 
 babe in the cradle opened its clear, innocent 
 eyes, and reached forth its baby hands to- 
 ward its mother. 
 
 She took it, and stilled it to rest upon her 
 bosom ; and then came to the bed and sat 
 down upon it, near her dead husband. 
 
 " Eugene, Eugene !" she gently put her 
 hand upon his cold forehead, — "let me 
 talk to you, — I will not wake you, — let me 
 talk to you, as you sleep. I am guilty, Eu- 
 gene, you know I am, — you cannot forgive 
 me, — I do not ask forgiveness ; but you'll 
 let me be near you, Eugene ? You will not 
 spurn me from you ? This is our child, 
 Eugene, — don't you know him ? — 0, look 
 up and speak to him. Don't, — don't be 
 angry with him, — his mother is a poor, fallen 
 fallen thing, but don't be angry with our 
 child !" 
 
 She did not weep. Her eyes, large and 
 full of light, were fixed upon her husband's 
 face. Cradling her babe upon her bosom, 
 she sat there all night long, talking to Eu- 
 gene, in a low, whispering voice, as though 
 she wished him to hear her, and yet was 
 afraid to awake him from a pleasant slum- 
 ber. The light went out, but still she did 
 not move. She was there at morning light, 
 her baby sleeping on her breast, and her hand 
 laid upon her dead husband's forehead. 
 
 And at early morning light, her father 
 came, — the gray-haired man, — his face frown- 
 ing, and his heart full of wrath against his 
 daughter. 
 
 " What do you here ?" he said, sternly. 
 " This is no place for you. There is to be an 
 inquest soon. You surely do not wish to 
 look upon the ruin you have wrought ?" 
 
 As though she was conscious of his pres- 
 ence, but had not heard his words, she turned 
 her face over her shoulder, — that colorless 
 face, lighted by eyes that still burned with 
 undimmed luster, — and said, — 
 
 " Do you know, father. I have been talk- 
 ing with Eugene, and he has forgiven me r'* 
 
 The voice, the look melted the old man's 
 heart. 
 
 He fell upon the bed, and wept. 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 AN EPISODE. 
 
 Here, my friend, let us take a breathing 
 spell in this, our dark history. Horrors 
 crowd fast and thick upon us, — horrors, not 
 bom of romance, but of that under-current 
 
DAY, SUNSET, NIGHT. 
 
 259 
 
 of real life, which rolls on evermore, beneath 
 the glare and uproar of the Empire City. 
 We do not wish to write them down, — 
 shudder sometimes and drop the pen as we 
 describe them, — and ask ourselves, " Can 
 these things really be ? Is not the world all 
 song and sunshine ? Does that gilded mask 
 which we call by the name of Civilization, — 
 the civilization of the nineteenth century, — 
 only hide the features of a corpse ? " And 
 the answer to these queries comes to us in 
 the columns of every daily paper; in the 
 record of every day's farces and crimes ; in 
 the unwritten history of those masses, who, 
 while we write, are slowly serving their ap- 
 prenticeship of hardship and starvation, in 
 order that at last they may inherit a — 
 grave. 
 
 Ah, it is the task of the author who writes 
 a book, traversing a field so vast as is at- 
 tempted in the present work, not to exagger- 
 ate, but to soften, the perpetual tragedies of 
 every day. He dares not tell all the truth ; 
 he can only vaguely hint at those enormous 
 evils which are the inevitable result, — not 
 of totally depraved human nature, for such 
 a thing never existed, — but of a social sys- 
 tem, which, false alike to God and man, does 
 perpetually tempt one portion of the human 
 race with immense wealth, as it tempts an- 
 other portion with immeasurable poverty. 
 
 But let us leave these dark scenes for a 
 little while. Let us breathe where crime 
 does not poison the air. It is June, and the 
 trees are in full leaf, and through canopies 
 of green leaves, the brooks are singing their 
 summer song. Come out with me into the 
 open country, where every fleeting cloud 
 that turns its white bosom to the sun, as it 
 skims along the blue, shall remind us, not of 
 crime and blood, but of thankfulness to God, 
 that summer is on the land, and that we are 
 alive. Come, — without object, save to drink 
 at some wayside spring, — without hope, 
 other than to lose ourselves among the sum- 
 mer boughs, — let us take a stroll together. | 
 
 Out in the country, near a dusty turnpike, j 
 and a straight, hot railroad track, — but we'll 
 leave the turnpike, which is well scattered 
 with young gentlemen in high shirt-collars, 
 who drink clouds of dust, and drive hired 
 Horses to death, — and we'll leave the rail- 
 road where the steam engine, like a tired 
 
 devil, comes blowing and swearing, with red 
 coals in its mouth, and a cloud of brimstone 
 smoke about its head. We'll climb the rails 
 of yonder gray old fence, and get us straight- 
 way into the fields ; not much have we to show 
 you there. A narrow path winds among 
 tangled bushes and clumps of dwarfed cedar 
 trees ; it shows us, here a grassy nook, hid- 
 den in shade, and there a rough old rock, 
 projecting its bald head in the sun ; and then 
 it goes winding down and down, until you 
 hear the singing of the brook. V/here that 
 brook comes from, you cannot tell ; yonder 
 it is hidden under a world of leaves ; here 
 it sinks from view under a bridge curiously 
 made up of stone, and timber, and sod ; a 
 little to your right it comes into light, dash- 
 ing over cool rocks and forming little lakes 
 all over beds of smooth gray sand. Follow 
 the path and cross the bridge ; we stand in 
 the shade of trees, that are scattered at irreg- 
 ular intervals, along the side of a hill. Here 
 a willow near the brook, with rank grass 
 about its trunks ; there a poplar with a trunk 
 like a Grecian column, and leaves like a can- 
 opy ; and farther on, a mass of oaks, ches- 
 nuts, and maples, grouped together, their 
 boughs mingling, and a thicket of bushes 
 and vines around their trunks. So you see, 
 we stand at the bottom of an amphitheater, 
 one side of which is forest, the other low 
 brushwood ; beyond the brushwood, a distant 
 glimpse of another forest, and in the center 
 of the scene, the hidden brooklet singing its 
 J une-day song. 
 
 You look above, and the blue sky is set in 
 an irregular frame of leaves, — leaves now sha- 
 dowed by a cloud, and now dancing in the sun. 
 
 Let us stretch ourselves upon this level bit 
 of sod, where all is shade and quiet, and 
 
 Think ? No, sir. Do not think that there 
 is such a creature as a bad man, or a crime 
 in the world. But drink the summer air, — 
 drink the freshness of foliage and- flowers, — 
 lull yourself with the song of the brook, — 
 look at the blue sky, and feel that there is a 
 God, and that he is good. 
 
 You may depend you will feel better after 
 it. If you don't, why, it is clear that your 
 mind is upon bank stock, or politics, — and 
 there's not much hope of you. 
 
 Thus, stretched in the shade, at the bot- 
 tom of this leafy amphitheater, you'll wrap 
 
260 
 
 DAY, SUNSET, NIGHT. 
 
 yourself in summer, and forget the world, 
 Avhich, beyond that wall of trees, is still at 
 its old work, — swearing, lying, fretting, lov- 
 ing, hating, and rushing on all the while at 
 steam-engine speed. 
 
 You won't care who's President, or who 
 robbed the treasury of half a million dollars. 
 You'll forget that there is a Pope who 
 washed his hands in the blood of brave 
 men and heroic women. You'll not be anx- 
 ious about the rate of stock ; whether money 
 is tight or easy, shall not trouble you one jot. 
 Thus resting quietly at the bottom of your 
 amphitheater in the country, you'll feel that 
 you are in the church of God, which has 
 sky for roof, leaves for walls, grassy sod for 
 floor, and for music, — hark ! Did you ever 
 hear organ or orchestra that could match 
 that ? The hum of bees, the bubble of 
 brooks, the air rustling among the leaves, all 
 woven together, in one dreamy hymn, that 
 melts into your soul, and takes you up to 
 lieaven, quick as a sunbeam flies I 
 
 And when the sun goes behind the trees, 
 and the dell is filled with broad gleams of 
 golden light and deep masses of shade, you 
 may watch the moon as she steals into sight, 
 right over your head, in the very center of 
 the glimpse of blue sky. You may hear 
 the low murmur which tells you that the 
 day's work is almost done, and that the sol- 
 emn night has come to wrap you in her still- 
 ness. 
 
 And ere you leave the dell, just give one 
 moment of thought to those you love, whose 
 eyes are shut by the grave-yard sod, — think 
 of them, not as dead, but as living and beau- 
 tiful among those stars, — and then taking the 
 path over the brook, turn your steps to the 
 world again. 
 
 Hark ! Here it comes on the steam-en- 
 gine's roar and whistle, — that bustling, hat- 
 ing, fighting world, which, like the steam- 
 engine, rushes onward, with hot coak at its 
 heart, and a brimstone cloud above it. 
 
I E ¥ YORK: 
 
 ITS 
 
 UPPER-TEN AND LOWER MILLION. 
 
 PART SEVENTH. 
 
 THE DAY OF TWENTY-ONE YEARS. 
 
 DECEMBER 25, 1844. 
 
 CHAPTER 1. 
 MARTIN FULMER APPEARS. 
 
 The time was very near. The cycle of 
 twenty-one years was in its last hour. It 
 was the last hour of December twenty-fourth, 
 1844. That hour passed, the twenty-one 
 years would be complete. 
 
 Darkness and storm were upon the Empire 
 City. The snow fell fast, and the wind, 
 howling over the river and the roofs, made 
 mournful music among the arches of unfin- 
 ished Trinity Church. In the gloom, amid 
 the tailing snow, four persons stood around 
 the family vault of the Van Huydens. Even 
 had the storm and darkness failed to cover 
 them from observation, they would have 
 been defended from all prying eyes, by the 
 crape masks which they wore. The marble 
 slab bearing the name of " Van Hutden," 
 was thrust aside, and from the gloom of the 
 vault beneath, the coffin v/as slowly raised 
 into view ; the cofiin which was inscribed 
 with the name of Gulian Van Huyden, and 
 with the all-significant dates, December 25th, 
 1823, and December 25th, 1844. 
 
 Meanwhile, even as the blast howls along 
 the deserted street, let us enter the mansion 
 of Ezekiel Bogart, which, as you are aware, 
 stands, with its old time exterior, alone and 
 desolate, amid the huge structures devoted 
 to traffic. 
 
 In the first of the seven vaults, — square in 
 form, and lined with shelves from the ceil- 
 ing to the floor, — Ezekiel Bogart sits alone. 
 The hanging lamp difi"uses its mild beams 
 around the silent place. Ezekiel is seated 
 in the arm-chair, by the table, his form en- 
 veloped in the wrapper or robe of dark cloth 
 lined with scarlet. The dark skull-cap 
 
 covers the crown of his head ; his eyes are 
 hidden by huge green glasses, and the large 
 white cravat envelopes his throat and the 
 lower part of his face. Leaning forward, his 
 elbow on the table, and his cheek upon his 
 hand, which, veined and sinewy, is white 
 as the hand of a corpse, Ezekiel Bogart is 
 absorbed in thought. 
 
 " I have not seen Gaspar Manuel since last 
 night he utters his thoughts aloud. " This, 
 indeed, is singular 1 The hour of the final 
 settlement is near, and something definite 
 must be known in regard to the lands in 
 California, near the mission of San Luis. 
 What can have prevented him from seeing 
 me the second time ? Can he have met 
 with an accident ?" 
 
 He rang the bell which lay near his hand ; 
 presently, in answer to the sound, the aged 
 servant appeared ; the same who admitted 
 Gaspar Manuel last night, and whose spare 
 form is clad in gray livery, faced with black. 
 
 " Michael, you remember the foreign gen- 
 tleman, Gaspar Manuel, who was here last 
 night ?" 
 
 " That very pale man, with long hair, and 
 such dark eyes ? Yes, sir." 
 
 " You are sure that he has not called here 
 to-day ?" 
 
 "Sure, sir. I have not laid eyes upon 
 him since last night." 
 
 " It is strange !" continued Ezekiel Bo- 
 gart, — " You have attended to all my direc- 
 tions, Michael ?" 
 
 "The banquet- room is prepared as you 
 ordered it, and all your other commands 
 have been carefully obeyed," answered Mi- 
 chael. 
 
 " This will be a busy night for you, Michael. 
 From this hour imtil four in the morning^ 
 
 (261) 
 
262 
 
 yes, until daybreak, you will wait in the re- 
 ception room below, and admit into the house 
 the persons whose name^s you will find on 
 this card." 
 
 Michael advanced and took the card from 
 the hand of his master. 
 
 " These persons, — these only, — mark me, 
 Michael," continued Ezekiel, in a tone of 
 significant emphasis. " And as they arrive, 
 show them up-stairs, into the small apart- 
 ment, next the banquet-room. Tell each 
 one, as he arrives, that I will see him at four 
 o'clock." 
 
 Michael bowed, and said, "Just as you 
 direct, I will do." 
 
 " One of the persons, however, John Hoff- 
 man, otherwise called Ninety-One, I wish to 
 see as soon as he arrives. Bring him to this 
 room at once. You remember him, a stout, 
 muscular man, with a scarred face ?" 
 
 " I do. He was here with you a few hours 
 Bince." 
 
 " There is another of the persons named 
 on that card, whom you will bring to this 
 room at once ; Gaspar Manuel, who was here 
 last night. Kemember, Michael." 
 
 Michael bowed in token of assent, and was 
 about to leave the room, when Ezekiel called 
 him back, 
 
 "About midnight, four persons, having 
 charge of a box, will come to the door and 
 ask for me. Take charge of the box, Mi- 
 chael, and dismiss them. Have the box 
 carried up into the banquet-room. You can 
 now retire, Michael. I know that you will 
 attend faithfully to all that I have given you 
 to do.-' 
 
 " You may rely upon me, sir," said the 
 tried servant, and retired from the room. 
 
 And, once more alone, Ezekiel rested his 
 cheek on his hand, and again surrendered 
 himself to thought. 
 
 " The child of Gulian must be found ; ISTine- 
 ty-One cannot fail. If he is not found before 
 four o'clock, all is lost — all is lost ! Yes, if 
 that child does not appear, this estate, — awful 
 to contemplate in its enormous wealth, — will 
 pass from his grasp, and the labor of twenty- 
 one yeajrs will have been spent for nothing. 
 The estate will pass into the hands of the 
 seven, not one of whom will use his share 
 for anything but the gratification of his appe- 
 cites or the oppression of his kind." 
 
 The old man rose, the light shone over his 
 tall figure, bent by age, as, placing his hands 
 behind his back, he paced to and fro along 
 the floor. He was deeply troubled. An 
 anxiety, heavier than death, weighed down 
 his soul. 
 
 " The seven, — look at them ! Dermoyne 
 is a poor shoemaker. This wealth will in- 
 toxicate and corrupt him. Barnhurst, a cler- 
 ical voluptuary, — he will use his share to 
 gratify his monomania. Yorke, a swindler, 
 who grows rich ■.upon fraud, — his share will 
 enable him to plunge hundreds of the weal- 
 thiest into utter ruin, and convulse, to its 
 center, the whole world of commerce and of 
 industry. Barron, — a fashionable sensual- 
 ist, — he will surround himself with a harem. 
 Godlike, a Borgia, — an intellectual demon, — 
 his share will create a world of crimes. 
 Harry Eoyalton, a sensualist, though of a 
 different stamp from the others, will expend 
 his in the wine-cup and at the gambling- 
 table. There are six of the seven. — truly a 
 worthy company to share the largest private 
 estate in the world ! As for the seventh, he 
 has gone to his account. 
 
 Thus meditating, Ezekiel Bogart, slowly 
 paced the floor. He paused suddenly, for a 
 thought full of consequences, the most vital, 
 flashed over his soul. 
 
 " What if Martin Fulmer should refuse 
 to divide the estate ? Alas ! alas ! his oath," — 
 he pressed his hand against his forehead, — 
 " his oath made to Gulian Yan Huyden, in 
 his last hour, will crush the very thought of 
 such a refusal. The Will must be obeyed ; 
 yes, strictly, faithfully, to the letter, in its 
 most minute details." 
 
 Once more resuming his walk, he con- 
 tinued, — 
 
 " But the child will be discovered, — the 
 child will be here at the appointed hour." 
 
 He spoke these words in a tone of pro- 
 found conviction. 
 
 " I trust in Providence ; and Providence 
 will not permit this immense wealth to pass 
 into the hands of those who will abuse it, 
 and make of it the colossal engine of human 
 misery." 
 
 After a moment of silent thought, he con-- 
 tinned, — 
 
 « No, — no, — this wealth cannot pass into 
 the hands of the seven ! When Gulian, in 
 
THE DAY OF TWENTY-ONE YEARS. 
 
 263 
 
 his hist hour, intrusted it to Martin Fulmcr, 
 bequeathing it, after the hipse of twenty-one 
 years, to seven persons, in different parts of 
 the union, he doubtless thought that chance, 
 to say nothing of Providence, wouhl find 
 among the number at least four with good 
 hearts and large mental vision. He did not 
 think, — he did not dream, that at least five 
 out of the seven would prove totally un- 
 worthy of his hopes, altogether unfit to pos- 
 sess and wield such an incredible wealth. 
 And, believing in Providence, I cannot 
 think, for a moment, that He will permit 
 this engine of such awful power to pass into 
 hands that M-ill use it to the ruin and the 
 degradation of the human race. The child 
 will appear, and God will bless that child." 
 
 A sound pealed clear and distinct through- 
 out the mansion. It was the old clock in 
 the hall, striking the hour. Ezekiel stood 
 as if spell-bound, while the sounds rolled in 
 sad echoes through the mansion. 
 
 It struck the hour of twelve. The cycle 
 of twenty-one years was complete. 
 
 The old man sank on his knees, and bury- 
 ing his face in his hands, sent up his soul, in 
 a voiceless Tj>rayer. 
 
 *' Come what will, this matter must be left 
 to the hands of Providence," he said, in a 
 low voice, as he rose. "If the child does 
 not appear at four o'clock, Martin Fulmer 
 has no other course, than to divide this un- 
 told wealth among such of the seven as are 
 present. Before morning light his trust ex- 
 pires. But, — but, — " and he pressed his 
 clenched hands nervously together, — the 
 child ivill appear." 
 
 Taking up a silver candlestick, he lighted 
 the wa>: candle which it held, and went, in 
 silence, through the seven vaults, (described 
 in a previous chapter) which contained the 
 title-deeds, a portion of the specie, and the 
 secret police records of the Van Huyden 
 estate. 
 
 As he passed from silent va-ilt to silent 
 vault, not a word escaped his lips. 
 
 He was thinking of the incredible wealth, 
 whose evidences were all around him, — of 
 the awful power which that wealth would 
 confer upon its possessors, — of Nameless, or 
 Carl Eaphael, the son of Gulian Van Huy- 
 den, — of the appointed hour, now close at 
 Dand 
 
 17 
 
 " What if Martin Fulmer should bum 
 every title-deed and record here," — he held 
 the light above his head, as he surveyed the 
 vault, — "thus leaving the estate in the 
 hands of the ten thousand tenants who now 
 occupy its houses and lands ? These parch- 
 ments once destroyed, every tenant would be 
 the virtual owner of the house or lot of 
 land which he now occupies. This would 
 create, in fact, ten thousand proprietors, — 
 perhaps twenty thousand, — instead of seven 
 heirs." 
 
 It was a great thought, — a thought which, 
 carried into action, would have baptized ten 
 thousand hearts with peace, and filled thrice 
 ten thousand hearts with joy unspeakable. 
 But 
 
 " It cannot be. Martin Fulmer must keep 
 his oath. The rest is for Providence." 
 
 He returned to the first room, or vault, 
 and from a drawer of the table, drew forth 
 a bundle of keys. 
 
 " I will visit tliose rooms,'' he said, " and 
 in the meantime Ninety-One will arrive with 
 Carl Raphael." 
 
 Light in hand, he left the room, and passed 
 along a lofty corridor with panneled walls. 
 As the light shone over Ms tall figure, bent 
 with age, and enveloped in a dark robe lined 
 with scarlet, yoU might have thought him 
 the magician of some old time story, on his 
 way to the cell of his most sacred vigils, had 
 it not been for his skull-cap, huge green 
 glasses, and enormous white cravat; these 
 imparted something grotesque to his appear- 
 ance, and effectually concealed his features, 
 and the varying expressions of his coun- 
 tenance. 
 
 He placed a key in the lock of a door. It 
 was the door of a chamber which no living 
 being had entered for twenty-one years. 
 Ezekiel seemed to hesitate ere he crossed 
 the threshold. At length, turning the key 
 in the lock, — it grated harshly, — he pushed 
 open the door, — he crossed the threshold. 
 
 A sad and desolate place ! Once elegant, 
 luxurious ; the very abode of voluptuous 
 wealth, it was now sadder than a tomb. 
 The atmosphere was heavy with the breath 
 of years. The candle burned but dimly as 
 it encountered that atmosphere, which, for 
 twenty-one years, had not known a single 
 ray of sunlight, a single breath of air. 
 
264 
 
 THE DAY OF TWENTY-ONE YEARS. 
 
 A grand old place with lofty walls, concealed 
 by tapestry, — three windows looking to the 
 street (they had not been opened for twenty- 
 one years) adorned with curtains of em- 
 broidered lace, a bureau surmounted by an 
 oval mirror, chairs of dark mahogany, a 
 carpet soft as down, and a couch enshrined 
 in an alcove, with silken curtains and cover- 
 let and pillow, yet bearing the impress of a 
 human form. A grand old place, but there 
 was dust everywhere ; everywhere dust, the 
 breath of years, the wear and tear of time. 
 You could not see your face in the mirror ; 
 the cobwebs covered it like a vail. You 
 left the print of your footsteps upon the 
 downy carpet. The purple tapestry, was 
 purple no longer ; it was black with dust, 
 and the moth had eaten it into rags. The 
 once snow-white curtains of the windows, 
 were changed to dingy gray, and the canopy 
 of the couch, looked anything but pure and 
 spotless, as the light fell over its folds. 
 
 Did Ezekiel Bogart hesitate and tremble 
 as he approached that couch ? 
 
 He held the light above his head, — and 
 looked within the couch. Silken coverlet 
 and downy pillow, covered with dust, and 
 bearing still the impress of. the form which 
 had died there twenty-one years ago. 
 
 "Alice Van Huyden I" ejaculated Ezekiel 
 Bogart, as though the dead one was present, 
 listening to his every word, — " Here, twenty- 
 one yeai-s ago, you gave birth to your son, 
 and, — died. Yes, here you gave life to 
 that son, — Carl Raphael Van Huyden I must 
 call him, — who, once condemned to death, — 
 then buried beside you in the family vault, — 
 then for two years the tenant of a mad-house, 
 will at four o'clock, appear and take posses- 
 sion of his own name, and of the estate of 
 his father !" 
 
 Turning from the bed, Ezekiel approached 
 the bureau. The mirror was thick with 
 dust, and in front of it stood an alabaster 
 candlestick — the image of a dancing nymph, 
 — now alas ! looking more like ebony than 
 alabaster. It held a half-burned waxen 
 candle. 
 
 " That candle, when lighted last, shone 
 over the death agonies of Alice Van Huy- 
 den." 
 
 Up and down that place, whose very air 
 breathed heart-rending memories, the old 
 
 man walked, his head sinking low and lower 
 on his breast at every step. 
 
 He paused at length before a portrait, 
 covered with dust. Standing on a chair, 
 Ezekiel witli the purple tapestry, brushed 
 the dust away from the canvas and tho 
 walnut frame. The portrait came out into 
 light, so fro-^h, so vivid, so life-like, that 
 Ezekiel stepped hastily from the chair as 
 though the apparition of one long dead, had 
 suddenly confronted him. 
 
 It was a portrait of a manly face, shaded 
 by masses of brown hair. There was all th« 
 hope of young manhood, in the dark eyes, 
 on the cheeks rounded with health, and upon 
 the warm lips full of life and love. A 
 fresh countenance; one that you would 
 have taken at sight for the countenance of a 
 man of tme nobility of heart and soul. It 
 was the portrait of Gulian Van Huyden at 
 twenty-one. 
 
 For a long time Ezekiel Bogart lingered 
 silently in front of the portrait. 
 
 At last he left the chamber, locked the 
 door, — first pausing to look over his shoulder 
 toward the bed upon which Alice Van Huy- 
 den died, — and then slowly ascended to the 
 upper rooms of the old mansion. 
 
 * * * * * * 
 
 He came into a small chamber panneled 
 with oak : an oaken pillar, crowned with 
 carved flowens, and satyr faces in ever)-- cor- 
 ner ; and a death's head grinning from the 
 center of the oaken ceiling. Once the floor, 
 the walls, the ceiling and the pillars, had 
 shone like polished steel, but now they 
 were black with dust. 
 
 Holding the light above his skull-cap, 
 Ezekiel silently surveyed the scene. 
 
 Two tressels stood in the center of the 
 floor. These were the only objects to 
 break the monotony of the dust-covcred 
 floor and walls. 
 
 Upon these tressels, twenty-one years 
 before, had been placed a cofiin, inscribed 
 with the name of Gulian Van Huyden, and 
 the dates,— December 25th, 1823, and De- 
 cember, 25th, 184-1. 
 
 Opposite these tressels, a panel had re- 
 cently been removed, disclosing a cavity or 
 recess in the wall. In the recess the Iron 
 chest had been buried twenty-one years before. 
 1 It was vacant now, — the iron chest was gone. 
 
THE DAY. OF TWENTY-ONE YEAHS. 
 
 265 
 
 As the light shone around this place, j 
 whose every detail was linked with the I 
 past, the breast of Ezekiel Bogart heaved 
 with emotion, but no word passed his lips, 
 lie lingered there a long time. 
 
 Through the confined doorway, he passed 
 into the garret nook, whose roof was formed 
 by the slope of the heavy rafters, which now 
 were hung with cobwebs, while a small win- 
 dow, with heavy frame and narrow panes, 
 shook to the impulse of the winter wind. A 
 mahogany desk and an old-fushioned arm- 
 chair, stand between the door and the win- 
 dow, 
 
 "Here Gulian and Martin Fulmer held 
 their last interview," soliloquized Ezekiel, as 
 he stood alone in the dreary garret,-^" there 
 stood Gulian, there knelt Martin, as he took 
 the oath. Fifteen minutes afterward, Gu- 
 lian was a corpse, and Martin was loaded 
 with the awful trust, which he has borne 
 alone for twenty-one years." 
 
 He approached the window. All was 
 dark without. Sleet and snow beat against 
 the window-pane. The wind howled dis- 
 mally over the roof; the storm was abroad 
 over the city and the bay. 
 
 "From this window he saw Manhattan 
 Bay, and the spire of old Trinity^ Yes, 
 from this window, he pointed out to Martin 
 Fulmer, the Avindows of the Banquet-room, 
 in the western wing of the mansion, as they 
 shone wdth the glad light of the Christmas 
 Festival. It is Christmas again, — once more 
 the windows of the banquet- room are 
 lighted, — yes, I can see the lights glimmer- 
 ing through the storm, — but not for a festival. 
 Ah me ! what years have passed since those 
 windows were lighted for a festival. 
 
 Sadly Ezekiel Bogart left the garret, and 
 descending the narrow stair-case, and passing 
 a corridor, made the best of his way toward 
 the lower rooms of the mansion. Impressed 
 to his very soul, with the consciousness that 
 he would soon behold the son of Gulian Van 
 Huyden — Carl Raphael — he entered the first 
 of the seven vaults, where the hanging lamp 
 still shone upon the arm-chair, the shelved 
 walls, and the huge table overspread with 
 papers. 
 
 Seating himself in the arm-chair, he rang 
 the bell. It was not long before the aged 
 servant appeared. 
 
 [ " Has John Hoffman, otherwise called 
 I Ninety-One, arrived ?" 
 " No, Sir." 
 
 " This, indeed, is strange, very strange !" 
 ejaculated Ezekiel, much agitated, "and 
 Gaspar Manuel — has he been here ?" 
 
 " No, sir," answered Michael, " the four 
 persons Avith the box have been here, and 
 that is all. I had the box carried into the 
 banquet- room." 
 
 At a sign from Ezekiel, the aged servant 
 retired. 
 
 " Altogether strange ! The seven were 
 notified by letter, and by a carefully worded' 
 advertisement in the daily papers, of the 
 jilace and Jwur of meeting. And not one 
 arrived ! What if they should not appear ?" 
 
 The sound of the old clock disturbed his 
 meditations. One, — two, — three ! He had 
 passed three hours in wandering through 
 the. old mansion. Only a single hour re- 
 mained. 
 
 " Three hours gone ! " Ezekiel started 
 from his chair, "no word of Ninety-One, 
 Gaspar Manuel, or the seven ! It may be," 
 and he felt a strange hope kindling in his 
 heart, " that the night will pass and not one 
 of the seven appear !" 
 
 The words had not passed his lips, when 
 a heavy footstep was heard in the corridor, 
 and the door was flung open. A stout mus- 
 cular form came rapidly to the light. It 
 was Ninety-One. His garments were covered 
 with snow, and there were stains of blood 
 upon his scarred face. From beneath his 
 shaggy eyebrows, knit in a settled frown, 
 his eyes shone with a ferocious glare. 
 " What news ?" ejaculated Ezekiel. 
 Ninety-One struck his clenched hand upon 
 the table, and gave utterance to a blasphe- 
 mous oath. 
 
 " News ? Hell's full of sich news ! Only 
 to think of it ! It's enough to set a man to 
 wishin' himself safe in jail again. 'Don't 
 give it up so easy !' That's what I've said 
 all along. An' I have mt give it up easy, 
 nayther. And now what's it come to ?" 
 
 " The Boy. — the son of Gulian Van Huy- 
 den," cried Ezekiel, resting his hands upon 
 the table. 
 
 Ninety-One sank into a chair and wiped 
 the blood from his face. 
 
 " You know I tracked the boy all day, 
 
266 
 
 THE DAT OF TWENTY-ONE YEARS. 
 
 until I found his quarters in the four story 
 buildin", whixr there wjvs a dead man ? — " 
 
 " Yes, — yes, — and you came and told me 
 that you hail foun-l his home. The people 
 in the room adjoining the one which he 
 occupies, informed you that he had gone 
 out -with the young girl, but that he would 
 shortly return. You came and told me, and 
 then went back to his room to await his 
 return, taking with you a letter from me — " 
 
 "I went back, and waited, and waited, 
 havin' no company but the dead man, until 
 dark. Then I sallied out, and went to the 
 liouse, where we all was last night. I'd a 
 hard time to get in, but git in I did, — and 
 jist too late — " 
 
 " Too late ?— " 
 
 " The boy and the gal had been thar, and 
 they'd jist gone. One of the folks in livery 
 show'd me which way, — 'down the street 
 toward the river, and only five minutes ago,' 
 says he. Down the street I put, and by this 
 time the snow was fallin' and the wind 
 bio win' a harrycane. Down the street I put, 
 and when I came near the river, I heer'd a 
 woman cry out, * help ! murder !' Mind, I 
 tell you, I lost no time, but made straight 
 for the pier, an' thar I find the gal, Avringin' 
 her hands an' p'intin' to the river — " 
 
 "And the boy — the son of Gulian ? — " 
 
 "Four fellers had come behind him, as he 
 was about turnin' into the street in which he 
 lived, — they had dragged him from her, — 
 she foUered them on to the pier, cryin', 
 * help ! murder !' and they'd tied him, and 
 put him into a boat and made out into the 
 river. As she told me this story, I looked 
 about me for a boat, — thar wasn't a boat to 
 be seen, — so I detarmined to jump in and 
 swim arter 'em anyhow, though the river 
 was full of ice and the wind a-blowin' like 
 Lucifer — " 
 
 " You leaped into the river ?" 
 
 "No, I did not. For as the gal stood 
 cryin', an' moanin', an' p'intin', out into the 
 dark thick night, the boat came back, and 
 the four gallus birds jumped on the wharf — " 
 
 " And the child, — 0, my God ! the son 
 of Gulian ?— " 
 
 " They'd hove him overboard !" 
 
 The old man uttered a heart-rending 
 groan, and raised his hands to heaven. 
 
 " Fatality !" he cried. 
 
 " I made at 'em at once, — and we j'ined 
 in, four to one, teeth an' toe nails. * Don't 
 give it up so easy !' I said, but what's the 
 use o' tulkin' '? I broke a jaw for one of 
 'em an' caved tlie crust in for another ; but I 
 wa'n't a match for slung-shot behind the 
 ear. They knocked me stoopid. An' when 
 I opened my eyes again, I found myself in 
 their hands, arrested on the charge o' havin' 
 murdered young Soraers, an' o' robbin' Isr'el 
 Yorke. They tied me, took me to a room 
 up town, whar they war j'ined by Blossom, 
 — they tried to gouge money out o' me, but 
 as I hadn't any, it wa'n'tf so easy. When 
 they got tired o' that, I purtended to sleep, 
 an' overheer'd their talk. The hansuni 
 Colonel, Tarleton, my pertikler friend, had 
 hired the four to waylay the ho>/, and carry 
 him out into the river. Bloseom didn't 
 know anythin' about it ; he SAVore like a fiery 
 furnace when they told him of it» Arter a 
 while, as I found they Avere goin' to take me 
 to the Tombs if they couldn't git any money 
 out o' me, I broke for the door, and came 
 away in a hurr}-, an' here I am." 
 
 "And the child of Gulian is gone 1 Fata- 
 lity ! Fatality !" groaned Ezekiel Bogart. 
 
 " In the river, — tied and gagged, — in the 
 river," sullenly replied Ninety-One ; and the 
 next moment he uttered a wild cry and 
 leaped to his feet. 
 
 Ezekiel Bogart had removed the skull- 
 cap, the green glasses and the huge cravat. 
 In place of a countenance oi»scured by a 
 grotesque disguise, appeared a noble face, a 
 broad forehead, rendered venerable by masses 
 of snow-Avhite hair. His beard, also Avhite 
 as snow, left bare the outlines of his massive 
 chin and descended upon his breast. And 
 sunken deep beneath his Avhite eyebroAvs, 
 his large eyes shone Avith the light of a great 
 intellect, a generous heart. It Avas indeed a 
 noble head. True, his mouth was large, and 
 the lips severely set, his large nose bent to 
 one side, his cheek-bones high and promi- 
 nent, but the calm steady light of his eyes, 
 the bold outlines of his forehead, — stamped 
 Avith thought, Avith genius, — gave character 
 to his entire face, and made its very devia- 
 tions from regularity Of feature, all the more 
 impressive and commanding. 
 
 " It is the Doctor !" cried Ninoty-One. 
 " Yer ha'r is Avhite and thar's wrinklea about 
 
2G7 
 
 yer mouth an' eyes, but I know you, Doctor 
 Martin Fahner." 
 
 CMAPTER II. 
 
 THE SEVEN" ARE SUMMONED. 
 
 It was, in truth, that singular man, who 
 in the course of our narrative, has appeared 
 us the Judge of the Court of Ten Millions 
 as the "man in the ^urtout, with manifold 
 capes," as Ezekiel Bogart, the General Agent; 
 and who, at length, appears in his own char- 
 acter, — Dr. Martin Fulmer, the trustee of the 
 Van Huyden estate. 
 
 " Be silent, John," — the Doctor rose and 
 gently waved his hand, — his bent form for 
 a moment became straight and erect, — his 
 attitude was noble and impressive. "The 
 child whom, twenty-one years ago, Gulian 
 Van Huyden intrusted to your care, has, this 
 night, — even as the misfortunes of long 
 years were about to be succeeded by peace, 
 security, the jx)ssession of unbounded wealth, 
 — met his death at the instigation of Gulian's 
 brother. Be silent, John, for the shadow of 
 almighty fate is passing over us ! It was 
 to be, and it was ! Who shall resist the de- 
 crees of Providence ? Behold ! the fabric 
 which I have spent twenty-one years to 
 build, is dust and ruins at my feet !" 
 
 There was the dignity of despair in his 
 tone, his' look, his every attitude. 
 
 He slowly moved toward the door. — " Re- 
 main here, John, until morning. I may 
 want the aid of your arm. The worst has 
 fallen upon me," he continued, as though 
 speaking to himself, " and nothing now re- 
 mains but to fulfill the last conditions of my 
 trust, and — to die." 
 
 He left the room, and in the darkness, along 
 corridor, and up stairway, pursued his w^ay 
 slowly to the banquet-room. 
 
 " To this estate I have offered up twenty- 
 one years of my life, — of my soul. For it I 
 have denied myself the companionship of a 
 wife, the joy of hearing a child call me by 
 the name of ' father !' I have traversed the 
 globe in its behalf ; made myself a dweller 
 in all lands ; have left the beautiful domain 
 of that science which loses itself among the 
 stars, to make myself a student in the sci- 
 ence of human misery, in the dark philoso- 
 phy of human despair. I have made myself 
 
 the very slave of this estate. Believing that 
 one day, ir^ enormous wealth would be de- 
 voted to the anielioration of social misery, I 
 have made myself familiar with the entire 
 anatomy of the social world ; have dwelt in 
 the very heart of its most loathsome evils ; 
 have probed to the quick the ulcer of its 
 moral leprosy. But at all times, and in 
 every phase of my career, I did hope, that 
 out of this son of Gulian's, cast like a waif 
 upon the voyage of life, and made the sub- 
 ject of superhuman misfortune, Providence 
 would at length mould a good, strong man, 
 with heart and intellect, to wield the Van 
 Huyden estate, for the social regeneration of 
 his race. My hope is ashes." 
 
 With words like these in his soul, only 
 half-uttered on his tongue, he opened a door 
 and passed into the banquet-room. 
 
 It was brilliantly lighted by an antique 
 chandelier which hung from the lofty ceiling. 
 It was arranged for the last scene. 
 
 In this banquet-room, twenty-one years 
 ago, there was the sound of merry voices, 
 mingled with the clink of wine-glasses ; 
 there were hearts mad with joy, and faces 
 dressed in smiles ; and there was one face 
 dressed in smiles, which masked a heart de- 
 voured by the tortures of the damned. 
 
 Now the scene was changed. The doors, 
 windows, the pictures of the Van Huyden 
 family which lined the lofty walls, were con- 
 cealed by hangings of bright scarlet. A round 
 table, covered with a white cloth, and sur- 
 rounded by eight antique arm-chairs, alone 
 broke the monotony of that vast and brilliantly 
 lighted banquet-hall. The chandelier which 
 shone upon the hangings, and lighted up 
 every parti^ of the room, shone down upon 
 the white cloth of the table, and upon a 
 single object which varied its surface, — a 
 small portfolio, bound in black leather. 
 
 In that portfolio were comprised the mys- 
 teries of the Van Huyden estate. 
 
 Beneath the table, and shaded by it 
 from the light, dimly appeared an iron chest, 
 and a coffin covered with black cloth, — both 
 were half-concealed beneath a pall of velvet, 
 fringed with tainished gold. 
 
 Martin Fulmer attentively surveyed this 
 scene, and a sudden thought seemed to strike 
 him. "It will not do," he said, "let the old 
 plac^f in this hour, put on all its memories." 
 
2G8 
 
 THE DAY OF TWENTY-ONE YEARS. 
 
 He rang the bell, and four servants, attired 
 in gray liveries, appeared from beneath the 
 hangings. Martin whispered his commands 
 in a low voice, and they obeyed \vithout a 
 word. Moving to and fro, without uproar, 
 in the course of a few minutes they had 
 completely changed the appearance of the 
 hall. Thus changed, the banquet-room has, 
 indeed, put on its old memories ; it wears 
 the look, it breathes the air of the past. 
 
 The light of the chandelier, no longer 
 dazzling, falls in subdued radiance around 
 a lofty hall, whose ceiling is supported by 
 eight pillars of cedar, grotesquely carved 
 from base to capital, with the faces of monks 
 and nuns, — all of the round and oily stamp, 
 — with beasts, and birds, and fruits, and 
 flowers. The glaring scarlet hangings cluster 
 in festoons around the capitals of the pillars ; 
 and between the pillars appear, upon the 
 panneled walls, portraits of the Van Huyden 
 family, in frames of oak, and walnut, and 
 gilt, for seven generations ; beginning with 
 the gi'im face of the ancestor, who landed 
 on Manhattan Island in the year 1620, and 
 ending with the youthful, artist-like face of 
 Carl Kaphael, painted in 1842. (This por- 
 trait of Nameless, Martin Fulmer procured 
 from the study of Cornelius Berman.) The 
 lofty windoAvs on one side, w^ere hidden by 
 curtains of dark purple. At one end of the 
 spacious hall, was a broad hearth, blazing 
 with a cheerful wood-fire ; at the other, on a 
 dark platform, arose a marble image of ** the 
 MASTER," as large as life, and thrown dis- 
 tinctly into view by the dark background. 
 
 There are two altars covered with black 
 velvet, fringed with gold ; one on each side 
 -of the table. The altar on the right supports 
 the coflSin ; the one on the left, the iron chest ; 
 and around coffin and iron chest, as for a 
 funeral, tall wax candles are dimly burning. 
 
 The dark panneled walls, — the huge pil- 
 lars, quaintly carved, — the pictures, all save 
 one, dim with age, — the hearth and its flame, 
 — the white image of the Savior, — the cen- 
 tral table, with its eight arm-chairs, — the 
 dark altars, with wax candles burning around 
 cofiin and iron chest, — all combined to pre- 
 sent an eff"ect which, deepened by the dead 
 stillness, is altogether impressive and ghast- 
 like. 
 
 " The place looks like the eld time," ex- 
 
 claims Martin Fulmer, slowly surveying t.s 
 every detail, — " and, — " 
 
 The sound of the old clock again ! How it 
 rings through the mansion, — rings, and swells, 
 and dies away ! One, — two, — three, — four ! 
 
 Martin Fulmer sinks into the arm-chair, 
 at the head of the table, and from beneath 
 his waistcoat draws forth a parchment, — the 
 last will and testament of Gulian Van Huyden. 
 
 " There is no other Avay, — I must begin 
 he casts his eyes toward a narrow doorway, 
 across which is stretched a curtain. Behind 
 that curtain wait the heirs of the Van Huy- 
 den estate. The old man, erect in his chair, 
 at the head of the table, passes his right 
 hand thoughtfully over his broad forehead, 
 and through the masses of his hair, as white 
 as snow. 
 
 And then directing his gaze toward the 
 doorway, he begins to call the names of the 
 Seven : 
 
 " Evelyn Somers !" 
 
 No answer, — the merchant prince now 
 sleeps a corpse within his palace. 
 
 " Beverly Barron !" — the name of the 
 man of fashion resounds through the still hall. 
 
 But Beverly will never fold in his arms 
 again, the form of a tempted and yielding 
 maiden ; never place his lips again to the 
 lips of a faithless wife, whom he has mad« 
 false to her marriage vow, — never^ press p 
 father's kiss upon the brow of his mother- 
 less child. Beverly also has gone to hi? 
 account. 
 
 " Harry Royalton !" exclaimed Martir 
 Fulmer, and again directed his eyes toward 
 the door. 
 
 Is that his step, the man of the race- 
 course, the hero of the cock-pit and faro- 
 bank ? No. It was but a breath of aii 
 among the window-curtains. But where, in 
 this hour, of all others, is Harry Royalton of 
 Hill Royal ? It cannot be told. He does not 
 appear. 
 
 . Martin Fulmer, with something of surprise 
 upon his face, spoke the fourth name, — 
 
 " Herman Barnhurst !" 
 
 Herman, the voluptuous, and the fair- 
 cheeked, and eagle-eyed, — the victim of 
 beautiful Marion Merlin, — the husband of 
 outraged Fanny Lansdale, — the seducer of 
 poor Alice Burney, — Herman does not an- 
 swer the summons. 
 
THE DAY OF TWENTY-ONE YEAES. 
 
 2G0 
 
 A wild hope began to ^leam in the deep 
 v>yesof Martin Fulmer, — " Four of the seven 
 absent, — why not all ?" And he called the 
 fifth name; the name of one, whom, most 
 of all others, he desired to be present : — j 
 
 " Arthur Dcrmoyne !" 
 
 Loud and deep it swelled, but there was 
 no reply. Enthusiast and mechanic, who, 
 at your work-bench, have laid out plans of 
 social regeneration, — who, amid the clatter 
 of hamme\^, and hum of toil, have heard 
 the words of the four gospels, and thought 
 of wealth only as the means of putting those 
 words into deeds, — where do you linger at 
 this hoOT ? Alas, Dermoyne is silent ; he 
 does not appear. 
 
 The light in Martin's eyes grew brighter, 
 *' Five of the Seven, why not all !" 
 
 *' Gabriel Godlike !" he pronounced the 
 name, and paused in suspense for the an- 
 swer to the summons. 
 
 " Here !" cried a voice of thunder, and 
 through the parted curtains, the imposing 
 form of the statesman emerged into light. 
 His broad chest was clad in a blue coat with 
 bright metal buttons; a white cravat made 
 his bronzed face look yet darker; he ad- 
 vanced vvnth a heavy stride, his great fore- 
 head looming boldh' in the light, his eyes 
 deep sunken beneath the brows, glaring like 
 living coals. His cheek was flushed, — with 
 wine — or with the excitement of the hour? 
 
 Ponderous and gloomy and grand, as 
 wheu he arose to scatter thunderbolts through 
 the thronged senate, — attired in the same 
 brown coat which he wore on state occasions, 
 — he came to the table, assumed a seat op- 
 posite Dr. Martin Fulmer, and said in his 
 deepest bass, — " I am here, and ready for 
 the final settlement of the Van Huyden 
 estate." 
 
 It is no shame to Dr. Fulmer to say, 
 that he had rather confronted the entire 
 Seven together, than to have to deal with 
 this man alone. " The estate decreed into 
 those hands, which know neither remorse or 
 fear ?" — he shuddered. 
 
 Then he called the seventh name, — 
 
 " Israel Yorke !" 
 
 No delay this time. With a hop and a 
 spring, — spectacles on nose, and sharp gray j 
 eyes glancing all about him, — the little finan- I 
 cier came through the curtain, and advancing I 
 
 ; to the table, seated himself beside Godlike, 
 like Mammon on right of Lucifer. 
 
 "And I am here," he said, pulling his 
 whiskers, and then running his hand over 
 j his bald head, — " Here and ready for the 
 final settlement of the Van Huyden estate." 
 
 "And is this all ?" ejaculated Martin Ful- 
 mer ; and once more he called the names of 
 the Seven. There was no response. 
 
 CHAPTER m. 
 
 " SAY, BETWEEN US THREE !" 
 
 Martin Fulmer uttered a deep sigh, and 
 then gazing upon the representatives of 
 Satan and of Mammon he said ! " Gentle- 
 men, you know the pur^wse for which you 
 are here ?" 
 
 " We do," they said, and each one laid 
 his copy of the will on the table. 
 
 " The -first thing in order, is the reading of 
 the Will," said Martin Fulmer solemnly. 
 And while a dead stillness pervaded, he read 
 the will ; and afterward briefly recounted 
 the circumstances connected with the death 
 of the testator. 
 
 When he had finished, the silence remain- 
 ed for some moments unbroken. The lights 
 flashed upon the smart concealed visage of 
 the financier, — the grand satanic face of the 
 statesman, — the calm face of Martin Fulmer, 
 with the bold brow, and hair as white as 
 snow ; and as a breath of wind moved the 
 lights, they flashed fitfully over the coffin, 
 and the iron chest, the cedar pillars, and the 
 marble image. 
 
 " There is no son in existence ?" asked 
 Israel nervously. 
 
 " None," answered Martin in a low voice. 
 " He did not die in a cause pre-eminent 
 for its sanctity ?" asked Gabriel in a deep 
 voice. 
 
 " It cannot be said that he did," answered 
 Martin, as though questioning his own con- 
 science. 
 
 " The disposition of this estate, depends 
 then entirely upon your integrity, and es- 
 pecially upon your fidelity to your oath f"— 
 the statesman, as though he knew the chord 
 most sensitive, in the strong honest nature of 
 Martin Fulmer, watched him keenly, as he 
 awaited his answer. 
 Martin bowed his head. 
 
270 
 
 " Under those circumstances, it is clear to 
 you, is it not, that the estate falls to those 
 of the Seven Heirs, Avho are now present ?" 
 
 " If I am faithful to my oath, such Avill 
 be my disposition of the estate." 
 
 "Faithful to your oath?" echoed Godlike. 
 
 " That would bo highly mimoral," said 
 Israel Yorkc. 
 
 It was in a slow and measured tone, and 
 with his venerable head, placed firmly on 
 his shoulders, that Martin Fulraer said, — 
 
 "Sir, you know me," to Godlike, — "in 
 the times of the Bank panic, I met you in 
 the vestibule of the senate, and had some 
 interesting conversation with you. You 
 know that I would sooner die than break my 
 word, much less my oath, and of all others, 
 THE OATH which I took to Gulian Van 
 Huyden. But may not circumstances arise 
 in which the breaking of that oath may be a 
 lighter crime, than strict obedience to it ?" 
 
 Godlike started — Yorke half rose from his 
 chair. 
 
 "Reflect for a moment. Circumstances 
 have arisen, which the testator could not 
 h;ive ever dreamed of, when he loaded me 
 with this trust, under the seal of that awful 
 oath. It was doubtless his wish that his 
 estates, swelled by the accumulation of 
 twenty-one years, should descend into the 
 hands of his son, who having been reared in 
 poverty and hardship, would know how to 
 use this wealth for the good of mankind, — 
 or in the absence of his son, that it should 
 be dispersed for the good of the race, by the 
 hands of seven persons, selected from the 
 descendants of the original Van Huyden, 
 and scattered throughout the Union. Such 
 was doubtless his idea. But behold how 
 different the result. The son is dead. Only 
 two of the Seven are here. Shall I, adher- 
 ing to the letter of the law, to the oath in 
 its strictest sense, divide this great estate 
 between you two ? Or, fearful of the awful 
 evil which you may work to the world, with 
 this untold wealth, shall I — in order to 
 avoid this evil, — refuse to divide the estate, 
 and take upon myself the moral penalty of 
 the broken oath ?" 
 
 " That is a question which you must settle 
 with your o\m conscience," said Godlike 
 slowly, as he fixed his gaze upon Martin 
 Fulmer's face. 
 
 Was he aware of the one weak point in 
 the strong, bold mind of Dr. Martin Fulmer? 
 Did he know of Dr. Martin Fulmer's fear 
 and horror of — the unpardonable sin ? 
 
 Martin did not reply, but leaned his head 
 upon his hand, and seemed buried in 
 thought. 
 
 " In order to understand my position, 
 reflect, — twenty-one years ago, the estate 
 was but two millions ; behold it now !" He 
 unlocked the portfolio, and drew forth two 
 half sheets of foolscap, covered with writing 
 in a delicate but legible hand! " There is 
 a brief statement of the estate as it stands." 
 
 Israel eagerly grasped one half sheet ; 
 Godlike took the other. Martin Fulmer 
 j intensely watched their faces as they read. 
 
 Rapidly Godlike's eagle eye, perused that 
 index to the untold wealth of the Van Huy- 
 den estate. 
 
 " It would purchase the Presidency of the 
 United States !" he muttered with a heaving 
 chest, — " enthroned upon that pedestal, a 
 man might call kings his menials, the world 
 his plaything." 
 
 " One hundred millions! Astor multiplied 
 by Girard !" ejaculated Israel Yorke, — "with 
 such a capital, one might buy Rothschild, 
 and keep him too !" 
 
 Glorious and eloquent half sheet of fools- 
 cap ! Talk of Milton, Shakspeare, Homer, — 
 your poetry is worth all theirs combined ! 
 What flight of theirs, in their loftiest moods, 
 can match in sublimity, the simple and ma- 
 jestic march of this swelling line, — 
 
 " One hundred millions of dollars!" 
 
 "This is a dream," said Godlike, — and 
 for once his voice was tremulous. 
 
 " Enough to set one raving !" cried Israel 
 Yorke. 
 
 "And yet, adhering to the strict letter of 
 my oath, — " the voice and look of Martin 
 Fulmer was sad, — despairing, — " I am bound 
 to divide this incredible wealth between you 
 two." 
 
 " Say, between us three !" cried a new 
 voice, and as Martin Fulmer raised his head, 
 and the others started in their seats, the 
 speaker came with a rapid stride from the 
 curtained doorway to the table. 
 
 It was Randolph Royalton, the white slave. 
 Folding his arms upon the breast of his 
 frock coat^ — made c^^ dark blue clotii, — 
 
THE DAY OF TWENTY-OXE YEARS. 
 
 271 
 
 •which was buttoned to his throat, he stood 
 beside the table, his face lividly pale, and 
 his dark hair floating wild and disheveled 
 about his forehead. 
 
 "You! — a negro!" — and Godlike's lip 
 curled in sardonic scorn. 
 
 Trembling as with an excitement contin- 
 ued for long hours, Randolph turned to 
 Martin Fulmer, and said : 
 
 " I am the oldest child of John Augustine 
 Roj'alton, and his lawful heir. And I am 
 here 1 There is the proof that my father 
 was married to Herodia, my mother, — " he 
 placed a paper in the hands of Martin Ful- 
 mer, — " I am here in the name of my father, 
 to claim my portion of the Van Huyden 
 estate." 
 
 Israel was very restless, — Godlike very 
 gloomy and full of scorn, as Martin Fulmer 
 attentively perused the document. 
 
 "You have a copy of the Will, addressed 
 to your father ?" asked the old man, raising 
 his eyes to Randolph's colorless face. 
 
 Randolph drew a parchment from the 
 breast of his coat, — " There is my father's 
 copy, superscribed with his name." 
 
 " I recognize you as the elder son of 
 John Augustine Royalton," said Dr. Fulmer, 
 very calmly, — " These proofs are all suffi- 
 cient. Be seated, sir." 
 
 Randolph uttered a wild cry, and pressed 
 his forehead with both hands. 
 
 It was a moment before he recovered his 
 composure. " Y^'ou ssiid negro ! just now!" 
 he turned to Godlike, his blue eyes flashing 
 with deadly hatred, "learn sir, that had 
 yonder bit of paper failed to establish my 
 
 from !" 
 
 Godlike repeated that great name, in a 
 tone of mingled incredulity and contempt. 
 
 "Ay, he was the father of Herodia, — I 
 am his grandson. There is my grandfather's 
 handwriting," he placed the paper in the 
 hands of Martin Fulmer, " Read it, sir, for 
 the information of this statesman. Let him 
 know that the few drops of negro hlood which 
 flow in my veins, are lost and drowned in 
 the blood of a man whose name is history, — 
 of !" 
 
 Martin Fulmer read the paper aloud, add- 
 ing, " You perceive he speaks the truth. He 
 IS the grandson of ." 
 
 "Pardon me, — I was hasty," said the 
 statesman, extending his hand. 
 
 Randolph did not seem to notice the ex- 
 tended hand, but dropping into a chair, said, 
 quietly, — " There are three of us now, I be- 
 lieve." 
 
 And he regarded the statesman with, a 
 look which was full of triumph and scorn. 
 
 Martin Fulmer looked into the faces of the 
 three, and then bent his head in deep 
 thought, — deep and harrowing thought, ex- 
 tending over every instant of twenty-one 
 years. 
 
 From the portfolio he drew forth two 
 half sheets of paper, covered with writing in 
 his own hand. One bore the signature of 
 Gabriel Godlike, the other that of Israel 
 Yorke. 
 
 " These papers, embracing an absolute re- 
 nunciation of all their claims upon the Yan 
 Huyden estate, they signed before the Court 
 of Ten Millions, — signed, without knowing 
 their contents. Shall I produce them ?" 
 
 He hesitated. — " But no ! no ! I am not 
 clear as to the right of any one to dispose of 
 his share." 
 
 Martin Fulmer, before the bar of his own 
 conscience, was fanatically just. He might 
 use these papers, but before his own con- 
 science he dared not. 
 
 " I am decided," he exclaimed, despair 
 impressed upon his face, — " I must fulfill my 
 oath. Gentlemen, I recognize you as the 
 three heirs of the Van Huyden estate, you 
 having appeared at the appointed hour." 
 
 The same electric throb of joy — joy in- 
 tense to madness, — ran through the bosoms 
 of the three, but manifested itself in differ- 
 ent ways. The diminutive financier bounded 
 from his chair ; Godlike uttered an oath ; 
 Randolph muttered between his teeth, " The 
 negro is, indeed, then, one of the three." 
 
 " I will presently give to each of you a 
 certificate, over my own hand, stating that 
 you appeared at the appointed hour, and 
 pledging myself, within a week, to apportion 
 this vast estate among you." 
 
 Without taking time to notice the ex- 
 pression of their faces, he continued, — 
 
 " But first, we must open this," — he 
 pointed to the iron chest, — " and this," — to 
 the coffin, around which, as around the iron 
 1 chest, tall wax candles were dimly burning, 
 
272 
 
 TflE DAY OF TWENTY-ONE YEARS. 
 
 ** Whatever these may contain, they cannot 
 atfect nor change my decision. But they 
 must be opened, — so the will directs." 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THl! LEGATE OF HIS HOLINESS. 
 
 As he rose from his seat and advanced 
 t\:,ward the iron chest, the curtain of the door- 
 way was thrust aside, and the light shone 
 upon a slender form, clad in black, and upon 
 a pallid ^'ace, framed in masses of jet-black 
 hair. 
 
 " Gaspar Manuel ! at last I" ejaculated 
 Martin Fulmer. 
 
 " Pardon me for this intrusion," said Gas- 
 par Manuel, in a tone of quiet dignity, — " I 
 would have seen you ere this, but unexpected 
 events prevented me. It is of the last im- 
 portance that I should converse with you 
 without delay." 
 
 The entrance of the nan, whose slender 
 form was clad in a frock-coat of black cloth, 
 single-breasted, and reaching to the knees, — 
 whose face, unnaturally pale, was in strong 
 contrast with the blackness of his moustache 
 and beard, and of the hair, which fell in 
 wavy masses to his shoulders, — created a 
 singular and marked impression. 
 
 With one impulse, Godlike, Yorke and 
 Handolph rose to their feet. For the first 
 time, they remarked that the stranger wore 
 on his right breast a golden cross, and carried 
 in his left hand a casket of dark wood, — 
 perchance ebony. 
 
 " I wish to see you in regard to the lands 
 in California, near the mission of San Luis," 
 said Gaspar Manuel, his voice, touched 
 with a foreign accent, yet singularly sweet 
 and empl\atic in its intonation. — "Lands 
 claimed by yourself, on behalf of the Van 
 Huyden estate, and also by the Order of 
 Jesus. Many acres of these lands are rich 
 in everything that can bless a climate soft as 
 Italy, but there are one thousand barren acres 
 which abound in fruit like this." 
 
 He placed the casket upon the table, un- 
 'locked it, and displayed its contents. 
 
 " Gold !" burst from every lip, 
 
 " Those thousand acres contain gold suffi- 
 cient to change the destinies of the world," 
 said Gaspar Manuel, calmly, as he fixed his 
 dazzling eyes upon the face of Godlike. — 
 
 I " The contest for the possession of this un- 
 told wealth lies between the Order of Jesus 
 and the Van Huyden estate." 
 
 " Have not the ]\Icxican Government ap- 
 pointed a Commissioner to decide upon their 
 respective claims ?" As he asked the ques- 
 tion. Dr. Martin Fulmer, (who, as Ezekiel 
 Bogart, had seen Gaspar Manuel dressed as 
 a man of the world) gazed in surprise upon 
 that costume which indicated the Jesuit. 
 There was suspicion as well as surprise in 
 his gaze. 
 
 " That Commissioner is one of the rulers 
 of the Jesuits, — an especial Legate of the 
 Roman Pope," continued Martin, surveying 
 I Gaspar Manuel with a look of deepening 
 suspicion. " His name is " 
 
 " Never mind his name," internipted Gas- 
 par Manuel, — " Let it satisfy you that I am 
 a Jesuit, perchance one of the rulers of that 
 Order. And I am the Legate of whom you 
 speak." 
 
 "You!" echoed Martin Fulmer, and his 
 ejaculation was repeated by the others. 
 
 "I am that Commissioner," replied Gas- 
 par Manuel, "and my decision has been 
 made. Allow me a few moments for reflec- 
 tion, and I will make it known to you. 
 While you converse with those gentlemen, 
 I will warm myself at yonder fire, for the cli- 
 mate is hard to bear, after the bland atmo- 
 sphere of Havanna." 
 
 With a wave of the hand and a slight in- 
 clination of the head, he retired from the 
 table and bent his steps toward the fire-place. 
 Seating himself in an arm-chair, he now 
 gazed into the flame with his flashing eyes, 
 and now, — over his shoulder, — surveyed the 
 banquet-hall. Then taking tablets and pen- 
 cil from a side-pocket, he seemed absorbed 
 in the mazes of a profound arithmetical cal- 
 culation ; but every now and then he raised 
 his eyes, and with that dazzling glance, took 
 in every detail of the banqHel-hall. 
 
 Meanwhile, the group around the table 
 had not yet recovered from the impression, 
 produced by his presence. 
 
 " A singular man, — eh ?" quoth Yorke. 
 
 " A man of rank. I think I have seen his 
 face in Washington City," remarked Godlike, 
 
 "A dignitary of the Catholic Church," 
 exclaimed Randolph. — " A man of no com* 
 mon order." 
 
THE DAY OF TWENTY-ONE YEARS. 
 
 273 
 
 As for Martin Fulmer, glancing by turns 
 at the box, filled with golden ore, and at the_ 
 form of the Legate, who was seated quietly 
 b}' the fire-place, he said, with a sigh, — 
 " More gold, more wealth !" and thought of 
 Carl Raphael, the son of Gulian Van Huy- 
 den. 
 
 "Let us open the iron chest," he said, and 
 placed the key in the lock, while Randolph, 
 Godlike and Yorke, gathered round, in mute 
 suspense. 
 
 But ere the key turned in the lock, a new 
 interruption took place. The aged servant, 
 Michael, entered, and placed a slip of paper, 
 on which a single line was written, in the 
 hands of Martin Fulmer. The old man read 
 it at a glance, and at once his face glowed, his 
 eyes shone with new light. 
 
 '* The person who wrote this, Michael, — 
 where — where is he ?" he said, in a tremu- 
 lous voice. 
 
 " In the reception-room," answered Mi- 
 chael. 
 
 *' Show him here, — at once, — at once, — 
 quick, I say !" and he seized Michael by the 
 arm, and pointed to the door, his face dis- 
 playing every sign of irrepressible agitation. 
 Michael hurried from the room. 
 
 " Let us all thank God, for He has not 
 failed us !" cried Martin Fulmer, spreading 
 forth his hands, as he walked wildly to and 
 fro.—*' The son of Gulian Van Huyden is 
 not dead !" 
 
 A thunderbolt crushing through the ceil- 
 ing, would not have created half the con- 
 sternation caused by these words. 
 
 They dashed the hopes of Randolph, God- 
 like and Yorke to the dust. 
 
 " Not dead !" they echoed, in a breath. 
 
 "He is not dead. He is living, and in 
 this house. In a moment he will be here, — 
 here, to claim his father's estate." 
 
 And in the wildness of his joy, Martin 
 Fulmer hurried to and fro, now wringing his 
 hands, now spreading them forth in thank- 
 fulness to heaven. 
 
 "I knew," said the old man, standing 
 erect, the light shining full upon his white 
 .hairs, "I knew that Providence would not 
 desert me !" 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE SON AT LAST. 
 
 The curtain moved again, and two per- 
 sons came slowly into the room ; a man 
 whose wounded arm was carried in a sling 
 and whose livid face was marked by recent 
 wounds, — a boy, whose graceful form was 
 enveloped in a closely fitting frock-coat, 
 while his young face was shaded by locks -of 
 glossy hair. 
 
 "Martin Fulmer! behold the lost child 
 of ■ Gulian Van Huyden!" cried Colonel 
 Tarleton, urging the boy forward. 
 
 At sight of Tarleton, Martin Fulmer felt 
 his whole being contract with loathing, but 
 rushing forward, he seized the boy by the 
 arms, and looked earnestly into his face, — a 
 face touching in its expression, with clear, 
 deep eyes, that now^ seemed blue, now gray, 
 and round outlines, and framed in locks of 
 flowing hair, of the richest chestnut brown. 
 
 " This, — this, is not Carl Raphael !" ejacu- 
 lated Martin Fulmer, turning fiercely upon 
 Tarleton, — 
 
 A smile crossed the bloodless lips of 
 Tarleton. 
 
 " Not Carl Raphael, but still the son of 
 Gulian. A word will explain all. On the 
 last night of her life, Alice Van Huyden 
 gave birth to two children : they were born 
 within a half hour of each other. One was 
 taken from her bed, and borne away by her 
 husband. The other I bore to my home, 
 educated as my own, and now he stands 
 before you, the lawful heir of his father's 
 estate. Look at his face, and, if you can, 
 say that he is not Gulian's son." 
 
 This revelation was listened to with the 
 most intense interest by Randolph, Godlike, 
 Yorke, — and Gaspar Manuel, attracted from 
 the fire-place by the sound of voices, looked 
 over their shoulders at the singular group, — 
 I the boy, with Tarleton on one hand, and 
 Martin Fulmer on the other. 
 
 Long and intently Martin Fulmer perused 
 that youthful countenance, which, with 
 I downcast eyes, seemed to avoid his gaze. 
 
 " Carl Raphael Van Huyden is lost," ex- 
 claimed Martin Fulmer, "but the face, the 
 look of Gulian Van Huyden lives again in 
 this boy. Gentlemen, behold the son of 
 Gulian^Van Huyden, the heir to his estate !" 
 
274 
 
 THE DAY OF TWENTY-ONE YEARS. 
 
 He urged the shrinking boy toward tlie 
 light. 
 
 '* I will not," cried the l)Ov, raising his 
 head and surveying the group with Hashing 
 eyes, — " I will not submit to be made an 
 accomplice in this imposture — " 
 
 " Child !" said Tarleton, sternly. 
 
 " Nay, you shall not force me to it. Hear 
 me one and all," and he tore open his coat 
 and vest, and laid bare his breast, " I am the 
 child of Gulian Van Pluyden, but not his 
 son." 
 
 It was a woman's bosom which the open 
 vest bared to the light. 
 
 A dead stillness followed this revelation. 
 
 And the center of the group stood the 
 beautiful girl in her male attire, her bosom 
 heaving in the light, while her eyes flashed 
 through their tears. 
 
 "I will not submit to be made the accom- 
 plice of this man's schemes," she pointed 
 to Tarleton, — '* As the daughter of Gulian 
 Van Huyden, I cannot inherit my father's 
 estate." 
 
 At this point, Gaspar Manuel stepped for- 
 ward, — Yes you can, my child," he said, 
 and drew the disguised girl to his breast, ** it 
 is your father himself who tells you so, 
 daughter." And he kissed her on the fore- 
 head, while his dark hair hid her face. 
 
 Then as he held her in his arms, he raised 
 his face, and with one hand, swept back the 
 dark hair from his brow, — " Martin Fulmer, 
 don't you remember me ?" and then to 
 Colonel Tarleton, — " and you, brother, you 
 certainly don't forget me ?" 
 
 That scene cannot be painted in words. 
 
 " Gulian ! " was all that Tarleton or 
 Charles Van Huyden could say, as he shrank 
 back appalled and blasted before his brother's 
 smile. 
 
 As for Martin Fulmer, after one eager 
 and intense look, he felt his knees bend be- 
 neath him, and his head droop on his breast, 
 as he uttered his soul in the words, — " It is 
 Gulian come back to life again." 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 A LONG ACCOUNT SETTLED. 
 
 Back from his brother's gaze, step by step, 
 shrank Tarleton or Charles Van Huyden, his 
 eyes still chained to that face, which the 
 
 [grave seemed to have yielded up, to blast 
 j his schemes in the very moment of their 
 I triumph. 
 
 ! IJis own child dead, — the stain of Carl 
 Raphael's blood upon his soul, — he felt like 
 a man wlio stands amid the ruins of a falling 
 house, when the last prop gives way. 
 
 With a cry that was scarcely human, in 
 its awful anguish, he turned and fled. Fled 
 from the banquet-room, a^d through the 
 adjoining chamber, into the darkness of the 
 corridor. His mind, strained to its utmost 
 tension by the perpetual excitement of the 
 last twenty-four hours, gave way all at once, 
 like a bow that, drawn to its full power, sud- 
 denh' snaps, even as a withered reed. All 
 was dark around him as he rushed along the 
 corridor, but that darkness was made lumi- 
 nous by his soul. It was peopled with faces, 
 that seemed to be encircled by lurid light. 
 The worst agony that can befall a mortal 
 man fell upon him. Nerves disordered, 
 brain unstrung, his very thoughts became 
 living things, and chased him through the 
 darkness. The face of Evelyn Somers was 
 before him, gazing upon him with fixed 
 eyeballs. And his steps were suddenly 
 checked, by an agonized countenance, which 
 was sinking in wintery waves, that seemed 
 to roll about his very feet. He was touched 
 on the shoulder, — his dead daughter ran be- 
 side him in her shroud, linking her arm in 
 his, and bending forward her face, which 
 looked up into his own, with lips that had 
 no blood in them, and eyes that had no life. 
 And if the darkness was full of faces, the air 
 was full of voices ; voices whispering, shout- 
 ing, yelling, all through each other, and yet, 
 ever}' voice distinctly heard, — all the voices 
 that he had heard in his lifetime were speak- 
 ing to him now. Well might he have ex- 
 claimed in the words of Cain, — " My pun- 
 ishment is greater than I can bear." 
 
 If he could have only rid himself of Frank, 
 who ran by his side, in her shroud ! But 
 no, — there she was, — her arm in his, — her ■ 
 face bent forward looking up into his own, 
 with lips that had no blood, and eyes that 
 had no life. 
 
 He talked to those phantoms, — he bade 
 them back, — he rushed on, tnrough the cor- 
 ridor, and ascended the dark stairs with hor- 
 rid shrieks. And the face of Carl Raphael, 
 
THE BAY OF TWENTY-ONE YEARS. 
 
 275 
 
 struggling in the waves, went before him at 
 every step. 
 
 He reached at length the narrow garret, 
 in which years agone, Gulian Van Huyden 
 bid Martin Fiilmer, farewell. Here, as he 
 beard the storm beat against the window 
 panes, he for a moment recovered his shat- 
 tered senses. 
 
 "I'm nervous," he cried, "if I had been 
 drinking, I would think I had the mania. 
 Let me recover m^'self. Where in the deuce 
 am I ?" 
 
 A heavy step -was heard on the stairwa}-, 
 and a form plunged into the room, bearing 
 Tarleton against the- wall. It was no 2)hau- 
 tom, but the form of a stalwart man. 
 
 " Halloo ! Who are you ?" cried a hoarse 
 voice, — it was the voice of Ninety-One, and 
 as he spoke, shouts came up the narrow 
 stairway from the j^assage below. " You 
 set here to trap me, — speak ?" 
 
 And the hand of Ninety-One, clutched 
 the throat of Tarleton Avith an iron grip. 
 
 " This way, — this way," cried a voice, 
 and a gleam of light shooting up the stairs, 
 through the narrow doorway, fell upon the 
 livid faci of Tarleton. 
 
 " 0, we have met at last ? Do you hear 
 them shouts ? Blossom follered by the 
 poleese are in the house, and on my track, for 
 the murder of young Somers. In a second 
 they'll be here. Now I've got you, and 
 we'll settle that long account, — we will by 
 G— d !" 
 
 " You are choking me, — A-h ! " gasped 
 Tarleton, as he was dragged toward the win- 
 dow. The shouts from below grew more 
 distinct, and once more the light flashed up 
 the stairs. 
 
 "Carl Raphael died bydrownin' and that's 
 very like chokin'," whispered Ninet\^-One, 
 as he bent his face near to the struggling 
 wretch. "I've no way of escape, — even old 
 Fulmer can't save me. And so we'll settle 
 that long account." 
 
 "You are choking me, — do not, — do 
 not — " 
 
 " You know all the items, so there's no 
 use 0' dwellin' on 'em," the hoarse voice of 
 Ninety-One was heard above the pelting of 
 the storm, " but the raiurder of that 'ar boy 
 makes the docket full. Here goes — " 
 
 Dragging Tarleton to the window, he 
 
 struck the sash, with one hand, and then 
 kicked against it with all his strength. It 
 yielded with a crash, and the snow and sleet 
 rushes through the aperture in a blast. 
 
 " Spare me ! Mercy ! do not — " 
 
 Ninety-One crept through the narrow 
 aperture, out upon the roof, and dragged 
 Tarleton after him. Then there were two 
 forms standing erect for a moment, in tha 
 gloom, and then the blast bore away the 
 sound of voices, and a howl that was heard, 
 far and long, through the night. 
 
 " This way ! We've caught the old fox," 
 said a well known voice, and the red face 
 of Blossom, adorned with carbuncles, ap- 
 peared in the doorway, Avhile the lantern 
 which he held, filled the gaiTet with light. 
 
 " This way," he sprang through the door- ^ 
 way, and followed by half a dozen men 
 in thick coats, and with maces in their hands, 
 he ran toward the w indow, " he's out upon 
 the roof." 
 
 He held the lantern over his head, and 
 looked without, while the snow and sleet 
 beat in his face. From the garret-window 
 the roof fell with a sudden slope, for the 
 space of two yards, and there it ended. By 
 the lantern light, he saw some rude traces 
 of footsteps in the snow, and the print of a 
 hand. A glance was sufficient. When he 
 turned to confront his comrades, his red face 
 was white as a sheet — 
 
 " By G- — d the old convic' has gone an* 
 jumi)ed from the roof, — four storys high — 
 as I'm a sinner !" 
 
 CHAPTER YII. 
 
 IN THE BANQUET-EOOM ONCE MORE. 
 
 Meanwhile in the banquet-room, the 
 Legate of the Pope, with the form of his 
 daughter, in her male attire, nestling on his 
 breast, raised his head, and surveved the 
 faces of the spectators, who had not \ei re- 
 covered from their surprise. His face pale 
 and worn, as with yeare of consuming 
 thought, his eyes bright as with the fire of 
 a soul never at rest, held every gaze enchained 
 as he spoke, — 
 
 " Rise Martin Fulmer !" he extended his 
 hand to the kneeling man, "rise, and let me 
 look upon the face of — an honest man." 
 
 As though disturbed in the midst of a 
 
276 
 
 THE DAY OF TWENTY-ONE YEAES. 
 
 dream, Martin Fiilmer rose, his head with 
 his snow-white hair and protuberant brow, 
 presenting a strong contrast to the pallid 
 face, dark hair and beard of the Legate. 
 
 "Look upon me, Martin Fulmer, and 
 steadily. Do you recognize me." 
 
 "Gulian Van Huyden !" ejaculated the 
 old man. 
 
 The Legate surveyed Randolph, Godlike, 
 Yorke, wlio formed a group behind the 
 Doctor, while in the background, the lights 
 burned faintly around the iron chest and 
 coffin. ;^ven as the Legate looked around, 
 Randolph turned aside, and leaning against 
 frame of yonder window, pushed the curtains 
 aside, and looked forth upon the cold, dark 
 night. Not so cold and dark as his own 
 bitter fate ! Well was it for him, that his 
 face was turned from the light ! That face, 
 terribly distorted, now revealed the hell 
 which was raging in his breast. His soul 
 stained with crime, his last hope blotted 
 out, whither should he turn ? Grandson of 
 
 it had been better for you, 
 
 had you never been born ! 
 
 After his silent survey, the Legate spoke : 
 "Another place and another hour, will 
 be needed, to repeat the full details of 
 my life, since twenty-one years ago, I left 
 this house, — to die," in an attitude of calm 
 dignity, and with a voice and look, that 
 held every soul,^- the Legate spoke these 
 words, — " I was rescued from the waves, by 
 a boat that chanced to be passing from the 
 shore to a ship in the bay. Upon that ship, 
 I again unclosed my eyes to life, and watch- 
 ed through the cabin windows, the last 
 glimpse of the American shore, growing 
 faint and fainter over the waves. Thus 
 called back to life, — my name in my native 
 land, only known as the name of the Suicide, 
 my estates in the hands of Martin Fulmer, 
 left to the chances or the providence of 
 twenty-one years, — I resolved to live. The 
 ship (the captain and crew were foreigners,) 
 bore me to an Italian port. I sold the jewels 
 which were about my person when I plunged 
 into the river, and found myself in possession 
 of a competence. Then, in search of peace, 
 anxious to drown the past, and still every 
 emotion of other days, by a life of self-denial, 
 I went to Rome, I entered the Propaganda, 
 -la the course of time I became a priest, and 
 
 then, well ! twenty-one years passed ir 
 
 the service of the church have left me as I 
 am. Your hand, brave Martin Fulmer ! 
 Think not that your course has been un- 
 known to me ! You have been watched, — 
 your every step marked, — your very thought 
 recorded, — and now it is the Legate of the 
 Pope, who takes you by the hand, and calls 
 you b}'' a title, which it is beyond the power 
 of Pope or King to create, — an Iwnest man!. 
 Twenty times I have been near you in the 
 course of twenty-one years, — once in Paris, 
 when you were there on business of the 
 estate, — once in Mexico, — once in China, — 
 once on the Ocean, — once in Rome ! How 
 my heart yearned to disclose myself to you! 
 But I left you go your way, and now at the 
 end of twenty-one years, we stand face to 
 face. And thou, my child, — " he gazed 
 tenderly into the face of the girl, whose 
 eyes were upraised to meet his own, — " my 
 beautiful ! my own ! Think not that the 
 garment of the priest, chills the heart of the 
 father !" 
 
 " Father !" she whispered, putting her 
 hands upon his shoulder, — " how my heart 
 yearned to you, when I first met you, in the 
 dark streets, — when friendless and homeless, 
 I was flying to the river, as my only friendl" 
 
 It was a touching picture, — the priest, who 
 for twenty-one years, had never permitted 
 his heart to throb with one pulse that would 
 remind him of the word " Home," and the 
 daughter, who, educated to serve the dark 
 purposes of Tarleton, had never before felt 
 her heart bound at the sight of her Father's 
 face. 
 
 Martin Fulmer's face grew sad, — 
 
 " Do you r(3gret my return ?" said the 
 Legate with a smile. 
 
 "I was thinking," said Martin, and his 
 soul was in his eyes as he spoke, — " I was 
 thinking of — Rome !" 
 
 Godlike stepped forward, with a smile on 
 his somber visage, — " Rome !" he echoed, — 
 ** of course, now that the dead has returned 
 to life, the heirs need not think of dividing 
 the estate. And you as priest of the Roman 
 Church, as one of her lords, can think of but 
 one disposition of your immense property. 
 It will go to the church, — to Rome ! " 
 
 " To Rome !" echoed Israel Yorke. Ran- 
 dolph, with his face from the light, did not 
 
THE DAY OF TWENTY-ONE YEAHS. 
 
 277 
 
 Bcem to hear a word that was spoken. And 
 Martin Fidmer, with his finger on his lips, 
 awaited in evident suspense, the answer of 
 the Legate. 
 
 " To Rome !" echoed the Legate and dis^ 
 engaging himself from the arms of his 
 daughter, he stood erect. His entire face 
 changed. His nostrils quivered, his lips 
 curled, there was a glow on his pale cheek, 
 and an intenser fire in his eyes. He passed 
 his hand over his forehead, and brushing 
 back his dark hair, stood for a moment, mo- 
 tionless as a statue, his eyes fixed, as though 
 he saw passing before his soul, a panorama 
 of the future. 
 
 ** Within that brutal Rome which plants 
 its power upon human skulls, there is a 
 higher, mightier Rome ! Within that order 
 which uses and profanes the name of Jesus, 
 as the instrument of its frauds, there is a 
 higher, mightier Order of Jesus ! I see this 
 mightier church, — I see this mightier Order 
 moving onward, through the paths of the 
 future, combating the false Rome, and 
 trampling under foot the false Order of Jesus! 
 Yes, in the future, I see armed for the last 
 battle, those friends of humanity, who have 
 sworn to use the Roman Church as the in- 
 strument of Human Progress, or to drive 
 forward the movement over her ruins." 
 
 The effect of these words, coupled with 
 the look and the attitude of the Legate, was 
 electric. They were followed by a dead 
 stillness. The spectators gazed into each 
 other's faces, but no one ventured to break 
 the silence. 
 
 The silence was interrupted, however, by 
 a strange voice,— 
 
 "Lor brass you, massa, de nigga hab ar- 
 ribe !" It was Old Royal, who emerged 
 from the curtains, with a broad grin on his 
 black face, — "You know dis nigga war on 
 de ribber in a boat, fetchin ober from Jarscy 
 shore, a brack gemman who didn' like to 
 trabel by de ferry boat — yah — whah ! Well 
 de nigga did it, — 
 
 He advanced a step, — passed his hand 
 through his white wool, — surveyed his giant- 
 like form clad in sleek broadcloth, — showed 
 his white teeth, and continued, with an 
 accent and a gesticulation that words cannot 
 describe — 
 
 " Well, as we come across, — lor-a-massy 
 
 how de storm did storm, and do snow did 
 snow ! As wo come across, dis nigga cotchcd 
 by de bar ob his head, a young white geinman, 
 who war a-drownin'. An' dis same young 
 white gemman, Massa Fuhner, — " he pointed 
 over his shoulder, " am out dar 1" 
 
 "What mean you. Royal ?" cried Martin 
 Fulmer, and he shook with the confiict of 
 hope and suspense, — " whom did you res- 
 cue ?" 
 
 " Dar's de white pusson," said Old Royal. 
 
 Leaning on the arm of Mary Berman, 
 whose face was rosy with joy, whose bonnet 
 had fallen on her neck, while her hair, 
 glittering with suow-drops, strayed over her 
 shoulders, — leaning on the arm of his wife. 
 Nameless, or Carl Raphael, came through 
 the doorway, and advanced toward the 
 group. 
 
 He was clad in black, which threw his 
 pale face, shaded by brown hair, boldly into 
 view. His eyes were clear and brilliant ; 
 his lip firm. As he advanced, every eye re- 
 marked the resemblance between him and 
 the Legate ; and also between him, and the 
 disguised girl, who stood by the Legate's 
 side. 
 
 " Rescued from death by the hands of this 
 good friend, — " his voice was clear and bold, 
 " I returned home, and found the note which 
 you, — " he looked at Martin Fulmer, "caused 
 to be left there. And in obedience to the 
 request contained in that note, I am here." 
 
 At first completely thunderstruck, the 
 venerable man had not power to frame a 
 word. 
 
 "Fatality!" he cried at last, "but a blessed 
 fatality ! I knew that Providence would not 
 desert us ! Come to my heart, my child 1 
 Carl, — " trembling with emotion, he took 
 Nameless by the hand, " Carl, behold your 
 father, who, after a lapse of twenty-one years 
 has appeared among us, like one risen from 
 the grave 1 Behold your sister, born like 
 3^ou, in your mother's death-agony, — sepa- 
 rated from you for twenty-one years, — sho 
 now rejoins you, in presence of your fa- 
 ther !" 
 
 It was now the turn of Nameless to stand 
 spell-bound and thunderstruck. He stood 
 like one in a dream, until the voices of the 
 Legate and the young girl broke on his ear 
 voices so like his own. 
 
278 
 
 THE DAY OF TWENTY-ONE YEARS. 
 
 " My son !" 
 "Brother!" 
 
 He was gathered to the Legate's breast, 
 who kissed him on the brow, anil surveying 
 every line of his face, felt his bosom swell 
 with pride as he called him, " my son !" 
 Then his sister's arms were upon his neck, 
 and Nameless, as he saw her face, so touch- 
 ing, in its quiet loveliness, felt his heart 
 swell with a rapture, never felt before, as he 
 found himself encircled in that atmosphere 
 which is most like heaven, — the atmosphere 
 of a sister's love. 
 
 " Listen to me, my son," said the Legate, 
 as he took Nameless by the hand, and his 
 eyes lit up with a new fire, while in abrupt 
 and broken sentences, he poured forth the 
 story of his life. His tone was impassioned, 
 his words electric. Carl Raphael listened, 
 while the emotions of his soul, were written 
 in his changing features. 
 
 "And now, my son," concluded the Le- 
 gate, as he put his arm about the neck of 
 Nameless, " twenty-one years are gone, and 
 I appear again. The estate, from two mil- 
 lions, has swelled into one hundred millions. 
 You will inherit it, and you and I, and this 
 good man, will join together, in applying the 
 awful power embodied in this wealth, to the 
 best interests of the human race." 
 
 To the surprise of the Legate, Nameless 
 unwound his arm from his neck, and stepped 
 back from him. His face suddenly became 
 cold and rigid as stone. Rising in every 
 inch of his stature, he surveyed the entire 
 scene at a rapid glance. 
 
 On his right, his father and sister. Near 
 hini the venerable old man, with Mary by 
 his side. Somewhat apart, stood the somber 
 Godlike, and the weaz el-faced Yorke. In 
 the background, the table, with the candles 
 burning dimly rouiul over chest and coffin. 
 Around him that hall, thick on every panel 
 with the memories of the past ; and far in 
 the shadows, the white image of the mas- 
 ter. 
 
 And by yonder window, his form half 
 concealed in the curtains, Randolph looks 
 out upon the black night. 
 
 Dilating with an emotion which was in- 
 comprehensible to the spectators. Nameless 
 said . 
 
 ** No, father, I will not touch one dollar of 
 
 this wealth. It is accursed. Look at the 
 
 passion it has evoked ; look at the calamities 
 which it has wrought ! It is accursed, — 
 thrice accursed. It was this wealth which 
 impelled your own brother to attempt to 
 corrupt my mother. It was this wealL?^ 
 which made that brother follow me with 
 I remorseless hatred, and to-night, for the sake 
 ' of this, he planned my death. It was this 
 I wealth which drove you from your native 
 j land, there to bury all feeling in a church, 
 which makes marriage a sacrament, and, at 
 the same time, prevents her priests from ever 
 enjoying that sacrament, from ever being 
 hailed b}^ the all-holy names of ' husband ! ' 
 ' father !' There you buried twenty-one 
 years of your life, leaving your children to 
 breast the storm of life alone. It was this 
 wealth which cast me, in childhood, into 
 the streets, without friend or home, — and do 
 you know the life I've lived ? While you 
 were saying mass at Rome, I was committing 
 murder, father, — I was being sentenced to 
 death, — I was buried alive in your family 
 vault, — I was passing two years in a mad- 
 man's cell ! Look at the work of your 
 wealth ! Let these gentlemen (who, I doubt 
 not, have been heirs of this estate in anti- 
 cipation,) let them speak, and tell what pas- 
 sions, like fiends evoked from nethermost 
 hell, this wealth has summoned into life ! 
 Speak, Martin Fulmer, you, who for twenty- 
 one years, have denied yourself the blessing 
 of wife, home, children ; while in sleepless 
 anguish you watched over this wealth, — 
 speak ! What evil thought is there in earth 
 or hell which it has not called into deeds ? 
 No, — father, — lifting this hand to heaven, I 
 swear by that mother, whom you left to 
 writhe alone upon her dying bed, that I will 
 not touch one dollar of the Van Huyden 
 estate !" 
 
 The Legate, that is to say, Gulian Van 
 Huyden, was crushed by these words ; they 
 fell upon him like a sentence of death. 
 
 "My son! my son!" he gasped, "spare 
 me !" 
 
 " ' Son ' and ' father,' are words easily spo- 
 ken," continued Nameless. "Have you been 
 a father to me ? It would be very striking, 
 and altogether like the fifth act of a melo- 
 drama, no doubt, for me to overlook your 
 twenty-one years of silence, and with love 
 
THE DAY OF TWENTY-ONE YEARS. 
 
 279 
 
 and tears consent to be your heir. But you 
 liave not been my father. My father, — 
 the father of my soul, — Cornelius Berman, 
 lies a corpse to-night. I forgive you, father, 
 but I cannot forget, for I am not the Savior ; 
 I am simply a man — " 
 
 " Have you no mercy ?" faltered the Le- 
 gate, -who stood in the presence of his son 
 like a criminal before his judge. "Do you 
 not know your words are killing me ?" 
 
 But Carl Raphael, as though all that was 
 dark in his own life, all that was dark in his 
 mother's death-hour, held possession of his 
 soul, would not give his father one chance of 
 justification. 
 
 " A man, father, who has known so much 
 suffering, that he now only desires to forget 
 the real world, in the ideal world created by 
 his own pencil ; who only desires to turn 
 his back upon wealth and all its hatreds, and 
 win his bread humbly, and away from the 
 world, by the toil of his hand. Mary ! — thou 
 who wast true to me, when I slept in the 
 cofiSn, — thou who wast true to me when I was 
 the tenant of a madman's cell, — Mary ! 
 come, let us go." 
 
 While the spectators stood like statues, — 
 all, save Randolph, who, with his face from 
 the light, took no notice of the scene, — he 
 took Mary by the hand, and moved toward 
 the door. 
 
 With one voice, his father, his sister, Mar- 
 tin Fulmer, called him back. 
 
 " Carl ! Carl ! you must not go !" 
 " My son ! my son !" 
 " Brother !" 
 
 He lingered on the threshold, holding his 
 beautiful wife by the hand. 
 
 " Father ! sister ! brave Martin Fulmer ! 
 come and see me in my poor man's home, 
 and I will bless you from my heart for your 
 presence. Come ! come, — but not to tempt 
 me with the offer of wealth ; that word 
 spoken, and we are strangers forever. For my 
 oath is sworn, by the name of my mother, 
 never to touch one dollar of the Yan Huyden 
 estate, and that oath is written up yonder !" 
 
 With these words, Carl Raphael, son of 
 Gulian Van Huyden, and heir of One Hun- 
 dred Million Dollars, took Mary by the hand, 
 and passed from the banquet-hall, and from 
 the house in which, twenty-one years before. 
 His mother died. 
 16 
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 I 
 
 ON THE OCEAN, — BY THE RIVER SHORE, — ISt 
 THE VATICAN, ON THE PRAIRIE. 
 
 My task is almost done. This work \yas 
 commenced in January, 184:&, — it is now 
 June, 1852. Four years that have been of 
 awful moment to the great world, and that, 
 to many of you my readers, have brought 
 change, affliction — have stripped you of 
 those whose life was a part of your life, and 
 made your pathway rich only in graves. 
 Four years ! As I am about to lay aside the 
 pen, and shut the pages of this book, those 
 four years start up before me, in living 
 shape ; they wear familiar faces ; they speak 
 with voices that never shall be heard on 
 earth again. 
 
 Before the curtain falls, let us take a glance 
 at the characters of our history. 
 
 Harry Royalton. He did not die under 
 his brother's hands, but returned to Hill 
 Royal, where he drank, and gambled, and 
 talked "secession," until a kindly bullet, 
 from the pistol of an antagonist in a duel, 
 relieved him of the woes of this life. 
 
 Randolph Royalton was never seen in 
 New York, after the 25th of December, 
 1844. It is supposed that, aided by Martin 
 Fulmer, he went abroad, accompanied by 
 his sister, the beautiful Esther. 
 
 In January, 1845, Bernard Lynn, com- 
 pletely broken down in health and appear- 
 ance, returned, with his daughter, to Europe. 
 He died soon afterward in Florence. Elea- 
 nor, it has been rumored, committed the 
 moral suicide of burying her life in a con- 
 vent. But let us hope, that Eleanor, as well 
 as Esther, will once more appear in active 
 life. 
 
 Israel Yorke still flourishes ; the devil is 
 good to his children. Godlike, we believe, 
 is yet upon the stage. And the apostolic 
 Ishmael Ghoul, still conducts the Daily 
 Blaze, waxing fat and strong, in total deprav- 
 ity. As for Sleevegammon, his competitor 
 for public favor, he still see-saws on the tight 
 rope, with Conservatism on one side, and 
 Progress on the other. Blossom, the police- 
 man, has retired from active life, and now 
 does a great deal of nothing, for three dol- 
 lars a day, in the Custom-House. Dr. Bui- 
 
280 
 
 THE DAY OF TWENTY-ONE YEARS. 
 
 gin still thrives ; he lately published a book 
 of 345 pages, as big as his own head almost, 
 against " Socialism." We have not been in- 
 formed whether any monument of marble, 
 with an obelisk and an epitaph, has been 
 erected in memory of the martyred " Blood- 
 hound." 
 
 Before we close our task, we will gaze 
 upon four scenes ; one of which took place 
 on the ocean ; another, by the shore of Hud- 
 son river ; a third, in the Vatican, at Rome ; 
 the fourth and last, upon the boundless 
 prairie. 
 
 ***** * * 
 
 It was in January, 1845. 
 
 One winter night, when the wind was bit- 
 ter cold in New York, and the snow lay 
 white upon the hills of the northern land, 
 there was a brave ship resting motionless 
 upon the ocean, not under a wintery sky, but 
 under a summer sky, and in an atmosphere 
 soft and bland as June. On her way from 
 New York to the West Indies, she had been 
 becalmed. She lay under the starlit sky, 
 with her image mirrored in every detail, 
 upon the motionless sea. All at once another 
 light than the pale beams of the stars, flashed 
 over the smooth expanse, and a pyramid of 
 flame rose grandly into the sky. The ship 
 was on fire ; in less than two hours the flame 
 died away, and in place of the brave ship, 
 there was a blackened wreck upon the 
 waters. All that escaped from the wreck 
 were six souls ; the captain, three of the 
 crew, and two passengers. Upon a hastily 
 constructed raft, with but a scanty supply of 
 bread and water, behold them, as they float 
 alone upon the trackless ocean. For three 
 days, without a breath of air to fan the 
 smooth expanse, they floated under a burn- 
 ing sun, in sight of the wreck, and on the 
 evening of the third day, they shared the 
 last crust of bread, and passed from lip to lip 
 the last can of water. It was on the evening 
 of the fourth day, that the captain, a brave 
 old seaman, driven mad by the burning sun 
 and intolerable thirst, leaped overboard, and 
 died, without a single effort on the part of 
 his companions to save him. His example 
 was followed by a sailor, an old tar, who had 
 followed him over half the globe. Thus, 
 there remained upon the raft four persons ; 
 two passengers and two sailors. 
 
 It was the evening of the fifth day, — five 
 days under the burning sun, — two days and 
 nights without water ! 
 
 The sun was setting. Like a globe of red 
 hot metal, he hung on the verge of the hori- 
 zon, shooting his fiery'' rays through a thin 
 purple haze. 
 
 The wreck had gone down, and the raft 
 was alone upon the motionless ocean. 
 
 The sailors were seated near each other, 
 on the side of the raft most remote from the 
 sun, — they were dressed in a coarse shirt 
 and trowsers, — and with their hands resting 
 on their knees, and their faces upon their 
 hands, they seemed to have surrendered 
 themselves to their fate, — that is, to de- 
 spair and death, by starvation. 
 
 The passengers were on the other side of 
 the raft ; one of them was a man of slender 
 form, dressed in dark broadcloth ; his head 
 was buried in his hands, and the setting sun 
 shone on his hair, which, sleek and brown 
 lay behind his ears. Beside him, in a reclin- 
 ing posture, was the other passenger, a wo- 
 man ; a woman who had escaped from the 
 burning vessel in her night-clothes, and who 
 now, with the cloak of the man spread beneath 
 her, turns her dark eyes hopelessly to the 
 setting sun. A few days ago, with her proud 
 bosom, and rounded limbs, and dark eyes 
 flashing from that face, whose clear, brown 
 complexion indicated her Spanish descent, 
 she was very beautiful. Look at her now. 
 Livid circles beneath each eye, lips parched, 
 cheeks hollow, — her bosom is bare, — shrunk- 
 en from its once voluptuous outline, it trem- 
 bles with a faint pulsation. Five days have 
 made terrible havoc of your beauty, proud 
 Godiva ! 
 
 The man by her side raises his head from 
 his hands, — in that sallow face, lack-luster 
 eyes, and hollowed cheeks, can you recog- 
 nize the smooth, fair visage of Herman 
 Barnhurst ? Alas ! Herman, your prospect of 
 a West Indian paradise, with Godiva for the 
 queen of your houris, is rather dim just now. 
 
 And the sky was above them, the track- 
 less sea all around, the last rays of the red 
 sun in their faces ; and not a sail in sight. 
 Scan the horizon, Herman, and in vain. 
 
 " ! it is horrible to die thus," exclaimed 
 Godiva, in a voice so faint as to be scarcely 
 audible. 
 
THE DAY OF TWENTY-ONE YEARS. 
 
 281 
 
 But Herman made no reply. 
 
 And as the sailors raised their eyes, — wild 
 and fiery from thirst and hunger, — the sun 
 went down, and night came at once upon 
 the scene. 
 
 " How beautiful they are, — the stars up 
 yonder, Herman !" 
 
 Still Herman did not reply. 
 
 Godiva, resting one arm upon his knee, fell 
 into a brief slumber, which was broken by 
 the most incongruous dreams. At length 
 her dreams resolved themselves into a view 
 of Niagara Falls, that world of waters, sing- 
 ing its awful hymn as it plunges into the 
 abyss. She saw the cool water, her face was 
 bathed in the spray, and, — she awoke de- 
 voured by maddening thirst. 
 
 Herman had moved from her side ; he 
 was on the opposite side of the raft, talking 
 ■with the sailoi*s in low tones. And the 
 sailors looked over their shoulders, with their 
 fiery eyes, as they conversed with Herman. 
 
 Again she fell into a doze. — she was with 
 her father this time, and Eugene, her first 
 love, by her side. Happy days ! — innocent 
 girlhood ! 
 
 She awoke with a start, — Herman was 
 still with the sailors, conversing in low 
 tones. 
 
 And thus the short night at the tropics 
 wore on. It was near sunrise, and yet very 
 dark, when Godiva was dreaming — dreaming 
 of the night when, yet a pure girl, she was 
 joined in marriage to the brutal sensualist. 
 There was the familiar parlor, — the white- 
 haired father, — the clergyman, — her profli- 
 gate husband. And the husband bore her 
 again over the threshold, she struggling in 
 his loathed embrace. In the struggle she 
 awoke, — sunrise was warm and bright upon 
 the waters, — and a fresh breeze fanned her 
 burning cheek. Over her stood Herman, his 
 right hand upraised, — the knife which it 
 grasped glittering in the sun. 
 
 " The lot has fallen on me !" he cried. 
 
 "Herman!" she shrieked — and spread 
 forth her hands. Too late ! The knife was 
 buried in her bosom. " Woman you must 
 die to save our lives !" 
 
 Godiva never saw anything in this world, 
 after that blow, which was followed by a 
 stream of blood. 
 
 " Come ! Let us drink !" shouted Her- 
 
 man to the sailors, his eyes rolling all wild 
 and mad. 
 
 Onl}' one of the sailors came and joined 
 him, in that loathsome draught. In the 
 sunken features of the poor wretch, you but 
 faintly recognize — Arthur Conroy. 
 
 The third sailor, rose trembling to his feet, 
 — his cheeks hollowed and his eyes sunken 
 like the others. He folded his arms, and 
 surveyed the three, — the body of Godiva, 
 with Herman and Conroy bending over her. 
 
 And then the third sailor, with his great 
 eyes flashing in their sockets, burst into a 
 maniac laugh, and cried, — "A sail! A 
 sail !" 
 
 The third sailor was Arthur Dermoyne. 
 
 Loathsome as was the draught which they 
 took, it assuaged their thirst, and for a time 
 stilled the madness in their veins. It was, 
 therefore, with a vision somewhat clear, that 
 Herman and Conroy looked up, and beheld 
 a white sail breaking the monotony of the 
 waste. 
 
 They turned from the body of the dead 
 woman with loathing. * * * The 
 sail grew nearer, nearer ! A signal ! " They 
 are lowering a boat," cried Herman, "we 
 shall be saved !" 
 
 " This is the very time of all others that 
 I wished to see," said Dermoyne, in that 
 husky and unnatural voice, — " your hands 
 are stained with the blood of your paramour, 
 — your heart beats with joy at the sight of 
 a sail, — now go !" And he pushed Hermaa 
 from the raft, and struck him on the hands, 
 with the hilt of the knife, as the miserable 
 man clutched the timbers. 
 
 " Mercy !" cried Herman, again clutching 
 the raft. 
 
 Again Dermoyne struck his hands with 
 the hilt of the knife. 
 
 " Go ! Alice waits for you !" 
 
 When the boat from the ship came up, 
 the crew found two men stretched insensible 
 upon the raft, beside the body of a dead 
 woman. As for Herman, he had sunk from 
 sight. 
 
 ******* 
 It w^as J une, in the year 1848 — 
 The flush of the summer evening, lay 
 broad and warm upon the river, when an 
 old man came from the cottage door, and 
 passing through the garden gate, bent hia 
 
282 
 
 THE DAY OF TWENTY-ONE YEARS. 
 
 steps toward the oak, which, standing by the 
 shore, caught upon its rugged trunk and 
 Avide-branching limbs, the golden rays of the 
 setting sun. 
 
 He stood there, with uncovered brow, the 
 breeze tossing his snow-white hairs, and the 
 evening flush warming over his venerable 
 face. By his side, grasping his hand, was a 
 boy of some three years, with a glad, happy 
 face, and sunny hair. 
 
 Before the old man and child spread the 
 river, warm with golden light, and white 
 with sails. Yonder the palisades rose up 
 into the evening sky ; and behind them, 
 was the cottage, leaning against the cliff, 
 with boughs above its steep roof, vines about 
 its pointed windows, and before its door a 
 garden, from whose beds of flowers a cool 
 fountain sent up its drops of spray, into the 
 evening air. The cottage of Cornelius Ber- 
 man, just as it was in other days. 
 
 Presently the father and the mother of 
 the child came from the garden gate, and 
 approached the oak. A man of twenty-five 
 years, with head placed firmly on his shoul- 
 ders, and a face whose clear gray eyes, and 
 forehead shaded by brown hair, indicate the 
 artist, the man of genius, — a woman who 
 may be seventeen, who may be twenty, but 
 whose rounded forni and pure loifely face, 
 link together the freshness of the maiden, 
 the ripe maturity of the woman. 
 
 Beside' the young wife, walks a young 
 woman, whose form is not so full and rounded 
 in its beauty, but whose pale face, tinted 
 with bloom on the lips and cheek, is lighted 
 by eyes that gleam with a sad, spiritual 
 light Altogether, a face that touches you 
 with its melancholy beauty, and compares 
 with the face of the wife, as a calm starlit 
 night, with a rosy summer morn. 
 
 It is Carl Raphael, his wife, Mary, and his 
 sister, now called Alice, who come to join 
 old Martin Fulmer on the river bank. De- 
 clining to touch one dollar of the Van 
 Huyden estate, and determined to earn his 
 bread by the toil of his hand, Carl still had 
 fortune thrust upon him, — for Mary was the 
 only heir of the merchant prince, Evelyn 
 Somers. 
 
 " Doctor, I have a letter from father, who 
 is now in Rome," said Carl, a.s he stood by 
 the old man's side, — and he placed the letter j 
 
 from his father, the Legate, in Martin Ful- 
 mer's hand. 
 
 Martin seized the letter, and reading it 
 eagerly, his eye brightening up with the light 
 of the olden time — 
 
 " Ah, Carl, he will soon return, he will at 
 last relieve me of the care of the Van Huy- 
 den estate ! See how hopefully he speaks 
 of the cause of humanity in Europe, — in 
 February, the people of France cast off their 
 chains, — now Italy is awake, and men with 
 the soul of Rienzi and the sword of Wash- 
 ington, direct her destinies, — the Pope, soon 
 to be stripped of his temporal power, will be 
 no longer the tool of brutal tyrants, the pri- 
 soner of atheist cardinals, but simply the 
 Head of a regenerated people, simply the 
 first Priest of a redeemed church. Glorious 
 news, Carl ; glorious news for us, in this free 
 land ; for say what we will, Rome is a heart 
 which never throbs, but that its pulsations 
 are felt throughout the world," 
 
 " How can Rome directly affect tis. Doc 
 tor ?»' 
 
 " If the absolutist party in that church,— 
 the party who regard Christ but as their 
 stepping-stone to unrestrained and brutal 
 power, — obtain the mastery, then, Carl, the 
 last battle between that party and humanity, 
 will be fought not in Europe, but in this 
 New World. Is there a hill in this land, but 
 is trod by a soldier of Rome ? But if the 
 party of Progress in that church, — the party 
 who believe in Christ, and hold the Gospels 
 as the inspired text-book of Democratic 
 truth, — obtain the ascendency, then, instead 
 of having to battle with the Catholic Church, 
 in this New W^orld, the friends of humanity 
 will find in it, their strongest ally. Good 
 news, Carl ! The Pope, the Washington of 
 Italy !" 
 
 To which Carl, — happy in that little world 
 of his own, where he lived with his wife 
 and child, afar from the great world, — said 
 simply : — 
 
 " Martin, let us wait and see." 
 * j(c * * * * ♦ 
 
 Some months after the conversation just 
 recorded, a very brief scene, but full of in- 
 terest took place in Rome. 
 
 Let us pass for a little while from tho 
 Empire City to the Eternal City. 
 
 In one of the chambers of the Vatican, 
 
THE DAY OF TWENTY-ONE YEARS. 
 
 283 
 
 late at night, a lamp was faintly burning, 
 its rays struggling among the thick shadows 
 which hung about the lofty walls. Through 
 an open window came a dim, ominous mur- 
 mur, — the voice of the arisen people of 
 Rome. 
 
 A man of some fifty years, whose black 
 hair was plentifully sprinkled with gray, 
 paced up and down the marble floor, pausing 
 every now and then before a door, in the 
 center of the chamber, to which he directed 
 his earnest gaze. Behind that door was the 
 majesty of the Roman Church, 'the repre- 
 sentative of God on earth' — the Pope of 
 Rome. 
 
 And the solitary watcher, dressed in the 
 plain garb of a simple ecclesiastic, was the 
 Legate who had done the bidding of the 
 Pontiff over half the globe, — the Legate, 
 Gulian Van Huyden. 
 
 " Will he turn his back upon the people, and 
 cast himself into the hands of the tyrants ? 
 Will he, after his hand has grasped the 
 plow of Human Progress, falter and turn 
 back, and give the power of the church into 
 the hands of the Iscariots of the human 
 race ? Can there be any truth in the rumor ?" 
 
 And again he paused before the door, be- 
 hind which was the chamber which held the 
 sovereign Pontiff. 
 
 That door opened, — the Pope appeared. 
 Clad not in the gorgeous costume which he 
 wears, when high upon his throne, he is 
 carried by his guards, through thousands and 
 tens of thousands of his kneeling worship- 
 ers ; but clad in a loose robe or gown of 
 dark silk, which, thrown open in front, dis- 
 closes his bared neck and disordered attire. 
 For with his mild countenance, — a counte- 
 nance marked by irresolution, — displaying 
 every sign of perturbation, this " representa- 
 tive of God on earth," wears very much the 
 air of one who is about to fly from a falling 
 house. 
 
 "There can be no truth in this rumor, 
 which I hear," and the Legate steps forward 
 almost fiercely, addressing the Pope without 
 one word of " majesty," or ** holiness," — 
 " this Tumor of flight ?" 
 
 It is in a soft and tremulous^ voice, (in 
 Italian of course,) the Pope replies, — 
 
 " If I stay, poison threatens me from above, 
 the dagger from below." i 
 
 And then with a gesture, supplicating 
 silence and secrecy on the part of the Legate, 
 the Pope retires and closes the door. 
 
 " Significant words ! Poison threatens 
 him from above, — from the cardinals, — the 
 dagger from below, — from the people. The 
 danger from the cardinals is not imaginary — 
 there was once a Pope named Ganganelli, 
 who suppressed the Jesuits, and in less than 
 three months died horribly of poison. But 
 the people, Pius ? 0, Pope without nervei, 
 without faith in God, without hope in man, 
 know you not, that were you to fulfill your 
 apostolate of Liberty, the very women and 
 children of Rome would, in your defense, 
 build around you a rampart of their dead 
 bodies ?" 
 
 He walked to the \vindow, up to which 
 from the sleepless city, came the voices of 
 arisen Rome : 
 
 " God help the Roman people !" he ex- 
 claimed ; " God confound the schemes of 
 the tyrants, who now plot the murder of the 
 Roman people ! At last, after five hundred 
 years of wrong, the Nightmare of Priesthood 
 is lifted from the breast of Italy. Italy has 
 heard at last, the voice of God, calling upon 
 her sons to arise — to cast these priestly idlers 
 from their thrones — to assert the Democracy 
 of the Gospel in face of t}Tants of all shapes, 
 whether dressed in military gear, in solemn 
 black, or in Borgian scarlet. Italy has 
 risen !" 
 
 And turning from the window, he paced 
 the floor again, — 
 
 " My work is done in Rome. The Pope 
 and the church in the hands of crowned 
 and mitred miscreants, who having crushed 
 the last spark of liberty in the Old World, 
 will not be long ere they open their trenches 
 before her last altar in the New World ! 
 Away to the New World then ; if the battle 
 must come, let us, let the friends of human- 
 ity, strike the first blow I" 
 
 * * * * * * * 
 
 Away from the eternal city, — to the New 
 World, — to the boundless horizon and ocean- 
 like expanse of the prairies. The sun is 
 setting over one of those vast prairies, which 
 stretch between the Mississippi and the Rocky 
 Mountains. The monotony of that vast 
 expanse, covered with grass that rolls and 
 swells, like the ware of old ocean, is broken 
 
284 
 
 THE DAY OF TWENTY-ONE YEARS. 
 
 by a gentle k::oll, crowned hy a single giant 
 oak. The netting sun flings the shadow of 
 that solitary tree, black and long, over, the 
 prairie. Far, far in the west, a white peak 
 rises like an altar from the horizon, into the 
 sky — it is a peak of the Rocky Mountains. 
 And gazing to the east, you behold nothing 
 save the prairie and the sky, — yes ! a herd 
 of buffalo are grazing yonder, and a long 
 caravan" of wagons, drawn by mules, and 
 flanked by armed men who ride or go afoot, 
 winds like an immense serpent, far over the 
 plain. 
 
 Three hundred emigrants, mechanics, their 
 wives and little ones, who have left the 
 savage civilization of the Atlantic cities, for 
 a free home beyond the Rocky Mountains — 
 such is the band which now moves on in the 
 light of the fading day. 
 
 The leader of the band, a man in the 
 prime of young manhood, dressed in the 
 garb of a hunter, with a rifle on his shoulder, 
 stands beneath the solirary oak, gazing upon 
 the caravan as it comes on. His face bears 
 traces of much thought, — perchance of many 
 a dark hour, — but now his eyes shine clear 
 
 and strong, with the enthusiasm which 
 springs from deep convictions : 
 
 " Thus far toward freedom ! Here they 
 come, — three hundred serfs of the Atlantic 
 cities, rescued from poverty, from wages- 
 slavery, from the war of competition, from the 
 grip of the landlord ! Thus far toward a 
 soil which they can call their own ; thus far 
 toward a free home. And thou, ! Christ, 
 who didst live and die, so that all men 
 might be brothers, bless us, and be with us, 
 and march by our side, in this our exodus." 
 
 The speaker was the Socialist, — Arthur 
 Dermoyne. 
 
 And let us all, as we survey the masses 
 of the human race, attempting their exodus 
 from thraldom of all kinds, — of the body, — 
 of the soul, — from the tyranny which crushes 
 man by the iron hand of brute force, or 
 slowly kills him by the lawful operation of 
 capital, labor-saving machinery, or monied 
 enterprise, — let us, too, send up our prayer, 
 — "0 ! Thou of Nazareth, go with the Peo- 
 ple in this their exodus, dwell with them in 
 their tents, beacon with light, their hard way 
 to the Promised Land !" 
 
 rHE END. 
 
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I