Singing Sword

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Singing Sword

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.
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.
"O, Joanna, you vex yourself without cause," he said, soothingly,—"I
love you,—you know I love you—"
"O, 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—"
"Forged? This is folly my love."
"In that case, you and I would be guilty, O, guilty beyond power of
redemption, and Eugene would be an infamously murdered man."
"Dismiss these gloomy thoughts. The letters were true—"
"O, you are certain,—certain—"
"I swear it,—swear it by all I hold dear on earth or hope hereafter."
"O, do not swear, Beverly. Who could doubt you?"
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 Beverly, as he rested his hand
upon her shoulder,—"we will leave for Italy—"
"You have been in Italy?" asked Joanna.
"O, 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 whisper, as with her hand on his
shoulders and her bosom beating against his own, she looked up
earnestly into his face, "O, would it not be well, could we but die at
this moment,—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 aims 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—"
"O, 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.
And there, in the gloom, he pressed her to his breast, and as she
clung to his neck, whispered certain words, which died in murmurs
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 motion of that bosom which heaved
madly against the folds 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 husband," 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 agony 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 was 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 anxiously toward the door.
She took a package from her breast and flung it at his feet.
"Go," she cried, "but first take up your 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, 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 conscious 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 strange throbbing at the temples, which he had felt for an
hour past, and which he had attributed 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,—"O, 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 auburn 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 blasphemous 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.
Urged forward by an impulse like madness, 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 descended 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 behind him the
closed mansion of Eugene Livingstone, 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 instant 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
confused, 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 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 struggle,—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 before 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'll be arter you," cried one in the crowd,
through which he staggered on.
"My eyes! ain't 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 Broadway 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, stiff 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 toward 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, Eugene, 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?—O, 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 Eugene, in a low, whispering voice, as
though she wished him to hear her, and yet was afraid to awake him
from a pleasant slumber. 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 frowning, 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 presence, 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 talking with Eugene, and he has
forgiven me!"
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 born of
romance, but of that under-current 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 apprenticeship 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 attempted in the present work, not to exaggerate, 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 system, which, false
alike to God and man, does perpetually tempt one portion of the
human race with immense wealth, as it tempts another 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 summer
boughs,—let us take a stroll together.
Out in the country, near a dusty turnpike, 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 railroad 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
straightway 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, hidden 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. Where 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, dashing 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 irregular 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 canopy; and farther on, a
mass of oaks, chesnuts, 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 June-day song.
You look above, and the blue sky is set in an irregular frame of
leaves,—leaves now shadowed 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 bottom of this leafy
amphitheater, you'll wrap yourself in summer, and forget the world,
which, beyond that wall of trees, is still at its old work,—swearing,
lying, fretting, loving, 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
anxious 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 heaven, quick
as a sunbeam flies!
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 solemn night has come to wrap you in her stillness.
And ere you leave the dell, just give one moment of thought to
those you love, whose eyes are shut by the graveyard sod,—think of
them, not as dead, but as living and beautiful 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-engine's roar and whistle,—that
bustling, hating, fighting world, which, like the steam-engine, rushes
onward, with hot coals at its heart, and a brimstone cloud above it.
 PART SEVENTH.
THE DAY OF TWENTY-ONE YEARS.
DECEMBER 25, 1844.

CHAPTER I.

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 unfinished Trinity Church. In the gloom,
amid the falling 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 Huyden," was thrust aside, and from the
gloom of the vault beneath, the coffin was slowly raised into view;
the coffin 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 ceiling to the floor,—Ezekiel Bogart sits alone. The
hanging lamp diffuses its mild beams around the silent place. Ezekiel
is seated in the arm-chair, by the table, his form enveloped 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! 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 gentleman, 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 Bogart,—"You have attended to all
my directions, Michael?"
"The banquet-room is prepared as you ordered it, and all your other
commands have been carefully obeyed," answered Michael.
"This will be a busy night for you, Michael. From this hour until four
in the morning, yes, until daybreak, you will wait in the reception
room below, and admit into the house the persons whose names
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 apartment, 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 Hoffman, 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 since."
"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.
Remember, 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, Michael, 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; Ninety-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 years
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 appetites 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 intoxicate and corrupt him. Barnhurst, a clerical
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 wealthiest into utter ruin, and convulse, to
its center, the whole world of commerce and of industry. Barron,—a
fashionable sensualist,—he will surround himself with a harem.
Godlike, a Borgia,—an intellectual demon,—his share will create a
world of crimes. Harry Royalton, 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 Van 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 continued,—
"But the child will be discovered,—the child will be here at the
appointed hour."
He spoke these words in a tone of profound 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 continued,—
"No,—no,—this wealth cannot pass into the hands of the seven!
When Gulian, in his last hour, intrusted it to Martin Fulmer,
bequeathing it, after the lapse of twenty-one years, to seven
persons, in different parts of the union, he doubtless thought that
chance, to say nothing of Providence, would 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 unworthy of his hopes, altogether unfit to possess 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 will 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 throughout 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 burying his face in his hands,
sent up his soul, in a voiceless prayer.
"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 untold wealth among such of the seven as are present.
Before morning light his trust expires. But,—but,—" and he pressed
his clenched hands nervously together,—"the child will appear."
Taking up a silver candlestick, he lighted the wax 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 vault 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 Raphael, the son of
Gulian Van Huyden,—of the appointed hour, now close at hand.
"What if Martin Fulmer should burn 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 parchments 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 those 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 his 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 appearance, and effectually concealed
his features, and the varying expressions of his countenance.
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 fresh air. 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 embroidered 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 coverlet 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!" ejaculated Ezekiel Bogart, as though the dead
one was present, listening to his every word,—"Here, twenty-one
years 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 possession 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 Huyden."
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 with the purple tapestry, brushed the dust away
from the canvas and the walnut frame. The portrait came out into
light, so fresh, 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 the 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 true 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 Huyden 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 flowers, and satyr faces in every corner; 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-covered floor and walls.
Upon these tressels, twenty-one years before, had been placed a
coffin, inscribed with the name of Gulian Van Huyden, and the dates,
—December 25th, 1823, and December, 25th, 1844.
Opposite these tressels, a panel had recently been removed,
disclosing a cavity or recess in the wall. In the recess the iron chest
had been buried twenty-one years before. It was vacant now,—the
iron chest was gone.
As the light shone around this place, whose every detail was linked
with the past, the breast of Ezekiel Bogart heaved with emotion, but
no word passed his lips. He 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 window, with heavy frame
and narrow panes, shook to the impulse of the winter wind. A
mahogany desk and an old-fashioned arm-chair, stand between the
door and the window.
"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, Gulian 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 dismally 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
windows of the Banquet-room, in the western wing of the mansion,
as they shone with 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 glimmering 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
staircase, 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 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 with 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 place and
hour 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 remained.
"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 muscular 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 blasphemous 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 not give it up easy,
nayther. And now what's it come to?"
"The Boy,—the son of Gulian Van Huyden," 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 until I found his quarters in the
four story buildin', whar there was a dead man?—"
"Yes,—yes,—and you came and told me that you had found his
home. The people in the room adjoining the one which he occupies,