CHAPTER XII.
[Note—“The Life of a Man of the World!” To
show how the warm and earnest hope of youth is
chilled, by circumstance and bitter experience, into
the cold, calculating spirit of middle-age—something
like this is the object of the present narrative.
Like the history of “The Midnight Queen,” this is
also an autobiography, and its hero, like the heroine
of the former narrative, is named Frank; but
Frank, the Man of the World, is an altogether different
character from Frank, the pure, and impassioned,
and betrayed woman. But let the Man of
the World tell his story for himself, in his own
way.]
My family was one of the oldest in
the State of New-York; one of those
indeed which, dating from the days of
Dutch ascendency, pride themselves more
upon blood than money. I was just
twenty-one, when, having completed my
collegiate course at Harvard, I returned
home, my heart filled with the brightest
anticipations. My father was wealthy,
my cousin Eva beautiful, and she loved
me—thus ran my thoughts—and as soon
as I get home I will marry Eva. Night
had fallen, as, landing at the Battery, I
took my way along Broadway toward
my father's mansion, one of those lordly
palaces of the upper regions of New-York.
As I picked my way, by the
flaring gas-lights, what a world of fancies
rushed upon me, and, amid them all,
Eva's face, with its clear hazel eyes and
auburn hair!
Arrived at home, I found my father
sitting alone in the front parlor; he was
reading by the light of a shaded lamp.
He greeted me warmly, and shading his
eyes with his hand, contemplated me
long and attentively.
“Why, my boy, you have grown quite
handsome! A student and handsome—
quite odd, I declare!”
At this time I was about the medium
height, my frame broad in the shoulders
and slender in the waist, my step elastic,
and as to my face, it partook of the
mingled Dutch and Spanish lineage of
our family—clear complexion, dark hair
and brows, aquiline features, and eyes
of deep brown.
My father, of course, being near sixty,
was a man of altogether different appearance.
In former years he had been
famed for his manly beauty, but age and
habits of epicurean ease, had rendered
him portly, almost obese. His features
were full and florid, his hair white as
snow. As he leaned back in his chair,
crossing his foot over a second chair,
lifting his eye-glass with one hand, while
the other held the newspaper, he looked
the very picture of a good-natured, self-complacent
man of the world.
“You have grown quite handsome,”
said he; “and now, my dear Frank,
having graduated with all the honors,
and so forth, let me know what you intend
to do?”
I at once, seated familiarly by his side,
opened my plans to him; spoke of his
wealth; of my determination to marry
my cousin, and then to pursue the study
of the law. He listened with one eye
half closed, one finger laid gently on his
nose, giving no sign of his sentiments
further than an occasional “hum!”
“You are wealthy, father. Eva's
family are wealthy; we are suited to
each other; and once married to Eva I
can pursue my profession, and gain distinction
at the bar.” Thus I remarked,
when my father interrupted me.
“This is all very well reasoned, and
looks bright, but we will talk of it to-morrow.
By the bye, Frank, do me a
favor. You are tired, I know, but I am
sure you will not deny me. On this
card is written the address of a tenant,
whose rent is long in arrears. I wish
you would take a carriage at once, proceed
to the house, see the party, and
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ascertain definitely about the probable
time when the money will be paid.”
This was a singular request. “Why
not entrust the matter to your regular
agent?” I began, when my father interrupted
me with an impetuous wave of
his hand, and the words, “Not a word
more, Frank. Do me the favor,” and
took up his paper.
Without a word, I put the card in my
pocket, wrapped my cloak around me, (it
was a clear, cold winter night,) and left
the room and the house. I soon secured
a hack, and directed the driver to proceed
as fast as possible to the house
whose number was on the card—it was
some two miles from the head of Broadway,
being out in the half inhabited regions
of the Sixth avenue. As the carriage
rolled on its way, I gave myself up
to all sorts of waking dreams, Eva's face
prominent among all. At last the carriage
stopped, and I found myself in front
of a row of three-story brick houses,
which stood alone on a street newly laid
out, near the avenue. Dismounting from
the carriage, I cast a glance around the
gloomy region, which, by the light of a
cloudy winter night, presented only an
indistinct view of unfinished buildings,
varying the surface of a large plain, terminated
by the Hudson river, and then
ascended the step of the house designated
on the card. I rang the bell—soon
a tall female with a handkerchief tied
about her head appeared.
“Is the lady or gentlemen of the
house,” I did'nt know which to name,
“within?”
“Yer business, sur,” was the response.
“I wish to see the person of the
house,” said I, firmly.
“Then walk this way, Sur,” was the
reply, and I was led into an entry, and
from thence into a small parlor, neatly
furnished, and lighted only by a coal fire
burning in the grate. Seating myself on
the sofa, I occupied myself in wondering
about the occupant of the house, as to
who he or she might be; and this train
of thought exhausted, I busied myself in
picturing Eva's beautiful face, amid the
embers of the coal fire. My reverie was
abruptly broken.
A light suddenly mingled with the
rays of the fire, and on the threshold of
the door that led into the next room,
stood a beautiful girl, not more than
eighteen years old, dressed in a garment
of white muslin, her hair unbound, and
her uplifted hand holding a candle above
her head. Certainly she was very beautiful.
Below the medium height, her
bosom prominent, her waist lithe and
pliant, her shape full in its outlines, her
hands and feet exquisitely small. She
was one of those women, whose rich
complexion, moist red lips, and deep blue
gray eyes, speak at once of the purity of
the maiden—the passion of the matured
woman.
“Whom did you wish to see?” she
asked, lifting the candlestick with one
hand, and shading her eyes with the
other.
“Eva!” I cried, bounding from the
sofa and folding her in my arms. She
uttered a faint cry, and sunk half fainting
on my breast. The candlestick had
fallen to the floor, and I could only see
her blushing face by the light of the coal
fire. I bore her to the sofa, seated her
by my side, and cradled her head on my
breast; there was a moment of voiceless
passion. I kissed her on the lips, the
cheeks, the brow—nay, kissed the waves
of her glossy brown hair. Then raising
her head from my breast, even as her
arms clung convulsively about my neck,
I suffered my gaze to devour her young
and glowing countenance.
“Eva, darling, you were always beautiful,
but now you are an angel!” Her
eyes were downcast, she did not meet
my gaze, but, unwinding her arms
from my neck, crossed her hands on
her lap, and sat silent and trembling by
my side. This sudden change of manner
confounded me.
I overwhelmed her with questions:
“Do you not love me, Eva? What has
happened to wound you? Why do I
find you here, in this lonely house?”
She at length raised her eyes; they
were filled with tears. “O Frank,” she
said, “O Frank, has not your father told
you all?”
“Told me all?” I echoed in vague wonder.
And then in a voice broken by sobs
with eyes now downcast, and now raised
in imploring entreaty to my face, while
her hands alternately clasped her unbraided
hair, and pulled at the ruffles of
her robe, she told me the cause of her
agitation.
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“A week ago father died—died insolvent.
The day after his death the creditors
took possession of our house. Mother
and I sought the advice of your father,
he was rich, he would protect us
until your return—so we thought. And
your father —”
“And my father, —”
“And your father informed us that he
was on the brink of insolvency. All his
future was gone—the very house in which
he lived `hopelessly mortgaged.' `My
dear Eva,' said he, `rich as I seem to be.
I am something worse than a beggar.'”
She paused—I need not say that this
news fell on me like the stroke of a thunderbolt.
But nervously anxious to hear
the sequel of the story, I could only beg
her to proceed.
“And then, expatiating on the hopeless
poverty which had suddenly fallen
on both of our families, he begged me,
without delay—” she stopped, and gasped
for breath—“to repair our fallen fortunes
by a marriage. A Wall-street
merchant, twice my age, and very rich,
had spoken to him about me—was willing,
at once, to marry me. This merchant
was one of your father's largest creditors—
once married to me, he would not
press his claim. And, Frank—oh! I
shall sink into the floor—I cannot go
on!”
She buried her face on her bosom, and
burst into tears. As for me, my heart
grew like ice.
“And you consented to marry him?”
I faltered.
Her voice was death-like, as she replied:
“Yes. To save your father from ruin,
to save you and myself from the calamity
of a marriage which would condemn
you to hopeless poverty, I consented.
This morning we were married in Trinity
Church, and to-night—yes, within an
hour—my husband will come, to bear
me from this house (where, with mother,
I have lived since father's death) to his
own splendid mansion.”
She could say no more; she flung herself
upon the arm of the sofa, and gave
full vent to her agony. As for me, I was
paralyzed.
“Eva married to another, who will
come within an hour to bear her to his
mansion, there to gather to his embrace
the woman whom he has bought.” It
was this thought which seemed written
in letters of fire upon my brain. Suddenly
the bell rang; Eva started up, pale
and shuddering.
“O Frank, it is he—Mr. Walmer—my
husband! What shall we do? He must
not see you—he must not see you!”
Conscious that I was pale as death, I
rose from the sofa. My resolution was
taken.
“Eva, I will answer the bell,” I said,
and grasped her wrist,—“nay, not a
word, I am resolved.” And forcing her
to a seat upon the sofa, I left the room
and hurried along the entry to the front
door. “Mr. Walmer—and so it is that
red-faced bon-vivant, who has purchased
Eva!” the thought ran through my mind.
“Well, Mr. Walmer! You shall never
cross this threshold!”
Firmly resolved to lay him dead at
my feet, ere he crossed the threshold, I
opened the door.
“Does Mrs. Walmer live here?” said
a voice—it was not the voice of the portly
Mr. Walmer, but of a thick-set servant
in livery.
“Yes.”
“Here is a note for her, from Mr.
Walmer. It does not require an answer,”
and before I had time to say a
word, the thick-set servant went down
the steps and disappeared.
I closed the door, reentered the parlor,
and gave the note to Eva; she was
pale as death, as, bending toward the
fire, she opened it, and perused its contents.
And then, with a faint cry, she
fell insensible to the floor.
It may be guessed that I grasped the
note from her fingers, and madly devoured
its contents. Judge of my surprise
when I read:—
Lippard, George, 1822-1854 [1853], The midnight queen, or, Leaves from New York life. (Garrett & Co., 18 Ann street, New York) [word count] [eaf630T].
