“New-York, Dec. 16, 1842.
“My Pretty Wife:—

“I am called away this afternoon to Havana on
important business it admits of not a single hour's
delay—and if I succeed in the speculation which I
have in my eye, I will clear some $300,000. When
you read this, I will be on board the steamer off
Sandy Hook. I will be absent from four to five
weeks. You will at once remove from the house
which yourself and mother now occupy, and take
possession of my town mansion in Broadway. The
servants have the requisite orders; everything will
be at your command. And don't fret yourself to
death in my absence, darling. Yours, &c., &c.

Here was indeed food for thought!

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The sensuality of the bon-vivant had,
for a time, yielded to his avarice. Eva
was respited for at least four weeks—
respited from a fate worse than death.
I was almost mad with joy. Raising her
gently from the floor, I bore her to the
sofa, and cradled her in my arms, as
though she had been a child, and awoke
her back to life by my passionate and
burning kisses.

“O Frank, is it not all a dream—the
letter, the letter!” were the first words
which she said. I placed the letter in
her hand; she read it again, and then
raised a face to me all radiant and joyous.
Her bosom heaved over the folds
of her robe—her eyes shone with deep
light.

“And you will go and reside in his
splendid mansion?” I whispered.

“No,” she answered softly, with downcast
eyes, “I will remain in this house—
this house, which mother and I purchased
and rented with money derived
from the wreck of father's estate. Mother
is sick in bed, up-stairs, prostrated
by a nervous attack, and needs all my
care.”

While thus speaking, she had gently
disengaged herself from my arms, and
took her seat, at a short distance from
me, on the sofa. She was very beautiful,
and the light of the fire cast a soft
glow over her face, her dark hair, and
dress, spotless as snow. For a few moments,
silence prevailed—a silence painful
and embarrassing to both of us. I
was afraid to speak—even afraid to decrease
the slight distance which separated
us.

At last, I said to her in a low voice,
as we sat alone in that quiet parlor—
“Eva, what is marriage?” I saw her
bosom heave and her color come and
go. “Is it a ceremony performed in
Trinity Church, between a purchaser and
his purchase, by a priest who acts as auctioneer?
Or is it the consummation of
a holy vow, made in childhood, by two
young hearts, whom God has destined
for each other?”

I paused—threading her hands in an
absent manner, through the waves of
her unbound hair, she remained silent—
but for a moment only. She rose, radiant
as much with her virgin purity, as
with her passionate loveliness of look
and shape—she rose, and came gently
to me, laying one hand on each of my
shoulders, and bending down until her
bosom beat against my cheek.

“You are my husband,—you only,”—
and she pressed her lips to mine. * *
The intense delight, the holy passion of
that hour, I shall never forget. And the
hours glided away, unperceived, while
we lost ourselves in one of those waking
dreams, which never happen to the same
person twice in a lifetime.

“Father!”—it was thus I soliloquized,
as, passing from the home of Eva, after
midnight, I re-entered the carriage—
“Father! you are a man of the world,
and a worldly-wise man; so is your
friend Walmer,—both cunning men.
Eva and I are but children, but somehow
I think we are ahead of you, this time.”

I did not meet my father until next
morning at breakfast. The table was
spread for two, and we sat alone, facing
each other, in the elegant breakfast room,
where the rays of the morning sun were
tempered by closely drawn curtains.
How calm and self-possessed he looked
in his snow-white ruffles and embroidered
dressing-gown, as, cracking an egg in
the glass, he regarded me curiously, one
eye half closed!

“Well, Frank, did you see the tenant?”
he said quietly.

“I did, father,” and, imitating his nonchalance,
slowly sipped my coffee.

He evidently expected a burst of rage
from me; but my mother's blood predominated
in my veins, and I met his
Dutch phlegm with the cautiousness of
the Spaniard. A long pause ensued.
“Zounds! why don't you talk?” he cried
at last, setting his cup on the table, with
a sort of china-ware emphasis—a kind
of crockery “damn.” “Do you blame
me for having married Eva, and married
her well, rich, and so-forth, thus saving
both you and her from a poor marriage
and its consequences?”

“No doubt you acted for the best,
father,” I answered quietly.

“By this time, Frank, you are aware
that I am something worse than a beggar.
As for her father, he died insolvent.
It becomes us to look around us.
Eva's marriage secures her, and will give
us, for some time longer, possession of
this house, for Walmer holds the mortgage.
And as for you, Frank, you have
a fine person—quite an air, education,

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and so-forth—you musn't think of the
law. A rich marriage is the thing for
you. It will set us all up, my boy.”

“Do you think so?” I exclaimed.

My father broke another egg in his
cup: “Now, I know a West Indian lady—
Mrs. De Wolf—a trifle older than
you—her husband is dead, and she is a
widow, immensely rich. Rich enough
to buy the park for a pleasure garden, or
have a full-grown nigger for breakfast,
every morning, if she chooses. I have
transacted some business for her, and
know that she is anxious for a husband;
a young one, one who has style. In fact,
I have spoken to her of you, and —”

He was interrupted by the entrance of
a person who bounced into the room
very much like a bombshell. It was a
very short lady, broad in the shoulders,
very ample in the form, with a dark complexion,
somewhat spotted, a hooked
nose, and very dark hair, which, like her
white teeth, evidently belonged to some
person long since deceased. She was
richly dressed in black, and ornamented
all over with diamonds. As if unconscious
that fifty years had robbed her
bosom of its virgin outline and alabaster
hues, she dressed in such a manner that
it was half exposed, and there it was
heaving, like a half-stagnant wave, with a
heavy diamond necklace glittering over
it. At college we were wont to compare
anything peculiarly indescribable to the
“Devil before Day,” and I certainly
thought that, at last, I beheld that personage
in the female before me.

“How d'ye do, my dear Van Warner?
Up late last night at the opera, but
thought I'd make an early call! How
well you are looking! Bless me, is this
your son? quite handsome, I vow! Introduce
me, Van Warner!” thus rattling
on, in pretty good English, marked by a
Spanish accent, she lifted her eye-glass,
and surveyed me as coolly as though I
had been a blood horse: “Elegant form,
dark hair and whiskers, and quite the
chivalresque cast of face. I vow, Frank,
I'm in love with you already!”

She spent the day with my father,
conversing about matters connected with
her estates in Jamaica and Cuba.