Let me tell how I first met Eugenia.

One night I was sitting alone in one of
the largest parlors of my grand city man
sion. The servants had long ago retired,
and the house was still as a tomb. A
wax candle, which stood on the table before
me, shed its light for a few paces
around the table, but left the other parts
of the room veiled in uncertain twilight.
The huge mirrors glittered faintly in the
light, and the pictures on the wall—scriptural
subjects from the hands of old
masters—appeared in vague, almost distorted
outlines. It was a night in early
spring, and a wood fire smoldered on the
hearth.

Seated in a chair by the table, my
hands placed together, and my head
sunken on my breast, I gazed vacantly
and dreamily at the light, and was thinking.
My life came up to me in a sort of
grotesque and nightmare panorama. The
wild life I had lately led; the scenes of
mad dissipation through which I had
passed, in my effort to kill time and banish
thought; the images of the race-course,
the ball-room, the opera, and the
gambling hell; these were in the foreground
of the picture which rose to my
mind. And in the background was the
sweet, holy face of Eva, and the livid, distorted
face of my hag-wife. I found myself
thinking aloud.

“Frank, my boy! this will not do.
You are getting old before your time.
Your cheeks are sallow, and there is an
ugly hollow underneath each eye. The
owner of half a million dollars, you ought
to be happy! And yet you are not happy.
The excitement of the gamblingtable
does not please you. The music
and the stir of the ball-room only bores
you. Even fast-trotting horses have failed
to charm. As to the opera, and the
routine of fashionable society, they are
just better than being in jail, and that is
all. Frank, my boy! you must occupy
yourself in something—in something, no
matter what—or this delicate centre of
nerves called the brain will begin to be
affected. What shall that something be?
Shall you dabble in literature, speculate
in building lots, or—get married? Get
married!”

A miniature of Eva, placed near the
candle met my eye.

“No—I don't think we'll get married.
Where is the woman who can fill the
place of Eva?”

As thus I sat alone, thinking aloud, the
hours began to approach morning; and,

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whether from causes purely physical, or
from long-continued mental excitement,
a nameless horror imperceptibly overshadowed
me.

I started in my chair, as though I had
suddenly awoke from a dream. Suddenly,
I felt myself terribly alone; I was
afraid; afraid of I knew not what. Shuddering
and cold, I saw the face of my hag-wife,
distorted by the throe of death, pass
between me and the light—saw it visibly,
palpably, and yet knew it to be nothing
but a vision.

And after this hideous face, there passed
slowly between me and the candle the
face of Eva, her eyes fixed upon me with
an indescribable look of sadness and reproach.
These faces passed and were
gone, and came again. I rose slowly
from my chair, and covered my eyes with
my hands. The nameless horror paralyzed
me from head to foot. There was
a moment in which the agonies of ages
seemed crowded into a focus—a moment
in which the most awful fear that can afflict
a living man—the fear of Insanity—
took full possession of me.

When I drew my hands away from my
eyes, they were wet with the moisture
which had suddenly bathed my forehead.
And afraid to gaze upon the light, lest I
should again behold those faces, I cast
my eyes upon the mirror beyond it.

Was this a new vision? In the mirror,
behind my own face, near my shoulder,
I beheld, distinctly drawn, another
face—a face with its low forehead covered
with thick shaggy black hair, and its
small dark eyes glittering like points of
flame. Was this also a vision like the
others?

As I asked myself the question, I saw
a hand rise above my face in the mirror,
and that hand grasped a pistol, knife, or
club—some weapon whose form I could
not precisely determine. Quick as lightning
I turned—turned in time to receive
a blow upon my left wrist, and the next
instant had the intruder by the throat.

There was a violent but brief struggle,
in which the whole room seemed to whirl
around me, and when I saw clearly, I
found myself with one knee planted upon
the chest of the intruder, and one hand
fixed upon his throat. Panting for
breath, even as he grasped in my clutch,
I took a glance at the unknown.

A young man, or boy of eighteen or
nineteen years, about the middle height,
with a lithe, sinewy form, clad in a gray
overcoat, set with huge horn buttons; a
swarthy face, with small nervous features,
little fiery eyes, and a low forehead, rendered
almost imperceptible by masses of
black hair, thick and matted; such was
the sight which met my gaze.

“Well! you're pretty, whoever you
are,” I said, as soon as I could draw
breath. “Young for a jail-bird. But
you look the character.”

I took the pistol from his hand, and
(without relaxing my grasp) placed it
quietly on the chair behind me.

“What have you to say for yourself?
To what am I indebted for the honor of
your company?”

The youth replied with some difficulty,
for my hand was at his throat: “Jest
let me up; come now, you needn't strike
a feller when he is down,” and some
other words of a deprecatory character.

With the aid of a kerchief which I
took from the breast pocket of his overcoat,
I secured the young man's arms by
the wrists, and then, rising from his
chest, told him to get up and help himself
to a chair.

He rose, shook himself, looked anxiously
toward the door, and then dropped
into a chair, his countenance manifesting
much sullen ferocity.

A more perfect realization of the abstract
idea conveyed in the word “scamp”
I never beheld.

“Let us have a little private conversation.
If you attempt to rise from your
chair, I shall be forced to hurt you.
Keep perfectly still, and let me know,
first of all, who you are; and, secondly,
what was your errand here.”

“The youth replied in a pointed way:
“As to my name, it don't make any difference—
it don't. As to what I came
here for, you know as well as I do;” he
pointed with his pinioned hands to the
side-board; “gold plate there, and
money in the house, so I heard. That's
what I come for.”

“And how did you get in?”

“False keys,” replied the young man,
with refreshing brevity.

“And did you intend to murder me, in
order to get at my gold plate?”

“Can't say as I did; only to make you
a little sleepy, or something o' that sort.”

There was an amount of frankness

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about the young man which was quite
endearing.

“Now, have not you a good opinion of
yourself? A young gentleman of your
fine personal appearance, calculated to
adorn any walk of city life, to plan a
midnight robbery and murder.”

“Gas!” was the succinct reply of the
youth. “Gas! What's the use of talkin'!
I tried it, and you were too many
for me. That's all.”

And he sank his head doggedly on his
breast, and refused to utter another
word. In vain I plied him with questions;
he sat as motionless as though he
were a piece of the chair, or a part of the
furniture of the room. I asked him as
to his parentage, his condition in life, his
motives for the commission of the robbery;
but not a word could I wring
from his lips. At last, I rose and secured
his wrists by an additional kerchief,
and then tied his ankles together.
He made no resistance.

“Remain here for a moment, my young
friend!” said I, “and I will endeavor to
procure you more entertaining company.”
Still, he made no reply.

I left the room and the house, and, in
less than fifteen minutes, returned with
a policeman—a stout individual, much
enveloped in great coats, with a weatherbeaten
face, a rich voice for crying oysters,
and a very elaborate brass star. Entering
the parlor, I found the young gentleman
seated in the chair in the same
attitude in which I had left him.

“Take charge of this young person; I
will appear and make complaint against
him to-morrow.” The policeman stooped
and united the ankles of the prisoner.
“Young gallus, I guess we'll travel!”
was his only remark, as he seized the
youth by the shoulder.

To which the youth replied by thrusting
his tongue into one cheek, closing
one eye in an indescribable manner, and
repeating, emphatically the monosyllable,
“Gas!”

He was evidently a hopeless scamp.
I saw them depart together, and bade
the policeman good-night; after which I
went up to the library room, and sat
down to meditate upon the events of the
night.

One good thing had resulted from the
unexpected visit of the hopeful youth;
it had completely banished the waking
vision which, in terrible distinctness, had
passed between me and the candle. * *

In due time, the young man was tried
in the proper court, by the name, (evidently
not his own,) of John Smith. He
appeared to have neither relations nor
friends in the wide world. The same
demeanor which he had observed in my
parlor he wore in court, making various
faces—all of an uncouth and ungraceful
character—while I gave my testimony—
asking the foreman of the jury, as he announced
the verdict of “guilty!” for a
small portion of chewing tobacco, and
interrupting the judge, in the midst of
a moral lesson, with an inquiry by no
means pertinent, whether he had ever
ascertained the name of the individual
who inflicted personal violence upon one
William Patterson.

In a word, he was a precocious and
hopeless scamp, and did not seem to care
half as much for the three years in the
State Prison—inevitably before him—
as a city alderman would for the loss of
one hour's refreshment in the tea-room.

I left him in court, his matted hair
drawn low over his forehead, and his
small eyes shining with more than usual
lustre. He was to be sentenced at some
future day. Returning home, I soon forgot
all about the matter. John Smith,
his matted hair and villanous eyes, his
attempt at burglary and murder, and his
three years in the State Prison, all faded
from my memory, or were banished rather
by the sad memories of my own
life. One evening, I was seated in the
parlor reading, or attempting to read, by
the light of a single candle, when the
servant entered and announced that a
person wished to see me.

“She will not give her name—”

“It is a lady, then?”

“Yes, sir—deeply veiled—can't say
whether she is old or young—quite a
mysterious person—desires to see you
alone—laid quite an emphasis on the
word alone!”

My curiosity was somewhat excited.
I directed the liveried servant to show
the lady into the parlor; and, after he
retired, awaited her appearance in great
suspense. A few minutes elapsed, and
the lady entered, and took a seat near
me, without a word. “You wish to see
me, madam! or—or—miss?” (I did not
know which to say.) “My name is Van

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Warner.” The lady made no reply. She
did not lift her veil from her face. I confess
I felt considerably embarrassed. She
was darkly clad, about the medium
height, and the black shawl which fell
aside from her shoulders disclosed a bust
which could not belong to any one but
a young and beautiful woman. Her
gloved hands, one of which grasped her
veil, were exquisitely small. In a word,
although her dress wore the appearance
of respectable poverty, and her face was
closely veiled, I was impressed that the
woman who sat before me was not more
than eighteen, and exceedingly beautiful.
Again I broke the dead stillness: “You
wish to see me miss, or—or—madam?”
For the first time she spoke. Oh! the
rare music of her voice! And as she
spoke she slowly lifted her veil. The
impression made upon me by that face
disclosed by the slowly lifted veil, is
upon me now, even as it was then, fresh
and vivid, in all its wild fascination.

“Oh! sir,” were the first words which
she said, “I beseech you save him, save
my brother!”