CHAPTER XXIII.
These words, firmly pronounced, were
followed by a dead stillness; the captain
from red, turned livid. He was a terrible
man when excited, and was evidently
struggling with his rage.
“W-e-ll, by —!” he gasped, and
made a movement, as if about to rise
from his chair.
But I gave him no time. I dashed the
contents of my glass full in his face; and
then, with the words distinctly said.
“A coward and a liar, Captain Burley
Hayne!” I dashed the glass itself into
his face, it striking him on the forehead,
between the eyes, and splintering in fragments
over the table.
There was a silence like death, and
then an uproar like Babel. Never had I
beheld a more terrible image of mad rage
than Hayne presented as he rose to his
feet, his forehead covered with blood and
small fragments of broken glass. His
rage choked him—he could not speak.
“Gentlemen! gentlemen! this can be
settled elsewhere,” cried the host, from
the head of the table.
“Yes, gentlemen! gentlemen!” buzzed
a half-dozen voices, “elsewhere! elsewhere!
An affair of honor! No apology
after this!—must fight!”
At last the captain found voice, and
his voice gradually grew more like the
roar of a maddened buffalo than any
other sound.
“Elsewhere?” he roared, extending
his huge, brawny arms, as though he was
about to reach over the table, grasp me,
and crush me to powder with his iron
fists. “Elsewhere? No! now—now!—
in this room!”
And he made a movement, as though
about to spring upon the table.
“Captain Hayne,” I said, slowly, “you
can come on—and now!—but before you
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can lay your hand upon me, I will lay
you dead at my feet.” I drew a small
revolving pistol from the breast of my
dress coat, and, stepping back a single
step, covered the captain's forehead with
a deliberate aim.
Did this movement cow him? He
sank back into his chair, grating his teeth,
so that the sound could be heard over
the whole room. “Well, you must fight
me!” he said, wiping the blood and fragments
of glass from his forehead, “and I
will kill you. That is all. Morgan, (to
a gentleman on his left,) you will act as
my friend?”
“Clifton,” said I, to a gentleman on
my right, “I ask you to act as my friend.
And, captain, take my word for it, I will
meet and fight you where you please,
but you will not kill me.”
Still holding the pistol, I sat down.
The scene was a mixture of a good deal
of the serious and much of the funny.
Clifton and Morgan, (both “fast” gentlemen
of the world,) were already arranging
preliminaries in a corner; the
host was pale as death; the other guests
gazed first at me and then at Hayne,
with much the look of men who have
chanced into a powder magazine on the
eve of an explosion; and as for Colonel
Eliphalet Cloud, drawing nearer to the
younger men of the world, to whom he
looked up with mingled reverence and
fear, he whispered, but not so low but that
I could hear him,—“You'll wing him,
Burley, my boy! Between the eyes
you'll wing him!”
Burley pushed him gently aside, and
then, looking over the table, said in a
low voice, very hoarse and full of emotion,—
“After what has passed, Mr. Van
Warner, very few words can pass between
us. We must fight, and I must kill you.
But, once for all, I should like to know
how I have ever harmed you? You are
neither friend nor relation of this girl?
How, then, have I harmed you?”
Resting my elbows on the table, and
my cheeks between my hands, I bent
forward, and looked fixedly at the captain,
and said in a low voice,—“That,
captain, I will tell you, after I have shot
you and just before you die.”
Did I speak a mere bravado? Was
there some cause of hatred between the
captain and myself, other than his brutal
story about the poor New-England girl?
Did I feel confident that I would be
able to make good my words?
The captain regarded me with a curious
look—a kind of mingled wonder,
curiosity and hate—and then, rising from
the chair, went to the fireplace, and
leaned his head against the mantel. The
jovial host (not very jovial now) came
near him, and whispered him, but the
captain pushed him gently away.
“Gentlemen,” said the bland Morgan,
“all is arranged.”
“A quiet field near Weehawk—time,
to-morrow, near daybreak—weapons,
pistols,” added Clifton, the other fast
man.
“And, egad!” said the evil old man
of the world, Col. Eliphalet Cloud, with
an ominous twitch of his cadaverous
lineaments, as he regarded me across the
table—“he'll wing you, young man; he
will!”
In a little while the party broke up,
and I returned thoughtfully homeward,
just as evening was gathering over the
countless multitude of Broadway. Once
in my home again, I awaited the hour
of my appointment with the sister of
the felon, in a state of feverish anxiety.
The hour—eight o'clock—came. The
candle was lighted on the centre-table—
the fire burned brightly on the hearth—
the parlor was silent and lonely. Seated
near the table, with my eyes fixed on the
door, I listened to every sound, and every
instant expected the opening of the door
and the appearance of the lady. Half
an hour after, the time transpired, and
yet she came not. Had anything occurred
to prevent her fulfilling her appointment?
Could the scenes of the previous night
which I had beheld, (and of which I will
plainly speak in due time,) have prevented
her from coming to my house?
“The lady whom you expected, sir,”
said the liveried servant, suddenly breaking
my reveries, as he opened the door;
and across the threshold, thickly veiled,
came the sister of the felon; thickly
veiled, and the dark shawl gathered
closely about her bust.
As she sank into a seat she panted
for breath, and looked nervously over
her shoulder, like one who is afraid of
being pursued.
“You are faithful to your appointment,
miss,” I said, breaking a long
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pause. She did not remove her veil,
nor could I discern a single feature of
her face, as she said in a low, tremulous,
but earnest voice,—“And you, sir! Oh!
have you been successful?”
I had much to say to her, but I knew
not how to begin.
“Lady, I wish you to listen to me for
a few moments, and to listen patiently,—”
thus I spoke. “Before I inform you
of the result of my endeavors in regard
to your brother, I wish you to hear the
details of an adventure connected with
my own life.”
I paused—there was a movement of
her veil.
“Your own life!” she echoed, in a tone
of deep surprise.
“Yes, my own life; and if you promise
to be patient and hear me to the end, I
will tell you the adventure.”
“I promise,” she said in a monotonous
tone, as though the subject did not concern
her in the least, and placed her
gloved hand languidly upon the table.
“Well, miss, one night in spring, not
many years ago, I was strolling along
Broadway, when I felt myself interested
in a young lady, dressed in black, and
found myself unconsciously following in
her footsteps. A glimpse of her face,
which I caught as she for a moment
paused in front of a store, and lifted her
veil, filled me with an intense desire to
know her history.
“Although she was very beautiful,
there was care upon her face, and traces
of some sad, dark history there; her
very attire, that of a lady of wealth and
taste, still wearing the marks of respectable
poverty, increased my desire to
know more of her. She entered the
store; unperceived I followed. It was
one of those stores where they sell rich
embroidered work; and while I stood
near her, (apparently examining some
fine specimens of such work,) she drew
from beneath her shawl a piece of embroidery
which had cost her two weeks'
labor, as she told the proprietor of the
store. For this she received a small
sum in gold, say five dollars, which she
clutched with an eager grasp, and hurriedly
left the store.
“Still, I followed her.”
“You followed her?” echoed the sister
of the felon, beating her hand gently
against the table.
“Followed her to her home in a distant
part of the city, into a large house,
(tenanted apparently by many families,)
and up four pair of stairs. Now, her
home was composed of two rooms, and a
small closet or anteroom, which communicated
with the main passage. Gliding,
unperceived, in her footsteps, I followed
her into this anteroom, and stood
in the darkness there, gazing, through
a small glass window, into one of the
rooms. I remained there for an hour,
or more. I heard much—saw much.”
For a moment I paused; the young
lady did not seem to manifest much interest
in my story; her little hand still
beat the table; as for her face, I could
not trace its emotions through her veil.
“The room which met my gaze was
neatly but poorly furnished. The carpet
was faded; a miserable wood-stove
stood near the wall; and a lady's work-basket,
evidently the relic of happier
days, stood upon the table, near the
lighted candle. From my place of concealment
I saw the young lady, as she
approached the light, and flung her bonnet
on the chair, and never saw so much
loveliness, so much despair, combined in
the same face. She gazed, wearily,
around the room, and then, with a shudder,
staggered to the door which led into
the second apartment. `Oh! my God!'
I could hear her exclaim, `where will all
this end?'
“Even as she spoke, the door of the
second apartment opened, and an old
man came forth, his haggard face betraying
much agitation, his finger on his lips.
“`Hush! he is there!' I heard him
whisper in a low voice, pointing cautiously
to the room which he had just
left. `What money have you, child?
We have been taking a quiet game, and
must have wine. The wine store is at
the corner; just put on your bonnet, and
get us two bottles of the best champagn,
Heidsick brand, you will remember!'
“The poor girl placed the gold coin,
the result of two weeks' labor, in his
tremulous hand—he grasped it eagerly,
but did not stir from her seat. `Why
do you not go, daughter,' said the old
man, evidently much surprised. `He is
in there, and will grow impatient.'
“`Sit down by me, father,' said the
young lady, who had grown very pale.
I want to say a few words to you.'
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“He sat down, wondering, and she
said a few words. Oh! I heard every
word!”
The sister of the felon suffered her
hand to drop upon her knee, as if she
wished to avoid pressing it against her
bosom, which now rose and fell, perceptibly,
beneath the folds of her shawl.
`You heard every word!” she said, in
an almost inarticulate tone.
“Heard her every word, heard the
story of her life, and of the old man who
sat beside her; how that old man,
when a young and wealthy man, and living
in a New-England town, had been
deluded into evil courses while on a visit
to New-York; how, from a wealthy and
respected man, he became a gambler,
squandered his wealth, the fortune of
his wife, the very bread and future of
his little children; how he left that wife
to die of a broken heart, and left the
children friendless and motherless, to try
alone the hard battle of the world. He
was never afterwards seen in his native
town.”
“What became of the children? One
of them, a girl, grew up in the family of
a stranger, and learned to get her bread
by her needle. After toiling for years
in her native town, she left that town
and came to New-York, eager to find her
brother, who had disappeared a year before.
In New-York she supported herself
virtuously by her needle, using all
her efforts to discover her lost brother,
but in vain.
“`And, father! I did not find my brother,
' she continued, as I stood listening
in the anteroom, `but you found me out,
and made yourself known to me. For the
first time in many years I saw you. You
made your home with me. Since the
hour you first came here, six months
ago, till now, I have worked for you,
father, worked until now,—not to give
you home and bread,—but worked night
and day to supply you with money for
wine and for the gambling table. Father,
I now tell you that I can do so no
longer?'
“Her lifted finger, her pallid face, the
calm, deep resolution of her tone, all took
the old man by surprise.
“`Why, why,' faltered he, `what is all
this? Girl, what's the matter?'
“`The matter is, father, that to-day,
at last, I have found my brother!'
“`Found your brother?' echoed the
old man, with idiotic surprise. `Where!'
“`It matters not to relate, father, how
I found him, but I will tell you where,'
was her reply. `I found him in the
Tombs, in a felon's cell.'
“She hid her face in her hands; the
old man looked frightened and vacant, as
though stupified by a heavy blow.
“`And so, father!' continued the young
lady, `we will have no more cards, no
more wine,—at least, while your son, my
brother, wears the chains of a convict.'
“Scarce had the words fallen from her
lips, when the door of the second apartment
again opened, and a second man
came forth—” Here I paused.
“Shall I go on?” I said to the young
lady, who sat statue-like before me. Her
hands had fallen helplessly to her side.
Her veiled face was slightly dropped to
her bosom.
“Go on, go!” she said, in a scarce articulate
voice,—“Do not mind me! Do
not mind me, go on!”
“A second man came forth—a man
whom I recognized at a glance as one of
the notorious men of New-York. I saw
him approach the young lady, heard him
call her by her proper name. She rose
from her seat; I could not see her face,
but saw her shrink away from him, step
by step, as though he had been a noxious
reptile.
“Again I heard him familiarly call her
by name.
“`— You need not be afraid of me,'
he said, in his hoarse voice, `the partition
is thin: in fact, I was listening, and
heard all—all. Don't you see additional
reason for complying with the proposition
which I made to your father a
month ago? Do this and I will save your
brother, and lift your father from this
miserable place to comfort—affluence.'
He stopped as if awaiting for her reply.
She gave it promptly.
Lippard, George, 1822-1854 [1853], The midnight queen, or, Leaves from New York life. (Garrett & Co., 18 Ann street, New York) [word count] [eaf630T].
