CHAPTER XXIV.
“`This promise of comfort — affluence,
comes from a gentleman who for
months has not hesitated to drink wine
and play at cards from the hard earnings
of a poor girl—a gentleman who has
played upon the fears and tremors of an
old man, in order to rob him, and who has
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used his power over that old man in the
attempt to corrupt his daughter.'
“These words seemed to sting the
gambler to the quick.
“`Well, my lady,' he cried fiercely, `do
as you please. Only remember that I
hold a paper, to which your father sometime
ago had the indiscretion to sign
another man's name.'
“This threat evidently terrified the
young girl; it struck the old man with
`fear and trembling.'
“As for the gambler, he took his hat
and cloak, and left the room without another
word. He brushed past me as I
stood concealed in the anteroom. I only
remained a moment longer there. Gazing
through the glass, I saw the young girl
standing with clasped hands and pallid
face—despair in every line of that face.
“`Daughter,' I heard the old man say,
`you must consent.' To which came the
reply—
“`Do you think so, father? O would,
in the hour that you broke my mother's
heart, that you had completed your work,
and killed your children! thus saving
your son from a convict's chains, and
your daughter from —.' She stopped
and hid her face. I heard and saw
no more.”
My story was done. I looked upon
the veiled woman who sat before me,
anxious to discover what effect it had
upon her. Gathering her hands from
her side, she pressed them violently to
her bosom, for an instant only, and then
flung up her veil. Pale, very pale, was
that beautiful face; but there was firmness
in the compressed lips—there was
wild fire in the eyes. There was a swelling
of the muscles of the throat, a heaving
of the bosom palpable through the
thick shawl which covered it; and then,
leaning forward, and fixing her gaze full
upon me, she said,—“And you saw and
heard all—you.” She put her hand to
her throat as if her utterance was choked.
“Yes, I saw and heard all,” was my
reply. “Yes, Eugenia Cloud! and before
this time to-morrow Captain Burley
Hayne will meet his death by my
hand.”
There is no language to depict the effect
which these words had upon her.
Her face lighted up with a strange, wild
look, as though a flash of lightning had
passed over it.
“You—you—you!” she seized my
hands and wrung them in her own—
“you will save my father from this man;
you—will save him—”
“Captain Burley Hayne shall surrender
the paper, by which he holds your
father in his power, or he will meet his
death at my hand.”
She resumed her seat.
“Cannot my father be saved without
bloodshed?” she said, in a voice of deep
sadness. “Must one crime be avoided
only by another crime? If you”—she
shuddered—“if you kill him it will be—
murder, and you will have to fly. And
then—.” She hesited, and fixed her
gaze upon me with a look which I could
not define.
“Captain Burley Hayne has been long
enough abroad. It is a crime to take
life, but not a crime to take a life like
his—to prevent him from the commission
of a thousand crimes worse than murder.
I may have to fly,” I continued,
as though thinking aloud. “Well, be it
so. I will save you. My life itself is a
wreck. There is no living thing to care
for me. Come flight, disgrace, the stigma
of murderer! so that I can only save
you!”
“But,” and the color glowed warmly
over her throat and face, “he is a practised
duellist. He may kill you—.” Her look,
the tremor which agitated her frame,
said more than her words.
What strange thought was this which,
at her look, began to take shape and rise
like a phantom from the depths of my
heart?
I crushed it as I rose, and said calmly
and bitterly—
“Eugenia, my life, I repeat it, is a
wreck. I survey my wealth, I wander
through the lonely rooms of this grand
mansion, I essay every pleasure, try every
experiment of work and pleasure which
the world offers to me, and, after all, find
myself only a solitary and blasted man.
It may end the sorrows, it may atone
for the crimes of a life like mine, to spend
my blood in a cause so holy as yours.”
I spoke not in affectation of sentiment
or heroism, nor in the spirit of bravado,
but from an impulse which was as strong
upon me at this moment, as it had been
for the last twenty-four hours—an impulse
which I cannot define even if I
would.
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I rose and paced the floor, now in light,
now in shadow.
As, after a long silence, I turned in
my walk, Eugenia confronted me, her
face turned from the light, her hand extended.
“This must not be,” she said, in a
firm, although tremulous voice,—“You
must not peril your life for me. Save
my poor brother from a felon's chains—
it is all I dare ask! As for myself, I
have struggled against misfortunes thus
far—I can struggle still—and if the worst
comes—”
“If the worst comes, you can marry
Captain Burley Hayne, and become, not
only his wife, but the instrument of new
impostures upon society, planned by
him.”
She drew nearer to me, and, to my surprise,
put her hand upon my shoulder; her
eyes flashed as if all her soul was in their
light.
“Marry Captain Hayne—marry him?
Is it fair, is it generous, is it manly, for
you to use your knowledge of my position
in order to insult me thus? Marry
him? No; if the worst comes, I can—
die.”
Her hand trembled as it touched my
shoulder; her face was very near mine;
the alternate glow and pallor of her face;
the vivid brightness of her eyes; the clear,
calm resolution of her forehead, all were
before and very near me, and the magnetism
of her presence was around and
about me.
“No! Eugenia, you shall not die!
Your life is worth a thousand such as
mine. Last night, as I saw you at your
home, and listened to you there, it seemed
to me as if I had known you from
very childhood. I then determined to
peril all, dare all, for you; and I will do
it.”
She interrupted me. What power was
there in the words she said? They
changed the course of my life. Let others
moralize; I only state facts.
“Live, then, for my sake,” she said, her
face so near me that her breath was on
my cheek, and her head drooped forward
until it rested against my breast, her
hand still trembling on my shoulder. At
her words the dark way of my life seemed
suddenly lit up with light from
heaven! I stood like one entranced.
“Live for my sake!” she whispered,
raising her face; her eyes were all the
brighter for their tears. Let me be your
sister! Let me still continue my humble
way of life, but be near you always,
in sorrow and in danger! When all is
well with you in your rich home, then I
will keep apart; but when sorrow comes,
and you need consolation and the presence
of one true to you, as sister to dearest
brother, then I will be with you!”
Why did something in her words grate
horribly on my soul?
“Sister—never!” I echoed; and put
my hand gently on her forehead, and bent
down to her face. “On one condition I
promise not to peril my own life, not to
shed the blood of Captain Hayne. Be
my wife.”
“Never! It cannot be! The world
would say I became yours for your
wealth. I am not worthy of you. My
brother a convict; my father—oh! you
know what he is! Your wife! Never—
never!”
“It is well, Eugenia. You have pronounced
my fate,” I said, coldly; and,
taking her hand from my shoulder, walked
into the shadows of the parlor.
When I turned again, she was standing
where I left her, her hands joined in
front of her form, her eyes absent and
dreamy. Although the shadow was on
her face, it was plainly to be seen that
she was terribly agitated.
“Your brother, in consideration of his
youth, and of representations made by
myself and the judge, will receive his
pardon before Saturday”—I began, endeavoring
to assume a calm.
“Oh! I know not what to do!” she
said, as though speaking to herself.
“For years denied the blessing of a mother's
counsel and a mother's love, I have
struggled on alone. Marry! It will be
said I sold myself for wealth. The disgrace
attached to my family will attach
itself to him.”
“Eugenia,” said I, drawing near to her,
“I was wrong to present to you such a
hideous alternative as marriage or—
bloodshed. Forgive me. And then, as
your hand was on my shoulder, as your
breath was on my cheek, I forgot that I
must meet the captain to-morrow, fight
him, or be disgraced forever. I must
meet him—fight him—there is no other
way. Let me beg you to allow matters
to take their course. Return home, and
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hope for the best. In any case, your brother
will be pardoned, and whatever is
the event of to-morrow, you will be saved
from all chance—(of poverty I was about
to add, but I said)—from all chance of
harm.”
Was it merely surprise that mantled
over her face? Or, did she by an almost
supernatural effort, regain her composure?
After a moment's thought she bade me
“good-evening!” in a calm voice, and
turned toward the door. There she
seemed to linger as if in hesitation, but it
was for a moment only. She opened the
door; she did not once look back; she
crossed the threshold. I stood gazing
upon the space made black and vacant
by her departure. But in an instant
there was a wild cry, and the sound of
rapid footsteps; there were arms outstretched,
and a woman's voice, speaking
in broken impetuous tones; and—a woman's
face pillowed on my breast. The
blank space left by her departure was
filled again and shining with heavenly
light. And words, scarce articulate for
sobs and tears, said to me:
“Avoid bloodshed! avoid crime!—I
will be your wife!”
It is a pitiful thing that, while the
dark passages of every life may be described,
the best and holiest moments
that brighten the drear way of this
world are too pure, too sacred, to be told
again. Over the joy of that moment,
when, in the dimly-lighted parlor, Eugenia—
a tempted but stainless woman,
sobbing in my arms, her cheek to mine,
her lips to mine, her heart to mine,—
vowed to be the sharer of my fate—
over the joy of that moment drop the
veil.
Should I not here apologize to the
cynics and worldlings of both sexes (the
woman worldling, the hardest of all,)
who perchance will read this page, for
this confession of a spotless and sacred
emotion?
* * * Ere an hour passed, I went
with Eugenia to her humble home. Her
father was not there; he was, in all probability,
in the company of Captain Hayne,
helping to arrange “the preliminaries”
of the morrow's duel. I left her at the
threshold.
“Remember your promise—at all hazards,
avoid bloodshed!”
I raised her gloved hand to my lips,
and left her in the doorway, one side of
her beautiful face touched by the light
which shone from within. “Shall I ever
see her again?” the thought came up,
ugly and almost palpable, as I went down
the dark stairway. Avoid bloodshed—
how? Stung by the persecution which
I had seen Eugenia suffer from the captain;
disgusted by the shameless acts
which stained his whole career; reckless
of my own existence; driven forward by
an impulse which I could not control, I
had planned, I had executed the scene
of the dinner-table. The captain bore
my mark upon his forehead. A challenge
had passed; a duel would take place to-morrow,
just after dinner—how avoid
bloodshed?
“If I fire in the air, the captain will
shoot me; if I do not fire in the air, I
will shoot him! Bloodshed must be
avoided; for now I have something to
live for; but how shall it be avoided?”
Thus I cogitated as I strolled down
Broadway.
Lippard, George, 1822-1854 [1853], The midnight queen, or, Leaves from New York life. (Garrett & Co., 18 Ann street, New York) [word count] [eaf630T].
