CHAPTER VIII.

ELEANOR LYNN.

In a few moments they were seated side by side on the sofa, and while she spoke, in a low musical voice, Randolph devoured her with his eyes.

"We arrived from Europe, only the day before yesterday. Father determined to visit New York, on our way to Havana, where we intend to spend the winter. And to-day, by a strange chance at our hotel, he encountered your Agent--the superintendent of your southern plantation,--an eccentric person, who wears an old-fashioned surtout, with I know not how many capes. From this gentleman, father learned that you had just arrived from the south, and at once determined to give you a surprise. We came together, but to tell you the truth, I wanted to see you alone, and, therefore, lingered behind, while father went up stairs to prepare you for my presence."

She smiled, and Randolph, like a man in a delicious dream, feared to move or speak, lest the vision which he beheld might vanish into the air.

Words are but poor things, with which to paint a beautiful woman.

There was youth and health in every line of her face: her form, incased in a dark dress, which enveloped her bust and fitted around her neck, was moulded in the warm loveliness of womanhood, at once mature and virgin. Her bonnet thrown aside, her face was disclosed in full light. A brow, denoting by its outline, a bold, yet refined intellect; an eye, large, lustrous, and looking black by night; a lip that had as much of pride as of love in its expression--such were the prominent characteristics of her face.

"Why did you leave us so abruptly at Florence?" she exclaimed,--"Ah, I know the secret--"

"You know the secret?" echoed Randolph, his heart mounting to his throat.

"One of your friends in Florence--a young artist named Waters, betrayed you," she said, and laid her gloved hand on his arm, a sunny smile playing over her noble countenance. "At least after your departure he told your secrets to father."

Randolph started from the sofa, as though a chasm had opened at his feet.

"He betrayed me--he! And yet you do not scorn me?"

"Scorn you? Grave matter to create scorn! You have a quarrel with your father, and leave home on a run-a-way tour for Europe. There, in Europe,--we will say at Florence--you make friends, and run away from them, because you are afraid they will think less of you, when they are aware that your father _may_ disinherit you. Fie! Randolph, 'twas a sorry thing, for you to think so meanly of your friends!"

These words filled Randolph with overwhelming agony.

When she first spoke, he was assured that the _secret of his life_, was known to her. He was aghast at the thought, but at the same time, overjoyed to know, that the _taint_ of his blood, was not regarded by Eleanor as a crime.

But her concluding words revealed the truth. She was not aware of the fact. She was utterly mistaken, as to his motive, for his abrupt departure from Florence. Instead of the real cause, she assigned one which was comparatively frivolous.

"Shall I tell her all?" the thought crossed his mind, as he gazed upon her, and he shuddered at the idea.

"And so you thought that our opinion of you, was measured by your wealth, or by your want of wealth? For shame Randolph! You are now the sole heir of your father, but were it otherwise, Randolph, our friendship for you would remain unchanged."

"The sole heir of my father's estate!" Randolph muttered to himself,--"I dare not, dare not, tell her the real truth."

But the fascination of that woman's loveliness was upon him. The sound of her voice vibrated through every fiber of his being. When he gazed into her eyes, he forgot the darkness of his destiny, the taint of his blood, the gloom of his heart, and the hopes and fears of his future. He lived in the present moment, in the smile, the voice, the glance of the woman who sat by him,--her presence was world, home, heaven to him--all else was blank nothingness.

"Don't you think that I'm a very strange woman?" she said with a smile, and a look of undefinable fascination. "Remember, from my childhood, Randolph, I have been deprived of the care and counsel of a mother. Without country and without home, I have been hurried with my father from place to place, and seen much of the world, and may be learned to battle with it. I am not much of a 'woman of society,' Randolph. The artificial life led by woman in that conventional world, called the 'fashionable,' never had much charm for me. My books, my pencil, the society of a friend, the excitement of a journey, the freedom to-speak my thoughts without fear of the world's frown,--these, Randolph, suit me much better than the life of woman, as she appears in the fashionable world. And whenever I transgress the 'decorums' and 'proprieties,' you will be pleased to remember that I am but a sort of a wild woman--a very barbarian in the midst of a civilized world."

Randolph did not say that she was an angel, but he thought that she was very beautiful for a wild woman.

She rose.

"Come, let us join father," she said,--"and I am dying to see this sister of yours, friend Randolph."

Taking her bonnet in one hand, she left her cloak on the sofa, and led the way to the door. At a glance Randolph surveyed her tall and magnificent figure. As leaving him, silent and bewildered, on the sofa, she turned her face over her shoulder, and looked back upon him, Randolph muttered to himself the thought of his soul, in one word, "negro!" So much beauty, purity and truth before him, embodied in a woman's form, and between that woman and himself an eternal barrier! The blood of an accursed race in his veins, the mark of bondage stamped upon the inmost fiber of his existence--it was a bitter thought. "You are absent, Randolph," she said, and came back to him, "shall I guess your thoughts?" She laid her hand upon his shoulder, and bent down until he felt her breath upon his forehead.

"You are thinking of the _night in the Apennines_?" she whispered. Randolph uttered an incoherent cry of rapture, and reached forth his arms, and drew her to his breast.--Their lips met--"You have not forgotten it?" he whispered.

She drew back her head as she was girdled by his arms, in order to gaze more freely upon his face. Blushing from the throat to the forehead, not with shame, but with a passion as warm and as pure as ever lighted a woman's bosom, she answered in a whisper:

"Randolph, I love you!"

"Love me! Ah, my God, could I but hope," he gasped.

She laid her hand upon his mouth.

"Hush, I am my father's child. We happen to think alike on subjects of importance. If you have not changed since the night in the Apennines, why--why, then Randolph, you will find that I am the same. As for my father, he always loved you."

When a woman like Eleanor Lynn gives herself away, thus freely and without reserve, you may be sure that the passion which she cherishes is not of an hour, a day, or a year, but of a lifetime.

Randolph could not reply in coherent words. There was a wild ejaculation, a frenzied embrace, a kiss which joined together these souls, burning with the fire of a first and stainless love, but there was no reply in words.

And all the while, behind the form of Eleanor, Randolph saw a phantom shape, which stood between him and his dearest hope. A hideous phantom, which said, "Thou art young, and thy face is pale as the palest of the race who are born to rule, but the blood of the negro is in thy veins."

At length Randolph rose, and taking her by the hand, led her from the room.

"You will see my sister, and love her," said Randolph, as he crossed the threshold. A hand was laid gently on his arm, and turning he beheld Mr. Hicks, who slipped a letter in his hand, whispering,--

"Pardon me, sir. This was left half an hour ago."

Randolph had no time to read a letter at that moment, so placing it in his coat pocket, he led Eleanor up-stairs. They entered the drawing-room, and were received by her father with a laugh, and the exclamation,--

"So, my boy, you have found this wild girl of mine a _second_ time! Confess that we have given you one of the oddest surprises you ever encountered!"

Presently Esther and Eleanor stood face to face, and took each other by the hand.--Both noble-looking women, of contrasted types of loveliness, they stood before the father and Randolph, who gazed upon them with a look of silent admiration.

"So, you are Esther!" whispered the daughter of Bernard Lynn.

"And you are Eleanor!" returned the sister of Randolph.

"We shall love each other very much," said Eleanor,--"Come, let us talk a little."

They went hand in hand to a recess near the window, and sat down together, leaving Randolph and Mr. Lynn alone, near the center of the drawing-room.

"Do you know, my boy, that I have a notion to make your house our home, while we remain in New York? I hate the noise of a hotel, and so using a traveler's privilege, of bluntness, I'll invite myself and Eleanor to be your guests. I have letters to the 'first people' of the city, but these 'first people,' as they are called, are pretty much the same everywhere--cut out of the same piece of cloth, all over the world--they tire one dreadfully. If you have no objection, my friend, we'll stay with you for a few days at least."

"Of course," Randolph replied to Mr. Lynn in the warmest and most courteous manner, concluding with the words, "Esther and myself will be too happy to have you for our guests. Make our house your home while you remain in New York, and--" he was about to add "forever!"

Mr. Lynn took him warmly by the hand.

"And in a few days, he _must_ learn that I am not the legitimate son of my father, but his _slave_," the thought crossed him as he shook the hand of Eleanor's father. "This Aladdin's palace will crumble into ashes, and this gentleman who now respects me, will turn away in derision from Randolph, the slave."

It was a horrible thought.

At this moment Mr. Hicks entered, and announced that dinner was ready. They left the room, Randolph with Eleanor on his arm, and Mr. Lynn with Esther, and bent their steps toward the dining-room. On the threshold Mr. Hicks slipped a letter in the hand of Esther, "It was left for you, Miss, half an hour ago," he said, and made one of his mechanical bows. Esther took the letter and placed it in her bosom, and Mr. Hicks threw open the door of the dining-room.

Randolph could scarce repress an ejaculation of wonder, as (for the first time) he beheld this apartment.

It was a spacious room, oval in shape, and with a lofty ceiling, which was slightly arched. The walls were covered with pale lilac hangings, and fine statues of white marble stood at equal distances around the place. In the center stood the table, loaded with viands, and adorned with an alabaster vase, filled with freshly-gathered flowers.--Wax candles shed a mild light over the scene, and the air was imbued at once with a pleasant warmth and with the breath of flowers. The service of plate which loaded the table was of massive gold. Everything breathed luxury and wealth.

"You planters know how to live!" whispered Bernard Lynn: "By George, friend Randolph, you are something of a republican, but it is after the Roman school!"

In accordance with Randolph's request, Mr. Lynn took the head of the table, with Esther and Eleanor on either hand. Randolph took his seat opposite the father of Eleanor, and gazed around with a look of vague astonishment. A servant clad in gray livery, fringed with black velvet, stood behind each chair, and Mr. Hicks, the imperturbable, retired somewhat in the background, presided in silence over the progress of the banquet.

"We are not exactly dressed for dinner," laughed Mr. Lynn,--"but you will excuse our breach of that most solemn code, profounder than Blackstone or Vattel, and called _Etiquette_."

Randolph gazed first at his dark hair, which betrayed some of the traces of hazel, and at the costume of Esther, which although it displayed her form to the best advantage, was not precisely suited for the dinner-table.

"Ah, we southrons care little for etiquette," he replied,--"only to-day arrived from the south, Esther and I have had little time to attend to the niceties of costume. By-the-bye, friend Lynn, yourself and daughter are in the same predicament." And then he muttered to himself, "Still the dress is better than the costume of a negro slave."

The dinner passed pleasantly, with but little conversation, and that of a light and chatty character. The servants, stationed behind each chair, obeyed the wishes of the guests before they were framed in words; and Mr. Hicks in the background, managed their movements by signs, somewhat after the fashion of an orchestra leader. It was near eight o'clock when Esther and Eleanor retired, leaving Randolph and Mr. Lynn alone at the table.

"Dismiss these folks," said Bernard Lynn, pointing toward Mr. Hicks and the other servants, "and let us have a chat together." At a sign from Randolph, Mr. Hicks and the servants left the room.

"Draw your chair near me,--there,--let us look into each other's faces. By George! friend Randolph, your wine cellar must be worthy of a prince or a bishop! I have just sipped your Tokay, and tasted your Champagne,--both are superb. But as I am a traveler, I drink brandy. So pass the bottle."

As Mr. Lynn, seated at his ease, filled a capacious goblet with brandy from a bottle labeled "1796," Randolph surveyed attentively his face and form.