CHAPTER V.

"WHAT SHALL WE DO WITH HER?"

Scarcely had the echo of the front door, ceased to resound through the mansion, when the Madam entered the holy place from which Arthur and Herman had just departed. Her step was vigorous and firm, as she crossed the threshold; her face flashed with mingled rage and triumph.

"He will return to-morrow at ten o'clock!" she cried, and burst into a fit of laughter, which shook her voluminous bust,--"there's two ways of tellin' that story, my duck." (The Madam, as in all her vivacious moments, grew metaphorical.) "Catch a weasel asleep! Fool who with your tin 'fip!' I guess I haven't been about in the world all this while, to be out-generaled by a snip of a boy like that!"

Louder laughed the Madam, until her bust shook again--and in the midst of her calm enjoyment she saw--the desk and the broken lock. Her laughter stopped abruptly. She darted forward, like a tigress rushing on her prey. She seized the lamp and raised the lid, and saw the contents of the desk,--packages of letters, mysterious instruments and singular vials, all,--all,--save the red book.

The Madam could not believe her eyes. Rapidly she searched the desk, displacing its contents and researching every nook and corner, but her efforts were fruitless. There were packages of letters, mysterious vials, and instruments as mysterious, but,--the red book was not there.

For the first time in her life, the Madam experienced a sensation of fear,--unmingled fear,--and for the first time saw ruin open like a chasm at her very feet. She grew pale, sank helplessly in her arm-chair, and sat there like a statue,--rather like an image of imperfectly finished wax-work,--her visage blank as a sheet of paper.

"Gone,--gone," the words escaped from her lips, "ruined, undone!"

This state of "unmasterly inactivity" continued, however, but for a few moments. All at once she bounded from her chair, and a blasphemous oath escaped--more strictly speaking--shot from her lips. She crossed the floor, with a heavy stride, gave the bell-rope a violent pull, and then, hurrying to the door screamed "Corkins! Corkins!" with all her might.

"Why don't they come! Fools, asses!" and again, she attacked the bell-rope, and again, hurried to the door,--"Corkins, Corkins, I say! Halloo!"

In a few moments Corkins appeared, his spectacles awry and his right-hand laid affectionately upon his "goatee."

"The matter?"

"Don't stand there starin' at me like a stuck-pig!" was the elegant reply of the Madam,--"down into the cellar,--quick,--quick! Tell Slung to come here. Not a word. Go I say!"

She pushed Corkins out of the room. Then pacing up and down the small apartment, she awaited his return with an anxiety and suspense, very much like madness, uttering blasphemous oaths at every step she took.

Footsteps were heard, and at length, Corkins, dressed in sober black, appeared once more, leading Slung-Shot by the hand. The ruffian stumbled into the room, his brutal visage, low forehead, broken nose and elongated jaw, bearing traces of a recent debauch. Folding his brawny arms over his red flannel shirt, he gazed sleepily at the Madam, politely remarking at the same time--

"What de thunder's de muss,--s-a-y?"

"Are you sober?" and the Madam gave Slung a violent shake; "are you awake?"

"Old woman," responded Slung, "you better purceed to bisness, and give us none o' yer jaw. What de yer w-a-n-t? s-a-y!"

The Madam seized him by the arm.

"Two men have just left this house. One wears a cap,--the other, a hat. The one with the cap and cloak is the shortest of the two; and the one with a cap carries under his cloak a book, bound in red morocco, which he has just stolen from yonder desk. D'ye hear? I want you to track him and get back that book at any price; even if you have to--"

"Fech him up wid dis?" and the ruffian drew a "slung-shot" from the sleeve of his right arm.

"Yes, yes; anyhow, or by any means," continued the Madam; "only bring back the book before morning, and a hundred dollars are yours. D'ye hear?"

"A shortish chap with a cap an' cloak," exclaimed Slung; "there's a good many shortish chaps with caps in this 'ere town, old woman."

"I have it! I have it!" cried the Madam; and then she conveyed her instructions to Slung in a slow and measured voice. "Don't you think you'd know him now?" she exclaimed, when her instructions were complete.

"Could pick 'im out among a thousand." And the ruffian closed one eye, and increased the boundless ugliness of his face, by an indescribable grimace.

"Go then,--no time's to be lost,--a hundred dollars, you mind;" and she urged him to the door. He clutched the slung-shot and disappeared.

Corkins approached and looked the Madam in the face.

"The red book gone?" he asked, every line of his visage displaying astonishment and terror.

"Gone," echoed the Madam, "to be sure it is. Our only hope is in that ruffian. One well-planted blow with a slung-shot, will kill the strongest man."

"The red book gone!" Corkins fairly trembled with affright. Staggering like a drunken man, he managed to deposit himself in a chair. He took the gold spectacles from his nose, and wiped them, in an absent way. "Bad," he muttered. Then passing his hand from his "goatee" to his top-knot, and from top-knot to "goatee," again he muttered, "The red book gone! what will become of us?"

"If it is not recovered before morning, we are done for," cried the Madam; "that's all. But this is no time for foolin'? Come, sir! stir your stumps!"

She took the light and led the way up-stairs, followed by Corkins, who shook in every fiber; murmuring, at every step, "Gone! gone! The red book gone!"

Entering the passage which led to the chamber of Alice, the Madam paused at the door of that chamber, and pointed to the door of the closet which (you will remember) was buried under the stairway that led to the fourth story.

A faint moan was heard; it came from the chamber of Alice. The Madam did not heed that moan, but opening the closet door, crossed its threshold, followed by Corkins. The light disclosed the details of that small and gloomy place; and glittered brightly upon a mahogany chest or box which rested on the floor. A mahogany box, with surface polished like a mirror, and a shape that told at sight of death and the grave. It was a coffin; and the coffin of that nameless girl who had been removed from the bed, in the adjoining chamber, in order to make room for Alice.

"What,--what--is--to--be--done--with--her?" said Corkins, as he touched the coffin with his foot.

Here, for one moment, while Corkins and the Madam stand beside the coffin, in the lonely closet of the accursed mansion; here, for one moment, turn your gaze away. Look far through the night, and let your gaze rest upon the fireside light of yonder New England home. It is a quiet fireside, in the city of Hartford; and a father and a mother are sitting there, bewailing the singular absence of their only daughter, a beautiful girl, the hope and the light of their home; she strangely disappeared a week ago, and since then, they have heard no signs nor tidings of her fate.

And now they are sitting by their desolate fireside; the father choking down his agony in silent prayer; the mother giving free vent to her anguish in a flood of tears. And the eyes of father and mother turn to the daughter's place by the fireside; it is vacant, and forever. For while they bewail her absence,--while they hope for her return by morning light,--their daughter rests in the coffin, here, at the feet of Madam Resimer. Weep, fond mother; choke down your agony with silent prayer, brave father: but tears nor prayers can never bring your daughter back again. To-night, she rests in the coffin, at the feet of Madam Resimer; to-morrow night--Look yonder! A learned doctor is lecturing for the instruction of his students, and his "subject" lies on the table before him. That "subject," (Oh! do you see it, father and mother of the distant New England home,) that "subject" is your only daughter.

Verily, the tragedies of actual, every-day life, are more improbable than the maddest creations of romance.

"What shall we do with _her_?" again exclaimed Corkins, touching the coffin with his foot.

The Madam was troubled. "The red book!" she muttered, in an absent way, "the red book!" Her mind was evidently wandering. "It must be regained at any price."

"But--this--body," interrupted Corkins, tapping the coffin with his foot.

"Oh! _this_!" exclaimed the Madam, and a pleasant smile stole over her face.

"Oh! as to _this_! we can easily dispose of it. I tell you, Corkins, we will--"

But she did not tell Corkins. For, from the adjoining room, came a cry, so ringing with the emphasis of mortal agony, that even the Madam was struck with terror, as she heard it.

Without a word, she led Corkins into the chamber of Alice.