CHAPTER IX.

MARY BERMAN--CARL RAPHAEL.

They sat near the marriage altar, their hands clasped, and their gaze fixed upon each other's face. The countenance of Nameless was radiant with a deep joy. One hand resting upon the neck of Mary, the other clasping her hand, his soul was in his eyes, as he looked into her face. Her hair, brown and wavy, streamed over the hand, which rested on her neck. Despite her faded attire,--the gown of coarse calico, and the mantilla of black velvet,--Mary was very beautiful; as beautiful as her name. All the life which swelled her young bosom, was manifested in the bloom of her cheeks, the clear, joyous look of her eyes. Her beauty was the purity of a stainless soul, embodied in a person, rich with every tint and outline of warm, womanly loveliness.

"Well might my whole being thrill, as you passed by me to-night! Your form was vailed, your face hid, but my soul knew that you were near!"

"O, Carl, in all our lives, we will never know a moment of joy so deep as this!"--and there was something of a holy sadness in Mary's gaze as she spoke,--"After years of sorrow and trial, that might break the stoutest hearts, we have met again, like two persons who have risen from the grave. The world is so dark, Carl,--so crowded with the callous and the base,--that I fear for our future. O, would it not be beautiful, yes holy, to die now, in each other's arms, at the moment when our hearts are filled with the deepest joy they can ever know?"

The words of the pure girl, uttered in a voice imbued with a melancholy enthusiasm, cast a shadow over the face of Nameless, and brought a sad intense light to his eyes.

"Yes, Mary, it is even so," he replied,--"it is a harsh and bitter world, in which the base and callous-hearted, prey upon those who have souls. When I think of my own history, and of yours, it does not seem reality, to me, but the images of the past move before me, like the half defined shapes of a troubled dream."

And he bent his forehead,--fevered and throbbing with thought, upon her bosom, and listened to the beatings of that heart, which had been true to him, in every phase of his dark life. She pressed her lips silently upon his brow.

"But the future is bright before us, Mary," he whispered, raising his face, once more radiant with hope,--"the cottage by the river shore, shall be ours again! O, don't you remember it, Mary, as it leans against the cliff, with the river stretching before it, and the palisades rising far away, into the western sky? We will live there, Mary, and forget the world." Alas! he knew not of the poison in his veins. "Your father, too,--"

"My father!" she echoed, starting from her chair, as the memory of that broken man with the idiot face,--never for a moment forgotten,--came vividly before her, "My father! come Carl, let us go to him!"

She wound the mantilla about her form, and Carl, otherwise Nameless, also rose from his chair, when a footstep was heard, and the door was abruptly opened.

"Leave this house, at once, as you value your life," cried an agitated voice,--"You know my father,--know that he will shrink from no crime, when his darker nature is aroused,--you have foiled the purpose which was more than life to him. There is danger for you in this house! away!"

"Frank!" was all that Nameless could ejaculate, as he saw her stand before him, lividly pale, her hair unbound, and the golden cross rising and falling upon her heaving bosom. There was a light in her eyes, which he had never seen before.

"No words," she continued in broken and rapid tones,--"you must away at once. You are not safe from poison,"--a bitter, mocking smile,--"or steel, or any treachery, as long as you linger in this house. But this is no time for masquerade attire,--in the next room you will find the apparel which you wore, when first you entered this house, together with a cloak, which will protect you from the cold. You have no time to lose,--give me that bauble," and she tore the chain from his neck and the golden cross from his breast,--"away,--you have not a moment to lose." She pointed to the door.

"Frank!" again ejaculated Nameless, and something like remorse smote his heart, as he gazed upon her countenance, so sadly changed.

"Will you drive me mad? Go!" again she pointed to the door.

Nameless disappeared.

"And you,--" she took the hands of Mary within her own, and raised them to her breast, and gazed long and earnestly into that virgin face,--"You, O, I hate you!" she said her eyes flashing fire, and yet the next moment, she kissed Mary on the cheeks and forehead, and pressed her to her bosom with a frenzied embrace. "You are worthy of him," she said slowly, in a low voice, again perusing every line of that countenance,--"I know you, although an hour ago, I did not know that you lived;" once more her tones were rapid and broken,--"know your history, know who it was that lured you to this place, and know the desolate condition of your father. Your husband has money, but it will not be safe for him to attempt to use it for some days. Take this,--conceal it in your bosom,--nay, I will take no denial. Take it child! That money and purse are not the wages of pollution,--they were both mine, in the days when I was pure and happy."

Scarcely knowing what to do, Mary, whom the wild manner of Frank, struck at once with pity and awe, took the purse, and hid it in her bosom.

"I now remember you," said Mary, her eyes filling with tears, as she gazed into the troubled face of Frank,--"Father painted your picture, and afterward you sought us out in our garret, and left your purse upon the table, with a note stating that it contained the balance due on your portrait. O, it was kind, it was noble,--"

"Do not speak of it, child," Frank said in rapid and abrupt tones,--"Had I not been convinced that you and your father were dead, I would have visited you often. That is, if I could have concealed from you what I was, and the way of life which was mine."

Her lip quivered, and she hid her eyes with her hand.

"But come, your husband is here," she said, as Nameless re-appeared, his form once more clad in the faded frock-coat, but with a cloak drooping from his shoulders. "You must away, and at once."

"Frank,"--and Nameless, trembling with agitation, approached her, "we will meet again in happier hours."

O, the strange look of her eyes, the bitter mocking curl of her lip!

"We will never meet again," she answered, in a voice that sunk into his heart. Then burying the chain and golden cross in her bosom, she placed a letter in his hand,--"Swear to me that you will not read this, until three hours at least are passed?"

"I promise,--"

"Nay, you must swear it,--"

"I swear, in the sight of Heaven!"

"Now depart, and,--" she turned her face away from their gaze, and pointed to the door.

As she turned away, Mary approached her, and put her arms about her neck, and her eyes brim full of tears all the while,--kissed her on the forehead and the lips, saying at the same time, and from the depths of her heart, "May God in Heaven bless you!"

Frank took Mary's arms from her neck, and joined her hand in that of Nameless, and then pushed them gently to the door,--"Go, and at once," she whispered.

And they crossed the threshold, Mary looking back over her shoulder, until she disappeared with Nameless, in the shadows of the passage.

Frank stood with one hand extended to the door, and the other supporting her averted face,--she heard their footsteps in the passage, on the stairway, and in the hall beneath. Then came the sound of the opening and closing of the door, which led into the street.

And then the agony, the despair, the thousand emotions which racked her soul, found utterance in the simple, and yet awfully touching ejaculation,--"O, my God!--" and she flung herself on her knees, before the Marriage Altar, resting her clenched hands upon the Holy Bible, which was concealed by her bowed head, and unbound hair.

"O, my God! He is gone, and--forever!"

Yes, Frank, woman so beautiful and so utterly lost, gone and forever--gone, with his young wife by his side, and Poison in his veins.

PART FIFTH.

THE DAWN, SUNRISE AND DAY.

DECEMBER 24, 1844.