CHAPTER III.

THE HUSBAND AND THE PROFLIGATE.

The boat was upon the river, borne onward over the wintery waves and through the floating ice, by the strong arms of two sturdy oarsmen.

Behind, like a huge black wall, was the city, a faint line of light separating its roofs from the bleak sky. Around were the waves, loaded with piles of floating ice, which crashed together with incessant uproar; and through the gloom the boat drove onward, bearing one man, perchance two men, to certain death.

Eugene and Robert, muffled in their cloaks, sat side by side on the stern; Beverly and his friend, the major, also muffled in their cloaks, sat side by side in the bow.

Eugene had drawn his cloak over his face as if to hide even from the faint light, the agony which was gnawing at his heart-strings.

"In case anything should happen," whispered Robert, "have you any message to send to _her_?"

"None," was the reply, uttered in a choking voice.

"Damn her!" said Robert, between his teeth.

Meanwhile, in the bow of the boat, Beverly, shuddering within his thick cloak, not so much from cold as from a mental cause, said to his friend, the major,--

"No way to get out o' this, I suppose, major?"

"None," said the major.

"I'd give a horse for a mouthful of good brandy----"

"Here it is," and the major drew a wicker flask from the folds of his cloak. "I always carry a pocket-pistol; touch her light."

It may be that Beverly "touched her light," but he held the flask to his mouth for a long time, and did not return it to the major until its contents were considerably diminished.

"A cursed scrape," he muttered. "If anything happens, what'll become of my daughter?" It seems he had a motherless child,--"and then there's the Van Huyden estate. If he wings me, all my hope of that is gone,--of course it is."

At length the broad river was crossed, and the oarsmen ran the boat into a sheltered cove, some three miles above Hoboken.

The first glimpse of the coming morn stole over the broad river, the distant city, and the magnificent bay.

"Wait for us,--you know what I told you?" said Robert to the oarsmen, who were stout fellows, in rough overcoats, and tarpaulin hats.

"Ay, ay sir," they responded in a breath.

"Major, you lead the way," said Robert, "up the heights we'll find a quiet place."

The Major took Beverly by the arm, and began to climb the steep ascent, over wildly scattered rocks, and among leafless trees.

They were followed by Robert and Eugene arm in arm.

After much difficult wayfaring, they reached the summit of the heights, just in time to catch the first ray of the rising sun, as it shot upward, among the leaden clouds of the eastern horizon.

All at once the steeples of the city caught the glow, and the distant day blushed scarlet and gold on every wave.

Among the heights,--may be some three miles above Hoboken,--there is a quiet nook, imbosomed, in the summer time, in foliage, and opening to the south-east, in a view of the Empire City, and Manhattan Bay. A place as level as a floor, bounded on all sides save one, by oak, and chestnut and cedar, with great rocks piled like monuments of a long passed age, among the massive trunks. It is green in summer time, with a carpet-like sward, and then the tree branches are woven together by fragrant vines; there are flowers about the rocks and around the roots of the old trees,--a balmy, drowsy atmosphere of June pervades the place. And looking to the east, or south-east, you see the broad river dotted with snowy sails, the great city, with its steeples glittering in the light, and with the calm, clear, vast Heaven arching overhead. The Bay gleams in the distance, white with sails, or shadowed here and there by the steamer's cloud of smoke, and far away Staten Island closes the horizon like a wall. Standing by one of these huge rocks, encircled by the trees, and steeped in the quiet of the place, you gaze upon the distant city, like one contemplating a far off battle-field, in which millions are engaged, and the fate of empires is the stake. A sadder battle-field, sun never shone upon, than the Empire City, in which millions are battling every moment of the hour, and battling all life long for fame, for wealth, for bread, for life. Sometimes the quiet nook rings with the laugh of happy children, who come here to stretch themselves upon the grass, and gather flowers among the rocks, and around the nooks of the grand old trees.

Far different is the scene on this drear winter morning. The trees are leafless; they raise their skeleton arms against the cold bleak sky. The rocks, no longer clad in vines and flowers, are grim and bare, with crowns of snow upon their summits. The glade itself, no longer clad with velvet-like sward, is faded and brown. The rising sun trembles through the leafless trees, invests the rocks with a faint glow of rosy light, and falls along the brown surface of the glade, investing it for a moment with a cheerful gleam.

And in the light of the rising sun, in sight of river, city, and distant bay, two men stand ready for the work of death.

The ground is measured; the seconds stand apart; before the fatal word is given, the combatants survey each other.

Eugene, with bared head, stands on the north, his slender form enveloped in a closely buttoned frock-coat. He is lividly pale, but the hand which grasps the pistol does not tremble. Notwithstanding the bitter cold, there is moisture on his forehead; the fire which burns in his eyes, tells you that his emotion is anything but fear. One glance toward the city,--one thought perhaps of other days,--and he is ready.

Opposite, in the south, his hat drawn over his flaxen curls, his tall form enveloped in a close fitting frock-coat, Beverly with an uncertain eye and trembling hand, is nerving himself for the fatal moment. He is afraid. As he catches a glimpse of the face of Eugene, his heart dies within him. All color has forsook his usually florid face.

"Gentlemen, you will fire when I give the word,--" cries Major Barton from the background of withered shrubbery. "Are you ready?"

But at this moment the voice of Beverly is heard--"Eugene! Eugene!" he cries, and starts forward, rapidly diminishing the ten paces, which lie between them--"Eugene! Eugene! my friend--can I make no apology, no reparation--"

Both Robert and the Major, saw Eugene's face, as he turned toward the seducer. The sun, which had been obscured by a passing cloud, shone out again, and shone full upon the face of Eugene. The look which stamped every line of that bronzed visage, was never forgotten by those who beheld it. O, the withering scorn of the lip, the concentrated hatred of the dark eyes, the utter loathing which impressed every lineament!

"_Friend_!" he echoed, as for a moment he looked Beverly in the face--and then turning to Barton, he said quietly: "Major take your man away. If he is a coward as well as a scoundrel, let us know it."

The look appalled Beverly; he receded step by step, unable to take his eyes from Eugene's face;--

"Be a man, curse you," whispered Barton who had glided to his side--"D'ye hear?" and he clutched him by the arm, with a grasp, that made Beverly writhe with pain--"Take your place, and fire as I give the word."

In a moment, Beverly was in his place, his right hand grasping his pistol, dropped by his side, which was presented toward Eugene, who, ten paces off, stood in a corresponding position.

Barton retired to the background, taking his place beside Robert. "Gentlemen, I am about to give the word!" said Barton, and then there was a pause like death,--"One--two--three! Fire!"

They wheeled and fired, Eugene with a fixed and decided aim; Beverly with eyes swimming in terror, and hand trembling with fright. The smoke of the pistols curled gracefully through the wintery air. Beverly stumbled as he fired, and fell on one knee; Eugene stood bolt upright for a moment, the pistol in his extended hand, and then fell flat upon his face.

Eugene's bullet sank into the cedar tree, directly behind where Beverly's head had been, only a moment before. Beverly was uninjured. No doubt the false step which he had made in wheeling had saved his life.

Eugene lay flat upon his face, the pistol still clutched in his extended hand.

The brother of Joanna rushed forward and raised him to his feet,--there was a red wound between his eyes,--he was dead.

The husband had been killed by the seducer of his wife.

Behold the justice of the Law of Duel!

"The damned fool," was the commentary of the phlegmatic Robert, as with tears gushing from his eyes, he held the body of the dead husband, and at the same time regarded Beverly, who pale with fright, cringed against a tree,--"If he'd a-taken my advice, he'd a-killed you like a dog, last night. He'd a-pitched you from the third story window,--he would,--and mashed your brains out against the pavement."

The sun came out from behind a cloud, and lighted the face of Eugene Livingston, with the red wound between his fixed eyeballs.