CHAPTER I.

ARRAYED FOR THE BRIDAL.

It was toward evening, when, amid the crowd of Broadway--that crowd of mad and impetuous life--there glided, like a specter through the mazes of a voluptuous dance, a man of sober habit, pallid face, and downcast eyes. Beautiful women, wrapped in soft attire, passed him every moment; brushed him with their perfumed garments; but he heeded them not. There was the free laugh, the buzz of voices, and the tramp of footsteps all about him, but he did not raise his eyes, nor bend his ear. Gliding along in his dark habit, he was as much alone on that thronged pathway, as though he walked the sands of an Arabian desert. A man of hollow cheeks, features boldly marked, and eyes large and dark, and shining with the fire of disease, or with the restlessness of a soul that had turned upon itself, and was gnawing ever and ever at its own life-strings.

His habit--a long black coat, single breasted, and with a plain white band about the neck--indicated that he was a Catholic Priest.

He was a Priest. Struck down in his early manhood by an irreparable calamity, he had looked all around the horizon of his life for--peace. Repose, repose--a quiet life--an obscure grave--became the objects of his soul's desire, instead of the ambitions which his young manhood had cherished.

As there was not peace within him, so he searched the world for it, and in vain.

He sought it in a money-bound Protestant church, behind whose pulpit-bible--like a toad upon an altar--Mammon, holy mammon, squats in bank-note grandeur. And there, he found money, and much cant, and abundance of sect,--but no peace.

To the Catholic church he turned. Won by the poetry of that church--we use the word in its awful and intense sense, for poetry and religion are one--and, forgetful of the infernal deeds which demoniacs, in purple and scarlet, have done in the name of that church, tracking their footsteps over half the globe in blood, and lighting up the history of ten centuries, at least, with flames of persecution,--won by all that is good and true in that church, (which he forgot is good and true under whatsoever form it occurs,)--he sought repose in its bosom.

Did he find it? He found good and true men among priests and people; he found noble and pure women, in the valleys of the church; but, lifting his eyes to her lofty eminence, he too often saw purpled and mitred atheists, who, from their thrones, made sport of human misery, and converted Christ the Savior into the _Fetish_ of a brutal superstition.

He had been to Rome; in Rome he saw the seamless coat of Christ made a cloak for every outrage that can be inflicted upon the human race.

Did he find peace? Yes, when vailing his eyes from the atrocities done in the name of the church, turning himself away from the scarlet-clad atheists, who too often mount her seats of power, he retreated within himself, opened the gospels, and from their pages saw kindle into life and love, the face of Him, whom priests may misinterpret or defame, but whose name forever to suffering humanity, is "CONSOLATION."

As he passed thus along Broadway, buried in his thoughts, and utterly unconscious of the scene around him, he felt a hand press his own. He awoke from his thoughts, stopped and looked around him. The crowd was hurrying by, but the person who pressed his hand had disappeared. Was that pressure of the hand a mere freak of the imagination? No; for the hand of the unknown had left within the hand of the Priest a neatly-folded letter, upon which, in a fair and delicate hand, was written his own name.

Stepping aside from the crowd, he opened and read the letter. It was very brief, but its contents called a glow to the pale cheek of the Priest.

He at once retraced his steps, and passed down Broadway, with a rapid and eager step. Hurrying through the gay crowd, he turned, in a few moments, into a street leading to the North River. The sun was setting, and cast the shadow of his slender form long and black over the pavement, as he paused in front of a stately mansion. He once more examined the letter, and then surveyed the mansion.

"It is the same," he said, and ascended the lofty steps and rang the bell. "Truly, the office of a Priest is a painful one," the thought crossed his mind; "he sees so much misery that he has not the power to relieve. Misery, under the rags of the hovel, and despair under the velvet of the palace."

A male servant, in livery, answered the bell, and glanced somewhat superciliously at the faded attire of the Priest. But he inclined his head in involuntary respect, as the Priest said, simply--

"I am Father Luke,--"

"This way, sir. You are expected," answered the servant; and he led Father Luke along a lofty hall, and into a parlor, over whose rich furniture shone dimly the light of the setting sun. "Remain here, sir, and I will announce your coming."

He left the Priest alone. Father Luke placed his hat upon a table, and seated himself in a chair. In a moment, resting his cheek upon his hand, and turning his eyes to the light, (which shone through the curtained window,) he was buried in thought again. His singular and remarkable face stood forth from the back-ground of shadow like a portrait of another age. His crown was bald, but his forehead was encircled by dark hair, streaked with silver. As the light shone over that broad brow, and upon the great eyes, dilating in their sunken sockets, he seemed not like a practical man of the nineteenth century, but like one of those penitents or enthusiasts, who, in a dark age, shut up the fires of their agony, of trampled hope or undying remorse, within the shadows of a cloister.

"This way, sir,"--it was the voice of the servant, who touched him respectfully on the shoulder as he spoke.

Father Luke arose and followed him from the room, and up a broad stairway, and along a corridor: "At the end of this passage you will find a door. Open it and enter. You are expected there."

Passing from the corridor, lighted by the window at its extremity, the Priest entered a narrow passage where all was dark, and pursued his way until his progress was terminated by a door. He opened the door and crossed the threshold--but, upon the very threshold, stood spell-bound in surprise.

It was a large apartment, with lofty walls, and, instead of the cheerful rays of the declining sun, it was illuminated by a lamp with a clouded shade, which, suspended from the center of the ceiling, shed around a soft and mysterious light.

The walls were not papered nor panneled, but covered with hangings of a dark color. One part of the spacious chamber was occupied by a couch with a high canopy, and curtains whose snowy whiteness stood out distinctly from the dark back-ground. A wood fire was burning under the arch of the old-fashioned fire-place; and a mirror, in a frame of dark walnut, reflected the couch with its white canopy, and a table covered with a white cloth, which stood directly underneath the hanging lamp. Upon the white cloth was placed a crucifix, a book, a wreath of flowers.

The place was perfectly still, and the soft rays of the lamp, investing all its details with mingled light and shadow, gave an atmosphere of mystery to the scene.

Father Luke stood on the threshold, hesitating whether to advance or retreat, when a low voice broke the stillness:

"Come in, sir. I have waited for you."

And for the first time Father Luke took notice of the presence of the speaker. It was a woman, who, attired in black, sat in a rocking-chair, near the table, her hands folded over her breast. Her head and face were covered by a thick vail of white lace, which fell to her shoulders, contrasting strongly with her somber attire.

Father Luke entered and seated himself in a vacant chair, which stood near the table. Resting his arm on the table,--(he sat directly beneath the lamp, in a circle of shadow,)--and shading his eyes with his hand, he silently surveyed the woman, over whom the light fell in full radiance. There was dark hair, there were bright eyes, beneath that vail of lace; a young, a richly moulded form, beneath that garb of sable; but in vain he endeavored to trace the features of the unknown.

"You received a letter?" said the lady, in a low voice.

"As I was passing up Broadway, a few moments since, a letter was placed in my hand, bidding my presence at this house, on an errand of life and death."

She started at the sound of that sonorous and hollow voice, and, through her vail, seemed to survey him earnestly.

"I am glad that you have come. I thank you with all my soul. Although not a member of your church, I have heard of you for a long time, and heard of you as one who, having suffered much himself, was especially fitted to render consolation to the heart-broken and despair-stricken. Now I am heart-broken and despairing,"--she paused,--"I am dying,--"

"Dying?" he echoed.

"And have sent for you, believing you to be an honest man, not to hear confession of my sins, for they are too dark to be told or be forgiven. But to ask you a simple question, which I implore you to answer, not as a priest, but as a man;--to answer, not with the set phrases of your vocation, but frankly and fully, even as you wish to have peace yourself in the hour of death."

"And that question,--" the priest's head bent low upon his breast, and he surveyed her earnestly with his eyes hidden beneath his down-drawn brows.

"Do you believe in any Hereafter? Do you believe in another world? Does the death of the body end the story? Or, after the death of the body, does the soul rise and live again in a new and diviner life?"

"My sister," said the priest, with much emotion, "I _know_ that there is a hereafter,--I _know_ that the death of the body, is not the end of all, but simply the first step in an eternal pilgrimage--"

"This you say as a man, and not as a priest,--this is your true thought, as you wish to have peace, in the hour of your death?"

"Even so," said Father Luke.

"Thank you, O, bless you with all my soul. One question more,--O, answer me with the same frankness.--In the next world shall we meet, and know the friends whom we have loved in this?"

"We shall meet, we shall know, we shall love them in the next world, as certainly as we ever met, knew and loved them in this," was the answer of Father Luke, given with all the force and earnestness of undeniable sincerity. "Do you think we gather affections to our heart, only to bury them in the grave?"

The lady rose from her chair,--

"I thank you, once more, and with all my soul. Your words come from your heart. They confirm the intuitions of my own heart. For the consolation which these words afford, accept the gratitude of a dying woman. And now,--" she extended her hand, "and now farewell!"

The priest, who, through this entire interview, had never ceased to regard her, with his eyes almost hidden by his down-drawn brows,--struggling all the while to repress an agitation which increased every moment, and well nigh mastered him,--the priest also rose with these words on his lips:

"You dying, sister! you seem young, and full of life, and with the prospect of long years before you."

It was either the impulse of madness, or the force of a calm conviction, which induced her to reply:

"In one hour I will be dead."

The priest silently took her offered hand, and at the same instant, emerged from the circle of shadow, into the full glow of the light. There was something like magic in the pressure of their hands.

And the woman lifted her vail, disclosing a beautiful face, which already touched with the pallor of death, was lighted by dark eyes, whose brightness was almost supernatural.

Lifting her gaze heaven-ward, she said, as though thinking aloud,--

"In another world, Ernest, I will meet, I will know, I will love you!"

But ere the words had passed her lips,--yes, as the slowly lifted vail disclosed her face,--the priest sank back, as though stricken by a blow from an iron hand, uttering a wild and incoherent cry,--sank back as though the grave had yielded up its dead, and confronted him with a form, linked with holy and yet accursed memories.

"O, Frank, is it thus we meet," he cried, and fell on his knees, and buried his face in his hands.

The sound of his voice, at once lifted the scales from her eyes,--she knew him,--the vague consciousness of his presence, which had agitated her for the past few moments, became certainty. She knew that in Father Luke, who knelt before her, she beheld Ernest Walworth, her plighted husband. Sad and terrible indeed, must have been the change, which had fallen upon his countenance, that she did not know him, when he sat before her in the shadow!

Trembling in every nerve, and yet strong with the energy of a soul, that had taken its farewell of this life, she gave utterance to her feelings, in a single word,--his own,--pronounced in the soft low tones of other days.

"Ernest!"

"O, Frank, Frank, is it thus we meet!" he cried in wild agony, as he raised his face. "You,--you,--the only woman that I ever loved,--you, whose very memory has torn my heart, since that fatal hour, when I met you in the accursed haunt of death,--"

"Ernest you will sit by me as I die, you will press your hand in forgiveness on my forehead, my last look shall encounter yours--"

She opened her dark robe, and disclosed the snow-white dress which she wore beneath it. That dress was a shroud. Yes, the beautiful form, the bosom which had once been the home of a pure and stainless love, and which had beat with the throb of sensual passion, were now attired in a shroud.

"Behold me, attired for the grave," she said,--and the tears started to her eyes,--"This morning, resolved to quit this life, which for me, has been a life of unutterable shame and despair, I prepared for my departure. Everything is ready. Come, Ernest, and behold the preparations for my bridal,--" she pointed to the couch; he rose and followed her. "I am in love with death, and will wed him ere an hour is gone." She drew aside the curtains, and upon the white coverlet, Ernest beheld a dark object,--a coffin covered with black cloth, and glittering with a silver plate.

"Everything is ready, Ernest, and I am going. Nay, do not weep, do not attempt to touch my hand. I am but a poor polluted thing,--a wreck, a miserable, miserable wreck! My touch would pollute you,--I am not worth your tears."

Ernest hid his face in the hangings of the couch,--he writhed in agony.

"You shall not die,--you must be saved!" he wildly exclaimed.

She walked across the floor, with an even step; in a moment she was seated in the rocking-chair, with Ernest before her, his face hidden in his hands. Her face grew paler every moment; her eyes brighter; and the shroud which enveloped her bosom, began to quiver, with the last pulsations of her dying heart. As the vail mingled its fleecy folds with her raven hair, she looked very beautiful, yes, beautiful with the touch of death.

And as Ernest, choked with his agony, sat before her, hiding his face, she talked in a calm, even tone,--

"O, life! life! you have been a bitter draught to me, and now I am about to leave you! All day I have been thinking of my shame, of my crimes,--I have summoned up every act of my life,--the images of the past have walked before me in a sad funeral procession. O, Thou, who didst forgive the Magdalene,--Thou who hadst compassion on the poor wretch, whose cross arose beside thine own,--Thou who dost know all my life, my temptations, and my crimes,--forgive! forgive! It is a wandering child, sick of wandering, who now,--O, Thou, all-merciful!--gathers up the wreck of a miserable life, and lays it, with all its sins and shame, at Thy feet."

As she uttered this simple, yet awful prayer, Ernest did not raise his face. The agony which shook him was too deep for words.

Her voice grew faint and fainter, as she went on, in a vague and rambling way--

"And I was so innocent once, and did not know what sorrow was, and felt such gladness, at the sight of the sky, of the stars, of the flowers,--at the very breath of spring upon my cheek! O, I wonder if the old home stands there yet,--and the nook in the forest, don't you remember, Ernest? I was so happy, so happy then! And now I am dying--dying,--but you are near. You forgive me, Ernest, do you not?"

"Forgive you!" he echoed, raising his face, and spreading forth his clasped hands, "God's blessing and His consolation be upon you now and forever! And His curse,--" a look of hatred, which stamped every lineament of his face, revealed the intensity of his soul,--"and His curse be upon those, who brought you to this!"

As he spoke, the death damps began to glisten on her forehead; a glassy look began to vail the intense brightness of her eyes.

"Your hand, sit by me,--" she said faintly, "I shall sleep soon."

He drew his chair to her side, and softly put his hand upon her forehead,--it was cold as marble.

"It is good to go thus,--with Ernest by me,--and in token of forgiveness too, with his hand upon my forehead--"

Her words were interrupted by a footstep and a voice.

"Frank! Frank! where are you! I have triumphed!--triumphed! The one child is out of my way, and the other is in my power!"

It was Colonel Tarleton, who rushed to the light, his face lividly pale, and disfigured by wounds, his right arm carried in a sling. He had not seen his daughter since the hour when he left the Temple, before the break of day. And now, faint with loss of blood, and yet strong in the consciousness of his triumph, he rushed into the death-room of his child.

"I have had a hard time, Frank, but the game is won! The estate is ours! The other son of Gulian Van Huyden is in my power,--"

The words died on his lips. He beheld the dark form of the stranger, and the face of his dying child. The young form clad in a shroud; the countenance pale with death; the large eyes, whose brightness was vailed in a glassy film,--he saw this sad picture at a glance, but could not believe the evidence of his senses.

"Why, Frank, what's all this?" he cried, as with his pale face, marked by wounds, he stood before his daughter.

She slowly raised her eyes, and regarded him with a sad smile.

"The poison, father,--I drank it myself; _he_ went forth from this house safe from all harm--"

Her voice failed.

Tarleton uttered a frightful cry, and fell like a dead man on the floor, his face against the carpet. The reality of the scene had burst upon him; in the hour of his triumph he saw his schemes,--the plans woven through the long course of twenty-one years and darkened by hideous crimes,--leveled in a moment to the dust.

Frank slowly turned her head, and fixed her glassy eyes upon the face of Ernest,--O, the intensity of that long and yearning gaze!

"I am weary and cold," she gasped, "but it is light yonder."

And that was all. Her eyes became fixed,--she laid her head gently on her shoulder, and fell asleep.

She was dead!

Ernest knelt beside her, and with his eyes flashing from their sunken sockets, he clasped his hands and uttered a prayer for the dead.

There were footsteps in the passage and presently into the death-room came Mary Berman and Nameless, their faces stamped with the same look in which hope and terror mingled. Nameless bore the last letter of Frank in his hand; it had hurried him and Mary from the corpse of the artist to the home of Frank, and they arrived only in time to behold her dead.

"She died to save my life!" said Nameless solemnly, as he surveyed that face which looked so beautiful in death. That there were strong emotions tugging at his heart,--emotions such as are not felt twice in a lifetime,--need not be told.

And Mary, with tears upon her pure and beautiful face, stole silently to the side of the dead woman, and smoothed her dark hair, and put her kiss upon her clammy forehead, and closed those eyes which had looked their last upon this world.

The prayer was said, and Ernest, resting his hands upon the arm of the chair in which the dead woman sat, hid once more his face from the light, and surrendered himself to the full sway of his agony.

A voice broke the dead stillness, and a livid face was uplifted from the floor.

"It's an infernal dream, Frank. You could not have been so foolish! The estate is ours,--ours,--"

He saw at the same glance the face of Nameless and the face of his dead child.

* * * * *

Here let us return for a moment to Maryvale, the old mansion in the country, to which, this morning before break of day, the UNKNOWN, (in whom you doubtless recognize Gaspar Manuel, or the Legate,) had conducted the boy, Gulian, the private secretary of Evelyn Somers, Sr.

The contest between Tarleton and the dog Cain, in the presence of young Gulian, will be remembered; as well as the fact, that even as Tarleton, suffering from his wounds, attempted to bear Gulian from the house, he fell insensible at his victim's feet.

An hour afterward, when the light of day shone on the old mansion, the Legate returned and eagerly sought the chamber of young Gulian. The floor was stained with blood, the dead body of Cain was stretched at his feet, but the boy had disappeared. The Legate was a man, who, through the course of long years had learned to restrain all external signs of emotion, but when he became conscious that young Gulian was gone,--he knew not whither,--his agitation broke forth in the wildest expressions of despair.

"But I will again rescue him from his persecutor. Yes, before the day is over, he will be safe under my protection."

And himself and his numerous agents sought the city through all day long; and sought in vain.