CHAPTER IV.

THE BRIDALS OF JOANNA AND BEVERLY.

It was the night of December the twenty-fifth, 1844.

The mansion of Eugene Livingstone was dark as a tomb. The shutters were closed, and crape fluttered on the door.

Within,--in the range of parlors, where, last night, Eugene kissed good-bye on the lips of his young and beautiful wife, ere he left for Boston,--where, not an hour after, Beverly Barron came and folded the young wife to his breast, ere he bore her from her home to a haunt of shame,--within a single light is burning. One light alone, in the vast mansion, from foundation to roof.

It is a wax candle, placed in the front parlor, on a marble table, between a sofa and mirror, which reaches from the ceiling to the floor.

Joanna is sitting there alone, her golden hair neatly arranged about her _blonde_ face; her noble form clad in a flowing robe of snowy whiteness. She is very beautiful. True, her face is very pale, but her lips are red and a flush burns on each cheek. True, beneath each eye a faint blue circle may be traced, but the eyes themselves, blue as a cloudless sky in June, shine with an intensity that almost changes their hue into black in the soft, luxurious light. Joanna is very beautiful,--a woman of commanding form and voluptuous bust,--the loose robe which she wears, by its flowing folds, gives a new charm, a more fascinating loveliness to every detail of her figure.

Holding the evening paper in her right hand, she beats the carpet somewhat impatiently with her satin-slippered foot.

Her eye rests upon a paragraph in the evening paper:--

"AFFAIR IN HIGH LIFE.--There was a rumor about town, to-day, of an affair of honor in high life--among the 'upper ten,'--the truth of which, at the hour of going to press, we are not able, definitely, to ascertain. The parties named are the elegant and distinguished B----y B----n, and E----e L----ng----e, a well-known member of the old aristocracy, in the upper region of the city. A domestic difficulty is assigned as the cause; and one of the parties is stated to have been severely, if not mortally, wounded. By to-morrow we hope to be able to give the full particulars."

Joanna read this paragraph, and her glance dropped, and she remained for a long time buried in deep thought.

"Will he come?" she said at length, as if thinking aloud.

The silence of the vast mansion was around her, but it did not seem to fill her with awe. She remained sitting on the sofa, the evening paper in her hand, and her face impressed with profound thought.

"Hark!" she ejaculated, as a faint noise was heard in the hall without. She started, but did not rise from the sofa.

The door opened stealthily, with scarcely a perceptible sound, and a man clad in a rough overcoat, with great white buttons, a cap drawn over his brow, and a red neckerchief wound about the collar of his coat, came silently into the room and approached Joanna.

"Who are you?" she cried, as if in alarm,--"Your business here?"

"Joanna, dearest Joanna," cried a familiar voice, "and has my disguise deceived you? It deceived the police, but I did not think that it could deceive you!"

The overcoat, cap and neckerchief were thrown aside, and in an instant Beverly Barron was kneeling at Joanna's feet. His tall and not ungraceful form clad in blue coat, with bright metal buttons, white vest, black pantaloons, and patent leather boots, he wore a diamond pin, and a heavy gold chain. His whole appearance was that of a gentleman of leisure, dressed for the opera or a select evening party. His face was flushed, his eyes sparkling, and the flaxen curls which hung about his brow, emitted an odor of cologne or _patchouilli_.

"I had to come,--I could not stay away from you, dearest," he said, looking up passionately into her face. "All day long, I have dodged from place to place, determined to see you to-night or die."

She gave him her hand, and looking into the opposite mirror, saw that she was very pale, but still exceedingly beautiful.

"To risk so much for--my sake," she said, and threaded his curls with her delicate hand, and at the same time one of those smiles which set the blood on fire, animated her lips, and disclosed her white teeth.

"You are beautiful as an angel, I vow," exclaimed Beverly, and then glancing round the vast apartment,--"Are we all alone?" he asked.

"Yes, all alone," she replied, "the servants were discharged this morning,--all, save my maid, and she has retired by my orders."

"No danger of any one calling?"

"None."

"You are sure, dearest?"

"No one will call. You are safe, and we are alone, Beverly!" again that smile, and a sudden swell of the bosom.

"The body,--the body----"

"Is at my father, the general's,"--she replied to the question before it passed his lips.

"Then, indeed, dearest, we are alone, and we can talk of our future,--_our_ future. We must come to a decision, Joanna, and soon."

And half raising himself, as she lowered her head, he pressed his kiss on her lips.

"O, I do so long to talk with you, Beverly," she murmured.

"To-morrow, dearest, I will be placed in possession of an immense fortune. You have heard of the Van Huyden estate?"

She made a sign in the affirmative.

"I am the heir of one-seventh of that immense estate. All the obstacles in the way of the seven heirs (as I was informed to-day) are removed. To-morrow the estate will be divided; I will receive my portion without scarcely the chance of disappointment; and next day----"

He paused; she bent down until he felt her breath on his face,--"Next day?" she whispered.

"We will sail for Europe. A palace, in Florence, my love, or in Venice, or some delightful nook of Sicily, where, apart from the world, in an atmosphere like heaven, we can live for each other. What say you to this, Joanna?"

"But you forget," she faltered, "the recent circumstance,----" her face became flushed, and then deathly pale.

"Can you live under your father's eye after what has happened?" he whispered.--"Think of it,--he will loathe the sight of you, and make your life a hell!"

"He will indeed,"--and she dropped her head upon her proud bosom.

"And your brother,--does he not thirst for my blood?"

"Ah! does he?" she cried, with a look of alarm.

"And yet, Joanna, I was forced into it. I did all I could to avoid it. I even apologized on the ground, and offered to make reparation."

"You offered to make reparation?" she cried, "that was, indeed, noble!" and an indescribable smile lighted her features.

"Joanna, dear, I have suffered so much to-day, that I am really faint. A glass of that old Tokay, if you please, my love."

She answered him with a smile, and rising from the sofa, passed into the darkness of the second parlor, separated from the first by folding-doors.

"A magnificent woman, by Jove!" soliloquized Beverly, as he remarked her noble form.

After a few moments she appeared again, bearing a salver of solid gold, on which was placed a decanter and goblet, both of Bohemian glass,--rich scarlet in color, veined with flowers of purple, and blue, and gold.

Never had she seemed more beautiful than when standing before him, she presented the golden salver, with one of those smiles, which gave a deeper red to her lips, a softer brightness to her eyes.

He filled the capacious goblet to the brim--for a moment regarded the wine through the delicate fabric, with its flowers of blue, and purple, and gold,--and then drained it at a draught.

"Ah!"--he smacked his lips,--"that is delicious!"

"Eugene's father imported it some twenty years ago," said Joanna, placing the salver on the table. "Come, Beverly, I want to talk with you."

Following the bewitching gesture which she made with her half-lifted hand, Beverly rose, and gently wound his arm about her waist.

"Come, let us walk slowly up and down these rooms, now in light and now in darkness, and as we walk we can talk freely to each other."

And they walked, side by side, over the carpet, through that splendid _suite_ of rooms, where gorgeous furniture, pictures, statues, all spoke of luxury and wealth. Hand joined in hand, his arm about her waist, her head drooping to his shoulder, and her bosom throbbing near and nearer to his breast, they glided along; now coming near the light in the front room, and now passing into the shadows which invested the other rooms. It was a delightful, nay, an intoxicating _tête-à-tête_.

"I was thinking, this evening," she said, as they passed from the light, "of the history of our love."

"Ah, dearest!"

"It seems an age since we first met, and yet it's only a year."

"Only a year!" echoed Beverly, as they paused in a nook where a delicious twilight prevailed.

"Eugene presented you to me a year ago, as his dearest friend,--his most tried and trusted friend. Do you remember, Beverly?"

He drew her gently to him,--there was a kiss and an embrace.

"You discovered his infidelity. You brought me the letters written to him by the person in Boston, for whom he proved unfaithful to me. You brought them from time to time, and it was your sympathy with my wounded pride,--my trampled affection,--which consoled me and kept me alive. It was, Beverly."

"O, you say so, dearest," and as they came into light again, he felt her breast throbbing nearer to his own.

For a moment they paused by the table, whereon the wax candle was burning, its flame reflected in the lofty mirror. Her face half-averted from the light, as her head drooped on his shoulder, she was exceedingly beautiful.

"Beverly," she whispered, and placed her arm gently about his neck,--the touch thrilled him to the heart,--"you knew me, young, confiding, ignorant of the world. You took pity on my unsuspecting ignorance, and day by day, yes hour by hour, in these very rooms, you led me on, to see the full measure of my husband's guilt, and at the same time led me to believe in you, and love you."

She paused, and passed her hand gently among his flaxen curls.

"Ah, love, you are as good as you are beautiful!" he whispered.

"Before you spoke thus, I had no thought save of my duty to Eugene."

"Eugene, who betrayed you!"

"Yes, to Eugene, who betrayed me, and to my child. After you spoke, I saw life in a new light. The world did not seem to me, any longer, to be the scene of dull quiet home-like duty, but of pleasure,--mad, passionate pleasure,--may be, illicit pleasure, purchased at any cost. And letter after letter which you brought me, accompanied by proof which I could not doubt, only served to complete the work,--to wean me from my idol,--false, false idol, Eugene,--and to teach me that this world was not so much made for dull every-day duty, as for those pleasures which, scorning the laws of the common herd, develop into active life every throb of enjoyment of which we are capable."

"Yes, yes, love," interrupted Beverly, pressing his lips to hers.

"And thus matters wore on, until you brought me the last, the damning letter. He was going to Boston to see his dying brother,--so he pretended,--but in reality to see the woman for whom he had proved faithless to me. When you brought me this letter I was mad,--mad,--O, Beverly----"

"It was enough to drive you mad!"

"And yesterday, impelled by some vague idea of revenge, I consented to go with you to a place, where, as you said, we would see something of the world,--where, in the excitement of a masked ball, I might forget my husband's faithlessness, and at the same time show that I did not care for his authority. Some idea of this kind was in my mind, and last night when he kissed me, and so coolly lied to me, before his departure, O, then Beverly, then, I was cut to the quick. You came after he had gone, and,--and--I went with you--"

"You did dearest Joanna," said Beverly, pressing her closer to his side.

They passed from the light into the shadows together.

"And there, you know what happened there," she said, as they stood in the darkness. She clung nearer and nearer to him. "But you know, Beverly, you know, that it was not until my senses were maddened by wine," her voice grew low and lower,--"that I gave my person to you."

In the darkness she laid her head upon his breast, and put her arms about his neck, her bosom all the while throbbing madly against his chest.

"O, you know, that in the noble letters, which you wrote to me from time to time--letters breathing a pure spiritual atmosphere,--you spoke of your love for me as something far above all common loves, refined and purified, and separate from all thought of physical impurity. And yet,--and yet,--last night when half crazed by jealousy, I went with you to the place which you named, you took the moment, when my senses were completely delirious with wine, to treat me as though I had been your wife, as though you had been the father of my child."

She sobbed aloud, and would have fallen to the floor had he not held her in his arms.

"O, Joanna, you vex yourself without cause," he said, soothingly,--"I love you,--you know I love you--"

"O, but would it not be a dreadful thing, if you had been deceived in regard to these letters!"

"Deceived?"

"Suppose, for instance, some one had forged them, and imposed them upon you as veritable letters--"

"Forged? This is folly my love."

"In that case, you and I would be guilty, O, guilty beyond power of redemption, and Eugene would be an infamously murdered man."

"Dismiss these gloomy thoughts. The letters were true--"

"O, you are certain,--certain--"

"I swear it,--swear it by all I hold dear on earth or hope hereafter."

"O, do not swear, Beverly. Who could doubt _you_?"

They passed toward the light again. She wiped the tears from her eyes--those eyes which shone all the brighter for the tears.

"And the day after to-morrow," said Beverly, as he rested his hand upon her shoulder,--"we will leave for Italy--"

"You have been in Italy?" asked Joanna.

"O, yes dearest, and Italy is only another name for Eden," he replied, growing warm, even eloquent--"there far removed from a cold, a heartless world, we will live, we will die together!"

"Would it not," she said, in a low whisper, as with her hand on his shoulders and her bosom beating against his own, she looked up earnestly into his face, "O, would it not be well, could we but die at this moment,--now, when our love is in its youngest and purest bloom,--die here on this cold earth, only to live again, and live with each other in a happier world?"

And in her emotion, she wound her aims convulsively about his neck and buried her face upon his breast.

"Dismiss these gloomy thoughts,"--he kissed her forehead--"there are many happy hours before us in this world, Joanna. Think not of death--"

"O, do you know, Beverly," she raised her face,--it was radiant with loveliness--"that I love to think of death. Death, you know, is such a test of sincerity. Before it falsehood falls dumb and hypocrisy drops its mask--"

"Nay, nay you must dismiss these gloomy thoughts. You know I love you--you know--"

He did not complete the sentence, but they passed into the darkness again, his arms about her waist, her head upon his shoulder.

And there, in the gloom, he pressed her to his breast, and as she clung to his neck, whispered certain words, which died in murmurs on her ear.

"No, no, Beverly," she answered, in a voice, broken by emotion, "it cannot be. Consider--"

"Cannot be? And am I not all to you?" he said, impassionately,--"Yes, Joanna, it must be--"

There was a pause, only broken by low murmurs, and passionate kisses.

"Come then," she said, at last, "come, _husband_--"

Without another word, she took him by the hand, and led him from the room out into the darkened hall. Her hand trembled very much, as she led him through the darkness up the broad stairway. Then a door was opened and together they entered the bed-chamber.

It is the same as it was last night. Only instead of a taper a wax candle burns brightly before a mirror. The curtains still fall like snow-flakes along the lofty windows, the alabaster vase is still filled with flowers,--they are withered now,--and from the half-shadowed alcove, gleams the white bed, with curtains enfolding it in a snowy canopy.

Trembling, but beautiful beyond the power of words,--beautiful in the flush of her cheeks, the depth of her gaze, the passion of her parted lips,--beautiful in every motion of that bosom which heaved madly against the folds which only half-concealed it,--trembling, she led him toward the bed.

"My marriage bed," she whispered, and laid her hand upon the closed curtains.

Beverly was completely carried away by the sight of her passionate loveliness--"Once your marriage bed with a false husband," he said, and laid his hand also upon the closed curtains, "now your marriage bed with a true husband, who will love you until death--"

And he drew aside the curtains.

Drew aside the curtains, folding Joanna passionately to his breast, and,--fell back with a cry of horror. Fell back, all color gone from his face, his features distorted, his paralyzed hands extended above his head.

Joanna did not seem to share his terror for she burst into a fit of laughter.

"Our marriage bed, love," she said, "why are you so cold?" and again she laughed.

But Beverly could not move nor speak. His eyes were riveted to the bed.

Within the snowy curtains, was stretched a corpse, attired in the white garment of the grave. Through the parted curtains, the light shone fully on its livid face, while the body was enveloped in half shadow,--shone fully on the white forehead with its jet-black hair, upon the closed lids, and--upon the dark wound between the eyes. The agony of the last spasm was still upon that face, although the hands were folded tranquilly on the breast. Eugene Livingstone was sleeping upon his marriage bed,--sleeping, undisturbed by dreams.

Joanna stood there, holding the curtain with her uplifted hand, her eyes bright, her face flushed with unnatural excitement. Again she laughed loud and long--the echoes of her laughter sounded strangely in that marriage chamber.

"What,--what does this mean?" cried Beverly, at last finding words--"is this a dream----a----" He certainly was in a fearful fright, for he could not proceed.

"Why, so cold, love?" she said, smiling, "it is our marriage bed, you know--"

"Joanna, Joanna," he cried,--"are you mad?" and in his fright, he looked anxiously toward the door.

She took a package from her breast and flung it at his feet.

"Go," she cried, "but first take up your _forged_ letters--"

"Forged letters?" he echoed.

"Forged letters," she answered,--her voice was changed,--her manner changed,--there was no longer any passion on her face,--pale as marble, her face rigid as death, she confronted him with a gaze that he dared not meet. "Go!" she cried, "but take with you your forged letters. Yes, the letters which you forged, and which you used as the means of my ruin. You have robbed me of my honor, robbed me of my husband,--your work is complete--go!"

Her face was white as the dress which she wore,--she pointed to the threshold.

"Joanna, Joanna," faltered Beverly.

"Not a word, not a word, villain, villain without remorse or shame! I am guilty, and might excuse myself by pleading your treachery. But I make no excuse. But for you,--for you,--where is the excuse? You have dishonored the wife,--made the child fatherless,--your work is complete! Go!"

Beverly saw that all his schemes had been unraveled; conscious of his guilt, and conscious that everything was at an end between him and Joanna, he made a desperate attempt to rally his usual self-possession; or, perhaps, impudence would be the better word.

He moved to the door, and placed his hand upon the lock.

"Well, madam, as you will," he said, and bowed. "Under the circumstances, I can only wish you a very good evening."

He opened the door.

"Hold!" she cried in a voice that made him start.--"Your work is complete, but so, also, is mine--"

She paused; her look excited in him a strange curiosity for the completion of the sentence. "You will not long enjoy your triumph. You have not an hour to live. The wine which you drank was poisoned."

Beverly's heart died in him at these words. A strange fever in his veins, a strange throbbing at the temples, which he had felt for an hour past, and which he had attributed to the excitement resulting from the events of the day, he now felt again, and with redoubled force.

"No,--no,--it is not so," he faltered.--"Woman, you are mad,--you had not the heart to do it."

"Had not the heart?" again she burst into a loud laugh,--"O, no, I was but jesting. Look here,"--she darted to the bed, flung the curtain aside, and disclosed the lifeless form of her husband,--"and here!" gliding to another part of the room, she gently drew a cradle into light, and throwing its silken covering aside, disclosed the face of her sleeping child,--that cherub boy, who, as on the night previous, slept with his rosy cheek on his bent arm, and the ringlets of his auburn hair tangled about his forehead, white as alabaster. "And now look upon me!" she dilated before him like a beautiful fiend; "we are all before you,--the dead husband, the dishonored wife, the fatherless child,--and yet I had not the heart,"--she laughed again.

Beverly heard no more. Uttering a blasphemous oath, he rushed from the room.

And the babe, awakened by the sound of voices, opened its clear, innocent eyes, and reached forth its baby hands toward its mother.

Urged forward by an impulse like madness, Beverly entered the rooms on the first floor, seized the rough overcoat and threw it on, passing the red neckerchief around its collar, to conceal his face. Then drawing the cap over his eyes, he hurried from the house.

"It's all nonsense," he muttered, and descended the steps.--"I'll walk it off."

Walk it off! And yet the fever burned the more fiercely, his temples throbbed more madly, as he said the words. Leaving behind him the closed mansion of Eugene Livingstone, with the crape fluttering on the door, he bent his steps toward Broadway.

"I'm nervous," he muttered.--"The words of that dev'lish hysterical woman have unsettled me. How cold it is!" He felt cold as ice for a moment, and the next instant his veins seemed filled with molten fire.

He hurried along the dark street toward Broadway. The distant lights at the end of the street, where it joined Broadway, seemed to dance and whirl as he gazed upon them; and his senses began to be bewildered.

"I've drank too much," he muttered.--"If I can only reach Broadway, and get to my hotel, all will be right."

But when he reached Broadway, it whirled before him like a great sea of human faces, carriages, houses and flame, all madly confused, and rolling through and over each other.

The crowd gave way before him, as he staggered along.

"He's drunk," cried one.

"Pitch into me that way ag'in, old feller, and I'll hit you," cried another.

It was Christmas Eve, and Broadway was alive with light and motion; the streets thronged with vehicles, and the sidewalks almost blocked up with men, and women, and children; the lamps lighted, and the shops and places of amusement illuminated, as if to welcome some great conqueror. But Beverly was unconscious of the external scene. His fashionable dress, concealed by his rough overcoat, and his face hidden by his cap and red neckerchief, he staggered along, with his head down and his hands swaying from side to side. There was a roaring as of waves or of devouring flame in his ears. A red haze was before his eyes; and the scenes of his whole life came up to him at once, even as a drowning man sees all his life, in a focus, before the last struggle,--there were the persons he had known, the adventures he had experienced, the events of his boyhood, and the triumphs and shames of his libertine manhood,--all these came up to him, and confronted him as he hurried along. Three faces were always before him,--the dead face of Eugene, the pale visage of Joanna, her eyes flaming with vengeance, and,--the innocent countenance of his motherless daughter.

And thus he hurried along.

"Old fellow, the stars'll be arter you," cried one in the crowd, through which he staggered on.

"My eyes! ain't he drunk?"

"Don't he pay as much attention to one side o' the pavement as the tother?"

"Did you ever see sich worm fence as he lays out?"

There was something grotesquely horrible in the contrast between his real condition, and the view which the crowd took of it.

At length, not knowing whither he went, he turned from the glare and noise of Broadway into a by-street, and hurried onward,--onward, through the gloom, until he fell.

In a dark corner of the street, behind the Tombs, close to the stones of that gloomy pile, he fell, and lay there all night long, with no hand to aid him, no eye to pity him.

He was found, on Christmas morning, stiff and cold; his head resting against the wall of the Tombs, his body covered with new-fallen snow. A pile of bricks lay on one side of him, a heap of boards on the other. This was the death-couch of the dashing Beverly Barron!

How he died, no one could tell; it was supposed that he had poisoned himself from remorse at the death of Eugene Livingstone.

* * * * *

As Beverly hurried from the room, the babe in the cradle opened its clear, innocent eyes, and reached forth its baby hands toward its mother.

She took it, and stilled it to rest upon her bosom: and then came to the bed and sat down upon it, near her dead husband.

"Eugene, Eugene!" she gently put her hand upon his cold forehead,--"let me talk to you,--I will not wake you,--let me talk to you, as you sleep. I am guilty, Eugene, you know I am,--you cannot forgive me,--I do not ask forgiveness; but you'll let me be near you, Eugene? You will not spurn me from you? This is our child, Eugene,--don't you know him?--O, look up and speak to him. Don't,--don't be angry with him,--his mother is a poor, fallen fallen thing, but don't be angry with our child!"

She did not weep. Her eyes, large and full of light, were fixed upon her husband's face. Cradling her babe upon her bosom, she sat there all night long, talking to Eugene, in a low, whispering voice, as though she wished him to hear her, and yet was afraid to awake him from a pleasant slumber. The light went out, but still she did not move. She was there at morning light, her baby sleeping on her breast, and her hand laid upon her dead husband's forehead.

And at early morning light, her father came,--the gray-haired man,--his face frowning, and his heart full of wrath against his daughter.

"What do you here?" he said, sternly. "This is no place for you. There is to be an inquest soon. You surely do not wish to look upon the ruin you have wrought?"

As though she was conscious of his presence, but had not heard his words, she turned her face over her shoulder,--that colorless face, lighted by eyes that still burned with undimmed luster,--and said,--

"Do you know, father. I have been talking with Eugene, and he has forgiven me!"

The voice, the look melted the old man's heart.

He fell upon the bed, and wept.