University of Virginia Library

29. CHAPTER XXIX.

We lived in the old mansion, afar
from the world, and untroubled by the
laborious amusements of what is called
fashionable life, and I was happy once
more, and I lived again; the black memories
of the past grew dim and dimmer.
May expanded into summer, autumn
passed, winter shone calm and
cold from clear skies through the boughs
of leafless trees. “Spring was near

again, and Eugenia was crowned with
the holy name of mother!” A new face
bloomed in blessing on our home. O
the calm, untroubled peace of those
days!

One evening in early June, as I was
returning alone from New-York to my
country mansion, the carriage broke
down on the high road, not more than a
mile from home. I left it in charge of
the coachman, and walked homeward.
It was one of those mild, beautiful evenings,
enriched by the light of the rising
moon, and fragrant with the breath of
young summer, which you never forget.
As I entered the gate, and took the
winding path which led through the
grounds to the old house, there was a
paly stillness in the air.

Grand and majestic rose the old trees
around me, their leaves moving with the
faintest motion; now and then a turn
of the path gave me a glimpse of the
Hudson, rippling in the moonlight, and
of the distant city, which slept, or seemed
to sleep, in the smile of the calm,
hallowed night.

Walking quietly on, every sense lulled
by the sacred influence of the hour, I
was thinking of my past and of my present
life, and thanking God most fervently
that the darkness of the past was dim
in my memory, while the joy of my
present was upon me, vivid and all-absorbing,
like a gush of sunshine through
an open window in the better world.

Thus I drew near my home, and came
into the garden, which encircled the
gray old walls with a drapery of foliage,
vines and blossoms.

There was a window, which served
the purposes of window and door, and
opened on the garden from the sitting-room
of Eugenia. It was framed in a
flowering vine. Instead of approaching
the hall-door, I drew near this window,
determining to enter by it, and surprise
Eugenia. The sash was raised; the
light from the room came cheerfully
forth, mingling with the rays of the
moon. Concealing myself among the
vines, I looked within.

In a fine old room, with paneled
walls and arched fireplace, sat Eugenia,
reading by a candle which stood on a
workstand near her, while her babe was
sleeping in a cradle at her feet. She was
attired in a flowing white robe, and her
dark hair was disposed in glossy masses
about her face. Serene and pure, she
sat there in her quiet room, a soft glow
on her cheek, her eyes half veiled by the
downcast lashes—the very impersonation
of all that is noble in woman, wife
and mother.

While I stood silently contemplating
this picture, a door opened, and, to my
unfeigned surprise, a man whose face
I had never seen before entered the
room.

A man of some twenty-seven years,
with a pale, haggard face, dark hair that
hung in tangled and uneven locks, and
large glittering eyes. His dress was
faded and worn, and he looked very
much like a man who had seen much
misfortune, poverty, and, perchance,
crime. He approached Eugenia silently,
and stood near her, unperceived, gazing
upon her with a look in which hatred
seemed to struggle with other emotions.
Was his object robbery?

I stood spell-bound, yet prepared to
rush upon him the moment he showed
signs of violence. Fortunately, I was
armed; by some chance or other, I carried
a revolving pistol in the breast of
my dress-coat. I drew it silently forth,
and covered the intruder with a deliberate
aim. It may be imagined that I
awaited the issue of this scene in keen
suspense.

Still, Eugenia, reading, had not raised
her eyes or perceived the presence of the
stranger. He drew a step nearer,
stealthily, noiselessly, and reached forth
his hand. Then, in a low voice, broken
by a strong effort to restrain some deep
emotion, he spoke. I heard every word.

“Well, Eugenia! It is about three
years since last we met, or rather since
we parted.

She raised her eyes, and for the first
time beheld him. All color fled from
her face. She sat on the sofa as though
suddenly paralyzed.

Then rising to her feet, pale and trembling,
her lips bleached, and the hands which
she extended quivering as with a spasm,
she faltered forth the words,—“Albert!
Albert! O my God, is it you!” And
the next moment she was in his arms,
sobbing on his breast; and he, the dark
expression gone from his face, pressed
his kiss upon her forehead with impassioned
rapture. I staggered back from

the window as though my reason had
been bewildered by a violent blow.

I wandered, I know not why, down
the garden toward the cliff which overhung
the river shore. The moon was
shining brightly; the river stretched
along there, calm and beautiful in the
soft light; nature all around me was
still, but the agonies of the damned were
tearing at my heart-strings,

On the edge of the cliff, I leaned
against a tree, and pressed my hands to
my forehead in the effort to collect my
shattered senses. As I looked back
upon the events of that fearful night, I
can remember distinctly that, after standing
for a moment on the verge of the
cliff, I went up the garden-walk, toward
the house, the pistol in my hand; that
I trembled from head to foot; that the
ground seemed to rock beneath my
tread, but that my eye was clear, my
hand firm; that, as I reached the porch
in front of my mansion, a man came
forth, passing from the shadow into the
light of the moon, until he stood face to
face with me. I can remember how
there was a glow as of triumph on his
pale face, and how he met my gaze with
a look all defiance and insolence. I can
remember that I called him by his first
name— the name which had trembled
from the lips of my wife—that I told
him to look his last upon the river and
sky; for, as there was a God above us,
he must die. I can remember the look
he gave as he staggered back from the
leveled pistol; how he cried, “Hold! I
have never harmed you!”—and how I
drove him before me, step by step, until
he was against one of the pillars of the
porch, and there I made an end of the
scene, and fired.

He fell forward on his face, bathed in
blood. I can remember a shriek, and a
hurried step, and the form of a woman
bending over the dying man, until her
white dress was spotted with his blood.

After this, all memory is a dead blank,
only broken by dreams that might
change heaven itself into hell.