University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER EIGHTH.
THE PURPLE CHAMBER.

The Purple Chamber in the city mansion of Reginald, combined
in one view all that is gorgeous in luxury, delicate in
taste, or beautiful in art.

Separated by a wide saloon from the street, its four windows
looked out upon the trees and flowers of an extensive garden.
Soft carpets beneath the feet, a wide ceiling, warmed with the
richest creations of the painter above your head—wherever
you turned, a white statue gleaming in beauty on you—its dark
rich purple tapestry, whether bathed in moonlight, or gilded by
the sun, imparted a luxurious tone to the chamber of Reginald
Landsdowne.

It was now three o'clock on the morning of the Fourth of
July.

A small lamp stood on yonder marble table, placed in front of
the mirror, which reached from the ceiling to the floor.

By its light you behold the bed in yonder recess, with the
white counterpane, seen between the intervals of the silken canopy.
Those curtains agitated by the slight breeze that finds
entrance, wave in luxurious folds from the dome of the canopy
to the floor.

It is three o'clock, and across the threshold of the Purple
Chamber, there glided two youthful forms, one reclining on the
other's breast and arm.

As they approach the light we will stand here in the shadow
and behold them.

One, a young man, whose dark hair falls aside from a countenance
marked with the traces of much suffering, yet glowing
with a calm joy on the bold cheek, and shining with deep happiness,
in the large full eyes. It is Arthur, Walter, Reginald,
attired still in that uniform of green faced with gold.

Leaning on his arm, her head upon his breast, the Rose of
Wissahikon raises her eye to his face, and her beautiful hair
flowing over the hands which gather her to his heart, hides in
its glossy veil her hunter's dress.

It was said by a shrewd Philosopher, perhaps Dr Franklin;
certainly one who had given much attention to the subject, that
the most beautiful thing of all that is beautiful, in this lower
world, was a—beautiful woman.

I am disposed to improve upon this thought. Standing in the
shadow of this Purple Chamber, I am induced to confess that of
all beautiful women, the most bewitching is a pure girl attired
in a picturesque hunter's costume, which in its turn is only seen
by glimpses through the intervals of her flowing auburn hair.
That hair looks brown, and black, and purple by turn, and
reaches to her knees.

The word that passed Reginald's lips, as treading softly over
the threshold, he bore the maiden along the chamber, was remarkable.

“This is our bridal chamber!”

Strange words these, when you remember that Reginald is
yet ignorant of the relationship of this poor peasant maid to a
wealthy planter, unconscious of the dear tie which binds her to
the heart of Martin Landsdowne. He only knows that she has
saved him; saved more than his life, his honor.

“This is our bridal chamber, Rose!”

She should have made some eloquent reply, expressed surprise
at the change in her lover's appearance, or suffered an
exclamation of wonder to pass her peasant lips, she should,
indeed—

But she did not.

Nestling on his breast, in the most natural manner in the

world, the Rose of Wissahikon bloomed beneath his gaze, and
felt her lips mingle with his.

And then the air that shook the curtains of the window, also
shook her long hair, until it waved and shone again.

At this moment, as bending over his bride, he pressed his kiss
upon her lips, the hangings of yonder couch, rustled to and fro.
Is it with the wind?

Gaze upon that form emerging from the curtains, that face,
dark with conflicting passions, its eyes dazzling with almost
fiendish light, and answer me!

The Lady Marion stood a silent witness of this scene of love.

Her dark hair, which was gathered back from her brow in one
rich mass, made her pale face seem more pale; her livid lip
and breath that came and went in gasps; her small foot pressed
against the carpet, quivering as it peeped from her dark dress,
all told the story of her passion and her agony.

Yet the pistol in her extended hand, speaks a language plainer
still. She raises it, and in terrible silence takes deliberate aim,
and fires!

The jarring report crashes through the chamber, but cannot
drown the sound of that form, plunging heavily on the carpet.
The smoke clouds the sight, but cannot conceal that face with
the ghastly wound between the brows.

O, it is not Reginald, in his young manhood, nor Rose, in the
dewey freshness of her beauty —. The heart grows cold to
think it.

As the smoke clears away we behold that form.

There, tossing in the carpet, clutching its surface with cramped
fingers, pouring blood upon its flowers from the hideous
wound, between the brows; now writhing until the heels touch
the back of the head; now stiffening out like a thing of marble,
an old man struggles with death.

On one side, pale, aghast, at her own work, looking if possible
more livid, the Lady Marion stands with her hands dropped
by her side.

Opposite, Rose clings to Reginald's neck, glancing over her
shoulder, at the hideous struggles of the dying man.

One word burts from every lip—

“Michael!”

Yes, it is the old hermit of the woods; he stood upon the
threshold; he saw the levelled pistol; he saved the life of Rose,
the child of the murdered woman, whom he once so madly loved.

You may be sure that his struggles were horrible but brief.
That wound had went straight to the altar of life, and dashed its
light into darkness.

He raised himself upon his knees, clasped his cramped hands,
and with the blood pouring over his glassy eyes, gasped two
brief words with his last breath:

Your oath!”

Yes, even in that moment he cared for the honor of Rose.

Yes, Reginald, your oath, uttered in the deep woods in the evening
hour! Now answer with a true heart, or shrink, a cringing
perjurer, before the last look of the dying man.

“She is my wife!” he said, and the old man sank slowly
down, and moved no more.

He died without knowing that his brother lived. And yet
that brother stole across the threshold, and bent over his still
bleeding form, until his white hairs mingled with the blood,
flowing from the fatal wound.

He died ignorant of the existence of that brother's son. And
yet he was there, there beside his sister Rose. He had followed
the old hunter to the house of President Hancock, and on the
very threshold, whispered a word which directed his steps at
once to Reginald's house. Following them, joined at the door
by his father, he had heard the sound of the pistol, and now beheld
the sad result.

He towered there, the White Indian, gazing with impenetrable
features on the scene, while his very heart was torn within him.
From his broad shoulder drooped the war blanket; in his tunic
of tiger-skin gleamed the hunting knife. He gazed upon the
mangled form, and did not weep.

“I must to my tribe again!” he said—“Too much blood here!”

The emotion of Reginald and Rose, need not be told. Read
it in his downcast head, in her eyes, turned wildly over her
shoulder.

And far back in the Bridal Chamber, leaning against the
Bridal Bed, which she never might adorn, a pallid, gibbering
thing, her finger on her lip, and her unloosened hair falling
wildly over her face, the Lady Marion rent the air with peals
of horrible laughter.

She was an Idiot.