University of Virginia Library

30. CHAPTER THIRTIETH.
THE OUTCAST IN THE CHAMBER OF MADELINE.

How long he knelt he knew not, but when full consciousness came back
again, he found himself in the darkness, grasping the curtains of that lone
room, with stiffened fingers, and clutching still—with his right hand—the
Wampum Belt of Yoconok.

An hour may have passed since that bright Presence shone before the
solitary altar.

“I must begone—” he muttered, pressing his hand against his damp
forehead. “There is work for me yonder, among the hills—the hand that
leads me, neither man nor devil can resist. But no! Not until I have
found out the secret of this place—not until—”

There came a Thought which chilled every vein.

He rose, and as if guided by some strange instinct—or by Destiny—
he soon discovered the passage by which the beautiful form, had entered
the lone room.

Along this passage he stumbled, in the darkness of course, until he suddenly
passed between the hangings, and found himself in a large and
spacious chamber, where a single light—the waxen candle of the place
of prayer—was dimly burning.

“It is the room above the one, by which I entered this house—” the
thought flashed upon him, as he gazed around. “But where is she? Hah!
Yonder,—in the arms of her Husband—or paramour!”

A strange thing it was to see that robust old man, stand so tattered and
wayworn, in the mingled light and gloom of that luxurious chamber.
Upon the threshold, his brow knit,—the eyes flashing with a look of ominous

brightness—his lips drawn tightly over his set teeth—there he stood,
clenching his hands, as he surveyed the place.

The light stood upon an antique bureau, whose jet-black wood, was
surmounted by a large mirror. That mirror, dimly glittering, reflected the
bed which stood opposite, with snowy curtains drawn together,—the carpet
of velvet—the hangings of crimson silk—and the wan haggard figure,
standing on the threshold, the livid face, gazing in scorn upon all this
splendor.

It certainly did not look like the Haunt of a Ghost. The harp near
the curtained bed, was evidently swept by no spectral hand; that dress
of black velvet, embroidered with gold was not intended to clasp the cold
form of the dead; those jewels, scattered over the bureau were not designed
to display their radiance, save upon the white brow or panting
breast of a young and passionate woman.

—Even as I write, there is a picture of that scene before me. It is
rudely sketched upon a blank space in the original Manuscript, from which
this history is derived. Rudely sketched with pen and ink, and brown
with age, and yet it makes its mark upon the soul.

It is but a picture of a wild and haggard figure—the very type of poverty
and age—standing amid the hangings of a lofty and spacious room,
and gazing with an indescribable scorn, upon its luxurious display. In
one corner, a snow-white couch, with curtains closely drawn, glares from
the darkness; and the scene is lighted by a solitary candle, which glitters
into the smooth surface of a mirror framed in gold, like a star shining into
a waveless pool. The Harp, the costume of velvet, the jewels on the
bureau, all are sketched; and from the curtains of the bed, appears a hand
and arm, which at once enchain your gaze with their faultless outline.
Indeed, gaze upon the picture as often as you will, your eye at last alternates
between that haggard face, and the half-revealed arm of the unknown
sleeper.—

“Sleeping? Hah! The sound of her breath, and his mingling together.
A look by Jove, only one, ho, ho! Satan peepin' into Eden—”

Half-muttering these words, the aged vagabond or outcast, as you will,
drew near the bed, his hand wandering—instinctively perchance—to the
knife whose hilt appeared at his girdle, among his rags. He reached forth
his hand to grasp the curtain, but as suddenly withdrew it, and started
backward, as if swayed by a new impulse.

Treading on tip-toe he approached the antique bureau. His haggard
face was reflected vividly in the mirror, by the rays of the candle. He
recognized it with a grim smile, indeed his laughter deep and mocking and
but half suppressed, sounded unlike the mirth of a human being.

“Ho! What have we here! Letters,—ah, ha! Let me make myself
at home, and peruse at my leisure these precious memorials of love!”

This man so uncouth in his attire, so various in his speech—now uttering
the broken words of deep and sincere emotion, now sneering at his
very agony, and turning his Fear into a jest—reached forth his hand, and
grasped a mass of manuscript, which was laid upon the cloth of the bureau,
among the jewels.

“A fine hand, too,—delicate and woman-like! Confessions of love for
the Rich and Titled, mingled with curses for the outcast and murderer.
By the Fiend!” he pressed his hand suddenly to his forehead. “It seems to
me that this is some feverish dream!”

Then seating himself in an arm chair, with its high back between the
light and the bed, he glanced over the manuscript. While the sound of
the sleeper's breath, broke softly on the deep silence, the old man gazed
eagerly upon those pages, which seemed to reveal the mystery of a Woman's
Life. On the first page, in a hand tremulous yet bold was written,
title of the Manuscript.