 | CHAPTER FORTY-THIRD.
LEOLA, PAUL AND REGINALD. Paul Ardenheim, the monk of Wissahikon |  |
43. CHAPTER FORTY-THIRD.
LEOLA, PAUL AND REGINALD.
“Save me from this villian! He entered my chamber, by that secret
door, he assailed with threats, aye with violence! He assailed my life
and more than life—my honor!”
And the Wizard's Daughter clung, frightened and pale to the neck of
Reginald.
Paul was dumb.
“It is not Paul Ardenheim that I behold. It is some miserable coward,
who bearing some resemblance to the noble Paul, has stolen his dress
and name. It is not—it cannot be Paul Ardenheim.”
Reginald's cheek was flushed, his blue eyes flashing with concentrated
rage, but his tone was calm and measured, in its very mockery of doubt.
them gently, at the same time, gathering all the sweetness of her voluptuous
mouth, in a long and passionate kiss.
Paul was dumb.
Rolof Sener, who stood near the mirror, with folded arms, surveyed
the three, with his cold and passionless smile. Here the beautiful woman,
clinging to the neck of Reginald, arrayed in his wedding dress;
there Paul Ardenheim, standing alone, his arms hanging by his side, his
face colorless and leaden as the visage of death.
“Had I been a moment later—By Heaven, it makes my blood boil
to think of it!” and Reginald gazed fondly—tenderly—in the face of the
Wizard's daughter. “Only a moment later, and I should have entered
this room, to find you my Leola, dishonored and a corpse.”
Again he clasped her hands, and pressed a kiss upon her lips.
Paul was dumb.
Rolof Sener's sunken eyes began to flash with peculiar light, and the
icy smile played around his pale thin lips, but he did not speak.
“One moment, love,” whispered Reginald, and he unwound the arms
of the beautiful woman, “I will punish this villian, who has assumed the
name and dress of Paul Ardenheim, and then Leola—” he gazed fondly
into her eyes—“the guests are waiting for us in the room below, and
every thing is prepared for our Marriage.”
Paul's chest began to heave; the color rushed to his cheek, and a
deadly light, glimmered from his bloodshot eyes.
“Leola!” he gasped, and with the utterance of that fatal name, all the
mystery of this scene, was revealed to his soul. When the word had
passed his lips he was pale and dumb again.
Reginald resigned the arm of Leola, and crossed the floor, until he
stood face to face with Paul. Rolof Sener smiled as he remarked the
contrast. The muscular yet graceful form of the Monk of Wissahikon,
clad in the garb of a Heidelberg Student; a garb worn with travel, and
bearing in every detail, the unmistakable indications of Poverty: the muscular
and military figure of the Lord, attired in the costume of a wealthy
gentleman, on the eve of marriage; a costume of silk and velvet, adorned
with jewels, and eloquent of Gold. Reginald's chesnut hair, touched by
the hand of his valet, and carefully dressed after the fashion of the time,
relieved with its powdered locks, his clear blonde complexion; Paul's
dark hair, flowed wildly aside from his bronze visage, and only made his
cheek seem paler, his eyes more intensely bright.
This was the contrast which fixed the icy smile on Rolof Sener's lips.
“As regards brute strength, they seem fairly matched,” he muttered,
“Only Paul seems palsied in every nerve, while Reginald is stronger than
ever, with settled rage.”
Leola clasped her hands, and awaited the issue, without the power to
stir from the spot where she stood.
Reginald stood face to face with Paul, and surveyed him from head to
foot, with a glance of overwhelming scorn. Paul returned his gaze, with
a vacant and apathetic stare. For a moment neither spoke; the color
went and came on Paul's bronzed cheek; now he was panting and gasping
as if for life, and now pale and immovable as the dead; while Reginald's
cheek glowed into one scarlet flush, and his eyes shone with settled
hate. At last he broke the stillness—
“Paul Ardenheim!” he whispered, hissing that name through his set
teeth, as though it was in itself the bitterest scorn, that his rage could
utter.
Paul did not answer—did not move—his eyes was fixed upon the floor.
“Speak! Speak Paul! Make but the lamest excuse; frame but the
basest apology, and I will listen patiently. In a moment my servants will
hurl you from this room and scourge you from the house. Speak! I am
waiting—with patience—am I not? What means your presence in this
chamber?”
Reginald bent forward as he spoke, until his breath inflamed by rage,
fanned the very cheek of the Monk of Wissahikon.
Paul stood motionless and dumb, with his eyes cast to the floor.
Rolof Sener smiled his icy smile, as he stood beside the mirror. As
for Leola, with her finger pressed upon her bloodless lip, and her entire
frame quivering like a tigress, about to dart upon its prey, she silently
awaited the end of his tragedy.
“You are my friend, Paul,” whispered Reginald, with scorn in his
look and in every accent. “Do you remember our vow?”
Paul shuddered.
“We will be true to each other, and in no extremity or danger desert
each other, but cherish forever the solemn symbol of the Broken but not
divided Coin—broken not divided for its seperate pieces are moved by two
hearts, joined in one by the holy tie of Brotherhood. Do you remember
it, Brother Paul? Quite romantic—eh?”
Paul raised his eyes, as if about to speak, and at the same moment
Leola started one step forward, and her gaze encountered the eyes of the
Monk of Wissahikon. That look was unperceived by Reginald. Paul
felt it to the inmost core of his heart, and his pale face, glowed into life
again. Rolof saw it and smiled. No words can describe it, for the whole
being of Leola, was embodied in that single glance. It was passion, it
was entreaty, it was madness. It said to Paul, `Spare me! And at the
proper moment I will tell you all! Spare me! For I am thine!”
Paul therefore, although his heart beat madly against his breast, was
silent as the dead.
“You still wear the Broken Coin about your heart?” cried Reginald
Coin upon your heart, you stole coward-like into this chamber, and attempted
the dishonor of my Wife.”
“Your wife!” ejaculated Paul, and then—again that look from the
flashing eyes of Leola.
“My betrothed,” answered Reginald, “In a few moments—after my
servants have scourged you from the mansion, mark ye—she will be my
wife.”
Reginald placed his hand within the ruffled lace, which fluttered between
his silken waistcoat and his breast, and in an instant, drew forth his half
of the Broken Coin. He cast it at the feet of Paul, exclaiming, “Take
it up, my Brother! It will serve to remind you of our vow.”
Paul trembled from head to foot, he started forward as if his agony had
at last unsealed his lips, but looking over the shoulder of Reginald he
again encountered Leola's gaze. He was dumb once more. He knelt in
silence, took the Broken Coin, and placed it within his garment, close to
his heart.
The moment rapidly drew near, when Reginald's rage at first settled
into a tone of biting sarcasm, was to burst all bonds, and vent itself in
loud reproaches, perchance, in dishonorable blows.
“Thou paltry knave!” he cried, “Did I not feed thee of my bread,
and give thee to drink of my cup? Thou to meditate an act like this?
Beggar! Did I not share my purse with thee, and clothe thy coward's
form, with the very garment, which it now wears?”
The cup of Paul's agony at last was full. Scorned for his treachery,
insulted for his cowardice, and now, tainted with his—Poverty.
“I am poor!” he muttered wildly, and fixed his blood-shot eyes on
Reginald's face, his arms quivering to the very fingers as with a spasm.
Was he about to grapple with the young Lord, and trample him beneath
his feet?
Rolof Sener smiled.
Leola crossed the floor with noiseless steps, and stole gently behind
Reginald, winding her arms around his neck as she whispered in his ear,
but at the same time, gazing steadily into the very eyes of Paul Ardenheim.
“Do not be angry with the poor knave, Reginald,” she whispered—
“Do not so far forget yourself as to strike him. This gentleman who
stands near us, and whom I have seen to-day before, will doubtless charge
himself with the care of the poor wretch. Will you not, good Rolof?
Thrust him forth by the secret stairway, and our guests will not be disturbed
by the scandal of his presence. For my sake, Reginald!”
And her look which flashed into Paul's very soul, spoke to him, as her
voice spoke to Reginald:
“Spare me! I am thine! When the time comes, I will tell you all!”
“Away Leola!” cried Reginald, thrusting her gently from his side:
“This knave shall answer to me, and without delay. Speak, coward!
If within your craven form, there yet lingers one throb of manhood, speak
and answer me! Have you no word to excuse this outrage?”
Paul raised his form to its full stature, and surveyed Reginald with
steady look, at the same time wiping the cold sweat from his forehead.
But he did not speak. There was a spell upon his tongue, upon his blood,
upon his Soul. It was the Soul of Leola flashing from her eyes.
Rolof Sener advanced; spoke a few brief words; extended his hands,
and then retreated to his former position near the mirror. It was but the
work of an instant, and yet his extended hands, placed a sword in the
hands of Reginald and Paul, and the words which he had spoken were
full of meaning.
“Do not forget that you are gentlemen. There are two swords. The
peal of the Marriage Music will drown their clashing. Leave scolding to
women. The outrage was attempted in this chamber, and here it must
be atoned for.”
Reginald surveyed his sword, with an exclamation of joy, as wild as
incoherent. Paul felt the hilt in his grasp, saw the sharp blade glitter in
the light, and with an involuntary glance, measured the form of his
antagonist.
“Defend yourself!” cried Reginald, glowing at once with the consciousness
of muscular power, and with the fury of revenge: “Come!
This matter can be settled in a moment!”
Had Rolof Sener been a Demon, he could not have looked more coldly
calm, or more serenely delighted than at the present moment.
As for Leola, like some beautiful Statue of Terror, she stood rooted to
the floor, her hands hanging stiffly by her side, while her eyes flashed
vividly in her death-like countenance.
Paul grasped the sword, and his blood-shot eye brightened with a ferocious
instinct. He gazed upon the breast of Reginald, gay with marriage
attire, and seemed to meditate the blow, which would crimson that marriage
attire with the Bridegroom's blood. He had forgotten the solemn
mission which forever separated him from the loves and hatreds of mankind;
forgotten his dead Father, and the stern Prophecy uttered by the
Living-corpse in the silence of the Sealed Chamber; he was only conscious
of the three-fold taunt of treachery, cowardice, and poverty. His
blood bounded once more in his veins, as he felt that sword hilt in his
grasp; the lust of bloodshed possessed him from head to foot. He measured
his antagonist, and stood ready—to kill.
“Come—it is enough—” he cried, in a voice almost inaudible, while
his discolored eyeballs gave an unnatural look to his visage—“Here,
beside the Bridal Bed, thou shalt die.”
And at the same instant, his sword fell from his nerveless hand, and
his iron grasp—and trembling from head to foot, he stood gazing vacantly
upon his fallen sword.
“Coward! Said I not so? He dare not confront his Brother Reginald.—Thus—thus—I
inflict upon you, the last shame which might even
stir a craven into manhood.”
And he struck Paul across the shoulder with his sword; not with the
edge, as he would strike a man, but with the side of the blade as he would
strike a dog.
Then the smile which had lingered about Rolof's lips, mounted to his
eyes, and radiated over his massive forehead.
Paul calmly folded his arms—calmly, although his chest was swelling
with fearful agony—and looked Reginald in the eyes.
“Strike higher next time;” he quietly said, “Let the scar upon my forehead,
direct your aim.”
The scene which then occurred defies all power of description. Even
as Paul, raising himself to his full stature, placed his finger upon the scar,
while a singular calmness overspread his face; even as he spoke of that
scar, which had been received in the defence of his friend's life, Reginald,
blinded by his rage, raised the sword, and struck the defenceless man
across the forehead. As before, he used not the edge, but the side of his
sword. Still, the blow was violent, and the scar received for Reginald,
bled afresh.
Paul, with the blood upon his forehead, staggered to and fro for a moment,
then, conquered as much by his agony as by the blow, fell like a
dead man to the floor.
His arms were outspread without life or motion, and his ashen face,
with the features fixed as if in death, was half-concealed by his dark hair,
which was damp and matted with his blood.
Reginald struck the blow, and before a moment passed, stood gazing
upon the prostrate form, the sword still clenched in his right hand. Near
him Leola, without the power to speak or move, her hands clasped, and
her head bowed on her breast, while Rolof Sener, in front of the mirror,
looked on the scene with his brilliant eyes and icy smile.
For a moment, something like regret struggled with the mad anger of
Reginald's face, as he surveyed that noble forehead, half-hidden by the
dark hair drenched in blood.
But Rolof Sener, gliding over the floor with a soundless step, was at
his side:
“Reginald, let us remove the body,” he whispered, in his softest tone.
Reginald felt an unknown fear creep through his veins; he cast his
eyes to the floor, and trembled in every nerve. For the words of Rolof
Sener told him, that he beheld not a living man,—stunned by a sudden
blow—but a Corpse
“He is dead,” whispered Rolof, “He died, not so much by your hand,
as from the breaking of his proud heart. 'Twas a noble fellow, after all.
And the scar—eh, Reginald? Received in your defence, when he saved
your life? But come, we will remove the body, and to-morrow this matter
may be duly explained to the wedding guests. There is no time to be
lost—quick, Reginald!”
Reginald wondered to hear him speak thus in the presence of Leola.
He turned to look upon her and mark the expression of her face, but
Leola had fallen in a swoon. Without a sigh, like a flower broken on its
stem, she had sunk insensible, her hair waving over her face as she fell.
“She will not awake until we return,” whispered Rolof, “And we can
tell her a merry story, how we scourged the `Monk' from her father's
grounds.”
And without another word, they bore the body of Paul Ardenheim
through the secret door and down the narrow stairway. We will not
aver, that Reginald's hands did not tremble as he grasped the body of his
dead `Brother,' nor dare we assert that his heart did not grow cold as he
felt the head of Paul upon his breast. But the moment before they went
from the light into the dark stairway, Reginald, gazing upon the face of
Rolof—illumined in every feature by that light, and thrown distinctly into
view by the darkness of the stairway—felt something like a dim memory
flit over his brain. It was a remarkable visage, you will remember, its
thin lips stamped with that eternal smile, with its great forehead relieved
by short gray hair,—a single lock falling down the centre—its eyes sunken
deep, yet gleaming with dazzling lustre, and lighting up a visage whose
colorless complexion reminded you of the waxen face of the dead.
“I have seen that face among the family portraits of our Race,” the
thought flashed over the mind of the young Lord—“And it looks like the
face of Ranulph-John, who was found dead beside the dead body of my
Grandsire.”
And thus they took the body of Paul Ardenheim from the voluptuous
light of Leola's chamber, into the silence and darkness of the summer
night. The marriage music which smote their ears, fell cold and dead
upon his pulseless brain. And the light, which came in fitful rays through
the shrubbery which encircled the opening of the secret stairway, shone
upon his marble visage and dark hair drenched with blood.
Meanwhile Leola, stretched insensible upon the floor of her Bridal
Chamber, with her dark hair waving over her face, was all unconscious
that the Rich Man, who had bought her with his Gold, had borne away
the lifeless body of Paul, the Husband of her Soul.
It was not many moments ere Reginald again stood in the secret door,
gazing upon the voluptuous images of Leola's chamber, ere his footstep
crossed its threshold. His eye lingered for awhile upon the statues
gleaming from each recess, upon the pictured walls, wrapt in luxurious
gloom. Then all the pallor was gone from his face, and the smile of his
red lip, the gleam of his deep blue eyes, the heaving of his broad chest,
all told, that his thoughts had passed from the dead Paul to the living
Leola.
“And ere an hour passes, she will be mine. The wedding guests are
waiting, even now; and the good Clergyman, the Reverend Jacopo!
stands impatient, book in hand, and eye cast toward the floor.
And the handsome Reginald smiled as he crossed the threshold, and
looked around, impatient for Leola's bewitching glance.
Leola, however, had gone from the Bridal Chamber.
Reginald's face manifested something like disappointment, but sinking
in a chair, with his back to the secret door, he surrendered himself to his
thoughts.
“She has gone to array herself for the marriage ceremony,” he thought,
and a smile crossed his lips—“The most beautiful woman I ever beheld!
A good friend, that Rolof, for when my father storms and talks of an ill-assorted
marriage, Rolof will quietly point to Jacopo, the amateur clergy-man.
And he lies dead, out yonder, in the darkness, with his bloody forehead
against the damp grass. Twice he saved my life. Once on the
Wissahikon, when the huntsman's knife was at my throat, and again in
the streets of London. Dead, now! I have always had a lurking fear,
although I never confessed it to myself, that the man would be dangerous
to me some day or other. But now he is dead.”
You must not imagine that thoughts like these found utterance in words,
for even as they crowded upon him, in all their vivid hues, his lips spoke
a far different language.
“Leola, the beautiful!” he said, aloud, “She will be mine, ere an hour
passes, and we will be happy together, here on the Wissahikon. He is
not dead—no by Heaven! Only a fainting fit; it was a hard blow, but it
could not kill. But I must leave this place—ha, ha! It would not do
for me to be summoned to the marriage, from the Bridal Chamber, and
therefore, I will make my retreat by this passage. I can enter the hall
door, and tell my good friends, that I have been taking a solitary stroll by
moonlight. That will do. Pshaw! He is not dead!”
He rose, and turned toward the secret doorway. He made but a step
forward, when a new wonder paralyzed his entire frame, and drove the
hues of passion from his handsome cheek.
The frame of the doorway was occupied by a beautiful picture. Had
the hand of Rolof Sener stretched the canvass there, and placed before
him, this Picture which smote his heart, no less with its calm beauty than
with its terrible memory? Or was it an Apparition from the shadows of
the Other World.
It was the picture of a young woman, whose brown hair was gathered
Eyes of deep and tranquil hazel lighted that face, and gave an expression
pure and virgin, to the warm cheeks and ripe and dewy lips. The form
was young, graceful, and yet swelling in every outline with the ripe loveliness
of womanhood—but womanhood that has only a moment passed
from maidenhood into perfect bloom.
It was a picture of Madeline.
“Madeline!” faltered Reginald, as the blood left his cheek, and gathered
in tumultuous throbs about his heart.
And then the Picture moved from its frame, and came forward into the
chamber, and spread forth its arms, from beneath the dark mantle which
floated over its white robes, and fell upon Reginald's neck with tears in
its hazel eyes.
“It is Madeline! No ghost, but Madeline living, and more beautiful
than ever!”
And he pressed his kiss upon her lips, even as she clung to his neck,
and wept upon his bosom. It was not a Brother's kiss. It was warm
and passionate and clinging; the kiss of a Sensualist. Then he raised
her face from his breast, and gazed long and ardently upon its beauty,
bathed as it was, in tears, and held her form at arm's length, and with a
gaze as long and ardent, surveyed its ripe and womanly outlines. She
was not so queenly as Leola. There was not the witchcraft in her eyes,
that gave such overwhelming power to Leola's glance. There was no wild
ambition on her young brow, no daring Thought written upon the warm
lineaments of her young face. She was but a Woman, with only a woman's
purity and a woman's holiest instincts written upon her countenance,
while Leola was a bold and fearless Spirit, embodied in a voluptuous
form. And yet there was something in the very Innocence, something
in the very Womanliness of Madeline, that roused the senses of the young
Sensualist, and made his blood beat with a wilder throb, than ever stirred
his breast when encompassed by Leola's surpassing loveliness.
And she was not his Sister; she was only Madeline, the daughter of
Catherine Conwell, the Poor Woman.
A thousand vague plans for the Future, already shone in Reginald's
sensual gaze, plans which rushed upon him in a flood—vague, misty and
shapeless—yet all fraught with danger to the innocence of Madeline.
“My beautiful bird,” he cried gaily, “and have I found you again?
Have you risen from the grave, have you dropped from the sky? Tell
Madeline, my beautiful, where have you buried yourself so long?
“Brother!” she answered, while something like fear pervaded her
bosom as she felt his ardent gaze upon her face; and yet it was fear,
overshadowed by the very Innocence of her virgin soul—“I received
your letter only an hour ago. I am here to claim your promise. You
hands in marriage with my plighted Husband, Gilbert Morgan.”
Reginald did not suffer the unmingled surprise which pervaded his
being to appear in one lineament of his handsome face. He bowed his
head,—thought deeply, intensely for a moment—and then drew her gently
to him, and pressed his kiss once more upon her lip.
“So I did Sister,” he murmured without raising his face, “and so I will,
my pretty one. You shall be married to Gilbert. I vow it on my soul.”
| CHAPTER FORTY-THIRD.
LEOLA, PAUL AND REGINALD. Paul Ardenheim, the monk of Wissahikon | |