University of Virginia Library

31. CHAPTER XXXI.
THE PRESENCE OF DEATH.

IS it often happens to people who sleep badly, and
who will assure you of a morning that they have not
slept at all, I must have dozed a little that night unconsciously.
On a sudden, in the darkness, I had a sense of
coming to myself, and of straining blindly for a moment to
think why it was that I felt such a gloomy recollection or
such a fearful foreboding. Rapidly, instantly, the events of
the day came back upon me, not separately and distinctly at
first, but in a turbid mass, weighing upon me with a sense of
almost physical pressure, and then sharply cleaving the temples
of sleep, as the nail pierced the head of Sisera. I
suppose that every man knows this feeling who has ever
awakened to sorrows past or anxieties future.

I examined my watch by the momentary light of a lucifer,
and found that it was but a little past one. Next, moved by
mere restlessness or fantasy, I stole in my slippers to a window
of the library, turned the venetians quietly, and looked
out on that part of the garden which fronted the room of
Mrs. Westervelt. No moon shone, but all the seraph stars
let fall their loving light, and I could see that the blinds behind
which the unhappy woman was secured were dark and
close.

I sat there for fifteen minutes or more, revolving a troublous
perplexity of thoughts, not once changing my position,

not once withdrawing my absent-minded stare from the two
nailed windows. Suddenly I had an idea, a consciousness, it
could hardly be called a glimpse, of some moving form in the
garden. I could not turn my head so quickly but that the
object escaped me, or, rather, at the moment my glance
caught it, seemed to resolve itself into a shadowy, motionless
clump, which I knew to be a bush of oleanders. Still, something
had moved there, had altogether changed place, had
passed from point to point, I felt certain. It could not have
been the swing of leafage nor the swaying of a shadow, for
there was not wind enough to bend the stem of a lily, nor to
raise a ripple on the Sound, which reflected the stars darkly
but as unbrokenly as a steel mirror. I crouched down to the
window-sill, fixed my eyes on the oleanders, watched and
waited. Presently something like an arm rose with a quick,
wary motion from behind the low mass, and I distinguished a
soft rattle as of a handful of gravel tossed against a blind or
the side of the house. Without asking myself the question,
without reasoning the point, I decided that it was Somerville.
What might be his object, or whether he would be likely to
venture so near his foes at such an hour, I did not pause to
consider, I felt so assured that it was he and no other.

I crept away from the window, determined to steal out
there and spring upon him by surprise. Whether I should
call Robert occurred to me, but I dreaded losing time; nor
would I disturb Henry Van Leer, for fear that his simpleton
of a wife might scream; nor Mr. Westervelt, because he was
too feeble, if not too timid, for an encounter; and, finally, I
felt myself to be a match for Somerville, alone. Through
the deep hall which led to the rear of the house I slid, unlocked
the door softly, and away on tiptoe along a curved
shrubbery walk which I knew would take me to within a few
yards of the oleanders. On coming in a line with the front
of the wing I halted and glanced at Mrs. Westervelt's windows.
Very considerable was my astonishment, and near
akin to dismay when I saw one of her blinds broad open and

her form at the window leaning out, while Somerville stood
below her, apparently beckoning and urging her to descend.
Who broke or bent those stout nails, whether she or Somerville,
I had not seen, and no one knows to this day. But
what could this meeting mean? Was her confession a cheat,
her insanity feigned, her subjection to this man willing, and
this an elopement? I did not stop to ask, much less to
answer.

They were so occupied with each other that I crept and
crouched along unobserved until I reached a small arbor ambushed
in lilacs, which stood between them and the gate, and,
slipping behind one of the high-backed wooden seats, turned
to watch them through the screen of leaves. Just then I
heard a muffled sound, and saw by the dim starlight that
Mrs. Westervelt had leaped to earth. Somerville seized her
arm and drew her hurriedly down the straight path which led
past my hiding-place, glancing backward repeatedly to see
if they were observed. While I was preparing to spring out
upon them they came softly, swiftly, speechlessly into the
arbor, and halted so near me that I might have reached them
with my hand and could plainly hear their quick breathing.
A broad spray of lilac leaves overhung my face, so that they
would not easily discover me, while I could see them with
tolerable distinctness. Mrs. Westervelt had on a black
silk and was dressed completely, except that her hair was
loose and fell in thick, long twists over her shoulders and
breast, giving a wild grace to her pale, dimly visible countenance.

“What have you told?” he whispered, clutching her arm
with a harshness which left no doubt on my mind that he was
capable of striking her.

“Nothing,” she replied, leaning toward him with a fond,
caressing movement. “But you told too much, my friend.
You have ruined me.”

She put her hand on his shoulder and looked up in his
face. “Now I have no one left me in the world but you,”

she added. “Will you take me? Come, you have often
said that you longed to kiss me,—to embrace me. You may
do it now. I will take it as a pledge that you will be true
to me.”

I could not see her face at this moment, but her voice and
manner were those of perfect sincerity. I could dimly see
his face, and he evidently believed her. Looking her steadily
in the eyes with an air half of wonder, half of fascination, he
slid his arm around her waist and drew her softly to him,
bending his head until his lips almost touched her cheek. At
that moment, before the kiss was given, she struck him in the
breast violently. I thought it was only with her hand, for
I saw no weapon, but he gave a loud cry and sprang several
feet in the air, falling face downward across the end of the
bench behind which I was kneeling. She answered his
shriek with another, as full of lunacy as his of death, and fled
away, I did not see whither. I cannot say precisely what
I did in that instant; I believe that I started up with both
hands extended, seeking instinctively to prevent the blow
which had already been stricken; and yet I knew that
Somerville was dead, for I knew that nothing but death
could produce such an effect. For once the man of the
world had been fairly surprised.

My first distinct recollection is of lifting Somerville up,
turning him and looking in his face as his head dropped
backward over my arm. The next moment I heard voices,
saw lights, and the family was around me.

“Good Lord!” exclaimed Henry Van Leer. “Fitz
Hugh, did you kill him?”

“No, no! Oh, it's incredible! it's incredible!” I stammered.

They all stared at me horror-struck, thinking that I was
the homicide; my position seemed to testify it, and there
was blood on my hands, my face, and my clothes.

“It's awful,” said Henry Van Leer; “but it's right. You
served him right, Fitz Hugh.”

“Oh, my God, sir!” groaned Mr. Westervelt. “I am
afraid you have brought yourself into trouble.”

“It was not I, I tell you. It was —” and then I recollected
that it was his wife. It would not do, however, to risk
hanging or State's prison merely to save the name of a crazy
woman; and so, after staring at him one moment, as if to ask
whether he had strength to bear it, I pointed to the open
window. They all looked, and then exclaimed with one
voice, “Oh! did she do it? Oh! it is impossible.”

In a dozen words I told them the revenge and the flight of
Mrs. Westervelt.

“Oh, God have mercy upon us!” cried her husband.
“Now it must all be known.”

“But she was mad, father; she did not know what she
did,” said Mary, not, perhaps, fully understanding him.

“Oh! what shall be done! what shall be done!” he
moaned. “Let us bury him! Let us bury him quick!”

“Bury him?” I cried; “and have the body discovered,
and be charged with murder? You are as mad as she. No,
no! Carry him into the house; send for the Rockford sheriff;
tell the whole truth at once. Now, then, help me, will you?
you Van Leers!”

We soon had the murdered man laid on an oil-cloth in that
very library, where, the morning before, he had stood so full
of insolence and wickedness. We felt for his pulse, but it
was extinct, and his face had already lost the hue of life.
All of us started back with renewed horror as the light of the
lamps fell on his person; for, standing in his breast, standing
in his very heart, was the dagger referred to in the confession.
Robert was about to pull it out, but I caught his arm,
saying, “Leave it there!”

“Now, Henry Van Leer,” said I, “ride over to Rockford,
and let the authorities know at once what has happened. The
rest of us will look for Mrs. Westervelt.”

I was perfectly cool again, and glanced at my watch with
as distinct a consciousness of what time was as I ever had in

my life. We got two lanterns from the stables; rummaged
every nook of the garden and grounds; descended the hill,
still searching, and awakened the Treats; sent Ma Treat
up to attend Mrs. Van Leer, who was in hysterics; and,
assisted by Pa Treat, examined the shore and the banks of
the creek. Two hours we wandered hither and thither fruitlessly,
until the lanterns grew dim in the wide, soft luminousness
of daybreak. Not a trace had been found as yet; not a
fragment of woman's drapery; not a footprint along the
humid beach; but we had often been beguiled into fruitless
chases; forms had flitted toward us through the gloom and
vanished suddenly; stumps of trees had put on the shape
of humanity for a delusive moment; we had separated, and
then pursued each other with breathless haste and calling;
and at last we sat down by the whispering shore, wearied out
of all strength and hope. Mary and Genevieve had successively
joined us, and, finally, Mrs. Van Leer, walking in the
strength of Ma Treat. There were also several stragglers
from Rockford, full of sympathy, curiosity, incredulity, and
horror.

“It's a darned likely story,—a woman killin' a man!” I
heard one of these persons observe.

“But she's run away,” remarked another. “What 'd she
run for if she didn't do it?”

“W—al,” drawled the first speaker, as if he would have
said, “I acknowledge that I am puzzled, but I beg the public
to suspend its judgment until I can consider the subject
further.”

“I tell you what,—these rich, fash'nble people are just 's
chuck full of vice and crime 's they can be, only they hardl'
ever let it out,” moralized a third individual.

“I say, let's go up and have another look at the dead
man,” resumed the first speaker. “I'm bound to see whether
a woman could done that or not.”

A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush; and so
several of our Rockford friends hurried off to stare at the

corpse which had been found; leaving us to care as we could
for the lunatic who was still unaccounted for.

“I say!” exclaimed Pa Treat suddenly. “I'll row up
the creek.”

He ran down to the beach and pushed a boat off. Mr.
Westervelt and I leaped in as it floated; and Pa Treat,
placing himself in the stern, sculled slowly away. It was a
quarter of a mile to the mouth of the sluggish black streamlet
where the cutter of the Van Leers and the two or three
sharpees which constituted the marine of the neighborhood
lay moored. Mr. Westervelt and I, leaning over opposite
sides of the boat, sought to peer into the depths of the tranquil
sea-water, gray, vague, and cloudy under the wan light
of dawn. On reaching the creek, Pa Treat slackened his
speed until the bow scarcely raised a bubble as it gently
pushed aside the smooth, long, curving ripples. Backward
and forward, in zigzags, we glided from bank to bank, advancing
up the stream fruitlessly, until we had nearly slid
into the shadow of a low shaky footbridge which spanned it.
“Stop!” I shouted; the oar-blade gurgled in the water;
the boat halted like a poising bird. There, in the calmness
of the gloomy bottom, dimly discernible, was a white face
turned heavenward, two ghastly hands lifted as if in prayer,
and a black, slowly swaying mass of woman's garments.

“Stop, Square!” shouted Pa Treat, laying hold of Mr.
Westervelt, who, notwithstanding that he could not swim,
seemed about to fling himself overboard. “I'll bring her up.
There may be life in her yet.”

Without another word the old man threw off his hat,
closed his hands above his head, and plunged straight to the
bottom. In a few seconds he reappeared a dozen feet astern,
swimming with one muscular arm, and bearing on the other
the body of Mrs. Westervelt, her long wet hair streaming
back from his shoulder. I lifted her in, and Mr. Westervelt
seized her in his arms, calling and kissing her wildly.

“Row away! don't lose time!” cried Pa Treat, and
struck out strongly for the bank.

We spent two wretched, weary hours over the form of the
unhappy woman, using every possible means of resuscitation,
only to make sure that the silent water had done a work
that was eternal. She had escaped from her griefs, her
shame, and her madness; and it was mercy, doubtless, that
we could not bring her back to them.

Acknowledging at last, with a feeble moaning, that she
was no longer his, but death's, her husband consented that
she should be laid out; and it was done in her bedroom, the
blinds being closed again now, but no need more of nailing.

Looking on her tranquil, mild face, softened into that childlike
meekness which sleep often gives and death almost
always, it was nearly impossible to believe, although we
knew it, that she had lived a miserable forger and died a
crazed murderess. In truth, when we came to think of her
nature and history, it seemed as if her sinless countenance
bore a true witness, and she was not chargeable with a tithe
of the crime which her hands had committed. Her first
guilt had been accomplished unknowingly; her last and
greatest in the blindness of groping unreason. It appeared
as if destiny had ordained her to be the victim of the wicked
man who lay lifeless near her, and had relentlessly blasted
all her prospects of happiness in life by means of him, solely
that in the madness of her death she might become his punisher.
Meantime Somerville had been stretched on a settee
in the drawing-room, where a large pier-glass reflected his
pallid face with a ghastliness beyond nature. There they
lay then, in perfect rest, in the terrible amity of death, the
two who had slain each other. It was fearful to pass from
room to room and see the house so inhabited; it seemed as
if death had gained the upper hands of life, and as if the
world were but a place to be miserable and to perish in.

A justice had been on the ground since daybreak, examining

localities, putting questions and entertaining surmises.
Squire Bradley was a gentleman of good Rockford family,
civil, slow-spoken, gray-haired, with a pear-shaped body, and
a spacious physiognomy, of which the prevailing features
were a portly Roman nose and a voluminous double chin.
He was a sensible, well-intentioned person, I believe, but his
soul was inconveniently overweighted with body and required
long resting spells between ideas. From the general drift of
his sparse and scant remarks, I inferred that he felt it to be
his duty to arrest somebody. Doubt and mental shortness
of breath troubled him again when he proceeded to decide
upon the guilty one; but at last I had the annoyance of seeing
that I had fallen under the suspicions of this amiable and
conservative gentleman.

“Mr. Fitz Hugh, I believe, sir?” said he, approaching
me with a smile in which disgust at my moustache was visible.
“You saw the blow struck, I hear.”

Myself. “I did, sir. I was almost within reach of her
arm.”

The Squire. (Arching his eyebrows.) “Oh, indeed!
Bless me! Did the man fall immediately?”

Myself. “Instantly. Gave one leap and was a corpse.”

The Squire. (Drawing back a step.) “Shocking! Bless
my soul! Ahem, fall anywhere near you, sir?”

Myself. “Quite near. I thinked he touched me as he
dropped.”

The Squire. (Looking me fixedly in the eye.) “Ah!
very likely. Little blood on your clothes, I see.”

He now retreated and stood silent a few seconds unbending
his mind. Presently he was approached by a raw-boned,
sandy-haired, squint-eyed man, of intemperate aspect and
odor, whose face I had never noticed before, but whose voice
I instantly recognized. “That's a darned likely story,
Square,—a woman killin' a man.”

The Squire. (Fingering his double chin doubtfully.)
“Think so, Mr. Bunnel?”

Bunnel. (Scornfully elevating his single chin.) No sir!
I jest don't.”

The Squire. “By the way, what is your opinion, Mr.
Bunnel?”

Bunnel. (Turning his eye at full cock upon me.)
“Square, I can't abide mustachers.” (The rascal had a
shabby red beard of three days' growth.) “Where there's
mustachers, there's the devil. Square, no woman could
struck such a blow.”

The Squire. “Possible! Well?—Oh, I see. So you
think—eh?”

What more Mr. Bunnel thought did not reach me, for he
whispered it in a closely confidential way which must have
been very offensive to the Justice's olfactories; indeed, I
saw the latter take a bit of flag-root or calamus out of his
vest-pocket and slip it into his mouth as if to counteract the
vile perfumes which invaded his respectable countenance.
Presently he began to back away, while Bunnel followed him
up, venting upon him that rich respiration, worth three cents
a breath surely, at the lowest price of alcohol. The Justice
escaped at last, and advanced once more upon me.

“Was Mrs. Westervelt a strong, muscular woman, Mr.
Fitz Hugh?”

Myself. “Quite the contrary. Most people become
strong, however, during a paroxysm of lunacy.”

The Squire. (Chewing his flag-root between phrases;
one bite for a comma, &c.) “Exactly. Thing is to prove the
lunacy. Found any blood on her clothes, Mr. Fitz Hugh?”

Myself. “I have not, really. If any reached her the
water must have soaked it out.”

The Squire. “Possible. Worth considering. So you
were watching them?”

Myself. “Yes, I intended to prevent the escape of Mrs.
Westervelt.”

The Squire. “Just so, of course. But that might have
led you into a fight with Mr.—Mr. Somerville, eh?”

Here he abruptly retired and gave himself another interval
of mental repose. We had several such conversations,
the result of which, I believe, was to fix the Squire in the
opinion that some of us, probably myself, had murdered
Somerville and then drowned Mrs. Westervelt, after the
fashion of Turkish and Italian vengeances.

All this while the house was encumbered with a crowd
which increased momently; and in consequence, the Westervelts,
father and children, as well as Mrs. Van Leer, shut
themselves away up stairs. Ma Treat went from room to
room, persistently urging tea, &c., quoting the Bible with
references after her custom, and doing her quaint best to
inspire thoughts of comfort. Mrs. Van Leer had repeated
fainting fits and hysterics, and Genevieve sobbed or wrung
her hands almost uninterruptedly, while Mary wept at times
also, but for the most part remained firm and self-collected,
troubled by grief indeed, but not by unreasoning terror.
Such is the story that I afterward got from Ma Treat, who
could not sufficiently praise the meek, tearful fortitude of our
favorite, our darling.

Willie Westervelt stayed in a separate room with his nurse
and Johnny Treat, playing gayly all the while, for though he
had been told something of the night's horrors, he had not
comprehended the story. “Let him be,” whispered the crying
Bridget; “he'll understand enough when he sees the poor
mother.”

It was about ten o'clock, when Squire Bradley addressed
me for the twentieth time. “Mr. Fitz Hugh,—you seem to
have charge of things here,—let me introduce you to our
coroner, Mr. Capers.”

Our mild friend shook hands with me mournfully, and
hoped that I was well.

“I suppose the jury may as well sit now,” continued the
Squire. “First,—well, hadn't we better take Mr. Somerville
first? Don't you think so, Mr. Capers? So I should
say. This way, if you please, gentlemen.”

But the inquest will add nothing to what we know, and so
let us pass over it.

I will only mention one particular, of breathless interest to
myself, if not of vital importance. Mr. Bunnel's opinion that
where there's mustachers there's the devil, had spread widely;
and all those anxious, silent people who crowded the room
gazed at me as earnestly as at the dead. Every question
that was put me seemed to say, Thou art the man! Once or
twice, also, I overheard an unpleasant whisper in the press
about “the bad look of the tall fellow,” an appellation which
I more than suspected was meant for myself. At last Mr.
Westervelt awakened, as out of a trance, to the meaning of
the scene, he rushed away with a wild air, and returned
bringing the confession of his wife, which he thrust into the
coroner's hand, saying, “Read that.” It was read aloud, and
suspicion fell from off me, like rent manacles. The Justice
gazed at me apologetically; the coroner almost smiled with
pleasure; the whisperings behind me changed to friendliness;
the “tall fellow” had become good-looking.

The verdicts returned were, in substance:—Somerville,
death by the hand of Mrs. Westervelt:—Mrs. Westervelt,
suicide resulting from insanity. The jury broke up, the
crowd gradually quitted the rooms, and we were left in peace!
with our dead.

I had already telegraphed to the father of Somerville.
Mrs. Van Leer, hysterical as she was, controlled her mind
sufficiently to remember his address the instant that I demanded
it. Had she been on her death-bed, I believe that
she could have conversed quite rationally and comfortably on
the subject of Fifth Avenue; and the Somervilles were a
grade above Fifth Avenue, having been rich, martial, official
and renowned, long before the birth of our parvenu republic.
It was a Hudson River family, dating from the times of that
Duke of York who subdued Peter Stuyvesant and left his
own ugly name to the city of the island of Manhattan. Mrs.
Van Leer took an evident pleasure in explaining to me that

Mr. Somerville, senior, lived in New York during the winter,
and on his estates near Albany during the summer. She had
talked with him at Saratoga; “dear, charming old gentleman;
wish you could know him, Mr. Fitz Hugh.”

I sent him two telegraphs, one to each of his residences,
informing him that his son was at the point of death, and requesting
his immediate presence at Seacliff. About three in
the afternoon a Rockford hack drove furiously up to the gate,
and a tall, thin elderly gentleman stepped out of it and
hastened toward the house. A resemblance between him
and the dead man within induced me to hasten to meet him.
The resemblance was indeed striking: not in form, for he
was taller and slenderer than Somerville; not in expression,
for his was benign, though sad and firm; but in feature he
had the same Greek beauty, high and delicate; the selfsame
eye, too, dark-gray, commanding and full of light.

“Is this Mr. Somerville?” I asked, with a hope that it was
not, for I dreaded the interview.

“Yes,” he said, extending his hand with a grave courtesy,
which in such a princely old man seemed benign condescension.
“Mr. Fitz Hugh, I presume. How is my son?”

I shook my head without speaking, for it seemed best to
utter no word.

“What! gone?” he exclaimed. “Do you mean that?
Oh! is it possible!” Then, after a pause, “You must be
kind enough to show me to him.”

“Stop,” said I. “The circumstances were painful. I
must prepare you before you go in there. There is another
corpse in the house; there is grief here beside yours. Your
son was stabbed to the heart.”

“God have mercy upon him!” he groaned, and was silent
for a moment.—“A rencontre?” he asked presently. “Did
he kill this other person?”

“I will tell you,—I will tell you. Come this way, aside
from these people. You had better hear all before you go in.”

He followed me into one of the garden arbors, and sat
down, evidently unable to stand.

“What I have to say is very wretched,” I began. “You
will hardly believe such things of him as I have to tell
you.”

He put up his hand, but it was in deprecation and not in
denial. “I know,—I know,” he said. “Perhaps I understand.
Frank has done this family some great wrong, and
there has been a terrible vengeance.”

“Yes; a great wrong and a terrible vengeance. Mr.
Somerville, by some means which will perhaps be explained
to you, placed the wife of Mr. Westervelt here in his power.
He abused that power terribly.” (The father bowed a woful
assent, as if he knew what his son was capable of doing.)
“He abused it to such an unendurable extent that at last he
drove her mad. She killed him in her lunacy, and then
took her own life.”

“Oh, my God, have mercy upon him! have pity upon
me!” he moaned, starting to his feet and turning his face
from me. After some moments he looked at me again, his
dark-gray eyes wet, and a tear on his wrinkled cheek.

“I have long feared an evil end for Frank,—but nothing
like this,” he said,—“nothing like this! I knew his life,—
knew that he deserved punishment,—but I did not expect
this.”

A little while more of silence, and then he added in a more
subdued tone, “Will you now be pleased to lead me to him?
I shall know how to conduct myself. You did well to make
me these explanations, and I thank you. The duty must
have been painful to you.”

“You will hardly think of seeing any one of the family?”
I asked as we moved toward the house.

“Certainly not. It would be distressing to them and to
me. You will tell them of my great grief at the harm which
one of my blood has done to them, will you not? See them?
oh no! I only wish to take away my boy. Are there any
obstacles to that?—any legal forms still to be complied
with?”

“None. The inquest has been held. I will bring the
coroner to you after a while, if you wish it.”

“If you please,” he said, with that regal amenity of his, so
dignified and mild under all his grief; so habitual, so instinctive
with him that no grief could overpower it for a moment.
Doubtless he did not even know what gentle words he used,
and what kind look he bore.

I led him to the darkened parlor and pointed within, but
did not follow him; for who would have dared intrude on
that meeting between the old man and his son?

He is one of nature's noblemen, I said to myself as I
walked and waited in the garden. I had never seen him
before, and our interview had not lasted ten minutes, yet I
felt as if I had known him for years. It was partly his calm,
sweet courtesy, so like in seeming to deep friendliness, which
wrought this sense of intimacy, and partly that I had been
forced to utter words which reached into the most hidden,
most solemn depths of his soul. I revered and loved him
already, as a good man striving to bear meekly an unmerited
affliction. How like he was to his son! and yet as unlike as
light to darkness; like him in exquisite grace and urbanity,
like him in the natural gift of a noble person and port; yet
in heart and life an utter, astonishing contrast. I am not
talking at random when I speak thus of the character of the
elder Somerville. Let his friends and neighbors, let the poor
whom he succored, let those many who wept when he died,
bear witness to what he was worth. His whole life after he
reached the age of manhood, after he came into possession of
the vast social influence attendant on wealth, was in shining
contrariety to the life of his unhappy son. Frank's history
but shows that money, an attractive person, and fascinating
manners, without unflinching moral principle, form only an
inheritance of temptation. It is the old old story, always disagreeable
to hear, and always true. We love rather to be
told of the dignity of humanity, of its invincibility, its godlike
intelligence; and to believe that man could drive the very

chariot of Omnipotence, without, Acteon like, precipitating
himself to ruin.

I believe that Somerville, senior, did his best to make
Frank a worthy man, and to reclaim him after he had wandered
into vice. His generosity was abused, his authority set
at naught, his entreaties and monitions derided, his family
name stained with debaucheries, and still he continued full
of affectionate long-sufferance. It was not until Frank became
a destroyer of innocence that he warned him for the
last time, and then disinherited him. He would neither support
nor own a son who was the enemy of womanly virtue.
Yet his soul still went out after him with anxiety and yearning,
as I had seen plainly in that moment when he learned
the extinction of his hopes, the eternal bereavement of his
heart. Perhaps he thought now that he had been too hard,
and that forgiveness would have been a stronger saviour than
justice. Such a feeling was instinctive and almost irrepressible.
But just? Who can sound such a mystery? The
human nature partakes of infinity, and one heart is not like
another. For my part I believe that, no matter how the
younger Somerville had been treated, he would have continued
the same. He was one of those intelligent misdoers
who choose the broad road with a full consciousness of its
evil; one of those splendid sinners who shine and dazzle like
fallen seraphs as they move through the blackness of darkness;
and for such there is rarely passion of repentance, resolution
of saintly change, redeeming persistence in goodness.

When Mr. Somerville came out to me, he was sad in face
but tranquil in voice and manner.

“Will you present me now to the coroner?” he asked.
“It will be proper that I should hear the story from him.”

I led him into the library, where I had already seated Mr.
Capers, and left them together. In half an hour he sought
me out again, and signified that he should return immediately
to Rockford to make preparations for carrying his son's body
home.

“You may think it strange that no one came with me,” he
said. “I have only a daughter left, and she is now abroad.”

No other son! The last of the name! The heart knoweth
its own bitterness; but how can it understand the bitterness
of another?

I offered no reply except to beg that he would let me
attend to the arrangements at Rockford. He thanked me,
but declined, and, touching his hat, hastened back to his
carriage. In an hour he reappeared, followed by a hearse
containing a coffin, which he had found ready made in the
shop of the Rockford undertaker. The Van Leers and I
laid Somerville in the narrow case and lifted it into the hearse.
He was dressed in his ordinary morning suit, his white hands
folded across his full chest, and his face wonderfully handsome
still, though the clear eyes were closed and the healthy
cheeks faded. We removed our hats, almost unconsciously,
for the mystery of death, no matter in whom incarnated, has
a venerable sanctity.

The bereaved father seemed affected by this conduct in
men, who, as he well knew, had reason to curse the name of
Somerville. “Gentlemen, you are very kind,” said he. “I
thank you, and hope we shall meet again. There is a better
world than this. God bless you!”

Henry Van Leer looked very serious, and there was a
dimness in Robert's eyes.

“What a good old man!” said the latter, when the hearse
had passed beyond the gate. “Oh, Fitz Hugh! what a
different place Seacliff would have been, if Somerville had
been as good as his father!”

“Yes, indeed, Robert! By one man's sin death entered
Seacliff, and all manner of shame and sorrow. But for
Frank Somerville it might have been a quiet home, with no
more of the troubles, and with more, perhaps, of the pleasures,
than ordinarily flock around an American household.
How he had turned weakness into wickedness, and made
innocence miserable! What deceiving mists of hateful suspicions,

what shattering, though invisible winds of rage and
terror, what a cruel reality of unconcealable mischief, had
his presence occasioned! When we thought of what he had
done to torment us, who had never harmed him, it seemed as
if he could hardly be human. Once more I recollected
Dante's tale of Branca Doria, and of the demon who inhabited
his body and bore his name and wore his clothes,
working mischief on earth in his stead, for long after the
human spirit of Doria had gone to his own place.

But he had departed now, body and spirit; and it seemed
as if the light shone freer through our windows. He had not
done all the mischief that he intended; he had not sundered
two hearts that Love had joined together; he had the will
for it and perhaps the cunning, but not the time. That
evening, finding myself by chance alone in the parlor with
Mary, I unreflectingly broke out with an exclamation of
pleasure that that terrible corpse had taken its shadow off our
floor. “It seemed to gloom the whole house,” I said; “it
filled it with a sense of crime as distinct as the smell of
blood;—I felt as if it were perpetually interposing between
me and you. And yet it does not.”

“It does,” she replied. “It is between us. Mr. Fitz
Hugh, you must give me up now. Did I not tell you so?
You may do it, and you must.”

“I will wait, Mary,” said I; “but not give you up.”