University of Virginia Library

30. Chapter XXX.
The Tempter.

MR. MORDECAI KOLEPHAT was confined to his
chamber; anxiety of mind preyed upon his bodily
faculties, reducing to weakness the vigorous system that
had withstood the trials of a lengthened life. He had
been very ill, during many weeks, and was now with difficulty
convalescing; for the recollection of the rag-picker's
revelation was constantly present, harrowing his thoughts
by night and day. He was alone; his usual attendant,
Rebecca, having descended to the parlor, to see—Miriam
Wolff.

It was, indeed, her “Miriam Wolff;” for Richmond had
called to speak with her upon an important matter. He
had visited the heiress often, during Kolephat's seclusion
up stairs, and the young girl had become accustomed to
these clandestine interviews; but this evening he had
news to tell her—he had discovered the lost child, from
whose restoration they had so much to fear.

“Is she beautiful?” was Rebecca's question, when, in a
few rapid words, Richmond had related his interview with
Mr. Jobson, and subsequent sight of Ninetta. The lover

answered carelessly that she was a pretty child, and then
said, in a more earnest manner—

“Rebecca, there is no doubt of this girl's identity!
She possesses all your family traits, and, once seen by
your uncle, she will be received as his child. What is to
be done?”

“Dear Charles! why do you look at me so strangely?”
asked Miriam, her eyes drooping beneath the singular
gaze which Richmond bestowed upon her.

“Because—I would have you answer me. How is this
foundling to be prevented from usurping your place—how
are you to escape—beggary?”

The last word was spoken with a bitterness that made
the young girl start, and exclaim—

“Oh Charles! do not talk so wildly. Tell me—what
can I do? I am dependent on my uncle! I have no one
else but you, dearest—in all the world.”

“Pshaw! you care not for me!” exclaimed the man,
abruptly, withdrawing his hand, which Rebecca had held
within her own.

“Charles!—dear Charles! you know that I love you!
Oh! how devotedly!” She burst into tears, and bowed
her head upon his shoulder.

“And you will permit this—dancing-girl—to come
between yourself and fortune!—you, who are used to
luxury” —

“But you are rich, Charles!”

This was said with great simplicity, and it revealed, at
once, the entire confidence which the fair girl reposed in
the being whose blandishments had won her heart, and

whom she believed loved her with the same devotedness
that she herself felt—a devotedness that was content to
wait, through patient years, until the period when he
should be free to call her his wife—a trust which invested
all his wishes with the sanctity of love to guide her
actions.

“I may or may not be rich,” answered Richmond, evasively.
“Speculations in business may make the millionaire
a bankrupt in a day.”

“But you are not” —

“No matter what I am, Rebecca,” replied the lover.
“You have it in your power to make me—both of us—
happy—perhaps rescue me from ruin! Yet you hesitate
—you care not” —

“Charles!” murmured Rebecca, sadly. “Do not say I
care not. What—O tell me—what can I do!”

Richmond passed his arm about the girl's waist, and
drew her close to him, as they sat upon the sofa. He
bent down and whispered in her ear—

“Your uncle has been very ill—his life was thought to
be in danger.”

“But he is now recovering,” said Rebecca.

“It is—not—necessary—that he—should—recover!”
continued Richmond, speaking very deliberately. “It
would be better for us if he should not.”

He paused, but Rebecca remained silent, though he
could feel her heart heave and her frame tremble, as
though, with woman's quick perceptions, she already
understood him.

“Should he die now, it would be considered a relapse.

Should he die at once, this—dancing-girl—will never be
brought to the house. He will never see her, and you
will be his heiress. Is it not so, dearest?”

Richmond bent his lips to those of Rebecca, and she
raised her eyes, fixing them intently on his face; but yet
replied not.

“Do you not hear me, love?” whispered the tempter.

“Yes—yes,” murmured the girl.

“Your uncle is old—he has outlived enjoyment, Rebecca.”

“Yes, dear,” answered the Jewess, abstractedly. “He
is old.”

“You comprehend, dearest! Look at this!” Richmond
drew from his vest pocket a diminutive phial, filled with a
colorless liquid. “Rebecca,” he said, “a single drop of
this transparent oil will bring eternal sleep, and leave no
trace. Will you do with it as I shall direct?”

Rebecca answered not. Her eyes, which had been
fixed upon her lover's face, closed suddenly, and her
frame grew heavy, as it leaned against him. She had
sunk into a swoon, overpowered by the words to which
she had listened.

“Maledictions!” muttered Richmond, his forehead corrugating
gloomily, as he raised the young girl's head, and
saw that her countenance was pale as alabaster. “A
soft-hearted fool!” He hastily concealed the phial, and
then essayed to restore the Jewess to animation; but
some minutes elapsed before—under the influence of his
mocking caresses—the poor girl's eyes again opened, to
dwell at once upon his face. As her lips moved to speak,

an abrupt ringing of the hall-door bell announced a
visitor, and presently, at the servant's response, a man's
voice was heard in the vestibule. Rebecca started, and
exclaimed—

“It is Mr. Ferret!”

“Ferret!” muttered Richmond, as the new-comer's footsteps
were heard ascending the stairs to Mr. Kolephat's
chamber. “He comes, then, to inform your uncle that he
has found his long-lost child. Rebecca! do you hear
me?—to bring this beggar-minx!”

“Oh! Charles! dearest Charles! what shall I do?”

She clasped her hands, and raised her glance appealingly
to the face of him she loved so fervently.

“Obey me!” answered the man, in a meaning tone.
“There is no time to lose! A drop of this potion in
your uncle's medicine will never be detected, and to-morrow
we shall have nothing to fear!”

“Charles! I would lose my soul for you!”

“Hush, dearest! what is a year or two in an old man's
life? He will rest, and we shall be happy! You will
do it.”

“Ah! do you love me, Charles?”

“As my life, dearest.”

He bent over the maiden, whose face was white as
marble, and placed the phial in her hand. Her fingers
mechanically clasped it, but trembled violently.

“Courage, dearest! It is for our happiness!”

Rebecca rose from the sofa, and stood before her lover.

“Charles!” she exclaimed, solemnly, “will you swear
to love me always, if I do—this act?”

“How can I do otherwise, sweet? You will be mine
own one, love, by every tie.”

“You will swear it, Charles?”

“I will swear it!”

“God forgive me!” cried the wretched girl. “I will
obey you!”

She sank forward, as she spoke, and threw her arms
about her tempter's neck. Richmond smiled triumphantly,
as her face was hidden on his breast; but he kissed her
cold forehead, and said—

“You are my own Rebecca!”

A few moments more and the gamester parted from the
Jewess, at the door of the old man whose death he had
schemed, and hurried along the street, enveloped in a
heavy mantle. As he walked, he muttered—

“The Jew will go to-night, and then—Helen only
stands between me and fortune! It is full time! for ruin
is almost at my back! Fond fool! her wealth will all
be mine!”

Fond fool! Could the cruel Richmond have looked
back to Kolephat's parlor, after he had departed, he
would have beheld Rebecca lying prone upon the floor,
her hair dishevelled, her small hands pressed tightly on
her bosom, where was hidden the phial of poison. Torn
with terrible emotions, in which every impulse of right
struggled with the temptings of wrong, while her mad
passion for Richmond mingled in all, the wretched maiden
suffered pangs unutterable, perished a thousand deaths,
while meditating one. But still she cried, as though
impelled by direful fate—

“I must perform his wish! I dare not disobey him!”

Meantime, Peleg Ferret, closeted with the broker, had
revealed to him the important intelligence that traces of
the lost child were gained. Kolephat's withered features
brightened, as he listened. Extending his hand, he drew
from beneath the bed on which he lay a small box, and
directed Ferret to open it.

“It is what we sought at the money-lender's,” he said,
“recovered yesterday, and sent to me.”

The agent looked, and saw a jet clasp, diamond-shaped,
and of no great value. Its inside surface was corroded
by rust, and the enamel much defaced; but Kolephat,
shading his eyes, said—

“It was hers—the babe's trinket. You were right,
Ferret. It clasped the girdle of my child.”

“Then that foreign jade knows all about it, depend
on't,” cried Peleg Ferret. “She must be found by hook
or crook, and obleeged to make her affidavy. That's the
way to do it.”

“But the child!—I must see her, Ferret. God help
me! there is something tells me I shall recognize her at
once! Ferret! this theatre of which you speak! can
she not be found there? It is night already.”

“Well, I presume!—Certingly—shouldn't wonder!”
said the agent, hesitatingly, doubtful whether he should
not procrastinate longer, in order to give his services a
higher value. “But—you are sick, and couldn't go
out.” —

“I am not sick! I am well!” exclaimed the old man,
vehemently. “Ferret! I will go with you—to-night—to

that place, and satisfy myself, at once! My presentiment,
I feel, will not mislead me; and I can no longer endure
the agony of suspense. Go you, immediately, and order
a carriage. Ring yonder bell!”

Kolephat spoke in the tone which Ferret knew was
customary to him when determined to be obeyed; so,
without another word, he summoned a servant, whom the
Jew dispatched at once for his niece; and the agent then
descended to procure a coach.

Rebecca faltered beneath her uncle's gaze, as he informed
her, in a few words, that he was about to ride out
with Ferret. Her heart smote her, as she saw the old
man's eyes luminous with an expression that her quick intuition
divined to be the anticipation of regaining his lost
child; but, in the same moment, she thought of Richmond,
and of the rival who was to usurp her place in
Kolephat's heart and fortune. She felt, too, the phial
of poison, lying cold, like a snake, upon her bosom.

“I shall return shortly, dear Rebecca!” said the uncle,
when, after being wrapped closely in his outer garments,
he extended his hand. His voice seemed more tender than
usual, as if he even regretted that his niece must soon be
secondary in his favor—so the girl's jealous thought interpreted
its accents; but she answered only that she should
await him.

Await him! with the fatal gift of her felon lover nestling
close to her heart—await him! through the hours of
his absence, contemplating that which she was to do!
Oh! wretched Rebecca!

The carriage in which the agent and his employer sat

rolled rapidly through the streets, till it reached the
shabby but densely populated locality where was situated
the establishment—half theatre and half drinking-house
—which, dignified by some classic name, and fronted with
glaring transparencies, indicating its interior uses, attracted
nightly a motley audience, to witness grotesque
caricatures of sculptured gods and goddesses, illusions of
various colored fire, dancing by scantily draped coryphees,
and such other entertainment as could be afforded at the
very low price charged for admission to the whole. The
performance had just commenced when the new visitors
were ushered into the close atmosphere of an ill-ventilated
room, in which two or three hundred amusement-seekers
were congregated; but Ferret found no difficulty in procuring
seats for himself and companion. Presently, the
curtain rose, and the curious eyes of the audience were
directed to the stage, whereon a pile of male and female
posturers were disposed in singular attitudes, and with
painful contortions of limbs, representing, as was affirmed,
some mythic scenes, which revolved, very obligingly, upon
a circular platform, thus allowing appreciating spectators
to view the interesting exhibition from every point, as it
were, of the dramatic compass. Mr. Kolephat looked on,
but seemed neither to understand nor appreciate.

Another spectacle with entangled groups, and slow
revolutions, succeeded the first; and then another, and
another; after which, performers with blackened faces
sang buffo songs, thumbed banjos, and rattled castanets;
these, in turn, were followed by a muscular man, who bent
bars of iron and balanced plates and chairs; and then,

with a great scraping of fiddle bows, and amid loud cries
from the audience, there bounded suddenly upon the
boards a beautiful figure, which Ferret at once recognized
as the dancing-girl whom he had seen at Monna Maria's.

It was evident that Mordecai Kolephat likewise recognized
in that fair form—that eloquent face—something
which recalled the past in vivid distinctness. The old
man's eyes became riveted upon the graceful creature,
tracing her light steps, following her swaying motion,
until all other objects swam indolently before him—then
faded from his gaze—and he saw but the one vision,
soaring in the luminous air—saw but that one smiling,
angel face, with its clusters of dark hair, its large, radiant
eyes fascinating his own.

A clash of applause shook the slight walls of the building,
as the execution of some difficult pose called forth the
admiration of the motley spectators; but Mordecai Kolephat
heard it not. His hands were lifted nervously, and
outstretched, as though he would rush forward to the
child; his lips parted, disclosing the teeth set rigidly
together. But, as he gazed, suddenly all became vague
before him; for Ninetta, concluding her dance, had disappeared
from the stage. Mordecai half arose, uttered a
sharp cry, and then, overcome by his emotion, sank back
feebly into Ferret's arms, whilst the tumult of an encore
resounded through the theatre. Little notice was taken,
during the next few minutes, of aught save another dance,
and thus the agent experienced no trouble in assisting his
employer to the open air, which was now chill and raw, a
drizzly rain commencing to fall, and wrapping all the streets

in misty gloom. Mr. Kolephat speedily revived, with the
change of atmosphere, but his bewildered mind could
only recall one image. “My child—my long-lost child!”
he cried, piteously. “Take me to her, Ferret! Let me
embrace the child of mine age!”

Ferret endeavored to calm his employer's agitation,
representing that, as they knew the dwelling-place of the
girl Ninetta, there would be ample time to visit her.
But the old man, yielding only to the new impulse which
controlled him, demanded to be at once conducted to that
portion of the theatre appropriated to the performers, and
Ferret, ascertaining the entrance thither, proceeded to
lead the way. Mordecai had drawn from his pocket the
small jet buckle—relic so long hidden in the dust of a
pawnbroker's shelf—and pressing it to his lips, again
and again, was murmuring prayers in which the name of
his deceased wife mingled with that of their lost infant.
Thus, clinging to his agent's arm, the Hebrew penetrated
to the shabby recesses at the theatre's rear, where a
couple of roughly-partitioned boxes constituted the private
dressing-rooms of a dozen “artists” of the establishment.
Arrived here, they sought the youthful danseuse,
whose light footsteps seemed yet echoed on the stage, but,
to Kolephat's dismay, she was nowhere to be found. In
vain they questioned the stolid-looking master of the
show, or his dwarfish assistant. These only knew that
Mademoiselle Ninetta had gone, with the Maestro Freidrich
and the Madame. They had hurried away.

Disappointed and reluctant, Mordecai Kolephat turned
from the theatre, and, calling a coach, ordered it to be

driven to the locality called Foley's Barracks, in which, as
Ferret had that day learned, the child Ninetta dwelt with
her patrons. The agent took upon himself to ascend to
the room occupied by Maestro Freidrich, and there found
that individual, with his “madame;” but the child, they
said, had not returned with them; she was, that night, to
go home with her god-mother—with Monna Maria.

Ferret endeavored to ascertain the dwelling-place of
Monna Maria, but neither the posturer nor his wife could
return a satisfactory answer. “Monna Maria,” they said,
“lived in another tenant-house. Ninetta was accustomed
to go home with her. She would be at the Barracks next
day.” This was all that could be gleaned by Peleg
Ferret; so he returned to Mordecai Kolephat, in the
carriage, chagrined at his want of success, and yet determined
to turn the delay and disappointment to his own
advantage.

Dark and dismal was the night, and very melancholy
the drift of rain upon the pavement sounded to the old
Hebrew's ears, as he awaited, in the coach, before Foley's
Barracks, the return of Ferret from above. The scene he
had witnessed at the theatre—the fleeting vision that had
gleamed in his eyes, of the child whom his heart recognized
as flesh of his flesh and blood of his blood—shone
still before his straining gaze, chasing the gloom that
surrounded him. His heart grew soft, and tears bedewed
his cheeks, as he fancied the arms of that beautiful one
about his neck, and those red lips parting to salute him
with the long-hushed name of “Father!” But Ferret
came, with chilling words, to tell that Ninetta was not

within the house, and Mordecai Kolephat sank back
upon the carriage cushions, a desolate old man. The
excitement which had upheld him gave way to dejection,
and he replied no more to the agent's attempted consolation,
but, burying his face in his hands, bowed himself in
sorrowful reflection. It was only when, arrived at his
own door, and assisted to its threshold, he turned to bid
good-night to Ferret, that, with broken voice, he murmured—“Bring
her to me, to-morrow!—bring hither my
child, Ferret—or it will be too late—too late!” Then,
assisted by a servant, and followed by his niece Rebecca,
who had overheard his parting words, the Hebrew ascended,
slowly and painfully, to his chamber. Fever
burned in his brain, the effect of the late powerful excitement
he had experienced; but in his bosom lay a heavy
coldness. He had seen his child—the daughter of his
age; but was she not worse, far worse, even, than a child
of the streets? was she not a castaway of the footlights—
an outcast of the theatre?