University of Virginia Library

33. Chapter XXXIII.
The Poison-Phial.

WEAK and suffering in body and mind, Mordecai
Kolephat lay upon his bed, and Rebecca sat beside
him, watching with strange earnestness his quivering eyelids,
as they sought uncertain repose. Her own eyes were
inflamed, for she had been weeping during the hours of
her uncle's absence, and her cheeks were pale as the lace
upon her bosom, beneath which one small hand was
thrust, perhaps to still the quck beating of her heart,
perhaps to feel always the tiny phial, Richmond's gift, in
which sparkled those deadly drops that she had promised
her lover to dispense ere morning's light. Was it fear
that, as yet, restrained her hand?—that had made her
falter when, with her uncle's return, the opportunity came
to mingle the potion with a draught which his fevered
lips had eagerly accepted? Was it irresolution, now,
that caused her hesitation, as the medicine which he must
soon drink stood upon a table within her reach, and with
a turn of her small hand she might let fall a drop of the
phial's contents—to do its work when she had gone to
her chamber? Whatever it might be that checked her

purpose, Rebecca still paused—still shaded her brow with
one white palm, and gazed upon the aged face of her
uncle—that face which, however harsh to others, wore
ever a smile for her. Often had she felt those hard lips
press her orphaned brow, and linger on her lips, when, as
a child, she first recalled them. The old man's countenance
was now ashy pale—the lines sharp and repulsive;
but, nevertheless, there was still about them the old look,
remembered well, and she shuddered in meditating the
deed that she must do.

Must do? Yes! for had not her promise been given
to Richmond, her lover, that the lost child should not
come between their love and fortune? To-night her
uncle had beheld that child—where, how, she knew not;
but her woman's jealousy told her that Mordecai Kolephat
had gone forth with Ferret for no purpose save one,
and that, whithersoever he had been led, he had looked
upon the one who claimed to be his daughter. The
thought was madness to Rebecca's wild nature; she
closed her white teeth together, drew her hand from her
bosom, clasping the poison-phial, and, rising, moved towards
the table. In another moment, the deadly liquid
had been conveyed to a cup of anodyne medicine of which
Kolephat was accustomed to sip at intervals during a
restless night, and Rebecca resumed her place beside the
bed. As she did so, her uncle opened his eyes.

“My child,” he said, kindly, “do not remain—retire to
your room. I shall sleep very soon.”

“Sleep,” repeated Rebecca, mechanically echoing the
old man's words—“very soon!”

“Yes, my child!—do not sit up longer. I have much to
say to you, to-morrow, Rebecca—and we both need rest.”

“Yes, uncle!” Rebecca answered, scarcely knowing
what she uttered; for a fearful conflict was agitating her
mind. She trembled violently, her face became pallid, her
breath grew stifled.

“Stay, Rebecca—before you go, give me the anodyne
draught,” said Kolephat, not noticing the girl's excitement.
“Then, my child, I'll not trouble you again.”

Rebecca rose, and tottered towards the table. A fire
seemed to burn in her brain—a thousand discordant
sounds rang in her ears. She strove in vain to collect
her thoughts—to master her emotion; only one blurred
object swam before her vision—the countenance of Richmond,
dark and frowning, as if chiding her delay. She
clung to the table, and looked around upon the old man,
who had sunk back, with closed eyes, unobservant of her
excitement. His features were calm—his breast nourished
no suspicion of her treachery. Rebecca could not bear to
look at him, but, with a groan, sank suddenly upon her
knees, her head supported by the table which she had
clasped.

“Rebecca—what ails you, my child? Are you ill?”

The Hebrew's voice trembled, as he spoke, and he
raised himself from the pillow. His niece recovered herself,
abruptly turning, with a distorted smile, toward him.

“I was faint, uncle—for a moment!” she said.

“My child, you are wearied. Give me the anodyne,
and—good-night.”

Rebecca raised the poisoned cup, but in that instant

her good angel interposed to stay the accomplishment of
that which she had contemplated. The luring face of
Charles Richmond, that had swam before her love-sick
vision with well-nigh fatal witchery, vanished for a moment
from her memory, and in its place appeared alone
the form of Mordecai Kolephat, her uncle, her protector,
swollen and disfigured—murdered by one whom he had
ever cherished. The terrible shape seemed to be outstretched
between herself and the bed whereon the old
man reclined—a phantom barrier to her design. She
raised her hands in horror at the sight, and the poisoned
anodyne fell from her relaxed fingers, the cup that held it
dashed to fragments upon the carpet.

Kolephat, alarmed at the wild expression which he had
marked upon Rebecca's features, was still more startled at
the sudden fall of the vessel from her hands; he called
upon her, feebly, stretching forth his clasp; but she
replied not. Overpowered by the fierce conflict that had
raged within her bosom, she sank upon the floor, exhausted.
Her uncle grasped the bell-cord at his bedside,
ringing long and violently, till a brace of servants
appeared. In a moment afterwards, a peal sounded from
the outer door-bell, announcing some visitor to the house.

“Help her!” cried the old man, as the attendants
entered. “See what ails my child! Quick, Sarah!” he
continued, to the woman, who had already knelt, and
raised Rebecca in her arms. “Look to your mistress—
she was never thus before.”

The maid, assisted by her fellow-servant, lifted the
young girl from the floor, discovering her pallid cheeks

and closed eyes. A few crimson drops stained her neck,
flowing from a cut upon the white shoulder.

“Father Abraham!” exclaimed Kolephat, as he beheld
this. “What blood is that?”

“Here is broken glass! She has cut herself, in falling!”
said Sarah. “Poor, dear child! What could
have been the matter with her? Her dress is loose!”

“Take her at once to her chamber,” cried Mordecai.
“I fear something serious has happened to her. Make
haste, I say—make haste!”

The old man waved his hand, impatiently, and sank
back, exhausted, while Sarah and her assistant prepared
to bear Rebecca from her uncle's apartment to her own,
which was contiguous. As they sustained her in their
arms, the footman presented himself at the door, with a
message for Mr. Kolephat.

“Speak! what is it!” said the Hebrew. “Who comes
at this late hour?”

The servant handed Kolephat a case of ivory tablets,
on a leaf of which was written, in a cramped hand—

“Charles.”

“What does this mean? Who sends me this?” asked
the old man, with a wondering look. “Who is dying?
who is this Charles, who” —

He paused, for the eyes of his niece had opened and
were fixed upon him, while she essayed, brokenly, to
speak.

“Give me—give me!” she gasped, extending her hand
towards the tablets.

“Rebecca!—my child! what means all this?” murmured
Kolephat, as Sarah, in obedience to Rebecca's
motions, received the ivory from his trembling grasp, and
passed it to her mistress.

Perplexed and astonished, indeed, might the old man
be; for strength seemed suddenly to be restored to his
niece, who stood, without support, holding the tablets
before her fixed eyes, while her cheek became flushed
again, and her breast throbbed audibly.

“Dying!” she cried, in a hoarse whisper—“Charles
dying?—too late! Oh, no!—oh, no!” She pressed the
ivory to her forehead, as if to compress her thoughts,
and rushed to the footman, who stood upon the threshold.
“Whence came this?” she demanded, vehemently; “who
brought these false tablets?”

“There is—a colored man—in the hall,” stammered
the servant, frightened at the unusual demeanor of his
young mistress. “He said the person that sent the message
was dying from a stab.”

Rebecca hardly heard the last words. She had darted
past the footman, and descending the broad staircase,
reached the hall, where stood the negro Samson, who, to
her incoherent questions, could give no reply, save the
one terrible response—that Charles Richmond was, as
they feared, wounded unto death.

“Take me to him! do you hear?—take me to him!”
cried the wretched girl. “He must not die! I say, he
shall not die!”

Samson's honest face gleamed with sympathy for the
evident suffering of the impulsive creature before him,
though he marvelled much as to the relationship which
she could bear to the wounded man, whose wife had been
summoned likewise to his dying bed. Nevertheless, to
Rebecca's repeated entreaties, he replied as kindly as his
feeling nature prompted—

“It is cold and stormy in the street,” he said. “But
he could find a carriage for the lady.”

“No—I cannot wait! Let me go with you at once.
Take me to Mr. Richmond!” She grasped the negro's
hand, in her increasing tremor.

“Rebecca! my child!” The feeble voice of Mordecai
Kolephat called to her from the head of the staircase.
Already alarmed at her sudden flight, he had risen from
his bed, and, supported by the footman, came painfully
forth. “Rebecca!” he repeated, “in God's name, tell
me what ails you this night?” He slowly descended the
stairs, till he stood beside his niece.

“Do not ask me, uncle!” cried the frenzied maiden.
“I must go—for they have murdered him! I tell you they
have murdered him. Come!” she said, in a thrilling whisper,
to Samson, “let us go at once!—at once, I say!”

It was evident that the miserable child's reason wandered;
her eyes were unnaturally bright and dilated;
her cheeks burned with a strange hectic. In truth, the
conflict that had shaken her soul upon this fated evening
—the intense alternations of temptation, horror, remorse,
and fear, added to the sudden revelation of Richmond's
situation—had been too violent in their action upon her

passionate temperament. Her uncle felt that her brain
was now disordered, and he essayed, with gentle words,
to recall her to calmness; but she only clung with closer
clasp to Samson's arm, redoubling her prayers, and silent
only while, in answer to the Hebrew's inquiries, the negro
briefly recounted the scene at his master's house.

“There is some strange mystery here,” said Mordecai
Kolephat, “for my poor child's mind is entirely distracted.
Let a carriage be sent for,” he continued, addressing the
footman. “I cannot rest to-night, till I learn more of
this.”

Saying this, the Hebrew, ill and weak though he was,
summoned his customary will, to overcome all obstacles,
and prepared to accompany Samson and Rebecca to the
house of Mr. Granby, where lay, awaiting death, the
wretched man who would have been his murderer.