University of Virginia Library

14. CHAPTER XIV.

And before the day had passed I had
made up my mind as to my future,—remember,
I am not writing a novel, but
the plain, may be, humiliating story of a
real life. I had resolved to marry the
Hon. Mrs. De. Wolf. Without money I
could not protect Eva; my father was
bankrupt, and the thought of the manner
in which Eva had been sold, had destroyed
not only the freshness of my principles,
but also of my nice sense of honor.
I found myself compelled to look at the
world, as a game, as a battle whose first
word and whose last was “MONEY!”

I consented to marry the widow. My
prominent object, to possess Eva at all
hazards, and keep her as my true wife,
sacred, secret, and apart from the world;
I married the widow, in order to obtain
possession of her fortune. This was
base, it will be said; but look at the examples
which I had around me, in high
life; look at my father, deliberately selling
my betrothed wife into the arms of
avarice and lust!

I wish to spare myself, as far as possible,
a recital of the details of the disgusting
mockery of my marriage. It took
place in the mansion of Mrs. De Wolf;
an aristocratic structure, furnished in
oriental splendor. There was a marriage
party and throngs of guests—the rich,
the fashionable of New-York. How I
was envied! The husband of the rich
widow, that is, the absolute possessor of
half a million dollars! And then the
bridal chamber, carpeted with the product
of oriental looms, and lined with
hangings of light crimson satin,—everything
in it spoke of the immense wealth
of my wife! The bridal bed with satin
coverlet and a canopy whose folds resembled
clouds of floating mist, seemed
worthy of the holiest nuptials. Across
the threshold of this chamber, as the
sound of music and dancing was heard
in the hall below, I led the trembling
widow,—fair as the witch of Endor,
modest as Messalina. Hag! Would
that I had strangled her on the threshhold!

For two or three days after our marriage,
her mansion, (now mine,) resounded
with the echoes of one continued
orgie, in which the light of day or the
flaring gas, shone upon the faces of our
guests, as they sat at dinner, or joined in

the dance, or drank deep of the rich
wines from our cellar. What a page of
“the high life” in New-York was opened
to me! Wealth, and beauty and fashion,
were around me—this was the surface
only—looking beneath the tinsel veil of
the gay world, I beheld unmarried damsels
of great beauty and wealth, who
were virgins, in the same sense as the
poor wretch of the side-walk; married
women, of wealth and beauty, too, who
had made a science of adultery; husbands,
who saw their own dishonor and winked
at it; and libertines, who, clad with wealth,
came from the brothel to haunts of “topmost
fashion” to gratify their appetites.
A very glittering and very loathsome
world.

The fourth day after our marriage,
having managed to escape from the loathsome
caresses of my “lady-wife,” I was
sitting alone in a distant room of our
mansion, which had been fitted up as a
library. My hands were in my pockets,
my feet on the fender, my eyes centered
on the fire—I was in a brown study.
My father entered; it was the first time
I had met him alone since the marriage.

Dressed in the extreme of fashion, he
seated himself by me, and slapped me on
the shoulder; “happy dog!” said he,—
“married, settled in life, a capital of half
a million—interest, $30,000 per year.”

“Happy dog!” I echoed.

“By the bye, Frank, I forgot to ask
you the particulars of your visit to that
tenant, on the night of your arrival. I
wished to cure you of your passion for
little Eva. And knowing that the dear
little girl had besought Walmer to permit
her to spend the latter part of the
wedding-day, and the first hours of the
bridal evening, at her mother's house,
I dispatched you there, so as you might
see her, before Walmer came to take her
home. Did you see her?”

“I saw Eva.”

“Didn't you encounter Walmer?”

“I did not. While sitting alone with
Eva, a note came from Mr. Walmer,
stating that he had been obliged, by important
business, to leave for Havana
that very afternoon.”

“The devil!” cried my father. “This
is indeed odd!”

“He will be back in four or five weeks.”

“And Eva, meanwhile, takes possession
of his mansion, eh? of course.”

“Eva remains with her mother” I replied
calmly, still keeping my feet on the
fender.

“But, why not go at once to her husband's
mansion?” said my father. For
the first time in this interview, I turned
and looked my father in the face. Certainly,
with his portly form, elegant
blue coat with metal buttons, spotless
ruffles, florid face, and white hair, he was
a well-preserved `old man of the world.'
As he looked at me with his eye-glass
raised, I steadily returned his glance,
and said calmly:

“Best of fathers! In everything
hitherto you have had your own way.
You married Eva to money, and you
have married your own son also to money.
You have had your own way hitherto;
allow me now to have mine. Eva
has not gone to Mr. Walmer's mansion,
because she never intends to go there.
Eva is to all purposes my wife, my only
wife. And the wealth which I have
gained by my bargain with the madam,
I will devote to the comfort of Eva, and
especially to keeping her out of the reach
of Mr. Walmer. And, best of fathers!
make up your mind, at once, that you
had better put your head among the
live coals in that grate, than to attempt
to cross me.” So saying, I took a cigar
from the mantel and lighted it.

My father did not grow pale, but his
face became spotted. He was speechless.

“But,” said he at last, choking with
rage, “suppose I inform your wife, the
late Mrs. De Wolf, of all this?”

“As you please, father,” said I, smoking
away. “Only remember, that such
information will be considered by me in
the light of a declaration of war.”

My father seized his hat and rushed
from the room.

As for me, dressing myself in a plain
drab overcoat, and pulling a cap over
my brows, I went stealthily from my
big mansion, called a hack, and ordered
the hackman to drive to the house near
the avenue. I arrived there after dark.
The place was lonely, and the sky, covered
with leaden clouds, gave an uncertain
light to the surrounding space. I
rang the bell. It was Eva herself who
answered it; Eva, dressed in the same
dress of plain white, with her rich brown
hair, disposed in thick masses about her

face. Without a word she took my hand,
and led me into the back parlor. It had
been a week since I saw her last.

She raised her beaming eyes and radiant
face to me. “O Frank, I am so glad
to see you!” she said, and placed her
head against my breast. Certainly, I
loved with that mingling of the intensely
pure and the intensely passionate, which
makes up the affection with which we
regard an adored and yet respected wife.
I took her on my knee, laid her cheek
to mine, threaded my fingers through
her hair—in short, committed all those
follies which are only follies when written
or told again. Supremely happy in
her presence, in the light of her eyes, I
forgot the world—my dear father and
hag-wife included.

“And your mother, Eva?”

“She has never been well since the
day of father's death, and has not slept
for many nights. An hour ago, she sank
into the first sleep which she has had
for days and nights.”

Hardly had the words passed from her
lips when a cry, short and piercing, resounded
through the house. To follow
Eva from the room, to ascend the narrow
stairs, to pass with her into the sick
chamber, was all the work of a few instants.
Never shall I forget that scene!
The sick woman, clad in her nightclothes,
sat up in her couch, her eyes
flaming with delirium. Her cheeks
were hollowed; her black hair, streaked
with gray, fell over her bared shoulders.
At a glance, I saw that she was struggling
in the last agony.

“Eva! Frank!” she cried. We darted
forward,—she looked at us long and
anxiously—and then, joining our hands,
seemed about to speak, when her face
changed and her eyes became fixed and
glassy. She was dead even as she sat
up in the couch. Her last act had been
to join our hands; her last look was
cast upon our faces. * * I remained
with Eva until after midnight, and then,
consigning her to the care of the servant
(a rough but kind-hearted Irish-woman),
I returned home.

Said my “lady-wife” as we sat next
morning at breakfast—“You were not
at the opera last night, dearest?”

To which I replied, simply, “Dearest,
I was not.” My lady-wife's eyes shot
fire.

As soon as possible I sought my father,
and took him to my private room,
and informed him of the decease of Eva's
mother.

“Will you attend the funeral?” I
asked.

“Not in my way, Frank, not in my way.
Leave it all to you. And, look you, do
what you please, I wont cross you. Only
secure me an allowance from your estate;
and,” he put his mouth to my ear, “between
Walmer and your wife, you have
a hard card to play. Keep shady! For
Walmer on his return will pick up a lawsuit,
and as for your wife, she may make
your coffee too strong, gad! quite too
strong!” Having given this advice, with
a wink and a chuckle, he promised to
apologize to my wife for my absence
during the day.

Towards evening that day, a hearse,
followed by a single carriage, took its
way toward our family cemetery, some
ten miles from New-York, in a sheltered
nook near the Hudson. In the drear
winter twilight, Eva and I joined hands
above her mother's grave. As a simple-hearted
clergyman read the service, the
words sighed mournfully among the
withered branches; and through the intervals
of the trees came a glimpse of
the broad Hudson, rolling in long waves,
each wave tinted with the last glow of
the departing day. * * I accompanied
Eva home. “Frank, you are all I have
in the world,” she said, falling on my
breast, as soon as we entered the house.
O how the memory of that hour comes
over me, as I write these words!

Returning to my big house—I cannot
say my home—toward midnight, I avoided
the presence of my wife (I can scarcely
call her) and slept on the sofa, in the
library. The next morning, at breakfast,
she manifested her usual fondness
for me, but there was a cold devilish
gleam of suspicion in her eyes. But that
day I redoubled my attentions, rode with
her along Broadway in our grand carriage,
went with her at night to the
opera, and then to a fashionable party.
I had an object in this, which manifested
itself at the breakfast table next morning.

“Dearest, urgent business calls me
away from you for a week or ten days.
I must—nay, do not look angry—I must
visit Boston, on business of my father.
And I must go to-day.”

“Fact, you must go, Frank.” said my
father, who had just entered, dressed in
his usual gay style—“Don't like to ask
it of you, but positively my business will
suffer if you don't go.”

After much persuasion my “lady-wife”
consented, and I went to Boston that
day—that is to say, figuratively. As a
matter of fact, I bent my steps to the
house near the avenue, where Eva welcomed
me, her eyes full of tears, but her
heart swelling with joy.

How shall I picture those days which
I passed with Eva, in the house near
the avenue! They were the days of my
life. We were hidden from the world.
No one knew, save my father, of my
presence in New-York. And, secluded
from the world, in the lonely house, we
forgot the world in each other's company.
Eva was mistress, wife, idol, to
me. She was one of those rare women
so hard to describe, whose organizations
combine the very extremes of the spiritual
and the passionate—whose minds
mingle the simplicity of the child with
the intuitions of mature woman. The
thorough purity of her nature threw
over our mutual passion a chastened
and holy light. And while we were
wrapped in this delicious dream, days
and weeks passed away. One stormy
evening, when the snow lay deep
upon the desolate region about our
house, an incident took place which had
an important bearing upon our fate. We
sat alone in the little front parlor; a
comfortable fire was burning in the grate,
and an astral lamp upon the table threw
around a softened and mellow light. Eva,
dressed in white, was sitting on the sofa,
and I was seated upon a stool at her feet.
My clasped hands rested on her knees,
and her little hand was placed gently on
my head. As I looked up into her clear
tranquil eyes, and caught the magnetism
of her gaze, at the same time that I perused
the bloom of her lips and cheeks,
and the purity of her calm white brow,
it seemed to me, that she was the most
wondrously beautiful woman in all the
world. We sat thus for a long time silent,
enjoying the delight of each other's
presence, and absorbed in one reverie.

She at length broke the silence,—
“Frank, I wish we could die now!” she
said. Her bosom heaved gently and
tears came to her eyes.

“Why, Eva?”

“We will never again be so happy as
now,” she said,—“we never can be happier
than we are now. And it seems to
me good that we should die now, when
our happiness is at the full.”

'Twas a strange thought, and I had no
word in reply, but felt in my soul a response
to it. Then we again relapsed
into our reverie, reverie so deep and so
prolonged, that we did not hear the ringing
of the door-bell, nor the sound of
footsteps in the entry, nor the opening
of the parlor door. But, startling like
those who are suddenly awakened from
a dream, we looked up and beheld our
Irish servant in the doorway, and two
persons, a lady and a gentleman standing
near us, their garments covered with
snow.