University of Virginia Library

18. CHAPTER XVIII.

The madam had preferred the rope to
morphine, and she was dead.

The second day from this event there
were two funerals in New-York. The
one, a gorgeous affair, went with a long
procession of carriages to Greenwood;
myself chief mourner. It was in the afternoon
that I stood in front of the vault,
surrounded by the crowd of funeral
guests, and hid my face in my handkerchief,
as the parson read the service, and
the coffin, with the huge silver plate glittering
in the sunshine, was slowly lowered
out of sight. The madam had
“committed suicide in a fit of temporary
insanity,”—such was the verdict of the
coroner's jury; so said the papers; and
the parson, alluding to the fact, dwelt
long and touchingly upon the holy life
and pure conscience of the deceased. At
this everybody observed me shake with
emotion as I covered my face with the
handkerchief.

The other funeral took place at night,
or in the dusk of the evening. The Irish
servant woman, the good doctor, and myself,
were the only persons who stood
around the lonely grave, by the Hudson
River, in the still twilight. We buried
Eva—and her child beside her mother.
And as the coffin, containing the young
mother and her child, sank slowly out of
sight, the Irish woman and the doctor
wept like children. As for myself, I
could not weep. Gazing round the lonely
graveyard, and upon the Hudson,
rippling gently in the twilight, and upon
the western sky, mellow and golden with
the last kiss of day, I remembered,—O
how vividly!—the last time that Eva and
I had stood side by side in this place.

“Do you think,” whispered the doc
tor, “that the murderess of this poor
child will ever be discovered?”

“Doctor!” I answered, “the murderess
has already gone to her account.
She was buried in Greenwood to-day.”

Returning to my mansion in the city,
I found my good father waiting for me
in the library, dressed and perfumed as
usual.

“Quite an afflicting dispensation,
Frank,” he said, trying his best to look
grave. “How hard you took it in Greenwood
to-day! Everybody remarked it!
And now I suppose you are a disconsolate
widower, worth some half a million
dollars! And,”—he glanced around the
room and lowered his voice,—“And she
didn't make your coffee too strong for
you, after all, did she, boy?” Good old
man.

The history of the next few months
may be written in a few words. I spent
a great part of the time at the cottage,
musing, like one in a waking dream, upon
the irrevocable past. For hours without
changing my position, I would sit silently
gazing upon the bed in which Eva had
slept, upon the dress which she had
worn, upon the books which she had
read, upon her vacant chair.

I was sitting one morning, late
in winter, in the library-room of my
great town mansion—my feet upon the
fender—my hands folded on my knees,
my eyes fixed vaguely on the fire—when
the servant entered and announced that
a Mr. Stebbins wished to see me.

“Show him up,” said I, and wondered
who the deuce was Mr. Stebbins, and
what he wanted with me? “Can it be
another lawyer from Walmer, or any
thing about my West India wife?” Mr.
Stebbins entered—a spare little man,
with sharp features, thin gray whiskers,
and gold spectacles. He dropped into a
chair, holding his hat in both hands, as
though it had been a dish.

“I am,” said he, without further preface,
“I am one of the tellers of such and
such a bank.” It was a bank in which
I had deposited a large amount of money.

“Well, Mr. Stebbins, I am glad to see
you. I have not overdrawn my account,
I hope?”

Mr. Stebbins gave a kind of wintry
smile. “O no! sir. By no means, sir,”
and he drew from his overcoat a large
pocket-book. “Be so kind as to look at

that.” He placed a check in my hands.
It was a check for a hundred dollars,
signed by my name, the signature so
well done, that I hesitated ere I could
satisfy myself that it was a forgery.

“Allow me to ask, Mr. Warner, is
that your signature?”

“And allow me to ask by whom was
this check presented, and have you paid
the money on it?”

“We have paid the money on it, and
it was presented this morning by a middle-sized,
elderly man, in green spectacles
and long gray hair. We paid the money,
and the man left the bank, and it was
not until then, that some informality in
the manner in which the check is drawn,
caused us to doubt its genuineness. Is
that your signature, sir?”

For a moment I was buried in thought.
It was not my signature—but I did not
feel inclined to let loose the hounds of
law at once upon the unknown poor
devil who had forged my name. So I
replied—“Really, Mr. Stebbins, I cannot
at once decide. You perceive the check
is not from my check-book—it is written,
not printed. This is suspicious; but I
may at some time have given this check,
while absent from home. It is dated
some weeks back.” And I desired Mr.
Stebbins to call at five o'clock in the
evening, when I hoped to be able to
speak definitely on the matter.

With that white-heat malignity in his
eyes which the mere mention of a forgery
always calls up to the eyes of an officer
of a bank, Mr. Stebbins sat his hat
square upon his head and departed.

And I took my hat and cloak, and
strolled out upon Broadway, in order to
keep an appointment with a young artist
of fine genius, who was painting my portrait.
This artist, whom I will call Carlton—Louis
Carlton—interested me deeply.

Scarcely twenty-four, with long hair,
eyes full of fire, and a Raphael-like face,
he had already displayed proofs of the
highest genius. Some of his portraits
were worthy of the first artist in the
country; and he was engaged upon an
historical picture, which was stamped
with extraordinary invention and power.
Louis had made me his confidant. He
was poor—was in love with an orphan
girl, whom he described as possessing the
rarest beauty. It was his ambition to
visit Italy, study there for a year or two
and then return home to marry, and to
achieve fame and fortune.

And, occupied as I was by the inevitable
past of my own life, I could not help
feeling interested in the future of the
young artist. In a few minutes after I
left my own house, I found myself in the
studio of the young artist—a small
room, lighted by a window which opened
to the west, and crowded with the
evidences of his craft. The sun shone
brightly upon an unfinished portrait on
the easel, but the place was deserted.

Louis was not there. Flinging myself
upon the sofa, I soon found my attention
chained by a picture which stood upon
the wall—was it a portrait, or a fancy
sketch? The face of a young girl, with
sunny complexion, deep blue eyes, masses
of golden hair, and a neck and half-revealed
bosom worthy of Eve—was it a
portrait or a fancy sketch? I was asking
this question, when my ear was arrested
by the sound of voices in an adjoining
room, separated from the studio
by a door which was slightly opened;
the sound of voices—a man's voice and
a woman's mingling in earnest conversation.
And my own name pronounced
more than once, in tones tremulous with
emotion, struck my ear.

I rose, crept near the slightly opened
door, and concealed myself in a corner,
behind a faded screen. Thus placed, I
could distinctly hear the conversation in
the next room.

“Oh! Louis, Louis! how could you
do it!” It was a woman's voice, earnest
and full of agony, yet very musical,
which spoke these words.

“I know not, Eveline, I know not!”
returned the voice of Louis. “I must
have been mad! Here I was, with all
my labor, over head and ears in debt—
my things seized by the landlord—every
prospect closed against me; and, added
to this, the thought of you toiling like a
slave at your needle, for bare bread—and
—and—I must have been mad! To
forge a check; to put to it the name of
one who has been my best friend; to
disguise myself and present it at the
bank; to write felon on my forehead,
and expose myself to a convict's doom!
Oh! Eveline! Eveline! I must have been
mad!”

His voice grew husky with agony. I

could hear him sob, and could also hear
the low voice of Eveline comforting him.

“Louis, you were mad. You couldn't
have been yourself. But all may yet be
well.”

“Well!” he echoed, in frantic tones,
“am I not a villain? Am I not certain
to be discovered and put to shame? No,
Eveline, no! All will not be well! My
life is blasted forever!”

“But, Louis!” I heard her low and
gentle voice, “why not see Mr. Warner
himself, and state the case to him, and
throw yourself upon his generosity?
When his portrait is finished he will owe
you at least a hundred dollars.”

“There it is! there it is!” broke in
the voice of the artist, “I was too proud
to ask him to advance me the money,
but not too proud to forge his name.”
And again his voice died away in sobs.

“But, go to him, Louis; go to him at
at once, and all may yet be well!”

Presently, I heard his footstep, and
saw him from my hiding-place, as he
came from the front room into the studio.
He was deathly pale, and his eyes were
red with weeping.

“Wait, Eveline, wait until I return.”
He pulled his cap low over his brows,
and, rushing by the screen which concealed
me, left the room.

Gliding gently from my hiding-place,
I went into the front room. Eveline
was seated upon the sofa, weeping. In
her face I at once saw the original of the
portrait. She was above the medium
height, and her form, nobly and richly
moulded, was clad to the throat in a
plain black dress, which contrasted
strongly with her clear complexion and
golden hair. If her glowing cheek and
expansive bust showed a voluptuous organization,
her lip indicated pride, and
her forehead intellect. She rose, blushing,
and yet with a stately air, as I entered.

“Mr. Warner!” she ejaculated. She
knew me by the half-finished portrait in
the studio.

“The same, miss,” I replied. Allow
me the honor of a few minutes, conversation.
To make matters brief, I will
at once inform you that I overheard all
that passed between Louis and you a
few moments ago.”

“And you will save him!” she cried,
with great flashing eyes and a glowing
cheek. As I gazed upon this beautiful
creature, a feeling of cynicism altogether
infernal possessed me. Perchance, the
events of the last two or three months
had warped my nature. At all events,
as I saw the lovely girl blushing and
tearful before me, I felt impelled to make
her suffer all that was in my power to
inflict.

“Miss Eveline, the fate of Louis is in
your hands.”

“In my hands?”

“It rests with you to decide whether,
to-night, freed from the charge of forgery,
and with ample means to defray his expenses,
he shall be on his way to Italy,
or whether he shall, to-night, sleep in
the Tombs.”

“It rests with me!” she slowly said,
dropping her eyes.

“With you!” and I whispered a few
words, which brought burning blushes to
her cheeks.

“O shame! O shame! You cannot
mean this; you are too generous—you—”

“I am not generous. I am rich. I
hold Louis in my power. You are exceedingly
beautiful. You can save him.
Will you? To-night, Louis will be on
his way to Italy, and you will be —
“I whispered the rest in her ear. “Or,
if you decline to save him, Louis, to-night,
will sleep in the Tombs.” She
gave me a look. If looks could kill, that
one would have struck me like lightning.