University of Virginia Library

31. CHAPTER XXXI.

Five years of my life a blank—a chaos!
I sank back into my chair, and for
a few moments surrendered myself to all
the bitterness of my agony.

And Eugenia, what had become of
her? My wealth and estates, in whose
hands were they? I paced the floor
with clasped hands, and it was some
time before I could recover my presence
of mind.

“But,” I said aloud, “we must not go
mad again. We have had enough of
that. Doubtless, my good wife, after
betraying me, consigned me to a madhouse,
and then, procuring a divorce
with the wealth of the insane husband,
married again. A-h!”—I could not help
grating my teeth—“we have need of all
our presence of mind, for we have a hard
battle to fight.”

I summoned the servant, and directed
him to bring me a barber, and in a few
moments that odious dark beard, streaked
with gray, was removed from my face.
Then, as I was faint from want of nourishment,
I ordered a substantial supper
in my room, and ate heartily, and drank
a glass of undoubted champagne—yes, a
bottle of the amber liquid, topped with
its snowy foam.

“Yes, in any case, I will leave this
country forever,” I soliloquized, raising
the glass to my lips. “I may find Eugenia
dead, but it is more probable that
I will find her married again, and in possession
of all my wealth. Let her have
it! There is a curse upon it! It came
from my hag-wife, and will carry a curse
wherever it goes. But, in any case, I
must see Eugenia before I leave the
country.”

I directed the servant to call me in
time for the boat, which left at daybreak
for New-York, and soon was enjoying
a pleasant and dreamless sleep. By
daybreak next morning I was on board
of a North River boat to New-York. To
New-York! What adventures would I
encounter there?

Secluded in my stateroom, I reviewed
my past life, and endeavored to lift the
veil which covered five years of it with
impenetrable mystery. Had I been tried
for the murder?

Was there not in my mind a dim, awful
memory, vague as a half-obliterated
daguerreotype, of a thronged court, myself
in the criminal's place, Eugenia on
the witness-stand—of a verdict of guilty
and a sentence of death for the crime of
deliberate murder? Was this vague impression
only the wreck of a memory, or
the mere figment of an idle dream?

If, sentenced for murder, had I, in consequence
of insanity, been transferred
from the condemned cell to the madhouse?

What had become of my houses and
lands? of my immense wealth? of—Eugenia?

I bowed my head in very bitterness of
soul,—“Ah! untrue to her husband,
whom she had driven to madness and
murder, Eugenia has obtained a divorce
and married again! My property has
been divided between her new husband
and my own greedy relatives. I am like
one risen from the grave,—alone, utterly
alone,—without a soul to love or care
for me in the wide world.”

There was one thought which cut the
deepest—my child! O my child! blood
of my innermost life; soul of my soul!
what had become of my child? I hurried
from my room and paced the deck.
How like an old friend, always trusted,
and never faithless, the Hudson spread
his generous old face before me, bright
with the morning sun!

And the mountains yonder, stretching
away into the western heaven, seemed
to bend their pine-clad tops to greet me
—I knew them—old memories filled my
heart at the sight, and tears came to my
eyes.

Down the Hudson we glided under
that calm summer sky, until the highlands,
grand and mysterious with revolutionary
memories, were passed, and
broad Tappan Bay lay before us, like a

mirror framed in hills of emerald and
gold.

And then my gaze roved nervously to
the southwest.

My home, the gloomy old mansion on
the heights, was there; there the garden,
in which, by the light of the summer
moon, I had seen the livid face of the
dying man; soon it would be in sight.
Pacing the deck with short rapid steps
I watched for the first glimpse of it with
an intensity that was agony itself.

At last it came in sight, the son shining
on its steep roofs and embowering
trees. Straining my eyes I sought to
pierce the shadows of those trees, to look
into the old house and see the faces that
now gazed upon the gloomy paneled
rooms; and of all rooms that in which
Eugenia sat on the night of the murder.

There were—yes! I could not be mistaken—there
were forms moving in the
garden walk, and the white dress of a
woman fluttered among the trees.

“Can it be Eugenia!” The words
rose to my lips. The boat glided on, and
soon the old mansion was out of sight.

To the east I turned my gaze, searching
for that home by the river shore to
which the young student used to come
in the still dusk to meet that woman who
was a child in her experience, an angel in
her love. And presently it came in sight
—a glimpse of it only—through the
thickly clustered foliage.

The sight unmanned me. I sank into
a seat, and hid my face in my hands, until
it was lost to view.

We arrived in New-York in the afternoon.
The bustle, the uproar, the tramp
of ten times ten thousand feet, the sea
of faces, always hurrying by, all startled
me like the wonders of some fantastic
dream. New-York was to me as much
of a miracle of mad, impetuous life, as
though I had never trod its streets before.

Five years I had passed in a living
grave; and now, confronted with the ever-changing
panorama of New-York life, I
could scarce believe the evidence of my
eyes and ears.

Entering my name at a retired hotel in
Courtland-street, I took a carriage, and
directed the driver to proceed to a certain
place some miles out of town—in a
word, the home of Eva.

It was near sunset when the carriage
halted in the by-road, near the wood,
and in sight of the river. How eagerly
I darted into the wood and followed the
path which led to Eva's home!

I was faint with excess of emotion as
I reached the garden gate. Yes! it was
the same place; true, the garden was
overgrown with weeds; the house, now
bathed in the sunshine, was falling to decay,
but it was still the place in which I
had loved Eva; in which her child had
blossomed into life; in which mother
and child had been hurried down to
death.

I sprang through the gate, threaded
my way among the weeds, and soon stood
at the door, which evidently had not been
opened for a long time.

I knocked—a hollow echo— but no
sound of footstep or voice.

What had become of the good-hearted
Irish woman whom I had left in charge
of the place at the time of my marriage
with Eugenia? Who was now the owner
of Eva's home? These questions rose
to my lips, but there was no answer to
them.

Flinging my weight against the door, I
burst it open, and hurried from the cheerful
sunshine into the damp, close passage.
Then, up stairs into the room which was
once mine, and which was next to Eva's.

Through the broken blinds and torn
window curtain, a gleam of sunshine
trembled in, and quivered (from the motion
of the leaves before the window)
upon the picture of the Virgin Mary on
the wall. There was my table, the very
chair on which I had slept on the night
when Eva in the next room was writhing
in the grasp of murder—table and
books and chair were thick with dust,
but the room was still the same.

I opened the door which led into the
next room—Eva's room—you may be
sure that my hand trembled.

The room was dark, but as I opened
the door a belt of sunshine streamed into
it, disclosing its details, and—yes! lighting
up the bed in which Eva had slept.
Every detail of the room was the same
as on the night when Eva died. There
was the fireplace in which the taper had
stood, flinging its faint ray over the
cheek of the sleeping mother and her
new-born child; there was the glass
which had so often reflected her joyous
face; there the coverlet which had pressed

her form, the pillow over which her
hair had wandered in wavy masses. Silent,
silent, desolate now! Is it a wonder
that when the sunlight lit up this darkened
room that the past came back upon
me vivid, overwhelming!

Risen suddenly from a living death, I
found myself brought face to face with
the holiest memories of my life. There
was no eye to look upon me. Why not
let my heart take its free course? my agony
find relief in tears?

I staggered forward. I knelt by the
bed, kissing the pillow upon which Eva's
cheek had rested. “O my God! O my
God!”—the words wrung from my heart
—sounded strangely in that silent chamber.

And then from my lips trembled the
name of Him who, in his own person,
drank the last drop in the cup of human
anguish, and was oftentime, in his awful
loneliness—for his sorrow had no one to
understand it—cheered by the kind faces
and low voices of holy women. His
name trembled on my lips, in itself a
prayer.

I rose—one glance around the place—
one glance into my own room, where oftentime
Eva had sat beside me—and I
hurried down stairs and from the house,
compressing my lip and hiding my eyes
with my hand.

Oh! beautiful upon the ruined house,
upon the garden whose flowers struggled
among weeds, upon the river seen in
glimpses through the foliage—Oh! holy,
and calm and beautiful, upon roof and
flower and river, streamed the last rays
of the setting sun.

And the peach-tree rose in the garden,
thick blossoms on every bough, as in the
old time it rose; its blossoms now and
then, like fragrant snow, tossed by the
summer wind into the air.

One last look upon the garden and
house, and then I turned my back upon
the place, a sad, friendless, blasted man.

It was quite dark when the carriage
into the city.

As the glare of the lamps flashed
through the window into my face, a new
rose in my mind. Well, I knew,
many incidents which I had remark
my way through life, how easy it
for covetous relatives to imprison a
man in a madhouse.

“Those who have divided my property
will pursue me, and thrust me once more
into a madman's cell. There they will
keep me, until again I am mad indeed.
Or, I shall be arrested for murder. I
must lose no time—not a moment. I
must put the ocean between me and this
accursed city. But first, at all hazards,
I will see Eugenia.”

Descending from the carriage, I dismissed
the driver, and bent my steps in
the direction of my “grand city mansion.”
You may take it for granted that
my heart beat quicker as I came in sight
of those lofty walls—of those familiar
windows now lighted from sidewalk to
roof.

The owner of half a million dollars
standing friendless and a beggar in front
of his own palace! It was an incident
for those who delight in strong contrasts.

Ascending the steps, I rang the bell.
A liveried servant appeared, and regarded
me with a mixed look, one-fourth curiosity
and three-fourths impudence.

“Well, sur?”

“I wish to see Mrs. Van Warner.”

“She doesn't live here. An' I don't
know where she does live. This is Mr.
Morton's house.”

And this was all the satisfaction I
could obtain from the gentleman in lace
and velvet. He closed the door, and I
went sadly down the steps. My own
house was, without a doubt, the property
of another man.

“The old house in the country!” I
cried, “I must go there to-night—to-night,
as I am a living man.”

I was resolved, and lost no time in
putting my purpose into execution.
Crossing to Jersey City, I procured a
coach with little delay, and bade the
coachman drive to a certain point on the
high road, near my country seat. In
less than two hours he set me down
near the gate, from which the winding-path
led to the old house. I paid him
his fare, (which reduced my fortune to
ten dollars and some odd change,) and
having waited until the carriage was out
of sight, opened the gate, and took the
path through the wood.

There was no moon, the night was
still, and bathed in calm star-light. I
hurried on, trying to banish thought, and
choke down the fast-gathering memories,
as my footsteps led me near and nearer
to the fatal house.

Through the old trees, under the wide
branching boughs, as on the night of the
murder, I hurried on, until the old mansion
came in sight. The garden, the
broad walk, and the porch by which the
dying man had writhed in his last spasm,
all were before me in the calm star-light.

I paused for a moment, and leaned
against a tree, in the effort to suppress
or to command my emotions.

From Eugenia's room, on the ground
floor—yes! from the window, half canopied
by vines—the ray of a fireside lamp
trembled out upon the garden, and described
a belt of light upon the foliage.

Treading on tiptoe, I approached the
window, and looked within. The lamp
stood on the workstand, as on the fatal
night and in its light the room, dark
paneled walls, sofa, chairs, fireplace, all
appeared the same.

And a woman dressed in white was
seated on the sofa; I could not see her
face, for it was averted, but her hair was
dark—dark as Eugenia's—was it indeed
her? My heart rose to my throat at
the thought; and, without a moment's
pause, I glided beneath the lifted sash
and entered the room.

In the centre, half-way between the
window and sofa, I paused, trembling in
every nerve; the woman heard my step
and turned her face to me. It was not
Eugenia's.

She started to her feet and regarded
me with a look of surprise and fear.

“Whom do you wish to see, sir?”

“Pardon me,” I hesitated, “but I
thought—” I heard the sound of a door
opening behind me and of a light footstep.

Why at the sound of that light footstep
did the blood rush in a torrent to
my heart?

Slowly I turned.

The intruder was a child, a beautiful
girl of some five or six years, with black
ringlets floating on her shoulders, and
large dreamy eyes that seemed to look
at once into your soul; a very beautiful
child, who raised her large eyes to
me, with a look in which love seemed to
struggle with awe, who made a step forward
as if about to spring into my arms
and then shrunk back again; a child
upon whose sinless face there was the
stamp of my own features, mingled with
the rich loveliness of Eugenia's face.

“Come here, Mary!” I said, in a low
voice, and knelt and gathered the dear
child to my arms. She rested there in
my bosom, trembling but pleased; and,
as I kissed her, she said,—“You look
like papa's picture, but you are older.”

Her infantile voice was interrupted by
a second footstep. I looked up and beheld
Eugenia.

Yes, Eugenia stood before me, dressed
in white, and beautiful as ever, save that
her form was more rounded and flowing
in its outlines, and that the rich maturity
of summer had succeeded the spring
bloom of her cheeks; beautiful as ever,
her dark hair disposed in thick masses
about her face, and her eyes glittering
with unchanging light.

She was entering the room, when she
beheld a stranger, whose face was hidden
from view, gathering her child to his
bosom. I raised my face. She saw me,
and, pale as death, stood transfixed to
the floor.

I said not a word, but gazed upon her
steadily. Then her bosom heaved, a
burning blush crimsoned her throat, her
cheek and brow. She moved her lips,
but no sound was heard. She stretched
forth her hands and came towards me.

“Back, polluted woman!” I cried.
“This child is mine; but, as for you, I
know you not! Back!” The room
swam around me, and I fell, like one
dead, upon my face, near the feet of my
wife.