Colonel Mohun had been reckless, defiant, unhappy, or wildly gay. General Mohun was calm, quietly happy it seemed. You would have said of him, formerly, "This is a man who fights from hatred of his enemies, or the exuberant life in him." Now you would have said, "This is a patriot who fights from principle, and is worthy to die in a great cause."

What had worked this change? I asked myself once more. Was it love? Or was it the conviction which the Almighty sends to the most hardened, that life is not made to indulge hatred, but to love and perform our duty in?

I knew not; but there was the phenomenon before me. Mohun was certainly a new man, and looked on life and the world around him with a gentleness and kindness of which I had believed him incapable.

"I am going to take you to see a somewhat singular character," he said.

"Who is he?"

"It is a woman."

"Ah!"

"And a very strange one, I promise you, my dear Surry."

"Lead on, I'll follow thee!"

"Good! and I declare to you, I think Shakespeare would have examined this human being with attention."

"She is a phenomenon, then?"

"Yes."

"A witch?"

"No, an epileptic; at least I think so."

"Indeed! And where does she live?"

"On the Halifax road, some miles from the Rowanty."

"In the lines of the enemy, then?"

"Something like it."

"Humph!"

"Don't disturb yourself about that, Surry. I have sent out a scouting party who are clearing the country. Their pickets are back to Reams's by this time, and there is little danger."

"At all events, we'll share any, Mohun. Forward!"

And we pushed on to the Halifax bridge, where, as Mohun expected, there was no Federal picket.

The bridge—a long rough affair—had been half destroyed by General Hampton; but we forded near it, pushed our horses through the swamp, amid the heavy tree trunks, felled to form an abatis, and gaining the opposite bank of the Rowanty, rode on rapidly in the direction of Petersburg, that is to say, toward the rear of the Federal army.



X.

AMANDA.

Half an hour's ride through the swampy low grounds rising to gentle uplands, and beneath the festoons of the great vines trailing from tree to tree, brought us in front of a small house, half buried in a clump of bushes, like a hare's nest amid brambles.

"We have arrived!" said Mohun, leading the way to the cabin, which we soon reached.

Throwing his bridle over a bough near the low fence, Mohun approached the door on foot, I following, and when close to the door, he gave a low knock.

"Come in!" said a cheerful and smiling voice.

And Mohun opened the door, through which we passed into a small and very neat apartment containing a table, some chairs, a wide fireplace, in which some sticks were burning, a number of cheap engravings of religious scenes, framed and hanging on the wall, and a low bed, upon which lay a woman fully dressed.

She was apparently about thirty-five, and her appearance was exceedingly curious. Her figure was slender and of medium height; her complexion that of a Moorish or oriental woman, rather than that of the quadroon, which she appeared to be; her hair black, waving, and abundant; her eyes as dark and sparkling as burnished ebony; and her teeth of dazzling whiteness. Her dress was neat, and of bright colors. Around her neck she wore a very odd necklace, which seemed made of carved bone; and her slender fingers were decorated with a number of rings.[1]

[Footnote 1: "I have endeavored to give an exact description of this singular woman." Colonel Surry said to me when he read this passage to me: "She will probably be remembered by numbers of persons in both the Federal and Confederate armies. These will tell you that I describe her accurately, using her real name, and will recall the strange prediction which she made, and which I repeat. Was she an epileptic? I do not know. I have certainly never encountered a more curious character!"—EDITOR.]

Such was the personage who greeted us, in a voice of great calmness and sweetness, as we entered. She did not rise from the bed upon which she was lying; but her cordial smile clearly indicated that this did not arise from discourtesy.

"Take seats, gentlemen," she said, "and please excuse me from getting up. I am a little poorly to-day."

"Stay where you are, Amanda," said Mohun, "and do not disturb yourself."

She looked at him with her dark eyes, and said, in her gentle, friendly voice:—

"You know me, I see, General Mohun."

"And you me, I see, Amanda."

"I never saw you before, sir, but—am I mistaken?"

"Not in the least. How did you know me?"

The singular Amanda smiled.

"I have seen you often, sir."

"Ah—in your visions?"

"Yes, sir."

"Or, perhaps, Nighthawk described me. You know Mr. Nighthawk!"

"Oh, yes, sir. I hope he is well. He has often been here; he may have told me what you were like, sir, and then I saw you to know you afterward."

I looked at the speaker attentively. Was she an impostor? It was impossible to think so. There was absolutely no evidence whatever that she was acting a part—rather every thing to forbid the supposition, as she thus readily acquiesced in Mohun's simple explanation.

For some moments Mohun remained silent. Then he said:—

"Those visions which you have are very strange. Is it possible that you really see things before they come to pass—or are you only amusing yourself, and others, by saying so? I see no especial harm in the matter, if you are jesting; but tell me, for my own satisfaction and that of my friend, if you really see things."

Amanda smiled with untroubled sweetness.

"I am in earnest, sir," she said, "and I would not jest with you and Colonel Surry."

I listened in astonishment.

"Ah! you know me, too, Amanda!"

"Yes, sir—or I think I do. I think you are Colonel Surry, sir."

"How do you know that?"

"I have seen you, too, sir?" was the smiling reply.

I sat down, leaned my head upon my hand, and gazed at this incomprehensible being. Was she really a witch? I do not believe in witches, and at once rejected that theory. If not an impostor, then, only one other theory remained—that Nighthawk had described my person to her, in the same manner that he had Mohun's, and the woman might thus believe that she had seen me, as well as my companion, in her "visions."

To her last words, however, I made no reply, and Mohun renewed the colloquy, as before.

"Then you are really in earnest, Amanda, and actually see, in vision, what is coming to pass?" he said.

"I think I do, sir."

"Do you have the visions often?"

"I did once, sir, but they now seldomer come."

"What produces them?"

"I think it is any excitement, sir. They tell me that I lay on my bed moaning, and moving my arms about,—and when I wake, after these attacks, I remember seeing the visions."

"I hear that you predicted General Hunter's attack on Lexington last June."

"Yes, sir, I told a lady what I saw, some months before it came to pass."

"What did you see? Will you repeat it for us?"

"Oh, yes, sir. I remember all, and will tell you about it, as it seems to interest you. I saw a town, on the other side of the mountain, which they afterward told me was called Lexington—but I did not know its name then—and a great army of men in blue dresses came marching in, shouting and cheering. The next thing I saw was a large building on fire, and through the windows I saw books burning, with some curious- looking things, of which I do not know the names."

"The Military Institute, with the books and scientific apparatus," said Mohun, calmly.

"Was it, sir? I did not know."

"What did you see afterward, Amanda?"

"Another house burning, sir; the Federal people gave the ladies ten minutes to leave it, and then set it on fire."

Mohun glanced at me.

"That is strange," he said; "do you know the name of the family?"

"No, sir."

"It was Governor Letcher's. Well, what next?"

"Then they went in a great crowd, and broke open another building—a large house, sir—and took every thing. Among the things they took was a statue, which they did not break up, but carried away with them."

"Washington's statue!" murmured Mohun; and, turning to me, he added:—

"This is curious, is it not, Surry?"

I nodded.

"Very curious."

I confess I believed that the strange woman was trifling with us, and had simply made up this story after the event. Mohun saw my incredulity, and said, in a low tone:—

"You do not believe in this?"

"No," I returned, in the same tone.

"And yet one thing is remarkable."

"What?"

"That a lady of the highest character assured me, the other day, that all this was related to her before Hunter even entered the Valley."[1]

[Footnote 1: Fact.]

And turning to Amanda, he said:—

"When did you see these things?"

"I think it was in March, sir."

The words were uttered in the simplest manner possible. The strange woman smiled as sweetly as she spoke, and seemed as far from being guilty of a deliberate imposture as before.

"And you saw the fight at Reams's, too?"

"Yes, sir; I saw it two months before it took place. There was a man killed running through the yard of a house, and they told me, afterward, he was found dead there."

"Have you had any visions, since?"

"Only one, sir."

"Lately?"

"Yes, sir."

"What did you see?"

"It was not much, sir. I saw the Federal people on horses, watering their horses in a large river somewhere west of here, and the vision said the war would be over about next March."

Mohun smiled.

"Which side will be successful, Amanda?"

"The vision did not say, sir."[1]

[Footnote 1: Colonel Surry assured me that he had scrupulously searched his memory to recall the exact words of this singular woman: and that he had given the precise substance of her statements; often, the exact words.—ED.]

Mohun, who had taken his seat on a rude settee, leaned his elbow on his knee, and for some moments gazed into the fire.

"I have asked you some questions, Amanda," he said at length, "relating to public events. I now come to some private matters—those which brought me hither—in which your singular visions may probably assist me. Are you willing to help me?"

"Yes, indeed, sir, if I can," was the reply.



XI.

DEEP UNDER DEEP.

Mohun fixed his mild, and yet penetrating glance upon the singular woman, who sustained it, however, with no change in her calm and smiling expression.

"You know Nighthawk?"

"Oh, yes, sir. He has been here often."

"And Swartz?"

"Very well, sir—I have known him many years."

"Have you seen him, lately?"

"No, sir; not for some weeks."

"Ah! You saw him some weeks since?"

"Yes, sir."

"At this house?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do you know what has become of him?"

"No, sir; but I suppose he is off somewhere."

"He is dead!"

Her head rose slightly, but the smile was unchanged.

"You don't tell me, sir!"

"Yes, murdered; perhaps you know his murderer?"

"Who was it, sir?"

"Colonel Darke."

"Oh, I know him. He has been here, lately. Poor Mr. Swartz! And so they murdered him! I am sorry for him."

Mohun's glance became more penetrating.

"You say that Colonel Darke has been here lately?"

"Yes, sir."

"What was the occasion of his visit?"

"I don't know, sir; unless it was to hear me tell my visions."

"You never knew him before?"

Amanda hesitated.

"Yes, sir," she said at length.

"When, and how?"

"It was many years ago, sir;—I do not like to speak of these things. He is a terrible man, they say."

"You can speak to me, Amanda. I will repeat nothing; nor will Colonel Surry."

The singular woman looked from Mohun to me, evidently hesitating. Then she seemed suddenly to make up her mind, and said, with her eternal smile:—

"I will tell you, then, sir. I can read faces, and I know neither you nor Colonel Surry will get me into trouble."

"I will not—on my honor."

"Nor I," I said.

"That is enough, gentlemen; and now I will tell you what you wish to know, General Mohun."

As she spoke she closed her eyes, and seemed for some moments to be reflecting. Then opening them again, she gazed, with her calm smile, at Mohun, and said:—

"It was many years ago, sir, when I first saw Colonel Darke, who then went by another name. I was living in this same house, when late one evening a light carriage stopped before the door, and a gentleman got out of it, and came in. He said he was travelling with his wife, who had been taken sick, and would I give them shelter until morning, when she would be able to go on? I was a poor woman, sir, as I am now, and hoped to be paid. I would have given the poor sick lady shelter all the same, though—and I told him he could come in, and sleep in this room, and I would go into that closet-like place behind you, sir. Well, he thanked me, and went back to the carriage, where a lady sat. He took her in his arms and brought her along to the house, when I saw that she was a very beautiful young lady, but quite pale. Well, sir, she came in and sat down in that chair you are now sitting in, and after awhile, said she was better. The gentleman had gone out and put away his horse, and when he came back I had supper ready, and every thing comfortable."

"What was the appearance of the lady?" said Mohun, over whose brow a contraction passed.

"She was small and dark, sir; but had the finest eyes I ever saw."

"The same," said Mohun, in a low tone. "Well?"

"They stayed all night, sir. Next morning they paid me,—though it was little—and went on toward the south."

"They seemed poor?"

"Yes, sir. The lady's dress was cheap and faded—and the gentleman's threadbare."

"What names did they give?"

"Mr. and Mrs. Mortimer, sir."

Mohun's brow again contracted.

"Well, go on," he said, "or rather, go back, Amanda. You say that they remained with you until the morning. Did you not hear some of their conversation—gain some knowledge of whence they came, whither they were going, and what was the object of their journey?"

The woman hesitated, glancing at Mohun. Then she smiled, and shook her head.

"You will get me into trouble, sir," she said.

"I will not, upon my honor. You have told me enough to enable me to do so, however—why not tell me all? You say you slept in that closet there—so you must have heard them converse. I am entitled to know all—tell me what they said."

And taking from his purse a piece of gold, Mohun placed it in the hand extended upon the bed. The hand closed upon it—clutched it. The eye of the woman glittered, and I saw that she had determined to speak.

"It was not much, sir," she said. "I did listen, and heard many things, but they would not interest you."

"On the contrary, they will interest me much."

"It was a sort of quarrel I overheard, sir. Mr. Mortimer was blaming his wife for something, and said she had brought him to misery. She replied in the same way, and said that it was a strange thing in him to talk to her so, when she had broken every law of God and man, to marry the—"

"The—?" Mohun repeated, bending forward.

"The murderer of her father, she said, sir," returned Amanda.

Mohun started, and looked with a strange expression at me.

"You understand!" he said, in a low tone, "is the thing credible?"

"Let us hear more," I said, gloomy in spite of myself.

"Go on," Mohun said, turning more calmly toward the woman; "that was the reply of the lady, then—that she had broken all the laws of God and man by marrying the murderer of her father. Did she utter the name of her father?"

"Yes, sir."

"What was it?"

"A Mr. George Conway," replied Amanda, who seemed to feel that she had gone too far to conceal any thing.

"And the reason for this marriage?" said Mohun, in a low tone; "did she explain, or say any thing which explained to you, how such a union had ever taken place?"

"Yes, sir. They said so many things to each other, that I came to know all. The young lady was a daughter of a Mr. George Conway, and when she was a girl, had fallen in love with some worthless young man, who had persuaded her to elope with him and get married. He soon deserted her, when she fell in with this Mr. Mortimer and married him."

"Did she know that he was her father's murderer?"

"No, sir—not until after their marriage, I gathered."

"Then," said Mohun, who had suppressed all indications of emotion, and was listening coolly; "then it seems to me that she was wrong in taking shame to herself—or claiming credit—for the marriage."

"Yes, sir," returned Amanda, "and he told her as much."

"So they had something like a quarrel?"

"Not exactly a quarrel, sir. He seemed to love her with all his heart—more than she loved him. They went on talking, and laying plans to make money in some way. I remember he said to her, 'You are sick, and need every luxury—I would rather die than see you deprived of them—I would cheat or rob to supply you every thing—and we must think of some means, honest or dishonest, to get the money we want. I do not care for myself, but you are all that I have left in the world.' That is what he said, sir."

And Amanda was silent.

"Then they fell asleep?" asked Mohun.

"Yes, sir; and on the next morning he took her in his arms again, and carried her to the carriage, and they left me."

Mohun leaned his chin upon his hand, knit his brows, and reflected. The singular narrative plunged me too into a reverie. This man, Darke, was a veritable gulf of mystery—his life full of hidden and inexplicable things. The son of General Davenant, he had murdered his father's foe; permitted that father to be tried for the crime, and to remain under suspicion; disappeared, changed his name, encountered the daughter of his victim, married her, had those mysterious dealings with Mohun, disappeared a second time, changed his name a second time, and now had once more made his appearance near the scene of his first crime, to murder Swartz, capture his father and brother, and complete his tragic record by fighting under the enemy's flag against his country and his family!

There was something diabolical in that career; in this man's life "deep under deep" met the eye. And yet he was not entirely bad. On that night in Pennsylvania, he had refused to strike Mohun at a disadvantage—and had borne off the gray woman at the peril of death or capture. He had released his captured father and brother, bowing his head before them. He had confessed the murder of George Conway, over his own signature, to save this father. The woman who was his accomplice, he seemed to love more than his own life. Such were the extraordinary contrasts in a character, which, at first sight, seemed entirely devilish; and I reflected with absorbing interest upon the singular phenomenon.

I was aroused by the voice of Mohun. He had never appeared more calm: in his deep tones I could discern no emotion whatever.

"That is a singular story," he said, "and your friend, Colonel Darke, is a curious personage. But let us come back to events more recent—to the visits of Swartz."

"Yes, sir," said Amanda, smiling.

"But, first, let me ask—did Colonel Darke recognize you?"

"You mean know me? Oh, yes, sir."

"And did he speak of his former visit—with his wife?"

"No, sir."

"And you—?"

Amanda smiled.

"I made out I didn't remember him, sir; I was afraid he would think I had overheard that talk with his wife."

"So he simply called as if to see you as a curiosity?"

"Yes, sir—and staid only a few minutes."

"But you know or rather knew poor Swartz better?"

"I knew him well, sir."

"He often stopped here?"

"Yes, sir."

Mohun looked at the woman keenly, and said:—

"I wish you, now, to answer plainly the question which I am about to ask. I come hither as a friend—I am sent by your friend Mr. Nighthawk. Listen and answer honestly—Do you know any thing of a paper which Swartz had in his possession—an important paper which he was guarding from Colonel Darke?"

"I do not, sir," said Amanda, with her eternal smile.

"For that paper I will pay a thousand dollars in gold. Where is it?"

The woman's eyes glittered, then she shook her head.

"On my salvation I do not know, sir."

"Can you discover?"

Again the shake of the head.

"How can I, sir?"

Mohun's head sank. A bitter sigh issued from his lips—almost a groan.

"Listen!" he said, almost fiercely, but with a singular smile, "you have visions—you see things! I do not believe in your visions—they seem folly—but only see where that paper is to be discovered, and I will believe! nay more, I will pay you the sum which I mentioned this moment."

I looked at the woman to witness the result of this decisive test of her sincerity. "If she believes in her own visions, she will be elated," I said, "if she is an impostor, she will be cast down."

She smiled radiantly!

"I will try, sir!" she said.

Mohun gazed at her strangely.

"When shall I come to hear the result?"

"In ten days from this time, sir."

"In ten days? So be it."

And rising, Mohun bade the singular personage farewell, and went toward his horse.

I followed, and we rode back, rapidly, in dead silence, toward the Rowanty.



XII.

HOW THE MOMENT AT LAST CAME.

Mohun rode on for more than a mile at full gallop, without uttering a word. Then he turned his head, and said, with a sigh:—

"Well, what do you think of your new acquaintance, Surry?"

"I think she is an impostor."

"As to her visions, you mean?"

"Yes. Her story of Darke I believe to be true."

"And I know it," returned Mohun. "A strange discovery, is it not? I went there to-day, without dreaming of this. Nighthawk informed me that Swartz had often been at the house of this woman—that the paper which I wish to secure might have been left with her for safe keeping—and thus I determined to go and ferret out the matter, in a personal interview. I have done so, pretty thoroughly, and it seems plain that she knows nothing of its present whereabouts. Will she discover through her visions—her spies—or her strange penetration, exhibited in the recognition of our persons? I know not; and so that matter ends. I have failed, and yet have learned some singular facts. Can you believe that strange story of Darke? Is he not a weird personage? This narrative we have just heard puts the finishing touch to his picture—the murderer marries the daughter of his victim!"

"It is truly an extraordinary history altogether," I said, "and the whole life of this man is now known to me, with a single exception."

"Ah! you mean—?"

"The period when you fought with him, and ran him through the body, and threw him into that grave, from which Swartz afterward rescued him on the morning of the 13th December, 1856."

Mohun looked at me with that clear and penetrating glance which characterized him.

"Ah! you know that!" he said.

"I could not fail to know it, Mohun."

"True—and to think that all this time you have, perhaps, regarded me as a criminal, Surry! But I am one—that is I was—in intent if not in reality. Yes, my dear friend," Mohun added, with a deep sigh, his head sinking upon his breast, "there was a day in my life when I was insane, a simple madman,—and on that day I attempted to commit murder, and suicide! You have strangely come to catch many glimpses of those past horrors. On the Rappahannock the words of that woman must have startled you. In the Wilderness my colloquy with the spy revealed more. Lastly, the words of Darke on the night of Swartz's murder must have terribly complicated me in this issue of horrors. I knew that you must know much, and I did not shrink before you, Surry! Do you know why? Because I have repented, friend! and thank God! my evil passions did not result, as I intended, in murder and self-destruction!"

Mohun passed his hand across his forehead, to wipe away the drops of cold perspiration.

"All this is gloomy and tragic," he said; "and yet I must inflict it on you, Surry. Even more, I earnestly long to tell you the whole story of which you have caught these glimpses. Will you listen? It will not be long. I wish to show you, my dear friend—you are that to me, Surry!—that I am not unworthy of your regard; that there are no degrading scenes, at least, in my past life; that I have not cheated, tricked, deceived—even if I have attempted to destroy myself and others! Will you listen?"

"I have been waiting long to do so, Mohun," I said. "Speak, but first hear me. There is a man in this army who is the soul of honor. Since my father's death I value his good opinion more than that of all others—it is Robert E. Lee. Well, come with me if you choose, and I will go to Lee with you, and place my hand upon your shoulder, and say: 'General, this is my friend! I vouch for him; I am proud of his regard. Think well of him, or badly of me too!' Are you satisfied?"

Mohun smiled sadly.

"I knew all that," he said. "Do you think I can not read men, Surry? Long since I gave you in my heart the name of friend, and I knew that you had done as much toward me. Come, then! Go to my camp with me; in the evening we will take a ride. I am going to conduct you to a spot where we can talk without interruption, the exact place where the crimes of which I shall speak were committed."

And resuming the gallop, Mohun led the way, amid the trailing festoons, through the fallen logs, across the Rowanty.

Half an hour afterward we had reached his camp.

As the sun began to decline we again mounted our horses.

Pushing on rapidly we reached a large house on a hill above the Nottoway, and entered the tall gateway at the moment when the great windows were all ablaze in the sunset.



XIII.

FONTHILL.

Mohun spurred up the hill; reined in his horse in front of the great portico, and, dismounting, fastened his bridle to the bough of a magnificent exotic, one of a hundred which were scattered over the extensive grounds.

I imitated him, and we entered the house together, through the door, which gave way at the first push. No one had come to take our horses. No one opposed our entrance. The house was evidently deserted.

I looked round in astonishment and admiration. In every thing appertaining to the mansion were the indications of almost unlimited wealth, directed by the severest and most elegant taste. The broken furniture was heavy and elaborately carved; the remnants of carpet of sumptuous velvet; the walls, ceiling, doorways, and deep windows were one mass of the richest chiselling and most elaborate fresco-painting.

On the walls still hung some faded portraits in the most costly frames. On the mantel-pieces of variegated marble, supported by fluted pillars, with exquisitely carved capitals, rested a full length picture of a gentleman, the heavy gilt frame tarnished and crumbling.

The house was desolate, deserted, inexpressibly saddening from the evident contrast between its present and its past. But about the grand mansion hung an august air of departed splendor which to me, was more striking than if I had visited it in the days of its glory.

"Let me introduce 'Fonthill' to you, or rather the remains of it, Surry," Mohun said, with a sad smile. "It is not pleasant to bring a friend to so deserted a place; but I have long been absent; the house is gone to decay like other things in old Virginia. Still we can probably find two chairs. I will kindle a blaze, and we can light a cigar and talk without interruption."

With these words, Mohun proceeded to the adjoining apartment, from which he returned a moment afterward, dragging two chairs with elaborately carved backs.

"See," he said, with a smile, "they were handsome once. That one with the ragged remnants of red velvet was my father's. Take a seat, my dear Surry. I will sit in the other—it was my mother's."

Returning to the adjoining room, Mohun again reappeared, this time bearing in his arms the broken remnants of a mahogany table, which he heaped up in the great fireplace.

"This is all that remains of our old family dining-table," he said. "Some Yankee or straggling soldier will probably use it for this purpose—so I anticipate them!"

And, placing combustibles beneath the pile, Mohun had recourse to the metallic match case which he always carried with him in order to read dispatches, lit the fuel, and a blaze sprung up.

Next, he produced his cigar case, offered me an excellent Havana, which I accepted, and a minute afterward we were leaning back in the great chairs, smoking.

"An odd welcome, this," said Mohun, with his sad smile; "broken chairs, old pictures, and a fire made of ruined furniture! But one thing we have—an uninterrupted opportunity to converse. Let us talk, therefore, or rather, I will at once tell you what I promised."



XIV.

"LORD OF HIMSELF, THAT HERITAGE OF WOE."

Mohun leaned back in his chair, reflected for a moment with evident sadness, and then, with a deep sigh, said:—

"I am about to relate to you, my dear Surry, a history so singular, that it is probable you will think I am indulging my fancy, in certain portions of it. That would be an injustice. It is a true life I am about to lay before you—and I need not add that actual occurrences are often more surprising than any due to the imagination of the romance writer. I once knew a celebrated novelist, and one day related to him the curious history of a family in Virginia. 'Make a romance of that,' I said, 'it is an actual history.' But my friend shook his head. 'It will not answer my purpose,' he replied, smiling, 'it is too strange, and the critics would call me a "sensation writer"—that is, ruin me!' And he was right, Surry. It is only to a friend, on some occasion like the present, that I could tell my own story. It is too singular to be believed otherwise.

"But I am prosing. Let me proceed. My family is an old one, they tell me, in this part of Virginia; and my father, whose portrait you see before you, on the mantel-piece, was what is called an 'aristocrat.' That is to say, he was a gentleman of refined tastes and habits; fond of books; a great admirer of fine paintings; and a gentleman of social habits and feelings. 'Fonthill'—this old house—had been, for many generations, the scene of a profuse hospitality; my father kept up the ancient rites, entertaining all comers; and when I grew to boyhood I unconsciously imbibed the feelings, and clung to the traditions of the family. These traditions may be summed up in the maxims which my father taught me—'Use hospitality; be courteous to high and low alike; assist the poor; succor the unhappy; give bountifully without grudging; and enjoy the goods heaven provides you, with a clear conscience, whether you are called an aristocrat or a democrat!' Such were my father's teachings; and he practised them, for he had the kindest and sweetest heart in the world. He was aided in all by my mother, a perfect saint upon earth; and if I have since that time given way to rude passions, it was not for wanting a good example in the blameless lives of this true gentleman and pure gentlewoman.

"Unhappily, I did not have their example long. When I was seventeen my mother died; and my father, as though unable to live without her who had so long been his blessing, followed her a year afterward, leaving me the sole heir of the great possessions of the family. For a time grief crushed me. I was alone—for I had neither brother nor sister—a solitary youth in this great lonely house, standing isolated amid its twenty thousand acres—and even the guardian who had been appointed to look after my affairs, seldom came to see me and relieve my loneliness. The only associate I had was a sort of bailiff or steward, Nighthawk—you know him, and his attachment for me. It was hereditary—this attachment. My father had loved and trusted his; relieved the necessities of the humble family once when they were about to be turned adrift for debt. The elder Nighthawk then conceived a profound affection for his benefactor—and dying, left to his son the injunction to watch over and serve faithfully the son of his 'old master.'

"Do not laugh at that word, Surry. It is the old English term, and England is best of all, I think. So Nighthawk came to live with me, and take care of my interests. You know that he has continued to be faithful, and to serve me, and love me, to this moment.

"But in spite of the presence of this true friend, I was still lonely. I craved life, movement, company—and this I promised myself to secure at the university of Virginia, to which I accordingly went, spending there the greater portion of my time until I had reached the age of twenty. Then I returned to Fonthill—only to find, however, that the spot was more dreary than before. I was the master of a great estate, but alone; 'lord of myself,' I found, like the unhappy Childe Harold, and Randolph of Roanoke after him, that it was a 'heritage of woe.' There was little or no society in the neighborhood—at least suited to my age—I lived a solitary, secluded, dormant existence; and events soon proved that this life had prepared my character for some violent passion. A philosopher could have foretold that. Every thing in excess brings on reaction. The drunkard may abstain long, but the moment he touches spirit, an orgy commences. Men love, because the time and a woman have come—and that hour and person came all at once to arouse me from my lethargy.

"One day I was inert, apathetic, sluggish in my movements, careless of all things and all persons around me. On the next I was aroused, excited, with every nerve and faculty strung. I was becoming suddenly intoxicated, and soon the drunkenness of love had absorbed all the powers of my being.

"You know who aroused that infatuation, the daughter of George Conway."



XV.

THE STORM.

"At that time she was called Miss Mortimer. The commencement of our acquaintance was singular. Fate seemed to have decreed that all connected with our relations should be 'dramatic.'

"One night I was returning at full speed from the house of a gentleman in the neighborhood, whither I had been to make a visit. The night was as dark as a wolf's mouth, and a violent storm rushed down upon me, when I was still many miles from home. I have scarcely ever witnessed a more furious tempest; the thunder and lightning were fearful, and I pushed my horse to his utmost speed to reach Fonthill before the torrents of rain drenched me to the skin.

"Well, I had entered the Fonthill woods, a mile or two from the house, and was galloping at full speed through the black darkness which the lightning only occasionally illumined now, when all at once my horse struck his chest against something. I heard a cry, and then a dazzling flash showed me a light carriage which had evidently just been overturned. I was nearly unseated by the collision, but leaped to the ground, and at the same moment another flash showed me the form of a lady whom a man was extricating from the broken vehicle. I hastened to render my assistance. The lady was lifted in our arms, and then I aided in raising the fallen horse, who lay on his side, frightened and kicking violently.

"Ten minutes afterward I was placed in possession of what the lawyers call 'the facts of the case.' Mr. Mortimer, of Georgia, was travelling home from the North, with his sick sister in his carriage, for the benefit of her health. They had lost their way; the storm had caught them; their carriage had overturned in the darkness,—where could Mr. Mortimer obtain lodgings for the night? The condition of his sister rendered it imperative that they should not continue their journey until morning, even if the storm and broken vehicle permitted.

"I listened, and felt a warm sympathy for the poor sick girl—she was only a girl of eighteen, and very beautiful. I would gladly have offered my own house, but it was still some miles distant, and the young woman was so weak, and trembled so violently, that it would plainly be impossible to conduct her so far on foot. True, my carriage might have been sent for her, but the rain was now descending in torrents; before it arrived she would be drenched—something else must be thought of. All at once the idea occurred to me, 'Parson Hope's is only a quarter of a mile distant.' Mr. Hope was the parson of the parish, and a most excellent man. I at once suggested to Mr. Mortimer that his sister should be conducted thither, and as he assented at once, we half conducted, half carried the poor girl through the woods to the humble dwelling of the clergyman.

"The good parson received us in a manner which showed his conviction that to succor the stranger or the unfortunate is often to 'entertain angels unawares.' It is true that on this occasion it was something like a brace of devils whom he received into his mansion! The young lady threw herself into a seat; seemed to suffer much; and was soon conducted by the parson's old housekeeper—for he was a childless widower—to her chamber in which a fire had been quickly kindled. She disappeared, sighing faintly, but in those few minutes I had taken a good look at her. You have seen her; and I need not describe her. She is still of great beauty; but at that time she was a wonder of loveliness. Slender, graceful, with a figure exquisitely shaped; with rosy lips as artless as an infant's; grand dark eyes which seemed to burn with an inner light as she looked at you; such was Miss Mortimer at eighteen, when I first saw her on that night in the Fonthill woods."



XVI.

ACT I.

"An hour after the scene which I have tried to describe, I was at home; and, seated in this apartment, then very different in appearance, reflected deeply upon this romantic encounter with the beautiful girl.

"It was midnight before I retired. I fell asleep thinking of her, and the exquisite face still followed me in my dreams.

"These few words tell you much, do they not, Surry? You no doubt begin to understand, now, when I have scarcely begun the real narrative, what is going to be the character of the drama. Were I a romance writer, I should call your attention to the fact that I have introduced my characters, described their appearance, and given you an inkling of the series of events which are about to be unrolled before you. A young man of twenty is commended to your attention; a youth living in a great mansion; lord of himself, but tired of exercising that authority; of violent passions, but without an object; and at that very moment, presto! appeared a lovely girl, with dark eyes, rosy lips; whom the youth encounters and rescues under most romantic circumstances!

"Well, the 'lord of himself' acted in real life as he would have done in a novel. In other words, my dear Surry, I proceeded straightway to fall violently in love with Miss Mortimer; and it is needless to say that on the next day my horse might have been seen standing at the rack of the parsonage. I had gone, you see, as politeness required, to ask how the young lady felt after her accident.

"She was leaning back in an arm-chair, reading a 'good book,' and looked charming. The accident seemed to have greatly shocked the delicate frame of the young creature, but when I entered, she held out her hand, greeting me with a fascinating smile. Mademoiselle was imitated by Monsieur. I mean Mr. Mortimer. I did not fancy the countenance of that gentleman much. It was dark and forbidden, but his manners were those of a person acquainted with good society; he thanked me 'with effusion,' as the French say, for my timely assistance on the night before; and then he strolled forth with the good parson to look at the garden, leaving me tete-a-tete with his sister.

"Why lengthen out my story by comment, reflections, a description of every scene, and the progressive steps through which the 'affair' passed? I was in love with Miss Mortimer. She saw it. Her eyes said, 'Love me as much as you choose, and don't be afraid I will not love you soon, in return.' At the end of this interview, which the worthy Mr. Mortimer did not interrupt for at least two hours, I rode home thinking with a throb of the heart 'If she will only love me?' Then the throb was succeeded by a sudden sinking of the same organ. 'But there will be no opportunity!' I groaned, 'doubtless in two or three days she will leave this part of the country!' A week afterward that apprehension had been completely removed. Miss Mortimer was still faint and weak, 'from her accident.' All her movements were slow and languid. She had not left the good parson's house, Surry—and what is more she was not going to leave it! She had learned what she desired to know about me; heard that I was a young man of great wealth; and had devised a scheme so singular that—but let me not anticipate! She proceeded rapidly. In our second interview she 'made eyes at me.' In the third, she blushed and murmured, avoiding my glances, when I looked at her. In the fourth, she blushed more deeply when I took her hand—but did not withdraw it. In the fifth, the fair head in some manner had come to rest on my shoulder—no doubt from weakness. And in a few days afterward the shy, embarrassed, loving, palpitating creature, blushing deeply, 'sunk upon my bosom,' as the poets say, and murmured, 'How can I resist you?'

"In other words, my dear friend, Miss Mortimer had promised to become my wife, and I need not say, I was the happiest of men. I thought with rapture of the bliss I was about to enjoy in having by my side, throughout life, this charming creature. I trembled at the very thought that the accident in the wood might not have happened, and I might never have known her! I was at the parsonage morning, noon, and night. When not beside her I was riding through the forest at full speed, with bared brow, laughing lips, and shouts of joy—in a word, my dear friend, I was as much intoxicated as ever youth was yet, and fed on froth and moonshine to an extent that was really astonishing!

"There was absolutely nothing to oppose our marriage. My old guardian, it is true, shook his head, and suggested inquiries into the family, position, character, etc., of the Mortimers; I was young, wealthy, heir of one of the oldest families, he said, and sharpers might deceive me. But all I heard was the word 'sharpers'—and I left my guardian, whose functions had ceased now, in high displeasure at his unworthy imputations. That angel a sharper! That pure, devoted creature, guilty of deception! I fell into a rage; swore never to visit my guardian again; and returning to the parsonage urged a speedy consummation of our marriage.

"The fair one was not loth. She indicated that fact by violently opposing me at first, but soon yielded. When I rode home that night I had made every arrangement for our union in one month from that time.

"So much for Act I., Surry!"



XVII.

THE WILL.

Mohun had commenced his narrative in a mild voice, and with an expression of great sadness upon his features. As he proceeded, however, this all disappeared; gradually the voice became harsh and metallic, so to describe it, and his face resumed that expression of cynical bitterness which I had observed in him on our first meeting. As he returned thus, to the past, all its bitterness seemed to revive; memory lashed him with its stinging whip; and Mohun had gone back to his "first phase,"—that of the man, stern, implacable, and misanthropic.

After uttering the words, "So much for Act I., Surry!" he paused. A moment afterward, however, he resumed his narrative.

"What I am now going to tell you is not agreeable to remember, my dear Surry, and I shall accordingly relate every thing as briefly as possible. I aim only to give you a clear conception of the tragedy. You will form your own opinion.

"I was impolite enough in introducing Miss Mortimer to you, at the parsonage, to describe that young lady as a 'devil.' No doubt the term shocked you, and yet it conveyed something very like the exact truth. I declare to you that this woman was, and is still, a marvel to me, a most curious study. How could she be such as she was? She had the lips of an infant, and the eyes of an angel. Was it not strange that, under all that, she should hide the heart of a born devil? But to continue my narrative.

"The month or two which elapsed between my engagement and my marriage was not an uninterrupted dream of bliss. The atmosphere was strangely disturbed on more than one occasion. Mademoiselle was frequently absent from the parsonage when I arrived, taking long walks with Monsieur, her brother; and when she returned from these excursions, I could see a very strange expression on her countenance as she looked at me. Occasionally her glance was like those lurid flashes of lightning which you may have seen issue from the depths of a black cloud. Her black eyes were the cloud—admire the simile!—and I assure you their expression at such moments was far from agreeable. What to make of it, I knew not. I am not constitutionally irritable, but on more than one occasion I felt a strange angry throb of the heart when I encountered those glances.

"Mademoiselle saw my displeasure, and hastened at once to soothe and dissipate it. The dark flash was always succeeded by the most brilliant sunshine; but, even in moments of her greatest apparent abandon, I would still meet suddenly, when she did not think I was looking at her, the sombre glance which appalled me.

"In spite of this strange phenomenon, however, the young girl possessed unbounded influence over me. I could not resist her fascinations, and was as wax in her hands. She took a charming interest in all that concerned me; painted the blissful future before us, in all the colors of the rainbow; and declared that the devotion of her whole life would not be sufficient to display 'her gratitude for my magnanimity in wedding a poor girl who had nothing but her warm love to offer me.'

"'That is more than enough,' I said, charmed by her caressing voice. 'I have few relations, and friends—you are all to me.'

"'And you to me!' she said. Then she added, with a sort of shudder, 'but suppose you were to die!'

"I laughed, and replied:—

"'You would be well provided for, and find yourself a gay young widow with hundreds of beaux?'

"She looked at me reproachfully.

"'Do you think I would ever marry again?' she said. 'No! I would take our marriage ring, and some little souvenir connected with you, leave your fine house, and go with my brother to some poor home in a foreign country, where the memory of our past happiness would be my solace!'

"I shook my head.

"'You will not do that,' I said, 'you will be the mistress of all my fortune, after my death!'

"'Oh, no!' she exclaimed.

"'Oh, yes!' I responded, laughing; 'and, to make every thing certain, I am going to draw up my will this very day, leaving you every thing which I possess in the world.'

"Her face suddenly flushed.

"'How can you think of such a thing!' she said. 'I did not know how much you loved me!'

"You will understand, my dear Surry, that those words did not change my resolution. When I left her I went home, and wrote the will in due form, and on my next visit she asked, laughing, if I had carried out my absurd resolution.

"'Yes,' I said, 'and now let us talk of a more interesting affair—our marriage!'

"She blushed, then turned pale, and again I saw the strange lurid glance. It disappeared, however, in an instant, and she was all smiles and fascinations throughout the remainder of the day. Never had I been so happy."



XVIII.

THE MARRIAGE.

"As the day of our marriage approached," continued Mohun, "I saw more than once the same singular expression in the lady's eyes, and I confess it chilled me.

"She seemed to be the prey to singular moods, and fits of silence. She took more frequent and longer walks with Mortimer than before. When they returned from these walks and found me awaiting them at the parsonage, both would look at me in the strangest way, only to quickly withdraw their eyes when they caught my own fixed upon them.

"I longed to speak of this curious phenomenon to some one, but had no friend. My best friend, Nighthawk, was alienated from me, and Mademoiselle had been the cause. From the first moment of our acquaintance, Nighthawk had seemed to suspect something. He did not attempt to conceal his dislike of Mortimer and the young lady. Why was that? I could not tell. Your dog growls when the secret foe approaches you, smiling, and, perhaps, Nighthawk, my faithful retainer, had something of the watch dog in him.

"Certain it is that he had witnessed my growing intimacy with Miss Mortimer, with ill-concealed distaste. As I became more and more attentive, he became almost sour toward me. When I asked him the meaning of his singular deportment, he shook his head—and then, with flushed cheeks and eyes, exclaimed: 'do not marry this young person, sir! something bad will come of it!' When he said that, I looked at him with haughty surprise—and this sentiment changed in a few moments to cold anger. 'Leave this house,' I said, 'and do not return until you have learned how to treat me with decent respect!' He looked at me for a moment, clasped his hands, opened his lips—seemed about to burst forth into passionate entreaty—but all at once, shaking his head, went out in silence. I looked after him with a strange shrinking of the heart. What could he mean? He was senseless!—and I mounted my horse, galloped to the parsonage, was received with radiant smiles, and forgot the whole scene. On the next day Nighthawk did not return—nor on the next. I did not see him again until the evening of the day on which I was married.

"To that 'auspicious moment' I have now conducted you, my dear Surry. The morning for my marriage came. I say 'the morning'—for my 'enchantress,' as the amatory poets say, had declared that she detested the idea of being married at night; she also objected to company;—would I not consent to have the ceremony performed quietly at the parsonage, with no one present but her brother and the excellent parson, Hope, and his old housekeeper? Then she would belong to me—I could do as I pleased with her—take her to Fonthill, or where I chose—she only begged that I would allow her to embark on the ocean of matrimony, with no one to witness her blushes but myself, her brother, the old housekeeper, and the good minister!

"I consented at once. The speech charmed me, I need not say—and I was not myself unwilling to dispense with inquisitive eyes and laughing witnesses. Infatuated as I was, I could not conceal from myself that my marriage was a hasty and extremely 'romantic' affair. I doubted whether the old friends of my father in the neighborhood would approve of it; and now, when Mademoiselle gave me a good excuse to dispense with their presence, I gladly assented, invited no one, and went to my wedding alone, in the great family chariot, unaccompanied by a single friend or relative.

"Mademoiselle met me with a radiant smile, and her wedding dress of white silk, made her look perfectly charming. Her lips were caressing, her eyes melting, but all at once, as she looked at me, I saw the color all fade out of the rosy lips of the lady; and from the great dark eyes darted the lurid flash. A chill, like that of death smote me, I know not why, but I suppressed my emotion. In ten minutes, I was standing before the excellent clergyman, the young lady's cold hand in mine—and we were duly declared man and wife.

"All my forebodings and strange shrinkings were completely dissipated at this instant. I was overwhelmed with happiness, and would not have envied a king upon his throne. With the hand of the lovely creature in my own, and her eyes fixed upon me with an expression of the deepest love, I experienced but one emotion—that of full, complete, unalloyed happiness.

"Let me hasten on. The storm is coming, my dear Surry. I linger on the threshold of the tragedy, and recoil even now, with a sort of shudder from the terrible scenes which succeeded my marriage. Tragedy is a mild word, as you will perceive, for the drama. It was going to surpass Aeschylus—and preserve the Greek 'unities' with frightful precision!

"Half an hour after the ceremony, I led madam to my chariot; followed her into the vehicle, and making a last sign of greeting to the good parson, directed the driver to proceed to Fonthill. Madam's excellent brother did not accompany us. He declared his intention to remain on that night at the parsonage. He would call at Fonthill on the next day—on the day after, he proposed to continue his way to Georgia. His eyes were not a pleasant spectacle as he uttered these words, and I observed a singular pallor came to madam's countenance. But I was in no mood to nourish suspicion. At the height of happiness, I looked serenely down upon all the world, and with the hand of my wife in my own, was driven rapidly to Fonthill.

"We arrived in the afternoon, and dined in state, all alone. Madam did the honors of her table with exquisite grace, but more than once I saw her hand shake in a very singular way, as she carried food or a glass to her lips.

"After dinner she bade me a smiling courtesy, leaving me to find company in my cigar, she said; and tripped off to her chamber.

"Well, I lit my cigar, retired to the library, and seating myself in an arm-chair before the fire, began to reflect. It was nearly the middle of December, and through the opening in the curtains I could see the moonlight on the chill expanse of the lawn.

"I had just taken my seat, when I heard a step in the passage, the door of the library opened, and Nighthawk, as pale as a ghost, and with a strange expression in his eyes, entered the apartment."



XIX.

WEDDING ARRANGEMENTS.

"I had recognized his step," continued Mohun, "but I did not move or turn my head, for I had not recovered from my feeling of ill humor toward the faithful retainer. I allowed him to approach me, and then said coldly, without looking at him—

"'Who is that?'

"'I, sir,' said Nighthawk, in a trembling voice.

"'What do you want?'

"'I wish to speak to you, sir.'

"'I am not at leisure.'

"'I must speak to you, sir.'

"I wheeled round in my chair, and looked at him. His pallor was frightful.

"'What does all this mean?' I said, coldly, 'this is a singular intrusion.'

"'I would not intrude upon you, if it was not necessary sir,' he said, in an agitated voice, 'but I must speak to you to-night!'

"There was something in his accent which frightened me, I knew not why.

"'Well speak!' I said, austerely, 'but be brief!'

"'As brief as I can, sir; but I must tell you all. If you strike me dead at your feet, I must tell you all, sir!'

"In spite of myself I shuddered.

"'Speak!' I said, 'what does this mean, Nighthawk?' Why do you look like a ghost at me?'

"He came up close to me.

"'What I have to tell you concerns your honor and your life, sir!' he said, in a low tone.

"I gazed at him in speechless astonishment. Was I the prey of some nightmare? I protest to you, Surry, I thought for a moment that I was dreaming all this. A tremor ran through my frame; I placed my hand upon my heart, which felt icy cold—then suddenly my self-possession and coolness seemed to return to me as by magic.

"'Explain your words,' I said, coldly, 'there is some mystery in them which I do not understand. Speak, and speak plainly.'

"'I will do so, sir,' he replied, in the same trembling voice.

"And going to the door of the apartment, he bent down and placed his ear at the key-hole. He remained in this attitude for a moment without moving. Then rising, he went to the window, and drawing aside the curtains, looked out on the chill moonlit expanse. This second examination seemed to satisfy him. At the same instant a light step—the step of madam—was heard crossing the floor of the apartment, above our heads; and this evidently banished Nighthawk's last fears.

"He returned quickly to the seat where I was sitting; looked at me for some minutes with eyes full of fear, affection, sympathy, fright, and said in a voice so low, that it scarce rose above a whisper:—

"'We are alone, sir, and I can speak without being overheard by these devils who have betrayed and are about to murder you! Do not interrupt me sir!—the time is short!—you must know every thing at once, in an hour it would be too late! The man calling himself Mortimer is probably within a hundred yards of us at this moment. The woman you have married is——his wife. Stop, sir!—do not strike me!—listen! I know the truth of every thing now. She talked with him for an hour under the big cedar, near the parsonage last night. He will see her again to-night, and in this house—hear me to the end, sir! You will not harm him; you will care nothing for all this; you will not know it, for you will be dead, sir!'

"At these words I must have turned deadly pale, for Nighthawk hastened to my side, and placed his arm around me to support me. But I did not need his assistance. In an instant I was as calm as I am at this moment. I quietly removed the arm of Nighthawk, and said in a low tone:—

"'How do you know this?'

"'I overheard their talk,' he replied, in a husky voice, and looked at me with infinite tenderness as he spoke. 'I was coming to see you at the parsonage, where I thought you had gone, sir. I could not bear to keep away from my old master's son any longer; and let him get married without making up, and having him feel kindly again to me. Well, sir, I had just reached the big cedar, when I saw the lady come out of the house, hasten toward the cedar, and hide herself in the shadow, within a few feet of me. No sooner had she done so, than I saw a man come from the rear of the house, straight to the cedar, and as he drew nearer I recognized Mortimer. Madam coughed slightly, as though to give him the signal; he soon reached her; and then they began to talk. I was hidden by the trunk of the tree, and the shadow of the heavy boughs, reaching nearly to the ground; so I heard every word they said, without being discovered.'

"'What was it they said?'

"'I can not repeat their words, sir, but I can tell you what I learned from their talk.'

"'Tell me,' I said.

"'First, I discovered that madam had been married to that man more than a year before you saw her.'

"'Yes.'

"'Before which she had been tried, convicted, and confined for six months in a prison in New York, as a thief. You turn pale, sir; shall I stop?'

"'No, go on,' I said.

"'These facts,' continued Nighthawk, 'came out in a sort of quarrel which madam had with the man. He reproached her with intending to desert him—with loving you—and said he had not rescued her from misery to be thus treated. She laughed, and replied that she was only following a suggestion of his own. They were poor, they must live; he had himself said that they must procure money either honestly or dishonestly; and he had fully approved of the plan she had now undertaken. You, sir—she added—were an "empty-headed fool,"—the idea of her "loving" you was absurd!—but you were wealthy; immensely wealthy; had made a will leaving her your entire property;—if you died suddenly on your wedding night, she and himself would possess Fonthill, and live in affluence.'

"'Go on,' I said.

"'At these words,' continued Nighthawk, 'I could see the man turn pale. He had not intended that, he said. His scheme had been, that madam should induce you to bestow upon her a splendid trousseau in the shape of jewels and money, with which they would elope. The marriage was only a farce, he added—he did not wish to turn it into a tragedy. But she interrupted him impatiently, and said she hated and would have no mercy on you. She would have all or nothing. Your will made her the mistress. What was a crime, more or less, to people like themselves! At these words he uttered a growl. In a word, she added, you were an obstacle, and she was going to suppress you—with or without his consent. She then proceeded to tell him her resolution; and it is a frightful, a horrible one, sir! All is arranged—you are about to be murdered!'

"'How, and when?' I said.

"'This very night, by poison!'

"'Ah!' I said, 'explain that.'

"'Madam has provided herself with strychnine, which she will place in the tea you drink to-night. Tea will be served in half an hour. He will be waiting—for she forced him to agree—and your cries will announce all to him. You will be poisoned between eight and nine o'clock in the evening, sir,—at ten you will already be dying,—and at midnight you will be dead. Then madam will banish every one from her chamber, in inconsolable grief—lock the door—tap on the window-pane—he will hear the signal, and come up the back staircase—when madam will open the private door for him to come in and take a look at your body! Do you understand now, sir?'

"'Yes,' I said. 'Remain here, Nighthawk. There is the step of the servant coming to tell me tea is ready!'"



XX.

THE CUP OF TEA.

"The door opened as I uttered the words, and my old major-domo—gray haired, and an heir-loom, so to say, of the family—bowed low, and announced that tea was served and madam waiting.

"I rose and looked into the mirror above the fireplace. I was pale, but not sufficiently so to excite suspicion; and with a smile which frightened Nighthawk, took my way toward the supper-room.

"Madam was awaiting me, as I suspected, and I had never seen her look more radiant. A single glance told me that she had made an elaborate toilet in honor of—my funeral! Her dark hair was in shining braids; her eyes sparkled with joy; her parted lips showed her white teeth;—the only evidence I saw of concealed emotion was in the bloodless cheeks. They were as white as the lace falling over her superb silk dress.

"'You see you keep me waiting!' she said, with playful naivete, 'and your tea is growing cold, sir—which is worse for me than for you, as you do not care, but I care for you!'

"And as I passed her, she drew me playfully toward her, dragged me down, and held up her lips. I touched them with my own; they were as cold as ice, or the cheek my own face just touched in passing. I went to the table; took my seat; and madam poured out the tea, with a covert glance toward me. I was not looking at her, but I saw it.

"A moment afterward, the old waiter presented me the small gilt cup, smoking, fragrant, and inviting.

"I took it, looking, as before, out of the corner of my eye at madam. She was leaning forward, watching me with a face as pale as death. I could hear her teeth chatter.

"I placed the cup to my lips;—her hand, holding a spoon, trembled so that the spoon beat a tattoo on her saucer. She was watching me in breathless suspense; and all at once I turned full toward her.

"'The taste of this tea is singular,' I said, 'I should call it very bad.'

"'Oh, it is—excellent!' she muttered, between her chattering teeth.

"'The cup you send me is certainly wretched. Do me the pleasure to taste it, madam.'

"And depositing it upon the waiter of the old servant, I said:—

"'Take this to your mistress.'

"He did so; she just touched it with her lips, her hand trembling, then replaced it upon the waiter.

"'I perceive nothing disagreeable,' she murmured.

"'Swallow a mouthful,' I said, with a bitter smile.

"She looked at me with sudden intentness. Her eyes, full of wild inquiry, seemed attempting to read into my very soul.

"'Perhaps you object to drinking after me, as the children say,' I added—this time with a species of sneer, and a flash of the eye, I think.

"'Oh, no!' she exclaimed, with an attempt to laugh; 'and to show you—'

"With a quick movement she attempted—as though by accident—to strike the waiter with her elbow, in order to overturn the cup.

"But the old servant was too well trained. The lady's elbow struck the waiter, but the skilful attendant withdrew it quickly. Not a drop of the tea was spilled.

"A moment afterward I was beside madam.

"'I pray you to drink,' I said.

"'I can not—I feel unwell,' she murmured, cowering beneath the fire in my eye.

"'I beg you to drink from this cup.'

"'I have told you—I will not.'

"'I beseech you to humor me, madam. Else I shall regard you as a murderess!'

"She rose suddenly.

"'Your meaning, sir!' she exclaimed, as pale as death.

"I took the cup and poured the tea into a saucer. At the bottom was a modicum of white powder, undissolved. I poured the tea into the cup again—then a second time into the saucer. This time nothing remained—and I proceeded to pour cream into the saucer, until it was filled. Madam watched me with distended eyes, and trembling from head to foot. Then suddenly she uttered a cry—a movement of mine had caused the cry.

"I had gone to the fire where a cat was reposing upon the rug, and placed the saucer before her. In two minutes its contents had disappeared down the throat of the cat. Five minutes afterward the animal was seized with violent convulsions—uttered unearthly cries—tore the carpet with its claws—glared around in a sort of despair—rolled on its back, beat the air with its paws—and expired.

"I turned to madam, who was gazing at me with distended eyes, and pointing to the cat, said:—

"'See this unfortunate animal, madam! Her death is curious. She has died in convulsions, in consequence of drinking a cup of tea!'"



XXI.

THE FOILS.

"Up to this moment," continued Mohun, "madam had exhibited every indication of nervous excitement, and a sort of terror. Had that arisen from a feeling of suspense, and the unexpected discovery of her intent by the proposed victim? I know not; but now, when all was discovered, her manner suddenly changed.

"She glared at me like a wild animal driven to bay. Her pearly teeth closed upon her under lip until the blood started. Pallid, but defiant, she uttered a low hoarse sound which resembled the growl of a tigress from whom her prey has been snatched, and with a firm and haughty step left the apartment, glaring over her shoulder at me to the last.

"Then her step was heard upon the great staircase; she slowly ascended to her chamber; the door opened, then closed—and I sat down, overcome for an instant by the terrible scene, within three paces of the dead animal, destroyed by the poison intended for myself.

"This paralysis of mind lasted only for a moment, however. I rose coolly; directed the old servant, who alone had witnessed the scene, to retire, and carefully abstain from uttering a word of what had passed before him—then I leaned upon the mantel-piece, reflected for five minutes—and in that time I had formed my resolution.

"Mortimer was first to be thought of. I intended to put him to death first and foremost. It would have been easy to have imitated the old seigneurs of the feudal age, and ordered my retainers to assassinate him; but that was repugnant to my whole character. It should never be said that a Mohun had shrunk before his foe; that one of my family had delegated to another the punishment of his enemy. I would fight Mortimer—meet him in fair and open combat—if he killed me well and good. If not, I would kill him. And it should not be with the pistol. I thirsted to meet him breast to breast; to feel my weapon traverse his heart. To accomplish this was not difficult. I had often heard Mortimer, when at the parsonage, boast of his skill with the foils. I had a pair at hand. By breaking off the buttons, and sharpening the points, I would secure two rude but excellent rapiers, with which Mortimer and myself could settle our little differences, after the fashion of gentlemen in former ages! As to the place of combat,—anywhere—in the house, or a part of the grounds around the mansion—it was unimportant I said, so that one of us was killed. But a moment's reflection induced me to change my views. Under any circumstances I was going to die—that was true. My character, however, must be thought of. It would not do to have a stain rest on the last of the house of Mohun! Were I to kill Mortimer in the house, or grounds, it would be said that I had murdered him, with the aid of my servants—that I had drawn him thither to strike him—had acted the traitor and the coward. 'No,' I said, 'even in death I must guard the family honor. This man must fall elsewhere—in some spot far distant from this house—fall without witnesses—in silence—in fair fight with me, no one even seeing us.'

"I had formed this resolution in five minutes after the departure of madam from the supper-room. I went straight to the library; calmly stated my resolution to Nighthawk; and in spite of his most obstinate remonstrances, and repeated refusals, broke down his opposition by sheer force of will. It took me half an hour, but at the end of that time I had succeeded. Nighthawk listened, with bent head, and pale face covered with drops of cold perspiration, to my orders. These orders were to have the horses put to the carriage, which was to be ready at my call; then to proceed with a trusty servant, or more if necessary, to a private spot on the river, which I described to him; dig a grave of full length and depth; and when his work was finished, return and report the fact to me, cautioning the servant or servants to say nothing.

"This work, I calculated, would be completed about midnight—and at midnight I promised myself an interview with my friend Mortimer.

"Nighthawk groaned as he listened to my cold and resolute voice, giving minute instructions for the work of darkness—looked at my face, to discover if there were any signs of yielding there—doubtless saw none whatever—and disappeared, uttering a groan, to carry out the orders which he had received from me.

"Then I took the two foils from the top of the bookcase where they were kept; broke off the buttons by placing my heel upon them; procured a file, and sharpened the points until they would have penetrated through an ordinary plank. That was sufficient, I said to myself—they would pierce a man's breast—and placing them on the buffet, I went to a drawer and took out a loaded revolver, which I thrust into my breast.

"Two minutes afterward I had ascended to madam's chamber, opened the door, and entered."



XXII.

WHILE WAITING FOR MIDNIGHT.

"I did not arrive a moment too soon—in fact I came in the nick of time.

"Madam had hastily collected watches, chains, breastpins, necklaces, and all the money she could find; had thrust the whole into a jewel casket; thrown her rich furs around her shoulders; and was hurrying toward the door, in rear of the apartment which opened on the private staircase.

"She had not locked the main door of the apartment, doubtless fearing to excite suspicion, or knowing I could easily break the hasp with a single blow of my foot. She had plainly counted on my stupor of astonishment and horror at her crime, and was now trying to escape.

"That did not suit my view, however. In two steps, I reached the private door, turned the key, drew it from the lock, and placed it in my pocket.

"'Sit down, madam,' I said, 'and do not be in such a hurry to desert your dear husband. Let us talk for a few moments, at least, before you depart.'

"She glared at me and sat down. She looked regal in her costly furs, holding the casket, heaped with rich jewels.

"'What is your programme, madam, if I may ask?' I said, taking a chair which stood opposite to her.

"'To leave this house!' she said, hoarsely.

"'Ah! you are tired of me, then?'

"'I am sick of you!—have long been sick of you!'

"'Indeed!' I said. 'That is curious! I thought our marriage was a love affair, madam; at least you induced me to suppose so. What, then, has suddenly changed your sentiments in my direction? Am I a monster? Have I been cruel to you? Am I unworthy of you?'

"'I hate and despise you!'

"It was the hoarse growl of a wild animal rather than the voice of a woman. She was imperial at that moment—and I acknowledge, Surry, that she was 'game to the last!'

"'Ah! you hate me, you despise me!' I said. 'I have had the misfortune to incur madam's displeasure! No more connubial happiness—no more endearments and sweet confidences—no more loving words, and glances—no more bliss!'

"She continued to glare at me.

"'I am unworthy of madam; I see that clearly,' I went on. 'I am only a poor little, plain little, insignificant little country clodhopper! I am nothing—a mere nobody,—while madam is—shall I tell you, madam? While you are a convict—a bigamist,—and a poisoner! Are you not?'

"Her face became livid, but her defiant eyes never sank before my glance. I really admired her, Surry. No woman was ever braver than that one. I had supposed that these words would overwhelm her; that the discovery of my acquaintance with her past life, and full knowledge of her attempted crime, would crush her to the earth. Perhaps I had some remnant of pity for this woman. If she had been submissive, repentant! but, instead of submission and confusion, she exhibited greater defiance than before. In the pale face her eyes burned like coals of fire—and it was rage which inflamed them.

"'So you have set your spies on me!' she exclaimed, in accents of inexpressible fury. 'You are a chivalric gentleman, truly! You are worthy of your boasted family! You pretend to love and confide in me—you look at me with smiles and eyes of affection—and all the time you are laying a trap for me—endeavoring to catch me and betray me! Well, yes, sir! yes! What you have discovered through your spies is true. I was tried and sentenced as a thief—I was married when I first saw you—and it is this miserable creature, this offscouring of the kennels, this thief, that has become the wife of the proud Mr. Mohun—in the eyes of the world at least! I am so still—my character is untainted—dare to expose me and have me punished, and it is your proud name that will be tarnished! your grand escutcheon that will be blotted! Come! arrest me, expose me, drag me to justice! I will stand up in open court, and point my finger at you where you stand cowering, in the midst of jeers and laughter, and say: "There is Mr. Mohun, of the ancient family of the Mohuns,—he is the husband and the dupe of a thief!"'

"She was splendid as she uttered these words, Surry. They thrilled me, and made my blood flame. I half rose, nearly beside myself—then I resumed my seat and my coolness. A moment afterward I was as calm as I am at this moment, and said, laughing:—

"'So you have prepared that pretty little tableau, have you, madam? I compliment you on your skill;—and even more on your nerve. But have you not omitted one thing—a very trifling portion, it is true, of the indictment to be framed against you? I refer to the little scene of this evening, madam.'

"Her teeth closed with a snap. Otherwise she exhibited no emotion. Her flashing eyes continued to survey me with the former defiance.

"'Is there not an additional clause in the said indictment, madam?' I calmly continued, 'which the commonwealth's attorney will perhaps rely on more fully than upon all else in the document, to secure your conviction and punishment? You are not only a bigamist and an ex-convict,—you are also a poisoner, my dear madam, and may be hanged for that. Or, if not hanged—there is that handsome white house at Richmond, the state penitentiary. The least term which a jury can affix to your crime, will be eighteen years, if you are not sent there for life! For life!—think of that, madam. How very disagreeable it will be! Nothing around you but blank walls; no associates but thieves and murderers—hard labor with these pretty hands—a hard bed for this handsome body—coarse and wretched food for these dainty red lips—the dress, the food, the work, and the treatment of a convict! Disagreeable, is it not, madam? But that is the least that a felon, convicted of an attempt to poison, can expect! There is only one point which I have omitted, and which may count for you. This life in prison will not be so hard to you—since your ladyship has already served your apprenticeship among felons.'

"The point at last was reached. Madam had listened with changing color, and my words seemed to paint the frightful scene in all its horror. Suddenly fury mastered her. She rose and seemed clutching at some weapon to strike me.

"'You are a gentleman! you insult a woman.'

"'You are a poisoner, madam—you make tea for the gentleman!'

"'You are a coward! do you hear? a coward!'

"'I can not return, madam, the same reproach!' I replied, rising and bowing; 'it required some courage to attempt to poison me upon the very night of my wedding!'

"My words drove her to frenzy.

"'Beware!' she exclaimed, taking a step toward me, and putting her hand into her bosom.

"'Beware!' I said, with a laugh, 'beware of what, my dear Madam Laffarge?'

"'Of this!'

"And with a movement as rapid as lightning she drew from her breast a small silver-mounted pistol, which she aimed straight at my breast.

"I was not in a mood to care much for pistols, Surry. When a man is engaged in a little affair like that, bullets lose their influence on the nerves.

"'That is a pretty toy!' I said. 'Where did you procure it madam, the poisoner?'

"With a face resembling rather a hideous mask than a human countenance, she rushed upon me; placed the muzzle of the pistol on my very breast; and drew the trigger.

"The weapon snapped.

"A moment afterward I had taken it from her hand and thrown it into a corner.

"'Very well done!' I said. 'What a pity that you use such indifferent caps! Your pistol is as harmless as your tea!'

"She uttered a hoarse cry, but did not recoil in the least, Surry! This woman was a curiosity. Instead of retreating from me, she clenched her small white hand, raised it above her head, and exclaimed:—

"'If he only were here!'

"'He, madam?' I said. 'You refer to your respected brother—to Mr. Mortimer?'

"'Yes! he would make you repent your cowardly outrages and insults.'

"I looked at my watch, it was just eleven.

"'The hour is earlier than I thought, madam,' I said, 'but perhaps he has already arrived.'

"And advancing to the side of the lady, I took her arm, drew her toward the window, and said:—

"'Why not give your friend the signal you have agreed on, madam?'

"At a bound she reached the window, and struck a rapid series of blows with her fingers upon the pane.

"Five minutes afterward a heavy step was heard ascending the private staircase. I went to the door and unlocked it; the step approached—stopped at the door—the door opened, and Mortimer appeared.

"'Come in, my dear brother-in-law,' I said, 'we are waiting for you.'"



XXIII.

THE RESULT OF THE SIGNAL.

"Mortimer recoiled as if a blow had been suddenly struck at him. His astonishment was so comic that I began to laugh.

"'Good! you start!' I said. 'You thought I was dead by this time?'

"'Yes,' he coolly replied.

"As he spoke, his hand stole under the cloak in which he was wrapped, and I heard the click of a pistol as he cocked it. I drew my own weapon, cocked it in turn, and placing the muzzle upon Mortimer's breast, said:—

"'Draw your pistol and you are dead!'

"He looked at me with perfect coolness, mingled with a sort of curiosity. I saw that he was a man of unfaltering courage, and that the instincts of a gentleman had not entirely left him, soiled as he was with every crime. His eye was calm and unshrinking. He did not move an inch when I placed my pistol muzzle upon his breast. At the words which I uttered he withdrew his hand from his cloak—he had returned the weapon to its place—and with a penetrating glance, said:—

"'What do you wish, sir; as you declare you await me?'

"'Ask madam,' I said, 'or rather exert your own ingenuity.'

"'My ingenuity?'

"'In guessing.'

"'Why not tell me?'

"'So be it. The matter is perfectly simple, sir. I wish to kill you, or give you an opportunity to kill me—is that plain?'

"'Quite so,' replied Mortimer, without moving a muscle.

"'I can understand, without further words, that all explanations and discussions are wholly useless.'

"'Wholly.'

"'You wish to fight me,' he said.

"'Yes.'

"'To put an end to me, if possible?'

"'Yes.'

"'Well, I will give you that opportunity, sir, and, even return you my thanks for not killing me on the spot.'

"He paused a moment, and looked keenly at me.

"'This whole affair is infamous,' he said. 'I knew that when I undertook it. I was once a gentleman, and have not forgotten every thing I then learned, whatever my practice may be. You have been tricked and deceived. You have been made the victim of a disgraceful plot, and I was the author of the whole affair; though this lady would, herself, have been equal to that, or even more. You see I talk to you plainly, sir; I know a gentleman when I see him, and you are one. I was formerly something of the same sort, but having outlawed myself, went on in the career that brought me to this. I was poor—am poor now. I originated the idea of this pseudo-marriage, with a view to profit by it, but with no further—'

"He suddenly paused and looked at the woman. Their glances in that moment crossed like lightning.

"'Speak out!' she cried, 'say plainly—'

"'Hush! I did not mean to—I am no coward, madam!'

"'Say plainly that it was I who formed the design to get rid of this person!'

"And she pointed furiously at me.

"'Let no scruples restrain you—take nothing upon yourself—it was I, I!—I who planned his death!'

"Mortimer remained for an instant silent. Then he resumed, in the same measured voice as before:—

"'You hear,' he said. 'I tried to shield her, to take the blame—meant to give you no inkling of this—but she spoils all. To end this. I have offered you a mortal insult—soiled an ancient and honorable name—the last representative of the Mohuns has formed through me a degrading connection. I acknowledge all that. I am going to try to kill you, to bury every thing in the grave. I would have shrunk from assassinating you, though I wish your death. You offer me honorable combat, and you do me an honor, which I appreciate. Let us finish. The place, time, and weapons?'

"There was, then, something not altogether base in this man. I listened with joy. I had expected to encounter a wretch without a single attribute of the gentleman.

"'You accept this honorable combat, then?' I said.

"'With thanks,' he replied.

"'You wish to fight as gentlemen fight?'

"'Yes.'

"'You fence well?'

"'Yes—but you?'

"'Sufficiently well.'

"'Are you certain? I warn you I am excellent at the foils.'

"'They suit me—that is agreed on, then?'

"He bowed, and said:—

"'Yes. And now, as to the place, the time, and every detail. All that I leave to you.'

"I bowed in turn.

"'Then nothing will delay our affair. I have ordered a grave to be dug, in a private spot, on the river. The foils are ready, with the buttons broken, the points sharpened. The carriage has been ordered. A ride of fifteen minutes will bring us to the grave, which is done by this time, and we can settle our differences there, by moonlight, without witnesses or interruption.'

"Mortimer looked at me with a sinister smile.

"'You are provident!' he said, briefly. 'I understand. The one who falls will give no trouble. The grave will await him, and he can enter at once upon his property!'

"'Yes.'

"'And this lady?'

"'That will come afterward,' I said.

"'If I kill you—?'

"'She is your property.'

"'And if you kill me—?'

"'She is mine,' I said.

"The sinister smile again came to the dark features of Mortimer.

"'So be it,' he said, 'and I am ready to accompany you, sir.'

"I drew my pistol and threw it upon the bed, looking at Mortimer as I did so. He imitated me, and opening his coat, showed me that he was wholly unarmed. I did the same, and having locked the private door leading to the back staircase, led the way out, followed by Mortimer. He turned and looked at madam as he passed through the door. She was erect, furious, defiant, full of anticipated triumph. Was it a glance of gloomy compassion and deep tenderness which Mortimer threw toward her? I thought I heard him sigh.

"I locked the door, and we descended to the library."



XXIV.

WHAT TOOK PLACE IN FIFTY MINUTES.

"As we entered the apartment, the clock on the mantel-piece struck midnight.

"My body servant was within call, and I ordered my carriage, which Nighthawk had been directed to have ready at a moment's warning.

"In five minutes it was at the door, and I had just taken the two foils under my arm, when I heard a step in the passage. A moment afterward, Nighthawk entered.

"He was so pale that I scarcely recognized him. When his eyes encountered Mortimer, they flashed lightnings of menace.

"'Well?' I said, in brief tones.

"'It is ready, sir,' Nighthawk replied, in a voice scarcely audible. I looked at him imperiously.

"'And the servants are warned to keep silent?'

"'Yes, sir.'

"'Very well. Remain here until I return,' I said.

"And I pointed to a seat, with a glance at Nighthawk, which said plainly to him, 'Do not presume to attempt to turn me from my present purpose—it will be useless, and offensive to me.'

"He groaned, and sat down in the seat I indicated. His frame was bent and shrunken like that of an old man, in one evening. Since that moment, I have loved Nighthawk, my dear Surry; and he deserves it.

"Without delay I led the way to the carriage, which was driven by my father's old gray-haired coachman, and entered it with Mortimer, directing the driver to follow the high-road down the river. He did so; we rolled on in the moonlight, or the shadow, as it came forth or disappeared behind the drifting clouds. The air was intensely cold. From beyond the woods came the hollow roar of the Nottoway, which was swollen by a freshet.

"Mortimer drew his cloak around him, but said nothing. In ten minutes I called to the old coachman to stop. He checked his spirited horses—I had some good ones then—and I descended from the carriage, with the foils under my arm, followed by Mortimer.

"The old coachman looked on in astonishment. The spot at which I had stopped the carriage was wild and dreary beyond expression.

"'Shall I wait, sir?' he said, respectfully.

"'No; return home at once, and put away the carriage.'

"He looked at me with a sort of stupor.

"'Go home, sir?' he said.

"'Yes.'

"'And leave you?'

"'Obey me!'

"My voice must have shown that remonstrance would be useless. My old servitor uttered a sigh like the groan which had escaped from the lips of Nighthawk, and, mounting the box, turned the heads of his horses toward home.

"I watched the carriage until it turned a bend in the road, and then, making a sign to Mortimer to follow me, led the way into the woods. Pursuing a path which the moonlight just enabled me to perceive, I penetrated the forest; went on for about ten minutes; and finally emerged upon a plateau, in the swampy undergrowth near which stood the ruins of an old chimney.

"This chimney had served to indicate the spot to Nighthawk; and, before us, in the moonlight, was the evidence that he had found it. In the centre of the plateau was a newly dug grave—and in front of it I paused.

"'We have arrived,' I said.

"Mortimer gazed at the grave with a grim smile.

"'That is a dreary and desolate object,' he said.

"'It will soon be inhabited,' I returned; 'and the issue of this combat is indifferent to me, since in either event I shall be dead.'

"'Ah!' he exclaimed, 'explain that.'

"'Then you do not understand! You think this duel will end every thing? You deceive yourself! A family history like mine does not terminate with a duel. Have you read those tragedies where everybody is killed?—where not a single one of the dramatis personae escapes? Well, this is going to be a drama of that exact description. Do you wish to save that woman, yonder? To do so, you must kill me. I tell you that to warn you to do your best, sir!'

"Mortimer glared at me. It is hard to imagine a glance more sinister.

"'So you have arranged the whole affair?' he said; 'there is to be a wholesale killing.'

"'Yes.'

"'You are going to kill—her?'

"'Yes.'

"'Yourself, too?'

"'Yes.'

"Mortimer's smile became more sinister, as he raised his foil.

"'Take your position, sir,' he said; 'I am going to save you the latter trouble.'

"I grasped my weapon, and placed myself on guard.

"In an instant he had thrown himself upon me with a fury which indicated the profound passion under his assumed coolness. His eyes blazed; his lips writhed into something like a deadly grin; I felt that I had to contend rather with a wild animal than a man. The grave yawned in the moonlight at our very feet, and Mortimer closed in, with fury, endeavoring to force me to its brink, and hurl me into it.

"Ten minutes afterward the combat was over; and it was Mortimer who occupied the grave.

"He had given ground an instant, to breathe; had returned to the attack more furiously than before; a tremendous blow of his weapon snapped my own, eighteen inches from the hilt; but this had probably saved my life instead of destroying it, as Mortimer, from his fierce exclamation as the blade broke, evidently expected.

"Before he could take advantage of his success, I sprang at his throat, grasped his sword-arm with my left hand, and, shortening my stump of a weapon, drove the point through his breast.

"He uttered a cry, staggered, and threw up his hands; I released my clutch on his arm; and he fell heavily backward into the grave.

"'Now to end all,' I said, and I set out rapidly for Fonthill."



XXV.

GOING TO REJOIN MORTIMER.

"I had not gone a hundred yards, when I heard the sound of wheels approaching.

"I had said to myself, 'I am going back to madam; she will hear my footsteps upon the staircase; will open the door; will rush forward to embrace me, under the impression that I am her dear Mortimer, returning triumphant from the field of battle; and then a grand tableau!' Things were destined to turn out differently, as you will see in an instant.

"The sound of wheels grew louder; a carriage appeared; and I recognized my own chariot.

"'Why have you disobeyed my orders?' I said to the old gray-haired driver, arresting the horses as I spoke, by violently grasping the bridles.

"The old coachman looked frightened. Then he said, in an agitated voice:—

"'Madam ordered me to obey her, sir.'

"'Madam?'

"'Yes, sir.'

"'Where is she?'

"'In the carriage, sir. As soon as I got back, she came down to the door—ordered me to drive her to you—and I was obliged to do so, sir.'

"'Good,' I said, 'you have done well.'

"And opening the door of the carriage, through the glass of which I saw the pale face of the woman, I entered it, directing the coachman to drive to the 'Hicksford Crossing.'

A hoarse, but defiant voice at my side said:—

"'Where is Mr. Mortimer?'

"'Gone over the river,' I said, laughing, 'and we are going, too.'

"'To rejoin him?'

"'Yes, madam.'

"The carriage had rolled on, and as it passed the grave I heard a groan.

"'What is that?' said she.

"'The river is groaning over yonder, madam.'

"'You will not attempt to pass it to-night?'

"'Yes, madam. Are you afraid?'

"She looked at me with fiery eyes.

"'Afraid? No!' she said, 'I am afraid of nothing!'

"I really admired her at that moment. She was truly brave. I said nothing, however. The carriage rolled on, and ten minutes afterward the roar of the river, now near at hand, was heard. That sound mingled with the deep bellowing of the thunder, which succeeded the dazzling flashes at every instant dividing the darkness.

"All at once my companion said:—

"'I am tired of this—where is Mr. Mortimer?'

"'He awaits us,' I replied.

"'You are going to him?'

"'Yes.'

"We had reached the bank of the river, and, stopping the carriage, I sprung out. Madam followed me, without being invited. A small boat rose and fell on the swollen current. I detached the chain, seized a paddle, and pointed to the stern seat.

"'The river is dangerous to-night,' said madam, coldly.

"'Then you are afraid, after all?'

"'No!' she said.

"And with a firm step she entered the boat.

"'Go back with the carriage,' I said to the driver. He turned the heads of the horses, and obeyed in silence.

"Madam had taken her seat in the stern of the boat. I pushed from shore into the current, and paddling rapidly to the middle of the foaming torrent, filled with drift-wood, threw the paddle overboard, and took my seat in the stern.

"As I threw away the paddle, my resolution seemed to dawn for the first time upon my companion. She had become deadly pale, but said nothing. With folded arms, I looked and listened; we were nearing a narrow and rock-studded point in the river, where there was no hope.

"The frail boat was going to be overturned there, or dashed to pieces without mercy. I knew the spot—knew that there was no hope. The torrent was roaring and driving the boat like a leaf toward the jagged and fatal rocks.

"'Then you are going to kill me and yourself at the same time!' she said.

"The woman was fearless.

"'Yes,' I said, 'it is the only way. I could not live dishonored—you dishonored me—I die—and die with you!'

"And I rose erect, baring my forehead to the lightning.

"The point was reached. The boat swept on with the speed of a racehorse. A dazzling flash showed a dark object amid the foam, right ahead of us. The boat rushed toward it—the jagged teeth seemed grinning at us—the boat struck—and the next moment I felt the torrent sweep over me, roaring furious and sombre, like a wild beast that has caught its prey."



XXVI.

AFTERWARD.

"When I opened my eyes, the sun was shining in my face.

"I was lying on a mass of drift-wood, caught by a ledge of rock, jutting out into the river. I had apparently been hurled there, by the force of the current, stunned and bruised; the sunshine had aroused me, bringing me back to that life which was a burden and a mockery.

"And where was she? I shuddered as I asked myself that question. Had she been thrown from the boat? Had it been overturned? Was she drowned? I closed my eyes with a shudder which traversed my body, chilling my blood as with the cold hand of death.

"For a moment I thought of throwing myself into the river, and thus ending all my woes. But I was too cowardly.

"I turned toward the shore, groaning; dragged my bruised and aching limbs along the ledge of jagged rocks, through the masses of drift-wood; and finally reached the shore, where I sank down exhausted, and ready to die.

"I will not lengthen out the gloomy picture. At last I rose, looked around, and with bent head and cowering frame, stole away through the woods toward Fonthill. On my way, I passed within two hundred yards of the grave—but I dared not go thither. He was dead, doubtless—and he had been slain in fair combat! It was another form that haunted me—the form of a woman—one who had dishonored me—attempted to poison me—a terrible being—but still a woman; and I had—murdered her!

"I reached home an hour or two afterward. Nighthawk was sitting in the library, pale, and haggard, watching for me.

"As I entered, he rose with an exclamation, extending his arms toward me, with an indescribable expression of joy.

"I shrunk back, refusing his hand.

"'Do not touch that,' I groaned, 'there is blood on it!'

"He seized it, and kneeling down, kissed it.

"'Bloody or not, it is your hand—the hand of my dear young master!'

"And the honest fellow burst into tears, as he covered my hand with kisses.

"A month afterward, I was in Europe, amid the whirl and noise of Paris. I tried to forget that I was a murderer—but the shadow went with me!"



XXVII.

MOHUN TERMINATES HIS NARRATIVE.

Mohun had spoken throughout the earlier portions of his narrative in a tone of cynical bitterness. His last words were mingled, however, with weary sighs, and his face wore an expression of the profoundest melancholy.

The burnt-out cigar had fallen from his fingers to the floor; he leaned back languidly in his great arm-chair: with eyes fixed upon the dying fire, he seemed to go back in memory to the terrible scenes just described, living over again all those harsh and conflicting emotions.

"So it ended, Surry," he said, after a long pause. "Such was the frightful gulf into which the devil and my own passions pushed me, in that month of December, 1856. A hand as irresistible and inexorable as the Greek Necessity had led me step by step to murder—in intent if not in fact—and for years the shadow of the crime which I believed I had committed, made my life wretched. I wandered over Europe, plunged into a thousand scenes of turmoil and excitement—it was all useless—still the shadow went with me. Crime is a terrible companion to have ever at your elbow. The Atra cura of the poet is nothing to it, friend! It is a fiend which will not be driven away. It grins, and gibbers, and utters its gibes, day and night. Believe me, Surry,—I speak from experience—it is better for this world, as well as the next, to be a boor, a peasant, a clodhopper with a clear conscience, than to hold in your hand the means of all luxury, and so-called enjoyment, and, with it, the consciousness that you are blood guilty under almost any circumstances.

"Some men might have derived comfort from the circumstances of that crime. I could not. They might have said, 'I was goaded, stung, driven, outraged, tempted beyond my strength, caught in a net of fire, from which there was but one method of exit—to burst out, trampling down every thing.' Four words silenced all that sophistry—'She was a woman!' It was the face of that woman, as I saw it last on that stormy night by the lightning flashes, which drove me to despair. I, the son of the pure gentleman whose portrait is yonder—I, the representative of the Mohuns, a family which had acted in all generations according to the dictates of the loftiest honor—I, had put to death a woman, and that thought spurred me to madness!

"Of his death I did not think in the same manner. I had slain him in fair combat, body to body—and, however the law of God may stigmatize homicide, there was still that enormous difference. I had played my life against his, as it were—he had lost, and he paid the forfeit. But the other was murdered! That fact stared me in the face. She had dishonored me; tricked me; attempted to poison, and then shoot me. She had designed to murder me, and had set about her design deliberately, coolly, without provocation, impelled by the lust of gold only. She deserved punishment, but—she was a woman! I had not said 'Go!' either, in pointing to the gloomy path to death. I had said 'Come!'—had meant to die too. I had not shrunk from the torrent in which I had resolved she should be borne away. I had gone into the boat with her; accompanied her on her way; devoted myself, too, to death, at the same moment. But all was useless. I said to myself a thousand times—'at least they can not say that I was a coward, as well as a murderer. The last of the Mohuns may have blackened his escutcheon with the crime of murder—but at least he did not spare himself; he faced death with his victim.' Useless, Surry—all useless! The inexorable Voice with which I fenced, had only one reply—one lunge—'She was a woman!' and the words pierced me like a sword-blade!