A Beautiful Fiend E-Book

E. D. E. N. Southworth

• Herausgeber: Classica Libris
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

The story of Victor Hartman, accused of Henry Lytton’s murder.
Just how circumspect Mary Grey could be, and what the future had in store for this beautiful fiend, is told in Victor’s Triumph—the sequel to this romance.

Leseprobe

Copyright

First published in 1873

Copyright © 2022 Classica Libris

Chapter 1

VICTOR

“Victor Hartman! Stand up. Look upon the jury.”

The speaker was the clerk of arraigns.

The scene was the crowded courtroom of the City Hall.

The one addressed was the prisoner at the bar—a dark, slim boy of about twenty years of age. He arose to his feet, and stood grasping the front rails of the dock, while he turned his pallid face, and wild, dark eyes toward the twelve men who held his life upon their lips.

The clerk spoke again:

“Gentlemen of the jury, look upon the prisoner.”

A dozen of as conscientious citizens as ever hung human being for horse stealing fixed their eyes upon the poor creature whose doom they were about to decide.

“Gentlemen of the jury, how say you? Do you find Victor Hartman, the prisoner at the bar, guilty or not guilty of the willful murder of Henry Lytton?”

There was a pause, in which nothing could be heard in the deathly stillness of the crowd but the quick, low gasp of the agonized criminal as, in the crisis of his fate, he clutched the railings before him.

“We find him guilty,” solemnly replied the foreman of the jury, in tones that were distinctly heard throughout the breathless assembly.

And all eyes were bent upon the doomed boy to see how he would receive these words. But only those who were nearest to him could detect the quiver of his bloodless lips as he quickly covered his face with his hands and sank back upon his seat.

There was a moment’s silence still, and then a low murmur of approbation ran through the crowd. For this one’s crime had been the most heinous on record and had been abundantly proved upon him. And public sentiment had demanded his conviction, and now rejoiced in it.

But the prisoner shrank a little at this demonstration.

And then the voice of the crier was heard, commanding order to be observed in the court, and directing the prisoner to stand up.

He obeyed.

And then the venerable presiding judge arose and said:

“Victor Hartman! what have you to say why the sentence of the law should not be pronounced upon you?”

The wretched boy thus addressed, lifted his large, wild eyes appealingly to the judge’s face, and replied:

“Not much, indeed, your honor. I did kill Henry Lytton, my benefactor; I never denied it, your honor. And I would have pleaded guilty to the charge when I was arraigned, only I was instructed not to do so. And besides, I did not feel so guilty as the charge made me out to be, for it said, ‘With malice aforethought.’ There was no malice, your honor. There was only the whisky and sudden anger. No one in the world but myself knows the facts—the whole truth, I mean—about that murder. And I, even if I should tell it, should not be believed, for I could not prove my words. Still, I would like to say something more for myself now, your honor, if I may have leave to do so.”

“Prisoner, the court is prepared to hear anything you may have to say in your defense,” somewhat curtly responded the judge.

The doomed man wiped the cold sweat from his forehead, nerved himself, and continued:

“Your honor, when I got out of my poor bed that morning of the murder, I had no more idea of the deed I should do before night than the youngest child that said his daily prayer at his mother’s knees. I am soon to die, your honor, and die an ignominious death. I have not a hope in the world; for I have not a friend in the world. And so I wish to speak the truth.

“I went forth that morning innocent of the thought of doing any wrong, far less of doing murder. I had had no breakfast, and I was very hungry. I sought work, that I might get money and food. I found no work, but I found a comrade, who asked me into a dramshop to take a drink. I was half fainting from fasting; I was only too glad to accept his invitation. I went in, and took not one drink only, but two and three; and upon an empty stomach. Then my comrade went upon his way, and I on mine.

“I went to Mr. Arnott’s woodyard, and asked him if he wanted a cart driver, and told him that I would work at lower wages than any other man he could get. Other men, I knew, got a dollar and a quarter a day. So when he offered me seventy-five cents I accepted the offer, and the matter seemed settled, when Mr. Lytton came in. Mr. Lytton had dealt a good deal with Mr. Arnott and knew him well. Mr. Lytton had been my benefactor, and, of course, knew me well. As soon as he saw me he turned to the wood merchant and said:

“‘Are you thinking of employing that fellow, Arnott?’

“And Mr. Arnott said ‘Yes.’

“‘Then don’t do it. He is an incorrigible drunkard,’ said Mr. Lytton. ‘I have tried him time and again, and always found him false to every promise.’

“As soon as he had told this, Mr. Arnott turned to me and said:

“‘You may go, my man. I do not think that we shall want you.’

“I expostulated and promised better things. In vain. I was dismissed, and upon my protestation against what I considered gross injustice, I was instantly ordered to leave the office.

“Then it was that I turned to Mr. Lytton and shook my fist at him and said: ‘You shall pay for this’—the words that help to hang me, though I attached but little meaning to them then.

“Your honor, I left the office and walked up and down the streets, homeless, penniless, friendless and starving. If even a dog had licked my hand that day, it had not afterward been dyed with blood.

“By and by when, exhausted and despairing, I sat down on a curbstone near a dramshop, several of the devil’s people came out in high glee. I did not know any of them. But they must have recognized me as a brother in sin and misery, for one of them, seeing me, said:

“‘Poor wretch! let’s give him a drink. He’ll not be any the worse for it.’

“And they took me into the shop and gave me a drink of rum. And then, being half crazy from drinking on an empty stomach from morning till afternoon, I told them all my troubles and my real or imaginary wrongs, and especially the wrong that Henry Lytton had done me, in depriving me of the chance of work.

“And they all sympathized with me, in a reckless and rollicking sort of way, and said that Lytton was a brute, and that if they were in my place they would give him a licking, and so forth. And they gave me two or three more drinks and laughed at me and left me.

“I walked on rapidly toward—nowhere—until, being very weary, I sat down by the side of the road to rest. On one side of me were the high, rocky banks of the river; under my feet the river road; on the other side the river itself. I sat there and might have fallen asleep but that the sound of coming steps aroused me.

“I looked up and saw Henry Lytton walking briskly and gayly onward. I knew that he was coming home from the city, after his day’s business, to his pleasant suburban villa. And my heart burned with anger against him, but not with ‘bloodthirstiness,’ as the prosecuting attorney said.

“He drew near me, and as I thought of the contrast in our situations—he going to his pleasant rural home, and I homeless, penniless, and starving by the roadside through his means—I lost all self-command, staggered to my feet, and threw myself in his way and accosted him. What I said or did afterward, I do not clearly remember; for, as I said before, I was quite mad from the effects of hunger, drunkenness, and what I considered bitter injuries. He, Mr. Lytton, then treated me with contempt and ignominy, well deserved, no doubt. But, then, I lost the last remnant of my reason. And I have no clear remembrance of what followed. All is dim. I have a vague impression that I picked up a heavy fragment of rock and struck him down with it.

“All I remember after that is waking up the next morning in the station house and being told that I was arrested for murder.

“I know, of course, that my life cannot be spared. It is forfeited, and most justly forfeited, to the broken laws of the land. I must submit to my fate.

“But there is one thing for which I devoutly thank Heaven. I have not a friend in the world to mourn my doom. Your honor, I have done.”

And here the wretched boy bowed and stood with depressed head, waiting to receive the awful sentence of the law.

The venerable presiding judge then arose and addressed the prisoner:

“Victor Hartman, you have been found guilty, after a careful and impartial trial, by a jury of your peers, of the awful crime of willful murder—a crime, in your case, rendered even more atrocious by the circumstances under which it was committed. This murder was perpetrated upon the person of your benefactor, for whom it has been proved that you laid in wait, and whom it is known you basely assassinated.

“You have endeavored to palliate your dreadful deed. It is needless to say that you have not succeeded in doing so. There is scarcely any one in the sound of my voice who does not concur in the verdict that has just been rendered and look upon your deed as the premeditated crime of an assassin.

“Young in years, but old in sin, you have terminated your career of vice by the capital crime which will place you on the scaffold. And it becomes my duty to warn you against the entertainment of any vain hope of pardon or respite, or even of commutation of punishment; for there is not a chance in this world for you. And I here exhort and entreat you to use wisely the short time that is left you on earth in reflection upon your past life, repentance for your past crimes, and prayer for pardon to that all-merciful Lord from whom alone pardon may be sought and found. And now nothing remains for me to do but to pronounce upon you the sentence of the law.”

And here the judge slowly put on the black cap and spoke the dreadful words of doom that consigned the pale boy before him to an ignominious death.

 With pallid cheek and quivering lips he heard his fate and sank to his seat.

The order was given to remove the prisoner, and the court was immediately adjourned.

Two policemen took charge of the condemned. One snapped the handcuffs on his wrists; the other arranged a short cloak over his shoulders, and then they led him out between them.

As he passed on between these two policemen, hearing bitter but well-deserved reproaches, and hearing not one merciful accent, he bowed his head upon his breast until he came to the corner of the street leading to the prison, when suddenly a sweet, compassionate voice stole upon his ear.

“Why, is that Hartman, the murderer they talk so much about—that poor, poor boy? Oh, I do feel so very sorry for him!” murmured the musical voice.

Hartman raised his bowed head and saw standing by the palings of the City Hall Park a fair young girl of about fifteen years of age, with golden ringlets shading a snowy forehead, and tender blue eyes full of compassion. She was neatly dressed in a light-blue gingham suit and a white straw hat. She carried in her arms a pile of school books. And she was accompanied by other children, also carrying books. She was only a schoolgirl, but her sweet compassion touched the broken-hearted prisoner, and brought the tears to his eyes, as he faltered, in passing:

“I thank you, miss, for your kind words. Pray for the poor, sinful prisoner, for the Lord will hear you.”

“Yes, I will pray for you, poor, poor soul! And you must pray for yourself, too, for the Lord will hear you just as soon as He will hear me, or anybody else. And maybe sooner, too, because you are in such heavy sorrow,” said the fair girl, as he passed out of her hearing.

“I shall die within a few weeks; but if I could live to the age of threescore and ten, I should never forget that young angel’s face,” muttered the prisoner to himself, as he was led into the jail yard.

He was taken at once to his cell, and locked in. It was a very bare den, with whitewashed wall and grated door, a narrow cot bedstead, and a stone jug of water—nothing more, for the prisoner had neither friends nor relatives to supply him with such comforts as were not provided by the prison.

Hartman threw himself down upon his cot and tried to pray; but the words of prayer came slowly and awkwardly to his unaccustomed lips.

“Someone must teach me how to pray,” he said. And then he thought of the blue-eyed girl, and he added:

“She bade me pray. She could teach me how. She will pray for me tonight, I know. And I would rather have her prayers than a bishop’s.”

He folded his hands and closed his eyes. And Heaven had pity on him, for he slept, and dreamed of his childhood’s home.

Chapter 2

THE CASTAWAY

Now a few words as to the antecedents of this poor, guilty wretch, who was doomed to end a brief life of vice and crime by an early and ignominious death.

Victor Hartman was the only living son of a deceased farmer, who once lived upon a small, rented farm in the vicinity of the city.

In his early childhood he lost his mother and several sisters and brothers.

At the age of ten years he was presented with a young stepmother, with whom he could not agree, and against whose authority he constantly rebelled.

He was therefore sent to a public school in the city, where he soon became equally noted for his quickness at learning and at all sorts of mischief.

At the age of thirteen years he ran away to sea and went as cook’s boy on a whaling vessel bound for the Antarctic Ocean.

He soon grew tired of the whaler and took the first opportunity of deserting from her. While she was at anchor in one of the most southerly of the South American ports, he managed to make his escape and conceal himself on board of a brig bound for San Francisco.

After landing at San Francisco, he led a vagrant life in the city for several months, and then made his way to the gold diggings, where he was moderately fortunate.

He passed two or three years in California, and then tiring of that life, as he tired of everything, he made a voyage to China and Japan.

He deserted again at Yokohama, concealed himself until his ship sailed, and then he enlisted on a British merchantman bound for Sydney, Australia. As he had shipped only for the voyage, he left the ship as soon as he reached Sydney and started for the gold fields of Australia.

He was not so successful here as he had been in California. He was soon reduced to such a state of destitution that he was compelled to work his way to the nearest seaport, where he shipped as seaman on the first homeward-bound vessel.

In due season his ship reached New York. As soon as the crew was paid off, he started for the South.

In due time he came to the village near which his father’s farm stood.

He stopped at the little country tavern to get supper and make inquiries before walking out to the farm.

But ah! what sorrowful news here met the prodigal son! There was no father to welcome his return. That father had departed this life six years before. The farm had passed into other hands. The stock and implements and household furniture had been sold and scattered far and wide. His stepmother had married again and was now living in Minnesota with her new husband.

The effect of this news upon his mind was fatally depressing. He had now no desire to visit the old farm. His half-formed resolutions of amendment were utterly destroyed. The father for whose sake he might have reformed had passed to another world. The home to which he meant to have returned was in the hands of strangers.

Instead of the returned prodigal’s most loving welcome and joyous feast in his father’s house, he had his lodging in the dull village tavern, with the memory of his own sins and his father’s broken heart for company.

He could not bear the situation. He resorted to the only comfort he knew—the treacherous and fatal comfort of the bottle.

After deep potations, he went to bed, and fell into a heavy sleep that lasted long into the next morning. He arose about noon, and, after breakfasting, he took the next stagecoach that passed, and went back to the city—that city so soon to become the scene of his crimes and his punishment.

For a week or two after his arrival, he rambled about the town, living here and there in the lowest public-houses, until he had spent all his sailor’s pay. And then it became necessary for him to seek employment, in order to obtain food.

But his wild and wandering life, his idle and reckless habits, had totally unfitted him for any but the humblest manual labor.

Occasionally he obtained a job to put in wood or coal, to drive a cart, or to carry a heavy parcel. And the pittance gained by these labors would be oftener spent in rum than in food.

Chance threw him in the way of Mr. Henry Lytton, a busy lawyer, who had his office in the city and his residence in a beautiful suburban villa.

Mr. Lytton employed him first to sweep and dust and build fires in his office. For a few days Hartman performed his duties faithfully. But the demon of drink had got too fast a hold upon him. Soon he began to neglect his work. His employer often came to the office in the morning, and found it closed, cold and comfortless, and his porter missing. Mr. Lytton soon discovered the cause of his boy’s dereliction, and he expostulated with him. But in vain; for although Hartman would always promise to reform, he never did so, and his habits grew worse and worse.

Mr. Lytton discharged him.

We know the sequel of that sad story.

Chapter 3

THE HOME OF THE VICTIM

About three miles south of the city, and upon a small hilly point jutting out into the river, stood the pretty villa known as Highsight, and once owned by the murdered lawyer Henry Lytton, if indeed a house so heavily mortgaged could be said to be owned by the nominal proprietor.

Henry Lytton was first a self-made, and then a self-marred man—a conjunction not at all uncommon.

He was the second son of a Southern planter of good family, but of reduced fortune.

As the law of primogeniture had continued to be the rule of his family long after it had ceased to be a statute of the commonwealth, Henry Lytton, the younger brother, could not hope for an interest in the dilapidated mansion and exhausted acres of the old plantation, which was sure to be the sole inheritance of the eldest son.

Thus, seeing that he had his own way to make in the world, and being a very keen-witted young man, he resolved to give himself to the study of the law, and he persuaded his father to send him into the office of a city lawyer, where he could read law books and attend the lectures of the law college.

This was a serious expense to the impoverished father, who, however, willingly took upon himself the new burden.

And in due course of time Henry Lytton graduated and was called to the bar.

He rose rapidly in his profession and made much money.

He purchased an estate and built a beautiful country seat on the banks of the river, which, from its elevated position and extensive prospect, he called “Highsight.”

He married a famous city beauty of old family and no fortune, and he set up housekeeping with her, in his new country seat, in a style more in accordance with his pride than his purse.

This was the commencement of his ruin. He entertained company very frequently, and very expensively. He kept race horses and foxhounds, and a pleasure boat. And, worse than all, he gambled.

And thus it followed that although he made a great deal of money, he spent a great deal more than his income, and as the years went by he became more and more involved in debt.

Two children were born to him—a boy and a girl. But even the birth of these children failed to inspire him with any sense of a parent’s responsibility. He continued his reckless pursuit of pleasure.

When his boy and girl were respectively four and two years of age, his beautiful wife died. And then he became more reckless than ever, as if he would drown grief in dissipation.

He was, perhaps, the most popular man in his own large circle of acquaintances. And he was generally believed to be as prosperous as he was popular. No one knew how deeply he was involved. No one suspected that the great lawyer was on the very brink of bankruptcy.

It was when his son was seventeen years of age, and his daughter fifteen, that his sudden and tragic death revealed the true state of his affairs.

When the coroner and jury with their attendant officers had left the house, it was discovered by the heart-broken boy and girl that there was not ready money enough to meet immediate and pressing demands. Some watches and jewelry were sent out and sold. And a telegram was dispatched to the grandfather, old Able Lytton, of Lytton Lodge, near Wendover, to tell him of the death of his younger son.

The grief-stricken old man came without delay and reached Highsight on the morning of the day appointed for the funeral.

He had seen very little lately of his son or of his grandchildren. The busy lawyer, equally devoted to his profession and his pleasures, had found little time to visit his aged parents. In fact, from the time that he had established himself at Highsight, he had never once returned to his old home.

But the old man, at rare intervals of three or four years, had come up to the city to see his son. Now, however, five years had passed since his last visit. And the son that he had last met in the full vigor of life and health, lay mutilated and dead in his room; and the boy and girl he had last seen as blooming children of twelve and ten years, were now a pale and sad youth and maiden of seventeen and fifteen years. And to add to his trouble, their deceased father, whom he had believed to be so prosperous and wealthy, had died on the very brink of bankruptcy and left an estate mortgaged to its full value and debts that could scarcely be paid by the sale of all his personal property, and thus left his son and daughter destitute.

On the day after the funeral, which was a grand and costly pageant, more in accordance with the late lawyer’s expensive style of living than with his orphan children’s destitute circumstances, the house being restored to order and quiet, old Able Lytton called his grandson and granddaughter to him, and said:

“My dear Alden and Laura, I must remain here for a few weeks to settle up your poor father’s affairs as well as I can, for there is no one else but me to do it, I think.”

The mourning youth and maiden made no answer but clung to each other in their desolation. The old man went on to say:

“But you see, my dears, that it would be worse than vain to stay here an hour more than needful. The sooner we have a sale and pay off the debts, and leave the place, the better.”

“I only want to stay near town long enough to see my father’s murderer hung!” exclaimed the youth, his fists clenched, his lips trembling and his black eyes flashing fire.

“Hush, my boy, hush! The man will be hung, but you will not see it. Lord forbid that you should. The authorities will never let a boy behold an execution, even though it should be of the murderer of his own father. Lord forbid that they ever should. Now let us talk of something else,” said the old man, solemnly.

“You may talk of what you please. I shall think only of the death of my father and the execution of his murderer,” gloomily replied the boy.

The old man wisely refrained from replying to these dark words, and then went on to say:

“When we leave this house, I shall take you both home with me, for the present, to the old plantation. And so long as you shall need it, my home will be yours, of course. It will not be an elegant and refined place like this, but it will be a home of love, peace, and grace. Your old grandmother, whom you have seldom seen, will welcome you with much affection. She would have come with me, but the sudden news of her son’s death prostrated her too much to permit her to make the journey. I hope to find her better when we get home.”

A few weeks from this time, the house and grounds were sold under the mortgage; and the household and office furniture, together with a valuable law library, were disposed of at public auction for the benefit of the creditors.

There was nothing left for the heirs of the deceased, not even enough to pay their traveling expenses from the city.

Their grandfather, old Able Lytton, as their nearest of kin, and their natural guardian, took the burden of their support upon himself, and resolved to convey them to his plantation near Wendover.

In leaving the bright home of his childhood, young Alden Lytton had but one consolation—a very grim, revengeful one—that Victor Hartman had been convicted of murder in the first degree and condemned to death.

He would gladly have stayed in the city for a few days longer, to be present at the execution, or at least to be as near the scene as possible; but his grandfather, for the very opposite reason, the anxiety to escape the sight or hearing of the coming public tragedy, hurried their departure.

Chapter 4

MYSTERIOUS MISSIVES

A few days after the conviction of Hartman, the governor of the State, on retiring to his bedroom late in the evening, found upon his dressing-table a letter directed to himself in a strange handwriting.

Surprised at the incident, and curious to know what it might mean, he opened the letter, and, with increasing astonishment, read these few mysterious lines:

To His Excellency the Governor

Sir,

Victor Hartman has been convicted of the willful murder of Henry Lytton and has been condemned to die for that crime. Sir, Victor Hartman did not kill Henry Lytton. And if they hang him they will hang an innocent man. You alone can now save his life, and you must do it, or repent not doing it to the last day of your existence. Believe this as the true statement of

One Who Knows

The astonishment of the reader passed away with a smile of scorn, as he tore up the letter and threw it into the grate, saying:

“The shallowest and most transparent device to obtain a pardon that I ever heard of in all my life.”

And so he dismissed the subject from his thoughts as too contemptible to be worthy of a moment’s attention.

But in a few days he found another letter under his plate at the breakfast table. The handwriting, the envelope, the note paper, and the style of composition were all entirely different from those of the first; but the subject matter was the same, namely, to the effect that Victor Hartman was guiltless of the death of Henry Lytton, and that if Victor Hartman should be hung, his death would not be an execution, but a murder; that the governor must save him, or never cease to deplore not doing so.

This letter met the fate of its predecessor. But the matter was not treated with quite so much contempt.

On the contrary, his excellency closely questioned the members of his family. They were, besides himself, his aged mother, his widowed sister, and his young daughter.

But neither grandma, auntie, nor Emma knew anything about the strange letter. They had not even seen it until papa drew it out from under his plate.

The governor next called up his servants and put them individually and collectively under examination and cross-examination. But each and all denied knowledge of the letter.

The governor continued to receive the mysterious letters, iterating and reiterating the writer’s positive knowledge of the condemned man’s innocence, and urging and insisting upon a full remission of the sentence.

They still reached their destination in the strangest manner—one being drawn from his pocket with his handkerchief, another found in his hat with his gloves; one dropped from the folds of his umbrella, and another laid in his path as he walked before his own door.

The utmost vigilance of the police failed to detect the writer.

Three days before the one appointed for the execution of Victor Hartman, Governor Cavendish, with his family, left town for his country seat among the Blue Ridge Mountains, where it was his custom to spend a few weeks of the midsummer of each year. Only on this occasion he left town earlier than usual in the season, and it was said, and not without some good reason, that he went to be out of the way of the public tragedy to be enacted the next day.

He went by train to Wendover, a picturesque mountain hamlet, where his own traveling carriage met him by appointment to take him and his party to their home.

The ancient colonial mansion known as Cliff Hall was a large, gray stone building, situated at the base of the Blue Cliffs, a spur of the Blue Ridge. It had been in the possession of the Cavendish family from the first settlement of the country.

The road from Wendover to Cliff Hall wound through a beautiful wood for about seven miles. It was late in the evening of the second day’s journey when the carriage with the travelers reached Cliff Hall.

The widowed sister of the governor was there to receive them, and all things were prepared for their comfort.

“You are down a month earlier than usual this year, Charles,” said Mrs. Wesley, as she welcomed her brother.

“Yes, Susan; there are some parts of my official duty I never can perform without much pain, and—”

“I understand. Signing a death warrant is one of them.”

“Yes. And to be frank with you, I have come down here to be out of the way of seeing or hearing of the execution.”

He made a hasty toilet, and then went down to the dining room, where he found his venerable mother and his young daughter already dressed and waiting for him.

They were soon joined by his sister. And then the whole party sat down to supper.

The meal was scarcely halfway through, when a loud knock was heard at the hall door. Now, if this knock had come to the street door of the city mansion, there would have been nothing strange or unusual in it. But coming to the door of that remote mountain home, at that late hour, and upon the first night of the master’s arrival, it was, to say the least, rather startling.

All looked up from the supper table to gaze at each other inquiringly. But before a question could be asked, Jerome, the hall waiter, entered and put a folded slip of paper in his master’s hands.

The governor opened it, read it, and changed color so quickly that his mother anxiously inquired:

“What is it, Charles?”

Without answering, without even hearing the venerable lady’s question, the governor turned to the servant and said, hastily:

“Show the visitor into my study and say that I will meet him there immediately.”

The servant bowed and went out with his message.

“Who is it, Charles?” inquired his sister.

But Governor Cavendish hurried from the room without seeming to know that she had spoken.

Half an hour passed, and the study bell was then so sharply rung that the hall footman ran in haste to answer it.

Both ladies simultaneously arose from the table and went to the door that led from the dining room to the hall. And there they waited anxiously, until the footman came out from the study and hurried past them.

They called after him in suppressed tones:

“What is the matter, Jerome?”

“I don’t know, ma’am. Master has ordered the carriage with fresh horses to take him all the way to Wendover, to meet the midnight train,” answered the man, as he hurried out on his errand.

“Good gracious, is he going back to town tonight?” exclaimed Mrs. Wesley.

“What on earth can take him there?” inquired old Mrs. Cavendish.

Both questions were partly answered by the appearance of Governor Cavendish himself, who came out from his study, looking pale, and anxious, and, in fact, more profoundly agitated than they had ever seen him.

“Charles, is it true that you are going back to town tonight?” inquired the old lady, as he was rushing past.

“Yes, mother; I am called there by the most imperative duty,” he answered, as he hurried up the stairs.

“That’s the strangest thing I ever knew him to do in my life,” complained the old lady.

“I suppose, in fact, that this visitor has brought some important news, that makes it necessary for him to go,” observed the younger one, as they still lingered near the dining room door.

The sound of the carriage wheels was heard rolling up to the hall door. And at the same moment Mr. Cavendish came down the stairs prepared for his sudden night journey and followed by his servant carrying his portmanteau.

He stopped first at the study door, knocked, and said:

“I am ready.”

The mysterious stranger came out.

Both ladies looked at him. But they could see nothing of his face, for his coat collar was turned up around his cheeks, and his hat brim was pulled down over his brows. He passed them very quickly and went out. And the next moment they heard the sound of his horse’s hoofs galloping away.

Governor Cavendish approached his astonished relatives. He was pale and agitated, yet he strove to conceal his emotion under a commonplace manner, as he said, hastily:

“Good-by, mother. Good-by, sister. Take care of Emma and expect me back in two or three days.”

And, before they could express their amazement, he was gone.

As the sound of his carriage wheels died away in the distance, they returned to the drawing room, where their attention was immediately drawn to Emma.

The fair girl was sitting at the marble center table with her arms resting upon its top, and her head bowed, until all its light ringlets drooping veiled her face.

“And whatever can be the matter with that girl? She has been moping all the evening. I am afraid she is going to be ill,” said Mrs. Wesley, gazing fixedly at her niece.

“Come here, Emma. Let me look at you, my love,” said the old lady, as she sank down into her easy-chair.

Finding herself noticed, the young girl would willingly have escaped from the room; but at the command of her grandmother she lingered.

“Come, my child. I want to look at you,” repeated the old lady.

Then Emma came and stood at her side, with eyelids drooping and bosom heaving.

“What ails you, Emma? Are you ill?”

She shook her fair head, but her lips quivered.

“Then what is amiss?”

“Oh, nothing, grandma. Nothing with me—only—it is very foolish, but I cannot help it.” And she burst into tears and sobbed convulsively.

The old lady drew the girl closer to her side, as she said, tenderly:

“Now I know you never weep without a cause, Emma, for you never were hysterical; and I insist on your telling me what troubles you.”

“Oh, dear grandma, never mind me,” sobbed the girl.

“So you won’t tell me, then?”

“Oh, yes, I will. But it is so weak and foolish of me to— But I cannot help it. Oh, grandma! it is about that wretched boy who is going to be executed tomorrow. What a night this must be to him! Oh! oh!”

And the girl dropped her head upon the old lady’s shoulder and sobbed afresh.

“What nonsense, Emma! The wretch is nothing to us,” said Mrs. Wesley.

“I know it, Aunt Susan; but I am so sorry for him.”

“And murderers ought to be hanged, for the protection of society.”

“I know it; but I am sorry for him.”

The old lady bent over and caressed her, and softly inquired:

“Why do you feel so much pity for this particular man, Emma? You felt none for Burke, who was hung last winter.”

“No. I never thought about him. And perhaps I should never have thought about this one, either, only I saw him once.”

“You saw him, Miss Cavendish? That was very shocking!” exclaimed Mrs. Wesley.

“Yes, Aunt Susan. I was coming home from school that afternoon, and I passed by the City Hall just as they were bringing him out, after his sentence. And when I saw his poor, pale face and wild, distressful eyes, I pitied him, and I said so to my companions. And he heard me, and turned his poor eyes on me, and thanked me for pitying him, poor soul! as if there was any merit in doing what I could not help. And he asked me to pray for him. And I promised to do so, and I have done so every day since. And oh, grandma!” she added, turning to her best friend, “this is his last night, this awful night, and I can do nothing for him!”

“Yes, my child, you can still pray for him,” said the old lady, kindly.

“Young people should never hear of such dreadful things,” said Mrs. Wesley, warmly.

“They will all have to go out of the world then. For all who are in it, young and old, tender or hard, must hear of such things. But come, Emma. You and I will go and pray for the poor soul. Yes, and hope for him, too; for, after all, we do not know what tomorrow may bring forth.”

Chapter 5

THE MYSTERY OF THE POINT

It was absolutely necessary for Mr. Lytton and his grandchildren to exercise the closest economy in their traveling expenses. So instead of going by the railway train, that would have taken them across the country to Wendover in twenty-four hours, they embarked on board a small river coaster, on which by day they shared the narrow deck with the captain and the hands, and by night were cribbed in the close cabin below.

After nearly a week of beating down stream against a head wind, they were put on shore at a place called “White Perch Point,” distant about thirty miles from Lytton Lodge, and about twenty from Wendover.

On the extreme end of this point was a lighthouse, now, strange to say, kept by an old woman and a girl.

And a few hundred yards further inland, out of the reach of the wave, stood the neat white cottage occupied by the two women.

On the same side of the river, about an eighth of a mile from the lighthouse and the keeper’s cottage, stood a cluster of white buildings, looking like a small village. But they were only the White Perch Point Hotel and its various outhouses.

This point was once a very popular resort for excursionists, amateur fishermen, and other pleasure seekers; but now it had fallen from its ancient prosperity and presented rather a dilapidated and neglected appearance.

The small rowboat from the schooner landed our travelers at the broken and decayed wharf, and then returned to the vessel.

“I remember, my children, when this used to be a very fashionable summer resort, frequented by all the best families of the neighborhood, for salt-water bathing, or for fishing, or for picnics, and even for balls,” said Able Lytton, as he walked with his young people up the long, grass-grown road leading from the wharf to the house.

“And such a beautiful place as it might be made! Why has it fallen into such decay?” inquired dark-eyed Laura.

“Well, my darling, the fact is, old Fanning and his seven sons, who used to keep the place, were their own best customers in all the most expensive and delusive pleasures of the place, especially in wines, liquors, cigars, cards and so forth. We know the end of these things. The father died. The sons scattered. One went to Texas, another to California, another to sea. Each took his separate road to ruin, and doubtless arrived there. The eldest retained the house here and runs it after a fashion; for when he had paid his brothers and sisters the legacies left them, and had discharged the debts of the estate, there was very little left to carry on the business, even if Fred Fanning had ever possessed any business capacity. His wife—strange to tell, a lady by birth and education—is no better as a landlady than he is as a landlord. And you see the result.”

By this time the party had drawn near the house, and were met by a loitering old negro man, who touched his hat and stood, as if waiting orders.

“Well, Uncle Adam, how are all your folks?” kindly inquired Mr. Lytton.

“Lor’, Marse Able, how you ’spect dem gwine to be?” asked the negro, scratching his head.

“Why, nothing wrong up there, I hope?” inquired Mr. Lytton. “There is mostly something wrong there, however,” he added, in a lower tone.

“Why, lor’, Marse Able, ain’t you hearn?” asked the man, opening his eyes wide with astonishment.

“What’s amiss? Has there been another flood, another fire, another levying, or what?”

“Oh, Marse Able, sir, worse’n all that put together—a ’lopement, sir.”

“An elopement! Who’s eloped, in the name of wonder?”

“Miss Ivv, sir.”

“Ivy! that child! Nonsense!”

“Truth I’m telling you, sir; ’deed it is! Miss Ivy was at boardin’-school in de city, an’ dere comed a letter down to Marse Fred from the schoolmistress, axin’ had she comed home to us maybe, and telling us how she was a missin’ from de schoolhouse ebber since the night before, and dey didn’t know what had comed of her. Didn’t mistress faint dead away on the spot? And didn’t marster go to town a hoppin’? Umph-hum! I tell you.”

“For Heaven’s sake! when did this all happen?”

“Why, ’bout two mont’s ago, Marse Able, sir—jes’ about—may be little more.”

“And what has become of the unfortunate girl? She couldn’t have been more than fourteen or fifteen years old.”

“She was fifteen last May; but that forrard of her age—umph-hum!—I tell you.”

“What has become of her? Where is she now? Why did she leave her school? Who enticed her away?”

“Don’t know nuffin ’bout her. Ef marse an’ mis’ do dey keeps it to derselves close ’nough—umph-hum!—I tell you. It’s my ’pinion, Marse Able, as dem two nebber mentions ob dere darter’s name, eben private ’tween derselves. ’Cause why? you axes. ’Cause dere’s my darter Rosy; she as used to be own maid to Miss Ivy, ebber sence dey bofe could run alone, till Miss Ivy went to that cussed infunnelly city boardin’-school as has been her ruination. Well, my darter Rosy hasn’t done nuffin but pine and pin eber sence her young mistress run away, nobody knowed where. And she have got a dreadful crik into her neck, which it’s my firm belief as she got it all along o’ twisting round her head to put her ear to the keyholes, to listen ef she could hear anything ’bout her young mistress, when marse and mistress was ’lone togedder. But she nebber heard nuffin. I knows it. ’Cause ef she had she’d a sure to a told us. ’Cause why? you axes ag’in. Why, ’cause she is a leaky wessel, and can’t keep nuffin in. Which is de reason why I knows as marse and mis’ nebber talks ob Miss Ivy—no, not eben when dey is ’lone togedder. Now, Marse Able, ’scuse me for talkin’ to you so long; but you know how it is yerseff. What you tinks ’bout, dat you talks ’bout.”

“I know, Adam. ‘Out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh.’”

“Now, Marse Able, I’s here to ’ceive your orders, sir.”

“Well, Adam, I would like to have— Oh, dear me, all this is very dreadful. It seems scarcely right to intrude on the family, or to give one selfish thought to our own interests,” murmured Mr. Lytton, breaking off from his intended orders.

“Hy! What you talkin’ ’bout, Marse Able? De worl’ got to go ’long, ef de hebbens falls, ain’t it? Which I mean to say as de pot’s got to bile, let alone who runs away or who stays home. Which marse and mis’ hab got to ’tend to dere business and entertain sich trabelers as come ’long, whedder or no. So, Marse Able, gib me your orders, sar.”

“My orders are simple enough. Just send some one to the wharf to bring up the trunks and carpetbags.”

“I’ll send down my son Wash. Here, you Wash!” cried the negro, calling a dusky youth who was seated on the ground mending nets.

“And then we shall want dinner, and afterward the carriage to take us home.”

“Lor’, marse!” said the old man, “you can hab de dinner all right ’nough. But as for de carridge— Well, you could hab dat too, only dere an’t no horse to draw it. Marse Fred he done gone ’way on de horse, and dere an’t no knowin’ when he gwine to be back. Wash,” he added, addressing his son, who had just run up to the spot, “you get de big wheelbarrow and go down to de wharf, and wheel up de gentleman and lady’s baggage. You hear me good now, don’t yer?”

“Yes, daddy,” answered the lad, running off to obey.

The old negro led the travelers up to the house, through the long piazza, and into a large, airy, barely furnished parlor, where he invited them to be seated, while he went to inform his mistress of their arrival.

“This ought to be a very pleasant, cheerful place, grandpa,” said Laura, as she walked from front to back of the long parlor, “a very cheerful, pleasant place indeed! Sunny, breezy, with the sea on one side and the woods on the other. But somehow or other, I find it very gloomy and depressing. What makes it seem so?”

“I don’t know, my child. I feel the influence also, but without being able to account for it,” answered Mr. Lytton.

At this moment the door opened, and a lady of great beauty slowly advanced into the room.

She was taller than the usual height of women, and very perfectly proportioned, with a carriage at once stately and graceful. Her features were of classic regularity. Her complexion was very fair and clear, yet her eyes, eyebrows and hair were jet black. She wore a black silk dress, rather rusty, and neat white linen collar and cuffs. This was Mrs. Fanning, born Cavendish, the beautiful younger sister of Governor Charles Cavendish.