The Project Gutenberg EBook of New York: Its Upper Ten and Lower Million, by George Lippard This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. Title: New York: Its Upper Ten and Lower Million Author: George Lippard Release Date: August 27, 2018 [EBook #57785] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NEW YORK: ITS UPPER TEN AND *** Produced by Clare Graham and Marc D'Hooghe at Free Literature (Images generously made available by the Internet Archive.) NEW YORK: ITS UPPER TEN AND LOWER MILLION. BY GEORGE LIPPARD. AUTHOR OF "ADONAI," "WASHINGTON AND HIS GENERALS," "THE QUAKER CITY," "PAUL ARDENHEIM," "BLANCHE OF BRANDYWINE," "LEGENDS OF MEXICO," "THE NAZARENE," ETC. ETC. ETC. CINCINNATI: PUBLISHED BY E. MENDENHALL. NEW YORK: A. RANNEY. 1854. author portrait CONTENTS. Preliminary Sketch Prologue Part First. "FRANK VAN HUYDEN." DEC. 23 1844.—EVENING. CHAPTER I. "Does he Remember?" CHAPTER II. Frank and her Singular Visitor. CHAPTER III. The Childhood of the Midnight Queen. CHAPTER IV. Maidenhood. CHAPTER V. On the Rock. CHAPTER VI. Among the Palisades. CHAPTER VII. In the Forest Nook. CHAPTER VIII. Home, Adieu! CHAPTER IX. Ernest and his Singular Adventures. CHAPTER X. The Palace-Home. CHAPTER XI. "She'll Do!" CHAPTER XII. A Revelation. CHAPTER XIII. Morphine. CHAPTER XIV. The Sale is complete. CHAPTER XV. "Lost—Lost, Utterly!" Part Second. FROM NIGHTFALL UNTIL MIDNIGHT. DEC. 23, 1844. CHAPTER I. Bloodhound and the Unknown. CHAPTER II. The Canal street Shirt Store. CHAPTER III. "Do they Roar?" CHAPTER IV. The Seven Vaults. CHAPTER V. The Legate of the Pope. CHAPTER VI. "Joanna!" CHAPTER VII. The White Slave and his Sister. CHAPTER VIII. Eleanor Lynn. CHAPTER IX. Bernard Lynn. CHAPTER X. "Yes! You will meet Him." CHAPTER XI. In the House of the Merchant Prince. CHAPTER XII. "Show Me the Way." CHAPTER XIII. "The Reverend Voluptuaries." CHAPTER XIV. "Below Five Points." Part Third. THROUGH THE SILENT CITY. DEC. 24, 1844. CHAPTER I. The Den of Madam Resimer. CHAPTER II. "Herman, you will not desert Me?" CHAPTER III. Herman, Arthur, Alice. CHAPTER IV. The Red Book. CHAPTER V. "What shall we do with her?" CHAPTER VI. A Brief Episode. CHAPTER VII. Through the Silent City. CHAPTER VIII. In Trinity Church. CHAPTER IX. The End of the March. Part Fourth. IN THE TEMPLE—FROM MIDNIGHT UNTIL DAWN. DEC. 24, 1844. CHAPTER I. The Central Chamber. CHAPTER II. The Blue Room. CHAPTER III. The Golden Room. CHAPTER IV. The Bridal Chamber. CHAPTER V. The Scarlet Chamber. CHAPTER VI. Bank Stock at the Bar. CHAPTER VII. "Where is the Child of Gulian Van Huyden?" CHAPTER VIII. Beverly and Joanna. CHAPTER IX. Mary Berman—Carl Raphael. Part Fifth. THE DAWN, SUNRISE AND DAY. DEC. 24, 1844. CHAPTER I. "The Other Child." CHAPTER II. Randolph and his Brother. CHAPTER III. The Husband and the Profligate. CHAPTER IV. Israel and his Victim. CHAPTER V. Mary, Carl, Cornelius. CHAPTER VI. A Look into the Red Book. CHAPTER VII. Marion Merlin. CHAPTER VIII. Niagara. CHAPTER IX. A Second Marriage. CHAPTER X. A Second Murder. CHAPTER XI. Marion and Herman Barnhurst. CHAPTER XII. Marion and Fanny. CHAPTER XIII. An Unutterable Crime. CHAPTER XIV. Suicide. CHAPTER XV. After the Death of Marion. Part Sixth. DAY, SUNSET, NIGHT. DECEMBER 24, 1844. CHAPTER I. Arrayed for the Bridal. CHAPTER II. Herman and Godiva. CHAPTER III. The Dream Elixir. CHAPTER IV. The Bridal of Joanna and Beverly. CHAPTER V. An Episode. Part Seventh. THE DAY OF TWENTY-ONE YEARS. DEC. 25, 1844. CHAPTER I. Martin Fulmer appears. CHAPTER II. "The Seven" are summoned. CHAPTER III. "Say, between us Three!" CHAPTER IV. The Legate of His Holiness. CHAPTER V. The Son, at Last! CHAPTER VI. A Long Account Settled. CHAPTER VII. The Banquet Room once more. Epilogue. On the Ocean—By the River Shore—In the Vatican—On the Prairie. PRELIMINARY SKETCH. Christmas Eve, 1823, was a memorable night in the history of a certain wealthy family in New York. The night was dark and stormy, but the tempest which swept over the bay, and whitened the city's roofs with snow, was but a faint symbol of the tempest of human passion—jealousy, covetousness, despair—then at work, in the breasts of a group of individuals, connected with the old and distinguished family of Van Huyden. On that night, Gulian Van Huyden, the representative of the family, and owner of its immense wealth—a young man in the prime of early manhood, who had been happily married a year before—gave a great banquet to his male friends, in his city mansion. By his side was seated his younger brother, Charles Van Huyden, whom the will of their father had confined to a limited income, while Gulian, as the elder son, had become the possessor of nearly all of the immense wealth of the family. The banquet was prolonged from about nine o'clock until near dawn, and during its progress, Gulian and his brother had been alternately absent, for the space of an hour, or a half hour at a time. The city mansion of Gulian, situated not far from Trinity Church, flung the blaze of its festival lights out upon the stormy night. That light was not sufficient to light up the details of two widely different edifices, which, located within a hundred yards of Gulian's mansion, had much to do with his fortunes, and the fortunes of his family. The nearest of these edifices, an antique, high-roofed house, which stood in a desolate garden, was (unknown to Gulian) the home of his brother, and of that brother's mistress—a woman whom Charles did not wish to marry, until by some chance or other, he became the possessor of the Van Huyden estate. The other edifice, a one-storied hovel, was the home of a mechanic and his young wife. His name was John Hoffman, his trade that of a stone mason, and at the period of this narrative, he was miserably poor. Now, during the night of Christmas eve (and while the banquet was in progress in Gulian's city mansion), an unknown person, thickly cloaked, entered the hovel of the mechanic, bearing a new-born child in his arms. An interview followed between the unknown, John Hoffman, and his wife. The mechanic and his wife consented to adopt the child in place of one which they had recently lost. The stranger with the child, gave them a piece of parchment, which bore on one side, the initials, "G. G. V. H. C." and on the other the name of "Dr. Martin Fulmer," an eccentric physician, well known in New York. This parchment deposited in a letter addressed to Dr. Fulmer, and sent to the post office once a quarter, would be returned to the mechanic, accompanied by the sum of a hundred dollars. John was especially enjoined to keep this interview and its results a secret from the Doctor. Having deposited the child and parchment with the worthy couple, the stranger departed, and was never again seen by the mechanic or his wife. Within an hour of this singular interview the mistress of Charles Van Huyden, returned to her home (from which she had been absent for a brief period)—flakes of snow upon her dress and upon her disordered hair—and placed upon her bed, the burden which she carried, a new-born infant, enveloped in a shawl. As the fallen, but by no means altogether depraved woman, surveyed this infant, she also beheld her own child, sleeping in a cradle not far from the bed—a daughter some three months old, and named after its mother Frank, that is, Francis Van Huyden. Christmas Eve passed away, and Christmas morning was near. Dr. Martin Fulmer was suddenly summoned to Gulian's mansion. And Gulian, fresh from the scenes of the banquet room, met the Doctor in an obscure garret of his mansion. He first bound the Doctor by an oath, to yield implicit obedience to all his wishes, an oath which appealed to all that was superstitious, as well as to all that was truly religious in the Doctor's nature, and then the interview followed, terrible and momentous in its details and its results. These results stretch over a period of twenty-one years—from December 25, 1823, to December 25, 1844. This interview over, Gulian left the Doctor (who, stupefied and awe-stricken by the words which he had just heard, sank kneeling on the floor of the room in which the interview had taken place), and silently departed from his mansion. He bent his steps to the Battery. And then—young, handsome, the possessor of enormous wealth—he left this life with the same composure, that he had just departed from his mansion. In plain words, he plunged into the river, and met the death of the suicide in its ice-burdened waves, while his brother Charles (whom we forgot to state, had accompanied him from the threshold of his home), stood affrighted and appalled on the shore. Meanwhile, Dr. Martin Fulmer (bound by his oath), descended from the garret into a bedchamber of the Van Huyden mansion. Upon the bed was stretched a beautiful but dying woman. It was Alice Van Huyden, the young wife of Gulian. All night long (while the banquet progressed in another apartment) she had wrestled in the agonies of maternity, unwatched and alone. She had given birth to a child, but when the Dr. stood by the bed, the child had been removed by unknown hands. Convinced of his wife's infidelity—believing that his own brother Charles was the author of his dishonor—Gulian had left his mansion, his wealth, life and all its hopes, to meet the death of the suicide in the waves of Manhattan Bay. And Dr. Martin Fulmer, but a few hours ago a poor man, now found himself, as he stood by the bed of the dying wife, the sole trustee of the Van Huyden Estate. His trust was to continue for twenty-one years. In case of his death, he had power to appoint a successor. And at the end of twenty-one years, on the 25th of December, 1844, the estate (swelled by the accumulations of twenty-one years), was, by the will of Gulian Van Huyden, to be disposed of in this wise: I. In case a son of Gulian should appear on that day (December 25th, 1844), the estate should descend absolutely to him. Or, II. In case on the day named, it should be proven to the satisfaction of the Trustee, that such a son had been in existence, but had met his death in a truly just cause, then the estate was to be disposed of, according to the directions embodied in a sealed codicil (which was not to be opened until December 25, 1844). But in case such a son did not appear, and in case his death in a truly just cause was not proven on the appointed day, then, III. The estate was to be divided among the heirs of seven persons, descendants of the first of the Van Huydens, who landed on Manhattan Island, in the year 1623. These seven persons, widely distributed over the United States, were (by the directions of the Testator) to be furnished with a copy of the will. And among these seven or their heirs—that is, those of the number who appeared before Martin Fulmer, at the appointed place on the appointed day—the estate would be divided. Such in brief, were the essential features of the will. A few days after December 25, 1823, Charles Van Huyden, having in his possession $200,000 (given to him by Dr. Martin Fulmer, in accordance with the wishes of Gulian) left New York for Paris, taking with him his mistress (now his wife), their child "Francis" or "Frank," and the strange child which the woman had brought to her home, on Christmas Eve, 1823. Whether this "strange" child, or the child left with the poor mechanic, was the offspring of Gulian Van Huyden, will be seen from the narrative which follows this imperfect sketch. Twenty-one years pass away; it lacks but a day or two of December 25th, 1844. Who are the seven heirs? Does a son of Gulian live? What has become of Charles Van Huyden; of Hoffman the mechanic, and of the child left in the care of the mechanic? What has become of Charles Van Huyden's wife and child? On a night in December 1844—say the 23d of the month—we shall find in New York, the following persons, connected with the fortunes of the Van Huyden family: The "Seven" or their heirs. I. Gabriel Godlike, a statesman, who with an intellect rivaling some of the greatest names in our history, such as Clay, Calhoun or Webster, is destitute of the patriotism and virtues of these great men. II. Herman Barnhurst, a clergyman, who has lured from Philadelphia to New York, the only daughter of a merchant of the former city. This clergyman and his victim, are pursued by the Third of the Seven. III. Arthur Dermoyne, a mechanic. IV. Israel Yorke, a Banker. V. Harry Royalton, of Hill Royal, S. C. His claim to an undivided seventh of the Estate, will be contested by his half brother and sister, Randolph and Esther, who although white, are alleged to have African blood in their veins. VI. Beverly Barron, a "man of the world." VII. Evelyn Somers, a New York "Merchant Prince." 2d. We shall find in New York, at the period before named, Charles Van Huyden, transformed into Col. Tarleton, and endeavoring to remove from his hands the blood of a man whom he has slain in a duel. His daughter "Frank" grown to womanhood, and brought into contact with "Nameless," who left in infancy at the hovel of John Hoffman, has after a childhood of terrible hardships—a young manhood darkened by madness and crime—suddenly appeared in New York, in company with a discharged convict. This convict is none other than John Hoffman the mechanic. And gliding through the narrative, and among its various actors, we shall find Martin Fulmer, or his successor. With this preliminary sketch—necessarily brief and imperfect, for it covers a period of twenty-one years—the following narrative is submitted to the reader. Yet first, let us for a moment glance at the "Van Huyden Estate." This estate in 1823, was estimated at two millions of dollars. What is it in 1844? The history of two millions of dollars in twenty-one years! Two millions left to go by itself, and ripen year after year, into new power, until at last the original sum is completely forgotten in the vast accumulation of capital. In the Old World twenty-one years glide by, and everything is the same. At the end of twenty-one years, two millions would still be two millions. Twenty-one years in the New World is as much as two centuries to the Old. The vast expanse of land; the constant influx of population; the space for growth afforded by institutions as different from those of Europe (that is from those of the past), as day from night—all contribute to this result. From 1823 to 1844, the New World, hardened by a childhood of battle and martyrdom, sprang into strong manhood. Behold the philosophy of modern wealth, manifested in the growth of the Van Huyden Estate. Without working itself it bids others to work. Left to the age, to the growth of the people, the increase of commerce and labor, it swells into a wealth that puts the Arabian Nights to shame. In 1823 it comprises certain pieces of land in the heart of New York, and in the open country beyond New York. In 1844 the city land has repeated its value by a hundred; the country lots have become the abiding place of the Merchant Princes of New York. Cents in 1823, become dollars in 1844. This by the progress of the age, by the labor of the millions, and without one effort on the part of the lands or their owner. In 1823 there is a country seat and farm on the North River; in 1844 the farm has become the seat of factories, mills, the dwelling place of five thousand tenants, whose labor has swelled the original value of $150,000 into ten millions of dollars. In 1823, five thousand acres, scattered over the wild west, are vaguely valued at $5000—in 1844 these acres, located in various parts of the west, are the sites of towns, villages, mines, teeming with a dense population, and worth thirty millions of dollars. In 1823 a tract of barren land among the mountains of Pennsylvania, is bought for one thousand dollars; in 1844 this tract, the location of mines of iron and coal, is worth twenty millions. Thus in twenty-one years, by holding on to its own, the Van Huyden Estate has swelled from two millions to one hundred millions of dollars. The age moves on; it remains in its original proprietorship, swelled by the labor of millions, who derive but a penny where they bestow upon the estate a dollar. It works not; mankind works for it. Has this wealth no duties to mankind? Is there not something horrible in the thought of an entire generation, for mere subsistence, spending their lives, in order to make this man, this estate, or this corporation, the possessor of incredible wealth? PROLOGUE The lamp has gone out in the old familiar room! It used to shine, late at night upon the books, upon the pictures on the wall, and upon my face as I sat writing there! Oftentimes it shone upon another face which looked over my shoulder, and cheered me in my labor. But now the lamp has gone out—and forever. The face which looked upon me is gone; the coffin lid shut down upon it one Summer day! The room is dark forever. And the next room, where she used to sleep with her children—it is dark and still! The house is desolate! There are no voices to break its stillness! Her voice, and the voices of our children, are silent forever on this lower earth. My heart goes back to that house and to its rooms, and to the voices that once sounded there, and the faces which once made it glad, and with more than the bitterness of Death I confess, that Time can never return. Nevermore, nevermore, nevermore! Wealth may come; change of scene may deaden sorrow; wrestling with the world, may divert the soul from perpetual brooding, but the Truth is still the Truth, that Time can never return. And this is the end of all, after a life spent in perpetual battle—after toiling day and night for long years—after looking to the Future, hoping, struggling, suffering—to find at last, even before thirty years are mine, that the lamp has gone out, and forever! That those for whom I toiled and suffered—whose well-being was the impulse and the ultimate of all my exertions—are no longer with me, but gone to return never—nevermore. Upon this earth the lamp that lit my way through life, has indeed gone out, and forever. But is it not lighted now by a higher hand than mortal, and is it not shining now in a better world than this? Once more I resume my pen. Since this work was commenced, Death has been busy with my home—death hath indeed laid my home desolate. It is a selfish thing to write for money, it is a base and a mean thing to write for fame, but it is a good and a holy thing to write for the approval of those whom we most intensely love. Deprived of this spring of action, it is hard, very hard to take up the pen once more. Write, write! but the face that once looked over your shoulder, and cheered you in your task, shall look over it no more. Write, write! and turn your gaze to every point of the horizon of life—not one face of home meets your eye. Take up the pen once more. Banish the fast gathering memories—choke them down. Forget the actual of your own life, in the ideal to which the pen gives utterance. Brave old pen! Always trusted, never faithless! True through long years of toil, be true and steadfast now; when the face that once watched your progress is sleeping in graveyard dust. And when you write down a noble thought, or give utterance to a holy truth, may be, that face will smile upon your progress, even through the darkened glass which separates the present from the Better World. PART FIRST. "FRANK VAN HUYDEN." DEC. 23, 1844.—EVENING. CHAPTER I. "DOES HE REMEMBER?" "Does he remember?" was the exclamation of Frank, as concealing the history of the Life of Nameless within her bosom, a singular expression flashed over her beautiful face. "Does he remember?" was her thought—"Is he conscious of the words which have fallen from his lips? Does he pass from this singular state of trance, only to forget the real history of his life?" The agitation which had convulsed the face of Nameless, at the moment when he emerged from the clairvoyant state (if thus we may designate it) soon passed away. His face became calm and almost radiant in its every line. His eyes, no longer glassy, shone with clear and healthy light; a slight flush animated his hitherto sallow cheeks; in a word, his countenance, in a moment, underwent a wonderful change. Frank uttered an exclamation of surprise. "Ah! I begin to live!" said Nameless, passing his hand over his forehead—"Yes, yes," he uttered, with a sigh of mingled sorrow and delight, "I have risen from the grave. For two years the victim of a living death, I now begin to live. The cloud is gone; I see, I see the light!" He rose and confronted Frank. "There was another child—yes, my mother gave birth to two children, one of whom your father stole on the night of its birth and reared as his own. His purpose you may guess. But what has become of that child? It disappeared, I know, at the time when your father arrived from Paris—disappeared, ha, ha, Frank! Did it not disappear to rise into light again, on the 25th of December, 1844, as the only child of Gulian Van Huyden? Your father is a bold gamester; he plays with a fearless hand!" He paced the room, while Frank, listening intently to his words, watched with dumb wonder the delight which gave a new life to his countenance. "And Cornelius Berman, Frank—" he turned abruptly. "Died last year." His countenance fell. "And Mary—" "Followed her father to the grave." He fell back upon the sofa like a wounded man. It was some moments before he recovered the appearance of calmness. "How knew you this?" "A year ago, an artist reduced to poverty, through the agency of Israel Yorke, came to my home to paint my portrait. It was Cornelius Berman. Yorke had employed Buggles as his agent in the affair of the transfer of the property of Cornelius; Buggles the agent was dead indeed, but Yorke appeared upon the scene, as the principal, and sold Cornelius out of house and home. The papers which you took from the dead body of Buggles were only copies; the originals were in the possession of Israel Yorke." Nameless hid his face in his hands. He did not speak again until many minutes had elapsed. "And you thought that Cornelius had put Buggles to death?" "I gathered it from a rumor which has crept through New York for the last two years. The haggard face and wandering eye of the dying artist, who painted my picture, confirmed this impression." "And Cornelius came to this house?"' "No; to another house, where I had been placed by my father. He procured a person to represent a southern gentleman, and personate my father. That is, I was represented as the only child of a rich southerner; and in that capacity my picture was painted, and—and—I afterward visited the home of the artist, in a miserable garret, and saw his daughter, who assisted her father, by the humblest kind of work. She was a seamstress—she worked for 'sixteen cents per day.'" "And she is dead," said Nameless, in a low voice. "I lost sight of Mary and her father about a year ago, and have since received intelligence of their death." "How did you receive this intelligence?" "It was in all the papers. Beverly Barron wrote quite a touching poem upon the Death of the Artist and his Daughter. Beverly, you are aware, was eloquent upon such occasions: the death of a friend was always a godsend to him." Nameless did not reply, but seemed for a moment to surrender himself to the influence of unalloyed despair. "Look you, Frank," he said, after a long pause, "I have seventy-one thousand dollars—" "Seventy-one thousand dollars!" she ejaculated. "Yes, and it is 'Frank and Nameless and Ninety-One against the World.' To-morrow is the 24th of December; the day after will be THE DAY. We must lay our plans; we must track Martin Fulmer to his haunt; we must foil your father, and, in a word, show the world that its cunning can be baffled and its crime brought to justice, by the combination of three persons—a Fallen Woman, a Convict and a Murderer! O, does it not make your heart bound to think of the good work we can do with seventy-one thousand dollars!" She gave him her hand, quietly, but her dark eye answered the excitement which flashed from every line of his countenance. "And will it not be a glorious thing for us, if we can wash away our crimes—yes, Frank, our crimes—and show the world what virtue lurks in the breast of the abandoned and the lost?" "Then I can atone for the crime of which I am guilty—for I am guilty of being the child of a man who sold me into shame —you are guilty of having stained your hands in the blood of a wretch who cursed the very air which he breathed—and Ninety-One, is guilty, yes guilty of having once been in—my father's way. These are terrible crimes, Gulian—" "Call me not by that name until the 25th of December," exclaimed Nameless. At this moment, Frank turned aside and from the drawer of a cabinet, drew forth a long and slender vial, which she held before the eyes of Nameless. "And if we fail, this will give us peace. It is a quiet messenger, Gulian. Within twelve hours after the contents of this vial have passed the lips, the body will sink into a peaceful sleep, without one sign or token to tell the tale of suicide. Yes, Gulian, if we fail, this vial, which I procured with difficulty, and which I have treasured for years, will enable us to fall asleep in each other's arms, and—forever!" "Suicide!" echoed Nameless, gazing now upon the vial, then upon her countenance, imbued with a look of somber enthusiasm—"You have thought of that?" "O had this vial been mine, in the hour when, pure and hopeful, I was sold into the arms of shame, do you think that for an instant I would have hesitated between the death that lays you quietly asleep in the coffin, and that death which leaves the body living, while it cankers and kills the soul?" Nameless took the vial from her hand and regarded it long and ardently. O what words can picture the strange look, which then came over his face! He uttered a deep sigh and placed the vial in her hands again. She silently placed it in the drawer of the cabinet. As she again confronted him, their eyes met,—they understood each other. "Frank," said Nameless in a measured tone—"Who owns this house? What is its true character?" Seating herself beside him on the sofa she replied: "As to the owner of this house, you may be sure that he is a man of property and moral worth, a church-member and a respectable citizen. But do not imagine for a moment that this is a common haunt of infamy—no, my friend, no! None but the most select, the most aristocratic, ever cross the threshold of this place. Remain until twelve o'clock to-night and you will behold some of the guests who honor my house with their presence." There was a mocking look upon her face as she gave utterance to these words. She beat the carpet with her slipper and grasped the cross which rested on her bosom with a nervous and impatient clutch. "At twelve to-night!" echoed Nameless, and looked into her face. "I will remain;" and once more his whole being was enveloped in the magnetic influence which flowed from the eyes of the lost woman. CHAPTER II. FRANK AND HER SINGULAR VISITOR. It will soon fall to our task to depict certain scenes, which took place in the Empire City on the 23d of December, between nightfall and midnight. The greater portion of these scenes will find their legitimate development in "the Temple," from midnight until morning; while others will lift the "Golden Shroud" and uncover to our gaze threads and arteries of that great social heart of New York, which throbs with every pang of unutterable misery, or dilates and burns with every pulse of voluptuous luxury. Ere we commence our task, let us look in upon a scene which took place in the house of Frank, about nightfall and (of course) before Nameless had sought refuge in her room. Frank was sitting alone, in a quiet room near a desk upon which pen and ink and papers were spread. It was the room devoted to the management of her household affairs. She sat in an arm-chair, with her feet on a stool and her back to the window, while she lifted the golden cross and regarded it with an absent gaze. The white curtains of the windows were turned to crimson by the reflection of the setting sun, and the warm glow shining through the intervals of her black hair, which fell loosely on her shoulders, rested warmly upon her cheek. Her whole attitude was that of revery or dreamy thought. While thus occupied, a male servant, dressed in rich livery, entered, and addressed his mistress in these words: "Madam, he wishes to see you." "He! Whom do you mean?" said Frank, raising her eyes but without changing her position. "That queer stranger, who never gives his name,—who has been here so often within the last three weeks,—I mean the one who wears the blue cloak with ever-so-many capes." Frank started up in her chair. "Show him in," she said,—"Yet stay a moment, Walker. Are all the arrangements made for to-night?" "Everything has been done, precisely as Madam ordered it to be done," said the servant obsequiously. He then retired and presently the visitor entered. The room is wrapped in twilight and we cannot trace the details of his appearance clearly, for he seats himself in the shadow, opposite Frank. We can discern, however, that his tall form, bent with age, is clad in a blue cloak with numerous capes, and he wears a black fur hat with ample brim. He takes his seat quietly, and rests his hand upon the head of his cane. Not a word was spoken for several minutes. Each seemed to be waiting for the other to commence the conversation. Frank at last broke the embarrassing stillness. "Soh! you are here again." "Yes, madam," replied the stranger in a harsh but not unmusical voice, "according to appointment." "It is now three weeks since we first met," said Frank. "You purchased this house of the person from whom I leased it, some three weeks ago. But I have a lease upon it which has yet one year to run. You desire, I believe, to purchase my lease, and enter at once upon possession? Well, sir, I am resolved not to sell." Without directly replying to her question, the man in the cloak with many capes replied— "We did not meet three weeks ago for the first time," he said. "Our first meeting was long before that period." "What mean you?" said Frank raising her eyes and endeavoring, although vainly, to pierce the gloom which enshrouded the stranger. "O, it is getting dark. I will ring for lights." "Before you ring for lights, a word,—" the stranger's voice sank but Frank heard every word,—"we met for the first time at a funeral—" "At a funeral!" "At a funeral; and after the funeral I had the body taken up privately and ordered a post mortem examination to be made. Upon that body, madam,—" he paused. "Well, sir?" Frank's voice was tremulous. "Upon that body I discovered traces of a fatal although subtle poison." Again he paused. Frank made no reply. Even in the dim light it might be seen that her head sank slowly on her breast. Did the words of the stranger produce a strong impression? We cannot see her face, for the room is vailed in twilight. "This darkness grows embarrassing," he said, "will you ring for lights?" She replied with a monosyllable, uttered in a faint voice,—"No!" she said, then a dead stillness once more ensued, which continued until the stranger again spoke. "In regard to the lease, madam. Do you agree to sell, and upon the terms which I proposed when I was here last?" Again Frank replied with a monosyllable. "Yes!" she faintly said. "And the other proposition: to-night you hold some sort of festival in this place. I desire to know the names of all your guests; to introduce such guests as I choose within these walls; to have, for one night only, a certain control over the internal economy of this place. In case you consent to this proposition, I will pay you for the lease double the amount which I have already offered, and promise, on my honor, to do nothing within these walls to-night, which can in the slightest degree harm or compromise you." He stated his proposition slowly and deliberately. Frank took full time to ponder upon every word. Simple as the proposition looked, well she knew, that it might embrace results of the most important nature. "Must I consent?" she said, and her voice faltered. "It is hard—" "'Must' is no word in the case, madam," answered that stern even voice. "Use your own will and pleasure." "But the request is so strange," said Frank, "and suppose I grant it? Who can tell the consequences?" "It is singular," said the stranger as though thinking aloud, "to what an extent the art of poisoning was carried in the middle ages! The art has long been lost,—people poison each other bunglingly now-a-days,—although it is said, that the secret of a certain poison, which puts its victims quietly to sleep, leaving not the slighted tell-tale trace or mark, has survived even to the present day." Certainly the stranger had a most remarkable manner of thinking aloud. Frank spoke in a voice scarcely audible: "I consent to your proposition." She rose, and although it was rapidly getting quite dark, she unlocked a secret drawer of her desk, and drew from thence two packages. "This way, sir," she spoke in a low voice, and the stranger rose and approached her. "Here you will find the names of all my guests, and especially of those who will come here to-night. You will find such other information as may be useful to you and aid your purposes." She placed the package in his hand. "I will place Walker and the other servants under your command." She paused, and resumed after an instant, in a firmer voice: "If I have yielded to your request, it has not been altogether from fear,—" "Fear! Who spoke of fear?" "Don't mock me. I have yielded from fear, but not altogether from fear. I have nursed a hope that you can aid me to quit this thrice accursed life which I now lead. For though your polite manner only thinly vails insinuations the most deadly, yet I believe you have a heart. I feel that when you know all of my past life, all, you will think, I do not say better of me, but differently, from what you do now. Here, take this package,—it contains my history written by my own hand, and only intended to be read after my death—but you may read it now or at your leisure." The man in the cloak took the package; his voice trembled when he spoke— "Girl, you shall not regret this confidence. I will aid you to quit this accursed life." "Leave me for a few moments. I wish to sit alone and think for a little while. After that we will arrange matters in regard to the festival to-night." The stranger in the cloak left the room, bearing with him the two packages, one of which embraced the mysteries of the house of Frank, and the other contained the story of her life. And in the darkness, Frank walked up and down the room, pressing one clenched hand against her heaving bosom, and the other against her burning brow. Soon afterward, Frank and the stranger in the old-fashioned cloak, were closeted for half an hour in earnest conversation. We will not record the details of the conversation, but its results will perchance be seen in the future pages of our history. Here, at this point of our story, let us break the seals of the second package which Frank gave to the stranger, and linger for a little while upon the pages of her history, written by her own hand. A strange history in every line! It is called The History of the Midnight Queen! CHAPTER III. THE CHILDHOOD OF THE MIDNIGHT QUEEN. My childhood's home! O, is there in all the world a phrase so sweet as this, "My childhood's home!" Others may look back to childhood, and be stung by bitter memories, but my childhood was the heaven of my life. As from the hopeless present, I gaze back upon it, I seem like a traveler, half way up the Alps, surrounded by snow and clouds and mist, and looking back upon the happy valley, which, dotted with homes and rich in vines and flowers, smiles in the sunshine far below. My childhood's home was very beautiful. It was a two-story cottage, situated upon an eminence, its white front and rustic porch, half hidden by the horse-chesnut trees, which in the early summer had snowy blossoms among their deep green leaves. Behind the cottage arose a broad and swelling hill, which, fringed with gardens at its base, and crowned on its summit by a few grand old trees standing alone against the sky, was in summer-time clad along its entire extent with a garment of golden wheat. Beneath the cottage flowed the Neprehaun, a gentle rivulet, which wound among abrupt hills,—every hill rich in foliage and dotted with homes—until it lost itself in the waves of the Hudson. Yes, the Hudson was there, grand and beautiful and visible always from the cottage porch; the Palisades rising from its opposite shore into heaven, and the broad bay of Tapaan Zee glistening in sunlight to the north. O, that scene is before me now—the cottage with its white front, half hidden by broad green leaves intermingled with white blossoms,—the hill, which rose behind it, golden with wheat,—the Neprehaun below, winding among the hills, now in sunshine, now in shadow,—the Hudson, with its vast bay and the somber wall which rose into the sky from its western shore,—it is before me now, with the spring blossoms, the voices, the sky, the very air of my childhood's days. In this home I found myself at the age of thirteen. I was the pupil and the charge of the occupant of the cottage, a retired clergyman, the Rev. Thomas Walworth, who having grown gray in the active service of his Master, had come there to pass his last days in the enjoyment of competence and peace. Even now, as on the day when I left him forever, I can see his tall form, bent with age and clad in black, his mild, pale face, with hair as white as snow,—I can hear that voice, whose very music was made up of the goodness of a heart at peace with God and man. When I was thirteen, myself, the good clergyman, and an aged woman—the housekeeper—were the only occupants of the cottage. His only son was away at college. And when I was thirteen, my mother, who had placed me in the care of the clergyman years before, came to see me. I shall never forget that visit. I was sitting on the cottage porch—it was a June day—the air was rich with fragrance and blossoms—my book was on my knee—when I heard her step in the garden-walk. She was tall and very beautiful, and richly clad in black, and her dark attire shone with diamonds. Very beautiful, I say, although there were threads of silver in her brown hair, and an incessant contraction of her dark brows, which gave a look of anxiety or pain to her face. As she came up the garden-walk, pushing aside her vail of dark lace, I knew her, although I had not seen her for three years. Her presence was strange to me, yet still my heart bounded as I saw her come. "Well, Frank," she said, as though it was but yesterday since I had seen her, "I have come to see you,"—she kissed me warmly on the lips and cheeks.—"Your father is dead, my child." A tear stood in her dark eye, a slight tremor moved her lip—that was all. My father dead! I can scarcely describe the emotions which these words caused. I had not seen my father for years. There was still a memory of his face present with me, coupled with an indistinct memory of my early childhood, passed in a city of a foreign land, and a dim vision of a voyage upon the ocean. And at my mother's words there came up the laughing face and sunny hair of my brother Gulian, who had suddenly disappeared about the time my parents returned from Paris, and just before I had been placed in the charge of the good clergyman. These mingling memories arose at my mother's words, and although the good clergyman stood more to me in the relation of a father than my own father, still I wept bitterly as I heard the words, "Your father is dead, my child." My mother, who seemed to me like one of those grand, rich ladies of whom I had read in story-books, seated herself beside me on the cottage porch. "You are getting quite beautiful, Frank," she said, and lifted my sun-bonnet and put her hand through the curls of my hair, which was black as jet. "You will be a woman soon." She kissed me, and then as she turned away, I heard her mutter these words which struck me painfully although then I could not understand them: "A woman! with your mother's beauty for your dowry and your mother's fate for your future!" The slight wrinkle between her brows grew deeper as she said these words. "You will be a woman, and must have an education suitable to the station you will occupy," continued my mother, drawing me quietly to her, and surveying me earnestly. "Now what do they teach you here?" She laughed as I gravely related the part which good old Alice—the housekeeper—took in my education. Old Alice taught me all the details of housekeeping; to sow, to knit, the fabrication of good pies, good butter, and good bread; the mystery of the preparation of various kinds of preserves; in fact, all the details of housekeeping as she understood it. And the good old dame, with her high cap, clear, bright little eyes, sharp nose, and white apron strung with a bundle of keys, always concluded her lesson with a mysterious intimation that, saving the good Mr. Walworth only, all the men in the world were monsters, more dangerous than the bears which ate up the bad children who mocked at Elijah. Laughing heartily as she heard me gravely enter into all these details, which I concluded with, "You see, mother, I'm quite a housekeeper already!" she continued: "And what does he teach you, my dear?" The laughter which animated her face, was succeeded by a look of vague curiosity as I began my answer. But as I went on, her face became sad and there were tears in her eyes. My father (as I had learned to call the good clergyman) taught me to read, to write, and to cipher. He gradually disclosed to me (more by his conversation than through the medium of books) the history of past ages, the wonders of the heavens above me, the properties of the plants and flowers that grew in my path. And oftentimes by the bright wood-fire in winter, or upon the porch under the boughs, in the rich twilight of the summer scenery—while the stars twinkled through the leaves, or the Hudson glistened in the light of the rising moon—he had talked to me of God. Of his love for all of us, his providence watching the sparrow's fall, his mercy reaching forth its almighty arms to the lowest of earth's stricken children. Of the other world, which stretches beyond the shores of the present, not dim and cloud- shadowed, but rich in the sunlight of eternal love, and living with the realities of a state of being in which there shall be no more sickness nor pain, and tears shall be wiped from every eye, and all things be made new. Of the holy mother watching over her holy child, while the stars shone in upon his humble bed in the manger,—of that child, in early boyhood, sitting in the temple confounding grave men, learned in the logic of the world, by the simple intuitions of a heart felled with the presence of God,—of the way of life led by that mother's child, when thirty years had set the seal of the divine manhood on his brow. How after the day's hard travel, he stopped to rest at the cottage home of Martha and Mary,—how he took up little children and blessed them,—how the blind began to see, the deaf to hear, the dead to live, at sound of his voice,—how on the calm of evening, in a modest room, he took his last supper with the Twelve, John resting on his bosom, Judas scowling in the background,—how, amid the olives of Gethsemane, at dead of night, while his disciples slept, he went through the unutterable agony alone until an angel's hand wiped the sweat of blood from his brow,—how he died upon the felon's tree, the heavens black above him, the earth beneath him dark with the vast multitude,—and how, on the clear Sabbath morn he rose again, and called the faithful woman, who had followed him to the sepulcher, by the name which his mother bore, spoken in the old familiar tone—"Mary!" How he walked the earth in bodily form eighteen hundred years ago, shedding the presence of God around him, and even now he walked it still in spiritual body, shedding still upon sin-stricken and sorrowing hearts the presence and the love of God the Father. Lessons such as these, the good clergyman, my father (as I called him) taught me, instructing me always to do good and lead a life free from sin, not from fear of damnation or hell, but because goodness is growth, a good life is happiness. A flower shut out from the light is damned: it cannot grow. An evil life here or hereafter is in itself damnation; for it is want of growth, paralysis or decay of all the nobler faculties. As in my own way, and with such words as I could command, I recounted the manner in which the good clergyman educated me, my mother's face grew sad and tearful. She did not speak for some minutes; her gaze was downcast, and through her long dark eyelashes the tears began to steal. "A dream," she muttered, "only a dream! Did he know mankind and know but a portion of their unfathomable baseness, he would see the impossibility of making them better, would feel the necessity of an actual hell, black as the darkest that a poet ever fancied." As she was thus occupied in her own thoughts, a step—a well-known step—resounded on the garden-walk, and the good clergyman advanced from the wicket-gate to the porch. Even now I see that pale face, with the white hair and large clear eyes! He advanced and took my mother cordially by the hand, and was much affected when he heard of my father's death. My mother thanked him warmly for the care which he had taken of her child. "This child will be a woman soon, and she must be prepared to enter upon life with all the accomplishments suitable to the position which she will occupy," continued my mother; "I wish her to remain with you until she is ready to enter the great world. But she must have proper instruction in music and dancing. She must not be altogether a wild country girl, when she goes into society. But, however, my dear Mr. Walworth, we will talk of this alone." Young as I was I could perceive that there was a mystery about my mother, her previous life, or present position, which the good clergyman did not feel himself called upon to penetrate. She took his arm and led him into the cottage, and they conversed for a long time alone, while I remained upon the porch, buried in a sort of dreamy revery, and watching the white clouds as they sailed along the summer sky. "I shall be absent two years," I heard my mother's voice, as leaning on the good clergyman's arm she again came forth upon the porch; "see that when I return, in place of this pretty child you will present to me a beautiful and accomplished lady." She took me in her arms and kissed me, while Mr. Walworth exclaimed: "Indeed, my dear madam, I can never allow myself to think of Frances' leaving this home while I am living. She has been with me so long—is so dear to me—that the very thought of parting with her, is like tearing my heart-strings!" He spoke with undisguised emotion; my mother took him warmly by the hand, and again thanked him for the care and love which he had lavished on her child. At length she said "Farewell!" and I watched her as she went down the garden-walk to the wicket gate, and then across the road, until she entered a by-path which wound among the hills of the Neprehaun into the valley below. She was lost to my sight in the shadows of the foliage. She emerged to view again far down the valley, and I saw her enter her grand carriage, and saw her kerchief waving from the carriage window, as it rolled away. I watched, O! how earnestly I watched, until the carriage rose to sight on the summit of a distant hill, beyond the spire of the village church. Then, as it disappeared and bore my mother from my sight, I sat down and wept bitterly. Would I had never seen her face again! A year passed away. CHAPTER IV. MAIDENHOOD. It was June again. One summer evening I took the path which led from the garden to the summit of the hill which rose behind the cottage. As I pursued my way upward the sun was setting, and at every step I obtained a broader glimpse of the river, the dark Palisades, and the bay white with sails. When I reached the summit, the sun was on the verge of the horizon, and the sky in the west all purple and gold. Seating myself on the huge rock, which rose on the summit, surrounded by a circle of grand old trees, I surrendered myself to the quiet and serenity of the evening hour. The view was altogether beautiful. Beneath me sloped the broad hills, clad in wheat which already was changing from emerald to gold. Farther down, my cottage home half hidden among trees. Then beneath the cottage, the homes of the village dotting the hills, among which wound the Neprehaun. The broad river and the wide bay heaving gently in the fading light, and the dark Palisades rising blackly against the gold and purple sky. A lovelier view cannot be imagined. And the air was full of summer—scented with breath of vines and blossoms and new-mown hay. As I surrendered myself to thoughts which arose unbidden, the first star...