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 Another Random Document on
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and bury my shame and my sorrows beneath the cataract? Once
dead, Walter would at least respect my memory, while living he
could only despise and abhor me.
While thoughts like these flashed over my brain, my ear was saluted
with the chorus of a drinking song, hummed in an uneven and
tremulous voice; and, in a moment my husband passed before me,
with an unsteady step. He was confused and excited by the fumes of
champagne. Approaching the verge of the island—but a few feet
from the verge of the cataract—where the waters look smooth and
glassy, as they are about to take the last plunge, he stood gazing,
now at the torrent, now at the moon, with a vague, half-drunken
stare.
That moment decided my life!
His attitude, the cataract so near, my own lost and hopeless
condition, all rushed upon me. Vailing my face, I darted forward and
uttered a shriek. Startled by the unexpected sound, he turned, lost
his balance, and fell backward into the torrent. But, as he fell, he
clutched a branch which overhung the water. Thus, scarcely two
yards from the brink, he struggled madly for his life, his face
upturned to the moon. I advanced and uncovered my face. He knew
me, for the shock had sobered him.
"Marion, save me, save me!" he cried.
I gazed upon him without a word, my arms folded on my breast, and
saw him struggle, and heard the branch snap, and—heard his death-
howl, as he was swept over the falls. Then, pale as death, and
shuddering as with mortal cold, I dragged my steps from the Island,
over the bridge—shrieking madly for help. Soon, I heard footsteps
and voices. "Help! help!" I shrieked, as I was surrounded by a group
of faces, men and women. "My husband! my husband! the falls!"
and sank, fainting, in their midst.
 CHAPTER IX.

A SECOND MARRIAGE.

Morning came, and no suspicion attached to me. A murderess—if

not in deed, in thought, certainly—I was looked upon as the
inconsolable widow. Walter left Niagara without seeing me. How did
he regard me? I could not tell. The death of Burley broke up our
traveling party, and we returned to New York. I returned in time to
attend my father's funeral; and found myself the heiress, in my own
right, of three hundred thousand dollars. An heiress and a widow,
certainly life began to brighten! Burley removed, the incubus which
sat upon my father's wealth was gone; and I was beautiful, and free,
and rich—immensely rich.
But where was Walter? Months passed, and I did not see him. As he
was the head clerk of my father, I hoped to see him, in company
with legal gentlemen, engaged to close up my father's estate. But he
settled his accounts, closed all connection with my father's estate
and business, but did not come near me. At length, weary of
suspense, and heart-sick of the loneliness of my desolate mansion, I
wrote to him, begging an interview.
He called in the dusk of the evening, when a single candle lighted up
the spacious and gloomy parlor. He was dressed in deep mourning,
and very pale.
"Madam, you wished to see me," he began.
This cold and formal manner cut me to the heart.
"Walter!" I cried, and flung myself upon his breast, and passionately,
but in broken accents, told him how my father's anticipated ruin had
forced me to marry Burley.
Walter was melted. "Marion, I love you, and always shall love you,
but—but—"
He paused. In an agony of suspense I hung upon his words.
"But—"
"But you are so rich, and I—I—am poor!"
I drowned all further words with kisses, and in a moment we were
betrothed again.
We were married. Walter was the master of my fortune, my person
and my future. We lived happily together, content with each other's
society, and seeking, in the endearments of a pure marriage, to blot
out the memory of an unholy one. My husband, truly my husband,
was all that I could desire; and by me, he became the possessor of a
princely revenue, free to gratify his taste for all that is beautiful in
the arts, in painting and sculpture, without hinderance or control.
Devoted to me, always kind, eager to gratify my slightest wish,
Walter was all that I could desire. We lived to ourselves, and forgot
the miserable mockery called "the fashionable world," into which
Burley had introduced me. Thus a year passed away, and present
happiness banished the memory of a gloomy past. After a year,
Walter began to have important engagements, on pressing business,
in Philadelphia, Boston, Baltimore and Washington. His absence was
death to me; but, having full confidence in him, and aware that his
business must be of vital importance, or assuredly he would not
leave me, I saw him depart, time and again, with grief too deep for
words, and always hailed his return—the very echo of his step with a
joy as deep. On one occasion, when he left me, for a day, on a
business visit to Philadelphia, I determined—I scarcely knew why—to
follow him, and greet him, on his arrival in Philadelphia, with the
unexpected but welcome surprise of my presence. Clothing myself in
black—black velvet bonnet, and black velvet mantilla, and with a
dark vail over my face—I followed him to the ferry-boat, crossed to
Jersey City, and took my seat near him in the cars. We arrived in
Philadelphia late at night. To my surprise he did not put up at one of
the prominent hotels, but bent his way to an obscure and distant
part of the city. I followed him to a remote part of Kensington, and
saw him knock at the door of an isolated two-story house. After a
pause, it was opened, and he entered. I waited from the hour of
twelve until three, but he did not re-appear. Sadly and with heavy
steps I bent my way to the city, and took lodgings at a respectable
but third-rate tavern, representing myself as a widow from the
interior, and taking great care to conceal my face from the gaze of
the landlord and servants. Next morning it was my first care to
procure a male dress,—it matters not how, or with what caution and
trouble,—and, tying it up in a compact bundle, I made my way to
the open country and entered a wood. It was the first of autumn,
and already the leaves were tinted with rainbow dyes. In the thickest
part of the wood I disposed of my female attire, and assumed the
male dress—blue frock, buttoned to the throat, dark pantaloons, and
gaiter boots. My dark hair I arranged beneath a glazed cap with
military buttons. Cutting a switch I twirled it jauntily in my hand,
and, anxious to test my disguise, entered a wayside cottage—near
the Second Street Road—and asked for a glass of water. While the
back of the tenant of the cottage—an aged woman—was turned, I
gazed in the looking-glass, and beheld myself, to all appearance, a
young man of medium stature, with brown complexion of exceeding
richness, lips of cherry red, arched brows, eyes of unusual brilliancy,
and black hair, arranged in a glossy mass beneath a glazed cap. It
was the image of a handsome boy of nineteen, with no down on the
lip and no beard on the chin. Satisfied with my disguise, and with a
half-formed idea floating through my brain, I bent my steps to the
isolated house, which I had seen my husband enter the night before.
I knocked; the door was opened by a young girl, plainly clad, but of
surpassing beauty—evidently not more than sixteen years old. A
sunny complexion, blue eyes, masses of glossy brown hair, combined
with an expression which mingled voluptuous warmth with stainless
innocence. Such was her face. As to her form, although not so tall as
mine, it mingled the graceful outlines of the maiden with the
ripeness of the woman.

CHAPTER X.
 A SECOND MURDER.

She gazed upon me with surprise. Obeying a sudden impulse, I said

—"Excuse me, Miss, but I promised to meet him here. You know,"
with a polite bow and smile, "you know whom I mean?"
"Mr. Barton—" she hesitated.
"Exactly so; Mr. Barton, my intimate friend, who has confided all to
me, and who desired me to meet him here at this hour."
"My mother is not at home," hesitated the young girl, "and, in her
absence, I do not like to—"
"Receive strangers, you were about to add? Well, Miss, I am not a
stranger. As the intimate friend of Mr. Barton, who especially desired
me to meet him here—"
These words seemed to resolve all her doubts. She motioned me to
enter, and we passed into a small room, neatly furnished, with the
light which came through the curtained windows, shining upon a
picture,—the portrait of Walter Howard, my husband.
"Capital likeness of Barton," I said, carelessly tapping my switch
against my boot.
"Yes,—yes," she replied as she took a seat at the opposite end of the
sofa,—"but not so handsome."
In the course of two hours, in which with a maddened pulse and
heaving breast, I waited for the appearance of my husband, I
learned from the young girl the following facts:—She was a poor girl,
and her mother, with whom she lived, a widow in very moderate
circumstances. Her name was Ada Bulmer. Mr. Lawrence Barton
(this, of course, was the assumed name of my husband,) was a
wealthy gentleman of a noble heart,—he had saved her life in a
railroad accident, some months before. He had been unhappy,
however, in marriage; was now divorced from a wicked and
unfaithful woman; and,—here was the climax,—"and next week we
are to be married, and mother, Lawrence, and myself will proceed to
Europe directly after our marriage."
This was Ada's story, which I heard with emotions that can scarcely
be imagined. Every word planted a hell in my heart. At length,
toward nightfall, a knock was heard, and Ada hastened to the door.
Presently I heard my husband's step in the entry, and then his voice,
—
"Dearest,——" there was the sound of a kiss,—"I have got rid of that
infamous woman, who killed her first husband, and have turned all
my property into ready money. On Monday we start for Europe."
He entered, and as he entered I glided behind the door. Thus his
back was toward me, while his face was toward Ada, and his arms
about her waist.
"On Monday, dearest, we will be married, and then——"
I was white with rage, but calm as death. Drawing the poniard,
(which I had never parted with since I first procured it,) I advanced
and struck him, once, twice, thrice, in the back. He never beheld
me, but fell upon Ada's breast, bathed in blood. She uttered a
shriek, but laying my hand upon her shoulder, I said, sternly,—
"Not a word! this villain seduced my only sister, as he would have
seduced you!"
I tore him from her arms, and laid him on the sofa; he was
speechless; the blood flowed from his mouth and nostrils, but by his
glance, I saw that he knew me. Ada, white as a shroud, tottered
toward him.
"Seducer of my sister, have we met at last?" I said aloud,—and then
bending my face to his, and my bosom close to his breast, I
whispered,—
"The wicked woman who killed her first husband, gives you this,"—
and in my rage buried the poniard in his heart.
Ada fell fainting to the floor, and I hurried from the house. It was a
dark night, enlivened only by the rays of the stars, but I gained the
wood, washed the blood from my hands, and resumed my female
attire. In less than an hour, I reached the depot at Kensington,
entered the cars, and before twelve, crossed the threshold of my
own home in New York.
How I passed the night,—with what emotions of agony, remorse,
jealousy,—matters not. And for three days afterward, as I awaited
for the developments, I was many times near raving madness. The
account of my husband's death filled the papers; and it was
supposed that he had been killed by some unknown man, in
revenge, for the seduction of a sister. My wild demeanor was
attributed to natural grief at his untimely end.
On the fourth day I had his body brought on from Philadelphia; and
on the fifth, celebrated his funeral, following his corpse to the family
vault, draped in widow's weeds, and blinded with tears of grief, or of
—despair. Ada Bulmer I never saw again, but believe she died within
a year of consumption or a broken heart.

CHAPTER XI.

MARION AND HERMAN BARNHURST.

Alone in my mansion, secluded from the world, I passed many

months in harrowing meditations on the past. Oftentimes I saw the
face of Walter dabbled in blood, and both awake and in my dreams,
I saw, O, how vividly his last look! I was still rich, (although Walter,
as I discovered, after his death, had recklessly squandered more
than one-half of my fortune,) but what mattered riches to one
devoured like myself by an ever-gnawing remorse? What might I
have been had not Burley forced me into that unholy marriage? This
question was never out of my mind for a long year, during which I
wore the weeds of widowhood, and kept almost entirely within the
limits of my mansion.
Toward the close of the year an incident occurred which had an
important bearing on my fate. Near my home stood a church, in
which a young and eloquent preacher held forth to the admiration of
a fashionable congregation, every Sabbath-day. On one occasion I
occupied a seat near the pulpit, and was much struck by his youthful
appearance, combined with eloquence so touching and enthusiastic.
His eagle eye, shone from his pallid face, with all the fire of an
earnest, a heartfelt sincerity. I was struck by the entire manner of
the man, and more than once in his sermon he seemed to address
me in especial, for our eyes met, as though there was a mutual
magnetism in our gaze. When I returned home I could not banish
his face nor his accents from my memory; I felt myself devoured by
opposing emotions; remorse for the past, mingled with a sensation
of interest in the youthful preacher. At length, after much thought, I
sent him this note by the hands of a servant in livery:—

Reverend Sir,—
A lady who heard your eloquent sermon on "Conscience," on
Sabbath last, desires to ask your advice in a matter touching the
peace of her soul. She resides at No. ——, and will be glad to
receive you to-morrow evening.
M. H.

This singular note was dispatched, and the servant directed to

inform the Rev. Herman Barnhurst of my full name. As the appointed
hour drew nigh, I felt nervous and restless. Will he come? Shall I
unbosom myself to him, and obtain at least a portion of mental
peace by confessing the deeds and thoughts which rest so heavy on
my soul? At last dusk came; two candles stood lighted on the mantle
of the front parlor, and seated on the sofa I nervously awaited the
coming of the preacher.
"I will confess all!" I thought, and raising my eyes, surveyed myself
in the mirror which hung opposite. The past year, with all its sorrow,
had rather added to, than detracted from, my personal appearance.
My form was more matured and womanly. And the sorrow which I
had endured had given a grave earnestness to my look, which, in
the eyes of some, would have been more winning than the glance of
voluptuous languor. Dressed in deep black, my bust covered to the
throat, and my hair gathered plainly aside from my face, I looked
the grave, serious—and, I may add, without vanity—the beautiful
widow. The Rev. Herman Barnhurst was announced at last,—how I
trembled as I heard his step in the hall! He entered, and greeting
him with an extended hand, I thanked him warmly for calling in
answer to my informal note, and motioned him to a chair. There was
surprise and constraint in his manner, but he never once took his
eyes from my face. He stammered and even blushed as he spoke to
me.
"You spoke, madam, of a case of conscience," he began.
"A case of conscience about which I wished to speak to you."
"Surely," he said, fixing his gaze earnestly upon me, and his words
seemed to be forced from him, even against his will,—"surely one so
beautiful and so good cannot have anything like sin upon her soul
——"
Our gaze met, and from that moment we talked of everything but
the case of conscience. All his restraint vanished. His eye flashed, his
voice rolled deep and full; he was eloquent, and he was at home.
We seemed to have been acquainted for years. We talked of history,
poetry, the beautiful in nature, the wonderful in art; and we talked
without effort, as though our minds mingled together, without even
the aid of voice and eyes. Time sped noiselessly,—it was twelve
o'clock before we thought it nine. He rose to go.
"I shall do myself the pleasure to call again," he said, and his voice
faltered.
I extended my hand; his hand met it in a gentle pressure. That
touch decided our fate. As though my very being and his had rushed
together and melted into one, in that slight pressure of hand to
hand, we stood silent and confused,—one feeling in our gaze,—
blushing and pale by turns.
"Woman," he said, in a voice scarcely above a whisper, "you will
drive me mad," and sank half-fainting on his knees.
I bent down and drew him to my breast, and covered his forehead
with kisses. Pale, half-fainting, he lay almost helpless in my arms.
"Not mad, Herman," I whispered, "but I will be your good angel; I
will cheer you in your mission of good. I will watch over you as you
ascend, step by step, the difficult steep of fame; and Herman, I will
love you."
It was the first time that young brow had trembled to a woman's
kiss.
"Nay,—nay,—tempt me not," he murmured, and unwound my arms
from his neck, and staggered to the door.
But as he reached the threshold, he turned,—our gaze met,—he
rushed forward with outspread arms,—
"I love you!" he cried, and his face was buried on my bosom.

From that hour the Rev. Herman Barnhurst was the constant visitor
at my house. He lived in my presence. His sermons, formerly lofty
and somber in their enthusiasm, became colored with a passionate
warmth. I felt a strange interest in the beautiful boy; a feeling
compounded of pure love; of passion; of voluptuousness, the most
intense and refined.
"O, Marion, do you not think that if I act aright in all other respects,
that this one sin will be forgiven me?" said Herman, as one Sabbath
evening, after the service was over, we sat, side by side, in my
house. It was in a quiet room, the curtains drawn, a light shining in
front of a mirror, and a couch dimly seen through the shadows of an
alcove.
"One sin? what mean you, Herman?"
"The sin of loving you,"—and he blushed as his earnest gaze met
mine.
"And is it a sin to love me?" I answered in a low voice, suffering my
hand to rest upon his forehead.
"Yes," he stammered,—"to love you thus unlawfully."
"Why unlawfully?"
He buried his head on my breast, as he replied,—"I love you as a
husband, and I am not your husband."
"And why—" I exclaimed, seizing him in my arms, and gently raising
his head, so that our gaze met,—"and why can you not be my
husband? I am rich; you have genius. My wealth,—enough for us
both,—shall be linked with your genius, and both shall the more
firmly cement our love. Say, Herman, why can you not be my
husband?"
He turned pale, and avoided my gaze.
"You are ashamed of me,—ashamed, because I have given you the
last proof which a woman can give to the man she loves."
"Ashamed! O, no, no,—by all that is sacred, no,—but Marion——"
And bending nearer to me, in faltering accents, he whispered the
secret to my ears. He was betrothed to Fanny Lansdale, the
daughter of the wealthiest and most influential member of his
congregation. He had been betrothed long before he met me. To Mr.
Lansdale, the father, he owed all that he had acquired in life, both in
position and fame. That gentleman had taken him when a friendless
orphan boy, had educated him, and after his ordination, had
obtained for him the pastoral charge of his large and wealthy
congregation. Thus, he was bound to the father by every tie of
gratitude; to the daughter by an engagement that he could not
break, without ingratitude and disgrace. My heart died within me at
this revelation. At once I saw that Herman could never be lawfully
mine. Between him and myself stood Fanny Lansdale, and every tie
of gratitude, and every emotion of self-respect and honor.

CHAPTER XII.

MARION AND FANNY.

Not long after this interview, I saw Fanny Lansdale at church; made
the acquaintance of her father—a grave citizen, who regarded me as
a sincere devotee—and induced Fanny to become a frequent visitor
at my house. She confided all to me. She loved Herman devotedly,
and looked forward to their marriage as the most certain event in
the world. She was a very pretty child, with clear blue eyes, luxuriant
hair, and a look of bewitching archness. I do not step aside from the
truth, when I state that I sincerely loved her; although it is also true,
that I never suffered myself to think of her marriage with Herman as
anything but an impossible dream. An incident took place one
summer evening, about a year after Herman's first visit to my house,
which, slight as it was, it is just as well to relate. It is such slight
incidents which often decide the fate of a lifetime, and strike down
the barrier between innocence and crime.
I was sitting on the sofa at the back window of the parlor, and Fanny
sat on the stool at my feet. The light of the setting sun shone over
my shoulders, and lighted up her face, as her clasped hands rested
on my knees, and her happy, guileless look, was centered on my
countenance. As I gazed upon that innocent face, full of youth and
hope, I was reminded of my own early days; and at the memory, a
tear rolled down my cheek.
"Yes, you shall marry Herman," the thought flashed over my mind;
"and I will aid you, Fanny; yes, I will resign Herman to you."
At this moment Herman entered noiselessly, and took his place by
my shoulder; and, without a word, gazed first into my face and then
into the face of Fanny. Oh, that look! It was never forgotten. It was
fate. For it said, as plainly as a soul, speaking through eyes, can say
—"Thou, Marion, art my mistress, the companion of my illicit and
sensual love; but thou, Fanny, art my wife, the pure partner of my
lawful love!"
After that look, Herman bade us good evening! in a tone of evident
agitation, and hurried from the room.
From that hour, Herman avoided me. Weeks passed, and he was not
seen at my house. At church he never seemed to be conscious of my
presence; and, the service over, hurried at once from the place,
without a single glance or sign of recognition. At length, Fanny's
visits became less frequent; and, when she did come to see me, her
manner manifested a conflict of confidence and suspicion. That this
wounded me—that the absence of Herman cut me to the soul—may
easily be imagined. I passed my time between alternations of hope
and despair; now listening, and in vain, for the echo of Herman's
step—and now bathed in unavailing tears. Conscious that my
passion for Herman was the last link that bound me to purity—to life
itself—I did not give up the hope of seeing him at my feet, as in
former days, until months had elapsed. Finally, grown desperate,
and anxious to avoid the sting of wounded love, the perpetual
presence of harrowing memories, I sought the society of that class
of fashionables, to whom my first husband, Issachar Burley, had
introduced me. I kept open house for them. Revels, from midnight
until dawn, in which men and women of the first class mingled,
served for a time to banish reflection, and sap, tie by tie, every
thread of hope which held me to a purer state of life. The kennel has
its orgies, and the hovel, in which ignorance and squalor join in their
uncouth debauch; but the orgie of the parlor, in which beauty,
intellect, fashion and refinement are mingled, far surpasses, in
unutterable vulgarity, the lowest orgie of the kennel. Amid the
uproar of scenes like these, news reached me that the Rev. Herman
Barnhurst and Miss Fanny Lansdale were shortly to be united in
marriage.

CHAPTER XIII.

AN UNUTTERABLE CRIME.

One evening I was sitting alone, in the back parlor, near a table on
which stood a lighted candle and a wine-glass, (for I now at times
began to seek oblivion in wine,) when Gerald Dudley was
announced. Gerald was one of my fashionable friends, over forty in
years, tall in stature, with a florid face, short curling brown hair, and
sandy whiskers. He was a roué, and a gambler, and—save the mark
—one of the first fashionables of New York. He entered, dressed in a
showy style; blue coat, red velvet vest, plaid pants, brimstone-
colored gloves, and a profusion of rings and other jewelry—a style
indicative of the man. Seating himself on the sofa, he began chatting
in his easy way about passing events of fashionable life, and of the
world at large.
"By-the-bye, the popular preacher, young Barnhurst, is to be
married; and to such a love of a girl—daughter of old Lansdale, the
millionaire. Lucky fellow! Do you know that I've often noticed her at
church—a perfect Hebe—and followed her home, once or twice, and
that I shouldn't mind marrying her myself if I could get a chance!"
And he laughed a laugh which showed his white teeth. "Bah! But
that's it—I can't get a chance."
Perhaps I blushed at the mention of this marriage; but he
immediately continued:—
"On dit, my pretty widow, that this girl, Lansdale, has cut you out.
Barnhurst once was sadly taken with you; so I've heard. How is it?
All talk, I suppose?"
I felt myself growing pale, although the blood was boiling in my
veins. But before I could reply, there was a ring at the front door,
followed by the sound of a hasty footstep, and the next moment, to
my utter surprise, Fanny Lansdale rushed into the room. Without
seeming to notice the presence of Dudley, she rushed forward, and
fell on her knees before me, her bonnet hanging on her neck, her
hair floating about her face, and that face bathed in blushes and
tears.
"Oh, Marion! Marion!" she gasped,—"some slanderer has told father
a story about you and Herman,—a vile, wicked story,—which you
can refute, and which I am sure you will! For—for—"
She fell fainting on my knee. The violence of her emotions, for the
time, deprived her of all appearance of life. Her head was on my lap;
one hand sought mine, and was joined to it in a convulsive clasp.
Oh, who shall say that those crimes which make the world shudder
but to hear told, are the result of long and skillful planning, of
careful and intricate scheming? No, no; the worst crimes—those
which it would seem might make even the heart of a devil, contract
with horror—are not the result of long and deliberate purpose, but of
the temptation of a moment—of the fatal opportunity!
As her head rested on my lap, a voice whispered in my ear:
"Your rival! Retire for a few moments, in search of hartshorn, or
some such restorative, and leave the fainting one in my care."
I raised my head and caught the eye of Gerald Dudley. Only a single
look, and the fiend was in my heart. I rose; the fainting girl fell upon
the floor; I hurried from the room, and did not pause until I had
reached my own chamber, and locked the door. Pressing my hands
now on my burning temples, now on my breast, I paced the floor,
while, perchance, fifteen minutes—they seemed an eternity—passed
away.
Then I went slowly down stairs, and entered the back parlor. Gerald
was there, standing near the sofa; his face wearing an insolent scowl
of triumph. The girl was stretched upon the sofa, still insensible, but
—I dare not write it—opposite Gerald stood Herman Barnhurst, who
had followed Fanny to the house, and arrived—too late. His face was
bloodless.
"Oh, villain!" he groaned, as his maddened gaze was fixed on
Dudley; "you shall pay for this with your blood—"
"Softly, Reverend Sir! softly! One word of this, and the world shall
know of your amours with the handsome widow."
Herman's gaze rested on my face—
"You,—know—of—this?" he began, with a look that can never be
forgotten.
"Pardon, Herman, pardon! I was mad," I shrieked, flinging myself at
his feet, and clutching his knees.
For a moment he gazed upon me, and then, lifting his clenched right
hand, he struck me on the forehead, and I fell insensible on the
floor. The curse, which he spoke as I fell, rings even yet in my ears.

CHAPTER XIV.

SUICIDE.

Three days have passed since then. Such days as I will never pass
again! I have just learned that Gerald Dudley has fled the city. His
purpose to obtain Fanny's hand in marriage by first accomplishing
her shame, has utterly failed. Her father knows all and is now using
every engine of his wealth to connect my name with the crime which
has damned every hope of his idolized child. And he will succeed! I
feel it; I know it; my presentiment cannot prove false. What shall I
do?—whither turn?
And Herman is a raving lunatic. This too is my work. Yes, yes, I am
resolved.—I am resolved. * * * *
To-morrow's dawn will bring disgrace and shame to me; and, in the
future, I see the crowded court-house—the mob, eager to drink in
the story of my guilt,—and the felon's cell. But the morrow's dawn I
shall never see!
I am alone in my chamber—the very chamber in which I became
Burley's, in an unholy marriage—Walter's, in the marriage of a
stainless love—Herman's, in the mad embrace of passion. And now,
O Death! upon that marriage couch, I am about to wed thee!
The brazier stands in the center of the bridal chamber; its contents
were ignited half an hour ago; every avenue to my chamber is
carefully closed; already the fumes of the burning charcoal begin to
smite my temples and my heart.
This record, written from time to time, and now concluded by a hand
chilled by death, I leave to my only living relative,—not as an
apology for my crimes, but as an explanation of the causes which
led me to the brink of this awful abyss.
Air! air! Burley, for thee I have no remorse. Let the branch snap!—
over the cataract with thy accursed face! Thou wert the cause of all
—thou! But, Walter, thy last look kills my soul.—Herman, thy curse is
on me! And poor Fanny! Air! Light! It is so dark—dark!—Oh for one
breath of prayer!

conclusion.

The preceding confession, signed by the tremulous hand of the poor

suicide, was found in her room, with the senseless corse, by the
relative, to whom she addressed it, and who adds these concluding
pages. For days after the event, the papers were filled with
paragraphs, in regard to the melancholy affair. A single one
extracted from a prominent paper, will give some idea of the tone of
the public mind:

Extract from a New York Paper.

"TRAGEDY IN HIGH LIFE.

"The town is full of rumors, in regard to a mysterious event, or

series of events, implicating a member of one of the first
families of New York. These rumors are singularly startling, and
although they have not yet assumed a definite shape, certainly
call for a judicial investigation. As far as we have been able to
sift the stories now afloat, the plain truth, reduced to the
briefest possible shape, appears to be as follows: Some years
since, Miss Marion M——, daughter of old Mr. M——, one of our
first merchants, was, while under an engagement of marriage
with Walter H——, forced into a marriage with Mr. Issachar B
——, a man old enough to be her father, who, it is stated, had
the father absolutely in his power. The marriage took place, but
not long afterward, B——, while on a visit to Niagara, was
precipitated over the Falls, at dead of night, in a manner not yet
satisfactorily explained. Soon afterward the young widow, then
immensely rich, encountered her former betrothed, and the
fashionable world were soon afterward informed of their
marriage. A year passed, and Walter H——, the husband of the
former widow, was found in a distant part of the country,
mysteriously murdered, it was not known by whom, although it
was rumored at the time, that the brother of a wronged sister,
was on that occasion the avenger of his sister's shame. The
beautiful Mrs. H——, was once more a widow. Here it might
seem that her adventures, connected so strangely with the
death of two husbands, had reached their termination. But it
seems she was soon fascinated by the eloquence of a young
man and popular divine, Rev. H—— B——. While betrothed to
Miss Fanny L——, daughter of a wealthy member of his
congregation, the eloquent preacher became a visitor at the
house of the rich widow, and finally his affections became
entangled, and he was forced to choose between said widow
and his betrothed. He sacrificed his affection for the former, to
his solemn engagement with the latter. The 'slighted' widow,
endured the usual pangs of 'despised love,' coupled with
something very much like Italian jealousy, or rather jealousy
after the Italian school. The betrothed was inveigled into a
certain house, and her honor sacrificed by a gentleman of
fashion, known for thirty years as a constant promenader, on
the west side of Broadway, Mr. Gerald D——. The widow
(strangest freak of a slighted and vindictive woman!) is said to
have been the planner and instigator of this crime. We have
now arrived at the sequel of the story. Unable to obtain the
hand of the Rev. H—— B——, and stung by remorse, for her
share in the dishonor of his betrothed, the widow put a period
to her own existence, in what manner is not exactly known,
although conflicting rumors state the knife, or the poison vial
was the instrument of her death. No coroner's inquest took
place. The body gave no signs of a violent death. 'Disease of
the heart' was stated in the certificate of the physician, (how
compliant he was to the wishes of rich survivors, we will not
say,) as the cause of her unexpected disease. She was quietly
buried in the family vault, and her immense estate descends to
a relative, who was especially careful, in cloaking over the fact
of the suicide. The tragedy involved in this affair, will be
complete, when we inform the reader, that Mr. Gerald D——,
has left the city, while his poor victim, Fanny L——, tenants the
cell of an asylum for the insane. Altogether, this affair is one of
the wildest exaggerations, or one of the most painful tragedies,
that ever fell to the lot of the press, to record. Can it be
believed that a young lady, honorably reared, would put a
period to the lives of two husbands, then procure the dishonor
of a rival, who interposed between her and a third 'husband?'
Verily, 'fact is stranger than fiction,' and every day, reality more
improbable than the wildest dreams of romance. The truth will
 not be known until the Confession, said to be left by the young
widow, makes its appearance. But will it appear? we shall see."

So much for the public press.

The reader can contrast its rumors, with the facts of the case, as
plainly set forth in the previous confession, penned by the hand of
the unfortunate and guilty Marion Merlin.
A few words more will close this painful narrative. Marion was quietly
and honorably buried. Her relatives were wealthy and powerful. The
'physician's certificate' enabled them to avoid the painful formality of
a coroner's inquest. She sleeps beside her husband, Walter Howard,
in Greenwood Cemetery.
Soon after her decease, Mr. Lansdale sold all his property in New
York, and with his daughter disappeared completely from public
view.
Herman Barnhurst remained in the Lunatic Asylum for more than a
year, when he was released, his intellect restored, but his health (it
is stated) irretrievably broken. After his release, he left New York,
and his name was soon forgotten, or if mentioned at all, only as that
of a person long since dead.
Gerald Dudley, after various adventures, in Texas and Mexico,
suffered at the hands of Judge Lynch, near San Antonio.
About a year after the death of Marion Merlin, a young man in
moderate circumstances, accompanied by his wife, (a pale, faded,
though interesting woman) and her aged father took up his
residence in C——, a pleasant village in south-western Pennsylvania.
They were secluded in their habits, and held but little intercourse
with the other villagers. The husband passed by the name of Wilton,
which (for all that the villagers knew to the contrary,) was his real
name.
One winter evening, as the family were gathered about the open
wood-fire, a sleigh halted at the door, and a visitor appeared in the
person of a middle-aged man, who came unbidden into the room,
shaking the snow from his great coat, and seating himself in the
midst of the family. Regarding for a moment the face of the aged
father, and then the countenance of the young husband and wife,
which alike in their pallor, seemed to bear the traces of an
irrevocable calamity, the visitor said quietly,—
"Herman Barnhurst, I am the relative to whom Marion Merlin
addressed her confession, and whom she invested with the
trusteeship of her estate."
Had a thunderbolt fallen into the midst of the party, it would not
have created so much consternation, as these few words from the
lips of the visitor. The young wife shrieked, the old man started from
his chair; Herman Barnhurst, (otherwise called Mr. Wilton,) with the
blood rushing to his pale face, said simply, "That accursed woman!"
"I hold her last Will and Testament in my hand," continued the
visitor: "I am her nearest relative, and would inherit her estate, but
for this will, by which she names you and your wife Fanny, as the
sole heirs of her immense property."
Herman took the Will from the visitor's hands.
"As administrator of her estate, I am here to surrender it into your
hands. The will was made as a small atonement for the injury she
caused you."
Herman quietly dropped the parchment into the fire:
"Her money and her memory are alike accursed. I will have nothing
to do with either."
That night the relative turned his face eastward, to take possession
of the estate of Marion Merlin.
And beneath this, in a different hand, was added the following
singular narrative:
 CHAPTER XV.

AFTER THE DEATH OF MARION.

A pleasant place, in summer time, was the country-mansion of the

celebrated Doctor N——, situated upon the heights of Weehawken,
about one mile from the Hudson River. A huge edifice of brick,
separated from the high road by a garden, it was surrounded by tall
trees, whose branches overhung its steep roof, and relieved by the
background of the rich foliage and blossoms of the orchard trees. A
pleasant place, in summer, was the mansion of the celebrated
Doctor, but lonely enough, and desolate enough in winter. On this
drear winter night, it looks sad and desolate as the grave. The sky
above it is leaden, the trees around it are leafless, the garden white
with snow, and the bitter wind howls dismally over the waste of
snow, which clothes the adjacent fields. In the distance, the Hudson
glitters dimly, white and cold, with fields of floating ice. It is near
morning, and but a single room in the vast country mansion is
tenanted. You can see a light trembling faintly through the half
vailed window yonder; the window near the roof, in the southern
wing.
It is near morning; but one person by a solitary light, keeps his vigil
in the deserted mansion; a sleigh drawn by a single horse, (he has
been driven hard, for there is foam upon his flanks) and moving
noiselessly, without the sound of bells stops at the garden gate. Two
persons, whose forms are wrapped in thick overcoats, and whose
faces are concealed by fur caps, drawn low over the brows,
dismount and pass along the garden walk, bearing a burden on their
shoulders. They ascend the steps of the porch, and stand in front of
the hall door, looking anxiously about them, as if to assure
themselves, their movements were not observed.
"So far safe enough,—" exclaims one in a hoarse voice, "the next
thing is to get it up stairs." And he places a key in the lock of the
door.
Meanwhile the light, which trembling outward from yonder window,
shines redly over the frozen snow, shines within upon the face of the
lonely watcher. A young man sits beside a table, reading by the light
of a clouded lamp, his cheeks resting on his hands, and his gaze
riveted upon the large volume, spread open before him. The light
falls brightly upon the book, leaving his features in half twilight, but
still you can trace the outlines of his face,—the enthusiasm of his
fixed eyes,—the energy of his broad bold forehead. It is a small and
comfortable apartment; near him a wood-fire is burning, on the
open hearth; opposite him a sofa, and a range of shelves, filled with
books, and upon the green cloth of the table by which he is seated,
you discover a sort of semicircle of open volumes,—placed there
evidently for reference,—a mass of carelessly strewn manuscripts,
and a case of surgical instruments.
Arthur Conroy, the favorite student of the celebrated Doctor,—a
student, whose organization combines the exactness and untiring
industry of the man of science, with the rich enthusiasm of the poet,
—is the only tenant of the mansion, during the dreary winter. He is
not seen during the day, but every night, arriving from New York,
after dark, he builds his fire, lights his candle, and commences his
lonely vigil. Sometimes, late at night, he is joined by the grave
Doctor himself, and they pursue their researches together. What
manner of researches? We cannot tell; but there is a rumor, that one
apartment of the huge mansion is used, in winter time, as a
Dissecting-Room. And the light streaming night after night, from the
window near the roof, strikes the lonely wayfarer with a sensation, in
some manner, associated with ghosts, witches, and dealings with the
devil in general.
Arthur is ambitious; even while his mind is wrapt in the mazes of a
scientific problem, he thinks of his widowed mother and orphan
sisters far away in the great village near Seneca lake, and his pulse
beats quicker, as he looks forward to the day when their ears shall
be greeted by the tidings of his world-wide fame. For he has
determined to be a surgeon, and a master in his art; he has the will
and the genius; he will accomplish what he wills.
He raises his eyes from his book,—they are glittering with the clear
light of intense thought,—and unconsciously begins to think aloud.
"Do the dead return? Are the dead indeed dead? You have nailed
down the coffin-lid; you have seen the coffin as it sunk into the
grave; you have heard the rattling of the clod,—but is that all? Is the
beloved one whom you have given to the grave, indeed dead, or
only more truly living in a new body, formed of refined matter,
invisible to our gross organs? Is that which we call soul, only the
result of a particular organization of gross matter, or is it the real,
eternal substance of which all other matter is but the servant and
the expression? Do the dead return? Do those whose faces we have
seen for the last time, ere the coffin-lid closed upon them forever,
ever come back to us, clad in spiritual bodies, and addressing us,
not through our external organs, but by directly impressing that
divine substance in us, which is like unto them,—that which we call
our soul?"
It was a thought which for ages has made the hearts of the noblest
and truest of our race, alternately combat with despair, and swell
with hope,—that thought which seeks to unvail the mystery of Life
and Death, disclose the tie which connects perishable matter with
eternal mind, and lift the curtain which hides from the present, the
other world.
Arthur felt the vast thought gather all his soul into its embrace. But
his meditations were interrupted by the opening of the door, and the
two men,—whom we saw dismount from the sleigh,—entered the
room of the student, bearing in their arms the burden, which was
covered by folds of coarse canvas.
Very ungainly men they were, with their brawny forms wrapped in
huge gray overcoats, adorned with white buttons, and their harsh
visages half concealed by their coarse fur caps. They came into the
room without a word.
"O, you have come," said Arthur, as if he recognized persons by no
means strangers to him. "Have you the particular subject which the
doctor desired you to procure?"
"Jist that partikler subject," said one of the twain,—"an' a devil of a
time we've had to git it! Fust we entered the vault at Greenwood,
with a false key, and then opened the coffin, so as it'll never be
known that it was opened at all. Closed the vault ag'in and got the
body over the wall, and hid it in the bottom of the sleigh. Crossed
the ferry at Brooklyn—went through the city, and then took the ferry
for Hoboken,—same sleigh, and same subject in the bottom of it; an'
druv here with a blast in our face, sharp as a dozen butcher knives."
"But if it had not a-been for the storm, we wouldn't a-got the body,"
interrupted the other.
"And here we air, and here it is, and that's enough. What shall we
do with it?"
Arthur opened a small door near the bookcase, and a narrow
stairway (leading up into the garret) was disclosed.
"You know the way," he said. "When you get up there place it on the
table."
They obeyed without a word. Bearing their burden slowly through
the narrow doorway, they disappeared, and the echo of their heavy
boots was heard on the stairway. They were not long absent. After a
few moments they again appeared, and the one who had acted as
principal spokesman, held out his open palm toward Arthur,—
"Double allowance to-night, you know," he said,—"Doctor generally
gives us from forty to sixty dollars a job, but this partikler case axes
for ten gold pieces,—spread eagles, you know, wuth ten dollars
apiece,—only a hundred dollars in all. Shell out!"
Arthur quietly placed ten gold pieces in the hands of the ruffian.
—"The doctor left it for you. Now go."
And shuffling their heavy boots, they disappeared through the same
door by which they had entered. Looking through the window after a
few moments, he saw the sleigh moving noiselessly down the public
road.
"Dangerous experiment for the doctor, especially if the event of this
night should happen to be discovered," ejaculated Arthur, as he
rebuilt his fire. "A peculiar case of suicide, and he wished the body
at all hazards. Well! I must to work."
He drew on an apron of dark muslin, which was provided with
sleeves, and then lifting the shade from the lamp, he lighted a cigar.
As the smoke of the grateful Havana rolled through his apartment,
he took the lamp in one hand, and a case of instruments in the
other, and ascended the secret stairway leading to the garret.
"I have seen her when living, arrayed in all the pride of youth and
beauty," he said, as the lamp shone upon the vast and gloomy
garret,—"and now let me look upon the shell which so lately held
that passionate soul."
It was indeed a vast and gloomy garret. It traversed the entire
extent of the southern wing. The windows at either end were
carefully darkened. The ceiling was formed by the huge rafters and
bare shingles of the steep roof. To one of these rafters a human
skeleton was suspended, its white bones glaring amid the darkness.
In the center was a large table, upon which was placed the burden
which the ruffians had that night stolen from the grave. The place
was silent, lonely,—the wind howled dismally among the chimneys,—
and Arthur could not repress a slight shudder as his footsteps
echoed from the naked floor. Arthur placed the lamp upon the table,
and began to uncover the subject. Removing the coarse canvas he
disclosed the corpse. An ejaculation burst from his lips,—a cry half of
terror, half of surprise.
The light shone upon the body of a beautiful woman. From those
faultless limbs and that snowy bosom the grave-clothes had been
carefully stripped. A single fragment of the shroud fluttered around
the right arm. Save this fragment the body was completely bare, and
the dark hair of the dead fell loosely on her shoulders. The face was
very beautiful and calm, as though sealed only for an hour in a quiet
sleep,—the fringes of the eyelashes rested darkly upon the cheeks.
Never had the light shone upon a shape of more surpassing
loveliness, upon limbs more like ivory in their snowy whiteness, upon
a face more like a dreamless slumber, in its calm, beautiful
expression. Dead, and yet very beautiful! A proud soul dwelt in this
casket once,—the soul has fled, and now the casket must be
surrendered to the scalpel,—must be cut and rent, shred by shred,
by the dissector's hand.
"But the limbs are not rigid with death," soliloquized Arthur,—"Decay
has not yet commenced its work. As I live, there is a glow upon the
cheek."
With his scalpel he inflicted a gash near the right temple, and at the
same instant—imagining he heard a footstep,—he turned his face
over his shoulder. It was only imagination, and he turned again to
trace the result of the incision.
The dead woman was in a sitting posture, her eyes were wide open,
she was gazing calmly into his face. Arthur fell back with a cry of
horror.
"Nay, do not be frightened," said a low, although tremulous voice,
—"I have simply been the victim of an attack of catalepsy."
And while he stood spell-bound, his eyes riveted to her face, and his
ears drinking in the rich music of her voice, she continued,—
"Catalepsy, which leaves the soul keenly conscious and in possession
of all its powers, but without the slightest control over the body,
which appears insensible and dead. The agony of that state is
beyond all power of words! To hear the voices which speak over
your coffin, and yet be unable to frame a word, to breathe even a
sigh! I heard them talk over my coffin,—I was conscious as the lid
closed down upon my face,—conscious when they placed me in the
vault, and locked the door, and left me there buried alive. And an
eternity seemed to pass from the time when they locked the door, (I
was only buried yesterday,) until your men came to-night, to rob the
grave of its prey. I heard every word they uttered from the moment
when they tore the shroud from my bosom, until they entered your
room, and then I heard your voice. And when they left me here, I
heard your step upon the stair, heard your ejaculation as you bent
over me, and it seemed to me that my soul made its last effort to
arouse from this unutterable living death, as you struck the knife
into my temple. You have saved my life——"
Arthur could not utter a word; he could not believe the scene to be
real; he thought himself the victim of a terrible although bewitching
dream.
"I arise from the grave, but it is to begin life anew. The name which
I bore lies buried in the grave vault. It is with a new name, and
under new auspices, that I will recommence life. And as for you, I
know you to be young, gifted, ambitious. I will show my gratitude by
making your fortune. But you must swear, and now, never to reveal
the secret of this night!"
"I swear it," ejaculated Arthur, still pale and trembling.
"What, are you still afraid of me? Come near me,—nearer,—take my
hand,—does that,—" and a bewitching smile crossed her face,
—"does that feel like the hand of a dead woman?"
With these words the history of Marion came to a pause.

For the first time, Arthur Dermoyne raised his eyes from the pages
which recorded the life of Marion Merlin. For an hour and more he
had bent over those pages in profound and absorbing interest.
"Here, then, is the real secret of the life of Herman Barnhurst!" he
ejaculated. "He was simply a sincere enthusiast, all his bad nature
dormant, and all his good in active life, until this woman crossed his
path. And the wife who now slumbers by his side, is none other than
Fanny Lansdale, the victim of the unutterable crime. Who shall say
that we are not, in a great measure, the sport of circumstance? How
different would have been the life of Herman, had Marion never
crossed his path?"
Something like pity for the crimes of Barnhurst began to steal over
Dermoyne's face, as he sat thus alone, in the solitude of the last
hour of the night; but the thoughts of Alice, on her bed of shame
and anguish, started up like a phantom and drove every throb of
compassion from his soul.
"If Alice dies, there is but one way,"—he said moodily, with a fixed
light in his eyes.—"But this Marion,—ah! Something more of her
history is written here. Let me read,—" Once more he bent over the
Red Book. Even as his eyes were fixed upon the page, a shadow was
cast over it, and then a dark object interposed between him and the
light; and the next moment all was darkness. But on the instant,
before the darkness came, he looked up, and saw before him a
brawny form, a face stamped with ferocious brutality; an upraised
hand grasping a knife, which glittered as it rose. This he saw for an
instant only, and then all was blackness.
"Not wid de knife, Dirk! Let me fix him wid dis,—and do yer see to
de Red Book!"
There was a sound as of a weapon whizzing through the air, and
Dermoyne was felled to the floor by a blow from the "Slung-shot."
As the first gleam of morning stole into the bed-chamber, touching,
with rosy light, the faces of the sleeping wife and her children,
Barnhurst stealthily arose, dressed himself, and stole on tiptoe from
the place. In the dark he descended the stairway, and all the while,
—from loss of sleep, combined with the excitement of the past night,
—he shook in every nerve. His thoughts were black and desperate.
"Ruin wherever I turn! If I escape this man, there remains the villain
whom I met last night, in Trinity Church. On one side exposure, on
the other death. What can be done? Cut the matter short, and
renouncing all my prospects, seek safety in flight? or remain,—dare
all the chances,—exposure,—the death of a dog,—all,—and trust to
my good fortune?"
He paused at the foot of the stairway, and a hope shot through his
heart,—"If I could see Godiva all might yet be well! Yes, I must, I will
see Godiva."
Uttering the name of Godiva, (new to the reader and to our history,)
he approached the parlor door. "Now for this man!" he said, and
shuddered. He opened the door, and looked around; the first rays of
morning were stealing through the window-curtains, but the room
was vacant. Dermoyne was not there. The carpet was torn near the
sofa, the table overturned, and there was blood upon the carpet and
sofa. But Dermoyne had disappeared.
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